by John Hunt
Isaac informed him that he needed to fly to Amsterdam. He had already arranged a flight and booked a hotel for him. Isaac was a good partner.
After hanging up, Petur realized that he was hungry. It was well past time for dinner. Joseph invited Petur to join him, and Petur gratefully accepted.
They retreated to the dining room, part way down the long corridor, where a large cherry table was set with fine china and silver. Joseph’s butler served them a meal that was an enormous improvement over the frozen pizza that the bachelor Petur was accustomed to eating. Although Petur was relatively quiet throughout the meal, Joseph continued to entertain various potential permutations of the plan. In the past, Petur had considered almost all of them, but he was appreciative of the older man’s insight and enthusiasm.
It was during dessert that Onbacher finally asked the key questions, the important questions. He stretched his arms above his head, then laid his hands on the table and stared straight into Petur’s eyes. “If I choose to participate, it would seem that I would have a great deal to say about how the money will be used, is that right?”
Petur nodded. “You would have the final say, about your money, absolutely.”
“But, doesn’t that give me an inordinate amount of power? Doesn’t that mean people will be essentially working for me?”
“Yes, it gives you power. It is your money, after all. But no, people won’t be working for you. You will be investing in them.”
“The projects that will be pursued will be those projects approved by me?”
“You and the other investors, each making their own decisions with their own investment money. That’s right.”
“Why not pool the money and then have the experts, the scientists themselves, make the decisions on what projects are most worthy of pursuing.”
Petur smiled. “Because relying on experts to determine how to spend other’s money is what got America and the world into this disastrous situation. I cannot rely on experts who think they know what is best for the world.”
“But you will rely on me?” Onbacher looked slightly, just slightly incredulous.
“You aren’t an expert. You are an investor. You can choose freely what to support. What I am offering you is an opportunity to invest in a climate that rewards the creation of true value, allows failures to fail, and optimizes chances for success. I am not offering you any particular investment. Rather, I am offering you a climate that will turn your dollars into the most value possible. The financial reward for the investors is first, an opportunity to preserve your capital — it is your investment in the business of the world — which will otherwise be lost soon enough as I have described. Another return on your investment is the opportunity to participate in a great moment in history. The third return is real value creation — putting your money to work making worthwhile progress, not digging holes and filling them with dirt.”
Petur had never gotten this far, never been as optimistic as now, and he felt that if Joseph decided against it, then he could never convince anybody. He sat completely still, as the man at the other end of the table continued to stare straight through his eyes, seemingly boring through to the back of his skull. An interminable period passed, and then Joseph Onbacher closed his eyes, rolled back his head and laughed more powerfully than a drunken man at a comedy club.
“Perfect answers, my young lad.” He took a drink from his water glass, looked pensive for a moment and then continued, “I spent the day with my financial advisors after talking to Isaac. I cannot give anything near what you require, but given time, detailed study, and visible progress, I expect I will be able to provide, over multiple tranches, better than four hundred million dollars. How does that sound?”
That sounded just fine to Petur. “Mr. Onbacher, I jest not when I say that your foresight here will soon launch us into orbit.”
Onbacher nodded, seemingly distracted. “And now, Mr. Bjarnasson, I suggested I may have a tale for you as well, but the time is late, so I think I had best defer the details until a good opportunity arises in the future. However, as you have intrigued me, I shall now attempt to intrigue you.”
The older man rose from his seat, disappeared down the hallway, and returned with a rusted black cannonball, about the size of a grapefruit. “This cannonball was found off Pitcairn’s Island, in Bounty Bay, in about twenty feet of water. It is one of many. There was an anchor there too, and some ballast, and a couple of cannons. The little bits of what is left of His Majesty’s Armed Vessel Bounty. I show you this, because I want you to know, now, that I am on another quest, a treasure hunt of sorts, that if successful will provide you with just the sort of outcome you desire in your plan.”
“What are you seeking? Gold? Treasure? I am not aware of much of that in the South Pacific.”
“There is little gold there — you are correct. Gold is wonderful, a quantifier of human labor, a medium of exchange tested throughout time. It is what money is supposed to be. You of all people know this well. Gold is a storehouse of value. And what is valuable, what defines value, are those entities that enhance our ability to pursue happiness. I pursue something of immeasurable value not much larger than this object here.” He hefted the cannonball in the air and tossed it toward Petur, who carefully caught it in two hands. “But with a very different function.”
“What do you mean?”
“At this juncture, I don’t know that you would believe me if I tell you.”
“If you believe me, I will believe you.”
“Okay, then. In 1778, on his so-called ‘third voyage’ the famous British sea captain James Cook witnessed an event and came upon an artifact in the South Pacific — in Tahiti to be precise — of such power and military importance that it prompted a ten-year-long effort by the British Admiralty to acquire it in one of the most secretive missions ever, one that has been intentionally obscured, history books altered, men hanged at the gallows, to protect this secret.”
Petur grinned quickly, a bit nervously. “What does this artifact do?”
Onbacher shrugged, and then responded, “Remember, you asked. What Cook saw was a full demonstration of a device that appeared to block gravity. Completely and entirely.”
Petur was of course skeptical. Was the man in front of him completely sane? “What happened to it? Do you know?”
Onbacher was entirely sane and likely saw Petur’s skepticism immediately. But it was understandable skepticism. “I have found no evidence that it ever made it to England. But I know that it prompted one of the most influential scientific minds in British history — Sir Joseph Banks — to dedicate much of his life to obtaining it. He had been to Tahiti with Cook on the first voyage in 1768 — so that he could observe Venus transit the sun, which is a rare event that has just occurred again this year. Banks may have even been aware of the artifact at that time, for he dearly wanted to accompany Cook on his second voyage, but was prevented. Then, long after Cook’s third voyage in the Pacific, Banks arranged a whole later voyage that I believe was dedicated to obtaining for the Crown this strange device. Although the story is thin, it nonetheless has become my personal mission to find this artifact. And given that your work will be in the same part of the world that my mission will be undertaken, perhaps you will join me at some point in that endeavor. In the meantime, I would like to give you that cannonball you are holding as a gift.”
As Petur set the cannonball onto the backseat of his rented Chevy some time later, he sighed deeply. The adrenaline was flowing. His hand was shaking as he put the key into the ignition. Under the car’s tires lay the bumpy red cobblestone road of the side street in Alexandria, Virginia. Petur was on the road to his dream, which was not unlike the cobblestone road — rough and littered with obstacles.
2. Two Brothers with Four Guns
THE WALL was bleeding. At least it appeared to be, in the miserable interior of the dismal bar on the outskirts of the city. Rainwater seeped through meandering cracks in the cement, which years ago had be
en painted red but now had a color that was indiscernible in the dim light and smoke-filled air. There arose shrill screams from the middle of the large room. What sounded like two cats at each other’s throats was indeed a battle, but one between birds. The evening’s central attraction, the cockfighting, had begun.
Tijuana is the quintessential border town, a waypoint for desperate emigrants. Thousands of people wander the streets by day, attempting to sell cheap candies or trinkets to visiting Americans. At night, these same miserable folk take shelter in rotting cardboard shanties or bridge underpasses.
The precipitation had been incessant for four days, and the usually dry ground could not soak in the waters, causing floods throughout the area. Rain was not a common entity here, and it had the potential to be disastrous for the myriad of people who had nowhere to call home. Trenches that once served as informal sewerage conveyances were now boiling cauldrons of water and debris. The cardboard, effective for shelter in the usually arid climate, quickly became fragile and macerated in the moisture, affording no protection whatsoever. Carefully preserved family treasures were at constant risk during the rains. The one consolation was that the temperature remained, as always, moderate and comfortable, which drastically decreased the medical complications of exposure.
In the decrepit bar, business dealings occurred nightly that affected lives thousands of miles away. This was a hub for illicit drug trafficking. The people doing business here had little concern for the tragedies for which they were partially responsible. Many of them were once those same people who lived under the cardboard roofs, and feared the rain. Some of them still did. Each one had family and friends who were sicker, poorer, and more unjustly treated than the gringos north of the border who fell into hard times using their product. Ethics was a concept for which they had no need. Survival, respect, and comfort were their driving influences.
Jeff Baddori had thrived in this kind of environment. He could nestle in with the best of them, or the worst, gain their confidence, and then destroy their business while they remained oblivious to his involvement. He was a striking man, with jet-black hair, a dark tan, and eyes that were a fierce shade of green. Born as we was to an Irish mother and Lebanese father, he physically could blend into many cultures and societies. Over six feet tall, with a muscular but trim build, Jeff had the advantage of immediately being respected by anyone with whom he interacted. This respect was a superficial matter, based on appearance only, and would not last long if left to itself. But Jeff was also an insightful man and a quick thinker. He usually gained trust via his ability to fix major problems that seemed to be immune to the efforts of others, thereby attaining the gratitude of the organization. Only Jeff realized that these major problems did not exist before he arrived on the scene.
Tonight, however, Jeff did not feel comfortable. Something was different here. Or perhaps something was different with himself. For ten years he had been playing the game, and he did it well. He was, in a manner, proud of what he did. But despite all of his efforts, he had not made his mark on the world. Each troop of evildoers he helped shut down was replaced by another. It was rare for one of the kingpins to be caught and justice served. Hundreds of good men had lost their lives in this war, yet the drugs just kept flowing. Jeff needed something more.
There was a sudden increase in the volume of screams of the dying roosters. There was a concomitant rise in the cheers from the sadistic observers, and Jeff was pleased that this so-called sporting event was soon to reach its conclusion.
“I think it is my turn to win, finally,” a painfully skinny old man beside him said, almost as if they were friends.
Jeff looked at him and then replied in fluent Spanish with a precise Mexican accent. “I wish you the best of luck.”
In the crowd of onlookers Jeff noted a plain-appearing man, perhaps slightly short and with slightly thinning hair, who was cheering along with the throng. The man’s eyes caught his own briefly, and Jeff turned away. On the opposite side of the cockfighting ring, several young Mexicans were excitedly cheering for the larger and older bird. There was a final screech from a dying cock, and a final howl from the thrilled spectators. Money changed hands rapidly, then the people shuffled off to tables scattered around the room. The noises filling the bar were gradually dying out, and it became almost quiet. It was a relief for Jeff. The plain, slightly short man had joined the young fans of the surviving bird at a table in the darkest corner. Jeff picked himself up from his chair, swished a bit of tequila around his mouth, and headed toward the dark area. It was time.
It had been four weeks since he had last met with Juan Marcos. Their initial meeting, months earlier, had not been pleasant — Marcos had seemed less willing to trust him than most. He was reserved, suspicious. A suspicious nature could be turned to advantage though.
It had required more than his usual finesse to overcome those suspicions, but he had subsequently performed several dirty tasks for Juan Marcos, and had successfully become a trusted member of his team. One month ago, he had been given a special task. Apparently there was concern about a new well-funded joint DEA and Mexican Federales venture, and Juan Marcos had heard that his organization might be a target. It had been Jeff’s assignment to find more information.
Jeff, of course, had ascertained a great deal of information and was here to present his findings. Most of the “joint venture” of which Marcos was concerned had been a product of Jeff’s imagination but was based in truth, as are all good lies. There were indeed concerted and cooperative efforts on the parts of the Mexican police force and the United States Drug Enforcement Agency to decrease the smuggling operations. But the only aspect of a new joint venture at this time was that one trusted Mexican official knew that Jeff was working in his country.
As he approached, Jeff looked around the table. They were all Latinos, mostly Mexican, and they were laughing about something that Jeff had not been close enough to hear. Juan Marcos was on the far side of the table, smoking a cigar and drinking a beer. He was morbidly obese. His head was huge, supported by a thick neck that started at the base of his ears, spreading downward and outward towards his shoulders. Several chins propped up his lower lip. The top of his mouth was capped by a meticulously manicured thin mustache, with wax carefully keeping each hair in place. The hair on his scalp was less well-groomed and hung shoulder-length. His abdomen was straining the fabric of his business suit — the buttons on the coat having no conceivable purpose, being that far removed from their respective buttonholes. The arms were massive, and even in the dim light Jeff could see the seams at the shoulders splitting, with the white thread appearing like shark’s teeth in the gray cloth.
Juan Marcos relied on his sons to assert his power. He had two sons of whom Jeff was aware. They were always nearby, and tonight was no exception. The elder, Enrico, had his back to Jeff as he approached, the younger sibling by his side. In their mid-twenties, they had no perceivable physical resemblance to their father. These young men were physically fit, indeed solid and muscular. He had seen them both move very quickly when it was required, and had witnessed their very effective brutality toward subordinates who failed in a task appointed by their father. He had also watched each of them being soundly beaten by the patriarch, without any effort at defense on the younger men’s parts. They were completely subservient to their father, who was by all accounts a malicious, dictatorial, and mean-spirited man.
There were three other people at the table. One was Marcos’s financial man, a wiry little gentleman named Ricardo Cruzon, who managed a small bank, serving to process and clean the money obtained from illegal activities. They were never hesitant about being seen together by the police, for Marcos also had legal business interests, which were often financed by that same small bank, and served as an excuse for them to be together. The legal business loans played an important role in the money-laundering scheme that was vital to the Marcoses’ interests. In fact, much of the Marcos enterprise relied on Cruzon’s manipulations.
Cruzon knew his way around the Marcos organization better than the fat man did himself. Sitting between Marcos and Cruzon was a large and muscular man who had a persistent slight smile on his face. Jeff had not met him before but was not appreciative of his presence. Sitting to Marcos’s right was the plain-looking fellow whom Jeff had seen from across the room during the cockfight. He appeared harmless, although Jeff knew very well that he was not. He was known simply as Diego.
The elder Marcos noticed Jeff just as he arrived next to the table. He smiled and motioned him to sit down. A waitress in a traditional Mexican skirt was immediately by his side with a cigar. This may be a club for dirtballs, thought Jeff, but Marcos was clearly the chief dirtball.
“Ah, Jeff, it is good to see you!” said Marcos in Spanish with a definite Tijuana accent. Jeff responded with rough, grammatically poor diction, suggesting that he would be more comfortable conversing in English.
Marcos said, “English will be fine. It gives me the opportunity to practice. You have news for me, I presume.”
“Yes, but I would rather convey it in private.”
Marcos was a little drunk. He looked around the table, shrugged, and stated, “We are all friends here. You go ahead and say what you must.”
“As you wish, Juan Marcos. You were privy to information that there was a cooperative joint undercover police operation that may have taken a particular interest in you. I am unclear by what means you came by this information, but I have ascertained it to be true. There are in existence DEA files documenting investigations of the people in your organization. I had an opportunity to look through each of them. Your two sons were the objects of much inspection.”
Jeff pointed at them with his thumb. “There is some information there that I have no interest in, nor wish to share with others at this table. Of great interest to me, however, is how this information could have been obtained, for it is indeed very personal.” The older son had an expression of bewilderment. The younger had one of concern.