Death and Dark Money

by Seeley James

  I sipped the coffee. Black and strong, the way God intended.

  While she explained her visit to Koven, she watched me. She could see my cup shaking and knew something was bothering me. She stopped talking and patiently waited for me to explain.

  “I think I’m going over the edge,” I said. “I might be completely mad.”

  She canted her head.

  “I can see the guy,” I said. “Mercury. He’s not what you’d expect.”

  “You’ve named him?” She sipped her coffee. “That’s cute.”

  “You’re not worried about me?”

  “Why?” She set her cup down.

  I gulped my coffee and considered our arrangement to help each other with our mental issues. Until now, I’d thought she was the stable one.

  She could’ve at least acted surprised.

  “Oh, I forgot,” she said. “Rip Blackson wants to buy you lunch for saving his life. Lunch seems a little light, considering.”

  “It’s a cover. He wants to talk.”

  “Last item,” she said. “Brent Zola’s mom has been calling but will only talk to you.”

  She handed me my phone and nodded a go-ahead.

  I pressed redial on the number that had called ten times in the last two hours.

  A woman’s voice came on, first ring. “Is that you, Jacob?”

  “Yes, ma’am. What can I do for you?” I clicked over to speaker phone and introduced Ms. Sabel.

  “Brent told me you were the only person to trust. He needs your help. He’s in big trouble. There was some guy hanging around outside the house just before dark and he panicked. He said the guy was there to kill him, just like he killed David. All I saw was a guy talking on his phone, but Brent was so scared he scared me. He took Flip and went to Tokyo. You have to help him. I’ll give you his number—”

  “Why do I have to help him? Why not call the police?”

  “He said he doesn’t know who to trust. The police could be in on it.”

  “If someone’s trying to kill him, I’m not—”

  “Jacob will be on the next flight,” Ms. Sabel said. She gave me a scowl that made me shrink. “Ms. Zola, did he tell you who was trying to kill him?”

  “No, but I saw him. Short and thin with no neck.”

  Ms. Sabel promised her daily updates and clicked off.

  She sat back in her chair, those gray-green eyes slicing through me like a machete through a B-movie jungle set.

  “OK,” I said. “We help people who need help. But if Jago Seyton kills me, I’ll be the one haunting you.”

  It was an awkward joke about her mother’s ghost and way too early in our new relationship. Her mouth fell open and she paled. Then she leaned forward and her expression slowly changed from shock to amused. “Don’t let Seyton get you.”

  We shared a tense laugh and finished our coffees.

  “I’m taking my jet.” She rose and headed for the door. “Dad’s gone to Guatemala for something. You’ll have to fly commercial.”

  Mercury slid into her empty seat. Seven-Death stood behind him, giving me the death-ray stare.

  Mercury said, Doood. Commercial. A fate worse than death. But All Nippon Airways has one great first class section, and it’s run by sexists who still hire flight attendants based on looks, so it’s not all bad. Don’t forget, you have to call Dr. Harrison. Tell him all about me.

  The door opened again and Ms. Sabel stuck her head in. “Have you made any progress with Dad about my parents’ murders?”

  “Uh, yeah. Actually, I … um. No.”

  She closed the door.

  The on-the-fly arrangements I had to make when assigned to a suicide mission could drive me to drinking. But my almost-girlfriend Bianca jumped at the chance to watch Anoshni. Although there was a profound note of disappointment when I mentioned Ms. Sabel would be out of town as well.

  I found Miguel with his overpowered boxcar of an SUV waiting for me outside. He even had my tickets and an overnight bag. He snicked the gearshift into drive and we roared out of the gates heading for Dulles.

  Blackson called on our way. “Jacob, how’re you feeling today? You saved my life again. I owe you big time.”

  “OK, how about explaining ‘Gottleib liability’?”

  He choked. “Pretty vague term. It could be anything. Do you have any context?”

  “Use this context: The last time I saved your sorry ass you turned whiter than the Queen of England’s butt when I tossed that phrase out there. What’s it mean?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Could it be why Zola fled to Tokyo?” I asked.

  “Brent’s in Tokyo?”

  “After he spotted Jago rearranging the bushes outside his mom’s house, he grabbed his son and ran.”

  “Oh shit.” Blackson took a deep breath. “You gotta save him.”

  “Me? Why not you? Aren’t you brothers-in-arms?”

  “I think Koven killed David and he’s going to kill Brent. He must’ve hired Jago to do it.”

  “Call the cops,” I said.

  “It’ll be too late by then. You gotta do it.”

  His eagerness sent shivers of suspicion down my spine. The scent of a trap slathered in you-can-be-a-hero tickled my senses. What did I know about Blackson? The bullet I took for him might have been meant for me. The best part: I just told him where to send his assassins for a second try. Blackson was forthcoming during our chat under the bridge, so I trusted him. But nothing he said helped me solve the murders surrounding his firm.

  “OK,” I said, “you come with me.”

  “Oh. No way. I have a wife and kids.”

  Mercury said, Ain’t that sweet? You’re Mister Expendable. Nobody cares if you live or die because you haven’t procreated yet. Better find a girl or die alone. By the way, homie, let’s look for a woman who likes men this time.

  He snickered like a schoolboy.

  Looking over my shoulder, I found my between-jobs god and Seven-Death sitting in the back with seatbelts on.

  The Mayan had his face plastered to the glass, freaked by the speed—or Miguel’s driving. Not surprising since his culture came up with the most advanced astronomical calculations known to humankind until the 1960s, but they never figured out the wheel.

  Mercury said, Hey, don’t let Blackson off the hook on the liability thing. He changed the subject on you.

  Miguel glanced my way, then craned over his shoulder to look in back. “Somebody following us?”

  I shook him off and refocused on the phone. “Blackson, what does ‘Gottleib liability’ mean?”

  He sighed. “I don’t know. After you downloaded all those files, Brent and I figured we were already scorched. So we searched the company servers looking for whatever David found. We came up empty.”

  “What did you expect to find?”

  “Koven brokers deals with international companies. Let’s say he helps Esson Oil get a hundred million barrels of Saudi oil for $5 less than the going rate. That’s half a billion in savings. Let’s say Esson turns around and gives $100 million of that to a social welfare group who gives the money to a Super PAC that gets fifty congressmen elected. Those congressmen push through a deal to help the Saudis get more anti-tank rockets.”

  “And David Gottleib found a memo that linked a three-way deal like that?”

  “Don’t think so.” Blackson sighed. “But Koven thought he did, and now he thinks Zola has it.”

  “Then it exists,” I said, thinking out loud, “otherwise he never would’ve killed Gottleib.”

  Seven-Death leaned between the seats, shaking his death stick and screaming in my ear.

  Scared the crap out of me. I nearly jumped out of the car.

  I said, Make him shut up or I’m going back on my meds.

  Mercury said, Dude, chill, will ya? He’s just pointing out the obvious.

  I said, What obvious?

  Mercury said, Gottleib tried to give you that bullet. He said he modified it for you. I’ll
bet it has a little note, a confession, or something inside. Maybe Zola has it now.

  I said, No, it’s in the Montgomery County Police evidence locker.

  Mercury said, Holy Minerva. Nice move, bro. You had it in your hands and turned it over to the cops for safe keeping? You don’t need any help from the gods. No siree. You got this handled. Fuck.

  Blackson was still talking. “I’m pretending to be on Koven’s side while looking for anything that ties him to David’s murder or the foreign money.”

  “And I get to take on Jago in Japan. Nice to know you’ve got my six.” I huffed. “I gotta go.”

  “Tell me the truth, Jacob.” Blackson’s voice dropped an octave. “Why were you wearing body armor last night?”

  I clicked off.

  Mercury flicked my ear from the backseat. I told you to wear body armor and it saved your ass, homie. Would it be that hard to say, ‘I’m in tight with Mercury, a high-ranking and awesome god, and he told me to wear the armor because he knew I’d need it’? Hey. Y’know, that Noah dude didn’t hold back when people asked, ‘WTF’s with that Ark?’ Ya feel me? Hey, what’s with you anyway, bro? Are you ashamed of me or something?

  I said, I’m not sure people aren’t going to react the way you think.

  Mercury said, Yeah. I see how you are. Hey. Don’t forget to call Dr. Harrison. You promised.

  “I never promised anything,” I said.

  “Promised who?” Miguel eyed me sideways.

  “I never promised to save Zola.” My fist hit the dashboard. “How did I get this deal? Why am I flying to Tokyo? I have no idea where to find this guy, who’s after him, or anything. This is an exercise in futility.”

  I checked the plane tickets in my hand. “And the ticket’s for coach! How many times do I have to save her life to get first class?”

  “Chill,” Miguel said. “You’re in first class. That one’s for Carlos.”

  For the next two miles I stared at the big guy with my mouth hanging open. “You’re kidding, right? I’m babysitting the gangster?”

  Miguel shrugged.

  I dialed Dr. Harrison.

  We exchanged pleasantries and he did his doctor shtick about my feelings. For the first time since I’d met him, he seemed genuinely concerned about my health and wellbeing and not the billable hours.

  The whole time we spoke, Seven-Death was giving me the stink eye from the back seat.

  “There are people working to have you committed,” Harrison said. “We don’t want that to happen. Tell me about your relationship with this god of yours.”

  “No way. You went to the press and told them all about me. That’s a violation patient confidentiality.”

  “I never named you or gave any identifying information that could be traced back to you. It’s all perfectly within the bounds of HIPAA requirements.” He coughed. “Now, about God. What kinds of things does he tell you?”

  “He warns me about bad things and helps me do good things.”

  Mercury waved his hands in front of my face to get my attention and shook his head when I turned around.

  “And does he tell you to do specific things?” Harrison asked.

  “Sometimes. He’ll tell me which guy to shoot first and where to aim in the dark. Things like that.”

  “Has he ever told you to do something bad?”

  “Define bad.”

  Mercury was having a conniption fit in the backseat. Seven-Death started shaking his stick and yelling stuff in Mayan.

  Mercury said, Don’t just answer his questions. Tell him how great I am and how handsome I am—that kind of thing.

  I said, What’s wrong with his questions?

  Mercury said, He’s a weasel. He’s gone bad on us.

  I said, You’re just worried he’ll put me on anti-psychotics again.

  Mercury said, Truth hurts, bro, but here it is: Tony would still be alive if you’d listened to me.

  It was a low-blow, even for Mercury. Tony was a good friend who’d fallen to his death on one of my missions. I’d been taking my meds back then and thought I was handling life without divine intervention just fine. Losing Tony drove me off medication and back into the world of gods-with-too-much-time-on-their-hands.

  “Life and death,” Dr. Harrison said, “right-and-wrong kind of bad. Has he ever told you to kill someone other than an identified enemy?”

  Mercury’s insistence that I kill Jago Seyton when he was following me came to mind. On reflection, if I’d followed his advice, I wouldn’t be taking a flight to Japan and Zola would be safe at home.

  “Oh yeah,” I laughed. “Just the other day he told me to shoot this guy in the alley.”

  Seven-Death and Mercury leaned back in their seats, faced each other, and shook their heads. Their shoulders drooped and their eyes sank.

  Mercury said, You’re screwed, dawg. We’re getting out here. I can’t watch anymore.

  With that, the two ex-gods opened the door at seventy-five miles an hour and hopped from the hood of one car to the next until they disappeared.

  “Jacob,” Dr. Harrison said with gravity, “I think it’s time we took this thing seriously. You need to commit yourself to an institution voluntarily or someone might have you committed.”

  “No way,” I said. “That’s for the criminally insane. Look, I’m leaving for Tokyo in a few minutes. I’ll call you when I get back.”

  I clicked off and wondered about the definition of ‘criminally insane’.

  Miguel kept his eyes on the road and tried to pretend he hadn’t heard the conversation. I stared at him until he shrugged.

  He said, “At least your gods talk to you.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Even muffled by their headsets, the constant drone of the helicopter’s engines strained the conversation between Pia and Tania to the point of silence. They stared out of their respective windows, where endless waves of golden sand stretched from the turquoise sea on Dubai’s coast back across empty miles to the distant mountains in the east.

  Wearing an above-the-knee business skirt, Pia considered changing and wondered how formal a tone she wanted to set for her meeting. That would depend on who showed up to represent Ms. Suliman, the Saudi businesswoman. Setting the appointment had turned into a mysterious adventure without closure. None of which mattered, whoever came to the meeting might tell her how Koven operated and what his foreign clients expected in return. There had to be a paper trail of some kind.

  “That thing is huge.” Tania stared out at the Burj Khalifa, the world’s tallest building.

  “Wrong Burj,” Pia said. She pointed in the opposite direction. “We’re staying at the Burj al Arab.”

  The sail-like form of the iconic hotel blew across the waters toward them.

  “Why did you change reservations? You usually stay at the nicest place in town.”

  “Bigger is not better. The al Arab is the nicest,” Pia said. “After Herr Müller’s murder, I’m concerned about surprises at planned destinations.”

  “And you didn’t tell me. Why would your head of personal security need to know?”

  “Don’t take it like that. I made the change a few minutes ago.”

  After staring out of the window for a moment, Pia tugged Tania’s sleeve. “You still haven’t explained why you sent Carlos to Tokyo.”

  “That man was making moves on me,” Tania said. “He made me uncomfortable.”

  “Bullshit. He’s not the least bit interested in you.”

  “Why not? I’m mostly Latina and I’m hot.” Tania drew back. “Oh, I see. You and he—”

  “No.”

  “Well, maybe you should—then you wouldn’t be so testy.” Tania ducked Pia’s glare. “Why did you put a big-time gangbanger in our operation anyway?”

  “It’s my operation, thank you,” Pia said. “And when it concerns you, I’ll let you know.”

  “That is so not you, Pia.”

  Pia turned back to the window. There were things she didn’t have t
o explain, and then there were things she couldn’t explain. Why did she bring a convicted felon into her personal security detail? Would Tania believe her about the dream, the demanding voice, the overwhelming impulse that drove her actions? Jacob maybe, but not Tania.

  A thousand feet below them, yachts paraded up and down the coast.

  The pilot swirled around the cantilevered helipad on the hotel’s roof and set down. A white-gloved butler welcomed them and led them to a line of servants offering fresh hand towels, scented sanitizers, lotions, and dates while a porter took their bags to the elevator. The butler, a transplanted Englishman, showed them to the suite.

  Gold-veined marble floors led to a maroon-and-gold living room and a deep blue dining room where a globe of roses rested on the polished, mahogany table. Up the sweeping staircase were two bedrooms with matching bathrooms where marble columns held gilded ceilings above round bathtubs.

  “You have a freaking couch in your bathroom?” Tania stared at a woman wearing a burgundy uniform standing in the corner holding towels. “And who is she? Your lady in waiting or something?”

  “This is your room,” Pia said.

  From downstairs the butler announced the arrival of Pia’s guest.

  A middle-aged woman with jet-black hair and a jeweled hijab examined Pia as she descended the stairs. There was a certain quick and cunning intellect in the lady’s brown eyes.

  Pia reached the bottom step and stopped, leaving a few yards of marble between them. She asked, “Kaif halik?” How are you?

  “Al hamdu lillah, zeina.” Thanks to God, I’m fine.

  The woman extended a hand. She wore a dark skirt suit cut long with low pumps, a pile of pearls on each toe.

  Pia stepped forward and shook her hand instinctively then remembered it was not the Arab custom for women.

  “It’s all right,” the woman said with a light English accent. “I attended university at Oxford and have a master’s from Georgetown.”

  Pia nodded.

  “I am Samira Suliman.” A hard flex of rigid determination crossed her cheek as she spoke.

  “What a pleasant surprise. I understood you were sending emissaries. It is a great honor to meet you in person. Thank you for making the trip from Jeddah.”