by Jeff Nesbit
Singen did have the same cold, forbidding austereness as the other regents, as if he were incapable of smiling. But I could sense a higher level of intelligence or willfulness in Singen than I’d detected in the other regents.
We met first at the opulent office Jude had taken for himself at the southern end of Central Park after his bet against the yen. I’d never asked him, but I believe Jude had invited me to his office just so he could show off Singen to me, like he was a prized acquisition.
After Jude’s bet against the yen, it had become apparent that it was rather silly of me to keep working at The Herald-Sun in Durham covering local politics in North Carolina.
We were now worth billions and had crept our way onto various lists of America’s wealthiest individuals. It was becoming progressively harder for me to maintain my anonymity, and I finally gave up on it altogether and moved to New York.
But I didn’t take my brother’s advice. I didn’t just use our vast wealth to buy my way into a prominent position as the publisher of a media outlet in the city. Instead, I simply took a job as a reporter for a national New York-based magazine that was rapidly resigning itself to obsolescence and began to write about the environment.
“Get over here,” Jude texted me one afternoon shortly after I’d moved to New York and begun my new job.
“Why?” I’d texted back.
“I have news,” he’d written.
“What?” I texted back.
“You’ll see,” he wrote. “Plus, I have a new office I want you to see. It can be yours, too.”
“No, thanks. Have one already,” I’d texted back.
I was curious, though, and took the subway over to the office. I got off at the 59th Street stop and walked two blocks east to his office. The desk guard gave me a curious look when I signed my last name in the visitor’s log—likely because I looked like my brother—but didn’t say anything. When I got off the elevator on the forty-third floor—the top floor of the building—I understood why.
An enormous sign—Asher Enterprises—was posted over the top of the glass double doors to the entrance to Jude’s new office. The face-recognition camera set casually over the top of the sign must have picked me up instantly, since the doors swung open before I’d reached them. I kept walking and entered the offices.
A stunningly attractive brunette receptionist left the black marble desk near the center of the foyer and walked toward me. “Welcome, sir,” she said with a brilliant smile. “We’ve been expecting you, Mr. Asher.”
“Please, just call me Thomas,” I said quickly. As I always did with attractive women, I did my best to just look her directly in the eyes and not let my own wander.
“As you wish, sir,” she said demurely. “But Mr. Asher—your brother—wanted me to let you know that you are welcome here whenever you’d like.” She looked over one shoulder, down a hallway. “In fact, you have your own office, which you may use as you see fit.”
“No need,” I said with a smile. “I’m fine.”
“Very well. Your brother informed me that you would decline the offer. But he also wanted me to emphasize that you are welcome to consider this your office as well, whenever you’d like.”
“Duly noted.” I had to give it to Jude. He was persistent, if nothing else.
She turned and beckoned. “If you will follow me?”
As we walked down the hallway, I glanced at the carefully placed artwork on the walls. They appeared to be originals, not copies.
Despite myself, I almost gasped when we entered Jude’s new conference room. A boardroom table that could easily accommodate dozens of people dominated the center of the room. But what took my breath away was the view—an enormous plate-glass window that looked over Central Park.
I walked to the window and stood there, admiring the view. The park below was a vast green ocean in the middle of the city’s concrete jungle. From up here, with a view like this, looking out over some of the most expensive real estate in the world at the center of one of the most iconic cities in history, it was easy to imagine what it might be like to be a lord of the earth—sitting atop a very high mountain, gazing down at the kingdom below.
“Spectacular, isn’t it?”
I turned, expecting to see my brother. Instead, I found myself looking across the huge conference room at someone I’d never seen before. Dark-haired and olive-skinned, he leaned casually against the side of the doorway.
“It is,” I said. “I can’t even imagine what it costs Jude for this view.”
“Oh, I’m sure you can imagine it—even if you choose not to think about it all that much,” he answered evenly. He pushed off the door frame and made his way across the cavernous room. His well-tailored suit swished faintly as he walked, the hard leather soles of his Italian shoes making a slight tapping as he crossed the wooden floor. His eyes flashed with a dark intensity as he extended a hand. “Singen Prithar. I am your brother’s new counsel here at Asher Enterprises.”
The question formed in my mind, unasked. “Counsel?” I asked instead. “Which means what exactly?”
“Whatever your brother wishes, to be candid,” Singen said. “I am here to serve.”
“I see.” I nodded. “Speaking of Jude, is he here?”
“He is,” Singen said. “But he wanted us to speak first, privately. I, especially, felt that it was long past time for us to get acquainted properly. Jude agreed. And to answer the question you have not asked—yes, I am one of those things, as you occasionally refer to us.”
I tried my best to keep my emotions in check. It wasn’t easy. I’d never been comfortable around any of the regents. Jude had always respected that and had never really asked me to interact with them. I wondered why this particular regent had emerged from my brother’s shadow. And yet, even as this question formed, I already knew the answer.
Singen was clearly different. He was no mere servant. He was a leader. Of what, exactly, I couldn’t say. But whoever, or whatever, he was, Singen was long accustomed to commanding respect and getting what he wanted in the world. Every aspect of his being clearly said so. No words were required.
“Singen Prithar. That’s a fairly unusual name.”
“I borrowed some German and some Indian,” he replied. “So, yes, it is a bit unusual. But it has a nice ring, doesn’t it?”
I wasn’t entirely sure how to answer a question like that. Perhaps it was rhetorical. I moved away from the window and took a seat at the conference table. Singen sat as well, his back to the window and, thus, the spectacular view of Central Park. He focused his gaze on me—studiously avoiding the view behind him—as we took our seats.
“What was the news that Jude had for me?” I asked when we were seated.
Singen leaned forward slightly. His eyes never left mine. “It is time for his childhood—for your childhood—to pass. There is a time for childish things. That time has ended. Jude now realizes this, and he wanted to convey that to you.”
“I’m not sure what that means, exactly.”
“It means that Jude has put the childish things he’s been preoccupied with for the past few years behind him,” Singen said earnestly. “He’s had his fill. He’s seen and done more than enough to satisfy his curiosity about such things. Winning the Triple Crown—and all the attendant fame that came with it—clearly slaked whatever thirst he had for that sort of exposure to the public.”
“So no more celebrities? No more lavish parties? He isn’t planning on buying an NFL franchise to go after the Super Bowl, or perhaps a NASCAR team? No more late-night jet-setting to remote corners of the globe on a whim?”
“Not unless it is necessary. Not unless there is a reason to be seen or heard in some part of society. He learned some valuable lessons during the Triple Crown incident—some that he’d anticipated, and some that he had not.”
I nodded. I’d wondered when Ju
de would grow tired of such ventures, though I’d expected it at some point. “So was this his idea—or yours?”
“You know,” Singen answered slowly, “I’ve always told Jude that there was much more to you just beneath the surface than he knew. We’ve had many conversations to that effect. I’ve often said he was underestimating you—and what you’re capable of at the right moment.”
I chose to ignore the faint praise. Instead, I pointed out, “You didn’t answer the question.”
“Your brother has come to realize that it is time to put childish things away. That is how I would answer that question.”
“I see.” I nodded. “So it was your idea.”
“It is Jude’s wish. And, as always, I will honor that wish and do my best to help him progress along the path that he’s chosen.”
I’d often wondered how I would react in a conversation like this. I’d avoided it, even dreaded it at times. Yet, strangely, it was nothing like I’d expected—at all. I wasn’t afraid of Singen or intimidated by him and what he represented. Mostly, I was just curious. So I decided to clear up a few things.
“So when we were kids at the farm in Waterford?” I asked. “And something that looked awfully similar at Churchill Downs?”
Singen almost smiled. “Very elemental creatures, actually. They cater to basic needs and wants. They are able to take very direct orders, on singular missions.”
“So they’re like, what … starter kits?”
“Something like that.”
“But Jude graduated from those?”
“Quite rapidly,” Singen explained. “He had no real interest in them and wanted much more than they had to offer. In fact, once he grasped what they were all about, he nearly stopped calling on them.”
“And the regents, the ones I’ve seen hanging around managing his affairs and keeping track of him when he’s out in public?”
“Much greater awareness,” Singen said. “Capable of controlling a variety of factors and complexity. Your brother saw that almost immediately. It was much more to his liking, intellectually. He was always innately curious about how much control he could exert over the natural environment around him—and just how far that control could extend beyond his reach.”
“And you?”
“Not a regent—at least, not in the sense that you know.”
Something had nagged me for years, so I asked the question. “I’ve wondered for a while now—can you see my thoughts? Do you know what I’m thinking?”
Singen smiled. “It isn’t all that difficult to know what anyone is thinking, really, at any given time. Words convey your thoughts, for instance. So do your body movements and, of course, your actions. But, no, I cannot see your thoughts—unless you wish me to?”
“No, that’s fine,” I said, satisfied. “It’s generally what I’d always assumed. But I was still curious. So. What are you good at then? What is your … area of expertise?”
Singen gave me a curious look. “Is that really what you’re interested in? My area of expertise? My domain? You don’t wish to know more than that? You don’t wish to come to terms with principalities and powers, understand the nature of the human species and civilization?”
“I’ll leave aside the meaning of life, for now, I think,” I said calmly. “I prefer to figure those sorts of things on my own time, in my own way. So will you tell me your area of expertise?”
“Very well,” Singen said with an easy, practiced shrug. “I have been—I should say, I am—an expert in the nature of the wealth of nations. It is what Jude absolutely requires now at this moment, and I am delighted to help him with that.”
“That’s next for my brother? He wants to learn how to direct the wealth of nations—as opposed to just trying his hand at side bets that grow our bank accounts at Asher Enterprises?”
“Among other things,” Singen said in a controlled manner. “From great wealth, great power is derived, after all—both for individuals as well as nations. I daresay that very few quite understand that. They don’t truly understand monetary systems, yet they know how to spend money. They hear about the Federal Reserve and somehow believe it is a part of their national government.”
I scanned the lavish boardroom again. “So this is Jude’s new playground. And what will he learn here?”
“How wealth can, in fact, serve as an instrument of influence, not simply as a means to buy or consume what one desires,” Singen said. “The wealth of nations is, truly, a mysterious thing that can be manipulated and controlled if you know the right levers and authorities. It is, dare I say, much like the mysterious hand of God.”
“An interesting concept,” I mused. “And it is Jude who wishes to come to terms with this art—this wealth of nations?”
“It is a lesson that he does, indeed, wish to learn.”
“Yet it almost certainly serves your ends, whatever those might happen to be?” I asked carefully. “I hope you don’t take offense at that question.”
“I take no offense whatsoever. I serve Jude,” he answered calmly. “It is a high, time-honored calling.”
“I see. So you receive nothing in return?”
“I receive the satisfaction of a lesson well taught and an apt student who learns quickly.”
“There is nothing else you ask of him in return? Truly nothing at all?” I studied Singen’s reaction as I asked the question. He paused for a long time, clearly weighing his words and his response quite carefully.
Presumably he can’t lie, I thought. But he can use words as weapons and twist them to suit some aim or another. But, in the end, he has to tell some version of the truth. Interesting.
“Jude wishes to learn these lessons, and I am willing to serve as his mentor in this endeavor,” Singen responded. “That certainly seems sufficient motivation on both ends.” He quickly changed direction then, without really answering my question. “These are lessons you can learn as well,” he offered. “There is no reason you shouldn’t profit from this knowledge, if you seek it.”
“But I don’t seek it,” I said. “I never have. It’s what Jude wants. It’s not what I’m interested in, at any price.”
“Are you so certain of that?” Singen asked intently.
“Only fools are certain,” I replied. “However, I do know that this particular path may be Jude’s—but it is not mine.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Just for fun, I checked the classified ads in the daily newspaper in Bozeman before setting off in my rental car for Kalispell. I had clear directions to the Fortress from Frank, and it would be a scenic drive up into the mountains. But I was also curious, and the classified section of the paper satisfied that curiosity.
It was littered with multiple ads for self-sufficient homes that ran on energy sources not connected to the power grid and estate companies that seemed to specialize in selling precisely these sorts of properties to white, Christian families looking to get away, no questions asked.
The properties were spread throughout the entire region, within a relatively easy drive from the city. Bozeman was, in a sense, like Grand Central station for those wishing to move out to the American West and then literally take themselves and their families off the grid.
Bozeman was quite possibly one of the most interesting cities I’d ever come across. I could easily see myself living here. The land was welcoming and gorgeous. Yet, just beneath the surface was a rather secretive subculture of families who genuinely believed that American society was on the edge of collapse and who wanted to be as far away from that imminent collapse as they could be.
I could also hear it in casual conversation in coffee shops, gas stations, and fast-food restaurants. People said they felt safe in Bozeman and the surrounding areas. They didn’t worry about crime or getting mugged or robbed. They could safely carry their guns with them in public and didn’t worry about second glances.
It was all very curious to me.
Before setting off for Kalispell and the Fortress, though, I called Sandy. I was curious what she thought of Jude’s Senate campaign. But, mostly, I wanted to hear her voice. It was a strange sensation for me—this desire to hear the voice of someone I’d come to rely on and even trust a little. I wasn’t entirely sure I knew what that meant.
“I miss you,” I said without announcing myself as soon as she picked up.
I thought I could hear a catch in her breath. “Where are you, exactly, Thomas?” she asked a moment later. “And how long will you be gone?”
“I’m in Bozeman, Montana. God’s country. Come join me. I’ll send a jet for you.”
“No, you will most emphatically not send a jet for me,” she said firmly. “I’m busy right now with two new clients. I like them, and I’m having fun. So you keep your jet and get yourself back here to the city. I miss you, too.”
It was something I’d discovered about her, somewhat by accident, once I’d allowed the relationship to grow beyond the embryonic stage. She didn’t really have much use for my wealth. She didn’t mind it, of course. She didn’t decline a nice date on the town. But she had no lust for it. That had surprised me.
I’d thought, at first, that Sandy skated on the surface and didn’t pay all that much attention to the deeper aspects of life. I’d assumed she was interested in the nicer things in life and was therefore interested in the material things that wealth could buy. I was wrong on both counts.
Sandy had made it herself, on her own. She’d paid her way through college when her parents told her they couldn’t help. Her first few jobs were secured on sheer guts and tenacity, and she’d worked like a dog to pay off her student loans on time. She’d even managed to become an executive vice president at a good Madison Avenue ad agency at an early age. Sandy was an independent, professional woman who had succeeded in one of the toughest cities in the world—and she was quietly proud of that accomplishment. I’d discounted it at first, mostly because I didn’t really know her or what that meant. But I knew it now. I respected it. And I missed her.