There was a slight pause. I became aware of a rhythmic clicking that had accompanied our conversation to this point, as if Lady Chizu were repeatedly tapping the same key on one of her typewriters. The noise ceased in her own silence, started again as she spoke.
“Do you require assistance?”
I smiled at my reflection in the glass wall.
“No. Your wonderful sense of humor is an elixir in and of itself.”
The tapping of the key hesitated, as if interrupted by silent amusement.
“Jasper.”
I frowned now at my reflection, the sound of my name in her mouth troublesome.
“Lady Chizu.”
“When may I expect my property to be returned?”
I made a mental calculation that took into account the best- and worst-case scenarios involved in crossing to Culver City, what obstacles might be thrown up against me by Officer Haas, how quickly he would capitulate when he realized the nature of the man he was dealing with, the possibility of further interference by Afronzo mercenaries, and additional travel to Century City.
“Some hours after dawn, I expect.”
The key she was striking tapped three more times, and a chime rang as the carriage traversed to the end of its rail.
“I will delay my breakfast, then, in anticipation of you joining me.”
The Century Plaza Towers were illuminated; I could see them, albeit dimly, through the smoke. I nodded, focusing my attention on what I took as the fortieth floor of the north tower, imagining Lady Chizu seated on her folded legs at her desk, assessing the function of one of the items in her collection, pondering what might have been communicated in the final note it had been used to write.
“I will bring a flower for the table.”
A firm ratcheting as she returned the platen to its top position, ready to be struck again.
“Bring my property. Though the flower will be appreciated as well.”
She hung up.
I pocketed the phone. Leaving behind the rest of my work phones. I didn’t expect that I’d be doing business in the manner I had pursued it in the past. Should I need to contact any former clients, I had their numbers safely tucked in my head.
Standing one last moment at the glass, I realized that I’d reached a point of self-indulgence. There was nothing to be gained by staying any longer, nothing but increased risk. So I left.
In the garage I placed my travel kit in the trunk of the Cadillac. I no longer had the Land Rover I’d used years ago for a similar exodus, but the Cadillac was quite possibly more durable. The travel kit itself consisted of a Metolius Durathane mountaineering haul bag filled with various pieces of survival equipment, some of it lethal, most of it mundane, and a black canvas T Anthony duffel filled with clean underwear, socks, a few of Mr. Lee’s irreplaceable shirts, a spare laptop, phone, universal current adapter kit, an unopened deck of playing cards, a shaving case, two blank five-by-eight sketchbooks, a pencil box, a sweater with a hole worn under the right arm that I’d never mended because I was inexplicably attached to the garment and refused to remove it from the kit for fear I might have to run of a sudden and leave it behind, wool slacks in gray and navy, a black alligator belt, a crumple-resistant poly-blend black sport jacket made from, of all things, recycled plastic bottles, the front door key to the house I grew up in, and, a recent addition, the soldering iron that had been used on me. For which I expected I might have some need myself.
I opened the garage door, drove the Cadillac onto the driveway, and put it in park with the engine running while I climbed out and dug at the roots in a small bed of lamb’s-tongue that bordered the walkway up to the entry. Before exiting the house I’d spent several minutes passing a degaussing wand over the computers and drives the men had piled in the living room. I didn’t have time to ensure all data would be unrecoverable, but between my primary and secondary measures I felt I could afford a high level of confidence.
A few inches deep in the soil, I uncovered a plastic box and the capped end of a PVC pipe that ran toward the house. I twisted the cap from the pipe and freed the bare ends of two wires taped just inside its mouth. Black friction tape sealed the plastic box. I unwrapped it, opened the box, and took out a DELTADET 4 industrial detonator. I pressed the test button to be certain the batteries were charged, received a green light, clipped the two wires into a slot at the top of the detonator, flicked the arming switch, and pushed the red button that gave me a fifteen-second delay to leave the scene.
Leave I did, climbing through the open door of the Cadillac and accelerating away without buckling my seat belt, letting momentum close the door for me. There wasn’t anything to be heard; the Thermate TH3 packs planted about the house would quickly incinerate my personal records, the accumulations of DNA I’d sloughed off in my bed and bathroom, and perhaps burn long enough to create difficulties in identifying the men I’d killed. But I doubted that last possibility. The charges were specifically sized and placed to erase as many of my traces as possible, but not to rage so thoroughly that the sprinkler system could not extinguish the blaze before the concrete, glass, and steel structure was burned through and the surrounding hills and homes put at risk. It was not sentiment. It was practicality. Enduring pursuit and notoriety being the inevitable rewards for starting wildfires in the Hollywood Hills. Should anyone investigate the smoke drifting from the sodden interior ruins of my home, they might be shocked to find the corpses, but that shock would be far outpaced by the relief that the fire was contained.
I drove down the narrow twisting streets, slowing to a crawl at one point while a party of drunken sleepless in fancy-dress ball gowns and tuxedos stumbled down the middle of the road for a quarter mile. They began to dance as they walked, puppeteers to the towering spider shadows that my high beams projected onto the walls of abandoned homes and the branches of dead trees.
Inching behind them, illuminating their capers, I felt my confusion again. A moment like this, a mystery play acted out just for my eyes, how could such a thing happen and my end not be at hand? Yet where was the beauty in my own life to offset the value of such a gift?
It was coming. The future.
It was already here.
23
PARK LISTENED TO ONE OF THE TEN WEALTHIEST MEN IN THE world. A man who, if the world lasted long enough, would undoubtedly become the single wealthiest. Past seventy, once-broad shoulders with a wide chest now drifting toward portly, and apparently comfortable with the fact; his iron-gray hair was thick as ever, and sharply parted at the side, even at this hour. A man who, wealth aside, wore a thin cotton bathrobe, that dangled threads from the cuffs, over a pair of equally worn red flannel pajamas.
“I should be asleep, Officer Haas.”
The man tugged at one of the hanging threads and pulled it loose.
“But then, shouldn’t we all.”
He wrapped the thread around the tip of his left index finger.
“Officer Haas. The name rang a bell when I first heard it. So I dug up the most recent edition of Who’s Who.”
He pointed the now-purple tip of his finger at an open book resting on the brass-riveted black leather arm of a Colonial chair under a tulip glass reading lamp.
“Safe bet it will be the last edition. In any case, I was right about the name. I’d heard it before. In fact, I met your father once.”
He walked to the chair, unwrapping his finger, dropping the thread in one of the pockets of his robe as he went, and picked up the book.
“That was when he was ambassador to the UAE. I was conducting business in Israel. We met as Americans abroad, at a diplomatic function in Saudi. He was a cordial man. I read his book.”
He put a hand on the back of the black chair.
“Sitting in this chair. Read it straight through. I recall being alarmed by his predictions for the region. In retrospect, they seem optimistic.”
He referred to the open page in the copy of Who’s Who.
“Opportunistic Militanc
y and the Inevitable Loss of the Middle East. Published in 1988. Well ahead of the curve, your father. Must have been an interesting man to grow up around.”
Park knew a response was expected, but he didn’t have one. The complexities of growing up around his father not being a topic he was inclined to discuss with strangers under the best of circumstances.
Parsifal K. Afronzo Senior closed the copy of Who’s Who with a slight thump.
“Am I right that he was passed over for the 9/11 commission?”
Other complexities aside, Park had been raised in an atmosphere of scrupulous politesse, and he was almost relieved to be asked a question he could answer.
“No. He was asked.”
Afronzo Senior was at the bookshelves that covered the wall next to the wet bar.
“He declined?”
“Yes.”
Afronzo slipped the copy of Who’s Who onto the shelf.
“I’d think a man dedicated to public service would have jumped at that particular assignment.”
Park remembered the conversation he’d had with his father regarding the commission.
“He said they only asked him because they knew he would say no. And he didn’t want to disappoint them.”
Afronzo’s chuckle quickly turned to a cough.
“Excuse me. As much as I appreciated his book and enjoyed the brief conversation I had with him, I wouldn’t have expected him to have much of a sense of humor.”
Park shook his head.
“He didn’t.”
The rich man rubbed the back of his thick neck.
“When I was a boy, my father kept a copy of Who’s Who on the back of the toilet for bathroom reading. He said that when he was the same age it had been corn husks in a outhouse. Back in the old country that was. Said if you crumpled them enough they weren’t that rough at all. Said he kept the Who’s Who in the can in case an emergency should arise.”
He chuckled again.
“I don’t expect that sort of humor would have sailed in your house.”
Park shook his head again.
“No, sir, it would not.”
Afronzo rested a hand on the bar.
“Though this is not a regular drinking hour for me, I don’t believe I’ll have a chance of getting back asleep if I don’t have something.”
He went around the bar.
“I’m having cognac. Would you care for one?”
Again Park shook his head.
“No thank you, sir.”
Afronzo took a bottle of Pierre Ferrand Abel from under the bar and poured two fingers into a snifter.
“You are a very polite young man, Officer. A childhood in diplomacy seems to have served you.”
“Serious crimes are being committed within your company, sir.”
Afronzo placed the cork at the mouth of the bottle, settling it with a light slap of his palm.
“At the time I met your father, he told me that he thought the business I was conducting in Israel would likely put American citizens at risk. American workers I planned to hire and bring over. He told me that he opposed my proposal and had spoken out against it with his counterpart in our embassy in Israel. He was, as I said, very cordial, but also very direct.”
He took a small sip of his drink.
“It seems his son inherited that directness along with his good manners.”
He came from behind the bar and sat in the Colonial chair.
“Would you care to sit, Haas?”
“No, thank you, sir.”
Afronzo looked at the young man still standing just inside the door of the guest cottage den, the same spot he’d been delivered to a few minutes before.
“I was told that you might be sleepless. That you might either be unaware of your condition or in denial. But looking at you, I don’t believe that you are sleepless. I’ve seen a lot of them. Close up. From here, you just look very tired to me.”
He gestured at a couch that matched his chair.
“You’re just about out on your feet, Haas. Sit down.”
Against his will, Park rubbed his eyes. He nodded. And he sat down.
“Thank you, sir.”
“You’re welcome. And by the way, I don’t get called ‘sir’ much. Mostly I go by ‘Senior’ these days. If you don’t mind.”
Park knew there was a distinction between the wealthy and the rich. He had grown up with wealth. While there had been abundance and quality in his upbringing, security was always viewed as the greatest benefit of the wealth his father had inherited, carefully tended, and added to. Never a threat that the cupboard might someday be bare. New clothes every school year. No fear of the wolf. Also weekend trips to Boston, D.C., and New York for dinner, concerts, or theater. Tastes of his mother. And his father’s sailboat, a 1969 Dufour Arpege 30. College funds for the children. Assurance of a secure old age should the fates not intervene. A life not so far removed from the general that they lost sight of just how great their blessings were and, as Park’s father often pointed out, how great the responsibilities that came with that wealth.
The rich were another matter. The amount of money required to elevate someone to that level provided a great deal of insulation. In conversation with rich schoolmates, Park could sense in them a confusion as to why everyone didn’t do the things they did, value what they valued, eat and consume what they ate and consumed. An implicit question they silently asked whenever subjects of want and need might come up: Why doesn’t everyone just live like this? As though these things were a matter of choice. As these classmates aged and gained experience, they began to affect a posture of ironic self-awareness. They knew they were rich, they knew most everyone else wasn’t, they knew it was unfair, but at least they cared that it was unfair, not. The final flourish was meant to indicate that of course they cared, but they cared in their own deeply personal way. Park thought that it indicated the opposite. The ability to make the joke only revealed the isolation in which they were sequestered by their money.
As usual, he aspired to make no judgments and made them nonetheless.
But Afronzo Senior was something else again. Beyond rich, he had ascended to superrich. And scaled yet higher to become a market force. In the post-SLP economy, Afronzo-New Day, holders of the DR33M3R patent, sat at the table with oil, water, power, telecommunications, health care, and munitions. They were at the foot of the table, but demand for their product was limited only by the rate at which SLP infected and killed. Based on current trends, the overall potential market might shrink, but market share would swell. DR33M3R was a reliable grower. And Afronzo-New Day’s voice at the table demanded attention.
As the personification and will of A-ND, Senior had become something other. More so than even his son, he was existing at another level of consciousness. Park suspected that it was difficult for him to focus within a one-to-one environment. The most alarming implication of that suspicion being the thought that whatever it was Park was digging into had drawn the man’s personal attention. Attention that implied that some part of what Park believed about the world frozen under a surface of lies must be true. Attention that promised only a bad ending, as much as it did hope.
Park wished for only one thing in that moment: that his father would open the door of the cottage just behind the main house of the Afronzo estate, that he would walk in, wearing his brass-buttoned navy blue suit, assess the situation, and tell his son that he should leave the room and go play while the adults talked over some business.
He looked at the door. It did not open. He remembered his father speaking on the topic of diplomacy as practiced in countries where monarchies still reigned.
Speak truth to power. Always. Kings and potentates will be coddled, don’t let it be by you. Speak truth to power and your voice will be heard. If it is disregarded, as is likely, still you will sleep better at night. And you will have done humanity some service. Which will comfort you when you are dismissed early from your post.
Park recalled that speech and
the other memory it brought to mind: Rose and his father meeting for the first time.
Senior swished the cognac at the bottom of his glass.
“You look amused by something, Haas.”
Park, straightened the odd smile that had come to his lips.
“Just something that occurred to me, sir.”
“Asked if you’d call me Senior, please.”
“I think we’ll both be more comfortable if I call you sir.”
Senior nodded.
“Then I suppose I best call you Officer.”
Park nodded as well.
“Yes, that would suit the occasion.”
“The occasion being?”
Park sat forward on the couch, his back straight, hands on his knees, not allowing himself to lean into the soft leather, to assume the conversational demeanor of the older man.
“The occasion being that I have been kidnapped by men that I believe are in your employ. Who I can only assume did so at your behest. And until I am given some indication otherwise, I assume I am being held by you against my will.”
Senior waved his snifter toward the door.
“The door’s unlocked. No one will get in your way if you leave.”
He raised the snifter a little higher.
“If you do leave without our first having a talk, I’ll have to pursue some inquiries about you and your business with my son, through official channels. That is not a threat, simply what I’ll have to do. I’d just as soon have those questions answered here and now, face-to-face. And yes, that is to save my family and my business any awkwardness, as well as to save you any professional setbacks.”
Park kept his seat.
Senior lowered his snifter.
“All right, then, let’s talk. Safe to assume that when you mentioned ‘serious crimes’ you didn’t mean my men picking you up and bringing you here. Yes?”
“That is correct.”
Senior relaxed deeper into his chair and crossed his legs.
“Let’s start there, then. What is it you suspect has been happening with my business?”
Park thought about his family and spoke.
“With or without your knowledge, an organized, high-level operation within Afronzo-New Day is diverting large shipments of DR33M3R and distributing them outside of the venues and restrictions of a Schedule Z drug. This large-scale black market enterprise has accessed inventory at the warehouses. This is not a matter of a few bottles or cases but entire pallets, pods, even shipping containers, leaving the legal supply chain. These shipments are being broken down and parceled for retailers to be sold a bottle at a time. Bottles are cached individually so that retailers are rarely in possession of enough Dreamer at any one time to be accused of intent to distribute. GPS coordinates of the caches are logged and sold to buyers. Many of these buyers are never physically in proximity to the retailers. I believe that transactions are often carried out online in social networking and gaming environments, primarily in Chasm Tide. I believe that it is likely that most of these transactions are completed through the barter of virtual goods that are translated into money and valuables in secondary transactions. Additionally, as the market is controlled by elements within A-ND, they have the wherewithal to break up the large shipments in secret after they have left your warehouses. Thus, the top end of distribution is shielded by its proximity to official Dreamer trade; the midsection, when shipments are broken down, are hidden by the financial and physical resources of the A-ND participants in the operation; the bottom end is hidden by the cache distribution, virtual space transactions, and infrequent use of traceable currencies. Seeing as the only potential users of the drug are sleepless, there is little risk that customers will reveal the existence of this black market. They are in desperate need of access to the drug, and most will die within a year of becoming fully symptomatic, the point at which Dreamer can be of use to them. It is an effectively invisible black market. But I have physical evidence of its existence, have personally witnessed a portion of it in action, and have grounds to arrest one of the architects and primary operators of the entire trade in black market DR33M3R.”
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