by Roman Klee
“What do you think?” asked Thom, clearly excited by his new plaything.
“Feels like we just entered the bat cave,” replied Nathan, who had still not worked out where all this was leading.
“When I was getting the place remodeled, the architect told me about a friend of his, who dreamed up this sky garage idea. He’s putting it in a new build … some mega high glass Xanadu in Asia.”
Nathan felt like asking the location, but didn’t.
“Anyhow, imagine the benefits. His idea was that your Ferrari or Aston Martin, or whatever super-car you want … you could view it from the comfort of your favorite armchair. Like forty-stories up in the air! The guy’s totally nuts.”
Nathan could understand its appeal.
“No chance of getting a side door dinged or a jealous neighbor gouging the hood with a door key.”
“Helps the insurance too, I guess.”
“Yeah, like I said, imagine the benefits. You can get out now.”
Nathan looked disappointed. “I thought you said this thing was like an elevator?”
“It is, but it’s linked to the car’s onboard human sensor. If it detects us, it won’t move. It’s a safety protocol to stop people and their cars both getting trapped in a forty-story elevator shaft.”
“Sounds over-the-top.”
“I know. I could get it modified. There’s only a couple of levels here.”
The two men took the stairs to Thom’s apartment on the upper floor of the converted barn. On exiting the lobby, they walked straight into the living room and Thom picked up another remote control unit.
“See, if I press this, the glass wall over there turns clear. Press it again and it goes back to opaque. Neat or what? Here have a go.”
Nathan was keen to try it out. He pressed the button and as the glass became transparent, he felt like he had fallen in love all over again.
His Nero Carbonio metallic Maserati was now in full view, safely behind a sheet of specially toughened security glass.
“Do you mind?” asked Nathan, knowing Thom could not object.
He opened the door to the sky garage, slowly slid his hand over the car’s front wing, gently released the driver’s door, settled into his familiar Bianco Polare leather seat … and inhaled. His favorite car had lost nothing of its magic to captivate him.
Thom’s Porsche appeared on its hydraulic lift in the second car bay. The place was every motorhead’s dream. But in reality, it was only a distraction from the much more serious task that lay ahead.
“Personally, I don’t like the lines of the Cayenne. I much prefer the curves of my Testarossa, but she’s somewhere else. So I use the opaque option a lot,” said Thom, who nevertheless walked over to make sure the Porsche had arrived without a scratch.
“Did you notice? I changed your license plates to French ones. It keeps the gendarmes and police off the scent—you never want them to stop you.”
Nathan was very grateful. His friend had found the perfect hideout in the hills above Villefranche-sur-Mer, somewhere his wife had no chance of ever finding. He wanted to take the Maserati out on the open road and was about to ask the inevitable question, when Thom stopped him.
“No, you’ll have to wait. Your time will come. There’s something else I must show you.”
Thom sounded like a disapproving parent, who intended to teach his child the benefits of delayed gratification. The surroundings and all the gadgetry had taken Nathan’s mind off the real reason why he was there. Maybe in different circumstances, spending time at Thom’s new hideaway would have been a whole load of fun.
But Nathan knew his current predicament ruled thoughts of enjoyment out of the question. He mentioned to Thom the problems he had in contacting his family while ill.
Thom explained it was standard practice for a hospital to operate jamming devices that prevented cell phones picking up signals. Without them, the place would be a cacophony of ring tones and loud conversations, “I’m in hospital! Get me outta here!”
Then Thom’s manner changed.
He had some straight talking to do. He appreciated things had not been easy for Nathan, but then they never were.
Thom had a duty to perform; to make good on the promise he’d given Nathan’s father. If the boy ever needed help, if he ever got into serious trouble, he would always be there for him.
Δ = T –07,449,840
What Thom showed Nathan came as a shock. To start with, Nathan had no idea where the pictures came from, who had taken them and why anyone would threaten to send them to the media or upload them to Facebook.
Several pictures were taken during his trip to Thailand. There was one of him coming out of the Scatola Nera. Another caught him with his arm around a real laydee.
Nathan assured Thom it was just a bad camera angle.
Then there were pictures of Nathan attending student parties during his time at Harvard and Oxford—that seemed like a century ago.
And somehow they found evidence of bad behavior. Nathan knew for sure he had never posted old photos on Facebook or Flicker or any other website for that matter.
In one of them, Nathan could be seen clearly taking part in a food fight, with smashed picture frames and chairs, shattered wine glasses and an overturned table. The walls were running with food and red wine.
Nathan was eager to stress he had never joined a frat house and neither did he know who had taken the second picture, which he insisted must have been Photoshopped.
“Makes no difference to them. If it is a fake like you say, it’s a real good one and when they stick it on a website or sell it to a newspaper, that’s it, they achieved their aim—they make you look bad.”
Thom explained that this was only the start. They also had his medical records, which showed he’d been in therapy.
“Yes, but it was not serious … I mean …”
Nathan’s voice tailed off, as if he half believed that maybe his need to talk through certain issues with a total stranger was more serious than he wanted to admit.
Okay, maybe he was in denial.
“So you say. But therapy is a good one, because they can claim you’re seeing a shrink because your dick’s gone limp, or you’re best buddies with Jack Daniels, or you like chasing the dragon. You’re a compulsive gambler or a compulsive liar. You’re a thrill seeker, an adrenaline junkie or you beat up your wife on a Saturday night.”
Nathan didn’t know how to respond.
“You can be some or all or none of these things, but who cares? They just imply you’re a wacko. You went to get professional help all well and good, but you’re still nuts and everyone knows what a nutjob gets up to on dark winter nights. Lock up your daughters, with this guy in the neighborhood no one will sleep safely at night.”
Then Thom explained how they could go a lot deeper.
“They can add stuff to your medical records—it’s all on a central computer. You’re forced to deny meetings with doctors that never took place, but can you prove a negative?”
Nathan always assumed there were some limits and safeguards to protect his privacy.
“Have you ever had an STD? With a few strokes of a keyboard, you have now!”
Nathan noticed Thom had another file containing all his bank and credit card statements. If anyone wanted to delve some more into his personal life then this provided the perfect roadmap.
“Has your name appeared in anyone’s Little Black Book lately?”
Nathan wasn’t entirely sure where Thom was going with his question, so he said no.
“Think about it. The owner of a book containing the names of clients is charged with procuring minors for prostitution. And your name appears ten times. What is anyone to think?”
Nathan shrugged.
What could he do if someone was more concerned with fiction than the truth?<
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Thom knew he wouldn’t get an answer and continued, “They know you have financial troubles. It may not be very newsworthy, but a desperate man might go to extreme lengths to remedy the situation. And what better way to explain an accident?”
Then there was the forged credit card trail that led to Miss Whiplash’s Pleasure Dungeon.
“Did you at least enjoy it?”
Nathan insisted he’d never been to the place, and he never paid for sex or anything else like that.
“No, I believe you Nathan, but not everyone will. Not when they see your name and photo in the papers. And anyhow, they hacked your voicemail messages and have your taped conversations with her.”
“Hey … what the hell are you talking about?”
And now came the final insult.
Thom revealed details of his conversations with Dr. Mandala.
His fears, his insecurities. The sexual fantasies he wanted no one to know about.
What had happened to physician patient privilege?
“But Whiplash, she’s not a real person. It was role-play. It was part of the therapy. They heard Dr. Mandala’s voice on those messages. She said I had issues with low self-esteem.”
Thom smiled. “Whatever you say Nathan. Whatever you want to think. It doesn’t matter.”
Nathan was starting to look desperate.
“Then there are the nuclear options.”
Thom paused, waiting for the inevitable question.
“What … you mean it gets worse?”
“Sure. We’re just getting started. There are first and second strike options.”
Nathan had the feeling this would never end.
“We can start with abduction and kidnapping, blackmail and extortion. They know about your marriage problems and your ex-wife’s serial infidelity. They have a list of all your ex’s lovers.”
And they were more than welcome to them thought Nathan.
“I assume they left your wife alone, because they would be doing you a service if they became too aggressive.”
Nathan hated to admit as much. It was a strange turn of events. If they ever kidnapped his ex and demanded a ransom, he had no money to pay them.
“Now the children.”
Nathan already knew the next part.
“The mafia like to break into a target’s house and steal pictures of his kids. Then they send him a note threatening to kidnap them. Right now you think your kids are safe on their gap year projects. Loretta’s in Ecuador, Steve’s in Costa Rica, right?”
Nathan nodded, that was exactly the assumption he’d made. Because he was not totally naïve.
If he failed to track down Liz or discover the exact whereabouts of Budd Wright, he knew there would be consequences for screwing up.
“A false sense of security is always dangerous. You should assume they are monitoring your kids’ satellite phones. And you should also assume someone will be watching both of them when they go to London and Paris later in the fall.”
Nathan always thought his children would be safely out of harm’s way during their year off. When they returned, he expected to have got his finances back on track, possibly even a new job away from the Banderbilt Trust.
Now he recognized his whole approach was amateurish at best—because Juan Betancourt’s outfit had an office in Ecuador and the odds were high he had useful contacts in Costa Rica too.
Thom could see his friend was working through the implications and trying to anticipate what came next.
“They know the sex websites you visit, the escort services you like the most. If you use sex chat lines, or log onto webcam porn sites. They know your sexual preferences and if you’re into kinky sex games, role-play and stuff.”
Nathan was now feeling as if someone had literally been standing over him every day, taking notes. It made him feel exposed and vulnerable.
“Then there’s child porn.”
Thom had barely uttered the words, when Nathan screwed up his face in disgust.
“You cannot be serious … I …”
“Of course you don’t Nathan. And that’s the point. They secretly download it onto your hard drive. You become the subject of a police crackdown on illegal kiddie porn. They trace you from the credit card they say you used to access the site. This line of attack would be very effective in your case. A prison term and social pariah status guaranteed.”
Nathan was truly shocked anyone would stoop so low.
“The worst outcomes are the second strike nuclear options. Their favorites are maiming; violently removing body parts, or beating their target so badly he ends up paralyzed or brain damaged. If they’re feeling patient, because they prefer to watch you suffer, they’ll use poison. Radioactive isotopes are popular. And when all else fails, they use the ultimate game changer—assassination.”
By now Nathan was feeling mentally drained.
“I told you all this Nathan, because I want to prove I care what happens to you. You do understand?”
Nathan was still not clear why anyone would want to go about gathering so much personal information on him.
“Tell me Thom, why do all this?”
“It’s their insurance policy on you Nathan, in case you decide to get creative.”
“You mean it was Antonio Orofino’s idea?”
“The thing is, I never met the guy, but I know he fixed you up with the job at the Trust.”
As well as inventing an explanation for his failure to find Liz, Nathan now had something else to think about.
He realized that his inability to make any kind of a breakthrough, meant the remainder of his time at the Trust would be limited—unless he could become useful again.
And to do that, he had to come up with the kind of information a guy like Orofino found invaluable.
What to do?
Returning empty handed to New York was not an option. It was probably better never to return at all.
Nathan was about to ask for Thom’s advice, because he was lost for ideas; there seemed no way out. To come face to face with Orofino and admit defeat, meant only one outcome.
Nathan may have welcomed it in the past, but he didn’t any longer.
Thom didn’t require additional prompting to identify the real cause of the problem.
Nathan was afraid of success.
He got in his own way, sabotaging himself, rejecting good opportunities because he thought he was not worthy of them. One of the strangest things was that Nathan had come so close to finding Liz and he never knew it.
Then Thom offered him a way out.
He began to explain, even though to Nathan it all sounded very odd to say the least.
In the end, Nathan hoped he was working with someone he could really trust.
Δ = T –07,363,440
The day started well for Nathan. Thom drove him to Nice airport in the Porsche Cayenne. Next, a scheduled plane took him to Venice, where he boarded a specially reserved Riva Aquarama. But there was no chance of him getting to his destination at high speed, because along the Grand Canal, Nathan’s boat was forced to travel at a maximum of four knots.
Now he had more time to take in Europe’s most famous waterway. He noted the Istrian marble facades, some restored and so pristine, they looked like they had been built yesterday, others blackened by the dark hand of history. Above the windows of a piano nobile, a relief of playful putti supported a family’s coat of arms. Patches of missing stucco and exposed brickwork, worn down steps and ever rising green slime; a record of decay and the passage of time.
And had Nathan taken the same journey at night, he would have glimpsed the interiors of rooms composed of stucco frescos, gilt leather-paneled walls, maybe a Tiepolo or Guardi, Murano chandeliers, rare marble, porphyry and jasper columns, all artfully installed behind Gothic quatrefoils. Grand palaces
, owned by patrician families (their names written in the Golden Book) who once had supplied the Venetian state with her procurators and senators, magistrates and doges.
Nathan looked critically at the Gritti Hotel (where he would be staying later) and then the single-level Guggenheim museum of modern art. He was not very impressed. The basilica of Santa Maria della Salute came into view and he knew he was getting close.
And there she was, a familiar sight—Anastasia, anchored off the Isola di San Giorgio Maggiore, a picture of serenity surrounded by bustling water traffic. But instead of asking Captain Volcker’s permission to board, Nathan’s boat got as close as possible to Il Moro di Venezia. The twenty-five metre racing yacht was tied up along the Riva degli Schiavoni, where members of the public had a chance to look her over.
But from the expressions on the faces of the crowd, Nathan could tell the local favorite had not won the Louis Vuitton Cup. Still whatever the result, he doubted it would stop the locals from celebrating something.
Nathan eagerly jumped ashore and pushing through the onlookers, headed for the Palazzo Ducale. He was running late. The original idea had been to meet up with Carla and Mary Beth, so they could do the tourist thing and take a guided tour of the Doge’s quarters and the rooms where Venetian nobles governed their empire and controlled their citizens.
Instead, Nathan went to pick up his special pre-registered pass and catalog, from one of Sotheby’s auction representatives.
“You’re with the Liz Wright party … right?”
“Sorry?” Nathan assumed the woman had made a mistake and corrected her; she meant Carla Wright.
“No, sir, I have the name here, it says Liz for sure.”
Nathan wasted no more time arguing. He grabbed his pass and started running. He ran through rooms filled with Tintorettos and Titians. He ignored barreled ceilings and intricate gilt stucco work—all designed to overawe and impress visitors to the state of Venice.
And carried on, all the way up to the third-floor—to the Chamber of the Council of Ten.
Because he was late, they relegated Nathan to the standing room only section, where the press was housed. From his vantage point, he could see most of the audience.