Detour Paris: Complete Series (Detour Paris Series Book 4)

by Dancer, Jack

  Exiting the hotel I grab the first black and yellow taxi in the cue outside and show the driver the page from my Moleskine where I've written the intersection of Carrer d' Entenza and Avinguda Diagonal and say, “Take me here. Pronto por favor.”

  “Si Señor.”

  The traffic is thick but moving and within a few minutes the cabbie stops. “Entenza and Avinguda Diagonal, Señor.”

  I pass him a ten-euro bill and exit the cab, walk a few paces, stop, and as if I'm just another tourist, pause and look around waiting for the cab to disappear into the mass of traffic. Across the street is the cell phone store. Inside a salesman approaches with a smile.

  “Buenos dias, Señor. Le puedo ayudar? (May I help you?)

  “Yes, I'd like to look at your disposable cell phones and iPhones,” I say.

  He affirms that he has a generous selection, and I pick two disposables and two iPhones and have them activated, noting each phone's number in my Moleskine.

  I pay cash for all four and bid the man a good day.

  Outside the store, I find a comfortable seat and begin setting up the phones. On iPhone number one, I set up three contacts - the phone numbers of the two disposable phones and a set of numbers that each disposable will have in a note's field: 41.1463754 and 1.2418013 plus the phone number to the other iPhone. I also transfer my Aqua Relief photo to the two phones with the lat-long numbers. The other iPhone will have neither contacts nor anything in a note's field. The first disposable will have one contact - the blank iPhone number and 41.1463754 in the note's field, and the second disposable will have one contact number - the blank iPhone number and 1.2418013 in its note's field.

  The four phones go into my briefcase, and I walk another two blocks to the bank, enter through the revolving front door and into a spacious room lined with tellers on one side and a single desk at the rear of the room where a lovely young lady impeccably dressed in a banker's pinstriped suit sits. As I approach, she pulls her tortoise-shell glasses down her nose peering over them like a school marm.

  “May I help you, Señor?” she says in cool business-like fashion.

  “I have a four o'clock meeting with, Miguel De La Guarda.”

  “And you are?”

  “He's expecting me.”

  “Excuse me, Señor, but I must announce your name to, Señor De La Guarda,” she says, put off.

  “Tell him, George Bush.”

  “George Bush?”

  “Yes.”

  Clearly not pleased, she, nevertheless, picks up her phone, dials, and without taking her eyes off me, says, “Señor De La Guarda, the president of the United States is here to see you.

  “Si Señor. He says his name is, George Bush, and that he has a four o'clock appointment. Si Señor.” She returns the receiver to its cradle and throws me an incredulous look.

  “It's a very common name,” I say.

  She doesn't reply.

  The door behind the young lady opens and out walks a tall, elegant gentleman, sixties, wearing a double-breasted, blue pin stripe suit, crisply starched white shirt and burgundy tie with a perfect Windsor knot. A full head of salt and pepper is combed back in a stylish, mature cut. He breaks into a well-rehearsed smile bright enough for a toothpaste commercial as he approaches offering an outstretched hand. It's Cesar Romero, I swear to God.

  “Welcome, Mister President, I am Miguel De La Guarda, at your service, and may I say it's an honor to meet you sir. Please, won't you come into my office? Prime Minister Blair is anxiously awaiting your arrival.”

  When I glance over to the young lady and say, “thank you,” her expression has moved from miffed to dumbfound. Now she wants me I can tell.

  “I appreciate your discretion sir and moreover, indulging a bit of humor,” I say to De La Guarda.

  “Banking offers little opportunity for indulging in such levity, so it is entirely my pleasure, Señor, although I'm not sure it was Claudia's. Had you pulled that stunt not so many years ago she would have pressed a button on the floor beneath her desk, and you would have been whisked off to one of the Generalissimo's pleasure palaces for an extended interview.”

  I cringe at the thought and decide it might be best to heed his advice in the future and not assume everyone over here has a sense of humor. Others may not be quite as indulgent as Señor De La Guarda.

  As we enter De La Guarda's office, another rather dapper gent rises from one of the leather wing-backs fronting De La Guarda's expansive clutter-free, mahogany desk and introduces himself as Jose Fernandez, my new attorney. Fernandez is a younger version of De La Guarda, maybe forty, dressed in a conservative three-button grey flannel suit and starched white button-down shirt with a thin, solid-lavender tie. His shoes are spit-shined black Oxfords.

  And here I am, all red-faced and wind blown from a day of driving the coast, standing in my well-worn Levis and Polo shirt. Not a very good first impression for the president of the United States I must say. But then, I am the client aren't I, and they, my soon-to-be hired hands; and that, no matter how you may appear or from where you may hail, checkmates everything.

  Following the introductory formalities and enjoying the espressos brought in by De La Guarda's lovely secretary, Claudia, Fernandez passes to me a document from a stack on the end of De La Guarda's desk.

  “Señor Blue, this is a Confidentiality Agreement drafted by your attorney, Saul Goldstein, that he faxed to my office. I've taken the liberty to make minor adjustments to bring it in line with prevailing Spanish law. Señor Goldstein has reviewed these changes and concurs. I have three originals here. This is for your review if you'd like to take a moment. Señor Goldstein has also sent you an email confirming his approval if you cared to review that as well before proceeding.”

  I remove my new iPhone and bring up my Hotmail inbox and review the message from Sam confirming what Fernandez says.

  “Okay, let's sign,” I say.

  “Señor De La Guarda and I have already executed all three, so all that remains is for your signature.”

  Each passes me their executed copies, and I sign the three, returning two and retaining one.

  “Okay, what else?”

  “I have one other document pertaining to a certain issue of which you are already well familiar, appointing me as your designated representative to claim, accept and transfer certain funds that are to become available in the future upon your instruction. Once I have received your instruction to collect those monies, one-third will be deposited within an escrow account at this bank under Señor De La Guarda's personal supervision. Those funds will be earmarked for the payment of taxes as required under the Tax Code of the United States. The remaining monies will be electronically transferred to an account at the Credit Suisse Bank of Geneva that will be opened just as soon as you sign this document, both copies please.”

  He passes two copies of a completed application opening a new deposit account at Credit Suisse Bank. I sign both, return one to Fernandez, and retain one.

  “And we will need your signature on both original applications to open an escrow account,” says De La Guarda passing to me two more documents. I sign both, returning one, retaining the other.

  “To activate these accounts, Señor Blue, will require that you place an opening deposit of five thousand U.S. dollars into each,” says Fernandez.

  “That's fine, but I have one other request of Mr. De La Guarda, and that is to purchase a lease on two safe deposit boxes. Your smallest boxes should be adequate,” I say.

  “Certainly, Señor Blue and the annual fee for each will be fifty U.S. dollars. If you are so kind as to include that amount - 100 dollars - to the check for your opening deposit, I will call one of my associates to fetch keys and the required signature forms.”

  “Thank you,” I say while reaching into my briefcase and retrieving the checkbook to my existing Bank of America account and write out both checks, handing one off to Fernandez to open a Swiss account and the other to De La Guarda for the Bank of America ac
count and safe deposit boxes.

  A knock to De La Guarda's door sounds, and he commands, “enter.” In steps, a short, pudgy fellow with papers.

  ”Perdon Señor De La Guarda,” he says handing over the papers to which De La Guarda motions for him to hand them to me. He does.

  I look over the first page, and the man directs his pudgy finger to the line for my signature. I sign both forms and return them to him.

  ”Por favor Señor. I will provide you with keys and show you how to access your boxes whenever your business with Señor De La Guarda concludes,” he says bowing his way out of the office and closing the door behind him.

  “Well, if that concludes our business gentlemen,” I say and stand, offering my hand to Señor De La Guarda.

  “One thing puzzles me, Señor Blue,” says De La Guarda shaking my hand.

  “Yes?”

  “May I inquire as to the size of your expected deposit to the escrow account? Forgive me but any one of my managers could have helped you with our business today. Why was it that my involvement was insisted?”

  Fernandez steps up and says, “the expected deposit will exceed forty million dollars, and those monies will be credited to this, your (he corrects), branch of this bank. How many accounts do you have currently with forty million dollars on deposit?”

  “I see. And Señor Blue, I want you to know we value your business very much and if there is anything I can do for you, personally, at any time, please do not hesitate to call upon me.”

  “Thank you, Señor De La Guarda,” I say before turning to Fernandez and asking, “could I discuss a matter with you for a moment outside?”

  “Certainly.”

  We leave De La Guarda's office, and I pull Fernandez to the side and say, “I want you to be on the safe deposit boxes too. I may need you to access them if, for some reason, I'm unable to.”

  “Okay. And may I ask you something as well?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Saul did not provide a lot of details on any of this - whatever it is you're doing that is. And frankly, maybe I'd rather not know. However, one thing I do need to know is, whatever it is you are doing; I need your assurances that it's nothing illegal. You must understand that Spanish law offers no more immunity to an attorney who breaks the law than does the United States. So, please do not involve me in anything illegal or anything that could be construed as such, including placing my name or that of my firm on a safe-deposit box containing illegal contents. And, most important, I ask that you, please be truthful with me in all of our dealings. If there is something that you cannot tell me without, let us say, reinventing, then, please do not tell me. I will not give you advice that puts you contrary to the law, but I can provide advice that can help you to avoid breaking it. If you are agreeable to these conditions, then we can do business.”

  “I am,” and we shake on it.

  Once we've both been instructed on how to access the boxes by the little pudgy man, we're each given the keys for boxes number 196 and 208, we're left alone in a private booth with the open boxes. I reach into my briefcase and remove two disposable cell phones and place one into each safe-deposit box along with wall and car chargers.

  Joe says nothing.

  “If I need you to retrieve either or both phones, I'll let you know. It may be that I simply relay to you, either one or both three-digit box numbers. You would then retrieve the contents and text the number in the note's field and attach the only photo here to the only contact number listed, okay?”

  “Okay, but you're already beginning to make me nervous, Señor. You know that don't you?”

  “Listen, you lawyers scare the hell out of me all the time, but somehow you guys always seem to come out ahead. Don't worry. You'll be adequately compensated. Besides, you may never hear from me again and if that's the case just send your bill to Saul.”

  twenty-one

  Evening, Tuesday, 2 September.

  Somewhere in the Pyrenees.

  The Raven & Paulo.

  Someone's here? Who? God, please don't let it be her, Paulo worries.

  “Well, well, Mr. Marti. Finally, we're alone. And I'll bet you're hungry aren’t you? And thirsty? You don't have to answer. I know you can't but I also know that you can hear, see, and understand everything I'm saying to you. Let me first say, welcome. You will be my guest here for the next few days, and we're going to have a grand time together. I can promise you that. But first, I want to make sure that you're feeling okay so let me get you some sustenance.”

  She leaves and after a few moments she returns rolling a vertical stand from which hangs a bag of clear liquid.

  “I'm going to insert this I.V. into your arm and in just a few moments you'll start feeling invigorated all over again. Consider this your breakfast. I'm also going to give you another injection so that you can continue to live as one of the living dead. Hasn't it been fun so far?” Drusilla says as she plunges a needle into Paulo injecting another NMBA cocktail.

  Warmth courses through his bloodstream like the laying on of hands, and just as he’s beginning to feel sensations returning, they're now retreating, again.

  The little doctor’s face hovers over him and she’s brandishing a pair of . . . are those scissors? Oh, God, what is this evil woman going to do with those? Please God help me.

  “Señor Marti, you know what I am looking for, what I want from you and I hope for your sake that I find it. I would simply ask you where the ticket is, but I don't think you'll tell me, not yet at least. But you will. I assure you. You just need a little persuasion. Think of it like roasting a turkey. You want the turkey to come out moist and delicious and the way to ensure that it does is to first brine it for a few hours, maybe a day. Soften up the meat and make it tender before roasting. Well, that's what I'm going to do with you, Señor Marti. I'm going to prepare you for your roasting so that when that time comes you'll be as tender as a newborn and ready to tell me everything.

  “But for now we're going to start with a thorough cavity search just to make sure that you haven't hidden the prize somewhere on your body. We know where that somewhere is, don't we, Señor Marti?

  “First, we need to remove these clothes. Then we can get down to business. But, before we get started, let's have a little music, shall we?”

  The little doctor takes a remote from her coat pocket and pressing a button the Crazy Serbian Butcher's Dance begins. She twirls the shears like a gunfighter and begins cutting Paulo's clothes off, throwing the remains into a pile on the floor. She takes a couple polka back-steps then sidekicks the clothes against the wall.

  She twirls and slip-slides to the wall where she presses a button on a control panel and two cables, looped at the ends, begin descending from the ceiling. When they've reached the level of Paulo's feet, she executes another twirl and moonwalks back to the table.

  Paulo is awestruck at what he’s seeing. The woman’s insane.

  Gently lifting one of Paulo's feet, the little doctor brings it through the looped cable then pulls and tightens the noose. She does the same with the other foot then moonwalks back to the control panel. Another button and the cables raise Paulo's legs off the table spreading them wide and The Crazy Serbian Butcher's Dance pounds on. Satisfied with his position, she does two side steps, a twirl, and two more side steps on her return to the table.

  If it weren't for the sheer terror coursing through Paulo as his face mashes into the stainless steel table while the rest of him rises, he wouldn't feel anything. It's all that remains to convince him he's still living. But when the midget of a doctor steps within view, stretching a white rubber glove over her hand and past her elbow, he's now certain that whatever life his body still clings to, will soon abandon him.

  “Señor Marti, I hope for your sake that I find the lottery ticket and if it is where I suspect you've hidden it, I hope that you at least took precautions to properly seal it and protect it. Body fluids can cause irreparable damage to materials that are not properly protected,”
she says. “And by the way, while I'm at it should I examine your prostate?” she says laughing at her own witticism.

  She coats her gloved hand and arm with globs of petroleum jelly then leans down to Paulo and, shouting over the music, says, “Señor Marti, if you've ever wondered what it feels like for a woman when her gynecologist reaches into her to turn a breeched baby, you'll now know. Wait! No, you won't. You can't feel anything. I nearly forgot. What a shame. It's an experience you'd never forget. Oh well, maybe we'll do this again sometime but without the NMBA.”

  She twirls around like a girl performing a dance recital and the next thing I know is I can feel her pushing me. No pain, but I can feel something pushing me, inside, and my face is sliding across the steel table. God almighty, what is she doing? Is she ripping me apart?

  The next thing, she’s coming into view. Her hand is empty, and her arm is covered with shit and blood. Oh my God. What has she done to me? I want to scream, but I can't. I want to cry, but I can't find the tears. I am nothing but a piece of meat hanging here for this maniac to do whatever she pleases. She's going to kill me. The look in her eyes. She's furious. I'm a dead man.

  The little doctor says nothing. The fury coursing through her has rendered her mute. She peels the glove from her hand and tosses it into a wastebasket near the wall. She walks, not dances, to a side table where she extracts a stainless steel scalpel from the table's small drawer then returns to the table and into Paulo's view. She presents the scalpel, turns it so the gleam upon the stainless steel blade from the overhead light is sure to catch his eye.

  “I didn't find what I want Señor Marti, as you well know. And because you refuse to give me what I want I am going to take something from you. I hope that you have already made your family Señor Marti because after I am through with you today, you will never be able to bring any more little Marti's into this world again.”