Something about the sea air centered Bettencourt, putting him back into his proper alignment. It wasn’t the blood or the boy or the gunshots—not even Dalmar’s superior taunts. It was the surprise, a sensation he felt deeply unused to. He hated it.
“Walk me through my afternoon,” he said to his lawyer. He leaned against the nearest railing and peeled off his bloody shoes, holding them to his side, standing on the rough metal grating in his socks, watching the waves below.
His lawyer pulled out a Blackberry and scrolled through the new messages. “Well, the Russians are trying to get in touch. They’re pissed about the transport; want somebody’s head on a platter. It’s going to take some serious kowtowing to get out of this one.”
“I’m not in the mood. What else?”
“Um, this is a little weird, but the Conquerer is arriving in the next couple of hours. At least I think it’s the Conquerer.”
“I’m not following.”
“Let me put it this way. It sure looks like the Conquerer, but the pilot is calling her the Fool’s Errand. Somebody named Dr. Nassiri is in command, says he knows you. Says you have some kind of arrangement.”
“Hmmm …” Bettencourt racked his brain for some reference to Dr. Nassiri without success. He threw his shoes over the railing. They tumbled through the air and disappeared into the ocean.
“Set up the appointment.”
CHAPTER 7
Dr. Nassiri stepped off the Fool’s Errand and onto the concrete pier of Anconia Island. It certainly felt like land, without the nearly imperceptible sway felt even on the largest ships. From this angle it was difficult to appreciate the true proportions of the oceanic city. A triad of oil platforms rose from the sea like a cliffside, far above the lapping waves of the Indian Ocean. Anconia was an entire metropolis perched on top of the pillars, easily amounting to three massive city blocks. Looking up, he felt the same way he’d felt when arriving at Casablanca the first time, amazed—and maybe even a little proud—at the scale of human endeavor demonstrated.
He heard footsteps behind him as Alexis practically skipped down the gangplank to join him. “Jonah said he’d check in and do the docking paperwork,” she said. “Ready to see the city?”
“Of course,” said Dr. Nassiri. “Off to see the Wizard.”
Waving her forward, he followed her toward the main harbor elevator. He adjusted the strap of his duffel bag, trying to find a comfortable place on his shoulder, but there was no proper placement given the bulky contents.
With some difficulty, Dr. Nassiri had found another linen suit aboard the Fool’s Errand and resolved to keep this one in better repair than the previous.
Alexis had changed into her “civvies” as she called them, a charming term for a tight tank top and designer jeans. She’d also liberated a fashionable pair of Manalo Blanhnik heels from the megayacht’s master cabin, wearing them with total confidence, despite their impracticality.
Dr.Nassiri had made a half-hearted attempt to get Jonah and Youssef to accompany him to the city. Jonah simply grunted, a gesture Dr. Nassiri took as a no. Youssef did the same, his unabashed admiration for the American having metastasized to hero worship after realizing his belting to the face probably saved them all. This hero worship had more recently evolved into outright duplication, forcing Dr. Nassiri to grit his teeth as his cousin, unconsciously or not, aped the American’s verbal idiosyncrasies and obnoxious swagger.
Still, he was glad they had opted not to join him. This meant he’d have Alexis to himself. Since she was discovered onboard, he’d had several chances over the last four days to talk with her, but had shied away every time an opportunity arose. He didn’t want Jonah or Youssef around and was a little anxious, even if he didn’t want to admit it, about the small spark that lit up inside, a feeling he’d almost forgotten existed, whenever he saw her easy smile or heard her delightful Texan accent.
He’d carefully choreographed the minutia of their conversation in advance and yet now, as the elevator rose through the air on its programmed ascent from the dock level, he forced down a twinge of panic, realizing he had forgotten what he had planned to say. An awkward silence hung over them both. He glanced down at her and flashed a somewhat uncomfortable smile that he hoped didn’t look like a grimace.
“So what do you do?” asked Alexis. “For a job, I mean. Other than hijacking ships and kidnapping girls.”
She’d meant it to be funny, but Dr. Nassiri felt the need to defend himself.
“I didn’t mean to kidnap you. Or steal the ship. That was Mr. Blackwell’s—”
“I know,” she said with a genuine smile and a reassuring pat on the arm. “He calls you ‘Doc’—what type of doctor are you?”
He drew in a breath. “I’m a surgeon.”
“Like …?” asked Alexis, putting two cupped hands just away from her breasts.
“No, not at all,” he laughed. “Military surgeon. But I worked part-time in a private practice where I performed a number of cosmetic procedures.”
“But no tits.”
“None to date.”
The massive elevator jerked to a halt, far above the artificial jetty below. From here, the Fool’s Errand looked like little more than a model ship rocking gently in the waves.
Dr. Nassiri and Alexis stepped off the elevator and into the center of Anconia Island’s main courtyard. The experience was slightly uncanny, as if they’d emerged into the center of a modern-day California office park. Green grass and plants covered most of the area, surrounded by tall buildings and walking paths. A few white-collared workers milled about or sat on comfortable aluminum benches. It was, in a modern way, beautiful.
In the center of the complex rose a single main building, a massive glass structure fully ten stories higher than the next tallest. Dr. Nassiri didn’t need to ask anyone directions to know that was where he was headed. One could typically find the king in the highest tower.
“Wow,” was all Alexis could say as they entered the lobby.
Dr. Nassiri looked around for an information desk or security guard. But the art-deco styled lobby was empty. No guards, no metal detectors, no badge system or front desk sign-in.
“Guess they don’t need much security,” he said. It occurred to him that such exercises would have been totally superfluous. This wasn’t some regular city office building, but rather a mere appendage of a larger body, that of Anconia Island itself.
“Yeah,” Alexis said, looking around. “If they let you berth or land here, you’ve probably already been checked out.”
According to the placard above the elevator bank, only a single elevator at the far end of the lobby rose to the penthouse. Dr. Nassiri pressed the gold-plated button, and the brass-inlaid doors opened with a soft whoosh, beckoning them into the elevator. The doctor was briefly seized by an urge to take Alexis by the hand and lead her in. He snuck a glance and got the strong sense she may have appreciated such a bold move. But he kept his hands by his side.
The door slid shut. Inside, the elevator had no buttons, just cloudy glass walls lit from behind by some unseen source. An invisible panel in the wall flickered to life, revealing a previously-hidden video screen. Dr. Nassiri had the uncomfortable feeling there were also one or more hidden cameras trained on them.
An attractive red-headed woman in an elegant business suit appeared on the display, looking in Dr. Nassiri’s direction with a tight, professional smile.
“May we help you?” she asked. “It does not appear you have clearance to the selected level.”
“Dr. Nassiri to see Charles Bettencourt,” said the doctor. “By appointment.”
“Of course,” said the young woman. She turned away from the video display for the barest of moments, leaving Dr. Nassiri to wonder if he was in the right place after all.
Without a sound, the display flickered off, disappearing as if it’d never existed.
The elevator rose, then gained speed as if pulled upward on a silk thread. It didn’t stop at
any floors, it wasn’t the type of elevator that served a building, it was the type that served a single man. The cloudy glass walls faded to invisible, going clear as the elevator appeared to burst free, soaring over the skyscrapers of Anconia. The effect was incredible as the machine climbed the last ten stories towards the penthouse, rising over the oceanic city, sunlight glittering on the steel and glass skyscrapers, glancing off the rippling waves far below.
Before he could finish appreciating the view, the elevator slowed to a smooth stop and doors behind him separated and opened. Dr. Nassiri and Alexis exited into an angled, glass-roofed penthouse, complete with a helicopter landing pad extending off the side of the structure. The far end of the room was dominated by a massive oak desk with a solitary, high-backed chair, turned to face away from them. Beside him, Alexis sucked in her breath with a quiet whistle. It was an art-deco cathedral, an information-age throne room for a god of modern capitalism.
Flanking the elevator stood a corridor of free-standing glass panels entombing ancient Japanese parchments. Swirling, colorful designs depicted dragons, samurai, Kraken, and beautiful geishas in some of the most intricate patterns Dr. Nassiri had ever seen. As Alexix gaped at the view, he bent closer to inspect one of the panels, staring in fascination as he realized the parchments were not paper.
They were human skin.
He stood abruptly and moved away before Alexis could turn her attention to the parchments and make the same discovery.
He recalled learning about this practice some years ago. Upon death, a poorly-favored or debt-ridden yakuza gangster might be flayed and tattooed, as their skin, in samples as small as postcards, were highly prized by darkspirited collectors. Bettencourt’s collection must have been years in the making—entire bodies, male and female alike, skinned and stretched out like human canvas, encompassing necks, back, buttocks, every tattooed inch of flesh. What these macabre artifacts said about their collector, he did not know. And did not want to find out.
The high-backed chair swiveled to face them, revealing Charles Bettencourt. He rose and walked around the desk to greet the pair, wearing a wide smile and no shoes. “Welcome to Anconia Island,” he said.
Jonah Blackwell stretched out on a deck chair of the Fool’s Errand, adjusting his position for optimal sun absorption. Beads of sweat wept from every pore, drawn out by the intense heat. He’d already gained a few pounds, filling in between his stringy muscles, giving him a fuller, healthier look. It wasn’t like he needed a tan. Prison 14 had many things in short supply, but sun wasn’t one of them. He just liked the feeling of freedom.
He took another bite of the bacon sandwich he’d prepared for himself. It’d been too long since he’d felt the satisfaction of a full stomach, but for some reason it also bothered him. It made him feel lethargic, dull-edged. The skills imperative in prison—observation, speed, brutality, paranoia—were all unnecessary here.
Buzz lay on the deck chair beside him, snoring loudly while wearing Louis Vuitton sunglasses appropriated from the master cabin. Jonah wondered if Youssef knew they were women’s. Or maybe they weren’t, Jonah wasn’t exactly up on the latest fashions.
Buzz yawned and stretched, slowly waking up from his midday nap. Over the last few days, he’d practically inhaled a case of Bollinger champagne and endless cigars, so much that he’d developed a budding alcohol-plumped belly. It wasn’t enough to be distracting, but it did look just a little out of place on the former soldier’s otherwise athletic frame.
Without missing a beat, the ex-soldier reached over to a small glass table next to the deck chair and retrieved a silver cigar case. He opened it, ripped off the end of a cigar with his fingernails, and tried to light it.
“Motherfucker,” he mumbled with irritation as the lighter sputtered twice before catching. Succeeding, he sucked in two big lungfuls of cigar smoke and coughed as he exhaled.
“Too bad we don’t have some em-jay,” he said to Jonah, waving the cigar theatrically. “Razor this shit open, get our smoke on for reals.”
“Buzz, that’s a $600 cigar,” said Jonah.
“Mother … fucker …” mused Buzz as he considered the expensive cigar with no small measure of respect. Jonah realized the Moroccan would probably still razor it, even if all he had on hand was a dime bag of skunk.
Before Jonah could respond, a loud crashing sound emanated from below decks. Both Jonah and Buzz froze cold, staring at each other, listening. It sounded like an entire rack of glass dishes had suddenly hit a tile floor, too loud to be an accident.
“You suppose Hassan and Alexis are back?” Buzz said, his voice low.
Jonah shook his head, picked up the pearl-handled 1911 pistol from the side table and secured it in the small of his back.
Unarmed, Buzz allowed Jonah to lead as both men carefully tread down the stairs towards the main galley. A massive man with a shaved head stood next to the bar, his back to the pair. Easily six foot six, his swollen shoulders, arms, and neck gave him the look of a man who could knock down buildings with his bare hands and pull apart rail cars with his teeth. A trail of dirty footprints marched across the expensive white carpet, and a customized Kevlar and ceramic plate vest had been tossed over the back of the nearest chair. The man’s muscles flexed underneath his sweat-soaked shirt as Jonah and Buzz approached from behind. He didn’t turn around.
The man stumbled from foot to foot, humming to himself, infusing the air with the distinct malodor of expensive booze as he casually mixed himself a White Russian from too much Swedish vodka and too-old milk.
Jonah took a closer look at the bullet-proof vest and realized he could make out colonel’s bars, completely out of place on a mercenary. The live grenades dangling from the vest seemed much more apropos, enough explosive power to sink the Fool’s Errand. Drawing the 1911 pistol from his waistband, Jonah kept it in his dominant hand and leaned against a wall, concealing the weapon from the uninvited guest.
“You lost?” asked Buzz.
The intruder hesitated for a moment, and then slowly turned to face Jonah and Buzz. Jesus, he looked like hell. And he was drunk.
“I am not lost,” he answered. With a broad, cruel smile and dirt, rust, a thousand scabbed-over cuts, and sweaty, unwashed clothing stained with blood, the colonel looked like he had just stepped off a battlefield. Maybe Anconia Island wasn’t libertarian Disneyland after all.
“Then what are you doing here?”
“A janitor tried to kick me out of a bar. Something about them not being open. I told him to mix me a drink anyway.” He brought the glass to his mouth and sucked down half the liquid in it, then held it up in a mock toast. “He was stubborn, though.”
The colonel’s hand was bloody and busted open along the knuckles. A chill shot down Jonah’s spine. Buzz flinched. “So I asked myself,” continued the colonel without waiting for any further prompting, “where would be … the best place … to get milk?”
Facing them, the colonel leaned back up against the wall. He held the White Russian in one hand and a H&K pistol in the other. Jonah kicked himself for not noticing it sooner.
“Buzz,” said Jonah, more to his companion than the stranger, and without ever taking his eyes off the colonel. “Fuck off.”
Buzz didn’t need to be told twice. The only one in the room without a weapon, he ducked his head and retreated back up the main staircase. Neither the mercenary or the former prisoner spoke until the footsteps faded.
“I don’t think your friend liked me,” said the colonel.
Jonah still couldn’t tell whether or not the he was trying to pick a fight. Safety off, his finger rested on the trigger. He didn’t want to put odds on it, but guessed he could probably outdraw a drunk.
“What do you want?” asked Jonah.
“Didn’t I tell you? I needed a proper drink.”
With that, the colonel slurped down the last of his White Russian with one gulp and tossed the empty glass on the floor. It bounced a couple of times on the carpet and rolled un
der a chair. The smell of bad milk again reached Jonah’s nostrils.
The colonel shrugged and pulled out another bottle, tequila this time, slapped two glasses on the bar and poured two overflowing shots. Holding his pistol with one hand and the shot glasses in the other, he stumbled towards Jonah.
“Gutsy move, parking a stolen boat on my island.”
This is it, Jonah thought. His hand tensed around the hidden pistol, preparing to aim and fire. The colonel leaned in close, too close, giving Jonah an uncomfortably clear look at his blood-flecked face. Backspatter, the forensics experts called it. The signature blood spray found on an executioner, the blood found on a man who’d just shot someone at point-blank range. The colonel pressed a shot glass into Jonah’s hands, dripping tequila onto the floor.
“Let’s toast,” said the colonel, swaying slightly, “to death. The one thing that keeps us men.”
“To death,” said Jonah. Both men downed their shots without breaking eye contact.
“You must be Dr. Hassan Nassiri.”
Dr. Nassiri bowed ever so slightly and extended his hand to the CEO.
“A pleasure to be here, Mr. Bettencourt,” said Dr. Nassiri. “Thank you for agreeing to this appointment.”
“Please,” said Bettencourt dismissively. “Just call me Charles. And who is this lovely young woman?”
The CEO fixed his sight on Alexis, nearly burning a hole through her with his intense gaze.
“Alexis Anderson.” Alexis reached her hand out to take Bettencourt’s. He shook it with both hands, completely covering hers, staring directly and deeply into her eyes.
“I’m so happy to welcome you both to Anconia. I know you’re going to have a wonderful time during your stay here. I do hope it’s not too brief.”
“What you’ve accomplished here is … incredible,” said Alexis. “I had no idea it was of this scale.”
“Isn’t it?” said Bettencourt, moving back around to the other side of his desk. “I’d like to downplay Anconia Island, but I simply can’t. We’ve not only created the first truly new nation to grace the face of this earth in two centuries, we’ve created the very foundation it lays upon.”
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