Potboiler

by Jesse Kellerman

  85.

  Pfefferkorn paused, an unchewed piece of herring in his mouth. He swallowed it down whole and wiped red sauce from his lips. “Beg pardon?”

  Savory was grinning.

  “You’re going to kill me?” Pfefferkorn said.

  “You can’t honestly be surprised,” Thithyich said. “Not after all the inconvenience you’ve caused me. It was no simple matter, kidnapping Carlotta de Vallée, and for you to start running around, playing the ‘hero’—”

  “Hold on,” Pfefferkorn said.

  Everyone winced.

  There was a long silence.

  The president smiled.

  “Please,” he said. “Go right ahead.”

  “I—eh. Eh. I thought the May Twenty-sixers kidnapped Carlotta.”

  “They did.”

  “But you just said you kidnapped her.”

  “Indeed.”

  “I’m sorry,” Pfefferkorn said. “I don’t follow.”

  “I am the May Twenty-sixers,” Thithyich said. “I created them out of whole cloth. Remember, I’m trying to provoke a war here. What better way to do that than to fan the flames of revanchism? The May Twenty-sixers’ raison d’être is to reunify greater Zlabia under true collectivist rule by any means necessary. It’s expressly stated in their manifesto, which I wrote in the bathtub. Lucian, the relevant part, please, from the preamble.”

  Savory pressed keys on his smartphone and read aloud. “‘Our raison d’être is to reunify greater Zlabia under true collectivist rule by any means necessary.’”

  “What have you done with her?” Pfefferkorn asked.

  “She’s being held at May Twenty-sixer headquarters in West Zlabia,” Thithyich said.

  “West Zlabia.”

  “Naturally. If I put the headquarters here, it would be rather obvious who was ‘pulling the strings,’ mm? I give my orders through an intermediary. Besides, nothing lends a fake West Zlabian counter-counter-revolutionary movement verisimilitude like having it staffed by genuine West Zlabian counter-counter-revolutionaries. Fabulously committed bunch, they are. Trained from birth to embrace fervent dedication to unattainable goals. God bless the Communist school system.”

  “You’re barking up the wrong tree, provoking a war,” Pfefferkorn said. “The U.S. won’t get involved.”

  “Bosh. They’d much rather that than the alternative, which is that the West Zlabians give the gas up for pennies on the dollar to the Chinese.”

  “It didn’t work the first time,” Pfefferkorn said.

  “What first time?”

  “When you faked your own assassination attempt.”

  “That’s what your people told you.”

  Pfefferkorn nodded.

  “And you believed them.”

  Pfefferkorn nodded again.

  “Do you have any idea how much it hurts to get shot in the buttocks?”

  “No,” Pfefferkorn admitted.

  “If you did, you’d know that that’s utter claptrap. I never shot myself.”

  “Then who did?”

  “You did. Well, your government, really. They’re the ones who planted the book for you.”

  Pfefferkorn was confused. “Which book.”

  Thithyich looked at Savory.

  “Blood Eyes,” Savory said.

  “That’s the one,” Thithyich said. “Smashing title.”

  “Thank you,” Savory said.

  “That’s impossible,” Pfefferkorn said. “Blood Eyes had a dummy code.”

  “My buttocks beg to differ,” Thithyich said.

  “But they’re your allies.”

  “My buttocks?”

  “The U.S.”

  “‘On paper,’ perhaps, but you know as well as I do how much that’s worth.”

  “You just said they would support you in the event of an invasion.”

  “Certainly.”

  “Now you’re telling me they tried to kill you.”

  “Yes.”

  “That doesn’t strike you as contradictory?”

  Thithyich shrugged. “Politics.”

  “I don’t know why I should believe you.”

  “What reason do I have to lie?”

  “What reason did they have to lie?”

  “Plenty. They were indoctrinating you. It wouldn’t have done to admit that they engage in covert acts of cold-blooded political murder, now, would it? They much prefer that people think of them as the ‘good guys.’ In any event, Lucian intercepted the code shortly before it came off, and I was able to escape with minor injuries. But the whole experience set me thinking. You lot have been meddling with our affairs for nigh on forty years. High time for a taste of your own medicine, don’t you reckon? Hence . . . what’s it again?”

  “Blood Night,” Savory supplied.

  “That’s the one,” Thithyich said. “Bang-on title.”

  “Thank you,” Savory said.

  “Let me get this straight,” Pfefferkorn said. “You got Savory to get me to get my publisher to get American secret operatives to kill Dragomir Zhulk.”

  “Yes, yes, yes, and no.”

  “No to which part.”

  “The last bit. About killing Zhulk. I’m afraid you’ve been misinformed. Blood—damn it, I’m at sixes and sevens, here.”

  “Night,” Savory said.

  “Bang-on. Blood, et cetera, the second one—that contained a dummy code.”

  Pfefferkorn stared. “A dummy code.”

  “Well, we couldn’t possibly plant a real code. We don’t have the Workbench.”

  “But why would you give me a dummy code?”

  “To disrupt the pattern of transmission and create confusion.”

  “Then who killed Zhulk?”

  “Made to guess, I’d say it was your government as well. They’re not big fans of his.”

  “But how? According to you, Blood Night was dummied.”

  “My goodness, man, you’re not the only blockbuster novelist out there. The order to kill Dragomir could have been in any one of a dozen beach reads.”

  Pfefferkorn massaged his temples.

  “Take your time,” Thithyich said kindly. “It’s very complicated. More caviar?”

  “No, thanks,” Pfefferkorn said. “Why did you have the May Twenty-sixers kidnap Carlotta?”

  “Well, the idea was that getting ahold of the Workbench—or I should say, rather, a dummied version of the Workbench, because it should be obvious to anyone who gives it five seconds of thought that your government would never give them the real Workbench, although thankfully we can count on our friends across the border not to give it five seconds of thought—would give the May Twenty-sixer rank and file enough confidence to support a preemptive strike against me, and that’s all the excuse I need to steamroll them.”

  “My understanding was that you could steamroll them right now,” Pfefferkorn said.

  “True. But it’s better if they move first. Nobody likes a bully. And it’s nice to have the support of the international community. It’s very ‘in,’ geopolitically speaking. Anyway, so far, so good. I’ve had my intermediary suggest that a good time to invade would be right after their fifteen-hundredth anniversary festival. You know, swept along by a ‘tide’ of nationalist fervor and so forth. Fingers crossed, we should be able to get things into full swing by the first week of October.”

  “I still don’t see why you have to kill me.”

  “You didn’t let me finish what I was saying. One of the hallmarks of a successful businessman is his ability to assimilate new information and make creative use of adversity. Don’t feel bad about being caught. No way you could’ve anticipated it, because while I knew you were in town, of course, it never occur
red to me to pick you up until Sunday. I made what you Americans call a ‘game-time decision.’” Thithyich stubbed out his cigarette. “Getting shot was uncomfortable enough, but the damage from a public-relations point of view has been much worse. In my universe, you see, the most valuable asset is respect. I can’t take what people say about me lightly. I can’t have people saying, ‘Thithyich is vulnerable, he’s gone soft. . . .’ It’s bad for business. What’s bad for my business is bad for the economy and therefore bad for the whole country. People know I’ve been shot. They know no one has been punished. It’s created all sorts of stickiness vis-à-vis my ‘ruthless’ image. Really, I’ve been terribly put out. I’ve gone so far as to hire a consulting firm, which ought to tell you a lot, because normally I hate that sort of thing. The groupthink makes my skin crawl. I have to say, though, I was impressed with the clarity of their findings, and while I’m sure you won’t be thrilled with their recommendations, they were unequivocal: the best way for me to revive my ‘bloodthirsty’ persona, or whatever, is to demonstrate that I’m just as capable of lashing out with indiscriminate violence as I ever was. They project a five-to-ten-point bump with a public execution. But here’s the interesting twist: executing a famous or prominent person gives an extra two to three points. I suppose it has to do with perceptions of power and so forth, i.e., ‘a famous person is powerful, therefore the person who kills the famous person is perforce more powerful.’”

  “I’m not famous,” Pfefferkorn said. “I’m not prominent.”

  “My dear sir, you most certainly are. At the moment, you’re the hottest writer around.”

  “Nobody cares about writers,” Pfefferkorn said.

  “Zlabians do,” Thithyich said. “Literature has been powering our ethnic strife for some four centuries. Ah—ah—please. No whining. I understand why you’d find these conclusions disagreeable, but data are data, n’est-ce pas? It’s nothing ‘personal.’ So, right. I do hope you can manage to enjoy yourself a bit today, because tomorrow you will be shot, publicly. Apologies for the short notice. Have a pleasant day.”

  86.

  Pfefferkorn was driven to death row in a metallic purple limousine. They took the scenic route. Savory rode along to point out East Zlabia’s many attractions. Old Town had been restored to its former glory, with brand-new artificially weathered cobblestones and new cornices and gargoyles for the cathedral. Everything was nightmarishly quaint. There was nobody strolling. Nobody was throwing coins into the fountains. The limo cruised past lush public parks filled with blemish-free flowers. Nobody was sunbathing. Nobody was tossing the Frisbee around. They passed the opera house, the museum of modern art, ZlabiDisney, the shopping district—all empty. It was as if a neutron bomb had fallen, leaving a perfect stillness, perfectly chilling.

  Just as Pfefferkorn was about to ask where everybody was, the limo turned the corner onto what could be described only as the Las Vegas Strip unfettered by good taste. The chauffeur slowed to five miles per hour, allowing Pfefferkorn to drink it all in. He counted eleven separate casinos. There was an Oliver Twist–themed one. There was a Genghis Khan–themed one. There was a Las Vegas–themed one, its frontage occupied by a one-eighth scale model of the Strip. Next door was a casino whose theme was the very street they were driving on, its frontage occupied by a one-eighth scale model of everything around them, including a one-eighth scale model of the Las Vegas–themed casino complete with a one-sixty-fourth scale model of the Las Vegas Strip and adjacent to a one-eighth scale model of the casino on which the model was located that in turn featured a one-sixty-fourth scale model of the street they were driving on that in turn featured a one-five-hundred-twelfth scale model of the casino on which the model of the model was located. Pfefferkorn assumed there were further models embedded in that model. He wasn’t close enough to tell, and his sight line was then blocked by a seventy-foot-high LED marquee touting an upcoming performance by a 1970s rock supergroup he had thought defunct.

  It was a lively scene, made more so by the presence of what appeared to be the entire population of East Zlabia. For the most part they looked like their cousins across the border, except more obese. They were snacking and sipping soft drinks, pushing strollers and leaving junky compact cars at any of the myriad valet stands. Outside the Amazon jungle–themed casino, they applauded and snapped pictures as a team of pink dolphins broke the hypnotic blue of an artificial lake to execute a precisely choreographed midair pas de deux.

  The largest casino was at the end of the street. It had a Vassily Nabochka theme. A massive gold statue of the prince stood out front. He was holding a root vegetable in one hand and a sword in the other. Though the iconography made it clear who he was, his face had been cast to resemble Kliment Thithyich’s.

  The limo pulled up. Valets rushed to greet it. Pfefferkorn was escorted inside at gunpoint and guided through a bleeping, blooping field of slot machines to the shopping promenade. Savory led the way. They entered a men’s haberdashery done up in dark wood and brass railings. Pfefferkorn was handed a binder of sample fabrics and made to stand on a wooden box. A tailor appeared and began taking his measurements.

  “Pick a good one,” Savory said. “It’ll be in the photos.”

  Pfefferkorn selected an understated blue. The tailor nodded approvingly and rushed off.

  In the meantime Pfefferkorn was taken to the spa. He got a hot-stone massage at gunpoint. He swam a few laps in the saltwater pool, also at gunpoint. His moustache came off, revealing a semi-hardened scab. He left the moustache floating on the surface of the water.

  Back to the haberdashery they went. He stood up on the box for a fitting. The tailor slashed at him with chalk.

  “Have you ever had a suit made before?” Savory asked.

  Pfefferkorn shook his head. “I’ve never had a hot-stone massage, either.”

  “First time for everything.”

  The tailor promised the finished product by morning.

  Their last stop was the casino courtyard, wherein a magnificent black granite plaza surrounded a runty tree.

  HERE LIES IN ETERNAL SLUMBER

  THE GREAT HERO

  FATHER AND REDEEMER OF THE GLORIOUS ZLABIAN PEOPLE

  PRINCE VASSILY

  “HOW LIKE A ROOT VEGETABLE SWELLS MY HEART TO GAZE UPON THY COUNTENANCE

  HOW LIKE AN ORPHANED KID GOAT DOES IT BLEAT FOR THY LOSS”

  (canto cxx)

  Pfefferkorn and Savory bowed their heads.

  “All right,” Savory said. “Party’s over.”

  They got into an elevator. One of the guards pushed the button for the thirteenth floor. Beside it was a little placard.

  13: EXECUTIVE LEVEL / HONEYMOON SUITE / DEATH ROW

  87.

  Pfefferkorn’s death-row cell featured movies on demand, a bidet, multizone climate control, and seven-hundred-thread-count bedding. For a man about to be publicly shot, he didn’t feel afraid. Nor was he angry, at least not at Thithyich, who after all was a barbaric, unhinged autocrat acting on the advice of an expensive American consulting firm. Mostly he was disappointed in himself. He had failed the mission, and by extension Carlotta, his daughter, and the free world.

  This was the part of the story where he applied his ingenuity to escape from a life-threatening situation. Now that he was in such a situation, he appreciated how asinine a trope it was. In real life, evil captors did not forget to lock the door. They didn’t accidentally leave out an assortment of parts that cleverly combined to form a working crossbow. Lying on his comfy sheets, he ruminated on the phrase “action hero.” It didn’t mean merely that the hero underwent a series of exciting events. It meant that the hero was active—that is, he did something. But what could an action hero do when there was nothing doable? Did the fact that he wasn’t attempting to escape mean that he wasn’t a hero, or that the concept of action heroism was inherently far-fetched? He d
ecided it was both. He might not be able to escape, but he doubted that anyone else could, either. Still, his passivity did make him feel guilty, as though it was morally incumbent upon him to fight back. He could kill himself. That would show Thithyich. His first thought was to hang himself with his bedsheet, but the walls of the cell were made of a smooth plaster inhospitable to nooses. He examined the bedframe, hoping to take it apart and use a piece to slit his wrists. The screws were tight, meant to resist just that sort of mayhem. The television was set into the wall and covered with a thick layer of Plexiglas. The minibar held pretzels, Baked! Lay’s, SunChips, golden raisins, two ingots of Toblerone, six-ounce cartons of orange and cranberry juice, cans of Coke and Diet Coke, and plastic mini-bottles of scotch and vodka. With luck he might be able to snack himself to death, but more probably he would go to his fate with heartburn. Suicide was out.

  He rummaged around in the desk. Beneath a leather-bound copy of the East Zlabian edition of Vassily Nabochka, he found a small pad of paper with the casino insignia at the top. A golf pencil had rolled to the back of the drawer. He sat down and started to write.

  It was a purely symbolic form of resistance—he did not expect anything he wrote to leave the room—but he felt compelled to give it his all. Sweetheart he began. He used metaphors, he used similes, he made allusions. He stopped and reread. Overall, the tone was self-conscious, as though he was trying too hard to ingratiate himself to an audience of strangers. He threw the page away and started over, beginning with a story from his own childhood. He wrote for an hour before going back to assess his progress. Again, it was all wrong. It wasn’t about her or how he felt about her. He tried again and again. Nothing worked. A significant pile of paper accumulated on the floor of the cell. Soon enough he ran out. He banged on the cell bars until the guard came. He asked for more paper. It was brought. He wrote through that whole pad, and when he still failed to express himself adequately, he called for and was brought a third pad. His pencil snapped. He still hadn’t written anything he could live with. He decided to stop. Then he changed his mind. Then he changed it back. It was four forty-eight in the morning. He could no longer think clearly. It was coming now, fear. He curled up on the floor and held himself. He wasn’t ready to give up on life. He still had so much to do. He wanted to see his daughter happy in her new house. He wanted to see her children. He wanted to hold Carlotta one more time. Would he ever feel ready to die? Could a man know that he had accomplished as much as he ever would? He believed he had more in him. He always would. He could be on death’s door and still he would be reaching. No matter what the world said, he would always believe that the best of him was yet to come.