The O.D.

by Chris James

  It was a beautiful sight to behold – three magnificent egg-shaped envelopes, shimmering like satin in the sunlight, their gay colours set off to perfection by the somber grey-green rock all around them. As lift-off approached, the passengers readied themselves beside their respective baskets, which were now nearly upright.

  “AU REVOIR,” Bonappe shouted over the blast of Donner’s burners. As he and his four passengers floated away, those on the ground gave a rousing cheer.

  A minute later, Rudolf took to the air.

  The temperature differential in Blitzen, whose burner had been at work for much longer, was so great that five extra crew were required to hold her down. The strain on their arms and shoulders as they pushed down on the basket’s rim was visible in their faces.

  “EVERYBODY IN,” Highbell shouted above the rush of the gas. “WE’RE TAKING OFF IN TEN SECONDS.” When all Blitzen’s passengers were aboard, he raised his arm to signal.

  “What are they waiting for?” Bart Maryburg mumbled. “WHAT THE−” The shocked surprise in Maryburg’s cry was shared by most, but not all, of those present as the strange scene unfolded before them.

  Three of Blitzen’s passengers vaulted over the rim to the ground four feet below, closely followed by their pilot, Jack Highbell. Simultaneous with his feet hitting the rock, the ground crew let go of their hold. With nothing left to restrain her, the richly-coloured Blitzen flew off like a startled pheasant and was level with Rudolf in seconds. As it shot past his own basket, Pilot flicked the switch on his megaphone. “FOLLOW THE INSTRUCTIONS IN THE GREEN RUCKSACK AND YOU’LL BE OKAY.”

  Mirko Soldo, cowering on Blitzen’s floor, heard Pilot’s amplified voice under the roar of his burners, but the words didn’t register. He pulled himself up to peer over the edge of the basket, then lowered himself back down again, fearful that any sudden movement might snap the lines attaching his basket to the collar above. The image printed on his mind in that split-second peek made him feel nauseous− Pilot’s balloon, far away below and getting farther; the people scurrying around like beetles on the hide of an elephant; the ever-broadening horizon...

  After several minutes, he had calmed down sufficiently to apply himself to the problem at hand. He looked around the basket− at the burners still at full blast; at the sundry dials, tanks and other mechanical details that oppressed him by their unfamiliarity; at the hamper containing the life jackets and inflatable raft; at the rucksack in the corner.

  Remembering the disembodied voice and its simple instruction, Soldo pulled the backpack over and began to fumble with the flap. Inside, resting atop a silver foil zip suit, was a plastic wallet containing several typewritten sheets. He pulled them out in a sudden rash of ill-humour and began to read.

  ‘We have worked out this procedure very carefully so as to avoid your coming down in the sea, in remote mountain areas, forests, big towns or cities. Follow our instructions to the letter and you will have a safe landing. Deviate at your own peril. All timings are calculated from your time of lift-off, so please check your watch now and write down the time.’

  Operating the Burners. In the diagram, you will see that the −’

  Soldo skipped over this section to the Flight Plan.

  ‘Stage I, 0-5 hours after lift-off. Keep the burners going until you reach an altitude of 6,000 metres, then switch off. (The altimeter is the central dial at waist level.) When you have descended to 4,000 metres, put the gas on again until you’ve reached 6,000 metres and switch off. Repeat procedure and stay in this altitude band, 4,000-6,000 metres, for five hours. For your own safety, do not try to land until instructed.

  Stage II, 5-7 hours after lift-off. Keep within the altitude band, 3,000-4,000 metres for ─’

  Soldo read on, his fears dissolving with every word. It didn’t occur to him where Blitzen might be taking him. Fortuitously for Pilot, it wouldn’t dawn on the flying stonemason that his landing point was deep inside the borders of Germany until too late. Soldo’s sole preoccupation was in following the instructions and getting safely back on solid ground.

  He read the notes through to the end. At the bottom of the last page, there was a postscript: Mirko, not long ago you told me about your neighbour – a man your family had supped with, caroused with, laughed with, played with, cavorted with, sang with. He turned out to be a Chetnik – a traitor to your country. He killed your father. Below this, a line had been scrawled in red felt-tip pen. It contained words well known to Mirko Soldo, aka Buvina, the Second Knight of Blasius and, as he began to read them, tears welled up in his eyes. Only a traitor exposed by the man he has betrayed could have experienced the dishonour Soldo felt at that moment.

  The sentence was in Latin. NON BENE PRO TOTO LIBERTAS VENDITUR AURO. As the big man’s watery eyes ranged over it once again, the motto of his beloved City Republic of Ragusa, always such a source of pride to him, seemed now to only mock him.

  LIBERTY IS NOT SOLD, EVEN FOR ALL THE GOLD.

  XVII

  Three days after Blitzen had removed Mirko Soldo from the Island, Gilbert Cafard arranged his own extraction by activating a simple transmitting device. To those receiving the message, it meant immediate airlifting was required from a predetermined pickup point out of sight and sound of Nillin. So as not to jeopardize any future return to the island, the story Cafard gave his French paymasters was that he had asked Pilot’s permission to hike the west coast of the island, and that Pilot thought he was camping out on the cliffs somewhere.

  The car was of French manufacture, naturally− a black Citroen from the Élyseé Palace car pool of 1958, religiously restored and maintained by its owner. Almost before it stopped, its back door swung open and Gilbert Cafard emerged, lifting an arm in salute towards the distinguished-looking madman standing in the shadow of the chateau in riding boots and pale pink designer jogging suit with turquoise piping.

  General August Fascisse greeted his spy with a rebuke. “Why are you here? What is happening?”

  Gilbert Cafard held up both hands in supplication. “Soldo is gone,” he spluttered.

  “GONE?” The General’s neck had turned a deep crimson and was clashing with his shell suit. “Where?” Cafard could only point mutely up at the sky, the old officer’s oppressive presence cowing him into speechlessness.

  “DEAD? Soldo’s dead?”

  Cafard gathered himself and explained what had happened. “It was an accident. The others jumped out in time, but Mirko was too slow. If we’re lucky, he’ll come down somewhere in France.”

  “Merde. The idiot. So Pilot still knows nothing.”

  “He has no idea what’s coming.”

  The pink general spun around and marched into the house, followed by Cafard.

  “Colonel,” Fascisse barked. “Get me Dragić.” Although ex-Captain Rene Domaigne had been demoted by the French Army after the Bosse debacle, his current employer had personally elevated him to the rank of Colonel and Second-in-Command of his private army. As Domaigne dialed a Dubrovnik number, his commander simmered behind his right ear, depositing damp, hot breaths on the man’s neck. When the connection was eventually made, Fascisse grabbed the receiver and explained to Blasius what had happened to Buvina. “More importantly, Dragić, how soon can your fleet sail?”

  After a pause, the heavy Slavic voice came back into Fascisse’s earpiece, “The Libertas is one day from New Orleans with a shipment of furniture. She can be at the Canaries rendezvous in eight or nine days. Sloboda Dalmacija can leave Gruz tomorrow. Hrabrost is already in the Canaries, as you know. Her crew needs only to be flown there with me. We could be ashore at Nillin within two weeks.”

  “Good. We have to go without Buvina. Pilot and the others will be neutralized after you’ve landed. It’s risky, but I see no other way now.”

  At the other end of the line, Dragan Dragić afforded himself a little smile. “I will take care of Pilot myself, General.”

  “Good. We will land on your first night of occupation, secure the island and b
egin the removals as planned.”

  By the opposite wall of the majestic hall, under a vast tapestry commemorating Napoleon’s victory at the Battle of Ulm, Gilbert Cafard was listening to every word of the General’s conversation.

  “It’s imperative that we strike early,” Fascisse continued. “Contact Libertas immediately and turn her around. Report back to me in two hours.”

  Although his role in the coup from the outset was supportive only – an associate as opposed to a full Member of the Board−General Fascisse was now beginning to act as if he were in charge, instead of merely being Dragić’s junior partner.

  While the General paced the marble floor, the forgotten third man in the room spoke. Gilbert Cafard had indeed learned something during his time on the island, an education which was distilling into positive action. “General Fascisse?” The voice was so diffident and weak that the old war horse didn’t hear it at first. “General Fascisse?” he repeated, louder this time. “Return me to the island and I will do Soldo’s work.”

  The General looked at his spy with momentary suspicion, then took a key from his desk drawer and walked over to the gun cabinet.

  Twenty minutes later, Cafard was hustled aboard a helicopter to be dropped back on Eydos. At the same time, Stanko Jerić, on board the retired freighter Sloboda Dalmacija, was ordered to sail immediately to the rendezvous off Fuerteventura. Twenty-one days tied up in Gruz, the harbour of Dubrovnik, with its foul-smelling paint factory effluent, had disaffected but not demoralised the sixteen Knights of Blasius who made up the ship’s company. All were keen to trade in their stale, run-down lives for the bright new future of Novi Ragusa. So, when Jerić gave the order to sail, his Knights leapt to the task with a keenness and enthusiasm that was almost manic. The fifty-two Albanians hired as mercenaries for eighty dollars a day remained ambivalent. They’d never known better working conditions or better wages and would have been happy to float in effluent for a further year if necessary.

  The air was clear, dry and cold, kept that way by a strong north wind. Although some out-of-season Germans had already started swimming in the sea, the water temperature was still too cold to make April a popular holiday month. As a result, the supermarkets had not yet been given their annual injection of goods and the Knights had found their pre-voyage provisioning uninspiring and thin on the ground. Not that it mattered. Very soon they’d have all the choice and all the excess their hearts desired. Or so they hoped.

  The following morning, Odile Bartoli was surprised to see Cafard jogging into Nillin, ‘Zigzag’ having been dropped several miles out of earshot of the settlers. “Get Lonnie,” he panted. “It’s important.”

  Ten minutes later, Bartoli, Pilot and The Pentad were seated around a table listening to Cafard’s report. “The Knights of Blasius will form the first invasion wave by sea and will bring their ships into the harbour in about ten days time,” he began. “This will be quickly followed by a four-Chinook airborne invasion by General Fascisse’s mercenaries. The specialists will be flown out in one of the helicopters and set free somewhere in the French countryside. The other three Chinooks will fly all but five of your crew to the General’s estate, where they will be confined until such time as the Knights deem it safe to release them. But before any of this happens…” Cafard hesitated, then withdrew a Glock and silencer from his jacket. “Stand over there by the wall with your hands above your heads,” he said, fixing the silencer to the muzzle of the pistol and pointing it at the others. No one moved. “NOW.” They did as instructed and walked slowly to the far side of the dome. Pilot was the last to comply. “Now turn around. All of you.”

  Cafard released the safety catch on his Glock, waited a few seconds for dramatic effect, then laughed. “I am sorry. This is a bad joke,” he said, re-engaging the safety catch. “Please sit down.” The group relaxed and returned to their seats, but no-one was laughing.

  “For a minute there, Gilbert, I thought you’d zagged,” Bradingbrooke said.

  “What’s ‘zagged’?”

  “Inside joke,” Pilot said. “Carry on, Gilbert.”

  “When Dragić reaches the elbow of the fjord, he will activate my pager,” Cafard continued. “This will be my signal to kill Lonnie Pilot, Jane Lavery, Henry Bradingbrooke, Josiah Billy and Macushla Mara. Your bodies will then be taken out to sea, weighed down and sunk.”

  The group was stunned by the heartless cruelty of the plan.

  “This was to be Mirko Soldo’s assignment,” Cafard said, raising the gun in the air. “But now it is mine.”

  As Sloboda Dalmacija skirted the magnificent city walls of Dubrovnik, then the rocky southern shore of the island of Lokrum, there wasn’t one non-Albanian aboard the ship who didn’t feel a crusader’s pride in the voyage upon which they were now embarking.

  Mirko Soldo’s incarceration in a Stuttgart jail awaiting trial on charges of murder and fraud had dented the shield of Blasius, but in no way had it checked his momentum. Dragan Dragić soon had the enterprise back on course. And of course, Gilbert Cafard, assassin in waiting, had made Buvina’s loss so much easier to bear.

  Jelena Milanović, never now to be the fifth Mrs. Soldo, was beginning to experience difficulties in her dealings with their U.S. associates, but she’d so far managed to keep them interested and actively involved in the run-up to occupation. Of prime importance to her as the invasion date approached was to discover who was sowing the seeds of doubt among their American partners. There was no doubt in Oilslick’s mind that some outside party was attempting to sabotage the project. She was a shrewd woman and a skilled manipulator, as Forrest Vaalon was finding out. Every effort he made to get the Mafia strings cut was met by some clever splicing on her part. It was not only her devious politician’s mind that retied the knot, but often her all-over tan and what it was all over. Half the aims and resolutions of the New Ragusa had been hatched on the FKK nudist beach of Lokrum.

  By sundown, those aboard Sloboda Dalmacija could just make out the lavender mountains of Albania in the distance. Over a thousand miles to the west, and quite coincidentally, Lonnie Pilot was seeing Albania too – not the current one, but the reclusive 20th century Albania of Enver Hoxha. Pilot had always wondered how a regime so introverted and secretive could have existed in such close proximity to the rest of Western Europe for so long. In 1967, Hoxha had proclaimed Albania the world’s first atheist state, under which all fascist, religious, warmongerish, antisocialist activity and propaganda were banned. Pilot didn’t quite view Eydos as a new Albania, but one aspect of the country, as it was under Hoxha, interested him. Albania had exercised a strange, undefined power on the outside world− the power of mystery and of the unknown, fanned by people’s imagination and the frustration of denied access. Before photographs had been received back on Earth from the first lunar orbiter, the Moon had enjoyed similar mystique. When their last veils had dropped, Albania and the Moon had both lost power. Pilot was determined not to let that happen to Eydos. He would build a similar inscrutability around his island and let those outside do the work. All he had to do was keep the veils intact.

  When Sloboda Dalmacija arrived at the rendezvous twelve miles southeast of Puerto de Cabras, Dragić was already there. He’d flown into Las Palmas the week before with his crew and taken a leisurely test cruise around the islands aboard the rusty freighter Hrabrost, flagship of the Ragusan invasion fleet.

  The third ship, Libertas, arrived late the following morning. She’d unloaded her shipment of furniture in New Orleans, carried a cargo of general commodities over to Jamaica and from there, five hundred kilos of skank to a rendezvous with a cabin cruiser off the Florida Keys. Before setting out to cross the Atlantic, her captain had made one last call at Savannah to pick up a very important passenger. Oilslick, in her attempts to keep alive the Mafia’s involvement, had arranged for one of their men, Albert Nell, to travel with the Libertas as an observer. Nell was one of the new breed of mafioso trying to shed their stereotypical image of thuggish gangs
terism. One way of doing this was by lengthening their Christian names and shortening their family names. So, Al Grancenello was now Albert Nell. And, rather than on the streets, Nell had received his education at Princeton.

  When they reached the Canaries, a curious and somewhat bemused Nell boarded the Hrabrostto view the final invasion plans with Dragić and the ship’s captain, Josip Bobkar. The details of the invasion didn’t interest Albert Nell, because in his chosen line of business the end was always far more important than the means. If these thugs from Croatia could take possession of the island, as they claimed they could, then Global Hotel & Condo Inc., would be happy to accept a piece of it.

  That night, the three Dalmatian merchantmen, carrying the coat of arms of Old Ragusa on their pennants, headed north on the 1500 mile voyage to the Bay of Biscay.

  The communiqué read as follows:

  ‘The island heretofore referred to as ‘Ille de Bonne Fortune’, or ‘Eydos’, being located in the Bay of Biscay off Western France, has today been liberated by the undersigned in the name of progress, friendship and European and world harmony. All but five of the island’s inhabitants have been peaceably removed to a secret location, where they will be kept in comfort until such time as is deemed suitable by ourselves for their release. The whereabouts of Lonnie Pilot and four of his lieutenants are unknown. It is presumed that they have put to sea and fled. The handover was made without bloodshed or violence. Nor was there any damage to livestock, property or crops. All possessions of the former inhabitants will be assessed and their owners reimbursed, where return of the goods is impossible. The island will henceforward be known as Zapad Dalmacija, or Western Dalmatia, and its capital, formerly Nillin, as Novi Ragusa. A further communiqué will be issued in due course.’