by Tim Michaels
I decided Czernikow was too callous and mean. I didn’t like being him, so I went back to being myself, keeping the Czernikow persona only as an outward disguise.
Back in Barberton, I flipped on the news. Czernikow’s two targets had been added to the “M & O killers” tally, as was the heart attack suffered by one Kathryn Jamison at her daughter-in-law’s thirty-ninth birthday party. According to news reports, Jamison owned about a thousand shares of the company, nowhere near enough to influence company policy or to appear on my radar. Whether she cast votes in favor or against the merger was never mentioned.
I also learned how the authorities had discovered my involvement. A particularly zealous deputy sheriff in Red Ferry, New York, about twenty miles from TK Frangulyan’s cabin, had taken it upon himself to ask local residents and merchants for photos and videos taken within 72 hours of Frangulyan’s death. He had received over 3,000 hours of video, most of it from surveillance tapes, and a few hundred still pictures, mostly taken by teenagers on their cell-phones. He found himself overwhelmed, but in his spare time, he made a point of watching all the video and looking at all the photos. He compiled several lists of what he was seeing, including one of the license plates of cars not owned by people who lived or worked in the area. There were fourteen of those vehicles, including my van which had appeared twice in the background of an “extreme” video taken by a couple local skate rats.
By the time he had completed his license plate list, the media had already tied Frangulyan’s death to that of other large shareholders of M & O. Deputy Ned McCann, who was now being hailed as a hero, had looked up the registered owners of each of the fourteen vehicles online and discovered that one of them, me, had filed a wrongful death lawsuit against M & O.
The authorities had concluded one person couldn’t be responsible for all the deaths, which meant I was only one member of a “previously unknown international terrorist organization.” The FBI was asking for the public’s help in tracking down other people involved. They had circulated sketches of a second suspect, who went by the alias of “Francisco Fernandez.” I found it interesting that the Fernandez sketch looked nothing like me.
According to the press, Fernandez was believed to be an alias for an Argentine national who had met and befriended John Reynolds as many as three decades earlier. There were also rumors that at least two Brazilians, identities unknown, had been seen with Fernandez multiple times, not just in Brazil and Argentina, but also in Holland and Indonesia. Interestingly enough, there were grainy surveillance photos to prove it. Brazilian police speculated that the trio was responsible for a daring armored car robbery in the city of Florianopolis in 2009. Circumstantial evidence tied the three men to a similar heist in Adelaide, Australia, the following year. Police speculated that there probably had been other crimes, but the gang was both ruthless and professional enough to rarely leave tracks behind.
I couldn’t figure out whether all that disinformation would make my job easier or harder. I looked at the remaining dossiers. The pile of binders had gotten smaller. I picked up the next one. Danny Potter, one of the members of the board. I read his dossier then made some notes. Afterwards, I went for my afternoon jog to digest what I read and make plans for Danny Potter’s demise.
It was a beautiful Northeastern Ohio afternoon, perhaps because it had rained in the morning. The sky was a perfect shade of blue and completely clear as far as the eye could see. I went running through the woods. Everything was green and lush. I got to the top of the hill and stopped. In front of me, in a clearing on the hilltop, was the scene depicted in the poster I had purchased in Ternos. Antonio Torrimpietra sat on the throne, holding the scepter. A few feet to the right was the odd looking creature Rosaura and I had identified as fictional – the one with the body of a fat bird but something that vaguely resembled a human head. The appendage had no eyes, ears, nose or hair. It had no features at all on its smooth skin except one large almost human mouth with way too many teeth, all of them very sharp, sitting at its very top. Something told me it wasn’t really a head at all. The thing stood, if that was the right word, about a foot high. Behind Torrimpietra was a panel, cut out of the air, where the scene was repeated, and behind the Torrimpietra in the panel was a smaller panel where the scene was repeated again, all the way to the way to infinity.
I felt like I had been hit in the stomach. My breath was gone and I fell to one knee. Everything I was, everything I knew told me this wasn’t real, that I was hallucinating. At the same time, with absolute certainty, I knew that it was real. Even the air was different – the strange bird-like thing smelled vaguely of apples, old cardboard and vinegar. I wanted to run but my feet wouldn’t move. I couldn’t even scream. I felt Torrimpietra watching me. I felt the other thing, the nightmare owl, observing me through its senses.
And then Torrimpietra spoke. It was very archaic Portuguese, with an accent that sounded more continental than Brazilian, but I could just understand him.
“The German must be next,” Torrimpietra said.
He repeated himself twice, as if to make sure there was no misunderstanding. Somehow I knew the owl-thing was agreeing with him, and trying to convey a concept that felt like one part empathy, one part fear and one part sadness for me. Then there was a new concept, forced departure combined with sadness we would never have a chance to truly meet. And then they were gone.
I ran like hell and got back to the farm. I went into the armory and grabbed a CTAR – 21, the compact version of the TAR-21, the standard issue weapon for the Israeli military. I sat with my back against the wall, facing the door. After a while I calmed down. I wondered if this was my subconscious trying to tell me something. On the other hand, if it wasn’t, the creature had done its best to not seem like a threat, no matter how ugly it was and how scary its maw. Both it and Torrimpietra clearly felt their message was vital. I decided to take the message seriously regardless of where it came from.
After a while I decided it might be OK to go back to the farmhouse. Just to be safe, I decided to take the CTAR – 21 with me. For good measure, I also took five clips of ammo, and, almost as an afterthought, grabbed a pistol off the rack. The pistol was old school: a Walther PPK. It didn’t have the greatest stopping power, but it was comfortable to hold, accurate at short range, and most importantly, it fit in my pocket.
I looked around before exiting the shed, then quickly locked up and hustled over to the farmhouse. Once inside, I locked the door behind me and turned on all the lights in the house. After checking every cupboard and nook and corner for interlopers, I grabbed the dossier for Reinhardt Schmidt, the German on my list. That night, I slept with all the lights on, the CTAR – 21 in my hand and the PPK under my pillow. Thankfully, I didn’t dream about Torrimpietra or the owl-thing that night, nor have I since then.
The next day, I called the number Marco gave me. I was going to need Smith’s help to get myself and some equipment to Europe, and in particular, to Poland where the German industrialist and self-styled adventurer was testing a new type of hot air balloon. I had never seen so much security… on the ground. In the air, the target flew solo with something like fifty guards ranged out over the countryside below. The balloon was the hottest thing in the sky, making it an easy target for the Japanese Type 91 Kai heat-seeking surface-to-air missile I fired from just over a mile and a half away.
The result was different than I had pictured it. The missile’s warhead went through the balloon’s flame before exploding, but its trajectory had severed a few of the ropes supporting the capsule. The cockpit was already tilted and falling sideways when the warhead blew, punching it sideways. A small parachute started deploying about fifty feet before the cockpit hit the dirt but it was too little too late.
Afterwards I drove to a farmhouse two hours away. Two very professional looking men who only spoke Polish took care of me for the next three days. One of them proved to be an e
xcellent cook, making several types of sausage and something that strongly resembled a Hungarian goulash. On the fourth day, they drove me to a private airfield where a small jet was waiting. I was delighted that Marco was on the plane for the flight back. He seemed genuinely pleased to see me and eager to hear about my exploits. Then we discussed the last few targets on my list and how I would get to each.
Following the conversation with Marco, I decided it was time to lay low at the Czernikow farm for a while. I watched the news regularly. There were several agencies with three letter acronyms looking for me in the US, together with the German BND, Interpol and who knows who else. But they really wanted Fernandez, who had, in recent weeks, grown into a fearsome boogeyman. I was amused to note that as of yet, there was no agreement among the “experts” about the goals of Fernandez and his organization.
But much of the focus remained on me since John Reynolds was the only member of the group to be positively and definitively identified. I was variously described as “the second in command,” “the mastermind,” “a minion” and “a weak-minded individual who let his own personal failings morph into an irrational hatred.”
I saw my sister on the news, and later my parents. I hated putting them through that but there wasn’t much I could do. My father was quoted as saying, “I hope he gets them all. They killed my grandson.”
That comment caused a small firestorm, particularly since my father was by then sporting a long beard and looking remarkably like Fidel Castro a couple decades earlier. A few days later he held a press conference on his front stoop wearing a red beret and a green army jacket. A group of Florida state senators called for his arrest, but when pressed, none was able to cite any laws he had actually broken.
When I wasn’t watching the news or planning the last few pieces of the job, I was exercising, reading and writing. Occasionally, I’d dream of H and Jeremy. H was spending a lot of time getting ready for law school, and Jeremy had figured out how to operate remote control cars. I knew that was extremely unusual for a kid his age. He was definitely showing signs that he’d make a great engineer someday.
And then, after six weeks and three days of hiding out at the farm, I was done waiting. It was time to continue. The night before, I dreamed of H and Jeremy again. In the dream, I was at Czernikow’s farm, making notes for my upcoming project. H and Jeremy walked into the room, and I stood up.
Jeremy ran up to me, and hugged my leg. I crouched down and hugged him back.
“Hi Daddy,” he said happily.
H flashed me a smile, the smile I fell in love with.
“Stay Daddy,” Jeremy said, “Please Daddy. Stay.”
“Daddy’s still working,” H answered him for me.
Jeremy pouted.
“Daddy’s stopping bad people. Bad men and women who hurt other people,” H said.
“Like Batman?” Jeremy asked, uncertainly.
“Yes Jeremy. Just like Batman,” H said.
Jeremy beamed, proud of his superhero father, and squeezed me as tightly as he could.
Over my son’s thin little shoulder, I made eye contact with H.
“We’re both so very proud of you, my love,” H said. “Now go get them. Go get them all.”
She had tears running down her face. So did I.
“I’m proud of you too,” I said, “And I love you both so much.”
“We know, John,” she said.
And after a pause, she repeated, “Now go get them.”
And with those instructions fresh in my mind, I woke up. I was crying, but I was also rested, refreshed, and ready to go.
Chapter 11. Endgame
Two nights ago, around midnight, I stopped by Gordo’s house. When I woke him up, he blubbered but he meekly put on a pair of handcuffs and followed me into my van. Barry O’Connor I simply tazed and dragged into the van. His doubtlessly long-put-upon wife never even woke up. I pulled my back moving Barry, but it would have been much worse if I had to drag Gordo.
Back at the farm, I had Gordo and O’Connor sign and thumbprint the long, rambling, and senseless manifesto I had written up over the past few weeks. The manifesto was a suicide pact between the three of us. Having taken our revenge on shareholders, and with the fascist police closing in, the three of us vow to kill ourselves to avoid giving up the names of our comrades under torture. We exhort the workers of the world to follow in the leadership of Francisco Fernandez who still leads The Organization in the heroic fight against oppression and worldwide domination. It was all drivel, of course, but it gave the press and the authorities the terrorist network they had been so actively seeking. Of course, that terrorist network was paper thin and Gordo and O’Connor’s involvement wouldn’t withstand much scrutiny, but then I only need that fiction to last a few more hours.
I didn’t give either a chance to read what they were signing, but Gordo cooperated willingly. He simply didn’t have any fight in him anymore. O’Connor, on the other hand, started mouthing off. It was a mistake. The moment he called me “hotshot” I put a .22 in his crotch. After that he didn’t give me any problems.
Then I added my own signature and thumbprint. Once the manifesto was ready to go, I herded Gordo and O’Connor into the van and shot them each in the head.
Yesterday I mailed out copies of the manifesto to every news organization I could find in Ohio and most of the big national ones. They should be arriving today. That was after I drove Gordo and O’Connor, their bodies anyway, to a spot I had prepared in the woods. Their corpses are currently in a pit, marinating in gasoline.
You keep fading out. But this next part concerns you so you really should pay attention. See, I need you. I need you for two reasons.
In a few hours, I’m going to start making anonymous phone calls telling reporters where they can find the bodies of the three members of the Northeast Ohio cell of The Organization, charred to a crisp. But I only have two bodies, so I need a third. You’re the third.
Yes, I know you aren’t a very convincing me. You’re twenty years older, five inches taller, and a lot softer than I ever was. I also have to admit you have much better hair. But like the manifesto, your charred corpse only has to play me for a few hours. After that it won’t matter to anyone.
Are you still paying attention? I know, you’ve lost a lot of blood but this will only take a few more minutes. Come on. Stay with me, we’re almost done.
There’s a second reason I need you here, though. I know Gary Whitaker, the vice-chair of the board, was trying to convince you to cancel today’s board meeting because he was worried about security. Yes, I’ve been listening in on your calls. I don’t even need Smith’s people for that. I am an electrical engineer, after all, and I know my way around the switching system.
Once the news breaks that all the conspirators in Ohio are dead, the threat is gone. There will be no reason to cancel the meeting. But the news is definitely going to put a crimp into your schedule. As CEO and Chairman of the Board you’ll be with the FBI all day. You probably will even be a touch late for the meeting, as you’ll explain in an e-mail to the other board members.
Of course, you won’t send the e-mail. I will, but I’ve been reading your correspondence – that comes courtesy of Mr. Smith – and I’ve been practicing. I’m pretty sure I can imitate your style convincingly enough. You’re also going to e-mail both division presidents and every executive vice president and ask each of them to present something at the meeting. Sure it’s unusual, but these are unusual times for the company, wouldn’t you say?
It’s almost too bad you won’t be there to see what happens. But of course, I will.
Well, there’s the pit, and there are your companions. I guess I better finish the story and get a move on it because I still have a lot to do today.
But before I go, there’s something I want you to know. I und
erstand that what you did to me, to H and Jeremy, it wasn’t on purpose, it wasn’t personal, it was just business. No, don’t apologize now. We’re too far along. At this point it won’t help either of us. You made big decisions that in turn generated smaller decisions, and those decisions percolated all the way down. What happened to people like H and Jeremy and me didn’t even figure into your thought process.
So I want to put this in terms that might mean something to you. You failed in your fiduciary duty. You failed by creating the sort of conditions that led me to strike out at the shareholders. And still, you took a two million dollar salary, plus who-knows-what in stock options, to ultimately generate a lot of harm against your shareholders. Other executives and the board also failed in their fiduciary duty. Nobody provided oversight. Nobody pointed out the potential consequences of your actions, or how the consequences you imposed on people like me could come back to hurt the company. And you all paid yourselves very well to miss something so obvious. I’ll never understand it.
But who knows, maybe with new shareholders, a new CEO, a new executive suite, a new board, and without people like Gordo and O’Connor, M & O might actually be a good company one day. I certainly hope so. There are a lot of good people whose livelihoods depend on the company.
Whatever happens, though, you won’t be there to see it. And neither will I. My job is almost done. I’ve been away from H and Jeremy for far too long. You can’t imagine how much I miss them. After the board meeting I’m going home to be with them again. Tomorrow we’re having leftover lasagna for lunch.
Notes
I read somewhere that Stephen Vincent Benet wrote The Red Badge of Courage to understand what it was like to be in a war. The idea for Fiduciary Duty came to me after reading one of the too-frequent news stories about a seemingly normal person shooting a number of other citizens with little apparent reason. That made me curious about serial killers and spree killers, how they think, and what they do. However, if I was going to spend that much time in the mind of such a person, I wanted a landscape populated by more than just dark thoughts and reasonless urges. I wanted a character who was likeable, plausible, and who thought he was doing the right thing.