Clamour of Crows

by Ray Merritt

  “Good God! Are you sure you’re OK?”

  “I’m fine. I can take care of myself. I expect I’ll have to leave the team. I understand.”

  “No! You are definitely not leaving. You’re family. We need you. It’s all moot now anyway. The Firm is pulling the plug on us next week. We all have to appear upstate and present our findings—as inconclusive as they are. So this is almost the end of the last quarter and we need a good tight end to catch a Hail Mary, if we are going to succeed.”

  “Well, I was the best tight end Yale’s ever had—and I’m talking football.”

  “Dixie, I don’t really know anything about you. Let’s forget about Ozone and the Firm for a while. Stop hyperventilating. Relax and tell me about yourself.”

  Before he could begin, a hover of great horned owls started hooting. It was mating season and they were, if anything, persistent. The UN park provides the owls with both privacy at night and ample leftovers from lunch. They were in high fever, making themselves heard. Oddly this seemed to settle Dixie, if not Nip.

  “OK, you asked, so here’s my story,” he said with a certain resignation.

  “I was raised on the Florida side of the Gulf of Mexico, in a small town near the Alabama border. It was, as they like to say, as far south as you can go without getting your boots wet. Not sure if it was heaven or hell, but it was what I called home. The only viable business in my hometown was metal recycling. So we affectionately called it ‘Junkville.’ It was populated by ‘good old boys’ whose only interests were ball, booze, and bigotry—and broads if you had any time left. All the woes of the world, they were sure, were brought on by ‘fag politicians.’ My buddies were all coked-up cowboys sporting guns and spouting alibis. I spent most of my time listening to Jimmy Buffett. He was my bard; his words were my bible. Like him, I had a ‘schoolboy’s heart, stout legs and nomad feet.’ I knew that to survive, succeed, and maybe escape, I had to do ball—football. It was the only thing respected down there. I was tall enough, quick enough, and scared enough to make all-state tight end and runner-up High School All-American East. Good enough to get a scholarship to Yale. That was my one big chance. It was time to leave—too many people were curious as to who was climbing under my mosquito net.

  “All went well at college. I was one of the top receivers in the East in my junior year. I was on my way to the pros. Then boom—my knee blew out. ACL. My dream was dashed so I sidled over to the law school for no good reason. And I was surprisingly happy there. I loved the competition. And it didn’t hurt as much as football. I wanted to be successful even though my father said it would ruin my life. He was wrong. I’m always looking for challenges. That makes me happy. It’s what I want—at least every now and then.

  “I’m happy right now doing what we’re doing. When it’s over, I suspect I’ll move on. Even if the Firm would have me back, which I seriously doubt, I’m stifled there. It’s not like football. There the quarterback, tight end, and tackle are all pulling together. In the Firm, you’re on your own. You have no teammates. You work ten hours a day for seven, eight years and hope somehow you make partner. I was starting to miss the banana wind in my hair, excitement in my life. This assignment woke me up to what the practice can be like.”

  Dixie was real. I liked that. If JJ had lived, I would have wanted him to be like Dixie. Stanching my emotions, I glanced away. That’s when I saw it coming—a small black motorcycle approaching fast. Odd at this time of night, I thought. Then it happened. The driver raised a bar and swung it at me. Nip went wide-eyed, snarled, and lunged. I heard the crack as it landed on her head. She fell to the ground without a sound.

  Ugly, awful silence followed. I reached down. There was no life in her eyes—those same eyes I depended on to see what I wanted to see, what I hoped to see, and what I didn’t see when I looked into my own.

  Once again life as I knew it would never be the same.

  37

  “You’re going to be fine, Tuck. You passed out when Nip went down. She’s going to be fine too. Vet says she has no permanent damage. X-rays and an MRI confirmed that. Apparently dogs have surprisingly strong heads and quick reflexes—so the blow probably was just glancing, even though she passed out too. At worst she had a concussion. When she regained consciousness, she was wobbly and disoriented so I left her at the animal hospital overnight. Viggie picked her up this morning and she was resting back at the Hole with Terry and Drew doting on her. Drew told me she’s loving the attention.

  “And as to what happened? Well, the guy on the cycle pulled out a billy stick and my guess is that he was aiming at Nip, not you. I heard him shout, ‘Careful or you’re next.’ He was gone before I could get to him. Police arrived within minutes. They brought you here—NYU Medical. I cabbed Nip to the animal hospital up on Sixtieth Street. And then got hold of Drew. She stayed with you until early this morning. You were sedated with some strong stuff. Drew went back to the Hole when I got here this morning. Viggie’s been busy shuttling us all around. Also Terry got some security guys they use to keep eyes open around the house. Probably overkill, but she doesn’t want to take any chances.”

  “I’ve got to go,” I said. I tried to get up, but Dixie restrained me.

  “Whoa, Kemosabe. You have to be checked out first. The nurse said it should take about an hour. So just relax. If you’re feeling OK, I could give you an update on our favorite friends at ClearAire. I’ve spent some time getting info on them. The company came into its own when Blackwater, now known as Xe Services, ran amok. If you remember, the feds indicted its former president and four other senior officers on weapons violations and making false statements to federal officials. This unleashed a barrage of bad press for Xe and its founder, Erik Prince, who, like Luc, is a former Navy SEAL. When a series of ‘extrajudicial’ killings was laid at Blackwater’s feet, particularly the killings of five Iraqis at Nisour Square, that gave ClearAire an opening and they took it. They’re trying to conduct business in a more discreet fashion. They’ve remained under the radar as far as political contributions are concerned.

  “Tuck, it’s pretty obvious they’re zeroing in on us. I’m guessing that last night’s thug was what is called a ‘leaner’ in the trade. I learned these terms by reading espionage novels. They weren’t trying to kill you. They try very hard not to kill anyone within the US. They leave that for ‘war zones’ where they can kill with impunity. We must be getting close to something and it’s my strong suspicion it involves Chimera, Hydra, and Cerberus.

  “All we know is that money, in varying amounts, has been regularly sent from affiliates or customers of ClearAire to these companies in Madeira. In turn, those monies were wired to or deposited in accounts in Spain. That was until two weeks ago. Then these payments stopped for one of the companies, Cerberus. We just found out that all three were represented by the same law firm in the Madeira capital, Funchal. They clammed up when we called them—understandably—and suggested we put the request in writing.

  “Frank Mack, by the way, suspects ClearAire is already hacking our personal e-mails. Apparently it’s quite simple even though it’s quite illegal. So he’s issued us new encrypted phones—ICDs—which he claims are almost impossible to hack. Wants us to use them for any stuff we don’t want the bad guys to see or hear and use the current ones for chatter so they don’t think we are onto them.”

  “Dixie, to be candid, I’m not sure where we go from here. And we don’t have much time. Six days to be precise. I’m going to go see Dorothy as soon as possible. If Nip is OK, I’ll leave tomorrow. And I think I’ll stop over in Barcelona. Have a hunch that I might learn something from the priest that Ben visited before he died. Hopefully he’ll be forthcoming. We’ll see. So if I leave tomorrow night, I could drop in on the good friar—unannounced I think would be best. Then I’ll take the afternoon plane to Paris. Could you set that up for me?”

  “I’ll do it via the ICD and let Terry make your reservation under Ben’s personal card. That’s the least traceabl
e,” Dixie suggested.

  “Are we getting a bit paranoid?”

  “Maybe, but sometimes I like to go into that world. They know me there.”

  38

  This was more than I had bargained for.

  The siren’s call of Big Law had lured me back to a life I thought I’d left behind, and I’d deluded myself into thinking that this discrete assignment would be a harmless divergence from a walk in the woods. Yet all it had produced was unanticipated anxiety and painful memories.

  The thought of losing Nip is incomprehensible.

  I feared losing sight of Alice and the kids. Nip, in her wonderful way, was my guide dog. She led me to my memories. Touching her was like touching them. And when she went down, all of the quality left in my life slipped away. I knew she couldn’t be with me forever, but for now she was my lifeline.

  The Ambien was working. I sensed my anxieties ebbing. A gentle touch from a smiling steward brought me back to consciousness six hours later.

  Barcelona lay below me. Today the sky wore gray. It wasn’t like that when Alice and I came here. There’s a lot that brings one here, even in bad weather. We’d walk the promenade at night, seduced by mournful strains of fado and the proud theatrics of flamenco, while warding off an annoyance of peddlers and a jam of tarts in order to hustle back and seduce each other.

  Maybe it wouldn’t be too difficult to be here.

  A city that treasures fado must be a good place to be sad in, but I wouldn’t have time to listen, weep, and drink brandy.

  Terry had arranged for a car to pick me up and take me straight to Montserrat. I had but four hours to visit the mysterious Father Jeronimo, to whom Luc and Ben had paid their respects. My antenna was telling me the connection was more than just spiritual.

  Fortunately the driver respected my privacy. Within an hour we began the extraordinary ascent up this astonishing mountain. It was like no other mountain I had ever seen. Montserrat is in the very center of Catalonia, rising almost perpendicularly 4,000 feet out of the rather uninteresting and commercially blighted plains. I was reading a guidebook on the mountain, monastery, and sanctuary that I’d found in the back of the car with one eye, while the other was riveted on this natural phenomenon.

  It was otherworldly, as if carved by Gaudi’s ancient ancestors. Romantics got carried away by it. Schiller believed that the mountain sucked a man from the outer to the inner world and Goethe went one better, professing that nowhere but in one’s own Montserrat would one find happiness and peace. Maybe this was Ben’s Lonely Mountain, where Smaug or some evil force ruled over his gold.

  The mountain itself certainly has a rich history, but its fame is anchored by a Romanesque sculpture of the Blessed Virgin and Child, believed to be hidden there in a cave in 800 AD and rediscovered centuries later. It’s called La Moreneta—the Black Madonna—or, more literally, the “dark little one.” Could that be the “Dark Lady” in Ben’s letter? He had come here twice recently according to Terry’s travel records. Once four months ago and the other time the morning before he died. Why? Perhaps Father Jeronimo would shed some light on that.

  Our ascent finally came to an end as the driver pulled next to a livery of limos. He opened my door and pointed to a nondescript orange-tan two-story building adjacent to a large aggregation of similar buildings that grew progressively taller. At its apex was the basilica. The driver told me to return to the car when I wanted to leave.

  The plaza was filled with life.

  A flock of tourists, a scurry of nuns, and a cloister of monks all scampered about while blackbirds kept busy marshaling troves of discarded tidbits. The blackbirds of Montserrat are quite large. They were made famous by Picasso when he painted one in a woman’s arms.

  I was greeted upon entering the foyer of the building by a nun receptionist. When I asked for Father Jeronimo, she told me to wait and hurried away, returning with a more imposing nun, whom she introduced as Hermana Clavel. I remembered that Hermana was Spanish for Sister. The new nun politely ushered me into an anteroom.

  “I’m saddened to tell you that the good father passed away a short while ago,” she said in perfect English. “Perhaps I can help you in some way?”

  I tried not to show my disappointment.

  “How sad. Was he ill a long time?”

  “No, not at all. It was quite sudden. I went in to clean his bedroom and there he was—dead. May God be kind to him,” she whispered as she crossed herself.

  “If it’s not too personal, do you know what he died from? Did the doctors know? Did they do an au . . .” I stopped, perhaps too late.

  “Heavens, no, Mr. Tucker. Death here is not dreaded; it’s welcomed, for it brings you to the Kingdom of God. I suspect, though, that it was his heart.”

  “When did he die?”

  “I believe it was a month ago next Tuesday.” She blessed herself again, her countenance softening.

  “Mr. Tucker, tell me about yourself and why you are here. Unless you are in a hurry to leave.”

  “No, I have some time.”

  I told her that I was a lawyer who represented a company called Ozone that did some business with the late padre.

  “Do you have family?” she asked.

  “I had a wife and two children, but they died in a car accident. That was more than three years ago . . .”

  She blessed herself yet again, as she murmured something in Spanish.

  “I know a little of your grief. My husband and child also died in a car accident. It was in Monaco. Oh . . . they were so young.”

  She must have seen my eyes widen.

  “I am not a nun. I’m a lay sister—an avocation often sought by widows. I basically attend to a number of retired priests, helping them in many ways—their food, their rooms, their hygiene. Easier for a woman who has had a husband or a son. I am sure you know what I mean,” she smiled.

  “Sister, your English is excellent.”

  “Thank you. Actually I speak five languages. It comes in handy here. French is my mother tongue. You see, a long time ago I was a student at a little private school in Paris,” she said, tucking a snippet of red hair under her veil. “I still remember the old schoolhouse, covered with vines. Miss Clavel was our teacher. I took her name when I took my vows, though most people here call me ‘Hermana Maddy.’ Madeline was my given name. I was the smallest girl in the class, but the most curious.

  “It was in Paris I met my husband,” she said with a smile. “I fancied him from the start. We married as soon as we turned of age—eighteen. We had a son who grew up handsome and tall. Just like his father. We were well off. My father-in-law was a Spanish diplomat. When my boys died, there was no world for me in Madrid. So the ambassador, my father-in-law, arranged for my placement here. He had a lot of influence,” she smiled again.

  “You and I have a great deal in common, you are right. I left my law firm after the accident and cloistered myself in the country, alone with my memories and my dog, who, you might be amused to know, was named after Junipero Serra.”

  “I had a dog too, when I was in school. Her name was Genevieve. She was my first stray. I still miss her. One of my responsibilities here is to care for the abandoned dogs. People who can’t keep their pets will bring them up here and leave them, feeling less guilty in the hope that God will attend to them. God is too busy so I now have six.”

  “Sister, I came hoping to ask Father Jeronimo about some accounts that may be relevant to completing the probate of my client, Benjamin Baum. That means the filing of his Will. Mr. Baum may have had an interest in three companies, all incorporated in Portugal, Madeira to be precise. I had hoped Father Jeronimo might be able to provide me with some documentation on them. I understand that Mr. Grogaman and Mr. Baum visited here recently.”

  “Well, I’m not sure what I can tell you that might be helpful. I met those gentlemen when they came here. Mr. Grogaman I know little about. Mr. Baum, however, I spent time with. After his last visit with Fra Jero—that’s what we c
alled Father Jeronimo—I took Mr. Baum for a long tour. He was keenly interested—very inquisitive and quite charming. And very generous. After visiting La Moreneta, he gave me 1,000 US dollars to help with our dogs! That was the biggest gift we ever got.

  “What else? Let me think. Oh, I believe I heard that Mr. Grogaman and Fra Jero were distantly related. Their families were both from Madeira. You have to understand a little background on Fra Jero. He was more a patriot than a priest—at least late in his life. He no longer performed his priestly obligations—Mass, confession, and Communion—but I’m told he was very good at finance. He handled all the monastery’s investments as well as others—including some of the Catalan separatist groups.

  “Mr. Tucker, don’t misunderstand. I have the greatest respect for our priests. Some of them are truly saints. You mentioned Fra Junipero Serra—the one you named your dog after. Did you know he was Catalan? In fact, he’s a follower of our revered Saint Francis of Assisi. You know of Capistrano?”

  “Of course, a meiny of sparrows return every year. One of my favorite happenings,” I responded.

  “Aha, so you also enjoy the passion of venery. We sisters often indulge. In fact, the first compilation of venery terms was done by a nun in the fifteenth century. It’s quite entertaining and we have plenty of time on our hands.

  “Well, back to your inquiry. Fra Jero traveled on business constantly—Funchal, Geneva, Zurich—almost weekly. I thought it exciting, but he seemed to trudge through it with a guilty soul. His eyes were always gray and never hinted of contrition.