by Haris Orkin
If Wendy was to be believed, Belenki was convinced that a murderous AI was after him. She had to talk to Belenki if she ever hoped to uncover the truth, but to confront him she needed the proof. That proof was Wendy Zimmerman and her unimpeachable evidence.
After his latest rocket failed to launch, Bettina read that a chastened Belenki left his superyacht in South Florida and flew back to Wembly Island. Is that where they took Wendy? She knew Belenki’s private one-hundred-acre island off the coast of Washington State housed the most extravagant doomsday shelter of all. Wembly Island was off the grid and completely self-sustaining.
Bettina needed to get inside and that wasn’t going to be easy.
Belenki was as delusional as Flynn, but clearly more dangerous as he had all the resources in the world. If what Wendy said was true, this story could make her career. A mental patient who thinks he’s a secret agent versus a megalomaniacal billionaire with a movie star girlfriend and a plot to bring civilization to its knees.
She might even win a Pulitzer.
Bettina made a formal request for an interview with Belenki through Rolling Stone. She even convinced her editor to offer Belenki a cover story, but he wasn’t meeting with anyone. He was in seclusion, holed up in his isolated estate, cut off from the rest of the world. The only way to get inside was to go full-bore Nellie Bly once more.
She searched all the job listing sites in the San Juan Islands, hoping to find an open position at Belenki’s estate, but there was nothing. So, she used her personal connections to find people who knew employees who for worked Belenki. She finally found a connection. Someone who worked in the kitchen at Wembly Island. The former sous-chef at Saison in San Francisco.
For a story on sexism in the culinary industry, Bettina once trained with a sous-chef and went undercover at a fancy French Restaurant in New York City. She spent six months there and found she enjoyed the work. She also found that most kitchens were tin-pot dictatorships run by entitled men with giant egos; not all that different than the bro culture she exposed in a series of articles on the captains of industry in the Silicon Valley.
Hoping her experience in high-end kitchens might get her in the door, she charmed an interview out of the head chef and took a ferry to Wembly Island to meet with him. She hesitated to rely on her feminine charms, but the man was ungainly and overweight and felt isolated and forlorn as the only chef working in the private kitchen of a newly reclusive billionaire.
Bettina did her research and complimented him on the cuisine he created at Saison in San Francisco, where dinner for two costs a thousand dollars minimum.
She singled out one dish as being her favorite dish of all time. Sea urchin on a moist bed of bread pudding made from toasted sourdough basted with brown butter and egg yolk. She told him how each satisfying and sensual bite filled her with a giddy unforgettable pleasure. The texture, the taste, the mouthfeel, and the flavor were life-changing for her. So much so that she had to find the man who created such magic and learn at his feet. That did it.
His name was Ellis and he hired Bettina on the spot.
She was shown to a small room in a wing of the estate that housed the workers. She shared her room with a chambermaid named Camille and, according to her new roomie, estate staff could only access certain sections of the mansion and the grounds. She drew Bettina a crude map and Bettina used it to reconnoiter the estate, relying on her status as a newcomer and her ignorance of the rules to get into places she wasn’t allowed to go.
The sprawling craftsman-style mansion fit flawlessly into the island’s natural environment. A great room dominated the center with expansive wings extending in all directions. Each area combined indoor and outdoor spaces with eight-foot sliders that led out to patios and decks. A reverse osmosis desalination system fed an eighty-thousand-gallon pond that supplied water for the landscaping and vegetable gardens, fruit trees, and extensive greenhouses. All the greenery created complete privacy in a natural setting. It was another example of how Belenki built the estate to be self-sustaining.
Black-uniformed guards stood vigil inside the main mansion. The guards outside all carried assault weapons and, if she strayed too far from where she was allowed to go, she would be stopped and asked to show her ID badge.
Upon confirming her identity, she was escorted back to the worker’s wing with its small park and garden, dining hall, and recreation facility. She had free run of the kitchen, pantry and dining room, but most of the main mansion was off-limits.
Bettina knew she could get away with feigning ignorance for a day or two, but after that any forays into unauthorized areas would raise suspicion.
She acted flustered and mortified when one burly guard found her on the top floor of the mansion. She claimed she was lost, and he escorted her to the kitchen. Along the way, she made a connection with him, innocently asking him questions and inflating his ego in the process. It was a technique she’d used on many a subject and it always worked better on men than women.
She marveled at the size and intensity and surprising fragility of the male ego. Even the fattest, baldest, wrinkliest, old asshole never doubted Bettina could be interested in him. While many women suffered from body dysmorphia and hated their nose or their legs or believed they were actually much heavier than they were, many men suffered the opposite affliction. They looked in the mirror and somehow didn’t see their neckbeard or their potbelly and instead saw Brad Pitt or Bradley Cooper or Idris Elba staring back at them.
That wasn’t true of all men. Ellis, the head chef who hired her wasn’t delusional in that area. He had no confidence in his physical form whatsoever. Bettina had no desire to lead him on, but she wasn’t above using his insecurity to get what she needed. When it came to cooking, Ellis was supremely confident. So, she played to his ego and on his insecurities and eventually he revealed his true feelings about working at Wembly Island.
“It’s a beautiful kitchen. State of the fuckin’ art. Best I’ve ever worked in. Bastard gave me everything I asked for. And I’ve never made more money. The salary he’s paying me is crazy. But money isn’t everything, you know what I’m saying?”
“I do,” Bettina said.
“This is my art. This is my passion. And I don’t like performing for an audience of one. I thought he’d be having giant parties with shitloads of celebrities. Rock stars, movie stars, captains of industry. But lately it’s just him and his girlfriend.”
“Anika Piscotti?”
“Nah, they broke up. There’s some new girl staying with him. Severina I think he called her. I hear they used to work together.”
“That’s weird.”
“You know what’s even weirder? For the last few weeks I’ve been moving all kinds of shit into the doomsday bunker. There’s a fully equipped kitchen down there, just like this one, and an even bigger pantry. He’s been loading it up with all kinds of supplies and, word is, we may be moving down there.”
“No shit?”
“That’s what they tell me. Living down there. Cooking down there. Like fuckin’ rats in a hole. I’m a little claustrophobic. I like my windows. I like seeing the trees and the ocean for fuck’s sake. That’s half the reason I took this damn job. I don’t want to live fifty feet underground in some motherfucking tomb.”
“Where is this shelter?”
“I’ll show you later. I got shit to move over there this afternoon and I’m going to need your help.”
That night, Bettina peeked in the dining room while Belenki ate his dinner. An ash-blonde thirty-something beauty sat sullenly across from him. Bettina assumed this was Severina. Belenki didn’t try to make conversation and she just glared at him. Was she really Anika’s replacement? If so, the honeymoon period didn’t last very long. At one point, Ellis caught Bettina peeking in on them and shooed her back to the kitchen.
Bettina wondered if Wendy was locked up somewhere. Where would he put her? A guest bedroom? In the doomsday bunker? The place was on lockdown at night and there were se
curity cams and guards everywhere. Each day Bettina flirted with the burly guard who found her snooping upstairs and tried to get him to open up and trust her and maybe even fall for her a little bit.
“You work out? You look like you do.”
“Not as much as I should.”
“I don’t know about that. I think you look pretty strong.”
“I try to stay in shape.”
“I can see that. How much do you bench?”
“250 is my max, but I’d like to push past it.”
“250? Are you serious? That’s more than you weigh.”
“Almost.”“You ex-military?”
“I was an army ranger.”
“Iraq or Afghanistan?”
“Both.”
“Wow. Guess you’re glad to be home.”
“There’s pluses and minuses.”
“What’s a minus?”
“I miss the action sometimes.”
“What’s your name?”
“Max.”
“Hey Max. I’m Bettina.”
“Bettina, okay. You know, you remind me of somebody.”
“Somebody famous?”
“Somebody I used to live with.”
“No kidding? Ex-wife?”
“Little sister. She talks a blue streak too.”
“Little sister?”
“Susie. She’s a nurse. Annoying, but in a good way. You know, like a puppy.”
“Are you calling me a dog?”
Max laughed. “She’s funny too. Just like you.”
Each night Ellis and Bettina made dinner for three. Even though Belenki and Severina were the only guests in the dining room. Max always stopped by the kitchen to pick up that third meal. One time, Bettina offered to help him carry it upstairs. He was glad to have the company. She grabbed the tray and they made their way to a room on the third floor of the mansion. Max unlocked the door and Bettina entered.
Wendy sat atop a futon and was as surprised to see Bettina as Bettina was to see her. Bettina was so surprised she nearly dropped the tray of food. They had met once just briefly. That day neither had said a word to the other before Belenki’s men stormed Sancho’s apartment and spirited her away.
Max stood behind Bettina and waited for her to put down the tray. Using only her eyes, Bettina tried to communicate to Wendy to keep her mouth shut. She did, but there were many meaningful glances and unsaid words between them. Since Belenki held her prisoner, Bettina assumed Wendy’s story was likely true. Holy shit. Belenki really did intend to stop the motor of the world.
“Go ahead and set it down,” Max said. She put the tray on the small table and backed from the room. Wendy looked like she wanted to say something, but she didn’t and neither did Bettina before Max shut and locked the door.
“Who is she?” Bettina asked Max.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know why she’s locked up here?”
“That’s above my pay grade. Yours too. What’s with all the questions?”
“I’m just curious. I think it’s kind of weird. Don’t you think it’s kind of weird?”
“Maybe you should stop that.”
“Stop what?”
“Being curious.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
As soon as they arrived in Los Angeles, Sancho tried to get Flynn out of the terminal and into an Uber. Instead, Flynn bought himself a ticket to Bellingham International, the closest airport to the San Juan Islands. The name on the credit card Goolardo gave him was Josh Weebler. It matched the name on his phony passport and Sancho assumed it was some hapless person’s stolen identity. Flynn offered to buy Sancho a ticket as well, but Sancho didn’t want a ticket. He had no intention of flying to Bellingham and participating in Flynn’s half-assed assault on Wembly Island.
They sat side by side at Blu20, a neon blue circular cocktail bar in terminal six at LAX. Sancho bought a Corona and Flynn ordered a vodka martini, shaken not stirred. Back in Miami he had talked Flynn out of flying to Bellingham, but things were different now. Severina was Belenki’s prisoner.
Sancho was desperate to get Flynn to change his mind. “I’m done with this shit, brother. I can’t do it anymore.”
“Of course, you can. You’re one of the best field agents I’ve ever worked with. It’s brilliant how you always feign fear, causing the enemy to constantly underestimate you.”
“I really think you should report back to N.”
“And leave Wendy and Severina in the clutches of a madman? He was once a good person. Well, maybe not a good one, but he wasn’t a bad one. He was a businessman. A billionaire. And that carries a certain amount of baggage. But now he’s gone completely off the deep end.”
“He’s not your responsibility, dude.”
“Whose responsibility is he then? If I don’t stop him, who will?”
“Look at me, brother. Take a breath. I know Jimmy still lives somewhere inside that hard head of yours. And if he’s in there, I’m hoping he can hear me, because I know what he’s going through. I read all the psychiatric assessments. His whole history from the time he was ten, right after his parents died. He was lonely. Scared. Stuck with strangers who didn’t understand him. At night when he couldn’t sleep, he’d hide under the covers and listen to his Walkman.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“I’m not telling you. I’m telling Jimmy. See, I know he had a shoebox full of cassette tapes that belonged to his dad and he dragged that box with him from foster home to foster home. One tape he listened to so many times it wore out and broke. The soundtrack for a movie that took him to another place. A place where one man could save the world. He played that title track over and over, night after night, letting Shirley Bassey’s voice push the fear right out of him. Jimmy could imagine he was somewhere else. Someone else. Someone who wasn’t friendless or afraid. Someone who could do whatever he wanted. Someone women wanted to be with, and men wanted to be.”
Flynn finished his drink and carefully set it down. “Are you done?”
“No, because eventually that song would end. And he would have to go back to being who he was. But look at me. There’s nothing wrong with that. Nothing wrong with being who you are. It takes a lot of courage to be someone like Jimmy.”
“He sounds weak. He sounds like a coward.”
“I get that James is way cooler than Jimmy. But deep down you know that James isn’t real, right?”
“Are you drunk off one beer? Because you’re not making any sense.”
“I’m just trying to get you to look inside yourself. See who you really are.”
“I know who I am and what I have to do. You’re welcome to come with me, but I’m not going to let you stop me.”
Sancho was so furious he felt like crying. Why was Flynn so fucking stubborn? “I don’t want to see you die.”
Flynn put his hand on Sancho’s shoulder. “I appreciate that. I do. And I feel the same way about you. The truth is not all of us were meant for this life, and right now I’m afraid it’s unraveling you. There’s no shame in that. It’s a difficult path we’ve chosen. Stay behind this time and help run the mission from here.”
“I can’t let you go.”
“Of course, you can.”
“I’m sorry, man. I really am. But I have to turn you in.” Sancho raised his hand and called to two airport police officers walking in tandem. “Officer! Over here! Officer!” They both turned as Sancho leaped to his feet. “This asshole is crazy! There’s a 5150 on him!” He pointed at Flynn, but Flynn wasn’t there.
Flynn moved through the crush of passengers at LAX and whispered into an elderly lady’s ear pointing at Sancho. “That man there has a gun.”
The seventy-something lady aimed an accusatory finger at Sancho and shrieked, “He has a gun!”
The two airport police drew their weapons and suddenly other officers appeared with weapons drawn. They surrounded Sancho from all sides. He put up his hands and fell to his knees.”
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“No, no, no!” he shouted. “Not me! Him! He’s the crazy one!” But he was pointing at no one and the police slammed him into the ground face down, cuffed his hands behind him, and dragged him off.
Flynn caught Sancho’s eye as they dragged him past and Sancho struggled, screaming, “That’s him! That’s him!” until one of the cops finally tasered him.
He knew they’d let Sancho go once they realized he wasn’t armed. By that time Flynn would already be in Bellingham.
Four hours later Sancho was still locked up in a holding cell at LAX. Soon after his apprehension, they discovered he didn’t have a gun. The lady who shouted about him having a weapon admitted that she was simply reacting to someone else’s accusation.
She couldn’t describe who that someone was as it all happened so fast. A quick whisper. A pointed finger. And she panicked. She apologized and was released. They were about to let Sancho go as well when he told them about Flynn.
“The guy who whispered to that lady? He’s the real crazy. He’s on a plane to Bellingham.”
The investigator from TSA appeared to take Sancho’s claims seriously. “What’s this person’s name?”
“Flynn, but that’s not what’s on his passport.”
“What’s the name on his passport.”
“Josh Weebler.”
“So, his name is Weebler?”
“No, but he’s using Weebler. He’s tall with dark hair and he has a British accent.”
“He’s British?”
“No, he’s not British, but he thinks he’s British.”
“Who thinks he’s British?”
“Flynn.”
“I thought his name was Weebler.”
“That’s the name he’s using, but that’s not who he is.”
“Who who is?”
“Flynn!”
“What about Weebler?”
“There is no Weebler!”
At that point, the investigator from TSA stopped taking notes and returned Sancho to his holding cell.