Book of Bravery

by James Burke

  Beyond crops any nearby animal raised for food likewise just keeled over and breathed their last. In this part of the country that meant cattle, sheep, the odd goat and pig, even a few kangaroos. For some reason their deaths were more discreet. It was the crops that died the loudest.

  Back to Boise

  Quintus arrived in Boise earlier than anticipated, allowing him to buy tulips which were Kaitlyn’s and Abby’s favorites. At the city’s main cemetery, he laid the flowers at their neighboring graves. He sat by their headstones, recollecting the good times while trying not to dwell on the loss.

  If you, dear reader, have lost loved ones in tragic circumstances, you would appreciate how Quintus felt. The sorrow of losing his girls remained raw but everything he learnt on White Dragon managed to keep him evenly keeled.

  After an hour, Quintus left the cemetery and drove to his old address. He didn’t plan it but the idea of finding some closure pushed him in that direction. Once he got there, his old street seemed smaller and duller than he thought it was. Instead of driving through he pulled his pickup over to the curb and parked a few houses down from where he previously lived.

  He exited his vehicle and unhurriedly walked towards number 45 where his home once stood. Now there was a modern boxy looking dwelling with dark green walls punctured by tall vertical windows. Hardly inviting, he thought, when compared to the double story timber house that his family once called theirs.

  Quintus did his utmost to avoid looking at the neighboring house — the past address of the murdering arsonist Andrei Vasailiev — which was likewise a different building to what used to be there. After what occurred in the autumn of 1966, Vasailiev’s house was bulldozed. No one wanted to live in a house where a murdering madman had hung himself, and especially next to where he committed his dark deeds. Number 47 was left as an empty plot for 25 years or so. Probably just enough time for people to forget what happened there.

  As Quintus got to the front of his old address, three girls, all sisters under the age of 12, playfully ran from the side of the house into the front yard. A fun-loving barking Labrador followed. The youngest of the girls saw the bearded and scruffy-headed stranger on the other side of the fence and promptly started shrieking. It started a chain reaction of hyped-up hysterics that all three joined in on.

  ‘Weirdo! Weirdo! Weirdo!’ they chanted as they turned and ran back to where they had come.

  The Labrador, no longer fun loving, stayed behind barking at Quintus who stood as he was until the house’s front door clanged open to reveal the girls’ father who was ruddy faced, balding and suspicious. ‘Can I help you?’ he inhospitably asked the stranger.

  ‘Sorry. Don’t mean any harm. I used to live here. Sometime back,’ Quintus replied.

  ‘I’ll call the cops if you keep loitering and scaring my kids,’ the father said.

  ‘Sure, on my way. I mean no harm,’ Quintus said as he began to make his way back to his pickup.

  ‘Yeah, so you said,’ the man replied.

  Quintus felt no malice towards the man. He is protecting his family like any decent father should, he thought.

  The man waved to his dog. ‘Buster get inside.’ As the dog brushed past his leg, he glanced back at Quintus who, as he walked away, nodded at him. It was a simple and unexpected gesture of respect that melted some of the man’s hostility.

  ‘You hear about Venice?’ he asked in a softer tone.

  ‘No,’ Quintus replied.

  ‘You will,’ the man said as he went back into his home, shutting the door behind him.

  Tsunami TV

  The Italian city of Venice had nearly been wiped out by a tsunami. The television in the motel room that Quintus was staying in had been on non-stop for the past 12 or so hours showing nothing but coverage of the disaster. There was ample video footage, most of it initially posted online by survivors. TV commentators by this stage were speculating fatalities, but I can tell you the massive wave took with it 80,000 plus souls.

  Quintus pulled himself away from the TV and went to the bathroom where he unpacked the hair clippers he bought from a department store not long after he left his old street.

  As he began clipping his hair to a half inch from the scalp, the morning’s sun snuck through the small bathroom window. After he finished with his hair, Quintus shaved off his beard. Barba non facit philosophum, he thought in Latin. ‘A beard doesn’t make a philosopher.’

  Next, he showered and afterwards watched more television. He flicked through channels, stopping on one that featured Chuck Goyette, that portly ‘prophet of doom.’ Now he was being interviewed by two hosts, Ryan and Chloe.

  ‘You have stated that only your members will survive doomsday,’ said Ryan who was then interrupted by Chloe.

  ‘We should also inform everyone, that membership to your organization requires individuals pay ten percent of their take-home income,’ Chloe said.

  Anyone watching the program would have noticed Goyette purse his lips at the innuendo of it all, but he allowed her to continue.

  ‘How many members do you have?’ she asked.

  ‘I can tell you both it’s a good number and it is skyrocketing but I think you’re missing the point here, that being my prophecies, like the tsunami obliterating Venice, are consistently —’ Goyette said before being interrupted by Ryan.

  ‘But the details you give,’ Ryan said. ‘Such as the descriptions of so-called mystical timers setting off these disasters, it just sounds like you’re making it all up as you go along.’

  Before Goyette could refute the claim, Quintus turned the TV off. There was little to gain from watching anymore, he felt. In his solitude, he sat on the bed and tried unsuccessfully to clear his mind. Instead, thoughts rushed in about his several past visits to Venice, the last being in 1396 when he helped build pedestrian bridges across canals.

  He got off the bed, sat on the floor and folded his legs into the lotus position. Again, he tried purifying his thoughts as he began his meditation.

  Just over an hour later, he would check out of the motel, leave Boise and make his way to Reno.

  CHAPTER VI

  Black Hearted

  A walled television showed news coverage of Chuck Goyette leaving a TV station and walking to a waiting stretched limousine. ‘The controversial cult leader stated he personally knows the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse,’ said accompanying audio. ‘Resulting in several Christian groups accusing Goyette himself of being the Antichrist.’

  A man in a charcoal grey Italian suit was the only one in the large office watching the broadcast. His name was Aaron Marx; a stern looking 45-year-old hedge fund manager. He was lean, mustached and cold eyed. He had an aura of sharp, efficient cruelty about him.

  ‘This is embarrassing,’ Marx said critiquing the broadcast.

  He threw the TV remote onto his desk and walked towards his office windows, passing a large framed portrait of murdering tyrant Mao Zedong as he went. In fact, right across his walls were pictures of unsavory characters and horrifying scenes.

  Marx reached his office windows that offered views of New York’s financial district. For five minutes, he stood there looking over eight blocks of money, power, and corruption. He could stand there doing that all day and night if it was at all practical.

  On the street opposite, he could see his nightclub The Devil’s Pleasure Palace, which he’d owned for three years. A bit further along he could make out the inconspicuous entrance to a local coven of the Order of International Satanists of which he was a prominent member.

  The intercom on his desk buzzed and the voice of Kristen Goode, his personal assistant, followed.

  ‘Good morning Mr. Marx. Did you hear about Venice?’

  ‘Yes, I did. What do you want?’ he abruptly said.

  ‘Mr. Irfan and Mr. Vacher are on their way up in the elevator to see you sir.’

  ‘Fine, send them straight in when they arrive.’

  A Pair of Maniacs

  Tony Vache
r and Sabre Irfan were hard looking but well-dressed men. Aged in their late 30s, they shared the elevator as it climbed to the penthouse level. Both were ex-military from their respective countries, France and Pakistan. Due to some extremely depraved behavior, they each earned dishonorable discharges. More broadly, it could be easily said no one in their home countries missed them or wanted them back.

  The smaller of the two was the Frenchman Vacher. He was completely bald headed and squat in form. He was fixing his foulard necktie in the lift’s mirror.

  ‘You ever consider wearing a tie?’ Vacher asked tie-less Irfan who was scrolling through perversion on his iPhone.

  ‘No,’ Irfan replied without looking up from his device. ‘I don’t want to appear like a peacock.’

  ‘Well screw you too,’ Vacher bit back. ‘The more time I spend with you Irfan the more I can see why you nearly ended up as a whack-job jihadi.’

  Irfan rolled his eyes but just months earlier he had indeed sought to join a radical Islamic militant group. More for the possibility of unbridled-violence than for anything else. A week before his planned recruitment, he left Karachi and flew to the Thai seaside town of Pattaya for five days of depravity. After he befriended Vacher at a seedy hotel, this turned into a month and the idea of jihad fell to the wayside. Together they ran amok in the town’s bars and brothels until the Russian mafia and the Thai police chased them out.

  From there Irfan managed somehow to get into the States where Vacher made a work referral for him to Marx. Irfan was surprised when he was offered a security consultant position with Black Crest Management.

  Not that Irfan, the son of a high-ranking Pakistani general, wasn’t qualified. He served in Pakistan’s special forces and military intelligence for around 15 years. He spoke fluent English and some passable Mandarin. His amoral tendencies similarly made him an ideal fit for Marx, as did karmic reasons.

  Their elevator journey came to a halt upon reaching the penthouse floor. Vacher took one last glance at his reflection and Irfan switched off his iPhone. Both men got out and made their way to their employer’s office.

  Mess in Reno

  Vacher and Irfan entered the office to find Marx seated at his desk, typing away on his computer keyboard.

  ‘So, what is it? Why do you two have to see me at such short notice?’ Marx said without looking at them.

  ‘It’s Peach sir, he’s having difficulties in Reno with your Mexican investors,’ said Vacher. ‘An altercation at a strip club.’

  Marx now looked at his minions who he earlier asked to report to him any issues related to account manager Albert Peach chaperoning his clients from the Amado cartel. He nodded to Vacher to speak and the Frenchman described how trouble started after a pole dancer objected to being manhandled.

  ‘No cops involved yet, no one was hurt but Peach is spooked,’ Vacher said. ‘He called me, says the strip joint is contacting him, making threats, wanting compensation.’

  Irfan butted in.

  ‘The man has no balls, he should just firebomb the strip house,’ Irfan said.

  ‘You don’t know Peach,’ Vacher said as he gave Irfan a ‘leave this to me’ look. He then returned his attention to Marx. ‘There’s a private eye in Reno I know of who could help clean it up. An old guy by the name of Jack Day.’

  Marx shook his head.

  ‘What about some guys from Black Crow, some with time on their hands?’ asked Vacher, referring to a subsidiary security company owned by Marx.

  ‘No, it needs more of a personal touch. I want you two to handle it,’ Marx said.

  The order surprised Vacher. It wasn’t a typical request.

  ‘Sure, okay, they’re just looking to buy a gambling machine factory, aren’t they?’ he queried.

  ‘Yes, they are. The business aspect is straightforward but leave that to Mr. Peach,’ Marx said. ‘This firm’s association with the Amado cartel has been long standing and I need it to remain that way.’

  ‘And what do you want us to do?’ Vacher asked.

  ‘Hopefully nothing. The Amado cartel has a few hot heads in its ranks and among them is Hector Herera who Peach is with. Hector is an idiot of the highest order but he’s Alfonso’s nephew,’ Marx said referring to the cartel’s drug lord. ‘You are to ensure things don’t go further awry. It may appear to be just a babysitting gig, but it is important that nothing goes wrong,’ he said without offering further details.

  Marx hit the intercom.

  ‘Kristen, book Mr. Vacher and Mr. Irfan flights to Reno. They need to be back by Friday. They’re on the way out to see you.’

  Kristen acknowledged the orders.

  Vacher and Irfan took that as their cue and exited.

  The Call

  Still at his desk, Marx brooded over how his well-laid plans were threatening to unravel. The news from Reno reminded him how fragile his task actually was or at least appeared. He dialed his desk phone and five seconds later somebody at the other end answered.

  It was Chuck Goyette, the cult leader. He was traveling in a stretched limousine while enjoying a foot massage from a follower dedicated to such tasks. He was on the call hands free, not that Marx could see that.

  ‘Mr. Goyette I’ve been watching you on TV,’ Marx said tersely.

  At the other end, Goyette rolled his eyes.

  ‘Yes, I’ve been busy. How may I help you Mr. Marx?’ he asked in a nonchalant tone.

  Marx held his breath for a second before responding to ensure his voice didn’t betray signs of irritation.

  ‘I’m just very surprised that certain issues, such as mystical timers, are being so casually discussed on television,’ Marx managed to say with a steady voice.

  ‘Oh, just chill,’ said Goyette. ‘It’s important to have some fun along the way Mr. Marx and besides, you shouldn’t concern yourself so much. I’m in Los Angeles and they love that kind of talk down here; all the supernatural, so let’s keep it in perspective shall we?’

  ‘I’m still responsible for you all Mr. Goyette. That’s my singular perspective,’ Marx said.

  Goyette chuckled before replying.

  ‘Mr. Marx, I think you’re overlooking some fundamentals. You’re merely the middleman and yes your services were appreciated upon our arrival but that was then, and this is now,’ he said. ‘Regarding the future, we all know how it is going to pan out so there is no point in making a fuss on what method is best.’

  ‘No, I’m still responsible for you all Mr. Goyette and that was part of the covenant I made, and I will not stray from that. It would be beneficial for everyone if we meet again,’ Marx said.

  Goyette offered a loud sigh that spoke volumes.

  ‘Marx that’s unquestionably impossible,’ he replied dropping the Mr. ‘Ever since day one Death has been independent and I know you don’t stalk her. Not that anyone in their right mind would.’

  Marx abruptly cut in.

  ‘Enough of the schtick. As agreed earlier, let’s refer to her as Trudy when speaking on the phone,’ Marx said.

  ‘Oh, keep your pants on Marx. Call her whatever, but I’m sticking to character,’ Goyette said. ‘And then there’s Famine, and yes, he is behind schedule but at least he is still wandering around doing his thing Down Under, drawing at least some media attention. What did you want to call him? Bruce wasn’t it?’

  ‘That was the name we settled upon,’ Marx said.

  ‘You say Trudy I say Death, you say Bruce, I say Famine. What was War again, Ivan wasn’t it? It’s preposterous,’ Goyette said.

  ‘Again; we agreed upon it.’

  ‘You need to relax Marx, you’re only the middleman and you’re way overboard on this matter.’

  ‘Without me you’d have nothing. I could cut off your funds in a heartbeat,’ Marx bit back.

  ‘Now you’re being rash. Look on the bright side Marx. You have War in your stable, don’t you? Is he depressed? If he is, it’s probably because he is so, so idle,’ Goyette said. ‘Is he still cooped up in your
boardroom?’

  It was then Marx’s turn to sigh.

  ‘Look, this is childish,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, I certainly agree,’ Goyette shot back.

  ‘Look we just need to meet. Fly to New York.’

  ‘I’m sorry Marx but my schedule will only get busier after today. I’ve now arrived at ZBS, so I can’t talk anymore. Just make good on you and War’s visit to China and North Korea. Ensure that you fulfil your end of the bargain,’ Goyette said. ‘That’s all you have to do at this stage. Everything else is out of your hands.’

  Goyette ended the call just as his limousine pulled into a parking lot at ZBS TV.

  At his end, Marx hung up the phone and shook his head in frustration.

  He was at the point of giving up in trying to reason with any of the four otherworldly types. They were entirely on another level when it came to stubbornness.

  He stood from his desk and exited his office.

  War

  As Marx entered the reception area, he caught a last second glimpse of Vacher and Irfan disappearing behind the lift’s closing doors just before it went down.

  ‘Can I assist with anything Mr. Marx,’ said a female voice from behind him.

  Marx didn’t bother turning to Kristen who remained seated at the reception desk. ‘You book their air tickets?’ he asked, his tone typically unfriendly.

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘I hope you’re looking after him,’ Marx said nodding towards the glass-walled boardroom where a dark-haired man aged in his 30s sat alone at a long table. He had a full-beard and was powerfully built, not that that was evident under the surplus-army jacket he wore. He was sketching on blank pieces of paper. Nearby on the floor was a bedroll which he’d slept on for the past ten nights.

  ‘Has he eaten anything today?’ Marx asked.

  ‘Yes, he had what I got him this morning,’ Kristen said, referring to some pulled-pork sandwiches. ‘I’ll get him some lunch soon.’