The Ferryman

by John E. Siers

  “Besides, if you don’t meet with Nilsson, we’ll never figure out what this was about, and whoever’s pulling the strings on this one will have won.”

  “Yeah…you’re right,” he admitted. “All right, I’ll go on to the meeting, but you stay safe. If you even smell something funny in the breeze, call Jay Morgan. He’ll have a half-dozen agents on the grounds in five minutes.”

  “I won’t need them, but I’m going to call him anyway,” she said. “We need to give LE a heads-up, since I had to whack somebody without a contract.”

  Under federal law, Mark and Lisa carried exactly the same licenses as were issued to LifeEnders’ people, which meant they could legally kill anyone, anywhere in the U.S., for any reason (or no reason at all.) The only restriction was their non-compete agreement with LifeEnders, by which they were only supposed to take contracts LE would not take—primarily suicides—except under ‘extenuating circumstances.’ Self-defense was specifically listed as an example of such circumstances, but they always made it a point to advise LifeEnders if they had to hit somebody outside the Ferry’s normal course of business.

  “I’m also going to talk to NorthStar,” she added. “Everything they told us about Pak may have been correct—maybe he was in trouble with the gang, and they gave him this assignment as a means of atonement. Anyway, now that we know there’s more going on, we can turn them loose on it.”

  “Right…” he agreed. “Can’t get answers unless you know the right questions.”

  Mark drove the Jag up the long driveway of the Nilsson estate. He’d been stopped at the gate, but only to verify his ID. Now, not seeing a waiting valet, he thoughtfully parked on the little pad off to the side—right next to a stylish, copper-colored Porsche convertible—so as not to impede traffic in the circular drive. As he walked up the marble steps toward the front door, a man emerged and stood waiting for him.

  Ex-military, he decided. The guy was tall, solid-looking, and wore his hair high and tight—not quite to active Marine Corps standards, but close enough. He had slipped a pair of wrap-around shades over his eyes as he stepped outside, and he wore what appeared to be a Sig M17 holstered on his belt. Now he stood, waiting for Mark without smiling, in a position that Mark recognized as parade rest—except that his right hand rested on the butt of the Sig.

  “Mr. Marshall,” he challenged when Mark had gotten within ten paces, “are you currently armed?”

  “Yes, I am.” Mark stopped. “I’m always armed. May I…?” He carefully peeled back his jacket, revealing the holstered Glock 30 on his own belt.

  “I’m Theo Schmidt,” the man nodded in satisfaction, “director of security. Against my advice, Mr. Nilsson ordered me to admit you without relieving you of your weapon. He did not, however, forbid me to ask if you had one.”

  “I understand.” Mark nodded in return. “Since we’re being candid, I’ve also got a Beretta Tomcat in my ankle holster.”

  “Really?” Schmidt almost smiled. “I prefer a Ruger LCP in my back pocket. If you would step this way, please…”

  He stood back and held the door open. Inside, Mark noted the double-doored entryway where incoming visitors could be stopped and held, and the carefully disguised wall panels for the scanning system. The setup was almost identical to the one at the Ferry’s main entrance. For a guy who’s looking to end his life, Nilsson takes his security seriously.

  And, he realized, the system would have told Schmidt about both the Glock and the Beretta. That means the question outside was a test, which I presume I passed.

  From the luxurious foyer, Schmidt led him down a long, broad hallway. Ahead of them a door opened, and two women stepped out. The first was a trim, compact black woman in her thirties who looked both ways along the hallway with businesslike dispatch.

  She had bodyguard written all over her, and Mark presumed that the tall, beautiful blond that stepped out behind her was the body she was supposed to guard. Being somewhat biased, Mark wouldn’t have judged her more beautiful than Lisa, but even he was forced to admit it would be a close contest.

  The blond stepped out into the center of the hall as they approached, and Schmidt stopped.

  “Miss Nilsson…” He nodded to her.

  “I presume this is the executioner…” she said, a heavy note of contempt in her voice as she waved a long-fingered hand toward Mark.

  “Mr. Marshall, of Charon’s Ferry,” Schmidt told her. “He’s here at your father’s request.”

  “I know…” She turned and surveyed him with a frown. “Mr. Marshall…I would like to have a word with you before you leave, if you don’t mind.”

  Complications…he thought. I knew this wasn’t going to be simple.

  “Of course,” he replied. “I’ll see you later.” Assuming your Old Man is willing to let me, that is…

  “I presume you’ve prepared for this meeting, Mr. Marshall.” Thor Nilsson gave Mark a thoughtful look. “So what do you know about me?”

  “I know you’re a very…private person, Mr. Nilsson,” Mark replied. “The investigators I use are very good, but they were able to tell me very little beyond what is public knowledge.”

  “Hah!” Nilsson’s laugh was genuine. “Then we are well matched! My investigators are also particularly good, but their investigations came to a dead end at the doors of Charon’s Ferry. The Pentagon should only keep its secrets so well.”

  They were sitting in a pleasant outdoor garden, where a stunning view of the Hollywood Hills was unbroken by any trace of human habitation for miles. There were other affluent estates nearby, but they were below the horizon provided by the low garden wall. Well-crafted water features gave the impression of a natural rock grotto. In the chaotic, crowded universe of Southern California, it was a very peaceful and relaxing place.

  Nilsson sat in a well-appointed powered wheelchair, and the garden showed signs of recent work—steps replaced by gentle ramps, narrow ways widened a bit—to accommodate his mobility. Mark sat in a comfortable chair, both of them facing each other across a small table shaded by an awning. Other than the chair, Nilsson looked healthy, alert, and surprisingly cheerful.

  “So who are your investigators?” Nilsson gave him a sly wink. “I use NorthStar.”

  Now it was Mark’s turn for a hearty laugh.

  “It would seem, sir, that NorthStar has made a tidy sum from both of us on this one.” He grinned at the billionaire. “On the other hand, that may explain the lack of information. They may know things about both of us that they can’t reveal because we’re their clients.”

  “Excellent point…and you’re obviously as sharp as people told me you were. But down to business…let me fill you in on some things NorthStar would not have told you.

  “The public knows I’m a billionaire, and most of them know my wealth stems primarily from my ownership of Mjolnir Holdings, Inc., with which I have hammered out a rather large industrial empire.” He gave Mark a sly, questioning glance, accompanied by a smirk.

  “Yes…Mjolnir…hammered, I got it,” Mark told him with a smirk in return. In Norse mythology, Mjolnir was the name of the magical hammer wielded by the thunder god Thor.

  “Most people don’t.” Nilsson chuckled. “In any case, upon my death—which is not far off, even without your assistance—that empire will fall upon the fortunately sturdy shoulders of my daughter Ragnhild…whom I believe you met on the way in.”

  “I did…and she asked to see me on the way out.”

  “Hmmm…I expected that. She’s a headstrong girl, but that’s one of the reasons I have no qualms about leaving that empire in her hands. Go ahead…meet with her. Once you hear what I have to say, it shouldn’t make a difference, anyway.”

  “You say your death is…not far off?”

  “Yes—terminal illness, I don’t imagine NorthStar gave you any details on that, and they don’t matter. Six months minimum to a year max, according to the doctors. And that, unfortunately, is just too long.

  “Most large co
rporations are controlled by the owners of a small percentage of their common stock—sometimes 10 percent or less. That’s because most of the stock is scattered among small holders, some of whom don’t even know they own it, because it’s buried in a fund that’s part of a 401k…but they tell me you’re a shrewd investor, so I shouldn’t need to tell you this.

  “The point is, I own 60 percent of Mjolnir…period. There’s no question of control. But you understand that as well. According to NorthStar, you own 60 percent of Charon’s Ferry.”

  “A much smaller empire than yours,” Mark said. “Microscopic by comparison.”

  “No matter,” Nilsson waved that aside, “small or not, it’s yours. You control it. Now…here’s the crux of my problem. If I should die without an heir, my 60 percent of Mjolnir will revert to the corporate treasury—will effectively be withdrawn from play, and ownership will revert entirely to those who hold the remaining stock. In effect, their holdings will more than double in value.”

  “But you have an heir…”

  “Yes…at the moment, I do, but let me tell you the rest of the story.

  “My late wife Brigid had a son by a previous marriage when I married her—a boy already 19 years old at the time. Technically he is my stepson, but because he was already an adult, I didn’t adopt him, and he never took my surname. For Brigid’s sake, I paid for his college education, but we were never close. After graduation, he went his own way—found moderate success on Wall Street. In the meantime, Brigid had given birth to Ragnhild, who was, of course, her daddy’s treasure—my most precious possession, worth more to me than all of Mjolnir’s holdings.

  “I never included that stepson—his name is Tyler Johansen—in my will, never even considered him part of my family. Under Mjolnir’s rules, he wouldn’t have been qualified to inherit my shares anyway. But Brigid held 30 percent of Mjolnir—my wedding gift to her—and when she died three years ago, her will left half to him, half to Ragnhild. So far, no problem.

  “Now, however, it seems that Mr. Tyler Johansen has recently come to realize that if Ragnhild should somehow die before I do—in which case her stock reverts to me…do you see where this leads, Mr. Marshall?”

  “If I’ve done the math correctly,” Mark said with sudden understanding, “it leads to him owning 60 percent of Mjolnir upon your death—three-fifths of the outstanding stock. And whether he takes control or not, his holdings quadruple in value. So this is really about you having to die before she does. You believe someone—Johansen, I presume—is conspiring to kill her first.”

  “Yes!” Nilsson declared. “You understand completely. Now…tell me about the problems you see—because I’ve already examined them and am prepared to answer your questions.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Plans Within Plans

  “Well, it’s certainly complicated…” Lisa mused.

  It was early evening when Mark finally returned to the Ferry, and they’d put aside the Nilsson issue to discuss Lisa’s Sambok incident over dinner. Obviously the two were related, but they needed more information to make the connection.

  In the end, they’d decided to sleep on it and devote the next day—Thursday, and therefore a Time Out Day with nothing else scheduled—to tackling the Gordian Knot the thing had become. Now, morning had arrived, and they were in the conference room, pads open and the resources of the Ferry at their disposal.

  “First of all,” Lisa ticked off the point on her fingers, “it occurs to me that thanks to that funny little rule in the Mjolnir corporate charter, his daughter won’t be safe even after his death.”

  The funny little rule in question was a provision that required corporate stock to be transferred only to a “legal family member, by birth or adoption, no more than twice removed from the transferor.”

  Mjolnir stock wasn’t publicly traded. When Nilsson had first formed the company, he’d retained 60 percent, given 30 percent to his wife, and 10 percent to favored friends and associates. All stockholders were required to adhere to the “family rule”—including Johansen, Ragnhild, and the 10-percenters—else their stock would revert to the corporate treasury.

  “Right—because she has no heir. But she will have…a daughter, about seven months from now, assuming all goes according to plan.”

  “She’s pregnant?”

  “Yup…Daddy didn’t tell me that—just said she would deal with that issue in her own way. She told me in the meeting I had with her afterward.”

  “Hmmm…not that it matters, but according to the report, she’s not married. Do we know who the father is? Just asking, because he becomes a player in this little drama.”

  “Actually, he doesn’t—he’s just a file in a sperm bank somewhere. This was an induced pregnancy. She’s the egg donor, but the whole thing was done in vitro and then transferred to her. So far, she tells me it’s going well with no problems. Medical technology being what it is today, there’s actually less chance of complications than with a natural pregnancy.

  “But for the record, she is married—secretly, and the Nilssons know how to keep things secret. In fact, her spouse was present when I talked to her.”

  “Spouse?” Lisa noted that he hadn’t said ‘husband.’

  “It turns out Ragnhild’s a lesbian. She married her bodyguard—one Marcia Givens, age 34—I don’t think there’s a problem there, but I gave the info to NorthStar anyway. By the way, you’ll be amused to know that while we had NorthStar investigating Nilsson, he had them investigating us.”

  “Hah! That’s funny,” she agreed, “but now we get back to the hot topic of the day: who’s trying to kill her, and why. It looks like we have a prime suspect, but he’s the guy behind it all. It looks like he’s using the Samboks as his tools, but we don’t know if they’re the only ones. At least now we have a window of time to look at—seven months, after which she’ll be safer, but still not totally safe.”

  “Which is also why she doesn’t want us to do her old man. He’s not in any real pain now, is not drugged up—he’s as sharp a businessman as the day he started Mjolnir. She wants to keep him alive as long as possible. Some of that may be fear of not being ready to take over Mjolnir, but I think most of it is just love for her daddy.”

  “But you say we have a contract…”

  “He signed a contract, but I haven’t accepted it yet. He’s willing to give us 48 hours to think it over because we made so many changes to our standard termination form. We need to talk about that and get back to him. As soon as I notify him we’ve accepted it—if we do—the three-day starts running.”

  “You know—two questions occur to me right off,” Lisa said. “First of all, why are the Samboks involved? If Johansen is the guy pulling the strings, why hasn’t he just called LifeEnders and put a hit on Ragnhild?”

  “She’s on the No-Hit list,” he replied. “We knew her daddy was on it—had to call Morgan to find out if we could take a contract for him. Answer was, if he wants to check out, he’s welcome to do so. They just don’t want anyone else whacking him. But now it turns out she’s on the list as well. I’m not the only one who has friends at LifeEnders.”

  “Which means,” she grinned at him, “the Samboks don’t have a clue who they’re dealing with. They’re not in Street Gang Land anymore, and if they try to hit Ragnhild…well, LifeEnders might wipe them off the face of the planet. We’re talking about people who took out the entire Taliban over a two-week time period back in the day.”

  “True, but what bothers me is they may not have a clue and may go ahead and try it anyway. Nilsson has security that looks almost as good as ours, but they got in here anyway. They won’t get away with it again, but…”

  “Which brings me to my second question.” She shrugged. “They’re getting paid by somebody, and we presume it’s Johansen. Why doesn’t Nilsson just put a hit on him? That would solve everybody’s problem. We’d be out 5 million, but the important people would live happily ever after.”

  “I suggested that
, but he told me he wasn’t going to do it. Apparently his late wife loved her son, and he won’t dishonor her memory by taking the bastard out. Neither will Ragnhild—says he’s her half-brother, and Mom wouldn’t have wanted her to do it. Apparently, though, Johansen has no such qualms about snuffing his half-sister.”

  “Which dumps it back on us…we have to decide whether to take the contract or not.”

  “Right…might as well go over that now and decide whether we can live with the modifications he wants first. Then we can get back to all the other reasons we may or may not want to take it.”

  “Yeah…that makes sense. Let’s go over the contract details, then take a break for lunch. We can figure the rest out this afternoon.”

  “Right…and then we can close up shop, go downstairs, and turn the late Mr. Pak into dog food. At the moment, I’m torn between the idea of letting them wonder what happened to him or sending them a message—like his private parts wrapped up in a newspaper.”

  “Send them his head—what’s left of it,” she suggested. “I was thinking about nailing those private parts to the wall in my office.”

  “The most obvious change is that we don’t own Nilsson’s body after it’s done. That’s no problem—he’s already made funeral arrangements.”

  “No…the most obvious change is that we’re going to do a termination off-site,” Lisa pointed out. “That’s the one that concerns me.”

  “Yeah…well, that is the big one, I guess,” he agreed. “But since we don’t need to dispose of the body, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “What about method?” She scrolled through the contract file. “Hmmm…gunshot to the heart. Did he agree to that?”

  “Yes. I had to come up with a method that we could do anywhere, without extra setup, and that was the obvious choice. He chose the heart shot—said he could stand the pain but didn’t want his head messed up. The guy was very…businesslike about the whole thing—and cheerful, I might add. You’d think we were planning a corporate takeover.”