Curse of the Jade Lily (20 page)

“C’mon, McKenzie, you know better. By noon, all of the major streets will be plowed. By five, half of the secondary streets will be cleared. By nine, I bet I’m packed.”

Instead of arguing with her, I shifted my weight on the bed and started gently moving my fingers across her warm flesh.

“I’ll give you twenty minutes to cut that out,” she said.

Turned out, that was exactly how much time she gave me before she rolled out of bed and headed for the bathroom.

“I’m really unhappy about this,” I said.

“You know, McKenzie, some people like to go to work. They enjoy their jobs. It gives them satisfaction.”

“Poor, brainwashed bastards. Wait a minute. Did you come over last night because you thought it would be easier to get to work from here than your place in Mahtomedi?”

Nina didn’t answer. Instead, she turned on the shower. She did not get in, though. That was one of her quirks—she had to let the shower run for a good five minutes before actually using it.

“Nuts,” I said and got up.

Nina poked her head through the bathroom door. She was holding a toothbrush in her hand.

“You can stay in bed, if you want,” she said.

“What’s the point?”

For some reason she thought that was funny.

“If you have to go in, I want you to take my Cherokee,” I said.

“Why?”

“Four-wheel drive and an eleven-inch ground clearance. It should be able to get up the hill and to Cleveland Avenue, which, you’re right, is probably plowed by now. That heap of a Lexus you drive is so low to the ground, you’ll never make it.”

“Don’t say nasty things about Lexi.”

“Lexi? You call your car Lexi?”

“Yes. What do you call your car?”

*   *   *

Twenty minutes later I was dressed in a red snowmobile suit that I had inherited from my father and blowing the snow out of my driveway using a two-stage, eight-speed, self-propelled snowblower with a 318 cc 4-cycle engine, 28-inch clearing width, 45-foot throwing distance, electric start, tire chains, and a front headlight. Yes, it was way too big and powerful for my driveway. Hell, I could have cleared the entire street with it. It was also expensive, about $1,500 including tax, which epitomized the schizophrenic relationship I have with my money. Because of my middle-class upbringing, I can’t bring myself to spend more than $25 for a pair of jeans or $100 for a pair of shoes, yet I think nothing of spending $71,000 for a car or $750 for a coffeemaker. Nina claims it’s because I’m a boy who likes his toys, only I’m not quite sure what that means.

I was nearly finished with the driveway when Nina came out of the house and started the Cherokee. She let it warm up for ten minutes, like the shower, which was another quirk of hers. You don’t need to warm up a car even in the coldest weather unless you’re planning on going from zero to 3,000 rpms in about six seconds. Yet the more I tell her that, the less she listens. Oh well. I gave her a kiss and she drove off, maneuvering through the snow up to Cleveland with no trouble at all.

I went back to snowblowing, finishing my driveway and then blowing the driveway of my neighbor before starting on the driveway of my neighbor’s neighbor. I did it partly because I’m a helluva nice guy. Also because I wanted to build up some goodwill with the folks living in the community who have pointed out to me on more than one occasion that there had been no murders, kidnappings, and running gun battles along Hoyt before I moved in. By that time, the municipal snow-removal guys had plowed the avenue, piling huge heaps of snow at the end of each driveway, so I went up and down the street blowing that out, too. None of this was a burden to me. I love blowing snow. Boys with toys.

Afterward, I packed down the snow in my backyard and poured out some corn for the turkeys that were nowhere in sight. It was early afternoon by the time I returned to my house with thoughts of cleaning up before Mr. Donatucci arrived. The phone was ringing, and I caught it just before it rolled over to voice mail.

“McKenzie,” Nina said. She sounded out of breath. “I’ve been calling. Where were you?”

“What is it?”

“Someone followed me to the club from your house.”

“Are you sure?”

“A red SUV. He followed me right into the parking lot.”

“Stay there. I’m on my way.”

“No, no, it’s okay. He left. When I got out of the Cherokee and walked to the door, he saw that it was me and I was alone and he left.”

“He followed the Cherokee thinking I was driving.”

“That’s what I think, too.”

“I’m sorry, Nina. I thought I had gotten rid of that sonuvabitch.”

“It’s okay. I just want you to be careful. When he left, well, he must be going back to your place, right?”

She’s not worried about herself, she’s worried about you,
my inner voice said.

“I love you, Nina,” I said.

“I know.”

*   *   *

Five minutes later I was on the phone with Bobby Dunston.

“Did you check on that license plate number I gave you?” I asked.

“I thought you weren’t in a hurry about that,” Bobby said.

“The guy in the Acura, he followed Nina right up to the front door of Rickie’s.”

Bobby paused for a moment and said, “Hang on for a minute.”

One minute turned into a couple before Bobby returned to the phone.

“Acura MDX, it’s a company car belonging to Minnesota Disposal and Recycling,” he said. “It’s assigned to Nicholas Garin of Wayzata. We have nothing on this guy, McKenzie. Not even a speeding ticket.”

“Thanks, Bobby.”

“Is Nina okay?”

“She sure is.”

Bobby paused for another moment and then said, “About hockey tonight.”

“I might have to blow if off.”

I explained about my conversations with the artnappers and Mr. Donatucci.

“In that case, I have only one word to say to you, McKenzie. Are you listening?”

“Sure.”

“One word.”

“What is it?”

“Kevlar.”

*   *   *

Not long ago people were up in arms over the threat the Internet posed to their privacy, and they were right to be upset. The Internet made it easy to learn just about anything you wanted to know about an individual from their criminal record to the charities they support. I could have easily gained the information Bobby had given me in a day on my own at the cost of just a few bucks. Yet what continued to surprise me was that instead of struggling to protect their privacy, most people were giving it up without a fight. Take Nicholas Garin of Wayzata, for example. He had both a Facebook and LinkedIn page, and between the two of them he revealed just about everything about himself a guy might care to know, including his favorite ice cream—Kemps Raspberry Cow Tracks.

It was from his LinkedIn site that I discovered that he was twenty-nine years old, married to a graphic designer named Alicia, and played Class A softball in a park and rec league in the summer. I also learned that he had an MBA from the University of St. Thomas and worked first as a fund-raising consultant and then as a public relations director for a local nonprofit before becoming a new business development consultant with a small Minneapolis firm. A former client said, “Nick Garin is an innovative thinker with the ability to be resilient in the face of change, responding quickly and efficiently to it.”

The firm was purchased eighteen months ago by Minnesota Disposal and Recycling.

“Minnesota Disposal and Recycling.” I said it aloud just to prove that I was paying attention. “Jonathan Hemsted and Branko Pozderac are staying in a hotel suite owned by MDR.”

The firm was renamed and put to work providing community relations. This included supporting education, arts, and culture groups through the company’s nonprofit foundation. It reported directly to MDR’s president and CEO, Randolph Fiegen.

That little bit of intel caught me by surprise. What’s more, I had no idea what to do with it.

I left my computer and went into the kitchen for a cup of joe. I took the mug, sipping from it every now and then, while I meandered through my mostly empty house, pacing, walking in circles, never sitting down. I did that sometimes when I was thinking, and let’s face it, I had a lot to think about. Eventually I decided I needed to get cleaned up. Before I went upstairs, I looked up and down Hoyt Avenue from my front window. Nicholas Garin was nowhere in sight.

It took me about forty minutes to make myself presentable to the outside world, and that was because I lingered in the shower. By the time I had finished, I had devised a plan of action, such as it was. I returned to my PC and started surfing Web sites for information about Bosnia and Herzegovina. I found a government site that dealt with business opportunities for U.S. companies overseas.

DOING BUSINESS IN BOSNIA AND HERZEGOVINA

I read the information several times, making note of those points I considered salient.

Still regarded as a transition economy, Bosnia and Herzegovina is open to foreign investment.

Still-to-come privatization of state-owned entities will offer significant opportunities.

There is no single best way to do business in Bosnia and Herzegovina. New entrants to the market will most likely be displacing/supplanting nearby suppliers, such as Croatia and Serbia, as well as dominant EU member countries. Sales agents, representatives, and distributors all have important roles to play in this market. Financing is a key factor for a Bosnian company making a decision to take on a U.S. product line.

“Financing is a key factor,” I wrote, underlining the word “financing.” “Does that mean bribery?”

The U.S. Commercial Service Office at the U.S. Embassy in Sarajevo will provide you with a fresh insight on doing business in Bosnia and Herzegovina.

I wrote: “U.S. Commercial Service Office—isn’t that where Jeremy Hemsted works?” I looked it up.

The CSO cooperates extensively with the Foreign Investment Promotion Agency of Bosnia and Herzegovina.

I Googled the organization and discovered a Web site that served as an open invitation to foreign businesses. In fact, there was a personal message welcoming potential investors to the site and thanking them for their interest in Bosnia and Herzegovina. It was signed by the chief administrator of the promotion agency—Branko Pozderac.

Privatization in Bosnia and Herzegovina provides the possibility to both local and foreign physical and legal entities to participate in the purchase of state-run enterprises.

Bosnia and Herzegovina is accelerating the privatization process for companies of strategic importance in order to increase economic growth and enhance the volume of foreign investment.

An estimated 60% of small companies and more than 30% of the large ones are now privately owned or publicly traded. However, a number of strategic enterprises including power companies, telecommunications providers, mines and other public utilities are still not privatized, presenting a choice of opportunities for potential foreign and local investors.

The Foreign Investment Promotion Agency of Bosnia and Herzegovina also provided a list of publicly owned enterprises ripe for privatization, breaking them down by city. As I read the list, it became obvious to me that nearly every city in Bosnia and Herzegovina—Visoko, Kakanj, Zenica, Sarajevo, Banovići, Visočica—required the same thing.

Garbage and wastewater cleaning.

“What the hell?” I said to no one in particular.

After pausing for a couple of minutes to think it through, I looked up the Web site for the U.S. Embassy in Sarajevo and called the number provided. It was 8:00
P.M.
when the phone rang there, yet someone answered it just the same.

“United States Embassy,” a pretty voice said.

“Good evening,” I said. “I would like to speak to Jeremy Hemsted. I believe he is with your Commercial Service Office.”

“May I ask who is calling, please?”

I gave the woman my name and location. Why not? The embassy probably had caller ID, anyway.

“I’m sorry, Mr. McKenzie, Mr. Hemsted is unavailable. Is there someone else who might be able to help you?”

“Do you mean Jeremy is unavailable as in he’s not in the embassy right now”—I purposely used Hemsted’s first name so the woman would think that he and I were acquainted—“or he’s unavailable as in he’s not in the country?”

“Mr. Hemsted is on vacation, sir.”

“On vacation or on assignment?”

“On vacation, sir, although he will be calling in to check his messages.”

“Will you be kind enough to deliver a message for me?”

“Would you like his voice mail?”

“Oh, no. Just tell him that McKenzie called and that I look forward to seeing him again soon.”

After a few moments, I refreshed my coffee mug and started wandering around again. It all made sense in that the pieces seemed to fit. Beyond that …

I called Harry. He wasn’t in his office at FBI headquarters in Brooklyn Center, so I tried his cell phone. His first question: “Why are you interrupting my lunch?”

“Explain diplomatic immunity to me.”

“Have you ever heard of the Internet? Invest in an online encyclopedia, why don’t you?”

“I need an official ruling.”

“Oh, please. Okay, um, diplomatic immunity—it’s an international law agreed upon during the Vienna Convention on Diplomatic Relations that ensures that diplomats are given safe passage across borders and are immune from prosecution under the host nation’s laws. It was enacted during the Cold War to keep rival countries from harassing each other’s representatives, accusing them of spying, that sort of thing.”

“Who gets it?”

“Official representatives of a sovereign nation and their families.”

“What if a foreign politician who is not representing his country—let’s say he’s on vacation. What if he comes to the United States and commits a crime that is totally unconnected to his diplomatic role?”