Dead and Gone (37 page)

“I apologize for what may seem an excessive need for secrecy,” I told the old man. “But this work is illegal on too many levels to describe.”

“You mean the FDA?” he asked, slyly.

I knew where he was going. I gave Michelle the high-sign and she ushered the Mole out of the room, chattering away about whether injected collagen really collapsed after only a few months. The old man’s sulfur eyes followed the whole thing. As soon as the room was empty, I moved my chair closer to him, lowered my voice:

“That’s not the problem,” I said. “Well, certainly, FDA approval would take, perhaps,
decades
in America. And that would be only if there was a drug company willing to spend the lobbying money. But doing it in Switzerland, or any country that allows revolutionary medical procedures, just wouldn’t work. In order for the procedure to be effective, we need to screen more than just the fetuses.”

“I don’t understand.”

I glanced over my shoulder, as if to assure myself that the Mole wasn’t within earshot. “Dr. Klexter is a brilliant scientist. But he’s a Jew.…”

The old man’s eyes reflected the truth of what Michelle had told us about him, but he didn’t say a word.

“And you know how those people are,” I continued. “Fantastic minds. But they’re not of our race. An intelligent man uses them, but never takes them fully into his confidence. The truth is, sir, that we’ve run the doctor’s calculations ourselves. And the
most
effective method is with
late
-term fetuses … if you follow what I’m saying.”

“I believe I do,” is all he said.

“And the early-aborted fetuses which theoretically
could
be available for scientific purposes are not screened as
you
would want, either.”

“As
I
would …?”

“What the doctor was describing—and, look, I don’t pretend to be a scientist, but our consortium has invested so much money in this that I’ve had to learn some things—is a permanent alteration of your blood. This isn’t some ‘injection’ that you get periodically, or some pill you take. It changes your chemistry, the way your blood works. That’s what he meant by a compound, not a mixture. The new blood, those little drops you get day by day until you’re done, will be indivisible. It will be
your
blood. Do you follow me, sir?”

“Yes. And I would only want Aryan—”

“Pure
Aryan,” I interrupted him. “And we are in a position to guarantee it. And from
very
late-term fetuses. Do we understand each other now?”

His face was calm—maybe the oxygen mask had that effect—but now his eyes were luciferous. “Perfectly,” he finally said.

T
he Excursion’s cavernous back area was filled with the old man’s special chair, his oxygen tanks, and his new private nurse, Gem. The back windows were deeply tinted. Randy drove, Max on the front seat next to him. The Prof and Clarence would pick them up somewhere out of town, and ride cover for them all the way, the Mole in the back seat of the BMW.

We figured it for approximately the same distance that the Manhattan-to-Key West run had been. Then we factored in some extra time to attend to the old man. He wouldn’t like staying in anonymous rattrap motels along the way; but he’d bought into the whole total-secrecy thing, so he’d go along quietly enough.

And if not, between Max and Gem, he’d
stay
quiet.

His yacht was already on the water, heading for the South Texas coast. “Just in case,” I had explained it to him. “Nobody wants any exposure here. If your boat’s on the water,
you’re
on the water, should there be any … interest in your whereabouts. We have people who can move the boat back out to sea while you’re at the clinic. And we’ll just keep it there until you’re ready to return.”

“My own crew is on permanent—”

“But they don’t need to know your business, do they, sir? Wouldn’t it be a better plan to simply tell them you’re having work done to the boat where it’s being taken, give them a month off, and have them stay no more than a few hours’ drive from where it’s tied up? No matter how long they’ve been with you … well, you know what the tabloids are paying for information today.”

“I do,” he said, grimly. “The bloodsucking Jews.”

M
ichelle and I flew ahead to Houston, where we picked up another rental and headed down to Galveston. The hand-over of the clinic went nice and smooth. The doc who owned it didn’t
want
to know anything—just when he could come back.

The Excursion pulled in about an hour before we expected it. But we’d timed it for three in the morning, so we unloaded the old man in darkness, as planned.

“Thanks, kid,” I told Randy. “We’ll take it from here.”

“Burke, you know I’d do—”

“You just did,” I said.

“No,” he said. “Let me finish, okay? I don’t know what you’re up to, and it’s none of my business, okay? But if you need to leave here
quick
, I’m your man, and you know it. Besides, who’s going to truck the old guy back to Key West? What’s it going to be, a week or two? Let me hang out with the Prof and Clarence, catch up on old times. Please?”

“My man’s hip, and he’s got the chips. I say, let him play,” the Prof ruled.

T
he old man had a good night’s sleep, thanks to one of the Mole’s potions.

And in the morning, we all went to work.

First we explained to the old man that we’d have to run a lot of tests. Sure, we had his complete medical records—he’d had a copy in his safe—but this wasn’t exactly a routine medical procedure. The clinic had all kinds of incoming communications. Bigscreen TV, radio that could pick up anything on the airwaves, a T-1 line to the Internet. But we only used cell phones, outgoing. We explained that the clinic was off the charts. And any land-line call could be traced. We wanted him to be able to do any business he needed to do, so he was free to use one of the cellulars, but if he had a fax or an e-mail or even a FedEx that needed to go out, he’d have to give it to us, and we’d see it was sent from another location.

He just nodded. Hard to tell if it was from understanding or the drugs.

T
he Mole showed me how the cellulars would patch through a microphone into the harmonizer. I’d learned my lesson from Max’s daughter, and I wasn’t going to have this whole thing die if the target had voice-recognition software.

The T-1 found it in a few seconds. Darcadia had its own website, very slick and professionally done. But the phone and fax numbers were offshore. And there wasn’t even so much as a PO box for a physical location.

On the surface, it looked not only legitimate, but … possible. Why
shouldn’t
an island in the Pacific form its own country? Darcadia was nothing but an intersection of coordinates on a map, the very tip of a long archipelago, several hundred miles from its nearest neighbor. And it was unoccupied, so there wouldn’t be any indigenous people to dislodge. It could be purchased outright from the country it was … theoretically … part of. And a sovereign government could make its own laws.

The language of the website’s prospectus was veiled, but so thinly that even a third-generation inbred could figure it out.
Strict
control of immigration.
Specific
citizenship requirements. Complete freedom of religion “within the obvious constraints.” No gun control. No taxes—all revenues to be generated from “pre-screened tourism.” Abortion was against the law in Darcadia, which had a no-extradition policy for “citizen warriors charged with acts of revolution against New World Order nations.” Restrictions on “acts of personal or intrafamilial conduct” would not be tolerated. And on and on.

It sounded as if everything was in place. Although it was called “the Republic of Darcadia,” the site said the new country was “a confederation, not a democracy.” It had a chancellor, and a Cabinet consisting of various “ministers,” all of whom were named. I didn’t recognize any of them, and their affiliations weren’t listed. But a few hours on the Internet connected some of them with the kind of groups I expected, covering the White Night spectrum. No pedophiles, though; they weren’t going
that
naked. Not yet.

Then it got down to the money.

“C
itizenships” were going for ten grand. For that, you got a passport, “business banking” privileges, and a whole list of “exemptions” while on sovereign Darcadia soil. You could visit your new homeland at will, since citizens, unlike tourists, would be exempt from visa requirements. A “homestead” would set you back a hundred thousand, which bought you a five-acre plot and the right to build on it “free of the sort of building codes and restrictions under which many have suffered in other jurisdictions.”

Voting was limited to owners of
developed
property, and various configurations were offered, including “self-contained” electrical and sewage systems, pending development of a country-wide grid. In something lifted right out of H. L. Hunt’s
Alpaca
, Darcadia would not hobble itself with a “one man, one vote” system. Votes were allocated on a “unit” basis, the units being reflections of property ownership.

The crown jewel was an “ambassadorship,” a fully loaded package which included—what else?—diplomatic immunity in the ambassador’s posted country. That package was a cool million.

A
s soon as the old man wanted a message sent out—to an online broker—we captured his e-mail, and I was ready to roll. Using the “investment information” button of their website, I clicked into a blank screen and typed:

I am considering an investment of a magnitude considerably beyond an ambassadorship, provided the benefits are commensurate. I have the resources to relocate immediately should your bona fides prove adequate. Please feel free to conduct whatever investigation of my standing in the various communities of concern to which you refer thematically. I await your response.

W. Allen Preston

W
e kept the old man in a twilight stupor while we waited on the answer. He seemed fine with it, almost blissed out. Maybe because that big TV had a VCR and DVD with about a thousand movies to choose from—anything from black-and-white gangster flicks from the thirties to porn foul enough to gross out Larry Flynt. Or maybe the Mole had recombinated some anti-anxiety drugs into a cocktail that would make a heroin high look mild.

I
t was four days before the old man’s e-mail popped open with the message I’d been waiting for.

Sir:

Because your proposal is intriguing on several grounds, not the least of which is the potential for you to contribute in ways well beyond financial to the growth and development of Darcadia, it was referred to my personal attention. However, as we are certain you will understand and support, certain precautions are necessary. Cyber-communication is immune to neither impostoring nor government surveillance. Please indicate your current whereabouts so that the negotiations toward a personal meeting may commence.

Garrison König, Chancellor,

Republic of Darcadia

“Very cute,” Gem said, looking over my shoulder.

“What do you mean?”

“König. Do you know what it means in German?”

“Nope.”

“King.”

“How fucking subtle,” I told her, already at work typing out my response.

To: Garrison König, Chancellor of Darcadia Current location is southeast coast of Texas. My yacht, whose name should be known to you if your research is adequate, is being modified for a protracted cruise. We will depart as soon as all is in readiness, and I will be at sea for approximately 4–6 weeks. However, the ship is fully equipped with all communication devices, and whatever method you choose to make contact can be accommodated.

W. Allen Preston

I held it for six hours, then let it fly. This time, he fired right back. He had a big fish on the line, and he didn’t want it running before the hook was set. Deep. His message got right to it:

Please call the number below. Monday, April 3 @ 20:10 CST. Principals *only*, both ends.

As soon as I saw that the number started with 011, I knew I’d be calling offshore. And probably from there to a relay. But that was okay—the freakish fisherman had hooked an orca.

“M
onday is three days from now. Are you not anxious?” Gem asked.

Max tapped her shoulder to get her attention, made a “Nothing you can do about it” gesture.

She nodded. “Flacco and Gordo are in Brownsville now. They can be here in a day’s drive.”

“That’s close enough. Let them stay where they are for now. I don’t know how this is going to play out. We’ve got the ship’s papers from the old man. I think all they’ll have to do is get the damn boat out into the Gulf and let it hang out there for a while, anyway.”

Max pointed at Gem. Then at me. Clasped his huge, horn-ridged hands together and brought them to his heart, and then turned his face into a question.

“Yes,” Gem said, nodding her head for emphasis. She’d already figured out Max could read lips. “He was asking if I am your wife,” she said to me.

“No, he wasn’t. He was just asking if we are in love,” I told her.

Max shook his head “No!” Then he pointed at Gem, and nodded “Yes.” Telling me she’d gotten his question right.

I made a “Why not ask me?” gesture.

“Michelle never asked me,” the Mole contributed.

I shut up.

T
he old man was holding up fine. Apparently watching porno flicks under the influence of the Mole’s mixtures was a new experience, even for a guy who had enough money to buy pieces of a whole country.

The Prof and Clarence kept a low profile. Their part was firepower, and it wouldn’t come into play unless we had visitors.