Dead and Gone - Andrew Vachss [126]
Then it got down to the money.
“Citizenships” 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.
As 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
We 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.
It 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