Dead and Gone - Andrew Vachss [127]
“Monday 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.
The 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.
So far, all quiet.
Monday night, 8:08 p.m. I punched the long string of numbers he’d given me into the cellular, giving myself a two-minute margin for the international connections to go through.
The Mole nodded to tell me the harmonizer was working perfectly. Gem knelt at my feet, her cheek against my thigh. Max was in another room of the clinic, watching the old man. The Prof and Clarence were outside, checking the grounds.
Showtime.
The phone was answered on the third ring. By a crisp-sounding young woman who spoke unaccented English. Aryan English.
“Chancellor of Darcadia’s office. How may I direct your call?”
“To Chancellor König himself, please. This is W. Allen Preston. I understand he is expecting my call.”
“Yes, sir. Please hold while I connect you.”
The connection took a lot longer than it would to push a button. No surprises yet.
“This is Chancellor König,” a voice said. Not one that I recognized. I brushed the dark fluttering wings of panic off my mind, staying focused. Would I really know his voice after all these years, anyway? And with the bridged-through connections …?
“Chancellor, this is Allen Preston, calling as agreed. I am honored to speak with you.”
“The honor is mine, I assure you,” he said. “So I trust you will forgive my bluntness, sir. Before we get to specifics, to the entire authentication process”—a window opened in my mind: Authentication. Lune’s own word. What if? I slammed that window shut, focusing hard on him saying, “… we would need to know the size of your contemplated … investment.”
“I am prepared to invest twenty-five million dollars,” I told him, my tone conveying that, while I respected such an amount, I wasn’t in awe of it.
“You do understand that, given the fledgling nature of Darcadia as an international entity, we cannot, at present, accept—”
“The investment would be liquid,” I cut him off, trying for an old man’s imperious timbre. A rich old man’s. “The twenty-five million would be in American dollars only as a point of reference. It could be delivered in any currency you select, via wire transfer.”
“Yes, I see we understand each other. And you would expect … what, precisely, for your investment?”
“The opportunity—no, the guarantee—to live as I choose, exactly as I choose, without fear of government intrusion. Any government’s.”
“Surely that sum of money could buy you those same—”
“Forgive an old man’s abruptness,” I cut him off again. “But all such options have been explored, thoroughly. And rejected on two grounds: First, I wish to be a participant in government, not a mere guest.