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 Konig, Chancellor,
Republic of Darcadia
“Very cute,” Gem said, looking over my shoulder.
“What do you mean?”
“Konig. 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 Konig, 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.
“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.
