“Gutsy move, parking a stolen boat on my island.”
This is it, Jonah thought. His hand tensed around the hidden pistol, preparing to aim and fire. The colonel leaned in close, too close, giving Jonah an uncomfortably clear look at his blood-flecked face. Backspatter, the forensics experts called it. The signature blood spray found on an executioner, the blood found on a man who’d just shot someone at point-blank range. The colonel pressed a shot glass into Jonah’s hands, dripping tequila onto the floor.
“Let’s toast,” said the colonel, swaying slightly, “to death. The one thing that keeps us men.”
“To death,” said Jonah. Both men downed their shots without breaking eye contact.
“You must be Dr. Hassan Nassiri.”
Dr. Nassiri bowed ever so slightly and extended his hand to the CEO.
“A pleasure to be here, Mr. Bettencourt,” said Dr. Nassiri. “Thank you for agreeing to this appointment.”
“Please,” said Bettencourt dismissively. “Just call me Charles. And who is this lovely young woman?”
The CEO fixed his sight on Alexis, nearly burning a hole through her with his intense gaze.
“Alexis Anderson.” Alexis reached her hand out to take Bettencourt’s. He shook it with both hands, completely covering hers, staring directly and deeply into her eyes.
“I’m so happy to welcome you both to Anconia. I know you’re going to have a wonderful time during your stay here. I do hope it’s not too brief.”
“What you’ve accomplished here is… incredible,” said Alexis. “I had no idea it was of this scale.”
“Isn’t it?” said Bettencourt, moving back around to the other side of his desk. “I’d like to downplay Anconia Island, but I simply can’t. We’ve not only created the first truly new nation to grace the face of this earth in two centuries, we’ve created the very foundation it lays upon.”
“Quite an achievement,” said Dr. Nassiri with admiration.
“Indeed, indeed. I regret I can’t give you the full tour today. Our security forces had a bit of a skirmish earlier, and I’m afraid I have to deal with the aftermath.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” said Dr. Nassiri.
“Just part of life on the frontier,” said Charles, waving off the concern. “Can’t live out here without weathering an occasional pirate raid.” He turned his laser-like attention back to Alexis.
“But I prefer to concentrate on the positives of Anconia Island. For instance, we grow our own food in state-of-the art greenhouses and hydroponics gardens. What few fish we can’t farm in our oceanic pens, we can capture with our small fishing fleet. It’s a little hard to get a steak around here, but I can promise you the best marlin you’ve ever had.”
Alexis smiled and a faint blush rose to her cheeks. Dr. Nassiri found himself feeling a pang of — jealousy? He couldn’t quite place it, but knew he didn’t like Charles Bettencourt now, and liked him less with every word he spoke.
“Anconia Island is perched on fully functioning deep-sea platforms,” Bettencourt continued. “We have solar panels, of course, and wind turbines built into the superstructure and the rest of our energy needs — which are substantial — we extract from natural gas in the shale deposits on the continental shelf. Total self-reliance is our overriding philosophy, and we are determined to meet our goals. I admire determination in others as well… which brings us to our business.” He gestured toward the duffel bag. “Dr. Nassiri, what have you got for me?”
Dr. Nassiri took the duffel bag off his shoulder and placed it on Bettencourt’s desk. Unzipping it with a flourish, he reached inside and pulled out three massive blocks of euro banknotes and set them on the desk. “I trust this will be to your satisfaction,” he said.
“Start talking,” Bettencourt replied. “You have my undivided attention.”
“A small jet plane recently disappeared a few miles off the Somali coastline. My mother was aboard. I do not believe there were any survivors.” He could feel Alexis’s eyes on him as he spoke and felt that she intuitively understood his pain. “However, not long after the crash, the plane’s emergency transponder began communicating. Because of this, I have both the location of the sunken aircraft and a belief that my mother’s research, her life’s work, will have survived. She would have wanted me to recover it if at all possible; the last time we spoke she said she was close to an important discovery.”
“And her body?”
“I intend to recover it.”
“So how can I help?”
“Security. I have no intention of being captured and ransomed during this expedition.”
“Let’s start with the location,” said Bettencourt. He paused for a moment, then gestured to the money spread over his desk. “And I have to say this is an excellent start, a real show of good faith.”
Dr. Nassiri pulled his smartphone from his pocket, and pulled up a digital map showing the location of the transponder, and handed it over. “This is where we intend to dive.”
Bettencourt squinted at the map for a moment, and then placed the smartphone on the oak desk. The surface desk sprang to life, revealing that the oak pattern was just an illusion, an elaborate and convincing façade. The desk pulled the image off the smartphone — leaving a slightly uncomfortable Dr. Nassiri to wonder what other details the system had liberated from his mobile device — and displayed it on the desk, stretching the map from edge to edge. The tiny transponder signal silently blinked in the center of the display.
“Here’s the problem,” Bettencourt said. “Your signal is deep in the red zone.” He pressed the touch-sensitive screen, overlaying it with a second map, showing roughly the territory that Anconia Island controlled. “We have sea patrols,” he continued. “But the footprint is too big, and they’re not fast enough. They attract a lot of organized pirate attention, putting my men in danger of attack by overwhelming forces. The true power in this region is my helicopter fleet, but your transponder signal is out of their operational range. I can’t station a patrol with you.”
“I don’t believe you need to,” said Dr. Nassiri. “We have a fast ship and good radar.”
“So I hear,” Bettencourt said, with a knowing smile. “Even the fastest pirate skiffs can’t catch anything faster than about forty knots, and from what I understand, forty knots is just getting started for your ship.”
“Here is what I propose,” continued the doctor. “We will go into your ‘red zone’ unescorted. If we are approached, we turn tail and run towards Anconia. I want helicopters waiting for us once we’re within fuel range.”
“Deal,” said Bettencourt. He pointed to the blocks of cash. “What is this? A million euro? You may be a little short.”
“One and one-half million,” said Dr. Nassiri.
“That will buy you one trip into the red zone. My helicopters aren’t cheap.”
Dr. Nassiri pursed his lips in thought and then nodded. “Agreed.”
Bettencourt sighed, sat, and leaned back in his chair, looking from Dr. Nassiri to Alexis and back. “Are you sure you want to do this? There can’t be anything on that plane worth your lives.”
“I’m well aware of the risks,” said the doctor.
The CEO flicked off the desk display, returning it to the oak pattern. He pulled open a drawer and produced a small letter opener, cutting a long slit into one of the blocks of money. He pulled out a single crisp 500-euro note and snapped it between his fingers.
“Did you know you can fit €150,000 into a cigarette box? Amazing.” A wide smile formed crinkles around his eyes. “This note has been banned in Italy and the UK due to its favor with organized crime. And for good reason. A million American weighs forty-four pounds, but look at this! A million and a half Euros weigh practically nothing! More wealth than most men could earn in a lifetime, and you carried it in here in a single duffle bag.”