It took Jonah a moment to recognize Charles Bettencourt. The CEO wore an obnoxious desert-chic outfit, white Egyptian-cotton dress shirt open two buttons down, and a pair of khaki dungarees with tan leather boots. It was as if everything he knew about the desert came from a glossy fashion editorial.
“Nice shirt,” said Jonah. “Louis Vuitton?”
“Hugo Boss,” said Bettencourt dismissively. “Nobody wears Vuitton anymore.”
“Hate to break it to you,” said Jonah. “But the real high-fashion out here is an oversize T-shirt from last years’ losing Superbowl team.”
Bettencourt chuckled, if for no other reason to assure Jonah that the insult landed without effect. The front tent flap rustled and another figure stepped out from behind Jonah, a smaller, glasses-wearing man in an expensive suit wholly inappropriate for the setting. The man — an accountant or a lawyer, maybe? — moved with the sort of nervous energy of someone clearly uncomfortable with military operations and prisoners. He walked around Jonah with a smartphone in hand, taking pictures of Jonah’s face from every angle.
“Somebody didn’t get the memo about the dress code,” said Jonah, nodding towards the lawyer’s expensive suit.
“He was born wearing it,” said the colonel, smirking.
“It’s definitely Jonah Blackwell,” said the lawyer, ignoring the jibes at his expense. “Computer says 94.7 % match.”
Jonah found himself wondering about the five-point-three percent discrepancy. He supposed there were any number of violent face-mashings that could have accounted for the mismatch.
“Jonah… Blackwell…” Bettencourt said, considering him. At first, Jonah registered a little surprise that the CEO knew his name. He supposed it would have been easy enough to pull his face from the security cameras around the Anconia docks and run it through any number of facial identification algorithms.
“Now what?” asked Jonah.
“Now what? Good place to start, because that would largely be up to you,” said Bettencourt, cocking his head. “Jonah — buddy — I don’t even know where to begin. The Somali rumor mill is spinning off its axis. Word is that the local pirates think you’re some kind of Navy Seal or some shit. I am genuinely fucking impressed. You come here on some half-assed salvage mission on a hijacked yacht. The next thing I know, my submarine is missing and the entire goddamn crew presumed dead. Fucking incredible. Just to keep matters interesting, you and your friends don’t just leave like anybody in their right mind would, you turn around and hit my closest allies in the region. From all accounts, you seriously fucked their shit up. Half of the locals have got it in their heads that you’re the guy that killed bin Laden, like you’re some kind of a one-man Rambo wrecking ball. They want your oversized nutsack on the end of a rusty machete, my friend.”
“We’re more of a wrecking crew,” explained Jonah with sarcastic earnestness.
“That you are indeed. So what’s next? You’re going to break your zip ties, knock out the guards, grab a couple of machine guns and take on my whole army?”
“Sure, but I’d settle for some granola bars and a thirty-minute head start,” suggested Jonah with a smirk. “At least it’d be sporting.”
“Bear with me,” said Bettencourt, ignoring Jonah’s sarcasm. “I’m making a larger point here. You know what made me such a good hedge fund manager back when I actually thought that was a challenge?”
“Cocaine and a lack of accountability?” asked Jonah, determined to needle the executive.
“No… emotional… attachment.” Bettencourt sounded out each word as if it were the gospel itself. Behind him, the lawyer nodded in sycophantic agreement as his boss resumed his ridiculous, self-serving speech.
“If you’re bleeding money,” continued Bettencourt. “You stop the bleeding. And you, my friend, are bleeding the fuck out of me. So here’s the deal. I want my goddamn submarine back. She was extraordinarily difficult to obtain. The general I bought it from was recently shot for treason, so I’m not likely to get another. How you and your crew of amateurs even know how to operate it is beyond me. Seriously, what do you even plan on doing with it once this is all over?”
“Good question,” mused Jonah. “Maybe offer deep sea tours of Anconia Island’s submerged ruins?”
“Don’t be passé,” said Bettencourt, an air of disappointment in his voice. “Revenge is an outdated concept. Former adversaries are often well-suited collaborators. I want you to think about how much chaos you’ve caused over the last couple weeks, and with zero support. What did you have at your disposal, some Middle Eastern doctor and his simpleton cousin? A Texas farm girl? Am I missing anybody?”
Bettencourt sighed and broke eye contact with Jonah for a moment while the captive remained silent.
“You’re a startup, Jonah Blackwell,” continued the CEO. “A startup with incredible potential. But you’re green and you’ve got no backing. Without a grounded partner, guys like you spin right out of orbit and never make anything of themselves. You know what we could do with you if I gave you a couple of hard-ass blood-and-guts mercs and some walking-around money? Jesus Christ, it’d be fucking beautiful. You could go on happily fucking shit up — and get paid to boot. Why are we even at odds? For Christ’s sake, I don’t even know what I did to offend you.”
You tried to kill me, thought Jonah. And goddamn near succeeded.
“He wants to eat a bullet,” interjected Westmoreland. “Look at him — he doesn’t want your fucking money.”
Ignoring his subordinate, Bettencourt continued his pitch. “Hell,” said the CEO, “I could use your help now. Believe me, this whole production isn’t for your benefit. You’ve been a short-term problem, sure, but I’ve got a long-term problem that is in serious, overdue need of some attention. You ever hear of the pirate Dalmar Abdi?”
Jonah shook his head.
“That’s probably a good thing. He’s a pain in my ass.”
“And he’s fucking dead,” added the colonel. “If he thinks he can park his operations outside of our tactical range, he is sorely fucking mistaken.”
“So what do you say?” said Bettencourt. “How about we bring this messiness to a close, gunslinger?”
“What about Klea?” blurted out Jonah. He kicked himself for the obvious question. Shit, if they weren’t looking for her before, they sure as hell would be now.
Bettencourt frowned, looking from Jonah to Westmoreland and then back to Jonah. He suddenly broke out in a massive smile.
“Oh shit,” said Bettencourt, laughing out loud. “You mean that MIT girl, the pirate hostage? This is too perfect! I should have seen it coming. You’ve been fucking each other. That is… that is just too good. I guess you had that whole white knight, damsel in distress thing going on. So what about her? First things first, let’s get her home to her parents. They’ve been begging me to find her for years.”
Jonah forced himself to impassively stare forward, refusing to flinch. “I can be persuaded to let bygones be bygones,” he lied. “And there’s no need for Klea or her family to know anything. Given the circumstances, she just might hold her dead fiancé and best friends against you.”
“Forgive me if I don’t immediately trust your intentions,” said Bettencourt with a thin smile. “So I’m going to need an act of good faith. I’m done dicking around — I want the Scorpion back. And you’re going to help me get it.”
“How?” asked Jonah.
“Let’s get you in touch with your… what did you call them? That’s right, your wrecking crew,” said Bettencourt. The CEO motioned for his lawyer to approach. The lawyer set a small bag on the folding desk and drew out a complex hand-held radio. It looked like one of the old-school brick cell phones, but with a long, looping antenna.