The Wrecking Crew

CHAPTER 7

Dr. Nassiri stepped off the Fool’s Errand and onto the concrete pier of Anconia Island. It certainly felt like land, without the nearly imperceptible sway felt even on the largest ships. From this angle it was difficult to appreciate the true proportions of the oceanic city. A triad of oil platforms rose from the sea like a cliffside, far above the lapping waves of the Indian Ocean. Anconia was an entire metropolis perched on top of the pillars, easily amounting to three massive city blocks. Looking up, he felt the same way he’d felt when arriving at Casablanca the first time, amazed — and maybe even a little proud — at the scale of human endeavor demonstrated.

He heard footsteps behind him as Alexis practically skipped down the gangplank to join him. “Jonah said he’d check in and do the docking paperwork,” she said. “Ready to see the city?”

“Of course,” said Dr. Nassiri. “Off to see the Wizard.”

Waving her forward, he followed her toward the main harbor elevator. He adjusted the strap of his duffel bag, trying to find a comfortable place on his shoulder, but there was no proper placement given the bulky contents.

With some difficulty, Dr. Nassiri had found another linen suit aboard the Fool’s Errand and resolved to keep this one in better repair than the previous.

Alexis had changed into her “civvies” as she called them, a charming term for a tight tank top and designer jeans. She’d also liberated a fashionable pair of Manalo Blanhnik heels from the megayacht’s master cabin, wearing them with total confidence, despite their impracticality.

Dr.Nassiri had made a half-hearted attempt to get Jonah and Youssef to accompany him to the city. Jonah simply grunted, a gesture Dr. Nassiri took as a no. Youssef did the same, his unabashed admiration for the American having metastasized to hero worship after realizing his belting to the face probably saved them all. This hero worship had more recently evolved into outright duplication, forcing Dr. Nassiri to grit his teeth as his cousin, unconsciously or not, aped the American’s verbal idiosyncrasies and obnoxious swagger.

Still, he was glad they had opted not to join him. This meant he’d have Alexis to himself. Since she was discovered onboard, he’d had several chances over the last four days to talk with her, but had shied away every time an opportunity arose. He didn’t want Jonah or Youssef around and was a little anxious, even if he didn’t want to admit it, about the small spark that lit up inside, a feeling he’d almost forgotten existed, whenever he saw her easy smile or heard her delightful Texan accent.

He’d carefully choreographed the minutia of their conversation in advance and yet now, as the elevator rose through the air on its programmed ascent from the dock level, he forced down a twinge of panic, realizing he had forgotten what he had planned to say. An awkward silence hung over them both. He glanced down at her and flashed a somewhat uncomfortable smile that he hoped didn’t look like a grimace.

“So what do you do?” asked Alexis. “For a job, I mean. Other than hijacking ships and kidnapping girls.”

She’d meant it to be funny, but Dr. Nassiri felt the need to defend himself.

“I didn’t mean to kidnap you. Or steal the ship. That was Mr. Blackwell’s—”

“I know,” she said with a genuine smile and a reassuring pat on the arm. “He calls you ‘Doc’—what type of doctor are you?”

He drew in a breath. “I’m a surgeon.”

“Like…?” asked Alexis, putting two cupped hands just away from her breasts.

“No, not at all,” he laughed. “Military surgeon. But I worked part-time in a private practice where I performed a number of cosmetic procedures.”

“But no tits.”

“None to date.”

The massive elevator jerked to a halt, far above the artificial jetty below. From here, the Fool’s Errand looked like little more than a model ship rocking gently in the waves.

Dr. Nassiri and Alexis stepped off the elevator and into the center of Anconia Island’s main courtyard. The experience was slightly uncanny, as if they’d emerged into the center of a modern-day California office park. Green grass and plants covered most of the area, surrounded by tall buildings and walking paths. A few white-collared workers milled about or sat on comfortable aluminum benches. It was, in a modern way, beautiful.

In the center of the complex rose a single main building, a massive glass structure fully ten stories higher than the next tallest. Dr. Nassiri didn’t need to ask anyone directions to know that was where he was headed. One could typically find the king in the highest tower.

“Wow,” was all Alexis could say as they entered the lobby.

Dr. Nassiri looked around for an information desk or security guard. But the art-deco styled lobby was empty. No guards, no metal detectors, no badge system or front desk sign-in.

“Guess they don’t need much security,” he said. It occurred to him that such exercises would have been totally superfluous. This wasn’t some regular city office building, but rather a mere appendage of a larger body, that of Anconia Island itself.

“Yeah,” Alexis said, looking around. “If they let you berth or land here, you’ve probably already been checked out.”

According to the placard above the elevator bank, only a single elevator at the far end of the lobby rose to the penthouse. Dr. Nassiri pressed the gold-plated button, and the brass-inlaid doors opened with a soft whoosh, beckoning them into the elevator. The doctor was briefly seized by an urge to take Alexis by the hand and lead her in. He snuck a glance and got the strong sense she may have appreciated such a bold move. But he kept his hands by his side.

The door slid shut. Inside, the elevator had no buttons, just cloudy glass walls lit from behind by some unseen source. An invisible panel in the wall flickered to life, revealing a previously-hidden video screen. Dr. Nassiri had the uncomfortable feeling there were also one or more hidden cameras trained on them.

An attractive red-headed woman in an elegant business suit appeared on the display, looking in Dr. Nassiri’s direction with a tight, professional smile.

“May we help you?” she asked. “It does not appear you have clearance to the selected level.”

“Dr. Nassiri to see Charles Bettencourt,” said the doctor. “By appointment.”

“Of course,” said the young woman. She turned away from the video display for the barest of moments, leaving Dr. Nassiri to wonder if he was in the right place after all.

Without a sound, the display flickered off, disappearing as if it’d never existed.

The elevator rose, then gained speed as if pulled upward on a silk thread. It didn’t stop at any floors, it wasn’t the type of elevator that served a building, it was the type that served a single man. The cloudy glass walls faded to invisible, going clear as the elevator appeared to burst free, soaring over the skyscrapers of Anconia. The effect was incredible as the machine climbed the last ten stories towards the penthouse, rising over the oceanic city, sunlight glittering on the steel and glass skyscrapers, glancing off the rippling waves far below.

Before he could finish appreciating the view, the elevator slowed to a smooth stop and doors behind him separated and opened. Dr. Nassiri and Alexis exited into an angled, glass-roofed penthouse, complete with a helicopter landing pad extending off the side of the structure. The far end of the room was dominated by a massive oak desk with a solitary, high-backed chair, turned to face away from them. Beside him, Alexis sucked in her breath with a quiet whistle. It was an art-deco cathedral, an information-age throne room for a god of modern capitalism.

Flanking the elevator stood a corridor of free-standing glass panels entombing ancient Japanese parchments. Swirling, colorful designs depicted dragons, samurai, Kraken, and beautiful geishas in some of the most intricate patterns Dr. Nassiri had ever seen. As Alexix gaped at the view, he bent closer to inspect one of the panels, staring in fascination as he realized the parchments were not paper.

They were human skin.

He stood abruptly and moved away before Alexis could turn her attention to the parchments and make the same discovery.

He recalled learning about this practice some years ago. Upon death, a poorly-favored or debt-ridden yakuza gangster might be flayed and tattooed, as their skin, in samples as small as postcards, were highly prized by darkspirited collectors. Bettencourt’s collection must have been years in the making — entire bodies, male and female alike, skinned and stretched out like human canvas, encompassing necks, back, buttocks, every tattooed inch of flesh. What these macabre artifacts said about their collector, he did not know. And did not want to find out.

The high-backed chair swiveled to face them, revealing Charles Bettencourt. He rose and walked around the desk to greet the pair, wearing a wide smile and no shoes. “Welcome to Anconia Island,” he said.

Jonah Blackwell stretched out on a deck chair of the Fool’s Errand, adjusting his position for optimal sun absorption. Beads of sweat wept from every pore, drawn out by the intense heat. He’d already gained a few pounds, filling in between his stringy muscles, giving him a fuller, healthier look. It wasn’t like he needed a tan. Prison 14 had many things in short supply, but sun wasn’t one of them. He just liked the feeling of freedom.

He took another bite of the bacon sandwich he’d prepared for himself. It’d been too long since he’d felt the satisfaction of a full stomach, but for some reason it also bothered him. It made him feel lethargic, dull-edged. The skills imperative in prison — observation, speed, brutality, paranoia — were all unnecessary here.

Buzz lay on the deck chair beside him, snoring loudly while wearing Louis Vuitton sunglasses appropriated from the master cabin. Jonah wondered if Youssef knew they were women’s. Or maybe they weren’t, Jonah wasn’t exactly up on the latest fashions.

Buzz yawned and stretched, slowly waking up from his midday nap. Over the last few days, he’d practically inhaled a case of Bollinger champagne and endless cigars, so much that he’d developed a budding alcohol-plumped belly. It wasn’t enough to be distracting, but it did look just a little out of place on the former soldier’s otherwise athletic frame.

Without missing a beat, the ex-soldier reached over to a small glass table next to the deck chair and retrieved a silver cigar case. He opened it, ripped off the end of a cigar with his fingernails, and tried to light it.

“Motherfucker,” he mumbled with irritation as the lighter sputtered twice before catching. Succeeding, he sucked in two big lungfuls of cigar smoke and coughed as he exhaled.

“Too bad we don’t have some em-jay,” he said to Jonah, waving the cigar theatrically. “Razor this shit open, get our smoke on for reals.”

“Buzz, that’s a $600 cigar,” said Jonah.

“Mother… fucker…” mused Buzz as he considered the expensive cigar with no small measure of respect. Jonah realized the Moroccan would probably still razor it, even if all he had on hand was a dime bag of skunk.

Before Jonah could respond, a loud crashing sound emanated from below decks. Both Jonah and Buzz froze cold, staring at each other, listening. It sounded like an entire rack of glass dishes had suddenly hit a tile floor, too loud to be an accident.

“You suppose Hassan and Alexis are back?” Buzz said, his voice low.

Jonah shook his head, picked up the pearl-handled 1911 pistol from the side table and secured it in the small of his back.

Unarmed, Buzz allowed Jonah to lead as both men carefully tread down the stairs towards the main galley. A massive man with a shaved head stood next to the bar, his back to the pair. Easily six foot six, his swollen shoulders, arms, and neck gave him the look of a man who could knock down buildings with his bare hands and pull apart rail cars with his teeth. A trail of dirty footprints marched across the expensive white carpet, and a customized Kevlar and ceramic plate vest had been tossed over the back of the nearest chair. The man’s muscles flexed underneath his sweat-soaked shirt as Jonah and Buzz approached from behind. He didn’t turn around.

The man stumbled from foot to foot, humming to himself, infusing the air with the distinct malodor of expensive booze as he casually mixed himself a White Russian from too much Swedish vodka and too-old milk.

Jonah took a closer look at the bullet-proof vest and realized he could make out colonel’s bars, completely out of place on a mercenary. The live grenades dangling from the vest seemed much more apropos, enough explosive power to sink the Fool’s Errand. Drawing the 1911 pistol from his waistband, Jonah kept it in his dominant hand and leaned against a wall, concealing the weapon from the uninvited guest.

“You lost?” asked Buzz.

The intruder hesitated for a moment, and then slowly turned to face Jonah and Buzz. Jesus, he looked like hell. And he was drunk.

“I am not lost,” he answered. With a broad, cruel smile and dirt, rust, a thousand scabbed-over cuts, and sweaty, unwashed clothing stained with blood, the colonel looked like he had just stepped off a battlefield. Maybe Anconia Island wasn’t libertarian Disneyland after all.

“Then what are you doing here?”

“A janitor tried to kick me out of a bar. Something about them not being open. I told him to mix me a drink anyway.” He brought the glass to his mouth and sucked down half the liquid in it, then held it up in a mock toast. “He was stubborn, though.”

The colonel’s hand was bloody and busted open along the knuckles. A chill shot down Jonah’s spine. Buzz flinched. “So I asked myself,” continued the colonel without waiting for any further prompting, “where would be… the best place… to get milk?”

Facing them, the colonel leaned back up against the wall. He held the White Russian in one hand and a H&K pistol in the other. Jonah kicked himself for not noticing it sooner.

“Buzz,” said Jonah, more to his companion than the stranger, and without ever taking his eyes off the colonel. “Fuck off.”

Buzz didn’t need to be told twice. The only one in the room without a weapon, he ducked his head and retreated back up the main staircase. Neither the mercenary or the former prisoner spoke until the footsteps faded.

“I don’t think your friend liked me,” said the colonel.

Jonah still couldn’t tell whether or not the he was trying to pick a fight. Safety off, his finger rested on the trigger. He didn’t want to put odds on it, but guessed he could probably outdraw a drunk.

“What do you want?” asked Jonah.

“Didn’t I tell you? I needed a proper drink.”

With that, the colonel slurped down the last of his White Russian with one gulp and tossed the empty glass on the floor. It bounced a couple of times on the carpet and rolled under a chair. The smell of bad milk again reached Jonah’s nostrils.

The colonel shrugged and pulled out another bottle, tequila this time, slapped two glasses on the bar and poured two overflowing shots. Holding his pistol with one hand and the shot glasses in the other, he stumbled towards Jonah.

“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.”

“I’m pleased we’ve reached an arrangement,” Dr. Nassiri said, anxious to escape Bettencourt’s company. The way he had looked at Alexis was bad enough, but the way he looked at the money was positively grotesque.

“I’ll have my assistant send you the contact information for my chief of security, Colonel Westmoreland,” said Bettencourt. “All arrangements will go through him.”

“Thank you,” said Dr. Nassiri.

“And how about you, my beautiful Alexis?” said Charles. “We have a fabulous seafood restaurant in the southeast corner of Anconia and they serve the best mussels I have ever tasted, plucked fresh from the sea every day. A little butter and they practically melt in your mouth. I’ve set aside a very particular bottle of 1973 Red Mountain for a special occasion… rich, balanced, not too fruity and with a very nice finish. Tell me, are you the kind of girl I can meet over business in the afternoon and take to dinner that very night?”

Dr. Nassiri and Alexis sat together on the edge of a raised concrete flowerbed in the center of the Anconia Island courtyard. They’d decided to share an Ethiopian fit-fit stew on flatbread, but neither could manage to do more than pick at it. Alexis was uncharacteristically silent and contented herself to halfheartedly watching people walk from building to building.

“You can stay here, you know,” said Dr. Nassiri. “In fact, I’d like you to stay here. I never planned on your presence, and I never intended to take you with us beyond Anconia.”

“Since you haven’t ransomed me and I haven’t escaped, I guess I’m stuck,” said Alexis with a tiny smile.

“I’m serious,” said Dr. Nassiri. “You should stay here, not leave with us.”

“Do you want me to stay here?”

“It’s selfish to ask you to come, it’s simply too dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” She rolled her eyes. “If I stay here, I’ll probably have to go to dinner with Charles Bettencourt.” His heart gave a little thud, and the urge to feel her fingers twined with his swept over him, but she kept going. “Besides, who will run the engines? If you don’t have someone constantly adjusting for power loss, cavitation—”

“But if the pirates—”

“If the pirates catch us,” Alexis interrupted. “We deserve to be caught. Nothing can outrun the Conqueror.” She let the name of the stolen yacht hang in the air.

“We should go back to the ship,” she said. “Big day tomorrow.”

“That money, the money I gave Bettencourt,”Dr. Nassiri said. “I need you to understand that was everything to me. Everything. My father died years ago, and I mortgaged my childhood home, I sold every stick of furniture, my car, my property, my business investments. It all went into that bag. There is no backup plan. The oceanic research work was my mother’s life and the only way to do honor to her is to finish it.”

“And Jonah? How does he figure into this master plan? What if something happens to him on the dive?”

“I found Jonah in a prison, the type of prison for men who are meant to die incarcerated. I’m giving him another chance at life, perhaps more of a chance than even I will have once this venture is completed. I have committed resources to allow him to begin his life again. But in the meantime he’s expendable. If he doesn’t know this, he has no one to blame but himself.”

“That’s not how we treat friends where I’m from,” said Alexis.

“Jonah Blackwell will never be my friend.”

Dr. Nassiri followed Alexis as she ascended the gangplank to the Fool’s Errand. He allowed himself one momentary glance at her once they were onboard, but she did not return the look, instead staring forward, expressionless. He didn’t understand why, but whatever he’d said about Jonah bothered her, so much so that she disappeared down the main staircase towards the engine room without so much as a goodbye.

Dr. Nassiri shook his head, more in frustration with himself than her. Despite her obvious anger, she hadn’t said anything to rescind her offer to accompany the Fool’s Errand on the final leg of the mission. Whatever tomorrow brought, apparently the Texan’s code of honor went very deep.

Passing by the bar, Dr. Nassiri noticed open, half-empty liquor bottles, dirty footprints on the carpet, and several dishes on the floor. He snuck a glance behind the bar, and it looked as if an entire row of bottles had been dropped onto the tile floor, leaving shattered glass everywhere.

“Animals,” he muttered to himself. The last thing he wanted was have to babysit two grown men, men upon whom he had to depend. With dread in his step, he headed for the back deck where, sure enough, he found Youssef and Jonah exactly where he’d left them, spent cigars surrounding their sleeping forms as they baked in the African sun. Right then and there, he decided he would have to have a very serious conversation with his uncle regarding Youssef’s future as soon as they got home. Something would have to change if his cousin was to ever make anything of himself.

Charles Bettencourt stood at the corner of his office, observing but not enjoying the most spectacular view in the city. He’d summoned his chief of security more than thirty minutes ago, and he still hadn’t shown himself or reported in. Charles hated being kept waiting. There was no good reason — or for that matter, way — to disappear in a nation measuring just a few city blocks.

The elevator doors chimed in the far end of the room, and he turned as the doors slid open and out stumbled a very drunk Colonel Westmoreland. To his supreme displeasure, Charles observed that the mercenary had not bothered to remove the live grenades from his vest.

“You ever run a business?” asked Charles, disgust lacing his voice. “Was there ever a little bald-headed Colonel Westmoreland running the world’s angriest lemonade stand in suburban Topeka, or wherever the fuck you’re from?”

“I did lawns,” answered the colonel, returning the smirk.

“What?”

“Lawns,” said Westmoreland. “I mowed lawns. Pulled weeds.”

“And if some other kid came sniffing around your customers?”

“I’d beat the shit out of him.”

“Doctor Hassan Nassiri is sniffing around my business, and he doesn’t even have the respect to do it in a ship that belongs to him. If I’d been able to reach the owner of the Conquerer I’d have given him an opportunity to buy his yacht back and deal with the hijackers personally. As it is—”

“What do you want me to do?” asked the colonel.

“Kill them,” Charles said. “Preferably before the Conglomerate catches wind. If the Conglomerate thinks Anconia is compromised, they’re going to start dropping bodies.”

“How do you want it done?”

“They’re about to leave Anconia Island in an attempt to retrieve the data from Professor Fatima Nassiri’s aircraft. Put the ship and crew on the bottom. Make it look like pirates.”