SS Glasgow Castle 21 Chapter Twenty One

I decided to walk until the fifteen minutes were up; it wasn't cold, and it was the first day in the post-vaccine era on which I felt well. And so I was sauntering down the sidewalk, taking in the scene, when I suddenly saw James.

James was prominently displayed in the display window of a store called Ace Office and Computer Supplies. His ponytail was gone, replaced by a Jesus-style parting and a beaded headband. He wore black leather jeans and a printed white T-s.h.i.+rt that advocated Saving Something or Other. As I watched, he knelt down right next to my former drafting table, gave its leg a loving rub with a duster, and affixed a big card to the board. It advertised my table as A STEAL! $1999. A steal was correct, I thought; as I pa.s.sed unnoticed just a few feet from James, I saw that his T-s.h.i.+rt pleaded to Save the Wolves. He obviously thought he was an endangered species.

That spoiled my walk, and I dived into the plastic sh.e.l.l of a public payphone to call Tad. He didn't answer. I left another long message, hammering in the need for immediate erasure of all Internet queries about James Avery and the "Swallow". Then I jumped aboard a streetcar and rode home.

I was greeted by Mr Natarajan. He was polis.h.i.+ng the frosted gla.s.s in the front door; he informed me someone had come looking for me, and that Mr. Kross had had a talk with the gentleman. I had no idea who that could be; it was unlikely to be Donna in disguise. Todd and Tad didn't have my address. Dad?

I loped up the stairs and went to my room. I checked for messages - there was one from Donna. She thanked me for returning the car keys, and expressed regret it was done in such a spooky manner.

Then I went to see Kross.

"There was a private d.i.c.k here looking for you," he informed me right away.

"A what!?"

"Private eye. Private investigator. What have you been up to?"

"How do you know he was a private investigator?"

"He showed me his license. Would've thrown him down the stairs otherwise. What the f.u.c.k have you been doing?"

"It must be Donna," I said with false conviction.

"Nope. He was sent by a guy called Bob Wagner. A businessman. Seems Bob's taken offense at the way you've handled things at your last meeting. Now, are you going to tell me what's all this about or should I get persuasive?"

I resented his tone.

"I resent your tone," I said. "All I did was collect some money I was owed. I didn't have five big ones U.S. sitting around." Kross relaxed, but then he frowned and asked:

"You didn't tell him what you needed the money for?"

"I didn't tell him anything," I said. "I just slapped him around a little."

He wasn't impressed.

"You want to be careful about slapping people around," he said. "This d.i.c.k of his wasn't a nice guy. He was a frightener."

"But you cross-examined him with effortless skill."

"Frighteners don't frighten me," Kross said. "Okay. Let's get back to business. Are you in or out?"

I allowed myself a pause. I looked him in the eye. Then I said:

"Show me the f.u.c.king money."

He did. His stake included a fat wad of American dollars and a couple of s.h.i.+ny gold coins he called napoleons. Bribes that featured a napoleon on top of a bunch of dollars were simply irresistible, he said.

Then Kross got very businesslike, and questioned me about the state of my own preparations. They were found lacking, and I was sent out to get my cash: Kross told me to convert a couple of thousand into traveler's checks. I was to report to him upon return.

I spent the remainder of the afternoon buying clothes, which included a pair of desert boots. It all felt very odd, and I emitted a silly little giggle when paying for the sunscreen, which alarmed the checkout girl.

I got home, packed a suitcase and a shoulder bag, and went to see Kross. He called our talk a briefing and sounded very military throughout, which made me nervous. We were flying via Paris to Abidjan; after a couple of days ('you'll be getting acclimatized while I set things up') I'd rent a car and embark on a short drive into Ghana, specifically to a spot on the coast near a town called Dixcove ('it's a popular tourist destination - you won't stick out at all').

He wouldn't tell me exactly how and where the treasure was hidden until later, but I gathered I'd have to park the car and go for a walk in the jungle. Kross a.s.sured me there would be a path, but being a well-read person I knew jungle paths were exactly the spots where hungry carnivores liked to congregate. It was a jungle predator's equivalent of sitting down in a restaurant, and waiting for the meal to come along.
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What alarmed me most was that Kross made the whole thing sound very easy - too easy. He'd come along with me to the border to make sure I got waved through on both sides: he was good at stuff like that. He told me that his persona non grata status in Ghana was due solely to a violent change of government. The current dictator was an air force lieutenant who kept a loaded submachine gun on his desk and disliked foreign advisors a.s.sociated with the previous government, which admittedly had been pretty rotten. However, no matter what government, in Africa corruption was a fact of life; it was only appropriate to include a gift along with a request. If the gift was the right size the request was granted, and five grand in American dollars equaled a couple of years' salary for a customs officer. I also learned that apparently we'd discussed the whole thing in great detail over the aguardiente, and that I'd asked such intelligent questions that Kross was convinced I was in full control. He admired my autopilot.

Prepped and supposedly rea.s.sured, I returned to my room to repack my suitcase. My new purchases looked unreal as I laid them out. Everything felt unreal. I didn't pack them - I still had time the next day; we were on an afternoon flight. Instead, I started worrying about the guy the Hercules owner had sent after me. Dealing with former real estate salesmen was one thing. Dealing with a professional frightener was another. I wasn't Kross. Frighteners frightened me. It was good I was going away for a while.

I woke up late the next day. I repacked my suitcase, including my black suit; hopefully I'd get a chance to wear it. I called Tad four times, and left two messages. I wondered what could have happened to him. Arrest for drunken disturbance? Girlfriend showing up and taking him to her place for intensive care? It was one of those minor mysteries of life that are solved when they've ceased to matter.

I hit the can next door four times during the final two hours before departure. When Kross told me he'd already called a cab, I remembered twenty little things I still had to do, and spent ten minutes rus.h.i.+ng around in a frenzy. And then Kross was knocking on my door, and I was struggling with my suitcase down the stairs and past a suspicious Mr Natarajan.

The weather had turned cold, and my breath smoked when I left the house. Natarajan had sprinkled fresh salt in front of the house and it crunched and crackled under my feet as I carried my suitcase to the cab, waiting with steam rising from its yellow bonnet.