20. Caleph
20
CALEPH
A riadne has outdone herself.
I keep thinking I should have her on my payroll. I really need an Ariadne in my camp. If I had thought her original article about me was good enough to convince the masses, I had no idea just how good she is. She practically paints me as a saint, and I would kiss her silly if she were standing in front of me right now.
I made page two of her publication, which is still decent enough considering my politico friends were splashed all over page one. In big bold lettering, with a picture in the mainframe that would probably take out the Photograph of the Year Award.
The accompanying article about the botched arms deal was indeed explosive. It named names, pointed to inadequacies in policing, and exposed the underbelly of power, greed and corruption in government. There were five resignations in total as the Senate went into damage control, the shockwaves far-reaching as the story gained momentum. No one escaped exposure, the article acting as the gateway to further scrutiny.
Ariadne explained in painstaking detail how the government officials tasked with arming our military forces were on-selling arms to rogue military factions and terrorists at exploitative prices for financial gain. In a little blurb less than a paragraph long, she explained how I had reneged on my deal with them when I learnt of this and how they had gone on to taint my name to avoid paying the debt they owed. Short and sweet.
She moved on from any mention of my name to suggest they had connected with a new buyer, who was the source of the pictures as well as the tip-off. She basically rinsed me clean of any involvement, for which I would be eternally grateful to her.
But the proof was in the pudding. The submission of photos highlighting all five men accepting a cache of money from the Hondurans, where they handed over munitions they had purchased on behalf of the government. Supplying a known criminal enterprise. The proof was indisputable, the politicians’ faces clear as day. And no one would ever know that I had a hand in the trade that resulted in their imprints all over my cameras. Furthermore, no one would ever know that the crates were full of defective munitions, which would eventually result in the Hondurans screaming bloody murder at their suppliers. If the courts didn’t get those damn crooked politicians, the Hondurans most certainly would.
The news has been broadcast across every media outlet across the world, and the reporter who broke the story has become the media darling everyone wants in their stable. For some odd reason, I hear she’s chosen to stay where she is, in her current job, but with a substantial raise and the option to pick and choose what she wants to report on.
She’s only been gone five days, but already I feel a void in my chest as we sail on, heading out of US waters. We’re barely past the North Pacific Ocean when my phone rings and I see it’s Seven, who rarely calls me unless there’s something to report.
“I thought you might want to know,” he starts, without any fanfare. “Someone’s just put a bounty on Ariadne Moore’s head.”
* * *
“Fuck. Shit. Fuck!” I screech, punching my phone like it’s a living breathing thing and I can kill it. I’m too far away to make a difference, even if I leave now by chopper. I don’t want to make it back to Seattle to cradle her head as she lies gasping her last breath on a sidewalk somewhere. I have only one option and I take it.
I call Dante Accardi, who called yesterday to congratulate me on finding my footing again and getting the FBI off my back, so I know he’s in Seattle. I rattle off my problem in such a rush he screams through the phone at me to slow down and start over. I’m frantic as I tell him about Ariadne, and I don’t know why this is affecting me this way, but it could be the thought of her dying because of something she did for me. I can’t stomach the thought, and I can’t see past my emotions and retain a level head.
“Stay by your phone,” he tells me. “Don’t call me, I’ll call you.”
I hang up and sit down, holding the sides of my head like a madman. I sit this way for two minutes before I put my armor on.
I can’t afford to fall apart. I down a glass of whiskey and put my suit on, excluding the tie. I wear my Patek Philippe and slip into my loafers, then climb aboard the waiting chopper and head back towards the US mainland. We may have to make a few stops to refuel, and we may even have to change to a jet at some point, but I’m determined to get to Ariadne before any harm comes to her.
We’re forty minutes into the flight when Dante calls me.
“I have eyes on her,” he tells me. “She’s safe. Tell me what your plan is, and I’ll make it happen.”
* * *
We turn the chopper around and refuel on our way back to the yacht. I don’t bother to pack anything; my usual practice when I stay on one of my boats. Everything gets left behind, especially if I’m in a hurry to go somewhere. We’re close enough to Guatemala that we can make it by helicopter; I confirm with the pilot and tell him to make the necessary arrangements as I make a few calls to tie up loose ends before I’m in the air again.
Dante has done me a solid by extracting Ariadne and ensuring her safety, and I don’t know how I’ll ever repay him. But I don’t dwell on the matter too much as I go about conducting my business pre-flight. When the pilot indicates the all-clear, I climb aboard
and we lift into the air bound for a new destination. I know this whole situation isn’t ideal, but it’s snowballed past anything I could have imagined. On a high one day, cut down at the knees the next when I realized the source of my high could very well be the next person I bury.
I shake the thought away, look down at the fading lights of the Diabolique as it winks at me from a distance, and sigh as I sit back in my seat, wishing for this day to end.