Down The Hatch
“Do you recall the Straits of Hormuz?” asked William Blande.
James Haaven sat in darkness. His hands were bound behind him, his feet were taped to the legs of a chair and a sack draped over his head. It was thick and coarse and smelled like grease from engine parts or pipe fittings wrenched from a ship’s toilet. He was familiar with the sack, he used to have one just like it.
“It took a week for the mechanics to repair the engines on that freighter,” said Blande. “They drifted right up to the Iranian Navy’s shipyard. It took two more weeks to get it cleared to sail again. The mischief one can create with a single monkey wrench is astounding, really. Touché, Mr. Haaven. That cost us a hundred thousand in productivity losses alone.”
“That ship was filled with military ordnance bound for Hezbollah,” said Haaven. “Unloading in Iran could have saved you a stop.”
“We have a set schedule. You know that. First Haifa and the Israelis, then Hezbollah.”
“Arm all sides of every conflict. It’s your mantra. Your profit line. You probably have a crocodile for a pet, too.”
“The world needs crocodiles, Mr. Haaven. A few of them in the pond benefit all the gazelles like you. They eliminate the lightweights.”
“Yeah, well, you’re no crocodile. You’re a science experiment.” Inside the canvas sack, Haaven awaited a blow that never came.
“Whatever,” said Blande. “Speaking of science experiments. Remember the canyon road in Montana? You set our research back months when you tinkered with the brakes on one of our semis filled with components. Did you know that the driver narrowly avoided being eaten by a grizzly bear?”
“What stopped it, professional courtesy?”
“What exactly was your plan?” asked Blande. “Coming to Haiti with a bunch of children’s toys. You sure have Crevins wringing his hands, I’ll give you that much. He seems to think there’s some kind of link between all those trinkets and Sub-sea Dark Matter.”
“I just do what the Crusher tells me to do.”
“Right. How does the rhyme go? Ten little Injuns standin’ in a line, one toddled home and then there were nine? How many more men are on your list? You know, the list with your daughter’s killers on it? I can’t recall how many men were on that ship. Six? Seven?”
“One of your boys went down hard. In an alley in Bangkok. I never seemed to get the taste of it out of my mouth. I’m not like you. We took care of a few others. I lined ‘em up, the Crusher knocked ‘em down. We still have some work to do.” It was a permanent image in Haaven’s mind. His daughter Savannah drifted in sand on a beach in Thailand. “But I never hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it.”
“According to whom? You? Justice as determined by the victim’s family is always exaggerated. I see it every day in court. They surf a wave of despair and anger, disputing evidence and the facts because of their own pain. The truth always obvious to everyone except them.”
“You know what bugs me about lawyers, Wil?”
“OK, here we go. Fire away, Mr. Haaven.”
“The more sane the world gets, the hungrier the lawyers become. They have bills to pay. Partnerships, student loans, alimony. If they don’t stir up some sort of income they begin to chew at their enclosures like packs of rats. They mail stacks of fill-in-the-blank lawsuits to lists of people they’ve never heard of or sue police departments on behalf of convicted cop killers. In your case, they represent the Saudi oil barons in one department and in another they concoct some type of biofuel to put them out of business.”
“How do you know these things? I’ve always wondered where you get your information. Do tell.”
“I have access to your files. The Crusher sees to that. I spent a long time reading up on your little social club. In fact, if I wind up washed up on a beach your files will become public domain for any pimply-faced hacker to ravage.”
“I assure you that won’t be happening. For two very good reasons. One. Our team of Ukrainians located a small houseboat in the bay of Manaus, Brazil, loaded with all sorts of computer gear. Back-ups, hard drives among other things. We burned it, of course. But not before we copied it. It’s now collecting silt on the bottom of the river. Reason number two. We don’t intend on killing you.
“And if you think I care about those men who killed your daughter, you are mistaken. In fact you did us a favor. Loose ends with big mouths is what they were. You seamen are a dime a dozen. Like onions. If one is rotten, there’s always another one in the pantry.”
“It seems you and Obregón have a few trust issues you need to work out,” said Haaven. “From what I hear, your name is moving up fast on his list of liquidations. It won’t be long until you’re stuffed in a barrel in Juarez. What did you expect? A cartel boss with feelings? Loyalty? You’re more naive than I expected, Bland-o.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t care what you believe.”
“Our partnership has never been more profitable.”
“You gave Obregón the keys to the company store. You think he’ll stop now? He won’t stop until you and Crevins are kneeling in a ditch,” said Haaven.
“Impossible.”
“Impossible? How about your granddaughter? You think Obregón doesn’t know where she goes to school? If I can find her, surely he can. You really don’t get it, do you?”
Haaven heard footsteps. He braced for the blow, yet it didn’t come. A hand grasped the top of the sack and lifted.
Shit, thought Haaven. He blinked in the light. Across from him was a man. A man he’d heard about but never seen in person.
“That’s a nice story. Not very accurate. But entertaining at least,” said Mikki. He stood before Haaven. His sleeves rolled up to reveal the tapestry of hummingbirds and dragonflies, rows of corn and stone pyramids. His English was airy and smooth with the delicate accent of a Spanish teacher.
In between Haaven and Mikki was a clear bottle with two small glasses set on a wooden table. Inside the bottle was a reddish-brown concoction with wisps of pulp and shreds of bark and a cork in the top. Haaven scanned the room and smelled salt in the air. He knew where he was, on a NovaTerra platform above the Muertos Trench. William Bland stood in a corner with his arms folded across his chest. A light smile on his lips.
“You know what this is?” asked Mikki. “It’s Ayahuasca. The Christian missionaries and Catholic priests call it The Vine of Death but it is not lethal. Quite the opposite. The Urarina people of Peru know it as the Spirit Vine. You can see things you never believed could exist. It’ll reveal your dreams by tapping your nightmares and bring you to the door of the afterlife if you are brave. If you are not brave, well, I am sorry for you. What do you say we have a drink?”
“You suggest we sit around an empty storage room on an oil derrick and trip out together?”
“It’s not exactly an oil derrick, James. And it’s not exactly empty either.” Mikki reached into his breast pocket and extracted a small leather purse which he set on the table. “If you like I can put a synthetic version of the drug directly into your bloodstream. Your choice.” He took the bottle, removed the cork and filled the two glasses.
James Haaven had been to the brink of death several times before. It was not a place he enjoyed. However it had taught him a thing or two about composure. He glanced at Blande.
“You have nothing I want, Jimbo,” said Blande. “I just brought you here because I despise being anyone’s bitch.”
“Then down the hatch, I suppose.” The quickest way to the end of this journey is through it, thought Haaven. A knife appeared like a whisper in Mikki’s hand. It flashed open and he rose from his chair. Soon, Haaven heard a slit behind him and his hands were free.
“What happened to you, Mikki? Your daddy buy you a Ouija board for Christmas when you were a kid?” The fist materialized from thin air. It hammered Haaven in the eye and he reeled. It’s not like on TV. It’s a flash of light, the fruity scent of blood in your nose and the blank static in your brain. He looked down to see drops of red pattering into his lap. He lifted his hand. It floated above the table and clutched one of the glasses and brought it toward his lips.
“I had students like you in my English class,” said Haaven. “Rich kids with absent dads. Dads who didn’t pay attention. I feel sorry for you, I really do. Under different circumstances maybe we could have been friends.” He emptied the contents of the glass in his mouth. It was thick and woody and lumped up in his throat before going down. Haaven wiped his mouth and said, “I don’t hate you, man. Love is the law from here on out.” He snapped the glass on the table. “Your turn.”
“You think I’m evil but I am not,” said Mikki. “I am a warrior, just like you and after tonight we will be friends. Co-workers in fact. Consider me your NovaTerra representative. I handle all the difficult hires.”
Mikki took the remaining glass. He put it to his lips and drained it in a single swallow. He tapped the cork back on the bottle and glanced at Blande who knocked on the door. A young man in a white coat and latex gloves entered with a cast aluminum box. Haaven had seen this type of box many times before but this one was much smaller. The technician set the box on the table, then he and Blande stepped through the door and left.
“I want you to meet a friend of mine.” Mikki flipped a latch and unscrewed a circular lid on top of the box. “His name is Xozutl.”