Thursday, August 4^th

The magic hour. Time for Trent’s symptoms, if there were to be any, to appear.

He was standing silently in their bedroom when she awoke. The Desert Eagle was in his hand.

“Trent,” she said softly, “are you all right?”

He motioned for her to be quiet. He was listening to something.

At last he spoke in a whisper.

“There’s someone here,” he said. “A voice. It’s speaking to me.”

“What is it saying, Trent?”

“I can’t quite make it out.”

He moved down the hall to the living room. Darcey got out of bed and followed him, moving as quietly as she could. She didn’t want to startle him.

“Turn what on?” he heard him say. “You want the lights on?”

Darcey didn’t hear anyone else talking.

“I don’t have a lantern,” Trent said. “Might find a flashlight somewhere around here.”

Darcey still heard no one else speaking.

“I understand. We’re being careful,” she heard Trent say. “I know they might bring the fight to us. They’ve already tried that without success.”

Darcey eased into the living room. Trent was standing near the entry door, looking around, the Desert Eagle still in his hand.

“Where are you going?” he asked. “I’m going with you.”

Darcey watched as Trent opened the door and stepped into the hallway. She was alarmed. He was wandering around with a high-powered gun in his hand, listening to voices that no one else could hear

She followed him into the hall. He was standing still. Listening.

“This hall has bad exposure,” Darcey heard him say.

He was speaking loudly. Darcey was becoming more concerned. She feared he would awaken her neighbors.

“Get out of here!” Trent unexpectedly exclaimed, loudly.

Darcey’s worst fear was confirmed when Preston Johnson opened his door and stepped into the hall, his ever-present cane in hand.

“Darcey, is everything all right?” the old man asked. He was watching Trent closely.

“Oh, Preston, I’m so sorry if we woke you,” Darcey said. “No, everything’s not all right. Trent is hearing voices. I’m really worried about him.”

“Yes, I can see why you would be. And that’s a very large weapon in his hand.”

“I have a great phone,” Trent said, making no sense whatsoever. “Great coverage.”

He felt in the pockets of his pajama pants.

“Can’t seem to find it right now,” he said.

“Maybe this is an opportunity to help him, Darcey,” Preston suggested. “I don’t think he would hurt either one of us even if he’s not fully conscious. Perhaps we could offer to help him find his phone.”

Darcey nodded. She approached him slowly, quietly.

“Sweetheart, you left your phone in the bedroom,” she said, speaking softly. “Let me help you find it.”

The sound of her voice seemed to draw him out of whatever trance he was in. She reached out for the Desert Eagle. Meekly, he let her take it from his hand.

Preston stepped up at that point and took Trent by the arm.

“Let me help you, young man,” he offered.

Trent looked at him blankly but didn’t pull away. Together they led Trent back into the condo. Leaving the Desert Eagle with Preston, she guided Trent back to their bedroom.

Once he was safely in bed and had gone back to sleep, she joined Preston in the living room.

“I’m really sorry that we disturbed you so early in the morning, Preston,” she said.

“You didn’t disturb me,” he said. “I’m a very old man, Darcey. At my age sleeping through the night is a rare luxury. I was awake. But I’m concerned about Trent.

And with that, Darcey unloaded the stress they had been under since their return from Europe. The horrible insect that had transmitted a previously unknown spirochete to Trent; the numbness in his hands and feet; the hallucinations; the kidnapping; the violent, bloody rescue Trent, Christopher, and Nancy had accomplished just a few hours earlier.

“Hearing voices is one of the possible symptoms the doctors warned us about,” Darcey said.

“I had no idea what you were going through, Darcey,” Preston sympathized. “Remember you’re not alone. I’m just across the hall anytime you need me.”

“Thank you, Preston. You’re a dear friend. I might very well call on you.”

The old man rose and walked slowly to the door. When Darcey reached to open the door for him, he put his arms around her in a fatherly hug.

“I have come to think of you as a daughter, Darcey,” he said. “And I think very highly of your choice in a husband. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to either of you. Please know that. And please allow me to help in whatever way I can.”

“Thank you, Preston. Thank you so much.”

Back inside his own condo, Preston made a pot of coffee. He sat wrapped in a heavy robe to keep him warm in the chilled air on his terrace. Sipping his coffee. Watching the sun rise.

He was worried.

Christopher had directed his team to release Rossi’s men the day before once Kiettisuk Jetjirawat, Lin Winters, and Abdul Rahman were booked and out of sight. He had also ordered that Abdul Rahman be allowed freedom for all his prayers, including the one usually delivered at 5:30 a.m.

The three gang leaders were to be released simultaneously after Abdul completed his prayers.

It was the Thai who took the initiative.

Kiettisuk Jetjirawat was pleased on his return to his Little Saigon penthouse. There was a crew already replacing the damaged gate leading onto his property. At least some things were being done properly, he reflected.

His night in jail and the questioning was absurd. Yes, they had shut down one of his prostitution dens. Yes, they had released twenty fresh, young beauties. Yes, they had cost him money. But they could not connect him to the operation.

Had they harmed him? No, they had not.

He had other hotels scattered through the area where he kept girls he imported. And, yes, he could easily import more. And the amount of money this travesty had cost him was relatively trivial.

What, then, was the point? And what role did Jonathan Rossi play in the events of the past twenty-four hours? One of Rossi’s men was accompanying Lieutenant Mitchum. That man didn’t seem to be a prisoner. He seemed more like a collaborator.

He reached for his telephone.

The Mad Dutchman returned to his Richmond warehouse apartment in a foul mood. The same slut who had been in his bed when the cops broke in was still in his apartment. She was dressed now but he’d change that. Slap her around. Use her. That would put him in a better mood.

The bottle of red wine was still sitting on the table near his bed. He upended the bottle and drank deeply. It wasn’t enough.

He, too, was thinking about Rossi’s man who accompanied the cops when they raided him yesterday. That man didn’t seem to be a prisoner.

He opened the small wooden box resting on the table near the wine bottle. The bag of white powder wasn’t there.

“Where’s my stash?” he demanded. “You’d better not have done it all.”

“It’s right here, baby,” she whined, producing the bag from the pocket of her jeans. “You know I wouldn’t do that. I only did a line because I was so scared.”

The Dutchman spilled a little of the white powder onto a small mirror. Using a razor blade, he shaped it into two straight lines, each about two inches long. He used a rolled up hundred dollar bill that he kept close at hand for just this purpose.

He refused to freebase coke or do crack. He enjoyed the rush from the cocaine but had no intention of becoming a crackhead. And he didn’t want any crackheads around him. They weren’t reliable.

He snorted a line of coke into each of his nostrils. He closed his eyes to feel the drug take effect. Then another deep slug of wine.

“Get your clothes off,” he growled. “Time for you to pay for the coke you snorted.”

Then his phone rang.

Darcey drove them to the hospital to which Scott and Miles had been taken. They heard Miles before they saw him.

When they entered Scott’s room, they found Miles lying across Scott’s lifeless body. Sobbing.

The tending physician met them halfway.

“I take it you’re friends of Scott and Miles?” he said. When Darcey nodded, he continued. “I’m Doctor Bilko. I’m very sorry but Mr. Douglas has passed away. Only minutes before you arrived. He fought hard but his wounds were too great.”

“How is Miles?” Darcey asked.

“Physically he’s fine. His wounds were superficial. No broken bones. Bruises and minor contusions only,” the doctor answered. “Emotionally…well, he’s going to need every friend he has.”

“He has friends, Doctor,” Darcey said. “Good friends. We’ll take care of him.”

“I can write a prescription for something to help him with the stress…help him sleep. And for something to help with the depression I’m sure he will experience. But, frankly, I’m concerned about giving him a lot of pills. His emotional stability right now is…well…”

“We’ll take him home with us,” Trent volunteered. “We can monitor his medications.”

Kiettisuk Jetjirawat didn’t like talking to Lin Winters. Or the Mad Dutchman, as the man insisted on being called. At least his other three partners, vicious as they could be in business, were civilized in appearance and lifestyle. Winters was an animal.

“You got busted yesterday?” Winters responded when his partner described his experience of the day before. “I did, too. The cops came crashing in here before I was even out of bed. Shot one of my men. And for nothing. Questioned me about a couple of hits I had nothing to do with and released me this morning.”

“Yes,” Kiettisuk said, “much the same as my experience.”

He saw no need to let the biker know that one of his operations had also been raided and shut down.

“If you and I got rousted, I wonder if our other partners got hit, too,” Winters said.

Kiettisuk was pleased that Winters was the one to raise the issue.

“I don’t know about Abdul,” he replied in his buttery manner of speaking. “Interestingly enough, I saw one of Rossi’s men accompanying the police.”

“Yeah, so did I,” Winters said. “And it didn’t look like he was a prisoner.”

“I had the same impression.”

“I’m gonna call Rossi and ask him what’s going on,” Winters thundered.

“Perhaps it would be wiser,” Kiettisuk said, speaking calmly, “to speak with Abdul before we contact Don Rossi. I will call him now, if you have no objection.”

“That’s a good idea,” the Dutchman said, glad to avoid the chore. He would much rather spend the time with the now naked blonde waiting in his bed.

Abdul went straight to his shower when he arrived home. He would cleanse himself of the foul odors of the jail. While he was bathing, his chef would prepare his breakfast. In the Middle Eastern world breakfast was a favored meal.

He entered his dining room clean and fresh to find his table laden with freshly baked flat bread, salty white goat cheese, olives, both black and green, and labnah, that Middle Eastern favorite. Thick cream cheese drizzled with olive oil.

He was enjoying his meal, again secure within the serene walls of his home. The image of Rossi’s two men, sitting comfortably in the SUV as he was led by them, his hands cuffed behind his back, remained fresh in his mind. He intended to think about that later. After breakfast.

Then his phone rang.

Darcey gently led Miles to the guest room where he would stay until he had recovered from the shock of losing Scott. They had stopped by the home that Miles and Scott had shared so Miles could get some clothes and personal items.

Being in their home brought on another breakdown. Darcey held him for almost an hour as grief overflowed the banks of his emotional reservoir.

Trent occupied the time with finding a suitcase and beginning to pack things that Miles might need. The grieving man identified his closet. Trent began to pack, interrupted by the occasional, “No, not that.” Even in the darkest moment of his life Miles remained committed to fashion.

The unseen voices Trent had heard earlier that morning had not reappeared. He was, however, cautious. Each time he heard “No, not that,” he asked Miles to repeat it. He wanted to be certain a real person was directing his movements; not an unknown voice in his head.

In a guest room in the Nob Hill condo, Darcey helped Miles put things away. It was not yet noon. Darcey couldn’t remember the last time she saw Miles eat. But, he told her, he wasn’t hungry.

He wanted to take a hot bath, he told her. He felt so dirty. Then he would like to sleep but didn’t think he could.

“I can give you something to help you sleep, Miles,” she said. “The doctor prescribed it for you.”

When he had changed into the long, pink night shirt he favored for sleeping, Darcey brought him a glass of water and a pill. He swallowed the pill and was asleep within minutes. Darcey left the water at his bedside.

Abdul was not pleased when he received the call from his Thai partner. He was already concerned with the message from Iraq, received while he was being held incommunicado in a federal jail. The $10 million he had directed Rossi to transfer in a quick burst to a recipient in Iraq had not been received. Abdul had made the request almost a week ago. It was another thing he intended to consider after breakfast.

But now Kiettisuk was saying he was rousted by local police at the same time that Abdul was being humiliated by the FBI, paraded publicly in handcuffs. And, he was being told, their ruffian partner, the so-called Mad Dutchman, received the same treatment.

Was Rossi also taken in? Abdul wondered. Kiettisuk didn’t know the answer to that question but noted the presence of one of Rossi’s men accompanying the local police.

“Interesting,” Abdul said. “Two of Rossi’s men were with the FBI agents who came for me. Neither of them was cuffed.”

“Something is going on, Abdul,” Kiettisuk warned, unnecessarily. “Is our friend Rossi up to something? What would he gain by teaming up with American law enforcement?”

“Nothing I can think of,” Abdul replied, “unless it has more to do with keeping us occupied. I can think of no other reason.”

“Yes, there are several reasons why Rossi might want to divert our attention,” Kiettisuk carried on. “None of them bode well for us. I think perhaps one of us should call Rossi.”

“I have reason to speak with him on another matter,” Abdul said. “Would you trust me to make that call and raise this latest issue with him as well?”

“Certainly. You have proved yourself to be a trustworthy partner. Three of us seem to be targets of someone for reasons unknown. It’s important, therefore, that we trust each other. Whatever is happening, whoever is behind it, has the potential to crush us. We must not let that happen.”

Guy drove east in his cousin’s van. Filippo had gone to bed as soon as they got to his house. Guy found a bottle of Prosecco in the refrigerator. He switched through the tv channels until he found a movie about a man with amnesia who kept killing people he thought were criminals. Turned out they were innocent. Just people who came across his path. The man with amnesia was the criminal. Guy thought the movie was hilarious.

When he heard Filippo snoring, he went quietly into the bedroom, his personal defense weapon in hand. He put a pillow over Filippo’s face, wrapping the barrel in it to muffle the sound. He pulled the trigger. What was left of Filippo’s face didn’t appear human.

He took Filippo’s wallet and ransacked the house looking for money. He found a little over eight hundred dollars. He took that and Filippo’s credit cards. He also found his cousin’s ATM card and, amazingly, Filippo kept the PIN on a small piece of paper in his wallet. Filippo wasn’t too smart, Guy knew. He probably couldn’t remember the PIN.

He would stop at an ATM machine on the way out of town. Knowing Filippo, his cousin had probably saved every dime he ever made. He might have enough money in his account for Guy to live on for quite a while.

His plan now was to drive toward Sacramento. He would find a cheap motel. There he would stay until he could figure out his next move. He was afraid of what Don Rossi might do to him when he found out that Scott Douglas had been shot.

Rossi was having a ham sandwich at the table overlooking his garden. He couldn’t taste the food. Even the sight of his garden wasn’t particularly pleasing today. There had been nothing but one disaster after another for almost a week. He didn’t know how much more he could take.

His phone rang. The private phone to which only his three partners had access.

It was Abdul Rahman calling. As was their procedure, Rossi was quickly given another number to call. A burner phone. Hanging up his private line, he dialed the new number on his own throwaway phone. Burner to burner.

He was about to learn how much worse his life could become.

“Hello, Abdul,” he said, a syrupy greeting. “How nice to hear from you. I trust all is well.”

“No, Jonathan, all is definitely not well,” Abdul said. “By chance did you have a visit from any law enforcement agency yesterday?”

“No,” Rossi said, suspecting that this call would not go well. “I was visited by someone in the middle of the night recently who wiped out my entire security detail. Fortunately my family and I weren’t here at the time. But I have had no visits from any law enforcement agency. Why do you ask?”

“Merely because Kiettisuk, the Mad Dutchman, and I were all taken in handcuffs for questioning,” Abdul said, a thought beginning to nag at the back of his mind. “We were held overnight in stinking jail cells. And for no reason. They had no charges against any of us. Do you know anything about that, Jonathan?”

“No, nothing,” Rossi said, his hands beginning to shake. “Why would I know anything about that?”

“You were the only one of us not rousted by police,” Abdul said, speaking slowly, deliberately. “All three of your partners found it an interesting coincidence that each of us saw one of your men accompanying the police. In my case, two of your men were with the FBI.”

Rossi felt the blood drain from his head. He thought he might faint. So that’s what happened to the four men he had watching Douglas’ condo and Darcey’s office.

“I assure you, Abdul, I know nothing about that. I do know that four men I had keeping an eye on some people were picked up.”

“The men we saw weren’t in handcuffs. I should say they appeared more as collaborators than prisoners.”

Sweat was now rolling down Rossi’s face. How could this be happening?

“I have no idea what those men might have done. I assure you, Abdul, if the cops turned them I will make them pay. I promise you that. And I apologize for the inconvenience they might have caused you. How can I make this right?”

“We’ll talk about that, Jonathan,” Abdul said, a sly smile splitting his usually stern visage.

“As you wish, Abdul.”

“Now, Jonathan, tell me, what has happened to the $10 million of my funds that I directed be transferred via quick burst? I gave you that direction almost a week ago. I received word that the transaction has not been completed.”

Rossi closed his eyes. He had been praying Abdul wouldn’t ask about the transfer.

“I don’t know, Abdul,” he said, stammering more than he wanted. “I’ll look into it immediately. I will make it happen.”

“See that you do,” Abdul said as he ended the call.

Rossi stared at the phone. Abdul had hung up on him. He had never done that before. Never. Their relationship had always been cordial. It was necessary to have a strong, positive relationship in order for their fiduciaria to succeed.

The ancient system of hawala on which the fiduciaria was based depended on trust. Without hawala the fiduciaria would collapse. If that occurred before he chose the timing to exercise the tontine, all would be lost.

He went into his office and sat at his desk. He ran his hands yet again over his rifle. Someone had taken out four of his security guards. What if it was not Marshall? Could it have been one of his partners? But why?

He called for Peter, his most trusted man. He was born Pietro. He anglicized his name without hesitation when Jonathan suggested it. Peter showed his loyalty in many ways.

“How many men do we have patrolling the grounds, Peter?” Rossi asked.

“I had eight brought in after the invasion we suffered.”

“Double it,” Rossi ordered.

“Yes, Don Rossi.” Peter didn’t question his orders. He obeyed. When asked, he advised. Rossi wasn’t asking.

He made a mental note to keep his own weapon close, at least until whatever was going on had worked itself out. Peter favored a larger version of the Heckler & Koch submachine guns with which two of the ill-fated security men had been armed. With this weapon, Peter feared nothing.

Abdul was surprised when Rossi told him that an unknown assailant had taken out his security guards. That was something else to think about. Clearly someone was playing games. He had assumed it was Rossi. Perhaps more than one player had stepped onto the field.

Now it was time to talk to his other partners. Abdul called Kiettisuk Jetjirawat first.

“I think we have a problem,” the Middle Easterner reported to his Southeast Asian ally.

“Yes, there is no doubt about that. The questions are, ‘What, exactly, is the problem?’ and ‘What do we do about it?’”

“I think you and I should meet face to face with Winters. This is serious, Kiettisuk, and requires serious discussion and coordination.”

“May I offer to host the meeting?” Kiettisuk offered, diplomatically. “I know your hospitality to be unparalleled. However, our less cultured ally might bring with him companions and substances that would be offensive in your devout home.”

“Your offer is kind, and graciously accepted.”

Rossi used another burner to dial Scott Douglas. It was not Douglas who answered.

“I’m calling for Scott Douglas,” Rossi said. “Have I dialed a wrong number?”

“No, this is Scott Douglas’ number,” Christopher answered. “Unfortunately Mr. Douglas can’t come to the phone.”

“Please tell him this is an urgent call,” Rossi insisted.

“Scott Douglas is dead, Mr. Rossi,” Christopher said, correctly guessing who was calling. “He died trying to protect Miles Diaz-Douglas from your thugs.”

Rossi ended the call. Again he felt the blood rushing from his face, leaving him pale.

Douglas dead? The idiot Gaetano hadn’t mentioned that in his report of last night’s disaster.

Douglas was the key to Rossi’s money laundering operation. An attorney on Rossi’s payroll had enough knowledge of the system to continue it in partial operation temporarily. But he didn’t have the detailed records. Douglas kept that information himself. Without him the ability to continue the operation indefinitely was compromised.

With Douglas’ death his successor at the firm would order an audit. That was normal procedure. It was imperative that the right person was chosen to succeed Douglas. Rossi was certain he could arrange that.

But what of the records that Douglas must have kept hidden away? Of course Douglas would have kept them on his computer. That’s the way finance was done these days.

He had to get his hands on Douglas’ computer. He would have a lap top, Rossi guessed. A machine he could take home with him. He knew Douglas often worked from home.

He had to get a man into Douglas’ home to find that computer. He called for Peter again.

Kiettisuk Jetjirawat entered through the front door of the modest Thai restaurant not far from his penthouse apartment in Little Saigon. The Mad Dutchman and Abdul Rahman would enter through the rear door. He couldn’t care less if the Dutchman was offended. He did regret that Abdul should be subjected to such a rude requirement. It was necessary to avoid, to the extent possible, the wrong eyes seeing them together.

The private room arranged for them was more than adequate. It approached the elegant. He had selected the menu himself.

His partners would be served Pla Muek Yang, grilled squid in a tangy sauce with peanuts and cilantro; Som Tum, green papaya salad with dried shrimp, fish sauce, tamarind juice and chiles; and yellow beef curry with potatoes.

All were Thai specialties. He thought Abdul would enjoy them.

The Middle Easterner was the first to arrive. He slid noiselessly into the room. Kiettisuk rose as Abdul entered, pressing his hands together, fingers extended upward in the traditional wai greeting.

“Welcome,” he said, with a slight bow.

“As-Salam-u-Alaikum,” Abdul intoned, honoring Kiettisuk with the greeting usually reserved for fellow Muslims. “Peace be unto you.”

As the two men sat at the table, a pretty young Thai woman brought warm jasmine tea.

“This tea is excellent, Kiettisuk.”

“I am glad it pleases you, Abdul,” he replied, modestly. “I suspect our third party will find it less pleasing.”

With perfect timing they heard the distinctive roar of a motorcycle at the rear of the building. Seconds after the sound died the Mad Dutchman entered the room, dressed in jeans, leather boots, denim jacket with his gang colors over a black tee shirt. His long, unkempt hair and beard gave him the wild look of a man barely in control of himself.

“Good evening, Dutchman. Welcome,” Kiettisuk said. “May I offer you a cup of jasmine tea?”

“Tea?” Winters laughed. “No, I don’t want no tea. I’ll have a beer.”

“A Hoegaarden, please,” Kiettisuk said to the young waitress.

“Make it two,” Winters growled.

After serving the beer, the waitress set a bowl of steaming rice by each of the men. She quickly returned with large plates of the steamed squid, green papaya salad, and green curried beef.

Kiettisuk and Abdul helped themselves to all three dishes. Abdul complimented Kiettisuk on his choice of restaurants.

Winters pushed the squid and papaya aside.

“What’s this green stuff?” he asked, gruffly.

“It’s beef curry with potatoes,” Kiettisuk replied, controlling his irritation at the biker’s rudeness.

“Guess I’ll have some of that,” he said. “At least it’s American.”

As the meal came to an end, Abdul reported on his conversation with Rossi. Rossi, he said, had not been bothered by any law enforcement. He also, Abdul told his partners, denied any knowledge of his men collaborating with any of the agencies. Rossi said they had disappeared. He told Abdul he didn’t know what had happened to them until the Middle Easterner told him about seeing them with the cops.

Winters slammed his fist down on the table.

“I don’t believe it. Rossi’s up to something. He’s messing with us.”

“It gets worse,” Abdul said calmly.

“How could it get worse?” Winters demanded.

Kiettisuk just looked at Abdul.

“I am concerned that games are being played with our money,” Abdul responded. “A transfer I ordered almost a week ago has yet to be accomplished.”

“That’s it,” Winters said, rising and drawing his Sig Sauer handgun. “The time for talking is over. Let’s get him.”

“We should not act rashly,” Kiettisuk calmly suggested. “We can’t just shoot Rossi. He controls the fiduciaria. If we do away with him we would have difficulty accessing our funds. We must proceed cautiously. And we must have more information.”

Abdul looked at Kiettisuk thoughtfully.

“By any chance, my friend,” he asked, “do you have a contact within the Rossi Family?”

“One would be foolish to play a dangerous game without taking all precautions,” Kiettisuk replied with a small smile.

Miles slept through the afternoon. At 6:30 he walked unsteadily out of his bedroom.

Darcey and Trent were dining on spaghetti with meat sauce and garlic bread that she had made. Trent helped Miles into a chair at the table while Darcey prepared a plate for him. He took only a few bites before telling them he was going back to bed.

Later, Trent made gin and tonics for himself and Darcey. They sipped their cocktails in silence. Both feared Miles might not recover.