Saturday, August 6^th

Phones began ringing early.

Kiettisuk Jetjirawak received calls from banks and investment managers on two Caribbean islands, one Pacific island, two Asian nations, London and Paris. The message was all the same. The message was electrifying. Terrifying.

All Kiettisuk’s accounts, even those under other names, had been emptied. Transferred electronically by burst transmissions.

Abdul Rahman received the same calls from one Caribbean island, one Pacific island, one Latin American nation, three Middle Eastern countries, and one investment firm in Paris. The message was the same. All accounts now reflected zero balances.

When the calling agents were asked, both men were told the funds were directed to a bank in Rome. When the accounts of Lin Winters, the Mad Dutchman, were included, more than $200 million had just been diverted to a bank controlled by Jonathan Rossi.

While Kiettisuk Jetjirawak had not seemed overly concerned when Abdul called with the news of the demise of the Barons of Lucifer, he was highly agitated when he called Abdul.

“We were foolish to delay moving against Rossi,” Kiettisuk admitted. “He has ruined us.”

“He has stolen many millions from us, Kiettisuk,” Abdul replied. “But he has not destroyed us. We still control lines of business that are highly profitable. We will recover the millions we have lost. But we must eliminate Rossi now. Immediately.”

“We trusted too much in allowing Rossi to administer the fiduciaria,” Kiettisuk said. “We don’t know enough about the process to reverse it.”

“Perhaps our administrator can be convinced to reverse his actions,” Abdul replied, “with the proper techniques of persuasion.”

“I’m told that Rossi enjoys martinis,” Kiettisuk said. “I’m also told that recent stress has led him to enjoy multiple martinis in the evening.”

“The perfect time to discuss the situation with him,” Abdul agreed with the implication. “But how do we get into his compound.”

“I can arrange that,” Kiettisuk said, with confidence.

“Then by all means, my friend, please do so. As soon as possible.”

Abdul thought Kiettisuk was more confident than he would have expected. That was something worth thinking about.

Darcey had turned off all the lights and drew the drapes on all windows. Still Trent wore dark glasses. It was barely enough.

Another of the symptoms about which they had been warned. Dilated pupils. Light, even dim light, was painful to him. Darcey hoped this symptom, as had the others, would be of short duration.

Fortunately, he was in no pain. He could see well enough with the dark glasses. When he took them off, he was blinded by the light.

He was lying on the couch when Miles came in.

“Well, good morning, sunshine,” Darcey said, trying to sound as cheerful as possible given the circumstances.

“Please, I’m up but not feeling like sunshine,” Miles said. “And speaking of sunshine, why is there none in this room? It’s as dark as night in here.”

“I guess you might as well know, Miles,” Darcey said, as she poured him a cup of coffee. “Trent is suffering a symptom of an illness he has contracted. There are several symptoms. Today his eyes are completely dilated. The least bit of light is blinding to him. Hence, even with no light in the room, the darkened glasses are a neccesity.”

“How awful!” Miles exclaimed. “What happened? How did he get this disease?”

Darcey told him the whole story. He shuddered when she described the nasty little bug. Trent himself broke the tension in the room when he exuberantly described the hallucinations, the belief that they were in the Witness Protection Program and his early morning visit to Fairbanks.

That gave them all permission to laugh. Laughter was medicinal for all of them.

“I would be happy to make you a big breakfast, Miles, but I don’t want to turn the lights on. Is there something I can get you that won’t require me to be able to see well?”

“I’m not very hungry. Maybe a piece of toast? Would that be OK?”

“I think I can handle that. I had planned to make calas, another wonderful New Orleans treat that Ivy taught me to make. One of Trent’s favorites. We’ll do it another day.”

Kiettisuk Jetjirawak called Rossi once again. He said he and Abdul Rahman would like to visit Rossi at his home on Sunday. Would eleven o’clock Sunday morning be convenient?

Rossi said of course he would be happy to see his two partners. He asked if the Mad Dutchman would be accompanying them. Kiettisuk said the Dutchman would not be available.

Rossi called again for Peter. He instructed him to send two men to Scott Douglas’ condo in the Marina district. Have them search the place for his laptop and for any financial records related to the fiduciaria. He wanted it done that night.

“What if Mr. Douglas is there, Don Rossi? What are your instructions?”

“Don’t worry about that. He won’t be there,” Rossi replied, not looking at Peter.

Peter left his boss’ office wondering. This seemed unusual. He knew they were holding Douglas’ boyfriend and her boss. Why would they need to burglarize Douglas’ home? With his boyfriend in danger surely he would do as Rossi directed. Something wasn’t right. He suspected Rossi hadn’t told him everything.

Peter was correct. Rossi hadn’t told Peter or anyone else about the rescue of the hostages the night before.

He certainly would not mention the death of Douglas. That was a tragedy that might bring down Rossi’s fiduciara, the tontine he had planned, and perhaps the Rossi Family itself.

He had to think. He had to come up with a plan. When he had a plan, of course he would share it with Peter. He relied on Peter completely and would trust him to carry out the plan.

Think, Rossi. Think. What would your father do? What would your grandfather do?

The usual cocktail hour at the Nob Hill condo was canceled this evening. There was no way they would let Miles have a drink given the medications he was taking. And they didn’t think it hospitable for them to indulge while denying him.

Darcey prepared a light dinner of grilled cheese sandwiches. Miles seemed to have recovered his appetite. He ate one whole sandwich and half of another.

“I think I’d like to go to our condo this evening, if it’s not too much trouble,” he requested.

“No trouble at all,” Darcey said. “I’ll be happy to drive you.”

“You can drive him, Darcey,” Trent piped up, “but I’ll be with you.”

“Do you feel up to it?” she asked.

“I feel fine. I just can’t see in bright light. As long as I have these dark glasses I can see just fine. And with all the lights off I don’t even need the glasses. If we run into trouble, this might be the best night for it,” he said, with some amusement.

“We’ll wait until full darkness falls before driving to the Marina.”

“And I want you to keep your commitment,” Trent said. “Bring your gym bag.”

The two men Peter sent also waited for darkness. The condo Scott and Miles had occupied was not in a secure building. It was a simple matter to slip the lock on the door leading into the condo.

They immediately spotted the desk at which Scott had worked from home. There was no computer of any type on it. They went through each drawer of the desk, looking through every file, every sheet of paper. Trying to find anything remotely connected to Don Rossi, any of his partners, or the fiduciaria.

They searched the house. Every room. Emptying drawers.

Nothing.

They took down every painting, every wall hanging looking for a hidden safe.

Nothing.

They slit all the cushions on the furniture, all the mattresses.

Nothing.

They were ready to give up and leave when they heard someone at the door. They quickly switched off the lights. It seemed a reasonable thing to do.

It was a mistake.

Darcey had seen the strip of light under the door. She was surprised since to her knowledge no one had been in the condo since they had brought Miles there to pick up some clothes for him.

Then the lights were switched off. She grabbed both Trent and Miles by their arms and quietly pulled them away from the door, whispering so that only the two of them could hear.

Inside Rossi’s burglars drew their handguns and found cover, one at the end of a large couch, the other behind a Queen Anne chair. He didn’t know it was a Queen Anne chair. He only knew he could hide behind it and it might stop a bullet.

Outside, Trent asked Miles if there was a way to switch off the lights in the hallway. Miles said there was a fuse box near the elevator.

Trent directed Miles to flip the switch in the fuse box to darken the entire floor. Then lie down on the floor in the hallway, away from the front door. He told him to stay there and make not a sound.

He told Darcey to prepare her M16. He wanted her to get on the floor. When he opened the door he wanted her to crawl into the room on her belly.

He said with the lights in the condo and the hallway out, whoever was inside couldn’t see him but he would be able to see them as though they were in a spotlight.

If they started shooting, Darcey should look for the flash of their gunshots and fire at those.

When Miles had extinguished the hallway lights, Trent removed the dark glasses and quietly opened the door. It was black as tar for everyone but Trent. He could see one man behind the Queen Anne chair; the other at the end of the couch. Both were armed only with handguns, not the submachine guns he had encountered at the Rossi compound.

“You, at the end of the couch. And you, behind the chair. Drop your guns and stand up.”

As soon as he spoke, he stepped forward and to his right. He had guessed right.

The burglars were taken by surprise. They could see no one. But the voice was real.

The man behind the couch fired at the direction he thought Trent’s voice had come from. But Trent had moved. All he did was give Darcey her target. She fired a three round burst from the M16. The powerful weapon smashed through the arm of the couch and made a mess of the burglar’s left femur. He wouldn’t be walking with that thigh wound for a while.

Trent didn’t have to wait for the man behind the chair to fire. He could see him clearly. One .50 caliber round punched through the chair, striking the would-be gunman’s left hand. His gun hand. He dropped the weapon and leaped to his feet, his hands up.

“Please, I give up,” he bawled. “Don’t shoot.”

“Me, too,” they heard from the end of the couch. “But I can’t stand up.”

“Kick your guns out into the middle of the floor,” Trent ordered. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

Putting the dark glasses on again, he told Miles to restore the lighting on the floor. Darcey turned on the lights inside the condo.

Miles was furious when he saw the condition of his home.

“What have you done to our home?” he shouted. “It’s ruined. You have destroyed it.”

The two men said nothing. Trent dragged the man Darcey had wounded in the thigh out into the middle of the room.

Darcey called 9-1-1 requesting two ambulances. She told the operator one burglar had a relatively minor injury. The second man’s wound was more severe. She said he would survive but needed immediate medical attention.

Trent called Christopher and quickly told him what had happened. He said it would be helpful if Christopher himself could get to the condo and make sure they didn’t get thrown in jail.

That’s exactly what the first two uniformed officers had in mind when they arrived. They arrived at the same time as the EMTs. While the medics tended to the wounded, the officers confronted Trent, Darcey, and Miles.

All the two uniforms knew was there were two men wounded by two citizens armed with illegal weapons. Trent and Darcey both produced the papers showing them to be consultants to the SFPD and the permits and waivers authorizing them to be in possession of the weapons. Miles showed them his identification and told them this was his home. He didn’t know why, he said, the two wounded men had ransacked the condo.

The two young officers weren’t sure enough of themselves to accept what seemed to them to be a very unusual situation.

They took the guns away from Trent and Darcey. Handcuffs were out and ready to be applied. Then one of the young officers looked suspiciously at Trent.

“Take off those shades,” he ordered.

“I can’t. I’ll be blinded if I take them off.”

“I said take off the shades,” the officer repeated.

At that point Darcey spoke up. “He’s suffering from an illness that has his eyes completely dilated. If you force him to remove the glasses he will not only be unable to see, he will be in pain.”

“That’s his problem, lady,” the officer said.

“No, officer, it’s your problem,” said a deep, rumbling voice from behind the group.

They turned to see Sergeant Christopher Booth.

“If you want a career with this police department, officer, with any police department for that matter, you’d better learn judgment. You’d better learn when to listen and when to speak.”

“You know these people, Sergeant?” a suddenly nervous young officer asked.

“I do. They are exactly who they say they are. Who those papers, signed by Chief Charles Marvin, which you ignored, say they are. They are assigned to me as part of a special operation about which you know nothing and should know nothing. Furthermore, unless you take this as a learning opportunity, you will never know anything about such things.”

The young officer quickly returned their weapons. He had the good sense, and the grace, to apologize for his behavior. He was also smart enough to find other tasks needing his attention.

“What is this all about, Trent?” Christopher asked.

“We were taken by surprise. We brought Miles over here to pick up a few things he needs and walked in on a burglary. We called on them to surrender and they opened fire.”

“Trent’s eyes are completely dilated, Christopher,” Darcey said.

She explained that, while the dilation caused Trent some discomfort through the day, it had proved an advantage in the confrontation with the burglars. When Miles put the floor in total darkness, Trent could see clearly. The bad guys were shooting in the blind.

“That’s not going to be permanent, is it?” Christopher asked.

“I sure hope not,” Trent answered. “All the symptoms so far have been very short lived. Hopefully this one will be also.”

More police officers, including a scattering of detectives were on the scene. Christopher said he would hang around for a while but they were free to go. He said they would need to make a statement but they could do that later.

Detective Harry Sherman recognized the burglars as Don Rossi’s men. He was anxious to report to Rossi.

As soon as he could get away for a few minutes, he went downstairs and stepped around the corner of the building. He thought he would have privacy there.

The phone rang four times before Rossi answered. His voice sounded slightly slurred. Sherman thought he had awakened him.

“This is Harry Sherman, Don Rossi,” the crooked cop said. He went on to report the disaster.

“Are the two men alive?” was Rossi’s only question.

“Yes, Sir,” Sherman answered. “One of them has only a minor wound. The other’s wound is more serious but not fatal.”

“Pity,” was Rossi’s only comment before ending the call.

Sherman was surprised at Rossi’s response. It was unnerving to know that the man had such little regard for his employees.

He was even more surprised when he turned to see Sergeant Booth standing behind him.

“Interesting conversation, Sherman,” Christopher said, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. “I’ll take that phone.”

“You have no right to confiscate my private property,” Sherman said, the shakiness of his voice invalidating his pretense of confidence.

“Give me the phone, Sherman,” Christopher repeated. “Don’t make me take it from you. It won’t be hard.”

Sherman handed the phone to the sergeant who was careful not to touch it except with the handkerchief.

“At eight o’clock Monday morning, you and I will meet with Captain Albright,” Christopher directed. “Be there. If you’re not, we’ll find you. You still might be able to save yourself. But if you try to run, you’re dead. If we don’t get you, Rossi will. Now get out of my sight.”

Christopher made Sherman leave first. There was no way he would turn his back on the cowardly crooked cop.

In the hills at Atherton, Rossi mixed a fourth cocktail.

Another disaster.

Another martini.