Of all John Darsie’s many eccentricities, perhaps the most outstanding was that he required only an hour or two—four at most—of sleep. His life was in constant motion—trains, cars, and planes (when he had to). Like a shark, he was ever coursing along, always alert, always hungry.
His morning began at 3:30 a.m. sharp. It was his practice to wake up and meditate for thirty minutes. This routine he never broke, not for any reason. Perhaps the most dramatic example of his dedication to his practice was when an employee tried (and failed) to reach him during meditation.
“Mr. Darsie, sir, I need a decision … or we’re going to lose a billion dollars,” the nervous assistant called through the door of the hotel suite to his cross-legged boss. Darsie knew what the assistant wanted. He could have taken a two-minute break to give him the information needed, but that would have violated one of his core beliefs—never break your own rules, at any cost.
Following meditation, there was his two-hour workout. Depending on where he was, he would swim, run in water, lift weights, power lift, ending with thirty minutes of cardio (usually jujitsu) for which he had a traveling personal trainer. After a massage and a shower, there was thirty minutes of speed chess, which alternated between in-person and virtual competitions. When possible, the flesh-and-blood opponents were flown in from around the world. On some occasions, Darsie liked to play multiple people at once, and like his meditation, he considered the activity sacred. It was a means of strategic training, but for Darsie, who’d found the sport a sanctuary during a lonely adolescence, it was somewhere in the realm of a holy practice.
With his spiritual, physical, and mental exercises out of the way, exactly three hours later, Darsie’s real day began. Although he’d given almost forty-five minutes to Wyatt, his staff knew that he allocated no more than fifteen minutes for any meeting, unless critically important, and so business associates were ushered in and out accordingly. His evening activities alternated between his two relentless passions: learning and productivity.
But on this particular day, at 7:15 a.m., Darsie was in Paris, in the Louvre. He was, in fact, the only person inside the museum, as it did not open for almost two hours, but through his various contacts, he’d been granted special admittance. So there he was, behind the thick velvet ropes, when his phone rang, shattering the silence.
Darsie’s habit was to avoid physical and verbal interaction when possible, particularly when he did not know the outcome, so he silenced the phone and slipped it back into his pocket. He could not be certain, but he had a feeling in his gut: Wyatt had blown the horn.
Darsie wandered through the exhibits, thinking, when the phone buzzed again. This time, a text: As usual, you’ve gotten what you want. Hope you know what you’re doing with these 2 young lives. One of them happens to be like a brother to me. Be careful.—Avi
Darsie again pocketed the phone and stared into the muddy eyes and smirking face of the Mona Lisa. He wandered from room to room, his polished shoes echoing down the great corridors, stopping only when he reached the Winged Victory. It had always been one of his favorites—the cold, headless marble with wings outstretched like a crucifix. He took out his phone and snapped a picture of it. Maybe it was the beauty of the statue, or maybe it was that he always thought four moves ahead, but in uncharacteristic Darsie fashion, he dialed up an old friend.
The number he called from was untraceable, but as he predicted, the call was answered on the first ring.
“Eldon,” Darsie said cheerily. “It’s been a while.”
“Who is this?” Eldon’s voice was angry and frantic.
“What? Don’t recognize your former camp buddy?”
Eldon paused. “John?”
“Bingo. Look, I won’t ask how you’re doing. No need to waste time with pleasantries when I know things are not going well. Here’s what you need to know: I’m on the way to meet your son.”
“You son of a bitch—”
“Ah ah, Eldon,” Darsie interrupted. “Thought you were above the name calling.”
“What the hell do you want with him?”
“He’s going to help with a little mission I’m running. A crucial one.”
“I bet. How many billions are at stake this time?”
“Actually, this doesn’t involve money. This call was an olive branch. I have your son, and I need this to go right. Can’t have Valor meddling and messing this up, so I need you to promise you’ll steer clear. I’ll take care of Wyatt and his little buddy. I’ll keep you in the loop, but…” Darsie’s tone shifted. “I can’t make that promise if you get in the way.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Chill out.” Darsie could almost feel the heat coming through the phone. “I’m telling you the truth. Stay back, and I’ll owe you one … agreed?”
“If Wyatt gets hurt in any of this.”
“He won’t. So long as you steer clear. And listen, if strange things happen back in Charlottesville, cover for me?”
“Don’t see how you’ve left me much choice.”
Darsie ended the call and immediately dialed up his secretary as he strode toward the exit. “I’m leaving for the airport now. Change the route. I’m going to Charlottesville … Yes,” he said after a pause. “Virginia by 8 p.m. And I’ll need four men and a couple syringes loaded with phenobarbital.”