Daniel Guzman preferred London to Rio. Cleaner, for one thing. More cosmopolitan, for another. And without question, safer. His mother’s relatively high profile back home had always made him and his older brother Paulo potential targets for kidnappers and terrorists. In London, he was simply another wealthy playboy. True, the city suffered from a dearth of nearby beaches, and the weather was often atrocious. He could always fly to the Mediterranean.
He hadn’t expected to end up in the UK. During college, Daniel spent every weekend partying and surfing in the Hamptons. In the winter, he headed to Miami or Cuba on his Brazilian passport. After graduation, he moved to Manhattan. He naturally attracted people of means who assumed he was one of them. He had some capital but not nearly enough to support his desired lifestyle. Luisa kept him on a relatively tight leash where finances were concerned. He hated that, hated not being able to spend what he wanted when he wanted. He liked money, not only for the things it could purchase but also because it facilitated access and influence. Like his father, Daniel had a taste for power. Unlike Kemp, he lacked discipline.
He hoped to accrue wealth without laboring too hard. Residential real estate promised quick returns. He worked for his mother, then his friend, showing modestly priced apartments and earning an even more modest commission. Daniel had a talent for client relations. The friend urged him to obtain a broker’s license. This he did, to the delight of his parents. Now he would rule the market. With apartments and town homes selling for as much as forty million dollars, he expected to make enough to support his lifestyle.
Regrettably, the supply of high-end residences was in inverse proportion to the number of predatory agents. Daniel found himself up against aggressive men and women who knew everything about stepping on or over rivals in pursuit of the Big Commission. His three languages, his natural magnetism, even his mother’s connections weren’t enough to ensure his success. He moved from agency to agency, hoping to get the one big sale that would create a nest egg he could invest. His goal was to flip properties for profit. Yet the opportunities never materialized or were snatched away as soon as they appeared.
His thirtieth birthday came and went. He worried his allowance might be curtailed. His mother indicated she planned to slow down, perhaps even retire. She remained a stunning woman in late middle age and a force in her profession. She’d succeeded in building a business while raising two sons. She was independently wealthy. Now she wanted to go off and paint somewhere. Worse, she had no intention of turning over the reins of her company to him.
“You are charming, meu amorzinho, and the clients love you. But you have no head for business. Besides, why would you return to Rio when you’re having so much fun in New York?”
Kemp was likewise disinclined to dole out money to his youngest, although he offered him a job. “You can prove yourself as your brother Paulo has done.”
Paulo, always Paulo. The golden boy, the apple of his parents’ eye, the success story. Where did that leave him? Daniel loved his brother, but he hated him as well for setting an impossibly high bar. Paul was everything the younger man was not: smart, responsible, hardworking. A bit dull, as far as Daniel was concerned. The elder brother had even forgiven Kemp his absences as the boys were growing up. Family, however imperfect, meant a great deal to Paulo. Saint Paul, Daniel nicknamed his brother, who lacked only a halo.
Daniel viewed his life through a filter of disappointment. He resented growing up without a father. He hated that no one came to his soccer games except Paulo, when he wasn’t parrying and thrusting or whatever he did with those swords of his. On occasion, the younger son even begrudged his hardworking mother. His father’s controlled largesse toward his illegitimate sons didn’t impress him, and it didn’t keep him from suffering the covert looks and overt insults that came his way. Paulo didn’t seem to notice or care that kids at school whispered about them.
Daniel, on the other hand, got into more than one fight over being called a desgraçado, a bastard. He once received a suspension that caused his mother to interrupt a meeting so she could pick him up at school. He refused to tell her why he’d fought. She yelled at him, reminding him what a disappointment he’d proven to be.
He was a bastard; that fact could not be denied. At least he admitted it. He decided to become a very wealthy bastard. True, he had limited access to his parents’ money, but he wanted his own. No one teases a rich man. He already had a reputation as a clever and attractive boy. He could use that. He would use that. If his approach disappointed Kemp or Luisa, he would turn his back on them as they did on him.
Then his father and brother died in a mysterious explosion. Or so his preternaturally calm mother called to report.
Luisa flew to London immediately following the accident. There was no one to bury, yet she insisted on attending the memorial service. It must have been hard, although she never let on. Daniel offered to fly over, but she ordered him to wait in New York. He fretted about being kept away, but what could he do? He did as he was told.
Finally, she summoned him. He arrived to find her distracted and preoccupied. He assumed it was grief or shock, along with the need to oversee a slew of decisions both personal and professional. He knew little about his father’s business dealings but guessed provisions had been put in place in the event of the old man’s death. Perhaps the company would be sold, which meant a payout could be forthcoming. Daniel expected to receive a portion of any profits. That would go a long way to mitigating the pain of losing his brother.
The trip to London produced one big surprise. His father survived, severely injured but likely to recover. That fact could never be made public, because the “accident” had been an act of sabotage. Luisa alluded to a former employee, a woman, who wanted his father dead. She wouldn’t elaborate further.
What she did share with Daniel was pertinent information about Kemp’s activities over the years. He’d been far more than a prosperous entrepreneur. He’d been a master criminal, one involved in certain operations that made him enemies. This necessitated that they maintain the fiction of his death. Luisa assured her son that most people respected his father. Daniel got the impression most people also feared him.
The younger son went through the motions of helping his mother sort out the arrangements. Most of the time, he served as little more than a shoulder for her to lean on. Even after pulling back the curtain on Kemp’s activities, she kept certain details to herself. She spent much of her time with Arkady Dyukov, going over what Daniel felt certain were plans for the future.
Daniel understood that his parents trusted Dyukov. He didn’t like the man; he considered his father’s lieutenant ill-bred. Moreover, if anyone should be making decisions during Victor’s convalescence, Daniel felt it should be him. After all, he was the heir.
He decided not to voice his objections. Neither his mother nor his father realized that he already knew quite a bit about Kemp’s operation and had for years. Paulo had confided in his little brother.
He visited his father as much as he could stand. The sight of the man’s face made him physically ill, as did the maimed right hand. It was like something out of a horror movie. It wouldn’t do to be weak, however. As the days passed, he began to appreciate the depth of his father’s resolve. Kemp had lost some business advantage. Yet he seemed willing to work clandestinely, if that’s what it took for him to regain a level of influence. Although Daniel wasn’t yet privy to his father’s new plans, he guessed Victor Kemp wanted to regain a degree of leverage, if not power.
As he became familiar with London, Daniel decided he was in the right place at the right time. Here, as elsewhere, money bought anything and overcame nearly everything, including barely suppressed xenophobia and racism. Unlike Rio, London’s poverty was tucked out of sight. Crime against the wealthy wasn’t an issue. Foreign investors with full wallets were welcome in every quarter. Cranes clotted the streets. Luxury apartments sprouted like weeds along commercial streets or loomed at the edges of venerated historic districts. Most of the new dwellings served as investments for those wealthy enough to make London their part-time playground.
Daniel aimed to ingratiate himself into this set. The influx of cash meant new restaurants, new clubs, and more social events than he could cram into his calendar. He relied on old friends, new acquaintances, and intuition to get him where he needed to be. He preferred “by invitation only” gatherings. Private parties made for excellent hunting. Daniel fancied himself something of a hunter. His quarry usually involved underage girls.
While Kemp recuperated and Luisa attended him, Daniel watched them both. His mother carried on, but she remained visibly shaken by Paulo’s death. As for his father, he would not discuss the incident. He stowed his grief away along with his anger. Daniel understood; he had a lifetime of practice at cataloguing but also covering over the offenses against him.
He couldn’t understand why the old man didn’t retire. He asked his mother.
“Why does he stay here? Why does he want to keep working? He could go anywhere in the world to heal. South Africa, New Zealand, even Brazil. Why not buy a small island in the Caribbean? He has enough money, doesn’t he?” Daniel reminded himself not to sound too anxious.
“It’s not about the money, Daniel. Your father has unfinished business. Besides, he likes to work. You could learn something from him.”
Daniel nodded and smiled. Her attitude infuriated him. He didn’t appreciate being shut out of the family business. Nor did he feel he deserved a lecture on the virtues of industriousness. He felt himself to be resourceful enough.
Unbeknownst to Daniel, Luisa had spoken to Kemp about putting their son to work. “Something aboveboard,” she implored Kemp. “I’m worried enough about what Daniel does with his time, the people with whom he associates.”
Kemp agreed. “He can work as a docker. Physical labor will toughen him. He’ll stay in London; I can keep an eye on him. We’ll get him a visa and a temporary union card. Arkady can make that happen. If he proves himself, I’ll consider bringing him into the business.”
“Manual labor.” Luisa feigned mock horror. “He will find it unlike anything he’s ever done.” She managed a tentative smile. Kemp felt his own pain recede.
“Mi querida.” He reached with his good hand to lightly touch her face.
~
Daniel expected London winters to be dreary, enlivened only by the holiday social season. He anticipated heading somewhere warmer after the first of the year, perhaps back to Brazil to chase the waves and work on his tan.
Instead, he found himself moving a portion of the forty-three million tons of cargo that came through the Port of London annually, most of it via the Port of Tilbury in Essex. He rose at 5:00 every morning in order to make the one-hour-and-twenty-minute ride away from the city. Oftentimes, he didn’t even bother going to bed.
The job managed to be simultaneously backbreaking and boring. Daniel worked alongside a multitude of foreign nationals and hardened locals. Sweating from exertion, shivering as the north wind cut through their clothing, they loaded and unloaded what seemed to be an endless number of crates and containers. Most of the men probably welcomed the steady paycheck. Good for them. Daniel hated almost everything about the experience.
Arkady Dyukov stopped by every so often, no doubt to report back to his boss. Daniel initially thought he might be asked to do something on behalf of his father, perhaps a job related to criminal activity. He looked forward to proving himself.
Kemp’s lieutenant quickly disabused him of that notion. On the first day, he insisted to Daniel that his father ran a completely legitimate transport business. Yes, Kemp used a new identity, but that was to protect himself from people who wanted him dead. Otherwise, Dyukov never spoke directly to Daniel, only to the foreman, a rough-looking Croatian named Sergei.
After a few weeks, Daniel realized he’d been put at the docks not to help but to be taught a lesson.
He kept his counsel; he also kept up appearances. He accepted every after-dark invitation extended to him. Young newcomers, some of them still in their teens, appeared regularly at pop-up clubs in some of the shady neighborhoods. They were thrill-seekers with time on their hands and money to burn. Daniel knew how to show them a good time. Sometimes he met and made himself available to their mothers. He’d always been able to do without more than a few hours’ sleep or none at all, if it came to that. He had access to whichever pharmaceuticals he required to get him through a hard day and an even harder night.
Daniel spent six months listening and learning at work and at play. Some of his new nighttime friends had interests that dovetailed with his own. Their parents occasionally had dealings that would have drawn scrutiny had they not been so powerful. One was a dictator, another a banker, another a solicitor in service to a Chinese tycoon. An older woman Daniel sometimes entertained ran an international high-end online escort service that prided itself on discretion. She explained her profession warranted caution.
“If my client list ever becomes public, I will be dead. So, it isn’t, and I’m not.”
The information he picked up during his day job proved equally compelling. British law enforcement actively patrolled the docks and the waterways—the Port of London had no fewer than five separate entities sharing these duties—yet the smuggling trade flourished. Gangs infiltrated the unions and organized their own bypass systems. Despite the volume of trade at the port, Daniel tried to look out for the cargo vessels painted with a bird of prey and owned by “Francesco Guzman.” The father he never had, he thought sardonically. He had little doubt Kemp’s vessels would at some point carry contraband. He wondered what kind.