4

Sleep-deprived, bruised and emotionally drained, Scotty stood in the middle of the Imperial suite on the eleventh floor of the Exeter hotel, the very last place in the world he wanted to be. He was in absolutely no mood to be abused by an enraged father who was relieved, but not mollified, by his daughter’s rescue.

Christian Vokker was a short, stocky man, dwarfed by his three bodyguards, who encircled little Adriana like alps sheltering a hillock. The girl sat with her legs folded primly, fingers folded in her lap and face blank, the unwilling focus of the current conversation.

No, that was wrong. It wasn’t a conversation. In a conversation, one person speaks and another answers. This was a monologue. Mr. Vokker had been speaking nonstop at Scotty and Mason for five minutes, and very little of it had been easy to hear.

“Yes, I am grateful,” he said. Something in his tone made Scotty hope he was winding down. “And I understand that you placed your life at risk. It is only for those reasons that I simply suggest you find other employment, rather than purchasing advertising in English, Chinese and Spanish, etching your colossal ineptitude on every Web and across the sky, for all with eyes to see.”

Scotty managed to smile. “Sounds grateful to me.”

Vokker made a dismissive gesture, and turned his back. Adriana peered between the enormous bodyguards, face pinched. I’m sorry…, she seemed to be saying.

“Son of a bitch…,” Scotty muttered as they left.

Older and wiser, Mason merely shook his head.

An hour later Scotty lay alone in his room, staring up at the ceiling. He rotated the glass in his right hand, listening to the ice clink. Now was definitely the time for a drink. Long past time, he figured. And if he didn’t stop until Wednesday, well…

“Well, that’s two careers and a marriage down…,” he muttered.

Quite unexpectedly, a com field blossomed above his briefcase, on the desk across from the bed. At the edge of the field blinked a man-in-the moon icon.

“What the hell.” So. Vokker wasn’t done with him. Part of him wanted to roll over and sleep until dinnertime, or until they kicked him out of his room, whichever came first. Another part urged him to freshen his drink. Another wanted to hear what the chocolate king’s lawyers wanted to say. “Open,” he said, triggering the icon.

The face of a very dark black man appeared. Triple vertical scars on his cheeks proclaimed him African with strong tribal affiliations. A remarkably relaxed intensity suggested that he was accustomed to command.

“Welcome to my home,” he said. “I am Abdul Kikaya the Second, President for Life of the Republic of Kikaya. I have a proposition I would like to present face-to-face. If you are amenable to travel, my shuttle will arrive for you at noon, your time. In exchange for traveling here, and merely hearing me out, I promise you ten thousand dollars, against a much larger possibility. Then, if you are not interested, my shuttle will take you anywhere your passport will allow. If you accept, I promise you an adventure unlike any other, one you are uniquely equipped to enjoy. Please respond, but the shuttle will be there, on the roof of your hotel, at twelve noon your time. I will await you… or your answer. Thank you.”

Well I’ll be damned, Scotty thought, and smiled as he took a sip. One door closes, another opens.

Maybe his career hadn’t bled out quite just yet. He looked at the time again: 4:15 A.M. Just time for a good nap, and packing. And then, what the hell? Maybe a little trip.

Just maybe the trip of a lifetime.