Holy Water (51 page)

Here
’
s a plastic flute of Mo
ë
t & Chandon for the
preboarding
toast and a reminder to pick up your royal swag bag when the cruise is over.

Here
’
s Henry, signing in, concerned that perhaps they
’
ve already found out about the fate of his mission here and crossed him off the list. But there
’
s his name. Here
’
s his tag and complimentary bubbly. If the people at the welcome desk know his secret, they don
’
t seem to care. As he says good-bye to Shug and approaches the gangway, he thinks it is hard not to notice this about his hosts and fellow capitalists, about this event: there is a pervasive, collective, and absolute vibe of not giving a shit.

Hello! My name is Fuc
k
It!

He takes stock of the surrounding guests. Mostly corporate refugees whose home offices have ignored their pleas for permission to return home, their warnings that this country is on the verge of disaster, that the seed money is gone, that the business opportunity has evaporated, that the king is dying if not already dead, and that the prince
’
s grasp of reality diminishes with every tick of the Shangri-La clock. These are the first to ask for refills.
Henry
recognizes a first-term congressman from Idaho last seen shouting down a bank official on CNBC and is surprised at how small and powerless he now seems, leaning against the starboard rail, alternately staring at his BlackBerry and glaring at the substantially larger fuss being made over the head of the Walmart delegation, who for some reason has decided to ride this thing out to the end.

Henry takes a breath of low-tide river air and steps on board. The boat is a double-decker, tricked-out ferry. White lights laced along the rails of both tiers shine in the graying dusk. A string quartet is playing jazz in the back of the boat, so he heads toward the front, where he recognizes and tries to avoid eye contact with two American beer distributors and a guy who claims to be an advance textile scout from the Gap.

Hello! My name is Francis.

“
I didn
’
t know you had a first name.
”

Madden tries to smile, but it comes off more as a grimace. He
’
s not wearing a suit or anything close to business casual. He
’
s in camouflage cargo pants and a sleeveless wrinkled white T-shirt stained with sweat and a spray pattern of blood. He raises an unlikely flute of champagne and taps glasses with Henry.
“
Thanks for getting me in on this. I was running out of places to hide.
”

After Madden guzzles his champagne, Henry hands over his glass as if it were expected and Madden drinks that as well.
“
What
’
s going on?
”

“
What
’
s going on,
”
Madden replies,
“
is I
’
m done here. I took some calculated risks that didn
’
t quite work out, and right now some people are fixing to bring me down. Did you come through the capital?
”

Henry shakes his head.
“
We came from the country. Why?
”

“
Fucking chaos in the streets. Smashing storefronts. Banging on the palace gates. I heard demonstrators took over the airport today.
”

Henry thinks of Shug
’
s warning about flying today. A horn blows twice and the boat begins to drift away from its slip.
“
You all right?
”

For the first time in the conversation Madden makes eye contact with him.
“
I lost everything, mate. I
’
ve got nothing.
”

A waitress with a tray of champagne approaches and they each
grab a flute. Near the far rail Henry thinks that he sees. . . yes, it
’
s Audrey. For some reason she
’
s decided to fulfill her obligation to represent the same nonexistent
company as he does. She smiles wanly at Henry and raises her glass. He asks Madden,
“
Why
’
d you come to this thing, then?
”

“
A few days ago I thought I could do some business here, try to change my fortunes, but now it
’
s flat-out asylum. My half-assed ties with the prince are pretty much all I
’
ve got, and
those
’
re
dwindling by the second.
”

“
I heard the king died.
”

Madden looks right and left as he thinks about this. His hands are trembling as they touch his cheek, his eyes. Finally he lights a cigarette and says, after exhaling,
“
That makes sense. That explains a lot.
”

“
I imagine this is why he
’
s not here.
”

Madden laughs.
“
Here? I
’
d be surprised if the little bugger is still in the country.
”

“
What will happen to him?
”

“
They
’
re Buddhists. If he loses the military and there is a coup, they will ask him to leave peacefully. And if he doesn
’
t do that or hasn
’
t already fled, I imagine they
’
ll bloody well kill him.
”

Henry looks out at the river. As the sun drops behind the western peaks, the purple smog cluster in the surrounding sky deepens like a bruise.
“
I got fired a few hours ago.
”

“
Congratulations. That makes your presence here more confounding than mine. Where
’
s Maya?
”

“
Gone,
”
Henry answers.
“
She deserves better than me.
”

Madden stares at him.
“
I spoke to some people about your plan with the straws. UNICEF. Soda people. There might be something there for you.
”

“
Thanks. What about you, then? Is there still something here for you?
”

Madden looks at him, then, before heading inside for another drink, he shakes his head and says,
“
I did some things, my friend.
”

~ * ~

On a video monitor mounted beneath the overhang for the second deck, a message from the prince and king begins to play. While the
prince offers greetings in French, English, German, Spanish, and Galadonian, the first in a series of explosions sounds on shore, from the direction of the capital.
Fireballs rise in the southern sky, and small-arms tracers arc through the darkness closer to shore.

“
It is a royal fireworks display,
”
explains one of the organizing hosts, even though no one asked for an explanation. Now the king is onscreen, seemingly talking to camera, seemingly holding a tennis racket, seemingly alive. But Henry knows better. They all know better. The more the host talks, it seems, the more the group drinks. Someone—is it the Walmart guy?—has begun to pass around a hashish pipe.

Now the host is saying something to Henry
’
s group about the king, something about his extraordinary vitality and athletic ability. But no one is listening. They are all looking at a bend in the water upstream, where the river is burning down. Or is it up? More than a hundred feet up.

The host is talking faster, making less sense with every word, as they
’
re drawn closer to the flames. The engines ease and the boat slows as it approaches a village illuminated by great waterborne tongues of fire.

~ * ~

It should come as a surprise when a man in a red hood rounds the corner from the starboard side and smashes the host in the back of the head with the blunt face of a machete, toppling him, mid-lie. But it doesn
’
t.

Hello! My name is Potentially Bloody Insurrection!

Before the man hits the deck, Henry looks back at the monitor. The familiar montage of the deceptively active king is playing. The flash of a bomb strobes against the base of the mountains upstream. Before the sound registers, Henry raises his champagne flute, drains it, and lets it drop onto the deck. Three more men in red bandannas appear, holding machetes. One turns and smashes the TV monitor with the blade, bringing to an early close the dead king
’
s fabricated hunting trip.

The quartet, for some reason, continues to play,
Titanic-like.
The boat briefly slows and then reverses the engines. New captain, Henry thinks. New itinerary.

They are herded into a group at the front of the boat. A separate group that presumably includes Madden and Audrey is contained on the stern. One of their captors tells them that no one will get hurt as long as they cooperate.
“
There is a coup going on in the capital. The king has been dead, perhaps for days, and the prince, who chose to withhold this information from his people—well, he is gone. Seeking asylum in a land of excess.
”

The congressman steps forward.
“
What are you going to do with us? Do you know who is on this boat?
”

“
We know exactly who is on this boat. Corporate criminals. Enemies of culture. And a minor politician who needed a runoff to win his election and whom no one would miss should tragedy befall him on this river.
”

~ * ~

They begin to circle in a slow-motion holding pattern between the flames and the river village. Two men with machetes stand in front of them, saying nothing, letting them drink and smoke and talk among themselves. Henry separates himself from the others as much as his captors will allow and watches the burning river and the agitated villagers.

The flaming water reminds him of the flawed chemistry of his former backyard pool. Maybe some things need to be set on fire before they can be made right. He wonders if setting the pool on fire would have gotten Rachel
’
s attention. Or his.

“
I
’
m not gonna stand for this!
”
It
’
s the Walmart guy. Drunk. Stoned. Used to getting his way.
“
I want to talk to your manager immediately.
”
After they strike the Walmart guy with the blunt side of a machete, Henry is fairly certain they are going to kill them all, but then again, if that were the case, they probably would have used the blade.

His phone vibrates. Service on a flaming river in a third world country during a coup. Someone should make a commercial. It
’
s Giffler. No shit.
“
Are you all right?
”

Henry watches two men drag the Walmart guy into the cabin. Along the river
’
s edge flames lap at the interior upholstery of a late-model Toyota Prius.
“
Oh, I
’
m doing just fine,
Giff
. Why do you ask?
”

“
Hey, it was not my call. But you know, you should have seen the writing on the wall.
”

“
You are right. I should have seen the writing on the wall of my nonexistent office.
”

“
What you need is a nice tour of Bangkok
’
s red-light district before coming home. I
’
ll make sure T&E pushes it through.
”

“
Thanks,
Giff
.
”