It was terribly uncomfortable, but it revived Nesselrode a little bit. He blinked and licked his lips. “Medevac . . . ?” he managed to say. His voice was an unfamiliar rasp.
The admiral smiled. It was not a reassuring smile. “Not quite,” he said.
Nesselrode shook his head. It hurt. “Then . . . why?”
“Insurance,” the admiral said. “To keep them from shooting at me.”
Nesselrode closed his eyes again. Nothing was making sense. Unless—
He opened his eyes again. “Tell me again how much you charge for one dose of Zanagen?” the admiral said.
“That’s . . . ,” Nesselrode croaked. He frowned. “You—you’re not . . .”
“You
guessed it!” the man said. “I’m not really an admiral!”
Nesselrode tried to sit up and discovered that his hands and feet were duct-taped. With that, the last piece clicked into place. Of course; he was being kidnapped. “I can pay,” he rasped. The man in the admiral’s uniform didn’t answer. “I . . . have money. Lots of it,” Nesselrode said.
“Enough to buy anything you want?”
“Yes,” Nesselrode said.
“Wow,” the admiral said. He grabbed Nesselrode roughly and sat him up in the chopper’s doorway. Lake Michigan gleamed far below. “Could you buy a big fancy yacht?”
“Yes,” Nesselrode said.
“Well,” the admiral said, “now would be a really good time.” And he pushed Arthur Nesselrode out the door, leaning out and watching until he saw a tiny splash far below in the freezing water of Lake Michigan.
“Bastard,” the admiral said. Then he closed the door.
* * *
—
I watched my buyer’s guys secure the statue onto the bed of a huge semi rig. They looked like what they were—thugs. But they did it right, so I just stood and waited.
When they were done, the older of the two guys took out a cell phone, made a call, nodded, and came over to me. “He sent it,” the guy said. “Wire transfer. Just now.”
I took out my own phone, checked my bank account. It showed that the deposit really had been made. All of it, which is never a sure thing. I mean, if somebody is as rich as this guy was, they have to have big holes in their morals. Look at me.
“Paid in full,” the thug said. He looked offended. “He said so!”
“Of course it is,” I said. He turned to go. “Just a second,” I said. I got my little black electronic control box and flipped a switch.
“What’s that?” he asked, frowning at me.
“The bomb,” I said. “I just disarmed it.”
He shook his head. “What bomb?”
“The one inside the statue,” I said, giving him a really big and cheery smile.
He goggled at me. “There’s a bomb in the statue?” he said, kind of stupid.
“Trust—but verify,” I said. “Have a nice day!” Before he could tell me what he thought about that, I was into my waiting car and away, $50 million richer.
And no happier. In fact, I was feeling dirty, mean, edgy, and antsy. Fifty million reasons to feel good, and I didn’t. I mean, the money was nice. And the whole thing had come off without a hitch, just like I had planned it. No reason to do anything but smile and sing happy songs as I drove away. But I just kept looking in the rearview mirror and hissing. Why?