The Racketeer

I’m in the back of a cab headed for the airport when I see the call. I’ve spent the last fifteen minutes imagining various scenes and conflicts inside Nathan’s house, none of them with good endings. “Are you okay?” I ask.

“Yes, just a couple of rednecks looking for Nathan. I got rid of them.”

“How?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

“Did they see you?”

“Oh yes. It’s cool. We’re fine. Where’s the stuff?”

“Out back, in the storage shed. I’ll stay on the phone.”

“Okay.” Vanessa checks the driveway once more to make sure there are no more visitors, then hurries out the back door and to the storage shed. The dog is growling and barking frantically, and I can hear him clearly in Jamaica.

I ca

She moves two empty paint thi

She tries to lift the casket, but it is too heavy. She finds the latch, twists, and half of the top lid opens slowly. Mercifully, there is no dead baby inside. Far from it. Vanessa pauses to study the collection of small wooden cigar boxes all sealed with a band of silver duct tape and for the most part stacked in rows. Sweat is dripping from her eyebrows and she tries to swipe at it with a forearm. Carefully, she removes one of the boxes and steps outside under the shade of an oak. Glancing around, seeing no one, nothing but the dog, who’s tired of barking and growling, Vanessa peels off the tape, opens the box, and slowly removes a layer of wadded newspaper.

Mini-bars. Little bricks. Dominoes. An entire casket full of them. Millions upon millions.

She removes one and examines it. A perfect rectangle, not quite a half inch thick, lined with a tiny border ridge that allows for precise stacking and storage. On the front side is stamped “10 ounces.” And under that: “99.9%.” And nothing else—no bank name, no indication of where it came from or who mined it. No registration number.

Using a prepaid credit card, I pay $300 for an Air Jamaica flight to San Juan, Puerto Rico. It leaves in an hour, so I find a bench near my gate and kill time, staring at my cell phone. Before long, it lights up and vibrates.

Vanessa says, “He’s not lying.”

“Talk to me.”

“Love to, baby. We now own eighteen cigar boxes filled with these gorgeous little gold mini-bars, haven’t counted them all yet, but there must be at least five hundred.”

I take a deep breath and feel like crying. This project has been on the drawing board for over two years, and during most of that time the odds of a successful outcome were at least a thousand to one. A series of loosely co

“Between five hundred and six hundred,” I say, “according to our boy.”

“He’s earned the right to be trusted. Where are you?”

“At the airport. I bought a ticket, made it through Customs, and I’ll board in an hour. So far, no problems. Where are you?”

“I’m leaving this dump. I’ve loaded up the good stuff and put everything back in its place. The house is locked.”

“Don’t worry about the house. He’ll never see it again.”

“I know. I gave his dog a whole sackful of food. Maybe someone will check on him.”

“Get away from that place.”

“I’m leaving now.”

“Just follow the plan and I’ll call when I can.”

CHAPTER 37

It’s almost eleven, Sunday morning, July 24, a hot clear day with little traffic around Radford. Vanessa wants to avoid another encounter with anyone who might see Nathan’s pickup truck and get suspicious. She heads north on the interstate, past Roanoke, into the heart of the Shenandoah Valley, driving as cautiously as humanly possible with the needle stuck on seventy miles per hour and every lane change properly telegraphed with a turn signal. She watches the rearview mirror because it’s now such a habit, and she watches every other vehicle to avoid any chance of a collision. On the passenger’s floorboard, and on the seat next to her, there is literally a fortune in gold, a fortune in unmarked and untraceable ingots freshly stolen from a thief who stole them from a crook who took them from a gang of thugs. How could she explain such a collection of precious metal to a nosy state trooper? She could not, so she drives as perfectly as possible as the 18-wheelers roar by in the left lane.

She exits at a small town and drifts until she finds a cheap dollar store. The ba

She shoves her purchases into the cab of the truck and heads back to the interstate. An hour later, she finds a truck stop near Staunton, Virginia, and parks next to the rigs. When she’s certain that no one is watching, she begins to quickly stuff the cigar boxes into the backpacks, two of which are not used.

She fills up the tank, eats lunch from a fast-food drive-through, and kills time roaming up and down Interstate 81, as far north as Maryland and as far south as Roanoke. The hours drag by. She ca

I’m pacing in a crowded and humid wing of the San Juan airport, waiting on a Delta flight to Atlanta. My ticket was purchased in the name of Malcolm Ba

I call Vanessa twice and we speak in code. Got the goods. Packages are fine. She’s moving around, following the plan. If a spook somewhere is listening, then he’s scratching his head.

At 3:30 we finally board, and then sit for an hour in the sweltering cabin as a howling storm pounds the airport and the pilots go mute. At least two babies are squalling behind me. As tempers rise, I close my eyes and try to nap, but I have deprived myself of sleep for so long I have forgotten how to doze off. Instead, I think of Nathan Cooley and his hopeless situation, though I have little sympathy. I think of Vanessa and smile at her toughness under pressure. We are so close to the finish line, but there are still so many ways to fail. We have the gold, but can we keep it?