Chapter 14
Leslei understood why they needed to use the satellite router as bait; she also knew it exposed her to greater danger with larger unknowns, so when 'Mr. Sunglasses' from the flight to Marseille came sauntering up the path one morning, Leslei was prepared to set Madame Ouvière’s Pomeranian on him, except he was carrying croissants - Leslei loved croissants, and she was hungry. She buried her research on Faik Besos on her drive and prepared a post highlighting the direction of her current thinking for publication on Face Race.
“What do you want?” Leslei half snarled, half grinned eying his open bag of fresh croissants she could smell from where she’d planted herself at her doorstep.
“Whirled Peas and loving harmony between all my brothers and sisters on planet earth,” moving no closer but retreating neither. He frankly gazed at her in her morning shift which did little to un-flatter her toned physique. The effect of his presence bewildered her in a not unpleasant way; she’d forgotten the pleasure of a man’s gaze, especially one whose mere being now created more curiosity than alarm. She was no longer a weary traveler amidst strangers but the master of her universe in a comfortable setting.
“I don’t even know your name, how can I possibly consider having breakfast with a man I cannot address properly?”
“Pierre,” he said this as though nothing more need be said.
“Pierre, what?” Leslei asked, somehow knowing it didn’t matter.
“Just Pierre.” With this Leslei turned on her heel through the front door without closing it; there could be no invitation more clear. When he stepped into the kitchen, she had spooned coffee into the press and was reaching for saucers for the croissants and bowels for their coffee; the water was heating as she turned to him and remarked, “You came here with croissants this morning because you believe I have the power of whirled peas and loving harmony, or are you just another glib lonely man looking to put it over on one more ditzy broad? What happened to your Hawaiian shirt? It did wonders for your green eyes. You don’t even know my name.”
“Leslei Coerkturn” She was not surprised but had to ask.
“How would you know?”
“I read it on your ticket at the counter in Paris.”
“How did you find me?”
“There are not that many brunette Americans in France, and Aix is a small town that feeds on gossip like any small town in the world. Knowing now that you enjoy croissants as much as you do wine, I will be sure to wear my Hawaiian shirt and bring a bottle of wine when I return.”
“Pretty sure of yourself Pierre? You haven’t even tried my coffee yet.”
It was one of the most pleasant breakfasts Leslei could remember and regretted hearing him say, “I must go.” She hoped he was being honest when he said “à bientôt,” and felt a little less lonely after he left; at least until that fucking Sherwood Green Maserati spewing gravel on her porch signaled the arrival of ‘His Largeness’ Archdai Tryump.
She knew something was wrong when she could see from her window how he stumbled from his car in a buffoonish renaissance costume, plumed cap and all. It was barely noon and he was impaired; she was unprepared, but finished posting on ‘Face Race’ - an archival photo of Marilyn Monroe blowing someone a kiss; there was no text - if you were to ask her today after all that then happened, why she posted that particular photo when she did; she’d likely have no answer, though it probably saved her life. She then stepped out the front door ready to confront her uninvited guest and lend words to her forbidding posture, when a cloth with a sickly sweet, cloying odor was clutched to her face from behind with no more than a breath into unconsciousness.
She woke up in a palatial room with light flooding through windows that were obscenely barred. She had been dressed in a cartoonish maid’s outfit, with tutu skirt, and matching apron. Determining it could get no worse, she shed the clothes and began searching the opulent cage for suitable attire. The ‘empire’ chiffonnière contained bodices and lingerie from a neanderthal’s wet dream, and Leslei took sublime pleasure depositing them in the low flame of the gilded cage’s fireplace; watching $10s of thousands worth of someone’s pathetic fantasies burn fiercely calmed her mind and eased her fears. For clothing, she settled on a table race full with exquisite embroidery. She wrapped her robe instinctively, resembling a Grecian athlete - ready for whatever came next.
All that was left for her war of resistance were ’equalizers’ necessary to an even playing field. There were no obvious advantages left for her, and well aware that every action she’d taken since waking was likely being scrutinized remotely; so taking a hot metal filament from one of the burnt lingerie bodices, Leslei fashioned a large metal “U” and wrapped the curve with a piece of torn cloth then proceeded to plunge the prongs into every electrical outlet she could find before her surreptitious guard was alerted to her destructive designs - in a very short time, scraping at the door opened to a burly matron carrying a nasty piece of metal rod. She soon wrested Leslei’s electrical sabotage prongs from her, leaving back out the door as quickly as she’d entered.
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It wasn’t until the next morning when Pierre returned to invite Leslei to tour Cézanne’s studio that she was discovered missing. When queried, Madame Ouvière said she saw the “cochon dans la voiture verte” (pig in the green car) arrive with another man some time after le Monsieur had departed at noon, but the car and passenger left soon after they’d arrived; Madame Ouvière believed the madame had sent them away.
Lammele was not surprised by Leslei’s kidnapping based on Archdai Tryump’s sordid history; Lammele had made the decision to surveil rather than provide manpower. He was prepared to shut down the entire operation if necessary to retrieve her. Pierre reported that all of Tryump’s likely hideaways were vacant, and that he had reportedly flown to Sarajevo the week before.
The police could not be enlisted and would likely have had fewer resources than the group for uncovering her whereabouts. The airlines confirmed that Archdai Tryump had in fact flown to Sarajevo, and immigration confirmed he had not returned - research also determined that his sherwood green Maserati had been reported stolen just before his flight.
If it wasn’t Tryump who had kidnapped Leslei, whoever had had gone to considerable trouble to frame Archai Tryump of the crime? Whoever was responsible had excellent intelligence on the group’s faux broadcasts and likely possessed solid insights into the direction of the group’s investigation including the principals; their assignments; and their whereabouts - meaning no one was safe.
Lammele declared a communication blackout until this breech could be resolved. Mordecaise was able to press ahead using direct channel to the ‘Economic Revolution’, Guildern redoubled his penetration into the dark web, neither having any information from the other on progress; Lammele beat the bushes of Europe hoping to ferret where one was whom he discovered in the desiccated recesses of his withered, however still loving, heart to be more than dear.
Pasqual fathomed the misery of his mates and quieted his own anxiety by plumbing FR for any indication from his diverse list of associates for ripples or eddies that might indicate a thread they might all pursue. His audience with the Bhikkhu was in abeyance and his brush with death found him nostalgic and peering at faces he knew - Leslei’s page showed him the way · Faik Besos.
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Lammele understood within the first two sentences of their quarantined conversation why Pasqual had broken radio silence. Lammele immediately instigated a hard target search for every property in Europe in which Faik Besos had a marginal interest - 2, 3, and 4 ‘arm lengths’ deep. Within minutes 3 properties within a 10 kilometer radius of Leslei’s cottage was revealed; 2 were eliminated by occupancy greater than 3 years, but one. Pierre and a crack squad of zealots from a renegade Unitarian sect out of Leon training throughout Europe for the liberation of humanity from the yoke of serfdom - this action for them would be considered a high level training exercise.
But when the squad of volunteer liberators from the provinces arrived at the abandoned chateau, they found a semi-robed demi-goddess stampeding a herd of wild goats through the front entrance of an otherwise nondescript holding of the 'ubiquitous no-longer uber-rich' which had apparently been excessed. In her explanation to Pierre, Leslei described how the fraught matron had retrieved the pronged sabotage tool Leslei used for 'shorting' her surveillance; the matron had neglected metal filaments from the ashes of the cavernous fireplace and Leslei understood enough about electronics to devise a filament torch coated by insulation adequate to arc the necessary current to cut through the bars of her prison; in time to show proper appreciation to her would-be liberators.
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Relieved, but not mollified by the news of Leslei’s liberation, Mordecaise decided to sequester Tito and extract whatever he knew about the kidnapping. Guildern agreed and arranged for Tito to escape back to Oaxaca where he could be “protected.” He explained this to Tito when returning his call, without saying protected from whom or what.
Tito stepped off the plane in Oaxaca looking buoyant and confident, until he saw Mordecaise at the gate accompanied by a squat muscular Mexican. “Tito, this is Bobby, you’ll be staying at his rancho outside of town for a few weeks while we establish who wants you dead besides Guildern and myself. Will that be okay?” Mordecaise said this without expecting an answer and Tito knew his options had just narrowed.
They drove east in silence for more than an hour; on a river rutted road due South for 1/2 hour. They passed through a number of locked gates until they reached a sprawling hacienda populated with a band of vaqueros who took no notice. Bobby pulled into a smaller compound full of stalls for what appeared to be ‘prize cattle.’ For anyone familiar with the odor, the essence of bull semen permeated the corral. Tito’s lodgings were to be a sheltered seat between two massive steers restrained to their paddock by rings in their nostrils chained to metal posts on either side of the shelter - Tito was no longer relieved. “Rest well,” is all Mordecaise said as he reversed the car back out the gates, leaving Bobby on a stoop between two bulks, either sheds or steers depending on the light.
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Faik Besos hurled a Ming Dynasty vase against a wall when he learned Leslei Coerktern had liberated herself; then launched another when he understood she was in the process of being “rescued” by an armed Unitarian sect advocating worldwide freedom: liberation from tyranny, for animals in zoos, deregulating driving schools, and breaking open all libraries.
After Marksburg and Curzewel began sharing information about Aaron Schtartz, the machinations and skeins of deceit at the nexus of the triumvirate lofted skyward. Conventional channels carried everything said; the impenetrable hubris of wealth, and when Reiman yammered about Leslei Coerktern’s satellite installation, Faik who'd been monitoring most of her communications decided to eliminate her and simplify the equation by framing Archdai Tryump for kidnapping; he'd been sent on an errand to Sarajevo and would have made a perfect 'patsy', had the bitch been less crafty and more demure.
Faik often wondered how Marksburgh and Curzwel got so far being so stupid and unimaginative. He should have irradiated the lot of ‘em with Strontium 90 when he had them pinned down outside the Face Race campus.
Faik was more than frustrated; the vases were worth a great deal more than the single life of some obscure heir-hunter. His ostensible partners were becoming impediments not aids, to the unraveling of truth about Aaron Schtartz’ theories for a ‘Mirrored Economy.
Too many things were not summing for 'end days: a theoretical cache of value orders of magnitude greater than the recorded wealth of the world economy; why against all models for the collapse of any civilization were there pockets of human vitality and growth within a general population - whole demographics flourishing and thriving in the midst of what ought to have been disintegrating systems, economic, ecological and psychological decay by every pre-pandemic sociological metric known, motherfucking humans were surviving and thriving ¿
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Pasqual arrived at the root pagoda mid-morning and placed himself at the bench in front of the crescent pond, in part for the peace it afforded him and in part to allow for a private audience with the Bhikkhu without interruption. It was difficult to disassociate the placid view of the ancient pond from the horrid morning he first met Thich Tok Longh, yet the longer he sat and the more he breathed, the more he felt there was no other place on the planet for him to be. The voice of his friend interrupted his rumminations and he found himself addressing the voice, rather than the Bhikkhu - it was embarrassing, Ong Longh paid no mind. “Yes, friend there is much in the world that is confusing, even with an abundance of love - death, hate and aggression propagates within the human heart.”
“I thought it best to visit in such a way that you might not be called upon, and I am glad for your company. Your information about my uncle Jose has calmed parts of my soul I didn't know ached; thank you. Perhaps my search for truth about Reynaldo can help you?”
“There is much sadness about the life of ‘Reynaldo’; he was ‘little brother,’ he arrived like that, and departed like that - filling much for many here, in the in-between. Oddly, I knew less about him than I knew of your uncle Jose, for Reynaldo was here at the pagoda for much longer - nearly two years. He struggled with the blessings of his life against the misery he witnessed, not just from the pandemic, but from the cruelty of people toward each other he found in his travels. He’d arrived here in Viet Nam with dreams of a worker’s paradise and found greed had arrived one step ahead. He felt guilt for his seemingly superior resources, but often described with envy the conviction of a society in service to itself.”
Pasqual did not want to interrupt his friend, but was anxious to uncover the nexus, if one existed between the Schmuck family and the mythological ‘nut;’ at stake was a struggle between the remnants of a venal ruling class and his small band of “fucking idealists” hoping for one last gasp for humanity.
The Bhikkhu Longh paid penetrating attention to Pasqual’s anxiety and continued his narrative. “Reynaldo conveyed private information, which as I understand in your culture is considered sacred between a priest and his parishioner.” Pasqual did not expect that analogy just then and opened his mind to everything the gentle monk could share. “The eldest brother was very influential in the lives of his younger brothers; but unorthodox does not describe the life of the elder brother Domhall whose influence on his younger brothers was considerable. Eventually the younger brothers affiliated themselves to the ‘Plum Village’ vision of Thich Nhat Hanh. I can tell you very little about that specific dynamic, except that the beloved Bhikkhu 'Thay's' social activism played a large role in that decision. I can also say for Reynaldo there was a specific quote from Bhikkhu Thay that remained a mantra for him:
‘There’s a revolution that needs to happen and it starts from inside each one of us. We need to wake up and fall in love with the Earth. Our personal and collective happiness and survival depends on it’
There was no visit with Reynaldo where that reasoning of Thich Nhat Hanh did not find its way into the conversation; he was mindful.”
“Thay Longh, did Reynaldo participate in organizing cadres in financial matters; did he hold classes on computer technology or advocate for any group you knew of? I understand the question may sound venal, but is it possible that something he was working on may have precipitated his death; if so, that ‘something’ may yet pose danger to this pagoda.” Pasqual paused, for he had no foundation for such thinking though there'd been one abduction, two if Tito’s debriefing counted and an assassination attempt in Northern California all possibly related to whatever the Schmuck brothers were doing with their “old money” influence.
Pasqual continued, “I saw for myself how dangerous the corner where Reynaldo died can be. Do you have any sense that his death was more than an accident?”
The pensive monk waited a full minute, plus before he answered; “I said to you about the death you witnessed that there is reason for all things in the universe, however all reasons are not the same. Reynaldo did die in the same as two innocents, however Reynaldo died under vastly different circumstances; the road was dry; traffic light and the vehicle that killed Reynaldo was a late model Mercedes Benz - the driver was never charged, nor publicly identified; 1) that is highly irregular 2) Reynaldo had been working closely with the remnants of sister Chong’s School of Youth for Social Services (SYSS).
The group itself was long dissolved, though its spirit lived. Reynaldo used that spirit to create pockets of local lending for public service projects in remote areas far from the coastal “path of development.” He described his efforts as a race with the bankers for the hearts and minds of the population. He was not a hipsterdoofus idealist, but a very pragmatic and articulate individual who cared deeply about the people he served - he made enemies.”
“Bhikkhu Longh, you are enormously helpful and I'm reluctant to ask, is there a list of contacts? If so giving it to me may bring trouble to the pagoda. Can you think of another source I can approach for the same information to safeguard your peace?”
“I believe you are in contact with the artist Trâu Bet in Hoi An; he would have been who Reynaldo worked with most closely", turning, the monk signaled the end of the audience by commenting, “I have much enjoyed our short visits. If you can return someday, it would warm my heart to learn about your family and the success of your efforts.” With that Bhikkhu Longh rose slowly and padded away, again his feet 'kissing' the ground he trod.
When Pasqual returned to the Purple Haze, he inquired about Son Do and learned the family crisis had passed and had made an invitation for Pasqual to come for a meal that afternoon; the property was an older compound of traditional architecture a short distance from one of the many cemeteries that dotted the countryside around Hue. Besides Son Do, his wife and their 3 children, there were two snaggle toothed women seemingly bent 90 degrees at the waist who tended the kettles in the yard, and who had no other expression but broad beetle juice stained smiles every time they placed a new plate of food on the table or took seats across from him at the big round metal table to point fingers and laugh. The other adult who was never introduced, but deferred to in every way was a slight man ramrod straight and nattily attired who remained busy with one child or another, and who was in constant communication with the parade of men who entered the compound to gape at Pasqual or share a glass of beer or snort of rice wine from water bottles or both, and left.
Any effort to question the Patriarch about the battle of Hue, was precluded by a toast of “Mot, Hai, Ba, Yo!!!” followed by another plate of food; the old man never drank. Pasqual was to remember the afternoon, surrounded by children, food, and happy people to the end of his days. In many ways the day was to explain more to him about the complexities of life in the world in general and in Viet Name in particular, than reams of analysis and theorizing of locals, foreigners and experts; each believing that somehow their thinking was part of a larger truth; the American War, a segment of its 'endless war', was so gruesome and fruitless as to explain an unyielding plague, which by 2027 had killed a 1/3 of the human population, and by 2030 showed no sign of relenting.
(˚ ㄥ _˚)
17 May 2026
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reprinted with permission; all rights reserved
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