Chapter 15 Mr. Christmas

15

Mr. Christmas

The Desert Dragon ranch in Jackson, Wyoming, was not located in a desert, nor did it have anything to do with dragons. The smallholding of a hundred acres had cost Charlie Hutchings a pretty penny – five million dollars.

He had made that money back in less than a year.

In the last ten years, the valley of Jackson Hole had become home to a new kind of prospector – multi-millionaires. The cowboys, farmers and small-town folk were finding it hard to adjust to these immigrants from New York City, Los Angeles and San Francisco. Wyoming, with its mountains, lush green grass and empty spaces, had become home to a host of new tech companies.

The rush to Wyoming was fueled by its tax laws.

Corporations in Wyoming pay zero tax. The sales taxes are also some of the lowest in the United States. This was Switzerland to greedy tech companies and their CEOs.

Charlie Hutchings saved seven million dollars in income tax the first year.

The only problem was Charlie had to register his companies, and keep their profiles low, hiding his involvement through a string of shell companies, leaving a long and complicated trail. He was a wealth manager, from Chicago. A very successful one. Wyoming was nothing like Chicago – it was hard to find good pasta, and there wasn't much in the way of theatre in the mountains. Still, Jackson Hole was the perfect place for Charlie.

He had needed a deep hole to hide in.

But it wasn't deep enough.

The man in his kitchen had found him, about an hour ago.

The man was dressed in a black suit, white shirt and black tie. The fedora he'd worn when he arrived was hung on Charlie's coat rack, beside the man's trench coat. It had taken the man about two weeks to find Charlie. He had put in the time online, tracing all those companies right back to this bald, middle-aged Charlie, sweating through his pajamas in his dining chair.

The man in black poured hot water on ground coffee that sat in a filter over a glass dome. He had slow, deliberate movements. Graceful. Like a dancer. His voice had a mellifluous quality, as if he savored every syllable of every word. His language was formal, yet warm. Like a benevolent official in a position of enormous power.

‘So, Charles, tell me, what do you think of Marlon Brando?' asked the man as he put down the kettle.

Charlie was finding it hard to breathe. The panic that had set in as his arms and legs were duct-taped to his Baccarat dining chair had not subsided. If anything, Charlie's fear had only increased.

Between gasps, he said, ‘You mean the actor?'

‘But of course,' said the man, sweeping his hand through his blond hair.

‘I-I-I don't know. Do you like him?' asked Charlie.

The man stared at the water filtering through the coffee grounds and dripping into the flask below.

‘Come, come, Charles. We're all friends here. This is not a trick question. But, to put you at your ease – yes, I like him very much.'

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, he's great,' said Charlie, and finished his sentence with a breathy wince.

‘Relax,' said the man. ‘You'll hyperventilate. Breathe with me. We're going to try the physiological sigh. Do you know what that is?'

Charlie shook his head.

‘You're going to take a big breath in. Deep as you can, and then, you're going to inhale a second time. Your lungs will already be quite full, but, trust me, you can manage another brief inhalation. You're going to hold all of that air for three seconds and then exhale slowly. Are you ready?'

Charlie nodded, vigorously.

The man turned toward him, and to assist Charlie, he moved his hands over his chest as if conducting the air, puffing his chest at the second inhalation, then turning his hands over, delicately, and brushing them downwards to the floor as he exhaled. It was like watching a great maestro conduct an orchestra. The man's movements were almost hypnotic. You couldn't take your eyes off him. Charlie breathed in and out on his command.

‘Feel better, Charles?' asked the man.

Charlie nodded. His chest no longer rose and fell like an old bellows. His eyes shot to the medical bag that sat on the dining table. It was old, black leather with a metal clasp at the top. Charlie knew enough about the man in his kitchen to be afraid of what might be in that bag.

‘That's just a little tip for you. It's proven to lower anxiety levels. Now, where were we? Yes, Brando. I've been revisiting his oeuvre lately. Student of Stella Adler, you know.'

A confused look spread over Charlie's face. So far, the man had not harmed him. There had been no violence, apart from being secured to the chair with duct tape.

The man in black removed the filter from the flask and poured fresh, hot coffee into one of Charlie's mugs. He tasted it, nodded agreeably at Charlie and continued his speech.

‘He was a fiercely intelligent actor. During one of Adler's acting classes, she instructed her students to imagine that they were chickens and the atomic bomb was about to fall on them from the heavens. Well, as you can imagine, the class got up and they were running around, clucking and flapping their imaginary wings in a cacophonous panic. Except one student, Brando. He didn't run around. He calmly spread his legs and hunkered down on the floor. Adler asked what the hell he was doing. Why wasn't he afraid of the oncoming atomic Armageddon? Do you know what he said?'

At first Charlie didn't react. Then he shook his head, said, ‘No.'

‘Brando said, "I'm a chicken. I'm laying an egg. What the fuck do I know about atomic bombs?" '

The man smiled. Charlie was too petrified to move.

Just then, the man's phone rang. He smoothly removed a black cell phone from his inside pocket, hit answer and placed the device at his ear.

‘Good evening,' said the man. ‘Mr. Christmas speaking.'

‘You're always so polite,' said the voice on the line.

‘Manners cost nothing, my friend. May I be of assistance?'

‘I heard about a job in New York. A lawyer. New York's Finest are floating the paper in the open. Fifty grand, flat fee. No expenses. Thought I should let you know.'

‘Not to be impolite, but it's a little below my paygrade.'

‘I realize that, but, you know . . . It's a tough economy.'

‘Someone in New York will pick it up. That's not my usual territory.'

‘Well, that's the thing,' said the voice on the line. ‘Jimmy the Hat knows this guy. Nobody in New York will touch it. I heard there's people flying in from all over.'

Mr. Christmas took another sip of coffee, then said, ‘Whom?'

‘The guys you might expect. Mid-level earners, but one in particular who is very much in your paygrade. I didn't think the job would be for you, but I didn't want you to hear about it afterwards and get pissed at me. Thought I should at least give you the option.'

‘That is most considerate of you. I'm just engaged at the moment, but give me a little time to think about it, if you wouldn't mind, and I'll call you back.'

‘Sure thing.'

Mr. Christmas ended the call and turned his attention to Charlie.

‘This has been pleasant, Charles, but I'm afraid time is short, and I have to bring our meeting to a conclusion. You know Chicago sent me. They want the files you took with you when you left so abruptly.'

‘Files? I haven't stolen any files. I haven't taken a dime from Mr. Moresco—'

‘You are being indicted in Chicago for fraud. You are out on bail and yet you've managed to move states. Mr. Moresco correctly believes the FBI don't want to put you in prison – they want Mr. Moresco. You have access to a large amount of his personal financial information. Enough to cause him some considerable legal concerns. We can't have you making a deal for your freedom. I need you to give me Mr. Moresco's files.'

‘I don't have anything . . .' said Charlie, sweat now running down his face.

Mr. Christmas held up a palm to silence Charlie and then approached him, slowly. He moved like a cat, each stride delicate and in perfect balance.

‘Charles, normally at this point things would get unpleasant. But, as I said, I don't have a lot of time. Torture is a blunt tool. People will say anything for the pain to stop. We can begin that process and before the end you will have told me where I can find the files. I will know if you are lying. Unless you're Marlon Brando, you're not going to be able to fool me. If you want to play dumb, that's your choice. I will cut off your hands, then your feet, put out your eyes and then things will really get nasty. Or, you can tell me what I wish to know, and I can make things easier. I can give you a shot that will make you drowsy and then you will fall asleep, quite peacefully. I like you, Charles. I like your home. I like your coffee. And you have been co-operative and polite. Please choose quickly.'

He turned away from Charlie, moved to the medical bag on the dining table and twisted open the clasp. He spread the top of the bag open and removed a syringe, and a vial of clear liquid, which he set on the table. Next, he took out a hammer and a saw, and put them on the table as well. With each item that came out of the bag, Charlie's eyes widened, his heart rate went up and his chest began to pump air through his trembling lips.

‘It's in the first drawer of my desk. There are no other copies,' said Charlie.

Moving to the hallway, and then the study, Mr. Christmas found a pen drive in the desk drawer, brought it back to the kitchen and inserted it into a small laptop he had in his bag.

Charlie watched him with dead eyes.

‘Thank you, Charles,' said Mr. Christmas. He picked up the syringe and the vial in his left hand and stepped behind Charlie.

‘I have money. I could give you twenty million, right now. You could disappear, pretend you never found me,' said Charlie.

‘But someone would find you, Charles. And then Mr. Moresco and his associates would come looking for me. That would be . . . messy. I'm sorry. This is the way it has to be.'

‘Will I feel anything?' asked Charlie, blinking away tears.

‘Nothing. I'll make sure of that,' said Mr. Christmas as he drew a pistol from his jacket. He pointed the muzzle at the back of Charlie's head and pulled the trigger twice.

‘See, you didn't feel a thing,' said Mr. Christmas.

He repacked his bag, took out his cell phone and dialed a number.

‘That was quick,' said the voice on the line.

‘My business concluded earlier than expected. Please inform our friend in Chicago. He will be pleased. I must confess, your proposition intrigues me. You mentioned some of my colleagues were interested in this job . . .'

‘A few.'

‘Angel?'

‘I don't work with him, but I imagine he would be interested.'

Angel was a world-class sniper. Ex-military. Navy seals. He preferred to take out his targets from a different ZIP code. He got the nickname Angel because he could make fire rain from heaven and disappear before the smoke cleared. Few people had ever met him. Mr. Christmas had caught sight of him once, in Guatemala City, from a skylight. He had taken prey that had belonged to Mr. Christmas. And that was rude, to say the least. Mr. Christmas did not care for rudeness.

‘If you would be so kind, book me on a flight to New York, please.'