WATER WORKS: 8) BISHKEK

Sunday Funnies: A Novel of Intrigue, Lunacy & H2O

11.

I buy a French phone card from the tabac adjacent to Cafe de Paris, poke it into a public phone and attempt connection with Pikestaff.

"Director's office."

"Good," I say. "That's who I'm looking for."

"Who's calling?"

"Monaco."

“Is that your last name?”

"Actually, it's a place."

"Will Mr. Pikestaff...?"

"We won't know till you try."

Ten seconds later I have Pikestaff in my ear. "Kyrgyzstan," I say.

"What?"

"That's where Dulci Acqua is headquartered. Get this, it's owned by a Liechtenstein trust."

Pikestaff whistles. He doesn’t need me to tell him that Liechtenstein trusts are utilized for total anonymity. And they are tough to crack. "What about Monaco?" he asks.

"It's nice here."

Pikestaff harrumphs so distinctly, it conveys over fiber optic. "I mean, what's Dulci Acqua's connection to Monaco?"

I brief Pikestaff on what, why and who.

"They already moved the scientist out of Russia," I add.

"Where?"

"What, why and who are cheap, Pikestaff. Where is the five-million-dollar question. They won't tell me till we've jointly ventured. The way I see it, we have two options: one, cough up five mil, own half the scientist and eventually get these mongrels to take us to their leader. I prefer option two: back out of the Monaco deal and cut around these folks, go straight to their parents. I'm told they're not for sale, but I'd like to hear that directly from mom and pop. If we're going to spend money, I want a piece of the big enchilada, not a side of refried beans." I pause. "But it all really depends on how important that scientist is to you. If you can't afford to lose him, go with option one and ante up."

"When do you need a decision?"

"Tomorrow. Get someone in Kyrgyzstan to look up Dulci Acqua in the phone book."

Pikestaff grunts. "I'll see what I can do."

"Don't let the station in Bishkek make waves—and that wasn't a burp, Pikestaff—Bishkek the capital of Kyrgyzstan."

"I know that.”

"All I want is an address and phone number. I'll call you tomorrow, eight a.m. your time."

Upstairs in the famed cafe, Belon oysters on the half shell whistle my name. I respond, dousing the succulent creatures with shallots in vinegar, chasing them with a fine Alsace Gewürztraminer.

*****

They are laying in wait for me when I arrive: Armand Seiff, Madeleine Zacharski—and Charles Mancini, their American lawyer, another hybrid.

I take my place at a round pedestal table in Dulci Acqua's windowless conference room, beneath dreaded mercury vapor tube lighting. It is one of those deals, so European, that features a legal pad and pencil for each player along with a selection of bottled drinks in different colors.

"My client instructed me to structure a basic joint-venture agreement whereby you are responsible for financing," say Charles Mancini. He has dark features, bushy eyebrows and a comb-over, displaying more scalp than hair—a scabby pate, suggesting a failed implant.

I nod and read the document. It is all there: The Enki Group invests five million buckaroonies in return for 50 percent of all corporate net profits produced by Alexandre's invention. It is down to Dulci Acqua to drive this—and to divide net from gross, one supposed; me and Morton would become, in effect, silent partners, with no say.

"How about a seat on the board?" I ask.

Sieff shakes his head. "None available. Sorry." Smug bastard.

"How soon do you expect to begin marketing this technology?" I ask.

"Six months," Seiff replies.

"I assume you already have a signed deal with Alexandre?"

"Of course. Before he left Russia. We'll provide you with a copy." Sieff offers his Mont Blanc.

I pretend not see it. "I'll fax this to our attorney in Washington."

"Washington?"

"Yeah, that's where we're setting up the Enki office. For lobbying reasons. We’re going to need a gaggle of congressmen in our pockets.” I wink. “My attorney has to look this over. Just a formality." I check my wristwatch. "He's waiting to receive it at 9:30. Washington time, of course."

Glumness ensues. The Dulci Acqua trio had been hoping to bank five mil before lunch.

We agree to reconvene at 5 p.m.

*****

At two o’clock sharp I call Pikestaff from a public phone. It eats digital units from my telecarte as I spar with the DCI's secretary who, after years of sporadic contact, still refuses to recognize my voice.

"Dulci Acqua came up positive," Pikestaff tells me. "They're in Bishkek."

"Excellent. What about the scientist? You want me to make the deal with their Monaco branch?"

"Yes and no," said Pikestaff.

"This is why I so enjoy working with you, Pikestaff."

"Yes, the scientist is important to us. No, not for five million dollars. How confident are you that you can stay in the picture with the scientist by doing what you suggested yesterday—going straight to the top?"

"It's dicey, Pikestaff. We might lose them. But you know me, I prefer to swing for a homer."

*****

The Dulci Acqua trio are grouped inside the conference room when I re-arrive at 5:03.

I bubble into the room, contrasting their circumspection with ebullience. "Okay." I take my seat. "Where's that fancy pen of yours, Armand?"

Armand dips into his pocket and hands it to me.

"I guess I'd better read it again," I wink. "In case you guys changed it."

No one smiles. This is a humorless clump of humanity, doused with too much mercury vapor.

As I read, the leggy receptionist knocks and enters. "Zee telephone for Monsieur Sandak," she says.

"Me?" I look up, feigning surprise. "Excuse me." I follow Mademoiselle Legs into reception.

"You can take it zere," she says through pouty lips, pointing to the sit-down ensemble.

I pick up and run through the motions of conversation. "Really? No... really?" I listen. "Fascinating. Yeah. Got it. No problem. Tomorrow? Uh-huh. See ya." I replace the receiver, nod at Legs, who's been listening in, and bound back to the conference room.

Six eyeballs are upon me.

"I've had some amazing news from New York," I say. "Apparently, they've discovered another waste-water mousetrap that has them jumping up and down. I'm sorry, but they've asked me to return to evaluate the merits of that deal before we sign this one."

I can almost see steam rising from Sieff’s ears.

Madeleine abruptly jumps to her feet. "I have some calls to make," she says huffily, turning on her high heel.

I sit and face Sieff. He isn’t so smug any more.

"Hey,” I say, relishing this development. "I'd really like to see this deal happen—you folks seem so much fun to work with. But I have no choice. You'd do the same in my shoes."

"Mr. Sandak." Sieff is gnarly now. "I told you yesterday: we need this deal closed in 48 hours..."

"Forty-eight hours? No problem."

"That was 24 hours ago," says Seiff.

"Tell you what," I say. "Make it 48 hours from now. That'll give me time I need to nail this sucker down. I'll fax you a signed contract from New York."

Recovering from initial disappointment, Sieff now looks at Mancini. "Will that work for you?"

The lawyer turns to me. "As long as you send the original by courier."

"No problem, Charley. Thanks, guys. Gotta run."