Dick Goes to the Bank
Avery M. Dick
The Larson Agency
Fairfax, Virginia
Copyright © 2008 by Avery M. Dick
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations,
or events in this novel are either products of the author’s
imagination or used fictitiously.
If you have purchased this book without a cover you should
be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as
“unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author
nor the publisher has received any payment for the “stripped
book.”
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or
reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written
permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in
critical articles or reviews.
ISBN: 978-0-615-20935-7
Contents
Foreword
Chapter 1 Breaking into the Bank
Chapter 2 The Teller’s Window Opens
Chapter 3 Romanian Rhapsodizing
Chapter 4 Stumbling Through Steeped History
Chapter 5 Midday Mourning
Chapter 6 Bloodletting in the Boondocks
Chapter 7 Byzantine Orthodoxy
Chapter 8 Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered
Chapter 9 Going Against the Grain
Chapter 10 Turnabout is Fowl Play
Chapter 11 Things Go Awry
Chapter 12 A Tough Row to Hoe
Chapter 13 St. Anthony’s Fire Brigade
Chapter 14 Bringing in One of the Sheaves
Chapter 15 Dacha Gotcha!
Chapter 16 Dragos Turns His Coat Inside Out
Chapter 17 The Arabesque at the Abattoir
Chapter 18 Tweaking the Twerp
Afterword
Foreword
I’ve spent forty years or so in the investigative biz, and I’m still amazed
by the avarice and greed of some people. I’m not particularly self-
righteous, or a saint by any means, but I do admit that some of the
scams I come across really go beyond the pale. Sometimes a person’s
hunger for the illicit buck, Euro, or whatever, knows no bounds. This is
one of those cases—even friends and neighbors were not immune from
the bloodsuckers greediness.
In this story, I’m thrown a bone by Jersey Briggs, my old friend and
colleague at the State Department’s Diplomatic Security Service. The
bone actually had some meat left on it for a change—and I don’t mind
playing fetch when my pockets and gas tank are empty. Money had
always been a problem since I retired from the Service—I never had
enough to support my many vices and few virtues.
By the way, the bone was a cushy gig with the World Bank. It
needed someone to investigate mysterious illnesses and deaths in
Romania, specifically in rural Transylvania. Jersey recommended me
for the job, describing it as a routine matter, a no-brainer, as he called it.
It turned out that I was the one without any grey matter for accepting
the assignment. No amount of money was worth risking limb and life
if you can’t live long enough to spend it. I would have a bone to pick
with him later over his sense of largesse and choice of words.
My whining aside, I had no idea that I would be facing one of the
most bizarre and puzzling cases in my long career. The stakes were high
since people were dying almost every day and no one had a clue why.
Spooky, inexplicable things were going bump in the night. My task was
to find out what was happening and put a stop to it. Sometimes those
who protect and serve tend to overestimate their professional skills and
underestimate those of their adversaries.
That was certainly the case here—I almost died trying to solve this
mystery. As you can imagine, I have absolutely no sense of humor when
it comes to such matters. No matter though; I lived long enough to tell
you this tale. However, please keep the nightlight on when you go to
bed tonight because there are creepy creatures lurking about to haunt
your dreams—beware, I may be one of them!
I hope you enjoy the read and come back for more. The world is
rife with deceit and corruption and I expect that I’ll be able to stay
gainfully employed for the foreseeable future. Thanks, and as always,
may God bless America!
Avery M. Dick III
(Special Agent, Diplomatic Security Service, Ret.)
CHAPTER 1
Breaking into the Bank
I had just landed feet-first in tall cotton and long green. The
combination of cash crops didn’t get much better in my field. It was
finally harvest time so I hoped to reap bumper profits. My employer
of last resort, the Diplomatic Security Service, U.S. Department of
State, had arranged for a cushy assignment for me—-for a change. My
fortunes really seemed to be changing for the better and maybe my
stars were finally aligning, but my suspicions still abounded. The gut
feelings and hairs on the back of my neck had always served me well in
the past. Maybe it was simply a case of indigestion and poor grooming
on my part. I couldn’t be sure, but I didn’t feel all that well at the
moment.
That was because my good friend, Jersey Briggs, DS’s Director of
Investigations and Counterintelligence, had referred my name for an
assignment at the World Bank Group headquarters in Washington, DC.
He said the bank needed someone with my experience and particular
skills to investigate some minor matter of institutional defalcation—
quickly and quietly. That meant they couldn’t find anyone else to take
the job on short notice. My skepticism and anxiety had just jumped a
couple of more notches.
Jersey’s artful statement translated into a job offer that no one else
would touch with a 10 foot pole—at full extension. It would likely be
dangerous, certainly not something career and/or life enhancing in any
respect. That was the way things worked around here—tar babies could
only be cuddled by others who were expendable to the organization
and down on their luck. It was an axiomatic and immutable thing
practiced to a high form in the federal bureaucracy. So, it now looked
like I would be stuck with the job.
There was something amiss and afoot that I didn’t understand
then. It was all too simple and straightforward, I thought. I suspected
that I would learn the truth much later, the old fashioned, hard way,
by getting my life threatened and ego and body bruised. Looking back,
the assignment almost killed me and that was too much to pay for
someone’s petty misdoing as Jersey Briggs disingenuously suggested.
The only act of fraud I could see was the one being perpetrated on
me.
No matter, I was like a penniless whore with no prospects for
honest employment—or a sympathetic John on payday. I was desperate
for money and what better institution to work for? I wondered. It went
against my personal grain but I probably should have thanked Jersey for
his small bit of largesse. Maybe I would wait until I finished the job just
to make sure that I properly thanked him—and in direct proportion
and kind. By the way, such thoughtful acts of kindness were never
forgotten in DS. Payback was never a bitch, it was always a Dick, as I
like to remind.
I met my John early the following morning at 1818 H Street in
the District. The Metro Orange Line dropped me about two blocks
from the bank’s Main Complex building, as they called it—a massive
structure taking up a whole city block of prime Washington real
estate with its prominent footprint. It was one of several bank leased
or owned buildings clustered downtown near the White House, the
International Monetary Fund, and other recognizable institutions and
appealing terrorist targets.
I stood in line, just inside the building’s entrance, awaiting to be
registered, felt-up, and fondled. I didn’t mind the security precautions—-
it was the only sex I was getting these days.
John Murray shook my hand as I entered his office. He had a manly,
firm grip and I responded in kind. The office was posh and far exceeded
the digs afforded the typical Foreign Service officer assigned to Main
State. It had plush carpeting, draperies, and an exterior window with
a good view of 18th street. I liked the dollar-sign decor and I hoped
the trappings suggested big dollars, Euros, or whatever form of hard
currency for me. There were no doubts about my financial straits and
personal circumstances. I was broke and about to be broken in by the
bank. I had already decided to accept the assignment but I would play
hard to get—but not for too long.
John was an American citizen who had been the World Bank’s Chief
of Security for the past four years since retiring from the U.S. Secret
Service. He was a senior special agent with that outfit for twenty-eight
years and a long-time, personal bud of Jersey Briggs—that was why I
was here. It was timeless old-boy stuff at work again. However, I still
felt uncomfortable. If what he had in mind for me was such a slam-
dunk, sweetheart deal why didn’t he offer it to one of his Secret Service
buddies? I wondered. Why consider an outsider, and often, rival federal
law enforcement agent? I found out much later when it was too late
to reconsider my decision and apply for more term life insurance.
In hindsight, my two sons would have appreciated my prescient
thoughtfulness. However, I wouldn’t have cared in the slightest.
I didn’t fully trust Jersey, although we had gotten along fairly well
over the years. I had occupied his position in DS before retiring eight
years ago. The position required a certain amount of guile and cunning
to survive the byzantine politics and furtive stabs in the back. While I
had survived its hurtful slings and arrows, I was still recovering from
my old war wounds. My licking them from time-to-time hadn’t helped the
healing process one bit, I mused.
“Avery, thanks for accepting the assignment. Jersey speaks very
highly of your talents and experience in the overseas arena. I think
you’re perfect for the job. Welcome aboard my friend.”
I hadn’t even formally accepted the job and now I was John’s new,
best friend. I’d better take things slowly to make sure I understood
what I was getting myself into. Money was an important factor—but I
wanted to live to spend it later.
“Thanks John, but I really need some more information before I
accept the assignment. Jersey gave me little or no information on what
the investigation might entail and I want to make sure I’m a good fit
for the bank.” That self-serving statement meant I needed to know how
much the job paid. It wouldn’t have made any difference, but I had to
at least go through the motions of showing some professional pride.
“I apologize. I thought Jersey had given you a full briefing on the
matter and that you had tentatively agreed to participate in the inquiry.
I’m sorry I jumped the old gun.” Jumping guns was not something that
especially appealed to me, but I kept quiet.
“It really is a pretty straightforward investigation as best we can tell
from here,” he continued. “Let me fill you in on the details and then
you can decide if you’re interested in helping us out.
“Avery, are you familiar with the bank’s history and its mission?
That’s important information for context and perspective before we get
down to the specifics of the case,” he added.
“I don’t know much about the organization and didn’t have time
to do any real homework. I do know you guys are a huge player on
the world stage and have more mega-bucks than Scrooge Mc Duck
tucked away in the vaults in the basement. Croesus would look like a
piker compared to the bank,” I added for comic relief and historical
context.
I was trying my best to keep the conversation light and upbeat so
he wouldn’t readily detect my desperation. Regardless, I couldn’t help
looking around his office for the bags of gold, but didn’t see any. They
must be damn security conscious around here, I thought.
John chuckled at my comments. I was being fairly serious so I
wondered why he found what I said humorous. I smiled back at him
to continue the mystery. I could be so damn clever and inane at the
same time, at times—without even knowing it. That took a special,
innate talent that others, less-gifted lacked. In other words, I was being
a true dick.
“The World Bank Group is a global development organization and
part of the United Nations,” he patiently explained.
“The big bucks are located across the street with our sister
organization—the International Monetary Fund. Our proper name is
the International Bank for Reconstruction and Development. The bank
was created on the heels of World War II and our mission then was to
help nations rebuild and recover from the ravages of war. That meant
lending countries money to rebuild their national infrastructure—
bridges, dams, roads, communications networks, public health
structures, and energy/power distribution systems—things like that.
Of course, our focus has greatly expanded since then. We now assist
developing countries with critical development projects of virtually all
shades and stripes. You name it and we’ll probably fund it.”
Perhaps The Avery Dick Living Memorial Trust? I silently
wondered.
“We get our money from our well-heeled membership or what
we call the donor nations. The wealthy, industrialized countries of
the world chip in each year with big bucks to replenish our coffers.
Another source of revenue comes from the borrower nations which
repay the loans with interest over the years. Our own bank balance
sheet is very healthy, by the way. We have billions of dollars on the
books in reserves. Our strong financial position lets us operate very
independently, almost autonomously—which probably annoys the hell
out of the other United Nations agencies. Moreover, we don’t receive or
require any financial support from our putative home office, the UN
General Secretariat in New York.
“There are over 100 member countries represented at the bank.
You can see the diversity in the workforce by walking down any of the
halls and looking at the nameplates on the doors. We are very much a
diverse, international organization—ethnically, religiously, culturally,
and, most certainly, politically. That fact makes working here interesting,
to put it politely. We have about 6,200 employees worldwide and an
untold number of consultants and advisors under contract working in
one capacity or another.
“Let’s get some lunch and I’ll fill you in with the rest of the stuff
you’ll need to know to make a decision,” he said.
I readily agreed and wondered if I could sneak outside for a quick
smoke afterwards.
We walked through the building’s huge, soaring glass ceiling
atrium. It resembled the I.M. Pei Louvre Pyramid in some respects.
It was a spectacular, modern work of design and art. It was intended
to impress people and make a statement about the organization. It
certainly did in my mind—the takeaway message I got was the bank
spent a lot of money on its own comforts. I wondered how much of
the institution’s largesse trickled down to the poor, third-world (sorry,
developing) countries.
There was a small mezzanine with a coffee bar surrounded by
café tables off to one side. Artwork, mostly paintings and statuary
from various countries, adorned the walls and floor. Everything was
exquisitely coordinated and organized for maximum visual effect. The
atrium was a piece of modern artwork in itself. In a very real sense, it
represented a vivid juxtaposition of power and wealth where the rich
nations of the world paid well-intentioned lip service to its poorer
neighbors.
We walked down a flight of stairs to the ground level to the bank’s
cafeteria. Cafeteria was a bit of a misnomer in this instance. The word
didn’t quite adequately describe the spread and selection before us. The
room’s layout and design were planned for employees to help themselves,
but that was where the resemblance to an ordinary cafeteria ended. In
all other respects, it was a gourmet feast that catered to the varied and
demanding tastes of the staff. Sure, you could get a burger or sandwich
from the short-order bar, but you could also order hot entrees from
the steam tables. The salad and bread bar resembled those you would
find in upscale restaurants. Its selections and varieties of food were
overwhelming. Wine was offered as well and I was tempted—there
was my favorite, white Zinfandel. I thought I’d better pass on the wine
since I didn’t want to give John the impression I was overly fond of
the beverage—although Jersey had probably already told him I was a
borderline wino. Which side of the border was still in question.
I took a cold bottle of Starbucks mocha coffee instead, just to
play it safe. I chose the grilled trout almondine and parsley potatoes.
I collected a creme brûlée for dessert. John insisted on picking up the
tab and I didn’t argue. I took the courteous act as an encouraging sign
of things to come. Both of our meals came to less than $13—the bank
generously subsidized the cafeteria, just one of many perquisites for the
workforce, I guessed. Moreover, as an international organization, there
was no sales tax imposed on the meals. Everything appeared to be self-
served here. I just hoped some of same treatment rubbed off on me.
“Avery, with the amount of money on the development table, there
is a certain amount of corruption, as you can imagine,” John began.
“It’s a serious, sensitive problem around here and one the bank has had
to contend with since its beginning. The temptation to skim off the
top, bottom or middle is very strong. The money’s ripe for the taking
in the developing and underdeveloped countries. The borrower nations
elected leadership sometimes have its hands in the bank’s cookie jar—
it’s simply the cost of doing business in many of these countries.
“However, the corruption doesn’t stop at the top. Everyone who
has a hand in the development project is also a potential thief. The
contractors and service providers working on the project often have
to kick-back monies to the higher-ups to get a contract or a piece of
the action. Costs and fees are inflated to cover much of the bribery
and graft. Shoddy work or no work or the use of cheap, substandard
materials are other ways the contractors cover the bribes to their masters
while lining their own pockets. It’s the old sticky fingers, trickle-down
economic theory at play. Sometimes it’s more than a trickle though.
The term cost overrun is a popular one in this building and codeword
for outright corruption.
“We certainly do our best to prevent and deter malfeasance and
other fraud, but frankly the deck is stacked against us in most cases.
Our accountants and auditors regularly detect or suspect financial and
contracting irregularities, but there’s little they can do to stop them—
even when they are blatant. Who do we report them to for follow-up
investigation and possible criminal prosecution? The local authorities?
Not likely, since these are usually the same people who are ripping us
off. The bank cajoles, coerces, and politely threatens the countries by
cutting off additional funds and disapproving new projects. It’s often a
hollow threat and the bad guys know it.”
I properly closed my plate with my knife and fork along the ten
and four o’clock position to show John that I wasn’t one of the bad
guys—at least when it came to etiquette.
“Here’s the irony,” he continued. “Many of these countries are so
indebted to the bank through years and years of borrowing that they
can’t hope to pay back the loans. The bank is elated when these deadbeat
nations are able to pay a portion of the interest on the loans—forget
about the repayment of the principle. Loans are often restructured and
extended to keep them afloat and from going into default. There’s a
lot of bureaucratic smoke and mirrors to keep the financial statements
balanced and rational. In dire situations, loans are forgiven outright
because the bank knows the debtor nations could never repay them.
“In essence, the bank is now largely at the mercy of its own borrowers.
The outstanding debt is humongous. If our clients decided to default
en masse, the World Bank Group might as well fold its tent and slip
quietly into the night—it would be out of business. That would be a
terrible loss because of the good works it promotes—projects that make
lives of the world’s poor marginally better and more comfortable—the
building of rural hospitals, the delivery of health care services, the
provision of reliable, potable water supplies, and many other essential
services.”
John continued to give me a concise primer of the bank’s history
and current operations around the world. The projects and programs
all sounded very impressive, altruistic, and expensive. He still hadn’t
disclosed why I was here and what role I was expected play in this
drama. I badly needed a cigarette but I’d have to wait since he was the
client and paying the bills.
Sometimes those who protect and serve must have the patience of
Job when they desperately needed a job.
CHAPTER 2
The Teller’s Window Opens
John finally got around to telling me about the assignment. I was
relaxed and looked forward to hearing why I was here. After lunch,
I hit the John and grabbed a quick smoke outside before getting the
real scoop. (I like to use strong action words to describe my addictions
and bodily functions.) With all the employee creature comforts and
amenities, I was about to ask John why there wasn’t a designated
smoking lounge inside the building. I thought better of it and kept my
mouth shut.
That practice had always worked for me when I was employed by
the department. Discretion was the better part of valor, as I recalled from
my days in DS—open mouth and insert foot was another aphorism I
remembered too. In any case, it must be the bank’s warped perception
that smoking wasn’t good for one’s health. Some of my assignments
for the Diplomatic Security Service over the years could be described
the same way. Blowing smoke and taking risks were just expected and
perfunctory parts of the job. Regardless, it all came down to smoke and
mirrors in the end, I reflected. However, spin was always preferred to
substance in my topsy-turvy biz.
“We have a serious situation that needs immediate attention by
someone with your overseas experience and investigative skills,” John
asserted in a straightforward, matter-of-fact manner, awakening me
from my self-induced reverie.
“Time is critical at this point. We need to know what’s going on
and put a stop to it. People are dying almost every day and we don’t
have a clue what’s happening.”
I scratched my head and wondered when he would get to the
bottom line of his spiel. I didn’t say a word though since I was on the
clock. He could take all the time he wanted. I was in no hurry except
for the money. I’d make sure to ask a lot of questions at the end.
“It started a couple of weeks ago in rural Romania and involves
one of our smaller projects there. Farmers and peasants are dying of
a mysterious disease. The symptoms come on quickly and death can
follow in a short time. Fortunately, while many people have become
sick, only a few have died from the disease so far—twelve people by our
best count—adults and children alike. We have reports that upwards
of fifty-four people have been affected by the outbreak of whatever this
thing is.
“The illnesses, the outbreak, epidemic, or whatever you want to
call it, are confined to the Transylvania region of the country. It’s an
extremely poor, desolate, backward part of Romania. The residents are
very ingrown in their beliefs and lifestyle and typically shun outsiders.
Clannishness doesn’t quite describe the nature and way of life of these
people—they have chosen to remain isolated and self-sufficient for
generations. Part of the reason is ethnicity, part religion, and the rest
ingrained custom—it’s been the way they have lived for generations.
They are a closed society and a stubborn bunch when it comes right
down to it.
“They barely recognize or acknowledge the authority of the central
government in Bucharest. That’s why it’s been so damn difficult for us
to get information and a handle on the situation. The locals simply
aren’t particularly forthcoming and cooperative with those who they
consider outsiders. That’s about anyone and everyone born or living
elsewhere in the country. The people claim the disease is a plague visited
on them by God and it’s His will for them to suffer for their sins and
misdeeds—they certainly are by all accounts.”
I interrupted John at this point. “Look, as you know, I’m neither a
doctor nor an epidemiologist, I can’t even spell the word—and I mean
doctor. I have no skills or insight into such things and certainly can’t
bring anything to the table professionally. I’m a government trained
dick who has spent a lot of years investigating various security related
incidents and crimes abroad for Uncle Sam,” I proudly asserted. It was
a clumsy and feeble reference to my career with my former employer—
the Diplomatic Security Service.
I always enjoyed stating the obvious in these situations. It confirmed
my credentials, established performance expectations, and made my
transparency clear to others. Sometimes those who protect and serve
need to flash their DS shield—and not the AMA caduceus.
“Thanks for the clarification Avery,” John sarcastically quipped in
response to my explanation of my bona fides. I quickly recalled the
open mouth, insert foot saying and stayed mute in front of my meal
ticket. I’d now have to rely on my body language for frank and pointed
expression. Sticking out my tongue was not an option though.
“Okay, here’s the deal,” John continued. “The bank issued an
agricultural grant of approximately four million dollars to the Romanian
government some months ago. The declared purpose of the grant was
for the government to purchase seed stock for planting wheat, maize,
rye, and barley.
“Several years of drought followed by a particularly wet growing
season this year have decimated the indigenous crops in the region.
Wheat, and other grain production, was down about 60 percent this
past season compared to the yields of normal growing years. These crops
are essential food sources for people and fodder for their livestock. As
a result, people have been suffering and now there’s this outbreak on
top of things. I guess when it rains, it pours—except when it rains in
Romania, it inundates the cereal crops and halves the harvests.
“The Romanian government has pumped in some money for
farmers to buy seed for the upcoming season but it’s been grossly
inadequate to meet the region’s needs. The Romanians turned to the
bank for help. In this instance, the bank decided on a issuing a grant
rather than a loan given the humanitarian and political nature of the
problem. Also, the money was small potatoes for the bank—no pun
intended. There’s much more than that at stake here. To a large extent,
the bank’s credibility and reputation are on the line.”
I broke my oath of silence and John’s monologue. “Why is the
bank’s reputation on the line? I don’t see any particular connection
between the bank and the outbreak of these illnesses you’ve mentioned.
Where’s the nexus?” I not-so-politely inquired.
“That’s a fair and obvious question. If you had let me finish, I would
have told you. God, you DS guys are an impatient bunch,” he added
for good measure. He was right though. Patience was never one of my
virtues—along with celibacy and sobriety.
“The bank is very much in the forefront of the issue. The locals
know that the bank provided the money to buy the seed grain. The
tons of wheat, barley and other cereal grain showing up in their villages
are each marked with the words: Le Banc Mondial—French for The
World Bank. They may be backward in many ways, but they are not
totally stupid. They sense some sort of connection between the seed
shipments and the illnesses and deaths they are experiencing. We
believe it’s nonsense, but they don’t. They have threatened our country
office personnel visiting the region to periodically check on the status
of the project. Our local staffers in Bucharest now refuse to visit the
valley fearing for their personal safety.
“Many of these people question the bank’s motives and have made
some absurd claims about the wealthy, industrialized nations poisoning
the poor of the world—intentionally by providing unsafe or dangerous
or inferior or outdated products to them. It’s the old argument about
the third-world being the dumping ground for the multinational
companies of the developed world. I’m sure you’ve heard similar
conspiracy theories in your career. The so-called anti-globalists love this
sort of stuff and have already started propagandizing the incident. We
need to put a stop to the rumors by finding the cause of this plague.
“There are also those religious extremists in the local communities
who oppose the grant believing the people should not have to rely on
any outside assistance to cope with the crop failures—again, the God’s
will and divine purpose sort of thinking that I’ve already mentioned.
They’ve been stirring up trouble with the people. Last night, nearly a
ton of bagged grain awaiting distribution was destroyed in a municipal
barn. Also, a Molotov cocktail was throw at the window of our country
office in Bucharest causing some minor damage. Fortunately, no one
was hurt in either incident, but the anger and tensions are rising. The
natives are restless, Avery.”
I finished my bottle of Starbucks and waited for the punch line to the
story—that would be my little role in this matter—the witless whack-
a-mole for the bank, I suspected. I’d better keep my head down.
“Avery, we want you go to Romania and find out what’s going on
and report back to us. Nothing dangerous or risky, just a straightforward
fact-finding mission to tell us what we’re dealing with on the ground.
You’ll be our eyes and ears so to speak. Our Bucharest country office
certainly has insights into the situation but they are neither neutral
nor unbiased when it comes to the matter. That perception alone is
sufficient reason to have someone else investigate. It’s been their project
to manage and their interests are potentially too self-serving. That’s not
to suggest we don’t trust our own people there but they’re much too
close to the situation in our opinion.
“If you accept the assignment, you have to leave tonight on the
flight out of Dulles to Munich to connect with an onward flight to
Bucharest. You’ll be met at the airport by one of our staff upon arrival.
A visa isn’t a problem since we can arrange for one to be issued at the
airport. Unfortunately, as a consultant, we can’t grant you diplomatic
immunity or issue you a United Nations Carnet de Voyage.
“However, we will prepare a very official looking letter on our fancy
stationary stating you are working on behalf of the World Bank Group;
a parastatal organ of the United Nations. It will include the standard,
customary, bullshit, diplomatic language about according you all
courtesies, etc, etc. It’s good eyewash that might come in handy at
some point. However, keep in mind that if you get into serious trouble
with the authorities, the letter and $3.49 will only buy you a Starbucks’
Cappuccino—if you can find one in a Romanian jail.”
The takeaway message from John was that I would be going to
Romania completely naked—no diplomatic passport or visa, no UN
carnet, no gun, no nothing, except my experience and skills to keep
me out of trouble with the local authorities. I was worried about my
prospects and proclivities. Sometimes those who protect and serve were
nothing more than jaybird exhibitionists.
“The job pays $875 a day plus all expenses. The bank staff flies
first-class when available and stays at the top hotels. You will receive
the same perks, if you accept the assignment. I’ve already contacted the
bank’s travel office to prepare your tickets. They’ve already booked you
into the Intercontinental hotel in Bucharest. As I mentioned earlier,
I thought you had already accepted the job so I went ahead with the
travel arrangements.
“Here’s a copy of the Letter of Engagement I drafted to cover the
scope and terms of the assignment. It’s standard bank pap and wording.
Read it and let me know what you think. Avery, I need a quick decision
from you. If you aren’t willing to take this thing on, I need to find
someone else who will—soonest.”
I read the LOE and John was right. It contained the standard
legalese you would find in similar personal services contracts. Two
good things caught my attention though. The first was the fact I
would be covered for a medical emergency abroad through the bank’s
contract with International SOS—a reputable, world-wide service
provider. The second thing, as a U.S. citizen, I would be covered by
the U.S. workman’s comp laws while abroad. That was an interesting,
unexpected, and welcomed benefit.
Although I received a government pension and continued with
health insurance from my former employer, these other bennies
would fill in any gaps if I got into serious medical trouble requiring
hospitalization or medical evacuation. The workman’s comp would
also cover any disabling accidents or illnesses I might suffer overseas. I
didn’t want to think about the death benefit provisos at this point.
“Where do I sign John?” I politely asked. I didn’t make an X, as
usual, to purposely annoy people.
“On the bottom line,” John smiled and laughed. “Oh, and by the
way, you won’t be working alone in Romania. Our Deputy Medical
Director, Julienne Boudary, will be working with you on the medical
and health issues involved in the case. Her speciality is infectious
diseases. (Too bad I didn’t have any of those. An STD or two could have
served as an icebreaker for polite conversation, I aimlessly thought.) She
left for Bucharest last night on the same flight you’ll be taking. She’s
booked at the Intercontinental as well. I expect you to keep an eye on
her and make sure she’s safe.
“For the record, keeping an eye on her is as far as you can go.
Julie is my girlfriend, significant other, main squeeze, or whatever such
relationships are called these days. Avery, Jersey warned me about your
reputation with the ladies and your penchant for the wine. Let me
put it this way—don’t touch her and don’t get her drunk. Do you
understand me my friend?” John added for good measure. He obviously
wanted to be my buddy, I thought. That was a good sign.
“You may survive your trip to Romania but you’ll pay a heavy
price with me if you try to screw around with Julie.
“Go down to the cashiers window and draw cash against your
expenses,” John instructed. “I suggest getting Euros since they will give
you a stronger buying position. I’ll call ahead to authorize it. Come
back when you finish and I’ll have the letter ready. Lastly, I want you to
keep in regular contact with me. I need to know what you’re learning
so I can report some progress to the big suits upstairs. They’re going to
be on my ass until this thing is resolved.”
I had heard his message—loud and clear. I would be in big trouble
with the boss man if I didn’t keep him informed of developments or
played with his girlfriend. I would have to be damn circumspect in
choosing my disclosures and playmates—you don’t want to spit or shit
where you eat, as the crude remark sort of goes. However, on occasion,
things were better left unsaid, undone or undressed. I had learned that
loose lips and random actions can often sink ships and careers in my
profession. However, I didn’t have a career anymore or plan to run into
any icebergs.
Sometimes those who protect and serve could be tight-lipped, icy
nerved, constipated dicks when circumstances required.
CHAPTER 3
Romanian Rhapsodizing
I was rushed and barely made my flight to Munich. I remembered
to at least pack the essentials: a five liter box of white Zinfandel, a
couple of cartons of Marlboro reds, and an eight pack of Viagra—I’m
an optimistic, nicotine addicted, and limp wino at heart. Most of the
supplies wouldn’t last me the whole trip, but they’d be a good starter
kit. I packed my Leather Man tool in my checked luggage to avoid
the hassle of the boarding search. I brought some melatonin pills to
help me with the effects of jet lag. I now was all set. I also was all
apprehensive and all wondering what I had gotten all myself into—all
at the same time. But it was much too late for any second thoughts or
regrets. I was now gainfully employed for a change, a sharp departure
from working for the department.
As promised, I was met upon arrival in Bucharest by the country
office driver. He held up a large placard with my name on it as he
waited just outside of customs and immigration. I probably should
have felt a little bit important being received this way except he badly
misspelled my name—both my first and last. I had to ask if he really
was from the World Bank and meeting a Mr. Avey Dickie—a.k.a. Mr.
Exhausted Avery Dick. He assured me he was. He introduced himself
as Igor Tugurlan—but everyone, except his mother, called him Iggie. I
told him my name was Mr. Dick—with no i and e at the end, thank
you. He could address me as Mr. Dick for short. I mentioned that
my mother always called me the same thing when I was growing up.
Sometimes those who protect and serve must set the record, and the
spelling, straight for less fluent foreigners with thick accents.
“Mr. Dick, may I collect your luggage?” he correctly asked. I didn’t
argue with the offer and handed him my tags. As Iggie fetched my
luggage at baggage claim, I walked outside the terminal building and
smoked four cigarettes in quick succession. I felt better and more alert.
I felt lightheaded too—it must have been the Bucharest climate.
We left the airport for the short ride to the Intercon. Iggie and
I only conversed in English since my Romanian was a bit rusty—
truthfully, Bucharest, Intercon, and Nadia Comaneci were the only
Romanian words I knew by heart. I couldn’t even pronounce Ceascescu
However, technically speaking, I believe someone can claim fluency in
a given language even if one’s entire vocabulary only consists of a few
words—si senor! I always struggled with English though.
After a few hours of much needed sleep, Iggie drove me to the
bank’s country office. It was located in a modest, midrise building in
the center of the city. I entered the conference room and introduced
myself to Lance Trumbull, the country manager for Romania. Lance
was a New Zealander who had been in Romania about three years.
His assignment was theoretically open-ended, but most managers
normally served about four to five years before rotating to another job.
Lance didn’t have much of an accent after having spent eight years
in Washington at bank headquarters—thankfully, no interpreter was
required for our meeting.
The two of us shook hands. Lance gave me a typical limp-wrist,
European shake. I purposely squeezed his hand to show him a true,
macho-man grip. His eyes didn’t water, but it was obvious from his facial
expression that Uncle Sam’s finest had handily made an impression on
this foreigner. Lance was well–turned out in a charcoal gray suit with
matching vest. He wore a cream colored shirt with French cuffs and his
cufflinks were replicas of the United Nations seal. His overall appearance
and mannerisms suggested that he was gay—his pronounced lisp didn’t
dissuade me in my judgment.
His hair had been carefully coiffed and his fingernails meticulously
manicured and lacquered with clear nail polish. “Spit and polish” don’t
go far enough to accurately describe his dress and demeanor. He was
downright effeminate—and probably damn proud of the fact. I didn’t
particularly care about his genteel sexual orientation or lifestyle, but
this Kiwi was most definitely a queer bird and ripe fruit. In terms of
image alone, he could be the ideal poster boy for the State Department’s
Foreign Service recruiters.
Lance introduced me to Julienne Boudary. I now understood why
John Murray was so uptight and apprehensive about my reputation
for liking the ladies. She was a gorgeous woman who oozed sensuality
from every pore of her lithe body. Fortunately, she was only slightly
more masculine than Lance. Her beautiful smile lit up the room and
my ardor; well, perhaps something else—alien, English words were
always hard.
Two members of Lance’s staff were present, but he didn’t bother to
introduce them. He might have been a spiffy dresser and bon vivant but
he was sorely deficient in practicing basic, social graces. His superiors
should seriously dress him down for his gaffe. However, I remained
silent because I didn’t want to alienate him. He and his Romanian aides
might come in handy at some point in my investigation. Sometimes
those who protect and serve must accept professional courtesies from
those who were infinitely light in their Gucci loafers.
After a short while, one of Lance’s staffers delivered pots of coffee
and tea along with a plate of biscuits. All the earthenware was off-
white, bone china and the white paper doilies added a nice touch. But
I still couldn’t abide the word biscuits. Why not call them cookies or
crackers, like in the good, old US of A? “Biscuits” reminded me of
doggie treats; I couldn’t help it. In any case, the refreshments suggested
this would be a long meeting, and unfortunately I didn’t notice any No
Doze on the tray.
“Welcome to Romania, Mr. Dick, Lance began. I’ve prepared a
short briefing of the situation for you and Ms. Boudary. Headquarters
has outlined your respective portfolios and we stand ready to assist you
both in all ways possible. This is a terrible black eye for the bank, as we
are being blamed by some for what is happening in Transylvania. It’s all
nonsense, of course, but we can’t seem to dissuade the natives that the
grain stocks we funded aren’t the cause of the illnesses or deaths. The
notion is absurd and we need to put a stop to the rumors and innuendos
before they affect other bank programs in the country. Even some of
the Romanian government officials are starting to believe them.
“Things have gotten so far out of hand that my staff refuse to travel
to the region, fearing for their safety. Things have gotten nasty. You
may have noticed the shattered, charred window when you entered our
building. It was a not-so-subtle message of the locals’ displeasure with
the bank.”
“We must find the cause of this plague, as the locals refer to it, and
put an end to it before we lose all credibility with the populace. Other,
important bank programs and projects are at stake.”
Lance didn’t mention his job and career might also be at stake too.
He took a breather and sipped his tea. I did the same with my black
coffee, but intentionally avoided the biscuits. Julie sat quietly, looking
exhausted from her flight.
“Here’s what we know so far about this so-called plague,”Lance
continued. “It’s largely confined to the area around a small farming
village called Alba Iulia. It’s a subsistence farming region that is also
densely forested. The trees are the real moneymaker since they support
logging and lumber production. The village is situated in a large valley
encircled by the Transylvania Alps and the Carpathian Mountains. It’s a
poor, isolated, and backward region of the country, even by Romanian
standards. The locals pride themselves on their self-sufficiency and
stubborn, old world culture. Outsiders are certainly not welcome—
and much less so these days. It is almost impossible to get them to talk
about the plague so specific information is hard to come by. They tend
to be solely reliant on themselves and their kinsmen to live their lives.
They simply don’t trust foreigners—meaning anyone from outside the
region. That’s why it’s been so damned difficult to get a good sense
of what is going on there. The authorities from Bucharest are treated
in much the same manner or worse—they’re still viewed as repressive
commissars.”
“Do you have any reliable sources or other resources in the area
that could help with our inquiries?” I asked.
“Unfortunately, no,” Lance answered. “The district officials are not
helpful. In fact, they treat us with as much disdain and mistrust as the
farmers and villagers.”
Julie spoke for the first time. “What medical resources are available
to treat these illnesses?” She inquired. “Who’s tending to the health
needs of these people?”
“There’s a hospital in Sibiu, about a thirty-five minute drive from
Alba Iulia, if the one road is open and the weather is good. Remember,
this is a mountainous area and getting to certain places is difficult at
best. Also, many of the locals distrust hospitals or can’t afford to pay for
treatment. Only a couple of admissions to the hospital by the stricken
have been reported so far. Most of them stay home to die or get better—
God’s will, as they would say. Outside medical practitioners are about
as welcome as the plague itself. That alone gives you a good idea of
what we’re up against with these people.
“As best we can determine, fourteen to twenty people have died
so far. The total number of people stricken is anybody’s guess. There
seems to be no rhyme or reason to its cause or who it afflicts. It’s all
too sketchy and random. One family contracts it and the next door
neighbors don’t. It doesn’t appear to be infectious so the conventional
wisdom points to an environmental origin.
“The Romanian government has requested the assistance of the
World Health Organization. The Romanians simply don’t have the
resources or expertise to solve this mystery. A team of technicians and
scientists from the WHO should arrive in Alba Iulia in the next couple
of days to begin their investigation. They aren’t likely to receive a warm
reception by the locals, but they need to be close to the site of the
disease or plague or whatever you want to call the thing. I’m sure that
they’ll have their hands full.”
“I’ve arranged accommodations for you, Julie, and my driver, Igor
Tugurlan at a lovely old inn in Sibiu. The city will serve as your base
of operations. I don’t mean to tell you where or how to go about your
investigation, but Sibiu is the only city in the region that is suitable for
living. It’s an old, historically rich city and has most of the amenities
you would expect in Bucharest. My partner and I have stayed at the
inn several times and absolutely enjoy its old world charm. You won’t
be disappointed, Mr. Dick.”
“Please call me Avery,” I interrupted. “My mom always did when I
was growing up. So Iggie is to be part of our little team?”
“Yes, he will be invaluable to your investigation. He was born and
raised in Transylvania and speaks the local dialect. He’ll be treated as one
of their own. He still has a few relatives in the region, as I understand.
These people could be very useful in your inquiries.
“Speaking of inquiries, I assume you’ll keep me posted on all
developments,” Lance stated more as a matter-of-fact rather than a
question. “It’s important that I stay in the loop so I can deal with the
Bucharest bureaucrats.”
“Certainly,” I assured him. Certainly not, you fruit loop, I assured
myself while keeping my fingers crossed behind my back. Lance was
a typical bureaucrat trying to cover his ass as best he could under the
circumstances. My loyalty and reporting chain went directly to John
Murray and no one else. I understood who was paying the freight.
The meeting was finished when Lance handed me two airline
tickets to Sibiu—one for Iggie and one for me. Julie would stay behind
in Bucharest for a day or so and then join us. She needed to make the
rounds of the Ministry of Health and Welfare and friendly embassies in
the city to try to learn more about conditions in Alba Iulia.
As we left, Lance gallantly bent at the waist and kissed Miss Julie’s
hand. God, this guy was as pretentious, phony, and fruity as it gets.
Fortunately, he didn’t try the same thing with me. In fact, he refused
to shake my hand. It was obvious that I’d just made another favorable
impression and friend for Uncle Sam. Sometimes those who protect
and serve found that clenched palmistry was necessary for the slight
of hand.
Julie and I had dinner together at the Intercon that evening. It was
our first opportunity to get to know each other. The food was extremely
edible and so was Julie. I’d better be damn careful about ordering from
room service though, I mused.
“Avery, John warned me about you,” Julie laughingly mentioned.
He says you’re an incurable lech and lush. However, he also said you
were a first-rate investigator—a bulldog with lockjaw in solving the
tough cases, as he described you.”
“Guilty on all counts, ma’am,” I relied with a hangdog look. “Sounds
like my vices and only virtue follow me wherever I go,” I quipped.
“By the way, you should know that I take my women like my
coffee—sweet and white. Zinfandel is my favorite wine and I smoke
Marlboro reds before, during and after sex—and drinking,” I joked.
Julie laughed at my foolishness. She had a good sense of humor and
we would get along well—with her brains and my flatfeet we would
make a good team.
“You seem to know much about me Miss Julie, but how about you?
Where do you hail from? How did you end up working for the World
Bank? Do you like older, white American gentlemen?” I quickly rattled
off.
“Okay, fair enough,” she laughed. “I’m a French Canadien born and
raised in Montreal. I received my medical degree from McGill University
and I’m board certified in epidemiology. Job opportunities for those
in my specialty are usually limited to government organizations. The
World Bank had an opening in my field and I jumped at the chance to
work for the organization. I’ve been with the bank for a little over three
years and thoroughly love my job. And, no, I’m not attracted to rude,
sexist jerks wearing safari suits. Anything else you want to know?”
I was terribly offended by her remark, it was called a leisure suit,
damn it!
“Well, speaking of love, how long have you been hooked up with
John?” I asked. “He mentioned the two of you were an item and he
wanted me to look after you here.”
“Typical male ego and arrogance,” she answered. “First, my
relationship with John is none of your business. Second, I’m pretty
independent and can look after myself, thank you very much. Men!”
she exclaimed. She was obviously a bit miffed—she couldn’t be pissed
because that was strictly a masculine term.
While we sparred back-and-forth, the waiter took our orders. Julie
had the horse fillet, cooked bleu or extremely rare, as the French say.
She also ordered a side of pommes frites. Why was I not surprised?
Actually, I was thoroughly disgusted by her meal choice but kept quiet.
I could only envision that old Nell, the milkman’s draft horse, had just
ended up on tonight’s menu. I ordered beefsteak tartar with a dollop
of Hollandaise sauce as my entree. I didn’t share the same sentiments
about old Bessie, the milkman’s producer.
I could tell that I went too far teasing Julie and decided to change
the subject to a less sensitive subject—politics.
“So Julie, where do you stand on the separatist issue for Quebec?” I
innocently asked. “It seems to me that the issue has taken a major turn
in the past few years with the tremendous influx of Muslims to the
province. They’re aggressively seeking Sharia law and governance for
their people—essentially demanding independence and autonomy. A
huge Islamic wave is sweeping across the province—simply look at the
demographics and population projections. I don’t think that’s what the
original French speaking separatists had in mind for the province.”
“Avery, you can be so insensitive and rude at times,” she chided. “I
suspect you already know that about yourself. You intentionally like to
stir the pot, don’t you?”
She was right about that—it was a bad habit that I couldn’t (and
didn’t want to) break. The truth was that I enjoyed riling up people.
Sometimes the nasty trait was actually useful in my business.
“Yes, the separatist matter is still a hot button topic in Canada,
especially Quebec, and everyone has an opinion whether it would be a
good or bad thing for the province,” she continued. “I’m not sure about
the Muslim issue, but everyone is certain about one thing—Quebec
shouldn’t be a suburb of New York. Good fences and Canucks really do
make good neighbors, my new Yankee friend. There’s no disagreement
about that fact in my country.”
Touche, mon ami, I mused. Uncle Sam had just taken one squarely
on the chin by a neighbor to the north. Unfortunately, I didn’t know
Julie well enough to take her over my knee and give her a good
spanking for what she had just said. I know I would have enjoyed the
experience. Rather, I would have to bide my time and mind my P’s and
Q’s instead.
But more importantly, I now believed Julie had enough grit and
fortitude to see her through any difficulties we might face. That would
be important to our success. I simply couldn’t envision this woman
chewing on her significant other’s Mukluks to soften them—she was
one tough biscuit.
I picked up the check for both of us, leaving an overly generous
gratuity considering the World Bank was ultimately paying the tab.
It was my humble way of contributing to the local economy. I felt
terribly proud when I could make the world a better place for those less
fortunate. Julie and I said our goodnights. I had another glass of wine
before leaving and told the waiter to put it on Julie’s room number. I
was feeling thoroughly relaxed, mellow—and cheap. I was now willing
to tell my life’s story to anyone in the restaurant who would listen, but
only for a fee—I was still a self-employed consultant after all.
Sometimes those who protect and serve could be such self-effacing,
self-serving, and smug tippers—and tipplers, at self-opportune times.
CHAPTER 4
Stumbling Through Steeped History
The drive to Alba Iulia was uneventful, but the passing landscape
was magnificent. The weather was clear and sunny and we were
able to easily see the mountain slopes that surrounded us. The land
was heavily forested, but small farms and tiny villages occasionally
appeared to break the routine, serving as ersatz firebreaks in the dense
evergreens. The ubiquitous McDonald’s and Wendy signs, and similar
outdoor eyesores, were fortunately missing from the scenery. However,
it shouldn’t be too long before such Americana would likely make their
way to this beautiful, remote part of Romania to spruce the place up
a bit. The iconic shaving cream company might even have a shot at
resurrecting its roadside billboards—Dracula covertly lurks / human prey
his bloody perks / protect your stubbled throats / away from his castle moats
/ Burma-Shave.
Julie had stayed behind in Bucharest to gather more information
from the country office and Romanian health officials. She would fly
to Sibiu later in the day and meet us at the inn. Her investigation as to
the cause or causes of the mysterious illness would be crucial in helping
mine. We needed to establish a close rapport—that’s certainly what I
had in mind from our first meeting. Right, professional collaboration
on the task was important if we were to solve the case and end up in
bed together, I fantasized. Sometimes those who protect and serve have
overactive imaginations, libidos, and delusions of sexual prowess—
sometimes they get lucky too!
We drove around Alba Iulia to check out the village and get our
bearings—that took all of two minutes. The town—the village, the
bump in the road—consisted of about forty or so private dwellings,
a few shops and taverns, a modest city hall, and a large, impressive
Eastern Orthodox church in its central square. Its large, blue dome had
a cross on top, perhaps serving as a beacon of hope for its downtrodden
parishioners. Horse drawn wagons outnumbered the cars on the streets.
The official census suggested about 200 residents—the count must
have included the chickens and pigs as well. The whole place appeared
rundown, dreary, and depressing. Thank God that what happened in
Alba Iulia stayed in Alba Iulia. The village seemed to be totally cut-off
from the rest of Romania and the world—we had just stepped back
in time and place. I now had a good sense of how stubborn, irrational
superstitions were able to survive and thrive—isolation, ignorance, and
dysfunctional social structures? I wondered.
The best analogy to the United States would be a small town located
in one of the remote hollows of Appalachia. The townspeople would be
interrelated by marriage or blood or incest—perhaps all the foregoing.
The local coal mine would have petered-out some years before and
people now lived a hardscrabble life relying on government welfare and
the handouts from slightly better-off relatives. Their wagons were always
tightly circled with their No Trespassing signs prominently posted near
their sometimes-chained, junkyard dogs for all potential interlopers to
see and fear—West Virginia, Wild and Wonderful, as I recalled.
The faces of the visiting farmers and villagers all looked drawn and
dour—perhaps, down-and-out would be a more apt description. The
illness or plague or whatever had obviously taken a toll on them, both
emotionally and psychically. Most often they averted their eyes when
we walked past them. Clannish might be too mild a word to describe
their demeanor—sullen would certainly be a better one. I would add
damn rude to the mix as well because I never saw a smile or nod or any
sort of polite recognition of the presence of the visitors in there midst.
We were clearly recognized as strangers by the locals, yet otherwise
wholly invisible for all intents and purposes. Iggie had warned me to
expect this treatment, but I thought he was exaggerating—he wasn’t,
our reception was much more frigid than I could have imagined.
We entered a tavern, cum boardinghouse, and sat at one of the few
unoccupied tables. The room was dead silent as we sat down, but after
a few long minutes, low-spoken conversations resumed. My Romanian
was a little rusty so to speak. The language was Romance based, unlike