The Fixer: Before the Apocalypse (The Raincoast Saga Book 1) Read online

  THE FIXER

  MORGAN NYBERG

  Volume 1

  THE RAINCOAST SAGA

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  Funny, angry Mac McKnight came to the city of Esperanza in the high Andes hoping to find an El Dorado of the spirit. He found instead corruption, the cocaine trade and his own terrible need for revenge.

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  The Fixer

  January

  Smith stood watching Najib Abouzeid, who had a mobile phone pressed to his ear. Abouzeid stared back at Smith with a face so despairing that it was blank. He muttered a few words in Arabic and put his phone away.

  He said to Smith “They’ve blown up the pipeline in three more places.”

  Smith just shook his head. He waited a minute, then said “The pipeline is your only means of supply?”

  “Yes. It carries phosphate slurry from our open pit mines. I suppose we could go back to rail. But why? There is no way of processing it now.”

  They stood on a gravelly rise, fifty yards from a helicopter whose rotors were turning at idle. Two soldiers with submachineguns stood off to either side. Smith and Abouzeid had spoken loudly to be heard over the engine noise of the helicopter. But now they stood silent in the winter sun of Morocco, watching black smoke rise against the blue of the Atlantic a mile away.

  Smith said “Will you be able to salvage it?”

  “We will repair the pipeline quickly. But as for the port .... First we will have to deal with the terrorists. That sounds like a delightful task, doesn’t it, Smith - a firefight among the toxic smoke and the storage tanks of sulfuric acid. If we can’t kill them or chase them out we will have to starve them out. Which will give them time of course to blow up whatever is still standing.”

  Dark roiling smoke hid most of the processing facility and port. A pair of tall smokestacks were visible, striped red and white at their tips, and a few massive spherical storage tanks. But there was a roar and a new surge of smoke, and now the stacks and tanks were also hidden.

  Abouzeid said something to himself in Arabic. He was middle aged, tall, well built and handsome. Smith was short and obese. Both wore flak jackets and helmets.

  Without looking at Smith Abouzeid said “It will cost a fortune to rebuild Phosphate Marocain. We will have to borrow money. You could help us.”

  Smith said “We invest, Najib. We don’t lend.” He looked away from Abouzeid as he said this.

  Abouzeid said “No, but you could.”

  They stood watching the calamity, smoke churning high, thinning here and there to reveal a tank or two, then billowing thickly again, a brief lick of flame among the main plant buildings, farther away a ship resting at a jetty.

  Abouzeid put a hand on Smith’s shoulder and led him away from the helicopter so that they could speak more easily.

  He said “Because of this there will be a severe shortage of phosphate this spring, which means the price of fertilizer will rise sharply. Only the richest farmers will be able to afford it. Crops will shrink dramatically.”

  “You’re talking worldwide?”

  “Worldwide. Less food on supermarket shelves in New York. Less food in the street markets of Calcutta. And what there is will be expensive. Very expensive. There will be riots. Governments will fall. So, Smith, what does all this do for our market value?” Abouzeid produced a vicious smile.

  “There’s no way I can fix this for you, Najib.”

  “Not for me, Smith. For the population of the planet.”

  Smith shrugged. “We’ve got to write you off. I’m sorry.”

  Abouzeid stared at Smith. Smith stared back, looking afraid. Abouzeid made a few palsied gestures, as if he needed to attack Smith physically but was restraining himself. Smith backed away.

  One of the soldiers shouted and pointed. A quarter-mile away a few vehicles were racing toward them across the arid plain. Spurts of gravel flew up near the helicopter. As the rotors spun faster the soldiers each grabbed one of Smith’s arms to hurry him to the safety of the aircraft.

  A doorman in a striped djellaba and red fez opened the door of the limo. The sun was just setting, and Smith felt the drop in temperature. He held out a hand, and the doorman helped him exit the vehicle and then hurried to open the hotel door for him.

  But before Smith reached the door he heard something shouted in Arabic. He saw the shouter as he turned - a ragged blue suit coat, a face that looked as if it had been hacked out of rock - but he could not step away before the man shoved him. Only Smith’s bulk kept him from falling. The doorman pushed the man away. There was an exchange of angry Arabic between the doorman and the assailant.

  The man dodged the doorman while shouting at Smith in Arabic and French, sprinkled with with a few phrases of English. Smith heard “Fat man! Fat man!” He heard “We kill Americans!” and “Go away Americans!” And as the man thrust a hand, palm up, past the doorman Smith heard “Money! Give money!”

  Smith went into the hotel. He got some dirhams from the reception clerk and went back outside, but the man had gone. He offered a few of the bills to the doorman, who glared at him coldly as he accepted the money.

  Smith went up to his room. The mini-fridge was empty except for a half-bottle of local wine. He called the desk and asked for scotch and ice to be sent up. He was told there was no scotch. Smith said “What do you have?”

  “We have Moroccan wine. Very nice.”

  He sat on the edge of his bed for a few minutes with his face in his hands. Then he speed dialed Gitta and switched his phone to speaker and laid the phone on the pillow and fell back on the bed.

  “I have been waiting for your call, Smith. What is happening with Najib?” It was a voice coarsened by age. There was a light German accent.

  “The facility is toast. Most of the port too.”

  “Toast? Bread toast? Smith, are you drunk?”

  “I wish I was, but it seems there is nothing decent to drink in Morocco. It’s burnt, Gitta. Totally destroyed. The terrorists are still there, so the army will have to root them out. Oh yes - and the phosphate pipeline from the mines has been blown up in five places.”

  Gitta cursed in German, then said “Can they fix it?”

  “Not for a long time, if they can even find the money in today’s world.”

  “What does it mean besides our investment is fucked?”

  “Gitta, there’s nothing I can do. Don’t swear, OK?”

  She repeated “What does it mean besides our investment is fucked?”

  “What it means is, starting now there is a severe shortage of phosphate.”

  “Globally?”

  “Yes, globally. Phosphate Marocain is - was - by far the biggest producer. It is a major ingredient in fertilizers, so agriculture will be hard hit. Crops will be small, food will be expensive, the citizens of planet Earth will be ....”

  “Do not lecture me, Smith. Just the facts.”

  “The world’s largest producer of phosphate for fertilizers has just gone kaput. People may starve. Governments will fall. Najib’s own words.”

  “Can other producers take up the slack?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What should we do, Smith?”

  “The stock’s price will tank. Then Najib ....”

  “What is tank?”

  “It will fall sharply. Then Najib will put a happy face on it. He will assure the world that the supply of phosphate is secure. Maybe the government will inject some money. The price will rebound slightly. Then we sell before the world realizes the truth.”

  “This is the best you can do? This is the best the fixer can do?”

  Smith sighed. “OK - find out who profits from a famine. Find out who profits from riots. Invest in them. The old formula you know so well, Gitta.”

  “Are you all right, Smith? You don’t sound so good.”

  “They shot at us.”

  “Who shot?”

  “The terrorists. We had to get away in Najib’s helicopter. Then at the hotel a crazy man attacked me.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “I’m in my room in Casablanca. It’s not a wonderful room, but it’s quiet. It would be better if they had some scotch.”

  “OK, Smith. I’ll do what I can to get free of Phosphate Marocain without too much damage. Maybe we can move our money to other phosphate producers. Their product will be more in demand now. You told Najib we have to write him off?”

  “Yes. He almost attacked me. A lot of people are wanting to attack me suddenly. When all I’m trying to do is fix things.”

  “Why do you think they did it?”

  “The terrorists? To hurt Morocco, obviously, and to hurt the king, who is the main shareholder. Najib brings in a ridiculous amount of money for him. Used to bring in a ridiculous amount of money. Not any more. But it seems to me ....”

  “Say it, Smith.”

  “It seems to me they’ve found a way to strike at the whole world by striking at the core of food production. Which is fertilizer.”

  “Ach, Smith! You are such a pessimist. All doom and boom. We will find a way to profit from this. We always do.”

  “Not boom, Gitta. Gloom.”

  “Boom, gloom, what’s
the difference.”

  They were silent for a while. Then Smith said “I’m beginning to think we should sell.”

  “Sell what?”

  “Sell everything. Slowly. While we can still get a decent dollar for it.”

  “This is the fixer talking?” She sounded offended.

  “It’s Smith. It’s Smith talking.”

  “You’ve had a hard day, Smith. Things will look better tomorrow.” The line went dead.

  At supper Abdullah, the maître d’, apologized for the lack of beef and poultry.

  “We cannot get it, Mr. Smith. This is so bad for us.”

  Smith ordered fish.

  “And some Moroccan wine?” asked Abdullah. “It is very nice.”

  Smith nodded morosely. He was alone in the dining room.

  While he was eating, two young women, pretty and well made up, appeared at the entrance to the dining room. Abdullah returned to Smith’s table. He nodded toward the women and said “You want?”

  Smith shook his head.

  Abdullah said “They are hungry.”

  Smith did not look up from his snapper.

  Abdullah went back to the kitchen and came out with two small plastic bags, which he gave to the women. The women kissed his hand and left.

  Back in his room Smith called one of his sons, Justin, who was in his office in Seattle. Justin expressed some fear that a financial credit crisis was imminent. He said something about “the fed” and interest rates, and China defaulting on loans, and bond prices and derivatives and inter-bank contracts and vanishing liquidity. He said his credit cards had been cancelled. Smith told him not to worry, that there was nothing that could not be fixed.

  He called his second wife and left a sentimental message on her answering machine.

  He went to the window and stood looking out over the ocean even though there was no moon and the view was all black.

  February

  Smith stood for a few seconds at the door of the rental car, catching his breath after the effort of getting out. He reached back into the car and pulled out a wool overcoat and put it on. He started across an expanse of grass and mud and decomposing leaves. He called “Hello Frost.”

  A tall young man in overalls and a jacket was standing in the shadow of a sailing yacht that rested on a wooden framework. The words Bye-bye Dubai were written on the transom of the boat. The man had dark curly hair and wore wire-rim glasses. He smiled and said “Well, it’s Smith” and came to meet the older man.

  They shook hands. Smith said “I thought you wanted to build it.”

  Frost said “Turned out to be more of an undertaking than I was ready for. Also, it’s become almost impossible to find certain parts and materials. I’m sure you could tell me why that is. Anyway, I decided to get a second hand one. Or is it third hand. Or fourth.”

  There was a prefab shed. Frost brought out two folding aluminum chairs and set them up. He fetched a thermos and two mugs. They sat and drank coffee.

  Smith said “How’s Susan?”

  “She’s great. She’s happy to be out of Dubai.”

  “I’m sure. And you said something in your message about a little girl?”

  “Zahra, yes. She was left at the school where I worked. I guess her parents saw how things were going. We were lucky to get out, especially with her. And then to get into Canada. She’s a little miracle, Smith, a force of nature. She scoots all around the apartment on her rear end. There’s just no stopping her. You should come over. Come and have lunch.”

  Smith said “I’d love to, Frost. But I’m flying out in a few hours. So they let you bring her in with no problems?”

  “They let her have refugee status. Even though she had no papers. Even though we didn’t even know who her parents were.”

  “Yes, well, things have to be looser these days.” They were quiet for a minute. Past the boat, through a thin screen of willows they could see a wide river. They watched grey water rushing westward. Smith said “I’m glad you called our office and left your phone number. It’s so good to see you again.”

  Frost looked at him - the face round as a full moon, the chin and neck hidden under fat, the nose patterned with broken capillaries, the thin greying hair, the gentle, wary eyes.

  Frost smiled and nodded. “Have you been back to Dubai?”

  “I have, yes.”

  “I thought it was pretty well shut down.”

  “It’s still in its death throes. It seems that cities take a long time to expire. Total chaos, though. No law and order. It was the inevitable result of cowboy capitalism, incompetence, hubris and hire-your-brother-in-law. Everyone knew it had to fall eventually, but no one predicted how hard the fall would be. I went back to try and sell some of our property. Fat chance. Everyone was just trying to get out. There’s no commercial flights in or out now, so Gitta had to let me use the company jet.”

  Frost said “That’s your boss?”

  “Gitta. Short for Brigitte, meaning exalted one.” He went “Hah!” - half shouting, half laughing. He gestured toward the water. “That river, Frost? Those trees? That’s exalted.” And then toward Frost’s sailboat. “That’s exalted too. Not much else that I’ve seen lately has been exalted. Anything but. Incidentally, does it have a diesel engine?”

  “I’m in the process of taking it out. I’ve bought one that runs on batteries. I’ll charge it with solar panels and a small wind turbine.”

  “Good, because ....”

  Frost said “I know. The oil situation.”

  “Saudi is teetering on the brink. Qatar. Bahrain. They have trillions of cash in the bank, but that cash doesn’t really belong to the country, it belongs to the rulers. When the collapse comes, how much of it will they share with their starving hordes? And will money still have meaning? And what could they do anyway? Oil is only part of the huge, tangled web of global commerce.” He made a gesture of distaste and dismissal. “I’d like to have a closer look at your river.”

  They set their mugs on the ground. Smith heaved himself out of the chair. They walked past the sailboat. Three or four tiny flakes of snow settled on Smith’s shoulders. Frost stepped through the willows and turned to watch with concern as Smith held desperately to branches and let himself down to the narrow rocky shore.

  Frost said “The river is deep at the edge here. There’s an abandoned ramp just downriver where I can launch her at high tide.”

  “The tide comes up this far?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “There must be a proper marina where you could launch her.” Smith was panting from his struggle with the willows.

  “I’d rather do it myself, unseen, here in this primitive and secluded setting.”

  Smith said “So, you’ve got the apocalypse jitters too.” He laughed bitterly, drew a long breath. His breathing slowed.

  “I don’t know about apocalypse. That’s a pretty strong term. But I am worried.”

  They gazed solemnly at the river even though there was nothing to see but the steady rush of olive-grey water, one moment of the flow no different from the last.

  Smith said “I wish I could stay, Frost. I would be a happy man if I could stay and help you work on your boat. No, don’t say You can. I can’t.”

  “I know. You’ve got things to fix.”

  A strand of spider’s silk had stuck to a sleeve of Smith’s overcoat. He lifted it away and held it dangling in the cold breeze. He said “What happens when a strand of a spider’s web breaks? The spider fixes it. If only it was that simple with the web of supply and demand.” He released the filament. The breeze took it, and it vanished against the water. He turned. “Give me a push so I can get up the bank.”

  At the shed Frost said “You sure you can’t spare an hour for lunch?”

  “I’ve got a meeting. Raincoast Resources. Another futile clash of angry and terrified minds. And then I’ve got a flight out.”

  “I didn’t ask about your family.”

  “That was kind of you.”

  Smith’s shoulders shook with quiet laughter.

  Frost said “It’ll be a while before I can launch. I’d like to see you again if you’re back this way.”