Dick Goes to the Bank by Dick Avery - HTML preview

ur whispering campaign was starting to pay some big dividends. It was a classic psychological operation, using the people’s superstitions, ignorance, and hysteria against Dragos Blaga. It was Iggie’s idea and it was a good one. We were turning the tables on Dragos and his cronies. The same innuendos and rumors used against Magda were now being directed towards Mr. Dracula. Sooner or later the people would shake off their fear, lethargy and temerity and go after Dragos; at least that was my sincere hope. Then again, I was always a wishful thinking Pollyanna.

Iggie had enlisted the assistance of trusted relatives in the region to jumpstart our plan. They were instructed to not-so-subtly insinuate that Dragos was responsible for the illnesses and deaths plaguing the area. The gossip would catch-on like wildfire through word-of-mouth telling to friends and neighbors. Our propaganda would soon be on everyone’s lips and minds. The ploy would be as effective as taking out a front page ad in the local newspaper, if the region had one and people could read. Hopefully, Magda would now be much safer by our efforts. Our script went something like this:

Look what happened to Teodor Dimir’s cattle the other night—clear evidence of vampirism afoot. Right, who bleeds our people dry by imposing unfair taxes? Who seizes our crops if we can't pay them? Who lives among us as Count Dracula? Who controls everything in this district, including the shipments of the cursed seed? Dragos Blaga is the answer!

What about Magda the Witch? She must be involved with Dragos in this matter.

Ah, my friend, you are forgetting the blood feud and vendetta that exists between them. There is no power in this world or the next that could force the two to be in the same room, much less work, together. You know that to be true. No, Magda is not the cause of our miseries—only Dragos, the bloodsucker.

The next step in our little charade was creating the picture posters of Dragos. Iggie secured several of his old, political leaflets from the last election. By cropping the verbiage, we were left with the smiling face of the prefect. Fangs, dripping with blood, were added to the pictures for desired effect. Several hundred photocopies of Dragos’ face were then distributed throughout the district. They now adorned the many road signs and fence posts in the valley. Dragos was now a most despised and ridiculed man in his own patch.

As expected, Dragos’s henchmen would rip them down almost as soon as they were posted, but that didn’t make any difference. They had been seen and were now the talk of the farmers and townspeople alike. They had well-served their purpose and our end. We were simply reinforcing Dragos Blaga’s self-created persona of a feared, omnipotent, historical figure. Good deeds should always be rewarded, I opined in my highly opinionated style. Dragos would be royally rewarded by my hand—there would be no waiting for heaven. I had another idea to further hype his bloodthirsty image and stir the rumor pot some more. However, I would bide my sweet time before ramping-up the tension a couple of more notches.

 

Iggie and I arrived at the Sibiu General Hospital for our meeting with Julie. She had taken up residency in one of its modest labs. Her medical equipment from bank headquarters had arrived yesterday and she was already into her research. I scanned the room, admiring her many assets. There were microscopes, Petrie dishes, test tubes, beakers, a centrifuge, a couple of Bunsen burners, and a whole array of chemical bottles. There were other pieces of equipment I couldn’t name. Her laptop computer sat in one corner of the lab. It appeared that Julie had done well in setting up her home away from home. I was impressed and told her so.

Julie laughed at my pronouncement. “Avery, this is pretty much standard, college-level equipment. The real toys—the gas chromatography devices, a DNA sequencer, the high-powered analytical computers and synthesizers—are missing. My research here will be limited, but should suffice for the most part. I plan to send samples of any relevant findings to the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta for further, and confirming, analysis, if necessary.”

“Julie, where are the WHO folks and the Romanian officials at in terms of their investigations?” I asked.

“Dr. Beckner and his team have begun looking at possible environmental causes for the outbreak,” she related. “The Romanian health officials are assisting him. They are betting that the origin of the plague is related to the soil, air, or food in the region—they may be correct, by the way. It’s a logical place to start in any case since the disease does not appear to be contagious. That would suggest an environmental causation. By the way, I turned the samples you obtained from Nicoleta over to the team for study. They have the resources to do a more thorough examination of them. Besides, I’m focusing on the grain.

“Given certain, specific features of the victims' symptoms; they’re also looking at such pathogens and opportunistic infections like listeria, SARS, Avian Flu, EV-71, and many others. Your samples will help in the effort. So far, the aggregate symptoms don’t directly correspond to any of these diseases. The WHO has already ruled out bubonic and pneumonic plague, but all of us still refer to this thing as plague for lack of a better word. It’s what the locals use to describe it, so why not us?” she said and shrugged.

I sagely nodded my head suggesting that I knew what the hell she was talking about. God, how I loved it when she talked dirty, I mused.

“Dr. Beckner’s team has already commenced its field work. It’s not going too well as you can imagine. The farmers are frightened and reluctant to cooperate. They distrust government officials much more than the run-of-the-mill outsider. Part of their attitude stems from the communist days, but much is simply fear and ignorance. It doesn’t help matters that the team’s orange jump suits scare the hell out of them and their livestock. They’ve been run off at gunpoint and pitchfork from what I hear. Only a few people have cooperated and allowed samples to be collected from the survivors.”

“Speaking of samples, here’s one I collected from the bank’s seed shipment,” I said while handing my paper sack to Julie.

“Here’s my take from several local markets as well,” Iggie added, turning over about a dozen small pouches that he had marked with the dates and places of purchase.

“That’s great guys,” Julie responded with a big smile. “These are extremely important to my analysis.” I felt like I had just been patted on the head and wished for more caresses. Fortunately, Julie didn’t notice my tongue and tail wagging—I didn’t plan to beg though. Well, just maybe.

I related my story of meeting with Dragos and inspecting the two barns. I purposely left out my brush with death and humiliating tractor ride back to Alba Iulia. That was way too much information at the moment. I told them that Dragos was behind a major scam by stealing much of the grain and selling it on the local economy. I swore both of them to strict secrecy. I didn’t want them to prematurely and inadvertently reveal the information to anyone because it would hinder our investigation. But I’d better inform John Murray before Julie did, I thought. I was still waiting for my first paycheck and I badly needed the money.

I also briefed them on the bank’s taggant program and what Julie should find when putting my sample under the microscope—both thought it was a brilliant idea. Of course, I casually mentioned that John was a bright, clever fellow who really knew his business. I had no clue who came up with the novel idea, but didn’t want to miss an opportunity to suck-up with my boss through Julie’s many telephone conversations with her significant other.

“Julie, with the WHO team looking at potential environmental and opportunistic, infectious diseases, what will you be focusing on? You’ve already mentioned you’ll be analyzing the seed, but what specifically are you looking for?” I inquired.

“Fair question,” she replied. “I’ll be searching for any abnormalities in the seed samples you and Iggie just gave me. That will include the presence of any pesticides or fungicides and at what levels. I’ll be looking for any contaminants—things that shouldn’t be present in the grain. There are always some contaminants present, but I want to learn if any are any that may be harmful to humans. In general, I’m searching for any toxins that could cause the illnesses and deaths. I’ll also be examining the grade or quality of the seed stocks against what the bank specified and paid for. And now, I’ll be looking for the presence of taggants as well from what you just mentioned. They should be fairly easy to identify, like separating the wheat from the chaff,” she poorly punned.

I didn’t laugh because I had already used that line and highly resented her plagiarism. God, I could be so easily offended these days. Actually, I was downright pissed because she foolishly wouldn’t put out for me, I thought.

“I needed Iggie’s market samples to do comparative analyses against the bank seeds,” Julie commented. “All of this is very tedious and time consuming, but also important to dispel the rumors the bank inadvertently or intentionally funded toxin-laden seed stocks for the poor people of Romania. This mindless paranoia must be put to rest through solid, scientific research. More importantly, we need to find the cause of this thing to save people’s lives. It’s a basic humanitarian issue and duty for the World Bank and the World Health Organization to solve this mystery,” she emotionally spoke with flushed cheeks.

I almost stood up and saluted her noble response to my earlier question. She was a highly dedicated, disciplined professional and a compassionate human being—a rare combination of virtues in my government experience. She wholeheartedly believed in the cause and I admired her determination and style, if not her choice in men.

We agreed to regularly regroup to share our respective findings. The sharing of even the slightest bits of information was critical at this stage of the investigation. We had become a tight knit team who respected each other's roles and responsibilities in getting this job done quickly and right since lives were at stake and we all understood the dire consequences if we didn’t come through.

Before leaving, I asked Julie if she could help me obtain a couple of medical items. She agreed and didn’t ask any questions. However, I could tell she badly wanted to know what I planned to do with a bottle of chloroform, gauze pads, and a small vial of type O blood. She probably still wondered about the earlier syringes, I suspected. I think she literally had to bite her tongue, but understood it was sometimes better not to know certain things. Regardless, I didn’t need to mention the rat traps because I could easily buy them on my own.

Sometimes silence, secrecy, and outright lies were the better parts of valor for those who protect and serve.

 

 

Turnabout is Fowl Play

ragos’ Dacha was located just outside the village in a secluded, wooded area. Neighbors were few and far away. Those things, and a moonless night, gave us some advantage. What we had in mind for Mr. Dragos Dracula would count this night. Hopefully, His Nibs would be scared witless and shitless. Regardless, it would shake his sense of invincibility and safety. Despite his bravado and bullying, Dragos was born and raised in Transylvania and susceptible to its myths, mystiques, and bloody history like everyone else. This native son was about to get back what he deserved, but it would only be a little taste of things to come. I had more payback in mind for him.

Iggie and I had scouted Dragos’ place several times over the past few days to get our bearings and to visually rehearse our plan. This night, we watched as he stumbled out of the local tavern, drunk and loud, as usual. We watched his car weave home and bided our time. We had learned from Magda and others that Dragos was a widower with no children, living alone with his Dracula memorabilia and his ill-gotten gains; small comforts for him. He had an insatiable appetite for money and power, I believed.

After a couple of hours of idly waiting, we drove to Dragos’ house and parked a distance away. As we crept through the trees to his property, both Iggie and I knew what needed to be done to pull this prank off without getting caught. I rubbed my St. Homer’s medal for dumb luck and Iggie crossed himself. To each his own talisman or karma, I mused.

The dacha was large, built with hand-hewn timbers that Dragos probably stole from government preserves. My entry to the house would be relatively easy. Crossing the hundred yards or so of open ground between it and our hiding spot at the tree line would be much more difficult. Geese—miserable, nasty, aggressive geese were standing guard. I hated them with a passion. A mature pair of males served as sentinels to guard against intruders. There was no better, low-cost security alarm system in the world. Dragos was safety conscious and clever. Avery Dick could be creative and clever too—but only when I worked on my expense reports.

These creatures were effectively used in many third world countries as early warning systems of trouble—and meals for high holidays. They were extremely territorial and would loudly honk and squawk if someone or something stepped over the invisible boundary they had created. Their sounds were loud enough to wake up the dead—and living dead. These birds were also fierce fighters who didn’t back down when confronted. If the noise didn’t scare someone off, they would launch an attack with their wings and bills, nipping and pecking at their targets. Forget about watchdogs and traditional home alarms. Those things could be easily compromised with a bit of ground beef or a piece of jump wire. As fearsome as these birds were, Iggie and I vowed to take them down.       

I had actually recommended using geese on several occasions while serving abroad as a State Department special agent. Not only did I detest them, I also respected them for their ferocity. I had been bitten more than once and usually kept them at a safe distance. The geese were not only good at sounding alarms, they kept the snake and rodent populations on large residential properties to a minimum. They were low maintenance critters and their droppings fertilized the grass. I guess they had their place and utility, but not with me. I couldn’t even stand to eat them. However, tonight they were on our menu and we would get our appetizers—foie gras, in this instance.

As we watched the geese patrol the property, Iggie and I set the rat traps about ten yards forward of our position. These large, steel and wood contraptions had powerful, spring activated jaws to hold their prey tight. They were large enough to easily ensnare a fox or dog foot. The traps were commonly used in the region to keep down the Norwegian rat population—the same rodent that carried the fleas causing the bubonic plagues of times past. We would now use them to rid the world of another pest—two loathsome, white geese.

We disguised the traps as best possible by covering them with ground litter. 50 test pound monofilament fishing line was attached to each one with the other ends tied securely to saplings near our hiding spot. The dozen traps formed a rough semicircle around our position. We were now ready to sing our swan song.

Iggie put the wooden whistle to his lips and blew into it. The sound wasn’t loud enough to disturb Dragos. The dacha’s windows were closed and probably locked tight—Dragos was likely tight too, I suspected. The goose call immediately caught the creatures' attentions. Both looked in our direction and waddled our way. They didn’t honk or squawk because they were both mesmerized by the female mating call. I could relate to that condition, especially after a couple glasses of wine, I thought.

Things happened quickly. Both geese hit the traps about the same time and we furiously reeled in our catches to shut them up—permanently. It only took a few seconds to wrestle them to the ground and wring their miserable necks with our gloved hands. Iggie placed them in a large burlap bag. The noxious geese would now be house guests of the Tugurlan family. They would end up on the dining table and in throw pillows. Maybe they would be comforters for the long, cold winter nights. Each of us then took a gander to make sure the short-lived commotion didn’t wake Dragos from his booze-induced slumber. Fortunately, it hadn’t.

I took a circuitous route to a ground floor window while Iggie cleaned up our handiwork. He would act as a lookout in the unlikely event someone came onto the property. He would sound the goose call at full force to alert me of danger. I would quickly duck-out of the dacha if I heard the call.

The window I selected was secured by a simple latch and I easily and quietly shimmed the lock open with my gravity knife and entered. Like an aging Ninja, I crept though the foyer and living room. With the beam of my penlight, I could see portraits of Prince Vlad hanging from the walls. I shivered a bit—he was a spooky looking guy who had no fashion sense whatsoever by the looks of them.

I could hear Dragos loudly snoring from the open loft above. Before climbing the stairs, I prepared the chloroform by soaking a couple of gauze pads and placing them into a large, plastic bag. I quickly took the stairs and moved to the side of Drago’s bed. Fortunately, he wasn’t hanging from one of the ceiling beams. His back was facing me and it appeared he was out for the count. I took the plastic bag and securely placed it over his head. He struggled a bit but then fell off into a deep, chemically-induced sleep. He wouldn’t remember what had happened. He could rationalize that it was all a bad dream when he woke up, but he would still have nagging, haunting thoughts. Moreover, the physical evidence would be as plain as the nose on his face.

I then placed the two nubs of the stun gun directly against his jugular, just below and to the right of his jaw line. It was a Cheetah Hurricane that delivered one million volts of electric shock. I hit the trigger and held it for a full five seconds. That jolt would immediately and totally incapacitate someone by causing an interruption between the brain’s signals and the body’s muscles, if one were conscious. His body spasms lasted only a few seconds before diminishing. The Cheetah was a direct contact device that left two perfectly round burn marks about three inches apart. Since Dragos was a huge guy, I decided to shock him a second time for good measure—and self-gratification. I was attempted to apply the device to his scrotum as well, but thought better—potent, family joules were hard to come by.

I drizzled about an ounce of blood over the burn wound and saw it tickle down Dragos’ neck onto the pillow. I then opened two of the bedroom’s windows to air the place out. After a few minutes, I secured the windows and departed Count Dracula’s lair the same way I had entered. Iggie and I left the property without notice or incident. We couldn’t wait to find out how our prank worked on Dragos. Sometimes those who protect and serve goosed their opponents into rash actions without giving them the bird.

***

The next day I visited Magda. She was reading her bible when I knocked on the door. If it was possible, she looked more haggard than the last time I saw her. The incident at the church and her warmongering neighbors must be taking a toll on her health. However, I needed her help in pumping up our disinformation campaign against Dragos. I didn’t mention my visit to Dragos’ dacha last night or the bloodletting at the farm a week ago. The less she knew about those things the better. I certainly didn’t report my near death experience at the barn with the masked avenger either.

I didn’t waste any time with pleasantries. “Magda, I’m convinced that Dragos is behind thefts of the seed stocks funded by the World Bank,” I said. “He needs to be stopped and brought to justice.”

“Stopped? Perhaps, but justice is more difficult to come by in Transylvania. There will be no justice until Dragos Blaga is dead,” she emotionally added. By the sound of her voice and content of her words, she was adamant that Dragos must die. I wondered why all the vehemence.

“What is this blood feud between the two of you?” I hesitantly ventured. “Why do you feel so strongly about Dragos and him towards you? I understand he’s a bully and a crook, but your feelings seem to go well beyond normal disdain and dislike for the man.”

Magda sat back in her chair and stared into space for a few moments. She was debating whether or not to confide in me.

“I have never spoken of this thing before because I am terribly saddened and ashamed about what happened many years ago,” she began. “I had little role in what transpired, but I still feel responsible for not doing more to protect the poor woman.

“In my midwifery practice, I’m sometimes asked to perform abortions. I always refuse, except in cases of incest or rape. In those instances, I have reluctantly brought fetuses from girls' wombs. I’m sure God will not understand why I do this so I look forward to eternal damnation for my acts—my soul is lost, I’m afraid.” Her eyes watered during the telling and I felt sorry for her spiritual and emotional pain.

“About 30 years ago, Dragos brought his young, pretty wife Reveca to me for an abortion. Reveca was a free spirit who brought joy to everyone who came into contact with. She was a simple, pious, kind, generous and loving soul. Everyone loved her and cherished her friendship.

“Reveca was long into her second trimester. Even if I had no qualms, I wouldn’t have done it because she was much too far along in her pregnancy. The pig Dragos ordered me to abort her even after I told him of my medical and health concerns for Reveca. I offered to deliver the baby when it was time, but he refused. He simply wouldn’t listen to my pleas and stormed out of my house with Reveca in tow.

“Reveca badly wanted the child, but Dragos did not. He was madly in love with her, but I believe he was jealous of the baby and worried that Reveca’s attentions would be showered on the child and no longer on him. Dragos would have to compete for Reveca’s love and that was too much for him to bear. The fetus had to be aborted in his twisted, stubborn mind.

“The next night, Dragos dragged Raveca to a disreputable abortionist in the region. She was inexperienced and little more than a butcher. Not surprisingly, Raveca and her baby died on the woman’s kitchen table later that evening. Since that time, Dragos has blamed me for his wife’s death because I didn’t do the abortion and I blame him for her tragic death in return.

“We have not spoken to each other since. So now he lives like a recluse in his fancy dacha and continues to mourn her death. I think rage and thoughts of revenge drive much of his behavior. He has turned into a monster. Not coincidentally, the abortionist was murdered several months following Reveca’s death. People here point the finger at Dragos. He’s been reluctant to come after me because the people would know who was responsible for my death. The vendetta is common knowledge, but its origin is not. By calling me a witch and turning my neighbors against me, he hopes they will do his dirty work.”

Magda had just shared her darkest secret with me. We had bonded and I needed to share some things with her.

“Magda, I orchestrated the rumor campaign against Dragos. Maybe you have seen one the posters we put up around the district. In any event, Dragos is now my enemy too. He tried to kill me twice already and my guess is he won’t stop until he succeeds,” I told her.

She laughed and said she definitely was aware of the rumors and the posters, but it never occurred to her that I was involved. She jokingly waggled a finger at me as though I were a naughty boy. I laughed at her admonishment.

“I must thank you then, Mr. Dick. These things have done much to quiet my neighbors' anger towards me and perhaps may have saved my life as well” she said. “Dragos must be beside himself with rage. He is not accustomed to being challenged in his own district.”

“I certainly hope so because that was my intent. I want to push and prod him into making a mistake that will bring his corrupt business dealings and criminal organization to the light of day. We need to be careful though. He knows that I’m investigating him. Consequently, I’m trying to keep a very low profile when visiting Alba Iulia so I may not be able to visit with you as often as I’d like. But it’s important that we work together to bring Dragos and his cronies to justice—sooner, rather than later.

“Here’s where I need your help, Magda. I want you to tell people that Dragos is stealing the seed stocks and selling them on the black market. That is a true statement. Secondly, I want you to tell the people that the WHO has determined that the seeds are the cause of the illnesses and deaths in the region. Dragos is killing his own people through his avarice and greed. We don’t know if that is true since testing on the grain has not been completed.

“Lastly, tell them that you’ve heard the World Bank has directed the Romanian government to recall all of the seed. Trucks from Bucharest will be arriving soon to remove all of the grain. That’s what will happen if the grain turns out to be tainted.

“These things might cause Dragos to try to cover-up what he’s been doing. I want to panic him so he takes desperate actions to protect his involvement in all of this. The lies and half-truths might cause the middlemen and retailers to stop buying seed from Dragos fearing the grain has been contaminated and that they will be blamed for the deaths.”

Magda readily agreed to take on the role of town crier. She really was a super trooper, besides being a good witch.

Sometimes those who protect and serve germinated lies in order to plant kernels of truth.

 

 

 

 

Things Go Awry

efore entering Julie’s lab, I pulled Iggie aside. I wanted to make sure he didn’t slip and mention anything to Julie about our visit to Dragos’ dacha. To emphasize my point, I pursed my lips and, with a pinched thumb and forefinger, ran them over my lips. I then made the motion of turning a key in a lock. I finished my little demonstration by dramatically throwing away the imaginary key. Iggie nodded, indicating he understood. Either my Romanian sign language skills had greatly improved or Iggie had just found out that I’d given up smoking again. Regardless, mum was now the mute word of the day.

Julie looked lovely, as usual. I couldn’t help staring at her and fantasizing. However, she obviously was in no mood to flirt. She had a serious look on her face and her body language suggested our meeting was all about business. She was playing the consummate professional today. Oh well, maybe some other time; like in my dreams, I thought.

After a bit of friendly chitchat, Doctor Julie began her lecture. What she had discovered and suspected would turn our investigation on its head—anal-cranial inversion, as we referred to the condition in my DS days. Not surprisingly, we had our heads up our ass most of the time. I always kept mine firmly tucked up inside in order to find some peace of mind in its senseless bureaucracy.

“I’ve completed a cursory analysis of the seed samples you guys brought me and I’ve found some interesting things already. Avery, take a look in the microscope over there and tell me what you see.”

I did as instructed and placed my eye against the instrument’s eyepiece. I immediately jumped back and yelled “Jesus Christ, there’s an eyeball staring back at me!”

I couldn’t help myself. Punning, pimping, prating, and self-deprecating humor had always been my stock in trade. That was one reason why my government career had thrived—it was all a joke. The other was the fact that my employer couldn’t easily fire me.

“Very funny, Avery,” Julie chided. “Please put your eye firmly against the lens piece, smart-ass.”

That little joke had always gone over well in high school biology class. (I didn’t have any black shoe polish with me to coat the lens opening.) I could tell that Julie was in no mood for sophomoric levity. I probably had to graduate to something more sophisticated to please her. However, I got a good laugh out of Iggie. Since I’d be approving all of his expense reports, his better damn well laugh or the joke would be on him.

“Ok, I’m looking, but what should I be seeing?” I inquired.

“With the present magnification, you should see large conical structures—plain, old rye seeds. Now let me increase the power. Now the rye seeds should blur into large blobs surrounded by other, much smaller things. Do you see them?” She asked.

“All I see is a Jackson Pollack painting in shades of blacks and whites. Ok, I see tiny rods, cones, spheres, and other shapes in various sizes and configurations,” I admitted.

“Very good Avery,” she pronounced.

“Thank you teacher, but again, what am I supposed to be seeing?” I replied.

“You're looking at dross or waste—impure materials mixed with the seed. You’re also seeing some roughage or indigestible plant matter—in a sense, more dross, but not necessarily unhealthy. Both of these things are fairly common detritus found in shipments of seed and generally not considered serious contaminants. Normal seed processing and bagging operations will result in some levels of these so-called impurities. I fully expected to find such particulate mixed in with the seed.”