Weaponized (31 page)

L
amu Beach has been rendered private for the next few days. Armed guards—baking in the sun in their black uniforms—stand at several access points checking identification, making sure none of the locals sneak in and disturb the legion of visiting businessmen.

The National Oil Corporation of Kenya is hosting a conference this week to receive bids for exploratory crude drilling. The country is relatively untapped as a crude exporter, and the discovery of viable resources in Uganda has everyone from Texans to the Chinese to the Russians to the French and Germans besieging the continent and placing bids.

Yachts and sailboats navigate the calm and convivial waves. The shoreline is littered with sand dollars and hot-pink aquatic life. The sand itself is iridescent white, almost like salt, and it squeaks under bare feet.

Robinson emerges from the crest of a wave, stands, and rubs the water over his face. He wears black bathing trunks that end above the knee. The modesty of his attire sets him apart from the Russians and Europeans, who favor a more crotch-suffocating fit.

Robinson walks to the shore, steps over cracked scalloped shells, and sits down on his white beach blanket. His skin is in the awkward stage between burning and tanning. He takes a sip of bottled water and lights a cigarette. Almost absentmindedly, he rubs a still-forming scar on the side of his neck.

He turns around, notes the armed guards, and waves at a passing tourist. “Gérard,” Robinson says, paying close attention to the French pronunciation, and waves him over.

Gérard strolls over to Robinson’s blanket, flip-flops filling up with sand, umbrella tucked under his arm. His torso is slathered with sunblock, and dark chunky lenses shield his eyes.

Robinson rises to greet him, and the resemblance is startling.

They’re the same height, have the same color eyes, the same body type—mesomorphic muscularity in the shoulders and chest, but with a tendency to hold weight in the middle—and the same dark hair, although Gérard’s is shorter and thinner and parted on the side while Robinson’s is slicked back.

“How are you up this early after last night?”

“Lying down wasn’t getting me anywhere.” Robinson smiles. “Figured I might as well get tan with a hangover.”

Gérard laughs, points to Robinson’s cigarettes. “May I?”

“Of course,” he says. “When’s your meeting with the Kenyans?”

“Tomorrow at two. Yours?”

“Today,” Robinson says. “Four o’clock.”

“I don’t even know why I’m going.” Gérard lights the cigarette. “Chinese can outbid us all. Only thing I can offer is Gallic charm.”

Robinson laughs. “A contradiction in terms.”

Gérard exhales smoke. “Four o’clock today.”

“Right. I head out tomorrow morning.”

“Back to the States?”

Robinson nods.

“Then that’s it?”

“For now.”

“But who will show me how to fill my nights? I’m no good on my own.”

“We still have one more,” Robinson says. “My room at eight. Dress to the nines. Party starts there, then we move out after sufficient social lubrication.”

“Bien.”
Gérard slaps Robinson’s knee. “
Bien.
One last hurrah. Just the two of us.”

“Well, not exactly just us. I’ve procured us company of the supple kind.”

Gérard smiles. “I had hoped.”

“What’s your taste?”

“You choose for me. Your taste is impeccable.”

“What do you have at home?”

“Why?”

“A friend of mine in Berlin owns a nightclub. Runs a legion of the most beautiful girls you could imagine. Not a flaw in the bunch. But you know which girl makes the most money?”

Gérard shrugs.

“The goth girl covered in tattoos. Pneumatic body. Piercings. Bottle-dyed black hair.
That
girl makes more money than women so perfect they border on parody.” Robinson takes the cigarette from between Gérard’s fingers and inhales. “Want to know why that girl makes so much?”

“Why?”

“No one has anything like her at home. Men go out, they want something
new.
So I ask again: What have you got at home?”

“Brunette. Petite.”

Robinson sends the smoke out his nose. “Then I work from there.”

“I look forward to your selection.”

“And don’t forget your passport, just in case we decide to leave the city limits. We don’t want to get caught in a random inspection.”

“Thank you.” Gérard nods. “I always leave it behind in the safe.”

“It’s what I do.” Robinson smiles, practicing in his head how to say Gérard’s name with the proper intonation and estimating how much of his own hair he’s going to need to cut off and shave back to make this work.

Gérard returns the grin, and Robinson slowly molds his own to match his new friend’s.

“It’s what I do,” Robinson repeats softly as he buries his toes in the soft hot sand.

Nicholas Mennuti

My mother, Virginia, the champion of taking a late-night phone call where I wonder what I’m doing with my life. Michael Bitalvo, the perpetually good-natured recipient of many a rough first-draft. John Schoenfelder, for getting this process started, and Josh Kendall, for steering it to a firm landing. Jonah Straus, for reading one of my short stories and offering to rep me. Sven Birkerts and Stephanie Dickinson, for giving me my first publications. And at the risk of invoking my superiors, Cliff Martinez, whose aural soundscapes provided the book’s unofficial soundtrack, and Graham Greene, for showing any thriller writer how it’s done. And lastly, David Guggenheim, collaborator and best-friend…a hefty job description for one man. And like everything else, you carry it with grace.

David Guggenheim

To my amazing parents Peter and Leni; my brothers and idols, Marc and Eric; all my unbelievable nieces; Nick Mennuti, a great writer, friend, and shrink; producers extraordinaire Scott Stuber and Alexa Faigen; my incredible reps, David Boxerbaum, Adam Kolbrenner, and Jamie Afifi; and the holy trinity of storytellers, Ian Fleming, William Goldman, and Lawrence Kasdan.

Nicholas Mennuti is a graduate of New York University’s Tisch School of the Arts’ dramatic writing program. His short stories have appeared in
Agni
,
Skidrow Penthouse,
and the
Ledge
. He lives in New York City.
Weaponized
is his first novel.

David Guggenheim wrote the 2012 Denzel Washington hit
Safe House
for Universal, and the Nicolas Cage thriller
Stolen
for Millennium. He also penned the sci-fi adventure film
364;
the action film
Narco Sub,
which was to have been the late Tony Scott’s next feature film; and
Puzzle Palace
,
a contained thriller, for Summit Entertainment. His most recent spec script,
Black Box,
sold to Universal with Madhouse and Bluegrass Films producing.
Weaponized
is his first novel. He lives in New York with his wife and two children.

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Welcome
Dedication
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THREE WEEKS LATER
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Acknowledgments
About the Authors
Newsletters
Copyright