Mind + Body, Aaron Dunlap [smart books to read TXT] 📗

I cut a small slit into one of the zip-ties holding Comstock’s hands together so that they could be pulled apart with a bit of effort, long after I was gone.

I took the stairs down to the ground level, went out the side exit and dropped the ski mask, the recorder, and the gloves into separate trashcans as I passed them on the street. The mask went first, then I rewound the digital voice recorder and recorded myself blowing into the microphone until I’d reached the end, then took the batteries out and threw all the pieces away separately, then finally I got rid of the gloves. I knew I’d be clean, and I also knew there was no way Comstock would call the police. I walked around the Venetian streets in circles for half an hour, not looking at or seeing anything, and then finally made it back to my own hotel and up to my room; where I pulled off my jacket and shirt and collapsed onto the bed, then screamed into the pillows.

I don’t know what I expected. I sort of always hoped I was imagining everything, giving minor events an artificial significance to make myself seem more interesting than I am. If anything I hoped that this all had to do with Mr. Comstock and had nothing to do with me. I’d hoped he was selling government secrets and I was just somehow caught in the periphery. Instead, I was right in the middle of it. There was so much information, too much to process at one time. That guy, Dingan, was only supposed to bring me in and I more-or-less “accidentally” killed him in self-defense. And where was he supposed to bring me into? To Comstock? He could see me any day at school. What did this have to do with the Marines? Comstock works for them? That’s where he gets his money? And why is he talking to them about me? Do they think I did something illegal?

Trying to picture the Marine Corps was for me like trying to picture the wind. It was all around me, intertwined in every aspect of my life. My dad worked and died for them, most of the people I know are related to a Marine of some sort, even Amy’s dad was somehow involved with the Corps. It wouldn’t make sense that this would be the entire Marine Corps that Comstock was dealing with. If they wanted me for something, they could just come get me, they wouldn’t have to involve school administrators, and they could have had me when I was right on the central Marine Corps base. They ran my name through the computer at the security gate, if I was really in their crosshairs, they could have had me long ago.

No, this would most likely be some small element inside the Corps. Maybe someone that knew my dad, or some rogue faction. Maybe I could ask Amy’s dad, or that Schumer guy I talked to the day before in Quantico. Maybe they could help me.

Whoever I was dealing with, Comstock feared them and legitimately thought they would kill him. That was bad news for me. He also thought they might try to take his money. That was also bad news for me. If it is the government that’s so interested in me, they’d have the resources to access and screw around with my bank account, and they’d definitely know about my money. I supposed that if Comstock thought it prudent to move all of his money to some kind of ultra-private Austrian account, perhaps I should do likewise.

Looking up Austrian banks helped take my mind off of everything else. I found what looked like a prominent bank, Erste Bank, which had a branch right on the river and not far from me. I somehow knew that Erste means First, so if they really are the First Bank of Austria, they’d have to be old and rife with financial loopholes and rich customers who don’t want their fortunes advertised to governments.

I took a cab to the bank, expecting to find a giant stone-columned fortress with three levels of underground vaults. It was just a small little bank branch, like the sort of thing you’d see in the US between a donut store and another bank. Nevertheless, I went inside and asked for the bank manager. The teller at the main window picked up a phone and spoke to someone, then hung up and said in poor English that someone would be there in a moment. Sure enough, someone came from a row of offices just off the lobby area and walked me back to the furthest office. Inside was an old, meager man with thin hair and an expensive-looking suit. He stood up and offered his hand over his oak desk.

I sat down in a plush leather chair across from him, made sure he spoke English, and went on with it.

I explained in great detail how I was an American actor, how I had a few decent roles in Hollywood pictures but had just signed a contract to star in a three-part film series based on some popular children’s books, that I’d be coming into a great deal of money, but was very concerned about my emancipated parents trying to get a hold of it in the courts because I was still a legal minor. I wanted to put it somewhere secure that couldn’t be tracked down by investigators and the like, and I’d been suggested to try an Austrian account so I got on a plane, flew to Austria, and went to the closest bank to my hotel. It seemed more believable than, “The Marine Corps may or may not want me dead, and either way, they may want to use my money to make me dead.”

The bank manager took all this in, seeming to follow my words perfectly, yet not reacting to any of my embellishments about how the movie series was going to be rubbish but was just being made to compete with the Harry Potter movies and because the studio would lose the license to the books if they didn’t use it by the end of the year.

“The problem you’ll run into here is the same one you will find in America,” he told me, “you must be 18 years old to open a single-party account. You say your birthday is next month. We could start the processing now for an account and finalize it through the mail once you turn 18.”

I frowned. “I’ve heard about these savings accounts with no identity associated with them. Just a number and a passcode. Couldn’t I just open one of those?” I asked.

Now the bank manager frowned. “You mean a Sparbuch, eh… passbook account? Recent banking laws have required us to slightly modify how we process those, though there was a time when you could open such an anonymous account where whoever holds the passbook and knows the password is the legal owner of the account; no names, no mailed statements, highly transferable — but because they made it rather easy