Cracking of the Mask, page 1
© 2022 Alexander Green and Maria Petrova Green
Published by Atmosphere Press
Cover design by Matthew Fielder
Interior maps designed by Ronaldo Alves
No part of this book may be reproduced without permission from the authors except in brief quotations and in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All scenes and dialogue are drawn from the authors’ imaginations and are not to be construed as real or representative of the authors’ views. References to real people, establishments, organizations, products, locales, or historical events are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, businesses, companies, organizations, places, and incidents are the products of the authors’ imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, organizations, places, or events is entirely coincidental.
atmospherepress.com
For Peter.
Your encouragement and belief in us
illuminated our path on this journey.
CRACKING
OF THE
MASK
A NOVEL
ALEXANDER GREEN
& MARIA PETROVA GREEN
atmosphere press
- ONE -
2015
The no-smoking and fasten-seat-belt signs lit up. The flight attendants took their seats. The engines roared and the Cathay Pacific flight to Hong Kong accelerated down the runway.
As the plane flew away from JFK Airport, Zenon McClow looked out the window, watching the New York City skyline shrink beneath him. He said a final, mental farewell to the city, to his old life, and to his old self before easing his window shade down and closing his eyes.
He was leaving New York a very rich man. He didn’t trust the security of the plane’s wi-fi network, so he restrained himself from pulling up the encrypted banking app on his phone and looking at the number again. But it was hard not to look. His balance could have been a Social Security number. He had been more successful than he’d allowed himself to hope for. And he’d gotten away with it. No one had even suspected that his promises might have been hollow, that the slice of cake he’d served had contained a barbed hook.
The image of Evmondia sitting at the seminar flashed through his mind. Did he regret that he would never see her again?
Oh, come on, Zenon. She’s gone. Move forward.
Zenon had left everything behind, or so he thought. He’d abandoned most of his belongings. He’d brought a few changes of clothes, his laptop, and a few mementos from his past he couldn’t part with.
Sitting comfortably in first class, he took a deep breath and considered his first destination: Macau, China. He had already decided on taking the ferry from Hong Kong to the former Portuguese colony. His meeting with the man who would deliver everything he’d ordered was roughly fifty-one hours in the future.
He was glad he had kept in touch with some of the rougher types from his days working on cruise ships. A former cook he knew had connected him with someone who could provide a fake Ecuadorian passport, a fake Australian permanent residency card, and all the necessary paperwork to accompany them. He had already paid fifty percent and would hand over the rest upon delivery.
Back in New York, ‘Johnny’, a hired goon, was going to keep the store going for a few more months, sending ‘trading reports’ to investors, keeping them on the hook and their money flowing in.
He looked at his watch again: a Chopard Alpine Eagle, the last thing he’d bought before leaving the city. In fifty hours and forty-five minutes, Zenon McClow would cease to exist, and Enrique Sanchez would enter into the world.
“Zenon McClow,” he murmured to himself. He liked his name. He was grateful to his parents for coming up with it and giving it to him. He felt a pang of sadness at the thought of never using it again but quickly suppressed the feeling, reminding himself that he needed to keep his emotions under control as he made his moves, otherwise the whole thing could fall apart. Emotions were weak points.
He thought about Phil. It had been only a few hours since they’d parted. Phil had insisted on driving him to the airport, probably just to show off his brand-new Ferrari. They had agreed that Zenon would ‘return’ to Hong Kong to jumpstart the ‘trading’ with the investors’ funds. And in a month’s time, he was to return to the States and give another presentation. But ‘Zenon McClow’ would vanish long before then.
When he finds out, how far will he go to track me down?
- TWO -
The sounds of cards being shuffled, chips clacking, and a constant murmur of conversation, occasionally rising to a crescendo of excitement, filled the VIP lounge at the Sands Macao. Zenon looked at his two cards with frustration. A pair of tens—hearts and diamonds.
He’d reached Macau and picked up his new documents without any hiccups, so he’d decided to kill some time in the casino. With the amount of money sitting in his offshore bank accounts, he could easily afford a few rounds of Texas Hold ’em. But from the moment he’d sat down, he’d struggled to win a single round.
The cards on the table were a six of hearts, ten of clubs, queen of hearts, ten of spades, and queen of clubs.
Four of a kind! I can win this round. “All in,” he declared.
Across the table, a player who appeared to be an American businessman also pushed his chips to the center. “All in,” he echoed.
Zenon kept his expression neutral and waited.
“Please show your cards,” said the dealer.
A profound feeling of anger and disappointment overtook him when he saw his rival’s queen of diamonds and queen of spades, which gave him a winning four of a kind with a higher card. The confidence that had worked so well in pulling off his scheme did not work on the stranger he was playing cards against.
It means nothing. Feeling suddenly fatigued, he gave up on the game and walked out of the fortress-like building to get some fresh air and natural light. I haven’t recovered from the jetlag. Otherwise, I would’ve played better and won.
He consoled himself with the thought that he would soon be in a drastically different environment. In two days, Ecuadorian citizen Enrique Sanchez was to fly out of Tokyo, stopping over in Mexico City before landing in Quito…
- THREE -
The preserved colonial buildings of Quito's old town shimmered under the day’s intense sunlight. Walking along the narrow streets of the Ecuadorian capital, Enrique Sanchez was enjoying the youthful, optimistic vibe of the city.
He had chosen the country not only for its remote areas, where he could hide in peace while still enjoying decent amenities and infrastructure, but also because Spanish was the only foreign language he had substantial practice with. He had come up with a story about living in Australia from an early age, to explain why he didn’t sound like a native speaker.
Enrique’s time in the city was fated to be short, as he would soon be departing for his next destination, the mountain village of Vilcabamba. It was a place that attracted health enthusiasts, nature lovers, and spiritualists, and certainly nowhere anyone would come looking for Zenon McClow.
Enrique didn’t know if Phil would go public or turn to the authorities when the roof fell in. An investment guru getting fooled by a guy with no real credentials? How embarrassing. Surely he would want to save face. Using his own wealth and family fortune to paper over his losses wouldn’t be out of the question for Phil. Still, Enrique needed to prepare for the worst.
Phil wasn’t the only investor he had to consider. If anyone sent hired guns after him, they would inevitably comb Asia first. Meanwhile, he’d be more than ten thousand miles away from Hong Kong, in a place not known for luxury.
After a long ride from Quito over narrow, bumpy mountain roads, Enrique arrived at the secluded villa that would be his home for some time. The property owner, Señor Mosquera, showed him around. It was an eco-friendly lodge, featuring exquisitely carved wood accents and a lush garden out front. The design was unique and asymmetrical. A stone path through tall trees connected the property to the main road that led to the village.
“I hope you like it here,” Señor Mosquera said. “Is there anything else I can do?”
“No, everything seems perfect.”
“I’m glad to hear that. If you ever need me, don’t hesitate to call.”
“Thank you, señor.”
Enrique took a step towards the door to see the owner off, but Señor Mosquera didn’t seem to be in a hurry to leave. He was a friendly and talkative type.
“I see you’ll be staying with us for quite a while. It’s nice to be able to take such a long time off!”
“Actually, I’m going to be doing my work here.”
“Oh! What type of work?” the old man asked.
“I’m a writer.”
“Oh, I see! Well, this is the perfect place for that. In fact, you’re not the first writer to stay here. May I ask what you’re working on?”
“A novel.”
“A romance novel, by chance?” There was a twinkle in Señor Mosquera’s eye when he asked the question.
Enrique flushed and said only, “No.”
“You have that dreamy look on your face of someone in love,” the old man said.
A strange feeling rushed through Enrique’s body.
“Then is it history?” the old man guessed.
“Nope.”
“Crime? Those stories are very popular these days!”
Crime? I’ve already done that.
He was startled by this, his own thought.
Anxious to be done with this conversation, Enrique replied, “Señor, I don’t want to be rude, but I’m awfully tired from the trip. I’d love to chat another time.”
The old man nodded and walked out the door, waving from the path as Enrique closed the door gently.
- FOUR -
A few days later, after settling in and getting himself oriented, Enrique walked to the town square. Sitting on a bench and eating an empanada, he watched people pass by. A group of teenagers sped through on bicycles, followed by two middle-aged men on horseback. It was quite a departure from what he was used to in the States.
Leaning back on the bench, Enrique inhaled the fresh mountain air. He enjoyed being surrounded by the Andes, thousands of feet above sea level—quite a change from the decade he’d spent at sea. The mountains were a lovely backdrop, and he allowed himself a few moments of pride, reflecting on the ingenious strategizing which had brought him here and, so far, worked like a charm.
The next day, Señor Mosquera visited the villa to do some maintenance work, and they struck up a conversation.
“You have not had any problems in Vilcabamba, Señor Sanchez?”
“Not at all. The people here are very friendly, and I’ve found some excellent things in the shops.”
“Wonderful! Still, you should be careful when you’re out. There are gangs, mostly coming from other regions. They rob people who are reckless with their money. And, you know, not everyone feels sorry for the victims.”
“Why not?”
“Because they resent the turistas for having money and coming here for their own benefit, but not doing anything to help with our country’s poverty and corrupt government. For many people, it’s easier to blame something or someone else than it is to take personal responsibility.”
An uncomfortable feeling shot down Enrique’s spine as if he had just touched something electric.
“Enrique, I wish everyone here was honest, but many are poor, and some feel they must steal to survive. They feel it’s okay to do crime because they think the loss to the visitor is not as high as the good done to them.”
Sounds familiar, Enrique thought, starting to feel uncomfortable.
“Among themselves, they will say they resent the rich. But the truth is, most of them want to be rich themselves!” the old man continued. “It’s hipocresía. I, for one, believe that when wealthy people use their money to help others, it can do a lot of good. My dream is that one day, our country will prosper, and the citizens will live well.”
Evmondia’s face flashed into Enrique’s mind, and he heard her words to Mr. Clifton again: “You’ve already done so much for me and all the other people you’ve helped worldwide by donating to all those charities.”
He shook it off. Talking with Señor Mosquera was proving to be a challenge. He felt a powerful sort of cognitive dissonance. On the one hand, he was finally rich after years of grinding poverty and struggle, and was eager to get to New Zealand, where he could soak in all of the luxury and glamour that came with wealth. But at the same time, he had so often thought of himself as an enemy of the rich. Was it possible that he was one of the hypocrites himself?
- FIVE -
As his stay in Vilcabamba drifted on, Enrique didn’t want to admit it, but something about the place was starting to make him feel uneasy.
The Andes Mountains were majestic and mystical, but there was something about the seclusion and isolation, the tranquil, unpolluted nature, about the way of life preserved from an era long gone… It was as if the mountains were giants, ready to squeeze and crush him. Or gods judging him for his…
Crime?
But it had been an act of retribution. Of revenge. Of justice.
Still, since his conversation with Señor Mosquera, he couldn’t shake a feeling of guilt.
Were the mountains to blame? Perhaps the high altitude was making him sick? Maybe it was the food? The weird, hippie expats whose rambling conversations he avoided? The mind-altering cactus concoction, a local specialty, which he had drunk against his own better judgment?
Get it together, he told himself. Emotions are weak points! Lock it down.
Fortunately for him, the Vilcabamba area offered plenty to do. The village itself was pleasant and fun, but nature was the star. Hiking opportunities were abundant. The treks were long sometimes, but with enough perseverance, picturesque new views could be discovered virtually every day. Enrique found himself observing rare species of birds along the trails, swimming in placid, clean rivers, and mountain biking along steep dirt paths.
The last time he had been on a horse was at a kid’s birthday party in Atlanta, so he signed up for riding lessons with Pablo, an energetic and down-to-earth instructor. Soon enough, Enrique found himself following Pablo’s lead, walking their horses slowly through ankle-deep grass and narrow forest trails.
One day, Pablo took him to a waterfall that had a reputation as a sight to behold. It was a bumpy ride on a trail narrower than Enrique expected. The entire time, he feared that his horse would buck him off, but Pablo had trained the animal well.
The waterfall cascaded down from a height of nearly a hundred feet, gathering in a pool which Pablo encouraged him to enter.
“The water is pure and clean. It’s a bit cold, but trust me, you will feel very refreshed if you go in.”
Enrique complied, and Pablo was right. The initial shock gave way to a feeling of surprising tranquility.
“Close your eyes, calm your mind, and feel the water with all your body and spirit. It’ll help cleanse and purify your soul,” Pablo said.
Enrique stood still in the pool and tried to clear his mind of all thoughts. He focused on the feeling of the water, the sound of the waterfall, and the birds chirping in the background. It felt good… for a moment. But the pleasure faded fast, and he began to feel strange and hollow inside.
Was the water purifying his soul, or was something in him polluting the water?
The two men sat on a boulder to eat lunch. “Pablo, I can’t believe you’re seventy-five,” Enrique said. “I wouldn’t have put you at a year over fifty. You have more energy than I do, and I’m only thirty-one!”
Pablo smiled.
“I’ve been wondering. What’s behind the health and longevity of the people here? From what I’ve heard, many are over a hundred. Is there some special secret?”
“Many people ask me that, and leave disappointed by the answer. There is no special secret,” he replied. “We simply live in harmony with nature here as much as possible, without the worries and drives of the industrial world. One can’t expect to live a highly stressful life and be healthy, Enrique. I see some people trying to compensate for that by taking supplements or eating so-called superfoods, hoping they will work like magic. It doesn’t always.”
“Yeah, I hear you.”
“Taking care of one’s body is important,” Pablo continued. “But if the soul is deeply troubled, it can also make the body sick. Many people come here for health, but do not bring healthy habits with them. We now have more alcohol and processed foods in the village, for instance.”
“If I may ask, how do you feel about Vilcabamba attracting more and more foreigners?”
“Well, the politicians will tell you that tourism is a great thing, as it brings prosperity and infrastructure to the region. And I, for one, am grateful for everyone who comes. You help us, just like the income I receive from lessons and tours. But you know, some of my friends view outsiders, especially the gringos, as people who do not respect our land or our culture. And as people who are greedy for our resources. Some of the current trends remind them of the past. The Conquistadors arrived here, bringing novelties like the European horses we are riding now. But they also brought disease and greed.”
