Chapter 4
The Statue of Liberty. Impressive, let Zen wash over me! The one who came up with it was a genius. Like this, you sail from Europe to the States, not out of a good life (people usually don't sail away from a good life). You sail for a long time. Around is only water, storms, waves... And suddenly! A dot appears from over the horizon. You don't see land yet, but the dot gets bigger and takes on the contours of the woman of freedom with a torch pointed to the sky.
And you are already looking only at her. You see neither a strip of land nor other ships, only her...
It is inspiring. Truly inspiring. A feeling begins to arise in the soul by itself that everything will be fine. That, right now, everything will certainly be fine.
Abraham succumbed to this charm to the fullest. He fell silent and, opening his mouth, looked at this symbol of a dream. I looked too.
But everything ends sometime. The illusion faded too. Abraham seemed to wake up and even shook his head a little.
"Vic, how did you get out of Germany? The border is fortified," he suddenly got curious. Apparently, he finally remembered that America also has customs. And we will have to pass it soon.
"By plane. At night," I answered him.
"And who flew it?"
"I did."
"You know how to fly a plane?" he was surprised.
"I know," I answered.
"But how?!" he was surprised.
"France. Private pilot courses," I answered shortly. I didn't go into details. Students who are not preoccupied with finding funds for food and paying for their studies have a lot of time. And by no means is all of it occupied by studies and research.
And the beginning of the twentieth century in France is such a vast expanse for choosing hobbies: from opium, wine, sex, occultism, to aeronautics, shooting, savate, inventing, painting, and hundreds of other interesting activities. True, everything was greatly overshadowed by the World War, but it also spurred technical progress.
I remember, at that time, I even had my own personal little plane. And several necessary acquaintances that allowed me to keep abreast of technical novelties and even pilot military models without resorting to hijacking. But for Erskine, these details are superfluous, I think.
"And where did you get the plane?" Abraham looked at me with suspicion.
"I hijacked it."
"Where?!!"
"At the airfield, in the suburbs," I did not hide it.
"And how will we pass the control at the port? We have German documents..." I silently reached into my inner pocket and took out two French passports. For him and his wife. His daughter didn't need such a document yet due to her young age.
"From where?" he sighed doomed.
"China—calligraphy, the National School of Fine Arts in Paris, Munich—photography club," I explained briefly. Details... remained behind the scenes again. I shouldn't tell him that documents for a long-liver are the very foundation of personal safety, right? That this is the first thing you concern yourself with, having merely realized your nature.
Naturally, I constantly had blank identity documents of several countries in reserve. Naturally, arriving at a new place, I always probed the ground for all kinds of swindlers, counterfeiters, scammers, and their methods of making documents.
And calligraphy, which you've been practicing for more than half a century, allows you to forge almost any handwriting... I can outperform a printing press right now in the clarity of the reproduced image. Without leaving my spot, I can draw any stamp (although, I still prefer to make it from handy materials so that there is an actual impression—it's more reliable). Where did stamps come to Europe from? Exactly—from China. Accordingly, where is the best place to learn this, if not there? And anyone who thinks that monks have absolutely no free time and creative hobbies is fundamentally wrong.
"But it's better to use your documents. It's more reliable. Say that you are refugees from the regime. Ask for political asylum," I added. "This," I nodded at the French passports, "is for an extreme case. If you have to hide."
"Yes, Vic," Abraham sighed. "I guessed, back when we were students, that you were not a simple guy, but to this extent..."
What can I answer to that? Just silently shrug.
"And why did you decide to ask me specifically for help? If you didn't think it was to this extent?" after a couple of minutes of silence, I decided to ask the question.
"Out of despair, probably," he sighed. "After that reception with the Reichsführer, I was simply scared. I looked into his eyes, and what I saw there scared me to the point of trembling," he shivered chillily. "And then new guards appeared in the laboratory. The neighbors on the right and left sold their houses and left. Incomprehensible people settled in their place. Two new teachers appeared at my daughter's school... Men of athletic build in jackets with their right pocket somewhat pulled down... I was scared. I started thinking about what I could do, who I could turn to... And it turned out that there was no one. I wrote to you out of despair. I wasn't even sure that the letter would arrive at all. After all, we hadn't written to each other for a couple of years..."
"But still, to me? Why?" I was genuinely curious.
"Even though we've known each other for almost seventeen years, six of which we lived in the same room, you still remained a mystery. The appearance of a thug, the eyes of a blissful saint, the working capacity of a machine, a sharp, grasping mind. A broad outlook... Don't be offended—an idiot's smile. Impenetrable calmness... But sometimes, rarely, very rarely, it's as if the mask suddenly cracks. The smile turns into a grin. The child's eyes become the eyes of a killer, a predator, a beast. And such a grave horror pierces through... Plus your daily training... So I thought that if anyone could help, it would be you."
"Is that so," I chuckled.
"I just thought right now... You know, over the last ten years you haven't changed at all. You haven't aged at all. How is that possible?"
I just shrugged. And sighed sadly to myself: Abraham had been a good friend these years. It was interesting to talk to him. Pleasant to share some thoughts in a letter. To read a reply letter... But, since he's started to have such questions, it means it's time to part with him, severing all ties.
Not the first time and not the last.
* * *
On the shore, our paths diverged: Erskine and his family went to the authorities as political refugees from the regime. I just put a stamp of arrival in the country on my French passport.
And then... And what then?
It took a couple of days to get to the location of the stash. Another two weeks for realization and opening an account. And then what?
And then I discovered the stock exchange for myself. And a name like Stark Industries. A company, not yet large, founded by Howard Stark—still a very young man. But as the Joker used to say in Heath Ledger's unforgettable performance: "And... we're small, but there's a lot of potential for aggressive expansion!".
I didn't think for a second when I invested all my savings in its shares (everything left from the Chinese silver and all the American gold). Everything, down to the last cent.
Maybe someone will call me an idiot for not doing something like this earlier. Having foreknowledge, I didn't use it to get rich, gain influence, power, change history, save millions...
So be it. I won't argue.
Even if I am an idiot, I don't need all this. Not that kind of character. To do this, you need to sit in one place, put down roots, acquire connections, invent various documentary schemes with inheritance, bother with managing people, definitely attract the attention of the powers that be... Also a path, I won't argue. I had all the data and trump cards for this in my hands. In three hundred years, one could manage to become some kind of king, a shadow, corporate, or official one. Quite.
But this is not for me.
I immediately remembered a joke: "A black man is lying in the shade under a palm tree, resting. A white man walks nearby and says to the black man:
"Why are you lying under a tree with so many bananas on it? Take a stick, knock down a few, go to the market and sell them..."
"Why?"
"What do you mean why? You'll get money—you'll hire another dozen black men who will knock bananas off palm trees, and you'll sell them."
"Why?"
"Then you'll hire a hundred black men, plant a thousand palm trees, and you'll have a huge banana plantation."
"And why is that?"
"You'll be rich. Others will work, and you will just lie in the shade under a palm tree and rest."
"And what am I doing right now?""
Something like that.
Back in my past life, I had a dream—to practice martial arts. I had one. And I even practiced in that life. Not professionally, of course, but I practiced Wushu Tai Chi Chuan.
Life ended, a new one began. At first, I tried to figure out what to do with it, where to go, what to achieve. I wanted to become stronger, decided that the army and war would help with this.
They helped—I learned to kill, I reached the peak of my mutant abilities. But it wasn't it. Not at all.
And then there was the drunken sailor with his tall tales. And I decided: "What the Zen?! Who do I owe anything to? I want to!".
And then...
Then it took off. The hardest part was starting. Then it's like a drug. The process of learning turned out to be even better than the result it gave.
I liked learning. Learning everything possible. Learning martial arts, learning ship navigation, seamanship, boat making, wood carving, pottery, blacksmithing, Siam folk dances, winemaking, drug manufacturing, counterfeiting money, document forgery, deep-sea fishing, monitor lizard hunting and preparing national dishes, languages and dialects, farming and rice growing, French epee fencing and Russian saber fighting from emigrated officers of the former Empire, piloting a plane and driving a yacht, driving a car and sports target shooting... Anything at all.
I liked learning! And I learned. All these years, every day and day after day. Every single day!
And this is my high. This is my Dao. This is my Zen. Becoming better at something every day than the day before.
And money? Money is just a means. And with the trump cards that my current body gives me, I can get more at any moment, as much as needed.
And having invested in shares, I faced the need to get more money. And how do you think I solved this problem?
Naturally, I robbed a bank. More precisely, robbery is not quite the right term. Robbery implies violent actions against a victim. I just climbed into the vault unnoticed and took a bag of money from there. And left the building in the exact same way.
The Technical University of Munich gave me an excellent knowledge base on mechanics and the design of locks, security systems, safes, and the like. Naturally, they didn't teach this directly there, but basic knowledge is basic knowledge. And then there were all kinds of thematic magazines and reviews of novelties. Acquaintances with small criminal elements and learning from them... I remember in Siam I even picked pockets in the markets, learning from local pickpockets... But that's beside the point.
America! And my stash is empty. And what does that mean?
That a new one is needed. I can't put paper dollars in there, right? Gold is needed. And where is it in America?
In Fort Knox...