Later, Mrs. Fischer would tell me who Kipp and his family were and how they came to be in this place. As this is my memoir, however, I will use authorial license and insert that information throughout my account of events in Casa Bolthole, which is what they called their desert home.
Kipp had been a hugely successful equities trader in a major investment firm with a sterling reputation. The company had installed a new CEO, a man with deep investment-management background, who had also previously been a senator from a major Eastern-seaboard state before losing his re-election bid. In two years, the senator managed to bankrupt the firm with large reckless bets on foreign bonds and currencies. Even worse, a billion dollars of investors’ money had gone missing, not lost in the bond or currency debacles—just gone. Because we live in a brave new world of financial buccaneering in which properly connected politicians, current and former, can steal from the public or private purse with little chance of punishment, the senator was not indicted, but Kipp was. The evidence, as well-concocted as any martini that might please James Bond, persuaded a jury to convict.
Before he had been an equities trader, Kipp had served as an intelligence officer in the marines. He knew a thing or two about surveillance, electronic eavesdropping, and cleverly structured entrapments of the enemy, as did a number of his former marine buddies, who came to his assistance. In a seemingly private venue, when the ex-senator thought he was in the company of a like-minded public servant with equally sticky fingers, after a couple of drinks too many, he gloated about the cleverness with which he had framed Kipp for the charge of embezzlement. A recording made without the knowledge of the subject cannot be easily entered into evidence in a court of law. But between Kipp’s conviction and his sentencing, the ex-senator’s gloating, with accompanying video, was put on YouTube by an anonymous and untraceable truth teller.
The judge declared a mistrial. The prosecutor dropped all charges. Then something else happened, something far worse, and at his wife’s suggestion, Kipp agreed that henceforth they should live off the grid. Through false identities and clandestine means, they constructed Casa Bolthole with a purpose in mind. To this day, the senator remains a free man, so lawyered-up that every time he goes to court, the tramping of attorneys’ feet sounds like a Memorial Day parade from a lost time when uniformed servicemen and ribboned veterans marched by the thousands to honor their country and to be honored in return by crowds lining the parade route.
The kitchen in Casa Bolthole was large, with Santos mahogany flooring, golden bird’s-eye-maple cabinetry that featured rounded corners as in a ship’s galley, and black-granite countertops, all clean flowing lines that soothed the eye. At the round dining table, six places were set for dinner, and the flames of candles fluttered in crystal containers. The overhead lights had been dialed low, and more candles stood on the center island.
At that island, as we entered, Mazie finished pouring Dom Perignon into four champagne flutes. “None for you,” she told Biggy as he hurried to her side, nostrils flaring, a potential four-legged alcoholic.
Tall, willowy, beautiful, her glossy black hair worn long, Mazie was wrapped in an elegant black-silk kimono patterned with white koi mottled red and red koi mottled gold. Her large almond-shaped eyes were so dark that, reflecting several points of candlelight, they might have been portals offering two views of a night sky and stars ever receding into eternity.
After more warm greetings and another introduction, we stood at the island and raised the slender glasses, and Mazie said, “To Oscar, in whom the fire and the rose are now one.”
Mrs. Fischer and Kipp said, “To Oscar.” I didn’t have any idea what the toast meant, but I don’t have any idea what a lot of things mean, so I said, “To Oscar,” as well, and we sipped the champagne, which was icy cold and delicious.
Biggy padded to the corner of the kitchen in which his water bowl stood on a mat, and he noisily lapped at the contents, perhaps joining in a non-alcoholic toast, as if he were the designated driver.
After a second sip of Dom Perignon, Mazie turned to me and spoke as if she already knew what we’d come here to acquire and what task I had set out upon that would require those acquisitions. “Tom, if Tom is your truest name, are you afraid of the battle that lies ahead of you?”
Remembering what Annamaria had told me, I said, “Yes, ma’am, I’m afraid, but I hope only in proportion to the threat.”
“I sense a terrible longing in you, a deep yearning. I hope you don’t yearn for death.”
“No, ma’am. I yearn for what comes after it. But I’m not keen on suffering.”