Dialogues with a Garden Gnome

By R Flohr

A very elaborate scheme to pull off the biggest heist ever goes off with barely a hitch.

Harvey hosts the “Banker of the Year” event, where the most ruthless bankers are commended for the best netting and most unscrupulous transactions of the year. M3 takes first place—as the most obnoxious character too—before everything goes awfully wrong. Harvey takes the top twenty guests hostage and demands “donations” of them to the tune of a quarter of a billion. They all pay up thanks to the persuasive properties of the “knee warmers”, guaranteed to surgically remove your knee from the rest of your body at the press of a button.

In the meantime the FBI and local police find themselves conversing with a garden gnome in what seemed to be the home of a convicted fraudster. They are baffled by the technology employed by the hostage takers and the precision of their activities. Despite tampering with Harvey’s “requests” they don’t get anywhere close to defeating the “gangsters” or even finding out who they really are.

Using a confetti parade of dollar bills and gold coins as cover, the gangsters make their getaway—without Harvey, who chooses to stay behind to have tea with Doug, the lead agent on the case. But Harvey must have himself had a master who decides he’s no longer required.

The brains behind the operation meet up at their lakeside hideaway and toast the billions of dollars they have managed to make in “fear” money with a ’21 Dom Pérignon before going their separate ways—on vacation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: R Flohr
• Release date: Dec 24, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301385690

Book preview

Dialogues with a Garden Gnome

by

Rainer Flohr

Copyright 2012 Rainer Flohr

V 1.00

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Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1 Kudsenklowe

Chapter 2 Hudson Grand Hotel

Chapter 3 The Preparation

Chapter 4 Reception

Chapter 5 Dinner

Chapter 6 The Assault

Chapter 7 The House of The Garden Gnome

Chapter 8 Financial District

Chapter 9 The Grand Ballroom

Chapter 10 The Claim

Chapter 11 The Bridge

Chapter 12 Confetti Parade

Epilogue

Final Remark

In the Roman Army a unit selected for punishment by decimation was divided into groups of ten; each group drew lots, and the soldier on whom the lot fell was executed.

Because the punishment fell by lot, all soldiers in the group were eligible for execution, regardless of the individual degree of fault, or rank and distinction. The leadership was usually executed independently of the one in ten deaths of the rank and file.

Parasitism is a non-mutual relationship between organisms of different species where one organism, the parasite, benefits at the expense of the other, the host. The word parasite comes from the Greek παράσιτος (parasitos), one who eats at the table of another and that from παρά (para), beside, by + σῖτος (sitos), wheat.

(based on information taken from Wikipedia)

Prologue

New Hampshire. A deserted area in the countryside near Lake Winnipesaukee. An inconspicuous van makes its way on a rather desolate path deep in the forest. Two men inside the van are engrossed in conversation. Their outfit and equipment easily identify them as electricians.

Al, do you actually know what this is all about? The letter we received with the order is rather dubious. The remote block house cannot be found anywhere—this path is in none of our local maps. Hadn’t that anonymous client of ours given us the exact position with GPS coordinates, we wouldn’t stand a chance of ever getting there.

So what? was the abrupt reply.

For 500 bucks I would get here paddling on a raft. Our client might be a deranged novelist who wants to take in the remoteness of New Hampshire’s deepest backwoods or something similarly stupid. Who cares, pal? We’re going to set up the auxiliary power supply, position the ‘machine’ next to the left window, as instructed, connect the whole lot and then get lost—easy money for a simple task. There are numerous cabins like this in the area. Nobody really knows whether anybody lives there and what the heck they might be doing. Who knows how many crazy Islamists the CIA or other secretive organizations hide here until they are forgotten and can be disposed of. With this cowboy John Smith as the new President our several secret agencies can move more freely again. Better not ask too many questions.... Right, here we are. I can see the lake shore. And the shabby cabin to the left must be the one.

The van carried on until the driver stopped abruptly right outside the cabin’s front door. A short landing stage was adjacent to the cabin with a small rowing boat tied to it with what looked like a very rotten rope. Two rocking chairs and a small round table on the veranda made the setting look like someone would come out any minute. However, the technicians had been told that nobody would be there. They should just go inside, do the job, lock the door and put the key back on top of the door frame.

Ok, let’s get going. I’ll have a look inside and check if everything is exactly as it is in the sketch that came with the letter. It better be! We don’t have any contact information should anything go wrong.

Al took the door key from where it was supposed to be—on top of the door frame—opened the door and stepped inside. He stood in the lounge, which had a tiny pantry kitchenette attached to it. A few chairs, a table, a chest of drawers against a wall, a window on either side of the entrance. Just beneath the left window Al could see white marks on the floor indicating the position of the ‘machine’.

Hey, Jack. Everything is alright in here. We got the positioning marks for the ‘machine’ on the floor. Just like in the sketch. I’ll have a look out back. There should be a small shed for the generator. If that’s ok, we can start the work.

Al crossed through the lounge and entered the hallway that led to the backyard. Open doors on either side of the hallway led into small bedrooms. He looked inside one of them and saw there was nothing but an empty bed frame with bare slats and a wardrobe.

Hey, Jack. If you wanted to stay here, you would have to bring your own stuff. They don’t even have mattresses on the beds.

So what? Whoever comes here’s got to be happy to find a cabin. Otherwise they would have to sleep on the ground, which is no real fun, especially if the ground is soaked and it’s pouring down. What about the generator?

Alright, found the shed. Looks pretty rotten but will do the job for a while. Anyway, that is not our concern. We’re just following orders.

Al had walked out to the backyard. The shed was on the left hand side, almost hidden among the trees. They offloaded the generator, dragged it around the house and into the shed. They ran a wire into the lounge, ending just beneath the left window. They then carried the ‘machine’ inside and positioned it exactly within the markings beneath the window.

Strange gizmo that is. Looks a bit like the machine gun Bruce Willis had in this movie—you know the one—by Jack Black.

Yes! I know perfectly well. And I also remember that Brucy took out that Jack Black character. He asked too many questions and got greedy.

Al got agitated when he saw Jack fiddling with the ‘machine’.

Take your damn fingers off that thing, you fucking idiot! he shouted. We are only supposed to set it up and forget about it immediately afterwards!

But it was too late. Jack had already opened the flap with the ‘Do NOT open’ sticker attached to it.

You bloody moron, you! What have you done now? This sticker quite clearly tells you NOT TO OPEN that thing! You had to open that flap, you shitbag! You’re so damn stupid, I can’t stand you.... Now it’s open, what’s in there? Let’s have a look.

They both looked inside and then at each other.

Whoever made this must have known you quite well. Only you can be that daft. Close the damn flap! We’ll run through the checklist and get outta here.

Bullshit! Damn bloody bullshit! How was I supposed to know we’re dealing with a comedian with a taste for booby traps? What’s this small garden gnome sitting here with this silly grin on his face holding a small piece of paper with ‘Sorry, guys. You just forfeited your bonus for good work!’ in his hand for?

This asshole of a customer knew too well that nobody could resist such a ‘Do not open!’ sign.

Exactly! Let’s get on with the job. Hook up the stuff and check it out. Make sure that everything is done according to the manual.

They connected the gizmo to the wiring, fired up the generator in the shed, returned to the front room and started the whole thing up by turning the ‘ON’ switch. It took a few seconds. A humming sound came from within—they could feel the gentle vibration through the wooden floor—followed by a few clacking sounds. Three green LEDs ended the start-up procedure and the machine went into standby.

Ok, we are done now. We got to switch the generator to ‘remote’, lock the doors and beat it. Don’t you idiot dare telling anybody about this thing. Whoever paid us for setting this up expects us to keep quiet about it. Or do you want to end up like Jack Black?

No, no, no! Surely not. He got his arm blown off before he was finally killed. That’s extremely unpleasant. Horrible. That would really hurt.

There is only one thing that hurts here…and that’s your abysmal stupidity. Get our tools back into the van and then let’s get outta here.

* * *

Similar events took place at other locations around the lake shore throughout the next few weeks. In each of the cases, a mysterious contraption was placed in the remote lakeside cabin: always by a different team. The ‘Do NOT Open’ sticker proved to be very tempting and effective as well. All installation crews fell for the same stupid booby trap. Nobody would say a word. Not even the king of imbeciles would boast about his own stupidity.

Nobody got overly suspicious or even attempted to find out what was going on. The remote cabins remained in quiescence, just like nothing had happened.

* * * *

Chapter 1 Kudsenklowe

Interstate 95, north. An inconspicuous white van like many others is on the road. The signage on either side of the van is rather peculiar: an illustration of a cockroach being smashed by a navy boot accompanied by a slogan set in bright red letters ‘Don’t let it get this far. Call now!’ Below the image are a telephone number and address.

The van takes the Greenwich/CT exit and follows the road into Greenwich town. On the way it passes a plethora of car dealers, indicative of the type of clientele abundant in this area: Mercedes-Benz, Audi, Bentley, BMW, Aston Martin, Bugatti, Ferrari, Lamborghini, etc. This dense collection of luxury brands does not at all match the quality of the road that merely resembles an uneven piece of patchwork. The van passes a McDonald’s restaurant and after a while takes a left onto a smaller road leading into a hilly forest area. A mile or so later one comes to a wrought-iron gate on the right hand side. The road behind the gate runs through park-like grounds until it’s out of sight. The van carries on along the slightly meandering road, passing by other similar gates: some with hedges, some with high walls and some with tall fences. In all cases, numerous CCTV cameras line the boundaries. The odd security guard, or one of those seriously obvious, inconspicuous individuals in black suits with dark sunglasses, is also present.

At a crossroads the van takes a left turn onto a spur road clearly signposted ‘Private Property! Keep Out!’ and proceeds until it finally stops in front of a wrought-iron gate. There is no sign indicating who or what is behind the gate, which resembles the main gate of the Versailles palace near Paris, though smaller. A man in a black suit exits the property through a smaller side gate and approaches the van. Another black-suited sentry with a pump gun across his chest patrols behind the gate.

The driver winds down the window as the man in black