Cobra De Capello

Chapter 1 Alcatraz Island, fully exposed in the bright afternoon sun, looked like a mound of secrets. Aleksey Nabokov visualized himself ejecting from the helicopter and parachuting down onto one of the building rooftops so he could explore all of the hiding places, ledges, corners, and camouflaged chambers. Aleksey liked to imagine his escapes. It was the way his mind had always worked. Even as a kid he had understood his family's rescued felines and shared their need to discover every household nook and cranny for possible concealment and getaway. The famous, cigar-shaped island may have been only twenty-two acres in size, but Aleksey saw clearly from this bird's eye view that the former prison was still inhabited with abundant veils and disguises—a bonanza for the criminals who had once planned their escapes and an everlasting quandary for the prison guards who had been tasked with monitoring every square foot. The challenge of being either man—the one fleeing or the one maintaining order—appealed to him. The nudge of an elbow from the man beside him abruptly ended Aleksey's reverie. Zachary Fellini, his boss, was pointing at a much larger island ahead. "I want to hike there," Zachary said. His voice was drowned out by the sound of the helicopter's engine and rotor, but Aleksey read his lips and captured every word. Angel Island, lush green and speckled with clusters of trees, structures with terra cotta rooftops, and serpentine roadways, appeared like an emerald emerging in the bay. Watching Zachary excited and studying its topography, Aleksey wondered if he was searching for the camping grounds, the bike trails, the ferry terminals, or the relics from the island's military history. The helicopter continued north over the Raccoon Strait and the southern tip of the Tiburon Peninsula before descending and landing on a helipad. A man with a shaved head, handlebar mustache, and casted leg welcomed them as they climb out of the aircraft. "Nate," Zachary said, greeting his friend with a firm handshake and slap on the shoulder. "You look well. How's your recovery?" "It's nothing," Nathaniel Balder answered, waving one of his crutches in dismiss any concerns about his healing. "Just time and patience is needed. I have become an expert at mastering both." Aleksey did not speak to Nathaniel and remained a few feet behind Zachary, as deemed appropriate when his employer interacted with close friends and family. Nathaniel Balder, a former world champion mixed martial arts (MMA) fighter, politely nodded at Aleksey to acknowledge his presence and help him feel welcome. Aleksey watched the two MMA titans—one surging to greatness and on the verge of becoming a championship contender, the other injured and likely past his prime—and knew that more than anything the common ground of their friendship was respect for each other's immeasurable tenacity. Because of this trait, both Nathaniel and Zachary defeat men in the cages who best them with strength, agility, cunning, and fight preparation. "I had no doubt," Zachary said. "The champ is never down for long." "How was your flight?" Nathaniel asked him. "Perfect, thank you. Let's take a ferry to Angel Island this afternoon." "Another day, sure. But you are here now to get blown away by artwork, my friend." "I will try to keep an open mind," Zachary replied. "But you know I think the whole art world is mostly a sham. The biggest con of nonsense ever. You insisted I come though, so here I am." "I know your skepticism well," Nathaniel said. "But keep an open mind. If you cannot, then just keep your mouth shut and be a friend." "Fair enough—and worth a helicopter trip across the bay." Zachary and Aleksey joined Nathaniel and his two bodyguards in a large sports utility vehicle and traveled to a waterfront home on Belvedere Lagoon. Nestled among houses with modern and Mediterranean designs, it was a traditional Cape Cod-style home with second story dormer windows jutting from the slanted roof. They were welcomed inside by the artist herself—a tall and lanky woman in tight jeans, knee-length boots, and a denim jacket. She amiably led them through her home and onto her back patio without speaking. On a deck of wooden planks cantilevered over the jewel-toned and still water, seven curvilinear vertical poles soared seven feet high on a square platform. Nathaniel charged ahead on his crutches, glancing over his shoulder for Zachary's reaction. Zachary and Aleksey followed Nathaniel to the deck, while the artist and Nathaniel's bodyguards remained on the patio. "What is it?" Zachary asked, trying to keep the dubiety out of his voice. "Something abstract?" "Take a closer look before passing judgment or asking questions," Nathaniel answered. "Let it make an impact on your senses." "I just see rusted poles. How old is it?" "It's brand new. I commissioned it. This sculpture was created just for me." "The metal already rusted this much from the ocean air?" Zachary asked. "The metal is not rusted at all," Nathaniel answered. "It is actually pristine. The corrosion, which is purposeful, is only on the iron-laced primer." Aleksey, uncomfortable that his boss might inadvertently ignite Nathaniel's legendary temper, walked away to the side of the artwork for a different perspective. Reaching a forty-five degree angle from the front of the sculpture, he noticed the poles aligned into a hazy and familiar shape. Aleksey motioned to Zachary, who joined him, and together they regarded the rusted sculpture from a new vantage point. "The Buddha?" Zachary asked Nathaniel, identifying the shapes materializing among the poles. "It could be," Nathaniel answered. "Why are you being so coy?" "A masterpiece is like a mountain. You behold something new from every angle, shadow, and position of the light." Zachary and Aleksey, eager to cloak their opinions of what they both considered to be an atrocity and a gimmick, let themselves become distracted by a pack of swimmers who were gliding away around a bend in the lagoon. As if on cue, Brandon, one of Nathaniel's guards, interrupted the men by getting Nathaniel's attention and pointing at his watch. Brandon was a burly man with a broad nose, gravelly voice, and wide-set eyes. "Are you ready now, Boss?" "Do it," Nathaniel answered, glimpsing up at the sky and stepping back so Brandon could take the lead coordinating the ground operation. As they heard the helicopter approaching, Nathaniel, Zachary, and Aleksey retreated to the patio. The chopper hovered directly above the deck and dropped steel cables. Brandon carefully fastened the cables to the sculpture, then motioned to the helicopter pilot that the endeavor was ready for lift off. Nathaniel and the artist held their phones up to capture video of the helicopter hoisting the sculpture over the lagoon, then westward over Belvedere Island and Richardson Bay toward Sausalito. #