Founder, Installment 9
Chapters 17 and 18
Book IV, Chapter 17
Propago, October 2021
The universe has a plan, Hugh’s mother once told him.
He can’t remember the context.
She was more religious than his father and bought into the idea, pedaled by the priests at temple every Tuesday, that no event is random, and the universe tends inexorably, though often incomprehensibly, toward harmony. He understands why she might have found that perspective comforting; he summons it as well sometimes, when nothing in life adds up. It is reassuring, after all, to think his anxiety and compulsions fit into some divine plan, that his parents died and his childhood imploded for a reason.
Now his genealogy claim looks like it’s tanking, as well.
And he’s looking for some cosmic plan to emerge from the wreckage.
He cannot imagine that Silvia, as furious as she obviously is, will allow Tommy to help him find a match. When she flipped Hugh off and stormed out of the living room this morning, the universe all but announced his claim is a goner—and that presents all sorts of new, deeply unpleasant challenges. How could he look past the fact that Silvia, one of his closest friends, willfully torpedoed his claim and a shot at an entirely different future? Relationships don’t usually survive those sorts of blows.
Since their row, he’s spent much of the day stewing over these considerations. Now, as the time approaches 4:00 PM, his mobile rings, the screen displaying, No Caller ID.
In no mood for a sales call, he answers warily.
“Have I the pleasure of speaking with Mr. Hugh Warding?” asks the caller, male, with a center-city accent, extremely polite.
“Yup”
“Excellent,” says the man. “Mr. Warding, my name is Eason Rint. I’m a senior researcher with the Propago Foundation here in the City. Are you familiar with Propago?”
“Can’t say that I am,” replies Hugh. “But, look, jim, I’m just heading out, so maybe another time, yeah?”
The man laughs. “Sorry to ring at a bad time,” he says. “I was calling about your claim with the Ministry of Genealogy…”
Hugh stiffens. “Who’d you say you’re with?”
“The Propago Foundation,” repeats the man. “We’re a private, nonprofit foundation dedicated to safeguarding Bressen’s unique cultural heritage—which has become a monumental task, what, with the global economy and the EU, and all.”
“Go on…”
“In the simplest terms, we support enterprises we believe further our mission, whether in the private sector, education, or politics. In particular, we support Bressen’s commitment to tracking ancestral lines, and we sometimes assist in genealogical research with…potentially significant outcomes. Does that make sense?”
“Not really.”
This seems to amuse the man, who chuckles softly. “I apologize, Mr. Warding. Sometimes our work is difficult to explain. Let me try to be clearer: We show that you filed a claim with the Genealogy Ministry asserting that you are, in fact, descended from the Godor family.”
Hugh is about to ask how Propago knows all this when Rint continues.
“We’d like to help you find a genetic match, Hugh, and then assist with the claim until it’s approved.”
“You can do that?”
“Yes,” replies the man. “We can.”
Now Hugh’s skepticism resurfaces. “I don’t get why you’d want to help me out.”
Here the man’s voice becomes softer, more earnest. Bressen’s founding families are, he tells Hugh—a national treasure, with bloodlines dating back to the time of Julius Caesar. Julius Caesar! And if a rightful member of the Godor clan has somehow been misidentified, well, then, it falls within Propago’s mission to return that person to the fold.
“That sounds great,” replies Hugh, particularly struck by the idea of a fold to which he rightly belongs. “Except I could never afford what you’re talking about.”
Rint chuckles again—though the laugh sounds vaguely patronizing. “We don’t charge for this sort of thing—not in special cases like yours.”
“What’s special about my case?”
Rint lowers his voice as if someone might be eavesdropping. “Let me be frank, Hugh. If your ancestral lines trace back to one of the great families, we owe you our services. Do you understand me? As compensation for all the families have done over the centuries. We are funded by the founding families, so, in a prospective sense, you’re already entitled to our services. ”
“That’s incredible,” replies Hugh. “I thought my claim was dead.”
Now he glances at the time and remarks that he has to get ready for work. Rint says, no problem at all, and that all he needs is to confirm some details over the telephone and then he can get to work looking for a match.
“Then we’ll take it from there, providing updates along the way, of course—until the Ministry renders a final judgment. How does that sound?”
“This would all be confidential?”
“Of course.”
So Hugh agrees to work with Propago, and Rint, in turn, asks Hugh to walk him through his research—from hearing about Mossey’s story to discovering the dovetailing profiles of Gaius Willsom and Arno Cauthen. Hugh explains how he took the DNA test and provided the results to the Ministry, only to see the project stall after that. “I thought I had someone who would help me find a Godor,” Hugh says, “but that’s not going to pan out.”
When Hugh finishes talking, Rints whistles under his breath.
“You’ve accomplished quite a lot on your own.”
“Yeah,” says Hugh. “It’s taken a lot of time.”
“So, as a next step,” continues Rint, “we’ll have one of our researchers confirm your findings and write a full report—the Ministry likes a good write-up—and then we’ll work on identifying a Godor family member willing to provide a DNA sample. That’s a bit tricky, as you can imagine, given their natural suspicion of outsiders, but it shouldn’t be insurmountable. I’m sure we have some Godors on our donor list.”
“What happens after you submit the claim?”
Rint sucks in his breath. “Oh, I imagine the Ministry will verify our findings and issue a ruling. Assuming we can find a DNA match, I would expect a fairly quick decision in your favor.”
“Brilliant,” says Hugh. “I really appreciate the help. I wish I’d known about you jimmies a couple months ago.”
He thanks Rint and hangs up. Then, still buzzing with excitement, he has an impulse to call Silvia and tell her that he won’t need Tommy’s help—that the universe delivered after all, and they can put their argument behind them.
But he decides to hold off.
Let her come around on her own.
Chapter 18
Pint at the Pig, November 2021
A week after Silvia moved out, she has come by the flat only once, to pack some clothing while Hugh was at work. She texts with him solely to answer the occasional question—about the rent bill, or where she left the laundry softener. Hugh, meanwhile, has told her nothing about the call from Propago—not as a punishment exactly, but because she never asks about anything these days. He’s also waiting to see if she intervenes with Tommy and his offer to help find a DNA match.
Hugh’s had three panic attacks since Silvia moved out, the first when he came home from work and found the flat as quiet as a tomb. Then came another, and another. He began taking CBD drops to manage the anxiety and loneliness; he made a point of staying busy by working out, paying bills, doing the laundry, or running errands. The CBD helps for sure, though he’s having to take an entire dropperful every four hours just to keep the attacks at bay.
Then, today, when he stopped to buy Indian takeaway for lunch, he noticed a black Peugeot idling across the street, its windows tinted silver. The car only caught his attention because he’d never seen windows like that, and he didn’t give it a second thought. But then, on Fornish Street when he stopped to light a cigarette, he saw the vehicle again, this time passing him slowly. The Peugeot didn’t set off internal alarm bells, however, until it appeared a third time, idling outside the chemist where he’d gone to buy BandAids on his way home. At this third sighting, a wave of electricity moved up his spine and over his scalp like a spreading shadow. He made a point of checking the registration number, just in case he might need it later.
VH-778-GDT
The fourth sighting occurred when Hugh was about to cross Canal Boulevard, and he saw the Peugeot across four lanes of traffic. It seemed as if the driver knew he’d been spotted, because the car turned the corner and disappeared—not in an obvious hurry, but like a cat slipping between fence pickets. By then Hugh’s paranoia had reached a point of near-panic, and he decided to return home by a different, more circuitous route. So he headed down Mission Gate Road, where he watched for the car while pretending to look at window displays.
Then came his retreat into the tobacco store, and panic-stricken flight out the back door and into an alley.
Now, as Hugh races toward the end of the alley, he hears the tobacconist call, “Hey!” one last time. He ignores the man and keeps running until he emerges onto Blackellyn Lane where the sidewalks are crowded with rush-hour commuters. Here he slows from a sprint to the trot of an anonymous commuter hurrying home from the train station. One block down Blackellyn, the lane abuts Boulevard Skantántis, with its antique street lamps and giant chestnut trees. He stops to light a cigarette and is surprised to find his hands trembling. Sensing he may have finally lost the Peugeot, he heads north on Boulevard Skantántis to Stanfield Street. By the time he’s walked three blocks down Stanfield, the Gauloises has calmed his racing pulse.
When, at last, he comes to the corner of Stanfield and Morton Mews, he pauses outside The Spotted Pig, debating whether to stop in for a pint or head straight home. Just then, a voice from behind him shouts, “Hugh!” and then even louder, “HUGH!”
Turning, Hugh sees Dory, calling to him from one of the pub windows. Hugh waves, takes one more look around the intersection, and slips through the front door. The pub is full to capacity tonight, with every booth and table occupied and a crowd milling in front of the beer taps. Moving sideways through the throng, he maneuvers past the bar and over to the window where Dory sits with a pint of stout.
“Didn’t know you were out,” says Hugh.
“Wasn’t goin’ to be,” replies Dory. “Had a last-minute cancellation.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Nah,” laughs Dory. “She pays either way,” Then he looks Hugh over from head to toe and whistles softly. “You look like shit.”
Disregarding this last remark, Hugh takes a seat, setting his mobile on the table. Just then, a server comes by their table, a lank, sharp-nosed woman with a long-stemmed rose tattooed on her throat.
“Evenin’ Hugh,” says the server. “Pint of Young’s?”
“Yeah, Evie,” he replies. “That’s good.”
“Whiskey sider?”
“Please.”
The woman gestures at Dory’s glass. “You good, Dory?” she asks.
“I’m good, Evie,” replies the big man. “But don’t be a stranger, yeah?”
As the server returns to the bar for their order, Hugh eyes the street while Dory studies him bemusedly. They remain this way until Evie returns with Hugh’s order. Then, as Hugh downs his whiskey, Dory asks, “You lookin’ for someone?”
Hugh continues gazing out the window for a second more, then replies. “Nah. Just some car was following me everywhere I went today. I had to slip out the back door of a tobacco shop to lose him. Then I got chased by this gordo keener who thought I stole his cigars.”
Dory’s face tightens. “Followed?” he asks. “Was it a Sikkie car?”
“Don’t think so,” replies Hugh. “It was unmarked. But I saw it four times.”
“Could you see the driver?”
“That’s the thing,” says Hugh, his eyes roving the floor. “I couldn’t see who it was. Whenever I looked at the windscreen, there was a reflection or something—like he had film on the inside of the window. But that’s how I knew it was the same car, ‘cause of that silver glass. Plus I saw the reg plate.”
“So it wasn’t a Sikkie car?” persists Dory.
“How would I know?” snaps Hugh. “Maybe they have unmarked black Peugeots with special windscreens. Who the fuck knows?”
Dory backs off now and drinks from his stout. After a moment he ventures, “Any idea who it was?”
“I’ve got one idea,” begins Hugh. “Remember when Sil moved out?”
“Yeah.”
“Later that same day I got a call from this foundation offering to manage my ancestry claim for me.”
“They called you out of the blue?”
Hugh nods again. “I should’ve checked them out first, but I got so excited I told the jimmy everything.”
“What does that have to do with who followed you?” asks Dory.
Hugh looks out the window. “The reg plate of the car was from Vorhol.”
“Okay…”
“And the foundation is headquartered in Vorhol.”
Now Dory’s expression turns grave and he shakes his head slowly. “So you think the man who called you was trying to find out how far you’ve got with the claim?”
“Yeah,” says Hugh. “I think so.”
“And now someone’s tryin’ to scare you off.” Dory thinks for a moment, then leans closer to Hugh. “Tell me about this foundation.”
Hugh drinks, wipes his mouth with his sleeve, then, feeling stupid for having so blindly trusted Eason Rint, tells Dory everything he knows about Propago.
The big man’s face twists up. “They offered to help you find out if you’re a yazzer?” He pushes back from the table, his arm muscles tensing inside his hoodie. “Yeah, fuck that.” Taking his mobile in hand, he asks, “How do you spell Propago?” Before Hugh can reply, Dory waves him off. “Never mind. I got it.”
Dory scrolls through something on his mobile, then, after a moment, sits back and announces, “I’m gonna check with Brucie. He’s probably heard of them.” He taps out a text message and sets his phone down.
“Brucie thinks everything is a yazzer conspiracy,” Hugh laughs.
Dory squints his eyes. “Brucie knows a lot of shit, Hugh. And just ‘cause some of the stories don’t make sense to you doesn’t mean they’re not true, yeah?”
For a time, the conversation pauses as both men drink and gaze around the pub. Then, just as Hugh is about to change the subject, Dory’s mobile whistles like a bird; he picks it up and reads the text. “Exactly what I thought,” he exclaims.
“What?” asks Hugh.
Dory hands his phone to Hugh. On the screen is a post from the blog of dissident group B-Opp: “How a Private Foundation Became the Clans’ Enforcer.” Hugh begins scrolling through the article, pausing at various points to read more closely.
“Fuck,” he mutters.
He hands the mobile back to Dory, who begins reading aloud from the post.
“The private foundation was established in 1877 with grants from the Abra, Poliu, and Odríassis clans to preserve so-called traditional Bressen values. By the 1970s, however, Propago had expanded its operations to include private security, surveillance, and, by some accounts, racketeering, extortion, and intimidation—all in furtherance of clan interests. Due to its close affiliation with the founding families and Sikstand leadership, the Foundation conducts its clandestine operations with almost complete impunity. In its 2022 Global Crime Report, INTERPOL implicated Propago in the death or disappearance of 21 figan and immigrant Bressenians over a five-year period.”
Hugh sighs and shakes his head. “They’re on a fucking INTERPOL list and I had no clue?” he mutters. “That’s bloody humiliating.”
Dory smiles cynically. “Those stories don’t get reported inside Bressen. Censors pick them up first.”
“I was so excited that someone offered to help, you know?”
“I get that.” replies Dory. “But these jimmies are bad news, yeah? You need to watch your back, Hughie.” He continues to scan the article, then sets his mobile on the table with a disgusted grunt.
After a moment, Hugh announces, “I’m gonna call the Ministry tomorrow and see what they say about Propago.”
“Alright,” says the big man. “But watch what you say, yeah?”
“No. I got you.”
Having resolved this much, Hugh considers his dilemma and asks, “So you think that was them tonight?”
Dory shrugs his shoulders. “Dunno,” he says. “I fuckin’ hope not.”
As the conversation resumes, and the succession of pint glasses continues into the night, the subject transitions from the black Peugeot and Sikstand complicity to more mundane matters like work and weekend plans. Just after ten o’clock, when they have been talking for nearly three hours, Evie stops by the table to cash them out. As she runs Hugh’s debit card, Dory announces, “I’ll talk to Brucie tomorrow—see what more he can tell me, yeah?”
Having settled up, the friends make their way to the door and out to the sidewalk. The evening air has grown crisp, and aside from a Pakistani bodega and a by-the-slice pizzeria, most of the storefronts on Stanfield Street are dark. The sidewalks are empty, as well, except for two women, loud and drunk, attempting to hail a taxi.
“Looks clear,” says Dory. “You want me to walk with you to your flat?”
Hugh declines the offer, then gives his friend a hug. Before heading home, he takes a long look up and down Stanfield Street and then along Morton Mews. The mews is dark except for a porch light or two; there are no idling cars or pedestrians in sight. Feeling wobbly-legged from all the beer, but considerably less anxious, he lights a Gauloises and sets off for home.