of an oversight than a political statement. It hadn’t made its way onto a treaty because the scribes had run out of vellum and decided to just leave it off. No one had noticed or cared until quite recently. During a conversation with Enoch Root, who apparently had some kind of old family link to the place and knew all of the details, El Shepherd had somehow become aware of its special status, and put a building full of medievalists and lawyers to work sorting out the details. He’d purchased all of the property inside the boundary and consolidated his position to the point where he’d felt comfortable minting his own currency (digital only) and issuing passports.
Ten years ago, he’d been sitting in a corner booth in that tavern, on the Zelrijk-Aalberg side of the crack, when Belgian police, acting in coordination with Interpol, had come to arrest him on suspicion of having masterminded the Moab hoax.
Standing shoulder to shoulder along the whole length of the crack had been members of the Zelrijk-Aalberg security forces: American mercenaries armed with assault rifles. Behind them the bar had been crammed solid with lawyers, friends of El, and media. They had all looked on, in what was described as a festive atmosphere, as Sinjin Kerr, the lord chancellor of Zelrijk-Aalberg, had reminded the Belgian cops that they had no authority on this side of the crack and that, if need be, force would be employed to preserve the integrity of the border.
The Belgians had backed down. Both they and the Dutch authorities had made it clear that if El stepped over the crack he would be subject to arrest.
Since that day, El had not left his cricket-oval-sized country. Another man might have monetized it to death, building skyscrapers on it and lining its fractal border with shops selling firecrackers, cannabis, and swag, but El had made very few changes. It was still the same homely assortment of half-timbered structures and vegetable gardens. He’d cut back on the security force, so now the border was patrolled by a rotating squad of half a dozen middle-aged guys who kept their weapons, if they even had any, discreetly concealed. Behind the wattle-and-daub walls, every room of every structure was occupied by his staff. There were rumors of tunnels. But nowadays his staff consisted mostly of the medical professionals who looked after him, and the lawyers and accountants who kept his affairs sorted. The legal situation was stalemated. The statute of limitations had long since expired on most of the criminal charges that could be leveled against him relating to Moab. He’d sent signals that he would spend every penny he had defending himself in court. And everyone understood that by the time he could be tried, convicted, and sentenced, he’d be dead, or so mentally disabled that any sentence would be commuted on humanitarian grounds. He stayed home and he used telepresence robots to “travel” around the world, and he disabled their faces so that no one could “see” him. He’d become a sort of Man in the Iron Mask.
A little less than a year after the conference in the San Juan Islands, Corvallis Kawasaki—who was in Amsterdam on other business—rented a car and had it drive him down to the border. Zelrijk-Aalberg had changed very little, but the Dutch and Belgian hamlets that surrounded it had developed into boom towns where El’s employees lived, shopped, dined, and raised their families. The car dropped him off on a Belgian street in front of the famous tavern. Corvallis went in, bought a Belgian beer at the bar, and found his way into the back section. The crack in the floor was obvious. He stepped across it. Loitering in a nearby booth, nursing a club soda, was a man with a bulge in his blazer and a wearable on his face, presumably checking Corvallis’s identity. He let Corvallis pass without incident. The tavern had a rear exit leading to a little beer garden, which was where he found El, sitting at a table, sheltered from a light mist by a big canvas umbrella.
He hadn’t changed as much as Corvallis was expecting. He twitched his eyes toward a chair but made no move to get up or shake hands. Corvallis took a seat, sipped his beer, and looked at Elmo Shepherd for the first time in many years. He seemed fit. His face had got bigger and fleshier in the way that happened to everyone as they aged. About