Pandora: A Harvey Nolan Thriller, Book 2 (Harvey Nolan Mystery Thriller Series)

by S. C. Abbey

  Pandora

  A Harvey Nolan Thriller

  By S. C. Abbey

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  Resurrection is an introductory prequel to the Harvey Nolan thriller series, set a couple of years before the events occurring in Maximus, Pandora, and the following books.

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  ‘We are all in the gutter,

  but some of us are looking at the stars.’

  Oscar Wilde

  Prologue

  THE LIGHT BULB flickered in the cheap-looking room. Or was it just me drifting in and out of consciousness? The air reminded me of damp, stale cigarettes that were left too long in an ashtray. I wondered how I managed to live here for so many days. The room size was modest yet spacious enough if you compared it to those cities of exorbitant rents like London or New York City. And don’t even get me started on Tokyo—that was an indubitably depressing month.

  The peeling wallpaper was tainted with blobs of yellow—presumably stained with the cigarette smoke from previous tenants—which explained the smell. Brown water stains dripped from the edge of the almost-broken window that hung from its loosened hinge. There wasn’t much of an array of furniture in the room—it really was just a squeaky bed with a rattan chair on the left side of it, not even a table where I could lay out my possessions and documents. At least the mattress was a spring one, albeit the annoying sound it made whenever my body was deposited on it. Which brought me to the one thing I really couldn’t get used to—the lack of any soundproofing on the thin walls separating my room and the others.

  No, I don’t wish to hear your lovemaking. Just when the thought of it entered my mind, it seemed like they were going at it right that instant. Or it could be my ears were starting to fail on me. Who knew? The light continued to flicker.

  Seriously, who uses a naked bulb as a primary overhead light source for a room, regardless the condition of it? Was this facility used as a torture chamber? It even has a pull-chain that snakes down for you to switch it on and off—highly inconvenient when one enters the room in a state of total darkness.

  Of course, all these pale in significance to the circumstance I was currently in. I dragged myself into a sitting position on the floor, placing my back against the wall to support my increasingly weakening body. There was no more time. The warmth I felt in my arms just moments ago was progressively being replaced by the numbness I expected to follow. It wasn’t even chilly, it was just the feeling of nothingness. My eyes threatened to close, but I refused to succumb to my mortal vulnerability. I forced them wide open again. The initial gush of blood was slowly turning into a trickle of liquid life that trailed down the side of my wrists, pooling around where I sat—there was no carpet to absorb the fluid.

  I am done for.

  I knew a lost cause when I saw it. Many a time had the concept of death brushed past me—the hike up the steep cliffs of Mount Makalu in Nepal, the dive at the site of the Ottoman shipwrecks to the bottom of the Black Sea, here and there—I have never really been fazed by the imminence of it. Until now.

  I think I get it now.

  And sadly, all that gripped me was fear. Fear of the impending perpetual nonexistence that lay ahead of me. Fear of the unknown. And a hint of regret.

  I knew I had to intervene. I wasn’t proud of many things I had focused on in my life—like material possessions. But this was different. If I could make a difference sacrificing myself, it would be worth it.

  And Rachel, I’m sorry. I didn’t wish for it to end this way.

  There was one last thing that had to be done.

  My cell, if only I could reach it. Too far. Time is running out.

  I mustered all the strength I could summon from my frail body and reached out my left hand to dip my index finger into the pool of blood under it. My arm felt like a ton of bricks as I helplessly attempted to take control of it. I swung my hand farther, where the blood hadn’t reached. I placed a finger on the floor to begin the final task of my life. I repeated the process until I was satisfied with the results.

  I can’t feel my fingers anymore.

  My legacy was complete, my contributions to the human race would endure, I hoped. If only there was more—no time to consider that. My arms slumped against the side of my torso, the last of their energy spent. My eyelids dropped like a guillotine, quick and uncontrollable. The pathetic light bulb flashed its last flicker as the darkness engulfed the room.

  The void consumed me.

  Chapter 1

  HARVEY NOLAN HELD up the half-folded summer edition of the Columbia Law School Magazine with his right hand, bringing a half-eaten apple up to his lips with his left. He bit into the crunchy fruit, his eyes still focused on the publication in front of him—juice spilling out from the corner of his mouth. He quickly used the back of his hand to wipe his lips.

  ‘On May 15, family and friends gathered on the lush lawns of Morningside Heights to witness the Columbia Law School’s graduating class of—’

  It was a glorious Sunday morning in New York City, and the warm weather was accentuated by the soft strumming of the acoustic guitar by Eric Clapton and the dark Ethiopian roast sending forth its fumes into the air from the mug sitting on the see-through coffee table in front of Harvey. He lazed on the fabric couch in his pajamas—a clean white t-shirt and gray jogger pants. He looked entirely satisfied with the fact that it was finally the summer holidays and he could at least have some time doing absolutely nothing productive or academic. It was the first time in many months since he’d gotten the chance to even sit by the bay window and soak in the sunlight on a Sunday morning—he made it a point to work in the mornings during school semesters, every single day.

  He read the law publication article with much gusto. He had missed this year’s graduating ceremony due to a conference he had to attend up north, past the Grand Canyon. Not that he particularly enjoyed dressing up for the occasion—the traditional academic dress was too much for him.

  Ding!

  The oven timer rang. Just in time. Harvey stood from the couch he had reluctantly sunken into and tossed the apple core into the trash bin on his way to the kitchen. He opened the drawer under the oven and took out an oven mitt in the shape of a bear paw with his initials stitched on it—a birthday present Shia Jamison had gotten for him this year. He smiled at the sight of the adorable-looking glove.

  Harvey opened the oven door and the smell of baked country ham and cheddar frittata perfumed the kitchen. Harvey sighed in pleasure. What a great way to start a day. He dragged the baking dish further out and poked the surface with his non-mitted hand to see if it was fully cooked. It felt firm and its surface, nicely golden brown—perfect. He removed the baking dish from the oven and placed it on the kitchen countertop, then transferred his breakfast onto a serving plate which he brought to the living room to enjoy. He sunk back into the couch.

  Just when he was about to deliver a morsel of his culinary creation into his mouth, the sound of his phone ringing interrupted him. He felt a passing tinge of emptiness as he put down his fork along with the bite of frittata. This better not be work.

  “Harvey! Where are you?”

  “Hey, good morning to you too,” replied Harvey in a lazy manner.

  “It’s hardly a good morning. I’ve been busy ever since I got out of bed before sunrise,” Bertram Moore said. “Please don’t tell me you’re still in bed.” />
  “Of course not. I’m having breakfast,” Harvey replied. He always felt slightly annoyed by Bertram’s insistence on just about everything. “Though I could be, it’s a Sunday. I’m allowed to sleep in.”

  “Breakfast? What time zone do you live in?”

  Harvey looked at the silver clock hanging on the wall. The second hand ticked. “It’s only 10:58 a.m. Bert. Anything before noon can be considered breakfast.”

  “And what do you suppose is the day, today?”

  “Didn’t I just mention Sunday a couple of seconds ago?”

  “I meant the date,” replied Bertram, starting to sound impatient.

  Harvey paused for a few seconds and blinked several times. “It’s the fifth.”

  “And what do you suppose you have on the fifth?”

  “Err—nothing?” said Harvey, honestly unsure of what Bertram was trying to imply.

  “Chelsea? 10th Avenue?” clued Bertram.

  Harvey frowned at his perfectly cooked frittata on the coffee table. He was totally clueless about what Bertram was talking about. He hoped he hadn’t forgotten an important appointment with his foster father. And he really wanted to be alone today.

  “Can I just give up already?” he said. “I would really love to get back to my frittata.”

  “Last chance, Harvey,” Bertram replied. “How about, an art show?”

  Harvey’s eyes widened in realization. Oh no. “Shit—”

  “Language, my boy. Manners maketh man.”

  “Was it today? I thought it was next week! I’m sorry—am I still in time for it?” Harvey asked. He looked back at the clock. “What time was it supposed to start anyway?”

  “You were supposed to be here by 10.30 a.m. It’s a brunch event, there’s free-flow champagne, you know. I’m already on my third glass—”

  “That makes me only thirty minutes late—I can still make it!”

  “How fast can you get here? I take it you’re still unfittingly dressed for the event?” asked Bertram.

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can! Text me the address, see you later—”

  Harvey didn’t wait for Bertram to reply. He ended the call and dropped his cell phone onto the couch, standing immediately. He took a last look at the breakfast he had put so much effort in preparing before looking away. There was no time for that. He headed toward his bedroom, shedding his sleeping attire on the way, reaching his wardrobe buck-naked. He picked out suitable attire for the art show and got dressed, before heading to the washroom to do something about his bed hair. Within ten minutes, he was ready to get out of his apartment. He swooped by the couch to retrieve his cell phone, and a text message notification lit up at that very instant. He strolled toward the door and twisted the doorknob before pulling it.

  The door swung open and disturbed the still air in the corridor.

  Chapter 2

  KATIE MOULIN LIGHTLY tapped the dry, wooden surface of the door standing between her and her appointment. She patiently waited despite no acknowledgment from the other side. Her head was wrapped with a thick, white linen cloth that went around most of her face and neck, protecting her from the dusty streets she was dying to escape. She gave a subdued cough before tapping once again on the same spot as before—she really couldn’t get used to the air. The door slowly creaked open, a pair of blue eyes peeked through the gap.

  “Michael Rafferty?” asked Katie, though she was certain it was him.

  The eyes narrowed, Katie couldn’t tell whether or not it was because of the dust from the streets. The man tilted his head inwards, signaling the Interpol agent to enter. She stepped in, not waiting to be asked a second time. On the inside was a bare and dark living space, not how one would expect a typical living quarter to be like. The floor was dusty, though not half as dirty as outside. An old-looking round table with plastic chairs decorated the middle of it. The door closed behind her.

  “I expected someone…older,” he said slowly. “A man.”

  “Does it make a difference?” she replied in a harsh manner, still feeling a little prickly from the terrible weather outside.

  “No, not really. Please have a seat.” The man dragged one of the plastic chairs out of its resting position. “The person I have arranged for you to meet isn’t here yet, Miss…?”

  “Katie Moulin. Should that be a cause for concern?”

  “Don’t worry, he will be fine. It is a long way, I’m sure he will be here soon. Can I offer you some coffee?” Rafferty didn’t wait for a reply before he entered the kitchen. A kettle being placed on the stove could be heard.

  Katie unwrapped the cloth around her face and pulled the plastic chair out further being settling into it. She tried to occupy her waiting time by observing the interior of the room, but there was really nothing much for her to see. She had thought that an American’s home would be a little more on the comfortable side, albeit being in Tirana, Albania. But it seemed like her assumptions were very off indeed. Her host reappeared with two cups of piping-hot coffee, which he placed on the table.

  “Mr. Rafferty, where were you from?”

  “West Virginia,” he said as he pulled out a packet of Camels. “I thought you knew. Shouldn’t you have read a file on me or something?”

  The man was right, Katie did know that. She only asked because she wanted to make some small talk, lighten the mood. “How long have you been living here anyway?” She knew that as well.

  “Twenty years or so. I came here on an assignment, always wanted to be a war correspondent. I was here when the Socialist Party won the elections in 1997, and when the Kosova Refugees flooded the borders in 1999.” He exhaled a puff of smoke. “I never left.”

  “You mean Kosovo,” said Katie.

  “Don’t say that in front of him.” Rafferty put out the cigarette by dropping it in an empty tin can, exhaling the last of the smoke from his lungs. A rhythmic tapping from the wooden door signaled the arrival of the second guest. “That should be him.”

  Katie instinctively placed her hand on the side of her gun holster as Rafferty stood and walked toward the front door. He unlocked the bolts and peeked through the small gap that appeared between the door and its frame. Shortly after, he swung open the door and allowed a man in a blue windbreaker jacket to enter the house. The man had a cream-colored cloth wrapped around his face in a similar fashion as Katie had before. He started to unwrap it as soon as he stepped in. He was in his fifties, a man of small stature with sad brown eyes and downturned eyebrows. His forehead had deep wrinkle lines that matched the ones under his eyes. A lock of black hair fell in the middle of his forehead from his otherwise-balding hairline. He must have not shaven for at least a week.

  Katie stood. “Miss Moulin, I would like you to meet Mr. Mustafa Xaja,” Rafferty said as Katie reached out to try and shake Xaja’s hand. He didn’t reciprocate. He just stared blankly at her hand. “He speaks for the Greater Albania Albanians Alliance.”

  The G Triple-A in short, thought Katie. There was never an official confirmation of the group’s existence, either from the Albanian government or the Albanian community in the Greater Albania area which covered parts of Greece, Macedonia, Bulgaria, and Serbia. Katie retracted her hand and chose to settle back into her seat.

  Xaja eyed the female Interpol agent with narrowed eyes as he approached the table, choosing to sit in the chair on the opposite side of the table. “Miss…?”

  “Agent Moulin,” said Katie with a definitive authority in her voice.

  “You’re with—the CIA? The UN?” asked Xaja in perfect English. Katie couldn’t really quite pick out the accent.

  “She is with the Interpol,” replied Rafferty as he lit another cigarette. He offered one to Xaja but was rejected by the civilian rebel.

  “Oh,” Xaja said with a tone of dismissal. “I don’t think I’ve ever met one of those.”

  Katie frowned in her mind. This was going to be a tough negotiation. “Mr. Mustafa Xaja, I spe
ak on behalf of Interpol, with the support of the government of the United States of America. We would like to propose—”

  The rebel leader put up his right hand, signaling Katie to stop. “The CIA agent I met wanted to give me and my family full citizenship in Albania with new identities, a house with a matching garden ten times larger than this piece of crappy compound we are situated in, a comfortable low-level government job, and one hundred thousand American dollars cash.” He paused and stared at the table before he continued. “I put a knife through his left palm because he was rude.”

  Katie reached into her jacket for her gun but fell short of drawing it, her fingers wrapped around the grip. Xaja didn’t so much as flinch as he slowly placed the cloth he had used to wrap his face earlier on the table. Nicely folded.

  “So tell me, Miss Moulin. Is your offer any better than that?” Xaja continued. “If it isn’t, I implore you to speak no more and go back whence you came.”

  Katie slowly let go of the gun she was gripping too tightly. Her frustration didn’t register on her face. She paused for a good whole minute, weighing her options. She was expecting this meeting to be an easy one but once again, her assumption was far off.

  “What is it you want then?” asked Katie. “We know that you’re a leader from one of the many factions in the G-Triple-A, and all we need is one at your level or higher to defect, and there goes your bargaining chip. You can then forget about getting a single penny—from the U.S., the EU, or anybody.”

  Xaja raised his gaze from the table, looking straight into Katie’s eye for the first time since he had arrived. “My family lived through the dark times of the Yugoslavia bombing by NATO. My mother’s brother and his family perished when a NATO airstrike repeatedly dropped bombs along the stretch of road between Gjakova and Dečani in western Kosova on the 14th of April, 1999. My younger sister never came back when she went out to source for water. I found her body six days later.” He paused and took a deep breath. “You asked me what I want.” He exhaled. “I want my family to have a peaceful life. I want my kids to be able to have dreams.”