Dark Revelations

by Duane Swierczynski

  So I focused on sounding as reassuring as possible. Hope is a powerful analgesic. If you have even an ounce of hope, you can survive virtually any experience, no matter how traumatic.

  I told him not to worry, that people were coming to save him right now.

  I told him, This really is out of your hands, so don’t waste time focusing on that. What you should focus on is slowing down your breathing. There’s not a lot of air down there. You’ll use it all up.

  Oh fuck . . . Oh God . . .

  No.

  No time for panic.

  Instead, I told him to focus on the lesson.

  It’s not long before Charles Murtha, one of the richest oil executives in this region, has it right and can recite it from memory. He seems absurdly grateful to appreciate the chance to actually do something after hanging in that pipe for so long. Like so many executives he is eager to please, to prove his worth in some kind of arena, even one as dingy and desperate as this.

  So before long he is saying it with true gusto, as if he believes the words coming out of his mouth.

  Oh, from your lips to the world’s ears, Charles.

  I am glad Charles Murtha learned his lesson.

  For soon we would be past the point of no return. Even if any member of local law enforcement were to figure out my riddle, there wouldn’t be enough time to get a maintenance crew down to the bowels of the resort to free poor Mr. Charles Murtha before . . .

  Well, I didn’t want to tell him any of that. Especially considering what would be happening to his body.

  He was pretty touchy as it was.

  chapter 19

  DARK

  A burly driver raced Dark away from the abandoned movie palace and back to the airport, pausing only to flash his cell phone at a security checkpoint before being allowed to drive directly onto the tarmac. Seems that Blair really got off on those things, because he apparently passed them out like party favors.

  There was no question as to which plane he’d be boarding. A Gulfstream was finishing up its fueling sequence. Dark stepped out of the car and saw another man approaching the stairway at the same time. His thin frame was wrapped in a dingy wool Irish Garda coat. Even though he had a youthful face, his skull was topped with unruly white hair, like a Q-tip that had been sent to the electric chair. The man slowed his pace when he saw Dark, and switched the duffel bag to the opposite hand.

  “At long last, Steve Dark, in the flesh,” the man said, extending his hand. “I’m Deckland O’Brian.”

  Dark nodded, shook the man’s bony, rough hand.

  “Hey, didn’t you bring any luggage from L.A.?”

  “I travel light.”

  “Not even a book for the flight? I can’t go anywhere without a good read. Anyway, after you, my friend.”

  Dark ascended the stairs and stepped into the wildly expensive Gulfstream jet. All luxury details, however, had been stripped away in favor of utility: workstations outfitted with touch-screen computers, racks of weapons and uniforms, and even a small forensics lab.

  Standing in front of a weapons bay was a tall, broad man with a head that looked like it could be used as a battering ram. Instead of hair, an elaborate gothic tattoo ran over his bony pate and down the back of his neck, disappearing behind his flack jacket. He was assembling a Heckler & Koch MP5A3 with a tactical tri-rail.

  “Dark, this is Hans Roeding. He speaks some English, but not much. Even if he did, he wouldn’t say much at all.”

  Roeding nodded, then went back to what he was doing.

  “That’s just his way of saying, ‘Charmed, I’m sure.’”

  “Right,” Dark said.

  “Far more sociable, and able to speak in many tongues,” O’Brian continued, “is the lovely Natasha Garcon.”

  As Garcon spun around in her chair to face them, Dark realized that O’Brian hadn’t been joking. She was beautiful. Blue-gray eyes, lips that looked like they were forever on the verge of blowing you a kiss. Even with her hair pulled back in a no-nonsense ponytail and no trace of makeup, Garcon would step into any social situation and be the most stunning woman in the room.

  “Are we ready to go, then? I’ll inform the pilot and get us cleared.” And with that, Garcon spun back around, placed a bud inside her left ear, then began to speak in crisp yet hurried French. She’d barely glanced at Dark, which struck him as a little unusual. Was he being dismissed as a member of this team even before he formally joined it?

  O’Brian slapped his back, gestured to the workstation. “All yours, buddy. Make yourself at home. Next stop, the Middle East.”

  So this was Global Alliance.

  The “best of the best.”

  How had Blair put it?

  Manhunters of your caliber, and in some cases, even more seasoned.

  And whose prey is much more fearsome than your garden-variety serial killer....

  These people, however, were not former cops. Their specialties lay elsewhere. They were also virtual ciphers—and for the past decade, had existed off the grid.

  Before Dark had left for the airport, Blair had transmitted brief dossiers on each team member to Dark’s smartphone. Deckland O’Brian was former IRA and a tech freak. On the surface, he appeared to be nothing more than a software engineer from one of the larger computer companies that had roared during the days of the Celtic Tiger. Beneath that cover, he was renowned as an expert on extracting pieces of electronic information from essentially anything with a memory chip, online or otherwise.

  Hans Roeding was a former member of German Special Forces Command—Kommando Spezialkräfte, or KSK, for short. Top-of-the-line soldiers trained in insurgency, counterterrorism, black ops, and a host of other unofficial activities that never end up in the history books. Roeding was the best KSK had produced since the fall of the Berlin Wall, having led secret operations in Kosovo, Bosnia, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Iraq, China, and Libya.

  So that meant the team had brains.

  And muscle.

  Natasha Garcon, meanwhile, was the face of Global Alliance. Not just in terms of beauty. According to her dossier, Garcon was a linguist beyond compare, a prodigy who was speaking a half-dozen languages by first grade and three dozen by high school. Beyond mere translation, she understood the culture and idioms of dozens of nations, as well as states within those nations. If there was a division of law enforcement, foreign government, or intelligence operation to be dealt with, Garcon was first on the scene, clearing the path for the others. Blair had also named her team leader for this mission.

  Many years ago, Dark had more or less begged for a chance to join Special Circs. He wanted to be part of Tom Riggins’s team more than he’d wanted anything else in the world . . . before he lost himself in it, and ended up losing everything he’d ever loved in the world.

  As he sat down, strapped himself in, and looked around at this new “team,” Dark couldn’t help but wonder if he was about to repeat that mistake.

  chapter 20

  DARK

  Dubai, United Arab Emirates

  Commercial flight time from Paris to Dubai can be as swift as seven hours, depending on weather and airport conditions. The weather out of France was horrible, but still Blair’s private Gulfstream made it in just under four. A waiting van whisked the team directly from the plane to Dubai Police HQ, where Natasha Garcon spoke to the department chief. Within minutes they were led directly to the evidence room, the fish tank, and the gold wristwatch.

  While O’Brian and Roeding seemed transfixed by the creepy-looking fish, Dark put on rubber gloves and examined the watch. Like the sketch of Bethany Millar, this watch was most likely a stolen object of a personal nature. The meaning wasn’t in the craftsmanship or the material; the important thing seemed to be that it was given as a gift, back in the 1940s, to an oil executive.

  Dark noticed the second hand was moving slower, and slower, and slower, like a dying insect. Eventually, it would grind to a halt.

  At which point Labyrinth would kill hi
s next victim.

  Blair had arranged for a retired watchmaker to be hastily flown in from nearby Abu Dhabi, and he examined the watch under an X-ray machine. The watch was indeed slowing down. And if his calculations were correct, there was one hour, maybe less, until it stopped completely.

  Dark began to build the profile in his head. This was a pattern killer: two separate scenarios, two different parts of the world, but they still fit a pattern. Each time, Labyrinth had sent a riddle, a timepiece of some kind, and a stolen object. The timepiece told them how much time they had left to figure out the puzzle; but what did the riddle and the stolen object point to? The victim? Dark thought about the victims in Malibu. The actress and her producer boyfriend, completely unaware they shared a bloodline. The nude sketch was what had pointed to their identities. The who. But how did the riddle fit in?

  The second hand, slowing down even more . . .

  Labyrinth was saying:

  I have all of the pieces. I’m so brilliant, I’ll even share them with you—tip you off early. But I still think you won’t be able to catch me, because I’m smarter than you all.

  Dark knew that this arrogance would be Labyrinth’s undoing. Even the most brilliant sociopaths can’t keep up the cat-and-mouse game forever. Being caught is part of the thrill, in some sick way.

  But how many victims would Labyrinth rack up before then?

  chapter 21

  DARK

  The fish pissed off Deckland O’Brian.

  Big-time. The Irishman hated not having the answer to something immediately. O’Brian plugged his tablet computer into the police Internet and started a mad search for the origins of this fish. Within minutes, he had an ichthyologist examining the specimen by Skype, and tentatively identifying it as a “tecopa pupfish.” The strange thing was not that the fish was halfway around the world. The strange thing was that it existed at all. According to the ichthyologist, the United States Fish and Wildlife Service had declared it extinct thirty years prior—it was one of the first to be included on the then-new endangered species list. Yet here it was, swimming around the tank. The fish guy begged them for the chance to examine it in person, saying that he could be there the very next day, if they could just . . .

  “Yeah, yeah,” O’Brian said. “Thanks, buddy.”

  Extinct was a government term, nothing more. Just because a government labels something extinct doesn’t mean it has absolutely, positively disappeared from the surface of the earth. There were black markets for exotic animals, and of course, O’Brian knew how to tap right in to their (allegedly secret) message boards.

  “If Labyrinth purchased this little guy,” O’Brian said, “somebody else had to own him first.”

  Sure. That made logical sense. Still, Dark thought it was looking in the wrong direction. They should be tracing the clues forward to the next victim, not back to something that the killer may have done months ago. Someone’s life was on the line right now. But who?

  The clues would tell them.

  Maybe . . .

  Dark said, “Tell us about this pupfish. Where does it come from?”

  O’Brian nodded and tapped the screen in a frenzy.

  “Huh. Riddle me this, now. Seems the pupfish were native to your home state. California.” Then O’Brian began to sing, off-key: “I wish they all could be Cal-i-for-nia . . .”

  Dark ignored him. The fish was from California—a literal transplant here. Just like American oil executives. The watch told them as much.

  “Do we have a list of oil executives here in Dubai?” Dark asked.

  Natasha shook her head. “Everyone at Intertrust has been accounted for. There’s nobody missing. It’s one of the first things I checked when we landed.”

  “What about the other companies?”

  “Oooh yes!” Deckland O’Brian cried, then started tapping his screen furiously. “Good idea, Steve-O. I’m on it.”

  Which was when alarms sounded all throughout Dubai Police HQ.

  Immediately Natasha Garcon darted into the fray and pulled aside a detective and hurriedly spoke to him in Arabic. The detective was clearly horrified, wearing a stunned look that told Dark the man had never experienced anything quite like this.

  “What’s happened?” Dark asked.

  “They found a body at a resort on the other side of the city,” Natasha said.

  “Where in the resort?”

  “Um . . . all over the place.”

  Deckland O’Brian looked up from his tablet. “I ran a search, and okay, let the records show that I’m calling this now. I’d bet a thousand quid the victim’s name is going to be Charles Murtha.”

  AP (Middle East)

  Breaking: Man found dead in luxury resort in Dubai.

  chapter 22

  DARK

  On the other side of the city, the river turned to blood.

  It was an artificial river in the middle of a luxury resort, built during Dubai’s boom days just a few short years ago. Back then, simulacrum environments were all the rage—for example, ski resorts in the middle of the desert. Here, in this resort, you could sip cocktails by the artificial banks of a faux Amazon river, complete with animatronic wildlife and “authentic” natural sound.

  When the blood started to flow, half-drunk guests assumed it was some sort of special effect, meant to commemorate a holiday, or perhaps even promote a new film. That is, until one underage guest saw a dismembered hand floating along the shoulders of the mighty river.

  “What the hell . . .”

  “OH MY GOD!”

  “Is that . . .”

  Other body parts soon followed, bobbing along in the foamy, crimson-tinged waters, and the police were quickly summoned.

  Some guests had enough wits about them to snap a few photos with their smartphones and upload them to social networking sites. It didn’t take very long for the Internet to make the connection.

  Holy shit! Just heard this “Labyrinth” nut case sent a riddle to Dubai!

  2 minutes ago

  Did he kill someone famous? #labyrinth

  2 minutes ago

  Seriously, what’s this guy’s deal? Is he flying around the world, using up frequent flyer miles, killing people 4 fun?

  1 minute ago

  Hope he visits my ex-husband in Miami #labyrinth

  1 minute ago

  The news was already trending around the world (#labyrinth) by the time Dark and the rest of the team—Global Alliance—arrived at the resort. O’Brian was tracking it from his cell phone.

  “I’ve never seen a hashtag so active,” he said excitedly. “People are really jumping on this thing.”

  Dark said, “He’s probably watching. Getting off on the attention, the publicity. Is there any way of tracking him through the social network?”

  “Are you kidding?” O’Brian asked. “There are going to be millions of people following this stuff.”

  “What about tracing it backward? Find out who first started talking about Dubai?”

  “Easy enough, but what would that prove?”

  “I think he’s the one giving these things a push,” Dark said. “He’s spreading the word like a proud parent.”

  Natasha said, “Tweet him later. We’re almost at the scene.”

  The team divided according to their natural abilities. Deckland O’Brian hit the resort’s computer and surveillance network while Natasha Garcon liaised with the resort owners to open up everything else. Hans Roeding went on a hunt through the resort, in case Labyrinth was still nearby. Steve Dark, of course—the only actual cop among them—joined the forensics team already on-site.

  Dark found the hand in a little artificial eddy near a riverside bar. Borrowing an ice bucket and plastic bag, Dark scooped up the appendage and contained it. He had no mobile kit, but he had everything he needed (and more) back in the Gulfstream.

  Though he had no doubt that this was the body of oil executive Charles Murtha—who’d called out sick four days ago, according to Garcon.
Following O’Brian’s lead, she’d contacted his company as they raced across town and spoke to Murtha’s executive assistant. She presumed he was off on a little boozing/drug-filled desert holiday, pressures of the job and all of that.

  At some point, however, “Labyrinth”—or one of his associates—had abducted Murtha and kept him alive until this moment, when the gold watch ran out of tension, and the hands stopped moving.

  Hands, like the one in Dark’s borrowed ice bucket.

  The management had turned off the artificial river. Dark jumped in and splashed up the path to its source. Garcon helped him find a maintenance crew who would open up the underground network of pipes that supplied the water. Halfway up a backup supply pipe, Dark found the snapped chains—and not much else. But this was clearly where Murtha had been bound, waiting for thousands of pounds of rushing water to come pouring down the pipe, blasting him apart in one messy gush. And at the same time, power-washing all forensic evidence from the pipe itself.

  Dark knew this because O’Brian yelled for everyone to report to his tablet computer immediately.

  Labyrinth had uploaded his next video.

  The executive is suspended in the tunnel. He says, “My name is . . .” Hesitates. He’s scared out of his mind. “My name is Charles Murtha and the Earth we live on is a gift! A gift to its inhabitants! And in return we rape Mother Earth! We take what was given to us and we burn it and soil it and choke it! But no more! Earth was here long before us and we will honor and respect that!”

  Then came the water, striking with such force that the on-screen image jumped as the wave blasted into the camera. But if you were paying attention, just a second before the water struck and the screen turned to white foam, you could literally see Charles Murtha, oil executive, being blasted apart . . .