[Adam Park 01.0] The Dead and the Missing

by AD Davies

  Twelve percent of a file I knew held the key to all the secrets, all the lies.

  A large, firm hand folded around the back of my head and slowly pushed my face onto the desk with a strength I could not fight against. The other hand relieved me of the phone and a familiar voice spoke calmly and loudly.

  “Mr. Benson, do not shoot that man.”

  A pause, and evidently Benson came on the phone.

  The person holding me down said, “Good. Adam is correct, is he not? The file is all you need?” A pause. “I do not care. I can verify the item.” Argumentative noises in the earpiece. “If you harm the man without due cause, I will destroy you. Understood?”

  It clearly was understood, because the man replaced the handset and let me sit up. He pulled the USB drive out of the computer and the file transfer was abandoned at eighteen percent.

  “Hello, Adam,” said Vila Fanuco. “You’ve had an interesting couple of days.”

  Chapter Fifty

  Back in the waiting room, Fanuco presented my rucksack to me. I asked how he knew where I was, where my bag could be found. He said he had people watching Vuong Dinh’s yacht following chatter picked up on his home line. Then he showed me a custom-made tablet computer with a map and a red dot over the medical center.

  He said, “They made her swallow a beacon. She didn’t tell you?”

  That answered a number of other questions too. Like how they could track us in open water and through the cave system.

  I said, “She wouldn’t have told me if I didn’t ask.”

  “She will pass it in a day or so. But now I have to decide what to do. She is someone else’s property.”

  “She’s a person.”

  “Bought and paid for.”

  “By your competitors.” I handed back the tablet. “What do you care?”

  “They are no longer our competitors.” He smiled. That illusion of too many teeth again. “The events in Paris granted us a … merger of sorts. That is to say, they are willing to surrender the territory in Europe if they can participate in our network.”

  “So you’re here, what, inspecting them?”

  “A consultant, you might say. Their holding camps are crude but effective, as you can attest. You know, the boys at the one you visited, they laughed all day after you killed that police officer.” I shushed him and he waved me off. “No one will listen to this. And I certainly do not hold it against you. I told you, didn’t I? You are a dark reflection of people like me. I saw in you the ability to kill.”

  I felt something sink inside me. “It was you, wasn’t it?”

  “Me?”

  “On the phone. The guy who ordered me to kill Giang.”

  Fanuco rubbed his chin, a proud grin creaking through. “You should be thanking me.”

  “Thanking you?”

  “If I had not prepared you with Major Giang, do you really think you would have been able to survive out there?” His face came close to mine, his breath hot. “How many did you kill?”

  “Four,” I said.

  “I heard five.”

  “Sarah killed one of them.”

  “Ah, yes, we come back to the girl.”

  I shifted in my seat. Pain flared in my ribs. “She’s going home,” I said. “She’ll be leaving with whoever the British Ambassador sends to collect her. You don’t have connections that deep, I assume.”

  He sighed. “You assume correctly.”

  “I’ll be arrested as an illegal immigrant. Maybe the consulate will get me freed, maybe not. But whatever happens, they already have Vuong Dinh’s name.” I hoped for some tell in Fanuco’s expression but no anger or annoyance broke through. I said, “Secrecy is paramount to your operation. That’s the reason you guys used me to retrieve the data. Why Benson dressed it up as something else. Because if he had a detective hunting down a memory-stick, it might draw attention from the law. But wanting revenge for a robbery is mundane day-to-day stuff for a sleazy strip-club gangsta. Can’t have MI5 knowing there’s evidence out there pointing at a worldwide club for smugglers. Right?”

  He gave nothing away.

  I said, “Vuong Dinh’s name will be all over the place. The British won’t let it lie. The kidnapping, forced labor, and sexual assault of one of their nationals. It will make the news, and they will pressure the People’s Security Service to investigate.”

  Fanuco tapped the pen-drive thoughtfully on his chin.

  I said, “You could kill me and take Sarah, I know that. But isn’t Vuong Dinh a liability now he’s out in the open?”

  He brought his face so close I could smell garlic and chili on his breath. “I am actually allowing the Vietnamese security service to track down and close many outlets that I do not consider secure. In exchange for certain … permissions for legitimate businesses being fast-tracked. I have not yet decided about Mr. Dinh.”

  A thought occurred. “The girl Sammy LeHavre gave to them in Paris, they said she was your favorite. What was her name?”

  “Marie,” he said.

  “Vuong Dinh has her at his place. Or he did when I was last there.”

  Fanuco patted me on the shoulder, a happy gesture. “Well then, that is settled. Vuong Dinh was a valuable client. He will be an equally-fine sacrifice.”

  I nodded, actually feeling something good for a change.

  “And you, Adam. Like in Paris, you will be the hero of this piece.” Fanuco gently squeezed my leg. “Work for us.”

  “For you?”

  “Us. A resource. Investigative services. For when things go wrong. Like data removed from a trusted location.” He winked. He actually winked at me. “We could take care of Roger Gorman for you, without hurting him of course, and put you back on your throne. Where you belong.”

  I ignored the offer, mainly because I was so tempted by it. “I’m surprised you don’t simply kill Curtis Benson, all the trouble he caused.”

  “We are not the mafia,” he said. “We do not go around ‘whacking’ people for misdemeanors. We help one another stay alive and out of jail. Mr. Benson helps many of us, independently. If we need an outlet for more cargo, or if we have excessive money to launder.”

  I could have pointed out Benson’s monthly packages to the Caribbean. Might have changed Fanuco’s mind about “whacking” him. Although Mikey might have an objection to his boss being offed by a foreign business associate, and blame me.

  I said, “So he’s basically an outsourcing center.”

  “In this case, yes. Occasionally, with lowlife people like him, there are mistakes. You, Adam, could help us rectify those mistakes.”

  “You deal in misery and death and—”

  “You feel no guilt now, but unless you commit to your true self, those deaths will eat at you forever.” His voice softened. “No matter how much good you think you are doing.”

  “I don’t need it.”

  “They will revisit you in your sleep.” His voice remained quiet, his gaze distant. “Trust me. They will.”

  “I’ve slept fine,” I said. “When I kill one of you, it isn’t taking a human life. It’s saving dozens.”

  Vila Fanuco took back his hand and stood. Coughed the catch out of his throat. “I respect that opinion, of course.” He glanced to the door where two Vietnamese men with guns in shoulder holsters had arrived without my noticing. He said, “You will answer these men’s questions. You will do so honestly, without mentioning my name. Then you will be lost in the communist paperwork system, and allowed to go home on your real passport. Once I have verified the contents of this pen-drive and ensured no copies have been made, you will return it to Curtis Benson by midnight on Saturday—your new deadline.”

  A rush of gratitude flooded my chest, then I instantly felt a terrible, crushing guilt about its source. An evil man was doing me a favor, keeping me out of jail, sending me home, saving my friend’s life.

  I said, “What about the French?”

  “The government came to an agreement with your company�
��s lawyers, although the decision is more to do with the public. Pierre Bertrand issued a statement that he forgave your actions in kidnapping him, although he is still pursuing moi, of course. Whether you want to be or not, you are the hero out there. Your name is censored for now. Human rights, you see. But it will come out eventually. “Investigateur Angleterre,” they call you now.”

  Detective England. It had a nice ring to it.

  Sarah stayed with me while my left ear was glued shut and they stitched my hand. The ear would forever be missing a nip of half-moon from the top but I could probably get it sorted with surgery. They reset my little finger yet again and gave me an injection while they bandaged my ribs and issued a small bottle of prescription painkillers for a week. I was not looking forward to the flight home. I changed into clean clothes from my rucksack and asked to use the office again.

  In all the rush, the one person I hadn’t called was Caroline. I let Sarah do that. I could hear the squeal of delight in the earpiece, and Sarah even smiled in a genuinely happy way. The men with guns waited patiently. When the lawyer from the consulate arrived, he brought with him a serious-looking woman in a suit way too hot for a Vietnamese afternoon: the British Ambassador herself. She thanked me coolly, and although she assured me that Sarah would be afforded every privilege associated with being a diplomatic guest, I got the impression she was not happy about my departure with the security service guys.

  My goodbye with Sarah was perfunctory. A robotic hug, then the uniformed men handcuffed me and led me out.

  My interrogation took place on the way to the airport, a voice recorder capturing all. I avoided mention of meeting Major Giang, but other than that omission, I told them everything, including the shootings on Ha Long Bay. They would already know about the market incident, I thought, so leaving that out could have caused delays. Plus, Fanuco said he already struck a deal with them, and if he was confident they would stick to it, I would happily defer to his judgment.

  They escorted me to the airport’s check-in, where a ticket waited. I would be flown to Bangkok again, then on to Dubai, and then Amsterdam and—finally—Leeds/Bradford Airport. I wouldn’t have to go through London. Or Paris. If all went well, I’d arrive at ten a.m. local time.

  I dropped a painkiller at the bar, chased with a cool American beer, and the chemical washed through me. Even my broken finger numbed. Jess had wired me a couple of hundred quid, which I was now able to collect. The first thing I bought was three Vietnamese drip-coffee kits, as if I was returning from holiday with souvenirs.

  I finished the beer and slipped off the stool, and found Vila Fanuco sat in the corner. I approached and he held out the USB drive. I didn’t take it.

  He said, “Looks like Mr. Delingpole tried to copy this before he was killed, but the copy destroys itself on replication.”

  I took the drive. “Clever-clogs, that Curtis Benson.”

  “So, if you managed to get the copy to your lady-friend, it would have been unreadable.”

  “I had to try, you understand.”

  “I do,” he said. “But if you try again, there is now an alarm built in. As soon as you go online with the copy, it will tell me. And I will find you. And I will kill you. Understand?”

  “Sure.”

  “You sound casual.”

  “Because I have no intention of copying it. I get this to Curtis Benson, Harry goes free. End of story.”

  “Thank you, Adam. It has been many years since anyone trusted me like this.”

  I thought about that, and about some idle research I conducted online in a quiet moment between buying my drip coffee kits and hitting the bar.

  I said, “Vila Fanuco. That’s the name you chose.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I chose it.”

  “Fanuco. It’s completely made up. No meanings anywhere.”

  He hesitated. “It has meaning.”

  I nodded. “I guessed it had meaning to you. But not in my Google search. Something to do with your family?”

  His lips pressed into a line. “My children. Be careful where you go with this.”

  “Okay. I’m sorry.” My finger still ached from the last time I pushed him. “Vila,” I said. “It sounds Spanish or South American. But in Czech it means ‘to protect’.”

  He stared at nothing. “It means ‘to desire to protect’. To aspire to be a protector.”

  Whatever this man once was, who-ever he was, that person was not sitting beside me now. That man was dead. This one—who broke my finger and killed God knows how many—he was all that remained.

  He said, “My warning to Mr. Benson only protects your friend regarding this data stick. If you have other business with him, it is no concern of mine.”

  “That’s it? As long as I don’t piss him off any further, you’re all out of my life forever?”

  “Yes. It is that simple. Bon Voyage, Investigateur Angleterre.”

  It all seemed pleasant enough as I left him there, waving, smiling, sending off a friend on holiday. Perhaps he was satisfied at my promise to cooperate fully. I could not tell one way or the other if he knew that I was lying my arse off.

  UNITED KINGDOM

  Chapter Fifty-One

  I landed at Leeds-Bradford Airport a few hours earlier than Fanuco intended. He’d planned the route based on the longest stopovers to minimize the risk of my missing connecting flights, but I switched the route to a riskier but faster one. It was overcast at five a.m. but refreshingly cool.

  At Bangkok airport, I thought a courtesy call to Curtis Benson would ease my anxiety at Harry being held yet another night, but he said, “You wanted to stop bullshitting, so stop it. Bring me the things I told you to bring, or I gut your bitch.”

  “I have one item,” I said. “The one you need.”

  He went on a rant about how he’d mess me up, turn me inside out, kill my friends, et cetera, et cetera, but I was woozy from the painkillers and another beer, so it washed over me. Finally, he said, “I want everything I asked for. The guy’s dead, fine. But I want the girl, and I want anythin’ else she’s got with her—anything, even if you think it ain’t what I want. Bring it all, or bring a mop and a shovel, ’cause that’s how you’ll be takin’ the old bastard home.”

  I tried to remind him about Fanuco’s deal, but he hung up. I hoped it was a futile gesture on his part, because even if Fanuco had been serious about “destroying” Benson, it would only be an act of vengeance. It wouldn’t save Harry.

  I called the one person I could think of.

  “What have you done now?” Jayne said.

  “It’s not me,” I said. “I will get him back. No matter what, Jayne. I’ll get Harry back.”

  “Tell me what to do.”

  So I told her to dig out Harry’s contact book, which I knew would be a literal book rather than electronic. I told her who to look for, and what I needed. It was an absolute punt, what sports fans might call a “Hail-Mary” play, but I needed to know for sure.

  Jess switched my flights online and although I experienced a squeaky-bum time-window in Paris, the connecting flight got me to Leeds-Bradford at four a.m., and I collected my pack by five. In arrivals, Jess and Jayne waited. Caroline would have been there to greet me too, Jayne said, but she departed in the opposite direction to support Sarah while she helped the Vietnamese with their pursuit of Vuong Dinh. I still intended to return there myself, regardless of Fanuco’s warnings, and destroy the camp where I found the boy, and which traded Sarah into bondage.

  I had other friends I could call on, but it didn’t seem fair. I would keep this tight.

  The pair looked tired, especially Jayne, who understandably seemed older than when I left. Jess hugged me and took in my appearance—the bruised face, the bandages—and faked ambivalence. Jayne stood there, watching, wrapped in her multi-colored knitted cardigan.

  She said, “So.”

  “I have the item.” I showed them the pen drive.

  “But not the girl. He wants her for some re
ason.”

  “He might just be being thorough, or he might just want her gone. Make sure she doesn’t say anything to harm whatever he has going on. I just don’t know right now.”

  “You can’t simply hand that over.”

  I pocketed the USB stick. “I’ll exchange what I have for Harry.”

  “And then what?” she said. “You think I’m going to let you flounce on in with no advantage?”

  “What’s the alternative?” I said.

  She put her hands in her pockets and turned toward the exit. “Harry wouldn’t want you getting killed in such a stupid way. Let’s go to work.”

  Jayne drove us to my apartment in Harry’s ancient Land Rover. On the way, I gave them the outline, the bare highlights, including the shootings in Ha Long Bay, although once again, I omitted the detail of Major Giang. Not that I was ashamed; he deserved much worse, but … there was something nagging at me. I still felt that pressure on the trigger. My inability to say “no.”

  It wasn’t guilt as such, but I’d work it out in time.

  Inside my apartment, Jess took out her laptop, plugged in a wireless dongle, and said, “I’m still officially on suspension from PAI but I managed to send those MI5 bugs on a wild goose chase through an automated server sequence. I used this cloned 4G connection to keep working on Curtis Benson.”

  She then treated me to a run-down of all she discovered over the past day-and-a-half. She demonstrated the path used to track Benson’s packages—the spreadsheets, the ghost-manifests, the different signatures in the same hand—and eventually revealed their final destination. Not quite what I’d been expecting, but all good stuff.

  Just not enough to secure Harry’s release by itself.

  She removed the 4G dongle and, offline, she examined the pen-drive that Fanuco warned me not to copy, which she didn’t. But she did try to open it.

  “It’s too much,” she said after ten minutes. “I definitely can’t copy it. I can’t even break this encryption without an algorithm a million miles long, and even then not in a day. Sorry.”