The Kobalt Dossier

by Eric Van Lustbader

  “Guest isn’t in Room 512,” the corpulent woman behind the desk said without looking at them. She was of indeterminate age, with white skin, waved orange hair, and rouged cheeks and was clearly more interested in the show on the old portable TV than she was in them.

  “We’ve got the key.” Ben placed a twenty on the counter. “We’re going up.”

  She waved a pudgy hand. “Like I give a shit.” The twenty had already vanished.

  They stepped out of the asthmatic elevator into a corridor that smelled strongly of grilled meat and rubbish. Room 512 was all the way at the end, where a grimy window overlooked a maze of scaffolding unfinished, perhaps abandoned when project money dried up, beyond which was the brickwork and papered-over windows of a building being rehabbed.

  Ben inserted the key and they crossed the threshold into a small one-bedroom unit. The air was musty, static, flat. They snapped on their gloves. Evan crossed to a window, unlocked it, threw it open. Sooty wind stalked into the room, prowling, curious, but at least the air became breathable.

  Evan took the bedroom while Ben hunted around the living room. Evan found the closet empty, ditto the drawers of the dresser. She pulled them all the way out, checking the undersides and the backs. A flight bag sat on the end of the rumpled bed. She opened it, found a single change of clothes, a bar of soap and a washcloth thin as a tissue, and a book. She pulled out the hardback copy of The Ugly American. Examining the labels on the change of clothes revealed they were anything but American—cheap Asian brands. But then he had no need for durability; he hadn’t planned to stay long. Still, the most important item she’d hoped to find, his passport, was nowhere in evidence, though she checked all the seams of the flight bag. Tossing the rest of the room—mattress, box spring, checking for loose floorboards, shadowed corners—yielded nothing.

  She heard Ben calling her name and returned to the living room. He was seated at the narrow desk, the drawer half out and his hand in the drawer.

  “There’s something in here, at the back, but it’s stuck.” His face showed the strain of concentration.

  Evan stood just off his left shoulder. “While you winkle it out, I’ve got a news flash. This guy, whoever he was, followed me all the way from Singapore.”

  Ben glanced up at her, his eyes wide. “What did you find?”

  “His flight bag. With a copy of The Ugly American in it. He was reading it, sitting near the rear of the plane that brought me home from Changi.”

  “You remember him?”

  “I do, but I only saw him sitting down. His hair was short, dark. He had a small head, oval like a Persian melon. Small ears, like a monkey. I didn’t get a look at his face, I only saw him from behind.”

  “The question is how’d he get onto you? Singapore was a transit for you.”

  “So was Denpasar in Bali.”

  “So, what? He was onto you in Sumatra?” Ben’s brows furrowed. “How is that possible?”

  “I don’t know, Ben. I’m no more thrilled about this than you are, believe me. I’ll worry about the how later, but like you, now my bet regarding the who is on the people who know everything there is to know about me. Nemesis. Wells.” She paused. “But there’s another side to this. If they’re after me, they’ll be after you, as well. We were both instrumental in taking Nemesis down.”

  At once, Ben pulled out his mobile, called Mae Rand, Rose’s mother, at whose house Zoe was staying. He sketched out the broad outlines of what he wanted her to do: keep an eye out for strange faces or vehicles on her street, especially at night, make sure Zoe and Rose didn’t go to any sleepovers, and would she pick them up from school? He reassured her these were just routine precautions.

  When he disconnected, he went back to what he had been doing. Moments later he retrieved the stuck item.

  Evan frowned. “A roll of electrician’s tape?”

  Ben shook his head. “Not what I was expecting, that’s for sure.”

  She considered the roll of black tape. There was no dust on it; it was brand new. She snapped her fingers. “The bathroom.”

  They both headed into it. White walls, gray-and-white tiles, gone yellowish in the corners. Evan went straight to the toilet tank, felt behind it. Nothing. Ben was at the sink. On it was a stained toiletry kit containing a cheap plastic comb, a brush with some bristles missing, a folding toothbrush, a small tube of toothpaste, and a pack of unopened German Marlboro cigarettes.

  “All the comforts of home,” Evan said, eyeing a cigarette butt crushed out on the top of the sink.

  Ben pulled out the stopper. “Clear,” he said.

  Evan stepped into the shower-tub, hunkered down over the drain. She pulled out the rubber stopper. “Clear.”

  Looking around the bathroom more closely, she noticed the flush lever on the toilet was down. Frowning, she straddled the seat, lifted off the top.

  “Bingo!”

  Setting the top aside, she fished out a double baggie that had been affixed to the inside with a length of the electrician’s tape. Ripping off the tape, she toweled off the baggie, brought it back into the living room, set it on the desk.

  The first item she pulled out was a passport. She opened it. “This is the guy on the plane, definitely. I can tell by the shape of his head, like I said, Persian melon. American passport. He was traveling under the name of William Onders—but I wouldn’t bet on that being his real name.”

  There was also a driver’s license, but it wasn’t for William Onders.

  “This guy looks tough and skinny as a twig, no Persian melon here.”

  “Jon Pine. So there are two of them. Onders and Pine.” She considered a moment. “I’m thinking Pine was at the airport with a car for Onders. That’s how he was able to follow me.”

  Ben peered over her shoulder. “And I’m thinking the driver’s license is phony, too.”

  Ben gestured with his head. “What else is in the baggie?”

  “Some money—U.S. dollars, euros, Indonesian rupiah—this.” Her heart beat faster as she held up another sphere wrapped in strips of newspaper.

  Ben’s eyes narrowed. “Another death gag.”

  Evan took a breath, let it out. “Time to see who’s behind door number two.”

  She took up the sphere but went still before she could start unwrapping it. “But wait a minute.” She turned to him. “Like I said, old William and I were on the same flight.”

  “And?”

  “So how did his belongings get here? Pine must’ve grabbed them from him when he gave Onders the car.”

  “So Pine’s still out there, still dangerous.” Ben pointed to the sphere. “And maybe Pine was given this death gag to use, not Onders.”

  “Onders made it clear he wasn’t going to kill me. He was tasked with taking me somewhere where I would be killed. So yes, I agree, I think it’s Pine’s to use. After all, he left his driver’s license here, which makes it likely he’ll come back for it.”

  She placed the black metallic disk she had fished out of Paul Fisher’s mouth on the desk next to the sphere, pried up the lid to expose the gold Omega.

  Then she began to unravel the newspaper strips on the sphere they’d just found. “The text is English. The Washington Post.”

  “Hmm. It was fashioned here. But we found a pack of German cigarettes.”

  Evan nodded. “Odds are Pine was in Germany recently—maybe while Onders was in Sumatra surveilling me.”

  Ben frowned. “But who is this death gag meant for?”

  Evan’s fingers worked faster and faster until she was down to the last strip. As before, it wasn’t newspaper. And beneath, another black metallic disk identical to the first one. Using Ben’s knife, she pried it open.

  “Another golden Omega.” Ben stirred restlessly behind her. “Well, that’s tacked ‘conspiracy’ at the top of our virtual wall.”

  Evan sat very still, but her heart was a triphammer, beating its too-fast tattoo against her rib cage. “How in the world could Wendy and Michael be a
t the center of a worldwide conspiracy?” Her whisper was as much to herself as it was to Ben. “I pulled a death gag out of Paul’s mouth. Now this death gag in the hotel room of the man who abducted me and threatened to have me killed. Is this about me, Ben? Is this my fault? Have I put Wendy and Michael in harm’s way?”

  “One step at a time, Evan,” Ben said softly. “Okay?”

  She took a breath, nodded.

  He reached around, picked up the last strip of paper at the center of the sphere. “This is going to give us the name of Pine’s intended victim. Now we can get to him or her first before—”

  Sunk in her own thoughts about her niece and nephew, it took a moment for Evan to register that Ben had stopped mid-sentence. Turning, she saw that he had gone perfectly still. He was staring down at the slip of paper.

  “What? Who is the death gag intended for?”

  When Ben failed to answer, she plucked the paper from between his fingers and looked at what was typewritten on it.

  “Oh, God.”

  The paper fluttered to the desktop, where it sat uncertainly among the strips of newsprint.

  “It’s me.” Ben’s voice sounded hollow, grayed out.

  And here was the proof of it, staring up at her.

  BUTLER

  14

  ISTANBUL, TURKEY

  Ermi’s residence overlooked the West Istanbul Marina, which was convenient for him. His boat was docked at the marina. He had taken Kobalt out on it once, served her a lavish lunch, and then had attempted to jump her bones. A swift knee to his crotch had put a permanent end to those noxious exertions and had reset their relationship in the proper perspective.

  Scimitars of villas in the rather ugly modern Turkish style knifed across the lowland topography. It was 9 P.M. by the time they arrived. Security was of the usual Turkish kind. A bit of baksheesh was all it took for the guard to stick his nose back into his phone and forget they ever existed.

  The villa was all sandstone-colored concrete interspersed with tall windows. Sandstone pillars guarded the front. Though the grounds were lit up, the house itself was dark. No surprise then the front door was locked. Peering through the glass revealed starkly modern Italian furniture, low and sleek, more reminiscent of artwork than anything utile. The interior was the exact opposite of Ermi’s office. From any angle they tried, there was nothing to see but inanimate objects. Around the back, the pool glowed aquamarine courtesy of underwater spots. A float meandered, turning, empty.

  “Clearly not home.” The first words Zherov had uttered since they left Ermi’s office. His ears were still red, and she suspected his system might still be adjusting the pressure back to normal. Someone else might have felt remorse, but no such emotion existed for her. She had deliberately couched the truth in the harshest terms in order to test him, to see which buttons she could push in order to unearth his weaknesses. Now she knew she could goad him into fury, and she knew how. Valuable knowledge, especially when dealing with a treacherous prick.

  She went up the low steps to the line of sliders, tried them one by one. The last one on the left opened. Glancing back at Zherov, she indicated with her head, crossed the threshold. She indicated for Zherov to take the first floor, while she went up the glass treads to the second floor. There, in Ermi’s bedroom, she found drawers open, clothes sorted through, but all his large luggage was still stacked on a closet shelf, while a smaller space gaped like the hole vacated by a child’s tooth.

  Back downstairs, she said, “Packed.”

  He turned to her, disgusted. “He could be anywhere.”

  “No. He used his weekender.” Kobalt was already hurrying to the open slider. “There’s only one place now.”

  *

  The West Istanbul Marina was vast, including slips along ten floating piers, boat repair and chandleries, hoists, lifts, and ramps, tennis courts, gym, and restaurant. Moonlight skittered along the water, highlighting its topography. Boats drowsed in their slips, sails furled, bare masts to the sky. There was scarcely a breath of wind. Ermi’s boat was along the sixth pier, moored in a slip three-quarters of the way down.

  “It’s still there.” Kobalt pointed as they fast walked toward it. Running would only make them more noticeable to the harbormaster. Overhead lights blazed as they passed beneath them. Near to midnight, there was no one else on the piers.

  Ermi’s sailboat was a fifty-foot cutter-rigged ketch. It had two masts and plenty of cabin space down below. The hull was painted red, the cabin white. Kobalt carefully stepped aboard, onto the polished teak deck, and stood unmoving, listening. One by one, the small sounds of the boat: the ring of rigging against the main mast, the soft slap of water against the hull, the ever so slight creaking endemic to every boat. She listened to the silence. The quality of it was strange, off-kilter, as if it had something to tell her. She recalled times with Evan, down by their local brook, crouched like frogs on the bank, heads cocked, ears open to the soughing of the wind through the treetops, sure that it was speaking to them of places near and far. She remembered one night in their bedroom, lights out, her sister asleep, when she whispered as the wind had whispered, and the next morning when Evan had told her excitedly about her dream of the wind speaking to just her, she laughed behind her hand at putting one over on her powerful sister. She resolved then and there to become even more powerful.

  Brushing away the cobwebs of memory, Kobalt went to the offside rail, leaned against it with her forearms, hands clasped. She did not stop Zherov when he went below. Nosing around down there by himself would do him good. She stared out at the water between the piers, at the sleek boats contentedly rocking in their berths, dreaming of fair seas and following winds. Turning her head to the left, she looked along the curve of the hull to the prow, saw a metal cleat with a line tied to it. It could have been the anchor, but the boat was docked in its slip. There was no need for an anchor. She might have gone to take a look, but she didn’t. Not for the moment, anyway. Instead, she waited.

  When she heard her name being called, she went below, ducking down so as not to hit her head against the top of the hatch. The teak-walled cabin was surprisingly spacious, comfortably and expensively furnished, which was no surprise.

  The door of the head was flung open wide. Zherov pointed inside. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

  Ermi was slumped atop the toilet. She could tell it was Ermi even though the corpse was headless and badly disfigured with suppurating blisters, flayed flesh, and empurpled bruises.

  She took a breath, let it out slowly. “Goddammit.”

  “Now we know why he gave you up,” Zherov said.

  She nodded. “Tortured. He took quite a beating.” Ermi’s murder was the work of a dyed-in-the-wool sadist. And yet something didn’t track. Judging by the consistency of the blood, it seemed to her that Ermi was likely killed at about the same time they were at the knife shop. There was a mystery here, an intersection where there should be no intersection, and until she had the answer, she would say nothing of it to Zherov.

  “Check his pockets.”

  His eyes blazed. “I won’t touch that piece of shit.”

  She pushed past him, went through Ermi’s pockets, found the key to the boat on its plastic float ring, a thick wad of money, and that was it.

  “Anything?” Zherov asked.

  “Whoever killed him took his mobile. He was never without it.” She dangled the key on one hand, while she pocketed the bills. “Want to buy a boat?”

  “Fuck no.” Zherov made a face. “Not this one.”

  “See, what did I tell you? No sense of humor.”

  He followed her back topside. “If you ever said something funny, I’d laugh just like anyone else.”

  “I doubt it.”

  She went back to the offside railing and moved along to the foredeck, to where the metal cleat rose, like the stub of a powerful arm. Kneeling, she grasped the line that had been tied to the cleat via a noose knot. Hand over hand, she pulled on it, until she cam
e to the other end, which had been knotted around Ermi’s neck with another noose.

  Zherov’s eyes opened wide. “Well, this is one for the books.” He laughed. “On the other hand, he never looked so good.”

  Kobalt’s lips curved upward for a moment. “I’ve been researching a mysterious group calling itself Omega. Beheading is part of the Omega ritual to deal with enemies of the cult, to make an unequivocal statement. That’s why they’re after me. I’m not so easy to get ahold of, so they’ve gone after … I have two children—”

  “Wendy and Michael, I know,” Zherov said. “Dima showed me your dossier.”

  Kobalt was both surprised and annoyed. But knowing Dima she shouldn’t have been either. Then something occurred to her. “You must know something about Omega, too.”

  “Dima let me also read your debriefing report when he assigned me to you. You infiltrated their compound in Odessa, did a bit of digging, until you made a mistake.”

  “I did not.”

  “Then how?”

  “Precisely, Anton. How?” She waved away the question. “In any event, Omega is using my children as a lure. I wasn’t absolutely sure before, but I am now.”

  “So because of the beheading … Omega’s responsible for Ermi’s death.”

  “It would seem so.” She looked closer. Ermi’s mouth was half-open. She opened it wider, expecting to find the death gag that was another hallmark of Omega murders. Instead, she found nothing—at least nothing that should not have been there.

  “Why were you looking in his mouth?” the ever observant Zherov asked.

  “I check everything when it comes to murder,” she said, keeping her questions to herself.

  15

  WASHINGTON, DC