by Gregory Colt
Gray Night
An Adrian Knight Thriller
Gregory Colt
Copyright © 2014 Gregory Colt
All Rights Reserved
ISBN-13: 978-1500989385
ISBN-10: 150098938X
Chapter One
Henry Wagner spent more than seventy-six years hating the smell of lavender, and nothing made his new workshop at the back of the museum feel more like home than the old vase that now sat on his desk full of the foul stuff. The old cedar desk and chair followed him with each new assignment and it pleased him to see them there in the middle of his new workspace. But not like the lavender. He couldn’t rightly live without it. His wife, Grace, kept it all over their house since their wedding day. Had kept. She’d passed two years ago to the cancer. But if the cedar was him, the lavender was her, and for a long time now he just wasn’t himself without her. So the lavender moved into the shop too.
Henry took his time selecting the choicest piece to work on once everyone else had gone. This evening’s gala for the new Mayan exhibit that would be opening in the morning lasted longer than planned and Henry didn’t want to get any more behind schedule.
His hands shook these days. Sometimes it was hard to eat or dial one of those new phones, but a small miracle occurred whenever he sat to work. Picking the first piece, a Mayan royal urn, his hands stilled. Soon he was cleaning details he hadn’t noticed before and lightly, precisely, moved over the piece as deft as a man a third his age.
Henry loved his work. Always had. Grace had—he smiled. Come on old boy. You can reminisce yourself all the way to the grave or you can finish the work in front of you and be the first person in a thousand years to see something no one has since. His smile widened.
He worked late into the night. Security would stop in to check the workshops behind storage at the top of each hour. Sometimes they would stay and chat for a minute, but aside from George Wilkins, head of security, he bored them talking shop. Henry thought Wilkins wouldn’t have made a bad archaeologist. George was fascinated with the field, knew his history, and was sharper than he gave himself credit for. Henry couldn’t say the same about himself and security. He wasn’t afraid to admit it, he knew he was a coward. That’s why he was here. Most of his professional life had been spent avoiding work in the field. Oh, there was travel, but attending a lecture in London was nothing to fighting through the hot, dense, insect, and paramilitary-filled jungles around the world. And that had prevented him from attaining more prestigious positions. Okay, so maybe it bothered him more than he pretended. Still, he was always excited to see one of his interns or students take on the more exciting work. It was thrilling. Not only because of the potential for discovery, but also that through them a small part of him reached out into a world he never dared venture. Tonight’s gala held a perfect example in its two main speakers, Dr. Claire Spurling and Adrian Knight. Claire had always been his best student—or worst, depending on how you looked at it. He saw it both ways. She took her research in directions few others had for reasons few others could understand and she did it well. He respected her more than half of the professionals twice her age, but every time she failed to meet a checkpoint or call in, Henry felt sick. She was full of fire and too stubborn for her own good, but he loved her like a daughter. Adrian… he didn’t know Adrian Knight well, but he’d heard him go on strange tangents now and again. Stories from the field that, if even a tenth were true, only reinforced his desire to work out of the shop. Adrian was a dangerous man—a good man, Henry thought—but danger followed him. What had Nick called him? A game changer. That had proven true over the past year. Henry had hired Adrian on their mutual friend Nick Roarke’s recommendation and Adrian always delivered. Which was a very good thing in Henry’s mind because the work Adrian did for the museum was in shades of gray a little too dark for anyone else to have their good names associated with. If he hadn’t found someone willing to take it on, Claire would have been out there risking it herself. She wouldn’t have minded, but one look at Adrian’s bleeding wrists during dinner earlier was all Henry needed to justify his hiring. In his speech, Adrian claimed to have gotten himself handcuffed to the rail of a ship in pursuit of an item. Henry shuddered, picturing Claire in chains. That girl couldn’t stand how much money Adrian charged to do nearly the same thing she did, but Henry knew the difference, however small, was worth every penny.
He sat thinking about old students, old memories, and old regrets until snapped out of his reverie by the clock beside the door sounding three a.m.. Strange. Usually there was company by now. Not that it bothered him. In truth, he worked better without the distractions. Still, that was odd—there was a sound behind the door out in the hall. It sounded like someone fumbling with keys. Easy there, Henry told himself. He smiled and pictured Wilkins fumbling around with that gargantuan key ring of his in the dark, mad as hell. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” Henry called, unlocking the door.
Wilkins was on his hands and knees in front of the door. “Not one word, Henry. Not. One.” He looked around and found his flashlight, turned it on, and grabbed the keys he’d dropped.
“Is everything all right? What happened?” Henry asked.
Wilkins stood and came inside. “Oh everything’s dandy,” he grumbled. “Was supposed to inspect the new guy on duty at the loading docks, but he ain’t where he’s supposed to be. I swear to God he’d better have a damned good excuse, like bleeding to death somewhere, when I find him or I’ll give him one.”
“Oh, go easy on the kid, George. Parts of this building are only a month old. Some aren’t even finished. I live here and I still get lost,” Henry said.
George stared off for a moment, relaxing before he spoke. “Henry, I think the boy needs a new advocate. You get lost in the lobby,” said Wilkins with a half-grin.
Henry laughed and soon they both were. Their laughter cut short at the sound of a distant scream that rang down the hall. At least that’s what he thought. It happened so fast Henry couldn’t be certain. He looked wide-eyed at Wilkins who wore a similar expression. Definitely a scream.
“Lock it behind me!” Wilkins hollered, rushing out the door.
Henry locked it as soon as it shut and listened at the door for a minute or two expecting, well he didn’t know what to expect. When nothing happened, he walked to his desk to get back to work. It was the only thing that ever calmed him.
There were no new sounds over the next several minutes. No screams anyway. Just thuds and bumps and other sounds he had closed his imagination to. His hands still shook though. He couldn’t help it this time, and couldn’t do any work this way. He set everything down and tried to slow his breathing. He’d worked late a thousand times before. Bumps and thuds and other sounds were common during the night. But not the screaming. No, Wilkins knew every inch of the place and Henry trusted him. Nothing to worry about. Then gunshots sounded down hall.
Two shots and a scream in quick succession echoed down the halls, then silence. My God, George. He should check on him. He should—he should find the phone. Yes. He should call security. He should—no, that wasn’t right. Security would ring Wilkins office. He should call the police. Standing was painful he shook so bad. Heavy steps came down the hallway now. Somebody, somebodies, were at his door.
Baooom!
Something hammered at the door. Henry backed away from his desk, staring at the door until he fell against the back wall.
Baooom!
Something hammered again. He bumped hard into the shelves of pottery along the back wall. His heart rate doubled when one crashed to the floor next to him. He didn’t move. He should be moving, hiding, anything. Why wasn’t he moving?
He heard the sound of keys again. The first didn’t work. The second either. It wasn’t Geo
rge. The door swung open on the third try. Henry would have collapsed if his knees hadn’t frozen stiff. Four men burst into the room. The three largest went straight for Henry.
“Aaaaaaaahhhh!” Wilkins roared from behind and crashed into the man nearest Henry, sending them both sprawling to the ground. Wilkins, bleeding from a deep cut above his left eye and pants torn where someone had ripped away his keys, rolled atop the man, gun in hand. Ringing. That’s all Henry heard after Wilkins first shot. He saw the muzzle flash as George fired three more times, sending the other two large men down to the ground. The fourth man ducked behind Henry’s cedar desk as Wilkins pursued.
Click. No flash. George was out of ammo. Henry should have screamed, should have yelled or done something. He should have warned his friend, but he didn’t. The large man on the floor was up and moving toward Wilkins back as George himself moved around the table to get at the other intruder. Two enormous hands grabbed Wilkins, one at the wrist and the other cupping his chin. Back and shoulder muscles flexed and Wilkins head turned at an unnatural angle. His body smashed into Grace’s vase of lavender on the way to the floor, lifeless.
Somewhere in all his fear, Henry Wagner found enough room for shame. Fear and shame turned to terror as the two men Wilkins had shot groaned and sat up. The fourth man, the one hidden behind the cedar desk, stood and brushed himself off. The man who had killed Wilkins knelt down over the broken body, but stopped and looked at the fourth man before proceeding.
“Make it quick,” the man said, flipping through the ledgers on Henry’s desk. Then he smiled and stepped back out into the hallway with one of the ledgers. Then Henry learned the last two things he ever would—what blood and lavender smelled like together—and why the fourth man didn’t want to stay in the room.
Chapter Two
Expecting high levels of cooperation—or any level at all—before a morning cup of coffee is cruel and unusual punishment. I said as much.
“Sure Mr. Knight, I’ll pass it on over to the Justice Department and we’ll see what we can do about that,” said Bob, sitting behind the sheriff’s desk and slapping down the same slim folder he always brought to our bi-monthly meetings.
I am not Adrian Knight, despite several years to the contrary. Adrian Knight. I didn’t often think of him anymore. An image flashed into view every time I heard the name. A man in his fifties, gnarled and fit, as French as the day was long, and dead in a Nigerian alley, a smile on his face. I pushed the image away, wishing I had refilled my prescription the day before. I sighed and thanked God I hadn’t started seeing—
“You know, Adrian, you could have gotten coffee on your way in,” Bob’s partner, Chris, said as he stood from leaning on the file cabinet and reached over to open the blinds behind the desk to let in the morning sun.
“The diner on my side of town doesn’t open until six-thirty,” I said, pointing to the clock on the wall that said five past six. “Tell me again why we have to meet at six?”
Chris smiled but deferred to Bob who answered, “Because the diner on our way in opens at five o’clock.”
I looked at the sheriff sitting against the far wall who raised his hands in defense. He smiled; I rolled my eyes. Sheriff Marion Clark. The poor guy gave his little wood-paneled office over to the feds twice a month since I came back home to the United States about half a year ago. It wasn’t his fault I lived outside of town. I had need of a place back in the States several years ago. My best friend Nick Roarke checked around and chose a place north of Tarrytown, New York right along the Hudson. I didn’t have a home to come back to when I finally returned, so I went there. Not that it mattered. Wherever I went, special agent Bob Coughlin and special agent Christopher Bailey were sure to follow.
Bob cleared his throat and didn’t wait to see if he’d gotten my attention. “Mr. Knight, please verify your full name for the record.”
“Adrian Knight,” I said. God I hated this part. Bob did too, I knew, but as long as he wanted to force the issue every time we met, I’d play my part in our tiny unspoken war.
“And is that your full given name?”
Good question. I’d asked the Adrian Knight before me if he’d ever used a middle name. He hadn’t. “Yes, it is.”
“You know good and well it isn’t,” Bob muttered still not looking up from his list of questions.
“You know, despite what you see in the bad TV crime dramas, people don’t change their names all the time.”
“You did once,” Bob said looking up.
Twice, but they didn’t need to know that. I raised my eyebrows and waited for him to continue.
He went back to his paper. “I assume your physical description hasn’t changed.”
“That’s very good, Bob, since it’s been a whole two weeks since the last time we were all here. I swear one of these days I’m going to dye my hair or something just to screw with you and make you reprint that paper.”
Chris snorted a quiet laugh. Maybe he wasn’t hopeless.
“You are the same Adrian Knight convicted of war crimes between 1998 and 2003 against the sovereign peoples of—”
“Accused,” I corrected.
“Excuse me?”
“I said accused, not convicted. There was never an indictment from the International Criminal Court or an independent State.”
Bob looked at me again. “You are the same man who stands accused then?”
“I am.”
“And you are the same Adrian Knight accused of involvement in weapons trafficking by Interpol?”
“The whole color wheel of official notices.”
“Drug trafficking?”
“I am.”
“Human trafficking and other crimes against humanity?”
“Yes,” I said, gritting my teeth. I didn’t know why that was in the file that the FBI had on me, but it was bullshit and one day I was going to find the person responsible.
“In 2004 and beyond, after the Second Congo War, you were accused of the illegal exportation of cultural artifacts, theft of said artifacts, piracy, fraud, extortion, blackmail, and various white collar crimes?”
I nodded.
“And is this your signature?” he asked, handing me a copy of the papers the State and Justice Departments had me sign granting me amnesty and special asylum, as Adrian Knight was not born a U.S. citizen.
“It is.”
“And these as well?” he handed me the papers the NSA, DOD, and FBI had me sign, stating my amnesty and special asylum in the United States was contingent upon my full cooperation with said entities. After the marathon session of debriefing, I hadn’t heard from the NSA or DOD, but the FBI showed up like clockwork twice a month. More if something specific came across their desks. And, I suspect items were handed over to them from the other agencies to deal with. Everything useful I had given from the start, but what they really wanted to know about was in the thin folder still on the sheriff’s desk.
“Yes, Bob. Do you have anything new this week? Come on, why don’t you let the kid take over?” I said, looking at Chris. I said kid but he was probably my age. Chris looked worried and gave me a subtle shake of his head. Interesting. I considered pushing to see what that was about but didn’t get the chance. Bob stood, took the papers out of my hand, and opened the thin folder. He didn’t hand it to me or even slide it over. He knew I had its contents memorized. Half the report came from me in the first place.
Bob rubbed the bridge of his nose right between his eyes. “I know you know who he is, Adrian. You know what he is. What all he’s done. Tell me. Half of this is nonsensical anyway.” He flipped to the next page. “We don’t even have a first name. You mention Abiku and Kishi like that’s supposed to mean something, but it’s all local religious BS and you know it. I’m not fucking Mulder here out chasing demons. The kinds of stories I’ve heard associated with this asshole make you look like a saint, Knight. And anything you’re holding back is aiding him.”
He'd never gone off script before. Someth
ing was setting him off. A history lesson was the last thing I needed, though. Thank God I’d had one last pill to take when I got home last night after the museum gala. It was wearing off, but I was grateful for it just then. My stomach roiled thinking about what images might have involuntarily risen from my memory. It didn’t matter what descriptions had been given to Bob, or what he’d heard around the office. The demons that the local Yoruba and Bantu peoples assigned to the man in the folder were closer to the truth than anyone wanted to admit. The folder didn’t say anything about the burning children. Or anything about what heaps of flayed, decaying flesh smelled like. And no one ever talked about the end of the war when we were finding the bodies, used and discarded, fed upon. The cadavers used by his smugglers. Cadavers… sometimes they didn’t wait for death. I’d seen it. And it all led to one man. A man it seemed most of the Western world was convinced I could deliver in chains. I remember when I thought so too.
“Everything I have on him I gave to you. I gave that information to anyone and everyone who asked. Bob, most of the file you keep waving around at me every month is based on my own report.”
“I’ve seen thicker folders on Santa Claus!” he hollered, dumping three pages of text and a blurry photograph onto the desk. Bob grabbed his jacket off the rack and headed for the door.
“Umm, hey, Bob. Where you going?” asked Chris.
“I’m getting more coffee.”
“The diner doesn’t open until six-thirty,” I said being helpful.
“Then I’ll wait!” Bob said, slamming the door behind him.
Sheriff Clark took his old leather seat back and gathered all the papers and folders that had fallen. He looked over at Chris. “Agent Bailey, you mind telling me what all that’s about, son?”
“Look, you can’t ever say anything around him, all right. Guys upstairs are pushing hard for his retirement. They keep giving him assignments more and more likely to fail except he keeps seeing them through. As long as he’s successful no one can touch him, but one slip and I’m getting a new partner young enough to still get carded everywhere,” Chris said.
