by Meg Gardiner
“Where’s Mr. Gingrich now?” Jo asked.
“Upstairs. We admitted him.” Simioni continued gazing at the screen.
“Is it contagious?” Jo said.
He looked at her. “I hope not.”
15
Standing aboard the crowded AirTrain, Stef Nivesen watched the clouds above the coastal mountains. They were so bright they seemed to amplify the sunlight. They looked like klieg lights in the sky.
The AirTrain rattled along the elevated track toward the terminal at San Francisco International Airport. Stef was stuffed in a corner, holding the handle of her roller case. She kept her balance as the train rounded a curve. She pretended to ignore the looks from men on the train. She knew her red Virgin Atlantic uniform fit her to perfection. She was twenty-six, she worked out, she wore heels that made her legs look great. The Virgin uniforms were retro-styled, giving off the aura of jet-set glamour. And she knew she could take down any of these guys in a judo bout. She flew the SFO-Heathrow route, and she loved her job. Loved flying to London, loved British men, and knew they regarded a long-haul flight as a twelve-hour party with an open bar. At times she wished the 747 carried a fire hose, so she could blast sloshed and grabby passengers straight back to their seats.
She scratched her arm. The train was hot. She felt tired but wide awake.
The train stopped, doors opened, and people streamed out. Stef looked around in surprise. What was she doing at the car rental stop? She’d been going the other way, from the garage to the international terminal.
How had she missed her stop?
She checked her watch and relaxed. She had plenty of time.
People streamed aboard, hauling luggage, and the train pulled out. Stef stared at the clouds in the sky above the coastal mountains. They were as bright as klieg lights.
At least it was sunny today. Not like yesterday when her flight came in with the lunatic on board. That had been weird. She scratched her arm again. She was glad those two men had stopped the nutball before he opened the emergency exit. She’d been strapped in her jump seat forty feet away. She would have had a hell of a time reaching him, much less stopping him.
Why had Berserko tried to open the door? Did he need air? She sure did. The train was hot and close. And bright. Everybody seemed exceptionally bright and sharply defined.
“Miss? Are you all right?”
Stef blinked at the man standing in front of her. Forty-Niners cap and forty-nine pounds of pudge around his waist.
“Excuse me?” she said.
“Are you all right? You were turning around, like something was pushing you.”
“I’m fine.” What a weird thing for the man to say.
The train stopped and the doors opened. Crap, this was the international terminal. She rushed out as the doors closed.
She took the crew lane through security and headed straight for the gate. It was already crowded with passengers waiting to board. She checked her watch.
Alarm rang through her. Thirty minutes to departure. Holy crap, how had it gotten so late?
She picked up her pace. Her cell phone rang. She checked the display. It was Charlotte Thorne, one of her British colleagues.
Stef answered in a rush. “I’m on my way.”
“You said that an hour ago. Where are you?”
“I’m coming down the concourse. What do you mean, I said that?”
Charlotte exhaled with annoyance. “Are you really here this time? You sure you haven’t been skiving with your boyfriend?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I can see the gate.”
She hung up, irked. Why would Charlotte claim she’d lied? She hadn’t spoken to Charlotte an hour ago. She hadn’t spoken to her since their last flight together. How daft, as Charlotte would put it.
She reached the gate. Throwing her shoulders back, she smiled and walked toward the plane.
Jo dropped her satchel on the kitchen table, turned on the coffeepot, and opened the French doors to the patio. It was chilly, but after seeing Ron Gingrich’s MRI she wanted fresh air.
She got out her notes and checked e-mail. A message confirmed that Kanan had customs papers on the daggers and sword he’d brought back. They were classed as museum pieces, purchased from an antiquities dealer in Jordan, destined for display. Kanan was transporting them on behalf of Chira-Sayf Inc.
Chira-Sayf. Where did that name come from?
Chira wasn’t in her dictionary, but chiral was a chemistry term, relating to molecular structure and atomic mirror-imaging. Sayf was the transliterated spelling of the Arabic word for sword. Photos showed ancient scimitars whose blades shone with the luster of the knife Ian Kanan had flashed near her face.
She stared at the screen. Out back on the lawn, black wings fluttered and she heard a sharp caw.
Two crows were pecking at an object on the grass. She went outside, clapping her hands to shoo the birds away. They bustled into flight, leaving their prey limp and dismembered on the lawn.
She looked at it, puzzled.
They’d been tearing apart a little stuffed animal. It was a floppy emerald-green bear, about eight inches long. Its eyes hung by threads. The fabric was stained and slimy. Jo nudged it with the toe of her shoe. It looked as though it had been probed by aliens, with their most thorough tools and lubricants.
She heard the doorbell. Leaving the bear, she jogged inside to answer it. She opened the door and lowered her gaze six inches. Amy Tang looked like she had bitten into a sour green apple.
She handed Jo a photo. “From a CCTV camera at the marina.”
It showed a man, sopping wet, unlocking the door of an SUV.
Jo’s shoulders tightened. “It’s Kanan.”
“Thank you for the I.D. Now I can apply to a judge for a murder warrant.”
Jo looked up sharply. “Come in. Tell me.”
“A white male was found floating in the marina beside a yacht called Somebody’s Baby. Passerby saw a slick of bloody water, thought it was Jaws, and called in the cavalry. Only the victim didn’t have shark bites. He had a major abdominal stab wound.”
Jo led Tang down the hall to the living room. “What makes you think Kanan is involved?”
“‘Involved’? As in, stuck the victim like a pig?”
“Yes. As in.”
“Witness saw a man fitting Kanan’s description walking away from the slip, dressed in street clothes, soaking wet. He climbed into a red Navigator and pulled out like his hair was on fire.”
“Fitting Kanan’s description?” Jo said.
Tang handed her another photo. It showed Kanan standing at the open door of the SUV, bare-chested, tossing his wet shirt into the vehicle.
“And no,” Tang said, “I have no proof that Kanan stabbed the victim. But when a man walks away after a knife fight, it generally means he’s the winner.”
Jo examined the photo. Kanan looked strong and alert.
Tang glanced around the living room. “Nice digs.”
“Thanks. I inherited it.”
“Lucky you.”
“Tell it to my in-laws. The house was in Daniel’s family for a hundred years.”
Tang panned the room, taking in the red Egyptian rug, the Japanese watercolors, and the Sopranos box sets on the bookshelf.
“You have a Mafia fetish?”
“Psychiatrists all watch The Sopranos. It’s the shrink’s dream show.” Jo continued examining the photos of Kanan.
Tang arched an eyebrow. “You don’t believe Kanan could kill somebody? Want to see the body to compare the wound dimensions with the blade Kanan pulled on you?”
“I don’t need to see the body.”
“Right, you don’t do blood and guts. You just rip the lid off the psyche and catch the screaming meemies that fly out.”
“Didn’t catch these, apparently.”
Tang took the photos back. “Don’t feel morose. You’re a doctor. You’re trained to see him as a sick man, not a killer.”
Jo didn’t
feel morose. She felt a liquid silver fear that seemed to roll across her skin like mercury. “I believe it. But I want to know what’s behind it. That might help us pinpoint his targets and shut him down.” She brushed her hair back from her forehead. “Have you identified the victim?”
Tang took out her notepad. “Ken Meiring.”
“Who was he?”
“We don’t know his connection to Kanan, but he has a record. Fraud, receiving stolen goods, and illegal weapons sales.” Tang’s expression was astringent. “He was a thief and a lowlife thug. And he was Kanan’s first target. Shall we connect the dots?”
“Was it his boat?”
“I doubt it. According to the records for the marina, Somebody’s Baby is owned by Chira-Sayf Inc.”
“What?”
“Yes. Curiouser and curiouser. It’s—” Tang looked out the bay window. “Isn’t that your neighbor?”
On the sidewalk outside, waving at them, stood Ferd.
Jo raised a hand in lukewarm response. “Don’t make any sudden moves. He’ll take it as an invitation and appear on the porch.”
“His monkey is more debonair than I imagined,” Tang said.
Mr. Peebles stood beside Ferd. He was wearing a tiny lampshade on his head like a fez.
“If I were you, I’d move. Leave everything in the house and go,” Tang said.
“Like any other neighborhood in this town would have fewer eccentrics?”
Ferd pointed at Jo’s front door and hustled toward it.
“Shoot. Hang on,” she said. When Ferd knocked, she opened the door just wide enough to see his face. “Hi. Sorry, I can’t talk right now.”
“I have a few quick questions about the monkey virus,” he said.
“Can I give you a call later?”
He rubbed his throat. “I’m worried. Could I catch it?”
“Dude, Mr. Peebles doesn’t have Congolese monkey virus. So, no.”
With a little shriek, the monkey darted between Ferd’s legs and through the doorway past Jo.
“Ferd, get him.”
Jo ran after the creature into the kitchen, with Ferd and Tang following. Mr. Peebles sprang onto the table, scattering her notes. He pulled open her satchel and began rooting through it.
Tang walked calmly to the table and nabbed him with a tube of lipstick in his hands. “You little larcenist.”
Ferd collected Jo’s notes from the floor. “You see how antsy he is?”
Mr. Peebles twisted the lipstick and ran it madly around his mouth. Tang tried to take it. He swiped it at her like a pale-pink switchblade.
“Look at him—he’s just not himself,” Ferd said.
“He’s exactly himself,” Jo said. “Ferd, he’s fine. You’re fine.”
Tang pried the lipstick from his fingers and held it out to Jo.
“Not even with tongs.” She got the wastebasket.
Tang tossed the lipstick inside and held Mr. Peebles out to his master, but Ferd had looked away. He was staring at Jo’s notes.
“Are you planning to invest in Chira-Sayf?” he said.
Jo took the notes from him. “No. And sorry, but that’s out of bounds.”
“You’re curious about the company’s name?” He pushed his glasses up his nose. “Chirality refers to the way sheets of carbon nanotubes can be folded.”
“Ah. Got it.”
“They’re grown at high temperatures, and depending on how, carbon nanotubes can be folded over, or rolled, or bent tip to tip. It’s like they have a certain spin or twist.”
“Thanks.” She thought about it. “Do you know anything about the company?”
“Not much. It handles a mix of civilian and military projects. Blue-sky stuff.” He tapped his fingertip against the printout, like a wood-pecker. “Sayf is an Arabic word for sword.”
Tang stepped closer. “Arabic? Strange choice for a Silicon Valley firm.” She eyed Jo. “No offense.”
“Don’t even start,” Jo said.
Tang enjoyed ribbing Jo about her pan-global heritage. Jo’s paternal grandfather was an Egyptian Christian. Her maternal grandmother was an army bride from Osaka. The rest of the family was Irish, loud, and argumentative. Sit everybody down for Christmas dinner, add pepper, and watch them blow. And while Jo loved her family, she didn’t want to get into a snarking match about the Middle East.
She knew too well that in the U.S., all things Arabic—even the language—could be seen as suspect. She saw no point in telling Tang that Copts in Cairo may have spoken Arabic for fourteen hundred years, but some Coptic Egyptians didn’t even regard themselves as having an Arabic heritage. They still referred to the Arab conquest of Egypt in the seventh century.
She let it go. “I’m a doctor, not a fighter. Let’s skip this.”
“Like I’d ever want to get on your bad side,” Tang said.
Ferd tapped the printout again. “The point is, sayf is a play on words here.”
“What do you mean?” Tang frowned at him, as if to say Who appointed you the expert? Mr. Peebles grabbed her collar and peeked down her sweater. She slapped his little hands.
Ferd held up the printout. “Damascus steel. It’s an ancient form of steel. Thousands of years old.”
“How do you know that?”
“My master’s is in computer programming, but my bachelor’s is in structural engineering. The thing is, Damascus steel isn’t made today. Because nobody knows how to do it.”
“What?” Jo said.
“Damascus steel is unusually strong, light, and supple. And it wasn’t made in Damascus, just crafted there. It originally came from India. Nobody knows how it was made. In hand-built furnaces, probably, and hammered out by craftsmen. It has a high carbon content.”
“Like a katana,” Jo said.
Ferd nodded. “But here’s the freaky thing. Damascus steel contains carbon nanotubes.”
“Seriously?” Jo said.
Tang looked skeptical. “Aren’t carbon nanotubes created under exotic laboratory conditions?”
“Yes. But electron microscopy shows that swords made from Damascus steel contain them. Nobody knows why. Maybe it had to do with the charcoal in the furnaces. Or the heat at which the steel was hammered out as it cooled.”
Tang stared at his Compurama name tag. Hi, I’m Ferd. “How do you know so much?”
He spread his hands. “Hobby. Message boards. World of Warcraft gamers discussions. I like this stuff.” He turned to Jo. “The point is, chira relates to nanotech. And sayf is obviously meant to indicate things are safe. Secure.”
“You’re saying Chira-Sayf’s business involves security,” Jo said.
Ferd nodded enthusiastically.
Jo took Mr. Peebles from Tang and handed him to Ferd. The monkey eyed her from under his tiny fez like an assassin in the souk.
“Thanks, Ferd. You’ve filled in some gaps in my understanding,” she said.
He beamed. “My pleasure.”
She nudged him out the door. When she returned to the kitchen, Tang’s brow crinkled.
“What else is bugging you?” Tang said.
“Chira-Sayf isn’t simply into security. They must have chosen sayf because their business involves weaponry.”
“Swords?”
“No. The Damascus saber and the daggers may be for display or may have been purchased to see if the steel could be reverse-engineered. The point is, Chira-Sayf just shut down a research facility in South Africa. Its nanotech work is weapons-related, and something’s gone wrong with it. And maybe because of that, Ian Kanan is on the street killing people.”
“You’re worried that Kanan was contaminated with some kind of experimental nanogunk.”
“It’s my number-one suspicion. As for Damascus steel, the real point is that scientists don’t understand everything about how carbon nanotubes behave.”
“Maybe nanogunk is what Kanan stole from Chira-Sayf’s South African lab. But the robbery went wrong, and he was contaminated.” Tang quieted for a mome
nt. “What are you most afraid of?”
“That Kanan’s going to kill more people. With a knife, or a gun, or even with a touch. And I don’t think we have much time to stop him.”
She looked again at the CCTV photo of Kanan standing bare-chested by the open door of the Navigator. His face looked strained. She could see the writing that ran up his arms.
There were more words on his arms than she remembered seeing.
“Hang on. I think he’s written new messages on his skin.”
The photo was low resolution and the print was small. Jo got a magnifying glass and looked closer.
Her bright little fear grew claws and teeth. “Oh, no.”
Tang leaned in to see. “Christ.”
On Kanan’s left arm, the message Jo had seen only part of was now visible in its entirety.
Saturday they die.
“He’s got a countdown,” she said.
She looked at the clock on the wall. Saturday was less than twelve hours away.
16
Stef Nivesen heard the bell over the 747’s P.A. system. She unhooked her five-point seatbelt and stood up.
“Stef?” Charlotte had a perplexed look on her face. “Where are you going?”
“To set up for the beverage service.”
“Are you barmy? We’ll be getting takeoff clearance any second.”
Stef glanced out the window in the exit door. They were on the taxiway, in line to take off.
Charlotte put a hand on Stef’s arm. “I know the pinstriped drunk sitting in twelve-B keeps pushing the call button, but he’ll have to wait for his Jim Beam until we reach cruising altitude.”
Stef could hear the British banker in row twelve, talking loudly to his seatmate.
“Sit down, pet. Let Allen deal with him,” Charlotte said.
Stef’s colleague Allen was strapped into the jump seat by the forward door. He was eyeing the sloshed passenger with prissy disdain. He caught Stef’s glance and rolled his eyes.
Stef sat back down. The klieg-light sky looked so bright it was nauseating. She lowered the window shade and buckled up.
