The Deadly Lies

by David C. Dawson

  “So what kind of a name is Sinon?” asked Steve. “Not one I’ve ever come across before.”

  “I told you before. It’s Greek,” responded Sinon. “My dad’s Greek. He was from Athens. He named me after my grandfather. Never read your classics?”

  “I watch Spartacus on TV for the horny guys. Are you ever in that?” Steve said with a grin.

  “Not me. I’m from Manchester. My dad came over to the UK in the ’80s. Anyway, my namesake was in Troy, not Sparta,” replied Sinon. “You should read a bit of Virgil some time. Sinon was the guy the Greeks pretended to leave behind with the wooden horse. The Trojans took him into Troy with the horse, thinking he’d been abandoned by his mates. Little did they know it was packed full of Greek soldiers. Remember the Trojan horse?”

  “Never read it,” responded Steve. “But I’ve created a few software Trojan horses over the years.” He winked at Sinon. “Maybe that’s why they want me at the hackfest. Is this your first one as well?”

  Sinon shook his head. “This’ll be my second. It’s a hell of a buzz. I’m surprised you’ve not been invited before.”

  Before Steve could answer, the crowd shifted a little, and Sinon nudged him. “Go on. Our two booths have finally come free.” He studied the grim-faced immigration officers who beckoned them forward. “Don’t fancy yours. Or mine. She looks like she could kick-start a jumbo jet just by glaring at it.”

  Steve grinned. “See you on the other side?”

  “Sure,” replied Sinon. “I’ve got your number anyway. If I don’t see you at the baggage claim, I’ll catch up with you in the city. I’m staying in a neat place in the Castro I’ve used for a few years.” He bent down to pick up his bag and then winked at Steve. “Welcome to the hackfest. Maybe you’ll get invited back.”

  Steve ambled up to the booth opposite and handed his passport to the thin-lipped, balding man behind the glass. The man looked far older than retirement age, and he seemed to resent every minute of his job. He placed Steve’s passport in a scanner and stared at the screen next to it. Finally, with an impassive expression, he looked up at Steve.

  “Purpose of visit?”

  “I’m at a conference in the city for a couple of days,” answered Steve. “Then I’m going to see my dad in Seattle for a couple more.”

  “Address where you’re staying?”

  Steve handed him the printout from a booking with GayBnB. “I’m staying with this guy on Mission. Hoping he’s hot,” he added with a wink.

  The immigration officer looked back at the screen for a moment. Then he turned his head to Steve, and his thin lips formed into a crooked smile.

  “Without a visa you’re staying nowhere.” The man’s eyes narrowed. “Did you forget to complete your online ESTA visa waiver, skinhead boy?”

  Steve rummaged in his bag and then slammed a sheet of paper down on the narrow countertop beneath the glass.

  “No, I didn’t forget my ESTA,” he said furiously. “And here’s the printout to prove it.”

  The man behind the glass sighed, picked up the paper, and compared it with what was showing on his screen. He looked back at Steve for a moment and then made a phone call, turning his head away while he did.

  “Hey, Steve. See you on the other side, mate.”

  Steve turned to see Sinon with his passport in his hand, about to head off to baggage claim.

  The immigration officer’s phone conversation seemed to go on for several minutes. Finally, he turned back to Steve. “Wait here. Someone will come collect you for further processing.”

  “What the fuck is further processing?” demanded Steve.

  “If you use that kind of language,” said the immigration official, “you’ll be held in jail before they put you on the next plane home.” The man’s voice was quietly threatening. “The computer has no record of your ESTA.”

  “But I registered it online two weeks ago,” Steve insisted. “That printout is the proof.”

  “Easily faked,” the thin-lipped man said. “I’ll trust the computer, not your scrap of paper. Stand aside and wait for the investigating officer. Next!”

  ALFONSO GRABBED hold of Jonathan’s arm as he staggered toward the steep spiral staircase that led back down to the bar of XXL. From below came the muted thud of music from the dance floor. Around them, in the half-light, a steady shuffle of men entered and left the club’s upper-floor darkroom.

  “Jonathan, wait,” Alfonso said. “You’re in no condition to go anywhere at the moment.”

  Jonathan struggled to escape, but Alfonso twisted his arm behind his back and pushed him forward onto his knees. A few men stopped to watch—most simply moved away to another part of the floor.

  “Alfonso,” mumbled Jonathan, “I think I’ve been on my knees quite enough in the last half an hour. Just let me get outside to the fresh air. It’s only a poppers rush. It will soon clear.”

  “What’s wrong with Jonathan?” Gabriel emerged from the bar below, pushed past a small group of men, and walked up the iron spiral staircase to Alfonso and Jonathan. “I leave you alone for five minutes, Alfonso, and you get into trouble.”

  “It was nothing to do with me,” replied Alfonso, still resisting Jonathan’s struggles. “He nearly collapsed in the darkroom. Says he had a poppers rush. So I managed to get him out here. The problem is, I don’t know if he’s taken anything else. Help me get him onto that seat. Then I can shove his head between his knees.”

  Gabriel and Alfonso positioned themselves on either side of Jonathan with his arms over their shoulders. They lifted him onto a low iron bench, and Alfonso pushed Jonathan’s head down firmly.

  “I’ll go get him some water,” Alfonso said. “Stay here and make sure he doesn’t try to stand up again. We don’t want him to get light-headed.”

  Gabriel leaned across Jonathan’s prostrate form and kissed Alfonso on the lips. “Well, my love. This evening hasn’t turned out how I planned. I wasn’t expecting to play nursemaid to an English stranger tonight.”

  Alfonso smiled, stood up, and disappeared down the stairs, leaving Gabriel sitting beside Jonathan’s hunched figure.

  “Tell me truthfully, Jonathan, have you taken anything else?” asked Gabriel.

  Jonathan shook his head and mumbled indistinctly.

  “What was that? What did you say?”

  Jonathan lifted his head. “I’ve really fucked things up this time. I can’t believe what Dominic’s done, but then I shouldn’t have run out on him like that.”

  Gabriel leaned toward him and put an arm across his shoulder. “Is Dominic your husband?” Jonathan nodded. “Did you have an argument?”

  Jonathan sat up and pushed Gabriel’s arm away. “You could say that, in a manner of speaking.” He leaned back against the wall and groaned. “And now I’ve fucked it up more. Oh God, I really shouldn’t have come in here.” Jonathan stood up and launched himself at the top of the stairs.

  “Jonathan, stop.” Gabriel stood up, but he was too late. Jonathan’s legs buckled beneath him, and he fell headlong down the iron staircase, landing at the feet of Alfonso, who was about to climb the stairs with a bottle of water. Alfonso bent down to examine Jonathan’s motionless body. After a moment, he raised his head and shouted, “Emergency! Someone call an ambulance. He’s out cold.”

  BY THE time the ambulance arrived, Jonathan had recovered consciousness, and Alfonso had moved him into the recovery position. A large crowd had gathered outside the club. Three police officers from the Policia Local struggled to push people back as the ambulance made its way up the narrow side street to Club XXL.

  Alfonso walked outside to meet the paramedics. “He’s English. He fell down the stairs and banged his head,” he reported. One of the paramedics was unloading a folding gurney from the back of the ambulance. He wheeled it through the club entrance to the foot of the spiral staircase. Alfonso followed, helping to clear a way through the crowd of onlookers. “He was out for several minutes, but he hasn’t lost consciousness since
.”

  “Has he taken anything?” asked the paramedic. He crouched down to Jonathan’s motionless body and felt his pulse.

  Alfonso shrugged his shoulders. “He said it was a poppers rush. I’ve no idea if he took anything else. We’d been dancing together, and then he left the dance floor to go upstairs. Next thing I knew, he was falling down the stairs.” It was an approximation of the truth, Alfonso justified to himself.

  “Alfonso!” The second paramedic, who had been driving the ambulance, entered the club. “Are you still on duty? I thought you were on patrol way out by Girona these days?”

  “Philippe, it’s good to see you,” replied Alfonso unenthusiastically. He knew straightaway that, by morning, Philippe would have reported this encounter to the emergency services throughout the east coast of Spain. “No, I’m here with my husband. It was a trip down memory lane. We were just leaving, but then we stopped to help this Englishman who fell down the stairs.”

  The first paramedic turned to look up. “Is this the Alfonso de la Torre you were telling me about, Philippe?” He turned to Alfonso. “I thought you said you were dancing with this man? And yet you were here with your husband?” He looked across to Philippe. “I don’t understand these people. And you say they want to have a family together?”

  Alfonso was furious, but now was not the time to say anything.

  Philippe shrugged and turned to get the gurney ready to transfer Jonathan to the ambulance. Gabriel put a reassuring arm on Alfonso’s shoulder.

  “Don’t worry about him,” he whispered. “I’m sure we’ll get far worse comments than that in the years to come. Let’s be helpful here, instead of angry. Why don’t I go with Jonathan in the ambulance, and you follow behind on the bike? I think we should at least help Jonathan find his husband before we leave him. It doesn’t sound like he’s having a very good time right now.”

  Alfonso nodded. He turned to speak to Philippe. “We rode down on the motorbike tonight, Philippe. Can Gabriel ride with Jonathan while I follow on the bike? Jonathan’s going to need some help, as he doesn’t speak Spanish. Are you taking him up the road to Saint Camil?”

  Philippe looked around as he secured Jonathan to the gurney. “They’ve closed their emergency room to new admittances tonight. There was a major accident on the C-32 earlier. We’re going to have to go to Barcelona. To l’Hospitalet.”

  “Okay, good for us. We won’t have so far to get home afterward,” replied Alfonso. “I’ll be ready by the time you’ve got him on board.”

  He leaned over to speak in Jonathan’s ear. “Don’t worry, my English friend. You’re in safe hands. They’re taking you to the hospital to have your head checked. It’s just a precaution. If you have blacked out, they need to observe you for twenty-four hours. Gabriel’s coming with you, and I’ll follow behind. Where can we contact your husband?”

  Jonathan stared at Alfonso in bewilderment. “I can’t remember. We’re staying in Sitges. In an apartment overlooking the church. I don’t know where it is. I just follow Dominic.” Jonathan was beginning to look panicky. “I don’t even know his mobile number. I just push the button on my phone.” He grabbed Alfonso’s arm. “You’ve got to find him. His name’s Dominic Delingpole. We were at the Vivero Restaurant earlier this evening. Then we went to Balmins beach—”

  “For a naked midnight swim? I didn’t think you British were so adventurous.” Alfonso smiled. “Don’t worry, my friend. I’m a police officer. We’ll soon find him.”

  “Police?” exclaimed Jonathan. “Oh God. Have I just spent half an hour in a darkroom with a Spanish police officer? On my honeymoon? Oh God. Please don’t tell Dominic.”

  Chapter 12

  THE BABY had been crying for over half an hour. Periodically, it would draw up its little legs to its stomach, as though in agonizing pain, and then kick out hard against its mother’s chest.

  Steve watched the poor mother try to console her child and felt a wave of sympathy for her. Back home in Brighton, his own mother was a part-time childminder—babysitter, as they called it in the States—and he was used to babies and young children being around the rambling Georgian house they shared with Steve’s grandparents. He had often been roped in to help out with a tantruming two-year-old. The mother in front of him tried every technique to placate her baby, but without success.

  He already had a headache when they landed. A consequence of failing to drink sufficient water during the dehydrating flight. The immigration holding room was airless and starkly lit. The baby’s cries made his headache ten times worse. But he could not blame the child. Instead, he cursed the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services for its shoddy computer system. Steve checked his watch again. Nearly two hours had passed since the humorless official had shown him into the room, which Steve now shared with about twelve other unfortunates. The mother with the crying baby sat opposite him on one of the hard plastic chairs. She looked to be in her early thirties, and her head was covered with a hijab. A few seats away from her sat an Asian couple with three children. They had come in shortly after him. Alongside Steve was an elderly couple, possibly from India or Pakistan. Next to them was a smartly dressed family who spoke Russian to each other in hushed voices from time to time.

  At the far end of the room sat two immigration officials, a man and a woman. Steve had been watching them ever since he was shown into the room. Much of the time, they seemed to do nothing more than chat to each other. Then the phone would ring, and a person or group of people would be called to the front and escorted through a side door.

  After the first hour of waiting, Steve had walked up to the desk and asked how long he was going to be held in the room.

  “As long as it takes, sir,” replied the male immigration officer. “I suggest you go back to your seat and don’t make a fuss. We’ve got a lot on tonight.” He had said it in an emotionless, monotone voice. Steve guessed he had repeated the same answer to countless stranded passengers in the past.

  Steve leaned forward to the mother and her baby. “How old?” he asked with a sympathetic smile.

  The woman turned from her baby with a weary look on her face. “She is just twelve weeks. I am worried she has an infection. She is very hot and won’t stop crying. I am very sorry.” She looked at Steve and tilted her head as she apologized. “It must be very annoying for you.”

  “No worries, love,” he said. “My mom’s a childminder back in England. I’m used to it.” He gestured to the two immigration officers at the end of the room. “If you think she’s ill, why don’t you ask them to help?”

  The woman smiled at him. “You are very kind to be understanding. I am returning to my husband, who lives in the Valley. I lost my bag with my passport and papers and mobile phone in it when I got off the plane. I cannot think where it has gone. I can only believe it was stolen. The immigration people do not believe me. They think I am lying.”

  “Why don’t you just get them to call your husband?” asked Steve.

  The woman tilted her head again. “I know this sounds very silly, but I do not know his number. You see,” she said with a smile, “it is stored in my phone.”

  “Well, that’s easily sorted,” said Steve. “What’s your husband’s name, address, and mobile phone company? It won’t take me long to get that. I’ve got my laptop in here.” He gestured to his rucksack.

  The woman shook her head and pointed to a sign on the wall. “You cannot use electronic devices in here. You are not through US immigration yet. We will only get in more trouble.”

  Steve grinned. “Don’t worry, love. That’s not a problem for me.”

  “WILL YOU stay for the night?” As Tanya spoke, she slowly traced her fingers over the intricate detail of a tattoo across Jeff’s chest. The Maori-inspired design flowed up to his broad shoulder and down his upper arm.

  “I seem to remember,” she continued as she lifted her head and gently kissed his nipple, “that after that party, I woke to find you alongside me in the bed.” She laid her
head on Jeff’s smooth, shaved chest. “Stay again.”

  Jeff raised his head from the pillow for a moment and looked down at Tanya’s athletic body, nestled against his. He smiled. A very successful night overall, he thought.

  After a light supper at the Montgomery Street Bar and Grill, Jeff had called Robbie and offered Tanya a ride back to her apartment on Nob Hill. She had said yes immediately. When they arrived, she invited him in “for a nightcap.” That was two hours ago. Tanya had wasted no time in getting Jeff to the bedroom.

  She was a passionate, fiery, and, Jeff sadly admitted, much fitter lover than he was. It was now around midnight, and he felt exhausted. The prospect of not moving any farther for the night, of wrapping himself in the comfort of Tanya’s bed, was very appealing.

  Jeff looked across to the huge bedroom window in Tanya’s top-floor apartment. It framed the spectacular sight of the Golden Gate Bridge, lit by the low-hanging moon. This view alone was worth over a million dollars. The apartment was in one of the most sought after locations in San Francisco. Tanya had done well. Once upon a time—fourteen years ago to be precise—she had been Jeff’s intern. He had plucked her from a young cohort of programmers who had joined one of the first hackfests he had put together. Jeff recognized her potential immediately, both professionally and as an occasional playmate in the bedroom.

  He looked down at her smooth ebony body again. The temptation to stay the night with her was strong. But he needed to contact Charter Ninety-Nine and send them the information he had retrieved from Tanya’s laptop. With the Originator missing, there was now a greater urgency for the group to push on with its task. The financial access details he had retrieved would have a very short life cycle. He needed to get them to Russia and China quickly.