by Layton Green
But he tapped—
His father grabbed him by the throat and pushed him against the wall. Don’t talk back to me, you little shit! Don’t tell me about fighting! I’ve fought in two wars!
He shoved Grey’s head into the wall, and the drywall cracked. Grey watched as the white powder sprinkled his head and chest in slow motion, fairy dust from a faraway realm.
He heard his mother, lying with her cancer in the next room, begin to cry.
The teenager next to him on the plane closed his magazine, and Grey closed his eyes.
– 12 –
Jax slid into the seat across from the bald man and his bodyguard. He didn’t mind discussing the job face-to-face in a discrete location, as long as the job site was elsewhere, which he’d confirmed by email. The United States was one country where he did not, as a rule, work. He also steered clear of illegal acts in countries where he kept residences, and he preferred to live in non-extradition countries.
But at the moment, he had a thing for Florence. What the hell. He couldn’t keep all his rules, all the time, or he might as well live in Switzerland.
Another rule: Jax did not work for terrorist organizations. Terrorists didn’t like to keep witnesses alive, and he didn’t want terrorists chasing him around the globe. Not that many terrorists contacted him; they tended to be insular types. Mohammed had assured him terrorism was not the agenda.
“I’m Al-Miri,” the tall one said, and didn’t bother to introduce the other.
“Where’s Mohammed?”
“I didn’t wish to use my name on the email. I’m sure you understand.”
“How’d you find me?”
“It is not important.”
‘”Fraid it is.”
Al-Miri placed his hands in front of him, fingers interlocked, and drummed his left forefinger on the table. “I shall be honest. I found you through someone with whom you recently conducted business. Someone in Egypt.”
“From the supply or the demand side?”
“The supply,” Al-Miri said.
Interesting. Dorian was typically a middleman. There were others who knew how to contact him via email, however. “And you want to discuss a similar service?”
Al-Miri ceased his finger movement. “I wish my property, which you have assisted to steal, returned.”
The sounds in the café faded into the background. Jax’s right hand found the hilt of his boot knife. Was this some sort of joke? His friend Darko, a Bosnian mercenary, had set up a scam like this before, a quick laugh.
This didn’t feel like a joke.
“The man you did business with was my employee,” Al-Miri said. “He stole something important from me. It is an unacceptable loss.”
Jax leaned forward; as he did so, the ugly bodyguard shifted forward as well. Jax kept his voice low. “Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to get up from this table and walk out of here. You’re going to wait fifteen minutes and do the same. Then you’re going to go back to Egypt, forget you ever saw me, and never mention my name again. Ever. Doing anything else will be very bad for your health. Capisce?”
“What is clear,” Al-Miri said, “is that you don’t wish to be my enemy. I am a reasonable man. I don’t hold you responsible for the theft. I understand you are in a distinct business, and that you simply conducted a transaction. That is why I will pay you to assist me in the location of my property.”
“I don’t know you, and I don’t double-cross my customers. Maybe you need to sort it out with your employee.”
“He is no longer available.”
“Then looks like you’re out of luck. Go home. You’re out of your depth.”
“You need only provide me the name of the party to whom you delivered my property.”
Jax stood. “I told you, I don’t double-cross my customers.”
“I’m afraid this is unacceptable,” Al-Miri said softly.
“That’s the funny thing about life. You often don’t get what you want, and even more often you don’t want what you get.”
Jax backed towards the door, keeping his eyes on the two men. Neither Al-Miri nor his bodyguard moved to follow. Whatever had happened, however it had gone down, this was not good. He’d have to lay low until this blew over, and be more careful with his business partners. No, not good at all.
Jax ducked into the press of people, lost himself in the crowd, and exited on Lexington. He was positive neither of the men had followed him, and he took a circuitous route to his hotel. Time to grab his things and get the hell out of New York.
He ducked into his room, threw his bag together, and stepped into the hallway. Four Arab men greeted him with raised handguns. Before he could utter his first bribe, one of them hit him on the temple with the butt of a gun.
– 13 –
Veronica sat on her couch with her legs crossed in the lotus position. She closed her laptop and turned her full attention to her cup of coffee. The breeze from the bedroom window entered the living room and feathered her at the end of its journey. She sank into her chenille bathrobe.
She hovered over her coffee for a long time before reaching for her cell and punching in Monique’s number. Veronica handed in finished copy to Monique, and Monique suggested most of her assignments. In most circles she would be called her boss, although Veronica preferred to think of her as her liaison.
Monique grew up in the Bronx, and possessed a joint degree in law and public health from Columbia. She’d been a field researcher with the W.H.O., an attorney for the UN, and now worked in the upper echelons of the IBMO. Combine a childhood in the Bronx with intimate knowledge of the international legal system with first-hand experience in some of the world’s poorest hot zones and, to Veronica’s mind, out should pop a woman with a personal ethos somewhere between jaded and nihilistic. Perhaps that was so, but Monique didn’t show it.
Monique answered on the first ring, and Veronica got her mental image. A middle-aged black woman, annoyingly svelte and put together, foundation concealing lack of sleep, wearing a fabulous pair of shoes, checking her email and filling out reports and eating a bagel and skimming the news and doing five other things while she tried to talk to Veronica. Brilliant and scatter-brained. Veronica loved her, but often wanted to strangle her.
Monique rushed her words, as always. “Coming in today? Want to snag lunch?”
“I might. Have you got a sec?”
“One, darling. Lots going on. Nice piece on BioGorden, by the way.”
“Thanks. I know we’ve discussed a few options for my next piece—how set are you on any of them?”
“You tell me. Which one should I be set on? Oh wait just a minute, let me just… there… sent. If I had to choose right now I like the one about security at the CDC.”
“I might have something else. Something new. I wanted to gauge your interest.”
“I am… Friday is not going to work for that… I don’t think Thursday will either… my interest in what?”
“Monique, drop what you’re doing and listen to me. Please. It’s kind of an odd story, but I ran into a guy, some sort of investigator, who might be going after Somax. I’m not sure what for, but I think it could be big. I’m positive no one else knows about this. I met him purely by accident at the BioGorden protest.”
Veronica could see Monique frowning into the phone. “We’re not the Enquirer, Vere. We’re not even Sixty Minutes.”
“Somax does real science and you know it. Controversial, unethical, maybe criminal, but real. They go places others won’t.”
“And?”
“I admit it’s a bit of a hunch. But I’ll bet the house it involves the good stuff. This guy was peppering East about it.”
Veronica knew Monique liked the aging angle. Biomedical engineering was going to be the science of the twenty-first century. Nothing had more implications, for disease and sustainable longevity and worldwide health in general, than aging research.
Monique’s tone changed, became more involved.
“What do you have? I need something before I authorize expenses.”
“All I know is I think something new is involved. You may have to give me some room on this one. I’ll work as fast as I can.”
“You don’t have anything.”
“I will.”
“I need something new in ten days, and I’d like it to be from you. I don’t mind if it’s something different—as long as it’s science. We don’t do corporate scandal here, darling.”
“I understand. Thanks. I’ll let you know as soon as I know something.”
“Do.”
“I’ll try to make lunch.”
“Do.”
Veronica closed her phone and returned to her coffee. She’d almost mentioned the bizarre incident outside her window, not because it had to do with anything, but because she felt the need to tell someone. Maybe she would if she made lunch. Monique was a good listener when cornered.
The one person she did want to tell, she couldn’t reach. She’d tried Dominic’s hotel room ten times since they’d met for drinks two nights ago. She hadn’t left a message, because she wanted to massage the fact that he hadn’t left his number. At least she had confirmed his real name by running a hotel records check. Odd, though, that he would use his real name at a hotel. If he wasn’t undercover, then what was he doing?
She’d scoured the news for mention of an escaped hospital patient running around New York, or anything of the sort. She didn’t even know why she bothered; it had to have been a prank. She supposed it was talking about the rumors of human experimentation at Somax, and seeing that thing wrapped in bandages outside her window, that had her spooked.
She wanted to tell Dominic to gauge his reaction. Did it have anything to do with his trip to BioGorden? God, she hoped not. Most aging research centered on pre-natal tissue, but not all of it. Who knew what the freaks at Somax were up to.
Another few sips of coffee and she tried his hotel again. After a conversation with the front desk her face drained of color. Dominic Grey had checked out late last night.
She sprang up and went to her desk. She fumbled through a stack of papers and drew out a business card. She made another call, to a detective in Queens who’d been trying to get in her pants for months. She took a deep breath, opened her phone, and poured as much charm as she had into her request.
After an hour of pacing and nail-biting, the detective called her back. He poured on his own warped version of charm, an aggressive directive that she trade information for drinks, and then some stupid comment about the timeless beauty of the barter system.
Right.
She gave him hope, and he gave her what she needed: confirmation that Dominic Grey had been booked on a British Air flight, late last night. A flight to Sofia.
He was in Bulgaria, pursuing what could be her dream story.
She made another phone call.
BOOK TWO
– 14 –
The moonlight spread across the wizened grey of the castle ruins. Stefan Dimitrov passed through three tiered archways before topping the expansive crown of the hill. He stopped to catch his breath, then picked his way across the rubble to the east side of the castle ruins, far beyond the section reserved for tourists.
When he arrived at the shattered base of the second tower, he pulled out a handheld electronic device and pointed it at one of the low thorny shrubs that covered the hill. The bush slid to the left, uncovering a metal handle set into the ground. Stefan pulled on the handle and a hinged trap door opened, revealing a flight of stone steps. He descended into darkness.
At the bottom of the stairs a butane torch spread cavorting shadows down a narrow corridor. Stefan strode forward, made a few more turns, and approached a silver-plated door gleaming at the end of the passageway. Two armed guards in street clothes stood in front of the door.
One of the guards nodded at Stefan in a deferential manner, opened the door and stepped aside. Stefan entered a cavernous room filled with computers and laboratory equipment. Two scientists in white lab coats bustled about the room, three more hovered over microscopes. One of the scientists on his feet, a serious man with an aquiline nose and long limbs that fluttered in opposite directions when he moved, approached him.
The scientist addressed Stefan in formal Russian. “Good evening, Mr. Dimitrov.”
“And to you, Yakiv. How is progress?”
Yakiv’s face lengthened as he frowned. “The same.”
Disappointment tugged from inside, but Stefan kept a calm exterior. “You tried the new procedures we discussed?”
“Da.”
“The nuclear mutations?”
“Da.”
“Gene stimulation?”
“Da, da. Nothing.” He hesitated, and his eyes shifted to one of the men to his left, hovering over a microscope. “We cannot replicate this liquid. I am not sure… I am not sure it is possible.”
“Of course it’s possible. Someone made this sample.”
“I’m beginning to think that God made it.”
“A company developed this. A company with far less resources than we have. Perhaps they stumbled into it, and cannot repeat the experiment. I can think of no other reason why this has not been published. I have faith in you, Yakiv. You will solve this riddle. Have you injected the H-13 line yet?”
“There is such a small amount, we wanted your approval.”
“Granted. How much will we need to use for testable results?”
“Perhaps one-twentieth of the remaining sample.”
“And how much have we used so far?”
“One-tenth.”
Stefan nodded. “Continue. I want explicit documentation at the Hayflick Limit.”
“Of course.”
Stefan gripped Yakiv’s arm and thanked him. Yakiv returned to his work. Stefan stayed a while longer, helped run some of the tests, chatted with the other scientists, apologized for the odd hours.
At midnight he left the lab and the ruins and returned to his manor at the base of the sprawling hill. He would have stayed longer had there been any point. The skill of the scientists in that lab exceeded his own; he had left serious lab work a decade ago. They would work with more inspiration without him present. Direct oversight by management impeded creative thought.
He poured a brandy, lit a cigar, and walked onto the veranda overlooking the river. Another restless day, another night without answers. He despised inaction. He knew that in effect he was taking action, that he was doing all he could to further the research.
But if he had to spend one more day wandering the streets of the town, or fishing in the river, or walking the paths in the woods, he was going to go insane. These things he loved when they presented a short respite from his hectic schedule, but when they became the schedule, he needed an escape from them.
He stared into the woods in the direction of the castle, towards the tiny test tube that rested in the loamy bowels of the hill. He finished his brandy and his cigar without once averting his gaze.
– 15 –
Grey arrived at Vrazhdebna, Sofia’s uninspiring international airport, at midnight. A flock of disheveled men approached him as soon as he cleared customs, offering cheap rides to the city center. Grey waved them off and found the legitimate taxi stand outside the airport, past three stray dogs and a homeless family.
Starting with the taxi, Grey experienced the dichotomies present in those countries thrust headlong into modernity, forced by conquest or discovered resources or sudden independence into a century for which they are not quite ready. In places like Bulgaria the past and present have melded together, stirred by the spoon of change into an anachronistic stew, soon to be gobbled up by the greedy jaws of progress.
The taxi was a Mercedes, the driver a greasy middle-aged man in a threadbare dinner jacket and Versace sunglasses. Grey managed to ask for the center, and the driver grunted and pulled away. As soon as they passed a security checkpoint the driver pushed a button, and a TV screen popped up in the cente
r of the console. The driver lit a cigarette and selected a channel with blaring techno music and simulated interactive drag racing. Grey buckled his seatbelt.
The outskirts of Sofia passed by in a blur of gigantic billboards with alien script, bleak Soviet-spawned high rises, Skodas and Ladas and Volgas on the road and rusting in the weeds, the occasional BMW zipping by, and a cart and donkey. Where a farmer and his donkey were headed at midnight on an interstate, Grey had no idea.
Grey gave the driver the name of the downtown hostel he’d reserved on short notice, and the driver dropped him off in a deserted square showcasing a gloomy Romanesque cathedral. The driver said something incomprehensible, wagged his finger down one of the roads leading out of the square, and then drove off like he was coming out of a pit stop.
Grey shouldered his backpack and walked down the street the driver had indicated. An old man waiting in the darkness pointed to a ledger with Grey’s name on it and tried to take his backpack. Grey refused, and the man led him into a shabby lobby, then through a rabbit warren of long dim hallways.
Grey collapsed into his sagging twin bed and fell asleep to the grunts and murmurs of a couple in the next room. The intimacy of the sounds made him vaguely uncomfortable, but they also provided a connection, an umbilical cord to humanity in an unfamiliar land.
• • •
Grey woke refreshed. He showered in a closet with a showerhead, a drain, and a squeegee. He didn’t mind. He loved the randomness of travel, especially in those places where life was a bit more unpredictable.
He found a map of the city on the lobby wall, and showed the morose but English-speaking receptionist the address for Somax corporate headquarters. He could have jumped in a taxi, but he liked to familiarize himself with local transportation in case he needed it in a pinch. She wrote down the number of the bus that went to Boyana, the suburb housing Somax.
