Afraid of the Dark js-9

by James Grippando

The gift of blindness. The curse of sight.

  “Excuse me for a minute,” said Alicia. She squeezed Vince’s hand as she rose, as if the unsaid words were passing from her hand to his. They had an understanding. This was the predetermined point in the conversation where Alicia was supposed to leave, and she was keeping her end of the agreement. This would be between Jack and Vince, and no one else. She gave him a kiss and left the table. When the click of her heels on the tile floor faded, Vince spoke.

  “Chuck Mays knows where Shada lives. She’s in London.”

  “I just read in today’s paper that he’s about to be arrested for killing her.”

  “That’s a plant,” said Vince. “I fed that story to my contacts in the media.”

  “Why?”

  “Shada promised to come out of hiding if Chuck needed her. The media coverage about his impending arrest on murder charges will hopefully make her think it’s time.”

  “How did he find her?”

  “His supercomputers. I can’t tell you the methodology.”

  “Have you told the FBI?”

  “No. And I’m not going to.”

  “Why not?”

  “I believe there’s a cover-up surrounding Jamal Wakefield that reaches all the way back to McKenna’s murder. I believe it relates to black sites, and I believe the U.S. government is involved on some level.”

  “Neil would have agreed with you,” said Jack.

  “Do you?”

  Jack suddenly heard Andie’s voice in his head, chiding him for even entertaining such wild conspiracy theories. “I don’t know,” said Jack. “But let me run wild with that thought for a second. Has anyone considered the possibility that Shada works for the government?”

  “I’m betting that Shada knows something about the cover-up and who’s involved in it. Chuck wants to know what Shada knows, and he doesn’t trust any government to get that information out of her without also getting her killed.”

  “You mean killed by a government agent?”

  “More likely, killed by law enforcement incompetence. Someone in some agency failing to keep her whereabouts secret, which means that Shada could end up like Ethan Chang or Neil Goderich.”

  “Obviously, you have a plan,” said Jack.

  “I do,” said Vince. “But let me be clear. I couldn’t care less about terrorists who were held in black sites. My only goal is to find the man who killed McKenna. And who did this to me.”

  “How are you going to do that?

  “It’s just like Chuck told you: We pool information-including what Shada knows. Which means the next step is London.”

  “What makes you think Shada will even talk to you?”

  “I lost my sight trying to save her daughter. Shada will talk to me.”

  “But she ran from her life before, and she ran from Chuck when he saw her at the cemetery. She obviously didn’t want to talk to anybody. Especially her husband and his best friend.”

  “First of all, Shada and I were always good with each other. I warned Chuck for years that he was going to lose her if he didn’t stop being such a jerk of a husband, and Shada knows that. Chuck and I agree that if there’s anybody she’ll talk to, it’s me. Second of all, Chuck’s not going with me to London.”

  “Not going?”

  “No,” said Vince. “With all this talk about a possible arrest, he doesn’t want it to look like he’s fleeing the country.”

  “You just told me that the story was a plant. And even if it wasn’t, Chuck Mays doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who worries about appearances.”

  Vince smiled. “True enough. Which leads me to the real problem: There’s this little thing about an arrest warrant out of the Old Bailey. Ten years ago, Chuck was pretty careless about what he smoked and where he smoked it. If he sets foot in the U.K., he’s going straight to the slammer.”

  “So your wife is going with you?”

  “Do you see Alicia sitting at this table?”

  “No, but-”

  “Look,” said Vince, “what I do with my own badge is my business, but my wife is also a cop. She understands that I have a score to settle. She also understands that I can’t let her throw her badge away watching me settle it.”

  Jack measured his words, not wanting to insult Vince. “You’re going… alone?”

  “No. Even with Sam, that would be an ambitious trip.”

  It was clear where this was headed, and Jack wasn’t sure how to react. “You want me?”

  “It was Alicia’s idea. She thinks that having a criminal defense lawyer around will keep me from stepping too far out of bounds.”

  “What do you think?” asked Jack.

  “I agree with Chuck: After what happened to Neil Goderich, I think this criminal defense lawyer has almost as much skin in the game as I do.”

  Jack paused. Vigilante was the last word Jack would have used to describe Neil. But that didn’t lessen Jack’s need to find his friend’s killer.

  “When do you leave?” asked Jack.

  “This evening. Chuck is covering all expenses-airfare, hotels, meals. It won’t cost you a dime.”

  Jack thought about Andie. Something told him that he should talk it over with her. Something told him that he shouldn’t.

  What would Neil do if the tables were turned?

  “Guess I’d better make my sandwich to go,” said Jack, flagging their waitress. “I need to pack.”

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you?” asked Andie.

  Jack checked on his grandfather before heading to the airport, and it was the third time Andie had asked the same question since entering the nursing home. At least she’d stopped trying to unpack his bags.

  “I’m sure,” said Jack.

  “Go where?” Grandpa Swyteck asked.

  Jack did a double take. Andie was seated in the armchair, and Jack was standing at Grandpa’s bedside, but Jack thought he had fallen asleep after Wheel of Fortune.

  “Jack is going to London,” said Andie.

  “Of course he is,” said Grandpa. “That’s where they all ran off to.”

  Jack had no idea what he was talking about. Too often that was the case anymore. “And then I’m going to Prague,” said Jack. “I want to look up your mother’s family. The Petraks.”

  The older man’s brow furrowed into little steps of confusion, as if he were struggling to make a connection between Prague and family. Jack’s gaze shifted back to Andie.

  “I’m glad you’re staying,” Jack said quietly. “Even with Theo’s friend as bodyguard, it’s important that one of us be close by.”

  “I suppose,” said Andie.

  “He’s still there, you know,” said Grandpa, following up on his original thought. “Still in Britain.”

  Jack almost asked who, but he caught himself, recalling the neurologist’s advice: Just roll with it. “Still there? Wow.”

  “No, I’m wrong about that,” said Grandpa. “He left for the South of France in 1940. A town called Agde, I think.”

  “South of France,” said Jack. “Sounds nice.”

  “Nice, yeah,” Grandpa said, scoffing. “If you’re a Nazi.” Then he fell silent. He wasn’t making much sense today, but Jack wished he would keep talking, as Andie picked up her thread of the conversation.

  “I don’t have a good feeling,” she said, shaking her head. “I respect Vince and all he’s accomplished as a cop. But the fact remains: He is blind. And you’re… well, you’re Jack.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’m just saying. This could be dangerous.”

  “Way too dangerous!” Grandpa shouted. “That’s what everyone told him. And even if he pulled it off, any fool would know there would be payback in the long run. The Germans don’t just take things lying down.”

  Jack didn’t know how to “just roll” with this one. He stayed on track with Andie. “Would you feel better if I was going with Theo?”

  “N
o,” she said. “Definitely not.”

  “Now I remember,” said Grandpa. His finger was in the air, as if the lightbulb had come on. “He went back to Liverpool. Is that far from where you’re going?”

  “Not too far.”

  “Good. Go see him.”

  “I’m sorry. See who, Grandpa?”

  “The general, of course. And when you see him, kick his ass. You hear me? You kick General Swyteck’s ass for me!”

  General Swyteck? Alzheimer’s or not, Grandpa suddenly had Jack’s complete attention. Even the neurologists had told him that people with Alzheimer’s could have solid memories of the distant past.

  “Is there really a General Swyteck?” asked Jack.

  “No!”

  “Then why-”

  “Nono!

  “Grandpa, why did you say-”

  “Pio Nono! Pio Nono!”

  Jack’s heart sank. More ranting about the pope was not a good turn of events.

  “Harry!” Grandpa shouted, calling for Jack’s father. “Harry!”

  The nurse entered the room, her tone soothing. “Harry is not here, Joseph.”

  “Harry!” he shouted, swinging his fists at the nurse. She tried to get out of the way, but Grandpa landed a punch squarely to her chest, then another to her shoulder. Jack grasped his hands, and the nurse pushed the red panic button on the wall.

  “No, no! Pio Nono!”

  “Grandpa, it’s okay,” said Jack.

  The old man shouted even louder. It pained Jack to watch, pained him even more to think that his question about General Swyteck had brought about the outburst.

  The nurse’s aides raced into the room. Two large men went to the bed, one coming between Jack and his grandfather, the other positioning himself at the opposite rail. Jack backed away.

  “It’s best if you wait in the hallway,” the nurse told him.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” said Jack.

  She persisted, but Jack wasn’t listening. Even with the Alzheimer’s, Jack wondered if there was some thread of truth running through Grandpa’s confusion over the Petraks, Czech Jews, and now this mention of a General Swyteck.

  “Please, sir,” the nurse said, “wait in the hall.”

  “I’m staying,” said Jack.

  “But-”

  “No buts,” said Jack, and then he reached for the little bit of Yiddish he’d learned from his friend Neil. “I’m here for my zeyde.”

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chuck Mays spent Monday evening alone at his computer, surfing the Internet. The dark side of the Internet.

  Peer-to-peer (P2P) file trading was nothing new in the digital world. For years, software has allowed complete strangers to connect online to search for shared files on the computers of others. Any content that can be distributed digitally can be downloaded directly from “peers” on the same network. Most people shared music or video, which grabbed the attention of the music industry in a big way. Lawsuits over illegal trading of copyright-protected material shut down Napster in 2001, but the battle continued. Of greater interest to guys like Chuck Mays was the fact that, on the most popular peer-to-peer networks, roughly two-thirds of downloadable responses with archival and executable file extensions (especially responses to movie requests) contain malware-viruses, worms, Trojan horses-that turn personal information on a home computer into the cyberspace equivalent of an unlocked and unattended vehicle with the keys in the ignition and the motor running. P2P was a virtual smorgasbord for identity thieves.

  And for all kinds of criminals.

  Mays tried another P2P program and entered his password. The usual self-serving disclaimer popped up:

  This program enables access to the Gnutella file-sharing network, which is comprised of the computers of its many users. There is no central server for the files that populate Gnutella. We cannot and do not review material, and we cannot control what content may exist in the Gnutella.

  Mays scrolled through the legal mumbo jumbo, then stopped at the italicized words at the bottom of the page: “Be advised that we have a zero-tolerance policy for content that exploits children.”

  It almost made him laugh. Yeah, and Big Tobacco has zero tolerance for sales of cigarettes to minors.

  His sardonic smile faded. It was time to get down to business. Mays was no stranger to the darkest doors in P2P, and with just a few choice keystrokes-abbreviations for words that should never be linked together in the English language-he was knocking on an old standby. With a click of the mouse, a menu popped up on his screen. A list of files followed, digital content that network peers were offering for trade. Bloody Hairbrush Spanking caught his eye, but he’d seen that one before, and it was tame compared to what he was trying to find. He typed in a query-AV/IF/IB-and waited.

  A P2P chat room was a lively marketplace, and for the next several minutes, Mays stared at his screen and watched this trader link up with that trader right before his eyes. It took a little imagination, but for him, the bartering harkened back to the Roman forum. Much of it was legal. An unknown quantity was patently illegal, but no one seemed to worry about getting caught. The typical trader who flouted copyright laws was basically of the mind-set that there was no reason to pay for something that could be downloaded for free. Traders in this chat room came from a different place entirely. No matter how much money was in your bank account, you couldn’t go on Amazon and buy this kind of content. You couldn’t even buy it at pornstars. com. These weren’t girls gone wild. These were girls gone missing.

  Mays’ computer chimed. His query of AV/IF/IB-Asian virgin in the front or in the back-had drawn a quick response. It was from someone who called himself Mustang.

  What are you trading?

  That was always the question. Mays took his time to formulate the right response. In a world where mere possession of illegal files meant prison time, only undercover cops posing as traders answered quickly. Sixty seconds passed. Long enough.

  FMLTWIA, he typed, waiting another sixty seconds before adding the all-important number, the girl’s age: 16.

  Then he drew a long drag on his cigarette, and he waited for Mustang’s reply.

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Jack did all the right things to avoid jet lag. His wristwatch was set to London time before boarding. Plenty of water, no alcohol on the flight. He even managed to sleep a few winks before landing. Still, as they settled into their hotel room, he was having a hard time accepting that it was lunchtime Tuesday.

  “You have to force yourself to stay awake until bedtime,” said Vince. “Napping is the worst thing you can do on day one.”

  Jack was curious: When it came to international travel, was it an advantage to be blind-no disorienting change from night and day? But he didn’t know Vince well enough to ask the kind of questions that sighted people were always embarrassed to ask.

  Chuck Mays had put them up at the Tower, a business hotel and convention center north of the Thames and a couple miles south of Somaal Town. They had a junior suite on the eleventh floor with two double beds. The feather pillows looked tempting, but Jack resisted. He went to the window and opened the blinds.

  “Wow, check out the view.”

  It was his first gaffe, but Andie’s words of worry popped into his head: Vince is blind, and you’re… well, you’re Jack. “Sorry,” he said.

  Vince just smiled. “No need to apologize. Tell me what you see.”

  Their room faced the Tower of London, and Jack tried not to sound like a tour guide as he described the historic buildings and concentric stone walls on the bank of the river, the oldest of which dated back almost a millennium. But he was suddenly philosophical.

  “It’s kind of ironic,” said Jack. “This whole nightmare started when Neil asked me to represent a Gitmo detainee. Now I’m on the other side of the ocean trying to find his killer, just a few blocks away from one of the most notorious torture chambers on earth.”

  “I seriously hope you’re not comparing Gitmo t
o the Tower of London. Because if you are, that makes you the blind guy in the room.”

  Jack thought about it. “You’re right. No comparison. The weather is much better in Cuba.”

  “That was a joke, right?”

  Vince was still learning Jack’s intonations, and Jack was still adjusting to a roommate who couldn’t see his smirks and half smiles. “Yes,” said Jack. “That was a joke.”

  Jack unpacked in silence-not because of any tension in the air, but because Vince was orienting himself to the floor plan, silently pacing off steps from the bed to the dresser, from the closet to the bathroom, from the desk to the minibar. Jack pretended not to notice when he banged his leg into the bedpost.

  “I bet you’re wondering how I’m supposed to find a killer,” Vince said as he rubbed the pain out of his shin.

  It was meant as a joke, but Jack picked up a hint of frustration in his voice. He imagined that if Vince were to roll up his pant leg, there would be plenty of black-and-blue badges of persistence.

  “We’ll figure it out,” said Jack. “But on the subject of finding people, I am still curious to know how Chuck was able to track Shada back to London.”

  “I guess I can tell you now that you’re on board. It was simple, really, once Chuck knew that she was disguising herself as a Muslim woman.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You won’t find many women dressed in hijab who travel by themselves. It’s not allowed under Muslim law. Chuck checked the flight manifests to and from Miami, looking for women with Muslim-sounding names who were traveling alone. His supercomputers narrowed things down pretty quickly.”

  Vince’s cell phone chimed, and a mechanical voice told him who it was:

  “Call from: Chuck… Mays.”

  “That’s weird,” said Vince.

  Jack wondered how much of a coincidence it was, never underestimating Chuck’s technological ability to know that they were talking about him. He continued to unpack as Vince took the call.

  At first, Vince did nothing to prevent Jack from overhearing his end of the conversation, but about three minutes into the call he noticeably lowered his voice. Another minute later he went into the bathroom, taking extra care to maneuver around that dreaded bedpost.