The Hunt (Mike Greystone, Book 1)

by Michael Sigurdsson

  "Do we have any nice toys in our interrogation room?"

  "Sure, we can find something adequate."

  "How about the nice cute contraption that looks like a big glove, the one that sticks needles into the tender flesh under the fingernails?"

  "Yeah, I remember that one, it's actually quite strong and well built. It’s ancient, but looks classy, if you know what I mean. Like the Patek Philippe of torturing devices. I think he should like it," Martin said.

  "And it was quite efficient too, I must admit, the subject we used it on was quite vocal and revealed all we needed quite quickly. Mr. Zhao should like that."

  "All set then, let me schedule the meeting. Anything else?" Martin asked finishing the conversation.

  "That's it, thanks."

  Martin arranged the meeting for later that evening. I drove to Mr. Zhao's house. He lived in a massive mansion, built with modern materials incorporating quite a lot of elements from traditional Chinese architecture. Not that I knew what traditional Chinese architectural elements were. There was quite a lot of wood in his house, nice. It looked like a reasonably healthy environment. Although the people that occasionally died in the house wouldn't agree it was a healthy environment.

  I was ushered into the reception room.

  Mr. Zhao wasn't very tall, but looked fit, athletic and reasonably good-looking. I’d heard he was quite good at martial arts. I’d also heard he was quite traditional, so I was expecting some traditional attire, but he was wearing just a regular suit. Mr. Zhao controlled, directly or indirectly, the North East and North East Central, with the tentacles of his crime empire spreading to the northern parts of the South Atlantic and South East Central. Martin had explained to me it was more complex than that, but in any event Mr. Zhao was the man to talk to.

  "Good evening Mr. Greystone," he greeted me.

  "Good evening Mr. Zhao," I answered.

  "Oh, I see you finally learned which is my given name and which is my surname," Mr. Zhao said with a grain of sarcasm.

  "That was an unforgivable error, sorry about that."

  "Bygones."

  "I have a gift for you, Mr. Zhao," I handed him the parcel.

  "Oh, how nice." he opened the parcel. "What is this?"

  "It's a portable interrogation device," I explained. "No electronics, no wifi, no funky gimmicks, just well-proven, traditional, mechanical operation."

  "I think I like it."

  "What's more, anything you glean from the subject in this way is much more ethical than using, say, vulgar electricity, or a blow torch or something. It's like eating organic food, pure and unadulterated, if you know what I mean."

  "I like you, Mr. Greystone, I like you."

  "Thank you, Mr. Zhao."

  "It’s a great coincidence. A shipment of cocaine went missing last week, and I have a suspect. He's a tough cookie, so I'd love to try out this new toy, if you don't mind. Would you accompany me?"

  "Sure, I'd love to," I said even though I wasn’t a big fan of torturing people. I did value this interrogation technique for what it was, but I wouldn't do it as a hobby, as Zhao seemed to like to.

  We went downstairs to the underground bunker, guarded by armed goons and a biometric access system.

  Some poor chap was chained to the chair. There was a bit of blood around his nose, but the interrogation must have barely begun.

  "Let's put this machine on," ordered Mr. Zhao. His voice had lost all its previous sweetness and courtesy, but had gained a note of enthusiasm. In hindsight he looked like a young boy who had got a new toy.

  You couldn’t imagine the screams. The whole vault reverberated with mad howls, as if they were skinning a live animal. If you’d ever been cutting your nails and cut yourself slightly into the flesh beneath the finger nails, you would know what kind of pain it was. That was just a prelude. Now multiply it by a hundred, as the needle went in deep, down to the very bone. The guy was indeed a tough cookie. He lasted nearly five minutes before he started singing. The one I once interrogated managed only two minutes or so. Mr. Zhao was beaming. The new toy was certainly pleasing to him.

  "You are a master interrogator, Mr. Zhao," I flattered him.

  "Thank you Mr. Greystone, it's a pleasure to be in the presence of a person who can appreciate the art of making people talk. The art of conversation is long lost in this society," Mr. Zhao had recovered his poise and polite voice. "I love talking. I love interacting with people."

  "I don't often resort to torture, my operations are far smaller than yours and have slightly different focus, but I admit it's a very valuable tool when used properly, especially by a virtuoso like you."

  "You are so discerning, Mr. Greystone. I appreciate that. Let's have some tea and then we’ll talk business," Mr. Zhao suggested.

  We went back to the living area. Calling it a living room wouldn't do it enough credit. We sat on low-cushioned benches, nearly on the floor, in front of a small square table. Two ladies brought in trays with ceramic containers, something between a mug and a bowl. One with hot water, the other empty. And loose tea leaves on something resembling a saucer.

  "In China, we call it 'the Way of Tea.' This is not just drinking tea, this is a way, it goes from somewhere, to somewhere. But it doesn't matter from where, or to where. The way itself is the most important thing, not the destination, if I got the theory right," he said and took some leaves, put them into the bowl, and poured in hot water. "The water should not be boiling, that kills the taste and spirit of the tea."

  I followed exactly what he did to prepare my tea.

  He continued: "And don't hurry, this is a way, this is not about a point in time. This is about the journey. Also, it's a way of meditating, you don't rush meditation. Let's close our eyes and breathe deeply, to appreciate the spirit of the tea even more," he said while he closed his eyes and started counting: "Breathe in, one, two, three and four. Pause. Breathe out, one, two, three and four. Pause."

  Willy-nilly, I closed my eyes, well, nearly, it wouldn’t be safe to close my eyes fully, and started breathing deeply. One, two, three, four. Pause, and back again. Well, it felt kind of nice after a few rounds.

  "The tea is ready," Mr. Zhao declared. "Let's enjoy it." He started drinking from his cup.

  I tasted my tea. It was strong and bitter, probably some kind of green tea. Apparently full of antioxidants and things like this, but you must really like it to enjoy it. Not my cup of tea, really. "Lovely tea, it's been a long time since I drank something this good." I lied not to offend my host.

  "Thank you Mr. Greystone, I knew you'd love it. Only a real connoisseur can appreciate the rich and unforgettable taste of real green tea. I am full of admiration for you," Mr. Zhao said. It was an unforgettable taste no doubt, I thought to myself, I’d have to get rid of it with a lot of bourbon. Mr. Zhao continued: "What can I do for you, Mr. Greystone?"

  "I need to find a person. I'm looking for the guy who did the shooting at St. Brigid School a few days ago."

  "Is it a private or public assignment?"

  "Public, so to say."

  "I can imagine the government want to get him badly."

  "You know, Mr. Zhao, how it works, it's not strictly government, as the department I work for doesn't officially exist. And yes, in effect the government want to catch him."

  "When I heard about it, I asked my guys if it was one of my people. It wasn't anybody from my organization, you can be sure of that."

  "When interviewing witnesses, I came across the name of Ron Morgenthal as a potential suspect. Have you heard of him?"

  He thought for a while. "No, I haven't heard of him. I'll ask around and will let you know as soon as I find out something."

  "Thank you."

  I finished my tea. In fact, Mr. Zhao ordered a second round. Willy nilly I had to drink another cup. A double bourbon to wash it off later.

  I got up and said good bye: "Thank you Mr. Zhao for your help and hospitality."

  "No problem, and thanks for the
lovely gift. Much appreciated. Rest assured it won't be sitting idle. I'll find plenty of use for it. In fact, I normally have an interrogation or two a day. Oh, such a busy life."

  "Thank you Mr. Zhao and good bye," I said leaving.

  "Good bye Mr. Greystone. I hope to have some information for you shortly."

  I left Mr. Zhao's headquarters. Not much gained today, a waste of time to be honest. But at least one blind alley was closed off. Besides, Mr. Zhao could be a prospective client.

  15.

  JUST AS I was leaving Zhao's house, I got a phone call. It was my ex-wife.

  "Hi Gudrun, haven't heard from you for a while," and would prefer to keep it that way, I thought to myself. I'm sure she needed more money, she wouldn't be calling otherwise.

  "You bastard, you fucking prick," Gudrun's courtesy left much to be desired. "What have you done with my credit card, it was rejected in a shop."

  "It's my credit card, darling," I tried to be factual.

  "I'm not your darling, we're divorced, and the court awarded ten grand a month to me, so it's my credit fucking card, you just need to repay it every month."

  "Glad you mentioned the limit awarded by the court. If your, as you call it, credit card doesn't work, it's probably because of the limit you exceeded, darling. There's not much I can do."

  "You miser, you miserable niggard. You can't do this to me!" she yelled. "You’ve been trying to hit me from every angle since we divorced. How can I keep the house and bring up our daughter? You know how expensive life is," Gudrun complained, not for the first time.

  "I have no idea what you’re spending money on. I’d like to remind you that on top of the ten grand limit on, as you call it, your credit card, I pay your mortgage as a bonus and Sophia's school and expenses. I give you extra for Christmas, and some extra for Easter, I can't imagine you spend ten thousand on food each month?" I asked somewhat inconveniently.

  "Shut up, I don't have to tell you what I spend my money on."

  "Sure, your choice, you just need to budget carefully," I concluded.

  However, Gudrun didn't seem to appreciate this idea. Instead, she gave an ultimatum.

  "If I don't get a check for three grand in two days, I'll tell Sophia we'll be starving because her father hates her mother."

  I hoped Sophia, being a smart girl, would see through this nasty piece of blackmail, but I preferred to be on the safe side and said: "I'll send a check for one thousand. Last time."

  "You skinflint," was her last word and she dropped the call.

  I called Martin. "Hi Martin, need some information. Can you check what my ex-wife is spending money on? Can you run a search on her credit card – it's in my name by the way. I looked at the monthly statement, but the list was too long for my limited computational capacities, and I don't know all the fancy names of the fancy shops. And I don't have MS Access to process the data," I laughed. "In fact, can you check if she’s perhaps meeting somebody? She’s constantly asking for cash, it’s unbelievable. I don't mind her meeting somebody, but that has to be a proper somebody.

  "Sure, no problem, I'll do that for you," Martin answered.

  My phone rang. It was Mr. Xiang of the Chinese mafia. Fuck, it could actually be Mr. Zhao? I wasn’t sure which was given and which was surname. I always got confused about that. Shit, I looked at the note app on my phone; I’d written it down earlier, just to be sure if it was Xiang or Zhao. Just confirmed, it should be Mr. Zhao, Zhao was his surname. I picked up the phone confidently.

  "Hi Mr. Zhao, glad you're calling, wasn't expecting your call so soon," I greeted him.

  "Good day, Mr. Greystone. Glad you still remember my surname," he answered only a tiny bit less sarcastically then last time.

  "How could I forget, Mr. Zhao. I have quite a good memory for names," I lied.

  "I know, Mr. Greystone, I know," he pretended he believed me.

  "Do you have any news for me?"

  "I do, but let's not hurry. Would you accept an invitation for a cup of tea?"

  "Sure, I would enjoy that a lot," I lied again, this time big time. But I needed the information from him, so would have to endure another cup of tea.

  "Tomorrow morning for breakfast?"

  “No time today?”

  “Unfortunately not, tomorrow morning.”

  "Sounds good."

  "See you then, Mr. Greystone," he said and finished the call.

  16.

  I DROPPED BY my office. Martin Keenan was having lunch and browsing something on the numerous screens on his work station. Our analysts, computer geeks, and some support staff were stationed around the office. We also had some trusted in-house security guys, just in case. Most of the staff had guns and were trained to use them. Even though we didn’t expect any problems at the office, in this line of business you had to be prepared. The office was on a large plot of land, in a reasonably secluded area on the outskirts of Philadelphia – I didn't want it to draw too much attention, so a secluded plot of land was perfect. It was a large, converted two-storey residential house on a slight elevation, with nice views of the area, yet offering sufficient privacy. Good connections with the road network and proximity to the airport completed the picture.

  Martin, Head of Operations, had his desk in the open area. He didn't want to sit in an office. He did have one, but he didn't use it too often. Speed of response and the necessity of communicating with analysts and geeks required his presence on the ground. My office was on the ground floor, next to the open space. Nice view, large space, you know, owner's privilege. In case you’re wondering, yes, the windows and walls had been bullet-proofed. If somebody drove a tank into the courtyard and fired, the building would probably fall, but it was sufficient for a gun assault (even from heavy guns). Needless to say, access was restricted and controlled. On the ground floor, there were also three small offices and two meeting rooms. These were sometimes used by our, let's call them that, subcontractors. Maya Turner was our permanent contractor. She did some other freelance jobs on her own, but I tried to keep her busy. Maya looked like a supermodel. But she wasn't so sweet, in fact she was quite lethal. Deadly medley – looks and skills to kill. And if you were curious, I haven't slept with her. There was also a kitchen, dining area, restrooms, and armory.

  The underground area was converted into a kind of bunker or panic room. It was fully equipped to continue operations in case of an emergency, if the upper areas were to be evacuated. Underground, there was also a decent-size interrogation room. It was certainly nothing to boast about, not comparable to Mr. Zhao's torture arena, no doubt about it. But we treated it more as business, not as art, like Mr. Zhao did. Even though I didn't fancy interrogation myself, I didn't shun it either, as it was an unbelievably useful and often an indispensable tool for getting information. Consequently, without any extravagance, our interrogation room was well soundproofed and had a few effective toys and gadgets to loosen tongues. In fact, our best operative, Maya Turner, was the most creative during interrogations and was almost capable of making a stone talk.

  The upper floor had a few bedrooms, bathrooms, and a lounge. Our working hours were sometimes quite intensive, so there was space to have a nap. That was the time when the bedrooms came in handy. They also come in handy for a little romance; Martin told me this happened every now and then. You know, busy schedule, long hours, irregular work patterns, all perfectly geared to not having a social life. And the lounge was useful for a quick break or ... meditation. Yes, you heard right, meditation. One of our associates, Zara Martello, who was our secretary, kind of office manager, was a big fan of yoga and meditation. Zara had a beautiful body, long black hair, and was nearly a match for Selma Hayek. Except I doubt Selma Hayek could contort her body like Zara could. Zara was so flexible, that when she was doing a so-called full wheel, sometimes called a bridge pose as she had told me, if she’d been a man, she could have see her dick. Obviously, she wasn't, so she couldn't. She could only see her pelvis, which was, I suppose, no big deal
for her, but which was quite an enjoyable view for me. And in case you were very curious again, yes, we did have some pleasant moments together. Maybe a couple of times. I remember she was once trying to show me how to meditate during a night shift. I was breathing in and out, but instead of focusing on my breath and imagining the air flowing in and out of my lungs, I was visualizing her boobs and ass. It was quite relaxing, I must admit, although not necessarily the breathing part, but the visualization. Well, both. That day I became even more chilled out when she put her hand on my thigh and maneuvered it towards my crotch. If I remember rightly, on a few other occasions she was also trying to teach me meditation, but at some stage dropped her efforts and we just transferred to one of the bedrooms on the upper floor for a quickie. Our jobs could be stressful, and these little memorable moments helped alleviate the pressure. Zara was a very valuable team member, no doubt about it. In her office worked capacities, or course.

  "Hi Zara, how are things?" I greeted her.

  "Couldn't be better, thanks for asking," she answered.

  "You look stunning today."

  "Thank you," she said with a big broad smile. It was a genuine compliment. She did have amazing lips, large and juicy. She was very adamant in saying that they were natural, not done by a plastic surgeon. I would be inclined to believe her, as even though I paid her well, she certainly wasn't earning as much as Selma Hayek to be able to have a high quality surgical beauty enhancement procedure.

  Zara reciprocated: "You look great too, and as mature as usual."

  "Are you sure that was a compliment?" I smiled, but remained skeptical.

  "Well, everybody would love to date a guy who looks great for his age and has millions in the bank," Zara clarified. Her logic was reasonably, well, logical. I wasn't Brad Pitt for sure, but I also wasn't Gerard Depardieu. I may have been be biased, but I bet I was closer to Brad Pitt.

  "Zara, I need two things. Let Martin know I have to meet Igor Ivanov today, he needs to arrange a meeting," I requested. Igor Ivanov was Russian mafia boss for the whole East Coast and East Central region.