by Adam Hamdy
“You know how this is going to go,” the man whispered.
Ash stared at him defiantly. She tried to raise her hands but they were tied, and she could feel something soft beneath her fingers. She looked down to see that her wrists were bound to the cushioned arms of an old-fashioned chrome and red leather barber’s chair. Her legs were tied to the baseplate. The man was right, she did know how this would go. If she gave them what they wanted, she’d be killed. Her only hope was to hold out long enough to find a way to escape.
Her interrogator backed away, moving toward something concealed in the shadows. He took hold of the object and pulled it forward. As it rolled silently across the carpeted floor, Ash saw a glint of shiny metal and realized that she was looking at a dentist’s tray, but instead of the customary array of tools, it held a set of barber’s clippers and a curved cross. The cross was comprised of two strips of metal with what looked like electrical sensors embedded at one-inch intervals along each strip. The device was shaped to fit a human head and a cable ran off it and snaked into the darkness.
“You could take the easy way,” the man observed as he picked up the clippers.
I won’t die quietly, Ash thought, glaring at the expressionless mask.
Her interrogator flipped a switch and the insectoid buzz of the clippers filled Ash’s ears. Years of her life were represented by the hair that fell away in thick clumps, and she knew that removing it was part of an attempt to dehumanize her and break her down, but she’d learned from her father that any reaction, no matter how trivial, was a sign of defeat. So she sat silently and eyeballed the man who shaved her.
51
David Harris was staying at the Four Seasons on the Quai de Bergues, a short cab ride from the Intercontinental. Bailey tried to question Melissa but she was evasive, signaling the driver as the reason they shouldn’t talk. Bailey suspected her reticence was really because she didn’t trust him, so they sat in silence as the taxi rolled along the lakeside past the magnificent baroque buildings.
The Four Seasons was an imposing six-story neoclassical building constructed of bone-white stone. It sat squat on the corner of the busy Rue du Mont-Blanc and the Quai des Bergues, a narrow street that ran alongside the Rhone, marking the point where the grand river flowed into Lake Geneva. The hotel entrance was on the Quai des Bergues, and when the driver pulled up, Melissa’s door was instantly opened by a liveried attendant.
“Checking in?” he asked in faultless English.
“Maybe,” Melissa answered, collecting her laptop case as she clambered out of the car. “Could you pay the driver and take care of our bags?” she asked, pressing a hundred-Euro note into his hand.
“Of course.” He bowed his head.
Bailey marveled at the ease with which Melissa played the entitled Euro-traveler. He wondered how many personas journalists had to inhabit, and whether, like cops, it was difficult to keep track of who they really were.
A huge flower arrangement dominated the lobby. Multiple vases stood on a rosewood table, filled with magnificent blooms, long reeds, rushes, and rare leaves that reached up toward the golden candlestick chandelier that hung from the ceiling. White columns flanked every archway, and a black Moravian star was inlaid in the white marble floor.
“Stay here.” Melissa indicated a seating area next to the lobby. “Harris is already jumpy. He doesn’t need to see a strange face.”
Without waiting for a response, she walked straight toward the elevators. Bailey watched her get swallowed by the golden doors before taking a seat on one of the plump floral sofas. Surrounded by marble, flowers, and heavy drapes, he could easily have imagined himself in a stately home. Aware that his battered body longed for respite, he swallowed a couple of Doctor Death’s painkillers. After a few minutes of watching the hotel’s hushed comings and goings, a tanned receptionist made a beeline for him.
“Mr. Bailey?” she asked. “There’s a call for you.”
Bailey resisted the urge to groan as he pushed himself to his feet and followed her. The click-clack of her heels on the polished marble sounded like a ratchet being wound, and he couldn’t help but feel nervous as he approached the phone which lay on the front desk. He picked up the receiver and heard fast, shallow breathing.
“Hello?” he asked.
“It’s me,” Melissa replied. “You need to come up. Room four-six-one.”
“What’s happened?”
“Just come,” she responded firmly, before hanging up.
Bailey had to fight the urge to leave the hotel immediately. There were plenty of reasons why Melissa might have summoned him and none of them were good. His biggest fear was that she was merely doing the bidding of someone else, being held against her will and used as bait. Even if that were true, he knew he couldn’t abandon her.
“Thanks,” he said, forcing a smile for the receptionist.
Everything’s OK, he lied to himself as he stepped away.
The golden doors made the elevator seem like a pharaoh’s sarcophagus, and Bailey couldn’t help but feel that they were sealing his fate when they slid shut. He turned, trying to shake the sense of foreboding, and caught sight of himself in the full-length mirror that lined the back wall. His dark skin seemed to have a gray tinge to it, as though he was covered by a fine layer of dust. His eyes were yellow and bloodshot, and the mottled, puffy bruises on his face and his bandaged arm accentuated his shabby and disheveled air. He was exhausted and needed extended bed rest, but there would be none until he identified the men who had abducted him. So he steeled himself and turned toward the doors as they wafted open.
A thick, ornately patterned carpet silenced his footsteps as he moved slowly toward room four-six-one, which lay at the very end of the north corridor, on the river side. Bailey cast around for a weapon, and saw a gilt vase standing on a half-moon table in an alcove. He took the flowers out, poured the greenish water on to the carpet, and continued toward the room with the vase held like a club. About ten feet from the door, he noticed it was ajar.
He sensed movement behind him and glanced over his shoulder to see an elderly couple emerge from their room. They didn’t even notice him as they sauntered toward the elevators. The door to their room slammed shut with a bang that seemed capable of waking the long dead. He waited until they had disappeared from sight before continuing.
He crept on, his hand trembling as he reached out and pushed. The door swung open and Bailey edged into the room. It was opulently decorated and dominated by two floral sofas, their patterns matching the one in the lobby. Official papers were spread across a low coffee table, next to a half-full tumbler of amber liquid.
“Bailey?” Melissa whispered, poking her head through an archway.
Bailey’s pulse soared and he almost cried out, but managed to control himself.
“You almost gave me a heart attack.”
“Sorry,” she replied. “In here.” She withdrew from view.
Beyond the archway lay a large bedroom, with a sumptuous king-size bed and carved wooden furniture. Bailey looked to his right and saw why he’d been summoned. A half-naked man was hanging from the bathroom door, a noose throttling his neck. The rope ran ramrod-straight up and over the top of the door. Bailey placed the vase on a cabinet and approached the man, who could not have been more than forty. His dark hair was wet and tousled, as though he’d recently emerged from the shower, and his fingernails reminded Bailey of the smooth, polished white marble in the lobby. When he reached out to touch the body, he found it tepid; the warmth of life had not quite ebbed away. Melissa crouched nearby, using her phone to take a picture of something.
“What do you think this is?” she asked, stepping aside and drawing Bailey’s attention to three metal balls and three spikes that lay on the floor.
“Awen. It’s Welsh,” he said. “It means ‘truth.’ The same arrangement was found next to Sylvia’s body.”
“Jesus.” Melissa sighed. “We should get out of here. I’ve got photos,” she add
ed.
“Give me a minute.” Bailey crouched down and examined the deceased’s fingers.
“What are you looking for?” Melissa asked.
“Fibers, torn nails, any signs of a struggle. Even when it’s suicide, in those last moments, people will try to tear off the noose. Survival is a powerful instinct. Sylvia’s nails were ripped, but his are clean, which means . . .” He trailed off as he felt around the back of the man’s skull. “Got it,” he continued, when he felt a bulbous lump. “He was knocked unconscious. A sloppy pathologist would say he did it falling against the door, but the size of the lump is consistent with a forceful blow to the head.”
As Bailey stood, he realized the painkillers had kicked in. His injuries were no longer troubling him, and his mind felt clear and alive with the tantalizing mystery of a puzzle. It felt good to be doing real police work again.
“When I saw the symbol that had been left by Sylvia’s body, I assumed it was part of her message, but seeing this, I think it was left by someone else.”
“Why would someone go to the trouble of staging a suicide and then leave a message?” Melissa asked.
“I don’t know,” Bailey conceded. “But I don’t think this man killed himself, which means there’s a good chance Sylvia Greene was also murdered.”
“Of course she was murdered,” Melissa responded, as though there had never been any doubt. “We need to find somewhere to talk.”
When the elevator doors slid open Bailey froze. Three uniformed police officers were by the entrance, talking to the attendant who’d taken their bags. The man was looking their way, and pointed directly toward them.
“Hey!” one of the policemen yelled. “Arrêtez!”
Bailey ignored the command and hit the “Close” button. The doors slid shut as the three officers raced across the lobby. Bailey ran his hand over the buttons for all six floors.
“I can’t get caught,” he explained to Melissa.
When the elevator stopped, they squeezed through the opening doors and ran along the first floor.
“Do you have your passport?” he asked.
“Always.” Melissa indicated her laptop case.
Bailey spied what he was looking for, a door marked “Réservé aux Employés.” He pushed it open to reveal a service area full of housekeeping trolleys. Beyond them lay a large industrial elevator. He hit the call button, looking nervously at the door.
“Did you know Sylvia was going to ask for me?” he asked.
Melissa shook her head. “We never spoke about her plans, but I knew she rated you. What you did on the Pendulum case really made an impression.”
A single large silver door slid open to reveal an elevator lined with hard plastic.
“You think it’s a coincidence? The police showing up?” she asked as they stepped inside.
Bailey pressed “Basement.” “No. I think Harris was killed because he was going to talk to you. The police were supposed to find you with the body. They might not be able to tie you to his death, but the scandal would be difficult to shake off, and by then whoever set this up would have got you transferred to their custody.”
Melissa was quiet as the elevator descended. “That sounds like black ops,” she observed at last.
The door slid open with a clank and they found themselves in a tiled lobby. An industrial laundry lay directly ahead, and huge washing machines spewed steam into the vast space. When Bailey spied a police officer approaching through the vapor, he grabbed Melissa’s wrist and pulled her toward some dark double doors. They led to a raised platform that circled a deserted loading bay. Bailey jumped down, ran across the bay, and found the round green button that raised the roll shutter. He and Melissa watched the double doors as the slatted metal rose at what seemed an impossibly slow pace. When it was a couple of feet off the ground, Bailey urged her forward.
“Come on,” he said, dropping to his knees.
Even through the numbing effects of the co-codamol, he could feel his body protest as he lay on his side and rolled through the gap. He stumbled as he tried to stand, and Melissa, who’d followed him, offered him her hand.
“Thanks.”
He clasped her wrist, grateful for the support, and hauled himself to his feet. They’d come out on the road that ran parallel to the Rue du Mont-Blanc. Bailey saw a police car race past the southern end of the street, along the river bank. He kept hold of Melissa’s wrist and they headed north, away from the hotel.
52
The bitch’s screams were making him angry. Smokie had read her record. She was smart enough to know that everyone broke eventually. Some people believe there’s honor in suffering. Honor is an illusion manufactured so people can feel good about doing the wrong thing. He’d slain enough people to know that honor doesn’t count for shit. Take what you can, and make sure you hold on to it.
The metal headpiece was doing its thing, sending high-voltage electricity directly to the pain centers of her brain, not outwardly injuring her, but inwardly, it was inflicting more agony than any physical torture.
“You’re strong,” he observed, switching off the device. “But that was level two. This thing goes up to ten.”
She moaned and her head rolled around, a thin sheen of sweat glistening on the rough stubble.
“You think on that a while,” he suggested, before leaving the room.
Once outside in the cool basement corridor, Smokie removed his mask and lit a cigarette. He nodded toward Marty, a giant hulk of a man, who kept watch from a chair by the stairs. He and Echo had screwed up the snatch from the US Marshals and had killed two of them, and a civilian, in broad daylight. They’d been seen by a number of witnesses, so Smokie was keeping them here, off the streets, until the heat had blown over.
“She’s strong,” Jackie observed, stepping out of the room and removing his own mask.
“Yeah,” Smokie agreed. “But everyone breaks eventually.”
Downlo shuffled out behind them and pulled the blackout curtain over the doorway.
“You want us to get physical with her?” he asked.
“No,” Smokie replied. “It wouldn’t work.”
He’d seen it in the bitch’s eyes, the morbid obstinacy that he recognized in himself.
One of the three phones he carried with him rang. He didn’t recognize the New York number.
“Yeah?” he answered.
“It’s me,” came a familiar voice. “They’re going to start checking me out, looking for connections. They’re throwing everything at finding her.”
“Then maybe we should let them,” Smokie suggested.
“She given you what you need?”
“Not yet. But she will. I’ll take care of it. It’s time for you to come in. Time for you to join us. Show everyone whose side you’re really on.”
“OK.”
Smokie could sense reluctance, but that was to be expected. Not everyone could be as strong as him.
He hung up and inhaled deeply, dragging the hot cherry down the cigarette.
“Feds are tearing shit up looking for her,” he told Jackie. “We’ve got to get what we need, and then dump her.”
Jackie and Downlo put on their masks, pulled aside the curtain, and returned to the dark room. Smokie inhaled one more lungful before stubbing out his cigarette on the damp basement floor. He blew a smoke ring before donning his mask.
I’ll break you, bitch, he thought. I’ll break you and then I’ll kill you.
53
There was something magical about the painting, as though it had captured the spirit of a long-forgotten fairy tale. A red-haired woman in a long white dress knelt on the edge of a grassy cliff, her arms outstretched like the wings of a bird, her head flung back as though pleading with an unseen god. Three eagles soared high above the valley spread out below, tracking the course of the silvery river, which flowed toward a picturesque castle that was surrounded by high mountains. A tree, possibly eucalyptus, cast a shadow over the young woman, and to the fa
r left of the image, dark clouds gathered over the highest, most distant mountain.
What was the symbolism of the eucalyptus? Did the artist paint eagles for aesthetic reasons or because they were part of the story? Was the woman an exile, longing to return to the castle? Bailey thought the painting beautiful, and pondered its secret meanings as he waited for Melissa to come back from the bathroom.
They’d wound their way through Geneva, moving swiftly this way and that, and once they were certain they were not being followed, they found the Café Art’s on the Rue des Pâquis. It was a small, double-fronted place with a dozen tables arranged across the pavement and an equal number inside. A handful of people sat outside, tourists enjoying the spring sunshine, and a few locals relishing a lazy Sunday afternoon. Bailey and Melissa had opted for the deserted interior and selected a table near the back, away from the windows. Living up to its name, the café was devoted to art, and the walls were crammed with sketches and paintings.
The waitress was covered in tattoos and piercings and didn’t raise a smile as she deposited their coffees on the small table.
“Merci,” Bailey tried.
“Je vous en prie,” the waitress replied, but there was nothing welcoming about her tone.
Melissa returned as the surly goth retreated toward the bar. She checked the street nervously as she sat.
“I think we’re OK,” Bailey assured her.
He was rewarded with a half-nod and a thin smile.
“So . . .” he dragged the word out, “you think you can trust me?”
Melissa’s smile widened. “Do you trust me?”
“You’re a reporter,” Bailey countered. “Of course I don’t.”
“And you’re police,” she said accusingly. “You think I’d sell you out for a story, and I know you’d turn me over to make a case.”
Bailey broke a wry smile and the two of them sat in silence studying one another.
