The Karma Booth

by Jeff Pearce

  He turned his head and spat, thinking: We’ll make it. Made it out of all the other shit-holes, and at least life would come out of this, not just death. Remember that. They would be well paid for the job, too. It was safe now to check out his men’s progress, and he strolled into the hangar.

  He smiled as his men pushed—as rapidly as they could—an electric skid lifter with a maximum weight capacity of two thousand pounds over to the west corner of the vast room. This was where the first chamber of Egypt’s Karma Booth rested, and Leary felt a swell of pride at having guessed right about its size and probable weight. His men got to work, and the second chamber was loaded on another skid, close behind. The remainder of the team jogged backwards with their guns ready for any last-minute nonsense.

  “About fucking time,” said Leary, grinning.

  His mate, Colin, rolled his eyes and bared his teeth, a friendly fuck-you expression on his face for his long-time commander. They had killed together and drank together, and it had taken Desmond Leary weeks to talk his old friend into this job, but now he was proving he was worth all that endless nagging and plying with pints. It was Colin who had done enough ops in the Middle East to know Egypt was the most vulnerable place, and he had declared, “No worries, mate” when Leary suggested flying the Booth chambers away on the Mi-17. “It’ll be fucking elegant.”

  So far, it was. They got the chambers onboard the copter, but as those bringing up the rear piled in, some damn fool of an officer decided the prestige of the Egyptian armed forces was more important than a long life. Stupid bastard. Leary yanked his legs up from the ground as bullets strafed the cab’s open door, and he barked at the pilot to open fire with the Mi-17’s guns. The roar was like a dragon’s bellow, the rounds cutting in half the fearless men trying to keep the copter on the ground.

  “Idiots!” yelled Leary over the engine.

  This is not what he wanted. He didn’t respect the uniformed men lying in their blood on the tarmac, but he wasn’t one of those sadistic cretins who relished casual slaughter. It was always intended to be an op with minimal casualties, and now it was tainted. The blood he had wanted to spill was that of the butchers, the guilty ones.

  “It’s a war, Des,” said Colin at his side, sensing his regret. “You talked me into this, and I knew there would have to be sacrifices.”

  “Christ, I know,” sighed Leary. He clapped his friend on the shoulder and said, “Let’s go sacrifice the right people, yeah?”

  He put the dead Egyptian soldiers out of his mind. It was that simple, and it had to be, especially for what they were doing and what they had planned. He took comfort from the fact that the merchant marine ship should be reaching the designated rendezvous coordinates right about now. They would be home free soon, and then they would really change the world.

  Waiting for takeoff of the private jet, Timothy Cale flipped open his notebook computer and checked the news websites. BBC, CNBC, Al Jazeera, HuffPo, ABC… The story links were demoralizing. In Nebraska, a ranch hand and part-time mechanic who beat a homosexual to death in a bar had been convicted of manslaughter—manslaughter, not murder. Despite the fact that no premeditation was found for the crime, there was an outcry to use the Booth to bring back the victim. It had turned out during the trial that the killer had been a closet case, taking psychiatric drugs over his suicidal thoughts, but abusing the pills with alcohol. He allegedly demonstrated genuine remorse. No one knew what to do.

  In Naples, Italy, where assisted suicide was still illegal, a fifty-nine-year-old woman took a kitchen knife and stabbed her husband to death—he had been slowly dying from multiple conditions, including kidney disease and Parkinson’s. No matter what the authorities told her, the woman firmly believed there had to be a secret Karma Booth kept by Italian officials, and they could use it to trade her life for her husband’s. Tim clicked away from the link with a grunt. This, too, he thought, had been inevitable—the progress of the world’s anger. First, people resented the assumption that the United States held the technology alone, and now they suspected other Booths were out there. And they were right.

  His flight was uneventful. He dozed, read the newest pop history book by Giles Milton, and wondered about his tax dollars at work when the third flight attendant brought him a lavish breakfast meal, one normally reserved for a cabinet secretary.

  Still, he didn’t regret bullying Benson into letting him use the Hawker.

  A car was waiting for him at Heathrow, and he noticed the drive into central London had grown even more excruciating. At last the car pulled up in front of 10 Broadway near St. James’s Park Underground station. The world knew this address as Scotland Yard, the headquarters of the London Metropolitan Police Service.

  The trouble was that Benson’s “help” wasn’t there to greet him. A staff sergeant came out to speak to him, and from his years in London, Timothy recognized the man’s Yorkshire accent. “Oh, yeah, on her downtime she likes to hop on the Tube and run over to Embankment. She hangs out in a café in Villiers Street called ‘Good Timing.’ When you exit the station, just stay—”

  “I know it, thanks,” said Tim, waving as he left. He had the hired driver run his bags over to his hotel near Russell Square.

  It was easy to pick out his contact from the daypack-toting tourists and the shop girls on break at the little café. She was a black woman, no older than thirty-two, her hair cut stylishly short and straightened. Her complexion was a light brown, her nose angular, and her brown eyes were wide and challenging with their intelligence. This, Tim guessed, had to be Detective Inspector Crystal Anyanike. As he opened the door, she was absorbed in a book, sipping tea, but now her eyes caught his approach. He doubted much ever got past her.

  “You would be Tim Cale,” she said, her voice a pleasant mezzo-soprano.

  Tim smiled, another American who was a sucker for the educated accent.

  “I would be Tim Cale,” he answered, shaking her hand and sitting down.

  “Well, I hope you didn’t expect me to sit around on my arse waiting for you to show up!” she laughed.

  “Not at all. I’m actually surprised to find you sitting still. You have quite the reputation.”

  Benson had emailed a file. Crystal Anyanike’s career had been unusual to say the least. By fifteen, she was enrolled for her undergraduate studies at the University of London and then went to Cambridge, where she got what they call a “starred first”—first-class honors with distinction on her exams. Her thesis—that early African civilization was much more advanced than previously thought—started a small bidding war among publishers.

  She could have become a pop historian or academic superstar, but instead she got an unusual call from what used to be the London police’s Special Branch. They liked her mind. They also liked the fact that she was fluent in Arabic and could get inside the heads of extremists (a second book, aimed exclusively at academics, looked at terrorism in Africa). And they liked very much the fact that she was already a nidan, a second-degree black belt, in Yoshinkan aikido.

  So they sent her to the police training center north of Colindale in London and then put her in the black cap and uniform in Lambeth, where she handled everything from domestic disputes to hauling off the yobs that broke windows after last call at the pub. But she was on a secret fast-track program, with just a brief stint in the trenches, so that there would no question that she had the basic skills to join the new Counter Terrorism Command.

  No one doubted her abilities after she was on the job for a month. She broke a case involving a small cell of Algerian terrorists planning another airport fire like the one in Glasgow in 2007—this time it was meant to be at Gatwick, with the intention to kill as many people as possible. When officers raided a house in Ealing, one of the suspects took them by surprise and shot a member of the team point blank. He was about to strafe the others with an M4 assault rifle when Crystal Anyanike grabbed his arm, spun him around and sent him flying through a second-floor window. The suspect suffered
a broken leg and a cracked pelvis, but he was alive and could be interrogated.

  The story, according to Benson’s email, had become something of a legend within the ranks of the police forces across the UK.

  From all that he had read, Crystal Anyanike was smart, insightful and tough. He only had a couple of doubts, and as he sat across from her at the café table, her large brown eyes held him steady. He had a feeling she was well aware of the question marks he had saved up on his flight.

  “Tell me what you’re reading.”

  She passed him the book. It had leather binding, with uneven cloth pages that had yellowed with age. The copyright for it was 1897, and a stamp inside told him it belonged to the University of London’s School of Oriental and African Studies. A heavy tome on various African mythologies. Crystal’s bookmark was in a section dealing with life after death in various cultures.

  “You think there might be answers in there?” he asked politely.

  “I don’t know, but I thought you would approve, given what I hear of your own experiences. India and such.”

  “I do,” said Tim. “I must say you’re not what I anticipated.” He gestured to the gold necklace dangling a crucifix.

  She stiffened a little, her full lips parting to reveal a generous smile. “Is my faith a problem for you?”

  “No, but if we’re going to work together, I think I’m entitled to ask if it will be a problem for you. The Karma Booth is upsetting the principles of every major religion I can think of.”

  She nodded, offering him a sunny smile. “All I can do, Mr. Cale, is quote Saint David of Bowie here: ‘Just because I believe don’t mean I don’t think as well.”

  Tim smiled back. “‘Word on a Wing’ from the Station to Station album. Yeah, I have it. We’re in England, so… Were you raised Anglican?”

  “I was,” she answered, her eyes darting to a corner, searching memory. “But I had a lot of problems with the long-haired white dude they gave us in plate portraits. When I was a teenager, I started to question religion—as you do. And I discovered the stories of Makeda.”

  “Queen of Sheba.”

  “Ah! You are good. Anyway, I went and found all the other biblical instances that took place in Africa. You know, the ones that somehow never top the list in the King James Bible.”

  “So for you, Jesus is real but was black. And Heaven is really up there.”

  “You have a problem with Jesus being black?”

  “On the contrary, if he existed at all, I’m sure he wasn’t white, but he’s not the issue we’re confronting with the Booth.”

  “Heaven is somewhere, Mr. Cale. I don’t give a toss really how the road signs point to it. But if you’re asking if I need that comfort of a supreme being, an overall plan, then yes, I do. Interesting… They warned me you’re an atheist.”

  “They told you wrong,” replied Tim. “You would probably classify me as an agnostic. I don’t believe in any human-manufactured God, if you want to pin me down, but of course, I can’t prove it, and frankly, I’m not even interested in the subject.”

  “But what you claimed you saw in India…?”

  Tim let out a soft groan. It was always hard to explain to others his thinking on the episode. People wanted to bring in God, like a stubborn gatecrasher at the party.

  “DI Anyanike—Crystal? Crystal. The two subjects don’t suggest a link to each other in my mind. What I saw suggests to me there are other realms of existence, that there may be laws of the universe we haven’t learned yet. For now, they simply defy our current scientific thinking. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a materialist. But you’re looking for a Divine Plan, and I don’t see one, any more than I see a single intelligence responsible for a whole human city when you compare it to a troop of gorillas out in the jungle. It’s just a different community beyond us. Nicer furniture, better satellite TV.”

  “Yet here you are. Looking into the Karma Booth.”

  “Yes, I am,” he answered. Maybe this woman would understand. Maybe she would get it.

  “Here’s the thing. What I saw in India was wondrous. And horrifying. And a mystery. I don’t need the answers to fit my way of thinking. I would like explanations for the phenomena, sure, but I don’t need the ego boost of some big confirmation of my world view.”

  “Then why…?”

  He finished the question for her. “Then why take this job?” He laughed. He was surprised to hear himself give her a truthful answer, one he hadn’t even shared with Matilda back in New York. “I took this contract because they handed me a compass nobody knows how to use—this Booth thing—and essentially told me to go explore. I just want to know what’s there.”

  “I see.”

  “So now that we’re getting down to it, why did you take this job?”

  She sat back and folded her arms, sincerely considering the question. “I can’t pretend I’m not curious on a religious level…” Slowly, she leaned forward again, lacing her fingers on the table. “The rumor is you actually do care about the Third World. We have plenty of nice white men who affect concern, but I checked on you, Mister Cale. You tried to stop a slave ring smuggling in Africans for prostitution when you were stationed in Paris. Back in the Nineties, you tried to force certain oil companies to stop doing business and hiring militias in Sudan.”

  “Then you know I wasn’t very successful. And the Republicans were running the show back then. What’s your point?”

  “My point is you might understand my point.” She offered another brilliant smile to let him know she wasn’t being irritable. “Six months ago, I had to go down to Africa for Counter Terrorism Command—make contacts, swap intel. I can’t tell you what specific countries I went to but… Let’s just say it was depressing enough for me to almost quit. The big corporations are still in there, right up to the elbows getting dirty. And people still get slaughtered.

  “Now along comes the Karma Booth. And everyone thinks in terms of a single maniac who strangles a girl or the nutter who shoots down a police officer. But this Karma Booth may actually balance the scales with the real mass murderers. You know—the corporate execs who hire mercenaries to wipe out whole villages so they can mine the countryside. The ethnic cleansing bastards. These fellows who run around without fear of the UN. And now you’re telling me other countries have this technology…”

  Tim nodded, comprehending where she was going with her story. Justice. Strip away all the discussion about potential, the Karma Booth still had to be about justice if it was used at all. And she had put her finger on perhaps the most deserving of functions, that those who committed the most unspeakable acts be traded for the populations they eradicated.

  “If we can get those answers you want,” said Crystal, “maybe the dead don’t have to simply rest anymore. Everyone sees Africa die on the news. Imagine if it could live?”

  “I think we’re going to get along just fine,” said Tim, offering his hand for her to shake.

  She took it. “Charmed, I’m sure, Mr. Cale.”

  “Tim.”

  Crystal slid her antique volume into a cloth bag and said, “They briefed me that you want to concentrate on finding this woman in Paris—the one who stepped out of the Booth and disappeared. How do you want to proceed?”

  Her question threw him for a moment. He realized that he hadn’t actually developed a plan of attack, knowing his old notebook full of contacts with Interpol and European police forces had been gathering dust. On his flight over, he had spent some time sifting over his encounters with Mary Ash, Geoff Shackleton and “Daniel Chen,” trying to formulate better questions to ask Emily Derosier when they tracked her down. Now Crystal had the good sense to ask: Shall we find the lady first?

  “I, uh, was assuming you’d liaise in Paris with the French authorities—you must know people there. And we could ask to review their own CCTV footage from the Montparnasse cameras, perhaps we—”

  “How much do you know about her actual murder?” Crystal broke in.
r />   Tim shrugged. “Not a lot. They showed me photocopies of old newspaper stories. Her murder and a brief bio.”

  “Technically, it’s still an open homicide,” explained Crystal. “It’s the coldest of cases, but maybe there’s an actual file and an evidence box lying around somewhere. I saw the same camera footage you did. That woman didn’t wander out in a daze. She was going somewhere.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  They took the jet early the next day, and by noon, Tim and Crystal were sitting having lunch at La Tour d’Argent in the Latin Quarter of Paris. Their table faced the window with its breathtaking view of the Seine and the Notre-Dame cathedral, and Tim didn’t give a damn what the Michelin Guide had to say these days, he always enjoyed the duck here.

  Crystal looked bemused by the rich surroundings, her eyes darting here and there but the corners of her mouth carefully flat and neutral. Tim recognized the expression; he had worn it himself years ago. It was secret delight that you can barely contain, but you still did your best to play it cool. The young detective inspector sitting across him no doubt lived on a budget in London, and she didn’t often get to see such places unless she was taken on a date or for a special night out.

  Then she surprised him with her own insight. “Your family wasn’t rich, was it?”

  “No,” he answered. “What makes you ask?”

  “You ordered our meals like you were taking revenge. Shall I assume you’re charging this to the American government?”

  “You assume correctly.”

  “I take it we’re here mostly because Emily Derosier kept an apartment in the Latin Quarter. I understand that, but I hope you’re not expecting her to just pass us by on the street.”

  He shook his head, slightly embarrassed, then offered, “I wanted to get a feel for where she lived and spent a lot of her time. I know it doesn’t make a lot of sense. The shops are different, the streets are different—it was almost a century ago. But you can still get the flavor sometimes, the essence of a place and its history and roots, by standing on the actual ground. I’m not a cop like you, but I always hear that people go back to what’s familiar. They can’t help themselves. We have no other place to start except with the idea that maybe she still is who she was.”