by Layton Green
A large stainless steel computer station dominated the center of the room, with an even larger white man sitting behind it. Younger than Grey, the man had a waist-length ponytail and a bushy black beard that spilled onto his hooded velour tracksuit. He also sported a red-and-white rising sun headband, rings on each finger, and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses as thick as Grey’s pinkie.
The room reminded Grey of a vintage hotel lobby redecorated by, well, an underground hacker obsessed with the martial arts. An aficionado himself, Grey recognized almost all of the posters, from Fists of Fury to Come Drink With Me to Iron Monkey. The memorabilia consisted mostly of ancient weapons hanging on pegs or preserved in glass, including a pair of crossed samurai swords that looked genuine.
The two guards were lean but muscular. They had the economy of movement of trained soldiers. Grey doubted he could make a move before they shot him, but he canvased the weapons on the walls and decided his best play would be to grab one of the samurai swords.
“Sensei,” Jax said.
The man in the tracksuit tipped his head.
Eyeing the array of computer equipment sprawled on the desk, as well as the gut spilling over the man’s waistband, Grey took a wild guess that the man’s honorific referred to his tech skills and not his martial arts prowess.
“We’re in need of your inestimable services,” Jax said.
“You know the deal.”
The man’s accent sounded suburban to Grey. A Jersey kid.
“Charge it to my account.” Jax said, then winked at Grey. “I’ll bill you later.”
Grey didn’t respond. He didn’t even want to know how much this was going to cost.
The ponytailed man shifted to regard Grey, then eyed Jax. “If he talks, we’ll come for you.”
“Sure thing, champ.”
The man gave a supercilious smile and opened a palm. Jax gave a rundown of Charlie’s abduction and the men they were seeking. Grey passed them a photo of Charlie and an array of mug shots he had copied from the police station.
After examining the photos, the man looked to Jax. “I need you to wait outside.”
“Me?” Jax said.
The man folded his thick arms. With a shrug, Jax locked gazes with Grey and backed towards the door. One of the armed guards followed him out. When the door closed behind them, the man behind the desk said, “She wants to see you in person.”
“Who does?”
Part of the wall near the staircase slid open, a cleverly concealed pocket door. The man held up another palm, and Grey stepped through the opening, curious but wary.
The door slid shut behind him. Grey found himself in a boxy, dimly lit room filled with computer equipment and wires running into the walls. A young, lissome Asian woman sat with crossed legs in a futuristic, lime green office chair that hovered over her like a praying mantis.
She was wearing black leather shorts and a matching halter-top, and her straight dark hair almost touched the floor. Black eyeliner and heavy white face paint, similar to a Geisha, obscured the exact curve of her eyes. Red lipstick puckered her mouth. Grey knew other Asian cultures painted their faces, so he couldn’t peg her as Japanese.
Nor would a true Geisha cover her body in fierce tattoos and piercings like this woman had, as if mocking the image of a demure courtesan. Her body art was more invasive than anything Grey had ever seen, spikes and barbs and pins that turned her body into a living weapon. He also noticed scuffed knuckles, a black belt hanging on a hook by the door, and tattoos depicting judo throws.
“You’re the real Sensei,” Grey said.
She bent at the waist, a half-bow from her chair.
“A judoka,” he added, though he wondered how she trained with all of her piercings. Some of it looked embedded into her skin.
“And you’re Zen-Zekai.”
Her voice sounded hollow, metallic. Had it been damaged at some time? Modified by a throat implant?
“Trained by Hanshi Mizushima,” she continued. “A living legend.”
Grey was stunned. “How did you know that?”
“Your tattoos also tell a story.”
At first he was confused, since his shirt hid his own body art on his back, but then he remembered the one-way glass in the foyer.
They had scanned him somehow. Seen the tattoos covering his back, as well as the scars from his father’s abuse.
“It’s why I let you in,” she said. “That and your mission.”
“I’m just trying to find a girl.”
“And you’re not seeking to find her for your own . . . gain?”
“She’s my student. My friend.”
She stared at him for a long moment. Maybe it was the illusion of layers created by the white paint, but her eyes seemed to possess a secret depth, as if a different person was peering out from behind the mask.
“I’m not sure I can help,” she said finally. “But I will try.”
A wave of hope crashed over him. “We can search for these men in the photos, but I doubt we’ll get anywhere. I need to find Dag.”
“The one with red hair your friend mentioned. Tell me more.”
Grey told her everything he knew, about Dag’s strange accent and the white supremacist ties and even the connection to the virus. Still, he knew it wasn’t much to go on.
“There is no photo?”
“No.”
“Describe him further. As detailed as you can.” After Grey finished, she mulled it over and said, “He has physical characteristics helpful to a search. Without a photo, though . . . we need to limit the search. Can you narrow down the time frame?”
“I believe he left the country within the last twenty-four hours.”
“And his next location? Are there any clues?”
Grey paced. “I’m convinced he left in a private plane. I think his accent is a European blend of some sort, maybe Nordic. Given the white supremacist ties . . . I think we should concentrate on Western and Northern Europe.”
“That will help limit the vector, though it’s still quite large. Anything else?”
“Add South Africa to the list. And he’s urbane, a city guy. He could be going anywhere, but I’d try the major cities first. Maybe even the capitals. Then work our way down. Is that possible?”
“The definition of possible changes every day.”
Grey’s eyes flicked to the glowing laptops, monitors, modems, and who-knew-what-other technology was in the room. He believed her.
“Without a photo, I cannot run a facial scan. That will limit my search.”
“I understand.”
“Would you like to stay?”
“Please.”
“You don’t want to know how long it will take?” The question felt droll to Grey, though her expression or intonation never changed.
Grey shrugged. “Do you have coffee?”
She pointed to a corner of the room. Grey realized the tangle of machinery included a sink and a small steel fridge built into the wall. He stepped closer and saw a machine that looked like a spiked silver ball on a tripod, with a row of buttons on the base. Grey noticed a line of delicate ceramic cups on a shelf, took one and placed it beneath the spiked ball, and pressed brew.
The machine purred to life. Grey got his caffeine.
And then he waited.
The coffee helped him stay alert, but it only increased the sweat on his palms and the nervous pounding of his heart as he waited on the Sensei to finish.
What if she couldn’t help? Dag could be anywhere in the world, and to have any chance at helping Charlie, they needed something to jumpstart the investigation. Something immediate.
The Sensei worked in silence, fingers whirring across the keyboard. At times, she slid between monitors in her mechanized chair, or stood and walked to and from a different beverage machine, returning with a cup of steaming liquid that gave off an aroma of jasmine.
Grey wasn’t sure how long he had been there, two hours, maybe three, when a printer spun out a piec
e of paper like a spider releasing silk. The Sensei plucked it off the machine and curled a finger at Grey. He walked over.
“Is this the man?”
Grey looked down and found himself staring at the right half of a face he would never forget, a man entering a bar at nighttime in a city with an oddly shaped tower behind him. It resembled a concrete obelisk with indented sides, like steps.
Grey tensed as he took the photo. “That’s him. When was this taken?”
“Last night, at one-thirty-three a.m. Eight-thirty-three New York time.”
“Five hours . . . London? Dublin?”
“Wait.”
She returned to her computer. Grey paced in agitation. Finally the printer whirred again, and she swiveled in her chair. “Facial scanning produced no other recent hits. His name, at least the one on the passport associated with the photo, is Dagna Argmundsson.”
“Dag,” Grey said grimly.
“He’s an Icelandic national. The photo was taken on a cellphone by someone in Rekyjavik. Probably a tourist snapping a photo of the church tower.”
Grey snapped his fingers. “Iceland. That’s the accent. You can access private phone photos?” he said incredulously.
“It was posted on Snapchat. We pulled the deleted file.”
Grey whistled and looked closer at the photo. The name of the bar Dag was entering was not quite visible.
“He has no criminal record,” she said, “but there are past associations with militant white supremacists groups. On the printer, you’ll find five of his known associates.”
Grey darted to the printer. “Thank you.”
Her eyes found his, a look of unnerving intensity. “Thank me by taking him off the street.”
He pressed his lips and nodded.
“We can’t be sure of his real name,” she said, “but whoever he is, he’s a member of the Iceland Heritage Society and a patron of the Rekyjavik symphony. In the past, he’s competed in both chess and strongman competitions, and has won all-terrain races in various Nordic countries, both on foot and in vehicles.”
“A Renaissance man,” Grey murmured.
She held his gaze for long moments. “You can never speak of me. Of this place.”
Grey clasped his hands, prayer-style, in front of his chest. “You have my word. On my Hanshi’s honor.”
She gave a curt nod and pushed a button. The door swooshed open.
Grey found Jax waiting downstairs in the restaurant, drinking a beer. When he saw Grey, the mercenary jumped to his feet, slapped down a bill, and followed Grey out the door. Darkness had fallen.
“What the hell did you do in there? Dictate your autobiography?”
“We’re going to Iceland,” Grey said, as soon as they hit the street. “Right now.”
“Iceland?” he said in surprise, then, “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
Grey stopped. “What?”
“Not until you take a shower.”
-29-
After Professor Radek left in his private car to visit Dr. Ehlers, Naomi’s gaze lingered on the empty road.
Was Viktor a crusader for justice, a rare person who would risk his life for others? Or was he gripped by the provocative nature of van Draker’s research?
A mixture of both, she guessed.
It was her day off, but she had received a call from the station asking her to come in. She didn’t have to ask what it was about. Van Draker had probably filed a complaint, and Captain Bakker had long been a puppet of the town’s benefactor.
The events of the night before flashed through Naomi’s mind as she washed dishes, straightened the bedrooms, tended to Max and her houseplants. The smell of Viktor’s aftershave, rosewood and expensive leather, lingered on the sheets in the guest bedroom and helped take her mind off the disturbing visit to van Draker’s mansion.
Even now, her hand trembled as she documented the encounter in her private files. Three men—Akhona, Kristof, and Robey—all supposed to be dead.
Had Jans faked their deaths? Hired actors to imitate their appearances?
Neither of those options made much sense. But the alternative was even more unacceptable.
Naomi shuddered and closed the journal. It was time to get moving. She had a number of stops to make.
The first port of call was the local Deed Registry. Located right next to the town’s clock tower, which rose elegantly above the town center like the bride and groom stick on a wedding cake, the Registry kept property records for the town dating back several hundred years. Not just ownership records, which she could access from the police station, but all cadastral surveys and diagrams documenting land surveys approved by the government.
Evidence that, at some point in time, a laboratory had been built. Or at least the infrastructure to support one.
Naomi would have heard about any large-scale construction at the van Draker estate during her lifetime. Her guess was an underground bunker of some sort had been erected, perhaps during a war, and retrofitted into a lab. If she could get her hands on the plans . . . .
As soon as she entered the stately Cape Colonial building in the center of town that housed the local government offices, she knew something was wrong. The clerk near the front door saw her enter and looked away. A group of people in line gave her glances ranging from annoyed to scathing. Despite her plain clothes, the Bonniecombe police force was tiny. Everyone in town knew her.
She glimpsed the front-page headline of the local paper, tucked under the arm of a restaurant owner.
TRESPASS ON VAN DRAKER PROPERTY
Lovely, she thought. Not only did Jans file a complaint against her, he smeared her name in the paper.
She broke through the line and strode right up to the Clerk of Property Records, an elderly man she had known her entire life.
“Good morning, Martin,” she said.
The angular man with a rim of white hair looked nervous at her approach. “Officer Linde.”
She assumed a voice of authority. “I need a set of property records from you.”
“What about the station?” he said, perplexed.
“I need land surveys, permits, annexes—everything in the file.”
Martin swallowed and shuffled his feet, as if he knew what was coming. “I, um, yes, which records do you need?”
“The van Draker mansion. I assume you know the address.”
“Ach,” he muttered. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”
“I’m sorry? Why not?”
“Because they were, ah, stolen.”
“Stolen? When?”
“Some time ago.”
Naomi clenched her jaw. “When?”
With an ill expression, Martin disappeared into the back. The people in line behind Naomi muttered as they waited. Naomi’s face grew hot, but she didn’t turn around.
Martin returned and said, “Yes, ah, the records were reported missing on December thirteenth, nineteen ninety-four.”
Naomi stared back at him, so intensely the poor clerk looked away. In disgust, she shoved away from the counter and stormed out.
1994, when Apartheid had officially ended, was a year no one in South Africa would ever forget.
It was also the year Jans van Draker had returned to Bonniecombe.
Naomi swung by the police station to see the captain, file her report on the night before, and research the records theft. Since Captain Bakker was on the phone when she entered, she jumped on her computer and logged into the system.
Just as Martin had said, a theft in the Office of Deed Registry had been reported in December of 1994. Someone had stolen a handful of property records, a purse left overnight by an employee, and the contents of the petty cash drawer.
No arrest was ever made. No documents recovered. Whoever had written the report hadn’t cared to speculate why anyone would bother swiping a few sets of random property records.
Naomi looked up the other stolen files. As far as she could tell, none of them had anything to d
o with van Draker. A couple of homesteads near the N2, a defunct waste water treatment plant, and a trio of city houses. Random thefts, she knew. Stolen to cover up the real crime.
More damningly, as far as she could tell, the break-in had not been reported in the local paper. Bonniecombe was small enough that a theft in the middle of town was big news.
Which meant Van Draker had paid someone to keep it out.
“Naomi.”
She jumped at the voice. When she turned, Captain Bakker was standing at the entrance to her cubicle, chewing a piece of biltong and squinting at her computer screen.
The captain was an old-school Boer. A bald, hard-drinking ex-athlete who liked to shoot guns in the bush on the weekends with his mates, throw a few steaks and boerewors on the braai, and watch rugby in the pub while his wife took care of the kids. He broke his gaze away from the computer and stared down his sunburnt nose at Naomi. “What are you doing?”
“Sorry?” she said, trying to think of an excuse.
“A petty theft from a quarter century ago? I called you in to discuss that stunt you pulled at the van Draker residence.”
“I haven’t even written my report.”
“Ya? And why not? It should have been written last night!”
Naomi worked hard to control her temper. “It was a minor trespass at three a.m. I was off duty. I accompanied Professor Radek to his residence and thought the report could wait until morning.”
“Jans van Draker didn’t think it was minor.”
Naomi stiffened.
“He says the professor is harassing him. And that you’re helping him. Something about the township boy.”
“His name is Akhona.”
“What?”
“The Xhosa teenager. His name is Akhona.”
“Jesus Christ, Naomi, we’re not the fucking ANC. And you know as well as I—” He broke off whatever he was about to say, shook away a look of apprehension, and replaced it with one of righteous anger.
