The Resurrector (The Dominic Grey Series)

by Layton Green

  Go ahead and say it, Naomi wanted to say. Tell me how van Draker runs this town and keeps you in that captain’s chair. Tell me how you’re terrified of crossing him.

  Instead, not wanting to impact the investigation, she looked down in mock submission. “I’ll file the report right away.”

  The captain planted a meaty forearm on the ledge of the cubicle. “I don’t care what some bureaucrat in Paris says, you keep that professor away from van Draker. You know what outsiders think about South Africans. Always ready to point the finger. They have no idea what life is like here.”

  Naomi mumbled a response and bent over her desk.

  She couldn’t agree more.

  On her way out of the station, Naomi found a copy of the local paper and took a minute to read the article. She grew more disgusted with every word. There was a photo of her and Professor Radek talking outside the police station, and the article painted her as an accomplice in the harassment of Jans van Draker.

  Naomi started to wad up the paper and throw it away, then tucked it in her purse and decided to ask Thato about it.

  As a breeze chased away the morning mist, Naomi jumped into the Land Cruiser and drove northwest out of town, along the spine of the Langebergs, towards the red-and-gold fields and gentle hills of the Robertson Wine Valley.

  Halfway to Worcester, she turned onto a switchback drive leading to a white manor with tidy mahogany trim, sitting atop a manicured slope. A vineyard surrounded the manor, undulating towards a line of peaks that resembled squatting vultures.

  One of Naomi’s ex-flames, an architect named Daniel de Swart, had grown up on the property. Their breakup had been amicable, a fling that ran its course, and Naomi stopped by from time to time to say hello.

  She walked into the tasting room, more modern than most of the villas in the valley, full of stainless steel and polished oak. The Robertson Wine Valley was one of the Western Cape’s best-kept secrets. Too far from Cape Town to be on the tourist map, but with scenery and wine just as exquisite as Stellenbosch or Franschhoek, Naomi loved to drive the wine route on a sunny day with Thato and visit the dusty cellars. More often than not, the owners would pour the wine themselves and ply Naomi and Thato with free glasses.

  A woman in her twenties with cheekbones that looked stuffed with wads of tobacco greeted Naomi from behind the bar. Naomi didn’t recognize her.

  “Here for a pour?”

  Naomi glanced towards a side door she knew led to Daniel’s office. “Is he around?”

  The question caused the bartender to look Naomi up and down. “Hold on.”

  After the woman knocked on the office door, a well-built man in his fifties with glasses and an aquiline nose stepped out. His wavy brown hair showed gray at the edges.

  The man’s face lit up. “Naomi!”

  “Hi, Daniel.”

  “Just stopping by?”

  Naomi hesitated. “I know you’re working, but can we talk for a minute?”

  He checked his watch. “Lisa and I were about to break for lunch. Why don’t you join us?”

  “I’m afraid it’s private.”

  “It’s fine,” Lisa said curtly. “I’ll join you later. I had a late brekkie.”

  Daniel studied Naomi’s face, apologized to Lisa after formally introducing the two women, then led Naomi to a dining room in the main house. Lunch had already been laid on a long wooden table, platters of olives and cheese and cured meats.

  One of Daniel’s domestic workers, a Zulu woman named Rose who had raised him from infancy, refilled glasses as they talked. Domestic workers, paid very little but given room and board, were a normal part of South African life, for wealthy blacks as well as whites. As unfortunate as Naomi found the arrangement, it employed a lot of families who would otherwise go hungry. Until the country solved some of its poverty issues, she didn’t have a better solution, except better pay.

  Still, she made it a point to treat everyone as a social equal, and had grown close to Rose over the years.

  “Are you and Lisa . . .”

  Daniel looked embarrassed. “No. She’s the daughter of a family friend. Halfway through a doctorate at Stellenbosch in sustainable agriculture.”

  Naomi nodded, too distracted for small talk and not believing his story. Daniel was charming and intelligent and a good man overall, but he had a weakness for his employees of the opposite sex.

  Naomi waited long enough to be polite, plucking a few olives and taking a few sips of Chenin Blanc, then told him what she needed: old plans for the van Draker place. She gave him just enough details about the records theft to enlist his help.

  While she trusted Daniel, she didn’t want to involve him any more than she had to. He shared her distaste of van Draker, though she had never told him about her private crusade.

  He frowned. “That’s going to be a problem. The only people who might have a copy are the architect and the home owner. The estate is so old I’m doubting the architect is even on record.”

  “Correct,” she said.

  “I assume the home owner isn’t going to comply?”

  She smirked.

  As he considered the problem, Daniel paired a slice of local Camembert with a piece of charcuterie. “In the days before stainless steel, farmers used to dig out storage chambers underground to cool their wine. They used stones from the Breede river to cast concrete cisterns, rubbed them with hot beeswax to stave off any cracks and prevent the wine from coming into contact with the cement. My winery is fairly small, but some of the larger ones have entire tunnel complexes below ground.”

  “Van Draker has one, too. I’ve been inside his cellar.”

  Daniel’s eyebrows rose. “And? You didn’t see what you were looking for?”

  “I think he’s either sealed a section off, or expanded. My guess is there’s an entrance, probably more than one, which he didn’t let us see.”

  “And you want another way to access it.” She nodded, and his face darkened. “That’s dangerous, Naomi.”

  “I know,” she said quietly.

  Daniel took a swig of wine and drummed his fingertips on the table. “If you want, I can look into this for you.”

  “How?”

  “I’ll ask around with the vineyard owners. It’s a small community. While van Draker doesn’t produce anymore, his family used to.”

  Naomi shook her head. “I can’t ask you to do that. As you said, it’s dangerous.”

  “I’m not one who believes the safeguarding of our community should fall entirely on the police. If we as citizens don’t act on occasion . . . who will?”

  “Is that you talking, or Afrikaner pride?”

  “I’m not proposing I go undercover. I’ll just ask around discreetly, with people I trust. Come to think of it, I’ll ask my architect circle, too.”

  Naomi stared at a vintage billhook hanging on the wall, then sighed. “Be careful. I mean it.”

  Daniel wiped his mouth and took a long sip of wine. “Something else comes to mind. I don’t even like discussing it, but how much do you know about the AWB?”

  Naomi’s hand tightened against her glass. The Afrikaner Weerstandsbeweging or AWB was a white supremacist movement that gained notoriety for claiming the tenets of Apartheid were too liberal. The extremist group garnered far more support than Naomi cared to think about, and had bolstered its cause by delivering meals to poor Afrikaner families.

  As generous to their constituents as they were vicious to their enemies.

  “Too much,” Naomi said. “There’s been a resurgence lately.”

  “I’ve seen their signs around here, and in parts of Cape Town. The group goes further back than people think.”

  “All the way to the Greyshirts,” Naomi said.

  The Greyshirts were an infamous paramilitary organization that arose during the 1930s. South Africa’s first pro-Nazi movement. South Africa had officially sided with the Allies, but plenty of Boers had been sympathetic to the German white nationalist cause. Als
o, the Afrikaners had never forgiven the British for the Boer Wars, and opposed entering the war on the side of Britain.

  “During World War II,” Daniel said, “Nazi propagandists came to South Africa to establish a foothold. Many of them were given shelter in the rural areas, including around here.” He grimaced. “Wine cellars made natural hiding places. A few of the estate owners retrofitted or expanded to conceal the Nazis.”

  Naomi’s eyes widened in understanding. “Your family?”

  “We didn’t build out, but we were sympathetic. My grandfather kept records.”

  Daniel had started speaking in monotone, and she put a hand over his. “You weren’t even born yet.”

  He compressed his lips and looked past her. “I don’t know if any of that matters,” he said. “But knowing the reputation of the van Drakers, my guess is it might.”

  At the end of the day, her mind spinning, Naomi met Thato for a brandy and coke at their favorite watering hole: a French-inspired café with red walls and booths, a lush patio, great local wine, and none of the rah-rah Afrikaner nostalgia bullshit most of the local pubs catered to.

  Naomi arrived first and did her best to enjoy the calming effect of the alcohol and the beautiful foliage. Tall aloe plants rose around her, joined by banana palms and orange trees and hydrangeas as big as basketballs.

  A few angry stares, cast her way by the other patrons, soured her mood. This was supposed to be her safe haven. She wanted to stand up and scream at them, tell them exactly who Jans van Draker was.

  The problem was, she thought they already knew.

  A quarter after eight, Thato walked in, still dressed in her work clothes. The journalist gave Naomi a hug and said, “I’m sorry about the article.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I wasn’t even told.”

  “Which says something,” Naomi said.

  “I guess it does.” Thato looked around, noticed the sidelong glances and said, “You want to get out of here?”

  “No,” Naomi said. “Let them stare.”

  She waited for Thato’s drink to arrive, then lowered her voice and told her most of what she knew. As much as Thato wanted to break a story, she wouldn’t go public until Naomi gave the okay.

  “It must have taken a lot to confide in him,” Thato said. “The professor.”

  “I need him. And, yes, I trust him.”

  Something must have crept onto Naomi’s face, because Thato’s eyes widened and she said, “You slept with him!”

  “No, actually.”

  Thato grinned. “But you’re keen to, hey?”

  “He’s very . . . confident. At least in most things.” She waved a hand in exasperation, made sure no one was listening, then leaned forward and said, “Listen. This is our chance, Thato. To take him down.”

  “You really think so?”

  “I just need a glimpse of that lab. Once I have evidence, I’ll go straight to the commissioner and get a warrant. We’ll see what’s inside with our own eyes, and you’ll run the story.”

  Thato chewed her lip as she considered the plan. “You know what happens if we slip up.”

  “We’ve known from the beginning.”

  “That man’s got political connections to the moon.”

  “Then make sure the story you run severs them,” Naomi said.

  After a deep breath, Thato stirred her drink. “So what’s next?”

  “I have to get inside that house, without anyone knowing. That’s your territory. Can you help?”

  “That might be hard.” Thato was silent for a few minutes, then wagged a finger. “Unless you’d consider letting someone else go?”

  “Why? And who?”

  Thato grinned. “What about your new fling?”

  Naomi leaned back. “I don’t know about that.”

  “What if it was the only way?”

  Naomi took a long drink, fidgeted, and ran a hand down her cheek. “I’ll think about it, if it’s the only thing you can think of. And Viktor would have to agree.”

  Thato downed the rest of her brandy, a hard glint in her eyes. “If he wants van Draker, then he will.”

  -30-

  As the plane neared Rekyjavik, Grey went to the restroom and stared at his new face in the mirror.

  Or rather, an old face, resurrected and disguised for a sojourn to the land of the midnight sun, a country known for its ties to Vikings and the ancient Norse pantheon. A country prized by genetic researchers for its well-kept ancestral records and, most of all, the homogeneity of its white population.

  Jax had supplied them both with fake passports before they left New York, and Grey put his hands on his smooth cheeks. They felt alien. No beard. No stubble. He had cropped his hair short and donned a shoulder-length blond wig, applied a bronzer to his face and hands, bought a pair of sport sunglasses that covered half his face, and planned to hide behind a scarf and hooded parka wherever he went. Since no one in Dag’s organization knew Jax was involved, the mercenary’s only addition was a sporty winter jacket.

  Just a couple of snow bums coming to Iceland for some adrenaline-fueled adventure.

  Grey returned to his seat and gazed out the window as a landscape of unearthly beauty unfolded, snow-covered massifs overlooking porcelain blue fjords, volcanoes and glaciers looming on the horizon, a prismatic and constantly changing terrain forged by eons of fire and ice.

  The redeye flight touched down at eight a.m. Grey was relieved by the polished wood floors, modern finishes, and toy-like charm of the airport. Even if an alert customs official on Dag’s payroll recognized Grey, he did not expect to be dragged into a back room and tortured.

  Still, one could never be sure. He and Jax hoisted their backpacks and scurried outside, hailing the first taxi they saw and planning to disappear into the city.

  The ride to the center took forty minutes. On the way in, Grey glimpsed slopes of moss-covered lava rocks rippling into the distance, swells of crashing green waves frozen in time.

  Rekyjavik felt more like a town than a city to Grey. Traffic was light and they quickly penetrated the outer suburbs, cruising through a downtown that resembled a mix between an Ikea and a Brothers Grimm tale. Tidy and quirky, full of playful street art and sloping streets of boxlike houses with colorful pitched roofs, Reykjavik’s charm was balanced only by the biting cold and the feeling of insignificance induced by the stark beauty of its surroundings. Grey had never been in a place where the footprint of mankind felt so fleeting. As if he could close his eyes and, when he opened them, the people and buildings would disappear and he would be an explorer from centuries past, alone with the elements, trudging across the frozen basalt on the shore of a windswept sea.

  Jax knew the city and had the taxi drop them at the public plaza containing Hallgrímskirkja, the iconic white church tower Grey had glimpsed in the photo. The unusual saw-toothed façade of the church, reminiscent of a modern-day ziggurat, towered above the low skyline.

  Though cold and damp, the air was as fresh as a national park. It was the tail end of rush hour, so the city was busy and a fair number of tourists idled about. Grey stood near a statue of Leif Erikson and scoped the crowd for signs of danger. After judging the angle from which the photo had been taken, he headed down one of the streets leading off the square.

  Halfway down the block, he saw the bar Dag had entered. Grey glanced through a frost-paned window and saw dartboards, an enormous flag of Iceland draped on the wall, and a line of bowling shoes above the bar.

  Grey glanced at the name and grimaced.

  ÓĐINN BAR.

  The bar didn’t open until four p.m. Once they circled back to the church, Jax yawned and said, “What’s the plan?”

  “I want eyes on that bar starting an hour before it opens. I saw two coffee shops, another bar, and a restaurant on the same street. Between the two of us, we can camp out and switch up enough not to draw attention.”

  “And if Dag doesn’t show?”

  “We’ll go in after they clos
e. See what we find.”

  Jax considered the plan, then patted his utility belt. “Gives us the morning to prepare. I need to restock.”

  “You have contacts here?” Grey asked.

  “I never met a fence who was a stranger.”

  “You think they might know something about Dag?”

  “I doubt it.” Jax shrugged. “But we can hardly ask, can we?”

  “I guess not,” Grey muttered, as he debated what to do. “I should go with you,” he said finally. “Just in case.”

  “You want a piece?”

  Grey weighed the risks of getting caught with an unregistered weapon in a country with strict gun laws versus acquiring more protection against the kind of people they were facing. He cracked his knuckles, expelled a frosty breath, and patted his bulky ski jacket. “Yeah.”

  They decided to grab breakfast at a café fronting the church. Jax studied his contacts on his phone while he ate, stepped outside for a call, then gave a grim smile and a thumbs-up.

  Grey took his coffee to go.

  Jax said the fence was located at a warehouse near the harbor, about a mile away. They decided to stretch their legs, and Grey wanted to get a feel for the city. Jax led them through the center of town, and Grey was struck by the orderly streets and lack of pollution.

  Most of the houses were modest affairs. Slender townhouses and bungalows made of concrete or timber, shielded from the elements by corrugated iron siding. A city of brick sidewalks, gemlike parks, cafés serving waffles and cream, pop art covering the walls of funky boutiques, quirky doorways that livened up the stoic façades. Near the end of their walk, they passed a pair of life-size papier-mâché trolls on the sidewalk.

  A practical city with whimsical touches that helped alleviate its grim battle over the years against isolation and earthquakes and cataclysmic eruptions. Grey found it an honest way to live.

  The sky turned leaden as they skirted a row of glass high-rises and reached the harbor district. Jax consulted his phone and led them to a street lined with grimy, low-slung warehouses. Grey breathed in the smell of fish guts and tangy salt air. The wind cut right through his coat.