The Informationist: A Thriller

by Taylor Stevens

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2011 by Taylor Stevens

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Crown Publishers, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  www.crownpublishing.com

  CROWN is a trademark and the Crown colophon is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Stevens, Taylor.

  The informationist: a novel / Taylor Stevens.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  1. Private investigators—Fiction. 2. Missing persons—Fiction.

  3. Americans—Africa—Fiction. 4. Business intelligence—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3619.T4924I54 2011

  813′.6—dc22 2009045523

  eISBN: 978-0-307-71711-5

  v3.1

  To my fellow childhood survivors—you know who you are

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  prologue

  West Central Africa

  Four years ago

  This is where he would die.

  On the ground, palms flat to the earth, fighting against thirst and the urge to drink from a mud-filled puddle. Blood was in his hair, on his clothes, and, beneath dirt and grime, it painted his face. It wasn’t his blood. And he could still taste it.

  They would find him. Kill him. They would cut him to pieces just as they had Mel, maybe Emily, too. He ached to know that she was still alive and heard only the quiet noise of the deep forest broken by the strike of machetes against foliage.

  Filtered light escaped the rain forest’s canopy, playing tricks with shadows. The sound of the blades carried long in the stillness, bouncing, making it difficult to gauge direction.

  Even if he did escape his pursuers, he wouldn’t survive a night in the jungle. He needed to move, to run, to continue east until he crossed the border, though he no longer had a bearing on where that was. He willed himself to his knees, struggled to his feet, and spun, disoriented and dizzy, searching for the way out.

  The machetes were closer now, followed by shouting not far behind. He propelled himself forward, his lungs on fire and his eyes burning. Time had lost meaning long ago. In the dimming light, jungle plants loomed large and ominous. Was this hallucination?

  Another shout, closer still. His legs buckled, and he fell to the ground, cursing himself for the noise he made. He wrestled out of the backpack; it wasn’t worth his life.

  Hope came with the low grumble of dilapidated jeeps vibrating through the undergrowth. The road was a marker pointing toward escape, and now he would find it. He crouched, then peered above the leafy cover, implored providence for no snakes, and ran, following the sound. Without the pack he moved faster, should have thought of it sooner.

  A chorus of voices erupted a hundred meters behind. They’d found the pack. Carry on your body what you cannot afford to lose. Wise advice from a cousin who had spent time in this godforsaken wilderness. He had bought time, minutes—maybe his life—by dumping it.

  There was a shaft of light twenty meters ahead. Instinctively he moved toward it. It wasn’t the road but a village, small and silent. He scanned the deserted scene for the one thing he wanted more than all else and found it in a corroded oil barrel. An assortment of water insects made their home along the surface, and mosquito larvae skirted about the bottom like miniature mermaids. He drank greedily, risking what disease the barrel had to offer; if he was lucky, it would be curable.

  A jeep drew nearer, and he retreated to the shadows and lay hidden within the foliage. Soldiers spilled from the vehicle and spread between the baked-mud structures, shattering slatted doors and windows before leaving. He understood now why the village was deserted.

  Another fifteen minutes until total darkness. He followed along the edge of the village track to the road, listening intently. The jeeps were gone, and for a moment there was no sound of his pursuers. He stepped from cover onto the main strip and heard Emily yell his name. She was far down the road, running, stumbling, soldiers close behind. They hit her, and she crumpled like a rag doll.

  He stood in shock, trembling, and in the darkness watched the machetes fall, glinting in the moonlight. He wanted to scream, he wanted to kill to protect her. Instead he turned east, toward the checkpoint less than twenty meters away, and ran.

  chapter 1

  Ankara, Turkey

  Vanessa Michael Munroe inhaled, slow and measured, focused entirely on the curb of the street opposite.

  She’d timed the motorcade from Balgat to the edges of Kizilay Square and stood now, motionless, watching from a shadowed notch while the target group exited the vehicles and progressed down a wide, shallow stairwell. Two men. Five women. Four bodyguards. A few more minutes and the mark would arrive.

  Multistoried glass buildings reflected neon onto broad streets still alive with late-evening pedestrian traffic. Bodies brushed past, seemingly unaware of her presence or of how her eyes tracked movement in the dark.

  She glanced at her watch.

  A Mercedes pulled to a stop across the way, and she straightened as the solitary figure stepped from the backseat. He walked casually toward the entrance, and when he was fully out of sight, she followed, down the stairwell to the Anatolia: private of all private clubs, Ankara’s holy of holies, where together the wealthy and powerful fattened the cogs of democracy.

  At the door she flashed the business card that had taken two weeks of greased palms and clandestine meetings to acquire.

  In acknowledgment the doorman nodded and said, “Sir.”

  Munroe replied with a nod, slipped a knot of cash into his hand, and entered into the din of smoke and music. She moved beyond the hive of secluded booths, past the bar with its half-filled line of stools, through the corridor that led to the restrooms and, finally, the “staff only” door.

  Inside was not much more than a closet, and here she shed the Armani suit, the Italian shoes, and the trappings of the male persona.

  It was unfortunate that she was known as a man to the contact she’d used to gain access, when tonight of all nights she needed to be a hundred percent woman. From her chest she shrugged down the sheath that would function as a figure-hugging dress and slid thin lacy sandals from the lining of the jacket onto her feet. She pulled a mini clutch from the suit pocket and then, checking that the hallway was empty, stepped into the restroom to finish the transformation with makeup and hair.

  Back in the main room, the motorcade’s bodyguards stood as homing beacons, and she walked, with long and languid strides, in their direction. Time slowed. Four seconds. Four seconds of direct eye contact with the mark and then the slighte
st hint of a smile as she averted her eyes and continued past.

  She placed herself at the end of the bar, alone, face turned away, body turned toward him. Ordered a drink. And demurely toying with the chained medallion at her throat, she waited.

  This final step and the job would be complete.

  She’d estimated ten minutes, but the invitation to join the party came within three. The bodyguard who delivered the message escorted her to the table, and there, with only the briefest round of introductions, coy smiles, and furtive glances, she slipped into the evening’s role—seeking, hunting, prodding, all in the guise of the bimbo’s game.

  The charade lasted into the early morning, when, having gotten what she wanted, she pleaded exhaustion and excused herself from the group.

  The mark followed her from the club to the street and, in the glow of the neon lights, offered a ride that she declined with a smile.

  He called for his car, and as she began to walk away, he came after her, fingers gripping her arm.

  She pulled away. His grip tightened, and she inhaled deeply, forcing a veneer of calm. Her vision shifted to gray. Her eyes moved from his face to the veins on his neck, so easily slit, to his throat, so easily crushed, and back again. With blood pounding in her ears, she fought down the urge to kill him.

  Against instinct she maintained the smile and sweetly said, “Let’s have another drink.”

  The Mercedes pulled to the curb. The mark opened the rear door and, before the chauffeur had a chance to step out, shoved Munroe into the backseat. He climbed in after her and slammed the door. Ordered the chauffeur to drive and then pointed in a brisk movement toward the minibar. “Have your drink,” he said.

  With a flirtatious smile, she looked over her shoulder, seeing but not seeing. It was the smile of death and destruction, a disguise to the fire of bloodlust now coursing through her veins. She struggled to maintain reason. Focus. Subduing the urge, she reached for the bottle of Jack with one hand, her clutch with the other, and said, “Drink with me.”

  Reacting to her calm, and with the unspoken promise of sex to come, he relaxed and took the drink she offered. She dipped her fingers into it and then pressed them to his mouth. She repeated the gesture, playfully, teasing the Rohypnol into his system until the glass had been emptied, and when it had been done, she staved him off until the drug took effect. She told the chauffeur to take the man home and, without resistance, stepped out of the car.

  In the cool of the predawn, she breathed deeply to clear her head. And then she began to walk, oblivious to time, aware only of the lightening sky and eventually the morning call to prayer that sounded from the minarets across the city.

  It was fully light when she arrived at the apartment that had served as home for the last nine months.

  The place was shuttered and dark, and she flipped on the light. A bare low-wattage bulb hung suspended from the ceiling, revealing a one-room apartment with more floor space devoted to cluttered stacks of books, file folders, and computers with their attendant wires and paraphernalia than to either the desk or the couch that doubled as a bed. Beyond that, the place was empty.

  She removed the medallion from around her neck and paused, momentarily distracted by the blinking red light at the foot of the couch. Then, with the medallion flat between her palms, she twisted it and removed a microcard from the opened halves. She sat in front of the computer, slid the card into a reader, and, with the data downloading, reached for the answering machine.

  The voice on the recording was like champagne: Kate Breeden at high noon. “Michael, darling, I know you’re still wrapping up and aren’t expecting another assignment for a while, but I’ve received an unusual request. Call me.”

  Munroe sat on the couch, replayed the recording, leaned her forehead onto her arms, and closed her eyes. Exhaustion from the day’s work weighed heavily, and she lay back, eyes glazed in the direction of the monitor and the download status. She glanced at her watch. Just after ten in Dallas. She waited a moment, then straightened, and bracing for what was to come, picked up the handset, and dialed.

  The effervescence in the voice on the other end brought the crack of a smile, and Munroe said, “I just got your message.”

  “I know that you aren’t looking for new work for a few months,” Kate said, “but this is an exception. The client is Richard Burbank.”

  Munroe paused. The name was familiar. “Houston oil?”

  “That’s him.”

  She sighed. “Okay, fax me the documents, I’ll take a look.”

  There was an awkward silence, and then Breeden said, “For a hundred thousand dollars, would you be willing to meet in person?”

  “In Ankara?”

  “Houston.”

  Munroe said nothing. Simply let the silence of the moment consume her.

  Breeden spoke again. “It’s been two years, Michael. Consider it a good omen. Come on home.”

  “Is it worth it?”

  “You can always go back.”

  Munroe nodded to empty space, to the inevitable that she’d so far managed to postpone, and said, “Give me a week to wrap things up.” She dropped the phone into the cradle, lay back on the couch, and with an arm draped over her eyes inhaled long and deep.

  There would be no sleep today.

  …

  FOR THE FOURTH time in as many minutes, Munroe checked her watch, then the length of the line ahead.

  Stamps hammered into passports. The irregular beat created a distracting rhythm, a cadence that patterned the background of her thoughts.

  She was going home.

  Home. Whatever that was supposed to mean.

  Home. After two years of shifting time zones and Third World countries, of living a nonstop clash of cultures through places alien and alive. These had been worlds she could feel and understand—unlike home.

  Teeth clenched, Munroe shut her eyes and exhaled softly, tilted her head upward and took in another drink of air.

  One more person moved through passport control and the line crept forward a few inches. She drew another breath, an attempt to invoke a temporary calm, to relieve anxiety that had been building over the last few hours, and with that breath the tumult inside her head increased volume.

  The land shall be emptied, and utterly spoiled …

  The transit had shifted through two sunrises and a sunset. Her body said 3:00 in the afternoon yesterday, and the clock on the far wall said 6:48 in the morning.

  … The haughty people of the earth do languish …

  Another subtle glance at the time. Another breath. A few more inches forward. She hovered on the brink of panic, keeping it at bay one breath at a time.

  Home.

  … The earth is defiled under its inhabitants …

  Minutes passed, the line remained stationary, and her focus turned to the front, where the man facing the immigration officer stumbled through a few words of English, unable to answer the basic questions asked of him. Six feet tall, with perfect posture and jet-black hair, he carried a hard-shell briefcase and wore a dark maroon trench coat.

  Another three minutes that felt like a painful thirty, and the immigration officer sent the Trench Coat to a separate room at the end of the hall.

  … They have transgressed the laws, changed the ordinance …

  She tracked his path and pushed her bag forward with her foot.

  … Therefore has the curse devoured the earth …

  Each of his steps brought back the dread of her first entry into the United States. Similar doors and a similar experience—how much could have changed in nine years?

  … and they that dwell therein are desolate …

  The Trench Coat was now a silhouette behind a translucent window. She checked her watch. One more person in line. One more minute.

  … The mirth of tabrets ceases …

  She stood in front of the booth, passport and papers in hand, the mental noise now reduced to a whisper beneath the surface. Perfunctory questions, p
erfunctory answers. The officer stamped the passport and handed it back to her.

  … The noise of those that rejoice ends …

  She had no luggage and nothing to declare, and with a final glance at the Trench Coat’s shadow, she left the area through opaque sliding doors that opened to a waiting crowd. She scanned the faces, wondering which, among the expectant eyes and attentive glances, waited for him.

  … Strong drink will be bitter to those that drink it …

  On a far wall was a telephone bank, and she walked toward it.

  … The city of confusion is broken down …

  She dialed and then angled herself so that she could watch the opaque doors.

  … All joy is darkened, the mirth of the land is gone …

  Passengers exited sporadically, smiling as they made contact with loved ones who stood waiting. That was how it should be coming home, not sending packages and gifts ahead to estranged family and a few strangers called friends, dreading the reconnection that must inevitably take place.

  Kate’s answering machine picked up, and Munroe disconnected without leaving a message. The Trench Coat exited the glass doors.

  … In the city is left desolation, and the gate is smitten with destruction …

  He was alone. There was no girlfriend with flowers or any happy faces waiting—not even a somber suit holding a placard with his name. He passed within a few feet of where Munroe stood, and her eyes followed. On impulse she picked up her bag and trailed him to the ground level, keeping just close enough to avoid losing him in the crowds.

  The Trench Coat boarded the shuttle for the Marriott, and she stepped on behind him. He nodded once in her direction and paid no attention beyond that. Dressed as she was, it was to be expected. Cropped hair, lightweight cargo pants, a linen shirt that had once been white, and thick-soled leather boots: to all but the most observant, she was every bit as male as he.

  At the hotel Munroe trailed to the front desk and stood in line. Noah Johnson. Room 319. Such an American name, and yet he struggled with rudimentary English. She knew the accent: the French of high-society Morocco.