His eyes roamed his body, searching for imperfections. He smiled an internal smile, as one does when alone and content. He caressed the medallion, then reached for his robe.
He went into the larger room, where Nomti awaited. “Tomorrow I return,” Al-Miri said in Arabic. “I’ve been away too long. The scientists do not motivate the same without me. And there are other reasons, as you know.”
Nomti folded his massive arms. “Do I come?”
“Not yet. We cannot be sure. Find it and bring it back. Or make sure.”
Nomti rumbled deep in his chest. “The thief has disappeared.”
“He has had a taste. He will come. The reporter will come also.”
“What do I do with her?”
Al-Miri murmured, “That which you must. She will want proof. She must not find it.”
“The man you hired? The one who interrupted us?”
“He has been paid. He is not a concern.”
“The other thief, the messenger, is clever.”
“He is clever but alone. We are many.”
Nomti’s eyes flicked to the other room, the empty bedroom where the sarcophagus brooded in silence.
“With me,” Al-Miri said. “Make the preparations.”
Nomti nodded, satisfied.
“You have done well, as always.”
Nomti’s eyes shone, and he bowed to the floor.
• • •
Grey and Veronica exchanged the sort of glance people exchange when they hear something too good to be true, yet when they trust the source.
“And until last night,” Stefan said softly, “I had an entire laboratory full of research to prove it. After only one week! Understand that I can’t say for certain how this liquid would affect human beings over time. But the potential is incalculable.”
“And the bad news?” Grey said.
Stefan’s lips tightened. “The bad news is that we—” his voice caught and he looked away, “we utterly failed in our attempts to replicate this liquid. We worked around the clock, and are no closer to being able to manufacture telomerase than before.”
“So where the hell did it come from?” Grey said.
“
Da
. That is the question. Someone made this liquid. I don’t know who, and I don’t in God’s name know how. But I know that this liquid,” he pressed his hands together, and his eyes looked like they were trying to pop out of his head, “if it can be reproduced on a larger scale, could revolutionize life as we know it. Perhaps someone else couldn’t reproduce it either. Perhaps they got lucky. I don’t know. I can’t imagine any other reason why it hasn’t been published, or why it would be sent to me, even in secret.”
“What do you mean?” Grey said. “Surely you’ve asked Dorian.”
“Dorian’s source requested complete confidentiality.”
“Because it was stolen.”
“Maybe the source sold it to me for personal profit, but I believe it was a cry for help. We know someone is willing to kill for it.”
Grey gave him a long stare. “It’s irrelevant at this point, I suppose. I think it’s time for my part of the story. It adds a piece to the puzzle.”
“What happened to client confidentiality?” Veronica said. “Not that I mind.”
“I think it’s safe to say that when your client tries to kill you, confidentiality is no longer relevant.”
Veronica’s eyebrows shot up.
“A few days before I met you, I met with a businessman in a Manhattan hotel room. He hired me to help retrieve a test tube.” Stefan didn’t comment, but Grey saw his jaw tighten. “He’s a real piece of work. He came to the meeting dressed in green robes. I’ve seen plenty of Arab businessmen in robes, but not green ones.
“He said his name was Al-Miri. His company’s based in Cairo, a biotech called New Cellular Technologies.” He looked for a sign of recognition from Stefan or Veronica, but didn’t get one. “He said what was stolen involved the telomerase enzyme. He was wearing a gold medallion, inscribed with the same image on the test tube. The same image tattooed on the men in your house.”
Stefan was now looking at Grey with the same intensity Veronica had afforded Stefan. “Is he still in New York?”
“I’ve been trying to call Al-Miri for three days, with no answer. I tried the hotel and they wouldn’t release any information. But,” Grey gave an ironic chuckle, “the rest of the money deposited in my account yesterday. You know what that tells me? He considered the job finished, and he didn’t know I’d be in your house last night. Someone’s been following me, or you, or both of us, because I hadn’t told Al-Miri about the lab yet.”
Veronica said, “So what now?”
“The now is you and I get to the airport as soon as possible,” Grey said. “They have what they came for. Maybe they’re sticking around to clean up, maybe not. My guess is they’re back in Egypt. I’m not taking the chance.”
“What about the story you just heard? Did you hear what he said? Do you know how important this is?”
“What I heard is that a company came and retrieved its stolen property. Or maybe they stole it and had it for a time, stamped it with their logo, and then it was stolen back and sent to Stefan. I don’t know. What I know is they murdered at least four people along the way, and we’ll inform the Bulgarian and U.S. authorities. They’ll pass it on to Interpol and Egypt.”
“That’s it? What happened to the Dominic Grey sense of justice?”
“Do you really want me to chase these guys down and stab them in their sleep, Veronica? Or do you want a story? If they’re still around, that’s one thing. But they’re not.”
“How do you know?”
“It’s not how criminals operate. I don’t see an angle in staying around.” He turned to Stefan. “Unless there’s some of this stuff still left?”
“I wish it were so. They took it and destroyed the research.”
Grey showed his palms. “It’s a fascinating story, but as far as I’m concerned, it’s over. I suggest we lay low today, make sure they’re not around the corner, then head straight to Sofia.”
“What about what that man said in Stefan’s house? I heard him, you know.”
“Dying rhetoric. He was a hired gun.”
“With the same tattoo as the other hired guns.”
“So maybe they’ll come after me. I wouldn’t advise it.”
Veronica started to say something, then stopped. She chewed on her bottom lip and looked away. “What if they come after me?”
“They have no idea who you are, no reason to come after you,” Grey said, more gently. “If I thought they did we’d have a different conversation.” She didn’t answer, and he put a hand on her shoulder. “A lot’s happened. It’s over now. You’ll be back in New York in a day. I’ll make sure you get there safely.”
Veronica didn’t respond, and Grey turned to Stefan. “You said yourself Bulgaria isn’t the most secure place. Come to the States for a few days and let it blow over. Make sure you’re off their radar.”
“There are things to do here. I must contact the families of the victims, talk to the company.” Stefan slumped into his chair. “There are things I haven’t told you. There are those at my company… I haven’t shared the nature of the liquid with all of management. But perhaps someone in Sofia knows what we found.”
“Those were Al-Miri’s men.”
“Perhaps we were betrayed. Perhaps one of my business partners was promised something, rights to the discovery when it becomes public. I don’t know. I don’t know anything right now.”
“It’s that bad?” Grey said. “You think someone in your own company might go after you?”
Stefan leaned forward and rested his arms on his knees, his silence emphatic.
“My advice?” Grey said. “Don’t go home. Come to New York and sort things out someplace safe. Make some phone calls, tell them you’ll be back in a week. Don’t tell anyone where you are.” Grey made a wry face. “I know a good hotel.”
Stefan covered his mouth and chin with his hand, and then nodded.
T
hey decided to leave for Sofia in the morning, and parted for the night. Grey couldn’t sleep. He wandered to the edge of the courtyard and stood next to the chapel, where the monk was still under the tree. Both tree and monk waited, in quiet symbiosis, under a mournful moon. A painter could not have asked for a more evocative scene.
Stefan had said the chapel was open all night. Grey pushed on the doors and they swung open. It was empty.
The Romanesque chapel consisted of one large circular room. Every inch of the thick round walls was covered, floor to ceiling, with medieval frescoes faded from centuries of candle and incense smoke. Bronze candelabras in the center of the room provided illumination. Straight-backed wooden chairs ran in a contiguous austere circle against the chapel wall.
A large fresco dominated the top of the rotunda: a multi-headed red and green dragon ushered a group of confused men through a gate, into a nightmarish scene of torture and pain. At the highest point of the dome, an angel hovered above the dragon, eyes cast towards the chapel floor, hands open and pleading.
Grey drifted to a wooden podium opposite the entrance. A leather-bound bible sat on the podium, the cover so worn it looked chewed. He sat with his back against the podium, knees up, hands on his knees.
He thought of Nya and her troubled Catholic conscience, and of the fervent blind faith of his mother. He thought of the self-serving agnosticism of his father, of the kind atheism of his uncle, of the comforting equanimity of
Shihan’s
Buddhist beliefs.
Grey hated God for what happened to his mother. At best, he thought God was a remote concept, so unbelievably complex, so
separate
, that Grey did not believe human beings could wrap their minds around it. It was a thing apart, a realm too remote for concern.
But he had to admit that in Zimbabwe, when that rogue Juju priest had bent his victims’ wills to his own, that other realm had come uncomfortably close. Close enough to raise questions about just how separate that realm really was.
What Grey believed in was his internal moral compass, his gut feeling as to what was and was not acceptable behavior in this farce of a morality play called society. This inner moral prodding was his little piece of the divine, the closest he believed humanity can come to transcendence.
Which was why when Grey lingered on the events of the last twenty-four hours, his stomach bottomed out and his mind scrambled for a foothold. He’d let the violence loose again. The immediate need and danger, the logic of the situation, had escaped him, fled to classrooms and dojos and moments where logic holds sway.
Had he let his temper, the demons inside him that clapped at the violence, claw too close to the surface? Was there something different he could have done? The adrenaline of the moment came back to him, stuffed his head, shook his fingers.
His eyes roamed to the fresco with the dragon, and he squeezed them shut. The thing was, you couldn’t take it back. He thought he had done the right thing. But it didn’t matter when it came to violence. It affected you the same no matter what the motivation. It still left you feeling like you’d put a booted foot on that inner piece of the divine, and stomped it down to nothing.
He remembered another underground fight, in Bangkok. The anniversary of his mother’s death. He was eighteen. His opponent was a Thai kick boxer, one of the best, but he had no answer for Grey’s Jujitsu. Grey had closed on him and taken away his weapons, his shins and elbows, and taken him to the ground. Grey had him in a knee bar, and knew it was over. Then the man spit on him and called his mother a whore.
It was a stupid insult, but a long-running fuse inside Grey finally blew, a powder keg of rage at the world, and he hyper-extended the man’s knee, ending his fighting career.
In his bed that night he couldn’t stop trembling. He felt like he’d struck a helpless pet, or a child, or anyone else who couldn’t fight back. He despised that sort of violence more than he despised anything else, despised it only as we can despise that in ourselves which we fear the most. And he had given in to it. He thought it the beginning of evil: the sick thrill, however small, of dominating another living thing.
To be an effective fighter, there can be no holding back. Intent must be pure and complete. But to be an effective human being, there must also be control. Awareness and adherence to the inner voice. For if there was no moral standard for humanity, he thought, then there was nothing. Then we are nature’s thinking byproducts, cruel quirks of evolution given a unique and damnable insight into the brevity of life, and equipped with the tools to exploit it.
Grey believed in evil, but he also believed in choice, and self-forgiveness, and personal redemption. In spite of how often it had failed him, Grey believed in humanity. He had taken a vow that night in Bangkok never to give in again, never to let the demons get the upper hand.
And so he opened his eyes beneath the dragon and the angel, clinging to the wellspring of purity he had known in his mother and found again in Nya’s bottomless eyes, and bowed his head in silence.
BOOK THREE
T
he glaze of the Western World dripped onto Grey as soon as he stepped off the plane in New York. It settled onto him, coated his skin. He felt unnecessarily aware of his surroundings, like a predator taken out of the wild and placed in a zoo. It was the complete opposite of the visceral punch, the thrill of adventure, when stepping off the plane in a Sofia, or a Harare, or a Bogotá.
They took a taxi into Manhattan. Grey and Stefan dropped Veronica off at her building before heading to Grey’s hotel. Grey tried to persuade Veronica to stay with them, but she said she had too much to do, and promised to be careful and check in often. He didn’t like it, but there wasn’t much he could do about it.
Grey settled into his room and called Viktor. The hour was late in Berlin, and Viktor didn’t answer. A familiar weight descended. Would it take Viktor another few months to assign him to a new case?
He changed clothes in silence, and went for a jog. He circled the park until his legs quivered, then he held his sides and grinned as the dopamine devoured his worries. He returned to the hotel and stretched and let the hot shower turn his muscles to slush.