by Jay Stringer
She swiped again, and this time two images came up side by side. One, a still from the video, of the Englishman in profile. He looked to be in his fifties, but with the advanced stage of starvation and dehydration, it was impossible to tell. His hair was a shock of white; his nose was large, sitting above a thick white beard. The second image was a blown-up portion of the original Sudan photograph. A young man, smiling, confident. A large nose and a thick, dark mustache.
“You can’t think—”
“Every effort to trace this man’s identity failed. He insisted his name was James Gilmore, that he was a British soldier from Coventry. But everything else was complete Swiss cheese. He would ramble; he would talk about the jungle, about giant lions and dragons; he made no sense. He talked about Macrobia. And he used the term life water.”
“An old man with dementia who lived through a drought. Of course he’s going to have a thing about water and connect it with life, if his vocabulary is shrinking.”
“The Macrobia connection? Where would he get that?”
“He looks to be in his fifties there? Maybe older? The postwar generation were a lot more interested in both Greece and Egypt than we are today. They had fathers, brothers, uncles who’d all come back from those countries fetishizing their history and mythology. It was pop culture before we had cinema and television. This same guy today, if it happened now, might come back talking about Wakanda.”
“Okay. Maybe. That’s an interesting take. And nobody at the time believed him, either. The army didn’t want anything to do with him. He wasn’t their problem. And with no way to trace his identity, he had no family. Private Gilmore’s family were all long gone. His parents had passed away when he was young, his four brothers all died in the service. It’s believed he had a nephew, Scott, who died during the Battle of the Somme. There was nobody left by 1984 to test him against or claim him. So he lived out his days in NHS care.”
“Lived?”
“He passed away a year ago, after a stroke. He’d lived a pretty healthy life, if you ignore his dementia. Once they nursed him back from the effects of the famine, he was in good shape.”
“I think that’s probably your five minutes.” Chase made a show of slapping her legs, preparing to leave. “This has been interesting. But whoever you hire for this, they’ll become a laughingstock.”
Lauren’s voice went up a little, ignoring that Chase had just said no. “I’ve given this information to you in the wrong order. Or the right order, maybe. I’ve shown it to you the way it should be, to make it all link up. But here’s the thing. The photograph? It wasn’t known to exist in 1984. There’s no way James could have seen it. Even if we assume maybe he hit his head, had some form of breakdown, and took the soldier’s identity after the trauma, he wouldn’t have known about the regiment. The picture was in a box in an attic; it was only found six months ago. So where would our James have been getting all the details to assume the other James’s identity?”
“I don’t know, but if you wrote it up as a mystery novel, I’m sure it would sell.”
“The last person to speak to James aside from the people in the care home was a friend of yours.”
Lauren flicked the screen again, bringing up a new photograph. Ashley Eades, looking out through the lens, into Chase’s eyes. The reporter who’d exposed relic running to the mainstream.
“Why was Eades interviewing him?” Chase asked.
“She was investigating the home, we know that. She ran a bunch of stories around that time on corruption and abuse in care homes. But she seemed to really latch on to James. We know from the visitor logs she returned to see him three more times.”
Chase thought back on the person she remembered. Young. Confident. Maybe even arrogant, but not in a destructive way. Eades had believed people’s stories should be told, that she needed to be the person who did it. This care-home story sounded exactly like her kind of project.
“He must’ve been a story,” Chase said. “Maybe he knew something about the home; maybe she was going back to get the rest.”
“Or maybe,” Lauren said, “she was digging into his past.”
“Easily solved,” Chase said. “Call her. Email her. I’ve still got her number. She’ll definitely pick up if she thinks you have a story for her.”
It’s when you’re not a story anymore, Chase thought, that she loses interest.
“We can’t.” Lauren smiled. She was very close now. Too close. “She’s missing.”
“What?”
“Gone,” Ted said. “Completely.”
Lauren continued. “Four months ago, she just vanished, fell off the earth. Her boyfriend was killed. Murdered, in his own apartment. Or flat, they call them over there, right? His neighbor found him. The front door had been smashed in with real force, and he was in the tub, stabbed to death. And Eades was gone. Left her bank accounts, her home, cut ties with everyone. It was all too neat.”
Chase knew what she meant by neat. It was a professional job. She’d met several people in the dark trades who could make someone disappear. Give them a new life, a new identity. The only giveaway would be how clean it all seemed. An abrupt end to the old life, like they simply exited stage left and never came back.
Lauren touched Chase’s leg, left the finger there a fraction too long. “See, you’re interested now. Who killed her boyfriend, and why? Was it linked to Eades? And if it wasn’t, why would she run? And how would she be able to pull off such a professional disappearance?”
“How would you know the signs of a ‘professional disappearance’?”
Lauren smiled. She liked the question but wasn’t going to answer it. “Oh, something else. The care-home story? She ran that a year before meeting you. All of her research visits were done, each logged in their visitors’ book. Then, a week after her piece on you ran, after she’d spent time exploring your community, she went back to the home and started visiting a resident who talked about Macrobia and the Fountain of Youth.”
This was all a coincidence.
This was all a coincidence.
As if reading her thoughts, Lauren said, “I don’t think either of us believe in coincidence.”
Chase still didn’t believe half of what she’d heard. But Ashley Eades was either dead or on the run. What did Chase owe her? Nothing. If anything, it was Eades who owed Chase. But if there was even a chance she’d got caught up in something because of the world Chase had introduced her to…
“She’s in trouble,” Chase said.
“Could be.” Lauren was so close now, Chase almost flinched. “But you could help her. You could help us find her.”
“You’ll pay my travel, my expenses.”
“Of course. Plus a generous bonus when you find her.”
“And you’ll give her whatever she needs, if it’s money, protection, if she has legal costs—”
“I’ll cover it.”
Lauren met Chase’s gaze, then let her eyes drift slowly down to her lips. Chase felt uncomfortable. There was a certainty in Lauren’s words. She’d clearly never been in any doubt that Chase would say yes. Lauren was used to getting whatever she wanted. Maybe whoever she wanted. This wasn’t about flirting so much as ownership, and that wasn’t a game Chase was willing to play.
“I’m not interested in the Fountain.” Chase stood up, putting distance between them. “I’m not looking for Macrobia. I don’t care about this old man. I just want to make sure Eades is okay. I worked hard to get my academic reputation back, and whoever you send after the Fountain, their career will be over. May as well say they’re looking for Bigfoot.”
“That’s next week.” Lauren smiled. “One thing at a time.”
TWELVE
Chase didn’t stay home for long. She needed information, and in New York there was one place she was guaranteed to get it. The Speakeasy.
Long before the term had become associated with the Prohibition era, and over a century before it was co-opted by hipster bars, speakeasy had referr
ed to smuggler dens. The word had never stopped being used on the black market; it had just periodically been borrowed by the mainstream. The best speakeasy on the circuit was right there in Manhattan. It was one of the world’s best regular gathering places for criminals, smugglers, relic runners, hit men, and spies.
After a quick shower and a much-needed change of clothes, Chase took the subway downtown to Chambers, then walked two blocks over to the Speakeasy.
City Hall subway station had been the southern terminus of New York’s first full subway line, the showpiece of the new venture. It was decorated in Guastavino tile, with high arched ceilings and skylights that provided natural light from the streets above. The station had been closed to the public on the last day of 1945 and had officially been empty ever since, becoming a holy grail for urban explorers and local legends. Up until recently, the New York Transit Museum had operated tours of the facility, and the platform had been visible to commuters who stayed on the 6 train past the last stop, as it looped around to head back north. The tours had been discontinued, and the view from the 6 had been blocked off by construction barriers that were just high enough to cover the train’s windows.
The only remaining entrance to the station was inside the gated parking lot in front of City Hall. The area was closed to the public, but the familiar subway railings were visible from the street, painted black rather than green. The security staff guarded the entrance to the subway just as much as to City Hall. There had never been a great difference between politicians and criminals in New York, and it made sense that the seat of power for both was behind the same gate.
The staff on duty recognized Chase. The first palmed the entry fee with a handshake, and the second walked to meet her at the subway entrance. There was a metal hatch set into the floor, framed by the black railings, to close off the steps. The guard bent down to unlock the gate, lifting it to allow Chase down.
As she descended the steps, faint sounds drifted up to her. Music, chatter. Halfway down she passed through a thick black curtain, and the noises grew louder. At the bottom, she pushed through another curtain and was enveloped by the ambiance, like diving into warm water. Jazz instruments played over a soft techno beat. Chase had never seen a live band at the Speakeasy, but the sound quality always seemed better than something pumped through speakers. Commuters farther up the track, from Brooklyn Bridge to Bleecker Street, would sometimes talk of being able to hear music in the tunnels.
She was in the mezzanine, the large chamber that had originally housed the ticket booth and waiting area, now the lounge area of the Speakeasy. It had curved walls and a vaulted ceiling, all decorated in beautiful tiles of white and tan, with a green trim to the arches. There was a circular glass skylight, which was visible from the parking lot above. The chamber was filled with expensive lounge sofas, armchairs, and low tables with brass lamps that provided just the right amount of light. There were around thirty people filling the seats, with table service provided by three fast and nimble servers. Chase saw two senators, three journalists, and a wide array of criminals. Unlike the Royale bar in Addis Ababa, here nobody paid any attention to her. This was New York, baby, and everyone was on their own time.
Everyone except the Speakeasy’s host, Carina Texas, who bowed politely out of a conversation to come and greet Chase with a smile. They’d first met five years ago, when Texas was on the run from a crime war in England and still using her real name. With a clean break and a new identity, she’d risen through the New York power rankings with near supernatural skill.
“Marah.” Texas smiled, leaning in for the double air-kiss. “How are you?”
I’m tired. “I’m good.”
You look it. “You look fantastic.”
“You too.” Chase made a show of looking the host up and down.
Texas bowed her head slightly, Thank you. “Business or pleasure?”
“Seeing you is always a pleasure.” Chase threw the compliment out to ease the way. “But I’m here for work.”
Texas nodded for Chase to follow as she led the way across the mezzanine, weaving around the furniture. She flagged down a waiter and whispered an order in his ear before passing beneath a green-tiled archway and down a set of wide steps. Chase followed onto the old platform. It somehow felt both cavernous and small. The high-arched ceilings, lit by brass chandeliers now and by the large glass skylights during the day, were far higher than anything on the modern subway system. But the platform itself was shorter, with room to fit only five carriages. The edge of the platform, where the modern 6 still passed on its loop from the downtown to uptown tracks, was covered by a long, heavy black curtain. On the other side, the barrier was disguised as construction. To Chase’s left, running along the curved wall, was a fully stocked bar, with three staff working on drinks. To the right, more sofas and low tables, with people deep in conversation.
Texas walked slowly along the platform, to the very end and a circle of vacant sofas and chairs. This was her unofficial office. She held court here, sitting at the center of the American black market’s social hub. Making connections. Moving information around. She waved for Chase to take a seat, then slipped in beside her on the sofa, both of them facing away from everyone behind them.
The waiter appeared with two small glasses. A clear liquid for Texas, and a bourbon for her guest.
Chase went first. “What have you heard about me?”
She could trust Texas up to a point. As long as she kept an eye on the line between their friendship and Texas’s self-interest.
“Not much has made it here, yet. I’ve heard about it, but people on the scene aren’t talking.”
“What’s the version you heard?”
“Maybe you found the Ark, maybe you didn’t. The rumor sounds a lot less solid than the Alexander one, so I don’t know, could go either way. But you were screwed over by an Ethiopian spy. And, whatever it was that happened over there, you got the better of August Nash, and he’s not happy about it.”
That was all fine. “Nothing about a new job?”
Texas flicked her eyebrow, leaned a little closer. “New job?”
“Well, I figured I was retired. And I don’t mind that getting around.” Chase knew that was permission for everyone to hear the news. “But yeah, I got one last gig. You heard anyone talking about the Fountain of Youth?”
Chase was annoyed at herself the moment she asked the question. Ashley Eades was the reason she was here, not the Fountain. Why would she ask that?
Texas grinned. “I know that I need it.”
“Never mind. That’s not really why I’m here. I need to know about cleaners.”
In movies, a cleaner was a hit man. In the real dark trades, it was someone who could erase you from existence or could provide you with a brand-new identity. Money laundering, but for humans. Texas had used one herself to help create her new identity.
“You tell me you’re retiring, then ask for a cleaner. I’m going to make assumptions.”
“Not for me. I like being infamous.”
“You’re looking for someone who’s been cleaned?”
Chase nodded.
Texas took a sip, licked her lips, and said, “None of them will talk. Even if you know who did the job, it would go against their code. They never give up a client. If they did, nobody would trust them.”
“People must threaten them.”
“Sometimes, but the scene always sorts that out. Cleaners are off-limits, because everyone knows the service is important. Too many of us need one, eventually.”
“Is there any way to get around it?”
“Who are you after?”
“A British journalist. Ashley Eades.”
Texas cocked her head, narrowed her eyes in thought. “I know that name…”
“She’s the one who wrote about me.”
“Yes. Yes.” Texas nodded, fast, as the memory fell into place. She leaned forward. “Didn’t she screw you over?”
Chase said, “Yeah,” aft
er a pause.
Her friendship with Eades had ended on bad terms. The leitmotif of Chase’s life. Maybe she should start introducing herself to people with, “Hi, my name is Marah, we will have a falling-out eventually.”
“I think she’s in trouble. Just need to talk to her, make sure she’s okay.”
“And she’s been cleaned.”
“Completely. Vanished off the face of the earth.”
Texas swilled her drink around in the glass for a moment. “And she was in the UK when she disappeared?”
“London.”
“Very public figure, right?”
“She was a big deal for a while, yeah. Newspapers, books, TV appearances. She was part of the new wave, got famous covering subcultures and politics on blogs, went mainstream. Then she met me, dragged all of us into the light, too.”
Texas began running her finger around the top of her glass. When she made eye contact again, it was with a smile that said, Now we’re playing the game. “I think there’s a way.”
Chase hesitated. “What’ll it cost me?” The line was coming into view. The clear demarcation between their friendship and Texas’s self-interest.
“Just a favor. Down the line. I don’t need anything now, but you know how I am.”
“A favor” could wind up being way more expensive than hard currency, but what choice did Chase have?
She raised her glass. “Deal.”
A train rumbled past, behind the curtain. The drivers were supposed to slow down as they took the loop, but most of them seemed to get a kick out of taking the bend as fast as they could.
“You’re asking the wrong question,” Texas said, after the train was gone. “Think about money laundering and counterfeiting. Both of them are really simple, in theory. Take dirty money, pass it through a couple businesses, cook some books, the money comes out clean at the other end. Or sitting in a room and printing money. They keep changing the paper, the technology, but as long as you keep up-to-date, it’s an easy job. For both of them, if you were doing it on your own, in a room, you’d never get caught.”