If her mother had been there, and willing to listen, Wolfe might have said that it was one thing to deal with the absence of God, once his voice had fallen silent, when the rest of your life still testified that you were one of the chosen. But after honor and advancement had slipped away, leaving you neither blessed nor cursed but merely ordinary, the silence grew unbearable. It was hard to believe in God, she thought, if you were no longer sure that he believed in you.
For a moment, Wolfe thought about calling her mother back and telling her some of these things. In the end, though, she simply put her car in reverse and wheeled out of the parking lot.
Ten minutes later, having managed to avoid thinking about anything else in the meantime, she saw her destination up ahead. It was the industrial estate whose address had been recovered from the scrap of paper in Rachid Akoun’s pocket, the text revealed under infrared light.
Wolfe parked around the corner and got out of the car, taking a softcover book and some printed leaflets from the front seat. Opening her umbrella, she headed for the industrial estate, where an open steel gate led onto a concrete driveway. Past the fence, she saw a forklift and some trucks parked in front of a yellow portal frame warehouse, joined to an office of brown brick. The door of the warehouse was open, but there was nobody in sight.
She went through the gate, her shoes clicking wetly against the damp concrete, and approached the warehouse. The open door revealed a rectangle of darkness. She peeked inside. Just beyond the door, there was a row of shipping containers, followed by a mountain of irregular blocks swathed in layers of plastic. Farther off, she could hear voices coming from the rear of the building.
Going closer, she saw that the objects wrapped in plastic were pallets of old computer monitors. In a rolling bin to one side was an equally massive pile of electrical waste: a jumbled heap of wires, circuit boards, printers, and processing units, once state-of-the-art, now nothing but junk.
A second later, her perspective shifted, and she saw the warehouse as it would have appeared to a man like Rachid Akoun. And as she studied the mound of electrical scrap, seeing it instead as a gold mine of components, she understood at once what had brought him here.
She went up to the nearest shipping container, which was taller than she was. On its corrugated metal side, there was a printed label with a serial number. Eighteen digits, but she knew that just the company prefix counted. It took only a second for her to commit the seven digits to memory.
Turning, she left the warehouse and began to walk around the property. Up ahead was the office block. The lights on the ground floor were lit, and through the translucent glass, she could make out a pair of shadows.
She was about to go closer when she heard a voice. “What are you doing here?”
Wolfe turned. Standing behind her was a man with dark hair and stubble, his skin nut-brown, the sleeves of his rain slicker tight on his bulging arms. She sized him up quickly. Six feet tall, maybe one hundred and eighty pounds. She noted this in the blink of an eye. Then she smiled.
“Good afternoon,” Wolfe said, launching easily into a string of words as familiar as her own name. “After centuries of being lost, the original Gospel of Jesus Christ has been restored by a loving God through a living prophet. I have evidence of this that you can hold in your hands, ponder in your heart, and pray about to learn its truth for yourself. Will you allow me to share this message with you?”
The man took a step back, startled. He took in the book and stack of leaflets in the crook of her arm, then glanced back up at her face. In his eyes, she saw an expression that she had often encountered, the look of someone who had already decided she was insane but wasn’t sure whether she was dangerous. “I am sorry, but you cannot stay here,” the man finally said. “This is a place of business.”
“Okay, I understand,” Wolfe said. She took a step forward. “Would it be all right if I came back another time?”
The man shook his head. “No, no, we are working here. You need to leave, please.”
He reached out to her, as if about to take her by the arm, then seemed to think better of it. Beckoning her forward, he led her back toward the front gate. Wolfe went out, giving him a smile, then headed around the corner.
Getting back into the Peugeot, she switched on her phone, seeing in passing that she had two new messages from her mother, which wasn’t too bad. The third message was from Powell. She returned the call.
Powell sounded excited. “I know the connection between our victims, and why they were both killed at home. Campbell was a machinist. Akoun was an electrical engineer for an energy firm in Algeria. Our killer wouldn’t have gone after them at home, instead of someplace easier, if there wasn’t something he needed there. You see? He took something from each of the crime scenes.”
“I think you’re right,” Wolfe said. Fishing out her notebook, she wrote down the serial number that she had seen on the shipping container. “I just got back from the address in Rainham. It’s an electrical waste recycling plant.”
She described what she had observed, then said, “Technically the waste is supposed to be recycled here, but it looks like they’re illegally shipping it overseas. I’ve seen this kind of thing before. They dump broken equipment into shipping containers, put working computers on top to disguise it, then label the whole thing as functional and ready for export. Then they send it to Africa or China, where kids strip it down for gold, copper, steel. It’s a big business for organized crime—”
“And for scavenging electrical parts,” Powell said. “You think Akoun came here?”
“It’s possible.” Wolfe started the car. “If he was working on something when he died, maybe he used the warehouse to scrounge components. And if our killer took something from him and Campbell—”
“—then maybe he’s trying to build something, too,” Powell finished. “But what?”
“I don’t know.” Wolfe pulled into the street, then rounded the corner. The conversation with her mother seemed very far away. “But if he’s building something, it raises two questions. What is it? And what else does he need?”
14
Karvonen was seated at his desk when the phone rang. Spread across his work surface was a sheet of newspaper on which a pair of mechanical objects had been placed. Next to the two parts of the device, beneath the magnifying lamp, lay one of the prints he had developed from the roll of film recovered in Highgate, consisting of a diagram and a set of instructions.
After a moment, he stirred himself and rose from the desk, following the sound of the phone to the bedroom. The ringing was coming from the lowermost drawer of the bureau next to the bed. Taking the keys from his pocket, he unlocked and opened the drawer. Inside was the phone that he had found in the restroom at the pub, charging on its adapter cord, which snaked out through a small hole at the rear of the bureau. He answered it. “Yes?”
The voice was cautious. “There has been a change in plans. We need to move up the timeline. Perhaps one or two days. Is that a problem?”
Karvonen glanced over at his workstation. “No. As long as I get the materials.”
“The meeting will take place as arranged,” the voice said. “But he wants to know how to recognize you.”
“Tell him that I will be wearing a green coat. And that I will be carrying a camera.”
Without replying, the man on the other end of the line hung up. Karvonen was about to put the phone back into the bureau when the bell of his apartment sounded. Frowning, he rose and went over to the intercom, phone still in hand, and pressed the button to talk. “Who is it?”
Renata’s voice came over the speaker. She sounded hoarse, as if she had been crying. “It’s me. Please, let me come up—”
Karvonen hesitated for a second, then pressed the button to open the door downstairs. Going back to his desk, he gathered the components of the device and
brought them to the bureau in the bedroom, which was still open. He put the device inside, along with the phone, and slid the drawer shut.
As he was locking up the bureau, there was a knock from outside. He pocketed the keys and went to the foyer of the loft, glancing at himself in the mirror by the door before opening it.
Renata did not look good. As she came in, she seemed even more rumpled than usual, the shirt under her coat partly unbuttoned, her eyes rimmed in red. “Dior canceled the project.”
“I’m sorry.” Karvonen arranged his face in a look of sympathy. “What did they say?”
“That they didn’t like the fucking pictures.” Renata twisted free from his attempt at an embrace, then marched over to his desk without taking off her coat. The proofs from the shoot were still posted on the wall above his computer. Renata tore down a handful and began to rip up the glossy paper, the faces of the models crumpling under her hands. “Those motherfuckers—”
Karvonen closed the door. “You need to calm down. There will be other clients.”
“You don’t understand.” Turning away, Renata wandered over to the sitting area and flung herself onto the couch. “Without this assignment, I’m ruined. This fucking art fund has me over the table. If I don’t pay in six months, they own my entire portfolio. They wanted this all along. They had people watching me. I know it. They always planned for me to default. Shit—”
She buried her face in her hands. Karvonen, who had already poured a glass of wine, handed it to her silently. Renata took the glass and downed most of it at a gulp. He refilled it, seeing her old paranoia return. Even now, he felt the first faint stirrings of boredom, and sensed that it would be a long time before he could get her out of the house. “You have other options. What about the portraits?”
Renata shook her head. “It isn’t happening. Two years ago, maybe, we would have had a shot, but now it’s unseemly. These guys don’t want their pictures taken, not in a downturn. The press would have a field day. Christ, who knows. Maybe I can take pictures of my fucking lenders. What do you think?”
She laughed bitterly, the tears leaving snail tracks on her face. Karvonen put his arm around her, sneaking a glance at his watch. Then he looked down at the crown of her head, which she had tucked up against his chest, like a baby, and decided that after one more drink, he would send her on her way.
Before he had a chance to put this plan into action, however, she was kissing him, her right hand already groping at his fly. Karvonen briefly considered pushing her away, but he sensed that this would only lead to more tears, so in the end, he took the path of least resistance.
An hour later, alone in the shower, he began to give serious thought to the prospect of breaking things off. Looking down at the fresh scratches on his upper arms, it seemed to him that Renata had become more trouble than she was worth. There had been a time, not long ago, when he had hoped that her connections would be valuable. As a photographer, she had access to many leading celebrities and politicians, and Karvonen and his handlers had seen this as an opportunity. In fact, though, such contacts were usually meaningless, at least when it came to real information.
Karvonen turned off the water, then reached out for a towel to dry himself. It was best, he finally decided, wrapping the towel around his waist, to end things now. The next two weeks would be demanding enough, and the last thing he needed to worry about was a woman.
His decision made, Karvonen emerged from the bathroom, his body slick with steam. He saw that Renata was seated, naked, on the edge of his bed, her back turned. It was still a good body, sleek and lean, and for all his recent resolve, when he looked at her now, he felt himself stir again.
A second later, Renata turned around. She had the device in her hands. “What’s this?”
Karvonen glanced at the bureau. The lowest drawer was open, the keys that she had taken from his pants pocket still dangling from the lock. A small bag of coke had been removed and left on the bureau’s surface.
He turned back to her and smiled. “It’s something I’ve been meaning to show you. Give it here.”
Renata rose from the bed, the device still in her hands. The look on her face was curious, nothing more, and he could tell at a glance that even after their lovemaking, she was still a little drunk.
Karvonen extended his left hand. After what seemed like a moment of hesitation, she handed over the device. He took it, and almost in the same movement, he drove his right fist into the pit of her stomach.
She doubled over, the air whooshing out of her lungs. Before she could take another breath, Karvonen set the device on the bed, reached down, and put one hand on her chin and the other on the back of her skull. He pushed her head to the left, then snapped it hard to the right.
It was over in less than a second. When he released his grip, her body slumped to the floor. Her head was bent strangely to one side, as if she were looking at something under the bed. Around him, the loft seemed very quiet.
Karvonen saw that the towel had fallen from his waist. Bending down, he snatched it up and put it back on, then crossed to the other side of the flat. Along the far wall, a row of windows ran from floor to ceiling. The curtains were open. He drew them. It was impossible, he knew, to see into the bedroom from here, but all the same, it was necessary to think very carefully about what to do next.
For a moment, he considered calling someone. In some ways, it would be easier to let them handle this. Then he reflected that with this new complication, they might decide to take him off the assignment altogether, and having brought things so close to completion, he did not want to give up control now.
More important, he wasn’t sure that he trusted them to take care of it. He had never been especially impressed by their competence, and knew that he could do a better job on his own.
Going back toward the bed, he found the cat sniffing around the body. He bent down and scooped up the cat, who mewed in protest, and brought it over to the balcony. Opening the sliding glass door, he tossed it out, then shut the door and headed back to the bedroom.
After a moment’s consideration, he took the body by the ankles and dragged it into the bathroom, which was still steamed up from his recent shower. Reaching down, he slid an arm under Renata’s naked shoulders, another under her knees, and laid her in the tub, her head lolling back. Then he returned to the bedroom, where he gathered up her clothes, her shoes, and her Birkin bag, went back into the bathroom, and tossed them into the tub as well.
Only then did he get dressed. Removing his towel, he pulled on his underwear, then put on a work shirt, socks, and an old pair of jeans. From the closet, he took a sturdy pair of shoes and slid them on, lacing them tightly.
On the top shelf of the closet, next to the box with the pistol, there was a long rectangular case. He brought it down, set it on the bed, and opened it. Inside, there was a Sami knife in a sheath of reindeer leather. The blade was carbon steel, sixteen inches long, the tang running all the way down the birch handle. Removing it from its sheath, he brought it into the bathroom and laid it on the sink.
After retrieving a few more things from the kitchen, Karvonen took a canvas bag that was hanging on a hook next to the front door, then went out into the hallway. Locking up the flat, he headed downstairs to the basement. A look at his watch told him that it was close to eleven.
The basement of his building had a common area with a laundry room. From a shelf above the washing machine, he took some garbage bags and a bottle of bleach. Next to the dryer, someone had left a pair of work gloves, which he also took. Tossing them into his bag, he headed back upstairs.
When he returned to his own floor, he saw that one of his neighbors, a painter whom he knew only slightly, was heading into her flat. She was young, freckled, and attractive, a folded kerchief holding back her red hair. As she opened her door, she smiled at him. “Hey, there.”
Karvonen returned the smile as he passed, heading for his own door. He was about to go inside when he heard his neighbor speak again from behind him. “Hey, my friends and I are throwing a party tomorrow night, and we’d love it if you could come. Think you can make it?”
He turned. His neighbor was standing half in her doorway, half in the hall, her face in shadow, waiting for his response.
“I’ll do my best,” Karvonen said. Then he went into his own flat and shut the door.
15
Three days later, a man sat alone on a park bench in Golden Square, holding a paper bag. It was a quiet area at the heart of the city, not far from Piccadilly, the graying garden otherwise occupied only by a pair of teenage girls, eyes lowered separately to their mobile devices. A king’s mournful statue kept watch over the enclosed flower beds, which were surrounded by stately buildings on all four sides.
From his position on the bench, Ilya kept an eye on the building on the northeast corner. It was seven stories high, faced with red brick and limestone, an iron fence running along the ground floor. Although it was outwardly nondescript, he could see the wires of a security system, and the windows on the top floor had the faint green tinge of bulletproof glass.
As he watched, a sleek black town car rolled up the street and parked at the curb by the building. He had seen this car before. Rising from the bench, Ilya picked up his paper bag and walked unhurriedly across the square. Inside the bag, tucked beneath a folded napkin but still readily accessible, grip upward, was the gun he had taken from Brodsky’s flat. He did not expect to use it now, but he also knew that you rarely expected such a moment before it came.
On the other side of the square, across from the building he was watching, there was a cycle hire station with five bicycles lined up at their docking points. Ilya went up to the kiosk, where users could rent bikes with a credit card, and pretended to study the terms of use. From here, he was only a few steps away from the car, which was idling at the building’s entrance.
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