Hopefully it would turn out to be the motherlode he’d been searching for.
As he stood back up, one of the books that had fallen on the floor caught his eye. It lay open, displaying a couple of pages near the middle. Instead of printed text, however, the pages were covered in handwriting.
Nate picked up the book and flipped through it. Nearly all of the pages were filled. He had no idea what any of it meant, as it was written in some kind of code. The mix of letters and numbers and symbols reminded him of the movie Zodiac and the letters the killer had sent.
He checked the pile and discovered several other notebooks among the texts. There was no way he could carry them all without Braun noticing, and no time to take pictures of every page, so he decided to take only the one he’d first found, slipping it into the outer coat pocket.
Next, he righted the filing cabinet. Because it had been locked, the drawers were still shut. Thankfully, there was no biometric security here. Nate pulled a plastic card out of his wallet, and used the lockpick and tension wrench scored into it to release the lock.
Two of the drawers were empty, while the remaining pair contained only a couple dozen files between them. These mainly held articles cut out of magazines on a whole range of topics, including construction of a new type of dam in China, the intelligence testing of prekindergarten children, and artificial snowmaking in the Rocky Mountains.
The few files that didn’t contain articles held handwritten notes that seemed to be reminders—Don’t skip the AGT, and Leveling, and What about Danara?
Nate didn’t know if they were important or not, so he folded the printouts and stuck them in his pocket with the notebook. The articles he left where they were.
As he gave the room a final look, he noticed a few more notebooks behind the door. He checked them, but all contained the same strange code.
All except one.
That notebook wouldn’t open at all. The cover and pages appeared glued together. He shook it but didn’t hear anything moving inside. Flipping it around, he looked for some kind of button or latch that would release a lid, but couldn’t find any. He put the notebook in his other outer pocket.
Satisfied there was nothing else to find, he sent Orlando a text, telling her what he’d discovered, then retraced his steps through the apartment, down the hallway, and along the lip back to Braun.
“Find anything?” the agent asked.
“Not really.”
Braun snorted as if it was the answer he’d expected. “Is there anything else you would like me to show you?”
“Just the exit.”
The same official channels that had opened the door for Nate’s private tour of the wrecked Ferber-Rae headquarters eased the way for Orlando’s visit to the coroner.
After checking in at the front desk, she was taken to the office of a balding man in his mid-forties. He looked up as Orlando entered and jumped to his feet, sucked in his gut, and extended a hand.
“Dr. Kelvin Nagel,” he said in English.
Orlando shook with him and said in German, “Dr. Chan. Thank you for seeing me, Dr. Nagel.”
“Oh good, you speak German. I was worried we would have to use English. It’s not my best language.” He smiled. “Please, you may call me Kelvin.”
She did not offer her first name in return.
He sat back down and motioned to the seat across the desk from him. “How may I be of assistance?”
Orlando lowered herself into the chair. “I believe you already know why I’m here.”
“Yesterday’s terrorist attacks.”
“Correct. I would like to see the bodies.”
He frowned. “They’re mostly just…parts. It was a particularly strong explosion.”
“I’m not interested in the bodies from the bombing. I’d like to see those involved in the attack on the Ferber estate. It’s our understanding that several of the terrorists were killed in the incident. I assume you have them here.”
“Ah, okay, then. That’s a different story. I’ll take you to them myself.”
“Thank you.”
He rose from his chair. “May I ask a question?”
“Of course,” Orlando said, standing.
“What is the National Crime Agency’s interest in this?”
The National Crime Agency was part of British law enforcement. Dr. Nagel was operating under the assumption Orlando was a medical investigator within the agency’s ranks.
She hesitated, as if weighing what to say. “Without going into too many details, we foiled a similar plot in London several weeks ago. I am here to see if your events and ours might be connected.”
“I’ve heard nothing about this.”
“Because we didn’t publicize it.”
He took this in before saying, “What are you hoping to learn when you see the bodies?”
“I’m afraid that’s information I can’t share.”
“I just thought if there was something specific, I may be able to help.”
“I appreciate the offer but that will be unnecessary. Can we go now?”
“Oh…um…yes. Please, follow me.”
He led her down a flight of stairs into an autopsy room. The space held three examination tables, two of which were in use.
Nagel grabbed two masks from a cabinet by the door and handed one to Orlando.
“We’ve just started autopsying the bodies you’re interested in.” He turned toward one of the occupied tables. “Dr. Breneman, are these the police officers or the terrorists?”
“Dr. Hegler and Dr. Rust are working on the police in room three,” a man at the table said. “These are the terrorists.”
“Excellent, excellent. Dr. Chan is here from London and would like to take a look at the bodies, if you don’t mind.”
“I do mind. I’m in the middle of an autopsy. I’m not going to stop.”
Before Nagel could respond, Orlando said, “There’s no need for you to, Doctor. All I need to do is take a look at the bodies.”
Breneman glanced at Nagel, and then at Orlando. “Make it quick.”
Orlando approached the table and scanned the corpse. A male, Caucasian, approximately thirty years old, tall, maybe a hundred and eighty-seven centimeters, solidly built, with a chain tattooed around his left bicep. He’d taken four bullets to the torso and, unfortunately, one to the face, making visual identification impossible.
“Can you turn his left arm?” she asked. “I would like to see the underside of his wrist.”
One of Breneman’s assistants obliged her.
Orlando leaned close, examined the skin, and then stood back up. “Thank you.”
She switched to the other table. The corpse there could be described in similar terms to the first one, though it was shorter and had only two bullet wounds. Thankfully, neither shot had been to the head.
She casually reached up to her ear, activated the micro camera embedded in the glasses she was wearing, and took a picture of the dead man’s face. He had a strong jawline and a heavy brow that made her think Eastern European, which jibed with the description of the three men Quinn had killed.
“May I see the inside of his left arm?” she asked.
The doctor at table two did the honors for her this time. Once more she went through the motions of examining the skin by the wrist, and then thanked the doctor and returned to Nagel.
“Find anything of interest?” he asked.
“How many others do you have?” she asked.
“Of the terrorists? Four.”
“Please take me to them.”
Nagel escorted her to a room where the bodies waiting to be autopsied were stored. One by one he showed her the remaining corpses. Orlando took pictures of each man’s face and feigned interest in the undersides of the left wrists.
When she finished with the last one, she said, “What about personal effects? Do you have those here?”
“Yes.”
“May I see them?”
He took he
r to a room where three-quarters of the space was blocked off by a glass partition. On the other side of the glass, cabinets containing dozens of individual lockers lined the walls. Sitting at a desk in front of the partition was an older woman in a police uniform, and to the left of her desk, a bare wooden table.
“We would like to see the personal effects for subjects”—Nagel consulted a paper sitting on the corner of the desk—“17A-27 through 17A-32.”
“One moment.” The woman typed something into her computer, then stood up and entered the back area via a door in the partition.
She extracted six shoebox-sized containers from separate lockers, and carried them back into the front section of the room.
“You must look at them here,” she said as she set the boxes down on the wood table. “And I will handle everything. No one else.”
“I understand,” Orlando said.
The woman emptied the boxes. Each contained the same items—two hundred Swiss francs and a Swiss driver’s license. Orlando snapped clandestine pics of the latter.
“Is there anything else?” the officer asked after Orlando finished with the last box.
Orlando shook her head.
“That will be all. Thank you,” Nagel said, then led Orlando back into the hallway.
“I appreciate your time, Dr. Nagel,” Orlando said.
“Like I said, I’m always happy to help.” He hesitated. “If I may, you don’t look terribly pleased.”
“Unfortunately, I don’t believe there’s a connection between our cases.”
“And you got that from just looking at the bodies and their possessions?”
Now it was her turn to hesitate. “I shouldn’t tell you this, so please do not mention it to anyone else, but members of the organization that was planning the London attack all have the same tattoo on their left wrists. Your terrorists do not.”
“What kind of tattoo?”
“I’ve already told you more than I should.” Which should be more than enough, she hoped, for Dr. Nagel to file her visit under interesting but unimportant. Another day or two, unless reminded, he’d likely forget about it.
“I apologize for prying.”
“No apology necessary. Now, if you don’t mind, I should be going.”
ELMSHORN, AUSTRIA
Quinn, Jar, Daeng, and Kincaid arrived in the small town of Elmshorn, just shy of nine a.m. Quinn had hoped to make better time, but the storm from the night before had intensified, hampering the drive.
“There it is,” Jar said, pointing ahead.
Quinn pulled to the curb in front of the St. Dione Hotel. “Keep me updated.”
“Will do,” Daeng said.
After he and Jar climbed out and were headed to the building, Kincaid relocated to the front passenger seat.
Elmshorn was one of those quaint villages tourists stopped in for an hour or two on their way to somewhere else. Other than the scenery—which was undoubtedly spectacular when the area wasn’t sitting in a cloud—it didn’t have much to offer.
As far as local law enforcement went, the Austrian police operated out of a small building on the outskirts of town. There was no coroner’s office.
On the drive here, Jar had hacked into the police’s system and discovered the body that had fallen through the trees had been taken to the local hospital.
The medical facility was located at the other end of town, a mere seven minutes away, in an unimposing two-story building. It was the kind of place Quinn guessed handled only easy stuff, like flu or broken bones or maybe the occasional appendix removal. The more complicated illnesses and procedures were likely passed on to doctors in Vienna a few hours away.
Quinn found a spot on the street to park, then he and Kincaid headed inside.
At the reception desk in the lobby, Quinn flashed his now well used Interpol ID. “I’m Senior Inspector Schwartz. This is my colleague, Inspector Russo. We’re here about the body that was found yesterday.”
“The one from the woods?” The receptionist was an older man, probably a volunteer.
“How many bodies do you have?”
“Uh, just the one.”
“Then that would be it.”
“Right. One moment.” The man picked up the phone.
Two minutes later, Quinn and Kincaid were escorted into the building by the medical director himself, a middle-aged man named Dr. Warner.
“I don’t ever remember having anyone from Interpol visit us before,” the doctor said, a hint of excitement in his voice. “Is the body someone important?”
“I’m sure you’ll understand, Doctor, I can’t really discuss that,” Quinn said.
“Of course, of course.” Warner fell silent for a few seconds, but was unable to completely stifle his curiosity. “Strange how he was found, smashed up like that. I wonder how that happened.”
“Yes, strange.”
Quinn could tell that wasn’t the response the doctor had been hoping for.
Hiding his disappointment behind a forced smile, Warner said, “If you think you’ll be in need of temporary office space, I’m sure we can find something for you.”
“Thank you. But that won’t be necessary.”
The doctor led Quinn and Kincaid around a corner into a new hallway. At the far end, a police officer stood guard in front of a door.
“We have a small kitchen in case you’re hungry. I could let them know.”
“Thank you, but we’re fine.”
When they reached the officer, the doctor said, “These gentlemen are here to see the body.”
Quinn held up his badge. “Senior Inspector Schwartz and Inspector Russo, Interpol. Commander Jäger should have informed you we were coming.”
Misty’s handiwork, again pulling the necessary strings.
“Yes, sir. He did.” The officer opened the door and moved to the side.
Quinn thanked Warner before he and Kincaid entered the room. The officer followed them in and pointed at a door along the back wall.
“The body’s in there,” the man said.
“Is the medical examiner with it?” Quinn asked.
“He hasn’t arrived yet.”
Quinn knew the examiner would be driving up from Vienna and he’d been pretty sure he and Kincaid would beat the man to it, but the confirmation was a relief nonetheless. “Thank you. We shouldn’t be long.”
“I’ll be right outside if you need me,” the officer said, then returned to the hallway.
Quinn and Kincaid passed through the door the guard had pointed to and entered an examination room of sorts. A gurney sat in the middle of the tiled floor, under a medical spotlight mounted on a moveable arm. On the gurney, under a white sheet, lay the body.
“You ready for this?” Quinn asked.
Kincaid nodded.
“It’s not going to be pretty.”
“I’m fine.”
“You see many dead bodies on your bodyguard gigs?”
“I’ve seen a few.”
“Ones that have fallen from more than a couple stories?”
A shrug.
Quinn approached the table and moved to the end where he thought the body’s head was.
“Stand over there,” he said, pointing at the left side of the table.
Once Kincaid was in position, Quinn peeked under the sheet. He had guessed correctly.
“Okay, here we go.” He pulled the sheet back, exposing the corpse’s head and shoulders.
Kincaid took an involuntary step backward.
“If you’re going to faint, do yourself a favor and sit on the ground now.”
“I’m fine,” Kincaid said, his voice not quite as steady as before.
He had good reason to be uneasy. Quinn had seen worse, but this guy was in pretty bad shape. The branches he’d hit on his fall through the trees had ripped much of the skin off his face, exposing muscle and bone. Brain, too, because either when he hit the ground or somewhere during the descent, his skull had been smashed inward above his left
eye.
Kincaid’s face continued to pale, and he was all but hyperventilating.
“Is it Brunner?” Quinn asked.
“How the hell…am I supposed to…tell? He doesn’t…have a face.”
Quinn covered up the body, but Kincaid’s eyes stayed glued to the spot where the man’s head was.
“Hey,” Quinn said. “Look at me.”
Kincaid remained frozen.
“Look at me.”
Kincaid blinked, and looked up.
“Relax. Take a long, deep breath.”
Kincaid did.
“Take another…good. Again.” When Kincaid seemed to have calmed down, Quinn said, “You’re the only one here who’s seen Brunner in person. So, you need to tell me if this is him or not. Maybe there’s something else that might help ID him.”
“Like…like what?”
“Like his hair. Or his hands. Did he have any tattoos?”
“None that I was aware of.”
“Then just focus on things you know.”
“Right. Okay.”
“Get a picture of him in your head.”
Kincaid’s eyes went unfocused for a few seconds.
“You got him?” Quinn asked.
“Got him.”
“Okay, I’m going to pull the sheet back again. Are you ready?”
Kincaid nodded.
“If you start to feel uneasy, turn away until you get back under control.”
Kincaid nodded again. “I’m ready.”
Quinn pulled the sheet back a second time, folding it all the way to the man’s waist.
“It’s not him,” Kincaid said.
“You’re sure?”
“He has darker hair. Black, almost. And longer.”
The hair that still clung to the corpse’s head was mousey brown, and short.
“It could have been dyed and cut.”
“Cut, maybe, but it would have to have been bleached first then dyed. That would take a couple hours. There wouldn’t have been enough time. It’s not him.” Kincaid looked over at Quinn. “This is good news. It means he’s still alive.”
“All this proves is that this guy isn’t Brunner, not that Brunner’s alive.”
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