‘Before I get to that, let me honor your request. My name is Richard Manzak, and I’m with the Central Intelligence Agency.’ He whipped out his identification and handed it to Payne. Manzak’s partner followed his lead. ‘This here is Sam Buckner. He’s been teamed with me for this particular, um, situation.’
Payne studied both IDs, then passed them over to Jones. ‘I don’t understand. What do we have to do with the CIA? Shouldn’t this be an embassy matter?’
Manzak grabbed his badge, then ordered Buckner to stand guard across the room. Payne found that kind of strange, since they were in the middle of a secure facility. Nevertheless, the big guy lumbered over there and leaned his ass against the door like a tired moose.
‘This is well past an embassy matter,’ Manzak assured him. ‘The embassy tends to avoid crimes of this nature.’
‘Crimes? What are you talking about? We didn’t do anything. We came here as tourists.’
‘Come now, Mr Payne. Both of us know the type of missions you used to run. I’m sure if you thought about it you could come up with a long list of activities that the Spanish government might disapprove of.’ Manzak leaned forward, lowering his voice to a whisper. ‘For now I think it would be best if we refrain from any specifics. You never know who might be listening.’
Payne thought back to his time with the MANIACs and realized they had passed through Spain on hundreds of occasions. Moron Air Base, located near Seville, was midway between the U.S. and southwest Asia, making it a prime spot to gather supplies and jump-start missions. Same with Naval Station (NAVSTA) Rota, positioned on the Atlantic coast near the Strait of Gibraltar. It gave them access to the Mediterranean Sea and assistance on amphibious assaults. Throw in Torrejon Air Base and all the other U.S. facilities scattered around Spain, and Payne shuddered at everything they might have on him and Jones.
Hell, every time they carried weapons off the base was a breach of regulations. So was crossing the border with nonmilitary personnel. Or flying through restricted airspace. In fact, just about everything the MANIACs did in Spain — even though it was always in the line of duty — bordered on a punishable offense. Not the type of violation that was ever pursued or prosecuted. The symbiotic relationship between the U.S. and Spain would not survive if the Spanish government started cracking down on active personnel in sanctioned U.S. missions. Still, the thing that worried Payne was the classified nature of his operations. How could he defend himself if he wasn’t allowed to talk about anything he did?
Payne said, ‘You know, you’re right. This isn’t an embassy matter. It’s way beyond their scope. This is something the Pentagon will have to handle themselves.’
Manzak shook his head. ‘Sorry, gentlemen, it’s not going to happen. The Pentagon was notified by the Spanish government as soon as you were arrested. Sadly, in their eyes they have nothing to gain by getting involved. Can you imagine the public relations nightmare they’d face if they admitted to the missions you were involved in? Things might be different if you were still on active duty. Unfortunately, their desire to help is usually related to your current usefulness. And since you’re currently retired, they view your usefulness as next to nothing.’
Manzak smiled crookedly. ‘It’s a cruel world. Isn’t it, Mr Payne?’
Payne wanted to jump across the table and show Manzak how cruel the world could be. Just to shut him up. But he knew he couldn’t do that. Not until he found out why he was there, why the CIA was interested in his situation. For all he knew, Manzak could be his only ally. ‘And what about you? Does your organization view us as useful?’
Manzak’s smile widened. ‘I wasn’t so sure until I read about your trip to Cuba. Very impressive. In my mind, anyone who could do that is useful… That mission still boggles my imagination.’
Payne and Jones looked at each other, confused. No one except the top brass at the Pentagon was supposed to know about Cuba. Not the CIA, the FBI, or even the president. As it stood, the Cubans didn’t even know about Cuba, because the moment they found out, they were going to be pissed. Anyhow, the fact that Manzak knew about their trip told them a lot. It meant he was a heavy hitter with some serious connections. Someone who could cut a deal.
‘Great,’ Payne said. ‘You’ve done your homework. Unfortunately, there’s still one question you haven’t answered. Why are you here?’
Manzak leaned back in his chair, quiet. Watching them squirm. Most people would’ve answered right away, but not this guy. He was cooler than that. Much cooler. The definition of self-control. Finally, when he sensed that they were about to lose their patience, he gave them an answer. ‘I’m here to buy your freedom.’
Freedom. Neither Payne nor Jones knew how that was possible, but that didn’t stop Manzak from sitting there, stoic, enjoying the power he had over them like an evil puppet master. He didn’t smile, frown, or even blink. After several seconds of silence, he pulled out another folder, this one several inches thick and wrapped in a rubber band.
A single name appeared on the cover: Dr Charles Boyd.
‘Gentlemen, I’ve been authorized by the Spanish government to make a once-in-a-lifetime offer. If you’re willing to accept my terms, they won’t keep you in jail for your lifetime.’
Jones grimaced at the pun. ‘Great. Who do they want us to kill?’
Manzak glared at him. ‘I’m not sure what you were used to doing for the MANIACs, but I can assure you that the CIA would never broker an assassination.’
Jones rolled his eyes. ‘Please! I can name at least twenty cases where the CIA was involved in the death of a key political figure — and that’s not even counting the Kennedys.’
‘Whether you believe me or not is irrelevant. What is important is this: My proposal doesn’t involve murder or illegal activities of any kind.’
Payne remained skeptical. ‘Then what does it involve?’
‘A missing person.’
‘Excuse me? They want us to find a missing person? And if we agree, they’ll what? Let us walk?’ Payne read the name on the manila folder. ‘Let me guess, Dr Charles Boyd?’
Manzak nodded. ‘That’s affirmative. We’d like you to find Dr Boyd.’
Payne sat there, waiting for more information. When it didn’t come, he said, ‘And out of curiosity, who the hell is Dr Boyd?’
His question was intended for Manzak. But Jones stunned everyone by supplying the answer. ‘If I’m not mistaken, he’s an archaeologist from England.’
Manzak glanced at Jones. ‘How did you know that?’
‘How? Because I’m smart. What, a black man can’t be intelligent?’
Payne rolled his eyes at the mock outrage. ‘Just answer him.’
‘Fine,’ he sneered. ‘I saw Boyd on the History Channel. Seems to me he’s a professor at Oxford or one of those fancy-pants English schools. It might’ve been Hogwarts for all I know. Anyway, he was talking about the Roman Empire and how it influenced modern society.’
Manzak wrote a note to himself. ‘What else did you learn?’
‘I never knew the Romans had indoor plumbing. I always thought — ’
He cut him off. ‘I meant about Boyd.’
‘Not much. They used his voice but he rarely appeared on-screen. He was just the narrator.’
Payne rubbed his eyes, trying to play catch-up. ‘Let me get this straight. Dr Boyd is an English archaeologist, someone with enough credibility to teach at a world-famous university and narrate a special on the History Channel?’
Manzak nodded, refusing to give additional information.
‘OK, here’s what I don’t understand. What’s the big emergency here? I mean, why does the Spanish government want this guy so badly that they’re willing to cut a deal with two prisoners? Furthermore, where does the CIA fit into this? Something just doesn’t add up here.’
Manzak gave him a cold, hard stare, one that suggested he wasn’t ready to lay his cards on the table. Nevertheless, Payne stared back, unwilling to back down. He’d been locked
up for seventy-two hours and was sick of being jerked around. His aggressiveness paid off moments later when Manzak leaned back in his chair and sighed. A long, drawn-out sigh. A sound that told Payne he had backed his prey into a corner, and he was about to surrender.
Manzak stayed like that for a moment, like he was still trying to decide if it was the right thing to do. Finally, with reluctance on his face, he pushed the folder forward.
‘Dr Charles Boyd is the most wanted criminal in Europe.’
14
Every crime has a command center. Whether it’s a major case or not, there has to be a place for the investigating officers to go to write their reports. Sometimes it’s just a tiny cubicle at headquarters, but there’s always a spot that becomes the heart of an investigation.
But rarely was it this luxurious.
Kronborg’s superintendent wanted to keep Nick Dial happy, so he put him in the Royal Chambers, a series of rooms that served as the royal residence for nearly a hundred years. The suite was built for Frederick II in the 1570s and was filled with the original furnishings. A gold chandelier hung from the ceiling, dangling over the banquet table that served as his desk.
Dial rarely had any privacy when he worked a case so he viewed this as the ultimate luxury, a chance to be alone with his thoughts, if only until someone came looking for one of the files he ‘borrowed’ from the Danish police when they weren’t looking.
Every investigator had a different technique for sorting through evidence, his or her personal way to get a grip on things. Some talked into a tape recorder. Others typed the info into their computer. But neither of those techniques worked for Dial. He was old-school when it came to evidence, eschewing the lure of technology for the simplicity of a bulletin board. To him there was no better way to organize a case. He could move things whenever he wanted until everything fit into place — like a giant jigsaw puzzle that revealed the secret identity of the killer.
The first thing he put on the Kronborg board were photographs of the crime scene. They were taken at a variety of angles and revealed all the little horrors that he would like to forget. The way two of the victim’s ribs had been forced through his skin like broken chopsticks that had been plunged into a pound of raw meat. The way his jaw hung at an impossible angle. The way blood looks when it mixes with urine and feces. That’s the reality of the average homicide, the type of stuff that Dial had to wade through to find the answers he was looking for.
Like finding more information about Erik Jansen. That would be the best way to determine why he was chosen to die. Learn about the victim to learn about the killer. That meant starting with the people who knew Jansen best: his friends, family, and coworkers. Of course, that was more difficult than it sounded since they were scattered all over Europe. Throw in the language barrier and the secrecy of the Vatican, and the degree of difficulty went through the roof.
It would take a team of professionals to get the information he needed.
The first person he phoned was his secretary at Interpol. She was in charge of calling the National Central Bureaus in Oslo and Rome and telling them what Dial needed, then they would contact the local police departments and get the information for him.
Unfortunately, Vatican City wasn’t one of Interpol’s member countries. That meant there wasn’t an NCB office at the pope’s palace. No local contacts meant no insiders. And no insiders meant no information. Agent Nielson had tried to circumvent the problem by calling the Vatican directly, but as Dial had anticipated, no one returned her message.
So Dial decided to call the Vatican himself, hoping his fancy title would get someone on the line. He’d received a long list of phone numbers from Nielson and asked her to break things down according to nationality, figuring Danes and Norwegians would be most willing to help because of their connection to the crime.
After giving it some thought, though, he decided to scrap that idea and go in the opposite direction. Instead of looking at it from the victim’s point of view, he decided to look at it from his own. Who’d be willing to help him? He needed to find someone he could talk to, someone he could bond with. That was the angle he needed to play, the way to get his foot in the door.
It was far too late to help Erik Jansen. But it wasn’t too late to help Nick Dial.
*
Cardinal Joseph Rose grew up in Texas. He loved guns, red meat, and ice-cold beer. But more than anything else, he loved God, and that was the reason he was willing to move halfway around the world to work for the Vatican. This was his calling, and he was very content.
But that didn’t mean he wasn’t homesick.
When the call came to his office, his assistant told him that Nick Dial was on the phone. The name didn’t ring a bell, so Cardinal Rose asked his assistant what it was about. His assistant shrugged and said Dial wouldn’t tell him. Then he added that Dial had an American accent. Two seconds later, Rose was on the phone. ‘How can I help you, Mr Dial?’
Dial smiled at the Texas twang in the cardinal’s voice. It was music to his ears. ‘Thanks for taking my call, Your Eminence. Please call me Nick.’
‘Thanks, Nick. But only if you call me Joe.’
‘You got it.’
‘So, what part of America are you from?’
‘All over, really. My dad coached college football, so I grew up on campuses from Oregon to Pennsylvania to Florida. Plus I spent a whole lot of time in Texas.’
They spent the next few minutes talking about the Lone Star State before Rose asked, ‘So, what can I do for you? I have to admit I’m curious, since you wouldn’t tell my assistant.’
‘Sorry about that. I thought it would be best if I told you myself.’
‘Told me yourself? That doesn’t sound good.’
‘I’m afraid it’s not. I run the Homicide Division at Interpol, and last night one of your priests was found murdered.’
Rose tried to remain calm. ‘One of my priests? You mean one of my assistants?’
‘Maybe,’ Dial admitted. ‘That’s the reason for my call. We know the victim’s name and that he worked for the Vatican, but I’m having trouble finding out additional — ’
‘His name?’ Rose demanded. ‘Please tell me his name.’
‘Jansen. Father Erik Jansen.’
The sound of relief escaped Rose’s lips, a whisper that told Dial that the Cardinal didn’t know the victim. ‘How did it happen?’
‘He was crucified.’
‘Dear God!’ Rose made the sign of the cross. ‘Did you say crucified?’
‘Yes, sir. Someone kidnapped him, knocked him out, then nailed him to a cross.’
‘When? Where? Why didn’t I hear about this?’
Dial grimaced, not sure what to answer first. ‘As far as we can tell, he was kidnapped in Rome last night. From there he was taken to Denmark, where he was killed.’
‘Denmark? Why Denmark?’
‘We don’t know, sir. That’s what I was hoping to find out. You see, I’m in charge of gathering as much evidence as possible, but I’ve run into some resistance. I’ve tried calling several people at the Vatican, but — ’
‘Say no more.’ Rose paused, trying to think of the best way to explain things. ‘I know how we can be about information. That’s probably why I haven’t heard anything about this tragedy. People are reluctant to open up in our community.’
‘Which is understandable, but — ’
‘Not acceptable. I couldn’t agree with you more.’ Rose shook his head, half embarrassed by the situation. ‘Nick, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to look into things myself, even if it means ruffling a few feathers. And the moment I have anything, and I do mean anything, I will give you a call, day or night.’
‘Do you promise? Because several people have — ’
‘Yes, Nick, I promise. I will get to the bottom of this. You have my word as a Texan.’
And to Dial, that meant more than Rose’s word as a church official.
15
Anyway, Payne wasn’t surprised when Jones snatched the CIA folder before he had a chance to grab it. Jones said, ‘Dr Charles Boyd majored in archaeology and linguistics at Oxford and was eventually given a teaching position at Dover University in 1968. According to this, they even made him head of his department in 1991… Wow! How shocking!’
Manzak wasn’t amused. ‘Keep reading, Mr Jones. I assure you it gets worse.’
‘Damn, Jon! He wasn’t kidding. Take a look at this.’
Payne fought the urge to smile when Jones handed him a head shot of Dr Boyd that was taken during the Nixon administration. The type of photo that gets attached to someone’s personnel file and stays there no matter what anyone does to get rid of it. Boyd wore a tweed jacket and a silk bow tie, plus the worst comb-over hairstyle Payne had ever seen. It looked like one of the before photos in that infomercial for spray-on hair.
‘Let me guess,’ Jones cracked. ‘He’s wanted by the fashion police.’
‘No,’ Manzak said in a harsh tone. ‘He’s the key suspect in an Interpol investigation that’s been going on for two decades. Everything from forgeries to smuggling to the theft of antiquities. This guy does it all and does it at a very high level. Right now he’s wanted in several countries, most notably France, Italy, Germany, Austria, and Spain.’
‘Then why don’t they pick him up?’ Payne wondered.
‘Because Boyd’s a genius. Every time they get close to him, he finds a way to cover his tracks. Every single time. I’m telling you, it’s like the guy has ESP.’
‘Or inside information,’ Jones suggested.
Payne was thinking the same thing. ‘OK, let’s pretend everything you’ve told us about Boyd is accurate. What does this have to do with the CIA?’
Manzak pointed to the file. ‘Let me start with Spain. Dr Boyd stole a number of heirlooms from the Spanish government, one-of-a-kind items that have no price tag. Needless to say, they’re willing to do anything within reason to have them returned. Unfortunately, the only way to retrieve their items is to find Dr Boyd and get him to talk. Sounds easy, right? Well, up until now he’s managed to hide hundreds of objects under Interpol’s nose, and no one has any idea where. Spain is worried if Boyd gets killed in a manhunt, then their artifacts will never resurface. And the same can be said for the rest of Europe. Everyone is panicked about this. Everyone. And panic is a wonderful thing, especially if you’re able to take advantage of it.’
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