by Moss, John
Simon shifted his gaze from The Forces of Evil.
“I’ve found what you’re looking for, Harry.”
“You’ve found Rachel Damboch?”
“In your email.”
“What are you talking about.”
“You don’t empty your Junk file.”
“Not very often. Does anyone?”
“I do. But it’s a good thing you’re a bad housekeeper. You have an important bit of junk addressed to Dearest Beloved.”
“Buried among letters offering eternal love, a bigger penis, and/or thirteen million dollars if I provide my personal particulars. It’s e-pollution. No one is dumb enough to respond.”
“Wrong. Some people do. Greed makes people stupid, the same people who buy lottery tickets. Do you realize, statistically, you’re more likely to be shot by a sniper on Yonge Street between ten and eleven a.m. on a Thursday in October than you are to win the jackpot?”
“So what’s the big discovery?”
“There actually is a letter from Rachel Damboch.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Well, someone is using her name. Probably your dead friend from Vienna.”
Harry flipped open his laptop on the table in front of him.
“Here’s a printout,” said Simon. He waved a single page document in Harry’s direction. Harry closed the laptop, got up, took the document, and settled back on the sofa to read. It was the usual claptrap nonsense, under the subject heading, Your Noble Commitment Required.
Dearest Beloved, How are you this day? I believe you to be highly respected personality, considering the fact I source your profile from human resources database of your country of domestic life.
I am Barrister Damboch, legal personal attorney to Mr. Abel Canaan, who recently passed off, on summer excursion to northern part of our beaudiful Country in Nigeria.
Mr. Abel Canaan left in Security with me Consignment Luggage in funds totalling $7,420,234.03 calculated in United States funds.
Since I am recently unsuccessful in acquiring known relatives to Mr. Abel Canaan, you must now become aware I have legal protocol to make you next of his kin.
All required from you is sincere corporation as appropriate. We will divide money as follows: 60% to you and 40% for my own. If you are quick this will not take me time. We will not be breach of soever law in your country or mine.
Be sincere to provide four digit code number for appropriate transaction. I will be sincere also.
Send to email address above only your number as Security.
Your beloved
Barrister Rachel Damboch
Harry grimaced. He smashed a fist into the paper against his open hand then it into a ball and threw it at Simon, who smiled his rare elliptical smile.
“We are not amused,” said Harry.
Oh but we are. Come on, Harry, it’s so bad it’s got to be good.
“It’s her,” said Simon.
“Rachel Damboch?”
“I doubt it. If she’s still alive, she’d be at least in her eighties or more, too old for computers. I mean, this is a sophisticated way of hiding in plain sight. I’d say it must be Madalena Strauss.”
“Who is dead,” Harry observed.
“In that case, you’d expect her to sound more biblical.”
“Simon, she has been autopsied, cremated, and mourned by her colleagues and friends.”
“Or she’s hiding behind a shroud of pure kitsch.”
Can kitsch be pure? Just asking.
Harry ignored Karen’s glib response to death. She had the right to an attitude, if anyone had. He found it more difficult to penetrate Simon’s derisive contempt. Then he realized the young man was cutting through sentiment to get at the message from beyond.
Harry retrieved the document and smoothed it out on the sofa.
“Do you think it’s in code? What’s the date?”
“No, it’s not in code,” said Simon with an authority that suggested he knew about codes. “Unless being sent a few days after Madalena Strauss killed herself is a code.”
“I think she was murdered.”
“Sorry. I thought you told me she did herself in.”
“Sakarov virtually confessed. He was gloating.”
“You’ve seen Sakarov.”
“So you don’t know everything about me?”
“I lost you when you took off in that SUV gas-guzzler.”
“Yeah, well, Sakarov and I had an encounter against the backdrop of beautiful Lake Rosseau.”
“Muskoka. I take it the encounter was satisfactory.”
“Satisfactory?”
“You survived.”
“Yes.”
“And that’s a good thing.”
“I suppose it is.”
“Now, to work.”
“Yes?”
Simon reached down and took his MacBook Air, identical to Harry’s, out of his Roots shoulder bag, which was also identical to Harry’s—burnished natural leather, an accessory to complement the masculine essence of the man carrying it. A perfect accessory for Simon Wales. For Harry, it was just a bag.
Simon walked around the table and sat down beside Harry on the sofa. He slid Harry’s laptop to the side and opening his own began typing.
Harry noticed Simon’s computer had a few dints and scuff marks. While Simon let his fingers race over the keyboard, he gazed absentmindedly at the Klimts.
“Where’d you learn touch typing?” Harry asked.
“Just something I picked up along the way.”
There was no point asking for further explanation.
Simon abruptly tilted his screen so Harry could see it.
“There,” said Simon. “I’ve sent notes to myself.”
“Yourself?”
“My home computer. Now let’s answer Frau Damboch. Or whoever is buried inside her name.”
“Come off it, Simon. First of all, you don’t answer garbage. Second, if it’s from Lena, she’s dead. Third, I’m not sure I want to connect just yet.”
“Of course you do.”
“She set herself up as judge and jury, but I’m the intended executioner.”
“You told me there’s a court of last resort.”
“A gatekeeper. Yes.”
“Rachel Damboch?”
“Possibly.”
“Then let’s move forward, Harry. If Fräulein Strauss’ appointed conscience hasn’t released the files yet, I don’t think she will do it now just because you connect. Surely, she needs you to evaluate.”
“That could take years.”
“Not the files, Harry. The consequences. That might take no more than a second or two. You do want to bring down the Fearmans of the world, don’t you?”
“Desperately.”
“Then let’s make a beginning. We have the four digit number.”
“1902?”
Simon typed in the number.
There was an immediate return.
“Not good,” said Simon. “An automatic response.”
“Read it,” said Harry.
They read together; under the subject line, Your Noble Commitment Admired, a terse message.
Dearest Beloved,
I know you could not avoid connection.
Barrister Rachel Damboch
“It’s her, Simon.”
“Rachel?”
“No, Lena. Look at the subject line. Your Noble Commitment Admired. The first one said Required. She’s playing games, but it’s her.”
“No, it’s pre-packaged,” Simon explained. “I’m afraid Rachel Damboch won’t get us anywhere after all.”
Why the sudden reversal? Harry felt his heart sink. The name Rachel Damboch wasn’t floating around in the ether. It didn’t just materialize in cyberspace, teleported from the back of a painting or from random records in Vienna of a mysterious woman who worked in a group home for damaged children and created a selfless life from the leavings of others.
He could hear Kare
n whispering: “to create a selfless life” seems almost a contradiction in terms, Harry. There’s more than that to Rachel Damboch.
And there was.
To Simon’s apparent surprise, a new message appeared on his screen.
Subject line: Lazarus.
Harry pushed past Simon to open the message.
It was terse and to the point:
Hello Harry. It took you a while.
Prepare for the onslaught.
Lena
14 A WOMAN WITH COPPER RED HAIR
Over the next hour and a half, thousands of documents flashed on Harry’s desktop and immediately disappeared. Sometimes their residual images allowed him to guess their content. Others left only a fleeting impression. But there was no doubt they promised vile revelations of child exploitation on an unimaginable scale, ranging from illicit adoptions to the most sickening depravities. At 11:20 p.m., the document fragments stopped coming.
Simon emailed Rachel Damboch, asking if the transmission was complete. No answer. He tried addressing Madalena Strauss. No answer.
“That’s it,” he said. “You see what she’s done.”
“Yeah, she’s set me up royally. She knows my computer’s being monitored by Sakarov.”
“No, no. She’s given you insurance against Sakarov. He may want you roughed up a little, but he won’t kill you. She’s confirmed that you are the heir to her files, but she’s also confirmed that you don’t have access to them. At least, not yet. Until you do, he has to let you live. She’s protecting you.”
“She’s protecting herself.”
“Too late, since you’ve assured me she’s dead. At this point, you could just let the whole thing drop, you know. Walk away from it. Enjoy your Klimts.”
“Too late. He knows Rachel Damboch is my contact.”
“He knows you’ve accessed junk mail. He wouldn’t be able to hack into the deluge. I mean, it’s like grasping water. If we can’t hold onto it, how could he?”
“He knows her name.”
“The phone book’s full of names. It won’t mean anything to him. But we’ve got to find her, Harry.”
“You think so, do you?”
“We’re morally obligated.”
Harry, this kid is impressive.
Or delusional.
“Harry, we can’t get full access to the files without the gatekeeper.”
He’s using “we,” Harry. He’s Faithful to a fault.
Harry avoided a response. He’d never actually read John Bunyan’s awkwardly engaging tale of conversion, but Pilgrim’s Progress was part of his culture; he felt like he had.
“Simon. You don’t have to be a part of this,” he said.
“I rather enjoy the adventure. Let me find Rachel Damboch, Harry. Let me get onto it. I’ll drop around in the morning and tell you what I’ve come up with. Do you have a gun?”
“Unfortunately, I do. Do you want it?”
“For you, Harry. I’m fine.”
Simon got up to leave, but Harry motioned him to wait while he looked for his gun. He found a metal pistol case in the bedroom behind a box of the thirteen volume Oxford English Dictionary, the 1933 edition reprinted in 1961. The online version made it not only dated but perpetually redundant. He brought the case out into the living room and set it on the table, snapped open the clasps, and gazed at his pistol that had never seen open air since he bought it three years ago.
“Glock Gen 4,” said Simon Wales, picking up the gun and weighing it in his hands. “Nice. Nine by nineteen calibre, magazine capacity seventeen, barrel with a right hand twist. Very nice.”
Why shouldn’t he know about guns, Harry? He knows damned near everything else. And you won’t touch the fool thing.
I don’t like guns.
“Is this registered, Harry?”
“Of course. I’m a private eye.”
“Where’s the ammunition?”
Harry, do you own ammunition?
Simon Wales passed the pistol from hand to hand, then announced with a conspiratorial air, “You can always throw it at your attackers.”
Suddenly a tremendous crash signalled the door bursting from its hinges. Gregor and Oswaldo lumbered through the hall into the living room. They didn’t seem worried that the noise might attract attention. They obviously didn’t intend staying long.
Gregor was carrying his own Glock, a larger model. He swiped Harry’s gun from Simon’s grasp and it clattered to the floor.
Oswaldo went straight for Harry’s laptop. Harry tried to stop him. Oswaldo shoved him backward onto the antique Persian carpet and then walked out onto the balcony and dropped Harry’s laptop over the rail. Simon tried to slip his own laptop behind the cushions of the sofa. Oswaldo lifted Simon into the air with one hand and dropped him on the coffee table. Simon cracked his head as the table tilted and spilled him onto the floor. Then Oswaldo carried Simon’s laptop out to the balcony and tossed it into the air.
Gregor watched, holding his pistol casually but with his finger on the trigger.
“You finished?” Harry demanded. It was hard to be righteously indignant, sprawled on a kamseh rug on the floor.
“Check for other computers,” Gregor commanded.
Oswaldo disappeared into the bedroom, which Harry sometimes used as an office. He had an old Mac on the desk that he hadn’t used in two years. From the crashing sounds, he assumed he would never use it again.
A cell phone chimed the opening chords of “A Hard Day’s Night” from Gregor’s breast pocket. He clicked it off without bothering to answer.
A neighbour must have heard the door being smashed and called 911. The police had arrived in the lobby. A lookout was warning them. Harry wondered if it was the fat man himself.
Gregor and Oswaldo took Russian leave, descending a few flights on the stairs beside the elevator shaft as the cops went up, then presumably taking the other elevator down to the lobby. Harry knew this because that’s what he would have done.
Meanwhile, he struggled to his feet and Simon twisted away from the table remnants and stood up as well. Both were still disoriented when a team of cops in flak jackets stormed into the room with guns drawn.
“Hands up, high, higher,” one cop yelled and slammed Harry against the wall between the Klimts. Another cop dropped Simon to his knees then pushed him face down into the carpet.
The bruiser handling Harry swung him around.
“What’s going on?” he demanded.
“You might have asked that first,” Simon said without looking up.
“It that your Glock?” the bruiser demanded, seeing Harry’s gun on the floor.
“I live here,” said Harry, gasping for breath. “I’m a private investigator.”
“Someone came through your door without knocking. It’s flat to the floor.”
“Weak hinges,” said Harry. “Cheap lock. Can I put my hands down?”
The bruiser jabbed him in the ribs with his pistol.
“Don’t move a muscle till we prove who you are.”
“I didn’t say who I am, you moron. My name is Harry Lindstrom and you got here too bloody late.”
The bruiser holstered his gun.
“Well, now, then, you’re the one stupid enough to call a man with a gun unpleasant names, Harry Lindstrom. Who’s the moron now?”
Harry, Karen whispered, it’s time to name-drop, if ever there was one.
“Superintendent Quin,” Harry said. “Detective David Morgan.”
“Yeah?” said the bruiser. “What about them?”
“Friends.”
“Of yours?”
“Yes,” said Harry with as much conviction as possible.
“And what happened here?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing,” Harry repeated. “The door broke.”
“Really?”
“Really. I’ll have to get it fixed.”
“Quin and Morgan? Nothing happened? You want us to leave?
”
“Please,” said Simon.
The bruiser held up his hands palms outward in mock submission, nodded to the other cop, and they left.
“How was that for adventure?” said Harry.
“They didn’t kill us,” said Simon. He got to his feet and seemed disappointed when he reached around to feel the back of his neck for blood and came up with nothing but a few beads of sweat.
“Sorry about the table,” he said.
“George Jensen, secondhand, mid-century modern, solid teak,” said Harry. “You just loosened the joints.”
“Loosened,” said Simon. Then added deferentially, “Sorry.”
“You said that,’ said Harry.
Simon brushed imaginary flecks from his linen suit with the back of one hand. “I’ll see you in the a.m.,” he announced, and before Harry could say anything he was gone, then he returned to explain that the police had stood the door upright in its frame, but Harry should get it seen to as it wasn’t secure and might fall on an intruder, who could sue for damages. Simon was curiously ebullient, considering he’d been manhandled and his computer destroyed.
Harry settled back on the sofa, but at some point in the middle of the night he rose and struggled through cursory ablutions before stripping to the buff and stretching out on his side of the bed.
By mid-morning when Simon returned, Harry was already on his third coffee.
Simon looked remarkably fit, particularly when he admitted to having spent most of the night on his home computer. He was wearing a fresh suit that Harry hadn’t seen before, with a purple tie.
“I had a revelation,” Simon announced.
“Me too,” said Harry. “Life is dangerous. What’s yours?”
“Elisabeth Bök, Madalena Strauss’ great-grandmother.”
“What about her?”
“I knew a poet by that name. He pronounced it Book. I scanned for Elisabeth Book, Elisabeth with an s, then with a z like the Queen. Elizabeth Book. Deceased, Toronto, 1986.”