The Informationist: A Thriller

by Taylor Stevens

  He held her tight and then with a deep breath stood, pulling her up with him. “I need to go,” he said.

  From his wallet he extracted a business card. “So that you can find me—in case you change your mind.” He placed it on the desk and, without looking back, left the room.

  The door closed, a resounding thud in the silence. Munroe picked up the wineglass, swished the liquid in a gentle circle, ran her thumb against the stem. It was so delicate, would be so easy to snap, and she waited for the urge to do so. No reaction. Numb. The internal shutdown was complete. She placed the glass back on the desk, lay on the bed with her hands behind her head, and, as she knew they would, waited for the demons to rise.

  chapter 3

  Walker County, Texas

  The sky was dark, tinged by the murky haze of city lights, of civilization and pollution. The weather had warmed; even in the predawn, Munroe could feel it, and if the temperature was rising, she would welcome it. The roads were empty, and at 150 miles an hour the wind had a way of rushing through a person.

  At three in the morning, she’d tossed the documents from the Burbank case into a backpack and left the hotel. Her head was filled with a cacophony of ancient words and the accompanying attacks of anxiety that prevented sleep. She would ride through the night, and in the dark and the silence her head would clear.

  She traveled the winding Texas backcountry, endless lane dividers blending into a solid line, time calculated by the changing colors of the sky and a tugging ache that lurked at the periphery of her consciousness, the result of hours spent on a machine built for speed rather than comfort.

  The meeting was set for ten, and now at nine-thirty she moved with the flow of traffic through the tail end of the morning rush hour into the matrix of Houston’s downtown. She found parking and then, gazing up at the building, ruffled her short hair free of the shape of the helmet.

  She stretched and pulled the kinks out of her shoulders, locked the helmet onto the bike, and unzipped the riding jacket. Underneath she wore a tight T-shirt, and the combination of the shirt, blue jeans, and thick-soled boots gave her the appearance of having recently stepped out of the cab of an eighteen-wheeler. Like every decision she made, the choice in clothing was calculated, a statement to the client, a silent “fuck you” to a succession of men in suits who aggressively jockeyed to have their assignments accepted.

  To them she provided no decorum, abided by no protocol, and each in turn would accept this because they all wanted the information she would procure that had the potential to turn meager profits into gold.

  It hadn’t started out that way. The first assignment had been a fluke and had come at a time when she considered herself marred for life, unhirable in the traditional sense and wondering how to pay off amassed student loans in her own lifetime.

  During sophomore year of college, in a period of drink- and drug-induced haze, with the deadline of a research assignment for her comparative-politics class looming, she pulled an all-nighter with a beat-up laptop and four pots of coffee, fabricating a report using Cameroon as her target of study. The sources were fudged, but the information, based on past personal observations, logical conclusions, and in-depth understanding of the demographics, was highly accurate.

  The relief of having completed the assignment segued to dread when instead of a grade she received a request from the professor to discuss the paper. He had, as it turned out, taken the liberty of passing her report to a colleague, who after reading it had asked to meet her.

  The colleague was an economist for the International Monetary Fund working in the IMF’s African Area, and he in turn introduced Munroe to one of his business partners, a man named Julian Reid. Although it was evident to those who read the report that the material had not been pulled from genuine sources, the analyses and conclusions had piqued their curiosity. Over lunch Reid inquired as to the chances of having her prepare a similar report on another country. He and his partners, he explained, were planning to begin a venture in Morocco, and although the country was fairly stable politically and economically, what they didn’t have was someone on the inside with an innate understanding of the place, the customs, the subtleties, and a map, for lack of a better term, of how to navigate the political hierarchy with its graft and jockeying for power. It was such underlying information in her report on Cameroon that had caught the eye of those who’d read it. Could she, he wanted to know, replicate the research in a different scenario?

  That was how it began.

  Morocco was the first assignment; it had taken eight months, and those eight months transformed the direction of her life. The drugs stopped, the drink dried up, the intense focus of the work brought peace, and that one assignment carried her finances into the black. Next was a two-month period in Uruguay on behalf of the IMF. By the time the third project, in Vietnam, had been completed, word had begun to spread. With each assignment her reputation for extracting impossibly accurate information grew, and it was only a matter of time before the law of supply and demand took over. The value of her services increased exponentially, and so did the paychecks. No one questioned how she came by the information or what she had to do to get it; they simply paid.

  Now came the possibility of an assignment far outside the area of her expertise, and for that reason it intrigued her—that, and the fact that she had not returned to the continent of her birth since abruptly departing it nine years ago. Munroe pushed the memories away, joined Kate Breeden in the lobby of the building, and in silence rode the elevator to the thirty-eighth floor, where the doors opened onto a wide reception area.

  The halls were carpeted, the wooden office doors richly paneled, and the atmosphere hushed and reverent. Titan Exploration was a fascinating specimen of the acme of corporate America, and Munroe observed the goings-on with detached curiosity while she followed Burbank’s assistant across expensive rugs and through well-lit hallways.

  With its internal politics and sedate proprieties, the corporate world was as foreign as any of the countries she’d traveled, and it comprised a distinct culture she had yet to internalize. Over the years she’d made several attempts to live as “normal” people did, holding standard jobs and maintaining a permanent residence, each try a more miserable failure than the one before it. The longest stretch of employment had been eight weeks as a bean counter at an auditing firm. It had come to a quick end when the idea of killing the department manager became palpable. Insecure and inept, the woman had been a tyrant set out to destroy talent before it replaced her, and few would have wept over her passing. But when ideas of how to do it and get away with it danced through Munroe’s head, she had known it was time to get out. And that was the good job.

  The assistant brought them to a corner office, knocked gently, and opened the door. Thirty feet of empty space unfurled between the door and Burbank’s desk. The front of the office held a sitting area with a wet bar; framed autographed photos lined the right wall. The left and back walls were solid glass, with a spectacular view of the downtown Houston area.

  Burbank sat on the edge of an oversize mahogany desk in front of the wall of windows, a phone to his ear, one leg firmly on the floor, the other dangling over the corner of the desk, and he was in the middle of a heated conversation. He paused, beckoned to Breeden and Munroe, and then curtly dismissed whoever was on the other end of the line.

  Burbank was Munroe’s height, tanned, fit, and impeccably dressed in a tailored black suit with a pale pinstriped shirt and a pink tie. Silver around his temples framed eyes the gray-blue of a winter sky. He radiated tangible energy and genuine charm.

  Munroe sat in one of the two chairs facing Burbank’s desk and immediately regretted having done so. The chair was plush and comfortable, and she sank into it several inches so that her eye level was closer to Burbank’s chest than to his face, forcing her to look up at him.

  When the silence in the room became uncomfortably long, Burbank smiled at Munroe and finally said, “Thank you so much for
coming. I really do appreciate your taking the time to hear me out and at least consider the job that I need done.”

  Munroe stared out beyond him through the windows and, with a look of boredom and her voice monotone, said only, “I came for the money.”

  Burbank laughed, and he placed his hands together. “I trust that the transfer went through smoothly and that everything is in order?” Breeden nodded, and Burbank continued. “Have you had a chance to look over the material I provided?”

  “Yes, I have,” Munroe said.

  “Good, good,” he said, nodding as he spoke, and then he paused as if cutting himself off in the middle of a thought. “You know, I’m not really sure what to call you—do you prefer Michael, Ms. Munroe, Vanessa, or is there perhaps another moniker you’ve taken?” The words were almost sarcastic, but his tone was sincere. He had done his research and was letting her know.

  “Most of my clients call me Michael,” she replied.

  “Fine, Michael it is.” Burbank paused and looked out the window at the skyline, then rubbed a finger against his mouth. “Michael,” he said, “I know you don’t have children, but perhaps you can understand the pain of uncertainty and the lack of closure that come from simply not knowing what happened to a child.

  “Emily is the brightest and most lovable daughter a parent could wish for, and I thank God every day for bringing her and her mother into my life.” He pulled a photo out of his wallet and handed it to Munroe.

  “That’s Emily’s high-school graduation picture,” he said.

  Munroe nodded. As in the file photos, Emily was a petite girl with straight, long blond hair and brown eyes made stunning by deep, dark lashes.

  “When Emily decided to go to South Africa, I was against it. I didn’t feel it safe for her to travel alone. She insisted that she wasn’t alone, and she was right in a sense—the whole expedition traveled as a group. I think you know what I mean, though. But she was eighteen, old enough to start making her own decisions. I didn’t think it was a good one, but her mother felt that the overland adventure would give Emily a chance to come into her own, and I really did not have a lot of say in the matter.

  “Emily is a tiny girl and soft-spoken, but she has a very determined personality. When she wanted something she found a way to get it, and this was no exception.

  “As I’m sure you’ve read in the file, shortly before Emily was scheduled to travel to Europe, she disappeared. It’s been four years now, Michael.” Burbank’s voice cracked. He stopped and caught his breath, and after a long silence began again. “Between the private investigators and security experts, I have spent a small fortune. I have been through hell trying to deal with government agencies that know nothing.” He paused again, his breathing deep and measured. “Honestly,” he continued, “I have little hope of finding her alive after all this time. But I do want to understand what happened, to know if there is any way that I can make wrongs right, to right them on her behalf.” A sense of heaviness filled the room. “I need to find her, Michael.”

  Munroe waited and then said, “I’m sorry that you’ve had to go through this.” She spoke slowly, mirroring Burbank’s pattern of speech and choosing words that would convey meaning without causing pain. “I do understand the agony of losing someone you love for reasons that make absolutely no sense. But what I don’t understand is why you want to hire me. I don’t do this. I don’t travel the world trying to find missing people and I don’t think I can help you.”

  “No, you don’t find missing people.” Burbank sighed. “But you do have the skill set to survive and blend in with any culture that you come into contact with. Even more, you know how to ask the right questions of the right people to get the answers you need.” He pulled a folder from his desk and slid it to her.

  It was nearly an inch thick, a thorough encapsulation of the past nine years of her life. With an air of indifference, Munroe leafed through the pages. After the documents came the photos: of her family, of her on each of the three Ducatis she had owned, of Logan’s shop, of Logan and his then boyfriend, and several from college that she wished had never been taken. Munroe stopped when she came to a high-resolution blowup—a still lifted from Internet footage of one of the many BASE jumps she’d made at Kjerag in Norway. The bastard had been meticulous. Medical records, school records, and her driving record with its long list of speeding tickets. The file included conversations and details recounted by people who knew her when she had just entered the country. But except for a few notations on her childhood, prior to her arrival in the United States, the file had nothing. The way it should be.

  Munroe tossed the file on the desk. “You get a B-plus on your homework assignment,” she said with a yawn. “I hope you’re not expecting that to be some form of blackmail to convince me to take the case, because there’s nothing in there that bothers me.”

  “Blackmail? Goodness no,” he said. “I have nothing to gain from forcing you into a job you don’t want to take—surely the results would be less than ideal. No, Michael, I had that file put together so I would have a thorough understanding of what you were capable of. I also wanted you to know that I had done my research before presenting the offer I am about to make.”

  Munroe said nothing, and the room went silent. When it was apparent that Burbank was waiting for a reaction or an indication of interest, she yawned again and slid deeper into the chair, resting her head on the back of it and stretching her legs out in front.

  Burbank clasped his hands together and leaned forward on the desk. “I’m prepared to offer you a contract of two and a half million dollars as a final attempt to locate my daughter.”

  She tilted her head to the side, raised an eyebrow, and continued to say nothing.

  “Michael, I need closure. I cannot sit around day after day for the rest of my life just waiting and hoping that someday someone will bring me news. You are the best at what you do. You have never gone on an assignment and failed to deliver. I know that if you agree to this assignment, you will deliver. And maybe that’s partially what I’m afraid of. I’m afraid that you’ll choose not to do it because you don’t think you can deliver, and that’s why I’m willing to pay you two-point-five million for giving it your very best effort. I don’t know how long it would take before you ran up against a dead end. We’ve been at it for four years. If you give me a year, that’s all I ask, even if you don’t get any further than we have.”

  “So you’re willing to take a two-and-a-half-million-dollar risk on the remote chance that I might get further than you have?”

  “If you want to put it that way, then yes, although I don’t see it as a risk.” He swept his hand around the office. “Obviously, money is not my greatest concern. I have enough to last me several lifetimes. What I don’t have is closure. I can’t handle not knowing—and possibly not ever knowing—what happened to my daughter, and time is running out. Each day that passes without bringing new information further seals the outcome. I’ve read some of the reports you’ve put together. You snatch information out of what seems to be thin air. I believe with utmost certainty that if you say my daughter is dead, that she is dead, and if she is alive, that you are the one who can find her. And if you tell me that the trail has ended and there is no hope of going further, I will know that all that can be done has been done.”

  Munroe pulled herself up in the chair and leaned forward across the desk so that her eyes were level with his. “That’s it? I promise to do my best and you hand over payment? What if I signed your contract, took a yearlong vacation in Africa, and simply said that I tried?”

  Burbank smiled and held her gaze. He waited a few seconds before answering, as though choosing his words carefully. “If I’ve come to understand you correctly,” he said, “I don’t think you would even consider that as an option—you have your reputation at stake. However, I am also a businessman—I protect my investments. I would expect to receive progress updates from you on a frequent if not regular basis, and I retain the rig
ht to send one of my people to assist you if I deem it necessary.”

  “You do realize,” Munroe remonstrated, “that I have never been babysat on a job before, and I have no desire to start now. I work alone, Mr. Burbank, and I very carefully select the people who help me. If I should choose to accept your assignment, what makes you think your ‘people’ are qualified? If they were, you wouldn’t need me.”

  Burbank reached into his desk and withdrew a second folder. “This is Miles Bradford,” he said. “I trust him with my life. He has been with me through hell and back, and it was he who recommended you to me. Miles is no stranger to Africa, and although it wasn’t mentioned in the background documents, Miles was on the investigative team that traveled from Windhoek to Brazzaville, Congo. You are free to research him yourself. If you feel he’s unqualified, let me know and you can have your pick of the people within my organization whom I would trust with this.”

  Munroe glanced briefly through the file and then took her own file off Burbank’s desk and handed them both to Breeden. “All right, Mr. Burbank,” she said. “I will think about your offer. After I’ve reread the information on your daughter’s case, then read the information on Miles Bradford and the dossier you have on me, I’ll get back to you. You should hear from me through Ms. Breeden within seventy-two hours.”

  “Thank you, Michael,” Burbank said, his voice softer. “That’s all I ask.”

  THERE WAS SILENCE in the elevator on the way to the lobby. Breeden tapped on the thick files and said, “I’ll drop these off at your hotel as soon as I get back into town.”

  “Don’t bother,” Munroe said. “I’m not planning to read them anytime soon. I just wanted to have copies handy. When’s your flight?”

  Breeden glanced at her watch. “About three hours.”