“One day I hope to bring home a noddy bird for my wife to cook in the old ways like my mother did. Just one more time, so I can savor the taste and the memories.”
As they headed back to the car, Emmanuel was pensive. “With the mines petering out ... well ... they call it the new economy.”
“Drug running?”
“International banking. Better than phosphate. More profitable than opium.” Emmanuel was a very pragmatic man and proved it when he said, “What you really came for.”
“And if I did say no?”
“It is useless to pretend you are in Nauru for the fishing.” They had been playing a game of poker, hiding their hands and bluffing. Except Emmanuel was holding the ace of diamonds all along. “It is of no concern of mine. Do what you want to do. But we both know the truth of it.”
Tour guide and tourist descended the mountain in silence. Emmanuel pulled in front of a building not much larger than a shed. He left the engine running while his fingers drummed the steering wheel.
“Do you get a commission?” Jack asked.
“For every outsider I bring,” he said, nodding. “A hundred dollars Australian. It is all very upfront. Even if you don’t do business, I get a hundred dollars.” He scratched the back of his neck, waiting for his passenger to answer.
Jack ran his eyes over the shed, a simple oblong building with gray siding, stone foundation, flat roof, and wooden steps leading to the front door. Plywood platforms supported air conditioning units of nearly every window. A motorized chorus hummed in the heated air. Several vehicles were parked on the side. “What’s this place called?”
“Around here, just the Shack. Go inside. You’ll see. Officially, the Shack does not exist. Many years ago, every bank pulled out of Nauru because of money laundering. Now they are dribbling back in. You could go to one of the modern banks in town. Or this one. Off the grid. Your choice.” There was a twinkle to his eye and a crookedness to his toothy grin. He waited for Jack to say or do something while his fingers tapped the steering wheel in a rhythmic cadence. “Or another time. Just say the word.”
After the silence had been swept away by disquiet, Emmanuel shrugged, put the car in gear, and drove away, his passenger still sitting beside him.
8
Somerset County, Virginia
Monday, August 18
THE REAL ESTATE agent was neat as a pin, dressed in a navy skirt and matching blouse offset by a colorful scarf. Her name was Terri Lambie. The scarf enhanced the otherwise dull wardrobe of a fortyish woman wearing sensible shoes and a plastic smile.
Although affable, she was also curiosity personified, gauging the readiness and willingness of her would-be buyers, a young couple who arranged the showing over the phone. They were interested in the house in the woods, but their timetable was tight. Could she accommodate? She eagerly did. They were already inspecting the property when she drove up to the house.
It took some time for her to gather up the paraphernalia of her profession, and when finally she did, she briskly stepped forward. “And you must be Cordelia and Paul.” She looked relieved. Evidently her clients appeared to be a nice couple with serious intentions.
“Thank you for meeting us on such short notice,” Cordelia said.
She brushed the remark aside. “Not at all, not at all.”
Farrow placed a hand around Cordelia’s waist, a gesture of ownership he immensely enjoyed. Putting on an amorous air even while suppressing the urge to vomit, Cordelia gamely grinned up at him.
The real estate agent likewise grinned, giving them a studied look. They must have passed muster because she immediately got to work, fitting the key into the double locks and unlatching the door. “I take it you work in town,” she said over her shoulder, the question asked as a means of sizing up their income.
“Paul is starting his own consulting business. Aren’t you, honey? After we’re married, we intend to set up a partnership. And ... well ... we want to start a family right away.”
“Ah, I see.” Terri of the bubbly but inauthentic smile seemed nervous. Something was on her mind, something she felt duty-bound to divulge. After a moment of hesitation, she took the coward’s path. “As it turns out, the couple who owns this property did the same thing. Such a coincidence.” The upbeat tenor of her voice immediately came down a notch. They ...,” she said, faltering, before widening her smile, “moved away. Their attorney will handle the sale. That is, should you wish to move forward. We’ve had remarkable interest in this house. It won’t last long.”
She lied, of course. She wasn’t just a pink-lipsticked woman without a brain in her head. Had she admitted the wife was killed in this house or the husband disappeared under mysterious circumstances or their child had gone missing, she would never unload the property.
Ushering them inside, she angled for more information. “What kind of consulting business?”
Farrow was ready with an answer. “Website development.”
“How interesting.” She was interested only in their ability to qualify for a loan. “Have you consulted a loan officer?”
“Oh, yes,” Cordelia said, smiling up at her partner. “Haven’t we, honey?”
“Yes, dear,” he said, laughing inwardly.
Lambie turned her attention to the front room, an airy and cavernous expanse boasting a rustic look that fit in with the wooded lot. “Well, here you have it,” she said, using a broad gesture of welcome.
Rough-hewn beams decorated the nine-foot ceiling. A natural stone fireplace hugged the far wall. Freshly buffed hardwood floors gleamed. A Moroccan rug set off the center of the room. Deep wooden chairs and a matching sectional sofa were arranged at the periphery. A bank of floor-to-ceiling windows welcomed the outdoors inside. French doors led to the back of the house. The setting was warm and inviting, a striking contrast to the tragic event that occurred in this very room.
“Open foyer, dark walnut floors, beamed ceilings, and another fireplace in the family room.” Penetrating deeper into the converted farmhouse, she prattled on, drawing blinds and opening doors while extolling the virtues of the property, her voice receding as she went. “Three bedrooms in back. Bath and a half. Large, bright kitchen ....”
Cordelia was drawn to the spinet piano. Sheet music was spread open on the music stand, ready for an impromptu recital. She flipped back the fallboard and ran her fingertips across the ivory keys, the notes reverberating into the emptiness of the house. The piano itself was of little interest. No, it was the framed family portrait propped next to the metronome that riveted her. Depicting an ordinary-looking husband, his plain though smiling wife, and their sweet young daughter, the eight-by-ten provided the perfect touch to sway prospective buyers, most of whom would be unaware of the calamity that had walked through the door and spirited away an entire family. She sniffed. The pungent stink of death mixed with pine oil and bleach permeated the air. Or perhaps it was only an overactive imagination. Yet something indefinable lingered here. A presence. A memory of things past. Ghosts.
The real estate agent reappeared, clearly anxious. “You’re welcome to come through,” she said with an inviting hand. “So much to see. We’ve had the place meticulously detailed from top to bottom.”
Farrow was exploring, his eagle eyes peering high and low. Presently he paused, bent down, and peeled back a corner of the area rug. An irregular layer of varnish was hidden beneath. His intelligent eyes glanced up at Cordelia. To him, and to Cordelia too, it looked like an unprofessional attempt to cover a stubborn stain. Given the history of the house, Cordelia surmised that the blood of human sacrifice had irreparably soaked into the floorboards. Contrary to the agent’s assertion, the house had not been so meticulously detailed.
With an indefinable dread, Cordelia passed through the double doors leading to the rest of the house. Like a dutiful watchdog, Farrow stayed one pace behind. The real estate agent had become mercifully silent, letting the house speak for itself. Speak, it did.
A long h
allway led to the bedrooms. A pretty-in-pink child’s room. A guest bedroom. A full bath. And the master bedroom suite, where an intruder had forced the woman of the house to bend to his will while her daughter lay nearby. Incapacitated perhaps. Or sobbing for her mother. Or silent as the grave. In the closet, clothes belonging to both husband and wife yet hung from hangers. Atop the double chest of drawers, hand-crocheted doilies lay beneath a boar-bristle brush, tortoiseshell combs, hair ornaments, and a collection of perfume bottles. An Oriental fan leaned against the attached mirror, spread open for display.
The real estate agent showed the way to the kitchen, shoes clacking on echoing floors. Cordelia and Farrow followed, pausing occasionally to peer into closets and behind cabinet doors. The house had been given a thorough going-over. Picture frames straightened. Bookcases arranged. Toys put away. Surfaces dusted. Fixtures polished.
Beyond the island kitchen, a multi-level jungle gym occupied the back yard, behind which the uncultivated countryside stretched toward a meandering creek and thick woods. The agent drew attention to the family room, the quintessence of cozy evenings, family members sitting in front of the fireplace, watching television, laughing together. The coffee table added a poignancy that would clutch at anyone’s heartstrings, for beneath the thick glass top, games and books and playthings perfect for a small girl were neatly stored. For an instant, the child’s laughter seemed to ring out, quickly fading to laugh no more.
Farrow accompanied Cordelia as she retraced her steps to the front room. She took a studied look around, silent in her observations. It was easy to imagine a struggle taking place in this sunny room, one that culminated in the cold-blooded murder of a mother and wife, probably over there, where the throw rug concealed shoddy repair work. Her eyes swung to the front door. She pictured a stranger standing at the threshold. The lady of the house opening the door to greet him, friendly at first, then suspicious, and finally fearful of her life and the life of her daughter.
Her eyes spotted yet more patchwork on the floor as well as fresh paint strokes on the adjacent wall. The visual clues matched reports filed with the sheriff’s department. Two different blood types other than the victim’s were found in the front room. One .40-caliber bullet had been fired, which became lodged in the ceiling. The casing had been ejected near the front door. The woman was found lying in a pool of her own blood, her throat sliced open. Earlier, though how much earlier it was impossible to determine, she had been raped in the master bedroom. DNA collected from her attacker’s semen matched one of the blood types. The child’s room had been ransacked. Cadaver dogs failed to uncover a fresh grave near the house or any other evidence of her remains, either on the property, in the surrounding woods, or in the nearby creek. The property sat on a full acre. The property was isolated. No one would have heard any screams for help or cries for deliverance.
Cordelia had seen enough. She tugged her partner’s sleeve, called out a brusque goodbye to the real estate agent, and made haste to get the hell out of there.
On the drive back into town, Cordelia said, “I’ve been hearing rumors.”
“Oh?” Even though Farrow gave her a casual look, he was more than interested. He reminded her of a paper doll cutout, the perfect husband for the perfect wife, pedicured, clean-shaven, recently barbered, clothes starched and pressed.
“Supposedly Sessions and Moffat were having an affair. He wanted to call it off, but she didn’t.”
“And you’re thinking ...?”
“The rumor was planted as a diversion to make the implausible seem plausible, and take everybody’s minds off the probable.” The sky had become cloudy. The heat wasn’t quite so punishing and the hint of rain promised cooler weather. “There’s another rumor.”
Farrow gave her a sidelong glance before returning his eyes to the road ahead.
Taggert had already briefed her on several salient and salacious details that could only have come from inside the Department of Justice. He had a special contact there, someone he never named but sometimes referred to as his friend at DOJ. Whether it was one friend or many friends was purely a matter of speculation. The important thing was that Taggert had inside information precious few others did. “Sessions phoned her that night.”
“To sing her his swan song?” Farrow was fascinated but also guarded, and probably wondering how she knew something he didn’t.
“It might explain why she took the easy way out.”
“Did she?” he said. “Has it been proven?”
She was wondering the same thing. “Then you don’t think it was an accidental overdose?”
“An overdose, yes. Accidental?” He shook his head.
“Took you long enough.”
He laughed in an easy way. Partners or adversaries, it appeared they thought along parallel lines.
9
Republic of Nauru, Micronesia
Monday, August 18
JACK RENTED A car and drove to the shack on the hillside. What he had to do, he had to do without witnesses.
He parked, stepped outside, stretched as if he had just woken up from a long nap, checked his cell phone, and finally approached the ramshackle building, taking it one thoughtful step at a time, keenly aware of his surroundings, sunshine beating hot on his face. He sensed his movements were being observed.
A worn wooden shingle hanging above the door spelled NBT Limited in faded letters. So unobtrusive was it that Jack hadn’t noticed it when Emmanuel drove past the building earlier in the day. When he opened the door and stepped inside, hinges creaking, a surprising sight greeted him. More than two dozen telemarketers manned rows of tables equipped with computer terminals. This, it would seem, was the new global economy.
Almost immediately, a fleshy woman marched out of a back room and strolled forward. She stopped halfway to assess him before completing her journey with an extended hand. “Madelyn Gibbons. And you are ...?”
“Jack Harrier.”
“May I see your passport, Mr. Harrier?” Her speech was clipped and businesslike but accompanied by a most charming Australian accent.
Not a beauty in any sense and severe in appearance, Madelyn Gibbons wore a linen off-white suit with an open-collared blouse beneath. Her blonde mid-cropped hair, brusque mannerisms, and flat expression rounded out the spartan effect of a businesswoman who took her job seriously. Big-buxomed, wide-hipped, broad-shouldered, and chunky-legged, she could have been a wrestler in an arena, sweating beneath skimpy attire, and still projected the same persona, that of a serious woman who could handle herself, and do it well. Quite well, indeed. But it was the stern face and pursed mouth that marked her as an armful of truculent womanhood.
She examined the passport. Flipped through the mostly blank pages. And set her eyes upon the unexpected visitor more than once, angling her head to absorb the fundamental nature him. Throughout, she showed nothing on her creamy, almost translucent complexion. She wasn’t the kind of woman to sun herself at the beach or play a leisurely nine holes of golf every day. No, she was a woman who sat behind a desk twelve hours a day, ate meals at a table for one, and got by on five hours of sleep at night. Jack decided that on her off-time, she probably played tennis, close to the net, with a wicked serve and a concentrated glare that could knock the socks off her opponent.
“I’m not sure if I’m in the right place,” he said.
“Oh, you’re in the right place, mate, no worries on that score.”
A man should have been able to penetrate a face such as hers, divining the thoughts lingering just behind the sheer façade. But she had put up a sturdy wall through which no man could breach without permission.
She handed him back his passport. Their fingers briefly touched. Hers were icy cold. She examined him once again, but from a different angle. Up close this time instead of standing back. “I assume you’re staying at the Oceana. Room 212.”
And now he understood her occasional smirks and amused expressions that never quite rose to full-fledged smiles. “Emma
nuel.”
A caddy smile rose on her lips. “You’ll do, Mr. Harrier. You’ll more than do. Let’s see what else you’re made of.” With a saucy flick of her head, she motioned him to follow her.
In her cramped office, she threw her suit jacket over the back of a cushioned swivel chair and indicated one of two straight-backed wooden chairs for her client. Once seated, Jack told her what he needed, and more importantly, what he was hoping to find: approximately a hundred thousand American dollars or its equivalent belonging to his client John Finlay. She listened to him, scribbling hasty notes on a legal pad. Clearly, she assumed the American had come all this way with a different sort of business in mind. Her attitude became one of visible annoyance, sighing displeasure, and amused bewilderment. When he finished presenting his case, she tapped the pen cap against the notepad, the voluble click-click-click a distraction, and propped her chin by a firm hand. She leaned slightly forward, appearing outwardly bored but inwardly intrigued. “Your request is unusual to say the least.”
“How so?”
“Most people don’t lose a hundred thousand dollars, and if they do, don’t come all the way to the South Pacific to reclaim it.”
He laughed. She was a bitchy woman with a bitchy attitude and a bitchy way of getting her point across, mostly with catty smiles.
Her star-gazing posture remained with barely a blink. Of a sudden she pulled herself into an erect posture, turned towards the computer monitor at her elbow and keyed in entries. A quick succession of screens passed in review. At intervals, her deep-blue gaze fastened on him before returning to the screen. Several minutes passed. Once done with her research—checking and cross-checking and clicking keys at a furious speed—she redirected her gaze at him.
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