The Informationist: A Thriller (19 page)

“More or less, yes.”

Deep lines remained creased across his forehead.

“I am certain that what happened to me was a result of searching for this girl.”

“So stop searching,” he said. “It would be the easiest way to stay alive.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

A damn good question: Why not? She looked straight at him and simply said, “I just can’t.”

He let out a quick snort. “Maybe there will be time later to argue semantics.” He stood. “When word reaches the capital, they’ll be headed this way, and it won’t take them long to begin looking for me. My ship is a kilometer or so up the coast. We’ll leave at dusk.” He turned and stared at her and then squatted so that his eyes were level with hers. “If it had been anyone else, Vanessa, I would have turned them over to the authorities myself and stayed to watch the execution. I lost you once. I have too many unanswered questions to let it happen again—at least so soon.”

“I’m prepared to pay you well.”

He shook his head slowly and gave her that same half smile. “And how do you propose to do that, when it is because you have no money and nothing of value to barter that you come to me?”

“I had planned to come see you when the job was over, Francisco. Not to ask for your help but simply to see you. This,” she said, pointing to herself and then to the room around her, “was, as you say, a last resort. It’s true I’m stranded at the moment, but it doesn’t mean I’m without resources—they’re just not here on the island.” She paused and then asked, “Do you have a satphone?”

“I have one on my ship.”

“How much do you want, Francisco? Name your price.”

“I want nothing,” he said. “I’ll do what I can for you, Essa, because it’s you, and only that.”

She had begun to stand and then stopped.

Beyard was no altruist. He was a cutthroat, and there was always payback; he wanted something and would demand it eventually. “When this is over,” she said, “you’ll have the option of living your dream and leaving the continent.”

“Perhaps,” he said, and then, “Go sleep off the hangover. You’ll need your strength come evening.”

She returned to the bedroom, because compliance with Beyard’s requests would be the easiest way to get what she wanted, but she didn’t sleep, didn’t even make the attempt. Her head was still fuzzy, and though it was difficult to focus on processing the pieces of information
that made up the puzzle of the past week, her mind replayed endless loops of conversations and events and cogitated over Miles Bradford and what had happened to him.

F
RANCISCO CAME WHILE
it was still light. He carried a backpack and handed her a smaller one. “Can you carry it?” he asked.

“What’s in it?”

“Just a few things I don’t want the bastards to get their hands on when they loot the place.”

The trek to the ship took them away from the coast via a faint path that wound steeply upward. Heading into the lush volcanic jungle, the trail skirted whatever habitations dotted the coastline and snaked around behind them. Francisco broke the path ahead, and the outline of his body, the smell of the wet earth, the pack on her back, and the sucking sound of footsteps in the silence were all a flashback in living color that brought with it the long-unfamiliar sensation of home.

The path curved down to the coast almost as quickly as it ascended, and near the waterline Beyard uncovered a hidden dinghy. They shoved the small boat forward and climbed inside. The trawler sat in deep water off the coast, and they boarded from a ladder off the side. By the time Beyard hoisted the dinghy and brought it over the deck, the sun had set and darkness covered the water.

The ship was larger than his last. As with his previous vessel, Munroe knew that the rusted and nondescript exterior was a well-disguised shell for a state-of-the-art home on the water. Beyard led her from the deck to the living quarters below.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“Impressive.”

“It’s a former Ukrainian fishing trawler, originally built for a crew of fifteen. Doesn’t look anything like what it used to.”

“I can imagine,” she said. She walked from room to room, peering inside each one. They were small and compact, every space taken advantage of, and some had signs of having been recently occupied. “Where’s your team?”

“Around.”

“On the ship?”

He shook his head. “We will rendezvous. With all the oil-related movement going on in Equatorial Guinea, it’s been more difficult to work. But there are ways. And other businesses.”

“You don’t worry about leaving your ship unattended while you’re ashore?”

“I don’t often do it,” he said. “I usually take a fast boat to the island and leave the trawler with my crew, but no, I don’t worry. We’re in the middle of nowhere—who’s going to mess with it? The local fishermen know to leave well enough alone, and if someone who knew what he was doing did find their way onboard … well, you know how it goes—I’ve got it covered.” He stopped and opened a door to a small cabin, reached in, and turned on the light. “This one’s yours.”

“Where will you be?” she asked.

“Down the hall or up in the pilothouse.” He jabbed his thumb in both directions. “The phone is also in the pilothouse. I’ll take you there once you’re settled.”

She stepped inside the cabin to look around, and the door shut behind her. Only when she reached to reopen it did she realize that there was no handle and no way to get out.

M
ILES
B
RADFORD STOPPED
and turned in a slow, dazed circle, taking in the chaos of the living room, where books and glass shards littered the floor. The coffee table was overturned. There was a crack in the mirror over the mantel and a hole next to the entertainment center where he’d put his fist through the drywall. He stared at his hand and wiped at blood that trickled from two of his knuckles.

The situation felt better now that he’d destroyed something.

There were no words for this. So much work down the goddamn drain. He’d played out any number of scenarios in his head along the way to finding Emily, but losing track of Munroe wasn’t one of them. He’d seethed during the entire trip back to the United States, rage pressing against cracks in his resolve, looking for an escape valve, until it finally exploded in the seclusion of his home. Bradford kicked again at the sofa, then stopped and shook out his arms and shoulders. Enough.

He glanced again at the surrounding mess, sighed, pulled out his cell phone, and dialed. It had been a long while since he’d last had to call in the housekeeper to clean up after an outburst. She in turn would telephone her husband, and together they would put the place back in order, patch up the wall, and by the time he returned tonight, only the smell of fresh paint would be left as testament to the lapse in exercised calm. Bradford stepped over a lamp and checked his watch.

An hour to catch the flight to Houston.

B
RADFORD STROLLED THROUGH
the hushed corridors of Titan’s headquarters. The corporate staff either ignored him or pretended not to see him, and a nod at Burbank’s assistants was enough to gain access to the boss’s office.

Bradford opened the door and, seeing Burbank, stopped midstep. Titan’s driving force sat hunched over the desk at the opposite end of the room, fists tight and body curled, obviously unaware of Bradford’s having entered. In the awkwardness of the moment, Bradford half turned to leave, then paused and remained transfixed, watching the silent emotional struggle until the moment turned painfully long.

He rapped softly on the doorframe, and when Burbank raised his head and gave a wan smile, Bradford said, “Hey,” and stepped into the room.

Burbank straightened, stood, and walked across the distance, his face shifting from stricken to calm as he went. He clasped Bradford’s hand warmly and with his voice cracking said, “Miles, what the hell happened?”

Bradford shrugged, and his shoulders slumped as if the air had been let out of him. Burbank stood motionless, and neither man spoke, as though they shared an unbearable burden that would only grow heavier with words.

Finally Burbank nodded in the direction of the sofa and said, “Come, let’s sit down.” He poured a drink from the wet bar, handed it to Bradford, then sat opposite him with his elbows on his knees. “I haven’t slept since I got your call,” he said. “Seriously, what the hell happened? What more have you found out about Emily? What about Michael?”

Bradford gulped down the contents of the glass, put it on the table, and with deliberation said, “Honestly, Richard, I don’t fucking know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know? How could you not know?”

“One minute we’re following a logical trail to the mainland, next minute—poof, Michael’s gone and I’m persona non grata.”

The two men sat in silence for several more minutes before Burbank spoke. “Miles, I apologize. I’ve been so focused on this thing with Emily. I just … Listen, are you okay?”

Bradford nodded and stared at the glass on the table. “Yeah, I’m fine. We were close, so goddamn fucking close.” His eyes shifted to Burbank. “The answers are there, Richard. I can feel it.”

Burbank drew a long, deep breath and shifted back in his seat. “You really think there’s hope?”

“More than we’ve had since the beginning.”

“That’s the difference between us,” Burbank said. “For four years I’ve been tormented by not knowing, and now that I finally have some sense of closure, I can grieve and let it go. But you, you push for more.”

Bradford sighed. “I’ve already explained it, Richard. Even if Michael was wrong about the death certificate, you’re the closest you’ve ever been to getting answers. Real answers. Real closure. Not this ‘never really knowing for sure’ thing. I was right about bringing Michael in, and I’m right about this.”

“You’d return to Malabo?”

Bradford straightened so that he sat upright. “No, the mainland. We were headed to Bata when Michael disappeared.”

“This being persona non grata, it won’t be a problem?”

“There are ways around it.”

Burbank took a deep breath. “Miles, I’m conflicted. If you think there’s hope of finding answers, then of course I want them, but not at the expense of losing another person. If Emily did disappear in Equatorial Guinea, and now Michael …”

“That’s the other thing,” Bradford said. “I’ll be tracking down Michael first.”

“Her body?”

“The woman.”

“But you said she’s dead.”

“It’s what I was told, yes.”

Burbank said nothing, and Bradford continued. “That woman has got insane survival instincts. If she’s alive, and I’m certain she is, she’s going to be pissed off and heading for the mainland. I need to be there.”

“Assuming she’s alive—which, no offense, after everything you’ve told me, I find difficult to believe—there’s no way to know what she’ll do. You’re wasting your time, my friend,” Burbank said, and then stopped. “That is, unless you know something I don’t and you’re holding out on me.”

Bradford shook his head. “Research and gut instinct.”

Burbank stared toward the plate-glass windows. “I don’t know, Miles, it’s a stretch. It’s really a stretch—another futile pursuit, except this time I risk losing a good man for nothing.”

“With or without you, I’m going back. I’d rather have your support.”

Burbank’s focus returned to Bradford. “If you’re determined to go, then of course you have my backing, but I’d rather you not. I have the closure I need, so there’s no reason left, certainly no reason for you to put your life at risk.”

“Come on, Richard, you can’t be serious.”

“I am serious. I’m emotionally exhausted. I’ve been riding this roller coaster long enough. You want to go, you go—I’ll have my office sort out the details.” Burbank’s face grew vacant, and his gaze returned to the plate-glass windows. “And be honest, we both know there’s a chance you won’t be coming home.”

Bradford said nothing, and Burbank sighed the deep exhale of defeat.

“Before you go,” he said, “get what you’ve seen and heard down in writing. The details you’ve uncovered—Michael’s disappearance, the government officials and the death certificate—everything you’ve told me and anything else you remember. Consider it your parting gift should you never return.”

Bradford nodded, and Burbank picked up the phone and, after a brief conversation with his lawyer, returned it to the cradle. “He’s got time. You can see him on your way out.” And then, after a pause, “So what happens next?”

“I find Michael.”

“You’re so sure she’s alive?”

“Enough to bank on it,” Bradford said.

“And you can find her?”

Bradford gave a soft smile. “Yeah. That I can do.”

F
rom within the pilothouse, Francisco Beyard stared out over the trawler’s foredeck, arms crossed, motionless, except for his eyes, which scanned the steel gray of the ocean. He leaned over the console, punched coordinates into the ship’s navigation system, and felt the vibrational shudder of course correction down to the core of his soul.

Nine years and she’d come back into his life as suddenly as she’d left it.

Nine fucking years since he’d traced her to the murky water of Douala’s port.

There had been no warning, no indication. Just there. Or not. No good-byes, no thanks-for-all-the-memories, no fuck-all-of-you-and-your-despicable-existence. Just a vanishing, leaving him in agony while he spent two months of nausea and sleepless nights putting the pieces of the puzzle together; maddening days following a nonexistent trail; coming at last to the dead end of the freighter and the weathered deckhand with his stories of knife fights and linguistic skill and of the boy, Michael, who could only have been Essa.

He had stood helpless and transfixed, watching the
Santo Domingo
shrink into the distance, the final tie to her severed. And there, with
Valencia, Spain, whispered into the wind, the trail ended with no way to follow it further.

He had paced the docks, convincing himself that he didn’t care, reminding himself that he’d been doing just fine before she’d entered his life.