The Informationist: A Thriller (21 page)

She took a step toward him. “I was willing to pay you well, but obviously money no longer interests you.” Another step forward, casual and slow.

Her hands were an exaggerated supplement to her words. “I need to travel to Mongomo, and I would like you to come with me. Tell me what does interest you—name it and I can find a way to get it for you.” Nearly close enough to reach him.

“I spent two months searching for you,” he said. “I had no idea what happened to you, didn’t know if you were dead or taken for ransom
or just plain lost.” His voice trailed off, and then he jerked his head up, eyes dark and angry. “Two months, Vanessa. Do you have any idea what kind of hell that was?”

She reached out to softly touch his forearm, and in the same second that the warmth of her hand touched his skin and his face shifted to follow the movement of her fingers, she slammed a fist into his jaw. The force of the impact sent him reeling backward, and she moved with him, landing a second blow and then a third, forcing him against the wall.

He held his jaw and shook his head, eyes wide. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth and painted his fingers. Before he could react, she stood in front of him and pulled the hairbrush apart, holding the blade inches from his face. “I could have killed you,” she said. “Never forget that.” She snapped the pieces back together and dropped the brush on the floor.

And then she softened her stance, lowered her voice. “I meant what I said, Francisco. I’ve got to get to Mongomo, and I don’t know anyone who knows that backwater hellhole better than I do, except for you. Now that I’ve found you, I’m not going anywhere.”

Silence filled the hallway.

Slowly Beyard slid down the wall to the floor, one knee bent, the other leg stretched across the corridor, his shoulders slumped, a hand over his eyes, and he wept in silent shudders. Munroe stood over him in shocked horror, and it was then that she understood.

She slid down beside him and put her head on his shoulder, and the past came flooding back, the memories of so many events and the clues she had missed while she was consumed with avoiding Willem.

“Francisco,” she said, “I am so sorry. I had no idea.”

He put his arm over her shoulders and pulled her to him, held her so tightly she would be bruised in the morning. The heat of his breath reached her hair and neck, and the remnants of tears touched her skin. She relaxed into him. Time passed, and the display of emotion faded. Control returned, and Beyard said, “Why did you do it? Why did you disappear like that?”

“I had to escape who I was becoming,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

“You could have told me, could have said good-bye, let me know you were okay.”

“I’m not saying what I did was right, but you know as well as I do that if I’d told you I was leaving, you would have begged me to stay.”

“Every night you came to me in my dreams,” he said. “My greatest fear was that Pieter had come back for you to spite me. Every night I was reminded of the times you’d asked me to send him away and I’d refused.” Beyard’s voice caught and he breathed deeply, then continued. “When I learned that you’d left Africa, I hated you. I hated you for the sickness in my gut that followed me through every waking moment. And strangely, I was also happy, because I knew you were alive and that you had made the decision yourself, that it wasn’t Pieter who’d done it.”

“Willem is dead,” Munroe said. “That night when the two of you fought, I followed him to the boats. I slit his throat and fed him to the jungle.”

Beyard let her go, then pushed her back and turned her so that she faced him. His expression shifted from the open mouth of shock to a disbelieving smile.

“Why would you do that?” he said finally.

“Because he was a sadistic psychopath and by killing him I not only avenged myself for daily torture and rape, but I saved his future victims from the same or worse. It was his boat that I took back to Cameroon—I scuttled it just south of Douala. It’s probably still there.” She paused. “I had to leave, Francisco, or become the monster that he was.”

Beyard grew quiet for a moment while the full impact of what she’d said filled the silence of the corridor, and then he pulled her close again and held her tightly. “I didn’t know, Essa, I swear it. Looking back, it should have been so obvious, but I didn’t see it.”

“I know,” she said. “And I hid it from you because I knew that if you were aware, you would have tried to protect me and gotten killed in the process.”

“He told me he enjoyed sparring with you because you forced him to stay sharp. He said you were as gifted with a knife as you were with languages.”

“Or as cursed,” she said.

“Do you still carry them?”

“The knives? No. It’s too easy to kill when a knife is in my hands.” She looked at her palms, felt the permanent macula of blood, and clenched her fists. “I still train to keep my reflexes sharp, but even training knives are dangerous in the wrong hands. When I fight, even in practice, I’m overpowered by the urge to survive, to kill and win. Willem is not the only one dead by my hands.”

“Last night I saw the scars on your body.”

“They’re from Willem. All but two or three.”

Beyard said nothing, just held her tighter and then whispered back, “Promise me that when this is over, when it’s time for you to go again, that you will let me know where you are and of your decisions.”

“Perhaps,” she said.

T
HAT NIGHT SHE
slept on a settee that doubled for half of the seats at the small galley table. Beyard had offered her any cabin she wanted, including his own, and she had declined. In the morning after breakfast, he brought her to the pilothouse, showed her their coordinates, and answered her questions about the ship’s navigational equipment. When she was satisfied, he pointed her to the satellite phone and left.

It was two o’clock in the morning in Dallas, and the champagne in Breeden’s voice was flat until she heard Munroe speak.

“Michael! Where are you? We heard from Miles that you were dead, that you’d drowned and your body had washed up on shore.”

Munroe opened her mouth and choked. Then, gathering focus, said, “Miles Bradford is alive? You spoke with him?”

“Yes and no. I mean, yes, he is alive. I haven’t spoken with him personally. I got a call from Richard Burbank about two days ago. He’s taken Bradford off the case.”

“You can tell Burbank that the news of my death is greatly exaggerated and that I’ll be continuing the assignment as contracted.”

“To what intent? He says there’s a death certificate.”

Munroe rubbed a hand over her eyes. “Yes, that’s true up to a point.”

“So it’s true, then? Emily is dead?”

“The certificate is worthless, except to prove that someone doesn’t want me searching for Emily. There’s more to the story, and I’m building the puzzle.”

“As far as Burbank is concerned, the case has been closed.”

“That’s his call. If he wants to wrap it up, he owes me an additional two-point-five million. I’m going on with it whether he pays further expenses or not. Someone tried to kill me, and I’m not stopping until I get to the bottom of it.”

“I’ll contact him first thing in the morning. Do you have a number where I can get back to you? Where are you? Do you need help? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Munroe said. “I’m borrowing a phone, and I’m staying tucked away until I can sort out my options, but I’ll give you a call back in a few days.”

“Do you need anything? Is there anything I can do?”

“Just make sure Burbank gets the message, and if he closes the assignment, make sure I get paid. I’ll be in touch.”

Munroe resisted the urge to slam the phone into the cradle. Miles Bradford: alive and back in the United States. Vanessa Michael Munroe: drowned, washed up on shore. Richard Burbank: closing the assignment because of an alleged death certificate. What the hell? Miles Bradford had a lot of explaining to do, and if he had anything to do with her night out on the water, she’d be going after him next.

She dialed again.

“Logan, it’s Michael.”

There was the sound of the phone being fumbled and then glass shattering and then Logan’s voice. “Holy shit, Michael! Kate told me you were dead. I’ve downed countless fifths in your memory. What the hell happened?”

“It’s a long story that I can’t get into right now, but I’m going to need your help. How soon can you work on a supply list?”

“I can start on it tomorrow. How big is it?”

“I’m not sure yet. I’ve got to discuss the job with a consultant, and I’ll get back to you. In the meantime contact Kate and tell her you have an order number coming up so she can get you the money. I’ve already spoken to her. She knows I’m alive and keeping the assignment open.”

“No problem,” he said, and then, “Listen, I know you can take care of yourself, but I’m worried about you. What’s this shit about you washing up on shore?”

“I’m not exactly sure,” she said, drawing each word out slowly. “But I will find out. I have a few things to sort through, and then I’ll get back with you—hopefully during your normal waking hours.”

“I was up,” he said, “drinking to your memory.”

“Thanks, Logan. Save it for the real thing.”

M
UNROE FOUND
B
EYARD
in the ship’s hold. Originally designed for icing and storing fish, it had been gutted and converted to dry storage and docking space for the fast boats. A long-hulled cigarette boat sat on a wheeled rack locked in place by bolts in the floor, and next to it was an empty rack, and above them two more. Beyard worked his way around several dozen wooden crates that sat on pallets on the opposite side of the hold.

She cleared her throat to announce her presence. “Where’s the shipment headed?” she asked.

He didn’t look up. “I don’t care, really,” he said, and bent down to tighten a winch. “Sierra Leone, Liberia, Nigeria—makes no difference.”

“It does to the people who end up at the other end of them.”

He found her eyes and gave her a wry smile. “Maybe we can discuss it over a bottle of cabernet and a game of chess.”

She held eye contact and cursed inwardly. How had she ever failed to miss that he was so goddamn charming? Her foot found the bottom rung of the railing, and she rested it there, leaning her forearms on the top rail. “When’s the drop?” she asked.

“Tomorrow night. We rendezvous with my team this afternoon to pick up what they’re bringing in, and then we head north for a handoff at sea. It’s a straightforward job with no slogging it through the bush. After that I’ll take you wherever you want to go.” He stopped and looked at her for a moment, then said quietly, almost as if begging, “Essa, I would really like it if you’d be by my side for the handoff.”

“Just like old times?”

“Just like old times,” he said.

“Who are we dealing with?”

“Nigerians.”

“Sure, I might even be useful.” And then, “Do you have some time free? I’d like to get your advice on a few things.”

“I’ll be in the pilothouse in half an hour. Meet me there.”

W
HEN SHE KNOCKED
on the door, he was bent over a series of charts that lay spread across a table braced against the wall. He slid the charts aside to make space for her, and the smile on his face said that he was genuinely happy to see her.

She sat on the edge of the table, dangling a leg over the side, and said, “How long is the list of people in this country with the power to have me dumped into the Atlantic?”

Beyard let out a low breath and leaned back in his chair. “It’s hard to say, really, without knowing who the men were that carried it out. If we assume that they were Angolans, then it would have to be someone within the presidential family, someone connected enough not to risk a similar fate if the president was displeased about it. If they were merely rank-and-file military, the main issue, I suppose, is who
you
are, who you’re connected to. If you don’t have any important connections, the list of who could do it grows exponentially longer.”

Munroe stared out the windows. The ship was surrounded by various shades of blue that stretched to the horizon, connecting in the far distance with the barely visible mountainous peaks of Bioko Island. She ran her fingers along the back of her neck. So many pieces of the puzzle and but for the central figure of Emily Burbank, none of them connected.

“What do you know about Titan Exploration?” she asked.

“Besides the inconvenience they’ve been to me, what’s to know?” He shrugged. “They’ve been around for the past four or five years, started as a small presence off the coast of Río Muni, and once they struck oil, the operation grew and has continued to grow ever since. They just finished bringing another offshore well online last month. A tanker shows up about once a week, fills, and goes.”

“The girl I’m trying to find is the daughter of Titan’s founder.”

Beyard sat quietly and tapped his pen against the table. “What was she doing in Mongomo? Why not Bata, why not Mbini?”

“I don’t think her travels here had anything to do with Titan. It seems to be coincidence.”

“Well, if she was connected to the captain of one of the oil firms and something happened to her here, I can see why someone in this country might not want you looking for her.”

“That doesn’t explain why I was followed upon arrival.”

“True.”

“And,” Munroe continued, “if someone in the government is covering up her disappearance, did that person even know who she was when whatever happened, happened?”

“Do you have a photo of her?” he asked.

“Not on me, but I can get one off the Internet if you have access.”

He pulled out a laptop and connected the modem through the phone. “It’s painfully slow.”

Munroe retrieved a page with Emily’s high-school photo, downloaded it, filled the screen with her face, and then turned it toward Beyard.

He sat quietly, staring at the picture. “I’ve seen her,” he said.

Munroe shook her head. “You’re messing with me, right?”

“No, I’m serious. It was just over three years ago at the Bar Central in Bata. Her hair was different, but it’s the same girl—same eyes, same nose. She was with a group of local men. Maybe there was another woman, I don’t remember. She was pregnant. At the time it struck me as odd. I couldn’t remember ever having seen a pregnant foreigner in Equatorial Guinea, and if I had, perhaps it was a Spaniard, but never a blond girl as white as she was. I must’ve been staring, because she turned to look at me. I smiled at her, and she smiled back.”