The Memory Collector (21 page)

Chira-Sayf. Where did that name come from?

Chira
wasn’t in her dictionary, but
chiral
was a chemistry term, relating to molecular structure and atomic mirror-imaging.
Sayf
was the transliterated spelling of the Arabic word for
sword
. Photos showed ancient scimitars whose blades shone with the luster of the knife Ian Kanan had flashed near her face.

She stared at the screen. Out back on the lawn, black wings fluttered and she heard a sharp
caw
.

Two crows were pecking at an object on the grass. She went outside, clapping her hands to shoo the birds away. They bustled into flight, leaving their prey limp and dismembered on the lawn.

She looked at it, puzzled.

They’d been tearing apart a little stuffed animal. It was a floppy emerald-green bear, about eight inches long. Its eyes hung by threads. The fabric was stained and slimy. Jo nudged it with the toe of her shoe. It looked as though it had been probed by aliens, with their most thorough tools and lubricants.

She heard the doorbell. Leaving the bear, she jogged inside to answer it. She opened the door and lowered her gaze six inches. Amy Tang looked like she had bitten into a sour green apple.

She handed Jo a photo. “From a CCTV camera at the marina.”

It showed a man, sopping wet, unlocking the door of an SUV.

Jo’s shoulders tightened. “It’s Kanan.”

“Thank you for the I.D. Now I can apply to a judge for a murder warrant.”

Jo looked up sharply. “Come in. Tell me.”

“A white male was found floating in the marina beside a yacht called
Somebody’s Baby
. Passerby saw a slick of bloody water, thought it was
Jaws,
and called in the cavalry. Only the victim didn’t have shark bites. He had a major abdominal stab wound.”

Jo led Tang down the hall to the living room. “What makes you think Kanan is involved?”

“‘Involved’? As in, stuck the victim like a pig?”

“Yes. As in.”

“Witness saw a man fitting Kanan’s description walking away from the slip, dressed in street clothes, soaking wet. He climbed into a red Navigator and pulled out like his hair was on fire.”

“Fitting Kanan’s description?” Jo said.

Tang handed her another photo. It showed Kanan standing at the open door of the SUV, bare-chested, tossing his wet shirt into the vehicle.

“And no,” Tang said, “I have no proof that Kanan stabbed the victim. But when a man walks away after a knife fight, it generally means he’s the winner.”

Jo examined the photo. Kanan looked strong and alert.

Tang glanced around the living room. “Nice digs.”

“Thanks. I inherited it.”

“Lucky you.”

“Tell it to my in-laws. The house was in Daniel’s family for a hundred years.”

Tang panned the room, taking in the red Egyptian rug, the Japanese watercolors, and the
Sopranos
box sets on the bookshelf.

“You have a Mafia fetish?”

“Psychiatrists all watch
The Sopranos.
It’s the shrink’s dream show.” Jo continued examining the photos of Kanan.

Tang arched an eyebrow. “You don’t believe Kanan could kill somebody? Want to see the body to compare the wound dimensions with the blade Kanan pulled on you?”

“I don’t need to see the body.”

“Right, you don’t do blood and guts. You just rip the lid off the psyche and catch the screaming meemies that fly out.”

“Didn’t catch these, apparently.”

Tang took the photos back. “Don’t feel morose. You’re a doctor. You’re trained to see him as a sick man, not a killer.”

Jo didn’t feel morose. She felt a liquid silver fear that seemed to roll across her skin like mercury. “I believe it. But I want to know what’s behind it. That might help us pinpoint his targets and shut him down.” She brushed her hair back from her forehead. “Have you identified the victim?”

Tang took out her notepad. “Ken Meiring.”

“Who was he?”

“We don’t know his connection to Kanan, but he has a record. Fraud, receiving stolen goods, and illegal weapons sales.” Tang’s expression was astringent. “He was a thief and a lowlife thug. And he was Kanan’s first target. Shall we connect the dots?”

“Was it his boat?”

“I doubt it. According to the records for the marina,
Somebody’s Baby
is owned by Chira-Sayf Inc.”

“What?”

“Yes. Curiouser and curiouser. It’s—” Tang looked out the bay window. “Isn’t that your neighbor?”

On the sidewalk outside, waving at them, stood Ferd.

Jo raised a hand in lukewarm response. “Don’t make any sudden moves. He’ll take it as an invitation and appear on the porch.”

“His monkey is more debonair than I imagined,” Tang said.

Mr. Peebles stood beside Ferd. He was wearing a tiny lampshade on his head like a fez.

“If I were you, I’d move. Leave everything in the house and go,” Tang said.

“Like any other neighborhood in this town would have fewer eccentrics?”

Ferd pointed at Jo’s front door and hustled toward it.

“Shoot. Hang on,” she said. When Ferd knocked, she opened the door just wide enough to see his face. “Hi. Sorry, I can’t talk right now.”

“I have a few quick questions about the monkey virus,” he said.

“Can I give you a call later?”

He rubbed his throat. “I’m worried. Could I catch it?”

“Dude, Mr. Peebles doesn’t have Congolese monkey virus. So, no.”

With a little shriek, the monkey darted between Ferd’s legs and through the doorway past Jo.

“Ferd, get him.”

Jo ran after the creature into the kitchen, with Ferd and Tang following. Mr. Peebles sprang onto the table, scattering her notes. He pulled open her satchel and began rooting through it.

Tang walked calmly to the table and nabbed him with a tube of lipstick in his hands. “You little larcenist.”

Ferd collected Jo’s notes from the floor. “You see how antsy he is?”

Mr. Peebles twisted the lipstick and ran it madly around his mouth. Tang tried to take it. He swiped it at her like a pale-pink switchblade.

“Look at him—he’s just not himself,” Ferd said.

“He’s exactly himself,” Jo said. “Ferd, he’s fine. You’re fine.”

Tang pried the lipstick from his fingers and held it out to Jo.

“Not even with tongs.” She got the wastebasket.

Tang tossed the lipstick inside and held Mr. Peebles out to his master, but Ferd had looked away. He was staring at Jo’s notes.

“Are you planning to invest in Chira-Sayf?” he said.

Jo took the notes from him. “No. And sorry, but that’s out of bounds.”

“You’re curious about the company’s name?” He pushed his glasses up his nose. “
Chirality
refers to the way sheets of carbon nanotubes can be folded.”

“Ah. Got it.”

“They’re grown at high temperatures, and depending on how, carbon nanotubes can be folded over, or rolled, or bent tip to tip. It’s like they have a certain spin or twist.”

“Thanks.” She thought about it. “Do you know anything about the company?”

“Not much. It handles a mix of civilian and military projects. Blue-sky stuff.” He tapped his fingertip against the printout, like a wood-pecker. “
Sayf
is an Arabic word for
sword
.”

Tang stepped closer. “Arabic? Strange choice for a Silicon Valley firm.” She eyed Jo. “No offense.”

“Don’t even start,” Jo said.

Tang enjoyed ribbing Jo about her pan-global heritage. Jo’s paternal grandfather was an Egyptian Christian. Her maternal grandmother was an army bride from Osaka. The rest of the family was Irish, loud, and argumentative. Sit everybody down for Christmas dinner, add pepper, and watch them blow. And while Jo loved her family, she didn’t want to get into a snarking match about the Middle East.

She knew too well that in the U.S., all things Arabic—even the language—could be seen as suspect. She saw no point in telling Tang that Copts in Cairo may have spoken Arabic for fourteen hundred years, but some Coptic Egyptians didn’t even regard themselves as having an Arabic heritage. They still referred to the Arab conquest of Egypt in the seventh century.

She let it go. “I’m a doctor, not a fighter. Let’s skip this.”

“Like I’d ever want to get on your bad side,” Tang said.

Ferd tapped the printout again. “The point is,
sayf
is a play on words here.”

“What do you mean?” Tang frowned at him, as if to say
Who appointed you the expert?
Mr. Peebles grabbed her collar and peeked down her sweater. She slapped his little hands.

Ferd held up the printout. “Damascus steel. It’s an ancient form of steel. Thousands of years old.”

“How do you know that?”

“My master’s is in computer programming, but my bachelor’s is in structural engineering. The thing is, Damascus steel isn’t made today. Because nobody knows how to do it.”

“What?” Jo said.

“Damascus steel is unusually strong, light, and supple. And it wasn’t made in Damascus, just crafted there. It originally came from India. Nobody knows how it was made. In hand-built furnaces, probably, and hammered out by craftsmen. It has a high carbon content.”

“Like a
katana,
” Jo said.

Ferd nodded. “But here’s the freaky thing. Damascus steel contains carbon nanotubes.”

“Seriously?” Jo said.

Tang looked skeptical. “Aren’t carbon nanotubes created under exotic laboratory conditions?”

“Yes. But electron microscopy shows that swords made from Damascus steel contain them. Nobody knows why. Maybe it had to do with the charcoal in the furnaces. Or the heat at which the steel was hammered out as it cooled.”

Tang stared at his Compurama name tag.
Hi, I’m Ferd
. “How do you know so much?”

He spread his hands. “Hobby. Message boards. World of Warcraft gamers discussions. I like this stuff.” He turned to Jo. “The point is,
chira
relates to nanotech. And
sayf
is obviously meant to indicate things
are
safe. Secure.”

“You’re saying Chira-Sayf’s business involves security,” Jo said.

Ferd nodded enthusiastically.

Jo took Mr. Peebles from Tang and handed him to Ferd. The monkey eyed her from under his tiny fez like an assassin in the souk.

“Thanks, Ferd. You’ve filled in some gaps in my understanding,” she said.

He beamed. “My pleasure.”

She nudged him out the door. When she returned to the kitchen, Tang’s brow crinkled.

“What else is bugging you?” Tang said.

“Chira-Sayf isn’t simply into security. They must have chosen
sayf
because their business involves weaponry.”

“Swords?”

“No. The Damascus saber and the daggers may be for display or may have been purchased to see if the steel could be reverse-engineered. The point is, Chira-Sayf just shut down a research facility in South Africa. Its nanotech work is weapons-related, and something’s gone wrong with it. And maybe because of that, Ian Kanan is on the street killing people.”

“You’re worried that Kanan was contaminated with some kind of experimental nanogunk.”

“It’s my number-one suspicion. As for Damascus steel, the real point is that scientists don’t understand everything about how carbon nanotubes behave.”

“Maybe nanogunk is what Kanan stole from Chira-Sayf’s South African lab. But the robbery went wrong, and he was contaminated.” Tang quieted for a moment. “What are you most afraid of?”

“That Kanan’s going to kill more people. With a knife, or a gun, or even with a touch. And I don’t think we have much time to stop him.”

She looked again at the CCTV photo of Kanan standing bare-chested by the open door of the Navigator. His face looked strained. She could see the writing that ran up his arms.

There were more words on his arms than she remembered seeing.

“Hang on. I think he’s written new messages on his skin.”

The photo was low resolution and the print was small. Jo got a magnifying glass and looked closer.

Her bright little fear grew claws and teeth. “Oh, no.”

Tang leaned in to see. “Christ.”

On Kanan’s left arm, the message Jo had seen only part of was now visible in its entirety.

“He’s got a countdown,” she said.

She looked at the clock on the wall. Saturday was less than twelve hours away.

16

S
tef Nivesen heard the bell over the 747’s P.A. system. She unhooked her five-point seatbelt and stood up.

“Stef?” Charlotte had a perplexed look on her face. “Where are you going?”

“To set up for the beverage service.”

“Are you barmy? We’ll be getting takeoff clearance any second.”

Stef glanced out the window in the exit door. They were on the taxiway, in line to take off.