SHIRLEY, NEW YORK
Rick kept his voice calm but Laura could tell he was furious that she’d made reservations for both of them.
“I thought we’d agreed to discuss this when I got back.”
“And here I am, ready to discuss,” she said in her sweetest, most reasonable voice.
“But you’ve already made the reservations.”
Same voice: “I can cancel mine if you convince me otherwise.”
“But—” His cell gave off a by now familiar vibrating hum. Checking the display, he said, “Hmmm, that was fast.”
“What was fast?”
“I put in a call to one of the few people in the Company who remembers me. Asked him to check out Jeukens—any known criminal associates, things like that. He’s got access to databases we can’t get near.”
“And?”
“Texted me with a link to a public website in Mozambique. I’ll read it off so we can check it out on your big screen there.”
As Rick dictated, Laura typed in the URL—a word she didn’t understand followed by .gov.mz—then hit enter. Text flashed onto the screen, but all in Portuguese. She clicked the translate button.
“Looks like some sort of a police blotter,” Rick said.
A subhead read “Maxixe, MZ” and was dated this morning.
“Where’s Maxixe?” Laura said.
“You’re the map savant.”
“Somewhere in Mozambique is all I can say. Beyond that…”
The gist of the entry was that the body of a local helicopter pilot named Abilio Batalheiro had been found on a Maxixe street. Cause of death unknown at the time. The police weren’t sure if it was an accident or foul play, but a South African named Marten Jeukens was the last person to engage Batalheiro’s services and was being sought as a person of interest.
The bottom of the article listed Lieutenant Souza Mugabe of the Maputo police as the person to contact with any information.
Rick straightened. “I wonder if I should call this guy and ask if anything’s changed since this went up.”
“Well, unless he works the graveyard shift, chances aren’t good he’ll be available.” When he gave her a questioning look, she tapped her watch. “It’s seven hours later over there.”
“And you know this because you’re a map savant?”
She shrugged. “I noticed it’s the same time zone as Israel, and I’ll never forget Israel.”
“Ah, yes. We’ll always have Gan Yosaif.”
Right. Fond memories of four bullet-riddled bodies.
She did a quick search for Maxixe and found it lay about three hundred miles up the coast from Maputo.
“A long way from Cape Town, and even Johannesburg. Are we sure it’s the same Marten Jeukens?”
Rick shrugged. “Can’t say. Doesn’t seem like a common name, but for all I know, Jeukens is the Jones or Smith of South Africa. That report didn’t happen to post his birthdate, did it?”
“I doubt it,” she said, switching tabs, “but I’ll check.” No, no birthdate listed. She was about to click off when she noticed a .jpg link. “Hey, looks like they’ve got a photo.”
She clicked it and a shot of a bald, bearded man in a safari jacket filled the screen. The caption said, Marten Jeukens. It appeared to have been taken in a hotel lobby. The photo was high-def with good lighting; so, even with a trace of motion blur, it gave a clear look at him.
She studied his face, saying, “You think he’s the same guy? He looks different. I mean, he’s still got the shaved head and the beard, but is that the same nose?”
Rick said nothing, so she added, “And didn’t his eyes look different on his LinkedIn photo?”
Still no answer so she glanced over her shoulder. Rick’s face had gone white and his mouth was hanging open.
“What’s wrong?”
“Jesus H. Christ!” he said, pointing. “Keith! That’s Keith!”
Laura looked at the screen again. She’d seen photos of Keith, watched his TV interviews, and this wasn’t … Granted, he’d sported a full head of hair and had been clean shaven at the time, but this man was much thinner and …
“No. It can’t be.”
“The hell it can’t! He’s lost a lot of weight and shaved his head, but I know my brother, and that’s Keith!”