Chapter 18

Logan clicked the stop button on his laptop and the video froze on a final frame. He’d just finished watching an eight-minute clip extracted from a much longer address Allesandro Bortolotti had given at a rally in Budapest last winter. The image on his screen depicted a man with his mouth wide open in a moment of fury, his closed fist pumped high in the air—a gesture repeated by everyone in the crowd pressing up against the stage.

Thousands of people had attended the gathering in Hero’s Square to hear him and other neofascists from Eastern Europe applaud the besieged Nazi soldiers who escaped from the Russian-encircled city at the end of World War II. Almost all were dressed in black and carried flags depicting various far-right movements as they marched in honor of National Socialist “heroes,” while perpetrating the lie that the holocaust was nothing but a fabrication of far-left Jewish sympathizers.

Bortolotti’s message was passionate yet simple. It called for a return to the principle of “blood and soil”—blut und boden in German, and sangue e terra in Italian. The slogan initially was used to evoke the idea of a purified “Aryan” race ruling over the land that was their God-given birthright. Stealing directly from Heinrich Himmler’s playbook, he laid into the immigrant parasites who had swarmed throughout all of Europe, and were responsible for the near-extinction of its culture, its values, and its very identity.

Logan could not possibly understand the language, but subtitles at the bottom of the video translated the fiery rhetoric that had caused the crowd to erupt with cheers. “We must not remain docile while those in power continue to corrupt, and be corrupt,” he exhorted the throng. “We are the people in the streets, the people in the markets and the factories and the mines. We are the workers who see our jobs being stolen by outsiders, populating our cities and towns, and spreading their foreign ideas and their alien gods. Those intruders are not us. They do not represent who we are, nor what we stand for. It is a full-fledged invasion, and we must stop it now, before our blood is corrupted and we no longer have a homeland. We must achieve victory at any cost. Violentiam. We must assume power above all else. Valeo. And we must tear apart their plot to destroy our way of life. The very plot to destroy who we are. Diripio. ViValDi.”

The man’s planning a Goddamned coup, Logan thought. Fucking lunatic.

His hotel room was small, but he still had to stand up and cross the room to retrieve the bottle of Montalcino he’d purchased at the corner store. It came with a screw cap, which he twisted off and then poured a healthy amount into a glass he’d found—and thoroughly washed—in the minuscule bathroom. He took a tentative sip before he sat back down; at six Euros he’d expected it to be the equivalent of Italian rotgut, but instead was surprised how smooth it tasted going down: cherries and cranberries, with an underlying layer of vanilla and a hint of earthiness.

He picked up his phone and dialed a number he’d been given two days ago by a friend who worked in the Georgetown University Department of Theology, and who had helped him out on a religious ethics story a while back. The number was for the direct cell of a retired G.U. professor and provost, a specialist in Catholic systematic theology and expert on ecumenical dialogue and biblical hermeneutics. Whatever they were. His most recent book on the role of the Church in the Italian government had won him the Pulitzer Prize, and he now divided his time between Bethesda and an apartment just north of the Vatican.

Logan let the phone ring and ring, figured it eventually would just go to voicemail. Eventually there was a click on the other end and someone answered, “This is David Vaughan. Whoever you are, how the fuck did you get this number?”

“No one followed me,” Phythian assured the Swede with the blonde man-bun sitting across from him in a booth in the Hypermarché food court. Just like in the movies, Sten Gustafsson-Jeglum had sent him scurrying from the blue line to the red line to the green, eventually directing him to a newly constructed station way the hell out in the working-class suburb of Aubervilliers.

“How can you be sure?”

“Over the years I developed a knack for these things.”

“Can’t ever be too careful,” Sten said, his eyes nervously darting from right to left.

They were seated at a small Formica-topped table near the rear of a pizza joint. Sten was positioned with his back to the wall so he could see anything or anyone out of the ordinary, either coming or going. Phythian had arrived at their rendezvous first and had ordered a glass of Beaujolais before selecting a table and sitting down. Predictably, Sten had picked a different one, insisting it provided a cleaner escape route if either of them had to make a fast move.

“This is your life?” Phythian asked, using his hands to indicate that he meant this entire way of living on the lam, paranoid and suspicious and distrustful. “Always looking over your shoulder, I mean.”

“Not much different from yours, I suspect,” Sten said.

“When I’m not on the move, my surroundings couldn’t look more different.” His mind briefly drifted to the herd of Masai giraffes he’d watched grazing in an acacia grove not far from his secluded camp the evening before he’d left on this trip. An itinerary that had included a brief check-in at an island off the coast of Scotland before his flight to Cyprus. “But you’re right: freedom comes at a steep price.”

“And a lot of powerful people don’t appreciate it when freedom has the upper hand.”

“Or when pirates hack into their computers and hold them for ransom.”

“In our diseased world there are many variations of justice,” the Swede said.

“Certainly not to be confused with justification,” was Phythian’s retort.

At that moment two men in long, dark coats appeared at the edge of the food court. Sten’s eyes shifted from one of them to the other, then darted to the emergency exit. Eventually the two men dropped into a booth and started talking in hushed tones, and when Sten was satisfied they were not there for him, he drew his gaze back to Phythian.

“But you did not come all this way to engage me in a discussion of ethics and morality,” he said. “As I recall, you said this was about our mutual friend, Gabrielle Lamoines.”

“Yes, I did,” Phythian agreed, his eyes lingering on the two newcomers a moment. “It appears you figured quite prominently in her life.”

“And you want to know if I figured just as prominently in her death.”

Phythian shook his head and said, “You didn’t kill her. I already know that. But you’re just as concerned as I am about who did, and you may possess information that could provide answers to both of us. You also rightly believe that I might prove to be a safer partner than the police in bringing her killer to justice. Of which you speak so highly.”

Sten appeared to bristle at the jibe, tried not to let it show. “As I mentioned earlier, I know a great deal about you, Mr. Phythian. In fact, I ran a deep dive into your life.”

“As I’m doing with you right now.”

Sten shot him a wary look, but didn’t let his words interrupt his train of thought. “You worked for the Greenwich Global Group,” he said.

“Past tense,” Phythian replied.

“The most dangerous man alive.”

“The file still says that?”

“Over a hundred kills.”

“I lost track years ago.”

“But they didn’t. And that’s why they tried to kill you.”

“They did that because I went off-script and facilitated the death of a pervert,” Phythian corrected him. “The G3 didn’t appreciate it when their contractors went rogue on them.”

“Whatever,” Sten said, rolling his eyes. “Your file also includes a lot of bullshit about noetic sciences, intuitive reasoning, and mental visualizing. All of which is referred to as an exceptional extrasensory skillset. Quote-unquote.”

“But, as you said, bullshit.”

The Swede grinned at that, and said, “I’m a strict empiricist, Mr. Phythian. I deal in facts. Bits and bytes, zeroes and ones. I like science and certainty and things that are beyond a reasonable doubt. So go ahead and prove to me that you can do what your Greenwich dossier says you can do.”

Phythian couldn’t help but return the smile as he thought back to all the demonstrations he’d been obliged to give to cynical feds and academics and intelligence officers who doubted the truth about his unique abilities.

“The old dog and pony show,” he replied.

“Show me what you’ve got,” the Swede pressed him.

Phythian exhaled a deep breath out of tedium, then lifted his glass to his lips and drained it. “All right, if you insist,” he finally said, clearing his throat. “It took you just under an hour to drive here from your country house near the town of Ajou, out in Normandy. More of a chateau, really, a property you inherited when your parents were killed in the Madrid train bombing. You call this place La Maison de Quantum, because the third floor houses the servers and uplinks that keep your illegal hacking organization running. That third floor—the quantum core—can only be accessed via a steel reinforced door, secured by both an optical scanner and a six-digit electronic lock. The combination to that lock is 2-9-3-2-8-1. The number has no meaning in your life, just a random series you selected.”

Sten sat there across the table from him without reacting for a good ten seconds—hard to do, since he was experiencing a complex rush of anger, curiosity, mania, and disbelief. “Very impressive,” he finally said. “And, I concede, very dangerous in the wrong hands.”

“Even the right ones,” Phythian said, nodding slowly. “Now will you trust me, or do you need more proof? Such as what you were doing the evening before last, just before midnight.”

Sten cocked his head, still in denial over the display of extrasensory ability he had just experienced. “As I said, very impressive. But what I really want to know is what you need me for. If you have access to everything in my head, why bother asking questions?”

“No bother, really, and I’ve come to enjoy the sport of it,” Phythian replied. “I can find my way into every one of your thoughts and memories—millions of them—just about any time I want. But just like one of your precious computers, that information doesn’t mean shit if there isn’t some sort of app than can make some order out of it. There are several ways to do that, some much more convenient than others. And verbal communication tends to be the most efficient pathway to comprehension.”

“But…what you just did, about the house and the server room and the entry code. I didn’t tell you any of that.”

“Not in actual words. But your brain put it in a structured order anyway, probably because it was top of mind, and something you really didn’t want me to know. Just like trying not to think of something will always make you think of it, like the time when you were twelve and your cousin walked in on you fantasizing over the pages in the Miss Mary catalog, right? Once it gets stuck there in the forefront of your mind, it’s almost impossible to unstick it.”

Sten started to object but saw there was no point, so he just nodded slowly, resigned himself to accept what Phythian was telling him. What he had just witnessed contradicted every empirical cell in his body, but there was no other way the freak could have known about La Maison de Quantum, or the entry code…or the lingerie pics.

“Does it work in every language?” he finally asked.

“Language is immaterial, for complex reasons that would take the rest of the night to explain.”

“I stand corrected,” Sten Gustafsson-Jeglum said. “You really do learn something new every day.”

“And now I want to learn a bit about Gabrielle.”

“Go ahead—ask questions, if you really must.”

Phythian watched as a nerve in Sten’s upper lip twitched, most likely because he had no idea which of his thoughts and memories the freak of nature sitting across from him might pull out of his brain. “Let’s start with your appointment with Gabrielle,” he said. “The one she broke off with you yesterday, because she was going to Rome.”

“How do you know about—” Sten cut himself off; there was no point in denying it. “Just tell me what you think you know,” he said.

“I know it had to do with some sort of hand-off that was to occur later, near a sculpture in Jardin des Tuileries,” Phythian replied. “Tell me about that.”

“It was something she was helping me with,” the Swede said. “A memory card that was stolen from a bank based in Luxembourg.

“And worth a lot of money, I would guess.”

“Your guess would be correct, but it’s not about the money. Never has been. It’s about the free flow of information in a global society, where justice depends on open communication and the dissemination of truth.”

“To quote your own words, bullshit.”

“Don’t ask a question if you can’t accept the answer,” Sten said with a sneer.

“Acceptance isn’t the issue here. My questions just make it easier to get at the truth.”

Sten Gustafsson-Jeglum’s face lost several shades of color as he again realized that Phythian was still in there, rummaging around in his private thoughts and memories. “Gabrielle liked to live on the sharper edge of life,” he allowed.

“Was she aware of all the larcenous things you’re involved with?”

“I think I want to end this conversation right now—”

“Give it a rest, Sten. I’m not interested in whatever your game is, other than Gabrielle’s involvement in it,” Phythian assured him. “Doesn’t matter to me how many corporate servers you crack, or what computers you hold up for ransom. Most of them probably deserve it. But I do believe that something our mutual friend either knew or did resulted in someone wanting her dead. And you believe it, too.”

“I don’t give a damn about beliefs, just facts,” Sten snapped. “Like I said, zeroes and ones. But since you insist on doing this, here’s the deal. I met Gabrielle a couple years ago in Prague. She was covering an IMF meeting, and I was there trying to hack their servers. Not being French I had no idea who she was, and she didn’t give a shit what I did, or why I was there. But she was lonely, and…well, it was only after we got to really know each other, that we spoke about our respective modes of employment.”

“Do you know what she was working on most recently, anything that might have caused someone to kill her?”

Sten frowned, trying to keep his thoughts focused on what was being asked, and nothing more; definitely no mental wandering. “Anything and everything, really,” he said. “Bank fraud, pharmaceutical cover-ups, oil greed, government corruption, the military complex, political scandals, terrorism. Gabrielle was nonpartisan when it came to poking her nose into things.”

“But nothing specific that you knew about these last few days.”

“I’m sorry, no,” Sten insisted, another lie, even though there was no point.

“Tell me about Xenon Gorski,” Phythian pressed, changing the subject.

Fuck, this bastard is good, Sten thought, also thinking, I’ve got to end this, get away from him now, before he raids my entire brain. “I never actually met him, but he’s a Polish dude who was helping Gabrielle with something,” he said.

“The card from the bank in Luxembourg you mentioned, right?”

Feeling a sense of total defeat settling in, he nodded. “Xenon called me a half dozen times last night, wondering if I’d heard from her. The last time, he seemed to be freaking out from fear. Then he stopped calling altogether.”

“Do you know where this Gorski fellow lives?”

“Like I said, I never met him. I know Gabrielle did, but it’s too late to ask her.”

“Yes, it is.” Phythian studied his empty glass, decided it best to keep it that way. He’d already absorbed enough information from Sten for one evening, and he needed to keep his brain in a reasonably functioning order so as to process it all later.

“Are we quite through here?” Sten asked, as if reading Phythian’s mind, for a change.

“I believe so,” Phythian said, but made no motion to stand up. “I want to thank you for meeting with me, and I would suggest it would be best if this visit never officially happened.”

“For both of us. And don’t take this the wrong way, but I hope I never have the chance to ever see you again.”

“Understandable.” The Swede started to collect his pizza trash, but Phythian put out a hand to stop him. “One more thing. Tell me about Allesandro Bortolotti.”

Sten shot him an annoyed look and said, “I really have to go—”

“No you really don’t, not for a couple minutes. But just to help your memory along, Gabrielle mentioned him to you the last time you talked.”

The Swede hesitated, his eyes carrying the look of a chess player whose king has just been mated. “Since you’re asking me about her, you probably already know.”

“Come on—don’t make me poke through your brain any more than I already have. It’s not a very enjoyable place, and you really don’t want me going there.”

Sten appeared to cringe at the prospect of prolonging such an intrusion. “All I know is Gabrielle was working on something that had to do with the rise of right-wing nationalism in Europe,” he said. “She was always chasing this lead or that clue, and then a couple weeks ago she blurted out the name.”

“Bortolotti.”

The Swede nodded; there was no use lying about it. “She asked me to put out feelers, learn what I could about him. Who he was, where his funding was coming from. What his end game was.”

“And did you?”

“Like still waters, my connections run deep.”

“And what did you learn?” Phythian asked him.

“Well, since you’re asking me, and not just pulling it out of my head as if you were pulling weeds, it appears he—Bortolotti—has a major thing planned.”

“What sort of major thing?”

“If I knew that, we wouldn’t be sitting here,” Sten said. “And Gabrielle might still be alive.”