The Egyptian (10 page)

The taxi was a Mercedes, the driver a greasy middle-aged man in a threadbare dinner jacket and Versace sunglasses. Grey managed to ask for the center, and the driver grunted and pulled away. As soon as they passed a security checkpoint the driver pushed a button, and a TV screen popped up in the center of the console. The driver lit a cigarette and selected a channel with blaring techno music and simulated interactive drag racing. Grey buckled his seatbelt.

The outskirts of Sofia passed by in a blur of gigantic billboards with alien script, bleak Soviet-spawned high rises, Skodas and Ladas and Volgas on the road and rusting in the weeds, the occasional BMW zipping by, and a cart and donkey. Where a farmer and his donkey were headed at midnight on an interstate, Grey had no idea.

Grey gave the driver the name of the downtown hostel he’d reserved on short notice, and the driver dropped him off in a deserted square showcasing a gloomy Romanesque cathedral. The driver said something incomprehensible, wagged his finger down one of the roads leading out of the square, and then drove off like he was coming out of a pit stop.

Grey shouldered his backpack and walked down the street the driver had indicated. An old man waiting in the darkness pointed to a ledger with Grey’s name on it and tried to take his backpack. Grey refused, and the man led him into a shabby lobby, then through a rabbit warren of long dim hallways.

Grey collapsed into his sagging twin bed and fell asleep to the grunts and murmurs of a couple in the next room. The intimacy of the sounds made him vaguely uncomfortable, but they also provided a connection, an umbilical cord to humanity in an unfamiliar land.

•  •  •

Grey woke refreshed. He showered in a closet with a showerhead, a drain, and a squeegee. He didn’t mind. He loved the randomness of travel, especially in those places where life was a bit more unpredictable.

He found a map of the city on the lobby wall, and showed the morose but English-speaking receptionist the address for Somax corporate headquarters. He could have jumped in a taxi, but he liked to familiarize himself with local transportation in case he needed it in a pinch. She wrote down the number of the bus that went to Boyana, the suburb housing Somax.

Sofia began to reveal herself as Grey walked to the Boyana bus stop. Grey’s first impression was of ridiculously wide Soviet boulevards, absurd monuments and block-long concrete buildings. But just off the boulevards another Sofia appeared, a labyrinth of leafy cobblestone streets and hidden squares, where dour old men sat on benches, sipping syrupy Bulgarian coffee and taking world-weary drags on cigarettes while they engaged in lively discussions.

He saw dirt-encrusted farmers at produce stands, begging gypsies, pop music blaring out of shops, shockingly beautiful women dressed to the nines, scowling men impersonating gangster clichés, people dressed in clothes cobbled together from five different decades, broken Communist statues littering half-mowed parks, weeds and trash, an entire city in need of a trim.

But he also saw spired mosques with their onion-shaped cupolas, flower stands and bright new businesses, a city of trams and cafes cradled by the wooded mountain range called the Lungs of Sofia, all of it topped by the magnificent snow cone of Mount Vitosha. He saw a fascinating, mature culture bubbling to the surface from every shop and street corner.

Grey made his way to Batenberg Square, where the stern Presidential Palace shared building space with a casino and a hotel.

Bus thirty-four took him to Boyana.

•  •  •

He rode far outside the city proper, past the miles and miles of high-rise apartments, most of them arranged in a circle around a weed-filled courtyard where youths stared with hooded eyes at passing traffic. Stray dogs roamed the nether lands, men burned unidentifiable objects in trashcans.

After the apartments, at the foothills of the mountains, a wooded suburb appeared. The bus climbed above the grime and into the fattened arms of privilege. Though he still saw a few vacant lots and shanties, parks and attractive glass office buildings defined Boyana.

Somax headquarters was a large stucco building with sharp blue windows and a well-kept lawn. Grey spotted a café across the street, took a seat on the terrace and had a coffee and a pastry.

He watched a taxi pull up to the curb. A woman exited and walked to the Somax entrance. The door slid open and two armed guards frisked her before allowing her to enter.

A diplomatic sweep ploy wasn’t going to work here. Diplomatic Security underwent language training just like Foreign Service Officers, and anyone conducting a security sweep here would speak at least passable Bulgarian.

He stared at the building for a long time, turning the case over in his head. He had doubts about Al-Miri nudging the back of his mind, but if there was any question concerning the legitimate owner of the test tube, the courts could sort that out. He was being paid to figure out where it was.

He pushed away his coffee. He needed the inside scoop on Somax. He needed local help.

•  •  •

At an Internet café he did a Google search for private investigators in Sofia. Anyone who advertised in English should speak English. He found a pay phone and called the first name on the list. A man with a smoker’s cough answered on the third ring and said yes he might help, if Grey could come see him at seven that evening.

Grey agreed, then tried a few more numbers. No one else answered.

•  •  •

Grey returned to the streets. A drizzle enhanced the bleaker aspects of the city, merging with the grey buildings to form a vast and monotonous shroud. He hunched and walked. A pimp dressed as a businessman approached him and thrust photos of his wares under Grey’s nose. Grey shoved him away, and a begging gypsy with her child replaced him. Grey pressed
leva
into her dirty palm before taking refuge from the rain in another café.

At six the rain sputtered, the sun cast a shy glance towards the city, and Grey started again towards the address the investigator had given him. He walked down Avenue Vitosha, the tree-lined heart of Sofia. Couples and families emerged for their evening stroll, and Sofia emerged from her grim cocoon.

Sidewalk cafes, cobblestones, trams and gas-lit lamps transformed the crumbling architecture on Vitosha into an aged but charming suitor. Women strolled arm-in-arm, hips swaying and curved eyes dancing, men in gold jewelry and open-collared shirts ogling as they passed.

Grey found the home of Lyuben Stoyanov on a ragged side street off Vitosha. He tapped the door. A balding, sweaty middle-aged man appeared.

“Dominic Grey? Please please, come in.” He motioned for Grey to follow and shuffled his pear-shaped body into what looked like the waiting room of a small hotel.

“My mother, she rents rooms. I use lobby as office. I lived in your country for brief time, you know. I like it very much, but I had to come back for my mother. Sometimes we must do things we do not want to do, you see? I apologize for my English.”

“You should hear my Bulgarian.” Grey pushed an envelope towards him, filled with the retainer Lyuben had requested on the phone.

He moved his head side to side with a curved, bouncy motion that in Bulgaria indicated agreement. It was disconcerting. “Yes of course.” He motioned for Grey to sit, and lit a cigarette. “How I can help?”

“I’m an investigator myself. I’m pursuing a lead in Sofia, and I need help gathering information. As I’m sure you’ve guessed, I don’t speak Bulgarian.”

Lyuben removed his wire-framed glasses while he mopped his brow. “That is problem in my country. But you have come to right place. Information is my specialty, and I excel with computers. I was computer programmer in Wisconsin.”

Now that, Grey thought, explained a lot. “Then you’d be able to gather, for example, phone logs, email trails, expense account records?”

Lyuban reached into his desk for a pen and began to write. “These things are possible. We will need money for
pod-koop
—bribe, I think is the word. Let us see about your case. You try to find missing person in Sofia?”

“It’s a corporate matter. I need information on Somax, a biomedical company headquartered here in Sofia. To start I’ll need a translated corporate organizational chart, and expense account records for anyone from management who traveled to Africa in the past three years-”

Grey broke off. He had looked away as he ticked off what he needed, and when he looked back, Lyuban had set his pen down. He was wiping his forehead again, and his other hand was tapping his pen against his thigh.

Grey said, “Something wrong?”

“This company, Somax.” Lyuban had stopped tapping, and wouldn’t meet Grey’s gaze. “Perhaps better if you find different investigator. I am sorry. Usually I don’t work corporate investigations.”

“Level with me, Lyuben.”

“Pardon?”

“Why don’t you want to investigate Somax?”

“Ah, it is you see, they are not someone I wish to be found investigating. Large corporations, you know, have very tight security. I don’t think I could succeed.”

“Are they connected?”

“Connected?”

“Organized crime.”

“Ah.
Mutra
.” Another apologetic expression, this time raised palms and a prolonged shrug.

“That’s just lovely.”

Lyuben pushed the envelope back to Grey. “I am sorry. Maybe someone else can help you. I am small man, nothing. I help find people, things, I trace phone calls and emails for lovers, I check history for bosses. It is better if… I apologize.”

Grey ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “I understand.”

Lyuben scribbled something on a piece of paper and passed it to Grey. “Perhaps one of these men will help you. I think they will not, but you can try. And, if you please—not to tell them I have sent you.”

“Not a problem, Lyuben,” he said softly. “I was never here.”

Lyuben gave a grateful swing of his head.

•  •  •

Grey tried to walk off his frustration. Corporate intrigue was not his strong suit. And Viktor had been right, he might be looking at organized crime involvement.

Maybe Somax needed someone to clean the floors at night. No, daytime was better—he assumed they’d be using the test tube during the day, and locking it up at night.

Migrant American labor, now that was a stupendous plan.

Whoever had taken the test tube might not transfer the contents, but they could easily re-label it. He needed to do more than peek at the lab. If he could pinpoint the personnel involved in the Sudan debacle, that would help. He’d have to try the two numbers Lyuben had given him, and brainstorm other ideas.

Tomorrow. Right now he needed food and a beer.

He went to the bar across the street from his hotel, a seedy little joint with a few men in overalls at the bar smoking hand-rolled cigarettes. Grey asked for a
Kamenitza,
the local brew. Before his beer arrived someone addressed him in English from behind.

“Buy a girl a drink, stranger?”

He turned and saw Veronica, grinning at him like she’d just let all the animals out of the cages.

J
ax woke to a face full of carpet and a mouthful of blood and drool. His head felt like someone had attached a vice grip to it. After a few seconds of disorientation, he remembered what had happened. He pushed to his knees and realized he was in the bedroom of his hotel suite. The drapes had been pulled.

The bodyguard from the cafe, the swarthy short man, was sitting in a chair in the corner. Jax reached for his own gun, and then for his boot knife. Both gone. He lunged for the lamp next to the bed, and the bodyguard sprang from his chair, faster than Jax thought possible for such a bulky man, and rushed him.

Jax’s forte was not hand-to-hand combat. Jax considered unarmed combat archaic; as far as he was concerned, street fights were for kids. Unfortunately the middle-aged Olympic power lifter rushing him seemed to think otherwise.

Fighting was not his forte, but he could, without a doubt, take care of himself. He had military training and fifteen years of mercenary work under his belt. Jax had mixed it up.

The bodyguard was steps away, and Jax threw a vicious roundhouse kick into his ribs. His foot sank into a morass of fat and muscle, and the man didn’t even flinch. Jax tried to spring away and onto the bed, but the bodyguard grabbed him from behind. Jax missed with a back elbow, and then was enclosed by a pair of massive arms, smothered in a foul flesh cloud of testosterone-drenched sweat.

Jax had never felt such a grip. His arms were pinned at his sides, and he couldn’t budge. He swung his head back, trying to catch the man in the face, but he was more than a foot shorter than Jax. Jax tried stomping on his feet and raking his shins, but neither affected him.

Then the man began to squeeze. Jax gasped at the pressure. His body became a deflated toy as the air seeped out of him. Just before Jax thought he would pass out, the man released his grip and punched Jax three times in his ribs.

Jax crumpled with the blows. The man lifted him in the air as he would a toddler, slammed him to the floor, then kicked him in the side and stood with a foot on Jax’s chest.

Jax knew when he was outmatched. His survival instinct took over, and he stopped squirming and gulped in air. One of his ribs might be cracked, because it hurt like hell to breathe. Whatever control issues this psychopath had, Jax would let him get it out.
It’s all yours, man: go and tell your friends, or those little voices in your head, how you had your way with me
.

Just don’t ever fall asleep again without locking your door.

The door opened, and Al-Miri entered, this time dressed in an iridescent green robe. His aspect had changed, become more serene. I’ve been kidnapped by a psychotic dwarf and a wizard, Jax thought.

The bodyguard dragged Jax to a chair. Jax knew if he tried to move the man would punish him again. Jax knew he thrived on the power.

Al-Miri approached the chair. “Let us renew our discussion. I am sorry it has come to this.”