I checked the drawers in the TV stand and found spare batteries for the remote, a couple of kid’s card games.
I moved into the kitchen, which was a large open-plan space at the back of the house, with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the back yard and the forest beyond. The fridge was covered in magnets that secured reminders and school certificates against its surface. The magnets looked like a historical trail of places the family had visited: the Empire State Building, Disney World, Busch Gardens, there were dozens, but a couple of odd ones popped out at me — Kabul Bird Market and the Great Mosque of Kufa in Iraq. Not the sort of places I imagined this family touring. I searched the cupboards and drawers, but found nothing else out of the ordinary.
“You got anything?” Jessie asked as she entered.
I shook my head. “You?”
“Nothing,” she replied. “They’re vanilla.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” I said, pointing out the unusual fridge magnets.
“Might be from friends,” Jessie suggested.
I pulled open the only drawer I hadn’t searched and found it full of spatulas, large serving spoons and an assortment of odd kitchen tools. I rifled through, and near the bottom discovered a bottle opener with an emblem on the handle. I recognized it immediately — the three lightning strikes crossing a raised gladius sword, the emblem of Third Special Forces Group, a Green Beret unit.
“She might have a military connection,” I said, showing it to Jessie. “They don’t sell these in gift shops. It’s a trophy given to members of the unit who’ve seen action.”
“Boyfriend? Family member?” Jessie asked.
“Maybe,” I replied. “I’ll ask Mo-bot to run a contact check. See if Beth Singer has a connection to anyone who served in this unit. It’s not much of a lead, but it’s the best we’ve got.”
Chapter 13
Floyd felt as though a rodent was gnawing his innards. This was a deep and profound hunger, the likes of which he hadn’t experienced since his escape and interrogation course, when he’d had to survive in the Rockies for ten days as part of his training for Third Group. And even that had not been as bad. He’d been climbing into the Hindu Kush mountains for hours, using the map in his flight suit to guide him toward the border with Pakistan. It was cold, and the snow-covered cedar forests yielded no sign of food. It was February, and any animals were either hibernating or had the good sense to keep well away from the desperate American pilot. He’d managed to find a stream with clear water, and had purified it using one of the tablets from his emergency kit, but the chill liquid only served to make his stomach feel even emptier.
Floyd pulled his flight jacket tight and pressed forward, following a rutted track that wound up the steep mountainside. As he walked round the bend, he spotted some marks in the snow in the center of the trail. They looked like the tracks of a small, cloven-hoofed animal — perhaps a goat? The thought of such a creature set Floyd’s mouth watering, but he pushed images of hot stew from his mind and focused on the task at hand. According to the map, he wasn’t far from Kamdesh, a town located on the slopes of the Bashgal Valley. The CIA briefing he’d read before the mission said the village was the ancestral home of the Kom people. It had seen heavy fighting when the War on Terror had been at its peak. There would be food, and possibly even a phone, when he reached it.
Floyd followed the rutted track east. After a short while the forest to his right thinned and then fell away to be replaced by a sheer drop. It was too dark to see the valley floor, and when Floyd threw a stone over the edge, he didn’t hear it hit the bottom. The track turned west, and as he followed it, he saw lights dotting the mountainside ahead. Some of the closest were flickering — fires, Floyd assumed — and he immediately began walking faster, drawn instinctively to their warmth.
The town was built on the steep mountainside. Its two-story homes were clustered in tiered terraces, arranged so that the roof of one house would act as a prop to its higher neighbor. Made of cedarwood and red and brown mud bricks, with concrete supports, the houses were simple and functional. Floyd guessed there were perhaps two or three thousand homes ranged across the mountain, and most of them were in darkness.
He hugged the treeline to his left as he approached the foot of the settlement. Narrow paths ran through the town, cleared of snow to reveal rough stone or gravel beneath. Not great surfaces for moving silently, but Floyd hoped the sound of televisions coming from some of the homes would cover his approach. His plan was simple: break into one of the homes, grab some food and any useful supplies, and move on as quickly as possible.
He was twenty yards from the first house, which was completely dark. It looked a little more rundown than some of its brightly lit neighbors, and as Floyd got closer, he noticed some of the brickwork was missing and had been replaced with matted straw. He heard the movement of animals and the lowing and calling of goats as he approached the building. He pushed through one of the straw in-fills and saw that the first floor was a stable.
He glanced up at the terrace that was built on the roof of the first floor, and spied irregularities in the brickwork that would make good hand- and footholds. As he reached for the first hold, Floyd sensed movement behind him and turned to see a figure in a heavy Russian Army issue winter coat. The figure stepped forward out of shadow and Floyd saw it was a wide-eyed teenage boy.
“Don’t be afraid,” Floyd said, but he got no further.
A sudden blow to the back of his skull sent him crashing to the ground. As he was swept out of the conscious world, he saw a second, much older man, loom over him, his face disfigured by the jagged scars of violence.
Floyd cursed his own carelessness as everything went black.
Chapter 14
“Who are you again?”
Steve Shaw, the ruddy-faced local police chief, was either in need of a neurological examination or he was trying to make a point. I’d already told him who we were and why we were there, before he’d invited us into his corner office in the Highland Falls Police Department, a tiny red-brick station he shared with the local ambulance service. Shaw was most definitely trying to be a big fish in a little pond, the walls of his office lined with medals, certificates, and photos of him with local dignitaries. When I looked a little closer, I saw some of the medals had been won at high-school swim meets. Every photo featured him oozing self-satisfied pomposity, which was exactly the expression he wore now as I once again introduced myself and Jessica to him. I glanced at her as I did and she flashed me a smile.
“And why should I tell you anything, Mr. Morgan?”
“Our client filed the missing persons report with you, correct?” I asked.
“Indeed. And when he filed it, he didn’t ask whether we would assist an overpriced glory hunter with free information.”
“Is Greg Chandler still overseeing this department?” Jessie asked. “He and I used to throw back beers every now and then when I was with the Bureau.”
Shaw grinned arrogantly. “Chandler moved up to the Capitol. I’m on the shortlist for his job, but I don’t like to throw back too many beers.”
“We just want some background on Ms. Singer,” I said. “Anything you can tell us about friends, local contacts, people she might have gone to in time of need.”
Shaw was impassive.
“We’ll reciprocate. Bring you in on anything we find. We’ll give you additional investigative resources. Private is one of the world’s leading detective agencies.”
“So you say, Mr. Morgan,” Shaw replied. “And while I appreciate your generous offer, we do everything by the book here, and the book says: Don’t share information with third parties. So I’m sorry, I can’t help you.”