Chapter 38
Cash clambered onto a tall barstool at a table tucked away in the corner of the Third Street Tavern.
“How’s the wine?” she asked Standish, who had arrived early and was sipping from a glass, his nose wrinkled.
It was a quiet Wednesday, and aside from a grizzled man who looked like he had been there so long he was melting into the bar, they were the only ones in the joint.
The place smelled like cigarettes, and the table was sticky.
“Drinkable,” Standish responded with a grimace. He looked jumpy, eyes shifting this way and that across the empty bar—-as if he was expecting someone.
“So—-you wanted to see me?”
“Yeah …” Standish leaned forward over the wineglass. “I found him. Krikor Khachatryan. Have a picture of him and everything.”
“That’s great news, but this could have been a phone call.”
“No, it couldn’t.” Standish shook his head. His usual arrogant demeanor was gone, replaced by a nervousness Cash didn’t understand. He leaned forward, eyes glittering. “The guy’s a ghost. No digital footprint. Do you know how hard that is to achieve these days?”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“I got really lucky. I found a mention of him in a DEF CON -forum—-a photograph from two years ago was posted by someone with his name. Recent post. I got a screenshot and posted a response to get some more information. But he must’ve had a name alert out, because the post was deleted within minutes. Check it out.”
Standish slid over a printed photograph.
The subject of the photograph was a skinny boy—-maybe early twenties—-with long, stringy hair, sitting cross--legged in front of four computers.
Several massive hard drives stood on racks in what looked like a crappy shack, walls covered with aluminum foil.
Posters of busty anime girls were the only other decoration.
“He’s just a kid!”
“He’s twenty--seven, just looks immature. But don’t be fooled. He’s whip--smart. Look closely here.” Standish tapped the photo with a long finger. “See that?”
Cash strained her eyes. A small carved rooster with a sweeping red comb was stacked on one of the bookshelves. It was decorated with hearts and white dots.
“Yeah. What is it?”
“A Barcelos Rooster figurine. Traditional clay and handcrafted roosters famous in Portugal folklore and culture. Story behind it is a legend where a mystical rooster helps prove the innocence of a wrongly accused man. The Portuguese collect them, keep them around their houses for good luck.”
“So what … you think he’s in Portugal? He could have bought that and brought it with him anywhere.”
“Yeah, I thought so too. But I did a little research on some of the items in his home. There’s not much. But check out that throw blanket.”
He pointed to a blanket thrown over the back of the guy’s chair, comprised of eye--popping lime--green, mauve, and orange hues.
“That particular blanket is sold by the Burel Factory located in Manteigas, Portugal. The factory uses traditional techniques to make burel, the woolen fabric that blanket is made of. The colors, patterns, and fabric are unique; it’s not sold anywhere else.
The factory has stores in Lisbon and Porto as well.
In fact, all if not most of his furniture matches furniture on their website. ”
“So that narrows it down to Manteigas, Lisbon, or Porto.”
“Maybe. That’s what I thought, but figured he might have imported the furniture. But I was able to narrow it down further—-look at what he’s eating.”
Off to the side of the photo on his desk—-half cut off—-was what looked like a slice of cheese with some crackers scattered about a plate.
Cash strained her eyes. The cheese was unlabeled. The picture was grainy; she could hardly make it out. “Don’t tell me you were able to figure out something from a bad photo of a slice of cheese.”
“Well … yes. When you ask me to do a job, I do it well. I looked up all the different kinds of cheeses in Portugal and compared them all to this picture, just to see if I was right. I’m pretty sure that’s called Queijo Serra da Estrela.
Hard orange crust, gooey inside. It looks pretty good, actually.
Cheese made in the mountainous region of Serra da Estrela in Portugal, which is a hike away from Manteigas—-”
“Wait, hang on a second.” Cash had heard that name before. “Serra da Estrela. That’s the same place where Javi Castillo lost his leg.”
“Jesus. Really? How? Bear attack?”
“Sepsis, a bad infection gone untreated too long. The person who told me claimed Castillo had gotten it while visiting a UAP crash site. Instead, I bet he was visiting Krikor Khachatryan when he got injured. While this was two years ago, there’s a chance that he’s still holed up in the Serra da Estrela mountain range somewhere. Look that up.”
Standish typed on his phone and then showed Cash.
Cash looked at the screen. “Serra da Estrela? That’s a vast area. How will we find him?”
“You’re not gonna believe this, Cash.” Standish gripped the edge of the table. “After I figured this out, he contacted me. Tracked me down based on my post on the DEF CON forum. That itself is impressive, since I was using a VPN and a newly invented handle.”
“He contacted you?”
“Yeah. He overnighted me a throwaway phone with some encrypted chat app to speak with him. He knew all about this case. He didn’t want to talk to me. He wanted to talk to you. That’s why we’re here.”
Cash was astounded, suddenly understanding why the young agent looked so damn nervous.
Standish reached out and gripped her wrist. “He was adamant this was the only way he would communicate with us, and only with you. Didn’t want you in the office. He picked this bar. I know it’s outside of protocol, but it’s not like we can subpoena his testimony—-we’d never find him anyway.”
Standish slid a phone from his pocket—-some off--brand device with Cyrillic writing on it.
She hesitated and then took it. “Right now?”
“Yes. Now. Look, this guy is good. I think he might have hacked into my laptop.”
“How do you know?” Cash asked.
“Battery drained faster than usual, altered code. I think he got spooked when I got close to finding out where he was.” Standish must have realized he was gripping her wrist, and he let her go. He leaned back in his chair, cool again.
Cash nodded, feeling uneasy, and opened the phone. There was a single application on the screen—-an app icon of a bird mid--flight. She clicked it, and a black screen with a messaging bar popped up. She typed into it.
Guest: This is Agent Cash
A couple of seconds later, and there was an answer.
Host: hello frankie. i see ur following my instructions.
Before Cash could even reply, a screenshot from a security camera in the bar popped onto the screen. It showed Standish and Cash, sitting across from each other—-taken a couple of seconds ago. Cash turned the screen so Standish could see.
“How in the fuck …?” Standish murmured.
Guest: Let’s talk on the phone.
Host: fuck no. don’t ask again.
Guest: You went to a lot of trouble to reach me. So tell me what you want.
Host: javi castillo was murdered and dismembered. who did it?
Guest: We don’t know.
Host: theyre stalking and killing us cash. they killed castillo. they disappeared my partner. everyone in our organization is vulnerable. you’re leading the investigation. what the actual fuck are you doing about this besides sending your script kiddie to insert his nose into my ass
“Script kiddie?” Standish said over her shoulder, annoyed.
Guest: Who’s “they”? And who’s this partner?
Host: we’ve had run--ins with these people before. look into a group called devotio. thats all ill say. my partner silva helped castillo steal the relic.
Devotio, Cash thought. Now she was getting somewhere.
Guest: What’s your connection to Castillo?
Host: he’s the front man of our organization paradox
Guest: What is Paradox really?
Host: we collect data on uaps
Guest: Why all the shell companies? The secrecy?
Host: we dont like people knowing what we’re doing, what’s wrong with that
Guest: Why was Margie Brooksfield sending Paradox money?
Host: its exactly like she said. they were donations from willy grooms. grooms saw a uap crash and castillo was putting
together a group to go into the mountains to investigate. grooms was funding it. it was only forwarded through brooksfield’s account because grooms was paranoid as shit.
Guest: Why did Castillo steal the relic?
The messages had been coming in one right after another, but after this one, Cash noticed a pause. Khachatryan—-or whoever was sending these messages—-seemed to be thinking before answering this one. Finally, a message came through.
Host: do you have it
Cash wondered if she should tell the truth, and decided she should.
Guest: Yes
This was followed by another long silence. Then:
Host: what are you going to do with it
Guest: Return it.
She waited, but there was no response.
Guest: If you want us to find who killed Castillo, now’s the time to tell us what you know. I think you know a lot more than you’re telling me.
Another pause:
Host: before you give it back, sequence the dna
Guest: What for?
Host: just do it. everything i mean *everything* depends on sequencing that dna
Suddenly, the text from their conversation disappeared and the phone went blank. Cash swore, trying to type something else, but it had turned into a useless hunk of plastic and metal.
“Remotely wiped, looks like. Guess he was done chatting,” Standish said, staring at the dead phone. “Who the hell are these people—-Devotio?”
Cash narrowed her eyes. They had a name now. “No idea, but we’re gonna find out.”