The Hunt (Mike Greystone, Book 1) (9 page)

18.

I woke up
early the next morning. I ate scrambled egg with fried onion, parma ham, and tomatoes. Delicious and nutritious. The key was to prepare it slowly. I did the onion first, chopped it into small pieces, but not too small as it would fry too quickly. Added some butter into the frying pan, and fried the onion over a small flame, stirring it often with a wooden spoon, so that it wouldn't burn, but remained soft and tasty. Ten to fifteen minutes should be sufficient, depending on how thinly you chopped the onion. Then I added the parma ham, less than one or max two minutes before adding eggs was sufficient as the slices were very thin and it fried quickly. Then I added the eggs, and mixed them in, stirring all the time to avoid burning any of the ingredients. Three eggs plus some wholemeal bread would keep you going for at least a few hours. If I was short of time, I would use spring onions instead, as they were more tender and fried quicker. That way I would have all the flavor in less than half the time.

After breakfast I took a shower, dressed, and left my house. I drove to the office first. I turned on my laptop and searched the Internet for ‘lobotomy.’ I found some fairly comprehensive information on ‘lobotomy’ on Wikipedia. I printed off a few pages as a souvenir for Mr. Zhao. A courier with the orbitoclast and hammer that Zara had ordered the day before had arrived earlier that morning. She’d packed it into a nice box. So I was ready. I left the office, and drove to Mr. Zhao's residence.

There was no doubt, Mr. Zhao had much more taste architecture-wise. His house was much more tasteful and stylish than Ivanov's, with his turrets and merlons.

"Good morning, Mr. Greystone," I was greeted by Mr. Zhao. He led me into the breakfast area. I handed him the gift.

"Thank you Mr. Greystone. May I ask what this is?" he said.

"Please open the parcel to find out," I responded. He handed it to one of his goons, safety first, just in case there was something lethal in the packet. The guy unpacked it, produced the orbitoclast and hammer and handed them to Mr. Zhao.

"Looks very interesting, what is this?"

"It's an orbitoclast, also called a leucotome," I explained, sounding very educated. I could play smart as I’d read it on Wikipedia just that morning. "And the other tool is a hammer. Both are useful for performing a lobotomy."

"A lobotomy, sounds interesting, I think I may have seen one in a movie many years ago," he said. He became very attentive. I surely aroused sadistic propensities in Mr. Zhao.

"The procedure is essentially severing the connections between certain sections of the brain, between the prefrontal cortex and the thalamus, if I remember correctly," ah, Wikipedia was indispensable these days, I thought to myself. I must remember to donate a few bucks to Wikipedia, as those guys did really great job, but they didn’t have any advertising revenue, they just relied on donations. "This procedure could be useful for disciplining unruly individuals without actually killing them. And I'm sure you would have some fun along the way."

"Tell me more, Mr. Greystone," Mr. Zhao said. His eyes were gleaming with barely disguised interest.

I took out the printout about lobotomies and read a few lines: "Transorbital means through the eye socket. Lift the upper eyelid, put the orbitoclast under the eyelid resting on the top of the eyeball, position it upwards at a certain angle, then hammer the orbitoclast two inches into the frontal lobes, pivot toward the nose, return to the neutral position and send it a further four-fifths of an inch into the brain. There's quite a detailed description here," I summarized the text and gave it to Mr. Zhao.

"That is really is one of the best gifts I’ve received recently. You are a man who really appreciates my interest, I will not forget it, Mr. Greystone," Mr. Zhao said enthusiastically. I just prayed that I wouldn't create even bigger monster further down the line through feeding his sadistic instincts. But I needed his help.

He put the box and the instruments away, and we sat down at the table. Two girls brought in food. I’ve no idea what it was, but looked like a soup with eyes floating in it. Funny coincidence. We started eating. I took a few spoonfuls of the soup. It was quite tasty, a bit spicy, but overall a nice flavor in the mouth. I avoided the floating eyes though. Mr. Zhao picked out the eyes from the soup first. It must have been a delicacy.

After a few moments, he cleared up any doubts I had about the contents of the soup. "In case you were wondering what the soup is made of, it's monkey’s eyes. Not a traditional Chinese dish, but wonderfully pleasant to the palate regardless of that. Have one, I'm sure you'll be delighted with the taste and flavor," he encouraged me.

"Thank you Mr. Zhao, the soup is delicious indeed," I wasn’t getting the gagging reflex yet, but the thought of eating monkey's eyes, in fact eating eyes in general, was sure to make me retch. "Eating eyes is not part of my cuisine either. If I remember rightly, my mother didn't cook eyes at all, although she died young. I think I'll just stick with the soup, not to upset my stomach with unfamiliar food," I tried to wriggle out of having to taste the monkey's eyes.

"As you wish, Mr. Greystone, you have no idea what you’re losing," he said. A note of disappointment was present in his voice.

After brunch, there was some tea with an equally horrible taste as last time, probably some kind of green tea again, although this time it was even more pungent. After tea, Mr. Zhao offered some drinks, and I was happy to observe he had some good whiskey, Middleton, so I washed away the taste of the tea with half an inch of decent whiskey.

"Mr. Greystone," he finally proceeded to business, "I made some inquiries and my contacts told me there was a recent transaction where a hand rocket launcher was purchased. I have confirmed the name – it was Ron Morgenthal, the same name you mentioned during your last visit, if I remember correctly? My informers told me that Ron Morgenthal is closely connected to Igor Ivanov, the boss of the Russian mob. He's a freelancer, does occasional jobs for other organizations as well, but the Russians are his main employer."

This was the information I was waiting for. I knew he worked for the Russians. Ivanov was lying, or actually not telling the full truth. I could now go back to Igor Ivanov and press him a little more to tell me how to find Morgenthal. I would need to give him something in exchange, I thought.

"Thank you Mr. Zhao, I was hoping for exactly this information," I said.

"There's more, he's a very smart guy. It's not easy to track him down. None of my sources know where he lives. He's expert at covering his tracks. If you want to catch him, you really need to speak to the Russians."

"I already did, but they said they didn't know him."

"That can’t be true. He is an extremely valuable asset. That’s why they try to protect him. If I were in your shoes, I would give them something valuable, some information or promise of a favor to convince them to do you a favor. This could be expensive for you."

"Wise words, Mr. Zhao, that's probably the right thing to do," I thanked him for the advice, although at that stage I knew that already.

I got up from the low bench we were sitting on, preparing to leave.

Before I said farewell, Mr. Zhao asked: "I actually have one individual I'm very dissatisfied with downstairs in my interrogation chamber. Would you like to accompany me, I would love to try out the orbitoclast you gave me?"

He looked at me imploringly, like a boy who wants to show off his new toy.

"I think the instructions you printed out for me should be sufficient. It doesn't look too sophisticated, does it? I should be able to follow the manual. Would you like to join me, please, Mr. Greystone?"

"I would love to, Mr. Zhao, but I need to run to take care of all the loose ends in this Ron Morgenthal case," I said, trying to avoid having to watch this sadist performing a lobotomy. Besides, I’d confirmed what I wanted and really had to run. I thanked him for lunch and headed towards the door.

"No problem, I see you’re busy man. Let me hone my lobotomy skills with this new device first and I'll put on a show for you next time you're around," he said.

"Thank you, Mr. Zhao, I am sure I'll have more time next time," I lied.

"One more thing, my sources told me Morgenthal already knows you are looking for him. I was told he is very dangerous and not to be trifled with. You should be careful. Watch your back, Mr. Greystone," he warned me.

"I will, don't worry, I don't want to miss your lobotomy show," I promised knowing I wouldn’t necessarily want to keep that promise.

"Good man! That's the spirit!" he applauded. "If you bring another osteoclast, I'll arrange for two patients, and I'll teach you the technique, once I’ve mastered it myself."

This guy was a complete sadistic freak, I thought.

He added: "It's best to do it before a meal to get the digestive juices flowing. I prefer to do business before meals, I don't like to get stressed out about unfinished business before eating. Food is a celebration, business first, then a meal. It's not healthy to rush with food," he concluded knowingly. I made a mental note that this man was beyond any hope. But at least he seemed to like me and could be useful. I just needed to flatter him every now and then and bring more thoughtful gifts.

On the way back from Zhao's house, I called Martin.

"Martin, can you do some research on Igor Ivanov?" I asked him. "I need to do him a favor. I need to have something for him that'll convince him to give me Ron Morgenthal. Get our analysts working on it, immediately. Ask around about unfinished business, deals that went sour, people he’s looking for, or any other possible leads. We need to find out what favor we can do for him. He won't release Morgenthal cheaply."

"No bother, I'll set the wheels in motion. How was your visit at Mr. Zhao's?"

"Good, but don't ask me what I ate."

"I won't," he laughed.

"Let me just say, trying not to spoil your lunch too much, it was a visual feast, figuratively and literally, or a feast for the eyes, in plain English," I said, using a figure of speech perfectly fitting the situation.

"You're fucking joking?"

"I'm fucking not."

"You did spoil my lunch."

19.

I dialed Ivanov's
number. "Mr. Ivanov, this is Michael Greystone."

"I was expecting your call," he answered.

"You didn't tell me the whole truth during our last meeting. You know Ron Morgenthal."

"I didn't say I don't know him. I said I'll ask around."

"I understand this information doesn't come cheap."

"You got it, it won't be cheap. He’s a useful asset. Very useful asset. Expensive to replace."

"That's what I thought. What's the price?"

"I'm flexible. I wouldn't mind cash, but a good favor would be okay too."

"Anything specific in mind?"

"Not at the moment."

"I'm in a hurry to find this guy."

"I’m not."

“Any suggestions?”

“Figure it out, I’m open to offers.”

"Ok, I'll think it over and will put forward an offer."

"Looking forward to it. I don't accept checks or credit cards," he joked.

"Sure," I ended the conversation and hung up.

It wasn't exactly what I was expecting, but at least I knew where I stood. I felt a bit like I was at a crossroads. I had some clues, but no trail yet. I knew the person who knew how to find Morgenthal, but he wouldn't tell without cash or a favor. I was sure it would take a lot of cash, which would dent my commission. I needed to get something else for him. I dialed Martin's number.

"Hi Mike," Martin Keenan answered.

"Do we have anything on Ivanov yet?" I asked. "I just spoke with him, he knows Morgenthal."

"Just as you thought. I don't have anything yet. Can we pay him instead?"

"We could, but he'd probably want at least a hundred grand I'd say. That wouldn't make sense for us."

"It wouldn't."

"Do some research on all his associates and contacts, we have to find something."

"Sure."

My phone rang. No caller ID. I didn’t like this kind of phone calls, but it could be somebody who could help me. Or it could be something that could kill me.

I picked up the phone: "Hello, who's this?"

"Hello Mr. Greystone," a male voice at the other end of the line greeted me. "I am Erebus Loki," he introduced himself.

"Erebus Loki?" What an unusual name, I thought. "I don't know you Mr. Loki, where did you get my phone number from?"

"I have my sources, Mr. Greystone, I have my sources."

"I'm inclined to believe that. Who gave you my number?" I was persistent.

"Nobody."

"How come?"

"I can get any information I need or want."

"That's interesting, I'm actually looking for some information," I jested, thinking about Morgenthal and Ivanov.

"I know you are," he responded.

I was quite surprised. Did he get the number from Martin, or Dermot? Dermot could sell my number for a good price. He would do that sometimes. Many people wanted their problems to go away and that was what we did, but we didn’t advertise, so we were not that easy to find, even for potential clients. How did he find out? Coincidence?

"I would like to offer you a sort of cooperation," Erebus Loki said.

"A sort of cooperation?"

"Precisely."

"What's in it for me?"

"I suggest you visit my house and find out yourself."

“Why should I?”

“This will help you in your current investigation.”

“How do you know what I’m working on?”

“I know.”

I was seriously puzzled.

"When and where?" I asked. I was curious.

He gave me an address and we set up an appointment for later that day.

I went back to my headquarters.

"Martin, I have an appointment with Mr. Erebus Loki. He didn't reveal who he was or how he got my number. It could be a potential client, it could be an enemy. Did you give him my number?" I asked Martin.

"I didn't, most new clients go through me or you directly, if they were referred. But they would normally quote their source. Did he say where he got your number?

"No."

"Then no idea where he got it from," Martin pondered.

"Can you run some checks on him?"

"Sure. I’ll need half an hour for that."

"Thanks."

I headed to the kitchen to get some coffee.

Then I went to my office and I sat down in my chair. I thought about my evening appointment. This guy Erebus Loki was an unusual person for sure. Who gave him my number? Clients normally tell me what they want or say they want to meet. Obviously, this guy said he wanted to meet to potentially help me with the case after Morgenthal, at least I hoped so, but the whole conversation was a little weird.

I called Dermot Clenaghan from Research & Execution.

"Dermot, my investigation is progressing well," I announced.

"Glad to hear that."

"Haven't found him yet, but..."

"Not glad to hear that. I'll be glad when I have this motherfucker's head neatly packed in a birthday box with ribbons," Dermot interjected.

"Cool down, I'm on the right trail. I need some intel, all you can get on Erebus Loki, resident of Society Hill, Philadelphia."

"Is it male or female?"

"Judging by voice, it must be male. A male in his sixties I would say."

"I'll call you later as soon as I have some information on him."

"Thanks Dermot."

"Is it our job or is it some fucking freelance?"

"Don't know yet."

"You'd better find out, I don't want to waste my resources chasing after a pussy."

“It’s sixty year old guy, not a pussy.”

I got into my car and drove to downtown Philadelphia. Mr. Erebus Loki was living in Society Hill, a very respectable, leafy, old part of Philadelphia. Not far from the Thaddeus Kosciuszko memorial. Not that I knew that, I just saw the commemorative stone in front of the building where he lived. I found the house and parked my car. It was a large Georgian town house. I scanned the house and surroundings looking for suspicious activity, but finding nothing I had to take the risk.

I rang the bell, and after a few seconds a liveried servant opened the door and ushered me into the reception room. The porter had a striking appearance. As if a gentleman had been mixed with a thug. Noble posture and manners, but the face of high-security prison dweller.

Erebus Loki entered the room after a few minutes.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Greystone," he greeted me.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Loki," I responded.

"Apologies to have kept you waiting," he started. "Even though at my age I have all the time in the world at my disposal, I respect your time above all, and I don't like to be late."

Mr. Loki must have been in his late sixties. He was tall and slim (too slim in fact, nearly anorexic). High forehead, gray hair, but no sign of baldness. Despite his age, he still looked energetic and walked with a firm tread. Elegance of speech and manners completed the picture.

"What can I do for you?" he asked.

"I would ask the same question: What can I do for you? But I would also add: What can you do for me?"

"It depends on what you need."

"You invited me here saying you have some valuable information for me."

"That's correct."

"By the way, I should have started with this question: Who are you and how did you get my phone number?"

"I do many things. Some investing over the years, some backstage politics. But I was always attracted to gambling. I don't mean cards or casino. In my gambling, the nominal stakes are low, but the thrill is immense. I gamble with people's lives, among many other things I like doing," he explained, although it didn't really explain anything.

"How interesting," I was seriously curious.

"We'll come to that later."

"And my second question, how about my phone number?"

"I told you, I have my sources. I can get any information I want."

"Are you working for the mob?"

"No."

"For the government?"

"Neither. I’m a freelancer."

"You sound very mysterious. What do you do then?

"Don’t let that not worry your mind too much. I invited you to tell you two things."

"I’m all ears," I said.

"I told you I gamble with people's lives. I have a bet for you. Ron Morgenthal wants to kill Laura Wimbledon."

I pricked up my ears.

"I'll pay you 1 dollar, in cash, if you manage to protect Laura Wimbledon. You'll pay me 1 dollar, cash, if Ron Morgenthal kills Laura."

"I wouldn't be interested in that kind of bet."

"In fact, it's not really a bet you can take or leave. It’s a statement of fact. The bet is on regardless whether you want it or not, Mr. Greystone. That's beyond your or my control."

"Who the fuck do you think you are? I asked and added: "Pardon my French. Is Morgenthal your contractor?"

"No, he isn't."

"What's your association with him then?"

"Nothing really, I'm just a spectator."

"Why Lauren Wimbledon?"

"I like interesting people and interesting situations."

"How do you know this is an interesting person and interesting situation?"

"I told you, I have my sources."

"The whole thing sounds sick."

"The world is sick, always has been."

"When does he want to kill her?"

"He's not in a hurry, but you’ll need to keep an eye on her if you want to win."

"Where's this whole idea coming from?" I asked.

"Your friend Morgenthal has his own mind."

"He's not my friend. I meant the bet, where's this idea from?"

"I like experiments and I like gambling, I told you that already.”

"It couldn't have been invented by a sane mind."

"I suppose it couldn't."

I paused for a moment, watching him. He just smiled condescendingly.

"That’s the first thing you wanted to tell me today. You also said you have some information for me?" I asked.

"Precisely, Ron Morgenthal knows you’re chasing him. He’ll be after you too."

"I’m not that worried, in fact, it might help me find him."

"He's after your family too."

"Tell me more."

"Your wife, Gudrun, is about to get into a car. I think Morgenthal said something like tilt or stop activation, or similar," Loki said.

"Fuck, explosive," my pulse started racing. I was divorced, Gudrun hated me, I didn't love her any more either, but I would rather this motherfucker Morgenthal didn't dispose of the mother of my child.

I grabbed my cell phone from my pocket and dialed Gudrun's number, waiting for her to pick up.

"I suppose you need to be going now?" Loki said.

"Who the fuck are you? How do you know these things?" I shouted.

"I'll be in touch," he smiled a smile that some would describe as friendly, but some as wicked. "Here's my visiting card. Good day Mr. Greystone."