Read Online The Informationist: A Thriller by Taylor Stevens - Free Book Online
Authors: Taylor Stevens
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would wake in the night screaming. That’s why he originally went to see the doctors, you know, to calm the nightmares.”
“I didn’t know that,” Munroe said. “Nobody says why he is away, only that it happened after he made a trip to Africa. They say things happened to him there that changed him.”
A tear formed in the mother’s eye. “I don’t know,” she said. “It’s possible. He never spoke to me of it.” She drew the back of a finger under her eyes. Munroe handed her a tissue. “There were some men who came to visit me, who offered me money if I would tell them where Kristof went. They were looking for a girl, maybe his girlfriend.”
“Did they find the girl?” Munroe asked.
“I don’t know,” she replied. “I didn’t want their money, and I sent them away. But there was nothing I could tell them anyhow. I don’t know about any girl.” Frau Berger’s tears rolled steadily. “Sometimes I wonder,” the woman said, “if I knew what happened, would it make it easier for me to bear it?”
Munroe moved from her seat to the edge of the sofa where Frau Berger sat. She placed her hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Perhaps it would,” she said. “I also want to know what happened. I want to help Kristof.” Munroe was silent for a moment and then asked, “Are there no clues in the items Kristof brought back with him from Africa?”
The woman shook her head. “He brought nothing back. Not even clothes. Everything he had, I put into an envelope. They were from a secret belt, a pocket that goes under the pants. It was all he had.”
“May I look?” Munroe asked.
Frau Berger nodded and rose. She motioned for Munroe to follow, then led her up the narrow staircase and to a room on the right. Unlikethe rest of the house, the room was dusty, its air stale. Items were strewn across the floor and the bed was barely made, as if his mother had chosen to leave it exactly the way Kristof had on the day he left home for good. Perhaps in some hidden recess of the woman’s mind she believed that he would return to it.
From a drawer inside a small wardrobe, Frau Berger pulled out a manila envelope and handed it to Munroe. “Everything he had with him is in here.”
The two women sat, Frau Berger on the edge of the bed and Munroe cross-legged on the floor, where she spread out the contents of the envelope in front of her: a passport, two airplane tickets, a yellow vaccination card, two pills remaining from some form of medication, and a couple pieces of paper on which the ink had bled to indecipherability.
Munroe stared at the items, astounded by the wealth of viable information. At this rate the job would be over in a month.
She picked up the airplane tickets. The first was an unused South African Airways ticket from Johannesburg to Frankfurt with the same date and codes for the flight Emily was supposed to have taken. The second was undoubtedly the one Kristof had returned to Europe on, an Air France flight from Libreville to Paris. The ticket had been issued by a local travel agent in Gabon, of that Munroe was sure. From the IATA information, she could track down the originating travel agency if necessary.
The yellow vaccination record brought a smile. The doctor’s stamps and signatures were all obvious forgeries. The entire stamp-filled booklet had no doubt been purchased somewhere along the journey in order to facilitate border crossings, a fake so similar to those that she used to carry.
She took his passport and flipped through the pages. The little book was nearly full. Most of the countries he had passed through had required an entire page for the issuing visa alone, not counting entry and exit stamps. Munroe lost herself in the pages tracing his journey from South Africa to Kenya and back again, following the trail of exit and entry stamps until they led to Namibia. She went slowly, flipping front to back through the pages, sometimes losing a thread in the muddle and then picking it
“I didn’t know that,” Munroe said. “Nobody says why he is away, only that it happened after he made a trip to Africa. They say things happened to him there that changed him.”
A tear formed in the mother’s eye. “I don’t know,” she said. “It’s possible. He never spoke to me of it.” She drew the back of a finger under her eyes. Munroe handed her a tissue. “There were some men who came to visit me, who offered me money if I would tell them where Kristof went. They were looking for a girl, maybe his girlfriend.”
“Did they find the girl?” Munroe asked.
“I don’t know,” she replied. “I didn’t want their money, and I sent them away. But there was nothing I could tell them anyhow. I don’t know about any girl.” Frau Berger’s tears rolled steadily. “Sometimes I wonder,” the woman said, “if I knew what happened, would it make it easier for me to bear it?”
Munroe moved from her seat to the edge of the sofa where Frau Berger sat. She placed her hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Perhaps it would,” she said. “I also want to know what happened. I want to help Kristof.” Munroe was silent for a moment and then asked, “Are there no clues in the items Kristof brought back with him from Africa?”
The woman shook her head. “He brought nothing back. Not even clothes. Everything he had, I put into an envelope. They were from a secret belt, a pocket that goes under the pants. It was all he had.”
“May I look?” Munroe asked.
Frau Berger nodded and rose. She motioned for Munroe to follow, then led her up the narrow staircase and to a room on the right. Unlikethe rest of the house, the room was dusty, its air stale. Items were strewn across the floor and the bed was barely made, as if his mother had chosen to leave it exactly the way Kristof had on the day he left home for good. Perhaps in some hidden recess of the woman’s mind she believed that he would return to it.
From a drawer inside a small wardrobe, Frau Berger pulled out a manila envelope and handed it to Munroe. “Everything he had with him is in here.”
The two women sat, Frau Berger on the edge of the bed and Munroe cross-legged on the floor, where she spread out the contents of the envelope in front of her: a passport, two airplane tickets, a yellow vaccination card, two pills remaining from some form of medication, and a couple pieces of paper on which the ink had bled to indecipherability.
Munroe stared at the items, astounded by the wealth of viable information. At this rate the job would be over in a month.
She picked up the airplane tickets. The first was an unused South African Airways ticket from Johannesburg to Frankfurt with the same date and codes for the flight Emily was supposed to have taken. The second was undoubtedly the one Kristof had returned to Europe on, an Air France flight from Libreville to Paris. The ticket had been issued by a local travel agent in Gabon, of that Munroe was sure. From the IATA information, she could track down the originating travel agency if necessary.
The yellow vaccination record brought a smile. The doctor’s stamps and signatures were all obvious forgeries. The entire stamp-filled booklet had no doubt been purchased somewhere along the journey in order to facilitate border crossings, a fake so similar to those that she used to carry.
She took his passport and flipped through the pages. The little book was nearly full. Most of the countries he had passed through had required an entire page for the issuing visa alone, not counting entry and exit stamps. Munroe lost herself in the pages tracing his journey from South Africa to Kenya and back again, following the trail of exit and entry stamps until they led to Namibia. She went slowly, flipping front to back through the pages, sometimes losing a thread in the muddle and then picking it
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