He had found the claim tag.
He detached it, then carefully searched both the shirt and pants, finding nothing else of interest. He sold the shirt and pants to the thrift shop—he needed the money, and police across the city likely had pictures of him wearing them by now. A sign on the wall claimed all items were thoroughly cleaned before being offered for sale, and he hoped it was true; if not, the police dogs might pick up the scent in the store. With some of his extra money he purchased a ball cap, sunglasses, and a backpack. In the changing room, he put all his possessions—the extra clothes and the spare magazines for the policeman’s gun—in the backpack.
Ten minutes later, he once again stood outside the dry cleaner. The older Asian man was gone; a younger man, also Asian, now sat at the counter, hunched over a textbook, a pencil in his hand, scribbling notes.
Desmond walked in and slid him the tag without a word.
The teenager searched the rows of hanging clothes, checking the tag several times. After a few minutes he shook his head and returned to the counter.
“You’re picking up late. There’s a fee.”
“How much?”
“Three euros per day.”
“How late am I?”
Desmond was already dangerously low on cash; he had just enough to pay the rent at the crummy flat for three days, and he was due to meet the landlord in less than an hour.
The teen worked the computer, searching the tag number. “Fourteen days late. Forty-two euros plus the cleaning. Fifty-five total with tax.”
If he paid, Desmond wouldn’t have enough for rent for all three nights. He considered pulling the police ID again, but that would only invite problems. So he forked the cash over and waited while the teen thrashed around in the back for what felt like an hour. Desmond hoped it would be worth it—that whatever he, or someone, had stashed here contained something to get him out of the fix he was in.
The boy emerged with a plastic hanging bag covering an expensive-looking navy suit. Desmond could barely resist the urge to tear it open and examine it right there. His appointment with the landlord, however, was fast approaching, so with the suit hanging over his shoulder, he made his way to the meeting spot.
He found a young woman in her mid-twenties, a cigarette in her hand, standing in front of a run-down three-story building. Four Middle Eastern teenagers sat on the steps outside the front door, arguing in a language Desmond didn’t recognize.
“Are you Ingrid?” he asked in the same New England accent he had used before.
“Ja.” She put the cigarette out and accepted Desmond’s hand when he extended it eagerly.
“I’m Peter Wilkinson. We spoke earlier. Thank you so much for meeting me on such short notice.”
She led him inside, up a winding, narrow staircase, and into the flat, which was tiny but clean.
“It’s perfect,” Desmond said. “Now listen, this suit is literally all they left me with. Guess they didn’t know it was mine!” He smiled sheepishly. “I need it for my meeting tomorrow, and,” he sighed, “I’m running low on cash.”
The woman shook her head. “If you can’t pay, you simply cannot stay here.”
“I’ve got enough for one night.” He handed her the folded-up euros. “I’ll get you the rest.”
Ingrid hesitated.
“Look, if I can’t pay tomorrow, I’ll leave. Promise. My wife is going to wire me some more money. I promise. Okay?”
Ingrid glanced away from him. “All right. I’ll come back tomorrow with my boyfriend. Please pay or be gone.”
“No problem. Thank you again.”
The moment the door closed, Desmond ripped into the plastic dry cleaning bag and searched the suit. The patch inside the jacket listed the maker as Richard Anderson, 13 Savile Row. He wondered if it was another clue. He ran his fingers over the embroidery—and felt a lump.
His heart beat faster. There was something sewn inside the suit.
Chapter 7
At CDC headquarters in Atlanta, Peyton was working on the central mystery in the outbreak in Mandera: the patients. She believed she had just made a breakthrough.
The two young Americans had started a nonprofit organization called CityForge. Its mission was to help villages grow by giving them funding for infrastructure and mentoring from city leaders in the developed world. CityForge’s funding came from individuals, who donated via the CityForge website. The investments were treated as municipal bonds, which meant the donors would benefit financially if the villages thrived. Villages used the money to bring electricity, education, better roads, health care, internet, public sanitation, police enforcement, and other vital services to their citizens.
As part of the CityForge model, local leaders were trained to film the village’s gradual transformation. The videos gave the mentors in the developed world a way to follow the progress of the villages. In almost real time, city council leaders, mayors, police chiefs, and others could see the villages change, and could offer guidance. Individual donors could also follow the villages’ progress, like a reality show, seeing how the money they provided was improving the lives of the current residents and laying the groundwork for generations to come.