He turned around. The flat’s owner had attached a large mirror to the underside of the bed frame, and with the Murphy bed folded into the wall, the mirror made the space seem larger. Desmond stared at himself: at his toned, muscular face, at his blond, eyebrow-length hair, at the image of a man who was a complete mystery to him. His appearance wasn’t overly remarkable in Berlin—as a fugitive, he would have been far more noticeable in Shanghai or Egypt—but still, he would have to alter his appearance. When night fell, that would be his first task.
At the moment, however, he had to unravel what was happening. He couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something he needed to be doing.
He focused on what he knew: he had set up the phone numbers and left the voicemail greeting, knowing, or perhaps merely hoping, he would find them. The second voicemail greeting had led him to his own private labyrinth. What did the first phone number lead to? His words in the message had taunted him, saying he’d know what to do. What did he know?
He figured he must have purchased the prepaid credit cards first, then set up the phone numbers to match the credit card numbers. He did a series of internet searches and discovered that the first three digits of the phone numbers corresponded to Google Voice lines. The service was free and included an online control panel where users could access voicemail, forward the number to other phone lines, and more.
That was it: he could access the voicemail from the Google Voice app. He downloaded it to his cell and tried a few password combinations with no luck.
What am I missing?
He searched the suit again, but there were no other hidden pockets, nothing of note. He sat on a small wooden chair by the window to think. The plastic dry cleaning bag lay wadded up in the corner of the room. Through the clear layers, Desmond spotted a pink piece of paper stapled to the top.
He jumped up, ripped the plastic apart, and examined the small slip. It was a carbon copy of the dry-cleaning receipt. The name on the tag was Jacob Lawrence.
Desmond grabbed his phone and entered the name as the password on the Google Voice app. To his relief, it worked.
The application opened and displayed the voicemail mailbox, which contained three messages, all from the same phone number. The first was dated two days before. He clicked it and read the transcript:
I think someone’s following me. Not sure. Don’t call back. Meet me where we met the first time. Tomorrow. 10 a.m.
Desmond clicked the second message, which had been left yesterday at noon.
Where were you? They searched my flat. I’m sure of it. I’m going to the police if you don’t call me.
The last message was from today—at eleven a.m.
You’re all over the news. Did you kill him? Call me or I’m going to the police—I’m serious. I’ll tell them everything you told me and everything I know about you. I’ve given a colleague a folder with all my notes. If something happens to me, it will be in the police’s hands within an hour.
Desmond’s mind raced. Was the person who left these messages an ally or an enemy? One thing was certain: that person knew who he was.
He set his phone up to use the Google Voice number and verified that he was connected to the flat’s WiFi; he wanted his next call to be routed through Google’s servers. The number that had left the voicemails had a Berlin extension. He clicked it from the app and listened as it rang.
A man’s voice answered, speaking in German-accented English. “What happened?”
“We need to meet,” Desmond said.
“No. I want answers—right now. Did you kill that man?”
“No,” Desmond said automatically, still unsure if it was true or not.
“Is this connected to the Looking Glass?”
The Looking Glass. The words instantly struck a chord. The Looking Glass—it meant something to him, but he couldn’t remember what.
“Are you still there?”
“Yes,” Desmond said. “I’ll explain when we meet.”
Silence for a long moment, then, “Someone’s following me. I’m staying with a friend, and I’ve told her everything. She’s got the recordings of our previous conversations. If it’s you—if you searched my flat and if something happens to me, she’s going to the authorities.”
“I understand. Believe me, I’m not going to hurt you. I’m a victim too.”
A pause. Then he spoke with hesitation. “Where? When?”
Desmond considered a few options. He was exhausted, and he needed to prepare for the meeting. “Tomorrow at noon. The Brandenburg Gate. Stand in the tourist area, holding a sign that says Looking Glass Tours, prices negotiable. Wear a navy peacoat, blue jeans, and a black hat with nothing on it.”
“You want to meet in public?”
“It’s safer that way. Leave your phone at home. Come alone. Unarmed.”
He snorted, sounding disgusted. “Says the man wanted for murder.”
“Being wanted for murder doesn’t mean I’m guilty of murder. You want answers, meet me tomorrow.”
“Fine.”
When the line went dead, Desmond began planning the meeting: every aspect, every possible contingency. If he played his cards right, he might soon know what was going on.
Chapter 10
That night, Dr. Elim Kibet made his rounds at Mandera Referral Hospital, then retreated to his office, where he took off his worn white coat and began writing an email to the Kenyan Ministry of Public Health:
To whom it may concern:
The situation here has deteriorated. I again implore you to send help with all possible haste.
The American male, who arrived here this morning and presented with symptoms of an as-yet-unidentified hemorrhagic fever, has died. We are ill equipped to perform an autopsy or handle his remains. I have sealed his room and barred anyone from entering.
His passing distressed his companion greatly. More concerning, the young man, who is named Lucas Turner, has developed a fever, most recently recorded at 102. I fear it will continue to climb and that he will soon develop symptoms similar to his now-deceased companion. If so, his fate may well be the same.