City of the Snakes (11 page)

I rise before dawn, tired and irritable, and squat in the shadows of my living room, thinking about Bill, wondering what he looks like now, what he’s doing, where he’s spent the past ten years. Tasso’s news both thrills and depresses me. Thrills, because the years of murder and madness haven’t been a waste—my quest is justifiable and revenge can be mine. Depresses, because Tasso could be lying—or Raimi could have lied to him—and I have a sick fear that even if it’s true, Bill will drop dead of old age or flee before I can descend on him in all my fury.

As desperate as I am to get my hands on Bill, I put thoughts of him on hold. I have a deal with Tasso to honor. Raimi must be found before I can focus on my dearest friend and most hated enemy. Where to start in my search for the missing Cardinal?

As the sun rises I focus all my mental faculties on the Raimi problem, and the answer soon presents itself. Start where Raimi was last seen—the Fridge. After a quick breakfast and a hundred push-ups, I cycle to the morgue. I’m in Al Jeery guise, so I use the bicycle I’ve had for fifteen years. I save the motorcycle for when I’m Paucar Wami, storing it in a nearby garage.

I’m no stranger to the Fridge, its false exterior (it looks like a deserted factory) and gleaming, coffin-lined halls. I’ve dropped off many bodies here, friends and foes of The Cardinal and his crew. I even have my own access code, though it has to be renewed every three months and only admits me to a small, self-contained section at the rear of the morgue.

Once I’ve parked and entered, I tell one of the assistants that I’d like to see Dr. Sines. He’s head honcho, though he was just one of many pathologists on the books when I first made his acquaintance ten years ago. He’s one of the select few who know that Paucar Wami and Al Jeery are the same man.

“Mr. Jeery,” he greets me with a curt nod, coming from an operating room, his hands encased in blood-smeared plastic gloves.

“Dr. Sines.” We’ve known each other for a decade, but have never
dropped the formalities. Sines is an associate, not a friend. I prefer it that way. I’m safer without friends.

“Dropping off or picking up?” he quips. A standard joke.

“I’ve been hired to find Capac Raimi. I want to see where he disappeared.”

Sines stares at me. “I didn’t think you were into detective work these days.”

“I’m making an exception this once. I have clearance. You can check with Jerry or Frank if you don’t believe me.”

“If it’s all the same, I will. Nothing personal.”

One phone call later, Sines leads me through a maze of casket-lined corridors to Ferdinand Dorak’s crypt. “We’ve had a hell of a time since Raimi vanished,” the doctor mutters, peeling off his gloves as we walk and discarding them. “Hordes of Troops swarming around, interviewing everyone, upsetting everything. I’ve been quizzed on five separate occasions. I suppose you’ll make it an even half-dozen?”

“I don’t think I’ll bother. I know how clueless you are.”

“Very droll. You should have been a comedian.”

We arrive at the crypt. Octagonal, heavily reinforced, a computerized lock on the door. Sines keys in a code and after a number of clicks it swings open.

“Want me to come in with you?” Sines asks.

“Yes. I want to see the stairs under the coffin.”

We enter. A cold, dry room, The Cardinal’s coffin resplendent in the center, on a huge slab of marble. I examine the inscription—
NOBODY TOLD ME THERE’D BE DAYS LIKE THESE
—then the coffin and marble.

“There’s a lever at the bottom of the stairs,” Sines says. “Until the Troops came ferreting around, that was the only way to open it. They busted a few locks, so now the coffin slides aside if you push.” He lays a hand on the head of the coffin and demonstrates. It slides two-thirds of the way off the marble slab before coming to a halt, revealing a dark chasm and a set of stairs.

“This wasn’t here originally?” I ask, staring down into the darkness.

“No. They burrowed up from beneath.”

“How come nobody noticed?”

“The room’s soundproof,” Sines explains. “Besides, nobody passes by much—The Cardinal made sure he was put in a secluded part of the building. What gets me is how they knew where to dig. Only three people have access to the architectural plans. Each has been cleared by the Troops. Whoever did this didn’t find out about it through official channels.”

Several flashlights are set on the floor in a corner of the room. I fetch one and click it on. “I’m going to the bottom of the stairs,” I tell Sines. “I won’t be long.”

“What will I do if you don’t come back?” he asks nervously.

“Make up a good story for the Troops and pray they believe you.” I climb up onto the slab, swing my legs over, find the top step of the stairs and start down.

There are forty-one steps to the bottom, where a short tunnel ends in a door. The lock’s on the other side but the Troops must have kicked it open on one of their visits because it swings inward when I push. I step through and shine my light around. I’m at a junction, five crudely cut passages branching out to who knows where. Three of the passages are marked with crosses, where the Troops explored. Tasso told me they found nothing but more junctions and tunnels before giving up.

“You’re here, aren’t you?” I whisper, turning off the flashlight and letting the darkness engulf me. “They’re keeping you where no one can find you. You’re the ace up top, but they rule beneath. These tunnels are theirs. I wonder what they’re doing to you?”

I cough self-consciously. One of the side effects of spending so much time on my own—I’ve started talking to myself. I haven’t gotten to the stage where I’m answering yet, but it can’t be far off.

I linger a minute, feeling the darkness as if it had a tangible, physical presence. I’m sure I’ll be down these tunnels again before this investigation’s over, but for the time being I have no use for them. I’m not going to find Raimi by walking directionlessly into the darkness. I’ll have to work to root him out. The
villacs
won’t make it easy for me.

I climb back up the stairs, wondering where to turn next. I proved no slouch in the detective stakes last time, but I’m no supersleuth either. The priests will have to strew the path with clues if I’m to progress, otherwise I’ll run around in circles. But I’m sure they’ll help me along, as they did
before. The game means nothing to them, only the result. So it’s surely just a matter of time before…

On cue, as my head comes level with the sixth step from the top, I spot a photo standing at an angle. Smiling at the timing, I grab the photo and continue to the top.

“What’s that?” Sines asks, spotting it immediately.

“Someone’s been careless with his holiday snapshots,” I murmur, studying the photo in the harsh light of the crypt. It’s a young, attractive woman. She looks familiar but I can’t place her. Party Central looms in the background. She’s holding a newspaper. I’m sure, once I get it under a magnifying glass, I’ll be able to check the date—the obvious intention of the people who placed the photo there.

“Where was it?” Sines asks, taking the photo from me.

“On the stairs. When was the last time anyone was down there?”

“Yesterday. No…” He pauses. “Late Monday. Four Troops. Lamps, ropes and other equipment had been left at the bottom. They went to retrieve them.”

“They wouldn’t have missed this. It’s been placed here since then, or one of them left it.”

Sines shakes his head. “I was here when they came up. It wasn’t them.”

“You’re certain?”

“Positive.” He hands back the photo.

“Then I won’t bother questioning them.” I start to tuck the photo away. Stop at a memory flash and hold it up to the light. “I know her,” I mutter. “I met her years ago. She worked at…”

The name clicks, but I say it only to myself, seeing no need to inform the good Dr. Sines.
Ama Situwa
, daughter of Cafran Reed, who ran what was once maybe the city’s kookiest restaurant. I haven’t been there in ten years. I don’t even know if Cafran’s exists any more. But it won’t take me long to find out.

To my surprise, not only is Cafran’s still going strong, but its original owner has held on and is happy to talk with me.

Cafran Reed looks older than his years—gray, stooped, feeble. He
spends most of his time in the restaurant—which hasn’t changed much, it’s as gaudily colored as ever—but a manager runs it for him now. Cafran merely mixes with the staff and customers, testing the food, fussing over the music (mostly pop songs from the 1960s and ’70s), waiting for death to claim him.

“Ama Situwa?” he responds blankly when I ask.

“You haven’t a daughter?”

“Alas, no.” He smiles sadly. “I wished for one but it wasn’t meant to be.”

I show him the photo I picked up in the Fridge. “Recognize this woman?”

He has to put on his glasses before he can comment. Studies the photo at length. No hint of recognition in his tired old eyes. “Sorry,” he says.

Cafran invites me to stay for lunch but I reject the offer. Too busy. I’ll eat on the move, a sandwich or bagel to keep me going.

Outside, I use my cell phone to dial the number Tasso gave me yesterday. He answers on the second ring. “Algiers?”

“I want you to check something for me. The list of Ayuamarcans I saw was an old copy my father had stolen from the files of Party Central. Do you have a more up-to-date—”

“I know all the names,” he interrupts. “I used to scan it regularly, hoping a name might jog my memory. Shoot.”

“Ama Situwa.”

He grunts. “One of the last to be added. I asked Capac about her but he never said whether he knew her.”

“Thanks.” I head for home, where I check the newspaper in the photo under a magnifying glass. It indicates that Ama Situwa—an Ayuamarcan, dead ten years—was standing in front of Party Central less than a week ago. I lay the photo aside and don’t worry about it. I know what can be done with digital enhancement. The date on the paper means nothing. I won’t believe the shades of the dead have returned until I see one in the flesh. And even then I’ll reserve the right to be skeptical.

I patrol the streets as my father, flashing photos of Capac Raimi and Ama Situwa, asking people if they’ve seen or know anything of them. My contacts are legion. As Paucar Wami, I’m known to thousands of gang
members, store owners, bums, clubbers, pimps, prostitutes and various other creatures of the night. Most fear me and answer openly when I question them, wanting to be rid of me as quickly as possible.

They all know Raimi—or of him—but haven’t seen him since he vanished, nor have they any idea where he might be. No one recognizes the woman. I ask if the blind priests in the white robes have been active of late—I only put this question to the more clued in of my contacts—
but nobody’s spotted them on the prowl.

The street folk are worried. Although the city has stabilized since Tasso took control of Party Central—that became common knowledge during the last twenty-four hours—the veterans know the lull is temporary. The keg’s still primed to explode, and those who live or work on the streets will bear the brunt of the blast. I urge them to listen for rumors of Capac Raimi and watch for the woman in the photo, but most are too concerned with their own welfare to focus on anything else. I won’t be able to rely on them.

Thursday passes. Friday. Lots of travel, as Al Jeery and Paucar Wami, covering both the day and night worlds. I’ve never confined myself to the east, but that’s where I’m most powerful and I feel uneasy spreading myself further, covering so much ground. Wami’s known and feared in all sectors, but not as respected elsewhere as in the east. Challenges to my authority are more likely elsewhere. I have to tread carefully. Be polite. Rely on bribes as well as threats. Ask permission of the more influential gangs to canvass their territories. It’d be different if I were tracking prey. I could move in, make my hit, slip out. But this investigation could run for weeks or longer. Some degree of diplomacy is called for.

Between flashing snapshots of Capac and Ama, I study the faces of old men on the streets and through windows, my gaze lingering coldly on those bearing even a passing resemblance to Bill Casey. I don’t have the time to fixate on Bill—I have to concentrate on the quest to find Raimi—but I can’t stop looking for him. I also ask a few discreet questions. If he’s hiding in the city, someone other than Raimi and Tasso must know where he is. If I find the ex-cop by myself, all bets are off. Tasso—anyone—can have me once I’m through with Bill. I’ll be done with this world. It can do to me what it likes after that.

But nobody’s seen him. Those who knew him believe he’s dead. I plant seeds of doubt—say I’ve heard rumors that he survived—and leave them to sprout.

In the meantime I continue hunting for Tasso’s lost leader, pounding the streets, offering bribes, listening to the dark whispers of the city in the hope that they’ll tell me where Raimi is.

Saturday. I leave my apartment early, carrying my bike with me, in Al Jeery mode. I trot down the stairs, whistling, and nod to a disinterested neighbor on the ground floor. They never see me as Paucar Wami—I always exit and enter by the back alley and fire escape. Nobody here knows about my double life. Or if they do—if someone spotted me slipping out of my window one dark but cloudless night, and made the connection—they keep it to themselves, knowing that to cross swords with Paucar Wami is to guarantee the kiss of death.