Angel of the Dark

MARCO BRUNELLI WAS STILL IN HIS underwear and a stained vest when the Chinese policemen knocked on his door. Actually they didn’t so much knock as hammer.

“Can I help you gentlemen?” Marco swallowed nervously, thinking about the stash of weed lying there in plain sight on his bedside table, his failure to pay his last year’s tax bill and an incident with a pole dancer at Blushes nightclub that had occurred the previous month. Not that the latter was his fault.

“You work at the Huxley Hotel, as a driver?”

“That’s right. I’m on leave. It’s my mum you see. She—”

“Saturday the sixteenth, in the morning, you drove a party named Smith to the airport. Do you remember?”

“Smith.” Marco frowned. “Smith, Smith, Smith.” The policeman handed him a photograph of a very attractive dark-haired woman. “Oh, her. Yeah, I remember her. And her husband. Yeah, that’s right, I drove them to the airport. Why?”

“Did you know where they were flying to?”

“You know, that’s a funny thing,” said Marco, more relaxed now that he realized it was these clients the police were after, not him. “Normally clients are chatty in the back of the car, especially the Americans. They want to talk about what a great stay they’ve had, where they’re going next, all that guff. But those two were silent as the grave. Didn’t say a word.”

Inspector Liu felt his hopes fading.

“But after I dropped them, on my way back into town, I noticed that the bloke had left his briefcase on the backseat. So of course I hightailed it back there and went racing into the terminal. The guy was so happy to see me he gave me a big hug and a two-hundred-dollar tip. They were just in time for boarding. So that’s why I remember where they were going.”

Marco smiled broadly. Inspector Liu could hardly bear the suspense.

“Mumbai, India,” the driver announced proudly. “Was that all you wanted to know?”

CLAUDE DEMARTIN WAS HAVING AN UNUSUALLY enjoyable afternoon at work. The Azrael team’s office, deep in the bowels of Interpol headquarters, had begun its life as a windowless cubicle. But thanks to Danny McGuire, it had evolved into something of a happy bachelor’s pad, complete with squishy couches, dartboard, and a minifridge stuffed full of the sort of cheap, high-calorie American food Claude was never allowed to eat at home.

Better yet, today Claude was manning the fort alone. Richard laugh-a-minute Sturi was off diddling with his statistical projections somewhere, the boss was still in the States, and the three other junior detectives were in London, attempting what Danny McGuire had hopefully described as a “charm offensive” with Scotland Yard to get them to share more information from the Piers Henley case files.

So far, after a little light updating of the database and a token call to Didier Anjou’s bank in Paris, tying up some loose ends, Claude had beaten himself three times at darts, enjoyed a satisfying session of World of Warcraft and eaten two family-size bags of Cheetos, which was probably officially a crime in certain parts of France. So when the phone rang, he answered in high spirits.

“Interpol, Azrael desk. How may I be of service?”

“Put me through to McGuire.”

Claude Demartin recognized Inspector Liu’s voice. Cheerless as ever, there was an impatience

in his tone today—part excitement, part anger—that Claude hadn’t heard before.

“It’s urgent.”

“Assistant Director McGuire isn’t in the office this week, I’m afraid. He’s traveling. Can I help you? This is Officer Claude Demartin.”

“No.”

“Well, perhaps I can take a message. It’s Inspector Liu, isn’t it? From Hong Kong?”

Liu was silent. He didn’t want to exchange pleasantries with this French monkey. He wanted to talk to the organ grinder. On the other hand, he did have vital information to impart.

“Did you make any progress in Australia?” Demartin pressed. “I assure you the moment we hear something from McGuire, I’ll insist that he contact you. But is there anything the team should know? Any way we can help you?”

“Tell McGuire they’re in India,” Liu said tersely. “If he wants to know more, he can pick up the damn telephone.”

The line went dead.

India. All Demartin could think of was how nicely the news fit with Richard Sturi’s theories of where Azrael would strike next. The German was cocky enough already. He’d be insufferable after this. Before he could pick up the phone to call McGuire, it rang again.

“Azrael,” Demartin said, more businesslike this time.

“Hi, Claude. It’s me.”