Page 48 of Need to Know

“Why do you believe these men abduct you? For ransom? You’re a high value target—”

“No, maybe, I don’t know? They wanted to know information…about Curtis Hale, where he was.”

“Who is Curtis Hale?” Special Agent Porter demanded. “Why did they think you’d know anything about this Curtis Hale? Who is Curtis Hale to you?” Special Agent Porter was plucking at my last nerve.

“He’s my goddamn father,” I spat, unable to keep my anger at bay. “Curtis Hale died twelve years ago,” I revealed furiously. “When I told them he’d died a long time ago, they…they fuckin’ laughed,” I said sorrowfully. “One of the men told me he’d seen Curtis Hale three weeks ago. He said he was using a different name to travel from China.” Special Agent Porter pulled the tablet close and typed a message. I was officially done, overtired, and overwhelmed. I couldn’t stop the tears.

“So, you’re telling me you and your friend were abducted because someone believes you know the whereabouts of your dead father? Have you seen your father? He’s not contacted you in any way?”

“Christ!” I exclaimed, running my fingers through my hair in exasperation. “Do you have a Ouija board; we’ll see what he says!” I snarked. “Special Agent Porter, I’m telling you the truth. I don’t know anything about those men. I’ve got no idea what they want. But they stole our hotel room key and destroyed the room…like slashed it to pieces. You’ve got to help me! I think criminals are using my late father’s identity for…bad things and someone got their wires crossed. Please, tell me…is this mistaken identity or is my dad miraculously alive?”

Special Agent Porter pursed her lips as if my display of emotion was distasteful to her. I tried to calm myself and wiped my eyes. I heard the door open and close. Taking a swift glance behind me I noted that the CIA man had slipped out. I guess he’d heard whatever he’d needed.

Special Agent Porter regained my attention by asking, “Your boyfriend, Jack Boyd. Where is he?”

“I left him at our hotel. Look this has nothing to do with Jack,” I insisted. “Am I in trouble here? Do I need a lawyer?”

Special Agent Porter then said, “Interview terminated at thirteen zero six p.m.,” and then she stopped the recording. “A doctor will be in to check you over, Mr. Linden,” she said before she picked up the tablet, and leaving the room. The door was closed and locked, as if I was a criminal. I finished the first bottle of water and reached for the second unopened bottle. Minutes later an African American woman entered the room.

“Mr. Linden? Hello, I’m Dr Fran Cagle. How are you feeling, sir?”

I was so relieved to see a friendly face, someone who seemed concerned about me. “Um…I’m thirsty, confused…frustrated,” I admitted.

“You believe you ingested Rohypnol, yes? Can you estimate what time this happened?” she asked matter-of-factly.

“Can’t say for sure. After eleven, maybe. Could be twelve hours ago?”

“Do you believe you were sexually assaulted?”

“No, nothing like that,” I insisted.

“Okay. I’ll need a medical history and to take samples of blood and urine for tests. Are you happy to consent?” I nodded and then gave the doctor my personal details and the contact details of my physician in New York. I zoned out as Dr Cagle went through the process of taking my temperature and blood pressure, then finding a vein, taking blood and a cheek swab. My mind whirred, was Jack okay? Was he mad at me for leaving him at the hotel? Doubts crowded in and I was unsure if I believed anything I’d told Special Agent Porter. Should I have mentioned the Chinese AI chips? This whole fiasco sounded like a movie script and, honestly, I resented being the star of this particular shit-show!

****

CHAPTER TWENTY–SIX

Jack

I’d shaved, and with my hair styled to give me the disguise of a fringe, I crossed Pariser Platz dressed in the plain black slacks and a white shirt I’d found on the garment on the rack in the lounge. It was twelve thirty-p.m. and according to the conference agenda lunch service would begin at one p.m. A skinny young woman was standing in an alcove of the building smoking a cigarette, her hip cocked as she swiped on her phone. She was wearing a white blouse, black skirt, and vest bearing a logo I recognized from my web search; it was the Palace Catering logo.

“Excuse me,” I said in German, “I don’t suppose I could get a cigarette?” She looked up from her phone and then eyed me up and down suspiciously.

“Are you a delegate or staff?”

“Staff. Artur asked a favour, last minute. He said the delegates were complaining about a lack of staff for the lunch rush.”

“Yeah, Klaus, Andrea, and Miguel all got sick. Fucking COVID they say it’s over…but it’s never ending,” she huffed. Then, gesturing to my bruised cheek she asked, “You in a fight? Artur won’t be happy if he sees that!”

“I tried to cover it up…does it look bad? I don’t want to lose this job. I got rent and bills piling up,” I winced.

“Yeah, same. Marlboro okay?” she said opening her cigarette packet and offering it to me.

“Sure, thanks.” I plucked the cigarette from the packet and placed it between my lips. “Erika,” she said conversationally as she pulled a slim lighter from the cigarette packet and with a press of her thumb, struck a flame for me.

“Thanks Erika, you’re a life saver!” I leaned forward and made direct, flirty eye contact as I let her light the tip. I’d always found this ritual of lighting another person’s cigarette to be an intimate one. It seemed Erika thought so too because she smiled coquettishly and her cheeks pinkened. Covertly, while Erika was lost in my brown eyes and considerable allure, I’d unclipped the security pass from her belt, and pocketed it. I leaned back against the wall, and took a few nostalgic puffs, remembering my brief sojourn into being a smoker in my twenties. It lasted all of two weeks before I got sick of coughing up a lung each morning and my clothes smelling of smoke all the time.

“I have concealer, if it would help,” Erika said, reaching into her tote bag and retrieving a small round compact.