Page 52 of Unnatural Death

His name is Lucas Van Acker, and he speaks with a heavy French accent. We became acquainted at Interpol’s headquarters in Lyon earlier in the fall, both of us there for a meeting. We lunched on local sausages, cheeses and crusty bread at an outdoor café on the Rhone River. Watching thebateau mouchetour boats motoring by, we discussed the latest threats to humanity and whether our planet would survive and be worth inhabiting.

He said that Interpol was extremely concerned about international prisoner swaps, many of these political transactions never revealed to the public. Some of the world’s most dangerous criminals end up back in circulation. These people often go underground for years as they plot and plan. “They’re infinitely worse than before,” I remember him saying.

“An example is the Taliban leader American politicians helped release from a Pakistani prison as part of a deal. Now he’s in power again and worse than before,” Lucas explained as we drank a very nice Côte-Rôtie from the region.

“There’s nothing more dangerous than dictators and other despots who’ve been locked up and then return to power.” He’s saying this now remotely from a SCIF at Secret Service headquarters. “They’re more ruthless and will have scores to settle.”

As he’s talking, a gruesome image has appeared on one of the video displays set up in here.

“What you’re seeing is a Black Notice.” Lucas refers to unidentified bodies Interpol believes are connected to international crime. “He washed up on a beach in Monte Carlo at the height of the tourist season this past August. To clarify, I should say that parts of him washed up. You might have seen something about it in the news.”

The victim’s decomposing head is in a nest of seaweed crawling with flies and crabs on a beach crowded with sun-polished beautiful people. They’re looking on in horror, the Monte Carlo opera house looming in the background. A colorful hot air balloon floats over a casino, huge yachts bright white on the harbor’s sparkling blue horizon.

As Lucas is talking, I’m hearing the Doomsday Bird’s powerful engines firing up on the tarmac outside the REMOTE. I envision Lucy turning on switches, going through the preflight checklist. I don’t like her returning to Buckingham Run and hope she doesn’t get into any other aerial showdowns. It would be good if she avoided further news headlines. Most of all I want her home safely.

“… Estimated to be in his late forties, early fifties,” Lucas explains. “To date, we don’t know who he is, but have an idea who he worked for. He was aserviteur, a minion, a means to an end just as the Mansons and others were.”

That image is replaced by one of an eviscerated nude body on a wet sidewalk. In the background, the ornate Byzantine turrets of St. Basil’s Cathedral are like something out of a fairy tale. Pedestrians in dark clothing have stopped to gawk beneath a moiling overcast Moscow sky as city police cars pull up with lights flashing.

“A man who allegedly fell or jumped from the tenth-story fire escape of a hotel in Red Square. The temperature was around forty degrees, and it was raining at the time,” Lucas says. “This was just two weeks ago.”

“Why the hell would someone naked be out on a fire escape in weather like that?” Marino asks. “Or any weather? Sounds like bullshit to me.”

“The more likely story is he had some help hurtling to his death,” Lucas agrees. “He was staying under an assumed name, and based on tattoos, likely an American. There were vodka bottles inside his room, also drugs, as if to imply he was impaired and didn’t know what he was doing. Or maybe we’re supposed to think he committed suicide.”

“Toxicology should tell you something,” I reply. “Also, any injuries that might indicate a struggle.”

“Nothing suspicious according to the Russians. They reported that the victim had been behaving oddly, as if he might be suffering mental health issues,” Lucas says. “This is according to witnesses staying in the hotel, what they allegedly told police.”

“And the autopsy results?” I ask. “What did they have to say?”

“An accident due to a high alcohol level and presence of opioids including fentanyl,” Lucas summarizes. “Of course, we’re talking about Moscow. We can’t trust the information to be accurate.”

“Understatement,” I answer.

“This is what happens when people become inconvenient and expendable,” Lucas continues. “They’re made examples of, and I could tell you about others. Those who mysteriously go out windows. They die on park benches after being poisoned. Their cars blow up or they’re shot while walking their dogs.”

CHAPTER 20

THE DECAPITATED HEAD WASHED up barely a mile from where an oligarch’s superyacht was anchored in the Monte Carlo harbor. The next day it was a severed arm. Then another one, the hands missing, Interpol’s Lucas Van Acker explains on the autopsy compartment’s video screens.

Based on the tides and other information, the authorities have a good idea where and when the victim’s remains were dropped into the Mediterranean. It’s no accident they ended up on one of Monte Carlo’s most glamorous strips of beach at the height of tourist season.

“The goal is to terrify and destabilize the public while inspiring those vulnerable to being radicalized,” Lucas says. “We have an idea who was on the superyacht at the time. Many of these examples have the same common denominator.”

That was the wording he used when we were together in Lyon not so long ago. He repeatedly mentioned acommon denominator. I had the sense that he was alluding to something I would be hearing about soon enough. I remember feeling puzzled by the way his demeanor changed when he talked about it. He looked away from me and was almost apologetic.

“… We believe this common denominator is a ruthless terrorist known as thePrizrak, the Russian word for ghost,” Lucas explains. “This individual is the most dominant figure in the Kremlin’s shadow army, a transnational criminal organization with the goal of universal dominance.”

“This common denominator is someone we’re familiar with, unfortunately.” Benton’s attention continues to fix on me. “I apologize in advance that what you’re about to see is upsetting.”

A paused video appears on a display, and I recognize the person in black. A shockwave runs through me even as I’ve been waiting for the boom to drop.

“Holy shit,” Marino drawls in disbelief. “Please tell me this is a sick fucking joke.”

I don’t react visibly or say a word as I’m ambushed. I feel furious and betrayed in ways hard to fathom. If I were alone with Benton this moment I’m not sure what I’d say. I don’t know if I’d cry or yell. Possibly both. Or maybe I’d just sit there and stare at him as I’m doing right now.

How could you not tell me?