If he paid, Desmond wouldn’t have enough for rent for all three nights. He considered pulling the police ID again, but that would only invite problems. So he forked the cash over and waited while the teen thrashed around in the back for what felt like an hour. Desmond hoped it would be worth it—that whatever he, or someone, had stashed here contained something to get him out of the fix he was in.
The boy emerged with a plastic hanging bag covering an expensive-looking navy suit. Desmond could barely resist the urge to tear it open and examine it right there. His appointment with the landlord, however, was fast approaching, so with the suit hanging over his shoulder, he made his way to the meeting spot.
He found a young woman in her mid-twenties, a cigarette in her hand, standing in front of a run-down three-story building. Four Middle Eastern teenagers sat on the steps outside the front door, arguing in a language Desmond didn’t recognize.
“Are you Ingrid?” he asked in the same New England accent he had used before.
“Ja.” She put the cigarette out and accepted Desmond’s hand when he extended it eagerly.
“I’m Peter Wilkinson. We spoke earlier. Thank you so much for meeting me on such short notice.”
She led him inside, up a winding, narrow staircase, and into the flat, which was tiny but clean.
“It’s perfect,” Desmond said. “Now listen, this suit is literally all they left me with. Guess they didn’t know it was mine!” He smiled sheepishly. “I need it for my meeting tomorrow, and,” he sighed, “I’m running low on cash.”
The woman shook her head. “If you can’t pay, you simply cannot stay here.”
“I’ve got enough for one night.” He handed her the folded-up euros. “I’ll get you the rest.”
Ingrid hesitated.
“Look, if I can’t pay tomorrow, I’ll leave. Promise. My wife is going to wire me some more money. I promise. Okay?”
Ingrid glanced away from him. “All right. I’ll come back tomorrow with my boyfriend. Please pay or be gone.”
“No problem. Thank you again.”
The moment the door closed, Desmond ripped into the plastic dry cleaning bag and searched the suit. The patch inside the jacket listed the maker as Richard Anderson, 13 Savile Row. He wondered if it was another clue. He ran his fingers over the embroidery—and felt a lump.
His heart beat faster. There was something sewn inside the suit.
Chapter 7
At CDC headquarters in Atlanta, Peyton was working on the central mystery in the outbreak in Mandera: the patients. She believed she had just made a breakthrough.
The two young Americans had started a nonprofit organization called CityForge. Its mission was to help villages grow by giving them funding for infrastructure and mentoring from city leaders in the developed world. CityForge’s funding came from individuals, who donated via the CityForge website. The investments were treated as municipal bonds, which meant the donors would benefit financially if the villages thrived. Villages used the money to bring electricity, education, better roads, health care, internet, public sanitation, police enforcement, and other vital services to their citizens.