Desmond’s mind raced. Was the person who left these messages an ally or an enemy? One thing was certain: that person knew who he was.
He set his phone up to use the Google Voice number and verified that he was connected to the flat’s WiFi; he wanted his next call to be routed through Google’s servers. The number that had left the voicemails had a Berlin extension. He clicked it from the app and listened as it rang.
A man’s voice answered, speaking in German-accented English. “What happened?”
“We need to meet,” Desmond said.
“No. I want answers—right now. Did you kill that man?”
“No,” Desmond said automatically, still unsure if it was true or not.
“Is this connected to the Looking Glass?”
The Looking Glass. The words instantly struck a chord. The Looking Glass—it meant something to him, but he couldn’t remember what.
“Are you still there?”
“Yes,” Desmond said. “I’ll explain when we meet.”
Silence for a long moment, then, “Someone’s following me. I’m staying with a friend, and I’ve told her everything. She’s got the recordings of our previous conversations. If it’s you—if you searched my flat and if something happens to me, she’s going to the authorities.”
“I understand. Believe me, I’m not going to hurt you. I’m a victim too.”
A pause. Then he spoke with hesitation. “Where? When?”
Desmond considered a few options. He was exhausted, and he needed to prepare for the meeting. “Tomorrow at noon. The Brandenburg Gate. Stand in the tourist area, holding a sign that says Looking Glass Tours, prices negotiable. Wear a navy peacoat, blue jeans, and a black hat with nothing on it.”
“You want to meet in public?”
“It’s safer that way. Leave your phone at home. Come alone. Unarmed.”
He snorted, sounding disgusted. “Says the man wanted for murder.”
“Being wanted for murder doesn’t mean I’m guilty of murder. You want answers, meet me tomorrow.”
“Fine.”
When the line went dead, Desmond began planning the meeting: every aspect, every possible contingency. If he played his cards right, he might soon know what was going on.
Chapter 10
That night, Dr. Elim Kibet made his rounds at Mandera Referral Hospital, then retreated to his office, where he took off his worn white coat and began writing an email to the Kenyan Ministry of Public Health:
To whom it may concern:
The situation here has deteriorated. I again implore you to send help with all possible haste.
The American male, who arrived here this morning and presented with symptoms of an as-yet-unidentified hemorrhagic fever, has died. We are ill equipped to perform an autopsy or handle his remains. I have sealed his room and barred anyone from entering.
His passing distressed his companion greatly. More concerning, the young man, who is named Lucas Turner, has developed a fever, most recently recorded at 102. I fear it will continue to climb and that he will soon develop symptoms similar to his now-deceased companion. If so, his fate may well be the same.