Unlike most of the villagers, the woman, Antle, lived inside a small hut without modern-day amenities. Electricity was all but a forgotten luxury, the woman reading by candlelight. The bathroom was a latrine set within a briar patch that needed to be trimmed back. And as for the cooking of meats and the boiling of water, she utilized a firepit and a rolling spit. Though she dismissed those who wanted to befriend her, she imposed upon herself the title of ‘pariah.’ And because of this self-retreat, some had labeled her as a Macumba priestess, which was likened to a voodoo witch. But the rumors were quickly put to rest when she became a common attendee at the St. Francis of Assisi Church, and even less time for the priests to realize that she was deeply devoted to God. But as soon as mass ended, the woman would return to her hut deep within the jungle. But if her idea was to be secreted away from prying eyes, it was the worst kept secret in Brazil, since everyone knew of the white woman with blond hair who lived as a recluse deep in the rainforest.
As the hot days grew into the night with the cicadas humming in bothersome choruses, the woman who went by the fictitious name of Jennifer Antle had received communication from an altar boy three hours before midnight. He had traveled far by bicycle with a flashlight attached to his handlebars to light the way, the pathways as black as pitch. And as this errand boy who was sent by a priest knocked quietly on her door, she appeared unfazed when she accepted the rolled-up parchment that he had given her. The boy then bowed his head while stating something in Portuguese, perhaps an apology, she thought, for disturbing her at such a late hour. Once he completed his request for forgiveness, the child got onto his bike and fled the scene as though he was motivated by fear. Apparently in some circles, the label of a Macumba priestess still held.
As the woman stood on the bowed porch watching the cone of the boy’s flashlight dim and fade until it disappeared completely, she eventually returned to her natty sofa inside the hut, unrolled the parchment, and held it over the glow of nearby candles. It was an invitation from an old friend, someone who held the same beliefs and intolerances in the name of old-time traditions.
After reading the note a number of times, the woman put the scroll to the candle’s flame and watched it burn. Thereafter, she tossed the burning roll into the firepit, where it turned to ashes.
The scroll contained command orders calling the woman, once again, to duty in the name of her Lord.
Tomorrow, she would get on a flight to Rome to meet an old friend, and together they would conspire to kill a man who was considered to be an enemy of the church.
Sitting on the sofa whose open seams bled with foam, she watched the fire in the pit burn.
CHAPTER
THREE
Zurich, Switzerland
Julian Bosshart was the lead investigator of Zurich’s Kriminalpolizei, which was a German-speaking cantonal division of Switzerland that conducted investigations of criminal activity. He was tall and slender with a thick mane of hair and was well dressed. His suit was top shelf with pants that had razor-sharp creases. But his most striking feature was his unibrow, which was as luscious and thick as a chevron moustache.
Standing beside him was Udo Hess, his second in command, with the two appraising four bodies that had been discovered behind Abesh Faruk’s estate. A forensics team was working the area to collect trace evidence, though it was proving to be a daunting task due to the wild undergrowth and the hanging capes of vines.
The bodies had been discovered by a realtor after she found that the lock to the estate had been compromised and, upon further inspection, found that one of the display cases had been moved to reveal an underground channel, something that was not on the architectural schematic. With curiosity commanding her, the realtor followed the corridor to an unkempt thicket fifty yards behind the mansion. The only traces discovered outside of the bodies was that the knee-high hedges had been tamped down, most likely from a truck.
After appraising the bodies objectively, the obvious conclusion by Bosshart was that these men had been executed. “One to center mass and one to the head,” he commented. “The markings of a professional hit.”
Hess nodded in agreement.
Earlier, forensics had taken digital photos of the victims that were electronically channeled to central command for identification. Within minutes, all four had been identified through facial recognition software. They were low-level thieves and petty criminals who often sold their services to earn an illegitimate payday.
“My guess,” said Hess, “is that they were hired mules to move whatever it was that was hidden beneath the house and loaded onto a vehicle.” He pointed to the crushed shrubbery and at the partial threading of tire tracks imprinted in the soil. “My second guess is that whoever did this did so to guarantee that whatever it was they loaded onto the truck would remain a secret. Whoever’s responsible for this simply used these people. When their services were no longer needed, he killed them.”
“Yeah. Makes sense. The professional-style hit
