38
Cash clambered onto a tall barstool at a table tucked away in the corner of the Third Street Tavern. “How’s the wine?” she asked Standish, who had arrived early and was sipping from a glass, his nose wrinkled. It was a quiet Wednesday, and aside from a grizzled man who looked like he had been there so long he was melting into the bar, they were the only ones in the joint. The place smelled like cigarettes, and the table was sticky.
“Drinkable,” Standish responded with a grimace. He looked jumpy, eyes shifting this way and that across the empty bar—as if he was expecting someone.
“So—you wanted to see me?”
“Yeah…” Standish leaned forward over the wineglass. “I found him. Krikor Khachatryan. Have a picture of him and everything.”
“That’s great news, but this could have been a phone call.”
“No, it couldn’t.” Standish shook his head. His usual arrogant demeanor was gone, replaced by a nervousness Cash didn’t understand. He leaned forward, eyes glittering. “The guy’s a ghost. No digital footprint. Do you know how hard that is to achieve these days?”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“I got really lucky. I found a mention of him in a DEF CON forum—a photograph from two years ago was posted by someone with his name. Recent post. I got a screenshot and posted a response to get some more information. But he must’ve had a name alert out, because the post was deleted within minutes. Check it out.”
Standish slid over a printed photograph. The subject of the photographwas a skinny boy—maybe early twenties—with long, stringy hair, sitting cross-legged in front of four computers. Several massive hard drives stood on racks in what looked like a crappy shack, walls covered with aluminum foil. Posters of busty anime girls were the only other decoration.
“He’s just a kid!”
“He’s twenty-seven, just looks immature. But don’t be fooled. He’s whip-smart. Look closely here.” Standish tapped the photo with a long finger. “See that?”
Cash strained her eyes. A small carved rooster with a sweeping red comb was stacked on one of the bookshelves. It was decorated with hearts and white dots.
“Yeah. What is it?”
“A Barcelos Rooster figurine. Traditional clay and handcrafted roosters famous in Portugal folklore and culture. Story behind it is a legend where a mystical rooster helps prove the innocence of a wrongly accused man. The Portuguese collect them, keep them around their houses for good luck.”
“So what… you think he’s in Portugal? He could have bought that and brought it with him anywhere.”
“Yeah, I thought so too. But I did a little research on some of the items in his home. There’s not much. But check out that throw blanket.”
He pointed to a blanket thrown over the back of the guy’s chair, comprised of eye-popping lime-green, mauve, and orange hues.
“That particular blanket is sold by the Burel Factory located in Manteigas, Portugal. The factory uses traditional techniques to make burel, the woolen fabric that blanket is made of. The colors, patterns, and fabric are unique; it’s not sold anywhere else. The factory has stores in Lisbon and Porto as well. In fact, all if not most of his furniture matches furniture on their website.”
“So that narrows it down to Manteigas, Lisbon, or Porto.”
“Maybe. That’s what I thought, but figured he might have imported the furniture. But I was able to narrow it down further—look at what he’s eating.”
Off to the side of the photo on his desk—half cut off—was what looked like a slice of cheese with some crackers scattered about a plate.
Cash strained her eyes. The cheese was unlabeled. The picture wasgrainy; she could hardly make it out. “Don’t tell me you were able to figure out something from a bad photo of a slice of cheese.”
“Well… yes. When you ask me to do a job, I do it well. I looked up all the different kinds of cheeses in Portugal and compared them all to this picture, just to see if I was right. I’mprettysure that’s called Queijo Serra da Estrela. Hard orange crust, gooey inside. It looks pretty good, actually. Cheese made in the mountainous region of Serra da Estrela in Portugal, which is a hike away from Manteigas—”
“Wait, hang on a second.” Cash had heard that name before. “Serra da Estrela. That’s the same place where Javi Castillo lost his leg.”
“Jesus. Really? How? Bear attack?”
“Sepsis, a bad infection gone untreated too long. The person who told me claimed Castillo had gotten it while visiting a UAP crash site. Instead, Ibethe was visiting Krikor Khachatryan when he got injured. While this was two years ago, there’s a chance that he’s still holed up in the Serra da Estrela mountain range somewhere. Look that up.”
Standish typed on his phone and then showed Cash.
Cash looked at the screen. “Serra da Estrela? That’s a vast area. How will we find him?”
“You’re not gonna believe this, Cash.” Standish gripped the edge of the table. “After I figured this out,hecontactedme. Tracked me down based on my post on the DEF CON forum. That itself is impressive, since I was using a VPN and a newly invented handle.”
