The property she was searching for turned out to be accurately represented by the photos she’d seen—a clean white wall that blocked everything from view except the gray thatch roof peeking above. As she got closer, a corrugated metal gate became visible, but it had been made clear that she wasn’t to approach. Instead, she searched to the east for the narrow track that had been described to her.
It appeared after another hundred meters and she eased the car right, making sure not to kick up dust that would be visible from a distance. The path through the vines led to a shed containing agricultural equipment, with just enough space remaining for her to squeeze into.
She stepped out and, after locking the door, used the side mirror to check her appearance. The sunglasses and a knit hat left little more than dimpled cheeks and full lips visible. The coat she’d put on to combat the chilly temperatures was formless in a vaguely stylish way—a description that also fit a pair of loose-fitting jeans.
Her most memorable features—eyes, hair, and athletic figure—were well concealed, but in a far less rigid way than they had been growing up in Iran. At thirty-five, she still possessed what most people would describe as innocent beauty—a relentless cuteness that was difficult to escape with Western styles of dress. There was something about the anonymity of a Muslim upbringing that could in many ways feel comforting. Safe. A lie, of course, but not always an unpleasant one. As long as she was the one in control of it.
Cyrah shouldered a canvas purse and started back up the dirt track on foot. She was in danger of being late.
The damaged gate had originally consisted of open iron bars but they were now sheathed in metal to shield against prying eyes. It had been pulled back just enough to let her pass through, but that fact had been camouflaged by an empty police cruiser pulled up just in front. Based on the information she’d been given, the property was unoccupied and had been since the attack. As had been widely reported by the media, the owners miraculously overcame a ten-man Guatemalan hit squad and escaped to parts still unknown.
When she was only a few meters from the gate, a Caucasian man wearing the uniform of a low-level police official appeared in the gap. His deep-set eyes and thin beard fit the description Cyrah had been given by the woman who’d set up this meeting.
Officer Michael Pistorius made no effort at a greeting, instead eyeing her silently before starting across the courtyard. She followed, but at a pace that allowed her to take in her surroundings. The house was traditional Cape Dutch—white, with a central porch and a row of first-floor windows that had been partially covered with plywood. Four dormers with glass intact hinted at a second story and added interest to the steeply sloping roof. The grounds were a combination of well-tended grass, gravel, and flagstone, with an abundance of flowering plants. To the east was a sizable freestanding building with bay doors firmly closed.
“Hurry! We don’t have much time,” Pistorius said, using a key to open the front door.
Cyrah nodded and passed into the house’s dim interior. The extensive damage was immediately evident, as was a puddle of dried blood outlined in blue tape on the entryway floor.
“You have my money?” he said, making a show of his distaste for her.
“Of course.” She dug a stack of cash from her purse and handed it to him.
“What about your phone?”
“Turned off as we agreed.”
“Let me see.”
She fished it from her pocket and showed him the dark screen.
“No pictures,” he reminded her. “And any specific details you want to print in your article have to be approved by me.”
She shrugged. “I always protect my sources. The people I work for are more interested in blood and sensationalism than fact checking.”
“And who are those people exactly?”
Another shrug. “Whoever’s willing to pay the most.”
He motioned with his head toward the living area. “Don’t touch anything.”
“Can I use my flashlight app if I promise—”
She fell silent when he pulled a light from his belt and offered it to her.
The damage was indeed impressive. A sideboard was shattered on the floor, white walls had been darkened by smoke, and the sofa had been partially consumed by fire, revealing what appeared to be layers of Kevlar. Some walls had been penetrated, while others were intact. Not unusual for an old house—original walls were often constructed of stone or brick while newer partitions would be made from plasterboard. That didn’t seem to be the case here, though. There was no coherent architectural pattern and eventually she found a gouge big enough to confirm the presence of ballistic material.