Essence of Inhumanity
"Have we got anything on the descriptions we sent in?" Brown asked Blair as he joined him at Jim’s desk.
"Not yet, but Jim’s running it through international to see if we can find out who these guys are and if they have a record," Blair answered, leaning back in the chair.
"I’d settle for a name right now," Brown admitted.
"Friedrich Schmidt," Jim said as he came out of Simon’s office.
"Come again?" Brown turned to face Jim.
"We sent the descriptions through the computer and one of the guys was IDed as Friedrich Schmidt," Ellison said as he set a file on his desk.
"How about the other one?" Blair asked as he stood.
"Nothing yet, but we’re checking out other people that usually hang with Schmidt," Jim answered.
"Wild guess here: he’s got a rap sheet," H grinned.
"Of course," Jim replied easily. "He’s a government agitator. Usually ends up getting arrested for protesting, resisting arrest, the usual."
Henri picked up the file and began reading it over. "It says here he’s involved in something called PAGAD, what’s that?"
"Some vigilante pack. He was with them every time he was arrested." Jim shrugged.
"People Against Gangsterism and Drugs. It’s a group that tries to combat the decay of the South African society through citizen action. It started out a small group that sent petitions to the local governments, but now they’re nationwide, and focused on the big issues -- particularly the hold drug cartels have on the country."
H and Jim looked at each other. "Where does he get all this stuff?" Henri asked finally.
"From the news, man," Blair answered. "It’s all they talk about down there. They have this slogan, what is it?" Blair paused to ponder and then the answer struck him. "Oh yeah! ‘We Fear No One But God.’ I think it’s kinda poetic, don’t you?"
"It sounds like some fringe group who can’t mind their own affairs," Jim said.
"Whatever, man. But if PAGAD’s involved in this, we might be looking at a drug vendetta, " Blair responded.
"We haven’t got anything yet," Jim cautioned. "All we have is two guys, one with an affiliation with some anti-drug group, speaking the language in a homeless shelter. That hardly gives way to some international conspiracy."
"Yeah, but it is one big coincidence," H broke in.
"So you're saying Gierhake may have been killed for running a company that's involved in the drug trade?"
"Could be," Henri replied easily.
"But Gierhake was clean, no record."
Blair shrugged. "Just because he was clean doesn’t mean the company was."
"Are you suggesting that somebody might know more than he’s telling?" H asked him.
"I’m just saying that it wouldn’t hurt to ask," Blair responded.
"Well, let’s have a chat with Mr. Gustav Smola then, shall we?" Jim said as he started towards Simon’s office. Blair and H followed closely behind. *******************
When Friedrich and one of his friends left the shelter later that evening, Rafe wasn't far behind. The girl he'd seen earlier wasn't with them, which told him right off that they were up to no good. He had to debate with himself over whether to follow them or try and talk to her again, but his duties as a police officer won out easily, and here he was.
They headed down 40th, going towards the cleaner parts of down town. Which, again, wasn't good.
He followed easily -- the pair walked like they weren't even thinking they'd be followed. They didn't bother looking back or moving quickly.
As they got into the more heavily populated areas of the city, Rafe became aware of people's looks as they walked past him. He ignored them with difficulty, looking away from anyone who approached. The expressions he did notice brought a world of memories rushing back to him, but he gritted his teeth and focussed on the two men, unwilling to allow feelings of self-pity to hamper his job.
Finally, the two slowed down, right outside the park near the station.
Being so close to the PD, to his friends and his identity, made it hard for Rafe to stop when they did. But he did, going and sitting on a small bench, trying to look casual as he kept an eye on the two.
They stood around for a while. just talking, looking innocent enough. But then, about twenty minutes after they first arrived, they were slowly approached by a tall, well-dressed, distinguished-looking man.
Rafe straightened on his bench, staring outright for a few seconds before he realized what he was doing and looked away.
Smola. What the hell was Smola doing there, meeting with the men who had killed his employee?
He thought quickly. He should get closer, he should find out what they were saying.
But he couldn't. Smola would recognize him in a heart beat. Especially dressed the way he was now.
Dammit! Something was definitely going on here, but he couldn't figure out what. Had Smola had his own man murdered? Why? And why import these men and have them dress as bums? What the hell was going on here?
"Hey, mister, why don't you move it on?"
Rafe turned in surprise at the voice, and groaned when he saw who it was. A cop. Some beat cop he didn't know. "Shhhh."
The man didn't respond well to that. "Excuse me? Look, man, you're loitering here. Just go back to your side of town and I won't have to haul your ass in."
"My side of town?" Rafe repeated, his voice low.
"Don't take any damn attitude with me, son. Just move it. Now!"
Rafe stood up finally, approaching the man. "Look, this isn't what it looks like. I'm not-"
"Yeah, yeah. Just get going."
"No. You don't-"
"No?" The man grinned, turning to look somewhere behind Rafe. "Hey, Perkins, we got a live one here." he called out almost gleefully.
Rafe groaned, and glanced quickly towards Smola and the two men he'd followed. Sure enough they had heard the yell, and were staring directly at him. He backed off quickly, turning, hoping Smola didn't have time to recognize him as he headed out of the park.
The cop behind him snickered. "That's what I thought."
Rafe kept his head down, his face burning with embarrassment and anger. Damned police officer. He'd be lucky to have gotten away before Smola saw him. Damn it!
He headed back to the shelter, keeping his eyes on the ground the entire way, hoping this entire case hadn't just been blown. *******************
"You want to bring in Smola for what?!" Simon almost jumped out of his chair, on the defensive.
"For questioning about the murder," Henri replied easily. "We think it’s drug-related."
"You’re going to have to fill me in more than that if you want me to call in an apparently innocent man," Simon replied, still terse.
"The guy H identified down at the shelter has ties to a vigilante group," Blair explained. "PAGAD."
"And what has this group got to do with the murder?" Simon asked, still unsure.
"PAGAD protests against drug lords. We think they might have found some ties between Gierhake’s company and the drug trade down in South Africa." Blair explained.
"That still doesn’t explain why I should bring Smola in. We don’t have any idea if this homeless guy was in anyway involved in the murder. Just because he speaks the language doesn’t mean anything!" Simon threw his hands up, gesturing his point.
"Look, we’re running on nothing here," Jim tried to explain. "We’ve got at least four guys in Cascade who speak Afrikaan, one of which is now dead. What are the odds of that being coincidental? All we want to do is ask him a few questions and see what he knows."
"That’s what I’m afraid of."
Jim frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Look, I'm worried about Rafe too," Simon started hesitantly.
The tension level in the room increased with those words.
"I know this guy Smola is bad news for him. I don't know why, but I get the feeling that at least one or two of you do know. We want to solve this case fast and get him home." Simon looked at Jim and smiled a tense smile. "If I put you in the same room with Smola, you’ll tear him apart. By the time this was over, I’d be surprised if he didn’t take the wrap for the Lindbergh baby."
Jim laughed slightly. "Simon, I’m not that bad!"
Blair let loose a chuckle.
Jim turned towards him, pointing. "Don’t you start! You’re the one who brought up the idea in the first place."
"Fine, look." Simon broke up the inevitable argument. "You can bring him in…JUST for questioning. You can’t force him to admit to anything and-" Simon pointed at the group "-don’t let me hear of anything unprofessional going on."
"Us?" H looked affronted.
"Out!" Simon ordered with an exasperated smile.
The three filed out into the Bullpen, joining at Jim’s desk. Ellison sat down in his chair as Blair took his seat on the edge of the desk and Henri stood over them.
"Well, let’s give the man a call," Jim said as he reached for the phone. When someone answered his ring, he cleared his throat. "Gustav Smola, please. I don't know the room number." He waited for a moment, then frowned into the phone. "Yes, I would. Tell him Jim Ellison from the Cascade PD called, and we'd like him to come down to the station as soon as he can do help us on a case. Thanks." He hung up with a sigh. "Not there."
"Well, here’s hoping this will be the break we need," Blair responded.
"Words of death," H retorted as he moved back to his own desk. "Nothing’s ever easy around here."
"You got that right," Jim chimed in.
"Well. The sooner we get this settled, the sooner Rafe can get out," Blair observed.
"Yeah, need to get my old partner back," Henri agreed. "What I left today was...I dunno, a shell."
"What was wrong with him?" Jim asked, looking between Henri and Blair.
"I had to remind myself who he was, you know? He had the rags on, getting into character, and it just took me aback for a minute," Henri responded.
Jim shook his head at another round of Rescue Rafe melodrama. "He’s gonna be fine. You’re too down on the guy. Rafe’s been undercover before and he does a fine job if you ask me."
"But this is different," Blair looked at his partner. "If we don’t get him out as soon as possible…we might not get the same Rafe back."
The silence was tense after Blair’s statement. Finally, Henri spoke up.
“Hey, guys, how about we call it a night?” he said glancing at the time. “We can pick it up again tomorrow.”
Blair knew how hard it was for H to say that. He knew that Brown didn’t want to waste anymore time than was necessary before they got Rafe safely back.
“Good idea.” He turned to Jim. “Come on then, you owe me dinner.”
“Me?!” Jim asked shocked, following his partner towards the door.
"Yeah. Remember, certain wager on the Knicks game last night?"
"Oh, come on. They shouldn't have lost and you know it. It was a freak of nature."
"Doesn't matter. There was no Act of God clause in our deal, man."
"Yeah, yeah. Dinner."
Brown watched them go, hoping that Rafe and he could be back into that friendly banter real soon. *******************
The rocks.
No matter how hard he tried, he could never get used to the rocks. There were men in the town with feet so callused they could walk on glass and not feel it, but for him it always hurt.
Walking the red clay ground in bare feet, going to work or to school, he couldn't move very fast. He couldn't run to avoid being late and missing a day's wages, he couldn't run to escape the voices or the laughs, or the bigger children with shoes on their feet who could always move faster.
He had learned at a young age to look down. He could go from the door of his family's shanty to work to school to work again without seeing anything but the dirt a few feet in front of him. When you looked down, you could not be yelled at or hit for disrespect, and you wouldn't have to see the faces, laughing or pitying or disgusted.
Kyk na my nie. Don't look at me. Anytime he was out of the house, his constant thoughts, sometimes spoken aloud under his breath as he stared at the road. Please, no one look at me. He prayed constantly for invisibility. The streets were the worst place to be. And yet they were more his home than the shanty outside town could ever be.
Everywhere he went, the voices followed:
Just go back to your side of town and I won't have to haul your ass in. Look, the bastard Ryf is off to school again. Perkins, we got a live one here. Ach, Ryf. Hy is fokkin sleg. Look, man, you're loitering here.
Kyk na my nie. Stop looking at me. Asseblief -- please.
What's wrong, kid? Living on the streets and you can't hardly speak no English? You retarded? Gaan trek draad, Ryf. Fuck off, kid. Ek hou my nie op met stront nie, Neimand. Move it out of here, you worthless piece of shit.
Kyk na my nie. Asseblief, Here.
Bastard.
Helsem.
God, make them stop.
Street trash.
Seun dom.
Please, please, stop. Kyk na my nie.
Mof-skaap.
Nobody.
Neimand.
Stil hou! Stop!
"Kyk na my nie!" Rafe jerked into consciousness, the words still on his lips, the familiar soreness in his throat that meant he'd spoken them aloud more than once.
That dream. Christ, he was having the old dreams again.
A wave of pain swept over him, also familiar. He sank back against the stiff cot, letting out a breath that was half sigh, half sob.
That was the world he remembered. Dirty streets, endless hours of back-breaking work. Being Neimand. Nobody. At work, at school. At home. It was the pet name of everyone in that town for him. He had learned to answer to it, to almost be happy when he heard it, because that meant someone to talk to, someone was speaking to him.
A pathetic, lonely existence. One that he had thought he escaped coming here. But no, in America it had been the same words, in a different language. He was Nobody again, and the only good thing about it was people here often times didn't go out of their way to hurt him. No, they'd wait until he was an inconvenience to them, a disruption of the view, a fly in the champagne.
But he had aged, he had learned the language, and he wasn't stupid, despite what anyone thought. He taught himself, with little help from sympathetic outsiders, to read and write. He slowly earned enough spare change for a clean set of clothes, and then he was able to find a man who would hire him to work. Slowly came the apartment, then better jobs and better clothes, until he was able to move away from the dirty streets of Los Angeles and up north. Up where he had a view of the mountains. Cascade.
He vowed to become a different person in Cascade. Due to immigration reasons, he couldn't have his name changed like he'd wanted. Spelling it and pronouncing it slightly differently was as close as he could come, but it was enough. He wasn't Ryf the bastard neimand, he was Rafe. Plain Rafe. And then, when he got the urge and went through the academy, he became Detective Rafe. And there he was happy. He made friends, he had a good job. He had Henri. And he was happy.
He had forgotten himself.
*It does not do for a man to forget his place in the world.* His uncle's words, and they were true. He hadn't seen it, but they were.
He was still Ryf, no matter how he spelled it. And he knew now better than ever that he was only a set of clothes away from not even being Ryf. To being Neimand. Rafe had plastered himself in Calvin Klein and Brooks Brothers to try to forget, but there was nothing different about him. Nothing to hold the clothes up.
"Hallo?"
Rafe's head jerked up, surprised, and he traced the soft voice to where a girl was standing nearby, awkward. He recognized her quickly. "Hallo," he replied quietly.
"Wat skort daar?" she asked just as softly.
What was wrong? He could rattle off a list. "Niks."
She looked dubious. "Ek glo jou nie."
He smiled wryly. Why should she believe him? "Wat is u naam?"
"Annerl. U?"
Rafe hesitated. "Ryf," he said finally, his voice low.
She smiled tentatively. "Dit spyt me-"
"Well, this is interesting," a voice cut her off suddenly.
She jerked in fear, her eyes going somewhere to Rafe's right.
He turned and saw with sinking feeling that Friedrich and his companion from earlier were standing casually, watching them.
Friedrich gestured to his friend, keeping his eyes on Rafe.
The second man turned to the girl. "Annerl. Com."
She hesitated, but went to him slowly.
He grabbed her arm when she was close enough and pulled her away from the other two men, out of sight in the darkness.
Rafe faced Friedrich. "Is there a problem?"
"Afrikaner you," the man replied flatly.
Rafe didn't respond.
Friedrich shrugged. "We can do it in English if it makes you happy. You were following us today. I thought it was coincidence perhaps, but now I hear you speak the Suid-Afrikaan language like a native. This is no coincidence, I think." His sharp features hardened. "Did Smola hire you?"
The mention of his uncle's name sparked a reaction in Rafe before he could cover it.
And that seemed a good enough yes for Friedrich. "I did not think he was sneaky. Why did you not take the girl and go?"
Annerl? Was she somehow connected to his uncle? This made less sense the deeper he got into it.
"No matter. I credit Smola with the nerve to spy on us, but I do not credit you for choosing to be that spy."
Rafe watched as the third man from the group arrived with the second man. Annerl was nowhere in sight.
Friedrich smiled grimly. "I think after today Smola will have to do his dirty work himself."
“H is really letting this get to him,” Jim said as he got two beers out of the fridge. He walked over and offered one to Blair, who was sitting on the couch.
“Thanks,” he reached up absently, still intent on the papers he was grading. His glasses on, hair tied back, he looked more the part of a professor than he ever did in front of those classes he taught.
Jim waited a moment, but it was obvious Blair wasn't going to acknowledge what he'd said. “Why is H so uptight over Rafe?” he asked directly as he sat down on the other end of the couch.
Blair hesitated, looking over at his partner. “His partner's in a homeless shelter, Jim.” He was getting tense under the pressure of keeping the secret from Jim.
“So what? Rafe’s been undercover lots of times. Brown’s getting upset over nothing,” Jim took a swig of beer.
“Jim,” Blair tried to calmly explain. “This assignment is different. Rafe isn’t in the best condition to do this.”
“You mean because of his uncle?” Jim probed.
“That’s part of it…but not the real reason,” Blair faltered. He looked at his beer, trying to block out what he was sure Jim was going to ask next.
“So…what's the real reason?” Jim pushed harder.
“I…I can’t tell you,” Blair explained. “I promised Rafe I wouldn’t tell anybody.”
Jim paused before continuing. “Chief, I respect the fact that you want to honor Rafe’s wishes, but if this is going to hinder the case in any way, you need to tell me.”
Blair looked at Jim solemnly. "I don't know."
“You said we should never keep secrets from each other," Jim replied softly.
"It's not my secret!"
"What good will your secrecy do Rafe if he gets himself killed by being distracted? If I know what's wrong, maybe I could help."
Blair hesitated, then took a thoughtful swallow from the bottle he held. Finally he shrugged. "I'll give you the basics. The rest will be up to him."
Jim nodded soberly.
"How much do you know about Rafe's past?"
Jim thought about it, and realized with surprise that he didn't really know anything about his friend. "Assume nothing.
Blair grimaced. "Nothing, great." He took another gulp of the cold beer. "Rafe was...he was born in South Africa."
Jim was ready with a smart-ass reply to that, but he held it in, seeing the genuinely nervous look on his Guide's face. Instead he just nodded for him to go on.
"Okay. Well, he was basically a street kid."
Jim's brow furrowed, but he tried not to register his surprise. Rafe? The Yuppie?
"Anyway, when he was about nine, there were these riots all over the part of the country where he lived. Rafe's family was one of the only white families in the town, and all the anti-apartheid rioters came tearing into their house, stealing everything, and killing two of the kids. So after that his family moves in with his uncle. Gustav Smola," Blair clarified unnecessarily. "They lived with him for about a year, and he made their lives hell. Until Rafe's father had borrowed and saved enough to get them tickets to America. Rafe's dad, of course, hates him at that point 'cause of the kids being killed, and he leaves him at the airport. Rafe shows up back at Smola's house, and he drives him to the airport and puts him on the next plane personally. Best thing he ever did for Rafe, if you ask me."
Jim shook his head, stunned.
Blair smiled slightly. "I know. Hard to imagine, isn't it? But that's only half of it. When Rafe got to America, he ended up on the streets in L.A."
Recognition dawned in Jim's eyes, and Blair and Henri's protests from the beginning of this case suddenly made sense.
"Yeah. He lived there for a while, taught himself English. Got a job, started making money, ended up in Cascade, went to the academy, and there you go. Our Rafe."
"That's....unbelievable."
Blair nodded. "I would have thought so, too. But you should hear him. He's not the same guy, even just talking about it."
"And...and he was okay with this? With going back?"
"I don't think so. But I don't think he would have refused to go. It's just...it's his state of mind. We're worried, you know? Rafe is so convinced that he's worthless, 'cause of what happened to him as a kid. We're just afraid this is gonna push him over the edge."
Jim nodded. He knew what Blair was talking about. Rafe was definitely in trouble. It was like a recovering alcoholic going to a bar. In his years on the force he had seen people who grew up in abusive homes who appeared to be recovered and fine, but one hit in a fight, one slap from a husband, could drive them back into their childhood, make them weak and vulnerable and unable to stand up for themselves. Confronted with the past, no matter how horrible, it was hard to resist slipping back into the patterns.
"He shouldn't be there," he agreed quietly, at the same time knowing that there hadn't been any other way. He was the only one Simon could have sent. "We should...we should go, get him out. Talk to Simon, tell him what's wrong. He'll pull Rafe out in a heartbeat. Or at least send one of us in to be with him."
To his surprise, Blair shook his head. “This is something best left for Rafe alone. He’s the only one who can do this and he NEEDS to do this. Now that he's there, he needs to see it through.”
“But H needs to protect his partner,” Jim replied immediately. "It's as important to Henri as this could be to Rafe."
“Why do you say that?” Blair questioned, looking at him oddly.
Jim considered explaining it, but decided against it. “Nothing Chief, nothing. Hey, you gonna drink that beer or just hold it all night?”
“Oh!” Blair realized that the beer bottle was sweating in his hand. “Drinking is good. I think I need a drink right now.”
*******************
Rafe's apartment was a mess. For a guy as anal about personal appearance as Rafe was, he sure lived in a slum.
Well, Henri knew why that was, at least. Most of his paychecks tended to go to his wardrobe, so he lived in a small, one room apartment with old, mismatched furniture and a bare minimum of decorations.
At least, Henri assumed most of his money went to his wardrobe, 'cause he sure didn't buy anything else. Nothing new ever came through the doors of this apartment, no new furniture, no television, not even little things like CDs or books. He was still driving the same car as when Henri had first met him. Henri had asked him a few times where all his money went, but Rafe always shrugged and changed the subject.
Hmmm. Henri smiled slightly as he looked around the quiet apartment. Maybe Rafe had a wad of cash saved up through the years stuffed under his mattress or something.
He debated for a moment whether or not he should go check, but abandoned the idea, turning to the one thing Rafe had actually gone out and purchased the entire time Henri had known him -- a large fish tank. He was in to goldfish, and he had a lot of them. Filters and little castles to swim through and mermaids floating around. Those fish lived better than their owner did.
Why he bought them, and spoiled them so much, was something else Rafe would never tell Henri, but he knew. He knew Rafe just needed something else with him, something living and breathing. Henri had a feeling that when Rafe was alone here at night, he talked to those fish the way most people talk to their friends.
He fed the fish, careful not to put in too much, and stared into the tank for a few minutes. It was relaxing, he'd give Rafe credit. Watching those little guys aimlessly swimming back and forth, it was peaceful. The light hum the aquarium gave off, it was soothing.
"You guys miss your owner?" he heard himself asking quietly.
The golden forms made no response, darting back and forth, going up to grab the flakes of fish food floating over their heads.
"Don't worry, he'll be back. I'm sure you miss the conversation." He watched one of the fish come to the glass near him and bump against it, looking for all the world like it was watching him. "Yeah, yeah," he grinned at the round eyes of the small fish. "I miss him, too." He chuckled to himself. "I miss him so much I'm pouring my heart out to his fish."
Shaking his head with a smirk, he moved towards the door, slowly, almost reluctant to leave. He looked around at the small, shabby couch -- one he'd slept on after one-too-many some nights, and had found surprisingly comfortable -- the armchair in the corner. The fish tank taking up part of one wall, the small kitchen with the bare necessities for one man living alone.
We gotta get this guy a woman, Henri found himself thinking for not the first time, when something out of place caught his eye -- not hard in an apartment that hardly ever changed. A cigar box.
Henri hesitated near the door, surprised. Rafe, like him, was into smokes from time to time, but again he never spent money on them, especially not a whole box. A gift, maybe? From...a lady? Could it be?
A grin appeared on his face, and he couldn't resist. He went over to the small end table and picked the box up. It was too light. Almost empty, by the feel of it. There were no cards in sight, no love notes signed by feminine scrawl.
Oh, well. Henri was starting to set it down, when he noticed the edge of a scrap of paper sticking out of the lid. He grinned and opened the box.
The grin faded. Henri sat down on the couch and almost absently reached in and sifted through a few of the papers neatly folded and tucked away inside.
A picture caught his eye and he pulled it out. An indrawn breath greeted the sight of two black-skinned children, literally skin and bones, lying prone on a clay street. He studied it for only a second before looking back down at the box. Other pictures, other children. African, Hispanic, white, Asian, children of all kinds, all as thin as Holocaust victims, all with the same dead eyes.
Henri reached in and pulled out one of the papers. He opened it, and skimmed over the letter, a typical form letter thanking Mr. Rafe Van Rij for his generous donation. UNICEF. He reached in and grabbed some more. The same thing, over and over. Different countries, different groups. Friends Without a Border. Operation Rainbow. Save the Children Fund. Yabloka Children's Fund. War Child. Children in Distress, Children's Aid Direct, CARE, World Emergency Relief, HomeAid America, PLAN International, on and on and on. Thanks for your generous donation. Thank you for your contributions.
At the bottom of the box sat a dark booklet. Henri lifted it and his eyes grew even wider. A bank book.
It didn't even occur to him that he was invading his partner's privacy. He didn't even think about it as he flipped it open. Rafe had written on the front page, a scrawled note:
Just In Case
Henri drew in a breath. Just in case what? What was going through his partner's mind when he sat here by himself? He glanced at the first couple of entries. Rafe must have been depositing half his paycheck in, once every month. Since 1991, his first year on the force. When Henri saw how much it amounted to, after the latest entry, his eyes almost bugged out.
What the hell was Rafe saving it for? What was 'Just In Case'? Why was he living in this grungy apartment when....Man, if there was one thing Rafe was good at, it was surprising the hell out of his partner.
Suddenly, it occurred to Henri that he shouldn't be there, he shouldn't be going through that box. If Rafe had wanted him to know, he would have told him.
He shut the box with a snap and put it back on the table quickly, getting off the couch and going to the door without a pause. He felt like a grave-robber, and that was a bad feeling. Because Rafe wasn't dead, it didn't make sense.
But he couldn't shake the feeling as he locked the door with the spare key Rafe had given him almost a year ago that he was peeking into the life of someone he'd never met. Some different person who was still living in a dark, cold past. Someone he wasn't sure he ever wanted to meet. *******************
Rafe was jarred into consciousness abruptly, and he tried to open his eyes, look around.
But he couldn't. He felt the press of fabric around his face and groaned aloud. Blindfold.
Friedrich.
Shit.
A voice reached his ears. "Up so soon? We can't have that."
Rafe's face swung in the direction of the voice, and he could feel a sudden movement in front of him.
Pain suddenly slammed home as something solid connected with his jaw.
He blacked out again. *******************
The next morning, Blair tried not to stare at Henri, but the detective was acting even stranger than normal. He was quiet, solemn, thoughtfully gazing down at the reports Blair was sure he must have memorized by now.
"Henri, what's wrong, man?"
Henri glanced over. "Nuthin."
Blair almost laughed. "Yeah, that was convincing."
"Uh, look, Blair, I'm just not in the mood to talk about it."
Blair? Uh oh, this was more serious than he thought.
"Well," Jim broke the silence that fell as he came out of Simon’s office. "If it was coincidence before, it’s even more of one now."
"What you got?" Blair asked as he turned from Henri.
"Friedrich Schmidt’s accomplice. Name’s Mikial Wasamba; he’s Schmidt’s good friend and co-agitator." Jim said as he handed Henri the folder. "Apparently they do everything together. Protest, march, get arrested. They're real pals."
Henri glanced through the file long enough to confirm the photo was the man he'd seen. "So we’ve got two PAGAD members in Cascade, a dead South African businessman, and Rafe’s uncle. There’s got to be a connection between them."
"We’ll have to wait for Smola to show up before we can jump to any conclusions," Jim replied. "But it would be one hell of a coincidence if they weren’t."
"Sometimes I get the feeling that Cascade’s the center of international crime," Blair chuckled.
"You don’t need to tell us, Hairboy. We're living it!" Henri retorted.
Blair flashed a relieved smile at the familiar nickname.
Jim heard a peculiar voice, so he tried to focus. He recognized Smola talking to someone outside in the hall. "Heads up, guys."
Sure enough, a moment later the South African stalked in with the bodyguard they had seen before.
"What is the meaning of this? The hotel clerk told me last night that my presence was demanded down at the police station," Smola spat, obviously angry.
"Good morning, Mr. Smola," Jim put on a courteous air as he strode over to shake his hand. "We just wanted to ask a few questions about the company you and Franz Gierhake ran."
"You have not found his killer yet?!" Smola exclaimed. "You are not doing your job."
Jim opened his mouth with an angry retort.
Blair Sandburg stepped up beside him before he could speak. "Mr. Smola, this case is complicated and it takes time."
"Too much time," Smola muttered.
"Why don’t we go into the Captain’s office? We can discuss it there," Blair replied as he motioned towards Simon’s door.
"Fine, fine," Smola obliged as he began walking.
Jim shook his head in annoyance as he follow the older man.
Blair sighed as he started forward, but Henri returned to his desk and started putting on his coat.
"H, you not coming?" Blair asked.
"No, I’m going to go see Rafe. He didn't call in last night, and I got a bad feeling about all these coincidences."
"Tell him…just remember he’s going to get out soon," Blair decided to amend his statement.
"I’ll do that, thanks," H called as he headed to the hall.
"Chief, you coming?" Jim stuck his head out of the office.
Blair padded over to the office door.
"-had no intention of forcing you to come." Simon was saying in a calm voice. "My officers have a few questions for you that could help shed some light on why your employee was murdered."
Smola was sitting bolt upright in his seat. "Ask your questions, then."
Simon glanced over at Jim, a warning look in his eyes.
Jim nodded slightly. He'd be calm. Just because the guy was an asshole didn't mean he was a criminal. "Alright, Mr. Smola. Have you ever heard of a group called PAGAD?"
Smola turned to him in surprise. "Of course."
"Any idea why that group would have an interest in shutting your company down?"
He blinked. "PAGAD is a group that protests criminals and drug smugglers, Detective. It has nothing to do with my company."
"You sure about that?"
"Quite sure."
"The two men we are looking at for Gierhake's murder are both long-time members of PAGAD."
Smola frowned. "That...what does that mean? It means nothing. What murderers do in their spare time is of no relevance."
"Not unless their activities have something to do with their motives."
Smola met his eyes with a glare. "Detective, whatever you are trying to say, just say it. You waste time with these statements."
"Alright," Jim replied steadily. "PAGAD is trying to shut your business down. That means this group has a reason to suspect that your company is involved in criminal activities. Why don't you tell us why they suspect that?"
Smola was almost trembling with anger. "Detective, you know nothing about my country or it's people. PAGAD is not a violent group. They are ordinary South African citizens who march and protest to put an end to the hold the drug trade has on our country. They would not murder anyone, even to accomplish those goals."
Jim paused, surprised. Smola's fierce protest of his accusations took him aback, but mostly because he wasn't protesting his own company's activities, but the suggestion that this group of protestors had committed a murder.
"As for my own company," Smola said after a moment, when he had gotten himself under control again. "There is no reason for me to believe that PAGAD or any other group would think us criminals."
Jim stared at him silently, his senses carefully going over the man. Smola's heart was racing, but Jim had no way of telling if that was out of anger or guilt, or because he was lying. He reached over to Simon's desk and grabbed the two pictures they had printed off the computer. "These are our main suspects for Gierhake's murder." He handed them to Smola.
The older man took one look at the pictures, and his heart sped up even faster.
Jim almost smiled. Gotcha. "Do you know these men?" he asked innocently.
"No," Smola replied too fast and too loudly.
Jim smiled grimly. He was lying his South African ass off.
Smola looked up at him suddenly, his brow creased. "You say they are members of PAGAD?"
Jim nodded silently.
"That...that doesn't make any sense." Smola's eyes went back to the pictures, brow furrowed.
"Mr. Smola, you are not under any suspicion of murder," Jim said finally. "If we can show that PAGAD did have an interest in killing Gierhake, we'll be one step closer to arresting these men."
"No," Smola shook his head stubbornly. "They are not murderers. Perhaps these men are." The hand clutching the pictures shook slightly. "But not in PAGAD's name."
Jim frowned. They weren't going to get anywhere like this. *******************
Henri pulled up to the 40th Street shelter, unable to hold back a smile. Man, he missed his partner. It was ridiculous, but he was looking forward to seeing that familiar grin again, if only for a few minutes.
He pounded up the stairs and into the building, glancing around at the dingy interior. The room was full today. Breakfast time, he guessed, seeing the trays of food in front of the seated residents.
"Officer Brown!"
He turned and saw the woman from yesterday heading for him, her friendly smile in place. "Morning."
"You don't have another guest for us, I hope?"
He grinned. "Nothing like that. I wanted to make sure the one I brought yesterday isn't causing any problems."
"Oh. No, no problems at all."
"Can I see him for a few minutes? We had a few questions we needed to ask about his old hangout."
"Of course. Let me see if I can find him." She waded in among the crowded tables, her eyes scanning.
Henri looked around himself, certain he would find his partner before she would.
"Hey!"
He started in surprise, turning to see a young kid with stringy hair grinning a hyper smile at him. "Uh, hey."
"You lookin' for the new guy?"
Well, that got his attention. "What?"
"That guy you brought in yesterday."
"Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. You know where he is."
The kid nodded happily. "Not here."
Henri's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean, not here?"
"I mean, he ain't here. He went out yesterday, followin' the foreigners. I tailed him 'cause I was bored, and he just didn't listen to me when I said leave 'em alone."
Henri frowned. "What happened?"
The kid shrugged. "Dunno. He went out and watched the foreigners meet some other foreigner, then a cop chased him away." The kid giggled. "I saw him 'fore he went to sleep, but he wasn't here this morning."
Henri's eyes went back to scanning the crowd, but his stomach churned with the nervous knowledge that the kid was right. Rafe wasn't there.
"He shoulda left 'em alone," the kid said with a happy sigh.
Henri faced him again squarely. "Alright, kid, tell me everything that happened."
"Why you wanna know?"
"Just tell me!"
The kid studied Henri's angry face for a second, then shrugged carelessly. "'Kay. Well, the foreigners went to the park, right? And he was followin', and they met this other guy-"
"What other guy?"
Another careless shrug. "Older guy, talkin' the same language as they was."
"Maybe fifty years old? Grey hair? Dressed well?"
"Yeah!" The kid beamed. "That was him!"
Smola. Henri let out a shaky breath. "Good. Now what happened to Ra...to the guy I brought in?"
"Like I said. He was here last night, wasn't here this morning. Foreigners did something with him. They always get rid of anyone who watches em too close."
Henri gritted his teeth. "Where are the foreigners now?"
"Left this morning. They'll be back tonight."
Henri turned on his heel, not bothering to thank the kid or wait for the lady volunteer, and went out the front door fast. He jumped into his car and took off.
"I don't understand why you're questioning me. You say I am not a suspect, why am I in here being interrogated?"
Blair noticed that his partner was one step away from tearing into Smola, so he cleared his throat lightly. "We're trying to put a motive to the murder of Mr. Gierhake. We can do that if our suspicions....er, if we can show that PAGAD had some sort of problem with your company."
"I can't help you. I've said that since I first arrived. I can not help you. I'm sorry. Please, let me return to my hotel."
Simon looked at him thoughtfully for a moment. "Blair, could you take Mr. Smola out to your desk for a minute? I need to have a word with Jim."
Blair nodded and stood.
Smola heaved an irritated sigh, standing and leading the way resentfully to the outer room.
"He's lying, Simon."
"I know. I could tell he recognized those pictures. He's definitely hiding something from us."
Jim frowned. "So what do we do?"
"We'll have to catch him in the act, Jim. He's not gonna tell us anything unless we get some kind of proof."
Jim cocked his head slightly, listening to an approaching sound. "Henri's back."
Simon stood. "Thank God. Maybe Rafe's found something out we can use. God knows we're not getting anything accomplished."
Jim was still listening, his brow furrowed. Suddenly he bounded to the door and pulled it open. "Henri-"
The detective had marched all the way up to the waiting Smola. Without a word, without even a moment's hesitation, he grabbed the man's shirt front and hauled him to his feet. "Where is he?!?"
Smola sputtered for a moment, surprised.
Henri pushed him back, eyes burning, expression irate. "WHERE IS HE??" He pushed Smola until his back hit the wall.
With a surprised exhalation of breath, Smola's eyes went to the officers behind him. "What is this?"
Jim and Simon started forward, going to Henri quickly and grabbing him to haul him away from Smola.
To their surprise, he didn't budge. His hands stayed clenched to the starched fabric of Smola's shirt front, not even seeming to notice they were there. "Tell me what they did with him, you son of a bitch!"
"Brown, get your hands off of him!" Simon snapped.
Brown shrugged his arm out of Simon's grasp, his fierce glare never leaving Smola's face.
"Henri, come on, man. Let him go," Blair's voice was almost frightened behind him.
"No! Not until he answers me!"
"What is it, Henri?" Jim was the calmest of the group. "What happened?"
"He's gone!"
"What?"
"Missing! He wasn't at the shelter!"
Simon groaned softly, but was quick to talk again. "What makes you think Smola had anything to do-"
"Some kid in the shelter told me our suspects must have done something to him," Henri reported, cutting off Simon without a thought. "He also told me he followed them yesterday to some park, and guess who they met up with?" His hands tightened on the shirt, and he pushed Smola back into the wall.
"Shit! Brown, let him go! This isn't the way to play this."
"No?" Henri's glare didn't fade.
"No! Let him go, we'll question him. He's not gonna say a damned word with you in his face."
"Yeah he will. He's gonna tell me why he's lying, why he's helping the men who killed Gierhake and kidnapped my partner!"
"D-detective, please. I cannot tell you any-"
"You'd better stop stalling and start talking, you conceited fuck."
"Brown!"
"I can't-"
"Tell me!"
Smola swallowed. "My daughter," he said in a near whisper.
Henri blinked. "What?"
Looking suddenly vulnerable, Smola stopped trying to pull away, sagging in Henri's grasp. "They have my daughter."
Henri locked eyes with him for a moment, then blinked again, seeming to realize where he was and what he was doing. Almost shocked at his loss of control, he released Smola and stepped back without a word.
Rather than waste time rebuking him, Simon kept his eyes on Smola. "Go on."
The older man was quiet for a few moments. "They've had her for two weeks now. They said they would kill her if I met with the police. I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I can't tell you anything. If they see any police, they'll know I talked."
Simon glanced over at Jim.
The Sentinel nodded slightly. He was telling the truth.
Simon breathed out. "Do you know what they did with Rafe?"
"Ryf?" Smola's eyes came up, looking at Henri in surprise. "Ryf is your partner?"
Henri nodded, his jaw clenched, still not trusting himself enough to talk.
"I...I have not heard. They would not have said anything to me."
Simon glanced at Jim; another nod. "Are you alright?" he asked Smola.
The businessman straightened himself slightly, but nodded. "Yes."
"You?" Simon's gaze went to Henri.
The detective paused. "Simon, I want to go in tonight," he said finally, ignoring the question.
"To the shelter? Are you nuts?"
"The kid said Friedrich and his group would be back tonight. I want to see if I can track them to wherever they've got Rafe stashed."
"Henri," Simon spoke hesitantly. "You realize they might have-"
"Don't say it, Simon," Brown cut him off.
He hesitated, but nodded finally. "I don't like it, Brown, but something tells me I wouldn't be able to stop you if I tried."
Henri shrugged. "Probably not."
"Alright. First, you drive Smola back to his hotel." Simon turned to their guest. "Mr. Smola, go back and rest. I'm going to send Detective Ellison to your hotel room tonight, and I want you to give him a full statement. Everything you know about these men."
Smola opened his mouth to protest.
Simon went on before he could. "I know you're scared for your daughter, but I promise you we won't do anything to endanger her life. If we don't find them, they'll never let her go. You know that, don't you?"
Smola hesitated, but nodded. "I think I do."
"Good. Thank you for telling us the truth, I know it wasn't easy."
Smola glanced at Henri, and actually smiled somewhat. "I'm sorry I had to be forced to do it."
Henri met his eyes. He still didn't like the man, he never would. Not for what he knew about Rafe's childhood, about the part this uncle had played in it. So he didn't return the smile. He did manage to speak civilly, though. "Let's take you home," he said stiffly, turning and heading for the door.
Smola seemed to understand his anger, and he followed the detective without a word. *******************
"Jou kombers en my matras en
daar l^e die ding,
daar l^e die ding,
daar l^e die ding."
Ryf's eyes opened slowly, listening to the surprising sound of music in their home. No one ever sang here, especially not his mother.
"Jou kombers en my matras en
daar l^e die ding,
daar l^e die ding."
He sat up suddenly, ignoring the pounding headache that rushed to drive him back down. He had overslept! He would be late to work. "Verdomp!" he swore. Then instantly he paled and hoped no one had heard him. Ryf wasn't supposed to use the grown-up words. He really wasn't supposed to talk at all.
"Jou wakker?" The song cut off, and the singer came closer to him shyly.
He watched as she came into view through the darkness, and Ryf suddenly vanished. Leaving a very confused Rafe in his wake.
"Oh my God, I'm going crazy," Rafe mumbled to himself, his hands covering his face. It was one thing to have dreams, it was something else to wake up thinking it was twenty years ago.
"Wat skort daar?" Annerl asked quietly.
"Niks," Rafe answered automatically, bringing his hands down and looking around. "Where are we?" he asked in quiet Afrikaan.
"I don't know," she replied in kind. "Friedrich took us in a car to this building."
Rafe sat up all the way, his back protesting spending hours unconscious on the ground. "A car? Freidrich has a car?"
She nodded.
"Why has he been staying at the shelter?"
"They would not tell me. It has something to do with my father."
"You father?"
She shut up abruptly, as though realizing she'd said too much.
He recognized the look of fear. "It's okay, I'm a police officer."
"Police?"
"I was sent to keep an eye on Friedrich. We suspect him of the murder of a man a few days ago."
She shuddered. "I would not be surprised if he was."
"Who are you? Why are you here with them?"
"They...they took me. They have been holding me for a long time."
Rafe's eyes narrowed. He should have known, as scared as she was of them, and as quickly as they came to attention when someone began talking to her in the shelter the day before. "Why?"
"My father." She looked down at her feet.
A thought struck Rafe suddenly, and a few pieces of the puzzle started coming together. "Gustav Smola?"
She looked up in surprise, but nodded.
He stood slowly, and had to lean against the wall as the room started to spin.
"Are you okay?"
"Just dizzy." He waited a moment, breathing deeply. "Is there a way out of here?"
"The only door is the one they brought us through, and Mikial is there to guard it."
Rafe cursed softly, looking around the dark room. "What do they want with your father?" he asked as he looked around carefully.
"Something about his company. I don't know everything."
"Alright," Rafe turned to her squarely. "I'm going to get us out of here, but I'll need your help."
She met his eyes, then looked away.
"I know you're scared, Annerl. But I can help you." He hesitated, then went to the young girl's side and waited until she met his eyes. "Gustav Smola in my uncle," he said quietly.
She stared. "You...you are Ryf? You are my uncle's son?"
Rafe nodded silently.
"I have heard....my father said that we might see you here, but..." She looked up at him in amazement. "My cousin."
He smiled slightly.
"Father...he does not speak well of you," she went on, studying him.
Rafe's smile faded. "I'm not surprised. I know you must have heard some bad things about me before, but..." He trailed off.
He had been all set to argue with his uncle's views of him, but how could he? He had realized over the last day that those views were more accurate than he thought.
"Ryf," Annerl replied when it was obvious Rafe was through. "I think...I understand why you left."
Surprised, Rafe met her eyes. The young girl smiled slightly, a wisdom in her eyes that belied her age. Old before her time. Rafe knew that look well.
"Tell me what do, cousin Ryf. I'll help you get us out." *******************
Mikial was not the brightest crayon in the box, Rafe discovered with relief. Annerl's scream brought him running, and he approached her huddled, frightened form without even checking the shadows behind her.
"Wat skort daar? Hou jou bek!"
She whimpered as he approached. "Asseblief...nee, asseblief..."
"Wat? Wat skort?" He finally noticed the absence of a second hostage. "Waar is-"
Rafe walked unnoticed right up to the man. "Hier is ek," he answered with a grin.
Mikial whirled just in time to hit Rafe's fist with his face, and he fell heavily.
Rafe crouched and ripped the old rifle out of his hands. "Dankie," he thanked the semiconscious man. "Annerl, ons loop, nou!"
She jumped up and he grabbed her hand, running out the door and into another small room. He saw an exit sign and realized this must be some kind of abandoned office building. *Figures.* But he didn't stop to think about it, heading for the door and opening it quickly.
Right into the surprised face of his old friend Friedrich. "Wat-"
Rafe didn't hesitate. He aimed the rifle at the man's chest. "Loop. Nou."
Friedrich and his partner backed up a step dutifully, and Rafe pushed out the door, followed by Annerl.
"We will find you," Friedrich promised him simply.
Annerl backed away from the two men, and her eyes went back to the open door. "Ryf! Pas op!"
Rafe turned just in time to see the man he'd knocked down. He raised the rifle, but Friedrich moved like lightening, slamming into his arm and knocking the gun to the ground.
"Annerl!" Rafe looked back and forth between the three men. "Loop. Polisiestacie. Praat u Kaptein Banks. Nou! Loop!"
She backed up a few steps, then turned and ran as fast as she could down the street, towards help.
"Nee!" Freidrich gestured for his shadow to go after her.
He started forward, and Rafe ended the stand-off between them, throwing himself at the man, knocking him to the ground. He raised a fist, but felt hands grabbing at him from behind. He struggled wildly, but the man under him aimed a sloppy hit and got him square in the jaw.
Rafe rolled off of him, but didn't have time to recover before he felt a sudden sharp pain in his already-throbbing head. He sank down, weak, and another hit came, like a blanket, covering him with darkness. *******************
The phone in Bank's office rang, sounding like a harbinger of doom.
Simon forced his melodramatic thoughts out of his mind and picked up the phone. "Banks....Who??" He listened for a minute, and sank down to the chair behind his desk, his eyes shutting. "Where is he?....Alright. Thanks for calling, I'll be there in ten." He hung up and sat for a minute silently.
Jim appeared in the doorway a moment later. "Is everything alright, sir?"
"There was a shooting ten minutes ago, outside the Palace Hotel." He sighed, then got to his feet stiffly. "Someone came gunning for Smola as he and Henri got to the hotel. Henri took the bullet."
Jim sucked in a breath. "Is he-"
"He's alright. Hit in the leg. He's at Cascade General."
"And Smola?"
Simon smiled tightly. "He's the one who just called. He's at the hospital with Brown."
Jim met his eyes, a full range of emotions going through him at once. "Let's get over there," he said finally. ******************* "Kaptein Banks! Kaptein Banks! Polisie, asseblief! Polisestasie!"
The uniformed cop blinked down at the dirty girl who threw herself at him, ranting in a foreign language. "Hey! Calm down. What's wrong?"
"Polisie!"
"Uh, yeah, I'm police. What's wrong?"
"Polisiestasie! Asseblief! Kaptein Banks!"
"Captain Banks?" he repeated.
"Ja! Asseblief!"
"Okay, okay," the older, pot-bellied cop gestured towards his car. "get in. We'll go see Captain Banks."
She nodded, sagging in relief. "Nou. Kaptein Banks."
"Yeah, yeah. Get in." He opened the back door for her and let her climb in, then shut it and walked around to the driver's side.
Captain Banks?
Um.
Maybe the 23rd had a Captain Banks. *******************
Henri tried not to even look to his right. He tried to ignore the fact that Gustav Smola was in a room alone with him. He tried not to get mad, tried to let his cool Bad Mutha Fucka cop self take control, ease away the stress and anger he was feeling.
But that shit just wasn't gonna happen. "You are one one lucky son of a bitch."
The older man turned to him, surprised he was speaking. "Pardon me?"
Henri looked away innocently. "Nothing."
But Smola had heard, and now sat staring at the prone detective.
There was silence for a minute, not even the beeping of hospital equipment to break the stillness.
"Why did you do it?"
Henri glanced over, and didn't have to ask what he was talking about. His tone wasn't gentle when he responded. "It was a gut reaction."
Smola smiled faintly. "You purposely took a bullet for me."
Henri shrugged. "Maybe I just didn't want to have to do the paperwork if you'd gotten killed."
"You were shouting before I even knew something was happening," he replied in admiration.
"Just reflexes. I'm a good cop, I've got lots of reflexes I can't control."
"You don't like me," Smola observed.
"Two points," Henri retorted.
"My nephew has told you about me."
Henri glared over at him, wondering why he didn't just ask the man to leave. "Yeah, he has."
Smola didn't respond to that.
Henri fumed for another minute, before turning back to his visitor. "What did you say to him?"
Smola glanced over. "Pardon?"
"In the station that first day, when you first saw him. What did you call him?"
Smola looked away. "I don't think that is exactly-"
"Nobody." Henri caught his startled reaction. "That was it, wasn't it?"
Smola didn't asnwer.
"I just took a bullet for you, you asshole. You can answer this one thing for me."
Smola sighed, but faced him again. "Neimand. It was...it was what we called him."
Henri's jaw clenched. "Neimand. Means nobody, right?"
Smola's eyes went a little apprehensive, but he nodded.
Henri shook his head, his fists clenching at his sides. "You son of a bitch," he said quietly.
"With all due respect, Officer Brown, you really do not understand my nephew's past."
"No," Henri agreed readily enough. "I don't think I ever could. But I know who he is now. And I know how much he still thinks about what it was like back then. I know he still has nightmares all the time."
"But he is here now, and who do you think he has to thank for that?"
"Oh, yeah, he should be bowing at your feet out of gratitude. Like you didn't put him on a plane because you were tired of dealing with him, like you really did it for his benefit."
Smola met his eyes now, glaring right back. "How would you know my motivations for anything? Yes, I put him on the plane to this country. I won't pretend I did it solely for him. But I also kept up with where he was. I am the one who made it possible for him to remain here."
Henri's eyebrows shot up.
"Or do you think," Smola went on. "That they typically give green cards out at homeless shelters."
"You got him US citizenship?"
"Yes," Smola replied.
"Why?" he asked in response.
"Because he was his family's best hope here," Smola replied sincerely.
Taken aback, Henri hesitated. "What?"
"I know my brother, Officer. He is an alcoholic, and he is lazy. It wouldn't change in America, I knew that. Ryf's mother could not be expected to work -- she was ill constantly from disease and complications with childbirth. His sisters were too young by far to do any good. Ryf was a hard worker, and he was at an age where he could make money, even in America. I sent him because I knew he was their only way of getting off the streets and in to a better life."
This was definitely a surprise to Henri. "But...but after they left him? They deserted him at the airport. Rafe knew then that they didn't want him around, why would he have gone looking for them once he got here?"
Smola exhaled slowly. "I was not told the circumstances around Ryf returning to my home after he was supposed to have been on the plane. He wouldn't say at the time, and I assumed he had lost his way and missed the flight. That was why I drove him back .It wasn't until much later, when speaking to my brother, that I asked about Ryf, and he told me the truth."
Henri shook his head in amazement. "Have you told Rafe that?"
"No. We had not spoken until I arrived at your station days ago." Smola saw the thoughtful look on Henri's face, and smiled slightly. "When I arrived here, I had a great deal of resentment towards Ryf. I see the kind of job he does, though, and the kind of loyalty his friends have for him, and I realize I may not have been entirely correct. Perhaps, officer, it is possible that Ryf is not entirely correct in his opinion of me."
