The Hunters

13

The group relocated to the home’s expansive gourmet kitchen, which sprawled beyond the dining area by way of a wide counter. Once the newcomers discovered that Papineau had no kitchen staff, each made his and her own exploration.

Garcia went right to the old-fashioned cast-iron stove, grabbed a skillet, and declared his intention to make his famous breakfast burritos. Jasmine, who had tied a blue wrap dress around her, was at the sink cutting up melons. McNutt had his head in the gigantic, silver fridge, pulling out luncheon meats — freshly sliced, not packaged — while Sarah squeezed oranges for juice.

Coffee had already been made, and Cobb poured some, black. Then, standing by a butcher’s block at the far end of the counter, he set out a variety of breads he cut from a selection of fresh-baked loaves. It was a perfect vantage point from which to watch the others, in particular the one he had never worked with.

For one reason or another, Jasmine puzzled him. She did not have the kind of muscle tone that suggested anything more than low-impact workouts: health and vanity workouts, he called them. Her knife skills, at least on a melon, seemed ordinary. She had been reading from an e-reader on the terrace, but she had turned it off before he could see what was on it. He knew he could just go over and ask her questions, but where was the fun in that?

He preferred to figure it out on his own.

Jasmine pulled some wicker trays from a cabinet beside the sink. She set them on the granite tabletop — not avoiding eye contact with anyone but not going out of her way to make it, either. She seemed oblivious to McNutt’s wide-eyed admiration.

No doubt she got that a lot.

Their host, who had disappeared for about five minutes, returned. He stood at the edge of the kitchen and stated, ‘If everyone will please take their refreshments into the dining room, I would like to make this a working lunch.’

Dark clouds had rolled in and the daily Florida summer rainstorm was in full swing by the time the group got to the long dining room. Papineau stood at the head of the large table, waiting for each to take a seat.

Garcia sat with his back to the sea, closest to their host. Jasmine put a plate of sliced fruit on the table, selected some, and sat opposite Garcia. That made it easier for McNutt, who sat next to her with a self-conscious laugh. Sarah sat opposite.

Cobb took a seat at the end of the table, opposite their host. He put the platter of sandwiches there, and checked his cell phone in his lap while he waited.

‘You are aware by now that each of you has been recruited and tested,’ Papineau said. ‘This was done so that I might offer you the opportunity to become part of a unique mission — one that, if successfully completed, will shower you in riches.’

Papineau let that sink in, and the reaction was gratifying. McNutt smiled crookedly. Sarah grinned with anticipation. Garcia’s eyes sparkled. Jasmine was reflective. Cobb just watched the others and could see all their minds racing.

Papineau continued. ‘Jasmine Park is fluent in many languages, with an exhaustive knowledge of ancient cultures and world religions. She is our historian.’

‘What did you test her with? A pop quiz?’ McNutt asked.

‘No,’ Papineau said. ‘Jasmine? Would you care to share?’

The young woman looked at the others. ‘I work at the Korean Daily News in Orlando. Yesterday my editor asked me to investigate a document that had been sent to the FBI. He’s got a friend in the Bureau who sometimes gives him leads, and in exchange we’ve held certain stories or disseminated information in ways that can help investigations. His friend explained that it was supposedly a ransom note associated with two young girls who had recently been kidnapped, but they couldn’t make head or tail of the language used. He knew I had a knack for that sort of thing and thought I might be able to help.’

Garcia wrinkled his brow. ‘He asked you to translate? Why didn’t they use computers? Just scan it in and presto! The program spits out the translation.’

‘No,’ Jasmine assured him. ‘A computer translation wouldn’t have worked. The document was written in five distinctly different languages. Not colloquial slang or dialects, but languages that grew from entirely separate roots. What’s more, their syntaxes were blended.’

‘I don’t follow,’ McNutt said.

‘The conjugations and grammatical structure were a combination of the various languages represented. Greek words were rearranged into Gaelic formations. Sometimes the sentences themselves were inconsistent. Phrases that began in Italian ended in Swedish. It even included defunct language concepts that have long since been lost to cultural evolution.’

‘Like Middle English?’ Sarah asked.

‘No, like ancient Andorran,’ Jasmine replied. ‘Middle English is easy. Anyone who’s ever studied Chaucer has dealt with that. But some of the words in the document were taken from languages that were only briefly spoken in their prime. Today, they have been absorbed into neighboring languages or discontinued altogether. No one studies them, because understanding them doesn’t provide any more information than understanding the languages they became. The history of these places has been passed down in much more accessible documentation.’

Jasmine caught herself. She could go on with the explanation, but she doubted that the others shared her fervor.

‘No one studies them, but you do?’ Cobb asked. His tone stressed curiosity, not ridicule.

Jasmine shrugged. ‘What can I say? I like history, and words, and the history of words.’

‘Fair enough,’ Cobb replied. ‘So, what did the document say?’

Jasmine’s eyes lit up. ‘It revealed the supposed hiding place of the girls. When I offered my translation to my editor, I insisted that he introduce me to his connection, in case there were follow-up questions that needed immediate answers. At the time, I thought two young lives hung in the balance, so he arranged a meeting.’

Every eye in the room turned toward Papineau.

He met their collective gaze with a guilty smirk.

Sarah glanced back at Jasmine. ‘You played right into his hands.’

‘My driver transported Ms Park to this location,’ Papineau explained. Before Cobb could challenge his statement, Papineau anticipated his question. ‘No, Jack, her editor has no idea concerning our whereabouts. His instructions were handed down from his superiors, namely, the newspaper’s board of directors.’

‘Namely, you,’ Cobb surmised.

Papineau smiled.

‘You control a newspaper?’ McNutt asked.

‘I control several newspapers,’ Papineau answered. ‘Among other things.’ He turned to address Cobb. ‘If her editor is questioned, he is simply to respond that Jasmine is “on assignment”.’

‘Must be nice to control the flow of information and have it reported to you before it’s ever made public,’ Cobb said.

‘Quite,’ Papineau replied.

Cobb and Papineau stared at one another, each trying to better understand the man across the table. The moment lingered a little too long.

To break the tension, McNutt pointed at Garcia’s shirt. Outside in the sunlight, it had appeared to be a normal T-shirt with an ironed-on Wi-Fi symbol. But now that they were indoors, McNutt realized that the decal was actually animated.

‘What’s up with your shirt?’ he demanded.

Garcia glanced down at the symbol. At that moment, it was glowing green. ‘My shirt is actually a battery-powered Wi-Fi detector. Depending on the signal strength, the number of bars that are glowing on my chest will fluctuate between one and four. Obviously, the more bars, the better.’

‘Obviously!‘ McNutt said with fake enthusiasm.

Too bad Garcia didn’t have a sarcasm detector because it would have been beeping like crazy. Instead, he smiled with pride. ‘I bet you’ve never seen anything like it.’

‘Actually,’ McNutt teased, ‘I have something very similar in my shorts. Anytime I get horny, my sensor rises into position. Obviously, the longer, the better.’

Garcia quickly deflated. ‘Not funny, dude.’

‘And unlike your shirt, my sensor will actually help me get laid.’