Margaret took hold of the
mother’s hand, and then they all moved together towards the halo…
A piercing ringing of a car horn cut short James’ dream. He
had drifted off to sleep while travelling in a Secret Service car towards
Brighton, and now the car had arrived in the town. He awoke experiencing an
indescribably peaceful sensation, which he knew had been triggered by the
dream. He’d had this dream many times since his parents died in a plane crash
while visiting James’ grandparents who lived in Peru after their retirement.
Sometimes some of the details of the dream differed, but the main events and
their consequences always remained the same. Every time James awoke after
having that dream, he felt an inner peace, which resulted from the irrational
conviction that his mother and father had gone to a good place. In such
moments, their death didn’t seem as cruel as his imagination normally depicted
it.
* * *
Superintendent Peter Oliver was waiting for James in the
Hotel Altor’s lobby. He was of medium height and slim, dressed in a dark- grey
suit and wore frameless glasses.
He shook James’ hand. “Thanks for coming so quickly. I hope
it hasn’t caused you too much inconvenience.”
“It’s all right. I’m glad to be of help,” responded James.
“We’ve tried to do discreet work here. Until now we’ve
managed to keep the media at a distance,” explained the superintendent. “It’s
good right now because there aren’t many visitors.” As they got into the lift
he continued, “The apartment where the murder took place is on the third floor.
The name of the victim is Stefan Costov – a Bulgarian scientist who specialized
in molecular genetics. He attended a conference here together with more than
fifty other scientists from all over the world. Costov was noticed missing when
his colleagues tried to call him this morning. A bellboy went to check his room
and found him dead.”
The apartment was fourth left from the lift door. The area
had been cordoned off with police tape and was protected by a police guard.
James could see a man from the police’s scientific department examining the
door frame for fingerprints and other evidence.
When they entered the room, James noticed two plain-clothes
police officers, but the sprawled dead body on the floor immediately grabbed
his attention. There was a large swastika carved into the man’s torso. In the
point where the arms of the swastika crossed, an ugly round wound gaped. The
veins on the man’s left forearm had been slashed deeply, and a puddle of blood
had soaked into the carpet. Strange symbols had been drawn in blood on the
carpet around the body. James couldn’t hold back an exclamation. “Jesus!”
The superintendent stretched out his arms in a gesture of
bafflement. “This must be the work of a very ill mind. Or rather, minds. The
killers must have hated him. His hand was cut to the bone. They didn’t think it
was enough just to open his veins. The swastika was carved in the same way.”
As he listened, James felt a hardening in his stomach. This
man had indeed experienced a strange and cruel death.
“What exactly did Stefan Costov do for a living?” he asked.
“He was head of a laboratory at a Bulgarian branch of a
large US pharmaceuticals company.”
“I can see a lot of blood, but no traces of a
struggle,” said James.
“That’s one of the mysteries. It looks like he was conscious
and unrestrained when they cut into him. But none of the guests or the hotel
staff heard any shouting or noise.”
“Maybe he’d been drugged.”
“Probably. My first thought when I saw him was that there
was a neo-Nazi connection. Because of the swastika.”
James shook his head. “Not necessarily. The swastika is one
of the oldest abstract symbols used by civilizations. Archaeological swastika
findings have been made all over the world. The symbolism of the entire scene
here appears to be religious rather than political.”
“Yes,
mother’s hand, and then they all moved together towards the halo…
A piercing ringing of a car horn cut short James’ dream. He
had drifted off to sleep while travelling in a Secret Service car towards
Brighton, and now the car had arrived in the town. He awoke experiencing an
indescribably peaceful sensation, which he knew had been triggered by the
dream. He’d had this dream many times since his parents died in a plane crash
while visiting James’ grandparents who lived in Peru after their retirement.
Sometimes some of the details of the dream differed, but the main events and
their consequences always remained the same. Every time James awoke after
having that dream, he felt an inner peace, which resulted from the irrational
conviction that his mother and father had gone to a good place. In such
moments, their death didn’t seem as cruel as his imagination normally depicted
it.
* * *
Superintendent Peter Oliver was waiting for James in the
Hotel Altor’s lobby. He was of medium height and slim, dressed in a dark- grey
suit and wore frameless glasses.
He shook James’ hand. “Thanks for coming so quickly. I hope
it hasn’t caused you too much inconvenience.”
“It’s all right. I’m glad to be of help,” responded James.
“We’ve tried to do discreet work here. Until now we’ve
managed to keep the media at a distance,” explained the superintendent. “It’s
good right now because there aren’t many visitors.” As they got into the lift
he continued, “The apartment where the murder took place is on the third floor.
The name of the victim is Stefan Costov – a Bulgarian scientist who specialized
in molecular genetics. He attended a conference here together with more than
fifty other scientists from all over the world. Costov was noticed missing when
his colleagues tried to call him this morning. A bellboy went to check his room
and found him dead.”
The apartment was fourth left from the lift door. The area
had been cordoned off with police tape and was protected by a police guard.
James could see a man from the police’s scientific department examining the
door frame for fingerprints and other evidence.
When they entered the room, James noticed two plain-clothes
police officers, but the sprawled dead body on the floor immediately grabbed
his attention. There was a large swastika carved into the man’s torso. In the
point where the arms of the swastika crossed, an ugly round wound gaped. The
veins on the man’s left forearm had been slashed deeply, and a puddle of blood
had soaked into the carpet. Strange symbols had been drawn in blood on the
carpet around the body. James couldn’t hold back an exclamation. “Jesus!”
The superintendent stretched out his arms in a gesture of
bafflement. “This must be the work of a very ill mind. Or rather, minds. The
killers must have hated him. His hand was cut to the bone. They didn’t think it
was enough just to open his veins. The swastika was carved in the same way.”
As he listened, James felt a hardening in his stomach. This
man had indeed experienced a strange and cruel death.
“What exactly did Stefan Costov do for a living?” he asked.
“He was head of a laboratory at a Bulgarian branch of a
large US pharmaceuticals company.”
“I can see a lot of blood, but no traces of a
struggle,” said James.
“That’s one of the mysteries. It looks like he was conscious
and unrestrained when they cut into him. But none of the guests or the hotel
staff heard any shouting or noise.”
“Maybe he’d been drugged.”
“Probably. My first thought when I saw him was that there
was a neo-Nazi connection. Because of the swastika.”
James shook his head. “Not necessarily. The swastika is one
of the oldest abstract symbols used by civilizations. Archaeological swastika
findings have been made all over the world. The symbolism of the entire scene
here appears to be religious rather than political.”
“Yes,
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