Chapter 1

"It's very simple, really," the man said. "Some people launder clothes. Others launder money. We launder children."

I could only nod. I didn't really believe that I was having this conversation, or that I could trust anything that this stranger said. But I desperately wanted to believe him, so I kept listening.

"We need to know that you're... well, reliable, if you will," he continued. "That's why we require you to provide the raw material."

"Why wouldn't you just take an orphan? Aren't there thousands of them?" I was still looking for an out, an easy way to my goal, that didn't require the dangerous contribution they were asking of me.

His nose wrinkled slightly. "There are those who trade in such goods, Mr. Randles. I could make an introduction, if you like. But for a man of your means and desires, I would be concerned regarding the... quality, shall we say. So many of those poor souls are profoundly damaged, in ways that aren't at all visible on the outside. Who knows what drugs their mothers took, or what they've been subjected to? With our approach, you have complete control over the choice of the subject."

I blinked and stared at him. I must have looked like an idiot in way over his head. Which is exactly what I was.

He was Latin, I was pretty sure. Perhaps Mexican, but more likely Brazilian. His dark suit was immaculate, as was his slightly accented English. His manner was smooth, with no wasted motion except an occasional tapping of his finger on the table. When I looked at it, I saw an arc of scars that reminded me of human teeth. Very small human teeth.

He noticed me staring at his hand. "Nerve damage," he said. "An occupational hazard." His smile was ironic and somewhat disturbing.

My companion pushed a piece of paper across the table. Written on it were a simple set of numbers, followed by a long, complex series of letters and digits. "The first number is an IP address. You said you were handy with computers, didn't you? Would you know how to ping this address with a specific set of data?"

"That's easy," I said.

"Good. When you have the girl, send a single packet to this address containing the code sequence listed here, followed by a cell phone number. Shortly afterwards you'll receive a text message at that number containing a set of GPS coordinates near you. Bring the girl there, along with five hundred thousand dollars in cash, in non-sequential small bills. Be sure she's still sedated."

He placed a black rectangular case on the table next to the paper. "Open it."

I snapped the case open to find three hypodermic syringes filled with clear liquid.

"Thiopental," he said. "Based on your stated preference, the dosage is suitable for a child of about 65 pounds. That's the average weight of seven-year-old girls. The drug takes effect in approximately 60 seconds, and will keep her under for around four hours. With three doses, you should have plenty of time to reach the meeting place. Just don't re-inject her prior to four hours, to avoid an overdose."

"What if she wakes up before that?" I asked.

"This is not a risk-free adventure you're embarking on, Mr. Randles," was his simple reply. "In that event, I suggest you let her go. But in no event bring her to us if she's not been sedated continuously."

He waited for me to nod. "If you do everything I've described, we completely guarantee the results."

My thoughts were running together in a jumble. "It takes 60 days? How do I know you won't just run off with the money and the girl?"

"Yes. And you don't. For obvious reasons, we don't provide references. But perhaps I can reassure you a bit." He handed me his iPhone. The screen was filled with the picture of a girl, blond, perhaps 4 years old, apparently sleeping. She looked oddly familiar. My current lunch partner was sitting next to her in the back seat of a car. "Scroll through the pictures," he instructed.

I swiped my finger across the screen to see the next image. It was a close-up of the girl's face. An adult hand was holding her right eye open. You could clearly see that it was hazel, but with a distinctive reddish-brown streak radiating from the pupil at the 7 o'clock position. I recognized it instantly. "Oh my God. That's her," I stammered. "Madeline."

My guest nodded silently. I went on the next picture. The girl was in a hospital bed, sedated. Her hands and face were bandaged, but her eyes were visible. The same eyes, with the same unique discoloration.

"We carefully gauge the amount of alteration necessary to ensure safety. Don't fall too much in love with the way your subject looks when you capture her. When we're done, she's going to look different enough that even her parents won't readily recognize her."

In the next picture, the bandages were off. The girl's face was indeed different. Somewhat more angular, nose a bit more sharp. It was beautiful work. Bruises from the surgery were still visible. "That's from day 30. Our doctors are simply the best money can buy. Cuban mostly, some Russian. She recovered very quickly, being so young."

The next picture showed the same girl, her face fully healed. "It's amazing," I said. "She's different, but somehow you kept her essence."

"Thank you for noticing. She was a very special project. Such a lovely girl to start, and our client wanted to preserve her original charm. Within the bounds of safety, of course. He'd been watching her for some time. Now please look at the last picture, the pièce de résistance, if you will."

The final picture was another facial close-up. The girl's new features were clearly visible, as were her eyes. But her eyes were a brilliant, piercing blue, with no hint of brown. "I didn't think that was possible," I said.

"Corneal implants. Permanent and quite undetectable. Uses Lasik technology these days, and so heals very quickly. And you can't see it in the pictures, but her teeth have also been modified. Dental records won't even come close to matching."

"God. Incredible. Where is she now?" I asked the question before I realized how stupid it was.

He gave me a disdainful, patronizing look. "I could tell you, Mr. Randles. Indeed I could." He paused, his finger tapping the table. "You know what I'm going to say next, don't you?"

"That you'd have to kill me?"

"Indeed. Indeed I would."

He regarded me silently for a moment. "I must be honest with you. You're not a very smart man, Mr. Randles. Of the potential clients I've dealt with, you may be the most foolish. Communicating about this subject on the Internet, regardless of the precautions you take, is simply not acceptable. My colleague was wrong to respond to your posting, and I seriously considered not taking this meeting."

"I didn't know what else to do," was all I could offer.

"And that's why I'm here, Mr. Randles. I sensed this in your message. I believe that you truly need the service we're offering. Because of that need, I expect you'll be a good client. And you obviously have the money. But please, sir, for your own sake - think and plan more carefully about this next critical step before you take it."

He looked directly into my eyes, seeking fear or reassurance. With effort, I was able to return his gaze. After a moment he leaned back, apparently satisfied.

"The second five hundred thousand is due upon delivery. Good day, and good luck, Mr. Randles. Happy hunting, if you will."

He stood up and strode away. The black case remained on the table, as irrefutable evidence of the conversation - otherwise, I might have already begun thinking that I'd imagined it all.

To be continued.