The Informationist: A Thriller by Taylor Stevens Page A

misplaced one of our vaccination cards.” The woman flipped slowly through both passports, and when at last she was finished and came to Munroe’s yellow book, she studied the information and finally said, “Your vaccinations are expired.”
    The woman handed back the vaccination booklet, and Munroe placed another ten-euro bill between the pages and handed it back again. “I never noticed.”
    On the other side of the counter, the woman wrote something and then handed back both passports, two new yellow vaccination booklets filled with doctors’ stamps and signatures, and two pieces of hand-cut paper stamped with the purple ink of her official stamp, signifying that each traveler was healthy and fully vaccinated. The euros had disappeared. “Go to passport control,” she said.
    Munroe walked slowly, breathing deeply, and took in the odor of mold and decay and smiled. It was the fragrance of year after year of rain and humidity that had permeated the walls and paint and become as much a part of the building as the steel rods that supported the structure and the bodies of the immigration personnel that exuded the acrid aroma of old sweat and unwashed clothing worn day after day.
    It took a twenty-euro bill for Munroe to get through immigrationon the expired Cameroonian residence card. At customs the official methodically went through their luggage and, finding nothing of value, nothing contraband, and nothing that might guarantee the night’s drinking money, shoved the contents back into the bags and allowed them to pass.
    Outside the building, under the dim fluorescent lights of the terminal, taxi drivers called out and porters jostled and chaos reigned.
    The hotel was Parfait Garden, an aging multistoried structure off the sidewalk of Boulevard de la Liberté. The building had fewer amenities than the newer and higher-starred hotels in the city, but it had managed to maintain its aura of dignity, and Munroe had chosen it for the memories. It stood less than a kilometer down the road from the roundabout that branched toward Buea, and as she stepped from the taxi, she glanced in the direction that once was home.
    Home. Whatever “home” was supposed to mean.
    So close and still so far away, nothing there and no reason to return. Her mother had since repatriated to the United States, and Dad had married a Cameroonian and moved northwest to Garoua. She had not seen or spoken to either of them since leaving Africa; perhaps when the job was over, she would make the trip to the country’s desert north and find the man who had been her father for thirteen years.
    The staff at the front desk was polite and courteous despite Bradford’s requirement of seeing and approving both rooms prior to check-in. Worse was that he insisted Munroe accompany him, the first of no doubt many inconveniences that having a babysitter-slash-bodyguard would bring. They bypassed the hotel’s only elevator and climbed the wide carpeted stairway that wound through the center of the building. The musty scent of the venerable permeated the air.
    Adjacent rooms next to the stairwell on the third floor met with Bradford’s approval, and once he had left her alone, Munroe dumped her duffel bag and backpack at the foot of the bed, turned off the air conditioner, and opened the windows. Warmth and humidity filled the room. True acclimatization would take a week or more, and the air-conditioning would only slow down the process; until her body adjusted, the climate would siphon off her strength, leaving her sluggish and tired—better to get it over with as quickly as possible. From her backpack she retrieveddouble-sided tape and tacked the day curtains in place around the windows. It wasn’t quite mosquito netting but would do the job until she could pick up the real thing.
    She lay on the bed with her hands behind her head and stared at the ceiling. Whatever she thought she would feel upon returning, such contentment was a surprise. It was five weeks