Wolfe looked over at Arnold Garber, who was eating a kebab at his desk. “Garber, if I wanted to put together a list of all the good Hebrew bookstores in London, where would I start?”
Garber wiped his mouth with a napkin. “You could ask me. I’m a bad Jew these days, but that wasn’t always the case.”
“Well, if I needed to visit the best Hebrew bookshop in the city, where would it be?”
“Manor Books,” Garber said without hesitation. “It’s in the Steinberg Centre, over in Golders Green. A bit out of the way, but it’s the best bookstore of its kind. Anyone with an interest in Hebrew will end up there eventually.”
“Thanks.” Wolfe wrote down the name, then slid open the top drawer of her desk, taking out a rumpled London atlas. Checking the index, she flipped to the map covering the area of Golders Green, which wasn’t far, she recalled, from Hendon, a neighborhood where Ilya had once lived.
Garber turned back to his lunch. “So, are we still seeing you for drinks tonight?”
“No,” Wolfe said absently, paging quickly through the atlas. “I think I’m going to be busy—”
Even as she said this, something else occurred to her. Wolfe put down the atlas and picked up her notepad. On the top of the open page, above the notes from her recent call, she wrote down the word from the charred fragment in the dead man’s pocket. Ainha.
She studied the word for a moment. Then, crossing it out, she wrote Rainham.
10
“Good night, Roman,” the cashier said, taking down his overcoat from its hook near the door. “See you tomorrow.”
“Yes, all right,” Roman Brodsky said distractedly. He was seated in the office at the rear of the store, going over his notes from the past day, the green hooded lamp casting a white circle on his desk. His notes were written in a fine, barely legible hand, a mixture of Russian, English, and the several other languages that Brodsky had acquired over the course of his untidy life.
The cashier, who had worked the front of the store for ten years without expressing any interest in Brodsky’s other activities, smiled and left, the door chiming once as he departed. Brodsky turned back to his notes. A pot of tea sat at his elbow, the third and longest steeping from that day’s leaves, so that the final cup, which he drained now, was angry and dark with sediment.
After another minute, he fed some of the notes into the shredder beside his desk, then rose heavily and brought the remaining pages to the safe in the corner. Inside, there was a handgun, never fired, and bundles of money in four different currencies. He set his notes on top, along with a battered address book. Then, donning his coat, he glanced around the office once more before turning off the lights.
In his thick glasses and sweater, Brodsky looked something like a tortoise, or like one of the innumerable mollusks that dwell in caves along the ocean floor. He passed through the store, with its shelves of sweets, smoked fish, and pickles, and went outside. Locking the door, he lowered the security gate, then headed up the street for home. He easily could have afforded a car and driver, but he liked these solitary walks, which gave him time to think.
Whenever Roman Brodsky bothered to consider the shape of his own life, which was not very often, he saw himself as one of those necessary men without whom much of the world’s business would grind to a halt. In a city of immigrants and exiles, especially one in which almost nothing was written down, his role was as essential as it was misunderstood.
Back in Russia he would have been known as a tolkach, or fixer. In his youth, as a recent arrival in the city, he had established himself as an accomplished lock picker and entry man, but after a bit of time in prison, he had concluded that he had no taste for it. Instead, sensing an opening, he had invented a role for himself, becoming a broker for services that were otherwise unable to advertise. Which only meant, in a way, that he had continued to open doors for a living.
As he walked down the street now, he reviewed the day’s events in his head. He had managed to arrange employment for five Russian illegals in the East End, who would soon set to work making souvenirs at a Turkish sweatshop. Another situation had turned out to be rather more delicate. A group of thugs had tried to extort a stall owner in Petticoat Lane, only to find that he was the cousin of a very powerful man. Brodsky had been brought in to negotiate a settlement that would allow both parties to save face, and was scheduled to meet with them later tonight.
He turned onto his own block, which was surrounded on all sides by the white masses of hotels and garden squares. A creature of habit, he had lived for most of his London life in the same housing estate, although he had moved out of his old flat a few years ago to a larger one on the top floor. Entering the lobby, Brodsky took the lift up, then trudged to his own flat. The door had a pair of heavy locks, which he unlocked with two separate keys.
Inside, the foyer was dark. Brodsky was closing the door, noticing in passing that it seemed to stick oddly in the frame, when he felt something heavy descend on the back of his head. He must have blacked out at once, because in what felt like the blink of an eye, he found himself seated upright in a hard chair, as if he had somehow fallen forward into this position.
His head was aching. As his vision cleared, he became aware of a number of things. He was in his own kitchen. Behind him, the bulb above the sink had been switched on. In the faint yellow light, he saw that he was naked except for his glasses, and that his bare arms and legs were bound to the chair with loops of wire. When he tried to move his head, he found more wire encircling his throat.
A shadow fell across his body. Someone was standing behind him. Before he could speak, he felt something like a coarse powder being poured onto the crown of his skull, as if in a strange benediction. The powder, which had the consistency of sand, slid down the back of his neck and fell on his shoulders like dandruff, flakes of it adhering to his sweating skin.
Looking down, he saw the powder gathering in a heap on his lap, and saw that it consisted of many small crystals. It was hard to determine their true color, but they seemed dark purple, almost black.
Brodsky recognized them. At once, the fear that had been lurking at the back of his mind rose sickeningly to the surface.
The trickle of powder ceased. A second later, a darkened figure came into his line of sight. The area beyond the chair was in shadow, so he could not see the man’s face. In the light from above the sink, however, he saw that there was a squeeze bottle of colorless liquid clutched in the man’s right hand.
Brodsky stared at the bottle. A single choked word escaped from his lips. “Wait—”
The man sat down in a second chair that had been placed just out of the circle of light. His face remained in darkness. Raising the bottle in his hand, he spoke softly. “You recognize this?”
Brodsky said nothing, his heart thumping damply in his chest. Looking to one side, he saw that the kitchen drapes had been drawn. There was a clock above the refrigerator, but he couldn’t see it from here. If he didn’t show up for his meeting, which was scheduled for nine, the men he was supposed to see would quickly suspect that something was wrong. All the same, he didn’t know how long it would take for them to come looking for him at home.
He swallowed, feeling the dull itch of crystals on his body. His clothes had been left in a heap on the floor. “Listen,” Brodsky said hoarsely, trying to sound as reasonable as possible. “There’s five thousand in cash in the bedroom. I have even more at the store. If you let me go now—”
The man in the darkness cut him off. “I am going to ask you a question. I advise you to think very carefully before you respond. You know who I am. Do you understand why I am here?”
An image of a blackened body in a bathroom appeared in Brodsky’s mind. He found that his exposed manhood had shriveled, as if trying to draw back into his body. “I think you’re here to kill me.”
“Not necessar
ily,” the man said. “I’m here to have a conversation. Nothing more.”
The man settled back into his chair. Brodsky saw that there were gloves on his hands. He was unable to take his eyes from the squeeze bottle, and felt the cups of tea from earlier that day pressing against his bladder.
“The police are closing in,” the man continued. “They’ve started asking questions about the armorer in Stoke Newington. Some of their questions are good ones. Which makes me suspect that they have an informant. I want to know if you have any idea who this informant might be.”
Brodsky tried to shake his head, then stopped, feeling the wire cut painfully into the area under his chin. “I told them nothing. I have no reason to inform on anyone. It’s bad for business—”
The man squeezed the bottle in his hand. Brodsky saw a stream of colorless liquid arc out of the nozzle and splash against the floor at his feet, only a few inches from where the largest pile of crystals had collected. Seeing this, he began to flail, trying to rise from the chair, only to feel the wire dig into his wrists and ankles. At last, he sank back again, the sweat running down his sides.
“Let’s try again,” the man said, settling back into his own chair. The stream of liquid stopped. “Perhaps we can even talk like men. I know how someone like you stays in business. You throw the police a shipment, a robbery, a name, so that they’ll look the other way when it counts. I want to know what you’ve told them about me. And I want to know it now.”
He raised the bottle again, aiming higher. Before he could squeeze it, Brodsky spoke, the words spilling out in a rush: “Wait, wait, wait—”
The man kept the bottle where it was. Brodsky took a breath, looking down at his arms and legs, which were furred with the black crystals. “All right. I’ve grassed a few times. I’ve given up a shipment or two. But only for men who were going to get caught anyway. I have nothing to gain by informing on you. I know what kind of people are involved here—”
The man spoke quietly. “And what do you know about these kinds of people?”
Brodsky backtracked, seeing his mistake. “Nothing. I don’t even know their names. Or yours. But if I inform on them, my life is worthless. And there’s nothing I can tell the police. All I’ve done is make some introductions.”
“I’d like to believe you,” the man said, almost gently. “But you’re the only one.”
“That isn’t true,” Brodsky said, suddenly glimpsing a way out. “If anyone went to the police, it’s the guy from Cheshire. James Morley. For all I know, he’s having second thoughts. Maybe he knows that someone took out the first two names. After what happened to Akoun—”
The man’s voice remained cold. “And how could he have figured this out?”
“Maybe he reads the papers.” Brodsky groped for an answer. “If he wasn’t afraid, he wouldn’t have altered the meet. He knows you can’t touch him at Olympia. But maybe he wants to call the whole deal off. He’s a businessman, he gets scared, he drops a line to the police, right?”
For a long moment, the man seemed to consider this. Brodsky, still sweating, heard the ticking of the clock above the refrigerator. He found that his glasses were about to slip down the bridge of his nose.
Abruptly, the man stood. Brodsky flinched, his eyes on the bottle, but the man only turned away. “Fine. I’ll talk to Morley. But if I find out that you’ve lied to me, the next time we meet, you won’t even hear my voice.”
Going into the next room, the man unlocked the door of the flat, opened it, and went out into the hall. The door closed. Alone in the kitchen, Brodsky sucked in a trembling breath. As he did, his glasses fell off.
Outside, the man continued down the darkened corridor. As he headed for the exterior stairs through which he had entered the building, one of the overhead lights briefly illuminated his face. It was Ilya Severin.
He opened the door to the stairs, sliding the bottle into his coat pocket. Tucked into his waistband was the pistol he had found in Brodsky’s bedroom closet, along with two boxes of cartridges. Like its counterpart in the office safe, it had never been fired, but Ilya had confirmed that it was in good working order.
In his other pocket, liberated from a drawer in the bedroom, was a set of lock-picking tools, left over from Brodsky’s former vocation. These would also be useful. Possession of the tools was a crime in itself, though, so if he was going to carry them, he would need to be discreet.
Reaching the stairs, he descended, the night air cool on his face. Half a minute later, he had climbed down to ground level, and then he was out on the street. It was a quarter past eight.
As he walked away from the housing estate, he considered what the fixer had said. From the papers, he had already learned about the second victim, but the other name had come as a surprise. It had a familiar ring, but he wasn’t sure from where, so he resolved to look into it further.
At the station, Ilya consulted the map on the wall, confirming the location of a stop at the end of the District Line. Before passing through the turnstiles, he paused at a trash container, where he threw out his squeeze bottle of water and the plastic shaker in his other pocket, with its last remaining handful of coarse black salt. Then he headed underground.
11
When Renata awoke that morning, she found herself suddenly aware of two things. The first was that she was going to get clean. No more drugs or drinking. The second realization was that her financial troubles would soon be over. Dior would come through, along with her upcoming side project, and at that point, it was only a lucky break or two before she was back on her feet.
Upon her arrival at Golden Square, her mood was only slightly dented by the tactless guard at Cheshire, who insisted on searching her bag with his bulky fingers. “Be careful there. I don’t like people touching my stuff—”
“Very careful, yes,” the guard said, stuffing a hardened hand down between her neatly packed flashes and lenses. He was in his middle forties, with the accent of a Cold War villain, and after performing everything short of a full body search, he shoved the gear back into her bag and led her to a brushed metal door at the end of the hall. He knocked, then pushed the door open. As he ushered her inside, he caught her eye. “I will see you before you go.”
He shut the door, leaving her in the office. Renata looked around the sterile space, which was not particularly promising. Like the corridor outside, it was stark white, with a burnished black floor. A chessboard had been set up in one corner. The only spot of color was a painting on the opposite wall, a pop art portrait of a man in his fifties. It was clearly just a silk-screened photograph, daubed with bloody reds and oranges, and she recognized it at once as the work of a celebrated artist of the sixties who had cheerfully embraced Thatcherite materialism.
At the far end of the room sat James Morley, the man in the portrait, stationed before an array of trading terminals. Rising from his desk, he approached Renata. “Pleased you could make it,” Morley said, extending a hand. “I’ve been looking forward to seeing you again.”
“Glad to be here,” Renata said, setting down her bag for the handshake. The manager of the Cheshire Group’s activist fund was trim and tan, wearing a wool suit and worsted tie, and would have been quite handsome were it not for his eyes, which were startlingly like those of a vulture. Renata wondered how much he knew about her situation. She was convinced that her creditors had sources everywhere, and although she had recently taken precautions to ensure that her staff remained loyal, it was impossible to silence the rumors entirely.
As Morley took a seat behind his desk, she thought back to their first meeting, at an assignment just over a year ago. It had been a photo shoot for titans of finance, but even in that group, Morley had stood out for his drive and ambition. After the shoot, they had spoken over cocktails, his vulture’s eyes undressing her. There had even, she recalled, been a hint of sexual attraction, although her ow
n tastes, then as now, skewed mostly toward younger men.
The portfolio manager checked something on his computer. It appeared to be a list of standings for the London Chess Classic, which had begun earlier that day. “How long do you expect this to take? I only have half an hour—”
“Oh, that’s plenty of time,” Renata said, although given half the chance, her sessions could last sixteen hours or more. Today, however, she was ready to compromise. “We can start right away, if you like.”
Morley nodded absently, turning back to his terminal. From her bag, Renata took out a folding reflector and expanded it to its full size, about three feet across. She wheeled a chair into position and set the reflector across its arms, gold side showing, so it softened the contrast on Morley’s hard features.
Opening the other bag, she removed her camera and attached a Speedlite flash. Turning it on, she took a test shot, then tilted the camera to check the screen. As she adjusted the flash, she sensed Morley watching her. “Remind me of what you’re doing,” the portfolio manager said. “It’s part of a series?”
Renata took another shot and studied it. This one was better. “Oh, you know, just portraits of traders, the ones who survived the downturn. Could you tilt your head a bit forward, please?”
Morley turned back to the monitors. “I’m surprised that you got anyone to agree to it. Most managers are keeping a low profile these days—”
“Honestly, you’re the first one who said yes.” As she continued taking shots, Renata began to fall into the rhythm of the shoot, and found that she was glad to be here alone. For vaguely defined security reasons, she hadn’t been allowed to bring an assistant, and although she had been annoyed at first, it felt strangely satisfying to return to a simpler way of working.
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