by Stephen Cole
‘What if this time she shoots you between the eyes?’ Motti tapped him on the head and led the way out of the shop.
Patch turned pale. Tye steered him back out into the busy street after Motti, and Con trailed a little way behind them. The crowds were both a blessing and a blindspot; just because the tag was sitting pretty, that didn’t mean Heidel’s gang weren’t circulating in the area. And while busy streets might mean that Bree and the others couldn’t pull anything too homicidal, it also made them harder to spot.
The trail of Motti’s tracker led down a quieter, smarter side street, where tarmac gave way to cobblestones. Apartment blocks lined the street in four-storey sweeps, but a large, ornate building, all stained plaster, colonnades and faded glamour, dominated the view. Tye was reminded of a wedding cake left out in the rain. The weathered sign outside the revolving doors proclaimed it to be the Irving Hotel in royal-blue letters.
‘That’s where our baby is,’ Motti announced.
‘It’s a dead-end down here,’ Con informed them, checking her map. ‘Pedestrian access only through a narrow alleyway.’
‘If they’re watching out for us, they could pull something here,’ Patch whispered, his face pale and sweaty. ‘And who’d know?’
‘The rest of you go back to the street,’ said Motti. ‘I’ll check out the foyer alone, see if I can get more of a fix on the signal.’
Tye nodded. ‘OK. You’ll be less conspicuous on your own. Signal us with the two-way, tell us what you find.’
‘We should have a codeword or phrase or something,’ Patch suggested.
‘OK,’ said Motti seriously. ‘If I say, “Patch is an ass”, it means I found trouble. And if I say, “Patch is a needle-dick”, it means all clear.’ He paused. ‘And that Patch is a needle-dick.’
‘Ha, ha,’ said Patch. ‘Can we just get on with it?’
As Motti disappeared inside, Tye, Con and Patch separated, each standing casually in a different direction, covering the compass for any fleeting glimpse of Sadie, Sorin, Heidel or Bree.
Tye kept her fingers on her radio. When it squawked into life, she jammed it quickly to her ear – and let out a huge relieved breath.
‘Patch is a needle-dick!’ she called triumphantly, and a crowd of passing tourists gave her funny looks, while Patch himself scowled and scuttled quickly away towards the hotel.
Looking about warily, Tye and Con followed him inside. The reception floor was tiled white and black, and the walls were lined with wood panels; thirty years ago they might have looked smart, but now both were scuffed and slightly tatty. The aging concierge looked as careworn as his surroundings, in crumpled blue uniform and faded braid. He eyed Motti suspiciously.
‘Do your thing, Con,’ Motti told her quietly.
Con put on a big smile and turned to the concierge. ‘Excuse me, monsieur, can you help us?’ she said charmingly in a strong French accent. ‘We’re looking for friends of ours.’
‘The receptionist has gone to powder her nose,’ the concierge informed her. ‘She may be able to help you.’
Con nodded briefly at Tye. ‘But I think you can help me, monsieur. Look at me. I think you want to help me, yes?’ Her voice was getting lower, more sonorous and exotic. ‘Yes, you will help me I am sure …’
The concierge’s eyes were glazing over. ‘I want to help you,’ he agreed in a wondering whisper.
Seeing that Con’s mesmerism had the man well under control – her control – Tye walked quickly to the ladies’ toilet. A young woman with high cheekbones and a sallow complexion was washing her hands in the sink. Her staff name badge proclaimed she was Anna. Tye walked up beside her, pulled a phial from her pocket and shook a couple of drops into the tap water. Instantly a cloud of noxious fumes rose up into Anna’s face, and Tye quickly retreated as the girl keeled over.
‘Sorry,’ Tye muttered, catching Anna smoothly before she could hit the ground. ‘But you look like you could use a rest.’
The fumes from the knock-out drops soon dissipated into nothing more than a bad smell, and Tye towed the receptionist into a cubicle. She locked the door, propped Anna up on the seat, took out a fifty-pound note and tucked it into her hand. Then Tye pulled herself up and over the cubicle door and ran back to join the others.
She found Motti and Patch behind the reception desk and Con watching the doors while the concierge stood with his back to them, smiling into space. No one needed to ask her how she’d got on. It was a given.
‘Penthouse was booked today,’ Motti reported. ‘Double occupancy. In the name of … how d’ya like that? Nathaniel Coldhardt.’
‘He’s a real comedian, that Heidel geezer.’ Patch fished out two keys from a drawer beneath the desk. ‘Looks like nobody’s home. We got his key and the maid’s, right here.’
‘They might want us to think that their rooms are empty,’ said Con, ‘so we go breezing straight into an ambush.’
‘Yes, the hotel they’ve chosen is hardly much of a challenge,’ Tye agreed. ‘I don’t like it.’
‘And I’m not even needed,’ said Patch brightly. ‘If you’ve got the keys to get in …’
‘Unlucky, Cyclops, we need you all right,’ said Motti. ‘You’re gonna break into the building opposite, scoot up to the top floor and scope out the inside of the penthouse from there. You see any signs of life, get on the radio.’
‘You clever sod!’ said Patch admiringly. He lifted the material covering his glass eyeball and plucked it out with a soft squelching noise.
Motti cringed. ‘Jesus, Patch! Get out of here with your dumb “utility eye” crap!’
‘Gets him every time,’ said Patch happily, unscrewing the eyeball to reveal his extendible lockpicking tools hidden inside.
‘I’ll go with you,’ Tye offered.
‘We’ll wait here for word,’ said Con. ‘My friend the concierge will turn away any visitors, but I’ll tell him to make an exception for you two.’
‘Make an exception,’ the concierge agreed sleepily.
Tye and Patch squeezed past him and back outside. The street was still all but empty. A couple stood arguing outside one of the apartment blocks, too busy blazing at each other to notice much else. Patch pretended to reach in his pocket for keys, then set to work on the lock with pick and torque wrench. He had the door open so fast anyone would think he was legit, and Tye smiled to herself. In his own way, Patch was a little genius.
Once they were inside, Tye led the way up several flights of stairs to the top floor. ‘That’s the flat we want,’ she said quietly, creeping over shiny tiles to the mustard-yellow door. ‘Can’t hear any signs of life.’
Patch put his ear to the wood for a second opinion, then frowned. ‘’Ere, look,’ he whispered, and pointed to the door lock. ‘Scratches and scoring round the entry point. Like someone’s tried to break in and made a right pig’s arse of it.’
Tye peered at the scratches and tutted. ‘I guess you can’t trust anyone these days.’ She glanced around. ‘Just get us inside, Patch. If anyone’s home, we’ll just say we saw the door wide open and wanted to check everything was OK.’
‘That’s us,’ said Patch, tickling the lock with his picks. ‘Friendly neighbourhood caring types …’
Moments later he pushed open the door. It gave on to a long, narrow entrance hall, studded with doors leading off on either side, and opening up into a large living room directly opposite. Tye noticed a rectangle of sunlight thrown down in there by an unseen window, warming the wooden floorboards. ‘That’ll be the view we want,’ she murmured.
Then she saw a shadow shift in the hard block of yellow. The shadow of a woman –
‘Patch, look out!’ Tye yelled as Sadie burst into sight in the open doorway, all in black and wielding a hefty hunting knife. Coldhardt’s gold ring glinted like the serrated blade as she lunged forward at Patch, slashing for his neck.
Chapter Eleven
Tye pushed Patch out of range of the blade but he overbalanced and fell against a d
oorframe, yelping with pain.
Sadie raised the knife to throw it down at him, aiming a kick at Tye as she did so. But Tye feinted backwards, grabbed a vase from the telephone table beside her and hurled it at Sadie’s face. Sadie ducked, and kicked out again. Her metal heel cracked plaster from the wall; she would have shattered Tye’s ribs if she’d been a fraction faster. As it was, Tye dodged the blow and now grabbed Sadie’s calf, twisting with all her strength. Soundlessly, Sadie tumbled to the floor – only to execute a perfect backward roll into the living room before jumping to her feet.
Tye was already sprinting after her. If I can reach that bitch before she’s balanced, get the damn knife off of her … As she ran, she glanced at the bay windows – and in an instant saw a sighted harpoon gun mounted there, aimed across the street at the penthouse with its open balcony doors. Waiting for us to get inside and pick up the tag, she realised. It was a trap all right, but the trap was in here all along.
Sadie swung the knife at Tye. She ducked beneath the blow, used her momentum to pull off a tight somersault in midair, pivoted on one heel and high-kicked her attacker. The side of her foot connected with Sadie’s wrist, knocked the knife from the girl’s grasp. But with her other hand, Sadie reached forward and grabbed a thick handful of Tye’s dreadlocks, twisting and yanking.
Tye gasped with pain as her roots started to tug through her scalp. She tried to struggle free. No good. Sadie’s other arm was clamped round Tye’s ribs with crushing force, and her head was being pulled back, exposing her neck.
Sadie hissed and opened her mouth wide in Tye’s face. Tye saw the pale grey stump inside that had been the girl’s tongue, flinched from the madness in the dark eyes. Growling like an animal, Sadie leaned in and started to sink her teeth into Tye’s cheek.
Not gonna scream. Tye screwed up her eyes. Not gonna scream –
But then a whooping maniac came tearing into the living room. Tye’s eyes opened.
It was Patch.
He was running full pelt, arms outstretched. He grabbed Sadie’s head and yanked it back. Tye twisted free and fell to one side, clutching her burning cheek. But Patch was going too fast to stop – he and Sadie piled into a pine sideboard that collapsed under the impact.
Tye climbed shakily to her feet, tried to pin Sadie’s arms to her side, but she was too slow. Sadie grabbed a length of wood and swung it wildly. Tye tried to turn from the blow but it caught her hard on the elbow. She staggered back and tripped over a low coffee table.
Meantime Sadie swung her ringed fist at Patch, who ducked just in time. She grunted as she bruised her knuckles on the wall, followed up with a second blow that whumped Patch in his good eye, sent his head smacking back against one of the sideboard drawers. He was too dazed to react as she hit him again with her ring hand, even harder, pounding blood from his split lip. Patch brought his arms up feebly over his face, but Sadie swatted them aside, raised her fist yet again ready to –
Tye brought a lead glass decanter down hard on Sadie’s head.
With a low moan Sadie rolled back, eyes closed, fists still clenched. She collapsed in the splintered shell of the sideboard.
Patch tried to open his eye, the lid bruised and fat already like a dark flower blooming. ‘Did we get her?’ he slurred, dribbling blood.
‘Yeah.’ Tye sunk to her knees beside him, trying to calm her breathing. ‘We got her.’ She felt her tender cheek – if Patch had been a second later the flesh would have been scissored open. Roughly she tugged the bloodied ring from Sadie’s finger and slipped it in her pocket, willing her hands to stop shaking. What was it she’d promised Jonah in the showers after his own fight? It gets easier.
‘Yeah, right,’ she muttered, pulling out the radio. ‘Motti, it’s Tye.’
‘You mean it ain’t the Queen of England?’ he shot back.
‘Be quiet.’ Tye watched Sadie warily, convinced she was about to get right up again. ‘We just ran into Lady Bowfinger, waiting to take us out the second we went into that penthouse.’
‘Shit.’
‘No shit.’ Patch coughed and wiped a string of bloody saliva from his chin. ‘It’s all been kicked out of me.’
‘Tie her up, Patch,’ Tye hissed urgently, and crossed to the window. ‘Looks clear inside the penthouse. Guess they wouldn’t want one of their own catching a stray harpoon.’
‘Harpoon?’ That was Con’s voice. ‘You’re serious?’
‘You don’t want to know how serious.’ Tye wiped cold sweat from her eyes. ‘Just get inside that penthouse while you can. We’ll watch from the window and warn you if we see any more company coming.’
‘Perhaps you should simply shoot them first, no?’ said Con softly. ‘This is the second time they have tried to kill us. If not for blind luck this time …’
Con broke contact, and Tye sighed heavily. She glanced back at Patch, squinting through his swollen eye as he tied Sadie’s hands behind her back with a leather belt.
‘We’re thieves, not killers,’ said Patch firmly. ‘Let’s call the cops, tell ’em there’s been a breakin. Should keep her tied up for a while.’
‘I only hope your knots will,’ Tye muttered, watching edgily from the window for any movement in the street below.
Jonah became aware of the world sliding back into solidity. His mouth was parched, and his whole body felt sick and hollow. He clenched his fists and fought against the feeling of nausea, tried to focus on his heartbeat, to drive it faster and faster, fast enough to drum out the poison and beat his other senses back into life.
As he rubbed his aching neck, his finger touched on the swollen mark where the dart had punctured the flesh; it stung fiercely, making him gasp, driving his eyes open. With the pain came sudden clarity, and he found he was sprawled on the sofa in the apartment’s living room. The blinds had been drawn, and it was very cold. Maya was kneeling on the carpet beside him, awake and wary.
Jonah stirred groggily, grabbed hold of her. ‘You OK? What happened to Sorin? Where did –’
Then he turned to his right and saw what she was looking at. Sorin was standing rigidly against the far wall in front of the two-way mirror, flanked by weird figures – one masked and wearing dark robes, the other an old man in a smock of flowing crimson silk. The ruby-glass medallion at his throat seemed to glow as it reflected the richness of the fabric.
‘Welcome back, Jonah.’
Jonah turned quickly to his left at the sound of Coldhardt’s voice; he had taken the same chair in which Maya had faced her questioning. ‘How are you feeling now?’
‘Like death,’ Jonah muttered. ‘What’s going on, where’d you spring from?’
‘I came here when my surveillance devices abruptly ceased operation,’ Coldhardt explained, ‘and found you had visitors.’
‘They weren’t exactly invited in.’ Jonah turned back to the figures, gritting his teeth. ‘Sorin drugged me, I thought I dreamed these guys.’
‘You were poisoned by a dart containing curare,’ announced the elderly man in crimson, his voice deep and honeyed. ‘Your neuromuscular junctions were swiftly affected. If left untreated, you would have died of asphyxiation.’
‘It seems you and Maya owe your lives to the early arrival of my guests.’ Coldhardt smiled. ‘Allow me to introduce the Scribe and his man-at-arms – representatives of Nomen Oblitum.’
Jonah felt a jolt of apprehension, as the two robed figures touched their hands to their glass amulets in an almost defensive gesture. Each amulet resembled an ankh, the Egyptian symbol of life – but the arms were longer and curved down, and a stylised knot marked the point where the oval ‘head’ met the stem of the body.
‘The Knot of Isis,’ said Maya quietly, nodding to the amulets. ‘The symbol of Nomen Oblitum.’
‘Isis?’ Jonah whispered.
‘Yes, Isis,’ said the Scribe. ‘A most worthy patron. Egyptian goddess of love and destiny, who grew in significance to become a cosmic goddess over all the ancient world. In her ancient shrine in
Sa el-Hagar, it was written, I am all that hath been, and is, and shall be; and my veil no mortal has hitherto raised.’ The old man in the crimson robes stepped forward. ‘We of the cult see through that veil. Our lives are dedicated to the assimilation of the ancient arts, just as Isis herself assimilated Semitic and Arabian gods, her power and influence growing over thousands of years …’
Now Jonah could see the Scribe’s face more clearly. The features were vaguely Middle Eastern, lips pulled back in the rictus smile of an overeager salesman. But his eyes seemed sallow and dull, like he’d spent a lifetime studying things too close, too keenly; if the man really was a scribe, someone who spent his life writing out documents, perhaps that might explain it.
‘The knot represents eternal life and resurrection,’ the Scribe went on. ‘Fitting for so long-lived an organisation as ours, do you not think?’
‘Very fitting,’ muttered Maya.
‘If you saved us, then thank you.’ Jonah was in no mood for a history lesson. ‘But what’s happened to Sorin? He’s not moving.’
‘The youth is held immobile,’ the Scribe agreed. ‘Just as we held and expelled the poison within you, so we can manipulate the meridians of the body.’
The Scribe nodded to his man-at-arms. The masked figure placed his fingers against the skin of Sorin’s neck and flexed them into strange, gnarled designs. One moment Sorin held the same glazed and empty look in his eyes, the next he was screaming hoarsely and wildly as if wracked by the most incredible pain. And yet for all the anguish there in his face, his body barely moved – as if it were solid wax and fixed to the floor. Then the man-at-arms touched Sorin’s wrist; the screams choked off and Sorin fell to the floor, shivering and panting for breath.
The Scribe himself now bent easily to press two fingers against the base of Sorin’s neck. Sorin fell still again, his breathing growing more regular as if he were asleep.
‘An interesting demonstration,’ said Coldhardt finally.