by Sam Bourne
TO, how many exits are there out of here?'
She looked up from the King James bible she had just taken off the shelf. 'What? What are you talking about?'
'I think we've been followed and I think we're going to have to leave right now. Except we can't walk out the front entrance. Any ideas?'
'You're kidding. How would any-'
'TO, we don't have time for a discussion.'
'There's a fire escape at the back; it comes out onto the alleyway, I think.'
'Too risky. There could be someone at the back as well.
Does this building have a caretaker?'
'A what?'
'You know, a super?'
'Oh, yes. Sweet guy. Lives down in the basement.'
'Do you know him? Please tell me he has a soft spot for you.'
'Kind of. Why? What are you thinking?'
'You'll see. Pack up everything you might need.'
'Might need for what?'
'For a night away from here. I don't think we can risk coming back.'
Planning their exit, Will made one hurried call, then rounded up TO's scattered Post-it notes, his mobile and BlackBerry and shoved them all into the voluminous pockets of his coat. He could hear TO rifling through drawers.
At the open front door they surveyed the apartment one last time. Out of habit TO reached for the light switch; Will gripped her forearm just in time.
'We don't want to advertise our departure do we?'
That gave him an idea. Like plenty of security-conscious New Yorkers, TO had several time-switch gadgets attached to her light fittings. Most people used them when they were away, timing them to act as phantom occupants, turning on lights in the evening and off in the morning. Now, without asking, Will found the one in the living room and set it to go off at midnight. No, too neat. Ten to midnight. Next, he went into TO's bedroom — taking care not to look around too closely — and set the light to go on in there five minutes earlier and then to go off again twenty minutes later. With any luck, the peeping tom outside would conclude that Will and his female friend had turned in for the night.
With that done, they headed for the basement. Overheated and marked by a series of handleless doors, it seemed an inhuman place to live. But this was home to Mr Pugachov, the Russian super. TO knocked lightly on the door, from behind which, Will was delighted to note, floated the sounds of late-night TV. Finally the door creaked open.
To Will's surprise, the super was not some crabby old man in a holed cardigan and worn-out slippers like the school caretakers of Will's youth. Instead Mr Pugachov was a handsome man in his thirties bearing an uncanny resemblance to the onetime chess champion Garry Kasparov. And given the migration patterns from the former Soviet Union, it would be no great shock if this man, whose job was to sign for daytime deliveries of mail and fix busted water pipes, turned out to be a grandmaster.
'Miss TOI' Though Pugachov's expression flicked from pleasure to disappointment the moment he caught sight of Will.
'Hello Mr P.'
Flirtatious, thought Will. Good.
'What can I doing for you?'
'Well, it's a funny situation, Mr P. My friend and I have been planning a lovely surprise for his wife's birthday.'
Nice touch, establishing that I'm not the boyfriend.
'Which is due to begin,' TO made a show of looking at her watch, 'any minute now, in fact. At midnight!' She was sounding breathless, too eager.
'So the thing is,' Will said, taking over. 'We need to leave here without her seeing us. We left her outside the building you see. Now, I know this is going to sound crazy but I wondered if there might be a way for you to somehow hide us in, oh I don't know, some kind of wagon or trolley and take us out the back way.'
Will could see that the chess champion was stumped. He was staring, baffled, at both of them. TO was laying on a smile you could have seen from space, but it was no good. The super was utterly confused. Will decided to speak the international language.
'Here's fifty dollars. Take us out of here in one of those trash cans.' He pointed at a row of oversized plastic bins on wheels lined up just outside the back door.
'You want me to put Miss TO in dumpster?'
'No, Mr P. I want you to put both of us in there and just wheel us down the street. One hundred dollars. OK?'
Will decided the negotiation was over. He stuffed the money in the super's hand and headed over to the back door. Still shaking his head, Mr P opened up. Will pointed at the blue bin marked 'Newspapers', gesturing for the janitor to wheel that as close to the door as he could. It was too risky to step outside: he might be seen. Next, Will reached out, grabbed the handle and tilted the bin, flipping open its lid and emptying its contents onto the floor. Magazines, listings guides and free inserts selling home computers came tumbling out, spreading themselves on the ground. When he saw the janitor's face fold into a grimace, Will dug into his pocket and took out another twenty.
Once he had got the bin almost horizontal, its top resting on the stoop, it was not too hard to crawl in. Will did it in a crouch, as if entering a tunnel. Then he curled himself up, lay on his side and gestured for TO to follow until the pair of them sat like two halves of a walnut, in a blue plastic shell.
Will gave the nod and Garry Kasparov closed the lid. Then, with a mighty effort and a deep, low grunt, he lifted the bin so that it was vertical, tilted it and began to push. With panic, Will realized they had never discussed either a route or a destination.
Inside, TO and Will rattled and bounced, but knew better than to let out even a squeal. Their knees were touching and their faces were just an inch apart and, as they tossed upwards when Mr P hit a rut in the alleyway, the urge to giggle was strong. Their situation was so ridiculous. But the smile only had to form in Will's mind for his plight to come pressing back in. Beth.
They could feel themselves slowing down; Mr P was obviously tiring. Will lightly tapped on the side. The bin tilted back down, allowing them to creep out. The janitor had done a good job: he had covered nearly three blocks, staying with the narrow alleyway behind the apartment buildings. They were surely unseen.
They said goodbye, TO giving Mr P a brief hug which, Will suspected, was more valuable than twice his cash fee. They watched him lope back, a Russian emigre pushing an empty wheelie bin through the streets of New York at midnight.
That was the beauty of a big city: nothing was ever out of the ordinary so nobody paid attention.
'OK,' Will said, looking around and getting his bearings.
'Now all we need to do is head north about six blocks. We should jog.' And off he went.
Finally TO had a chance to speak. 'What the hell is going on here, Will? You see a guy in a baseball cap and suddenly we're shoving ourselves in a trash can? And now we're running? What is this?'
'I've seen that guy before. Outside the Times building.'
'You're sure? How could you tell from six flights up? You only saw him for a second.'
'TO, believe me. It was the same man.' He was about to explain his posture theory, but realized it would sound unhinged. And take up too much oxygen. 'His clothes were the same. He was there to watch me. Or us.'
'You reckon the Hassidim sent him?'
'Sure. He might even be one of them. All he'd have to do is change clothes, then he could pass for normal.'
TO shot him a look.
'You know what I mean. He could disappear into the crowd. What I saw at Crown Heights last week — Christ, it was only yesterday. What I saw yesterday is that plenty of these blokes were born into ordinary American backgrounds.'
He was beginning to pant. 'It wouldn't be hard for them to shed all the garb and go right back into it, if that's what the mission required.'
They had arrived at their destination: Penn Station, and had only five minutes to wait for what Will called the 'milk train', a Britishism referring to the sleepy services that ran after midnight. They had the carriage all to themselves, but for an unshaven man apparen
tly snoozing into his neck, obliviously drunk.
'This is the train I used to catch visiting my Dad's place, before we got the car.' He regretted that 'we': it felt somehow unkind to rub his married coupleness into TO's still-single face. And that regret instantly reminded him that he and TO had never once spent a weekend at Sag Harbor. He had taken his cue from her, keeping their relationship a virtual secret. TO had met Will's father just once and they had never spent any proper time together. Beth, on the other hand, had fitted in straight away; it was one of the things that made it feel so right.
A silence fell. It was TO who broke it, digging into her bag to produce the item she had been holding before they left her apartment. The Holy Bible. 'Christ, I nearly forgot.' She thumbed through the pages at top speed. 'There. The Book of Proverbs, Chapter 10.'
'Haven't we been through this already? We found what he wanted us to see: righteous, righteous, righteous.'
'I know, but I'm a nerd. I want to study it some more.'
'What are you looking for?'
'I don't know. But something tells me I'll know it when I see it.'
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Sunday, 3.08am, Sag Harbor, New York
The house in Sag Harbor, at least, sprung no surprises. The key was under the flower pot, as always; the place was even quite warm, testament to the efficiency of the local couple Will's father hired to keep things ticking over out of season.
He moved around rapidly, turning on lights, putting hot water on the stove, making tea. Clutching a packet of Oreos, he finally sat himself opposite TO, facing her across the vast, aged oak table that dominated Monroe Sr's stylishly rustic kitchen.
Instantly, the memories flooded back. The long winters at school, when Will could feel every one of those three thousand miles that separated him from his father. The joy when a parcel arrived in the post, often containing a delicious slice of exotic Americana — perhaps a packet of bubblegum or, never forgotten, a leather baseball. And then the thrill as he was put on a plane during the summer vacation, 'an unaccompanied minor' on his way to see his Dad. Those August weeks in Sag Harbor, spent crabbing on the beach or eating clams on the deck, were the highlight of Will's year. He could still feel, even now, twenty years later, the pit in his stomach when September loomed and he would be taken back to the airport — and away from his father for another year.
Will forced himself back into the moment. He had begun on the train, but now he explained in full what he had been bursting to tell TO since the moment he had taken the call.
It was the first TO had heard either of Jay Newell or of Will's conversation with him earlier that evening. But she was a quick study; once Will had told her about Jay's phone message, she did not need him to join the dots.
'So Baxter and Macrae were both drugged before they were killed; they were both deemed righteous by people who knew them; and, according to YY and Proverbs 10, if your reading of it is right, it's this righteous thing which is significant.
Which somehow explains the wider Hassidic plot. Why they've taken Beth, why they killed the guy in Bangkok, why they had someone follow you, or us, tonight. That's essentially the theory here, isn't it?'
'It's a bit more than a theory now, TO. "2 down: More's to come." "Yet more deaths soon." That's what he said. He was addressing me directly! He's read the stories in the Times and he's telling me, "OK, you've cracked two of them, but there are going to be more." Meaning we have to link this with everything else that's going on! Don't you see?'
'No, no, I do see.' She chose her words carefully. 'I do see that this must all be linked. The trouble is… Rather, my problem is, I personally cannot quite see how we get from the Macrae/Baxter/righteous thing — which I admit is fascinating and incredible — to the "more" that are supposed to be coming.'
Will slumped in his chair.
'No, Will. Don't be like that. This is great progress. We're nearly there, I'm sure of it. Look, let's get some sleep and then we'll think this last bit through,' she said, placing her hand on his shoulder, sending a pulse of memory through them both. 'Come on, we can do this.'
Suddenly Will leapt up, walking out of the kitchen. TO chased after him.
'Will! Will! Come on, don't do this.'
She found him standing in his father's study, a room filled from floor to ceiling with books. Row after row of leather bound legal texts, collected case reports, volumes of Supreme Court judgments going back to the nineteenth century. On another wall, there were more contemporary works, lines of hardback texts on politics, the constitution and of course, the law. They seemed to be arranged with a librarian's zeal for order: grouped by theme and then, within each category, rigorously alphabetized. TO's eye landed on the Christianity section: Documents of the Christian Church by Henry Bettenson, The Early Church by Henry Chadwick, From Christ to Constantine by Eusebius, Early Christian Doctrines by JND Kelly, all lined up in perfect order.
But Will was ignoring the books, instead powering up the computer on his father's desk. He scrolled down an Associated Press story, barely reading the words, looking for something.
He moved his cursor over the text to define two words: the name of the Hassidim's kidnap victim in Bangkok: Samak Sangsuk. He moved up to the Google window at the top right of the screen, pasted in the name and hit return.
Your search — samak sangsuk — did not match any documents He was about to curse but he was silenced. Not by TO, but by the distinct sound of a creak in the hallway. Not just one, but several in quick succession. There was no doubt about it.
Someone else was in the house.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Sunday, 12.12am, Manhattan
He had waited long enough. It was the lights going out that had made him suspicious. He was told this man was desperately searching for his wife: it did not make sense that he would happily go to sleep at midnight.
Besides, he feared he was arousing suspicion, pacing around outside an apartment building for hours on end. This might be Manhattan, where no one seemed to notice anything, but it was a risk.
He telephoned his superiors, asking for permission to make his move.
'All right. But keep it clean. Do you understand?'
'I understand.'
'And may the Lord be with you.'
He waited for the next new arrival at the building, a woman apparently returning from a late-night convenience store with a bag full of groceries. It took him a second to jog the few yards to the entrance, as if catching up with her.
'Oh, let me get that,' he said, holding the door once she had opened it. He followed her in.
While she checked her mailbox, he headed downstairs for the basement — pausing only to cover his face with a ski-mask.
He could hear the sound of a television, seeping out from under the door. He knocked and waited, checking once again the cold steel of the revolver he would reveal the instant the door opened. This would not take long.
Mr Pugachov jumped back in fright, raising his arms in an instant surrender.
'Good. Now, y'all need to stay nice and calm. We need to do this nice and easy. All you gotta do is take me to the apartment on the sixth floor. The one that looks out onto the street. The one where the pretty girl lives. You know the one I mean. Mighty pretty girl.'
Pugachov had never heard such an accent before; this man did not sound like the New Yorkers he knew. It took him a while to work out what he was saying. Guessing, he reached with his right hand behind the door.
'Hey! Hands in the air! What did I say just now, mister?'
'Excuse, excuse,' Pugachov sputtered. 'I was getting key.
Key!' He gestured behind the door, where the man in the ski-mask could see a series of numbered hooks: spare keys for every apartment in the building.
He shoved Pugachov out of the door and towards the back stairway. It was late; no one was around. But it was still too risky to take the elevator. Those were his orders: he must not be seen.
The super opened TO's door
tentatively, calling out a meek hello. He felt the gun in his back.
The man in the ski-mask flashed on a torch, searching out the bedroom door. He pushed his hostage towards it.
'Open it.'
Pugachov turned the handle slowly but the gunman reached over him and pushed the door hard.
'Freeze!' he shouted, shining a torch onto the bed. Seeing nothing, he wheeled around, anticipating an ambush from behind. Nothing. Now grabbing Pugachov by the collar, he started flinging open cupboard doors, training his revolver onto each new opening of dark space. When he came to the bathroom door he gave it a firm kick and jumped in, before turning around to ensure no one could pounce.
He searched the rest of the apartment, beaming the torchlight into every corner.
'Well, there's a moral to this story. Trust your hunches. I thought they'd gone and they have.'
He put on the lights and started looking around more closely, never letting Pugachov out of his sight — or out of range.
He flipped open TO's computer, instantly opening up her internet browser. He asked for a 'history', generating a long list of the sites she had looked at most recently. He took out a silver pen and a black notebook and began writing down what he saw. Pugachov noticed for the first time that he was wearing tight black leather gloves.
Next he saw a half-finished pad of Post-it notes. The top sheet was blank, but he held it up to the light all the same.
Sure enough, as so often, he could see the trace of words, and numbers, indented from the page above. It amazed him that people still made this elementary mistake: he would have thought Will Monroe would know better.
Next he picked up the phone, pressing the 'last number' button: 1-718-217-54771173667274341. So many digits could only mean one thing: Monroe had dialled some kind of automated service, offering a series of numerical options, rather than a personal number. The gunman wrote down the full string of numbers and hit redial.