by Sam Bourne
Thank you for calling the Long Island Railroad…
After that it was simple: he only had to punch in the sequence of numbers he had written down. ' 1' to use touchtone, ' 1' for schedule information, then, when asked to enter the first five letters of his starting station, 73667, and so on.
It was easy. Obligingly, the automated female voice told him the times for the next three trains from Penn Station to Bridgehampton, the nearest station for Sag Harbor.
He ran his torch over the floor one more time, noticing a yellow piece of paper that he had missed. It read: Verse 11. The mouth of a righteous man is a well of life: but violence covereth the mouth of the wicked.
He tucked that into his pocket and turned once again to face Pugachov.
'OK, son. It's time to shape up and ship out.' He used his revolver to gesture towards the front door.
As Pugachov made for the handle he turned his back slightly, so that he was sideways on to the gunman. Now he decided, remembering the training he had received as a long ago conscript in the Red Army, was the moment. In an instant, he grabbed the masked man by the wrist and looped his own arm under his shoulder, bringing him quickly to the ground.
The gun had fallen and Pugachov reached for it, only to be kicked, hard, in the balls. He doubled over and felt an arm around his neck. He tried to jab back with his elbows, but there was no movement. He was in a headlock and the man holding him seemed to have superhuman strength. He could feel his breath around his ear.
Somehow, and only with supreme effort, Pugachov managed to wriggle his right arm free and aim it at the man's head. But it did not connect. His fingers were flailing until they finally grabbed something. It took him a second to realize it was not hair. Out of the corner of his eye he could see what he was holding: he had removed the gunman's mask.
Suddenly the grip was loosened. Pugachov slumped, panting heavily. He was no longer the fit, fighting machine of his youth; that stint of military duty in Afghanistan was in the faraway past. Perhaps the masked man had realized that; maybe he understood that Pugachov could inflict no serious damage and was about to let him go.
'I'm afraid you've just made a big mistake, my friend.'
Pugachov looked up to see a much younger man than he was expecting. Now that the mask was off, he could see that his eyes were of the most exceptional blue, almost feminine in their beauty. They seemed to cast beams of sharp, bright light.
He did not have long to stare into them because his view was soon obscured — by the mouth of what he recognized to be a silencer, aimed right between his eyes.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Sunday, 4.14am, Sag Harbor, New York
TO was staring at Will, stock still. The sound was too regular to be the music of an old house, the creaking of aged timber.
There was no doubt about it: these were footsteps. Will grabbed the heaviest poker he could find from the fireplace, placed his finger over his lips to hush TO and edged out of the study.
He crept down the corridor, towards the kitchen. The sound seemed to have moved there. As he got closer, he could hear a rustling, as if the intruder was rifling through papers. He inched closer, until he could see the shadow of a tall man.
His heart was pounding; his throat was parched.
In a single movement, Will swung around the corner, lifted the poker above his head- 'Christ, Will! What the hell are you doing?'
'Dad!'
'Will, you scared me out of my wits. I thought someone had broken in. Jesus.' Monroe Sr, clad in striped pyjamas, collapsed into a chair, clutching at his chest.
'But Dad, I didn't-'
'Hold on, Will. Give me a second to catch my breath here.
Hold on.'
When Will called out to TO, his father's bewilderment was complete. 'What on earth is going on here?'
Will did the best he could, talking his father through the events of the last few hours: the text messages, Proverbs 10, the visit to the office, the stalker, the dash for Penn Station.
He listened patiently, nursing the hot tea TO had made for him, the great judge now a Dad.
'I should have told you I was here. I came yesterday evening. I hadn't heard from you and I was climbing the walls with worry. I thought it might help to hear the ocean, breathe in the sea air. Beth is your wife, Will, but she's also my daughter-in-law. She's family.' He glanced towards TO, whose face turned hot.
'I'm sorry we woke you,' she said, as if trying to change the subject. Then, yawning, 'I could really use some sleep.'
'Motion granted. Will, the garden room is made up.'
That peeved Will. Was his father giving his son an order, instructing him that he must sleep separately from TO — as if suspecting that, left to their own devices, they would share a bed? Did his father really believe that Will was cheating on the daughter-in-law he loved so dearly?
Perhaps his father suspected something much darker. Was it even possible? Could he imagine his son had somehow engineered this whole episode as a way to get back with his ex? Will realized how economical with information he had been, barely letting his father in on the quest for Beth. How insistent he had been that the police remain uninvolved. It had been nearly thirty years since Will Monroe Sr had practised criminal law — but he would have forgotten none of it.
What was worse, Will knew he could feel no righteous indignation: After all, a matter of hours earlier he had pressed his lips to TO's, their eyes closed, in a kiss. And not a fleeting brush either; it had been a real kiss.
He was too exhausted to say any more. He surrendered mutely to his father and headed upstairs, joining TO who was waiting for him on the landing. The way she stood, as if she were hiding herself, suggested she felt it, too: the suspicion radiating from his father and the guilty admission that it was not entirely groundless.
Sunday, 12.33am, Manhattan 'Good work, young man. And your enthusiasm is a joy to me, it really is.' The voice was clear and distinct, even on the telephone. 'No, your best move now is to hang back. I'm not worried about Sag Harbor. That's not going to be a problem.
We need you there, in the city.'
'So where do you want me to post myself, sir?'
'Well. They're not going to stay in Long Island long, are they? He's going to have to come back. And that means Penn Station. Why don't we make sure you're there to greet him?'
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Sunday, 9.13am, Sag Harbor, New York
He had left his phone on and placed it right by his ear. But his exhaustion was so deep, the short trill of a newly arrived message barely woke him. Instead, it insinuated itself into his dream. He was putting the key in the lock of his front door; he walked in to find Beth standing in the kitchen, clasping a child to her waist. She seemed fierce, as if she was protecting this little boy — or girl, Will could not tell — from an intruder about to do terrible harm. Get back, her eyes seemed to say.
She looked wild; feral. Oh I see, thought the Will of the dream. That's Child X. And, right on cue, as if heralding this realization, a bell started to toll…
Like a winch pulling a diver up to the surface, his conscious brain dredged him up and out of sleep. Reflexively, he grabbed the phone and brought it to his face.
I new message fOrtV He leapt out of bed and marched down the corridor to TO's room, one of the few denied a view of the ocean, backing onto a large, English-style garden instead. The sun was streaming into the hallway, accompanied by the sound of the waves. There was no getting away from it: his father had chosen a gorgeous spot.
His father. Only now did Will remember their night-time encounter. He had very nearly bludgeoned his dad. He might have killed him. But there was no time to dwell on that.
'OK,' he said, once he had shaken TO awake and she was propped up on one of the dozen or so pillows his father's housekeeper routinely provided for each bed. 'There's another one. Forty.' He was holding up the phone.
'Forty messages?' she croaked, eking the sleep out of one eye.
; 'No. That's the message. Look.'
'Why's he written it so weirdly?'
'I don't know. Get cracking on that, can you? I have a phone call to make.'
He looked at his watch. 9.30am. He checked the BlackBerry: nothing new from Crown Heights. They surely did not believe he had acceded to the rabbi's demand in yesterday's phone call — that he back off and sit tight. It was obvious they believed no such thing: after all, they had sent a man to follow him precisely because they knew he would keep probing.
Nine thirty. Someone from the foreign desk would be in by now. Besides, he could not afford to leave it much later.
As he dialled the number, he scrunched his face up in virtual prayer. Please let it be Andy.
There were at least four assistants who worked on The New York Times foreign desk; Will would struggle to name three of them. But one he had got to know. Andy was probably four years younger than Will and, ever since they had chatted in the line for the canteen one lunchtime, he had latched on to him as a kind of mentor. He was from Iowa and had a dry, unsmiling humour that Will liked instantly; a surrogate for the sensibility he missed from home.
'Foreign.'
'Andy?'
'No less.'
'Thank God.'
'Will, is that you?'
'Yeah. Why?'
'No, nothing. Just-'
'What?'
'Dude, if I believed every evil rumour that I heard.'
'What evil rumour?'
'Word is, you got pounded by the big guy yesterday. That he found you rifling through someone else's desk? I told people, "Hey, investigative journalism's a tough business".'
'Thanks, Andy.'
'Is it true?'
'Put it this way, it's not entirely untrue.'
'Hmm. Well, it's a novel approach to career development, I'll say that for ya.'
'Look, Andy. I need a favour. I need you to give me the number for the Times correspondent in Bangkok.'
'John Bishop? Everyone's on his case today, man. He's run ragged.'
'How come?'
'Don't you watch the news? The police are all over Brooklyn. Apparently the black hats tried to kill some guy in Thailand. It's a Metro story: Walton's on it.'
'Walton?' That was all Will needed: more needling from the notebook-thief. He would have to speak to Bishop behind his back.
'Yeah. I hear Walton tried to wriggle out of it, being the weekend and all. Apparently he nominated you for the story: until the desk told him you were, you know-'
'I was what?'
'You know, not available for work just now.'
'Is that how they're putting it?'
'Something like that. Listen, Will, what's the deal? Are you sick or something? You smoke some bad weed?'
He knew Andy was trying to mock the heaviness of it all, sending up, in particular, the absurdity of the hard-working, married Will Monroe under suspicion as some Freak Brothers drug fiend. But it did not make Will laugh. Instead his friend's banter merely confirmed his worst anxieties: that he was indeed effectively suspended from The New York Times and that he had become precisely the office talking point, the topic of water-cooler conversation, he had dreaded. The fact that this was a trivial matter, barely worthy of consideration alongside his other worries, only emphasized the desperation of his situation.
'No, Andy. No bad weed, no weed at all as it happens. But I can see how it must look. Excellent. Tip top. Bloody marvellous.'
'I'm sorry, dude. Is there anything I can do?'
'Yeah, that number will be a huge help. Cell phone if you have one.'
'Sure. And remember, they're twelve hours ahead there.
It's like nearly ten at night now.'
Will did not allow himself a moment to digest the call with Andy. As he dialled the multiple digits to reach Bangkok, he imagined how the Times's interns and young reporters would be burning up New York's cellular system, updating each other on the rise and dramatic fall of Will Monroe at this very moment, but that was all. He tried to put it out of his mind — and focus on the sound of a telephone ring that was now in his ear.
'Hello.'
'Hello, John? This is Will Monroe from the Metro desk. Is this a bad time?'
'I've just been up for about thirty-six hours and I'm about to file a story, Why would it be a bad time? How can I help?'
'Sorry, I'll try to keep it really brief. I know you're liaising with Terry Walton, so I don't want to cut across anything he's doing-'
'Uh-uh.'
'But I'm working on a piece at this end-' Terrible lie, and one that Bishop could so easily expose, but Will figured he was up to his neck already, a few more inches would not make much difference. 'I'm trying to get more of a handle on the victim. Mr Sangsuk.'
'Mr Samak. His name was Samak Sangsuk. In Thailand, the family name comes first; you know, like Mao Tse-Tung.
Anyway, I filed all that already. Foreign will have it.'
Shit. Should have asked Andy to send everything over first.
'I know and that's all great. It's just a bit of a steer I've been getting from some of the Hassidim here.'
'Oh, yes? That's great, Will. What's the steer?' The tone had changed. The prospect of useful information always improved journalists' manners.
'I know this sounds odd, but I've been told to look closely at the victim's biography.'
'Just some rich guy. In business.'
'Well, I know. But my informer-' a notch above "source" and therefore much more tantalizing '-suggests if we dig a bit deeper, we might find something useful. And relevant.'
'What, was he a crook? There's a ton of corruption in this town. That wouldn't be news.'
Now Will would have to take his chance. 'No, what I hear is the opposite. I'm told that if we look hard enough, we'll find something very unusual about this man — and I don't mean unusually corrupt.'
'Well, what do you mean? What "very unusual" thing will we find?'
'I don't know, John. I'm just telling you what the Hassidim told me. Look for it, and it will explain everything. That's what my guy said. Just wanted to pass the tip on.'
'It's ten o'clock.'
'I know. But maybe some relatives of the victim, of Mr Samak, are still awake? Perhaps his friends?'
'I've got a couple of numbers I can call. I'll file whatever I get to foreign.'
They said goodbye and Will let out a lungful of air in relief.
Now he was wasting senior foreign correspondents' time. He would be back at the Bergen Record within a week. If they would have him…
He phoned Andy, instructing him to email any new files from Bishop the second they came in. He had no idea what the Times's man in Bangkok would find out.
'Well, thanks for breakfast.'
'Shit, sorry. I've been on the phone.' TO was holding a piece of paper. 'Have you done it?'
She showed him. It just said fOrtV.
'Yeah?'
'At first I thought it was just a typing error. But this guy is very neat and precise. Everything is deliberate.'
'And?'
'And he's emphasized two letters: the second and the fifth.
I started trying to say it out loud. I thought maybe it was "forty O-Y" but that makes no sense.'
'TC-'
'Anyway, it's even simpler. It's forty, second and fifth. Or, put another way, 42nd and 5th.'
'That's the public library.'
'Exactly, which means-'
Suddenly TO tensed up. Will looked round. His father had come in, wearing Sunday morning chinos.
'Is there some news?'
'Yeah, we just got another text message. Sending us to the public library.'
'Is this man suggesting he meet you there? Be careful, William, please.'
'No, he hasn't said anything yet. Just the address. Forty second and fifth. That's all we've got.'
'Well, let me at least give you a ride to the station.'
There was another buzz. Another message.
Dare to be a Danie
l.
Will showed it to his father and then to TO.
'Oh, I think I know what that is,' said his father, a matter of seconds later. 'What did Daniel do?'
'He entered the lions' den.'
'And the New York Public Library-'
'-is guarded by two lions. Of course. The statues.'
'Patience and Fortitude. That's what they're called. Maybe that's what he's saying you need.'
'No, I think it's simpler than that.' It was TO. 'I think he's just saying go into the library. Dare to be a Daniel, enter the lions' den. That's it.'
The phone buzzed once more.
I New Message Will fumbled to press the right buttons. All three of them were watching and waiting.
Primers' domain discovered in the orchard of fruit 'Christ. What the hell's that? Just when I thought we were getting somewhere.'
'It's worded like a crossword clue. Or perhaps there's a room in the library that has a painting of an orchard?'
'TO, what do you reckon?'
'Your father's right. It's a cryptic crossword clue. But I can't quite see-'
'Come,' said Monroe Sr, calling a halt to proceedings. 'You can make the next train if you hurry.'
Once on board, Will watched as TO got to work. She bit her nails, then twitched her leg, before finally stroking her eyebrow with her right index finger, over and over. She borrowed Will's notebook and made a series of scribbled attempts at codebreaking — trying to write the words backwards, forwards and broken up into pieces. Nothing.
Occasionally she broke off for more of the conversation that had consumed them since their unscheduled reunion on Friday night. They tried to untie the logical knot which events and the succession of riddles had handed them. They went back and forth, trying to tease out any clues they might have missed, again and again.
Finally, as they clattered past Flatbush Avenue and Forest Hills, TO had a breakthrough.
'It works like a clue for those crosswords I used to like doing whenever you bought the British papers.' Will had a fleeting memory of the two of them in his college room, lazing away a Sunday morning. 'When it says "discovered in", that's code for an anagram. Like when they say "messed up" or "hidden in". So the fruit orchard is somehow "discovered in" primers' domain.'