Even as an adolescent, Farthingale had known this was wrong, known this was not how it ought to be. Taking Clara under his wing had been his way of making a point. A kind of retaliation, even. That which his mother and father had rejected, he embraced.
The blood bag was full. Rozetta withdrew the needle from Clara’s arm and stuck a plaster and absorbent pad over the tiny entry point. She transferred the bag to the stand and plunged a cannula into Farthingale’s forearm.
It was only fair, Farthingale mused as his sister’s lifestuff flowed into him, that Clara should return the favour he had done her, repay what she owed him in whatever way she could. A reckoning had fallen due, and the fee was all she could afford—blood.
IT WAS NO accident that the weekly “transfoodlum” preceded the weekly teleconference with Yukinobu Uona. Farthingale invariably felt invigorated with a pint of Clara’s blood inside him. A doctor would no doubt say this was psychosomatic. Farthingale would beg to differ. Enriched with Clara’s platelets, he was pumped up, full of energy, raring to go—and he needed to be, because Uona was a slippery customer. A colleague, yes, and an equal, but as devious a man as any Farthingale had met, and frighteningly clever, too. You had to have your wits about you when dealing with him.
As the call connected, the Bostonian put his game face on.
“Yukinobu!”
“Howard. How goes it?”
Uona was slim, trim, smooth-skinned, in excellent condition for a man pushing sixty. The only real indication of age was a slight silvering at his temples, which he could have covered up with dye but preferred to leave untouched, perhaps to emphasise how youthful he appeared otherwise. Behind him, his high-rise office window revealed a sweeping panorama of Tokyo. There was the massive Izumi Garden Tower, there the knifelike Dentsu building, and there the brilliant illuminated Christmas tree of the Tokyo Tower. A red sun was coming up over the city skyline, drenching everything in its ruby glow.
“You know,” said Farthingale. “Getting by, surviving.”
“Yes. And how is your beloved sister?” Uona asked.
There was no chance he was unaware of the transfusions. Uona knew everything, every truth, every secret. The enquiry, which seemed so polite and casual, was his way of showing that.
“Clara’s well.”
“Clara. Clara’s well. Excellent.” Uona’s countrymen might have struggled to pronounce the name, but he made a point of demonstrating his facility. Everything Uona did was a calculated act. “It’s vital to look after family. Family should always come first. Without the love and respect of our kin, all that we do, all that we achieve, is nothing.”
Thank you, o Zen master, Farthingale thought to himself. “So,” he said, “I imagine you’d like to know how Porphyrian’s coming along.”
“I’ve been keeping abreast of the situation through my various sources,” Uona said. “Impressive so far. But the crucial question is, has your President taken the plunge?”
There was no point in lying. Uona most likely knew the answer already, or had a strong inkling. “No. Not yet. We’re close to a sale, but he’s hedging. He wants more time. More proof.”
“You must push him.”
“I am. But it’s an election year, and the man is covering his ass with both hands and a trash can lid.”
They discussed a few other business ventures that were of mutual benefit to the both of them, or had the be potential to be. Then Uona said, “It feels odd to be having this conversation without a certain third party present.”
“True. We’re shy of a Musketeer, aren’t we?”
The Japanese man looked wistful, although not for long. “Nathaniel let us down. He was insufficiently astute in his choice of allies. But on the bright side, he did at least leave the two of us materially advantaged in the end.”
In the wake of Nathaniel Lambourne’s death there had been a feeding frenzy in corporate circles as investors and executives made moves on the various companies he’d headed. The share prices had gone into freefall, the stock at bargain-basement levels, and everyone had wanted a piece. Farthingale and Uona, however, had been informed of their colleague’s demise several hours before the news leaked out to the media, and that gave them a crucial head start. After a period of grief and mourning, which lasted approximately a minute, they had set to work cherry-picking the very best of Lambourne’s business portfolio for themselves, steadily increasing their holdings in the assets they co-owned with him until they effectively owned them outright, and leveraging loans to perform buyouts on the assets they had no pre-existing interests in but fancied the look of. That left only the scraps—the start-ups, the underperformers, the runts—for everyone else to fight over. Both men were sure that this was how Lambourne would have wanted it.
“Although,” Uona added, “it wasn’t only treacherous allies who brought about his downfall...”
“Sure, if you’re talking about the bastard who slit Nathaniel’s throat,” said Farthingale. “John Redlaw. Piece of work he is. Thanks to him, we lost a partner and a promising project. He’s vanished, though, hasn’t he? Last I heard, he’d completely dropped off the radar.”
“Three days ago he was found and cornered in London.”
“No shit.”
“Yes shit. He managed to evade arrest, but resurfaced again almost immediately.” Uona’s expression turned sly. He loved to know what others didn’t, and to rub their noses in their ignorance. “Can you guess where?”
“Enlighten me.”
“In your neck of the woods, as it happens.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. I have a man inside Interpol. In their international terrorism department.”
No surprise to Farthingale. Uona seemed to have “a man” everywhere, fingers in innumerable pies.
“I employ him to keep tabs on customs databases worldwide for me,” Uona continued. “Not a single international passenger arrival or departure occurs—airport, seaport or rail terminus—that he can’t have access to, and through him I can find out where almost any individual is, at any time. John Redlaw’s name was one of those he’s flagged at my request. It pinged up the day before yesterday. He was aboard a Heathrow-to-JFK flight.”
“Redlaw is Stateside?”
“So it would appear.”
“Why?”
“Isn’t it obvious, Howard?” said Uona. “He’s coming for you. He started with Nathaniel. You’re next on the list.”
Farthingale’s voice went hoarse. “You’re kidding.”
“Of course I am. My guess would be, the United Kingdom has become too ‘hot’ for Mr Redlaw and he’s hoping to lose himself in the vastness of your great nation. He’s on your doorstep, however, that’s the thing, and it would seem sensible to take advantage of the fact.”
“Take advantage.” Farthingale felt a prickle in his gut. He knew what Uona was insinuating. “I don’t know. I mean, clearly something needs to be done about the guy. No question on that front. You don’t kill a man like Nathaniel Lambourne and expect to get away with it scot-free. But...”
“Do you not have the stomach for revenge?”
“It’s not that. I just don’t see where the profit would be in it.”
“There are some things that matter more than money.”
“I can’t believe you just said that, Yukinobu.”
“I mean it,” Uona shot back sternly. “There are principles at stake here, Howard. Thwarting the schemes of one of us is bad enough, but murdering one of us in cold blood? That cannot be allowed to stand. Think of the message it sends to the little people. Think of the encouragement it gives them. Soon they’ll be sneering at us and showing us disrespect. They’ll get the idea that violent death is something we somehow deserve, and they will try to emulate Redlaw’s example. We’re gods, not pariahs. We’re special, exceptional, and nobody must dare believe otherwise.”
“But there’s the police, the justice system, the courts, due process,” said Farthingale. “Society can deal with John
Redlaw. We don’t have to.”
“Society has failed in its obligations. Taking a more proactive approach is our only recourse.”
“I see that, but—”
“Or are you forever that slick little prep-school boy who was lucky enough to be bequeathed millions and made the money grow without ever really having to get his hands dirty?”
“No...”
“Then I shall leave it with you,” said Uona. “You know what’s expected of you. I only hope you don’t disappoint.”
Uona leaned forwards to strike a key, and the connection was cut.
Farthingale stared at the empty teleconference window for several minutes before clicking it shut. A part of him wanted to believe that Uona had only been joking. This was some kind of test, a provocation. Uona wanted to see how far he was prepared to go in order to prove his ruthlessness, that was all. He surely didn’t expect him actually to follow through on the idea.
Did he?
The more he thought about it, the more Farthingale had the impression that his Japanese associate was in earnest.
Deadly earnest.
SHORTLY AFTERWARDS, AN email popped into Farthingale’s inbox. It was from Uona.
“FYI,” it read, “Shinobi Eternal has just pinpointed another nest for you. GPS co-ordinates below. It’s a large gathering, by all accounts, at least fifty. Perhaps this could be the one that finally convinces the President that he has a significant and pressing problem on his hands, with the benefit to us that that entails.”
He wrote back thanking Uona. The reply came almost instantly: “Glad to be of service.”
Farthingale didn’t know much about the Shinobi Eternal programme. It was one of Uona’s vampire-related pet projects and Uona was remarkably shy—bordering on shifty—when it came to divulging details about it. The two men still considered themselves a consortium, just as they had been when Lambourne had made up the third of their triumvirate, but they had an agreement not to pry into or interfere with one another’s business affairs. There were firewalls of discretion and deniability between them, the only criterion for this arrangement being that each should profit mutually from the other’s efforts. So far, with the exception of the Solarville débâcle, it had worked out fine.
What Farthingale did know about Shinobi Eternal was that it unfailingly provided accurate intelligence about vampire locations. How—by what means—he had no idea, but then it wasn’t his place to enquire. Gift horses and all that.
He cross-referenced the GPS data. Downtown Manhattan. Virtually on Team Red Eye’s doorstep.
A populated area.
Very public.
A statement that couldn’t be missed, or misread.
Just the ticket.
His hand went to the phone.
CHAPTER
TWELVE
DUSK OVER ST Magnus’s. The church’s steeple lanced sharply upwards against a field of black, swollen clouds. They reminded Redlaw of necrotic flesh. A few tiny snowflakes were wisping through the air. They were precursors, feather-light flecks that heralded the coming storm.
The padlock and chain had been reattached to the door. Redlaw pounded, hearing echoes reverberate within.
“Tchaikovsky. I know you can hear me. We need to talk. Let me in.”
Tina, beside him, stamped her feet to keep warm. “Tell him it’s Domino’s. Nobody keeps pizza delivery waiting.”
“Thanks for the advice. Very helpful.”
“Are you always this snarky?”
“Are you always this annoying?”
“Yes.”
“Then yes.” Redlaw pounded again. “Tchaikovsky! It’s urgent. I have information you need to hear.”
“You sound like my mother’s voicemail messages,” Tina said. “She pretends she’s calling about something really important but she refuses to say what it is so I have to call her back. Only it’s bullshit. She’s bored, is all.”
“Please,” snapped Redlaw. “Unless you have something useful to contribute, keep your comments to yourself.”
“Oh. So how about I don’t tell you that I just saw a face in the empty window up there?”
Redlaw glanced up at the paneless circular aperture. No face.
“You sure?”
“There and gone, just a moment ago. I swear.”
Redlaw kept looking. All at once a hand appeared. It threw out a small object that pinwheeled down, plopping into the snow at his feet. He dug it out. A key.
Moments later, he and Tina were inside the building.
“Holy cow,” Tina breathed, looking at the stately, cobwebby decay around them. “This is awesome. Super eerie.”
She fished out the camcorder. Redlaw pointedly shook his head.
“Oh come off it,” Tina said.
“It’s a delicate situation. Vampires are easily antagonised. We need to be cautious and diplomatic, not go about waving cameras in their faces.”
“I can be diplomatic.”
“You? I don’t think so.”
With a snort, Tina stowed the camcorder back inside her rucksack.
“Tchaikovsky,” Redlaw called out into the barren vastness of the church.
No answer. But the shadows were full, as they had been the last time he was here, and busy. Bodies on the move. Crawling. Peering.
“Tchaikovsky. Show yourself.”
From the darkness, as though from another world, came the priest’s rich, Russian-inflected baritone. “Redlaw. Back so soon. And I see you’ve brought a friend.”
“Her name is Tina Checkley. I can vouch for her. She’s a neutral party, nothing to be afraid of.”
“Unless you fuck with me,” Tina chipped in. “Then I’m your worst nightmare.”
“Not helping,” Redlaw said out of the side of his mouth. To Tchaikovsky he said, “Just a bit of bluster, that. She’s harmless. We need to discuss things, you and I. The attacks on Sunless nests are getting more overt and reckless. That’s dangerous for—”
“You bring a stranger,” Tchaikovsky interrupted, “unannounced, into our home?” The menace in his voice was clear and unmistakable. Up in the rafters and high on the walls, his vampires whispered and hissed in sibilant discontent. “You dare?”
“I told you, she’s nothing to be afraid of. She’s of no consequence.”
“Hey, thanks,” Tina said.
“Do you want to live?” Redlaw asked her.
“Uh, yeah.”
“Then shut. Up.”
Meekly: “Okay.”
“Why?” Tchaikovsky demanded. “Why is she here? We barely know each other, Redlaw, and already you jeopardise my security and the security of my flock by dragging along some random girl into our place of hiding, our sanctuary. You I can just about tolerate, but she—she is a trespasser. And trespassers are not welcome.”
The priestly shtriga emerged into a patch of dim gloom, his cassock flowing around him. His gaze was fixed on Tina, eyes ablaze with hostility.
“I apologise,” said Redlaw. “I thought we had an understanding.”
“What next? The police? The army? Maybe some of your old Night Brigade cronies. You think this is acceptable? You think this is something I’m going to allow to go unpunished?”
Redlaw turned to Tina. “I think you should get ready to make a run for it.”
“What?”
His hand moved several inches towards his Cindermaker. “My fault. I should have been firmer with you. Should have forced you to stay behind.”
“Oh, God. We’re in serious shit, aren’t we?”
“I’ll do my best to cover you. When I say go, head for the door and don’t stop. Find the nearest sunlight, if there’s any left, and stay in it. I can buy you a minute or two at best. Don’t hesitate. Don’t, whatever you do, look back.”
“Redlaw...” said Tina.
“Oh, Redlaw,” said Tchaikovsky. “Shame on you, lying to her like that. You know there’s no way she’s getting out of here alive. I am shtriga. My vampires are legion. Try
your hardest, and she still won’t make it to the door. Why give her false hope?”
“Then do me a kindness,” Redlaw said. “Let her leave, unharmed. You can have me. I don’t matter. I won’t resist. A trade. Her life for mine.”
“How noble. But the fact is, my children are hungry. So very hungry. So many mouths to feed, and I can’t keep fobbing them off with animal blood. Not when there’s only one kind of blood that can truly placate and satisfy.”
“Mine. Take mine.”
“One man’s? When there are two of you? When you’ve so obligingly supplied an extra body, filled to bursting with delicious hot blood? Yes, this is the best solution for all concerned. You’ve presented yourselves to us on a plate, as it were, and we shall make the most of it.”
All around, the vampires were showing themselves, slinking between the pews and, spider-like, over them, making for Redlaw and Tina. The church resounded to sighs of joy and hideous moist slurps of lip-smacking relish.
Tina was trembling, her knees starting to buckle. She gripped Redlaw’s arm, digging her fingernails in so hard that it hurt, even through the parka sleeve’s thick lining. “Jesus, Redlaw, please, stop this, make it not be happening...”
A single shot, Redlaw thought. Hit Tchaikovsky in the head. Might kill him. Might startle the others enough so that we can make a getaway.
It was a Hail Mary, a desperate ploy.
God, hear me.
They were as good as dead anyway. What other chance did they have?
Guide my aim, O Lord.
He drew the Cindermaker, lightning fast. The gun boomed.
But Tchaikovsky was not there. Quick as Redlaw had been, the shtriga, inevitably, was quicker. He sprang into the air, leapfrogging over the Fraxinus round’s trajectory. A split second later he came down on top of Redlaw, feet on his shoulders. The impact drove Redlaw flat onto the church flagstones, winding him. The last thing he saw before blacking out was Tchaikovsky’s fist as it lashed at his face, a blur of flesh and bone. The last thing he thought was I failed her, followed by God failed me.
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