by P. W. Child
Chapter Eight
Sam was sitting alone by the time Purdue arrived back. Nina had decided to get an early night, telling Sam to wake her if Purdue did not return within his specified window. He did, if only just. He looked exhausted.
“Are you alright, Purdue?” Sam asked.
“Well enough,” Purdue replied in a manner that was friendly but did not invite further questioning. He headed for his room, but Sam called him back. “What’s the matter?”
“I…” Sam stopped. He had promised Nina that he would talk to Purdue, but as he opened his mouth he knew that it would be futile. Purdue never revealed anything upon request, and they both knew it. Still, he had promised… “I just wanted to ask you a few things,” Sam said lamely. “Sit down for a minute?”
Purdue sat obligingly, looking at Sam with an expression of polite enquiry. It was quite disarming.
“Look, I just wanted to ask you a few things while Nina’s asleep.” He rapidly weighed up his chances of getting information out of Purdue and whether he would be best to be direct or to try to wheedle information out of him gradually. In the end he settled on the former option. Trying to manipulate Purdue into disclosing anything was doomed to failure. “She’s been doing some research on all this Black Sun stuff. I know, I know – but she has. And what she’s found is some pretty alarming stuff. I just want to know a couple of things… first of all, just how powerful are these people, and second, are they really into all this white supremacy stuff? Is that what we’re facing?”
The silence that followed was long enough for Sam to wonder whether Purdue had heard him, whether he had actually spoken aloud. Then at last he spoke. “The answer to your first question is something I am still assessing,” he said, “and I do not feel that I can give you an accurate answer yet. As for the second… I do not know. I believe that some embrace Theosophy and all its precepts, while others reject it or see its icons and myths as symbolic and nothing more. That is as much as I feel able to tell you.”
“Is it as much as you know?” Sam asked baldly.
Purdue’s only reply was a regretful half-smile, a clear signal that Sam had had all the information he was going to get out of him. He unfolded himself from the chair, reminding Sam as always of a tall wading bird. Just as he opened the door to his room, something occurred to Sam.
“Purdue?”
“Yes?”
“Can I ask you a favor?”
“That depends entirely on what it is, of course. But assuming it is not a request for information I cannot provide, then yes.”
“I’m… I’m trying to write something. It’s about my time in investigative journalism.” Sam watched Purdue carefully for anything that might confirm that he had read the contents of Sam’s notepad that day. “It’s about what happened to Trish. My girlfr- well, my fiancée, actually. There was a column she wrote, it’ll be available online and it would be really useful if I could re-read it. Any chance that you could find it for me?”
Not a flicker. There was nothing to tell Sam whether his work had been read or not. Either Purdue had not looked at the notepad, or he had not been appalled by what he had seen.
“Of course, Sam. Published in the Clarion, I presume? What is the title?”
“Mad, bad and dangerous to know: The frightening secrets of the City playboys.”
“Leave it with me.”
“Thanks.” Sam raised his mug in a grateful salute and smiled.
*
It’s the end of January. For most of us, this is a time of year when belts are tight. Our bank accounts, our livers and our waistlines are only just starting to recover from the excesses and indulgences of Christmas and New Year. But in Canary Wharf, bonuses have just been announced and the party is just beginning.
Sam caught himself unconsciously tracing a finger over the gritty picture on the print-out Purdue had given him. It was barely an inch in height and the resolution was low, but it was unmistakably Trish. He remembered how he had teased her over her professional headshot, so different from the girl he knew. The Trish that Sam had come to love was never without a pen shoved in the mad twist of hair clipped to the top of her head, and he had never, ever seen her wearing a smart cream-colored blouse. The expression on her face was serious, her blue eyes serene. She did not look like the kind of woman who would cry with laughter watching Bruichladdich chase his tail, or break her pen in rage when she realized the extent of the corruption surrounding Charles Whitsun. He skimmed down the page.
Among the revelers is Charles Whitsun. Son of an Admiral, educated at Winchester and Oxford, 39 year old Whitsun spent time working on Wall Street before being headhunted by ASB – a trading firm where, coincidentally, his father sits on the board of directors. He plans to get out of the City this year, so the £500k bonus that he had just pocketed will be his last.
A picture of Whitsun was inset. He was an arrogant-looking man, his light brown hair starting to go grey at the temples, icy blue eyes staring out from under a high forehead. In the courtroom he had smirked and nodded to his friends in the public gallery, confident of his imminent acquittal. When his rich friends and well-connected family failed to get him off the hook, his astonished reaction had been incredible to watch. Sam had seen the man crumple before his eyes. Shock was followed by blind terror as he was led away to begin his sentence – a sentence he would never complete, since Whitsun had taken his own life just a few months later.
The rumor mill of the city has been in full swing since news of Whitsun’s departure broke. No-one knows for certain what his new job will be, but on one thing all speculation agrees – Whitsun’s next move will take him out of the public eye. Although he has previously spoken of entering politics, following a series of highly-publicized scandals including allegations of insider dealing and underage lovers it seems unlikely that he will seek public office.
It almost made Sam laugh to think how scandalized he and Patricia had been by the first few things they had learned about Charles. How little they had known… The man’s abuse of his knowledge of the markets had paled in comparison to his subsequent career as an international arms dealer. Trish had been furious, determined to take him down, and Sam had been prepared to help her in any way he could.
“This will get you your Pulitzer, Trish,” Sam had told her as he helped her to position the microphone that she was going to wear during her final encounter with Whitsun in the warehouse. “We can hang your certificate up next to mine.”
‘If I had known what was going to happen,’ Sam thought, ‘I never would have let her leave that room.’
C hapter Nine
A whining, high-pitched buzz zipped past Nina’s ear in the darkness. Her eyelids were heavy, but the moment she heard that sound she was dragged back from the edge of sleep, her mind instantly alert.
“Really?” she muttered, swinging her legs round and reaching for the light switch. “It’s January. Why the hell are there mosquitos in January?” As she searched for something to swat the bug with, the glowing digits on her alarm clock caught her eye. 4.07. About the right time to be half-awake and anxious. Her gaze fell upon a newspaper she had bought in the hope of picking up a few more words of Italian. She rolled it into a cylinder, pulled on her slippers and crept across the cold tiles, hoping that she could murder the mosquito quickly and quietly.
Something flashed past her head. She followed the movement and saw the insect landing on the handle of her bedroom door. Trying not to move more than necessary, not to disturb the air and make the creature take off again, Nina made her way towards it. The mosquito stood unsuspectingly rubbing its legs together as she raised the newspaper.
Just as she was about to swat, she heard a soft click on the other side of the door. Nina held her breath. It sounded as though someone had just closed the door to the apartment behind them. ‘Going out or coming in’? She wondered, straining to listen. She thought that she could make out faint footsteps. ‘Could just be my imagination, though. Is it Sam? Bit l
ate for Sam. He’s usually back before one, and he said he was giving up the late-night walks. Purdue? Could be… but would he be creeping around? He’d just walk in and go straight to his room, surely…’
The mosquito had taken flight. Nina reached for the door handle and pushed it down swiftly, pulling the door open so that the light from her room suddenly spilled into the sitting room.
The figure in the sitting room froze. It was definitely not Sam or Purdue. It was not Matteus. It was no-one Nina had ever seen before. Dressed in black, hair covered, face concealed under a balaclava. A little taller than Nina, but impossible to discern from its androgynous shape whether the figure was male or female.
As Nina stood poised and tense, waiting for the stranger either to attack her or to turn tail and run, the silence was broken by a low chuckle.
“A rolled-up newspaper?” The stranger’s voice fell infuriatingly between the sound of a low-voiced female and a high-voiced man, offering Nina no clues at all. “You were going to tap me on the nose, perhaps, like a badly behaved puppy?”
“Who are you?” Nina demanded. “What do you want?”
“Tell me where to find Purdue.”
“No.”
“Very well then…” The figure moved towards the nearest door, untroubled by Nina’s lack of complicity, evidently certain that Purdue could be found in one of those rooms.
Nina lunged forward, ready to shove the stranger out of the way. “Get out!” she screamed. The dark figure dodged, and then retreated. It hesitated for a second, caught between the bedroom doors and the apartment door.
“I’ll go,” the stranger said. “But tell him Renata is waiting, and she will not wait much longer.”
In an instant the figure was gone, slipping out into the stairwell. Nina heard the front door open and close, then jumped as the bedroom door that she had been guarding swung open behind her.
“Nina? Are you alright? What’s happening?” Sam took in the scene around them, looking for any signs of struggle or harm.
Purdue appeared from the other room a moment later, his dressing gown hastily thrown on, his thin face white. “Who was it, Nina?” he asked in an urgent whisper.
“I don’t know,” she replied, beginning to shake as the initial adrenaline rush wore off. “But whoever it was they were looking for you, and there was a message. Renata won’t wait much longer. What’s happening this -” She fell silent as Purdue waved a hand.
“No time for that now,” he whispered, his voice grave and his face ashen. “We have to leave at once. This place is no longer safe. Pack whatever you have, then come to me – separately – and I will tell you where to wait for instructions from Matteus. Go. Now!”
Sam and Nina did not argue. They dashed into their rooms and began to gather their few belongings immediately.
C hapter Ten
The cab pulled up in the drop off zone outside Amerigo Vespucci Airport. Sam climbed out, reclaimed his bag from the driver and handed over his money. Matteus had already handled his check-in. All he had to do was go straight through security, head for the gate and he would be out of Florence within the hour.
His first destination was Frankfurt, where he had been instructed to make his way to a particular coffee shop and report the loss of his wallet. The wallet that they would give him would contain his next ticket. He had not been told which city he would end up in, but he knew that when he arrived he was to go to the main railway station. Whatever he was to do next, Matteus assured him it would be evident.
Sam stuck his hand in his pocket to check for his passport. ‘Kevin Anderson,’ he reminded himself. ‘I am Kevin Anderson, heading home via Frankfurt. If anyone asks while I’m on this leg of the journey, I’m on my way home from Florence. I’m heading for Glasgow. And if anyone asks while I’m on the next leg, Glasgow is where I came from. Easy enough. I’m not planning to chat to anyone anyway.’
At security he shucked off his shoes, dropped his belt and jacket into the plastic tray and shuffled obediently through the metal detector. It beeped. Sam stepped to the side, stretched out his arms and allowed the security guard to run the wand over him. It came up with nothing. He stood patiently, letting himself be patted down. ‘Today of all days,’ he thought. ‘I know I don’t have anything metal on me.’
“I am sorry, Sir,” said the security guard. “Just one of those things. You can go.”
Sam collected his possessions and looked for a convenient spot to stop and put his shoes back on. As he walked away from security, he thought he saw one of the guards watching him suspiciously. ‘That’s their job, I suppose,’ he told himself. ‘Nothing to worry about. I feel guilty enough going through airport security even when I’m using my real passport. It’s nothing. Just a stupid feeling. Like when you walk past a policeman and think you’re going to get done for something even though you can’t imagine what.’
Nevertheless, he kept an eye out as he wandered through to the waiting area. It was possible that the security guard was scheduled to begin patrolling through duty free right at that moment. Sam told himself firmly that it was coincidence. ‘Confirmation bias,’ he said to himself. ‘You’re on the lookout for trouble, so you see trouble. You think you’re being followed, so you see people following you everywhere. It’s nothing.’
He walked into a newsagent and scanned the racks. He did not have long before his flight, but he would be glad of something to read and hide behind. ‘It’s a great way to prevent conversations,’ he thought. ‘No sense in running the risk that today will be the day when I run into that one chatty person who’ll end up in the seat next to me on the plane. I can do without that just now.’
The newspapers left him cold. All the headlines were depressing, not just on account of their content but because of the odd pang of nostalgia that shot through Sam as he looked at them and remembered the days when he had been the one writing them. He turned his attention to the magazines instead. A vast array of publications lay before him, ranging from celebrity gossip to obscure specialist interest. As tempting as it was to pick up a copy of Art Doll Quarterly for irony’s sake – since his goal was to blend in rather than excite comment he decided to stick to something mainstream and picked up National Geographic.
‘That’ll do,’ he thought. ‘It doesn’t pin me down to a specific country, either. I don’t want to make it obvious where I might be from or where I’m going.’
Having paid for his purchases he returned to the main concourse, only to see that the security guard was there again, standing directly opposite the shop Sam had come from. He certainly looked as if he was waiting for Sam. He also looked familiar, though Sam could not place him, especially not at this distance. All he could tell was that he was looking at a reasonably tall, wiry male, with somewhat craggy features that were partly obscured by dark glasses. ‘Stick a uniform and a pair of shades on me and I could be looking at myself,’ Sam thought. ‘It’s no-one I know. I’m just winding myself up now.’
The gate number for Sam’s flight flashed up on the screen. He shouldered his bag and set off. It was not a large airport, and it did not take him long to reach the waiting area by the gate marked Frankfurt. He took a seat, opened his magazine and pretended to read, turning pages occasionally while stealing frequent, furtive glances round the area.
Sure enough, within a couple of minutes of Sam sitting down, the security guard appeared again. He walked with a steady, measured pace, looking around indifferently, then when he reached Sam’s gate he stopped and stood with his hands on his belt, taking in the scene before him.
‘I’ve had enough of this,’ Sam decided. ‘If that guy is following me, there’s no way I’m getting away from him. I’ve got another fifteen minutes before they start boarding. I’m stuck here until then. I can’t run from him or I’ll get shot, and if I wait it out he’ll just have his mates waiting for me beyond the gate to spirit me away to some other part of the airport and then god knows where. I’m going to find out one way or the other.’
Heedless of his bag, Sam stood up and started walking directly towards the security guard. He did not attempt to make eye contact through the dark glasses, and he moderated his step so that it could not be perceived as threatening. He settled for a leisurely, tourist-like amble, but on a direct and unmistakable path towards the guard.
As he got within range Sam’s whole body tensed, adrenaline beginning to course through his system. There would be fight or flight. There would be an end to this matter. His steps quickened slightly. His breathing grew faster and more ragged.
The security guard strolled away, straight past Sam, past the gate, and disappeared in the crowd. Sam stopped, confused. ‘Was that… Did I really just imagine all of that?’ he asked himself. ‘I was so sure that he was after me…’
Feeling like an idiot, he returned to his seat and stared at his magazine until it was time to board. He looked around once more as he stepped through the door towards the plane, filled with a bizarre combination of hope that the security guard would not be there so that Sam would know that he was safe, and hope that he would be so that Sam would be vindicated.
He was not there. Sam skulked onto the plane and thought himself lucky that no-one else had been there to witness the whole embarrassing incident.
Chapte r Eleven
Since they had arrived in Florence, Nina had hoped that she would get a chance to visit the Museo dell’Opera del Duomo. She had never felt that she knew nearly enough about visual art, but museum visits had always made her feel calm and happy, bringing back memories of childhood and discovering the delights of history for the first time. Besides, being at liberty to wander around galleries and museums would mean that everything was resolved and she was now safe, which would have made her feel better than anything else.
Visiting under these circumstances, where the museum was simply a rendezvous point for her to collect her travel tickets from Matteus… it was not what she had hoped for. She wondered whether she would ever get the chance to visit again, or whether her days as a free woman were over and life on the run was all she would ever know.