by Andy Maslen
Kamenko leered up at him through slimed lips and fastened another burning hand around Gabriel’s ankle.
Gabriel kicked out with his free leg, but then a second figure swam up from the depths and hooked its talons into his calf.
It was Julia Angell. Half her head was missing, and the exposed brain left filmy trails of blood in the water behind her.
Dusty and Daisy came next, skin peeling away from their skulls, horrific wounds gaping in the bodies as they swam up to him and wrapped their arms around his torso.
“You next, Wolfie,” Dusty gurgled, before dragging him down into the darkness. “Erin-iz wants you dead.”
Gabriel opened his mouth to scream. The inrushing water flooded his lungs and he felt himself sinking.
He woke up choking, hands clutched around his windpipe, eyes wet with tears.
“Oh, fuck!” he said. Then again. Louder.
He staggered to the bathroom and drank down two glasses of water before sitting heavily on the edge of the bath and regarding himself in the mirror above the vanity unit. His eyes were red, and his black hair stood up in sweat-soaked spikes. Scrubbing his palms across his eyes and then smoothing his hair down, he stood, marched into the bedroom, stripped to his underwear, dropped to the floor and started doing press-ups.
After thirty, he turned over and continued, pushing himself to complete harder sit-ups and crunches than his PT instructors had ever inflicted on him.
Next, he began a yoga routine. No blissed-out meditation this time. He pushed himself to complete the sun salutations faster and faster, building up the pace until sweat was running freely into his eyes and across the skin of his torso, his arms and his legs. They said one hundred and eight was a magical number in yoga. So he completed them.
It was dark by the time he stopped. He was red hot, drenched in sweat and, mercifully, clear-headed. A memory of the nightmare had come back to him as he performed the prescribed sequence of positions and breaths that constituted the sun salutations. “Erin-iz wants you dead,” Dusty had said. Suddenly he knew. Erin Ayers had chosen that name herself. She wasn’t christened with it. It was an alias. Erin Ayers was Erin-iz. She had named herself Fury. But then who was she really?
With this question revolving inside his head, he showered, shaved and dressed, headed out, bought a slice of pizza from a vendor with a cart on Columbus, washed it down with a Coke, then went back to the hotel. He had a plan.
Drinking from a glass of white Burgundy he’d bought at the bar and then taken up to his room, he called Tatyana Garin. The woman had to be at least as rich as Erin Ayers. As CEO of Garin Group, she owned diamond mines, goldfields, land, and other mining resources from Venezuela to South Africa.
“Gabriel! My knight in shining armour. Please tell me you need my help again.”
Her Russian-accented English took him flying back to their last encounter. After he had rescued an astronomically expensive handbag she’d just been relieved of by a couple of North London thugs, she’d pledged to repay the favour and had done so, getting him out of Harare on her private jet when a mission had gone spectacularly sideways.
“Yes, I do. And I really hope you can help me this time.”
“What is it? Tell me, dear Gabriel, and if I can help you, I will.”
“I need to find someone in Manhattan. I know she owns a penthouse on Fifth Avenue overlooking the reservoir. I know her name – Erin Ayers – but beyond that, I’m stuck.”
“This woman. I have not heard of her. She is rich, though. Real estate in that part of Manhattan is very expensive. Like Birkin bag, you remember?”
“I remember. So you don’t know her?”
“I do not. But that does not mean I can’t help you. I have many friends in Manhattan. And one lady in particular, I think, can help you. Her name is Ayesha Solomons. She also has penthouse on Fifth. Near Guggenheim. I text you address. Ayesha is very sociable lady. Very, lyubeznaya, you know?”
“Gracious, yes, I know.”
“I forget you speak Russian so beautifully. Well, Ayesha likes to know who is coming and who is going. Especially in penthouses. She sees removals trucks and makes point of introducing herself. Invitations for tea, cocktails, you know? Welcome to the neighbourhood. I call her and say you are coming. Then I text you her address, yes? You talk with Ayesha, explain who you are looking for. If she does not know, then this person is ghost.”
“Tatyana, you’re a star. I can’t thank you enough.”
“Is not necessary. But I tell you what. We are friends, you and I. We help each other. Next time I need help with something, I call you and you come to my aid once again, yes?”
“Any time. Thank you again.”
“Do skorovo, Gabriushka.”
“See you later, Tanya.”
Fifteen minutes later, his phone buzzed.
Ayesha Solomons. Penthouse. 1079 Fifth Avenue. She expects you at 6 p.m. xxx
Gabriel looked over at his new clothes hanging in the closet. Something told him a well-cut suit and polished shoes would be more appropriate than an outfit that made him look like a member of a black-ops squad. He reached for one of the shirts.
Yinshen Fangshi
THE direct route to Ayesha Solomons’s apartment building would take Gabriel across Central Park. Instead, he turned left out of the hotel and then left again on West Ninety-First Street. He found what he was looking for on Amsterdam Avenue: an upscale florist.
Fifteen minutes later and two hundred dollars lighter in the back pocket, he emerged from Floribus Vitae clutching a bouquet of pale-pink and white peonies, hydrangeas and roses, and blue-green eucalyptus foliage.
The flowers smelled heavily of peach and a slightly musky, smoky aroma he knew from his own garden to be myrrh. Correction, he thought, my former garden. Despite this unwelcome thought, the scent of the flowers lifted his mood. He was on his way to meet someone who might be able to take him one step closer to Erin Ayers.
Walking through the park, he saw a couple of men joining his path from a converging track coming down a hill. They were dressed in wannabe tactical gear: khaki cargo pants, dark-blue wind breakers and black ball caps pulled down low over their eyes. They appeared to be patrolling, striding side by side and actually in step, though he observed that the shorter and heavier of the two men had to extend his natural stride length to keep pace with his taller companion.
Neither man had any sort of insignia on their clothing. So not park wardens, if such people existed. And not detectives either: no law enforcement officer in plain clothes would so obviously draw attention to themselves. Weekend warriors? “Concerned citizens”? No, he had it. Neighbourhood Watch. Their ostentatious manner, and exaggeratedly vigilant postures said it all. And was that a bulge on the taller guy’s waistband? It was hard to be sure with the windbreaker in place, but might he be carrying? There! He patted his hip. Gabriel walked on, adjusting his speed so that all three of them would reach the junction of the two paths at the same time.
Checking his watch as they drew to within a couple of feet of each other, he let himself collide with the taller man, hard enough to make him stumble.
“Oh, my goodness,” Gabriel said, playing the flustered Englishman. “I am so sorry. There I was worrying about my appointment and I’ve crashed right into you.”
He straightened the man’s wind breaker, taking care to stick the flowers in his face, fussed over the sleeves, and watched the two men relax as his act reassured them he wasn’t about to mug them.
“That’s OK, sir,” said Fat Man. “Here on business?”
“A little, yes,” Gabriel answered. “I’m on my way to meet a rather important client and I completely underestimated the time it would take to reach her.”
“Where does your client live?” Tall Man asked.
“Oh, er, it’s one of those apartment buildings over there, on Fifth, is it? Number 1079. I desperately wanted to be on time and now it appears I’ll be late.”
“Relax. Look, take that
path over there, and it brings you out almost opposite her building.”
Gabriel bestowed his brightest smile on the men.
“You, sirs, are both gentlemen and scholars. Many thanks,” he said, then hurried away from them in a brisk jog.
“Take care, now!” Tall Man called after him.
You, too, Gabriel thought, enjoying the feel of a chunky pistol tucked into the back of the waistband of his suit trousers. Even though Master Zhao was gone, Gabriel’s skill with the Way of Stealth served as a testament to his teaching.
He picked up the pace, ensuring that by the time Tall Man realised he’d been disarmed, Gabriel would be out of sight. The guy would probably be too embarrassed to go to the police anyway. They’d probably regard him as an unwelcome intrusion into their business. As for Courtesy, Professionalism and Respect, which Gabriel had seen stencilled onto the side of a patrol car earlier in the day? He was guessing having your pistol taken off you by a dopey English business-type was neither professional, nor worthy of respect. Though he supposed they might be courteous while explaining Tall Man would be better off leaving law enforcement to the police.
Ensuring his jacket was smoothed down over the pistol, Gabriel entered the softly lit lobby of 1079 Fifth Avenue, nodding to the frock-coated doorman standing beneath the forest-green marquee on the way in. The lobby wouldn’t have looked out of place in a bank headquarters. Everywhere he looked, Gabriel saw polished marble, glittering granite, expensive hardwoods and subtle accents of what he assumed was gold leaf. He looked left and right, then headed over to the reception desk, a long, polished block faced with some sort of stripy timber. He decided to maintain the mildly hapless Englishman act. It seemed to work well as a way of putting people at ease who might otherwise be suspicious.
“Hello,” he said to the man behind the desk, peering at his name badge as if short-sighted, “Alejandro. I have an appointment to see Ayesha Solomons. My name is Gabriel Wolfe. She’s expecting me.”
“Very good, sir,” the man said, smiling to reveal a row of immaculate white teeth against his honey-brown skin. “Would you like to take a seat while I call up?”
Two minutes later, the receptionist signalled to Gabriel.
“Take the far elevator to the penthouse, sir. You just press P. I’ve unlocked it.”
Gabriel smiled and nodded, and walked across the roughly half acre of polished white marble floor to the elevator, clutching the bouquet in what he realised was a sweating palm. Once inside the elevator, he pulled the pistol from his waistband to see what Tall Man had judged appropriate for watching his neighbourhood. He nodded his approval. It was a Heckler & Koch HK45. Putting the bouquet on the floor, he ejected the magazine. It was full: ten rounds of .45 ACP full metal jacket rounds. He sniffed the muzzle. Gun oil, only. Clearly, the guy didn’t spend time at the range practising.
The door slid open to reveal a long, wide hallway. Paintings hung on both walls revealed the penthouse’s owner to be a woman of extraordinary wealth. He had counted three cubist Picassos, a Hockney swimming pool painting and a Warhol portrait of Marilyn Monroe before a door opened at the far end of the hall and the lady of the penthouse came towards him, her hand extended.
Ayesha Solomons looked to be in her late seventies, with clear, virtually unlined skin and lustrous, silver-white hair cut in a stylish bob that grazed her collar. Though Gabriel had met enough wealthy people to know that money could achieve wonders in stalling the ageing process, her looks seemed to be the result of a good life and a clear conscience, rather than visits to a plastic surgeon. She wore a simply cut suit, the skirt and jacket tailored to fit her slender figure. The fabric was in a pale shade of salmon, with ruffled black ribbons edging the collar, pockets and jacket hem. Her brown eyes were magnified by oversized black-framed glasses. But what mesmerised Gabriel as he shook her hand were the diamonds dangling from her ear-lobes and arrayed at her throat, glittering in the light from the chandelier. They were huge, the size of almonds, and mounted in yellow gold.
“Gabriel, how delightful to meet you,” Ayesha said, releasing his hand and leading him by the elbow to the door at the far end of the hall.
“Thank you so much for agreeing to meet me, Mrs Solomons,” he said. He’d noticed a plain gold band on her wedding ring finger.
“Oh, I think you should call me Ayesha. Mrs Solomons makes me sound so old, don’t you think?”
“Then, thank you, Ayesha.”
The drawing room she had led him to was at least fifty feet by thirty, a vast airy space with an entire wall of glass facing Central Park. She took the flowers from him, “Thank you, they’re beautiful, and my favourite colours,” and took them through a door that, he saw, led to a vast, white kitchen.
Gabriel took the opportunity to take in the view from the penthouse. Somehow, he felt sure it would be a long time before he’d ever be in such a position again. The darkening sky had changed from a sapphire blue to the colour of coral, and the mounded clouds were charcoal above and gold below. On the far side of the water, almost directly across from Ayesha’s penthouse, Gabriel could see the Dakota building, its gothic sandstone burnished to a rich yellow by the setting sun.
When Ayesha returned from the kitchen, she was carrying the flowers in a tall, glass vase, which she placed in the centre of a grand wooden dining table with ornately carved legs.
“May I offer you a cup of tea? Or something stronger?” She checked her watch, something very high-end Gabriel concluded from the dozens of tiny diamonds studding the bezel, though he wasn’t close enough to discern the make. “It is the cocktail hour, after all. I usually have an old-fashioned about this time.”
“That sounds lovely. I’ll join you, if I may.”
“Good boy.”
Ayesha mixed two drinks, taking her time muddling the sugar cubes and water before adding a generous shot of Woodford Reserve bourbon and a dash of Angostura bitters. She garnished the drinks with orange slices and maraschino cherries and handed one of the heavy glass tumblers to Gabriel.
“Bottoms up!” she said, clinking glasses.
“Chin chin!” Gabriel replied, feeling something equally archaic was required.
The drink was perfect, the warm, almost treacly flavour of the bourbon contrasting with the hit of citrus aroma from the orange.
“So,” Ayesha said, swirling her drink around and eyeing Gabriel through her spectacles like a particularly inquisitive owl. “You are a friend of Tanya’s.”
It sounded like a statement, but Gabriel could recognise an intelligence-gathering question when he heard one.
“Yes. We met in London. I rescued her Birkin from a mugger, and we went for a coffee. Then we met again in Africa where I was working, and she helped me get back to England. If I may ask, how do you and Tanya know each other?”
Ayesha smiled, and Gabriel noticed her twisting her wedding ring round on her finger.
“Jack and I met her through Jack’s business. He was a jeweller. Started out with a single shop and built the business up to five. Very high-class establishments. We met Tanya in Amsterdam on a buying trip. The friendship grew from there. She stays with me whenever she’s in New York.”
“Is your husband retired now?” Gabriel asked, guessing he was providing an opening.
“From this world altogether, I’m afraid. He died ten years ago. A heart attack. It was quick, but he was still so young. So handsome. We had plans to travel. It’s such a shame.”
“I’m sorry.”
She leaned across and patted his knee.
“Thank you. Tell me, what is your work that takes you from London to Zimbabwe to Manhattan all in the space of a few months?”
He hadn’t mentioned which African country he’d been stuck in. That was obviously from Tanya. He decided, on the spur of the moment, to tell Ayesha as much as he could without breaking his oath to The Department.
“I work in national security. I’m forbidden to say how or who for, but it’s a dangerous job, and I go to pla
ces and deal with people our government can’t deal with through other channels.”
Ayesha took another sip of her drink and put it down beside her on a side table.
“How exciting! And now you need my help?”
“Yes, I do. I am looking for someone here in Manhattan. She calls herself Erin Ayers. She owns a penthouse here on Fifth Avenue. It overlooks the reservoir. But that’s all I know.”
“Why do you say, ‘calls herself’?”
“I suspect it’s not her real name. I think she called herself that because it sounds like the Greek word for a Fury.”
“A vengeful goddess. That is very interesting.”
“Why? Do you know her?”
“I do. Now, why don’t you make us two more old-fashioneds, and I’ll tell you all I can about her.”
Haven’t We Met?
THEIR drinks refreshed, Ayesha sat back in her chair and folded her hands in her lap.
“I have lived here for almost thirty years,” she said. “Twenty with Jack and ten on my own. I always liked to get on with people. So I’ve made it my business to know my neighbours, especially the ones on the top floors. If I see the moving men coming, I go round a day or so later and introduce myself. Maybe invite the new people round for drinks. I met Erin last year when she bought her place. And do you know what?”
“What?”
“I threw a little party for her, and she didn’t show up. I wouldn’t say we were scandalised – we’re all too worldly wise for that – but such rudeness.”
Gabriel leant forward. “You know which block she lives in, then?” He could feel his pulse racing.
“Of course I do! It’s 1083. She’s practically next door.”
Gabriel felt his heart lifting. This was the best news he’d had for weeks. With a single building to watch, he felt sure he could identify Erin Ayers one way or another.