The Manhattan Puzzle (16 page)

She took a sip of coffee. At least there was one thing she could be sure of. Alek was safe.

Above the Atlantic, the Bombardier Global 5000 was following the edge of night. Behind was Europe, darkness and the twinkling of stars. Ahead was a snow storm and the late afternoon skies of Long Island, and the continent behind it.

The cloud beneath them was a rolling blanket with occasional gaps, where you could see down through cascading layers of deeper, roiling grey.

Above, the constellations shone. The seven stars of the plough stood out to the north and directly above, the Milky Way was like a path of glittering marble.

Adar had agreed to a long route, when the controller at Shanwick had offered it to him. It would mean them taking the most northerly U trans-Atlantic track, which would bring them well inland, over Newfoundland, but that suited him.

He was flying at 42,000 feet and below the Bombardier’s maximum speed now, at Mach 0.7. An altered, slower flight plan had been agreed minutes before his departure. He had to ensure he arrived at La Guardia when his favourite senior immigration officer was on duty.

The man would check all passports diligently and run them through the Department of Homeland Security IT systems, to ensure they weren’t on any watch list, but he was happy to do it with no more than a two minute visit to the cabin of the Bombardier to ensure there were no stowaways or obvious contraband, though he would check the hold properly. But Adar had nothing to fear there.

The boy would be sleeping again, and groggy, by the time they landed in a few hours.

He turned and looked into the long thin cabin. His colleague was sitting with the boy in the leather seats facing the TV screen. A Spiderman movie was playing. The boy had been told, when he woke, that he was being taken to meet his father. Then he’d been given sweets and a drink. It was a lot of effort to ensure they got the boy into the States without difficulty, but Adar did as he was told.

When Lord Bidoner wanted something done he always had a good reason. And if a few people had to die on the way, then that was just collateral damage.

Adar had known when he was recruited that murder was one of the tasks he would be asked to carry out, but after four years working as a mercenary in Chechnya, killing whoever got in his way, the idea was not unpleasant. He had shot families, children as young as this boy in front of their parents, to make them talk. Whatever was necessary.

And he had become good at it.

And now there was no turning back. No squeamishness could enter his mind. Because if he ever hesitated, his own life would be forfeit.

That had been what he signed up for. And the money in his family bank account in Lebanon, which would make a life and death difference to many of his relatives, was compensation enough for what had to be done.

And Lord Bidoner had promised a large bonus after this job was complete. Which meant that no matter what he wanted, how many people he wanted dead, it would all happen.

He thought about the boy in the cabin behind him again. He shook his head.

Maybe after this he could retire. He would, at last, have enough money for that villa in the hills overlooking Tripoli.

He looked down.

A red light on the console was flashing. Another weather warning had been picked up. He looked at the green-hued radar screen with its slowly moving lights and sweeping arm. The storm was heading inland, south of Manhattan.

Just as long as it didn’t turn north in the next few hours everything would be fine. The boy had an appointment for the coming evening. And his boss would not be happy if he missed it.

Lord Bidoner did not accept failure. Not even once. Adar touched the throttle, eased it forward a notch. Then he looked back into the cabin.

He’d heard the boy talking.

His soft voice was so like his own son’s that a memory had come back to him. When he’d visited his wife that last time the boy had been in another room playing with her sister’s children.

He felt a shudder rise up. He gripped the throttle. Whatever they were planning for this boy, it would not be pleasant.

He rubbed his hand across his brow. It was throbbing.

With a bit of luck he would not be there when they did it. And the sooner this contract was over the better.

‘More coffee, ma’am?’ The guy from behind the counter with the slicked-back hair was standing beside her.

‘Yes, thanks.’

He filled her cup. She glanced towards the window.

‘You work for the bank, ma’am?’

She shook her head. ‘No, I’m going there later.’

‘That makes two of you,’ he said. He was about to walk away when she said, ‘I’m sorry?’

‘Yeah, that guy over there’s waiting to go to something at BXH too.’ He pointed at a young guy wearing a black ski jacket with fur lining on its hood, sitting near the window. He had steel glasses, a regulation army haircut and a sullen air coming off his hunched up shoulders.

‘And he’s been here a lot longer than you, ma’am.’

The waiter whistled as he walked away.

The guy in the ski jacket looked around fast, as if he’d sensed someone was talking about him. Then he went back to staring out of the window.

Maybe if Frank couldn’t get her into the press conference, she’d have to do whatever it took, including chatting up strange men.

She stood and walked over to ski jacket man. There was a prickle of sweat on her brow, but she didn’t care.

‘Hi, you going to the press conference too?’ She stood by his table and gave him a tentative smile. Then she flicked her gaze towards the empty chair opposite him.

He looked at her, as if she’d just told him the room was full of zombies. His eyes were wide, his cheeks pink.

‘Who told ya that?’ His voice was loud, high pitched. People nearby glanced at them.

This guy wasn’t going to help her.

‘The waiter,’ she said.

‘That guy? He don’t know nothin’.’ He spat out the word nothin’, then looked around the room.

‘My mistake.’ She turned, walked back to where she’d been sitting.

To hell with him, a super-heated hell.

She sat, pushed her hair back from her forehead, and closed her eyes.

‘You okay?’

She opened her eyes, fast. Ski jacket man was sitting in the chair opposite her.

‘Yeah.’ She leaned forward. His eyes sneaked down towards her breasts. Predictable. Then they snapped up again.

She gifted him a smile. ‘I’m Isabel, what’s your name?’

‘Timmy, Timmy Wilson. You going to the press conference, Isabel?’

She nodded.

‘You don’t look like regular MSM.’

‘MSM?’

‘Mainstream media, you know, regular journalists.’

‘I’m not. Where are you from, Timmy?’ She leaned forward, as if she was really interested in his answer.

‘Alabama. Huntsville. I got a zoomin blog. We got readers in every state. I flew in just for this press conference.’ He looked pleased with himself.

‘Why?’

He put his elbows on the table. ‘You tell me why you’re going, first,’ he said. ‘Seeing as how you came over to me.’

He looked like someone who’d have a lot of trouble getting dates. His skin was a flaky, floury white. He was probably spending too much time online, on sites his mother disapproved of.

‘I just want to find out what’s going on at BXH,’ she said. Would that be enough? Was she going to have to make up some other story?

There was a long pause. He was daring her to stay quiet. She began debating what to say next. Then he spoke.

‘That makes two of us.’

‘So what do you want to find out?’

‘You know those BXH guys are foreclosing businesses all over the place, don’t you?’

She nodded. He went on. It sounded as if he was getting on to his number one topic.

‘Someone has to look into what those guys have been up to. That’s why I came up. Every newspaper in this whole country just prints out the goddamn big-bank press releases without even editing their spelling.’ He snorted, then continued.

‘They’re what I call robot journalists. You know, you slip a press release in one end, and a newspaper article comes out the other, with only one change, the words – press release – have been removed from the top of it all.’ He beamed.

‘Robot journalists, that’s good.’

‘You know what else?’ He leaned forward.

She shook her head.

‘Have you seen their goddamned logo?’

She blinked. BXH’s logo?

‘It’s one of those alchemy symbols.’

‘What?’

‘Yeah, I saw them in this old puzzle book. I reckon they’re all into black magic over there.’ He glanced towards the window, then over his other shoulder, as if some devil worshippers might be listening in.

‘Wow, that’s amazing,’ she said. ‘You got a pass to go to their press conference?’

He gave her a toothy grin. His teeth were nicotine stained. He looked better when he didn’t smile. She held his stare.

‘Maybe, how about you? Why don’t’cha tell us your story? You’re English, right?’ His eyes sneaked to her breasts again. They stayed there a microsecond longer this time.

‘I’m interested in what’s going on at BXH, that’s all. My dad got foreclosed by them in London,’ she lied.

One of his eyebrows twitched. ‘Yeah, they been doing that a lot. You know they took a trillion federal bailout dollars just to pay their fat bonuses.’ He looked over his shoulder again.

What the hell had he got to be paranoid about? Did he think the bank’s goons were out looking for bloggers?

‘What time are you going over there?’ She didn’t bother telling him it was a hundred billion dollars they’d got, not a trillion.

‘Starts at seven, so I heard.’

‘How did you get your name on the press list?’

He shook his head. His eyebrows came down. ‘Why you wanna know?’

‘Forget it. Are you on your own, Timmy?’

He clamped his mouth shut.

‘Jeez, you are paranoid. I’m not wired you know.’ She opened her jacket wide and turned in her seat, so he could see the back of her jeans.

‘I didn’t think you were.’ His voice was softer again. He gave her a lopsided grin.

She wanted to run out of the place.

‘You know, Timmy, I was hoping someone like you would come along, get me into that press conference. To tell you the truth, that’s why I came over to talk to you.’

His cheeks reddened. ‘I could meet you afterwards. Tell you what happened.’

‘I want to see these guys for myself.’

He leaned towards her. Their faces were inches apart. She caught the smell of stale French fries and tobacco from his breath.

‘You wanna see the whites of their eyes. Find out if they’re all lizards, right?’ He bared his teeth. It was a lovely sight.

‘I been watching for black helicopters.’ He pointed at the sky.

‘Did you see any?’

‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘But I reckon it won’t be long before I do.’

He was warming up. He probably didn’t get too many females showing an interest in him.

‘So what about the merger? What’s that all about?’ she said.

‘That ain’t no merger. That’s a takeover. Them goddamned Chinese want a big slice of the USA. BXH are gonna sell us all out to a bunch of commies. You know, half the big businesses in this country are gonna end up owned by that goddamned Chinese communist party, if we ain’t careful.’ He said the word – communist – as if he was spitting out gristle. He shook his head.

She smiled at him.

‘So you could get me in? We could go there together?’

He looked sad now, as if he thought he might be missing out on something by saying no to her. ‘I only got one press pass,’ he said.

Then he grinned, showing his lovely teeth again. ‘But I’ll meet you after, if you want. You know, we can get together at my hotel. I can tell you what they’re really like. I got a bottle of Jim Beam in my room.’ He winked at her.

That was her limit. ‘I gotta go. I gotta find someone who can get me in.’

She stood, zipped up her jacket. If he knew how to get her in, this was his chance to reveal it.

‘Take it easy,’ she said.

Henry Mowlam looked at the text message. It was Saturday evening in London and he’d been planning an early night. His apartment in Kentish Town was small, but it was clean.

There were others on duty who could deal with whatever happened over the weekend. But the text that had arrived had sent him looking for his jacket.

George Donovan had been a senior security manager at BXH UK until yesterday. Then he’d been hit by a bus in Piccadilly Circus. Afterwards, he’d had a couple of visitors in hospital and then, within hours of being admitted, he’d been found dead.

He’d been asphyxiated.

Confirming that that was the reason for his death had delayed the incident being reported to him. Henry had an alert out for all BXH-related activity. This latest development had to be viewed with suspicion.

There was no way the murder of a senior BXH security staff member at this moment was a casual thing, an accident. It had been professionally done and it implied there was a war on for control of this bank.

A half-dozen government departments and quangos would want to have a say in how this was handled.

Major Finch was right. They needed to talk.

The second bit of news concerned him perhaps more than the first.

Isabel Ryan had travelled to New York. Henry had requested FBI cooperation on keeping tabs on her. At the very least her mobile needed to be located every five minutes and her calls intercepted. In addition, the local FBI office in Manhattan, where she had booked a room, should be notified and the feed from the security cameras in her hotel made available to him.

The reply, from the FBI office, had been less than satisfactory. The request would be reviewed, within twenty-four hours.

He felt a familiar frustration rising inside him. There was something going down in Manhattan and he had no idea what it was, but he had a bad feeling.

Could Major Finch pull rank and get the Yanks to cooperate? It would be a nightmare of recriminations if something happened in Manhattan because they simply didn’t respond fast enough.