The Manhattan Puzzle (23 page)

It was Sean!

He’d sent a message!

It was short.

But it was good news.

He wanted to see her.

She tried to call him back immediately. She held her breath as she waited to be connected. Any second now she’d be speaking to him.

A woman’s voice came on the line.

‘The number you are calling is not available at this time. Please try again later.’

Goddamn it!

But why was he texting her?

Someone must have seen her. Was that why his limousine had come back into the city? Would there be some simple explanation as to why he hadn’t called her? Doubtful. And was it even him? She just didn’t know.

So what should she do about Greg and Laura? She remembered how Sean used to tell her to keep things quiet. Not to involve too many people. He was good at all that. He never ever panicked. And his smile was good too, of course, the way it flashed across his face, warming her inside.

She felt a familiar longing, a deep desire to see him.

‘Pull over,’ she shouted.

‘Jeez Louise,’ said Laura, as the cab swung.

‘I have to go,’ she said.

‘What’s up?’ said Laura,

‘I have to do something.’

She couldn’t bring them with her. Sean would flip right over in a second. And they didn’t deserve getting caught up in anything else. She and Sean attracted trouble.

‘I’m sorry about your apartment.’ She reached over and gripped Greg’s arm.

‘Me too,’ he said. ‘Are you gonna be okay?’

‘Yeah. I’ll call Laura tomorrow. I promise. If your place is trashed and the police need me to make a statement I’ll be there. I’m not going to disappear. I just need to do something.’

‘Be real careful,’ he said. ‘This is all too fucking crazy.’

‘Thanks,’ she said.

‘So that’s it?’ said Laura.

‘I’ll call you. I promise. I’m sorry. I mean it.’ She gripped Laura’s hand.

Greg was looking at her, his eyes wide.

‘Was that your husband texting you?’

She looked at him blankly, as if she hadn’t understood what he’d just said. She couldn’t tell him what she was doing. She’d probably said too much already. She felt lightheaded. The shock of hearing from Sean was building like a wave inside her. She wanted out of the cab.

‘I’ll be okay,’ she said. ‘There are a lot of cabs out.’

And it was true. There was a string of them with their lights on coming up Third Avenue behind them.

The cab driver turned to her. Wondering who was going to pay the fare, probably.

‘Can I put in some money?’ she said.

‘Don’t insult us,’ said Laura.

As she opened the door, she said, ‘I’ll call you.’ She was still pointing a finger at them as the cab pulled away.

She stood there with her hand up. A cab pulled over. She got in and gave the driver directions.

She closed her eyes and gripped the edge of the seat. Was Sean waiting for her? Or was she being stupid? A memory came to her of him calling her name, ‘Isabel’.

She shivered. Let this be the end of all this stupid searching. One way or the other.

‘Here you go,’ said the driver. ‘This is as far as I can take you.’ He turned to her. He had a thin scar down one side of his face. They’d reached the intersection of 45th and Lexington.

It was even colder outside now. The slush by the side of the road was icing up, crunching loudly under her shoes as she got out.

Lexington was quite busy with traffic, but 45th Street had been cordoned off with blue and white striped police barriers across the road. Cars were being diverted.

There were three police trucks in a row on one side of the street, officers in thick coats talking to each other, and an ambulance further on. And a crowd milling around in the middle of 45th, in front of the entrance to the bank, as if they were waiting for something to happen or for someone to show up.

Most people were wrapped in scarves and wore heavy, padded overcoats. It was a middle-class, middle-aged mob.

There must have been a few hundred people hanging around, stamping their feet, talking to each other. Some had flasks with them. Others had banners with things like ‘SAVE OUR JOBS’ written on them. Some were jabbing their banners in the air.

At the entrance to the bank there were three police officers in uniform, and the same number of security guards in black puffy jackets with white badges on their arms. It didn’t look like they were letting anyone in. Her heart sank deep down inside her. This was not what she’d expected.

Across the street from the bank entrance the arc lights of TV news camera crews were lined up above the crowd like a row of glaring vultures.

BXH going down had clearly become a major news event. How the hell was she going to get into the bank?

She took her phone out, stood beside a street light, and tried his number again. Nothing. Still nothing. And this time it didn’t even connect. Was this it? Was someone playing nasty games with her? Her heart contracted, as if someone had reached in and squeezed it.

Alek banged on the door again. No one came. The room felt cold. He was hungry. He hated the people who’d brought him here. They had lied. His Daddy wasn’t waiting for him. He was tired. And so cold.

He headed for the bed. There was a blanket on top of it. He pulled it over himself and curled up in a ball. He trembled as the tears rolled down his cheek.

He wanted to go home.

He wanted so much to go home. And he needed a drink. And he was hungry.

He heard the door opening. He turned to look.

Someone was coming in.

Was it Daddy?

No, it wasn’t.

He closed his eyes and screamed.

The guy next to her had a shiny bald patch. He looked like a bank teller from Fifth Avenue. He had a black Crombie coat on, which went down to just below his knees.

He was smiling grimly. When he spoke his accent was French, with an American twang.

‘You will get cold in that thin jacket.’ His smile had been replaced by a worried look.

‘I’m not hanging around. Who are all these people?’

He looked at her for a moment, as if wondering why she was asking. ‘I work for BXH. Most of these people do too. Not you?’

She shook her head.

He leaned close to her, whispered. ‘Are you a customer?’

She nodded.

‘There’s a BXH ATM around the corner. Some of us are taking our money out. I heard BXH cash cards will be rejected by the ATMs from tomorrow.’ He wiped his brow. ‘But that’s just a rumour. I’m sure it’s not true.’

‘Someone will take BXH over.’

‘Maybe. The retail part, but who knows about the rest of us. They have been very naughty at the top here, you know.’

A vein was thumping in his forehead.

‘They have been gambling with all our futures.’ He leaned close. ‘And they have lost.’ His eyes glowed with an alarming intensity. He made an exasperated noise.

‘It’s all too crazy for me,’ she said. It was hard to take in what he was saying. A disturbing memory from a dream, of red eyes in the darkness, had come to her.

‘I’ll tell you what’s crazy, young lady. I’ve been working here for twenty-three years and all my savings are in BXH, and my retirement fund is stuffed with BXH stock. If they’ve thrown it all away, what will I do?’ He rubbed a hand across his forehead.

‘They’ll be rescued,’ she said.

He shook his head. He raised his eyes to the building looming like a castle above them. Lights were blazing from various floors. ‘You know some senior people are in there. Protecting their asses, I’d say.’

What would he say if she told him her husband might be in there, that he’d just sent her a message?

‘I’m sorry. I have to go.’

She pushed through the crowd. The security guards in front of the entrance were turning people away with shaking heads. Her hopes were low as she elbowed her way to the front.

A security guard, six foot of hard muscle and menace, glared at her. He looked like the kind of guy who would shoot you if you made any sudden movements.

‘My husband’s inside. Can I go in, please?’ she said.

His eyes were dead. He stared at her for a long moment.

‘This building is closed.’ His accent was hard, as if he ate rusty beer cans for breakfast.

‘I have to get in. My husband told me to come. He’s in there.’ Her voice had despair and frustration in it.

‘No way, lady.’ He was looking over her head, as if he had finished with her.

What was she going to do?

She turned away, heading back towards the intersection with Lexington.

She read the message Sean had sent her again.

COME BACK TO THE BANK. WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN NY?

It wasn’t a lot to base your hopes on. But it was enough. Did he know all these people were outside?

HOW DO I GET IN? THERE’S A MOB OUTSIDE she texted to his number. A young guy beside her was groaning loudly as she sent the message, as if he was sick.

‘Does anyone know what’s going on?’ shouted the young guy, turning to the people around him.

‘We’re getting stiffed,’ someone shouted back.

She walked on. What should she do if Sean didn’t answer? Would he come out looking for her? Should she wait?

She heard a siren. Then flashing blue lights were reflecting all around.

Her phone buzzed.

Thank God. Thank God. He’d replied.

COME TO THE CAR PARK ENTRANCE ON LEXINGTON.

Almost every part of her filled with hope now, as if she’d been warmed by his message. She could leave all this mayhem behind. If it was him, of course. There had to be a possibility someone was using his phone or his number. She had to be careful.

She threaded her way through a group heading up Lexington. The crowd outside the bank’s front entrance was going to get a whole lot bigger soon, by the looks of things. She reached the car park entrance as a police cruiser passed, driving slowly. The officers inside were staring out, looking left and right, as if they were looking for recently escaped criminals.

She looked away.

Then, crossing Lexington, coming towards her, who should she see, but her friendly bum from the last time she was here.

Her heart bumped against her rib cage. She took a quick breath. She was nearer the car park entrance, and he was still a hundred yards beyond it, maybe she could avoid him.

Please gate, open.

Before he gets here.

The onyx-black GMC Yukon 4x4 with darkened windows and brand new plates parked with its engine running near the corner of Lexington and 44th had three occupants inside. The man who had spoken, Mr Li, his accent a lilting mix of Hong Kong and Shanghai dialects, tapped the shoulder of the man in the front passenger seat, a younger Chinese man. He repeated what he had said in English.

‘Is she near?’ He was clearly agitated.

The younger man stared at the small silver tablet on his knees. The blinking red dot in the centre of the screen was still showing on the map as being a few hundred yards from them, but it had stopped.

‘She’s on the sidewalk, up there.’ The younger man turned and pointed across the street, past the snowplough.

‘Move forward,’ barked the older man.

The driver did as he was asked. All the occupants, the driver, the young man beside him and the older man looked out through the darkened glass of the front window. Now they could see the back of the bum they’d watched earlier. He was near the Lexington Avenue car park entrance of BXH.

‘
. Once she goes inside go and get him,’ said the older man. ‘I want to talk to him. Tell him I have some money for him, and his friends too, if he can round a few up.’

The younger Chinese man, an American citizen, in the front, felt for his weapon. He had a black Norinco NP24 pistol in a holster under his armpit. He checked his jacket was loose enough to reach the gun quickly.

The NP24 was his favourite. Manufactured in high numbers over many years in Chinese state munitions factories, it was the weapon of choice for many overseas divisions of the PLA, elite Chinese police units and senior members of Chinese tongs in New York City.

The younger man held the smooth pistol grip with his right hand as he pulled the door handle with his left. He knew the older man in the back of the Yukon would not get out, nor would the driver.

And he knew he was expendable.

They would drive off if there was any trouble.

But he knew his duty.

The car park shutter vibrated. Someone was listening to her prayers.

With a loud clanking the red steel leaves went up. There was someone standing behind them. She could see their shoes. They were black, highly polished. For a moment she thought it might be Sean.

Then the shutter came up some more and she saw it was only one of the security guards. He was wearing a black puffy jacket. As she stepped towards him he ducked his head down under the slow moving shutter and looked at her.

‘Name?’ he asked. His gaze flickered around suspiciously, as if he thought she might have accomplices hiding nearby who were about to pounce on him.

‘Isabel Ryan.’

‘Come in, Mrs Ryan.’