The Manhattan Puzzle (31 page)

‘One thing at a time, Mrs Ryan. Let’s deal with your statement first.’

He led her to the main elevators, not to the service elevator she’d come up in.

‘Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to,’ he said, as the elevator doors opened.

‘What am I up to?’ The doors closed behind them.

‘Covering up for your husband. And you better understand this, if you’ve deleted anything at all on his laptop I’m gonna know about it. And on another matter, what were you doing down in the basement?’

‘I was looking for Sean. I found Detective Grainger’s body.’

‘I hope you’re not involved in that. That is monstrous what happened to her.’ He stared at her, as if watching for her reactions.

‘It makes me sick too.’

He looked at the light indicating the floors they were passing.

Isabel had to look down. She felt dizzy. Was Alek okay? Could she do anything to help him?

The elevator stopped on the forty-ninth floor.

Reilly said nothing else until they were in a large meeting room. It had been taken over by a swarm of uniformed police officers, security guards, men and women with badges she didn’t recognise.

She was glimpsing the reality of what happens when a police officer is shot. She heard Sean’s name three times in less than a minute in that room, and she couldn’t even make out what the rest of those conversations were about. It was all a jumble.

She tightened her arms around herself.

‘What is the DA’s office investigating at BXH?’ she said, as Gus Reilly sat down at the head of the shiny black conference table, which dominated the long thickly carpeted meeting room.

‘That’s all confidential,’ he said. ‘Sit down, Mrs Ryan. I’ve got some questions that need answers. And there’s a couple of other officers who want a word with you too.’

She sat on the steel and black leather chair beside him and leaned on its armrest.

Nobody was paying any attention to them.

Two young officers, a blonde girl and a tall black officer with gold epaulettes were poring over a set of layout diagrams at the far end of the table. Other people were talking into walkie-talkies or in huddles with colleagues. There must have been fifteen people in the room.

A side table with an antique silver coffee pot and a teapot on a silver tray stood nearby. They looked like items you’d find at Tiffany’s.

‘Have you been read your rights, Mrs Ryan?’

‘Yes,’ she replied.

‘Have you seen your husband since I saw you last, Mrs Ryan?’ Reilly spoke fast, as if he had a lot to do.

‘No.’

‘What were you looking for on his laptop?’

‘A clue for where I might find him.’

‘Did you find anything?’

‘No.’ She stared into his eyes.

His narrowed. ‘Are you aware of the investigations the DA’s office has been carrying out into BXH?’

She shook her head and leaned forward. ‘Is it something to do with the facial recognition software?’

He hitched his trousers up at the side, gave her a knowing look and answered her with a question. ‘Did your husband say anything at all about investigations into BXH?’

‘No. He’s based in London, anyway. Are you investigating the bank there?’

His eyes darted around the room. ‘You want some advice, Mrs Ryan?’ He turned back to her.

She didn’t answer.

‘Now I’m only going to say this once.’ He sat back, spreading himself onto the armrests of his chair.

‘It’s as clear as day to me that your husband is guilty as hell, and that he’s a murderer.’

She blinked and stared into his watery-blue eyes. It was a weird sensation, hearing someone say that your husband was a murderer, as if he was talking about a parking offence.

‘It’s not going to be easy to accept that, Mr Reilly.’ Her voice sounded as if it was coming from someone far away.

‘Sure, I know you don’t want to think bad of the guy you married, but you gotta wake up, smell the coffee.’

He was shaking his head slowly. ‘You know we got the Metropolitan Police from London sending us over an international arrest warrant and an extradition request any second now.’ He paused for effect.

‘And I got NYPD officers over there,’ he jerked his thumb towards the other end of the table, ‘who are a thousand per cent convinced your husband murdered their colleague.’ He leaned forward. ‘And mine.’

She could smell his sweat, and a hint of beer. He’d probably been watching a game when he’d been interrupted to come in to BXH.

A wiry, black-haired, uniformed police officer came over to them. He put his hands on his hips and looked down at her. The label under the badge on his left breast read GONZALES.

‘You Sean Ryan’s wife?’

She nodded.

He raised his eyebrows and turned to Reilly.

‘Sergeant wants to know if we can take over.’

Gus Reilly looked at his watch and shook his head.

‘I got five more minutes. Your Sergeant agreed to that.’

Officer Gonzales stared at Reilly, as if he wanted him to melt under his gaze. When he didn’t, Gonzales turned, went away.

‘I don’t even know all the people your husband has pissed off.’ Reilly leaned towards her. ‘And I don’t want to know, but if I were you I’d answer each question those officers ask you with the maximum cooperation.’ He looked over his shoulder at the retreating officer.

Then he moved his chair closer to her. ‘You ain’t been in a holding cell with prostitutes and murderers before, have you?’

Isabel leaned towards him. ‘My son is missing, Mr Reilly. And my husband is wanted for murder. I honestly don’t think anything will shock me any more. But I will fight back if anyone tries to lock me up for no good reason. No one with an ounce of humanity would do that.’

The windows of Lord Bidoner’s apartment reflected the light from the black candle on the long coffee table. The flame twisted in each section of glass, as if a row of candles had been lit. Outside, the snow was rushing into the windows high above Fifth Avenue, as if it might find a purchase on itself and build a wall against the skyscraper.

‘We will not talk again, Doctor Lomas. My colleague will drop the DNA sample into your offices on Monday. The cloning process will be entirely in your hands. I have been told your laboratory is equipped and capable. The final payment will be sent to your Swiss bank account when you have confirmed the identity of the individual inseminated.’

Lord Bidoner turned his swivelling leather chair away from the wall of glass and held the phone closer to his ear.

The doctor’s voice came through a little crackled, thanks to the voice encryption app he was using, but it was still clear.

‘There will be no contact from anyone else? That’s it?’ said the doctor.

‘We will require a DNA sample once the child is born,’ said Bidoner. He sighed. ‘And we will find you if it doesn’t match the sample we provide. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Crystal,’ said the doctor. Then he coughed. ‘Is it your DNA we will be cloning, sir?’

Lord Bidoner stared at the candle in front of him. He moved the palm of his hand over it, tasted the pain, let his skin linger on it.

‘I cannot answer that question. I was told that you could do this and that a ten-million-dollar donation would ensure your permanent silence. Do you have a problem sticking to this agreement?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Good. The DNA sample should be treated with great care, doctor, as if your life depended on it.’

He closed the line and stared at the falling snow. He was being optimistic, he knew, that he would find the DNA sample in the BXH building, but it was an optimism born of verifiable evidence. The artefact they were looking for, and its secret chamber, were mentioned on the Nestorian Stele, the first record of Christianity in China, from the year ad 781.

A later manuscript described what the secret chamber contained; a much-sought relic, with visible traces of the blood of Iisus Hristos
.

Chinese monks had hidden the documents for centuries and the Communists had tried to find them and destroy them, but they hadn’t succeeded. And after paying for access to them he had gone to extraordinary lengths to verify the truth of what these records showed.

The search for a true relic of Christ, his blood or a lock of his hair, had been a matter of religious faith up until the latest DNA cloning techniques had been developed.

But now it would be the story of how science brought about the second coming. And this time He would come as a man of power. And He would rule the world as it should be ruled, with a clenched fist, as He would be trained to do.

The change was coming. And with a leader people could have total faith in no one would dare resist. Every religion that had accepted Jesus as a prophet or a Messiah would have to bow before the new order. Popes and imams would kneel before them with their flocks coming in behind them.

And around the Second Christ, Lord Bidoner and his friends would plan the future of humanity.

He turned away from the window and smiled. The destiny of all who lived and all who were to come would be determined in the next few hours. And he would be at the centre of it.

Xena was sitting on the long sofa. She was watching something on a tablet. Her hand was moving fast across the screen.

His investment in her had been the best move he had made in a long time. Her willingness to kill without remorse was a quality few possessed.

Not many had the courage to act upon that most true of sayings,
the end justifies the means
.

There was a thin knife on the leather seat beside her. It was small enough for her to hide almost anywhere, yet big enough to kill with precision.

‘It is time,’ he said.

Xena didn’t smile. She simply picked up the knife and stood.

They headed for the panic room.

‘I didn’t know your son was missing. What happened?’ said Reilly.

Isabel told him what Henry Mowlam had told her.

He whistled. ‘He thinks it’s got something to do with your husband’s disappearance?’

She nodded. ‘I’m scared, Mr Reilly, but not of my husband.’

‘What d’ya mean?’

She leaned towards him. ‘I saw a guy who was following me earlier. He was in the basement here at BXH an hour ago. He ran at me as if he wanted to kill me. He was dressed like a security guard.’

‘Can you describe him?’

‘Tall, bald, I’d know him if I saw him again. Please think about it, Mr Reilly. That video confession is too convenient.’

He stared at her, his eyelids drooping.

‘We have ID details of all the guards in the building. I’ll get someone to run photos by you.’

She shook her head. She put a hand out to him.

‘Can I go back to my hotel? I need to book an earlier flight back to London. I have to be there. Alek is missing. Do you have children, Mr Reilly?’

He stared at her. ‘The NYPD want you for questioning.’

She sat up straight and nodded. Then she looked away. A wave of emotion was rising inside her after talking about Alek. She sniffed, held it back.

An older woman, a heavyset New York bleached blonde, with girder-like shoulders, came over to Reilly, and tapped his shoulder.

He didn’t turn around. ‘Whad’a ya want?’

‘I got a problem, sir.’ She had no badge on her pinstriped suit.

He shrugged. ‘What’s up?’

She came around and stood at his side. She was eyeing Isabel as if she might be dangerous.

Then she looked at Gus, an exaggerated questioning expression on her face.

He nodded, almost imperceptibly. ‘Go ahead,’ he said.

She bent down and whispered loudly, ‘I’m getting zero cooperation. Just some bullshit stories about us needing a court order.’ Her gaze flickered towards the other end of the room.

Dick Owen was down there, in a huddle with two other tall, thin men in suits. They looked exactly how you’d imagine Securities and Exchange Commission people to look like; serious nerds.

As she watched, Owen moved away from his colleagues, walked towards the double doors at the far end of the room and stood there as if he was talking to someone. She had to lean sideways to get a glimpse of who it was.

Reilly said something. She didn’t catch it.

Mrs Vaughann was standing in the doorway.

She was looking at Owen. He was waving his hands, as if explaining something.

She felt a heady rush. Mrs Vaughann might be able to help her, explain to the NYPD how she’d been looking for Sean since yesterday.

She might help her get away from them.

Mrs Vaughann looked in her direction. So did Owen. Isabel waved at her. Mrs Vaughann’s hand came up, in a half wave. Then Owen said something to her. She turned on her heel, disappeared. Isabel thought about shouting her name, but Mrs Vaughann was gone.

‘I need to see the lady who was just over there,’ she said. She pointed at the far end of the room.

‘You can see whoever you like when we’re finished with you,’ said Reilly, without turning to see who she was pointing at.

She gripped her arms tighter around herself and bit into her lip. How long was all this going to take? There was a laptop screen further up the table. It was half turned towards her. There were two images side by side on the screen.