The Manhattan Puzzle (20 page)

Something had struck her.

Might they say she was stalking the bank too?

With a cold hand she brushed away the last few snowflakes that hadn’t melted on her jacket. Her breathing was almost back to normal now.

‘Stop.’ Laura roared at the driver.

He pulled over with a screech. They were opposite a brownstone building. It soared into the sky like a fortress and took up a whole block.

‘Where are we?’

‘My brother’s got a place here. He’ll help you.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘He’s a sucker for a pretty face.’

Greg’s apartment was just about the smallest Isabel had ever seen. It was one room, if you didn’t count the toilet. Which they probably did, as the toilet had a shower right beside it. But you couldn’t have dried yourself there. Your elbows would hit the walls every time you raised them.

But the view from the window in the corridor outside was incredible. Lexington Avenue looked like a canyon in an apocalyptic movie, with cliffs of skyscrapers leading to a vanishing point. Pearl-like strings of headlights were moving slowly down it and snow was falling from orange-tinged clouds as if it was a nuclear winter.

‘Is this weather in for the weekend?’ Isabel asked, after Greg had brought them inside, and they were sitting on his shiny brown leather sofa.

Everything about the room was well ordered. There were shelves on each wall and a red cherry-wood office table sat in a corner. On it there were piles of magazines, jars of pens, black Russian dolls in a row, a 19 inch flat-screen Apple monitor, and loads of software manuals for Photoshop and Flash and other programs.

‘You bet. It’s gonna be a couple of feet deep, at least, by Monday,’ said Greg. ‘That’s what the weather sites are saying. If you can believe ’em.’

Greg was six feet tall. He had short unruly black hair, and a cynicism similar to Laura’s. But that was where the similarities ended.

Greg was a neo-goth or something like that. He had long black smudges of eye make-up and wore a tight black T-shirt with an elaborate winged skull in cracked silver on its front.

She had to take her jacket off quickly. He kept his apartment at an amazingly high temperature. Or was the whole block like this?

There was only one window in his room too. She went to it, touched the frosted glass. The cold from outside seeped into her fingers. Had Sean gone to a hotel? She checked her phone. No calls. She pressed his number again. Number not available. Each time he didn’t pick up was like a cut to her soul.

Laura and Greg were talking behind her.

‘Can I open this, get some fresh air?’ said Isabel.

‘Sure, but don’t open it far. This room flash-freezes in a second,’ said Greg.

The window had one of those handles that allows you to open it at the side, or the top. She opened it at the side, just a couple of inches.

The view was of the inside of an air shaft. The building had a fifty-foot wide, red-brick-lined shaft at its centre, with windows facing each other across the void. They went up in a checkerboard pattern out of sight, and down as far the eye could see.

Snow was falling in the shaft, like sifted flour.

They were on the tenth floor. Almost all the windows facing into the shaft had frosted glass, which meant you couldn’t see what the other inhabitants were up to, but you could see their lights, their curtains, books and boxes piled up against windows and, in one case, an odd pink shape pressed up against the window glass, as if a dead body was being stored there.

She closed the window. Greg was making a pot of coffee on a hot plate.

‘What are you doing in New York?’ he said.

‘Looking for my husband.’

‘You lost him?’ He had a smile on his face, as if he enjoyed hard-luck stories.

‘Something like that.’

‘When did you last see him?’

‘Thirty minutes ago.’

‘And he’s missing already?’ He raised his eyebrows.

‘I didn’t speak to him. I saw him in a car. He didn’t look right.’

He leaned forward. ‘He’s cheating you, yeah?’

‘No, it’s not that.’ She shook her head. ‘He’s working on a project at BXH. There’s something totally weird going on there. I saw him, but I can’t contact him. His phone is off.’

‘BXH? You know they’ve been handing out ten-million-dollar bonuses this week?’ His eyes gleamed.

‘My husband is not on that list.’

‘Not many are,’ he said.

She was sitting on a comfortable steel and black leather chair near the window. ‘You know that they’re about to declare bankruptcy?’

‘They’ll be taken over before that happens,’ he said. He stretched his legs, pushed them up against a black bookcase with a large LCD TV sitting on top of it. It was switched on, tuned to some MTV channel with a rock band playing silently.

‘What project is he working on for BXH?’

Isabel hesitated, but only for a second. It wouldn’t help her to try to protect BXH. ‘He’s working on software project that allows them to use facial recognition for all clients and staff. He’s based in their London office.’

‘Neat. That’s where all the trouble started.’

‘Trouble?’

‘Yeah, it’s all over the net. It’s even got its own Twitter hashtag now. Some strip club dancer was murdered in London. BXH’s CEO was in the club the night it happened, some Vaughann guy. He’s under suspicion, so they all say. The
New York Times
reckons that’s why the Chinese pulled out.’ He shook his head. ‘Not much fun if you’re a BXH serf.’

‘Vaughann’s under suspicion?’ She felt a selfish wave of relief. If Paul Vaughann was under suspicion, that meant things had moved on. Sean might be in the clear.

‘Take a look for yourself.’ Greg took an iPad from the table and passed it to her.

The front page of The
New York Times
was on the screen. The main story was about Mr Vaughann. The article related how BXH in London had held a premature celebration two nights before in a club and that a dancer had been found dead later, and that the UK CEO, Paul Vaughann, had used the bank’s jet to travel to New York, though the British authorities had wanted to interview him.

She read the story twice. There was no mention of Sean.

‘That ain’t all,’ said Greg. ‘The
Wall Street Journal
’s got a story about BXH being Lehman Brothers all over again. They say the Fed isn’t going to bail them out. But I reckon they’re wrong. BXH has got trillions in derivatives under management. If they blow up, the whole financial system will collapse. It’s scary stuff. It’ll be worse than the Lehman’s crisis. Way worse.’

‘They won’t let BXH go down,’ said Isabel. ‘Someone will sort it out. Don’t they rescue banks all the time?’

‘Not as big as this one, with all the international offices they got. The Feds don’t like rescuing outside the jurisdiction. And who would take them over now? That’s the sixty-four-trillion dollar question.’

‘BXH wants to stay in private hands,’ she said.

‘Is that what your husband thinks?’ His eyes were wide, bug-like.

She didn’t answer.

‘Did you try texting him?’ said Laura.

‘A dozen times.’

‘What was that license plate?’

‘AFC something.’ Crap, it was gone!

‘35P450,’ she said. ‘Thank God.’

‘What license plate is that?’ said Greg.

‘The car her husband disappeared in,’ said Laura.

‘So that’s what you’re here for. Why didn’t you tell me you wanted to use me? Not that I’d mind.’ He gave Isabel the tiniest smile.

Then he stood, went to the table, and pulled a skinny leather office chair out. Its back was supported by what looked like an aluminium human spine. He sat on the chair. Then he launched a browser on his big screen.

‘Most times I can get the license plate holder’s address, but I can’t guarantee anything else.’

‘You can get more, sometimes?’

‘Sometimes. No guarantee. Like I said. Give me five.’

She checked her watch. It was 7:25 p.m. She had to ring Rose again, see if Alek was okay.

‘I gotta make a call,’ she said. She took her phone out of her pocket and called Rose’s number. She felt a twist of guilt at being so far from Alek. But this time the fluttering in her chest was stronger, like the beating of bat wings. Everything was spooking her now.

Not available, was the message that came back from Rose’s line. She breathed deep, held it down. Don’t get paranoid, she said to herself.

He’s okay with Rose. To believe anything else would be stupid.

‘Keep him quiet,’ said Adar. They were in a white GMC Savana with windowless panel sides and an interior in the rear section, which had two seats on one side and space for equipment on the other.

The boy, Alek, had been sleeping when they’d landed and they’d got out of La Guardia after a thirty-minute wait for a proper customs inspection of their hold. Two US Customs and Border Protection officers had given them the all clear only after using sniffer dogs.

The Department of Homeland Security officer hadn’t been as friendly as in the past, and there had been one difficult moment, when Adar had thought he was going to question the boy. The officer had leaned down to him and touched the boy’s shoulder, until the boy woke and looked up at him.

But he must have been simply checking the boy’s eye colour, as he didn’t speak to him.

After that he’d checked all their passports again. The boy’s family name matched Adar’s. He’d said he was his son when he’d met the officer as he was mounting the steps of the plane.

The officer also used a mobile scanner, probably to check the boy wasn’t on a runaway or wanted list. And he wasn’t.

Getting the passport right in London had been what had delayed them flying back. But Adar always made sure that that part of a job was done properly.

And now they were on their way in to the city. They’d be passing through the Midtown Tunnel into Manhattan Island in the next few minutes. The traffic around them was light, but there was still a steady stream of cars on each of the three lanes heading in, despite the snow.

Alek let out a cry again. He’d been restless since he’d woken and even after stopping at a burger joint near La Guardia and getting a kids’ meal for him, he still hadn’t settled down. The plastic toy he’d got didn’t keep him occupied for long.

Adar was glad he had stayed with him in the truck while his colleague went in and got the takeaway. He didn’t like attracting attention unless it was necessary. He was also glad that he’d be handing him over to Lord Bidoner soon.

Dealing with children on a job always made him nervous.

The entrance to the Midtown Tunnel loomed. The noise of the cars around them changed as rolling tyres echoed from the concrete roof.

Twenty minutes later they were pulling into the underground car park on Fifth Avenue, where he was supposed to do the handover. He headed down to the lowest level. It was almost empty.

When he saw it was Xena waiting for him, whom he’d met with Lord Bidoner when he’d been interviewed by him, he knew the boy was in real trouble. He’d heard Bidoner talking about some guys in Amsterdam she had tortured and burnt to death, just for talking out of turn.

He got out of the GMC and didn’t even speak to Xena. She went to the back door of the van and opened it.

‘Come on. Come and meet your Daddy,’ she said.

The boy jumped out of his seat and was out of the back door in a second. How easy it is to fool children, Adar thought.

The boy looked around, confused.

‘Let’s go, Alek. I’ll take you to meet your dad.’

She put her hand out to him. Alek took it. Adar shook his head. Too easy. What a shock he’s going to get.

She was even smiling. And she didn’t look back as she headed to a blue Ford Focus. It had blackened windows. It looked like a rental. And there was someone in the back, and though Adar couldn’t see, he knew who it was.

Then he glimpsed Lord Bidoner’s silver hair as the boy got in.

Adar reached for the door of the van.

That was when his phone vibrated. He had an incoming message.
You are needed at BXH.

He’d guessed there would be more work to do in Manhattan, and he was right. He didn’t mind, though he was hoping he wouldn’t be involved in whatever they were planning for the boy.

The boy increasingly reminded him of his own son. And the last people he’d ever want his son to end up with were Lord Bidoner and his friend.

‘When are you going back to London?’ said Laura.

‘I’ve a ticket booked for late tomorrow night. I have to pick up my son, Alek. He’s only four and a half. My friend is looking after him. I promised her I’d be back on Monday.’ Isabel felt a lump in her throat.

Why did she feel so paranoid about Rose and Alek?

Then she remembered something. Next Saturday they were all supposed to be going to Hamleys on Regent Street, to sort out Alek’s Christmas presents. How could they do that if Sean wasn’t with them?

‘Result,’ said Greg, loudly.

‘What?’ She stood behind him. She had to put her worries about Alek aside. He was in safe, if slightly erratic, hands.

There was an official-looking site with a list of names and addresses on the screen in front of Greg.

‘That car is registered to some Jersey City limo service,’ he said.

‘Great,’ said Laura.

Greg rubbed his hands on his jeans, then held his knees. ‘You’re lucky I found anything, sis.’

‘Chill, Greg.’ Laura put a hand on his arm. He shrugged it off.

She leaned towards Isabel, whispered loudly. ‘If he didn’t spend so much time on his stupid blogs he might get out, meet people, find a real girlfriend.’

‘I get out,’ he snapped. ‘And my blogs ain’t stupid.’

‘Yeah, you see daylight once a week. When you visit that loser’s goth bar in the Village. Why you go there I have no idea. It’s such a throwback. You need a real girlfriend, Greg.’

‘Right, and you sound more like mom every day. Anyhow, the world’s heading for a climate shock, so I don’t think this is the right time to be settling down with anyone.’

‘You are so totally brainwashed,’ said Laura.

‘What do you think?’ They both looked at Isabel.