Sanctus (24 page)

The phone clicked in Liv’s ear.

‘Hello?’

‘You sent me a warning,’ Liv said. ‘Who are you?’

There was the briefest of pauses. Ordinarily she wouldn’t have noticed it; now it made her instantly suspicious.

‘A friend,’ the woman replied. ‘Where are you now?’

Liv continued to drift with the tourist tide, felt the comforting press of other ordinary, straightforward human beings around her. ‘Why would I tell you that?’

‘Because we can protect you. Because there are people looking for you right now. People who want to silence you. Liv, there’s no easy way of saying this. These people want to kill you . . .’

Liv hesitated, somehow more unsettled by the sudden intimacy of the woman using her name than by the announcement that someone wanted her dead.

‘Who wants to kill me?’

‘Ruthless, formidable people. They want to silence you because they think your brother shared knowledge with you; knowledge that no one is supposed to have.’

Liv glanced down at the letters scrawled across the newspaper in her hand. ‘I don’t know anything,’ she said.

‘It doesn’t matter to them. If they think you know something, that’s enough. They risked taking you at the airport. They also stole your brother’s body because of it and they’ll keep looking for you until they find you. They don’t take chances.’ The woman let the statement hang in the air for a beat before continuing in a softer tone. ‘If you tell me where you are, I can send someone to bring you to a safe place. The same man I sent to protect you last night.’

‘Gabriel?’

‘Yes,’ Kathryn replied. ‘He’s with us. He was sent to look out for you. He did look out for you. Tell me where you are and I’ll send him to you.’

Liv wanted to trust her, but she needed time to think before she could allow herself to trust anyone else right now. Apart from the borrowed clothes on her back, all she had was her few dollars in change, a phone that was about to run out of battery, and yesterday’s copy of a local newspaper. She looked at it now. Saw her brother’s face staring out at her from a halo of scrawled letters and symbols. Realized something. Twisted the paper round and read the small print on the back page.

‘I’ll call you back,’ she said.

Sulley moved past the newsstand.

The girl was less than fifty feet in front of him. He jostled through the slow-moving crowd, gradually closing the gap between them, still not quite sure what he was going to do when he got to her. He thought about simply turning round and making his way back to the district building. But if he did, the guy in the van could rat him out; an anonymous tip giving the name of the person who’d been leaking information with copies of the files as proof. He’d been careful to cover his tracks – but even so. If they could link the monk’s disappearance with him, he’d be looking at some heavy shit: compromising an ongoing investigation, perverting the course of justice, selling privileged information. He could go to prison – every police officer’s worst nightmare.

So he kept on walking, keeping the crowd between him and the girl in case she looked round and saw him. Standard surveillance procedure. As he closed in on her he thought about just telling her to run, then disappear himself until all this blew over.

He fixed his eyes on the dark blue hood and walked a little faster. Just ten feet away now.

Five.

He was almost upon her when he saw the white van pull to a stop at the far end of the pedestrian street, trapping her like a rat in a drainpipe. There was no way she could get away now. No way either of them could. He had to go through with it.

He slowed, allowing the distance between them to lengthen again as the flow of people took her closer to the van. He didn’t want to drag her further than was absolutely necessary. Up ahead he saw the big man with the beard step out of the van and move round to open the rear doors. They were only ten feet away now. He stepped forward. Reached out to grab her. Noticed the other guy inside the van frowning at the notebook then looking up and shaking his head.

Too late.

His freckled hand landed on the girl’s shoulder and he spun her round.

‘Hey!’ She twisted out of his grip.

Sulley looked at the shocked face framed in the blue hood. It wasn’t the girl.

‘Sorry,’ Sulley said, jerking his hand away like he’d touched a live cable. ‘I thought you were . . .’

He pointed at the POLICE sweatshirt. ‘Where did you get this?’

The girl glared at him. He dug out his badge and watched the defiance vanish.

She pointed back in the direction they’d come. ‘I swapped it with some girl.’

Sulley followed her outstretched arm. Saw nothing but a mass of strangers. ‘How long ago?’

She shrugged. ‘Couple of minutes.’

‘What did you swap it for?’

‘Just another sweatshirt.’

‘Could you describe it?’

The girl raised her palms. ‘White. Kind of . . . washed out. Bit worn at the sleeves.’

In the midday warmth most of those filling the street had now dispensed with their coats and jackets; more than half were wearing something white. With his back still turned to the van, Sulley allowed himself a smile.

Nice work, missy
, he thought to himself.
Nice work indeed.

Liv walked out of the tourist information office and headed against the flow of people, which bothered her slightly, back in the direction of the police building, which bothered her more.

She checked the free map she’d been given, tracing different routes to the street circled in black felt pen. She could have chosen a more circuitous route, but it would take longer and she was already on borrowed time. She’d just have to risk it. She pulled her phone from her pocket and checked the screen. The battery icon was empty. She pressed the speed-dial key anyway, praying there’d still be enough power to make one call.

‘It wasn’t her,’ Kutlar said, before the policeman had a chance to speak. He wanted to remind Cornelius of his usefulness.

‘No, it wasn’t,’ the officer said, leaning in through the open window. ‘She switched to a plain white top. The girl she swapped with couldn’t say which direction she was headed.’

Cornelius started up the engine. ‘Get in,’ he said.

The policeman shuffled uncertainly, pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. ‘You know I should probably –’

‘Get in,’ Cornelius repeated.

He got in.

Kutlar glanced at the screen and started to relax a little. Knowing what the girl looked like was the only thing keeping him alive right now. Having the policeman tag along made him nervous because he knew what she looked like too. The sooner he split the better.

The van moved off, jarring Kutlar’s leg again on the uneven road.

He hit return and the hourglass icon appeared as the system reached out for the girl’s signal.

The ringing tone kicked in as Liv passed a street stall selling freshly made flat breads. The thick, hot smell of roasted spices and onions reminded her how long it had been since she’d had anything substantial to eat. The sun beat down on the bone-coloured flagstones and buildings that all looked like churches.

‘Where the hell have you been?’ the familiar voice yelled. Rawls Baker, owner and editor of the
New Jersey Inquirer,
was not one of life’s whisperers. ‘You’d better be calling to file copy on that birth story; I got a hole in the lifestyle section you could drive a truck through.’

‘Listen Rawls, I –’

‘Don’t give me excuses. Just give me that story.’

‘Rawls, I haven’t written it.’

There was a moment’s pause. ‘Well, you’d better start writing it right this –’

‘What’s the story on the front page of the
Inquirer
this morning?’ she asked, before he could launch into a full-blown roasting.

‘What the hell’s that got to do with anything?’

‘Just answer the question.’

‘The monk. Same as every other paper.’

‘He was my brother.’

The phone went silent.

‘You’re shitting me!’

‘I’m in Ruin now; I flew in this morning. There’s something strange going on here. I don’t know what it is, but it’s something big. I’m in the middle of it and I need your help.’

The silence flooded back. She could picture him in his office, staring out at the river, calculating how much an exclusive might be worth. Her phone beeped loudly in her ear and for a moment she thought she’d been disconnected. Then Rawls’s voice rumbled back through the ether. ‘What do you need?’

‘I’m heading towards the offices of a local newspaper called
Itaat Eden Kimse
. I want you to call ahead and get them to kit me out with some petty cash, a notebook and some pens. Maybe the loan of a desk for a few hours.’

‘No problem.’ She heard the scratch of Rawls’s pen. ‘Just don’t go sharing anything valuable with them. Remember who’s signing your paycheque. Tell them you’re writing a travel piece or something.’

‘OK,’ she said. The low-battery signal beeped in her ear again. ‘My cell’s about to die. Can you see if they can hook me up with a charger as well?’ She gave him the make and model, but there was only silence at his end of the line.

The screen was blank. She slipped it back into her pocket. Looked back up the road. Saw a vehicle approaching.

‘Over there . . .’ Kutlar pointed at a group of people eating stuffed flatbreads from a food stall but kept his eyes on the screen. Cornelius turned towards them. Sulley’s door was open almost before they came to a stop. ‘I’ll look around,’ he said, and slammed it back shut with a pungent cloud of spices and onions. Kutlar glanced up from the screen. He watched the policeman hitching up his trousers and scanning the crowd.

‘You see her?’ Cornelius said.

Kutlar scrutinized the mass of faces on both sides of the street. ‘No,’ he said finally. The smell of the food made him feel nauseous.

Cornelius took the notebook from him. The street map was frozen, the arrow at the centre pointing at the place they were now parked. The side column showed the last number she had called and an hourglass icon spun slowly next to it as the system searched through the networks, hunting it down.

Kutlar glanced in the side mirror. The policeman was now talking to the stallholder and helping himself to some food. His stomach lurched and he looked away. Thanks to the brutal oneway system it had taken them nearly five minutes to get here. He could have done it in half the time, but the sat-nav had sent them along busy main roads and he’d had no desire to challenge it. The longer they kept looking for her, the more chance he’d have of working his way out of this situation.

He also had another agenda, not quite as strong as his instinct for survival, but strong nonetheless. It involved the man who had put the bullet in his leg and forced him to leave his cousin lying dead in the road. He’d never been particularly close to Serko, but he was family. He figured if these guys found the girl then maybe they’d find the guy who killed him as well. He really hoped he’d try and get in their way.

The hourglass icon had disappeared from the screen and in its place was a dialogue box listing a name and address. He watched Cornelius copy the information into a text message.

‘The guy says he saw someone about five minutes ago sounds like our girl.’ The policeman leaned in through the open window, chewing his last mouthful of bread. Kutlar recoiled at the garlic on his breath. ‘Says he thinks maybe she hopped in a cab.’

Cornelius pressed
send
. Waited for it to go.

‘Listen,’ Sulleiman said, ‘if she’s mobile she could be anywhere by now. I mean, you’ll pick her up again as soon as she switches her phone back on. But I really need to be getting back to the station. I took a big risk to give you guys a head start . . . and if I don’t get back and call the girl in missing, it’s going to get ugly.’

Cornelius waited until
message sent
flashed up then squinted at the traffic. Every other car was a cab. ‘Sure,’ he said finally. ‘Hop in, we’ll give you a ride.’

Sulleiman hesitated for a beat then climbed in.

Kutlar edged away from him as far as he could. The smell of garlic and sweat coming off the policeman almost made him gag.

It was cold in New York, colder than Rodriguez remembered it, and he’d put on the red windcheater as soon as he shuffled off the plane with the other passengers. He was walking through the international arrivals hall when his cell phone vibrated in its pocket. He glanced at the new name and address: somewhere in Newark; residential, by the look of it.

He looked around for a newsstand or a bookstore. The old TWA Flight Centre was all curved edges and scooped, elegant lines; it looked like it had been built by giant bugs rather than bureaucrats and Teamsters. He spotted a Barnes and Noble.

The last time he had been here was six years ago. Back then he thought he was leaving his country and his old life for ever. Now here he was, back in town and back to something close to his old ways. He cleared the message and dialled a number from memory. He had no idea if it was still valid, nor even if the person he was trying to contact was dead or in jail. The phone started ringing as he walked into the bookstore, past displays of cookbooks by celebrity chefs and paperbacks with one-word titles.

‘Hello?’

The voice sounded like the rustle of dry paper. He could hear a TV turned up loud in the background; angry people shouting, other people yelling and applauding.

‘Mrs Barrow?’ He’d arrived at the shelf where they usually kept the city guides.

‘Who dat?’ The tone was guarded.

‘Name’s Guillermo,’ he said, upping his old street accent, which now tasted strange on his tongue. ‘Guillermo Rodriguez. Used to go by the name Gil. I’m an old friend of JJ’s, Mrs B. Been outta town fo’ while. Be nice to hook up with him – if ’n he’s around.’

There was a pause filled with more TV applause and whoops of encouragement. It sounded like
Springer
, or
Ricki Lake
. The type of show he’d forgotten existed.

‘Loretta’s kid!’ the woman said suddenly. ‘Used to live in that two-room walk up over on Tooley Street.’

‘Sure am, Mrs B. Loretta’s kid.’

‘Ain’t seen nothin’ o’ her in a while.’

An image flashed into his mind. Skin stretched tight over brittle bones. Tubes feeding medicine into spots on her arms where the junk used to go.

‘She died, Mrs Barrow,’ he said. ‘’Bout seven years back.’

‘Aw yeah? I’m real sorry, son. She was a nice lady, far as she went.’

‘Thanks,’ he said, knowing what she meant but letting it go all the same.

The strident voices from the TV stretched into the silence again until he began to wonder if she’d forgotten he was there.

‘Say, son, give me your number,’ she said suddenly. ‘I’ll pass it on to Jason. If’n he wants to talk with ya, he’ll talk.’

Rodriguez smiled. ‘Thanks, Mrs Barrow,’ he said. ‘Really ’preciate it.’

He gave her his number and she hung up while he was in the middle of thanking her again. He grabbed an ADC street map of Newark and headed over to the till. His phone rang again as he collected his change. He thanked the cashier and went back into the concourse.

‘Gil? That you, mon?’

‘Yeah, JJ my man, it’s me.’

‘Goddamn. Gilly Rodriguez.’ A big smile lit up his voice. ‘I heard you got took by the God Squad.’

‘Nah, man. Just been outta town fo’ while . . .’

He let the silence hang. In his old life being ‘outta town’ generally meant being in the pen.

‘So where you at now, man?’

‘Queens. Got a few things lined up, you know how it is. Just need to get hooked up again.’

‘Yeah?’ JJ’s tone narrowed in the same way his grandma’s had. ‘What y’all need?’

He thought of what he’d read on the flight over; first-hand accounts of heretics being purified in the flames of the
Tabula Rasa
. ‘You think you can line me up with something a little . . . specialized?’

‘I can get you whatever you want, long as you got the money.#x2019;

Rodriguez smiled. ‘Yeah,’ he said, pushing through the exit door and into the chill of a New York morning. ‘I got money.’