by Lee Stone
‘What did they give you…?’ Lockhart asked under his breath, his fingers turning the packages. He slit one open, piercing the dark plastic wrapper with the steak knife and wondering how Matilda had ended up entangled in the deal. How had she gone from a girl studying in New York City to a mule was in too deep to walk away? He thought he knew. His stomach turned. He had to find her.
‘Okay,’ he said to himself, pulling a bundle of tightly packed fifty-dollar bills from the open package. He took a breath. There was a lot of cash. He took the carved box out of the suitcase and set it down on the worktop. It was a perfect cube, each side about eight inches long. He ran a finger along the edge if it, feeling the grooves and indentations. It was old and worn. It looked like it belonged on the Cambodian side of its journey and seemed at odds in New York City. It looked like it yearned to be home. Lockhart pushed at the top of it. It wasn’t locked, but the wooden lid fitted snuggly on the top. Lockhart prized it open gently. There was nothing inside except folded black linen, specked with traces of gold leaf. No drugs. No crack. Something was gone. The black shroud had been wrapped around something, probably something valuable, judging by the golden residue. Lockhart leafed through it for a moment before deciding to take it with him. He closed the lid, zipped the suitcase, and screwed the panel back underneath the refrigerator with the steak knife and wiped away the flecks of paint from the wooden floor.
He left the apartment five minutes later, heading back down the stairwell and straight across the opulent lobby without waiting for Raul to emerge from his cupboard to grab the door. The power cut had blackened the whole district, and the streetlights were all dark. As he walked through the dull glow of shrouded moonlight, bent against the wind, Lockhart wondered if it was Matilda who had stolen whatever was in the box. His gut said no, but then she was proving to be full of surprises. The way she had spoken, afraid and remorseful, she had not sounded like a woman who wanted to take on more trouble. But she had lied about her name and had been resourceful enough to find herself a gun from somewhere. Lockhart watched the sky light up as more lightning hit the city. The street was slick with water so that the patchwork of tarmac glistened and reflected the headlights of the few cars still brave or foolish enough to be moving. On the balance of probabilities, which was all he had to work with, Lockhart figured it was more likely that the ornate carved box was already empty by the time it was given to Matilda. Steal it before sending the courier away to face Ta Penh’s wrath in Cambodia. But if he was right, then the contents of the box had to be valuable. Whoever took it left bundles of fifties behind. Lockhart tried to focus on what it meant, but the wind blew the answers clean out of his head. The cabs had long gone. Swinging street signs had bought down a power cable, and it sparked and skipped across the street, humming and spitting louder than the sound of the storm.
Lockhart was almost oblivious to it, except when the wind gusted under the black suitcase and pulled him off balance. Was Matilda somewhere out in the storm? Why hadn’t she waited for him? His gut told him she was about to do something stupid, and she didn’t want him involved. A couple emerged for a side street, shaking him from his thoughts. They were bent against the wind and moving quickly towards him. The taller of the two, and man in his fifties, was stooping over his partner as he walked, his face a picture of concern. His hands were cradling the pale face of the woman nestled under his arm, and in the streetlight Lockhart saw blood tricking across the man’s fingers. As they passed, he glimpsed a long thin wound across the woman’s cheek. He thought of Matilda, all on her own. He thought of the dark line across her stomach and he knew how they had forced her hand, and he knew why she’d come back to New York City. Why she’d found a gun. What she was planning. And why she had no choice at all.
39
Thirty minutes later, Marie Saunders took a deep breath and put the phone back on the hook. For a second she stared at the receiver, the name the receptionist had told her still echoing around her head. She could feel the man’s eyes on her back before she turned. He was, after all, a watcher. Sure enough, when she turned, he was there, behind the glass wall that separated the newsroom from the reception lobby. He was looking down across the floor, watching the reporters at work. Surveying. He was calm, standing with his hands behind his back as if he owned the place, and yet there wasn’t an ounce of arrogance about him.
She rose from her chair and started towards him, moving self-consciously under his gaze. Using all of her self-control not to break into a run. She had known him, years ago, but his reputation had grown so much since then. Even in exile. Charlie Lockhart. A legend of sorts. A man who represented everything that was still good in her world. Maybe just a man who represented everything good, period. She could see him drinking in the whole scene, knowing exactly what would be happening on a day like this.
Lockhart. Christ, how long had it been? Long enough to feel like another lifetime. Long enough for her to falter as she moved towards him. Nothing romantic had ever passed between them. Not quite. They had both been young and single, but both of them had been too hungry for the job. For the story. And both of them had ended up famous. Every journalist knew the editor of the New York Times. And every reporter had heard of Charlie Lockhart.
She felt awkward, unsure whether to wave, or to keep looking, or to avoid eye contact until she was through the door and able to greet him properly. Flustered like a schoolgirl. In the end she waved. If he was the same guy as he had been when they worked together in London, there would be no need for pretense. Lockhart was intuitive. He would expect her to be nervous. He would know how she felt. He smiled through the glass, and she moved quickly to the door, straightened her skirt and pushed into the lobby to meet him.
She was relieved that he spoke first.
‘Knock knock.’
She laughed.
‘Where to start?’ she said, and she stood for a moment just looking at him. Checking he was real. ‘I’m guessing you need my help?’
‘Rude.’
‘Me?’
Lockhart chuckled, and if she had needed proof that it was the same Lockhart she had known, the laugh was enough. It was warm and honest, and his eyes still lit up in a way that wiped clean a forgotten year and bridged the time that had passed between them.
‘Well, you’re straight to the point at least,’ he said. ‘I’m glad to see you haven’t changed, Marie. Look, I know what the storm is doing to the city. I know how busy that makes you. And you already know I wouldn’t be here unless I had a serious problem.’
Marie smiled and shook her head. Charlie Lockhart. The guy you could put down for a year and then pick up exactly where you left off.
‘You waltz into my newsroom and have the audacity to tell me what I know? Now that’s rude. The worst thing is, you’re pretty much on the money too. I was thinking if you’re here, you’re probably bringing a whole heap of trouble to my door. And we’re friends. And you wouldn’t do that to me unless you were stuck.’
Lockhart nodded. He looked at her with soft eyes and she got the feeling he was comparing her to how she was all those years ago. She wondered if she had weathered the years as well as him.
‘Busted,’ he said eventually. ‘Have you got fresh towels here?’
‘There’s a hand dryer in the men’s room,’ she said.
Lockhart smiled.
‘And how do you know that?’
She drank him in. He was leaner than he had been when she had last seen him, and he had a hint of gray in the stubble around his chin. He had grown into himself well, the way people do when they’ve lived carefully, but he still looked like the Lockhart who had disappeared overnight from London all those months ago.
‘Come on in,’ she said. ‘But don’t drip everywhere.’
They talked fast as they walked, sparing each other the story of the past twelve months. That would have to wait for a bottle of Rioja and a quieter moment.
‘What do you need?’ Marie asked.
‘A bit of
advice,’ Lockhart said. ‘It’s a long story.’
Marie Sanders looked at him.
‘Long and publishable?’
Lockhart thought about it.
‘Maybe. I’m not sure yet. I need to get online and check it out, but my hotel’s internet died in the storm. I was hoping yours was more resilient?’
He glanced down at the Gore-Tex suitcase.
‘I might have an exclusive in here,’ he said. ‘That’s why I need your help.’
‘Sure, because I’m not in the middle of reporting the storm of the century or anything,’ Marie sighed, looking around.
They headed back down the blood red staircase and into the belly of the newsroom. Ruslen Elm spotted them and beckoned Marie over to him.
‘This is Elm,’ Marie said when they reached him. ‘Ruslen, this is…’
She missed a beat, and Lockhart introduced himself. Elm stared.
‘Sure,’ he said after a moment, and remembering his manners he held out his hand.
‘Charlie Lockhart,’ he said. ‘Of course you are.’
Marie leaned over him and turned Glinka’s diary so she could read it.
‘Have you found him yet?’ she asked.
Ruslen Elm shook his head.
‘Phone’s dead and he still hasn’t called in.’
Marie ran her finger across the numbers etched in biro on the page.
1215 : (408) 581 738 56
Lockhart watched her and then said, ‘Did you add the brackets?’
She nodded.
‘It’s not a phone number though,’ she said. ‘You dial that number and you get a funeral home in Santa Cruz.’
‘It’s a dead end,’ Elm added. ‘Literally.’
Marie and Lockhart turned in unison and looked at him. His pun hung in the air for a moment.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘This is turning into a long shift.’
Marie agreed with him and then turned to Lockhart who had taken the diary and was running his finger across the numbers, just as she had done.
‘What do you think, Charlie?’
‘So it’s not a phone number,’ he said. ‘And it’s not an IP address. Too many numbers for that. But look…’
He borrowed Elm’s pen and drew a line in the center of Glinka’s code so that the number one became a marker between two five-digit numbers.
1215: 40858/73856
‘They could be co-ordinates,’ he said. ‘Check Google Maps?’
Elm nodded and began typing into Firefox.
‘Wherever it is, we’re late,’ he said. ‘If he was there at a quarter past twelve, he’s hardly likely to have stuck about all day. Especially in this weather.’
Lockhart put the diary back on the desk and said, ‘1215 isn’t the time. The diary has hour slots, and your guy Glinka has put the details at the top of the page. That means he was there early, or he was there all day.’
‘So what’s 1215?’
Lockhart thought about it.
‘Building number.’
Marie Sanders smiled. What a shame Lockhart could never work for her in New York.
‘What’s the story?’ he asked her. ‘He’s covering his tracks, so he evidently thinks it’s something valuable.’
‘Not sure yet,’ Marie said. ‘Glinka’s new on the team. Maybe he’s always been a secret squirrel. It must be risky though, else why would he leave any breadcrumbs at all?’
Lockhart flicked back through the rest of the diary.
‘These are all blank pages,’ he said. ‘So I think you’re right. This is something out of the ordinary.’
Elm looked up from his computer.
‘Pelham Parkway,’ he said, and pointed at a dot on his Google Map screen.
‘It’s a metro station in The Bronx,’ Marie told Lockhart as they looked over Ruslen Elm’s shoulder.
Elm looked all at sea.
‘The trouble with metro stations is that you don’t go to them… you pass through them. There’s no chance Glinka will still be there. Still, it’s a start. It’s a better lead than a West Coast funeral home.’
‘You want my advice?’ Lockhart asked.
‘Do you think I would have let you into my newsroom if I didn’t value your opinion?’
Lockhart suppressed a smile.
‘Find the longest streets within a mile of Pelham Parkway. Check which ones have a number 1215 within walking distance. Then find out which of those buildings are bars or cafes. If Glinka is being secretive, you can bet his source will be too, so they’ll want to meet in a public place.’
Elm nodded. ‘Like a first date?’
‘I guess,’ Lockhart said. ‘If you don’t get a hit, look for something opposite a park or open space.’
‘If I was meeting a source for the first time I’d go out in the open air,’ Marie said. ‘So would you have done, back in the day.’
‘Sure I would,’ Lockhart said. ‘But not in this weather.’
‘I guess not,’ Marie said.
Ruslen Elm turned and leant back in his chair.
‘The Charlie Lockhart,’ he said, shaking his head.
‘Well, keep it to yourself,’ Marie told him. ‘Understand?’
‘Sure,’ Elm said, and he nodded to Lockhart reassuringly.
‘Not that it’s my business,’ Lockhart said. ‘But I’d check his browsing history for the last couple of days. See what he was reading up on.’
Elm looked at Marie, who nodded her ascent.
‘Okay Lockhart,’ she said. ‘You’ve earned yourself a hot coffee and a dry shirt. Follow me.’
They ended up in a glass office that looked out over Eighth Avenue, which was awash with rainwater and jammed with abandoned cars. The streetlights turned from red to green and back again without anyone taking notice. Marie poured strong black coffee for them both.
‘Would you have preferred tea?’ she asked, in her best English accent.
‘Not the way you make it.’ Lockhart said.
He took a taste of the coffee.
‘Do you have any salt?’
‘Salt?’
‘Just a habit I picked up in Asia. Forget it.’
Marie smiled.
‘I’ll find you some salt,’ she said, and began rummaging in a cupboard nearby. ‘Remember when we used to take afternoon tea in Claridge’s? The cucumber sandwiches and the stuffy waiters?’
Lockhart smiled.
‘You know we only ever took you there because you’d have been disappointed with the dives we hung out in when you weren’t looking. We thought you were going to live the rest of your life on macaroons and champagne.’
‘Those macaroons were more addictive that cocaine,’ Marie said, coming back to the table. ‘I’m not even lying to you.’
Lockhart laughed, and when the moment settled he said, ‘It’s good to see you Marie. I’m sorry it wasn’t sooner. And I’m sorry we never said goodbye.’
She took a sip of coffee and stared out of the window.
‘Yeah well,’ she drawled. ‘We all know about that. I went to Evanko’s funeral. I thought somebody from the newspaper should be there. I half expected to see you at the back of the church.’
‘I was in Spain by then,’ Lockhart told her. ‘I walked the Atlantic coast for a month. The police said the kill team who found Evanko were probably watching the Airports for me, so I gave them a month to get bored. I just walked through the hills.’
‘Have you been back to London?’
‘No.’
‘What about…?’
Marie’s voice trailed off, but Lockhart knew what she was asking.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Even if I could go back, I couldn’t find them. Not now. They might not even be in London anymore for all I know.’
Marie put her cup down on the desk between them and stared at him intently.
‘They were taken into a protection program,’ Lockhart told her. ‘I have no idea where they went. It was the safest thing for them.’
�
�Jesus, Charlie, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘That’s too bad.’
He shrugged.
‘At least they’re safe. I hold on to that. And the fact that I don’t know where they are just makes them safer. It kills me, but it makes them safer.’
She cradled her cup in her hands and stared at him, at a loss to find any words that would make things any better. Lockhart stretched back in his chair, watching the lightning playing between the tall buildings.
‘Listen, I need your help,’ Lockhart said eventually.
‘I’m listening.’
‘I know a girl,’ Lockhart told her. ‘She’s mixed up with something. A drugs ring, controlled from Cambodia.’
‘What’s her part?’
‘She was taking payments out to Asia,’ Lockhart said. ‘Coerced. I was with her in Kep when her sister got killed.’
‘Wow. Tell me about Kep?’
‘South Coast,’ Lockhart said. ‘Looks out onto the Gulf of Thailand.’
‘I know where it is,’ she said. ‘But what were you doing there?’
‘I was minding my business. Falling off the grid’s not as easy as people tell you.’
