by D J Mcintosh
“Do you know who she is?”
“Afraid not. Goodness, I haven’t been much help, have I?” “On the contrary.”
I smiled, genuinely appreciative of the time he’d spent with me. “You’ve given me a lot to think about.”
I handed the photo back. “Is there any chance he had an English translation of Basile’s entire book?”
Norris thought for a moment. “Offhand I’m not certain, but Charles may have done. Let me see.”
He ran his fingers along the books lining the shelves above the table and then said, “Ah, here they are.” He pulled out two heavy tomes and flipped to the copyright page of one of them. “This looks quite complete. Editor is Norman Mosley Penzer. It’s based on a translation from the Neapolitan to Italian by Benedetto Croce. Not terribly recent though—published in 1932, and I believe that might well be the most comprehensive English version.”
“Is there any chance I could borrow them for a few days?” Seeing a frown begin to grow on his face, I quickly added, “It would help a lot to get to the bottom of the theft.”
Norris hesitated for a moment as he wrestled with my request. “I don’t know. Charles was quite possessive about his belongings. But the circumstances are extraordinary, aren’t they? I’ll have to ask you for a note acknowledging that you have them.”
“Of course. I’d be glad to.” Norris got a receipt book from his desk and I decided to press my luck. “Given how long Renwick sought the book, I imagine he did a fair amount of research. Are there any records?”
“That’s likely. Nevertheless his personal papers must remain private. I wouldn’t even dare to go through them unless authorized by his executor.”
“Understood,” I said. “That would be Arthur Newhouse, I imagine.”
Norris nodded. He’d been very obliging. I thanked him and promised to let him know of my progress. He showed me the door and I stepped out into the damp London evening.
My mind spun with all these new revelations. Renwick believed one of the tales in Basile’s book contained a clue to the origins of a deadly sickness he’d contracted as a boy in the Middle East. His obsession with the book therefore likely had little to do with its monetary value.
My cell buzzed. A text came from Amy confirming that Ewan Fraser would be at the library tomorrow. The first direct flight I could get to Naples was at one in the afternoon the following day. I’d scheduled the police interview for the morning, so I’d have to bunk in another hotel for the night. I booked a room at a bed and breakfast in Wapping and hopped on the tube at Southwark station.
Much as I loved my home city, I’d exchange the New York subway for the London underground any day. On my first trip to London as a kid I’d savored the rush through that dark, round cylinder. With my nose pressed against the glass, the tunnel walls seemed to fly past only inches away. I’d pretend to be in a rocket, barreling toward the center of the earth. Samuel told me the term padded cell came from the early trains that had no windows and buttoned upholstery. London rush-hour commuters probably felt not much had changed since then.
I liked the way each station had its own unique character. Baker Street with the silhouette of Sherlock Holmes printed on a wall; Waterloo with the wonderful spiral of four hundred steps down into the bowels of the city. I’d heard somewhere a ghost station, now closed to the public, underneath the British Museum still had crumbling posters on its walls from its use as a shelter during the Second World War.
I found a seat between a guy with his nose between the pages of the Guardian and a woman wearing a full-tilt burka. When I glanced at her she averted her gaze and clutched the shopping bag on her lap a little tighter.
I noticed an old man at the end of the car staring at me. He wore a fifties-style fedora and sat bent over as if he were unable to straighten his spine. Norris’s description of Charles Renwick flashed through my mind. Would Renwick suddenly show up like this, knowing the police must be combing the streets for him?
My stop came next. The man got ready to disembark. When he left the train and began to climb the stairs I followed him. At the top of the stairs he turned and raised his hat and then held out his hand, palm up. He gave me a ghastly grin and pointed his forefinger at his empty palm. Not Renwick, but a beggar. I slipped him a quid and hastened away.
London real estate prices had grown so astronomically high, even professionals earning salaries on the lower end couldn’t afford to live there anymore. Wapping too had succumbed. A ramshackle collection of maritime warehouses and sailors’ shacks had been converted to prestigious condominiums and trendy public houses, its seafaring past now a ripe tourist trap.
The cold drizzle, somewhere between a wet mist and a light rain, hadn’t let up. Lamps cast pools of light on cobblestone squares, interspersed with long stretches of gloom. In the distance I heard the forlorn toll of a church bell. The Thames was just ahead; already I could smell the dank water. I followed the road near the river’s edge in search of a place to get a meal.
Slanting amber light from the front windows of a pub beckoned me inside. The Prospect of Whitby had an old flagstone floor, blackened wood beams in the Tudor spirit, and a low stone hearth with a merry fire. I felt as if I’d just stepped back into history. At the rear, tall leaded-glass windows opened onto a balcony overlooking the Thames.
The bar woman was in a chatty mood, and she volunteered that a man called Hanging Judge Jeffries used to like sitting on the balcony to watch convicts he’d just sentenced swing on a noose. She pointed out that a noose still hung outside. More benignly, Samuel Pepys and Charles Dickens were fond of taking a pint here. Learning that Turner may have drawn inspiration for his sublime paintings from his view in the pub impressed me. The bar woman told me that the place used to be called the Devil’s Tavern in a nod to its nefarious patrons. It even had a smugglers’ room upstairs.
I finished my meal and stepped outside. The street was empty, with the exception of a lone man in the distance. As he walked under a street lamp his long dark coat and hat became visible. He held his left arm perpendicular to his body in a curiously formal stance, as though he were offering his arm to a lady or carrying something fragile. And indeed he was. The golden covers of the book. This far away, the horse was a mere white flash on the cane he swung as he walked. I quickened my pace. Even with my case banging into my thigh I knew I could overtake him.
Alessio reached a cross street, stepped lightly to the other side, and ducked out of view. I rushed to the corner and saw a space between two buildings blocked off with a wrought-iron partition. I doubted he could scale it and could detect no sign of him through the fancy ironwork or beyond. I slowly scanned the street again.
Somehow he’d managed to hide because I now saw he’d doubled back and was heading in the direction of the pub I’d just come from. As I gave chase, he turned before he reached the tavern and disappeared once again.
People didn’t just vanish into thin air and I soon saw where he’d gone. A narrow passageway between the pub and the building next door led to a flight of steps ending at the river. The stairs were slick with spray and I almost slipped before I reached the bottom and set my case down. The gibbet swinging from the pub’s balcony loomed in front of me, its iron fastenings creaking as the noose swung slightly in the wind.
It was even darker down here. Water sloshed on the pebbles and detritus at the riverside. A rat slipped along mossy rocks. The ghostly outline of a stationary barge floating out in the Thames emerged from the gloom.
I scoured the line of the river ahead to my right, but could catch no sign of him. Startled by a noise I spun around. Alessio stood beneath the far end of the balcony, leaning on his cane, still clutching the book’s gleaming gold covers in the crook of his left arm. Dim light spilled from the windows of the pub above, casting deep shadows that coalesced around him. The shape of the shadow was unnatural and bore no relationship to the outline of his body. As I ran toward him, I wasn’t prepared for his next move.
&nbs
p; He heaved the book into the river, grunting with the effort. It disappeared beneath the surface only a few feet from the bank. I kept my eye on the point where it entered and sloshed knee deep into the frigid river, groping about on the slimy bottom. My fingers brushed cold metal and I seized it triumphantly. The book would be badly damaged if water had leaked inside. As I lifted it, the clasps fell open and I cried out. It was empty. Alessio had hidden the volume and baited me with the covers.
His cane smacked my temple with a loud crack. Blood burst over my eye. In desperation, I jammed the metal corner of the covers into his chest. He let out a yell and stumbled backward on the slippery pebbles. I rushed at him in a rage. He whipped the cane against my elbow and swore at me in Italian.
I dropped the book and fell backward into the filthy water.
As he bent to give me another blow I gripped his coat with one hand and pulled him with all my strength into the river. Before I had a chance to deal with him the strange sensation I’d felt in the hotel room returned. All my muscles seized. I could no longer grasp the covers and dropped them. My other hand lost its grip on his coat. With mounting terror I fought against the tyranny of this weird paralysis but remained frozen in place, unable to move even a finger. I could still see and hear and I hadn’t lost consciousness.
Alessio snatched the golden covers out of the water and waded farther out into the Thames. The river swirled around his chest—it must have been agonizingly cold—but he never took his black eyes from mine. And then he slipped, crumpling like a marionette whose strings had been severed, beneath the oily surface of the water.
The moment he disappeared from view I came out of my trance and plunged in the direction I’d seen him fall, gagging on the water and struggling against the current. I moved my hands in the water blindly, unable to find him, and after a moment or two, fought my way back to the bank grunting and cursing.
From my place on the shore, I saw his cane and hat bobbing along the surface about thirty feet downriver. The white horse’s head gleamed on the wavelets, twisting and turning with the water’s flow.
Nine
November 18, 2003
Harlem, New York City
After a brutal stretch in Iraq, Nick Shaheen desperately needed the leave. It was hard to say what had been worse—under-cover ops before the war broke out or the uncountable near misses on active duty once it had. When he’d been invited to join Special Forces three years ago at the age of twenty-seven, Shaheen considered it an honor. Not many ethnic Arabs were trusted by the U.S. military, especially in sensitive roles. There’d been no question about assigning him to data interpretation; his skills were needed in the field.
A recurring backache from a spinal injury acquired during these years from hell now followed him around like a malicious stalker. “Phantom pain,” the doctor declared. Shaheen downed an OxyContin. Powerful stuff to be taking, really, but the only antidote to the ache in his vertebrae. He ate breakfast at his favorite post, the corner table. The waiter brought his El Cubano sandwich. Hot roasted pork, savory mustard, double pickles.
His phone vibrated. He checked caller ID and got a surprise. His commander, Harry Falk, came on the line. “I’m off, you remember?” Shaheen said with his mouth full.
“I know. Something’s come up and they want you specifically.”
“They who?”
“Request got forwarded via the DTRA.”
“Why do they need me?”
“Didn’t provide a whole lotta details,” Falk said.
“I get all the luck.”
“Apparently you’re good at your job. I tried to tell them the truth but they insisted.”
“I’m on leave.”
“You said that already. It’s canceled.”
“Anybody else on deck for this?”
“Just you. They referred to it as an ‘inquiry.’”
“Tell them I’m indisposed.”
“Then I’d be lying.”
“Seriously, what’s this all about?” Shaheen looked longingly at the half-eaten sandwich growing cold on his plate.
“Can’t really tell you, Nick. They’re hogging the info. I’m just as curious as to why they want you and not the CIA. This is happening completely outside normal command.”
“What’re the coordinates?”
“Some suit named Leonard Best will pick you up. A civilian consultant. For the duration, you’re working with him—you’re at Amor Cubano, right?”
“Am I that predictable?”
“Does it rain every time I want to go on a picnic?”
“You’ve never been on a picnic in your life.”
A laugh. “Remember to fill me in. I’ll be waiting by my phone.”
“Sure. You and Angelina. I’ve barely started eating.”
“Yeah, that’s likely.” His commander hung up.
Shaheen threw a twenty on the table and rose when he saw a man enter the restaurant and head over to him, getting his hand ready for the shake. Leonard Best was on the short side, with glasses that enlarged his weak brown eyes. He wore a Brooks Brothers suit and nondescript tie. Classic bureaucrat. He looked around fifty. Much older than Shaheen, although considerably less weather-beaten.
“Lieutenant Shaheen, Leonard Best.” Best’s hand felt soft and tentative.
Shaheen returned the handshake with a solid grip. Best handed him a card. Shaheen glanced at it and put it in his pocket while retrieving the plastic case that held his army ID.
Best waved it away. “That won’t be necessary.”
“I like to observe the formalities all the same.” Shaheen offered it again.
Best took it, flipped open the cover, gave it a cursory glance, and handed it back. “I have a car waiting outside. Appreciate you accommodating us on your leave.”
“Not a problem,” Shaheen said. “I love working on my time off. Things get awfully boring otherwise.”
Best looked at him askance, not yet able to discern Shaheen’s sarcasm.
“So you’re with the DTRA? What’s this all about?”
“Actually I’m a consultant, not an employee,” Best replied. “If you don’t mind, I’ll fill you in when we get there. I’ve got a car and driver waiting outside. Apologies for the cloak-and-dagger stuff.”
“Where are we headed to?”
“Not that far. Over on the West Side.”
Ignoring honks of rage, their driver strong-armed his way into traffic. Shaheen caught Best looking at him out of the corner of his eye and could tell what he was thinking. Bringing Shaheen in was a serious mistake. His haggard appearance and his dress—worn camouflage pants, Lil Wayne T-shirt, gold necklaces flopping around his neck, and stringy long hair pulled back in a ponytail—weren’t fitting, Shaheen knew, even for an officer on his own time. Best probably thought his attitude stank and that he seemed like a smartass. He would no doubt also wonder about the wisdom of using an Iraqi-American man on such a highly sensitive mission.
“Can I ask why you people wanted me in particular?” Shaheen said.
“We were told you’re one of the best they have.”
“They just don’t want to spare their heavy hitters.”
Best forced out a smile. “No point in making this any more difficult, Lieutenant; it’s not exactly a party for me either. You’ll see what I mean soon enough.”
At 120th Street West the 1 train shoots out of its dim tunnel into broad daylight. For the next ten blocks it flies past clusters of mid- and high-rise structures and the hind ends of squat brick buildings whose best days are long behind them. Their driver stopped near an enclosed stairway leading up to the 125th Street station. As they emerged from the car, an unfamiliar stench assaulted them. Shaheen had heard the New York Transit Authority planned to renovate these stairwells. Couldn’t happen fast enough, he thought to himself. They crossed the street and continued a short distance north until they reached a padlocked chain-link gate between two buildings. Best opened it with a key and they proceeded to the rear o
f one of the five-story walk-ups fronting on Broadway.
He led Shaheen to a scarred green door with a buzzer pad fixed to the wall. The level-three reinforced door was new and had been purposely defaced to fit in with the area. It had a multi-locking system; the light fixture above it held a camera that recorded all activity within a three-hundred-foot radius. Best pulled out a customized chip key and inserted it beneath the false buzzer. With a click the door swung inward and they entered a hallway constructed of stubbled concrete.
“What is this place?” Shaheen asked. “Smells like a morgue.”
“It’s a secure biohazard facility. We don’t want to be transporting individuals any farther than we have to if some pathogen threatens the city.”
Shaheen couldn’t hide his surprise. “A secure facility here? Weird choice.”
“Precisely why it is here,” Best said. “In these matters, secrecy is paramount.”
The hallway dead-ended at a second door. Best pressed the flat of his palm against a device in the center and waited. A green light blinked twice and he pushed the door open. All the surfaces on the second floor were constructed of dull sheets of titanium to limit porosity and reduce glare. A doctor wearing a molded face mask and a white one-piece coverall waited for them inside. She was tall and thin with wispy gray hair and glasses. Her hands were gloved in latex.
The doctor gave Best a brief nod. “I’m Dr. Abbott.” She motioned toward a cubicle off to her right. “Please change your clothing, including your footwear, in there. Everything has to come off. We want to limit contamination from the outside too.”
“What about my gun?” Shaheen asked, noting that Best hadn’t introduced him.
“Just leave it on the shelf. You won’t need it in here.”
They hustled into their white suits and pulled on disposable slip-on boots. When they emerged from the cubicle, Abbott held out their face masks. “These are a devil to put on but they must fit perfectly.” The doctor fiddled with the adjustments for a few minutes and then declared both masks fitted well.
