Entanglement

by Michael Brooks

  He shook his head. Marinov gave him the fucking creeps.

  CHAPTER 15

  VIRGO KEPT ON DRIVING. His mind was racing as fast as his pulse; both refused to slow down, refused to settle.

  He should go to the police. What did he know? That there was a body in his front room. One to match the body in Baltimore. He put himself in the police's shoes. Would they suspect Virgo was involved? Would he be in the frame? Of course he would. But would being taken into custody at the moment be such a bad thing?

  He had his passport now, at least. He could go to Heathrow, get on the next plane to Cuba. His heart ached at the thought of Rachel and Katie alone there. He couldn't even call them yet; they'd still be on the plane. He had no luggage, but he could buy everything he needed.

  And if he was stopped while trying to leave the country with a dead scientist in his front room?

  He would go to the paper. He would talk to Mercer, get him to call the police, explain that his reporter had got caught up in something no one had seen coming. It would be OK that way. But he had to get the disk back first: he couldn't get Andy caught up in all of this.

  He pulled over in a layby and flicked open his phone. Andy took forever to answer.

  'It's me, Nat. I need to get that disk back.'

  'Nat, I was going to call you.' Andy was talking in a low voice: someone could overhear him. 'I've had a look. It's pretty strange – no wonder it just threw out a formatting error. It's like a normal disk – a normal CD – but the pit size is ridiculously small.'

  'Pit size?'

  'The zeroes and ones embedded in the plastic. The laser scans them to read the data off the disk. But these are about an eighth of the normal size. The laser just can't cope. These things are down at the quantum level.'

  Whatever that meant, it fitted. But it was too much information. He didn't have time to take it in now. And he didn't have time to talk.

  'Andy, I need it back. How soon can you meet me? Can you be in Wardour Street in fifteen minutes?'

  'No can do, Nat. I'm just about to run a section briefing.

  I can be there in an hour at the earliest.'

  It would have to do. 'OK. An hour. Outside, as usual.'

  As Andy hung up, Virgo looked at his phone. The battery was running low. Best turn it off for a while.

  This was going to be a long sixty minutes.

  As he rolled the car through Soho, Virgo sank in his seat, his breathing shallow. Every other car seemed to be a silver Mercedes. He found a parking space a hundred metres from his office, and fed the meter. No point risking a wheel clamp just now. His hands were shaking and the coins rattled against the metal as he pushed them in.

  Wardour Street was bustling, as usual. Now, suddenly, there wasn't a Mercedes in sight. The observation made his heart beat faster. He ran across the road. The quicker, the better.

  Charles Mercer was in his office; Virgo could see him way over there across the ocean of desks. Thank God. He kept his head down as he walked. He couldn't afford to get into conversation with anyone but Mercer. Maybe he'd go and find Imogen afterwards. Maybe she knew something. He had to fight to keep his legs moving; talking without betraying his anxiety was going to be even harder.

  A tentative knock on the door was enough to lift Mercer's head.

  'Nat, what the hell are you doing here? I thought you were jetting off to the sun, leaving us all behind?' Mercer's eyes gleamed with a rising hope. 'Anything from your friend about that disk?'

  'Charles, I need you to call the police.'

  Mercer's face went blank. 'What?'

  'Someone just tried to kill me for it.' The words tumbled from his lips. 'A researcher called Laszlo Gierek is dead in my front room. Andy – the digital forensics guy – is going to meet me here in forty-five minutes, and when I have the disk, I need you to call the police. I'm going to stay here until they come. I'll explain about still having the disk – you can back me up that it was just a mistake – and they can take me away. But I don't know where this assassin is. I'm not going home without police protection.'

  Mercer stood up and eyed Virgo with growing concern. 'What about Rachel and Katie? Where are they?'

  'On a plane. They're safe.'

  Mercer pursed his lips, the way he always did when he was thinking. 'Sit down, Nat. We'll get you a cup of tea. And I'll call the police whenever you give me the nod. But tell me what's going on.' He walked to the door of his office and politely asked his assistant Anita to make some tea. Then he shut the door.

  'Did you say the disk was blank?' Mercer sat down.

  'No. It's just unreadable. Andy said something about quantum stuff.' The adrenaline was still kicking at him, twitching his muscle fibres.

  Mercer's eyes started to shine. 'Really?' He let out a low whistle. 'So, has there been some breakthrough, do you think? Are we sitting on the high-tech story of the century?'

  'A quantum computer, you mean?'

  'A quantum computer. Your man Daniel Born's machine, brought to life.'

  Mercer stood up, then stared at the wall. He was thinking, calculating.

  'I'll tell you what, Nat,' Mercer said, eventually. 'I want one of the lawyers here.' He headed for his office door. 'Don't go anywhere. I'll be back in two minutes.'

  Mercer nearly knocked the tea out of Anita's hand as he hurried out. She set the cup down on the table and went out again. Virgo picked up the pages on Mercer's table: mock-ups for the weekend magazine. The spreads were lavish and colourful: The Perfect Garden for the Perfect Life. Some chance. He threw them down again, then looked at his watch. How long would Mercer be?

  Anita poked her head round the door again. 'By the way, Nat, there was a call for you from Kathy at reception downstairs,' she said. 'Someone you're expecting – they're on their way up.'

  Andy? Already?

  Virgo's heart kicked against his ribs. Andy wouldn't come into the building.

  'How long ago did Kathy call?' He tried to keep his voice calm. He failed.

  'Oh, just a minute ago. While I was waiting for the kettle to boil.' She looked at him, and raised her eyebrows. 'Everything all right?'

  It better have been just a minute ago. If it was two minutes, he had no time. The back stairs were in the far corner of the office, over behind his desk. He'd have to pass the doors to the lift lobby. If his timing was out, he was dead.

  Everything was a blur, a pounding of blood. Everything except the sound of the lift's bell. As he passed the lobby, he saw someone in black emerging from the lift's metal cage. That's all he saw. That was all he had time to see before he began to run.

  The door to the back stairs always stuck a little. They had called building maintenance out a dozen times, and they sprayed some silicone on the catch each time. And now it was stuck again. Virgo tugged at it. He could hear something begin to happen behind him.

  The door opened.

  He clattered down the stairs, three at a time. It occurred to him that this was risky, that he might misjudge a step and end up flat on his face, a bullet in the back of his head. That was a risk he'd have to take. He heard the pop again, then a ring as a bullet ricocheted off the handrail. He was still alive; he ran harder. He started to feel dizzy, going round and round inside the staircase. He would go the extra floor, down to the basement, and cut through the alley at the back.

  There were no footsteps behind him now. That meant he had to think. Had Gierek's killer turned around and taken the lift back down? He hesitated on the ground floor. And then, through the glass of the fire door, he saw the shape again. It hurtled towards him, and he flung himself down another flight of stairs, and out into Berwick Street.

  This time he could hear frantic footsteps behind him, running hard. There were too many people in his way to look back: if he lost concentration for a moment, he would crash into some gaggle of media girls gossiping loudly through their cigarette break. As long as he could hear the steps and the shouts of elbowed pedestrians behind him, he would have to keep runnin
g.

  He was in the market now, sprinting past the lines of fruit and vegetable stalls, past the fishmonger listening to the cricket on his battered radio. If he made it past the video shops, turned right into Peter Street and cut down the narrow passage past the strip clubs, he could get lost in the crowds around Piccadilly Circus. He could hear the running getting louder behind him. Against his better judgement, he turned. The dark shape was coming round the corner. He had lost a split second by looking, but he could gain it again. He clipped one of the trader's tables as he passed, turned it over with a deft touch that sent fake designer handbags and umbrellas careering through the air.

  'Oi, mate, what the fuck do you think you're . . . oi! Come back!'

  Virgo ignored the chant of abuse and ran on. It might just give him the distance he needed to make the two turns that would lose his pursuer. His chest was pounding, his lungs burning. People stared as he went past, then looked around for the cameras. That was the trouble with this part of town – everything that went on was a bloody film, everything was some kind of entertainment. The streets here, when he ventured out at lunchtime to get a sandwich, were filled with dressed-up freaks, or actors playing a role in front of some TV crew or other. Some of the pedestrians grinned and waved as he raced past, proud to be part of his program – maybe they would feature on the show, fill the background of the shot with their fake smiles. They were right: it felt like a TV show. But he was running for his life.

  The glitzed-up, blitzed-out women in the doors of the gentlemen's clubs watched him sprint past without interest. He saw it in their vacant eyes: tempting willing men in through the doors was their only concern, catching the eye of the wary, the shy, the desperate was what paid their wages. A man on the run wouldn't earn them anything. He halted, just for a moment.

  He should go in. It was perfect: a dark sanctuary where he could waste some time. He couldn't hear anything behind him now. Maybe the rasping in his lungs was drowning out all other sound.

  Virgo reached into his pocket and pulled out a ten-pound note. He hurried across the threshold, slapped his money on the counter, and passed through the black door.

  CHAPTER 16

  IT TOOK A MOMENT for his eyes to adjust. The girls on stage were a dusky red under the lights, their features exaggerated by thick layers of make-up. He searched for a dark corner. How long should he stay here? Should he take the table by the door? It wasn't in the shadows, but anywhere else in this room he'd be easily trapped.

  The music throbbed in his ears. He felt a revulsion at the sights, the grinding, the cheapness of the thrills on offer. Buttocks waxed and waned under the spotlights, moving in and out of the dark like fleshy moons. The pouts were grotesque, threatening, like the faces in a carnival nightmare.

  His heart was still pounding, and he jumped at every figure that crossed the threshold. He should have tipped the girl on the street, told her to say the running man had passed on by, down to Piccadilly Circus. It was too late for that now. He sat, breathing monstrous, barely controlled lungfuls of the sweaty air.

  'You wanna drink, love?'

  The waitress was barely seventeen. Barely older than Katie, and dressed – if you could call it that – in a gold sequinned thong. A matching necklace hung between her breasts as she stooped, waiting for his answer. She jiggled her chest, ever so slightly, reluctantly, in the ritual she had been trained to give each customer. Her eyes told him she wasn't really there; this was just her body he was seeing, not her soul.

  He could find no words; instead, he stared at her breasts. They were blocking his view of the door.

  'Whisky,' he said, eventually. 'No ice.'

  She left the table, re-opening his view. A couple of men rolled in, already the worse for drink. He turned his eyes back to the stage. The show went on, no matter who or what came in the door. A dancer resting at the side of the stage flashed her eyes at him from across the room. She started towards him: he was her new chosen target. He shifted in his chair, struggling to rip his eyes away from her languid, hiprolling walk. How long would he have to stay in here?

  And then he saw the coat. Long, sleek, black. He couldn't see the face, but from the way the back of the head slowly moved from side to side, he could tell Gierek's killer was scanning the room.

  His heart bounced again, raged against his rib cage. But he stood up carefully, not knocking the table. Two women were converging on him now: the dancer and the waitress. They'd cover his exit. He let them come, let them form the blockade: human shields. He slid out from behind the table, and walked quickly towards the door.

  'Hey, Mister. Hey!'

  It was the waitress. He should have left money on the table.

  'You gonna pay for this?' she whined.

  Virgo looked back, and saw the figure begin to turn, caught up by the call. Time to run. Again.

  He was on the street in less than two seconds, and heading towards Piccadilly. The killer might have been behind him – he couldn't tell. These streets were too narrow, too empty to stop and think: only vagrants and seekers of seedy pleasure ventured into these alleyways. Two more turns, two more quick scuttles to left and right, though, and the crowds would hide him. Piccadilly Circus was always crawling with police, too, watching the tourists with disdainful, sour faces. He should have come straight down here before, not gone into the club.

  As the statue of Eros came into view he had to make a decision. Down into the tube station? That would mean crossing the murderous traffic. No, he needed to keep moving. The crowds were thick, viscous, and he couldn't run through them. He'd have to turn left, and just walk up Shaftesbury Avenue past the theatres. Maybe he could fade into the scene. He'd stand out more now if he ran. He risked a look behind. A shadow? No. He had eluded his killer. For now.

  It was only a few hundred metres before he hit Wardour Street again. He crossed it and kept going. He would walk parallel to it, up Dean Street, then cut through opposite where he'd parked the car. He would be able to see Andy waiting for him from across the road. Then he would be away.

  And if he got away? Would he call the police? Would Mercer have done it already?

  No. He knew what Mercer would be thinking – he was thinking it too.

  This story was too big, and he hadn't explored all the options yet. He had one more contact to try before he called the police in to rob him of the story. Besides, Mercer was right: he should have a lawyer around when it came to that. He had been stupid. It wouldn't have been hard for Gierek's killer to trace him to the Herald's offices – God knows he left enough business cards lying around the house. But there was no way they could tell where he would head next.

  Virgo risked a look behind. Still nothing. He glanced at his watch. Five more minutes, and Andy would be waiting. He walked faster. His shirt was soaked with sweat. He prayed for rain, something to cool his burning brow. He wasn't used to this kind of exertion these days. He should be lying on a beach.

  The only risk was his car. Would the killer have seen it and returned there to wait for him? He stood in the lee of a tall Westminster City Council dustbin and scanned the scene. He wasn't even sure who he was looking for; all he'd ever seen was the long coat. There was nothing suspicious, no one was even standing within fifty metres of the car. But that walk across the road would be like the walk of death. If the killer was waiting, hidden, no one would even notice the shot until he fell to the ground.

  Except, maybe, Andy. He was there, leaning against the newsagent's window, hands in pockets, just as he always did.

  He had the brown envelope under his arm. Virgo felt like a shit: he was about to embroil his friend in this. If the wrong eyes were on him, he, too, would be dead once the pick-up was made.

  Now or never.

  He crossed the road, shoulders tensed, ready to hit the ground, roll, then run again. But the moment passed, and the shot didn't come. Andy saw him and came out of his slouch, grinning.

  'Nat, what is this thing? I've never seen anything like it.' Virgo
looked up and down the street, scanning the pedestrians. He took the envelope, shook his head, then looked away.

  'Not now, Andy. Thanks for this. I'll call you.'

  Andy looked puzzled for a moment, then nodded. 'OK,' he said. 'Take care.' He turned and walked south towards Charing Cross.

  It was over. Andy was safe.

  Virgo had twenty steps to take, then he'd be safe too. For now.

  He pulled his car away slowly, unremarkably. He could hardly turn the steering wheel; his arms were locked rigid.

  But he was driving now, he knew where he needed to go, and nothing was going to stop him. Central London to Oxford. An hour? A bit more? It didn't matter. At least he knew Daniel Born would be at home. That was the thing about eccentric recluses. They were always home.

  CHAPTER 17

  SPECIAL AGENT FRANK DELANEY liked the idea of quantum entanglement. He thought about it as he set his brush into the water jar and scanned over his paint tray for the perfect base colour for the reed stems. He liked the idea that there were hidden connections in the world; that things – maybe even people – could be tied together by bonds they knew nothing about. It confirmed how he felt about Nancy, even now, years after her death.

  He spent almost every daylight hour he could out with his watercolours nowadays. Either here at Quantico Creek, or further out in the tidal marshes of the Nanticoke River. He knew his colleagues sometimes sniggered at the sight: big Frank picking up his easel and heading off like he was some touchy-feely artist, not the coarse cynical old has-been they all knew. But he loved the smell here, the faint ring of the sea that reminded him of a boyhood spent playing guns with his schoolyard friends on the beaches of North Carolina. He'd lost touch with all of them now. A couple had stayed in contact until they had finished college and started earning a living, but the lapses between letters and phone calls gradually drifted into years. In the end, they all just got on with their lives: Johnny had taken up accounting, Chuck was an engineer in some margarine factory, Lowell joined Wal-Mart and became something in store management.