The Righteous Men (2006)

by Sam Bourne

  Suddenly Will leapt up, walking out of the kitchen. TC chased after him.

  ‘Will! Will! Come on, don’t do this.’

  She found him standing in his father’s study, a room filled from floor to ceiling with books. Row after row of leather bound legal texts, collected case reports, volumes of Supreme Court judgments going back to the nineteenth century. On another wall, there were more contemporary works, lines of hardback texts on politics, the constitution and of course, the law. They seemed to be arranged with a librarian’s zeal for order: grouped by theme and then, within each category, rigorously alphabetized. TC’s eye landed on the Christianity section: Documents of the Christian Church by Henry Bettenson, The Early Church by Henry Chadwick, From Christ to Constantine by Eusebius, Early Christian Doctrines by JND Kelly, all lined up in perfect order.

  But Will was ignoring the books, instead powering up the computer on his father’s desk. He scrolled down an Associated Press story, barely reading the words, looking for something.

  He moved his cursor over the text to define two words: the name of the Hassidim’s kidnap victim in Bangkok: Samak Sangsuk. He moved up to the Google window at the top right of the screen, pasted in the name and hit return.

  Your search — samak sangsuk — did not match any documents.

  He was about to curse but he was silenced. Not by TC, but by the distinct sound of a creak in the hallway. Not just one, but several in quick succession. There was no doubt about it. Someone else was in the house.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Sunday, 12.12am, Manhattan

  He had waited long enough. It was the lights going out that had made him suspicious. He was told this man was desperately searching for his wife: it did not make sense that he would happily go to sleep at midnight.

  Besides, he feared he was arousing suspicion, pacing around outside an apartment building for hours on end. This might be Manhattan, where no one seemed to notice anything, but it was a risk.

  He telephoned his superiors, asking for permission to make his move.

  ‘All right. But keep it clean. Do you understand?’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘And may the Lord be with you.’

  He waited for the next new arrival at the building, a woman apparently returning from a late-night convenience store with a bag full of groceries. It took him a second to jog the few yards to the entrance, as if catching up with her.

  ‘Oh, let me get that,’ he said, holding the door once she had opened it. He followed her in.

  While she checked her mailbox, he headed downstairs for the basement — pausing only to cover his face with a ski-mask.

  He could hear the sound of a television, seeping out from under the door. He knocked and waited, checking once again the cold steel of the revolver he would reveal the instant the door opened. This would not take long.

  Mr Pugachov jumped back in fright, raising his arms in an instant surrender.

  ‘Good. Now, y’all need to stay nice and calm. We need to do this nice and easy. All you gotta do is take me to the apartment on the sixth floor. The one that looks out onto the street. The one where the pretty girl lives. You know the one I mean. Mighty pretty girl.’

  Pugachov had never heard such an accent before; this man did not sound like the New Yorkers he knew. It took him a while to work out what he was saying. Guessing, he reached with his right hand behind the door.

  ‘Hey! Hands in the air! What did I say just now, mister?’

  ‘Excuse, excuse,’ Pugachov sputtered. ‘I was getting key.

  Key!’ He gestured behind the door, where the man in the ski-mask could see a series of numbered hooks: spare keys for every apartment in the building.

  He shoved Pugachov out of the door and towards the back stairway. It was late; no one was around. But it was still too risky to take the elevator. Those were his orders: he must not be seen.

  The super opened TC’s door tentatively, calling out a meek hello. He felt the gun in his back.

  The man in the ski-mask flashed on a torch, searching out the bedroom door. He pushed his hostage towards it.

  ‘Open it.’

  Pugachov turned the handle slowly but the gunman reached over him and pushed the door hard.

  ‘Freeze!’ he shouted, shining a torch onto the bed. Seeing nothing, he wheeled around, anticipating an ambush from behind. Nothing. Now grabbing Pugachov by the collar, he started flinging open cupboard doors, training his revolver onto each new opening of dark space. When he came to the bathroom door he gave it a firm kick and jumped in, before turning around to ensure no one could pounce.

  He searched the rest of the apartment, beaming the torchlight into every corner.

  ‘Well, there’s a moral to this story. Trust your hunches. I thought they’d gone and they have.’

  He put on the lights and started looking around more closely, never letting Pugachov out of his sight — or out of range.

  He flipped open TC’s computer, instantly opening up her internet browser. He asked for a ‘history’, generating a long list of the sites she had looked at most recently. He took out a silver pen and a black notebook and began writing down what he saw. Pugachov noticed for the first time that he was wearing tight black leather gloves.

  Next he saw a half-finished pad of Post-it notes. The top sheet was blank, but he held it up to the light all the same.

  Sure enough, as so often, he could see the trace of words, and numbers, indented from the page above. It amazed him that people still made this elementary mistake: he would have thought Will Monroe would know better.

  Next he picked up the phone, pressing the ‘last number’ button: 1-718-217-54771173667274341. So many digits could only mean one thing: Monroe had dialled some kind of automated service, offering a series of numerical options, rather than a personal number. The gunman wrote down the full string of numbers and hit redial.

  Thank you for calling the Long Island Railroad…

  After that it was simple: he only had to punch in the sequence of numbers he had written down. ‘ 1’ to use touchtone, ‘ 1’ for schedule information, then, when asked to enter the first five letters of his starting station, 73667, and so on. It was easy. Obligingly, the automated female voice told him the times for the next three trains from Penn Station to Bridgehampton, the nearest station for Sag Harbor.

  He ran his torch over the floor one more time, noticing a yellow piece of paper that he had missed. It read: Verse 11. The mouth of a righteous man is a well of life: but violence covereth the mouth of the wicked.

  He tucked that into his pocket and turned once again to face Pugachov.

  ‘OK, son. It’s time to shape up and ship out.’ He used his revolver to gesture towards the front door.

  As Pugachov made for the handle he turned his back slightly, so that he was sideways on to the gunman. Now he decided, remembering the training he had received as a long ago conscript in the Red Army, was the moment. In an instant, he grabbed the masked man by the wrist and looped his own arm under his shoulder, bringing him quickly to the ground.

  The gun had fallen and Pugachov reached for it, only to be kicked, hard, in the balls. He doubled over and felt an arm around his neck. He tried to jab back with his elbows, but there was no movement. He was in a headlock and the man holding him seemed to have superhuman strength. He could feel his breath around his ear.

  Somehow, and only with supreme effort, Pugachov managed to wriggle his right arm free and aim it at the man’s head. But it did not connect. His fingers were flailing until they finally grabbed something. It took him a second to realize it was not hair. Out of the corner of his eye he could see what he was holding: he had removed the gunman’s mask.

  Suddenly the grip was loosened. Pugachov slumped, panting heavily. He was no longer the fit, fighting machine of his youth; that stint of military duty in Afghanistan was in the faraway past. Perhaps the masked man had realized that; maybe he understood that Pugachov could inflict no serious damage
and was about to let him go.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ve just made a big mistake, my friend.’

  Pugachov looked up to see a much younger man than he was expecting. Now that the mask was off, he could see that his eyes were of the most exceptional blue, almost feminine in their beauty. They seemed to cast beams of sharp, bright light.

  He did not have long to stare into them because his view was soon obscured — by the mouth of what he recognized to be a silencer, aimed right between his eyes.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Sunday, 4.14am, Sag Harbor, New York

  TC was staring at Will, stock still. The sound was too regular to be the music of an old house, the creaking of aged timber.

  There was no doubt about it: these were footsteps. Will grabbed the heaviest poker he could find from the fireplace, placed his finger over his lips to hush TC and edged out of the study.

  He crept down the corridor, towards the kitchen. The sound seemed to have moved there. As he got closer, he could hear a rustling, as if the intruder was rifling through papers. He inched closer, until he could see the shadow of a tall man.

  His heart was pounding; his throat was parched.

  In a single movement, Will swung around the corner, lifted the poker above his head—

  ‘Christ, Will! What the hell are you doing?’

  ‘Dad!’

  ‘Will, you scared me out of my wits. I thought someone had broken in. Jesus.’ Monroe Sr, clad in striped pyjamas, collapsed into a chair, clutching at his chest.

  ‘But Dad, I didn’t—’

  ‘Hold on, Will. Give me a second to catch my breath here. Hold on.’

  When Will called out to TC, his father’s bewilderment was complete. ‘What on earth is going on here?’

  Will did the best he could, talking his father through the events of the last few hours: the text messages, Proverbs 10, the visit to the office, the stalker, the dash for Penn Station.

  He listened patiently, nursing the hot tea TC had made for him, the great judge now a Dad.

  ‘I should have told you I was here. I came yesterday evening. I hadn’t heard from you and I was climbing the walls with worry. I thought it might help to hear the ocean, breathe in the sea air. Beth is your wife, Will, but she’s also my daughter-in-law. She’s family.’ He glanced towards TC, whose face turned hot.

  ‘I’m sorry we woke you,’ she said, as if trying to change the subject. Then, yawning, ‘I could really use some sleep.’

  ‘Motion granted. Will, the garden room is made up.’

  That peeved Will. Was his father giving his son an order, instructing him that he must sleep separately from TC — as if suspecting that, left to their own devices, they would share a bed? Did his father really believe that Will was cheating on the daughter-in-law he loved so dearly?

  Perhaps his father suspected something much darker. Was it even possible? Could he imagine his son had somehow engineered this whole episode as a way to get back with his ex? Will realized how economical with information he had been, barely letting his father in on the quest for Beth. How insistent he had been that the police remain uninvolved. It had been nearly thirty years since Will Monroe Sr had practised criminal law — but he would have forgotten none of it.

  What was worse, Will knew he could feel no righteous indignation: After all, a matter of hours earlier he had pressed his lips to TC’s, their eyes closed, in a kiss. And not a fleeting brush either; it had been a real kiss.

  He was too exhausted to say any more. He surrendered mutely to his father and headed upstairs, joining TC who was waiting for him on the landing. The way she stood, as if she were hiding herself, suggested she felt it, too: the suspicion radiating from his father and the guilty admission that it was not entirely groundless.

  Sunday, 12.33am, Manhattan

  ‘Good work, young man. And your enthusiasm is a joy to me, it really is.’ The voice was clear and distinct, even on the telephone. ‘No, your best move now is to hang back. I’m not worried about Sag Harbor. That’s not going to be a problem. We need you there, in the city.’

  ‘So where do you want me to post myself, sir?’

  ‘Well. They’re not going to stay in Long Island long, are they? He’s going to have to come back. And that means Penn Station. Why don’t we make sure you’re there to greet him?’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Sunday, 9.13am, Sag Harbor, New York

  He had left his phone on and placed it right by his ear. But his exhaustion was so deep, the short trill of a newly arrived message barely woke him. Instead, it insinuated itself into his dream. He was putting the key in the lock of his front door; he walked in to find Beth standing in the kitchen, clasping a child to her waist. She seemed fierce, as if she was protecting this little boy — or girl, Will could not tell — from an intruder about to do terrible harm. Get back, her eyes seemed to say. She looked wild; feral. Oh I see, thought the Will of the dream. That’s Child X. And, right on cue, as if heralding this realization, a bell started to toll …

  Like a winch pulling a diver up to the surface, his conscious brain dredged him up and out of sleep. Reflexively, he grabbed the phone and brought it to his face.

  1 new message

  fOrtY

  He leapt out of bed and marched down the corridor to TC’s room, one of the few denied a view of the ocean, backing onto a large, English-style garden instead. The sun was streaming into the hallway, accompanied by the sound of the waves. There was no getting away from it: his father had chosen a gorgeous spot.

  His father. Only now did Will remember their night-time encounter. He had very nearly bludgeoned his dad. He might have killed him. But there was no time to dwell on that.

  ‘OK,’ he said, once he had shaken TC awake and she was propped up on one of the dozen or so pillows his father’s housekeeper routinely provided for each bed. ‘There’s another one. Forty.’ He was holding up the phone.

  ‘Forty messages?’ she croaked, eking the sleep out of one eye.

  ‘No. That’s the message. Look.’

  ‘Why’s he written it so weirdly?’

  ‘I don’t know. Get cracking on that, can you? I have a phone call to make.’

  He looked at his watch. 9.30am. He checked the BlackBerry: nothing new from Crown Heights. They surely did not believe he had acceded to the rabbi’s demand in yesterday’s phone call — that he back off and sit tight. It was obvious they believed no such thing: after all, they had sent a man to follow him precisely because they knew he would keep probing.

  Nine thirty. Someone from the foreign desk would be in by now. Besides, he could not afford to leave it much later.

  As he dialled the number, he scrunched his face up in virtual prayer. Please let it be Andy.

  There were at least four assistants who worked on The New York Times foreign desk; Will would struggle to name three of them. But one he had got to know. Andy was probably four years younger than Will and, ever since they had chatted in the line for the canteen one lunchtime, he had latched on to him as a kind of mentor. He was from Iowa and had a dry, unsmiling humour that Will liked instantly; a surrogate for the sensibility he missed from home.

  ‘Foreign.’

  ‘Andy?’

  ‘No less.’

  ‘Thank God.’

  ‘Will, is that you?’

  ‘Yeah. Why?’

  ‘No, nothing. Just—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Dude, if I believed every evil rumour that I heard.’

  ‘What evil rumour?’

  ‘Word is, you got pounded by the big guy yesterday. That he found you rifling through someone else’s desk? I told people, “Hey, investigative journalism’s a tough business”.’

  ‘Thanks, Andy.’

  ‘Is it true?’

  ‘Put it this way, it’s not entirely untrue.’

  ‘Hmm. Well, it’s a novel approach to career development, I’ll say that for ya.’

  ‘Look, Andy. I need a favour. I need
you to give me the number for the Times correspondent in Bangkok.’

  ‘John Bishop? Everyone’s on his case today, man. He’s run ragged.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Don’t you watch the news? The police are all over Brooklyn. Apparently the black hats tried to kill some guy in Thailand. It’s a Metro story: Walton’s on it.’

  ‘Walton?’ That was all Will needed: more needling from the notebook-thief. He would have to speak to Bishop behind his back.

  ‘Yeah. I hear Walton tried to wriggle out of it, being the weekend and all. Apparently he nominated you for the story: until the desk told him you were, you know—’

  ‘I was what?’

  ‘You know, not available for work just now.’

  ‘Is that how they’re putting it?’

  ‘Something like that. Listen, Will, what’s the deal? Are you sick or something? You smoke some bad weed?’

  He knew Andy was trying to mock the heaviness of it all, sending up, in particular, the absurdity of the hard-working, married Will Monroe under suspicion as some Freak Brothers drug fiend. But it did not make Will laugh. Instead his friend’s banter merely confirmed his worst anxieties: that he was indeed effectively suspended from The New York Times and that he had become precisely the office talking point, the topic of water-cooler conversation, he had dreaded. The fact that this was a trivial matter, barely worthy of consideration alongside his other worries, only emphasized the desperation of his situation.

  ‘No, Andy. No bad weed, no weed at all as it happens. But I can see how it must look. Excellent. Tip top. Bloody marvellous.’

  ‘I’m sorry, dude. Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘Yeah, that number will be a huge help. Cell phone if you have one.’

  ‘Sure. And remember, they’re twelve hours ahead there.

  It’s like nearly ten at night now.’

  Will did not allow himself a moment to digest the call with Andy. As he dialled the multiple digits to reach Bangkok, he imagined how the Times’s interns and young reporters would be burning up New York’s cellular system, updating each other on the rise and dramatic fall of Will Monroe at this very moment, but that was all. He tried to put it out of his mind — and focus on the sound of a telephone ring that was now in his ear.