The Manhattan Puzzle

by Laurence O'Bryan

  ‘Is the room ready for its next visitor?’

  Xena nodded.

  ‘You will enjoy this one,’ he said.

  She shrugged. ‘I only do what was done to me or my family. I take no great pleasure in it. Not like some.’ Her eyes flickered away from his face, as if she was remembering something.

  Lord Bidoner stared at her. It was hard to find someone as committed as Xena.

  In many ways they were mirrors of each other. She’d suffered a botched circumcision and her family, two brothers and her mother, had been tortured to death in the Eritrean–Ethiopian War.

  She’d been taken in by an orphanage run by nuns, but they had beaten her remorselessly for the tiniest infraction.

  Most girls who suffered like that either cut themselves off from human contact, or harmed themselves in one way or another, but she had taken the pain and had forged it into a willingness to do what others were unable to.

  Which was exactly what he had done.

  His mother had died in the liberation of Vienna in 1945. She had been raped and brutalised by partisans working with the Soviets until she’d died. His grandmother had taken him in. He’d been a few months old. The old woman had been good to him, but when he got older she’d disciplined him harshly, beating him for any display of emotion.

  Both he and Xena had been brought up on stories of what had been taken from them. With force.

  And both of them had felt the blows of frustrated tormentors.

  Until they had fought back.

  ‘The next one will be more interesting than the others,’ he said.

  She stuck her tongue out at him.

  36

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Rose, it’s me. Just wondering how Alek is.’

  There was a long pause. Isabel pressed the phone tight to her ear.

  ‘Alek’s great. He’s sleeping right now.’ She sounded distant. She was probably tired, possibly sleeping, like she should be.

  ‘I tried you earlier. Did you go to that movie?’

  ‘No. We were all watching DVDs.’

  ‘Great. Thanks again for looking after him. See you Monday night.’

  ‘See you.’ The line went dead. The call had only lasted a minute, but at least it had answered one big worry.

  Seconds later her phone buzzed.

  It wasn’t a call. It was that faint noise a phone makes when it’s trying to attract your attention. She’d missed a call. She looked at the incoming call list. Someone had called her five minutes ago. The number was a US number. She pressed call-back.

  ‘Hello? Did you just ring this number?’

  ‘Isabel, it’s Karen.’

  ‘Hi Karen.’ She tried to sound as normal as possible. The number was Karen’s mobile.

  ‘I was on the internet,’ she said. Then she paused, as if there was more she had to say, but she really didn’t want to say it.

  ‘And?’ Isabel could feel something ominous coming.

  ‘Sean’s picture is on the front page of the Daily Mail website.’ Karen’s words came out fast. ‘They say he’s wanted by the police. There’s a search warrant being issued. I can’t believe it.’

  For a long moment Isabel didn’t register what she was saying. Then, like a shutter falling, she understood and her whole body tightened, every muscle. A slick of sweat broke out on her forehead. Then a warm flush passed through her, starting on her arms and ending up on her cheeks. She didn’t care about the embarrassment of him being on some newspaper’s site. What worried her was the fact that the police were hunting him. She’d almost fooled herself into thinking they just wanted to speak to him.

  And she’d fooled herself that all this wasn’t actually too serious.

  She straightened her back, swallowing the lump that was forming in her throat. She wasn’t going to crack up.

  She wasn’t.

  ‘I can’t imagine why he’s on that site.’

  ‘But they’re looking for him, Isabel.’

  A weird tremor started in her leg. She pressed her foot to the floor, steadying her calf muscles.

  ‘Isabel,’ said Karen.

  ‘Yes?’ Images of Sean were flashing through her mind. She saw him surrounded by police, being taken away.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ She sounded upset, as if she was crying.

  She heard the sound of a TV in the background.

  ‘Everything’s going to be okay, Karen.’ Her voice was hard, confident, but there was a tremor in her hand holding the phone.

  ‘Frank …’ Karen started the sentence, then stopped. Then she started again.

  Isabel could feel distress coming over the line.

  ‘Frank thinks Sean going missing is connected to what’s happening at BXH. There’s a lot of strange talk he’s been hearing.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘That’s all he knows. Just be careful, Isabel.’

  ‘I will.’

  Karen coughed. ‘I thought he might call us, but he didn’t.’

  She looked up. There was a nurse standing over her, the same nurse who’d shown her to George’s room.

  ‘Thanks for calling, Karen.’

  She closed the line.

  ‘I’m glad I caught you,’ said the nurse. ‘Mr Donovan asked if his visitor was still around.’

  Her mouth opened.

  ‘Yeah, right, okay.’ She felt stupid. The nurse nodded, as if prattling visitors was a normal occurrence. Isabel stood up and followed her.

  When they reached George his eyes were closed.

  ‘He was conscious a minute ago,’ said the nurse. ‘He might wake up again soon. Can you hold on?’

  Isabel nodded. The nurse turned and left the room.

  She stood by his bed, wondering whether she should say something, try to wake him. She coughed.

  His eyelids flickered. One of the pieces of electronic equipment he was connected to beeped. She waited some more. A minute passed.

  Then two.

  She felt the tension of the last twenty-four hours like a weight pressing into her. The good news was that George was breathing. He was injured, but he hadn’t died because of her.

  She paced up and down, slowly.

  He looked like someone who was lucky to still be alive. There were tufts of hair springing out from under a white gauze bandage that was wrapped around the top part of his head. There was a purple bruise on the side of his face, extending under the bandage, and a wire cage, under a thin sheet, protected his lower body.

  A machine beeped.

  How long should she wait?

  She bent towards him. ‘You’re going to be okay, George.’

  His eyelids flickered.

  ‘Yeah.’ His voice sounded as if it was coming from a deep well.

  ‘I don’t want to disturb you, George. I’m sorry about what happened. I better go. I just wanted to check you were okay.’ She leaned down, put her hand out, squeezed his arm.

  George grunted, moved, shifting his shoulders a little, as if he wanted to sit up. Some of the wires connected to him swayed.

  ‘George, don’t.’

  ‘Isabel.’ His voice was clear.

  She bent close. His breath smelt stale, still alcohol-tinged.

  He raised himself a little. The wires shifted again. Then his head dropped back down onto the thin blue pillow.

  He let out a groan, as if he’d used up all his energy.

  ‘Did you see them?’

  ‘Who?’ What was he saying?

  He shook his head, slowly, as if trying to clear it. Then he stared into her eyes.

  ‘I. Was. Pushed.’ Each word came out separately.

  ‘My God! Did you tell the police? I didn’t see anyone push you.’ She felt cold, as if the temperature in the room had just dropped.

  He shook his head, slowly.

  ‘Why would anyone push you? It could have been an accident.’

  A shout echoed from the corridor. His attention drifted to the door. She looked over her shoulder.<
br />
  ‘You don’t know, do you?’ His voice was clearer again.

  ‘Know what?’

  His eyelids fluttered. ‘About BXH.’

  She could barely hear him.

  ‘They’ve got a ton of secrets, Isabel. You know they used to be the biggest opium trader’s bank, don’t you?’

  ‘That was all a long time ago.’ She shook her head. Had the accident affected him mentally?

  He licked his lips. His tongue was big, purple, dry looking. ‘You’re not listening.’ His voice drifted away. His eyes closed again.

  ‘Go home,’ he said. ‘Wait for him. You don’t know what you’re getting into.’ He groaned softly. ‘Remember that girl who was murdered six months ago,’ he said. ‘The journalist.’

  ‘Who? What journalist?’

  ‘Sean didn’t tell you?’

  She shook her head. ‘Should he have?’

  ‘She was investigating BXH.’

  ‘Investigating what about BXH?’

  ‘Lots of stuff, Isabel. Lots of stuff.’ He leaned forward an inch. His hand came up.

  ‘He’s in New York.’

  ‘What?’ A rush of anger threatened to explode inside her. Had he known this all along?

  He stared at her.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ She hissed her question.

  He looked away. ‘They went to New York on the company jet this morning. Sean was with them. I’m sorry.’ His voice trailed away.

  She wanted to scream. She bent down to him. ‘But the police came to the house looking for him! Did they not go to the bank, find out where he’d gone?’ There was a noise from outside, an alarm beeping loudly.

  ‘The police came to BXH at four in the afternoon. The plane had already landed in New York. Look, I honestly thought he would call you.’ He leaned towards her. His eyes were appealing to her.

  ‘I was going to tell you, later.’

  She didn’t believe him.

  ‘What’s he doing in New York?’

  ‘There’s a press conference tomorrow at the bank in Manhattan. They’re announcing something big.’

  She banged her fist into her forehead, closed her eyes. How could he be such a bastard? She was following his footsteps, checking hospitals, clubs, and he was relaxing in Manhattan!

  ‘There’s something else,’ said George, softly.

  ‘What?’

  He let out a sigh. ‘If they find out I told you this, I’ll be fired, and sued. Please, don’t tell them.’ His eyes looked haunted.

  ‘I won’t. I promise.’

  ‘They’re clearing Sean’s office out tonight.’ It sounded as if he was shocked too.

  ‘Tonight?’

  ‘They’re boxing his stuff up. Remember the whistle blower last year? They did it to him too.’

  She did remember this time. An older banker, some guy coming up to his retirement, had gone to the UK Financial Regulator and then to the newspapers. He’d claimed the bank had been skimming investor’s funds, cooking the books like a five-star chef. He’d been fired immediately. Then it went around that the guy had been passed over for promotion, that he wanted revenge. It was hard to know what to believe. That was what Sean had said.

  Isabel turned her head.

  The nurse had come bustling into the room.

  ‘You’ll have to leave,’ she said. ‘He’s too weak for long visits.’ She stood there, holding the door open, clearly expecting Isabel to go.

  She did, but not before squeezing George’s hand. She’d been right. He knew a lot more than he’d been letting on. Outside, the streets were busy. She felt disconnected from reality, as if she’d been taken to a different planet, one she recognised, but didn’t feel part of.

  She’d made a decision. She was going to New York.

  37

  The basement room in Soho was almost bare. It was the type of place people could hide or be kept in against their will for long periods.

  Rose and Alek were lying on a giant dirty mattress. Nearby was a one litre blue plastic bottle of water and the wrappers from four cheap sandwiches.

  There was a man outside the locked steel door. Rose knew that because he had come into the room quickly and had told her to answer the phone, say everything was okay, when Isabel had rung. He’d also forced her to send her husband a text to say she’d met an old girlfriend and would be home late.

  Alek was sleeping in her arms. It was uncomfortable, but it was the least she could do. She felt responsible. If she hadn’t taken Alek for a walk that afternoon she mightn’t have been bundled into that van by those two psycho bastards.

  The shock of what had happened had almost given her a heart attack. She’d wheezed for twenty minutes, but now her mind was cold.

  She’d heard a telephone call being made from the sealed front of the van. From the little she’d heard he was reporting their capture to someone. The not knowing why this was happening was one of the most worrying things. Was it because of Sean and Isabel? Was it something random? No explanation had been provided.

  Her brain sifted through memories of movies about people who’d been kidnapped. Anything was possible now. She knew that. She’d experienced how rough they’d been. She’d felt their grip on her arms, vice-like, as they’d bundled them down here. There was no pity in their eyes. She tried to sleep. But then the door opened. Alek didn’t wake, he just stirred. And the man who’d opened it was different from the one behind him, who’d kept guard.

  This one was tall, well over six foot, and built like a soldier. There was an air of menace coming from him.

  He bent down to Rose. ‘You are staying here. The boy is coming with us. You will be released in forty-eight hours. The police will track your phone by then, maybe even sooner. Make no trouble while we take the boy and you will still be alive when they find you. Now give him this to drink.’

  He handed Rose a small water bottle with an inch of clear liquid at the bottom.

  She shook her head, slowly, her eyes widening.

  ‘It will not kill him. It will simply keep him sleepy.’

  He opened his jacket. Under his arm there was a knife in a sheath.

  ‘If you prefer, I will cut your throat and finish with you.’ His eyes were the hardest she had ever seen. They were balls of glass.

  She took the bottle with a shaking hand.

  ‘Don’t make a mistake. I would hate to frighten him with the sight of your blood.’

  She nudged Alek until he woke. He looked up, startled, at the big man beside Rose.

  Eventually she got him to drink the liquid. A minute later his head went to his chest. The man snapped his fingers. The other man came into the room. He picked the boy up.

  Rose stared at him, but said nothing.

  That was when she noticed the passports in the man’s trouser pocket. Just the corner of them was visible, but they couldn’t be mistaken for anything else.

  38

  When Isabel arrived at Heathrow Airport Terminal 5 early the following morning, it was hard to be positive about Sean. His face, it looked like his ID picture from the bank, was on the front of most of the newspapers in the first shop she went into.

  She almost had a seizure when she saw the picture. She froze, mid-step. She’d known he was being covered in the media, but she’d never imagined this, his face wherever she went.

  She grabbed a paper, paid for it, and left the shop, though she’d wanted to get a magazine to distract herself. That idea had simply fled. It felt as if the world was turning on her. She decided not to read the story until she was on the plane. She headed for check-in.

  At the desk there were less braying City types than the last time they’d travelled to the States. They’d been in first class that time. The bank had paid for it all. She was glad now she’d gone with him. It meant she knew exactly where the bank’s headquarters was in midtown Manhattan, and where their big press conference room was on the fiftieth floor, near the top of their building.

  She’d been in it. />
  She swayed as she checked in. She’d only had about four hours sleep. Though she reckoned she’d been fortunate to sleep at all, her mind had been racing so much.

  After checking in, she headed for the gate. She ate half a croissant and drank two-thirds of a medicinal cappuccino on the way, but she had no appetite. She’d been given a window seat and as soon as she settled in she took out the paper with Sean’s picture on the cover.

  She had to read the article twice, the second time with less thumping in her chest, before she was sure it didn’t say anything she didn’t know already. She was doubly glad she’d been given the window seat when she saw one of Sean’s colleagues from BXH striding down the aisle towards her from first class.

  She looked out the window. He went by. Thankfully, he didn’t recognise her. She couldn’t remember his name, but the sight of him reminded her of the pampered life every senior person at BXH wallowed in, as if it was their divine right. It didn’t matter that almost all the other banks in the world were cutting back, both on bonuses and salaries. The top tier at BXH always believed their own propaganda.

  They were Masters of the Universe, or wannabe Masters, able to conjure up money out of thin air and at will. One thought alone kept her optimistic. Sean was in New York. And what a surprise he’d get when he saw her. In her more positive moments, as the plane flew on, she was sure that it was all a big mix-up.

  He’d come back to London with her on the next flight to clear his name. In a few days all this and BXH’s troubles would be a memory.

  They could sue all those stupid newspapers for using his picture, and for implying his guilt. That would be good. Very good.

  Her positivity didn’t last.

  She was barely able to sit still on the plane for more than a few minutes, thinking about it all. Thankfully, getting through JFK went quicker than the last time she’d been through. She grabbed a yellow cab at the rank outside the terminal. As she travelled into Manhattan through the Saturday afternoon traffic she tried to remember what Sean had been wearing the last time she saw him, so she could fix a picture of him in her mind and decide which part of him she wanted to tear a strip off first.

  Soon after the taxi pulled up at the Grand Hyatt New York.