The Manhattan Puzzle

by Laurence O'Bryan

  That had been what he signed up for. And the money in his family bank account in Lebanon, which would make a life and death difference to many of his relatives, was compensation enough for what had to be done.

  And Lord Bidoner had promised a large bonus after this job was complete. Which meant that no matter what he wanted, how many people he wanted dead, it would all happen.

  He thought about the boy in the cabin behind him again. He shook his head.

  Maybe after this he could retire. He would, at last, have enough money for that villa in the hills overlooking Tripoli.

  He looked down.

  A red light on the console was flashing. Another weather warning had been picked up. He looked at the green-hued radar screen with its slowly moving lights and sweeping arm. The storm was heading inland, south of Manhattan.

  Just as long as it didn’t turn north in the next few hours everything would be fine. The boy had an appointment for the coming evening. And his boss would not be happy if he missed it.

  Lord Bidoner did not accept failure. Not even once. Adar touched the throttle, eased it forward a notch. Then he looked back into the cabin.

  He’d heard the boy talking.

  His soft voice was so like his own son’s that a memory had come back to him. When he’d visited his wife that last time the boy had been in another room playing with her sister’s children.

  He felt a shudder rise up. He gripped the throttle. Whatever they were planning for this boy, it would not be pleasant.

  He rubbed his hand across his brow. It was throbbing.

  With a bit of luck he would not be there when they did it. And the sooner this contract was over the better.

  42

  ‘More coffee, ma’am?’ The guy from behind the counter with the slicked-back hair was standing beside her.

  ‘Yes, thanks.’

  He filled her cup. She glanced towards the window.

  ‘You work for the bank, ma’am?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, I’m going there later.’

  ‘That makes two of you,’ he said. He was about to walk away when she said, ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Yeah, that guy over there’s waiting to go to something at BXH too.’ He pointed at a young guy wearing a black ski jacket with fur lining on its hood, sitting near the window. He had steel glasses, a regulation army haircut and a sullen air coming off his hunched up shoulders.

  ‘And he’s been here a lot longer than you, ma’am.’

  The waiter whistled as he walked away.

  The guy in the ski jacket looked around fast, as if he’d sensed someone was talking about him. Then he went back to staring out of the window.

  Maybe if Frank couldn’t get her into the press conference, she’d have to do whatever it took, including chatting up strange men.

  She stood and walked over to ski jacket man. There was a prickle of sweat on her brow, but she didn’t care.

  ‘Hi, you going to the press conference too?’ She stood by his table and gave him a tentative smile. Then she flicked her gaze towards the empty chair opposite him.

  He looked at her, as if she’d just told him the room was full of zombies. His eyes were wide, his cheeks pink.

  ‘Who told ya that?’ His voice was loud, high pitched. People nearby glanced at them.

  This guy wasn’t going to help her.

  ‘The waiter,’ she said.

  ‘That guy? He don’t know nothin’.’ He spat out the word nothin’, then looked around the room.

  ‘My mistake.’ She turned, walked back to where she’d been sitting.

  To hell with him, a super-heated hell.

  She sat, pushed her hair back from her forehead, and closed her eyes.

  ‘You okay?’

  She opened her eyes, fast. Ski jacket man was sitting in the chair opposite her.

  ‘Yeah.’ She leaned forward. His eyes sneaked down towards her breasts. Predictable. Then they snapped up again.

  She gifted him a smile. ‘I’m Isabel, what’s your name?’

  ‘Timmy, Timmy Wilson. You going to the press conference, Isabel?’

  She nodded.

  ‘You don’t look like regular MSM.’

  ‘MSM?’

  ‘Mainstream media, you know, regular journalists.’

  ‘I’m not. Where are you from, Timmy?’ She leaned forward, as if she was really interested in his answer.

  ‘Alabama. Huntsville. I got a zoomin blog. We got readers in every state. I flew in just for this press conference.’ He looked pleased with himself.

  ‘Why?’

  He put his elbows on the table. ‘You tell me why you’re going, first,’ he said. ‘Seeing as how you came over to me.’

  He looked like someone who’d have a lot of trouble getting dates. His skin was a flaky, floury white. He was probably spending too much time online, on sites his mother disapproved of.

  ‘I just want to find out what’s going on at BXH,’ she said. Would that be enough? Was she going to have to make up some other story?

  There was a long pause. He was daring her to stay quiet. She began debating what to say next. Then he spoke.

  ‘That makes two of us.’

  ‘So what do you want to find out?’

  ‘You know those BXH guys are foreclosing businesses all over the place, don’t you?’

  She nodded. He went on. It sounded as if he was getting on to his number one topic.

  ‘Someone has to look into what those guys have been up to. That’s why I came up. Every newspaper in this whole country just prints out the goddamn big-bank press releases without even editing their spelling.’ He snorted, then continued.

  ‘They’re what I call robot journalists. You know, you slip a press release in one end, and a newspaper article comes out the other, with only one change, the words – press release – have been removed from the top of it all.’ He beamed.

  ‘Robot journalists, that’s good.’

  ‘You know what else?’ He leaned forward.

  She shook her head.

  ‘Have you seen their goddamned logo?’

  She blinked. BXH’s logo?

  ‘It’s one of those alchemy symbols.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yeah, I saw them in this old puzzle book. I reckon they’re all into black magic over there.’ He glanced towards the window, then over his other shoulder, as if some devil worshippers might be listening in.

  ‘Wow, that’s amazing,’ she said. ‘You got a pass to go to their press conference?’

  He gave her a toothy grin. His teeth were nicotine stained. He looked better when he didn’t smile. She held his stare.

  ‘Maybe, how about you? Why don’t’cha tell us your story? You’re English, right?’ His eyes sneaked to her breasts again. They stayed there a microsecond longer this time.

  ‘I’m interested in what’s going on at BXH, that’s all. My dad got foreclosed by them in London,’ she lied.

  One of his eyebrows twitched. ‘Yeah, they been doing that a lot. You know they took a trillion federal bailout dollars just to pay their fat bonuses.’ He looked over his shoulder again.

  What the hell had he got to be paranoid about? Did he think the bank’s goons were out looking for bloggers?

  ‘What time are you going over there?’ She didn’t bother telling him it was a hundred billion dollars they’d got, not a trillion.

  ‘Starts at seven, so I heard.’

  ‘How did you get your name on the press list?’

  He shook his head. His eyebrows came down. ‘Why you wanna know?’

  ‘Forget it. Are you on your own, Timmy?’

  He clamped his mouth shut.

  ‘Jeez, you are paranoid. I’m not wired you know.’ She opened her jacket wide and turned in her seat, so he could see the back of her jeans.

  ‘I didn’t think you were.’ His voice was softer again. He gave her a lopsided grin.

  She wanted to run out of the place.

  ‘You know, Timmy, I
was hoping someone like you would come along, get me into that press conference. To tell you the truth, that’s why I came over to talk to you.’

  His cheeks reddened. ‘I could meet you afterwards. Tell you what happened.’

  ‘I want to see these guys for myself.’

  He leaned towards her. Their faces were inches apart. She caught the smell of stale French fries and tobacco from his breath.

  ‘You wanna see the whites of their eyes. Find out if they’re all lizards, right?’ He bared his teeth. It was a lovely sight.

  ‘I been watching for black helicopters.’ He pointed at the sky.

  ‘Did you see any?’

  ‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘But I reckon it won’t be long before I do.’

  He was warming up. He probably didn’t get too many females showing an interest in him.

  ‘So what about the merger? What’s that all about?’ she said.

  ‘That ain’t no merger. That’s a takeover. Them goddamned Chinese want a big slice of the USA. BXH are gonna sell us all out to a bunch of commies. You know, half the big businesses in this country are gonna end up owned by that goddamned Chinese communist party, if we ain’t careful.’ He said the word – communist – as if he was spitting out gristle. He shook his head.

  She smiled at him.

  ‘So you could get me in? We could go there together?’

  He looked sad now, as if he thought he might be missing out on something by saying no to her. ‘I only got one press pass,’ he said.

  Then he grinned, showing his lovely teeth again. ‘But I’ll meet you after, if you want. You know, we can get together at my hotel. I can tell you what they’re really like. I got a bottle of Jim Beam in my room.’ He winked at her.

  That was her limit. ‘I gotta go. I gotta find someone who can get me in.’

  She stood, zipped up her jacket. If he knew how to get her in, this was his chance to reveal it.

  ‘Take it easy,’ she said.

  43

  Henry Mowlam looked at the text message. It was Saturday evening in London and he’d been planning an early night. His apartment in Kentish Town was small, but it was clean.

  There were others on duty who could deal with whatever happened over the weekend. But the text that had arrived had sent him looking for his jacket.

  George Donovan had been a senior security manager at BXH UK until yesterday. Then he’d been hit by a bus in Piccadilly Circus. Afterwards, he’d had a couple of visitors in hospital and then, within hours of being admitted, he’d been found dead.

  He’d been asphyxiated.

  Confirming that that was the reason for his death had delayed the incident being reported to him. Henry had an alert out for all BXH-related activity. This latest development had to be viewed with suspicion.

  There was no way the murder of a senior BXH security staff member at this moment was a casual thing, an accident. It had been professionally done and it implied there was a war on for control of this bank.

  A half-dozen government departments and quangos would want to have a say in how this was handled.

  Major Finch was right. They needed to talk.

  The second bit of news concerned him perhaps more than the first.

  Isabel Ryan had travelled to New York. Henry had requested FBI cooperation on keeping tabs on her. At the very least her mobile needed to be located every five minutes and her calls intercepted. In addition, the local FBI office in Manhattan, where she had booked a room, should be notified and the feed from the security cameras in her hotel made available to him.

  The reply, from the FBI office, had been less than satisfactory. The request would be reviewed, within twenty-four hours.

  He felt a familiar frustration rising inside him. There was something going down in Manhattan and he had no idea what it was, but he had a bad feeling.

  Could Major Finch pull rank and get the Yanks to cooperate? It would be a nightmare of recriminations if something happened in Manhattan because they simply didn’t respond fast enough.

  44

  Isabel was half-hoping he’d come after her, offer to try to get her in. She stood near the door for a moment, looked at her phone. No calls. She went out into the street. Timmy waved at her as she passed the window, as if they were friends. She didn’t wave back.

  Asshole.

  She decided to walk around the BXH building, to see if she could see anyone else waiting to go to the press conference. It was a long shot, but better than just going back to her hotel.

  A seagull swooped in front of her on huge wings. It made a cackling noise as it picked up some scrap, as if warning her off its territory. She crossed the street and walked alongside the old Grand Central Post Office building, heading up towards 45th. The BXH building loomed above her like a presence, something from an old movie with Fred Astaire, set in the thirties when the elite arrived at restaurants in tuxedos, while ordinary people in rags watched from across the street.

  A bum was coming towards her. He was wearing what looked like ten coats, all too big for him. He had newspapers wrapped around his feet, or maybe around his shoes. She couldn’t exactly see which.

  Instinctively, she moved away from the wall of the bank. He looked harmless, but she’d heard too many warnings every time she came to Manhattan. A bus swayed past. The bum veered towards her. What the hell was he playing at? Spook the lady?

  ‘Spare a dollar?’

  He was still a few paces away. Then he stepped into her path. She saw his eyes. They were bloodshot, purple-rimmed. His hands came up, as if he was going to reach out, grab her.

  She sidestepped back towards the bank building. She’d be past him in a second.

  His right hand reached out. She could smell sweat and some sour fragrance, urine.

  His hand brushed her arm as she lengthened her stride.

  She was past him.

  He grunted, loudly. She glanced back. He’d fallen down onto his side, and was holding his head.

  ‘I’m gonna sue you, lady. That was a goddamned assault,’ he shouted. He shook a grubby fist at her.

  She kept walking. This was one of those tricks they use to get you to stop. There was a rushing in her veins. Her stride lengthened again as if someone was pushing at her back. His shouts were diminishing far too slowly. Was he going to come after her? A taxi beeped its horn, then slowed as it came towards her. She put her hand up.

  ‘The Grand Hyatt.’ It was time to get out of here. She could come back later.

  She settled back in the seat. The heat in the cab was stifling. Seconds later sweat was prickling out all over her forehead, then down her back. They’d stopped at a traffic lights. She looked back. The bum was still on the ground. He was pointing towards her, as if she was a criminal getting away. That was some act he had.

  ‘How you doin?’ said the driver.

  ‘You got some crazies in this city,’ she said.

  ‘He ain’t nothin’,’ said the driver. ‘Wait’ll you see the mob that’s gonna turn up back there in a couple’a hours. The kooks are gonna be out tonight.’

  ‘A mob?’

  ‘Don’t you read the papers, lady?’ He looked at her in the rear-view mirror. His eyes were huge, as if he was forcing them open out of tiredness.

  ‘Not today.’

  ‘You know that BXH bank back there, where I picked you up, they got a lot of people’s savings in those vaults, and now they say some commies are gonna come and take it all over. Now that ain’t right. No sir-ee.’

  ‘There’s gonna be a demonstration?’

  ‘Yeah, damn right there is. They’re gonna rename BXH, the First Commie Bank of the USA. We ain’t got that in New York yet.’ He waved a hand in front of him.

  He kept talking until she got out.

  In the hotel she headed for the elevators. She needed a shower. She needed to get clean. She needed to think. After that she could work out what to do next. It didn’t look like she had too many choices. As the elevator doors started to close a
British couple stepped in. She could tell where they were from the moment they opened their mouths.

  ‘Which floor, darling?’

  ‘Twenty-two,’ he said. He put his arm around the woman, hugged her.

  Envy rose fast inside her. She and Sean should have been in that amazing hotel in Paris right now, heading for their room arm in arm, just like these two. She had to look away.

  Why hadn’t he contacted her?

  She let the water in the shower run over her for ages. The hot water felt good sluicing over her skin. She let it wash away her tiredness. She should go back to the bank, try to get into the press conference, whatever happened. She’d put on her black trousers and her black silk shirt and tie her hair back this time. It was her stand-back-I’m-coming look, Sean used to say.

  As she squeezed shampoo on her hair, she heard a faint trill. Was that her phone? She half slipped on the floor of the bathroom, knocking her knee against the door as she scrambled out, naked, wet, looking for it.

  It was taking too long to find it.

  She was sure the phone would have stopped trilling by the time she picked it up.

  But it hadn’t.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, when she finally got it to her ear.

  She held her breath as she waited to hear who was on the other end or if the caller had gone. It might be Sean. The next few seconds were empty of sound, a vacuum dying to be filled.

  ‘Isabel, hi. I’m Laura Jenkins. My old buddy Frank tells me you need some help.’

  Thank God for Frank. Thank God for a friendly voice.

  ‘Hi, Laura.’

  ‘Where are you, girl?’

  ‘I’m at the Hyatt, at Grand Central.’ Cooling water was dripping from her. Shampoo was congealing in her hair. She didn’t care.

  ‘Wicked, great little hotel. You wanna go to this press conference, yeah?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Well, I’m gonna be up there at BXH in five minutes I reckon. And I’m allowed to bring a photographer. So if you can get up there in five, maybe ten, I’ll be in the lobby waiting for ya.’

  ‘I thought it was starting at seven?’ What was she supposed to do, race out of her room naked?