The Manhattan Puzzle

by Laurence O'Bryan

  ‘Now I’m only going to say this once.’ He sat back, spreading himself onto the armrests of his chair.

  ‘It’s as clear as day to me that your husband is guilty as hell, and that he’s a murderer.’

  She blinked and stared into his watery-blue eyes. It was a weird sensation, hearing someone say that your husband was a murderer, as if he was talking about a parking offence.

  ‘It’s not going to be easy to accept that, Mr Reilly.’ Her voice sounded as if it was coming from someone far away.

  ‘Sure, I know you don’t want to think bad of the guy you married, but you gotta wake up, smell the coffee.’

  He was shaking his head slowly. ‘You know we got the Metropolitan Police from London sending us over an international arrest warrant and an extradition request any second now.’ He paused for effect.

  ‘And I got NYPD officers over there,’ he jerked his thumb towards the other end of the table, ‘who are a thousand per cent convinced your husband murdered their colleague.’ He leaned forward. ‘And mine.’

  She could smell his sweat, and a hint of beer. He’d probably been watching a game when he’d been interrupted to come in to BXH.

  A wiry, black-haired, uniformed police officer came over to them. He put his hands on his hips and looked down at her. The label under the badge on his left breast read GONZALES.

  ‘You Sean Ryan’s wife?’

  She nodded.

  He raised his eyebrows and turned to Reilly.

  ‘Sergeant wants to know if we can take over.’

  Gus Reilly looked at his watch and shook his head.

  ‘I got five more minutes. Your Sergeant agreed to that.’

  Officer Gonzales stared at Reilly, as if he wanted him to melt under his gaze. When he didn’t, Gonzales turned, went away.

  ‘I don’t even know all the people your husband has pissed off.’ Reilly leaned towards her. ‘And I don’t want to know, but if I were you I’d answer each question those officers ask you with the maximum cooperation.’ He looked over his shoulder at the retreating officer.

  Then he moved his chair closer to her. ‘You ain’t been in a holding cell with prostitutes and murderers before, have you?’

  Isabel leaned towards him. ‘My son is missing, Mr Reilly. And my husband is wanted for murder. I honestly don’t think anything will shock me any more. But I will fight back if anyone tries to lock me up for no good reason. No one with an ounce of humanity would do that.’

  75

  The windows of Lord Bidoner’s apartment reflected the light from the black candle on the long coffee table. The flame twisted in each section of glass, as if a row of candles had been lit. Outside, the snow was rushing into the windows high above Fifth Avenue, as if it might find a purchase on itself and build a wall against the skyscraper.

  ‘We will not talk again, Doctor Lomas. My colleague will drop the DNA sample into your offices on Monday. The cloning process will be entirely in your hands. I have been told your laboratory is equipped and capable. The final payment will be sent to your Swiss bank account when you have confirmed the identity of the individual inseminated.’

  Lord Bidoner turned his swivelling leather chair away from the wall of glass and held the phone closer to his ear.

  The doctor’s voice came through a little crackled, thanks to the voice encryption app he was using, but it was still clear.

  ‘There will be no contact from anyone else? That’s it?’ said the doctor.

  ‘We will require a DNA sample once the child is born,’ said Bidoner. He sighed. ‘And we will find you if it doesn’t match the sample we provide. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Crystal,’ said the doctor. Then he coughed. ‘Is it your DNA we will be cloning, sir?’

  Lord Bidoner stared at the candle in front of him. He moved the palm of his hand over it, tasted the pain, let his skin linger on it.

  ‘I cannot answer that question. I was told that you could do this and that a ten-million-dollar donation would ensure your permanent silence. Do you have a problem sticking to this agreement?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Good. The DNA sample should be treated with great care, doctor, as if your life depended on it.’

  He closed the line and stared at the falling snow. He was being optimistic, he knew, that he would find the DNA sample in the BXH building, but it was an optimism born of verifiable evidence. The artefact they were looking for, and its secret chamber, were mentioned on the Nestorian Stele, the first record of Christianity in China, from the year ad 781.

  A later manuscript described what the secret chamber contained; a much-sought relic, with visible traces of the blood of Iisus Hristos .

  Chinese monks had hidden the documents for centuries and the Communists had tried to find them and destroy them, but they hadn’t succeeded. And after paying for access to them he had gone to extraordinary lengths to verify the truth of what these records showed.

  The search for a true relic of Christ, his blood or a lock of his hair, had been a matter of religious faith up until the latest DNA cloning techniques had been developed.

  But now it would be the story of how science brought about the second coming. And this time He would come as a man of power. And He would rule the world as it should be ruled, with a clenched fist, as He would be trained to do.

  The change was coming. And with a leader people could have total faith in no one would dare resist. Every religion that had accepted Jesus as a prophet or a Messiah would have to bow before the new order. Popes and imams would kneel before them with their flocks coming in behind them.

  And around the Second Christ, Lord Bidoner and his friends would plan the future of humanity.

  He turned away from the window and smiled. The destiny of all who lived and all who were to come would be determined in the next few hours. And he would be at the centre of it.

  Xena was sitting on the long sofa. She was watching something on a tablet. Her hand was moving fast across the screen.

  His investment in her had been the best move he had made in a long time. Her willingness to kill without remorse was a quality few possessed.

  Not many had the courage to act upon that most true of sayings, the end justifies the means.

  There was a thin knife on the leather seat beside her. It was small enough for her to hide almost anywhere, yet big enough to kill with precision.

  ‘It is time,’ he said.

  Xena didn’t smile. She simply picked up the knife and stood.

  They headed for the panic room.

  76

  ‘I didn’t know your son was missing. What happened?’ said Reilly.

  Isabel told him what Henry Mowlam had told her.

  He whistled. ‘He thinks it’s got something to do with your husband’s disappearance?’

  She nodded. ‘I’m scared, Mr Reilly, but not of my husband.’

  ‘What d’ya mean?’

  She leaned towards him. ‘I saw a guy who was following me earlier. He was in the basement here at BXH an hour ago. He ran at me as if he wanted to kill me. He was dressed like a security guard.’

  ‘Can you describe him?’

  ‘Tall, bald, I’d know him if I saw him again. Please think about it, Mr Reilly. That video confession is too convenient.’

  He stared at her, his eyelids drooping.

  ‘We have ID details of all the guards in the building. I’ll get someone to run photos by you.’

  She shook her head. She put a hand out to him.

  ‘Can I go back to my hotel? I need to book an earlier flight back to London. I have to be there. Alek is missing. Do you have children, Mr Reilly?’

  He stared at her. ‘The NYPD want you for questioning.’

  She sat up straight and nodded. Then she looked away. A wave of emotion was rising inside her after talking about Alek. She sniffed, held it back.

  An older woman, a heavyset New York bleached blonde, with girder-like shoulders, came over to Reilly, and tapped his should
er.

  He didn’t turn around. ‘Whad’a ya want?’

  ‘I got a problem, sir.’ She had no badge on her pinstriped suit.

  He shrugged. ‘What’s up?’

  She came around and stood at his side. She was eyeing Isabel as if she might be dangerous.

  Then she looked at Gus, an exaggerated questioning expression on her face.

  He nodded, almost imperceptibly. ‘Go ahead,’ he said.

  She bent down and whispered loudly, ‘I’m getting zero cooperation. Just some bullshit stories about us needing a court order.’ Her gaze flickered towards the other end of the room.

  Dick Owen was down there, in a huddle with two other tall, thin men in suits. They looked exactly how you’d imagine Securities and Exchange Commission people to look like; serious nerds.

  As she watched, Owen moved away from his colleagues, walked towards the double doors at the far end of the room and stood there as if he was talking to someone. She had to lean sideways to get a glimpse of who it was.

  Reilly said something. She didn’t catch it.

  Mrs Vaughann was standing in the doorway.

  She was looking at Owen. He was waving his hands, as if explaining something.

  She felt a heady rush. Mrs Vaughann might be able to help her, explain to the NYPD how she’d been looking for Sean since yesterday.

  She might help her get away from them.

  Mrs Vaughann looked in her direction. So did Owen. Isabel waved at her. Mrs Vaughann’s hand came up, in a half wave. Then Owen said something to her. She turned on her heel, disappeared. Isabel thought about shouting her name, but Mrs Vaughann was gone.

  ‘I need to see the lady who was just over there,’ she said. She pointed at the far end of the room.

  ‘You can see whoever you like when we’re finished with you,’ said Reilly, without turning to see who she was pointing at.

  She gripped her arms tighter around herself and bit into her lip. How long was all this going to take? There was a laptop screen further up the table. It was half turned towards her. There were two images side by side on the screen.

  It took at least two seconds for her to recognise the close-up picture of Detective Grainger’s face and, beside that, the face of what must have been that poor dancer from that stupid club in London.

  Both of them had bloodsplatters on their faces. Both had their eyes open and were staring as if shocked by their own death.

  A pounding in her chest was affecting her throat, tightening it. Then a tingling in her fingers made her rub her hands together. She rocked in her chair. Whoever had done that had to be capable of doing the same thing to anyone else. To Alek. There was a creeping cold moving inside her.

  ‘Mrs Ryan.’ Gus Reilly had a hand on her arm.

  He was looking around, as if trying to work out what she’d been staring at. Then his hand gripped her arm tighter. She felt the veins in her arm throbbing under his grip.

  ‘Do you know if your husband reported BXH for breaking UK money laundering regulations earlier this year?’ His tone was soft. He let go of her.

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Has he ever reported them for anything?’

  ‘Not that I know.’

  ‘Have you ever known him to be violent?’

  ‘No.’ She felt a flush on her cheeks. Was she being honest? What about that episode when he’d held her shoulder? She clamped her lips together.

  Reilly rubbed his chin. He looked troubled.

  ‘My son is missing,’ she said, softly. Her voice broke, catching in her throat. ‘I need to get this over with.’

  He looked at her, as if he was examining an unusual specimen. ‘Why don’t you just give up on your husband?’

  ‘I believe in him.’ Loyalty had been drummed into her as a child. It was impossible to give up. ‘Please, let me go. I have to book a new flight.’

  Reilly let out his breath in an exasperated stream.

  ‘Okay, you just hold on. I’ll see what I can do.’ He stood, headed towards the other end of the room without a backwards glance.

  She looked around.

  No one was looking at her.

  The door at that end of the room was only ten feet away.

  This was her chance. It had to be.

  A vein in her chest, under her arm, started beating. She didn’t turn her head. She stood, headed for the door. This was not what Reilly meant by holding on, she was reasonably sure of that, but it was what she had to do.

  A voice in her head was shouting, don’t do it.

  But she wasn’t going to listen.

  There were uniformed officers in the hall. One was leaning against the wall. He was talking to a shorter officer who was shaking his head. The shorter one stared at her as she passed. Isabel was sure he was going to say something to her.

  ‘It’s gotta be three feet thick at least, the concrete down there,’ said the officer with his hand on the wall. His accent was a thick New York growl, like something from an old movie.

  She didn’t hear any more.

  And she didn’t stop.

  Her feet were moving her automatically. She had to tell them not to run. They wanted to. She was sure everyone would spot her guilty face, notice that her veins were throbbing.

  But no one did.

  So she kept walking. Where was Mrs Vaughann? What had those officers been talking about? Were they looking for Sean?

  The elevator wasn’t far away. All she had to do was pass the other open door of the conference room.

  She heard a shout and nearly jumped out of her skin. But it wasn’t her name that had been shouted. And she was near the elevators.

  There were two uniformed NYPD officers standing in front of the elevator doors. They were talking to two women waiting there, tapping away at handheld screens at the same time. Were they logging people in and out of the floor?

  What about the other corridor? The one that led to that service elevator. She headed across the lobby area in front of the elevators and went straight towards the other corridor, as if that was where she was going all along.

  There were three NYPD officers near the service elevator. They looked as if they were waiting for it to arrive. They all had their backs to her, but they would definitely all turn as soon as they heard her coming up behind them.

  Was she crazy even thinking she could move around this building, avoiding all these police officers? And any second now a shout would go up behind her from Gus Reilly. The throbbing in her chest was pounding faster now. And her scalp was tingling.

  You’re totally crazy, Isabel.

  And then she saw the words FIRE ESCAPE on a door. The letters were almost the same colour as the door. She’d nearly missed them.

  And then one of the officers turned. He was tall, black-haired, like a young Clint Eastwood. He gave her a wide smile. She smiled back at him. They were ten feet apart.

  She reached the fire exit door, pushed at it. It opened.

  She let it close behind her and stood waiting, her breathing way too fast.

  But the door didn’t open behind her. No one came after her. Again, she felt as if a truck had passed her by within inches.

  The stairs were laid with black tiles, like an expensive bathroom. The roof and walls were painted black up here too. And the lighting was thin LED strips. She headed down.

  As she reached the next landing she heard voices far below. She peeked over the edge of the stairs. People were coming up. The vein in her chest went into double time.

  She had to get off the stairs.

  She pushed the door on the landing open, closing it gently behind her. The spill of light from the door had been enough for her to see the corridor and an elevator door further along. Each floor had a similar layout, though it would have been a lot better if this one had had its lights on, like the floor above.

  She stood in the darkness, listening. All she could hear was a faint hissing. And for one sickening moment she imagined some animal lying in wait, unti
l she convinced herself that it had to be the noise of a Xerox machine or some other piece of equipment that hadn’t been switched off.

  She felt along the wall for a light switch. There had to be one.

  The darkness was almost complete now. A thin strip of light under the door to the fire exit was the only illumination she could see. This floor felt way colder than the one above too. It wasn’t freezing, but it wasn’t far off. There was a slight chemical smell in the air as well, as if the carpets had been cleaned recently.

  She got a sudden flashback to the time she’d spent in that cave in Israel. There had been insects there. She could almost feel the scorpions walking over her again, see their red eyes in the darkness.

  She pressed her fist to her forehead. There weren’t any scorpions in New York.

  Suddenly, she felt an urge to go back, to throw herself at the mercies of the NYPD.

  At least she’d be safe.

  She held her fist in front of her, ready to hit out.

  She felt a slight breeze on her fingers, then on her face. Her skin tightened. She stopped, waited, waited some more, then took a small step forward.

  This was one of the empty floors Sean had told her all about, the result of all those thousands of people who’d been laid off over the past few years, after the financial crisis.

  Every office and division had ended up like a war zone, he’d said, with their own casualty stories about people who’d never made it back from meetings with senior managers.

  Then she saw the faint gleam of the elevator doors and heard a rattle as it passed. It didn’t stop. She reached around for the elevator button, feeling the wall in giant circles. She found it. It lit up when she pressed it.

  77

  Gus Reilly’s cell phone was warbling. He was on his way back to see Isabel Ryan. He’d spoken to the sergeant who wanted to interview her. The man was in no mood for compromise.

  ‘Reilly here,’ he said, into the phone.

  ‘You gotta get back down here, now,’ said a voice. ‘And bring every officer up there with you. We got a full scale riot going down. If we’re not careful we’re gonna lose this goddamned building!’