It was the desk sergeant he’d just been with in the foyer.
‘What about your officers outside?’
‘Some idiot called them away.’
He could hear shouts in the background. The sound of glass breaking.
‘What the fuck happened?’
‘Someone turned the goddamned BXH ATM machines off!’
A uniformed officer rushed past him, heading for the elevator. Reilly followed him.
Isabel Ryan would have to wait.
78
The elevator lurched. The sick feeling in her stomach was settling in deeper with each floor she went down. An image of Detective Grainger and the cockroaches had come into her mind. She coughed, bent over and dry retched. The acid lingered in her throat. It felt as if she was descending into some haunted basement.
With a ping, the elevator stopped.
The doors slid open.
There was no one in the well-lit corridor in front of her. No murderer. No welcoming committee of policemen. That had to mean the NYPD were breaking through concrete somewhere else, on one of the unused floors.
She stepped out into the corridor. There was a plaque on the wall high up to her left. It was wooden, faded. It looked as if it had been there since the building had been constructed.
It read: PRESIDENT GEORGE WASHINGTON SPENT THE NIGHT BEFORE HIS INAUGURATION, APRIL 29 1789, AT THE FREE MASONS ARMS ON THIS SITE. THE FOUNDATION WALL BENEATH THIS PLAQUE WAS PART OF THAT BUILDING. APRIL 29 1933. GOD BLESS AMERICA.
A low grinding noise filled the air. It sounded as if it was coming from the walls. She moved forward, past a double-width doorway. A sign on it read DRAINAGE PLANT.
She kept walking. The next door had the words GENERAL POST on it. It was locked. The corridor was way longer than any of the corridors she’d seen up above.
The light was different down here too, more yellowy. And it flickered occasionally, sending shadows shimmying across the walls, trembling in time to the grinding from the drainage plant room.
And the lights here were on the wall, not on the roof. They were old gas-lamp-style bulbs, which looked as if they had only recently been converted to electricity.
There were boxes at the end of the corridor.
But someone had left just enough room between the boxes and the wall on the right to squeeze past them. She peered beyond the boxes. There was a red steel door back there.
That meant she was right.
It was exactly what she was looking for. The article Sean had been reading on that website had shown the tunnels connecting the old Grand Central Post Office that originally stood next door, to the underground tracks connecting into Grand Central.
When she’d seen the page on his laptop in the penthouse she’d wondered why he was looking at it. And then it had dawned on her. If you want to find Sean, go wherever he’s been interested in.
She squeezed into the gap. She could smell damp paper, and something less pleasant, as if an animal had been peeing down here. It wouldn’t be easy to get away if she had to get out of here fast.
But she had to see if the door would open.
There was a foot-wide gap between it and the last of the boxes. She touched the door handle. The door was locked, the handle chillingly cold. For a second she thought her fingers might stick to the steel handle, but they didn’t.
Then she saw it. A small round wooden box hanging on the wall. It was surrounded by cobwebs. But inside it there was a brass key.
This was still an emergency exit. She took the key, put it in the lock, turned it and pulled the door towards her.
That was when she heard Mrs Vaughann’s voice.
‘Isabel!’
She looked back along the corridor. Mrs Vaughann was walking towards her. She had almost reached the boxes. Behind her was the bald security guard. And he looked angry.
Meeting him down here felt all wrong. Tentacles of fear reached around her.
‘We need to speak to you, Isabel,’ said Mrs Vaughann, sharply.
‘Sure,’ she said as calmly as she could.
She looked at the key in her hand. Would she ever be able to test her theory if she went back?
They were still coming towards her.
‘You know you shouldn’t be down here, Isabel,’ said Mrs Vaughann. There was amusement in her tone. ‘And you shouldn’t keep running away from my friend Adar. He’s the new head of security at BXH.’
Mrs Vaughann was smiling. It was a fixed smile. The smile you might see on a mannequin. The man’s gaze, Adar’s gaze, was fixed too. On Isabel.
There was a wide-eyed intensity to it. Just like the way he’d been when he’d tried to stop her getting away in the elevator.
Then they reached the boxes.
She looked at them, expecting them to stop, but Adar manoeuvred himself sideways into the gap quickly, as if he didn’t want to waste a second. And now she couldn’t see Mrs Vaughann any more.
But Adar had something in his hand. It was a six-inch-long black-handled knife.
It’s blade sparkled in the yellowy light. And there was a wild intensity to his progress that was unsettling, as if nothing was going to stop him from reaching her. She turned and put the key in the lock.
Her hand didn’t even shake.
He’d be here any moment.
And with that weapon he could kill her with one slash.
The door had to open.
She turned the key. It turned only halfway.
She tried the handle. It wouldn’t open.
‘Stop!’ he said.
She could smell him. It was the same sickly-lemony aftershave smell from her dream back in London.
She turned the key the other way and yanked at the handle.
The door opened.
She slipped through, banged it closed behind her, jammed the key in and turned it.
The handle jerked out of her hand.
Her head almost exploded with the pressure flowing through the veins in her neck. The handle moved again and again. The door shook. But it held.
Relief, like a cool breeze, ran through her as she realised he wasn’t going to get through.
What the hell did this mean? That Mrs Vaughann was in league with some crazed murderer? Or was she getting it all wrong? Was he carrying that thing for some other reason?
No. That couldn’t be right. She bit the edge of her fist. Her hand was trembling. This guy, Adar, was the murderer. And Mrs Vaughann was involved!
Which meant that he was going to kill her if she didn’t get away.
Then, strangely, her hand stopped trembling. It was as if the part of her that couldn’t believe any of this, that had almost given up on Sean, had found a new way of looking at things. A way that set things right.
Her breathing calmed. Her heart too. She couldn’t hear any noises on the other side of the door any more.
She turned. She was in an arched brick tunnel. It looked like a place out of New York in the nineteenth century. It was narrow, barely wide enough for two people to pass, and the brick roof was only two inches from the top of her head. The only light was from the far end, fifty feet away.
The air was dead down here. All around there were shadows. They made the bricks in the wall blend into each other. She could feel cobblestones under her shoes. They were curved, as if they’d been laid directly on the backbone of Manhattan Island.
Suddenly a squeal echoed around her.
The noise was rushing towards her, like some enormous machine filling the tunnel. She leaned towards the wall and saw a flash of lights flicker past the end of the tunnel.
It was a train. The brick passage she was in led into one of the tunnels serving Grand Central.
She looked at her watch. She could barely read it. It was 12:25 a.m. That had to be one of the last trains out of the station. She walked fast towards the light.
A musty smell hit her nostrils. There were cobwebs all around. She could feel them touching her hair.
Then an air-vib
rating bang rang out behind her. She turned. Another bang came. They were trying to break through the door.
She stumbled. Her legs felt heavy as if they didn’t want to move. Two sets of shiny train tracks stood between her and the far wall. It looked as if it had been painted red a long time ago. Far off to her left there was a low-ceilinged platform with a strip of white light above it. She didn’t think. She ran, heading to her left. Her feet were inches from the tracks.
Any second now she could be dead. She heard so many scuttling noises she imagined an army of rats moving out of her path, but she didn’t care. Her legs moved. Brick flashed past.
The yellow light on the siding came closer. The dry air was burning her lungs. She could taste a sooty cinnamon grit in her mouth. It was itching her eyes too.
But she wasn’t going to stop.
Her gaze was locked on the yellow light. There had to be a way out there. That was why there was a light. Keep going.
Faster.
Each step was like running on chunks of broken glass. The stones underfoot were sharp, almost cutting through the soles of her shoes.
Snake-like cables lined the walls.
She was at the siding. As she turned into it, a shout split the air.
‘Stop, Isabel!’ It was Mrs Vaughann. They had broken through the door.
A surge of energy poured through her. She ran faster as she entered the siding.
Ahead there was a wide platform, scaffolding reaching to a low roof with round fifties-style light fittings that gave off a dismal glow.
Where was the way out?
There. About halfway along there was a door and, further along, elevator doors.
Thank God!
She pulled herself up onto the platform and raced for the doors. Above her there were modern security cameras.
She reached the door, her heart beating fast. The door was a faded green. She gripped the handle, as her breath came in ragged gasps. She would run up to the street, be gone in a minute. Please open.
The door was locked.
She glanced back along the platform. Adar was at the entrance to the siding. He was walking towards her.
She ran for the elevator, praying it would open. Dread was taking over, filling her mind. Her nostrils were flaring. Her throat felt as if there was a rag in it. Instead of a button the elevator had a small silver keyhole. She wasn’t going to be able to call it. In a last despairing act she tried to push the doors of the elevator apart.
‘This time you don’t get away.’
She turned.
Standing on the track below her was Adar. In his hand he now held a chunky black pistol. He was pointing it at her chest.
‘You shouldn’t run from me,’ he said. He was panting a little. Mrs Vaughann was sauntering towards them, stones crunching under her feet. Isabel could see triumph in her smile.
‘Don’t upset yourself, Isabel,’ she said. ‘I told you there was no way out.’
‘What the hell’s going on?’ she said, as defiantly as she could.
‘You’re trespassing. That’s what’s going on.’
‘I’m looking for my husband.’
‘So you say, Isabel.’ Mrs Vaughann was being lifted onto the platform by Adar. Then she heard a distant grinding behind her. She knew at once what it meant. The elevator was coming.
A guard, maybe a member of the NYPD with his gun drawn.
Please have your gun drawn. The elevator door pinged.
Isabel, her voice shaking, shouted, ‘He’s got a gun,’ as it opened.
And then she saw who was in the elevator and her mouth opened.
79
Mr Li looked at the expanse of white tablecloth in front of him. He hated being disturbed while he was eating. And he hadn’t even been served any food yet. He looked up at his driver. The boy was holding a phone out in front of him. He had an apologetic look on his face. Li reached out and took the phone.
The owner of the Red Dragon restaurant was standing near the door out to 54th Street. He was half bowing in the direction of Li. In the kitchens, the restaurant’s two chefs were vying to produce the dishes Li had ordered.
Li listened, then asked a question. ‘The woman is there, yes?’
‘Yes,’ said the voice in his ear.
‘She found the passage?’
‘Yes.’
Li handed the phone back to the driver. ‘We are going,’ he said. His tone betrayed nothing, even though he had been looking forward to eating.
His plans would have to change now. He didn’t like that. But maybe it would be worth it. He could tie up all the loose strings in one go. There could be no mistakes. Too much was at stake.
The owner of the Red Dragon bowed as Li passed him. The tiny smile on the owner’s face could not be seen. Mr Li leaving was good news. His chefs could relax. He could relax. They weren’t going to be subjected to one of Li’s outbursts. He exhaled deeply.
80
‘Sean!’ She staggered back. ‘Sean.’ The second time she said it, it came out quiet.
Behind him was a young Chinese man in a black suit. Sean looked haggard. His face was pale. His eyes sunken. He looked so very different from the Sean who’d left their house a few days before.
A wave of anger, mixed with shock, sent blood rushing to her face. Her mouth opened, but nothing more came out. He came towards her.
She blinked. Her vision blurred. Had she conjured him up?
She wanted to be pleased to see him, but her anger grew as her shock subsided.
He spoke. ‘What in God’s name are you doing here?’ He was angry too.
She pointed over her shoulder with her thumb.
‘This pair are about to kill me!’ Her words came out in a breathless gasp. She didn’t look around. He reached towards her.
‘No, they won’t,’ he said.
What did he mean?
He was inches away from her. She could smell a familiar warmth.
‘That bastard behind me probably killed a detective.’
‘I’m so glad you’re okay.’ His voice was soft, soothing.
He held her. And in one world-obliterating second she got it.
She was wrong.
This wasn’t the Sean she knew. He was with them.
‘You don’t have to worry. I have her,’ he said, loudly, matter-of-factly.
She turned.
‘Don’t touch her,’ he said. ‘You’ll get what you want.’ He released his grip on her. She stumbled back.
‘Well done,’ said Adar.
The trap had closed.
She stared at Sean, her breathing coming fast, trying to take everything in, work out what to do.
‘You should have stayed at home,’ he said.
She kicked at his ankle. ‘I came to find you.’
He shook his head. ‘Everything gets difficult, now you’re involved.’ He reached his hand for her.
‘They have Alek. And Rose. They’ll kill them both if we don’t cooperate. We have to be careful, Isabel.’
‘What do you mean they’ll kill them, why?’ Her brain had heard Sean’s words, but she couldn’t believe what he was saying.
Someone was going to kill Alek?
Sean’s shoulders stiffened. He looked away. He seemed resigned. ‘They want something from me. I was trying to find a way through this. I was trying to protect you both.’
All she could see was his face, and in it an echo of Alek’s. Anxiety was blooming inside her. She shook her head. She wanted it to be a lie.
‘Why don’t you show Isabel some photos, Adar?’ said Mrs Vaughann.
Adar put a hand in his pocket, took out a phone, pressed at the screen and turned it to face her. She wanted to scream. Everything she held dear was being threatened.
Someone had taken a picture in their home. She’d have recognised the yellow wallpaper in Alek’s room anywhere.
The picture was of her son, sleeping with his duvet tucked up to his chin. The truly disturbing thing was the shaft
of a short-bladed knife that whoever was working the camera was holding within an inch of Alek’s right eye.
It was a similar knife to the one she’d seen in Adar’s hand.
One good push and Alek would die in the most horrific manner. That was the message from the picture. But there was another message too.
She swallowed as it sank in.
Sean had every reason to do what he’d done. She glanced at Sean. Their eyes met for a moment. Again her world had turned. But what did this mean for Alek and Rose? For them all?
‘Do show her the other ones,’ said Mrs Vaughann.
Adar dabbed at the screen and turned it to face her again.
The pictures, which scrolled by, sent more tremors through her. A prickling at her eyes and in her cheeks sent messages to her hands to form fists, as if her body had taken over and a defensive mechanism had started up.
The first picture one was of her, sleeping in their bed, alone at home. Her arm was bare. It could have been taken any night Sean wasn’t there.
But she knew what night it had been taken with a terrible certainty. Last Thursday night, when she’d had that awful dream, when Sean hadn’t come home. When she’d smelled that lemony odour.
If she’d woken right then, would he have killed her? Was that what they planned to do now? Her mouth was dry. But her mind was clearing.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Sean. He stepped back.
‘I had to do what they wanted. No matter what it meant for me, or for us. I didn’t tell you anything, because I didn’t want you to come after me.’ He was angry again.
She looked at Mrs Vaughann.
‘Why are you doing all this?’
Mrs Vaughann laughed, as if Isabel had just told a spectacularly funny joke. Her head went back. Then she smiled warmly, as if it was all nothing to her.
‘They want something,’ said Sean.
He took a step forward. ‘Let her go, for God’s sake,’ he said. There was desperation in his voice. ‘She can’t prove anything. It’ll be her word against yours. She’ll be the wronged wife of a murderer.’
‘It’s too late for that,’ said Mrs Vaughann.
Sean’s eyes widened. ‘Don’t harm her. You still need me.’
Mrs Vaughann showed them her smile again. ‘Maybe, let’s find out. Get back in the elevator, Sean. Let’s visit our friends.’
The Manhattan Puzzle Page 26
