by Adam Hamdy
“In here,” Vosuruk commanded.
Wallace felt someone tug the other side of his horse’s bridle, and he and the creature were pulled into the darkness of a shallow cave. Kurik was pressed against the back wall, holding the other mounts, and Vosuruk led the white gelding toward them. The excited horses pawed the soft ground and snorted steaming breath into the cold air. Wallace, Kurik, and Vosuruk exchanged nervous glances as the sound of the helicopter pulsed around the ravine and thrummed off the walls. The vibrations were so powerful that Wallace was convinced the huge machine had landed on the rocks above them, but after a few agonizing moments, the noise diminished and the machine buzzed on. No one said anything until the sound of its engines had died away completely.
“It’s gone,” Vosuruk said finally, before turning to Kurik and speaking in rapid-fire Kamviri.
Wallace slumped to the floor and leaned against the moist cave wall. His body was signaling pain, but he was too pumped with adrenaline to notice. The fall from his horse and the chase through the forest would take their toll, but Wallace wasn’t interested in his injuries; he was fixated on the fact that, right before Vosuruk shot them, the Afghan soldiers had referred to him as “the” foreigner, as though they knew him.
“What just happened?” he asked, interrupting Vosuruk.
“I don’t know,” his host replied. He crouched beside Wallace. “The Kabul government does not like us, but we have not had this trouble for many years. I do not know what made them come. They hate Taliban like we do, they know we fight the enemy.”
Wallace considered Vosuruk’s response, wondering whether to share the nagging suspicion that he’d been the target of the operation. When he strung the thought together, he was instantly struck by how much Pendulum had changed him: he’d become intensely paranoid. In a region noted for its violent sectarian conflict, would the Afghan Army really mount a major operation against an entire town in order to capture a single Westerner? Much more plausible was the idea that he’d misunderstood what the soldier had said. He looked at Vosuruk. “What now?”
“We had this before, many years ago. We know what to do. The women, the children, the old people, they take the mountain to Pakistan. Stay with our people on the other side of the border until it is safe to return,” Vosuruk explained. “The men, we go to the high place, with Guktec and the others. We find out why Kabul did this, and if they want war, we give it.”
“And your family?” Wallace asked.
“My wives go to Pakistan with daughters. The men will find us in the mountain.”
“And Kurik?” Wallace nodded toward the young man who seemed to be sulking by the horses.
“I tell him to go with the women. Help keep them safe, but he thinks he is a man,” Vosuruk said with a wry smile. “He wants to die. Like you.”
Wallace froze, unsure how to respond.
“I see many men fight. Seen them afraid, angry,” Vosuruk continued. “When those soldiers come, your face show nothing. You not afraid to die. Maybe you want it?”
Wallace shook his head, but found himself wondering why he hadn’t got up to run, why he hadn’t called for help.
“You come with us, it’s possible the mountains they give you what you want,” Vosuruk added darkly.
Wallace tried to read the Kom elder, but the darkness meant he could only see the shadows of the man’s eyes.
“You go to Kabul. Go home,” Vosuruk suggested. “We are not your people. This is not your war.”
“The world needs to know what’s happening here,” Wallace argued. “I want to help stop it.”
“You are both crazy people.” Vosuruk gestured dismissively at Wallace and Kurik.
The boy replied with a rapid volley of Kamviri.
“He says he’s only as crazy as his father,” Vosuruk translated.
Wallace smiled and nodded. The motion triggered a stab of pain that shot up his back into the base of his neck, forcing a wince.
“You are hurt?” Vosuruk asked.
“I’m OK,” Wallace lied. “Just the fall.”
“You stand,” Vosuruk instructed. “Hurt man no good in mountains.”
Wallace realized the adrenaline had dissipated as he tried to stand. His legs resisted his commands, seeming to ache all over, and his back added its own sharp signals. He couldn’t stop himself from groaning, and Vosuruk sighed with disapproval. Wallace forced himself to walk a few paces, and the pain eased off slightly.
“I’m OK. It’s just a few knocks,” he reassured his host.
“You stubborn man,” Vosuruk told him. “But Kom are stubborn people. The mountains make us that way. Come here.”
Vosuruk rummaged beneath his budzun cloak, and, as Wallace lowered himself into a seated position with a suppressed moan, produced a small, foil-wrapped package. Wallace rested his head against the cave wall and watched Vosuruk unwrap the foil to reveal a dark lump a couple of inches long. His host produced a short hunting knife and cut a slice off the lump and handed it to him. Wallace looked at the sliver of clammy matter.
“What is it?” he asked, but he had already made a guess.
“Janat p’is,” Vosuruk replied. “It take away pain. Make you feel good. Just eat.”
Wallace sensed pain swelling all over his body as he considered what was undoubtedly an opiate. He watched Vosuruk cut two slices off the lump and hand one to Kurik, before popping the other in his mouth.
“Good for sleeping,” Vosuruk explained.
Unwilling to return to Kabul, Wallace knew that whatever lay ahead would be arduous enough without the added burden of pain-induced sleepless nights, so he popped his slice into his mouth. The soft substance reminded him of jelly, but any similarities ended there as his taste buds recoiled and his mouth puckered at the bitterness that followed.
“Don’t chew, swallow,” Vosuruk advised, and Wallace hurriedly complied. “Crazy,” Vosuruk added with a chuckle.
Wallace watched Vosuruk and Kurik unroll their packs and prepare makeshift cots, aware that a gentle warmth was slowly infusing his body and that he was becoming mesmerized by the intricacy of movement, the gentle beauty of limbs spurred to action by directed thought. Man, I’m high, he thought as he rolled into the cot Vosuruk had prepared for him.
“Thanks,” he said, covering himself with the softest, warmest blanket he’d ever felt, but his host and savior didn’t reply, and instead looked blankly back.
Wallace laid his head against something soft and closed his eyes. He could hear the sound of water dripping somewhere in the cave, the impact of each chiming drop magnified by the sensory effects of the bitter jelly, until they sounded like crashing waves. He imagined himself lying on a tropical beach, the domed night sky glittering above him. A soft hand reached out and touched his arm and he turned to see Connie smiling down at him. A lump formed in his throat, some small part of him aware that he was lost in a drug-induced hallucination, the sweetness of the moment mixed with bitter sadness that it wasn’t real. He took Connie’s hand and she leaned her head on his shoulder, pressing so close that he could smell her sweet fragrance. He lay frozen, unwilling to say or do anything that might shatter the beautiful illusion. He fought the heavy draw of sleep for as long as he could, desperate to cling to this happy moment, but in the end he succumbed and his eyes closed, rolling him into soft, colorful dreams of what might have been.
7
Interview Room C smelled of disinfectant, but other odors lurked beneath the institutional cleanliness: musty decay, acrid urine, and a hint of vomit. Bailey sat opposite Connor Greene, whose arm had been bandaged by a paramedic at his house. He’d removed his thick submariner’s sweater and wore a formal blue shirt that was rolled up at the elbows, the left sleeve marbled with drying blood. Connor had declined Bailey’s offer to call a solicitor and looked impatiently from Bailey to Murrall, who sat on the neighboring cracked plastic chair.
Bailey pressed the record button and saw the red indicator light illuminate, signaling that their exc
hange was now being documented. He stated their names and the date, and noted that this was a taped interview agreed to by Connor Greene, who had declined the offer of counsel.
“You worked the Pendulum case, didn’t you?” Connor asked before Bailey could say anything else. “I recognize your name. Vee wrote a big piece on it.”
Bailey nodded. “Mr. Greene, could you—”
“That’s why you’re here,” Connor interrupted. “Someone might have murdered Sylvia.” He eyed Murrall with an intensity that bordered on aggression. “If the world wasn’t so fucked up, we could all do the right thing, but . . .” Connor trailed off, his eyes drifting away from the detectives.
“What would the right thing be?” Bailey asked.
“You did the right thing, didn’t you, Detective Bailey? My wife’s a . . . was a journalist, it was all she talked about last summer. If you hadn’t believed that guy, Wallace, well . . .” Connor drifted for a moment, before suddenly asking, “What made you believe him?”
Bailey looked at Murrall uncomfortably; they’d barely started and he’d already lost control of the interview. “Mr. Greene, we’re not here to talk about me. We need to find out what happened to your wife.”
“You and my wife are connected, Detective,” Connor countered. “She told me to find someone I could trust. How can I trust you, without first knowing you?”
“When did she tell you this, Mr. Greene?” Bailey tried.
“What made you believe him?” Connor repeated.
Bailey sat back, exasperated. He’d seen grief make people behave strangely, but this wasn’t random distress. Connor Greene’s erratic behavior had a sense of method. He was weaving around, which would normally suggest guilt, but Bailey got the feeling there was something else going on. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “Something about John Wallace’s story struck me as genuine. I’ve been doing this job long enough to know that lies ring hollow. The truth has a sound all of its very own, like it’s alive.”
“And you were prepared to die for this truth,” Connor observed.
“I didn’t know that going in,” Bailey responded, trying to ignore the sudden pounding in his chest. His heart felt as though it might burst out of his body, and he wondered whether Greene or Murrall would notice the forceful rhythm. He looked down at his chest and let out a deep sigh of relief when he saw nothing abnormal.
“Would you do it again? Knowing you could die?” Connor asked.
Bailey glanced at Murrall.
“How did I get put on the spot here?” He turned to Connor. “My past isn’t at issue, Mr. Greene, but your wife’s death is. We need to stick to the subject. When did your wife tell you to find someone you could trust?”
“Do you think my wife . . . do you think she did it?” Connor asked quietly, the words wounding him as they left his mouth.
“That’s what I’m trying to find out, but I can’t do that without your help, Mr. Greene. Look at me.” When Connor glanced across the table, Bailey held his gaze and said, “I can’t imagine what you’ve been through, but I’m here to help. You can trust me.”
Connor studied him for an age, and Bailey finally felt as though he’d made a breakthrough.
“Can you tell us how you cut your arm?”
Connor sat back and pursed his lips as he considered the question. “I’d like a lawyer,” he said finally, each word knocking Bailey’s self-confidence—he’d been convinced he’d reached the man.
Bailey turned to Murrall and shrugged.
“I have one I use; Tim Tomkins at Vale and Co.,” Connor added. “They’re in the book.”
“Interview terminated at four forty-six,” Bailey noted, checking the clock before he stopped recording. “We’ll get you your lawyer, Mr. Greene, but then we’re going to need you to answer some questions.”
Connor nodded, but Bailey had no reason to believe he’d be any more cooperative in the presence of a solicitor; usually the reverse was true.
“You want me to make the call?” Murrall asked, loitering in the open doorway.
“I’m just here on a consult,” Bailey pointed out, and started to follow Murrall.
“Detective,” Connor began. “How long will I be in custody?”
“You go ahead,” Bailey advised Murrall, who nodded and shuffled off. Bailey allowed the door to swing shut and turned to Connor. “You don’t have to be here at all, Mr. Greene, but I suspect as a journalist’s husband you already know that.”
Connor’s demeanor shifted suddenly and he leaned forward conspiratorially. “Sit down, detective. He may come back.”
“Who? Murrall?” Bailey asked in disbelief. He didn’t comply with Connor’s instruction, but instead leaned over the edge of the table. “What are you trying to do, Mr. Greene?”
“I’m honoring my wife’s last request,” Connor revealed. “I cut my arm on one of three sharpened pieces of metal that were left on her desk.”
“What metal?” Bailey asked. “There was nothing like that on the desk.”
“I did it deliberately,” Connor continued, ignoring the interruption. “Hector was the one who found her; he panicked and tried to use one of the metal pieces to cut her down. He sliced his hand open. I cut myself to explain the blood on the carpet. I don’t want him being drawn into anything.”
“What metal?” Bailey pressed. “What are you hiding, Mr. Greene?”
“Have you got any idea what it feels like to think someone you loved was miserable enough to commit suicide? To know that they kept such sadness secret? Vee didn’t kill herself. She was murdered, and I want you to find the killer. Just like you did with Pendulum.”
“Why didn’t you say anything before? Why ask for a lawyer?”
“Because there was a note,” Connor said emphatically.
“There was a note?” Bailey couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Why doesn’t Murrall know about it?”
“Vee’s job,” Connor replied. “We both knew it was dangerous. There’s a strongbox in her office. It’s disguised as a plug socket. It was supposed to be full of work files that I was meant to give to the newspaper if anything ever happened to her. I checked it to make sure nothing had been stolen, but it was empty, apart from a note addressed to me. It told me to ask for you.”
“What? Was it typed?” Bailey asked.
“Apologized, said love . . . would . . . love would . . .” Connor broke down.
“Was the note in your wife’s handwriting?” Bailey pressed.
Connor tried to respond, but the words wouldn’t come. “The kids,” he said finally. “It talked about the kids.”
“Did your wife write the note?” Bailey pushed.
“It was in her handwriting!” Connor admitted at last, his enraged voice echoing around the tiny room. “But that can be faked,” he added quietly. “Or she might have been forced to write it.”
“If your wife was mixed up in something, we can protect you and your family,” Bailey said.
“Vee pissed off a lot of powerful people. She was so cavalier about putting herself in danger, but she was always so protective of the boys. The note . . . there was a warning . . .” Connor’s voice broke again.
Bailey nodded sympathetically. “Where is it?”
Connor stared up at him with glistening eyes. “Will you find the person that did this?”
“I’ll find the truth,” Bailey replied honestly.
“Joseph has it,” Connor said. “My youngest. He’s got the metal pieces, too. One-four-six Chalcot Crescent.” He grabbed Bailey’s arm, squeezing it tight. “The note said our lives would be in danger if the wrong people found out. You have to promise not to tell anyone.”
Bailey nodded.
“Promise,” Connor demanded.
“I promise,” Bailey agreed, and the bargain was memorialized by a moment’s silence.
“I’m going to recommend we let you go,” Bailey said at last. “But I’d suggest you don’t leave London for now.”
Connor nod
ded.
“Do you still want your solicitor?” Bailey asked, and Connor shook his head.
“He’s fake,” he confessed. “It was the only way I could get you alone. Vee was right. I think I can trust you. After what you went through for Wallace, well, you seem like a good man.”
“Thanks,” Bailey said, but he wasn’t so sure. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the man he once was had been destroyed by Pendulum’s bullets.
“Find whoever did this to us,” Connor implored. “Find them for me, for my boys.”
The raw power of the man’s distress cut through Bailey’s self-doubt. “I will,” he assured Connor.
8
Their proximity to Brookdale probably saved Parker’s life. The ambulance took less than two minutes to reach them. Ash traveled with Parker, who was the most badly injured. Jeff had flinched just before Ash pulled the trigger, but she’d been able to hold fire and press the hot barrel into his neck, making the point that she needed him to be utterly still if he wanted to live. Apart from that unnerving moment, Ash was able to free the other hostages from their guillotines with no more than some superficial gashes. They all needed medical attention, but none were as severely wounded as Parker, who was still unresponsive when the paramedics arrived. Ash had watched a dedicated medic hold her gloved hand over Parker’s neck during the short ride to the Brookdale Emergency Room. She’d told Ash that she believed the shard was actually preventing massive blood loss, and she was trying to make sure it stayed in.
Their arrival reminded Ash of a similar journey she’d had to make with Valerie Templeton, who’d been shot during the Bureau raid on the Hopeland Family. Ash had taken down Hopeland leader Marcel Washington, but his followers had responded with fiery vengeance, shooting Templeton. Ash had accompanied her to hospital, reassuring her, holding her hand, lying that she was going to be OK, even though the look on the frantic medic’s face made it clear that the battle was already over. Ash had seen Templeton lose consciousness as they’d arrived at Sharon Hospital, and wondered whether that was the moment her brave colleague had died, or whether she’d passed away after the paramedics had taken her inside. Whatever the precise moment of Templeton’s death, the experience haunted Ash, and she prayed to non-existent gods that Parker’s journey would not end the same way.
