And then he stopped being good.
He had taken the other side’s money. Now he drove a Ferrari, had a villa on Lake Geneva, hideaway homes around the world and-most preciously-he had anonymity. False identities were bought and wealth was his joy. He had been safe. Until Fedir Tishenko summoned him. Now Angelo Farentino was stepping into the lion’s den.
And Max Gordon’s father was the lion.
The receptionist at St. Christopher’s made a phone call, then smiled and asked him to wait a few moments. He waited, nerves jangling. He calmed himself. Always find the positives, Farentino told himself. In less than fifteen or so minutes after seeing Tom Gordon he would get back in the car, return to Switzerland, report to the man who had threatened to expose him to his enemies and then slip away into anonymity again. Who cared what his visit might do to Tom Gordon’s mind, or whether his son was targeted by Tishenko? The wonderful thing about being corrupt is that it takes away any sense of guilt. You are wicked and you know it. You have no morals and you don’t care. You can cause grief and misery and turn a blind eye.
It was a lifestyle choice, Farentino decided.
“Mr. Aldo, would you like to come this way?”
It took Farentino a second to respond to the false name he had given. A big man stood in the doorway; it was he who had spoken.
“I’m Marty Kiernan. I work on Mr. Gordon’s wing.” He extended his left hand.
Farentino hesitated, his right hand already reaching forward. He quickly corrected himself, but felt embarrassed by his social clumsiness. He should have noticed the man’s disability, anticipated the gesture and reacted accordingly. He must be more rattled than he realized.
Marty’s strides were twice those of most men, and Farentino found himself awkwardly trying to keep up. Was there any way Tom Gordon could have seen through his request for an interview and his claim to be working for an Italian newspaper? Could he have known that Aldo was a false name and told this giant? Humiliation of an enemy is an old trick. Rattle your opponent’s composure, put him on his back foot, take the advantage. This was a very bad idea, coming here. Angelo Farentino was not someone who should be placed under such duress. He craved a cigar. He could smell the delicate aroma of the Cuban Monte Cristo in the case tucked into his inside pocket. But regulations meant he could not smoke inside St. Christopher’s.
“How is Mr. Gordon?” he asked Marty, anxious to stem his nervousness.
Marty opened a swing door and guided Farentino into a corridor where white-painted, solid-wood doors bearing small brass name plates lined their route. The names gave no clue to the rank or status of the patients in each of those rooms.
“If you don’t mind my saying so-I don’t think it was a good idea you coming here,” Marty said quietly.
Farentino’s heart sank. They knew! They knew! He looked for a fire exit. His step faltered, he wanted to run, was ready to surrender every last vestige of dignity. Farentino had always had a plan B. There was always a way of avoiding the net of authority-or the threat of personal revenge. Not this time. Tishenko had placed him squarely in harm’s way. Thoughts flitted through his mind. The public humiliation of a trial, the stench of a British jail-the prison uniform! Where was it written that men incarcerated should have to wear such ill-fitting clothes?
With amazing calmness, Farentino looked into Marty’s eyes. “Why do you say that, Mr. Kiernan?”
The big man had stopped outside one of the doors. The small brass plate had Tom Gordon’s name inscribed on it. Marty’s hand was on the doorknob.
“You’ll see,” Marty said, and opened the door.
The lion’s den.
Several hundred kilometers lay between Biarritz and Switzerland, and Sharkface’s gang took their time. They had driven Bobby’s van at exactly or just below the speed limit. They didn’t want to attract the attention of any bored traffic cops.
During the long night Sayid had lain in the back, still trussed up. Despite the cold nibbling at his fingers, he was grateful they had tied his hands in front of him. The passing glare of the yellow motorway lights was the only means by which he could see to scribble. He knew that as the tiring journey went on his mind might lose the numbers from the magic square that he had memorized. The violence and kidnapping had exhausted him and he would not be able to fight the tiredness that insisted he drift into a deep sleep. The only way he could attempt to solve the puzzle of what the numbers might mean was to write them down and play around with the sequence. If Max was correct and the boxed numbers held a secret message, there had to be something that would unlock the numbers’ mystery and meaning. But every time Sayid tried to get in a position where he could begin writing out any sequences, one of the thugs always turned and checked what he was doing. How long could he stay awake? If he slept his mind might erase the numbers like a worn-out hard drive.
He had bunched his knees, turning his back towards the two thugs in the front of the van. Bobby was wedged more than he was and seemed to slip in and out of sleep. His injuries must have taken their toll, Sayid realized. One of Bobby’s surfboards was strapped to the side of the van at floor level, and Sayid had managed, over time, to edge himself closer. Now he could use his tied hands, his back to the driver, to write, in a tiny sequence, the numbers in his head. Sayid figured nobody would ever spot such a tiny scrawl, even in daylight, and besides, there would be no interest in surfboards. Sayid concentrated. First line across of the magic square: 11, 24, 7, 20, 3; then down the left-hand side of the square: 11, 4, 17, 10, 23. Those were Sayid’s memory triggers. Once they were in place he filled out the square.
This was his way of backing up his mental hard drive. He curled onto his arm. The numbers he’d written on his boot were there when he needed them, but for now he felt confident enough to sleep. He had to be as fresh as possible when he awoke.
Which he did after what felt like seconds, in reality an hour, when the van’s engine spluttered. The driver cursed, glanced in his wing mirror and nursed the van along a few hundred more meters. Sayid could see the dull blink of the indicator light from the dashboard. The thug in the passenger seat pointed out something to the driver and Sayid felt a rumble as the tires made contact with the verge. Less than a minute later the van slowed, then stopped. The two men got out. The side panel door slid open and one of the thugs clambered inside. Sayid looked away, not wanting to make eye contact with him. Sharkface’s henchman kicked Bobby.
“Get up! What’s wrong with this thing?”
Bobby’s eyes opened; he seemed groggy. “It’s OK. I know how to fix it. It’s a filter in the injector. Happens all the time.”
“Then get out!”
The man turned and stepped out of the van as Bobby, trussed up like Sayid, shuffled, got to his knees, braced his back against the van’s side, pushing himself onto his feet. As he straightened upwards he whispered to Sayid. Bobby was alert, his grogginess a sham.
“Sayid, I’m gonna make a run for it if I get the chance. You OK with that?”
The thought hit Sayid like a thump on the head. To lose Bobby? To be alone? He realized that even though the American had barely moved for the last few hours, the fact that they were together meant so much to him. A desperate loneliness surged through him. But he nodded. Of course. One of them had to make a break for it if they could.
“I’ll get help, pal. I promise. And Peaches knows nothin’, so they won’t hurt her. I saw her in the other van.”
“I can help,” Sayid heard himself say, suddenly afraid of what he was about to suggest.