I thought about Sara. In the past she’d managed to access all my various communication systems, though more recently I’d had a high-level security system applied to my computers and phones. Even if she used other methods to find me, she’d struggle to get into the camp. On walks around the place, I’d noticed a very large amount of razor wire, as well as sophisticated monitoring gear of all kinds; and large numbers of personnel, both in FBI jackets and army camouflage gear, all toting firearms. Which reminded me, if we were heading toward release, I’d need some time on a firing range. Even back in the U.K., with its zero tolerance policy toward handguns, I’d managed to equip myself with pistols. We’d have no chance against Sara without them.
I leaned back in the uncomfortable chair. Maybe Peter Sebastian wasn’t really planning on cutting us loose. He only knew about the Soul Collector by reputation, but he’d had experience of what Heinz Rothmann and his brainwashed mob could do with guns. With Rothmann still out there, Karen and I were targets if we were going to be staying in the U.S. until we were sent for trial-if that ever happened. Could it be that the Americans and the Brits had done a deal and we were going to be allowed home? Given what Karen and I had tried to do to the President, I didn’t think that was very likely.
When I looked up again from the computer, I noticed it was after midnight. I woke Karen up and walked her to bed. She was only semiconscious, but she managed to press my hand against her abdomen and kiss me before sleep swallowed her up again. I stood watching her, a stupid smile on my face. Then I remembered how it had been when Lucy was newly born-never more than an hour of sleep at a time, deafening wails, the endless changing of diapers. Soon I’d be going through that again. I had never thought I would, but the prospect didn’t induce panic. To my amazement, I was actually looking forward to it. How old would Magnus have to be before I could get him his first rugby ball?
I went out and made a jug of coffee, then spent the next three hours getting in touch with people and surfing the web. Nothing earth-shattering seemed to have happened in the weeks since we’d been out of circulation-the usual earthquakes, changes of government, wars. There had been a string of grisly murders across the U.S.-Peter Sebastian, who was in charge of the FBI investigation, was quoted as saying that the fact the victims were involved in human rights activities and Democratic politics was not necessarily significant. Go, Peter, go. Asshole.
I diverted myself by checking the rugby league scores. My old club, the South London Bison, had lost their last four games. That put everything into perspective. I needed to get back there and do some coaching.
Eventually my eyes started to close of their own accord. I found myself checking my email in-box before logging off, as I always used to do-it seemed plenty of old habits had survived the brainwashing process. The second I took in the new message in bold, I sat up like an electric eel had brushed me. So, Matt, how are you? You must have gone to ground, I can’t find you anywhere. I’ve been busy-blood, lots of it, and enough pain to make a torturer squirm in jealousy-which is why I haven’t been bombarding you with messages like a sick schoolgirl. I’m sick, no doubt you’d say, but a schoolgirl? Well, you remember what I was like in bed, don’t you? How’s Karen, by the way? Not up to much in the sex department these days, I shouldn’t think, getting fat and such. Have you become a father again yet? I do hope that doesn’t cramp your style. I won’t let it cramp mine… Anyway, keep well, Matt. I will find you and only one of us will walk away from that happy reunion. Did you ever come across that Thomson/Rothmann character again? I heard that he’d escaped, despite what one of your pet detectives in Washington D.C. called your ‘brave and selfless efforts.’ You really must be more ruthless. It’s essential in this line of work. Remember this: you brought about my brother’s death, you killed my sister. I’m going to slaughter you and everyone you love, not necessarily in that order. In the name of our beloved and most glorious White Devil, S.C.
The Soul Collector. Sara. I sat back, my heart thundering and my palms damp. The bitch. If I hadn’t been sure before, now I knew-nobody was safe, not Karen, not our son, nobody. The only way for us to survive was for me to kill my ex-lover. And the only way to do that was to offer myself as bait. But to do so, I needed to get out of the camp.
I was going to have to do whatever it took and, as my crazed ex-lover said, I would have to be ruthless-a rock; tougher and sharper than steel.
I needed more time with Quincy Jerome.
The woman was of average height and build, only the lightness of her movements suggesting that she maintained a high level of physical fitness. She wore a pale blue tracksuit and a green baseball cap with the single word Irish on the peak. Any passersby on the street in Astoria who tried to make out her features had little luck. She used no makeup and her features apart from the high cheekbones were unremarkable. A ponytail of auburn hair sprouted from the back of her cap and the unusually bright winter sun brought the color out.
‘Hey, doll, you want to feel my olives?’
The woman stopped and looked back at the stallholder. He was short and swarthy, a slack smile on his lips. Olives in various shades of green and black were arrayed in large plastic trays.
The man tried again. ‘Just for you, from Kalamata with love.’
A plane taking off from nearby La Guardia roared above them.
‘What’s that?’ the stallholder said, leaning forward.
‘I said, your olives look beautiful, but I hate the taste.’ The woman’s voice was even and only marginally accented.
‘Hey, where you from?’ the man said, still eager despite the fading prospect of a sale.
‘Oh, here and there,’ replied the woman, her eyes invisible beneath the peak of her cap. ‘How about you?’
‘Astoria born and bred,’ he replied proudly. ‘My family’s from Greece.’
The woman smiled. ‘Land of brave heroes and tragic wives,’ she said, her voice hardening. ‘If memory serves, Queen Clytemnestra killed Agamemnon in the bath.’ She stepped forward, raising her hands as if she was brandishing a weapon. ‘With an ax.’
The stallholder took an involuntary step backward. ‘Crazy poutana!’ he yelled, as she disappeared into the crowd on the sidewalk.
The woman didn’t know Greek, but she could guess what the word meant. In a way, the fool was right. She was a whore, selling her services to whichever client paid most. But she didn’t open her legs for them. She…how did Havi, the guy who brokered her jobs, put it? She put people’s problems to sleep. That was quite poetic, even though Havi, a preening Puerto Rican who doubled as a Wall Street economist, wouldn’t know a poem from a postmodernist.
She was here in Queens to put a certain problem to sleep. It was a low-profile job, but she liked to kick back occasionally with something simple. There wasn’t much money in it, but that didn’t matter-she was making enough on the big contracts to retire in a few years. Not that she had any longing to duck out of the world she had slipped into so easily. The work was an addiction, but one with no side effects-as long as you weren’t in possession of a conscience.
The street she was looking for was off Ditmars Boulevard. The building was in reasonable condition and the vehicles parked by the curb were recent models, a mixture of family cars and SUVs. The red BMW Roadster stuck out like a thumb that had been caught in its door. She knew who its owner was. Besides, Havi had told her that the target always slept late and the presence of the car suggested his information was, as usual, correct. Glancing down the street in both directions and confirming there was no one nearby, the woman worked the lock. She was inside in under thirty seconds.