Sam Bourne 4-Book Thriller Collection. Sam Bourne
Читать онлайн книгу.
a specific minute on Saturday evening. Nothing so imprecise as ‘sunset’ or ‘once it’s dark’. It was 7.42pm. If you did not have a watch, you could check by looking outside your window: tradition held that once you could see three stars, you knew the Sabbath was over and the normal working week had resumed.
Will had no idea how the Hassidim would respond. TC had moved so fast, her desire for action meshing perfectly with his fury at the kidnappers who, he now knew, were capable of murder, that he had barely thought through the consequences of what they had just done. Surely these were strange, unpredictable people; who knew how they would react? Will’s tone of angry defiance might push them over the edge: they could decide this was provocation enough to finish Beth off. They could kill her and it would be his fault – for following the whim of, of all people, his ex-girlfriend. He imagined the pain of future years, learning to live with such a weight of guilt.
And yet, what had he got to lose? Playing nice had brought no results. He had to get their attention, force them to realize that there would be a price to pay for killing Beth. This email told them they needed his silence – and that they should spare her life to buy it.
Besides, it felt good to be fighting back. He recalled how he had felt the previous evening, when he immersed himself in the warm water of the pre-Sabbath mikve as Sandy stood close by. He had been ashamed of his nakedness, his willingness to strip himself bare to ingratiate himself with men whom he should have fought as enemies. Well, now he was clothed and pulling himself up to his full height and taking them on. With this message, he was fighting for his wife – and acting like a man.
He pressed Send.
‘Good,’ said TC, giving Will’s thigh a firm squeeze. ‘Good job.’
TC’s elation was infectious; for Will it translated into relief. He had done something at last; he had made his move.
The urge to fall into one of the café’s roomy armchairs was strong; Will was exhausted. But TC was already chivvying him to get up and out. She was not just edgy, Will realized; she was making a calculation. Of course. TC was worried that Will himself could be a target for the Hassidim. If she had had her initial doubts, now she was convinced: the men of Crown Heights were not to be messed around. It was the news from Bangkok that converted her. Once a sceptic, she was now a believer.
As they left, Will’s mobile stirred. He waited till they were outside before he even looked at it: DadHome. Poor guy, he’d been calling for hours and Will had not sent him so much as a text message.
‘Hello?’
‘Thank God for that. Oh Will, I’ve been worried sick.’
‘I’m fine. I’m exhausted, but I’m OK.’
‘What the hell’s been happening? I’ve wanted so much to call the police, but didn’t dare until you and I at least had a chance to talk. Really, Will, I was this close – but I held off. It’s such a relief to hear your voice.’
‘You haven’t told anyone have you? Dad?’
‘Of course I haven’t. But I’ve wanted to. Just tell me, have you heard from Beth?’
‘No. But I know where she is and I know who’s got her.’
TC was gesturing at Will’s phone, then wagging her finger across her face like a school mistress. Will got the message.
‘Dad, maybe we should talk about this when I’m on a landline. Can I call you later?’
‘No, you have to tell me now! I’m going out of my mind here. Where is she?’
‘She’s in New York. She’s in Brooklyn.’
Will instantly regretted his revelation. Cell phones were notoriously leaky: he knew that much from the scanners on the Metro desk, where police radio transmissions were easier to get than NPR. For those who knew how, plucking cellular calls out of the air was a breeze.
‘But, Dad, I’m serious. There can be no vigilante rescue attempts here. No calls to the police commissioner who you knew at Yale. I mean it: that would truly fuck everything up and could cost Beth her life.’ His voice was wobbling. Will could not tell if he was about to scream at his father or break down and cry. ‘Promise me, Dad. You’re not going to do anything. Promise.’
His father gave a reply but Will could not hear it. A word went missing, drowned out by the sound of a beep on the line.
‘OK, Dad, I’m going to say goodbye. We’ll speak later.’ There was no time for niceties; he needed his father off the line so he could take this incoming call.
Will pressed the buttons as fast as he could, his thumbs trembling with tiredness, but there was no call. The beep he had heard had announced instead the arrival of a text message.
Will could feel TC leaning on his upper arm, straining to see his phone as they stood together on the street.
‘Read message?’ the phone asked dumbly. Of course I want to read it, idiot! Will hit the Yes button, but found the keypad was locked. Damn. More buttons to press, forcing him to go the long way around, choosing text messages then his inbox, then a long wait while the display promised that it was ‘opening folder’. Finally, the message appeared: five words, short, simple – and utterly mysterious.
Saturday, 11.37am, Manhattan
2 down: Moses to Bond
Now that TC had broken the code, this message was not baffling – he knew it would be solved within a few moments – but it was frightening. This string of nonsense might be about to tell him anything. What if one of those words translated as Beth?
TC grabbed the phone and began punching numbers, only to stop suddenly. ‘2 could be A or B or C. But the only alternative for “down” is “down”. It must be a different system.’
‘It’s a crossword clue.’
‘What?’
‘2 Down. You know, 4 Across, 3 Down. It’s a crossword clue.’
‘All right. So what’s MOSES TO BOND? It implies some sort of motion: we’re meant to take Moses to Bond somehow. But what the hell is Bond anyway?’
‘James Bond? Could be a number. You know, 007.’ TC looked blank. ‘Maybe it’s two down from seven. Which would be five.’
‘Which could be the five books of Moses. But that’s not much of a clue. Listen, I’m cold.’ They were still standing on the street. ‘There.’ She pointed at a McDonalds.
With a bacon breakfast bun in one hand and a pencil in the other, TC was scribbling – combinations of letters and numbers.
‘What about Bond Street?’ said Will, pacing around her. ‘Take Moses to Bond Street?’
TC looked up at Will, her eyebrows raised.
‘OK, OK.’
‘Let’s think this through,’ she said, scoring a long line through everything she had written down. ‘What did you say in your reply to him?’ Will, his mouth now full, froze just as his hands were about to claw a clump of fries. ‘I didn’t.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I meant to. I was about to. But then we heard the news from Bangkok and everything got forgotten.’
Will was almost waiting for TC to pick him up on that lapse into what she used to call the cowardly passive. ‘Everything got forgotten,’ was the cowardly way of saying that Will himself had forgotten. (TC coined the term in honour of an old flatmate who, despairing at the state of the kitchen they shared, but too meek to accuse TC directly, announced, ‘Dishes have been left.’ Hence, and thereafter, the cowardly passive.)
That thought brought back a memory Will had not dredged