Sam Bourne 4-Book Thriller Collection. Sam Bourne
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was too exhausted to say any more. He surrendered mutely to his father and headed upstairs, joining TC who was waiting for him on the landing. The way she stood, as if she were hiding herself, suggested she felt it, too: the suspicion radiating from his father and the guilty admission that it was not entirely groundless.
Sunday, 12.33am, Manhattan
‘Good work, young man. And your enthusiasm is a joy to me, it really is.’ The voice was clear and distinct, even on the telephone. ‘No, your best move now is to hang back. I’m not worried about Sag Harbor. That’s not going to be a problem. We need you there, in the city.’
‘So where do you want me to post myself, sir?’
‘Well. They’re not going to stay in Long Island long, are they? He’s going to have to come back. And that means Penn Station. Why don’t we make sure you’re there to greet him?’
Sunday, 9.13am, Sag Harbor, New York
He had left his phone on and placed it right by his ear. But his exhaustion was so deep, the short trill of a newly arrived message barely woke him. Instead, it insinuated itself into his dream. He was putting the key in the lock of his front door; he walked in to find Beth standing in the kitchen, clasping a child to her waist. She seemed fierce, as if she was protecting this little boy – or girl, Will could not tell – from an intruder about to do terrible harm. Get back, her eyes seemed to say. She looked wild; feral. Oh I see, thought the Will of the dream. That’s Child X. And, right on cue, as if heralding this realization, a bell started to toll . . .
Like a winch pulling a diver up to the surface, his conscious brain dredged him up and out of sleep. Reflexively, he grabbed the phone and brought it to his face.
1 new message
fOrtY
He leapt out of bed and marched down the corridor to TC’s room, one of the few denied a view of the ocean, backing onto a large, English-style garden instead. The sun was streaming into the hallway, accompanied by the sound of the waves. There was no getting away from it: his father had chosen a gorgeous spot.
His father. Only now did Will remember their night-time encounter. He had very nearly bludgeoned his dad. He might have killed him. But there was no time to dwell on that.
‘OK,’ he said, once he had shaken TC awake and she was propped up on one of the dozen or so pillows his father’s housekeeper routinely provided for each bed. ‘There’s another one. Forty.’ He was holding up the phone.
‘Forty messages?’ she croaked, eking the sleep out of one eye.
‘No. That’s the message. Look.’
‘Why’s he written it so weirdly?’
‘I don’t know. Get cracking on that, can you? I have a phone call to make.’
He looked at his watch. 9.30am. He checked the BlackBerry: nothing new from Crown Heights. They surely did not believe he had acceded to the rabbi’s demand in yesterday’s phone call – that he back off and sit tight. It was obvious they believed no such thing: after all, they had sent a man to follow him precisely because they knew he would keep probing.
Nine thirty. Someone from the foreign desk would be in by now. Besides, he could not afford to leave it much later. As he dialled the number, he scrunched his face up in virtual prayer. Please let it be Andy.
There were at least four assistants who worked on the New York Times foreign desk; Will would struggle to name three of them. But one he had got to know. Andy was probably four years younger than Will and, ever since they had chatted in the line for the canteen one lunchtime, he had latched on to him as a kind of mentor. He was from Iowa and had a dry, unsmiling humour that Will liked instantly; a surrogate for the sensibility he missed from home.
‘Foreign.’
‘Andy?’
‘No less.’
‘Thank God.’
‘Will, is that you?’
‘Yeah. Why?’
‘No, nothing. Just—’
‘What?’
‘Dude, if I believed every evil rumour that I heard.’
‘What evil rumour?’
‘Word is, you got pounded by the big guy yesterday. That he found you rifling through someone else’s desk? I told people, “Hey, investigative journalism’s a tough business”.’
‘Thanks, Andy.’
‘Is it true?’
‘Put it this way, it’s not entirely untrue.’
‘Hmm. Well, it’s a novel approach to career development, I’ll say that for ya.’
‘Look, Andy. I need a favour. I need you to give me the number for the Times correspondent in Bangkok.’
‘John Bishop? Everyone’s on his case today, man. He’s run ragged.’
‘How come?’
‘Don’t you watch the news? The police are all over Brooklyn. Apparently the black hats tried to kill some guy in Thailand. It’s a Metro story: Walton’s on it.’
‘Walton?’ That was all Will needed: more needling from the notebook-thief. He would have to speak to Bishop behind his back.
‘Yeah. I hear Walton tried to wriggle out of it, being the weekend and all. Apparently he nominated you for the story: until the desk told him you were, you know—’
‘I was what?’
‘You know, not available for work just now.’
‘Is that how they’re putting it?’
‘Something like that. Listen, Will, what’s the deal? Are you sick or something? You smoke some bad weed?’
He knew Andy was trying to mock the heaviness of it all, sending up, in particular, the absurdity of the hard-working, married Will Monroe under suspicion as some Freak Brothers drug fiend. But it did not make Will laugh. Instead his friend’s banter merely confirmed his worst anxieties: that he was indeed effectively suspended from the New York Times and that he had become precisely the office talking point, the topic of water-cooler conversation, he had dreaded. The fact that this was a trivial matter, barely worthy of consideration alongside his other worries, only emphasized the desperation of his situation.
‘No, Andy. No bad weed, no weed at all as it happens. But I can see how it must look. Excellent. Tip top. Bloody marvellous.’
‘I’m sorry, dude. Is there anything I can do?’
‘Yeah, that number will be a huge help. Cell phone if you have one.’
‘Sure. And remember, they’re twelve hours ahead there. It’s like nearly ten at night now.’
Will did not allow himself a moment to digest the call with Andy. As he dialled the multiple digits to reach Bangkok, he imagined how the Times’s interns and young reporters would be burning up New York’s cellular system, updating each other on the rise and dramatic fall of Will Monroe at this very moment, but that was all. He tried to put it out of his mind – and focus on the sound of a telephone ring that was now in his ear.
‘Hello.’
‘Hello, John? This is Will Monroe from the Metro desk. Is this a bad time?’
‘I’ve just been up for about thirty-six hours and I’m about to file a story, Why would it be a bad time? How can I help?’
‘Sorry, I’ll try to keep it really