Sam Bourne 4-Book Thriller Collection

FORTY (#ulink_b7c27f82-a74c-5501-8bc3-cf13d9d94acc)

Sunday, 4.04pm, Manhattan

‘And when did it arrive?’

‘Just now. This second.’

‘Well, the first conclusion we can draw is that Yosef Yitzhok was not our informant after all.’

‘We can’t be certain of that, TC. His killer may have grabbed his phone and carried on sending messages.’ As he said it, Will saw the absurdity of his suggestion. What were the chances that an assailant would steal a phone, check the ‘sent’ file and carry on sending perfectly coded messages in the same vein? Besides, there was an easy way to check.

‘Sandy, can you do me a favour? Call home and find out if anyone took Yosef Yitzhok’s phone when he was killed.’ Now talking back into the mouthpiece, to TC, he offered another theory. ‘What if someone stole his phone in the first place?’

‘Well, then it wouldn’t have been YY sending the messages at all, would it?’ TC was getting exasperated. Fearful of returning to her own apartment, she had fled to Central Park. To her great relief, she had run into some people she knew: married friends, with plenty of kids. As Will could hear through the phone, she had stuck herself in the middle of the group. The strollers, toddlers and picnic blankets would, she reckoned, serve as a security cordon, keeping the stalkers and kidnappers at bay. Listening to the sounds of childhood chatter, of softball games and a mother handing out cake, Will felt a pang of envy or, rather, longing – longing for a Sunday afternoon of relaxed, sun-kissed normality.

‘You mean, it was someone else all along.’

‘I think so, yes. YY is dead but the messages have not stopped. Ergo, he wasn’t the one sending them.’

‘So why would they kill him?’

‘Who?’

‘The Hassidim.’

‘We don’t know it was the Hassidim who killed him. That’s just another conclusion you’re jumping to. The truth is, Will, we know hardly anything. We can guess and speculate and theorize, but we know very little.’

‘What about the drawing in the library. Did you see anything?’

‘I think it’s probably telling us something very simple. It’s saying, “Think kabbalah”. The image is so complex, full of so many component parts, it can’t be about any one bit. It’s just the general idea. That diagram is the fundamental building block of all kabbalah. It’s almost like a logo.’

‘Hang on. There’s another one coming now. I’ll call you back.’

He walked as he pressed the buttons to reveal the latest message, one which he willed to be clear. Now that he did not have TC at his side, he desperately needed a little simplicity.

Behold the lord of the heavens but not of Hell.

They only had to walk a few blocks north to find the junction which the earlier message had directed them to: Fiftieth Street and Fifth Avenue. That was where they stood now. Looming over them was the gothic fortress of St Patrick’s Cathedral where, little more than a week ago, he had sat rapt, listening to The Messiah with his father. A week ago but a different lifetime.

His father. A spasm of guilt passed through Will: he had barely included him in this search. It was obvious he wanted to help; he had made that clear last night and again this morning, even doing his bit to decipher the text messages. Yet Will had been impatient, happy to use his father as a glorified chauffeur and not much more. Perhaps for all the effort of the last few years, the two of them were not as close as Will liked to believe. Most men would probably have looked to their fathers to be their chief ally in a crisis like this, but Will was not most men. He had lived the bulk of his childhood, his formative years, a continent away.

Looking at it now, Will remembered his initial impression of the cathedral when he had first arrived in New York. It struck him as vaguely ridiculous. Despite his love of old buildings, this vast, vaulted structure, which would have fitted in fine in Paris, London or Rome, looked absurd in the middle of Manhattan. Sandwiched between steel and glass skyscrapers, its arched windows, crenellated towers and heaven-piercing spires were not only out of place but out of time. They seemed to embody a kind of futility, an attempt to hold back the onrush of modernity. This was the fastest city in the world and the cathedral stood implacably at its centre – trying to stop the clock.

What could it mean? Beckoning Sandy to follow him, he waded through the tourist throng and stepped inside, enveloped immediately in the deferential hush vast houses of worship wreathe around themselves like fog. Will marched forward, his eyes scanning for anything that might fit that message. Who was lord of the heavens but not of hell?

He looked over his shoulder. Sandy had barely advanced from the door; he was gawping at the impossibly high ceiling, then startled by the rebounding echo. Clearly, he had never been in such a building before. The contrast with the lino-and-fake-panelled gymnasium that served as the Hassidim’s synagogue had overwhelmed him. Will remembered something his father had once said, that religious people had much in common, even when they did not share a faith: ‘The same magic works on all of them.’ There was no doubt about it: Sandy was moved to be here.

Will, who had gone to school and college in buildings older than this one, was not overawed by the cold stone floors or medieval architecture. He was on a mission, to find a lord of heaven but not of hell. He faced the Grand Organ and then the smaller Chancel Organ. He checked out the altar and the pulpit, raised like the crow’s nest of a ship. He examined the narrow shelves holding glass jars for the lighting of candles, and the boxes of new ones, available free of charge. He had a look at the small, private chapel, apparently closed off for private ceremonies. He looked upward, to see two flags: the first belonging to the United States, the second to the Vatican. He had no idea what he was looking for.

He walked the length of the nave, studying the blocks of pews. He glanced up at the loudspeakers and screens attached to the pillars. There were tapestries with inscriptions, but no reference that might fit the message. There were stained-glass windows with pictures of saints, shepherds and the odd serpent. Will thought he saw an angel or two.

Hold on. Directly above, dominating the space around, was a huge crucifix, with a sculpted Jesus. It was picked out in strobing white light, as tourists queued to photograph it.

Was this the lord of the heavens but not of hell? After all, the underworld was the realm of Lucifer rather than Jesus. Maybe it was as simple as that. Maybe he was meant to look at Jesus. But then what?

He wished TC was with him, another pair of eyes, another brain. Sandy was nice enough, but he did not have the kind of laser observation or brainpower Will was sure he needed right now.

Will headed for the exit, shoving a dollar bill in the glass box marked for donations – and filled with what seemed to be the coins of a thousand nations.

Outside, he dialled TC’s number. ‘Look, we’ve been inside the cathedral. I’m meant to be finding the lord of the heavens but not of hell. There’s nothing that seems to connect with that. Nothing I can see. Yeah, I’ve walked up and down. It’s just pews, crucifix—’

He could feel Sandy tugging at his elbow. He tried to shake him off, but the tug was persistent.

‘What is it? I’m talking to TC.’

‘Look.’ Sandy was pointing, not back at the cathedral but directly across the street.

‘TC, I’ll call you back.’

They were facing the Rockefeller Center, Sandy breaking into a semi-jog so they could get a closer look. Barely checking the traffic, he crossed the street, Will behind him, until they were standing before it.

Or, rather, him. Even in shimmering metal, his stomach rippled, the lines of a perfect, mythic abdomen. His thighs were enormous, each one as thick as a bison. One leg was placed before the other, in the manner of a weight-lifter steadying himself. Except this was no ordinary weight.

His arms were fully outstretched at his sides, curving slightly upward to mould themselves around his load. For there, on his shoulders, was nothing less than the universe itself, rendered as an intersecting series of circles, like the lines of latitude and longitude that girdle the globe. On each of the metal arcs were marked the names of the planets. They were looking at the Rockefeller Center’s largest sculpture, the two-ton statue of Atlas.

‘Behold the lord of the heavens but not of hell.’ Sandy was murmuring the words almost to himself.

‘I can see why he’s the lord of the heavens,’ said Will. ‘But what’s the hell thing?’

Sandy was struggling to get the words out. He was panting with exhilaration. ‘It’s a famous thing about this statue. When they did it—’

‘Yes?’

‘—they hadn’t discovered Pluto yet. So there’s no Pluto on here.’

‘And Pluto’s the God of the underworld,’ whispered Will. Behold the lord of the heavens but not of Hell. This was the right spot. He dialled TC’s number and instantly described what he could see.

‘OK, you need to pick me up,’ she said. ‘And then we’ll go to your apartment.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I think I finally know what’s going on. And Atlas has just confirmed it.’

FORTY-ONE (#ulink_070ae370-f222-5728-a82e-250739760da1)

Sunday, 5.50pm, Brooklyn

There was no time to be self-conscious. Even so, he could tell TC felt strange to be in this place, the home of the man she had once loved and the woman he had made his wife. He saw her stealing glances at the photographs, especially the wedding collage – perhaps two dozen pictures, pressed under glass – that hung in their kitchen.