Sam Bourne 4-Book Thriller Collection

‘Not really, no.’

And with that, Will leaned over to give TC a kiss on the cheek – only for her to pull back the moment he came close. There was a magnetic field of resistance around her face. Of course. She was not allowed to touch a man, let alone be kissed by one, not in the heart of Crown Heights. Will made do with a plain goodbye.

Now watching his breath form clouds before him, Will turned the corner so that he was at Montgomery and Henry. Behind him was a small triangle of park. In front, the tenement building he was looking for. He held back, wanting to gaze at it a while. He could see one, two, three lights still on.

Now what? He had barely considered what he would do once he got here. He could not exactly start knocking on doors, claiming to be doing a vox pop for the New York Times after midnight. What could he do?

He would have to get into the building. That would be a start. Then he could look at the mail boxes, get some names, Google a few of them on his BlackBerry. He would think of something.

Oh, good. Someone coming out. Perfect: that would give him his chance to slip in. Except this person was moving too fast, almost running. It was hard to make him, or her, out; it was too dark and the light above the entrance too dim. But when he stepped forward, looking nervously left and right, Will saw enough.

Most striking was the piercing brightness of his eyes, a chill, glassy blue. But it was the posture Will recognized. A physical confidence, as if this man was used to using his body. The clothes were slightly changed, but there was no mistaking him – with or without his baseball cap.

FIFTY-ONE (#ulink_fe24c0c5-dade-53eb-b269-d87be4e9bccb)

Monday, 12.13am, Manhattan

Will’s first instinct was to observe. He was used to watching, seeing how things unfolded. So it took a beat and then another before Will realized that he could not just watch. He would have to stalk the stalker.

He was wary. Hardly anyone was around; he would be noticed. So he kept far back, walking as quietly as he could. He cursed the black leather shoes he was wearing: they made too much noise. He tried to prevent his heels making contact with the sidewalk, to dampen the sound.

But the man in front seemed to be in a hurry as he charged down Henry Street. Not running, but a brisk walk that allowed no time for looking back. That emboldened Will; he walked faster, taking pains to keep just less than a block between them.

The stalker was carrying a black leather bag at his side, the strap worn like a sash crossing over to his opposite shoulder. He was neat and self-contained, moving nimbly. Will was no expert, but he would have been surprised if this guy did not have some connection with the military.

By now he had crossed Clinton and Jefferson. Where was he going? To meet a getaway car? If so, why had he not been picked up earlier? Maybe he was walking towards a subway station. Will cursed his limited knowledge of New York: he had no idea if there was a station near here.

Without warning, the man suddenly looked back. Will saw the movement of his head and, without even thinking, moved off the sidewalk towards the steps of the tenement block he was passing. At the same time he reached into his pocket and pulled out his keys. What the stalker would have seen was a man entering his own apartment building. He walked on; Will let out a deep sigh. He had been holding his breath.

By now the man ahead was turning a sharp right. Will tried to position himself so that he would not be caught in his field of vision.

‘Yo, Ashley! You got my phone?’

Will had not seen them coming, but there they were, right in front of him. Three African-American teenage girls, filling up the sidewalk. Will tried to slide past, but they were in the mood for some fun.

‘What’s the hurry, handsome? You don’t like how we look? You don’t think we look fine?’ At this the other two were screeching with laughter. He looked over their heads, to see the stalker heading down a side street towards East Broadway. He was hard to make out.

‘Yo, I’m over here, honey!’ It was the leader of the pack, now waving her hand in Will’s face. If he had been born in New York, he was sure he would have shoved them aside with a curt, ‘Get the fuck out of my way.’ But even here, on a mission to prevent a murder in the dead of night, he was still an Englishman.

‘Excuse me, I have to get past. Please.’

With that, he weaved around Ashley and company, hearing more whooping and calling behind him. ‘My friend says you can have her number!’

Will now broke into a run, desperate to catch up. He reached the junction and turned right, scanning the street up and down in search of his quarry. There was a couple making out on a stoop. But no sign of the stalker.

He could see only two non-residential buildings; the man might have fled into either one of them. He certainly could not yet have reached East Broadway or else Will would have caught sight of him. Will slowed down, checking over his shoulder, aware that this was exactly how to walk into an ambush. After fifteen paces, Will gave up: he had clearly lost the man he had needed to follow. He must have escaped into one of these two buildings, on opposite sides of the street. Will was near enough now to see what they were. One was the Church of the Reborn Jesus, but the other was a synagogue – affiliated to the Hassidim of Crown Heights.

FIFTY-TWO (#ulink_629a314e-acb4-5299-b364-4411ab14cff3)

Monday, 12.28 am, Manhattan

Should he try to break into one or both of these places, to find the man he had followed? A true man of action would do just that. But as he was sizing up the first building, a police car sped past, lights flashing. He stepped back. That was all he needed: to be arrested for breaking into a synagogue in the small hours of Monday morning. And on Yom Kippur of all days. What believable grounds for following this man did he even have? He had seen him come out of an apartment building on the Lower East Side. Oh, and he had seen him out of TC’s window yesterday. He had seen him commit no crime. As Harden would say, ‘You’ve got a notebook full of nothing.’ Nothing except a grim suspicion that was becoming firmer every minute.

He retraced his steps towards the building on Montgomery Street. He and Rabbi Freilich had discussed what he should do in only the sketchiest terms. ‘Just call me,’ the rabbi had said. ‘Even if you’re not sure it’s him, call.’

‘And then what?’

‘We’ll come and we’ll help.’

Will was not quite sure what that meant.

He crossed the street and took a few furtive steps towards the entrance of the tenement. A gleam of light drew his eye to the door-lock: it was not fully shut! The stalker must have left it ajar, perhaps to avoid making even that small noise. Will creaked it open and slipped inside.

Perez, La Pinez, Abdulla, Bitensky, Wilkins, Gonzales, Yoelson, Alberto. The mailboxes offered no clues.

There was a rickety elevator, but that was no use. He needed to check each floor, every apartment. He ran quietly up the stairs, stopping at each landing: but all he could see were shut doors, shabby doormats, the odd sodden umbrella left outside. Will realized the futility of this expedition. What was he looking for? A plaque announcing, ‘Mr Righteous Tzaddik lives here. Available for weddings, birthdays and bar mitzvahs’?

By the third landing, he was poised to call Freilich and press him for more information. Anything else they had which might narrow it down. But the last apartment on the third floor stopped him dead.

The door was open.

Will crept towards it, lightly tapping it with his knuckles as he moved past and inside. ‘Hello,’ he called out, almost in a whisper. No lights were on, just the silver shadow of the moon, coming through the window that faced the street.

He looked to his left. A galley kitchen, small and made up of 1950s units. Not as some retro fashion statement, but the real thing: a bulky, curved fridge; a stove with oversized knobs. This was the home, Will concluded, of an old person.

Then he looked to his right. He could see a big radio on a table; a couple of wooden chairs, whose seats were cushioned in thin, fake leather; one was spilling out its stuffing. Then a couch—

Will gasped, jumping back. There was a man lying on it, flat on his back. Silhouetted in the light were the bristles on his chin. He had a small, squirrel-like face framed by clunky, chunky spectacles. The rest of him looked shrunken with age, in a too-big cardigan. He seemed to be sleeping.

Will took a step forward, then another one, until he was crouched over him. He placed his hand in front of the man’s mouth and waited to feel a breath.

Nothing.

Then Will touched him, placing a hand on his forehead. Cold. He put a finger on his neck, searching for a pulse. He knew there would be none.

Will moved backwards, as if to take in the enormity of what he could see. As he did, he felt a crunch of glass. He looked down to see that he had just stepped on a syringe.

He was bending down to get a closer look when the room flooded with light.

‘Put your hands in the air and turn around. NOW!’

Will did as he was told. He could barely see; he was dazzled by the three or four torches aimed directly at his eyes.

‘Step away from the body. That’s good. Now walk towards me. SLOWLY!’

His eyes were not yet adjusted but he could make out the small circle dancing before him, right next to the ring of torch light. It was the barrel of a gun – and it was aimed at him.

FIFTY-THREE (#ulink_0dd284d2-ecb0-592e-92c6-e905650bb0c1)