Bestselling Conspiracy Thriller Trilogy: Sanctus, The Key, The Tower. Simon Toyne

searched through the networks, hunting it down.

      Kutlar glanced in the side mirror. The policeman was now talking to the stallholder and helping himself to some food. His stomach lurched and he looked away. Thanks to the brutal one-way system it had taken them nearly five minutes to get here. He could have done it in half the time, but the sat-nav had sent them along busy main roads and he’d had no desire to challenge it. The longer they kept looking for her, the more chance he’d have of working his way out of this situation.

      He also had another agenda, not quite as strong as his instinct for survival, but strong nonetheless. It involved the man who had put the bullet in his leg and forced him to leave his cousin lying dead in the road. He’d never been particularly close to Serko, but he was family. He figured if these guys found the girl then maybe they’d find the guy who killed him as well. He really hoped he’d try and get in their way.

      The hourglass icon had disappeared from the screen and in its place was a dialogue box listing a name and address. He watched Cornelius copy the information into a text message.

      ‘The guy says he saw someone about five minutes ago sounds like our girl.’ The policeman leaned in through the open window, chewing his last mouthful of bread. Kutlar recoiled at the garlic on his breath. ‘Says he thinks maybe she hopped in a cab.’

      Cornelius pressed send. Waited for it to go.

      ‘Listen,’ Sulleiman said, ‘if she’s mobile she could be anywhere by now. I mean, you’ll pick her up again as soon as she switches her phone back on. But I really need to be getting back to the station. I took a big risk to give you guys a head start … and if I don’t get back and call the girl in missing, it’s going to get ugly.’

      Cornelius waited until message sent flashed up then squinted at the traffic. Every other car was a cab. ‘Sure,’ he said finally. ‘Hop in, we’ll give you a ride.’

      Sulleiman hesitated for a beat then climbed in.

      Kutlar edged away from him as far as he could. The smell of garlic and sweat coming off the policeman almost made him gag.

      84

      It was cold in New York, colder than Rodriguez remembered it, and he’d put on the red windcheater as soon as he shuffled off the plane with the other passengers. He was walking through the international arrivals hall when his cell phone vibrated in its pocket. He glanced at the new name and address: somewhere in Newark; residential, by the look of it.

      He looked around for a newsstand or a bookstore. The old TWA Flight Centre was all curved edges and scooped, elegant lines; it looked like it had been built by giant bugs rather than bureaucrats and Teamsters. He spotted a Barnes and Noble.

      The last time he had been here was six years ago. Back then he thought he was leaving his country and his old life for ever. Now here he was, back in town and back to something close to his old ways. He cleared the message and dialled a number from memory. He had no idea if it was still valid, nor even if the person he was trying to contact was dead or in jail. The phone started ringing as he walked into the bookstore, past displays of cookbooks by celebrity chefs and paperbacks with one-word titles.

      ‘Hello?’

      The voice sounded like the rustle of dry paper. He could hear a TV turned up loud in the background; angry people shouting, other people yelling and applauding.

      ‘Mrs Barrow?’ He’d arrived at the shelf where they usually kept the city guides.

      ‘Who dat?’ The tone was guarded.

      ‘Name’s Guillermo,’ he said, upping his old street accent, which now tasted strange on his tongue. ‘Guillermo Rodriguez. Used to go by the name Gil. I’m an old friend of JJ’s, Mrs B. Been outta town fo’ while. Be nice to hook up with him – if’n he’s around.’

      There was a pause filled with more TV applause and whoops of encouragement. It sounded like Springer, or Ricki Lake. The type of show he’d forgotten existed.

      ‘Loretta’s kid!’ the woman said suddenly. ‘Used to live in that two-room walk up over on Tooley Street.’

      ‘Sure am, Mrs B. Loretta’s kid.’

      ‘Ain’t seen nothin’ o’ her in a while.’

      An image flashed into his mind. Skin stretched tight over brittle bones. Tubes feeding medicine into spots on her arms where the junk used to go.

      ‘She died, Mrs Barrow,’ he said. ‘’Bout seven years back.’

      ‘Aw yeah? I’m real sorry, son. She was a nice lady, far as she went.’

      ‘Thanks,’ he said, knowing what she meant but letting it go all the same.

      The strident voices from the TV stretched into the silence again until he began to wonder if she’d forgotten he was there.

      ‘Say, son, give me your number,’ she said suddenly. ‘I’ll pass it on to Jason. If’n he wants to talk with ya, he’ll talk.’

      Rodriguez smiled. ‘Thanks, Mrs Barrow,’ he said. ‘Really ’preciate it.’

      He gave her his number and she hung up while he was in the middle of thanking her again. He grabbed an ADC street map of Newark and headed over to the till. His phone rang again as he collected his change. He thanked the cashier and went back into the concourse.

      ‘Gil? That you, mon?’

      ‘Yeah, JJ my man, it’s me.’

      ‘Goddamn. Gilly Rodriguez.’ A big smile lit up his voice. ‘I heard you got took by the God Squad.’

      ‘Nah, man. Just been outta town fo’ while …’

      He let the silence hang. In his old life being ‘outta town’ generally meant being in the pen.

      ‘So where you at now, man?’

      ‘Queens. Got a few things lined up, you know how it is. Just need to get hooked up again.’

      ‘Yeah?’ JJ’s tone narrowed in the same way his grandma’s had. ‘What y’all need?’

      He thought of what he’d read on the flight over; first-hand accounts of heretics being purified in the flames of the Tabula Rasa. ‘You think you can line me up with something a little … specialized?’

      ‘I can get you whatever you want, long as you got the money.’

      Rodriguez smiled. ‘Yeah,’ he said, pushing through the exit door and into the chill of a New York morning. ‘I got money.’

      85

      The brass plaque on the wall announced that the building housed the offices of Itaat Eden Kimse, translated underneath as the Ruin Observer. The cab driver turned on his hazards and Liv handed him her phone. ‘I’ll send someone right out,’ she said.

      She was directed by the world’s oldest receptionist to the international desk on the first floor. As soon as she walked into the open-plan office she instantly felt at home. Every press room she’d ever been in looked exactly like this one: low suspended ceilings; nests of desks separated by half-height partitions; strip lights that kept the place lit in the same non-descript fashion, day and night. It never ceased to amaze her that all the great works of modern journalism, all the government-baiting, Pulitzer prize-winning, life-enriching material that poured on to newsstands on a daily basis was conceived in surroundings so deeply uninspiring they could just as easily be used to sell life insurance.

      She scanned the bland magnificence of the office, and clocked the eager woman with dark 1940s hair marching towards her, smiling most of the way through perfect lipstick. She looked so full of bristling energy that if she’d suddenly burst into song or a tightly choreographed dance routine, Liv wouldn’t have been at all surprised.