And that regret instantly reminded him that he and TC had never once spent a weekend at Sag Harbor. He had taken his cue from her, keeping their relationship a virtual secret. TC had met Will’s father just once and they had never spent any proper time together. Beth, on the other hand, had fitted in straight away; it was one of the things that made it feel so right.
A silence fell. It was TC who broke it, digging into her bag to produce the item she had been holding before they left her apartment. The Holy Bible. ‘Christ, I nearly forgot.’ She thumbed through the pages at top speed. ‘There. The Book of Proverbs, Chapter 10.’
‘Haven’t we been through this already? We found what he wanted us to see: righteous, righteous, righteous.’
‘I know, but I’m a nerd. I want to study it some more.’
‘What are you looking for?’
‘I don’t know. But something tells me I’ll know it when I see it.’
Sunday, 3.08am, Sag Harbor, New York
The house in Sag Harbor, at least, sprung no surprises. The key was under the flower pot, as always; the place was even quite warm, testament to the efficiency of the local couple Will’s father hired to keep things ticking over out of season.
He moved around rapidly, turning on lights, putting hot water on the stove, making tea. Clutching a packet of Oreos, he finally sat himself opposite TC, facing her across the vast, aged oak table that dominated Monroe Sr’s stylishly rustic kitchen.
Instantly, the memories flooded back. The long winters at school, when Will could feel every one of those three thousand miles that separated him from his father. The joy when a parcel arrived in the post, often containing a delicious slice of exotic Americana – perhaps a packet of bubblegum or, never forgotten, a leather baseball. And then the thrill as he was put on a plane during the summer vacation, ‘an unaccompanied minor’ on his way to see his Dad. Those August weeks in Sag Harbor, spent crabbing on the beach or eating clams on the deck, were the highlight of Will’s year. He could still feel, even now, twenty years later, the pit in his stomach when September loomed and he would be taken back to the airport – and away from his father for another year.
Will forced himself back into the moment. He had begun on the train, but now he explained in full what he had been bursting to tell TC since the moment he had taken the call. It was the first TC had heard either of Jay Newell or of Will’s conversation with him earlier that evening. But she was a quick study; once Will had told her about Jay’s phone message, she did not need him to join the dots.
‘So Baxter and Macrae were both drugged before they were killed; they were both deemed righteous by people who knew them; and, according to YY and Proverbs 10, if your reading of it is right, it’s this righteous thing which is significant. Which somehow explains the wider Hassidic plot. Why they’ve taken Beth, why they killed the guy in Bangkok, why they had someone follow you, or us, tonight. That’s essentially the theory here, isn’t it?’
‘It’s a bit more than a theory now, TC. “2 down: More’s to come.” “Yet more deaths soon.” That’s what he said. He was addressing me directly! He’s read the stories in the Times and he’s telling me, “OK, you’ve cracked two of them, but there are going to be more.” Meaning we have to link this with everything else that’s going on! Don’t you see?’
‘No, no, I do see.’ She chose her words carefully. ‘I do see that this must all be linked. The trouble is . . . Rather, my problem is, I personally cannot quite see how we get from the Macrae/Baxter/righteous thing – which I admit is fascinating and incredible – to the “more” that are supposed to be coming.’
Will slumped in his chair.
‘No, Will. Don’t be like that. This is great progress. We’re nearly there, I’m sure of it. Look, let’s get some sleep and then we’ll think this last bit through,’ she said, placing her hand on his shoulder, sending a pulse of memory through them both. ‘Come on, we can do this.’
Suddenly Will leapt up, walking out of the kitchen. TC chased after him.
‘Will! Will! Come on, don’t do this.’
She found him standing in his father’s study, a room filled from floor to ceiling with books. Row after row of leather-bound legal texts, collected case reports, volumes of Supreme Court judgments going back to the nineteenth century. On another wall, there were more contemporary works, lines of hardback texts on politics, the constitution and of course, the law. They seemed to be arranged with a librarian’s zeal for order: grouped by theme and then, within each category, rigorously alphabetized. TC’s eye landed on the Christianity section: Documents of the Christian Church by Henry Bettenson, The Early Church by Henry Chadwick, From Christ to Constantine by Eusebius, Early Christian Doctrines by JND Kelly, all lined up in perfect order.
But Will was ignoring the books, instead powering up the computer on his father’s desk. He scrolled down an Associated Press story, barely reading the words, looking for something.
He moved his cursor over the text to define two words: the name of the Hassidim’s kidnap victim in Bangkok: Samak Sangsuk. He moved up to the Google window at the top right of the screen, pasted in the name and hit return.
Your search – samak sangsuk – did not match any documents
He was about to curse but he was silenced. Not by TC, but by the distinct sound of a creak in the hallway. Not just one, but several in quick succession. There was no doubt about it. Someone else was in the house.
Sunday, 12.12am, Manhattan
He had waited long enough. It was the lights going out that had made him suspicious. He was told this man was desperately searching for his wife: it did not make sense that he would happily go to sleep at midnight.
Besides, he feared he was arousing suspicion, pacing around outside an apartment building for hours on end. This might be Manhattan, where no one seemed to notice anything, but it was a risk.
He telephoned his superiors, asking for permission to make his move.
‘All right. But keep it clean. Do you understand?’
‘I understand.’
‘And may the Lord be with you.’
He waited for the next new arrival at the building, a woman apparently returning from a late-night convenience store with a bag full of groceries. It took him a second to jog the few yards to the entrance, as if catching up with her.
‘Oh, let me get that,’ he said, holding the door once she had opened it. He followed her in.
While she checked her mailbox, he headed downstairs for the basement – pausing only to cover his face with a ski-mask.
He could hear the sound of a television, seeping out from under the door. He knocked and waited, checking once again the cold steel of the revolver he would reveal the instant the door opened. This would not take long.
Mr Pugachov jumped back in fright, raising his arms in an instant surrender.
‘Good. Now, y’all need to stay nice and calm. We need to do this nice and easy. All you gotta do is take me to the apartment on the sixth floor. The one that looks out onto the street. The one where the pretty girl lives. You know the one I mean. Mighty pretty girl.’
Pugachov had never heard such an accent before; this man did not sound like the New Yorkers he knew. It took him a while to work out what he was saying. Guessing, he reached with his right hand behind the door.
‘Hey! Hands in the air! What did I say just now, mister?’