9781629270050-Text-for-ePub-rev (3 page)

Slowly, slowly, slowly, he eased the bag into the front left-hand pocket of his cargo
shorts. Tapping gently at the sides of the bag with his left hand, while maintaining
a sure grip on it with his right, he was able to ease the bag in without mishap. He
heaved a long sigh. As he had been careful about not overfilling it, the bag fitted
inside the pocket comfortably, not making any strange bulges that might attract unwanted
attention.

Around half of the canister’s contents had been transferred to the bag. Bishop replaced
the disc into the neck of the canister and fastened it tightly. Then he added the
lid and screwed that on firmly, too.

Grabbing his keys, he almost bolted from the apartment, only pausing to lock the door
securely behind him. In the lift on the way down to the lobby, he reached into his
pocket and undid the seal on the sandwich bag sufficiently so that he could dip his
fingers in.

* * * * *

The morning rush hour was in full swing in downtown Los Angeles as Diane Heidler shrugged
the knapsack onto her back. It didn’t contain much: a change of clothes, a bottle
of water and a few toiletries. She could buy whatever else she needed on her travels.
Money wouldn’t be a problem.

She paused at the doorway and glanced back at the apartment. The laptop stood, screen
open, on the desk. Diane had no further use for it. She had deleted the message from
Milandra and her response, and disabled the internet connection. If a neighbour wandered
in and wanted to take it, they were welcome to it and anything else she was leaving
behind. She turned her back on the apartment and walked out, leaving the door wide
open behind her.

Diane caught a bus uptown to her bank. She grabbed a coffee from a nearby Starbucks
while she waited for the branch to open. If there was one vice Diane possessed, it
was an over-fondness for coffee. However, caffeine did not stimulate her. On the contrary,
she found it had a soporific effect, calming her thoughts, dampening her emotions,
making existence more bearable.

She was the first customer through the doors of the bank when it opened.

First, she approached the cashing desk where she arranged to transfer all funds from
her savings account to her checking account.

“Expecting some major expenditure, Miss Heidler?” the cashier enquired.

“Mmm, something like that,” she replied in what she hoped was a non-committal tone
that would discourage further chat.

Second, Diane cashed a cheque for twenty-thousand dollars. The cashier raised one
eyebrow but made no comment. Diane stuffed the bills into her knapsack.

Third, she arranged to close her safety deposit box. She was shown into the room off
the rear of the banking hall that contained small curtained cubicles where deposit
boxes could be opened in privacy. Her box was brought to her by a smiling clerk who
placed it on the table in a cubicle and drew the curtain closed as he left her alone.

Diane withdrew a small brass key from a pocket of her jeans and inserted it into the
lock on the front of the box. She turned it and lifted the lid.

There was only one item inside: a silvery, metallic canister, a little like a thermos
flask.

Diane hefted the canister in one hand, considering its weight. About the same as a
bag of sugar, she guessed. Then she placed it in her knapsack on top of the money,
turned and walked out.

She didn’t bother closing the lid of the safety deposit box or removing the key.

* * * * *

Similar scenarios played themselves out in almost five thousand towns and cities throughout
the world. From Reykjavik to Wellington, Beijing to Cape Town, St Petersburg to Mumbai,
an e-mail was received and replied to. The recipients recovered from their places
of safe-keeping silvery metallic canisters resembling thermos flasks. Then, canisters
or just their creamy, powdery contents in their possession, the recipients left their
places of abode and went to work.

All except one.

Chapter Three

I
n a village west of Cardiff, at the edge of the South Wales coal field, less than
five miles from the village where Tom Evans was tidying his classroom ready for the
weekend, a mobile phone played a jingle that signified the receipt of an e-mail.

The phone sat on top of an old oak dresser in the main living area of the tiny miner’s
cottage. Two doorways led off the living area: the peeling front door that opened
directly onto the street; a curtained doorway at the rear that led into a small kitchenette.
A ramshackle staircase led from the living area to the basic bathroom and bedroom
large enough for a single bed and slim wardrobe.

Aside from the dresser, the only other furniture in the downstairs living area was
a threadbare two-seater settee, a basic television stand and, upon it, an incongruous,
state-of-the-art 36-inch plasma television.

Peter Ronstadt, who occupied the sagging settee, could afford something—almost anything—much
grander, but the cottage suited him. He had rented it three months previously complete
with furniture. The only change he had made was to add the television and satellite
box that sat on the lower shelf of the TV stand.

He picked up the remote lying on the settee next to him and switched off the television.
He had been enjoying an afternoon quiz show, but forgot about it the moment the phone
sounded.

For a few moments he sat where he was. In the silence created by switching off the
television, other noises started to intrude: chattering children walking past the
window on their way home from school; car engines straining as they climbed the steep
hill; the drip drip drip of the kitchen tap; the sizzle and crack of the log fire
in the grate opposite the settee.

Peter didn’t leap to his feet to read the e-mail. He knew who it was from—only one
person knew his telephone number—and he had a fair idea what it would say. His gaze
flickered involuntarily to the ceiling. Above, crammed under his bed, was a battered
suitcase. Inside the case, wrapped in an old flannelette shirt, was a silvery canister.

It was already growing dark. The neighbouring houses in the street were larger and
more modern than the cottage Peter now occupied. The other cottages that had once
also lined the road were long-gone, along with the mining industry that they had serviced.
Peter had no idea why his cottage had been allowed to remain, set slightly away from
the bigger houses like a disgraced child. He had meant to discover the cottage’s history,
to give himself something to do as much as anything, but hadn’t yet got around to
it. He didn’t suppose it mattered now.

Soon the other houses would light up as their owners switched on the fairy lights
that adorned the Christmas trees standing proudly in front windows and porches, as
candle arches were illuminated, as blue and white plastic icicles dangling from eaves
and window sills were turned on.

Peter sighed heavily and rose slowly to his feet. He took two or three steps to the
dresser, reached for the phone and read the message. A little unsteady on his feet,
he stepped back to the settee and sank into it.

He had known this moment would come. He had known, when it came, that he would have
to decide. Rather, he had already made the decision, deep inside where his true convictions
nestled, but had put off admitting it to himself. He could delay no longer.

“No,” he murmured. Then, a little louder: “No. I won’t do it. I
can’t
do it.”

He looked down at the phone in his hand and frowned. He deleted Milandra’s message,
then turned the phone over. Grunting a little with concentration, he fiddled at the
plastic cover with his fingernails until he managed to remove it. Again with a little
effort—his fingernails weren’t long enough to easily fit into tight spaces—he prised
up the battery and placed it on the settee. Clutching the phone, he rose once more
to his feet. This time there was no trace of unsteadiness.

He crossed quickly to the hearth and flung the phone into the flames.

* * * * *

Troy Bishop had entered the lift and descended to the lobby of the apartment block,
powder in pocket, within thirty minutes of receiving Milandra’s message. As he walked
out of the lift, he almost collided with the man waiting to get in. It was someone
he vaguely recognised: another tenant who lived in one of the cheaper apartments on
one of the floors below Bishop’s.

Ordinarily, Bishop would not have favoured him with a second glance. But tonight was
different. Bishop stopped outside the lift entrance, blocking the man’s path, and
regarded him. The man was in his early thirties. His lower eyelids looked heavy and
dark, his expression a little vague. He returned Bishop’s gaze with no sign of interest.

“All right, mate?” Bishop said.

“Hmm? Um, yes, suppose so.” The man tried a smile, but it seemed half-hearted and
quickly faded.

Bishop thrust his left hand into his pocket and poked his middle finger into the powder.

“Hey, mate,” he said, withdrawing his hand and holding it, middle finger extended,
to the man’s face. “Take a whiff of that. It’s a new talc I just had from my girlfriend.
It’s kind of different, you know?” Bishop moved his finger until it was under the
man’s nose. He nodded his head and smiled encouragingly.

If the man felt any alarm or unease, nothing showed in his expression. If he wondered
why Bishop should be walking around with talc in his pocket, he didn’t express it.
If anything, his eyes had grown more hooded and he looked ready to fall asleep where
he stood. As though barely aware of his actions, the man inhaled quickly through his
nose in a somnambulistic snort.

“Ngh!” he muttered. “Toffee.”

Bishop nodded and grinned. “That’s right, mate. Toffee!” He stepped aside to allow
the man to enter the lift and clapped him on the shoulder as he shuffled past. Bishop
watched the lift door close, the grin never leaving his face or reaching his eyes.

Then he turned and walked jauntily across the lobby to the exit. He let himself out
of the building, rubbing the powdered finger onto the door handle as he did so, and
headed into the city.

* * * * *

A few blocks away from the bank, Diane Heidler came across a small park with one corner
devoted to a children’s play area. She entered and sat on a bench just inside the
entrance. The park was edged with trees that would in summer provide leafy shade from
the dry heat of the day. Now the trees stood forlorn and skeletal beneath a gloomy
December sky. It hadn’t rained for a few days. That might soon change, Diane thought.
It probably explained why nobody else was in the park.

She knew what the canister contained and didn’t want to be opening it in rain. She
pulled the knapsack onto her lap and opened the zip. The canister lay within, nestling
on crisp dollar bills. She stood it upright, keeping it within the knapsack to shield
it from the light breeze, and held it tight with her left hand while she unscrewed
the lid with her right.

With a slight hiss, the lid came away and she allowed it to drop to one side, though
it remained attached by a black plastic strip. She quickly unscrewed the disc that
covered the neck of the canister. With another small exhalation of air, the disc came
free. Tapping it on the rim to shake off any clinging dust, she removed it and placed
it on the bench by her side. Like Bishop had done a couple of hours earlier on the
opposite side of the globe, she dipped her index finger into the canister, then withdrew
it and held it up for inspection.

The powder covered the top half of her finger like cement, except that this powder
wasn’t grey. In the daylight, it seemed almost colourless, translucent as water. In
strong sunlight, it would be all but invisible. She turned her finger this way and
that, seeing the occasional flake lift away and be immediately lost on the breeze.
Most of the powder, however, remained on her finger, clinging to it as pollen to a
bee’s leg. It had been designed this way.

Diane moved her hand back to the top of the canister and rubbed at her index finger
with her thumb. Although the powder could not be easily dislodged by moving air, it
readily dropped away under the friction of her thumb. She nodded, satisfied.

She changed grips, using her right hand to grip the canister, and lowered her left
hand towards the opening.

Anyone describing Diane’s physical appearance would use words like “dainty” and “petite.”
Her hands were no exception. Fine-boned and narrow, they, like the rest of her, showed
no signs of her age.

By pulling her left thumb in towards her little finger, bringing all five digits together
in a tight cluster, she was able to comfortably lower her entire hand into the body
of the canister. She thrust it down, deep into the powder, wiggling her fingers a
little, covering her hand to the wrist. As she withdrew it, she continued to wiggle
her fingers to dislodge any excess.

Avoiding touching anything with her left hand, she placed the canister between her
left arm and chest. Clutching it tightly under her arm, she used her right hand to
replace the disc and lid. Happy that the canister’s contents were secure, she dropped
the silvery flask back into the knapsack and rezipped it. Still only using her right
hand, she shrugged the knapsack over her right shoulder.

One corner of the park was taken up with the children’s play area. A slide, two sets
of swings, a merry-go-round made of wood with a running board and steel arms for clinging
onto while it whirled around.

Diane walked over to the play area, stopping first by the merry-go-round. She stretched
out her left hand and touched one of the cold steel arms. The mechanism was well-maintained
and the merry-go-round began to turn easily. She moved her hand to the next steel
arm and touched that, too, making the ride turn a little faster. She repeated the
process, touching each arm with her left hand, before allowing the ride to ease gently
to a standstill.

Glancing around to make sure she was still alone, she peered closely at one of the
steel arms. She could see smears of the powder where her fingers had brushed the metal,
but only because she knew it was there. It was faint and almost transparent even in
this gloomy light. She doubted that anybody else would notice it; even if they did,
she doubted whether it would cause any concern. Not yet, anyway.

Next she walked to the slide and ran the back of her left hand over the metal handrails
that children used to help them climb the steps. Again, the powdery residue that she
smeared on the metal was barely discernible to a casual glance.

Finally she moved to the swings and ran the fingers of her left hand along the guard
rails that younger children would cling to as they swung, allowing the chains of the
swings for older children to slide between her fingers, removing the powder that lay
in the gaps. She stopped at the last swing and sat, setting it in motion with graceful
movements of her slim legs before allowing the swing to slow of its own accord. She
stared out at the city, barely aware of the noise of traffic and distant cries of
children in some school yard.

The breeze freshened and she clutched her jacket more tightly to her. A light shower
should have little effect on her handiwork. More persistent rain or a heavy downpour
may undo it, but it rarely rained heavily in L.A., even in December.

A young woman entered the park, clutching the hand of a young child of about three
or four. The child was clad in a padded green anorak and matching woolly hat with
ear flaps secured by a ribbon tied beneath his chin. He tugged at his mother’s hand,
eager to reach the slide.

Diane watched as the child ascended the steps to the top of the slide under the alert
eye of the woman, tightly gripping the handrail as he climbed. He reached the top
and clambered awkwardly—as though he wasn’t accustomed to being hampered by an anorak—onto
his bottom. Before he pushed off, the boy wiped the palm of his hand across his nose.

“Jarod!” the woman called sharply. “How many times do I have to tell you? Don’t use
your hands to wipe your nose.”

Jarod pushed himself off and swooped down the slide, almost shooting off the end but
managing to arrest his forward motion just in time by planting his legs either side
of the chute. He staggered to a halt in a series of short, stuttering steps. He turned
a flushed, happy face towards his mother who was by his side in an instant, wiping
at his nose with a handkerchief. Then she wiped his hands before allowing him to toddle
back to the steps for another go. Before replacing the handkerchief in the pocket
of her coat, the woman wiped her own nose briefly.

Diane stood and left the park without a backward glance at the mother and child. She
turned to the north, towards Hollywood.

She kept as far as possible to the more populated areas: pedestrian thoroughfares,
shopping malls, parks. As she walked, she’d stretch out a hand from time to time and
let it trail along handrails or across handles to doorways. She entered shops selling
trinkets and browsed for a few minutes, picking items up and replacing them. She made
purchases, extracting notes from her knapsack, fingering them as though deliberating
whether or not to proceed, before handing them over. Her purchases she deposited into
the next litter bin she passed.

Occasionally she’d stop and rummage in her knapsack, thrusting her hands deep inside,
fiddling with something before continuing on her way. She passed a homeless beggar
and paused to deposit some coins into his outstretched fingers.

It took her a couple of hours to reach Hollywood. After visiting the Chinese Theatre,
she stopped in a bistro to eat, borrowing the salt cellar from an adjoining table
and returning it to be used by the family of diners seated there. She made sure she
used the pepper pot that was on her table, though she disliked the flavour of pepper.
Again she paid with well-handled cash.