The Bergamese Sect (50 page)

He’d love to make a phone call, just let somebody, anybody, know he was okay. To be told that he was missed, or concerned for, might be enough to settle his shaky temperament. But he knew he couldn’t do that.

He’d never felt as alone as he did now. Never. Not even on that chilly September night, after the police car had glided out of his street and the door closed on that devastating news. No one had been there to talk about it; no one there to share in his grief, possibly take a bit of the pain themselves, just for a time. He’d suffered it alone that first night, cowering beneath the stairs in a clammy, jabbering sweat. And sometimes, he thought he’d never left that dark hiding place.

Even on that day, ten years ago, as Duncan Talbot was ferried away; the unhurried motion of the ambulance speaking just as much truth as did the glare from his friend’s lifeless eyes. He’d been left standing on the street, as if the tragedy simply hadn’t happened, the carnage brushed under the carpet. Alone was the one thing he was destined to be, in the past, in the future, but more than ever, now.

A red glow spilt over the bedside table, blurring through a glass of water. He raised his head above the obstruction and peered at the clock. 02:43 it said. ‘Shit!’ he murmured and quickly span onto his other side, wrapping himself tightly in the thin bedclothes.

He closed his eyes for just a moment, but they sprang open again. Staring at the corridor’s light seeping under the door, he noticed a blinking shadow as someone walked past his room. A momentary panic flooded his chest, but it passed quickly. There was no need for jumpiness. They were safe. There’d been no sign of dark figures following them since Poland, no assassins’ bullets speeding through dirty glass into their soft skulls. And weren’t Clara’s protectors near? Protecting them from the government thugs who threatened a swift death.

But still, there was one unresolved fear that he couldn’t dispel. One thug whose presence wasn’t suspected. And he lay in a room two storeys above – the bearded technical wizard who’d reveal himself at the critical moment and destroy the girl’s enlightenment. Deny her the thing she craved more than life itself. And his treachery would invalidate the last two weeks of Matt’s life.

He longed to confide in Clara. But her obsession had distanced him. The dilemma had been chewing at him for days. He knew he should tell her, but something told him that it would destroy what little cohesion they had. It would be as damaging as the betrayal that awaited them. The only solution was to divert the traitor at the last minute, hoping the girl’s sanity would be saved. Hoping his journey’s end would be triumphant.

Earlier that afternoon, Matt
had
made a confession. He’d told them where their mystery man was hiding. It would have been better to keep that to himself, but the man wasn’t waiting for them in the back room of a bar somewhere; he was in a wilderness of which Matt had no experience. If they were to find him, then Matt’s only choice was to have his colleague’s help as well as their trust.

So, he told them. And soon after, Henric had gone out, returning with the information they’d need to make the perilous journey.

Matt dozed fretfully, span over again and grunted in irritation. Fighting for another tenuous breath, he wiped his wet forehead and looked at the clock again. 02:54.

In the jungle, it was wet and hot. He wasn’t looking forward to the journey, particularly with the wound on his arm now set into a swollen lump, hard to the touch.

But suddenly a realisation came over him; there was no need for him to make that journey. Clara had no further use for him. Now they knew where their contact was hiding, he was redundant. By now, they should have released him from his contract, allowed him to walk away, back to that lonely life. But perhaps they imagined he would be needed again – called on to decipher more cryptic clues by bearing his soul to the world. Or perhaps they assumed he now wanted to complete the journey, share in the revelation it promised.

He
did
want to learn the truth. However crazy their ideas were, he couldn’t walk away now, without seeing whether his doubts were vindicated. Without seeing the girl reach her nirvana. Or not.

The shadows on the ceiling were distracting him. He could bare it no longer and shot out of bed, throwing the bedclothes off his damp body. He sat on the hard mattress and glanced again at the clock. 03:01.

Standing, he went to the window and pulled the curtains open a few inches. Outside, a thin, penetrating drizzle was falling, covering the glass in a film of silvery beads, obscuring the city like fog. The streetlights sparkled through the droplets hypnotically.

An unbidden thought crossed his mind. If the group didn’t need him, why did he still need them? Surely, this mystery was given to him to solve, with the conspiracy theorists just along for the ride. Why shouldn’t
he
be the one to receive the enlightenment, to judge its worth? Why shouldn’t he leave them behind and make the journey himself? He could find their man, learn the truth he harboured, and if it was worth telling the world, aid him in his escape back to civilisation.

He placed his palm on the cold glass and smiled. It would remove the threat from Henric, he thought. Avoid the explosive instability of Clara’s obsession.

Yes, he would do it. He’d find the man himself.

Without another thought entering his mind, he dressed, stuffed the pile of cash and trail guides Henric had given him into a bag, and crept from the room.

He felt a strange elation as he stepped out of the hotel. A misty drizzle condensed on his face instantly, like he’d walked into a sauna. It was cool and refreshing. It heightened the feeling of anticipation in his chest.

A few waist-high beacons lit up the parking lot dimly. The place was deserted but the tall, stark face of the hotel was staring down at him, two hundred windows overlooking his every move. He ignored the possibility of being spotted and began moving from car to car, pulling quietly on their door handles. Ten or more didn’t shift, but then a door sprang open.

It was a small Fiat, white and a little rusty in places. It would have to do. Matt jumped in the driver’s seat, threw his belongings on the seat next to him, and clicked the door closed. A smell of tobacco filled the car and a month’s worth of empty fast-food wrappers covered the dashboard.

He checked the ignition. No key there. Pulling down the sunshield, he slipped his hand over the mirror. No key there either.

Couldn’t you hotwire a car by breaking open the ignition lock? Matt fished around on the back seat, found a hobnailed workman’s boot covered in red, dusty sand. He raised it up and slammed it onto the ignition block. Nothing budged.

He hammered it again. And again. An encouraging snap. Another blast with all his strength and the ignition cracked open, revealing a bunch of cables disappearing into the locking mechanism. He yanked the bare wires out and stared at them. There were seven of them. ‘Shit!’ he said. ‘Now what?’

Like he’d seen in the movies, he brushed two of the cables together. Nothing. He swapped one and tried again. He swapped the other. Still nothing. He tried another two and the starter motor whined but the engine remained dormant.

After a few minutes, he’d worked out the sequence. Looking worriedly across the parking lot, he fished around on the dashboard and found a lump of chewed gum stuck to the black plastic. He prised off the sticky blob and jammed it against the steering column. Then taking three of the wires he pushed them into the mush, their bare ends contacting. Finally, he sparked another two wires together and the engine kicked into life. With the heel of the boot, he squashed the wires into the gum to ensure they remained in contact.

He revved the engine, flicked on the headlights, and headed for the exit.

―
§ ―

On the hills above the city, brick houses built onto narrow terraces of brown earth stepped up into the green vegetation. The city had outgrown the lush valley floor and lapped up its sides like water in a bathtub on the ocean. High over the acres of terracotta tiles, a vast crucifix was looking down, unrelenting in its promise of protection, echoing the divine majesty of the huge Cathedral dominating the city centre.

The morning had been a dull affair. Walsh had sat for two hours and watched the city busy itself under a sky that grew darker by the second. The clouds were oppressive today, gathering themselves. It had stopped raining, although the glistening ground made the cars hiss as they sped along the avenue in front of the hotel.

With a sigh, Walsh came away from the window. He went into the bathroom and filled the sink with warm water. Rubbing a bar of cheap hotel soap over his bristles, he lathered it up as best he could, and scraped across the skin with a disposable razor. He nicked himself several times, could almost feel the drying effect of the hand soap, but he persevered.

A face that was looking good under the circumstances stared back at him from the bathroom mirror. It seemed the pressures of the last few weeks hadn’t affected Walsh’s appearance much. He still looked alive, ready to face anything.

But inside there was a nagging despondency. For a while, he’d been expecting the landslide to come. It hadn’t yet; though he still felt he stood on unstable ground. Its threat was what made him feel weary. The constriction in his throat was still there, tightening its grip whenever more bad news arrived. But he also sensed another, warmer feeling. An uncommon feeling of hopefulness.

Perhaps his mission to protect the innocent would succeed after all. The disaster averted by a combination of good fortune and dogged determination. Perhaps he could really help Castro get some kind of closure on this business. There were so many maybes; but Walsh smelt victory blowing over that unstable ground.

As he dried off with a hand towel, a short rap sounded at the door. It was Lewis. He looked refreshed after a night’s sleep.

‘
You okay?’ Walsh asked as the agent stepped into the room.

‘
Sure.’

‘
Where’s Linsky? Castro?’

‘
Still sleeping, I guess.’

Lewis walked across the room, threw the GPS device on the bed and checked what the view was like from the Assistant Director’s window. ‘Typical,’ he said. ‘The boss gets a city view and I get a brick wall.’

‘
No movement in the night, I take it,’ Walsh inquired.

‘
No, none. In fact she’s still not up.’

Walsh frowned, peeked at his watch. It was almost half-past eleven. ‘They must be exhausted. Are you sure she’s still in there?’

‘
Absolutely. I checked the alarm on my way down. It’s still connected. Still working. Unless she’s climbed seven storeys down a bare wall, she’s still in there. Besides, I think I heard movement inside.’

‘
Good.’

Walsh finished drying his face and inspected the towel. It was stippled with bright red smears of blood. He tossed it through the door of the bathroom and grabbed his shirt off the chair back.

‘
Oh, here we go,’ Lewis said suddenly. He reached into his pocket and drew out a tiny, black slab. It buzzed in his palm. ‘She’s out.’

‘
Shit!’ Walsh said. ‘Just give me a moment to finish getting ready.’

‘
Don’t panic,’ Lewis said. ‘She’s probably just going for breakfast. Or lunch. I’ll go and check it out. Back in ten minutes.’

Walsh nodded and watched Lewis disappear from the room.

He tidied up, gathering his belongings and checking his wallet. On a tray by the TV was a coffee machine and fresh filters. Walsh tore open a packet, filled the machine and switched it on. Steaming water started soaking through the grinds, filling the room with a sweet and pungent aroma.

When ready, he took the cup of coffee, black, the way he liked it, and sat on the window ledge. The sky was now almost as dark as the coffee. The shroud seemed to have dropped down over the city and in the distance, curved curtains of rain were falling, heading his way.

Walsh noticed two figures running quickly below. A female and a male. He thought little of it; just a young couple trying to reach their car before the deluge began. But then, hurrying after them, he saw Lewis.

They crossed over the parking lot, dodging through the stationary vehicles, and jumped through a row of bushes onto the sidewalk. Without hesitation, the two figures ran straight out into the traffic. Horns sounded, a car skidded trying to avoid them. The girl held a hand out, averting the stream of cars, and darted across the road. Her partner rushed after her.

Lewis was expertly following, using the confusion to cross fifty yards further up the road. Casually yet quickly. Walsh watched as the tall agent converged on them, but suddenly all three were lost in the dense foliage of a row of trees lining the avenue.

Walsh jumped over to the phone, slamming the coffee cup on the desk, spilling the steaming liquid over the hotel information pack. Lifting the receiver, he dialled three numbers. ‘Linsky?’ he said. ‘Downstairs, three minutes!’ There was a grunt at the other end and Walsh hung up. He dialled another three numbers. ‘David? It’s Walsh here. We need you downstairs right now.’ He hung up and grabbed his things.

They met at the elevator door. Walsh pushed them in and punched the button for the lobby. ‘I just saw Lewis chasing after a man and woman. I think the group have moved.’

Both Linsky and Castro were bleary eyed. They stood rubbing their faces, yawning.

The elevator pinged and Walsh rushed out. ‘C’mon,’ he screamed.

Outside the hotel, the rain had begun to fall heavily. Walsh ran into the downpour, shocked at its warmth and ferocity. The air was white with the deluge. He looked back. Lewis and Castro were following quickly. He turned back toward the row of trees ahead. Then, out of the wet gloom, the figure of Lewis appeared, drenched and red-cheeked.

‘
Back inside,’ he yelled.

They followed him into the lobby, stood dripping on the mottled yellow marble. One of the hotel staff came over to offer some assistance, but Lewis waved her away with an angry flash in his eyes.