The Magdalene Cipher (16 page)

Dunphy grunted, took a fifty-pound note from his wallet, and handed it to Simon. “Ta,” he said
.

“That's it, then?” The kid slid the money into his pocket
.

“Yeah,” Dunphy replied, getting to his feet. “That's it. My head's spinning.”

Simon's grin grew ever wider. “Did I help?”

“Yeah,” Dunphy said. “You were a big help. Now I'm
totally
confused.”

Chapter 18

He couldn't sleep
.

He lay in the bed beside Clementine and watched the lights of cars climb the walls and slide across the ceiling. Music seeped through the windowpanes from somewhere down the street—an old Leonard Cohen song, played over and over. And then, quite suddenly, nothing—the silence hitting him like a ship's engine cutting out at sea
.

He rolled toward her and, with his left arm, pulled her to him. He buried his face in the warmth of her hair, lay still for a bit—and rolled away. His mind was at the races
.

Sitting up, he swung his feet from the bed and looked around. A shaft of watery light, cast by the street lamp outside, poured through the windows, pooling on the surface of a battered red dhurrie. On the bedside table, books
.

Dunphy squinted:
The Genesis Code. Time's Arrow. The Van
.
He hadn't realized that she read so much
.

Getting to his feet, he dressed slowly and quietly, standing in the pale darkness of the room. He wanted to go for a long run, but that was out. He hadn't any running shoes, shorts, or socks. But he could walk. And that would be better than sitting in the dark
.

The apartment was too small, really, for him to stay awake while she slept. It was a single room with a high ceiling and a bank of double-glazed windows that looked out on Bolton Gardens. Just around the corner from the hip and busy Old Brompton Road, it had been a pied-à-terre for Clem's actress aunt, an older woman who'd moved to Los Angeles the year before. It cost nothing and came with a season's pass to the football matches at Stamford Bridge
.

He could hear Clementine's soft breathing as he closed the door behind him and followed the stairs down to the street. Though it wasn't yet five in the morning, he was more than wide awake
.
Matta. Blémont. Roscoe. Schidlof
.
Their faces came and went like flash cards
.

Walking along Cromwell Road in the direction of Thurloe Square, he passed the Victoria and Albert Museum, then turned up Brompton Road in the direction of Harrod's. It was the same road, really, but its name changed every few blocks, as if the street was on the run. It amused him to think that, in this, he and Cromwell Road held something in common
.

It was a night meant for lovers. A warm front was rolling in from the west, riding a tide of fog that caught the starlight and smudged it. The air was fresh and effervescent. Passing Harrod's, he crossed the street to the Scotch House and stood for a while beneath its awning, looking at the window. There was no reason to think that he might have been followed, but under the circumstances, paranoia died hard. So he studied the world behind his back in the reflection before him. And was relieved to see only himself. Turning away from the Scotch House, he crossed the street in the direction of the old Hyde Park Hotel, then kept on walking until he was in the park itself
.

I should call Max, he thought. From a pay phone. But, no. There was no point calling Max, or seeing him, either—not until he'd gone to the bank. Not until he'd gotten the money
.

In a way, and very much in spite of the circumstances, he was looking forward to it. He and Clem could spend a day or two in St. Helier enjoying one another—until it was time for him to go to Zürich
.

He walked for a while along Rotten Row, then crossed the grass to the banks of the Serpentine
.

The first time he'd seen the lake had been at a track meet. He had been twenty years old at the time, and it had been the only time in anyone's memory that the Bates College track team had actually gone abroad. He'd run the mile, finishing a respectable fourth against a dozen other schools. Oxford, Haverford, Morehouse, Harvard. He forgot who else was there, but he'd never forget his time: 4:12 and change, his best ever
.

Fog rose from the lake like steam. That was twelve years ago, Dunphy thought. And I'm still running
.

The air was brighter now, as if the night had begun to anticipate the sun. Dunphy wandered along a path that took him out of the park, and then returned the way he'd come, retracing his steps along Brompton Road and Cromwell Gardens. At the Gloucester Road Underground, he stopped at a workmen's café for a cup of tea and a scone. The place was just beginning to fill with men in steel-toed boots and dirty jeans, and the air was thick with the smoke of cheap cigarettes. It was a warm and secret sort of place, sequestered from the street by a clouded window that ran with steam. The tea was hot, sweet, and delicious, and he took his time drinking it, reading an abandoned copy of the
Sun
.
Manchester United was on top again, and Fergie . . . well, Fergie was stooging for Weight Watchers
.

When he was done, he left the café and continued walking down Cromwell Road in the direction of Bolton Gardens. The sun was just below the horizon now, and the street had begun to brighten and stir. A man in a three-piece suit and a bowler hurried toward the Underground. With the
Times
under one arm and a furled umbrella lashed to his attaché case, he seemed an apparition—the Ghost of Business Past, or something like it
.

Trash cans tumbled and crashed in a nearby alley as the dustmen went about their work. And then he heard another sound, one that he couldn't quite place: a faraway whine that grew louder and lower until, turning, he suddenly realized what it was—the growl of pure acceleration. The source was a black Jaguar and, no sooner had Dunphy identified it, than the car dopplered past so quickly that, seeing it, he gasped. Jesus, he thought, where the fuck are
they
going—and where are the cops when you need them? He watched as the car decelerated sharply in the vicinity of Collingham Road. There was a popping sound, like distant gunfire, and the Jag swung left, fishtailed, and disappeared
.

Collingham Road was Dunphy's turn, as well. Trudging along in the Jaguar's wake, he saw the first rays of morning strike the third-story windows of the mansion blocks on his right. It was a five-minute walk to Clem's flat, and when he got there, he knew immediately that something was very wrong. The Jag was outside her apartment, nearly three feet from the curb, so illegally parked as to seem abandoned. Dunphy stood for a moment, listening to its engine cool, ticking, then turned on his heel and walked back in the direction from which he'd come. There was no doubt in his mind that the car's occupants were there for him. How many, then? Two? Three? Two. And given the way they'd driven, and the way they'd abandoned their car, it was obvious they didn't just want to
talk
a to him
.

They wanted to get
at
him. And feeling that way, when they found him gone from the apartment, what would they do? Would they wait for him to return? Of course. And while they waited, would they take it out on Clem? Maybe—they weren't bobbies, after all. That much was obvious. Cops—bobbies—didn't drive XJ12s. So what would they do? Would they hurt her? Would they
fuck
her? Dunphy didn't have a clue. All he knew was that he had to do something and do it right away—but what? The apartment was a trap, and no matter how much he thought about it, that wouldn't change. In the end, he'd have to take the bait. He'd have to go in. But when? And how?

When he got back to Cromwell Road, he stood in the doorway of the newsagent's, thinking hard. They'd ask Clementine where he was, and when she said she didn't know—and she didn't—they'd smack her around. They'd do this because they
could
,
and because there wasn't any downside to it. Maybe she'd change her mind, and if she didn't, so what?

It occurred to Dunphy that he might be able to affect this with a telephone call. He bought a Fonecard from the newsagent's and crossed the street to a pay phone outside the Cat & Bells. There, he slotted the card into the box, punched in her number, and listened to the telephone ring in her flat
.

If she was alone, he'd know it. He'd hear it in her voice, no matter what it was that she actually
said
.
And if she wasn't alone, he'd know that, too, because they'd never let her answer. They couldn't, because they had no way of knowing what she'd say or do. And it would take only a word to warn him, an inflection, or a long silence. If they were any good, they'd know that, and if they worked for the Agency, as Dunphy suspected, they were probably very good, indeed
.

“Hullo—Clem here!” Dunphy jumped, and the tension slid from his shoulders. She was fine. She was happy. And she wasn't faking it. He could tell from her tone
.

“Oh, babe,” he began, “I was—”

“I'm out of the flat or on the other line just now, but if you'll leave your name and number, I'll ring you up as soon as I return.”

Fuck. It was an answering machine. His shoulders tightened and bunched as he waited for the beep. When it finally came, he did his best to sound nonchalant. “Yeah, Clem! It's Jack. Sorry I had to go out. Listen—I won't be back for a couple of hours—I'm all the way across town—but stay where you are and I'll treat you to breakfast.”

He hung up the phone and looked around. That should hold them for a while, and a while was just what he needed. Time to think—about how to get them out of the flat, how to make them come to
him
.
And not just
come
to him, but come to him in a
panic
.
Dunphy groaned. This could take some time, he thought, because I haven't got a clue
.

Turning into the alley behind the Cat & Bells, he passed an abandoned sofa, moldering in the stink from a nearby Dumpster. The sofa reminded him how tired he was, but it didn't tempt him to sit. Its cushions were covered with a paisley bedspread so leprous with grime that Dunphy couldn't guess its color. They ought to burn that thing, Dunphy thought. And that made him think again
.

Twenty minutes later, and fifty quid lighter, Jack Dunphy was walking up Collingham Road with a long strip of paisley in one hand and a can of gas in the other. Turning the corner into Bolton Gardens, he crossed the street to the Jag and, using the can as a battering ram, smashed the window on the driver's side. Brushing the webs of shattered glass aside, he leaned through the window and, reaching down to the floor, popped the latch on the gas tank. Then he went around to the back of the car
.

He was in plain view of the flat, but there wasn't anything he could do about that. If the car's owners were watching the street, they'd see him—but that was unlikely. He wasn't expected for a couple of hours. Still . . 
.

He shoved a length of the rag into the gas tank and let the rest hang down to the street. Pulling open the doors to the car, he shook the gas onto the seats and tossed the jerry can inside. His heart was pounding, jump-started by the stench of gasoline. Patting his pockets, he found the three-penny box of Swans and, taking one out, was about to strike it—when he heard a sound and turned
.

He expected to be shot in the face. He expected a man with a string tie and a gun—but it was a woman in a nightdress, standing on the porch behind him, holding a bottle of milk, staring at him
.

“Is this your car, madam?”

The woman shook her head slowly
.

“Then it might be best if you went back inside.”

She nodded and took a step backward, feeling for the doorknob. Finding it, she let herself into the house, closed the door quietly behind her, and yelped—a terse little cry that was all vowels and went nowhere. Dunphy turned his back on the noise, struck a match, and, stooping, touched it to the bottom of the rag. Then he started running, sprinting toward Clementine's, wondering how long it would take before—

Whuuuummmppp!
a The noise was like a carpet being struck, a single blow with a flat broom—and then a sound like cellophane crackling, and a shout from somewhere up the street. The air was suddenly very warm
.

Clem's flat was on the second floor of a Victorian duplex with a small porch and white columns. A galvanized iron trash can stood by the curb, and seeing it, Dunphy grabbed its cover on the run. Taking the steps three at a time, he ran to the front door, pushed it open, and, stepping back, waited. By now, the car was ablaze, fulminating with smoke and fire, and the postman was running up and down the street, yelling insanely, shouting at the houses in a cockney accent
.
Oiii! Oiiii!

Still, Dunphy waited, wired, his shirt damp with sweat and adrenaline. Any second, the men in the flat would hear the commotion, and when they did, they'd walk to the window and—

“
FUCK! FUCK!
He's torched the fuckin' car!” The words burst in the air like a Roman candle shot from the windows of Clem's apartment. Three seconds later, a door crashed open on the second floor, and Dunphy heard the
thump-thump-thump
of a man coming down the stairs in a hurry. And then the noise was in the vestibule, and Dunphy, proud of his timing, was pivoting on the balls of his feet, swinging the trash-can cover through 180 degrees, slamming it full tilt into the face of a running man who never saw it coming. What looked like a Walther flew from his hand as his feet left the ground, bicycling toward the roof. There was a moment in which he seemed to be suspended in the air, his head level with his toes, about three feet off the ground—as if he were part of a magician's trick. And then he dropped to the porch, flat and hard, and lay there, twitching soundlessly. Well, Dunphy thought
,
that
worked. Stooping, he picked up the gun (it
was
a Walther) and glanced at the man on the ground. His nose was broken and there was a lot of blood, but he was still breathing—and Dunphy recognized him. It was Everyboy, the kid with the tattooed wrists, the sarcastic courier who'd carried a sign at the airport, waiting for Mr. Torbitt. (What was the last thing he'd said?
Have a nice day?!
a)