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

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      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.’