The four doors were the finishing touch. It meant that there could never arise, not even informally, a givers' entrance or a receivers' entrance; it was too random for that. And so, if you saw someone walking in or out, you had no idea what kind of errand they were on.
There was only one more thing Jean-Claude had to do to make it work. He had to exploit a Haitian national trait, one that applied as much to the SUV-drivers of Petionville as the searingly poor of Cite Soleil: superstition.
He spoke to the healers and voodoo priests whose writ ran among the MREs, slipping a few dollars to those with a knack for spreading the word. Before long the wealthiest folk in Port-au-Prince came to believe that they would be cursed if they did not visit the Secret Chamber and do the right thing.
So Jean-Claude smiled as he stood inside the chamber now, looking at a bowl filled with US dollars as well as local currency and even the odd item of jewellery. Those outside assumed he was another visitor; his own role in setting up the chamber had remained unknown to all but the handful of holy men whose PR skills he had enlisted.
He was picking up a discarded food wrapper from the floor when the lights flickered and went off. With all four doors closed, the room was now in complete darkness. Jean-Claude silently cursed the electric company.
But it did not stay dark for long. Someone struck a match, just behind him. The power failure must have short-circuited the automatic locks, allowing this man to gain access.
I'm sorry, sir. Only one at a time, that's the rule.'
'I know the rule, Monsieur Paul.' The voice was unfamiliar; speaking French not Creole.
'Well, perhaps I'll leave and then you can do what you need to do.'
Tor that I need you here.'
'No, no. It's all private and confidential, my friend. That's why we call this the Secret Chamber. It's secret.'
The match had burned out now, shrouding the chamber once more in perfect black.
'Hello? Are you still here?'
There was no answer. Not a sound, in fact, until the gasp of Jean-Claude's own breath as he felt two strong hands on his neck. He wanted to protest, to ask what he had done wrong, to explain that this man could take all the money he needed — there were no restrictions, no maximum. But the air would not come. He was rasping, a sandy, dry exhalation that barely sounded human. His leg was trembling, his hand clinging onto the forearm of this man who was strangling him.
But it was no good; darkness came upon darkness. He slumped to the floor. The stranger lit a new match, crouched down and closed the dead man's eyes. He murmured a short prayer, then straightened himself up and shook the dust off his clothes. He headed for the door he had used to come in, taking care to reconnect the circuit he had broken a few minutes earlier. And then he stepped out into the night, anonymous and unseen, just as Jean-Claude Paul had intended.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Saturday, 8.49am, Manhattan
When they talked in the night TO had not been that interested in Yosef Yitzhok. She was focused on the rabbi and on everything that happened inside the classroom and later at the mikve. Now, though, she trained the full beam of her intellect on the encounter that had concluded Will's brief and unhappy stay at Crown Heights.
'You're wrong about one thing,' she told Will rapidly. It doesn't make sense for Yosef Yitzhok to have brought in the paper just to make the point that you work for The New York Times, and therefore they've got to be careful. They already knew you worked for the Times. They sent that very first email to your Times address. That much they had worked out. So as soon as they realized you were not Tom Mitchell but were Will Monroe, they knew exactly who they were dealing with. Beth's husband. A reporter for the Times.'
'So why did they have a copy of my story laid out? Why had Yosef thingy brought it in?'
'You don't know he brought it in. Might have been in there throughout.'
'No, I definitely-' Will stopped himself. After the Rebbe fiasco, there was nothing he knew for definite. He thought he had heard the arrival of a new person in the room, the rustling of paper and a row — but he had not seen that. He might have just got it wrong.
'So what did Yosef Yitzhok — we'll call him YY, it'll save time. What did YY say to you outside?'
'He apologized for what had happened inside. At the time I thought that was bullshit and I ignored it. But maybe that was his way of telling me he disagreed with what was happening. Maybe he's a dissenter! Perhaps he can help. You know, from the inside.'
'Will, I know you're stressed out but we really have to keep it cool and calm. This is not the movies. Just tell me what he actually said.'
'OK, so there's the apology. And then there's this stuff about my work. 'If you want to know what's going on, look to your work.'
'Hmm.' TO began pacing, stopping by a painting she had done of the Chrysler Building apparently melting in the twilight rain. 'So he's seen your story in the paper; he knows what you do. It's possible he didn't know that until that moment.'
'I thought you said they knew the moment they emailed me.'
'That's true. They knew. The rabbi and whichever one of his techie helpers sent you the email knew. But this guy might not be inner circle. It may have been news to him.'
'So it's possible that he was steaming in there, warning them that I was a reporter and could make trouble.'
'It's possible. But something about it doesn't feel right. If he's in the room, he must be trusted enough to know what's going on. It must be something else. But OK, let's say you're right. He doesn't like what's happening and so he breaks Shabbat to tell you urgently that you must not give up. Why would he do it in code? You know, foot runs?'
'Just in case someone read it over his shoulder. Or saw it in his 'Sent messages'.'
'All right. I'll buy that. And I suppose the thing he said to you last night — 'look to your work' — is related. Perhaps he's telling you to do what you do in your work: to keep looking, keep asking questions.'
'I reckon that's it. Don't stop, keep probing.'
'Good. So that's what it is. OK.' Will could see she was only partly persuaded. 'What do you want to do now? Are you going to reply?'
Will had not even thought of that, but she was right. He should just hit Reply, send a message of his own and see what happened. Who are you? That might scare YY off. What do you want me to do? He needed to get this right. 'What do you think?'
'I think I need some coffee.' She flicked on the machine and, clearly out of habit, flicked on the radio at the same time. It was big, old-fashioned and splattered with paint; a builder's radio. Except hers was not programmed to KROC or Kiss FM, but WNYC, New York's public radio channel.
Will fell back into the sofa, willing himself to have a brainwave.
He had to think of something that would end this ordeal. Beth had now spent a night as a captive. God only knew where she was and in what conditions. He had seen how hard these men could be, nearly freezing him into unconsciousness.
What pain were they inflicting on Beth? What strange rules would allow them to hurt a woman who, they admitted, had done nothing wrong. He imagined how frightened she was. Think, he urged himself. Think! But he just stared at the cell phone, bearing its message of bland, coded encouragement — Don't stop — and at the BlackBerry which had, so far, brought only bad news. One in each hand, they yielded nothing.
The radio was burbling with a signature tune, announcing the top of a new hour. Will looked at his watch: 9am.
'Good morning, this is Weekend Edition. The President promises a new initiative in the Middle East. The Southern Baptist conference gets underway with a promise to make war on what it calls 'Hollywood sleaze'. And in London, more revelations on the scandal of the year Will spaced out for most of it, but he caught the latest on Gavin
