Once again, he felt a rising indignation with Yosef Yitzhok.
Why could he not just give it to them straight?
It had failed once before, but he decided to try a direct appeal again. While TO pored over the drawing, sometimes cocking her head to one side to read the text on the opposite page, he rummaged in his bag and, away from the prying eyes of the librarian, he texted YY.
We're in the library. We see the drawing.
We need more.
He noticed the time on the phone display: 3.30pm. Which meant it was the dead of night in Bangkok. Will looked at the BlackBerry; nothing from the foreign desk.
'Listen,' he whispered to TO. 'I'm going outside to call the paper. I'll be back in a few minutes.'
'Bring me a soda.'
As soon as he was out of the main reading room, he started dialling the foreign desk number. Andy picked up before Will got out of the building.
'Yo, Will. How you doing? Shit, I was meant to send you that stuff, wasn't I? Sorry, been crazy here all afternoon.'
'Andy! I told you I needed it right away!'
'I know, I know. Sorry. I fucked up. Anyway, here it comes.'
'Just read it out to me now, will you? I can't wait for the BlackBerry.'
By now Will was outside the main entrance, pacing up and down at the top of that vast staircase.
'Will, we are slightly on deadline here.' The word was delivered in a mock-English accent; Andy was sending him up, which was a good sign. 'OK. Here goes. I'll have to be quick and I'll skip over the funny names, OK? From John Bishop, Bangkok. Samak Sangsuk was mourned yesterday by those who knew him best — and by a few who hardly knew him at all.
'Mr Samak, who fell victim to what appears to have been an international kidnap plot Saturday, was a member of Thailand's financial elite, earning top-dollar fees on real estate and through the burgeoning Thai tourist industry.'
Get on with it, Will was thinking.
'But he was also known to the Bangkok underclass, as the man they called Mr Funeral. Mr Samak, it seems, had a strange sideline, one he ran not for profit but for its own sake. He organized funerals for the poor.
''Mr Samak would be in touch with all the mortuaries, all the hospitals, all the funeral homes,' recalled one associate Sunday. 'If a corpse came in with no family or friends, with no one to bury them, they would call Mr Samak. If there was no money to pay for a proper burial, they would call Mr Samak.''
Will could feel the blood in his veins pumping harder.
'Will? You still with me?'
'Yeah, just keep reading.'
'In the past, Bangkok's poorest would end their days in a pauper's grave, sometimes buried a dozen at a time, without a coffin between them. Mr Samak is credited with putting an end to the practice — almost single- handedly. Not only would he pay the burial costs, locals say he would also round up a congregation for the ceremony, often by paying 'mourners' a few dollars to show up. 'Thanks to Mr Funeral,' said one doctor, 'no one was buried like a dog and no one was buried alone.''
Will had heard enough. He hung up and galloped down the stairs, enjoying the sun on his face. First, Macrae, then Baxter and now Samak. Not just good men, but unusually, strangely good men. This was no longer a coincidence.
He found a store, bought a couple of bottles of iced tea and headed back up towards the library: he would have to tell TO the news and work out the connection with the drawing. Surely, this was about to slot together.
Except now he noticed a figure who until then had only lurked in his peripheral vision. Darting out of view, as if frightened that he had been seen, was a tall man, wearing jeans and a loose grey hooded sweatshirt. His age, his colour, his expression were all impossible to discern: his face was entirely obscured by the hood. Only one thing was clear: he was stalking Will.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Sunday, 3.51pm, Manhattan
Will headed straight for the steps, taking care not to look over his shoulder. Once inside, he walked just as briskly. But he felt them before he heard them: the click, click of footsteps behind his, clacking along the cold stone floor. He headed for the first staircase he could find, daring, as he moved up another flight, to take a glance down. As he feared, the grey hood was right behind him.
Now he broke into a jog, taking two more flights up. Once he hit a landing, he broke off, taking an instant decision to seek refuge in a room full of card-index catalogues. He dashed in, slowing to an immediate walk: even then, and silent, he felt too noisy, too sweaty for the hushed concentration of the room. He turned around: the hood.
He walked faster, under a vast painting showing a trompe I'oeil sky. Dark clouds were gathering. Spotting an opening on the back wall, Will went in, only to discover it was not an exit but a small photocopying room. He darted back out, but now the hooded man was just a few yards away.
Will saw the double doors out and ran for them. Once through, he was in a throng of people enjoying a mid- work break. He weaved through them to get to the staircase on the other side and, clutching hold of the hand rail, galloped down, two at a time. A woman carrying a computer monitor was in his way and he had to dodge to get past her. He moved to the left and so did she; he moved to the right and so did she. He leapt to her side to get past, but she let out an involuntary yelp — followed by a thud and a cymbal-crash of broken glass. She had dropped the machine.
Now Will was in the main foyer, facing a large cloakroom.
This was where regular readers began their day. There were lockers for bags and a long rail for coats that snaked around the room, as if in a dry-cleaner's shop. The man in the hood was walking towards him. Calmly.
Will had to move fast. While the attendant was looking the other way, he vaulted over the wooden counter and plunged into the thickness of the coats. Squeezing between a heavy anorak and a shaggy, afghan jacket, he pressed himself against the back wall. He could sense his stalker had stopped;
Will guessed he was by the cloakroom, peering over the counter, searching. He tried to still his breathing.
Suddenly, he felt movement. The attendant was handling the coats, pushing whole bunches of them aside, looking for a number. Will held in his cheeks to make no sound. But the man was getting closer, closer, closer — until he stopped, less than a foot away. Will felt him pull out a jacket and return to the counter.
Then, a flash of grey. Will was sure the stalker had walked past. He allowed himself an exhalation; perhaps he had not been seen. He would wait five more minutes, then come out, find TO and get the hell out of here.
But the hand got him first — thrust in before he had seen a face, like the robotic arm on a space probe. It grabbed his shirt by the collar, in an attempt to drag him into the daylight. Even in the dark, he could see the grey sweatshirt fabric that covered the arm. Twice Will locked onto it with both hands, pulling it off himself. But each time the hand came back, eventually smashing Will's chin in the process. Crammed behind the coats, Will just could not get the space he needed to reach beyond this single, flailing arm — and hit the man behind it.
The struggle was soon over. Will was pulled out of his hiding place like the meat from a sandwich. Now he came face to face with the man in the hood. To his complete surprise, he recognized him immediately.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Sunday, 3.56pm, Manhattan
