There was no justice. Barnes felt humiliated for Solomon Keys, for himself, since no one knows how he’s going to cross over to the other side. Dead, that’s for sure, you arrive dead, but the ultimate moment, that last moment, of the last breath, how many are going to have the serenity, the perspicacity to feel it, to know it has arrived and to say good-bye? The moment of poof, poof, poof, for Solomon Keys with his pants down. The bastard finished him off. There was no justice. He was collateral damage, in the wrong place at the wrong time. There was no worse luck than being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Everything was tolerable except that. But who had the power to divine what places are wrong or right? The English couple was the reason for the crime. The killer was after them.
‘Oh, shit,’ Barnes cursed.
‘What’s the matter, Chief?’ Thompson wanted to know.
‘Do you recognize one of these names?’ Barnes asked, passing the identification page to Staughton.
Not waiting for an answer, Barnes took out his cell phone and made a call.
‘Oh, no,’ Staughton let escape.
‘What’s going on? Somebody tell me,’ Thompson kept asking, angry at not recognizing any of the names.
‘It’s Barnes.’ He identified himself as soon as the call was answered. ‘I want to report a homicide.’ He waited a few moments. ‘Call him, please.’ For a moment he appeared to be listening to what the party on the other end of the call was saying. ‘I don’t care if he’s busy. Call him immediately and cut the shit. There has been a murder, but that’s the least of our problems.’
16
Let us return to the gears and solitary wheels that only know their part, ignorant of the final result. Let us speak about Sarah Monteiro and the whirlwind that invaded her, the call from her father and JC, strange and worrying, the two together in the same house. How anxious must Raul Brandao Monteiro feel? Certainly her father’s voice sounded stressed. She sensed no sorrow, but who knew the reality of anything concerning JC? He was the one who seemed to know everything and everyone and disposed of everything and everyone as he wished. He was the designer of the gears, the engineer and constructor, the one who created the movements of toothed wheels, chains, belts, now toward one side, now another. Everything danced to his music; Sarah was sure of that. She owed her position as editor of international politics at The Times to him, as well as the correct news forecasts. Even absent, he was always present during the last year, whispering stories in her ear, the shadow that dissipated when she looked over her shoulder. But not today, not now when she heard his voice again. To stay to see his sentence carried out was not an option. Better to comply with his instructions and figure it out later.
The taxi took her to her new place in Chelsea, a two-story house with lots of space and a dream view for someone who liked buildings and the river with its brown water. After that night a year ago, she hadn’t been able to set foot inside her old house in Belgrave Road again. The scenes constantly came to mind, and she recalled them all too intensely. How everyone looked suspicious, even ordinary pedestrians she saw through the window. The man with a garbage bag, the woman talking on a telephone who was always looking out the second-floor window of the Holiday Inn Express, in front, the 24 bus stop, the black car with tinted windows parked in the street, the man who broke into her house with a gun pointed at her, and the two mysterious shots that left holes in the window of her old bathroom and two deadly wounds in the man who came to bring her down. Only later did she realize who’d helped her, who killed the assassin who came to kill her. She thought about him often, although she’d never seen him again. He appeared to her every night freeing her from the nightmares, from the image of JC, from the other well-dressed man, from the shots, the deaths, the malignant laughter, the evil acts. It was always him coming to lie down with her, every night, murmuring lullabies in her ear, until Sarah woke up in the morning, calm and serene, a smile on her lips, alone, with no one. The monsters returned every night, the same images, people, faces, the same bullets, deaths, the last night in the house on Belgrave Road, the gun pointed at her, the final moments of a short life, and he who returned to her side, murmuring lullabies until she slept again. After that she went to live temporarily in the studio apartment of her friend and colleague Natalie Golden on Pentonville Road. Later she rented another studio on Polygon Road, until her recent employment gave her the financial security to lease a new place. She wouldn’t have it if it weren’t for him, or be in this taxi, nor would Simon Lloyd be her intern seated at her side with a look of happiness in his eyes.
Sarah wouldn’t feel right leaving without word, so she’d informed her editor-in-chief about her brief absence. A journalistic coup, at the last minute, an exclusive worth investigating, would justify her trip.
‘In that case, take Simon with you,’ the editor ordered her, and she hadn’t been able to argue against it. Perhaps another time, more calmly, she could have persuaded him not to send Simon, without questioning his competence, but her mind was occupied with more urgent problems.
‘What are we going to do in your house?’ Simon was curious and impressed by the speed the taxi was making through the streets of London, despite the late afternoon hour.
‘I’m going to look for some investigative files,’ Sarah explained. ‘And afterwards you’re free to go,’ she concluded.
It was worth trying, but she was certain Simon was not going to follow such a suggestion.
‘My orders are to go with you. Don’t think you can get rid of me so easily,’ Simon replied like a man. Bravo, young man.
‘I give you your orders. Have you forgotten?’ she returned.
‘With all due respect, I always follow your orders, but these have been given to me personally by the editor- in-chief,’ he argued, pointing up as if he were speaking about God Himself. ‘What do I tell him if I show up for work and he asks about you?’ Simon scored a point. ‘ “Ah, sir, she excused me.” Do I tell him that?’
‘Okay, okay.’ Sarah gave up. Better to go along for the moment and see about later. She would never forgive herself if something happened to him because of her. ‘Pay attention to what I’m going to tell you. Do whatever I tell you to do. Do you understand?’
Simon looked at her, his feelings hurt. ‘That’s a little insulting, but you can count on me. I won’t make problems. We’re a team.’ He smiled.
A little flash of temper, there, Sarah thought with irritation.
‘And now, can you tell me where we’re going?’ Simon asked curiously.
‘We’re going to my house, as you know,’ she replied dryly.
‘Yes, and after that?’
Sarah still hadn’t planned that part. The phrase Leave London pounded in her mind like a pneumatic drill, but leave for where? Where could she go? There were a lot of choices. London was connected to the world by land, water, and air. That was not the problem. But where? An international flight to the States, for example. Would that be a safe place temporarily? Or should she stay in Europe close to her father with more flexibility and independence to move? She hadn’t been given any other instruction than to get away as fast as possible without looking back. They were following her. Don’t let yourself be caught. And later? It would be best to stay close, she decided. Besides, her last experience on the other side of the Atlantic was so traumatic, it seemed better to face the dangers of this side.
‘After that, the train to Paris,’ she announced.
‘Paris?’ Simon repeated with his face glowing. ‘I’ve never been to Paris. That’s fabulous.’
‘Simon, this is work, not vacation,’ she warned. ‘What are you doing?’ Sarah asked as she saw him frantically dialing his cell phone.
‘I’m sending a message to my sweetheart. You know how it is. Do you have a boyfriend?’ Maybe now he would find out something about his boss. Unexpectedly. He was curious how everything changed in seconds; perhaps this business trip would end up bringing them together and change the conventional work relationship into a nice friendship.
‘We’ve arrived,’ Sarah informed him, ignoring his question. Her house was situated at the end of the street, and she wouldn’t give any more information about it to protect her privacy. It was important that episodes like that on Belgrave Road were not repeated, for her own mental health. She needed room to breathe.
After they paid off the taxi, Simon and Sarah crossed the street, and she opened her purse, looking for the
