“Yes, I saw it on their website.” I closed my eyes for a moment and pictured it—an infinity symbol with a kind of double cross rising above it. “It seemed odd. Does it mean something?”
“Yes. The alchemical symbol for sulphur. It symbolizes the infinite nature of the universe, protection, balance. It’s an old symbol used by medieval occultists.”
“Interesting.” I gazed out toward the London skyline. In the distance I could see the building they called the shard poking up silver against pale blue, like some doomsday rocket ready to carry away the chosen few to a new home. It made me think of the old Neil Young song After the Gold Rush. I let my eyes unfocus and the skyline blurred. I thought about mad Lester Dworkin and his Lovecraftian delusions. Was Jutting after the same thing? Did he also believe the hidden message was some sort of magical incantation? Was that why he offered the reward? And what was Bathmore playing at? Trying to get to it before Jutting did? I turned my gaze back to Clelia Nguyen. “Interesting and a little disturbing at the same time."
“Yes. Not just to you either. There is a bit of a whispering campaign making the rounds right now. People are saying Jutting has lost his touch. He’s leaving too many decisions to his underlings, letting poor decisions slip past. I’ve heard that Greenbriar is in trouble. Taking on too much debt and not meeting targets. There’s a massive resort development on the Amalfi coast that is far over budget and off schedule. They’re searching for investors to infuse some cash but nobody’s biting and they’re starting to get desperate.”
“That could be very useful information,” I said, nodding and thinking about Italy and a man there who owed me a favor.
After seeing Clelia Nguyen off in a taxi, I texted Ashna asking if she could find out where Jutting lived. It was the middle of the night in San Francisco but she was often awake at odd hours so I stood in the doorway of a shop for a few minutes, scrolling through headlines on my phone, hoping she would reply. She didn’t let me down. An address came pinging over the Atlantic ocean to appear on my phone followed quickly by another message:
—Who is Morgan Jutting and why are you going to his house? Fill me in when you get a chance—
I promised I would send her an update via email after taking a look at Jutting’s mansion. His London residence was in Kensington, close to Hammersmith in distance but very far away in socio-economic status.
I exited the tube at the High Street Kensington station and walked a couple of blocks to the address Ashna had sent. The street was empty and eerily quiet in the gathering dusk. I had been expecting something like one of the tacky tech billionaire mansions in the bay area I guess. Instead, I was facing a four story, white stone Italianate villa detached from its neighbors but only by about seven or eight feet on each side. It had the classic projecting eaves supported by plain corbels, pronounced, interlocking masonry blocks at the corners, and balustrades projecting from the upper stories—not an over the top show of wealth but still probably worth upwards of thirty million dollars given the neighborhood. It was only a few blocks from Kensington Palace. Lights were on inside, glowing through filmy voiles in the second floor windows. I thought I saw movement and quickly began walking again. At the end of the street, I turned and walked back toward the busy, tree-lined high street where double-decker busses roared by and the median was thick with parked bicycles. I needed to get into Jutting’s house. Petru Ortoli had paid me for recovering his painting but he had also told me to get in touch if I ever needed a favor. He had said he owed me a debt of more than money. I didn’t know if he meant it but I intended to find out. That favor could be just what I needed to get me in.
Chapter 12
Following Bathmore
July 2: London
The next morning I woke early. The cat had greeted me at the bottom of the steps when I returned the night before and was sleeping now—a dappled lump half buried in the blankets on the foot of the bed. I had started thinking of him as Belka. Belka was a dog of course—one of the two dogs sent into space by the soviets in the early days of the space race. Still, something about the cat made me think of the name Belka. He had an air of faded grandeur, like a strongman who had spent his life on high alert, taking on all challengers, and now just wanted to rest.
I was careful not to jostle him as I rolled out of bed. My plan was to watch Bathmore’s door and follow him if he went out. I had gone around to the back of his building again the night before and seen a light in his apartment. So, unless he had left in the middle of the night, he should still be there. I wanted to figure out what he was up to and tailing him seemed like the best option.
I also needed to get in touch with Petru Ortoli but it was too early to call. Instead, I made coffee, got dressed, and sat down by the window with my laptop. I kept an eye on Bathmore’s front door while I wrote a quick email to Ashna, catching her up on what had happened so far in London. Stake outs were not my favorite activity to say the least. In my old career I had done a fair amount of watching and waiting. It was excruciating but sometimes it was the only way to establish the pattern of another person’s life.
