Tom Harper - The Book of Secrets

‘Yes. Fifth Avenue and Forty-Second Street. ’

‘OK.’ Nick’s mind raced. ‘The man who’s following you, what did he look like?’

‘I didn’t see his face. He had his hood up. He-’ A small gasp. ‘Someone’s here. I-’

He heard the bang of a door, then a rushing clatter that ended in silence.

‘I’m coming,’ said Nick. But he was speaking to an empty phone.

New York is an unforgiving city if you don’t have money. Nick didn’t have enough for a cab: he ran to the subway on Washington Square Park and dropped his last token in the slot. Would it have been faster to walk? He stood on the platform and stared into the tunnel, willing the train to come. The seconds ratcheted round on the grimy station clock.

There’d been no more calls on his phone when he came up at Forty-Second Street. He sprinted the block from the station to the library, pushing against the wind and the cramp in his side. Two stone lions, Patience and Fortitude, watched him race up the steps. He found an information desk on the first floor.

‘Where are the restrooms?’

He choked the words out through gasping breaths. The woman behind the desk must have thought he was deranged, a drug addict maybe. She glanced over his shoulder at the security guard, then raised her eyes to the ceiling.

‘Third floor.’

He took the steps as fast as he dared, trying not to attract attention while he scanned the faces he passed. He had his hood up. But it was a cold day, and half the people on the stairs wore hooded coats. Up ahead, he saw a man in a white shirt and jeans coming round the second-floor landing; his mind flashed back to the rooftop and the gun. He almost slipped on the stairs. But the man was a Nordic type, blond and fair, not the man from the roof.

He reached the third floor. Through a wood-panelled rotunda that he barely noticed, down a sparkling white corridor signposted for the restroom. He stopped outside the door.

What now? He couldn’t just burst in to the ladies’. Royce would love that.

The door swung in. The blast of a hand dryer intruded on the quiet of the library. He tensed, but it was only a pair of college-age girls.

‘Excuse me.’

They slowed but didn’t stop. ‘I wonder if you could help me. I lost my girlfriend – can’t find her anywhere. Do you think one of you could check…?’

‘Sure.’

One of the girls gave him a brisk, happy-to-help smile and poked her head back inside the door. ‘There’s nobody in there,’ she announced.

His heart sank. ‘Thanks anyway.’

The moment they were out of sight he slipped inside the restroom. It was empty. No trace of Emily, just white tiles, white handbasins, white lights reflected in stark white floors.

One of the cubicle doors hung shut, not locked. Still gripped by a sense of unholy trespass, he nudged it in. The stall was empty, but in the toilet bowl something gleamed. He peered in. Just where the bowl funnelled away into darkness, he could see a corner of a silver cellphone poking out of the waste pipe like sunken treasure. Was it Emily’s?

An electric trill broke the silence. He stared at the sparkling phone in the water for a second, stupefied, before he realised it was coming from his own pocket.

‘Hello?’

‘Nick?’

His whole body seemed to unclench as he heard Emily’s voice. Weak with relief, he sank against the stall partition. ‘Where are you?’

‘The payphone in the stairwell.’ An embarrassed pause. ‘I dropped my cellphone in the toilet.’

‘I just found it. Are you OK?’

‘I think so. I think the man lost me. Where are you?’

‘Heading over to you now. Stay on the line.’ He shouldered through the door, glad to be back on legitimate ground. A well-dressed woman walking up the corridor shot him a nasty look: he grinned and tapped the cellphone against his head like an idiot.

‘Wait a minute.’ Panic rose in Emily’s voice. ‘I think he’s coming back. I’ll meet you in the Salomon room on the third floor.’

Nick started running. As he came around the corner he saw a flash of red disappearing into the gallery off the main rotunda. Was that her? He slowed his pace for a second, watching. Five Japanese tourists followed her in. An elderly couple came out. A short, well-built man in a black parka hurried past them, almost tripping on the old man’s stick. His hood was down, revealing a shaved head with a row of gold glinting from his left ear. A face Nick had seen before.

He ran.

The Salomon Gallery was a dim room lined with bookshelves and display cabinets. A single glass case stood in the centre of the room like an altar or a tabernacle; inside, reverential lights played over an enormous spreadeagled book. The creamy pages shone back off the glass case, while the black print created holes in the reflection allowing a mosaic view beyond. A small figure in red shimmered in and out of sight behind. Nick wondered if she could see the man in the parka striding through the shadows towards her.

A guard sat in the corner keeping a lazy eye on the visitors. Nick crossed to him.

‘Excuse me, but that man over there, I think I saw him carrying a gun.’

The panic in his voice gave truth to the lie. The guard hauled himself out of the chair, unclipped the flap of his holster and advanced across the room, murmuring something into his radio mic. Nick followed, splitting off around the display case. There was Emily, pretending to peer at the open book while darting nervous glances around the room. She was so frightened she didn’t see him until he was almost on top of her.

‘Nick!’ She flew across to him and wrapped her arms around him. Her thin arms gripped him surprisingly tight. ‘I was terrified.’

‘You’re not safe yet.’

Nick put his hand on her shoulder and steered her to the exit, skirting the edge of the room. In the centre, a second guard had arrived, both deep in conversation with the man in the parka. Nick gestured towards them.

‘Was that him?’

Emily nodded.

They slipped out of the door and hurried to the elevator. None of the men in the room seemed to notice them go, and Nick didn’t look back. Only when they were out on the front steps in the stiff wind coming down Forty-Second Street, did he dare relax.

‘I’ll take you home.’

They caught a cab. Nick let Emily pay. Home for her turned out to be a tidy street in Midtown, whose closely planted trees and plain facades didn’t quite disguise the quiet wealth behind the windows. Emily saw Nick taking it in.

‘The museum owns it.’ An apologetic smile. ‘Just an apartment. I get it for six months, then I have to move into the real world. My time’s almost up.’

He scanned the street for danger while Emily fumbled with the front door. It led into a gloomy hallway, full of stairs and doors. He followed her up to the second floor. He wasn’t sure if he was invited, but she didn’t object. Their footsteps padded on the carpeted stairs; the whole house seemed to be asleep.

A cry from Emily broke the silence. Two steps behind her, Nick looked up. She was standing in front of the door to what must be her apartment, staring at something. She stood aside so he could see.

The door was open. Only fractionally, but wider than any door should ever be left open in New York city. A nest of splinters around the lock showed where it had been forced.

For a long moment they both stood there, frozen like dust in a beam of light. Then they turned and ran. Down the stairs, out the door, along the street past the long row of grey trees. It was only when they reached the intersection that they paused and looked back. The street was empty.

‘Call the police.’ Nick leaned forward, resting his hands on his thighs. ‘Don’t go inside until they arrive. Does anyone else live there?’