‘There’s nothing I can think of which signals danger,’ Georg said, taking a sip of strong black coffee as we sat in his office on the Rue du Rhône.

‘They rang Arthur Morston Books?’

‘Yes, and Rupert Forbes passed on my contact details.’

‘Rupert has no idea what this could be related to?’

‘None at all, no.’

Earlier this morning, Georg had informed me about a telephone call from an American woman named Lashay Jones. She had asked to speak to me, stating that the matter was of great importance. Georg had told her that he was my representative, and she was free to speak to him in confidence, but Lashay simply refused. For reasons already stated on these pages, I am extremely reluctant to take mysterious phone calls from strangers.

‘She definitely asked for Atlas Tanit?’

Georg nodded. ‘One hundred per cent. She told me that she thought you worked at Arthur Morston Books. But there’s nothing which suggests that this is related to Kreeg Eszu. I am confident it would be safe to speak to Miss Jones.’

I mulled it over. ‘The timing is unusual, though, would you not agree?’

‘Yes. A little,’ Georg conceded.

One month ago, Lightning Communications had suddenly become active as a company. They had begun to build a client base in Greece, and promised businesses an opportunity to transmit ‘coherence, credibility and ethics’. When I had first read those words, I couldn’t help but throw my head back and laugh. Quite how that man could offer expertise in credibility and ethics with a straight face was beyond me. They’d also given themselves a logo – a lightning bolt emerging from a cloud. It seemed that Kreeg was taking a hands-on approach, too. We had photographs of him giving presentations, hosting business lunches and various articles on the company in local newspapers.

If Eszu had been grieving for the last few years, it appeared that time was over, and he was starting to re-emerge into society.

‘You’re sure that this isn’t some way of Kreeg obtaining my exact location?’

Georg shook his head. ‘My instincts tell me this is something altogether separate.’

I trusted my lawyer’s judgement. ‘All right then. Let’s set up the call for tomorrow.’

The next day, I sat in my study waiting for Georg to patch Lashay through to Atlantis. As I waited, I surveyed my shelves, which were filled with artefacts and trinkets from my travels across the globe. These were interspersed with framed photographs of the girls and me. I picked up one of my favourites: an image of the six of us enjoying ice creams on the jetty of Atlantis. At ten on the dot, my office phone rang. I put the picture down and picked up the receiver. ‘Atlas Tanit.’

A soothing, velvety voice replied in an American accent, ‘Oh, hello, Mr Tanit. This is Lashay Jones. I believe you were expecting my call?’

‘Hello, Lashay. Yes, I was, although I must admit I have absolutely no idea what it could be about.’

She took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry about that, Mr Tanit. I’m phoning from the Hale House Centre in Harlem, New York.’

I scanned my memory banks. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Jones, I don’t know the name.’

‘Perhaps you’ve heard of Mother Hale? Clara Hale?’

‘I regret that I have not.’

There was a pause on the line as Lashay realised that this would require more explaining than she had anticipated. ‘I appreciate that you’re in Europe, so the name might not be as meaningful over there. The Hale House Centre is a children’s home here in New York.’ My heart skipped a beat. Was this the call I had been dreading? A children’s home who, for some reason, wanted one of my daughters back? I tried to remain composed. ‘We had a newborn girl left on our doorstep two nights ago now.’

I relaxed a little. ‘Is that . . . unusual for Mother Hale’s House?’ I asked.

‘Sadly not, sir. But the reason I’m calling you is we found something with the child. Specifically, a business card with your name and contact details on.’

I really didn’t know what to say. ‘That is unusual. I have no family in America . . . nor any friends to speak of.’

Lashay fumbled around on the phone. ‘I’ve got it here. The card looks old. It’s real torn and scuffed.’

‘It would make sense. I haven’t worked at the bookshop in over thirty years.’ I racked my brains. ‘I don’t suppose you got a look at who left the child?’

Lashay sighed. ‘No, sir. But we could make out a little writing on the old business card of yours.’

‘You could?’ I asked, genuinely intrigued. ‘What does it say?’

‘It says “kind man”, sir.’ Lashay replied. ‘It’s written right under your name.’

I gasped and sank into my office chair. In an instant, my mind was transported back to the Waldorf Astoria dining room in New York City, and Cecily Huntley-Morgan’s smiling face.

Look! I even wrote ‘kind man’ on the back! I shall keep it with me forever, as a token of good luck.

‘Are you still there, Mr Tanit?’ asked Lashay.

‘Yes,’ I replied, exasperated. ‘Uh, Lashay, I actually have a hunch about who the baby might belong to. I wonder . . . do you know anything about her family circumstances?’

There was a slight pause on the line. ‘Well, we know one thing. The Hale House Centre isn’t just for unwanted children.’ I winced at the term. ‘Mother Hale provides support for children who are born addicted to drugs. I’m sorry to tell you that we strongly believe that this baby is addicted to crack cocaine.’

I put my hand over my mouth. ‘Good Lord.’

‘A lot of people find it shocking. But that’s the reality here, sir. Drug dens are rife in Harlem. If I were to bet, I’d say that this child came from the one off of Lenox Avenue.’

Lenox Avenue. I’d heard the name before. ‘Listen, I’ll make arrangements to fly over tomorrow.’

The very next day, I found myself standing in front of Mother Hale House – a crumbling brownstone – in Harlem. I knocked on the door, and was greeted by a woman dressed in a blue tracksuit with a magnificent afro haircut. ‘Are you Mr Tanit?’ she asked.

‘That’s right.’

‘I’m Lashay Jones, we spoke on the phone.’

‘Hello, Lashay, it’s a pleasure to meet you.’ I put my hand out to shake hers.

‘Nuh-uh. We do hugs around here,’ she said, pulling me down to her and wrapping her arms tightly around me.

I gave a chuckle of surprise. ‘Oh, that’s very nice.’

‘You just flown in from Sweden?’

‘Switzerland, actually.’

She put her hands on her hips and raised an eyebrow. ‘That near Sweden?’

‘It’s . . . on the same continent.’

Lashay burst out laughing. ‘I’m joking, I’m joking. Sorry, busy morning. We’ve got a lot of hungry bellies in here today.’ I instantly warmed to Lashay and her charming self-deprecation. ‘Come on in.’ I followed her into the Hale House Centre, and was directed towards a door on the left of the hallway. ‘She’s just in here.’

‘Who is?’

‘Mother Hale, of course!’ Lashay opened the door and revealed a small office. Behind a large desk in front of a window was a slight old woman with grey hair, dressed in a white cardigan. She turned around as I walked in.

‘This is the gentleman from Europe?’ she asked Lashay, who nodded. The woman stood up gingerly, and made her way over to shake my hand.

‘Clara Hale.’

‘Atlas Tanit. It’s an honour to meet you.’

‘Likewise, I’m sure.’

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Lashay said with a smile, before backing out of the room.

‘Please, won’t you sit?’ The older woman indicated a beaten leather sofa.

‘Thank you.’

‘So,’ Clara said. ‘The mystery of the business card.’ She opened a drawer in her old wooden desk and picked out a small scrap of paper. ‘Here you go, Mr Tanit.’

‘Thank you.’ I took the card from Clara and examined it. ‘Yes, it’s definitely one of mine,’ I confirmed. ‘But as I said to Lashay, I haven’t used these for decades, since I was managing the bookshop.’

‘And yet it came to be that the card arrived on my doorstep along with a little bundle of joy. Now, I wonder, how on earth that could have happened?’

‘You and me both, Clara. Sorry. Miss Hale. Mother Hale.’

Clara wrinkled her nose, then, just as Lashay had done moments before, burst out laughing and smacked her knees. ‘Clara’s just fine. I only adopted the “Mother” because . . . well . . .’ She shrugged and gestured around her.

‘Of course. Lashay was able to tell me a little bit about what you’ve done. It’s incredible.’

‘Incredible is one word for it. I shouldn’t have had to live the life I have. Children are gifts from the Lord above. How anyone could bring themselves to part from their own, I do not know, Mr Tanit.’

‘It is a curious question. But I suppose that there are certain circumstances where the children are better cared for by others.’

Clara tapped the ends of her fingers together. ‘How interesting.’

‘What is?’ I asked.

‘I’ve been looking after the children of others for forty years now, and I’ve never heard anyone raise that point. Usually they agree with me, and say how awful it is.’ I felt Clara’s scrutinising gaze, and tried not to let my nerves get the better of me. ‘So, Mr Tanit, you clearly have a different experience to most. What is that?’

I was staggered by Clara’s wily intelligence. ‘You’re incredibly perceptive.’ I laughed. ‘I actually have five adopted daughters.’

Clara’s eyes widened. ‘Lord Jesus, you do not?!’ I nodded in affirmation. ‘Well, well, well,’ she laughed. ‘You’re another one of me.’

I gave her a quizzical look. ‘How do you mean?’

She shrugged. ‘Oh, you know. Big-hearted. Probably a little foolish, too. You have to be to do what we do.’

‘Honestly, Clara, I don’t think we compare. I have only five daughters, and am able to give them a very comfortable life. Just how many children have passed through your doors?’

She inhaled deeply. ‘Hundreds. I fostered damn near fifty in my own home before I went official and got a childcare facility licence in 1970. But one, or one thousand, it doesn’t matter. The act of giving love to an unloved child is one of the noblest things a human can do.’

Her face was so very . . . warm. Although her presence was intimidating, she radiated kindness. ‘I used to think that, Clara. But the love I have received from my daughters has been tenfold.’

Clara laughed again. ‘That’s the secret, isn’t it?’ She leant back in her leather office chair. ‘You know, my husband died when I was only twenty-seven years old. I was heartbroken, and so were the three children we had together. I moped around for a while, and made the decision that no matter what, I’d just . . . keep . . . breathing.’ She smiled wistfully. ‘I ended up working as a janitor to get us through the Great Depression. It was an awful job. But I loved the smiling faces of the kids. They gave me hope. So, I turned my home into a day care. And suddenly, one day, I found that I wasn’t just breathing, I was living again.’

Clara’s tale was familiar to me. ‘Children can do that for you.’

‘They sure can, Mr Tanit.’ Clara stood up from her chair, and turned to look out of the window. ‘Soon after I opened the day care, I started heading out into the streets to help homeless kids. That’s when I began to foster. I’d take seven or eight at a time.’ She put her head in her hands. ‘And it was just little old me. Imagine that!’

‘How did you manage?’

‘Simple! I loved each one of those children as my own. I became a mother to those who did not have one.’

What a remarkable human being. ‘Lashay mentioned that you . . . specialise in the care of those children whose parents were addicted to drugs.’

Clara turned back to face me, looking a little sad. ‘That’s right. One day, about a decade ago now, Lorraine – that’s my first daughter – brought a mother and child into my home who were dependent on heroin.’ She perched on the edge of her desk. ‘They needed a special kind of care, you see. That’s when I got the official licence and I bought this bigger building. It’s got five storeys, and we need each and every one of them, with this new thing that’s going around the place.’

‘New thing?’ I enquired.

Mother Hale shook her head. ‘The AIDS virus.’

I had read about it in the newspapers back home. ‘Is it a big problem here?’

‘You betcha. It’s spread through blood, as best we can tell. And when people share needles . . . well. The babies are born with it, you see. Not that anyone seems to want to talk about it. President Cheesecake won’t even mention its name. These people need help, Mr Tanit. And they’re not gonna get it if we don’t start discussing the damn thing.’

‘Can I ask how you care for these children who have had a particularly difficult start to life?’

‘It’s simple. You hold them, rock them, love them, and tell them how great they are. I nurse them through their inherited addiction. Then, when they’re healthy – and many, many do get healthy – you go out and find them an amazing family. I personally make sure each one is a good fit.’ Clara stiffened, and looked proud. ‘I’m not ashamed to say that I’ve turned people down if I thought that they couldn’t provide a good enough environment for the child. So’ – she exhaled – ‘that’s my story.’ She pottered over and joined me on the leather sofa. ‘What’s yours, Atlas Tanit?’

I gave Clara a brief outline of my life, focusing on how I had become the adoptive father of my five wonderful daughters. I also mentioned my brief trip to New York in the forties, and my encounter with Cecily Huntley-Morgan . . . who I was sure the business card had once belonged to.

‘Cecily . . . was she black?’ Clara asked.

‘No,’ I replied. ‘She was a white Englishwoman.’

Clara looked surprised. ‘It would have been quite a thing for a young white woman to come to Harlem to support black rights in the forties. I only ask as the natural assumption is that the little girl who was left on our doorstep a few days ago is a descendant of this woman you met.’

I gave a confirming nod. ‘It would be the logical explanation.’

‘Maybe one of her kids fell in love with a black man and someone in her family didn’t like it. Who knows. In any case, is there any way you can contact her?’

I shook my head. ‘I’m afraid not. I had my lawyer investigate the possibility but . . . she died of malaria in 1969.’

‘Huh,’ Clara said, pondering the situation. ‘Did you find out if she had any children?’

‘The thing is,’ I continued, ‘Cecily did have a daughter. She told me when we had lunch all those years ago . . . but she was never registered under her own name. From memory, she had taken in the abandoned baby of a Kenyan woman. Legally, the child belonged to someone else, so it isn’t possible to trace her.’

Clara began to fiddle with her hair as she took in the details. ‘So.’ She looked at me with her shrewd brown eyes. ‘What next?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, what do you wish to do about the child who was left on my doorstep, Mr Tanit?’

‘Oh.’ There was an uncomfortable silence.

Clara slapped a hand across her knee and gave me a grin. ‘Oh, come on! Are you seriously telling me that you get a call, drop everything and fly halfway across the world just to satisfy some curiosity about a business card?’

Clara’s burst of energy rendered me speechless. ‘I . . .’

She shuffled closer to me. ‘You’ve spoken about these five beautiful adopted daughters, all of whom seem to have arrived in your life through mysterious happenstance. So, when you get a call about a newborn baby girl who has your details from thirty years ago attached to her basket, are you seriously telling me that you’re not here to take her home?’ She raised her eyebrows at me.

‘I hadn’t really—’

She gave me a friendly shove on my shoulder. ‘Of course you have, Atlas! May I call you Atlas?’ I nodded fervently. ‘There’s no need to act coy or shy about it. Not with me. Not with what I do.’

‘I suppose that . . . yes, I have contemplated that the universe is trying to tell me something.’

‘Maybe it is, honey. And just so you know, I would have done exactly the same thing. Thirty years that business card of yours has survived somehow. Isn’t that incredible? Cecily thought, I’ll keep this thing, in case one day I need it. And guess what? One day she did . . . I think we’d better go and meet this baby.’

I followed Mother Hale up the stairs of the brownstone, which she took carefully but purposefully. As we climbed higher, a sound of crying became louder. When we reached the third floor, Clara turned to me, looking a little grim. ‘You might need to brace yourself. This part can be tricky for first-timers.’ She led me into a room populated by about a dozen very young babies in cribs, some of whom were being tended to by women in smocks.

‘They all seem so distressed.’

‘That, my dear, is because they are. These are the babies we think have been born addicted to drugs. It’s heartbreaking.’

The children seemed to howl and screech. It was a sound that came from their very core, and it distressed me greatly. ‘Their crying . . . I can’t explain it. It’s different to what I’m used to.’

Clara met my eye. ‘I know. As difficult as it is to comprehend, they’re begging for a hit of whatever it was their momma was taking.’ I shuddered.

Clara led me past one baby who trembled in her crib. The entirety of her tiny body was physically shaking, and her little limbs flinched and jerked violently. ‘Is she all right, Clara?’ I asked nervously.

Mother Hale took her glasses from her pocket and peered into the cot. ‘There now, child.’ She reached her hand into the crib and gently stroked the baby’s hair. ‘You stay strong now, my girl, you stay strong.’ She gently tucked the baby’s arms back into the swaddling cloth, and tightened it up. ‘Babies suffering from withdrawal are naturally irritable. We try to wrap them up all snuggly to help.’ She moved her hand to the baby’s neck to feel her pulse. She waited for a moment before nodding at me. ‘She’ll be okay. These are the hardest times for them. Hilary?’ Clara addressed one of the women in smocks, who was rocking a baby with a particularly high-pitched wail. ‘How are Simeon’s seizures?’

‘Not a single one today, Mother Hale,’ Hilary replied.

Her face broke out into a broad smile. ‘Now that is good news. And Cynthia?’ Clara addressed another woman, who was looking into a different crib. ‘Has Grace managed to keep the food down?’

‘Four out of five times today, Mother Hale.’

‘Good!’ she said, clapping her hands together in genuine joy, before looking up at me. ‘These babies need extra calories because of all the wiggling and jiggling. When they start keeping the food down, that’s when you know you’ve turned a corner.’ Mother Hale walked me over to the last crib on the row. ‘Well, here she is,’ she said, pointing to the tiny occupant.

I stared down at the little girl who was writhing with as much force as she could muster, as if trying to break out of her swaddling. ‘I notice that the other babies have been given names. Has she got one, Clara?’

‘Of course. We call her Kindness, after what was written on the business card.’

‘Lashay mentioned that you think it’s . . . crack cocaine her mother was using?’

Mother Hale shrugged. ‘We’ll never know for sure. But her pupils are a little dilated and her breathing rate is particularly sharp. It tallies. There’s a lot of it going on around here I’m sorry to say. When was this one last fed, Hilary?’

‘About two hours ago now, Mother Hale.’

‘Perfect timing.’ She walked over to a wooden cupboard in the corner of the room and pulled out a few sachets of powder before mixing them together in a fresh bottle. She handed it to me. ‘There you go.’

‘You’d like me to feed her?’

Clara nodded. ‘That would be most helpful.’

I placed the bottle in the crib, and went to pick the baby up. When I touched her, she began to scream ferociously and, considering she was a newborn, wriggled around with the force of one much older. ‘It’s okay. Shh, shh, little girl.’ Instinctively I began to rock her back and forth, as I had done with my other children. ‘Would you mind passing me the formula?’ I asked Clara. She handed it to me, and I gently guided the bottle into the baby’s mouth. I was shocked at how forcefully she began to suck, as if she was starved and desperate for nourishment.

‘Well, you weren’t lying,’ Clara said. ‘You’ve done that before.’

‘You doubted my story?’

‘No. I just didn’t know if you’d be any good with the babies themselves. But you have the touch.’ She tapped her nose.

Kindness, as she was currently known, was visually striking. Her stunning yellow-gold eyes and ebony skin would fool the casual observer into thinking she was completely healthy. ‘I know that she’s going through this awful period, Clara. But she feels so full of life.’

Clara nodded. ‘Yep. Hil said something similar. What was it, Hil?’

‘She’s full of electricity, that one.’ Hilary chuckled, before turning her attention back to another baby.

‘That’s very well put,’ I replied.

Within minutes, the bottle was drained, and I handed it back to Clara. ‘So. Back to my earlier question,’ she said. ‘What next?’

Cecily had written kind man on my old business card. I knew I could not betray that moniker. ‘I can fly her home this evening,’ I confirmed.

Mother Hale’s mouth dropped open, and her nose wrinkled once again, so I knew what was coming. She laughed heartily, nearly doubling over this time. ‘You’ll do no such damn thing, Atlas Tanit! Have you not listened to a word I’ve been saying?’

I was mortified. ‘I’m so sorry, Clara. I thought you were implying that you wanted me to take her.’

‘I do, I do! But fly her home his evening? Are you out of your damn mind? Did you hear him, Hil? Cynthia?’ The other two ladies in the room began to laugh along with Clara, and my cheeks flushed a hot red. ‘Firstly, I don’t care if you’ve done this five times before, I need to perform the requisite background checks on you and your family, to make sure that Kindness will be moved to a loving home.’

I looked down at the floor, well and truly admonished. ‘Of course.’

‘Plus.’ Clara paused. ‘I hate to highlight the obvious, but this little girl would be growing up with five white sisters. I don’t want her to feel alienated by that in any way.’

‘Gosh, no. But to be factually accurate, only four of my children are white. I told you about Celaeno – CeCe – my daughter from Australia?’

Clara eyed me. ‘You did.’

‘Her father was indigenous to Australia, and her mother was mixed race. She isn’t white.’

Mother Hale paused to reflect for a moment. ‘Huh. A lot of folks, even if they adopt, choose children with the same skin colour. But it doesn’t matter to you?’

‘Not one bit, no,’ I stated honestly.

Clara nodded, seemingly in approval. ‘Good, good. There’s still the question of helping Kindness overcome her addiction. She’s a few weeks away from not needing our expertise, and then after that, she’ll need special attention at home.’

‘I can have the finest doctors at my beck and call,’ I assured her.

‘Well, I’m very glad for you, but I’ll be needing to speak to them, too. Having a degree in medicine from a fancy university is all well and good, but most won’t have any practical experience in dealing with such a situation.’

‘Of course, Clara. In fact, I would insist.’ I manoeuvred the baby into a vertical position and began to burp her. Clara smiled.

‘All right then. We can get the ball rolling.’ She put a hand on my back. ‘Congratulations, Daddy.’