In The Open
A public place. Russo took the escalator to the upper level of the shopping mall. You couldn’t, he thought, find a much more public place than this. It was nearly two o’clock and the mall was filled with people bustling from shop to shop, laden with bags, dragging children along. The gallery where he was to meet Madeleine was crowded.
The escalator delivered him to the top floor and his head passed under a curved sign. “The Jules Verne”, it read, “Around the World in 80 foods”. Food stations were arrayed around the perimeter of the floor, displaying signs and pictures of the wares on sale. He moved off the escalator, harried by a woman with a pushchair. He stepped to one side, allowing them to pass whilst he found his bearings. Find an empty table and wait, Madeleine had instructed him. Don’t make yourself obvious, if it’s not busy, sit near other diners. He looked at the untidy sprawl of tables. Not much fear of that, he thought. The hard part would be finding a vacant seat. He moved around the edge of the floor, perusing the tables, wondering if he would be able to spot her, if any of the people at the tables were her. Would her manner give her away? He thought not. Having decided she was not a crank and there was some merit in what she told him, little though that was, he had to assume she knew what she was doing.
How would he recognise her, he had asked.
She would find him was her answer.
How did she know what he looked like, he countered.
Tell me, she had instructed.
He passed food stands counting each station as he passed it. He reached thirteen, the number ominous to him and he pushed away silly superstitions, before he reached The Golden Dragon. As instructed, he ordered a plate of Chinese food, handed over his money and took the tray to the dining area, pushing through narrow gaps in the aisles, skirting chairs pushed out from tables, until he found an empty table in the middle of the cafeteria. He sat, placing a copy of that morning’s Courier, folded face up, beside his tray of food. He waited.
Two o’clock, she had said, don’t be late. He had wanted to tell her not to be so bloody arrogant. A harder, more assured tone had crept into her voice once he had told her he believed her. He held his tongue. Behind the harder tone, he could still sense the alarm bell note of fear in her speech. If what she had intimated was true, he didn’t blame her. And he thought, hoped, believed, her more than just a little after all. That was why he was here now, a plate of foul looking noodles piled on a cheap plate, steaming before him.
Two o’clock came and went. No sign of Madeleine. He glanced at his watch, the second hand swept around the dial fully five times. No one approached him. A young man, plate laden with a burger and a pile of insipid looking fries had pressed past his table a moment before. Henry paid him no attention. It had been a long time since he had put himself out for a story. Gone were the days, he had thought, of secret, covert meetings. People with secrets to tell, or more likely sell. Journalism could seem a glamorous occupation to those who read the tales printed on the front pages, but more often than not it was boring and others it could be dirty, grubby. Exposing the bedroom antics of people in high places, people who should know better or at least have shown a little more circumspection in the way they dealt with their affairs, but who, in the end, were just people, like everyone else.
He looked once more at his watch and wondered if he had jumped the gun, he was beginning to think he had been stood up.
A shadow darkened the table and was followed by two people, a man and woman. They placed trays on the table.
“I’m sorry,” Henry began, “these seats are taken.”
“They are now,” the young man said, and Henry recognised him as the man who had passed by moments before.
“Mr. Russo, I’m Madeleine Whyte.” The attractive blonde woman did not hold out her hand as she introduced herself, just sat across from him and stared at him intently.
For an instant, Henry was lost for words, a condition he was not known for. He recovered himself and spoke. “I’m pleased to meet you… both,” he looked from Madeleine to Alex and back.
A public place, Alex had told her, had thought to her. His arm around her as he listened with cocked head to the conversation. Even without his prompt she would have come to the same decision on her own. How swiftly she had adapted to the whirl of events had ceased to amaze her hours ago. It was, she supposed, a basic survival instinct. The news that someone had posed as George Coburn had sent a chill down her spine colder than the rawest arctic wind, but even as that information and everything it implied was processed by the billions of neural connectors and synaptic bridges that made up her brain, she was consciously pushing away the terror that would have previously overwhelmed her and focusing on what had to be done.
Dangers, real and imagined would be easier to cope with and hopefully evade in a public area as opposed to somewhere quiet and out of the way. The mall had surfaced in her mind and she had immediately picked it as the place to meet the reporter.
She and Alex separated at the mall, Madeleine slipped into a small boutique near the entrance to the mall they expected the reporter to enter. Perusing the racks of clothing in the boutique she watched the entrance studiously. Alex was in a record store across the way having spent ten minutes watching the cafeteria from a vantage point inside a book shop on the top floor. Russo passed by the boutique two minutes before she wandered back out onto the concourse.
Alex saw her emerge from the boutique, nodded minutely at her and followed in the path of the reporter, his eyes skating across the constantly changing sea of people looking for something, anything. And seeing nothing. The middle-aged man to whom he would soon be entrusting his life stood at the top of the escalator for a dazed moment before stepping aside for a woman with a pushchair. Alex was four people back, much lower down the moving staircase. When he reached the top, the reporter had gone, moving clockwise along the food stations. Alex turned right, taking an opposite path to the older man, keeping him in sight as he wound his way around the cafeteria. He stopped, pretending to read menus at various kiosks until he was sure Russo had found a table. After a few moments, he joined the line of customers at the burger bar. He glanced around casually as he waited to be served, eyes searching for someone who looked out of place. He caught his own reflection in the chromed surface of the counter edge and smiled grimly inside. He was the one out of place here, him and Madeleine, that was why he had the jitters now. A part of him was sure something was going to go wrong and he had begun to listen to himself when feelings like that gnawed at him. A gaze in his direction, held for a fraction too long, could mean a Technician had spotted him. A head turned away too quickly, the same. A face hidden behind the open pages of a newspaper could conceal an assassin. He saw all of these and none of them and he pushed away the fears, rational and otherwise, consigning them to the bin marked Paranoia. It was his first real mistake since slipping out of The Clinic into the storm driven night forty hours before. It wasn’t his fault. He’d only made it as far as he had due to a survival skill that was probably genetic—an inheritance from his long deceased father, his own strange and now somewhat strangely comforting abilities and a huge amount of good fortune. But survival had always been the domain of only the very fittest and the reach and extent of his unusual powers was still new to him, a cloak that fit well, perhaps too well, something new without the give and stretch of a garment worn and lived-in. And luck runs out eventually.
He took his tray from the kiosk and made his way through the crowded seating area, brushing past the table where Russo sat, now somewhat impatiently. He read the headline on the folded paper as he passed, confirmed it as The Courier and carried on without pause. He passed Madeleine at a table five rows back from the reporter, making eye contact for the briefest moment, long enough only for understanding to pass between them and turned right into the next aisle. Madeleine stood and moved towards Russo, Alex moving in from one aisle over.
“I’m sorry, these seats are taken,” she heard the man say as Alex placed his tray on the table.
“They are now.”
She pulled out the chair and sat facing the reporter.
The information was only minutes old when Borkan took the call on his mobile. Ricci looked at him expectantly and he nodded in confirmation. The search was over. Again he inwardly congratulated Alex on his forethought. The East Mall was a good location for a meeting that was meant to go unnoticed. It was open, public, the total opposite of what the man in the street would think of as a secret location. As a result, anyone who didn’t wish to be seen could pass freely among the shops and stores that lined the indoor arcade secure in the knowledge that they were virtually invisible.
If it were not for the excellence of Shelton’s information network, there was the outside chance Alex might well get away with what he obviously hoped to do. As it was, he could not know, or be expected to know just how far Shelton’s tentacles reached.
The two men linked up with four Technicians pulled from their reconnaissance of the underground, gathering together in the nook of a pub two streets from the mall. Instructions were given, delivered in undertones by Borkan, his words barely reaching across the tables. Two Techs were already at the mall, keeping the food stations under surveillance. Time was going to be tight on this operation and the men dispersed rapidly but unobtrusively. In the bar, Borkan stayed Ricci with a hand on his arm.
“No mistakes on this one, Kyle.”
The other man stopped, half risen from his seat. He glowered at Borkan, his eyes conveying a world of hate and contempt for his partner. “I don’t make mistakes, Chazz.”
“You know what I mean,” Borkan ignored the look in the younger man’s eyes. “Shelton wants him back in one piece. I don’t know what it is between you and Alex, but this is business. Pure and simple. You got that?”
“Yeah, well, he ain’t pure, and I ain’t simple. You don’t be telling me my business, Borkan. You got that?”
Borkan kept his hand on Ricci’s arm for a second longer. “Just so we understand each other.” He released his grip but his eyes held Ricci’s gaze firm. Finally the younger man straightened his posture and brushed out the creases in his sleeve.
“You’re the ugliest chaperone I’ve ever had,” he said, conceding defeat. He turned on his heel and strode out of the pub.
“Tell me some more about this conspiracy,” Russo said quietly. The tables either side of them were still occupied.
“Aren’t you going to write this down?” Alex asked suspiciously, “or record it?”
Henry had directed his question at Madeleine, doing his best to focus on her and not the young man who accompanied her. He turned his gaze to Alex now. “I want to hear some more first. See some of this proof you have for me.” He didn’t like being bushwhacked and that was precisely how he felt right now. His meeting was supposed to be with Madeleine, who was this man, he looked more closely at Alex, man, he thought, he’s hardly more than a boy. The probability that what Madeleine had for him would pan out to be a real story had taken a sudden down turn in Henry’s estimation when Alex had entered the fray.
Alex and Madeleine exchanged a glance. Alex nodded and she reached into her pocket and withdrew a piece of paper. On it were several names, some of them unknown to her, others names she knew, people she had read about in the daily papers or seen on the news. All were dead. Alex had scribbled the names down hastily less than an hour ago. She slid the page of notepaper across the table. Russo looked first at her eyes, saw her nerves reflected there, then at the slip of paper. He reached out and plucked the page off the table, unfolding it slowly, glancing at Alex as he did so. The same nervous reaction was in the young man’s eyes, only perhaps not quite so obvious.
He stared at the short list of names.
“Do you recognise those people?” Madeleine asked.
“Recognise? Of course, I’ve interviewed one of them.”
“What do you know about them?” Alex.
“Look, what is this? I came here because you told me you had a story, not to be given a history test.”
“Please!” Madeleine pleaded. The plaintive appeal was echoed by her eyes. Russo sighed and looked at the list.
“A politician, a couple of business men, a head of state, a TV presenter, a drug runner—never proven of course. What about them?” Madeleine said nothing. He looked at Alex.
“They’re all…”
“. . . Dead,” Russo finished. Alex nodded. The reporter almost laughed, except he now felt more than a little angry, with himself more than the two people sitting across from him. He’d been a fool to be taken in by the woman on the ‘phone and now he was having to pay the price.
“This is your conspiracy?” Now he did laugh. Alex and Madeleine sat uncomfortably as the reporter recovered his breath. “I’m sorry,” Russo said finally. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his eyes.
“Those people were murdered…”
Russo cut Alex off. “No.” He pointed at the names on the list. “He died of a heart attack. Him in a car accident. That one of pneumonia, I think.” He indicated the TV presenter, “He made the evening news with his own perverted demise. None of these people were murdered, they’re just dead.”
“What about the drug runner?” Madeleine interjected.
“Alleged drug runner,” Russo corrected. “Alright, maybe he was, but that hardly constitutes a story, let alone a conspiracy.”
“All those people were killed by a secret organisation…”
“. . . And Lee Harvey Oswald didn’t act alone. Neil Armstrong never walked on the moon, he went for a stroll in the Arizona desert and the rest was just Hollywood special effects. Oh, and the little Chinese man who served me this pile of slop is Elvis Presley. There he is, you can see him over there, right now. The king of rock and pancake rolls.” Russo stood to leave.
“But it’s the truth,” Alex said desperately.
“Then show me some proof,” Russo shot back.
Alex grasped the man’s arm. Russo tried to pull loose but Alex held firm. The veil of sepia coloured the images now in his mind.
“An alien ate my turkey dinner,” he said, keeping his voice low. His eyes were shut and he did not see the look of shock that crossed Russo’s face. But Madeleine did.
“What?” The reporter said.
“You have a bet in the news room.” Alex opened his eyes and looked at the older man, their eyes locked together. “Your name is Henry Steven Russo, you are fifty two years old, married to Diane, your childhood sweetheart, you have three children.” Alex’s voice took on a strained quality, his words little more than a whisper. He stared at the reporter, not blinking, eyes boring into the other man’s, forcing him to look away.
Russo pulled free of Alex’s grip. “So you’ve done your homework on me. All the better to make your story more interesting. I have to say you’re more elaborate than most hoaxers. But I’m afraid it still won’t wash. The paper has a potted biography of me on record, as it does on all the staff. And you got your research wrong. I only have two children.” He straightened his jacket and turned to leave. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got things to do.” He took a pace away from the table.
“Her name is Alice Rose, she’s four years old. You see her every six weeks, usually on Wednesdays, but not always. You pay maintenance to her mother every month from a separate account you opened especially for her. You over claim on your expenses to cover as much of the payment as you can. If your boss found out, he’d fire you. If your wife knew, you think she’d divorce you.” Alex stopped.
Russo stood stock still as Alex reeled off the words, Madeleine watched his back stiffen involuntarily at the mention of his wife. An envelope of silence folded around them, blanking out the hubbub of noise in the cafeteria. Finally, Russo turned around, his face pale.
“Who are you?” He asked, sitting back in his seat, his legs rubbery.
“My name is Alex Rappaport, and everything we’ve told you is the truth.” Russo leaned back in his chair, his mind reeling. How on earth could anyone know about Alice? He’d always been careful. Well, not always obviously, else she wouldn’t have been born, but… Did Diane suspect anything? Was this some sort of cruel joke? No, he couldn’t believe that. But if not, how could anyone know about Alice? Not from him and certainly not from Victoria, that was for sure. His eyes fell upon the list of names on the table. He lifted them up to his face, reading them again.
“Tell me everything,” he said, peering over the notepaper at them. “Tell me what you know.”