CHAPTER SIXTEEN

‘So: 10.45 p.m. at Grand Central Station, near the coffee stall?’ said Silk. Her face was as unreadable as ever, but her breath came quicker than usual. The two girls had woken early the next morning, having slept head to toe in Vita’s narrow bed.

‘Like sisters,’ Silk had said. Neither had the cleanest feet; neither had minded.

‘Yes. The last train out is 11.02,’ said Vita. ‘But there’s one final thing I have to do.’

Silk nodded. ‘I know. We’ll see you at the station,’ and she went into the sitting room to wake Samuel and Arkady.

Bile rose in Vita’s throat, but she forced it down. This is not the time to be afraid, she told herself. You can be afraid later, when it’s over.

That evening, Vita approached the Dakota slowly. She had wrapped her coat tight around herself, but it gave little protection against the cold, and none at all against the fear.

She had known she would be followed, and she was. She had been counting on it.

She did not turn round to see who it was, only registering the shadowy figure following her down the pavement. She stayed in the brightest streets, amid the widest crowds. They wouldn’t touch her in such a public place.

It was 9 p.m. The lights of Sorrotore’s apartment were off. She set her jaw and tucked her hair behind her ears. The red book was rolled up in her coat pocket; she carried a cloth bag on her back with a collection of trowels clanking against her spine. She wore her blue dress, unfamiliar and tight around the shoulders. She was ready.

She would be quick, as quick as her feet would go.

The desk clerk at the Dakota looked up at the girl in front of him without interest.

‘Excuse me,’ she said, ‘but is Mr Victor Sorrotore in this evening?’

‘He’s dining with the young Rockefellers. You want to leave a message?’

Vita shook her head. So Sorrotore was definitely in New York; definitely not up on the Hudson river.

She walked slowly out of the building, her eyes sharp, searching every face she saw. She stepped on to the street. One second she was crossing the road; the next, a hand grabbed her shoulder, and pulled her round to face a man in a brown suit and hat and blue tie.

‘Hey, you.’

It was Dillinger.

Vita screamed. Instinct kicked at her solar plexus and it came out of her mouth without her permission, a shrill, thin shriek that surprised her. She screamed again, deliberately this time, and a woman with a vast coif of hair and a vast green handbag stopped and turned.

‘Shut up!’ hissed Dillinger. ‘I’m not going to hurt you – the boss just wants his signet ring back.’ There was a pleading look in his eyes. His fingers dug into her collarbone. ‘Come on, kid. I need this!’

She twisted. ‘Let go!’

Dillinger hung on. His eyes were hot. ‘The boss’ll forgive me! He will, if I give him that ring! You don’t understand—’

She ducked her chin and bit, hard, at his hand. Then she darted to the right, into an oncoming crowd of tourists carrying red guidebooks, and ran, as fast as her left leg would take her, counting on the crowd to slow him down.

‘Stop her!’ cried Dillinger. ‘Stop that girl! Thief!’

She glanced round. He was charging after her, and people, seeing his smart suit and elegant hat, were parting to let him through.

Vita turned a sharp left, on to a great bustling street. She careened head first into a man absorbed in his newspaper as he walked.

She thought about dashing into one of the great shining department stores that lined the street, but those would be conspicuous places for a running child. A crossing light turned green, and she thrust herself into the centre of the crowd as it strode across the street.

At the far side she hesitated, looking to the left and right. She took in a great gasp of air, and went on.

Her breath was becoming ragged, and her left foot was on fire, sending shooting pains up the whole left side of her body. She used the street lamps to propel herself forward, grabbing them and thrusting herself on. She tried to think as she ran.

She limped past a sign: SUBWAY. A sudden memory came to her. The turnstile, where people fed it their tokens; it worked like a revolving door, but there was a space, underneath: wide enough for a child, too narrow for an adult.

She stumbled down the steps, looking over her shoulder to see if he was following. The steps were wet, and she almost slipped, clutching at the arm of a woman with two children of Vita’s age, who stared after her. ‘Someone’s in a hurry for their bedtime story,’ said the mother, and the children laughed.

Behind her came thundering steps. Vita didn’t let herself stop to think; didn’t let herself measure the gap between the turnstile and the floor. She pushed to the front of the crowd, ignoring the yelps and angry coughs and the call of ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ from one grey-haired man, and dived, head first, on to the floor, which was muddy and wet, sliding on the slick surface under the gate and pulling her left foot clear just as one of the subway officials made a grab for her shoes.

She scrambled to her feet, ignoring the pain and the blood on her palm from the fall, and hurtled down the stairs. The crowd closed around her, and she became invisible.

A train was just pulling into the platform. Vita stepped on to it, and stood, her heart thundering. She did not look back. It took all the willpower in her bones to keep facing straight ahead, her hands in her pockets, her heart pounding.

Had she looked back, she would have seen Dillinger bend to pick up what she had dropped.

She would have seen him turn the notebook over in his hands, and the glint of its soft red cover glow against the grey of the darkening night.