Ghosts of War (15 page)

“Well, sir, it's really not that simple,” said Donovan in a conciliatory fashion.

“No,” the commissioner replied sullenly, shaking his head, “it never is.” He chewed on the end of his cigar for a moment. Then, as if deciding Donovan had been given enough of a dressing down, his tone altered. “So, what—someone torched the place?”

“That's about the size of it, Commissioner,” said Donovan, echoing Mullins's earlier words, “before we'd had the chance to strip it of anything useful. The walls were covered in maps, schematics, photographs—it was a treasure trove. Whoever torched the place was clearly trying to prevent us from getting hold of it.”

“Hmmm,' said the commissioner. “I'd have thought that much was obvious, Donovan, even to you.” Donovan winced, but the commissioner's tone lacked malice. “Did you get
anything
?”

Donovan shrugged. “Just the corpse.”

The commissioner was frowning, staring into the middle distance. “I'd wager…” he trailed off and then turned to Donovan, seeming to snap out of whatever reverie had momentarily distracted him. “I'd wager it was this spy himself who torched the place. Realized you were on to him, took his opportunity while your back was turned. You shouldn't have let your attention wander, Donovan. You shouldn't have left it all to Mullins.”

Donovan nodded. Perhaps the commissioner was right about that. Perhaps he had put too much on the sergeant's shoulders. But Mullins was the only one he trusted, and he had to stand up for him. “He's a good man, Commissioner. He'll make a fine inspector one day.”

Commissioner Montague frowned. “I don't doubt it, Donovan. But that doesn't mean he's ready to take on something this big. He's inexperienced. He'll miss things you might see.”

“I hardly—”

The commissioner waved him silent. “Excuses,” he said, and his bristly eyebrows raised, as if challenging Donovan to go against him.

Donovan realized he was bunching his fists by his sides, and he made a conscious effort to relax.

“So you got the corpse, then.”

“Yes, and Mullins identified the dead man this morning.” He let that hang for a moment, studying the commissioner, watching for any response. “A mob man by the name of Paulo Lucarotti. Does that mean anything to you, sir?”

The commissioner's eyes went wide in surprise. The timbre of his voice raised an entire octave. “Me? Why in God's name would it mean anything to me?”

Donovan smiled inwardly. He could tell by the man's reaction that he was either deeply offended, or else deeply concerned. He couldn't tell which. “Lucarotti was released from state custody two months ago, sir, by a special order. He's a known criminal, held up on charges of attempted murder and grievous bodily harm.”

“What's that got to do with me?” the commissioner asked, and this time Donovan was sure the man had something to hide. He was protesting just that little bit too strenuously. Donovan studied his careworn, liver-spotted face.

“Because you signed the release papers, sir,” he said in reply.

“What? I…well, no, I don't know him,” he stuttered in response. “I sign hundreds of those ruddy things. The desk sergeant brings them up, puts them in front of me. I sign them on recommendation, he returns and takes them away again, end of story. I don't doubt the man's release papers have my signature on them. Half the time I don't even look at their names anymore. You know what it's like, Donovan. You have to file reports. Don't tell me you always go over the fine details.”

Donovan nodded slowly in response. Now it seemed as if Montague was appealing to him to turn a blind eye, to brush it under the carpet. But he recognized the commissioner's explanation for the bullshit it was—the last time Montague had openly signed any release papers was at least two years earlier, and then only under considerable pressure from the diplomats involved in a particularly sensitive peace treaty with the Japanese. There was much more to it than that.

Donovan considered pressing on with the questions. Why had the commissioner's photograph been on the wall of the spy's apartment alongside that of Senator Banks and a gaggle of other powerful men from the city? What exactly was the spy threatening to do?

For now, though, Donovan considered it best to let the situation slide, to let the commissioner think that he'd successfully managed to brush the situation under the carpet. It wouldn't do to have the man breathing down his neck any more than he already was, and perhaps this way, Donovan would have the chance to get to the bottom of the situation. On top of that, he didn't suppose the particular line of questioning he had in mind would get him anywhere. The commissioner would simply clam up, and that would be the end of the interview. Donovan would leave with his card marked, his position compromised. Perhaps even worse. He didn't yet know how far the commissioner was involved. Had he had anything to do with the fire at the apartment? Was the commissioner trying to prevent Donovan from discovering the truth about what he was up to with the senator? Ask too many of the wrong questions and Dononvan might find himself on the receiving end of an arson attack.

Whatever the case, however outlandish that might be, he was feeling particularly uneasy. If he'd been suspicious earlier, now he was sure. Commissioner Montague was hiding
something.

The commissioner, seemingly relaxed once again, had leaned back in his chair and was puffing thoughtfully on the end of his cigar. “It sounds to me, Donovan, like this mob fellow had a bone to pick with our British spy. Perhaps he was working on behalf of the mob; perhaps it was a more personal affair. Whatever the case, he confronted this Jerry Robertson and went and got himself killed. I wouldn't waste any more time on him. A man like that, well, we're better off with him six feet under, don't you think?” Donovan didn't like where this was going, the dismissive nature of the commissioner's tone. It was as if he was being warned off. “No,” the commissioner continued, “get on with the case in hand. Damn shame that apartment block went up in flames. A
damn
shame. But that tells us the spy can't have been very far away. He's still here in the city. He must have been watching the place and saw you arrive, for him to know that you were on to him. And that means one of two things is about to happen. Either he's about to go deeper undercover to try to throw you off the scent, to lose himself in the slums, or he's going to get desperate and show his hand. If I were a betting man”—he extracted his cigar and allowed the smoke to plume lazily from his nostrils, a wide grin cracking his face—”then I'd wager the latter was true. Otherwise, why would he have torched the place, unless he was nearing his endgame?” He pointed at Donovan with the burning tip of his cigar. When Donovan didn't speak, he shrugged and continued. “Whatever the case, you need to be ready. Don't want you ending up like that Luca-whatshisface, Donovan.”

Donovan couldn't argue with the commissioner's logic. He'd been thinking pretty much the same thing himself—that the spy was either going to make a play for it, or was already halfway across the Atlantic—although he wasn't as ready to accept the notion that the spy was responsible for the arson attack as the commissioner appeared to be. There were other people who might benefit from the loss of the material at that apartment, possibly the very same people who had hired Paulo Lucarotti to go after the spy. Possibly, even Senator Banks and the commissioner himself. Either they were targets, or they were responsible for whatever it was the spy was attempting to investigate. Whatever it was, Donovan was sure it wasn't worth the lives of twelve innocent people.

Without the evidence of those photographs, however, there was no way of implicating anyone else in the whole sordid business. Donovan supposed that was exactly the point.

He nodded, keen to get away from the commissioner's office, to give himself space to think. “Very good, sir. I'll get on it right away.”

“See that you do, Donovan,” came the considered reply, “see that you do. Senator Banks is breathing down my neck. This goes all the way to the top, Felix. There's a great deal at stake. I hope you're not going to let me down.”

“Oh, I won't allow that to happen, Commissioner,” Donovan replied drily. “I'll do what's right for the city, and for my country.”

Commissioner Montague stood and clapped a hand on Donovan's shoulder. “Delighted to hear that, Felix. Truly I am. Now”—he gestured to the door—”go and bring me the head of that British spy.”

Donovan nodded and made for the door. Once outside, he gave a long, deep sigh, but it did little to relieve the tension he could feel bunching in his neck and shoulders. This really did go all the way to the top, and Donovan wanted no part of it. He would not be a cog in their machine. He would not idly sit by while twelve or more innocent people were allowed to perish uncommented, simply to save the reputation of a handful of rich old men. No, he would do exactly what was needed, whatever the cost. That was what Flora had meant when she had married him, when she had whispered to him all those years ago about making a difference. He would fight this corruption for all he was worth.

He took the stairs two at a time. He needed to make a call.

Donovan didn't stop to collect his coat, nor did he acknowledge Mullins, whom he saw frantically trying to get his attention across the precinct floor, as he marched straight toward the exit. Outside it was brisk and cold, but Donovan walked with intent, weaving his way through the press of pedestrians bustling on the sidewalk.

Two blocks later he made a sharp left and ducked inside a small store. The legend above the door read KOWALSKI'S GENERAL GOODS. Outside, racks of fruit and vegetables were lined up, trying to tempt any passersby. Cured meats hung in the windows.

Inside, Donovan stamped his feet to shake himself free of the cold. The shopkeeper—a small, broad, balding man in his late fifties—looked up from behind the counter and caught Donovan's attention. “Morning, Inspector.”

“Morning, Chuck. I need to make a call.”

The shopkeeper jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. “You know where it is, Felix. Go help yourself.”

Donovan smiled and patted the older man on the shoulder as he made his way out the back. There, among the heaped boxes of stock and stacks of brown paper wrap was a holotube terminal. It was an illegal device, connected to the network but tampered with so as to be virtually untraceable. Donovan had used it many times before for just this reason—to call someone who didn't want to be traced.

Donovan made directly for the device, flicked the switch to the “call” position, and dialed a number from memory. A moment later a familiar face began to resolve in the mirrored cavity.

“Gabriel,” said Donovan, not even waiting until the image had fully resolved, “we need to meet.”

T
o him, the rooftops of Manhattan were like a second home. He thought this as he drifted lazily above them, the rocket canisters at his ankles blazing with furious orange light. His breath formed ghostly shapes in the frigid air as he twisted and turned, taking it all in, and he found himself absorbed by the wintry canopy, high above the avenues and streets below.

Frost lined the rooftops. Icicles dripped from lintels and overhangs, and the noses and wingtips of bizarre, gargoylish forms. Electric light glowed bright and harsh and yellow in the windows of apartment blocks, or through pyramidal roof lights that crested those same buildings. Steam gushed from standing pipes and vents like the exhalations of giant predators, looming in the darkness. The tall buildings of Manhattan reached up for the stars like the icy fingertips of the world.

Up here, above the city proper, everything was cold and quiet. Below, the city throbbed with life, pedestrians and vehicles ebbing through the streets as if they were its very lifeblood, and the Ghost, on his way to meet Donovan, its lone protector.

High above the city, the moon was low and gibbous, and framed against a canopy of frozen gray fog. It had descended again during the afternoon to choke the city, and ice particles glistened in the air, reflecting the shimmering light of his rockets. Even the dirigibles overhead—the police craft—seemed like nothing but indistinct blurs, buzzing around like insects, their searchlights flickering like long, incandescent legs.

There was something else up there, too, something that the Ghost had not expected to find here, in New York. Something that he'd thought he'd left in France long ago, which had returned to him recently in his dreams: a pair of eyes, stark and bright against the freezing night. They peered at him across the rooftops of the city, asexual, ominous.

The Ghost pirouetted in the sky, crossing his arms over his chest and spinning past a water tower, rocketing low and fast across the rooftop of an office block. He dipped low, ducking into the top of an alleyway between the office block and the building opposite, coming out again on the other side, twisting through the air. Still they were there, the eyes, unwavering, unblinking, unmoving.

Why now? Why had they returned now? First in his dreams, and now here, high above the city. What did it all mean? Was it a symptom of his recent encounter with one of the creatures? Was it the past finally catching up with him, his moment of judgment, his time to atone for the terrible crimes of his past? Or perhaps it was the stress of what had happened to Celeste, the onset of a nervous breakdown, a mental fever? Was it all in his head, just as it could have been all those years ago, just as the army doctors had told him before they'd invalided him out of the force? He didn't think so. Nevertheless, he felt something stirring deep within him.

These last few days, it had been as if Gabriel Cross and the Ghost had somehow been merging, as if his fractured personalities had been collapsing in on each other once more, the lines between them blurring. It was as if, ever since Ginny had walked back into his life, ever since he'd taken her into his confidence, shown her this other component of his life, the barriers between those twin existences had been breaking down. Ever since he'd returned from the war, the Gabriel Cross he had been, the Gabriel Cross everyone had known—the aristocratic playboy, the dilettante who threw the most amazing, drunken parties at his Long Island home—had been a lie. That kernel of himself, buried so long ago as a defense mechanism, a means of protecting himself from the horrors of the war, was it now once more coming to the fore? Had Ginny inadvertently woken something within him? Something that had lain dormant for so very long.

The thought unnerved him, more than he wished to admit. He felt suddenly vulnerable, as if everything he had come to stand for was at risk, as if now, here, at this very moment, with those piercing, heavylidded eyes watching him, he was nothing but a tiny man in a black suit, riding on the zephyrs like a fragile bird. The Ghost was a vigilante, a killer, a liar, a cheat. He was insignificant against the immensity of the city and everything it stood for, against those striking blue eyes. They diminished him. They saw to the core of his being, saw that he was no one but Gabriel Cross, that his personas were simply that—disguises he could shed, masks he could hide behind. But the eyes knew the truth. The eyes were Gabriel's eyes, staring back at him in the mirror. They
were
the truth. Everything else—
everything
—was just fiction.

The Ghost howled in frustration and rage, circling in the air and sending himself spinning down toward the asphalt below. Would it be easier to simply end it now than to keep on going, to drive himself into the sidewalk, there to be found in the morning by an unsuspecting man walking his dog, or a mailman, or a bank clerk? All he could see was the street below; all he could feel was the rush of cold air in his face as he hurtled toward the ground….

And then he was twisting, turning himself around, swinging his legs out beneath him and rocketing up into the air again. He startled a flock of crows, sending them cawing away into the frigid night.

No, that was not the way. He had a duty to the city. To himself. The eyes reminded him of that, just as they had in the burning skies above France. Whatever the truth, whoever Gabriel Cross really was, he was not this. He was not this weak.

The Ghost sucked in his breath. He had a job to do. That was how he would prove his worth, to himself, and to anyone who was watching. He tucked his chin into his chest against the cold, and pressed on, toward Donovan and the precinct.

The police precinct building was dramatically picked out against the night sky by the crisscrossing searchlights of the hovering dirigibles tethered to its roof. Even here, even stationary, they continued to probe the streets around the police headquarters with their long fingers of light, both, the Ghost knew, for security and as a warning. He was aware that many people saw the precinct building as a kind of bastion, a fortress against the criminal elements of the city, a sanctuary for those on the right side of the law; but he, in truth, knew it for what it was: a place of administration and a haven for the criminals who knew how to work within the law. Inside its impressive, towering walls, it was simply an office filled with yes men and uniformed criminals taking their wage from both the state and the mob.

The police were in the pocket of the government, and the government was in the pocket of the mob. The Ghost knew of only a handful of men who did not pander to this regime: Donovan, for one, and his sergeant, Mullins, for another. Because of it, they shone out like beacons, as bright as any searchlight, against the overwhelming tide of despondency and corruption.

The Ghost sailed up toward the top of the building, his rocket boosters flaring as he darted around the shimmering beams of the searchlights. It wouldn't do to let anyone know he was here—anyone, of course, except the man he had come to meet.

Dipping over the lip of the building, the Ghost reached inside his trench coat, righted himself, and pulled the cord that cut the fuel line to the rocket canisters strapped to his ankles. The flames guttered, spat, and blinked out, and the Ghost dropped easily to his feet. Around his boots, the hoary rime of frost that caked the top of the building began to melt with the residual heat.

He glanced from side to side and caught sight of the glowing tip of a cigarette flaring in the darkness by the fire escape. He smiled. “Come on out, Felix,” he called, careful to keep his voice low.

He watched as Donovan emerged into the dim half-light of the city night, silhouetted against the horizon. Manhattan was never truly dark. There were too many people, too much light. Even in the freezing fog, the city underlit the sky like a vast, gray canopy, a canvas awaiting the strokes of an artist's brush.

Donovan was shivering, even wrapped in a thick overcoat, a scarf around his throat. He exhaled nicotine fumes through his nostrils and stamped his feet. “I'm sure we can think of somewhere warmer to meet, Gabriel.”

The Ghost laughed. “You're right. Next time I'll use the front door.”

Donovan shook his head, but he was smiling. “Don't be so bloody sarcastic.” He looked back at the fire escape, the door of which was propped open. “And somewhere with fewer stairs to climb, too, while we're at it.”

The two men lapsed into silence for a moment, each regarding the other in the gloom. “So, what news?” said the Ghost, causing Donovan to frown deeply.

“I don't know, Gabriel. I get the sense there's something bigger going on here, and we're only party to a small part of it.”

This was new. Perhaps Donovan did have something useful, then. “Go on,” the Ghost prompted.

“That apartment block in Greenwich Village, the one where we found the body,” said Donovan.

“Yes?”

“It was torched. After we left last night. The whole block reduced to nothing but cinders and ash. Whoever's responsible was taking no chances—the neighboring apartments all burned, too. Twelve people died in the fire.”

“My God…” The Ghost didn't know what else to say. He clenched his fists beside him. Twelve innocent lives. Whoever started that fire was going to pay for every single one of them.

“Everything on that wall, all those photographs, papers, maps—everything. All gone. Someone clearly thought we were getting too close to the truth, or else they wanted to cover their tracks.”

The Ghost shrugged. “Then we've reached yet another dead end. We've lost our best and only lead.”

“Not necessarily,” Donovan replied darkly. “Mullins managed to retrieve the corpse before the flames took hold.” Donovan took a long draw on his cigarette and exhaled before continuing. “And what's more, Mullins has been able to provide us with a positive ID.”

“I told you Mullins showed promise,” the Ghost said, smiling.

Donovan grinned. “It makes interesting reading though, Gabriel. The dead man wasn't an agent of the American government as we suspected. That much is very clear.”

The Ghost frowned. “So, who was he?”

“Hired muscle by the name of Paulo Lucarotti,” said Donovan. “He had ties to the mob, and what's more, he'd been in custody until recently, serving time in a state penitentiary for roughing people up. He has a rap sheet as long as my arm: trafficking illegal liquor, grievous bodily harm, burglary. A very unsavory character.”

“So how did he end up dead in the apartment of a British spy?” said the Ghost.

“That's where it gets really interesting,” said Donovan, taking a final draw on his cigarette before flicking the butt away across the rooftop, scattering a spray of hot, glowing ash across the frosted paving slabs. “The release order was signed by Commissioner Montague himself.”

The Ghost frowned. “The commissioner signing release papers?”

“Precisely,” said Donovan. “Of course, I went to quiz him about it.”

“Allow me to guess,” the Ghost sighed. “He clammed up.”

Donovan nodded. “In a manner of speaking. He told me to drop it, that it was insignificant and that I should stick to the case in hand. That I needed to redouble my efforts to find the spy.”

“Did you mention the photographs we saw on the wall of the apartment? Montague, Banks, and the others?” All sorts of things were running through the Ghost's mind as he asked the question. The potential implications of what Donovan was saying were huge.

Donovan shook his head. He rubbed his hands together to stave off the cold. “No. I thought it prudent not to press him any further, especially when he started spouting all-too-convenient theories about how the spy had obviously started the fire himself, and that we didn't really need to delve any deeper into what had occurred. Regardless of the fact that there are twelve fresh corpses in the morgue.”

“So you're saying that you think Commissioner Montague is mixed up in something he shouldn't be?” asked the Ghost. He could feel a burning rage beginning to well up inside him at the thought that the commissioner could so easily dismiss so many lives.

Donovan shrugged. “No…well…perhaps,” he said, with a gesture that clearly showed he was struggling to come to terms with what his instincts were telling him. “It's hard to refute the evidence. He's clearly got something to hide. But if the commissioner is mixed up in this—well, where does it stop? What the hell can we do about it?”

A moment of silence passed between them. Donovan was right. It felt as if the two of them were standing on a precipice, about to lift the lid of a veritable Pandora's box of intrigue and deception. The fallout from any such action would be tremendous, but that wasn't reason enough not to do it. They couldn't put their own safety above that of the city and its people.

If the commissioner was involved in a cover-up, if he'd been leaned on to provide hired muscle to search out this spy—or worse, he was implicated in some political or possibly even criminal scheme that had led him to arrange the torching of the spy's apartment building in order to maintain his secrecy, well, he was as bad as any mob boss or murderer the Ghost had yet encountered. Perhaps worse, given that he hid behind a veneer of respectability, supposedly responsible for the safety of all the citizens who inhabited the city below.

“The frustrating thing,” said Donovan morosely, “is that we're out of leads. We've got nothing, other than a half-baked notion that Commissioner Montague and Senator Banks are involved in something untoward. The only person who could possibly begin to help us understand what's going on is the British spy, and his motives are questionable at best. Plus he covers his tracks well. We don't even know where to start looking for him.” Donovan sighed. “Then there's this business with the raptors. It's a bloody mess, Gabriel.”

The Ghost put his hand on Donovan's shoulder, trying to offer him some reassurance that they were doing the right thing. They needed to stay focused. “Do you think there's some connection? Between the raptors and what's going on with Banks, Montague, and this spy? The photographs we saw at the apartment, they surely can't have been coincidental.”