The School of Night (26 page)

“Can't go into it.”

“Where is it to take place?”

“HQ, of course. Everything on the up and up, you'll see.”

And then he clapped his hands together and, in the voice of a camp counselor, cried:

“
Shall
we?”

“My friends,” remonstrated Alonzo.

“Oh!” The Visigoth wheeled around on us. “They can come, too!”

“ 'Course they can,” added Agent Milberg.

*   *   *

Only in England could we have been taken into custody so politely and neatly. Not a voice raised, no pleasantry overlooked. We gathered our bags from the carousel, rolled them to the curb, blinked in the light of early morning, and then climbed without protest into a state-of-the-art Lincoln Town Car, black clearcoat, with power lumbar and programmable memory seat and leather upholstery so pristine it recoiled from our touch.

Clarissa camped herself in the middle of the back seat. Of the three of us, she was the only one not taking things in a spirit of resignation.

“I've never been to England before,” she said, “but given that we're just a few miles from London, and given that
you
gentlemen are Interpol, ten bucks says you're taking us to the Secretariat.”

Her wager barely seemed to clear the headrest. It was left to Agent Milberg, slouching against the passenger-side door, to mutter:

“ 'S right.”

“Oh, no, no, wait,” said Clarissa, waving a finger. “The Interpol Secretariat is in Lyon. Lyon,
France.
God knows what I was thinking.”

She fell silent, but there something dangerously tensile about her now, like a balloon bending before the pin's first prick. I don't know why, but I chose that exact moment to look out the window. Expecting, naturally, to be heading eastward on the M4 toward London. When, in fact, we were northbound on the A312 Trunk Road. Making for parts unknown.

And that's when I realized Clarissa wasn't addressing her remarks to the two agents. She was speaking to me and Alonzo. She was raising the alarm.

“Well, anyway,” she said, “this has been very educational for me. Now that I've had time to think about it, I seem to recall that Interpol agents aren't authorized to arrest people.”

More silence from the front seat. At last, Agent Milberg, tipping his head a couple of inches our way, mumbled:

“Change of regs, isn't it?”

“You must be right. There must have been a recent change in the regulatory structure of Interpol. Which I was not aware of, apologies.”

And just like that, the locks went down on either side of us.

My initial reaction, oddly, was relief. We
weren't
being arrested. I
wasn't
in immediate danger of prison. Because these guys had as much to do with law enforcement as I did.

And yet we were just as surely in their power, were we not?

No point in presuming they were unarmed—those black suit jackets could conceal any manner of pistol or revolver. No point, either, in trying to phone for help. We were in a foreign country, in a foreign car, bound for God knows where. Not to put too fine a point on it, we were fucked.

And at first, when I saw the fluttering of Clarissa's fingers against her thigh, I assumed she was drinking from the same well of distress. Only gradually did I see that those fingers were alive with intention.

Which is to say, she was texting.

And with the fluency of a girl in eleventh-grade American history, glancing down every now and then to track her progress. It took her no more than a minute to draft and send the message, and I didn't even have time to wonder who the hell was receiving it, because in the next moment Alonzo's phone vibrated into life.

He peered down at the screen, gave Clarissa a single questioning look, and deleted the message with two pulses of his finger. Then, with great ponderousness, he swept the back of his arm across his forehand.

“Sorry,” he said. “Would you gentlemen mind? The air conditioner?”

Clarissa gave it twenty seconds.

“Alonzo,” she said. “What's wrong?”

“Not good,” he said, pressing his hands to his temples and softly swaying. “Not … mouth…”

“Mouth
what
?”

“Tingly.”

A shorter beat this time.

“Jesus,” whispered Clarissa.

The trembling began in Alonzo's head. Then it passed, inch by inch, down the column of his neck, radiating out to his arms and fingers, until the very air seemed to be vibrating.

Agent Milberg half turned his head.

“Got the shakes, does he?”

“If by
shakes
”—Clarissa made a studied effort to calm herself—“if by shakes, you mean hypoglycemia, then yes, he does have the shakes. Alonzo, I need you to tell me. When did you last take your insulin?”

Insulin.

“Last night,” he muttered between tremors.

“Last
night
? Jesus—”

And with that I swung into action.

“It's my fault,” I said.

Clarissa snapped her head toward me.

“What are you talking about?”

“I told him not to pack his insulin kit in the carry-on.”

“Why?”

“Come on, you know how weird airport security can be about needles.”

“Oh, that's great, Henry. Wow, your advice was—thank you so much for that. Alonzo, listen to me.
Where
are the syringes?”

He grunted. The shaking had spread now to his torso.

“Where?” Clarissa asked. “Just tell me where.”

“Luggage…”

Clarissa sat back up. Heaved out a river of air.

“Shit.”

Impossible to say how much of our histrionic display had filtered to the front of the car. Agent Milberg was moved enough to say:

“Be there in no time.”

“Um…” Clarissa tweezed her fingers around the bridge of her nose. “See, here's the deal. That's not soon enough.”

And, getting no response, she added, in a brittle voice:

“Would you please
look
at him?”

When at last Agent Milberg consented to turn around, this is what he beheld: a two-hundred-and-forty-pound man (conservatively estimated) with half-shut eyes and blanched face, quivering all over like an aspen in a thunderstorm.

“I don't want to be alarmist,” said Clarissa. “And it's not like you asked, but I feel I should tell you he's on the verge of a diabetic coma. Which is kind of serious.”

“Alonzo,” I murmured, reaching for his shoulder. “It's all right. Hold on.”

“He needs his insulin, okay? We need to stop the car.”

The first stirrings of disquiet appeared in Agent Milberg's dour face. He cast a glance at Alonzo, then his partner, and slowly turned back around.

“Look,” I said. “If you want this man to die right here, in the back of your car, that's fine. I doubt
Interpol
would be too happy about it.”

And, getting no reply, I lifted my voice into a more strained register.

“He's worth a lot more alive than dead.”

Still no answer. I was just getting around to my next tack when I heard Agent Mooney ask, in a low voice:

“Where's his kit?”

“In his suitcase,” Clarissa said. “I can get it.”

“
I
can get it,” I said.

“Henry, please. You're hopeless at finding things. It'll take me half a minute, tops.”

Both of us stared at the back of Agent Mooney's head, waiting for a sign. But the only sign came from the car itself, which, without warning, swerved onto the left shoulder, coming to a full stop in a cloud of gravel alongside a culvert.

“You've got one minute,” said Agent Mooney.

And as Clarissa began clambering over me to the door, he added, in an impish voice:

“My partner would be happy to assist you.”

This was a surprise to his partner, whose face squeezed down into shar-pei folds.

“Simon's really very good at this,” the Visigoth went on, barely suppressing his glee. “Aren't you, Simon?”

A low rumble issued from Agent Milberg's chest as he shouldered his door open, stalked to the back of the car, and flipped open the lid of the trunk.

And now whatever fear I had kept at bay rushed back with a leering force. Clarissa could stall as long as she liked, but sooner or later, they would comb through the entire contents of Alonzo's bag, and they would find no syringes, no needles, no insulin.

And that would be an end to all our chances.

As if he were divining my thoughts, Agent Mooney called back from the driver's seat.

“I'd hate to think you were having us on now. When we've gone out of our way to be pleasant and agreeable.”

Rather than reply, I unbuckled my seat belt, took off my jacket, and flung it over Alonzo's trembling bulk.

“Hold on,” I crooned. “Just a few more seconds.”

Only the seconds shaded into minutes, and the trunk remained steadfastly upright. And not a sound emerged.

“So tell me,” I said, hearing the thinness of my own tone. “Have you worked for Bernard Styles a long time?”

“Never heard of him,” said Agent Mooney.

“Oh, that's funny, 'cause—you know, I can't really think who else would want to talk to us.”

“Not for me to say, is it?
Cripes!
” he snapped, giving the horn three light taps.

I could see his eyes ranging across the rearview mirror, the whorls of discontent on his smooth round face. He hummed under his breath. He danced his hands on the steering wheel. At last, when he could bear it no longer, he thumbed down the power window and turned his head to one side and yelled:

“Simon! We ain't got all day!”

And in that instant, he came face-to-face with a gun.

A Desert Eagle semiautomatic pistol, to be specific. Looking even larger than usual in the small white hands of Clarissa Dale.

“If you would,” she said, only slightly panting, “please step out of the car.”

“ 'Course I will. 'Course I will, sweetheart.”

Even as one of his hands moved to open the door, the other reached under his jacket.

“Disarmed him, did you, sweetheart? That was very clever.”

The folds of his coat billowed as he talked. Some intricate Braille-like maneuver … followed by a brief pause … and then his hand began slowly to reemerge.

“Easy does it,” I said.

Normally, I would have stood no chance against him—it took both my hands just to encircle his wrist—but in this case, the numbers were in my favor. There was Clarissa, armed, unblinking. Directly behind was Alonzo, sitting up now, rude with health. It took the Visigoth no more than a couple of seconds to calculate his odds. Then, with a curiously bashful smile, he loosened his grip on the gun.

A second later, it was resting, warm and bulbous, in my palm.

“Okay,” said Clarissa. “Let me explain how this works, Agent Mooney. You step out of the car. You stay on
this
side of the car, and you keep your head down. I don't want any passing motorists taking pity on you. Is that clear enough?”

“Clear as a bell, love.”

Only it must not have been. The moment he stepped out of the Town Car, his head—by instinct, maybe—began to go vertical. For which presumption it received a clout from Clarissa's gun. Stunned, the Visigoth sank, wobbling, to his knees.

“God, these things are
heavy
, aren't they?” Clarissa said. “I'm not sure Interpol agents would be packing heat, either, but I could be wrong. What do you think, Henry?”

I couldn't answer because I had just found Agent Milberg. Sprawled on the gravel. Not completely still but the closest thing.

“How?”
I whispered.

“Oh,” said Clarissa. “I took a self-defense course once. Works best when least expected.”

“So what next, Femme Nikita?”

“Well, we should probably have Agent Mooney lie down on his stomach.”

Nothing but cheer irradiated the Visigoth's face as he palmed his way into a fully prone position. You might have thought he was glad for the rest.

“What do you have, Henry?” Clarissa's voice was low and hard. “A belt, maybe?”

“I've got a belt.”

“Then—”

Half exasperated, she swept her hands in the direction of the prone man. I knelt by him and drew his hands behind his back. Heard his voice percolating up from the ground.

“Listen, mate.”

I wrapped my belt around his wrist. One loop … two …

“You're not even in this,” he murmured. “No one's got a beef against
you
.”

I cinched the belt tight. Tucked the end into the buckle.

“See, right now?” he said. “You are
aggravating
the situation. You
know
that, don't you?”

“Personally,” said Clarissa, “I think the situation is getting better.”

She knelt down, unknotted the red tie that dangled from Agent Mooney's neck, and used it to bind his ankles. So lost was she in her labor I'm not sure she even heard his monologue.

“Listen to me. The both of you, you've been
marked
now, see? I'm just saying you leave things like this, you walk away, I'm not responsible for what happens later, eh? You capeesh? No, really, are you—”

It took a kick in the flank from Clarissa to stop his flow.

“Sorry,” she said. “I'm just trying to find your phone.”

It was an iPhone 3GS, with cheetah wallpaper. I dug it out of his pocket and scrolled through the list of contacts, looking for Bernard Styles or Halldor. Nothing.

So I carried it back to the car and set it with great care in the direct path of the front tire.

“Okay then,” said Clarissa.