The Bergamese Sect (44 page)

‘
Castro! Koestler!’ Walsh had shouted as each had run past. But no one had even flinched.

It had been several minutes since Sewell and his men had barged through the blue-glass door. And at least fifteen since Linsky had called him on the mobile. But there was no sign of any of them. And the targets were still in there too.

‘
C’mon Linsky!’ Walsh whispered angrily. ‘Get them out!’

He pulled out his gun and hid it behind the wall, away from the onlookers.

Suddenly, Walsh heard a shot from inside; close inside. He was about to rush into the building when two men appeared at the doorway. They were crouching, staggering toward the steps. A man rushed after them. It was Linsky.

The agent noticed Walsh and indicated with a flourish of his weapon that these were the men they wanted. Walsh began to move again but froze as another shot rang out, this time much closer. Linsky barged into the two men, knocking them heavily down the steps, falling to his knees. The shot had ripped the sleeve of his jacket into streamers that billowed in the breeze.

Walsh was vaguely aware of the screams of people in the street. They were dispersing down the wide road, ducking behind cars. The noise of the fire trucks was gaining in volume. Above him, Linsky was struggling to get to his feet, screaming something unintelligible to the two men. They remained where they’d fallen, their eyes wide, the blood drained from their features.

Walsh swung his gun around toward the door of the building. The faintest of shadows darkened the doorway and Walsh fired. The bullet sped through the glass, leaving a perfectly circular hole and countless radial cracks.

‘
Get up!’ Linsky was screaming. He was on his feet now and dived toward the men he was trying to save. He began to drag them toward the shelter of the cars.

As they inched away, the door shattered into a myriad of twinkling blue shards. A body emerged from the explosion, hit the ground and span down the steps.

There was a flash and a thunderous bang. Before Walsh could respond, the assailant had fired. But a moment later Walsh had stuck two bullets into the figure. The man lay motionless.

One of the targets had been hit. The man made a grab for his leg. The blood was already soaking through his trousers. He was screaming, writhing on the sidewalk.

‘
Stay there!’ Walsh shouted, catching the man’s stricken eyes.

Linsky and the other man were crossing the road, running on their haunches. Then they were sprinting down the street.

Walsh edged out from behind the wall. The man was moaning, grasping at his shattered leg.

Suddenly, a cacophony of automatic weapon fire filled the air. Bullets were rebounding off the sidewalk in a hail of sparks and dust. They plinked off the nearby vehicles, windows exploding everywhere, tyres bursting with pops and hisses. The air was thick with a dissonant hysteria, the screams never-ending.

Walsh dived for cover behind the wall. The bullets continued to spray through the air around him. The fallen man was still alive, but there was no way to reach him and pull him to safety. Walsh looked over his shoulder. His only escape route was over another wall. He leapt up and dived over, then over another, until he was several buildings away.

Then he ran, as fast as he could, down the street. He turned one last time and saw the body of the man, still struggling with the agony of the wound, being dragged up the steps by a shaven thug.

As Walsh headed toward Lexington Avenue, the fire trucks sped past him, their sirens clamouring through the dismal drizzle.

Chapter 26

The man’s shadow created a black hole in the floating dust that caught sunlight streaming through polythene. It rose sharply up a concrete column, reaching toward the open ceiling full of ducts encased in metallic wrappings and dangling cables. Silhouetted menacingly against yellow light that now spilt through dispersing rain clouds, the figure circled slowly.

To Castro it was a death knell. A welcome tolling that offered him peace. A part of Castro wanted to embrace the end of his misery. To consign himself to the agonising ignorance. He was ready to sacrifice the months of tired searching, accept his failure to knit his broken life together. He didn’t care anymore. His soul was screaming for reprieve, not from a secret long hidden, but from the pain of living.

Castro backed against the wall. ‘Do it quickly,’ he said.

The shadow stopped and turned.

Castro raised an arm, rested it on his sweaty forehead, trying to shield the brilliance streaming into the room, masking the man before him.

All he could hear was the man’s slow breath and the far-off hiss of traffic.

Out of the bright, swirling specks of dust came the face of his daughter, forming from motes of light. Her dazzling smile was a greeting, a relief that the waiting was over. Daddy had come home; his love had returned. Here was the other half of her being, bringing back a devotion no fatherless child could ever understand, making her whole again. With stirring innocence, the smile set Castro’s soul aflame.

A tense constriction formed in his throat. He wanted to be released, but into the arms of his family, not into the peaceful oblivion. Surely, that could not be his reward!

‘
We’re not going to harm you,’ the figure droned.

The man moved again, went beyond the concrete column where shade revealed his tall form, his strong jaw mottled by stubbly growth. He was expressionless.

Castro noticed the gun in the man’s hand and a shudder ran through his body. The man slipped it into his jacket, turned and surveyed the room.

They were in a half-built office block in lower Manhattan, on the tenth floor, out of sight of the late afternoon traffic below. The space was large and square, dissected by four thick grey supports. It was windowless but two sides of the room were shielded from the elements by plastic sheeting. The sunlight illuminated them like cinema screens.

‘
Just do it now!’ Castro spat.

The man scratched his cheek. ‘Do what?’ he asked.

Castro shrugged his shoulders. ‘Look,’ he said sorrowfully, ‘I don’t know what you think I know. But whatever it is, I can easily forget it. Let me go and I’ll disappear for good.’ Castro realised his voice sounded pitifully pleading. He swallowed, embarrassed, feeling a trembling starting in his knees.

The man didn’t react.

A tapping, scraping sound echoed into the room. Slow footsteps on gritty concrete. The tall man pulled out his weapon again, stepped behind the bare, grey column and held it poised.

‘
Linsky?’ a voice called softly. Although almost a whisper, the question amplified and rebounded off the solid walls.

‘
In here,’ the man answered.

Another, older man entered the unfinished office space, his eyes warily scanning across the protective curtain that billowed beyond the glass-less window. He had a textured face, dominated more by its nodular appearance than its healthy colour. A smear of grey hair flashed at his temples, adding distinction to an appearance that was at once both dogged and comforting.

The man acknowledged his colleague and then stared at Castro. There was a calculating look in his eyes. He stepped forward, holding out his hand. ‘Mr Castro, I’m Larry Walsh of the National Security Agency,’ he said.

Castro glanced at the man’s hand, motioned it away with a grunt. He didn’t care to know the man’s credentials.

‘
Formerly of the National Security Agency,’ the other man said, now slipping his gun away again.

Walsh turned, a smile breaking across his face. ‘Right, Linsky,’ he agreed. ‘Formerly of the National Security Agency.’

He turned back to Castro. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked.

Castro ignored the question. ‘Look, let’s just get this over with,’ he scowled. ‘You’ve got me. Just do what you have to do.’

‘
Mr Castro,’ Walsh said, ‘we’re not going to harm you.’

Castro was uncomfortable. The trembling was reaching up into his thighs. He turned his gaze to the dirty floor. ‘Don’t play games with me,’ he said. ‘Now’s your chance to finish the job you loused up in Murnau.’

He looked up again. The government man didn’t look threatening. But then, assassins wouldn’t, would they? They’d keep a detachment from the task that gave them immunity from aggression. These things were done that way.

The other man, the one who’d burst in on them in Radich’s office, looked more menacing. But he was also indifferent.

A niggling confusion ran through Castro. The three men he’d seen ascending the stairs of the
Tagaste
building, as the tall man had pushed them into a doorway, had been trying to save them. They’d shot at the government agent, trying to prevent his kidnap. Someone was fighting his cause, but he had no idea who. Or why. But whoever it was, they’d failed, leaving Castro to his fate at the hands of a federal conspiracy. The anticipation of death was expanding painfully in his chest.

‘
Mr Castro, we’re here to help you,’ Walsh said.

Castro looked up. ‘Help me?’ he repeated, sarcastically. He felt his body go taught involuntarily as Walsh came closer. It was an instinctive reaction.

Walsh stopped. ‘You were about to be killed back there,’ he said. ‘We were protecting you.’

Castro snorted dismissively. He edged further away along the wall, re-establishing his distance. ‘Who the hell are you then?’ he said.

‘
I just told you. We’re from the National Security Agency. This here’s Agent Linsky. I’m Assistant Director Larry Walsh.’ He came closer. ‘I understand you’re interested in alien abduction.’

Castro was silent. They weren’t going to get a hint of cooperation. He continued to stare.

‘
There’s no need to hide your interest from us, Mr Castro,’ Walsh continued. ‘We’re very keen to learn about your experiences. To help you find the truth.’

‘
I bet you are,’ Castro muttered. ‘So you can silence me and any others I might have told.’

Walsh sighed. ‘No,’ he said.

‘
You know,’ Castro said suddenly, ‘I’d just about convinced myself the government wasn’t involved in all this. I’d even found myself doubting the CIA were in on it, even though one of you guys was involved in stealing those documents. You really had me thinking that bunch of academics back there was to blame.’

‘
We’re not from the CIA, Mr Castro.’

‘
CIA, NSA, you’re all in the same business – controlling the guy on the street.’ Castro returned his eyes to the floor, began shifting the toe of his shoe through the dust.

‘
Really, Mr Castro, it’s not like that. Yes, we’re from a government intelligence agency, but we’re trying to find the truth, same as you. I can assure you, neither we, nor the CIA are responsible for what happened to you.’

‘
Then what do you want with me? Why have you brought me here?’

‘
We’ve recently realised this Society may be involved in abductions and have been monitoring their phone lines. We heard your names mentioned. They knew about you and were planning to kill you. We wanted to save your necks, Mr Castro. You and Koestler.’

Castro looked up swiftly. ‘Where is Koestler?’

A look of resignation crossed Walsh’s face. ‘We didn’t manage to get him out.’

‘
Was he killed?’

‘
I don’t know.’

Castro raised his hands to his face and covered his eyes. He sighed loudly through the fingers and rubbed his forehead.

If this was truth, then Castro wanted out. It wasn’t worth it anymore. A life with an issue was better than no life at all. He could make it just an issue, couldn’t he? Block out the vulnerabilities, the obsession, not with drugs or liquor, but with the vibrancy of togetherness. By filling his life with sweet distractions.

If that were the life offered him, he would take it, run with it. Run back to that desert and start over. Show those sanctimonious bastards how
he
could overcome!

‘
Look,’ Castro said, pulling his hands slowly down his face, ‘I don’t want to be part of this anymore. I’ve had enough. Whatever you’re doing, they’re doing, whoever; I don’t want to know about it. I’ll learn to live with it.’

‘
You’ve come this far,’ Walsh said, his face disappointed.

‘
I know, and look where it’s got me. An old man murdered. An innocent journalist probably dead. The threat of a bullet through my head. It’s not worth it. I’ll have to cope with not knowing.’

‘
Don’t you think others deserve to know the truth?’

‘
Let
them
find it. I have a wife and kids I haven’t seen for almost a year. I’ve got to salvage what’s left of my life. If there’s anything left to salvage.’

‘
I understand that, Mr Castro,’ Walsh said sympathetically. He straightened up and put his hands in his coat pockets. ‘But I desperately need your help.’

‘
My help? Why?’

‘
Evidence, Mr Castro. I need to know what it is I’m pursuing. Don’t make me hunt out other people like you, make them face their fears as you’ve done.’

Castro felt the tightness in his neck contracting again. There was moisture collecting in his eyes. ‘I can’t help. I won’t,’ he sniffed.

‘
Others may suffer if you refuse.’

‘
I don’t care.’

‘
I think you do, Mr Castro.’

Castro let his body slide down the concrete wall and crouched on the floor. He covered his face again, rubbing his head vigorously. The government man was confusing him, making him believe the conspiracy lay elsewhere. Trying to gain his trust, only to throw him flailing to the street below, or brick him up in the walls of the office block. But he’d rejected the promise of oblivion and wouldn’t go without a fight. He looked up, a new rage in his eyes.