The Magdalene Cipher (18 page)

“Who is?”

“The people I used to work for. And, you see, what happened was . . . they were tracking my credit cards, trying to see where I've gone. Which, of course, I knew they'd do, so, naturally, I didn't use them. Only then, when you went out to buy the coat—I kind of forgot about it. Because I was listening to Simon, and—”

She shook her head impatiently. “What did you
do
a?” she asked, enunciating each word as if he were deaf and had to read lips. “What did you do to
them
that made them so angry at
you
a?”

Dunphy waved the question away. “What's that got to do with anything? The point is—”

“You didn't embezzle funds?!” she asked, more thrilled than scared. “You aren't an
embezzler
a?!”

Her excitement made him smile. “It wasn't money,” he said. “It was more like . . . information. Like I was embezzling information.” Clem frowned, not understanding. “I got
curious
,
a” Dunphy went on. “About Schidlof. And now . . .” He couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence. It sounded so melodramatic
.

But Clem wouldn't let it go. “Now
,
what
a?” she asked
.

The train lurched a second time and began to move
.

“Well,” he went on, “
now
they want to kill me. I mean, any idiot could see
that
.
a”

She fell silent for a long while, and then, “How did they find us?”

“Like I said, they traced the charge. I kept one of my cards to get cash from an ATM, and then I forgot to throw it away. Then I gave you the wallet in Camden Lock, and you used the card to buy a coat. And when you did that, the credit-card people got on the phone to Langley. And they told them there was activity in one of the accounts they'd been told to watch.”

She shook her head. “They wouldn't do that,” she said firmly
.

“Who wouldn't?”

“Visa. American Express.”

“Why not?”

“Because it's an invasion of privacy!”

Dunphy stared at her. Finally he said, “You're right. Cynical me. God knows what I was thinking.”

“And, anyway—who's Langley?”

“It's a place—not a person. Outside Washington. And if you can suspend your sense of disbelief, just for a minute, I'll finish telling you what happened. When the credit-card people called Langley, Langley called the embassy in London—”

“But how do you
know
all this? You're just making it up!”

“I'm not making it up. It's the way things are done.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I've done it!”

“
Killed
people?” She was aghast
.

Dunphy shook his head. “No!
Located
a them.”

“But why would you do that?”

“I don't know. There are lots of reasons! What's the difference? The point is, maybe ten minutes after they called the embassy, a couple of guys—”

“What guys?”

“The ones back there. They got in their car—”

“The Jaguar.”

“Right. They got into the
Ja
ag-yew-are and drove it to Camden Lock. Where they looked for the shop. And when they found it, they went through the day's receipts until they found a sixty-quid Amex transaction. And when they found the transaction, they asked the guy who ran the shop if he could remember the sale.” Dunphy paused. “Which he apparently did. Not that I'm surprised. You're kind of memorable.”

Clementine looked glum. “That was Jeffrey. He's a friend of Simon's.”

“So he's someone you know.”

She shrugged. “Just to say hello. We shared a taxi once. And he told me he had these coats.” She fell silent for a moment, and then turned back to him. “Why are they after
you?
You must have done something to them.”

Dunphy made a gesture with his hands. “Not really. I mean, I asked a lot of questions, and . . . obviously, they were the wrong questions, or maybe they were the right questions, but . . . I don't know what to tell you. It's not entirely clear.”

“Someone's trying to kill you, and you don't know why?”

Her sarcasm angered him. “Well, I'm trying to find out
,
aren't
I? I mean . . . it's not as if I haven't thought about it! You can understand my
curiosity
.
a”

She flinched at the hard edge in his voice. Finally, and in a dull voice, she asked, “Where are we going?”

Dunphy gazed out the window at the wintry landscape. “I don't know,” he said, “but—this train?—it's beginning to look a lot like a handbasket.”

The airport at Southend-on-Sea was sufficiently obscure that Dunphy felt certain that no one would be looking for them there. It would take a few hours, at least, for the Agency to sort out Curry's misfortune and to invent a reason for MI5 to put Dunphy in its lookout books. By then, he and Clem would be on a British Midland flight to St. Helier
.

This was the capital of Jersey, largest of the Anglo-Normandes, or Channel Islands. A British dependency only twelve miles off the coast of France, the islands were a feudal anachronism—a bilingual tax haven with more registered corporations than actual people. Famous for its soft climate, Jersey was one of the favorite banking venues of (the unfortunately defunct) Anglo-Erin Business Services, PLC.—and its proprietor, K. Thornley
.

Which was why Dunphy decided not to stay at his usual bolt-hole, where he was known to the management by his pseudonym, but to take a suite at the rather more posh Longueville Manor. (Or, as it was formally known
,
The
Longueville Manor.)

An Edwardian pile of ivy-clad granite and tiles, the Manor was situated in a private wood, a few miles outside the capital. As their taxi entered the hotel's circular drive, Clem remarked how spooky it looked, opaque in the winter mist
.

But once inside the hotel, the Channel's damp surrendered to ancient tapestries, candlelight, and a roaring fireplace
.

“Will you need help with your luggage, Mr.? . . .” The clerk squinted at the registration card
.

“Dunphy. Jack Dunphy. And no, we won't—the fucking airline lost it on our way in from the States.”

The clerk winced. “Oh, dear . . . well, I'm sure it will turn up. It always does.” Bright smile
.

Dunphy grunted. “Yeah, only now it's beginning to look like this could turn into a major shopping opportunity.” Clem rocked back and forth on her heels, mugging her glee, as if a director had called out
Eyes and teeth, dahling!
a “You do have
stores
here,” Dunphy asked, “or is it just banks?”

The clerk grinned. “No, sir, I'm afraid we do indeed have shops, as well.” The two men exchanged rueful chuckles as Dunphy accepted a plastic room key. “Just down the hall, sir,” the clerk said, and folding his hands with a smug smile, watched the American couple wander off in the direction of their suite
.

Which was large, and more Ralph Lauren than Laura Ashley, with birch logs crackling in the hearth. Hunting scenes hung from the walls in dark wooden frames, and a bowl of fresh flowers bloomed beside the bed. “Have you been here before, then?” Clem asked, falling backward onto a velvet couch and staring up at the ceiling
.

“Not here,” Dunphy said, fixing each of them a drink from the minibar. “But Jersey—yeah.”

“It's very nice.”

“Uh-huh.” He swirled the Laphroaig in her glass and gave it to her. Then he sat down on the floor beside the couch, facing the fireplace, and sipped. “Only we can't stay here for long.” He could feel her frown on his shoulder blades. “It wouldn't be safe. They'll be looking for us.”

“On Jersey?”

“Everywhere.”

“Then why don't we just go to the police?”

Dunphy sighed. “Because the police think I had something to do with . . . what happened to Schidlof. And maybe I did, indirectly. I mean, I
was
bugging the guy.”

“You were
what
a?”

“Recording his telephone calls. And then he got killed.”

She was quiet for a moment, and then, “Why were you listening—”

“I wasn't listening. I was having the calls recorded.”

“Why?”

“I don't know,” Dunphy replied. “I wasn't told.”

“You weren't
told
a?”

“It was my
job
.
I did what they said.”

She was quiet again, and then spoke up. “I still think the police . . .”

Dunphy dismissed the idea with a flick of his hand. “No. If we go to the police, the embassy will get into it, and the next thing you know, they'll be telling the Brits it's a ‘national security matter.' And that wouldn't be good.”

“Why not?”

“Because as soon as that happens, I'm on the next flight out, wrapped in a rug.” He took another sip of whiskey, relishing its heat on his palate. “And that's just
me
.
I don't know
what
happens to you. You fall between the cracks or something.”

“I
what
a?”

“You fall between the cracks. Which I suppose could be good or bad, depending—”

“On what?”

“The cracks—and how
deep
they are.”

A long silence ensued. Finally Clem asked, “So what do we do?”

Dunphy turned to her. “We have to get you a passport—”

“I've already got one. I mean, at home. I could say I lost it, and—”

He shook his head. “No. We need something in a different name.”

“Which name?” she asked
.

“I don't know. Any name you like.”

The idea seemed to please her, and she thought about it. “Could it be Veroushka?”

Dunphy did a double take. “I guess, but . . . what the fuck is a Veroushka?”

Clem's shoulders rose and fell in a little shrug. “It's just a name I like.”

“Okay . . . Veroushka it is.”

“And I'll need a last name, too.”

“No problem. There's a million of them. Windsong is taken, but how about Stankovic? Or Zipwitz?”

“I don't think so.”

“Why not? Veroushka Zipwitz! It's got a ring to it.”

She smiled. “Bell will do. One
e
,
two
ls
a.”

“Got it.”

“It was my grandmother's name.”

“No problem. Veroushka Bell. I
like
it.” She smacked him on the shoulder. “No, I mean it,” he said. “It's great.”

“Okay, so now that I have a name—how are you going to get a passport made?”

“No problem. I can do it in Zürich.”

“I'm sure you can. But we aren't
in
Zürich.”

“Riii-ight,” he replied, and got to his feet. “That's the bad part.”

“What is?” she asked
.

He didn't answer her at first, but fetched another miniature from the minibar. “Refill?”

“What's the bad part?” she demanded
.

“The part about your going home—but not to your flat.” Suddenly, she looked frightened, and he hurried on. “Can you get a room for a few days? Until I can get you a passport?”

“No!”

“Clem—”

“I can't!”

“You can. You have to. C'mon, babe . . . it's the only way.”

She looked at him in a way that was almost as surly as it was sad—as if she were a child who'd been cheated by an adult. Her lower lip trembled, and her forehead plunged. It would have been comical if it weren't so heartrending
.

Finally, she nodded
.

“We'll get pictures taken for your passport,” Dunphy said, “and have a really good dinner. In the morning, I'll take you down to the docks. You can get the hydrofoil to Southend—ever been in one?” She shook her head, tears flying. “You'll like it. It's very exciting. Like sitting inside a vacuum cleaner.”

She giggled in spite of herself. “And what about you?”

“I'll be at the bank. And then on a boat to France, and then a train to Zürich. There's a hotel there, the Zum Storchen. It's right in the middle of town, so you won't have any trouble finding it. But I'm going to need an address
for you
a—so I can send the passport.”