The Black Angel

It was there that the trail ran out, for the payment made through Gaud to the actual seller (following a deduction by Gaud for his assistance that was excessive to the point of extortion) was in the form of cash. The only clue that the current owners of the business were able to offer as to the identity of the men in question was that Gaud had indicated they were American soldiers. This was hardly surprising to Sekula, as the Allies were just as capable of looting as the Nazis, but he was aware of the twin massacres at Narbo

Then, late the previous morning, a man had called and described to Sekula what could only be a fragment of the map and the box in which it was contained. The caller was old, and tried to retain his anonymity, but he had given himself away from the moment that he used his home phone to dial New York. Now here they were, one day later, seated with an ugly drunk in polyester pants spotted with spilled vodka, watching as she got progressively more intoxicated.

“He’ll be home soon,” she repeatedly reassured the visitors, slurring her words. “I can’t imagine where he’s gotten to.”

Sandy asked them to show her the money again, and Sekula obliged. She ran a pudgy finger over the faces on the notes and giggled to herself.

“Wait until he sees all this,” she said. “The old fart will shit himself.”

“Perhaps, while we’re waiting, we might take a look at the item,” Sekula suggested.

Sandy tapped her nose with the side of her finger.

“All in good time,” she said. “Larry will get it for you, even if he has to beat it out of the old fuck.”

Sekula felt Miss Zahn tense beside him. For the first time, his unthreatening façade began to fragment.

“Do you mean that the item is not actually your husband’s to sell?” he asked, carefully.

Sandy Crane tried to retrieve her mistake, but it was too late.

“No, it’s his to sell, but you see there’s this other fella and, well, he has a say in it too. But he’ll agree. Larry will make him agree.”

“Who is he, Mrs. Crane?” said Sekula.

Sandy shook her head. If she told him, he’d go away and talk to Hall himself, and he’d take all that lovely money with him. She’d said too much already. It was time to clam up.

“He’ll be back soon,” she said firmly. “Believe me, it’s all taken care of.”

Sekula stood. It should have been easy. The money would have been handed over, the manuscript would have come into their possession, and they would simply have left. If Brightwell subsequently decided to kill the seller, then that was his call to make. He should have guessed that it would never be so simple.

Sekula wasn’t good at this part. That was why Miss Zahn was with him. Miss Zahn was very good at it, very good indeed. She was already on her feet, removing her jacket and unbuttoning her blouse while Sandy Crane watched, her mouth hanging open as she made vague sounds of incomprehension. It was only when Miss Zahn undid the last button and slipped the blouse from her body that the Crane woman at last began to understand.

Sekula thought the tattoos upon his lover’s body were fascinating, even if he found it almost impossible to imagine the pain that their creation must have caused her. Apart from her face and hands, her skin was entirely obscured by illustrations, the monstrous, distorted faces blending into one another so it was almost impossible to identify individual beings among them. Yet it was the eyes that were the most disturbing aspect, even for Sekula. There were so many of them, large and small, encompassing every imaginable color, like oval wounds upon her body. Now, as she advanced toward Sandy Crane, they seemed to alter, the pupils expanding and contracting, the eyes rotating in their sockets, exploring this new unfamiliar place, with the drunken woman now cowering before them.

But it was probably no more than a trick of the light.

Sekula stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind him. He went into the dining room across the hall and sat down in an armchair. It gave him a clear view of the driveway and the street beyond. He tried to find a magazine to read, but all he could see were copies of Reader’s Digest and some supermarket tabloids. He heard Mrs. Crane say something in the room beyond, then her voice became muffled. Seconds later, Sekula grimaced as she started screaming against the gag.

The FBI’s New York field division had moved location so often in its history that it should have been staffed by Gypsies. In 1910, when it first opened, it was located in the old post office building, a site now occupied by City Hall Park. Since then, it had opened up shop at various points on Park Row; in the SubTreasury Building at Wall and Nassau; at Grand Central Terminal; in the U.S. Courthouse at Foley Square; on Broadway; and in the former Lincoln Warehouse at East Sixty-ninth, before finally making a home at the Jacob Javits Federal Building, down near Foley Square again.

I called the FBI shortly before eleven and asked to be put through to Special Agent Philip Bosworth, the man who had visited Neddo to inquire about his knowledge of Sedlec and the Believers. I got bounced around before ending up with the OSM’s department, or what used to be the chief clerk’s office before everybody got a shiny new title. The office service manager and his staff were responsible for noninvestigative matters. A man who identified himself as Grantley asked me my name and business. I gave him my license number and told him I was trying to get in touch with Special Agent Bosworth regarding a missing person investigation.

“Special Agent Bosworth is no longer with this office,” said Grantley.

“Well, can you tell me where I can find him?”

“No.”

“Can I give you my number and maybe you could pass it on to him?”

“No.”

“Can you help me in any way at all?”

“I don’t think so.”

I thanked him. I wasn’t sure for what, but it seemed the polite thing to do.

Edgar Ross was still one of the special agents in charge at the New York division. Unlike SACs in most of the other field offices, the SAC wasn’t the final authority in New York. Ross answered to the assistant director in charge, a pretty good guy named Wilmots, but Ross still had a whole family of hungry assistant SACs under his command and was therefore the most influential law enforcement official I knew. Our paths had crossed during the pursuit of the man who had killed Susan and Je