I Am Pilgrim

  Ben had found a file he was interested in and opened it up: it showed the passport photo of Ingrid, and he stared at her beautiful face.

  ‘If you’re right about the rejection, I guess Ingrid must have really loved Cameron – to have been thrown aside in favour of some guy, to take her back and then to kill for her. Not once, but, as you say, twice.’

  I had never thought about it like that. ‘Yeah, I guess that’s true,’ I said. ‘A strange sort of love, though.’

  Of course, I should have remembered what Ingrid had said when I interviewed her – about not understanding the half of it. It was arrogance on my part, I suppose – I was so certain that I had unravelled the whole crime.

  Bradley was too. ‘How unlucky were they?’ he said. ‘They had committed what was near enough to the perfect murders, and they would have got away with it too – except the highest level of the United States intelligence community and one of its investigators became focused on this town.’

  ‘Bad luck for them, maybe – not for us,’ I said. ‘Without Ingrid and Cameron I wouldn’t have had the perfect cover – we would never have got as close as we have. God help them, but they were an important part of what could have been a great victory.’

  ‘It’s over?’ he asked in surprise, looking at the clock. Four minutes to go. ‘You don’t think he’s gonna call?’

  I shook my head. ‘I didn’t tell you, but McKinley had his own estimate of when we could expect to hear. I was the outrider – he was an hour earlier.’

  ‘What happens now?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Get on the phone,’ I said. ‘Book the first plane home. If you leave at dawn, you can probably get back before they close the airports.

  ‘Then do what I suggested – take Marcie and head straight for the beach house. Together, you’ll have a chance.’

  ‘Better with three,’ he replied. ‘Come with us.’

  I smiled but shook my head. ‘No, I’ll go to Paris.’

  ‘Paris?’ he said, shocked. ‘Cities are going to be the worst places.’

  ‘Yeah, but I was happy there … I had a lot of dreams … If it gets really bad, I’d like to be close to that.’

  He looked at me for a long moment, sad, I think, but it was hard to tell. Then he started to ask me how long it would take for the virus to burn out and other—

  I held my hand up, signalling him to be quiet. I thought I had heard something outside in the hall. We both stood frozen, listening. Then we heard it together – footsteps.

  I grabbed the Beretta off the night stand and glided silently to the peephole. Ben drew his pistol and trained it on the point where the door would open.

  I looked through the spyhole and saw the shadow of a man on the wall. He was coming closer.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  THE MAN STEPPED into view – it was the bellhop. Unaware he was being watched, he pushed an envelope under the door.

  I waited until he had left before I put the pistol down and picked it up. Watched by Ben – heart racing, my thoughts veering between hope and ruthless restraint – I opened the flap and pulled out a single sheet of paper.

  I read it, felt the wall of anxiety collapse, and shook my head in wonder.

  ‘What is it?’ said Ben.

  ‘I’m a fool,’ I replied. ‘There was never going to be any message that Echelon could hear. Cumali didn’t need to go to the phone box – the man is already here.’

  ‘In Bodrum? How do you know?’

  I indicated the letter. ‘She wants to pick me up at eleven in the morning – she’s invited me to go on a picnic with her supposed son.’

  ‘No, you’re wrong,’ Ben responded. ‘What can happen if the boy’s there?’

  I laughed. ‘He won’t be,’ I said. ‘She’ll make an excuse. Why else would she suddenly invite me to a picnic? She can’t stand me. No, her brother’s here, Ben. Tomorrow, I’m going to meet him.’

  Bradley’s doubts died under the weight of my certainty, and I saw the look on his face – I could tell he was dreading the role he would now have to play. To be honest, I wasn’t looking forward to mine either.

  I unbolted the door for him. ‘Call Whisperer fast. Just tell him: Buddy, we’re live.’

  Chapter Twenty-five

  I HAD COME to turkey as a pathfinder and ended up as a lure. Consequently, I had made no effort to put my affairs in order before I left and now I found I had to do it fast.

  As soon as Bradley had left to call Whisperer, I sat down at the small desk, pulled out a piece of paper and, late as it was, started to write my will. In normal circumstances – with just a government pension, the annuity from Grace and a small collection of paintings – I wouldn’t have bothered.

  But things had become more complicated. When Ben and Marcie had blown my cover and forced me to leave Paris, one of the few things I had thrown into my bag were the two letters from the New York lawyer about the deaths of both Bill and Grace.

  The elderly lawyer’s name was Finbar Hanrahan, the son of penniless Irish immigrants, a man of such integrity that he threatened single-handedly to give lawyers a good name. He had been Bill’s lawyer since before he had married Grace, and I had met him many times over the years.

  With the two letters in hand and back in New York, I had made an appointment to see him. So it was, late one afternoon, that he rose from behind the desk in his spectacular office and greeted me warmly. He led me to a sofa in the corner from which there was a view all the way up Central Park and introduced me to the other two men in attendance, one of whom I recognized as a former secretary of commerce. Finbar said that they were lawyers but neither of them was associated with his firm.

  ‘They have read certain documents and I have asked them to be here as impartial observers. Their job is to ensure that everything I do is by the book and cannot be misconstrued or questioned later. I want to be scrupulous about this.’

  It seemed strange, but I let it ride – I figured Finbar knew what he was doing. ‘You said in your letter there was a small matter of Bill’s estate that had to be finalized,’ I said. ‘Is that what we’re dealing with?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but there’s an important issue we have to resolve first.’ He looked at the two wise men, and they nodded. Let’s do it, they seemed to be saying.

  ‘You may not know this,’ Finbar said, ‘but Bill cared about you very much. More than that, he believed that in some way you were special – he thought you were destined to do something very important.’

  I grinned. ‘Yeah, one of Grace’s friends told me that. Obviously, he’d become unhinged.’

  Finbar smiled. ‘Not unhinged, no – although he did become increasingly concerned about you. Especially after you left Harvard and went to live in Europe. Frankly, he didn’t believe you were involved in the art business at all.’

  The news didn’t surprise me – Bill had been not only intelligent but also highly intuitive. I didn’t reply – I just looked at the elderly lawyer, poker-faced.

  ‘Bill had no idea how you earned money,’ he continued, ‘and was worried that you had become involved in a business that was either illegal or, at least, immoral.’

  He waited for a reply, but I nodded and made no comment.

  ‘He said that on several occasions when he tried to talk to you about it, you were not what he called “forthcoming”.’

  Again, I just nodded.

  ‘So, this is my question, Scott: what exactly do you do?’

  ‘Nothing right now,’ I replied. ‘I’m back in New York to see if I can find something that might grab my interest.’ I didn’t think it was a good idea to tell him I was looking for cover, running from my past.

  ‘Yes, but before that?’

  ‘I worked for the government,’ I said after a pause.

  ‘Well, it seems like half the country does that – although I use the term “work” loosely.’ He had a pretty wry sense of humour, old Finbar. ‘What exactly did you do for the government?’


  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’ve been told not to talk about it.’ I saw the two wise men exchange a glance – they obviously didn’t believe it.

  ‘Told by whom?’ Finbar said, ignoring them. I felt sorry for him – it was clear he really wanted it to work out.

  ‘By executive order,’ I replied quietly.

  The former secretary of commerce raised his eyes – it was getting too much for him. ‘You worked in Europe, but the White House won’t allow you to discuss it, is that right?’

  ‘That’s correct, Mr Secretary.’

  ‘There’s got to be somebody – a superior or someone – we can talk to about it, even in general terms,’ Finbar said.

  ‘I don’t think that’s possible,’ I replied. ‘I’ve probably gone too far already.’ And anyway, The Division – which had never officially existed – had already been buried.

  Finbar sighed. ‘Bill was very clear, Scott – we can’t go forward unless I’m satisfied about your integrity and honesty. You’ll have to help us—’

  ‘I can’t – I’ve given my word not to speak about any of it. I signed undertakings.’ I think they were surprised at the harshness and finality of my tone.

  ‘Then I’m afraid …’ Sadly, the lawyer looked at the other two men for confirmation, and they nodded. ‘I’m afraid we have to terminate this meeting.’

  I stood up, and the others did the same. I was disappointed that I would never know what Bill had intended, but I didn’t know what else to do. The former secretary of commerce was putting out his hand in farewell when a thought occurred to me.

  ‘I have a letter of commendation which might help. It concerns an event I was involved in some years ago.’

  ‘An event? What sort of event? A charity run or something?’ the former secretary asked.

  ‘Not exactly,’ I replied. ‘Some parts of the letter would have to be blacked out, but I think you could see it.’

  ‘Who’s it from?’ Finbar asked eagerly.

  ‘From the president. It’s handwritten on White House stationery.’

  The three men didn’t say anything. Finbar looked as if he’d have to bend down and pick his jaw up off the floor. The former secretary was the first to recover, still sceptical.

  ‘Which president?’ he asked.

  ‘Your old boss,’ I said coldly. I didn’t like the guy much.

  ‘Anyway, call him,’ I continued. ‘I’m sure you have a number. Ask him for permission to read the letter. Tell him it concerns a young man and a terrible event in Red Square – I’m sure he’ll remember.’

  The former secretary had no response, and Finbar filled the silence. ‘We should stop here,’ he said. ‘I think we’ve stumbled into an area concerning national security—’

  ‘You sure have,’ I replied.

  Finbar looked at the other two lawyers, addressing the former secretary. ‘Jim, if you wouldn’t mind – could you make that phone call later, just as a formality?’

  He nodded.

  ‘In the meantime, we’re in agreement then?’ Finbar continued. ‘We’re satisfied – we can move forward?’

  The two men nodded, but I could tell from the way the former secretary was looking at me that he had been in the Cabinet meeting when the death of the Rider of the Blue had been discussed. He had probably never thought he would come face to face with the man who killed him.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  FINBAR TOOK A file out of a wall safe, the other two lawyers shrugged off their jackets and from our eyrie I looked out at rain squalls sweeping down the park towards us, still with no idea what was going on.

  ‘As you know, when Bill died his very substantial wealth was held in a series of trusts which then passed – in their entirety – to Grace,’ Finbar explained, opening the file.

  ‘There was, however, one small but special part of his life that was quarantined in a separate corporate structure. What it contained had been built up over years and, quite honestly, Grace had never shown any interest in it.

  ‘Before he died, Bill made arrangements, with my help, for this to pass into your hands. I think he was worried that if Grace outlived him she would make no provision for you.’ He smiled. ‘Bill was obviously an intelligent man – we know how that turned out, don’t we?’

  I grinned back. ‘She did give me eighty grand a year.’

  ‘Only at my insistence,’ he shot back. ‘I told her that if she didn’t make some gesture you would probably contest the will and might well end up with a fortune.’

  ‘That must have turned her stomach.’

  ‘Damned right it did. Bill wanted these arrangements kept secret until after Grace’s death – I think he was worried that she might challenge it and crush you with legal fees.

  ‘With her gone and, satisfied of your integrity, everything is now in place.’ He reached into the file and took out a bundle of documents. ‘The first part of Bill’s arrangement relates to a property in SoHo. Have you ever seen it?’

  ‘I’ve never even heard of it,’ I replied.

  ‘It is an old tea warehouse with a cast-iron facade and a huge space inside. Several people have said it would make a magnificent home. Why they would say that, I have no idea.’

  Finbar – a widower with no kids – lived in a fourteen-room prewar co-op in Park Avenue’s most elite white-glove building, so I wasn’t surprised that he thought a converted warehouse was one step above a garbage skip.

  ‘Bill had it made airtight and put in sophisticated humidity, fire and air-conditioning systems. This building and all its contents are what he wanted you to have.’

  He gave the bundle and a sheaf of other documents to the two wise men, and they started signing and witnessing them.

  ‘What contents?’ I asked.

  Finbar smiled. ‘Bill was very orderly, a completely rational man, but in one segment of his life he never disposed of anything—’

  ‘The art!’ I interrupted, caught between shock and wonder.

  ‘That’s right,’ Finbar replied. ‘As you may know, there was hardly an unknown artist he didn’t support by buying their work – sometimes whole exhibitions.’

  ‘He told me once,’ I said, ‘that most people’s idea of charity was to give money to the United Way – he supported starving artists.’

  ‘And that’s exactly what he did – year after year, cheque after cheque. But he had the eye, Scott – that was the remarkable thing – and he kept everything he bought.’

  ‘In the tea warehouse?’

  ‘That was why he converted it – he stacked it inside like lumber. Warhol, Roy Lichtenstein, Hockney, Jasper Johns, Rauschenberg – the list is endless. This is an inventory.’

  He pushed a print-out across to me and I leafed through it – every page was littered with what had become household names.

  ‘What about Grace? After Bill died, she never asked about any of it?’

  ‘As I said, she had no interest. I think at some stage he must have told her that he’d sold whatever he still owned and the proceeds had gone into one of the trusts.’

  He slid another thick document across the desk. ‘Naturally, I had to keep the canvases insured and that meant regular valuations. This is the most recent information.’

  I took the list and saw that next to each canvas was its estimated value. On the last page it had been totalled. I stared at the figure and saw that I was a very wealthy man – maybe not as rich as Cameron, but over halfway there.

  The three men watched as I got to my feet and walked to the window. The rain was starting to hit, and I couldn’t tell whether it was that or the tears in my eyes that was clouding my view. Even at the end of his life, when he was doubting my character, Bill had tried to take care of me. What more could I have asked? He was a wonderful man and, once again, I realized I should have treated him better.

  I turned and looked at Finbar, and he handed me all the documents – signed, sealed and delivered.

  ‘Congratulations,’ he said. ‘You’re now the
owner of one of the finest collections of contemporary art in the world.’

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  ALONE, SITTING IN a budget hotel in a backstreet of bodrum, writing my last will and testament, I had to decide what would happen to a treasure trove of canvases which most museum curators would die for.

  The collection was completely intact. Although I had spent a lot of time in the silence of the tea warehouse – wandering among the towering racks of paintings, pulling out masterly works that nobody had seen in decades – I had never sold any of them. They were too much a part of Bill, and my feelings about them – as well as the wealth they represented – were still far too raw for me to deal with.

  Strangely, though, the disposition of them in the event of my death presented no problem to me. I figured the answer must have been bubbling away on the back burner of my mind for hours, if not longer.

  I wrote that I wanted the Museum of Modern Art to be given one hundred canvases of their choice, on condition that they put them on permanent display. I directed that they should also be granted the folio of Rauschenberg drawings that was the reason Bill and I had visited Strasbourg so long ago. I then described the photograph of the peasant woman and her children walking to the gas chamber that I had seen at the Natzweiler death camp – the photo that had haunted so many of my dreams – and requested that the museum acquire a copy of it.

  I said that the rest of the canvases, including the warehouse in which they were stored, were to be sold and the proceeds used to endow a William J. Murdoch Home for Orphaned Roma or Gypsy Children.

  I then came to the most difficult part of the exercise. In conclusion, I said, I wanted the Museum of Modern Art to mount a small display at the entrance to whatever gallery featured the one hundred works. The display should consist of the Rauschenberg drawings, the copy of the photo from the death camp and the following dedication: ‘Bequeathed to the people of New York in memory of Bill …’

  I sat very still for a long time and then laid my pen down. I was unsure what to say next, incapable of finding the words that would do proper honour to Bill’s memory. I thought of us driving up through the pine forest of the Vosges mountains, I remembered the crouching evil of the gas chamber, I felt again the strength of him as I slipped my hand unbidden into his, I saw the instant happiness in his eyes as he looked down at me, and suddenly I knew the words that would mean everything to my foster father: ‘Bequeathed to the people of New York in memory of Bill Murdoch – by his loving son, Scott.’