The righteous men

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Sunday, 3.51pm, Manhattan

Will headed straight for the steps, taking care not to look over his shoulder. Once inside, he walked just as briskly. But he felt them before he heard them: the click, click of footsteps behind his, clacking along the cold stone floor. He headed for the first staircase he could find, daring, as he moved up another flight, to take a glance down. As he feared, the grey hood was right behind him.

Now he broke into a jog, taking two more flights up. Once he hit a landing, he broke off, taking an instant decision to seek refuge in a room full of card-index catalogues. He dashed in, slowing to an immediate walk: even then, and silent, he felt too noisy, too sweaty for the hushed concentration of the room. He turned around: the hood.

He walked faster, under a vast painting showing a trompe I'oeil sky. Dark clouds were gathering. Spotting an opening on the back wall, Will went in, only to discover it was not an exit but a small photocopying room. He darted back out, but now the hooded man was just a few yards away.

Will saw the double doors out and ran for them. Once through, he was in a throng of people enjoying a mid-work break. He weaved through them to get to the staircase on the other side and, clutching hold of the hand rail, galloped down, two at a time. A woman carrying a computer monitor was in his way and he had to dodge to get past her. He moved to the left and so did she; he moved to the right and so did she. He leapt to her side to get past, but she let out an involuntary yelp — followed by a thud and a cymbal-crash of broken glass. She had dropped the machine.

Now Will was in the main foyer, facing a large cloakroom.

This was where regular readers began their day. There were lockers for bags and a long rail for coats that snaked around the room, as if in a dry-cleaner's shop. The man in the hood was walking towards him. Calmly.

Will had to move fast. While the attendant was looking the other way, he vaulted over the wooden counter and plunged into the thickness of the coats. Squeezing between a heavy anorak and a shaggy, afghan jacket, he pressed himself against the back wall. He could sense his stalker had stopped;

Will guessed he was by the cloakroom, peering over the counter, searching. He tried to still his breathing.

Suddenly, he felt movement. The attendant was handling the coats, pushing whole bunches of them aside, looking for a number. Will held in his cheeks to make no sound. But the man was getting closer, closer, closer — until he stopped, less than a foot away. Will felt him pull out a jacket and return to the counter.

Then, a flash of grey. Will was sure the stalker had walked past. He allowed himself an exhalation; perhaps he had not been seen. He would wait five more minutes, then come out, find TO and get the hell out of here.

But the hand got him first — thrust in before he had seen a face, like the robotic arm on a space probe. It grabbed his shirt by the collar, in an attempt to drag him into the daylight. Even in the dark, he could see the grey sweatshirt fabric that covered the arm. Twice Will locked onto it with both hands, pulling it off himself. But each time the hand came back, eventually smashing Will's chin in the process. Crammed behind the coats, Will just could not get the space he needed to reach beyond this single, flailing arm — and hit the man behind it.

The struggle was soon over. Will was pulled out of his hiding place like the meat from a sandwich. Now he came face to face with the man in the hood. To his complete surprise, he recognized him immediately.