1996 - Division by Class

[Calder]

Division by Class - 1996
Lobby, San Carlos Hotel, Manhattan, New York 1996

“So, he didn’t let the door hit him in the ass on the way out.” Private Investigator Sammy Wolfe was explaining his presence in the Hotel to one of the bell-hops. He was an amiable man as well as a highly skilled investigator and he didn’t see why a polite question from one of the hotel workers should receive anything other than a polite answer. He was vastly over-qualified for the position of house detective but the previous occupant of that post had allowed a situation where a drug dealer had been allowed to ply his trade within the Hotel. Worse, one evening he had decided to take his cut of the dealer’s profits in produce and had been found in the night manager’s office, out cold. The owner of the San Carlos was a personal friend of the head of the Rivers Detective Agency and had asked for some help to cover the gap while a new House Detective was recruited. And so, Sammy Wolfe had been asked to take the assignment for a few days on the understanding that he would live well at the Hotel’s expense while he did so.

“Thank you, Mister Wolfe.” The bell-hop had been surprised to get a brief but courteous answer to his question. “I hope you enjoy your stay with us.”

At that point, the telephone rang. Wolfe picked it up and listened for a few seconds while the amiable grin on his face vanished. “Room 916? I’ll be right up.”

The door to room 916 was open but nobody was inside. The maid, her arms full of fresh towels, was staring into the room with an expression on her face that suggested she’d seen a lot of very poisonous snakes in there. The night manager was beside her with a look that was grim rather than terrified. This was the second major incident on his watch within a week and he feared for his job. Wolfe looked at him and then the girl, deciding that she was far more likely to be a source of reliable information. He read her name tag and carefully memorized it. Marianna Benitez. “What is the problem Marianna?”

Her eyes snapped around to him, tearing themselves away from the wardrobe that occupied one corner of the room. “There’s blood. On the floor by the wardrobe. And on the chair. Lots of blood.”

Wolfe kept his voice soft and friendly. The girl was young, probably still in her teens, and this was almost certainly her first job. She doesn’t need an experience like this was the thought that ran through Wolfe’s mind. “Have you touched anything?”

“No . . . . No, sir. I called for Mister Whitlock right away. He took one look and called you.”

“Well, everybody has done everything exactly right so far. Let’s carry on that way, shall we? Let’s see what happened here. Marianna, you might want to take a step back.” That would put the wardrobe and its probable contents out of her line of sight. Wolfe took a pair of plastic gloves from his pocket and put them on. Then he tried the door of the wardrobe.

Slowly, rigidly, a man pitched out of the opening door. He wore a gray suit, somewhat stained and definitely the worse for wear. A cheap suit to start with, and one that had not aged well. His body had started to stiffen slightly, making it begin to twist around as it fell into Wolfe’s arms. When he caught it, the head twisted loosely, floppily, a movement without any dignity but one that betrayed that the man’s life had been taken from him. His neck was broken but there was no trace of any other injury on him. That absence of open wounds had been Wolfe’s clue to what would happen next. A second body followed the first, one that was also beginning to stiffen. There was also no doubt as to what had killed this man. He had been disemboweled, the knife wound running from his groin all the way up to the bottom of his ribcage. Cutting a man open that way wasn’t easy and that would have taken a heavy knife with a lot of strength behind it.

In falling out of the wardrobe, the second man had started to push the second door open and the work was finished by a third body. Another man in a worse-for-wear cheap suit, this one also soaked in blood. His throat had been cut and the gaping wound seemed to cover half his neck. His face had an expression of shocked surprise, as if he had been unable to believe he was being killed even while it was happening to him. Before Wolfe could fully absorb the implications of that, a fourth body came tumbling out in a ghastly game of follow-my-leader. After the blood-soaked wreckage of the second and third men, his condition came as something of a relief to Wolfe. In fact, he could see no reason why the fourth man was dead. He hadn’t been stabbed and his neck was unbroken. As he crumpled, he fell against Wolfe and then collapsed on the floor. His body formed a neat line with his three predecessors.

It was the fifth and last body that changed everything. It was a woman, wearing a cheap, ill-fitting man’s shirt and jeans, both soaked in blood. At the extreme end of the wardrobe, her back was towards Wolfe and all he could see of her was poorly-cut and badly-dyed blonde hair. But she rolled over as she fell out and lay, face-up, on the carpet. That was what made the chambermaid scream and faint. Wolfe had seen many unlovely sights in his life but this was one that would haunt him for months afterwards.

There was no doubt about how the woman had died. The killer’s hands had left their marks on her neck as they had strangled the life out of her. But, before she had died, somebody had gouged out her eyes.

Lobby, 71 Broadway, Manhattan, New York. Three Months Earlier.

“Get out of my sight, you filthy slut!” The woman’s scream of anger and hatred echoed around the lobby, reflecting off the polished marble to where Igrat and Achillea had just stepped out of their elevator, Igrat had managed to score two tickets to a sold-out Phil Collins concert and the two were on their way to a pre-show dinner. As the scream registered, they exchanged raised eyebrows. Both were thinking the same thing, an enraged wife has ambushed her husband’s girlfriend. That assumption was quickly dispelled by the sound of a slap followed by that of a girl crying. The victim was obviously young, far too young for the presumed explanation to be correct. Achillea glanced at Igrat and the two women hurried around the corner.

“Get out, get out and don’t ever come back you disgusting little whore. Get out on the street where you belong.” An older woman was screaming the abuse at a much younger girl, obviously her daughter based on the family resemblance. The shrieked invective was punctuated by slaps as the mother kept swinging at her daughter. The girl had tried to get away but had been backed into a corner that prevented her retreating any further. Instead, she was trying to ward off the blows while crying bitterly and helplessly.

Achillea moved fast, not least to prevent Igrat from interfering. She knew that if Igrat had a list of the thousand people she hated the most, murderers, rapists, torturers and people who drowned puppies would be on it somewhere. Mothers would, however, certainly be very close to the top of that list. The mother in this case was winding up for another slap at her daughter’s face when she suddenly found she couldn’t move her arm. Achillea was holding her wrist and smiling politely. “That’s enough.”

“Don’t interfere. This little tramp was leading them on. Cock-teasing little bitch.” The mother tried to jerk her wrist free but the effort was futile. “Leave me alone, I’ll have you know the building owner is a good friend of mine. I’ll have him throw you out.”

“I said, that’s enough.” Achillea changed her grip slightly so she had the woman in a traditional bouncer’s hold. She directed her next remark to the lobby manager who had made a belated arrival on the scene. “Does she live here?”

“Fifth Floor, ma’am.”

Achillea nodded and force-walked the mother over to the elevator, throwing her in hard enough to make her bounce off the back wall. While the woman ricocheted, Achillea hit the button for the fifth floor, then pushed the mother back into the elevator. As the doors closed, Achillea saw her rebounding off the polished brass again and sliding to the floor.

Back in the lobby, Achillea saw that Igrat had the girl sitting on a couch and was holding her while making comforting sh-sh-sh noises. The girl heard Achillea’s footsteps and looked up in terror, an expression quickly replaced by relief when she saw it wasn’t her mother. “I’m sorry if I’ve got you in trouble with the owners.”

Achillea was amazed that the girl had thought to say that at a time when her life gave every appearance of falling to pieces. Igrat shook her head. “What’s your name?”

“Cristi, ma’am. Cristi Escalante.”

“O.K. Cristi, first thing. I don’t have to worry about your mother making trouble. You see, I own this building.” Igrat gave her a conspiratorial smile. “And I have no intention of evicting me. Now, do you have any friends you can stay with for a night or two? You really don’t want to go back home right now.”

Cristi shook her head. “Mom’s already calling all my friends, telling their parents I’ve run away from home and to send me back. Last time this happened I had to live on the street until she let me come back.”

Achillea’s voice was very quiet and neutral. “This has happened before? And she made you live on the street?”

Cristi nodded and started crying again. Achillea looked skywards. “Canes omnes inferni futuis eam ad mortem. We can’t leave her on her own, Iggie.”

“I know. ‘Lea, you go to the concert. I’ll look after Cristi.”

Achillea shook her head. “No. You don’t stay on your own with her. I’ll stay with you. The concert can wait. Iggie, the police are going to get involved in this. You’ll have to be careful they don’t jump to the wrong conclusions.”

Achillea turned to the floor manager who was dithering helplessly. “The police will be here shortly. When they arrive, send them up to Miss Shafrid’s apartment.”

Igrat was taking Cristi to the elevator. A couple got out as they approached, newly-weds who had just moved in. Igrat gave them a smile. “John, Sharma, good evening. You two got any plans tonight?”

The couple glanced at each other and shook their heads. Igrat took out the concert tickets. “Here, I got these but can’t use them. Enjoy.”

Igrat’s Apartment, 71 Broadway, Manhattan, New York.

Igrat cast her eyes quickly over her home to make sure nothing embarrassing was in view. “Cristi, you need to drink something. All that crying will have dehydrated you. What would you like to drink?”

“Could I have a beer, please ma’am,”

“No.” Igrat paused. “Good try though. I’ve got orange, pineapple or tomato juice. Orange? The name’s Igrat or Iggie by the way.”

There was a knock on the door. Igrat glanced at the television screen beside the entrance to her apartment and saw Achillea standing outside. She thumbed the electronic lock and then opened the door for her. “Welcome back.”

Once everybody had settled down, Achillea looked at Cristi. “Would you like to tell us what happened down there? Your so-called mother is, for certain, calling the police right now. They’ll be here in ten or fifteen minutes. Child Protective Services won’t be far behind them. I know that because I called them.”

Igrat leaned forward. “Cristi, this may be hard for you to believe right now, but we’re on your side. We’ve got your back here.”

The girl nodded. “Did your mothers ever tell you that if you had problems, you could always talk them over with her?” Igrat shook her head, Achillea nodded. “And did they keep that promise?”

Igrat shrugged. She’d never know her mother. Achillea nodded again. “She did her best for me. So did my father until he died. Conditions we lived in didn’t make it easy for her but she tried.”

“Well, that’s what my mother always said. Today, something happened to me at school and I wanted somebody to talk to. When I told her, that’s when she started screaming and hitting me.”

“What happened there?” Igrat was being warm, comforting, and supportive. Achillea thought it was ironic that Igrat was strongly prejudiced against mothers yet would probably have been a very good one herself. How Igrat’s character changed to match the needs of her environment had often been the subject of discussion amongst her friends. It was a defense mechanism of course, one of many she had developed when she’d been a child in a horrifyingly threatening world. She became what she needed to be in order to survive. What her true character was, if she had one at all, was also the subject of much debate. Achillea’s opinion was that they were all both true and false and none had any real precedence or claim to originality over the others. Igrat was what she was and that was a survivor.

Cristi shuddered and tried to collect herself. “We’ve got gangs at school. They almost run the place. Any of the kids who don’t join one get beaten up until they do. This afternoon, after the PE class, a group of them cornered me and told me it was time I joined them. I said no. So some of them held my arms while one of the others opened up my top and pawed my rack. Then they said I’d get a lot worse than just touched up if I didn’t join. When I asked mom for advice, that’s when she blew up at me.”

“Weren’t any other girls there? Didn’t they try and help you?” Igrat wasn’t as sympathetic as she sounded. If she’d been paid a dollar for every time somebody had pawed her, she would be a lot richer than she was.

“Who do you think was holding my arms?” Cristi sounded bitter. “Anyway, nobody is going to get into a fight. School has a no-fighting policy. If a fight starts, everybody involved gets expelled.”

“Whoa. So somebody can walk around hitting people and if anybody defends themselves, they get expelled,” Achillea was shocked at what, in her eyes at least, was an affront to people’s basic dignity. “And if a girl gets molested and fights back, she gets expelled for protecting herself.”

“That’s about it.” Cristi started to cry again but then she took look at Achillea and stopped. Achillea realized this was one of the rare occasions where her obvious strength was comforting somebody, leaving them feeling protected rather than intimidated.

“We’ll have to do something about that.” Achillea was prevented from saying anything else by a pounding on the door.

“Police. Open up in there.” The pounding resumed.

“Have you got a warrant?” Igrat’s voice was at its smoothest and most seductive. Under normal circumstances, that meant somebody had just lost their wallet but hadn’t realized it yet. The response from outside was marked. When the knocking resumed, it was more polite. Igrat winked at Achillea and Cristi, then looked at the television screen. There were indeed two police officers, one male and one female, outside along with Mrs Escalante. The latter had a vindictive look in her eyes. “Police officers, please hold your badges up.”

The two officers did so. Igrat zoomed her screen in on the badges. “Well, they look genuine. Why do you require entry?”

The female police officer started to speak but her partner cut across her. “We have had a report that you have abducted a young girl. The mother has lodged a formal complaint against you.”

“Well, you’d better come in then, hadn’t you.” Igrat operated the electronic lock and then opened the door.

“There she is, there she is. You see, they kidnapped my little girl. Look, they even hit her.”

The policewoman went over to Cristi and looked at her face. “Well somebody hit her.”

“It was my mom. She did it. Then she tried to throw me out.”

The policewoman glanced at her partner and then back to Cristi. “Look, honey. I’m Patrol Officer Beverley Garner. We need to talk privately. We’ll go into the kitchen and we can talk there. Miss Shafrid, where is the kitchen?”

Igrat pointed at a door. It bore every appearance of not having been used very much. Patrol Officer Garner and Cristi went into the kitchen, a room that seemed almost pristine from its lack of use. Crista’s mother tried to follow them but the male Patrol Officer stopped her. Then Garner closed the door behind her.

“Right, I am Patrol Officer John Daniels. Let’s start with some identities.” He pointed at Achillea. “Your name and ID please.”

“Achillea Foyle. Special Agent, Operations Division, Office of Strategic Services.” Achillea produced her badge and identity card from her handbag. Daniels took it, looked sharply at Achillea and then much more sharply at Mrs. Escalante. Achillea gave him a brief account of what had happened downstairs that made Daniels regard Mrs. Escalante with intense suspicion.

“And, you, Miss Shafrid?”

Igrat produced her own badge and identity card. “Igrat Shafrid. Head of Courier Division, Office of Strategic Services.”

That really made Officer Daniels stop. The name, and the position, somehow made him connect the dots, the last of which was a simple glass case mounted on the wall, higher than any of the other paintings and items displayed there. It didn’t look much, a simple light green ribbon with a centerpiece that contained 13 white stars. Hanging from the centerpiece was a five-pointed silver star containing an image of the Statue of Liberty. It was the Medal of Valor. Despite its simplicity, it was as instantly recognizable as the Medal of Honor, it's military equivalent. Daniels drew himself to attention and snapped out a parade-perfect salute to the Medal. When he spoke, his voice was soft and filled with respect.

“Excuse my question, Ma’am. That was the Medal awarded to your mother?” It took no great insight to realize that the recipient had been Igrat’s mother. The first name on the Medal of Valor’s Honor Roll was Ingrid Shafrid.

Igrat nodded although it had been awarded to her, not a long-dead ‘mother’. The Medal of Valor was awarded to civilians, ‘for personal acts of conspicuous valor and intrepidity, performed at the gravest risk to life, which, had they been accomplished by military personnel, would have justified the award of the Medal of Honor.’ The Medal of Valor was awarded, never won, and more than half of its recipients had received their awards posthumously. Police officers and firefighters were prominent in its Honor Roll.

The moment was interrupted by the telephone ringing. Igrat picked it up and listened for a second. Then, she handed it to Daniels. “It’s for you, officer. And, thank you for your respect to the Medal.”

Daniels nodded and took the telephone. He listened in silence for a minute or so and then put the telephone down. When he spoke again, the softness and respect had gone from his voice. “Mrs. Escalante, two of my fellow officers have been interviewing witnesses downstairs. Those witnesses have confirmed the story given to us by Miss Foyle. Do you realize that making false reports to the police is a felony? As is making false accusations?”

“You can add battery and child assault to that, Johnnie. Cristi’s going to have the marks from that slapping session for days. Did she tell you what happened to her at school?” It was unclear to whom the question was directed.

“She asked for it. She had been leading the boys on.” The spite in Ms. Escalante’s voice was malevolent to the point of caricature.

“She said she’d been cornered and touched up. Pawed was the word she used.” Igrat kept her voice level and calm, making the contrast with the mother all the more vivid.

“She’s been hurt a lot more than that. “ Officer Garner took a deep breath. “Her rack is badly bruised. She’s going to need to see a doctor. Also, we need to call Child Protective Services. Cristi can’t remain with her mother.”

“They’re on their way. I called them.” Achillea seemed dispassionate and unemotional. Officer Garner caught her eyes and saw the void in them. She found herself staring into that void and, just as promised, the void stared back. It suddenly occurred to her that Crista’s mother was in very real physical danger.

“Johnny, we’d better get Mrs. Escalante back to the station and charged. Crista can stay here until CPS make a decision.”

“I’m not leaving my daughter here with a couple of dykes.” Mrs. Escalante’s voice trailed away as she saw people staring at her. Unconsciously, people were shifting away from her as if she had some sort of horribly infectious disease. Before she could say anything else, there was another knocking on her door. Igrat sighed to herself. What had started as a pleasant evening out was getting complicated.

[Calder]

Chapter Two
Igrat’s Apartment, 71 Broadway, Manhattan, New York.

“I’m Robert Loxley, Chief Investigator in the State of New York’s Child Protection Service. I believe we have a problem here?”

“State CPS? We don’t often see you in the ‘hood.” Achillea made the remark straight-faced. The joke within it was only understood by three people in the room.

“City called us in. They don’t have the manpower for this and there are aspects to this case that are very disturbing.” That was both true and false, Achillea’s call had gone straight to him on his private line and he’d told the City CPS that state would be taking it over. However, the call did relate directly to a more troubling issue and that really did justify State involvement. “ I’d like to introduce my colleagues, Inspector Leigh Anderson and Inspector Deborah Nguyen. Leigh, could you take Cristi somewhere private please and photograph her injuries. Two sets, one for the prosecution of Mrs. Escalante and the other for Debbie’s investigation. People, Inspector Nguyen is a senior member of our juvenile gang department. Cristi’s story makes it clear the original situation is gang-related.”

“Now you listen to me . . .” Mrs. Escalante’s voice trailed off as Loxley looked at her with disgust.

“No.” His voice was flat and loaded with contempt. “Will somebody please take this woman to the local station and throw her in a cell. By herself; put her in with ordinary decent criminals and she’ll be unrecognizable by morning. Daniels and Garner, you are the local Patrol Officers for this area?”

The two nodded.

“Then please stay here. I will call your watch commander and advise him of the situation we have.” Loxley’s British accent was tinged with a faint Midlands inflection. “The first thing we have to decide is what we do with Cristi. She can’t go back home obviously. Given her experiences today, I’m reluctant to put her into Juvenile Hall, even overnight. She’ll obviously need a foster home; even if she goes back to her mother, that will be months down the pike.”

“Time to step up to the plate, Iggie.” Achillea was keeping her amusement under strict control. The truth was she found the irony delicious.

Igrat sighed again. The evening was indeed getting complicated. “I know. Inspector Loxley, Cristi can stay here – but only if she wants to. She’s been pushed around enough today. I want to wait until she’s part of this discussion.”

“She’s a bit young for a decision like . . .” Nguyen seemed to want to object but something in the air made her decide otherwise.

“She’s fourteen? At that age, I was making my own life decisions.” Igrat was quiet, collected and calm. And very bad decisions they were although I had little real choice in the matter. By Cristi’s age, I’d already been a working whore for years and Achillea had already killed a dozen or more people including full-grown men. “She has the right to know what the options are and have a say in the decisions we make.”

“Decisions?” Anderson returned with Cristi and the two sat down on the couch. Loxley quickly explained the situation to her, stressing that her mother was in jail and would remain there. “Cut down to basics, you have three choices. You can go to Juvenile Hall until you are found a place with a foster home. You’ve probably heard a lot of horror stories about Juvie and foster care and a lot of them are true. But, you won’t be in the offenders section and the staff will do the best they can to look out for you. Think of it as staying in a very cheap hotel with really bad service. Second option, have you relatives you can stay with? That will probably be your best choice unless there’s a lot about your family we don’t know yet. Third choice, Miss Shafrid has said you can stay here. She’ll technically be your foster mother although I suspect she’d prefer to think of it as your foster elder sister. I was prepared to sign off on that third plan but Miss Shafrid insisted you be consulted first.”

“You mean I can stay here?” Cristi’s eyes bulged and started to glow. For the first time since Achillea had seen her, the girl was smiling. “Are you sure Igrat? You really don’t mind? I’ll be good, I promise.”

Igrat smiled and nodded, hiding the turmoil of emotions within her. “Where do I sign? I suppose I have to sign something.”

“Ohh yes.” Loxley produced a pile of forms. “Start signing here, here, initial there and there, then sign here. That’s just the first page. All this lot says is you have to provide Cristi with a room of her own, adequate food and clothing for a child of her age, care and attention, congenial companionship and moral guidance.”

Achillea managed to prevent herself from snorting at the last remark. Then she reflected that Igrat did have morals, it was just that they were different from most other people’s. “If it is all right with you, Iggie, I’ll stay on for a few days. In case momma from the hells tries to interfere.”

That made Anderson frown slightly. “Oh. I thought you two were a couple.”

“No, just friends.” Achillea looked at Cristi. “Cristi, I’ll teach you a few ways to look after yourself. Ones that won’t obviously look like fighting.”

“Anyway. . . .” Loxley tried to get the discussion back on course. “Miss Shafrid, you should get your first check in a month or so.”

“Check?” Igrat was confused.

“State of New York pays foster parents an allowance of three hundred dollars a month to help with the cost of looking after a foster child. You’ll be entitled to that. Plus a one-time clothing grant of four hundred dollars.”

“Take my word for it, she’ll need all of it. Her clothes are cheap, old and don’t fit her properly. And if that’s an indication of the standard of care she’s received. . . .” Anderson was feeling more than a little guilty over the fact that her own children were healthy, happy and well fed while Cristi was none of those things. She knew it was irrational but the feeling would not go away.

“Give it to somebody who needs it.” Achillea raised her eyebrows slightly at the sharpness in Igrat’s voice. Igrat noticed and the snap in her voice was even more evident. “Cristi is welcome to stay here because she’s a friend who needs help. Not because I’m being paid to look after her.”

Loxley decided that there was more to Igrat’s reluctance to accept the money than met the eye and decided to drop the issue. “We can’t do that. We have to send you the checks although there’s no law that says you have to cash them. You can tear them up or endorse them over to the charity of your choice. Anyway, that’s your decision. Just finish signing forms, get treatment for writer’s cramp, and we can proceed.”

Eventually Loxley collected the signed paperwork. “Right, that’s that. Miss Shafrid, you are now a foster . . . errr . . . elder sister. Debbie, you’re up.”

Nguyen pulled back her blonde hair and thought for a second. “We’ve been aware for some time that there has been growing juvenile problems in the areas surrounding some of New York’s public schools. The epicenter of the problem is Public School 261 in Brooklyn.”

“That’s my school.” Cristi blurted the words out and then clapped her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry.”

“No need to apologize. You’re here to tell us things so don’t stop. Now, all of these problems have youth gangs at their center. Most of the kids at the center of the gang culture are hard cases, long records going back to their pre-teens. With felony convictions, they can’t carry guns. So what they do is recruit young girls like Cristi here to carry the guns for them. If there’s trouble, they take the gun, use it and give it back to the girl afterwards. If there’s a police search, they are clean and it’s the girl who goes down for illegal possession.

“Of course, it doesn’t stop there. These charming characters like to prove their manliness by getting their gun carriers pregnant. Cristi, it is a solid certainty that, if you had given in today, by this time next year you would be looking after a baby. In the gang’s eyes, that has another advantage. With a baby to care for, no real education and no real prospects of getting a decent job, you will be trapped inside that gang. By the time you are sixteen, you’ll probably have at least two babies and even less chance of getting out. That’s when they put you to work on the street.”

Cristi’s eyes opened wide as she listened to the dry, unemotional account. Her skin nearly lost all its color as she realized the chasm that had opened under her feet that afternoon and now narrowly she had escaped it. For a moment, Achillea was seriously concerned she was going to pass out on them. “They want to do that to me?”

Nguyen nodded. “They’re doing it to girls in the schools around that area all the time but P.S. 261 is the worst. Quite why we do not know. This is a heaven-sent chance to find out. Cristi, we need to know who attacked you and who their friends are. In other words, the social and clique structure of the school. We’re adults, we can’t find that out for ourselves. Nobody who knows will talk to us. We need you to tell us everything you know, no matter how unimportant it seems.”

Cristi nodded. “When do we start?”

Igrat leaned forward and put out her hand. “Whoa. You have to see a doctor first thing tomorrow and then we’re going shopping. Inspector Loxley, will day after tomorrow be early enough?”

“It will be fine. Miss Foyle, CPS has no statutory authority to investigate what is going on in this school. But, the OSS can go anywhere and investigate anything it wants to as long as it hands the results over to the appropriate authorities. We need your help.”

“You got it.” Achillea heard her dottore’s voice echoing across the years. The virtuous life is free of all passions, which are intrinsically disturbing and harmful to the soul, but includes appropriate emotive responses conditioned by rational understanding and the fulfillment of all one’s personal, social, professional, and civic responsibilities. The person who has achieved perfect consistency in the operation of his rational faculties is a wise man indeed. Such men are extremely rare, yet they serve as a prescriptive ideal for all. Your progress toward this noble goal is both possible and vitally urgent. “Oh yes, you got it.”

“So, we have a plan. Miss Shafrid, you’ll take Cristi to the doctors tomorrow and then go shopping. I’m almost afraid to say this but you can get some help with her medical bills. . . . No, I thought not . . . . But we can brief Achillea and get her cover set up while you’re doing all that. Then we can add in whatever Cristi tells us over the next few days.”

The apartment emptied as the visitors went their separate ways. Eventually, only Achillea, Igrat and Cristi were left. Igrat sighed, went to the wine cooler and got out a bottle of champagne. “All right, we deserve this. Now, Cristi, that the authorities are out of the way, you can have a drink. First piece of moral guidance. Stay away from beer, bread and beans. None of them will do you any good and they’ll all make you fat.”

Igrat handed the champagne bottle to Achillea who popped it open without as much as spilling a drop. Igrat poured a half glass of champagne, topped it off with orange juice and handed it to Cristi. “That’s called a Mimosa. Good drink for a girl at a party. You can switch to orange juice at any time and everybody will still think you are drinking champagne cocktails. Just sip at it and you’ll stay sober all night. It’s a bad idea to get drunk at parties.”

“A lot of the girls at school boast about how they get hammered at parties.” Cristi wasn’t arguing, she was asking and Igrat knew it.

“Cristi, you can be a party girl, you can be healthy or you can be stupid. Pick two and your choice precludes the third. Personally, I prefer to be a healthy party girl. Not being stupid means always being aware of what’s going on around you and you only do what you want to do. When you do go with a boy, make sure he understands he has to put it in a baggie first.”

“Suppose he doesn’t want to and won’t stop?” Crista was aware that she was being given expert advice.

Achillea took up the lesson. “That’s when you remember the most valuable sentence in the English language. Father Knows Best Say The Experts.”

Cristi was confused. “Huh?”

“It’s a mnemonic. Foot, Knee, Balls, Stomach, Throat, Eyes. That’s where you hit somebody who is attacking you. Any one of the six is good, all six is better. If somebody grabs you from behind again, you start by stamping on their foot. If you’re wearing stiletto heels, so much the better.”

“Stilettos are a girl’s best friend. In a lot of ways,” Igrat nodded knowingly.

“And always, always be aware of what is going on around you. Don’t walk around in la-la land. Going through a door, check who is the other side and where they are standing. Be sensitive to atmosphere; if something feels bad, get out of there. If somebody seems threatening, learn as much about them as you can, as quickly as you can.” Achillea finished her champagne and looked at Cristi curiously. The girl was greedily absorbing the information. “Didn’t your mother teach you this? It’s basic Girl-101.”

Cristi shook her head. “All she ever said was that if I went with a boy, he wouldn’t respect me in the morning.”

Igrat shuddered gently. “If he doesn’t respect you in the morning, he didn’t the previous evening either. He just pretended to because he wanted to get into your pants. Don’t be in too much of a hurry to grow up, Cristi. I grew up very, very young and I’ve suffered from the bad effects of doing so ever since. Now tell me what really happened in school today. I know you were hurt a lot more than you let on.”

“The one who hurt me, he really dug his fingers in and twisted me. It hurt me so bad and I thought he was going to rape me.”

Achillea nodded. “Did he say anything? Other than worse things would happen to you if you didn’t join up?”

Cristi shook her head but then hesitated and thought for a second. “He did say something odd. He was hurting me so much, it didn’t really register. He said I was being stupid, that I had no choice, that it had all been agreed.”

“That is odd.” Achillea couldn’t make sense of it. “Remember to tell that to Inspector Nguyen when you speak with her. Iggie, you going to give Cristi the guest room? I can sleep on the couch. I prefer it to be honest and it’ll put me between the door and you two.”

Igrat’s apartment had three bedrooms. One was hers, a private sanctuary that nobody was allowed to enter. The second was a guest room. The third was the room where she slept with her partners when they were staying overnight. Only the guest room was really suitable for Cristi. “That’s right. Cristi, would an oversize T-shirt be all right for you to sleep in tonight? I don’t have anything else suitable for you right now. We can fix that tomorrow.”

“It’s all I’ve ever had. When I needed clothes, Mom would take me to the second-hand stalls in the market.”

Achillea and Igrat exchanged glances. 71 Broadway was not an inexpensive address. Like most apartment blocks in Manhattan, the rent got more expensive as the tenant went higher in the building. 71 Broadway had sixteen floors. Igrat’s apartment was a penthouse of course and if she hadn’t owned the building, the rent would have been eye-watering, but even a fifth floor apartment came with a high monthly lease payment attached to it.

“Time for you to go to bed. You’ve had a rough day and clearing up the problems it’s caused will make tomorrow a long one. I’ll show you the guest room.”

Igrat took Cristi over to the guest room and opened the door for her. Cristi gasped as she saw the room. “It’s beautiful. You can’t mean this is for me?”

“It is, and it’s nothing special. Really. The telephone is internal, 01 is the living room, 02 is my bedroom. If the red light on the top is on, somebody is using an outside line so wait until it goes out. If the red light is flashing, there’s a message there for you. To get it, just pick up and dial 666. The lock on the door is simple enough, just twist the button in the center so the bar is vertical rather than horizontal. I’d suggest you get into the habit of locking your bedroom door. I do. Remember this is your room now; nobody has a right to come in here without your permission. Not even me. The maid and cleaning services implicitly have permission to come in of course. If you prefer to clean up yourself and make your own bed, that’s up to you.” Igrat smiled slightly, noting that the red light on the telephone was on. “And the police need a warrant. I’m firm about that. Now sleep well.”

She went back to the kitchen where Achillea was speaking on the telephone. “Fine, Robert. I’ll tell her. Sleep well. Iggie, that was Robert. Vernita Escalante was being booked into the local jail when she went berserk. She started screaming abuse, most of it incoherent, and attacked the guards. She’s been restrained but the consensus there is she’s doped up, probably with cocaine. They’ve sent a blood sample to the labs for a test.”

Igrat thought for a second then picked up the phone and called an outside line. “Anya? Sorry to call you so late but we’ve got a problem. Escalante, Apartment 55. She’s been busted, long list of charges, and is going down for months. What’s the status on her lease? . . . . . Yes, I’ll wait. . . . . . . I see. Well, who’s next on the waiting list? Fine, they sound all right. Get the legal system to work.”

Igrat turned to Achillea who held up her hand. “Let me guess. She’s months behind on her lease. So now we know why she lives the way she does.”

[Calder]

Chapter Three
Headquarters, New York State Child Protection Service, 1 Police Plaza, Manhattan, New York.

“The problem we have is that we can’t make sense of the situation.” Deborah Nguyen shook her head in frustration. “Normally a situation like this has a center and spreads out from that. It’s a nightclub or a coffee bar, these days a video game store is a good bet. We find that center and we can identify the gang responsible for the mayhem. Then we just watch and collect names. Then, when we have the whole group, we pull a sweep and haul them all in. Only that doesn’t work here. There is no center, no obvious place where the kids organize themselves.”

Achillea looked at the incident map. Criminal acts of various kinds were depicted by sticky dots with different colors, green for drug dealing, blue for vice, red for violence, black for killings. Each sticky dot had a smaller one, usually a different color, in the middle. She assumed that each center dot color represented a different gang. “There’s no obvious gang territory is there? They’re all mixed up.”

“We think this is an early stage of a bad situation. That the gangs here have suddenly sprouted up and they’ll start fighting for territory soon. Each will try and drive the others out of its patch and God help anybody who gets in the way. Eventually, it will settle down with each gang holding on to its turf.”

“I’m confused.” Achillea was still staring at the map. She tried to imagine it as an arena but it didn’t help.

“You’re confused? I’m a blonde-haired, blue-eyed, Chinese Jew. That’s confused. The word you’re looking for is bewildered.”

Achillea snorted with laughter, then looked at the map again. This time, another anomaly struck her. The black dots marking the killings were spread out evenly as well. She would have expected them to be clumped around territorial hot-spots. “You’re really expecting gang war?”

“Certainly. The gangs are co-existing at the moment but it can’t last. Sooner or later one of them will make a power grab.”

“Just like Aurandel.”

“Yeah, just like Aurandel.” Nguyen sounded weary. The Battle of Aurandel, twenty years earlier had left deep scars on the law enforcement community and become part of American folklore. The song “The Night Aurandel Died” had topped the charts for almost three months while the film about the battle had won seven Oscars. One of them had gone to Bill Shaych for his script. On the opening night, strong men had wept when Grace Pettigrew, the heroine who had reformed the police and led them in the fight to drive the gangsters out of the town, had been killed as the last shots were fired. Oddly, that same script had somehow managed to leave Achillea’s role out of the incident completely.

“These killings, is there any particular patterns in their dates?” Achillea was looking or something, anything, to hang a plan on.

Nguyen shook her head. “They’re scattered all over the place as well. Somebody gets knifed, shot in a drive-by, has their head beaten in. No pattern that makes any kind of sense.”

“That’s insane. These things always have a pattern. A gang hits one of its rivals for something or other. Trespassing on their turf, dissing a member, whatever. Then the rivals hit back by hitting the other group. There’s an exchange of killings before it all blows over. This just isn’t happening here.”

“A lot of that may be the killings themselves. The truth is that these gang-bangers aren’t very good at what they do. Most of these deaths are not even members of the gangs. Just innocent bystanders who were in the wrong place at the wrong time. I suppose since the hits failed, the other gangs don’t take them seriously. They don’t care about innocent bystanders.”

“And the school? You don’t have any major incidents marked down here. No drug dealing? And we know of at least one sexual assault, Cristi. There aren’t any others?”

Nguyen’s mouth twisted. “Here’s the thing. We have no jurisdiction within a school unless we are invited in by the school administration. And the administration of P.S. 261 is about as uncooperative as it is possible to get. They openly regard the police, law enforcement in general, as enemies. They don’t allow uniformed police officers on the premises and refuse to report incidents that take place there. We have to rely on second- and third-hand reports. Even then if we try to follow them up, we hit a stone wall. To give you some idea of how bad it is, they won’t even let us in to give road safety lessons. That’s why we need your help. OSS can go in there, we can’t.”

Achillea looked at the map again while the last comment ran through her mind. “Technically, we are supposed to be restricted to investigating threats to national security. I don’t see how this falls into that category. It doesn’t matter though, a lot of the things we look into turn out to be unrelated to security issues. We simply hand them over to the correct authority. In that case, you’d be operating under our Federal remit, not your state authority. And that means you could go in.”

Finally, to Achillea’s relief, a viable plan started to form in her mind. As it did so, the lights went on, the wheels in her head started turning and all the information started to fall into place. “Debbie, you’re looking at this all wrong. There isn’t a group of gangs forming out there and there isn’t going to be a gang war. This is one single, centrally-directed gang taking over the whole neighborhood. And those killings? I’ll bet you even money, those innocent bystanders were the real targets and their deaths were just made to look gang-related.”

Achillea paused for a second as the plan that was evolving in her mind developed and matured. She reached out and tapped P.S. 261 with her finger. “And doesn’t that make you wonder about this place.”

Office of Doctor Rochelle Marshall, 20 Park Avenue, New York.

Doctor Rochelle Marshall was something very rare. A short-lifer who knew the Daimones secret and was their trusted friend and associate. Despite that relationship, when she had seen the marks on Cristi Escalante’s face, she had been on the verge of calling the police. Only Cristi’s hurried explanation of what had happened the day before had stopped her. Now, her examination of Cristi completed, she had called Igrat in to her surgery to discuss the results.

“In general, she’s mildly malnourished. More a result of bad diet than actual shortage of food. I’m going to put Cristi on the usual regimen, fish, grass-fed pasture-raised meat, free-range eggs, whole-grain or rye bread, brown rice, fruit, mushrooms and nuts. I assume that Cristi is not going back to her previous school?”

“No way in hell. I called in a few favors. Cristi, you’ll be starting at Trinity School next week.”

“Trinity?” Doctor Marshall was stunned. “How did you manage that? No, don’t tell me, I don’t want to know. Cristi, Trinity is the best school in New York State and a good candidate for the best school in the country. It’s not going to be easy for you; the standards there are sky-high and you’ll have a lot of catching up to do. Iggie, I’d leave sending her there for an extra week. She’ll need it to get over yesterday.

“Now, I looked at her face. No real damage there, her cheek and temple are a bit swollen and the skin is inflamed more than anything else. I’ve prescribed some Hirudoid cream to ease it. I’d suggest some concealer make-up as well. Otherwise, Iggie, you are going to be arrested on suspicion of child assault.” Rochelle breathed deeply. This was going to be hard. “Now, Cristi, your other injuries. They’re bad. You have level three bruising to your rack which means there’s a danger the swelling may cut the blood supply causing further damage and possible necrosis. That means you could have permanent tissue damage there. I want to see you every day for the next week to try and avoid that. The situation has been made worse by the fact your clothes don’t fit. Lack of proper support has caused the blood vessels in there to have stretched and weakened. That made the bruising much worse. When did your mother last have you measured properly?”

“She never has.” Cristi was both frightened and relieved, frightened from the knowledge of how badly she had been hurt, relieved that Igrat, Achillea and Doctor Marshall were looking out for her. “We’d just go to the stands in the second hand clothes market. She’d grab a few things and say they’d do.”

“Well, they didn’t. If we’re going to avoid permanent injury, your rack needs to be supported properly while those bruises heal. And thereafter to make sure they stay healthy. Igrat. .”

“On it. Our next stop is La Senza. Measure up and proper fitting. Full coverage cup?”

“You got it. Oh, I’d better warn you that I’m legally required to report these injuries to CPS and have done so. They’ll go in Cristi’s file. Don’t be surprised if you get an unexpected visit from an inspector. So far, my call merely confirms that you got Cristi medical attention at the first available opportunity.” Rochelle saw that Igrat was looking worried. “That’s right Igrat, you were incredibly lucky. You were hurt a lot worse than Cristi is and the damage could have been traumatic. You got away with it but there’s no point in taking chances with Cristi. Those stretched blood vessels? They’re a permanent injury and they’re going to cause problems later. Don’t let the situation get any worse.”

“Agreed.” Igrat took a deep breath as the memories of the night in Geneva flooded back and threatened to overwhelm her. “Then we’re off to a beauty parlor and Saks.”

“Don’t forget to stop at the office and make those appointments. Enjoy your day Cristi, you’re about to learn how woman make a full-time profession out of shopping.”

Igrat paid the bill, in cash because no Daimones had medical insurance. If they had, it wouldn’t take long for the resulting records to become compromising. Then, after making a string of future appointments, Igrat took Cristi out of the medical office. She stepped to the curb and hailed a cab. Three of the yellow cabs in the area almost had accidents trying to get to her first. She gave Cristi a grin before giving the cabbie his directions. “La Senza. Fifth and 42nd, just opposite the library,”

“What did the Doctor mean when she said you were lucky, Iggie?” Cristi was distinctly nervous about asking. Compared with living at her mother’s apartment, being around Igrat was paradise and she didn’t want to put it at risk with impertinent questions.

Igrat looked at her and decided to tell her the truth. “I got attacked by two men once. They beat me so badly it took me two years to recover.”

“What happened to them? Did they go to prison?”

“No, they’re both dead. The man who rescued me shot them.” Igrat looked out the window. “Here we are. Thanks Georgi. Keep the change.”

“How did you know his name, Iggie?”

“Read it off the cab permit. Moral Guidance lesson for the day, Cristi. Always learn the names of the people you deal with. Cashiers in supermarkets, waitresses, cab drivers, everybody. Quite apart from being polite, it also gets you much better service.”

Igrat took Cristi into the store and listened appreciatively to the girl’s gasp. “Iggie, what is this place?”

“It’s a lingerie store for beautiful women with more money than sense. Which describes me perfectly I suppose. But, what is less well-known is that they have special lines of lingerie for girls your age, to help you grow up properly. They also have the best fitting experts in the world here. When they get you measured for your clothes, they will fit perfectly. If they don’t have what you need, they’ll have it made for you. We’re playing catch-up so you need the best-fitting clothing we can get.”

“Excuse me?” A sales woman was looking suspiciously at Cristi’s face.

“Oh no.” Cristi went into a hurried explanation of what had happened the day before. Igrat produced the form identifying herself as Cristi’s temporary guardian and the air got a lot less suspicious very quickly. Briefing the sales woman on what was needed didn’t take long either and ended with Cristi, the saleswoman and a tape measure vanishing into a back room. That left Igrat free to drift around the store and do some shopping for herself.

Two hours later, the saleswoman returned with a radiant Cristi. The threadbare white blouse and frumpish skirt had gone and been replaced by a black turtleneck sweater, a royal blue shirt and matching slacks. The saleswoman looked apologetic. “We couldn’t let her go out looking that way. Somebody might think she’d got those clothes here. We had an outfit sent in, Miss Shafrid, I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not as long as you promise me you threw the old stuff away. Cristi, have you got everything you need? If so, we’d better move on.”

Six hours later, a package-laden taxi pulled up outside 71 Broadway and disgorged Igrat and Cristi. Even when unloading all the parcels, it never occurred to Igrat she’d spent more on Cristi in a morning than Vernita Escalante earned in a year.

Outside Apartment 55, 71 Broadway.

“We’ve got the warrant.” Patrol Officer Garner had the document in her hand. In her eyes and those of her partner, the near-fiasco of the previous evening had suddenly turned into a major opportunity. They now had the opportunity to be part of a major drug bust. “The judge signed off on it as soon as he saw the blood test.”

“Stoned?” Nguyen wasn’t really asking. It was more a statement of fact.

“Way up there. In OD territory. Stand back everybody, we’re going to take the door down.” Daniels and Garner had a hand-swung battering ram between them. That rather disappointed Achillea who, truth be told, rather enjoyed kicking doors down. The two patrol officers took position and started their swing. There was a ghastly crunch, the front of the door started to crumple. And that was it. The wood had fragmented to expose a steel plate built into the door. Achillea realized if she had tried to kick it open, she would probably have broken her ankle.

“Do you mind not knocking my apartment building down?” Igrat’s terse voice seemed to overwhelm the echoes still resounding off the corridor walls. “To start with, do you have a warrant?”

Garner handed it over, Igrat read it carefully and then handed it to the woman beside her. “I think it’s legit. Let them in Anya. Cristi, I’m sorry about this but your mother is four months behind on her lease. I’ve got to wear my owner’s hat here and that means we’ve got to repossess this apartment. Anya got the order an hour or so ago.”

“No, we’ve got to force an entry and search this place. As far as we’re concerned, it’s the residence of a major drug dealer. Everything else is secondary.” Garner looked at Igrat and the expression was not friendly. Very few women liked Igrat.

Cristi nodded dumbly. The truth was she really didn’t care too much. Her life in Apartment 55 was already beginning to seem like a bad dream.

Anya took out a master key and tried to turn it to open the door. The key didn’t shift. “She must have changed the locks, Iggie.”

“We’d better take another swing at it.” The two police officers did so with singularly little success. More splintered wood and the steel plate was dented but that was it. Igrat bent down and looked at the lock. She could open it given time but to do so she would have to get some highly illegal burglar’s tools from her apartment and she didn’t feel like doing that in front of two cops.

“Do you have a key, Cristi?”

She shook her head. “If I came home and Mom wasn’t in, I’d have to wait in the corridor.”

Achillea was staring at the door in frustration. If it hadn’t been for that plate, she could have smashed the door open in seconds. Then, almost without thinking, she reached out and turned the door handle. It rotated smoothly and the door swung open. It hadn’t been locked.

Inside the apartment smelt bad, as if it hadn’t been cleaned for weeks or months. There was barely any furniture in the rooms and what there was seemed old and derelict, as if it had been collected from the pavement. The windows were dirty and the curtains seemed coated with grease and dust. For an apartment in an expensive and exclusive area of the city, it seemed more like a slum. Igrat went into one of the bedrooms. It was as derelict and dirty as the rest of the apartment. There was no bed, just an old mattress on the floor. When she’d been Cristi’s age, she had lived in worse conditions but not by much. “Do you have any things you want to collect?”

Cristi looked around and shook her head. “It wasn’t always like this you know. Once it was nice in here but we seemed to have less and less money. Mom sold the furniture and when everything she could sell had gone, she just stopped trying.”

“And yet she had nice clothes and seemed to have had plenty to eat. Her daughter didn’t. We’re going to have to take this place apart you know. My guess is there’s a good stash of drugs hidden away in here.” Garner looked around at the rank apartment. “I guess Vernita Escalante hit rock bottom.”

“More than you realize.” Igrat and Achillea had exchanged glances. They had both worked out what the words spoken to Cristi had meant. “She sold the furniture, she sold the appliances in here and when she needed more money, she sold her daughter to a pimp. That’s why she blew up so spectacularly last night. She’d sold her daughter but when her daughter didn’t cooperate, Escalante knew the pimp and his enforcers would be after her to get their money back and they would probably beat her into a pulp as an example. She guessed they’d be waiting outside so she tried to send Cristi back to them before they came in after her.”

[Calder]

Chapter Four
Principal’s Office. Public School 261, Queens, New York.

“We, of course, believe in a holistic educational system.” Principal Howard Simmons spoke with overpowering sincerity. “We believe that each of the children in our care should learn to find identity, meaning, and purpose in life through developing connections to the community, to the natural world, and to humanitarian values such as compassion and peace. It is our aim and mission to call forth from all our students an intrinsic reverence for life and a passionate love of learning. We place the highest possible significance on relationships and primary human values within the learning environment. In our eyes, the role of our teachers is to guide our students as they develop and integrate multiple layers of meaning and experience rather than indoctrinating the students with pre-conceived dogma that merely serve to prevent them from fully defining their human possibilities. Our teachers are the friends, mentors, and facilitators of our students. Experienced traveling companions, if you will. Never persons of authority who lead and control.”

Achillea stared at Simmons with a carefully neutral expression. According to all the documentation available to the school, the New York State Education Board had decided that P.S. 261 had inadequate physical education staff and its sporting activities record was deficient. They had, therefore, assigned a new member of staff to the faculty with instructions to join the physical education department and bring it up to the standards required by the state. In the event of a negative report from the assigned member of staff, further remedial action would be taken. The message hadn’t quite specified what that remedial action would be, but from State there was only one step upwards. Federal involvement. Simmons had no way of knowing that he was already looking at Federal involvement.

Simmons gave every appearance of having convinced himself that his audience was actually interested in what he was saying. “We work on the principle that schools should be places where students and adults work together towards a mutual goal. Open and honest communication is expected and differences between people are respected and appreciated. Cooperation is the norm, rather than competition. That is why we do not hold competitions or give grades and rewards. We believe that the student body is one whole entity and that all our activities should be directed towards encouraging contributions to that whole. We need to show our students that the rewards of helping one another and growing together are far greater and more worthwhile than the ephemeral achievement of placing one above another.”

Achillea wondered if Simmons had ever set foot outside his office. Perhaps he is a space alien, she thought. He certainly didn’t grow up on this planet. Has he smelled the fear that permeates the corridors of this place? “What is your administration’s policy on maintaining discipline here?”

Simmons blinked as if Achillea had just suggested extracting confessions from the students by judicious use of the rack. “If disciplinary issues were to arise, they would be discussed at the next one of our regular school meetings. These are open to all students and staff, where everyone present has an equal voice and an equal vote. The main school meeting would then refer the issue to the sub-committee dealing with conflict resolution. There are no punishments of course; instead we would solve the issue by adopting a consensus process involving mediation, and informal dialogue. Our one exception to that procedure is cases of violence. We have an absolute non-tolerance policy where violence is concerned. If one student offers violence to another, no matter what the circumstances, than that student is immediately expelled. This is very rare though. Normally if there is a dispute between two students, a mediator gets each to explain their position to the other. Then, the two shake hands and agree to forget the dispute.”

“I understand that a girl was sexually assaulted here recently.”

Simmons voice was pure ice. “We have no record of any such incident.”

“Perhaps the two students involved shook hands and agreed to forget the incident.” Sarcasm dripped from Achillea’s voice but it seemed to go completely over Simmons’ head.

“Perhaps. We have found that once a principle of mediation and mutual reconciliation is established, misunderstandings tend to be quickly forgotten.” At that point, Achillea had a hard job stopping her jaw from falling open. She had thought that, in her long life, she had heard everything and was surprised by nothing. Now, she admitted to herself that she was wrong. She had never heard anything quite that willfully stupid before. She was so bewildered by the comment that she actually missed Simmons concluding remarks and nearly tried to leave through the door before she opened it.

Outside the Principal’s office, she leaned against the wall and sighed loudly. A voice managed to snap her out of her mental numbness. “That sigh was only five on the Richter Scale. You obviously didn’t get the lecture about how everything was relative and that the truth or falsity of everything depended on its context. That’s good for a seven at least.”

Achillea eyed the man with a certain degree of suspicion. He gave an odd appearance of weakness, a concave chest being masked by a droopy woolen cardigan of indeterminate color. She got the impression that he was melting; everything about him seemed to be slowly seeping towards the floor. “Gods, does he actually mean all of that stuff?”

“Oh yes, he takes it very seriously”

“Dii omnes confutuere suum, donec vertatur in spina gelata.”

“We’ve all wanted to say something like that but nobody’s ever put it so well. I’m Harry Mitchell, geography teacher here for what little that is worth. If you don’t mind me saying so, you speak Latin really well.”

“Thank you. Achillea Foyle, physical training instructor. The authorities in Albany are not happy with this school’s athletic record. How did you learn Latin?”

“I’ve always been interested in Roman history and tried to learn Latin so I could read original records. I had to give it up though. Not enough time. How about you?”

“Same thing really. Is this place as bad as slimy Simy made it sound.” Achillea watched Mitchell out of the corner of her eye to see how he would react to the contemptuous nick-name. She watched with delight as the man’s dull, disinterested eyes suddenly lit up and were filled with dancing good humor.

“Slimy Simy. Oh, that’s good. Miss Foyle, did you know there was a gladiator called Achillea? I’ve a picture on my wall at home of a marble relief from Halicarnassus showing her fighting another gladiator called Amazonia.”

Damn, I haven’t thought about that match for centuries. I can’t even remember if I killed her or not. Probably not, it was unusual for women gladiators to kill each other. We were too rare for that. I do remember the stone relief being carved and sold in the markets though. “I know the carving you mean. My mother bought a copy of it while on a trip to Rome and named me after one of the contestants.” A better choice than Amazonia, I suppose, or Plautia or Caecilia. I wonder what became of those two?

“There we are then, we’re almost cousins!” Mitchell looked overjoyed at having somebody in the school he could talk to.

Achillea was less happy. Every time somebody starts to look on me as a cousin, they die. Nevertheless, she gave him a bright smile. “That’s so nice of you to say so. Why don’t you show me around this place? Unless you have a class to get to?”

“I don’t but it wouldn’t matter much if I did.” Mitchell had slumped back into his previous defeated posture, the brief moment of glee gone. “Nobody cares about classes and the sensible kids stay away from this place. They know damned well we’re not allowed to fail them and they’ll get advanced to the next grade even if they’ve never attended a single lesson. It’ll damage their self-esteem if they get held back you see.”

“Slimy Simy again I suppose. Why do you stay here?”

“This is P.S. 261. Go to another school on a job interview, tell them you worked here and they spray you with Lysol before throwing you out. It wasn’t always like this. This was a good school once. Then Slimy Simy arrived with his stupid ideas and the thugs took over. Most of the original teachers saw the writing on the wall and left but a few of us hung on. We were responsible for the kids and we had to do our best for them. It was foolish, I know that now, but it seemed the right thing to do at the time. We should all have left together. It might have caused enough of a scandal to stop what’s happened here.”

“I doubt it.” Achillea was about to provide some more comforting platitudes but something stopped her. Coming the other way down the corridor was what appeared to be one of the students. She could see what he intended immediately. Look boy, if you’re this easy to read, you’d never survive in the arena. He angled out slightly so that he would brush close to the two teachers. At the last moment, he would swing his shoulder sideways and knock her off her feet, probably pushing her into the other teacher. He’d walk off without turning around or giving any sign of knowing what had happened. Achillea gave herself a feral grin. This is going to be easy.

At the last second, the student did exactly as Achillea had predicted. He set his shoulder and slammed it hard into Achillea’s chest. To his immense surprise and her great delight, not only did Achillea not get knocked to one side, she barely appeared to notice the impact. The student, on the other hand, bounced off her, staggered into the wall beside him and slid down to the floor, winded.

Achillea looked at him with very thinly veiled contempt. “Ave canis qui usque ad mortem, salutatas me.”

Beside her, Mitchell took a few seconds to work the Latin out, then his mouth twitched. Suddenly, he had more hope in his heart than he’d known for years.

Sitting in the angle made by the floor and the wall, Todd Brown looked up at the woman he’d expected to knock off her feet, Her eyes were dark brown but seemed to be turning black as she returned his gaze. Her expression was vacant, disinterested, as if he wasn’t considered worthy of her attention. Yet the eyes drew him in, hypnotized him, dragged him to a place where the vicious cold bit into his bones and the feeble light from an almost invisible sliver of moon in the sky only served to accentuate the shadows that surrounded him. A foul wind filled the unclean world, sweeping him away as it scattered the snowflakes that were falling around him. In the distance he thought he heard the plaintive, mournful howl of wolves yet they were not the threat that consumed him with abject, paralyzing, terror. For he knew that in the shadows and bushes, things were moving, things that were fiendish, ghastly beyond imagination and belonged only in the nightmare world of myth and legend. That was when he understood the gaze that was fixed on him and the message it conveyed. This is what it is like to die. This is what your future inevitably holds. What you are experiencing now is the certainty of your death to come. He whimpered, trying to scramble away from the expressionless eyes that held his fate within them. As he did, he burst out of the cold and darkness, back into the warmth and sunlight of the corridor. He seized the opportunity to get away, half-scrambling, half- crawling in his desperate need to make sure the darkness and the cold and the loathsome things that lived in them couldn’t come back to take him away. And yet even as the sun warmed his body, the cold and hopeless, wretched terror remained deep within his soul.

“Well, that was unexpected. The teacher’s breakroom is along here. Can I interest you in a cup of weak tea and some stale cookies?” Mitchell made the offer a joke and it made Achillea chuckle but he was very careful not to look into her eyes.

Igrat’s Apartment, 71 Broadway, Manhattan, New York.

“So, how was school today?” Achillea had brought dinner home and was unloading the containers onto the dining table. “I got Chinese tonight, OK with everybody?”

Igrat nodded. “We can get Kenyan tomorrow. The new Nyarai down the street has opened and I just love their chicken. School was a bit tricky but Cristi will be starting on Monday.”

“I crashed and burned on the evaluation tests.” Cristi sounded really distressed by her failure. She felt she had let Igrat down. “In theory, I should be starting Ninth Grade, first year in Trinity’s High School. But, the Principal told me I was too far behind for that. She’s putting me in Seventh Grade, second year of their Middle School, and says I’ll have to have remedial coaching even to keep up there.”

“Doesn’t surprise me.” Achillea spooned out some rice on to her plate. “I doubt if anybody learned too much at 261. You’re not eating Cristi?”

The girl gave a rueful look and started to help herself to the contents of the cartons. “I’m sorry, my mother never let me get my own food. She always used to put food on my plate and that was it. Do you always buy take-out food?”

“We have to.” Achillea had chosen the food carefully to make sure that it met with hers and Cristi’s diets. Now she was watching Cristi to make sure she took enough food to keep her well fed. “Neither of us can cook.”

“I’m decorative, not useful.” Igrat explained. “But Mike is coming over next week. He makes a fabulous Irish Stew.”

“Who is Mike?” Cristi was suddenly nervous.

“Mike Collins. My lover.” Igrat noticed the sudden tenseness and fear in Cristi and exchanged glances with Achillea. “Don’t worry, he’s the nicest kind of Irish Catholic gentleman. He’d sooner burn in hell than harm a woman or child. It took me three years of persuasion before he’d agree to sleep with me without us getting married first. You’ll like him, Cristi, really. Oh, by the way, we’ll have to go to the furniture store and get you a desk for your homework. The Principal says you’ll need to do extra to help you catch up.”

“How are you going to fit a desk into your Ferrari?” Achillea was interested in that.

“We’ll get a pack-flat one and assemble it here. Or, if the box is too big, get it delivered. You’ve got everything else you need Cristi?”

Cristi nodded. She and Igrat had spent a couple of days sitting outside the school in Igrat’s Ferrari, watching the students enter and leave. They’d noted how the girls had dressed and what styles they chose. Then, Igrat had bought her clothing that would allow Cristi to mix in with the other students without a ripple. She even had a backpack that matched the most common ones they’d seen being used. “What about you ‘Lea? How did your first day at 261 go?”

Achillea rolled her eyes. “I got a lecture from Principal Simmons and met the staff. A few of the original teachers are still there but they’ve been beaten into the ground. The rest are all cut from Simmons cloth. Odd, none of them seem to know very much about their subjects. Oh, and I met one of the kids there. He tried to elbow me off my feet.”

Igrat laughed and then coughed. “It didn’t work?”

“Of course not.”

“Was he a fat boy, carrot red hair, freckles, little piggy blue eyes?” Cristi leaned forward.

“He was.”

“That’s Todd Brown. 11th Grade. Likes to pick fights with the fifth and sixth graders. He’s horrible.”

Achillea nodded. “Something really bad happened to him today, something he brought on himself. Time for Moral Guidance of the day Cristi.”

Cristi leaned forward in anticipation. Once each day, either Igrat or Achillea would give her ‘moral guidance of the day’. Usually it was a bit of how-to-live-your-life advice told with dry humor. Cristi had soon realized the advice was invaluable and based on a wealth of highly varied experience. Now she looked forward to each day’s ‘lesson.’

Achillea closed her eyes for a second and the image of her dottore teaching her came to mind. “If you want to live a happy life, the only thing that will get you there is virtue. On the other hand, the only thing that will make you really miserable is vice. Reason is key to all this, Cristi, it is the fundamental basis of everything. It’s your guiding star in an uncertain world. Virtue is uncorrupted reason, it is wisdom, justice, courage, and moderation. Vice is corrupted reason and leads to foolishness, injustice, cowardice and intemperance. Try and achieve the first four, try and avoid the second four and you’ll end up having a much happier life.”

Cristi listened carefully and tried to understand what Achillea had said. It sounded simple enough, but the more she thought about it, the more complex the issue became. “How do I tell which is which?”

“By their effects. Acts of virtue have good effects, acts of vice bad ones. Look at the effects of acts, not in themselves but in their effects as a whole. Take that Brown kid. He’s spent his life using his strength to bully those weaker than himself. That’s injustice. Today, he tried to bully somebody much stronger than he was and ended up on the floor crying and wetting his pants. That was justice. See what I mean? If he hadn’t succumbed to vice, he wouldn’t have created a situation that ended very badly for him. His vices ran up to create a bad situation and that bad situation then ran back down to put him in a bad place.”

“The Indians have always believed that doing bad things will eventually catch up with you. They call it Karma.” Igrat chipped in. “”Lea’s just told you how it happens. Have you tried the chicken with cashew nuts? It’s good. Where did you get this from ‘Lea?”

“The Good Earth. It’s down on 42nd. They make the food there to order, in store. Nothing bought in. They refuse to use short-cuts, artificial additives and preservatives. The rice is brown, not white. By now, the queue there will be half a block long, at least.”

“So, they do virtuous things by taking the care needed to make good food. That makes us happy so we keep going back there and that makes them happy.” Cristi took a helping of chicken and cashew nuts, then looked at Achillea to see if she’d understood properly.

“You got it.” Across the centuries, Achillea thought she could sense her dottore smiling at a lesson well-learned.

[Calder]

Chapter Five
Gymnasium. Public School 261, Queens, New York.

Achillea knew something was wrong in the gymnasium long before she opened the double doors. Normally, there would be the hammering noise of running feet, the sounds of cheering at a success or disappointment at a failure. There would be evidence of excitement and enjoyment, of contestants achieving something that they could look back on with pride. This time there was none of that. It wasn’t that the place was silent for a gymnasium couldn’t be. It was that the sounds of enthusiasm and commitment just were not there. The place sounded as if it was filled with people going through the motions with complete indifference.

When she opened the door, she saw that the impression of apathy was justified. There were about thirty students in the room, allegedly playing basketball. Achillea’s experienced eye quickly assessed the scene and that assessment was not complimentary. She wasn’t quite sure what game they were playing but it wasn’t any team sport she had ever seen. The players were ambling slowly around the court, barely more than walking speed, without any pretense of organization or interest. There was no pattern to their movements or plan to their maneuvers. Whether they passed the ball to somebody else or threw it at the hoops seemed to have no logic or reason behind it. Watching them was a man in shorts and a singlet. He seemed quite pleased with what he was seeing.

“Who are you.” He had noticed Achillea coming into the gymnasium and obviously resented her presence. Of course he does, she thought, if this sad display is anything to go by, he has a lot to hide.

“Achillea Foyle. Physical training instructor appointed by the State of New York to bring the physical education and sporting record of this school up to scratch.” She looked at the court where the “game” had stopped. The players were watching developments with the first stirrings of interest she had seen. “By the sight of this apology for a basketball match, I’ve got a lot of work to do. Who are you?”

“Walter Bennett. Head of the Physical Activity Department.”

“Fine, Mr. Bennett. What’s the score in this match?”

“We don’t keep score. It is the school policy that focusing on winning stops the students from developing their own talents and learning to become part of a greater whole. Winning is about taking part, not getting more points than the rest. Scoring means that the strongest players get undeserved attention and the weakest feel shut out. So, by not keeping score, we encourage participation by everybody.”

“And this lot are participating?” The scorn in her voice was unmistakable and she was delighted to see the resentment flare in the faces of some of the students present. “My pet dog shows more enthusiasm for playing with a ball than this lot put together and he’s been dead for five years. How in the name of all the Gods do you pick a school team from this slough of despond?”

“We draw the names out of the hat. That way everybody gets an equal chance to represent the school.” Bennett’s voice was shifting from smug conceit to outrage. “Teams are divisive and hinder the unity of the community.”

Achillea burst out laughing, then stopped and looked at Bennet. “Gods, you’re serious. What basic coaching have you given these kids?”

“None. It is the policy of this department that the students should develop and play their own natural game.” Principal Simmons and I see eye to eye on that.” There was an unmistakable note of menace in Bennett’s voice.

“So we’re starting from nothing. That works for us.” Bennett realized that Achillea was completely ignoring him and speaking directly to the students.

“Why?” One of the students searched around for her name. Achillea didn’t enlighten him although he had gained the first small mark of approval in her mental register.

“Because that means you don’t have bad lessons to unlearn. You’ve almost certainly all picked up bad habits from trying to train yourselves but they’re easier to undo than bad lessons. The complete absence of proper instruction and coaching means you don’t have to unlearn things. You.” She pointed to a boy in the first row. “I want you to sit on the floor, legs out in front of you. Hold the basketball in both hands and throw it as far as you can.”

The student did as he was told and the ball arced out. Achillea marked where it had landed, then measured the distance of the throw. “How old are you?”

“Fifteen . . .” The boy searched for Achillea’s name but, again, she didn’t enlighten him. He stumbled for a second and then settled for “Ma’am.”

“Fifteen years old. You threw the ball a little over ten feet. Do you realize an out-of-condition twelve year old is expected to be able to match that.” There was a ripple of laughter around the group. Achillea spun on her heel. “Nobody here has proved they can do any better than he has. Can the laughter until you do. Now, you. Show me how far you can throw a basketball.”

“Stop this immediately.” Bennett wasn’t just blustering, he was furiously angry. “This kind of competitiveness is against everything this school stands for. Haven’t you listened to a word our Principal said?”

Achillea thought about that for a brief portion of a second. “No.”

Bennett looked as if he was about to say something, went brilliant crimson, changed his mind and started to say something else. Then he went an even deeper shade of crimson, one that was shaded with purple around his eyes and lips, and he stormed out.

There was a long silence in the gymnasium. Eventually the boy who had just thrown the ball sighed, rather regretfully. “Well, ma’am, it was nice knowing you. You’ll be gone by dismissal.”

Achillea noted the regretful buzz that went around the class. They had taken her attitude towards them to heart and had been looking forward to proving her wrong. She had picked this group very carefully from all the ones she had responsibility for. Not because they had high grades, all the school records showed all the students getting A grades all of the time in all of the subjects. It was because the reports she had read hinted that they were looking out for each other and covering for each other when necessary. In her eyes, it was a devastating comment on the school that such behavior stood out from the norm.

“I don’t think so. I was assigned here by the State Education Authority in Albany. Principal Simmons has no authority to fire me without getting their approval and he won’t get it. So, let’s go to work. Each of you, tell me your name and then try and throw that ball as hard as you can. That will give us a baseline so we can measure how much improvement we’ve made. We’ll start each of our physical education lessons with a ball throw from now on.”

Achillea watched her students throwing the basketball carefully. Although they didn’t know it, this was how a gladiatorial ludus started its training. Before you can set out on a journey, you have to know where you are starting from. Viewed objectively, their performance was lamentable. The best of them barely reached fifteen feet. However, one thing she did note was that the problem was failure in technique rather than lack of strength. When the last of the students had thrown, he looked at Achillea “and how far can you throw that ball ma’am?”

She grinned at him. “Good question. Let’s find out.”

Achillea sat down in the proper position, took a deep breath and grunted slightly as she threw. Those were pure theatrics; meant to convince her audience she was doing the best she could. Her throw landed 26 feet away. In fact, she could have done a lot better than that but she wanted to set the class a target that was reasonable for their age. She smiled at the collective intake of breath from her class. “Listen, a very wise man once said that because your own strength is unequal to the task, do not assume that it is beyond the powers of man; but if anything is within the powers and province of man, believe that it is within your own compass also. You can match that throw if you want to. That’s the secret of doing well at anything. You have to want to do well.”

“Who was that, ma’am?” One of the girls in the class was curious but was already looking at Achillea with something close to hero worship in her eyes.

“Marcus Aurelius, a Roman emperor. One of the better ones by the way. Here’s something else he said. ‘"If you work at that which is before you, seriously, vigorously, calmly, without allowing anything else to distract you, you will succeed. And there is no man able to prevent this.’ That’s a little bit of an exaggeration but not much. You want to achieve something enough and you’re prepared to work at it, you’ll get there.”

Achillea walked out in front of the group, looked carefully and held out her arm. “Everybody to the left of my arm, move a couple of paces to the left. Everybody to the right, a couple of paces to the right. That’s good.” She did a quick count; there were fifteen members in each team with the twelve girls equally divided. “You on the left, you’re Team Flavius. You on the right, you are Team Marcus. Before you ask, they were both Roman Emperors and they both give you a lot to live up to. Don‘t let them down.”

Achillea had originally planned to use the traditional colors for the teams, red, blue, green and yellow. The problem had been that red and blue were gang colors while green and yellow had unfortunate connotations. The idea of using Emperor’s names had been a last-minute inspiration. Even so, she was pleased with it. “Now, we’re going to have a basketball match. Each team, split yourselves into three groups and we’ll have three ten-minute games. Team with the highest total score at the end of the match wins. Prize is, next week, the winning team gets the games lesson off. I’ll write you all a pass so you don’t get pulled in by the Truancy people. Ready? Then get yourselves sorted out and we’ll play ball.”

Igrat’s Apartment, 71 Broadway, Manhattan, New York.

“So, what was the final score?” Igrat and Achillea were talking quietly since Cristi was doing her homework in her room. The television was off for the same reason.

“Flavius five to Marcus four. Both sides scored field goals twice but Flavius managed one of theirs from behind the three point line.”

“Isn’t that very low?”

“For a basketball game, yes. The professional match scores are usually around a hundred. I suppose the score would have been up there if all the dropped balls and fluffed throws hadn’t taken place. Mind you both teams scored in the third game so they were both beginning to get the idea. And the others were cheering their team on which means they are really getting the idea.”

Achillea was going to elaborate further when she was interrupted by an insistent knocking on the door. Igrat went over to the access panel and looked at the screen. “Who are you?”

“Sabrina Castillo. Child Protection Services Supervisor. I’ve come to check on Cristi.” Castillo had obviously been well-briefed. She was holding up her identification so it could be confirmed.

“Come on in then.” Igrat opened the electronic lock on the door and let the woman in.

Castillo looked around the apartment, taking in the surroundings that Cristi was now growing up in. “I’d like to talk to Cristi, in private, please.”

“I’m sorry, Cristi is doing her homework. She has to finish that before you can see her.” Igrat was polite but very firm. So was Castillo.

“I’m sorry, Miss Shafrid, but when I said, I’d like to, what I meant was, I am going to.” Castillo looked at the mulish obstinacy on Igrat’s face and decided to change course. “Look, last week I was checking up on a couple whose kids were on the watch list. They said ‘the kids are doing their homework’. When we kicked the door down, we found one of those kids locked up in the basement. We haven’t found the other one yet. So, I am asking politely. I would like to meet Cristi, right now.”

Igrat thought for a second, then went over to the door to Cristi’s room and knocked. “Cristi, I’ve got a Miss Castillo from CPS here. May we come in please?” On hearing the ‘come in’, Igrat opened the door and lead Castillo in. Cristi was sitting at her desk surrounded by mathematics text books. She had a puzzled expression on her face that grew more intense when she saw the CPS inspector.

“How are you doing, Hon?” Castillo’s voice was warm and friendly. “Miss Shafrid, I’d like to talk to Cristi alone please.”

Igrat nodded. “Cristi, we’ll be right outside. If Miss Castillo threatens you or makes you uncomfortable, just call out. “

An hour later, Castillo left Cristi’s room and sat down with Igrat and Achillea. “You get a clean bill of health. Cristi feels secure, is happy, well fed and how you got her into Trinity, I don’t dare ask. I knew it was going to be all right when I walked into her room. She’d hung up all her clothes properly. Kids don’t do that unless they’re happy. I asked her and she said this was the first time in her life she’d had nice things to wear and she wanted to look after them. Who’s teaching her the quotations from Seneca by the way?”

Achillea put up her hand. “Guilty.”

“Nothing to be guilty about. Lot of good advice there. Now, I see that she’s been seeing a doctor regularly about the injuries she got from her mother. You’ve been keeping to the diet her doctor ordered?” Castillo noted the nods. “She does look a lot better. One thing that worries me is she’s very passive. A lot of the kids from P.S. 261 are like that. There’s something about that place that squashes individuality. Cristi needs to learn to stand up for herself more. If she doesn’t, she’s going to get bullied.”

“We’re working on that. But, we’ve got to take it slowly; she’s had enough changes in her life.”

“I’d advise you to speed it up a bit.” Castillo paused for a second. “Do you two have children of your own? I assume you’re a couple?”

“No, we aren’t. Just friends. And no, we don’t.”

“Then you’re doing pretty well. Look, I’m sorry I came over heavy when I arrived here but in this job the things we see and hear make us suspect first and apologize later if necessary. I’ve got four kids of my own, so if you need advice or just want to talk, give me a call.” She handed over two business cards.

Igrat read it. “Now, can we come over and inspect your kids?”

“Miss Shafrid, do you always mouth off at authority figures?”

Igrat thought for a second. “Yes.”

“Well, that makes you a good New Yorker I guess. Try and get some of the attitude into Cristi. She needs it badly.”

After Castillo had left, Igrat and Achillea relaxed. “Well, it’s lucky she didn’t find out you’re starting a gladiatorial ludus in the middle of P.S. 261.”

“The problem, Iggie, is that I have no idea what is going on there. The whole neighborhood is rotten, there’s no doubt about that. The school is right in the middle of it and I have no doubt about that either. It’s not like Arundel where the various groups were trying to gain control over the town. Whatever is going on in there has already got the control they need. How they are maintaining it, I don’t know. Nor can I understand what their objective is.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“What you said, I’m setting up a ludus right under their nose. Whatever is going on in the district has, as its center, what is going on in the school. So, I’m going to take a wrecking bar to how Public School 261 runs and whatever it is they are up to in there. Since that is the center of whatever is going on there, that means I’ll be wrecking the larger scheme as well. With a little luck, that’ll get things moving.”

“What you mean is, that will get them trying to kill you.”

Achillea grinned. “They can try.”

At that point, the telephone rang. Igrat picked it up and talked for a few minutes. Then, she put the phone down and knocked on the door of Cristi’s room. “Cristi, could you join us please. We need to talk.”

Cristi came out and sat on the couch, looking extremely apprehensive. Igrat hurried into what she had to say, not wanting the girl to be in suspense any longer than she had to be. “Cristi, I just had a call from the warden of Bedford Hills Correctional Facility. That’s where your mother is being held awaiting trial. It’s a maximum security facility, some really hard cases in there. Something you should know about prison inmates. They can’t look after their children while inside so they try and protect them by making it known that people who abuse kids are in for a really rough time when they go into prison. Your mother was trying to make out how tough she was by telling the other women how she kept you in line by smacking you around. So, the other women smacked her around. So much so, she’s now in a coma with multiple skull fractures. If you want, we can drive up there so you can see her.”

Cristi shook her head. “I’ve got my mathematics homework to finish. We’re doing algebra and I’m beginning to understand it. It’s beautiful.”

“Cristi, your mother probably isn’t going to make it and the chances are that even if she does, she’ll be a vegetable. Slamming somebody’s head into a concrete wall will do that.”

“I know. I also heard what you and ‘Lea said. She tried to sell me. She tried to sell me. I don’t want to see her ever again. Not ever. I hate her.” Cristi nearly screamed the last words out, then she caught herself. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shout at you. You’ve been so kind. Please don’t be angry with me.”

Igrat sat down next to her and put her arm around Cristi’s shoulders and hugged. “Cristi, something you don’t know about me. I’m adopted. My birth mother tried to kill me the moment I was born. She threw me into the garbage and left me to bleed to death. Somebody found me and saved my life. Later, I was found by somebody who adopted me and became the father I never had. So, when you say you hate your mother, I know what you are feeling. But, here’s Moral Guidance for the day. When my father adopted me and took me into his family, I learned something. Anger, if not restrained, is frequently more hurtful to us than the injury that provokes it. If you let the way your mother treated you turn you bitter and vicious, that will be her last victory over you.”

Cristi nodded. Achillea patted her on the knee comfortingly. “Iggie’s right. It’s nice to hear somebody else quoting Seneca. Here’s one from Marcus Aurelius. ‘The best revenge is to be unlike him who performed the injury.’ Now, if your homework is done, we can eat while we watch television. Cairo is on tonight. With Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman. Have you seen it Cristi?”

The girl shook her head. “My mother only ever watched soap operas. Is Cairo good?”

Achillea chuckled. “It’s supposed to be, let’s make up our mind after we’ve watched it. One thing I will tell you. Bogart is dreamy.”

[Calder]

Chapter Six
Headquarters, New York State Child Protection Service, 1 Police Plaza, Manhattan, New York.

“I hate to say this but we’ve got a lot of problems and they all link together.” Deborah Nguyen looked around the conference room, obviously very worried and flustered. “I don’t know where to start.”

“Try an easy bit first. Always shoot the nearest snake first.” Achillea glanced at her watch. She didn’t have a class until afternoon but that was one she couldn’t ignore. It was the group she already thought of as her special project class.

“All right. Let’s start with Cristi’s problems. Her mother is in a coma and is not expected to recover. The doctors up in Bedford are hardly the best New York has to offer but they all agree on that. She has massive brain damage and is cycling downwards. The least inept of the prison doctors believes she’ll be dead in a month.”

“I suppose there’s no evidence over who did it?” Robert Loxley really didn’t care. Finding out who had attacked Vernita Escalante wasn’t his responsibility. Protecting Cristi Escalante was.

“As usual, nobody saw or heard anything. By the way, this wasn’t a usual prison beating. The attackers intended to kill her. Some of the wounds penetrated right through her skull into her brain. Probably from an iron bar held like a spear.”

Achillea and Igrat exchanged glances and both made tiny motions of negation. Holding an iron bar like a spear was something a Daimones might have done, but neither of them had initiated the killing. Achillea sounded curious “That doesn’t sound like the women were sending a message to me.”

“Oh, the killers were sending a message all right. They were silencing her.” Loxley shook his head. “That isn’t our problem. Our responsibility here is Cristi. She was in the care, if anybody dare call it that, of her mother. That means the mother’s relatives are first in line to take care of her. Only, we can’t find any relatives on her mother’s side. So, that took us to her father. We got her birth certificate. Well, surprise, surprise, Cristi’s father was Bobby ‘Cuddles’ Lombardi. A made man but not bright enough to make the move to Cuba. He was a foot soldier back when he fathered Cristi . . . “

“Wait a minute.” Nguyen had started thumbing through her files as soon as the name was mentioned. “Rodrigo Lombardi? He was one of the innocent bystanders who got whacked a few months back, A couple of kids in a car tried to do a drive-by on their rivals only they lost control on a patch of ice and spun out. Lombardi got caught between the car and a wall. A week or so later, the kids suspected of the drive-by were found in a park by Cadman Plaza. Face down, pants down around their ankles, shot through the back passage. A mob hit for certain. Makes sense if Lombardi was made.”

“He was more than made.” Loxley still had the file on Cristi’s father open. “He worked his way up, was the Captain of a crew working down in the docks. He might not have made the grade for Cuba originally but he did well here and is on good terms with the Cuban authorities.”

“People like that don’t get rubbed out by accident.” Igrat knew her mobsters well. Her duties took her over to Cuba regularly and she was on intimate terms with John Gotti, head of the Cuban National Enforcement Agency. Effectively he was the head of Cuba’s police only most Cubans were violently allergic to the word police. ‘Enforcement’ on the other hand had a nice Mob ring about it that made Cubans feel warm and fuzzy. “If he was killed, he was the target.”

“That ties in with what we were talking about, Debbie.” Achillea was beginning to see patterns emerging from the chaos. “We suspected that those innocent bystanders weren’t innocent bystanders at all, they were the targets. You know, if somebody wanted to rub out a mob boss, that’s the way to do it. Couple of kid gang-bangers screw up a hit and kill the boss by mistake. There’s a sit-down, a really apologetic explanation, a terrible accident you know, and the identities of the kids is handed over with proof they did it. The mob picks them up and takes them out. The gangs are down two sicarios but that’s better than a full-blooded mob war with a Cuban-funded family.”

“Especially if the Sicarios are easily replaced. You know, that’s all P.S. 261 seems to do. Generate sadistic thugs and passive victims.” Nguyen was appalled by the thought. “They’ve created a training school for sicarios and their victims.”

“Look, Lombardi fathers a kid, presumably with his Comare. Mob are family people, he’ll be under a lot of pressure from his peers to do the right thing, He’ll set her up in a nice apartment, pay the lease on it for her, give her money to live comfortably and support the kid. I’ll bet he gave Vernita Escalante enough money to send the daughter to a private school.” Igrat paused, and took in a deep breath. “Then he went on his way and that too was doing the right thing because a girl growing up doesn’t need a father in the Mob and he doesn’t need a daughter to give enemies a hold over him. As he goes up the Mob pole, he needs more glamorous comares than the never-very-pretty and aging fast Vernita. She fades into the past, an ongoing business expense, no more than that.

“Only, she’s hooked on her glory days. She has an income, a place to live and a daughter but she doesn’t have a role in life. So she seeks thrills and finds them in a needle or up her nose. Soon, the cost of supporting that habit exceeds her income and she starts raiding Cristi’s school fund. Then Lombardi gets killed and the money stops. When was Lombardi killed?”

“About five months ago.” Nguyen had seen where this was going and already had her finger on the date.

“Just before Vernita stopped paying the rent. She may already have been selling the furniture, if not, she started soon. To buy drugs, not pay the rent. She was already short-changing Cristi by using her support payments and school fees for drugs so she sent her to P.S. 261 instead of a private school. Soon all the furniture had gone, eviction was coming fast and she had no money. In a moment of clarity, she looked in a mirror and a fat, old, ugly woman looked back. She couldn’t even sell herself so she sold her daughter instead.” Igrat couldn’t stop herself from shaking with anger at that thought.

Loxley grunted. “Very convincing, but that doesn’t solve our first problem. What do we do with Cristi? She has no maternal family that we can find, we can’t give her to a mob family. You’ve done a great job as a temporary foster-mother Igrat but we can’t ask you to do the job on a permanent basis. It’s unlikely that adoptive parents will present themselves since 14 is too old for most prospective parents. She’ll have to go into state care. It’ll be a rough seven years for her, but she’ll survive.”

Achillea looked at Igrat and couldn’t stop herself smirking. Most master-manipulators of other people had a blind spot when it came to people manipulating them and Achillea could see how Loxley was edging Igrat into making the decisions he wanted. Igrat leaned forward slightly. “I don’t see that as necessary. I’ll look after Cristi on a long term basis. Just get the paperwork started. And get the adoption paperwork. We might as well get that ball rolling as well. I’ll talk with Cristi and if she’s OK with the plan, we’ll run with it.”

“Well, if you insist. . . . “ Loxley sounded reluctant and apprehensive. “I’ll see to it. Now, since we’re on the subject of Escalante’s apartment, what did we find there?”

Patrol Officers Daniels and Garner had been sitting at the end of the table wondering how to spend the extra income they would acquire with what they were sure would be their inevitable promotions to Sergeant, or possibly even Lieutenant. Every time the words mob or drugs had been used, they’d heard the gentle sound of cash registers ringing and envisaged the commendatory words written in their promotions.

“Well, we didn’t find very much. We stripped the apartment down to the bare walls and we found quantities of heroin, cocaine and meth but the amounts were user-level only. As far as our experts are concerned, the place wasn’t used for dealing or manufacture. Why that steel plate was in the door we don’t know. We took the non-load bearing interior walls down to the mesh-reinforced cement. There’s not much there. Miss Shafrid, the borough engineers say you’ve got structural problems that require remedy. You’ll be getting a letter about it and recommending options.”

“Aftermath of the V-1 hit.” Igrat was reminiscing. “The Doodlebug hit Chinatown almost a mile away but the building was badly shaken up and U.S. Steel had to move out. My mother bought it for a song and had it repaired and converted into apartments. It’s about time we had it renovated. How much compensation will I be getting for the destroyed apartment?”

Igrat picked up the telephone and dialed an outside line. “Anya? Who had apartment 55 before Vernita Escalante moved in? . . . . . . I see. Thank you. We’ve got structural problems, we may have to bring the renovation up. Look into it please. And make sure we get every cent compensation we’re owed. Thank you.”

“Now that’s interesting. Lease on the apartment was held by one Rodrigo Lombardi who transferred it directly to Vernita Escalante in 1982. When Cristi was born. Until five months ago, the lease was paid monthly by standing order drawn on the Standard Commercial Bank of Prague. Those payments ceased abruptly five months ago. So, 55 was where Lombardi lived and that explains the steel plate in the door.” Igrat nodded to herself.

“None of this answers the question, what the hell is going on? Lombardi’s death solves the Cristi mystery but creates the one of his own death. Why was he killed?”

“Try this.” Igrat seemed incredibly sad suddenly. “He’s aware he’s got teenage daughter who’s on the verge of becoming a young woman, Suddenly, he wants to see her. He knows where she lives so he stakes out the apartment block and sees her. Only, she isn’t the well-dressed, well cared-for girl he was expecting to see on her way to a good private school. She’s shabby, miserable and on the way to a bad public school in a bad area. Or perhaps he saw her at that school and realized who she was. He knows now that her mother must be taking nearly all the money he’d intended for Cristi and it doesn’t take much imagination to work out what for. He starts to look into that school, realizes something very bad is going on and is killed before he can do anything about it. The killers probably didn’t realize he was mobbed up until the hit men came looking for them.”

“Or this.” Achillea had another thought. “He saw Escalante was stealing the money intended to give Cristi a good start so he went to see her and told her he was cutting off the funding and taking his daughter away from her. Probably take her to Cuba. As a Captain with a working crew on good terms with the authorities he could do that. She’d heard from Cristi about what was going on in the school so she started talking, probably to her dealer and he arranged the hit. That was when she realized that she’d just turned off her own money tap. That makes selling Cristi to a pimp her last act of revenge against him. And, by the way, that’s why she got her head caved in. When the women who did her get out, I bet they got well-paid jobs waiting in Cuba.”

“Either equally plausible.” Leigh Anderson wanted to get the conversation away from theorizing and back to solid ground. “Just what is going on at that school anyway?”

“I think Deborah nailed it.” Achillea ran over the things she had seen during the last few days at P.S, 261. “The bad guys have taken over a public school and are using it as a recruiting center and training ground for sicarios. It’s probably happened before but in the old days, schools were small and an individual school only represented a tiny proportion of the child population of a given area, Now, those schools have been consolidated and all the kids in a given area go there. There’s no realistic discipline or control in P.S. 261, so the sadistic thugs rise to the top and are creamed off, recruited, by the gangs. The rest sink down into passivity and become little more than training exercises for the sicarios. They don’t get any real education so when they leave school, all they have is a worthless diploma. They’re lucky to get minimum wage scut-work. And the gangs point to them as an example of how futile it is to try and do anything other than join a gang.”

“So, you’re saying that the gangs are using this school to recruit and train hundreds of new members a year rather than the usual few dozen?” Anderson was horrified by what was happening.

“That’s right.” Deborah Nguyen spoke quietly, her voice hushed by the enormity of the concept. “They’re recruiting and training a whole army in there. When it surges out of its training ground, it could be powerful enough to take over the whole city, the criminal side of it at least. Even the Mob are going to be hard hit when they try and face street gangs numbered in hundreds or thousands of gunmen.”

Gymnasium. Public School 261, Queens, New York.

The fifteen members of Team Marcus were standing on the basketball court, watching Achillea for some sign as to what was about to happen. She looked over them. Fifteen was a small enough number to do some realistic coaching. “We start with your ball throw. Once we’ve got that done, we can start to talk tactics and techniques. Last week, when you did your first throw, everybody was doing things a bit differently but there was a common factor. Boys were throwing overarm, girls underarm. Which do you think is right?”

One boy put his hand up. “At a guess, ma’am, you’re going to tell us that they are both wrong.”

“Well done Carl. When you throw from a sitting position over or underhand, you’re just using the strength of your wrists. To get a good throw, you need to use the strength of your whole upper body. You do that like this. First, hold the ball properly. Everybody watching? You use both hands. Your dominant hand is your shooting hand, your non-dominant hand is your balance hand. Your balance hand should be on the side of the ball. It’s there to stabilize things, don’t use it to try and add force or spin to the shot. Your balance hand should always come off the ball first. Now, place the air hole between the middle and index fingers of your shooting hand and line up your fingertip pads parallel to the long seams of the ball. Balance the ball in one hand with your fingers spread comfortably. Leave space between the ball and the middle of your palm. You should be able to insert a pencil between the ball and your palm area. The ball should sit on your finger pads. Now, when you throw, push hard with your shooting hand. Keep the ball in front of you so you can see what you’re doing. When you push, uncoil your body with all your strength from your core and arm. By the time the ball is on its way, your elbow and wrist should extend in a straight line. Now try it.”

Carl sat down, carefully positioned his hands the way he had been told and tried to throw as instructed. It was a poor imitation of a proper throw but it was an imitation and that was a major advance. The ball obviously went significantly further than any of the previous throws. When the students doing the measuring called out the result, their shout was triumphant. “Sixteen feet, one inch!” The whole group cheered, Carl got some enthusiastic claps on the back that sent him staggering and a couple of hugs from the girls.

“Do you all notice something else? Last week, the balls were landing all over the place. I’d say there was something like a 30 degree spread in the shots. That’s why you kept missing the basket in the game. But Carl’s ball went straighter. Much straighter. Remember I said your elbow and wrist should extend in a straight line? Well, that line points the ball to where it has to go. That’s how you aim the ball. We’ll come back to that. Now, rest of you do your throws. By the way, whoever achieves the greatest improvement over their previous throw gets to be team captain for the day. That applies to every game session from now on.”

There was a brief struggle for who would throw next. Achillea ended it by pointing at one of the girls. “Sonja, you’re up, Mike, you’re on deck. Sonja, we’re girls, we don’t have the sheer upper body strength of the boys. We have to substitute speed and precision for strength. It sounds hard but it can be done. We have to accept that the boys will throw further than we can. We do have some edges, our peripheral vision is better and our reactions are, on average, a bit faster. So our game style will play to those advantages. Now throw ball.”

Kitchen, Igrat’s Apartment, 71 Broadway, Manhattan, New York.

“Now it’s dredgin’ the cubes of lamb in flour that makes the difference. We seasoned the flour with salt, pepper and finely-ground rosemary first. I hope you’ll be rememberin’ all this. Back in the old country, people would come from miles around to eat my grandmother’s Irish Stew.” Michael Collins transferred the meat to a Dutch Oven and started to brown it. “Now, Cristi, finished cuttin’ the parsnips into cubes? Some say to cut out the center but that’s a waste and in the old country, a terrible thing it was to waste good food. Add them in along with the onions we fried earlier, the chopped carrots and pearl barley. Now, we mix equal amounts of Guinness and chicken stock and pour the mixture in until the meat and vegetables are just covered. Clonakilty Wrastler, is the stout my Grannie swore by but gettin’ it in America is a hope forlorn. So we’ll be makin’ do with Guinness. Add the parsley, thyme and bay leaves. Now, we put the Dutch Oven in the stove for two hours. Remember, Cristi, a dish for poor people this was so it used the cheapest meat and herbs that grew in every hedgerow. A good shoulder of lamb we used but my Grannie would use mutton and the better the stew tasted for it. Most when they try to make this add too many expensive things and make it something it is not. It is not fine dining we want here but good hearty meal after a day’s hard work.”

“How are you two getting along?” Igrat was at the door of the kitchen, looking in at the cookery lesson. The door had been left wide open and Achillea was sitting quietly in one corner, drinking a glass of red wine. Michael Collins had very quickly picked up on Cristi’s fear and had gone out of his way to reassure her. He was a man who generally respected women and thrived on female company of all ages. Mostly growing up with his sisters, he’d shown them respect that he now extended to Cristi. Slowly her fear had ebbed away but that left him with a question. Just what did her mother and her man friends do to her that caused such fear?

“We’re doing fine to be sure. Hey Cristi? Teaching her my old Grannie’s recipes so she can save you from starvation when the take-out food stores all go on strike.”

“Mister Collins, would you mind if I wrote these all down for school? We have to do a project for each term and book of real Irish recipes would be good.”

“Aye lass, that it would. And my old Grannie would be proud. So much of the old country and its ways has been lost.” For a brief second grief showed on Michael Collins’ face as he thought about how much the Germans had destroyed. Then he swept it away, grabbed Igrat’s arm and pulled her towards him, He was more than a foot taller than she was so when he hugged her, her head rested on his chest. His hand cupping the back of her head felt the small knife she carried concealed in her hair. That was something he found reassuring.

Igrat looked at him, her eyes glowing softly. “Later, Mike. Cristi and I have something very serious to talk about first. Can we leave you with Achillea for a while?”

“To be sure. Achillea, some more wine would you be drinkin’? And you will be tellin’ me what’s goin’ on in this school of yours?”

Achillea started to explain the situation while Collins nodded. The situation she was describing sounded familiar to him but never on this scale. Halfway through, they heard Cristi’s voice, raised in urgent delight. “Oh yes, yes please.”

Collins smiled. “I think the lassie will do well here.”

Achillea smiled at him. “I hope so, she’s had enough bad experiences for a normal lifetime. Look, Mike, we need your help as well. You noticed she’s scared stiff of people she doesn’t know – and men in particular? That’s not the worst of it. She just will not stand up for herself. I made a mistake a few days ago, called the three-point line on a basketball court the three-yard line. She very politely told me I’d got it wrong and then started crying because she thought she’d hurt my feelings.”

“As if you have feelings to be hurt ‘Lea.” Collins smiled at her and lifted a glass of Guinness in a mock toast.

“There’s that, Mike. But the point is, she was very polite, so no reasonable person could have taken offense. Yet, she was terrified of upsetting me and kept apologizing over and over. She needs a father figure. Mike.”

Collins drained his glass. It was a small fruit juice glass and the stout it had contained was his limit. When he had first come to America, he had been a near-broken and demoralized man and had taken refuge in a bottle. That had led to what he still regarded as the darkest and most shameful act of his life and it, combined with what had happened to Igrat in Geneva, had snapped him out of his depression. Now he was as close to a teetotaler as any good Irishman could be.

“House in Long Island is always open, that you know. Too far for school nights but come over weekends. Good to have kiddies running around it will be.”

[Calder]

Chapter Seven
Gymnasium. Public School 261, Queens, New York.

“And the total score for the three matches is, Team Marcus, forty seven points, Team Flavius, six points. Team Marcus is the winner. Seriously the winner.” The fifteen members of Team Marcus were bouncing round with delight, exchanging high fives and back-slaps. Team Flavius were sitting still, white-faced with shock at the wipe-out, their mouths hanging open in stunned disbelief. Achillea looked at them with a certain degree of sympathy. They were providing the object lesson she wanted but she could feel their bewilderment over how quickly the scales had been turned against them. “Now, I know what all you Flavians are asking. What the hell just happened? Let’s discuss that.”

Achillea squatted on the floor with her class around her. Inside, she was crowing with delight; the lessons couldn’t be going better. “How do you assess capability in a game like this? Well, the obvious answer is winning and losing but that isn’t really a good answer. It’s a circular argument you see. He won because he’s good. He’s good because he won. Doesn’t tell us much, does it? Well, there are two components to capability. They are strength and skill.”

“What about speed, Miss Foyle?” Sonja had her hand up.

“Good point, a very good point, but for the purpose of this discussion, we’ll call speed a subset of strength. Now, there’s a law that seems to run through the universe. Where there are two major factors in determining the scale of something else, one of those factors dominates the other. Now, while you Flavians had your extra hour off, I had the Marcusians working on their skills. Basic things like how to hold and throw a ball. How to aim a ball so you can sink it in the net or pass it to a teammate who has a better shot than you do. Some basic tactics on the court. We couldn’t cover much in an hour and frankly, you should all have learned this a long time ago. But, we did get the basics done. Now, using those basics, the Marcusians just won a decisive victory. Yet, you two teams are so close in strength that nobody could make the difference. What does that tell us?”

“That skill is the dominant factor and strength is the less-dominant one.” Mike Janacek has already worked that out while Achillea had been talking and had been waiting to jump in. It was when the words came out that he suddenly realized their significance. Achillea could see the realization dawning on his face. She isn’t just talking about basketball. She’s telling us how we can face up to the thugs in this school.

“Very good. We can take that a bit further. The scale by which the Flavians got wiped out shows us that skill isn’t just the dominant factor, it is so by a large margin. Or, a small advantage in skill can defeat a major advantage in strength. Don’t get this wrong. I’m not saying that strength isn’t important, it is. But, when starting from the almost-zero base we have here, improving skills brings more rewards faster than improving strength. Now, we’ve only got a half hour or less so let’s make the best use of it you can. Each of you Marcusians pair off with a Flavian and teach him what you learned last week. You’ll find explaining something to somebody else is the best way of clearing it up in your own mind. And, of course, Marcusians, you get the next lesson off.”

“Oh no we don’t!” Mike Janacek’s mind was running ahead of the game. “And you’ll teach skills and tactics to the Flavians and they’ll walk all over us in the next game. We’ll all be here, won’t we guys?”

Achillea listened to the chorus of agreement with inward delight. Then she watched carefully as the two teams merged, then split into pairs. Exactly who was in each pair interested her greatly. She spent the rest of the lesson walking around the small two-person groups, helping them get their coaching sorted out. She found the sight remarkably comforting and familiar. The class split into pairs, practicing and teaching each other while the dottore walks around and gives advice. Give them swords and they could be gladiators in training. Which they are, although they don’t know it yet. Achillea could almost see herself in the group, a very young girl wearing the armor of a secutor and learning to wield a sword. I was a lot safer in the ludus than these kids are in this school. Yet there we were being trained as professional killers. Yet, isn’t that exactly what this school has become, a breeding ground for killers? Dottore said that tolerance of evil leads only to injustice for the good. He must have had places like this in mind.

Her reflections were stopped abruptly when Bennett stormed into the gymnasium, the force of his entry leaving the doors banging against their stops. “The Principal wants to see you immediately.”

His shout had still-unresolved anger and resentment issues blended with self-righteousness. But, beneath it all, Achillea’s practiced ear could detect fear. He must be smart enough to realize there is more going on here than meets the eye and the unknown scares him. No need to enlighten him.

Achillea turned slowly and surveyed Bennett coldly. “My class here finishes in twenty minutes. Tell Principal Simmons that I will be in his office then.”

“He wants you there, now.”

“Mister Bennett. The State of New York Department of Education Regulations, Article 666 sub-section four states that all administrative meetings will take place after a teacher’s regular assignments are completed and that teachers may not be called from lessons in progress to take part in such meetings. So, I will complete this lesson and then I will comply with the Principal’s request.”

Bennett looked confused, then spun on his heel and left. Achillea wiggled her eyebrows and then turned back to her class. “Now, where were we? Ahh, yes, tactics. We’ll start with offensive tactics for the team. Defensive tactics can follow later; nobody ever won a war by defending themselves.”

Principal’s Office. Public School 261, Queens, New York.

“Your behavior and teaching methods are completely intolerable. When we first met I clearly instructed you in the principle that this school practices holistic and inclusive educational doctrines. We do not allow competition, in its place, we stress cooperation. We do not celebrate individual achievements but only those of the community as a whole. Mr. Bennett explained why we do not permit scoring in athletics activity or the indoctrination of our athletes with arbitrary and authoritarian practices. Yet you have ignored these instructions and reintroduced the tired, old dictatorial systems of the past. In view of the circumstances, I have no choice but to ask for your resignation, effective immediately.”

Simmons sat back in his seat, his face flushed red with anger. Beside him, Bennett was equally angry but the self-righteousness had been joined by triumph. Achillea relaxed slightly; the confrontation had started and the first blows of the wrecking bar were about to be applied. Vigorously. “Demand refused.”

There was a shocked pause before Simmons pushed himself forward in his seat. “I am giving you a chance to leave here with some semblance of your career left. If you do not take that chance, I will fire you right now.”

“You don’t have the authority to do that.” Achillea showed no sign of the smile that was lighting her up inside. Her face was deadly serious and her eyes completely impassive. “I do not work for this school at all. I am employed by the State of New York Department of Education. I report directly to the head of that Department and, through him, to Governor Pataki. I am assigned to this school to fix your athletics program and bring your performance up to state and national standards. That, I am doing. Your role in this process is to lead, follow or get out of the way.”

“I am the Principal of this school and if I order you off the property . . .”

Achillea said nothing but reached forward and picked up the telephone. She dialed a number and waited for a few seconds while the connection went through. “Hi, Patty. It’s ‘Lea. Could I speak to George please? Thank you. Good Morning, George. Sorry to trouble you but I’m in P.S. 261 and Principal Simmons needs the facts of life explained to him. Handing you over now.”

Simmons seized the receiver and clapped it to his head. His voice oozed oil and grease, “Governor Pataki, it’s a great honor to speak with you. I . . . . Bu . . . . . . I . . . . . Tha . . . . . . . . Bu . . . . Sir, none of that is correct. I have an IQ of 107, a Bachelor’s degree in educational theory and my parents were married years before I was born. I . . . . yes, bu . . . . . .”

Achillea heard the decisive click as the connection was abruptly cut. She kept her own voice level, uninflected as she had heard The Seer do when he wanted to make a point. “Now we have that sorted out, here is where we go from here. I will be taking over all the classes from 6th Grade upwards. Mr. Bennett, you are now restricted to teaching everybody below 6th grade. Your ideas on scoreless teaching have a lot of merit to them – when used appropriately. They’re supposed to be for when you want to teach specific maneuvers and tactics so that your students can concentrate on getting what they are doing right without worrying about whether they win or lose points. You know, if we work together instead of being at each other’s throats, we could achieve a lot here.”

Bennett looked as if he might be convinced for a moment but then the anger and resentment closed down again. His face went dark red and screwed up. For a moment he seemed to want to surge forward and attack her but he stopped himself and, instead, went over to Simmons’ desk. The Russians had it right, Achillea thought, the blame that falls upon the fallen good is all the greater for they knew good from evil and chose the latter. Sorry, Bennett, you had your chance and now you go down like the rest.

She looked at the two, shook her head and left. As the door closed behind her she heard Simmons saying ‘now we have a real problem.’ It was more or less what she had expected. What she didn’t expect was that waiting outside the Principal’s study were a dozen or more students, mostly her Ninth Grade basketball teams but a number from the eighth grade. “Are you still with us Miss Foyle?”

Achillea nodded. “What are you all doing up here? Why aren’t you in class?”

Mike Janacek answered for the group. “Mister Mitchell said we could come up here and give you some moral support. Also, the 8th Graders here were the next P.E. class and Mister Bennett hadn’t turned up so some of us started teaching them what you taught us and the rest of us came up here.”

“Well, you’d better get to your class and I’d better get down to the Gym and take over.”

Janacek reached out, but his hand stopped about an inch from Achillea’s shoulder. He caught her eye and she nodded slightly. Then his hand moved the rest of the way and he touched her on that shoulder. “Will you promise to be as rude to them as you are to us?”

She grinned. “Of course. Why?”

Carl Bowen answered “Because we’ve worked it out. You insult people who you think have potential and are worth the effort of driving forward. When you think people are worthless, you just ignore them.” Just like Principal Simmons. Nobody had said it but the thought was there.

Achillea nodded. “That’s about the size of it. Now, let’s get back to what we should be doing.”

The group began to disperse. Before they went their separate ways, Achillea coughed slightly. “And, kids. Thank you.”

Living Room, Igrat’s Apartment, 71 Broadway, Manhattan, New York.

“The quality of mercy is not strained.
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blessed:
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest. It becomes
The thronèd monarch better than his crown.
His scepter shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings,
But mercy is above this sceptered sway.
It is enthronèd in the hearts of kings.
It is an attribute to God himself.
And earthly power doth then show likest God’s.”

“Well, what do you think?” Cristi looked up, pulling her eyes off the pages of the book from which she had read the speech.

“You’re playing Portia in the scene of course.” Igrat looked up from the couch. She knew the answer to that already; she’d had a meeting with Cristi’s teachers to discuss her passivity and the suggestion of playing parts in English Language class production of Shakespeare had been an inspired solution. “You need to put more emotion into this. Remember you’re pleading for your lover’s life. There should be desperation in there as well. Good lovers aren’t easy to find.”

Cristi looked at the text again. She was obviously struggling with something and eventually it came out. “Igrat, I think you’ve got it wrong. The way I read this, Portia is trying desperately to save Antonio’s life but she’s also laying a legal trap for Shylock. She’s playing the part of an unbiased Judge who is coming around to the opinion that Shylock is entitled to his forfeit and won’t spring the trap until he’s too far in to get out. If she starts to plead for his life, he’ll guess she is trying to save him and walk away from the trap. Or, even worse, he’ll use the realization of the trap to kill Antonio.”

Don’t push it too far, Iggie. You’ve got her to argue with you. Don’t drive her back in her shell. Achillea was watching carefully though she gave little sign of doing so.

“You might be right there.” Igrat sounded doubtful.

“Listen to this bit, further along.” Cristi leafed through the pages and found the section where Portia was telling Shylock that the forfeit of a pound of flesh could contain no blood nor be a feather’s weight more or less than the pound specified. “You see? Right up to this point, Shylock believed Portia to be on his side and his own words had confirmed her as an expert on the laws. Then, she turns on him and those same words of praise doom him. If she’d been pleading and desperate earlier, that wouldn’t have worked.”

“She’s right, Iggie.” Michael Collins sipped his cup of tea, relishing the gentle flavor. Igrat tried her best when making him tea but she still wasn’t able to produce the masterpieces that Nell drew out of a teapot. Still, this cup was soothing and balm to a troubled soul. Nell might have done better but she was in California and the need was here. He looked over to where Achillea was sipping her tea and saw her give him a furtive wink.

“This must be an extremely difficult role for a real actress.” Cristi sounded thoughtful now. “The actress has to play Portia, but Portia is playing the part of a lawyer and the lawyer is playing the part of an unbiased, impartial expert. And that impartial, unbiased expert is playing the part of somebody who sympathizes with Shylock. That’s four layers of deception piled on top of each other. On top of that, the actress has to add enough of her own character and interpretation to make her portrayal of Portia different from all the others.”

“Wow, that’s pretty insightful.” Igrat was genuinely impressed. Not least because Bill Shaych had said exactly the same thing and he had written the character.

Cristi grinned, a mixture of genuine pleasure and relief that she hadn’t offended anybody. “Once each week, the school has a guest speaker from a career or profession who gives us picture of what it’s like to be in their line of work. This week we had Glenn Close in and she was telling us about how a great performance had to combine what the author wrote with what the performer brings to the role herself and what expectations the audience brings. How a Portia of 1996 is quite different from a Portia of 1896 simply because of the different audiences.”

“That deserves a Mimosa. ‘Lea, do the honors with the champagne will you?” Igrat listened to the subdued pop of a champagne cork and the fizzing noise as the Italian champagne was poured into freshly-made orange juice. Achillea handed a glass of Mimosa to Igrat and Cristi and then took one herself. Two Mimosas and a cup of tea were lifted in a toast to Cristi who giggled with embarrassment.

“So you are wantin’ to be an actress now Cristi?” Collins had a knack for talking to children and adolescents. He could draw them out and they could discuss issues without them feeling patronized or belittled. “That’s a hard career to be sure.”

“No, Mister Collins. I want to be an OSS Courier like Igrat.” Cristi slapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh my, I’m not supposed to say that, am I.”

“It’s all right, ‘Lea and I both carry OSS identification and we use them whenever we have to supply ID. There’s nothing secret about who we are.” Igrat managed to keep a perfectly straight face while saying that. “A courier doing a run may be operating under cover and, if so, exposing their identity is a problem. That’s really rare though. Covert deliveries are only a small part of our activities. For example, if the Center for Disease Control want to deliver test vaccines or samples somewhere, they’ll ask us and one of our couriers will take them. If you want to become a courier, the good news is there are always vacancies we can’t fill and you’re the right sex. Three quarters of our couriers are women.”

“Why?” Cristi was curious.

“Because the overwhelming priority is to get the delivery through. That even takes priority over the courier’s life. Getting the delivery through means avoiding conflicts and running away from fights. Most women do that instinctively. You know ‘Lea tried out for Courier duties and failed?”

Cristi’s eyes opened wide and she looked at Achillea who nodded. “Too confrontational. If somebody was in my way, I flattened them instead of finding a way around them.”

“Now the bad news. I said we are understaffed and always have vacancies. Well, there are literally a thousand applications for every vacancy we have. Mike said that getting to be a successful actress in Hollywood is very hard. I’d say the odds are pretty much the same against getting an appointment with Courier Division. Just for starters, the applicant needs at least an Honors degree in something useful and an ability to learn languages quickly.”

“Is it very dangerous? The stories all say that it is.”

Igrat shook her head. “We haven’t lost a courier for years. If there’s any real risk, the courier will have one or more bodyguards from Operations. They stay in the background unless they’re needed.”

Achillea watched Cristi nodding as she absorbed the information. I wonder if Iggie realizes that Cristi has started looking at her for inspiration and as a role model? The way a daughter should look at her mother. Above all, Cristi is beginning to stand on her own feet and look to the future. That’s a lot of progress in a few weeks. So, Igrat turns out to be a good mother. Whodathunkit.

[Calder]

Chapter Eight
Teacher’s Room. Public School 261, Queens, New York.

“Don’t criticize the coffee. You will be old and weak yourself one of these days.”

Achillea looked at the coffee machine with a high degree of suspicion. It looked old and she suspected its plumbing was corroded by years of misuse and lack of cleaning. Harry Mitchell was standing behind her, watching her make her assessment of the machine and its products. He wasn’t disappointed. Achillea took a sip and nearly retched. “Haec cloaca illuvies gustatus sanitate mantilibus..”

It took Mitchell a couple of seconds to translate what she’d said, mainly because most of the key words didn’t appear in normal dictionaries. When he did, he whistled in admiration. “Now that’s harsh. True, but harsh. I think the cookies are worse though. You don’t seriously think those are chocolate chips in them do you? If you do, ask yourself , ‘why are they moving?’”

She shook her head and threw the rest of the coffee down the sink. “The school canteen has been closed down for months and it’s not as if there’s anywhere around here we can eat. There’s a couple of local diners but they look pretty bad.”

“They are. Don’t eat there. Seriously. You live over the river don’t you? You’d be better off waiting until you get home. That’s what the students here do. A few tried to bring lunches in, but they just got stolen. Usually at knife point.”

“It’s all Pataki’s fault. He cut the education budget.” The voice was bitter and spiteful.

Achillea turned to look at the speaker. She hadn’t seen the woman in the teacher’s room before and she was quite sure that she would have noticed her if she had been present. Most of the teachers at P.S. 261 had made an effort to look at least a little presentable, as if making a last cry of defiance against the degrading environment. This woman had made none. She was wearing a dark gray man’s shirt that had seen better days and was at least one size too large. Her jeans were stained, dirty and threadbare. Her hair had been crudely dyed blonde in a way that had left the roots and streaks of the original mousy brown color visible. Then, it had been cut, equally crudely, and almost certainly with kitchen scissors. Achillea found herself looking over the woman with the same intensity that she had once applied to opponents in the arena. Her eyes showed the woman’s lack of personal care but it was her nose that told her most. She could smell the peculiar, slightly acrid odor that Igrat called “three day bra smell”. The usually fastidious Igrat had said it was the unerring, infallible mark of a skank, a mark she used herself when circumstances demanded.

Mitchell sounded bored, as if he was repeating something he’d said many times before. “Kellie, the state of New York hasn’t cut its education funding. Property tax receipts from our tax area have slumped and there is just no local money available. So we’re running on state money only. ’Lea, this is Kellie Goodwin, Kellie, this is Achillea Foyle. She’s taking over middle and high school physical education.”

Goodwin looked at Achillea with eyes that seemed to slither around without focusing on anything. “So I heard.” Then she got up and left.

“Let me guess, she teaches deportment and cotillion.” Achillea highly doubted it. P.S. 261 didn’t teach cotillion; Simmons had dismissed it as elitist nonsense. More to the point, she knew an enemy when she saw one.

Mitchell burst out laughing. “Smelly Kellie? That’s what the kids call her. No, she teaches mathematics. I’ll amend that. There is a period on our timetable labeled ‘mathematics’ and she sits in the appropriate classroom during those periods. She’s a great supporter of the discovery system of education, meaning the kids fool around and ‘discover mathematic principles for themselves.’ Given her comments about funding here, it’s probably better for the kids that she doesn’t try and teach them.”

Achillea nodded. “Just what is going on with funding this school? Is somebody pocketing the money?”

“I doubt it. There isn’t enough to make it worthwhile.” Mitchell hesitated. “Look, the problem goes back ten years or more. The way things used to be was that schools in New York State get a payment per student from the State and have to raise the rest of their income from the local tax district. Back then, New York had a lot of small neighborhood schools, some elementary, some junior-high, some high school. Some had a few dozen pupils, some a bit over a hundred. Point was, their per-capita from the State didn’t amount to much while the tax district that supported them was small. Schools in business areas where there was a lot of tax revenue but not many pupils had more money than they knew what to do with while schools in residential areas, especially working class residential, had lots of kids but not so much in the way of tax revenue.

“Problem was, as schools needed more capital funds for things like science equipment and so on, they couldn’t raise it. In the early ‘80s, the City of New York, in its infinite wisdom, decided to even things up and gain economy of scale. They consolidated all of the existing schools into a much smaller number of large K-12 schools and merged the tax districts that supported them. Here, the new educational tax district includes Brooklyn and a big chunk of Queens plus a bit of lower Manhattan. Not that we get any kids from lower Manhattan; parents from there take one look at this area and send their children to private schools. Anyway, there were two or three dozen neighborhood schools in the new consolidated tax area, including the old P.S. 261. They were all merged into a single school. They all became part of the new P.S. 261 here. The old school was P.S. 261 Brooklyn. Even though this school was built on the same site, it’s P.S. 261 Queens.”

“Wait a minute, this building is only ten years old? It looks three times that!” Achillea was genuinely shocked and for once, her voice showed it. She’d looked at the dilapidated building with its peeling paint and sagging woodwork and assumed it had been built immediately post-war where the need for speedy construction had outweighed maintaining pre-war construction standards.

“No maintenance funding will do that. The new school was built here because the old P.S. 261 had extra open ground that was already owned by the city and a Doodlebug hit had wrecked an adjoining area but the damage had never been repaired. So that extended the available area still further. It should have worked ‘Lea. This whole area, Brooklyn and Queens, should have been able to support the new school and everything else that has to be done. For a while, it looked like it would work. This wasn’t a bad area back then. Mostly working class, the kind of people who did a good, honest day’s work and got a good honest day’s pay for it. The area was beginning to be gentrified. People over on the Island were looking, saw they could get much better property for a lot less than they were paying over there and moving in. They were bringing money and new businesses with them. All in all, things were doing pretty well. There was even a huge redevelopmemt plan for the whole area. Blending upscale housing, new offices, new businesses, stores, you name it, in with the existing neighborhood. This whole area would have been rebuilt into a new city, just like the way the Russians have rebuilt Moscow.”

“So, what went wrong?”

“Gangs. That’s it, just gangs. The rebuild program was the first to go. The corporation that was planning it, pulled out, because, they said, the costs were too high and the potential return was too low. The street gangs were already starting to move in by then and I guess that’s what caused the redevelopment plan to collapse. Drug dealing was the first sign, with the dealers shooting up the neighborhood over what was whose turf. That caused the families who’d moved in from the Island to get out fast. The violence was starting to push down real estate prices and they were well-off enough to swallow the loss and get out while they could. They took their money and their businesses and all the things their arrival had supported with them. The whole local economy began to fold up. Soon there were gang-owned women out on the street, cruising for trade and it got so that respectable women didn’t dare leave their houses. Real estate values went into free-fall and that was that for almost everything. Pretty much everybody left here went underwater on their mortages so fast, they were trapped here before they realized what was coming.

“It was the Savings and Loan scandal back in the ‘70s that really did the damage. Banks had to record the property they were holding as collateral at its real free-market price and the Government audited those accounts very carefully. Still do, of course. So, a house might have been valued at fifty thou and a buyer put up ten thou of his own and borrowed the other forty on mortgage. Then he woke up one morning and found the value of his house had dropped to twenty thou. So he was paying a mortgage twice as much as the house was worth. What’s more, the bank had it listed at a real value of twenty thou, in fact, a little less than that. After all those S&L Presidents went to jail, the banks left a safety margin. So, the banks had loaned forty thou for a twenty thou asset and that left huge holes in their accounts. So, nobody can get a mortgage here anymore. Anybody wants a house, they have to pay cash and who’s going to do that for a house on a street covered with broken glass, dirty needles and used condoms?

“So, real estate values have dropped to pretty close to zero. That means the city doesn’t get much tax out of this area and what little they do get goes towards essentials. Services here just don’t happen. Street lights aren’t fixed, garbage doesn’t get collected. In winter, snow-dozers come here last if they bother at all. Why should they come here and get shot at? Every day, more and more gang-bangers are out on the streets and every day this whole area gets a little bit worse. Businesses have all closed down – except the crack houses and cribs of course. If it wasn’t for them, unemployment here would be a hundred percent. The experts call it urban blight. I call it a human disaster. If you want to see how gangs can destroy an entire section of the city, just take a drive around here. Only, get your truck fitted with bullet-proof glass first,”

Achillea smiled at him. Mitchell’s eyes opened wide in shock. “My God, you DO have bullet-proof glass in your truck, don’t you?”

Achillea’s smile grew broader. “Thanks for the story, Harry. I’ve got to get back to my kids now.”

Headquarters, New York State Child Protection Service, 1 Police Plaza, Manhattan, New York.

“Anyway, I did what Harry Mitchell suggested and took a drive around the area. It’s been destroyed. A lot of the plots are vacant or the buildings on them have been trashed and/or burned out. The only businesses I could see that weren’t gang-related were payday loan outfits, tattoo parlors and ‘thrift shops’ selling what are obviously stolen goods. I’ve seen less devastation after the Legions went through an area.”

Robert Loxley leaned back in his seat and folded his hands behind his head. “Anybody salted the ground there?”

“That’s a myth. We never did that. But, in this case, I’d say yes. The ground has been salted with gang-bangers and that makes sure the area is not going to regenerate. Look, Robert, I know this isn’t your agency’s area but you must know the people who can handle this. If all else fails, try the Environmental Defense Authority. That school is pumping out toxic waste and it’s destroying an entire neighborhood. If that isn’t an EDA matter, I don’t know what is.”

“We can’t go around calling a generation of school children toxic waste, ‘Lea. Their parents might object.”

“Their parents might agree. Harry described them as ‘working class, the kind of people who did a good, honest day’s work and got a good honest day’s pay for it’. They can’t be happy with what is going on. They’re the kind of people who spent their lives working so that their children could go a step beyond them, Do you think they like seeing their sons turned into pimps and drug dealers and their daughters into whores? Because, believe me, those are the only career options out there.”

Loxley was surprised at the venom in Achillea’s voice. He was so accustomed to her eerie deadpan calm that he passion in her voice was surprising and more than a little terrifying. “You’re taking this personally.”

“No, I’m not. Let me tell you a little story Robert. I was born a slave. I grew up that way, won my freedom in the Arena and lived a free woman thereafter. Emperor Caracalla even made me a Roman Citizen – by decree of course, I never met him. All that time and for centuries afterwards, I believed there was nothing worse than slavery or being a slave. Then, Iggie came back on that Constellation after what happened to her in Geneva. When she finally got out of hospital, I took her back to her home. She was a wreck. Frankly, Robert, she belonged in a nursing home, you know, the sort of nursing home where the shades are drawn, everybody is very quiet and there’s no stress. She was saturated with painkillers, she’d been drinking – a lot – and she had a very bad case of what we now call post-traumatic stress disorder. She started talking about her childhood. We started to talk at 5pm and didn’t finish until she collapsed at 3 in the morning. By then, she had told me everything that had happened to her when she was a child and I never again believed there was nothing worse than slavery. I think I’m the only person who knows the full story and I’m not sure if Iggie herself remembers telling me.

“Now, it’s happening again, out there. There are young girls enduring what Iggie had to endure right now. There are other girls being born tonight who have nothing else to look forward to but the kind of systematic abuse and exploitation Iggie suffered. You’re a chief investigator in the Child Protection Service, Robert. In the name of all the Gods, get out there and protect them.”

“What do we do? ‘Lea, we are not set up for anything like this. Our agency is intended to keep an eye on families and households where we believe that a child or children may be at risk form abuse or harm. We handle such cases individually and we are grotesquely overloaded as it is. Now, you want me to take on an entire tax district, the whole of one borough and large areas of two others, and clean it out? I’d need a hundred and one men again and all of them skilled child protection agents before we could even start scratching the surface of the kind of problem you’re describing. The only thing I can do is alert City Hall and get them to do a major police operation. For that, I’d need justification and we just don’t have any.”

“No justification? Have you seen that place?”

“No, but I don’t have to. I’ve seen the crime reports from there and they are above normal, sure but not that much above the norm. The street crime levels are a bit below the ones for north of 125th Street. The only thing that concerns City Hall is that tax receipts have gone through the floor. If I went to them with what you’ve just told me, they’d write the whole thing off as a woman from a privileged background who has seen inner city decay for the first time and had hysterics.”

Although every proposition made to you is binary, true or false, there are various levels of recognizing truth. The lowest of these is an opinion. Any opinion you may hold is merely a weak or false belief. Only when the fundamental truths of a matter are firmly grasped can the wise man avoid opinions. A wise man withholds assent, his agreement to consider the truth or falsity of a proposition, when conditions do not permit a clear and certain grasp of the basic facts of a matter. Achillea, when you go on to the sand to fight, you will either win or you will lose. The fight is a proposition and it is binary. Win or lose. Whatever you think of that lies beyond the fight you face is an opinion. It is weak and false because it depends on the outcome of your primary proposition. Only when that primary proposition is resolved can you be certain you have a proper grasp on the next matter and you may give your assent to study that. If you fail to obey this basic rule, you will walk out on the sand with your mind distracted by opinions and you will lose.

“You’re right, of course, Robert. We don’t know enough to do anything right now. We need to be able to define a problem properly before we can make a proper determination, But, you just said something that worries me. You said the crime records for the area do not show an excessively high level of criminal behavior?

Robert Loxley nodded. “Highish but I’ve seen a figures that were lot worse. So have you.”

“Figures, shmigures. I work there Robert. I know what is going on. The crime rate is worse there than anything I’ve ever seen. I know the local cops have pretty much abandoned the area but there must be one hell of a lot of crime being reported. The place is only a mile from Manhattan after all. So what is happening to all those crime reports?”

Loxley didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. The answer was obvious.

“That’s right, Robert. Somebody is burying them. It can’t be at local police level because the area covered is too large. It has to be higher up the chain than that. I’m sorry Robert, you were right and I was wrong. Dottore was right, it’s weak and self-deceptive to make decisions before we have a full handle on the situation. I let myself get involved and the passion that resulted led me into error. Now, we have to do things right. We have to define this situation, understand it and gauge its extent. What those missing crime figures tell us is that we have political involvement at a very high level here.”

“I’ll get Leigh and Debbie in.” Loxley picked up the telephone and started dialing numbers. “When they get here, give them the briefing you gave me on the area.

An hour later, Achillea had finished repeating her conversation with Harry Mitchell and the description of what the area around P.S. 261 looked like. “Debbie, I’m not sure how this affects the original theory we had that P.S. 261 was creating a street army with the intent of taking over the New York underworld – and possibly the city itself.”

“I’ve got two words for that theory.” Leigh sounded slightly amused by the concept. “National Guard. Have any of you heard of Phenix City? It was taken over by hoodlums in the late 1940s and became a haven for organized crime, prostitution, and gambling. Like Cuba could have become if it hadn’t been for the Mob keeping order. It got so bad that when Al Patterson was elected District Attorney, he was shot down in the street. That did it. State Governor Gordon Persons sent in the Alabama National Guard who took over law enforcement duties in the city and county. The state sent special prosecutors from Montgomery to replace the local judiciary and they tore the Phenix City Machine apart. A special grand jury in Birmingham handed down 734 indictments against local law enforcement officers, elected officials and local business owners connected to organized crime. Three officials were specifically indicted for Patterson's murder: Chief Deputy Sheriff Albert Fuller, Circuit Solicitor Arch Ferrell and Attorney General Si Garrett. Take note of those names. The three top law enforcement officers in the county charged with - and convicted of – murdering the fourth, the District Attorney.

“No matter what the song about Aurandel says, if somebody tries to take on a city in open warfare, there’ll be law enforcement descending on the place from all over the state. Gang-bangers doing drive-bys might think they’re tough but they’ll change their mind when they find themselves facing National Guard tanks. When it was all over, the city management would move in to rebuild. Probably snap up all the land under eminent domain and sell it to a developer.”

The four people in the office looked at each other. Debbie Nguyen pushed her hair back and shivered slightly. “Has anybody else got a really bad feeling about this?”

[Calder]

Chapter Nine
Entry Hall. Public School 261, Queens, New York.

“Miss Foyle, Mister Mitchell says that you’d better get up to the Principal’s Conference Room right away. There’s been a fight in the locker room.” The eighth-grader had been entrusted to carry a vital message and was desperate to do it right.

“Thank you. You may return to class now.” Achillea headed off for the conference room at a fast walk, moving into the confrontation that she had carefully planned. This wasn’t the first confrontation she had engineered, it wouldn’t be the last. Her mind drifted back to the one that had been her first, the one that had set the style for her life. Around her, the plaster walls of the school seemed to shimmer slightly and become stone blocks secured by great bronze clamps.

The Amphitheater of Halicarnassus, 89AD

Achillea was wearing the armor of the secutor, the same armor she had worn all her life. She literally could not remember a time when she had not been wearing her armor. It was a part of her, it moved with her, leaving her unrestricted and agile. Almost all gladiators had been trained to wear armor relatively late in life and to them it was something that restricted their movements and to which their bodies had to adapt. Achillea didn’t have to adapt to the armor covering her right arm, shoulder and both legs. She was barely conscious it was there. Nor was she really aware of the wide, heavy metalled belt protected her stomach and also held her loin cloth in place. Apart from the loincloth and armor, her body was bare. He had her shield on her left arm and her helmet under her right. Her sword was sheathed. For now.

This wasn’t the exhibition matches or comedy relief shows she had done before. Nor was it the executions she had performed sometimes. Today, she would be up against another gladiator and the fight was for real. That meant somebody stood a good chance of dying and Achillea had absolutely no intention of allowing it to be her. As she walked down the corridor between the cells occupied by the gladiators, she heard the other gladiators from her ludus shouting out encouragement to her. This was her first time, the match that would confirm her status as a professional gladiator, instead of a mere trainee. Or, it would leave her dying on the sand.

The corridor ended in a wooden elevator operated by slaves. Achillea stepped on to it and felt the slaves heaving on the ropes that worked the mechanism. She rose towards the hatch above her that led into the arena. As she approached it, the doors opened and light flooded downwards.

Principal’s Conference Room. Public School 261, Queens, New York.

“What are you doing here?” Principal Simmons snarled the question at Achillea. “This is nothing to do with you.”

Achillea gave him an up-from-under stare that silenced him on the spot. She looked at the students crammed into the room, quickly assessing the situation. All fifteen were the members of the Marcusian baseball team. “All right, what have you idiots been up to now?”

The massive tension that had filled the room eased slightly and a few of the students even had carefully-guarded smiles. They know the casual insult meant she was going to bat for them, that she considered them worthy of being defended. Achillea gave another scan of the room. Sonja Hafenne had a black eye, mashed lips and was bleeding from the nose and mouth. “What has been going on here, how did Sonja end up like this? And, most importantly, has anybody called a doctor for her? She should be in an emergency ward.”

Mike Janacek had a black eye as well and what promised to be a bad bruise on his cheek. “Miss Foyle, a group of gang-bangers came in. Six of them. They went into the girls locker room and told Son that she was joining their gang. She told them where to go and they grabbed her. Pinned her against the wall. One of them held her hair and used it to smack her head against the wall. Then they started punching her in the face. You can see that. The rest of us heard the noise and we went in to help her. We used the double pass tactic you taught us. Carl and I went in and started to pull the guy doing the punching away from Son. They let go of her and went for us. Then, the rest of our team piled in on them while two of the girls got Son out of there. There was . . . . a dispute . . . but we had numbers and tactics on our side. We were kicking their ass when Mr. Bennett turned up and ordered us all up here.”

“What happened to the gang-bangers?”

“They ran off, Miss Foyle.”

She looked at Carl Bowen. He had a long diagonal slice through his shirt, from his left shoulder downwards. The knife point hadn’t broken the skin but it had left a thin red line. Coincidentally, it was almost in the same place as her own diagonal scar. “That isn’t a fist wound.”

“Knife, Miss Foyle. Two of them had knives. One slashed at me with his before Mike disarmed him. Turns out the way you taught us to catch a ball also works against somebody’s knife-hand.”

“There you are!” Simmons’ voice was triumphant and vindictive, “They confess to a clear case of fighting. They’re all expelled.”

Achillea looked at him with blistering contempt. “Oh no, they are not.”

The Amphitheater of Halicarnassus, 89AD

Achillea knew from the surge of cheering that her opponent was already in the Arena. She heard the Chorus of Heralds, speaking through their Golden Masks announcing him. “And our next match features the Secutor Pyrrhos , Primus of the Ludus Livianus who will engage in single combat with the Secutor Achillea, Novitius of the Ludus Quintillus. Hail Pyrrhos !”

And that had led to the roar of cheering. In contrast, the “Hail Achillea” met with only a subdued response and that was silenced when she stepped off the elevator on to the sand. Expecting to see a hardened, experienced man to face the skilled, veteran, Pyrrhos , they saw a young girl instead. The sounds of confusion and the beginning of resentment ran across the terraces surrounding the arena. The crowd had come to see a fight, not a slaughter. Obviously Pyrrhos wasn’t best pleased either for his voice rang across the sand. “What insult is this? Give me an opponent worthy of the name, not a simpering girl-child. Don’t be afraid, girl, Pyrrhos will make sure you die swiftly.”

He was at least a foot taller than she was, obviously weighed more than twice as much and he outreached her by at least six inches so his confidence seemed reasonable. The trumpets sounded again as the two walked towards the Magistrates box. As the fanfare ended, Achillea’s voice cut through the air. “Don’t be afraid Pyrrhos, they’re only trumpets. They won’t hurt you.”

Those in the crowd who had caught the remark burst out laughing, a laugh that redoubled as they relayed Achillea’s gibe to those that hadn’t heard it. Pyrrhos cast a furious glance at her as they lifted their swords in salute to the Magistrate of the Games. Achillea guessed that any idea he might have had about killing her quickly had just vanished. Oh good, he’s mad with rage and fatally over-confident. That all works for me.

The formalities over, Pyrrhos and Achillea put on their helmets and took their places in the center of the arena. Pyrrhos was already planning the overwhelming attack that would slaughter the girl who had insulted him. Achillea, on the other hand, was looking around the arena, picking the place where Pyrrhos’s death would make the best possible spectacle for the crowd.

Principal’s Conference Room. Public School 261, Queens, New York.

Achillea was unconsciously rubbing her right arm, up by the shoulder, where the letter Q had been branded into her flesh. The scar was still there, blurred and faded by age but still there. The words of the sacramentum gladiatorium ran through her mind. “I will endure to be burned, to be bound, to be beaten, and to be killed by the sword rather than break faith with my brothers, dishonor my ludus or disobey my lanista.” It had been dusk, the courtyard at the center of the ludus surrounded by flaming torches when she had taken her place amongst the trainees being sworn in. When her turn came, she had repeated her oath then stared, expressionless and unflinching, at the setting sun while the red-hot iron had been held against her arm. She had never broken that oath and she had no intention of doing so now.

“We have a zero-tolerance policy against violence in this school. Any student found fighting is instantly expelled. No exceptions. They’re all expelled.”

“No, they are not. By this school’s regulations, written by you, no student may be expelled or otherwise punished without the case first being presented to a school meeting, open to all staff, students and their families, where everyone present has an equal voice and an equal vote. If that meeting votes for the student or students to be punished, then the issue is referred to a subcommittee who will decide on appropriate action. Your rules.”

“That doesn’t apply to violations of our zero tolerance policy.”

“Actually, it does. There is no mention anywhere in the articles of this school of any zero-tolerance policy. Therefore the mandated policy must apply. You can’t expel these students before a school meeting has decided that punishment is appropriate and a subcommittee has to decide that expulsion is appropriate. Your rules.”

“Then we’ll do this your way. There will be a school meeting at five o’clock this evening.”

“No there won’t. You know very well that State of New York Department of Education Regulations, Article 666 sub-section four states that all administrative meetings will take place after a teacher’s regular assignments are completed and that teachers may not be called from lessons in progress to take part in such meetings. Teaching assignments here don’t finish until 5:30. The earliest you can call a meeting is for six. Not your rules.”

“Very well. There will be a school meeting at six.”

Achillea watched as the students of Team Marcus trooped out. “Mike, Carl, Sonja. Get to the emergency ward right now. The rest of you better start rounding up your families. I’ve got a lot of telephone calls to make,

The Amphitheater of Halicarnassus, 89AD

Pyrrhos’s attack was ferocious, obviously intended to overwhelm the apparently weak opponent before him. Achillea stood her ground for a moment, parrying his first swing with her own sword and deflecting it well away from her. She followed that a split second later by blocking his shield-slam with her own. The sheer force of the blow numbed her arm but that didn’t really matter. By the time Pyrrhos had recovered his balance, Achillea had gone.

Achillea had literally been taught to fight before she could even walk. The thirteen years of her life to date had been one long lesson in how to handle sword and shield. It had also been a lesson in how to move while fighting and this had given her a unique gift. Achillea could run backwards just as fast as she could run forwards. Also, she had a crystal-clear mental picture of the arena and what was where. So, as Pyrrhos resumed his advance, his target remained frustratingly just out of reach. To the audience, the sight was hilariously funny. A man chasing a girl across the sand and flailing away with his sword to no avail. Achillea didn’t share that delusion, She knew how good Pyrrhos was and how small a margin was separating him from scoring a crippling hit on her. She also knew that margin had to be tiny otherwise the crowd would see her skilled evasions as running away and turn against her. Then, when the shadows fell into the right places she knew from her mental map that she was where she wanted to be. Suddenly, without any kind of warning, instead of backing up, she went sideways. Already committed to his latest attack and anticipating her going backwards, Pyrrhos couldn’t change his direction fast enough. His weight and size told against him and he stumbled past Achillea. She took one breath and then smacked him soundly on his behind with the flat of her sword.

The crowd erupted into laughter at the sound of Pyrrhos’s astonished and indignant yelp. But, there was also confusion with the merriment. Achillea could sense it. Is this a real fight or a comedy act? Are these real gladiators or clowns? It was time for the fight to get serious. She completed her turn and waited for Pyrrhos to recover and resume the match. Only, now Achillea had her back to the afternoon sun and Pyrrhos would have to fight looking right into it.

Auditorium, Public School 261, Queens, New York.

“We will close the doors at exactly six pm. Nobody else will be admitted after that time.” Simmons had a supercilious, self-satisfied smirk on his face.

“It’s all going wrong, isn’t it? We’re going to lose this.” Carl Bowen was looking at the stage stacked with Simmons’ cronies. In contrast to their packed rows, the other seating rows were almost empty. “There’s only five minutes to go.”

Achillea looked at him and then lightly smacked the back of his head. “That’s a wake-up call. Have faith,”

A second later there was a commotion outside, the double doors burst open and a stream of people started pouring into the room. They were the parents of the eighth and ninth grade students, the students themselves and a substantial number of cousins, aunts and uncles. Achillea had been quite right, none of the local residents had liked what had happened to their neighborhood and they detested what had been happening to their children. Before they had been powerless to do anything about it but now that had changed. Given a chance to do something, they had seized it with both hands. Mixed in with the crowd were TV crews and journalists along with every Child Protection Agency Inspector Robert Loxley could free up from other duties.

At 5:59, the stream of arrivals dried up and the hall was filled to bursting point. Harry Mitchell closed the doors and watched while some of the biggest and heaviest of the new arrivals sat down against them. Nobody else was going to be getting in. Achillea nodded in satisfaction. “You see, Carl, you need to have some faith. If our supporters had arrived earlier Simmons would have found an excuse to stall thing while he brought more of his people in.”

Simmons was obviously keen to rush this meeting through. “We are here tonight to confirm the expulsion of fifteen students for fighting on school grounds. All those in favor . . .”

“Wait a minute. What happened? You can’t just brush us off with that.” The indignation in the speaker’s voice was palpable.

“It doesn’t matter what happened. We have a zero tolerance policy for violence. Any student fighting gets expelled. No exceptions. Now, all . . ..”

“Yes it does matter. I’ll tell you what happened, Joe. A group of gang-bangers came into the school and tried to force my daughter to join their gang. When she refused, they started beating her up. Pounded her head against the wall, punched her face in. Sonja’s in hospital right now, concussion. How we’re going to pay the bills, I don’t know. But Mike and Carl there heard her screams and went in to rescue her. Two unarmed boys against six gang-bangers with knives. When the others heard the fight, they went in to help their friends. Mike and Carl should be getting medals, not expelled.”

“What I want to know is, my son’s up there being threatened with expulsion but where are those gang-bangers?” Bill Janacek was red-faced and furious. “Why aren’t they being charged? They beat up Garry Hafenne’s daughter just like he said. I saw her in the emergency ward. Why haven’t they been charged?”

“Because they are not members of the student body.” Simmons came out with the defense and promptly wished he hadn’t.

“What the hell?” Jim Bowen couldn’t believe what he had just heard. “You mean that gang-bangers from outside are free just to walk on to the school grounds and do what they like? And nobody calls the police?”

“They’re not just outside.” One of the eighth-grade students father had stood up. “My kid was hungry, coming home sick because he had nothing to eat all day. So my wife made him a sandwich. First day, a kid from 12th grade pulled a knife and took it off him. Why hasn’t that kid been expelled?”

“There was no violence involved. Your son said the alleged thief just showed him a knife and he handed the sandwich over. No witnesses would confirm the story and the boy accused of stealing the sandwich denied it. Why should he lie?” For sheer pompous self-righteousness, Simmons would have been hard to beat.

A young woman stood up. “Maggie Troon, New York Herald. Am I hearing this right? Two unarmed ninth-grade students took on half a dozen hoodlums carrying knives to rescue a girl who was being beaten? Front Page, 84 point bold. ‘Young Heroes Save Girl’. You wait until you see tomorrow’s early edition. And, if you expel these kids, read the Op-Ed page, same edition. 64 point bold. ‘Simmons, rope, tree. Some assembly required’.”

She sat down to a roar of applause. Some of the parents present reached forward to shake her hand. She was starting to distribute business cards, obviously setting up additional interviews.

“Wait a minute.” Another reported was on his feet. “Russell Spam, Washington Times. I have a timeline question. According to the report made at the emergency ward, the attack took place at or around nine am. Yet, Miss Hafenne did not reach the emergency ward until ten thirty. At that time, she had blood still running from her nose and mouth and more seeping from her ears. All classic symptoms of a serious concussion that required immediate treatment and could have been life-threatening. Who denied her medical treatment during those ninety minutes?”

Simmons had obviously never heard of the phrase ‘when in a hole, stop digging.’ “The need to apply proper disciplinary measures took precedence.”

“That’s crap.” Garry Hafenne’s roar of anger seemed to stun the room. He hadn’t realized up to that point just how serious his daughter’s injuries were. “You didn’t want her to go to the emergency room because that would result in an official report being filed. You wanted this swept under the rug the way you sweep everything that’s going on under the rug.”

The roar of outrage that filled the room was music to Achillea’s ears. As always, her first priority was to make sure the crowd got a good show and lots of blood got sprayed on the sand. Nobody taking part in this meeting could deny they were getting that.

[Calder]

Chapter Ten
The Amphitheater of Halicarnassus, 89AD

Achillea braced herself for the next series of attacks. The truth was that she was outclassed in size and weight while Pyrrhos had a wealth of real arena experience she couldn’t even begin to match. Yet, she had advantages of her own and she’d thought very carefully about how to maximize them. Her youth and sex made her a small target, a very agile small target. Because she had positioned herself so carefully, Pyrrhos couldn’t quite see what she was doing or how she was moving. She was shifting her stance and position in unusual, unpredictable ways and that combined with her size to turn his experience against him. Used to fighting opponents who were more or less his equal in size and trained in more or less the same style of fighting, he placed and timed his attacks on those assumptions. As a result, blows that would have crippled or killed his usual opponents were missing Achillea by a hair’s breadth. At the same time, Achillea had stunned the crowd by scoring Primo Sanguinem, first blood. It was only a scratch on Pyrrhos’s sword arm but it had weakened him slightly and, more importantly, infuriated him still further.

Watching her opponent closely, Achillea saw that Pyrrhos was changing tactics. His attempts to deal with Achillea in the traditional manner having failed, he was resorting to a brute force attack with primary reliance placed on his shield. This also had the virtue, for Pyrrhos, of taking the strain off his injured sword arm. The advantage to Achillea was that this was exactly when she wanted him to do. She watched him advance towards her, his gladius held down low and on the right. His first thrust with that sword was a diversion, aimed at her leg but she parried it easily with her own spatha. His real assault came with a shield-slam that was aimed right at her with all the power that Pyrrhos could muster. His objective was simple, to use raw strength and weight to stun and disable her. His sword needed precision which the position of the sun and her agility denied him. The shield was an area weapon with a striking surface many times of that of the sword.

The reason why Achillea survived the blow was sitting in the crowd. Slaves were allowed the visit the Amphitheater for the games as long as they had their owner’s permission. They had, of course, to occupy the worst seats. In those rows, Severina watched the duel with her fingers pressed to her mouth. She had come so that Achillea would know there was at least one person in the crowd who supported her. For that, the price might well be that Severina would have to watch her daughter dying on the sand and it was a price she was prepared to pay. Severina was a skilled acrobat whose performances were legendary across Phrygia and Galitia. Even now, middle-aged and having borne two children, she could still outperform acrobats half her age. The Lanista Quintillus had leased her, at great cost, from her owner for a year for an experiment he had wanted to make. She had been ordered to bear the son of Thracius, his Primus. He had hoped that the son, bred for the arena, would be an outstanding gladiator. Only the son had been a daughter. Quintillus might have disposed of her and tried again but Severina’s lease was up and, anyway, by local standards, he was a kindly and decent man. So he had spared the girl-child and the gods had rewarded his kindness by making her the outstanding gladiator he had desired.

The crash of shields had echoed across the arena but Achillea was still standing. The slave next to Severina had nodded wisely. “Canis vehementius latrat quam mordet.”

Severina nodded. Her eyes had told her why the shield-slam had failed. Achillea had moved back just so much, so that much of the force of the blow was absorbed. She had changed angle just so much, so that more of the force was deflected. The timing and economy of movement had been exquisite. Watching the maneuver, Severina knew that her acrobatic skills, the heritage she had passed on to her daughter, had just saved Achillea’s life.

Auditorium, Public School 261, Queens, New York.

Principal Simmons was getting desperate. He had long lost control of the meeting. The mood of the crowd, hostile to begin with, was now turning ugly. He hammered his gavel on the table to stop the barrage of complaints that was being hurled at him and his administration. What he had intended as a killing strike against the development of the ninth grade basketball team and the cult of excellence it had grown into was turning into a disaster for him.

“We will now vote on the expulsion of these fifteen students. All those in favor say Aye.”

Achillea heard the weak call of “Aye.” In her estimation there were less than forty voices supporting the motion, all of them Simmons’ cadre of teachers.

“All those against say Nay.” The thunder of nays made the floor shake. Once again, Achillea did a quick estimate that suggested there had been at least three hundred votes against.

Simmons was smirking. “The Ayes have it. The Motion is carried.”

“NO!” The scream of protest from the floor was deafening and the crowd started to surge forward. To Achillea’s amusement, the earlier gibe of ‘rope, tree, Simmons, some assembly required’ looked very close to being realized. That would have disrupted her plans. She crashed the side of her fist against the podium table, producing a wham that silenced the tumult. It also left the surface of the table dented, marks that Simmons stared at with horrified fascination.

“The motion is carried. That is the end of the matter.” Simmons had managed to gulp the words out.

“No it isn’t.”

Simmons stared at Achillea with acute hatred, loathing the way her expression would change in an instant from playful smile to a terrifying, empty, up-from-under stare. “If I say it’s over . . .”

“Robert’s Rules Of Order state that if a voice vote is challenged, a secret ballot must immediately be held,”’

“We don’t have ballots here.”

Achillea lifted her briefcase. “Yes, we do. Enough for all of this meeting. The members of the press here are neutral observers, why don’t they act as voting officers? And, all of you realize if the others catch you rigging the vote, they’ll get a circulation boosting exclusive at your expense, don’t you?”

The four journalists smiled at her and started to distribute the ballots, watching each other like hawks for the slightest sign of irregularity. Robertt Loxley and his team declined them, as neither faculty, family nor students, they were not entitled to vote. After waiting the five minutes specified by Roberts Rules of Order, the ballots were collected and counted. Russell Spam made the announcement. “In support of the motion to expel the fifteen specified students, forty three votes. Against the motion to expel the fifteen specified students, three hundred and seventy six votes. The motion has therefore been conclusively defeated.”

The Amphitheater of Halicarnassus, 89AD

Pyrrhos was repeating his shield slam, over and over again, driving Achillea back with every step. He’d fallen into a pattern, the diversionary thrust with his sword followed by the slam with all the strength he could muster. That allowed her to predict exactly when and where the next slam would come and she had used that information to deflect the blows. That was about to end. The anticipated sword thrust came; she deflected it away but instead of stepping back and twisting away, she dropped to her right knee. She was holding her shield at an acute angle, tilted up so the top was over her head and the lower edge thrust forward. It was also angled sharply to the left.

Pyrrhos was so intent on placing the slam, he didn’t recognize the change in tactics until he was already committed. Something else had changed. Previously, the impact of each slam had been dissipated by absorption and deflection. Now, there was no attempt to do either. Shield met shield with all the force and power that the two gladiators could muster. The blow paralysed Achillea’s shield-arm and she knew it would be days before proper mobility would be restored. The effect on Pyrrhos was less dramatic; the unexpected violence of the impact acted with the angle at which Achillea held her shield to throw his shield up and to the left. Only by the length of his forearm but it was enough. Achillea had been waiting for just that movement and was poised to take advantage of it. Her right arm drove her sword upwards, through the exposed gap and deep into Pyrrhos’s stomach. The point of the blade entered just under his ribcage, severed the inferior vena cava and aorta, sliced through his diaphragm and drove deep into his right lung. A split second later, she thrust with her left foot, pushing her backwards, disengaging and pulling her sword from the mortal wound it had just inflicted.

There was an unidentifiable roar from the crowd, a mixture of shock at the outcome, doubt as to exactly whose blood was spraying across the sand and delight at seeing such a perfect kill. Pyrrhos took two steps forward, blood streaming down his legs from the wound in his stomach and spurting out of his mouth as he choked on the wave of blood flooding into his lungs. Achillea had finished disengaging, rebalanced herself and took a carefully aimed swing, with her spatha. The blow took Pyrrhos in the back of the neck and severed his head with that single stroke. He was dead before he hit the ground, his body within a hand’s breadth of the spot Achillea had picked before the fight had begun. She spun around, holding her sword up at arm’s length, Pyrrhos’s blood trickling over her wrist and down her arm.

The heralds looked at each other and their hastily-revised chorus echoed across the arena. “And so, the Secutor Achillea stands victor over Pyrrhos. All Hail Achillea!”

At that point, Achillea saw her mother sitting in the rows reserved for slaves. She went over to her and stood in the arena, waiting. The other slaves parted to allow Severina through. The two women hugged each other, Severina ignoring Pyrrhos’s blood that stained her clothes. Then, she took Achillea’s arms and gazed proudly into her daughter’s eyes. The crowd saw this as a realization of the Roman ideal of a perfect family relationship, the cloying sentimentality far different from the psychotically homicidal nature of real Roman families. Their “Ahhhhhh” echoed around the arena.

The chorus of heralds took it in their stride. “And the mother of the victorious Secutor Achillea salutes her daughter!”

For the first time, the chant from the crowd echoed around the Amphitheater of Halicarnassus. “ACH - ILL - E - A!! ACH – ILL – E - A!!”

Auditorium, Public School 261, Queens, New York.

The chaos in the Auditorium was slowly dying down. The fifteen reprieved members of the basketball team had rejoined their parents and were receiving a barrage of handshakes and back-slaps. They were also being besieged by journalists who were bidding for their exclusives. On the platform, Simmons and his cronies were whispering to each other, a process only interrupted by the hate-filled looks they were throwing at Achillea. She gave them a friendly wave and returned her attention to the crowd.

Robert Loxley was standing up. “People, can I have your attention please. I am Chief Inspector Robert Loxley of the New York State Child Protection Service. In view of what has been discussed here tonight, I believe there is a prima facie case of child abuse in this school. Accordingly, I will leading a team of my colleagues to investigate what has been happening in P.S. 261 and dealing with the problems that we find.”

“You’re not allowed on to the premises without my specific invitation.” Simmons was a beaten man and his voice showed it. Now, he was just going down with a token fight,

“We can, if we are invited by this meeting. Are we so invited?” The roar of YES left no doubt about that. “Thank you all. There will be a group of my merry men here to take down details of any issues of child welfare you may wish to raise with us. Please note, we are not a law enforcement agency. Our remit is child welfare only. . . .”

There was a knock on the door and the parents blocking it moved aside to let the new arrival in. It was Debbie Nguyen. She gave Loxley a triumphant grin and an enthusiastic thumbs-up gesture. “I’m sorry to interrupt my boss – I guess I’ll be more sorry when he talks to me about it later – but I thought you would all like to know this right away. I’ve just heard from Albany. There will be a force of State Troopers coming down tomorrow to take over security in the school. They’ll be controlling access and hopefully they’ll put an end to the incursions that caused the problem we’ve been discussing tonight.”

The cheering was deafening and it nearly drowned out Kellie Goodwin when she shouted. “State Troopers? That’s discriminating against minorities!”

That caused extreme confusion. Fifty years earlier, the horror of the Russian Front had burned discrimination out of the American system. For half a century it hadn’t mattered who a person was as long as he had your back when you needed him. To most of the people present, the kind of discrimination that Goodwin was referring to was something that existed only in history books and the people who still practiced it or tried to make issues out of it were regarded as being – at its most charitable – insane relics of a discredited past. The audience was looking at each other in bewilderment, mostly unable to work out what Goodwin was talking about.

Debbie Nguyen laughed. “Excuse me. I’m a blond-haired, blue eyed Chinese Jew and you’re talking to me about minorities? Shame on you!”

The entire auditorium erupted into laughter. Those nearest Nguyen reached up to shake her hand. One of them was Bill Janacek. He looked at her for a moment and good manners gave way to curiosity. “Ma’am. Excuse my invading your personal space but I’ve got to ask. How?”

Nguyen chuckled. “Maternal grandmother, blonde Austrian Jew, maternal grandfather San Francisco Chinese. Remember, Judaism goes down the maternal line. Paternal grandmother blonde Minnesota Swedish, paternal grandfather immigrant Chinese from Singapore. Stir all that lot together and here I am. A real American.

There was another explosion of laughter at Nguyen’s innocent expression. In the background, Simmons and his clique slunk out through the fire escape.

Living Room, Igrat’s Apartment, 71 Broadway, Manhattan, New York.

“How do they make the chicken taste like this, Igrat?” Cristi had peeled the skin off a thigh and had her eyes closed with pleasure while she ate it.

“Nobody knows. The Nyarai chain started off in South Africa at the end of the war, spread to Europe and then came here in the late 1960s. They’re like Pizza Dacha, they’re everywhere now. But the marinade mix and the seasonings are shipped in separate packages and mixed on arrival. The real connoisseurs claim that the African branches still have a certain something that the European ones lack.” Igrat was holding the middle section of a wing and resumed tearing the meat off with her teeth.

“And they’re right. My theory is they use 55 gallon drums for a grill.” Achillea had a drumstick and was sucking happily on the bone. “But, the eat-in restaurants are much better than the take-out. There’s a reason why they are classed as fine dining. Cristi, you’ve got next term’s project to think about. Your Irish cookery book went down well, especially since you got it together in a couple of weeks. Why don’t you make the next project ‘solving the mystery of Nyarai’s chicken’, If you fail, nobody can blame you for not discovering something that has confounded experts across the world for fifty years. If you succeed, you’ll be able to name your own price for the recipe. Or for forgetting it.”

Cristi snorted with laughter, then started nibbling at the meat on her chicken thigh. “They put cinnamon and nutmeg on the sweet potatoes don’t they?”

Achillea nodded. “You like the cookery classes at school?”

“I do, but I’m a long way behind the rest. They’ve already learned all the simple things.” Cristi looked unhappy for a second. Sometimes, the fact she was struggling to keep up with girls two years younger than herself depressed her.

“Why don’t you practice here?” Igrat looked up from the chicken bucket. “I’ve got a kitchen only Mike ever uses. Let us know what you need – or we can go to the supermarket together if you prefer. I’ve always wondered what one looks like. Then you can cook us a meal.”

“You’d let me do that?” Cristi sounded ecstatic. “But what if it turns out awful.”

“Then we tell you. Time for Moral Guidance of the Day Cristi.” Igrat settled back in her seat with a new chicken wing between her fingers. “If you succeed at something, work out what you did right and do it again. If you fail, work out what you did wrong and make sure you don’t do it again. Above all, never be ashamed of your failures. They are a vital part of learning and growing. To be ashamed of your failures is the first step on the staircase that leads you to be ashamed of your successes. I know it may not feel like it at the time, standing there with something embarrassingly unsuccessful in front of you. Just remember that all the people who are laughing at your failure did something much worse themselves sometime. They laugh at you to hide their shame at failing. The ones who step forward to help you learn are those who did something worse but learned from it and those lessons are badges of honor they are proud to share with you.”

Cristi was nodding, remembering the lesson so she could think about it later. Recently, she had started asking questions about her Moral Guidance of the Day lessons. At first the act of simply questioning Igrat and Achillea had terrified her. Then she had seen the delight on their faces when she had asked her questions and that had encouraged her to ask more.

“Just to put this into context, Cristi, Igrat tried to make a salad once. She burned it.” Achillea sat back with a smirk of satisfaction. It had been a very successful day.

[Calder]

Chapter Eleven
Principal’s Office. Public School 261, Queens, New York.

“I have a small problem you might be able to help me with.” New York State Police Major Vincent Cobb looked owlishly over his spectacles at Walter Bennett.

“In the absence of Principal Simmons, I’m only too willing to provide any assistance I can, Major.” Bennett’s voice was unctuous in the extreme.

“Very commendable. It’s just a small detail in your report on the fight in the locker room that started this whole unfortunate business. I’m sure you can clear it up right away. You say you heard a commotion in the locker room, went to investigate and found a fight in progress between the boys in there?”

“That’s right, yes.”

“Hmm. The reports given to my officers by your students state that there were twelve of them, all 9th grade, and six intruders, probably the equivalent of 11th or 12th grade. Also present were three girls, one badly injured, the other two taking her away to receive first aid. Is this accurate? We all know how children exaggerate things.”

Bennett made a show of thinking carefully. “That sounds right.”

“So you walked in on a fight between eighteen boys and were able to end it immediately?”

“I was. Major, I am a trained professional teacher. I have presence and authority. That is entirely adequate to allow me to take charge of the situation.”

Cobb nodded agreeably. “Of course, of course. Never meant to suggest otherwise. And you sent the twelve boys and three girls to the Principal’s Office. And what happened to the six intruders?”

“They ran off.”

“And here we have my problem, Mr. Bennett.” Cobb sighed theatrically. “You are a trained professional teacher with the presence and authority to instantly end a fight between eighteen youths and take charge of the situation. Yet, you were unable to stop the six intruders who had assaulted your students – male and female – from leaving. That confuses me a little.. Why didn’t you use your presence and authority to order them to stay put?”

“They ran off before I could stop them.”

“Ahh, yes. Of course. That would explain it. However, there’s just one small detail that troubles me there. There are two doors to that locker room. One is the fire escape and that was never opened. We know that, it’s linked to the fire alarms you see. The other is the door you entered by. You were between it and the intruders. What is more, that door was blocked by the students leaving. So I can’t quite see how those intruders left before you used your presence and authority to stop them.”

“I, errrrr, that is . . . .”

“Tricky, isn’t it.” Cobb sounded so sympathetic that an innocent bystander might actually have been quite impressed. “You see, the stories from the students involved are pretty consistent. They had found the intruders beating one of their classmates, went to her defense and managed to bring the situation under control with said intruders pinned into a corner. There are some discrepancies in the student reports. For example, six say they were kicking the intruder’s ass while four say they were beating the crap out of them and two that they were adjusting their attitude. We’ll obviously have to resolve that. But, they are all agreed that the six intruders were still in the corner when they were ordered from the room. And that they weren’t seen afterwards. The implication, Mr Bennett, is that you let them go.”

“That’s outrageous.”

“Yes, Mr. Bennett, it is outrageous.” Suddenly, the moon-faced, bespectacled and amiable Major Cobb had gone and been replaced by a much harder, more aggressive figure. “It is not only outrageous but it fits the pattern of behavior in this so-called school. There are constant outbreaks of bullying but a teacher only turns up when the victims try and defend themselves. Then, the victim is expelled for “violence” but never the bully. You and Principal Simmons seem to be quite prominent in that sequence of events.

“You see there are three kinds of people in places like this. There’s the huge majority, the sheep. All they want is to be left alone to chew the grass and think beautiful thoughts – or in this case get on with their schoolwork. Then there are the wolves who prey on the sheep and all they want is nice tasty sheep for dinner. Finally, there are the sheep dogs. They look a lot like wolves but the difference is they feel a compelling urge to protect the sheep. You, and Simmons and some of the other teachers here spend your working hours further emasculating the sheep and empowering the wolves. As for the sheep dogs? You try and convert as many as you can into wolves and drive the rest out. You take kids who are a bit troubled perhaps and turn them into raving sociopaths. You take other kids, ones who are quiet or introverted and destroy their pride and self-respect. You turn kids out with no real education so they have no place to go but the gangs or the scrap heap.”

“That’s . . . . “

“Benett, shut up. And get out of my sight. You make me sick.”

His visitor gone, Cobb breathed slowly and steadily until his normal, amiable and inoffensive image was back in place. He started to read the next set of statements when his telephone rang. It was the female state trooper who had taken over the telephone switchboard although Cobb was unsure how she was keeping the antiquated system running. “Major Cobb, I’ve just had a call from the local police. They’ve found Principal Simmons.”

Burned-out car, Derelict Ground, Brooklyn, New York

“Why isn’t there a fire truck in attendance?” Major Cobb looked around at the scene. The burned-out car was in the middle if an area of waste ground where once a group of brownstones had stood. They, also, had been burned out and the ruins had collapsed to rubble.

“The city won’t provide funding for a professional fire station here and the nearest volunteer outfit refuses to attend emergencies here. Not after they had two of their members killed by snipers. Their chief said that if somebody is trapped in a burning building, they have to go in, they don’t have to come out. But, he will not ask his men to face snipers.” One of the two patrol officers standing by provided the answer. “We’ve got the same principle now. There’s nothing around here worth facing snipers for.”

Cobb nodded. He didn’t approve but he understood. Then he turned to the two latest newcomers. “Chief Inspector Loxley and Miss Foyle. Thank you for coming. Miss Foyle, I have a small problem you might be able to help me with. Last night, I was checking out the fifty teachers employed at P.S. 261. Forty nine of them had standard employment records. You didn’t. However, two hours after I ran a background check on you, I got a call from FBI Director Freeh. Himself. In person. He said I was immensely fortunate to have you on my side. I am not quite sure whether he meant you would be a great asset to my investigations or whether I was fortunate you were not on the other side. Could you explain that?”

Before Achillea could answer, there was a yell of pain from the burned-out car. One of the State Troopers had dropped a wrecking bar on his foot and was dancing up and down. Achillea excused herself and ambled over to the car. She could see what the problem was; the heat of the fire had twisted the car’s bodywork so that the trunk was jammed shut. The smell surrounding the scene left no real doubt as to what was inside. She shook her head sadly and picked up the wrecking bar. “Absque penis, homines omnino inutilis.”

She stared at the jammed trunk for a second, then slammed the wrecking bar into a crack between the bodywork and the hatch. One deep breath, then her muscles bunched as she wrenched the wrecking bar down. There was a loud bang and the hatch sprung open, scattering black ash everywhere. Inside, a carbonized figure was curled up, its mouth open with the screams that had been its last sounds. Achillea shrugged and looked under the car. As she had expected, the gas line had been cut. Beside her the state trooper who had dropped the wrecking bar was vomiting at the sight and smell of the body. Achillea looked at him and shook her head. “Omnino inutile.”

Back where the State Police cruisers were parked, Cobb looked at Achillea with admiration. “All right, I see what the Director meant. What happened out there?”

“Locked him in the trunk, cut the gas line and set fire to the gas as it poured out. You’re probably looking for somebody with minor burns. Simmons, if that is Simmons, wasn’t burned, he was roasted. By the way, I’m OSS Operations Division. I was working undercover in the school. Look, what is going on here goes far beyond a single school. Apparently there are no unusual reports of fires and the reported crime level is suspiciously normal. Yet this place looks like Germany after The Big One. So, all the fire and police reports are being suppressed and that means corruption at a very high level. My working assumption would be that Simmons knew at least one more step up the chain to whoever is behind this. He was killed to cut that link.”

Cobb looked around at the ruined streets. “What the hell is going on here?”

“My staff think it goes something like this.” Loxley was hesitant since there were still a lot of aspects to the situation that didn’t fit together. “Ten years ago or thereabouts, there was a plan to completely rebuild this area of the city. Turn it into a completely modern city within New York. Only, that would mean buying up all the property here and, because of the Savings and Loan Scandal rules, they’d have to pay market price. They couldn’t do it. So we think that company found an idiot obsessed with far-out educational theories and bribed the way for him to be appointed Principal of P.S. 261. They paid him to wreck the school educationally while they also put staff in with instructions to cultivate young criminals. In effect, P.S. 261 became a machine for pouring gang-bangers into the area. The explosive growth of the youth gangs and their conflicts destroyed property values here. Essentially the market value of these properties is zero. When it bottoms out completely, the company will move in, buy up the land for a cent or two on its original dollar value and resume their redevelopment plan. They could make billions of dollars.”

Cobb whistled. “Which company is it? We need to start looking at them.”

“The company that set the original plans up was called Organized City Planning Inc. They were movers and shakers rather that builders or developers. They put deals together rather than actually doing any of the work. Whether they are still the people behind this or not, we don’t know. I’ll bet Simmons knew and that’s why he’s dead. At a guess, his particular cronies in the teaching staff know as well.”

“That’ll be Bennett. He was very close to Simmons. The others, not so much. Inspector Loxley’s theory that most of the staff were brought in to handle the gang-banger production line seems to fit. They’re hired hands, they know nothing. But Bennett, I think he was Simmons right-hand man.” Achillea thought over the atmosphere in the teacher’s room. It made a lot of sense to her.

“Damn. And I let him walk out of my office. I thought he was a consummate jackass without the brains God gave a goose.” Cobb looked as if he wanted to physically kick himself.

Achillea patted his shoulder. “You’ve been here a few hours Vince, there is no way you could have known. But, I suspect walking out of your office was the worst mistake Bennett could possibly have made.”

Cristi’s Room, Igrat’s Apartment, 71 Broadway, Manhattan.

This was the part of her job that Sabrina Castillo enjoyed. She had come to the conclusion that Igrat and Achillea were doing the best they could for Cristi and, by and large, that best was pretty good. So, her role towards them had changed from ‘judge and jury’ to ‘advisor and mentor’. In her opinion, one of the major problems the dispersal of American families had created was that young mothers had been left on their own, without the support and assistance of their older, more experienced relatives. Once she had approved a family, she saw her job as filling in for those absent relatives.

The problem she was advising and mentoring on now was an old, very familiar one with a surprising twist. The problem was ‘money’ and the surprising twist was ‘too much of it’. Usually, when Castillo dealt with family problems, shortage of money was a fundamental factor that had turned minor problems into major ones. Here, Castillo was becoming aware that Igrat and Achillea were both astonishingly wealthy and Igrat in particular solved problems by throwing money at them until they went away. Castillo also had a private suspicion that Igrat saw nothing wrong with getting rid of a problem by seducing the person who could solve it for her but that opinion she kept religiously to herself. It was, she frequently reminded herself, irrelevant to the issue of Cristi’s welfare. What was relevant was that Cristi might well be getting into the habit of sitting back and taking Igrat’s resources for granted.

This discussion was being held in Cristi’s room because Castillo wanted the girl to be as comfortable as possible, and that meant being on her home ground. Cristi was sitting cross-legged on her bed while Igrat had brought seats in for the others. The whole meeting had a bit of the atmosphere of a girl’s sleep-over which was exactly what Castillo wanted. She glanced around the room, noting the dress hanging up, ready to be worn, and the complete absence of toys. “Cristi, I know you have everything you need, but is there anything you want that you don’t have?”

Cristi thought for a moment and an expression of intense longing came over her face. When she spoke, her voice was shy and trembling, as if she was afraid asking for something would make everything else vanish and she’d find herself back with her birth mother. “I’d love to have a teddy bear.”

Castillo was thoughtful. “Good teddy bears are expensive. You’ll probably have to save up for that. Iggie, do you give Christi an allowance?”

“What?” Igrat was genuinely shocked.

“An allowance. Didn’t your parents give you an allowance, some money for yourself, when you were her age?”

Igrat didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Sabrina, when I was Cristi’s age, I was a working prostitute and had been for years. It was either be a whore or starve. I was also a sneak thief; if we’d met back then, I would have had your necklace, bracelets and wrist-watch by now along with every coin you had on you. Nobody ever gave me anything until my father adopted me and even then, I earned everything I was given. No, Sabrina, nobody ever gave me an allowance. “I never had a family, Sabrina. My mother abandoned me at birth and by all accounts, she never knew who my father was. Somebody must have looked after me when I was a baby but as soon as I was old enough, I had to care after myself. By the time I was adopted, I was too old to be given an allowance. The implications would have been an insult.” Which is a lie, Sabrina. I have never considered being paid for my services as an insult.

It was Castillo’s turn to be shocked. “I’ve heard of children who’ve grown up like that but . . . ‘Lea, did your parents ever give you an allowance.

Achillea shook her head. “My parents were too poor for that.” We were all slaves, we had nothing. I belonged to my Lanista, not my parents. But, when I was old enough to handle my sword properly, the Magistrate would sometimes give me a few coins after I had executed a condemned man. That was because we Romans considered it the ultimate humiliation for a man to be executed by a pre-pubescent girl and he considered that a fitting end for his political enemies. I saved all those coins and when I won my freedom, they got me started. “But our local magistrate sometimes used to give me some coins for odd jobs I did for him.”

“Cleaning up and tidying up after him?” Castillo thought that was the sort of odd jobs a poverty-stricken young girl might do for a kindly, well-meaning official.

“That’s the sort of thing. He was a kindly man at heart.”

“Ohh, umm, I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” Castillo was genuinely flustered. It had never occurred to her that two people who were so obviously well-off could have come from such deprived backgrounds. I can see why people who come from poverty would want their children to earn money rather than be given it. “Has Cristi ways of earning money?”

“Oh yes, Miss Castillo. Look at this.” Cristi handed Castillo a document.

Castillo read it. It was a menu with a price at the bottom. Cristi smiled and explained. “Twice a week, I make up a menu for us. If Iggie and ‘Lea like the look of it, they order it. Then we go to the food store and buy the ingredients using an account there Iggie set up. I make the meal, collect the price and then save the money. At the end of the month, I pay the food store account and the profit is mine.”

Cristi giggled. “First time I made a terrible mess of it. The money I’d charged wasn’t even enough to cover the cost of the ingredients. Iggie gave me the telephone number of a friend of hers in Washington, a very nice lady called Lillith. She told me all about how to keep accounts, budget money, set aside reserves and calculate overheads. That was last month; since then, I’ve been making money and putting it in my escape fund.”

“Your what?” Castillo was surprised and also impressed.

“Igrat told me that I should always keep money hidden away as an escape fund. That way, if something terrible happens, I would be able to keep going until I’d worked out what to do next. She says the decisions people make when they are desperate are almost always wrong.”

“Good advice. Where do you keep your escape fund?”

“I’m sorry, but Iggie told me never to let anybody know where my escape fund is hidden.”

“And?” said Achillea.

“Never tell anybody where my hold-out weapon is hidden.” Cristi produced the reply instantly and Achillea nodded in satisfaction.

“Well, you might consider in investing some of your escape fund in a teddy bear. Your decision though. We’d better let you change. You’re obviously going somewhere nice.”

Outside the door, Castillo relaxed slightly. “Now that’s an innovative solution to the allowance problem. Teaches her to keep and balance books and run a business as well. I must try that with my kids. You must be going out somewhere nice. The dress you got her looks good though I’m not sure where it came from.”

“We’re going to Aquavit on 55th. It’s a dress-up place. I’ve noticed that when mothers buy their daughters formal dresses, they either choose ones that are what they think young girls should wear which are frilly horrors, ones that were in fashion when they were the same age and now look hopelessly out of date or something they like now which makes their daughter look as if they were copying their mother or older sister. Cristi has to develop her own style so I took her to a designer friend and they talked for an hour or so. She told him what she liked and how she would like to look and he produced some designs suitable for a stylish 14 year old.”

Castillo looked distinctly guilty at Igrat’s caustic description of mothers buying clothes for their daughters. “That was nice of him. Who is your friend?”

“Gianni Versace. After Cristi finished talking to him, he thinks early-teen girls who want to dress well represents an untapped market and he’s going to turn the designs he came up with into a commercial product line. Lillith is negotiating a deal with him now so Cristi gets a cut on the sales. A small one of course. Sabrina, there’s always a way to make money out of things if one looks hard enough.”

“Versace.” And so Igrat solves another problem by throwing money at it. Castillo sighed gently. “I would give my right arm for a genuine Versace evening gown.”

[Calder]

Chapter Twelve
Parking Stand, Outside Aquavit Restaurant, 65 East 55th Street, Midtown, New York.

“I never knew meals could be like that.” Cristi wasn’t quite certain what had stunned her more; the meal she had just eaten or the fact that the bill for the three of them had come to more than four hundred dollars. Even allowing for the overpricing of take-out food, that amount of money would normally feed them for a week or two.

“It’s nice to get dressed up and binge now and then. And ‘Lea’s been working in that terrible place. She deserves a treat.” Behind Igrat, Achillea and Cristi exchanged winks. They were both well aware that it was Igrat who had needed to get out and enjoy herself somewhere expensive. “I was hoping Mike could come with us so we could stick him with the check but business kept him over in Long Island. A shame that, it’s a bit difficult squeezing three people into my car.”

That made Achillea smile. Igrat’s Testarossa was quite definitely designed for two people only. Squeezing herself and Cristi into the passenger seat had been a tight fit. She glanced over the road at the Ferrari dealership and saw that the new F550 Maranellos on display were also two-seats only. It had been a long time since Ferrari had produced a 2+2 let alone a full four-seater. Any further thoughts were interrupted by the distinctive rumbling growl as Igrat’s F512TR arrived, driven by the parking valet. She guessed that driving the Ferrari, even for a couple of minutes, had been the highlight of his day.

“Here you are, Miss Shafrid.” The car valet put the keys into Igrat’s hand and found a ten dollar bill in his by return. Achillea watched him return to the parking valet kiosk and sign in, ready to be sent for the next customer’s car. This was one thing New York had down to a fine art.

“I’ll slide in first, Cristi, you sit on my lap.” The car had been parked so the passenger door was nearest the sidewalk. Achillea reached and, as she touched the door handle, Igrat’s Testarossa exploded in her face.

65 East 55th Street, Midtown, New York.

“Was the victim your husband, ma’am? If so, I am very sorry for your loss.” The Patrol Officer was squatting beside Igrat, trying to get a coherent statement from her. Around them, 55th Street was a sea of blue and red flashing lights. In the background, two ambulance men were moving a gurney bearing a figure covered with a cloth towards a waiting ambulance.

Igrat shook her head, still weeping. “My baby, my poor baby.”

Cristi had her arm around Igrat’s shoulders and was trying to comfort her. Right up to this point, she had been so wrapped up in her own troubles that she had taken it for granted that all the sympathy and comfort would be coming her way. Now, it was Igrat that needed consolation and support and Cristi was the only one there to give it to her. The problem was, she didn’t know how. She tried to remember what Igrat had done the first night in the apartment building lobby and repeat it. “It’ll be all right Iggie, the Ferrari engineers are here. They can fix her.”

She glanced up to where a grim-faced man in white overalls with the yellow shield and black horse on its back was looking at a clipboard. He caught her eye and shook his head. The slightly theatrical sigh merely confirmed the gesture. The Testarossa was a write-off.

“Signora, there is nothing we can do. The bodywork is twisted and distorted, the impact has damaged the engine and transmission and the chassis is ruptured. See how the car touches the ground between the front and rear wheels. Your Testarossa cannot be repaired. Frankly, we would not allow anybody to make the attempt.” The workshop foreman looked at his team who were nodding in agreement. “We will get a flatbed wrecking truck and have the vehicle removed.”

“No you won’t.” The forensic team from the NYPD were also working on the wrecked Ferrari. The truth was that the two teams had been getting under each other’s feet and tempers were getting very thin. Engineers from Chevrolet or Ford would have been arrested for obstruction by now but too many important people owned Ferraris for that to be an option. “We need this car where it is so we can finish processing it.”

“Signora Shafrid.” The manager of the Ferrari dealership was running across 55th dodging through the traffic that was backing up around the scene. “Il'uomo supremo sends his condolences on your loss.”

“You mean somebody woke up Enzo Ferrari over this.” Igrat was roused from her misery by the astounding news.

“But of course Signora. You are one of his favorite customers.” The manager was deeply and genuinely sympathetic. He could sense the distress Igrat was feeling and saw in it a worthwhile opportunity to meet his monthly sales target. “Ever since you bought your first Ferrari, a 512BB I believe, he has looked on you with great affection.”

Igrat was moved by the revelation even if she didn’t quite believe it. Enzo Ferrari’s distaste for the people who bought his cars was legendary. Igrat cheered up slightly. “You mean he has other favorites?”

There was a quick conference between the Ferrari company staff. Igrat looked puzzled but she spoke fluent Italian and understood all of it. Especially when she picked up the words “Sultan of Brunei.” Eventually the manager returned his attention to her. “We think there is perhaps one other customer Il'uomo supremo smiles upon. Anyway, he has instructed me to make one of our new F550 Maranellos available to you immediately. We have one in Corso Rosso if you wish to take delivery of it. We will collect the write-off check from your insurance company and advise you of any balance required.”

“That’s excellent, and thank Enzo for me. You can deliver the car tomorrow?” Behind Igrat, Cristi rolled her eyes at Igrat’s change of mood. One of the mechanics caught the gesture and winked at her. The message was obvious, ‘You, too, will drive a Ferrari one day. And then you will understand.’

Ambulance, 65 East 55th Street, Midtown, New York.

“My God, what do you do for a hobby? Hunt Cape Buffalo with a pen-knife?” The EMS attendant was looking down at Achillea with shock. Even with a very superficial examination she could see four or five bullet scars, several knife wounds and the spectacular diagonal scar across the front of her body. The reason she was in the ambulance was apparent; there were multiple fragment wounds in her back and a large piece of corso rosso plastic body trim was stuck in her back, angling up under her shoulder blade. The EMS looked at the plastic shard and clicked her tongue. “There’s blood vessels and nerves under there; if that thing moves, it could cripple your arm. I think we need to get it out now.”

“Go on then. Get it over with.” Achillea was testy. She was hurt and she didn’t like hurting any more than anybody else. She could tolerate it better than most people but she still didn’t like it.

“Hold on a minute. I know that debris hurts like hell but I’m going to send a picture of the damage to our surgical unit. If they give me the go-ahead, I’ll get it out. If they see complications, we’ll go to them. If there are likely complications that mean we can’t move you. They’ll come to us.”

Achillea heard her setting up the electronic camera, saw the flashes as she photographed her wounds and the buzz as the picture was transmitted to the hospital. “I’m sorry I snapped at you. I know you’re doing what you have to.”

“That’s all right. Most people don’t apologize. Those really are an impressive collection of scars. Very few on your back though. This little lot will even it up for a while. It looks like you heal well.”

Of course there aren’t many scars on my back dumbass.. Never turn your back on somebody until you’re sure they’re friendly, disabled or dead. “I’m OSS. We tend to get hurt a lot.”

“Really? I’ve never met somebody who’s really in the OSS. I’ve seen all the OSS.117 films though. Who do you think would win, James Bond or Hugo Bonisseur?”

“Depends whether the scriptwriters are British or American.” Achillea broke off when the radio buzzed.

The EMS picked up the handset and said, “hold on a minute, I’m putting you on speaker, OK, go ahead.”

“Miss Foyle, I’m Lucy Bass, Surgical Shift Supervisor at Mount Sinai. We’ve had a look at the pictures and that plastic shard needs to come out right now. Your EMS is entirely capable of doing the job and we’d prefer she did it where you are. She can do the rest of the debris as well. We recommend you be kept under observation for a few days and get your vaccinations boosted. Those fragments are filthy and infection is a probability.”

The EMS acknowledged the call and turned to Achillea. “So we’re off. My name is Deanna Garza by the way. We’ll do the big one first, then get rid of the little stuff. I’ll give you a shot to kill the pain first.”

“No.” Achillea was quite positive about that. “I’ve got to make statements to the police and I want my head clear while I do it.”

Garza tilted her head slightly. “I can understand that but this is really going to hurt. That plastic shard has feathered edges and they act like barbs. Sure you wouldn’t like a shot?”

“Very sure.”

“What happened out there.”

Achillea thought carefully, replaying the scene in her mind. “The valet had parked the car. I was just about to get in so the girl could sit on my lap when I heard a scream from above us. I turned, pushed Cristi clear just before the body hit the roof of the car. The impact was like a bomb going off. Fragments everywhere. I caught some of them. Luckily, my friends were out of the way.”

Suddenly there was a blazing pain in her shoulder that reminded her of the night her Lanista had branded her arm. She gave Garza a stony glare. “Ow.”

“Told you. There’s a lot of dirt in there and plastic fibers. I’m going to wash it out. I had to sign the declaration that the man who landed on your car was completely dead. Not that was any doubt about it. He was sort of broken. In fact, everything in him was sort of broken. The police say he was thrown from the top of the Baltimore Consultancy Group Building. That’s fifty floors up. If you’d been sitting in that car, you’d be dead as well.”

“The thought had occurred to me.” Achillea sounded grim. She could feel the current of cool water irrigating the wound in her shoulder. I wonder how many of us would have survived if we’d known then what we know about infection now. Naamah knew about infection even if she did the right things for all the wrong reasons.

A few minutes later, Garza straightened up. “All right, we’re done. But I still think you ought to let us keep you under observation for a day or two. There’s a danger you’ll go into shock.”

Achillea looked at her incredulously. Garza noted that. “Or perhaps not. But you need those shots. And if there is any swelling or weepage in the wounds, get to an emergency ward right away.”

“Can you give me and hand and zip me up?” Achillea had tried to reach the zipper on the back of her dress but the awkward movement hurt. Garza grinned at her and performed the traditional service. “Thanks Dee. For everything.”

Living Room, Igrat’s Apartment, 71 Broadway, Manhattan.

“Who was he?” Achillea’s spell in the ambulance had left her out of touch on the police reports.

“One Walter Bennett. I think you probably knew him.” Igrat’s voice was quite deadpan. “A physical education teacher at P.S. 261. He was alive when he was thrown off that roof, fortunately for you. His screams on the way down probably saved your life.”

“At least he did something useful then. Did you know him, Cristi?”

“He gave our classes once a week. Well, he watched while we walked around. Nobody tried too much. No point really.” Cristi looked at her Mimosa, memories of P.S. 261 decidedly harshing her buzz. It was her second half-glass of wine for the day, an unusual extra brought on by the way an evening out had been ended. She’d already guessed that she was being taught how to drink socially without getting into trouble and the unprecedented second glass was a measure of how seriously Igrat and Achillea were taking the situation. “Our Phys Ed lessons in 261 weren’t like the ones at Trinity. At Trinity, we get taught how to win.”

“That’s good because we are up against people who are playing to win.” Igrat hesitated because what was coming next was difficult. “Cristi, ‘Lea and I have always tried to treat you with respect and you’ve come through for us. Now, you are really going to have to deal with what we are about to tell you the way any adult should and most don’t. Throwing that body over the edge was aimed at one or all of us. Principal Simmons was killed this morning, Bennett this evening. Somebody is killing members of staff at P.S. 261 and that makes it likely Achillea was the target. It’s also possible that the attack was aimed at me. I’m a courier and while we haven’t lost one for years, that doesn’t mean bad people haven’t tried. That car of mine was pretty distinctive. The third possibility is that the attack was aimed at you. I know it’s a hard thing to accept that somebody wants to kill you. ‘Lea and I have got used to it. Now, you’re going to have to accept that possibility.”

Cristi took a half-breath and let it out slowly. “Why would anybody want to kill me?”

Achillea looked at her and silently applauded the girl. Most children her age would have had hysterics at the idea an attempt might have been made on her life. “Cristi, what do you know about your father?”

Cristi looked a little confused and upset. “My mother said that he had run off when she got pregnant and she’d never seen him again. I don’t know who he is or what the truth is.”

Igrat took up the story. “Your mother lied to you. Your father was Rodrigo Lombardi. He was a member of the Mob, what outsiders call the Mafia and insiders La Cosa Nostra. He didn’t run out on you, he set your mother up in an apartment and gave her allowance for herself plus support for you. The reason why he pulled out is simple. To the Mob, families are non-combatants. They don’t go after a man by attacking his family. If family members do get rubbed out, it’s either an accident or somebody broke the rules. In the first case the responsible party gets badly hurt, in the second he gets a bad case of dead. But, the Sicilian Mob is only one part of organized crime. There are plenty of other organized crime outfits around and they do go after families. The South American gangs make a point of doing so. So, even though your father was LCN, his position still endangered you – and your existence endangered him. So, going away was the best way he could protect you. He continued to support you until he was killed in what seemed to be an accident six months ago.”

“My mother, my birth mother, took the money intended for me didn’t she? And spent it on drugs.” Cristi was trying very hard to be an adult but she could feel anger at the way her support had been stolen trying to break through.

“She did. By the way. Cristi, your mother died a couple of weeks ago. I didn’t tell you because you said you didn’t want to know and I respected your wishes. Now, it’s important you do know. You see, your father was actually quite important. He was what LCN call a Captain. That’s a head of a crew, a group of men who have been made full time members of the mob. The point of all this is that we didn’t think your father’s death was an accident. We think he was killed deliberately, probably by the same people who tried to kill one or more of us tonight. If they know you are Rodrigo Lombardi’s daughter, it’s possible you were the target. You see, you’re what outsiders call a Mafia Princess. You have the right to go to your father’s family, tell them you think he was murdered, why you think that and ask them to deal with the people responsible. And they probably would. So, they might have decided to get in first. Now, I said that isn’t likely. ‘Lea is still the most likely candidate and I’m second.”

“But it’s possible and I need to be careful.” Cristi finished it off.

“Got it in one.” Achillea was quietly proud of Cristi. Igrat had always insisted on not treating her as a child and her faith in the girl had paid off. “If you’re thinking of seeking vengeance on the people who killed your father and possibly your mother, don’t. Moral Guidance of the Day Cristi. Revenge gets you nowhere good. A friend of ours once found out that his son had been murdered. He spent twenty years hunting down the people responsible and killing them. At the end of it all, he realized it was for nothing. It hadn’t eased the pain of losing his son and he’d thrown away twenty years of his life. When he’d killed the last one, he didn’t even feel any satisfaction at completing the job. You never knew your father, you hated your mother – with good reason. They’re nothing to you. So, let it be. If the bad guys come after you, that’s different, both for you and for us.”

Cristi nodded. “I’d like to talk some more about that. But tomorrow. And could you teach me what to do about taking care and looking after myself please?”

Igrat nodded. “Tomorrow. In the meantime, ‘Lea needs to get some sleep. You’d better use my ‘company’ room, ‘Lea, the couch is too hard. And sleep face-down. Your back is a mess.”

[Calder]

Chapter Thirteen
Main Entrance, Public School 261, Queens, New York.

The two state troopers were standing by the doors to the main school building, carefully watching the students as they streamed in. Every so often, they’d stop one who didn’t seem to fit the student body, usually by being too old. Some were allowed in after they’d been identified, others were detained for further investigation.

“Miss Foyle, the Major would like to see you in the Principal’s Office.” The Trooper passed the message through with a quick grin of sympathy. News of the attacks on teachers from P.S. 261 had spread quickly. It had surprised absolutely nobody that Achillea was the only one of the three intended victims to have survived. “Are your friends all right?”

“A bit shaken. Having your colleagues drop in on you is one thing; having them do it from the fiftieth floor is quite another.”

“So I am told.” The trooper spoke gravely but a hint of a smile played around his lips. “You know what the kids here are saying? They’ve finally discovered Mr. Bennett’s guilty secret. He doesn’t bounce.”

That thought made Achillea snigger quietly to herself all the way up to what had once been the Principal’s Office. As she walked up to the door, Harry Mitchell was leaving, a stupified grin on his face. “Achillea, guess what? The State has taken over the school completely. They’ve made me Assistant Principal and put me in charge of the place until a new Principal is appointed.”

“Watch your back Harry.” Achillea was deadly serious. The deaths of Simmons and Bennett showed that any period of skirmishing there may have been was over. “If you’ve got family around here, send them away for a while. This is going to get ugly.”

Mitchell went away still smiling broadly, too happy at the end of the Simmons regime for Achillea’s warning to register yet. Achillea herself paused for a second, collected herself and then knocked on the door.

“Ahh, Achillea, I hoped you would come in today. First of all, are you and your friends all right?”

“I got a few scratches, nothing to worry about. Cristi and Igrat were shaken up a bit. To be honest, Igrat was more concerned about the destruction of her car and Cristi was too busy trying to comfort Igrat for either of them to be upset by what had happened. I hear that you’re the boss of this school now.

“That I am, for my sins which are multitudinous. I also wanted to thank you for your assistance yesterday. You may be interested to know that all the female troopers have nicknamed Trooper Dudley ‘Omnino Inutile’. They looked it up in a dictionary you see. He’s a pompous prick so it will probably take him down a much-needed notch or five. Anyway, Achillea, I know that you’re OSS and supposed to hand this whole investigation over to me now that this is a situation covered by the normal provisions of law enforcement but I’d like to ask you to stay on for a few days. A couple of reasons for that. One is that a large proportion of the existing faculty have disappeared. Some may well have followed Simmons and Bennett, others may have sent them on their way. I could use help filling in the gap until a new faculty is appointed. The other thing is that it’s fairly obvious you have some pretty formidable combat skills. With two faculty members dead and others missing, I’ve got a bad feeling about this whole situation. I think my men and I might need you around if and when this situation blows apart.”

Achillea nodded. “It’s going to do that all right. Sure, I’ll stay on.”

Cobb smiled his relief. “One thing you should know. Bennett was tortured before he was killed. There were deep scratch marks all over his stomach and genitals. The coroner thinks they were made by human nails and that a woman did it. Pretty sick woman if you ask me.”

Achillea was expressionless. “That fits this whole business. There’s been an air of . . . nastiness . . . . about this situation right from that start. As if the minds behind it enjoyed the pain and misery they were inflicting. There was no need to kill Simmons the way they did. The man was incapable of defending himself even if he had a whole National Guard armory at his disposal. They could have just as easily shot him or snapped his neck. Look, Vince, have you got family here? If so, get them out. We’re not dealing with the Mob here, this lot target families and they’re sadistic about it.”

Cobb shook his head. “My wife died a couple of years ago. Auto wreck. She was in the through-traffic speedway when some damned idiot refused to clear the left hand lane when flashed. She had to slow down suddenly and a truck smacked her in the rear. She never stood a chance. The driver who refused to yield is doing ten years for vehicular manslaughter but that won’t bring my Penny back.”

“I’m so sorry Vince.” That was when a thought occurred to Achillea; Cobb was probably a very lonely man. As lonely as she was. “What are you going to do about eating tonight?”

Cobb shrugged. “Find somewhere I guess. Somewhere as far as possible from here. I’m staying over near Rosebank on Staten Island. There must be someplace there.”

“I doubt it Vince. Why don’t I pick you up and we can go somewhere on the Island, err, my Island, Manhattan. I’m not a native New Yorker but I know the city pretty well.”

“That sounds great. Thank you Achillea.”

“My friends call me ‘Lea. I’ll pick you up at seven if that’s all right. Send me the address, I’ll be taking class.”

The class turned out to be a history period. When Achillea walked into the room, it was less than half full with the few students that were there playing around. The only reason why they paid her any attention at all was that word had spread about the events of the night before. Achillea had a strong suspicion that if it hadn’t been for the death of Bennett, the room would have been completely empty. There was one thing working for her. According to the schedule, the subject as “Ancient Rome”. That, she thought, raises an interesting problem. Should I teach them what is in the books or what really happened? “What did your previous teacher cover last?”

There was a moment of confusion before a boy in the front row explained. “He told us to find something that interested us in the book and read it.”

“That’s not good enough. What do you know about Rome?”

Again there was some confusion as the class tried to sort itself out. One boy called out ‘Julius Caesar’, another ‘gladiators’. Achillea seized on that as a gift from the Gods.

“All right, let’s talk about gladiators. First thing, the status of a gladiator was indicated by the amount of armor they wore. At the top of the tree was the Thraex, meaning somebody who was armored the Thracian style. They had helmet, shield, arm and leg protection and a breastplate but they only had a short, curved sword, more like a large knife. Then, at the bottom was a Retiarus Tunicati who wore only a linen tunic. Most gladiators were armed with the standard Roman sword, the gladius, although women carried the slightly longer spatha and retiari were armed with trident and net. The name Gladiator comes from gladius, that’s how important that sword was. Now, let me show you how to use a gladius.”

When Achillea had to repeat the lesson for another class two hours later, not only was the room packed but students were lined up five deep in the corridor outside.

Living Room, Igrat’s Apartment, 71 Broadway.

“Oh, hi Robert. Are you here to see Cristi? She’s at school right now.”

“No, not really. Igrat, something is really worrying me and I want to talk it over with you. When nobody else is around to hear.”

“Robert, that sounds unpleasantly like ‘we have to talk.’ Such conversations never end well.”

“This is different. This situation we have over the river. You know what I think happened. Two-six-one was converted into a production line for youth gangs and the output used to destroy the entire district. The objective is to push property values down to zero so the land can be bought up for near nothing and then resold to developers for huge profits. I’ve tried to find out who owns Organized City Planning Inc. and I run into a maze of shell corporations and offshore trusts. It’s impossible to find out who owns the group or where they are.”

“Ask Lillith. She’ll take one look at the accounts and have the whole operational laid out for you.”

“Igrat, that’s what worries me.”

Igrat put her tea cup down very gently. “Robert, you had better start being very careful indeed.”

Loxley noted the silky menace in Igrat’s voice, reminiscent of a leopard about to inflict some appalling injuries. He could tell that she was sliding into a mode that others called “their wild cat” and they suggested it was not advisable to be around when that happened.

“Igrat, we have to face facts here. We have a situation where somebody has come up with a scheme to make a huge profit. It’s a scheme that requires a certain amount of feed money, a lot of patience and the ability to look at something in terms of years or decades rather than the weeks or months short-lifers think in. This plan is certainly immoral; even its legality is seriously questionable. In fact the only reason why something like this is not explicitly illegal is because short-lifers don’t think about plans this long-term. Can’t you see Lillith’s fingerprints on this? Remember that stock exchange fraud she pulled way back when? She invented pump-and-dump stock fraud. That was similar to this operation. We all rely on her to manipulate markets and taxes so we stay rich and get richer. Why shouldn’t she have gone one step too far?”

Loxley looked at Igrat and suddenly realized how a goat felt when it was being eyed by a mountain lion. He also realized how she had survived when she had been a child growing up in a world that had no room for weakness or pity for the weak. When she spoke, the resemblance to one of the great cats was even stronger. Her voice was a rumbling purr that added a frightening overtone to its normal warmth. “Because she’s Lillith. I’m going to call my father and pass your fears through to him. Not because I believe for one second that Lillith is involved with this but because her knowledge of financial markets and international corporate structures could tell us who might be.

She picked up the telephone, dialed an outside line, and then another number. When she started speaking, it was in a language that Loxley hadn’t heard before and couldn’t understand. Eventually, she hung up the receiver. “Naamah invited you over to have tea with her sometime.”

“Oh crap.”

“Precisely. That’s probably what you will do. Uncontrollably for days on end. If you want my advice, take it like a man and get it over with. She is going to get you eventually and you might as well set the ‘when’ for when you’ve nothing important that needs doing.” Igrat’s expression gave nothing away but inside she was laughing. Naamah’s actual comment had been to tell him he was in for one of her special ‘cups of tea’ and let his own imagination do the rest. ‘Hypochondria is a wonderful thing, especially when coupled to a guilty conscience,’ Naamah had added.

“So, what did your father say?”

“He agrees with me. There’s no chance whatsoever Lillith masterminded this. It’s targeted at the wrong kind of people. When Lillith conceived the South Sea Bubble, it was targeted on the richest people in the country, the ones who need to be fleeced now and them to keep them productive. It ran out of control and hurt a lot of people outside that group. That caused us immense problems and eventually meant we had to leave a very congenial life-style as English country gentry. Even since then, she’s been really cautious about schemes like that. But the biggest difference is that back then we needed the money, we don’t need it now. Politically, we’re playing for vastly greater stakes than that and Lillith knows it.

“However, my father does agree that this plan is too long-term and requires too much patience in waiting for its benefits to emerge for it to be a short-lifer scheme. This could be a Daimones scheme, just not one we’re running. Or, it could be we have another player out there.”

The Seer’s Office, NSC Building, Washington D.C.
“Igrat’s right. We’ve got another player out there. One like us.” Lillith looked up from the files she’d been studying. “These are long-term multi-decade plans. Short-lifers just don’t think like this.”

“Robert Loxley came up with it. He thought you were responsible. Igrat wants to hurt him.”

“That’s rare, these days.” There had been a time when Igrat’s solution to every problem she ran into was to slip her knife between the ribs of whoever was causing the problem. Since those long-ago days she had grown up and matured. Now her means of getting even with somebody tended to be subtle and imaginative. “It’s not us though. I’ve checked through our files and we’ve no connection with this case.”

The Seer nodded. He knew Lillith had run a meticulous check on the Washington Circle’s business activities, not least because Nefertiti had done the same. He trusted Lillith implicitly but was also a great believer in the phrase ‘trust but verify’. “So that leaves the question of who?”

“Not Suriyothai and her group. They just don’t have the resources over here to do this. The obvious candidate is Loki but both Igrat and Achillea say there’s a nastiness to the way this scheme is being run that doesn’t fit Loki. He’s never been malicious, just irresponsible and careless.”

“Tell that to Igrat when she was kneeling in front of a wooden block with an axe poised over her neck.” The Seer looked thunderous at the memory. It was a standing joke in the Washington Circle that Loki had wanted to get into bed with Igrat for centuries and she had been fending him off for just as long. What had happened when they had first met was not funny though. Loki had staged one of his elaborate practical jokes as part of a plan to seduce her. Only, she’d been on a courier job and the ‘joke’ had clashed badly with her mission and resulted in her being exposed. She’s been arrested, tried for treason and sentenced to death. She’d been rescued of course but Loki had made the situation much worse by refusing to take the matter seriously, openly laughing when The Seer had tried to explain how much damage he had done. As far as he’d been concerned, Igrat had been an expendable minion and her near-execution merely an amusing episode of a larger tale. By the time he had realized his error, The Seer had staged a series of coups against him that had crippled Loki’s burgeoning power in Scandinavia and caused one of his key short-life followers to be thrown into a snake-pit. That had been the start of a feud that had lasted centuries.

“He’s matured since then, you know that.” Lillith shook her head. “If this was one of his schemes – and there’s always the possibility he’ll set one up here just to retaliate for what you did to him back then – there would be a sense of humor here and there isn’t. This whole thing is done by somebody like us but it doesn’t fit anybody we know. And there aren’t any organized groups out there we don’t know about by now.”

“You’re making a bad assumption there.” The Seer got up from behind his desk and looked out the window. “We don’t have a lock on the kinds of long life people can have. Short-lifers can achieve the same result by setting up a multi-generation organization and training the members of that group to de-emphasize the benefits of one generation in favor of the multi-generational plan. In theory, it could be done although it runs against everything the short-lifers live by. They’re opportunists and they have a terrific edge over us right there. If they could set up an organization that combined the benefits of our long-term strategic planning capabilities with their opportunism, they’d be formidable.”

“You’re beginning to sound like a conspiracy theorist.” Lillith was recovering from the shock that somebody might think she was involved in a plan like the one now being revealed in New York.

“It’s not a theory. Some of the industrial trusts forming a century ago weren’t too far from that kind of set-up. They started the Spanish-American War so they could profit from selling arms to the Government. Worked too. They were finished up when Teddy Roosevelt pushed through his enforcement of the anti-trust laws. The Seer looked sad for a moment. He and Theodore Roosevelt had got along famously well together

“Suppose they weren’t?” Lillith was thinking hard. “Anti-trust certainly pushed their overt operations into the history books but suppose they didn’t do it completely? Assume that what was left of those trusts went underground. They’d need to set up a network of shell companies, holding corporations and blind trusts to conceal the linkages from the anti-trust lawyers. They couldn’t operate overtly any more so they would have to evolve a covert means of operations – including their funding. They’d be looking for the big score all the time since they couldn’t depend on a stream of funds from legitimate operations. Above all, they’d be constantly looking for a means of regaining political influence so they could reverse the developments that have frozen them out. Isn’t that rather what we are seeing now?”

The Seer nodded thoughtfully. “It would explain a lot. Lillith, keep digging into this Organized City Planning Inc. I want to know everything about them and everybody they are linked to. Tell Achillea and Igrat this is now an official investigation. If there is an underground trust out there, I want to know about it. And, get out the files on that Aurandel business. It seems to me that if our guess is correct, the Savings and Loan operation back then might be just the sort of thing they would organize.”

[Calder]

Chapter Fourteen
Headquarters, New York State Child Protection Service, 1 Police Plaza, Manhattan, New York.

“I suppose, I owe everybody an apology.” Robert Loxley looked glum and more than a little apprehensive. Lillith’s report on Organized City Planning Inc had arrived and it had revealed a lot.

“You do.” Igrat confirmed the thought. “The gods all know Lillith has her faults but she would never, never kill people the way the victims in this situation were killed. Especially Simmons, that was a horrible way to die. We’re dealing with at least one seriously sick mind here.”

Loxley looked down at his hands folded on the table. The truth was that he was wondering, not for the first time, whether he had made a mistake in coming to America. When the Avebury group had decided to move after the South Sea Bubble, a number of the more recent English recruits had elected to stay behind and he had been invited to join them. Excited by the prospects of an unexplored new frontier, he had thrown his lot in with the group setting out for Virginia. Yet, he had always felt an outsider in the group, as if he was almost but not quite part of it. The faction that had stayed behind in England had become the Piccadilly Circus and he couldn’t help wondering if he would have been better off there.

“Don’t sweat it, Robert. You called the facts the way you saw them and that’s all anybody can do.” Achillea patted his hand. She’d been in an odd mood for the last couple of days, something that Loxley attributed to her near escape from death by gravity-propelled phys-ed teacher.

“And if you hadn’t, we’d have never got this put together. So, it all worked out in the end.” Igrat tapped the report and flashed a smile at Loxley. In her opinion, he’d suffered enough for insulting Lillith.

“Organized City Planning Inc.” Loxley read the title of the report. “How did she find all this?”

“Grains of sand.” Igrat picked up her copy and started to leaf through the pages. “When you spill a bucket of sand on the floor, you never get to clean up all the grains. Start to look, and you see the ones you missed. The harder you look, the more you see. Soon, you see so many, you wonder how you missed them all. Lillith started chasing the company ownership. She got the same thing you did. Lists of shell companies, post office box nominee shareholders, blind trusts, you name it. But, what she did was then go back to the Aurandel affair and look at the ownership of the most prominent Savings and Loan that went down then. Guess what, the same names started reappearing. That was a stupid mistake, one we wouldn’t have made. To us, twenty years is nothing.

“My father thinks that the people behind this think long-term because they are multi-generational, not long-lived. They still have the short-lifer perception of time though. Anyway, the point is that going back to the Aurandel affair gave Lillith a whole new clutch of connected names to play with. They led her through to some other companies that had the same smokescreens controlling them. She didn’t find who controls those smokescreens but she has identified some of what those unidentified people control. They include the Baltimore Consultancy Group and a chain of international hotels.”

“Baltimore Consultancy Group, That name is familiar.” Loxley was thoughtful.

“Their headquarters was the drop-point for Bennett. I doubt that is a coincidence. Lillith says they’ve competed with us a number of times when it comes to contracts for running government departments. We’ve let them win a number of times for appearances sake when the department in question isn’t that important. They’ve performed all right, not as well as we do, but they’re a good second-team choice. We kept an eye on them for obvious reasons and we’ve seen nothing abnormal about them. They do what we do, not quite as well, that’s all. One thing, they have a lot of money, just like us.”

“What about the hotel chain?” Achillea found that peculiarly interesting for reasons she couldn’t define properly.

“The Mansion Hotel Group. They specialize in buying up old buildings and converting them into luxury hotels. They go to great lengths to preserve the atmosphere of the buildings. They’re mostly concentrated down south, where they use old plantation houses as their base. There’s only one of them up here, the San Carlos Hotel on East 50th Street.” Igrat frowned for a second. “I’ve been there. It’s a beautiful place inside. It’s a bit unusual for the Mansion Hotel Group though. The building isn’t as old as it seems. Another case of a doodlebug hit only that one did a lot of damage to the building. Virtually wrecked it and the ones around it. Mansion Hotels bought it under the War Damage Repair Act, same way I bought 71 Broadway, and almost completely rebuilt it. It’s a new building that looks old. It’s furnished old as well; staying there is like stepping back into the 1920s. It’s a nice place to commit adultery.”

A ripple of laughter spread around the room. Loxley tried to get back on track. “Well, how many other companies have we identified?”

“About a dozen or so. Mostly, as far as we can see quite legitimate ones. Construction companies, electrical, aviation, automobiles. Much like us really. Our group investments are in legitimate companies we picked out when they were small but had good ideas and we provided the money for them to grow, Xerox, IBM, that bunch of weirdos over in Redmond, Washington, you know the ones. These people, whoever they are, did the same. One difference is that we hold minority positions in the companies we invest in and we let them go their own way. Mostly. From the look of the data Lillith came up with, these people take majority positions in the companies they invest in and we can assume they control their activities and direction. Big difference from us right there.”

Loxley looked at the list of companies Lillith had identified as being linked in some way to Organized City Planning. “You know, if the Brooklyn/Queens redevelopment plan had gone through, these companies would have provided all the skills needed to carry out the work. I bet you Organized City Planning would have handed the contracts for rebuilding to these companies and kept the proceeds in house. That’s corruption right there of course. Actionable if we find out who is behind this group.”

“That’s going to take more time and resources than we are likely to have. My father has a theory that, when Theodore Roosevelt went after the trusts and prosecuted everybody in sight under the Sherman Act, some of the people behind those trusts went underground and what we are looking at now is their descendents.”

“Do you realize that means we could be facing up to an organization made up from some, or all, of the oldest and richest families in America.”

“My father doesn’t think so. Obviously we’re older than these people and probably, in taken together, we’re richer than they are. But, that doesn’t really matter. Remember he knew people like the Carnegies, Morgans, Rockefellers, Schwabs and so on personally. His company built their yachts and he was on house-guest terms with all of them. They didn’t have the mentality to go underground nor did they have the mentality to understand why they should. As far as they were concerned, they did what they did and that was that. He thinks that, if the theory about going underground to avoid anti-trust laws is right, these were the third and fourth tier people. The ones who never quite made it in the open and could only thrive under cover. He’s putting a list of possible suspects together right now.”

“That raises another question of course. If we have an idea of who they are, do they have a clue who we are?”

Igrat thought about that. “It’s possible. The core of the Secret Service knows about us and has done for years. So, if this other group has infiltrated them, they might know about us. I think it’s unlikely though. We’d have heard by now if they did know. It’s the old story, the truth is so incredible that people just ignore it. That’s always been our best protection. So, no. I don’t think they do know about us. We better hope things stay that way.”

“Excuse me. This is all very interesting but hadn’t we better get back to the point?” Achillea was tapping a finger on the table in a highly unusual display of irritation. “Has anybody yet worked out what these people are up to? Why are Simmons and Bennett dead? And, why they killed in such a gruesome manner?”

“Don’t forget us.” Igrat remembered her crushed Testarossa with acute sadness. The truth was that she didn’t like her new Maranello nearly as much.

“Iggie have you ever tried to hit anything on the street below with an object thrown from fifty floors up? I have. It’s close to impossible. With a man falling while flailing his arms and legs, about the only thing that they could guarantee hitting was the ground. So, why did they throw him off? And, repeat the important question, why are Simmons and Bennett dead?”

“I’d assumed that it was to stop them talking.”

“About what, Robert? They’ve got no idea we have any idea what is going on. Look at what has happened from their point of view. There was the assault on Cristi. Things like that were probably a daily occurrence until the State Troopers took over. The only odd thing about it was her birth mother tried to throw her out and Igrat took her in. A few days later, I turn up with instructions to clean up the phys-ed department. Don’t think about what we know, think about what they know. Everybody who sees us assumes that Iggie and I are a couple. So, they make the same assumption and get the idea Iggie’s my wife. Where do they go with that? They assume that Cristi poured her heart out to Iggie, Iggie did the same to me and I nagged State Ed until they gave me approval to nose around a little. They tried to get even by kicking my kids out and I stopped them. Without breaking anybody by the way. This is all minor league stuff. It doesn’t warrant killing two people or tossing the body of one of them at us. It doesn’t warrant the atrocious way Simmons died or what happened to Bennett before he was killed. If you look at this from their point of view, everything they’ve done since the attack on Cristi has made things worse for them. Either they are incredibly, unbelievably stupid or we’re dancing to their tune and we have no idea what it is.”

Achillea slumped back against her seat, breathless from her tirade. “And don’t ask me what is going on, I don’t know. I should know, it’s there, right in front of me. I feel like I should be able to stretch out my fingers and touch it but I can’t. But I will tell you something. Bennett wasn’t thrown off that roof to kill us. He was thrown off to stampede us into doing something. Work out what and we’ve got the answer to what is happening.”

A few minutes later, Loxley left, leaving Igrat and Achillea alone. Igrat shuffled some papers before looking up. “’Lea, what’s wrong?”

Achillea sighed. “I’m going out with Vince Cobb tonight. We’re hitting an Italian restaurant and then doing a show.”

“Good for you. He strikes me as a good man. You concerned there may be another attack and he’ll get hit in the crossfire?”

“No, I change routes every time and play games with timing. It’s him and me I’m worried about. Iggie, I’m not like you. You have more men in a week than I do in a century.”

“Not quite.” Igrat grinned at the thought though. “So?”

“Iggie, men do one of three things when we start to get close. The first group takes one look and run away. The second group gets the idea that I’ve taken some sort of holy vow that I’ll only go with a man who has beaten me in a fair fight. Well, I haven’t but they can’t so they’re gone as well. The remaining group has the idea they have to prove they are stronger and tougher than I am and that never ends well. For them. So, here I am wondering which one Vince is going to be. And how I’ll handle it. Because I’m tired of being alone.”

“The best way to deal with that sort of situation is to get in first.” Igart suddenly looked up and snapped her fingers. “That’s it. No matter who is on the other side and what they are doing, we’ll pre-empt it. We’ll leak a story that Bennett killed Simmons and then committed suicide. Our presence there was pure chance. That’ll let the air out of the tires on whatever it is that they have in mind. They’ll be right back to Square One.”

“Very good.” Achillea was still worried. “But what about me?”

“You? Oh, that’s easy. Try this . . . . “

The Pembroke Tea Room, Lowell Hotel, 28 East Sixty Third Street New York

“Three Classic High Teas please with the Ceylon Orange Pekoe.” Eleanor Gwynn handed the menu back to the waiter with the same sparkling smile that had captivated a King.

“I should have changed, shouldn’t I?” Cristi was still in her school clothes. Igrat had picked her up when Trinity had dismissed for the day and they’d come straight over. Igrat and Nell were wearing ‘tea dresses’, longer and slightly more formal than day wear but less so than cocktail or evening clothes. Even so, Cristi felt she was too casually dressed for the surroundings.

“Absolutely not, ducks.” Nell looked at her with amusement and affection. “Iggie tells me you are fourteen. For a girl of your age and on a weekday – that means a school day of course – your school dress is entirely proper. In fact, in England, a girl your age would change into her school clothes for a formal high tea. Ahh, the tea is here. I’ll be mother.”

“Nell means that she’ll pour the tea.” Igrat explained. “Normally, it’s then privilege of the oldest woman in the party but it’s an American convention that if one of the women is English, she gets the honors. You’ve probably gathered that Eleanor comes from an English family. Mine’s Persian so she gets to be mother.”

Nell poured a little milk into their cups and nodded happily. “Proper full cream milk, not the watery stuff we normally get. That’s a really good start. Not surprising, the Lowell serves the only really good high tea on the eastern seaboard.”

In the background, the maitre d’hotel heard the words in their cut-glass English accent and positively squirmed with delight. Nell winked and picked up the tea-pot. “Now Cristi, we’ve put the milk in first and now we add the tea to it. Do it the other way and the hot tea scalds the milk and spoils the flavor. You control the milkiness by the amount of tea you add, not the amount of milk. Just say when it’s the way you’d like it.”

The waiters arrived with three silver three-level trays. Nell spoke quietly to Cristi. “This is how it goes, ducks. Bottom layer are the finger sandwiches. Cucumber and watercress, shrimp, deviled egg and smoked salmon. The toast fingers are foie gras. Middle tray has scones with lemon curd and Devonshire cream. Top tray has Petit Fours and little fruit tarts. Finally, there’s a macaroon at the top. Start at the bottom and work up. You don’t have to eat everything but it’s considered unbecoming and a bit gauche to go back to a level after you’ve moved to the one above. You end with the macaroon and a final cup of tea. Now, we’re all supposed to exchange catty gossip about our friends. Who’s going to start?”

“Achillea’s got a suitor.” Igrat delicately took a smoked salmon sandwich from her tray and nibbled at it. “New York State Police Major. He’s the one in charge over at two-six-one now. She’s taking him back to my apartment tonight.”

“Third date.” Cristi said knowingly.

Igrat looked at her sideways. “What do you know about third dates?”

Cristi flushed with embarrassment. “All the boys at school say that if you go on a third date, you have to have sex.”

Igrat snorted. “They would say that. Cristi, you never, say again never, ‘have’ to have sex. You’ve got the absolute right to say ‘no’ any and every time you want to although in fairness, if you do intend to say ‘no’ you should make it clear that sex is not on the table before the date starts. You haven’t been on a third date yet have you?”

Cristi’s flush deepened and she shook her head. “I think I need Moral Guidance.”

Igrat glanced around. Like any good tea-room, this one was designed with acoustics that made it almost impossible for people at one table to overhear what was being said at another. “Cristi, at the moment, you’re too young. I had sex for the first time when I was a lot younger than you and it really messed me up. In my head and elsewhere. In New York state it’s illegal to have sex with somebody less than 16 years old. That’s a good law. It means that if a boy tries to bed you now, he’s committing rape even if you consent. Once you’re sixteen, if you do have a boyfriend and you think it’s getting serious, bring him home and we’ll talk to him. Make sure he understands his responsibilities.”

“Iggie means she and Achillea will put the fear of God into him.” Nell added helpfully. ‘It’s traditional.”

“But how do I know if I should be serious?” Cristi was puzzled and a little frightened by the subject.

“Easy test. First date, end up in Friendly's and order one of their ice cream sundaes to share. It comes with a single cherry on top. If he gives it to you, he’s worth keeping. If he takes it for himself, dump him.”

“And that, ducks, is vintage Igrat. Every word a gem.”

“What Eleanor says.” Igrat was smiling slightly to herself. This was a conversation she’s never expected to have. “Just remember, Cristi, you’ve got your whole life in front of you. This is something that affects every aspect of your future so take the time to do it right because doing it wrong will make a mess of your life.”

“Don’t be afraid to tell Igrat your intentions either, ducks. She’s got your back, all the way. Talk to her first. I don’t think you know yet how lucky you are.”

Igrat flashed a smile at Nell, then returned her attention to Cristi. “Also, men are like any other toy. Look after them properly and you can play with them for years. Just never forget, you are in charge of the relationship. You decide how far it goes and when. If they don’t like that, find another toy.”

“And there you have it ducks. That’s enough serious talk for the day. Now, try a scone. The lemon curd is fantastic.”

Igrat’s Apartment, 71 Broadway, Manhattan, New York.

Achillea punched her entry code into the keypad and then opened the door with her key. “This is my friend Igrat’s apartment. She lives here with her daughter, I stay here when I’m in New York. I really don’t like hotels.”

“I don’t blame you ‘Lea. Whenever I’m staying in one, I keep wondering who’s been in the room before and what they did there.”

“Me too.” Achillea gave a shudder that wasn’t too far from her real feelings. “Can I offer you a drink? Igrat keeps mostly champagne but we do have some good single malt whisky.”

“That’s very kind of you, but I think I’ll pass. To be honest, I prefer brandy to whisky.” The tension in the air was electric and both she and Cobb were responding to it by behaving awkwardly. Both knew what was coming but neither was sure how they were going to get there.

“That’s Igrat’s room over there and that’s Cristi’s. The kitchen is there but only Cristi and Mike, Igrat’s lover, use it. This is my room. Achillea opened the door and almost by instinct, Cobb stepped through. She closed the door behind her and leaned against it, taking a deep breath while she did so. Now let’s see if Igrat’s advice works. “Vince, we can go three ways from here. Option one, we can spend all night staring at each other. Option two, I can do a strip for you. Option three, you can undress me. Your choice.”

Cobb laughed and suddenly the tension that had drowned the apartment drained away. “Errr, option three?”

[Calder]

Chapter Fifteen
Igrat’s Apartment, 71 Broadway, Manhattan, New York.

“Breakfast is on me.” Achillea was exuding a warm happy glow that seemed to fill up the whole room. So much so that Igrat and Cristi had privately agreed that if the apartment’s power failed, they could toast bread by holding it in her general vicinity. As a practiced card-sharp, Igrat was convinced she couldn’t slide a playing card between her and Cobb. Even Achillea’s voice sounded warmer and richer than usual. “What have we got Cristi?”

“Scrambled eggs, home-made sausage patties, fried tomatoes and hash browns. Seven ninety five.” Cristi looked around apprehensively. This was the most ambitious breakfast she’d tried to cook but she’d guessed this was a special morning for Achillea and she had wanted to make it perfect for her.

“When Cristi cooks for us, and she’s the only girl here who can cook, she charges us for the meals. She pays for the raw materials and the profits she makes are her allowance. Gratuities and constructive criticism gratefully received.” Igrat pushed her hair back out of her eyes. Getting Cristi to school on time each morning was another new experience for her. She’d already come to the conclusion there was much more to this “mother” business than met the eye.

The coffee, orange juice and a basket full of hot bread rolls was already set out on the table. “The rolls are rye bread. I hope that’s all right.”

“It’s perfect. I grew up on rye bread.” Cobb looked at the rolls and his eyebrows lifted. “You made these yourself? How long have you been cooking for?”

“This morning, Sir? Not long. The cookery class at school concentrates on teaching us how to run a kitchen efficiently so I pre-prepared a lot of things last night and this morning had everything going at once. The sausage patties are better when we let them sit overnight anyway. We’ve got a beautiful kitchen here too. Much better than the ones at school.” Cristi was interrupted by a bell ringing in the kitchen. “Food’s ready. Excuse me.”

She vanished into the kitchen and returned with an armload of serving bowls and dishes. “Here we are, dig in everybody.”

Twenty minutes of silence broken only by the clatter of knives, forks and spoons and the happy sighs of the eaters followed. Eventually, Cobb dabbed his mouth with his napkin and patted his stomach. “That was really good. Excellent bread, scrambled eggs done just right – and that takes real talent, Cristi. The fried green tomatoes in sour cream sauce were perfect. If I might make one suggestion, the sausage patties had a bit too much salt in them. Did you use an old recipe?”

“I did, sir. One I found in a 1930s cookery book from the school library.”

“I thought so. People put a lot more salt in their food back then than we do now. My wife.” Cobbs voice caught and Achillea squeezed his arm gently. The two smiled softly at each other before he continued. “She used to collect old cookery books and she always said we had to halve the amount of salt they suggest and then halve it again.”

“Thank you sir, I’ll remember that.” Cristi took out a small notebook and wrote down the advice.

“We’d better get moving, people. Can we get the dishes into the dishwasher please?” Igrat followed her words by setting an example and collecting the plates.

In the parking lot, Igrat stopped and pulled out a remote control unit. She keyed in a number and read the display with satisfaction. “Security system; the Secret Service installed it for me. The display shows the weight bearing on each of the four wheels and the vehicle weight in total. If it’s more than a pound different from last night or if the weight bearing on an individual wheel is more than half a pound heavier than last night, it flashes a warning. But, we’re all clear so we can start up. She pressed a large red switch at the bottom of the unit. A few yards away, the engine on her Ferrari turned over and burst into life.

“That’s impressive. The Secret Service gave you that?”

“Same system on the Presidential vehicles. It’s nothing new, Presidential vehicles have had that since the 1980s. You should have seen the system I had fitted to my first Testarossa. It would change traffic lights to green for me, Only worked in England though.”

Cobb laughed, then stopped quickly. “Igrat, thank you for everything you’ve done for us. I don’t mean just breakfast or putting us up for the night. I mean everything.”

“Door’s always open, Vince. Look after yourself. Achillea doesn’t meet many good men.”

Cobb watched as the Maranello backed up and then swung out of the parking bays. Behind him Achillea had her own pad out and was checking her truck. “We’re clear. Time to go to war.”

Once out in the traffic, Cobb appreciated the virtues represented by the sheer size of the F-450. He had a commanding view of the traffic around him and it was apparent that even taxicabs were wary of the big truck. What did surprise him was how comfortable the cab was. Achillea had bought the extended cab version and Cobb guessed it could seat six with room to spare. “Don’t you find this a bit clumsy for city driving?”

Achillea checked the mirror and filtered left towards the Brooklyn Bridge. “Not really; Iggie hates this truck. She calls it the hippopotamus but she’s used to her Ferrari. She hates it even more when I point out my diesel has more horsepower than her beloved V12. I got used to driving these a long time ago and I don’t notice the bulk any more. Brooklyn Bridge is up ahead. Getting into the right lane is critical here otherwise we could be driving round Manhattan for weeks.”

Halfway over the bridge, Cobb gestured at the area to their right. “That’s where the problem starts; Brooklyn Heights. It runs down all the way down Atlantic Avenue for about five miles. Boundary north and east is I-475 and I-678. Includes the docks south of the heights. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s pretty much a no-go zone for local cops and emergency services.”

“What’s the staff like at 261 now? Anybody coming back?”

Cobb shook his head. “A few of the old-timers are coming in but only a handful. What happens to Simmons and Bennett scared most of them off. Guess that was the point.”

“I doubt it, Vince. If they were trying to scare the staff off, they’d have gone for the old-timers who are turning up. That, they have conspicuously not done. And, throwing Bennett’s body at us was too cute by half. There’s something else going on here.”

“Whatever it is, they’re being damned stupid about it. They keep carrying on this way and the Governor will send the National Guard in. The way Simmons and Bennett were killed got a lot of very bad press and trying to kill you by throwing Bennett at you just added more fuel to the fire. The newspapers are already asking how a large area of one of the biggest cities in the country appears to be in open insurrection. Between you and me, ‘Lea, I think we’re the tripwire for this whole situation. We’re the last option for dealing with this situation before the troops go in. If we don’t get this situation calmed down, there’ll be tanks on the streets.”

Achillea turned left on to Dean Street. She could see it had once been an elegant road with imposing brownstones on either side and trees lining the pavement. The doodlebug that had landed a few blocks away had damaged the buildings but the street had survived the missile and lived on. Now, the trees were dead and the brownstones had their windows boarded up. Their old structure was covered with the abstract patterns of gang art. The street itself was a bit narrow for the F-450 but she nudged it down the center with care. The sides of the road had once been painted up to provide street parking bays but they were empty and the markings themselves were battered and faded to the point of being nearly invisible.

The school itself had changed significantly from the day before. New steel chain link fencing had been erected all along the Dean Street side with double-layer gates at the entry points. The fence itself was topped with razor wire. Achillea was impressed. “Somebody’s been working hard.”

“We had a crew in all night. We’ve got to secure access to this place before we can do anything else.” Cobb put his Stetson hat on and made sure the brim was exactly horizontal. They identified themselves at the gates and were allowed in to park.

Achillea knew something was wrong the moment she stepped out of her truck. The State Police officers were looking grim and the few teachers around seemed stunned. She saw Harry Mitchell standing to one side and went over to him. “What’s happened, Harry?”

“It’s Anneliese Battaglia, she used to be our art teacher. She was killed this morning. She was grabbed outside her home. Achillea, it’s horrible. They took her to some wasteland and dragged her behind their car until she was dead.”

“Harry, think carefully. This is very important. Was she on her way here?”

Mitchell frowned and shook his head. “That’s what’s so awful. She was one of the ones who had stopped coming here. I shouldn’t say this I suppose, speaking ill of the dead and so on, but she wasn’t much of a teacher. One of the ones Simmons appointed. She was a ‘paint what you like and develop your own style’ kind of teacher.”

“Another important question, Harry. Have any of the old-style teachers here, the ones before Simmons took over, been threatened?

Mitchell thought about that and the frown on his face was slowly replaced by bewilderment. “No, come to think of it, none of us have. That doesn’t make sense, does it? If they wanted to scare us off, they’d be threatening the teachers who come in, not the ones who stayed away.”

“They would, wouldn’t they. So why aren’t they?”

Major Cobb’s Office, Public School 261, Queens, New York.

“I think the answer is obvious.” Cobb was at his most deceptively innocent. “They are killing the teachers who stay away and not killing the ones who come in. Ergo, that’s Latin you know, they want the teachers to come in and be here. Likewise, they want the remaining students here and they want us here as well.”

“I don’t like the sound of that.” Achillea had smiled at the mention of Latin. Cobb had already noticed her habit of using spectacularly lurid Latin curses.

“Nor do I. Do you know what it means? They’re holding us all hostage here. A couple of hundred students, a dozen or so staff and a couple of dozen State Troopers. And here’s the thing. We can all go home tonight and we have to return tomorrow morning because whoever doesn’t gets the gangs looking for him with a very nasty end in mind. Even if we had ten times the number of police we actually have available, we can’t guard everybody unless they’re concentrated here.”

“That’s brilliant.” Achillea was impressed. “The only thing is, why toss a body at us? Even if they recognized me from fifty floors up, I’m one of the people they want here.”

“The only thing I can come up with is that they didn’t recognize you. They saw the Ferrari and assumed that somebody rich and powerful was down there so they heaved Bennett off. Rich and powerful people get headlines you see, especially when nearly killed by falling teachers. That ensures the warning gets spread far and fast.”

“You’re probably right. You know why they are keeping us here don’t you. We’re their hostages against the Governor sending the Guard in. That’s what is being sent to the Mayor right now. A message that if he asks for the National Guard, this place gets leveled and everybody in it gets massacred.”

Cobb nodded. “That’s just how I figure it. That’s why I’m fortifying this place. If we’re going to be trapped here, I want us behind barbed wire and barricades. Now, that’s a strange thing. If the people here were dispersed all over the neighborhood, we’d have no chance of protecting them. But in here, we have got a fighting chance. It’s an odd situation ‘Lea. The right thing to do is also the best thing to do and is also the thing the bad guys want us to do.”

“And you know what that means, Vince. We’re also missing something.”

“I know it. All we can do is get ready. ‘Lea, please tell me you’ve got some highly illegal heavy weaponry in the back of that truck?”

She shook her head. “An M-81 machine gun, two M-14 rifles, both selective fire, two PPS-45s and about a thousand rounds of ammunition for each. Twice that for the M-81. Nothing illegal though. Sorry.”

“It’s a start. If we can borrow that lot, I can give the rifles to my best marksmen and we can put the M-81 to cover the main entrance.”

“Sounds good. Give the PPS-45s to your most athletic troopers. They can be an emergency response team in case of the unexpected. I’ve got some extra pistols as well, Model 50s.”

“’Lea. I’m giving all your guns away. What do you want?”

Her hand moved and there was a small, nickel-plated pistol in it. “Just this. Colt M1903 in .32ACP. Small, flat, gets easily overlooked in a pat-down. No muzzle flash, very quiet and I can put every shot in the magazine into the same hole. What do your troopers carry?”

“M1911A1s. The original .45ACP. We’ve got a handful of pump-shotguns as well.”

“Tell your people to be careful with those. It’s too easy to short-stroke them in an emergency. I lost a good friend once that way.”

Cobb nodded. “I’ll pass the word.”

Trinity School, 139 W 91st St, New York,

The problem was the front mounted engine. All Igrat’s previous Ferraris had been mid-engined and she had become used to the superb responsiveness of the layout. The front-engined Maranello just didn’t feel the same. I want my Testarossa back. In front of her, a truck from an air-conditioning repair company pulled out of a parking space and she slid the Ferrari into its place before anybody else could snatch the spot. It was even on the right side of the road so she wouldn’t have to cross. Igrat did not like crossing roads.

She was approaching the great wooden doors when two 12th Grade students saw her and opened the doors for her. She gave them a beaming smile and a warm “thank you” before proceeding down the main corridor. Behind her she heard one of the 12th-graders asking his companion “Wow, just who is that?”

“Cristi Escalante’s mother. She’s gorgeous; a real MILF.” The other student was obviously unaware of just how much his voice had carried. Igrat looked over her shoulder at him and gave him a full-voltage smile of appreciation for the compliment. To her secret delight, the two students flushed red and scurried out the door. Nice to know I haven’t overdone the aging effect. That beautician Conrad found over in Thailand is a miracle-worker.

“Miss Shafrid, it’s good of you to come in.” Principal Lynette Reynolds had risen from her desk to greet Igrat. This was a regular meeting the two women had to discuss Cristi’s progress. It was also the meeting where Principal Reynolds advised Igrat of any new projects the school had that might need some additional financial support. In Igrat’s eyes, it was an entirely reasonable arrangement. Cristi got the special attention she needed and the rest of the pupils benefitted from the additional resources. “I’m happy to tell you that Cristi is progressing really well. She’s overcoming the passiveness that concerned us when she first came here. She’s still very reluctant to argue with people who she sees as being in positions of authority and is too deferential towards them but she’s making progress there as well. We’re finding that a challenge to cope with; with most of our students the problem is they have too much attitude, not too little.”

Reynolds picked up a file and scanned its contents. “Her grades are improving quickly. She’s about level with the rest of her class now – but that still means she’s two years behind for her age. I would recommend summer school for her. We do remedial classes during the summer break for students who didn’t reach the standards necessary to move up a grade but given her progress, the same classes may allow her to skip a grade. She’s in 7th now and is set for promotion to 8th grade at the end of the school year. There’s a good brain in that head you know, and a lot of character.”

The Principal looked as if she wanted to cry. “If only we’d had her right from the start, she’d be way ahead of her class by now. She’s surprisingly mature and responsible for a girl of her age, probably because she had to pretty much look after herself. I’ve got my eye on her for appointment as a grade prefect in time. Anyway, with the summer school classes, she could qualify to jump directly to 9th grade and that would bring her up to only a year behind her age cohort.”

Igrat raised an eyebrow. “Grade prefect?”

“We appoint a couple of the more mature students in each grade to act as advisors and mentors to the others. We’ve found that the students will talk to their peers much more readily than to the faculty and often a sensible word from a class-mate will fend off trouble before we have to officially find out about it.”

“Let’s get Cristi in and talk about summer classes. She needs to be involved in the decision.”

“I agree; I wish more parents thought like that. By the way, normally the school charges an additional fee for summer classes but in your case, we’ll waive that. You’ve already been so generous. I’ll just call Cristi’s house-mother.”Reynolds punched a number into the telephone and then switched it to speaker. “Mrs. Parker? Could you bring Cristi up to my office when she has finished her last class? We need to talk about some additional tutoring.”

Igrat heard the speaker-distorted voice.”I’m sorry, Principal Reynolds, but Cristi isn’t here right now. A couple of investigators from Child Protective Services wanted to interview her. It was just routine, they said, to make sure she was happy here. They left together about an hour ago.”

Igrat and Reynolds both exchanged looks and each saw the other had gone white. Reynolds got in first. “We’ve never had that before.”

Igrat picked up the outside line telephone and dialed a number. “Robert, Cristi got picked up from school by two CPS Inspectors.”

“No, she didn’t, Igrat. We can’t do that. And wouldn’t. We pick up kids from their homes. It gives us an excuse to look around there you see. We also don’t want to embarrass the kids in front of their friends. Whoever picked Cristi up, it wasn’t CPS.”

Reynolds looked at Igrat with her mouth hanging open. “Oh, crap.”

[Calder]

Chapter Sixteen
Igrat’s Apartment, 71 Broadway, Manhattan, New York.

“Look, I’ll be honest with you.” Achillea didn’t want to add to Igrat’s burden but she had to plan on the basis of the reality that faced them, not what they would both like to be true. “We’ve got nothing to go on right now and unless they call, we’ve no idea where they are. Cristi has seen the kidnappers’ faces and that means it’s almost certain they intend to kill her regardless of whether you pay the ransom or not. You have to accept the possibility that she is already dead.”

“I know.” Igrat’s had a neutral expression on her face but her eyes were terrifying. They were those of a leopard or panther that had just decided to go berserk and kill everything in sight. The fact was that Igrat had just reverted to type and was the vicious wildcat that had allowed her to survive while growing up. Achillea had the same neutral expression on her face but her eyes were a void, completely empty of any human feeling. The difference between the two women was subtle but profound. Igrat would kill anybody who got in the way of rescuing Cristi. Achillea didn’t care who got killed as long as Cristi was rescued.

The buzzing of the telephone seemed to be incredibly loud. Igrat picked it up and her replies to whatever was being said on the other end were monosyllabic. Then, she asked one simple question. “How do I know she’s still alive?”

The answer was Cristi’s voice gasping “Igrat I. . .’ followed by an agonized scream. Igrat put the receiver down gently.

“That was Cristi, not a recording. They want a quarter of a million dollars in cash. They obviously know me well enough to understand I can do that. They want it taken to Room 916 of the San Carlos Hotel. They say that if I don’t deliver it by eight tonight, they’ll start raping Cristi.”

“Wait a minute, they’re telling you where they are? No fun and games making you chase around?” Achillea was surprised. More importantly, she was stalling for time while she planned what to do next.

“We know Cristi - or at least a way of finding her - is in that room right now. We also know they hurt her. I’m going to get her out.” Igrat was utterly determined on that point.

“Igrat, it’s a trap. The very fact they called you from there without playing drop-off games proves they have no interest in your money. They’ll kill you as soon as you arrive.” Achillea could see exactly how this was going to play out. What she couldn’t understand was why the planning was so inept or what the kidnappers wanted to achieve. “You’re not going to go in there, Igrat. I’m going in and you are going to stay out of the way. I don’t want to have to worry about hitting you by mistake. If everybody in there is an enemy, that gives me a big edge.”

“I’m going with you.” Igrat was in her best mulishly obstinate mood.

“Elephanti irrumabo stultus ferreo canis.” Achillea came very close to rolling her eyes. “Iggie, you gave me a menu of three choices and that worked well for me. Now I’ll give you three. You can stay here and help organize the backup. You can come along as the driver and wait while I go get Cristi thus helping us get away clean. Or you can make me go through you. I know how good you are with a knife so I won’t be able to hold back and that means you’ll get really badly hurt. Your choice?”

“I’m not driving the hippopotamus.” Igrat’s voice was sulky. “And my Ferrari isn’t big enough.”

“And it’s too distinctive.” Achillea threw a set of keys at Igrat. “I got an unmarked Crown Vic delivered down to the parking lot. It’s one of ours and Federal records show it was in Illinois tonight.”

Room 916, San Carlos Hotel, Manhattan, New York

Achillea took a deep breath and pushed the door open. There was supposed to be a single messenger in the room who would take the money and then tell her where Cristi could be found. Instead there were five people in the room. One of them was a woman. Achillea recognized her instantly, more by the smell than anything else. She was Kellie Goodwin. She recognized two of the men as ‘teachers’ she had seen hanging around in P.S. 261. She’d already named them Slimy and Creepy but the others were unknown to her. It didn’t matter much.

“Well surprise surprise.” One of the men obviously fancied himself as the leader. Achillea named him Leaderman with the one closest to him becoming Minion. Leaderman was still talking. “They said you’d come instead of the dumb bimbo. Guess there are a few more of us than you thought eh? Too bad for you. Get on the bed. Face down.”

Achillea drifted over to the bed and looked at it, then at Goodwin sitting beside it. She was twitching slightly, her hands moving almost convulsively in her lap. “You going to join in the fun?”

“Nah. I just get to watch. Then I start cutting you.” Her excitement was tangible.

Achillea nodded. At her side, her left hand had already stiffened into a blade. Suddenly, without any warning, that left hand slashed out in a stab that drove her fingers into Kellie Goodwin’s eyes. It was a risky blow, one that was very easy to counter in ways that could have crippled her hand, but Goodwin lacked both the knowledge and the time to use them. Achillea felt her fingers bounce off the bones of Goodwin’s eye sockets but she was already pulling her left hand back. While she did so, she spun right, her right hand swinging behind Goodwin’s head. As a horrified Goodwin reached for her ruined eyes, Achillea grabbed her hair feeling the greasy, straw-like threads wrapping around her fingers. Achillea’s momentum and her grip on Goodwin’s hair gave her the leverage she needed to throw the screaming woman at Leaderman. The pair crashed to the floor, the man frantically trying to free himself from the panic-stricken, terrified Goodwin.

Achillea continued to turn right, her left hand falling to her waist where her bowie knife was sheathed. She actually had a split second to wipe her fingers on her jeans before she drew the knife and slashed upwards. She quickly stepped sideways, putting herself on Minion’s left with the bowie in her left hand perfectly placed for an edge-uppermost thrust that slammed into his body just above the groin. She heaved upwards, dragging the knife upwards through his abdomen until it hit his ribs and slid out. She could feel the spray of blood from the severed arteries in his gut soaking her. Creepy was already closing in on her from behind Minion but the rising bowie knife was perfectly angled to slash across his throat. She felt the blade bounce off his spine and the spray of blood from his neck splattered across her face and body.

Slimy was backing up, his face a horrified mask of disbelief at the holocaust that was taking place around him. Achillea closed on him and watched his disbelief turn to despair as he realized there was no way he could save his life from the sudden wave of slaughter that had engulfed Room 916. Her right-handed punch hit him just over his heart cracking open his ribs and sending a shock wave from the impact through the muscles of his heart. The interference of those shockwaves with his heartbeat threw him from a steady, regular beat into violent palpitating fibrillation. It was a gladiator’s punch, one that required skill, precision and great strength. On the other side of the equation, it was a blow against which there was little defense except to wear armor or not to get hit in the first place. In skilled hands, it was a near-certain, one-shot killer. Achillea was superbly skilled and the blow left the man dead of heart failure before he reached the carpet.

By the time Slimy died, Leaderman had managed to free himself from Goodwin. The woman was rolling on the floor, hands over her face and blood streaming from between her fingers. She’d stopped screaming, probably from shock but was continuously moaning, the sound almost soft in comparison with her previous wail. Leaderman was trying to get up and draw a gun but he was far, far too late. All he felt was Achillea’s hands gripping the back of his neck and his chin. She snapped his neck with contemptuous ease. Then, she rabbit-punched Goodwin, leaving her unconscious on the floor.

Achillea looked at the room, checking the five who had occupied it when she had arrived less than a minute before. The four men were dead, the woman was blinded and unconscious. She shook her head in disbelief. “Well, that was insulting. Still, pay peanuts and you get monkeys.”

There was a single door at the side of the room. She threw it open, her eyes taking in the bathroom with all its fittings. Cristi was on the floor, still wearing the blue and gray striped dress she had worn to school that morning. Her hands and feet had been duct-taped and more tape was covering her eyes and mouth. She was struggling when Achillea opened the door and the sound had made her fight harder. Achillea took in her bulging face, the deep red of her skin and the blue tinge developing around her ears. Cristi was suffocating and Achillea knew she had to move fast. “Cristi, it’s me. ‘Lea.”

The girl stopped threshing on the floor but there was an ominous racking noise from her throat. Achillea ripped the tape off her mouth and started digging the cloth that had been wadded into her throat. There was much more of it than she had thought and she knew that the intention had been quite deliberately to choke the girl to death. Achillea got the last piece out, leaving Cristi to a series of long racking coughs. Her swollen face was slowly subsiding and a healthier color was returning to her ears and fingers. While Cristi coughed her throat clear of the mucus that had been choking her, Achillea cut the tape on her hands and feet and finally took the tape off her eyes.

“It’s all right, I’m here now and Iggie is sitting in a get-away car waiting for us with the engine running. Can you walk all right? How badly are you hurt?”

“I knew you’d come. I knew it. They said they’d kill you and then they’d torture me. But I knew you’d come for me. So I hung on. I pushed the stuff in my mouth with my tongue so I could breathe a little.” Cristi was holding on to Achillea, clinging to her tight so she could draw courage from Achillea’s strength. “’Lea, I knew you’d come. Please, take me home. I want to go home.”

Achillea drew a shaky breath. The slaughter in the other room hadn’t disturbed her in the slightest but Cristi’s near-death and the way she had been left to die had angered her. “All right. Cristi, you’ve been very brave but I’m going to ask you to be brave a little bit longer. You’ll have to stay here while I clear up outside. Then, when we leave, I want you to keep your eyes closed really tightly. That’s so you can swear an oath that you didn’t see anything out there.”

Cristi reached up and touched Achillea’s face. “You should wash up, you know. You’re covered with blood.”

Achillea looked at her incredulously. Then she caught sight of herself in a mirror. Her hair and face were soaked with blood splatter and much, much more was staining her clothes. She looked like somebody out of one of the B-movie gorefest splatter films. “You’re right. But I have something else to do first.”

Back in the main room, Goodwin had recovered consciousness and was trying to drag herself to the door. Once again, Achillea grabbed her hair and threw her against the wall. She slumped down so she sat on the floor, back to the wall and whimpering. “Please don’t kill me. Please don’t hurt me anymore.”

Achillea stood over her. “You put that girl in there so she would slowly choke to death. You told her you would torture her so she would die terrified. Do you know what it feels like to die suffocating like that? No? Well, you’re about to learn.”

Dottore said that a course of action can only become fully correct when it is as perfect a solution to the situation that brought it about as can be obtained and when it is done virtuously. Since virtue consists of courage, justice, prudence and moderation, a perfect course of action must exhibit these characterstics. Well, dottore, just this once, I’ll pass on the moderation bit. This woman has to die, that is just plain justice and prudence. But what she did to Cristi deserves my anger and that might lack virtue but I can live with it.

Achillea reached down and fitted her hand around Goodwin’s throat, taking care to place her fingers so the woman would not get the quick release of a crushed larynx or interrupted blood supply to the brain. She felt her muscles clench as her hand closed, squeezing Goodwin’s throat and cutting off her air supply. Goodwin kept whimpering, then started to spasm as she died, her heels drumming on the floor and her hands trying to tear Achillea’s fingers away from her neck.

When she was quite sure Goodwin was dead, Achillea picked up the body and stowed it in a large wardrobe. It was a tight fit but she got all five bodies inside and then locked the door. Then she started to wipe down the area, removing any possibility of fingerprints. Finally, when she was satisfied, she went back to the bathroom. Cristi was standing, looking into a mirror and crying. Achillea knew the feeling, a mixture of relief that it was all over and horror at what could have happened to her. Cristi watched as Achillea checked the bathroom and opened one of the windows. It was large enough, just, for Cristi to have crawled out. Misdirection never hurt. There was an old fashioned straight-edged razor on the shelf, one Achilla guessed had been intended for use on her. She smeared it against the duct tape and then threw it on the floor. When she had finished cleaning up, Cristi spoke to her. “’Lea, you killed that woman didn’t you.”

Achillea nodded. “They’re all dead. Is she the one who hurt you?”

“Yes. She hurt me so bad I screamed, and then she laughed at me. I’m glad she’s dead.’ Cristi paused suddenly. “Is that very bad of me?”

Achillea shook her head. “A very wise man once taught me that excusing people who are evil is the same as punishing people who are good. I’ll add something to that, Cristi. Some people are born broken. They can’t be fixed but sometimes they can find ways to work around the problem if they want to. Some of them control the fact they are broken and figure out ways they can live a normal life. Others don’t. Every time somebody tries to excuse a bad person by saying they were broken, they insult every damaged person who has spent their lives struggling not to be bad. Now, let me wash up as well as I can and then we’ll go home.”

Office of Doctor Rochelle Marshall, 20 Park Avenue, New York.

“Cristi’s having a rough time of it.” Doctor Marshall peeled off her gloves and tossed them into the disposable waste container. “What happened this time? Or shouldn’t I ask?”

“Kidnapping. Same kind of people who attacked her before but a different group of them. They tried to choke her.” Achillea’s voice was stony cold. She was wearing nursing scrubs and her blood-soaked clothing had already gone into an incinerator.

“I thought so. Her throat is sore; I could give you some medication for that but frankly herbal tea with honey will do her just as much good and I suspect the fewer records that exist about this the better. She’s got no other physical injuries other than a mild rash caused by the tape. You say she was hurt? I’m not sure what they did to her but there’s no visible physical injury to worry about. Psychologically, we’ll need to keep an eye on her. ‘Lea, she’s reluctant to be away from you. I’m not sure whether that’s trauma or common sense. Frankly, if somebody had tried to kidnap me, I’d want to stay as close to you as possible. Stay as close to her as you can until she calms down. Sleep in her room tonight; if she starts screaming in her sleep, hold her.

“Iggie, she’s going to be a bit remote from you for a while. That’s because she sees you as warmth, nurturing, kindness, all of those good things. She doesn’t need them right now. What she needs is physical security and she looks to ‘Lea’s for that. So, don’t get annoyed if she takes you for granted or seems a bit cold for a few days. In a way, it’s a compliment. She trusts you to be there for her but doesn’t need what you have to offer. She knows you’ll be there when she does need it. Given her background, for her to trust you at all is a major achievement. Where are you two going from here?”

“That’s a problem. Achillea’s going to be dealing with the problem over the river. I want to take Cristi to Cuba. She’ll be safe there and I can ask a few important questions.”

“Can you delay it a day or two? Cristi really needs to have ‘Lea around. Security blanket thing.”

Achillea shook her head. “If things go the way I think they will, there’s going to be a fight over the river. Heavy gunfire kind of fight. Cristi needs to be in Cuba, not in the middle of a firefight.”

“I’ve never been to Cuba.” Cristi had finished dressing and rejoined the group. Achillea had taken a lesson she had learned from Nell almost half a century before and brought her a complete new set of clothes. “I hear it’s fabulous.”

“It is.” Igrat’s voice was warm and nostalgic. “It’s not like the old days when the Mob ran everything and the laws were what they said they were. Now, most of the resorts are owned by legitimate companies and they actually have a written legal code. I’ve heard they even have a lawyer or two over there. You can’t buy mary jane, heroin and cocaine openly any more, too many children around for that, but their sale is still legal. They still call business taxes ‘skimming the take’ and income tax ‘protection money’ though. And the Government is still the Commission and its members have to be Mobbed up to sit on it. Cuba was fabulously wealthy back in the day and now it’s a hundred times that. One thing that hasn’t changed, the place is still safe. Nobody messes with the tourists.”

There was a long, awkward silence as each waited for the other to make a suggestion. Eventually, Igrat continued from where she had left off. “Cristi, I’d like to take you to Cuba tomorrow. I need to get you away from here in case the people behind the attack on you try it again. The truth is we have no idea what they are up to or why and I don’t want to take chances with your safety.”

Achillea nodded and, when she spoke her voice was thoughtful. “They said something interesting when I turned up. The dumbass who tried to pretend he was in charge said ‘They said you’d come instead of the dumb bimbo.’ I didn’t think about it at the time; I had other things on my mind. Now I do, that gave away two things. One is that the ambush was for me not you. Iggie, you do present as a dumb bimbo, you said it yourself. Decorative, not useful. They assume we’re a couple; they assume I’m the husband. They assumed I’d do the husband’s role and come charging in to the rescue. That sets the narrative up doesn’t it? A group of cheap thugs try a kidnapping for ransom. Only, when they gag Cristi, they do it so stupidly she chokes and dies. I come in with the cash and they decide to make the best of it by having a party that ends with me dying slowly and nastily. A gruesome crime like that gets the front page tomorrow.

“They tried to get the front page with the killings of Simmons and Bennett but, Iggie, you stopped that with the murder-suicide story. Let all the air out of the tires. So, they tried again with the killing of Anneliese Battaglia and the kidnapping-murder of Cristi and me. Teachers again, note. So, let us do another deflation job. How would you like to be a hero, Cristi?”

“Me? I’m not a hero.” Cristi was confused and also desperately tired. Shock was catching up with her.

“The way you fought to keep yourself alive in that bathroom, yes, you are. But, I have something more active in mind. You were choking, you guessed you were going to die unless you got free so you found something sharp and managed to cut the tape on your hands. Then, you ran away, through the window, down the fire escape and got clear. Now we come to the ‘they said’ bit. These idiots were acting under orders. We can say the big cheese must have turned up, found they’d let you escape and in the best Big Bad tradition had them all killed because they had failed him.”

Igrat got the point instantly. “And we’ve let the air out of their tires again. Oh, they’ll hate us for that. Cristi, we’ve got to get out of here before the story breaks. I’ll pack while you get some sleep and ‘Lea stands guard. We’ll be on an early morning flight for Cuba by the time the story hits the stands.”

[Calder]

Chapter Seventeen
Room 916, San Carlos Hotel, Manhattan, New York

When he had been a student at his local High School, Sammy Wolfe had been assigned to read a “hard-boiled” detective story by Dashiell Hammett. The story had been a relatively simple one. “Who Killed Bob Teal” had been about a private detective’s search for the man who had killed his partner. The crime had not been a spectacular one. It was a sordid murder that had seen Bob Teal gunned down in a back alley over a cheap, rather pathetic land hoax. That night, Wolfe had put the novel down and spent hours staring into the fireplace of his parent’s home. The picture of the private detective patiently hunting down the men who had killed his friend had struck a chord deep in his heart. It was the sense of justice that had driven the nameless narrator that had affected him so deeply. The story had drawn a vivid picture of a man who knew that justice and the law sometimes were not the same, that to get justice, sometimes one had to play games with the law. And yet, the story also made it clear that the law too had to have its due, that crimes could not go unpunished and the rule of law had to be upheld. As Sammy Wolfe had thought over the story, he became convinced that he, too, wanted to be such a man. So, by the time he had finished searching his soul, no easy task for a student in his early teens, he had decided to become a private detective.

Unlike most boys who conceived that ambition, he acted on it. Sammy Wolfe spent his school years learning the skills he would need for his chosen career. In choosing his university major, he had picked Criminal Justice and passed at the top of his class. That had opened doors for him but he had already selected the one he wished to pass through. While a student, he had interned with the Rivers Detective Agency. As a young man who desired to make being a good Private Detective a career, he stood out from the ex-Police officers, often retired for dubious conduct, who dominated the field. Gusoyn Rivers, the founder and head of the agency had been much impressed by the young man and offered him a full-time job there. Fifteen years later, he still worked at the Rivers Agency and his code was still “Law and Justice are not the same, but each is essential and each has its place.”

Where that place was right at that moment, he wasn’t completely sure.

Two uniformed patrol officers, Garner and Daniels by their name tags, were outside the door of 916, barring entry to anybody who wanted in. Word of the spectacular killing had already started to seep out and the case had already picked up the nickname of “the Clown Car Murders”. Five bodies were stretched out, side-by-side on the blood-soaked carpet with a single Medical Examiner methodically inspecting each in turn. Beside her, two detectives were slowly and equally methodically examining the room and collating the evidence.

“What do you think, Prue?”

“I’ll have to get the bodies back to autopsy but I can give you a provisional cause of death now. These two were stabbed to death, those two were killed by karate blows, the woman died from asphyxia due to manual strangulation. The four men died almost simultaneously, the woman about ten minutes later.”

“Are you sure of that?”

“I am, Joe. The way the blood splatter has dried makes it pretty clear that they were all dead in a heap on the floor here. Push me real hard and I might even guess that the woman died about the time the bodies went into the clown car.”

“Three killers then.” The detective called Joe looked at the bodies again. “There’s three methodologies here. A knife-man and an unarmed combat man. Neither of those two would strangle the woman. The knife man would cut her throat and the unarmed combat man would break her neck. So a third man did that. Then they stashed the bodies in the clown . . . in the wardrobe. Wolfe, you got any idea why?”

“I’m sorry, Detective . . . .”

“My apologies. I’m Detective Sergeant Joe Murphy and this is my partner, Sergeant Dennis Foster. Any idea why they stashed the bodies in the wardrobe?”

“Probably the simplest reason of all, to get them out of sight. If I’d known there were five of them in there and they were all dead, I wouldn’t have opened the door.”

“It would have been better of you hadn’t.”

“I know. But, I had a case once where we had a room bloodied up like this. Turned out the guest had a call-girl in the room and he’d turned her stomach into a pin cushion before stuffing her into a closet. I ripped that closet apart to get to her and the big thing was, I found she was still alive. Only just, but alive and the docs said just a couple of minutes had made the difference. She made it and you got the john because of it. So, excuse me if I checked.”

“Understood. Any idea why these five were killed?”

“None at all.”

“Hey, Joe, I might have an answer there. Come into the bathroom.” Detective Foster sounded strained. He pointed to the strips of duct tape on the floor and the pile of wadded cloth beside them. The cloth was still sodden and slimy. It made the situation one of those times the detectives were glad they were wearing disposable gloves. Foster picked up one of the strips of duct tape and held the two cut ends together. The cuts matched.

“I’d say this was used to tie the victim’s hands, the other strips there, the feet. We had somebody held prisoner here. These loops are too small for an adult, must have been a kid. Could be a small woman I suppose but my money’s on a kid.”

“A girl.” Wolfe was standing at the doorway to the bathroom and he pointed at another strip of tape. “There’s lipstick on the inside of that tape. It’s not a grown woman’s shade. It’s the sort of thing a teenage girl might wear to school. I’ll tell you something else, take a look at the amount of cloth in that pile. She couldn’t breathe around that. It isn’t a gag, it’s a murder weapon. Whoever had her in here, wanted her dead.”

“And we know who the victim here is.” Murphy looked at the cloth and the strips of tape with eyes that were filled with sadness. “We got a report yesterday evening, a schoolgirl named Cristi Escalante was taken from Trinity School by two women purporting to be Child Protective Services inspectors. There’s been a hunt going on all night by Missing Persons. Just nobody told Homicide. I’ll pass word to Missing Persons and CPS.”

“I guess the body must be here somewhere.” Foster was looking around. “Poor little kid.”

And this is where justice and the law collide. Wolfe thought. Mister Rivers called me this morning and explained exactly what the police needed to know.

“Perhaps not Sergeant. The window is open and there is a razor on the floor. She might have escaped.”

“She did.” Murphy had returned and his whole bearing showed relief, if not positive glee. “The person here was Cristi. According to a statement from her foster mother, Miss Shafrid, she realized that the gag in her mouth was intended to kill her. Before they put tape over her eyes, she saw the razor on a shelf and remembered where it was. As soon as the door closed, she struggled to her feet, found the razor and used it to cut the tape on her hands. Then, she got all that crap out of her mouth, finished freeing herself and escaped through the window.”

“Gutsy little bitch.” Foster’s voice was laden with admiration.

“Hey.” Doctor Prudence Brennan sounded highly displeased. “No need for the B-word.”

“Sorry Prue. Meant as respect.” Foster rolled his eyes.

Murphy returned the gesture. “Anyway, while all that was going on, Shafrid got a call demanding quarter of a million ransom with the usual ‘don’t call the cops or she dies’. Tells you what sort of woman she is, she had access to that much in cash and didn’t hesitate to spend it on getting the girl out. Anyway, she and her ‘friend’ came to pay up and they arrived just in time to find Cristi exiting the scene by way of the fire escape. They packed her into the car and got the hell out of there. Took her to a doctor first and then reported they’d recovered her alive. That’s why nobody told Homicide.”

“That explains what happened here. What happened out there?” Foster gestured at the room filled with dead bodies.

“That’s where the story gets interesting and is, I suspect, where Miss Shafrid’s account is a little incomplete. You see, the girl’s name isn’t quite accurate. She goes by Cristi Escalante at the moment, that being her birth mother’s family name. At present, adoption paperwork has been filed that will change it to Cristi Shafrid. But, her father’s name was Rodrigo Lombardi. That Rodrigo Lombardi.”

“Bobby Cuddles? That makes Cristi . . . “

“Cristi Lombardi, a Mafia Princess. We’ll never prove it but I would bet that Miss Shafrid made another call, to somebody connected. Something along the lines of ‘Some goombahs kidnapped Bobby Cuddles’ daughter and tried to kill her. It’s OK, she’s safe and they’re in Room 916.’ And some wiseguys turned up and created the carnage out there. You know what the Mob are like where families are concerned. Oh, by the way, if we talk to Miss Shafrid, Missing Persons say don’t be taken in by the dumb bimbo act. She’s an OSS Courier. In fact, she’s head of OSS Courier Division.”

“There’s another explanation.” Wolfe felt the needs of justice required muddying the waters of the law a little. “Look at those stiffs out there. They’re gutter rats. They don’t even make the grade to cheap hoods. They’re dumb muscle. What about the person or persons really behind this situation found that the five stooges out there had let the girl escape and killed them because they failed him. We can almost imagine the Big Bad saying it. ‘And this is the price of failure’ just before his boys slaughtered them.”

Murphy and Foster exchanged glances. They had to admit it made sense. Foster spoke for them. “Another good possibility. We’ll have to talk to Miss Shafrid.”

Murphy shook his head. “She and Cristi Lombardi are in Cuba. They left this morning. She said she wanted her daughter somewhere safe and secure. But, she said we were welcome to interview her there. And she left an open air ticket with Missing Persons if we want to send anybody over.

“Excuse me, I have to make a phone call.” Foster set off with grim determination for the other room.

“Too late, Fozzy, I already put dibs on that ticket.” Murphy sounded annoyingly self-satisfied.

Idlewild Airport, New York.

“I never dreamed I’d be going to Cuba.” Cristi had slept most of the night, having woken up with a panic attack in the early hours, but otherwise seemed rested. Achillea had kept a light on in her room so she could see any time she needed to. That had helped a lot.

Igrat smiled at her and stepped up to the boarding pass check. The bored ticket clerk looked at the plastic ticket card, typed the validation number in, and then looked up sharply. Igrat felt quite sorry for her. Something interesting had just happened in the midst of a boring day and she wouldn’t be allowed to tell the story to anybody. With the two validated cards in hand, Igrat led Cristi past the desk and through the swing doors that marked the entrance to the passenger access tunnel. Normally, this led to the lower deck of the people-hauler where Igrat and Cristi could use their cards to open the locker assigned to their seats and stow their baggage. Then, all they had to do would be to go to the upper deck and take their seats.

This time it would be different. As the double doors closed behind them Igrat did a quick visual check, made sure nobody could see what was happening and pushed Cristi quickly through a nondescript door on the side of the tunnel. It was nothing unusual, a normal maintenance door, but it did lead to a flight of steps going downwards.

“We are going to Cuba aren’t we, Iggie?” Cristi was seriously confused and apprehensive. Her confidence in the world around her had been seriously shaken and she wasn’t certain what to think about anything.

“Yes, but not on that aircraft. You remember how you said you wanted to be an OSS Courier like me? Well, we often do this. Book seats on one commercial aircraft but switch to another bird just before boarding. Might be another commercial flight, might be a private aircraft, might be an Air Force aircraft. The point is, we aren’t where people think we are. That’s the secret to travelling as a courier. Don’t be what people expect you to be and don’t be where they expect you to be. Now, sling your bag on the back seat of the jeep in front of you and we’ll go to the aircraft we’ll really be using.”

The yellow airport services jeep wasn’t really a jeep, just a four-wheeled light utility vehicle. Igrat got behind the wheel, pressed the starter and took off at a painfully normal pace for a more secluded part of Idlewild. It wasn’t secret or even hard to access, it was more that it was tucked away and finding it meant knowing where to go. Igrat had used it often. Parked in the middle of a family of service vehicles was an old friend of hers.

Cristi looked at the blue and white painted aircraft and her jaw dropped. “What is that?”

“She’s a VC-144A. 66-1673, Queen of Greenville. I’ve ridden on her before. Just give your bag to the ground crew and they’ll stow it in the pod for you. Remember to say ‘Good Morning, Queenie’ to the aircraft when you board her.”

It was one of the worst-kept secrets in America that American citizens could buy tickets on U.S. military transport aircraft. All the would-be passenger had to do was to call Air Bridge Command, tell them between which points they wished to fly and on what day and the official taking the call would check to see if there was an aircraft flying that route and if it had spare capacity. If it did, then the civilian would be added to the manifest and his credit card charged accordingly. The plus side was that it cost a lot less than an airline ticket. The negative side was that the passenger travelled ‘at the convenience of the armed services and subject to the exigencies of military operations’. The passenger didn’t know what kind of aircraft they would be riding on or who or what they would be riding with. They could find themselves be sitting in a luxury VIP seat next to a senior member of the government or on the cargo compartment floor of a weightlifter carrying a cargo of bombs. If ‘operational requirements’ meant that the flight was cancelled, then that was that. No refunds, just a ride on the next plane available. People who used the facility routinely said that the excitement was half the fun.

Igrat had booked the tickets as a private citizen and paid for them. As an OSS Courier she was entitled to ride military aircraft whenever she was on duty. In fact, her presence could be the ‘exigencies of military operations’ that got a private citizen bounced off a flight. That didn’t apply this time and she had stuck by the rules. Even so she was pleasantly surprised when she stopped through the door into the cramped fuselage and was met by a hearty ‘Good Morning Igrat. And who is the beautiful young lady with you?”

“Good Morning, Senator. Pleasure to see you again. I’d like to introduce my daughter, Cristi. Cristi, I have the honor of introducing Senator David Richardson, Senior Senator from the Great State of Texas.” Senator Richardson was an old travelling companion of Igrat’s and had used her professional services as a courier on several occasions. That was why Igrat added a quick word of explanation. “We’re on our way to Cuba for a vacation.”

Cristi didn’t know what to do. She’d never met a Senator, never thought she would and wasn’t certain whether she should try to shake hands, or what. Seeing her confusion the Senator looked reproachfully at Igrat. “Now, Iggie, you’ve terrified your daughter. Cristi, we just have to shake hands. Here, I’ve got something for you.”

He reached into a pocket and drew out a lapel pin in the shape of a white Stetson hat, identical to the one on his lap and famous for appearing in news interviews across the country. “Now, you can say that you have indeed met ‘Senator Stetson’. Have a good flight and enjoy your holiday.”

Cristi was in a daze as she carefully attached the pin to the lapel of the light blazer she had on. Somehow, the cheerful greeting and friendliness of the elderly Senator had made the horror of the previous evening diminish. It was still there, in the back of her mind, but it didn’t shadow everything the way it had done. Igrat looked at her and said, very quietly, “he’s a good man and most of the good things he does for people never make the papers. Now, our seats are at the back so you are going to have to learn how to cross the box.”

Cristi looked puzzled at that, then saw the two rectangular boxes that divided the cabin into three sections. The Senator and his aide had the front section while four young Air Force officers had the middle section. The two seats at the rear were empty. “This is how you do it Cristi. Sit on the box then swing your legs over into the section behind. That’s why we’re wearing slacks. Wear a skirt in a VC-144 and everybody in the rear of the plane gets to see the promised land when you swing over. Mind your head when you stand up. You’re five-one and I’m not that much taller but we can still bang our heads in here.”

It took Cristi one smooth motion to sit down, swing her legs over the box and stand up the other side. The successful evolution of the maneuver brought her a patter of applause from the Air Force contingent. Cristi responded by making a curtsey straight out of a Russian film set in the old Imperial Court. The applause doubled and continued when she made a repeat performance at the rear box. Then she settled into her seat and fastened the safety belt.

“What are those boxes, Iggie?”

“The wing spars. They hold the wings on.” Igrat wasn’t actually quite sure what the wing spars did but ‘hold the wings on’ seemed close enough.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your aircraft commander speaking. We’re just sealing up for take-off now and will be rolling in less than five minutes. The weather is nearly perfect for our flight and we should be landing at Dillinger International Airport, Havana in about an hour and ten minutes. Relax and have a good time on Air Bridge Command.”

[Calder]

Chapter Eighteen
Major Cobb’s Office, Public School 261, Queens, New York.

There comes a time when an immovable object meets an irresistible force. Major Vincent Cobb had decades of service as a law enforcement officer and that had given a very finely-honed sense of when people were lying to him. On the other hand, Achillea had centuries of experience in lying to law enforcement officers. Just to make the situation more complicated, she really didn’t want to start her relationship with Cobb by lying to him although she bleakly recognized that would come soon enough. He, on the other hand, had no real desire to start his relationship with Achillea by forcing her to give answers to awkward questions. So, the two were dancing around each other, asking half-questions and knowing they were getting half-answers.

“So, what happened after you found Cristi had been taken from Trinity?”

“We went to Iggie’s apartment to await word. The Principal atTrinity called Missing Persons and got a search started. At about seven we got a call from the kidnappers. They said a messenger would be waiting in Room 916 of the hotel and we were to bring a quarter of a million in ransom. They’d then tell us where Cristi was. We guessed that meant as soon as they had the money, they’d kill her.”

“Damned right. We don’t make a point of telling people this but if a child is kidnapped and they don’t escape under their own steam, they’ll die. Paying a ransom makes no real difference to the odds of getting the victim back alive – and those odds are very close to zero.”

“Well, I was going to go in and try to force the messenger to tell us where Cristi was. I’ll be honest with you Vince, we were going to get pretty medieval in there.”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.” Cobb had little sympathy for the dead kidnappers but he had to go through the motions.

“Fortunately it never got that far. As we pulled up outside, she came scrambling down the fire escape and started running along the pavement. Iggie pulled up in front of her, I got out the passenger seat so she could see me. She ran up, hugged me, and we pulled her into the car. Then we hit the pedals and got out of there. Took Cristi to the doctor, got her checked and phoned in the news to the police. Iggie was worried that they may come after Cristi again and Cristi herself is almost hysterical with fear and delayed shock so they went to Cuba. I know Iggie left an air ticket so the police wouldn’t have to pay to send a detective over to interview them.”

“Very kind of her. I wish some of the people we deal with would be so considerate. And you didn’t phone anybody else?”

“No, why should we?”

“Because there were five people in that room. They were slaughtered. Don’t tell me you didn’t see the headlines in the morning papers? The Clown Car Killings?”

“I saw them. Four men and a woman according to the Post. The call we got said one person would be there.”

“They lied. It was an ambush. The police think they were going to kill Iggie as well. Probably very nastily. Cristi wrecked their plans by escaping.”

“You know Iggie, she’s glamorous with a capital G. Sadists are a risk every woman like her runs. She told me once that when she was young, a fortune teller told her never to forget there were people out there who liked to hurt beautiful woman. After what happened to her mother, that struck home. I guess we owe Cristi big time.”

“The police have two theories about what happened in that room. One is that whoever planned the kidnapping arrived and killed his henchmen for letting Cristi escape. The other is that you two called the Mob and told them a group of thugs had kidnapped one of their Princesses resulting in a couple of wiseguys wiping the whole damned crew out. The local police want to know which is true.”

“We didn’t call anybody.” Damn, we never thought of the wiseguy explanation. It’s quite plausible. It may even turn out to be useful. “I’d go with the boss killing his henchmen myself.”

Cobb looked at Achillea. He guessed she was telling the truth, mostly, but not all of it. Also, he was sure she was lying on a few other key points but he wasn’t quite certain which. “’Lea, we got a good start on a relationship and I sure hope we can build on it to make a life together. Do you think, on our 25th wedding anniversary, you could tell me what really happened last night?”

Achillea smiled back at him. “Sure. I can do that. But, it’ll be the same as you just heard. Vince, have you picked up anything else?”

“The woman was identified as Kellie Goodwin. Used to be a teacher here. Two of the others were listed as being teachers but never showed up here as far as we can tell. Mrs Parker, the House Mother at Trinity identified her as one of the two bogus CPS investigators who picked Cristi up. She said Cristi recognized her as being one of her old teachers. That’s why Parker went along with it. One thing, the order for an interview was signed by Sabrina Castillo, apparently a more senior Inspector who is responsible for Cristi’s case. Detectives went around to see her this morning but she wasn’t at home.”

Achillea was thoughtful about hearing that. She picked up the telephone and dialed Robert Loxley’s number. “Robert? ‘Lea here. . . . No, we’re all fine. Iggie took Cristi to Cuba. . . . . . One of the New York City CPS inspectors, Sabrina Castillo. What do you know about her? . .. . . . . . Uh-huh. . . . . Uh-huh. Now why didn’t I spot that? Thank’s Robert. Be in touch soon.”

“Well, that solve something.” Achillea was kicking herself for not noting the family name. “The docks here are Lucchese family right? And the Capo for whom Bobby Cuddles worked was Francisco Maldonado who reported direct to the Luccchese family leadership. Maldonado’s elder sister, Francesca Maldonado, married the Don of the San Francisco family, Frankie Castillo. Sabrina Castillo is their daughter. There’s your Mob link. Very high level Mob link as well. Goes straight to the top both here and in Cuba. Joe Catalina and Frankie Castillo are long-time associates.” And old associates of mine into the bargain. Or, rather, ‘my mother’s. That is just too convenient.

“Wait a minute. So, Sabrina Castillo is a Mob plant?” Cobb began to see how all the pieces were fitting together.

“No, she’s quite genuine. She really is Child Welfare Investigator and a very good one. Got lots of commendations and a reputation for making things happen when they are needed. My guess is her Mob contacts serve her work, not the other way around. Here’s what I think happened. When Iggie adopted Cristi, Sabrina was assigned to us, probably by nothing more than chance. When she met us, she realized her father and my mother had worked together on the Black Dahlia case back in the early 1950s. She also found out who Cristi was and what had happened to her. She reported everything back to her parents and Families. She also realized that the danger, albeit a slight one, existed that Cristi’s mother would get her back. She also reported that to her Family and, guess what, Vernita died in prison shortly afterwards. She approved of Igrat’s parenting efforts, gave us an upcheck but kept an eye on us since we obviously needed some helpful advice. Being known as a meticulous supervisor, she probably checked our file daily and saw her name had been forged on the pick-up order. At that point, she knew that something very bad was about to happen. My guess is she, once again, tipped off her family. I think we were followed when we went to the payment point, the wiseguys saw us pick up Cristi and realized the way was clear for them to wrap up some outstanding family business.”

Cobb was impressed. “That actually makes a lot of sense. I’ll pass that through to the local police and I guess they’ll probably leave it there. We can keep guessing at what happened all day and we don’t have the time. My boys have been hard at work here. We’re doing work inside during the day. Installing surveillance cameras, blocking off vulnerable areas and so on. If gang-bangers who were here six months ago force their way in, they’ll find things inside are a bit different. At night, we’re reinforcing the perimeter with more chain link fencing and razor wire. I think we’ve choked off all entry points except the two main ones and we’ve got your M-81 covering the only one of those that can take vehicles.”

“I bet you haven’t, you know.”

“Haven’t what?”

“Got all the ways into this place. I’ve got a PhysEd class in five minutes, why don’t you come down with me. You need to talk to my kids.”

Gymnasium. Public School 261, Queens, New York.

The Marcusians and Flavians were already engaged in a real basketball match when Achillea arrived. She stopped and watched the game carefully, then, when it was over, waved them to join her. “Right, that was an O.K. game. You’re working as teams, you’re playing to win. That’s two great steps forward right there. Both teams, each of you need to practice keeping a map in your heads of where everybody is and what they are doing. You’ll know you’re doing it right when you find you can pass to a team-mate without having to look to see where he is. It sounds impossible now, I know, but believe me, you can do it.

“Now, you all know Major Cobb who is running security here. We need your help. Why do we need your help? I can give you a load of crap or we can tell you the truth. You know I believe that crap should be flushed so I’ll level with you on what is happening. It must be obvious by now that people who should be coming here and don’t get killed. Very unpleasantly. Several of the teachers, Principal Simmons and others, have been killed because they didn’t come in to this school At a guess, you’ve all been threatened. Stop coming in and bad things will happen to you or your families. Am I right?”

Achillea looked around at the students in her class. Most were nodding. Mike Janacek spoke up. “It’s never very overt or direct. It’s all, ‘Pretty girl, your sister; unfortunate if something happened to her’ sort of thing. When all this sort of thing started, we thought the intention was to keep us away from school. Now we know it’s the other way around.”

“That’s what we thought. For some reason, the bad guys around here want everybody not associated with them here. The way you been threatened, and what happened to others, suggests that the reason may be that we are what amounts to hostages. It appears that the message, is that if there is any attempt by the City or State of New York to recover this area from the gangs, we’ll get attacked and, if overrun, killed. Now, the State Troopers have been fixing the place up so that they can defend it – meaning you. You’ve seen the wire, you’ve seen the new cameras and so on. Defense like this is a perimeter thing. We have to hold the perimeter; once the bad guys are inside, it’s too late. Massacre ensues. The State Troopers think they have secured all the ways in. Personally, I think they got maybe twenty percent of them.”

Achillea listened to the ripple of laughter appreciatively. “I thought so. This is where you come in. We need to know the places where you lot can slip in and out. The gang-bangers out there used to be students here and they know all those places as well. We have to seal them off because that’s how they’ll come in. Everybody’s safety depends on closing them off. What I’d like you to do is to take a work team of State Troopers to those unofficial ways in and out so we can shut them down.”

“That could make us very unpopular.” One of the students sounded doubtful.

“Not doing so could make you very dead. Unpopular bad, dead worse.” Achillea looked at the students around her.

“Let’s do it.” Mike Janacek looked around. “Miss Foyle hasn’t led us wrong yet and she stood up for us when nobody else would. You all remember that meeting don’t you? Now it’s time for us to step up. Major, how do you want to organize this? We’ll show you as much as we can but I can’t promise we know all the ways into this place.

“Why don’t you split into pairs and take a pair of troopers to the ways in you know about?” Cobb was about to say something about making them deputy troopers but Achillea caught his eye and shook her head slightly. Don’t patronize these kids Vince. They’re in an environment where they are growing up fast.

Then, she addressed her class again. “We’ll do it in two shifts. Marcusians, you take an hour to show the troopers around. Flavians, I’ll start teaching you proper self-defense. In an hour’s time, swap over. Deal?”

24th Floor, Imperial Forum Hotel-Casino, Havana, Cuba

“What should I wear tonight, Mom?”

Cristi’s call gave Igrat a heart attack and she slumped dead to the floor. Or, rather, Igrat felt that was about to happen. She had never, in all the years she had been alive, expected anybody to call her ‘Mom’. Just to add to the shock, Igrat’s feelings towards mothers, conditioned by the actions of her own birth mother had been closer to hatred and loathing than anything else. Mixed in with that shock was her appreciation of the fact that Cristi had used the dreaded word ‘Mom’ unconsciously. She now regarded Igrat as her mother and her birth mother had faded into the past. To her complete and total surprise, that gave Igrat a warm, comfortable feeling that she found completely inexplicable.

She pulled on one of the toweling bathrobes provided by the hotel and stepped out of the bathroom. “Well, let’s think about this. First thing is, we’re meeting some very important people so we’ll both have to look our best. That means hair styled and a careful makeup job. I’ll help you with that. Vernita never taught you how to make up, did she?”

Cristi shook her head. “I never even had any until you bought me some. I think she was afraid of me looking nice.”

“Probably. I’d say she looked on you as competition as soon as you ceased to be an infant. Now, you have to make a key decision. What sort of image would you like to present? Think carefully about that; the first impression you make is the one that will stick with you.”

There was a silence while Cristi thought carefully. “I’d like to look grown-up but not like I was copying grown-up women. I’d like the people we meet to know I was showing them respect and trying to earn theirs. Above all, I want to feel that, if my father was there, he would be proud of me.”

Igrat hugged her. “You can be pretty certain that any father with an IQ larger than his shoe size would be proud of a daughter like you. Ok, so we can rule out tourist girl clothes. Tee-shirts and shorts, that sort of thing. Your age means you could get away with them but you’d never be more than a child in the eyes of the people around you. You want to be more than that which is a very good thing.”

“So, a dress then. You’ll be wearing cocktail dress won’t you?” Igrat nodded. “That’s no good for me. How about this one?”

She went to the closet where her clothes were hanging and took out a knee length charcoal-gray dress with a subtly-shaped dark blue color block down the front. It was one of the designs that Gianni Versace had produced. “Mister Versace said that the color block would help hide my puppy fat.”

Igrat started to laugh, tried to stop herself and then ended up snorting helplessly. “That’s Gianni, completely and utterly tactless to the end. He’s right though, that design presents you nicely. That dark gray color will go with anything, the blue suits you perfectly. It gives you an attractive figure without being overt about it. Good choice. You can borrow some of my jewelry if you like.”

Cristi was looking at Igrat out of the corners of her eyes. “Mom, can I ask you something?”

Igrat nodded and Cristi took a deep breath. “I know it’s rude to ask but, how old are you? I worked out you must be around fifty but the boys at school all say you’re super-hot and the 12th graders hang around in the entrance hall when you come in so they can open the door for you. Vernita must have been about the same age but she looked at least twenty years older than you. ”

That made Igrat laugh and feel highly flattered. “The honest answer is, Cristi, I don’t know. You know I was adopted. The problem is that my birth was never recorded so I have no real idea exactly how old I am. There could be as much as a three years plus-or-minus there. Now, on appearance, I had a rough start but karma came to my aid. People age at different rates and I’m one of the lucky ones who ages slowly. That, and I spend a lot of time and money on how I look. That, believe it or not, is something you’ll have to start thinking about now you’re growing up. You’ll need to start keeping fit and avoiding food that gives you zits. Care and attention now will pay dividends later on. I think that’s what happened to Vernita. She never took care of herself, never took the trouble to eat properly, never took any exercise. So a very poor diet made her fat and gave her bad skin and she went downhill from there.

“But I’ve got her genes.”

“That matters less than you might think. How you take care of yourself matters a lot more. Don’t worry about the extra weight you’re carrying right now. You’re not obese or even overweight. Sabrina said that you’re well within the normal weight band for your age and height and that you’ll lose the extra pounds in a year or two provided you stick to the diet Doc Marshall specified. Remember what I said when we first met and you tried to con me into giving you a beer? Stay away from beer, bread, pasta and beans. They’ll put pounds on where you don’t need them and it will be sheer hell for you to get rid of them.”

Igrat paused for a second. “Time for Moral Guidance of the day. Cristi, have you ever heard the phrase ‘the romance of evil’?”

“It’s in the Bible isn’t it?”

“I believe so. But, you’re about to meet it. The people we are going to meet are gangsters. They represent a world that seems very glamorous, very attractive and very, very seductive. Doing my job means I bounce around on the edge of that world but I take very great care not to step over the line and become part of it. Just as a simple example, I’ve never accepted a gift from any of these men. I pay my own way when I’m with them. Think about this, Cristi. These men are at the absolute top of La Cosa Nostra and every one of them goes to great lengths to try and ensure that their own children do not follow them into LCN. Your father left you with Vernita because he loved you too much to have you become part of his world.”

Igrat paused for another second to collect her thoughts. “You missed out on Moral Guidance yesterday didn’t you? Too much happened.”

“Oh, no,” Cristi shook her head. “When we went to bed last night, I told ‘Lea that it had been a horrible day. She said ‘any day you finish up still alive is a good day’. She said to just remember whatever good bits I could find and write the rest off as lessons learned. Yesterday, I learned never to trust an official ID until I’d confirmed it and never give up no matter how bad things seem.”

“Two very good lessons. Now, have a shower and we’ll get to work on your make-up.”

[Calder]

Chapter Nineteen
The Elysium Fields Restaurant, Imperial Hotel, Havana, Cuba.

Igrat checked the clock in her head and reassured herself that she and Cristi had picked up the time they had lost a little earlier. Just before they had left their hotel room, she had received an urgent call from Achillea. The content of that call meant she was not surprised to see Sabrina Castillo in the group that was slowly gathering around the long dinner table. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Cristi anxiously checking the table settings and then relaxing. Cristi saw Igrat watching her and whispered, “It’s all right. They’re just like the ones we were shown at Cotillion class.”

“Cristi, are you all right?” Castillo had seen Igrat and Cristi arrive and hurried over to see them. “That must have been a horrible experience for you. How are you feeling now?”

“A bit numb still, Mrs Castillo. As if I’m not quite with myself if you know what I mean. I felt really bad this morning but the flight down and being here in Cuba has helped a lot.”

“That’s good. Now, don’t bottle feelings up inside you. If you want to talk about this with Igrat, Achillea, me, anybody, do. The more light you shine on your fears, the faster they’ll go away. Igrat, we need to talk a bit later.”

She was going to say more but she was interrupted by the sound of a fork rapped against a wine glass. “Friends and Associates, please welcome the Chairman of the Commission, Joe Catalina.”

Igrat glanced again at Cristi, watching her eyes bulge with shock. She had been surprised enough to meet a Senator on the way down; to meet the legendary Chairman of the Commission, in more normal political terms the President of Cuba, came close to overwhelming her. She had an even greater shock coming when Catalina approached Igrat and lifted her off her feet in a delighted bear hug. “Iggie, it’s good to see you here again.”

“Good to be here, Joe.” The relationship between Catalina and the NSC staff was a perfect example of the ironies that Daimones had every day in dealing with people from outside their group. They had met for the first time in the early 1950s when Joe Catalina had been an ambitious young wiseguy and Achillea had been helping Conrad on an investigation that later turned out to have solved the Black Dahlia Mystery. A quarter of a century later, Catalina had been a prosperous Capo in charge of the Family interests on Cuba and it had been Igrat who had helped Conrad solve a particularly nasty fraud case. Now, it was almost another quarter century further on and Catalina was elderly, respected and admired by his peers and honored by those who looked to him for leadership. Igrat, Achillea and Conrad hadn’t changed at all. Without makeup and artifice, they still looked the same as they had the day when they first met him.

“You must be Cristi. Bobby ‘Cuddles’ daughter. Iggie, you’re doing a fine thing by looking after her so well. You are setting a wonderful example for us. All the Families are grateful to you.” Around the room, the wiseguys present nodded. Catalina’s words had been meant for them all to relay back to their Families. Igrat would now be able to park her car safely on any street in North America.

“It’s an honor to meet you, Sir.” Cristi was struggling to keep afloat, dealing with people she had never dreamed she could possibly meet. She looked around for some support but saw that Igrat was receiving another bear-hug embrace from John Gotti. She did turn her head slightly and give Cristi a quick wink. “Mister Chairman, Sir. I never met my father. Could you tell me a little about him? How did he get the nickname ‘Cuddles’.”

“Cristi, call me Joe. Everybody does. We don’t stand much for formal titles around here.” Catalina grinned to himself at that. Cuba’s President might be called “the Chairman of the Commission” but in Cuba Ministers were Capos, the Attorney General was the ‘Consiglieri’ and the Chancellor of the Exchequer was ‘The Greasy Thumb’. It amused the Cuban administration and annoyed other governments immensely. “Neil, Cristi here would like to know a little bit about how her father got his nickname. You two worked together, tell her the whole awful story.”

“Hi Cristi. Joe’s right. Your father and I were old friends. Sit with me when we have dinner and I’ll tell ya all about him.” Aniello “Neil” Migliore was the head of the Lucchese Family and also Cuba’s Foreign Relations Capo. “It was like this, see. Before Bobby got made, he was a runner for the local numbers racket. This means he had to get all the bettin’ slips from the numbers bookies and brings them to the numbers bank. Doesn’t sound like much but it’s a real important job. The runner has to get those slips through, no ifs, buts or maybes. The cops know how important those slips are and they try hard to catch the runners. Anyway, Bobby is being chased by a couple of cops one night and they’re closin’ in. His girlfriend back then, this was long before ya mother arrived on the scene, sees him and decides to help him. She parks their car around a corner, gets into the back seat and hikes her dress up around her waist. Bobby comes around the corner, sees her and dives into the back of the car. A couple of seconds later, the police come around. One of them shines his flashlight into the car. The girl goes ‘Oh God, please don’t tell my dad. He’ll beat the crap out of me. We were just cuddlin’ , I promise. We were just cuddlin’.’

“So the cop goes, ‘OK, just get out of here’ and the two of them drive away. Of course the story gets around and Bobby was “Cuddles” ever after.”

Cristi burst out laughing at the picture Migliore had drawn for her. “And the betting slips got through.”

“Of course. Come on, food is about to be served. Let’s sit down.”

Migliore too Cristi to her seat and carefully seated her. Looking around, she saw that Igrat was being seated by John Gotti while Sabrina was being seated by Joe Catalina. The two women were close enough to her to provide advice and support if she needed it, far enough away that she could believe that she was attending the party in her own right. She turned to her escort, “Thank you, Mister Migliore.”

“It’s Neil, Cristi. As I said, ya father and I were old friends. Ahh, melon and prosciutto antipasto. Let me tell ya about the time . . . . “

Across the table, Sabrina was trying to sort out the details of Cristi’s kidnapping and subsequent rescue. “My father said that if ‘Lea was anything like her mother, we could find Cristi by following the smashed doors.”

“As it turned out, it wasn’t that hard. It seems the plan was to ambush Achillea and kill both Cristi and her.”

“Infamita.” Tony Megale, head of the Gambino Family and Cuban Home Affairs Capo hissed the word out. His word was met by nods around the table. Going after family, especially wives and children, was anathema.

“And suicidal.” Catalina had little doubt of that. “What happened to the goombahs?”

“One broken neck, one ruptured heart, one slit throat, one disembowelment. The woman who tried to kill Cristi got strangled - the slow way.” Igrat looked around the table. Cristi was laughing at the stories Migliori was telling her about her father and the pranks they had got up to when they had been youngsters. Oddly, the late middle-aged and seriously overweight Migliori was the perfect escort for Cristi. He could entertain her and keep her amused yet would not be threatening to her. Igrat caught Sabrina’s eye and realized that was exactly why she had chosen the gang boss to look after her.

The waiters were clearing the antipasto while others brought in the Primo Piatta. It was spaghetti and meatballs and suddenly the dinner had become serious.

“Time for business Cristi. In this thing of ours, we always eat spaghetti and meatballs when discussing business. We keep eating the spaghetti and meatballs until all the business issues are settled. You can see the result.” Migliori sat back and patted his stomach with both hands. “If somebody is asked a question and he starts to eat, wait patiently. He’s telling us he needs to think carefully about his answer. Back in the old days, anybody who had a beef could come to a dinner like this to talk it out. We’d have people lining up here, wanting to ask for help with their problems. Now we’re getting to be like any other country.”

At the head of the table, Catalina tapped a glass with a fork and the chatter around the table stopped. “Iggie, you’ve gotta problem you need to talk over with us?”

“Not so much a problem, Joe although there is a huge one brewing in New York. This links back to what happened to Cristi and also to her father. There’s a huge area of Queens and Brooklyn that has virtually been taken over by street gangs. They’ve destroyed that area; a lot of the population has left and the ones that haven’t are trapped there. It’s not like here; youse guys have built something quite special in Cuba and everybody here has benefitted from it. All those people have done is destroy. We think this is deliberate policy; that somebody created the whole situation with the specific intent of rendering an entire area of the city uninhabitable so that it can be picked up for peanuts and redeveloped at a vast profit. One of the things we have noticed was that a lot of the killings that have taken place in the area involved the death of innocent bystanders. We looked into those and have become convinced that the ‘innocent bystanders’ were, in fact, the primary targets. One of those killings was the death of Bobby Lombardi, Cristi’s father.”

“We looked into that. When a Captain gets whacked, there’s always some inquiries made.” Migliori sounded thoughtful. “It seemed like an accident, a drive-by on a rival gang dealer that went badly wrong. Car skidded on ice and hit Cuddles. Smeared him against a wall. Sorry Cristi but that’s the way it was. He died on the spot if that’s any comfort to ya. We reasoned with the goombahs responsible and they handed over the two kids what done it. That closed the books for us.”

“It wasn’t an accident. The two ‘rival gangs’ were part of the same group and the whole thing was set up to kill Lombardi. They quite deliberately expended two of their sicarios in exchange for one of your Captains. If they’d done it the way they normally do things, the Lucchese Family would have gone to war. The gang-bangers would have taken a hammering and the state of the area would have been headline news. That would have screwed up the bigger plan whatever it is. From your point of view, the bad news is they’ve found a way to pick off your leadership without a gang war happening. So, my first question has to be, what was Lombardi doing that made it necessary to have him killed?”

Migliori cut into a meatball and ate it carefully. “Look, this is how it goes, see? In the old days, my family, we always did business in Kings, Queens, Brooklyn and the Bronx. They made us a good living back then. Kings and the Bronx still do. Nothin’ like here in Cuba of course but still good. Queens and the Bronx, nowhere near so much now. Last ten, fifteen years, they go through the floor. No money there so we ain’t interested no more. Only one thing, we still got the Brooklyn docks. Cuddles was the Captain of the crew that ran them. Year or so ago, our trucks started gettin’ hijacked. Cuddles has a sit-down with the goombahs down there and tells them we don’t care what they do as long as they lay off our trucks. Well, he reasons with them a bit and they gets the message. ‘Bout a week later is the accident. We suspicious? Of course we is but we can’t go to the mattresses on suspicions. And the truck hijackings stopped.”

Igrat thought that over. “One of the theories we were working on was that Bobby Cuddles had found out that Vernita was stealing the money he was giving her so that Cristi could go to a good private school. We thought he had confronted her, threatened to take Cristi back and/or cut off her allowance. But, you make it sound as if the killing was business-related and Cristi’s involvement was purely coincidental. But that leads us to ask why she was kidnapped? It doesn’t fit the chain of events.”

There was a minute or so’s thoughtful consumption of spaghetti. Eventually, Megale wiped his lips before speaking. “It does fit if you apply the pattern to it. You say that when these goombahs do a killing, the apparent victim is a smokescreen and the real intended victim is somebody everybody thought as a real unlucky bystander? Apply that here. Cristi is the smokescreen, the real intended victim was your friend. Now why they want to whack her?”

“She’s undercover at the school in the center of this. A lot of teachers have been killed there. Three at least including the Principal. Maybe more. And the school itself is under threat.”

Megale looked at Catalina. “Sounds like Phenix City all over again.”

Igrat frowned slightly. This was the second time Phenix City had come up in the course of discussions and she had an uneasy feeling that what had happened there was the key to this new situation. “What exactly happened there? I’ve seen the film of course and know the shorthand version of what happened but . . .”

Anthony "Tony Ripe" Civella, Head of the Kansas City Family and Cuba’s Justice Capo picked up the story. “That was an odd story, Iggie. Much odder than the film and book admit. It all started when the Great Depression sent Phenix City skidding into bankruptcy. The city administration leased a whole area of the city to a group of investors, assuming that they’d redevelop it. What they really did was turn that area into a free-fire zone. Gambling, vice, you name it, they did it. Anybody who complained got killed or worse. The gambling was as crooked as hell and the women.” Civella glanced at Cristi. “Well, let’s just say their enthusiasm was infectious. That ain’t the way to run something like that. If a vice area is going to generate cash income, the gambling needs to be straight and the girls need to be as clean – and as honest – as possible. What we run here is a good thing to follow. There isn’t a crooked game in Cuba and if we find one, we break it up. Working girls here know if they catch a calamity, they get it seen to right way and their Family will make good their income while they’re not earning. And so legit companies aren’t ashamed to invest here and they make more money than we do. Wasn’t like that in Phenix City. Nobody in their right minds went there and the whole area was spiraling downwards. My uncle was running the Family back then and he started the process of getting us in so we could straighten it out.

“Only, things didn’t work out that way. Remember those investors who leased the center of Phenix City? They wanted the whole thing, free and clear. They’d already destroyed the value of the property they’d leased. Nobody would touch that area. So, they started a killing spree that cleaned out most of their own goombahs but also any of the administration who were opposed to an outright sale of the area. They did it in public and they did it bloodily so it made headlines. They forced the hand of the state government and made State send in the National Guard to put an end to what was going on. State did what they were supposed to. They sent in the National Guard, cleaned out the Goombahs who were running the rackets there and arrested pretty much all of the original administration who had originally signed the lease on the city. The new administration did what they were supposed to and sold the area for what it was worth – peanuts. Them investors bought themselves a whole city for the cost of a good cup of java.”

Igrat saw how the same playbook was in use. “That fits. They’re killing off their people who turned P.S. 261 into a gang-banger factory and also creating a public relations storm that will force New York to send in the National Guard and clean the area out.”

“Everybody just loves teachers.” Migliori’s comment was casual but it got to the crux of the matter. The killings of Simmons, Bennett and Battaglia were intended to create a firestorm of public outrage that would force the Governor to send in the National Guard. The kidnapping and death of Cristi and the murder of the teacher who had come to pay the ransom for her would have been the perfect cap to that plan.

“The problem is, we screwed up their plan.” Igrat looked around. “We leaked it that Bennett killed Simmons following a dispute over school administration. We also leaked it that Cristi had escaped under her own steam and the people behind the plot killed the kidnappers for allowing her to do so. That takes the pressure off the Governor.”

“Yeah, it does.” Catalina saw the problem instantly. “Now, what are they going to do to turn the screws back tight again?”

’Company’ Room, Igrat’s Apartment, 71 Broadway, Manhattan, New York.

Vincent Cobb reached quietly out towards Achillea. She was flat on her back, snoring in a slow, steady rumble, with the bed sheet pushed down around her stomach. His index finger touched the top of the long scar that ran from her left shoulder to her right hip and he traced it down over her left breast, across her stomach to where it faded out over her hip. By the time his finger had reached that point, he was aware that Achillea had opened an eye and was looking at him with amusement.

“Do you know every man who’s been in bed with me has done that?” She had actually been awake for a minute or so but she had heeded Igrat’s advice. When you wake up, pretend to be still asleep for a minute or so. Gives you a chance to collect your thoughts and remember his name. Men get upset if you use the wrong name.

“It’s spectacular. How did it happen?”

“I was shaving my armpit one morning and somebody banged a door behind me. I spun around and the razor went completely out of control.”

“That’s good,” Cobb rolled back and burst out laughing. Then he looked at the collection of scars Achillea sported. “You’ve taken a battering over the years haven’t you?”

“Look, I’m OSS Operations. We handle all the odd and unusual things that would otherwise fall into the bureaucratic cracks. Almost by definition that means we’re dealing with things that are way out of the normal run of law enforcement. In that world, the people we run up against are about as nasty as they come and bringing them down has a cost. I look on my scars as badges of the fights I won. You have to be alive to carry scars.” Achillea lifted herself up on one elbow, moving the sheet as she did so to cover the scarred breast. “Now, why don’t you admire the other one? It’s nicer.”

Cobb thought about that for a second. The thick red scar that ran from one o’clock to seven o’clock had twisted as the wound had healed so that it now formed a tight S-shape. The scar tissue had also left her breast hard and misshapen, looking like a shriveled apple. He could see why she was sensitive about it. “The right one is beautiful, yes. But the left one has character.”

“That’s good. That’s very good. You get brownie points for that. Oh, damn.” The telephone had started ringing. Achillea picked it up. “Hi Iggie, yeah, Vince is with me. How’s Cuba . . . . . Say that again?”

A couple of minutes later, she put the receiver down. “We got a problem. Iggie’s talked to some people in Cuba and they think we’re facing the same thing that went down in Phenix City back in the ‘fifties. The killings and the attempts on Cristi and me were all intended to push the authorities into sending the National Guard in. Now that hasn’t worked, Iggie thinks the bad guys here will attack the school itself. We’d better get over there right away.”

[Calder]

Chapter Twenty
Major Cobb’s Office. Public School 261, Queens, New York.

“We’ve got barbed wire blocking as many of the unofficial ways into this place as we can find. We had an arms delivery last night and most of my men have M14s now. We can return yours, with many thanks for the loan. I’d like to keep the M-81 for a while though.” Cobb looked over at the corner of his office where a Barrett .50 sniper rifle was propped. “I see you got a delivery as well.”

“The Barrett is mine. If all hell breaks loose, I’ll be on the roof with it. You wanted some heavy weapons, I got them for you. They’re all legal but the police don’t have them. Frag grenades, a couple of RPG-7s, a Ma Deuce. If they try and ram a truck into this place, you’ll need those.”

“I wonder if the Founding Fathers realized the Bill of Rights would end up with the citizens being more heavily armed than law enforcement?” Cobb was aware of the fact his officers were usually outgunned by the population they policed.

“That was the point Vince. That way, policing has to be with the consent of the community, not in opposition to it.” Achillea paused for a second And if you don’t believe me, that comes straight from one of the people who wrote the Constitution. “Mind you, it can cause some problems now and then. I’ve got a bad feeling that this is one of those times when we’re going to run into those difficulties.”

She walked over and looked through the window, standing by the wall so she was not exposed while she did so. “They’re out there. I can feel them. Are all the kids in safely and under cover?”

“Last ones arrived a few minutes ago. We’ve got them all in the main building. Hell of a thing isn’t it? We’re all hostages here and we have to walk in and out as if nothing is wrong.”

“It’s been that way right from the start. The people behind this have things planned so we have to do more or less what they want. They’re like carnival magicians, ‘take a card, any card’ but we always end up taking the one they want us to.” Achillea sounded bitter. She hated situations where she was not controlling the conditions of a fight and where she was acting according to somebody else’s plan. Underneath that, she was getting to understand how other people felt when they were fighting her and being forced to comply with her plans. “Vince, we’ve got to break this situation up somehow. The bad guys have all the initiative here and that’s a recipe for disaster.”

“Very easy to say but what do we do? They want us to keep ourselves and the students here as hostages; if we don’t they’ll start killing the ones we send home. They killed off members of the staff to set the scene for a major intervention and we can’t do anything about that. They will attack this place soon and that will force the Governor to send in the National Guard. He won’t have any choice about that; however much he may not want to, it’s politically impossible not to. Once he does that, what little exists in property values around here will be zeroed. Having the Guard sent in because the City has lost control of a huge area of the city will kill any hope of re-election the present city administration has and that we can do nothing about. The new administration will redevelop this whole area of the city and make a fortune for their backers. I just don’t see what we can realistically do about this and that annoys the hell out of me.”

Dottore said that every proposition, including those about the future, is either true or false. Therefore, it is true that any given future event will either happen or it will not happen. That truth can only lie in the causes now present, that are sufficient either to bring the event about or to prevent its happening. Therefore all events are predetermined by causes sufficient to bring them about and to prevent all alternatives from occurring. Or, as the Seer would say, Crap happens and we have to live with the results. I’d love to have heard Dottore and the Seer debate philosophy. “We’ll have to take a lesson from Cristi on this one. Just keep struggling and hope something will turn up. It’s not much of a plan but it’s all we got at the moment.”

Cobb was about to make a heart-warming, morale-raising reply when the window to his office erupted into a spray of fragments that lashed across the room and ricocheted off the opposite wall. At that point Cobb decided the most heart-warming, morale-raising and above all sensible thing he could do was to hit the floor. He glanced over to where Achillea had been standing and saw, with great relief, that she’d gone flat as well. It would have been embarrassing if he’d taken cover and she hadn’t. She was working her way across the floor towards her Barrett. Once it was in her hands, she headed out of the door, on her way to the roof. Cobb pulled the telephone off his desk by the cord and then dialed the State Police Headquarters. P.S. 261 was under attack and now the chips would have to fall where they would.

Police Cruiser One Adam Seventeen, Corner of Livingston and Beorum, Brooklyn, New York

“What the hell are we doing here?” Patrol Officer Garner looked out of the police cruiser at the unfamiliar surroundings of Brooklyn. It was very different from the usual areas they patrolled in Manhattan. They had driven out of the wealthy financial district of the Island, crossed over the Brooklyn Bridge and were now surrounded by the growing impoverishment of a near-derelict area.

“There’s been no real policing here for five years or more.” Patrol Officer Daniels was watching for any sign of trouble. “Precinct pretty much got run out. Now, the powers that be want a police presence back in this God-forsaken neck of the woods. I heard on the grapevine that every precinct in the city has been told to send a percentage of its patrol cruisers in here. Damn, this place looks bad.”

He swung the cruiser on to Hoyt Street. If Livingston had been rough, Hoyt was much worse. A dilapidated pizza joint marked one corner but the building opposite it had once been partially renovated before the work had been abandoned a decade or more before. A very weathered, torn and defaced poster announced that the scaffolding had been certified as safe only the expiry date on the permit was somewhere in the 1980s. Through the ripped screening that had once cloaked the outside of the building could be seen a company name. It had been saved from the coating of graffiti that daubed the rest of the building by being three floors up.

“Look, John, it was going to be a Macys”

Daniels glanced upwards, just in time to see a large object suddenly start to plummet downwards from the roof high above. His emergency stop had the tires on the police cruiser screaming in protest but he managed to stop short enough to cause the concrete block to hit just in front of the cruiser rather than directly on the roof. “Oh, crap. We got to get outta here.”

He slammed the police cruiser into reverse and tried to back out of narrow section of Hoyt Street. Garner was on the radio, screaming for help. “Adam one-seventeen, we’re under attack. Code 11-33; officers in mortal peril. In the name of God help us!"

Another pair of concrete blocks had been pushed off the rooftop. Both landed behind the police cruiser but they had succeeded in blocking the way backwards. Daniels tried to go around them but the road, already narrowed by the derelict construction site was far too narrow. Bullets were already hitting the cruiser from above, starring fthe windscreen and side windows. The car stalled as more gunfire smacked into the radiator and engine compartment. Beside him, Garner had already grabbed the PPS-45 from its rack and rammed a 71-round drum magazine into place. That was when Daniels saw what he dreaded most – the stream of fire from a Molotov Cocktail arching out from the buildings on his right. It hit the bullet-damaged front of the cruiser, the burning gasoline running down the damaged hood and wings. “Get outta here, Bev, the car’s going to burn.”

Garner bailed out through the passenger door, giving thanks that the door hadn’t jammed from the damage. She saw a figure in a doorway about to hurl another Molotov Cocktail and fired a burst from the PPS-45. The figure went down under the stream of bullets, the gasoline bomb exploded and engulfed the whole doorway in fire. “John, get back towards Livingston. I’ll cover you from here.”

Daniels was in a bad position. Bailing out from the driver’s side had put him close to the derelict building site while he was also further forward than Garner, putting him a greater distance away from the arguable safety of Livingston. The desperate situation was underlined by another concrete block being dropped from above. This one scored a direct hit on the roof of the police cruiser, shattering the lights and other equipment mounted there and driving the roof itself down into the seats. Garner could see that both the front seats had been engulfed by crushed metal. They’d beaten being killed there by a second or so if that. How much longer their luck was going to last, she didn’t know but she had a grim suspicion that it had just about run out.

As if to drive the point home, she felt a heavy blow on her chest that left her breathless with a sharp pain in her ribs. It got a lot worse when she tried to draw in breath and that told her what had happened. A bullet, almost certainly from a pistol, had hit her bullet-resistant vest. The body armor had kept the round out but the energy from the impact had to go somewhere and it had cracked or broken a rib. She had been turning towards the direction the shot had come from even while she had been making that conclusion and had seen the teenager taking aim at her again. The PPS-45 in her hands had slashed out a burst and cut him down before he could take that shot.

She started backing up towards Livingston, watching Daniels trying to join her. He only had his issue pistol and was trading shots with the gang members closing in on them. Garner was trying to support him, covering him from her position in the street but she was aware that the phenomenal rate of fire of the PPS-45 meant that even a 71 round magazine was going to run out quickly. She snapped out two more quick bursts, dropping attackers who were trying to cut Daniels off from any retreat but the last burst ended with a despairing click. The magazine was gone and now she too had to rely upon her pistol. By the time she had dropped the empty PPS-45 and drawn her pistol, Daniels had gone down. The gang members attacking them had realized that the police body armor was proof against the low-powered pistols they were using and had started shooting at the patrol officer’s legs instead. Daniels was trying to hold his thigh with one hand while shooting back at his attackers with another. That was when his pistol ran dry.

Garner started to run forward to try and get her partner out of danger but it was too late. Realizing that their victim was out of ammunition and defenseless, two of the gang members stepped out of the derelict building site holding Molotov Cocktails with the fuzes lit. Garner had time to fire a single shot at them but it missed and the gasoline bombs shattered against the pavement right beside Daniels. She heard the wumph noise of the gasoline burning and the screams of her partner trapped in the blaze.

The only think left for her to do was to try and get clear. She might have made it but the few steps forward to try and rescue her partner had cost her the opportunity. She started to run backwards but she felt thuds as more bullets hit her vest and the sudden weakness that sent her tumbling to the ground. She knew, she could feel, that she’d been hit in both legs and even if she survived, she wouldn’t be walking anywhere for a long time. She tried to drag herself along the street but the attackers were leaving cover to surround her. One of them lifted up a Molotov Cocktail and ostentatiously lit the fuse so she would know what was about to happen to her.

Ever since Beverley Garner had been caught in a house fire as an infant, she had been deathly afraid of fire. Now, faced with the sure knowledge that she was about to die in the center of a gasoline fuelled inferno, she put her pistol barrel in her mouth and pulled the trigger.

The Roof. Public School 261, Queens, New York.

The roof of the main block forming the center of P.S.261 was a sniper’s paradise. The various vents, exhausts, air conditioning units and other obstructions formed a maze that offered a myriad of firing positions and easy covered routes between them. Achillea had chosen a good position to start from, one that covered her against counter-fire and yet gave her a wide field of fire. Even better the sun was behind her and that would make it hard for anybody to see the muzzle flash of her rifle. At the moment, she was patiently watching the windows of a near-derelict brownstone carefully. She had worked out that one of a small group of windows had to be the nest used by the gunmen whose fire had shattered Cobb’s window. She had taken that personally.

A movement in the shadows behind the suspect windows attracted her attention. She settled down slightly and watched the window in question through the telescopic sights on her rifle. The movement resolved into a figure that had emerged from behind the wall to the right of the window, Wrong side, cerebrus excrementum Achillea thought. The figure had to move right out from cover to bring his rifle up to his shoulder. She centered the cross-hairs on his center of mass, took the slack off the trigger and waited. The figure moved and as soon as she saw the muzzle-flash she gave the tiny extra pressure that sent a .50 caliber hollow-point bullet on its way. She never bothered to watch what happened; in her mind it was certain and it was more important to move to her next firing position.

As Achillea settled in to her next nest, she looked at the site of her earlier shot. There was no sign of the man who had been there. Her guess was he was down on the floor with a hole in his center of mass that could happily accommodate a watermelon. A 750 grain hollow point at 3,080 feet per second will do that. I don’t often get a lover. This one is nearly new and I expect to get years of use out of him. So, I am not going to let anybody shoot at him.

Her practiced ears told Achillea that the volume of fire being directed at P.S. 261 was relatively light. Her guess was that it was intended to pin the people inside down rather than to create large numbers of casualties. She took a moment off surveillance to look and listen to the situation in general. There were already several columns of smoke rising from the area just south of the Brooklyn Bridge and she could hear a steady tattoo of gunfire to the north of her position. A couple of times she thought she heard the distinctive ripping noise of the PPS-45 in the distance. I’ll bet that’s local cops in trouble. If Iggie’s guess is right, they’re going to take a battering today.

Another movement in a window caught her eye. Another indistinct figure was taking aim. Once again, she put the cross hairs of her rifle on the figure’s center of mass and waited. Sure enough, there was the muzzle-flash that hadn’t even begun to fade when her own bullet went on its way. This time she saw the figure in the window being hurled backwards by the impact. Tuus dies, et sic mori.

Once again, Achillea started her move to a new position. She’d chosen her clothes carefully; her dark gray shirt and jeans matched the color of the roof almost perfectly while her floppy hat broke up her outline, shaded her eyes and its gray color covered the silky black of her hair. Vince is going to have to look after himself for a while. I’ve got to support the guys on the other side of the building. She took a sip out of the water bottle she carried, being careful not to disturb the roof dust she had carefully smeared over her face and hands. While she moved, she caught a quick glimpse of herself in the glass of a skylight. Yup, I make a pretty convincing angel of death. But then, I always did.

Classroom. Public School 261, Queens, New York.

Harry Mitchell tapped the map of northern Russia with his pointer. “And here is Archangel’sk. What can you tell me about Archangel’sk?”

“The Great Siege. The city held out for 650 days against the Nazis until it was relieved.” Carl Bowen looked around at the other students. The sound of gunfire outside was at a relatively low level but it was constant. Every so often, there was a much louder, heavier crash and the lighter gunfire diminished for a while.

“This is a geography class, not a history lesson.” Mitchell frowned mightily at Bowen although privately he had been angling for an excuse to talk about the Great Siege. Its lesson, of defenders who had hung on to the city, refusing to admit defeat, until a relief force had broken through to turn the tide was remarkably appropriate to the present situation in P.S. 261. “But, since you bring up the subject, why was Archangel’sk able to hold on so long when Moskva and Stalingrad fell in much less time?”

“Because the Arizona was there?” Mike Janacek had seen pictures of the Arizona in her anchorage on the North Dvina River. He wanted to go and see her but there was no way his family could afford a trip to the airport, let alone to Russia.

“Arizona’s guns certainly helped hold the east bank of the Dvina, but how did she get there? Drive down the main street?”

A ripple of laughter spread around the classroom, causing the students to forget, for brief moment, the fact that they too were under siege.

“She sailed up the river.” Janacek was indignant that one of his heroines had been insulted. It didn’t help matters that he knew another was on the roof sniping at the thugs who were attacking his school with murder in their hearts.

“Exactly. Well done. That’s why Archangel’sk was able to hold out. Archangel’sk isn’t just sitting on a river though, Moskva and Stalingrad are on rivers as well. Archangel’sk is where the Dvina splits into a delta before running into the sea. Take a look at these aerial photographs of the city.” Mitchell turned the projector on, hoping the bulb would hold out to the end of the lesson. As far as he knew, the slide projector hadn’t been used for years and probably still had its original bulb. “You see how the city is cradled between the arms of the Dvina? Arizona came down the North Dvina. The main arms of the Dvina gave the city an easily-defensible moat. But, that wouldn’t have saved Archangel’sk without two other factors. One, you can see on these pictures. What do we have here?”

“More rivers?”

“That’s right again. Archangel’sk is split up by a large number of small rivers. Each one is big enough to be an obstacle though. The Nazis would cross one but be trapped on another small island and cut off. We could move around on those rivers more or less as we wanted. We could carry supplies from the ports to anywhere in the city. Now what else do we know about river deltas?”

There was a silence. Mitchell decided to give his students a hint. “Or, the land that surrounds the delta?”

“It’s flat!” Bowen had suddenly made the connection.

“You got it Carl. That’s the second factor. River deltas are almost always flat and that meant there was no dead ground where the Nazis could hide from Arizona’s fourteen inch guns. So, you see how the geography of Archangel’sk was a key factor in its defense? So, let’s look at that geography and the subject of river deltas a bit more carefully.”

Mitchell heard another of the heavy shots from the roof and the corresponding slackening of gunfire from outside. It’s odd he thought, I’ve done more real teaching this morning than I have for years.