“Please?” Hawke texted. “I almost just got killed.”
“Rlly? Cool,” came the reply. She was infuriating.
Hawke needed this to move faster, so he dialled her number and two seconds later she picked up the phone.
“You nearly just got killed? Really? I was going to say I miss that…” she said, and paused, “but I don’t think so.”
“Just check something out for me, Nightingale.”
“Sure. I’m just about go to bed. What time is it in England?”
“Daytime.”
“Cute. You know, I have a terrible headache and maybe the flu and I just had the day from hell. Literally just a second ago I just said to myself that I really, really hope Joe Goddam Hawke calls me and asks me to check something out for him.”
“Thanks, I need you to get me some info. Not the sort you can pull off Wikipedia if you get what I mean.”
She sighed. “What is it?”
“I’m working for a man named Sir Richard Eden.”
The sound of typing.
“Okay, here it is: Member of the British Parliament, works for various national security subcommittees and has close links to MI5. Served fifteen years in the British Army and an obsessive collector of archaeological artifacts. You’re not risking your life for this guy are you, Joe?” She sounded unusually concerned.
“What about a Lea Donovan, his personal security. Is there anything else you can tell me about her?”
More typing, this time accompanied by sighing.
“Sure — I just hacked her CIA file.”
“She has a CIA file?”
“She surely does, Joe.”
“That doesn’t sound right to me. She works security for an MP.”
Nightingale laughed. “You’re so naïve, baby.”
Hawke ignored this. “You were telling me about her CIA file?”
“She was involved in some anti-terrorism operations when she was in the Rangers.”
“The Rangers?”
“Sure, the Army Ranger Wing of the Irish Army — they’re called the Sciathán Fiannóglaigh an Airm. I probably didn’t pronounce that right but in English they’re called the plain old ARW. They’re an elite special operations force into sabotage, ambushes, gathering intel, you name it.”
“They let women in that?”
“You are such a sexist bastard, Joe Hawke. As a matter of fact she was one of just three women with them, according to what I’m reading right now.”
“She told me she was in intelligence, so I assumed an intelligence corps officer.”
“And you know what they say about assuming…”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“I bet she could kick your ass.”
“And that’s why the CIA has a file on her?”
“Because she could kick your ass?”
“Funny. I mean because she was in the Rangers?”
“Uh-huh. Listen, gotta go, Joe. Call me if you need me.”
She disconnected, and the taxi pulled up.
Hawke crossed the street and opened the taxi’s door. They both climbed in and the taxi joined the traffic. “What are you doing?” he asked as Lea took out her mobile phone. She quickly jabbed a number into the pad and held it to her ear.
“Now it’s my turn to make a call.”
“Who are you calling?” Hawke asked.
“A friend. We’re going to need all the help we can get and Ryan’s a sharp cookie.”
“Who’s Ryan?”
“My ex.”
An hour later, the taxi pulled up outside a large gray factory where a lone man dressed in a black trench coat and scarf was patiently waiting for them.
“What the hell is this place?” Hawke asked.
“They used to make paint here, a long time ago, but today it’s occupied by squatters. It’s where Ryan lives. That’s him right there.”
“And what does Ryan do?” Hawke asked sceptically.
“Sort of a student, I guess you could say. Oh yeah, also hacks computers.”
Ryan opened the door and climbed in. A cold breeze of icy air blasted against them through the open door.
Lea glanced at him. “Ryan, hi.” A kiss on the cheek. Cold and quick.
Ryan Bale climbed into the back seat beside Lea and offered everyone an awkward smile. He had scruffy, curly hair cut just above his shoulders, and Hawke turned to see he was wearing a Mickey Mouse t-shirt beneath the trench coat.
Hawke laughed. “You have to be kidding. He’s fifteen.”
“I’m not fifteen,” Ryan said indignantly. “I just have a young face.”
“A face they could use to sell nappy rash cream.”
“Better that,” Ryan replied calmly, “than a face that looks like a welder’s bench.”
“Hey!”
Ryan simply smiled, gave a condescending nod of the head and turned to Lea. “When you called you said nothing about bringing another one of your monkeys along.”
“He’s not a monkey, Ryan. His name is Joe Hawke and he’s a security guard.”
“Oh God, you’re finally slumming it. I knew this would happen — but so soon after we broke up?”
“Cut it out, Ryan. We saw a woman murdered this morning, if you must know.”
“You did?”
“People shot at us, Ryan.”
“With guns?”
Hawke sighed. “No, with peashooters. Can we move this along please?”
“Oh no,” Ryan said, sighing dramatically. “Another He-Man compensating for his lack of IQ with aggression and steroids.”
Lea sighed. “This is why I divorced him.”
“You divorced me? What a joke! I was the one who divorced you!”
“Yeah, you tell yourself that, Ryan.”
“You two were married?” Hawke asked in disbelief.
“Sure, why not?” Ryan said smugly.
“It’s not a part of my life I like to think about,” said Lea.
Ryan peered out the window as they joined the M25 and drew closer to Heathrow Airport. He leaned closer to Lea and lowered his voice. “This guy got any cameras on him, or wearing any wires?”
“Oh, not this again.”
“What’s up?” Hawke asked.
Lea sighed. “Ryan’s a bit of a conspiracy theorist.”
Hawke laughed again. “A tin foil hatter?”
“You can laugh all you like,” Ryan said, offended. “But like the mighty Kurt Cobain said, just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not after you.”
“If you say so.” Lea rolled her eyes.
“Well they are after you, now,” said Hawke.
Ryan looked nervous. “What do you mean?”
“Are you not following the narrative, Ryan?” Hawke said. “We’re racing to New York to stop the people who just killed a professor from getting their hands on what has been vaguely described to us as the tomb of an ancient god. That’s not the sort of thing you do without upsetting people and they’re not going to take it lying down.”
“Don’t be absurd,” Ryan muttered. “Gods don’t have tombs.”
“That’s what we’re going to find out.”
Ryan, now uncharacteristically quiet, paled slightly and sank silently into the folds of his sumptuous silk scarf. In the front seat, Hawke was desperate to get to the airport.
CHAPTER FIVE
Hawke peered out the window of the Boeing 777 as it banked to starboard and descended into the clouds above Long Island. According to the screen on the back of the seat in front of him, they were at five thousand feet and would be on the ground in La Guardia in less than twenty minutes.