Читать книгу Sanctus and The Key: 2 Bestselling Thrillers - Simon Toyne, Simon Toyne - Страница 47

The man with the freckled hands sat at the café pretending to read the sports pages. The place was busy, and he’d only just managed to grab a table right at the edge of the cool shadow cast by the awning that stretched over the pavement. He watched the sun creep slowly across the white linen tablecloth towards him and shuffled back in his chair.

From where he was sitting he could see the Citadel rising up in the middle distance, almost as if it were watching him. The sight of it made him uneasy. His paranoia was not entirely groundless. Almost as soon as he had finished paying the traveller’s cheques into an account at the First Bank of Ruin that no one but he knew about, he had received two new messages. The first was from someone he’d occasionally done business with, requesting the same information he had just sold. The second was from his contact in the Citadel, offering to pay handsomely for his ongoing loyalty and regular updates. It was proving to be a very lucrative morning indeed. Nevertheless he did feel slightly uneasy taking money for ‘ongoing loyalty’ when here he was, in plain view of the Citadel, about to give the same information to somebody else.

He glanced up from his paper and waved at the waiter to bring him his bill. It was odd that this case in particular was proving of such interest to so many. It wasn’t a murder or a sex case, both of which were traditionally his best earners. The waiter swept past, leaving a small round plate on the table with the bill trapped beneath a mint at its centre. He’d only had a coffee but he pulled out his wallet, selected a particular credit card and exchanged it for the mint, which he popped in his mouth. He laid his paper on the white linen tablecloth and smoothed it down, feeling the slight lump inside it. He leaned back in his chair and looked away, just another tourist enjoying the weather, as the waiter scooped up the newspaper and the plate without breaking his stride.

The sun continued to creep across the sky and the man pushed his chair further back. It had to be sex. He’d had a peek through the file himself the first time he’d swiped it and there was definitely something kinky going on, judging by all those scars. His guess was something weird that the holy folks were trying to cover up.

He also knew that the other party he was hawking the information to had no love for the Citadel, or the people inside it. The information he’d fed them before proved that. He’d given them the case file relating to the paedophile priest scandal a few years back, and another time he’d provided names and numbers of key witnesses when a bunch of charities affiliated to the Church were being investigated for fraud. He figured this must be the same kind of deal. They were probably trying to find out as much as possible so they could fan the flames of any breaking scandal and embarrass the hell out of the holier-than-thous up on the hill. All of which was good news for him. A nice juicy sex scandal with a religious angle would play out nicely in the tabloids – and they were the best payers of all.

He looked back up at the mountain and smirked. If they wanted to give him a bonus for his loyalty then more fool them. Maybe that kind of thinking worked up there where people believed in the great hereafter, but in the real world the only thing that mattered was the here and now. He wasn’t going to give them an update anytime soon either. Getting large files to them was such a pain. He didn’t mind forwarding bullet-points via the new text number they’d given him; at least that was a step in the right direction. But he’d already trekked up the holy hill once today with a flash drive in his hand; the update could wait until tomorrow. They still paid him either way.

The waiter drifted past again, placing the dish back on the table with the credit card tucked under the receipt. The man picked it up and put it back in his wallet. He didn’t need to sign anything or punch in his PIN number, his coffee was already paid for and his account had just been credited with over a thousand dollars. He buttoned his jacket and with a final nervous glance up at the cloudless sky, he put on his cap and slipped away from the café and back into the crowd.

Kathryn Mann sat four tables behind him in the depths of the awning’s shadow. She watched the informant shuffle away through the foot traffic on the great eastern boulevard, his baseball cap and raincoat incongruous in the bright sunlight. The waiter appeared by her side and placed her bill on the table along with the newspaper. She tucked it into her bag, feeling the bulge of the envelope inside it. Then she paid her bill in cash, making sure she left an extravagant tip, and headed off in the opposite direction.