The Midnight Club_ A Novel - James Patterson [47]
Nicky Wilson suddenly rose. He called down the hallway to where the warden was waiting.
“I want to go back to my cell. Let’s go. C’mon, man, let’s go.”
Sarah wanted to stop Nicky Wilson. He knew something about Midnight. He could point them in a direction at least.
“You can call me in Manhattan. I’ll come back up here. People are ready to help you,” Sarah said.
Nicky Wilson was peering down toward the warden. Finally, his head turned back. The smile, all familiarity, had vanished from his eyes.
“You think about something, babe. Think about why they sent you. Because they knew I’d talk to you? Maybe so. What kind of story does somebody want you to write?… C’mon, man, take me back to my cell,” Wilson said to the warden. “I don’t want to see her again under any circumstances.”
44
The Midnight Club; Kyoto, London, West Berlin…
THERE HAD NEVER been anything quite like it.
The Club.
A secret society that stretched across the world.
In Kyoto, Japan, a powerful Yakuza member dutifully sat through an exotic and beautiful ancient tea ceremony. One of the geishas gently whirled an elegant bamboo whisk through waves of murky green tea. She moved the stirrer at just the right tempo to produce the tiny bubbles whose appearance separated master from apprentice at the task.
The geisha finally bowed twice and presented a small china bowl to the tall, silver-haired Japanese man. As he lifted the crisp rice cake it contained, he once again read a note that had reached him at this private garden. On the index finger of his right hand was an expensive black onyx and diamond ring, identical to the one worn by Alexandre St.-Germain at Allure.
The powerful Yakuza leader finally rose from the table and went inside for a massage, and other ministrations from the geisha. The Midnight Club was to meet again.
In London, a respected House member was inside the mahoganied bedroom of a magnificent apartment overlooking Parliament and the Thames. He pondered the difficult times. He was recalling Alexandre St.-Germain, the several months the Grave Dancer had spent living at Number 5 Newman Passage, taking control of the rackets all through England. St.-Germain had reminded him of the most vicious American gangsters from the thirties. He had attempted to be larger than life, and had nearly succeeded.
The House member had his own idea about who was responsible for the lurid shootings in New York, and why the Club was being assembled for a rare emergency meeting. His source of information, the former number two to St.-Germain in Europe, would soon be arriving in New York on the Concorde. If all went well in the States, they would know everything by the same time tomorrow.
In West Berlin, a police commissioner read the urgent message from America a final time. He wiped his silver-rimmed spectacles on a handkerchief pulled from the lapel pocket of his dark business suit. “Schmutzig,” he muttered. “Sehr schmutzig.” It was not immediately clear whether he was referring to the wire-rimmed glasses, or the important message from the Club.
In all, twenty of the members received the news and made plans to come immediately to New York… then on to another, still undisclosed location.
None of the wealthy and powerful men understood yet, but all of them would come. All had in their possession the onyx and diamond ring that signified membership in the Club.
45
Sarah McGinniss; East Sixty-sixth Street
SARAH’S MANHATTAN APARTMENT had seemed unbearably large and empty since Sam had gone off with his father.
She found that she missed their elaborately disorganized breakfasts together; then the chatty walks around the neighborhood each morning; and planning dinners; and movies like the Star Wars trilogy; and which ridiculous board game to play at the end of the day. Chutes and Ladders? Mousetrap? Monopoly? Whichever game lit up Sam’s eyes the most.
She was constantly delighted at how much she liked being a