Ghosts Of Manhattan Part 12

"Is Mullins here?"

"Yes, sir. Upstairs."

Donovan grinned. "Thank you, Richards." He was relieved that the man hadn't deemed it appropriate to ask any penetrating questions. He wasn't yet sure how he would go about answering them.

He left Richards at the desk and crossed the hall, avoiding a gaggle of busy officers who appeared to be bustling around with no apparent purpose other than to create further bustle. He climbed the steps to the second floor, shaking his head. At the top, he pushed his way through the double doors with his good shoulder. They creaked as they swung open, but none of the men inside the large, open-plan office looked up to see who had entered. To a man they were hunched over their desks, wrinkles of concentration etched on their brows. Donovan scanned the faces: Jansen, Green, Hatton, Mullins. He frowned. So who had been sent to the museum?

He crossed to where the sergeant was standing over another man, a brooding expression on his face. Mullins looked up as he heard Donovan's footsteps on the linoleum. "Inspector." He seemed startled. "How are you? Have you heard about the museum?

Donovan gave a brief nod of acknowledgement. "Yes. I was there. It seems I'm having difficulty keeping myself out of trouble at the moment."

Mullins grinned. "I think it's a sure sign you're getting closer, sir." He stepped away from the desk, and together the two men moved to one side so as not to be overheard. "What happened in there?"

Donovan shrugged. "I caught a tip-off. Went there, found them in the act. b.a.s.t.a.r.ds got away, though."

"Some of them did." Mullins grinned. It was clear the sergeant was impressed by his late-night exploits. "And the Ghost was there, too ... ? We found traces of his strange ammunition."

"Yes, he was there."

"Was he working with the Roman's men?"

Donovan had to stop himself from glowering at the sergeant. "Have you been down there, Mullins? Seen how many dead mobsters are strewn about the place? The man saved my life more than once. No, he was not working for the Roman. You don't have to trouble yourself about the Ghost."

Mullins looked at the floor, shamefaced. "The Commissioner sent Jefferson down there, sir. I haven't seen it. But I've heard reports, s.n.a.t.c.hes of information from the other men. Sounds like it was carnage."

"It was," Donovan said, morosely. "It was most definitely that." He looked around. The other officers were studiously getting on with their work. "Did you manage to get my message to Flora?"

Mullins nodded. "Yes, sir. All taken care of."

Donovan breathed a sigh of relief. "Have you got any coffee, Mullins?"

"Yes, sir. But first, I have something for you." The sergeant was smiling.

Donovan raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Yes. I found it."

"Found what?"

"The link. I found the link between the Roman's victims." Mullins beamed up at him, his round face splitting into a wide grin.

Donovan's eyes widened. "Well, man! Spit it out!" He reached for a cigarette. It was the last one in his packet. Mullins frowned at the smell of the sweet smoke as the inspector lit it and sucked impatiently on the filter.

"A power station, sir."

"A what?"

Mullins coughed as Donovan blew smoke in face. "A power station, down in the Battery. That's what links the victims. Well, some of them, anyway. It was Williamson who gave it away. I found paperwork in his office when I started looking through his affairs. I drew a link immediately to Landsworth. Both of them were heavily invested in the construction of a new power station. I checked back, found some of the others were involved in it, too. Their bank records were all the same. Considerable sums of money. Thousands."

Donovan could feel the excitement welling up inside him. A lead, at last! "And it's in the Battery, you say?"

"Yes, sir. It's only just become operational." Mullins was clearly pleased with himself.

"What's the holding company?"

"Well, that's just it, sir. I can't find one. At least, not a corporation. All of the payments and receipts were made out to the same person, transferred into a personal account in the name of Mr. Gideon Reece."

Donovan almost cried out in excitement. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, took a long, thoughtful pull on his cigarette. What did the Roman want with a power station? And why had the investors all been murdered, now that the construction was complete? He had a feeling that the trail was suddenly growing warm once more. He needed to get hold of the Ghost. "Good work, Mullins. I think I need to pay this power station a visit." He looked up at the sergeant, his eyes shining. "Now, if you could just fetch that coffee I'll fill you in on the rest of it ..."

The Ghost's car purred up outside the newly constructed power station in the Battery, stirring the gravel as it slid to a stop. The station itself was a large, gray industrial building: squat and square, with three tall iron turrets erupting from its otherwise flat roof. In the midday light they were silhouetted, and looked to Donovan like three stubby fingers, pointing at the heavens.

Around the building itself, construction materials lay abandoned haphazardly: a pile of stone blocks; wooden batons of varying lengths, now damp from exposure to the sea air; coils and coils of thin wire. Further out, past the building, Donovan could see the harbor. Turquoise water lapped gently at the wooden jetties, parted by the prows of numerous ferries. In the distance, shrouded in hazy fog, was Liberty Island. The imposing statue dominated the landscape for miles around, standing guard over the city, watching.

Liberty. That was what he was fighting for. Liberty for himself, and for the people of New York. Liberty for Flora. Liberty for the Ghost.

Donovan had finally managed to get through to the Ghost on the holotube, after trying him five or six times at the apartment. The vig ilante had picked him up around the back of the precinct, this time in full regalia, and had explained to him the situation with the jazz singer, Celeste Parker, and the snitch, Jimmy the Greek, as they drove at speed toward the Battery. Donovan understood the man's pain, understood his need to keep busy, to get to the woman before it was too late. He hoped it wasn't already too late. But he feared the worst. He wondered what it would do to the vigilante. He could hardly be described as sane at the best of times. Would this be enough to push him completely over the edge?

Donovan climbed out of the car. It was cold, and a stiff wind was gusting in off the harbor. He turned up the collar of his borrowed coat. As the Ghost climbed out of the driver's side, Donovan paced around the edge of the building, looking for any signs of life. To his surprise, he saw another vehicle was parked beneath a tree, carefully positioned so as to be out of sight from the main approach to the building. It was sleek and black, its rear end facing toward him as he moved closer. He could see that the back of the car had been modified: the coal hopper shortened and a third exhaust funnel extended out of the engine housing. There was no mistaking it. The three-funneled car. Gideon Reece was there.

Frantically, Donovan beckoned the Ghost over. The vigilante trudged across the gravel courtyard toward him, and when he saw what had caught Donovan's attention, a wide grin spread across his face. He flicked his arm, and the barrel of his strange gun ratcheted up into position along his forearm. Donovan mirrored the grin and slipped his handgun out of his pocket, cracking it open to ensure that it was fully loaded. Now was their chance. This was it.

He watched as the Ghost pulled a short blade from inside his left boot and approached the car. He walked around it once, glancing in through the windows, checking to ensure it wasn't alarmed or b.o.o.bytrapped. Then, satisfied, he dropped to his knees and gashed the tires one by one, moving around the vehicle quickly. When he was done, he returned to Donovan's side. He lowered his voice to a whisper, barely audible above the howling wind. "That should stop the b.a.s.t.a.r.d slipping away again."

Both men clearly understood the need for subtlety. They didn't want to risk alerting Reece to their presence. Using hand gestures to signal their intentions, they parted. The Ghost went left, Donovan right, fanning out as they approached the main entrance to the power station, one on either side of the grand doorway.

As he stood with his back to the wall, his shoulder throbbing, watching for the Ghost to make the next move, Donovan wondered what he would do when he found himself facing the crook. Could he pull the trigger in cold blood? Surely that was the right thing to do, the quickest, easiest way to end all of this. The man deserved it, needed to pay for the things he had done. But Donovan was a police officer, and he bristled at the thought of murder. He believed in the judicial system. That was what separated him from men like the Ghost, and while he recognized the need for such men, he also recognized the need for order, a structure to society. There was a fundamental line between what was right and what was wrong, and Donovan had yet to cross it. Besides, they needed Reece alive. He was their ticket to the Roman.

The entrance to the power station was a large stone doorway that housed two white wooden doors. There was an inscription on the lintel above the doors, words chiseled out in neat Latin script, and for the life of him Donovan could not decipher what it said. He didn't suppose it mattered. It was probably some obscure Roman reference, like the coins left in the vicinity of the murder victims.

Donovan swallowed. He didn't believe in fate, but something had brought him here, with Gideon Reece on the other side of the door. He decided not to question it too closely. Instead, he watched as the Ghost reached over and turned the handle, so slowly it was almost painful, swinging one of the double doors open. It folded inward, the new hinges squealing loudly. A tense moment pa.s.sed, and then, hefting his weapon, Donovan stepped cautiously inside.

The interior of the power station had to be one of the most remarkable sights the inspector had ever seen. All around him, confronting him almost immediately as he stepped through the doors, were vast banks of Tesla coils: huge gray wire cages, spitting out millions of volts of electricity, each of them crackling with ribs of lightning, blue and white plasma that spat and snapped at the air in all conceivable directions. Donovan could feel the static charge tugging at his hair, perme ating the atmosphere. There was a smell of fresh ozone, like the heady scent left behind by a storm. The entire setup was strangely, mystically beautiful.

The Ghost closed the door behind them, and then took a moment to drink in the view. There was no doubting it was an impressive sight, and Donovan could see how easy it must have been for the Roman, and for Reece, to enamor potential investors with its magic. The sight of even one of these strange machines would be enough to bring people flocking, handing over their cash in exchange for the dreams of the future it granted. This was real power, the ability to wield such amazing energy. He wondered once again what purpose it served for the Roman.

He tore his eyes away from the flickering banks of machines and focused on their immediate problems. Reece was nowhere to be seen. They were standing in a small open s.p.a.ce that comprised a lobby. It was about the size of the Ghost's living room. The floor was a grid of iron struts, which continued on to form a short staircase leading up to a network of gangplanks and walkways that weaved like a spider's web amongst the crackling coils. There was a small desk here, too, but it was not manned, covered with large heaps of paper: diagrammatic drawings and blueprints. The Ghost approached the desk, rifled through these ephemera. He looked up at Donovan and shrugged. "There's nothing untoward about this. Just building plans, architects' drawings, bills for materials."

Donovan nodded. That was how the mob worked. They kept everything above board, on paper at least. Their business dealings were impeccable. But behind those fronts, those regular-seeming establishments and corporations, they hid their true colors.

Donovan crossed to the short stairwell. There was only one other path to take from here, and that was into the forest of coils. Somewhere, he figured, there would be a control room, and that was where they would find Gideon Reece. His feet clanged on the iron steps, and he tried to lighten his step, to move with more grace and less noise. He felt jumpy, nervous, even, as he antic.i.p.ated what was to come. The Ghost followed behind him in silence.

The proximity of the Tesla coils made Donovan's skin crawl. So much power. He didn't really understand how they worked; had never been able to fathom the inner workings of machines. To him it was like magic-flick a switch and the lightbulb blinked on. That was all he knew. That was all he needed to know.

Breathing hard, Donovan prowled along the gangway, constantly aware of what was going on around him, looking out for any sign of his nemesis. The walkways weaved and twisted like arteries connecting the flickering electrical organs of the power station; an all-powerful giant rendered from iron and given life. The two men navigated them like a maze, taking note of each junction so that they could retrace their steps when they happened upon a dead end. He thought of Reece like a deadly spider, lying in wait at the center of his web.

As it transpired, however, Reece was not waiting for them at the center of the web. When they finally found the control station, there was no one there. The room was bare, open to the gangway and consisting of only two stud walls and a gla.s.s part.i.tion, propped up against the iron framework that supported the walkway and the nearest bank of coils. Five large panels of winking diodes, white dials, and steel switches lined the furthest wall, whilst a large map of Manhattan was pinned on the other. There was a series of small colored pins dotted over the surface of the map, denoting-Donovan guessed-the locations of substations and relay towers, emanating out from the power station across the Battery in a long, curving line. The thin gla.s.s part.i.tion offered them a view of another nearby bank of coils, each of the incredible machines still spitting electricity into the air.

The Ghost crossed to the control panels, studied the readouts for a few moments, and then turned his attention to the map. Donovan kept watch, his palm sweaty against the b.u.t.t of his revolver. He didn't understand any of this, and wanted to make sure Reece wasn't about to sneak up behind them.

Four, five minutes pa.s.sed. Finally, the Ghost called him over. "Donovan. Look here." His voice was urgent. Donovan abandoned his vigil on the gangway and approached the map, following the line traced by the Ghost's finger. "Relay stations."

Donovan nodded. "Yes, I gathered as much."

"But look." The Ghost followed the line of pins. "All of the power is being siphoned off to one location. Here." He tapped at the map. "The readouts tell the same story. Everything. All of the power being generated here in the plant. The whole station has been designed to feed electricity to this one point on the map."

Donovan nodded. "That explains it. I bet the investors didn't bank on this. They thought they were buying into a new power station that would feed all of Lower Manhattan. They were never going to make any money out of this. If Landsworth and Williamson and the others were getting nervous about their investments, it explains why Reece had to finish them off. The Roman wouldn't have wanted the authorities sniffing around." He couldn't believe the sheer gall of the man.

A shoe scuffed on the metal gangway behind them. "My, my. I am impressed." The sinister, silky voice spoke from somewhere over Donovan's shoulder. He whirled round to see Gideon Reece standing on the walkway, five or six feet away, clutching his small silver pistol. Its nose was hovering between Donovan and the Ghost. "Drop your weapon, Inspector."

Donovan hesitated, thinking about rushing the crook, but then a quick wave of Reece's gun made him reconsider. He'd never make it, not without accepting another bullet. He didn't fancy those odds. He dropped into a crouch, keeping his eyes on Reece at all times, and placed his weapon on the iron platform before him.

"And you, too." Reece waved his gun at the Ghost. "Show me your hands."

Reluctantly, the Ghost lifted his arms above his head, releasing the trigger mechanism of his flechette gun, the small rubber bulb drooping from his sleeve on a snake of black piping. Donovan could see he was gritting his teeth. "Where is she, Reece?" the Ghost barked.

Reece looked momentarily confused, furrowing his brow. Then his face cracked into a wide grin. "The jazz singer?" His lips quivered as he suppressed a laugh. "Oh, now this really is beginning to get interesting- "What have you done with her?"

Reece shook his head, adopting a patronizing tone. It was as if he was goading the Ghost, challenging him to make a move. "Is that it? Is that why you followed me here? For a woman?"

Donovan thought the Ghost was about to start forward. He was pent up, his neck muscles twitching; a bull readying itself to charge. If he did, Reece would undoubtedly put a bullet through him. He hoped the vigilante could restrain himself long enough for them to get a proper chance to take down the crook.

"What does the Roman want with all this power?" Donovan gave Reece a hard stare, trying to distract him from baiting the Ghost. All the while he was keeping his eye on the hand that held the silver pistol.

Reece shrugged. "He has his reasons. He doesn't pay people to ask questions." The crook smiled again, but it was an empty gesture; he clearly didn't know the truth. He tapped his foot. "I must say, gentlemen, that I'm impressed with your persistence. Particularly you, Inspector. I thought you might have given up long ago. You should have taken the money."

Donovan almost laughed, ignoring the gibe. "I suppose you plan to take us to the Roman?"

Reece sneered. "You presume too much, Inspector. Why wouldn't I just kill you here and be done with it?"

Donovan smiled inwardly. If that had been the man's intention, he'd have done it by now. He was boasting, proud of himself for catching the two men who had persistently been causing him problems. Donovan peered over Reece's shoulder. The crook was alone, and there were two of them. He bided his time.

The Ghost was still seething, obviously waiting for an opportunity to pounce. That was good. If Reece thought the Ghost was the dangerous one, the one who would make a rash move, then that left things wide open for Donovan.

"If you've harmed her, Reece ..." The Ghost's voice was subdued, full of menace.

Reece was nonchalant. He turned his body slightly toward the vigilante as he provoked him with more taunts. "You're too late to save her now, any-"

Donovan dove. He sailed through the air toward the crook, his arms outstretched, colliding bodily with the thin man and sending them both tumbling along the gangway. Reece cried out in surprise, as if indignant that the policeman had even dared to attack him. But he was caught off guard. He squeezed the trigger of his gun as they went down. There was a sharp crack, and the bullet shot away harmlessly into the power station, clanging off a distant coil.

Donovan grabbed for Reece's wrist, slamming his gun hand back against the iron struts over and over again, whilst at the same time trying to pin the crook's shoulders down with his weight and his damaged shoulder. Reece was strong, far stronger than his figure suggested. He maintained his grip on the silver pistol and fought back, half getting himself into a sitting position. Donovan raised his right fist and struck the man hard across the jaw, but the blow lacked real power, tempered by the pain in his shoulder, the weakness caused by the bullet wound. It was enough, however, to distract Reece for a second, just long enough for Donovan to knock the weapon out of his hand. The silver pistol went sliding away across the gangway behind them, skittering to a stop in the crackling shadow of a Tesla coil.

The loss of his gun seemed to imbue Reece with new vitality, however, and he heaved Donovan off of him, throwing the inspector roughly to one side, rolling in the opposite direction and then coming up on one knee, his fists ready. He whipped out, striking Donovan hard with two jabs to the face. He felt his head snap back, his lip split, warm blood gushing down his chin. He had to think quickly.

Over Reece's shoulder, back in the control room, Donovan saw with dismay that the Ghost was facing a difficult situation of his own. A moss man had come lumbering out of the darkness, catching the vigilante by surprise, striking him hard across the face with its powerful fist. The Ghost was currently being thrown around like a rag doll, slamming against walls and the control desks or trying to pick himself up off the floor.

Reece was laughing as he rounded on Donovan with another blow. Donovan tried to raise his arm and succeeded in partially deflecting the attack, although it still glanced painfully off his cheek. His blood was boiling now. He couldn't give up, not after all they had been through.

He returned the a.s.sault. A quick succession of jabs and hooks, learned in the schoolyard. He caught Reece in the face, felt the satisfying crunch of the man's nose under the impact. He drove another blow into the crook's gut, causing him to double over, spluttering with pain. That was more like it. He readied himself to follow through with another battering, but staggered back suddenly at the sound of an immense explosion in the confined s.p.a.ce of the control room. Clearly the Ghost had managed to loose off some shots from his flechette gun, shredding the moss golem. The boom echoed around the power station, causing the gangways to vibrate with shock. The Ghost had fared badly, however; whether from the moss man's final blows or the impact of the explosion, Donovan did not know, but he lay unconscious, drooped across one of the control panels, blood trickling from a wound in his head.

It was down to him, now. Down to Donovan. One man against another. He willed his shoulder to hold out, flexing the muscles, trying to ease the pain. Reece had seen the sorry state of the Ghost, too, had glanced back over his shoulder at the sound of the explosion. One on one, he likely thought the odds were in his favor, with Donovan wounded by the bullet he had put there himself only a few days before.

The two men faced each other. Reece now had his back to the control room. To their left and their right, Tesla coils hummed and chattered in bizarre concert with one another, lances of plasma hissing in the air around them. Donovan punched out, but Reece was quick, dipping his head neatly out of the way. The crook jabbed at his wounded shoulder, his knuckles digging deep into the damaged flesh of the gunshot wound. Donovan screamed as pain wracked his upper torso. Reece struck again, aiming at the same spot and layering pain upon pain in sharp, stabbing waves. Donovan stumbled backward, trying to get his arms up in defense, but his right arm wouldn't respond, now weak with agony. He took another blow to the face and nearly went down. He couldn't believe the man's strength. Darkness swam at the edges of his vision, drawing him in.

But then he thought of Flora, of Landsworth, Sinclair, Williamson, of Celeste Parker. He grunted angrily. No. He would put this man down, and he would do it now.

Donovan closed the gap between them, thrashing out with both fists, not caring where his blows were landing, just content that they were connecting at all. He threw all of his power behind each attack, shredding his knuckles as he struck out blindly. All he could see was red fury, and it made him relentless as he punched again, and again, and again, not bothering to parry the blows that came back at him, forcing himself onward, burning through the hot pain in his shoulder. Again, and again, and again.

Blood spattered from Reece's face, but Donovan, consumed by hatred, did not stop until he was breathless, and Reece was cowering before him on his knees. Donovan stepped back, regarding the crook. The man's face was battered and bruised, his lips split, blood dribbling down his pale chin. He looked up at Donovan, an incredulous expression in his eyes, as if he couldn't believe what had happened to him, as if the mere thought that this wounded policeman could have reduced him to such a sorry state was utterly unbelievable.

Donovan backed away, not taking his eyes off the villain. His heel encountered something hard on the walkway beneath him. He glanced down. The silver pistol. He scooped it up, testing its weight in his hand. It was small and light, a dishonest weapon. This was the gun that had put the bullet in his shoulder. There was a delicious sense of irony in that. He c.o.c.ked the gun and raised his arm, leveling the barrel in the direction of the other man's head. Reece was drawing ragged breaths, and Donovan wondered if he'd broken a rib, maybe more. But then, suddenly unsure, he realized that the mobster was actually laughing.

He watched Reece spit out a gobbet of dark blood and then climb to his feet, holding his head high. He wiped blood from his eyes with the back of his sleeve and then turned to face Donovan, adopting his usual air of superiority. But Donovan could see that his eyes were wild, insane. He wondered what the man intended to do.

Reece opened his arms wide, making a target of his chest. "Pull the trigger, then, Donovan. Do it!" He was grinning like a madman. "Come on! Finish it!"

Donovan eased his trigger finger back a fraction, but then hesitated. Reece was laughing out loud now. "You can't do it, can you? A policeman to the last. You won't put a bullet in an unarmed man."

Donovan tried to conjure up images of the men Reece had murdered, tried to summon back the red mist. He knew what he had to do. But still he couldn't bring himself to squeeze the trigger. He wouldn't cross that line.

Reece took a step forward. "You see, Inspector." He was sneering now, regaining his confidence. "This is why I'll always win. Men like you, they simply won't do what's necessary. Even when your own life is in the balance, you cannot bring yourself to kill in cold blood."

"But I can." The voice was deep, like boots crunching on gravel. The Ghost appeared on the gangway behind the maniacal crook. He grabbed Reece fiercely around the waist, lifting him bodily into the air. Reece's face flickered, first with confusion, and then with panic, as he suddenly realized what was happening.

The Ghost staggered under the man's weight, took two steps toward the railing, and then hurled the crook over the edge of the gangway, into the waiting embrace of a Tesla coil. Reece screamed-a piercing, gut-wrenching scream-as he collided with the nearest machine. Fingers of plasma reached out, as if grabbing for him, and he howled in pain as the electricity jerked into his body. He hung for a moment, suspended by the energy that crackled through him, as if clutched by the hungry machine, his body twitching frantically as his nervous system was overloaded.

And then it was over, and his corpse dropped in a heap to the floor below. The stench of charred meat filled the air.

Donovan let the silver pistol fall from his grip, clattering to the ground. He stared at the dark figure of the Ghost on the gangway before him, his features stark in the stuttering light of the electrical discharge. Then, breathing hard, he crossed the gangway and leaned over the edge of the iron rail. Reece lay on the concrete floor below, slack-jawed and pale-faced, wisps of smoke still curling disturbingly from the back of his head. His eyes were fixed open in terrified shock. Above, the Tesla coil continued to spit out forks of flickering lightning, humming and buzzing with purple-blue energy.

Donovan couldn't reconcile the dead husk of the crook with his impressions of the man who had formerly inhabited the gangly body. Reece had loomed so large in his thoughts for the last few days, had threatened him, shot him; in his darkest hours represented even death itself. Now he was broken and dead, his body charred and ruined, the power gone out of him. He had been reduced to nothing more than another dead mobster.

He heard footsteps on the metal walkway beside him. "He was a stain. He needed to be purged." The Ghost's voice was grim, level. He was staring down at the steaming body, his lips pursed in disgust. Donovan couldn't tell if that disgust was inspired by the stench of the smoldering corpse, or by the realization of his own actions.

He was right, of course. Donovan knew that. Reece had been a plague upon the people of New York, a blight that needed to be stopped. He deserved what had happened to him here. But the methods ... Donovan could not approve of those. He hoped the Ghost could live with himself; guessed that there were layers to the man that he had yet to peel away.

Donovan sighed. He was tired. He hung his head. "Our only lead died with him." His words were not a condemnation, merely a statement of fact.

The Ghost stood back from the railing, dusting off his gloved hands, as if finally brushing away the residue of Gideon Reece. "No. He told us everything we needed to know."

"How so?" Donovan frowned, perplexed.

The Ghost grinned effusively. "When you asked him what the Roman needed with all that power, he would only say that he had his reasons, or words to that effect."

"How does that tell us anything?"

"It tells us everything! The power from this station is being channeled to a single location a few miles away from here. He confirmed that it was the Roman who needed the power. He might not have spilled the whole story, but you can follow the logic ... If we follow the trail of energy, we find the Roman."

It was Donovan's turn to grin. "Yes, you're on to something there." He pushed himself away from the railing, past the Ghost and along the gangway to the control room. The remains of the moss man were still scattered over the floor and surfaces and a black stain was smudged across the wall; a shadow of the explosion that had taken place in the small room. Donovan stepped over the heap of discarded earth, looking up at the map on the wall. He followed the line of pins with his finger.