Page 168 of Atlas: The Story of Pa Salt
‘Thank you, Atlas. Then she is yours.’ Angelina gently stroked her kin’s fluffy hair. Then she began to sing a lullaby in Spanish, and her sweet voice travelled out of the cave and into the valley below.
‘There’s nothing I can think of which signals danger,’ Georg said, taking a sip of strong black coffee as we sat in his office on the Rue du Rhône.
‘They rang Arthur Morston Books?’
‘Yes, and Rupert Forbes passed on my contact details.’
‘Rupert has no idea what this could be related to?’
‘None at all, no.’
Earlier this morning, Georg had informed me about a telephone call from an American woman named Lashay Jones. She had asked to speak to me, stating that the matter was of great importance. Georg had told her that he was my representative, and she was free to speak to him in confidence, but Lashay simply refused. For reasons already stated on these pages, I am extremely reluctant to take mysterious phone calls from strangers.
‘She definitely asked for Atlas Tanit?’
Georg nodded. ‘One hundred per cent. She told me that she thought you worked at Arthur Morston Books. But there’s nothing which suggests that this is related to Kreeg Eszu. I am confident it would be safe to speak to Miss Jones.’
I mulled it over. ‘The timing is unusual, though, would you not agree?’
‘Yes. A little,’ Georg conceded.
One month ago, Lightning Communications had suddenly become active as a company. They had begun to build a client base in Greece, and promised businesses an opportunity to transmit ‘coherence, credibility and ethics’. When I had first read those words, I couldn’t help but throw my head back and laugh. Quite how that man could offer expertise in credibility and ethics with a straight face was beyond me. They’d also given themselves a logo – a lightning bolt emerging from a cloud. It seemed that Kreeg was taking a hands-on approach, too. We had photographs of him giving presentations, hosting business lunches and various articles on the company in local newspapers.
If Eszu had been grieving for the last few years, it appeared that time was over, and he was starting to re-emerge into society.
‘You’re sure that this isn’t some way of Kreeg obtaining my exact location?’
Georg shook his head. ‘My instincts tell me this is something altogether separate.’
I trusted my lawyer’s judgement. ‘All right then. Let’s set up the call for tomorrow.’
The next day, I sat in my study waiting for Georg to patch Lashay through to Atlantis. As I waited, I surveyed my shelves, which were filled with artefacts and trinkets from my travels across the globe. These were interspersed with framed photographs of the girls and me. I picked up one of my favourites: an image of the six of us enjoying ice creams on the jetty of Atlantis. At ten on the dot, my office phone rang. I put the picture down and picked up the receiver. ‘Atlas Tanit.’
A soothing, velvety voice replied in an American accent, ‘Oh, hello, Mr Tanit. This is Lashay Jones. I believe you were expecting my call?’
‘Hello, Lashay. Yes, I was, although I must admit I have absolutely no idea what it could be about.’
She took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry about that, Mr Tanit. I’m phoning from the Hale House Centre in Harlem, New York.’
I scanned my memory banks. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Jones, I don’t know the name.’
‘Perhaps you’ve heard of Mother Hale? Clara Hale?’
‘I regret that I have not.’
There was a pause on the line as Lashay realised that this would require more explaining than she had anticipated. ‘I appreciate that you’re in Europe, so the name might not be as meaningful over there. The Hale House Centre is a children’s home here in New York.’ My heart skipped a beat. Was this the call I had been dreading? A children’s home who, for some reason, wanted one of my daughters back? I tried to remain composed. ‘We had a newborn girl left on our doorstep two nights ago now.’
I relaxed a little. ‘Is that... unusual for Mother Hale’s House?’ I asked.
‘Sadly not, sir. But the reason I’m calling you is we found something with the child. Specifically, a business card with your name and contact details on.’
I really didn’t know what to say. ‘That is unusual. I have no family in America... nor any friends to speak of.’
Lashay fumbled around on the phone. ‘I’ve got it here. The card looks old. It’s real torn and scuffed.’
‘It would make sense. I haven’t worked at the bookshop in over thirty years.’ I racked my brains. ‘I don’t suppose you got a look at who left the child?’
Lashay sighed. ‘No, sir. But we could make out a little writing on the old business card of yours.’
