by N Williams
A tall thin man with angular facial features and piercing blue eyes leaned forward and placed his mug on the table. ‘I am Abraham and have been authorised to partake in this meeting and have been delegated to make decisions on behalf of my people.’ He pointed towards the man opposite him dressed in jeans and a leather bomber jacket who said nothing. ‘And this is Malcolm. Not a man of many words.’
Holder knew the names were false, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t need to know who they truly were as long as they paid the money they’d promised, and anyway, Holder wasn’t his real name either.
The man called Malcolm opened a briefcase and handed a brown folder across the table to the Italian. A thicker brown envelope was conspicuously pushed across the faux-marble Formica towards Holder.
Opening the folder, Giuseppe pulled out several pages of powder-blue paper. ‘This is the information you need to begin. The other envelope you are holding is the first part of the payment offered for your services; One hundred and fifty thousand Euros. The rest will follow, as agreed.’
Holder nodded. ‘I am at your service.’
The Italian continued. ‘We believe the object of our interest is somewhere in the country. We know it was brought here nearly a hundred years ago, but our people had no idea of its current resting place. The recent find has made necessary an operation at Giza to remove the rest of the... objects from the repository. We must secure everything or face an unthinkable future.’
‘But if the object you seek has been in the country for a hundred years, why has it suddenly become so urgent?’ Holder enquired.
‘It’s not the fact that it’s here. It’s the fact that our sources inform us that someone has stumbled upon a diary alluding to its existence. If the diary falls into the wrong hands, someone could beat us to the objects we seek. We cannot allow that to happen. You must find the diary first and bring it to us. When we have the diary, we will know whether the threat is real. If it is as we fear...' the Italian paused for effect, '...we’ll have to ensure we are the first to recover the objects.’
Hassan suddenly looked unsure. ‘Then what happens? Who gets to keep them?’
Giuseppe sighed. ‘It has long been agreed that none of us will keep them. They will be destroyed.’
This was an answer the Asian had expected but was clearly not happy with. ‘Can I at least look upon them? I have waited all my life for the opportunity.’
The Italian shook his head; the sadness of his eyes betrayed his desire to do the same. ‘I’m sorry, my friend. This way is better.’
Holder stuffed the money envelope into the inside pocket of his designer suit and quickly flicked through the folder at the information contained within three A4 pages, each comprising a photograph and several paragraphs of text.
‘Am I to assume that I am to recover the object in whatever manner I see fit?’
Giuseppe looked uneasy and nodded. ‘I’m afraid we need to recover the object at all cost. We cannot afford to fail.’
Malcolm shook a cigarette out of a duty-free packet and nervously fumbled it into his mouth.
Giuseppe sighed. ‘Do you have to? It’s a disgusting habit, and one which I think you’ll find is banned in public places in this country.’
The cigarette was angrily stuffed back into the pack and thumped onto the table.
‘Don’t worry, gentlemen,’ said Holder confidently. ‘I’ll take care of everything. Just relax.’
*
Goronwy Evans walked quickly along the central aisle towards the back of Penuel Chapel, dropping the Orders of Service into the rear recesses in each pew. Something caught his eye; small splinters of wood lay on the parquet floor between the back of one bench and the front of another. Bloody kids, he thought. It would be those Morgan brats, no doubt. There was something rotten about those little bastards, always creating a nuisance, either running up and down the aisle or laughing during the service. They were an unruly bunch. If Mrs Morgan didn’t sort her kids out soon, they’d be likely to go right off the rails.
Laying the rest of the leaflets on the seat, Evans walked to the back of the chapel and dug through a small cupboard near the door. A small rusty tin of wood stain was tucked in behind some yellow dusters and a gallon tub of industrial cleaner.
He wouldn’t let the little buggers get away with this. He walked back to the pew where he’d left the leaflets, determined to tear a strip off the kids if they turned up for the service. He had just under an hour to rid the pew of the name one of the shits had cut into the wood. Staring at the damage, Evans scratched his head. It wasn’t the Morgan kids after all. He was sure he knew the entire congregation, but...who the hell was Adam?
CHAPTER 4
A tacky phone version of Killer Queen woke her from her sleep. Rachel walked into the hallway and retrieved her mobile from the hallstand near the front door. As usual, the newspaper lay open on the floor below the letterbox. She reached for the phone but stopped, her hand hovering above the Samsung handset. The newspaper headline caught her attention; “Sphinx in danger of sinking. Experts rush to underpin ancient monument.” Frowning, Rachel picked up her phone and made a mental note to check out the article. ‘Yeah?’
‘Rachel? It’s me, Ben.’
Rachel sat up and rubbed her eyes. It had been a tiring day at the museum. It was never a good idea to have a late catnap. ‘Uncle Ben,’ she yawned. ‘Been a long time.’
‘Yes, it has. How have you been keeping, love?’
‘Okay. You know, rushing around like a blue-arse fly, trying to please everyone, and doing a piss-poor job of it. You still haven’t got into the habit of using the computer I bought you. Do you ever check the emails I send you?’
‘I keep forgetting. I do use the thing to sell bits and pieces on eBay, it’s a marvellous thing, that is. Got rid of most of my crap. It’s incredible what some people will buy.’
‘One man’s junk is another’s something-or-other.’ Rachel’s brain hadn’t got up to full operating speed yet.
‘Anyway, you only live four or five miles away. Nothing stopping you from calling up sometime.’
Rachel cringed. He was right. The gift of the computer was her way of relieving some guilt for not visiting him more often. Ben must have felt the tension in the pause. ‘Look, you know I’m okay. It’s you I’m worried about. You should take it easy. You don’t want to end up like your dad.’
‘You’re a bright one talking, Uncle Ben. You’re still trying to save that old castle all by yourself. It’ll kill you if you don’t ease up.’
‘I can do “sudden ends.” They’re far better than suffering for months or years. When the Grim Reaper comes I hope he takes me quickly.’
The conversation was becoming too morbid for Rachel. ‘He’ll take one look at you and think he’s already paid you a visit.’
Ben laughed. ‘I’m eating more these days. The work at the castle helps me get by. It’s in a dreadful state, a bit like me, I suppose. I’m just glad it’s not my money being spent on the old place. Mr Farrell has apparently spent over a million on it already, and I’ll be buggered if I can see where that money’s gone.’
‘Old places like that tend to be money-pits. They swallow up thousands on things you’ll never see.’
‘Suppose so,’ agreed Ben, ‘but I want to talk to you about what I found in the castle.’
‘What is it now? Another dress ring you should’ve handed over to the owner?’
‘No, it’s nothing like that. I was making a repair in a bedroom and found an old diary hidden behind the fireplace. I think Adelina Patti wrote it. I must admit that the pound signs began to flash in front of my eyes…’ Ben’s voice sounded apologetic, ‘...so I stuck it on eBay to see what I could get for it.’
‘Uncle Ben, you’re a rogue. You can’t do that. It’s the property of the new owner. He’d probably want to put it on display in the castle as part of the tourist attraction.’
‘Well, strictly speaking I suppose you’re right, but he
’s only owned the castle for a couple of months, and he’s got more money than sense. He’s stripped the rooms and got me working on the bedrooms while he seems to be forever in the bloody cellar. If he keeps going this way there’ll be nothing left of the old place. He’s going to make it a five-star hotel - so he’s obviously bloody loaded. He doesn’t know about the diary, so what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him now, will it?’ he laughed.
‘Uncle Ben, you’re just like dad. He was always a bit too sharp for his own good.’
‘I have to admit that I am a bit concerned.’ Ben suddenly sounded less sure of himself. ‘I think I might have caused a bit of a stir. I’ve already had bids on the diary, and they’re well above what I expected. I mean way above what I thought it was worth. I’m a little worried because if it’s not genuine, or if Mr Farrell finds out, I might get some hairy-arse copper giving me a call.’
‘You probably will if you sell something that isn’t yours. You really shouldn’t be doing this. You may well spend your overdue retirement in Cardiff jail. And I might well be joining you if I get involved.’
‘Nah! They won’t let a gorgeous girl like you into a male prison. Not good for morale.’
Rachel laughed. ‘Okay, so how are the bids looking?’
‘Are you sitting down?’
‘Go on.’
‘Forty-eight thousand pounds, at the last look.’
Rachel nearly dropped the phone. ‘Are you bloody serious?’
‘Am I ever anything but serious?’
‘Yes! Most of the time, that’s why I’m asking you.’
‘No kidding, Rachel! Nearly fifty thousand and it’s only been on for a few hours.’
*
The four-seat Hughes MD500E helicopter was anything but comfortable for two large men like Frederick Bourse and DeAngelo Tourrain. Squashed into the back seats, Bourse hoped the pilot had an industrial-sized can opener to get them out again. The front passenger door had been removed for the flight, and the noise from the rotors was deafening through the headphones. Thirty minutes of cramped conditions had already taken its toll on Bourse; his neck muscles throbbed in protest, and his legs felt as if they had died about ten minutes ago. The pilot dropped the black unmarked chopper down low over the reservoir, below the level of the road to the left. A low mist obscured much of the view ahead. Bourse was glad that the ex-army pilot seemed to know what he was doing, but Tourrain moaned as the flyer pulled on the collective and the little craft began to rise sharply over the ridge in the valley floor. Bourse could see the colour had drained from Tourrain’s face as they narrowly missed a large standing stone on the apex of the ridge before dropping down again on the other side.
Farber was considerably smaller than the other two. At a little over five-eight and built like a Bantamweight boxer, what he lacked in physical stature he more than made up for in other ways; tough with no sense of remorse. Bourse was glad he was on their side. The little helicopter followed the river and the adjacent road, banking and rolling with each turn. Within minutes, they arrived at the waypoint - four crenellated corner towers broke through the dense fog. The chopper rolled to the left and began to climb towards a limestone quarry cut into the ridge of the valley.
CHAPTER 5
Rain began to spatter the windscreen as Rachel raced her Audi TT up along the Swansea Valley through the numerous little hamlets and took the turn up to Penwyllt. The valley had seen more than its fair share of adverse weather lately. Hot summers seemed to be a thing of the past, and winter seemed to extend for ten months of the year.
The hillside road was narrow and broken away in several places to her left. Rivulets of water from the mountainside streamed through the depressions left by decades of heavy lorry traffic. She kept the car well away from the edge; it was a drop of over a hundred feet to the river below. The newspaper lay folded on the passenger seat alongside her. The story of the Sphinx just didn’t seem right. The ancient monument had stood for thousands of years, and it was strange that it had suddenly become unstable. Something was wrong, but it would have to wait. As an archaeologist, it was her job to keep up to date on the developments at the ancient sites and this revelation was out of the blue.
On a clear day, the road to Penwyllt afforded a birds-eye view of the valley, but today a low cotton wool bed of mist buried everything other than the towers and turrets of the old castle. Etched like an illustration from a fairy tale, all it lacked was the beanstalk.
Rachel pulled up outside her uncle’s house and put the TT into first gear, something her dad had insisted on when he taught her to drive so long ago.
Standing for a few moments to admire the view, the fresh smell of rain finally cleared her head. The peaks of valley ridges pushed through the cotton wool blanket. Thick palette knife strokes of grey erased all traces of the new wind turbines on the horizon. The dark wet roof of the dilapidated station nearby had begun to sag, looking forlorn and forgotten but nonetheless dramatic.
Ben opened the cottage door and stood aside. ‘Come on in. You’ll catch your death.’
Rachel trotted up the short concrete path and crashed into his embrace.
‘Wow! Take it easy, young woman. I’m not as sprightly as I used to be, you know.
‘Neither am I, but I still like being called a young woman.’
‘Great to see you, sweetheart,’ chuckled Ben.
‘And you too. Now what have you got yourself into again...where’s this bloody diary?’
Ben led the way along a narrow passage and into the kitchen, the smell of freshly brewed coffee competing with the stale odour of carpets long overdue for cleaning.
He scraped a metal frame chair out from under the small table for Rachel and disappeared into the hallway.
The house hadn’t changed at all since the last time she visited, shortly after her father’s death. The kitchen was a seventies time capsule; orange patterned wallpaper, black Bakelite switches, and a cooker which she thought would look more at home in her museum. How could any company with a single shred of taste produce linoleum flooring with such nauseating patterns? The seventies had a lot to answer for.
Ben returned to the kitchen carrying a laptop and a pile of photocopy paper. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘This is it.’ He placed the loose sheets on the table in front of Rachel and began tapping at the keyboard of the computer. ‘What do you think? Is it genuine?’
Rachel looked at the cover sheet and began to scan the pages on screen. ‘Well, first of all, this isn’t a diary. It’s just a load of photocopies. You can’t sell this. I’m assuming you have the original somewhere safe?’
Ben nodded and smiled slyly. ‘I’m not bloody stupid. I’ve hidden it in the castle so I can return it if the shit hits the proverbial.’
‘Okay, let’s have a look...’ Rachel flicked through the sheets. ‘I think you’re right. Most of it’s written in Italian. Adelina was Italian, although she was brought up in New York. It could be hers. The lists that are written in English seem to be schedules and are what you’d expect from someone of her position. I only know a smattering of Italian so I can’t tell you what the rest is about, and I can’t say for certain, but it seems it could be hers.’
‘I knew it.’ Ben thumped return on the keyboard in triumph. ‘I bloody knew it.’
‘Look, I can’t be sure. Not without checking it out with someone who’s an expert in these things. Can I borrow this for a day or two? I just need to get it verified by one of my assistants at the museum. If Sally says it’s genuine, then that’ll be good enough for me.’
‘Okay. I’ve listed the sale for ten days.’
Ben placed the laptop onto the table whilst the old machine began to reveal the web page he’d requested. He opened the top of a cardboard box and took out a DVD. ‘I also scanned the photocopied pages and saved them on a disc.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. Have you copied everything to disc?’
‘Just a sample. I’ve scanned the cover and the first five pages plus a copy o
f the music manuscript I found with it.’ Ben reached into the back pocket of his trousers. ‘I also found this with the book.’ He handed Rachel a digital photo of the clay disc.
‘This is interesting. It looks like an early recording disc. It looks intact?’
‘As far as I can tell. I’ve hidden it with the diary. I’ll let you check it all out first and then if you think it might be genuine I’ll arrange for you to have the real thing.’
‘No problem. I’ll get Sally to have a good read and get back to you as soon as possible. By the way, Uncle Ben, what’s the latest bid on the book?’
The old man clicked the refresh button on the eBay page, angled the screen towards Rachel and laughed. ‘Eighty-two thousand.’
Rachel shook her head. ‘That is just gobsmacking. I only hope you don’t end up getting caught. If you are then I know nothing about it, okay?’
‘Okay. I promise I won’t involve you any further.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Two days and then I’ll start packing my bags for the south of France.’
The DVD and photocopies of the diary were popped into a sealable specimen bag, along with the photo, and wrapped in a plastic carrier bag, to make doubly sure it was protected from the rain. Overkill maybe, but the Swansea Valley was one of the wettest places in the UK and Rachel wasn’t taking any chances on the contents being damaged, even though they were copies. It was a habit from years of handling valuable artefacts.
Ben stood at the gate as she clicked open the central locking of the Audi.
‘I’ll be in touch soon, Uncle Ben.’
‘Yes, make sure you are. Not just because of the diary; it’s lovely to see you now and again.’
*
Farber clicked the magazine into the American built M4A1 carbine assault rifle, and sneered as he stroked the barrel.
The helicopter rose up above the quarry, skimming over the perimeter of the abandoned works before dropping down on a direct line towards the rear garden of a tiny stone cottage. An even smaller Audi TT was parked on the road beyond.
