by Peter James
‘They were too far away to see clearly. I have the video.’
Mason opened his laptop and they crowded round him. He set in motion grainy footage of what indeed looked like an old woman emerging from a cave and handing a package to Hunter. The reporter unwrapped it, as the woman and the two males with him looked on.
As Hunter revealed its content, even with the poor video image, all of the board members could see the excitement in his body language.
Ron Mason froze the recording.
‘He’s definitely got something significant,’ Bloor said. ‘No question. And we need it fast. We’re aware someone else has a serious interest in what Hunter is up to, and also followed him to Glastonbury. These people may now even have the chalice in their possession – our observation team saw them grab a bag containing something that Hunter had apparently brought up from the well.’
‘Do we know what, Ainsley?’ Helmsley asked.
‘No, but at least we know who we are up against – at this moment, anyway. The observers followed them to a tightly guarded estate in Surrey, near Guildford. The HQ of the religious organization the Wesley Wenceslas Ministries.’
‘That guy’s a complete crook,’ Ron Mason said, in his Australian accent. ‘Wesley Wenceslas. My nephew, who’s into God, went to one of his services or whatever they call them, and told me you get asked to pay for a prayer! That guy’s just a con artist!’
‘A very successful one,’ Gittings said. ‘He’s got millions of followers.’
‘He’ll have even more when he starts waving the Holy Grail around,’ Helmsley said.
‘We’ll get Chalice Well to demand its return – stolen property,’ Bloor said. ‘Then I’m sure Julius can take care of it from there, as a trustee.’ He looked at him. Helmsley nodded, looking uncomfortable.
‘Let’s just take a reality check here, Ainsley,’ Gittings said. ‘Firstly, we don’t know what Hunter brought up from the bottom of the well, and that Wenceslas Ministries have in their possession. We now believe he has something – maybe a body part – found in a cave in Egypt. There’s no certainty it comes from Christ.’
‘There’s no certainty that whatever Hunter may – or may not – have recovered from Chalice Well is the Holy Grail, either, Alan,’ Bloor replied. ‘But we strongly believe it might be. If there is a DNA match between the two items, then what?’
‘That would be immensely strong evidence of the provenance,’ Helmsley said.
All of his colleagues nodded.
‘So, we’d have the DNA of a possibly mythological healer who may or may not have lived two thousand years ago and was capable of performing miracles?’ said another of the board, Grant Rowlands, in his blunt Yorkshire accent. ‘My view is this is too much of a distraction for us. We should be thankful for two lucky escapes from anything getting traced back to us, first with Dr Cook and secondly with today’s Egypt fiasco. The two thugs who went to Cook’s house are – ?’ He left the question hanging.
‘Safely back in the west of Ireland,’ Bloor answered him. ‘I’m not thankful at all. We’ve had no lucky escapes, just two total screw-ups. This, and someone else getting ahead of us at Chalice Well.’
‘I’m minded we should drop this,’ Rowlands continued. ‘We’re risking the entire reputation of our company – and our own personal futures in its share value – for what? The DNA profile of a charlatan? Come on, Ainsley, you’re the biggest non-believer of us all here. Isn’t that what your monkey experiment is all about? Proof there is no God?’
‘Grant,’ Bloor said acidly, fixing him with a cold stare. ‘We all made this decision together. Regardless of any of our beliefs, we agreed that potentially over two billion Christian people around the globe would pay any amount of money they could get their hands on – and I mean any amount – for a cure for their ailments developed through the provenance of Jesus Christ’s DNA. And consider this, too. How much would prospective parents around the globe pay to have some – or all – of Jesus Christ’s DNA in their child?’
There was a long silence. Several of the directors smiled.
‘If you have a problem with that, Grant, you’d better tell us.’
Aware of how Bloor dealt with problems, and of his own substantial shareholding, and his two-million-a-year bonus, Grant Rowlands shook his head. ‘I don’t have a problem, Ainsley. Just – you know – doing my job as a director. Checks and balances.’
Bloor gave him a withering look. ‘Good to hear, I like my team to be diligent.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Anything else, Grant, before we move on?’
‘No, I’m good.’
‘One quick question, Ainsley,’ Julius Helmsley said.
‘Yes?’
‘How are your monkeys doing?’
Bloor turned his gaze on another of the directors, Kurt Iann, Director of Security, before replying.
‘A lot better than one of you lot. Since you asked.’
Smarting from Bloor’s harsh gaze, Iann said, ‘Whatever Hunter has got, we’ll get it off him, Ainsley.’
‘Really?’ Bloor retorted, sarcastically. ‘You’re actually going to do something right?’
52
Wednesday, 8 March
Ross checked in to the Ibis hotel at Charles De Gaulle Airport. It was anonymous and impersonal, all the guests strangers like himself, in transit. He’d not seen anyone who looked like they might be following him at Luxor Airport, nor on the plane.
Even so, he took precautions, double-locking the door and putting on the safety chain.
Although exhausted, he slept fitfully for a short while, then woke from a nightmare in which he was back in Afghanistan, running for his life, Taliban fighters shooting at him. He tore into a vast building and down, down, down into the dark vaults.
He had survived then by hiding, lying low, biding his time. Which was what he needed to do now, he thought, sipping some water and staring into the darkness. Whoever was after him would almost certainly have someone watching their house. Waiting for him to arrive home.
He cursed himself for not thinking about this sooner. About how the helicopter might have located him in the desert. Switching on the bedside light, he picked up his iPhone and began going through his settings. Within moments, he saw he had his geo mapping on. Which meant his phone was talking all the time to everything around and above it. Someone with the right software could track his movements in real time, minute by minute. To the middle of the desert.
Or here.
He disabled the function.
Afraid, he climbed out of bed, dressed, packed his bag, then walked to the door and peered through the spyhole. What he could see of the corridor outside was empty. Cautiously he removed the safety chain, and slipped out. Just in case there was anyone watching for him in the lobby, he took the stairs.
On the ground floor, three flights down, he pushed open the door and looked out. The lobby was empty, just a night clerk on duty. His room was already paid for, and he had opted for the express checkout. He walked over to the clerk and asked if he could get him a taxi to take him into central Paris.
There was a small boutique hotel where he’d stayed with Imogen two years ago, for their wedding anniversary, the Montalambert in St Germain. When the taxi arrived, he climbed into the rear and asked the driver to take him there.
Although small, it was a five-star hotel, with round-the-clock service and great staff. Hopefully, at this time of year, they’d have a room. If not, they would be able to find him somewhere, despite the hour.
As the taxi pulled out, he looked around, then double-checked his phone to ensure that the geo mapping was safely off. He settled back into his seat and dozed until the taxi came to a halt in the narrow side street outside the hotel. His luck was in – they had a room, and greeted him warmly.
He slept reasonably soundly, until he was woken by a text from Imogen, just after 7.30 a.m.
Hope u slept OK wherever you are. Monty and I did not. Our wonderful new
alarm went off three times in the night. Engineer came at 5 am. Faulty box or something. Been awake since. X
He thought carefully before texting her back. Maybe their phones were being bugged or intercepted in some way.
Poor you. Really hope it gets fixed quick. Had to stay on here. Call u later. X
Then he dozed again for another hour, before waking ravenous. He phoned down and ordered breakfast.
53
Wednesday, 8 March
After an omelette, two cups of strong coffee and a shower, Ross felt refreshed, and was thinking clearly.
Hopefully no one knew where he was. But whoever had been after him in Egypt wasn’t going to go away and stay away empty-handed.
He tried to put himself in their shoes. What would they be expecting him to do? Get back to England as fast as possible?
There were worse places to have to kill time than Paris. He decided to buy himself a day, let them fret – and hopefully panic. People made mistakes when they panicked.
He rang around the airlines from his room. There was availability on several flights to Heathrow, where his car was parked, tomorrow. He booked a seat on British Airways.
After he put the phone down, he unwrapped the tooth from its bundle of cloth.
Was it this someone had wanted so desperately? Someone with enough money and contacts to hire a helicopter with a gunman?
So much trouble for such a tiny object with little or no provenance.
Nothing of significance?
Or the greatest relic ever found?
If someone had gone to the effort of trying to hijack him out in that desert – perhaps for this tooth – sure as hell they would be trying again. Should he go public now? Should he give the story to his editor, show the tooth, and the cup, in the hope of taking the curse off this whole damned thing?
It was too soon. He had to find out more first. Had to know how real or otherwise the items were.
But what was he going to tell Imogen – now the stakes had risen? Was it fair to be possibly putting his family’s life at risk, too?
Was any story – even this one – worth that?
And yet he couldn’t stop now.
A plan was forming in his mind.
He opened his laptop, logged on to the hotel’s Wi-Fi, briefly checked his emails for anything urgent, then typed into Google the name ‘ATGC Forensics’.
It was a company whose name he had come across several times in recent years. They were one of the secure independent labs used by police forces in the UK for DNA testing of evidence.
He got a result instantly.
ATGC FORENSIC SCIENCE – ATGC GROUP
www.ATGCgroup.com/sectors/forensic-science
ATGC is a world leader in forensic science and one of the UK’s leading full-service forensics providers. We work with police forces in the UK and internationally to assist . . .
And we offer a 24/7 service.
He went to their Contacts page, found the number and dialled it on the hotel phone, aware how easy it was for anyone to listen in to a mobile phone conversation.
It was answered by a chirpy female voice.
‘Hi, I wonder if you can help me. Do you do DNA testing for private clients?’
‘Well, normally we only work with registered agencies, but we do have a facility for private client work. Can I put you through to someone?’
‘Thank you.’
He was put on hold for a short while, then he heard a male voice. ‘Peter Mackie speaking, can I help you?’
Ross had learned, years ago, that you got much more out of people if you said their name. A psychologist he had once interviewed had told him that a person’s name was the most important sound in the world to them.
‘Thank you, Peter,’ he replied. ‘I’m Ross Hunter, a newspaper reporter working on an article, and I have two objects, one wooden – a cup – and the other a tooth. I’m interested to obtain DNA profiles on each.’
‘Under the Data Protection Act I wouldn’t be able to tell you if there is any match to the UK DNA database.’
‘It’s OK, what I’m after is to see if there is a match between these two objects.’
‘A wooden cup and a tooth?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know approximately how old they are?’
‘No. Fairly old – centuries, I believe.’
‘The cup wouldn’t be a problem to test, but a tooth is more difficult. We would have to grind it down into powder.’
‘All of it?’ he exclaimed.
‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’
Shit, Ross thought. This might be the only known remnant of Jesus that still existed. What would any archaeologist think about destroying it?
‘There’s no way you could retain even the tiniest bit?’ he asked.
‘Well,’ Mackie said, dubiously. ‘That would depend on its size and age. But unlikely.’
Ross stood, thinking hard. Could he do this? Could he take the responsibility – and the gamble? ‘You’d do the work for me as a private client?’ he asked, finally.
‘Yes.’
‘How much would you charge?’
Ross held his breath, worried that the man was going to come back with a figure that was out of reach.
‘Well, I can’t give you an exact figure, that would depend on how much work is involved. But the ball-park would be between three to five hundred pounds for each item.’
Ross felt a surge of relief. ‘How quickly could you do this?’
‘We’re open pretty much around the clock. If you brought it in today we could probably get results back to you by sometime tomorrow, certainly within forty-eight hours.’
‘I’m in Europe at the moment, flying back to the UK tomorrow. You’re in Kingston?’
‘We are.’
Ross thought for a moment. The security company where he had placed the cup in a safety deposit box shut at 6 p.m. If his flight was reasonably on schedule, he would be back in the UK by around 2 p.m. By the time he had retrieved his car and got on the road it would be 2.30 and then, depending on the traffic, he should just about make it in time. But then it would take him a couple of hours, he estimated, to battle through the London rush-hour traffic to Kingston.
‘I could be with you by early evening tomorrow,’ he said.
‘I’ll tell my colleague, Jolene Thomas, to expect you, Mr Hunter.’
Ross thanked him.
54
Thursday, 9 March
Ross’s flight back to London was delayed over an hour, and then he was stuck in a tailback on the M25 motorway because of an accident. By the time he arrived at the U-Store Self-Storage warehouse, close to Shoreham Harbour, the sole, surly employee in the office was clearly in the process of closing up for the night and greeted his arrival, at less than ten minutes to 6 p.m., with a stony stare.
Ross apologized, signed the register, dating it and writing down his time in, then walked to the steel-shuttered door and entered his security code on the pad beside it. As it clattered up, he ducked under and entered the chilly, cavernous interior of the warehouse, with rows of locked steel doors, all padlocked, down each side and along the far end.
He found his number, 478, which he had protected with two sturdy padlocks. One had a six-figure combination, which he opened, and the other required a key. He inserted and turned it, feeling the cams of the well-oiled lock revolving smoothly.
He pulled open the heavy metal door and removed the bundle of cloth containing the cup, but left the two halves of the oak container in situ. Then he relocked the unit and, hiding the bundle beneath his bomber jacket, signed out and hurried back to his Audi in the empty customer car park.
He texted Imogen to tell her he was back in the UK and would hopefully be home as soon as he could this evening, around 9 p.m.
As he drove out of the entrance gates, two nondescript saloon cars were waiting for him, both parked a short distance along the road. One was pointing east, on the same side of the road as himself,
the other west, on the far side. They were part of the surveillance team of eight vehicles that had tailed him here from the airport.
A small van slowed and flashed his lights. Ross pulled out, waving a thank you, and turned left, east, heading toward the A27 and from there to the A23. Thirty minutes later he was creeping north on the A23 in heavy, rush-hour traffic.
For the next hour and a half, as he continued through mostly crawling traffic, he passed the time by alternately listening to the news, and a recent George Ezra album, and thinking. All the time, mindful someone could be following him, he kept a careful watch in his mirrors. Watching for one pair of headlights that might remain steadily behind him. But to his relief, the lights behind him changed frequently.
His thoughts kept returning to the message that had appeared on Imogen’s laptop. The attack on him in Egypt. Was it really worth the risk of carrying on? The risk to Imogen and their baby?
He thought back to his meeting with the Bishop of Monmouth. Benedict Carmichael had, in his own gentle way, attempted to warn and dissuade him.
Then he thought back to his grandfather. He had never been close to him as a child, but had visited every day during his last weeks in Brighton’s Martlets Hospice. Bill Hunter had been a deeply unhappy man, with a whole raft of unfulfilled dreams, and long separated from his wife, who had left him then died in a car crash with her new lover. The last conversation he’d had with his grandfather had always stayed with him.
Ross, your dad and you are all I have left in the world – and all I have to leave. I was afraid to follow my dreams and took the secure path – well, the one I thought was secure. I’ve learned too late that security is an illusion, a dream we chase. Nothing matters, does it? Nothing except the one most important thing. That we don’t die with all our dreams still inside us. Don’t let anyone or anything ever stop you from doing what you believe in. That’s the only thing that matters. I’d have lived my life very differently if only I’d had the courage. I’m going to die knowing I’m a failure, that I never amounted to anything. Promise me that whatever happens in your life, you will matter. That, in whatever small way you do it, you’ll make a difference to the world.
