by James Becker
Je-tsun looked at the pain-racked face of the man he’d known for decades and shook his head. He knew that the injury was life-threatening simply because of the blood loss, but there was more to it than that. The bandits were known to smear the tips of their arrows with poison or excrement and, even if the wound wasn’t fatal in itself, there was a good chance that infection would follow in the days to come, killing the victim more slowly but just as surely.
Akar stared at Je-tsun, knowledge of the reality of his situation written on his face. He nodded slowly, lifted his right hand and seized the other man’s arm. ‘Make it quick, my friend,’ he said. Then he leaned back on the rocky ground and closed his eyes.
Je-tsun nodded in his turn, drew a short dagger from the scabbard at his belt and swiftly drove it into Akar’s chest, straight through his heart. The man on the ground shuddered once, then lay still, his features growing slack as the pain ebbed away for the last time.
About half an hour later, the small caravan, now three men down, moved off again. For the rest of the journey the remaining men neither saw nor met anyone else, and finally they reached their destination, high up the valley, just after sunset.
Je-tsun ordered torches lit, then sent two of his men inside to check the structure thoroughly, and to ensure that nobody else had taken refuge there, though at that altitude it was unlikely. They emerged a few minutes later, to report that the place was exactly as it had been the previous year, when they’d found it for the first time, and when they’d spent almost six months preparing it, a task that had proved to be physically demanding and had also required considerable ingenuity.
Je-tsun nodded in satisfaction. He ordered the yaks to be unhitched from the cart and had them turned loose, together with the remaining donkeys. They wouldn’t need those animals again. But the two camels were tethered securely on a patch of level ground nearby, where scrubby bushes would provide them with something to eat.
The men removed all the furs and other goods from the cart to expose the heavy wooden crate, lifted it between them and carried it into the entrance, where they laid it on the ground. Then they lit more torches to provide enough light to start their work. Baulks of timber had been piled against the opposite wall, and it took over an hour to remove them all, and to reveal the inner chamber.
Before they entered, Je-tsun walked in and inspected it. The small room was almost square, and for obvious reasons devoid of windows or any other openings. At one end was what looked almost like an altar, an oblong shape made from hewn chunks of solid stone, the gaps between them filled with some kind of mortar, and the top covered with half a dozen slabs of stone.
The men picked up the heavy box again, carried it into the chamber and set it down beside the stone structure. Je-tsun issued another order, and his men began removing the slabs, leaning the heavy pieces of stone against the wall. Their actions revealed that the structure was completely empty, just an oblong cavity formed from shaped rocks. When they’d removed the last slab, Je-tsun peered inside, ran the tips of his fingers along the inner surfaces and nodded in satisfaction.
Building this cavity of stone had been one of the tasks he and his men had carried out the previous year, and his only concern had been the possibility of damp inside it, because their treasure was very fragile. But he could detect no signs of moisture on the cold stones that formed the cavity, the structure that would be the last resting place of the wooden box and its precious contents.
Getting the box inside the stone cavity was not going to be easy, just because of its size and weight, but they had foreseen the problem and Je-tsun had come up with a simple and effective solution.
One of his men laid three short lengths of wood in the base of the stone structure, to provide a platform on which the box could rest. Then, together, the six men lifted the box up to waist height, and then lowered it on to the top of the stone structure so that it lay across the opening. They slung heavy ropes underneath it, looped the ropes around their shoulders and, when Je-tsun gave the order, lifted the box again just using the ropes. They shuffled awkwardly around, manoeuvring the wooden box until it lined up exactly with the opening, then lowered it carefully into the structure.
Once it was resting on the floor, they pulled out the ropes from underneath it. Then they carefully replaced each stone slab on the top of the stone structure, sealing the cavity again.
Once he was satisfied that it was properly sealed, Je-tsun took a hammer and chisel and, in the middle of the central slab, carved two symbols that, in the Tibetan dialect, equated to the letters ‘YA’. Each of the men touched the carving once, then all but one filed slowly out of the chamber – that man had a single final task to perform. Then they closed the door for the last time.
It was too late to complete their task that night, so they ate some of their provisions and drank a little wine before wrapping themselves in the furs and sleeping as best they could on the cold and rocky floor.
The following morning they rose to finish their work. Concealing the entrance to the inner chamber took a couple of hours, but when they’d finished the result was impressive. Without knowledge of what was hidden there, nobody would have any idea that it even existed.
Je-tsun inspected the result and expressed his satisfaction.
‘We have done well,’ he told the men who’d followed him on this, their final mission. ‘Now it is time.’
The men filed outside and followed Je-tsun up the valley floor to the edge of a cliff, where a deep gully split the rock.
As they approached the edge, the man known as Sonam moved a little to one side, his expression troubled.
‘Is this necessary, Je-tsun?’ he asked. ‘You have all been loyal to me and to our master. Such loyalty should not have to be rewarded in this way.’
The older man shook his head. ‘We would not speak out willingly, my lord, but we know not what the future holds, and this is the only way we can be certain the secret will be preserved.’
Sonam shook his head. ‘I cannot witness this,’ he muttered. ‘I will leave you now.’
He stepped forward and clasped Je-tsun around the shoulders, then turned and walked away without a backward glance, down the slope to where the two camels were grazing contentedly.
Behind him, he heard the first cry of pain as Je-tsun began the willing slaughter of his faithful and trusting companions.
England
1
Present day
2 a.m. Total darkness. Oliver Wendell-Carfax was wide awake. An unusual noise had echoed through the house – Carfax Hall was old and creaked at the seams – but for the moment he couldn’t identify it. Maybe a window catch had sprung, or perhaps he hadn’t closed one of the doors properly and a draught had moved it?
He lay completely still in the ancient four-poster bed he’d slept in since he’d reached adulthood, eyes wide open and staring up at the ceiling – the bed’s canopy had vanished long ago.
Then he heard it again. A scraping, rattling sound that he knew instantly wasn’t caused by a door or window banging. Somebody was in the house, moving things around, searching for something.
Wendell-Carfax had lived alone all his life. He’d never married and the days when he could afford live-in staff were long gone. He’d had burglars in the place twice before, both times kids from the local village, looking for something they could grab and sell to pay for cigarettes or alcohol or drugs. Each time he’d taken care of the problem himself because he knew if he called the police they’d take at least an hour to get to him, and wouldn’t do much when they arrived.
He heaved himself out of the bed, pulled a dressing gown around his thin frame and grabbed his walking stick from the chair beside him. Trying to move as quietly as possible, he made his way along the corridor to the head of the central staircase. There he stopped, staring down towards the ground floor. Somebody had switched on the lights in the grand salon.
Not only did he have burglars, he had cheeky burglars.
Hol
ding the end of his walking stick, so that he could use it as a club if he had to, he crept down the stairs to the hall and walked slowly across to the partially open door of the salon.
He peered through the gap into the room, and almost muttered his displeasure aloud. Somebody – Wendell-Carfax could only see the figure from behind – was sitting in his favourite chair beside the empty fireplace, smoking a cigarette and tapping the ash on to the carpet.
Wendell-Carfax straightened up, changed his grip slightly on his walking stick and opened the door. He raised the stick, fully intending to bring it crashing down on the head of the intruder – and froze. An ugly black automatic pistol was pointing right at him.
‘Sit down,’ the stranger said, his voice little more than a sibilant whisper. He gestured towards the chair in front of him.
He was stockily built, about forty or fifty years of age, and there was an air of confidence, of menace, about him that was frightening in its intensity. He had tanned skin and black hair, and his eyes were so dark they almost seemed to have no pupils. But it wasn’t the man’s face that most arrested Wendell-Carfax’s attention – it was what he was wearing.
‘You’re—’ he began.
‘Be quiet,’ the man said softly, but there was no mistaking the power his words conveyed. ‘You have something I want and I’ve come to collect it.’
‘What is it?’ Wendell-Carfax demanded. ‘And who the hell are you?’
The stranger stood up, and stepped across to where Wendell-Carfax was standing.
The old man raised his walking stick threateningly, but the stranger brushed aside his pitiful weapon and with the fluid power and casual malevolence of a striking snake, he smashed the barrel of his pistol into the older man’s stomach.
Wendell-Carfax folded at the waist, gasping for breath, as a second blow crashed into the back of his neck.
* * *
Consciousness returned slowly and painfully. His stomach and his neck ached, but the greatest pain Oliver Wendell-Carfax was feeling was in his wrists and arms – an aching, tugging sensation. When he looked up, he saw the reason.
His attacker had dragged him out into the hall, looped a thin rope over the banister rail of the main staircase, tied the end of it around his wrists and then hauled him upright, securing the rope around another banister. He was suspended, his toes barely touching the floor, completely helpless. Already he had lost almost all feeling in his hands. But that wasn’t his biggest problem.
In front of him, the stranger sat in one of the chairs he’d obviously brought from the salon. His face was calm and relaxed.
‘Who are you?’ Wendell-Carfax demanded again, his voice made harsh by pain and fear.
The stranger bent down and picked up a leather whip from the floor. It was a handle with about a dozen thongs attached to it, and at the end of each was the glint of steel. He walked across to the suspended figure, stepped slightly behind him and swung the whip at the old man’s back.
The pain was shocking, sudden and overwhelming, a red ribbon of agony that stretched the whole width of Wendell-Carfax’s unprotected back. He howled in pain, his body arcing forwards. He felt a sudden dampness as he lost control of his bladder.
The stranger swung the scourge again, sending a second bolt of pain lancing through the old man’s thin frame. Then he walked back, resumed his seat and waited until Wendell-Carfax stopped screaming.
‘I’ll ask the questions,’ the stranger said, his voice still soft and controlled. ‘The scourge will encourage you to speak the truth, as it has done through the ages.’
Wendell-Carfax nodded.
‘I want the parchment,’ the man said. ‘You know the one I mean.’
‘I don’t have it,’ Wendell-Carfax gasped.
‘Don’t play games with me. I know it’s here. Somewhere.’
‘You don’t understand—’
‘No, you don’t,’ the man said, raising his voice very slightly. ‘I will have that parchment, wherever it is.’ He took two swift strides forward and again swung the leather scourge.
Wendell-Carfax shrieked in pain, then sobbed his agony.
The man stepped in front of Wendell-Carfax again. ‘I can do this all night. The scourge will cut you to shreds unless you tell me what I want to know. Where’s the parchment?’
‘I don’t have it,’ Wendell-Carfax whispered. ‘It’s gone.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It fell to pieces. It was two thousand years old. My father didn’t know how to look after it. It discoloured, then it just fell apart years ago. It’s gone for ever.’
For the first time the stranger’s expressionless face changed. It was as if a cloud passed across his eyes, to be replaced by a kind of cold fury.
‘You stupid, stupid old fool. Didn’t you know what you had in your hands?’
Once more he stepped behind Wendell-Carfax and swung the whip, again and again, the old man’s thin pyjamas turning deep red as the skin of his back split open.
The assault stopped as suddenly as it had begun, leaving Wendell-Carfax dazed and barely conscious, bleeding from dozens of wounds, his back flaring with the agony of ripped skin and torn flesh. Then Wendell-Carfax felt a new pain as a hand grabbed what little hair remained on his scalp and pulled his head up.
‘But you copied it?’ the stranger demanded. ‘Your father must have made a copy of the parchment?’
‘Yes.’ Wendell-Carfax’s voice was slurred and faint, his eyes virtually closed. ‘Yes, he did.’
‘Where is it?’
Wendell-Carfax’s mouth moved but no sound emerged.
‘Where is it? Say that again.’ The stranger stepped closer to Wendell-Carfax, turning his head so that his ear was virtually touching the old man’s lips.
Wendell-Carfax’s eyes flickered open, and in that instant he knew what he should do.
‘It’s . . .’ he began, the words scarcely audible, and the stranger leaned closer still. Then Wendell-Carfax bit down on the stranger’s ear with all the strength he could muster. Blood spurted into his mouth and he felt his teeth meet through the thin flesh.
The stranger howled his own agony. He dropped the leather scourge and jerked away involuntarily and, as the flesh of his ear tore further, the pain reached a new crescendo. He reached up to Wendell-Carfax’s face, trying desperately to force the old man’s jaws apart, but he couldn’t reach, couldn’t get a purchase.
But he had to get free.
He swung his fist, hitting Wendell-Carfax in the stomach, but the blow was badly aimed and weak, and had no apparent effect. So he hit him again, and again, until at last he managed to land a solid punch on the old man’s solar plexus.
Wendell-Carfax gasped with the pain, and his jaw muscles relaxed, allowing the stranger to escape.
‘You bastard,’ the stranger snapped. He grabbed the whip and swung it savagely against Wendell-Carfax’s body, lashing him mercilessly.
But even as the first blows landed, Wendell-Carfax’s face changed. A kind of spasm, a rictus of agony resonated through him, and a sudden gripping, clenching pain exploded in the centre of his chest. And in that instant, at the very last moment of his life, Oliver Wendell-Carfax knew he’d achieved a kind of victory, knew he’d defeated the violent psychopath facing him.
He gasped a breath, grunted once and his head slumped to one side. Finally he hung motionless, his eyes wide open, the grimace on his face slowly softening.
Cursing softly, the stranger stood still, his gaze locked on the body of the elderly man he’d travelled so many thousands of miles to find. Then he shrugged, swung the scourge once more across Wendell-Carfax’s chest – a last, pointless act of violence – before folding it up and putting it into his pocket. He needed to refocus.
Three hours later, he gave up his search. Wherever the copy of the parchment had been hidden, he couldn’t find it, and now dawn was approaching. He had to get away from the house before anyone – a gardener or a cook – turned up.
; His best hope was that the copy of the ancient parchment would never be discovered. If it was, he’d have to recover it at any cost, even if it meant killing those who got in his way.
2
‘This really isn’t my field, Roger,’ Angela Lewis said, irritation showing in her voice.
‘You work with ceramics.’
‘I’m a conservator, not an assessor. My job is putting the broken pieces back together again. You need a specialist, somebody who can identify and value the relics – someone like Jane or Catherine.’
Roger Halliwell leaned back in his swivel chair and looked at his subordinate across his cluttered desk.
‘I can’t spare either of them,’ he said simply. ‘They’re both working on important projects for me here at the museum.’ Halliwell lifted his arm in an all-encompassing gesture that appeared to include the entire premises of the British Museum, rather than just his fairly small section of it. His domain encompassed only pottery and ceramics, and he was in nominal charge of a small staff of about a dozen people.
‘More important than anything I’m doing, you mean?’ Angela snapped.
‘You said it, Angela, not me.’ Halliwell sat forward and rested his hands on his desk. ‘Look, I never intended to ask you to do this. Jane was supposed to be the ceramics expert on this team, but something else came up on Friday afternoon and I’ve had to re-assign her. Right now, there’s nobody else here with enough experience to do the job.’
He smiled at her across the desk. ‘I know it’s not your specialization, but you certainly know enough about ceramics to identify the pieces that have any real value. All I want you to do is be a part of the team we’re sending to the estate and separate the good stuff from the dross. We don’t need you to assign accurate values. That can be done later, when whoever ends up in charge of this decides what to do.’
‘So you want me to do a sort of ceramics triage?’
