by Bill Napier
'Weh yuh ah luk fah, sah?'
Debbie gave a little scream and I nearly jumped out of my skin. A boy of about fourteen was standing behind us, holding a jamjar of water with big transparent shrimps swimming inside it.
'You gave me a fright,' Debbie said. It was an understatement.
Zola said, 'Have the archaeologists been here long?'
'Mi granpa wi no bout dat. Cum yah so.'
We followed the boy along the track. There was an isolated house in a field, with a porch and a corrugated iron roof. He opened the door and waved us in. 'Weh Grampa?'
There was a fit of coughing from the back of the house and an elderly man with walking stick appeared. He said something incomprehensible, but waved us in welcomingly. The boy went ahead and disappeared in the direction of a cooking smell from the back of the house.
The living room was small and lit by a single naked bulb hanging from the low ceiling. A television took up one corner and there were a few boxes with cushions and a single armchair. There was a sideboard with family photographs and a couple of candles. On the wall above the sideboard was a mirror. To the left of the mirror, sellotaped on the wall, was a picture of Haile Selassie cut from a magazine, and to the right, hanging on nails, was the True Cross.
There was a raised female voice from the kitchen: 'Yu too damn likky likky cum out a di kitchen. Go ketch sum wauta.'
The silver frame of the medieval description was gone. There were holes where, presumably, precious stones had once been. The three parts of the triptych were still together, however. On the two outer parts, faded but still recognisable, were two paintings. On the left was a mother and child. She had the enlarged eyes, elongated face and thin pointed chin of the Byzantium artists. The right-hand panel depicted Christ on the Cross. The centre part was plain. Recessed into its wood was another piece of wood, a rectangle about six inches by twelve. It was old and gnarled, like a piece of driftwood. Or like a piece of wood two thousand years old.
Apart from the missing silver and jewels, it was just as Ogilvie had described it.
The old man reacted to our stunned faces as if he had been struck. 'Dat neva cum from di dig,' he said in an outraged, defensive tone. 'Hi inna di family fi ah long time.'
Debbie said, 'I'd like to buy it from you.'
'Ow much?'
'A hundred US dollars.'
'As far back as mi gran puppa,' he said. And probably a lot further, I thought.
'I can go to two hundred US, but don't ask me for more.'
'Mi gi yuh it fah three hunner dallar.'
'It's a deal.' Debbie spoke coolly. She turned her back, fumbled in her sweater, and when she turned round again she had a stack of American dollars in her hand. Zola and I exchanged the briefest of glances. Zola's face was white; I felt my own wet with sweat.
Grandpa suddenly grinned. 'Neva did like it.'
The triptych was held in place by nails through the holes where gemstones had once been. The old man leaned his walking stick against the sideboard, eased the relic from the wall and handed it over to Debbie. It folded easily. She tucked it under her arm and counted out the cash, putting a note at a time into Grandpa's extended hand. It took a hundred years. When she finished I became aware that I hadn't been breathing. I gulped air.
He waved at us from the doorway. 'She ah wan tuff bargaina,' he called into the dark. He was using irony in the Socratic style, Ogilvie would have said.
'This doesn't seem right.' Zola's voice came from the dark. 'It's as if we're cheating the man.'
'I am Deborah Inez Tebbit and this has been in my family for a thousand years. This is my property. It's mine.'
I'm breaking into a sweat. I can't take it in. I can't believe we have it. All we need to do is reach the car and clear off. We are literally seconds away from pulling it off. The others are thinking the same. We walk briskly; and then we trot; and then we break into a run.
Past the Spanish church; over the little bridge, water trickling underneath; the car just visible in the dark, about thirty yards ahead. Almost there. We keep our torches off. Debbie is ahead of me, fumbling with keys. I look around, peering into the trees. We're going to pull this off! We really are going to pull this off! Debbie is still fumbling. I see moonlight reflecting from the windscreen of a car a hundred yards or so further up the hill; it's almost hidden behind a ruin. I just have time to open my mouth before a voice, speaking good Mediterranean English, comes from behind us, from the little church we have just passed. 'Thank you all, most sincerely. I would never have found it without you.' And we are lit up in the beams of four torches, neatly coming from the cardinal points of the compass: north, south, east and west.
CHAPTER 38
'It's not like forensic entomology, for example.'
The Professor - at least that's what I'm mentally calling him - is looking at the triptych laid out on the table in front of him. He is scanning the wood with a large magnifying glass, and droning on about wood and DNA. I place him in some third-rate North England university, stretching his minimal talents into a zero career and getting his professorship, if he has one, through his adeptness at screwing funds out of public trusts and councils.
They had expected us to escape, wanted us to. They had followed us without lights, a convoy of cars along the dark coastal road, all the way to the Sevilla la Nueva plantation. Hondros had taken the icon out of Debbie's hands: a thousand years in her family and she had held it for less than a minute. The cars had appeared from odd corners and we had been bundled into them, a car each. The convoy had taken us through the dark night, back through Ocho Rios, back along the deserted coastal road, back towards the Lego house. I sat between two men I'd never seen. Both were smoking heavily, but the nausea I was feeling wasn't altogether due to the smoke. The Lego house was easily seen, even in the dark; its whitewashed walls were glowing faintly in the starlight. The big motor boat was still in the lagoon, and again I had some brief fantasy idea about jumping into it and escaping into the wide ocean.
And now the electricity is restored and the stabbed, brained and electrocuted men are gone - dumped in the sea, probably - and we are sitting on the living room couch, which, being low, we have to struggle to get out of; any idea of a sudden leap is out of the question. And there are fresh people, again, I think, all Greek, or at least Mediterranean in origin. 'Inspector Menem' is with us; he has a gun in each hand, which seems excessive for three unarmed captives. And in the opposite corner a young black man with dreadlocks is rolling a large joint. I presume he's a local contact who supplied the guns, as easily obtainable in Jamaica as a packet of cigarettes. Cassandra catches my eye and gives me that cold smile.
Hondros and the Professor are about ten feet away, on the far side of the table. Cassandra in one corner, and the young black Jamaican in the other, are each about fifteen feet away from us. Debbie, on my left, is breathing in big gulps. I feel a sense of helpless rage, mixed with guilt, that she should find herself in this position. She is trying hard to keep herself under control.
The Professor's drone reaches its conclusion, delivered with all the smug certainty of a mediocre mind. Hondros asks for confirmation: 'It could be the Holy Relic?'
The Professor nods. 'Of course proper verification would require carbon-14 dating.' He smiles triumphantly. 'But I can safely rule out some sort of elaborate modern forgery.'
It's our death sentence.
'Thank you, Doctor.' Hondros folds the triptych shut. ‘I think you can leave us now. Cassandra, would you see to the Doctor's fee?'
The Professor gives a slight bow of his head. 'I would like to be well clear of this island before' - he glances briefly in our direction - 'before there is any unpleasantness.'
Hondros smiles smoothly. 'Have no fear, Doctor. You will be long gone before anything happens here.' Cassandra walks slowly across the room.
He gives us another glance, this one slightly anxious. 'They have seen my face, you know.'
'Doctor, you have absolutely no worries in that dir
ection.' She raises her gun.
At first the Professor doesn't take it in. When it finally becomes obvious, when Casssandra's finger is tightening on the trigger, he gives a high-pitched, complaining cry and raises his hands as if to ward off the bullet. There is a harsh Bang! and he suddenly becomes an inert weight and drops to the ground, his head cracking against the marble floor. A splodge of red, centred on his chest, begins to run down his tie and shirt. Cassandra says, 'Doctor Kaplan has been paid.' She says it calmly. Next to me, Debbie is sobbing quietly. The red blood makes a little puddle, begins to spread over the floor.
Hondros scratches his head. 'He did like to talk.'
'You people are inhuman.' I know it's wrong to say it. I know you don't provoke, don't draw attention to yourself. I just can't help it.
Hondros pays no attention. 'And that, ladies and gentlemen, would seem to be that.'
There is some Greek chatter. Someone is cracking a joke and there are glances in Debbie's direction. The young black man takes up his weapon and looks at us through the smoke with narrowed eyes. If I dive under the table I will have momentary protection. I'll pull Hondros off his feet, go for his gun and point it at his head. While the armed gang are thinking about that, Debbie and Zola will clear out. I know it's stupid. I know it's a zero-hope tactic. But what else is there on offer?
I wonder about old-fashioned pleading for mercy but dismiss the thought: the tactic would have had more chance with the vultures.
'What now?' My words come out almost as a croak.
Hondros glances at his watch. 'Time is short, for all of us. I want to be off this wretched island and safely back in Europe by tomorrow. Now, who should we dispose of first? You, Blake? Or would you rather see your friends go, prolonging your own pathetic life by a few seconds?'
I can't speak. He snaps, 'Answer now.'
'It's probably best if I go last. Save distressing the others.'
'How noble. Cassandra, dispatch Mr Harry Blake first.'
Debbie's mobile phone rings. There is a stunned silence. Everyone in the room is on their feet, except for Debbie, Zola and me. Debbie says, 'I'm expecting a call.' Her recovery of composure, her presence of mind, amaze me.
Cassandra says, 'Ignore it.' She swivels her revolver from me to Debbie.
The mobile keeps ringing.
And suddenly I know what's coming. I know it with certainty, with crystal clear certainty. My heart is hammering in my chest. She says, 'I have to answer the phone. They're expecting it.'
'Who?' Hondros is bristling with suspicion and alarm.
'Special Branch,' I say, desperately trying for an air of conviction. 'They're expecting us to call around now.' Say anything, any rubbish to keep them focused on the mobile, anything to keep their attention away from the French windows. The urge to look at the windows - even a glance - is almost overwhelming, and I have to force myself to keep my eyes on Hondros. I'm screaming inside, waiting for it to happen. Cassandra approaches Debbie, gun in hand, waiting for the word. Not just Cassandra: there are seven guns pointing at us, the click of hammers being cocked everywhere.
And then it happens.
The French windows shatter. At the same instant that three men burst through them, another two rush through the kitchen and bedroom doors. They have flak jackets up to their necks, black helmets and ugly black carbines. Cassandra opens her mouth to scream but the carbines roar and her body collapses lifeless to the floor. The carbines keep roaring. The young black man, joint dropping from his mouth, is emptying his gun into the armed Greeks.
Zola's fingers are digging deep into my forearm.
Hondros alone is left standing, his gun on the table, a fine spray of Cassandra's blood over its surface. People are bawling at him: 'Armed police! Freeze!'
He seems not to hear. He looks at the True Cross, says, 'I ecclisia trefete me to ema ton martyron.'
'On the floor!'
He turns to me. There's some sort of expression in his eyes, some sort of fire, but I don't understand it. He says, 'Makari o Theos na sou sterisi Galini kai Iremia.'
'Face down! Spreadeagle!'
And without haste, he reaches for the gun on the table.
Five carbines roar simultaneously. Hondros's face and chest disintegrate and hunks of brain and flesh and splinters of white bone splatter against the wall and the Jamaican artwork behind him. A vase shatters into powder, a picture falls from the wall, riddled with holes. The momentum of the bullets drives him backwards and his smashed body hits the floor and slides across it, leaving a bright red smear. I lose my hearing, and it's some seconds before I become aware that Debbie is screaming.
CHAPTER 39
Another convoy took us through the same dark night. This time it turned left at Ochi, taking us into the interior of the island. The headlights occasionally lit up houses and shops, protected behind wrought iron. In between, there were long stretches of nothing. I had no idea what to expect at the end of the journey. I was squeezed between two policemen, still with flak jackets and helmets and carbines between their knees. They were effectively mute. The driver chain-smoked all the way. I shook for the whole journey and told myself it was just a reaction.
The journey ended at a modestly-sized blue and white building. There was a lot of door slamming as Dalton, Debbie, Zola and I stepped out of our separate cars and stretched our legs, and I took in lungfuls of fresh night air with relief. A white-on-blue notice said: Jamaica Constabulary Bog Walk. It was two o'clock in the morning but the place was as busy as a Saturday market.
Debbie, full of tears, threw her arms round Dalton and buried her head in his shoulder.
'Nice one, Dalton.'
'They told us you were dead,' Zola said.
Dalton grinned and gently disengaged Debbie. 'They exaggerated, Zola. But you already knew that, didn't you, Harry?'
'I guessed it. But how did you find us?' I asked. 'And how did you infiltrate them?'
Dalton put a finger to his lips. He ushered us round to the car park at the side of the building. People were tossing flak jackets and helmets into cars, and carbines were being loaded into a Ford Transit van. There was a lot of animated chatter and some laughing.
'They needed guns. They couldn't import them so they acquired them locally. It was a couple of days before we located the supplier and at that point all we had to do was quietly arrest him. They were looking for someone to clean up the house after they'd gone, get rid of the guns and so on. Enter Dalton, the supplier's friend, looking for a few hundred US.'
'That sounds highly dangerous,' I said lamely. 'They could have recognised you.'
'They'd never seen me close up.'
'I nearly didn't recognise you,' Debbie said. 'Those dreadlocks.'
Dalton grinned. 'I told you. I keep them in a box.' We drifted towards the porch; sweaty policemen were milling around us.
I asked, 'How did they find us at Moonlight Chalets?'
'They must have followed you, Harry. What else?' Dalton lowered his voice. 'We'd tapped the lawyer's phone and we knew about your meeting. He'd been duped into arranging it.' He added, 'But we lost you after the raid. That was worrying. It took GCHQ to locate you.'
'I'm tired, Dalton. I don't get it.'
'We had a team scouring the island, but it was pretty desperate.' He hesitated and then said, 'Well, Harry, the technique's in the public domain, and I guess you'd work it out sooner or later. Hondros used a mobile phone. We picked up his calls by satellite. London have some pretty smart voice recognition software. It took a few calls to pin him down. Then it was down to a regular police operation.'
'Seven dead is a regular police operation?' Zola asked.
'It seems so. The people who rescued you are the Crime Management Unit. They're used to coping with heavily armed gangs.' He lowered his voice. 'Their human rights record makes Ghengis Khan look like Snow White. But at least they got to us.'
'In the nick of time,' Zola said. 'What would you have done if they hadn't, Dalton?'
'There was no Plan B. I was just praying along with you.'
'So, when did you first start tracking us?' I asked.
'Just after Sevilla la Nueva. Hondros used his mobile in the car to tell his pals they had you. By the way, that gave us another lovely bonus. They had several teams out here, scouring the island for you. Thirty people in all, in four villas from Negril to San Antonio. The Jamaica Constabulary are bringing them in now.'
Debbie was still shaky, but there was determination in her voice. 'The police have taken the True Cross. They're calling it material evidence or something.'
Zola said, 'They can't have it. Not after all we've been through.'
Dalton frowned. 'Unfortunately, it is material evidence.'
'But they could hold onto it for months.'
'Years, Debbie. The judicial system moves slowly in Jamaica. We might never see it at all.' He thought for some moments. Then: 'I'd like to try something.'
We followed Dalton into a crowded backroom. Half a dozen telephones had been installed. The room was filled with the smell of sweat, cigarette smoke and coffee; the phones were ringing constantly. Through the open door we saw a car draw up. A door was opened and a high-ranking, bleary-eyed policeman stepped out. I knew he was high-ranking from the air of deference around him, and from the swagger of the man. He fixed a sideways stare on me as he strode into the room. He had bulging eyes and heavy lids and there was only one possible name for him: Mr Lizard. It was a natural. He began a quiet conversation with the local police sergeant.
Dalton pulled out a little diary and dialled a number. He jabbed a finger at two telephones. Debbie lifted one, Zola and I shared the other. An elderly female voice answered: 'Yes.'
'I'd like to speak to Sir Joseph, please.'
'I'm sorry, but he's asleep.'
'Would you waken him up, please?'
'I beg your pardon?'
'Tell him that Dalton is calling.'
There was a long hesitation, and a touch of ice in the voice when she replied. 'One moment, please.'
There was the sound of footsteps coming and going, and then Sir Joseph came on the line: 'Dalton? Do you have it?'
