The Cromwell Deception

by John Paul Davis

  Gillian could tell from Jérôme’s face that he was panicked. The clarity of the sound, still echoing as it pierced the gaps in the door, meant one of only two things: either his men had let loose at someone, or someone else had let loose at them.

  Either way, why?

  Jérôme’s expression suggested he suspected outsiders.

  Ten metres away, Alain had slammed the door shut and was standing with his back to it. François joined him from the vault, peering out through the small cracks in the wood where he had broken the lock.

  “This is a trap,” Jérôme said, facing Gillian and Nat, the gun in his hand. “You attempt to stitch us up.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” Nat replied, raising his hands level with his eye line. “Our only interest was the safe return of the paintings.”

  Gillian felt a sudden onset of panic. Even if they had called the police in advance, thus compromising the return of the paintings, the last thing she expected was a shoot-out. Was Edmund involved? No, she decided.

  He didn’t have a gun.

  François emerged along the south aisle, armed and clearly fuming. He had that distinctive look in his eye, not quite homicidal but potentially dangerous. She saw him look at her, his attention alternating between her, Nat and Cooper.

  “Move,” François barked. “All of you, against the wall.”

  Gillian complied, staying close to Nat. Cooper joined her to the right, shaking from head to toe. She wondered what he was thinking; she wanted to ask but couldn’t. A thought entered her mind.

  If Mrs Cooper was up north, who was watching Megan?

  Jérôme took a deep breath and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. The jewels were still in the vault; he decided they were safe there for now. He barked at Alain in fluent French, asking what he had seen.

  Alain had seen nothing.

  He returned to the chapel where François was standing, keeping guard over them with a gun in his outstretched hand. He rubbed his bearded chin with his stubby fingers as he agonised over his next move.

  He looked at Gillian and Nat and ordered,

  “Drop the paintings.”

  41

  The bullet whistled past Edmund’s shoulder, grazing the stone, but, thankfully, not his skin. Though he didn’t hear it, he certainly felt it. The yellow blaze had come from approximately twenty metres away, about twenty degrees south of the main door. A second shot followed; how on earth could anyone get so close and miss? Then a third, this time from the north. A second shooter was close by, presumably the Falcon. Looking over his shoulder, he saw a silhouette skirting the west wall, taking refuge behind a headstone.

  Edmund needed to move. Crouching, he headed south toward the first shooter. He stopped and looked but saw nothing – the worst possible scenario. The sounds had also died down. He expected clues, a presence, footsteps, a silhouette on one of the walls…

  He dived between two tombstones, narrowly avoiding a bullet from behind. The Falcon was following him, clearly closer than the west wall. Staying low he surveyed the area and saw movement close to the church. He rose above the tombstone and fired a volley in quick succession. At least two had caught the Falcon around the shoulders, enough to take him down.

  Perhaps more.

  Gunfire followed from across the churchyard. Sparks flew off a nearby headstone, followed by the scampering of feet. Goatee was heading east, the darkest part of the graveyard. Edmund could see the man’s dark silhouette darting quickly from stone to stone. The impressive pace in such low light again suggested that Goatee had tools he could only dream of.

  The ability to see in the dark.

  Cliff couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The voice was that of a little girl, almost certainly no older than ten.

  He stuttered, frozen with fear, but finally managed to speak. Hearing no reply, he tried again in a low, hoarse whisper. He needed to raise his voice, but knew that could attract attention. The windows of the nearby houses remained unlit.

  The girl was still shouting, one single word, “Help!” Amidst the shouting, he found something familiar. An Essex twang, a whiny pitch.

  Megan.

  “Megan. Megan.” Cliff tried the doors, but each one was locked. “Megan, I need you to unlock the door.”

  No clear response. Just more shouting. He figured if the car was like most of its age, it could be unlocked by pulling on the handle of the driver’s side door, but if so, the gunmen were taking an awful chance.

  Most likely she was tied up.

  Cliff knew he had only one option. Returning to the Ford, he opened the boot and looked for something substantial. The first thing he saw was a jack, small but perhaps enough to take out a window.

  He lined the jack up with the front passenger-side door and aimed at the glass.

  One. Two. Three.

  Edmund had taken a tumble. Pursuing an enemy in the dark, his route blocked by tombstones and carrying inferior equipment, was a risk, but one he knew was now impossible to avoid. He felt a sharp impact on his right shin, an unseen stone that had caught him unaware.

  He rose to his feet, staying low. Agile, but compact. The recent patter of footsteps on grass had disappeared, replaced by the noise of the wind through the leaves of the nearby trees. One of two things had happened: Goatee was either out of range or staying perfectly still.

  Almost certainly observing from the shadows.

  Edmund took refuge behind a tombstone, his breathing fast, heavy and irregular. With his back to the stone, he inhaled deeply, doing his best to maintain control.

  He had not been seen, he was convinced of that. Had he been, he’d be a dead man by now. Rising to his haunches, he considered his options, trying his best to concentrate on the area where the visibility was poorest. He thought he saw movement close to the woodland, shapes, shadows, human, animal…experience told him his eyes were playing tricks. He took a deep breath, holding it for a long pause before edging closer. There was movement close by, but nothing that matched his target for size.

  Goatee, even if he was near, was nowhere in clear sight.

  Edmund took another breath and acted on instinct. Despite the darkness, the church was the most visible sight in the near vicinity, its large walls appearing an almost two-dimensional silhouette against the dark backdrop. He sprinted hard to the east wall of the south transept and hugged the stone, heading east.

  No sign of Goatee.

  He moved with his back to the wall, the jagged outlines of the stone catching his jacket and combats. Five metres on, he came to another wall, the east end of the church that housed the altar.

  Edmund turned again, keeping his back to the wall at all times, anticipating the moment when Goatee might reappear. He ran his left hand along the wall, searching for any gap or niche. Further along he found something solid: wood, sturdy, clearly a door. He glanced behind him to his right and found a handle. It was locked, but as he examined it he realised it could offer access to the sacristy, or a passage to a higher storey.

  Either way, access.

  Goatee had the perfect view. Even in the dark his visibility was unrestricted. It reminded him of being on a simulator, the type he had experienced when he first joined the forces. He was a lot younger then, and the equipment primitive. The times had changed, but the situations didn’t.

  Yet again he had the upper hand. The newcomer was there for the taking, despite the impressive quickness and subtlety of his movement. The man was undoubtedly a pro, past or present, but he lacked the necessary equipment to match him in the field. The tombstones had proven a welcome nuisance. Even close to the borders there was enough of them to help block the way. On the flipside, they offered partial shelter. If he had been inclined to shoot the man straightaway, there was always a chance he would catch the stone, a deviation caused by either the wind or bad judgement.

  There was no need to give the game away.

  Yet.

  The newcomer had made a dash toward the church, his path leading him
past the walls of the south transept. Again he moved quickly, shuffling to the right, the barrel of his gun pointing suspiciously in his direction.

  The time was nigh, Goatee sensed. One shot and it could all be over. Resting against the nearest headstone, he lined up the barrel of his 7mm pistol and breathed in slowly, preparing to squeeze the trigger. As he did so, the unexpected happened.

  The newcomer disappeared.

  42

  “Do as he says,” Nat said, carrying out the order himself.

  Gillian watched with a sense of despair as the protective cloth bag that contained the Hesilrige portrait dropped to the floor, landing close to the feet of the gun-carrying Frenchman.

  Jérôme kept his cool. He wiped his brow with the arm of his jacket and tightened his grip on the gun. His concentration was solely on Gillian, his gaze almost unblinking. She could sense his impatience at her reluctance to surrender, but at the same time he recognised she had so much to lose. She had regained the paintings, a £10m investment salvaged. Only to be lost again.

  “Drop it,” Nat repeated.

  Gillian lowered her hand and loosened her grip, allowing the cloth bag to drop to the floor.

  Standing opposite her, Jérôme relaxed his shoulders. Ten years of arthritis had taken its toll on his body, causing his joints to stiffen. He loved the wisdom that age brought, but it was on nights like these he coveted youth, the body of his former self. The chest was heavy, well in excess of 300 pounds. It would need two, if not three, people to carry it. Once upon a time he knew four people would have carried the contents at shoulder height beneath a ceremonial canopy.

  Tonight there would be no such formality.

  François had emerged again to Jérôme’s right. He bent over to pick up the bags and placed both of them over his shoulder.

  Jérôme cleared his throat and called to Alain, who was still standing guard by the door. Again, Gillian understood his exact words.

  “What the hell is happening outside?”

  His nephew didn’t know. No surprises.

  Jérôme returned his attention to his prisoners, monitoring Gillian in particular like a sergeant major. “You think you are smart?” he asked, to no reply. “You think we are fools?” He eyed Gillian with contempt. “Well?”

  The word echoed, causing an involuntary shudder to penetrate down Gillian’s spine.

  To her left, Nat answered, “This has nothing to do with us, I assure you.”

  Jérôme’s eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched. Whatever was going through his mind, Gillian could tell from his expression it couldn’t possibly be good news. The gunfire had ceased. At least two minutes had passed since the sound of breaking stones had last been heard. She feared the possibilities. Was it a coincidence? Had someone been hurt? One of her friends, maybe? Had the mayhem been louder, police intervention would be inevitable, but the shots themselves were apparently inaudible.

  No question their weapons included silencers.

  Jérôme paced in front of them, presenting a trademark snarl.

  “On the floor. Hands on heads. Move!”

  Gillian held her breath. Abiding, she lowered herself onto all fours and placed her hands over her head. To her right, she saw Cooper doing the same with tears in his eyes. Despite his personal trauma, she couldn’t help sense they were more for his family than for himself. Nat, meanwhile, bit his lip with hardened anguish. When dealing with art thieves, one moment was enough, he had once said. That moment could come at anytime, for any reason.

  The problem was being prepared and willing to take that chance when it did.

  Gillian sensed footsteps in front of her, beginning at the first pew before moving along the south aisle. She heard the sound of a door open, then quiet for over a minute. The next noise she heard was a dragging sound coming from within the chapel. Chancing observation, she saw Jérôme and François dragging the chest through the chapel and then along the south aisle toward the main door.

  She cursed her luck. The chest was being removed, along with the portraits. As she closed her eyes, the events of the day flashed before her. She couldn’t believe what had happened: the theft, the revelations, the fact that she had been right about the jewels’ final resting place. She thought of Edmund. Was he responsible for the commotion outside?

  If not, then who?

  Jérôme had stopped by the door, leaving the chest within metres of the exit. After putting it down, he returned along the aisle, stopping in line with the first pew.

  Gillian didn’t dare raise her head. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his gun-carrying arm move, high to low. She heard the sound of a gun cocking, followed by a bang, then another. Either her senses had deceived her, or they were coming from the other side of the church.

  She looked up cautiously.

  François and Alain were being shot at.

  From above.

  One. Two. Three.

  The glass didn’t move.

  One. Two. Three.

  It bent slightly but failed to break.

  One. Two. Three.

  The glass bent further, causing a small crack to appear along the seam. Megan screamed, a whiny and shrill pitch loud enough, Cliff feared, to awaken someone nearby. Sure enough a light had come on in a bedroom window, close to where the car was parked, followed by another further down the street. He was running out of time; it was now or never.

  One. Two. Three.

  The window crashed and shattered. Fragments of glass exploded, both over the seat and toward him. Megan screamed again, the sound clearly audible. A third light had appeared in the houses, accompanied by the sound of animated conversation from within.

  Cliff pushed hard against the remaining glass, using the jack to clear the way. He peered inside and saw Megan tied up in the back seat, a mouth gag partially restricting the sound of her screams.

  He leaned over and tried the handle. The door opened, revealing lush leather upholstery showered in glass. With the central locking penetrated, he tried the rear right door with success. Megan looked at him desperately.

  “Megan, it’s okay. It’s me. Uncle Daniel.”

  He needed something to free the tape, something sharp, but what? He searched his pocket and found a house key. He lined up the teeth against the tape and started to work in a sawing motion. Five seconds seemed more like minutes as he worked the tape loose. As Megan became free, he gathered her in his arms and ran toward the rear of Edmund’s Ford.

  As he prepared to leave, an idea hit him.

  He let down the left side tyres of the 4x4 before driving away with Megan in the Ford toward the church.

  The door was locked. It could only be opened with a key. But he had no key.

  He had a gun.

  Edmund shot the lock. The surrounding wood exploded, nearly hitting him in the face. The door moved as he kicked it, revealing a darkened enclosure covered in cobwebs. There was a stairwell in the far corner, wooden, sturdy, surprisingly modern. He headed for the stairs and ascended them two at a time. The air was thinner higher up, causing his breathing to deepen with each passing step.

  As expected, the stairway ended on the north side of the church, at a darkened niche overlooking the nave. One of the Frenchmen was standing by the main door of the church, his back to the niche. Edmund aimed, bit his lip and fired.

  The Frenchman fell to the ground.

  There was movement to the left of the door, a scampering of footsteps. François sprinted toward Alain whilst the Duke barked orders in French.

  Edmund fired again, missing François by a whisker. François dived toward the doorway, coming down close to his brother’s wounded body. Edmund fired again, missing. Sparks flew off the stone archway, briefly illuminating the main aisle. Jérôme had noticed him and opened fire.

  Edmund ducked, looked, and fired again.

  Gillian felt something grab hold of her hand.

  “Come on.”

  Nat pulled her to the right, across the front row of pews to the no
rth side of the church. Gillian immediately felt her progress blocked. Cooper had risen to his haunches and was shaking like a leaf.

  “Andrew…”

  “They’ve got Megan.”

  Gillian bit her lip, repressing hatred. “Come with us.”

  Nat guided her to the centre of the church and then the north aisle, the opposite side of the church from the entrance. Thankfully Cooper had followed, propping up the rear.

  Gillian peered above the nearest pew. Jérôme and François were close to the doorway, their bodies visible through double-chamfered archways. A lantern toppled over, struck by a bullet, causing the glass to break. With the light gone, the briefest hint of moonlight illuminated their backs as it filtered through one of two Y-tracery windows that lined the south wall. François appeared in a fit of rage, firing wildly at the upper storey, causing debris to pour down from the wall. Jérôme shouted at him in French, his words falling on deaf ears.

  The main door opened, catching Jérôme off guard. Gillian saw another man enter, bald, armed, apparently wounded. He immediately took shelter behind the pews.

  “Oh my God, he’s got Megan,” Cooper said, panicked.

  Gillian was confused. The man had entered alone. “Where?”

  Cooper struggled to get the words out. “A car. A green 4x4. It must be somewhere nearby.”

  Gillian watched the shoot-out from her position in between Cooper and Nat, chancing observation above the top of the pews. The Falcon was wounded around the shoulder and incapable of using his gun. Jérôme barked at him, probing him for information. Gillian heard enough to understand the Falcon believed they were dealing with a lone gunman, the same man currently shooting at them. She also now knew that the Falcon had an accomplice, currently still outside.

  Jérôme edged closer to the main door and nudged it ajar. His left hand was secure on the chest, his right aiming his gun toward the shooter. The door opened and another man appeared, dark hair, goatee beard, and clearly armed. His instinctive reaction on entering was to open fire at the niche in the upper storey.