Secrets of the Dead

by Tom Harper

  ‘What made you decide to go to Paris?’ Jessop asked.

  ‘I fancied a break.’

  ‘Less than two months ago, you suffered a horrendous attack. You’re barely back in the country a fortnight and you’re already racing off on overseas adventures.’

  ‘Mark says I’m supposed to be acting erratically. He thinks I’m cracking up.’

  Jessop raised his eyebrows and gave her a sceptical look. She supposed that was a compliment, of sorts. Mark picked up a file and leafed through it.

  ‘According to our man in Podgorica, they found a gold necklace at the crime scene. You said it was yours?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘A present from Michael?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can I see it?’ Mark saw that she was about to say something and cut her off. ‘I’ll save you some embarrassment. The security people who searched your bag when you came in, they said they’d seen it in there. Couldn’t help noticing it, actually.’ He held out his hand. ‘Please?’

  She wanted to wipe the patronising sincerity off his face once and for all, but didn’t know how. She wanted to run, but the red light next to the door didn’t blink. She wanted to scream, but she wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

  She fumbled in her bag and brought out the necklace. Mark gave her a smile that made her want to knock his teeth out.

  ‘I think we’ll just keep this for a little while.’

  Of course, she thought dully. She could see them waiting for a reaction and refused to give it to them. It was the one thing she could withhold.

  She picked up her bag and stood. ‘I’d like to go now.’

  Mark was still eyeing the gold necklace. Jessop escorted her to the door.

  ‘Be careful,’ he warned her.

  ‘In case my government locks me up and robs me again?’

  ‘Someone targeted Michael. It’s entirely possible they’ll come back for you.’

  He swiped his card and the light went green. Abby pushed past without a word. No one tried to stop her.

  She didn’t know where to go. She felt as if she were dangling on the end of a rope, strung up to the sky for all to see and jeer at. Every face that glanced at her, every footstep behind her, every arm that jostled her in the crowds around Trafalgar Square seemed to accuse her of something terrible, unsayable. This is what we were supposed to stop, she thought. Guilt without evidence, accusations without charge. And walking out of a room without the things you brought in.

  That was what hurt most. The necklace had been her last relic of Michael. To have surrendered it felt like the worst sort of betrayal.

  Why do you need to know? a weary voice inside her asked. And another, firm and insistent, answered as it always had: To do him justice.

  She wandered, aimless at first, but gradually gaining purpose as an idea took root in her mind. Her stride lengthened, and she noticed with small pleasure that the scar in her side didn’t hurt so much. She walked up Southampton Row, past Russell Square and the British Museum, and then worked her way north-east until she came out on the Euston Road. Across from her loomed the British Library, a vast, red-brick piazza in the shadow of St Pancras Station. In the courtyard, a bronze giant sat hunched over a pair of compasses, inscribing the laws of the world. A pair of leafless iron trees guarded the door, where a rubber-gloved guard rifled through her bag.

  There’s nothing in it, she wanted to shout.

  She’d left the Foreign Office without the necklace, but she hadn’t come away empty-handed. They’d given her a name. And names, she’d learned through ten years of beating against locked doors, were what got you through the labyrinth.

  She went into the reading room, settled down in front of a computer terminal and started searching. Answers appeared almost at once.

  Zoltán Dragović. War criminal, sex trafficker, drug baron, spy – the Balkan full house. Definitely a millionaire – probably billionaire. Place of birth unknown, possibly circa 1963. Rumoured to be the child of an Albanian father and a Serbian mother, though no one who would admit to being his parent had ever been found. Believed to be active in the Rome underworld from the mid-eighties, first as an employee and then rival to the notorious Banda della Magliana criminal gang. Took on the Italians at their own game and, by all accounts, won bloodily. Returned to Yugoslavia in 1991, just in time to see the country disintegrate and profit from it.

  She read on. In the years 1991 to 1995 Dragović had operated like a state within a state. NATO might have tried, belatedly, to bomb the country back to the dark ages: on the ground, Dragović had already got there. He’d set himself up like a barbarian chieftain of old, running a military kingdom based on plunder, rape and permanent war. The reaper, they called him. His paramilitary army was second only to the Yugoslav National Army in size, and in brutal efficiency second to none. But while others killed for politics or religion, Dragović focused on cash. When sanctions bit the Serb people hard, prices sky-rocketed and so did his profits. Oil, gold, cigarettes, shoes – if there was a market for it, Dragović owned it. He took looted artworks from the Sarajevo Museum and fenced them to private collections across Europe.

  After the Dayton Accords ended the war, Dragović went to ground. While his fellow gangster-paramilitaries spent their war gains in an orgy of alcohol and drugs and murder in Belgrade, he disappeared. There’d been speculation he feared reprisals from a state apparatus that wanted his silence – DOES THE REAPER FEAR DEATH? one contemporary headline in the Serbian magazine Vreme asked – but later reports suggested he’d actually used the time to travel Europe’s cities. London, Paris, Amsterdam, Frankfurt, Rome, Istanbul – all the places where the heroin trade flourished. One story said he’d even visited the International Criminal Tribunal in the Hague as a tourist. He’d walked right past the security guards and sat in the public gallery for fifteen minutes. No one noticed.

  In 1999 his patron Slobodan Milošević had attempted a comeback tour reprising his greatest hits: the brief but bloody attempt to do to Kosovo what he’d done to Bosnia. This time, an impatient NATO gave him three months and then launched the bombers. Everyone thought Dragović would pile in with the rest of the Serbian paramilitaries for one last tilt at the golden goose, but instead he stayed out. Some claimed he’d actually supplied the Albanian-nationalist UÇK with weapons he’d bought in the IRA’s going-out-of-business sale. Perhaps it was a quixotic gesture to his Albanian heritage; perhaps he’d seen that Milošević was doomed and had been buying credit with his enemies. A year later, he was rumoured to have been helping Albanian-nationalist terrorists trying to foment the civil war that almost erupted in neighbouring Macedonia.

  For once, Dragović failed. NATO moved in to Kosovo and Macedonia and showed the gangsters what real military power meant. Dragović stopped trying to overthrow governments and, by all reports, concentrated on making money. While justice slowly caught up with his contemporaries – either the fastidious, time-consuming justice of the Hague, or the summary version doled out on the streets of Belgrade – Dragović stayed in the shadows. The last of the old-time gunslingers who still hadn’t hung up his guns. There were warrants outstanding from the International Criminal Tribunal on war crimes charges, and Interpol on drug- and people-trafficking charges, but as the years went by the urgency faded. They’d almost got lucky in 2008, when the Turkish authorities had arrested him in Istanbul, but he’d escaped before extradition proceedings could begin. Allegations that the Russian security services had facilitated his escape as reward for services rendered were vigorously denied.

  Abby sat back feeling slightly ill. It wasn’t just the crimes: it was the queasy feeling of rifling through her own memories as much as Dragović’s past. She’d never met him, but she’d filed paperwork at the International Tribunal on his case; once, she’d ridden along with a squad of NATO peacekeepers as they turned over an abandoned farmhouse in a remote corner of Bosnia where he might have been seen. All they’d found was a pile of rubbish where t
he locals had been tipping, and a dead crow.

  She looked at the photograph staring out of the screen. There weren’t many pictures of Dragović on file: this one was small and out of focus, as if it had been cropped from the background of something else. All she could see was a narrow face, an angular jaw and two jet-black eyes staring at the camera, as if he’d just noticed the photographer.

  And what did Michael have to do with you? she wondered. Dragović ran one of the biggest smuggling rings in Europe, and Kosovo was its crossroads. Michael must have come up against him in the course of his work.

  So why did you take me to stay at his house?

  She pressed the mouse button so hard she thought she’d break it. The window closed, the face vanished.

  The reading room was stifling. She needed air. She pushed through the doors, past the stacks of ancient books entombed in glass that made the core of the building, and down the steps to the piazza. She was craving a pill, but settled for a cigarette.

  As she rummaged in her bag, she saw her phone glowing in its depths. She’d kept it on silent for the reading room, but someone must have sent a message. Her heart sank. The only person who’d ever called her on that phone was Mark.

  What do they want from me now?

  Trembling in the cool evening air, she took out the phone and opened the text message. Strangely, the sender’s number wasn’t displayed.

  ARCUMTRIUMPHISINSIGNEMDICAVIT. Friday 17h. I can help.

  XII

  Constantinople – April 337

  I WAKE WITH the dawn, my hand clenched on the knife under my pillow. Somewhere in the night someone’s removed the oil lamp. Panic strikes me – what else did he take? – but when I paw the bed around me, I feel Alexander’s book and the necklace, still there. It must have been one of my slaves, keeping watch while I slept. He didn’t risk covering me with a blanket. They know never to touch me when I’m sleeping.

  I wash and dress and make my obeisances to my ancestral gods. The house was a gift from Constantine and typically extravagant: far too big for a lonely old man. Most of the rooms are kept shut up, like old memories.

  My steward brings me bread and honey and news of the morning’s visitors. It seems the ghost of my reputation still wanders the streets of this city, tempting a few misguided souls into thinking I can secure the Emperor’s favour. Mostly, I send them away without a hearing. At this stage of my life, I don’t have time to waste on them.

  The steward runs down his list. ‘And there’s a priest. A Christian.’

  I groan. Until yesterday, I thought I’d never have anything to do with Christians again. Now, they’re interrupting my breakfast.

  ‘He says his name is Simeon.’

  I chew my bread and reveal nothing. It’s good practice for being at court. Slaves know you better than courtiers; they’re much harder to fool.

  ‘I’ll start with the priest.’

  The steward nods, as if it’s exactly what he expected. He’s mastered the game better than I have.

  ‘Show him to the reception room.’

  I find Simeon waiting there quarter of an hour later. It’s a shabby room: plain plaster on the walls that I never had painted, monochrome floor tiles. On the rare occasions I receive my petitioners, I bring them here to impress on them how humble my fortunes are. I enjoy watching their faces fall.

  But it doesn’t faze Simeon. He’s standing in the middle of the room, hands behind his back, staring at a damp spot on the ceiling with a smile on his face. Christians are devious that way: ostentatious in their humility.

  ‘I haven’t learned who killed Alexander, if that’s what you came for,’ I tell him.

  That breaks his composure. His cheeks flush; a look of anger crosses his face. I watch and judge. I’ve met him twice, now: once with Alexander’s body, once in his ransacked apartment. Either Simeon’s got an unfortunate knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, or he’s as guilty as Romulus.

  ‘I thought you might go and visit Bishop Eusebius today.’

  ‘I might.’ Why is he saying this? To deflect suspicion on to someone else? ‘You said a bishop couldn’t possibly have done this.’

  ‘I can help you with him.’

  ‘Do I need help?’

  ‘Do you know where to look for him?’

  I have to laugh, though it makes Simeon squirm with anger. He’s so blunt: Constantinople hasn’t yet honed his manners into the polite, sharp-edged weapons we wield. It’ll be a shame if I have to accuse him of murder.

  In fact, the hardest thing about finding Bishop Eusebius is glimpsing him through the crowds that surround him. He’s at the church that Constantine’s built adjoining his palace, at the far tip of the peninsula. In a fit of optimism, or perhaps wishful thinking, Constantine dedicated it to Holy Peace.

  It isn’t far from my house, but the heat’s already building. I’m sweating by the time I get there, my face grimy from the dust. Banners draped from buildings flutter as a desultory breeze stirs off the water. Constantinople exists as two cities: the city that is, and the city yet to come. The city of the living is filled with shopkeepers and bath attendants touting for business, lawyers and their clients filing into the courts, women and children queuing for their grain ration. The city yet to come is silhouettes on the horizon and pounding tools, portents of an army coming over the hill. Even as we live in the city that is, the city to come takes shape around us.

  It’s early, but the crowds at the church are so thick they’ve spilled outside on to the square. The high doors have been thrown open. Inside, a figure in golden robes stands on a marble pulpit and addresses them. I won’t cross the threshold, but I nudge my way through the crowd close enough to hear what he’s saying. The sun pours through a glazed round window, bathing him in yellow light and branding the monogram straight onto his forehead. Behind him, an ornate wall screens off the sanctuary within the church. The Christians will give anyone a taste of their mysteries, but only true initiates get to watch them unfold.

  Eusebius is talking about the god Christ. I struggle to understand: something about his nature and his substance, the difference between the eternal and the infinite. ‘Christ is the head of the church and the saviour of its body, just as a husband is the head of the wife. So it must be an affront to God that our church here in Constantinople still lacks a head. I urge you, brothers and sisters, to resolve this situation with speed and justice.’

  I glance at Simeon, who’s listening intently. ‘What’s he talking about?’

  ‘You know the Patriarch of Constantinople died three months ago?’

  I do now. ‘Was there anything suspicious about it?’

  ‘He was an old man who’d lived a hard life. Nothing unusual. Eusebius is one of the obvious men to replace him.’

  ‘Is that why Alexander wanted to talk to Eusebius in the library yesterday?’

  ‘He didn’t say.’

  ‘Was Alexander a candidate? A rival?’

  ‘He said he was too old.’

  But there’s something defensive in the way he says it. I stare him down. ‘It’s your master’s murder we’re talking about,’ I remind him. And you’re the most obvious suspect.

  ‘Alexander opposed Eusebius’s election.’

  ‘So with Alexander gone, Eusebius has a clear run at the top job in the church.’

  Eusebius has finished speaking. The crowd start shuffling in to the sanctuary for the distribution of the sacrifice – those who are allowed. The rest begin to drift away. But a few linger on, staring into the dark church like dogs at a kitchen door. Most of them are young men, intoxicated by their own intensity; one stands out, an old man with straggling hair and a pointed chin. He squats on the steps of the colonnade, head cupped in his hands, contemplating the church with ravenous eyes.

  There’s something so arresting about him that I point him out to Simeon. ‘Do you know who he is?’

  Simeon’s so surprised he has to look twice. First at the man, then at me. He
can’t believe I could be so ignorant.

  ‘Asterius the Sophist.’

  He sees my reaction to the name and nods, pleased to think his world view has been vindicated. But it isn’t what he thinks.

  ‘Symmachus said that Asterius was at the library yesterday.’ He’s on my list.

  ‘I didn’t see him there.’

  ‘Symmachus said that Asterius was a Christian. Why doesn’t he go into the church?’

  A solemn look comes over Simeon. ‘During the persecutions, Asterius was arrested. The persecutors gave him a choice: betray the church, or die and become a martyr for Christ.’

  ‘He’s still alive.’

  Simeon spits in the dust. ‘There were a dozen Christians – families, with children – hiding in the cistern below his house. He betrayed them to the Emperor Diocletian, who crucified them all. That’s why they call him the Sophist – he’ll say he believes anything. He’s forbidden from ever setting foot in a church again.’

  ‘But he still comes here.’ I look at the face again. The eyes narrowed, the lips slightly parted. His body is tense with a longing that’s almost ecstatic.

  ‘Do you think he knew Symmachus during the persecutions? Or Alexander?’

  ‘Ask him. I wasn’t born then.’

  I push across the square and step in front of the old man, cutting off his contemplation of the church. He waits for me to move by. When I don’t, he’s forced to look up.

  Seen from above, hunched up like a dwarf, he’s a scrawny, diminished figure. His face is grey and mottled with liver spots; his hands are folded around his knees, hidden in his sleeves.

  I sit down beside him on the step. ‘It must be hard for you. Like watching your first love at home with her husband and children.’

  He keeps his gaze on the church and doesn’t respond.

  ‘Perhaps I should introduce myself. I’m –’