Without it, the plan would fail.
Malchus knew he needed to choose his target with care.
There was no scope for error. If it went wrong, if his target alerted the authorities—the manuscript would be put under lock and key, and all would be lost.
He had delayed going after the manuscript for some months. But now he was ready.
The time was right.
All he needed was a collaborator.
In his previous life, sitting in his clinical office at the Ministerium in Berlin, it would have taken a team of underlings weeks of trawling through confidential personal files and conducting covert interviews to find a suitable target.
But these days the internet did away with all that. People were stupid. They voluntarily published their most personal information to the world.
He wanted someone who worked in the hushed underworld of the book stacks deep below the library. Not a trained librarian or archivist—someone who pushed the trolleys around would be just perfect.
He had combed social and work networking sites to draw up a shortlist of potential targets, before following up on each of them in more detail. He had then built a picture of their personal profiles from entries on user groups, online forums, hobby sites, and the general flotsam and jetsam they left in cyberspace.
It took him a morning, but when he was done, he was extremely pleased with the result.
Alex Hibbit would do nicely.
Once he had chosen Alex, a few hours of invasive hacking into Alex and his friends’ online profiles and uploads yielded a crop of photographs showing a dull-faced lanky twenty-something man with a mop of blond hair.
The pictures were easily good enough to identify Alex.
Now, waiting at closing time again on the large chequered piazza outside the British Library, he scanned the stream of readers and employees exiting the brutalist red brick building.
He breathed in deeply, feeling the power, aware that under his feet, in the vast subterranean store rooms, lay the world’s greatest collection of black magic manuscripts—the writings of the occult masters going back to ancient Babylonia. He had collected and read most of them over the years. But now, so close to the originals, he could sense their dark energy.
It filled him with renewed purpose.
He looked with disdain at the intellectuals scuttling in and out of the building. He despised them—squandering their efforts on barren studies in that great temple of knowledge. They were mental eunuchs—knowing much but understanding nothing.
He did not have to wait long until he saw Alex sauntering out of the large metal and glass entrance doors.
He followed the younger man at a discreet distance.
He had better have it with him.
He was not in the mood for disappointment.
Malchus had been waiting in the library’s vast foyer two days earlier. When he had spotted Alex then, for the first time, he had immediately headed for the exit, engineering it so they both arrived at the same time. As they passed through the doors side-by-side, Malchus had purposefully mistimed his step, bumping into Alex, intentionally dropping the notebook and pen he had been carrying.
Alex had looked startled at Malchus’s unnerving appearance, but Malchus left him no opportunity to get away—forcing him instead into a conversation, explaining it was his first trip to the library, where he was researching computer simulations.
As Malchus continued and mentioned war-gaming strategy, he was gratified to see interest flicker behind Alex’s eyes. He had assumed it would—Alex’s cyber footprint had quickly shown he was a keen gamer.
They had headed down the Euston Road, deep in conversation. At King’s Cross station, Malchus had suggested he might buy him a pint in a pub they were passing. Sensing the younger man’s apprehension, he had reassured him he was not making a pass. Rather, he had been working on developing a new game, and he would welcome the thoughts of a player as expert as he plainly was.
It turned Malchus’s stomach to curry favour with someone as insignificant as Alex. But he kept himself focused, thinking about the manuscript.
The pub was typical for a railway station bar. It was cavernous, gloomy, smelled of stale beer, and was fitted out with tatty dark wooden furniture. Fruit machines beeped and flashed in the far corner, while an array of televisions bolted into the ceiling showed a range of soundless sporting fixtures.
Malchus looked contemptuously at its occupants—flabby men with nothing better to do than spend their evenings swilling beer around emptying glasses while staring at screens.
He picked a quiet area of the back bar, and indicated for Alex to sit.
As one drink turned into another, he revealed confidentially that he was developing a totally new type of computer role-playing game—one that would be very special. Inside it, he was going to hide an extra game, a very exceptional one, accessible only to players who proved themselves worthy, on and off the computer. The whole architecture was revolutionary—gamers would not only play in cyberspace, they would need to accomplish certain tasks in the real world, too. It would be like nothing anyone had ever experienced or played before. It would re-write the history of gaming—blurring the online world with the real one
He refilled Alex’s pint glass again as he elaborated on the groundbreaking concept, before confiding in him that he was looking for a business partner: one who could add some value to the venture, and help it become a reality that would make them both rich.
Dropping his voice, he asked if Alex could keep a secret. When the younger man affirmed he could, Malchus shared his view that it must be fate they had met that night, as what Malchus needed to finalize the game was inside the library.
Malchus explained that he had discovered there was an old manuscript that was crucial to the game’s architecture. It was a unique document, containing details of an ancient tradition. It alone could provide the details needed to finish the adventure at the heart of the revolutionary game, and allow players to plug into a quest that had been spinning down the centuries. Malchus had leaned in conspiratorially, explaining that once the game was launched, the world would never be the same again.
He watched as the alcohol and the tall story began to work on his new friend. His pupils were constricting, and his eyes beginning to gleam. Not just with the alcohol, Malchus noted with satisfaction—but with greed, too.
Sensing the moment, Malchus went for the kill. He pronounced that destiny had surely brought them together, as the answer lay right in front of them—Alex could be his business partner: all he needed to do was get the manuscript.
To prove his good faith, Malchus placed an envelope holding ten crisp fifty pound notes onto the bar counter between them, and told Alex there was another five hundred if he earned his place in the partnership by getting the manuscript. Alex should consider it a sign-on bonus into the business.
Eyeing the money hungrily, the younger man nodded—just as Malchus suspected he would when he had planned the sting.
Alex reassured Malchus he could do it—no problem. Books regularly went missing. Thousands were currently unaccounted for. He explained that security was minimal in the four hundred and something miles of shelving under the building. There was no budget for anything thorough—his access card was about as hi-tech as it got.
Malchus reassured him he would return the manuscript once he had finished with it. It would only be a temporary loan—just long enough for him to study it.
Alex nodded, but had clearly not been so befuddled by the beer to miss an opportunity. He suggested the second payment should be one thousand pounds, not five hundred. After all, he reminded Malchus, he could lose his job if he was caught.
After making a show of indecision, Malchus accepted. This was not the moment to have an argument with his new business partner.
Alex was perfect for the job. Removing the manuscript from the library required no skill or knowledge, so it made little sense for Malchus to do it and put himself at risk. And
for a man of Alex’s age and prospects, the lure of immediate money and a new life as a computer game mogul was an undreamed-of change in fortune.
Malchus had learned a lot about human nature over the years. Not simply that everyone eventually gave in to unrelenting or extreme pain, but also how easy it was to pull the strings and have people dance to whatever tune he wished.
It was simple with young men—they liked money and grand dreams. The prospect of either of those would give them all the motivation they needed. As they hit middle age, they would still do things for the prospect of money, but were less wide-eyed and more sceptical. Paying an attractive young prostitute to get them drunk and seduce them into a night of long-forgotten pleasures of the flesh was usually easiest—as was the ensuing blackmail.
Malchus had known that hooking Alex would be straightforward. Working in a government library did not pay much, and doubtless Alex had a host of dreams he could indulge if he suddenly came into money.
Finishing up their drinks, Alex assured Malchus he would have the manuscript in two days. Malchus could wait for him outside, at closing time.
So now Malchus stood on the library’s great piazza, watching Alex emerge from the library with a rucksack on his back.
He followed the younger man across the esplanade, his excitement mounting.
As Alex turned right onto the Euston Road, Malchus drew alongside him.
“Do you have it?” He had to work to keep his voice calm.
Alex nodded, sending a shiver of anticipation down Malchus’s spine. He began to slip his rucksack off.
“Not here,” hissed Malchus, gesturing for them to turn up a side street to their right.
Malchus pointed to a blue Mercedes parked a little further up. It had dark tinted windows and a fold-out sunshade covering the front window from the inside.
“Is that yours?” Alex looked impressed. “You must be doing alright for yourself.”
“It is,” Malchus replied brusquely. At least, it had been for a few hours, since he had stolen it from outside a residential house in south London.
As they drew alongside, Malchus indicated for Alex to open the rear passenger door and climb in. Malchus followed, sliding in after him.
“Show it to me,” he ordered the younger man, taking out a pair of silicone medical gloves from his jacket’s inner pocket.
“What are those for?” Alex asked, a hint of uncertainty in his voice.
“Manuscripts are fragile.” Malchus pulled on the gloves. “Finger grease damages them.”
“Where’s the money then?” Alex’s tone was belligerent.
“All in good time.” Malchus replied slowly, fitting the gloves onto each finger carefully.
“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” Alex replied. “I want to see it before we go any further.”
“Of course,” Malchus answered, taking an envelope from his pocket and handing it to him. “Count it.”
Alex tore it open. His eyes lit up as he counted out the twenty fifty pound notes, before pulling out of his jeans pocket the cash Malchus had given him the previous day and putting it into the envelope with his new earnings. “It’s not funny money or anything, is it?” he asked, a trace of suspicion in his voice.
Malchus ignored the question. “Show me the manuscript.”
Alex unzipped the rucksack resting on his knees, and took out a shallow grey cardboard archive box sealed on top with a string-tie fastener.
Malchus gazed at the box.
Finally.
He had waited for so long.
He could almost hear the voices from the past speaking to him down the centuries—the ancient words passed on through time so he could accomplish the Work.
The wisdom was over two thousand years old.
And soon it would be his.
He would complete what no one else ever had.
It all lay before him, in that nondescript-looking archive box.
He reached out his hand and took hold of the cardboard, sensing a surge of energy pass through him.
This was it. This was the key.
He could feel it.
Unlooping the string tie holding the lid closed, he slowly opened the flaps of the box, his heart beating hard.
He felt an overwhelming sense of excitement that the knowledge was within his grasp.
Inside the box was a folder of stiff white acid-free card. He flipped it open, revealing a sheaf of vellum manuscript pages. The ancient animal skin was light brown, thin and brittle, with clear signs of water damage in places. But the bold writing—Hebrew and Aramaic characters—all stood out as clearly as the day they were written.
He knew in an instant that it had been waiting for him—all those years, in the cold basement of the library.
He alone knew what to do.
The time was right.
He sensed that it was all coming together, like a propitious planetary alignment known only to the select.
He turned the quarto-sized folios over carefully, checking they were all legible.
As he reached the last one, he looked up at Alex, an expression of cold rage on his face.
“Where is the twelfth folio?”
Alex shook his head slowly. “That’s my insurance,” he replied. “When you’re done, you give me back the eleven, and I’ll give you the twelfth.”
With a lightning-fast movement, Malchus pulled a thin black cylinder from his pocket. There was a menacing click as a long narrow steel blade shot out of it. Before Alex had taken in what was happening, the razor-sharp metal was at his throat.
“You disappoint me,” Malchus hissed.
Alex’s eyes widened in terror as Malchus pushed the evil-looking blade hard against his carotid artery. A small trickle of blood appeared.
With his spare hand, Malchus unzipped the rucksack on Alex’s knee, and began to rifle through the contents. It was empty, apart from a fleece and a folder. Malchus pulled out the folder and flipped it open, revealing the missing folio.
“Don’t hurt me,” whispered Alex, as Malchus opened up the cut on his neck a little wider.
Malchus put his face close to Alex’s, so their noses were almost touching. He could feel Alex’s breath coming in hard short bursts, and see the terror in the younger man’s eyes. “It won’t hurt,” Malchus answered softly. “Not for long.”
Alex tried to push Malchus away, but he was no match for the bigger man’s bulk.
“Be calm, now,” Malchus murmured, his face only an inch from Alex’s. “He is your shield and helper.”
“What?” Alex whimpered, pressing his body as far back into the seat as he could to get away from the blade. “What are you on about?”
“And your glorious sword.” Malchus continued in a soft tone, leaning closer to Alex, lowering the knife so it was level with his chest.
“I made a mistake,” stammered Alex his eyes wide with terror. “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”
“Your enemies will cower before you,” Malchus continued, feeling a rush of gratification at the mounting horror he could see in Alex’s eyes, and the expanding damp patch staining the crotch of the young man’s jeans.
Placing the razor-sharp tip of the blade between the third and fourth ribs to the right of Alex’s sternum, he held it there, pushing it so it pricked him.
“What are you doing?” stammered Alex. “Please, God—don’t.” His breaths were coming in anguished rasps.
“And you will trample down their high places,” Malchus concluded quietly, slamming the blade in forcefully, leaning against it with all his weight, pushing it hard through the thick intercostal muscles and deep into Alex’s hammering heart.
If Alex had ever read the Bible, he might have recognized Malchus’s words as Moses’s dying speech from the book of Deuteronomy.
But he had not. So the last words he heard as his life slipped away were meaningless gibberish—spoken quietly by a man he had realized, too late, was quite insane.
Picking up the twe
lfth sheet of vellum from the folder and placing it into the archive box with the others, Malchus did up the string fastener and put it all into Alex’s rucksack along with the envelope of money.
Closing the car door carefully behind him with his gloved hand, he slipped on the rucksack and tightened the straps.
Without turning to look back, he pulled off the silicone gloves and stuffed them into his pocket, before heading down the street to join the anonymous crowds jostling around King’s Cross railway station.
——————— ◆ ———————
48
The Malet Arms
Newton Tony
Nr Salisbury
Wiltshire SP4
England
The United Kingdom
Ava sat down by the large inglenook fireplace.
There were no chairs—just a pair of worn oak benches. They had probably been church pews once, she thought. Still, they fitted effortlessly into the small five-hundred-year-old pub, among its gnarled black wooden roof beams, low plaster ceilings, and irregular dark corners.
There were no television screens, arcade games, or speakers chirping out canned music. It was a traditional cosy country inn on the Plain, hung with old horse brasses, prints of rural scenes, and occasional items of hunting memorabilia.
She spotted Ferguson the moment he came through the low door. He ducked to avoid banging his head on the ceiling, and made his way straight over to her.
She had tried to call him from her mobile, but it had been out of battery, so she had used the payphone in the pub.
She had been wondering what she was going to say to him when he arrived. She knew she would have landed him in hot water with Prince by ditching him at Stonehenge. She would not like to be in his shoes when he made his report.
Even though it was summer and there was no fire lit in the grate, a large fawn-coloured English mastiff padded over to the space in front of the fire and flopped down on the tiles.
She scratched its ears absent-mindedly as Ferguson approached.
“I see you’re ahead of me again.” He nodded at her half-finished drink. “You’re making a bit of a habit of that.”
The Sword of Moses Page 27
