They did not have to wait long.
The PA soon came to life with the strident opening notes of Land of Hope and Glory. The crowd immediately launched into a bellowing accompaniment, before the four musicians appeared on the stage, and the audience began cheering themselves hoarse.
As the drummer shouted the count off for the first song, the speaker stacks on the sides of the stage ripped into life, sending huge pressure waves of sound straight into the audience.
The volume level was ear-splitting—a howl of overdriven guitars chopping across the remorseless thump of the bass and a furious machine-gun drumbeat that Uri could feel drill right through him.
He watched with interest as a large section of audience at the front of the stage started swirling like a whirlpool, dissolving into a seething mass of limbs—fists alternately punching the air and connecting with other members of the audience in a circular maelstrom of rhythmic male violence.
He could barely understand a word of the singer’s breakneck delivery. Whatever the sweating shaved-headed front-man was shouting was distorted beyond recognition by the sheer decibel level. But the crowd seemed not to care. They were lost in a vortex of brutal noise and aggression.
Uri looked on as the heady mixture of alcohol and the thudding drumbeats catalyzed the concert room into a free-for-all fight pen. If anyone ever doubted that Viking blood still flowed in English veins, he reflected, they only needed to watch this. All that was missing were the forked beards.
He stood against the back wall and listened to a few songs, until it was clear that all those who wanted to watch the band were there.
Heading back through the double doors into the main bar, he looked around at the dozens of men filling the room.
Standing by the counter, he reflected that he had been given some challenging assignments before, but this was the most stretching yet. It was strange enough being asked to recover the biblical Ark of the Covenant—the most potent legacy of his forebears, but now he found himself in a room full of drunk and violent extremist anti-Semites.
He smiled to himself.
This is what life in the Institute was all about.
He loved the danger. Nothing made him feel so alive as knowing it was all hanging by a thread. One that he controlled. Mostly.
This mission was entirely new territory for him, and he was getting a heavy endorphin thrill from it. He knew his colleagues in the political division regularly infiltrated hostile groups. But in the Metsada, he usually did quick surgical in-and-out operations, largely relying on his own planning and resources to carry out liquidations.
This was going to be very different. This would require going properly undercover for a sustained period.
And with dangerous people.
He had never known a high like it.
He looked around closely for anyone who might fit the profile of what he was after.
Assessing the crowd, he realized most of them were simply there for the chance to bond with their tribe in the ageless rituals of intoxication and aggression.
But there was a group in the far corner that looked more promising.
A powerfully built dark-haired man dominated a large table. He seemed a few years older that the gang around him—perhaps in his mid-forties. The sleeves of his leather jacket were pushed up, showing muscular forearms wrapped in geometric tattoos. He had a strong physical presence, intensified by his size. Uri ran an expert eye over his seated frame, and estimated he must have been around six foot four, and built like an ox.
Scanning the pub, his eyes kept returning to the large man. It was increasingly clear he was the focal point of the group, surrounded by a deferential audience that nodded and smirked on cue.
“You’re very interested in our friend?” The voice next to Uri was strong and confident, with a heavy south London accent.
Uri turned to see a thin angular-faced man in a checked shirt, also a little older, nodding in the direction of the table in the far corner. Uri recognized him—he had been sitting with the big man a little earlier.
Taken by surprise but keeping his cool, Uri answered nonchalantly, “I’m wondering if it’s all talk in here, or if you’re good for anything real?”
The man bit his lip thoughtfully, looking Uri up and down critically. “That’s pretty strong talk, my friend.”
“It’s a simple question.” Uri returned the gaze directly. His challenge was unmistakable.
The man let out a short laugh. “You’ve got some balls, son. I’ve been watching you.”
“Then so have you,” Uri replied. He was not going to let the man assume authority over him.
The man’s sociable expression faded. Underneath it, he had a hard face. “Look, my friend,” he began slowly, in a tone that was anything but friendly. “Let me tell you something.” He was gazing hard at Uri. “You don’t fit in here. You stand out. And that’s not good. For you. You’re on your own, and you’re not drinking. That’s a load of warning bells, you know? Whoever you are, you’re out of your depth. You should go.”
“Thanks,” Uri ignored the threat. “If you can’t help me, then don’t waste my time. I’ll find someone who can.” His tone was purposefully dismissive. It was a fine line. He did not want a fight in the main room. He would soon be outnumbered.
The man stared coolly at Uri, clearly sizing up whether or not to make an issue out of it.
Uri returned the stare, unflinching. He knew this was just as much a ritual as the circle mosh pit in the next room.
At length the man put his glass down on the countertop beside Uri, and turned around with his back to the bar so he was side by side with Uri. “Alright, son. Let’s do it your way. At least for now. So what’s your thing?”
“As I said,” Uri replied. “Some action.”
The man paused. “Like what?”
“Anything heavy.” Uri watched the man closely for a reaction.
The man’s expression did not change. “You like a bit of contact, do you?”
Uri sighed. “It’s going to be a long night if I have to repeat myself.” He made no effort to hide his irritation.
“Can you handle yourself?” The man was looking him up and down critically.
Uri had no idea if the discussion was going anywhere. But it was the first contact he had made all evening. And the man he was talking to seemed connected to the big man in the corner. It was worth seeing where the conversation would lead.
“Can you?” Uri was keen to move the conversation on.
The man blinked slowly before changing tack. “Where are you from, son?”
“I move around,” Uri answered vaguely. “Family’s from Liverpool. I spent the last few years in Australia.” It was far enough away to be uncheckable.
“You don’t sound like you’re from round here,” the man pressed.
“As I say, I move around.” Uri’s tone was non-committal.
The man took a sip of his beer. “So which firms have you been with? Who can vouch for you?”
“No one round here,” Uri answered truthfully. “Look, can you get me a meeting with the don over there, or not? He’s the only serious guy in here. And I want to know if he’s got anything going down.”
The man laughed. “Well you’ve got an eye, son, but what do you think this is? The Salvation Army?” He shook his head. “You don’t just walk in here, you know. There are rules. Procedures.”
“I’m listening,” Uri had no idea what the Salvation Army was, but he got the gist. “But if you mess me around, I’m off, and that would be a shame. For you.”
“You don’t lack front, do you?” The man chewed his lip. “But you’ve got to be, how can I put it ... ?” he paused, “ … vetted—and then we’ll see who’s all talk.”
Uri took a swig of his drink. “What did you have in mind?”
“First things first,” the man answered. “What’s your name?”
“Danny,” Uri lied.
“Well, Danny, let’s say, for now,
my name is Otto.” He did not extend a hand. “If you’re serious about wanting to meet the Skipper, then I’ve got a little job for you—to see what you’re made of.”
Uri looked back at him unblinking, while Otto explained what he wanted him to do.
——————— ◆ ———————
50
10b St James’s Gardens
Piccadilly
London SW1
England
The United Kingdom
It was dark by the time Ferguson dropped Ava back home.
She washed out the cut under her eye where Malchus had punctured the skin with the metal star, and poured herself a glass of cold white wine from the fridge. Sipping it, she dropped into one of the comfortable armchairs in the sitting room.
Since Ferguson had shown her C’s letter from Prince’s file earlier, she had not been able to get it out of her mind.
She had been going over and over its implications for the whole of the long journey back to London.
She had never in her wildest dreams imagined that C could have ordered a whitewash of her father’s death, ensuring there would be no investigation, and nobody would ever be held to account. It was a big step, and not one he would have taken lightly.
In her experience, both C and the Director General of MI5 used the whitewash power as a last resort—for matters of national security. But she was having difficulty seeing what that national security concern could have been in her father’s case.
She could only conclude that her father had been involved in something particularly sensitive. He must have been. Or he would not have got the attention from C.
She wracked her mind for any clue about what it could have been.
What had he got himself into?
Had he made some kind of mistake? Strayed where he should not have gone?
She dismissed the idea. He was an experienced officer, who had survived a long time in the game. He did not make elementary errors.
So what had he been doing?
And why did C want it hushed up?
She took a sip of the cold wine, and dialled DeVere’s number.
She needed answers.
——————— ◆ ———————
51
Southbank Centre
London SE1
England
The United Kingdom
DeVere had told Ava to meet him at 9:45 p.m. outside the entrance to the Queen Elizabeth II Hall at London’s Southbank Centre.
As she approached it, the largest arts complex in Europe, she could see the hulking collection of concert halls and galleries hugging the bend in the river, dominating a long stretch of the south bank.
It was a bizarre 1950s and 1960s concrete vision of ultra-modernism—a mass of split-level walkways and windswept staircases. But even through the tired materials and omnipresent weather stains, she could still feel something of the radical futurism it had once offered.
She did not have to wait long outside the concert-hall entrance before she saw DeVere.
Wearing his distinctive chalk-striped suit and black-rimmed glasses, he emerged from the doorway with the interval crowd, spotted her immediately, and headed over to where she was standing.
“What a pleasure,” he beamed, bending to give her a kiss on the cheek.
“I never had you down as a romantic.” She pointed at the concert poster of a Roman general and an Egyptian queen locked in a dramatic stage embrace. The baroque lettering announced the performance was Handel’s Julius Caesar in Egypt.
“It makes me look sophisticated,” he smiled.
Ava knew that was not true. He was being self-effacing. His opera collection at home was the work of a lifetime.
He set off along the riverside walk, before turning into an open concrete stairwell leading up to Waterloo Bridge.
As they emerged onto the top, the two-lane bridge was still humming with traffic in both directions despite the lateness of the hour. DeVere headed onto the pedestrian walkway running down its side, striding out across the river to the north bank.
“This is my favourite bridge in London,” he confided as they walked. “You get a wonderful view from here.”
She fell into step beside him, peering down over the low white railings. The light was gone, and the river’s deep water looked cold and black, conjuring up its old Celtic name, Tamesas—dark.
Nearing the centre of the bridge, DeVere stopped and put his hands on the railing, inhaling the night air deeply. Ava halted beside him, taking in the view looking west.
To her left, the elongated capsules of London’s four-hundred-and-fifty-foot-high big wheel inched round imperceptibly. She imagined for a moment being on it, but could not remember the last time she had seen life pass by at such a slow pace.
As she looked out straight ahead over the water she could see the two Golden Jubilee Bridges, each spraying down their spot-lit suspension cables like vast water jets from a shower-head, frozen in time in gleaming metal.
But dominating it all, the mellow yellowy floodlit stones of the Houses of Parliament lit up the night in front of her. It was a bizarre sight—its mock gothic high walls, spiky pinnacles, and three great towers making it more of a fortress than a royal palace—although no king or queen had chosen to live on the site for over five hundred years.
DeVere’s horseshoe of white hair was being buffeted by the wind, and his usually jovial expression was now one of concern. “No one can hear us here. I’ve got about ten minutes until I need to get back. So what’s bothering you, Ava?”
She had been wondering how she was going to ask him. She had no desire to offend an old family friend. But nevertheless, she needed answers, and she wanted them from him.
“Why didn’t you tell me C stopped all investigations into my father’s death?” She kept her tone neutral.
He looked out over the water. “Ah. So that’s it.” He paused. “Would it have helped if I had?” There was a note of fatalism in his voice.
“It wasn’t your decision to make, Peter. You should’ve told me,” she answered quietly.
“Why?” he replied. It was not an aggressive question. “What could you have done? It wouldn’t have brought him back, and I didn’t want you and your family to experience any further pain.”
“Well,” she paused. “I know now. And I don’t understand it. Why did he make the order?”
DeVere shook his head. “Who knows anything for sure in this business? All I knew was that our two-man department was shut down. I was taken off all files, and reassigned. I didn’t blame them. I’d have made the same decision. Our desk was nothing without your father. He was the expert.”
“But that doesn’t explain why C whitewashed his death.” Ava persisted. “It just doesn’t make sense to me.”
“I kept asking, but nobody ever told me why,” he answered softly. “Eventually I just stopped asking. I think they wanted to forget the work we were doing. Without the credibility your father brought to the department, I suspect they found it all too difficult to explain. They didn’t want publicity around a desk specializing in the politico-occult.”
Ava felt a wave of sadness to think that everything he had worked for had been shut down so quickly. Just like that. No questions asked.
DeVere continued. “I also think they were worried any publicity surrounding the department would alarm the public. It was always a fine line. Our work would show people we were taking a real threat seriously. But it would also alert them to a new danger they had probably never thought of. And it would become one more thing for the bureaucrats to be accountable for to the politicians.”
He shifted the weight on his feet. “I know it’s hard to swallow, after he gave his life for them—but I think his death gave the Firm the excuse they wanted to get back to business as usual. It made life easier for the paper-pushers.”
Ava took a deep lungful of the salty air, digesting the information.
As much as it angered her, it ma
de a twisted sort of sense. Underneath everything, the Firm was just another government department—albeit a highly unusual one—run by bureaucrats.
Ultimately, it all came down to paperwork.
She stared out into the evening lights on both sides of the river.
There was something else she needed to clarify. “Peter—I’ve been told he was investigating Malchus at the time he was killed.”
“Christ.” DeVere’s face drained of colour.
He turned to stare at her. “Seriously? They never told me that. We were each wrapped up in our own projects. I knew he was having some success with a new group and had actively penetrated them—but I never had any details.”
He shook his head. “Jesus. So it was these Thelema bastards, even back then?”
Ava clenched her jaw. From what she had experienced with Malchus and his cronies earlier, she was now certain there was a connection. “Malchus was involved. I don’t know how, yet—but I’m going to find out.”
“Prince?” he asked. “This is from the American files?”
Ava nodded.
“Do you trust her?” he asked quietly.
“Not very much,” she answered truthfully.
“Neither do I,” he smiled sadly. “But then I don’t trust many people.”
She looked at him with concern. “You’ve been doing this too long, Peter.”
“It’s a survival skill,” he grimaced. “It’s kept me alive a long time.”
It was another reason Ava had become disenchanted with the job. For all the excitement of covert work, she could see the endless secrets and uncertainties about who to trust were ultimately corrosive. It was hard to stay normal.
He turned to her. “Ava, can I give you some advice?” His expression was suddenly serious. “As an old friend?” He did not wait for an answer before continuing. “I don’t know how deep this thing goes—but I don’t like it. There are too many unknowns. My instinct tells me people are going to get hurt, and I don’t want you to be one of them. Maybe you should go back to Baghdad—leave this one alone.”
The Sword of Moses Page 29
