The Secret of Hades' Eden

by Graham J. Thomson

  ‘Game on,’ said Kozlowski. ‘Get on the grid people, failure is not an option.’

  The cab drove directly to the Waldorf Astoria hotel in Park Avenue. There were no anti-surveillance moves and no unexplained stops. Charlie-one led the chase most of the way, the weight of the traffic provided suitable natural cover. The rest of the team followed with textbook precision. At the hotel drop-off bay the target exited the cab with the suitcase and walked straight into the reception hall without as much as a glance behind him.

  ‘Delta-one, he’s all yours,’ ordered Kozlowski.

  Sliding off the back of the motorbike, Delta-one left her helmet with Alpha-one, shook her long dark hair out and strode confidently but briskly into the hotel.

  In the busy hotel lobby she raised her mobile phone to her ear for cover and spoke quietly into her hidden mic. ‘Alpha-one, this is Delta-one. Zulu is queuing at the reception desk,’ she said. ‘I’m going in close, wait out.’

  Rushing past the pillars in the grand reception hall, Delta-one joined the line. Standing directly behind the target, she waited and pretended to read texts from her phone. A Japanese family and two uniformed airline staff queued beside her. At the front of the desk a bearded Asian businessman was given his room card, he picked his laptop case up and walked away. The target was next in line to be served. Delta-one moved in as close to him as she could and pressed the transmit button on her radio.

  ‘Two night’s please. No I don’t have a reservation,’ the target was heard saying to the receptionist. ‘I don’t have a credit card, is that a problem? I can pay in full now with cash if you like.’

  From his pocket Delta-one saw him pull out a substantial wad of notes. The receptionist took the money, counted it and tapped away on her keyboard.

  ‘Room number 1309. Have a nice stay,’ said the receptionist cheerily as she handed over the keycard.

  Delta-one released the send button on her radio, she moved forward to reception desk and smiled at the receptionist.

  ‘Delta-one this is Alpha-one. Do whatever it takes to book a room next to 1309.’

  On the monitor screen the black and white image of the Waldorf spun around slowly as the drone circled it high above. The camera remained fixed on a window somewhere in the southwest corner of the hotel. Kozlowski took off his headset and picked up his mobile phone. He dialled the last used number, the odd international ring tone only rang twice before it was answered.

  ‘Paddy, it’s me,’ Kozlowski said. ‘We have him cornered. He can’t take a piss without us knowing about it. When do you want us to lift the bastard?’

  Chapter 26

  0830hrs – London

  The early morning air at London City airport was cool and crisp. A light fog clung to the ground. On the grey runway a huge green and black Chinook started its engines. The rotors turned faster and faster until they were just a blur, the high pitched whine steadily increased until the noise was deafening.

  ‘Put this on,’ William shouted to Ella. He handed her a set of green military noise-cancelling ear defenders. When she put them on the whine of the engine all but disappeared. William fixed the throat microphone in place around her neck.

  ‘Can you hear me?’ he asked.

  Ella nodded and said something, but William watched her lips move soundlessly. He reached for her hand and gently guided it up onto the side of her ear defenders placing her finger on the transmit switch.

  ‘You need to slide that switch to speak. It will stay on until you switch it back, okay?’

  ‘Got it,’ Ella said coming through loud and clear.

  ‘Good.’ He nodded to the Chinook. ‘Let’s go.’

  They crouched as they ran under the blur of the rotors towards the rear door. A soldier in a high visibility vest waved them up the ramp and into the empty fuselage. The seats were merely cushioned benches that ran along each side. They sat together and clipped in their seat belts. The soldier walked up the ramp into the fuselage and pulled a lever on a panel. The ramp closed and locked into place. Giving William the thumbs up, the soldier sat down opposite them and buckled up.

  The pitch of the engines changed and the helicopter lurched forward along the runway. Moments later the power to the engines increased and it quickly rose into the air. Ella tensed and watched through the little side windows. Everything inside shook violently as the helicopter soared upwards. Ella felt herself being pushed into her seat. She watched wide eyed as the helicopter banked steeply several times over London before settling into its flight path.

  She flicked the switch on her head set. ‘How long will this take?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s three hours to Bergerac.’

  ‘Do we stop anywhere?’

  ‘No. This thing has a range of a thousand miles and a speed of one-seventy miles per hour. I suggest you try to snooze. There’s nothing else we can do.’

  William released his seat belt and moved further along the bench, he curled up and shut his eyes. Ella sat rigid and stared out of the windows. The soldier smiled at her, then pulled out a newspaper and read. It was going to be a long, dull trip, she thought.

  *

  At the tiny Bergerac airport they made a smooth vertical descent onto the runway and touched down with only the slightest bounce. The soldier lowered the rear door and William and Ella made their way onto the tarmac. At the exit they were hit by a wall of heat, the dry air carried a strong scent of aviation fuel. Squinting, they shaded their eyes from the bright sunlight as they made their way across the tarmac into the terminal building.

  William picked up the hire car, an unimpressive Citroen, and they drove off through the countryside to Château Monbazillac. After leaving the airport it wasn’t long before they could see the château in the distance, it stood prominently at the top of a hill surrounded by thousands of acres of vineyards and olive orchards.

  Following the sat-nav directions, they soon reached the turn-off from the main road that led up to the Château. They drove up a gentle hill on a long narrow gravelled private road until they eventually reached the car park in the grounds of the impressive building. Built with large grey stones, there were four wide circular turrets at each corner of the square building. Atop of each turret was a pointed slated roof, each had a French flag at its peak. The Château more resembled a medieval castle, thought William.

  They parked the car and headed towards a set of studded wooden double doors. William pressed the buzzer and stood back, he noticed the discreet CCTV camera that was embedded in the panel.

  ‘Bonjour? ‘ came the crackly voice from the speaker.

  ‘We’re here to see Thomas Connegan,’ said William. ‘He’s expecting us.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Inspector Temple we were expecting you, one moment please.’

  Conscious that Ella was smiling quietly to herself, William turned to her. ‘What’s so funny?’ he said quietly as they waited.

  ‘You know you don’t look or even sound at all like a copper,’ she whispered.

  William raised an eyebrow. ‘Not my choice of legend,’ he said apologetically. ‘Look, I’ve been thinking, this guy doesn’t know who you are. Let’s just keep it that way. Just for now, okay?’

  The huge doors shook, the locks clicked, then they swung outwards. Standing in the doorway of the Château was a tall and slender man in his mid fifties. He had a tanned, leathery face and short dark hair. Dressed in green tweed plus fours, the sleeves of his light blue checked shirt were rolled up to the elbows. William’s first impression was that he looked like he was about to go out grouse shooting.

  ‘Inspector, very pleased to meet you. I’m Thomas Connegan,’ he said. His accent was English, notably upper class, but there was a hint of something else which William couldn’t quite place.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ William replied, shaking his hand.

  Connegan’s attention shifted to Ella. ‘Well hello. And you are?’

  She hesitated and glanced at William who remained expressionless. ‘Ella
Moore,’ she said. She took Connegan’s soft, warm hand in hers.

  ‘So, it’s true what they say then. Police officers are getting younger.’ Connegan laughed loudly. ‘And prettier,’ he added under his breath to William.

  ‘May we come in?’ William asked.

  ‘Of course, I’m forgetting my manners. Please do, this way.’

  They made their way into the small square room that was the main hall. The grey stone walls were bare save for a large painting on one side. The ancient old oak floor was dented and chipped in several places. The place looked neglected. William wondered if Connegan was one of those struggling aristocrats who had run out of the family money.

  From the bright hall they followed Connegan through a creaky studded door into a dark, but large, well furnished room. Each wall was covered with a dark wood cladding. Dozens of paintings covered the walls like an art gallery. There were at least twenty framed pictures crammed onto each wall, they were arranged in no particular order or design. A small spotlight lit some of the larger and more impressive pieces. At the far end of the room was a gigantic stone fireplace. Opposite it, on the other wall, were floor to ceiling shelves that were stocked full of books. Above their heads the ceiling was a blood red, three highly decorated white ceiling roses were evenly spaced along it. Small, but elaborate, chandeliers hung from each of them. William spotted the discreet infrared detectors in the top corners of two of the walls. There was a bare oak table in the centre of the room.

  ‘This is the drawing room,’ Connegan announced. ‘It serves as my gallery and the library. It’s the only room I really spend any time in these days.’

  ‘It’s a beautiful place,’ William said.

  ‘Big houses aren’t really all they’re cracked up to be you know,’ he said modestly. ‘Please take a seat. Can I get you a drink? Some wine perhaps? I have a bottle of our very own 1969 claret. It’s quite sensational.’

  ‘It would be rude not to,’ William responded.

  ‘When in Rome,’ Ella added quietly shooting William a playful glance.

  ‘Very good. I won’t be a moment, please make yourself at home.’ Connegan left them for the wine cellar.

  Having a stroll around the room, William took the opportunity to admire the artwork on the walls. The paintings were an odd mixture of age and style. There were frescos and portraits, a few nudes and some highly detailed scenic pieces. Most of them were older looking traditional oil paintings, but there were one or two modern abstracts too. He came across a frame that held not a painting, but an old handwritten document that had yellowed with age. From its prominent central position on the wall it was clearly an important piece. William couldn’t read the handwriting, but he picked out a couple of words, it looked like it was written in Latin.

  The creaky door swung open, Connegan appeared with three burgundy glasses in one hand and a dusty bottle of wine in the other. He placed them on the oak table, popped the cork and poured a generous amount of red liquid into each of them.

  ‘Fascinating works of art you have here, Mr Connegan,’ William said.

  ‘Call me Tom, please.’ He swilled the blood-red liquid around in his glass, raised it to his nose and inhaled deeply. ‘Ah, wonderful. Are you a wine man, Inspector?’

  ‘Please, call me William,’ he replied. Returning to his chair, he picked up his wine glass, swilled it, smelled it and drank. ‘I know what I like, Tom. Hmm, and I love this little beauty.’

  Connegan laughed. ‘Thank you, always a pleasure to get good feedback.’

  ‘Do you collect art, Tom?’ William asked steering the conversion back to his objectives.

  Holding his glass up to the light from a chandelier, Connegan thought for a second. ‘You could say that. But I prefer the word investor.’

  ‘You buy and sell?’

  ‘If I see something I like, I buy it,’ Connegan said. ‘If it makes economic sense, then I’ll sell it.’ He pointed to the wall. ‘You see that manuscript, the one you were looking at?’

  ‘Yes, it’s in Latin if I’m not mistaken.’

  Connegan nodded and smiled. ‘I bought it for two-thousand pounds many years ago from a small Spanish museum that was closing down. It’s an original page from the notes taken during the Inquisition’s torture of Jacques de Molay.’

  Ella’s eyes lit up. ‘The very last Grand Master of the Knights Templar,’ she pointed out.

  Impressed, Connegan tipped his glass in salute to Ella. ‘Yes, well done. And that piece of seven-hundred year old paper is now worth at least ten times what I paid for it, thanks to the explosion of interest in the Templars.’ He grinned showing yellowed teeth. ‘I used to do it for a living you know. I was an investment banker you see, in the city.’

  ‘In London?’ Ella asked.

  ‘Yes. I worked for an alternative investments company. We invested in wine, art and collectables like stamps and antiques. I did rather well, seemed to have an eye for it. By the time I was thirty-five I had my own investment company. I was bought out nearly ten years ago for a very tidy sum, best thing that ever happened to me. I’m semi-retired now. This,’ he gestured to the art around the room, ‘is more of a hobby now. But I still dabble a little, it helps pay the bills.’

  ‘And the vineyard?’ William asked.

  ‘An old mistress of mine, William, I love wine. And I love the south of France. When I saw this place up for sale a few years back, I jumped at the chance. The staff run the place, but I help out here and there. Doesn’t make any money for me though, but thankfully I’m lucky enough not to need it. Not bad for the son of a milkman from Essex.’

  That was it, William thought, the posh accent was fake, or at least developed, acquired. The man was a working-class Essex boy done good. He was no aristocrat and he was no collector. He was a wheeler-dealer turned treasure hunter.

  ‘So how can I help you both? The officer who called me said you are investigating a murder,’ Connegan said, getting down to business.

  ‘How did you come to know James Davidson?’ William asked.

  The polite smile faded. ‘Is he the victim or the suspect?’

  ‘The victim, I’m afraid.’

  Connegan’s manner hardened. ‘Look, I hope you’re not suggesting I had anything to do with it,’ he said sternly.

  ‘No, of course we’re not,’ William assured. ‘We just need to know how and when you met him and anything else you know about him that may help us find his killer.’

  Stroking his chin, Connegan thought for a moment before speaking. ‘About a year ago I was in Santa Barbara, California, at the Karpeles Manuscript Library Museum. It’s the world’s largest private holding of manuscripts and old documents. Like me, the owner is in the Manuscript Society. I went there looking for a new investment, specifically anything related to the Knights Templar. They are a fascination of mine. I was in luck; they had one thing that interested me, an original set of handwritten notes that mentioned the Templars. But strangely it was dated 1517.’

  Ella was no poker player, her eyes widened and her cheeks flushed. She glanced at William briefly then picked up her glass and drank some more of the wine. Connegan appeared not to notice.

  ‘It couldn’t have been the real Knights Templar,’ Connegan continued. ‘You see they were officially dissolved in 1312.’

  ‘By Pope Clement V,’ Ella added.

  ‘Yes. But I was intrigued all the same, so I made him an offer. He accepted and I brought the manuscript back here for translation.’

  ‘What language was it in?’ William asked.

  ‘Latin. Not something I can read very well myself, so I put out an advert for a translator. On the advert I put a copy of part of the Latin text. Perhaps not the wisest thing in hindsight. Anyway, a few weeks later I received an email from a man called James Davidson, he said he would translate it all for free. Said it was a hobby of his and said he also shared an interest in the Templar Knights.’

  ‘When did he come here?’ William asked, he scribbled a few notes
in his small leather notebook.

  ‘About three months ago. He stayed here while he worked on the manuscript. I enjoyed his company, a very interesting man, knew his wine too. He was clearly well travelled, well cultured and very bright. He spoke several languages, including Latin.’ Connegan picked up the old wine bottle in one hand, leaned over the table and topped up the near empty glasses. ‘You can’t imagine how so very disappointed I was when he vanished. A real breach of trust; I thought we’d become friends. I had given him a free run of the whole place, even my personal museum. Each evening over supper he would update me on his translations, and as time went on a truly fascinating story unfolded.’ He looked down and seemed to drift off for a moment.

  ‘How much did he translate?’ asked William.

  Connegan looked up. ‘All of it, William, he didn’t hide any of the story from me. But then he just ran off, and he took the whole manuscript and all the translations with him.’

  ‘So what was the story?’

  Leaning back in his seat, Connegan took a deep breath. ‘It goes like this: In 1517, Cardinal Scaramucci Medici, who was the Grand Inquisitor of the Inquisition at that time, was sent from Rome to London on the orders of Pope Leo X. He had orders to personally interrogate a suspected heretic. They feared that a merchant called Benedict de Quixlay was a Knight of the Temple. A spy had seen him performing some strange rituals with a gold covered book that he kept hidden. He was reported for it.’

  ‘But he wasn’t one?’ William quizzed. ‘He wasn’t a Templar?’

  ‘No, of course he wasn’t,’ Connegan spat out and gave William an odd look. ‘They were long gone by then, he was something else entirely. But it was a turbulent time for the Roman Catholic Church. The reformation of Europe had begun and they had many enemies. Christian doctrine was under attack from all sides, these were dangerous times. Anyone who challenged the official line of the Church was branded a heretic. Heretics were rounded up, confessions were tortured out of them. Often they were burned at the stake regardless.’