Relics Page 11

  Harker smacked against the stonewall on the opposite side of the corridor, only glancing briefly behind him – something he immediately wished he hadn’t done. The massive seven-foot frame of Drazia Heldon loomed only a couple of feet behind him, one hand outstretched towards Harker, the other tightly grasping the precious box.

  The image sent a surge of adrenalin into Harker’s muscles, and suddenly he was running like hell. Within seconds, he had reached the main chapel and was heading towards the main entrance leading outside. Claire must have made it, he thought, as behind him the crashing of benches thundered in his ears. He jumped on to one of the pews and then hurled himself through the open doorway and out into the chilly early evening air.

  Harker was already pulling himself up off the gravel when the sight in front of him caused him to freeze. Three police cars were waiting, their red and blue sirens flashing wildly, and in front of them stood five uniformed policemen, holding automatic handguns pointing directly at his chest. Harker raised his hands skywards automatically, and a suited man moved towards him, pulling out a set of handcuffs.

  ‘Professor Alex Harker?’

  Harker nodded his head, still dizzy from the wallop it had received against the corridor wall.

  ‘You’re in a lot of trouble, my British friend.’

  Harker let out a deep sigh of relief. ‘You have no idea.’

  Chapter 15

  Drazia Heldon flicked the Fiat Uno’s gearstick into fourth and maintained a steady fifty down the dusty back road towards the main highway. In his wing mirror, he could just make out the flickering of red-and-blue flashing lights from the police cars outside the monastery.

  Why had the law turned up? His breach of the building had been stealthy, just as he’d been taught, and had barely given those robed charlatans back there a chance to react, let alone make a call to the authorities. He wrapped his fists around the Fiat’s narrow steering wheel and shook it with such ferocity that the entire car rocked back and forth. The assassin hated missing his prey, and that interfering professor was just that – prey to be dispatched. He massaged his aching temple, trying to disperse the pain accumulating in the front of his skull, but it would make little difference in the long run. He urgently needed his medicine.

  Drazia reached into his pocket and retrieved a brown plastic pill case with a printed label that read: TAKE AS NEEDED >>>FOR THE CLASS 1 FORM OF CHIARI MALFORMATION.

  He had been born with the condition, and, from what he understood, it was caused by his brain being too big for his skull. As a young boy, he thought it would mean growing up to be supersmart, but that idea had been quickly dashed by one of the orphanage directors, who had told him bluntly it would never improve his below-par mental abilities. In fact, the director had gone on to declare that it would cause him continual bouts of immense pain and even encourage psychopathic tendencies in later life. Drazia subsequently hated the man, but it seemed he had been right on both counts.

  The doctor had called it ‘a downward displacement of the cerebella tonsils through the foramen magnum’, and quite how Drazia had been able to remember that complex explanation was beyond him because he had no idea what it meant. All he knew was that it caused the most blinding headaches imaginable, and without his medication, he simply couldn’t function.

  He tapped out a couple of pink pills into his giant palm and slipped them under his tongue. They began to work immediately, and within minutes, his head was beginning to clear enough to let him return to the problems at hand.

  He’d not planned on letting the professor live but, for that matter, hadn’t expected the authorities to turn up. He shook off his annoyance with a grunt. No matter, he would catch up with the Englishman in due course, and until then the police department would now focus on Harker as their prime suspect for the deaths of those two priests. A satisfying grin spread across the assassin’s face as he recalled the look of terror in Harker’s expression as he had chased him through the monastery’s corridors. He comfortingly stroked the wooden box resting on the passenger seat next to him. As long as he had the relic, his master would be satisfied, and that was all that mattered.

  Heldon turned the metal key and raised the wooden lid. What he saw made him jam down hard on the brakes, bringing the Uno to a screeching halt and sending the box flying into the passenger foot space with a loud clunk. He hastily picked it up and took another look, just to make sure he wasn’t imagining things. He wasn’t.

  A heavy, sickly feeling began to stir in the pit of his stomach. The box was empty. ‘Shit!’ He threw it to the floor in a rage and slammed his fists against the dashboard, cursing his own stupidity.

  ‘Harker, you fucking bastard,’ the assassin hissed through gritted teeth. At that exact moment, his mobile began to ring. Un … fucking believable. The master’s timing, as always, was impeccable.

  Heldon grabbed his metallic-coloured iPhone off the front seat and pressed the answer button.

  ‘Do you have it?’ the voice asked.

  ‘I’m afraid there were complications, my master.’

  This response was met by silence.

  ‘But I’m in the process of rectifying it.’

  ‘What exactly are the complications, Drazia?’

  ‘Harker has the item.’

  ‘He’s still alive?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I’m afraid so.’

  A deep, unsettling breath resonated through the earpiece.

  ‘My old friend, it’s unlike you to make such a mess and at such a critical time. You know what’s at stake, and we have less than twenty-four hours. We can ill afford these mistakes, not now!’

  Heldon chewed his lip as the guilt he felt was quickly replaced by anger. He indeed knew the importance of it, and to be responsible for such a failure at this late stage was devastating. But he had not even mentioned the worst part yet.

  ‘There is one other thing. He’s just been taken into police custody.’

  The sound of grinding teeth at the other end said more than any words could.

  ‘But I do have some good news,’ he continued, glancing behind him to the back seat and into the tear-soaked face of Claire Dwyer. Gagged and hog-tied, she continued to struggle against the nylon rope restraining her. ‘I’m in possession of the Dwyer woman, and she may prove to be a useful bargaining chip.’

  The silence continued unabated.

  ‘Sir, do not worry. I will resolve this well before the deadline, I swear it.’ The giant, irritated by the sound of desperation in his own voice, let that statement hang in the air until, after a few agonising moments of silence, the voice resumed, much calmer this time.

  ‘No, leave this to me. I’ll have the professor picked up by our men. It won’t be difficult to find which police station they’ve taken him to.’

  ‘And what are my orders now, Lord Balthasar?’

  ‘I want you to go dark for a few hours and await my call. I’ll need you to deliver the Dwyer woman at some point, but stay near the city and don’t stray far. And, Drazia, we need her undamaged.’

  Then the line went dead. Heldon slipped the mobile phone into his pocket and turned his attention to Claire Dwyer, who was still writhing on the back seat. He reached over and clamped one of his huge hands around her head, firmly forcing it upwards till her eyes met his. ‘Did you know that in China they eat dog meat? It’s true. You can buy the dogs whilst they’re still alive from ordinary street vendors.’

  Claire’s confused expression drew a smile from the Serbian.

  ‘But a dog is a dangerous animal, and, with its sharp teeth, it can really hurt someone. So you know what they do?’ He raised his chin inviting a response and remained silent until she gave a shake of her head. ‘They break the dog’s legs, push them back over the animal’s head, and hang it up by its feet. That way, the dog stays alive, but it can’t cause any trouble.’ A husky giggle emanated from the assassin’s massive lungs as he loosened his grip on her skull. ‘You’re not going to be any trouble to me, are you now
, little one?’

  Fresh tears trickled down Claire Dwyer’s cheeks. She shook her head submissively, the black streaks of her mascara absorbed by the tight cloth gag.

  ‘Good! Now we’re going to take a little trip.’ He grabbed a dirty blanket from the floor and threw it over her. ‘And if you need a bathroom break, forget it. Just piss in your pants.’ He let out a deep bellow of laughter. ‘And don’t worry about making a mess because the car is stolen.’

  Chapter 16

  ‘So let me get this straight, Professor Harker. This is all some kind of elaborate treasure hunt laid out by your friend Archie Dwyer, the Catholic priest who hanged himself in St Peter’s Square a few weeks ago?’

  Superintendent Rino Perone eased himself down on to the edge of his desk. ‘And now you’re being chased by … and let’s be clear about this.’ The silver-haired detective picked up his leather notepad and flicked back a couple of pages. ‘By a seven-foot giant with a sword for an arm, who’s also kidnapped the priest’s sister, your friend Claire Dwyer.’ He slipped the pad into the breast pocket of his shirt and shook his head disbelievingly. ‘And you seriously expect me to swallow this shit?’

  Opposite him, Harker sat impatiently with his left wrist handcuffed to a wooden chair bolted to the floor. His jacket was covered in mud from having to lie on wet soil outside the monastery as the police arrested him. ‘It’s the truth. Everything I’ve told you is the truth.’

  ‘Right.’ The Superintendent nodded sarcastically. ‘Yet there was absolutely no sign of this “giant” or your friend, even though we had the entire building already surrounded.’

  Harker had to use every ounce of self-control to stop himself from shouting in frustration. ‘Well, he must have escaped before your men totally surrounded it. I’m sure there’s a back door. After all, it’s a monastery, not a bloody jail cell!’

  After being handcuffed and then thrown into the back of a blue Alfa Romeo, he had been transported back to the Questura in the heart of Rome. He had spent the entire trip trying to convince Perone to go back and search for Claire Dwyer, but the policeman had ignored his pleas, and, after discovering the corpses of Maddocks and the monk Valente, he could hardly blame him.

  Since then, and for the past forty-five minutes, the interrogation had rolled on and on, and he had just finished telling his story for the ninth time, offering the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. With one single exception, however. When he was initially being patted down by one of the officers, the man had missed the thin plastic case hidden under the lining of his capacious jacket. It had been the first time Harker was actually glad he had not gotten around to mending the gaping hole located inside his jacket pocket. He had made the rapid switch when the assassin’s attention had been focused on running through Father Maddocks with his blade. Harker had never seen a person killed before, and even the bombings in Jerusalem had not prepared him for the sight of Father Maddocks being impaled right in front of his eyes: his body going limp except for a slight twitching as the priest’s muscles spasmed, the life and then energy draining from the puncture wound in his neck before dripping on to the stone floor with a nauseating pitter-patter. It was a horrible experience; and Maddocks had deserved better.

  ‘Hey! You better start paying attention,’ shouted Perone, slamming his fist down hard on the scratched desktop and startling Harker from his thoughts. ‘You’ve been a busy boy today, my friend, and you’ve left chaos in your wake.’ Perone leant closer, a throbbing vein bulging from his forehead. ‘In my fucking province alone, I make it a count of five. That’s enough to brand you a serial killer, and I can guarantee you one thing – you are going to fucking burn for this.’

  ‘Five? There were only two killings? Father Maddocks and the monk Valente.’

  The policemen pulled a slim stack of photographs from the top of his filing cabinet. ‘Don’t play dumb with me, boy. You think you can murder good people in cold blood and just get away with it?’ He shoved the four colour photographs into Harker’s hands. The first showed the orphanage director Benito Giuseppe lying on an ambulance gurney, his face completely charred on one side and his throat slit from ear to ear.

  Harker struggled to hold down the bile collecting at the back of his mouth as he took in the next couple of images which showed Benito’s two female assistants slaughtered in much the same manner. The fourth and final photograph was of the orphanage as it was, consumed by flames like some huge funeral pyre.

  Perone stepped behind Harker and leant forward, viewing the death photos over his shoulder. ‘It’s a miracle none of the children were killed. Or maybe you feel squeamish about killing kids, eh?’ He moved his mouth to within inches of Harker’s ear. ‘But, believe me, if you had, you’d be in a cell right now, having yourself a serious fucking accident.’

  Harker lurched forward as far as his handcuffs would allow and threw up into the waste-paper basket, the acrid smell of his own vomit causing him to expel a second load.

  His lips curling in revulsion, Perone backed away to the other side of his desk. ‘The aftermath is never pretty, huh?’ He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and threw it into Harker’s lap before opening the door and dumping the waste bin outside. ‘Don’t do that in my office again.’

  Harker strained with the handcuffs to wipe the spittle from his lips, his mind racing for answers even as Perone continued his verbal assault, clearly encouraged by his chief suspect’s discomfort.

  ‘My God, you really are a sick fuck. Imagine if you hadn’t hired a taxi to take you out to the monastery, we’d have never tracked you down so fast. Who knows how many more people you would have butchered, eh?’

  Harker glanced over to the doorway as a hard-faced female cop with long black hair eyed the vomit-filled bucket with disgust before picking it up and disappearing into another office beyond.

  Harker closed his eyes and tried to tune everything out. All that mattered was finding Claire, and every hour that passed was another nail hammered into her coffin.

  The policeman finally slumped back in his chair and rubbed at his temple, the skin wrinkling upwards like a creased shirt. ‘Now, why don’t we go over all this again?’

  Harker wiped his lips with the handkerchief one last time before gently placing the soiled piece of cloth on the desk. ‘My name is Alex Harker, and I’m an archaeologist working for Cambridge University. I was employed to find out why Archie Dwyer killed himself – probably by the same group that I now believe murdered all these people you’ve mentioned.’ He gestured towards the gruesome photos spread out across the table. ‘I found a file on his computer which led us first to the orphanage in Tivoli and from there to the monastery in Subiaco, where we managed to escape the real killer of Father Maddocks, just before you found me.’ Harker wrestled with his frustration. ‘For Christ’s sake, I’ve never killed anyone in my life. And the longer you waste your time finding that out, the longer they have to do God knows what to Claire Dwyer.’

  Superintendent Perone reached over and tapped the death-filled photos. ‘Never killed anyone until today, that is?’

  His mind still reeling from the shocks of the last few hours, Harker put his head in his hands. This was going nowhere fast. ‘I think I need to see a lawyer now.’

  The police officer nodded solemnly. ‘I’d say you’re dead right.’ Perone placed an old-style rotary telephone on to the desktop and left the room, deliberately slamming the door behind him.

  Harker didn’t actually have a lawyer since he had always relied on the university to sort out any personal entanglements, which had been far and few, but he had to call on someone to help him. During the superintendent’s threatening analysis of the situation, only one number had sprung to mind, that of the only person he totally trusted with his well-being. Harker dragged the antiquated instrument towards him, dialled an international number, and waited. He was just about to hang up when the answering machine kicked in.

  ‘Doggie, it’s Alex. I’m in serious troubl
e. I need your help,’ he paused for a moment and drew in a deep, steadying breath. How do you explain to a friend that you’re in the process of being indicted for serial murder?

  ‘It’s a long story but, to put it bluntly, I’m being charged with murder by the Italian authorities. It’s all a mistake, but, suffice to say, I’m in a lot of trouble, and I need all the help I can get. I’m currently being held at the central police station in Rome. I can explain everything, but I need your help, and quick.’ He scanned the handwritten contact number printed on a slip of white paper glued to the base of the phone. ‘It’s Rome, 555–1246 … I’ll be waiting.’

  It wasn’t until Harker had hung up that he became aware of the commotion unfolding outside the office. He turned around and glanced through the glass panel of the door to see Perone arguing intensely with three men dressed smartly in dark suits, white shirts, and black ties. Their alpha pulled out a double-panelled ID card and displayed it towards the small group of policemen that had now gathered behind the lead detective. Whatever he showed them instantly halted the discussion, and the officers moved aside, allowing the three men to make their way into the office with Perone following closely on their heels.

  Great! What now? Harker thought.

  ‘Professor Harker?’ The man had a distinctly English accent.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘My name is David Grant, and I’m from the British embassy. May we talk?’ Grant immediately undid Harker’s cuffs and threw them on to the superintendent’s desk.

  A wave of comforting relief descended upon Harker, and he stood up to shake the official’s hand whilst simultaneously resisting the urge to hug the man. ‘Damn glad to see you, I think.’