Relics Page 12

  The man offered a polite nod. ‘I have orders from the consulate to escort you to the British embassy here in Rome.’

  Just over the civil servant’s shoulder, Harker could see Perone eyeing him furiously like some mentally unhinged vulture.

  ‘You’ve been issued with diplomatic immunity status by the Italian government.’ David Grant pulled out a sealed, brown envelope and passed it over to Perone, who ripped it open to reveal a handwritten letter.

  ‘That, Superintendent, is a signed directive from your chief of police and the minister of the interior, ordering you to place Professor Harker into our custody, effective immediately.’

  It took Perone just a few seconds to read the letter before erupting in a fresh outburst. ‘This is total fucking bullshit.’

  ‘Then I suggest you speak with your own chief rather than vent your anger on me, Superintendent Perone.’

  Grant’s tone was final, and within seconds, Harker was being ushered past scores of fuming police officers by the other two servicemen. Within minutes, they were outside, and he was being bundled into a black X-type Jaguar with tinted windows, each one sporting the familiar bullet-proof symbol.

  Behind them, Perone was unloading a choice selection of Italian insults that were obviously having little impact, but that wasn’t about to stop him continuing. ‘This is bullshit, total bullshit – that man’s a suspect in almost five murders. You don’t really think you’re going to get away with this fucking outrage, do you?’

  Opening the passenger door, David Grant paused momentarily. ‘My dear Superintendent, I believe I just have.’ As soon as the door was slammed shut, the Jaguar was on its way, leaving a furious Perone punching the air and continuing his torrent of abuse. The car turned a corner and began heading along the Via Nazionale, on a route leading out of the city.

  Harker leant towards the gap between the two front seats, his head buzzing with questions. ‘Who sent you?’ was all he managed.

  It was Grant who spoke, the other two men remaining silent. ‘You’ve become quite a celebrity these days, and apparently you have friends in high places. Well, Professor, you’ve really managed to get yourself into a lot of trouble today, haven’t you? I’d hate to think of the problems you would have caused us if you’d planned a longer visit. Now, there’s something I need you to do for me.’ He dipped into his pocket and pulled out something black. ‘Would you put this on, please?’

  He reached over and dropped the item into Harker’s hand. At first, Harker thought it was a black tie, but a shiver ran through him as he realised what it was.

  ‘A blindfold? Why do I … ?’

  The pistol aimed directly at his face caused him to stop mid-sentence.

  ‘You’re not really from the British Consulate, are you?’

  ‘No, we’re not,’ Grant replied, motioning towards the blindfold with the muzzle of his gun. ‘Now, be a good man and put it on. That’s if you want to live past tonight.’

  Chapter 17

  ‘You may now take off the blindfold, Professor.’ The sombre tone of David Grant’s voice caused Harker to hesitate for a moment as an image of the gun barrel still played through his mind.

  Was this really how it ended?

  He slid the blindfold off, automatically shielding both eyes as they adjusted to the light. He was in a garage, and a big one at that, housing six other cars, all top of the range. Next to the Jaguar he’d arrived in stood a metallic-grey Humvee, a blacked-out limousine, a light-blue Bentley Continental, a 750i BMW and, parked snugly at the end, a jet black Vogue Range Rover, completing the impressive row of cars.

  ‘Civil servants are getting paid far too much these days,’ Harker remarked, the joke drawing a vague smile from one of the men but ignored by the others.

  ‘You see, that wasn’t so bad, was it? Now if you’d like to follow me, Professor.’

  Flanked either side, Harker was led down a short passageway that ended up in a six-feet by ten-feet granite-tiled room decorated with a luxurious red and gold wallpaper. The one called Grant made his way over to a small mirror hanging on the far side of the room. He pressed his hand against it, activating a glowing green light, which scanned the entire length of his palm. A moment later, the wall facing them began to pull apart, like a pair of curtains, and the low hum of hydraulics vibrating through the floor tiles could be felt and heard as the walls locked into place, revealing the interior of a lift.

  ‘After you.’

  Harker stepped inside and was promptly joined there by Grant himself who swiftly pressed an elevator button labelled L. Immediately the elevator jerked into motion as its wires took the weight, pulling them upwards. Half a minute of uncomfortable silence later, the doors slid open to reveal a red-carpeted hallway, and Grant ushered him out before escorting him down the corridor.

  On the walnut-panelled walls hung a row of portraits of men dressed in the garments of different historical periods. Some of the images looked well worn, being sensibly protected behind glass, and although Harker didn’t recognise the subjects, their styles of dress were unmistakable. The first was a stoic-looking man in traditional Roman uniform, armed with a gladius, or short sword, and grasping a legionary standard that displayed an eagle spreading its wings. The image was painted on a wooden panel as was popular during the first and second centuries AD, and, despite some telling signs of restoration, it looked totally original. The further along the hallway they proceeded, the more recent the style of dress became, ending up with someone wearing the uniform of a four-star general in the American Army. Harker recognised the medals from the first Gulf War and the war for Kuwait, but the man himself didn’t look familiar.

  Grant pushed open a solid wooden door next to the final portrait and forced a smile. ‘After you, Professor.’

  Harker could feel the inside of his mouth go dry again as his nerves intensified a notch. He took a deep gulp and determinedly made his way into the room.

  The first thing that caught his attention was the smell of dust and old leather. The dim lights and the closed curtains blocking any natural light from getting in made it difficult to see clearly, but he could sense that the room was huge. It must have been over hundred metres in length by twenty metres wide, with thick wooden beams jutting out of the walls at different levels all along. As his eyes acclimatised to the low-level lighting, it suddenly dawned on him that he was in a library. Though it was only one room, there were four levels of walkway lining the perimeter so as to allow easy access to all areas. The room must have approached thirty metres in height, and the shelves of books ran all the way up to within a couple of feet of the ceiling.

  Behind him, the door closed, but Harker barely noticed, his attention being consumed by the remarkable sight in front of him. He made his way over to the nearest tier of dark mahogany shelves, running his finger across the bindings before stopping at a copy of Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol. Harker pulled it off the shelf and gently opened it at the first page. On the flyleaf, a note in thick black ink had been neatly handwritten at the head of the page:

  To my good friend Jacque de Montford, who taught me there is far more to one’s spiritual life than simply that which lies on the surface. Your obedient servant and friend, Charles Dickens.

  Harker recognised the signature as genuine. Impressive.

  He carefully placed the volume back and continued to scan the shelves. The books were grouped by authors, starting with the works of Charles Dickens, and moving on to Mary Shelley, H. G. Wells, and so on. All of them signed first editions. There were novels, plays, poetry, and non-fictions, but what really made Harker’s stomach churn in excitement was a shelf sign labelled RELIGIOUS TEXTS. Each volume here was carefully protected by a transparent case fastened to the wall by thick Teflon wire. Some still had their original bindings, whilst other older-looking documents had each individual page protected between two sturdy plastic sheets, which meant that some of the larger books took up an entire shelf. One caught Harker’s eye, and he ac
tually felt his legs wobble. The first page was written in ancient Hebrew script on what looked like age-old darkened papyrus. It contained a single word: Peter.

  As Harker’s mind was numbed by a sense of shock and awe, he was barely aware of the gawky childish grin he now sported, causing tears of sheer excitement to well up in the corners of his eyes. Was this for real? The response he received in a familiar voice startled him, and he jerked his hand away from the ancient text in shock.

  ‘Yes, Professor, it’s genuine. That’s the lost gospel of the apostle St Peter himself, one of the most important accounts never to grace the pages of the most successful book ever printed: The King James Bible.’

  Stood on the other side of the room was Sebastian Brulet, his featureless silhouette in stark contrast to the long white hair flowing over his shoulders and the sunglasses glinting in reflection of what little light there was in the room. ‘No, I’m not a mind reader, Professor. The look on your face said it all.’

  Harker moved a few steps closer in his effort to see better the man who had sent him on this nightmare journey in the first place. ‘Brulet, what the fuck is going on, and where the hell is Claire Dwyer? I want some answers, or do you plan to have me murdered, like you had your henchman do to Father Maddocks?’

  Brulet didn’t move an inch. ‘And what henchman would that be, Professor?’

  ‘Don’t screw around, Brulet. You know damn well whom I mean, about seven feet high and built like a brick wall.’

  Brulet gave a curt nod. ‘He’s not one of mine, but, yes, I know the man you refer to – if you can call him a man.’

  For some strange reason, Harker believed him, but he wasn’t about to allow his supposed employer the satisfaction. ‘Yeah, well, he’s managed to follow me wherever I went, and since you and Mr Caster are the only people who knew I was going to be in Rome …’

  From the darkened doorway directly behind Brulet, another familiar voice interrupted.

  ‘I can assure you I’ve not told anyone of your location except for the police by alerting them to your whereabouts at the monastery.’ The balding Mr Caster, the lawyer Harker had met back in Cambridge, stepped out of the shadows and into view. ‘And I’m pretty sure I was doing you a favour by placing that anonymous call.’

  Harker’s head was spinning with questions whilst struggling not to lose his temper. ‘Someone better tell me what the hell is going on right now.’

  The last part of his sentence was delivered so aggressively that Caster actually took a step backwards. Brulet, on the other hand, took a step closer.

  ‘The giant fellow you came in contact with is an assassin, Mr Harker. He’s a professional killer by the name of Drazia Heldon, and he works for that same organisation I spoke of at our last meeting.’

  Harker felt a release of frustration by expelling a deep sigh. Finally, he was getting somewhere, it seemed. ‘What? You mean the ones associated with the Catholic Church who are receiving those huge sums of money?’

  ‘One and the same organisation, Professor. It goes by the name of the Magi, and as you found out earlier today, they will stop at nothing to lay their hands on what I believe, and hope, you now have somewhere on your very person.’

  Harker decided he was done playing games. He reached into his torn inside pocket and carefully pulled out the narrow, airtight plastic case containing the crown of thorns.

  Brulet nodded respectfully. ‘Yes, that’s the item I mean.’ He didn’t take a step nearer but simply stretched out his hand. ‘May I?’

  The gesture was in no way threatening, but Harker hadn’t endured today’s dramatic events just to give it up now. And more importantly, if this Magi group wanted the relic so desperately, then it was the only bargaining chip he had for Claire’s life. ‘No, first you tell me everything, and then …’ He placed the container back in his pocket. ‘… I’ll think about it.’

  Brulet lowered his arm, considering that suggestion. ‘Fair enough. As you’ll know the Magi was the name given to the three kings of undying fame.’

  ‘You’re referring to the three kings who made a pilgrimage to Bethlehem to witness Christ’s birth?’

  ‘That’s exactly who I mean, of course.’ Brulet began to pace slowly back and forth, all the time keeping his distance. ‘The Magi consider themselves the true successors to these three kings.’

  A tingling sensation stirred in Harker’s flesh as a mixture of excitement and disbelief took hold of him. After this day’s frenzied events, it was a feeling he was getting used to, but he still had to fight to control it as Brulet now continued.

  ‘It is this organisation that claims to have been, though at a distance, connected with the Catholic Church since its very inception. Two of its leading dynasties have over time been terminated, through either assassination or accident, but the third and last remaining family … Well, Ms Dwyer and you had the misfortune of meeting one of their employees earlier today. That family is currently headed up by one of four brothers, namely Balthasar – or Lord Balthasar – as he prefers to be called.’ Brulet rolled his eyes dismissively. ‘Anyway, whatever you wish to call him, he seized the reins of power after their father died in a car-bomb incident some five years ago.’ Brulet rubbed his hands together in seeming frustration. ‘That was a death that, unfortunately, I myself have been blamed for.’

  ‘Were you responsible?’ Harker responded.

  ‘No, but I wish I had been. That is what I find so unfortunate.’

  The cold answer filled Harker with dread. He barely knew this strange man or what he stood for, but he allowed only one question to preoccupy his thoughts. ‘Where is Claire Dwyer, and how do I get her back?’

  Brulet’s response came straight to the point. ‘She is alive and now most likely in the hands of the Magi but only for as long as you still have possession of what they want.’ He raised a long spindly finger in the direction of Harker’s jacket. ‘For the moment, she won’t be harmed, but allow them to get their hands on that item, and they’ll kill her without hesitation. Unfortunately for us, even this may not be enough to ensure her safety.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that there exists another item of equal value, and, if allowed to get their hands on it, they may decide they have no need of the one that is currently residing in your pocket.’

  For the first time since this conversation began, Harker felt like he was being played. ‘Why should I believe any of this or anything else you say for that matter?’ It was now he allowed the barrage of questions flowing through his mind to erupt. ‘And why get me out of that police station only to have your guys pull a gun on me?’ He began.

  That Brulet showed no sign of emotion at all began to enrage Harker even further. The strange man just seemed to absorb it all through those stupid sunglasses of his.

  ‘And who the hell wears sunglasses at night? Well, Mr Brulet? And this had better be good because I’ve picked up enough horrific images and mental scars today to keep me in therapy for years!’

  Brulet inhaled a deep calming breath, and from that moment on, he was all business. ‘Professor, I’ve not lied to you ever since we met. All I have done is to omit certain truths. But I plan to rectify that right now if you’ll allow me.’

  Harker gave a simple nod.

  ‘I would ask that you do not become alarmed at what I’m about to show you. My physical appearance can be somewhat overwhelming at first, so please don’t … He paused and licked his lips, looking for the right phrase. ‘… for lack of a better word, freak out.’

  He placed a hand on each side of his sunglasses and slowly raised them.

  At first, Harker thought he was seeing things due to the inadequate light, but, as Brulet raised his head towards him, his mouth began to dry up once more, and he struggled for his next breath.

  For the first time, Harker could see how extraordinarily grey Brulet’s skin was. It wasn’t just grey; in fact, it looked almost silver. But it wasn’t the colour that had goosebumps flaring
up across his forearms. No, it was the man’s eyes. The whites of Brulet’s eyeballs looked perfectly normal, but the irises … they looked yellow. And his pupils weren’t circular; they were almost cross-shaped!

  On the outside, Harker managed to keep a calm demeanour, but Brulet had been right. Internally he was freaking out.

  ‘What are you?’ he gasped.

  Even though Brulet’s peculiar eyes gave away nothing, his facial expression proclaimed he felt insulted. ‘Please, Professor, I can assure you that I’m just as human as you or anyone else.’

  He paused as Harker took a few steps closer, his stare now merely curious. ‘I never suggested otherwise.’

  ‘No, but you were thinking it.’

  Harker said nothing because the man was right. For a moment, the thought of alien species had briefly entered his mind but had been dismissed just as quickly. By now, he was standing within a few metres, still transfixed by Brulet’s unique appearance.

  ‘The misshaping of my pupils is a genetic condition passed from father to son. As you can see, it is a disorder that also affects the skin. Like a person with albinism, I cannot tolerate the sun for any prolonged length of time, and bright lights or direct sunlight would quite literally fry my retinas and cause permanent blindness.’ He paused as Harker finally stopped moving closer. ‘Which makes me something of a night person.’

  This down-to-earth explanation merely intensified Harker’s curiosity. ‘What’s the condition called?’

  ‘It’s actually a mixture of two.’ Brulet sounded as if he were proud of it. ‘The first is Coloboma. That’s a genetic disorder which affects the eyes, creating the yellow tinge of the irises and the ill-formed pupils which you are now staring at so intently.’

  If this remark was meant to inform Harker that he was being rude, it didn’t have the desired effect, and the professor stepped even closer. ‘And your skin?’

  ‘It’s a form of Waardenburg syndrome that affects the pigments in the skin and can cause skin cancer in many cases. Apart from that, I am in perfect working order.’