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  ‘Actually my mother died at birth, so I was never exposed to that language, nor have I ever had the pleasure of visiting Germany.’ Lusic’s tone was patronising, not attempting to hide his obvious dislike of the dean.

  Harker stared down at the floor, not wanting to succumb to the laughter welling up inside him as Doggie pursed his lips uncomfortably, struggling to contain his embarrassment.

  ‘My mistake. I’m just getting over a bout of flu. It affects the ears, you know.’

  Lusic nodded politely, ignoring the obvious gaffe. ‘Mr Lercher, if you would care to wait here …’ He pointed to a solitary leather-seated dining chair pushed up against the wall.

  ‘What? You mean I can’t come in?’

  A stern shake of the head sufficed to answer the dean’s question.

  ‘Well, I’ll be here if you need me, Alex,’ Doggie offered, before taking his seat.

  ‘This way, Professor,’ Lusic instructed cordially and directed his visitor into the adjoining room.

  Harker found himself in an ornate medieval-looking hall with thick oak beams running across the width of its twenty-foot-high ceiling. The white walls were liberally adorned with pictures, but it was too dim to make any of them out in detail. To his left, a semicircular stone fireplace jutted from the wall and was surrounded by two comfortable-looking armchairs.

  ‘Please take a seat, Professor,’ Lusic gestured before disappearing through a connecting door.

  Harker sat down on one of the plush chairs and seized the moment not only to appreciate the warmth of the fire but also to enjoy the silence Doggie had denied him over the past couple of hours.

  His mind began raking through the mountain of unanswered questions this mysterious meeting had raised. The most prominent one being, why here? Was he in trouble? Bletchley Park was a government building, after all, but the size of the cheque had suggested otherwise. There was no way any minister worth his salt would palm off £250 grand of the taxpayers’ money just like that, at least not now that New Labour was out of power.

  Harker gradually succumbed to the hypnotic flickering of the flames. Apart from the spitting embers, the silence around him was almost deafening. It was only after five or six minutes that he was aware of someone speaking to him.

  ‘Professor.’

  Harker spun around to see the source of the voice which had caught him off guard. In the gloom of the connecting doorway stood the tall silhouette of a man. The eeriness of his sudden appearance caused Harker’s heart to skip a beat, and he leapt to his feet.

  ‘I do apologise. I didn’t mean to startle you. Please be seated again and allow me to answer some of the questions you doubtlessly have.’

  Harker dutifully sat back down and watched as the newcomer seemed to glide unnaturally towards the armchair opposite, before sinking into it and crossing his legs all in one fluid motion. In the darkness of the room, it was only the fire’s glowing light that allowed Harker his first proper look at the man seated in front of him.

  He was dressed totally in black, including his brogues and leather gloves, so that the mane of pure white hair cascading over the back of the armchair was in startling contrast. His appearance was unsettling enough, but what really stood out were the black-lensed aviator’s glasses resting on his nose.

  ‘Professor Alex Harker, thirty-eight years old and born in Belfast. Your father died in an IRA bombing, and you were brought up by your mother until you left home to become a priest in the Roman Catholic Church, aged eighteen.’ He inhaled deeply and straightened his glasses before continuing. ‘You remained in the service of the Church for eight years until leaving to become a textual archaeologist, the career that you have followed ever since. For some years now, you have been teaching archaeology and religious philosophy at Cambridge University, and your credits include discovery of the Damascus texts and, most recently, an acquisition to display a number of Dead Sea Scrolls, including the famed Isaiah scrolls for the first time in the UK. Quite an achievement, considering all the political implications.’

  Harker smiled politely but remained silent. There was obviously a point to this sinister and rather invasive introduction, and the sooner this fellow got to the point, the better.

  ‘Your main personal interest now lies in religious texts and relics, and it is that which has brought you here to me tonight.’ The man nestled both hands in his lap, his aviator sunglasses reflecting flickers from the hearth.

  Harker had struggled to curb the sudden anger he had felt at hearing the death of his father mentioned in such a cavalier manner, but his irritation was soon replaced by a growing curiosity at this man’s strange appearance. In the dim light, his skin appeared to be a very dark grey and his lips either light black or even blue! The accent was also unusually cultured – English but with a Middle Eastern inflection to it that he had not encountered before.

  ‘Well, you’ve certainly got me there. Now, how about you tell me who you are. And, for the record, it was only the generous size of the cheque that brought me here.’

  ‘Of course.’ The mysterious donor emitted a deep gravelly laugh, revealing bleached white teeth that almost glowed in the murkiness of the hall. ‘Money makes the world go round, does it not? Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Sebastian Brulet, and I am the CEO of Maptrel, the company behind the cheque that I suspect you are keeping safe in one of your jacket pockets.’

  Harker, without any change of expression, pointed to the pocket in question. ‘Good guess,’ he replied, obviously unimpressed.

  Brulet now continued swiftly. ‘Professor Harker, let me get straight to the point. Having been lucky enough to be born into a wealthy and influential family, I have never wanted for anything, and I received the best education money could buy. My father wished me to continue in the family business, accumulating yet more wealth as many generations of Brulets had done before me. But when he himself passed away, leaving me everything, I found myself at a crossroads.’ Brulet got up and casually made his way over to the fireplace, resting his elbow on the marble mantle shelf. ‘At that stage, I could either continue to amass another fortune or I could do something else with it, and I finally decided that my path would lie in helping people less fortunate than myself. By that, I mean people who didn’t enjoy a first-class education or the kind of loving childhood that would allow them an unprejudiced view of the world.’

  Brulet pushed back the lock of white hair that had fallen across his gaunt features before continuing. ‘Since then, Maptrel has become one of the prime supporters of charity organisations around the globe. From new school buildings throughout Africa to poverty programmes right here in the UK, we are involved in them all.’

  As the CEO continued to speak, Harker found himself increasingly distracted by the fine white hair hanging down to the man’s waist. The heat from the fire caused individual strands of it to rise and fall as if caught in a mild breeze, giving him the look of someone being filmed in slow motion. This image was so hypnotic that Harker had to shift in his seat to stop himself from nodding off right in the middle of Mr Brulet’s ongoing disclosure.

  ‘Our efforts have had real impact, and, as a result, we’ve gained many friends and allies throughout the world’s religious communities. It is such contacts that have opened our eyes to certain events occurring outside the realm of public knowledge. And that is why I have asked you here tonight.’

  Harker’s interest perked up at the last comment, and he smiled politely. Finally, it seemed the fellow was getting somewhere. ‘How can I help?’ he asked bluntly.

  Brulet pushed the sunglasses back into place, as they had been slowly sliding forward. ‘Some of these contacts have warned us about a secret organisation known to us only as the Magi, which, in some form or another, has strong ties with the Roman Catholic Church. I’m embarrassed to say that we don’t even know how this organisation is structured, let alone what it is they’re working on. But what we do know is that a partnership was formed over forty years ago, back in the �
�70s, and it is funded even to this day by Church money.’

  Brulet raised a theatrical finger to his lips. ‘Its activities are all very hush-hush and conducted behind closed doors. Falling into the Church equivalent of a black ops file, we believe. Nonetheless, it is an operation we are keen to learn more about.’

  There was seriousness in Brulet’s tone that stopped Harker from making light of the ‘black ops’ reference.

  ‘Mr Brulet, I’m sure the Church does engage in many under-the-table dealings, but I doubt that any of them are illegal or as mysterious as you make out.’

  The white-haired man sat back in his chair and gently smoothed the creases in his trousers. ‘You could be right, Professor, but considering the numbers involved …’

  ‘What numbers?’

  ‘In recent years, the Catholic Church has seen numbers drop and, with that, its incoming donations. Did you know that over the past few decades, the Church has had little option but to reel in its spending because of this? Almost all its expenditure has been cut except in one case.’

  Harker made the obvious connection for himself. ‘The Magi?’

  Brulet nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yes, the Magi have been receiving in the region of fifteen million pounds every year since ’78.’

  Harker let out a gasp at the huge sum of money just mentioned. ‘Every year? That’s almost …’ He quickly added it up in his head. ‘Half a billion pounds! That’s a lot of cash.’

  Brulet smiled at Harker’s astonishment. ‘It certainly is, but that’s only the half of the story. Over the past few years, we’ve managed to source the names of only four individuals connected with this organisation, but, in each case, and before we’ve been able to make contact with them, they’ve turned up dead. Victims of apparent accidents except one who just died recently in what can only be described as a bizarre suicide. The individual in question was contacted by us shortly before his death, and he was someone, as it happens, I believe, you knew well.’

  That statement hung in the air as Harker realised the connection. For only one of his friends had ever committed suicide.

  ‘You’re talking about Archie Dwyer?’

  Brulet sat back in his chair and nodded. ‘Father Archibald Dwyer, the man who hanged himself on the balcony of St Peter’s Basilica on the day of the Pope’s inauguration two weeks ago. It appears that whatever information he wanted us to have, he has now taken with him to the grave.’

  Harker felt numbed by the last comment. He had known Archie since childhood, and both of them entered the church at the same time. But sadly the two men hadn’t spoken since Harker relinquished his dog collar in search of the new life he had found for himself in archaeology. He knew the funeral would take place soon in Italy where Archie had been living, but, what with the Dead Sea Scrolls event and all that had come with it, Harker had not planned on attending. Considering the state of their friendship – or lack of it – in recent years, he’d not wanted to cause embarrassment by just turning up but had promised himself that at some point he’d visit the grave to pay his last respects.

  ‘Professor, we would like you … I would like you to attend the funeral and find out whatever you can.’

  Harker shook his head apologetically. ‘Mr Brulet, it sounds like you need a private investigator, and that’s not what I do.’

  Brulet leant in closer. ‘Anyone attending from my company would attract too much attention, as would an ordinary gumshoe, but you’d have a genuine reason for being there.’

  The look of hesitation on Harker’s face encouraged Brulet to offer more information. ‘Professor, the fact is Father Dwyer wanted to tell us everything about the Magi and their activities, but he suspected he was being closely watched, which means there’s a good chance he left that information somewhere for us to find. If he did, I want you to bring it to us so we can hold these Magi people to account.’

  Harker rubbed his hands together in frustration. ‘Mr Brulet, I wouldn’t even know where to start.’

  The white-haired man leant in closer still and placed a hand on Harker’s forearm. ‘Why don’t you begin by opening that letter you received this evening? I believe it was special delivery.’

  Brulet’s remark caught Harker by surprise, as he had totally forgotten about the letter Jenkins had handed to him back at Trinity College before the meeting with Caster had further distracted his thoughts. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the white envelope and examined the stamp indicating the country of origin. ‘It’s from Italy. Archie’s handwriting?’

  ‘How did you know?’ Harker asked uncomfortably.

  Brulet waved a hand dismissively. ‘Don’t read too much into that. Father Dwyer mentioned that he might be sending you a letter.’

  This answer did not exactly put his mind at rest, but for the moment, he was prepared to let the matter go. Harker carefully slid his finger into the flap before gently tearing it open and retrieving a sheet of handwritten paper from inside. He held it up to the firelight and began reading the contents out loud.

  ‘“Alex, my time is short. Follow the path of the old world. Follow the path of the master’s name from A–J. Maddocks 23-45-64. Trust your logic and not your faith”. What the hell does all that mean?’

  With a blank expression, Sebastian Brulet shook his head. ‘I really don’t know, but I would beg you to attend his funeral. Speak to his family and friends there, as it’s possible he confided in them. Then go and check his residence. It has yet to be cleared out, and that won’t happen until after his burial, so he may have left something there for you to find.’

  ‘That’s a lot of possibilities, Mr Brulet.’

  ‘Well, there’s also a lot of zeros on our cheque, Mr Harker.’

  Harker momentarily glanced down at Brulet’s hand and suddenly realised just how grey the man’s skin was. In the dim light of the fire, it reflected almost silver, matched by his facial complexion, which appeared the same tone. Brulet pulled back awkwardly, noticing Harker’s interest.

  ‘It’s a skin condition I have, which dulls the natural colour, I’m afraid.’ He removed his hand speedily. ‘But don’t worry, it’s not infectious.’

  Harker restrained the urge to brush the area of his forearm that Brulet had touched, not wanting to make the man uneasy. ‘OK, I’ll do it. You sort out the travel arrangements, and I’ll see what I can find out but no promises.’

  Brulet was clearly pleased by this decision, and once again his dazzling white teeth were on full display. ‘Excellent! Excellent!’ He reached into his jacket pocket and produced a business card. ‘You can contact John Caster on this number for him to answer any queries you might have.’

  Harker pulled out the card he’d been handed back in Cambridge. ‘I’ve already got one.’

  Brulet effortlessly popped the second card into Harker’s top pocket. ‘Well, now you have two.’

  He offered a handshake, which was snatched by Harker unflinchingly as if to prove that Brulet’s unfortunate skin colour had never been an issue.

  ‘You won’t be expected to contact me directly, but, should it become absolutely necessary, then Mr Caster can arrange it. Meanwhile, Lusic will have all your travel details ready for you on the way out.’ Sebastian Brulet gave his visitor’s hand one last shake before letting go. ‘It’s now in your hands, so good luck. I know you won’t let us down.’

  There was only one question Harker needed to ask, and he’d almost forgotten it. ‘What day is the funeral because there are some university matters I need to take care of before I leave?’

  Brulet sat back comfortably in his chair and tapped his fingers together. ‘Well, you better get them sorted quickly, Professor Harker, because your plane leaves at 6.30 a.m. tomorrow morning. Oh, and try to keep a low profile, if you can, as we don’t won’t want to cause any undue panic. Meanwhile, Godspeed.’

  Chapter 5

  Vito Malpuso grabbed the heavy blue duffel bag and hastily made his way down the creaking wooden stairs of the run-down Italian
farmhouse. He snatched his car keys off the kitchen table and headed out to the red Citroen parked outside.

  The rustic farmhouse had seen better days and was situated south of Rome in the Villa Doria Pamphili region; well off the beaten track. The building stood on an incline, overlooking the surrounding vineyards that chequered the area, offering a view any local would be proud to call his own.

  Vito dumped the oversized holdall into the back seat and slammed the door shut with a thud. All this cloak-and-dagger stuff was not for him, and his nerves just weren’t built for it. He’d been fretting about moving on to another location for the last two days, but the phone call he’d received only minutes earlier had made the decision for him. ‘Get out now. It’s not safe. Go to the Hotel Del Papa, room 322, and wait for my call.’ The urgency in the contact’s voice had made Malpuso’s stomach churn, and, within minutes, he had slung all his possessions into the cheap duffel bag and was on his way out the door.

  He heard a scuffling sound behind him and spun around to find a large grey rabbit in the centre of the dusty drive, looking as nervous as he was. Vito let out a relieved sigh and clapped his hands, sending the animal scampering off into the dark.

  No, his nerves were definitely not designed for this.

  He scanned the rest of the forecourt, holding his breath as he listened for any sounds of movement. Satisfied there was nothing of concern, he wiped his sweaty hands across the thighs of his blue denim jeans and made his way back inside. The brown-plastered walls of the bare living room were cracked and peeling, giving it more of a condemned than a rustic feel, and Vito took one last look around the place that had been his home over the past two weeks. His decision to hide out in this farmhouse had seemed like a good idea at the time, but, on arriving and taking stock of the cobwebs and lack of fresh water, he realised what a mistake it had been. It wasn’t only his idea to go into hiding, as both of them had agreed on that, but his decision had been the poor choice of location. Bright idea, Vito, he thought, but none of that was important now. It only mattered that he got himself out of this place as soon as possible.