It was Penrose 2, God 0. He would lie awake at night, savouring the ingenious brilliance of his coup and fantasising about what he could achieve if he had more money to spend. With a big enough budget, he could bring the whole rotten thing down. Squash all of the cockroaches flat. By now he was hard at work researching his second book, Murdering for God, a scabrous condemnation of every war atrocity and act of violence ever perpetrated in the name of Christianity. Meanwhile, hed launched his brand-new website along with its own popular discussion forum that attracted enlightened thinkers and militant atheists from all over the world.
He was rolling.
It had been one rainy early October day, heading back to his car after a hard afternoons lecturing of a group of second-year anthropology students, that the Hand of Fate had reached out to Penrose Lucas in a very unexpected manner. And his life had changed.
The stranger was loitering near a sleek black Mercedes that Penrose had never seen in the University staff car park before. The Mercedes looked brand new. The number plate was private. The man was about forty, greying above the ears, lean and sharp-featured. He was wearing a dark suit and a camel coat that was worth Penroses monthly salary. His shoes gleamed on the wet tarmac. As Penrose approached his car, the man stepped away from the Mercedes and walked up to him. Professor?
Penrose stopped. The man was smiling and looking him right in the eye.
Yes?
My name is Rex ONeill, the man said. I represent The Trimble Group. He reached into the pocket of the camel coat and came out with a business card. Penrose took it. The card was shiny and black, completely blank except for the organisations name embossed in gold across the front. No number or address.
The Trimble Group? Whats this about?
ONeill smiled. Dont bother trying to look us up, Professor Lucas. You wont find us. But weve been watching you, and have taken a special interest in your work.
My work?
Im not talking about your academic career, ONeill said with a twinkle. Lets just say that your extracurricular activities have been closely monitored by the people I work for. Youre a very clever fellow, arent you?
Penroses legs weakened and his guts twisted. What are you talking about? Am I in trouble? He was convinced that this was some kind of reprisal against him. Someone had been spying on his spies. Now the Church of England had sent hired thugs out to ice him. He was ready to bolt like a scalded cat.
Relax, professor. Quite the contrary. ONeill reached into his pocket, and instead of pulling out a gun he produced a crisp white letter-sized envelope, which he handed to the terrified Penrose. Go on, open it.
Penrose hesitated, swallowed hard and then tore open the envelope. Inside was an unsigned cheque. It was made out to him. The name at the bottom was The Trimble Group. The amount was one hundred thousand pounds. Penrose gaped at it.
ONeill chuckled at the look on his face. Thats just a very small taster. My employers have a proposal to make to you. If youre interested in hearing it, meet me in the bar of the Kings Lodge Hotel at midday tomorrow. Ill take you to meet them. Theyve come up from London specially to make your acquaintance.
I dont understand. Who are your employers?
One step at a time, professor. If once you hear the proposal youre not interested in proceeding any further, therell be no hard feelings. The cheque will be signed and the moneys yours. But if you agree to come on board well, lets just say the rewards will be considerable for someone of your qualities. My employers believe youre just the man for us. In fact, the only man for us.
Penrose stared again at the cheque. This was no practical joke. It was real. Had to be. Come on board what? he said. Just the man for what?
ONeill only smiled. See you tomorrow, Professor Lucas, he said, and walked away towards the black Mercedes.
Chapter Sixteen
After hed finished watching the video recording, Ben sadly poured himself a measure of Glenmorangie from the Arundels drinks cabinet. So much for Simeons enemies, he thought as he took a long sip. The ladies of the Little Denton Womens Institute probably posed more threat than some pumped-up egomaniac of a professor.
Ben had that feeling again that he was being watched. He looked down to see the dog peering curiously up at him with one ear cocked.
I know what youre thinking, Scruffy, he said out loud. What now? Good question. The answer was clear. Ben gazed across the room at the picture of Jude Arundel that sat on the piano. He had to find him and tell him what had happened.
The Arundels well-thumbed address book lay on the coffee table. Ben flipped through it and saw it was crammed with numbers, as if Simeon had listed half his parishioners in there. Under J he found a mobile number for Jude. He dialled the number on his phone, holding his breath and searching for the right words to say. How did you tell a complete stranger in the middle of the night that their family had been wiped out?
After two rings, Ben was put through to voicemail. He left a brief message, not wanting to say too much and asking for Jude to call him back whenever he could. He sighed again and slumped into an armchair. Time passed. His mind whirled until mental exhaustion forced him to close his eyes and his chin sank towards his chest.
The landline phone jangled from across the room, startling him. He raced over to it and snatched up the receiver. Is that Jude?
There was a pause on the crackly line, followed by a mans voice.
Simeon? Its Wes.
His accent was American, and he sounded agitated. Before Ben could say anything, he went on: Listen, I didnt reach Marthas yet. Im calling from the road. Theyre onto me. I damn it, this lines terrible. Hello? Can you hear me?
The landline phone jangled from across the room, startling him. He raced over to it and snatched up the receiver. Is that Jude?
There was a pause on the crackly line, followed by a mans voice.
Simeon? Its Wes.
His accent was American, and he sounded agitated. Before Ben could say anything, he went on: Listen, I didnt reach Marthas yet. Im calling from the road. Theyre onto me. I damn it, this lines terrible. Hello? Can you hear me?
Simeons not here, Ben said.
Who is this? the voice asked sharply.
Im a friend, Ben said.
There was a silence. Ben could sense the mans deep suspicion. Listen. Dont hang up. Let me help you. Who are they? Whats going on?
Click. The caller had hung up.
Shit, Ben said.
Moments later, he heard another ringtone coming from elsewhere in the house, muffled and only just audible. He ran out of the room, paused in the hallway and realised it was coming from upstairs. He followed the sound, taking the stairs two at a time. The ringtone was coming from behind one of the four glossy white-painted doors off the galleried first-floor landing.
Just as Ben opened the door, the phone stopped ringing. He stepped inside, and saw that it was Simeon and Michaelas bedroom. He was filled with sadness all over again at the sight of the unslept-in bed and the scent of Michaelas perfume that hung in the air.
Where had the ringtone been coming from? Ben suddenly recalled that just after theyd arrived at the Old Windmill, Simeon had complained about having left his mobile in his other trousers. Ben quickly spotted the folded-up pair draped over the back of a chair near the wardrobe. Sure enough, Simeons BlackBerry was in the right hip pocket. Turning it on, Ben found there were two messages in the voicemail inbox.
The more recent of the two messages had finished recording only moments before, by whoever had just called. Ben listened, and recognised the American accent of the man hed spoken to minutes earlier. He sounded even more anxious and agitated.
Simeon? Wes. Whats going on? I just called your home and some guy answered saying youre not there. I need to know youre okay. Listen, these people tried again a few hours ago. It was just luck I got away. They want the sword real bad, whoever they are. Soon as I get to Marthas and make sure its safe there, Ill call you back. Take care, buddy and I mean take care.
Ben tried calling back on the BlackBerry, but got no reply. He replayed the message twice, then saved it. It seemed certain to him that the sword the American had mentioned was the same one Simeons book was about. The sacred sword wasnt just a research topic, then, but a real, actual item that was still obviously in the possession of this Wes.
Was it a historic relic of some kind? A ceremonial artefact? What special significance did it have that was making it the target of such dangerous people?
Its huge, Simeon had said to Ben in the car. Its terrifyingly huge.
Just one thing was clear. Whatever the sword was, Simeon and his colleagues had somehow managed to get in way out of their depth.
Ben moved on to the next message in the BlackBerrys inbox. It was one that Simeon had listened to and saved, recorded late on the evening of December 2nd. Ben frowned to himself when he heard who it was from.
Simeon its me, Fabrice. The thing I told you about; I am sure it is happening again. Just now, tonight. I think someone is after me. Please call me as soon as you can.
Ben sat on the edge of the bed and held Simeons phone tightly in his fist.
What hed just heard was not the last message of a guilt-tormented man about to throw himself off a bridge.
Chapter Seventeen
After calling Simeons mobile and leaving his message, Wesley Holland left the public phone booth and carried his case to the nearby diner, shivering in the late-night cold.
Wesley had been truly sorry to part company with Maynard, the gap-toothed truck driver from Vermont whod saved his skin by showing up miraculously outside the motel several hundred miles back. Maynard had a drop-off to make further up the road, after which his route would take him northwards into New Hampshire and way off course for Wesley. The little roadside diner had seemed a good enough place to get off. So here he was, stuck in the middle of the night on the edge of some backwater town whose name he didnt know, without transport and still an awfully long way from his destination.