Son of Perdition (Chronicles of Brothers) (19 page)

Adrian’s intercom buzzed on his desk. Adrian chose to ignore it.

Nick reached for the envelope in his pocket, and the photograph of Julius De Vere, Lorcan De Molay and the three other men fell from his grasp on to the rug.

Adrian bent down and carefully picked it up.

‘Do you recognize anyone?’

‘No. Except Grandfather and Chessler, Jason’s godfather. I’ve never seen any of them before in my life.’

‘There’s a woman’s name on the back.’

Adrian turned the photo over.

Nick pointed. ‘It’s Dad’s handwriting.’

Adrian studied the writing. His face turned pale.‘Aveline,’ he murmured and shook his head slowly. ‘A woman’s name. It’s Dad’s writing all right. But what it means I’ve no idea. Where did you get it, Nicholas?’

‘In some old boxes at Mother’s,’ Nick lied. Immediately his conscience pricked him but there were extenuating circumstances.

Nick studied Adrian. He never called him Nicholas unless he was aggravated. But it was now or never. He had to push it as far as he could.

‘Tell me something, Adrian. Is it true that we’re so wealthy?’ He put his glass down and took the photo from his brother’s hands. ‘I mean – inordinately wealthy?’

‘You know how much we’re worth, Nicky.’ Adrian’s eyes narrowed.

Nick shook his head. ‘No. No, I don’t think I do, Adrian. How much
are
we worth?’

Adrian caressed the rim of his glass. ‘Around five hundred billion dollars by today’s standards. Half our wealth was wiped out in the run on the banks in 2018.’ He gave Nick a penetrating look. ‘What are you doing? You
know
all this.’

Nick paused, then decided to fling caution to the wind.

‘Does that take into account that we own more than 40 per cent of the worldwide bullion market, have an effective monopoly on the diamond industry and undisclosed stakes in Russian oil?’

Adrian looked back at Nick. Inscrutable as ever.

The intercom buzzed again. Adrian gestured to Nick to wait and strode over to his desk. He hit the button with uncharacteristic impatience.

‘What
is
it?’

‘Your two o’clock video conference call, Mr President – the Russian and the Iranian Premiers are both on hold, sir.’

Laurent Chastenay walked in through the door. Adrian looked at his watch and sighed.

‘Put them through.’

He pressed the mute and looked over to where Nick stood at the far end of the room, then studied the document in his hand a second time. He folded it up and placed it in his pocket.

‘Have you shared this with Jason?’

Nick shrugged. ‘You know Jason. He hasn’t returned my calls for years.’

‘Get some fresh air, Nicky.’ Adrian gestured towards the terrace doors. ‘Give me thirty minutes.’

The buzzer started again. Adrian hit the button. He pressed a remote and twelve enormous flat-panel monitors slid down the far wall. Two tiers of state-of-the-art computer terminals and leather seating ascended from the floor.

Immediately, the head of Adrian’s International Security Agency entered, followed by the European Secretary of Defence.

Adrian settled back into one of the custom-made grey leather seats.

Nick walked out just as the Iranian Premier’s face materialized on the huge screens.

He wandered onto the huge overhanging terrace that surrounded the Abbey and gazed out at the smooth grey expanse of ocean, then slowly walked towards the northern wing. He took his sunglasses out of his jacket pocket and put them on. Some fifty feet below him military police sprawled across the lawns of a square courtyard.

Standing in the centre of the courtyard was a tall lean man with severe features and badly dyed jet-black cropped hair. Nick would have known that haircut anywhere.

It was Kurt Guber.

Guber disliked Nick intensely. Nick knew that he had reason enough.

Nine years ago, at the age of twenty-four, playboy Nick De Vere’s prime occupation had been to dissipate the first tranche of his massive trust fund in every exclusive private club from London to Monte Carlo. Unluckily for Nick, he was not only a De Vere but the new Prime Minister’s youngest brother, and his antics had been splashed across the gossip pages of UK newspapers by the tireless London celebrity spin doctors.

Nick’s antics had fast become detrimental to Adrian’s meteoric political career and it had fallen to Guber, as Adrian’s head of security, to clean up Nick’s dirt. For months, Guber had warded off the savage London paparazzi, buried Nick’s cocaine habit in a slew of lies and false witnesses, and salvaged what little was left of Nick’s reputation. All in the interest of Adrian’s glittering career.

Guber despised Nick almost as much as Nick despised Guber and his thugs.

Guber had been with Adrian for years, first as head of security at Downing Street, and now as Director of EU Special Service operations. Exotic Weapons Specialist.

Guber’s grandfather had been in charge of one of the Nazis’ most advanced covert weapons programmes. Who knew
what
Guber was concocting in his sprawling underground city?

Nick stared at Guber lazily. He looked pallid. Too much time in the bunker. Nick grinned.

Guber walked across the lawn And looked up towards the balconies. Nick waved in his direction.

Guber’s expression hardenedand he continued walking, deep in conversation with a second man, whose face was hidden by Guber’s head.

Nick continued staring lazily at the Atlantic, then looked back down at Guber again. The man had vanished. There was just his companion, gazing up at the palace.

Nick stared at the man, then reached inside his pocket. He took out the photograph of Julius and his four companions, then looked back through the doors at Adrian, seated at his desk in intense conversation. Nick moved swiftly towards the grand arched steps.

He hurried down one flight, then the next until he was on a balcony just ten feet above where the man stood.

He had a high, domed forehead, silver hair cropped to half an inch from his scalp, a hawk-like nose – but it was the eyes . . . eyes so pale they seemed to be almost colourless.

The man below him was the very man standing on Julius De Vere’s left in the photograph. And he was connected with Guber.

He needed to tell Adrian immediately.

Nick stiffened as Guber walked back towards Kester Von Slagel.

Von Slagel surveyed the helipad.

‘The preparations are in order?’

Guber nodded.

‘All everyday staff are declassified, your Excellency. By 6 p.m., only our private army will be within the grounds.’

‘My Master’s orders must be adhered to,’ Von Slagel said.

Guber nodded again.

‘A no-fly zone from 4 p.m. Airspace surveillance. The Hawks land at 8 p.m. The Eagle will land at 8.20 precisely. Delivery of the Ark to De Vere will be complete by 9 p.m.’

Nick aimed his digital camera directly at Von Slagel’s face.

‘His Excellency’s orders are my command. As always.’

‘He is comfortable?’

‘The West Wing is entirely at his disposal. He lacks for nothing.’

Von Slagel smiled. “My discussion with De Vere last night clarified the remaining details.’

Nick gaped in disbelief. Adrian
did
know the hawk-faced stranger with cropped white hair. He had lied to Nick about the photograph. He had not only
seen
Von Slagel before: he
knew
him. Nick’s heart sank. He raised the camera, looked through the lens and clicked the switch.

Von Slagel looked up, directly at Nick. He frowned. Guber followed his gaze.

‘Lost your way, Mr De Vere?’ Guber stared in irritation at the camera clasped in Nick’s hand. Unsmiling.

‘Gorgeous view, Guber.’ Nick grinned deliberately. ‘Don’t you think?’

Guber scowled, then ignored him.

‘You know, you really should get some more sun, Guber,’ Nick shouted over the balcony, his heart racing. ‘You’re looking a little pasty. You know what they say – all work and no play makes Kurt a dull boy.’

Nick retraced his steps up the first flight of stairs, his hands trembling.

Von Slagel turned to the scowling Guber. ‘What is De Vere doing here? I want no interference before our plans are complete.’

‘Last-minute decision. It wasn’t in the schedule. He’s a low-lying parasite. Perfectly harmless.’

‘Get rid of him,’ Von Slagel muttered. ‘Off the property. Now.’

Kester Von Slagel limped across the lawn and disappeared.

Nick stood outside the cherrywood doors. His hands still shaking, he replaced the brown envelope in the satchel then walked back into the drawing room.

Adrian was immersed in conversation with the Iranian Premier. Nick looked around, then headed to the men’s room. On his way he picked up a blank compliments slip.

He locked himself in the bathroom, safely out of sight of the surveillance cameras.

He swung round. There was no one there but he was sure someone was in the room with him. Nick hesitated, as a strange euphoria infused his senses. He recognized it. It was the same presence that he had sensed in the lower crypt of the monastery. He smiled.

Someone was watching over him.

With trembling fingers, he took the photograph of De Molay, Von Slagel and Julius out of the brown envelope and replaced it with a blank Mont St Michel compliments slip. Then with a glance at the photograph, he stashed it in his satchel.

He washed his hands, hesitated, loath to leave the mysterious presence. He shook his head, then walked back into the drawing room just as the TV screens disappeared into the ceiling.

Adrian clicked off the remote and stood up. Weary.

‘Sorry, bro, bad day for a social visit.’ His voice rose above the ear-splitting whine of helicopter turbines. ‘That’s my lunch appointment arriving – the British Foreign Secretary.’

He put his hand on Nick’s shoulder. ‘Look leave me the photograph. I’ll make some discreet enquiries.’

‘You’re
sure
you’ve never met any of these men?’ Nick studied Adrian’s face intently.

‘Nope. Never in my life.’ He held his hand out. ‘I’ll give it to Guber – he’ll pass it to the Interpol operatives in The Core.’

Nick handed him the envelope containing the blank compliments slip.

Adrian tucked it in his inside jacket pocket.

‘You know what, Adrian?’ Nick said, lowering his voice. ‘I think you’ve hit the nail on the head. I think Lawrence is senile. I noticed a deterioration when I was with him.’ He put on a false smile. ‘Maybe he forged Dad’s letter. And the documents.’

Adrian relaxed. He put his arm around Nick.

‘He needs psychiatric evaluation. We’ve got units here that can help him.’

Nick nodded. ‘I’ll talk to Mother this weekend about having him checked out.’ He stuck out his hand. ‘I’d like the document back. Avoid any confusion.’

‘Too late, Nicky. You were so concerned, it’s already on its way to Interpol. Thought it would ease your mind.’

Nick tensed.

‘Look. No harm done. I’ll call them and tell them it’s a hoax.’

Nick nodded. ‘Do that, Adrian.’

Chastenay materialized at the door and Nick walked towards him. He turned.

‘One more thing. De Vere Continuation Holdings AG – can you get a set of management accounts for me? And the latest audit.’

Adrian frowned. ‘Why Nick? You’ve never shown any interest in the financials before.’

‘I am now. Dad always said I should take personal responsibility. It’s never too late.’

Adrian gave him a strange look.

The intercom buzzed again.

‘The British Foreign Secretary is now on the premises, Mr President.’

Two security men dressed in the pale blue uniform of the European Superstate’s elite forces entered and moved towards Nick.

‘Keep your minders off.’ Nick grinned. ‘I’ll see myself out.’

Adrian shook his head at the security men and Chastenay.

‘Clear my brother through the gate,’ he said quietly. ‘A red Aston Martin.’

‘By the way,’ Nick said over his shoulder, ‘ever heard of the International Security Fund?’

Adrian stared grimly after Nick’s swiftly disappearing back.

Nick walked as fast as he dared back down the corridors and exited through a small side door into the vegetable gardens.

‘Idiot,’ he muttered to himself, knowing he had overstepped the mark. He walked evenly towards the old kitchen wing alongside the stables.

As he passed the scullery he peered through the window, then walked around to the open back door.

‘Beatrice,’ he whispered.