The Bloodline Cipher

STEPHEN COLE

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Also by Stephen Cole

For Ele

‘The longer we dwell on our misfortunes,
the greater is their power to harm us.'

— Voltaire

Feels like the end of the world's coming
, thought Jonah Wish.

He hurried sweatily along the West Hollywood sidewalk, eyeing a sky both black and brilliant. Massive banks of charcoal cloud loomed over the low-rise tenements, backlit by the early-evening sun. The air felt charged, as if this whole beat-up neighbourhood was waiting for something to happen. As if a storm was itching to break.

It was all screaming
Bad Omen
at Jonah.

Once upon a time thoughts like that wouldn't have bothered him. He had grown up a computer freak, a hacker-turned-cracker who didn't believe in much unless it was made up of ones and zeros. But this past year, Jonah had seen enough to make him believe in all kinds of dark stuff. ‘Weird and creepy?' he murmured. ‘File it under “Life”.'

‘Say what?' The surly American voice came from Motti striding alongside, a goateed vision in crumpled black.

‘I …' Jonah swallowed. ‘I was just thinking it looked like rain.'

‘Man, I sure lucked out when I got given you as
back-up on this mission,' said Motti, glowering through his round-rimmed spectacles. ‘I mean, your sparkling conversation, that big fun vibe you give out … who could want more?'

Jonah smiled wryly, letting the sarcasm wash over him. Motti's default setting seemed to be ‘bad mood', and insults were just his way of interacting with the world.

‘No, please, I'm the lucky one to get you – a longhaired block of grumpiness who thinks it's still cool to be a Goth. And who has egg roll in his goatee.'

Motti scrubbed his fingers over his beard. ‘Go to hell, geek.'

‘Halfway there already, aren't we?' said Jonah, taking in that unnerving sky and the careworn faces of the people bustling past. He paused and unfolded a map from the back pocket of his jeans. ‘I'll just check how long till we need to hang a left.'

‘Would you put that thing away?' Motti growled quietly, looking around for trouble. ‘Tourists are an easy mark round here. We're standing out like a nudist at a funeral.'

Jonah quickly checked the route and set off again. The whiff of dustbins and salt beef caught in his nostrils, turning his stomach. He wished he was safely back in Geneva in the minimal white coolness of his room, or in the hangout with the rest of the gang; Patch pouring the beers, Con swaying to the sound system, Tye smiling into his eyes and the good times rolling.
But you've got to earn your keep
, he reminded himself.
Not that a lot of people round here would agree
.

Jonah had imagined Hollywood to be all glitz and glamour. But this stretch of crumbling brickwork and chainlink fencing was a long way from the boutiques and boulevards of stardom. Here was a place where hunters and the hunted mixed openly, weighing risk against need and acting accordingly. Jonah could see it in the way the young mothers and aging couples kept their heads down as they walked, striving to ignore the loitering gangs on the street corners. A pair of drunks slouched past Jonah with exaggerated care, as if wary of slipping through cracks in the pavement. Hooded eyes stared out at him accusingly through stained cafeteria windows.

All this is waiting for you
, they seemed to be saying,
if you try and walk out on Coldhardt. He feeds you, clothes you, he's made you rich
…

You just have to live long enough to enjoy it
.

Jonah kept a Ferrari F430 back at Coldhardt's Geneva base – not a bad set of wheels for an eighteen-year-old learner driver – and it was parked right beside Motti's BMW M6 convertible. But big wheels stood out, not least in a district where most parked cars sat jacked up on bricks. So Motti and Jonah had taken a cab from Van Nuys airport and now trudged along on foot, picking an inconspicuous path towards Santa Monica Boulevard.

Jonah watched a half-hour crawl across his wristwatch, counted it out in shaky breaths, footfalls and quickening heartbeats.

At least the rain's holding off
, he reflected, as the ashen sky went on darkening.

The evening was soon lurid with neon. Glowing
shop hoardings lined each street, pushing everything from tattoos and tarot readings to help with income tax. The crowds grew thicker and noisier. Booming beats spilled out from dark doorways. Flashing signs screamed the names of cinemas and steakhouses, girlie shows and petrol stations.

‘Happening neighbourhood,' Motti observed.

‘Coldhardt said this creep Budd was the biggest and greediest fence on the West Coast,' Jonah recalled. ‘He must be loaded. So why arrange for a meet in a dump like this?'

‘Maybe he's being watched.' Motti glanced over his shoulder automatically. ‘Maybe he thinks someone would spot him in his usual haunts.'

‘Could be.' Jonah nodded towards the pink neon sign flickering above a nearby club. ‘Or maybe Budd just gets off on clocking “Live Girls Dancing”.'

‘Beats watching dead ones on a piece of elastic, I guess.' Motti gestured across the street. ‘Anyways. We want the ground floor apartment opposite that clip joint.'

‘We're early,' Jonah realised. ‘The meet's in twenty minutes.'

‘Wait here and I'll check the place out, make sure we ain't walking into a trap.'

Jonah nodded. ‘Try not to get caught. I'm the code boy, not the cavalry.'

‘Don't I know it.' Motti slouched off towards the apartment, his dark ponytail brushing between his shoulder blades.

Jonah leaned against the wall, trying to act casual as Motti disappeared up a side alley.
It's OK
, he told
himself.
Let the man do his thing
. As the security expert of their little gang, Motti specialised in getting them in and out of wherever was necessary. He was a pro. In their different fields, all Coldhardt's talent were. Tye the human lie detector, Patch the youngest locksmith in town, Con the mesmerising linguist who had ways of changing the most stubborn minds … Each of them an asset to the team.

Why else would the old man keep us around
, Jonah reflected moodily.
Because he cares?

The tense minutes edged by. Then Jonah breathed a big sigh of relief as Motti sauntered back across the boulevard. ‘OK, geek,' he said, clapping a hand on Jonah's back and ushering him away. ‘The place checks out and no sign of spooks. We're on.'

They were halfway across the street when the first heavy drops of rain started to fall. Soon it was a downpour, like the skies were sweating out their frustrations. Jonah quickened his step beside Motti as they entered the grimy, litter-strewn front garden of Budd's hideaway.

Motti hammered on the door, knocking off great flakes of paint. ‘C'mon, we're getting soaked out here!'

The door was opened almost at once, and a big black man practically hauled them out of the downpour and into the dim hallway. His expensive-smelling aftershave was just a little too subtle for his sweat. Jonah held very still as the big man expertly frisked him then moved on to Motti.

‘They're clean,' the big man called back through the open doorway behind him.

‘Or at least we were till you wiped your clammy hands all over us,' Motti complained.

‘Bring them through,' came a rough, Northern accent. Jonah was surprised to feel a pang of homesickness among his general nerves and nausea. He hadn't been back to the UK for a whole year – not since Coldhardt had sprung him from a Young Offenders' Institution to recruit him to the ranks.

Jonah was bundled after Motti into a near-empty living room. Stubby candles littered the threadbare carpet, sputtering in the draught of their arrival, filling the air with cloying scent. The curtains were closed, shutting out the street life outside, and ornately patterned velvet throws had been pinned up on the walls. Jonah and Motti were directed to stand with their backs to the window, facing a high-backed leather armchair in the middle of the room. There, sat rigidly like a mannequin, was a short, stocky man with slicked-down blond hair. His eyes were wide and blue and crafty – real psycho eyes – and his thin lips hovered somewhere between smile and grimace.

The man watched them intently. ‘Well, well,' he said more softly. ‘Seems Coldhardt is recruiting younger and younger.'

Jonah shrugged, licking his dry lips. ‘You're Budd, right?'

‘Nice place you got here,' drawled Motti.

‘I'll never see it again after tonight. I rent a different place for every drop. No tracing me that way.' Budd gestured to the black guy, who came and stood just behind him. ‘This is Clyde. My protection. Just in case you were thinking of trying anything.'

‘We're here to trade, not to take you on,' said Motti. ‘So let's do it.'

Budd nodded. ‘You've brought payment?'

Motti slowly raised his hand and gave Budd the finger. Jonah felt a stab of alarm – until he realised this was Motti's way of showing off the gleaming band he sported there.

‘As specified, one enamelled gold ring. Thirteenth century
BC
.' Motti twisted it up and over his knuckle and tossed it in his palm as if weighing it. ‘Taken from a Mycenaean tomb in Cyprus.'

‘Adequate payment.' Budd took a deep breath and stood up, practically quivering in anticipation. ‘Give it to me. I want to see it.'

‘Nuh-uh.' Motti slipped the ring in his pocket. ‘First, you give us the merchandise as arranged – this Morell guy's laptop. Right now.'

‘You talk awfully hard for a bloke with a ponytail.' Budd smiled and turned to Jonah. ‘Clyde here could kill the two of you in a second with his bare hands.'

Jonah took Motti's lead and tried to act the big shot. ‘I'd wear some rubber gloves if I were you, Clyde. You don't know where we've been.'

‘But I'll tell you where you're going if you mess with us, Budd,' said Motti coolly. ‘All the way down. Coldhardt was set to steal that laptop before Morell got murdered and his LA pad burned down. He ain't happy about having to pay for the thing now.'

‘Then he should've tracked it down ahead of me, shouldn't he?' Budd's smile grew wider.

‘How'd you find it?' Jonah demanded.

‘Cops reckoned it was kids who did over Morell's
place. A mansion crammed with priceless relics, and before they torched it they stole his flatscreen, his stereo, his computers, credit cards …' Budd shook his head, amused. ‘I know the kind of guys who fence stuff like that. And I know the likes of Coldhardt cough up a fortune for the kind of deep, dark secrets Morell liked keeping …' He snorted. ‘Surprised he can't afford better than a couple of low-rent kids to do his dirty work for him.'

‘You're right about one thing,' said Motti. ‘Coldhardt wants the info encrypted on that laptop's hard drive. He wants it real bad.' Motti tapped the ring in his pocket. ‘So either we can deal and you earn yourself a piece of history, or else you and Clyde can try to dick us “low-rent kids” around and
become
history. Your choice.'