The Lazarus Vault (30 page)

Blanchard thought it was worth killing for. Her father had believed it was worth dying for. That was some sort of agreement.

Doug slit open the tape on the box with a kitchen knife. Ellie opened the lid. They both stared in.

London

Destrier had had some bad days in his life, some very bad indeed, but this was up there. He’d been awake since 1 a.m. and he still hadn’t found Ellie. The lack of sleep he could deal with: the lack of results was a problem. He’d already been to
Paris and back that day. He’d waited at the Gare du Nord with his men, watching the passengers drain off the train until it was empty. The phone signal said she was still aboard, so he’d picked up a discarded ticket and talked his way on, pretending to have left his bag behind. He’d found the phone in the luggage rack: the station staff couldn’t understand why he’d be so furious to recover his lost property.

It had been a long trip back to London to face Blanchard and Saint-Lazare.

He cracked his knuckles and forced himself to be calm. He didn’t blame himself: he’d never been troubled by guilt. If he felt anything, it was pure rage – rage that these people had disrupted his carefully arranged life. He hated them for it, and the hatred spurred his desire for revenge. He’d find them and tear them apart, make them pay for what they done to him. Find Ellie, get the box back, everything would be fine.

But he had to do it quickly. It might not be his fault, but it was certainly his responsibility. And the men waiting in the war room on the fifth floor weren’t known for their patience.

So where had she gone? Not back to Newport – he had men watching. Nor to the Barbican apartment. He’d pulled it apart and found nothing, though he hadn’t really thought she’d be that stupid. Did she have a fallback meeting with the opposition?

He ran through her recent e-mails and phone calls, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Numbers she hung up on before they answered, calls that lasted under a minute. There was nothing. He had to admit, she’d been clever.

He paused as he found a number that looked strange. An Oxford dialling code. He entered it onto her phone and got the name straight away.
Doug
.

Hadn’t she dumped him?

He found the recording of the most recent call she’d made
to Doug and listened. ‘
I love you
.’ The giveaway pause. ‘
I love you too
.’

It wasn’t much to go on, but he knew he was right. The feeling in his gut told him so. He took the lift to the basement parking and slid into the Aston Martin. He pressed the accelerator: the engine’s growl echoed around the garage.

His satnav said it would take ninety-seven minutes. He reckoned he could do it in under an hour.

Oxford

Ellie squeezed her hands down the sides of the box and lifted out the contents. It was a cube, about a foot square. The surface was black, cold and hard like obsidian, smooth as glass. Ellie twisted it around on the carpet, looking for a hinge or a crack or a lid. All she saw was her own reflection skewed back at her. It was surprisingly heavy, though the weight wasn’t evenly distributed inside. She could feel one side was definitely heavier, which she assumed was down.

‘I’ve got a hammer,’ Doug said.

Ellie didn’t answer. She was remembering her first day at work, two slabs of black plastic left on her desk as if by some lost civilisation or alien intelligence. She rolled the box over to make it right-way up, then stroked her hand across the gleaming surface.

A red light shone up at them. It was the same as her phone: glowing numbers hovering in the darkness below the surface. Only instead of a keypad, it was a grid of letters, like a wordsearch.

‘I don’t suppose you know the password,’ said Doug.

She shook her head.

‘I’ve got a friend in the Maths department who does some work on cryptography. He might be able to tell us more.’

Ellie didn’t bother to correct the assumption he’d made. She could see by the clock on the wall she’d already been here over an hour. The pressure-gauge inside her was redlining again.

She set the black box aside and pulled the lid off the leather tube. She reached in. A scrolled-up sheet of paper – no, vellum – supple to the touch. She pulled it out as gently as she could and laid it on Doug’s coffee table.

For the first time since the jaws of the vault snapped shut, she felt a pulse of hope. Finally, something that might be worth something. It looked like a poem, eight lines written on the vellum in a bold, medieval hand that reminded her of Blanchard’s handwriting.

‘Is that
…
?’

‘Old French,’ said Doug. She caught the shock in his voice and looked up.

‘What? Does it say something useful, some kind of clue?’

He shook his head. ‘I’ve seen it before.’

‘The poem?’

‘This exact piece of vellum.’ He gazed into her eyes, as confused as she was. ‘I held it in my hands, just like you are now.’

Ellie stared at him. ‘That’s impossible. I pulled it out of the vault this morning.’

Doug pointed to a place halfway down the page, where the text nimbly diverted around a small hole in the vellum.

‘You know how you make parchment? You pull it tight on a frame, like a drumhead, then scrape it with a knife until it’s paper thin. The edges of the knife are curved, but sometimes a corner catches the skin and nicks it. The tension in the frame means even a pinprick gets stretched to something you could put your finger through.’

Ellie nodded. She knew.

‘But vellum’s expensive, especially in the twelfth century, so you don’t throw out the whole sheet just because of a small hole. If you’re the scribe, you work around it – literally. That hole in the eighth line was there when the scribe wrote it, and it was there three months ago when I examined it myself.’

Ellie still didn’t get it.

‘You remember Mr Spencer and his Scottish castle?’

Did she? So much had happened since then.

‘The old man in the wheelchair. The poem he wanted me to look at.’ Doug stabbed his finger at the vellum sheet; his fingertip hovered a millimetre above the surface. ‘This was it.’

Mr Spencer
.
The Spenser prize
. She’d wondered about it at the time and dismissed it as coincidence.

The Spenser foundation. Legrande Holdings. Saint-Lazare Investments (UK)
.

She rolled up the vellum and slid it back in its tube. It made a hollow thud as it hit the end, a decisive sound. Doug didn’t understand.

‘Don’t you want to know what it says?’

‘We need to leave.’

‘Where to?’

‘Anywhere. The man who owns that vault, my client, Michel Saint-Lazare – he must be the same as your Mr Spencer. I don’t know why he got you involved, but he obviously knows all about you. He must know about you and me, too. They’ll come here.’

She twitched the side of the curtain and peered out at the street. The lines of parked cars stood like sentinels all along the pavement, their wet windows reflecting the orange glow of the streetlamps. Was someone waiting inside one of them?

‘There won’t be a train for another hour.’

‘No public transport. They’ll be watching all the stations and airports. We’ll need a car.’

Doug opened his hands and made a hopeless gesture.
And?
Neither of them owned a car.

‘We might be able to hire one at the station.’

‘We can’t hire anything. No credit cards.’ She caught the look he was giving her. ‘Don’t you get it yet? These people can snoop everywhere, and if they find us, they’ll kill us. If you think I’m crazy, just say so and I’ll go by myself.’

Doug’s gaze strayed to the leather tube with the poem inside it.

‘Let’s go.’

‘Can you find us a car?’

‘I think so.’ He looked reluctant so say anything else, but the ferocity of Ellie’s stare battered down his reticence.

‘Lucy has one she let me borrow once.’ He headed for the stairs. ‘I’ll just pack my things.’

Bay of Morbihan, France, 1142

How did he know my name?

It isn’t the most important problem facing me, but I can’t let it go. My thoughts have detached themselves: my mind floats serene, while my body flails and kicks against its fate. I’m Jonah, fighting the water, the sea, the fundament itself. I know I can’t win, but I can’t stop trying. If the God wants His victory, He’ll have to earn it.

How did he know my name?

From the boats, the sea seemed so calm. Now that I’m in it, even the gentlest waves come higher than my head. In the troughs, all I can see is water; from the peaks, only fog. I’ve lost my armour, but it’s taking all my strength just to stay afloat. The water’s freezing. My body rises and falls on the waves: each time it falls, the water comes a little higher. Soon I’ll drown.

Something strikes my shoulder, harder than a wave. I’m so numb I only half feel it, but it still enrages me. I don’t want to be rushed. I look round. A dark mass glides past, like an
enormous fish broaching the water. Except instead of scales, the stripes on its flanks are wood and tar.

It’s a boat.

I stretch out an arm and clamp on to the hull. It probably frightens the life out of them, but they haul me aboard. Three men: by their ages and their faces I guess it’s a father and two sons. They fillet me with their eyes and find nothing good. I lie in the bilge, breathing in salt and blood and dead fish. They don’t speak to me.

We pull into a rocky bay. Green weed trails off black stones. The sons wade ashore to check their fish traps. The father gives me a black stare: he doesn’t want me on his boat. Half-drowned and almost naked, I’m still trouble. He’s rubbing the amulet he keeps nailed to the transom to fend off evil. I think he might try to kill me. I vault over the bow and splash ashore. Barnacles and oyster shells are like razors under my bare feet. The men at the fish-traps watch me go. Nobody tries to stop me.

Night falls. The mist cleared in the afternoon, but now a thick fog comes rising off the ground. I stumble on through the darkness. I daren’t stop. I’m freezing – my wet shift clings to me like sin. If I lie down to sleep, I’ll probably never wake up.

Thump
. I’ve walked straight into a stone. I reel away, clutching my knee.
Thump
. Another stone clips my elbow. I step back, and almost fall over a third.

The moon comes out from behind a cloud. I’m standing in a field of stones, rectangular slabs all facing the same way. It looks like a churchyard, though there are no markings. They stand in tight echelons, rank upon rank reaching deep into the fog that swirls around them.

I know where I am. I’m dead. It’s a relief to know. I wonder
if I died in the castle – if the fisherman was a spirit ferrying me to the world beyond – or if I’ve died since I came ashore. It doesn’t matter. I’m a ghost now.

Is this heaven? It doesn’t look like hell.

I hear a noise in the fog. The jangle of armour, the thud of someone walking into a stone and a low curse.

There’s someone else here. Is he an angel? A demon? Another ghost? I drop behind a stone, burying myself in the fog.

‘Peter!’ he calls. ‘Peter of Camros!’

I don’t recognise the voice. It isn’t Malegant’s.

How did he know my name?

God knows everything. I’m not sure if the angels do, too, but I assume God can tell them the relevant facts.

But he cursed when he hit the stone. Angels don’t curse.

Am I really dead? I’m not so certain any more. Saint John says of heaven:
There will be no more pain, neither sorrow nor crying
. Surely I shouldn’t have stubbed my toe in heaven. Surely my heart shouldn’t beat so fast.

The fear convinces me. If I were dead, I’d have left that behind. But if I’m not dead, where am I? And who is he?

Another noise: the rattle of chain mail, like coins shaken in a purse. I look around, trying to judge where the sound came from. All I see is stones.

An owl calls, far off in the trees to my left. I think my pursuer must be distracted. I pull myself up on one of the stones and peer over the lip.

For a moment, the moon is bright and clear. A few dozen paces away, a dismounted knight stands waist-deep in the stones. He’s bare-headed, but the links of his armour gleam like fish-scales in the moonlight.

‘Peter?’ he calls.

How does he know my name?

The moon goes behind a cloud. He disappears from me – and I from him. I drop down and start crawling away.

I might not be dead, but I’m certain I’m in a nightmare – trapped in that endless, featureless graveyard, scuttling about on my hands and feet, chased by an enemy I can’t see. In my headlong flight I career into stone after stone. I run straight into one and feel a splitting pain through my skull. But I’m getting away. My feet are silent on the wet grass; he can’t move without an iron chorus singing his every step. I weave between the stones, following the owl towards the trees. The knight’s sounds grow distant.

I run into the forest. The terror I felt among the stones has me full in its grip. Sometimes I find snatches of paths and follow them; sometimes I just blunder through. Branches rip and tear at me: soon even my shift is gone. I rush on.

A tree root catches me and I sprawl on the ground. My head feels splintered; my skin is bruised and torn; my limbs are bloodied. I lie there, naked, wondering if I’ll ever get up.

Something snaps and rustles in the undergrowth. I hear a snuffling sound. Is it an animal? A fox or a wolf? I imagine it savaging me, gnawing my entrails out of my stomach while I’m forced to watch. Perhaps I have arrived in Hell after all.

The creature shuffles out of the thicket. He bends to look at me: I can feel his breath warm on my cheek. I feel a hand or a paw on my back.

He rolls me over. I stare into his face.

Oxford

Destrier left the car at the end of the street and walked back to the address he’d been given. He forced himself to walk at a moderate pace – he didn’t want to draw attention to himself. The Aston Martin was memorable enough.