The Lost Testament (32 page)

When Angela finished speaking there was a long silence in the office, almost as if the words she had used and the names she had said had imposed a kind of stillness and gravity on that moment.

Bronson broke the silence first. “How did you know that Angela was referring to the country in the first century
AD
, Charles?”

Westman half turned to look at Bronson, who was still sitting in the chair beside the closed door.

“I know quite a lot of things,” he replied, then turned his attention back to Angela. “And you believe all that, do you?” he asked.

“The story of the possible rape of Mary by a Roman archer has been around for a long time, for a lot longer, in fact, than some of the Gospels. The problem is that it’s just been a story, with no documentary evidence or independent sources to back it up. At least, until now. As far as I can tell from my examination of this parchment, it’s the real thing. It appears to be an entirely authentic contemporary account of the trial of the man who fathered Jesus. A fetus which today would probably have been legally aborted in most Western countries due to the violence of its conception.

“This proves beyond doubt that there was no immaculate conception, and no virgin birth. Instead there was a brutal assault by a heavily armed man against a defenseless child. And what I find particularly appalling about this, almost as appalling as the crime that is being described on this parchment, is the undeniable fact that the Vatican has known about this for decades, possibly centuries, yet chosen to cover it up. And what’s more, when there was a chance that the text of this parchment would be made public, the Mother Church of Christianity sent a bunch of hired killers to recover the relic and to cover their traces by eliminating all those people who had knowledge of this object.”

Westman nodded.

“I quite agree with you,” he said. “That is simply appalling. Could I take a closer look at the parchment?”

“Of course,” Angela said, and slid her chair slightly to one side so that Westman could stand beside her and see the relic clearly.

The ancient weapons specialist bent forward slightly and peered down at the parchment. Then he straightened up and glanced across at Bronson.

“I really must congratulate you,” he said. “Your deductions and conclusions have been remarkable, quite remarkable. In fact, as far as I can tell from what you’ve said, you’ve only got one thing wrong in the entire story.”

“And what’s that?” Angela asked, puzzled.

Westman shook his head and reached into his jacket pocket.

“The Vatican didn’t send hired killers after you, as you suggested, though of course it’s true that the entire operation was initiated from Rome. Please remain seated and absolutely still, Bronson,” Westman went on, drawing out a long knife with a dark and mottled blade, which he rested against the delicate white skin of Angela’s throat.

“This blade of this dagger was forged from Damascus steel in a crucible in Persia in the middle of the eighteenth century,” he went on, his previously gentle voice now edged with steel. “It is quite literally as sharp as a razor, and if my hand so much as twitches, your lady friend will be dead in less than a minute. And hers will not be the first life that this blade has taken in my hands.”

Angela’s eyes were wide with shock and terror as she looked helplessly across the room at Bronson, Westman’s hand wrapped across her mouth to stop her crying out. She reached up and seized Westman’s knife-hand, trying to push it away, but his grip was like iron, the muscles of his arm tensed and rigid.

“Now,” Westman said, staring at Bronson, “as I was saying, it wasn’t the Vatican who sent people after you in Spain and France. It was another organization that you may have heard of: P2, or
Propaganda Due
, a lodge that I have served all of my adult life, and that it is now my privilege to head. This is not the first time that the Church has called upon my services through P2, and I doubt that it will be the last.”

The change in the man was extraordinary. The mild-mannered academic had vanished, and Westman’s entire demeanor, even the way he was standing, seemed to ooze a sense of menace that was almost palpable. It was, Bronson realized belatedly, an extremely effective disguise. Who would suspect that a bumbling museum specialist would also be the head of an international criminal organization?

“You haven’t made a very good job of it this time, have you?” Bronson snapped.

“There was nothing wrong with my plan, Bronson. You just got lucky, that was all, and some of my people didn’t do as well as they should have. Every organization has trouble with its staff, even P2. Don’t worry. As soon as I’ve finished here I’ll be taking steps to ensure that those who failed me did so for the very last time.”

“What do you want?”

“Now that,” Westman replied, “is a very good question. The ideal solution would have been for the nineteen sixty-five robbery at the Vatican—you were right about that—not to have taken place, in which case the parchment would never again have seen the light of day. Unfortunately, as we don’t own a time machine, we will have to improvise. Obviously I will have to destroy this relic, and all the other evidence that you’ve so cleverly collected. Once it’s been reduced to ashes, that will ensure that it can never do any harm.”

“You’re quite happy, are you then, to acknowledge that Christianity is a sham, nothing more than a distorted superstition with no more credibility than witchcraft or devil worship?”

“That doesn’t bother me at all. As far as I’m concerned, every religion is just a form of organized superstition. But look at it this way, because it might help ease your sense of injustice before you die. If you destroy the basis of Christianity, which this relic could do, hundreds of millions of people will lose their faith overnight. The results would be utterly catastrophic, affecting the population of virtually every country in the world. There would be enormous civil unrest, and there could very easily be hundreds of thousands, even millions, of deaths as a direct result.

“So I’m very much afraid that the two of you will suffer a couple of unfortunate accidents. I think probably you’re going to have an argument, during the course of which you, Bronson, will punch Angela and she will fall badly and break her neck. In a fit of remorse, you will then take your own life by cutting your throat. All very sad, I’m afraid, but just one of those things.”

Westman pulled Angela up to her feet, the pressure of the blade on her throat irresistible, and moved her round from behind her desk. He kept her body directly in front of him, using her as a shield. Then he stopped in the middle of the office and looked at Bronson.

“I’ll destroy the parchment last, of course, at my leisure, which means it’s now time to arrange your untimely demise.”

As he spoke, Westman switched the dagger to his left hand, his movements slick and practiced, keeping the edge of the blade just millimeters from Angela’s throat the entire time. Then he reached into his jacket pocket and took out a small revolver, which he aimed at Bronson.

“I gather from my colleagues in Spain that you may well be carrying a pistol, Bronson, so kindly stand up slowly, remove it from whatever holster or pocket you have it in, and drop it on the floor in front of you.”

Bronson got slowly to his feet and stood in front of the easy chair, but he made no move to reach for his weapon.

“Take out your pistol and do it now,” Westman ordered sharply.

Bronson opened the left side of his jacket to reveal the shoulder holster with the Glock 17 nestling in it.

“Hold your coat open with your right hand, and take out the weapon with your left hand, finger and thumb only.”

With Angela a bare fraction of an inch away from death, Bronson knew he had absolutely no choice. But he made one last appeal to the man’s reason.

“You don’t have to do this, Westman. As far as I’m concerned, you can destroy the parchment but simply let us go. That way you get rid of all the proof, and nobody gets hurt.”

“If only things were as easy as that. I know it’s a cliché, but the two of you really do know too much for me to allow you to live. Now drop that pistol on the floor and kick it over toward me.”

Bronson eased the weapon out of the holster and dropped it onto the floor of the room. Then he kicked the pistol, which slid well out of his reach, over toward Westman.

“Good. I’m pleased to see that you can follow simple instructions, because I will have another one for you in a minute or two.”

Westman relaxed slightly now that he had disarmed Bronson, and appeared to consider the situation.

“I hadn’t actually expected you to be here this morning, Bronson, and your presence in this room does make things a little more awkward for me. I had hoped I could have arranged Angela’s accident, taken the parchment and the other stuff and just slipped quietly away. I suppose the real question is how much you love her. Do you, for example, love her enough to cut your own throat? If you do, and if you do that right now, then I promise you that she won’t suffer when I kill her.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Bronson demanded.

“Not at all. It’s a very simple matter. You’re going to die—be in no doubt about that—but I’d rather not shoot you because of the noise. Angela Lewis here is also going to die. The only thing in doubt is how. If you do as I tell you, you’ll suffer a sharp pain in your throat as the knife cuts into your neck, but if you do it properly and sever the carotid artery, you’ll be dead inside a minute, so you won’t have to suffer for long.

“Angela, on the other hand, could take a very long time to die. I’ve wanted to bed her for the last couple of years, but for some reason you’ve always been in the background, like some kind of a looming threat, and she’s never responded to my advances. But now, in these circumstances, I don’t think she’s in a position to refuse. And I’d probably enjoy it just as much, maybe even more. So I’m offering you a choice. Kill yourself now, and I give you my word that I won’t do that. I’ll just break her neck, that’s all.”

Bronson stared at the man, scarcely able to believe what he was hearing. Then he glanced at Angela’s face, and as he did so she gave a quick but deliberate wink.

Then she spoke for the first time since Westman had grabbed her, her voice laced with fear and panic.

“Chris, please. God knows what he’ll do to me if you don’t agree. If you love me, really love me, do this one last thing for me.”

Bronson stared at her, an expression of disbelief on his face. He wasn’t sure what she had in mind, but he knew she must be planning something.

“I give you my word that she won’t suffer,” Westman said again. “That’s a promise.”

Bronson shook his head and closed his eyes briefly. He just hoped Angela knew what she was doing. Then he looked back at Westman and nodded.

“Give me the knife,” he snapped.

“I thought you’d see reason,” Westman said. “You must be very proud of him, Angela.”

He brought the revolver up to Angela’s shoulder, so that the muzzle rested against the right-hand side of her head; then he moved the knife away from her throat and tossed it gently across the room toward Bronson.

And at that moment, as Westman’s attention was directed toward Bronson, Angela moved. She whirled around to her right, hitting out at Westman’s right arm with the blade of her forearm, instantly knocking the pistol to one side.

“Now, Chris,” she shouted.

But Bronson was already in motion. Because as well as the pistol in the shoulder holster, he also had a second Glock tucked into the waistband of his trousers in the small of his back. As Angela moved rapidly away from Westman, ducking down and away from him, diving for cover, he reached behind him and smoothly drew the weapon.

Angela’s sudden and unexpected action had taken Westman by surprise, but he was reacting quickly, bringing his revolver around to bear on Bronson again, his finger tightening on the trigger as he did so.

Westman fired first, but his pistol still wasn’t accurately aimed, and the bullet slammed into the wall of the office about eighteen inches from where Bronson was standing.

Bronson took the extra tenth of a second to make absolutely sure that the muzzle of the Glock was aimed directly at Westman’s center of mass. And then he squeezed the trigger, twice, the heavy crack of the larger nine-millimeter cartridge much louder than Westman’s small-caliber revolver.

He didn’t need a third shot. Both of his bullets had slammed into Westman’s torso, the first just below his rib cage, the second a few inches higher.

For the briefest of instants, the other man stayed on his feet, his pistol dropping to the floor from nerveless fingers.

“That wasn’t supposed to happen,” he murmured.

Then he tumbled backward, collapsing on the floor in an untidy heap. He gave one deep and pain-filled moan, and then stopped breathing.

“Quickly,” Angela snapped, scooping up Bronson’s discarded Glock and the dagger with the Damascus steel blade. “This place will be swarming with people in minutes. Give me your shoulder holster and his revolver.”

In a few moments, Angela had placed the holster and all the weapons apart from the Glock Bronson had fired at the bottom of a cardboard box, and emptied another box of potsherds on top of it. Then she almost ran to the door and wrenched it open.

“I’ll hide these in the laboratory,” she said. “Get his fingerprints on that pistol.”

“I’ve always said she’s good in an emergency,” Bronson murmured to himself, and bent down beside the dead man.

He wiped the outside of the pistol, placed it firmly in Westman’s limp right hand and did his best to transfer his fingerprints onto the weapon. Then he grabbed it around the slide, as if he’d been struggling for possession of it, and then held it in a firing position and dropped it near the dead body. And that was pretty much all he could do.

As he straightened up, Angela stepped back into the room. Behind her Bronson could already hear the sound of running footsteps, getting closer.

Angela stepped behind her desk, stuck her tongue between her teeth and then slapped herself twice across the cheek, hard, before slumping back in her chair. A thin trickle of blood emerged from one corner of her mouth.

“You went to the loo,” she said. “When you came back, Westman was attacking me and you grabbed him to pull him off me. He pulled out the pistol, the two of you struggled, and the gun went off.”

“Twice?” Bronson asked, raising his eyebrows.

“Maybe it’s got a hair trigger or something. I don’t know. Guns are your thing. Think of a good reason.”

Moments later, the door burst open and a burly security guard stood framed in the opening, a two-way radio in his hand. He took one glance into the office and spoke urgently into the radio.

“We’ll need an ambulance and you better call the police as well,” he added as he noticed the pistol lying on the floor. “Are you all right, miss?” he asked, seeing the blood trickling from Angela’s mouth.

And then it seemed as if the whole world arrived in the office, and the rest of the day passed in a blur of questions and uniforms and still more questions.