The Lost Relic

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Rome

Ben was wandering slowly, alone, down a tunnel that went on forever, listening to the faraway echo of his own footsteps. The walls, floor and ceiling of the tunnel were white and bathed in a bright glow that came from everywhere and nowhere. As he walked on and on, he became aware of the strange works of art suspended either side of him. Their colours seemed to jump out at him, swirling, moving, though he couldn’t make out the images or what they signified.

He hit against something he couldn’t see. Reached his hands out and sideways and groped around until he realised there was a glass wall blocking his path. He could go no further. Narrowing his eyes, he peered through to the other side – and saw the figure standing there. A man in a mask. They gazed at one another, and then the man seemed to smile. He had a gun in his hand. In front of him were two kneeling, huddled shapes – or it could have been a hundred. Ben knew that the man intended to harm them. He thumped against the glass and yelled as the man raised the gun, taking aim at the kneeling figures; but no sound came out, and he was suddenly powerless and trapped as more glass walls seemed to press in from all sides. The man in the mask laughed as he pulled the trigger. His victims were screaming now.

The gun boomed. And again. A deep thud that reverberated through the walls. The victims went on screaming and screaming.

Ben woke suddenly and jerked upright in the darkness, blinking away the fog of sleep. For a few instants part of his mind seemed unwilling to detach itself from his nightmare – and then he realised he really could hear voices shouting, and the heavy thumping that was coming from beyond the rectangular strip of white light that outlined the door.

Reality was suddenly sharp and clear. He glanced at his watch and saw that it was 1.14 a.m. He was still fully dressed, wearing his shoes. He must have fallen asleep on the bed.

‘Polizia!’ yelled a voice from outside. The next thump on the door was a shattering crash that splintered the frame. The lock was still holding, but another impact like that and they’d be in.

Three options. One, stick around and find out what they wanted. Two, grab the .45 Ruger and start blasting holes in the door. Ben glanced back at the open window as another massive thud filled the room. He decided he preferred the third option. He snatched up his jacket and slipped it on.

The door crashed open in a shower of splinters. Armed police burst in, yelling and waving their pistols.

Before they’d even stepped over the threshold, Ben was already out of the open window, dropping down out of sight below the ledge and shooting out his right hand to grab hold of the bracket of the neon sign fixed to the wall a metre away. It held his weight. As he hung from it, his legs kicking in space, he could hear the cops crashing about in the hotel room. More yells. Another loud thud as they burst into the bathroom. Probably expecting to find him in the shower.

He glanced down. It was a pretty long drop to the street below, about seven or eight metres. The pavement seemed about an inch wide. Traffic rolled by, skirting around the two police Alfa Romeos that were pulled up outside the hotel entrance.

All he had to do was get down to the street before someone spotted him. He guessed that would happen within about the next fifteen seconds. He scrabbled the toecaps of his shoes against the wall, trying to get a purchase on it, but the stonework was covered in a smooth render that offered no footholds. Two metres to his right, an iron drainpipe was solidly attached to the wall. If he could get to it . . .

But it was too far to reach. He dangled helplessly. Any second now, the cops would be at the window.

Two more police-marked Alfas came screeching around the street corner and skidded to a halt outside the hotel. The doors flew open and four more Carabinieri scrambled out clutching pistols. They made straight for the hotel entrance.

All they had to do was look up.

‘I told you we should have taken a right back there!’ Gary Parsons seethed at his wife from behind the wheel of the six-berth motorhome as it lumbered through the night traffic. ‘Christ, you’re the one with the map!’

‘This thing’s all wrong,’ his wife Annabel complained, flapping the unfolded map across the dashboard. ‘I’m telling you I followed it perfectly—’

‘How can it be wrong? It’s a fucking map, for God’s sake. You read it, it tells you where to go. How hard can it be?’

‘Don’t yell like that. You’ll wake the kids.’

‘We should have been at the campsite hours ago,’ he grumbled bitterly. ‘Now we’re lost in the middle of Rome, thanks to you. I think I’m perfectly justified in yelling.’

‘What’s going on here?’ his wife said, pointing, as they passed a lit-up hotel entrance that was swarming with police.

‘How the hell should I know?’

They both shut up as they heard a soft thump from somewhere above them.

‘What was that?’ she said.

‘Dunno. Sounded like something landed on the roof.’

‘Or you’ve gone and hit something, more like,’ she said archly.

Gary looked in the mirrors, then craned his neck out of the window, thinking the high top of the vehicle must have snagged a streetlight or a road sign that he’d failed to notice while they’d been arguing. But he could see nothing. He damn well hoped he hadn’t damaged the new satellite dish.

His wife said, ‘Better stop and see what you’ve done.’

‘I’ve got nowhere to pull over,’ he replied through gritted teeth. ‘Can’t you see I’m in the middle of traffic? Look at all these police cars. You want me to get bloody arrested?’

‘Stop yelling!’

‘This is all your fault!’

The couple went on arguing as the motorhome lumbered on by the hotel and continued up the street.