Stones of Fire

60

Hearing a knock, Cædmon turned in his chair. The guest-house proprietor, a florid-faced Welshman, stood in the doorway, no doubt wondering why the door had been left open. Simply put, he had not seen the need to close it.

‘You’ve got a call,’ the man announced, clearly annoyed at having had to climb four sets of stairs to convey the message. ‘You can take it downstairs.’ Announcement made, he departed.

Cædmon rose to his feet. As he walked towards the door, he glimpsed the sketch of the Canterbury window and the handwritten translation of the quatrains on the wooden bench. Stark and painful reminders that Edie’s abduction had everything to do with the Ark of the Covenant. Knowing he would have need of both, he retrieved the two sheets of paper, slipping them into his anorak pocket, these being the only things of value in the room. He followed the proprietor, closing the door behind him.

A few moments later, standing at the rough-hewn counter that masqueraded as a reception desk, Cædmon lifted the heavy handset of an old-fashioned telephone. ‘Go ahead. I’m listening,’ he said, refusing to engage in the hypocrisy of a civil greeting.

‘I do hope you’re having a pleasant evening,’ an American male on the other end said smoothly and sarcastically.

‘Sod off! Is she still alive?’

‘You know that she is.’

‘I know no such thing. If we are to continue this conversation, I require some proof.’

‘You’re hardly in a position to make demands.’

‘I am not demanding,’ Cædmon countered in a calmer tone, reining in his emotions. ‘I am requesting, as a show of good faith, that you give me proof that Miss Miller is your captive.’

Cædmon was able to detect a muffled command being issued, then, a few seconds later, ‘It’s me, Cædmon. I’m… I’m all right.’

She was alive.

‘Have they harmed you in any way?’

‘No, they —’

‘Satisfied?’ her captor snarled into the phone.

‘Yes, I’m satisfied. What do I have to do to ensure her safe return?’

The other man chuckled, obviously amused by the question. ‘Find me the Ark of the Covenant, of course.’

Cædmon fell silent.

Hearing the deal so clearly and bluntly spelled out made him acutely aware that MacFarlane might well be asking the impossible. For nearly three thousand years the Ark had remained hidden. Nothing more than a legend. Many before him had failed to find it. Somehow, against impossible odds, he had to succeed.

His stomach muscles cramped painfully. Knowing the negotiations could come to a rapid end if he sounded anything less than totally confident, he strove for a calmness he didn’t feel. ‘Do I have your word that when I find the Ark Edie Miller’s life will be spared?’

‘You do. And my word is my bond,’ the other man promptly replied. ‘As soon as we hang up, I want you to leave that rat hole of a hotel and head three blocks south. Turn left at the telephone booth on the corner. There’s an alley halfway down the street. My men will be there waiting for you. Don’t try anything foolish. If you do, the woman dies. And, trust me, it won’t be a pleasant death.’

Instructions issued, the call was unceremoniously ended.

For several long seconds Cædmon stared at the telephone, events moving at a faster pace than he would have liked.

He brought his palm down hard on the silver bell on the counter. When the Welshman appeared, Cædmon slid his hand inside his coat pocket, removing his wallet. ‘I would like to check out.’

The proprietor stared suspiciously at him. ‘Where’s the missus?’

‘She has gone ahead without me.’

Bill paid in full, he left the guest house and headed south as directed.

He passed a pub on his right, yellow light spilling onto the pavement. Earlier in the evening he’d sat glumly in that same pub, staring at a pint of lager. Knowing alcohol would do nothing to resolve the unsettled business with Edie, he’d handed the untasted glass to an inebriated local before wordlessly slinking out. Had he not succumbed to a moment’s weakness, he might have been able to thwart the abduction.

Cædmon shoved the thought aside. He couldn’t change the past; he could only affect the here and now. If used correctly, the metal nail file hidden beneath the leather insole of his right shoe could be a deadly weapon. He’d killed before; he could do so again. He rehearsed the plan in his mind’s eye. A jab to the eye. A deep puncture to the neck.

Approaching a red telephone box, he turned left as he had been instructed. When he came to the alleyway, he made another left. At the end of the deserted lane, he sighted two men leaning against a parked Range Rover.

MacFarlane’s bully boys.

While he could not be sure, Cædmon assumed that MacFarlane recruited his mercenaries straight out of the US military. Special forces more than likely.

‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ he said, touching his fingers to an imaginary hat brim.

Neither man acknowledged the greeting, although one of them pushed himself away from the vehicle and stepped towards him. Without being asked, Cædmon raised his arms, grasping the back of his head with his clasped hands. The man impersonally patted him down, searching every crevice where a weapon might be concealed.

Search concluded, Cædmon slowly lowered his arms.

‘Take off your clothes.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You heard me, take off your clothes.’ To ensure that the order was obeyed, the man opened his jacket, revealing a holstered gun.

Bang goes the smarty-pants plan with the nail file. He had not planned for a strip search.

There being nothing he could do but comply, Cædmon removed his anorak, dropping it onto the ground. Then, giving every indication that he was a man with nothing to hide, he levered off his right shoe, purposely kicking it in his escort’s direction. The subterfuge worked, his shoe warranting little more than a uninterested glance.

As quickly as possible, he divested himself of the rest of his clothes.

Naked, he stood before his captors. He couldn’t think of a time when he’d felt more vulnerable. ‘I know. I should probably be more diligent about my exercise regime.’

Neither man responded, although the one with the holstered weapon did reach inside his jacket pocket. Removing a dark length of fabric, he tossed it at Cædmon’s bare chest.

‘Put on the blindfold.’

‘That’s a bit draconian, don’t you think?’

Evidently not draconian enough, the man’s response quick and ruthless. Pulling his gun from its holster, he stepped forward and smashed the revolver butt into Cædmon’s face.

Myriad splashes of colour, like a Jackson Pollock abstract, instantly flashed behind his eyes. An instant later, the colours bled together, turning a deep, dark inky black.