The Lost Testament

50

Chris Bronson was waiting outside the gates of the museum in Great Russell Street when Angela walked out just after five. She had a lot to do, and not a great deal of time to complete it.

They walked together westward along the street, heading for Tottenham Court Road, Bronson keeping a careful look out all around them as they did so. He didn’t think Angela was in serious danger — at least, not yet — but he wasn’t taking any chances.

Tucked into the rear waistband of his trousers was a loaded nine-millimetre Browning semi-automatic pistol, an entirely illegal weapon that he had acquired a long time ago. He was acutely aware that if he was caught with the pistol, he would face a prison sentence, notwithstanding the fact that he was a police officer authorized to carry a firearm on duty. But Angela’s safety was far more important to him than any legal repercussions which might ensue. If she was attacked by anyone, he wanted to be quite certain he could protect her, and if it came to a fire-fight, he could always claim that he’d simply picked up the pistol in the confusion. He’d taken care that when he’d loaded the weapon he’d cleaned each round and every part which he’d touched in the past, and then used rubber gloves to charge the magazine and insert it in the butt. The only fingerprints of his which were on the Browning, he was quite certain, were on the outside of the weapon, and those he hoped he would be able to explain away.

As they walked, they talked.

‘Are you really sure this is a good idea?’ Bronson asked.

‘Frankly, no, but I’ve talked to a couple of people at the museum, including my boss, and I’ve shown them the photographs of the parchment. They all agreed that it was of potentially international importance, and if the British Museum can possibly buy it, we intend to do just that. You won’t believe the budget I’ve been given.’

‘So it’ll just be your decision, then?’

Angela shook her head.

‘No, not for a purchase of this importance. The museum’s sending out an expert on ancient parchments and codices, and I’ll meet him in Madrid. In fact, the only reason why I’m being sent out there at all is that the man who sent the email — and I still don’t know his name — said he would only deal with me. I suppose that was because I was a friend of Ali, so to some extent I’m a known quantity.’

Bronson nodded.

‘And you definitely want me to fly out there with you?’

‘I told my boss I wasn’t prepared to go unless you could come with me, just in case there’s any trouble. One thing I know about you, that I’ve always known about you, is that you’d willingly take a bullet for me.’

Bronson glanced at her and raised an eyebrow.

‘I hope it doesn’t come to that,’ he said mildly.

‘And so do I.’

They walked down the steps into the Tottenham Court Road Underground station. Bronson fed his one-day travel-card into the slot on the turnstile while Angela slapped down her Oyster card on the one next door, and a couple of minutes later they were standing on the platform waiting for the next southbound train.

‘So your plan is?’ Bronson asked.

‘First thing tomorrow morning we’ll take a taxi to Gatwick and fly to Madrid. After that, I have no idea. Unless this anonymous man contacts me and tells me where and when to meet him, we’ll just be taking a very short holiday in Spain.’

‘You still don’t know who he is, then?’

‘No. He gave no name in his email, and his account was one of those anonymous web-based ones, and his username was just a jumble of letters and numbers. When I replied, I gave him my email address, obviously, my mobile phone number and also your mobile number, as a matter of fact.’

‘You were pretty sure I would come with you, then.’

‘I was absolutely certain about that,’ Angela said, grinning at him.

Bronson glanced up at the illuminated display board above the platform, which gave the times and destinations of the next trains to arrive. And then they both felt the tell-tale wind in their faces as the approaching Northern Line train pushed a mass of air through the tunnel towards them.

Most of the passengers standing waiting on the platform looked either at the display board or down the tunnel. Bronson did neither. He concentrated on the people themselves, on the waiting passengers.

Although the worst of the rush hour was over, the station was still crowded with people, many of whom had now moved slightly closer to the edge of the platform, in anticipation of the train’s arrival, and to ensure that they would be at the front of the queue to get on board.

Angela travelled on the Underground every working day, and was well aware that, if the trains were crowded, waiting at the back of the platform would pretty much guarantee that she wouldn’t get on the next train. She also took a couple of steps forward, so as to be nearer the train when it stopped.

As she did so, a man — heavily built and wearing a light-coloured anorak, blue jeans and scuffed trainers — stepped into the space that had opened up between Bronson and Angela, and stood directly behind her.

Bronson grunted in irritation at the way the man had barged in, and stepped forward and slightly to his right, placing himself as close to Angela as he could get, which put him on the man’s right-hand side.

It wasn’t a shock of instant recognition, or anything like that, but there was something about the man that was familiar to Bronson in some way, though at that moment he couldn’t place what it was.

The lights of the train were now shining on the tunnel walls, and the noise of its approach grew louder. It would arrive at the platform within a few seconds. And then, with a final rush of hot and fast moving air, the train swept into the station, still travelling very quickly.

The man beside him shifted his position slightly as the train appeared and started to slow down. His head began moving rapidly from side to side as his gaze switched between the edge of the platform and the oncoming train.

And then things happened very quickly.