The Sacred Vault

The Sacred Vault

ANDY MCDERMOTT

Copyright © 2010 Andy McDermott

Epilogue

For my family and friends

Prologue

Italy

It was a cold, crisp mid-November evening, but Giancarlo Mistretta’s mind was already on Christmas as he guided his tanker along the winding road through the Casentinesi forest. His apartment would play host to the celebrations this year; twenty-three people to cater for, maybe twenty-four if his sister’s newest baby arrived earlier than expected . . .

He pushed his plans aside as a tight turn appeared in the headlights. Slowing the truck to a near crawl, he checked his watch. Slightly ahead of schedule - there was still one more gas station to supply before he could return to the depot, but he would be back home in Florence before seven. Then maybe he and Leany could advance their plan for a baby of their own . . .

He guided the tanker round the corner - then braked. A charcoal-grey BMW was slewed across the road, one wheel in the ditch. A woman in a dark suit waved for him to stop.

Giancarlo suppressed a sigh. The BMW was blocking his way. So much for getting home early. Still, he wouldn’t be setting much of an example for any future little Giancarlos if he didn’t help a lady in distress.

He stopped, taking a closer look at the woman. Long, glossy black hair, and dark skin - Indian, perhaps? Probably in her late twenties, and quite attractive, in a businesslike way. He could almost hear Leany reprimanding him for that, but married or not, he still had eyes, didn’t he?

The woman walked towards the truck. Giancarlo climbed out to meet her. ‘Hi,’ he called. ‘Looks like you could use some help.’

She looked briefly into the woods as she advanced. Giancarlo noticed that her features were marred; only her left eye had moved, the right staring fixedly at him. The pale line of a scar ran from forehead to cheek over the socket. A glass eye.

He glanced at the BMW. ‘Are you stuck? I can give you a—’

She whipped out a silenced handgun and shot him three times in the face.

Giancarlo’s lifeless body slumped to the tarmac. A man stepped out of the darkness of the woods. Tall, muscular and dressed entirely in black, Urbano Fernandez regarded the corpse with an expression of mock apology. ‘Poor fellow,’ he said. The language was English, but the accent was smoothly Spanish. ‘Never any pleasantries with you, are there?’ he went on as the woman holstered the gun.

‘A waste of time,’ said Madirakshi Dagdu coldly. As the unfortunate Giancarlo had guessed, she was Indian, her accent thick and stilted - English was a language in which she had only recently needed proficiency. She indicated the truck driver’s body. ‘Dispose of that.’

Fernandez snapped a sarcastic salute. ‘Yes, ma’am.’ He pulled on a pair of black leather gloves, pausing to brush his pencil moustache with his fingertips before dragging the corpse into the undergrowth. ‘You didn’t have to be here at all. We don’t need to be, what’s the word? Nursemaided.’

He knew full well what the word was, but took a certain amusement from her frown of deep concentration as she tried to translate it. ‘This operation is more expensive than the others,’ she said once the meaning had come to her. ‘My employers want to be sure their money is being used well.’

‘It will be worth every dollar,’ said Fernandez, dumping the body. There was no point concealing it - the area would be crawling with people soon enough. He went to the tanker. ‘Now, go. Meet me down the road.’

Madirakshi returned to the BMW without a word. Fernandez watched her, thinking it was a shame such an attractive figure was wasted on an ugly personality, then moved to the valves on the tanker’s side as the car reversed out of the shallow ditch.

Even after delivering most of the day’s supplies, the tanker still contained over two thousand litres of petrol. The Spaniard turned the wheel above one of the gaping stainless steel nozzles. Fuel gushed out. He winced at the sharp smell, backing away to avoid being splashed as he opened the valve wider. The gush became a geyser, spraying into the woods.

He climbed into the cab. The engine was still running, so he released the brake and depressed the heavy clutch to put the truck into gear, slowly following the BMW as it sped away.

Petrol spewed over Giancarlo Mistretta’s corpse as the tanker rumbled into the night.

Half a kilometre down the road, Fernandez saw the waiting BMW’s headlights. He pulled over, then hurried to the car.

Madirakshi’s only greeting was a cold look. Fernandez ignored it. After tonight, there was only one more job planned, which might not even be necessary if his employers were persuasive enough - and then he would be rid of them and all the freaks in their entourage.

Even before he had fastened his seat belt, the BMW surged past the tanker, heading back up the road. A smeared pool of blood marked where the driver had been shot; Madirakshi stopped level with it.

Fernandez lowered his window. He took a Zippo lighter from a pocket, and with a single practised move flicked it open and lit it. A moment to regard his reflection in the polished metal, then he tossed the lighter into the trees.

Even before it hit the ground, the results were explosive. The highly flammable vapour rising from the pool of petrol ignited, a fireball boiling upwards into the trees and setting them alight. Giancarlo’s fuel-soaked body was consumed by the inferno as easily as the branches. A thick trail of flames raced away down the road.

Fernandez shielded his face from the heat with one gloved hand. ‘Time we left. Quickly.’

Madirakshi needed no further prompting. The BMW roared away. Fernandez looked back as the car reached the corner - to see a huge explosion rip through the forest half a kilometre behind as the tanker blew up, a seething mushroom cloud of blazing orange and yellow rising into the night sky as flaming fuel rained down around it. A moment later, the blast reached him, an earthshaking thump followed by a thunderous roar of air being pulled in to feed the conflagration.

‘Perfect,’ said Fernandez. ‘Now for stage two.’

The BMW raced through the darkened forest, heading for the city of Florence as the trees behind it turned into a wall of fire.

The banging of the chair stopped as Braco Zec pointed his gun at the young woman tied to it. ‘Cut that out,’ he said in fluent Italian. ‘I told you, do what we say and you’ll live.’ He dragged the chair and its gagged occupant away from the wall, then returned to the small apartment’s living room. Six other black-clad men and their equipment occupied most of the space, but he pushed through them to the window, peeling back his dark balaclava to reveal a weather-worn face, hair shaved down to a grey stubble. Deep creases across his forehead showed that he had witnessed - and endured - far more than most men of his thirty-four years.

The mercenaries had taken over the apartment that afternoon, Zec tricking the woman into letting them in by claiming to be delivering a parcel. She had been selected during the operation’s exacting planning phase, being the only single occupant of any of the suitable top floor apartments on the narrow Via degli Alfani. Considering what was across the street, it was perhaps inevitable that she was an aspiring artist.

He looked out at the eighteenth-century buildings: the museum complex containing the Galleria dell’Accademia. One of Florence’s top tourist attractions - and home to one of the world’s most famous pieces of art.

Their target.

Zec’s phone rang. Fernandez. ‘Yes?’

‘We’re here. Let us in.’

The Bosnian craned his neck for a better look at the street below. Two figures passed under a streetlight, approaching briskly. Fernandez and the Indian woman. The creases in Zec’s forehead deepened. To him, Dagdu’s presence was almost insulting, a sign that their employer didn’t trust them to carry out the job without supervision. Weren’t all their previous successes, including stealing a set of Chinese terracotta warriors out of their museum in Xi’an, and removing one of Islam’s holiest relics from Mecca itself, enough to prove their prowess? And Interpol was no nearer to catching them now than after their first ‘commission’ eight months earlier. Fernandez’s inside knowledge of how the police worked, how they thought, kept them several steps ahead.

He suppressed his annoyance - she was their paymaster’s representative, after all - and went back to the hall as the entry buzzer rasped. He pushed the button, then waited with slight anxiety for them to climb the stairs. If any of the other residents chose that moment to leave their apartment, and saw their faces . . .

But there were no such problems. The soft clump of boots outside, then a single sharp rap on the door. Zec opened it, and Fernandez and his companion entered.

The Spaniard shared a brief smile of greeting with his second in command. ‘Anything to report?’

‘You’ve made the evening news,’ Zec told him. ‘The fire’s spreading - they’re calling in fire trucks from every surrounding town. And,’ he added meaningfully, ‘helicopters.’

‘Excellent.’ Fernandez dialled a number on his phone. ‘Status?’

‘Air traffic control has our flightplan,’ said the voice at the other end of the line. ‘We’re ready.’

‘Then go.’ He disconnected. ‘Where’s the roof access?’ Zec pointed at a skylight. ‘Okay, let’s get into position.’ He moved to address the rest of the team.

Madirakshi, behind him, looked into the bedroom. ‘What is this?’ she snapped on seeing the prisoner.

‘She won’t be a problem,’ said Zec. ‘She hasn’t seen our faces.’

Madirakshi’s expression was as fixed as her artificial eye. ‘No witnesses.’ She stepped into the bedroom. The bound woman, facing away from the door, twisted against her restraints, making panicked noises. She didn’t need to understand English to recognise the dangerous tone of the new arrival’s voice.

‘If you shoot her, the neighbours might hear,’ Fernandez warned.

‘I don’t need a gun.’ She stopped directly behind the other woman, whose muffled cries became more desperate.

‘Leave her,’ said Zec, coming into the room. ‘I promised she would live if she caused no trouble.’

Madirakshi ignored him. She placed her fingers against her right eye socket and pressed. There was a soft sucking sound, and with a faint plop something dropped into her waiting palm.

Her glass eye, glistening wetly.

Zec had seen many horrific things in his life, but the casual way the woman removed the prosthetic still produced a small shudder of revulsion. Disgust then turned to confusion as she took hold of the eye with both hands and twisted it. There was a click, and it split into two hemispherical halves. What was she doing?

The answer came as she drew her hands apart. Coiled inside the eye was a length of fine steel wire. By the time Zec realised it was a garrotte, Madirakshi had looped it round the defenceless young woman’s throat and pulled it tight.

‘No!’ Zec gasped, but Fernandez put a firm hand on his shoulder to pull him back. The Italian woman couldn’t even cry out, her airway crushed by the razor-sharp wire. She convulsed against the ropes. The chair thumped on the floor; Madirakshi pulled harder, sawing the wire through skin and flesh. Blood flowed down the woman’s neck. Her fingers clenched and clawed . . . then relaxed. One last bump, and the chair fell still.

Madirakshi unwound the garrotte and turned. For the first time, Zec saw her face as it really was, a sunken hole with the eyelids gaping like a tiny mouth where her right eye should have been. Another revolted shudder, accompanied by anger. ‘You didn’t have to do that!’ he said.

‘No witnesses,’ the Indian repeated. She took out a cloth and ran it down the length of the blood-coated wire. The garrotte clean, she re-coiled it, then fastened the two halves of the eye back into a single sphere. Snick. Another practised move, and with a small but unsettling noise of suction the prosthetic was returned to its home. ‘Now. You have a job to do.’

‘We do,’ said Fernandez before Zec could respond. He leaned closer to his lieutenant, adding in a low voice, ‘I think perhaps having a baby has made you go a little soft, Braco. If this is going to be a problem . . .’

‘No problem,’ said Zec stiffly. ‘But I promised her—’

‘Never make promises you might not be able to keep,’ Fernandez told him, before clicking his fingers. The men in the living room looked round as one, ready for action.

Ten minutes later, all eight mercenaries were on the apartment’s sloping roof.

Fernandez peered over the edge. Below, Madirakshi left the building. Relieved to be rid of her at last, he backed up and faced his team. ‘Ready?’

The responses were all in the affirmative. Each man was now armed, compact MP5K sub-machine guns fitted with laser sights and suppressors slung on their backs. Other pieces of gear were attached to the harnesses they wore; not mere equipment webbing, but parachute-style straps able to support their bodyweight, and more.

The Spaniard looked at his watch. Five minutes to get everyone across to the roof of the Galleria dell’ Accademia, another five to eliminate the guards and secure the room containing their target, five more to prepare it - and themselves - for extraction . . .

Fifteen minutes to carry out the most audacious robbery in history.

He gestured to one of his men, Franco, who had already secured one end of a line inside the open skylight. At the other end was a barbed metal spear, currently loaded into a custom-built, gas-powered launcher.

Franco had already selected his target, a squat brick ventilation blockhouse poking up from the Galleria’s roof like a periscope. He tilted up the launcher. Fernandez watched him closely. This was a ‘wildcard moment’, the biggest risk in any operation. If the brickwork was too weak to take the weight, if someone heard the noise of launch or clang of impact and looked up at the wrong moment . . .

At least they could minimise the chances of the last. Franco raised a thumb. Another man, Sklar, held up a string of firecrackers, lit the fuse - and flung them down the street.

There was a small square at the Galleria’s southwestern corner. The fireworks landed at its edge. People jumped at the string of little explosions. Once the initial fright passed, some onlookers were annoyed, others amused by the display . . . but they were all looking at the ground.

‘Now,’ said Fernandez.

Franco pulled the trigger. There was a flat thud as compressed nitrogen gas blasted the spear across the street - and a sharp clang as the spearhead pierced the blockhouse.

All eyes below were still on the firecrackers.

Franco put down the launcher and tugged on the line, gingerly at first, then harder. The spear held. He pulled a lever on the launcher’s side to engage a winch mechanism and quickly drew the line taut.

Fernandez gestured to a third man, Kristoff - the smallest and lightest member of the team. The German gave the line a tug of his own to reassure himself that it would hold, then clipped his harness to it and carefully lowered himself off the roof.

The others held their breaths. If the spear came loose, it was all over.

Suspended below the line, Kristoff pulled himself across the street. The cable shuddered, but held firm. Fernandez didn’t take his eyes off the spear. The crackle of fireworks had stopped, and now he could hear the crunch of broken bricks shifting against each other . . .

Kristoff reached the Galleria’s roof.

Mass exhalation. Fernandez realised he was sweating despite the cold. Kristoff detached himself from the line, then secured it around the blockhouse.

Thumbs up.

Fernandez hooked himself to the cable and pulled himself across, followed in rapid succession by the others. He checked his watch as the last man reached the Galleria. They had made it with thirty seconds to spare.

Now for the next stage.

He took out his phone and entered another number. He didn’t lift it to his ear as he pushed the final button, though. He was listening for something else.

In a Florentine suburb three kilometres to the southwest, two cars had been parked, one at each end of an unremarkable street.

Each car contained half a kilogram of C-4 explosive, wired to a detonator triggered by a mobile phone. The phones had been cloned; each shared the same number, ringing simultaneously.

An electrical impulse passed through the detonator—

By the time the booms reached the Galleria dell’ Accademia eight seconds later, the men on the roof were already moving towards their next objectives.

They raced across the rooftops, splitting into four groups of two men each. Zec and Franco comprised one team, reaching their destination first as the others continued past.

The pair dropped on to a section of flat roof where large humming air conditioning units kept the museum’s internal temperature constant. There was a small window just below the eaves of the abutting, slightly taller building. Zec shone a penlight inside. An office, as expected. A glance below the frame revealed a thin electrical cable. The window was rigged with an alarm.

He took a black box from his harness, uncoiling wires and digging a sharp-toothed crocodile clip deeply into the cable to bite the copper wire within. A second clip was affixed on the other side of the window. He pushed a button on the box. A green light came on.

Franco took out a pair of wirecutters and with a single snip severed the cable between the clips.

The light stayed green.

Zec touched his throat-mike to key it. ‘We’re in.’

Inside the museum, lights of the halls and galleries were dimmed to the softest glow. Had it been up to the curators they would have been switched off entirely, to prevent the artworks from fading, but the security guards’ inconvenient human need for illumination had required a compromise.

The Galleria dell’ Accademia is not an especially large museum, so the nightwatch usually consists only of six men. Despite the cultural value of the exhibits to the Italian people, this seemingly small staff is not an issue: any kind of alarm would normally result in a rapid police response.

But on this night, the police had other concerns.

Two guards entered one of the upper floor galleries. Familiarity had turned the art treasures into mundane furniture, the monotony of patrolling the halls punctuated only by check-ins with the security office. So the unexpected crackle of one man’s walkie-talkie got their attention; the next check wasn’t due for twenty minutes. ‘What’s up?’

‘Probably nothing,’ came the static-laden reply. ‘But Hall Three has gone dark. Can you look?’

‘No problem,’ said the guard, giving his companion a wry look. That passed as excitement in their job: checking for faulty light bulbs.

They made their way to a short flight of steps. It was immediately clear there was something wrong with the lights in Hall III, only darkness visible beyond the entrance. One guard took a torch from his belt, and they advanced into the gallery.

Nothing seemed out of place in the torch beam. The second man shrugged, turning to try the light switches—

A pair of eyes seemed to float in the blackness before him.

Before he could make a sound, he was hit in the heart by two bullets from Zec’s MP5K, the suppressor muting the noise of the shots to nothing more than sharp tchacks. His partner whirled - and a gloved hand clamped over his mouth, Franco’s black-bladed combat knife stabbing deep into his throat.

Both bodies were hauled into the shadows. Zec pulled up his balaclava and took the dead guard’s walkie-talkie. ‘Something’s buzzing,’ he said in Italian, the radio’s low fidelity disguising his voice. ‘The camera might have shorted out. Can you check the system?’

‘I’ll run a diagnostic. Hold on.’

Zec dropped the walkie-talkie. The computer would spend the next thirty seconds checking the various cameras and alarms around the building, eventually coming to the conclusion that the camera in Hall III was malfunctioning - unsurprising, since he had shot it.

But while the computer was busy, the security systems would be down.

He keyed the throat-mike. ‘Two down. Go.’

Fernandez and Sklar were suspended on lines hanging from the roof on the southern side of a courtyard, waiting for Zec’s signal: the instant it came, Fernandez kicked open an upper-floor window and swung inside, unslinging his gun. The Ukrainian jumped down beside him.

He and his team had reconnoitred the Galleria multiple times over the past month, and he knew exactly where he had entered the building - the upper level of the main stairwell. Right now, another team was also entering on the ground floor.

This part of the mission was a hunt - and a race against time. Find the remaining guards . . . and kill them before they could raise the alarm.

Fernandez knew where two of them would be - the security control room. He and Sklar hurried down the staircase. The position of the remaining two guards was another wildcard, which was why he had chosen entry points that would let his team spread out as quickly as possible. Speed and surprise were everything - it only took one guard to push a panic button . . .

They reached the ground floor. Fifteen seconds before the cameras came back online. Sklar hared off into the main entrance hall. Fernandez, meanwhile, shoved through a door marked Privato and threaded his way along a narrow corridor.

Another door. Five seconds left. He raised his gun and kicked it open.

The guard seated in front of the security monitors looked round in surprise—

Tchack. Tchack. Tchack. The guard crashed off his chair, arms spasming in reflexive response to the three bullets that had just slammed into his skull, splattering blood across the blank monitor screens.

Shit! Where was the other man?

The diagnostic ended, and the monitors came back to life. He spotted one of his men in the Sale Bizantine, another in the Sale Fiorentine. Where were the guards?

There - in the Salone del Colosso. Sklar would be closest to them—

Both guards fell, thrashing in their noiseless death throes as a burst from Sklar’s silenced MP5K cut them down. Confirmation came through his earpiece: ‘Two down.’

Just one man left - but where?

The answer was almost comical in its obviousness. Fernandez rushed out of the control room and headed back up the passage to another door marked WC.

He opened it. A small tiled room, two stalls, one closed . . .

The rapid tchacks from the gun were louder in here, echoing in the confined space. The stall’s wooden door splintered, a startled gasp coming from behind it - along with clanks of shattering porcelain and the dull thud of lead entering flesh. A trickle of water ran out from beneath the door, pinkish rivulets spreading through it.

Six guards dealt with.

Fernandez hurried back into the museum proper, turning left in the entrance hall and looking down the length of the gallery to see his target at the far end.

Michelangelo’s David.

Possibly the most famous sculpture in the world, the Renaissance masterpiece towered above its viewers, over five metres tall even without its pedestal. During the day, illuminated mainly by light coming through the glass dome in the ceiling, the marble statue was a soft off-white, almost blending into the blandly painted walls of the semicircular chamber in which it stood. But at night, side-lit and with its surroundings in shadow, the naked figure stood out starkly, appearing almost threatening, a faint sneer of disdain visible on the young future king’s lips as he prepared to face Goliath in combat.

To Fernandez, the image seemed appropriate. After all, he was the David who defeated the Goliath of the world’s combined law enforcement agencies . . .

You haven’t done it yet, he warned himself as he marched towards the statue, passing more of Michelangelo’s sculptures along the way. Three of his men were already waiting at David’s feet, and he heard footsteps behind - Zec and Franco. As for the last two team members . . .

He looked up at the dome, catching a glimpse of movement outside. They were right where they should be. Everything was on schedule.

‘You know what to do,’ he announced as he reached the statue. ‘Let’s make history.’

‘Or take history,’ said Zec. The two men grinned, then everyone moved into action.

One man ran to a control panel on one wall. It was protected by a locked metal cover, but a moment’s effort with a crowbar took care of that. The others went to the statue itself. Kristoff and Franco climbed on to the plinth, their heads only coming to David’s mid-thigh. They took out coiled straps, wider and much thicker than their own harnesses, and carefully secured them round the statue’s legs.

Once they were in place, Kristoff took out another coil and, keeping hold of the buckle at one end, tossed it upwards. It arced over the statue’s shoulder, dropping down on the other side like a streamer. Another man caught the coil and passed it back between David’s legs to Franco, who ran it through the buckle, connected it to the leg strap and pulled it tight. The process was repeated with a second strap over the other shoulder.

Kristoff quickly used the straps to scale the stone figure’s chest, hanging on with one hand as more straps were thrown to him. Fernandez looked on as his plan literally took shape before his eyes. The growing web was much like the harnesses he and his men were wearing, designed to spread out the weight of the body over as great an area as possible when it was lifted.

In the case of David, that weight was over six tons - plus the pedestal. But that had been planned for.

The Spaniard gestured to the man at the control panel. He pushed a button. A hydraulic rumble came from the floor.

Very slowly, the statue began to rise.

At considerable expense, the Galleria had recently installed a system to protect David from vibrations, whether in the form of earthquakes, city traffic or even the constant footsteps of visitors. Powerful shock absorbers under the pedestal shielded it from tremors - but also allowed it to be elevated for those rare occasions when the statue had to be moved. At full height, there was just enough space for a forklift’s blades to slip beneath the base.

That was all the space Fernandez needed.

Zec and the other man at the statue pushed more straps, thicker still and bearing heavy-duty metal D-rings, under the base. Once that was done, they fastened them over the pedestal, then began to secure the harness to them.

Fernandez took out his phone again, dialling the first number he had called earlier. The answer was heavily obscured by noise. ‘We’re less than two minutes out - but ATC’s issued an alert about us being off course.’

‘We’re almost ready,’ said Fernandez. ‘Just follow the plan.’ He disconnected, hearing knocking from the dome. One of the two figures outside gave him a thumbs up.

Zec rounded the statue. ‘All set. I just hope the harness holds.’

‘It’ll hold,’ Fernandez assured him. He raised his voice. ‘Move back!’ Everyone cleared the area beneath the dome.

The men on the roof had also retreated, one of them pushing a button on a control box—

The explosive charges they had placed round the dome detonated as one.

Glass panels shattered into a billion fragments, the severed steel framework plunging down into the gallery and smashing the marble floor. The horrendous noise echoed through the museum’s halls - followed by the piercing shriek of sirens as vibration sensors throughout the building were triggered.

The police would be on their way. But with attention diverted by the forest fire to the east and the car bombings to the southwest, their response time would be slowed, their numbers reduced.

And Fernandez and his men would be gone.

The two men who had planted the explosives were already rappelling into the museum as the others quickly cleared wreckage out of the way. Even over the alarms the Spaniard could hear another sound, a thudding bass pounding getting louder and louder . . .

The breeze blowing in through the hole was magnified a hundredfold as a helicopter surged into view overhead, the beat of its rotor blades shaking the air. The massive aircraft was a Sikorsky S-64 Skycrane, the machine’s name revealing its purpose: to lift extremely heavy objects.

Like Michelangelo’s David.

Cables dropped from the helicopter, heavy hooks on their ends clanging on the cracked marble. Fernandez and his men each took one line and pulled it to the statue. Six cables were attached to the D-rings on the base, while Kristoff and Franco scaled the pedestal again and hooked their lines to the webbing around the great carved figure itself.

Fernandez moved back beneath the hole and looked up. The Skycrane had been painted dark green to match the livery of the Italian Forest Service’s fire-fighting S-64s, its radio transceiver hacked to give air traffic control the identification number of one of the real choppers. But where the Italian aircraft had giant water tanks beneath the long dragonfly spine of their fuselages, this had just a bottomless mockup, thin aluminium concealing a powerful winch.

A wave from Fernandez, and the winch began to draw up the cables.

The men took positions on each side of the statue, hands pressed against the pedestal. The cables pulled tight, the straps creaking as they took the strain. Fernandez watched the marble figure closely, hoping his calculations were right. If the harness didn’t protect David from the worst stresses of the lift, this would get very messy . . .

The pedestal slid off the shock absorbers and ground noisily across the floor. Everyone pushed harder to keep it in a straight line as the lines tightened. They had to get the sculpture directly under the hole before they could escape. The cables scraped on the edge of the ruined dome, glass fragments and pieces of broken masonry raining down.

The Skycrane rose, the statue jerking up and swinging half a metre before the edge of the base crunched against the marble. Fernandez waved angrily at the winch operator. Even minor damage to the statue would affect their payment.

The winchman got the message. The statue lifted again, more gently. Another two metres to go before it was in position. The men kept pushing, guiding it. One and a half, one . . .

The plinth thumped down on the broken floor, grinding glass to powder beneath it. Fernandez saw that the cables were more or less dead centre of the circular hole. ‘Hook up!’ he shouted.

Each man attached his harness to the D-rings. Once they were all secure, Fernandez gave another signal to the winchman.

The engine noise rose to a scream as the helicopter climbed.

Another jolt as the statue left the floor - this time for good. Fernandez and his team were lifted with it. The noise and downwash from the Skycrane were horrific, but if everything went to plan they wouldn’t have to endure it for long . . .

More power. The statue began to twist in the wind as it rose. Fernandez had expected that; there was no way to prevent it. All he could do was hope it didn’t get out of control.

Four metres up, five, the ascent getting faster. The Galleria spun around them - and then they cleared the roof. They were out!

He scanned the city as they continued to climb, the Skycrane lethargically tipping into forward flight and turning northwards. Strobe lights flicked through the streets leading to the museum. The police. Fernandez smiled. They were too late.

There was one police vehicle that concerned him, though. Off to the southwest, he saw a pattern of pulsing lights in the sky. Another helicopter.

Heading towards them.

As he’d expected, it had been called in to provide aerial support for the cops responding to the car bombs - but the Skycrane’s deviation from its course and the alarms at the Galleria dell’ Accademia had caused someone to put two and two together and realise that the explosions were, like the forest fire, just a diversion.

The Skycrane picked up speed, Florence rolling past below. Not quickly enough. The police chopper would rapidly catch up with the lumbering Sikorsky - and for the plan to succeed, the next stage had to be carried out without witnesses.

Fernandez looked ahead, eyes narrowed against the blasting wind. The city’s northern edge was not far away, twinkling lights abruptly replaced by the blackness of woods and fields as the landscape rose into the hills. No roads; only an aircraft could pursue them.

But he had planned for that. Another member of his team was positioned on a rooftop at the city’s periphery, directly beneath the Skycrane’s course.

The Sikorsky and its strange cargo swept over the urban boundary. The police chopper was gaining fast. Glaring blue-white light pinned the Skycrane from behind as the other aircraft’s spotlight flicked on, playing over the green fuselage before tilting down to turn the suspended statue a dazzling white.

The police helicopter closed in—

And suddenly dropped out of the sky in a sheet of flame, spiralling down to smash explosively into the woods beyond the city.

Fernandez’s man on the ground had been armed with a Russian SA-18 anti-aircraft missile, the shoulder-fired weapon homing in on the helicopter’s exhaust and detonating over a kilogram of high explosive on impact.

The Spaniard smiled. The Italian air force would now be called in to hunt down the helicopter - which was exactly what he wanted them to do. Because a few minutes from now, he and his men would be putting as much distance between themselves and the Skycrane as possible.

More dark forests below as the Sikorsky descended and slowed. They were nearing their destination: an isolated road winding through the hills. He spotted a red light flashing amongst the trees. The last team member, waiting with the truck.

Treetops thrashed in the helicopter’s downdraught as it hovered, the statue swinging pendulously for several worrying moments before settling down. The truck’s trailer was directly beneath it - a standard twelve-metre container, with an open top. A metal frame of a very specific shape had been welded to its floor and covered with thick foam padding. Beside the trailer, a large object was hidden beneath a tarpaulin.

‘Okay, drop!’ yelled Fernandez, pulling out a clip on his harness. His support line uncoiled and fell away. He quickly rappelled into the truck, the other men following. The moment their boots hit metal, they detached the lines and stood beneath the statue. Fernandez switched on a lamp to give the winchman a clear view, then joined the others.

The statue’s base was about three metres above the container’s top, slowly turning. Fernandez signalled for it to be lowered. The winch whined, cables shuddering as the statue descended. The men warily reached up. An agonising moment as the pedestal’s corner clipped the container’s edge, steel bending with a screech, then it slipped inside.

Hands gripping the base, eight men strained in unison to turn David in a particular direction as the great figure continued its steady descent. Fernandez gestured for the winchman to slow. The men pushed harder, the statue still at an angle. Less than half a metre. Another push—

The base lined up against a length of metal pole at the end of the frame. Fernandez waved his hands. The winchman responded - and the statue landed with a bang that shook the entire container.

But the Skycrane’s job wasn’t done. The container was less than two and a half metres tall, the statue standing high above its top. The men moved to each side of the framework as the Sikorsky slowly moved forwards. The cables pulled tight again, dragging the statue after the aircraft - but the bar across the container’s floor stopped it.

Like a footballer tripped by a sliding tackle, David began to fall.

In slow motion. The cables and the harness took the strain. Little by little, the giant was lowered towards the waiting frame, each section of which was shaped to support a specific part of the statue’s body. Lower. Fernandez held his breath. David’s sneer now seemed directed at him personally, daring him to have miscalculated . . .

He hadn’t. The statue touched down, the foam compressing, steel creaking - but holding.

‘Secure it!’ he barked. Three of the men lashed the statue down, the others detaching the cables. Fernandez hurried to the container’s open end and jumped out. The Skycrane increased height slightly and edged sideways, hooks banging on the corrugated metal. Inside the container, the team hauled on ropes hanging over its side - pulling up the tarpaulin so the open roof could be covered.

As the grubby blue tarp moved, it revealed the object lying on the ground. The sight almost made Fernandez laugh out loud at its sheer audacity, even though he had thought of it in the first place.

A replica of David.

It was crude, only nine-tenths life size, made of fibreglass where strength was needed, chicken wire and papier mâché and cardboard elsewhere. At close range it looked like a joke, a refugee from a school craft fair. But nobody would see it at close range. All they would see was what they had been told to expect: a priceless national treasure suspended from a helicopter.

He and the truck driver secured the hooks to the harness round the duplicate’s chest, then Fernandez signalled to the Skycrane. The helicopter’s engines shrilled as it increased power, pulling the imitation statue upright, then turning away once its new cargo was clear of the truck.

Fernandez watched the helicopter go. That was the final stage of the plan: the ultimate decoy. The pilot would take the Sikorsky up to ten thousand feet, heading northeast, then lock the controls to put it into a slow but steady descent - and he and the winchman would bail out, parachuting down. When military aircraft intercepted the helicopter, they would be unable to take any action for fear of damaging the statue, leaving them impotently following until it eventually smashed down in the hills some fifty kilometres away . . . by which time the real statue would be safely on its way to its new owner.

He laughed, unable to hold in his delight any longer. They had done it! He really was the greatest thief in history. One more job, and the team would receive the rest of their hundred million dollar payment - with half of it going to its leader and mastermind. And the final robbery, in San Francisco, would be a piece of cake in comparison to what they had just achieved.

The tarp roof was secure, the rear doors closed. Still smiling, Fernandez climbed into the cab and signalled the driver to head off into the darkness.

1

New York City:

Three Weeks Later

‘. . . So I’d like everyone to join me in a toast - a belated toast - to the marriage of two great friends of mine . . . Eddie Chase and Nina Wilde.’

Nina leaned round her husband to speak to the grey-haired man beside him as applause filled the room. ‘That was a nice speech, Mac.’

‘Yeah,’ rumbled Eddie, less impressed. ‘You only mentioned a few embarrassing moments from my time in the Regiment.’

Jim ‘Mac’ McCrimmon grinned. ‘What are best men for? Besides,’ the bearded Scot went on, ‘I’d never tell any of the really embarrassing SAS stories in mixed company. Certainly not in front of your grandmother!’

Nina stood. ‘Okay,’ she said, running a hand self-consciously through her red hair as everyone looked at her, ‘I know it’s not traditional for the, ah, “new” bride’ - she made air-quotes, raising laughter - ‘to speak at this point, but our lives have been anything but traditional since we met.’ More laughs. ‘So I wanted to thank you all for coming - it’s great that so many of you could make it for our first wedding anniversary, and we’ve had some lovely cards and messages from those who couldn’t be here. And most of all, I’d like to thank the man who made it all possible - my strangely charming, sometimes crazy-making, but always amazing husband.’ She kissed the Yorkshireman to more applause. ‘Anything to add, Eddie?’

‘You pretty much covered it. Except for . . . bottoms up!’ He raised his glass. ‘Enjoy the party!’

The DJ took the cue and put on a song - which, as per Eddie’s instructions, was a version of ‘Por Una Cabeza’. He stood, holding out a hand. ‘Fancy a dance?’

She smiled. ‘Y’ know, I might have practised this one a few times . . .’

‘Good job too - you were bloody rubbish at it in Monaco!’ He led her to the dance floor, the couple exchanging congratulations and jokes with friends along the way before taking their positions for a tango.

‘Ready to dance, Mr Chase?’ said Nina.

‘If you are, Mrs Chase,’ Eddie replied. Nina arched an eyebrow.

‘All right, Dr Wilde,’ he said with a playful sigh of defeat. ‘Just thought I’d try to have one vaguely traditional thing in our marriage.’

‘You’re so old-fashioned,’ she said, teasing. ‘And a one, and a two, and . . . dance!’

‘I’m actually impressed,’ said Elizabeth Chase to her younger brother. The DJ had switched to pop after Nina and Eddie’s display, the dance floor now drawing the younger and/or more inebriated guests while the host and hostess split up to circulate. ‘I had no idea you were so graceful. Shouldn’t you be wearing spangly trousers and dancing with celebrities?’

Her grandmother tutted at her. ‘Well, I thought it was very nice, Edward.’

‘Thanks, Nan,’ said Eddie. ‘And I’m glad you’re here to see it. And you, Holly,’ he smiled at his niece, ‘and even you, Lizzie . . . I mean Elizabeth.’

Elizabeth gave him a look somewhere between acknowledgement of the shared sibling joke and actual annoyance. Holly’s expression, meanwhile, was of genuine pleasure. ‘It’s so awesome to be here, Uncle Eddie! I get to see you and Nina - do I call her Aunt Nina now? It sounds weird - and check out New York, and I’m getting time off school! Mum never normally lets me skive out of anything.’

‘Probably for the best - mind you, I skived out of school all the time, and it never did me any harm,’ Eddie told her, smirking at his sister’s sarcastic snort. ‘Anyway, it’s good to have the whole family here.’

‘Not the whole family,’ Elizabeth said pointedly.

Eddie forced himself to ignore her. ‘So, who wants another drink?’

‘Me!’ Holly chirped, holding up her champagne glass.

‘You’ve had enough,’ her mother said firmly.

‘Aw, come on! I’m seventeen, I’m almost old enough.’

‘Not here, you’re not,’ said Eddie. ‘Drinking age is twenty-one in the States.’ At Holly’s appalled look, he went on: ‘I know, how crap is that? But if you had any more, Amy here might have to arrest you.’ He tugged the sleeve of another guest. ‘Isn’t that right, Amy? I was just telling my niece about how strict you American cops are about the drinking laws.’

‘Oh, totally,’ said Amy Martin, joining the group. She regarded Holly’s glass. ‘I mean, that’s a potential 10-64D right there. I’m off duty, but I might have to call that in and take you downtown.’ Holly hurriedly put down the glass.

Eddie laughed, and introduced the young policewoman to his family - then looked round at a commotion from the function room’s main entrance. ‘I might have bloody known he’d cause a scene. Hang on.’ He crossed the room to close the doors, a task made harder by the press of onlookers trying to see inside. ‘Private party, so piss off!’ he warned the gawpers as he shut the doors, then turned to the new arrival and his companion. ‘Glad you could make it. You’re only an hour late.’

As usual, the sarcasm went completely over Grant Thorn’s head. ‘Sorry, dude,’ said the Hollywood star. ‘Jessica couldn’t decide on a dress.’

Eddie recognised his partner as Jessica Lanes, a starlet-of-the-moment famous for a couple of successful teen comedies and a horror movie, as well as her willingness to remove her clothes for lad-mag photoshoots. ‘Nice to meet you,’ he said to the blonde, who smiled blankly.

‘Eddie here saved my life,’ Grant told her. ‘He’s a cool dude, even though he’s a Brit.’

‘Wow, you saved his life?’ asked Jessica. ‘Awesome. So, you’re like a lifeguard?’

‘Something like that,’ Eddie replied, deadpan. Someone else tried to peer into the room; he moved behind Grant to secure the doors again, whispering, ‘Thought you were bringing that other Jessica? You know, the dark-haired one?’

‘Old news, man,’ Grant said quietly. ‘Besides, a Jessica’s a Jessica, right?’

Eddie shook his head, then escorted the pair through the room, which had suddenly been energised by the injection of star power. Holly in particular was dumbstruck by the appearance in three dimensions of a man who had previously been limited to posters on her bedroom wall. ‘Everyone, this is Grant and Jessica, who . . . well, you probably recognise.’

Nan peered at the pair as Eddie completed the introductions. ‘Ooh, I know you,’ she said to Grant. ‘I saw you on the telly. You were in an advertisement, weren’t you?’

‘Nan!’ hissed Holly, mortified. ‘It was an advert for his film! That he was starring in! As the star!’

‘Oh, that explains it. I don’t watch films these days,’ Nan confided to Grant. ‘They’re all so noisy and violent, just silly nonsense. But I’m sure yours are very good,’ she added politely.

Eddie held in a laugh at Grant’s discomfiture. ‘Anyway, I was getting drinks, wasn’t I?’

He headed for the buffet tables, passing Nina along the way. ‘Who’s that with Grant?’ she asked.

‘A Jessica.’

‘I thought his girlfriend was the one with dark hair?’

‘Keep up, love. You’re a celebrity yourself, you should know this stuff.’

‘I am not a celebrity,’ Nina said, faintly irked by the accusation.

‘Right. Being seen on live TV inside the Sphinx by two hundred million people doesn’t count.’

She groaned. ‘Don’t remind me. See you later.’ Giving him a kiss, she continued circulating, spotting some friends and workmates at one table. ‘Matt, Lola!’ she called, joining them. ‘Everything okay?’

‘Great, thanks,’ said Matt Trulli, holding up his glass. ‘Top bash you and Eddie’ve put on. Congratulations!’

‘Well, it’s mostly Eddie who organised it,’ she told the tubby Australian engineer. ‘I’ve been a bit preoccupied with work - I spent most of the week in San Francisco. But if you’re enjoying it, I’m happy to take the credit!’

‘You look lovely, Nina,’ Lola Gianetti said. Nina felt her cheeks flush a little at the compliment from her personal assistant - though she had to admit that her cream dress was considerably more elegant than the suits she wore at the office or the rugged and functional clothing preferred out in the field. ‘And I didn’t know you and Eddie could dance!’

‘That tango looked pretty hot stuff,’ said Matt. ‘There, er, there many single women at dance classes?’

Nina was saved from having to answer by the arrival of another guest. ‘There you are, Nina,’ said Rowan Sharpe. ‘I thought I’d never catch up with you.’

‘We’ve spent practically the past week together, Rowan,’ she said, grinning. ‘I would have thought you’d be sick of the sight of me by now.’

‘Oh, don’t be absurd.’ The tall, black-haired Connecticut native was in his late thirties, and in his tuxedo looked even more dashing than usual. Lola’s attention had definitely been caught, Nina noticed with amusement. ‘I certainly wasn’t going to miss this - even if I had to fly all the way from San Francisco to be here.’

‘Rowan, this is Matt Trulli,’ said Nina, making introductions. ‘He used to work for UNARA, and now he’s with the Oceanic Survey Organisation. Matt, this is an old friend of mine, Dr Rowan Sharpe. He’s in charge of the Treasures of Atlantis exhibition.’

‘Oh, I’m in charge?’ said Rowan, feigning surprise. ‘Funny, I thought you were. I mean, you’re constantly there bossing everyone about . . .’

Nina gave him a little laugh. ‘I’m the boss, so I’m allowed to be bossy. Besides, the exhibition’s really important to me. I just want things to be perfect.’

‘Well, you always were a perfectionist.’ He winked at her, then looked her up and down. ‘And speaking of perfection, you look absolutely incredible tonight. I’m very jealous of Eddie.’ He sighed, smiling. ‘Ah, the path not taken . . .’

‘Knock it off, Rowan,’ said Nina, but not before Lola and Matt exchanged curious looks. ‘Rowan and I used to date,’ she explained. ‘A long time ago, when I was an undergraduate.’ Another look passed between them. ‘Yes, I had boyfriends before I met Eddie. Why is everybody always so surprised about that?’

‘Though I’d actually known her for years,’ Rowan added. ‘I was a friend of Nina’s parents - Henry Wilde was my archaeology professor. I even helped them with some of their research on Atlantis.’ He put a gentle hand on Nina’s shoulder. ‘Henry and Laura would be so proud of you. You found what they spent their lives searching for.’

‘Thank you,’ Nina replied, with a twinge of sadness: her parents had lost their lives searching for Atlantis. She pushed the thought to the back of her mind. Both the impending exhibition and this evening were about celebrating what the hunt for Atlantis had brought her, not regretting what it had taken. ‘But the main thing now is that the whole world can see it for themselves.’

‘It’s a shame you can’t come with me for the exhibition’s entire tour. But I suppose Eddie would get rather annoyed if I took you away from him for four months.’

‘He might at that,’ said Nina, smiling. ‘And speaking of Eddie, I should go and find him again, so I’ll see you all later.’

‘Have fun.’ Rowan held up his drink to her, then said to Matt, ‘So, what do you do at the OSO?’

As Matt launched into what promised to be an extremely technical summary of his work building robotic underwater vehicles, Nina continued through the room, looking for Eddie. Before she saw him, though, she encountered more very familiar faces. ‘Hi!’

‘Nina!’ said Macy Sharif in delight. The archaeology student had been in conversation with Karima Farran and Radi Bashir, the Jordanian couple respectively a friend of Eddie’s from his days as an international troubleshooter-for-hire, and a producer for a Middle Eastern news network. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m fine, thanks,’ said Nina, embracing her. ‘How are your studies going?’

‘Well, you know that I used to be kind of a C-student?’ Macy said with a cocky grin. ‘Well, I’m now a . . . B-student! B-plus, even. Sometimes.’

‘That’s great! And you’ve still got another year and a half to get that A - like I said at the UN, if you want a job at the IHA when you graduate, just ask.’

‘I think I will. Thanks.’ She glanced past Nina. ‘Hey, is that Grant?’ Nina nodded, and Macy’s look became more predatory. ‘I’m gonna say hi. You think he’ll remember me?’

‘You’re hard to forget,’ Nina assured her. Macy quickly applied another coat of lipstick, then darted off through the crowd. ‘He’s with someone,’ Nina called after her.

‘We’ll see!’

‘She’s very . . . forward, isn’t she?’ said Karima.

‘That’s one way to describe her,’ Nina replied, amused.

Rad nodded. ‘She was just telling us in alarming detail about her night with some racing driver in Monaco. It’s only the second time we’ve met her! I might be a journalist, but there’s still such a thing as too much information.’

‘She’s a live one, that’s for sure. So how are you two?’

‘Edging ever closer to getting married,’ said Karima, putting an arm round her fiancé’s shoulder. ‘Next spring, we think.’

‘Or maybe summer,’ Rad added. ‘Or autumn.’ Karima jabbed him with her sharp nails. ‘Ow.’

‘That’s fantastic,’ said Nina. ‘And it’s so great of you to come all this way for tonight. Thank you.’

The beautiful Jordanian smiled. ‘We wouldn’t have missed it. Although I have to admit we’re making a vacation of it.’

‘Two weeks in the States,’ said Rad. ‘We’re doing a tour. I can’t wait to see the Grand Canyon.’

‘He means he can’t wait to see Vegas,’ Karima said knowingly.

‘I’m sure you’ll enjoy it,’ Nina told them. ‘Have you told Eddie that you’ve almost set a date?’

‘Not yet,’ said Rad. ‘We only spoke to him very briefly when we arrived.’

‘I’ll go find him. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled.’ Nina spotted her husband talking to Mac. ‘Eddie! Eddie!’ Mac looked round at her, but Eddie didn’t react. ‘Deaf as a post in his old age.’

‘Your wife’s calling for you,’ Mac said.

‘Hmm?’

‘Your wife. About five-five, red hair, very pretty, famous archaeologist?’

‘Oh, that wife.’ Eddie glanced back, but the people surrounding Grant and Jessica blocked his view. ‘I didn’t hear her.’

‘Trust me, that’s an excuse you’ll only get away with once.’ Mac gave him a wry smile, which faded at the lack of response. ‘Something wrong?’

‘No, nothing.’ said Eddie a little too quickly, looking round the room. Mac raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment further. ‘Pretty good turnout. Pity not everyone I invited could make it, but I suppose you can’t expect everyone to fly halfway round the world for cheese and pickled onions on sticks.’

‘Yes, a shame,’ Mac agreed. Another smile, this time decidedly cheeky. ‘I was rather hoping to catch up with TD . . .’

Eddie groaned in only partially feigned dismay at the thought of his former commanding officer and the far younger African woman together. ‘Behave yourself, you dirty old sod. Christ, I can’t think what she ever saw in you.’

‘Oh, I imagine things like charm, chivalry, wisdom . . . Perhaps you’ve heard of them.’

‘Tchah! I ought to kick out your tin leg for that.’ He swung his foot at the older man’s prosthetic left limb, stopping an inch short.

‘Well, if you think you need to even the odds . . .’ They both chuckled, Mac raising his glass. ‘Anyway, here’s to a successful marriage, Eddie.’

‘Thanks.’ They clinked glasses.

‘So how’s domesticity treating you so far?’

‘Sort of normal. But we need one of those signs saying how many days it’s been since we last had someone try to blow us up. We’re up to about five months at the moment.’

‘Let’s hope you break your record by a long, long way.’ Behind Eddie, Nina approached, calling his name again. Mac deliberately raised his voice so she would catch it. ‘Although I expect you’ll soon start missing being shot at.’

‘He’d damn well better not,’ said Nina as she reached her husband, taking him by surprise. ‘Didn’t you hear me?’

He shrugged. ‘It’s a bit noisy in here.’

‘So what are you two old warhorses talking about?’

Eddie looked offended. ‘Oi! Less of the “old”.’

‘We were just having a toast to a happy marriage,’ said Mac. Nina beamed at Eddie and put an arm round his waist. ‘And Eddie was also saying how glad he was that so many people made the time to come tonight.’

‘I know,’ she said, looking round at the guests. ‘Isn’t it great? Although I’m a bit disappointed that Peter Alderley didn’t even reply. What did he say when you gave him the invitation?’

Mac blinked. ‘Invitation?’

‘Yeah. I put it in with yours because I didn’t know his address.’

The Scot was still puzzled. ‘I didn’t get an invitation for Peter.’

‘You didn’t . . .’ Nina gave her husband a look of deep suspicion. ‘Eddie? What did you do with Peter’s invitation?’

‘Oh, that,’ Eddie said nonchalantly. ‘It dropped out of the envelope before I licked it. And then it somehow . . . fell down a drain.’

Nina pulled away from him. ‘Eddie! I can’t believe you did that! Especially after everything he’s done at MI6 to help us.’

‘Alderley’s a tosser, and he can’t stand me anyway.’

‘That’s not the point!’

‘Is Eddie causing trouble again?’ said Elizabeth, joining them. ‘Somehow I’m not surprised.’

‘Afraid so,’ Nina sighed.

‘Nan’s getting tired, so it’d be best if she went up to her room,’ Elizabeth told her brother. ‘But she’ll want to say goodnight to you before she goes.’

‘Well, yeah,’ said Eddie, smirking. ‘Since I’m her favourite grandchild, an’ all.’

‘God knows why. But come on over. You too, Nina, so she can have all the family together.’ She led them across the room, adding a sharp aside to Eddie as Nina detoured to put down her glass: ‘Almost.’

‘Right. Weird cousin Derek’s not here, is he?’ said Eddie.

Elizabeth had no intention of giving up. ‘You know exactly who I mean.’

‘Oh, don’t fucking start,’ he muttered.

‘You haven’t spoken to Dad for over twenty years, Eddie. His son’s got married, for God’s sake. I’m not saying you should have some big Hollywood tearful reconciliation in front of everyone—’

‘Good, ’cause that’s not going to happen.’

‘—but you could at least phone him.’

Eddie’s face was a cold mask. ‘Why? I’ve got nothing to say to him.’

‘And what if you and Nina have kids? Are they going to grow up never knowing their grandfather? He’s not getting any younger. Nor are you, for that matter.’

‘Tell you what,’ he said, irritation breaking through, ‘how about we end this discussion before it pisses all over, you know, the special day?’

‘Just think about it, Eddie,’ Elizabeth said as they reached Holly and Nan, waiting near the doors.

‘Already have, a long time ago. Hi, Nan!’

‘Come here, Edward!’ said Nan, and he bent to hug her. ‘Oh, my little lambchop. Married again!’ She wagged a finger in mock reproach. ‘I’m still cross that you didn’t invite me to the actual wedding, though.’

‘We didn’t have time, Nan,’ said Eddie as Nina caught up. ‘It was a bit rushed.’

‘Yeah, sorry about that,’ said Nina. ‘You forgive us?’

‘Of course I do,’ said Nan. ‘Come on, let me hug my granddaughter-in-law.’

‘You want me to walk you up to your room, Nan?’ Eddie asked.

She waved a hand at him. ‘Oh, don’t be silly! You should be enjoying your night, both of you. Holly can take me.’

Holly shot a stricken glance towards Grant, from whose company she had just been forcibly removed, promoting her mother to sigh and step in. ‘It’s okay, Nan, I’ll take you. No more champagne,’ she added sternly to Holly.

‘We’re off to San Francisco the day after tomorrow,’ Eddie said to Nan as Elizabeth ushered her to the doors, ‘but we’ll see you again before we go.’

‘It’s been so lovely to see you both,’ said Nan. ‘And I hope you have an absolutely wonderful marriage. In fact, I know you will.’

‘Thank you,’ Nina said. Nan gave them a last wave as Elizabeth escorted her out. More people were lurking outside; news of Grant and Jessica’s attendance had spread through the online social networks. The moment the doors closed again, Holly made a beeline back to Grant’s group, where she found herself in competition with both Jessica and Macy for his attention. Nina turned to Eddie. ‘What were you and Elizabeth talking about?’

‘Nothing important.’

She knew him better than that. ‘Family matters?’

‘Only one part of the family.’

‘Three guesses which?’

‘Like I said, nothing important.’ Keen to change the subject, he gestured across the room. ‘Oh, hey, there’s Rowan.’ He waved him over.

‘Careful, Eddie,’ said Nina teasingly as Rowan approached. ‘He might charm me away from you.’

‘Anyone who takes you away from me’ll regret it,’ Eddie rumbled, before giving the taller man a faintly insincere smile. ‘Hi, Rowan. Glad you could make it.’

‘Glad to be here!’ Rowan replied. ‘Sorry to have monopolised Nina recently.’

‘Yeah, it’ll be good to finally have some time alone with her tonight. That’s if she doesn’t bring a big bloody bundle of work home with her.’

‘Yes, she always has been rather obsessive when it comes to Atlantis, hasn’t she?’ said Rowan. ‘While we were setting up the exhibition, she wouldn’t even take time out for a tour of San Francisco. She’s a real slave-driver.’

‘Tell me about it,’ said Eddie. He grinned at his wife, who was struggling not to rise to the bait as the teasing was turned on her, and attempted a falsetto New York accent. ‘ “Eddie, can you move these boxes? Eddie, can you jam this booby trap? Eddie, can you kill these bad guys?” ’

‘I don’t sound like that,’ Nina objected. She looked at Rowan. ‘Do I?’

He winked at her. ‘Not at all. But I’d just like to say, Eddie, you’re a very lucky man. Congratulations. To both of you - Nina’s lucky charm obviously works for other people too.’

Nina touched her pendant, made from a broken scrap of what had turned out to be an Atlantean artefact discovered on an expedition with her parents as a child. ‘Let’s hope it keeps on doing, huh? I’d like the Treasures of Atlantis exhibition to be a huge success.’

‘It will be - and it won’t have anything to do with luck, Nina. It’ll all be down to you.’

‘And you too.’

‘Thank you.’ Rowan smiled, then kissed her.

‘Oi, oi,’ said Eddie, nudging Nina away from him. He gestured across the room. ‘Want to dance?’

The DJ was playing Ricky Martin’s ‘She Bangs’. ‘This isn’t really tango music.’

‘So, we’ll improvise. Come on.’

He led her to the dance floor. Nina put her arms round his waist. ‘Thanks for doing all this.’

‘Hey, any excuse for a booze-up.’

‘Sentimental as always, huh?’ But she could tell that under his bluff exterior, the broken-nosed, balding Englishman was enjoying the celebration as much as she was.

2

A few hours later, the party was over, and Nina and Eddie returned to their apartment on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. ‘God, I’m exhausted,’ said Nina, stifling a yawn as she entered. ‘And there’s still loads to do tomorrow.’ She dropped heavily on to the couch and kicked off her shoes.

‘Well, at least you don’t have to deal with it on your own,’ Eddie said.

She smiled at him. ‘Aw, thanks, honey.’

His tone became sarcastic. ‘I didn’t mean me. I meant your boyfriend, Captain Perfect. He’ll give you a helping hand . . . and try to cop a feel with it.’

‘Oh, Eddie! You’re not really jealous of Rowan, are you?’

He grinned, exposing the gap between his front teeth. ‘Don’t be daft. I’m just taking the piss.’ A beat. ‘Mostly.’

‘You don’t have anything to worry about. Rowan and I broke up a long time ago.’ She thought about it for a moment. ‘God, it’s been twelve years. I was only twenty. I can’t believe how much has happened since then.’

‘And how old was he?’

‘Twenty-six.’

‘So he was a cradle-snatcher?’

‘And what does that make you?’ she asked with a smile. ‘You’re the same age as Rowan.’

‘Yeah, but you’re older now. Half the man’s age plus seven years, that’s how old the woman has to be to stop the bloke from being a creepy perv.’

‘He was twenty-six, I was twenty. Do the math.’

He worked it out. ‘Bollocks! Although, hang on,’ he continued as she laughed, ‘how old were you when you started going out?’

‘Nineteen.’

‘Ha!’

‘And Rowan was a year younger as well.’

Another few seconds of mental arithmetic. ‘Definitely on the dodginess borderline. Anyway, I still think he’s got his eye on you.’

‘Only as a friend, Eddie.’ Her mood became one of reverie as her husband sat beside her. ‘He was a great friend, actually. He helped me through a really tough part of my life, when my parents died. I honestly don’t know what I would have done without him. Or what I’d be doing now.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I almost gave up on archaeology. I mean, it got my parents killed - if they hadn’t been obsessed with finding Atlantis, they’d still be alive. I almost dropped out because for a while I didn’t want anything more to do with it. Rowan changed my mind. So I stayed on, got my degree and then my PhD, and, well, here I am.’

Eddie shook his head with a wry expression. ‘Can’t imagine what you’d be doing now if you weren’t an archaeologist.’

‘I dread to think. I once had a summer job in an office and I hated every minute of it. And what about you? Where would you be if you hadn’t met me?’

‘Christ knows. Running around the world getting into trouble, probably.’

‘Oh, so no change there.’

‘Ha fuckin’ ha. I’d still be doing the same kind of work as I was then, though. It’s what I’m best at.’ He looked at a shelf across the room.

Nina followed his gaze. ‘Thinking about Hugo?’ she asked softly. The shelf contained mementos of their pasts; propped against a Cuban pottery figurine of Fidel Castro was a photograph of Eddie and another man, who had a long face and a prominent nose.

‘Yeah,’ said Eddie. ‘Wish he could have been at the do tonight.’ Hugo Castille, his friend and comrade from his troubleshooter days, had been killed during the hunt for Atlantis. ‘Other people too. Like Mitzi.’ He shook his head. ‘Shit, maybe I’m getting old. Starting to lose more friends than I’m making.’

She gave him a sympathetic look. ‘You’ve made a friend of everybody you’ve helped, Eddie. And there have been a lot of them. Trust me, I’m one of them.’

‘Thanks, love.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘So I’ve kind of got Rowan to thank for us getting together? I suppose that makes him an okay bloke.’

‘High praise indeed, coming from you.’ Another reminiscent smile. ‘You know, when I was a teenager and he was helping my parents as a grad student, I had such a crush on him . . .’

‘Yeah, I really needed to hear that.’

She stroked his face. ‘Don’t worry. I made my choice. And I think it was the right one. Usually . . .’

He swatted at her playfully as he stood and headed for the kitchen. ‘I’m going to put the kettle on. You want anything?’

‘No thanks,’ she called after him. ‘Just a decent night’s sleep. The exhibition opens in two days, and there are still a hundred and one things I need to sort out.’

‘What?’

‘I said, there’s loads still to organise. I’ll be on the phone all tomorrow. Oh, the joys of management.’ She leaned back, then remembered something. ‘Eddie?’

No answer. ‘Eddie!’ she said, more loudly.

He appeared in the doorway. ‘Yeah, I heard you. What?’

‘Actually, it’s about you hearing me. Or not. Is everything okay?’

‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

‘Because a couple of times at the party you didn’t hear me - even when I was right behind you. And I’ve noticed it a few times recently. Maybe you should see a specialist, get your hearing tested. After all,’ she said, lightly humorous, ‘you’ve been close to a lot of loud bangs over the years.’

A conflicted look crossed his square face, immediately making her regret her levity. She sat up, concerned. ‘Eddie, what is it?’

He sat beside her. ‘The thing is . . . I did see a specialist.’

‘What? When?’

‘About two months back. I’d been having trouble on and off since that bloody room in the pyramid with the big pipe-organ thing.’ Nina remembered it all too well, an ancient booby trap deep within the Pyramid of Osiris designed to deafen intruders with an unbearable blast of sound. ‘So I made an appointment to have my ears checked out.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

He shrugged; not dismissively, but in a kind of resignation. ‘’Cause I thought it’d go away on its own. It always did before - like you said, I’ve heard a lot of loud bangs. Only this time . . . it didn’t.’

‘What did the specialist say?’

He stood and went into the study, returning with a manila envelope. ‘Let’s see,’ he said, taking out a sheet of paper. ‘ “Permanent threshold shift due to repeated damaging levels of noise exposure . . . sensorineural hearing loss to a moderate degree in the high frequencies . . .” In other words, my hearing’s fucked.’

Nina felt suddenly cold, the happiness of the evening evaporating. ‘ “Permanent”?’

He held her hands to provide reassurance. ‘It’s not like I’ve gone stone deaf, and he said it wouldn’t get any worse for now. It just means I can’t hear as well as I used to, and it’s worst with high-frequency sounds, like voices. Well, women’s voices, basically.’

She wasn’t sure how to respond. ‘Oh, God. Eddie, that’s . . .’

He smiled crookedly. ‘You’ll just have to nag me in a deeper voice if you want me to hear you.’

Nina wasn’t amused. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Well . . . you know what I’m like. Not big on owning up to being less than one hundred per cent at anything.’

‘Yeah, I’ve noticed.’ She managed a slight smile.

‘Tchah. But yeah, it’s made me think a bit. If one thing starts going, then what’s next?’

‘Is that why you’ve been spending so much time at the gym? Fending off the inevitable ravages of age?’

‘Oi!’ he protested. ‘Thirty-eight’s not old. And I’m still in top nick - going to the gym’s just a way to keep from getting a fat arse from sitting in an office all day. You should come with me.’

‘Are you saying I’ve got a fat ass?’

He made a show of examining it. ‘Your arse is a thing of beauty. And women always look better with curves anyway.’

‘You are saying I’ve got a fat ass!’ They exchanged smiles, then Nina’s face became more serious. ‘So what are you going to do?’

‘Not much I can do. It’s not like when I trained back up after breaking my arm - I can’t lift weights with my ears. I just need to stay away from loud noises.’ A rueful look. ‘It’s funny - the doctor asked me if I’d been near anything loud in the past few years. I was thinking, Christ, where do I start? Underneath a jet while it was taking off, running out of an exploding power station, having a stealth bomber drop bunker-busters on me . . .’

Nina patted his shoulder. ‘Y’know, I’m more than happy for us to have a quiet life.’

‘I suppose . . .’

She snorted. ‘Oh, Jesus - you really do miss the action, don’t you?’

‘No, no,’ he insisted. ‘Well, a little bit. I mean, it’s sort of what I do, innit?’

‘Perhaps, but I wish it didn’t go to such extremes. Exotic travel, amazing historical discoveries - that’s the kind of excitement I’d be happy with. No need to add tanks and bombs and machine guns as well!’ She kissed his cheek. ‘You looked after me during everything we’ve been through in the last four years. You can take things easy from now. You deserve it.’

‘Aye, well . . .’ He returned the kiss. ‘Just so long as things don’t get boring.’

‘I’ll try to find a happy medium.’ She kissed him again, and stood. ‘Come on, let’s go to bed. I’m sure we can find something exciting to do there.’

‘I’ve got some ideas, but you always call me a pervert when I suggest ’em!’ He had started to follow her across the room when his phone rang. ‘God, who’s this?’ he muttered, fishing it from his pocket. ‘Hello? Oh, Nan, hi. I thought you’d gone to bed?’ He listened, tapping a foot with mild impatience as his grandmother ambled towards her conversational destination. ‘What? No, Nan, you have to pay extra for the movie channels. That’s why you can’t see them. And trust me, you won’t like any of Grant’s films anyway.’

‘I’ll be in here,’ said Nina, smiling as she entered the bedroom.

Eddie gave her a resigned shrug. ‘No, Nan, no - you definitely don’t want to watch those channels! Just go to bed, okay? Yeah, yeah, we’ll see you tomorrow. Okay, Nan, night. Night-night. Bye.’ He ended the call. ‘Bloody hell. Can’t even get any time to ourselves in our own home.’

‘Only a couple more days and we’ll finally be able to have a nice, relaxing break,’ she assured him.

As Nina had gloomily predicted, a large part of her next day was spent on the phone. The Treasures of Atlantis exhibition, displaying a plethora of ancient artefacts the International Heritage Agency had recovered from the sunken ruins of Atlantis, was about to begin its four-month tour of sixteen cities in fourteen countries. Even delegating much of the organisation to Rowan Sharpe and others, the IHA’s director was finding it a major - and draining - addition to her workload.

‘Oh, God,’ she sighed, rubbing her eyes at the conclusion of one especially long call. ‘Next time I have to work with the Secret Service, please just phone them anonymously and tell them I’m a communist or something, so they’ll blacklist me and I’ll never have to deal with them again.’

‘Clearance hassles?’ asked Eddie, who had been sitting with his feet up on her desk, waiting for her to finish.

‘You’re not kidding. Interpol suggested that the UN ought to beef up the exhibition’s security because everyone’s paranoid after Michelangelo’s David got stolen, but now the Frisco city council’s complaining because they don’t want to pay their half of the extra costs, and the Secret Service threw a fit because they have to vet the extra staff. Plus, the mayor’s office keeps adding to the VIP list because obviously everybody wants to meet the President, and the Men in Black need to clear all the new guests too. And for some reason, they’ve decided it’s all my fault.’

‘It’s tough at the top.’

‘Damn right. And get your feet off my desk.’ Nina glowered at the offending extremities until they returned to the floor. ‘Is everything ready?’

He nodded. ‘The flights and hotel are all confirmed, and Lola’s going to bring those Egyptian reports you needed to check. Oh, she says she needs higher clearance to get them, though. The Egyptian government wants some stuff kept classified. They’re down in secure storage.’

She made a sour face. ‘The only way that’ll get approved before we fly out tomorrow is if I go and stand on the security supervisor’s desk until he signs it off. She can just use my clearance, she’s got the code.’

‘Christ, you don’t even let me use your security code.’

‘She’s my PA, not my husband. It’s a whole different degree of trust.’ She smiled at his exaggeratedly offended expression. Her phone rang; she picked it up. ‘Hi, Rowan! Back in San Francisco, then? Are you wearing flowers in your hair?’

Eddie watched her face fall as her old friend spoke. ‘I’ll wait,’ he said, putting his feet back on the desk.

Nina flapped an irate hand to shoo them off. ‘Okay, I’ll talk to them,’ she said, exasperated, after some time. ‘I’ll see you there tomorrow. Bye.’ She hung up and buried her face in her hands. ‘Ugh.’

‘Problems?’

‘Of course. The mayor’s changed the VIP list again. Which means the Secret Service will be calling to yell at me in about five minutes.’

‘You want me to tell ’em you’re a communist?’

‘Don’t tempt me.’

‘Still,’ Eddie said reassuringly, ‘after tomorrow it’s out of your hands and you can stop worrying about it. You just have to fly to Frisco, show off all the stuff from Atlantis, meet the President . . . then you can finally get back to what you really love. Digging bits of old junk out of the ground.’

It was her turn to look offended. ‘Ha ha. Although it will be good to get back to some real archaeological work.’ She glanced at a display case in one corner. ‘Maybe I’ll finally figure out where Prince came from.’

Eddie grinned, going to the case. ‘Prince. That still makes me laugh.’ He peered at the small purple figure within. The statuette, crudely carved from an oddly coloured stone, had been discovered inside the Pyramid of Osiris, but it bore no resemblance to any known artefact from ancient Egypt, and even after five months of analysis nobody at the IHA was any nearer to identifying its origins. ‘Tell you what, give me a hammer drill and ten minutes alone with him, and I’ll find out everything he knows.’

‘I don’t think that approach would get through the peer-review process,’ Nina joked, then she became pensive.

‘What’s up?’

‘Just thinking about the President,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what to expect. I mean, the guy was Dalton’s vice-president. He might not be too happy that we forced his boss to resign.’

‘Are you kidding?’ said Eddie. ‘He became the most powerful man in the world because of us. We ought to be on his bloody Christmas card list. Anyway, I thought him and Dalton couldn’t stand each other.’

‘It was something of a party-unity ticket, I suppose. I’m still worried, though.’

‘If he had any problems with us, the Secret Service wouldn’t let us within a mile of him.’

‘You’ve got a point. But I’ll be glad when it’s all over.’

Eddie rounded the desk, leaning over the back of her chair to give her a shoulder massage. ‘You just need to chill out, that’s all. Think of it as getting a free trip to San Francisco. How bad can it be?’

Nina tipped her head back to look up at him. ‘Isn’t that normally what one of us says just before something explodes?’

Eddie laughed. ‘Come on. What are the odds of that?’

3

San Francisco

The Halliwell Exhibition Hall in the city’s Civic Center district was wreathed in fog, streetlights beyond the glass façade reduced to indistinct UFO-like glows. San Francisco’s notoriously changeable weather had gone from clear, if cold, to completely smothered in barely an hour.

In some ways, Nina wished the fog had descended earlier. That way, Air Force One’s landing might have been delayed, forcing President Leo Cole to change his itinerary. The official opening of the Treasures of Atlantis exhibition was, she was sure, the least important of his three engagements of the night before he embarked on a tour of the Far East prior to the upcoming G20 summit in India. But he was here, accompanied by his family, his political entourage, the press corps and what seemed like several hundred Secret Service agents, impassive eyes constantly sweeping the room.

The speeches had been made - first by Nina, then the mayor of San Francisco, and finally the President himself - and now Cole and his family were being given a personal tour of the exhibits by Rowan Sharpe and Nina. ‘And here,’ she said, indicating one of the display cases, ‘we have an artefact recovered from the Temple of Poseidon: a golden trident.’

Cole nodded appreciatively. ‘A solid gold weapon. I guess Atlantean defence contractors weren’t that different from ours!’ Sycophantic laughter came from his retinue.

Even though she knew he was joking, Nina felt compelled to correct him. ‘It’s not actually solid gold - it wouldn’t be much use as a weapon if it were. It has an iron core for extra rigidity. Although it’s purely ceremonial, of course.’

‘Of course,’ said Cole politely. ‘And what about this?’ He indicated the neighbouring case, which held a large book, some eighteen inches tall and almost a foot wide. It was open, revealing its most unusual feature - the pages were not paper, but sheets of reddish-gold metal, scribed with dense text in the ancient language of the Atlanteans.

‘We call it the Talonor Codex,’ said Nina. ‘It’s not the most valuable artefact the IHA’s recovered from Atlantis in purely monetary terms - although it’s made from orichalcum, a gold alloy, so it’s worth a lot in its own right. But its contents are what make it really valuable.’

‘Talonor was one of Atlantis’s greatest explorers,’ Rowan went on. ‘On one of his expeditions he visited South America, and on another he rounded Africa, crossed the Arabian peninsula, and even reached India. The Codex is his journal, an account of all the places he visited and peoples he encountered.’

‘Our researchers at the IHA are working to translate the entire text,’ Nina added.

‘Impressive,’ said Cole. The book was supported by a stand; he rounded the case to look at the cover, noting a circular indentation about six inches across in the metal, then moved on. ‘Now, this looks valuable.’

Rowan nodded. ‘It is - it’s our crown jewels, literally.’

‘It’s beautiful,’ said the First Lady. ‘How much is it worth?’

‘It’s hard to say,’ Nina replied as everyone gazed at the object behind the toughened glass. It was an ornate crown, made from gold and orichalcum with silver trim. The metalwork was adorned with precious stones, which glinted enticingly under the lights. ‘In purely material terms, maybe three million dollars. But as a cultural artefact, the crown of the ruler of a lost civilisation . . . who can say? It’s literally priceless.’

‘Then I hope your security’s up to scratch,’ the President joked. More laughter. ‘This is an incredible exhibition, Dr Wilde.’

‘Thank you, Mr President.’ She felt relieved. Maybe her concerns about the big, jowly former lawyer had been unfounded . . .

‘It’s good to see that all the funding the US government has put into the IHA is finally producing some visible returns,’ he continued, squashing Nina’s optimism like a bug. ‘After all, these are turbulent economic times. The American taxpayer needs to know the money is being spent wisely.’

‘Well, I’m not American, but I pay taxes here,’ said Eddie, moving closer to Nina, ‘and I think the IHA’s pretty good value. Especially as it does all kinds of useful stuff that most people don’t hear about. Mr President,’ he added.

Cold looks came from the presidential entourage, but Cole gave him a smile; one that didn’t quite reach to his eyes. ‘Of course it does, Mr Chase. By the way, it’s interesting to meet you and Dr Wilde at last. My predecessor was very well acquainted with you both.’

‘Hopefully we, ah, lived up to your expectations,’ said Nina, feeling a nervous knot form in her stomach. That Cole’s reply was just another empty campaign smile only made it tighter.

Instead, he turned to his followers. ‘A great exhibition, wouldn’t you agree? Let’s hear it for Dr Wilde and the IHA.’ There was a ripple of polite applause. ‘Now, unfortunately I have to move on to my next engagement - keeping a roomful of lawyers waiting for their five-hundred-dollar-a-plate dinner is a surefire way to get sued!’

The group’s laughter as he led it away seemed genuine this time, lawyer jokes always universally appreciated. The Secret Service followed, moving towards the main entrance in unison as if someone had tilted a tray of ball bearings. Someone loudly announced that the President was departing, and the other guests broke off from their conversations to applaud him as he left. Nina joined in, though Eddie’s response was more of a slow handclap.

‘I didn’t like what he was implying about the IHA,’ said Nina to her husband, concerned. ‘You think he’s going to cut our budget?’

‘Who knows what any politician’s thinking? Except for “I want more power”, obviously.’

‘I assure you, we’re not all like that,’ said a voice behind them. Nina winced a little when she realised to whom it belonged: Roger Boyce, the mayor of San Francisco.

‘I’m sure you’re not, Mr Mayor,’ she said. She had been introduced to Boyce before the President’s arrival, and knew a little about him by reputation: the latest in a long line of Democratic incumbents, and by all accounts a fresh-faced poster boy for political correctness. He was accompanied by a group of people who, Nina guessed from the number of outfits that cost more than her monthly salary, were the VIPs whose invitations had caused her so much hassle the previous day. ‘Eddie was only joking. Weren’t you?’

‘Uh-huh,’ said Eddie, without conviction.

‘Oh, no offence taken,’ said Boyce breezily. ‘It’s all part of the job. You won’t last long as mayor if you’re thin-skinned! But hey, I wanted to thank you and Dr Sharpe for doing such a terrific job with the exhibition. I’m sure it’ll be a huge hit when it opens to the public tomorrow. Just a shame it can’t stay here for longer.’

‘Fifteen other cities might get mad if it did,’ Rowan said. ‘But I think it’ll get the tour off to a great start.’

‘Well, what better place to start anything than San Francisco?’ asked Boyce, gesturing at the fog-shrouded street beyond the windows. Nina almost replied ‘New York’, but suppressed the urge. ‘Have you had a chance to check out our city?’

‘Not yet,’ said Eddie. ‘Looking forward to it, though. I want to drive too fast down that twisty street, and see where all those great car chases were filmed - Bullitt, The Rock . . .’

‘There’s more to San Francisco than car chases,’ Nina chided, sensing Boyce was unhappy at hearing his community reduced to a backdrop for Hollywood blockbusters. ‘We’ll be visiting places that are actually interesting too.’

‘Happy to hear it.’ The mayor turned to his companions. ‘Anyway, if I may, I’d like you to meet some very special guests.’

He made the introductions; the VIPs were a mix of leaders of impeccably liberal special interest groups, entrepreneurs from Silicon Valley and foreign businesspeople, being wooed by the mayor in the hope they would bring jobs to California in general, and San Francisco in particular. ‘And this is Pramesh Khoil and his wife Vanita,’ he said of the final couple. ‘Mr Khoil owns some of the fastest-growing technology and telecoms companies in India - and is also the inventor of the Qexia search engine.’

‘Oh, Qexia? “Just ask”, right?’ said Nina, repeating the slogan from Qexia’s TV commercials as she shook hands. On the surface, Khoil was extremely unassuming, round face as smooth as a sea-worn pebble behind wire-rimmed glasses, and tending towards a plumpness that his tailored Nehru jacket could not hide. Even had she not been wearing heels for the occasion he would only have been fractionally taller than her. She guessed him to be in his early forties. ‘You invented Qexia? A friend recommended it to me - I use it almost all the time now.’

‘We will become the world’s top search engine within two years,’ said Khoil matter-of-factly. His English was very precise but oddly accentless, flat and vaguely robotic. ‘I am very pleased to meet you, Dr Wilde.’

‘We were hoping to discuss the exhibits,’ said Vanita. Unlike her husband, she had a distinct, melodious accent, and was considerably more striking, wearing a traditional Indian sari of exquisitely decorated silk and bedecked in jewellery, most prominently a pair of large golden earrings. She was about the same age as Khoil and undeniably beautiful, but in a sharp, birdlike way, her nose thin and angular.

‘Just ask, to coin a phrase! Dr Sharpe and I will be happy to answer any questions,’ Nina said, addressing the group.

As she’d expected, the majority of questions were about the crown. But the Khoils were more interested in another artefact. ‘The Talonor Codex,’ said Khoil, bending for a closer look. ‘How much of it has been translated?’

‘About ninety per cent, so far,’ said Nina. ‘Dr Sharpe has been in charge of the translation work. The last ten per cent is the tricky part, but our knowledge of the Atlantean language is growing all the time.’

‘Have you considered using crowd-sourcing to speed up the process?’

Nina was surprised by the question. ‘Er, not really. It’s not how we work.’

He regarded her owlishly. ‘Dispersing the project throughout a network would be quicker than concentrating it amongst a few people. Aggregating a larger number of results would also reduce the probability of individual error. My company can provide suitable software - for a very reasonable fee.’

‘Archaeology isn’t really like computer science,’ said Nina. ‘Besides, we want to keep the translation work in-house for security reasons. The Codex describes a lot of places visited by Talonor, which are all potential sites of great archaeological importance. If we made it publicly available too soon, they could be raided before we had a chance to examine them.’

‘But some pages have already been made available online by the IHA.’

‘That was my predecessor’s decision, not mine,’ said Nina, acid in her voice at the thought. ‘One I reversed as soon as I was appointed director. I rate science higher than publicity.’

‘Both have their place. And you are no stranger to publicity yourself.’

‘Not always intentionally, I can assure you. But that’s why we chose to display these particular pages of the Codex.’ Nina indicated the scribed metal sheets. ‘Pictures of them had already been released.’

‘But it is these pages that caught my interest.’ For the first time, a hint of emotion - excitement - came into Khoil’s mechanical voice as he pointed out the bottom half of the second page. ‘This text here - it is not Atlantean, but Vedic Sanskrit.’ He looked at Nina. ‘The language of ancient India.’

‘Yes, I know. It was in use up to about six hundred BC, when it was replaced by Classical Sanskrit, but nobody was sure how long it had been used before that - until now, anyway. Atlantis sank around nine thousand BC, so for Talonor to have encountered the language it must have existed before then.’

‘And so must Indian civilisation.’ Khoil circled the display case to examine the impression in the book’s thick cover. ‘A civilisation based on the teachings of the Vedas . . . which are still followed today. Making Hinduism the world’s oldest surviving religion.’ He smiled, the expression oddly out of place on his placid face. ‘And increasing the likelihood of one of its schools being the only true religion, wouldn’t you say?’

‘I try not to get involved in religious debates,’ Nina said firmly. The conflict between archaeological discoveries and dogma had almost got her killed on more than one occasion.

Khoil put his face almost against the glass as he peered intently at the indentation. Standing nearby with Vanita, Eddie felt compelled to break the silence. ‘So, Mrs Khoil,’ he said, ‘how did you meet your husband?’ She gave him a dismissive look, not interested in small talk. He took that as a challenge. ‘What first attracted you to the billionaire Pramesh Khoil?’

Vanita bared her teeth in response to the little joke. ‘Do you think I’m some kind of gold-digger?’ she snapped.

‘No, that’s not what I meant,’ said Eddie hastily. ‘It was just—’

‘I got my doctorate in psychology before Pramesh even started his company! Did you assume that because I’m a woman I’m some passive and subservient adjunct to my husband?’

‘No, I think he assumed that everybody appreciates his, uh, distinctive sense of humour,’ Nina said quickly. The mayor was looking horrified that a faux pas had been committed on his watch. ‘There wasn’t any offence intended.’

Eddie nodded. ‘Yeah. If I’m trying to offend someone, I don’t muck about.’

‘Honey, not helping,’ Nina said through gritted teeth. She turned back to Vanita. ‘We’re both very sorry for any misunderstanding.’

The Indian woman maintained a tight-lipped silence, but her husband spoke up instead. ‘We accept your apology, Dr Wilde. Now, we were discussing the Talonor Codex. Are you sure the IHA would not be interested in using my company’s software to assist with the translation work?’

He wasn’t just a genius programmer, but also a determined salesman, Nina thought. ‘No, but thank you for the offer. As I said, only a few people have access to the full text for security reasons.’

‘You misunderstand me. I am not suggesting that you give it to strangers. No, I am offering the services of Qexia.’

‘I’m not a computer expert,’ Rowan said, puzzled, ‘but I don’t see how putting the text into a search engine would help with the translation.’

‘It is more than just a search tool. It is a system of analytical algorithms, a deductive computer.’ Khoil was becoming impassioned again. ‘When you use Qexia to find information on a particular subject, you see not a list, but a “cloud” of interlinked results, yes? The relative importance of each result is not decided solely by a count of its connections to other web pages, like some inferior search engines.’ He glanced at one of the Silicon Valley bigwigs, who scowled. ‘Qexia analyses each page, finds connections to other pages through deductive logic based on its profile of the user. It can apply the same principles to translation. The more data it has, the better the results. Give it all the information you have on the Atlantean language, and it will provide a full and accurate translation.’

‘Computer translations?’ said Eddie. ‘They always come out like the manual for a cheapo DVD player. “Having the insertions of disc in tray slot . . .” ’

Khoil prickled at the implied slight on his technology. ‘Qexia is much better than that.’ He faced Nina. ‘It will even make part of your profession obsolete. There will be no need to waste years piecing together scraps of data in order to find an archaeological site. Such as Atlantis.’ He gestured at the exhibits. ‘It took you how long to deduce its location? Years? Given the same data, my software could have found it in days. Perhaps even hours. Then all you would need would be strong arms to do the digging.’

Now it was Nina who bristled. ‘There’s more to archaeology than just assembling data,’ she said scathingly. ‘You need a broad base of knowledge in areas that might seem unrelated. When I worked out Atlantis’s location, I didn’t have all the facts, so I had to fill in the gaps based on my own experience - and intuition. A computer can’t do that.’

‘We’ll have to agree to disagree, then,’ said Vanita, joining Khoil. ‘I know the power of Pramesh’s software. It will change the world.’

‘So you are definitely not interested in my offer, Dr Wilde?’ Khoil asked.

‘I’m afraid not,’ said Nina. ‘If nothing else, it’d take all the fun out of the work.’

He shrugged. ‘As you wish. But I am sure the Codex will—’ He broke off at the approach of a woman holding a cell phone. She was Indian, dressed in a formal and slightly staid business suit, an employee rather than an executive. Her long dark hair was styled to cover, but couldn’t fully conceal, a scar slicing down her forehead over her right eye. ‘Yes, Madirakshi?’

‘The call you were waiting for, Mr Khoil,’ said the woman.

‘My apologies, but I must take this,’ Khoil told Nina. He stepped away, Vanita and Madirakshi following as he answered the call. ‘Yes? No, no change. As we discussed, yes.’

‘Bloody hell, I didn’t have any trouble hearing her voice,’ muttered Eddie, regarding Vanita. ‘And Christ, he sounds like he learned English from a Speak & Spell.’

‘Is everything all right, Dr Wilde?’ asked Boyce, with a hint of anxiety.

‘Fine. Just a minor misunderstanding.’

‘Happy to hear it!’

Another VIP asked Nina a question about Atlantis as Khoil ended his call and he and Vanita returned to the group, their assistant briskly departing. Eddie watched her go, noticing that now the presidential entourage and the Secret Service agents had left, the exhibition hall was noticeably less crowded. A clear social hierarchy was visible as a result: Boyce’s bodyguards and the building’s own security staff at the very edges of the room, with groups of PAs and secretaries and business underlings orbiting the centre where their bosses schmoozed and networked. The woman, Madirakshi, joined three Indian men in a far corner, one of them a bearded giant standing head and shoulders above the others.

He looked towards the high windows as Nina continued talking. There was a plaza outside, headlights dimly visible on the foggy street beyond. He hoped conditions would improve tomorrow; there wouldn’t be much point touring the city if they couldn’t see it . . .

He stiffened, suddenly alert as he registered that something wasn’t quite right. It was the headlights. They were pointing directly at the windows.

But the street ran past the exhibition hall, not towards it—

The headlights moved.

Coming at him.

‘Mr Mayor!’ he barked to Boyce. ‘Get security, there’s—’

The windows exploded under blasts of gunfire.

4

‘Everyone down!’ Eddie yelled, covering Nina with his body. Shattered glass spilled across the polished floor. The hall filled with panicked screams - which were quickly drowned by the roar of engines.

Several motorcycles charged into the room, their riders sheathed in black leather, faces hidden behind mirrored visors. More gunshots crackled as the riders spread out across the hall, firing MP5Ks in sweeps just above the guests’ heads to force them to the floor - then aiming lower to pick off specific targets. Blood-spattered bodies tumbled, the hall’s security personnel and the mayor’s bodyguards cut down.

Another engine, louder, a vicious snarl. A vehicle smashed through the remains of the windows and made a sweeping 180-degree handbrake turn, swatting aside people unlucky enough to be in its path and demolishing a display case. It resembled a Range Rover, only hugely bulked up and steroidal, thick bullbars protecting its front and rear and oversized tyres bulging beneath its heavy-duty suspension. A Bowler Nemesis, a powerful off-road racing vehicle that could outpace many sports cars - and do so over the most punishing terrain.

The bikes were also off-roaders, Eddie saw. The attackers had a getaway plan that would take them somewhere no police car could follow.

The Nemesis backed further into the hall, people on the floor scrambling out of its way. Some of the bikers dismounted, guns covering the crowd, while three rode towards Eddie and Nina’s position.

Nina’s gaze went to the Atlantean crown. Priceless, she had called it less than thirty minutes earlier - but now someone intended to find exactly what that translated to in the real world.

The bikers stopped and climbed off their machines, guns raised. No shouted orders, no demands, no threats. They had made their intentions perfectly clear - and another burst of fire from an MP5K as a prone security guard tried to draw his weapon hammered the point home.

‘What do we do?’ Nina hissed. ‘We can’t let them steal the crown!’

‘Y-yes, we can!’ Boyce said, voice quavering. He raised his head as the faceless trio approached. ‘I’m the mayor of San Francisco. Please, take what you came for and leave. Nobody else has to get hurt.’ Nina scowled at him, but knew there was nothing else they could do.

The Nemesis kept reversing. Its rear bullbar clipped another display case, which toppled over and smashed. The golden trident clanged across the floor as the big 4x4 stopped behind the three men.

They regarded the crown impassively . . . then at a gesture from the tallest of the trio, apparently the leader, moved to the next case.

The one containing the Talonor Codex. Through her fear, Nina felt a moment of shock. That was their objective?

Rowan’s reaction was a more exaggerated version of her own. ‘No, you can’t take it!’ he cried, springing up—

The leader shot him.

A bullet hit Rowan’s upper chest, slamming him back down with a spurt of blood. His head cracked against the floor.

‘Rowan!’ Nina screamed. Eddie forced her down as she tried to crawl to him. Her friend was still alive, feebly writhing, but blood was running down his shirt.

The leader fired a single shot at the case. The toughened glass splintered, crooked cracks radiating out from the bullet hole, but didn’t entirely break - until a blow from the butt of his MP5K finished the job. He lifted out the Codex, cradling the heavy book in his arms as another man went to the Nemesis and raised its hatchback. There was a large metal box inside, lined with foam rubber. He lowered the ancient artefact into it, then closed the case and slammed the hatchback shut. The off-roader’s engine revved.

The bikers closest to the broken windows rode out into the fog. The Nemesis bulled its way through the scattered debris and terrified guests after them.

The trio who had taken the Codex mounted up. Two of them set off without a pause; the leader glanced back at Nina’s group before moving—

Eddie dived, landing by the golden trident. He snatched it up and leapt to his feet, flipping it round so the three spearheads were pointing backwards.

Nina rushed to Rowan. ‘Somebody help me!’ she cried, pressing her palm against the wound to try to staunch the bleeding. He groaned.

The Nemesis and the first two bikers reached the windows, crunching over the glass. The leader followed—

Eddie hurled the trident. It flew across the hall like a gleaming javelin, spearing down at its target . . .

Not the rider, but his bike.

The shaft shot between the rear wheel’s spokes to be slammed against the forks, instantly locking the wheel. The rider was thrown off as the bike crashed to the floor.

Eddie ran at him. Catch the leader, and this would be over—

The raider rolled, cat-like, back on his feet in a moment - and drew his gun.

Eddie hurled himself behind one of the surviving display cases as bullets sprayed across the room. They smacked into the thick glass, crazing and cracking it - then the onslaught stopped. The gunman dropped his weapon. Out of ammo.

Engine snarl. The Nemesis’s driver had heard the gunfire and quickly reversed back into the hall. The rider ran to the vehicle and jumped in.

A siren grew in volume outside. Somebody on the street had called 911, the police responding rapidly to an incident at the mayor’s location—

More gunshots as the bikers opened fire on the approaching cops. Staccato clangs of lead striking steel and cracks of glass, then the police car veered across the plaza, coming to an abrupt stop against a concrete planter. The siren fell silent, strobes flicking eerily through the fog.

The Nemesis surged away with a V8 bellow.

Eddie ran to the abandoned bike and yanked the bent trident out from the wheel. He pulled the vehicle upright. It had stalled; he jumped on and slammed his heel down on the long kick-start lever. The engine rasped to life. He twisted the throttle, pulling the front wheel round.

‘Eddie!’ Nina yelled across the hall. ‘What’re you doing?’

‘Going after them!’

‘No, wait—’

Too late. He powered through the opening, turning hard to head after the fleeing Nemesis. The bike’s tail light vanished into the fog.

One of the guests, a balding, middle-aged man, hurried over to Nina and Rowan. ‘I’m a doctor,’ he told her. ‘Please, move your hand - I need to see the wound.’

Nina reluctantly lifted her hand from Rowan’s chest, cringing as a thick crimson gush pumped from the hole. ‘Will he be okay?’

‘I don’t know,’ said the doctor, quickly assessing the damage before putting his own palm firmly over the injury. ‘It missed his heart, but it might have punctured a lung.’

‘I’ve called for an ambulance,’ one of his companions reported, waving a cell phone.

Anguished, Nina looked between the injured man and the broken window through which her husband had just disappeared. Rowan read her expression. ‘Nina,’ he gasped, his breathing hoarse and laboured. ‘Go help Eddie. Get - get the Codex back.’

‘But I can’t leave you!’

‘I’ll be okay.’ He forced a once very familiar smile through the pain. ‘Go on. Bring me some chocolates at the hospital. Dark ones.’

Nina gripped his hand. ‘As if I’d forget what you like.’ She squeezed it more tightly, then, after a moment of hesitation, let go and stood. Rowan winked at her. Reassured, however slightly, she turned. Through the broken window, the police car’s blinking strobes caught her attention. ‘Mr Mayor!’

Boyce struggled upright, shaking with adrenalin and fear. He looked round at Nina’s insistent shout. ‘W-what?’

Nina grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the plaza. ‘There’s a police car outside - tell them to put up roadblocks. Now!’

He was still too shocked to think straight. ‘But - I can’t just order them to do things—’

‘You’re the goddamn mayor!’ Nina reminded him as they reached the police cruiser. It was a Dodge Charger, a powerful four-door sedan in SFPD black and white - but both officers inside were slumped over, unconscious or dead. ‘Damn it!’

‘My God,’ gasped Boyce, recoiling at the sight. ‘Now what do we do?’

Nina looked in the direction Eddie had gone - and made a decision. ‘We follow them. You can guide the cops to block them.’ She opened the driver’s door. The man at the wheel was dead, hit by several bullets. Suppressing her revulsion, she unfastened his seat belt, then dragged out the body.

Boyce gawped at her. ‘You can’t do that! It’s - a crime scene or something!’

‘Just get in! No, in the front!’ she shouted as he opened the rear door. ‘I need you to use the radio!’

The other cop was also dead, a bloody hunk of skin and bone hanging off his temple. Shuddering, Nina released his seat belt as Boyce ran round the car. ‘Don’t look at his face, just pull him out,’ she ordered.

The mayor tried to follow her advice, but couldn’t help glimpsing the wound and had to stifle a yelp of disgust. However, he reluctantly manhandled the body out of the car, calling to someone inside the exhibition centre to watch over the dead men.

‘Come on!’ said Nina impatiently. Boyce climbed in beside her. She put the Charger into reverse. Metal and plastic graunched where the front bumper had jammed against the planter, then ripped free. She powered into the fog. ‘Get on the radio.’

At the wheel of the Nemesis, Zec flipped up his visor to look anxiously at Fernandez. ‘Are you okay?’

The Spaniard kneaded his bruised shoulder. ‘I think so. Thanks for coming back for me.’

‘I was hardly going to abandon you, Urbano. You haven’t paid us the rest of our money yet!’ He smiled, but Fernandez was not amused. ‘Who was it? A guard?’

‘No, one of the guests. Bastard! If I see him again, I’ll kill him.’

Zec’s side mirrors revealed something approaching rapidly from behind. ‘This is your chance.’

‘What?’ Fernandez glared at the mirror. A single headlight pierced the murk - one of the team’s powerful Honda XR650R dirt bikes. His Honda. ‘He’s chasing us!’ he said in disbelief.

‘What do we do?’

‘Follow the plan - get on to Taylor Street and head up the hill. Where’s the radio?’ He searched for Zec’s walkie-talkie. ‘Go faster!’

The fog had turned the streets damp and slippery, and the Honda’s high, gawky stance made Eddie feel even more unsteady. But he was quickly getting the feel of the off-roader.

The Nemesis accelerated, the shrill whine of its supercharger echoing off buildings as it barged past a car, which braked and skidded. Eddie cursed, swerving round it. Was his bike fast enough to catch the 4x4?

Only one way to find out. He twisted the throttle harder.

‘Yes, I really am Mayor Boyce!’ said Boyce into the radio handset. The dispatcher at the other end of the line had enough on her plate with the rash of 911 calls, and was unimpressed by the crazy guy commandeering police frequencies and claiming to be the mayor. ‘Look, just get ambulances to the Halliwell building, and set up roadblocks, right now! There are armed robbers escaping on motorbikes and some sort of big SUV, and they’ve killed several people, including two police officers.’

The woman was immediately more attentive. ‘There are officers down?’

‘Yes, two men were shot! We’re in their car chasing the, ah, the perps - we’re on . . .’ He scoured the surroundings for landmarks. ‘I don’t know which street, it’s too foggy.’

‘Which car are you in? What’s its number?’

Boyce hurriedly searched for any identifying signs, spotting a plaque on the dashboard. ‘Car 643.’

‘Hold on, I’m checking its LoJack tracker . . . Car 643 is heading eastbound on Eddy Street, approaching Leavenworth.’

‘Yes, that’s us,’ Boyce told her. ‘We’re a couple of blocks behind the robbers - we’ll guide you to them. Just stop them before they can get away!’

‘We’re on it, uh . . . Mr Mayor. Units are responding. Take no unnecessary risks.’

‘Bit late for that,’ Nina muttered. A stalled car materialised from the murk ahead of them, forcing her to make a hard turn to avoid a collision. ‘This is like a damn obstacle course! Where’s the siren?’

The bike twitched under Eddie, the knobbly off-road tyres fighting for grip on the wet tarmac. ‘Shit!’ he gasped, risking a millisecond glance at the speedometer. He was doing over sixty down the three-lane street, and the Nemesis was still pulling away.

Noise from ahead, tyre squeals and blasting horns. The twin red eyes of the Nemesis’s tail lights disappeared round a corner, turning left to head north.

Other lights were strewn across his path where cars had skidded and collided as the bikes and the Bowler tore through the intersection. He braked, pumping the levers to stop the wheels from locking. The Honda shimmied and writhed. One foot down for balance, the sole of his shoe scraping on the road, he angled between two dented cars to make the turn. He was just about able to make out a sign on the corner: Taylor St.

The road led uphill, the rising line of streetlights telling him it got steeper ahead. The incline wasn’t affecting the Nemesis, though - the red eyes were smaller, fainter, pulling away.

‘I don’t know who he is,’ Fernandez said into the radio as the Nemesis powered up Taylor Street, swinging across all three lanes to overtake traffic, ‘and I don’t care. Just take him out!’

Ahead, the lights of the team’s bikes danced like fireflies as they dodged obstacles. Two of them flared, the Hondas and their riders materialising from the fog as they braked.

Fernandez watched the mirror as the Nemesis overtook them, the bikes falling back to intercept his pursuer.

Eddie was forced to swing wide to avoid a car pulling out of a parking space. He glanced back at the near-miss before returning his full attention to the road. Where was the Nemesis?

Twin red lights, not far ahead—

They split apart.

Bikers!

They had slowed, waiting for him to catch up. One went to each side of the street, a pincer movement to trap him.

Another intersection flashed past, an angry horn dopplering away behind. The bike to Eddie’s right was closer. He drew almost level, seeing the rider’s blank mirror-mask looking across at him.

Left hand reaching for something—

Eddie swerved sharply away as the rider drew an MP5K. He ducked as fire burst from its muzzle. A crash of glass came from the sidewalk as the bullets shattered a window.

But he couldn’t retreat any further, blocked by a line of parked cars - and the other bike was directly ahead, pinning him in the gunman’s sights.

Another intersection—

Eddie made a hard left turn, slipping between two cars waiting at the junction and riding up on to Taylor Street’s sidewalk. A pedestrian ahead - he jerked the handlebars, passing so close that his arm brushed against her.

The second biker dropped back to get a better firing angle. Head low, Eddie shot past another startled pedestrian. A green glow in the mist ahead - traffic lights at a crossroads. The biker would have a clear shot as he crossed the junction.

A shape in the fog, a man with an umbrella—

Eddie snatched the umbrella from his hand as he passed. The slipstream immediately snapped it inside out as he held it up to the wind. It flapped behind him like the broken wing of a bat.

Intersection—

Eddie swung back on to Taylor Street proper, crossing directly in front of the other bike. He whipped the ruined umbrella into the rider’s face. With his helmet and heavy leathers as protection, its flimsy spokes and fluttering fabric couldn’t hurt him . . .

But it could block his vision.

Only for a second, as he raised his gun hand to bat away the obstruction—

Eddie didn’t even need that long. Braking fiercely, he swerved to shoulder-barge the other man into a parked van.

There was a huge bang as the Honda came to an abrupt stop, its rider flipping over the handlebars to slam spread-eagled against the van’s flat back. He hung for a moment like a pinned butterfly, then dropped twistedly on to the mangled bike.

Eddie didn’t look back - the noise of impact was enough to tell him he had nothing further to worry about from that quarter.

The dead biker’s comrade was another matter. He swept towards Eddie, gun at the ready.

‘They’re heading north on Taylor!’ Boyce breathlessly reported as Nina turned and accelerated up the hill, the siren encouraging confused drivers who had become embroiled in the chase to move out of their way.

‘Roger that, Mr Mayor,’ said the dispatcher. ‘Units are moving to intercept.’

‘Where does this road go?’ Nina asked.

‘To the top of a big hill . . . and then down again,’ said Boyce, checking his mental map of the city. ‘But they could be going anywhere from here.’

Nina wasn’t sure about that. The robbers had a reason for taking this particular route. But as she didn’t know San Francisco’s geography, it eluded her. All she could do was keep following, and hope the SFPD would trap them.

Over the snarl of the Bowler’s engine, Zec heard sirens ahead - distant, but closing. ‘What if they beat us to the top?’

‘Make sure they don’t,’ Fernandez told him. Zec got the message and pushed the accelerator harder. The Nemesis overtook a crawling Volkswagen Beetle and powered up a steep section of the hill, an intersection approaching fast—

The blocky bulk of a cable car loomed through the fog to their right on a collision course.

‘Srati!’ yelled Zec as the Nemesis shot over the hill crest and went airborne. The cable car’s driver saw its headlights just in time and yanked the brake lever, sparks flying from the metal wheels. The 4x4 flew across the vintage tram’s track, clearing it by an inch before crashing back down. Fernandez gasped in relief.

Behind, the cable car screeched to a stop in the middle of the crossroads, blocking the street.

Eddie and the biker ducked and swerved in a deadly two-wheeled dance. The MP5K spat fire; Eddie heard - and felt - a burst of bullets crack past as he veered back across the street.

The other man tried to cut behind him. Eddie braked and swung the other way. If the raider got on his tail, it would expose him to an attack from behind. But if he slowed too much, he would make himself an easy target.

The road ahead steepened sharply, the front forks of both bikes compressing with a whump as they hit the incline. The other rider, tracking Eddie, was less prepared for the impact. His bike lurched.

Eddie saw his chance.

He blasted past the other man, racing up the hill. A VW was in one lane at the top; he moved to pass it. He needed to open up a gap on his enemy and catch the Nemesis. If he got close enough to the 4x4, it might deter the other man from firing.

An intersection was just ahead—

And a cable car right in his path!

5

There was no way Eddie could turn fast enough to avoid the tram - and if he stopped, his pursuer would kill him.

If he couldn’t go round—

He twisted the throttle as far as it would go and aimed at the sloping rear of the Beetle, pulling the bike into a wheelie. The Honda slammed into the back of the Volkswagen - and continued up over it. The rear window shattered, metal buckling under the bike’s weight, but Eddie was already clear, flying skywards . . .

Over the cable car.

The biker was less lucky, not seeing the tram through the fog until it was too late—

He smashed into its side at over sixty miles an hour.

The XR650R disintegrated into a mangled scrap as it hit the tram’s heavy steel chassis. Its rider was thrown through antique wood and glass panels, bursting from the cable car’s other side to crash down in the intersection of Taylor and California Streets - minus an arm, which spun past and bounced along the road.

A painful impact pounded up Eddie’s spine as he landed. He swerved violently to avoid the severed arm. Headlights loomed in his path. This section of Taylor Street had two-way traffic, increasing the risk of a head-on collision. He yelled and swung to the right, bringing the bike back up to speed after the retreating lights.

‘Car 643, 643,’ said the dispatcher. ‘LoJack shows you on Taylor approaching Pine, please confirm.’

‘This is the mayor,’ said Boyce into the handset. ‘I confirm.’

‘Be advised of a traffic incident at California and Taylor, use caution. Units are setting up roadblocks ahead of you. Other units about to enter pursuit from both sides of Washington.’

‘Excellent work, dispatch, thank you,’ said Boyce, voice switching effortlessly from panicked passenger to patronising politician.

‘What does that mean?’ Nina asked.

‘It means,’ he said with rising excitement, ‘they’re completely boxed in. We’ve got them!’

The Nemesis shot across the junction of Taylor and Washington. Zec glanced nervously to his right, seeing red and blue strobe lights cutting through the fog towards him. Another SFPD cruiser was powering down the hill to the left, further away.

‘Just stay ahead of them,’ said Fernandez, voice tense but confident. ‘Only four more blocks . . .’

Eddie heard multiple sirens ahead, getting louder. If they could cut off the Nemesis—

No such luck. Flashing lights swept out of a street to the right behind the speeding off-roader.

He eased off slightly, considering his options before deciding to keep going. The cops might be able to stop the Bowler - but they would still need to be warned about the other bikers. If they turned and came back to rescue their leader, it could be a bloodbath.

Twisting the throttle again, he followed the police car through the intersection—

‘Fuck!’ He hauled the Honda hard over to avoid a second police car that screeched round the corner to his left, almost scooping him up as a hood ornament.

‘You on the bike!’ a voice boomed from the cruiser’s loudspeaker. ‘Pull over, right now!’

‘Not me, you dozy twats!’ Eddie shouted, jabbing a hand at the cars ahead. ‘Go after them! I’m the good guy!’

They couldn’t hear him - and in hindsight, he realised that making a gesture which could easily be mistaken for flipping the bird had probably been a bad move. ‘I said pull over, smartass!’ the cop growled.

‘Buggeration and fuckery,’ he muttered, going faster.

Nina swung the Charger around the stationary cable car, Boyce regarding the hole smashed through the historic vehicle with dismay. A small crowd of gawpers in the road scattered at the police car’s approach, revealing a leather-clad body lying on the tarmac. She swerved away from it - seeing a smaller object through the fog too late to avoid running it over.

‘What was that?’ demanded Boyce.

‘Uh - I think a bad guy left his parts in San Francisco,’ said Nina, cringing. The mayor gave her a dirty look.

‘All units, all units,’ said the radio, ‘high speed pursuit heading up Taylor towards Broadway. Roadblocks now in position, further units moving to intercept.’

Boyce stared ahead. ‘If they keep going on Taylor, there’s no way they can escape.’

‘They must have something planned,’ Nina said as she accelerated. ‘Why would they be using dirt bikes and a big-ass dune buggy unless they were planning to go off road?’

‘There’s nowhere they can do that on Taylor Street,’ said Boyce confidently - then his face fell. ‘Except for Coolbrith Park . . .’

The bikes leading the pack slowed as they approached the summit, the Nemesis quickly catching up. Ahead, Taylor Street dropped away sharply, a steep hill leading down to the intersection with Green Street - where a roadblock was waiting. For a two-block stretch, there were no other exits.

For cars, at least.

But running eastwards was a small park. Named for California’s first poet laureate, the tiered slope was a little oasis of greenery amidst the surrounding condominiums, carefully tended flowers and bushes adding to the idyll . . .

Which was shattered as the bikes roared off the road, some of them taking the clear but bumpy route down the steps flanking the park while others simply ploughed through the vegetation, knobbly tyres ripping up soil and grass.

Behind them, Zec slewed the Nemesis into a skid that left it pointing at the park entrance. He quickly engaged the low-range gearing, then used the 4x4’s high ground clearance and oversized wheels to mount the tall kerb. The Bowler tore through a flowerbed and continued rapidly down the slope, all four wheels clawing for grip.

The first police car reached the hilltop and slithered to a halt, but there was no way it could follow. A cop jumped out and drew his gun, about to fire after the disappearing vehicle—

‘’Scuse me!’ cried Eddie as he whipped past, swatting the gun out of the officer’s hand to avoid getting a bullet in the back.

Dodging trees, he bounded down the park’s tiers in the wake of the Nemesis as it smashed through the foliage - then heard a loud bang, followed by the roar of its engine speeding away. The robbers had reached another road. Not knowing what to expect, Eddie braced himself as he brought the bike through the flattened bushes - and found himself briefly in freefall, riding off the edge of a terrace. A slam of impact, then he was back on tarmac on Vallejo Street.

He could still hear sirens - behind him. For now, the robbers’ plan had succeeded. They had shaken off the police.

But they hadn’t lost all their pursuers. Eddie revved the engine, racing downhill after the Nemesis.

A radio report confirmed Boyce’s fear: the raiders had driven through Coolbrith Park, leaving the police with no choice but to take the long way round to catch up.

Nina had no intention of letting them escape that easily. ‘Which way to intercept them?’

‘They’re going east, so right,’ Boyce told her. An intersection ahead; she turned the wheel sharply to make the turn. ‘No, not this right! It’s a one-way—’

A single headlight in their path—

They both screamed as Nina swerved on to the sidewalk to dodge the cable car clanking up Jackson Street. The Charger’s side scraped a wall, sending up a shower of sparks and smashing the wing mirror as the tram rumbled past.

‘Okay,’ Nina gasped as she straightened out, ‘you tell me things like that before I turn from now on, okay?’ A car was also coming up the hill, but the strobes and siren prompted it to dart out of her way. ‘You know the city - where are they going?’

Boyce had gripped the shotgun rack for support, and forced himself to release his clenched hands. ‘I - I don’t know. If they want to get out of the city, the only routes from here are the Bay Bridge or the Golden Gate - but they’re not heading towards either of them.’

‘So what’s in the direction they’re going?’

‘Just the marina. We’re less than a mile from it.’

‘They must have a boat,’ Nina realised. She indicated the radio. ‘Tell the cops they need to get to the waterfront!’

The robbers followed a zig-zagging course across the city grid before heading east again, now speeding up Union Street. The road ahead rose steeply as it climbed the western flank of Telegraph Hill, a park topped by the white pillar of Coit Tower at its summit.

Fernandez checked the mirror. The Honda’s headlight was still behind them in the fog, an irritating gnat that just wouldn’t go away. The Spaniard had been over every centimetre of the route before; he thought for a moment, then picked up the radio to issue a command.

Even the mighty XR650R was labouring on the incline, but Eddie saw the hilltop ahead. The Nemesis crested it, engine growl fading. He eased off on the throttle, not wanting to make a flying leap into the unknown when he reached the summit.

The fog was lighter on the hill’s eastern side, the lights of the Bay Bridge dimly visible in the distance. The road forked, to the right making a ninety-degree turn, the left route continuing a short way downhill before doing the same.

No sign of the Nemesis. Which way had it gone?

Eddie could still hear the raw snarl of its engine somewhere below. He went left. Lights blinked ahead, warning of construction and remodelling work on a house built on the steep hillside. He turned the corner—

And rode into a storm of gunfire.

Bullets blazed from an MP5K, a biker stationary in front of a smashed fence at the road’s end. Eddie glimpsed the Nemesis disappearing down the steep wooded hill beyond it - but the only thing on his mind was staying alive. No time to turn and retreat.

He twisted the throttle - and crashed the bike through a barrier, flashing lights scattering as he ripped through plastic sheeting into the house.

The raider tracked him, plaster and lath no obstacle for 9mm sub-machine gun rounds. Debris stabbed at his face and hands, tools and paint cans scattering under his wheels.

The bullets got closer. As did the far wall—

He didn’t stop.

Another sheet of plastic burst apart as he ploughed the Honda through it into open air, the hillside whirling below him . . .

He landed with a painful slam on the roof of another house, the next in a steeply stepped terrace running down the hillside. But he knew even as he clenched the brake levers that he was going too fast to stop before the edge.

Falling—

A hard landing on another house. The tyres tore at the roofing felt, skidding, but he still couldn’t stop . . .

‘Shiiiiiit—’

Eddie hit the last roof, finally halting less than a foot from the edge. He looked down at the treetops below, suppressing a shudder.

Noise to his right, glimpses of lights bouncing down the hill through more trees. He projected their course to a street at the foot of the hillside. Above, police sirens wailed in useless confusion as the cops arrived and once more found themselves with nowhere to go.

Eddie surveyed the rooftop. Where could he go?

A balcony jutted from the wall below, giving the house’s occupants a panoramic view of the bay. Steeling himself, he blipped the throttle and rode the bike off the edge of the roof, dropping on to the balcony with a bang that shook the extension so hard he was afraid it would tear from the wall.

But it held. Relieved, he turned his head to see that the house was occupied, a man and woman goggling at him from an expensive sofa.

He knocked on the glass. The couple looked at each other, then the man hesitantly slid open the door. ‘Hello?’

‘Evening,’ said Eddie. ‘Can I come through?’

Another uncertain exchange of glances, then the man stood back. Eddie guided the bike inside. ‘If you need to get the carpet cleaned,’ he said, noticing he was leaving a dirty track, ‘bill the International Heritage Agency. Tell ’em Eddie said it was okay.’

‘I’ll . . . I’ll do that,’ the man said. The woman opened a door, guiding him into a hall. A second door led outside. Steps headed back up to the road above, but Eddie realised he could cut across the steep hillside to reach the path the robbers had followed.

He looked down the hill. The lights were almost at its foot. Thanking his hosts, he hauled the Honda round and started after them.

The bikes reached the bottom of the slope. A tall chain-link fence separated the rough ground from Sansome Street, but Fernandez had prepared the way by cutting the padlock securing a gate. The lead Honda bashed it with its front wheel and the gate flew open. The other bikes streamed through. The Nemesis’s exit was less subtle, Zec simply smashing down the entire fence.

Fernandez glanced back up the hill. No sign of the pest. He smiled, checking the street to the north. They had a clear run to the marina, and the police would have to go many blocks out of their way to round the natural barrier of Telegraph Hill.

‘Almost there,’ he told Zec triumphantly as the Bosnian sent the Nemesis surging up the street after the bikes. ‘A nice easy end to your last job, eh?’

‘We’re not clear yet,’ Zec pointed out.

Fernandez smirked. ‘You always were a pessimist, Braco. Smile! You’ll be home with your wife and boy soon enough. And rich!’ Over the engine noise he heard a siren, but it was some way behind them. ‘Who can stop us?’

Nina turned north. The fog was thinning, letting her speed up as she cut through the traffic, siren blaring.

Boyce was on the radio again. ‘This is the mayor. We’re on Sansome - where are those officers?’

‘Units on Calhoun Terrace have lost contact, repeat, lost contact,’ the dispatcher reported.

‘Where’s that?’ Nina asked.

Boyce pointed up and to her left. ‘Top of the hill. There’s a six-block stretch without any streets; it’s too steep.’

‘Not if you’re driving an off-roader. How far to this marina?’

‘Nine or ten blocks.’

No way of knowing how far the robbers were ahead. All Nina could do was go even faster.

Eddie’s Honda slithered down the last few feet of the slope, weeds crunching under its wheels. The headlight picked out a mangled chain-link fence. He rode over the flattened barrier, getting his bearings. A siren was coming from the south . . . and a familiar V8 growl fading to the north.

Revving the engine, he set off in pursuit.

The Nemesis reached the Embarcadero, the long, broad road running along the edge of San Francisco Bay. The marina was just a few hundred metres away. The bikes were already there, pulling on to the boardwalk. Fernandez pointed for Zec to follow.

Two powerful speedboats waited at a jetty. All they had to do was unload the Codex, get aboard, then make a fast escape across the bay, one boat heading eastwards for Oakland while the other made for Marin Country to the north. The fog was an unplanned bonus - it would make the vessels even harder to follow, the treacherous conditions grounding the SFPD’s helicopters. No need to use any expensive missiles tonight.

Zec swerved the Nemesis on to the boardwalk and skidded to a stop. Fernandez jumped out. Most of his men had already run to the boats; one hung back, waiting for him. ‘Braco and I will unload the case,’ he said, flipping up his visor. ‘Make sure nobody interferes.’ He gestured at the biker’s MP5K; the man’s helmet bobbed in acknowledgement. ‘Braco, come on.’

The Spaniard and his second in command ran to the back of the Nemesis. The case containing their prize lay inside, scuffed but otherwise undamaged by its roller coaster ride across the city. They lifted it out—

Engine noise, approaching fast. The strident rasp of a Honda XR650R.

‘I don’t believe it!’ said Fernandez, exasperated. An all too familiar single headlight was racing straight for them. He called to the remaining man as he and Zec carried the case to the jetty. ‘Kill that bastard!’

The biker took up position between the Nemesis and the approaching motorbike, readying his gun.

Eddie spotted the lights of the stationary Nemesis by the waterfront. Figures faded into view through the murk as he approached.

One was in a firing stance—

Another burst of bullets seared at him.

He dropped as low as he could as a round cracked against the Honda’s front fairing, blowing out the headlight and spitting fragments into his face - and another shot tore into the front wheel. The tyre exploded, rubber flapping as it sheared off the steel rim. The handlebars were wrenched from his grip as the bike went into an uncontrollable slide.

Eddie threw himself off. He yelled in pain as he hit the boardwalk and skidded across the wet wood, clothes ripping. The Honda tumbled onwards . . .

Straight at the Nemesis.

The gunman tried to jump out of the way—

Too late. The bike slammed him into the parked 4x4 with back-breaking force. The Honda’s fuel tank ripped open on the Nemesis’s rear bullbar, metal sparking against metal.

The bike exploded, the blast kicking the Nemesis’s back end up into the air - just as the off-roader’s own far larger fuel tank detonated. A fireball surged across the boardwalk, the blazing Nemesis flipping end over end over the waterfront railings to smash down on top of one of the speedboats, crushing the men inside it down into the marina’s dark waters.

The explosion knocked Zec off his feet and sent Fernandez reeling. The case fell. It landed on the jetty’s edge, wobbling precariously on the brink. Fernandez lunged for it—

It dropped off the edge, hitting the water with a flat splash. For a moment it seemed it would float . . . then the sea swallowed it.

Fernandez looked down at the ripples in horror. So close to success, literally seconds from escape - and now the treasure was lost! Jaw set in anger, he spun to find the man who had ruined everything.

Roaring like a charging bull, Eddie tackled him to the dock.

Aching from his hard landing, suit and skin torn, singed by the fireball, the Englishman was driven by fury. His opponent was still wearing his crash helmet, but there were plenty of other places he could land a painful blow - as Fernandez discovered an instant later when he was punched hard in the groin.

‘You fucker!’ Eddie snarled, slamming him down hard on the planks. ‘Teach you to fucking shoot at me, you gimp-suited bast—’

Zec’s boot smashed into his side, knocking him off the fallen raider. Eddie landed on his back, winded. Zec kicked him again, then pulled Fernandez to his feet—

A shotgun blast boomed from the street.

Searing lead shot ripped through Fernandez’s leathers and burned into his upper back. The Spaniard howled, falling again, convulsing in agony. He had shielded Zec from most of the blast, but the Bosnian still took several pellets to one arm. Zec staggered backwards, clutching the wounds.

Nina’s police car crashed on to the boardwalk, Boyce leaning from the window with the shotgun in his hands. ‘Eat that, you cocksuckers!’ he howled, racking the slide.

‘Aim higher!’ Nina told him. ‘Don’t hit my husband!’ The mayor fired again. ‘Higher! Aim higher, idiot!’

Zec hesitated, looking at Fernandez, then dived into the remaining speedboat as another burst of red-hot buckshot seared through the mist. ‘Go!’ he bellowed at the man at the controls.

‘But Urbano—’

‘There’s nothing we can do! Get out of here!’

The boat surged away, huge plumes of froth spraying up from its twin outboards. ‘Yee-hah!’ whooped Boyce, firing again. ‘Yeah! Run, you bastards! Get the fuck out of my city!’

‘Is this what you’re like at city council meetings?’ Nina braked hard, stopping the police car at the end of the jetty. She jumped out and ran to Eddie. Boyce leapt from the car and kept firing after the departing boat until the shotgun was empty. ‘Eddie! Are you okay? Eddie!’

He painfully raised his head, trying to smile but managing only a grimace. ‘Yeah, I’m okay . . . but I’ve got a fucking huge case of road rash.’

‘Oh, thank God.’ She knelt to support him. ‘What happened to the Codex? Did they get away with it?’

‘No.’

She surveyed the jetty, seeing no sign of the case. ‘Then where is it?’

He held out a shaking hand and pointed down into the water. ‘Hope it’s rustproof.’

Boyce came over, looking at once flustered and exhilarated. ‘Damn. That was . . . wow. I’ve never fired a gun before.’

‘Fun, was it?’ Eddie asked.

‘Ye—I mean, no, of course not! Guns are a menace to a safe and civil society. Obviously.’ His expression became sheepish as he forced himself back on-message.

More sirens approached, other police cars finally catching up. Officers hurried across the boardwalk, guns drawn. ‘Mr Mayor!’ one of them shouted. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine,’ he said, pointing at the wounded Fernandez. ‘Arrest this man - he’s one of the gang who just robbed the Atlantis exhibition and killed several people, including two police officers. And his associates just left this dock in a speedboat - get units after them immediately.’ He indicated Eddie. ‘This man also needs medical attention. No, don’t arrest him!’ he added as the cop took out a set of handcuffs.

‘Do I look like a bad guy or something?’ Eddie complained.

‘You’ve looked better,’ Nina told him, before addressing Boyce. ‘Mr Mayor, we need divers here as soon as possible. The artefact they stole is in the water.’

‘You heard her,’ said Boyce, nodding.

‘Yes, sir.’ The cop raised his radio, then gave him a questioning look. ‘Uh, Mr Mayor?’

‘What?’

‘The shotgun, sir?’

‘Oh. Right.’ Boyce hurriedly handed him the empty weapon. The cop took it and barked instructions into his radio. Nearby, Fernandez let out a choked moan as two other officers roughly pulled him to his feet and cuffed his hands behind his back; a suspected cop-killer would not get kid glove treatment in even the most liberal city.

Another siren sounded in the distance, a different wail - an ambulance. ‘Okay, let’s get you to a hospital,’ Nina said to Eddie, standing. ‘And then I can see how Rowan’s doing.’

‘Typical,’ Eddie snorted, forcing himself to his feet. ‘You’re more worried about your ex-boyfriend.’

‘Hey, I did mention you first . . .’

He managed a half-smile, then became more serious. ‘How is he? I didn’t see what happened after he got shot.’

‘One of the guests was a doctor. He thought Rowan might have a punctured lung, but seemed to think he’d be okay.’

‘Good.’ The ambulance came into sight, strobe lights pulsing. Eddie watched it approach, gingerly feeling the torn backside of his trousers. ‘Hope they’ve got a pair of tweezers, ’cause I’ve got an arse full of splinters!’

Nina grinned and patted him lightly on the butt, getting an annoyed grunt in response, then helped him to the ambulance.

Eddie’s injuries fortunately turned out to be comparatively minor, a collection of cuts, grazes and bruises that looked far worse than they actually were. Once assured that he would be all right, Nina left him to be patched up in the emergency room while she went in search of Rowan Sharpe.

He had been taken to an operating theatre so his gunshot wound could be treated. She couldn’t help but be worried, but the nurse’s assurance that he had been stable and conscious when he was moved out of the ER assuaged her concerns a little.

The route from the ER to the surgical waiting area took her past the hospital’s main entrance - and its gift shop. Remembering her promise to Rowan, she smiled and popped in to make a purchase before continuing on her way.

A familiar face was already in the waiting area: the doctor who had provided first aid at the exhibition centre. ‘What’s happening with Rowan?’ asked Nina after they had exchanged brief greetings. ‘How long has he been in there?’

‘About thirty minutes,’ said the doctor. ‘The bullet wound was a through-and-through, fortunately - clean entry and exit. He was very lucky, actually. It only scraped his lung. Another inch to the side . . .’

Nina shuddered, not wanting to think about it. ‘But he’ll be okay?’

‘His chances are good, I’d say. There was a fair amount of muscle damage, though, so he’ll be in pain for some time.’

‘I know how that feels,’ said Nina, absently touching her right thigh, where she had once received a bullet wound of her own. The doctor continued describing Rowan’s good fortune at having avoided significant damage to any major organs, but she was now only half listening. The main thing was that he would be all right.

After twenty minutes, the doors to the operating theatre opened and Rowan, lying on a gurney, was wheeled out. At first Nina thought he was unconscious, but as he passed his eyes flickered open and met hers. One eye closed again . . . in a wink. ‘Thank God,’ she whispered.

About ten minutes later, a nurse came to find her. ‘Dr Wilde? Dr Sharpe is asking for you.’

Nina jumped up and followed the woman to a recovery room. Rowan lay in a bed, a pale, fragile figure hooked up to wires and tubes. A monitor beside the bed silently recorded the slow pulses of his heartbeat. ‘Rowan? How are you feeling?’ She felt almost embarrassed at asking such a dumb question, but it was all she could think of.

‘Hey, Nina.’ His voice was little more than a whisper behind a transparent oxygen mask. ‘So that’s what getting shot feels like? You didn’t tell me it hurt so much.’

‘Can I touch him?’ Nina asked the nurse, getting a nod in reply. ‘Jerk,’ she said, rapping his knuckles. ‘God, I was so worried about you.’

‘So was I!’ He tried to laugh, which turned into a cough. The nurse gave them both a scolding look, and checked the monitor before leaving the room. ‘What about the Codex?’

‘They didn’t take it,’ Nina said, tactfully deciding not to concern him with the news that it was currently on the bottom of San Francisco Bay. ‘Eddie stopped them.’

‘Great. I think you’ve . . . found quite a good husband. Obviously not the best you could have done, but . . .’

‘Oh, stop it.’

He smiled, then turned his head slightly to look down at her neck, weakly raising one hand to indicate her pendant. ‘Just goes to show that thing . . . really does bring you good luck.’

‘Seems like I need a lot of it.’

‘I’m just glad some of . . . your luck rubbed off on me tonight.’ His gaze moved down to her hands. ‘Did you . . . bring me something?’

Nina held up a bag of chocolates. ‘Dark. I remembered. Wouldn’t want to give you hives.’

‘Yeah, as if I don’t . . . have enough to worry about!’ Another smile - then he frowned sharply.

‘Are you okay?’ Nina asked. ‘Shall I get the nurse?’

‘No, I’m fine, just . . . a headache. Think I took a knock when I fell down. Didn’t notice at the time because of the whole . . . getting shot thing . . .’ Another twinge, more pronounced. ‘Ow, jeez. That really is . . . one hell of a headache. Got any Tylenol?’

The peaks on the heart monitor were closer together, rising higher. ‘I’m getting the nurse,’ Nina said, worried.

‘No, I’m okay, I - nghh! ’ His whole face twisted, body flinching. An alarm trilled on the monitor, Rowan’s heartbeats no longer silent as the machine recognised dangerous activity.

Nina jumped up and threw open the door. ‘Hey! I need help in here, quick!’

A doctor and a nurse ran in, the nurse checking the readings on the monitoring equipment while the doctor examined his patient. ‘It’s not his breathing,’ the nurse reported.

‘Pupils are dilated, left eyelid drooping . . .’ muttered the doctor, shining a penlight into Rowan’s eyes. ‘Dammit! We need to get him back to the OR, right now - get Dr Kyanka down here.’

‘What’s happening?’ Nina asked desperately as the nurse hurried to the room’s phone. ‘I thought he was all right!’

‘He was. We treated the gunshot wound - this is something else, looks like a cerebral aneurysm.’

‘What? Oh my God!’

The nurse slammed down the phone. ‘Dr Kyanka’s on his way.’ Another nurse burst into the room to help her move the patient.

Nina watched, helpless, as the pain-stricken Rowan was rushed away. ‘Help him, please!’

‘We’ll do what we can,’ said the doctor as he charged after them down the corridor. But his grim expression filled Nina with terror.

Bandaged, limping slightly on a stiff leg, Eddie made his way through the hospital. He was mildly irked that Nina hadn’t returned to the ER; Rowan’s injuries were far more severe than his own, yes, but a bit more support from his wife would have been nice.

He arrived at a small waiting area, and saw Nina hunched in a chair. ‘There you are!’ he called. ‘So you’d rather hang about waiting for your ex-boyfriend than watch your husband have splinters tweezed out of his arse . . .’

He tailed off as she looked up at him, eyes red and puffy, cheeks streaked with tears. There was only one possible cause for her distress. ‘Oh, shit,’ he said, quickly sitting beside her and holding her hands. ‘Are you okay? Is Rowan . . .’

‘He - he didn’t make it,’ she said, throat raw. ‘He was okay, they treated the bullet wound, but then he, uh . . .’ Her voice began to quaver. ‘He had a . . . burst blood vessel in - in his brain . . .’ She broke down, sobbing.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Eddie, knowing all too well what it was like to lose a friend. He wrapped his arms protectively round her and held her close as she wept.

6

New York City

The Talonor Codex rested on Nina’s desk. Around it lay dozens of photographs and page upon page of printouts - the IHA’s reference images and translations of the ancient document.

None of them were helping. Nina had gone through the translations twice already that morning, but even as she began a third reading she suspected it would prove equally unenlightening. Talonor had been methodical in the accounts of his travels . . . meaning the sheer amount of information was overpowering. How could she pick out what she was looking for in a journal that spanned three continents?

But no matter how much she tried to focus her mind on her task, no matter how many times she re-read the ancient text, she was unable to escape a constant, gnawing guilt. She knew that she was using work as a way to avoid thinking about the events in San Francisco, the analytical part of her mind attempting to box up and shut away the emotional. But the attempt was doomed to failure. The Codex itself was a reminder, a symbol of her loss. Rowan Sharpe had died because of it.

That thought tore open the box. Its contents flooded her mind, memories of Rowan from throughout her life. As a colleague, as a friend . . . as a lover. But the one that hit her the hardest was the image of him with her parents when she was a teenager with a puppy-dog crush, all of them working together to solve the riddle of Atlantis.

That riddle had taken the lives of her parents. And now, fourteen years later, even though she had solved it . . . it had taken Rowan too.

Her eyes stung with tears.

Eddie entered the office, walking rather stiffly. ‘Ay up,’ he said in casual greeting - then he read her expression, his own filling with concern. ‘You all right?’

‘No,’ she admitted, trying and failing to hold back a sob as she wiped her eyes. He crouched beside her, putting an arm over her shoulders. ‘Oh, God, Eddie. Rowan’s dead, and it’s all my fault . . .’

‘It’s not your fault,’ Eddie said firmly. ‘Why d’you say that?’

‘Because . . . because I brought him into all this. I hired him to be in charge of the exhibition. If it hadn’t been for me, he’d still be alive . . .’ She broke down, hands to her face to cover her grief and shame.

‘Nina, look at me. Look.’ He slowly pulled her hands down so he could meet her eyes. ‘I know I got a little bit jealous of Rowan, but it wasn’t serious. He was a good guy. But you didn’t kill him, okay? You have to tell yourself that. It was like . . .’ He paused, recalling the impact of a loss of his own a year and a half earlier. ‘Like when Mitzi died when we were looking for Excalibur. I blamed myself for that when it happened. You remember?’

‘Yeah.’

‘But . . . but I realised as time went on that I didn’t kill her. Just because she was there with me didn’t make it my fault that she died - I didn’t pull the trigger. And I know this’ll sound harsh and horrible right now, but it’s the same for you. You didn’t kill Rowan. And you didn’t get him killed either.’

‘But he would be all right if—’

‘You didn’t,’ he repeated, more forcefully. ‘Okay? And they arrested the guy who did. They’ve got him. He did it, not you. Don’t blame yourself for it. That’s what I did with Mitzi, and . . . well, you remember. Things went bad for a while. I don’t want you to have to go through the same thing that I did.’

‘I can’t help it,’ she said. ‘And . . . and I know I should talk to his father, tell him what happened, but . . . I can’t face it. The hospital told him, he knows that Rowan’s dead, but . . .’ Tears rolled down her cheeks, her voice dropping to a whisper. ‘What if he blames me? If I think it’s my fault, what if he does too?’

Eddie held her more closely as she buried her face against his shoulder. ‘Hey, hey,’ he said, stroking her hair. ‘He won’t blame you, because you didn’t do anything wrong.’

‘I . . . You’re right, I know. I know that, in my head. But I don’t feel that.’

‘It’s tough, I know. Believe me, I bloody know that! But you’ll get through it, and you’ll stop blaming yourself. I know that too. Look, you don’t have to do anything right now. You should go home.’

Nina lifted her head and wiped her eyes again. ‘No . . . no, I’d rather keep working. An Interpol officer’s coming in to see me later. If I can figure out why the raiders wanted to take the Codex rather than anything else, it might help them find out who was behind the robbery - and the thefts of all those other treasures.’ She sat upright, taking a long breath as she forced herself back into a businesslike mindset. ‘I’ll be okay.’

‘You sure?’

A half-hearted smile. ‘As much as I can be.’

‘That’s my girl.’ Eddie kissed her, then stood and stepped back to regard the contents of her desk. ‘So what have you worked out so far? Sussed it all out yet?’

‘Not yet,’ she sighed. ‘Maybe I should have taken that guy Khoil up on his offer to translate it.’

‘So what have you got?’

‘Mostly that as an explorer, Talonor’s a name that should be up there with Columbus and Cook and Marco Polo. The Codex only covers one of his expeditions, but we know that he visited South America as well - he discovered the site that would become the Atlantean settlement we found there. There might have been other expeditions, too; we just haven’t found his accounts yet.’

Eddie flicked through a few pages. ‘Is the translation accurate?’

‘As far as we know. Why?’

‘Just that I recognise the way it’s written. It’s like a military report, a tactical assessment - just the facts, ma’am. When he reaches somewhere, all he says about it is how many men old enough to fight live there, what the landscape’s like and where the high ground is, that kind of stuff. This Talonor bloke wasn’t an explorer - he was a scout.’

‘The Atlanteans were conquerors,’ Nina reminded him. ‘I suppose knowing a potential target’s strength was more important than their cultural heritage.’ She remembered something, and searched through the papers. ‘Although . . . here. He took more of an interest than usual in one group of people.’

‘Which ones?’

‘Some Hindu priests. He met them in the Himalayas when he was travelling up the Ganges. Afterwards, he carried on about a hundred miles northeast into Tibet and discovered the Golden Peak - the other major Atlantean site.’

‘Yeah, we had a lot of fun there, didn’t we?’ said Eddie, with a hint of sarcasm. ‘So what about these priests? Were there Hindus around that long ago?’

‘Hinduism’s been around for a long time - much longer than any of the Abrahamic religions. Even before we found the Codex and confirmed from this’ - she opened the Codex to the pages that had been on display in San Francisco and indicated the section of Vedic Sanskrit text - ‘that the ancient Hindus were contemporaries of the Atlanteans, there was evidence that the religion existed at least as far back as three thousand BC. And the epic Hindu texts described a civilisation that went back even farther.’

‘They weren’t talking about the Veteres, were they?’

‘I don’t know.’ Nina gave him a slightly pained look at the mention of the long-dead race she had unearthed a year earlier. ‘But let’s not go shouting about the possibility, huh? We already had fanatics from three religions trying to kill us over it - I don’t want to add a fourth.’

‘I’ll keep it to myself,’ he assured her. ‘What did Talonor say about ’em, then?’

Nina read from the translation. ‘It says, “We were guided away from the river at latitude one north” - that’s using the Atlantean scale, obviously - “to a great temple. Though the inhabitants were not hostile, they were well prepared to defend their holy mountain . . .” He goes on about how hard it would be to mount an assault because of the terrain, so you were right - it’s a tactical report. Anyway, “The priest granted me the honour of entrance, where he showed me an image of their god - whom I recognised as the great Poseidon from the trident he held, though these men know him by a different name.” Then he wonders if these people are cousins of the Atlanteans with a common mythology - which is actually an interesting theory. I might have to look into that . . .’ She tailed off, musing over the idea.

Eddie whistled sharply and tapped the Codex. ‘One thing at a time, love.’

‘Right, sorry. Where was I? “The priest was intrigued by my thoughts. He told me the knowledge of Poseidon might contain an answer, but because the texts were kept elsewhere for protection, I would have to wait to see them. When I asked how long, the priest said it would take one day for his acolytes to reach the sacred vault, but only one hour to return. When I asked how this was possible, he smiled and told me Poseidon had many secrets.” ’

‘What, did they teleport or something?’

‘No idea.’ Nina flicked through the translation. ‘But yeah, Talonor decided to stay, and a day later they came back with some stone tablets - which were written in Vedic Sanskrit.’ She indicated the text inscribed on the orichalcum sheet. ‘This section here is a copy of part of Poseidon’s knowledge . . . wait a minute!’ She snapped her fingers as disparate elements suddenly meshed together perfectly in her mind. ‘I’m a dumbass. Why didn’t I realise it before? It’s not Poseidon at all. It’s Shiva. He’s often depicted using a trident as a weapon.’

‘Shiva?’ Eddie asked.

‘One of the Hindu gods.’

‘I know that. I meant, which one? What’s his gig?’

‘Oh, nothing much,’ said Nina. ‘Just the Destroyer of Worlds.’

He frowned. ‘So he’s a bad guy?’

‘No, not at all. Hinduism’s based around the idea of cycles, everything going through a never-ending process of birth, life, death, rebirth - even the entire universe. Shiva’s the god who ends each cycle through an act of destruction . . . but by doing that, he enables the next cycle to be created. He’s one of the most important figures in Hindu mythology. We translated it as Poseidon because Talonor was imposing his own beliefs on another culture - typical Atlantean arrogance. So when he described the priest talking about the knowledge of Poseidon, what he really meant was the knowledge of Shiva. And in Vedic Sanskrit, the word for knowledge is veda - but veda has another meaning. The Vedas are some of the oldest Hindu sacred texts, dating back to at least fifteen hundred BC - but these . . . Shiva-Vedas would be much older. And they were kept in this vault . . . the Vault of Shiva.’

Eddie turned to the next page of the Codex, on which was scribed more Vedic Sanskrit text, before it reverted to the Atlantean language. ‘What does the rest of this say?’

Nina checked another sheet. ‘It’s mostly about the cycles of existence. Destruction and creation. Talonor must have liked the idea.’ She went back to the transcript of the Atlantean text. ‘The priest also showed him the key to the Vault of Shiva - which is this thing, right here.’ Closing the Codex, she indicated the impression in the orichalcum cover.

Eddie looked closely at the indentation. The width of a spread hand, it had at its centre an ornate relief of a man’s face, lips curled in an enigmatic smile. Five smaller faces encircled him, all female. ‘The priests must’ve been pretty trusting to let him stamp a copy of their key. What if he’d decided to rob the place?’

‘According to the text, they said that even if he found the vault, he’d never get in, because “only those who know the love of Shiva” can use the key,’ Nina told him. ‘They seemed very sure of that.’

‘They’d have been a bit less cocky if dynamite had been invented back then. Who are the women?’

‘Goddesses. Shiva’s wives, I suppose.’

‘He had five wives? Thought he was a Hindu, not a Mormon.’

‘He didn’t have them all at the same time.’ Nina indicated two of the faces. ‘I don’t know off the top of my head who they all are, but these are Shakti, the goddess of feminine power, and Kali, goddess of death.’

‘Oh, I know who Kali is,’ said Eddie, grinning. ‘From Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, right?’

Nina winced. ‘Yes, but if you’re ever talking to a devout Hindu, please don’t say that! I was once talking to an Indian scholar about the portrayal of archaeology in the media and mentioned Indiana Jones, and he wasn’t happy. Kali’s not a goddess you’d want to get on the wrong side of, but she’s definitely not evil either, and he was kinda pissed that the first things a lot of Americans think of in regard to his religion are human sacrifice and chilled monkey brains.’ The phone rang.

It was Lola. ‘Dr Wilde? The Interpol officer you were expecting is here.’

‘Oh, good. Show him through, please.’

Lola entered, followed by a tall man in a pale blue suit. ‘Dr Wilde? This is Mr Jindal.’

‘Hi, come in,’ said Nina, standing to greet him. As she had expected from his surname, the international police agent was Indian; mid-thirties, with angular yet handsome features and black hair styled almost into a quiff. ‘I’m Nina Wilde; this is my husband, Eddie Chase.’

‘Ankit Jindal, Interpol senior investigator,’ said the new arrival, shaking their hands and giving them a beaming white smile. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ Unlike that of the respectively robotic and uptight Pramesh and Vanita Khoil they had met two days earlier, his accent, while still distinctly Indian, was relaxed and warm.

‘I won’t mention Indiana Jones,’ Eddie whispered to Nina, who held in a faint grin.

Jindal looked at the artefact on Nina’s desk. ‘The Talonor Codex?’

‘That’s it,’ she said.

He nodded appreciatively. ‘I’m glad it survived unharmed. I can’t say that about all the treasures the Cultural Property Crime Unit recovers.’

‘So how can we help you, Mr Jindal?’

‘The first thing I wanted to do was give you some good news in person: we’ve identified the leader of the raiders. Urbano Luis Fernandez, Spanish, former member of the Grupo Especial de Operaciones - the Spanish police’s special operations unit.’

‘Pretty big career change,’ said Eddie.

‘It’s how he evaded capture for so long - he knows all the tricks. But we have him now, thanks to you.’

‘So what’s going to happen to the son of a bitch?’ Nina asked. An uncharacteristic hardness crossed her face. ‘He can fry as far as I’m concerned.’

‘He might. Although we don’t know where. A lot of diplomacy was needed to persuade the US government to turn him over to Interpol. He’s wanted in at least twelve countries, and they all want to put him on trial for the theft of their cultural treasures - and the murders of the people they killed taking them.’

‘I can imagine. Michelangelo’s David versus the terracotta warriors? The Italians and Chinese must be practically at daggers drawn over who gets their hands on him first, for a start.’

‘More than that. This has to remain classified,’ Jindal said, giving them both warning looks, ‘but there have been other robberies that haven’t been revealed to the public - either because it would be politically embarrassing, or because it could actually be dangerous. One of the stolen items is the Black Stone from Mecca. The Saudis have replaced it with a replica, but if that is discovered there’ll be chaos.’

‘You’re not kidding,’ said Nina, shocked.

‘The what?’ Eddie asked.

‘The Black Stone was supposedly put in place in the Kaaba Temple by Muhammad himself,’ she explained. ‘It’s a key part of the hajj, the Islamic pilgrimage - if it’s revealed as a fake, the entire country will explode.’

‘Just what we need in the Middle East right now.’

‘Which is why we’re trying as hard as we can to get Fernandez to name his employer, so all the stolen treasures can be found and returned,’ said Jindal. ‘But he’s not talking. Which is another reason I wanted to see you - you might be able to help us. More specifically, Mr Chase might.’

‘Me?’ said Eddie. ‘How?’

Jindal took documents from his briefcase and laid them on Nina’s desk. Each had a photograph attached. ‘These are three of the raiders who were killed in San Francisco. They’re all different nationalities: Nicaraguan, Ukrainian, Portuguese. But what they have in common is that they are all known mercenaries.’

‘Mercenaries, eh?’ Eddie took a closer look at the photos, but didn’t recognise any of the faces. He glanced sidelong at Jindal. ‘Been reading up on me, have you?’

The Indian smiled. ‘I hope you’re not offended.’

‘Nah, it’s just that it’s been a while since I was in that line of work. And I never really thought of myself as a merc. More like a troubleshooter.’

‘Oh, yeah,’ said Nina. ‘You see trouble, you shoot it.’

‘Hey, you weren’t complaining at the time! So, who are these guys?’

Jindal tapped on each picture in turn. ‘Ramon Maltez Espinosa; Gennadi Sklar—’

‘Sklar?’ Eddie interrupted.

‘You know him?’

‘Never met him, but I know the name. Worked in Africa, mostly . . . Harare, that’s where I heard about him.’

‘You were in Zimbabwe?’ Nina asked. However much she thought she knew about her husband’s past travels, he still always had the ability to surprise her.

‘About six years ago,’ Eddie told her. ‘Don’t plan on going back - I’m not popular there. But this bloke Sklar, that’s where I know his name from.’

‘Small world.’

‘You get to know most of the people in the business after a while. The professionals, at least - the ones who’re good enough not to get killed.’ He turned to Jindal. ‘This Fernandez, for jobs like the ones he’s been pulling, he’d be after the absolute best people he could get. And there’s not that many middlemen he could go through to find ’em.’

‘I doubt they’d be willing to talk to Interpol, though,’ said Jindal.

‘Maybe not, but they might talk to me. Somebody’ll know something - maybe even who’s paying Fernandez. And I wouldn’t even need to go to them - just thinking that I could might be enough to get Fernandez to open up.’

Jindal considered it. ‘We’ve been trying to work out a deal, but so far he’s refused everything. Perhaps a stick to go with the carrot might encourage him to talk . . .’ Another moment of thought. ‘Would you be willing to fly back to Lyon with me? Not just for this - your first-hand account of events, and any help you could give us concerning Fernandez’s mercenary connections, would be very useful. But if we can’t persuade him to accept a deal, then perhaps a threat would be more effective. Not a physical threat,’ he hurriedly added.

Eddie grinned. ‘Never crossed my mind. But I’m up for it.’ He turned to Nina. ‘That’s if you’re okay with it. If you don’t want to be on your own . . .’

She took a moment to reply. ‘I’ll be okay. Especially if your going helps nail this bastard.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Positive,’ she insisted. ‘If it leads to catching whoever’s behind this, I’m all for it.’

‘Excellent,’ said Jindal, nodding. ‘I’ll arrange the flight.’ He looked at the ancient volume again. ‘As for the Codex itself . . . have you found any reason why whoever was paying Fernandez wanted him to steal it?’

‘I think I might have,’ said Nina. She explained her deduction about the link between the Atlantean god Poseidon and the Hindu god Shiva, opening the Codex to the pages that had been on display to illustrate her point. ‘If this Vault of Shiva still exists, then its contents would be an incredible archaeological find.’

‘Big enough to kill for?’ Eddie asked.

Jindal looked thoughtfully at the ancient words. ‘The Vedic Sanskrit text, the Indian connection, was one of the reasons why I pushed to get this assignment. There is a big black market for ancient Hindu artefacts - and yes, people are willing to kill for them, unfortunately. But this would be on a much larger scale than anything I’ve dealt with before.’

‘How long have you been with Interpol?’ Nina asked.

‘About three years. I used to be a detective with the Delhi police - finding art thieves was my speciality, and since a lot of cases involved international trafficking it made sense to transfer to Interpol when the opportunity arose.’

‘Sounds like a cool job,’ said Eddie. ‘Travel, busting bad guys, recovering stolen treasures . . .’

‘It has its moments - though I don’t think it compares to what you do.’ He noticed the display case. ‘Is that the Egyptian artefact?’

‘You know about it?’ Nina asked, slightly surprised that he was aware of the small purple figurine.

‘Yes - the Egyptians asked to check Interpol’s database to see if it matched anything stolen or recovered. It didn’t, so I suppose they then gave it to the IHA in the hope that you’d be able to identify it.’

‘No luck so far,’ Nina admitted. ‘But we’ll keep on trying - at least until the Egyptians get fed up with waiting and ask for it back!’

The three shared a small laugh, then Jindal gathered up his documents. ‘Thank you for your help, Dr Wilde. And Mr Chase, I’ll call you as soon as I confirm the flight.’ He said his goodbyes to the couple, then departed.

‘Better go home and pack my toothbrush,’ said Eddie.

‘Do you think you’ll be able to get this Fernandez to talk?’ Nina asked.

A cat-like grin. ‘If they give me five minutes with just me, him and something sharp.’

‘I doubt Interpol would approve . . . but in this case, I wouldn’t be opposed.’ She carefully nestled the Codex into the padding inside a large steel case and closed it. ‘But until we actually find out who’s behind the robberies, we need to keep this safe. Can you carry it for me?’

‘Half the time I think you only married me to have someone to lug heavy objects about,’ Eddie said in jocular complaint as he picked up the box - whereupon his tone became genuine. ‘Ow! Bloody hell.’

‘Are you okay?’

‘Yeah, fine.’ He put a hand to his ribs. ‘Bit of a twinge, that’s all.’

‘There are some painkillers in my desk.’

‘No, I’m okay,’ he insisted. ‘Just that my side feels like someone’s sandpapered it.’

‘It looked like it, too. Sure you’re all right? I can get someone else to take it to the vault.’

‘Nah, I’ve got it.’ He hoisted the case again. ‘Although I bet librarians were bloody glad when someone got the idea to make books out of paper rather than metal.’

They took an elevator down to the Secretariat Building’s lowest basement level. Most of the floor was occupied by a data centre, computer servers handling the terabytes of information flowing through the UN, but their destination involved a more physical form of storage.

A familiar face was at the entrance. ‘Hey, Lola,’ said Nina, seeing her assistant chatting to one of the guards at the security station, a tall young Haitian called Henri Vernio.

‘Oh! Nina, hi.’ Lola blushed, as if she had been caught in the act; Nina wondered if she was dating the man. She indicated a little trolley stacked with folders. ‘I was just getting these for you.’

‘Thanks,’ said Nina, teasingly adding: ‘No rush.’

‘I was, ah, on my way back upstairs anyway,’ Lola said, giving the disappointed guard a quick goodbye before scurrying off with the trolley.

Nina smiled, then turned to the other guard, Lou Jablonsky, an overweight Brooklynite ex-cop. ‘We’re putting the Talonor Codex back in the vault.’

‘Sure thing, Dr Wilde,’ said Jablonsky. He began to enter their details into his computer. ‘Hey, Eddie. You okay? Lola told us you got pretty banged up in Frisco.’

‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ Eddie replied. ‘Except it looks like someone used a cheese grater on my arse.’

Jablonsky grinned. ‘Some weirdos pay good money for that. Okay, if you’ll follow me . . .’

The high-security vault was only one part of the secure archive; most of the space was occupied by labyrinthine ranks of lockers and filing drawers, with a reading area in one corner where researchers could examine classified material without the extra bureaucratic hassle required to remove it from the room. Cameras on the ceiling watched every square foot of the climate-controlled chamber. The entrance to the vault itself was a large stainless steel door in direct line of sight of the security station. Jablonsky inserted a keycard into a slot on the door and looked back at Vernio, who put a card of his own into another reader and entered a command on the computer.

A warbling alarm warned anyone near the vault to stand back as the thick door unlocked and swung slowly open. Nina waited until Jablonsky gave her a nod, then went inside, Eddie carrying the case in after her. The interior was a cramped circular room, the wall lined with more steel-doored lockers of various sizes. A computer terminal was set into a small pedestal-like desk at the centre, the screen displaying the combined weights to the gram of the visitors and what they carried: the floor around it was pressure sensitive, another security system to ensure nothing was smuggled out. ‘Christ,’ Eddie said, looking up at the ventilation grille in the ceiling. ‘It’s always so bloody cold in here.’

‘It’s nice in the summer, though,’ Nina reminded him. She sat at the desk and entered her security code. A panel on the desktop lit up, and she placed her right hand flat on it. A brighter line of light moved down the panel’s length - a palmprint scanner. A red LED above the handle of one of the largest lockers turned green.

Eddie slid the case inside, then closed the door. The LED went back to red. ‘Okay, sorted.’ Jablonsky, who had been watching from the entrance, waited until the visitors left the vault, then removed his card. More warning trills, and the door closed. Eddie gave the barrier a satisfied look. ‘Let’s see anyone break into that.’

‘Hopefully nobody’ll be trying,’ said Nina as they returned to the security station and signed out. ‘Well, if you’re jetting off to France, I think I’ll take some work home for the evening. See if I can figure out anything else from those translations.’

‘And people say you don’t know how to live it up.’

Nina narrowed her eyes. ‘Who says that?’

‘Not me,’ he replied quickly.

They entered the lift. Eddie reached up to push the button for the IHA’s floor - and barely held in a pained grunt. He rolled his shoulder, trying to knead out the stab of pain in one of the muscles. ‘Fuck.’

‘Are you really sure you’re all right?’ Nina asked. ‘If you don’t feel up to travelling—’

‘Course I’m up to it,’ he said sharply. ‘It’s not like I’m crippled. I’ve had worse.’

‘And are you sure you don’t want any painkillers?’

Eddie hesitated before replying. ‘Yeah, I’m fine. More or less.’ He gingerly touched a particularly sore spot on his backside. ‘Might need an extra cushion for the flight, though.’

7

France

‘Has he said anything?’ Nina asked.

‘Not so far,’ Eddie told her. They were on opposite ends of a transatlantic call, she at the United Nations in New York, he in Jindal’s office at Interpol’s headquarters in Lyon. He was tired, from both a day spent working with the investigators and jetlag, but hopefully the prisoner he was about to see would be more exhausted - and therefore likely to let something slip in the next round of questioning. ‘Kit’s going to let me watch the next interrogation in a few minutes.’

‘Kit?’

‘Jindal. Short for Ankit.’

Her voice became teasing. ‘Oh, you’re on first-name terms already? That’s so sweet!’

‘We were on an eight-hour flight, and you know me, I can’t keep my gob shut for eight minutes. Anyway, I’ll be watching from behind the glass, just like in a cop show. They’re going to try to make a deal so he’ll give up whoever hired him - we’ll see what he says.’

‘A deal. God.’ Anger entered her voice. ‘I wish there were some other way.’

‘So do I. I don’t want that bastard to walk free any more than you do. But it might be the only way to recover all the stuff he stole.’

‘I suppose . . .’ she admitted reluctantly.

‘At least we don’t have to worry about him nicking the Codex any more.’ He looked round as Kit entered and gestured for him to follow. ‘Got to go - they’re about to start.’

‘Okay,’ said Nina. ‘See you soon. Love you.’

‘Love you too. Bye.’ He disconnected and followed Kit from the room. ‘Don’t suppose he’s cracked already, has he?’

The Indian shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not. But our lawyers have come up with an offer, so we’ll see if he takes it.’ They reached the elevators, and rode up to the Interpol building’s seventh floor. A steel-barred security gate was opened for them once their identities had been confirmed by a guard, and they entered the interrogation area.

Kit led Eddie into a darkened room. A lanky female officer in her forties was checking a video camera. ‘Eddie, this is Renée Beauchamp,’ said Kit. ‘She’ll be conducting the interrogation with me.’

Eddie shook her hand. ‘Good cop, bad cop, eh?’

‘We are both good cops,’ she said with a small smile as she gave a folder to Kit. ‘This is the agreement - it’s as we discussed. All he has to do is sign it.’

‘What’re you offering him?’

‘In exchange for testifying against his employer, and providing all the stolen treasures are safely returned, he will get reduced charges and trial in only a single country - of his choosing. Since the Chinese have said he will get the death penalty for stealing the terracotta warriors, and the Saudis would almost certainly have him secretly executed to cover up the theft of the Black Stone, I think he will respond favourably.’

Eddie regarded the interrogation room’s occupant through the two-way mirror. Fernandez, though bruised and with his hands cuffed behind his back, didn’t seem worried. If anything, he appeared almost smug. ‘Find out in a minute, I suppose.’

Eddie sat and looked on as the two Interpol officers entered the interrogation room, uncuffing Fernandez before facing him across a table. The French woman spoke first, explaining the terms of the deal. Fernandez sat in silence until she finished, a smirk curling the corners of his mouth.

‘Thank you for that,’ he said at last, ‘but now, here is my offer. In return for total immunity from prosecution, signed by every country in which I am alleged’ - the smirk widened - ‘to have committed these crimes, and also being granted a new identity and witness protection in a country of my choosing, I will give you the name of those who I believe’ - he raised a finger theatrically - ‘are in possession of the missing treasures. Until I get that, I have nothing more to say.’

‘You seriously expect us to arrange full immunity?’ asked Kit.

‘As I said, I have nothing more to say.’ Both cops shot more questions at him, but his only response was a self-satisfied silence. After a few fruitless minutes, they gave up, handcuffing him back to the chair before returning to the observation room.

‘Well,’ said Kit, ‘that didn’t go as well as I hoped.’

Beauchamp sighed. ‘The arrogance of the man! How can he not see that this is his only chance?’

Kit regarded Fernandez through the mirror. ‘He must be very scared of his employer to make such big demands in return for giving him up.’

‘Are Interpol likely to meet them?’ asked Eddie.

‘It’s not really up to us. It depends how desperate the countries involved are to get back their national treasures. Even the Saudis might agree to his terms if they can recover the Black Stone without anyone knowing it was stolen.’

Eddie looked at the prisoner for a long moment. ‘I’ve got an idea,’ he said at last. ‘I’ll need to go in there, though. Alone.’

‘I am not sure that would be wise,’ said Beauchamp doubtfully.

‘I won’t lay a finger on him, if that’s what you’re worried about. Honest!’ He held up his hands. ‘I’ll just try a different angle. Something he might respond to better.’

Kit also appeared unconvinced. ‘It isn’t exactly standard procedure . . .’

‘It isn’t exactly a standard case, either. Come on, let me try. Worst that can happen is that he tells me to piss off.’

The two Interpol officers exchanged looks, then Kit nodded. ‘All right. But we’ll be watching from here.’

‘I’ll try not to block your view with all the blood on the glass. Kidding!’ Eddie added as he opened the door.

He went into the neighbouring room. Fernandez looked up at him with a flash of recognition, then concern.

‘Yeah, it’s me again,’ said Eddie with a cold grin. ‘Thought I’d pop in for a chat. Maybe finish what I started in San Francisco.’ He slapped a fist into his open palm, then sat facing the Spaniard across the table.

Fernandez glanced at the mirror. ‘Not quite standard Interpol procedure.’

‘I don’t work for Interpol.’

‘So who do you work for?’

‘Doesn’t really matter. What I’m interested in is, who do you work for? See, when someone tries to kill me and my wife, I take it personally. Not very professional, I know, but I’m an emotional sort of bloke. And you really don’t want me to be pissed off at you.’

‘Professional?’ said Fernandez, raising an eyebrow. ‘You’re not a cop, and you don’t seem the intelligence type, so . . . a mercenary?’

‘Ex. Settled down now.’

A faint smile. ‘You never really leave. However hard you try, if you are a natural fighter, you always get pulled back in. And I can tell you are a natural fighter. What is your name, by the way? I prefer to know who I am being threatened by.’

‘Chase. Eddie Chase.’

Another flick of an eyebrow, this time at a memory. ‘Chase . . . Algeria, yes? About seven years ago? You blew up the warehouse of Fekkesh, the arms dealer.’

‘Might have done.’

‘And Fekkesh himself did not fare much better. I heard that he lost his—’

‘I’m not here to talk about me,’ Eddie interrupted sharply, deciding Interpol didn’t need to hear the details of a mission that, while justified, had not been entirely legal. ‘Let’s talk about you. And your dead mates. Especially Gennadi Sklar. Used to work out of Zimbabwe, didn’t he?’

The tiniest twitch of Fernandez’s eyes revealed his unease that Eddie knew the background of his late associate. ‘He worked from many places,’ he said dismissively, trying to cover the fact. ‘It is part of the job, as you know.’

‘But he mostly worked from Zimbabwe. Which means he would have been getting jobs through Strutter. Been a while since I’ve seen him, but I’m sure he’d remember me. Now, I don’t like Harare, it’s a shithole, and Strutter’s a scumbag, but if I had a couple of drinks with him I bet I could catch up on the grapevine very quickly. Who’s where, doing what . . . and for who.’

Fernandez’s discomfort was now far more evident. ‘Everybody knows something,’ Eddie pressed on, ‘and they’ll tell me stuff that a cop’d never find out. I might have been out of it for a while, but I’m still part of that world - and it’s a small world. Lots of little bits of information floating about . . . all I’ve got to do is put them together, and I’ll know who hired you.’

‘Nobody will ever tell you that,’ Fernandez insisted, but perspiration had started to bead on his thin moustache.

‘I dunno, I can be pretty persuasive.’ He leaned forward, gaze hard. ‘If I find out who your boss is, then any deal Interpol’s offering you goes straight out of the window. They won’t need you any more. And then you, mate, will be fucked. You want to go on trial in China? Or Saudi Arabia? Hell, you killed two cops in California - they’ve still got the death penalty there.’ He stood. ‘If I were you, I’d think about it. But do it quick. I’ve got a plane to catch.’

He left, returning to the observation room. The two investigators were waiting for him, both seeming impressed. ‘Could you really find out who hired Sklar in Zimbabwe?’ Kit asked.

‘In theory,’ said Eddie awkwardly. ‘Only I wouldn’t be the best person to send, ’cause, er . . . I’ve got a death sentence on me there.’

‘What?’ said Beauchamp, shocked.

‘Yeah. A while back I helped some people who were high on the government’s shit-list get out of the country. Only problem was, it got me added to the list as well. So I don’t really want to go back there.’

‘I can see why,’ Kit said. ‘But hopefully, you won’t need to.’ He gestured towards the prisoner. ‘Fernandez definitely seems to be considering what you said.’

‘Then we should let him sweat for a while,’ Beauchamp said.

‘Very good work, Mr Chase.’ She turned to Kit. ‘I will brief the director. You look tired - both of you do. You should get some rest.’

‘It’s been a long day,’ Eddie agreed. He checked his watch, finding that it was after nine o’clock at night. He stifled a yawn. ‘Think I’d better get to the hotel.’

‘I’ll show you out,’ said Kit. All three exited the observation room, then the two men made their farewells to Beauchamp and headed for the elevators.

As they approached the security gate, their attention was caught by a uniformed female officer on the other side. Eddie guessed she was Indian, her black hair held up in a severe bun. She seemed to be having trouble, inserting her ID card twice before the system recognised it. The guard opened the gate and she marched through, not giving Eddie or Kit the slightest look. The reverse wasn’t true, both men turning their heads to track the attractive, if stone-faced, officer as she passed.

‘Hey,’ said Kit, ‘you’re married.’

Eddie shrugged jokingly. ‘Can’t be sued for looking.’

‘Would you say that if Nina were here?’

‘Yeah, probably. It’s fun winding her up.’ They went through the gate. ‘Oh, I left my jacket in your office.’

‘No problem.’ Kit pushed a button to summon the elevator.

Fernandez looked up as the door opened, concealing his surprise at the sight of the new arrival. ‘I didn’t expect you so soon.’

Madirakshi Dagdu regarded him impassively with her one good eye, its artificial counterpart cold and glassy. ‘Have you told them anything?’

He snorted. ‘Of course not! They’ve said nothing worth replying to. Asking the same questions over and over, offering their pathetic little deals for my co-operation.’

‘Which you turned down.’

‘Obviously. Or I would not be sitting here chained to a chair, would I? Now get me out.’

She nodded and moved behind him. ‘By the way,’ she said, ‘before I came in, I checked the next room to make sure it was empty. I saw a video camera.’

Disquiet entered his voice. ‘You switched it off, I hope?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’ A faint wet, sucking noise behind him. ‘And then . . . I watched the recording.’

Fernandez suddenly remembered the sound from the apartment in Florence. ‘No, wait, I only—’

The garrotte wire lashed round his throat and pulled tight.

Eddie retrieved his leather jacket. ‘What hotel’ve you booked me into?’

‘The de Ville, across the river. You should see the Festival of Lights while you’re here, by the way - there’s a big show in the Place des Terreaux. It’s only a few minutes from the hotel. Very impressive.’

‘I’ll see how knackered I feel when I get there.’ He pulled on the jacket, grimacing as his stiff muscles protested at the movement.

‘Are you okay, Eddie?’ Kit asked.

‘Yeah, I will be. Got pretty bashed up, that’s all.’

The Indian grinned. ‘Lots of new scars you can use to impress the ladies.’

‘My lady’s seen all my scars already . . .’ He tailed off, the jokey discussion unexpectedly triggering connections in his mind. A scar . . .

‘What is it?’

‘That woman who went into the cells while we were coming out - she had a scar on her face.’

Kit looked puzzled. ‘I didn’t notice.’

‘You weren’t looking at her face. But I’ve seen it before . . .’ He frowned, thinking - then his eyes widened. ‘San Francisco! Shit, she was there just before we were attacked! She was with the Khoils.’

‘Pramesh Khoil?’ asked Kit, surprised. ‘The Qexia man?’

‘You know him?’

‘Everyone in India knows him - he’s our Bill Gates. Are you sure it was the same woman?’

‘Positive - and now she’s been in the same place as Fernandez twice.’ Realisation dawned. ‘She might be trying to bust him out! Come on!’

They ran from the office, hurrying to the elevators. Eddie jabbed repeatedly at the call button before losing his patience and barging open the stairwell door, clattering up it with Kit right behind.