The Sacred Vault

Seventh floor. They raced for the security gate, getting startled looks from Interpol personnel as they ran past. Another frustrating delay as they waited to have their IDs checked, then they rushed to the interrogation room—

The woman had been there, all right - but not to free Fernandez. He was still cuffed to the chair, but now his head lolled horribly, mouth no longer curled in a smirk but gaping in breathless terror. His neck had been sliced open almost from ear to ear, dark blood still flowing from the deep wound.

‘Shit!’ Eddie gasped, pushing past the startled Kit and running back to the gate. ‘That woman - black hair, scar down one eye - where is she?’

‘She left just before you came back,’ said the guard, confused. ‘What’s going on?’

‘What’s going on is that she just strangled one of your fucking prisoners!’

Kit ran up. ‘I want a full security alert - lock down the building! Nobody gets out until we find this woman. Now let us through!’

‘Yes, sir!’ The guard hurriedly opened the gate, then picked up a phone to raise the alarm.

‘How many ways are there out of here?’ Eddie demanded as they pounded back along the corridor.

‘The main entrances are on the east and west sides, and then there are the fire exits, the underground car park . . .’

‘She won’t be trying to get away on foot.’ Interpol’s headquarters were close to the southern bank of the river Rhône, a nearby lake limiting possible escape routes. They reached the elevators; one had stopped at a basement level. Eddie hammered at the call buttons again before going for the stairwell.

A siren blared as they reached the third floor. ‘Lockdown, lockdown,’ said a man over the PA system. ‘Security personnel, seal off designated exits. All other personnel, remain where you are.’ The message was repeated in other languages as they continued their descent.

Basement level. Eddie kicked open the door - to find a uniformed man sprawled in front of the elevators in a pool of blood. The holster on his belt was empty.

‘She shot him with his own gun,’ he told Kit, dropping into concealment behind the parked cars and signalling for him to do the same. ‘Which way’s the exit?’ Kit pointed. ‘Okay, you get more people down here - I’ll try and find her.’

‘Be careful, Eddie,’ warned Kit as he went to the emergency telephone by the elevators.

‘What do you bloody think I’m going to be?’ Hunched low, he checked for any signs of movement before scurrying towards the exit. A door slammed, but the echoes of the car park made it impossible to tell where. He weaved through the ranks of vehicles to a concrete ramp leading up to ground level. Yellow and black striped barriers blocked both exit lanes.

Still no movement. Maybe she was trying to get away on foot, doing the unexpected . . .

‘Eddie!’ Kit called. ‘The guards are on their way!’

The shout spurred their quarry into action. A big Citroën C6 peeled out of a bay and sped towards the exit - then swerved at Eddie.

He dived on to the bonnet of a Renault Clio as the Citroën ripped off the smaller car’s bumper, then crashed into one of the security barriers. The windscreen cracked as the obstacle rode up the car’s bonnet, but the C6 had built up enough momentum in its charge to smash through, the broken barrier clanging to the concrete.

Eddie ran back to Kit. An elevator disgorged a trio of armed guards. ‘We need a car!’ he told them. ‘Someone give me your keys, quick!’ One of the men fumbled in a pocket. Eddie snatched the keys from him and pushed the button on the remote. Lights flashed a few rows away. He ran for the vehicle, an ageing, dented little Volkswagen Polo - not his ideal choice to pursue a large and powerful executive cruiser, but all that was available.

He started the car and pulled out. By now, Kit had issued orders to the guards and run to the main lane, waving him down. Eddie skidded the hatchback to a stop. ‘Come on, get in!’

‘I don’t have a gun!’ Kit protested as the Englishman set off again.

‘You’ve got a phone, haven’t you? Call the Lyon cops and get them to set up roadblocks!’

The car reached the ramp and raced up to ground level. The road curved away from the Interpol building to join a street to its south. Eddie braked hard at the junction, not sure which way to go until he saw flashing hazard lights to the right - the fleeing Citroën had hit another car. He swung past the stricken vehicle and headed southwest, parallel to the river. They passed a bridge over the Rhône, but more signs of collision and chaos told him the C6 had turned south.

Kit shouted instructions in French into the phone. ‘There’s a unit in front of us,’ he reported. ‘It’s going to cut her off.’

Eddie spotted the C6’s distinctive vertical tail lights carving through the traffic about a hundred yards ahead. The Citroën sideswiped another car, which spun out - he veered on to the wrong side of the road to avoid the scrum of vehicles skidding to a stop behind it.

Flashing lights, a police car shooting out of a side road on to the boulevard. Madirakshi braked hard, the C6 fishtailing to duck down another street to the right. The cops followed, Eddie turning in after them. He crashed down through the gears, trying to recover speed as quickly as possible. Ahead, the police car closed on the Citroën.

Vertical brake lights flared—

The cops crashed into the C6’s back. Glass shattered, the big car’s mangled hatchback flying open - but the pursuers came off worst. The police car veered off course and hit a lamppost head on, folding around it with a shattering crunch that echoed through the street. Kit gasped what Eddie assumed was a Hindi obscenity.

One of the C6’s rear lights was still working, a single red slash speeding away. Eddie followed, sounding the horn. A near miss at a crossroads as the Polo swerved wildly to avoid a van cutting across their path, then back in pursuit. The closely packed apartment blocks, candles flickering in their windows, gave way to open space. They were back at the river, multicoloured searchlights waving skywards on the far side where the waterfront buildings were illuminated in every colour of the rainbow.

Eddie had no time to appreciate the sight. Madirakshi was heading for a bridge. He realised her plan: to disappear amongst the tourists flocking to see the spectacle of the Festival of Lights.

Another police car tried to block her path across the bridge. She didn’t slow, deliberately aiming for its back end and smashing it out of the way. The crumpled police car whirled like a top, spinning on to the pavement and scything down a pedestrian.

Kit gasped again. ‘People are getting killed - we’ve got to break off !’

‘No, wait!’ They were gaining quickly on the Citroën; the second crash had caused serious damage. ‘She’s slowing down. We’ve got her!’

The struggling C6 cut straight across the avenue at the far side of the bridge, more people scattering as the woman drove on to a broad footpath. Horn a constant wail, the Polo followed in the wake it had cleared through the crowd.

A large plaza opened up ahead, more tourists heading to the city’s heart. Two people were knocked down by the Citroën as Madirakshi swerved on to a swathe of lawn, but her car was in its death throes, steam billowing from the bonnet. She braked and skidded in a shower of earth and torn grass, ploughing the car into the crowd. Screams filled the plaza.

Eddie stopped the Polo, jumped out and saw her sprint into the shocked onlookers. He raced after her, Kit following. ‘Place Louis Pradel, vite!’ the Indian said into the phone, before yelling ‘Police!’ and gesturing furiously for people to clear the way.

More shouts of protest and alarm as Madirakshi clawed through the crowd told Eddie the direction she was heading. The narrow street he entered was illuminated by a canopy of lights overhead, thousands of tiny bulbs sparkling like stars. He couldn’t see his target in the crush of gawkers. If she doubled back, he could pass three feet from her and never realise—

A high-pitched shriek just ahead. She had knocked down a child. An enraged man yelled after her, her police uniform deterring him from violent retaliation. Eddie and Kit pushed past him - but the father grabbed the Interpol officer and yanked him backwards. No uniform, no deterrent. The man hurled him to the ground, about to kick him in the face—

Eddie smashed a punch into the furious father’s jaw, knocking him down. The fallen child screamed again. No time for apologies. He pulled Kit upright.

Where was the killer? He pushed forward, the street opening out into another large plaza - the Place des Terreaux. Any more yells from irate tourists would be drowned out by the carnival clamour of one of the Festival of Light’s main attractions; the square was crammed with people.

Eddie blinked in momentary confusion at the sight, its sheer visual impact like a slap to his eyes. The surrounding buildings were acting as massive projection screens, turning the city into a kaleidoscopic, almost psychedelic explosion of colours. The images were constantly changing, one moment perfectly matching the ornate façades and picking out each window frame in dazzling hyperreal shades, the next swirling into motion as giant animated characters danced above the crowd.

There were other displays within the square itself. A towering sculpture spiralled towards the cold night sky, neon lights blinking in sequence to create the illusion that it was rotating. Next to it a surreal figure, a ten-foot-tall hollow man composed of pea-sized balls of light, performed acrobatic motions above a tall pedestal. A hologram; the constant crackle where intersecting laser beams from below literally set the air alight was audible even over the booming music and crowd noise.

A loud whoosh and a cheer came from nearby. Eddie saw flame dispersing from a fire-eating act. No sign of Madirakshi, and the constantly shifting light from the enormous projections made it near impossible to pick out any particular person.

‘Do you see her?’ Kit asked, catching up.

‘No.’ He spotted a drainpipe on a nearby building and pushed his way to it. Climbing a few feet gave him enough height to see over the surrounding crowd. He scoured the milling heads, searching for anyone in a hurry—

There! Closer than he expected - she had apparently also been taken aback by the spectacle, hesitating at the plaza’s entrance before moving diagonally across the square near the fire-eater. Eddie pointed, then jumped down and joined Kit, shoving through the throng after her.

A startled woman yelled in French not far ahead. For a moment the crowd in Eddie’s path parted, giving him a glimpse of the police uniform. He was twenty feet behind her, less. Another whump of fire, people instinctively flinching away from the billowing flame as they applauded. Madirakshi changed direction, the retreating wall of people blocking her path.

She was an arm’s length away—

Eddie grabbed at her, fingers tugging her sleeve before she twisted away. He elbowed through the crowd after her to find himself in an oval space amongst the bustle. The fire-eater, a big man in Arabic-style clothing, looked round in surprise, a burning torch halfway to his mouth. The woman glared back at Eddie with her good eye, the prosthetic staring blankly ahead.

A stand near the fire-eater held other lit torches for his act - and a container of paraffin. She hurled the plastic bottle at her pursuers. Eddie darted aside, but it bounced off the younger man, splashing his arm.

She threw the torches.

The spilled fuel ignited. The crowd screamed and pushed back, people stumbling and causing a chain reaction as others tripped over them. A trail of flame rushed across the open space. Kit jumped away, but his sleeve was already alight. He swatted at the fire, trying to shrug off the garment. The fire-eater’s assistant scrambled for an extinguisher.

Madirakshi took advantage of the panic to dive back into the crowd. Eddie ran after her.

Neon flashed ahead, the shrill mosquito buzz of the holographic display getting louder. Behind, he heard the gushing hiss of the fire extinguisher. Madirakshi’s black bun had become partially unfastened in her flight, long black hair flapping behind her like a horse’s tail.

Eddie reached out, grabbed it, pulled. She shrieked, then spun.

The stolen pistol was in her hand—

He ducked as she fired, the bullet hitting a man behind him and showering his companions with blood.

Eddie sprang up before she could fire again, slamming his shoulder into her adbomen. She reeled. Metal clattered against paving as the gun was knocked from her hand.

He grabbed for the fallen weapon, missed, tripped as someone ran into him, and found himself amongst a forest of trampling legs. A man stumbled over him, stamping on his hand. Eddie yelled and struggled to stand, realising through the sharp pain that he had lost sight of Madirakshi. He looked from side to side. No sign of the police uniform—

Something lashed round his neck from behind.

Eddie’s hand flashed up reflexively just as the garrotte pulled tight, crushing his fingers against his Adam’s apple. Choking, he tried to push the wire away, but it cut painfully into his flesh, blood oozing out. A knee crunched into his back. He struggled for breath as the wire drew tighter, sawing at his throat—

Kit hurtled from the panicked crowd and tackled her. She lost her grip on one end of the garrotte as all three fell. He tried to pin her, but she elbowed him viciously in the face and jumped back up, about to run again—

Sirens howled all round the square, a voice booming orders through a megaphone. The Lyon police were sealing off the Place des Terreaux.

Eddie got up. ‘There’s no way out!’ he gasped. ‘If you give up now, I might not match your other eye up.’

To her other side, Kit was also recovering. Madirakshi glanced between the two men, eyeing up possible escape routes - and finding none, blocked by the towering neon display and the pedestal beneath the holographic dancer. ‘We can make a deal,’ said Kit. ‘Testify against your employer, and we—’

She was uninterested in deals. Instead, she ran to the neon sculpture - and started to climb it.

‘Get round the other side, cut her off!’ Eddie told Kit, but even as he spoke he realised she had no intention of jumping down. She kept climbing the ladder-like central frame, the spinning lighting effect seeming to sweep her aloft. What the hell was she doing?

The answer hit him as she reached the pinnacle, over thirty feet above. She wasn’t planning on coming down. Alive, at least.

‘No, wait!’ he shouted—

Too late.

She thrust her hands into the wiring.

The neon flickered, sparks sizzling from the sculpture’s summit as thousands of volts surged through her. People screamed at the sight. Smoke coiled from Madirakshi’s body as she shuddered uncontrollably, the vibrations shaking the whole tower . . .

Something broke loose. With the searing lightning-crack of an electrical short, the display went dark, and the woman fell away.

For a moment, it seemed as though the hollow man was trying to catch her . . . but he was just an illusion. High-powered lasers seared across her back as she dropped towards the holographic generator, uniform and hair bursting into flames before the blazing corpse smashed down spread-eagled on the pedestal. The operator hurriedly shut off the lasers, but the body continued to burn, rising smoke glowing in every colour imaginable as it passed through the beams of the giant projections.

8

New York City

‘What happened to her?’ Nina asked, wondering if she had misheard Eddie over the crackly international phone connection.

‘She electrocuted herself and fell on a hologram that set her on fire,’ he repeated. ‘Probably not what the local tourist board had in mind for their Festival of Light . . . Anyway, she was dead set - literally - on not being caught.’

‘I’ve heard of loyalty to your employer, but jeez,’ she said. ‘And Fernandez is dead?’ The thought was not exactly heartbreaking.

‘Yeah. She practically sliced his head off. We just got a preliminary report on her body - that glass eye of hers was a fake.’

Despite the grim situation, Nina couldn’t help but smile. ‘They usually are.’

‘Ha fuckin’ ha. I mean, it was a trick eye - there was a garrotte wire inside it. Someone’s been getting ideas from Last Action Hero. And by someone, I mean Pramesh Khoil.’

For the second time in less than a minute, she was astonished. ‘Are you serious?’

‘I saw that woman in San Francisco - she brought Khoil a phone just before we got attacked. So unless she was doing some really violent moonlighting, it’s a good bet that he’s connected with this. My guess is that he had Fernandez killed to stop him grassing.’

Thinking back, she remembered the woman. ‘Maybe the phone call was to tell Fernandez to carry out the raid,’ she mused. ‘His Plan A was to ask me for full access to the Talonor Codex - but when I said no, he already had Plan B all ready to go.’

‘Just steal the thing.’

‘Right. So what happens now?’

‘Kit’s going to India to check out the Khoils - he’s willing to take my word that this woman’s the one from Frisco, and he thinks that makes them worth investigating.’

‘And if Interpol finds the Khoils really are behind everything?’

‘Dunno, but I wouldn’t want to be in their shoes. Probably be a race between the Saudi General Intelligence Directorate and Chinese External Security to see who can kill ’em first for nicking their countries’ treasures.’

‘What about you?’

He yawned, almost setting her off in sympathy. ‘Doesn’t look like I’m going to get much sleep tonight. I’ve got to finish giving my statement to Interpol, then I’m flying back to New York.’

‘What time is it there now?’ She looked at her watch; it was past seven in the evening.

‘After one in the morning. When are you finishing work?’

‘I’m almost done. I had a fun day explaining to Sebastian Penrose and some State Department people how the director of the IHA got embroiled in another gun battle. You know, I really hoped we’d left this kind of thing behind us.’

‘No such luck, eh?’ He yawned again, then grunted in discomfort.

‘Are you okay?’

‘Yeah, just got a sore neck where she cut me.’

‘What? She cut you?’

‘Remember that garrotte? She got the drop on me with it. I’m okay, though.’

Nina’s concern grew. ‘And how did she get the drop on you?’ ‘It wasn’t ’cause of my hearing,’ he said, irritation clear in his voice.

‘I didn’t say it was.’

‘You were thinking it, though. Christ, this is why I didn’t tell you about it before.’

Now she too was annoyed. ‘I was just, y’know, worried about my husband. Jeez!’

‘Okay, okay, sorry. I’m just tired, that’s all. Think I need another coffee or six.’ A further yawn. ‘I’ll let you go. I’ll either give you a call from the flight, or when I get in to JFK.’

‘Have a good trip,’ she said. ‘See you soon.’

‘You too. Bye.’

She ended the call and unsuccessfully tried to suppress another yawn, stretching in her chair. While her day had hardly been as physically exhausting as Eddie’s had unexpectedly become, she still felt drained by the meetings and bureaucracy, and desired nothing more than to collapse into bed.

She finished her last few items of paperwork, then headed out, taking the elevator to ground level and ambling across United Nations Plaza towards First Avenue. Normally she would walk the four blocks to Grand Central Terminal and take the subway, but tonight she just wanted to get home quickly. A cab, then. As usual, the streets around the UN were choked with yellow cabs, but finding one for hire was the tricky part . . .

The roof light on one parked nearby came on. That was a stroke of luck; the driver must have just finished his break. She walked towards it, increasing her pace when she realised she was in competition with a middle-aged man. He saw her speed up and broke into a clumsy jog, both of them reaching the cab simultaneously.

The man grabbed the rear door handle. ‘Sorry, lady.’

‘Hey!’ Nina protested. ‘I saw it first.’

‘Seeing it doesn’t count.’ He opened the door.

The driver rapped on the bulletproof screen between the front and rear seats. ‘The lady was here first.’ His accent was Eastern European, gravelly.

The man started to climb in. ‘Just take me to East 19th Street.’ ‘Hey!’ Another bang on the screen, this time with a clenched fist. ‘I said, the lady was here first. Get the next one, eh?’

After a moment’s hesitation, the man retreated. ‘I - I’ll have your medallion for this,’ he bleated, then huffed sarcastically at Nina. ‘Enjoy your ride.’

‘I’m sure I will,’ she replied with a little smile. She got in, nodding to the driver. ‘Thank you.’

She could see why her rival had backed off - the cabbie was imposing, hard-faced and heavily built, with hair shaved to a stubble. ‘No problem. So, where to?’

Nina gave him the address and sat back as the cab moved off, thinking. Could Pramesh and Vanita Khoil really be involved in the thefts? They certainly had the money to finance Fernandez and his men. But it would be a collection they could never show off to anybody - and how did the Talonor Codex fit into it? It was valuable, yes, and historically important, but hardly on the level of Michelangelo’s David . . .

A sudden wave of guilt washed over her. Thoughts of the Codex inevitably led to Rowan, not only bringing back her feelings of grief, but also the reminder that she had yet to speak to his father. She had been busy, sure . . . but had that just been a way to avoid something of which, she was forced to admit, she was afraid?

She had to talk to him, she knew, however much she dreaded it. She was about to take out her phone, then decided that a cab wasn’t the best place for what would undoubtedly be an emotional call. More procrastination, an accusing voice said inside her head, but she needed calm, quiet, time to gather her thoughts—

The cab braked sharply, jolting her back to the present. It had turned on to one of the crosstown streets - but there was no traffic ahead. So why were they stopping?

The door to her left opened, a huge bearded man squeezing in beside her.

Shit! She was being mugged!

Grabbing her bag, she slid across to the other side—

The right-hand door opened as well, a smaller, skinny man pushing her back. She was sandwiched between the two intruders. Both were dark-skinned - Indian? The cab set off again. The driver hadn’t reacted - he was in on it.

But if they thought she was going to surrender meekly, they were wrong.

One hand fumbling in her bag, she drove the point of her other elbow against the smaller man’s cheekbone, snapping his head back. The big guy reached for her with a rough, hairy hand - as she pulled out a can of pepper spray and squirted it in his face.

He recoiled, eyes clenching shut - but in more of an instinctive flinch than the agonised thrashing she expected. Her own eyes stung horribly as the vapour reached her in the confined space. She tried to move away, but the second man was still pressed against her. Another swipe with her elbow—

His hand clamped round it, stopping the motion as if Nina had just hit a brick wall. Startled, she tried to pull away, but the grip tightened and held her arm firmly in place. The smaller man was a lot stronger than he appeared. Fear rising, she looked round at him.

A shark’s mouth grinned back at her from below malevolent dark eyes. His front teeth were filed to ragged points. He opened his mouth wide, leaning closer—

Nina screamed as he bit deeply into her upper arm. She tried to blast him with the pepper spray, but the big guy had already recovered, barely affected by the hot capsaicin, and swallowed her hand in his own, squeezing hard until her joints crackled agonisingly against the can.

‘Don’t struggle, Dr Wilde,’ said the driver. They knew who she was! It wasn’t a mugging, but a kidnapping.

The shark-mouthed man opened his jaws, Nina’s blood running down his chin. ‘Jesus Christ !’ she gasped. ‘What do you want?’ The bearded man released her hand, and the dented can clattered to the floor. In the flickering light of passing streetlamps, she saw that his lips were heavily scarred by what looked like burns, his cheeks oddly hollow.

‘You’ll find out soon. Here.’ The driver pushed a paper bag through the cash slot in the screen. The big man took it and tore it open; Nina saw that it contained a small bottle of antiseptic and several Band-Aids. ‘I wouldn’t want you to get an infection.’

‘Thanks for caring,’ Nina growled bitterly, snatching the bag from her captor.

The cab headed north into upstate New York. The drive took well over an hour, Nina losing track of where they were once they left the main highway.

Their final destination was a private airfield. The cab stopped beside a business jet, its engines already whining. Her captors pulled her roughly from the taxi and took her to the plane’s steps.

A figure appeared in the hatch. Nina recognised him immediately. ‘Funny,’ she said defiantly. ‘I was just thinking about you.’

Pramesh Khoil’s smooth, bespectacled face was as blank as it had been in San Francisco. ‘Hello again, Dr Wilde.’ He looked to the larger of the two Indian men holding her. ‘Bring her aboard. Was she any trouble, Dhiren?’

She expected the big man to speak, but instead he responded with a gurgling grunt. Horrified, she realised the meaning of the facial scars and his sunken cheeks - he had no tongue. It had been burnt out of his mouth. The other man said something in Hindi, his filed teeth giving his voice a wet, lisping quality.

‘Thank you, Nahari,’ said Khoil. He stood back as they shoved Nina into the plane. She blinked at the change of lighting, looking down the luxuriously appointed cabin to see Vanita Khoil coldly regarding her from one of the plush seats. Another Indian man, square-jawed and wearing a black turtleneck, stood beside her, his alert stance that of a bodyguard.

‘What do you want me to do now?’ asked the cab driver from outside.

‘Follow the plan, Mr Zec,’ Khoil told him. ‘Dr Wilde, your keys.’

‘What? Hey!’ The sharp-toothed man rummaged in her bag and handed her keys to Khoil, who tossed them to the Slav.

‘Wait for Mr Chase at their home,’ said Khoil. ‘I am sure he will ask to speak to his wife.’

‘What do you want with Eddie?’ Nina demanded, covering her rising fear with anger.

‘Your husband is going to get something for us,’ said Vanita, voice as icy as her expression. ‘The Talonor Codex.’

Nina gave her a mocking look. ‘Dream on. You know that Interpol already figured out you were behind the robbery in San Francisco, don’t you?’

‘They may suspect,’ said Khoil, dismissing Zec without a further word. A crew member closed the hatch. ‘But they will find no proof. Not until it is too late to matter.’

‘So why do you need Eddie? If you want the Codex, why not just make me get it for you?’

‘It would be too easy for you to raise the alarm. Besides, with you as our hostage, Mr Chase will be more malleable than you would be in the reverse position.’

‘You think you know us?’ she sneered.

‘Qexia knows you. All information about you and your husband has been collated and analysed. Mr Chase is more predictable than you, hence more controllable. His concern for your safety will ensure his compliance with our demands.’

‘He’s controllable, huh? I’ll tell him that when he calls - I’m sure it’ll give him a laugh.’

‘Bite your tongue,’ Vanita snapped, her dangling earrings swinging. ‘Pramesh, take us home. I have had enough of this country.’

‘As you wish, my beloved.’ Khoil turned and entered the cockpit. Nina expected him to issue orders, but was surprised to see him sit in the pilot’s seat and don a set of headphones.

‘Back there,’ ordered Vanita, jerking a dismissive thumb towards the rear of the cabin. The two men holding Nina pulled her with them. ‘Chapal, the drug.’

‘Drug? ’ Nina cried, seeing the man in the turtleneck raise a gun-shaped device - a jet injector, used to administer drugs without a hypodermic needle. She struggled and kicked, but her captors had too firm a grip.

‘I would advise that you take the drug, Dr Wilde,’ Khoil called from the cockpit. ‘Otherwise Mr Tandon will be forced to use his martial arts skills to render you unconscious. I understand it is excruciatingly painful.’

The man in black gave Nina a broad, menacing smile. ‘There are a hundred and eight marma pressure points on the body. Twelve are instantly fatal when hit by a varma ati master.’

‘Let me guess,’ said Nina unhappily. ‘You’re a master.’

‘Oh, yes. But the deadly points are very close to ones that cause unconsciousness or paralysis. If you struggle, even I could hit the wrong one.’ The smile broadened. ‘Would you prefer the drug?’

She clenched her jaw, reluctantly accepting defeat. For now. ‘Just . . . get it over with.’

Tandon pressed the injector’s nozzle to her neck and squeezed the trigger. There was a sharp hiss of gas, and she jerked in pain as the drug was blasted through the pores of her skin. For a moment, nothing seemed to happen . . . then her legs turned to rubber. The two men hauled her to a seat. The engines’ whine rose to a shrill roar as the plane prepared to take off.

‘You guys are gonna be . . . so screwed . . . when my husband catches you,’ Nina managed to say before her surroundings swirled away into a dark void.

His bruised muscles now tense and stiffened by the long flight, Eddie took a cab back into Manhattan. He tried to phone Nina, but was diverted to voicemail at the apartment, in her office and on her cell phone. Slightly annoyed, he called Lola.

‘Afternoon, Eddie,’ came the reply. ‘How was France? Did you see the Festival of Lights? I’ve heard it’s beautiful.’

‘It was . . . bright,’ he settled upon. Nina obviously hadn’t updated her on the previous night’s events. ‘Listen, do you know where Nina is? I can’t get hold of her.’

‘I’m not sure - I haven’t seen her today. She must be in another UN committee meeting.’

‘Stuck in a plane or stuck in a meeting? Not sure which is worse.’

‘At least on a plane you can watch a movie. Anyway, I’ll tell her you called when I see her.’

‘Okay. Thanks, Lola.’

Finally reaching home, he lugged his bag to the apartment. ‘Nina, you in?’ he called as he opened the door. No answer. He dumped his luggage and headed to the kitchen for coffee.

A man was sitting in one of the lounge chairs, pointing an automatic at him. ‘Don’t move, Mr Chase.’

Eddie assessed him in a flash. Eastern European accent, probably Bosnian; big, well muscled, a face that had seen a lot of action. Definitely ex-military.

One of Fernandez’s men? Here for revenge?

Even though his travel-induced lethargy had been instantly blown away by a surge of adrenalin, he feigned tiredness. ‘Who’re you - and where’s Nina?’

‘Safe, for now. My employers want you to get something for them. Do it, and she will be released.’

‘Your employers? The Khoils, at a guess.’

That surprised the man, but he quickly recovered, indicating a cell phone on a table. ‘Yes. They want to talk to you. The number is already entered.’

Keeping a wary eye on the gun as it tracked him, Eddie picked up the phone and pushed the call button. The screen lit up, giving him a glimpse of the number before it was replaced by an animated ‘Dialling . . .’ icon: from the unusual prefix code, 882, he realised he was being connected to a satellite phone.

A click, the ghostly echo of the signal being bounced off an orbiting relay . . . then a calm voice. ‘Hello.’

‘All right, Khoil, you fuckwit,’ said Eddie, recognising Pramesh Khoil’s flat, precise tones. ‘What d’you want?’

A brief pause, the time-lag of the satellite transmission. ‘There is no need for rudeness, Mr Chase.’

‘I can do violence instead.’

‘Your macho posturing is exactly what I predicted. I am not intimidated. Now listen carefully. As Mr Zec has informed you, we have taken your wife hostage.’

‘Zec?’ Eddie glanced at the man in the chair, the unusual name echoing faintly in the recesses of his memory.

‘We want you to obtain the Talonor Codex and deliver it to Mr Zec. If you do this, your wife will be released. If you do not, she will be killed. Today is Tuesday; you have until the end of Thursday.’

There was a background noise that was all too familiar after the last several hours: jet engines. Khoil was on a plane, which probably meant Nina was too . . . ‘You’ve fucked up, you know.’

‘Pardon?’

‘I can’t get the Codex for you. Nobody can, except Nina. You need her handprint to open the vault. And since I’m guessing you’re flying her away from the vault, well . . .’

‘I am aware of the vault’s handprint scanner. Your wife’s hand will be provided to you.’

Cold clutched at Eddie’s heart. ‘If you’ve fucking cut off her hand I promise you I will hunt you down, and cut off your fucking hand, and use it to pull your fucking heart out through your arsehole!’

‘Fantastical threats are not necessary - you misunderstand me. Your wife’s handprint will be provided.’

‘It will, will it? Let me talk to Nina.’

Khoil spoke to someone in Hindi. There was a faint hiss, followed by a nauseated groan.

Eddie knew who had made it, and felt a rush of relief. ‘Nina!’

‘Ohh . . . Eddie?’ she said, groggy and confused. ‘What’s . . . oh, shit. Eddie, these assholes have kidnapped me - they drugged me!’

‘You’re gonna be okay. I’ll take care of it.’

‘Eddie, they want you to steal the Codex for them. You can’t let them get it.’

‘If it’s how I get you back, then yeah, I can.’

‘No, absolutely not! I don’t know why they want it, but it’s got to be for something bigger than just its monetary value. It’s—’

‘Shut that red-haired witch up!’ said a woman’s shrill voice. Vanita Khoil. The sound of a scuffle came over the phone.

‘Nina!’ Eddie shouted. ‘Khoil, put her back on!’

There was another hiss. ‘Son of a bit . . .’ said Nina, her cry tailing away to nothing.

‘She is not hurt, only unconscious,’ Khoil said, retrieving the phone. ‘If you obtain the Codex for us, you will have her back. If you do not, or if Mr Zec tells me you have tried to contact the authorities - or he does not check in, for any reason - we will kill her. Now, give him the phone.’

Raging impotently, Eddie did as he was told, then paced the length of the room. Zec listened to Khoil, finally saying, ‘Understood, ’ and ending the call.

Eddie rounded on him. ‘So how the fuck am I supposed to get the Codex out of the vault? I can’t just walk out with the thing under my arm.’

‘Not my problem,’ said Zec, standing. ‘My job is just to deliver it to Khoil - and make sure you don’t try anything stupid.’

‘I’m not stupid enough to risk Nina’s life over some old book. You’ll get it - fucked if I know how, but I’ll work something out.’ He turned away again, pacing back down the lounge . . . until his gaze fell on the photo of his late friend. ‘Zec! Hugo Castille said he once worked with a guy called Zec, in Bosnia. That you?’

Zec glanced at the picture. ‘Yes. I saw the photograph. Our profession is a small world, no?’

‘It’s not my profession any more. But Hugo wouldn’t have worked with you if you weren’t a good bloke. So why’re you working for this arsehole Khoil?’

‘Why does a mercenary work for anyone?’ Zec asked rhetorically. ‘I was Urbano Fernandez’s second in command. Khoil asked me to take his place.’

‘You know Khoil had Fernandez killed, right? That lass with the glass eye almost sawed his fucking head off.’ Zec seemed disquieted by the revelation, but said nothing. ‘That’s it? No loyalty to your mate, just take the cash from the people who killed him? I guess Hugo was wrong about you.’

‘I need the money,’ said Zec, annoyed. ‘I have a family now, a son - I want to give them a good life, somewhere better than Sarajevo.’ He realised he had perhaps opened himself up too much, and the inexpressive mask slammed back down. ‘But the only thing you should think about for the next two days is how to get the Codex.’

‘Oh yeah, that’ll be a doddle, getting something the size of a bloody paving stone out of a top-security vault without anyone noticing.’ He gazed at the picture of Hugo for a long moment, then turned back to the Bosnian. ‘I’ll need some help.’

9

India

Nina awoke to find herself in a palace.

She had expected the plane, or a cell. But she was lying on a four-poster bed draped in fine silk, in an airy room decorated by colourful friezes on the walls and ceiling. The doors and shuttered windows were all arched, the style distinctively - almost stereotypically - Indian.

There was an odd feeling of artificiality to the place, as if she were in an Indian palace-themed hotel room rather than the genuine article. She went to a window, where bright daylight flared through the slats. Expecting it to be locked, she tried it anyway and was slightly surprised when the shutters parted to reveal an expansive sweep of immaculate lawns and gardens below. She could see other parts of the building; it was indeed a palace, domes topping the pillared white walls. Again, there was the too-clean, too-perfect sense of its being a theme park replica.

‘Dr Wilde,’ said Khoil’s voice from behind her, making her start. ‘Good morning.’

The room had changed, a section of wall silently sliding open to reveal a giant screen. The Indian’s bespectacled face, three feet high, regarded her from it. She realised she was under observation, a lens glinting below the display. ‘Mr Khoil,’ she said tartly. ‘Been watching me sleep, have you? I didn’t realise you made your fortune through webcams.’

He ignored the barb. ‘The room has a motion sensor. The house computers alerted me the moment you woke. Welcome to my home.’

‘Yeah, I’m so glad to be here.’ If her sarcasm had been any more acidic, it would have blistered the screen. ‘Where exactly am I?’

‘My estate, east of Bangalore. It combines styles of the Mysore, Kowdiar and Laxmi Niwas palaces, only updated with modern architectural elements. And integrated with the most advanced technology, of course.’

‘Well, of course. So are you just going to lecture me from your telescreen like Big Brother, or . . .’

‘You may “freshen up”, as you Americans say, then you will be driven to us.’

‘Driven?’ Nina raised an eyebrow. ‘Just how big is this place?’

‘The main building has a hundred and sixty-five rooms over five floors,’ said Khoil, taking her question literally. ‘But we are not in the palace at the moment; we are at the sanctuary.’

‘Sanctuary? For what?’

A faint smile on the blank face. ‘Tigers.’

Tandon, politely menacing, collected her from her room after she had showered. He took her to an elevator, which brought them to a large underground garage beneath the palace. Dozens of cars lined the space, from a nineteenth-century Benz Motorwagen tricycle to a brand new McLaren supercar in gleaming gold. It was an odd mix of vehicles, a little British Mini beside the rocketship bulk of a 1959 Cadillac, a record-setting Bugatti Veyron hunched next to a minuscule Tata Nano. Some facet of each vehicle’s design had apparently made them worthy of inclusion in the billionaire’s collection.

The vehicle Tandon took her to was less impressive than any of the gleaming exhibits, however: an electric golf cart. They drove up a steep ramp into the open, following a tree-lined drive. About half a mile north of the palace was a huge enclave, encircled by a high concrete wall topped with chain-link and razor wire. A runway ran along one side of the enclosure, the long black strip showing Nina just how far the boundaries of the Khoils’ estate extended. The jet sat outside a hangar, the structure’s doors partially open to reveal a small, strange-looking aircraft. Its matt charcoal-grey fuselage, a propeller at its rear, seemed too narrow to carry any people - even a pilot. Then the jet obscured it as they passed.

Abutting the wall was a two-storey building, an architectural sibling of the palace. Tandon took her to the upper floor. The sanctuary spread out before her through a glass wall. The view was dominated by a leafy tree canopy, though she could also see a more open area of grassland and bushes. Sunlight shimmered off a lake near the enclave’s centre.

‘Dr Wilde,’ said Khoil from one side of the large room. The tycoon was seated at a control station, a bank of monitor screens before him. The biggest showed a view from the upper branches of a tree. Beside him stood Vanita, bent over a control panel with her body language suggesting tension and concern - though the look she gave Nina was one of utter disdain. The tongueless giant and the shark-toothed man waited nearby, eyes locked on the new arrival. ‘Welcome to the sanctuary.’

‘Impressive,’ said Nina. ‘You must really like tigers.’ ‘They’re magnificent animals,’ Vanita said, passion clear in her voice. ‘And they’re being slaughtered by poachers. Two of the country’s reserves had every single tiger in them killed in the last few years.’

‘So you set up your own?’

She smiled coldly. ‘Any hunter who tries to harm my tigers will regret it.’

A voice crackled over a loudspeaker: ‘Ready at station three.’

Khoil acknowledged via a headset. He examined a map on one screen, coloured markers slowly moving across it. ‘She has taken the bait,’ he told his wife.

Vanita regarded the monitors excitedly. ‘Show me.’

He tapped a keyboard. One of the secondary screens flicked to a new view. ‘Come and watch, Dr Wilde. You may find this interesting.’

Despite herself, Nina couldn’t help but be intrigued. Tigers had been a favourite animal of her childhood, even if the closest she had ever been to one in real life was at the Bronx Zoo. The combination of sleek beauty and power was appealing to many children, of either sex; Vanita had obviously carried that fascination into adulthood.

On the screen, a squat concrete bunker, partially camouflaged by vegetation, rose from the ground in a clearing. Adjoining it was an open-topped cage - in which stood a goat, tethered to a pole. Over the speakers she heard a faint bleat. ‘What are you doing?’

‘One of the tigers injured her paw,’ said Vanita. ‘We need to bring her inside so our vets can treat her.’

‘We have three tigers, two female and one male,’ Khoil added. ‘They keep to their own territories, so we have several stations linked by tunnels where we can enter the sanctuary and provide them with live prey.’

Nina gave the goat a sympathetic look. ‘Sorry, Billy.’

The billionaire turned back to the controls. The image on the main screen shifted as the camera moved. Nina saw that it was airborne, slowly descending into the clearing. Khoil touched a button, and a crosshair was superimposed over the centre of the screen. ‘Lower the cage.’

A metallic rattle came over the speakers as the cage dropped into the ground, leaving the goat standing on a metal platform. Vanita indicated one of the markers with a long red nail. ‘She’s getting closer! Pramesh, let me see.’

Khoil obediently adjusted the controls. The camera panned left, tilting downwards to show a patch of bush at the edge of the clearing. ‘Each tiger has a tracker implanted,’ he explained to Nina. ‘We can locate them to the metre. This one will come into view . . . now.’

For a moment, Nina saw nothing. Then she spotted a slight movement in the undergrowth - and suddenly what she had taken to be patches of light and shadow took on graceful yet deadly form.

A Bengal tiger, three hundred pounds of muscle, teeth and claws standing over three feet high and eight feet long. Even with a wounded paw, the animal moved with silent, precise purpose.

‘We would not normally tie up the goat,’ said Khoil as Nina watched, unable to look away from the spectacle. ‘We want the animals to keep their hunting instincts.’

‘Move the drone back,’ Vanita warned sharply. ‘If she hears it, it might scare her away.’

‘The vimana is eight metres away. The rotors are inaudible past six metres.’ But the camera retreated slightly after she glared at him.

The goat finally saw the danger. Bleating in fear, it tried to run, but was jerked to an abrupt stop by the tether. The tiger responded, a black and orange explosion of action as it sprang across the clearing faster than Khoil’s camera could follow. By the time it caught up, the tiger had already reached its prey, slamming the goat against the side of the bunker and biting down hard on the unfortunate ungulate’s throat. Blood gushed over the grey concrete. Even with a lethal wound the goat was still struggling; the tiger lashed out a paw, claws tearing open its abdomen and spilling its innards across the ground. Nina winced.

Khoil worked the joystick controls. The drone descended towards the scene, crosshairs moving over the tiger’s body.

‘Don’t hurt her!’ Vanita warned.

‘I won’t, my beloved,’ Khoil replied, a hint of impatience in his flat voice. The camera drew closer.

The tiger looked up, a noise catching its attention—

He pulled a trigger on one of the sticks. A flat whap came over the speakers, the image jolting backwards. When it settled again, the tiger had released the goat and was trying to run back into the jungle - but only got a few yards before drunkenly flopping to the ground. A silver dart protruded from its flank.

‘She is down,’ Khoil reported into the headset. ‘Bring her inside.’ On the smaller monitor, the platform lowered into the ground. After a short pause it rose again, several men in white overalls stepping off and moving cautiously to the fallen predator.

‘Is she all right?’ Vanita demanded. One of the men felt the tiger’s body, then gave the hovering camera a thumbs up.

‘She will be fine,’ Khoil assured her. He pushed a button. The words Auto return flashed up on the big screen, the camera swinging round of its own accord and ascending above the treetops. ‘Now, Dr Wilde,’ he said, standing, ‘we can talk. I suspect it will be pointless, but Qexia projected a twelve per cent probability that you might be persuaded to work with me.’

Nina shrugged. ‘Sounds like your projections have a thirteen per cent margin of error, but go ahead.’

As he had earlier, Khoil missed the subtext and took the remark literally. ‘Less than five per cent, actually. But you are undoubtedly wondering why we want to obtain the Talonor Codex.’

‘It’d crossed my mind.’

‘Mr Zec has sent me scans of all the IHA’s research and translations from your apartment. They confirm everything I had hoped - that the Codex contains the information needed to reveal the location of the Vault of Shiva.’

‘So you think it’s real?’

‘As real as Shiva himself.’ Seeing her sceptical look, he continued: ‘You are surprised that a computer billionaire could also be a devout believer? This is India, Dr Wilde. The gods are all around us, as important a part of daily life as water. Vanita and I are both Vira Shaivites - “heroes of Shiva”. Following Shiva has brought us great wealth and power, and we want to show our gratitude by fulfilling the great lord’s plan for the world.’

‘What plan?’ Nina asked, but they were interrupted by a buzzing sound as something flew into the room through an open window: a black and silver flying machine about two feet across its front and slightly longer. It was triangular, a cylindrical shroud at each corner containing fast-spinning rotors. ‘What’s that?’

‘One of my vimanas - the name in the ancient Hindu epics for the flying machines used by the gods. They are described as flying chariots, mechanical birds, even floating palaces . . . the products of a great civilisation now lost to time.’ The little aircraft made its way to a stand at one side of the room, hovered above it, then lowered itself down. As the buzz of its engines faded, Khoil walked to the drone, Nina - and the three bodyguards - following.

She saw that slung beneath its body was a dart gun, a camera lens above it. ‘That’s how you tranqued the tiger? Cool little toy.’ The gun had a conventional trigger, pulled by a mechanism protruding from the drone’s belly. It had a magazine holding two more of the darts, which were fired by a small bottle of compressed gas.

She leaned closer. The amount of tranquillising agent needed to take down an animal as large as a tiger could be potentially lethal to a human. If she could reach the trigger mechanism . . .

‘Vanita has her pets; I have mine. I grew up under the flightpath of Bangalore airport, and when I was a child I thought the airliners were the vimanas my father told me about when he read from the Vedas and the Mahabharata. I actually wanted to be an engineer, to build aircraft, but then I discovered computers.’ Khoil became noticeably more animated as he warmed to his subject. ‘But it is still an interest. I own a large stake in one of India’s military aircraft manufacturers, and I designed this drone myself. Getting a high thrust-to-weight ratio in a small frame was—’

‘Pramesh,’ his wife scolded from the control station, ‘if you must talk to her at all, at least do her the courtesy of staying on topic.’

Khoil’s expression dropped back to its usual blankness. ‘But, yes, the Vault of Shiva. I do believe it is real, and I also believe it contains the means to advance the world into the next stage of existence - the words of Shiva himself, the wisdom of a god.’ Nina looked at him for a long moment. ‘You doubt me.’

‘It seems . . . far-fetched. To say the least.’

‘Why? Your own translations say the priests showed Talonor stone tablets from the Vault. The Shiva-Vedas, the words of the god.’

‘Which doesn’t mean they were literally carved by Shiva himself.’

‘I am not saying they were. But what is important is what they say . . . and when they were made. Dr Wilde, have you heard of the yugas?’

‘Well, you just jogged my memory, so yes - they’re parts of the cycle of existence in Hindu mythology.’

‘Correct. There are four stages in the current cycle: the Satya Yuga, the Treta Yuga, the Dvapara Yuga, and finally the Kali Yuga. The Kali Yuga is the last, and most debased, part of the cycle, farthest from the golden age of the Satya Yuga. It is also the yuga the world is in now.’

‘But that’s a theme with practically every religion,’ said Nina. ‘The present is always the worst time there’s ever been, and things were invariably better in the past. It’s either rose-tinted nostalgia, or “proof” that things have descended into sin and decadence - and the only way out is through whatever flavour fundamentalism the preacher prefers.’

‘In the case of Hinduism, though, it actually is true. The world will sink deeper into the darkness, until Shiva ends the cycle.’

‘By destruction.’

‘So that a new cycle can begin. A new Satya Yuga, a time of enlightenment and bliss. And the Shiva-Vedas will make it happen.’

‘How?’

He ignored the question. ‘The Talonor Codex proved that the Shiva-Vedas were in existence at the same time as Atlantis, around nine thousand BC. Yes?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Then they must come from an earlier yuga - at the latest, the Dvapara Yuga. The Hindu calendar is very old, and we know the exact date when the Kali Yuga began: 3102 BC. Specifically, January the twenty-third, in Gregorian dating. Because the words written in the Shiva-Vedas are from an earlier yuga, they are by definition more pure, more enlightened, than anything created in the corrupt Kali Yuga. They will form the cornerstone of the new era when it begins - when I make it begin.’

‘What, you think you’re Shiva now?’ said Nina, aghast.

‘No, I am just carrying out his will. But to end the cycle, I must have the Shiva-Vedas. They are the key to humanity’s salvation. Without the teachings of Shiva himself from a more enlightened time, the world will fall back into corruption, and everything I have achieved will be wasted. So to get the Shiva-Vedas I must find and enter the Vault of Shiva - and to do that, I need the Talonor Codex.’

‘But you’ve got the translations. Why do you need the Codex itself?’

‘For the key, Dr Wilde. The key the priests showed to Talonor - the key impressed on the cover of the Codex. From the impression, I will be able to make a duplicate. And I will use it to open the Vault.’

‘You need more than just the key, though,’ she pointed out. ‘The priests told Talonor that “only those who know the love of Shiva” can use it.’

‘But I do know the love of Shiva,’ said Khoil. ‘For all my life. Shiva does not care about castes. My wife and I are both Dalits - the “scheduled castes”, as the government calls them . . . or the “untouchables”, as you probably know them in the West. The lowest caste, oppressed and scorned for nothing more than an accident of birth and the professions of their ancestors centuries ago.’ Bitterness entered his voice. ‘Even now, Vanita and I still experience prejudice - from people whose businesses, whose lives, we could buy and sell on a whim.’

‘Ah, so everything you’re doing is to benefit the class struggle, is it?’ said Nina mockingly.

‘In a way,’ Khoil replied, her sarcasm once again failing to make it through his shield of literalism. ‘I believe in empowering the powerless, whether through free access to information - or by more direct means.’

She gestured at the trio of bodyguards. ‘Like paying them to do your dirty work?’

‘Some problems cannot be solved by discussion. Like Urbano Fernandez, who would have made a deal with Interpol if Madirakshi had not silenced him.’ The tongueless man gurgled something, Khoil replying in Hindi. ‘Poor Madirakshi. She was a loyal servant.’

‘Yeah, Eddie told me how loyal. She killed herself rather than be arrested.’

‘She was excellent at her work. Her eye was cut out by a drunk who took her for a prostitute. Vanita and I learned of her through our charitable foundation and paid for her facial reconstruction - and then we used Qexia to trace her attacker. He became the test subject for her . . . secret weapon, you might say.’

‘You’re a real humanitarian,’ said Nina. She regarded the three men. ‘So you’ve got Bollywood Bruce Lee here,’ she said of Tandon, who seemed amused rather than annoyed by the insult. ‘What are this pair’s stories?’

‘Dhiren Mahajan,’ said Khoil, indicating the bearded giant, then gesturing to the man with the filed-down teeth, ‘and Nahari Singh. Nahari used to compete in illegal street fights, but not through choice - he was bonded into it through debts his family owed. He was not the biggest fighter, so his owners gave him an advantage.’ Singh grinned spikily at her.

‘Your employee welcome package didn’t include dental, then?’

‘His choice. The mutilation can be useful. As you discovered.’ Nina rubbed irritably at her bandaged arm. ‘As for Dhiren, he was an enforcer for a gangster, until he became too friendly with the man’s girlfriend. An ancient punishment used by the Brahmins, the highest caste, was to put a red-hot nail in the mouth of transgressors. The gangster thought it would be amusing to resurrect the tradition.’

Nina looked at the bearded man in dismay. ‘Jesus. So the gangster, the “owners” - I’m guessing they’re not around any more.’

‘They have moved on to their next cycle of existence, yes. But Dhiren and Nahari and Chapal are not simply my servants - like myself and Vanita, we are all servants of Shiva. My faith in him has brought me to where I am today. And now, I am ready to repay him by bringing humanity into a new cycle.’ He stepped towards the front of the drone. ‘So, Dr Wilde. Now you know my intentions, I shall ask: will you help me find the Vault of Shiva?’

Nina folded her arms across her chest. ‘Because of you, my friend is dead - and so are a lot of other people. Do you seriously think I’d voluntarily do anything to help you?’

‘No, not really.’ A slight shrug. ‘Twelve per cent was only a small chance, after all. But I had to try.’

Vanita called to him. ‘I’m going down to the infirmary to watch the operation.’ She started for an exit, her two facially mutilated bodyguards following.

‘I will see you at the palace,’ Khoil said, shifting position as he turned to watch her leave . . .

Moving directly in front of the drone.

Nina lunged at the machine. She grabbed for the dart gun’s trigger, and pulled it. The weapon bucked in her hand with a thump of high-pressure gas, the steel dart exploding from the barrel—

And stopping an inch short of Khoil’s chest. As fast as a blink, Tandon snapped out his hand and caught it.

Khoil flinched away from the line of fire, eyes wide behind his glasses as Tandon dropped the dart at his feet. ‘That - was very foolish, Dr Wilde,’ he said, regaining his composure.

Vanita’s reaction was more nakedly emotional. She rushed towards Nina, screaming ‘Get her!’ to her companions. Nina tried to dodge away from them, but was quickly cornered. The huge bearded man grabbed her, twisting her arms up behind her back. She tried to hack at his shins with her heels, but he wrenched harder. Her shoulder joints crackled agonisingly, ending any further thoughts of resistance.

Vanita stepped closer, holding out one hand as she spoke in Hindi. The shark-toothed man came to her. For a moment Nina feared she had ordered him to bite her again, but instead he took something from a pocket and placed it in Vanita’s hand.

Click. The object was a switchblade, a glinting steel knife four inches long springing out of the handle. Vanita savagely yanked at Nina’s hair, taking hold of her right ear and pressing the blade’s sharp edge against it. Nina froze.

‘The only reason you’re not dead already is that we need you as leverage over your husband,’ Vanita hissed. She slid the knife across Nina’s earlobe, just hard enough to cut the skin. Nina gasped in pain. ‘But if you do anything like that again . . .’

The knife jerked back sharply. Nina screamed as it sliced into her ear.

‘You’ll die in pieces,’ Vanita finished, stepping back. ‘Chapal, come with me.’ She returned the bloodied knife to its owner and, shooting a final look of loathing at Nina, strode imperiously away, Tandon following.

‘You crazy bitch!’ Nina yelled after her, feeling hot blood running down her neck.

Khoil regarded her wound almost curiously, as if examining a laboratory specimen. ‘Nahari, tend to that,’ he ordered. The smaller of the two bodyguards gave Nina a mocking flash of his jagged teeth as he went to get a first aid kit. ‘Dhiren, release her.’

The giant let go of Nina’s aching arms. She put a hand to her ear, grimacing at the sting when she touched it. The knife had gone deep enough to slash cartilage. ‘Jesus Christ!’ she cried. ‘Fucking psycho!’

‘I hope that will teach you not to underestimate us,’ said Khoil.

‘Do not make the mistake of thinking I am just a computer nerd.’ The word sounded strange in his affectless voice. ‘I grew up in the slums. I fought every centimetre of the way to be where I am today. And I did whatever was necessary to achieve my goals.’

Singh returned with a Band-Aid and prepared to apply it to Nina’s ear, but she snatched it from him. ‘I’ll do it,’ she snapped. As she fumbled with the dressing, she glowered at Khoil. ‘So what are your goals? What are you going to do once you get the Shiva-Vedas?’

He didn’t answer, instead gesturing for his bodyguards to take Nina away.

10

New York City

‘So, that’s what we’re dealing with,’ said Eddie. ‘And we’ve got to do it by tomorrow night. Any ideas?’

The expressions of the other people in his apartment varied, but none was brimming with confidence. Mac was the first to speak. ‘We’ll do everything we can to help, obviously,’ he said, ‘but wouldn’t it be better to go after this Khoil fellow and get Nina back?’

Eddie shook his head. ‘He’s got Zec keeping tabs on me. I’d already be on a plane to India to punch the pudgy little bastard in the face if he hadn’t.’

‘Can’t we just clobber this Zec bloke the next time he turns up?’ asked Matt Trulli.

‘He checks in with Khoil’s people every so often. Miss a call, and . . .’

The faces were now all downcast. ‘Do you think you’ll even be able to get into the vault?’ asked Karima Farran, sitting with her fiancé on the couch.

Eddie indicated a six-foot length of steel ventilation ducting propped against one wall. ‘According the plans Lola got for me, that’s the same size as the air vents in the vault area. I should be able to fit.’

Karima looked dubiously between the duct and Eddie’s waist. ‘Are you sure?’

‘We’ll test it out in a minute. If I can’t, I’ll have to get some emergency liposuction.’

‘The vault’s really got ducts big enough to crawl through?’ Matt asked disbelievingly. ‘Sounds a bit Mission: Impossible, if you ask me. And I mean the proper original one, not the Tom Cruise malarky. The real Jim Phelps’d never turn traitor.’

Eddie smiled slightly. ‘You’ve been wanting to get that off your chest for years, haven’t you?’

‘Too bloody right, mate!’

Lola held up a structural blueprint. ‘They have to make them that big by law. When the UN was built, it was exempted from New York building codes because it’s legally on international territory. But the NYC Fire Department still has to respond if there’s an emergency, so when the building was refurbished a few years ago they made them bring the place up to code. One of those codes is that vaults have to have external ventilation in case someone gets locked inside . . . and another is that vents to underground floors have to be able to carry a minimum volume of air per minute.’

‘Which means,’ said Eddie, banging the duct with his hand, ‘they have to be this big. Nine inches by fourteen.’

‘Only,’ continued Lola, ‘they obviously knew that a vault having ducts big enough to fit a person isn’t a great idea. So the ones that go into the UN’s secure archives have metal plates welded inside them, so air can get through - but people can’t. And the actual air vents are on the sixth floor machine level. If you tried getting in that way, there’s a seventy foot drop, straight down.’

‘So the only way to get into the vault through the vents,’ said Radi Bashir, scratching his chin, ‘is to be in the room where the vault is in the first place?’

‘Pretty much,’ said Eddie.

‘And won’t the guards be a little suspicious of that?’

‘Well, that’s something else we need to work out, innit? On top of all the other stuff - avoiding the security cameras, disabling the alarms, taking the Codex from the vault, getting the bloody thing out of the building without anyone noticing . . .’

‘I can handle the security cameras,’ Rad said. ‘That is, if Matt can get his submarine to the junction box.’

‘Servo’ll get there just fine,’ said Matt, a little defensively.

‘Servo?’ Mac asked.

‘Segmented Robot Vehicle Operations. He’s like a snake - wriggling through narrow spaces underwater is what he’s designed for. But we’ll have to do it at high tide, which won’t give us much time. If anything holds us up, he’ll be left grounded when the water level drops.’

‘And we’ll be fucked,’ Eddie added. ‘Which is why we’ve got to work all this stuff out now. And fast.’

‘Putting all the pieces together’ll be a tall order,’ said Mac. ‘But if anyone can figure it out, you can.’

‘Thanks,’ Eddie said with a half-hearted grin. ‘But then, I’ve bloody got to if I want Nina back, haven’t I?’

‘Then we’d better come up with a plan.’ Mac stood, his prosthetic leg creaking as he put his weight on it. ‘First things first. If you can’t fit through this duct, it’s all over before it even begins.’

‘Why do you have to do it, Eddie?’ Karima asked. She stood, displaying her slim body. ‘I could fit a lot more easily.’

‘I’m doing it,’ Eddie said firmly. ‘If I get caught, then so be it, but I’m not having anyone else take the fall for me. Okay, let’s have a look.’

He and Mac laid the duct on the floor. Lola examined one end. ‘Gee, Eddie. Is that really nine inches tall? It doesn’t look very big.’

Eddie had the same thought, the opening appearing impossibly small. He pulled off his jumper. ‘Okay, Matt, Rad, hold it in place. Mac, give me a hand.’

As the two men gripped the duct, he lowered himself on to his stomach and extended his arms, shoulders tight beside his head as he edged forwards. Elbows in, biceps . . . The edges of the thin sheet metal pressed against him on both sides. Could he even fit?

‘You can do it,’ said Mac encouragingly, as if reading his mind. ‘Twist round a bit - left side down, right side up.’

The move gave him the extra fraction of an inch he needed. He wormed into the duct. Christ, it was tight! His shoulders were the widest part of his body, so theoretically he would fit all the way in - but he was already experiencing an unpleasant sense of claustrophobia.

‘Keep going,’ Mac told him.

Eddie grunted and kept advancing, little by little. The top of the duct rubbed against his head, forcing him to turn it sideways, adding to his discomfort. ‘Shit,’ he said, the sweat that had already formed on his fingertips causing them to slip on the smooth metal. ‘I can’t get a grip.’

‘Hang on,’ said Matt. ‘I brought some things that might help.’

Eddie looked ahead, his living room reduced to a rectangle surrounded by dull steel. Lola peered through the slot at him. ‘How you holding up, Eddie?’

‘Fucking champion,’ he said with an unconvincing grin. Lola moved away, her face replaced by Matt’s rounder features.

‘Here you go, mate,’ said the Australian, putting something in Eddie’s hand. ‘See if that works.’

He examined the heavy object: a thick disc of dark metal, topped by a plastic casing with a switch set into it. ‘What is it?’

‘Portable electromagnet, for underwater salvage. Self-contained; the battery’s in the case, and very powerful. Give it a try - just push the switch. Careful, though. Don’t get your fingers trapped under it - it’s strong enough to crush ’em.’

‘Thanks for the tip.’ Keeping his fingers clear of the metal disc, Eddie flicked the switch. The magnet instantly clamped itself to the steel with such force that the entire duct rattled. ‘Jesus!’

‘Not very stealthy,’ Mac remarked drily.

‘Baby steps, eh?’ said Matt. ‘Let’s see if it works first. Eddie, try pulling yourself along with it.’

Eddie switched off the magnet and stretched forward as far as he could before reactivating it. Even with the disc flat on the metal, there was still a clunk of contact. ‘That’s going to be a problem,’ he muttered, dragging himself forward, ‘and - shit!’ The magnet slipped along the steel panel with a piercing screech. ‘And that’s definitely going to be a problem.’

Matt reappeared at the opening. ‘Crap. I was afraid of that. It’s designed to support a perpendicular load, not parallel - it’s just going to slip all the time.’

Eddie switched off the magnet. ‘Bollocks. Thanks for trying, anyway.’

‘Oh, I’m not done yet, mate!’ Matt retrieved the magnet, replacing it with another device. ‘This might work better.’

‘A suction cup?’ said Eddie, turning it over in his hand. The flattened black rubber dome was about five inches in diameter, a

U-shaped hinged metal handle attached. ‘Now we really are getting all Jim Phelps.’

‘There’s a lever under the handle - you push the handle up, move the lever across and pull the handle back down to create the vacuum. When you want to release it, just shove the lever back the other way.’

Eddie tested it, air hissing from the cup as he drew back the handle. Pulling himself further into the duct, he was relieved to find that unlike the magnet, the suction device held firm. He released it with another hiss, moved it along, then clamped it down again. Pull—

‘Hrmm,’ said Mac, as Eddie’s backside wedged against the top of the duct. ‘You may need to lose a few pounds there.’

‘Eddie got back,’ sang Lola, giggling, then blushed. ‘Sorry. It’s not funny.’

Karima crouched for a closer look as Eddie wriggled in an attempt to clear the obstruction. ‘She has a point, though. It’s not so much the size of your bottom—’

‘You saying I’ve got a fat arse?’ came an echoing complaint.

‘—as what you’re wearing. Your clothes are catching on the edge. You won’t be able to do this in jeans; you’ll need something tighter.’

Mac put a palm on Eddie’s butt and pushed down. Eddie hauled himself further inside. ‘I hope that was Karima’s hand.’

‘Of course,’ said Mac, winking at her.

Now that he was fully inside, Eddie was able to advance. It was still horribly tight, but using the suction cup he reached the other end in fairly short order. Matt and Rad pulled him out. ‘Jesus. I’m not claustrophobic, but that might get me started.’ Just traversing the short distance had left him sweating. How would he manage in the vault’s much longer duct?

Mac had the same thought. ‘Eddie, you look knackered, and that was only six feet. And when you do it for real, you’ll have equipment with you. We’ve got to find a way to make it easier.’

Eddie wiped his brow. ‘Okay, Matt - you’ve got until tomorrow to invent a shrinking ray.’ The joke produced a little levity in the room - which instantly vanished at the rasp of the entry buzzer. ‘Shit, that’ll be Zec. Mac?’

Mac drew a revolver and took up position in the study as Eddie buzzed Zec into the building. ‘Okay,’ said Eddie to the others, ‘stay cool and I’ll handle this.’ He was about to go to the door when he noticed a cup from which Mac had been drinking, and hurriedly took it into the kitchen. The fewer people Zec knew were involved, the better.

A knock on the door. Eddie let the Bosnian in. Zec was carrying an impact-resistant plastic box the size of a briefcase, as well as a holdall. He took in the hostile faces with a dismissive eye before regarding the ducting. ‘This is the size of the vents in the UN?’

‘Yeah,’ said Eddie.

He put the box down at one end of the duct, pushing it into the opening. It fitted - just. ‘Lucky. You will need to take this with you.’

‘What is it?’

Zec pulled the box back out and opened it, revealing a piece of equipment that looked like the guts of a desktop scanner mounted above a transparent plastic tank some five inches deep. ‘Portable rapid prototyper. Fill with—’

‘I’ve used these,’ Matt cut in. ‘There are two lasers in the scan head, and where the beams cross they turn the medium in the tank solid. They build things up layer by layer, like a 3D fax machine. Once whatever you’re making’s set, you just lift it out of the tank.’

‘So what’s this one going to be making?’ asked Eddie.

Zec smiled sardonically. ‘Your wife’s hand. I will give you a memory card with her handprint tomorrow.’

Matt regarded the prototyper dubiously. ‘What’s its resolution? The ones I’ve used haven’t been accurate enough to copy fingerprints.’

Zec took a moment to remember the answer. ‘Sub-millimetre, whatever that means. It will be good enough.’

‘It’d better be,’ rumbled Eddie.

Matt had more technical questions. ‘What about the base medium - is it a photopolymer or a thermoplastic powder? How long will take to make the handprint?’

The mercenary frowned. ‘Ten minutes, and the liquid is in the bag - what it is does not matter!’ He faced Eddie. ‘All you need to know is that it will work. But once the handprint has been created, you must wait until it cools to the right heat before you use it.’ He opened the holdall and took out a digital thermometer. ‘The security scanner checks body temperature as well as handprints.’

Eddie kneaded his forehead. ‘Great, one more thing to worry about.’

Zec looked at the blueprint. ‘How is your plan coming?’

‘It’s getting there. But it’d be getting there faster if we could actually work on it. You’ve delivered your little toy, so fuck off and leave us to it.’

Unbothered by the insult, Zec headed for the hall. ‘You have until tomorrow night to bring me the Codex. I will be waiting.’

‘Yeah,’ Eddie said coldly. ‘So will I.’ He waited until Zec had departed, then locked the door.

Mac emerged from the study. ‘Bastard. I had a perfect shot at him the whole time, too - I would have put a bullet in his head if you’d given the word.’

‘Not just yet,’ said Eddie. ‘Can’t do anything to him until Nina’s safe.’

‘You know that he’s almost certainly been told to kill you the moment you hand over this book? And they probably intend to kill Nina too?’

Eddie smiled grimly. ‘Course I do. That’s where Plan B comes in.’

11

India

A sharp rap on the door jolted Nina out of her boredom.

She had been a prisoner in her suite since the previous day; meals had been brought to her, but there was always a guard in the hallway outside. She had considered escaping via the window, but it was too high for her to jump down - and she was still constantly being watched electronically, the guard entering within seconds to order her to close it. Sullenly, she sat up. ‘What?’

Tandon entered. ‘Mr Khoil wants to see you.’

She had no interest in seeing him, but decided it would at least alleviate her cabin fever. Besides, anything more she could find out about his plans might be useful. ‘Okay, lead on.’

Tandon took her through the palace to a large, high-ceilinged room. For a moment, she wondered if she had been brought to some bizarre high-tech disco: the room was dark, lights flickering inside a tall dome-shaped framework at its centre. The illumination came from dozens of large flatscreen monitors, arranged inside the frame to form an almost 360-degree wall of video.

‘Come in, Dr Wilde,’ Khoil called from the heart of the display. Tandon directed her to a gap in the screens. She blinked as she entered, the view from inside the dome almost overwhelming. Each screen seemed to be showing something different - broadcasts from TV networks all over the world, web pages, complex computer-generated graphs and charts, all of them constantly changing.

Khoil stood before a slim stand resembling a lectern in the middle of it all, looking up at one particular cluster of screens. He raised a hand and made a pinching gesture with his thumb and forefinger. The information spread over several monitors shrank down to just one; a sideways sweep, and a different set of figures expanded to take its place. He took them in, then raised a hand to his ear as if holding an imaginary telephone, tapping at the air with his other index finger. On the screens, a pointer moved over a representation of a numeric keypad that had appeared over the images. Sensors in the lectern were reading his movements, Nina realised: a gestural control system. After a moment, a man spoke in Hindi over loudspeakers. Khoil issued terse instructions, then lowered his hand to end the call. The virtual keypad faded away. He checked the screens, then turned to Nina. ‘Welcome to my infotarium.’

‘Great,’ she said, unimpressed. ‘Does it get the History Channel?’

‘It gets every channel. It allows me to process data in a fraction of the time it would take using conventional media. It is the most efficient way to avoid being crushed by the weight of information I deal with each day.’

The constant flicker of the screens was already making Nina feel vaguely nauseous. ‘I think I’d prefer a newspaper.’

‘I should have known that as an archaeologist, you would have a preference for the archaic. But then, Vanita does not like it either. She says it gives her a headache.’

‘I bet you hear that a lot, huh?’

Khoil either ignored the mocking jibe or, just as likely, failed to understand it. ‘The future of information delivery is not why I brought you here, though.’ He gestured with both hands, holding them flat and moving them apart: that’s enough. The visual cacophony disappeared, replaced by the infotarium’s equivalent of a computer’s desktop. He raised a hand and ‘tapped’ in mid-air; an icon pulsed as if touched, text zooming to fill the display.

She recognised it immediately as a translation of the Talonor Codex - but not quite the same as the one she had read. The phraseology was subtly different, and some of the sections not yet completed by the IHA had been filled in. ‘Is this your own translation?’

‘Yes, performed by Qexia. As I said in San Francisco, it is much more capable than the typical translation program. It learns through analysis - not just about languages, but any subject. The more information it has, the more accurate the results.’

‘It obviously doesn’t have all the answers, though. Otherwise why would you need me?’

‘Even though Qexia produced this in a matter of hours rather than the months taken by the IHA staff, it still cannot make deductions when the database lacks sufficient information.’

‘Score one for experience and intuition, then,’ said Nina, remembering their conversation at the exhibition hall.

Annoyance briefly crossed the Indian’s placid face. ‘However, it has told me enough for now. By analysing the Codex and cross-referencing it with all the other data accessible to Qexia, it has discovered the approximate location of the Vault of Shiva.’ Another mid-air tap, and a map swelled on the wall. ‘It was actually quite obvious in hindsight - any true follower of Shiva would have guessed it, but Talonor’s journey helped confirm it.’ He pointed, a cursor fixing on a particular location. ‘Mount Kailash - the home of Lord Shiva.’

‘Isn’t that in Tibet?’

‘Yes. About seventy kilometres from the border between India and China - though since the border is disputed, it is hard to be precise.’

‘But definitely on the Chinese side, though,’ Nina pointed out. ‘Could make it hard for you to go nosing around.’

‘Not at all. For one thing, I have excellent connections with the Chinese government - my company provides software and services for them. For another, the Sacred Mountain is a place of pilgrimage for Hindus. Thousands travel there each year. It is the tallest unclimbed mountain in the world - not even the Chinese dare interfere with the site.’

‘But you’d dare, right?’

Now he seemed almost offended. ‘Of course not. Besides, the Vault is almost certainly not on the mountain itself. It took the priests a day to reach it.’

‘And an hour to get back.’

‘A paradox that Qexia noted. It may be that a river connected the two locations, and they were able to return downstream in a fraction of the time needed to get up it.’

Nina almost pointed out that Talonor had travelled away from the river to visit the Hindu temple, but decided that giving him potentially helpful information was a bad idea. Instead, she shifted the subject. ‘I still don’t see how opening the Vault of Shiva will bring about the end of the world. So you make an amazing archaeological find, tablets that may have been written by Shiva himself - then what? That on its own won’t bring about the apocalypse.’

‘The apocalypse is coming, no matter what, Dr Wilde.’ Khoil faced her, reflections on his glasses turning his eyes into discs as blank as his expression. ‘Humanity is sinking into a new dark age of violence and depravity. Barbarism will reign. Within the next fifty years, modern society will be destroyed.’

Nina cocked her head. ‘You’re not the first person to make a prediction of imminent armageddon. The Book of Revelation, Nostradamus, all that 2012 Mayan calendar nonsense . . . and every one of them was wrong.’

‘Not this time. It is inevitable.’ He waved a hand, more screens lighting up round them. Images appeared - deforestation, factories belching pollution, rioters, burning buildings - as well as chart after chart in which the lines shot alarmingly either up . . . or down. ‘Qexia makes logical predictions based on available data. Every prediction produces the same result - the end of civilisation as we know it. The only variable is the timeline.’

‘Nice little Powerpoint demonstration,’ Nina said sarcastically. ‘But applying math to a prediction of doom doesn’t mean it’ll happen. People have been doing that since Thomas Malthus in the eighteenth century, and we’re still here.’

‘But you cannot deny that society is becoming more degenerate as we descend deeper into the Kali Yuga. It is written in the Mahabharata: “sin will increase and prosper, while virtue will fade and cease to flourish.” See for yourself.’ Another gesture, and the depressing display was replaced by columns of text. ‘These are the most common search terms entered into Qexia. Billions of people have access to the greatest source of knowledge in history, and what are they looking for?’ He jabbed at the screens, words flashing an angry red under his virtual touch. ‘Sex! Pornography! Trivial news about worthless celebrities! Images of violence and destruction! Society’s innermost desires laid bare. Moral corruption is all around us. Is this worth saving?’

‘Okay, so it’s not perfect, but . . .’

A small smile creased Khoil’s smooth cheeks. ‘Shall we see your innermost desires, Dr Wilde?’ A stylised keyboard was superimposed over the screens; he ‘typed’ in the air, the keys blinking as he entered a string of text.

Nina was unnerved to see her name amongst the words, more so when a new list appeared. ‘Wait, how did you get—’

‘Qexia remembers everything. Who used it, and when, and why. And then it analyses that new data, and adds it to everything else it has learned. It can even tell with a high degree of probability whether you or your husband are using it.’ More commands, and the list split into three columns: one headed by Nina’s name, one by Eddie’s and the last labelled Indeterminate. He highlighted one of the items in Eddie’s list. ‘For example, I find it unlikely that you would have an interest in this particular subject.’

Nina scowled, even as she blushed at the discovery that her husband apparently had a kink of which she was unaware. ‘Oh, I’m going to have a talk with him about that.’

‘You are hardly innocent yourself, Dr Wilde. Shall we see?’ The cursor hovered over her list.

‘Uh - no, okay, point taken!’ Khoil smugly dismissed the display. ‘So what are you planning on doing with all this information? Blackmail everybody who’s ever used the internet?’

‘No. I am going to bring about the end of the Kali Yuga.’ He said it with the same flat, robotic matter-of-factness that characterised the rest of his speech. ‘The collapse of present civilisation is inevitable, but because it is part of the cycle of existence, restoration - a new Satya Yuga, a new dawn of virtue - is also inevitable. My computer models have told me that the sooner the Kali Yuga ends, the shorter the period of chaos before the Satya Yuga begins. As I said, it could take fifty years for the collapse to happen naturally, fifty years of decadence and decay, meaning the recovery would begin from a lower point. It could take a century for the new era to begin - a century of pain and suffering. But if the collapse were to happen now . . . it would take only ten years.’

‘That’s still ten years of chaos.’

‘Better ten than a hundred.’ He stepped closer to her. ‘I am not a passive man, Dr Wilde. I rose from the slums by seeing opportunities and taking them, changing the world around me to my advantage. This will be the ultimate opportunity, and I must take it, for the good of all humanity. I will end the Kali Yuga - but I will also guide the beginning of the Satya Yuga.’

‘The downfall of civilisation as a business opportunity, huh?’

‘More a guiding hand. I have been assembling resources worldwide - people with vital skills, stockpiles of food and shelter, secure data archives in remote locations like Mongolia and Greenland, a satellite communications infrastructure that will be unaffected by wars on the ground. They will all be put to use to help those in need following the collapse.’

Nina narrowed her eyes. ‘With strings attached, I’m guessing.’ ‘The world must learn that Shiva is the one true lord of creation. Which is why I hired Urbano Fernandez. Some of the items he obtained for me were for their protection; they are irreplaceable cultural treasures that would surely be stolen or destroyed during the chaos.’

‘And they’ll just happen to be in your private collection for “safekeeping” while all this is going on, right?’

‘But,’ he went on, ignoring her, ‘the others will provide me with leverage in places where the word of Shiva might not be heard.’ ‘Places like Saudi Arabia,’ she realised. ‘If there’s a global collapse, nobody’ll be paying for their oil - and they don’t have a hell of a lot of other resources. So then you tell them, “If you want help, if you want the Black Stone back, I want something in return.” ’

‘Correct. Money may not be much use after the collapse, but influence will be. Having power over the Saudis gives me influence over Islam, power over the Italians gives me influence over Roman Catholicism, and so on. I will use it to spread the word of Shiva - the true, uncorrupted word that waits inside the Vault.’

‘Sounds kinda far-fetched, if you ask me,’ Nina scoffed. ‘You won’t turn over centuries of belief and tradition with blackmail.’

‘People will do anything when they are hungry and desperate. When one god has failed them and another offers them hope, will they take it? I think so.’

Nina slowly circled him, Tandon shadowing her. ‘So how are you planning on bringing all this about? I don’t see how a search engine can be a harbinger of the apocalypse.’

‘Then you are short-sighted, Dr Wilde. Qexia will play a vital part.’

She could tell that he was itching to impress her with his cleverness; the question was, how much would his ego let slip? She injected a disbelieving, faintly mocking note into her voice. ‘You’re going to end the world with search results? How?’

He raised his hands, the virtual keyboard appearing on the screens. Some commands, and the walls lit up with numerous pages from news sites around the globe. ‘People choose sources of information not because they trust them to be impartial, but because they reflect their own view of the world. Their biases - their passions, if you like.’ He regarded the screens. ‘All these pages are about a terrorist bombing in Mumbai two weeks ago. As you can see, it was covered by dozens of news agencies in different countries, each of which had its own interpretation of events.’

‘That’s hardly news, if you’ll excuse the pun.’

More commands. ‘When people want information about a subject, they turn to a search engine. Like Qexia. Now, these are the results a Hindu living in India would see when they searched for information about the bombing.’

A ‘cloud’ of results appeared, the ones Qexia deemed most relevant dominating the centre, others smaller on the periphery. Nina examined the central cluster; they blamed Pakistani-backed Islamic militants for the attack. ‘Okay, but apart from looking prettier, I don’t see how that’s any different from what you’d get on Google.’

‘Then see what the same search would give to a Muslim in Pakistan.’ He typed again. The search cloud reloaded . . . with considerably different results.

‘These . . . these are all accusing the Indian government of lying,’ Nina saw. ‘Blaming the Pakistanis for something they weren’t involved in.’ The larger implications struck her. ‘This is stirring up tensions between India and Pakistan.’

Khoil nodded. ‘As I told you, Qexia learns about its users. As they provide it with more information, it builds up a better picture of their beliefs. It was designed to target advertising more precisely . . . but it has other uses.’

‘You’re fixing the search results,’ said Nina accusingly. ‘You’re lying to them.’

‘Not at all. It gives them what they expect to find - feeding their biases. Inflaming their passions. All sources of information throughout history have filtered their results to favour a particular point of view. I am doing the same, for the most noble of reasons.’

‘Noble?’ Nina snapped. ‘You think bringing down modern society and causing God knows how many millions of deaths is noble?’

‘If it is for a greater purpose, then yes.’

‘And how were you planning on doing this?’ She waved a hand at the screens. ‘Inflaming passions, starting a war, yeah . . . but between who?’ As soon as she spoke, she realised that Khoil might have already answered the question: he had chosen the subject of his demonstration without hesitation, as if it had already been on his mind. India and Pakistan were nuclear-armed enemies, on the edge of open conflict for decades. Had his urge to show off his technology, his intellectual superiority, tipped his hand?

However, he proved unwilling to elaborate. ‘You will find out soon. As will the rest of the world. But that is not why I brought you to me. Come this way.’ Khoil exited the dome, Tandon pushing her after him.

He rounded the framework supporting the screens and led her to one side of the room. A desk held several pieces of high-tech equipment, but Nina’s attention was caught by something obsolete. A glass display case contained a small computer of a type she didn’t recognise, but from its styling - and time-scuffed condition - it appeared to be of 1980s vintage.

Khoil noticed her looking at it. ‘My first computer,’ he said. ‘A Spectrum Plus. Everything I have achieved with Qexia began with that.’ Something approaching warmth entered his voice. ‘As a boy, I made money for my family by repairing and selling broken devices we found on the dump - radios, tape players, and so on. I could not believe that somebody had thrown away a computer! The only thing wrong with it was the power supply, and once I repaired it we were going to sell it . . . but I decided to experiment with it first. I wrote some simple programs - and, as the saying goes, I caught the bug.’

‘Your humble beginnings,’ Nina said dismissively. Under other circumstances a rags-to-riches story might have been interesting, but she was in no mood to indulge Khoil’s nostalgia.

His tone chilled once more. ‘Indeed. Now, come here.’ Tandon shoved her to the desk. ‘Hold out your right arm.’

Suspiciously, Nina regarded the machine Khoil was adjusting. It resembled a lathe, only where she would have expected to find a cutting tool, there was a highly polished prism. ‘What is it?’

‘A laser scanner. Your palmprint is needed to remove the Talonor Codex from the United Nations’ vault.’ He indicated the machine beside it: a rapid prototyper, identical to the one Zec had delivered to Eddie. ‘Using the pattern from the scanner, this will create an exact duplicate of your hand - one good enough to fool the security system.’

Nina shook her head and folded her arms tightly. ‘No way are you getting my palmprint.’

‘One way or another, your hand will be sent to New York. It is up to you whether it is a copy . . . or the original.’

Tandon’s expression suggested he would be more than happy to make it the latter. Reluctantly, Nina held out her arm. Khoil positioned it over the scanner, then tapped a control. The prism began to spin, so rapidly that it became a ghostly blur. A bright blue laser light shone from the body of the scanner, the needle-thin beam spread into a flickering grid by the prism. The pattern moved smoothly over the length of Nina’s hand. A bleep from the machine, and the light vanished, the prism stopping with a click.

Khoil checked a reading, appearing satisfied. ‘Your palmprint has been recorded. Now we have everything we need.’

Nina pulled her hand away. ‘Except the Codex. And without that, you’ve got nothing.’

‘That,’ said Khoil, ‘is entirely up to your husband.’

12

New York City

Eddie waited in a corner of the spacious marble lobby of the

Delacourt hotel, watching the doors to 44th Street. He could see a small but excited crowd through the glass, hotel staff keeping back anyone who had no legitimate business in the building.

Almost eight p.m. The tide would reach its highest point at 8.14, and he still needed Lola’s go-ahead before the operation could begin. Matt would have to work fast.

Someone pushed through the throng outside, and was briefly quizzed by a doorman before coming in: Zec, dressed in a heavy overcoat and seeming irritated at having his entry challenged. He spotted Eddie and sat next to him. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked, indicating the bustle outside.

‘Paparazzi,’ said Eddie disinterestedly. ‘Some celebrity’s in the hotel.’ He gave the Bosnian a sour look. ‘You got the thing?’

Zec handed him a small memory card. ‘Your wife’s handprint. Put it in the prototyper, and the machine will do the rest. Just remember to wait until it cools to body temperature before putting it on the scanner.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘I was also told to remind you what will happen to your wife if you do not bring me the Codex.’

‘I’m not fucking deaf,’ Eddie growled, aware the statement might not be entirely truthful. ‘You already told me.’

‘Just doing my job.’

‘Your wife and son know about your job?’ Zec was unprepared for the question, and looked sharply at him. ‘Think your wife’d approve of you threatening to kill mine? Kid proud of Daddy the murderer?’

‘Shut up,’ Zec snapped. ‘The only people I have killed are legitimate mission targets. Civilian casualties were not my fault.’

‘Well, that makes it all better, dunnit?’ Eddie regarded him sourly. ‘No way Hugo would have worked with you if you’d told him that. But who needs morals when you’ve got money, right?’ The accusation appeared to sting the Bosnian, which gave Eddie a moment of gratification. ‘Now, I want to talk to Nina.’

‘I thought you might.’ Zec made a call. ‘Mr Khoil? Chase wants to speak to his wife.’ He listened to the reply, then handed the phone to Eddie.

‘Mr Chase,’ said Khoil. ‘I hope you are ready to bring me the Codex. Otherwise, you know what will hap—’

‘Yeah, yeah, spare me the fucking threats,’ Eddie snapped. ‘I already had them from your errand boy. Where’s Nina?’

‘She is here with me.’

A pause, a hollow echo down the line, then Nina spoke. ‘Eddie? Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine - what about you?’

For a moment, it seemed that she hadn’t heard him. ‘Eddie? Are you there - oh, thank God. Yeah, I’m okay. Look, Eddie, you can’t go through with this. I know part of what the Khoils are planning. They—’

‘Enough,’ said Khoil. The faint echoing effect disappeared. ‘Mr Chase, it is time to bring me the Codex. Do so, and your wife will be returned to you unharmed.’ With that, the line fell silent.

Eddie returned the phone to Zec, using all his willpower not to say out loud the thought dominating his mind: Khoil was lying. Nina wasn’t with him, the delay of the satellite connection proving she was still in India. The moment Khoil - who from the instant response on his side of the call clearly was in the States, eager to take personal delivery of the Talonor Codex - got what he wanted, she would be killed.

And so would the man who obtained the Codex for him, Eddie knew. But all he could do for now was play his part - and hope that Plan B worked.

His phone trilled. ‘Lola?’

‘Everything’s ready,’ said Lola. ‘You remember the locker numbers?’

‘Burned into my mind.’

‘Okay. Good luck.’ She rang off.

Eddie stood, picking up a large black leather briefcase with gleaming steel trim. ‘That was the go-signal,’ he told Zec. ‘I’ll meet you back here when I’m done.’

‘With the Codex.’

‘Obviously with the fucking Codex. You just be ready with Nina.’ He headed for the doors, glancing back at Zec . . . then past him, to a couch. Dressed in a suit, reading a newspaper, Mac briefly looked up at him. At his feet was another black briefcase.

Eddie stepped outside, feeling the bite of the December cold as he pushed through the crowd and walked to the end of 44th Street. The United Nations complex rose on the other side of First Avenue, a towering grid of lights against the dark sky.

He raised his phone again. ‘Matt? It’s Eddie. I’m ready.’

‘Roger that, mate,’ said the Australian. ‘We’re in the pipe, five by five.’

On the far side of the UN, a boat bobbed in the East River. Radi Bashir shivered in his thick coat as he gazed nervously at the glowing glass slab of the Secretariat Building. He didn’t know what the rules were regarding boating off Manhattan, but he was sure they were breaking them by dropping anchor in the busy waterway. Any official attention they attracted would undoubtedly be magnified when it was realised that all three of the boat’s occupants were foreign nationals . . . and two of them were Arabs.

Karima popped up through the hatch to the lower deck. ‘Eddie just called. He’s going in.’ She ducked back. With a last look round for any boats that might belong to the NYPD’s Harbor Unit, Rad climbed down after her.

Matt Trulli had set up shop in the small cabin, two laptop computers and a complex remote control unit crammed on to a little table and secured with duct tape. A porthole was open, cold air coming through it; below it was a large spool of fibre-optic cable, the slender but strong glass thread running out through the window. The spool was connected to one of the laptops - and the other end of the line to the Remotely Operated Vehicle currently picking its way through a water pipe beneath the river’s western bank.

‘All right, you little beaut,’ Matt muttered, using two joysticks to guide the ROV. ‘Go on in there . . .’ On the laptop’s screen, a view from one of the robot’s cameras revealed a fat, plastic-sheathed cable disappearing into the darkness of the circular channel. The spool slowly turned, the robot’s fibre-optic control cable feeding out as it moved forward.

The ground under Manhattan was criss-crossed by myriad networks of underground conduits, from subway tunnels to steam pipes to the city’s telecommunications backbone. This particular system, originally constructed in the early twentieth century to provide the city’s fire hydrants with a supply of water straight from the river, had been out of use for almost a quarter of a century, superseded by more powerful pumping systems - until an enterprising telecoms company realised they were the perfect way to spread the hundreds of miles of fibre-optic lines needed to meet the city’s ever-growing demand for broadband without having to dig up half the streets in Manhattan.

The cables had been installed entirely by robots, designed to crawl through the narrow, flooded confines. Matt’s machine was following their tracks . . . but considerably more quickly. Servo was a metre-long, vaguely snake-like construct, made from three tubular sections linked by universal joints: a flexible torpedo able to bend and twist through narrow underwater spaces. The rearmost segment housed the propeller and steering vanes, the middle one the battery pack, while the front section contained cameras, lights and a folded manipulator arm.

Matt glanced at the other laptop, which displayed a graphic of the pipeline system overlaid on a plan of the United Nations. A blinking cursor showed Servo’s position, not far from the outline of the Secretariat Building. ‘What’s the time?’ he asked.

‘Eight oh four,’ Karima told him.

‘Christ, we’ve only got ten minutes to high tide. Pick up the pace, Servo!’ he told the screen as he thumbed the throttle wheel on one joystick. The fibre-optic spool turned faster.

Eddie reached the IHA offices. ‘Working late, Lola?’ he said in what he hoped was a casual tone. There were still a few staff around even this late; the IHA was full of people who could lose all track of time poring over some piece of ancient junk, his own wife one of the worst offenders. He couldn’t go to the vault until his friends completed their work, so this was the least suspicious place to wait.

‘Yes, just finishing some paperwork,’ Lola replied; then she lowered her voice. ‘I used Nina’s security code to give you access to the lockers. Just use your own ID when you get down there - it’s all in the system. As far as the guards will know, Nina’s given you authorisation to open them.’

‘They won’t check and find that she’s not here?’

‘But she is here,’ said Lola with exaggerated innocence as she tapped her keyboard. ‘The computer says she’s had one of the conference rooms booked all day. And computers are never wrong, right?’

Eddie grinned. ‘Thanks, Lola.’ Still carrying the heavy case, he went into Nina’s office.

He checked his watch. 8.10. Come on, Matt!

Karima watched the map intently as the cursor crept across it, painfully slowly. Servo was now beneath the Secretariat Building, but the old pipeline system branched and turned as it progressed inland, the ROV needing to follow a convoluted route to its destination.

She looked at the view on the other laptop. The pipe divided ahead, one leg continuing straight on while the other made a ninety-degree turn. ‘Which way?’ Matt asked.

‘Left,’ she told him. ‘About twenty metres ahead there’s another junction. Turn right, and up.’

The pipe beyond the next intersection ascended at a forty-five degree angle. ‘Go left at the top,’ said Rad. ‘Then it’s a straight line to the junction box.’

‘Time?’ asked Matt as he piloted the robot towards the final turn.

‘Eight twelve,’ said Karima.

‘Two minutes to high tide . . . Christ.’ Another turn of the throttle.

The robot reached the top of the shaft. Alarmingly, it was instantly clear that the new pipeline was not completely full of water - a shimmering line sliced across its top.

The surface. The tide was at its highest. And it might not be high enough.

Matt shoved the throttle to full. On the screen, the conduit rushed past like something from a video game. ‘How far?’

‘Twenty metres,’ said Rad, staring at the map. ‘Fifteen . . .’

‘Watch out!’ Karima cried as something flashed into view ahead. An unidentifiable hunk of flotsam carried there by tidal currents blocked the way—

Servo couldn’t stop in time. The image spun crazily as the robot hit the obstacle . . .

And stopped.

‘Shit. Shit!’ Matt gasped. The view swayed dizzily as Servo reeled from side to side, but couldn’t pull free. He worked the joysticks, trying to make the robot squirm past the obstruction.

The water’s surface churned as backwash from the propeller created ripples - but even through the distortion Karima saw it was lower than before. ‘Matt! The water’s dropping!’

8.15. The tide was inexorably retreating.

Matt frantically jerked the controls. ‘Come on, Servo, you can do it! Come on!’

Still at full power. But still not moving.

‘Come on!’ Another twist, the camera rasping against the wall—

The view suddenly tumbled, the ROV corkscrewing down the pipe as it finally kicked free. Matt struggled to regain control. ‘How far, how far?’

‘Ten metres,’ said Rad.

The water level was still falling. The camera breached the surface, rivulets streaming down the lens.

Another few seconds, and the robot submarine would run aground . . .

‘Almost there!’ Rad cried. ‘Three metres, two—’

The pipe widened out. The ROV had reached an access shaft, a rusting ladder rising upwards. Matt reversed the propeller. Servo skidded to a stop on the bottom of the pipe, kicking up a bow wave.

‘Bloody hell,’ the Australian said, blowing out a long breath. ‘That was way too close.’

Karima examined the screen, seeing nothing but the pipeline disappearing into the distance. ‘Where’s the junction box?’

‘Above, in the shaft.’ He switched to a second set of controls to operate the ROV’s manipulator arm. It had a camera of its own mounted on its ‘wrist’; the view changed to an even more fish-eyed angle as the arm unfolded. The bottom of the image was dominated by a pointed probe: a cutter. ‘Let’s have a dekko . . .’

The camera tilted upwards, an LED spotlight flicking on to illuminate the shaft. The small lens made it hard to judge scale, the ladder seeming to have been made for giants, but the manhole cover at the top was probably less than three metres above. Far nearer was their objective - a fibre-optic junction box fixed to the shaft’s side. The main cable trunk ran through it, but another thick line emerged from its top and ran upwards, connecting the UN’s underground data centre to the rest of the digital world.

‘That’s it,’ said Rad, relieved. He indicated a lock on the box’s front panel. ‘Can you cut through that?’

‘No worries,’ Matt told him, guiding the arm closer. He flicked a switch; in seconds, the cutter’s tip glowed red hot. Carefully tweaking the controls, he touched the tool to the panel and moved it in a circle round the lock. The junction box’s casing was anodised aluminium, watertight and protected against corrosion, but the sheet metal was only thin. Molten droplets fell into the water as the cutter sliced through it.

In less than a minute, the entire lock dropped out of the panel. Matt switched off the cutter and retracted it, a robotic claw swinging up to take its place. It took hold of the edge of the burned hole and tugged until the panel opened. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Now what?’

Rad examined a schematic. ‘My source said that the diagnostic port is . . . this one.’ He indicated one of several sockets on the printout. Matt moved the arm to give them a better look at its real-life counterpart. ‘Second row, the bottom one.’

Matt pulled the arm back, tipping it down to look at Servo’s equipment bay. Inside was a length of fibre-optic cable, plug connectors on each end. ‘It’ll take me a few minutes to hook up the data link through Servo. You sure this program of yours’ll work?’

Rad dismissed the map from the second laptop’s screen, starting up another application. An unappealingly functional program titled Levenex FODN Diagnostic 3.2a appeared. ‘He says there’s a back door that’ll get us into the UN system. I’ve got the instructions - once we’re in, I can find the digital feeds for the vault’s cameras.’

‘This contact of yours,’ Karima said dubiously, ‘he is reliable, isn’t he?’

Rad smiled. ‘Well, I obviously can’t reveal my sources, but I trust him.’ A beat, the smile turning down a notch. ‘More or less.’

‘I see . . . Still, I’ll call Eddie and tell him we’re in position.’ She took out her phone.

Eddie hadn’t sat down the whole time he was waiting, instead pacing around Nina’s office until his phone rang. ‘Okay. I’m moving,’ he told Karima, then hung up. He collected the case and walked out.

Lola mouthed ‘Good luck’ as he passed. He nodded, then went to the elevators. Steeling himself, he pushed the lowest button and began his descent to the third basement level.

To his relief, his journey was uninterrupted, nobody else boarding the lift. At the bottom the doors opened, and he stepped out. He made his leisurely way to the secure storage area, wanting to give Rad as much time as possible to hack into the system.

But he couldn’t wait long. Every passing second was another slice off Zec’s deadline.

He arrived at the security station. ‘Evening, Lou. Henri.’

‘Workin’ late, Eddie?’ Jablonsky asked. Vernio looked up from the Nintendo DS he was using as a boredom-buster and nodded in greeting.

‘Yeah. Nina’s engrossed in some ancient wotsit or other. She asked me to check some files for her. It’s a glamorous job, being the special assistant to the director, eh?’

Jablonsky smiled, gesturing to the computer. ‘What do you need?’

Eddie inserted his ID and gave him the appropriate locker numbers. Vernio checked them on the screen. Tension rose up the Englishman’s spine. If Lola’s use of Nina’s security code had been discovered . . .

He couldn’t see the screen directly, but a faint wash of green over the Haitian’s face was enough to tell him that he had been approved. ‘Huh,’ said Jablonsky. ‘Lola just put some files in those lockers.’

‘You know how it goes,’ said Eddie, shrugging. ‘These scientist types: “I’ve finished with those, send them downstairs,” then half an hour later it’s, “Oh, I need to check that thing again, can you go and get it?” Still, at least I only need to take notes instead of faffing about signing ’em out of the vault.’

‘Small mercies, huh?’ Jablonsky let him through the gate and started down the central aisle. ‘This way.’

Eddie glanced towards the vault door as they turned off into one of the side stacks, navigating the maze until they reached the first locker on Eddie’s list. Jablonsky used a key attached to an extending chain on his belt to open it. One of the items inside was a large box file, held closed with an elastic band.

The guard moved to retrieve it, but Eddie stepped forward, putting down the briefcase. ‘It’s okay, mate. I’ll get it.’ He reached into the locker for the file - and while the other man’s view was obstructed, he surreptitiously jammed a rolled-up piece of cardboard into the rectangular slot in the lock plate.

The box file was heavy and awkward, an object clunking about inside. ‘Okay,’ he said, backing up. Jablonsky closed the door. It clicked. Eddie’s heart froze for a moment - if he couldn’t get back into the locker without a security key, it would seriously complicate things . . .

A thin line of cardboard was barely visible in the gap between the door and the frame, the bolt pressed against it. It had worked - just.

Covering his relief, he picked up the briefcase and followed Jablonsky to the next locker. No need to jam this one, as its contents were only a decoy, a collection of documents plucked from Nina’s office at random. This time, he allowed the security guard to collect them for him. The locker closed, they headed for the reading area, Eddie glancing up at the cameras along the route. The other guard would be watching him - but so would his friends.

He hoped Rad was as good as he claimed.

‘Here you go, Eddie,’ said Jablonsky. The reading area, a series of booths with high sides for privacy while reading classified material, was fortunately empty. ‘Sit where you like. When you’re finished, just wave - one of us’ll come get you.’ He indicated a camera, positioned so that while it couldn’t see anything being read, any occupants of the booths were still visible.

‘Cheers.’ Eddie went to the booth furthest from the main entrance and sat, putting down the briefcase and the box file and spreading the papers across the desktop. He made a show of finding some specific page until Jablonsky was out of sight, then opened the file.

Inside were two items: a three-litre plastic container of a thick transparent liquid, and an earpiece, taped to the top of the box. He removed the latter, tapping it twice as a signal before pushing it into his right ear.

‘Eddie, are you there?’ Karima. Her voice was distorted, his underground location making the signal crackle. ‘If you can hear me, give me a microphone check.’ He hummed a snatch of the Mission: Impossible theme. ‘Very funny. I’ve got him,’ she added for Rad and Matt’s benefit.

‘Is everything set?’ he whispered.

‘Rad’s still working on the cameras.’

‘How much longer will he need?’

Karima passed Rad her headset. ‘Eddie? I need another few minutes to Photoshop the last couple of cameras - but I also need to record the footage of you that I’m going to use to make a loop. Two minutes should be plenty.’

‘Anything special I should do?’

‘Move around a little so it’s obvious they’re not watching a freeze-frame, but make sure you’re in exactly the same position at the start and the end. You remember that movie Speed?’

‘Yeah, great film. I thought the sequel was a bit pants, though. What about it?’

‘The bad guy blew up the bus because the loop didn’t match exactly.’

‘I thought it blew up ’cause it crashed into a plane.’

‘Either way, it blew up! So you’ve got to get it right. Keep an eye on your watch, and be back in the same position when the two minutes are up. Ready?’

‘Yep.’

‘Okay, three, two, one . . . start.’

Eddie took up a neutral pose, pretending to peruse the documents. The two minutes that followed seemed to crawl by. A maddening itch started in the small of his back, but he resisted the urge to scratch it, knowing that any distinctive movements might be remembered when the footage was replayed on a continuous loop on the security monitors.

The second hand on his watch ticked round, passing the minute mark once . . . twice. ‘Okay, got it,’ Karima reported.

Eddie relaxed. ‘Great,’ he said, scratching his back.

‘Don’t move too much, though - you need to be in the same position when Rad starts the loop.’

‘How long will that be?’

‘Just give him a minute . . .’

It took more than the promised minute, but not by much. Aboard the boat, Rad had been working furiously on the second laptop, taking the hijacked digital video footage recorded on the hard drive and using his arsenal of professional video editing software to create a ‘mask’ that would erase the timecode from the corner of each frame. This way, the correct time could be superimposed over the two-minute loop when the recording was sent to the monitors at the security station.

‘Okay, I’m ready,’ he finally said. He switched to another program, the feeds from several of the security cameras arranged in a grid. The archives were empty, nothing moving except the constantly changing timecodes. Because the images were stationary, a single still frame with the original timecode masked out would serve to cover what Eddie was about to do. ‘Get back into position and I’ll give you a countdown. Karima will talk you though.’

On the camera covering the reading area, Eddie moved back into his neutral position. ‘He’s ready,’ said Karima.

‘What’re the guards doing?’ Matt asked, peering at the other video feeds.

‘They’re both at the security station,’ said Rad. ‘Okay, Eddie. Three, two, one . . . now.’

He hit a key. The images flickered as the live footage from the security cameras was replaced by Rad’s recordings. ‘Timecodes are okay,’ he said, anxiously checking each screen.

Karima was more concerned with the guards. If they had noticed the brief glitch . . .

They hadn’t. Both men remained seated, one still playing with his DS. ‘Eddie, it’s working. Go!’

Eddie opened the briefcase. Inside was the case containing the rapid prototyper. He took it out and used a strap to fasten the container of liquid - the prototyper’s silicone-based medium - to its handle, then put the briefcase back under the desk and quietly carried both case and bottle into the stacks.

He retraced his route to the sabotaged locker and tried the door. It rattled, the bolt catching the edge of the lock plate. ‘Shit,’ he whispered, pulling harder. If he couldn’t get in—

The cardboard wedge shifted, the bolt squeaking free. He froze. The locker was open, but if the guards had heard the sound . . . ‘Karima! The guards - are they moving?’

‘No,’ came the reply. He released a relieved breath, then turned his attention to the locker’s contents. Another box file was inside; he opened it, taking out a small but powerful LED torch on an elastic strap, a screwdriver with interchangeable heads, a pair of wrist straps, the suction cup, a heat-gun - a clone of the device attached to Matt’s ROV - and a small squeezable plastic bottle. Lining them up on the floor, he began to remove his clothes.

Through the earpiece he heard Matt humming ‘The Stripper’ - Rad’s computer was displaying the live signals from the cameras as well as the faked ones going to the guards’ monitors. ‘Tell Matt to pack that in,’ he muttered. The tune stopped.

He dropped his clothing to the floor . . . revealing a skin-tight polyurethane bodysuit. The super-slick garment had been designed for swimmers, reducing drag as they passed through the water to such an extent that they had been banned from professional competitions. But slickness - and tightness, the suit as constricting as a Victorian corset - were exactly what Eddie needed. Round his waist was a belt, also pulled tight.

He stuffed his clothes into the locker, then carefully shut the door and donned the wrist straps, clipping the heat-gun, the screwdriver and the suction cup to them. He then put the torch’s strap round his head and reached up to push the case and the silicone container on top of the lockers, followed by the plastic bottle.

Now the hard part began. Eddie jumped to grab the top of the lockers, feet against the doors. He was not wearing his usual boots, but close-fitting black climbing shoes, with rubber soles for maximum grip. As quietly as possible, he pulled himself up.

The space between the dusty surface and the suspended ceiling was barely more than a foot, but Eddie knew it would soon feel positively expansive. As the plans Lola procured had promised, there was a ventilation grille a few feet away. Pushing his belongings ahead of him, he crawled to it.

A minute’s work with the screwdriver, and the vent cover was freed at one end. He turned his attention to the other, only unfastening the screws halfway so that he could tilt the grille down on its makeshift hinge.

Shuffling to the end of the newly created ramp, he fastened the case to the back of his belt with another strap, then took the small bottle and squirted its contents over the front of his bodysuit. It was a lubricant; he had actually bought it from a sex shop. Looking into the darkness of the duct, however, he doubted he would get much pleasure from it.

‘Okay, I’m going in,’ he said, holding the suction cup. ‘Tell me if the guards move.’

‘I will, Eddie,’ said Karima. ‘Good luck.’

‘Thanks.’ He switched on the torch, pressed the suction cup against the metal floor and pulled himself inside.

It was worse than he had imagined. The short section of duct at the apartment had been clean; this was filthy, a grimy layer of God-knew-what having been drawn in by the ventilation system several floors above. But he continued, advancing with each hiss of the cup. The case and plastic container ground complainingly over the grille as he hauled them along behind him like a train.

Even with the benefit of the bodysuit, the duct was horribly cramped. He tipped his head to shine the light down the shaft. He had to cover over fifty feet before reaching the vault - where his first obstacle waited.

Karima’s voice crackled in his ear, the metal duct making radio reception even worse. ‘You okay, Eddie?’

‘Yeah,’ he grunted. He was sweating, the situation not helped by the tight synthetic suit.

‘Good. The guards are still at the desk.’

‘Okay.’ His movements had already become a routine. Release the suction cup, stretch and plant it against the metal six inches further ahead, apply suction, pull himself forward, repeat. The extra weight he was dragging made it more draining. His own body, pressed against the duct on all sides, was almost blocking the flow of air. The vent was getting stuffy, stifling - and it would soon become a lot hotter.

He fixed his attention entirely on advancing, trying not to think about the metal pressing in on him. Another six inches, and another. He looked ahead. The torchlight caught something in the distance.

He squinted, blinking away more sweat. The first obstacle: the metal baffle plates welded into the duct about thirty-five feet away. He would have to use the cutter to remove them.

Six more inches. Another six. His shoulders ached, but he had to endure the pain - the duct was too narrow for him to shift his weight. His back itched furiously, sweat building up inside the bodysuit.

Keep moving. Pull. Pull. Another foot covered—

The duct floor flexed under his weight. A flat metallic clonk echoed through the vent. He froze.

‘Eddie!’ Karima’s voice was anxious. ‘What was that?’

‘Are the guards moving?’ he whispered.

‘Yes! One of them just stood up!’

‘Eddie?’ called Jablonsky. The noise sounded like something being dropped. He looked at the monitors. Eddie was still in the booth, apparently not having heard anything. The noise wasn’t him, then. So what was it?

‘Maybe a locker popped open,’ Vernio suggested. It had happened before.

‘I’ll take a look.’ Jablonsky set off down the aisle.

Rad switched the laptop’s video grid to show the untampered feeds from all the cameras so he could track the guard. ‘Eddie!’ Karima said. ‘He’s moving, he’s coming towards—’

The boat suddenly lurched as waves slapped the hull. A shaft of dazzling light shone through the open porthole. ‘You on the boat!’ boomed an amplified voice from outside. ‘This is the NYPD Harbor Unit. Come out on the deck, right now!’

13

Eddie heard a faint clacking somewhere below: the guard’s footsteps.

Getting closer.

What had happened to Karima? She had cut off mid-sentence. ‘Karima!’ he hissed. ‘Can you hear me? Karima!’

The beam of light shifted as the NYPD boat closed in. ‘I say again,’ the cop barked through his bullhorn, ‘this is the police! Show yourselves!’

Rad looked at Karima. ‘What do we do? If they board us—’

‘Forget that!’ cried Matt. The spool of fibre-optic line was unwinding in fits and starts. ‘Their boat’s snagged the line! If it breaks, we’ll lose the link - and the cameras’ll come back on!’ He spun the drum to pay out more line. The fibre-optic thread was strong and flexible - but ultimately it was nothing more than glass, and would snap if overstressed. ‘Try to stall ’em until I can get this loose!’

Karima and Rad shared nervous looks, then Karima opened the hatch, taking off her headset before slowly climbing to the deck. A dazzling light shone in her face. Through the glare she made out a larger blue and white boat alongside their vessel. ‘Come on out where we can see you, miss,’ ordered the cop.

‘Is there a problem?’ she called as Rad emerged behind her. Glancing back through the hatch, she saw Matt still desperately turning the spool.

‘Yeah, you could say that. Weighing anchor in the middle of the East River ain’t a smart move.’ On the police boat’s deck, two officers moved to board the smaller craft. The light played over the two Jordanians. ‘Now, would I be right in thinking that you’re not American citizens?’

The footsteps got closer. Eddie forced himself to remain statue-still, trying to suppress even his breathing.

Click-click-click . . . click . . . click. The guard had stopped - almost directly below him.

The first cop jumped aboard, making the boat sway. He regarded Karima and Rad with evident suspicion, then looked across at the dark crystal tower of the Secretariat Building. Even without speaking, his thought processes were clear: Arabs . . . sky-scraper . . . terrorists. One hand moved to the butt of his holstered gun. ‘You better have a damn good reason for being out here.’

Jablonsky put his hands on his hips, looking round. None of the lockers was open. Maybe the noise had been a gust of wind through the ventilation system, or something heavy being moved on the floor above.

He was about to return to his post - then decided that since he was up, he might as well do a round of the archives.

He started towards the reading area.

‘All right, okay, I’m coming!’ came a voice from below deck. Matt clambered through the hatch, glaring at the cop. ‘What’s going on? You almost screwed everything up!’

The second cop came aboard behind his partner. ‘Screwed what up, sir? You mind telling us who you are?’

‘Matt Trulli,’ said Matt, fumbling in a pocket.

‘Hey!’ warned the first cop, his gun now out of its holster. ‘Slowly.’

Matt grimaced. ‘Whoa! Just getting my ID, okay? I work for the United Nations.’ He gestured towards the tower as he produced his UN identity card. ‘Oceanic Survey Organisation. These are my assistants.’

‘This ain’t the ocean,’ the gun-happy cop pointed out.

‘It’s a tidal waterway, so it counts for what we’re doing.’

The second cop appeared satisfied by his ID. ‘And what would that be?’ he asked, returning the card.

‘Pollution survey. We’re trying to track how far upriver ocean-borne pollutants are being carried by tidal currents. And you nearly lost a hundred grand’s worth of equipment when your boat snagged my control line!’

The cop peered over the side. ‘What equipment?’

‘I’ve got an ROV collecting samples from the riverbed. It’s using a fibre-optic line - I had to unwind it before you snapped it.’

‘Why are you working this late at night?’ the first cop asked, still suspicious.

‘Because we’re looking at the tides. And it’s, well, high tide.’

He narrowed his eyes. ‘There’s a high tide during the day, too.’

‘Yeah, and a lot more river traffic! Just having you guys go by almost finished us; imagine what it’d be like with everyone else chugging past.’

The second cop crouched to look into the cabin. Whatever he was expecting to see - stacks of explosives, bags of drugs - it didn’t match the reality of the computer equipment on the table. He straightened. ‘How much longer will you be out here?’

‘Depends how long it takes me to get all my samples. An hour, probably less.’

‘Huh.’ The cop stared at him for a long moment, then turned to return to his own vessel, ushering his partner with him. ‘We’ll be back in forty-five minutes. It’d be best if you’re done by then.’

‘We know who you are,’ the first cop added menacingly, sliding his gun back into its holster as he re-boarded the patrol boat. With a burble from its diesel engine, the police vessel swung away, heading downriver.

The trio quickly returned to the cabin, Karima retrieving the headset. ‘Eddie!’

Eddie heard the guard walk away in the direction of the booths - which he would find empty.

A buzz in one ear. ‘Eddie? Are you there?’

‘What happened?’ he whispered.

‘A police boat. They’ve gone, but they’ll be back.’

‘That doesn’t matter right now. Tell me what the guards are doing.’

Jablonsky reached the reading area - and stopped in surprise. Papers and files were spread out on the desk where he had left Eddie, but the man himself was not there.

‘Eddie?’ No reply. He paced up and down the aisles, seeing no sign of anyone. Frowning, he returned to the security desk. ‘Where is he?’ he asked.

Vernio looked up from his DS. ‘What?’

‘Eddie. Where’d he go?’

‘He’s in the reading area. Look.’ The Haitian pointed at the monitors.

Eddie was indeed back in his booth. ‘Huh,’ said Jablonsky. ‘I musta just missed him.’ He returned to his seat, deciding that the visitor must have got up to stretch his legs.

At that moment, Eddie would have given almost anything to be able to stretch his legs. He couldn’t hear any more footsteps, but didn’t dare move until he got an all-clear. ‘Karima? What’s happening?’

‘He just got back to the desk,’ she said, interference still breaking up her words.

‘About fucking time.’ Slowly, extremely carefully, Eddie moved forward again. There was a faint thump as his weight shifted, but the sound was not loud enough to carry. He gripped the suction cup and resumed his advance, more deliberately than before.

The remaining distance crawled by, inch by sweat-dripping inch. Ten feet to go. He could see the baffles clearly now. Six feet. Three. Two. Just a little further . . .

The suction cup tapped against one of the metal plates. ‘Thank Christ,’ he gasped, mouth bone-dry. He unfastened the cutter from his wrist. ‘Okay, I’m about to start cutting. Ask Matt how long it’ll take.’

‘He wants to know how thick the metal is,’ Karima replied after a moment.

‘Not very. A millimetre, maybe. The plates are about, oh . . . eight inches long.’

‘Okay. Matt thinks about four or five minutes to remove each plate.’

‘How long before the river police come back?’

‘About thirty minutes.’

Eddie chewed his lower lip. Adding the time it would take him to traverse the last length of duct inside the vault itself would leave only fifteen minutes for him to do everything he needed - and Zec had told him the rapid prototyper would need about eight minutes to carry out its job. Tight timing. Maybe too tight.

But he had no choice. ‘Okay, I’m switching on the cutter.’ Its tip quickly became red hot.

The heat was concentrated in a small area, but he could already feel it. The tool was designed to be used underwater, the liquid medium acting as a natural radiator. Here, trapped in the duct’s confines, the hot air had nowhere to go.

He touched the cutter to the plate where it was welded to the duct’s ceiling. The metal started to soften. He had to be precise with his cutting. If he left any protruding metal, he could slice himself wide open as he crawled past it.

The work was painfully slow, progress measured in millimetres. But a gap gradually opened up along the top of the plate. A minute passed, and it extended about halfway along. Matt’s estimate seemed accurate. He kept working.

Jablonsky was, not for the first time, envying his companion’s electronic time-killer. He checked the monitors again. The archive’s aisles were empty, the images seeming almost like still photos; only the timecodes assured him that they were live. The only sign of life was in the reading area. Whatever Eddie was doing for Dr Wilde, it was obviously engrossing - he had barely moved since returning to his seat.

He considered making another patrol . . . but resisted. He still had three more hours on duty - might as well spread out the ‘excitement’. In twenty minutes, maybe.

After another minute, the plate had been entirely separated from the ceiling. Eddie switched to the bottom. More care was needed here; if he accidentally cut through the duct floor, molten metal could drop on to the suspended ceiling below and start a fire.

The need for greater accuracy slowed him down. Over three minutes passed before the plate finally came loose. He caught it with his thumb and forefinger before it fell. ‘Ow, ow, shit,’ he hissed, carefully laying the hot piece of steel flat before blowing on his fingers. A quick check of the duct; there were some sharp-looking edges, but nothing capable of giving him more than a superficial cut.

He started on the other plate. With the cutter at full temperature it took slightly less time, but by the end he felt as though he was working inside an oven. He lowered the second piece of metal, then checked his watch. The obstacle had cost him over ten minutes, and he still had to reach the vent.

He switched off the cutter. ‘I’m going through.’

‘Okay.’ Karima sounded more tense than before. ‘We’ve got less than twenty minutes before the police come back. If they make us leave, we’ll have to cut the camera feeds. You’ve got to be out of there by then.’

‘No pressure, then . . .’ He fastened the cutter back on to his arm, careful to keep the still-hot tip clear of his skin, and raised the suction cup. The routine of movement began again, six inches at a time. He passed over the cuts, feeling the metal tugging at his bodysuit - then something gave. ‘Shit.’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Got a cut.’ He moved forward again, trying to push himself upwards. Nothing seemed to snag this time. ‘Hope it’s just the suit and not me. I don’t want to leave a nipple in here.’ He had hoped to raise a laugh from the other end of the line, but Karima was too worried.

He was now above the vault itself. Directly ahead was his next obstacle. Blocking the duct was a rack of ventilator fans, blowing air down into the vault. ‘Okay, I’m at the fans. Let’s have a look . . .’

He tilted his head to direct the torch beam over the machinery - and didn’t like what he saw. ‘Shit. The screws holding the grille in place go right into the frame - I can’t get at them. I’ll have to cut them out.’ He took the cutter from his wrist again. The rack’s frame reached to the duct’s top, bolted to the ceiling above. If he cut the vertical supports, he might be able to slide the entire unit out of his way into the section of ducting on the other side of the vent . . .

He reached round the fans and cut one of the supports farthest from him first. That corner of the rack dropped slightly, rattling. One down. He repeated the task on the other side—

The whole far end of the assembly lurched, the edge of the grille dropping two inches from the opening in the duct. Shit! The fan system was heavier than it looked. He saw that the separate power cords to each fan joined into one thicker cable that disappeared through a hole in the duct roof. A plan formed: cut through the third support, then keep a firm hold on the cable as he severed the last strut to stop the entire thing from crashing down on the vault’s weight-sensitive floor.

He started cutting the first of the nearer supports. Through the grille, he could make out the vault’s interior, dimly lit by emergency lights: another safety feature to help anyone who got locked inside. At least he wouldn’t have to work entirely by the glow of his little head-mounted torch—

The cutter severed the third strut - and the entire fan assembly, grille and all, plunged as the final overstressed support was torn from the ceiling.

Eddie’s free hand lashed out, clamping round the cable as it shot past. The weight slammed his elbow painfully against the edge of the opening. The power line slithered through his sweat-soaked grip. He tossed the cutter across to the other side of the hole and grabbed the cable with his other hand—

Knocking the suction cup over the edge.

If it hit the floor, the alarm would go off . . .

He heard a thump of impact—

The faint sound was not followed by the scream of sirens. Instead, Eddie heard a rapid fluttering like the beating of a moth’s wings. Grimacing at the pain in his arm, he squirmed forward and looked down. The assembly hung an inch above the floor. The suction cup had landed on one of the fans, jammed against the frame as the whirling blades beat against it.

‘What was that noise?’ Karima asked, alarmed.

‘My fan club,’ he rasped, pulling the cable back up. ‘Did those guys hear it?’

‘It doesn’t look like it.’ The vault’s thick walls had muffled the sound.

He hauled up the rack until it was swaying about two feet off the floor, then knotted the cable into a butterfly loop to hold it there. ‘How much time?’

‘Thirteen minutes - but Eddie, they could come back before then.’

‘Yeah, I needed to hear that, Karima. Okay, I’m going to climb down.’

Forcing the cable out of his way, Eddie dragged himself forward. The opening beneath him made movement easier, but he didn’t drop through it - yet. Instead, he pulled himself over the gap, still towing his cargo, then unfastened the strap from his belt, leaving it hanging over the edge, and carefully lowered his legs into the vault.

The fans swung on their makeshift tether, the flapping sound still coming from the suction cup. The pedestal desk containing the security terminal was about two feet to one side. Eddie swung down to land on it with a thump.

He was in!

Leaning down, he recovered the suction cup . . . and realised he was screwed.

The fan blades had slashed a ragged tear in the synthetic rubber. He tested it on the desktop, but knew even before he pulled the lever that it was useless. A pathetic puff of air came through the rip. It couldn’t create a vacuum.

Which meant he had no way to get back through the duct.

‘Buggeration,’ he whispered. He would have to find another way out, and soon.

First things first. He stood and pulled the strap, slowly tugging the case over the edge. It dropped - he caught it, gripping the second strap and dragging the plastic container after it. Both bulky items retrieved, he put them on the desk and opened the case.

The rapid prototyper was inside. He lifted it out, closed the case and set the machine on top of it, pouring the glutinous liquid into the tank. As soon as it was full he switched on the machine, darkly cursing as it ran through a self-test mode, the laser head whining along its tracks. Thirty seconds, wasted. Finally it was ready.

He inserted the memory card and pushed the start button.

Two beams flickered across the tank, the liquid hardening where they crossed. The laser head slowly moved along the machine’s length. A ghostly shape took on form beneath it. A hand, wraithlike and insubstantial.

And two-dimensional. The prototyper built up objects layer by layer, the lasers gradually focusing higher as they moved back and forth. Each layer was less than a millimetre thick, so making something substantial enough to trick the handprint scanner would take time.

Time that was running out.

Eddie looked round the vault. The simplest way out would be to set off the alarm by dropping something on the floor; the guards would open the door to investigate. But they were armed, and he wasn’t, and even if he got past them he didn’t fancy his chances of escaping the building. A man in a skin-tight bodysuit carrying a large book made of gold would be hard to miss.

What else could he do? He glanced at the hole in the ceiling. No way out there without the suction cup.

But there was something else he could use . . .

While Rad and Karima kept watch on the monitors, Matt went up on deck. He regarded the UN building for a moment, hoping Eddie would get his arse in gear, then looked downriver. At this time of night, water traffic was minimal, the lights of other vessels standing out clearly even from a distance.

He recognised the pattern of one of them.

The Harbor Unit boat.

It was over a mile away, and in no hurry to reach them. But it was definitely coming back upriver. He jumped back into the cabin. ‘We’ve got a problem!’

‘We’re not the only ones,’ said Rad, jabbing a finger at the laptop.

On the screen, one of the guards had just stood.

‘Gonna do the rounds,’ said Jablonsky. ‘Don’t let Mario distract you from the monitors, huh?’

Vernio waved a dismissive hand. ‘Nothing’s happening - he’s hardly moved.’

Jablonsky glanced back at the screens. Eddie was still at the desk. He turned in the direction of the reading area . . . then changed his mind, deciding to check the other side of the archives first. He could look in on the Englishman at the end of his patrol.

Which wouldn’t take long.

14

The object in the prototyper’s tank was now almost finished - and somewhat disturbing. Eddie could easily recognise it as Nina’s right hand, a small childhood scar visible at the base of her first finger . . . but it had no colour, a translucent, boneless mass like some primitive deep sea creature.

The fingers were complete, loops and whorls discernible in the lifeless flesh. The laser head whirred back and forth over the thickest part of the hand, the ball of the thumb, as it added the final layers. Eight minutes had gone, and it still wasn’t finished. Karima had warned him that one of the guards was patrolling, but there was no point worrying - there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

The scanner whined back to its rest position - and stopped. The prototyper bleeped three times. Done.

Eddie gingerly touched its end product. The ‘hand’ was soft, rubbery, almost but not quite like flesh. It was also hot. He dipped the digital thermometer into the liquid. Over a hundred degrees Fahrenheit. He kept it in place, watching the display. The figure dropped by a tenth of a degree, then another.

He carefully lifted the hand out of the tank. It flopped grotesquely as it emerged from the thick liquid. He used a wipe to clean off the excess goo, then checked the temperature again. 99.1°F. Almost down to human body temperature. He didn’t know how far above or below the norm the temperature sensor in the handprint scanner would accept, but doubted it was more than a few tenths of a degree.

He typed in Nina’s security code. One, eight, six, zero, nine, two, four, six, zero, nine. The panel lit up: code accepted. Now the system was waiting to confirm her identity biometrically.

98.8°F. Almost normal. He laid the hand palm-down on the panel. The line of light moved beneath it. He glanced round at the locker, waiting for the LED to turn from red to green.

It didn’t.

The monitor flashed up a message, polite but chilling: Unable to confirm. Please rescan.

It hadn’t worked. The system had recognised the fake . . .

No, Eddie realised, forcing himself to be calm. If it had detected trickery, it would have raised the alarm. It just hadn’t quite matched the silicone palmprint to the one in its memory.

98.4°F. Below normal body temperature. And it would only keep falling.

What was wrong? He lifted the hand from the scanner, torch beam darting over it as he searched for any flaws—

There! Between the first and second fingers, bisecting the scar. A hairline split in the silicone. The two halves of the scar had slipped apart by a tiny amount . . . but enough for the computer to find something odd about the easily identifiable feature. He put the hand back on the scanner, nudging the gelatinous non-flesh into what he hoped was perfect alignment.

The scanning beam moved again. Eddie looked round—

A single point of green appeared amongst the grid of red lights. ‘Yes!’ he said, pumping a fist.

‘Eddie, did it work?’ Karima’s voice crackled in his ear.

‘Yeah, it’s open. What’s going on outside?’

‘That guard’s still on the far side of the archives, but he’s circling round - and the police are on their way back to us!’

‘I’ll have to get a shift on, then.’ He moved to the very edge of the desk, balancing on his toes - then let himself topple forward, one arm outstretched to arrest his fall on the lockers.

He reached out with his other hand and opened the large door. The case containing the Codex was inside. He slid it out - then, swinging the heavy container as a counterweight, shoved himself back upright. For one horrible moment he wavered, rubber-shod toes clawing at the edge, before arching his back and standing tall.

Eddie opened the case. A golden light filled the vault: his torch beam reflecting off the orichalcum cover of the Talonor Codex.

He had it.

Now . . . he had to get away with it.

Jablonsky had completed his rounds of one side of the labyrinth. Humming to himself, he started towards the vault to begin his circuit of the other.

Matt hurried back up to the deck. The police boat was about half a mile away - heading straight for him.

The desk was clear, almost all Eddie’s equipment shoved into the overhead vent. Aside from the case containing the Codex, the only thing left was the screwdriver.

He held it between his teeth as he hauled the hanging ventilator back up until it was at shoulder height. Supporting the weight of one end on his collarbone, he took the screwdriver in his free hand . . . and stabbed it into a fan.

The blades instantly jammed. The motor protested, whining angrily. He pushed the insulated handle down harder. With an electrical crack, the motor burned out.

He yanked out the screwdriver and did the same to another fan. This time, the motor sparked, an acrid burning smell hitting his nostrils as smoke coiled out of it.

Jablonsky crossed the central aisle in front of the vault door, and was heading for the reading area when his walkie-talkie squawked. ‘Hey, Lou,’ said his partner. ‘The computer’s showing something wrong in the vault.’

He went back to the curved steel door, looking down the main aisle to the security desk. ‘Has the alarm gone off?’

‘No, but there’s some problem with the ventilation system. I’ll open it up so you can check.’

Jablonsky inserted his card and waited while Vernio went through the procedure to open the door. After a minute, the heavy door hummed open.

He caught the sharp tang of smoke in the air as he entered. A crackle from above; he looked up at the grille to see a blue spark flicker behind it. ‘Yeah, something’s shorted out,’ he reported into his radio. ‘Better call it in.’

Leaving the vault door open to disperse the smoke, he headed back to the main desk as Vernio picked up the phone to summon an engineer.

Watching the laptop screen, Karima saw that the guard had his back to the vault - and the other was looking away as he made a phone call. ‘Eddie, now!’

The locker swung open. Inside was the case containing the Talonor Codex - and Eddie Chase, squeezed into the space even more tightly than he had been in the duct.

He had used the cutter, retrieved from the vent, to sabotage the lock mechanism inside the door. Now, he hurriedly unfolded himself, using the handles of the lockers above to climb out. Standing with one foot on the edge of the locker’s floor, he recovered the case and jumped across to the central desk.

The guard was still walking away from him. He stretched out one leg to nudge the locker shut, then drew back - and made a flying leap through the open vault door.

He cleared the pressure-sensitive floor by less than the length of a toe. Pain shot through his ankle at the awkward landing, but he held in a grunt and flung himself sideways behind the nearest bank of storage lockers.

One rubber sole squeaked on the floor—

Jablonsky looked round at the sound.

Eddie heard his footsteps stop. He froze, pressed against the cabinets.

The steps resumed . . . coming back.

‘What’s wrong?’ Vernio called.

‘Thought I heard something.’ Jablonsky was almost at the vault. Eddie braced himself - he was going to have to fight his way out after all . . .

One of the damaged fans sparked again. Jablonsky stopped. Eddie could see his shadow. One more step and he would be found—

The guard turned away, thinking the sound was just another spark. Eddie waited until he was clear, then quietly tiptoed back to the locker where he had stashed his clothes.

The spotlight beam stabbed through the porthole. ‘Time’s up!’ the cop said through the loudhailer. ‘Get moving.’

Matt ran up on deck. ‘We’re stowing our gear! Give us a minute.’

‘Okay, you got your minute - but if you aren’t moving by the end of it, you’re coming with us.’

‘We’re moving, we’re moving!’ Matt leapt back into the cabin. The live feeds showed Eddie hurrying back to the reading area, the Codex under one arm, a bundle of clothes in the other.

‘Eddie!’ Karima cried. ‘We’re out of time!’

Eddie reached the booths. He had dumped the Codex’s case in the locker; now, he flung open the briefcase and dropped the gleaming artefact inside before pulling on his trousers over the filthy bodysuit.

‘Maintenance is on the way,’ said Vernio, putting down the phone.

‘I’ll go get Eddie.’ Jablonsky headed for the reading area.

Eddie fumbled with his jumper. No time to clean the muck off his hands—

‘Come on, move it!’ growled the cop.

Matt ran back on deck and took the controls. ‘We’re going! Jesus Christ, mate!’ He started the engine, the diesels clattering. ‘The UN’ll be narked about this!’

He pushed the button to winch up the anchor, then opened the throttle. The boat moved off, turning downstream.

In the cabin, the fibre-optic spool spun faster and faster as the line was drawn out. It caught against the porthole’s brass frame—

And snapped.

Vernio looked up sharply as the monitors flickered. Was the electrical problem spreading?

His eyes went to the visitor—

‘Yo, Eddie.’

‘Yeah?’ said Eddie, dropping into the chair just before Jablonsky entered the reading area.

‘Afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave,’ the guard said apologetically. ‘There’s an electrical problem, and we gotta clear the room while it’s being repaired. Safety rules.’

‘That’s okay, I’m finished anyway.’ He gathered the papers and put them into the files. ‘Health and safety, eh? Surprised they don’t make you wear a hard hat and a Day-Glo jacket.’

Jablonsky grinned. ‘Seems it’s getting that way, sometimes. You need a hand?’

‘Nah, I’ve got it.’ Eddie stacked everything so he could carry it with one arm, pretending that the now-empty box file was still heavy, and picked up the briefcase. ‘Okay, let’s go.’

Karima came on deck, Rad following. She looked back at the police boat. ‘That was close.’

‘Did Eddie make it?’ Matt asked.

‘He’s on his way out.’

‘Thank Christ,’ said Matt, relieved. ‘Only problem now is: how the hell am I going to explain to the Oceanic Survey Organisation that their hundred thousand dollar ROV is stuck in the UN’s basement?’

Jablonsky led Eddie back to the first locker and opened it. ‘There you go.’

‘Thanks.’ He put the box file inside, surreptitiously plucking the piece of cardboard from the lock. ‘Okay, all done.’

He stood back as Jablonsky closed the locker, waiting for him to escort him out of the archives. But the guard hesitated.

‘What’s up?’ Eddie said, as casually as he could.

‘You got something on your hand.’

He brought it up - and saw a black smear across the heel of his palm, dirt from inside the duct. ‘Huh,’ he said, wiping it on his thigh. ‘Must have smudged something.’ A smile, hopefully not looking as forced as it felt. ‘Nina’ll kill me if I’ve made a mess of some hundred-year-old document.’

After a moment, the smile was returned. ‘I won’t say anything,’ Jablonsky joked. ‘Okay, I’ll see you out.’

Eddie returned to the security station and signed out, then walked down the corridor. As soon as he was out of sight, he increased his pace towards the elevators.

Back in the archive, Jablonsky returned to the vault. He looked up at the grille to see if the faulty ventilator was still sparking. It had stopped . . . but something wasn’t right. It took a moment for him to realise what: the grille wasn’t straight, its slats not parallel to the vent’s outer edges, as if it had been lifted through the hole and turned slightly to balance on its corners. What the hell?

He was about to climb on the desk to inspect it close up when he spotted something else: a dirty mark, right on the desk’s edge. It looked like part of a footprint . . .

Horrible realisation hit him. He jumped up on the desk and reached for the overhead vent. ‘Henri! I think—’

The grille dropped at his touch. Jablonsky pulled back in shock as the ventilation unit plunged downwards, jolting to a stop when its knotted power cable snapped tight. The entire duct shook, more objects dropping out of the open vent. An empty plastic container, some kind of suction cup . . .

Someone had been in the vault. And there was only one suspect.

‘Holy shit!’ he yelled. ‘Sound the alarm! Stop Chase from leaving the building!’

Eddie was in the lobby. Briefcase in hand, he headed for the exit. The security guards on duty had their usual expressions of bored politeness; at this time of night the building was quiet. Only a few more yards . . .

Someone’s walkie-talkie crackled, a frantic voice gabbling on the other end. A moment later, an alarm bell sounded.

Eddie was already moving. He shoulder-barged the door open before the security locks could slam into place and emerged on United Nations Plaza, sprinting for First Avenue. Shouts rose behind him as guards rushed out of the Secretariat Building in pursuit.

The entrances to United Nations Plaza were controlled by traffic barriers - and tall security gates. One was open, a car having just gone though. He ran for it as it closed. Another alarm sounded in the gatehouse. The men inside jumped to their feet.

Eddie hurdled the traffic barrier - and practically dived through the outer gate as it clanged shut just behind him. Stumbling, he crossed First Avenue, cars hooting as he weaved between them and ran like hell for 44th Street.

A look back. The UN guards were stuck behind their own barrier, waving furiously for someone in the gatehouse to reopen it. He reached the far sidewalk and darted round the corner, ahead seeing—

The crowd. It was much bigger than before, the ranks of the paparazzi swollen by a legion of young women. Online rumours had spread that the object of their affection was in the hotel - and was neither alone nor with his girlfriend.

Eddie also saw an NYPD car parked across the street, a cop leaning against it keeping an eye on events, but he ignored her and pushed through the crowd to the doors. The doorman recognised him from earlier, and let him inside.

Zec was where he had left him - and a brief glance confirmed that Mac was too, standing as he saw Eddie. The Scotsman made his way to the doors, crossing in front of his friend - and passing him something while Zec’s view was momentarily blocked. Eddie slipped the object into his pocket and sat beside the mercenary as Mac left the hotel.

‘Do you have it?’ Zec asked.

Eddie opened the case. The Talonor Codex gleamed inside. With a slightly disbelieving look, Zec raised the cover to confirm that it was genuine. Scribed metal sheets were revealed within.

‘What?’ said Eddie. ‘Don’t look so fucking shocked, I told you I’d get it. Now . . .’ He closed the case and lifted it on to his knees - then pulled Mac’s revolver from his pocket. ‘A trade’s a trade. You get this; I get Nina. Sound fair?’

Zec didn’t appear surprised that Eddie had acquired a gun. ‘She is with Mr Khoil in his plane.’

‘And where’s his plane?’

‘A private airport, upstate.’

‘Then take me to it. We need to get moving - I attracted some attention at the UN. The quicker I’m out of here, the better.’

‘Give me the case,’ said Zec. Eddie stared at him coldly. ‘You still have the gun. But I take the case.’ After a moment, Eddie passed it to him. ‘Good. Now, let’s go.’

They both stood. Eddie pocketed the gun and started towards the exit, Zec following - just as a man and a woman emerged from an elevator across the lobby. Seeing them through the glass doors, the crowd outside responded with excited cries and camera flashes.

Grant Thorn was the man - and Macy Sharif was his companion, both of them dressed to party . . . with a slightly dishevelled look that suggested they had just come from a private event of their own. Another man hurriedly stood and joined them; a bodyguard, muscles bulging beneath his dark suit. He opened a door for the couple, holding up a hand to wave back Eddie and Zec. ‘Let ’em through, let ’em through, please.’ Annoyed, Zec tried to push past, but Eddie stopped in front of him.

The star and the student stepped out on to the street to be greeted by strobes, shrieks and shouted questions from paparazzi and fans alike. ‘Grant, Grant!’ one photographer called. ‘Who’s the babe?’

‘Where’s Jessica?’ another demanded.

‘Which one?’ asked the snapper next to him.

‘Any of ’em!’ He fired his camera in the couple’s faces. Grant blinked, and Macy flinched back. ‘She know about this, huh?’

‘Grant, over here!’ someone else yelled. ‘It’s me, Sally! I was at the premiere of Nitrous, remember? You said you liked my hair!’ Hands were thrust over the shoulders of the front row, more cameraphones flashing. The paparazzi exchanged irritated looks at having their pitch invaded by amateurs and tried to shove them back, arousing shrill complaints from the crowd.

‘Come on, let ’em through!’ the bodyguard growled. The hotel staff moved to part the crowd so they could reach the limo that had just arrived.

‘Fuck this for a game of soldiers,’ said Eddie impatiently. He went through the door and barged into the throng, elbowing a photographer out of his way. The man staggered and knocked over a young woman, who shrieked.

Her friends pushed back. The crowd became a scrum, arms and legs flailing. Eddie forced his way between them, Zec right behind. The heavy briefcase bashed against shins and thighs.

Grant and Macy reached the limo, the bodyguard and doormen pushing people back so its door could be opened. A ripple surged through the crowd, another fan tripping with a scream. A photographer stumbled over her to the pavement, glass cracking in his lens.

Eddie stopped, path blocked. Zec pushed up behind him - and a man fell against the Bosnian, almost knocking him over. The briefcase jolted in his hand as something bashed against it and dropped to the ground. He looked down sharply, but the handle was still firmly in his grasp as the man struggled to recover his own fallen case. Zec raised an arm to swat him away.

‘Hey, hey!’ yelled a woman before he could make the swing. ‘NYPD - everyone, move back!’

Eddie squeezed past the policewoman as she shouted more orders, reaching the edge of the crowd. Zec emerged behind him, angrily tugging the case free of the crush. ‘Jesus,’ Eddie said as the limo pulled away. ‘Who’d be fucking famous if you have to put up with that all the time?’

‘Who was that?’ Zec said.

‘Grant Thorn.’ He got a blank look in return. ‘The film star?’

Zec shook his head. ‘I don’t watch movies. No realism any more.’

‘You’re a fun guy, aren’t you? Okay, I hope you’ve got a car. I’m not paying for a bloody cab all the way upstate.’

15

The drive took over an hour, Zec at the wheel with Eddie beside him, gun in hand. The briefcase sat on the back seat, untouched by either man during the journey.

They reached a private airfield, where a security guard waved them through the gate. A jet waited on the runway, armed men standing nearby. Eddie steeled himself as Zec stopped beside the plane. He might be shot the moment the Bosnian turned over the briefcase . . .

‘Get out,’ said Zec. Eddie stepped into the cold wind blowing across the runway. The jet’s hatch was open; a figure appeared at the top of the steps. Pramesh Khoil.

The guns of the men around the car were all now aimed at Eddie. Shrugging, he pocketed the revolver and advanced as Zec retrieved the case. ‘All right, Khoil,’ he called, ‘where’s Nina?’

The Indian ignored him. ‘Do you have it?’ he shouted to Zec. The mercenary nodded, holding up the briefcase. ‘Bring it to me.’

Eddie reached the steps. ‘Hey! I asked you a question. Is Nina in there?’

Zec pushed past him. Khoil backed up to let him into the aircraft, then looked contemptuously down at Eddie. ‘No, Mr Chase, she is not. She is still in India, and now no longer necessary. Like you.’ He gestured to his men. They advanced on the Englishman.

‘Just a sec,’ Eddie said, covering a surge of cold fear with cockiness. Khoil, who had been about to retreat into the cabin, paused. ‘You might want to check your merchandise.’

Khoil whipped round to face Zec, expression accusing. ‘It’s in the case,’ the mercenary protested. ‘I looked before we left New York. It never left my sight.’

‘Open it now,’ Khoil ordered. ‘Open it!’

Zec set the briefcase down and flicked the catches. Khoil shoved him aside and yanked it open. He stared at the contents for a long moment . . . then ran down the stairs. ‘Where is it?’ he almost screeched.

‘No idea,’ Eddie replied, truthfully. ‘A mate of mine’s got it, and I told him to put it somewhere I didn’t know about. Just to be safe.’ His expression hardened. ‘So. Where’s Nina?’

The shocked Zec emerged from the cabin, holding the case’s contents: several dumbbell weights fastened together with duct tape. ‘I - I don’t understand,’ he told Khoil. ‘The Codex was inside! How did he do it?’

‘Doesn’t really matter now, does it?’ said Eddie. ‘But I thought you’d try something like this, and as soon as I heard the satellite delay when I was talking to Nina I knew I was right. So I wanted some insurance.’ He leaned closer to Khoil. ‘The deal still stands. I get my wife back, and you get your book. But fuck with me, and it’ll be destroyed. Understand?’

Khoil’s lips were tight. ‘Come inside.’ He stalked back up the steps, almost barging Zec out of the way. Eddie followed, relieved to have survived his triple-cross.

The question now was: how desperately did Khoil want the Talonor Codex?

He entered the cabin, an armed guard following. Inside, another Indian man standing between him and Khoil gave him an unpleasant smile, exposing jagged teeth. ‘Is the Codex intact?’ the billionaire demanded. ‘Have you damaged it?’

‘Not yet,’ Eddie said. ‘I told you, I don’t give a shit about your book or what you want it for. All I want is Nina. If I get her back unharmed, you’ll get it the same way. Sound fair?’

‘Yes,’ Khoil hissed.

‘Great. Now I want to talk to her.’

Khoil went to one of the luxurious seats. Eddie expected him to pick up a phone, but instead he pushed a button, and a flatscreen monitor smoothly emerged from the chair’s arm. The blank black eye of a webcam was set into its bezel. A menu appeared; Khoil tapped an option, and an animated ‘Connecting . . .’ icon popped up.

After several seconds, the birdlike face of Vanita Khoil appeared. ‘Well?’ she said. ‘Do you have it?’

‘There has been a . . . complication,’ Khoil said. ‘Get Dr Wilde.’

‘What? Why do we still need her? We should have—’

‘Get her!’

Vanita’s eyes narrowed in clear anger at his outburst, but she looked off-camera and issued an order in Hindi. After a short wait, someone was pushed into frame behind her.

‘Ay up, love,’ said Eddie. ‘So how’s India?’

‘Eddie!’ Nina cried. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Well, I got the Codex—’

‘You did what?’ she gasped. ‘I told you not to give it to them - they’re going to kill us once they get it!’

‘Yeah, I know that - that’s why I didn’t give it to them, the bunch of backstabbing twats. Once you’re safe, then I’ll turn it over.’

‘You will not,’ she said firmly. ‘Whatever these two are planning, it’s not—’

‘Bite your tongue!’ snapped Vanita. ‘Pramesh, why is Chase still alive?’

‘He exchanged the real Codex for a dummy, without Zec even noticing.’ The Bosnian lowered his head, humiliated. ‘One of his friends has hidden it. If we do not let Dr Wilde go, he has threatened to destroy it.’

‘What?’ the outraged Nina yelped in the background.

‘Qexia will be able to identify all his friends,’ said Vanita, ignoring the interruption. ‘We can track them down—’

‘There isn’t time,’ Khoil cut in. ‘We can’t risk losing the Codex, not now. Make arrangements to have her sent back to America.’

Vanita looked silently into the camera for several seconds before replying. ‘No.’

Khoil was taken aback by her blunt refusal. ‘But if they destroy the Codex—’

‘They won’t.’ She leaned closer to the camera. ‘Chase. Give up the Codex, now, or your wife will suffer.’

‘Do anything to her and you’ll never get it,’ Eddie countered. The normally unemotional Khoil had been unable to conceal his genuine fear that the Codex might be lost. As Eddie hoped, he was desperate to get his hands on it.

But Vanita was more willing to gamble. She gave a sharp order to Tandon, who grabbed Nina.

‘Hey!’ Eddie shouted. ‘I’ll have the fucking thing melted down into home shopping channel jewellery if you do anything to her. You think I’m kidding?’

‘Do you think I am?’ Vanita replied. ‘Chapal!’

Tandon took something from a pocket. Before Nina could react his hand whipped up - and pulled a plastic bag tightly over her head. She struggled, trying to claw it from her face, but it was too thick to tear. He tugged harder, the bag tightening round her throat.

‘Let her go!’ Eddie shouted, lunging at Khoil. The shark-toothed man darted forward and slammed him against the curved fuselage. He fumbled for the revolver, but the guard pressed his gun’s muzzle hard against his cheek.

On the screen, Nina jabbed at Tandon with her elbows. But the martial artist was too quick, twisting out of the way of her blows.

‘Give us the Codex,’ said Vanita. ‘Or she dies.’

‘Fuck off!’ Eddie snarled. ‘If I give it to you, you’ll kill her anyway!’

Her lips curled at the insult. ‘But first, she will suffer. Over and over.’

Nina was now grasping uselessly at the plastic drawn tight over her mouth, face distorted and indistinct as her breath misted up the bag. Eddie watched helplessly. The only way to help her was to surrender the Codex - but that would condemn them both to death. Certainly if he was dealing with Vanita.

Which meant he had to deal with Khoil, find something the dispassionate, logical half of the partnership would respond to . . .

Nina’s muffled choking sounds became weaker, more desperate. Vanita’s gaze was cold, intense, waiting for him to break—

‘All right!’ he yelled. ‘I’ll give you the Codex!’

A thin smile of triumph spread across Vanita’s face. ‘Chapal,’ she said, waving a dismissive hand. Tandon released his hold. Nina staggered away from him, pulling frantically at the bag. It finally came free and she gasped for air.

The gun was withdrawn. ‘On one condition,’ Eddie added.

Vanita scowled, about to order the suffocation to resume, but Eddie had already turned to Khoil. ‘We’ve both got something the other one wants and isn’t willing to lose, but neither of us trusts the other not to fuck about, right?’

‘Crudely put,’ said Khoil, ‘but correct.’

‘Okay, so here’s my new offer. A straight swap. I bring the Codex, you bring Nina, and we make an exchange. Somewhere public with lots of people around. Soon as we’re done, that’s it - we go our separate ways. No tricks, no double-crosses. How does that sound?’

‘Unacceptable,’ Vanita said from the screen, but Khoil spoke over her: ‘Good - in principle. Where do you suggest?’

‘I don’t know yet. But . . .’ He decided to make at least the appearance of a concession in the hope of pacifying Vanita. ‘We’ll do it on your turf. I’ll come to India, and we’ll agree on a place once I’m there.’

Khoil mulled it over. ‘That is . . . acceptable,’ he said, with a glance at the image of his wife, who was clearly displeased in the extreme.

‘In Bangalore,’ she insisted. ‘The exchange will take place here in Bangalore.’

‘So long as I pick the spot,’ Eddie agreed reluctantly, sensing she was itching for an excuse to torture Nina again.

It seemed to work; Vanita said nothing. Khoil turned to Eddie. ‘You will fly back with me?’

Eddie half laughed. ‘I don’t fucking think so, mate. I’ll sort out my own flight. And I won’t be taking the Codex in my carry-on luggage, you can be sure of that. But,’ he went on, knowing what Khoil was about to say, ‘you’ll get to see it before I hand it over, so long as I see Nina at the same time. We both get what we want, and everyone’s happy. Do we have a deal?’

‘We have a deal.’

‘Good. Nina, are you okay?’

‘Oh, super fine,’ she croaked, rubbing her neck. ‘Eddie, don’t give it to them.’

‘Sorry, love, but I’ve got to. I know you’re going to be really pissed off about it, but you can rant and rave at me once you’re safe, okay? I’ll see you soon.’

Nina was about to say something else, but Vanita angrily terminated the video link. Khoil looked at the armed guard. ‘Escort Mr Chase off my plane.’

‘What, don’t I even get a hot towel? All right, I’m going,’ said Eddie as he was prodded with the gun. ‘Oh, one last thing.’ He jerked a thumb at Zec. ‘Tell laughing boy here to give me his car keys. I’m not walking all the way back to fucking Manhattan.’

Zec wasn’t happy, but handed them over under Khoil’s stern gaze. ‘How am I supposed to get back?’

‘That is not my concern,’ the Indian told him icily. ‘After your failure tonight, I will have to reconsider your continued employment.’

‘Don’t worry, mate,’ Eddie said, jingling the keys. ‘I’m sure someone with your talents’ll be able to find other work. I mean, New York always needs street sweepers.’ With that, he stepped out into the night.

‘Eddie!’ Lola cried as Eddie entered the room. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine,’ he said, seeing all the concerned faces anxiously awaiting news. They were in Matt’s Brooklyn apartment, the Australian joined not only by Karima, Rad and Lola, but also the members of ‘Plan B’: Grant and Macy, drawing a crowd with their ‘tryst’ to provide the necessary confusion; Amy Martin, on duty as an NYPD officer, to distract Zec at the crucial moment . . . and Mac, who had actually carried out the switch.

On a table was the now-empty briefcase, lid open to reveal the trick mechanism that made it possible. The high-power electromagnets provided by Matt, unsuited for their originally intended purpose, had found another use. The metal plate attaching the handle to the case had been unscrewed . . . as had that of the identical briefcase containing the weights. Only the magnets inside each case kept them firmly attached - until a radio-control circuit built by Matt was triggered by Mac as he ‘accidentally’ fell against Zec and banged the cases together in the scrum outside the hotel. The electromagnets inside the case containing the Codex shut off, causing it to drop away. A moment later, the magnets in Mac’s decoy case did the same - then reactivated once Mac’s hand was clear, snapping the dummy case back on to the handle Zec was gripping.

The entire exchange took under half a second, before Zec could recover from the collision. When Matt first suggested the idea, Eddie was extremely doubtful that it could work, but after dozens of practice runs they had made successful switches two times out of three.

Mac stood. ‘Thank God. What happened? Where’s Nina?’

‘She wasn’t there, just like I thought. But she’s safe, more or less . . . for now. Khoil agreed to another exchange. I’m going to India to make the swap.’

‘Do you really think he’ll play fair?’ Macy asked, concerned.

‘Not even for a second. Which is why I’m not going to either. But at least this time I’ll have more control over the situation.’

Mac raised an eyebrow. ‘Interesting how you think making the exchange on Khoil’s own turf counts as having more control.’

‘Well, that’s why I was hoping you’d give me some backup.’

‘If you need any more help from me, mate,’ offered Matt, ‘just ask.’

‘The same goes for us,’ said Karima. Rad nodded in agreement. Lola, Macy and Grant also piped up with offers of support.

Eddie shook his head. ‘Zec saw you. He’s not in Khoil’s good books right now, but that doesn’t mean he won’t have told him who was involved. If Khoil decides to keep him on and he recognised you, we’d be screwed.’

‘He might still recognise Mr McCrimmon from the hotel,’ Amy pointed out.

‘He only saw him for a moment, so we’ll have to chance it. But everyone else, he knows. So it’s just me and Mac.’

‘Thanks for that, Eddie,’ Mac said with a wry smile.

Objections rose from all quarters, but Eddie cut them off. ‘You’ve all been absolutely bloody fantastic,’ he said. ‘If I ever go in for a life of crime, I want you lot to be founder members of Eddie’s Eleven.’

‘I’m not hearing this,’ said Amy, pretending to put her fingers in her ears.

Eddie smiled, then became serious. ‘But like Mac said, we’re going to be on Khoil’s home turf. It’ll be a lot more dangerous. And I can’t ask you to take any more chances for me - hell, I won’t let you. Me and Mac are professionals, we’ve trained for this stuff. You haven’t. Sorry, but that’s the way it is.’

Disappointment filled the room. ‘I just hope you’re right, man,’ said Grant. ‘But good luck anyway. I want you and Nina at the premiere of my next movie!’

‘Who’ll be your date?’ Eddie asked mischievously, looking at Macy.

Grant grimaced. ‘Yeah, I’ve . . . kinda got to talk to Jessica. I didn’t have a chance to tell her beforehand. Don’t want her to hear about all this first on TMZ, huh?’

‘Too late for that,’ said Macy. ‘I’ve already had five calls from friends wanting to know if I’m really dating you. Word gets round fast these days!’ She eyed him hopefully. ‘You know, since it’s already out in the open, maybe we could try something for real?’ Grant looked like an animal trapped in headlights.

‘Matt, you’ve got a shower, right?’ said Eddie. ‘I think Macy needs a cold one.’ That got a laugh from everybody except Macy. ‘All of you, thanks so much for everything. I really appreciate it - and I know Nina will too once she stops being mad at me for stealing her bloody book.’ He looked at Mac. ‘Is it safe?’ Mac nodded. ‘Good. We’ll have to get it to India - Lola, I’ll need one last little thing off you, some UN paperwork.’

‘Whatever you want,’ she said.

‘Great. But we’ll have to get going - we’ve got a lot more planning to do, and not much time to do it.’ He frowned. ‘And I’ve just realised - if Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom isn’t a reliable source of information, then I know sod-all about India . . .’

16

India

‘So,’ said Mac, leaning against Eddie’s seat, ‘how much have you learned about India?’

Eddie held up the guide book he had bought at JFK before their flight to Delhi departed. ‘Well, I found out that Delhi and New Delhi are the same place, that Bangalore’s called “the Silicon Valley of India” even though it’s not in a valley, and that if I ever want to look at a bunch of temples, I can stick a pin anywhere on a map and find some. Apart from that, though . . . nowt really helpful. I’ve got no idea where would be a good place for the swap.’

‘You don’t have any useful contacts in India?’

‘Only Saheli, and she’s out of the country. There’s this guy from Interpol I met recently, Kit, but I don’t know if he’d be up for helping with something like this - he seemed a bit by-the-book. What about you? You went there in the SAS, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, but that was almost thirty years ago. And I was acting as an adviser to the National Security Guard for the Queen’s state visit, not being a tourist.’

‘Then unless we can get someone local on our side, we’ll have to wing it.’

‘Never really ideal in a hostage situation.’

‘Yeah, I know.’ Eddie closed the book. ‘Mac . . . I really appreciate you doing this for me.’

The Scot smiled. ‘What are friends for? Besides, I know you’d do the same for me. Although,’ his eyes twinkled, ‘I can’t imagine what I might possibly be doing that would need that kind of help. You and Nina do have a knack for getting into extreme situations.’

‘Tell me about it,’ Eddie said ruefully. ‘I’ve been shot at more in the past four years than in the bloody Regiment! But,’ he went on, resolute, ‘I’m going to get Nina out of this situation.’

‘We both are,’ said Mac firmly. He held out his hand; Eddie grasped it. ‘Fight to the end.’

‘Fight to the end,’ Eddie repeated. They exchanged a look of comradeship, and more, then released their grip as the airliner’s seat belt lights came on. The plane was descending.

‘See you on the ground.’ Mac headed to his seat. The two men were sitting separately for a very simple reason: security. Eddie suspected that news of his theft of the Talonor Codex would have spread beyond New York. Waiting for him - and anyone accompanying him - when the plane landed could well be the Indian police.

Or, worse, Khoil’s people.

Either way, he would know soon enough.

He found out before even reaching the terminal.

The airliner stopped just short of its gate at Indira Gandhi International, where the captain announced that due to a security issue, passengers should remain seated until given the all-clear. Mac looked back at Eddie in concern, getting a resigned nod in return. The plane then advanced to the jetway. A trio of armed police officers boarded, their leader speaking to one of the stewardesses before they marched down the aisle. ‘Edward Chase?’ the officer in charge asked.

Eddie smiled politely. ‘My mates call me Eddie.’

‘Come with us, please.’

He concealed his worry beneath a mock-casual shrug as he stood and was handcuffed before being led from the aircraft. Never mind finding a location to make the exchange; there might not even be an exchange.

He had to convince his interrogators of his reasons for stealing the Codex. If he could persuade them that letting him carry out the exchange would not only save Nina’s life but could also both recover the Codex and lead to the arrest of the man who had ordered its theft, maybe he had a chance of release . . .

That chance vanished as he was brought through a keypad-locked door into the terminal’s security area. Waiting outside one of the rooms was a man he had seen on Khoil’s plane - the one with the filed teeth.

The leading officer glanced round to make sure nobody was watching, then accepted a wad of banknotes that was quickly spirited into a pocket. ‘Oi, what’s this?’ Eddie said loudly, knowing full well what it was: Khoil had cops on his payroll. If he made enough of a scene, he might attract attention from someone honest - but the corridor was lined with interrogation rooms, not busy offices. Noisy protests would be expected, and ignored.

‘Take him with Mr Singh,’ said the officer, nodding towards a side passage that led to an exit. The two other cops grabbed Eddie’s arms as Singh gave him another unpleasantly pointed smile.

‘Get the fuck off me!’ Eddie shouted. He tried to break away, but with his wrists cuffed his actions were limited - and the two cops were prepared for trouble, one driving a fierce jab into his kidneys. They started to hustle him down the passage—

‘Stop!’ someone shouted, voice commanding. ‘What’s going on here?’

Eddie looked round - and to his surprise saw Ankit Jindal striding towards him, a senior uniformed officer right behind. The cops froze, unsure what to do - and Singh immediately took off at a run, barging through the exit.

‘These twats were about to hand me over for some private questioning,’ Eddie growled.

Kit reached him and looked down the corridor, but Singh was gone. ‘Who was that?’

‘One of Khoil’s lot.’

The senior officer glowered at his subordinates, giving them a tongue-lashing in Hindi before holding out his hand to the leader. Reluctantly, the man gave him the banknotes. The officer made a disgusted sound as the three cops filed away. ‘I will deal with them,’ he told Kit. ‘What about this man?’

‘He’s an Interpol matter,’ said Kit. ‘I’ll handle him. Do you have a room available?’

The officer indicated a nearby door, then followed the shamed men down the corridor. Eddie watched them go. ‘What’ll happen to them?’

Kit sighed. ‘A slap on the wrist, probably. Bribery is very common in India - everyone from clerks to politicians has their hand out. We’re starting to make progress, but when you have a billion people who have lived with that system all their lives, it takes time for things to change.’ He opened the door and ushered Eddie into an interview room.

‘So what’re you doing here?’ Eddie asked. He sat, Kit facing him across a small table.

‘Interpol put a red notice - an arrest order - on you. It was too late to stop you flying from New York, so I decided to meet you when you arrived. And it seems I was just in time. What on earth is going on, Eddie?’

Eddie recounted what had happened since he left the Interpol officer in France. ‘So I’m bloody glad you turned up when you did,’ he concluded. ‘Khoil - or his wife, just as likely - probably thought they could torture the Codex’s location out of me. I’d have made it really fucking hard for them, but I’m still happy I didn’t need to.’

Kit leaned back thoughtfully. ‘I’ve been looking into the Khoils. Some very interesting things have turned up.’

‘What kinds of things?’

‘A lot of financial activity. They’ve been buying up land and properties in odd locations and putting enormous amounts of money into the aid organisation they run. It’s all legal, but there seems to be an organised plan behind it all. What that plan is, though, I don’t know.’

‘But it’s made you suspicious.’

Kit smiled slightly. ‘My radar is beeping. There’s nothing connecting the Khoils directly to the thefts carried out by Fernandez’s gang, but we obtained Fernandez’s bank records, and over the past several months various sums of money went in soon after equally large sums went out of the Khoils’ businesses. Minus the percentage you would expect a money launderer to take, of course.’

‘Isn’t that enough to act on?’

‘No, it’s only circumstantial. There’s no paper trail. But I think you were right about their involvement. The difficulty will be proving it. We still haven’t got anything useful from the dead woman in Lyon, only your word that she was working for the Khoils.’

‘Have you questioned them yet?’

‘I didn’t want to tip my hand. Eddie, you have to understand that the Khoils are extremely powerful. I may be a member of Interpol, but we work in conjunction with local law enforcement. No Indian cop would be willing to risk his career by taking action against them unless he’s absolutely certain of his case - and even then, it wouldn’t take much to buy him off, as you just saw.’

‘So,’ said Eddie, ‘where does that leave us? You going to have me shipped back to New York?’

‘Perhaps.’ Kit regarded him silently for a moment . . . then produced a key and unlocked the handcuffs. ‘But not just yet. I really do think that there’s a case against the Khoils - and that if I help you, we’ll not only be able to rescue Nina, but catch them in the act. Kidnapping across international borders is Interpol’s responsibility, and since Nina was taken from the United States the trial would take place there. Pramesh and Vanita would find it a lot harder to buy their way out of trouble in New York.’

Eddie pulled off the cuffs. ‘You’ll help me, then?’

‘Yes. It will be a risk professionally - but I think the chance is worth taking.’ He smiled. ‘So what do you have in mind?’

Even on this December day, it was still over seventy degrees Fahrenheit. Eddie wound down the window of Kit’s non-air-conditioned car, but the pollution from the congested highway immediately encouraged him to put it back up. ‘Is traffic always this bad?’

‘Almost,’ said Kit as they crawled towards central Delhi. ‘But it’s worse than usual right now because of the preparations for the G20 summit. Several main roads have been closed.’

‘Politicians always have to inconvenience everybody else, don’t they?’

It took close to forty minutes to traverse the last mile of their journey, accompanied the entire way by a chorus of blaring horns and screeching brakes. As Kit had warned, closed streets forced them into a lengthy diversion before they reached the Orchard hotel, a mile from the central government district of Vijay Chowk. Someone was waiting for them in the lobby - but not, to Eddie’s relief, another of Khoil’s henchmen. ‘What kept you?’ asked Mac.

Eddie grinned and shook his hand. ‘Little problem at customs. How’d you get here so fast?’

‘I took the Metro. Less than a pound to get from the airport right into the centre of Delhi. I wish the Tube in London was that cheap.’ He regarded Kit. ‘And I thought you didn’t have any friends in India.’

Eddie made the introductions. ‘Kit’s been checking out the Khoils,’ he went on. ‘And he thinks he’s got something.’

‘Nothing definite,’ Kit said apologetically. ‘But enough to catch my interest regarding the art thefts. All I need is proof.’

‘We’ll get some for you,’ said Eddie. ‘Proof of kidnapping, too. And we’ve got the perfect bait. At least, I hope we have. Mac?’

‘Let’s find out.’ He went to the reception desk. ‘Do you have a package for me? The name’s McCrimmon, Jim McCrimmon.’

The receptionist tapped at her computer. ‘Yes, we do. I’ll bring it for you.’ She went into a back room, returning with a large and heavy cardboard box.

‘What is it?’ Kit asked.

‘What I’m wanted for,’ Eddie told him. As well as shipping labels for an overnight courier company, the box also bore a United Nations customs waiver and numerous Do Not X-Ray stickers arranged by Lola, allowing it to be transported without the usual checks - a trick Eddie had used before to get items that would otherwise raise a lot of questions into other countries. ‘That Codex thing - and also my new Wildey.’