The Lazarus Vault Page 12

  She tipped the newspaper over. A book slid out from the central fold, a guidebook to Brussels. She wondered if it might be a free gift. But the spine was already broken, and she could see the irregular edge of a pink Post-it note poking out of the pages.

  With rising anxiety, she opened the book to the marked page. A piece of paper, a folded sheet of yellowing newsprint, sat tucked into the crease. Feeling as if she was delving into some strange kind of Chinese box, Ellie opened it.

  It was a single page from the Evening Standard dated 19 February 1988. Among the antiquated news, a small column at the bottom of the page had been asterisked.

  BIZARRE DEATH IN TUBE TUNNEL

  Central Line Underground services suffered severe disruptions this morning after a man was struck by a train in the deep tunnel between Bank and Liverpool Street stations.

  London Underground officials expressed surprise that the man could have wandered so far, given overnight cleaning works and regular services passing through the tunnel earlier in the morning. CCTV images from the stations gave no indication of how he had managed to evade platform security and enter the tunnel.

  A spokesman for London Underground said: ‘Thankfully, incidents like this remain astonishingly rare. The tunnels on the Underground network are dangerous places. No member of the public should ever attempt to enter them on foot. This tragic accident only serves to illustrate the perils.’

  The deceased has been identified as John Herrin, 38, of Reading, Berkshire.

  Ellie sat down on the bed, trembling. There was nothing shocking in the article, beyond the faded tragedy. She had never heard the name John Herrin. It was simply the date. A date she had seen so often, gold lettering in black granite on a damp hillside near Newport.

  In loving memory

  ANEURIN STANTON

  12th May 1949 – 19th February 1988

  She flipped through the rest of the guidebook, looking for any clue to who had sent it. Various sights had been highlighted in fluorescent marker, or tagged with asterisks in the margin. The marks looked fresh.

  All thoughts of reading in bed were forgotten. She pulled back the curtains, letting in the dirty autumn light, and dressed quickly. Then she went sightseeing.

  ‘Any tour of Brussels should start with the Grand Place.’ That line of the guidebook was highlighted and starred, so Ellie began there. She dutifully admired the fifteenth-century Hôtel de Ville with its needle spire; the baroque guildhouses with their allegorical carvings of Prudence, Faith, Justice and other virtues that the burghers had arrogated to themselves. She saw the House of the Swan, where Karl Marx had written The Communist Manifesto, and which was now a restaurant where you could pay thirty euros for a starter.

  She spent an hour wandering through the Musées royaux des Beaux-Arts, lingering particularly in the Bosch and Breugel rooms which had drawn marks in the guidebook. Several times she spotted a man in a fawn trenchcoat behind her, always just turning away, as if a painting had suddenly interested him. By the time she reached Magritte she had almost persuaded herself to approach him, ask if he was the source of the book. But by then he’d evidently grown bored of the art and she couldn’t find him.

  She ate lunch in a café that the book highlighted, wondering if the whole thing was insane. She watched the other patrons carefully, waiting for one of them to pull up a chair and introduce himself, offer an explanation. None did. There was one more site marked in the book and it was the furthest away: she almost decided not to bother. But she’d come this far, so she got on the tram and rode out down the long, tree-lined avenue to the quiet suburb of Tervuren.

  *

  The Royal Museum of Central Africa stood in an imposing, lead-domed building that looked like a mausoleum. It was a place out of time, an anomaly in the fabric of history. Built as a monument to King Leopold’s vanity, it had opened the year his vicious reign in the Congo finally became too much even for his countrymen to stomach. In the 1960s the winds of change had blown in just enough to shake loose the ‘Congo’ from its name, but not enough to disturb the dust on the old collections. Lions and elephants stood rigorously stiff in glass cases, poised as their killers had posed them. The only reference Ellie found to the savagery of the Belgian occupation was in a brief display in a gallery at the far end of the building, an apologetic footnote tucked at the bottom of the page. She thought of Conrad again, and wondered how many of those profits had poured into accounts at Monsalvat.

  The horror, she murmured to herself.

  ‘We meet again.’

  She spun around. A short, tubby man with tousled hair and an apologetic expression was watching her from across a cabinet of ivory tusks. Perhaps she’d half expected him, but she was still shocked. It occurred to her that he’d bided his time, waiting until she reached the furthest, emptiest place in this distant, empty building. There were no guards here. The whole long corridor leading away from the room was deserted.

  ‘I’ll scream,’ she warned him.

  ‘Please don’t.’ He stepped away, holding up his hands, as if she were pointing a gun at him. It unnerved her.

  ‘Why did you send me that newspaper article?’

  He looked out of the window, at the green lawns and grey sky. ‘Let’s go for a walk.’

  *

  London

  There was nothing special about the building at No. 46 Lombard Street, unless you looked at the roof. On four floors it housed an insurance company, a firm of headhunters who preferred the term ‘executive search’, a commodities trader and a small consultancy. But on the roof, unseen and unnoticed, there grew a forest of antennae, dishes, aerials and masts. They twitched in the wind, feeling out the least ghost of information.

  If you could have followed your way through the tangle of holding companies and blind trusts that owned the building, you would eventually arrive – by way of Liechtenstein, Monaco, Luxembourg and the Channel Islands – almost back where you started. And if you could have followed your way through the tangle of electrical cables coiled up in the basement, they too would have led to the same place: out of the building, a hundred metres underground along Lombard Street, and up into a dark room on the fifth floor of an old building behind King William Street, filled with the hum of electronics. In that room, if you could have peered through one of the many screens that lit it, you would have seen two men staring at a map overlaid with red lines like a child’s scribble.

  ‘It’s too easy,’ said Destrier. ‘In the old days we’d have needed six men to keep tabs on her – backup vehicles, disguises, the lot. Now her phone tells us every step she takes and it’s not even illegal.’

  Blanchard examined the map. ‘She’s been busy.’

  ‘All the tourist sites.’ Destrier made a gesture on the touch-screen and the map zoomed out. Now the red lines looked a tangled ball of string, with a single thread trailing off the end. ‘Right now, she’s at the Congo Museum.’

  ‘Show me the time profile.’

  Destrier pushed a button. The lines changed again, swelling or contracting so that the thickness showed the length of time spent in any given place. Stringy veins where she’d been travelling, broad pools where she’d lingered in the museums. It made the overlay look like a giant blood splatter.

  ‘She’s spending a long time at the Musée d’Afrique.’

  ‘Maybe she likes dead animals.’

  Blanchard stared at the screen. ‘Do you have watchers?’

  ‘Two guys followed her for a couple of hours this morning at the art gallery. Saw a thousand pictures of fat women and nothing else, then buggered off. Not very cultured, my guys. Koenig’s in town; Saint-Lazare said he was a higher priority.’

  ‘Of course. How about phone calls?’

  ‘Not many.’

  ‘Any to Oxford?’

  ‘One a night. Talks for about ten or fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Were you listening?’

  Destrier gave him a sly look. ‘She hasn’t told him about her night at the oper
a, if that’s what you’re wondering.’

  Blanchard didn’t rise to the bait. ‘Keep monitoring her.’

  Brussels

  Outside the museum the grounds descended in a series of severely geometric terraces towards an ornamental lake. The pale gravel crunched like bonemeal underfoot, powdering Ellie’s shoes white. At least there were more people here, families with dogs and children roaming about on a Saturday afternoon. Ellie said nothing, waiting. But her companion seemed in no mood to speak either. He slouched along with his hands in his coat pocket, darting little glances over his shoulder.

  ‘Who are you?’ Ellie said at last.

  His face brightened. He looked glad for the opening, and it occurred to Ellie that perhaps he was as nervous as she was.

  ‘You can call me Harry.’

  ‘Are you a spy?’

  He thought about that. ‘Not in any political sense. I belong to a group that prizes secrecy.’

  ‘Like the Freemasons?’

  ‘Not really.’

  He paused, examining his reflection in the pond. ‘I’m sorry about all the cloak-and-dagger. I tried to get you at the art gallery, but they were watching.’

  Ellie could feel herself skating on a thin layer of credulity, talking and nodding as if this were a perfectly normal conversation. ‘Who’s they?’

  ‘Your employers.’

  ‘Of course. The medieval heart of darkness, spying on me all the time.’ She rounded on him. ‘Why did you give me that newspaper article?’

  ‘Because I thought you should know the truth.’ He held her gaze. ‘John Herrin was your father. John Herrin was Aneurin Stanton.’

  ‘My dad died in a car crash,’ she said numbly.

  ‘That’s what your mother told you.’

  They turned left, along a long rectangular lake. Everything here was straight lines: the horizontal banks of the lake and the path running parallel; the perpendicular bars of a row of poplars.

  ‘What’s your version?’

  ‘Pretty much what it said in the paper. He was hit by a train in an Underground tunnel. Died instantly.’

  Ellie felt dizzy. ‘Can we sit down?’

  ‘It’s better if we keep moving.’ Harry glanced over his shoulder. ‘He died trying to break into the Monsalvat Bank.’

  ‘Is that what you are? Bank robbers?’

  ‘Monsalvat have something in their vaults that belongs to us – something they stole a long time ago. Nye Stanton died trying to get it back. Now you’re their star young banker.’ He pouted, feigning surprise. ‘Coincidence, no?’

  ‘So – what? You rigged the competition to get me in there? You thought I’d unlock the vault to let you go in and get what you want?’

  ‘We didn’t have anything to do with it.’

  They passed a small boy feeding bread to a flock of ducks. The birds pecked and jabbed and half-drowned each other to get to the crumbs. Harry glanced at his watch.

  ‘We haven’t got much time. You’ve been working on the Talhouett takeover.’ It wasn’t a question. ‘Has anybody mentioned Mirabeau to you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you know the Lazarus account?’

  Ellie remembered the red folder she’d seen lying on Blanchard’s desk. ‘No.’

  ‘Please think, Ellie. This is more important than you can imagine.’

  ‘Important to who?’ The thin ice that had supported her belief, that had allowed her to play along with the charade as if it made any sense, suddenly shattered into a thousand pieces. She flailed, drowning in the rush of doubt. ‘You say I’m being spied on, but the only person I’ve seen spying on me is you. You come here with crazy stories about my dad that can’t be true. I don’t know who you are, but if I see you again, I swear I’ll call the police. I’ll tell Blanchard.’

  ‘If you do that, you’ll never see us again.’

  ‘I don’t want to.’

  ‘No. But you might need to.’

  He thrust a business card into her hand and hurried away. No name or logo, just a phone number and a scribbled note. If no answer, leave a message for Harry from Jane.

  ‘Do you expect me to use this?’ she shouted after him. He didn’t look back.

  She thought about tearing the card into pieces and scattering it on the wind, or dropping it in the long reflecting pool. Being rid of him for good.

  But just the same, she put it in her pocket.

  XVIII

  Normandy, 1135

  IT’S GETTING DARK by the time we ride out of the forest. The rain’s stopped; the clouds have moved to the horizon. They hover over the sunset, bruising it like a fist. I let Ada ride half a length ahead of me, as befits my lord’s wife. Neither of us speaks. There is more inside us than we can possibly say.

  When I thought Ada hated me, I longed to know what she was thinking. Now that I think she loves me, not knowing is almost unbearable. An hour ago there was nothing between us, but the doubts have already started to set in. Does she regret it? Has she changed her mind? Is she thinking about Guy?

  The thought of Guy sinks my spirits. Suddenly, what we’ve done seems less like the fulfilment of my dreams, more like a monumental error.

  I’m still thinking about it when the clashing of steel rings into the evening air. It’s coming from a thicket that stands like an island in the middle of the next field.

  ‘Wait here.’

  I kick my horse and canter across the field. The earth beneath his hooves is white with ash from the burned stubble. I can’t find a way in to the copse, so I dismount and push through the briars and brambles on foot. It’s so dark inside I can barely see the branches, but there’s no mistaking the urgent sounds of battle. Sparks light up the small clearing in the middle of the thicket: I can make out two dim figures lunging and retreating from each other like dancers. One’s a knight in full armour, a shield on his arm and a sword in his hand. He’s dismounted; the weight encumbers him. It’s just as well for his opponent, who’s got nothing more than a brown tunic and a fur-trimmed mantle to protect him. He doesn’t even carry a sword: he’s desperately parrying the knight’s attacks with a straight-bladed hunting knife.

  It’s Guy.

  It’s like watching a dog baiting a bear – except that the bear’s claws have told. Guy’s limping from a cut in his thigh; he can’t run. The knight swings, and the strength in his blow knocks the knife clean out of Guy’s weakened grasp. It flies away into the bushes, lost. Guy’s helpless.

  He has his back to me; he hasn’t seen me. In a flash, I see how easy it would be to slip away into the undergrowth. He’s wounded and unprotected: he’d never leave this thicket alive. Ada would be a widow and could remarry who she liked.

  It all rushes through my head in a split second. Is God tempting me, or has He granted me this golden opportunity to set right all the sufferings of my life? But I’ll never know what I’d have chosen. The knight lunges to his left and Guy staggers out of the way, turning. His head comes up and he sees me. I know he does, because his face changes so much even his enemy notices. Quick as a rat, the knight pivots to meet me.

  I’m committed – and all I have to defend myself is my knife. I reach for it, but only feel cloth. It’s not in my belt where it should be – in fact, my belt isn’t there either. I must have left it in the forest. I feel the dizzy terror of being utterly defenceless.

  The knight’s confused – he must take me for some page or peasant who’s wandered into the battle. He doesn’t know whether to kill me now or wait until he’s dealt with Guy.

  Guy moves. The knight, knowing he’s the real threat, turns and lifts his shield.

  I feel a stone against my foot. Unnoticed, I bend down and scoop it up. It’s about the size of an apple, snug in my hand. With an instinct I’ve been honing all my life, I hurl it at the knight’s head.

  I have a good throwing arm. It strikes him clean on the back of the skull, just below the rim of his helmet. He staggers; I haven’t knocked him out, but I’ve stunned him. It
’s all the opening a veteran like Guy needs. He steps forward, twists the knight’s sword out of his hand, and has it at his throat in a trice.

  ‘Who sent you?’

  The knight doesn’t answer. Perhaps he’s still dazed. Guy doesn’t think so: he reverses the sword and slams the pommel into the knight’s face. Blood gushes from his broken nose.

  ‘Who?’

  He mutters something I can’t make out. Even Guy isn’t sure. He says, ‘Athold?’

  The knight nods and doubles over. He spits out a wad of blood. Guy takes a step back. I remember what Gornemant taught me. Never kill a knight who surrenders to you. Always think of the ransom.

  Distracted by my thoughts, I barely see the movement. There’s a hiss and a squelch: the next thing I see, Guy is pulling the sword out of the knight’s throat. I hear a patter like raindrops as the knight’s blood drips onto the leafy floor. Guy wipes the sword on his mantle. He glances at the blade, then at me: for a thrilling moment I think he’s going to dub me there and then.

  He scowls, and jams the sword in his belt.

  ‘Where was your knife?’

  ‘I dropped it in the forest.’

  I can’t meet his gaze – but it doesn’t linger on me. He’s already striding away.

  ‘Will you make me a knight?’ I call after him. It’s an impertinent question, but I’ve just saved his life. I’m not prepared for the look of fierce hatred he answers me with.

  ‘You saved me with a rock. Any boy who’s ever shied at pigeons could have done the same.’

  We find my horse at the edge of the copse. Without asking, Guy swings himself into the saddle and rides ahead. I stumble after him through the ashen fields. When we reach the road my heart lurches: Ada’s not there. I can see hoofprints in the mud heading down the road, just one set, and I hope it means she rode back to the castle. Guy, thankfully, doesn’t see them.

  Much later, I realise why he was so ungrateful to me – and why he killed the knight when he could have had the ransom. He’s an old man, with an old man’s vanities. He doesn’t want anyone to know how close he came to being killed.