The Death Mask Murders

by Gabriel Farago

  ‘Yes, of course. I have an important assignment for you.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Soon.’

  ‘And Dragan?’

  ‘He’s needed here. Just like you. A bonus has already been paid into your bank accounts.’

  The first thing Jack could feel as he drifted back into consciousness was a sore neck, and a splitting headache that made him feel nauseous. He was lying on his back on something hard and uncomfortable. As he tried to move his legs, they wouldn’t obey, neither did his arms or his numb fingers. Taking a deep breath, Jack opened his eyes. At first, all he could see were little white stars dancing in front of his eyes, which made his headache even worse. He quickly closed his eyes, hoping the stars would go away and ease the pain.

  Where am I? he wondered, trying hard to remember what happened. The last thing Jack could recall was sitting in a van with his hands tied behind his back, unable to move. A smiling clown was kneeling on the floor next to him, holding what looked like a hypodermic needle in his right hand. After that, everything had gone blank.

  Slowly, Jack opened his eyes again. The stars had disappeared and he found himself staring at rocks melting out of the darkness. Rocks were everywhere. The ceiling, the walls, everywhere. A cave. I’m in a cave, thought Jack as his eyes began to focus and follow a dim shaft of light coming from somewhere on his right. Jack turned his head and gasped. At first he thought his eyes must be playing tricks on him, because the sparkling water all around him looked surreal. Illuminated by a green light, the clear water looked like a mirror reflecting the rocks, and the water seemed to almost touch the low ceiling pressing down from above, with glistening droplets of moisture clinging to the rocks like eyes of demons, watching. But most sinister of all was the total silence.

  As Jack tried to prop himself up on his elbows, the ground below him began to move, rocking gently from side to side, and the rock walls around him began to glide slowly past. After several attempts, Jack managed to sit up and look around. I’m adrift he thought, in the middle of a lake inside a cave. How weird. Or perhaps I’m just dreaming? Exhausted, Jack closed his eyes again as his elbows gave way and he fell backwards, making the narrow wooden raft he was lying on rock alarmingly from side to side.

  Suddenly, sublime piano music parted the silence and began to drift across the still waters. Softly at first, but soon becoming stronger until music filled the whole chamber. Chopin, thought Jack, recognising the familiar bars of a famous nocturne – one of his mother’s favourites – how bizarre.

  After some crackling, the music receded and a voice echoed through the chamber. ‘Do you like Chopin, Mr Rogan?’ said the voice. ‘So serene, don’t you think? Just like this place.’

  Jack opened his eyes, sat up and looked around. It was obvious that the voice was coming from concealed speakers and not directly from a person. Same voice, thought Jack as he recognised the Irish accent with a slight stutter, almost hidden behind the Gaelic intonation.

  ‘And in case you’re wondering where you are,’ continued the voice, ‘you are in an abandoned salt mine, and what you can see all around you isn’t just water, but brine. Water with a very high salt content. If you were to drop a coin into it, the coin wouldn’t sink to the bottom, but float. Salt has been mined here since the twelfth century, and this chamber here has been in use for a very long time. Its very size speaks for itself.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ said Jack, ‘but I’m sure you haven’t brought me here for a lesson in salt mining.’

  Appreciating the humour, O’Hara began to chuckle. ‘No, of course not. What I have in mind for you is something far more interesting: a demonstration. The salt in this mine was extracted through a method called wet-mining. Fresh water was pumped into chambers like this, which, of course, were much smaller in the beginning; no bigger than a small room. The rocks here have a high salt content and the fresh water removes the salt from the composite rock by dissolving it. That’s how brine is created, which is then pumped out of the mine to a processing plant. Over the years, this chamber was enlarged by pumping more and more fresh water into it to allow more salt to be dissolved. The non-soluble material sank to the bottom. You can see it clearly down there if you look carefully. It would have taken many years to create a chamber of this size. As you can see, it’s almost as big as a football field, deep inside a mountain. Amazing, isn’t it?’

  ‘What kind of demonstration?’ asked Jack.

  ‘Well, we will do exactly what was done by the miners in the past: pump more fresh water into this chamber. All the pipes are still in working order, and I have a very powerful pump we can use. We could fill this entire chamber right up to the ceiling within hours.’

  Jack didn’t like the direction the conversation was taking. ‘And this demonstration would have a specific purpose, I suppose?’ he asked.

  ‘Definitely! You haven’t been paying attention. I’ve already told you what it is.’

  ‘Remind me.’

  ‘You will help me complete my collection. The Mascarino amulet and the burial mask you found in Malenkova’s house belong together. The amulet showed us the way to Heart Island, and the burial mask will show us the way to the wreck.’

  ‘And how exactly will I help you with that?’

  ‘I’m sure a smart man like you would have worked that out by now. I will keep pumping water into this chamber until Chief Inspector Lapointe returns to me what is mine. If he doesn’t, well, we both know what could happen, don’t we?’

  ‘Where’s Landru?’ said Jack, changing the subject. He needed some time to consider his predicament.

  ‘In a similar chamber nearby, but you shouldn’t concern yourself with that. For him, I have something a little different in mind. To see him slowly drown in brine inside a claustrophobic underground cave like this wouldn’t have quite the same persuasive impact – especially with the red-faced French authorities – as seeing you, an international celebrity, share the same fate. Here, in this place, all by yourself. And see it all they shall,’ added O’Hara, laughing.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Everything that happens in here is on CCTV, and can easily be transmitted.’

  ‘Like the Landru murder?’

  ‘Yes. Just like that.’

  ‘My life in exchange for the mask, is that it?’

  ‘Very good, bravo.’

  ‘Lapointe will never do this. You can’t blackmail the French Republic.’

  ‘We’ll see. For your sake, Mr Rogan, I hope you’re wrong. And one more thing: if you look carefully, you will notice that the brine is already slowly rising. Tick, tick, tick.’

  As the voice trailed off, Chopin’s haunting nocturne returned, echoing eerily through the chamber like some distant promise of hope and beauty, and a better place.

  52

  Thames House, MI5 HQ, London: 8 November

  Tristan caught the afternoon Eurostar from Paris to London and met Cesaria and Samartini at Thames House, the MI5 headquarters. He paid the taxi driver and waved to Cesaria, who stood next to Samartini in front of the imposing entrance to the famous ‘haunt of spooks’ as it was known in the trade in Europe, which had featured in countless novels, TV series and movies.

  ‘Just in time. Our appointment is at five,’ said Cesaria, pointing to her watch.

  ‘How did you manage to pull this off?’ asked Tristan.

  Cesaria shrugged. ‘Phone calls in high places. This case has gone right to the top, not only in France, but also in Italy.’

  ‘Then let’s see what we can find out here, because so far, we certainly haven’t got much to go on, have we?’

  ‘Three words, that’s all,’ said Samartini and linked arms with Tristan. She thought he looked tired and dejected, which wasn’t surprising in the circumstances. ‘Let’s see where they take us.’

  ‘This is all about what Jack said just before—’

  ‘Yes, our best lead so far,’ interjected Cesaria, anxious to make her way through security, which
always took longer than expected. She hated to be late, especially to a meeting that had taken so much string-pulling to arrange.

  The meeting with the junior officer who met them on the first floor went badly from the very start. It was obvious he knew very little about the matter, and considered the whole thing a hastily arranged nuisance to placate two excited police officers from somewhere in Italy about a case that had been closed a long time ago.

  Cesaria was becoming increasingly frustrated with the lack of cooperation from the haughty officer with an annoyingly patronising manner, who brushed her questions aside and kept looking at his watch. Tristan, who had been following the exchange without stepping in, turned to Cesaria.

  ‘I think we’re done here, don’t you think?’ he said quietly.

  ‘What do you mean? But—’

  Realising that Cesaria’s fiery Italian temperament was about to get the better of her, Tristan held up his hand. ‘There’s another way, trust me.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Samartini, who could see where this was heading. Limping cooperation that could only end one way: a heated confrontation and storming out of the meeting, which would achieve nothing except suiting the aggravating little man just fine. Taking a deep breath, Cesaria began to calm down. ‘You’re right,’ she said and stood up.

  Tristan stood up as well. ‘May I suggest you keep the files on your desk for now,’ he said, addressing the smirking officer.

  ‘And why should I do that?’ said the man.

  ‘Because it will save you having to get them out of storage again when your superiors ask for the files, which I expect will be quite soon. Thank you so much for your help.’

  With that, Tristan turned around and headed for the door, followed by Cesaria and Samartini.

  Cesaria caught up with Tristan in the foyer. ‘What was that all about?’ she said.

  Tristan pulled his mobile out of his pocket. ‘Phone call first, explanation later.’

  Cesaria turned to Samartini standing next to her. ‘What’s he up to, do you think?’

  ‘We’ll find out soon enough.’

  Tristan finished the phone call and slipped the mobile back into his pocket. ‘There’s a nice little Italian restaurant not far from here. Let’s have an early dinner; what do you think, guys? I’m starving.’

  ‘Have you noticed? He sounds more and more like Jack,’ said Samartini, shaking her head.

  ‘Another incorrigible rascal in the making? Is that what you’re saying?’ said Cesaria.

  ‘I hope not. One’s enough, don’t you think?’

  ‘I heard that,’ said Tristan cheerfully. ‘You’ll thank me later, you’ll see.’

  ‘You’re obviously up to something,’ said Cesaria. ‘But an early dinner is a good idea. Our flight back to Florence isn’t until ten-thirty tonight. At least that way, it wasn’t all a complete waste of time.’

  ‘A lot can happen between now and then,’ said Tristan, smiling.

  ‘We’ll see. Now, where’s this Italian restaurant of yours?’ asked Cesaria. ‘Let’s get out of this depressing place.’

  Sir Charles Huntley walked into the restaurant just after seven-thirty pm. Impeccably dressed in a dark-blue pinstriped suit, white shirt and bow tie, he looked every part the prominent London lawyer he was. ‘Ah, there you are,’ he said and waved to Tristan in the back of the crowded room. ‘I came as soon as I could.’

  ‘This is Sir Charles Huntley,’ said Tristan, making the introductions. ‘Isis’s personal lawyer and a good friend. Jack has worked with Sir Charles on a number of matters in the past.’

  Cesaria looked stunned.

  ‘The Stolzfus case earlier this year was one of them,’ added Sir Charles. He looked at Cesaria and Samartini sitting opposite. ‘You were both involved in that case, weren’t you, Chief Superintendent?’ he said breezily.

  Cesaria nodded, wondering where all this was going.

  ‘A glass of wine, perhaps?’ suggested Tristan.

  ‘Yes, please. We just have time before the meeting.’

  ‘What meeting?’ asked Cesaria.

  ‘A senior agent at MI5 who has been assigned to assist in this matter will meet us in half an hour. I play bridge with his boss every Thursday.’

  Tristan turned to Samartini. ‘Jack has many friends here in London.’

  Samartini pushed back her glasses, which had once again slipped down her nose, and looked at Tristan. ‘I can see that.’

  Daniel Cross was impatiently pacing up and down in his office, fuming. ‘What a stuff-up!’ he said to his assistant, the surly young man who had been so rude and condescending to Cesaria before. ‘How could you?’

  The phone call from his boss couldn’t have come at a worse time, just as Cross was about to sit down to dinner in his club, to impress his boyfriend. To be ordered back to work to clean up the mess created by his assistant was not only annoying, but also humiliating. And on top of all that, to find that the complaint had come from none other than Sir Charles Huntley – an old adversary – was rubbing salt into a wound that had been festering for a long time. The only good news in the fiasco was that the urgent inquiry concerned Jack Rogan, who seemed to be in some kind of trouble. Jack had caused Cross a lot of heartache over the years, which had almost cost him his job.

  ‘Have you got the files?’ demanded Cross, trying to compose himself.

  ‘Yes. On your desk.’

  ‘All of them?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘You think so? You are not paid to think, but to do as I tell you. Clear?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Now, bring them in and try to be civil. This is a repair job in damage control. Your future depends on it. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Please accept my apologies,’ said Cross trying to appear cooperative, but gritting his teeth underneath. ‘My assistant clearly misunderstood the instructions I gave before I left. There was little time ...’

  ‘No matter,’ said Sir Charles, enjoying Cross’s discomfort. Ignoring the fidgeting assistant who stood demurely behind Cross, he made the introductions.

  ‘Two dead police officers and two abductions,’ said Cross, trying to shift the attention away from his previous failure to give the matter his personal attention it had evidently warranted. ‘I understand Mr Rogan is in a spot of bother,’ continued Cross, unable to resist referring to Jack’s predicament. ‘This is serious. How can we be of assistance?’

  Sir Charles looked at Cesaria and nodded. ‘Chief Superintendent?’

  ‘This is all about the Dark Net Bazaar and the man suspected to be behind it.’

  ‘That old chestnut,’ scoffed Cross and lit a cigarette. ‘The Americans have been trying to shut down the DNB for years, but like a hydra, it keeps popping up in unexpected places with new heads from time to time.’

  ‘Well, it looks like one of those heads has just popped up again. But it seems to be an old one: Ronan O’Hara.’

  ‘Seriously? After all these years? He’s still around, you think?’

  ‘We believe so.’

  Cross shook his head. ‘If you’re right, he must be well into his seventies by now.’

  ‘Evil has no age limit.’

  ‘True. What makes you think that O’Hara could somehow be involved in this matter of yours?’

  Cesaria decided not to tell Cross that everything hinged on just three words that Jack had uttered before his abduction. ‘It’s complicated,’ she said instead.

  ‘I see.’ Complicated was intelligence speak for I cannot tell you; don’t ask me again. ‘So, what would you like to know?’

  ‘We understand that you have a comprehensive dossier on O’Hara. Left over from that unsuccessful raid in Cornwall thirty or so years ago. Just before he went to ground and disappeared.’

  Cross pointed to the files on his desk. ‘This is it right here,’ he said. ‘We did a lot of work on O’Hara at the time. We reconstructed his life from the very beginning. You know how these
matters work. It’s all about detail. To expose and catch someone like this, it’s somehow always the little things that count.’

  ‘Quite. And it’s precisely those little things we’re after. They could make all the difference here, especially when linked to those complicated matters I mentioned earlier.’

  ‘I see,’ said Cross and opened the file in front of him. ‘In that case, let me tell you what we know about O’Hara and what we believed at the time made him tick, and why.’

  Samartini opened her notebook, pushed her glasses back up, and looked expectantly at Cross.

  They walked out of Cross’s office two hours later. ‘I can’t thank you enough, Sir Charles,’ said Cesaria as they left the building.

  ‘Don’t mention it. When Jack’s involved, we leave no stone unturned. Isis owes him a lot ...’

  ‘I understand.’ Cesaria looked at her watch. ‘Here goes our flight,’ she said.

  ‘No matter. He should be here any moment,’ said Sir Charles.

  ‘Who?’ asked Cesaria, looking puzzled.

  ‘Boris. Isis’s driver. Look, here he comes now.’ Sir Charles pointed to a black Bentley pulling up at the kerb. The car stopped and a big man got out.

  ‘Boris!’ said Tristan. He walked over to the big man and gave him a hug.

  Cesaria turned to Samartini standing next to her. ‘Can you believe this?’ she said, shaking her head.

  ‘Come on, guys, get in,’ said Tristan.

  ‘Where are we going?’ asked Cesaria.

  ‘To meet someone special who will help us find Jack.’

  53

  Time Machine Studios, London: 8 November

  The Bentley turned into the underground garage of the Time Machine Studios, a large converted warehouse complex on the banks of the Thames, and stopped in front of the lifts where Lola, Isis’s PA and personal pilot, was waiting. Tristan got out of the car first, walked over to Lola and embraced her.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ said Lola, barely able to speak. ‘Isis and I were devastated when we heard about Lorenza. Jack called, and it was all over the news here. Horrible!’