Absolute Proof

by Peter James

  He recognized them now from their company website. If evil had a smell, these men would reek, he thought.

  As if by an invisible military command, they stopped and Imogen continued, the last few paces towards him, alone.

  The nearer she came, unsmiling, the more of a stranger she was to him.

  ‘Hello, Ross,’ she said, stopping well clear of his personal space.

  His natural instinct was to step forward, embrace and kiss her. But her body language stopped him. It was like a barrier.

  ‘What are you doing here, Imo? Not taking my calls? Do you want to tell me what’s going on? I’ve been going out of my wits.’

  ‘Oh, right, and I haven’t? These past weeks? Since you decided to put us both at risk?’

  ‘I’m doing my job.’

  ‘People do jobs to earn money, Ross,’ she retorted.

  ‘Who are your flunkeys?’ He nodded to the men behind her. ‘You’re getting very flash, flying to LA, staying here, hiring bodyguards.’

  ‘They’re not bodyguards, they’re paying for everything. And they’re offering us a lot of money, far more than the newspaper will ever pay you for the article.’

  Lowering his voice so only Imogen could hear, he said, ‘Really? Are these the shitbags who tried to have me killed in Egypt?’

  ‘No, you’re mistaken – they didn’t want to kill you, they wanted what you had. But they are now offering a very good deal – far better than the Vatican. Can we go somewhere quiet to talk?’

  ‘It’s quiet here.’ He stared at her, wondering, Do I know you any more?

  ‘Let’s go and sit down, at least.’

  Joined by the two men, she headed over to a couple of sofas and armchairs grouped around a coffee table, close to the water and far enough from the next seating area not to be overheard.

  ‘Ross,’ Imogen said, ‘this is Ainsley Bloor and Julius Helmsley.’

  He reluctantly shook hands with the hawk-faced man first, then with the one with stupid glasses, and they sat down.

  ‘Very nice to meet you, Ross,’ said Bloor. His voice sounded sharp, overly friendly and completely insincere. ‘Can we get you some tea or coffee?’

  ‘An Americano with hot milk.’

  Bloor clicked his finger in the air and a server in a beige jacket hurried over.

  ‘Would you like anything to eat?’ Bloor asked. ‘Have you had breakfast?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  They gave their orders to the server. Then Ross said, ‘Do you gentlemen have business cards, please?’

  ‘Of course.’ Bloor fished out a fancy silver holder and handed one to him.

  ‘Kerr Kluge?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Bloor gave him the kind of smile a teacher gives a small child.

  ‘You’re the Chief Executive?’

  ‘I am. And Julius is our Chief Operating Officer.’

  Ross said nothing. Imogen was looking at him, anxiously.

  ‘Perhaps your wife has explained why we are all here?’

  ‘No, I have no idea.’

  ‘Ah, right,’ Bloor continued in his patronizing tone. ‘We understand you came here to Los Angeles to meet a gentleman called Mike Delaney, who according to records you’ve managed to obtain, might well be Jesus Christ back on earth – however improbable that sounds.’

  ‘Understand from whom?’

  ‘From your wife,’ Bloor said, disarmingly.

  ‘Yes, so we are pretty much up to speed, Mr Hunter,’ Julius Helmsley chipped in.

  Ross frowned at Imogen. Then at each of the two men. ‘Is that right? You’re aware that he was killed last night by a hit-and-run driver. Nothing to do with you?’

  ‘Ross!’ Imogen said, crossly.

  ‘To do with us?’ Bloor said, still humouring the small child. ‘We came here in the hope of meeting Mr Delaney, not to kill him. Kerr Kluge is a very well-respected public company as I am sure you know. Killing people is not our thing.’

  ‘Except for me in Egypt and poor people in Africa?’ Ross quizzed.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Helmsley said, affronted.

  ‘Your company has been criticized on several occasions for selling out-of-date drugs to the African continent,’ he said, ignoring his wife’s glare.

  ‘Mr Hunter,’ Helmsley said, ‘there is a wide safety margin on the date stamping of all our pharmaceutical products. They may be out of date for the retailers we supply within Europe and the United States, but they are all still sound products. If it helps poorer countries by selling them cheaply, that’s got to be a good thing, surely?’

  ‘You’re making yourself sound like a saint, Mr Helmsley,’ Ross said.

  ‘Well, I do think people like to demonize the pharmaceutical industry.’

  ‘Really? I can’t think why.’

  ‘Ross!’ Imogen hissed.

  ‘Look, Mr Hunter,’ Bloor said, ‘I won’t beat about the bush. We would like what we believe you have and we are prepared to pay handsomely for it.’

  ‘What you believe I have? You’ve bugged my house, haven’t you? You know what I have.’

  Bloor reddened slightly.

  ‘Since you had your people graffiti it, right? Under the guise of religious fanatics. Very clever of you.’

  Bloor said nothing.

  ‘Did your people kill poor Harry Cook and his solicitor?’

  ‘There are a lot of people after what you have, Ross, not just us.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I think you know that.’

  ‘And as ruthless as you lot? People willing to shoot at me in Egypt? To try to drown me in a well?’

  ‘High stakes have always carried high risks,’ Bloor said, cynically. ‘Sometimes, people have to pay the ultimate price. That’s how the world rolls and always has done. You have something that could change the world. A vial of fluid that very probably contains Jesus Christ’s original DNA, obtained from crushing a tooth. Imagine that in the wrong hands.’

  Ross looked at Imogen, totally gobsmacked. ‘You told these people about the vial? These slimeballs?’

  ‘They’re not slimeballs, Ross. These are good people, doing good research, doing good for the world.’

  ‘Really?’ He looked, seething, at both men as their drinks arrived, along with a plate of tiny biscuits.

  As the server walked away he said, ‘Can you tell me, gentlemen, why Jesus Christ’s DNA is so important to you? I know you are major players in the genetics field – are you planning to start cloning Him? Or are you worried, Mr Bloor, that someone else might, and you’ll have hordes of miracle workers wandering around, healing people and putting you out of business?’

  ‘I’m an atheist, Ross.’ Bloor smiled. ‘It is very simple. We are, as you correctly say, a major player in genetics research. I don’t believe in Jesus Christ being the Son of God or being a healer or any of that claptrap. But there are over two billion practising Christians in the world, many of whom buy my company’s products. This is about marketing, pure and simple.’

  ‘What?’ Ross said. ‘I don’t follow.’

  Bloor had his condescending expression again. ‘Very simply, Mr Hunter. You are a consumer and you have a choice of products. If you were a Christian believer shopping for headache tablets or a cold remedy, which product are you going to choose – assuming the same price? The one manufactured by a company you know nothing about or the one that has Jesus Christ’s DNA?’

  Ross was silent for some moments, absorbing this. Finally, he shook his head. ‘That is so unbelievably cynical.’

  Bloor continued, smiling at him. ‘It’s called business, Mr Hunter.’

  Ross turned to his wife. ‘What did they offer to pay you, Judas – sorry – Imogen. Thirty pieces of silver?’

  ‘Ross,’ Imogen said. ‘They are offering to pay off our mortgage, all our debts and more.’

  ‘We are prepared to make you a very generous offer,’ Helmsley said.

  Ross looked at his wife. ‘I don’t believe this. I have a cha
nce to do something for mankind, and you’re prepared to sell me out? First Silvestri, and now you bring these scumbags all the way here?’

  ‘Yes, Ross, OK – I’m not doing it for the rest of the world, I’m doing it for us.’

  ‘You’re meant to be a Christian believer, Imogen!’

  ‘Yup, well maybe I put practical considerations above my faith, sometimes.’

  Ross looked at the men. ‘What kind of money are you talking?’

  ‘Before we enter detailed negotiations, we need to be completely sure of the provenance, Mr Hunter,’ Helmsley said.

  Ross pulled his wallet out of his breast pocket and held it up. ‘Provenance?’

  Bloor and Helmsley’s eyes lit up.

  He dug into the lining and tore it open. Then he tugged out the tiny vial, with an ATGC Forensics label around it, and held it up. ‘You’re asking for provenance for this?’

  He registered alarm in Imogen’s eyes.

  ‘That’s correct, Mr Hunter,’ Helmsley said. ‘We would need to satisfy our board.’

  ‘But surely your board are already aware of the provenance?’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Helmsley replied.

  ‘Really? You’re telling me they don’t know of its provenance? You tried to have me killed when I went to Egypt to get it.’

  ‘That’s outrageous!’ Bloor protested.

  ‘You know it’s the truth, gentlemen.’ He stared at the vial. ‘And you know something? This little thing here really does seem to be the cause of a lot of problems.’

  ‘Ross!’ Imogen cautioned.

  Holding the tiny vial in his left hand, he twisted off the stopper with his right hand, stood up and strode to the water’s edge.

  ‘Nooooo!’ shrieked Bloor, so loudly people were turning round.

  ‘Mr Hunter!’ Helmsley called out, imploringly.

  ‘Ross! Don’t!’ Imogen commanded.

  He threw the vial, as hard as he could, towards the fountain. As it flew through the air, droplets fell from it. A moment later the vial was gone from view, below the surface.

  Then he turned to the shocked faces of the two pharmaceutical executives. ‘Quick, gentlemen, grab a bucket each! I’m giving you a gift. Holy water, totally free!’

  137

  Tuesday, 21 March

  ‘You OK?’

  Sally, seated beside him on the plane, looked pale. She nodded. ‘Yep, thanks. It’s just this is the bit I don’t like – the take-off – and the landing.’

  ‘I prefer landing to the alternative.’

  ‘Don’t!’

  They had taxied out onto the runway and were now in a queue. The strengthening gale was battering the plane and they could feel it shaking.

  Ross glanced at his watch. It was 6.20 p.m. They were due into London Heathrow at lunchtime, UK time, tomorrow.

  ‘How strong does the wind need to be before planes can’t fly, Ross?’ she asked.

  ‘It would have to be pretty bad – these things have hooks in the sky!’

  ‘That’s too bad – I was sort of hoping the flight might be cancelled, you know – and we get deplaned. And have another evening in LA.’

  He studied her expression for some moments as the engines roared and the plane shuddered even more. ‘I’m going to ask you a question and I want you to answer me honestly, OK?’

  She grinned. ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘Did you actually need to make this trip out here or was that bullshit?’

  ‘Am I that transparent or shallow?’

  ‘Neither, but I have a sneaking suspicion you might just be a tad devious.’

  ‘Mr Ross Hunter!’ she said with feigned indignation. ‘Is that something you should say to a lady?’

  ‘I’m a reporter, it’s my job to ask questions. Just like it’s your job, too.’

  ‘Well, OK, I’ll come clean. This trip was on my own dollar. You intrigue me. This mission you’re on fascinates me, I wanted to be here to see what you found – and hopefully to give you support.’

  The plane began to move. As it did, she gripped his hand, hard, her nails digging in, and closed her eyes.

  It accelerated down the runway, picking up more and more speed, the wheels bumping beneath them, the wind shaking them more and more. Still on the runway. Faster and faster. Bumping. Bumping. Ross began to feel anxious too. Shit, were they ever going to lift off?

  Then, suddenly, they were in the air, and the bumping became worse. Her nails dug in even harder. They were climbing. Buffeted. Jolting. Yawing. A massive bang right behind startled them both. Then they calmed down. It was just stuff crashing around in the rear galley.

  Through the window, Sally Ross could see the lights of the city below them. Then wisps of cloud. Suddenly, the lights were gone. They were climbing steeply. Bumping. Bumping.

  ‘You can open your eyes now.’

  She looked at him, still deathly pale, and gave a faint smile of relief.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For being honest with me.’

  ‘Always.’

  138

  Tuesday, 21 March

  Two hours after Ross and Sally’s flight had taken off from LAX, the Gulfstream taking Ainsley Bloor and Julius Helmsley back to the UK taxied along the runway of Santa Monica Airport, a few miles to the north.

  The small jet was shaking in the wind, which had continued strengthening throughout the evening.

  Both men were in furious moods. The pilot had tried to dissuade them from flying tonight, because of the weather conditions, but Bloor was in no mood to be told what to do.

  Strapped in his seat, he drained his second glass of champagne and for the third or fourth time asked, ‘Just tell me, Julius, how did that little shit, Hunter, know it was us in Egypt?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve told you, Ainsley. I don’t know.’

  ‘Someone enabled him to make the connection. Someone must have bloody told him.’

  ‘I’ve already asked the pilots.’

  Both the pilot and co-pilot of the Gulfstream had been in the helicopter in Egypt, along with a local Luxor pilot to help navigate.

  Bloor stared out of the window. He could barely see the runway lights. It looked like mist swirling past.

  The senior pilot’s voice crackled over the intercom. ‘Sandstorm’s coming in, gentlemen. It will be a very uncomfortable ride. My advice is to abort and we’ll see how the weather’s looking in the morning.’

  Bloor grabbed the microphone in his armrest and switched it on. ‘Just go, OK? Go now, beat the bloody storm. You said we could get ahead of it if we went now.’

  ‘OK, you’re the boss. It’s gonna be bumpy.’

  ‘It’ll be even bumpier for you if we don’t go.’

  ‘Your dollar, your call.’

  The engines roared and the plane accelerated rapidly.

  ‘Are you sure about this, Ainsley?’ Helmsley said, nervously.

  ‘This guy’s flown like one hundred and ten missions in Iraq. They have proper sandstorms there. He knows what to do. This is a cakewalk for him.’

  Moments later, as the plane lifted off, it shook violently, sideways, then plummeted.

  Helmsley screamed.

  It gained height again.

  Plummeted again.

  Bloor blanched.

  Then it was as if the two of them were inside a cocktail shaker. The plane rose almost vertically, then plunged just as vertically for several seconds before levelling out. It felt like it was being thrown sideways. Spinning.

  ‘Jesus!’ Bloor yelled.

  Helmsley vomited.

  139

  Wednesday, 22 March

  The pilot’s voice came through the intercom, waking Ross from his light, uncomfortable sleep in his cramped seat. Sally was still asleep, her face inches from his, pressed against a small pillow. He could hear the clattering of a trolley and could smell hot food.

  ‘Well, I’m sorry you’ve had such a bumpy night, every
one, but the good news is the tailwind has given us a useful push and we are going to be arriving at Heathrow almost an hour ahead of schedule. The weather in London is a mild fourteen degrees centigrade and it’s a sunny day. I’ll give you a further update in a while.’

  Sally opened her eyes and smiled at him.

  ‘Did you get some sleep?’ he asked.

  ‘Yep, you know, the kind you might get lying on a busy trampoline.’

  He smiled, and before he realized what he was doing, kissed her lightly on the forehead.

  She fixed her eyes on his. Clear, deep blue, trusting eyes. Smiling eyes. She yawned. ‘So, see you again sometime?’

  ‘Soon I hope.’

  ‘Me, too,’ she said. ‘Make it very soon!’

  Later, as Ross drove out of the long-term car park at Heathrow, he was thinking through everything that had happened in the past two days.

  And already missing Sally’s company.

  She was under his skin.

  He needed to put her out of his mind, focus on finishing his piece for the Sunday Times and somehow find a way forward with Imogen. Anger rose inside him. What a bitch. He didn’t understand it. Didn’t understand where she was coming from. She’d talked about the danger they were in, distressed, petrified, then suddenly it had become all about the money.

  Fair dues. She had a point. Maybe she had been right and he was the one who was being stupid. Stubborn. Unrealistic.

  Was it unrealistic to try to do something towards pulling the world back from the brink?

  Or was he massively deluded? Had he thrown away the chance to make some serious money out of this whole thing? It was still an option. Brother Angus had the backup, both the chalice and the vial of DNA. He could recover the situation if he so decided.

  The news came on the radio.

  Freak storms were battering the West Coast of the USA, with Southern California being the worst hit. Los Angeles LAX Airport had been closed. They were lucky to have got out in time.