Renegades

by Hutson, Shaun;

  Bullets of every calibre imaginable.

  .45. 9mm. 5.45mm. 7.62mm. .357. .38. .44 Magnum rounds (half and full metal jacket). Hollow tips. Wad-cutters. Even a case of . 223 ‘Duplex’ cartridges.

  Every type of bullet to fit every type of pistol and rifle and machine gun.

  The crates were storehouses of death.

  Combat Magnums, Smith and Wesson, Rugers, Walthers, Berettas, Brownings, Heckler and Koch, Remington.

  And the sub-machine gun.

  Ingrams, Berettas, Uzis, Skorpions, Steyrs.

  The shotgun were there, too. The Ithacas, Brownings and Spas.

  For the right price Callahan had always said he could get a tank. Now he smiled and picked up one of the HK33’s, working the bolt action as if he were chambering a round. He pressed it to his shoulder and squinted down the sight, peering around the subterranean room.

  He squeezed the trigger and the hammer slammed down on an empty chamber. The metallic click sounded thunderous inside the sub-cellar.

  He had seen a young lad dressed in a T-shirt once which had borne the slogan, ‘Killing is my business ... and business is good.’

  It might have been invented for Callahan.

  He couldn’t begin to imagine how many hundreds of thousands of pounds worth of weapons were stored here below the house; it might even run into millions. Brought to him by private plane or boat from his many contacts around the world. Sent out the same way when they were needed. And there were many who paid for what he had to sell.

  He re-cocked the HK33 and held it before him, finally pressing it to his shoulder and bringing the sight to bear on the sub-cellar door.

  He knew he would have need of these weapons himself soon.

  The time was drawing closer.

  Thirty-One

  BRITTANY, FRANCE:

  As she drove, Catherine Roberts caught a glimpse of herself in the rear-view mirror, and what she saw wasn’t very pleasing.

  She was pale through lack of sleep, her eyes swollen and puffy as if she’d been crying. There were bags beginning to form, she thought, annoyed at this sudden attack of vanity. She ran a hand through her hair and concentrated on the road instead.

  Beside her Mark Channing lay back in the passenger seat, his eyes closed as if hoping that the sleep which eluded him at night would come now. And yet he knew that with sleep would come dreams.

  Those dreams.

  He opened his eyes and rubbed them with his fists, blinking myopically at the passing countryside. Then he glanced across at Cath, who seemed unaware of his gaze. He noted every detail of her appearance and attire. Her thin face with its high cheek bones, her long hair which was whipped by the wind flowing through her open window. She wore a simple plain blouse which successfully concealed her breasts. Her jeans were tight, marked in places with the dust of the church.

  The church.

  It seemed that he could not escape the building whatever his train of thought and, at the moment, those thoughts were not on some relic of the past. They were firmly on the present.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve had time to thank you for coming out here, Cath,’ he said, finally. ‘I appreciate it.’

  She smiled.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d come,’ he continued, ‘after what happened between us. I thought you might find it difficult.’ He shrugged.

  ‘What happened is in the past, Mark,’ she said.

  ‘Meaning you’ve forgotten about it?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. I haven’t forgotten about it. You can’t wipe out memories that easily.’

  ‘Do you want to wipe them out?’

  ‘Our affair is in the past. We were different people then.’

  He looked a little disappointed.

  ‘It was good at the time but that time has gone,’ she told him.

  ‘And you don’t want it to happen again?’ Channing asked, his tone lower.

  ‘No.’

  Cath was amazed she’d managed to say it quite so directly. She hoped she hadn’t hurt him, but if she had then he would have to learn to live with it.

  ‘Is there anyone at the moment?’ he wanted to know.

  ‘Is it important?’

  ‘I’m just curious.’

  ‘You’re more than curious, Mark,’ she said wearily. ‘But in answer to that question, no, there isn’t anyone at the moment.’

  ‘Are you going to tell me your work comes first?’ he said. She wasn’t slow to pick up the hint of sarcasm in his voice.

  ‘What’s so bad about that?’ she snapped.

  ‘Nothing. I just didn’t picture you as a career woman,’ he told her, and again there was that edge to his tone she didn’t care for. She thought about saying something but resisted the temptation.

  ‘Don’t you think we’d be better off discussing the real reason I came here, instead of raking over the past?’ she said finally.

  Channing was silent for a moment, looking out of the window distractedly. Finally he nodded briskly.

  ‘So give me your expert opinion,’ he said.

  Again that edge to his voice.

  ‘The date of the window and as much as you can tell about its manufacture.’ He reached into his pocket and pulled out a packet of Rothmans, offering her one before lighting up himself.

  ‘It’s too early to tell without a thorough examination of the glass,’ she began. ‘But from what little I’ve seen I’d say that it was early fifteenth century.’

  ‘Which would place it around the time of Gilles de Rais,’ he said quietly, a softly-spoken affirmation of his own original theory. ‘What I can’t understand is, if de Rais was a necromancer, black magician, whatever, why would he have a stained-glass window put into a church he’d already desecrated?’

  ‘From what we’ve seen of the images in the glass so far the window isn’t exactly an offering to God,’ said Cath. ‘Stained-glass windows were usually offered as dedications to God by the men who commissioned them.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ murmured Channing. ‘Maybe that’s what the window is. An offering. An offering to the deity de Rais worshipped.’ He sucked on his cigarette. ‘Stained-glass windows usually told a story of some kind, right? Perhaps this one does too.’

  ‘I won’t know that until we’ve uncovered it all,’ she told him. ‘There has to be somewhere else to work, Mark. I need to do more detailed tests on the glass.’

  ‘Where would you suggest? Back at the inn?’ he said, acidly. ‘The work has to be done inside the church. Also, the fewer people who know about it the better.’

  ‘Jealous of your little discovery, Mark?’ she said, and now it was her turn to inject scorn into her words.

  He didn’t answer.

  She swung the car around a curve in the road.

  The church came into view, momentarily enveloped by deep shadow as a cloud passed in front of the watery sun.

  Neither of them spoke as they drew nearer the building; both had their eyes fixed on it, a mixture of anticipation and unease flowing through them.

  It was Cath who spotted it first.

  ‘Mark, look,’ she said, pointing ahead.

  Outside the church, close to the main door, another car was parked.

  Thirty-Two

  Cath slowed down as they approached the car, able to see that its owner was not in evidence.

  ‘Drive past it and stop,’ said Channing, scanning the area around the church.

  She did as she was instructed then they both clambered out of the Renault, eyes and ears alert to the slightest sight or sound of movement from the church. Clearly the owner of the vehicle was inside the building.

  Channing headed for the door.

  He was less than two feet from it when the figure emerged.

  Channing took a step back, startled by the sudden appearance of the man. He was in his late twenties, tall and slightly built, with short dark hair. He smiled politely and moved out into the open, nodding a polite greeting to Cath.

  ‘Who are you?’ as
ked Channing.

  The man looked stumped for a moment and Cath wondered if he was unable to understand English. Her French wasn’t up to much but it might do in a crisis. She took a step forward.

  ‘Qui êtes vous?’ she asked.

  ‘Pardon,’ said the man, smiling. ‘You may speak English if you wish. I have enough of your language to prevent difficulties.’ He smiled again and Cath found herself smiling back, amused at his accent.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Channing said, less charitable in his approach.

  ‘My name is Claude Lausard,’ he said, extending a hand which Channing declined to shake. ‘I was visiting the church.’

  Channing eyed the man suspiciously.

  ‘Have you been inside?’ he wanted to know.

  ‘Only briefly ...’

  ‘What did you see?’ Channing interrupted.

  ‘What should I have seen? Tell me, Mr Channing, you have spent more time here than most in the past few days. Miss Roberts, too.’

  ‘How do you know our names?’ Cath asked him.

  ‘Madame Chabrol, the lady who runs the inn, she told me,’ Lausard admitted, the smile never leaving his lips.

  ‘We still don’t know who you are,’ Channing said irritably. ‘Why have you been prying, finding out our names? What the hell do you want?’

  Lausard held up his hands to calm Channing.

  ‘I want a story, Monsieur Channing,’ he said, still smiling.

  ‘You’re a reporter,’ Cath said flatly.

  The Frenchman nodded.

  ‘Only from a humble regional newspaper, I admit, but we all have to work. What is the attraction of Machecoul?’ he said, motioning to the church, his smile finally fading. ‘No one ever comes near this place; you should have known that your work here, I presume it is work, would not go unnoticed by the locals. What happened here may have happened over four hundred years ago but the stigma remains. The name of Gilles de Rais belongs to history, Monsieur Channing. Perhaps for the wrong reasons, but it does nonetheless.’ Lausard lit up a cigarette and walked across to his car, leaning on the bonnet. ‘What were you hoping to find here?’

  ‘Information,’ Channing told him tersely.

  About de Rais? Why?’

  ‘For a book I’m writing. I’m a historian.’

  ‘And you, Miss Roberts? What is your interest here?’

  ‘It isn’t really any of your business, Mr Lausard,’ she told him flatly.

  The smile returned to the reporter’s lips.

  ‘You are certainly very protective of your discovery, whatever it may be,’ he said, reaching for his lighter. As he held it up to relight his cigarette Cath noticed it was in the shape of a silver horse’s head. ‘Have you found de Rais’ treasure?’

  A heavy silence descended, broken finally by the Frenchman.

  ‘I am not here to interfere,’ he said, ‘but to discover, like you.’ He eyed them both. ‘Is it the treasure you’ve found? Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. If you know about Gilles de Rais then you know about the treasure he supposedly had.’

  ‘No one knew what form that treasure took,’ Channing said.

  ‘That is what you are here to find out, I presume?’

  ‘Look, why don’t you just leave us alone to get on with our work?’ Channing said.

  Lausard continued to smile.

  ‘Don’t let me stand in your way. I’ll come back when you’re not so busy.’ He tossed away his cigarette and slid behind the wheel of his car, starting the engine. He wound down the window and looked at the others. ‘I will see you again,’ he said and drove off, gravel spinning up behind the car as he sped away. Cath and Channing watched the car disappear up the dirt track then around a bend.

  ‘That’s all we need,’ said Charing wearily.

  The sun was sinking slowly when Lausard returned to Machecoul.

  He parked his car on the crest of one of the hills which sloped down to the valley floor, got out and sat on the bonnet, looking down at the church. He reached into his pocket, pulled out first a packet of cigarettes then the silver lighter. Lausard sucked hard on the Gaulois, inhaling the smoke, allowing it to burn its way into his lungs.

  From his vantage point he could see the Renault parked outside the church. He knew that Cath and Channing were still inside. What they were doing he could only guess at.

  A chill breeze had sprung up; it whistled around the car, making Lausard shiver. He decided that it would be warmer waiting inside. He glanced at his watch.

  7.26 p.m.

  It might be a long wait.

  Thirty-Three

  It was almost eleven-thirty when Lausard saw the headlights of the Renault cutting through the blackness of the valley floor away from the church of Machecoul. He sat behind the wheel of his car and finished his cigarette, finally tossing the butt out of the window. Then he started the engine and guided the Citroen down the narrow road towards the building.

  He didn’t put on his own headlamps, relying instead on the side lights despite the unevenness of the road. No point in announcing his arrival, he thought, smiling.

  The moon was hidden behind vast rolling banks of dark bilious cloud but Lausard welcomed the darkness. It aided his secretive approach.

  He pulled up close to the main door of the church and switched off the engine, sitting there a moment, looking up at the church. It towered above him like some predatory animal. He finally swung himself out of the car, reaching over to the back seat in the process to pick up the camera that lay there. Checking that it was loaded with film he proceeded towards the main door, pausing before it, listening for any sound from inside. Maybe only one of the English couple had left; perhaps the other one was still inside?

  He moved closer, pressing gently against the door which opened a couple of inches.

  The smell of damp enveloped him as he stood on the threshold and he stifled a cough, so strong was the odour of neglect.

  It was as quiet as the grave.

  He was sure he was alone.

  Lausard moved into the nave, pulling a torch from his jacket pocket, flicking it on as, for the second time that day, he wandered through the derelict building. The torch beam picked out overturned pews. Dust swirled as he walked, the motes pinned in the roving light like flies on paper. He moved down the central aisle of the church towards the door that led into the chancel.

  Christ, it was cold.

  His breath clouded in the air as he exhaled. He stopped for a moment to breathe on his hands. It hadn’t felt this cold outside, he thought, as he moved closer to the far door.

  His inspection of the building earlier in the day had not taken him beyond the nave. In fact he’d been on the point of investigating the chancel when he’d heard the car with Cath and Channing in pull up. Now, however, there was no one to interrupt him.

  Keeping the torch at chest height he moved on.

  He knew they’d found something inside the church. Otherwise what reasons would they have for being so secretive?

  Had they really found de Rais’ treasure?

  Lausard reached the chancel door and pulled at it, relieved when he found it wasn’t locked.

  As he opened it a blast of cold air hit him like a freezing hammer. It was as if all the warmth had been sucked from his body. He paused for a moment, trying to re-acclimatize himself to the sudden, savage drop in temperature.

  The darkness inside the chancel was almost palpable. Lausard felt as if he were drowning in it, as if the gloom was filling him as he breathed. He slowed his breathing and shone the torch around the inner sanctum of the church, picking out the altar, the boarded-up windows, the door which led to the stairs and belfry beyond, the shape ...

  To his left was an object draped in a piece of cloth.

  An object about six feet high.

  He shone the torch over it, unable to make out any contours.

  Aware of his own heartbeat thudding more insistently, Lausard moved towards it, reaching out to
grip the cloth.

  He pulled and it came free.

  Lausard frowned.

  Was this what they were being so secretive about?

  A stained-glass window.

  The top third of it had been uncovered by painstaking work and the images seemed to glow in the light of his torch with surprising brilliance. Exactly what they were he didn’t know.

  Some of them disgusted him.

  He moved closer, shining the torch over the glass, gazing long and hard at the features of the creature in the top right-hand panel, then turned away and headed towards the door that led to the belfry stairs. If they’d found something, he reasoned, it had to be more than the window.

  Surely.

  The door opened with difficulty, its ancient hinges creaking protest as Lausard pulled.

  A gust of cold wind blew down the spiral stairs and ruffled his hair. He shone the torch up and saw that the stairs curved around to the right, the spiral apparently growing tighter the higher the staircase rose.

  He pressed on the first step, putting all his weight on it, satisfied when the old timbers merely groaned under his pressure.

  The stairs were safe to climb.

  He began to ascend.

  Lausard was halfway up when he detected the stench.

  It was noxious beyond belief, a nauseating smell which made him feel faint, such was its intensity. He stopped on the stairs, putting one hand across his mouth in an effort to minimize the effect of the choking fetor.

  It was then that he realized it was coming from below him.

  From the chancel.

  He turned on the stairs and headed back down, the torch beam swaying back and forth as he hurried down the creaking steps, almost retching now, such was the vehemence of the stench.

  As he stumbled into the chancel itself he felt his legs give way and he fell to the ground, his lighter skidding across the floor.

  He didn’t attempt to retrieve it.

  All he wanted to do was get out of the church, get away from this rancid atmosphere.

  He dragged himself to his feet, his torch beam settling briefly on the window again.