Ryder

by Nick Pengelley

  “Whiskey, please.”

  Bebe crossed to the antique sideboard that held a collection of decanters, bottles, and glasses. “Ice or water?”

  Susannah looked up from the briefing paper she’d returned to. “Ice, please.”

  Too easy. Carrying the whiskey decanter and a glass, Bebe passed from the sitting room into the galley kitchen, added ice from the dispenser in the fridge door; then, putting the glass on the sink, she poured a generous measure of whiskey over the ice. She drew out the tiny vial from her jacket pocket, unscrewed the top, and, holding the vial with great care, emptied its contents into the whiskey and swirled the glass to mix the contents.

  Returning to the sitting room, Bebe proffered the glass to her prime minister. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

  Susannah Armstrong lifted the glass to her lips and sipped. “Thanks, Bebe. You take off for the night. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Good night, Prime Minister.”

  Susannah Armstrong, leaning back in the chesterfield, contentedly sipping her whiskey, had no idea she was already dying.

  Chapter 3

  Ayesha stared at the pub door, willing it to open. It didn’t. She checked the time yet again. Where the hell was Zilinsky? She struggled to suppress her impatience. Impossible. She was on the point of beholding something the world thought was merely the creation of a famous writer’s imagination. Susannah Armstrong had been fascinated, too, when, over tea on the terrace after their archery contest, Ayesha had told her and Bebe Daniels about it.

  “The Maltese Falcon? How can you be looking for that? It’s just a story. Dashiell Hammett, wasn’t it?”

  “That’s right. The Maltese Falcon really existed, though. I believe it still does. In fact I’m meeting a man tonight who claims he has it.” Ayesha had always loved Hammett’s novel about the fabulous golden and bejeweled statuette, coveted by fortune hunters for centuries. The movie version, too, with Humphrey Bogart as the detective, Sam Spade. She must have seen it a half dozen times. But The Maltese Falcon had been nothing more than an outstanding work of fiction. Until she’d read Eversden’s Chronicle.

  “Amazing! What’s the Falcon got to do with the Middle East?”

  “More than you might think.” Ayesha knew Susannah was aware of her aversion to anything that didn’t at least touch on the fields of Middle East history, politics, culture, or religion. These were the fields in which Ayesha was an internationally known and respected researcher. That reputation had been eclipsed, over the past year, by the violent roles she had played in the prevention of a political assassination, the rediscovery of the Ark of the Covenant, and the historic treasures looted from Washington, D.C., by the British during the War of 1812. “There’s a connection with the Knights Hospitallers,” Ayesha continued, “for one thing. They were the first order of knighthood established after the conquest of Jerusalem.”

  “How did you get involved?”

  “Noel Malcolm asked me to take on the job.” Ayesha glanced at Bebe Daniels. It was at the private secretary’s request that she’d met with Malcolm, the deputy prime minister. Malcolm repulsed her, but she’d been unable to resist the project he dangled before her.

  “Oh?” Susannah frowned. “I didn’t think Malcolm had any interest in history.”

  “In fact he has. Seems he’s long been fascinated by the Saxon kings of England. He came across a diary that had been in his family for generations. It tells of a link between the Maltese Falcon and the long-lost sword of King Harold of England—Harold who lost to William at Hastings.”

  “Astonishing.”

  Ayesha was impressed at how much sarcasm could be conveyed in one word.

  “I think you’ll find it has to do with his England-first plan,” Bebe Daniels put in. “Tomorrow’s vote in the House on his private member’s bill to dismember the United Kingdom and create, or re-create, an independent kingdom of England. Malcolm sees Harold as a symbol—the last English king, fighting to defend the realm from foreigners. In Harold’s case it was the Norman French, but that can be equated to anyone these days.

  “There was a legend, which persisted well after Harold’s death at the Battle of Hastings, that when his sword was found and raised by his rightful successor, the realm would be restored and the Normans driven out. Geoffrey of Monmouth, writing his History of the Kings of Britain, in Norman times needless to say, adapted the tale for his mythical King Arthur. It’s where we get the legend of Excalibur.”

  “Crap!” Susannah blew out her cheeks in exasperation. “If that’s the case, Ayesha, you’d do me a great favor by not helping him. Malcolm never stops lobbying me about this damn business of English independence.” She glanced at her watch. “I’m meeting with him later, at Number 10. With Philip Balfour. Says he has some new ideas.” She snorted. “As if I’d ever go along with breaking up the United Kingdom.”

  “The idea is gaining support,” Bebe warned.

  The private secretary was right, Ayesha knew. Noel Malcolm’s proposal for English independence had quite a following among certain sections of the public; it had picked up as the economic downturn worsened. It was the reason Susannah had allowed a conscience vote on the issue—meaning that all MPs could vote as they saw fit, ignoring party policy—as a way of relieving the tension, and of showing her mastery over her party—and Malcolm.

  Ayesha wasn’t concerned with politics, however, or the last Saxon king of England. She’d long been fascinated by the Knights of the Hospital, or St. John of Jerusalem, also known as the Knights Hospitaller, because of their role in the Crusades and during the two-hundred-year history of the Kingdom of Jerusalem, when they built great fortresses in the Holy Land. Any discovery that provided new data, or shed new light on the order, could rewrite the history books. If Ayesha was honest with herself, she was really much more interested in another possibility. She’d discovered that the Maltese Falcon might contain a clue to something else, something much more valuable than Harold’s lost sword. Not surprisingly, Susannah had also been far more interested in that possibility.

  Ayesha glowered at the pub door, her hopes sinking. She checked her phone. Nothing. She sent a text to Zilinsky: Where are you? Eight minutes passed—she timed them. She finished her martini. No reply came to her text. No one came through the door. She rose from her booth, slipped her black leather jacket on over her black tube top. These, together with skinny jeans, leather ankle boots, and a silk bandanna—all black—constituted her uniform. That’s what her best friend, Lady Madrigal Carey, always called it.

  Outside the pub, a low hum caused Ayesha to look up. A long cigar shape blotted out the waning crescent moon. One of the new Zeppelins operated by British Airways. She’d been elated when the news was announced that a group of German entrepreneurs funded by an Australian billionaire had revived the Zeppelin company—keeping the name because it was more resonant than airship, or dirigible.

  Ayesha had always regretted that airships had come to an end with the Hindenburg disaster, in 1937. They shouldn’t have. The Hindenburg had only been using hydrogen because of U.S. embargoes on the sale of helium to Hitler’s government. That was hardly a problem these days. And with the new synthetic gas mixtures and lightweight metal aeronautical construction compounds, Zeppelins made more sense than ever. The ship overhead had all the lifting power of the Hindenburg, but, at about three hundred feet in length, it was less than a third of its size. She watched the airship until it passed out of sight.

  Ayesha scanned the street hopefully. She sighed. No Zilinsky. Or anyone, for that matter. This time of night in the City that was hardly surprising. A lot of people worked there, but not many lived in the area. She hesitated. Go home, to St. John’s Wood? She tapped her foot. She wasn’t in the least tired. Maddy? Ayesha’s closest friend, Lady Madrigal Carey, was nearing a hundred years old, but she hardly slept; Ayesha was welcome at any time of the day or night. But Maddy’s flat was in Mayfair, whereas Ayesha’s place of work, the Walsingham I
nstitute for Oriental Studies, was only a short walk away, in Seething Lane. If she went there she’d be nearby if Zilinsky got in touch.

  Her mind made up, Ayesha strode toward Seething Lane, the click of her heels on the pavement echoing from the buildings in the silent street. Gaza. Her sister. The Maltese Falcon. Her thoughts ricocheted at random. She tried to focus on the contents of her inbox—requests for position papers on Syria, the Islamic State, the Libyan situation. Important, certainly. Interesting…not.

  She was passing the narrow alley on the far side of Trelawney’s Bank when she felt something snatch at her ankle. Shocked out of her reverie, she jerked back and whirled toward the alley, all her old instincts kicking in. Then she froze.

  Huddled against the wall of the bank, in the shadows at the entrance of the alley, was a man. At first she thought he was a vagrant, finding shelter for the night. Then she made out his clothing. He was well dressed; his graying hair neatly cut.

  “Ryder?” The man’s voice was a hoarse whisper.

  Ayesha recoiled at the sound of her own name. Then she stared at the man’s face. She’d only seen a photograph. “Zilinsky?”

  “Ja.”

  “Where are you hurt? Let me see.”

  “No time.” Zilinsky lifted a shaking hand; he held something out to her—a piece of paper. She leaned closer to take it. Zilinksy sagged against her; she lowered him gently to the pavement. She bent over him. His breathing was slow and ragged. The pulse in his neck was faint.

  “Ryder.” Zilinsky’s voice was a murmur.

  “I’m going to call an ambulance.” She groped for her phone.

  “No.” Zilinsky plucked feebly at her sleeve. “The Falcon.”

  “Yes?”

  “He wants it.”

  “Noel Malcolm? I know. He asked me to find it.”

  “No…” Zilinsky’s grasp tightened on her arm. “…Malcolm…mustn’t—” His grip loosened. He tried again, struggling to get the words out. “Don’t let…”

  “Zilinsky?” She felt for his pulse. Nothing. She ran her hands over his upper body. She peered at her fingers in the dim light. Not that there was any need. The smell had already told her it was blood. She rose, reaching for her phone once more.

  A car—a black Range Rover—glided along the street toward her. She half raised her hand to hail it; ask its occupants for help. She lowered her hand. Someone in the car was shining a flashlight into the pools of darkness where the streetlamps didn’t reach. Whoever was in the car was looking for something—or somebody.

  Suddenly the flashlight was pointed in her direction. The car sped up.

  Ayesha waited no longer. Turning, she dived into the alley. She raced to the back of Trelawney’s Bank. Swiveling on her heel, she looked back. A man, very tall, with the build of an athlete, bald head gleaming under the streetlights, stood over Zilinsky’s body. Her eyes narrowed. She’d seen him before. Where? Something in the man’s hand. A gun. Another man joined the bald one, then two more. Bad odds. She knew when to stand and fight, and when to run. Tonight, for now, valor must give way to discretion.

  The alley was in near-total darkness but Ayesha knew it well, and where it led. Her pursuers—Zilinsky’s killers she was sure—wouldn’t find her. Not until she was ready to fight back. As she ran, one thought was uppermost in her mind—the hunt for the Maltese Falcon had been fascinating. But that had been a tame affair; lacking excitement. It seemed things had picked up a notch or two. In the darkness no one saw her smile.

  Chapter 4

  The tall, bald man Ayesha Ryder had seen at the mouth of the alley was Longo. He’d had another name, once, but that was what he went by now. Ryder had vanished into the alley’s darkness, but not before he’d seen her in the light of a streetlamp. That angular face with its green cat’s eyes, framed in shoulder-length ebony hair. That dancer’s body.

  Longo had searched Zilinksy’s corpse, but the dead man hadn’t been carrying anything as big as the object Bebe Daniels described. Zilinsky had definitely had it when he’d boarded the train in Paris—one of Longo’s men had been tailing him. His man had lost Zilinsky when he’d arrived in London, at St. Pancras International. He’d found him again, then confronted him and shot him. Then the fucker had got away again!

  Zilinsky must have stashed the bird somewhere between St. Pancras and Crutched Friars. If he’d told anyone where it was, it was Ryder, whom he’d been due to meet in the Ship. So now he had to run Ryder to earth and find out what she knew. That wouldn’t be difficult. She was only a woman, albeit a famous one who’d had more than her share of luck in the past year. He grinned. Ryder’s luck was about to run out.

  Accompanied by one of his men, Zak, Longo worked his way down the length of the narrow alley, beaming his flashlight behind rubbish bins and into doorways. In his other hand he held a pistol, a stainless steel SIG Sauer P226.

  Longo’s phone chirped. He grunted. It would be Bebe Daniels, wanting news. He didn’t have any, so there was no point in answering. He pictured Daniels naked. He wanted her. Badly. He was pretty sure she wanted him, too. He knew the signs. The way she held his gaze. Touched her hair. Daniels was getting on his nerves, though, pressuring him for results. She’d have them soon enough. He was the best, and she knew it. Nine years in the Italian special forces, another eight in the French Foreign Legion after he’d been arrested and charged with rape. The past seven years as a mercenary for hire with his own private army. There was nothing he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, do. For the right price.

  The alley ended in a brick wall. He beamed his light over it. A fresh scuff mark stood out, halfway up. “Zak,” he called behind him to the Japanese he’d met when serving in the Foreign Legion. The man was built like a sumo wrestler. He’d been that and more. “What’s on the other side of this wall?”

  Half a minute passed while Zak consulted the London map app on his phone. “Churchyard,” he replied in a low rumble.

  “And beyond that?”

  “Walsingham Institute for Oriental Studies. Couple of buildings. Big grounds.”

  Longo smirked. Stupid bitch. The whole world knew where Ayesha Ryder worked. He glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes, then he’d be able to tell Bebe Daniels he had her Maltese Falcon. He smiled; he’d be happy to take part of his payment in kind. A small part.

  Chapter 5

  Ayesha swung her long legs over the high brick wall that separated St. Olave’s churchyard from the Walsingham Institute. She dropped to the ground, balancing on the balls of her feet. She scanned the grounds at the rear of the library building, a nineteenth-century extension to the Tudor mansion Sir Francis Walsingham, principal secretary to Elizabeth I, as well as her spymaster, had bequeathed to the nation. Ayesha probed the darkness for any sign of pursuit, although she didn’t think Zilinsky’s killers had followed her. They’d have seen her go into the alley, but they couldn’t know its twists and turns like she did. Even if they’d found their way into the churchyard, they couldn’t have known where she’d gone from there.

  Two paces from the window of the library staff kitchen, where Ayesha intended to gain entry to the building, she stopped dead. She’d remembered where she’d seen the bald man. During the summer, she’d been honored by the U.S. president for her role in finding the Washington treasure looted by the British during the War of 1812. Ayesha had also been instrumental in uncovering a plot to tamper with the results of the next U.S. elections, something very few people knew about. The president had thanked her privately for that. The CIA had tried to swear her to secrecy. She’d refused, although she’d had no intention of going public about what she knew.

  During the reception after the ceremony at the British Museum, Bebe Daniels had introduced her to Noel Malcolm. When they’d shaken hands, the deputy prime minister had turned to a tall man, bald-headed, but with a very dark five o’clock shadow. He was clad in a tailored suit that did nothing to hide his bulging muscles. Everything about him spoke of his Italian origins. It also said bodyguard.
She closed her eyes, comparing her mental image to the man who’d chased her in Crutched Friars. It was him. “Longo, get us some drinks.” Noel Malcolm had ordered him. Longo.

  Longo worked for Noel Malcolm. What in hell’s name did that mean? If Malcolm’s man was responsible for Zilinsky’s murder it meant Ayesha was in serious trouble. She’d have to disappear. At least until she could let Susannah Armstrong know what was going on.

  Her mind struggling to grapple with the implications of this revelation, Ayesha pushed up the window of the staff kitchen, levered herself over the sill, and stepped onto the black-and-white tiled floor. She paid no mind to the fact that the lights were on—the academic researchers who worked at the institute weren’t renowned for being security- or conservation-minded. She was lowering the window when a voice spoke behind her.

  “Is this your usual method of entry?”

  Ayesha spun, adrenaline racing into her veins once more. A blush rose in her cheeks. “Joram…I hadn’t expected to find anyone here this late.”

  “I’m sure.” Joram Tate leaned against the door frame, arms folded, his vivid blue eyes seeming to pierce straight to her soul. Not that she believed she had one. “Is there something I can help you with? A key perhaps?” The librarian’s mouth twitched in a smile.

  Ayesha thought furiously. It wouldn’t be long before Longo came calling. She had to assume the bodyguard knew who she was—and where she worked. She’d have to tell Joram something. Could she trust him?

  She’d known the librarian for as long as she’d been employed at the Walsingham; probably had more to do with him than any other member of the staff, because of her work. She didn’t know him well, however. He was friendly enough, but there was a reserve she’d never pierced. Not that she’d tried. He was quite a bit older than she—in his early to mid-fifties, she guessed. His mop of wavy dark brown hair made him look younger, but this was offset by the way he dressed—classic-cut suits with waistcoats, bow ties, and a gold watch chain. The Establishment personified. Joram was her antithesis in every way. She liked him, though, possibly because he reminded her of Evelyn, her former mentor, and lover. The age difference was about the same. He had, she now realized, a resemblance to T. E. Lawrence—Lawrence of Arabia. The eyes were the same intense blue. Something about the thrusting chin, too. Odd, she’d never noticed it before.