Ryder

by Nick Pengelley

  “My grandfather’s,” Joram explained. “Pieces of a bomb that nearly got him.”

  Ayesha leafed through a pile of letters that lay on the desk. The handwriting was distinctive, familiar. She stared at the signature on one, her skin turning to gooseflesh. “Conan Doyle?”

  “That’s right. George Newnes published the Strand Magazine. Where all the early Sherlock Holmes stories were serialized. They’re all here. The original, handwritten tales.”

  The words and sentences swam before Ayesha’s eyes. “The Hound of the Baskervilles. It can’t be!”

  “It is.” Joram grinned. “You can come back later.”

  When at last they reached the far side of the warehouse, Joram opened a door and ushered Ayesha into a stairwell. She followed him up several flights of cracked concrete steps. At the top, he stooped to unlock a low wooden door. She had to bend almost double to get through the opening.

  From the light of a flickering fluorescent tube she saw they’d entered a furnace room—the bulky iron fixture took up most of the space that wasn’t filled with an assortment of junk.

  “Where are we now?” she asked, as Joram locked the door behind them.

  “Furnace room.”

  “I can see that.” Joram’s grin was back. He was playing with her. Her foot twitched. It would feel so good to kick him in the shins. She resisted the impulse. Just.

  “We’re in an office building, built in the early fifties. On the site where the George Newnes warehouse used to be before it was bombed to oblivion by the Germans. There are lawyers’ and doctors’ offices, accountants and such; a restaurant on the ground floor—quite a good one as a matter of fact.”

  “Aren’t you worried someone will wonder what’s behind that door?”

  “Not at all. You see, I own the building. My apartment’s on the top floor.” Joram gestured to a door—a normal human-height door—in the wall opposite the one through which they’d emerged. “Shall we?”

  As they rode up to the top floor of Joram’s building in a tiny wood-paneled elevator with brass cagelike doors, Ayesha thought about the lost warehouse of books. It would have to wait, though; the immediate task was to examine the casket from Ethelred’s tomb and—if it contained the clue she hoped for—follow the trail to the Templar treasure. A smile twitched her lips. She knew what Maddy would say. What are you waiting for? She glanced sideways at Joram’s handsome profile. Maddy might say other things, too. Ayesha was pretty sure she knew what they might be.

  Chapter 18

  Dame Imogen Worsley ended the call with her husband, the home secretary, and tried to gather her whirling thoughts. She was given no time; her phone buzzed again as soon as she put it down. “Worsley.”

  “Imogen.”

  “Danforth.” The big American was one of her oldest friends. They’d drawn ever closer after their narrow escape in Kent, three months previously. Danforth seemed to have made a remarkable recovery from his wound.

  Danforth’s aw-shucks good ol’ boy manner concealed one of the keenest minds Imogen knew. A bravery, too, that was legendary in the small circle of field agents—friend and enemy (sometimes there was no distinction)—who knew him, or of him. She was one of the only people who’d ever got really close to him. There’d been another, once. She was dead, killed in Afghanistan. Imogen had never known her, although she’d seen the photograph of a strikingly beautiful woman on Danforth’s desk. She knew that, for him, there’d never be anyone else.

  Danforth and Ayesha were alike in so many ways, she thought, not for the first time. Both had been wounded, in body and soul. Imogen drew a deep breath, tensing in anticipation of whatever CIA’s London station chief would have to tell her. She decided to get in first. “It’s true.”

  “What is?”

  “Noel Malcolm is going ahead with the vote in the House of Commons today on his bill for a referendum on breaking up the union. Norman’s just briefed me.”

  “I’ve had it confirmed, too. From three different sources. Malcolm’s calling in all of the cabinet, finding out who’s for him and who’s against.”

  “And?”

  “So far, only your husband is against.”

  “Shit!”

  “You said it. That’s not why I called, though.”

  “Oh?” Her hand clenched on the phone.

  “I know what Ryder’s up to.”

  She felt a surge of hope. “Tell me! Where is she? Malcolm says Ayesha’s stolen some historic statuette of a golden bird. He’s ordered me to find her. And get this—we’re to shoot to kill!”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “What do you mean? The whole thing’s insane.”

  “Imogen, you’ve heard of the Maltese Falcon?”

  “Of course.” She put a hand to her forehead.

  “That’s what the bird is—the statuette. Not the one Bogart thought he had in the movie, but the original, genuine, one and only Maltese Falcon.”

  “You’re kidding.” Had everyone gone insane?

  “Swear to God.”

  “Why does Malcolm want it? So bad he’s prepared to have Ayesha killed?”

  “It’s supposedly the key, or at least it provides a clue to a key component, of his grand plan to declare English independence.”

  “You’re going to have to spell it out for me, John.”

  “According to our source, the Maltese Falcon contains a clue to the burial place of King Harold—the Harold who fought William the Conqueror at Hastings and lost. England’s last true king.”

  “William the Conqueror.” Imogen parroted the name, trying to fathom where this was going. She picked up a pen and doodled with it on a writing pad.

  “Harold was buried with his sword.” Danforth, oblivious to—or uncaring of—her mental bewilderment, continued his story. “So legend has it. Malcolm believes the sword—assuming he can get his hands on it—will be the perfect symbol for a resurrected kingdom of England. He plans to wave it in Parliament when he makes his declaration. Something along those lines.”

  “And you think Ayesha is involved in this how?” The mental fog had disappeared from Imogen’s brain. Danforth’s story was starting to make sense. She glanced down at her writing pad; she’d sketched a crown.

  “Somehow Ryder’s got hold of the Falcon. Malcolm asked her to track it down, intending to have his people seize it once she’d found it. Things went wrong and Ryder got away with it.” He chuckled. “Apparently Malcolm underestimated her.”

  Imogen smiled. A lot of people had underestimated Ayesha Ryder. To their cost. She tried to think. “Danforth, I’m a servant of the Crown.”

  “I know that, Imogen. A damned loyal one.”

  Suddenly her way was clear. “The Crown of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland.”

  “I knew you’d get there in the end, Immy.”

  Immy. Norman’s name for her. The big American had never used it before. She smiled again. “Thank you, John, for your faith.”

  “So we’re on the same page?”

  “Of course.”

  “Awesome. Immy, we need to find out who’s working with Malcolm. He must have someone in Number 10. He wouldn’t have poisoned the prime minister himself.”

  “We’ve no evidence. Malcolm—”

  “Immy. C’mon. Do you really doubt it?”

  She didn’t. She nodded. Realizing Danforth couldn’t see her, she said, “Susannah’s private secretary, Bebe Daniels. She tried to sell me on a cock-and-bull story about Ayesha killing Susannah in a fit of jealous rage.”

  Danforth did not respond for so long, Imogen feared the connection had been lost. She was about to say his name when he spoke. Very quietly.

  “Immy. Bebe Daniels is my source.”

  “What?”

  “Bebe Daniels is my source inside Number 10. It was she who told me about Malcolm’s plan to go ahead with the referendum vote. About Harold and the sword, too.”

  “I was sure it was Daniels.” Imogen had t
o make two attempts to get the words out. She was partly horrified, partly furious at the revelation that CIA had a source in Number 10. She swallowed her anger. For now. “Why else would she have told me this tale about Ayesha?”

  “Are you so sure there’s no truth in it? We both know your PM’s had at least one lesbian relationship. Do you know Ayesha’s sexual orientation? She had a relationship with Sir Evelyn Montague. But Susannah was married once. Ayesha could be bisexual.”

  “I…suppose.” The words were dragged from her. If Bebe Daniels was ruled out, there had to be someone else with personal access to the prime minister. She’d have to start over. “I’ll have to go. You’ll let me know if you hear anything further?” She knew the American wouldn’t just be sitting around, waiting for news. He’d have talked with his president already. Would’ve received instructions. She didn’t want to ask, though. Corner him into a lie. He’d tell her when he could.

  “Of course. And Immy?”

  “Yes?”

  “Find Ryder, will you?”

  “I plan to. Alive.”

  When Imogen hung up the phone she was grimly determined. Her path was clear. She had to defeat Noel Malcolm. She just wasn’t sure how that was going to be done. But with Ayesha Ryder, Danforth, and her husband as allies, it was going to happen.

  —

  Longo stared at the building that housed Lady Madrigal Carey’s apartment. The Maltese Falcon hadn’t been in the bag flung from Ryder’s taxi. She and her male companion hadn’t been carrying anything else, so it stood to reason they’d left it with the old lady. He still couldn’t understand how they’d given him the slip in St. Paul’s. Neither could Bebe Daniels, although of course she blamed him. She’d exploded when he admitted that one of his men had been killed. Not that Klaus was any great loss.

  “What kind of useless piece of shit are you?” she’d demanded. “You left his fucking body in St. Paul’s? For the police to find?”

  “Don’t get your knickers in a knot. His prints aren’t in anyone’s database. None that’ll be easily found anyway.”

  “You’re sure?” He heard the relief beneath the anger in her voice.

  “Interpol will figure it out eventually. It’ll take them weeks, though. I’ll be on the other side of the world by then. There’s nothing to tie Klaus to you. It’ll give the cathedral staff a shock. Something for the morning news to gush over.”

  Bebe had calmed down after that, although it hadn’t improved his own temper. He was annoyed, knowing the episode had done nothing to increase his competence in the eyes of his employer. He and his men had been set to catch a lone woman. Well, a lone woman and some old guy. Ayesha Ryder had now given him the slip four times in less than that many hours. And she’d killed one of his men to boot.

  He was determined that when he caught up with Ryder again, she’d pay for what she’d done. With Bebe’s access to the CCTV network, that couldn’t be long. In the meantime he was going to get hold of the Maltese Falcon.

  “Want me to come, boss?” Zak opened the door on his side of the car.

  “No. Wait here.” According to Bebe Daniels, Lady Madrigal was verging on senility. He didn’t anticipate any difficulty.

  Chapter 19

  The carved ivory casket reposed on the antique walnut desk in Joram’s living room-cum-study. Ayesha, refreshed after a solitary sojourn in his bathroom, tore her eyes away from the relic and looked through full-length windows at what had to be some of the best views in London.

  Joram’s flat occupied the entire top floor of the building. The windows on one side provided an unobstructed view of the Thames. On the other side, the view was the roof of St. Paul’s—where, three-quarters of a century before, Joram’s grandfather, and other brave souls, had stood guard at night, armed with nothing more than a whistle, and a bucket of sand with which to extinguish German incendiary bombs. Miraculously, he and his fellow roof walkers succeeded.

  Ayesha, curious to know more about Joram, surveyed the room. Deliberately she ignored the invitation offered by the open bedroom door and focused her attention on the bookcases, which took up much of the available wall space. Where there were no bookcases, there were framed photographs. She frowned. It couldn’t be. She stepped closer; confirmed her initial impression. The photographs had one subject. Incredulous, she rounded on the librarian, who was in the act of placing two cocktail glasses on the desk, on top of an issue of The Spectator. He took care to keep them well away from the ivory casket.

  “Why?” she demanded, gesturing to the display of photographs, knowing she had no right to question him.

  “T. E. Lawrence?” Joram shrugged. “He’s been something of an obsession with me. For as long as I can remember. I was thrilled when you found that secret treaty of his. And his clues that led you to the Ark of the Covenant.

  “I believe Lawrence had more secrets. Many more. There’s one in particular….”

  Ayesha didn’t know what to think. The coincidence was almost too much. Her own lifelong fascination with Lawrence. Her best friend, Lady Madrigal Carey, had been his lover. Her eyes widened. Joram knows Maddy. What did that mean?

  “…his time in Oxiana.”

  Ayesha realized Joram had been speaking. “Oxiana? You’re talking about Lawrence?”

  “Yes, when he was in the RAF, in the twenties, supposedly based in northern India. He was really spying on the Russians. As I’m sure you know. He spent a lot of time on the Oxus. That’s where I think he found…something.”

  Joram had Ayesha’s full attention now. The Oxus was the river that bordered northern Afghanistan and Russia. It was a region rife with the history of conquest. Alexander the Great, among others, had passed through. Legend had it that he’d secreted a hoard there, intending to come back for it. He never had. T. E. Lawrence, noted archaeologist, among other things, had spent much time there, living with the tribes, spying on the Soviets. There’d been a rumor….

  “You’ve found a clue to Alexander’s treasure?”

  “Not exactly. But something. In a letter Lawrence wrote to Ronald Storrs.”

  Ronald Storrs. Civil servant at the height of the empire. Kitchener’s factotum. Military governor of Palestine at the end of World War I. Great friend of Lawrence. He’d been key to her discovery of both the Washington treasure and the Ark of the Covenant.

  “That can wait, don’t you think? We’ve got a few other things on our plate.”

  “But…” Ayesha stopped herself. Joram was right. She took another look at the photographs. One in particular, she’d never seen before: Lawrence in full desert robes, astride a black stallion. A young woman sat behind him, her hands clasped around his waist. She wore riding jodhpurs and high, polished boots, a white silk blouse, and a pith helmet. Lady Madrigal Carey.

  With an inward sigh, Ayesha turned her back on the photographs and accepted the drink Joram offered her. Firmly pushing aside thoughts of Lawrence, Oxiana, and Alexander the Great’s lost gold, she focused all her attention on the object on Joram’s desk.

  “A scene from the Crusades, I think.” The librarian traced a finger over the ivory carving on the casket. “Knights killing Saracens. Twelfth century, I’d say.” He lifted the gold catch on the front of the casket. The lid came up easily.

  The interior of the casket was lined with dark cloth. Velvet, Ayesha thought. It appeared to be in a remarkable state of preservation. A tiny scroll of parchment rested within. It could have been a twin for the one they’d found inside the Maltese Falcon.

  Joram touched the parchment gingerly. When it did not crumble to dust, he lifted it out and placed it on the desk. While Ayesha held her breath, he used two pairs of rubber-tipped tweezers to unroll the scroll until it lay flat. A glass paperweight and a metal ruler served to keep it so.

  “Latin again.” Joram peered at the scroll though a magnifying glass. “The same hand, don’t you think?”

  She squinted at the dense writing on the scroll. “I’m sure it is.” Was this another clue i
n the trail laid down centuries before?

  “Do you want a dictionary?”

  Ayesha’s lips moved soundlessly as she read the words. Deciphering them in her head. A pulse throbbed in her right temple. Aloud she translated, “Now seek ye Harold Godwinson. Where he lies, you will find what you desire.”

  “Harold Godwinson? That would be—”

  “Harold who was defeated and killed at Hastings, by William the Conqueror. As to ‘where he lies,’ I would guess that means wherever he was buried is where the treasure was hidden. If that’s what this clue concerns. I think he was buried at Waltham Abbey. Although that may be a legend.”

  Joram booted up a laptop computer. He checked the latest news—there was no change in the prime minister’s condition. Then he pulled up the Wikipedia entry for Harold. Ayesha looked over his shoulder. She reminded herself of the principal dates. Hastings, 1066. The opening lines of Marriott Edgar’s famous poem swam in her head:

  I’ll tell of the Battle of Hastings,

  As happened in days long gone by,

  When Duke William became King of England,

  And ’Arold got shot in the eye.

  Ayesha recalled some of the details of the battle: Harold’s incredible forced march from Stamford Bridge in Yorkshire after defeating the Norwegians. How the Saxons had seemed to be winning. Until the Normans had pulled that trick of pretending to run away, then rounding on the chasing Saxons. Then Harold had been killed by an arrow that pierced his eye.

  “ ‘Waltham Abbey,’ ” she read from the screen. There was a picture of a slab that supposedly marked the grave. “Hmm. Okay,” she muttered. She knew how doubtful that kind of thing could be, recalling the supposed burial places of Arthur and Guinevere at Glastonbury and elsewhere. “Has it ever been verified?”

  Joram clicked through several linked articles, which led to other articles. Then, finally, to an obscure eighteenth-century text.