Shattered Icon

by Bill Napier

  She felt my hesitation, put her arm in mine. 'Don't be nervous. Come with me.' She wasn't smiling any more.

  'What do you do for a living, Helen?'

  'Not what you're thinking, Mister.'

  We walked on to the street and she took me across the road, judging a gap in the heavy traffic, and along the street, still with her arm in mine. There was no conversation; the pretence of a casual pick-up was long gone. About fifty yards on, she glanced behind us and took me around a corner. Here the street was narrow and dark.

  A man emerged from the shadows. Helen, if that was her name, would try to hold onto my arm when he attacked, to stop me running. My plan, for what it was worth, was to punch her unexpectedly on the nose and take off. I was a split second from doing so when I recognised Chuck Martin. He had company: two men, in their late thirties. The shorter of the two had a dark, Mediterranean complexion and pockmarked cheeks. The other was tall, stooped, slightly awkward, with spectacles. I couldn't see him as a physical threat.

  Martin said, 'I'll leave you gentlemen to it.'

  'Nice meeting you, Harry,' said the girl. Then she was into a big four-wheel-drive jeep. The lawyer climbed into the passenger seat and she waved as they drove off.

  The tall man opened a wallet and showed a stamped Polaroid photograph of himself next to some writing which I couldn't read. He said, 'Inspector Wotherspoon, United Kingdom, Special Branch. And this is Inspector Menem of the Turkish National Police.'

  Special Branch? Turkish Police?

  Wotherspoon said, 'Sorry about the clandestine stuff, Mr Blake. We had to be sure you weren't being followed. A casual pick-up at a dance party and a trip to a quiet lane was the best we could think of at short notice.'

  'This is bizarre.' In the circumstances, it seemed a lame comment.

  'We've been following your progress with great interest, Mr Blake.'

  'Are you telling me I've been under surveillance?'

  Wotherspoon sidestepped the question. 'We're here to ask for your help.'

  'How long have you people been watching me?'

  'It's a long story.'

  'This is something to do with Dalton, right?'

  There was a quick exchange of glances. Menem asked, 'Was that a guess?'

  I didn't reply. 'Can we find someplace air conditioned?'

  Wotherspoon said, speaking to nobody in particular, 'So he's calling himself Dalton.'

  'Naturally. It's his name.'

  'Exactly what is your connection with this so-called Dalton?' Menem asked.

  'If we've been under surveillance, surely you know?'

  Menem waited until a man and a miniskirted woman had sauntered past. The man was counting a thick wad of Jamaican dollars. 'We'd appreciate it if you just answered the question.'

  'And I'd appreciate it if you'd tell me what this is about.'

  'You seriously claim you don't know?' Menem's tone was becoming openly hostile.

  'Goodbye.' I actually turned away, but Wotherspoon grabbed me by the arm. He attempted a soothing tone. 'I think maybe we're all getting a bit hot out here. Let's find that air-conditioned cafe and start again.'

  We had to walk several blocks before we got away from the party noise. We ended up in a pool hall with a few busy tables. A bunch of youths were clustered noisily around an arcade game in a corner. A TV over the bar was showing a martial arts movie. We sat on stools and I asked for a milkshake; the policemen settled for coffees.

  I took the initiative: 'Where do the Turkish Police come into the equation?'

  Menem said, 'The position is that we ask the questions and you answer them.'

  I was trying to control my temper. 'No, the position is that I'm a free citizen in a free country and you can go to hell.'

  Wotherspoon sipped at his coffee. He made a face. 'You're right, Mr Blake. But we've come a long way, we're jet-lagged, and we'd greatly appreciate the answers to some questions. You have no idea how urgent this matter is.'

  I wondered if this was the good-cop, bad-cop routine I'd seen in TV dramas but had always assumed was a creation of fiction writers.

  Menem asked, 'How do you come to be associated with these people?'

  I was still angry at being jerked around. But I told them, 'I've been commissioned by an old Lincolnshire family to investigate a manuscript. It has things in it that need specialised knowledge. Zola's a marine historian, and Dalton is an expert on religious relics. What we've learned so far has taken us out here.'

  'You claim to have no prior connection with this Dalton?' Menem's voice was carrying the tone of authority that went with the job; he was definitely getting on my nerves. Maybe it was my fault: I have that anarchic streak that would have made me a disaster in any organisation requiring teamwork. Ask my old Army sergeant.

  'Absolutely none.' Special Branch. Turkish National police. I voiced a thought which had been slowly crawling out of my subconscious for days. 'Are you people by any chance thinking terrorism?'

  'Interesting you should say that,' Wotherspoon said. I waited for an answer. Instead he asked, 'Are you people looking for something?'

  Menem shot him a look, as if he'd said too much.

  'How did you know that?' Tasked.

  'A lucky guess,' Wotherspoon said, stirring his coffee. He didn't expect me to believe him and didn't care.

  Inspector Menem said, 'It happens that my country is at a crossroads between East and West, Europe and Asia. To the west, our neighbours and ancient enemies are the Greeks. To the east are Armenia and Iran, countries which hold Turkey responsible for past genocides. We have, unfortunately, a bloodsoaked history.'

  'Thanks, but in my job I pick up a little history as I go. Can we get to the point?'

  The policeman put three spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee. 'As I said, there are some things which we cannot explain to you.'

  'You flew out to Jamaica to tell me that?'

  Menem said, 'We'd like to know what you're looking for, and what progress you have made in finding it. You and your friends.'

  'Why should I tell you anything?' I was still unsettled, and alarmed, by the revelation that I'd been under surveillance.

  Menem sighed. 'Mr Blake, I belong to a specialist unit of the Turkish National Police. The geography and history which I have told you about make our country something of a meeting ground for all sorts of extremists. We have to deal with Kurdish separatists who explode bombs in the Misir Bazaar, Muslim fundamentalists who try to penetrate American Air Force Bases, Greek militants who—'

  'What does this have to do with me?'

  'For some time now we have been involved in the investigation of a group of people. To say that these people are dangerous would be to understate.'

  I felt my scalp contracting. Menem continued, 'They and you are looking for the same thing and it is vital to them that they find it before you.'

  'I don't know what you're talking about.' I knew perfectly well what he was talking about. I was shivering slightly, but it might have been the air conditioning.

  'This is a violent little island. The death of three tourists would be seen as just another unfortunate incident in a country which saw eight hundred murders last year.'

  The point had occurred to me as soon as I'd stepped onto Jamaican soil. No, it had occurred to me in an Oxford pub, just as soon as I'd realised I had to get out here. 'You said three tourists.'

  'Zola, Debbie and yourself. Not Dalton.'

  I thought about that. 'Not Dalton?'

  Menem shook his head. 'Not Dalton.'

  I slurped the last of my milkshake, and noticed that my hand was trembling slightly. Inspector Menem's eyes were like hard little marbles. I said, 'If we hit it lucky we could have answers in a day or two.'

  Wotherspoon nodded his satisfaction. 'All we ask, Mr Blake, is that you keep us informed of your progress. Anything you find should be reported to me through Mr Martin's office. Not through the consulate, which is as leaky as a sieve.'

  'And what about Dalton
?'

  The policemen glanced at each other. Menem nodded briefly and Wotherspoon said, 'Your friend Dalton is for hire.'

  'What does that mean in plain English? Is he a hired assassin or what?'

  Wotherspoon said, 'Much more than an assassin. He has at least half a dozen names and the same number of passports. You'll find him in Iraq, Iran, Palestine, Turkey -wherever there is a need for a knife in a dark alley or an atrocity in a marketplace. He lives in a crypt and comes out after dark.'

  Menem pulled a small brown envelope out of his back pocket. He passed over a black-and-white photograph. Dalton stared at me from the picture. It looked like a London street, and the cameraman had been in a car across the road. There was an official stamp with a number and the name underneath was Leroy Abo.

  'Is this the man you know as Dalton?'

  'Yes. He's Leroy Abo?' I was beginning to feel nauseous.

  'Amongst many other names,' Menem said. 'And these are some of his works of art.' He handed over a couple of newspaper clippings, both in English. There was a picture of a wrecked bus, and debris and people scattered over a busy street, and ambulances. The blasted market, the cars and the people placed the scene somewhere in the Mediterranean or the Near East.

  'He escaped from prison in Ismir three years ago. At the moment he has connections with extremists in the north of my country. We believe that whatever you are looking for, it is in some way symbolic to these people. We think he has been commissioned to retrieve it. We also think that its retrieval will be used to trigger some major terrorist incident.'

  I felt my face going pale. 'This can't be right. He works for Sir Joseph himself, the Director of the Oxford Museum of Antiquities.'

  Wotherspoon said, 'He does not. You can check this for yourself. Look up the museum's staff list on the Internet.'

  Menem managed a half-smile. 'Ah yes, Sir Joseph. The virtuous, the impeccable, the wealthy Sir Joseph. Now we really enter realms where I simply cannot divulge certain facts.' He gave me a few seconds to let my imagination run riot, and then asked, 'Have you noticed anything odd about Dalton's behaviour?'

  I thought about that. Little things came back to me. 'Yes. Yes, I have. Phone calls, with the receiver going down when I entered a room. Unexplained absences.' I turned to Wotherspoon. 'They killed Tebbit and made it look like a robbery, right?'

  The Inspector gave me a blank stare.

  'But knowing this, you've still been quite happy to use me as bait.'

  'Don't feel too badly about it, Mr Blake.'

  'There's something else,' I said, my throat dry. 'Zola swears she saw Dalton speaking to a man in a cafe. Not a casual conversation; something with purpose.'

  The smile vanished. The policemen exchanged glances. 'He's not acting alone, then.'

  'Maybe Zola, Debbie and I should just clear off.'

  Wotherspoon said, 'I won't hide the fact that the situation is extremely dangerous for you. I'd hesitate to put even one of my field officers in your position. But I ask you not to walk away. There may be many human lives at stake.'

  'You people have been using me as bait since the Tebbit murder, right?' I repeated.

  Wotherspoon was stirring his coffee to death.

  'What should I do about Dalton?' I was having trouble relating the cheerful, shy young man I knew, to the fanatical creature they were describing.

  'Tell him nothing about this meeting. Give no indication that you know who he really is. Above all, don't let him get his hands on whatever it is you find.'

  I shook my head in bewilderment. 'I'm not sure how I can prevent that.'

  Menem said, 'But the moment he has it in his grasp, you and Zola and Debbie are of no further use to him. You become a liability. He'll crush you like insects.'

  'What do you want me to do?'

  Wotherspoon said, 'Let us know when you're about to retrieve this thing. We'll try to arrange protection.'

  I stood up. My legs were a little unsteady.

  'By the way, where are you staying?' Spoken casually.

  'We have a hideaway.'

  'Not good enough. We need to know exactly where it is.'

  'A villa in the Red Hills.' I hoped the lie was convincing. 'It's a hundred yards past the Shell station, on the right. You can't miss it, it's a big white building with balconies. I thought it was a safe house.'

  'It probably would have been, without this viper in your midst.'

  On the street outside I waved at a taxi, reggae pounding from it in competition with the heavy bass from Matilda's rhythm track. Menem said, 'Once we know the nature of your find, we will better understand why the Kurdish terrorists are so keen to have it.'

  They stood on the busy street while I haggled with the elderly Rastaman over the price of a taxi ride to the Red Hills. Wotherspoon waved as I took off. After a couple of hundred yards I looked back, but they were gone, lost in the crowds.

  When we reached Constant Spring, I steered the driver back the way we had come and then along to Beverley Hills. We trickled slowly around quiet streets lined with million-dollar houses guarded by tall fences and maneating dogs. After a few tours I was persuaded that nothing was following us, and I took us back through the city to Matilda's Corner and stopped him a block from the Toyota. The wind was getting up again and the party was hot.

  'Gwine a di disco?' the Rastafarian asked. I said, 'Yeh man, keip di change.' He said, 'God bless,' and took off, Bob Marley's inheritance echoing off the houses.

  I was back in the villa in half an hour. In the big kitchen, Zola was doing her thing with a pineapple, snappers and a sharp knife, and Debbie was being the kitchen skivvie. Dalton, in his Cool Jamaica gear, was poring over the Ogilvie manuscript. He greeted me with a friendly wave and a shy smile, which I just couldn't connect with the broken bodies sprawled over the streets of the Misir Bazaar.

  CHAPTER 29

  My watch said nine o'clock: I'd had about three hours' sleep.

  The melodious sound of a West Indian voice came up the stairs, above the moaning of the high wind in the trees. There was a frying smell.

  I dressed in sweater and shorts and clattered down the broad wooden stairs to the kitchen. Debbie and Dalton were at a big table, drinking coffee. Dalton waved and Debbie gave me a sweet, innocent smile. The villa, it seemed, came with a young black maid. 'How you do sah, mi name is Pearl. Ounu reddy fi brekfus?'

  'Try something traditional,' Dalton suggested.

  Pearl's eyes lit up. 'You cain hab cornmeal a banana porridge, saltfish an' ackee, bammy, cheese amlet....'

  'Thanks, Pearl, but I'll settle for toast.'

  She pouted. 'Got no toast. You cain have fried plantains.'

  'Fine.'

  'Arite.' Pearl smiled and in a moment I heard a frying pan rattling on to a cooker in the kitchen.

  Debbie was dressed in black sweater and slacks. She poured condensed milk into her coffee. 'I've got it all worked out,' she said. 'My family tree on the Jamaican side.' She slid several sheets of A4 paper towards me. 'Daddy never told me about them. I think he must have been ashamed of them. There were unions between planters and their slaves.'

  'He didn't know about your Jamaican relatives,' I said, and believed it.

  I picked up Debbie's list but hardly had time to look at it before Zola came skipping into the room. She too was waving sheets of paper. 'Look at this, Harry. It's in cipher.'

  I looked at Zola's sheets and recognised it immediately: the Babington cipher. I said, 'This is Ogilvie's writing. I recognise it.'

  Debbie's eyes were filled with romantic notions of buried treasure. 'This is what it's about, isn't it? Harry, you must decode this right away.'

  'Eat dem while deh hot,' Pearl ordered. She headed up the stairs, I suppose to make beds.

  'I'm not a code breaker, Debbie.' The plantain in my mouth tasted as if it had been fried in Scotch bonnets. The world's strongest pepper, someone had told me, and I was ready to believe it.

  There was something disturbing about Dalto
n's steady smile. Without taking his eyes from me, he said, 'But it is an Elizabethan code, isn't it?'

  'I think it's the Babington cipher,' said Zola.

  Damn it, Zola. Don't tell Dalton!

  'But you must have known that, Harry.' Zola's eyes were suddenly wary. 'You wanted to decode it all by yourself, didn't you? Maybe you even wanted to find the True Cross all by yourself.'

  Still that steady, disconcerting stare from Dalton. I began to wonder if he suspected I'd seen his confab in the early hours of the morning.

  'Don't be daft,' I said, attempting a light-hearted tone. 'Yes, it does look like the Babington cipher. Strictly it's a nomenclator, a mixture of substitution symbols and words. We should be able to download it from the Internet,' I said, still trying to deflect the suspicion which was now thick in the air. 'Why don't you look around? See if there's an Internet cafe in town, or even in the hotel. While you're looking I'll complete what I can of the Ogilvie journal.'

  Dalton said, 'Zola and I will get busy on that.'

  I didn't like the thought of Zola alone in Dalton's company. I said, 'Actually, I'll come along.'

  'Why?' Zola's voice was still heavy with mistrust.

  'To make sure the pair of you don't run away with the buried treasure.' There was no point in trying to make it sound like a joke. The air was electric.

  Zola poured herself a coffee. She spoke with ice in her voice. 'You must have known that was the Babington cipher, Harry. You pretended you didn't know. There has to be a reason for that. Maybe something to do with collecting a thirty-million-dollar icon for yourself.'

  I couldn't explain with Dalton there. I said, 'The reason was that I had about three hours' sleep. If you read meanings into every idiotic thing that I say or do...'

  Debbie was scrutinising her family tree enthusiastically. 'Did you know that my middle name is Inez, as in Inez Teriaca?' She tried to draw herself up like a haughty Spaniard, and added more condensed milk to her coffee.