Shattered Icon

by Bill Napier

  'I need to see them. Prove to me that they're alive.'

  Hondros shouted something in Greek. I peered into the dim interior of the villa. In a few moments Debbie appeared, a short, stocky man behind her carrying a revolver. She was pale-faced and had a fist-sized, yellowish bruise on her arm. Her white sweater was stained green, as if she had slipped on wet grass, but it was neatly tucked into her jeans. Her face lit up with pleasure when she saw me. 'Harry!' The gunman held her arm to stop her running forwards.

  'Satisfied?'

  'What about Zola?' I directed the question at Debbie.

  'She's all right. We're sharing a room. What are they going to do to us, Harry?'

  Hondros made a gesture of dismissal and the gunman pulled her away. 'Harry!' But then she was gone, pushed out of sight along some gloomy corridor.

  'Don't think I'm without sympathy,' Hondros said, showing no sign of any.

  He opened a folder in front of him and slid a few sheets of paper over. I flicked through them with my good hand: they were photocopies of Ogilvie's second journal. 'Photocopies,' he said. 'No doubt we could decipher them in due course, but time is short and you have been doing such an excellent job so far. Work on this. Tell us what it has to say about the icon. You have until, let us say' - he pulled Cassandra's wrist towards him and looked at her watch - 'nine o'clock tomorrow morning to reveal the secret.'

  'Don't be stupid. It could take weeks to crack the cipher and I'm not even an expert.'

  'Nine o'clock. If you have not told us where to find the icon by then, we will shoot Debbie. You will then have another three hours before we kill Zola, and three more before we write you off as a bad job.'

  'You can't seriously—'

  'And if you utter a single word of complaint about this, I will shorten the time available to you by one hour.'

  'Give me Debbie and Zola. Three heads are better than one. They've already been crucial, Debbie with her family knowledge and Zola as a marine historian.'

  'There may be something in what you say, Mr Blake. I see no disadvantage to your proposition.'

  'We won't be able to work with your gorillas breathing down our necks.'

  Cassandra said, 'Why the velvet glove, Tolis? Persuade him with a hammer on his bad arm. More coffee, Harry?'

  'No thanks. Have I mentioned that your breath smells?'

  'Let's be civilised, please,' said Hondros. 'I'm not a fool, Blake. I understand that pain clouds the mind, that where an intellectual problem is concerned there is a need for an environment conducive to thought. You can have the whole of the downstairs part of the villa, and the ground surrounding it as far as the fencing. Touch the fencing or the gates and you will be shot. Put a toe into the sea and you will be shot. Step onto the jetty and you will be shot. Venture upstairs unaccompanied and you will be shot. Does that seem reasonable?'

  'Downright generous. I thank you. And if we lead you to the icon?'

  'I will feel well disposed towards you.'

  'You'll smile when you pull the trigger?'

  'You're wasting time, Mr Blake. I suggest you get busy.' He shouted something into the interior of the house. There was a long exchange in Greek; I assumed that the characters within were being briefed.

  I managed to stand up and walk unsteadily into the house. There was a big living room, air-conditioned cool after the blistering heat outside. Debbie came running in and almost knocked me over with a hug that sent shooting pains up my injured arm. And Zola, in a light summer dress, gave me a squeeze. 'What happened, Harry? Are you badly injured?'

  'I got a bullet in the forearm. Lost a lot of blood, mainly, and ruined my shirt. The crazies abducted me from the hospital. What happened to you?'

  'We ran into the trees but there were four of them.'

  'And Dalton?'

  'I have no idea. They say he's dead. There was a lot of shooting.'

  Debbie's face was showing strain. 'They've told us what they want, Harry. And what will happen to us if we don't deliver.'

  'We'd better get on with it.' At that moment all I wanted to do was crawl back into bed.

  There was some splashing from the direction of the pool. Cassandra and Hondros had dived in. Hondros was swimming like a paddle steamer and Cassandra was floating face down. The wooden quay lay at the end of a descending path which passed the pool, and the motor boat was at the end of the quay. Cassandra's revolver was still on the poolside table.

  It looked so easy.

  'Forget it,' I said. 'There'll be some gorilla at the upstairs window.'

  I walked to the poolside table, Debbie putting her arm in mine and keeping me steady. Zola picked up the sheets, frowned at the array of symbols. I was within arm's length of the gun. Debbie said, 'You're wrong, Harry. It's two gorillas.'

  'How can we possibly hope to decipher this?' Zola wondered.

  There was enough splashing that they wouldn't hear me, but still I spoke quietly. 'Your suspicions were right, Zola, I think it's the Babington cipher.'

  'The what?' Debbie's eyes were full of misplaced faith in her Uncle Harry.

  'It goes back to the failed plot against Elizabeth. Remember your history, Debbie? Mary Queen of Scots was up to her neck in it. The English Catholics believed that Mary was the true Queen of England and they had a point.'

  'How come?'

  'Elizabeth was the daughter of Anne Boleyn, but the English Catholics didn't recognise Henry VIII's marriage to her because they didn't recognise his annulment from Catherine of Aragon, because it hadn't been agreed by the Pope. That made Elizabeth illegitimate and not entitled to the throne. It's all quite logical.'

  T really don't care about stuff like that, Harry. All I want to do is stay alive.'

  'Stuff like that could be vital to our survival. The plot was headed by a young man called Babington. The conspirators were all young, charming, naive Catholic gentlemen, and they all died horribly after the plot failed.'

  'Just like Marmaduke StClair,' Zola said to me.

  'Who's this Marmaduke?' asked Debbie.

  'Never mind, there isn't time. The conspirators intended to bump off Queen Elizabeth, incite a rebellion and put Mary on the English throne. Babington needed Mary's approval and there was an exchange of smuggled letters between them. Coded letters, Debbie, in case her jailer discovered them. All this happened in 1586.'

  'The Roanoke expedition was in 1585.'

  'You're beginning to get it, Debbie. Babington pulled together his conspirators in March 1586, but he must have been thinking about it long before then. Marmaduke and the others went on ahead, so to speak, on the Roanoke expedition, so that when Elizabeth was assassinated they would announce that Mary's relic had been buried at seventy-seven degrees. The whole Catholic world could then claim North and South America and the new calendar. It would be a moral rout for the Continental Protestants.'

  'And the code, the one that Babington used...'

  '... would have been known to Marmaduke. That has to be where Ogilvie got it from.'

  I waved at Hondros, and shouted, 'I need to make a phone call.'

  We were set up in a few minutes. Cassandra, glistening wet, was standing over Debbie and pointing a gun at the back of her head. I had a cordless telephone on the table, and Hondros was smoking again. Zola was next to me, staring levelly at Cassandra and exuding pure hatred. I hoped she wasn't going to do anything impetuous.

  First I got through to Directory Enquiries. It was three o'clock in the afternoon in Oxford, but I knew Fred had an easy schedule, and he was on the telephone within minutes.

  'Fred? Harry here. I'm calling from Jamaica. Need to pick your brains again.'

  'Jamaica? What villainy takes you to Jamaica, Harry?'

  'You were right about Thomas Bright, Fred. And the journal has led me out to a second journal, also by Ogilvie, but written in a different cipher. I suspect it's the Babington one.'

  'Babington? In Jamaica? What in— what's the story behind this?'

  Cassandra pulled back th
e hammer of the revolver. It clicked loudly. Debbie began to shake.

  'I'll tell you when I get back. Meantime, Fred, I need to know what the cipher alphabet was, or even if it was Babington at all.'

  'Give me some of the symbols.'

  'There are numerals like 2, 3, 4, 7, 8 and so on, the sign for infinity, the Greek capital delta, the Jewish Nabla, and lots of symbols that don't seem to belong to any alphabet, for example a double S like a Waffen-SS symbol.'

  'Definitely Babington.'

  'Fred, I need a favour. Can you scan in the Babington cipher and fire it through to my e-mail address in Lincoln? I'll pick it up from there. I need it urgently.'

  'I don't know,' Fred said teasingly. 'It sounds like a two-pint favour.'

  'I'll bring you back a case of Red Stripe.'

  'It's a deal. You should have it within the hour.'

  'Thanks, Fred.'

  With eight of us in it, the upstairs bedroom was crowded. I sat at a corner desk with computer and printer, fired through to my own computer and pulled down a GIF file. The cipher was as I remembered it: a simple letter substitution for the most parts, with symbols replacing a few common words. With a few pages of encoded text it could probably have been cracked in an hour, even less if you were expert. I ran off several copies on the printer.

  Hondros picked one up. His cigarette had burned down to his fingers and he dropped it on the wooden floor, grinding it with his foot. 'Well, ladies and gentlemen, now that we have the cipher, it seems we no longer need you.'

  Cassandra said, 'I like the next bit.'

  I felt myself freezing up with fear. Debbie's face had gone chalk-white and Zola was tight-lipped and alert as a cat. I seriously wondered if she was going to dive at Cassandra. But there were three other young men in the bedroom, all of them armed and all of them beyond reach.

  Hondros said, 'But just in case of any complication... translate the remaining text.'

  I said, 'I'll get busy on it.' It would buy us time. Beyond that, I didn't know. The thought of being dead in a few hours was just too hard to take in.

  I went down to the pool table again, supported by Debbie. One of the young men tossed a notebook and pencil in front of me and swaggered off. Debbie and Zola sat on either side. In the living room, Cassandra and Hondros had started on the message. Cassandra was reading it out a symbol at a time and Hondros was looking each one up in the Babington cipher. They were excruciatingly slow.

  'We have to do something,' Debbie whispered.

  I looked around. Gunmen were strategically scattered around the grounds: one was standing at the jetty next to the boat, cigarette in mouth, eyeing us impassively through dark glasses; one was leaning on an upstairs railing, looking out over the sea; and one was stretched out on a deckchair at an upstairs balcony, a newspaper on his head to keep the harsh sun at bay. He was sipping a long drink and grinning down at us. I said, 'Let's beat these idiots with the translation.'

  CHAPTER 33

  Having been abandoned in the New World by Sir Francis Drake, we found ourselves in a position of terrible danger. There were three of us, Marmaduke StClair, Simon Salter and myself. No sooner had the flags of St George disappeared into the storm than I urged we flee the island on the instant, before the savages were fully aware of what was happening. Otherwise we would be captured within hours. After the massacre of the week before, and with no fear of vengeance from the departed colonists, the fate they would deal us did not bear thinking about. I must admit that we all felt terror bordering on panic.

  Marmaduke insisted on running back to his chest for what he called the relic. Simon and I too ran as fast as we could from hut to hut, gathering what scraps of food we could find. On the west of the island, after our bloody raid of the week before, Wingina's village was deserted. Unfortunately we were in full view of Wingina's mainland village, a league distant across the water. Rather than paddle away, since we would surely be seen and pursued, we each dragged a canoe back across the island. The hunting canoes were simply too big and heavy for this, and we each hauled a small dugout with a single-bladed paddle. Great fear gave us great strength. We prayed that news of the disembarkation had not yet reached the Indians and that they would not understand what we were doing.

  In agonised fear of discovery, we hauled the canoes eight furlongs to Shallowbag Bay on the west of the island, and hastily filled them with the few provisions we had found. Some of the black slaves had miraculously reached the island a few chains to the north. How, I do not know. As we approached the western shore they saw what we were about and ran towards us, at great speed. Several of them splashed into the water behind us, and one, a strong swimmer, was able to reach Marmaduke's canoe and grab hold of it. He was a young man, of about my age. I hated Marmaduke when he raised his heavy wooden paddle and brought it down with force on the slave's skull, splitting it open, while at the same time not knowing what else he could have done. We left the man floating face down in the water, blood spreading from his head, and paddled away with all our strength.

  We paddled for over a league down Roanoke island, with the Outer Banks protecting us from the big Atlantic waves. All this time we were in terror of Indian canoeists rounding the south of the island and intercepting us. But we reached the dangerous shallows of Port Ferdinando, where we crossed the Outer Banks into the ocean, this being the furthest gap from hostile Indians. We were swamped almost immediately. I used my outer jacket first as a scoop and then as a sponge. It would not be long before we capsized, and we were forced to turn back in towards the Banks, keeping as close to the shore as we dared, and in constant danger of capsizing in the stormy waves. But we had no thought in our minds other than to get away from that hellish place and its murderous inhabitants, and we paddled as if all the devils of hell were pursuing us.

  After an hour we approached Hatorask island. Suddenly we were met by a hail of arrows from the trees and were forced out into the dangerous waves.

  And then the thing that we feared happened. As we passed the island, a dozen canoes appeared, threatening to cut us off from our southward flight. To turn back would be fatal, for we would surely be trapped between two groups of savages. To go out into the sea would be to drown as the big waves swamped us. We paddled furiously on as the Indians tried to intercept us. The distance between us closed rapidly. They were making strange, high-pitched cries.

  We passed them, Marmaduke and Simon in front, while I trailed about twenty yards behind. I did not dare to turn, even for a second, but I heard the splashing and the whoops at my back. I paddled with all my might but my companions were slowly drawing ahead of me, and I could hear the savages gaining. They were maybe fifty yards to my rear. I was almost sobbing with exertion but it was making no difference. Slowly, they were catching up.

  And then Simon Salter did an extraordinary thing. He glanced behind, bawled encouragement at me, and then seeing I could do no more, turned his canoe completely around and drove it towards the savages. His face was contorted with rage and fear. As he passed I shouted, 'Sir, no!' but he cut me off with a roar: 'Get out of it, Scotch!'

  The whooping redoubled. Marmaduke glanced back and then carried on paddling as if possessed by a demon. I dared a glance and saw Simon surrounded by screaming savages in their canoes, paddles rising and falling like cudgels, his own landing hard on a neck. But then I turned to the business of fleeing and saw no more.

  A mile further south Marmaduke and I began to risk backward looks. There were no signs of pursuit. The coastline was now unfamiliar. We were utterly exhausted and at the same time too terrified to stop. After another hour of paddling we pulled over onto the Banks and lay on the sand, not caring about the rain or cold, just worn out by fatigue and fearful that the savages, having dealt with Mr Salter, might turn their attention to us. My knees were raw and bleeding from kneeling in the canoe, but I was alive.

  We hauled the canoes across the Banks into the calmer water between Banks and mainland, and continued to paddle south. Here the mai
nland was swamp and we saw no signs of habitation. Presently thirst and hunger began to nibble at us, but we were still too fearful of the Indians to wish to land. Finally, with the wind easing but the rain still falling heavily, and with darkness approaching, we crossed to one of the few sheltered coves we had seen. I was almost senseless with tiredness, and yet we slept little. I wept awhile.

  The following morning, we found that the canoes had acquired an inch of rainwater. We were also highly alarmed to discover the footprints of savages in the sand. We gorged ourselves on the water and then risked a short trip inland. We soon found a small freshwater lake and gorged ourselves some more. The lake was rich with fish but we caught none. We then found driftwood which we used to build makeshift seats for the canoes, saving our raw knees. We took more flattish pieces of driftwood aboard to use as scoops and then carried on south, tantalising our hungry bellies with a few pieces of sodden bread which Simon had tossed into my canoe at Roanoke. By the end of that day the storm had passed, our food was finished and we were again thirsty and freezing. The sea salt drying on our skins was forming white cakes around our eyes, ears and hands, making paddling quite painful. Again, we slept on the Banks, shivering with cold. But our fear of pursuit had almost gone.

  Marmaduke and I awakened the following morning. Both the relic and my journal were still with us, each of us having slept with our treasure next to our chests. We ventured inland again, found another freshwater lake, and this time were able to catch some fish with ingenuity and stones to make a small dam. We ate them raw, head, bones and all. They tasted excellent.

  I will not detail our canoe voyage south. It lasted forty days, which I counted by marking little notches on the rim of my canoe with the help of my ballockknife. There was time for me to ponder on why Mr Salter, whom I saw as a cruel and ignorant man, having no love for me or anyone else, should have sacrificed his life for mine. It is a question I have pondered many times in the years since, but to which I have found no satisfactory answer. I can only say that, if there is a heaven, I am confident Mr Salter is there. Indeed, the populations of heaven and hell surely contain many surprises.