The Moses Stone

by James Becker

  About twenty yards in front of them, a white van had just pulled into the kerb and was sitting there, engine idling. Perhaps fifty yards behind them, a black Mercedes saloon car was approaching slowly, keeping close to the kerb, and closer – much closer – a handful of men in flowing jellabas were walking quickly towards them.

  It could all be entirely innocent, just a series of separate and unconnected events, but to Bronson's trained eyes it looked like an ambush. He paused for under a second, then reacted.

  'Run!' he whispered urgently to Angela. 'Run. Get away from here.' He pointed towards a side-street. 'Down there, as fast as you can.'

  Angela glanced behind her, saw the approaching men for the first time and took to her heels.

  Bronson span round to face the group, but tried to stand his ground, walking steadily backwards to provide a measure of protection for Angela. He looked behind him, and saw that she had reached the corner of the sidestreet and was starting to run down it. He turned on his heels to follow her, but at that moment the approaching men themselves began to run, and in seconds they had caught up with him.

  He felt a sudden tug on his shoulder as somebody grabbed at him, and tried to spin round to face his attackers. Then two blows crashed into the back of his head. He lost his balance and fell forward, his body collapsing limply to the potholed pavement.

  The last thing he heard before his consciousness fled was a single distant scream from Angela as she called out his name.

  Part Two

  England

  37

  One of the first things Kirsty Philips did when she arrived back in Britain and had finished unpacking was to drive round to her parents' house. While they'd been away in Morocco, she'd been doing that once every couple of days to check the house, make sure the indoor plants were watered, pick up the mail, check their answerphone messages and generally ensure that the place was in good order.

  That morning, she parked her Volkswagen Golf in the driveway of the small detached house in a quiet street on the western outskirts of the city, took out her keys and opened the front door. As usual, there was a pile of envelopes lying on the mat, most of them clearly junk mail of various sorts. She picked them up and carried them through to the kitchen, where she placed them with others that had accumulated since her parents had left the house for what she now knew had been the last time. Her eyes misted at that thought, but she pushed her sorrow aside and began her usual walk-round of the property, inspecting all the rooms one after the other. The last thing she did was go into the lounge and check the answerphone, but there were no messages on it.

  She pulled open the door to the hall and immediately came face to face with a man she'd never seen before.

  He had a dark-brown complexion and was tall and slim, but strongly built. In his right hand he was carrying a long black tool of some kind, perhaps a crowbar. He looked almost as surprised to see her as she was to confront him.

  The intruder recovered first. He swung the crowbar round in a short, vicious arc, the tempered steel bar smashing into the left side of Kirsty's face, fracturing her cheekbone and cracking the side of her skull. It was a killing blow. She felt an instant of shocking, numbing pain, then tumbled sideways, knocked unconscious by the force of the impact. She fell limply on to the carpet, blood pouring from the side of her face where the skin had been brutally torn apart. But that wasn't what killed her.

  The major damage was internal, half a dozen blood vessels in her brain ripped apart by the splinters of broken bone. Shards of the same fractured bone had been driven deep into her cerebrum, causing irreparable damage. She was still breathing as she lay there, but effectively she was already dead.

  The man looked down at her for a long moment, then stepped over her body and continued walking towards the front door. He'd heard no noise from inside the house before he'd forced the side door, and had assumed that the car he'd seen parked on the drive had belonged to the O'Connors – an assumption he now realized had been erroneous.

  He glanced round, saw no sign of any mail, and retraced his steps to the kitchen. He'd have to check each room in turn until he found the package.

  On the kitchen table, he saw the post stacked neatly on one side and began searching through it. There was no sign of the envelope he was looking for, so perhaps his boss's deduction had been wrong.

  For perhaps a minute he stood irresolute, wondering what he should do next. Who the young woman was he had no idea – a neighbour, a cleaner, perhaps – and already he was beginning to regret hitting her quite so hard. Should he try to shift the body, get it out of the house and dump it somewhere? Then he rejected that idea. He didn't know the area very well, and the risk of being seen carrying her out of the house – or being stopped by a police officer with her corpse in the car – was too great.

  He opened the door, glanced around him, and walked away.

  38

  Bronson was aware of a throbbing ache at the back of his skull as consciousness returned slowly. Instinctively he raised his hand to his head. Or rather he tried to, but his arm wouldn't move. He couldn't move either arm, in fact, which puzzled him. Nor his feet. There were stabbing pains in his wrists and ankles, and a dull ache down the left side of his chest. He opened his eyes, but could see nothing in front of him. Everything was completely black. For a few seconds he had no recollection of what had happened to him, and then he slowly started to remember.

  'Oh, shit,' he muttered.

  'Chris? Thank God.' The voice came from out of the darkness, somewhere over to his left.

  'Angela? Where the hell are we? Are you OK?'

  'I don't know. Where we are, I mean. And I'm fine, apart from being tied up in this bloody chair, that is.'

  'Why can't I see anything?'

  'We're in a cellar and the bastards turned the lights out once they'd tied us up.'

  'But what happened? All I can remember is something hitting me on the back of the head.'

  'I was running down the street and I turned back to see what was happening just as one of the men grabbed you and another swung a cosh or something. You dropped like a stone and for a few seconds I was certain you were dead. I ran back to—'

  'You should have run on, Angela. There was nothing you could have done.'

  'I know, I know.' Angela sighed. 'And it's my fault we're here. I shouldn't have insisted we go outside. And then when I saw you were hurt, all I wanted to do was try to help.'

  'Well, thanks for trying, but it would have been better if you'd got away, because then you could have called the police. Then what did they do?'

  'It was very slick. Two of the men grabbed me and stuck a gag over my mouth – I was yelling my head off – and then they bundled me into the back of the white van that had stopped a few yards up the road. They tied my wrists and ankles with some kind of thin plastic device—'

  'Probably cable ties,' Bronson interrupted. 'They're virtually unbreakable.'

  'Then three more men picked you up and dragged you over to the van and tossed you inside.'

  That probably explained the ache in his chest, Bronson thought.

  'They all climbed into the back of the van and tied you up the same as me as soon as it started moving. It drove for maybe fifteen or twenty minutes, then stopped and reversed. When the doors opened, all I could see was the whitewashed wall of a house, and then I was carried out, through a doorway and down a set of steps into this bloody cellar. There were two upright chairs down here. They tied me to one of them, while another couple of men dragged you down here and repeated the process. Then they turned out the lights and buggered off. I've been sitting here in the dark ever since. It's been hours.' There was a pause. 'I'm so sorry, Chris.'

  Bronson wasn't surprised to hear a quaver in her voice. Angela was tough – he knew that only too well – but he could understand how traumatized she must have been by the events of the evening, especially if she was blaming herself for what had happened.

  'It wasn't your fault,' he said, hi
s voice gentle.

  'Yes, it was. And do you know what I found most unnerving about all this?'

  'What?'

  'During the whole process – the kidnapping, the drive in the van and when they tied us up down here in this cellar – none of the men said a single word. Nobody issued any orders: none of them asked any questions, or even made a comment. They all knew exactly what they were doing.

  That worries me, Chris. We weren't just snatched off the street at random by some gang of thugs. Whoever was responsible for this took us for a reason, and it was a really well-planned operation.'

  That worried Bronson as well, but he wasn't going to admit it.

  'Well, I don't think we should stick around to find out what they want. We've got to find a way to get out of here.'

  But as he tugged ineffectually at the plastic ties securing his wrists and ankles, Bronson knew that wasn't going to be easy. With a blade of some kind, it would have been the work of a few seconds to free himself, but nothing he did had any effect.

  Still, he tried, and it was only when he felt blood running down his hands from the cuts he'd opened on his wrists that he gave up and accepted the reality of the situation. He was held fast, and there was nothing he could do about it.

  It was several hours before the cellar lights finally flared into life. Bronson closed his eyes tight against the glare, then cautiously opened them, squinting as he took in their surroundings.

  Angela was sitting about ten feet away from him in an upright wooden chair, her wrists and ankles lashed to the frame with plastic cable ties. Her clothes were in disarray, but her expression was defiant.

  The cellar was a small, more or less square concrete box with white-painted but grubby walls and ceiling, and a flagstoned floor. It was almost empty apart from the two chairs they were sitting on. A short flight of steps led from the cellar up to a solid wooden door directly opposite where they were sitting.

  Bronson looked back at Angela, whose eyes were now fixed on that door. It had just creaked open to reveal a whitewashed passageway on the level above them. They heard a faint murmur of voices, then the sound of approaching footsteps.

  Moments later, two dark-skinned men wearing jellabas strode down the steps into the cellar and stopped in front of Bronson.

  He looked up at them, committing their faces to memory. One was unremarkable – dark skin, black hair, brown eyes, with regular features – but the other man had a face Bronson knew he'd never forget. A full head taller than his companion, his right cheek drooped slightly, giving his wide mouth a lopsided twist, almost turning it into an S-shape, and his right eye was sightless, a milkywhite abomination in his dark-brown skin. But he had an air of confidence, of suppressed power, about him, and Bronson knew instinctively that this man had to be the leader of the group.

  'You're Christopher Bronson,' the tall man said, his voice calm and measured.

  It wasn't a question, but Bronson nodded.

  The tall man turned slightly to look at Angela. 'And you're Angela Lewis, the former Mrs Bronson,' he continued, his English fluent but strongly accented.

  'Are these friends of yours, Chris?' Angela asked tightly.

  'Absolutely not,' Bronson snapped, his gaze never shifting from the figure standing in front of him, as his mind raced. How, he wondered, did this man – who he was certain he'd never seen before – know so much about them? His own name, yes. That wouldn't be difficult to find out from the hotel register, say, or airline records, and even Angela's name from the same sources, but how could he possibly know that she was his former wife?

  'You know our names,' Bronson said. 'Who the hell are you and what do you want?'

  The tall man didn't reply, just nodded to his colleague, who walked over to one corner and picked up a collapsible chair. He placed it on the floor close to the steps, then waited while his boss sat down.

  'It's time we talked. I think one of you has something that belongs to me,' the tall man said.

  Bronson shook his head. 'I don't think so,' he replied. 'And what, exactly, are you talking about?'

  The tall man with the frozen face stared at him for a few moments. 'The idea,' he said, 'is that I'll ask the questions and you'll give me the answers that I want.' He turned and nodded to the second man, still standing beside his chair.

  Unhurriedly, the man stepped forward, stopped directly in front of Bronson and without warning slammed his fist into his stomach.

  Bronson slumped forward, retching and straining against his bonds.

  'You bastard,' Angela shouted. 'Leave him alone.'

  'Ahmed,' the tall man said softly.

  Ahmed walked behind Bronson's writhing body to Angela's chair, stepped in front of it and slapped her hard across the face.

  She reeled sideways with the shock. The chair teetered momentarily on two legs, then crashed backwards.

  Ahmed stepped forward, seized the back of the chair and levered it upright again. Without so much as a glance at Angela, he walked back to stand beside his boss once more.

  'Now, we'll start again. I believe you've acquired something that belongs to me,' the tall man said, his voice still calm and reasonable. He looked at Bronson. 'We'll start with you, I think.' He motioned for Ahmed to move over to one side of the bound man. 'A small clay tablet was stolen from me. Do you have it?'

  Bronson shook his head. 'You mean the tablet Margaret O'Connor picked up in the souk?' he gasped, his breath still rasping in his throat.

  The tall man nodded.

  'We've no idea where it went,' Bronson said. 'Didn't you find it when your thugs drove their car off the road?'

  'That's very good, Bronson,' the tall man said approvingly. 'At least you managed to work that out. No, we didn't find it in the car, and the police search didn't find it in the wreckage either.'

  'How do you know that?'

  'I have contacts everywhere.'

  'So why the hell do you suppose we might have it?'

  'Because you've been dealing with the daughter and her husband. It seems obvious that if the O'Connors didn't throw the tablet away – and I don't seriously believe they'd do that – they're the only other people who could have it.'

  'How?' Bronson asked simply. 'How could the O'Connors have passed it to them?'

  At a nod from the tall man, Ahmed stepped forward and smashed his fist into the left side of Bronson's face.

  'You seem to be a slow learner, Bronson. I'm asking the questions, remember? Now, let's try again. Does the daughter have the tablet?'

  Bronson spat a mouthful of blood on to the discoloured floor in front of him. 'No,' he muttered, 'she doesn't have it. And neither does her husband. You're looking in the wrong place.'

  For a few seconds the tall man didn't respond, just looked appraisingly at his two captives. 'Now why don't I believe you?' he murmured. 'I think it's time we asked your former wife.'

  'She's had nothing to do with this,' Bronson said, his voice loud and urgent. 'She's never even met the O'Connors' daughter.'

  'I know. I don't think she knows anything about the tablet either. But I think it might help your memory if we try a little gentle persuasion on her. Ahmed really enjoys this kind of thing,' he added.

  'Don't touch her,' Bronson shouted.

  Ahmed reached into the folds of his jellaba, pulled out a flick-knife and pressed the button to snap open the blade. Then he dug around in another pocket and extracted a small grey stone. He leant casually against one wall of the cellar and began running the stone along the blade of the knife, sharpening it, each stroke accompanied by a sinister hissing sound. After a couple of minutes he tested the edge of the weapon with his thumb, and nodded his satisfaction.

  'Kill her,' the tall man instructed, as Ahmed walked towards Angela's chair, 'but take your time. Just cut her up a little to begin with. Start with her cheeks and forehead.'

  Angela didn't say anything, but Bronson could see the naked terror on her face, and the effort she was making to hide her fear from their capt
ors.

  'You see, Bronson,' the tall man said, his tone conversational, almost friendly, 'I've always believed that my clay tablet was part of a set. Perhaps you've come to the same conclusion? I have a theory. I think the tablets, the complete set of tablets, I mean, reveal the location of the Silver Scroll, and perhaps even of the Mosaic Covenant, though that's probably a bit less likely. Both of those treasures are worth fighting for, even worth killing for, so you can see why I want the tablet returned.'

  Bronson was tugging desperately against the plastic cable ties that held him prisoner in the wooden chair, knowing his efforts were entirely futile, but determined to escape if he possibly could.

  'But I don't have the bloody tablet. Haven't you listened to a single word I've said? I DON'T HAVE THE BLOODY TABLET. And neither of us has any idea where it is.'

  'We'll see,' the tall man said, turning his seat slightly to face Angela's chair, the better to watch his henchman at work.

  'Don't do this,' Bronson pleaded. 'Please don't do this.'

  'It won't take long,' the tall man said. 'And the sooner we get started, the sooner it'll be over for her.'

  Ahmed was standing beside Angela's chair, stroking his fingers gently down her cheek, a slight smile on his face.

  Angela's eyes were wide, and she was gasping for breath as she strained against the ties that held her firmly in place.

  'Wait,' the tall man said, as Ahmed started to lift the blade of his flick-knife towards Angela's face. 'Gag her first, try to keep the noise down.'

  Ahmed nodded, clicked the knife closed and took a roll of thick black tape from his pocket. He tore off a piece about eight inches long, walked behind Angela's chair and positioned the tape over her mouth.

  'Keep it clear of her nose. We don't want her to suffocate.'

  Ahmed ensured that the tape was securely in place, then stepped back beside the chair, snapping open his flickknife again.

  'Please, please stop,' Bronson begged.

  'It's too late now.' The tall man nodded at Ahmed. 'Get on with it.'