The force of her words hacked against the back of her throat. She shouted again, the sound echoing high in the doorway of the cathedral’s main entrance. Blake stopped in his tracks, and Sabatini quickly followed suit. Slowly he turned, at first uncertain as to the source of the sound. Then he saw the face of the homeless woman staring back at him as if caught in a trance.
‘What did you say?’ Blake glanced to the woman’s dog standing to attention by her side.
The woman’s face was framed by a heavy black scarf tied around her head. Apart from her piercing eyes, her features were concealed under layers of dark grime. As he came closer, Blake could see that the junctions between her dense layers of clothes were stuffed with pieces of newspaper to insulate her from the cold.
A faint glimmer of recognition sparked in his eyes.
‘I’ve seen you before,’ said Blake.
‘Let me see your hand.’ The woman’s words seemed to neutralise Blake’s statement and leave it hanging in the air. Still keeping his distance, Blake slowly outstretched his hand. As his palm opened, he felt the crust of dried blood that had formed in its centre pull at the surrounding skin. He extended his fingers and could feel the layer crack apart and the tension in his palm release.
He repeated his assertion, this time almost whispering. ‘I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?’
The woman started speaking in tongues, her words swirling in the air like an incantation. Then her body lurched forward, her eyes focused so intensely upon Blake’s open hand that it made him take a step back. Sabatini followed the line of the woman’s stare to see a single drop of blood fall from the well of Blake’s hand and land on the white marble floor. Mary took a sharp intake of breath as if recoiling from its impact on the ground.
‘It has begun.’ Mary said, her voice trembling.
‘What? What has begun?’ said Blake.
The woman stared into his eyes with such intensity, it sent his heart pounding.
‘The prophecy is coming to pass. You have both been brought to this place at this time for a reason.’
‘What are you talking about? What reason?’
‘To decide,’ said the woman.
‘To decide what?’ Blake’s tone of voice had now changed to frustration.
‘To decide whether the time has come to break the ancient seals. You are standing on holy ground. God’s purpose is connected to this place and to you. His spirit has brought you here so that the ancient prophecies can be fulfilled.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand?’ Blake’s voice echoed against the high walls.
‘It was written in the scriptures and today it has come to pass.’
‘The scriptures? What do you mean?’
‘You have been marked with His sign.’
As she reached out to take his hands, Blake noticed the elaborate tattoos that covered hers. He scanned the designs, most of which were crude geometrical symbols, some annotated with Hebrew lettering, but all seemed to be connected by a spider’s web of lines that disappeared up the sleeves of her coat. Looking directly into his eyes, Mary slowly turned Blake’s hands over so that his palms now faced upwards. She positioned her fingertips next to his and then turned over her hands. Standing at Blake’s shoulder, Sabatini gasped at what she saw.
Like staring at a reflection on the surface of a pond, Mary’s right palm bore a dark tattoo, its six-pointed star the mirror image of the outline drawn in faded pen ink on Blake’s left hand. He had drawn the shape of the Seal of Solomon on his hand with a pen whilst at the mortuary, and, though now badly faded, its design was still clear. The outline of the tattoo carved into Brother Nathan’s chest was now staring back at him on his hand and was mirrored on the hand of the homeless woman. More shocking still, the small cut Blake had just sustained from the nail head was also perfectly mirrored on the vagrant’s palm as a black spot tattooed on her skin.
Blake’s hands began to tremble.
‘You aren’t the only one caught up in God’s purpose,’ said Mary.
Sabatini grabbed Blake’s shoulder. ‘Vincent, we’ve got to move now!’ Blake turned on his feet and followed Sabatini’s line of sight into the crowd of tourists milling beyond the cathedral steps. Pushing against the flow of people moving along the pavement were two men forcing their way towards the cathedral steps.
‘Oh my god! They’ve followed us here!’ shouted Sabatini.
Blake quickly turned to warn the homeless woman of the approaching peril, but she had dropped to her knees and started to pray.
Chapter 60
A shockwave pulsed across the surface of Milton’s fourth coffee of the day. The heavy brown cardboard file that just landed on his desk had the word ‘Dover’ scrawled across its front cover in thick black felt pen. Milton raised his head and saw his sergeant looking expectantly at him from the edge of his desk. Hanging from his shoulder was a single strand of thin orange paper, the lonely remnant of a party streamer. Milton had politely declined the invitation to join his colleagues at the pub for the IT manager’s birthday. Since the televised press conference, Chief Constable Lewis had been on his back, demanding to see progress in the ‘Cambridge University’ murder investigation. Several lost hours in the pub would be just the kind of ammunition the Chief would need to make life even more difficult than it was.
‘Boss, you’ve got to see this,’ said the sergeant.
Milton saved the email he was writing and leant back in his chair. It creaked as his large frame shifted in the seat.
‘I’m listening,’ said Milton.
‘The CCTV images from the Dover port authority.’
‘What about them?’
‘The IT guys at Scotland Yard managed to clean up a couple of the Dover images. I cross-referenced them with our friends at Interpol, and what do you know? We’ve got a possible match.’
After dragging the file closer, Milton spread out its contents on his desk. He recognised the format of the Interpol ‘high priority’ report attached to the CCTV image of the mystery man. As Milton scanned his way through the pages, the police sergeant summarised aloud.
‘Zoran Denic, aka “The Viper”. Born in Cetinje, Montenegro, which was real bandit country during the Balkan wars of the early 1990s. He worked up the ranks to head one of the region’s largest smuggling rackets, shipping contraband across the Serbian border,’ said the sergeant. ‘Smuggling was rife then due to a United Nations’ embargo. It was a favourite haunt for saners.’ From Milton’s puzzled expression, the sergeant guessed that he had never heard the word before. Neither had he until fifteen minutes ago, but all the same it was nice to put one over on his boss. ‘It’s a local expression for thieves who only rob outside the borders of Montenegro and then return home to spend their ill-gotten gains.’ The sergeant was now in full flow.
‘You see, Montenegro used to lack extradition treaties with just about every country in Western Europe, and so it became a safe haven for some real hard nuts. Denic acted as a go-between for several prominent saners but had to leave Montenegro in a hurry after an altercation with the leader of a local militia. Like many shady characters coming out of the Balkan wars, he travelled west and ended up in the French Foreign Legion, where apparently he made a name for himself as an interrogator. He served two tours in Iraq but was court-martialled for stabbing an officer in the neck. He escaped from custody and then disappeared before resurfacing in Germany two years later.’
Milton picked up the artificial cigarette resting above the top line of keys on his workstation keyboard and bit into the end. ‘Go on,’ he said.
‘He was arrested at the French-German border last year for travelling on a forged Bulgarian passport. The French police seized his vehicle and found that the boot contained boxes of stun grenades, a satellite phone and three Russian icon paintings that had just been stolen from a Scottish stately home. The day after his arrest, D
enic was moved to a holding prison in Lyon, where he was sprung by two other members of his gang. Apparently, they shot out the prison watchtower with machine guns as Denic climbed over the prison wall with a fold-up ladder. One prison guard was killed and one was seriously injured. He’s real lowlife shit.’
Milton went for his mobile but then thought better of it. Instead, he shuffled his chair backwards and reached out for the receiver of the desk phone. His mobile had been temperamental over the last few days, and he didn’t want the line to go dead mid-conversation. After dialling a number, he scanned the air with his eyes, waiting for the call to be answered. Eventually, the unanswered ringing was cut short by the sound of Blake’s answer phone message. He pressed redial and settled himself back in his chair. This time there was no delay. Not waiting for Blake’s response, Milton relayed the information he had just gathered from the Interpol report.
‘Blake, it’s Milton. We’ve identified the person who killed the immigration officers in Dover. He’s on Interpol’s high priority list. His name is Zoran Denic, better known as “the Viper”, and Vincent, he’s a really nasty—’
Milton’s flow was cut short by the loud sound of church bells coming from the other end of the line. The voice that eventually came on the line caught Milton completely off guard. The accent was Eastern European, and the voice was struggling to make itself heard over the din of the church bells.
‘You a policeman, right?’ said the voice.
Milton hesitated. ‘Yes.’
‘My name is Gregory Kovac. I am taxi driver. I think your friend is in much danger.’
Chapter 61
The London tour guide called them his ‘freebies’: the people who would secretly slip into his tour group without paying. Because of his engaging and almost theatrical delivery, the rotund American ex-drama teacher from the Midwest had managed to build a reputation as one of London’s most respected guides. Over the years, he had become particularly astute at recognising ‘freebies’. The differences were almost indiscernible to the untrained eye but were there nonetheless. The movement of the ‘freebie’ interlopers was subtly at odds to the rest of the fee-paying crowd. Often turning abruptly, they would try to hide behind the main nucleus of the group and would never make direct eye contact. He didn’t mind; in fact, he positively encouraged it. With the inheritance money from his father’s estate, he was financially independent and, what’s more, he had never forgotten the day in Paternoster Square, when a small Scottish lady tour guide had fired his own interest in London history. He had quietly joined her tour, and to this day he still owed her a guiding fee.
He noticed their presence just after he began his daily St Paul’s Cathedral tour. As he showed the group the magnificent monument to the Duke of Wellington, one of Britain’s greatest soldiers and statesman, he observed something particularly unusual about their movements: they had chosen a position deep within the group yet focused their attention elsewhere. The gaze of the man, who was dressed conspicuously in a dirty crumpled suit, was scanning in all directions. His partner, a pretty but stern Mediterranean-looking woman, was doing the same. At first, he thought they were looking for a lost child, but as time went on he concluded that they were, in fact, hiding from someone. The tour guide tried to follow the direction of their concerned looks but could find no specific focus to their observations. For a moment, he lost his train of thought and realised that he had stopped speaking. He felt the eyes of his tour group upon him, most of them unsure whether his momentary pause was designed for dramatic effect or whether he had forgotten his script. A tangible sense of relief broke out when the guide gave out a loud chuckle and continued on with his commentary.
Sabatini took hold of Blake’s arm. Through his jacket, he could feel her hands trembling.
‘They’ve followed us in here.’ Sabatini glanced anxiously over her shoulder. ‘They could be anywhere. We’ve got to get to the sanctuary before they do.’
Blake looked up suddenly at the tour guide.
‘Did you hear that?’ said Blake.
Sabatini was baffled. She hadn’t heard a word the guide had been saying.
‘Shhhh! Listen!’
‘I’m afraid we can’t see Wren’s floating staircase today, owing to the restoration work of the beautiful eighty-eight steps, but the door is just over there near the main entrance to the cathedral.’ In unison the group turned and followed the guide’s outstretched arm pointing to a simple wooden door between a large exhibition stand of the cathedral’s charitable work in Africa and a sumptuous Christmas tree covered in slowly blinking red lights. By the time the tour guide re-gathered the group at the chapel of St Michael and St George, he noticed the ‘freebies’ had gone.
From his position high up in the whispering gallery, Denic saw the targets break across the cathedral floor and disappear into a side room close to the entrance doors. He gestured wildly to Crossland, who was hundreds of feet down below. His partner took only a moment to interpret the unequivocal hand signals. As Crossland sped towards the wooden door across the great nave, he slid the safety off the pistol hidden in his jacket pocket.
This time he wouldn’t miss.
Chapter 62
The visit to the cathedral had been the highlight of her two-week holiday to London. The Danish schoolteacher from the outskirts of Holstebro stood at the bus stop, her mind fixed firmly on trying to keep her hands warm. She had left her gloves on the small writing desk in her hotel room, and now her fingers were thoroughly chilled. Adding to her discomfort was the fact that the number 23 bus, which would have taken her directly to the door of her Westbourne Park Hotel, had just left the bus stop. According to the timetable, the next one wasn’t due for another twenty minutes. As she paced up and down trying to keep warm, a black limousine turned into one of the restricted car parking spaces beyond the cathedral steps.
The advanced suspension system of the Jaguar XJ coped easily with the short line of cobbles leading to the parking bay, which was marked off in a rectangle of white paint. The tourist stopped pacing. The previous day, she had spotted a famous British actor conducting a television interview outside the Houses of Parliament. Much to her dismay, her day of sightseeing had left the batteries of her camera completely drained, and she missed her opportunity to capture a picture of the handsome star. Today, there would be no such problem. Her camera had spent the night charging in her hotel room, and the fact that photographs were prohibited in the cathedral meant that the batteries were almost fully charged.
She had plenty of time before the arrival of her bus, so she moved closer to the car and settled for a position next to a phone box. With her camera ready for action in the pocket of her sheepskin coat, she waited expectantly for the doors of the blacked-out car to open. She didn’t have to wait long. The rear door closest to the holidaying schoolteacher opened silently as if powered by itself. From her vantage point some ten metres away from the limousine, she peered into the back seats. Squinting, she strained to differentiate between the brightness of the winter sunlight and the darkness of the car’s cabin. She tried to make out the shape of a passenger inside, but all she could see was shadows. She edged forward, her chilled fingers gripping her camera in readiness.
Like the antenna of an insect sensing the air, a walking stick appeared to stab at the space around the open rear door, followed by a pair of lady’s legs swinging themselves over the edge of the seat onto the pavement below. The tourist overheard voices. A male driver was imparting instructions to his impatient female passenger about the details of a flight to Tel Aviv.
‘Ma’am, I’ve had word from the captain. He’s just getting flight clearance from Ben Gurion Airport. The jet will be refuelled in the next hour. You could be in Jerusalem within seven hours. Arrangements are being made at the Temple Mount.’ The driver’s voice was controlled and refined, and reminded the tourist of her English lecturer at the University of Copenhagen. The passenger in t
he back of the car remained silent in the shadows for several moments and then slowly emerged into the light, causing the Dane to take several steps backwards.
The striking woman who sat perched on the edge of the back seat was elegantly dressed in a tailored pinstriped trouser suit. The magenta silk scarf tied high above the collar of her blouse contrasted vividly against her flawless pale skin. The tourist struggled to place her age, her assessment made even more difficult by the dark sunglasses that hid the area surrounding her eyes. At first, she placed the lady in her late twenties, but as the passenger used a walking stick to pull herself up, she realised that she had no idea of her true age. Something about the winter sun low in the sky gave the light on her face a strange muted quality, as if her skin were obscured by an almost imperceptible shadow.
Now that the woman was fully upright, the schoolteacher could see that she was tall, well over six feet, her model-like stature accentuated by the close-fitting material of her suit. The tourist stood excitedly as the lady walked quickly by her side. The walking stick that she thrust forward with every quickening step like the baton of a sergeant major on parade was evidently nothing more than a peculiar fashion accessory. As the woman climbed the steps, the schoolteacher tracked her ascent through her camera’s viewfinder, her finger pressing the shutter release as she went.
Then, the woman’s progress was unexpectedly curtailed by someone or something just by the entrance doors.
Mary stared at the figure that had just passed her on the cathedral steps. The dog by her side rose instinctively to its feet, sensing that the atmosphere had somehow changed. All of a sudden, Mary was overcome by a terrible feeling. The foreboding came to her with a force of such unquestionable certainty, she found it difficult to breathe. The tall woman stopped and then slowly looked back at Mary. Even though the woman was wearing dark sunglasses, Mary felt her eyes burning into her soul.
THE HISTORY OF THINGS TO COME: A Supernatural Thriller (The Dark Horizon Trilogy Book 1) Page 23