The Deadly Game

by Jim Eldridge

  ‘You don’t know about Roger Bacon?’ said Michelle, and there was a note of outraged accusation in her voice.

  ‘Well, I do,’ said Jake defensively. ‘But not as much as I should,’ he added lamely.

  ‘Thirteenth-century genius, philosopher and scientist,’ said Michelle. ‘He taught at Oxford, and in Paris, and elsewhere. He wrote some of the most important works on astronomy and astrology . . .’

  ‘Horoscopes?’ queried Jake.

  Michelle shook her head.

  ‘Real astrology,’ she said. ‘Not the crappy fortune-telling stuff you see in the papers. Bacon was the real thing! He wrote the Opus Maju, which deals with things like microscopes, telescopes, hydraulics, steam ships, flying machines, long before someone actually produced them!’

  More confirmation of Lauren’s theory that we’d have been in space hundreds of years before we were, if these books hadn’t been hidden, reflected Jake.

  ‘So this book . . .’ He gestured towards the observation window, at Lucy Waning slowly turning the pages of the book.

  ‘“Changing physical appearances by magic”,’ said Michelle, the note of awe still in her voice. ‘This is wilder than anything else he ever did, and if Bacon says it’s possible, then I bet you it is!’

  ‘So do I, Ms Faure,’ said a voice behind them.

  Jake whirled round, and found himself looking into the beaming face of Alex Munro. The door had opened so quietly he hadn’t heard him come in.

  Jake, open-mouthed in shock, stared at Munro. He turned to Michelle, expecting to find her as astonished as he was. Or rather, he expected her to look as if she was wondering who this strange man in the neat dark suit was. But Michelle just looked uncomfortable, and turned away from the bewildered Jake.

  ‘Good to see you again, Jake,’ said Munro pleasantly. ‘And thank you for bringing us the book.’ He gestured at the lab around them. ‘We own this facility. Through another company, of course.’

  Jake continued to stare at Michelle, who wouldn’t look him in the eyes.

  ‘Michelle!’ he appealed.

  She turned to him, awkward and ashamed.

  ‘Pierce Randall offered me a really good deal,’ she said. ‘Too good to say no to.’

  ‘A good deal?’ echoed Jake, still in a state of shock.

  ‘Money, and a very well-paid job with our public relations department,’ said Munro. ‘The sort of offer we tried to make to you. But you said no.’

  ‘But . . .’ burbled Jake, still stunned. He turned to Michelle and asked: ‘When did they offer this to you?’

  ‘Right at the start,’ said Michelle. ‘Before we even met.’

  ‘So, that business of me being kidnapped, and you finding me . . .’

  ‘Was a set-up,’ said Munro. ‘You weren’t harmed . . .’

  ‘You chloroformed me!’ raged Jake.

  Munro shrugged.

  ‘A relatively harmless procedure,’ he said. ‘Our people knew what they were doing. You were never at risk.’

  ‘Oh no? Two men tried to kill me! They were going to shred me up and feed me to pigs!’

  Munro shook his head.

  ‘They were nothing to do with us,’ he said. ‘Why should we do anything like that? We had you where we wanted you. And, if you found a book, you’d bring it here to us. There was no need for any violence on our part.’

  ‘So, who were they? Those men?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Munro admitted. ‘Competitors, obviously. Possibly mercenaries, hired to get hold of any book you managed to find.’ He gave a slight smile. ‘Your reputation as someone who finds the lost books of Malichea has spread, Jake. You’re becoming quite famous among those who want the hidden library.’

  Jake glared at him grimly.

  ‘This book is mine,’ he said.

  Munro shook his head.

  ‘Officially, the book doesn’t exist. So it belongs to whoever has it in their possession. Right now, that’s us, Pierce Randall. Our employee, Ms Faure, discovered the book and brought it here.’

  ‘I discovered it!’ stormed Jake. ‘Me and Robert, and a sniffer dog!’

  Munro shrugged again.

  ‘That is debatable,’ he said. ‘Of course, you can always sue us and try and recover the book that way. All you need is a firm of very good solicitors.’ He smiled. ‘But I would remind you that we at Pierce Randall are the very best.’

  Munro looked at the CCTV monitors, where Lucy Waning was still turning the pages of the book.

  ‘It appears to be safe from any kind of toxins,’ he murmured. He smiled. ‘Roger Bacon: “A treatise on changing physical appearances by magic”. I can think of many of our clients who would be greatly interested in the information contained in these pages, and would pay very well for it. We might even have an auction for it.’

  Raging with fury, Jake moved towards Munro, his hands clenched tightly into fists.

  Munro stepped back and called out: ‘Security!’

  Immediately, two tough-looking men stepped into the room. The room, already cramped, now felt like being inside a small lift.

  ‘I need that book!’ snarled Jake. ‘I need the knowledge of that book to be made public! I put my life on the line to find it! My friend Robert is near death because of it!’

  ‘And all of that could have been avoided if you’d taken me up on my offer,’ said Munro. ‘What I will do, Jake, is get the dogs off you. We’ll spread the word that we have the book, and you no longer do. The people who are after this book will know that’s true, and they’ll stop chasing you. You’ll be safe.’

  ‘That book is mine!’ insisted Jake. ‘I found it! It belongs to me!’

  ‘It belonged to the Order of Malichea,’ corrected Munro. ‘It belongs to whoever takes final possession of it. As our employee, I believe Ms Faure has a very strong claim. I believe, for a start, that it was she who suggested looking at Glastonbury.’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’ protested Jake.

  ‘No buts, Jake,’ said Munro. ‘This meeting is at an end.’ Turning to the two security men, he said: ‘Escort Mr Wells out of the building. And make sure he doesn’t return.’

  The two burly men stepped forward and grabbed Jake, and hustled him out of the small room. His last sight was of one of the screens, and Lucy Waning’s gloved fingers turning another page of the book.

  Chapter 31

  Jake stood in front of Gareth’s desk in the large imposing office on the third floor of the Department of Science. He was angry, ashamed at being duped by Michelle Faure and Pierce Randall, and deeply guilty over what had happened to Robert. After he’d been escorted from the lab building at Waterloo, part of him had wanted to run away and hide. But that wouldn’t help Lauren. He needed to get her back to England. And he wanted revenge against Pierce Randall. And so he’d returned to his office, and asked to see Gareth.

  ‘I’m not even sure why I agreed to see you,’ snapped Gareth. ‘I should have sacked you. I should have had your pass locked out so you couldn’t even get into the building.’

  ‘I can get you Pierce Randall,’ said Jake.

  Gareth scoffed.

  ‘You can’t even keep one tiny book when you get hold of it,’ he said. ‘And what makes you think we want Pierce Randall?’

  ‘They want the books out there to make money from. You want the books to stay hidden,’ said Jake.

  Gareth shook his head.

  ‘I told you before all this started, we can live with Pierce Randall,’ he said flatly. ‘We know their position, they know ours. It’s a mutual stand-off. We are not planning on entering into a war with Pierce Randall. It could seriously harm us. We have learnt to live with the status quo, the way things are.’

  Jake frowned, puzzled.

  ‘Then why did you agree to see me?’ he asked.

  ‘To cut you adrift,’ said Gareth. ‘And to explain to you personally, why I am doing it. You are a liability, Jake. You’ve caused more problems that anyone else over the Order of Malichea. I tho
ught that having you in the department would mean we’d be able to keep a watchful eye on you and stop you doing anything stupid. That obviously isn’t the case, it seems it only encourages you, despite my firm instructions to you to the contrary.’

  ‘But . . .’ began Jake, about to launch a defence; but he was cut short by Gareth’s expression: anger — kept in check by Gareth’s self-discipline.

  ‘You will be sacked with immediate effect,’ Gareth said. ‘You will receive three months’ salary as severance. You will not be allowed to work in any government department. If you attempt to publicise the Order of Malichea or the hidden library, you will find yourself in jail.’ His eyes became dark gimlets that bored into Jake as he added, in a threatening tone: ‘And if you persist, worse may happen to you. Do you understand?’

  Numbly, Jake nodded. Gareth’s expression softened slightly, and he added, in a quieter voice: ‘I will give you one concession. I know why you did what you tried to do, and a part of me is romantic enough to admire someone who tries to do something for the woman he loves.’

  What Gareth had just said, and the quiet almost wistful way he said it, staggered Jake.

  ‘We will allow you to make one Skype call to Ms Graham and tell her what has happened; and the fact that you lost the book; and that you have been sacked. We will allow you to make this call without censorship at either end, although it will be monitored. You will also be able to tell her the good news that her cousin has recovered consciousness and will make a full recovery.’

  Jake looked at Gareth with relief flooding through him.

  ‘Robert’s all right?’ he asked, still unsure.

  ‘As all right as anyone can be who’s got a fractured skull and was beaten as badly as he was,’ said Gareth. ‘But, yes. I heard this morning from the hospital with the good news. As for the man you shot . . .’

  ‘I didn’t!’ protested Jake. Then his eyes dropped and he said, ‘It was self-defence.’

  ‘As I understand it, they were trapped inside a car by air bags at the time,’ countered Gareth.

  ‘They were going to kill me!’ said Jake. ‘If I hadn’t stopped them coming for me . . .’

  ‘They won’t be coming after you again,’ said Gareth.

  Jake studied him, curious.

  ‘You’ve had them taken out?’ he asked.

  ‘What has happened to them is of no importance to you,’ said Gareth.

  ‘It is if they come looking for revenge,’ said Jake.

  Gareth looked at Jake with the blankest expression Jake had thought he’d ever seen.

  ‘They will not be coming after you,’ said Gareth simply. ‘Or anyone else.’

  So, they are dead, thought Jake.

  ‘And now,’ said Gareth, getting to his feet, ‘I thought you might like to use my office to make your call to Ms Graham. Much more private than your own.’

  Jake looked at the clock.

  ‘It’s ten o’clock at night in New Zealand,’ he said.

  ‘And I believe Ms Graham is at home waiting for your call,’ said Gareth. He pointed to his computer on his desk. ‘I understand everything is set up and waiting.’

  With that, Gareth left the office and closed the door.

  Chapter 32

  Jake sat at Gareth’s desk and looked at Lauren on the screen. Lauren looked back at him, shocked.

  ‘My God, Jake!’ she said. ‘What’s been happening to you?’

  ‘I met some people who didn’t agree with me,’ said Jake, trying to appear flippant and make light of it, though inside he felt sick and hollow. So much danger, so many risks, Robert nearly dying, and all for nothing.

  ‘Mr Findlay-Weston says we can talk without getting cut off,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Jake. ‘He sees this as a parting gift.’

  Lauren frowned.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He’s sacking me, with immediate effect. He’s also warned me off looking for the books.’ Then he smiled at her, just to let her know that he wasn’t being put off. ‘But, that’s just a warning. He can’t stop me, and he knows it.’

  ‘He can hurt you,’ said Lauren.

  ‘He’s already hurt me by keeping you there and me here,’ said Jake. His tone grew sadder as he said, ‘Robert got hurt. Badly hurt. He’s in hospital with a fractured skull.’

  Lauren gasped, shocked.

  ‘So that’s why he hasn’t been in touch,’ she said. ‘I tried emailing him, and phoning him . . .’

  ‘I know, and I should have told you before,’ apologised Jake, ‘but I was under a lot of pressure.’

  ‘From the people who did that to you?’

  ‘Among others,’ said Jake.

  As briefly as he could, and aware that their conversation was being monitored, and concerned it could still be cut off, despite Gareth’s promises, Jake told Lauren what had happened since they had gone to Glastonbury.

  ‘But you found a book!’ said Lauren excitedly.

  ‘Yes,’ said Jake. ‘Number 557. They exist, Lauren.’ He sighed. ‘If only I’d kept hold of it.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter,’ said Lauren. ‘What matters is you’re alive. We can find another.’ Then her excitement faded and she asked: ‘Robert . . . ?’

  ‘I’m going to see him as soon as I leave here,’ Jake assured her. ‘They say he’ll recover, but I want to see for myself. Talk to him, let him know what happened.’

  ‘Give him my love,’ said Lauren.

  ‘Of course,’ said Jake.

  Suddenly, in one corner of the screen, appeared a box with the instruction: This call will terminate in 60 seconds.

  ‘Looks like Gareth is going back on his promise,’ said Jake bitterly.

  ‘Don’t let’s waste the precious time we’ve got left taking about Gareth,’ said Lauren. ‘Or the books.’

  ‘I love you, Lauren!’ burst out Jake. ‘We will see each other again. Not like this, but together, holding one another . . .’

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I love . . .’

  And then the screen went blank.

  Jake shouted out, ‘It hasn’t been sixty seconds!’ But there was no response from Janet outside in the outer office, or from Gareth, or from anyone else.

  Jake sat, staring at the blank computer screen.

  This isn’t over, he thought defiantly. Not by a long way. There’s a whole library hidden out there, and Lauren and I, we’re going to find that library and show it to the world. This isn’t the end; it’s the beginning.

  Want to know what happens next?

  Read on for a gripping taster of LETHAL TARGET . . .

  Prologue

  The scream echoed through the tunnel and into the cellar room. A man, screaming in fear. Then suddenly the scream was cut off.

  The two men in the cellar didn’t react; they were concentrating on the equipment on a small metal table: a hypodermic needle and a series of glass phials containing some sort of liquid. The cellar was old, the sandstone and brick walls almost black with age. A metal bed frame had been screwed to the floor. No mattress, just the frame, with thick wire acting as crude springs. Iron manacles dangled from the bars at its head and foot.

  The door of the cellar opened and two uniformed men entered, their uniforms army khaki, black jackboots on their feet shining dully in the half-light. Between them they held a naked man. A strip of thick grey tape had been fixed across his mouth to stop him screaming any more. The man looked towards the metal bed frame in the centre of the cellar. He tried to pull back, his eyes bulging with fear, sweat pouring down his face, his bare feet kicking out; but the grip of the men who held him was too strong.

  ‘Put him on it,’ said one of the watching men in Russian.

  The two uniformed men dragged the prisoner towards the bed frame and pushed him down on to the wire springs. One sat on him, stopping him from moving, while the other fixed the manacles to his wrists and ankles. Then they stepped back.

  The man on the bed began to buck and twist, p
ulling desperately at the manacles, his actions tearing open the skin of his wrists and ankles as they rubbed against the iron.

  The man in command picked up the hypodermic needle from the table. He inserted it into one of the glass phials through the opening at the top and drew some of the liquid into the syringe.

  ‘Hold him,’ he ordered the two uniformed men, again, in Russian. They moved to the bed frame and pressed their combined weight down on the struggling prisoner, holding him firmly in place. The man pushed the needle deep into the thigh of the hostage and slowly pushed the plunger down until the syringe was empty. Then he stepped back, and nodded to the two men, who instantly released their hold on the prisoner.

  The two soldiers retreated to the cellar door, where they stood and waited. All four men kept their eyes on the hostage chained to the bed frame.

  One minute passed, then two, then three. Suddenly wisps of smoke began to appear from the pores in the man’s skin, tiny at first, then getting denser. The man struggled, his eyes wide in a mixture of pain and fear, his body arching and thrashing. Then a gush of smoke escaped from his nostrils. Smoke was pouring out of the man, through his skin, his scalp, his feet, his arms . . .

  There was a sudden silent explosion, intense white flames bursting out through the smoke, coming from inside the man, and the next second the figure on the bed was a heaving mass of fire, the heat and glare making the watching men recoil.

  Almost as suddenly as the fire had begun, it stopped, and there was just a cloud of oily smoke, while ashes fell through the bed frame’s wire springs to the cellar floor. All that remained of the captive was the hands and feet, still enclosed in the iron manacles, the whites of the bones visible through the scorched flesh.