“Then something happened to change my mind,” said Professor Goverton soberly. “One morning while I was shaving, it occurred to me that there were many forms of plague. Indeed, the word was often used loosely to describe any form of epidemic disease. This seemed like a promising new approach. I began to research historical references to any epidemic disease—the influenza pandemic after the First World War and so forth—but there was still nothing that matched the words of the prophecy.”
“Goes on a bit, doesn’t he?” Victor remarked. “He’s doing a pretty thorough job of telling us what he didn’t find.”
Em smiled despite himself. “He’ll get to the point eventually.” He’d begun to feel a fizz of excitement, because it was clear that in the next few minutes they would have the answer to all their questions: why his father had been murdered, why he was being followed, why his mother had been sectioned, why an obscure but powerful secret society had taken such a terrifying interest in the Goverton family.
“It was then,” said Professor Goverton, “that I made my big breakthrough. Remember our last family holiday together, Em?”
The voice stopped. Em waited for a moment, then said, frowning, “Have you unplugged the speakers?”
Victor shook his head. “No.” He waited a beat, also frowning, before adding, “Is that all?”
Em scrubbed the slider, on purpose this time. His father’s voice came through loud and clear. “—pandemic after the First World War and so forth—but there was still nothing that matched the words of the prophecy. It was then that I made my big breakthrough. Remember our last family holiday together, Em?”
“Is that it?” Victor asked. “Is that all there is?”
Em was staring at the slider. The tiny icon that represented the playhead had not quite reached the end. He tapped the triangular PLAY button and watched the playhead crawl the last few centimeters before stopping again. There was not so much as a breath from the speakers. “Did you check the volume?”
“Volume’s fine,” Victor said.
“You didn’t accidentally mute it, did you?” Charlotte put in.
Em checked. “No.” He replayed a second or two of his father’s voice. “See? It’s working okay. Not mute.” He readjusted, hit the PLAY button again.
“It was then that I made my big breakthrough. Remember our last family holiday together, Em?”
“What’s he mean by that?” Charlotte asked. “What has your last family holiday got to do with anything?”
Em looked at her helplessly. “Haven’t the faintest idea,” he said.
Chapter 29
Since he hadn’t been planning for the extra guest, Victor insisted they go out for lunch instead of rustle up something in the safe house. The café he picked stood in stark contrast to the coffee bar of that morning. It was jam-packed with student types, and the noise level was through the roof. Victor had to lean across the little table to make himself heard.
“Where did you go on your holidays?”
“Ireland,” Em told him through a forkful of lasagna. He and his parents had driven to Wales and taken the ferry to Rosslare, then endured a further drive west across Ireland to the Beara Peninsula in Kerry, where his mother had organized a holiday cottage rental. His father had been behind the wheel the whole time, with the result that he’d arrived tired and grumpy. He wasn’t the only one, Em recalled. Dad’s driving was pretty lethal on a motorway. On the narrow, potholed country roads of Kerry, it was positively terrifying.
“How was it?” Charlotte asked. “I mean, did anything unusual happen?”
“It was okay,” Em replied without enthusiasm.
“What did you do?” Victor put in.
Em shrugged. “This and that.”
Victor glared at him. “Come on, Em! This isn’t a social inquiry. Your father was trying to tell you something on that iPod, and the clue is in your holiday. I’m going to quiz you until we find out what. Better get used to it.”
It was fair enough. But the problem was, Em couldn’t think of anything out of the ordinary that had happened on the holiday. It wasn’t a patch on France where he’d been followed and got to see Paris and visited the very room in which Nostradamus made his prophecies. But he knew Victor wasn’t going to let him alone; and under the circumstances, he also knew he should be cooperating instead of pouting like a spoiled kid. Which wasn’t likely to impress Charlotte either. He took a deep breath. “Okay. Mum rented a thatched cottage in Kerry. We drove across. It wasn’t fun. Getting to Wales takes four hours, then the ferry takes four hours, then getting to Kerry takes four hours. Too much time in a car and the ferry crossing was rough. Dad couldn’t find the cottage even though they’d sent a map, so we were late and then there was some mix-up about the fridge that was supposed to be stocked but wasn’t so we had to go off looking for a restaurant that was still open. Mum and Dad bickered the whole time; and when we did find a place to eat, Mum drank too much wine.”
“Did it get any better after that?”
It had, actually. They had slept the sleep of the terminally exhausted and woke feeling wonderfully refreshed. They’d gone out to explore and found a funny little supermarket near a crossroads where they loaded up on gossip and supplies. They came back to the cottage and had a fried breakfast together outside on the tiny veranda to celebrate the fact that the sun had come out. Even Mum had looked cheerful. Em actually smiled at the memory. “Yes, it did.”
“So what did you do? What was the highlight of the trip?”
What they’d done was not a lot, really. There was a sculpture garden open to the public that was really cool. And Mum had insisted on buying Em a sports jacket that wasn’t exactly cool but was okay for something your mother would pick. Was that the highlight of the trip? It was difficult to say. The real highlight, he supposed, was that Dad was there to talk to him for a change and that Dad and Mum didn’t argue very much. “Dad took a lot of photographs,” Em said inconsequentially.
“What?” Charlotte sat up, suddenly interested. She glanced at Victor.
“Pictures,” Em repeated, frowning. He glanced from one to the other. “He had a new digital camera. I don’t know if he bought it for himself or somebody gave it to him. But it was the first time he took it out, and he was very newfangled with it. He took pictures of everything we did. Everything. The trouble was, he didn’t have a printer—Dad was funny about a lot of new technology—so we never saw the pictures. Except on the camera, of course. While we were there, he was always showing us stuff on the camera screen: ‘Look at this, look at that, see the shadow of that seagull.’”
Now Victor was looking interested. “Where is the camera now? Do you know?”
“At home,” Em said, thought about it, then corrected himself. “No, last I heard, he’d taken it to the university.”
“We need to get that camera,” Victor said.
Em frowned. “Why?”
“Communications device,” Victor said shortly.
Charlotte, who seemed to be following what was going on a lot better than Em, said, “Your father asks if you remember the holiday. His camera contains a record of that holiday. If there’s a clue to the mystery in the holiday, we’re going to find it on the camera. Or at least you are. Don’t you see what he was doing, Em?”
Em shook his head and mouthed a bewildered No, since that was as good a way as any of talking over the background din.
Victor leaned closer to take up her point. “He had something to tell you, something he couldn’t even trust with your mother. He must have known he was being watched, being followed, under threat or whatever, so he couldn’t just write you a note—might be intercepted and read, which would give the game away. So he had to find a way of telling you that nobody else would know about. He starts by sending you an early birthday gift—nice little iPod touch MP3 player. Music machine—all the kids have them. Not something you’d immediately think of as a way of passing a message. Clever man, your father.”
Em said,
“What do we do now?”
“Get our hands on that camera,” Charlotte and Victor said in unison.
“How do we do that?”
“You say it’s at the university?” Victor asked.
“I said likely at the university. I don’t know where else it could be.”
Victor spotted a passing waitress and snapped, “Bill, please.” Somehow she heard him above the noise and acknowledged his request with a smile. He turned back to Em. “Your father has an office there or something? A filing cabinet where he keeps things?”
“Office and rooms,” Em said. “Where he can see students one-on-one.” He realized with a dull jolt that they were talking about his father in the present tense, as if he were still alive. His father had had an office. His father didn’t have an office at the university anymore, because his father was dead. “Wait a minute,” he said to Victor, “I can’t just walk in and claim it. They’re still after me.”
“I wasn’t thinking of you claiming it; I was thinking of breaking in.”
“What?” Em exclaimed. Despite the noise, he lowered his voice. “What?” he repeated.
“Shouldn’t be too difficult,” Victor said. The waitress was en route to their table, carrying a slip of paper on a saucer. He opened his wallet and extracted notes for the bill.
“But you don’t even know where the office is,” Em protested.
“That’s why you’re coming with me,” Victor told him.
“Me too,” Charlotte said.
Chapter 30
Em was still arguing as they climbed the stairs to the safe house apartment. “It’s finished if we get caught; you know that!”
“We won’t get caught. I’ve burgled lots of places—required skill for a Section 7 operative.”
“But I haven’t,” Em protested. “I’m not burglar material. I’m clumsy. I’m noisy.” He glanced briefly at Charlotte and added, “I’m scared.”
“University campuses are easy,” Victor said as if he broke into them all the time. “Always people about, day or night. You blend in if you’re dressed right. Nobody suspects for a minute you might be a thief.”
“What’s dressed right?”
“Well, you avoid the mask, the striped jersey, and the sack marked SWAG.”
“Come on, Victor—I’m serious.”
“You’re making a big thing about this and you shouldn’t, Em. You dress in whatever you usually dress in, whatever kids wear these days. Nothing trendy or flashy or making you stand out. Sort of gear Charlotte’s wearing. Except she’s not coming.”
“Thanks a bunch!” Charlotte muttered, although Em wasn’t sure whether she felt insulted about her dress sense or was carrying on her long argument with Victor about why she should go with them to get the camera.
“And what do you wear?” Em asked Victor to divert them into calmer waters. “A jacket with leather patches on the elbows?”
Victor turned to look at him. “Very good, Em. Academic uniform. Now you’re thinking like an agent. But I’ll stick to a tailored three-piece pinstripe. Nobody ever questions you if you’re dressed like a wealthy city gent. Don’t suppose we’ll have to climb a drainpipe to get to your father’s office?”
“No,” Em said. “But, listen, the camera might not be there. I was thinking, they could have given his office to somebody else by now. I mean—”
They were at the door of the apartment, and Victor was kneeling to inspect his security thread. “Shut up, Em,” he said in an urgent whisper.
“What’s wrong?” Charlotte asked.
Victor stood up slowly, his finger to his lips. Although he hadn’t answered, it was clear that something was very wrong indeed, and Em had no trouble guessing what. He watched while Victor placed the palm of his hand on the face of the door and applied gradual pressure. The door remained closed. There were two obvious locks: a Yale and a large mortice that triggered all four dead bolts from the outside. Victor already had the keys in his hand. He inserted one into the mortice—a complex thing with spikes—and turned it gently. He withdrew it again and pushed a second key into the Yale lock. He turned it softly, leaving the door closed but needing only a push to open it.
“Stand well back, you two,” he said quietly. He pointed. “Over there. First sign of trouble, you run. Got that?”
Em wanted to ask what sort of trouble Victor was expecting, but there was something in Victor’s tone that stopped him cold. Besides, Victor had drawn his handgun from his pocket. Em stepped back swiftly to the spot appointed, dragging Charlotte with him.
Victor moved like a pro. He slammed the door open with a flat-footed kick and was inside the room in a single fluid movement. Em steeled himself for gunfire, but none came; nor was there any sound of a scuffle. He waited for a moment, felt his muscles begin to relax. Then all hell broke loose.
A burst of gunfire was followed by a scream, then a single shot. There was the sound of a heavy object falling, like a body, then a long moment of silence. Victor did not reemerge.
Em looked at Charlotte. Should he call out? Run for help? Instead he gestured her to remain where she was, then moved slowly, cautiously, toward the open door. In his mind, masked raiders with Kalashnikovs would burst out spraying bullets everywhere, but in reality none appeared. He reached the edge of the door and peered around it into the room just in time to see Victor emerge from the kitchen, pushing his pistol back into his pocket. There was blood on his shirt.
“You’re hurt!” Charlotte was pushing past Em despite his clear warning to stay put. She walked directly toward Victor, completely uncaring of whoever had shot him.
Victor must have read his expression. “They’ve gone, I think.” Then to Charlotte, “Just a graze.”
“You think?” Em gasped. He moved a few steps into the room in case Charlotte thought him a wimp and looked around cautiously in case Victor was wrong.
Charlotte said, “You’re covered in blood.” To Em’s astonishment, she began to unbutton his shirt.
To Em’s even greater astonishment, Victor let her. “It’s nothing really,” he said. “I just bleed easily. The bullet scarcely broke the skin.”
“We need to get that cleaned up,” Charlotte told him. “Somebody tried to kill you!”
“Yes,” Victor agreed. He winced as she used his shirt to dab away blood from around the wound.
“You’re sure they’ve gone?” Em asked.
“Two of them. Through a back window. They’ve definitely gone.”
Unless there was a third one, Em thought. He moved inside reluctantly and began to search systematically. There were remarkably few signs of the intruders. A back window had been opened, as Victor had said; but unlike his father’s trashed study, nothing seemed out of place. He wondered what might have happened if Victor hadn’t examined his security thread.
“Check your belongings,” Victor called briskly. “They came in looking for something, and I want to know what.” He was seated in the kitchen now. Charlotte had found some dressings in a drawer and was cleaning his wound.
When Em checked his stuff, the iPod was missing.
Victor spent more than an hour in his bedroom talking quietly into his secure cell phone while Em, nervously, brought him cups of coffee. He noticed that each time he entered, Victor would stop talking, then begin again as the bedroom door closed. Em was filling the kettle for the umpteenth time when he emerged, still looking pale and shaken. The shooting had obviously upset him badly. “Okay,” he said without preliminary, “put your stuff together. We’re moving out.”
“Where to?” Em asked.
“Another secure location.” The look on Victor’s face matched the anger in his voice. He glared at Em as if it were all somehow Em’s fault. “This place must have been compromised before we moved in. They let themselves in through the front door, which means they had a duplicate key. The Section locksmith tells me the lock’s impossible to pick, and now that he’s described how it’s put together I believe him. Worst of all, they knew
exactly what they were looking for: your nifty little iPod touch. You know what that means, don’t you?”
Em looked at him blankly. “No.”
“It means this place is bugged!” Victor turned his face toward the ceiling and yelled, “Are you still listening, you creeps? Well, you won’t be listening for long!” He turned back to Em and went on in a more modulated tone. “There’s an electronics team from the Section on their way. They’ll strip the place after we leave, change the locks, put in a few extra securities: classic stable door maneuver. But we need to find another place. So grab your socks, as they used to tell us in the army, and let’s get moving.”
“Where are we going?” Charlotte asked.
Victor turned his eyes upward in exasperation. “Aren’t you listening? I just said the place is bugged! But in any case, you’re not going anywhere except home, young woman. Now that the guns are out, this whole situation has become far too dangerous for a kid.”
“Firstly, I’m not a ‘kid,’ as you say,” Charlotte snapped in her coldest tone. “Secondly, Em’s going with—”
“Em’s involved,” Victor cut her off. “He’s already in the middle of all this. You’re not.”
The argument went on for some time, but Charlotte proved more stubborn than Em would ever have believed possible. To his astonishment, she continued to argue with Victor until his stamina wore out and he proposed a compromise. “You can stay with us for now—at least that way I can keep an eye on you. But any more signs of trouble and you’re going home. And you’re not, positively not, playing any part whatsoever when we go to get the little item we discussed earlier. Is that clearly understood?”
“Yes, of course, Victor.” Charlotte nodded sweetly.
“Where are we going now?” Em asked as they emerged into the street.
The Secret Prophecy Page 14