by Jim Eldridge
I’m not paranoid, he told himself, just terrified.
He went into the kitchen and stood studying the equipment. Everything looked very hi-tech, as if it all needed a degree in computing to operate. I need a coffee, he said to himself. Luckily, the kettle seemed simple enough. He was just filling it with water when his mobile rang. Lauren, he thought as he snatched it up and pressed connect.
‘Lauren?’
‘No, sorry,’ said a woman’s voice. It was Penny Johnson, the reporter.
‘I don’t need this,’ said Jake wearily. ‘I’ve had a very very bad day.’
‘I know,’ said Johnson.
‘No, you don’t,’ said Jake.
‘Last night you took a book from Hadley Park Research Establishment. A man was found dead in your flat. You were arrested as a suspect. You’ve got to go back for questioning tomorrow morning. Your ex-girlfriend is on the run, accused of killing her boyfriend. You’ve just got in from seeing Alex Munro of Pierce Randall. How am I doing?’
Jake hesitated. This didn’t sound like some reporter on a local newspaper; unless she was gathering credits to get a job on one of the majors.
‘We need to talk,’ said Johnson.
‘I don’t think I want to talk to you.’
‘It could help Lauren,’ said Johnson.
Jake was silent for a moment. It was a con, he was sure of it. She was just a journalist looking for a story. But he remembered their previous meeting, when she’d dropped that she knew about the Order of Malichea, and her closing words: The book needs to go back to its rightful owners. Penny Johnson was involved in this case, and not just as a reporter.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Come and see me. I’m at –’
‘I know where you are,’ she interrupted him. ‘It’s too dangerous for me. There’s a bar at the corner of the street, The Lounge. I’ll see you there in five minutes.’
The phone went dead.
Too dangerous for me? Jake thought. Where was the danger? This apartment had to be one of the safest places on the planet. If he left here, he’d be out in the open, definitely at risk. But she’d used the magic words: It could help Lauren.
The Lounge sounded like the kind of bar you’d expect to find in some swish upmarket hotel. It wasn’t. Away from the plush expensiveness of the apartment block, the street became a series of boarded-up terraced houses awaiting development. Jake guessed they would become part of the new upmarket Pierce Randall development, more hi-tech apartments. Old London disappearing to make way for New London. Just past the boarded-up houses was The Lounge, a dingy-looking pub on the corner. The sound of thumping early sixties music came from it. It’s going to be full of geezers, thought Jake apprehensively. Geezers and old-time gangsters. He felt nervous just pushing open the door.
To his surprise, the pub was nearly empty. Just a few people, mainly men, sitting at tables with pints of ale in front of them. This clientele was a far cry from the high-flying financial whizz-kids of the city, and the lawyers from Pierce Randall in their expensive suits. The men in here were mainly middle-aged or old, and wearing suits that had gone out of fashion decades ago. If they were ever in fashion. No one looked like a hard man, or a special forces soldier.
The clientele looked at Jake as he came in, and then disregarded him, turning back to their talk of football, betting, the telly, and how much better things used to be in the old days.
They’ll be gone soon, reflected Jake. Like the buildings. Once the new hi-tech buildings are here, this pub will be gone, or turned into a yuppie watering hole, filled with the sounds of Blackberries and iPhones going off, and these old guys will have to find somewhere else to go.
He looked around the pub and saw Penny Johnson sitting alone at a corner table with a glass in front of her. No one was near her. Jake walked over to the table and sat down.
‘What’s all this stuff about the apartment being too dangerous?’ he asked. ‘That place is a lot safer than here.’
‘The whole apartment block is owned by Pierce Randall.’
‘So?’
She gestured towards the back of the pub.
‘See the door to the toilets?’
Jake nodded.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘It leads to a back door out on to the street. A fire exit. Go out and wait for me. I’ll join you in a minute.’
‘Why?’ asked Jake.
‘Because at least two people have already been killed so far,’ said Johnson. ‘I don’t intend to be the next victim.’
As Jake walked towards the fire exit he thought to himself, Why am I doing this? Why am I following her instructions? People have tried to kill me. For all I know, she’s got a couple of heavies waiting for me as soon as I step into the street.
He hesitated, then stopped and turned. Johnson was sitting at the table, sipping at her drink, as if everything was normal. She saw him looking back at her, and winked and smiled.
What’s that about? thought Jake. A wink and a smile, at a time like this! Then it hit him; she was playing a role, just in case anyone was watching. He looked around. There didn’t seem to be any suspicious characters in here. Well, not many. But then again, what did a suspicious character look like? Not all of them had knife scars down one side of their face. There was something suspicious about Sue Clark, for example. But then, she was a lawyer.
He looked again at Johnson, and this time she raised an eyebrow questioningly at him.
I should walk back and tell her I’m not going outside that door, he thought. If she’s got anything to tell me, she can tell me here and now.
Then he thought: but she seems to know what’s going on. And if she doesn’t want to talk here, there has to be a reason for it. And she did say that what she has to say could help Lauren.
He turned back towards the door leading to the toilets and the fire exit.
The alley at the back of the pub was dark. There was one street light some distance away, with a bulb that flickered, casting an eerie on–off light on the back door, throwing many shadows. In any one of those shadows someone could be waiting, with a gun aimed at him, or a knife ready to stick into him.
He shivered at the thought, and at the cold wind that chilled him. It was late and it was dark and it was cold. Where was Penny Johnson? He looked at the back door, waiting for her to appear. Hurry up, he urged her silently, feeling very vulnerable.
Suddenly, he heard the sound of boots approaching. He spun round. The alley was empty. The boots were approaching from a side road.
It was a trap! he thought. She sold me out!
He hurried to the back door of the pub, but found it jammed shut. It was a fire exit that only opened outwards. There was no way back into the pub that way.
He broke into a run, heading away from the pub, towards the flickering street light. At least it would offer some form of sanctuary; they might not attack him by a light, where their faces might be caught and identified on CCTV. As he reached the corner of the building, a figure clad in leathers and wearing a motorcycle helmet stepped out and crashed into him.
‘I haven’t got it!’ he yelled defensively, throwing up his hands to defend himself against the blows he expected to rain down on him.
‘I know you haven’t, you idiot!’ snapped a young woman’s voice. Johnson!
Jake gaped at her face looking back at him in annoyance.
‘What was all that business of hanging about in the pub?’ she demanded.
‘I didn’t know if I could trust you,’ he said. ‘And, anyway, what took you so long?’
She gestured at her motorbike leathers. ‘These don’t slip on in just seconds,’ she said. She held out her hand, and Jake realised she was holding a second motorcycle helmet. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘Put this on.’
‘Why?’ asked Jake.
‘Because it’s against the law to ride a motorbike without one,’ she said. ‘Even pillion.’
Chapter 22
The journey on Penny Johnson’s motorbike was o
ne of the scariest rides of Jake’s life. He’d hoped that she would have something small and discreet, but when she strode over to what looked like something out of a Hell’s Angel movie, his heart sank. She climbed on and kick-started it into life, then gestured for Jake to sit behind her. No sooner was he sat down, than the bike roared off, the acceleration almost pulling him off backwards. Jake had been determined to try to be cool and macho and keep his hands casually behind him. That determination soon vanished, and he wrapped his arms around Johnson’s front. This meant that, even though it was August, his hands were soon freezing from the cold wind, but he hung on grimly as the bike zoomed and swerved in and out of the London traffic.
It seemed like an eternity before Johnson pulled the bike to a halt and switched off the engine.
‘Here,’ she said. ‘Bring the helmet.’
Jake undid his helmet and followed Johnson as she headed towards a cybercafé. She was obviously well-known there, because the guy at the desk just waved at her in a friendly manner and she went to an empty screen and sat down. Jake pulled up a spare chair and sat down beside her.
‘Why here?’ he demanded. ‘We could have used any computer. They’ve got one at the apartment.’
‘This one isn’t bugged,’ she told him.
Jake shivered. He still felt frozen from the bike ride.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked.
‘I’m going to show you a little about Pierce Randall,’ she said. ‘Your lawyers.’
Her fingers had stopped dancing over the keyboard, and now a web page appeared with the logo that Jake had seen when he’d stepped out of the lift and met Alex Munro. Pierce Randall’s website.
‘I could have seen all this at the firm itself,’ Jake complained.
‘True,’ said Johnson. ‘But I want you to see both sides.’
She moved her chair so Jake could get nearer and have a clearer view of the screen.
‘Wow!’ he said as he scrolled down their client list. He could see why the police had been keen to cooperate with Sue Clark and let him go. Well, all right, not exactly ‘keen’, but Inspector Edgar hadn’t been prepared to stand up to her. It was as Clark had said to him: he may not have heard of Pierce Randall, but plenty of others had. And very influential people at that.
‘No wonder the police backed off,’ he murmured. ‘That’s a pretty impressive list of clients. Multinational companies and banks, some very, very important people, and some pretty powerful governments. This is a company with major clout.’
‘In more ways than one,’ said Johnson. She ran her fingers over the keyboard again, and the website vanished, to be replaced by a message board headed ‘PR Watch’. This contained different postings, but all mentioning Pierce Randall as being in some way connected to very different people and organisations than those Pierce Randall proudly trumpeted on their website. Jake recognised some of the names: vicious tyrannical dictators who ruled countries in Africa and the Far East. Reputed gangsters and arms dealers. Other familiar names popped up: corrupt politicians, suspected terrorists, billionaires with dubious reputations; the Mafia, both Sicilian and Russian.
‘An interesting client list, don’t you think?’ asked Johnson.
Jake shook his head as he gestured at the screen.
‘It’s all rumour and innuendo,’ he said. ‘As a journalist you must know none of this carries any real weight. These postings are just by people with axes to grind against the firm, making accusations. Some of them pretty wild, as well.’
‘Some of them are true,’ said Johnson seriously.
‘OK.’ Jake shrugged. ‘So maybe they do also represent some dodgy people. That’s what being a lawyer is all about. Not every client is innocent.’
Johnson pointed at the screen.
‘Some of those are more than just “not innocent”,’ she pointed out. ‘They’re killers and terrorists and gangsters . . .’
‘Alleged,’ countered Jake. ‘If they really were as guilty as everyone here says, why aren’t they in jail?’
Johnson gave a wry smile.
‘Because the gangsters and dictators make up the laws in their own countries,’ she said. ‘And the others, well, they have a firm of very good lawyers representing them.’
Jake hesitated, then nodded. He remembered how Clark had got him out of that terrifying interview room.
‘OK,’ he admitted. ‘Maybe they do represent some dodgy people. But so what? And how does this fit in with what happened at Hadley Park, and Lauren? And where do you fit in? And don’t tell me it’s because you’re a journalist on a story.’
‘I’ll tell you,’ she said. ‘Come on.’
She got up and headed for the door, and Jake felt a chill of fear going through him.
‘We’re going on the bike again?’ he asked apprehensively.
‘No,’ said Johnson. ‘There’s a place next door we can talk without being overheard, even if we’re bugged.’
The place next door was a bar, but not just an ordinary bar. It was a bikers’ bar. Everybody in it, with the exception of Jake, seemed to be dressed in motorbike leathers; mostly black, but some multicoloured, and one even in pink. The music was loud: a mixture of heavy metal and garage.
It was Johnson who pushed her way to the bar, squeezing between the crush of bikers, and returned with two glasses of a clear liquid with ice cubes and lemon floating in it.
‘I don’t drink,’ said Jake.
‘In that case you’ll be OK with this,’ said Johnson, thrusting one of the glasses into his hand. ‘Tonic water.’
Jake took the glass and followed her through the crowd to a bench pushed up against one wall. She sat down, and Jake dropped down beside her. The bench was small and it was a tight squeeze, but he was relieved not to be getting on that bike again for another nightmare journey.
‘So you’re going to tell me where you fit in with all this stuff?’ he asked.
‘With the hidden library of the Order of Malichea.’ Johnson nodded.
Once again, as he heard the words, Jake felt a weird sensation. Did everyone know about this organisation and talk about it so matter-of-factly? Alex Munro had. And now Penny Johnson was talking about it in the same casual tone, as if it was common knowledge. Yet just a few days ago, Jake had never heard of them. And, according to Lauren, their existence was a secret, denied by the scientific establishment. It was certainly covered up by Gareth, if the business in the archives was anything to go by.
‘There’s an organisation called the Watchers,’ said Johnson. Her voice was low, and Jake had to strain to hear what she was saying, especially over the music. ‘It was set up originally when the books were buried by the monks in 1497. It was a secret organisation, because the books themselves were secret. I’m sure you know that?’
‘Yes,’ said Jake. ‘With the threat of the books being burned as heretical.’
‘Not just the books, the monks as well,’ said Johnson.
He leant forward, his face close to hers, as he strained to hear her words.
‘The Watchers were composed of people who were trusted by the monks at Glastonbury who hid the books. So – cooks, servants, carpenters, stonemasons, tradespeople. People who worked in the background. The sort no one notices. Their job was to keep watch over the hidden books and make sure no one discovered them by accident, or on purpose. No one except the monks who’d hidden them, that is.’
‘Sort of security?’ asked Jake.
‘Yes. The idea was that they would keep the books safe until the time was right for them to be revealed.’
‘But that time never came,’ said Jake. ‘The plague wiped out the monks.’
‘And then came Henry VIII, and then other kings, all of whom wouldn’t be sympathetic to these heretical ideas coming out into the open,’ said Johnson. ‘Even in the twentieth century there were organisations like the Catholic Church with their list of banned books, and others. And all the time the Watchers kept watch over the books, making sure their hiding plac
es remained undisturbed. The job was handed down from generation to generation. Parents to their children. Uncles and aunts to nieces and nephews. They were still ordinary people doing ordinary jobs – nurses, teachers, railway workers, taxi drivers, carpenters, journalists . . .’
‘You’re a Watcher!’ exclaimed Jake, startled. Then hastily he snapped his mouth shut, looking around in alarm in case he’d been overheard. But the thud thud thud of the music was too loud for anyone to have heard what they were speaking about.
‘Yes.’
‘How does it work?’ he asked. ‘How many of you are there?’
‘I don’t know,’ answered Johnson. ‘That’s how the Watchers have remained secret for so long. Each book is protected by a small cell of about four people. They don’t know the identities of any of the people in the other cells who are guarding the other books. That way, they can’t reveal anything other than about their own book.’
‘But they know what their particular book is about?’ asked Jake.
‘No,’ said Johnson. ‘In those first days, all these people knew was that the books were being hidden to keep them safe, because what was written in them was considered dangerous by the enemies of the abbey. Remember, most of the original Watchers were simple tradespeople who couldn’t read or write. Their job was simply to guard them. I inherited the job of watching over the book that was hidden at the fairy-ring site. I was never told what the book was about, only that it had to be protected. Once I heard there were plans to build that new university science block at the site, our cell set to work: raising planning objections, all the usual stuff. When those failed we stirred up the protestors.’
‘How?’
‘Articles in the paper and features on the local TV and radio. Letters of protest. People can be stirred up if you know which buttons to push.’
‘And when that failed . . .’
‘Then it was a case of keeping a close watch on the site, and – if the book was found – trying to find out where it went, and recover it so it could be hidden again.’