Son of Perdition (Chronicles of Brothers)

by Wendy Alec

  ‘It’s late December, for God’s sake! Why have you got the roof down?’

  The Jaguar sped through the centre of London and then through the suburbs. Julia turned off the main highway onto a country lane, swerving neatly around a slow-moving lorry.

  ‘Who chooses your barber nowadays?’ she said. ‘Aunt Rosemary?’

  Jason’s face was like thunder. ‘I presume I was the ruthless media tycoon riding roughshod over all that is pure and righteous in your last book,’ he said.

  Julia thrust out her chin. Irritated. They narrowly missed an oncoming car.

  ‘God, Julia!’ he spluttered. ‘What are you trying to do – kill me?’

  Julia screeched around a bend, with Jason clinging to the dashboard as they flew past rows of thatched houses.

  ‘If you’d read the book, you would have known I’d already killed you off in a car bomb. It was very therapeutic – saved me a fortune in psychiatrist’s fees.’

  She took a sharp left and screeched to a halt outside a small English country church.

  Julia undid her scarf. Her gleaming blonde hair fell to her shoulders. She turned to Jason.

  ‘I spent the night in a Southbank police station with Alex and I’m exhausted. Nick’s penthouse was ransacked.’

  ‘Ransacked?’ Jason looked at her sceptically. ‘Was that Alex’s definition, or the police’s?’

  ‘Both, actually,’ she said, frostily.

  ‘How do you know Nick’s apartment was ransacked?’

  She opened the car door, climbed out gracefully and glared at Jason from over the white Chanel sunglasses that matched her white jeans and leather jacket.

  ‘Because I was there with the police and Alex at one in the morning. That’s how, Jason.’

  She slammed the car door.

  ‘Probably some of his low-life friends,’ Jason mumbled, ‘looking for cocaine.’ He seemed to be having as much trouble getting the seatbelt off as he’d had getting it on.

  ‘You never gave Nicky any credit, did you Jason? Nothing at all. You let him go to his grave without talking to him. How could you?’

  Julia leant over and picked up a bunch of pale pink tulips from the back seat.

  ‘Now I get it,’ Jason scowled. ‘You’ve brought me all the way out to my father’s grave for a lecture on what a cold heartless swine I am for not forgiving Nick.’

  The seatbelt jammed in the door.

  Julia started to walk up the winding churchyard path.

  ‘You cut him off, Jason,’ she declared. ‘You didn’t talk to him from that day to this.’

  Jason finally managed to get out and stride after her.

  ‘He was a brilliant archaeologist,’ he shouted after her. ‘He threw his whole career away on heroin or cocaine or whatever it was and he disgraced the family name. Father never got over it.’

  A vicar appeared from behind a gravestone. He regarded the shouting Jason with obvious disapproval.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said.

  Jason nodded sheepishly and continued striding after Julia.

  Panting, he caught up with her in a secluded corner of the churchyard where she stood before a large and beautifully kept mausoleum. The vicar watched them suspiciously from the path.

  Julia knelt and placed the tulips on the grave. ‘What do you think?’ she hissed. ‘Do you actually think I would choose to be on my own with you?’

  Jason glared at her. ‘Living on your own is driving you paranoid.’ He grasped her arm. ‘And take those damn glasses off.’

  ‘I am not living on my own,’ Julia seethed. ‘And don’t you call me paranoid. You always were a pompous ass. Look what you did to Nick.’

  Jason rolled his eyes and pointed to James’s grave.

  ‘Ssssh – not at my father’s grave. And you leave my brother out of this.’

  Julia drew herself up to her full five feet four. Seething, she took off her glasses to reveal red eyes smudged with mascara from crying.

  ‘Your brother – your brother. And how much time did you spend with him in the past seven years, Jason De Vere? In between your mergers, your digital platforms – and launching your damn satellites?’

  The vicar looked at them disapprovingly again.

  ‘Nick was trying to tell you something. Don’t ask me why he chose you. But he did. He thought your dad was killed. It sounded like he was in some kind of trouble.’

  Jason lowered his voice ominously. ‘This isn’t one of your books, Julia. People don’t just kill people.’

  ‘Lily said he left a cryptic message on your answering machine.’

  ‘He called me, that’s all. Typical Nick subterfuge. Sounded like he was on a trip. Now please give me my note and some privacy.’

  Julia glared at him, then unclasped her white leather handbag.

  ‘It was mailed from France the night he died.’ She held out the distinctive linen envelope. ‘And actually the note is addressed to me.’

  Jason took the envelope and stared at the coat of arms, perplexed.

  Slowly he turned it over. ‘It’s from Mont St Michel.’

  ‘Of course it’s from Mont St Michel,’ Julia snapped. ‘He spent the day with Adrian.’

  ‘No, he didn’t!’ Jason declared. Furious.

  ‘What do you mean? He phoned me when he was just forty miles away from the Abbey the morning he died.’

  ‘What time did Nick phone you?’

  ‘Around ten or ten thirty my time – say, eleven thirty his time.’

  ‘You’re mistaken.’

  ‘Really?’ Julia put one hand on her hip, her blood boiling. ‘Well, as it so happens, I’m not mistaken, Jason De Vere.’ She groped in her bag for her phone, flipped it open and scrolled down. Seething, she passed it to Jason.

  ‘Right there. On the EU GPS satellite reading. Call received from forty miles from Mont St Michel – 10.37 a.m. Caller ID – Nicholas De Vere.’

  ‘Well, he must have changed his mind.’ Jason conceded grudgingly. ‘Adrian said he phoned but he’d been held up. He never arrived at Mont St Michel.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Jason. He was only forty miles away when he phoned. He was headed straight there.’

  ‘You know Nick,’ Jason shrugged.

  ‘Yes, I do know Nick,’ she snapped. ‘He was headed straight there. If he wasn’t there, how did he get the envelope?’

  Jason looked down at the Mont St Michel crest.

  ‘I suppose he carried them around in his satchel,’ she said sarcastically.

  ‘What else did he say?’

  ‘He was a bit . . . ’ She frowned. ‘I don’t know. Serious – very serious. He was asking for information. Uncle Lawrence’s birth certificate. The names of who’s on your VOX board.’

  ‘The VOX board?’ Jason stared at her, incredulous. ‘God, Julia. Nick never looked at a financial in his life. And he wanted a list of my board! He had to be on one of his trips.’

  ‘Fine.’ Julia raised her hands. ‘Have it your way. There’s his note. Read it for yourself. And I want it back.’

  Jason turned his back on Julia, took the note from the envelope and scanned it for a few minutes.

  ‘He says they gave him AIDS,’ he muttered. ‘He said the same thing on my answering machine.’ His voice softened. ‘Look, Julia, I know how close you were,’ he said, passing her back the note.

  He took out the photograph.

  Julia pointed at Julius De Vere. ‘I don’t recognize anyone except your grandad and Uncle Xavier.’

  Jason’s earpiece lit up. ‘Yes, Purvis,’ he said.

  He turned. The chauffeur walked up the path towards him, carrying a white wreath. Jason took the wreath and placed it on James’s grave.

  ‘Okay, I’m on my way. Tell Mac to fire it up.’

  He looked at his watch and began walking back through the gravestones.

  ‘Tell Levine to make sure he has my briefcase. And two reservations for the Rose Bar. Make sure you get the reservations. It’ll be after 9 p.m.’
>
  He clicked off his phone and walked to the Bentley that was parked directly in front of Julia’s Jaguar. The chauffeur opened the back door for him.

  Jason turned and waved the envelope at the slight figure in white who was gazing after him. He gave an awkward smile.

  ‘Thanks.’

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  The Godfather

  29 December 2021

  Jason stood under the custom-made Venetian glass chandelier in the lobby of the luxury New York hotel. The emotional exhaustion of the past week combined with his current jet lag was beginning to take its toll. He ran his fingers through his hair and looked around at the enormous hand-carved Italian fireplace and roaring fire. The plush red velvet curtains. The epic canvases. The matador’s jacket. Old World grandeur merging with what Nick would no doubt have described as modern aesthetic.

  One of the hotel’s three penthouses had been Nick’s home from home whenever he was in New York. He had called it ‘High Bohemia’, and loved it.

  Jason stood, frozen. Everything, literally everything, reminded him of Nick.

  He checked his watch: 9.30 p.m. precisely. Xavier Chessler would be waiting for him in the Rose Bar. He was a meticulous timekeeper and ran his personal life as rigorously as he ran his banks. Jason found him seated directly under a canvas by Andy Warhol.

  Jason sank into a plush velvet antique chair directly opposite and studied his godfather.

  Age had treated Xavier Chessler kindly. His mane of thick straight silver hair framed his distinguished features. He had just turned 84 but looked twenty years younger. Jason harboured a suspicion that, thanks to the urging of his flamboyant wife, Marina, botox may have had something to do with the youthful looks of the semi-retired investment banker.

  Xavier sipped a cocktail.

  Odd. Jason raised his eyebrows. His godfather was fastidious about his nutritional habits and rarely touched alcohol.

  Chessler looked at Jason roguishly.

  ‘Merely pineapple spiked with ginger and shaken with mint, lemon and a dash of angostura bitters. Most refreshing. Though I suppose you’ll be wanting the Lagavulin.’

  Jason nodded and surveyed the chic crowd that was gathered around the bar. Celebrities. Young investment bankers. The well heeled.

  ‘Nick always felt at home here,’ he said.

  Chessler motioned to the nearest waitress. ‘The Lagavulin.’ He pointed at the menu. ‘And the same as before.’ The waitress left.

  ‘Nick and I celebrated Marina’s last birthday here,’ Chessler said. ‘You were in Beijing. Adrian and your mother paid for him to summer here.’

  ‘I didn’t know he was here in July.’ Jason hesitated. ‘I should have taken his calls, Xavier.’

  ‘No time for recriminations, my boy. Life’s far too short for regret. Especially when you reach my age.’

  The waitress returned with the whisky and a second cocktail.

  ‘You said Nick sent you a note.’

  Jason stared into the glass. ‘Not really a note. Well, put it this way – he sent Julia the note. He sent me a photograph.’

  Jason took the Mont St Michel envelope from his jacket pocket and passed it over the table to Xavier.

  ‘You’re in it.’

  Chessler put on a pair of silver-rimmed glasses and studied the photograph.

  He looked up at Jason.

  ‘Well . . . ’ He frowned. Of course, I recognize your grandfather. And Piers Aspinall. Ex-Director of MI6. He died last year. Poor fellow had Parkinson’s, as I recall.’

  He studied the photograph more intently.

  ‘It’s very old. Both your grandfather and I must have been in our early forties.’ He sighed. ‘Ah, the ravages of time, Jason.’

  ‘You’ve no idea who the other men are?’ Jason asked.

  Chessler shook his head.

  ‘Look, dear boy, Julius and I were on so many boards together. Charitable. Non-charitable. I’m a non-executive director on twenty-six as we speak. I’m sorry, Jason, but I really can’t place these men.’

  ‘There’s a name.’ Jason gestured to the photograph. ‘In Dad’s handwriting on the back.’

  Chessler turned the photograph over.

  ‘Aveline,’ he murmured. ‘Yes, that’s your father’s writing all right. I’d recognize it anywhere. I’ll tell you what, Jason. Seeing as it’s important to you, if you don’t mind my keeping this I’ll do a little investigation of my own.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Jason. ‘I’d really appreciate it.’

  ‘You said there was a note?’

  ‘To Julia. It was cryptic. Rambling. Typical Nick. I only took the photograph. I’ll tell you what is strange though.’

  Jason pointed to the envelope.

  ‘The Mont St Michel crest. But Adrian said Nick wasn’t at Mont St Michel the day he died.’ He shrugged.

  ‘These things seem confusing, dear boy.’ Chessler removed his glasses and put them back in their case. ‘We’ve all been shaken by Nick’s death. I’m sure there’s a quite straightforward explanation.’

  Jason shrugged. ‘I guess we’ll never know.’

  He raised his glass and looked again around the eclectic candlelit space. ‘A toast to Nick.’

  Xavier Chessler raised his cocktail glass. ‘To Nick. Brilliant archaeologist. Loyal son.’

  ‘And brother.’ Jason finished his whisky. ‘Xavier, listen. I’ve got a 7 a.m. meeting tomorrow. One of VOX’s hedge funds. Can we catch up over lunch – say Sunday?’

  Chessler clasped Jason’s shoulder.

  ‘Of course, dear boy. Marina and I are weekending at the Hamptons. Spend the weekend with us. You know Marina’s dying to catch up on all the New York media intrigue. Retirement’s driving her crazy. Your presence will be a godsend.’

  Jason stood up. ‘I’ll come up late Friday.’

  ‘You’re my only godson, Jason. Three daughters. No sons. You’ve always been like my own.’ He looked Jason in the eye. ‘You know there is nothing, I mean nothing that I wouldn’t do for you.’

  ‘I know that, Uncle Xavier.’ Jason leant down and embraced the old man.

  Xavier Chessler watched as Jason walked through the bar.

  Jason turned at the door and waved.

  Xavier smiled. He placed the photograph carefully in his inner jacket pocket, then clasped his left wrist in agony. He undid his cufflink and stared down in horror at the ‘Warlock’s Mark’. It was literally smouldering on his skin.

  Julius De Vere was torturing him from the grave. From hell itself, he was sure.

  He reached for his phone, scrolled down. And dialled.

  ‘I think we may have a problem.’ He smiled at the waitress. ‘Just the check, please.’

  He lowered his voice. ‘No . . . nothing I can’t control. I just wanted you to be aware. It seems Nicholas sent a note before he died. Addressed on a Mont St Michel envelope which I have.

  ‘Of course I’ll dispose of the evidence. He’s coming to the Hamptons for the weekend. I’ll find out what he knows. Keep an eye on him. Inform me via our London connection the minute that meddlesome IT vermin Weaver is taken care of.’

  He clicked off the phone and stared grimly ahead.

  His godson would be a formidable adversary if his suspicions were fully aroused. But, properly handled, that shouldn’t be for some time.

  Jason De Vere’s extermination after the opening of the Seventh Seal would be imperative. Until then, he would serve the Brotherhood’s purpose.

  * * *

  It was bucketing down.

  Dylan Weaver stood out of sight from the road, in the doorway of a branch of Iceland. He glanced down at his watch, uneasy, then back through the glass doors of the frozen-food supermarket chain before venturing out into the the almost deserted High Street.

  A hundred yards up the road, he could still make out the two black Range Rovers that had been parked outside his flat since eleven that morning.

  He pulled his anorak over his head and emptie
d the contents of a half-finished packet of crisps into his mouth.

  With one last furtive look towards his flat in the converted piano factory, he walked swiftly in the direction of Kentish Town Tube station. He would catch the Northern Line to King’s Cross and the Circle Line to Paddington just in time to catch the last Express to Heathrow.

  He grasped with sweaty fingers the dog-eared aeroplane ticket for what must have been the fifth time in the last hour. The high-flying intelligence hackers in Hangzhou had received the hard drive over an hour ago.

  If he caught Virgin Atlantic’s Airbus to Shanghai from Terminal 3 tomorrow he would be safely in Pudong airport by nightfall.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Apocalypse

  Michael stood outside Gabriel’s chamber watching Gabriel from the doorway.

  ‘Your soul is prepared?’ he asked.

  ‘The dreamings . . . ’ Gabriel looked up at Michael, his features etched with grief. ‘Kingdoms rising . . . falling . . . the Race of Men . . . Judgement . . . the Revelation of the Apocalypse of Saint John. I see the the things that are about to be visited upon the world of the Race of Men first-hand. As Revelator.’ Gabriel trembled. ‘As seer.’

  Michael looked at Gabriel without speaking.

  ‘There before me was a Pale Horse.’ Gabriel shuddered. ‘Its rider was named Death.’ He walked over to the terrace and gazed out at the Rubied Door. ‘Sword . . . famine . . . pestilence,’ he whispered. ‘Hail and fire mingled with blood . . . ’ He bowed his head. ‘Would that it had never come to this.’

  ‘He has given them opportunity after opportunity to repent.’ Michael’s voice shook with emotion. ‘They reject Christos. They reject the great sacrifice. They choose to follow Lucifer. He has waited aeons, Gabriel – restraining the Judgements.’

  Michael walked over to Gabriel.

  ‘Yet still He loves them,’ Gabriel said, softly.

  ‘His Judgements can be held back no more.’ Michael placed his hand on his sword. ‘The scales of iniquity in the world of the Race of Men are full. Our brother Lucifer has ravaged their souls. Judgement has to take its course.’