by Sam Christer
The Master rises from behind the table and walks the chamber. ‘The Sacreds are not monsters. They do not demand arbitrary human sacrifice. It is a fundamental matter of give and take, part of the cycle of life and death. In return for protecting your life, Nathaniel promised them his own. He undertook to become a sacrifice.’
Gideon’s mind goes blank. ‘The suicide?’
‘No. That wasn’t an offering. That was a selfish act of desperation. He wanted to stop the Inner Circle following a course that he didn’t agree with.’
‘What course?’
The Master exhales wearily. ‘Your father made great studies and believed that the unalterable doctrine of the Craft was that those who received the gifts of the Sacreds were the chosen ones, the ones who should be sacrificed. He contested that anyone who had drawn from the divine well and prospered should in their later years pay the divine price. The Inner Circle disagreed. They believed that this ancient practice needed to evolve. That the Sacreds should pick their own sacrifices.’
‘How so?’
‘Easily.’ The Master opens his arms in a relaxed gesture. ‘People are drawn to them. The Lookers – the men who took you from the henge – they wait and watch. When someone is compelled to touch a specific Sacred, one that is in ascendancy in the sidereal zodiac, then they identify themselves as the correct human sacrifice.’
The Master sits on the stone bench next to Gideon. What he wants to say next will unnerve the boy, possibly shake him to his core. ‘The Craft is a democratic body. We follow rules laid down centuries ago. However, the interpretation of those rules is the right and duty of each successive Master and his Inner Circle. When your father took his decision to oppose the Circle’s views on sacrifices, he as good as sealed his own fate.’
Gideon looks lost. ‘I don’t understand. Why was my father’s opinion so important compared with everyone else’s?’
The Master sees that Nathaniel hadn’t told the boy everything. ‘Because, Gideon, when the matter was put to the vote, I wasn’t the Henge Master. He was.’
102
Caitlyn’s screams pierce the foot-thick stone like a high-speed drill. She can’t take any more. The blackness, the stillness, it’s driving her insane. She hammers her fists, knees and head against the rough walls of the vertical tomb.
The two Lookers guarding her rush to the detention crevice. They can’t let her harm herself. She mustn’t die before the chosen time. They trigger the release locks and Caitlyn tumbles out and crashes painfully on to her knees. Her body is a patchwork of cuts and her long black hair is matted with sweat and blood. She snarls and kicks out at them. ‘Get off me. You fucking bastards, let me go.’
The Lookers pin her down on her back. Her face is covered in blood and her manicured hands are cut to ribbons. Her forehead shows several deep gashes where she has crashed her skull against the stones. The men exchange glances. She has gone berserk in there. Thrashed around in some kind of deranged fit and tried to kill herself.
Caitlyn wants to end this nightmare now. Even if it means dying, she wants it to stop. But gradually she calms down. Her mind takes control again and the wild animal inside her is quieted. The men keep pressing her down on the cold stone floor. One is astride her, kneeling on her arms, pinning her wrists. The other is knelt across her ankles. Only now as the bloodrush subsides does it hit her.
They are amateurs.
She has seen Eric and his team carry out restraint techniques. They never do it like this. A twist of a wrist is enough to incapacitate anyone, if you know how. A finger dug into a nerve point can stop a heavyweight boxer, if you know how. These guys don’t. They are completely without ‘know how’. They’re making it up as they go along.
Caitlyn stares into the eyes of the hooded man pressing down on her. ‘Okay. I’m okay now.’
He eases himself off her arms. Stands over her. Wary and ready to pin her down again. ‘We need to take a look at her head wound,’ he says to the younger man.
They help her to her feet and are about to cuff her wrists when Caitlyn pulls her hands away. She drives a knee hard into the groin of the man in front of her. The second Looker grabs her from behind. She leans into him. Uses her body weight to knock him off balance then runs him into the wall behind them. As he hits the stone, she crashes her head up, making sure the back of her skull does maximum damage to his face. It’s a sickening blow. He loses hold and slumps down behind her. His nose is broken.
Caitlyn stands unrestrained in the torch-lit corridor of the Sanctuary.
103
Gideon is filled with a dizzying emptiness. The revelation that his father was once the Henge Master leaves him drained. This is not what he expected to discover. He’d sought the truth. Needed a reason for his father’s suicide. Someone to blame. He hadn’t been prepared for this.
The Henge Master is not concerned with Gideon’s feelings. He merely wants to learn how much Gideon knows, how dangerous a threat he represents. ‘Do you have any idea what this place is? Where we are?’
‘The Sanctuary.’ His voice is flat. His thoughts elsewhere.
‘And do you know its location?’
It’s a tougher question. One that drags Gideon out of his state of shock. ‘My father wrote only about the nature of the Sanctuary, not its location. That said, I haven’t decoded all of his journals. I am sure there will be passages where he gets more specific.’
The Master tries to read the boy’s eyes. It is possible that Nathaniel kept the location secret. It is also believable that his son knows it and understands that to reveal it would be dangerous. ‘You are well informed for an outsider. For a non-initiate.’ He clasps his hands. ‘And that presents us with a problem. What are we to do with you?’
Gideon moves closer to him. ‘Let me be part of things. Let me join you. I don’t know what else I am to do. Given the loss of my father. His vow. I am to be irrevocably linked with the Sacreds whatever happens.’
‘Should we even want to admit you to the Craft, I’m not sure you are ready. Initiation is a searching ceremony. It involves total trust between the Henge Master and the initiate. Trust is all the supplicant has to hold on to as his blood is shed. The pain is excruciating, unimaginable.’
Gideon hangs his head. ‘It is what I want.’
The Master puts a hand beneath Gideon’s chin, raises his face and looks into his eyes. ‘Who is to say you wouldn’t continue your father’s opposition from within our ranks?’
Gideon becomes animated. ‘I don’t wish you or the Followers harm. I want to be welcomed into the fold. Just as my father once was. I want my life to be lived to the full, under the blessing of the Sacreds. I don’t want it to be cursed with sickness. And I certainly don’t want to spend the rest of my years fearful that I may be attacked or have my home set ablaze.’
The Master can see there is good reason why Gideon should be motivated to embrace the Craft. And killing him poses the risk of their existence being made public. The Craft would be exposed and the ritual of renewal interrupted. He paces. ‘There is a way for you to demonstrate your loyalty, your commitment. If you were to fulfil it, I would personally vouch for your trustworthiness And the initiation would begin tonight.’
‘What is it?’
‘Your father’s books. Deliver them to us and you may become one of us.’
Gideon shakes his head. ‘I know what the initiation involves. I am willing to let you put a knife to my flesh and a hammer to my bones. Isn’t that enough?’
‘No. The books are the knife you hold to our flesh and your threats the hammer you raise above our bones.’
Gideon thinks of a way to break the stalemate. ‘I will give you a quarter of the books before my initiation and I will make the phone call that will ensure nothing is delivered to the police. After my initiation, I will give you another quarter of them. A year from now I will surrender another 25 per cent.’
‘That is only 75 per cent. When will we receive the final instalment?’
104
Caitlyn runs for her life. Sprints as fast as her bare feet can manage. She reaches the end of a short, dark passageway. It goes left and right. She chooses right. Barrels down the corridor, thankful for the looseness of the rough gown she’s wearing.
She’s fast. Gym sessions every day. Five kilometres on the treadmill. Five on the elliptical trainer. Now she is glad of every workout. They injured her, starved her and scared her, but she’s still strong and fit.
The passage curves and disappears into a dark haze. With any luck she’s following an outer wall. Outer walls mean exit doors. She glances over her shoulder. No sign of the men. The place is bigger than she imagined. Much bigger. The stones beneath her flying feet are inscribed with something. It looks like someone chiselled writing on to them. Gravestones. Caitlyn realises she’s running on graves. Her heartbeat kicks up another notch. She looks up and realises something else. The passage is circular.
Dead ahead are the two hooded men she fought off.
Only now there are more of them. Many more. All waiting for her.
PART FOUR
105
WEDNESDAY 23 JUNE
The only investigator not at the Chief Constable’s early morning all-agency briefing is Josh Goran. Not that he minds. He’s already made sure he’s never out of the information loop. His team have a range of journalists, police officers and civil servants on their payroll. The ten thousand bucks he pressed into the palm of field agent Alvez made sure he’s bang up to date on everything and anything of note.
Inside the overwarm conference room, Alan Hunt’s deputy, Greg Dockery, makes a plea to the seven men sat with him. ‘We need a full and confidential exchange of key intelligence. We have to bury our differences and work together. That’s why we’re here. Later today Chief Constable Hunt will personally reassure Vice President Lock of the resources that are being deployed to recover his daughter. Commander Gibson, please give us your update.’
Barney Gibson looks across the table and already sees operational fault lines. The two FBI agents have taken up one side, the Wiltshire officers the other and his own Met colleague is sat apart from either camp. Cultural schisms, unbridgeable divides during the course of only one operation. ‘In the early hours of this morning we received further communication from the group we believe are holding Caitlyn. The call was traced to France, but this time not Paris. It came from a public box in Cannes, in the south of the country.’
John Rowlands throws up his hands in despair. ‘I’m sorry, I just don’t buy it. They are no more in the south of France than we are.’
The Chief shoots his Head of CID a blistering look. ‘John, forget your own pet theories for a moment, we can speculate all we like afterwards. Let’s listen to the tape first.’ He takes a beat then readdresses the whole group. ‘From the timing and nature of the recording you’ll see that they’ve responded directly to Kylie Lock’s press conference.’
Barney Gibson presses play on the small digital recorder in the centre of the conference table. The room’s expectant silence is broken by a distorted male voice. ‘The price for the safe return of Caitlyn Lock is twenty million dollars. Her mother has promised ten, we expect her father to do the same. The conditions are as follows: the FBI, the British police and that bounty hunter will all state publicly that no surveillance will be mounted on an agreed exchange. And no attempt will be made to arrest any people involved in the exchange. Only when we have this guarantee of safe passage will we give further details of our conditions. Please understand this: we have the resources to hold Caitlyn Lock for as long as we wish. Years if necessary. Sooner or later our demands will be met.’ Caitlyn’s voice suddenly fills the room. She sounds calm but weak. ‘Mom, I’m in Cannes near the Carlton Hotel where I stayed with you and François before the film festival at the Palais des Festivals. It’s raining today on La Croisette and the Palais is hosting a video gaming conference. Pop, I’m being well looked after. No one has hurt me. Please do what they say.’ The distorted male voice returns. ‘Let me be clear, unless we see the televised guarantees, this will be our last communication with you.’
The tape hisses to a stop. The investigators sit in shocked silence. Barney Gibson knows they’re all imagining how Caitlyn’s parents are going to react when they hear it. He rises above the emotion and ploughs on. ‘The details given in the tape are correct. The weather in Cannes yesterday was as described and the exhibition mentioned is indeed taking place. Technicians both sides of the Atlantic have confirmed the call was made in Cannes and the background sounds are consistent with those of this particular spot on the Côte d’Azur. Todd, do you want to say something about it?’
‘It is a bitch of a recording,’ says the FBI man. ‘Our techies stripped it down while your guys were sleeping and they confirm that, like the first one, it was assembled on several different levels. The two voices were recorded separately. They spliced them together, then added a third track, a continuous background noise. We analysed the woman’s voice and we are certain it’s Caitlyn. The distorted male voice, we think is English, the same that we heard on the first tape.’
‘First Paris, now Cannes,’ observes the Deputy Chief. ‘They keep shifting her. Are probably moving again as we speak.’
‘It would explain why they are using phone boxes,’ says Gibson. ‘They don’t mind being traced because by the time we have a fix on it, they’re no longer there.’
‘Or they never were,’ says John Rowlands, still unconvinced that Caitlyn has crossed the Channel. ‘It could just be one guy on a motorcycle travelling around Europe sending these clips down the wire. I don’t necessarily buy that she is even out of the UK.’
‘We have to plan for either eventuality,’ says Hunt, ending the speculation. ‘Greg, keep me informed of how resources and emphasis is split on this one.’
The deputy nods. ‘Sir.’
‘What about their demands, their conditions?’ asks John Rowlands.
Hunt raises an eyebrow. ‘The British Government, police and people do not negotiate with kidnappers. It’s policy. We never have and never will.’
Danny Alvez nods in agreement. ‘Vice President Lock has said the same kind of thing. It may be different because this is his own daughter, but I doubt it.’
‘No way,’ says Burgess. ‘Thom is hard line. He ain’t gonna blink on this one. These sons of bitches can wait as many years as they want, he still ain’t going to negotiate with them.’
106
Any moment now the target will appear.
He will be white, thirty to forty-five, and will perfectly fit Megan’s psychological profile. She just knows he will.
The DI is parked across the street from a big-windowed shop in Tidworth, her eyes never leaving the area beneath a sign boldly proclaiming: ‘Matt Utley. Master Butcher.’ Once she’s got a good ID on him, she’ll get a search warrant and turn his house over. See if there’s any clothing to match the snagged samples found at the Chase estate in Tollard Royal. Or maybe tools that serial-match those recovered from the kit bag he left behind.
It’s eight-thirty and she’s been sitting patiently for an hour. Her mind wanders for a moment, back to her renewed relationship with her ex-husband. Everything seems to be going well. Adam spent last night at her house – their old house – and this morning Sammy skipped in with a smile as big as a slice of melon.
At eight-forty a man jogs across the road right in front of her, opens the shop door and turns on all the lights. She watches him pull on a red-and-white-striped apron and busy himself behind worktops and freezer counters. He’s in his early twenties, she guesses. Not her target. Just after nine he flips a sign in the door window to declare the place open. She waits a while longer. At nine-thirty, Megan gets out of the car, pulls out her pocket book and wanders in.
A brass bell dings as
she opens and shuts the door. She doesn’t wait for a greeting. ‘I’m Eileen Baxendale. Council rates review unit.’ She puts pen to paper. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Carl, Carl Pringle.’ He seems totally flummoxed. ‘I don’t know nothing about the rates.’
‘You don’t? Well, who does?’ She looks around pointedly.
‘You need to speak to Matt. Mr Utley. The owner. I just work for him.’
‘And when can I do that?’
‘He isn’t coming in today. Said I was in charge.’
‘He’s sick?’
‘Didn’t say. Just said I was to run the place and he’d call me later.’
She has enough information to find Utley. He will be on the electoral role, registered with the tax and health authorities. There is little point grilling the kid for any other scraps. ‘Okay, I’ll come back later in the week.’ The bell dings again as she leaves.
On the journey back to HQ, she phones in her requests for background checks on her missing butcher. With any luck they’ll be on her computer by the time she gets in.
When she walks into the CID room, Jimmy Dockery greets her with a sheet of paper and a smile. ‘I’ve been to the labs. Look at this.’
He slaps the forensic report down on her desk, points at a crucial part and summarises: ‘The field near the burned-out barn was covered in minute particles of human debris.’
Her eyes widen. ‘You got the dogs out there?’
He laughs. ‘No, not dogs. Something even better. This is going to sound insane but I read about German detectives using buzzards to search for corpses. So when I couldn’t get ground radar or sniffer dogs, I contacted an exotic bird expert and he had two Turkey vultures fly the field we visited.’ He proudly taps the report again. ‘This is what he came up with.’