This crisis has led to the imposition of fuel rationing for the first time since the end of the Second World War. In response, gold reserves in Britain have plunged, causing a financial crisis that threatens to cripple the nation.
Although it remains largely unsaid in Conservative circles, there has been some concern voiced about the health of the British Prime Minister, Anthony Eden. Labour politicians have been less circumspect, with Aneurin Bevan recently saying of the Prime Minister’s state of mind: ‘I have not seen from him in the last four or five months evidence of the sagacity and skill he should have acquired in so many years in the Foreign Office. I have been astonished by the amateurishness of his performance. There is something the matter with him.’
There is mounting concern in the West about growing Russian influence in the Middle East. Canada’s External Affairs Minister, Mr Lester Pearson, urged the United Nations to give its Middle East police force the power to act in Syria if it was required to ‘deal with worsening problems’ there. Mr Pearson also said: ‘There are reports that Russian penetration is going on in Syria to an alarming extent and that there are moves inside Syria which might result in the control of the country domestically by a group which seems quite willing to work with the Soviets. For the interest of global peace, this cannot be allowed to occur.’
Meantime, Israel has indicated it will be willing to withdraw its troops from the Sinai Peninsula. But it is likely to maintain control of the Gaza Strip and the strategic port city of Sharm el-Sheikh at the mouth of the Gulf of Aqaba.
Epilogue
London
As the black cab crawled through the interminable procession of London traffic, she sat on the rear seat, clenching and unclenching her fists and fighting the leaden veil of dread that had been threatening to descend upon her ever since her departure from Istanbul. It was a sensation that was as unfamiliar as it was unwelcome.
Much of her life had been spent fabricating a web of artifice that protected her from those who would like to peel away the carefully layered lies to find the woman who lay beneath. For the last few years, her home in London had been the one place she knew she could find sanctuary, and until her rash decision to return to the Negev Desert, she’d defended it with a single-minded ferocity. But by releasing Benedict Hitchens from the cave that Josef Garvé had intended to be his tomb, she’d acquired herself a formidable enemy. Even if the Frenchman languished in a Turkish prison for years, she knew without any doubt that he’d find a way to get to her. He knew many of her weaknesses; secrets that could be used to hurt her. His retribution, when it came, would be cataclysmic.
And so she found herself in a race for her life. But it was no longer as straightforward as it had once been for her to vanish. It used to be simply a matter of packing her bags, changing her hairstyle and assuming a new name. She had enough money to begin life again with a new identity elsewhere and knew hidden corners of the world where she’d have a good chance of remaining safe. In the past, she would never have risked returning to London. The possessions and mementoes she’d accumulated were all things she’d shed without a moment’s hesitation.
But things were different now. This time there was something she could never leave behind.
The cab pulled up at the front of her home, and as she waited for the driver to hand her the change, she looked up at the terrace’s façade with the indifference born of the knowledge that she was about to leave it forever. It was a beautiful house, and one she’d enjoyed living in. But the money from its sale would go some way towards filling the hole in her finances left by the income she’d imagined was coming her way from the sale of the Emerald Tablet. If she wanted to disappear, she needed to make sure she did so with a war chest that would cover her living expenses for as long as she wanted to stay hidden from sight.
Inside, she could see a light burning in the hallway, and her heart began to pound with excitement. Anticipation pushed dread to one side as adrenalin kicked in.
It hasn’t been long, but it feels like an eternity, she thought. I wonder how he’ll be when he sees me?
Hands shaking, she fumbled in her purse for the key as she walked up the tiled pathway to the front door. Slipping it into the lock, she turned the latch and pushed it open. All was silent. Then, she heard him.
Footsteps rang along the hallway – first hesitant as he questioned the evidence of his own eyes, then frantic as he ran towards her, arms outstretched.
She wrapped him in her arms and squeezed him tightly, tears springing into her eyes as he kissed her cheeks and pressed her face between his soft hands.
More footsteps followed as a heavy-set woman appeared in the hallway, a broad smile on her lips. ‘He missed you . . . but then, he always does.’
She looked down into the upturned face of her angelic child and kissed him where his soft baby hair touched his forehead. ‘Was he a good boy?’
‘He always is,’ said his nanny.
Her son looked up at her with the expression of immaculate love that she now knew to be the exclusive domain of young children and their mothers.
His eyes shone – green. Like the sea when a storm’s approaching, she thought. Just like your father’s.
Acknowledgements
If only because it’s always made me laugh for being so phenomenally lazy, I’d love to go the Oscars acceptance speech: ‘Thanks to all of you who made this possible. You know who you are!’ But as much as I hope that the people I’d like to thank already know how grateful I am to them, given how modest they are – well, most of them, anyway – they mightn’t realise I was referring to them. So, I won’t be taking any chances.
Firstly, to the booksellers, readers and reviewers who joined me on Benedict Hitchens’ first adventure in The Honourable Thief, thank you for sharing the journey. Without you, there is no book industry. Thank you for your passion and enthusiasm for the written word.
Of course, books don’t come into print without a formidable team in the engine room. For that, I’m indebted to the advocacy and advice offered by my agent, Clare Forster, of Curtis Brown Australia, and the mentorship and support of my publisher, Cate Paterson. I’d be lost without the two of them. Sincere thanks to my editor, Alex Lloyd – well, we did amazing things (no, not that Alex Lloyd). After he took off to the bright lights of London, the brilliant Brianne Collins stepped in, helping me trim the luxurious locks of hair I seemed determined to insert on every page. One of the things this book taught me – I have a real thing for hair. Who knew? Thanks also to Dan Lazar, of Writers House (US), and Gordon Wise of Curtis Brown UK for their representation.
My time working on excavations in Greece and Turkey provided the fabric of the world depicted in my novels. For that, I owe a debt of gratitude to the archaeology department of the University of Melbourne which gave me an education and, under the tutelage of the late, great, Tony Sagona, more good times than I can count. Thanks also to my dear friends in Turkey; Hasan, Metin, Cansin, Chris, Bahadir, Jane and Belma. I’ll always be grateful to you for making your home, my home.
Speaking of friends, writing is a solitary pursuit. Which is where good ones come in – friends who are happy to listen to you bellyache, and drag you out to lunch or dinner when you’re at risk of becoming a shut-in. Thanks, always, to Jo, Kaz, Mimi, Sophie, Sandra, Andy and Senta, and Andrew and Banu (yes – there are far too many Andrews in my life). You helped me keep my sanity. The same is true of my beautiful family. My two sisters, Victoria and Phoebe, are my guiding lights, and without my inspirational mother, Loretta, Jim, Dianne, Adrian, Andrew (see what I mean?), Stella, Jane, Phil, Sue, John, Katherine, Ariana, Sophia, and the late, great WFW, my life would be very beige indeed.
And then there’s my family of the nuclear variety. Roman and Cleopatra – my two (not-so) little angels. You’re extraordinary human beings, and not a day goes by when I don’t give thanks to whatever powers-that-be directed you into my life – even those days when you leave your plates out of the dishwasher. Thank yo
u for the humour, life and love you bring into my world.
Last, but not least by any measure of the word, Andrew. Without you, none of this would be, and my life would be a pale shadow of what it is. Sure, I wanted Indiana Jones. But you were the best I could get. Insert ironic smiley-face emoji here. Thank you, husband. Here we go again.
Also by Meaghan Wilson Anastasios
The Honourable Thief
The Water Diviner
(with Andrew Anastasios)
This is a work of fiction. Characters, institutions and organisations mentioned in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously without any intent to describe actual conduct.
First published 2019 in Macmillan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd
1 Market Street, Sydney, New South Wales, Australia, 2000
Copyright © Meaghan Wilson Anastasios 2019
The moral right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.
This ebook may not include illustrations and/or photographs that may have been in the print edition.
Cataloguing-in-Publication entry is available
from the National Library of Australia
http://catalogue.nla.gov.au
EPUB format: 9781760787226
Typeset by Midland Typesetters
Cartographic art by Laurie Whiddon, Map Illustrations
The author and the publisher have made every effort to contact copyright holders for material used in this book. Any person or organisation that may have been overlooked should contact the publisher.
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