by J. F. Penn
Morgan looked forward to her cycle in every morning. Her office sat at the end of Bath Place, a tiny alleyway opposite the Holywell Music Rooms in central Oxford, where medieval colleges jostled with modern city shops. May was a glorious time in the city, with rare sunshine bringing the city outdoors, punting on the river Cherwell and lazing in the botanical gardens. It seemed that summer had finally arrived, and Morgan was glad. She still found the endless wet winters difficult after the sun baked Israeli climate. When it rained too hard, water ran down the cobblestones and under her office door, soaking the carpet so it smelled damp. It had happened too much the last winter, but she still loved being in the center of the city and in this little nook between the Turf pub and Hertford College.
The Turf had low, dark beams the height of stooped old men and the walls leached the smell of stale tobacco. She had often finished a winter’s day with a mulled wine in the tiny bar. She could hear the dark wooden kegs of beer being rolled down the barrel vault, the crackle of the fire in the small hearths lit on cold nights. But now it was almost summer, time for the lively chatter of students drinking Pimms with lemonade, spiked with mint and cucumber. Tonight a live band played folk songs, and strains of the music could be heard along with cheers from the happy fans. These noises were the background to her office, her rhythmic day, and Oxford had just started to feel like home.
A sharp knock on the door made her jump. It was far too late for anyone to be here now and the door to the practice had no peephole, no chain lock. Morgan felt a spike of adrenalin, her Israeli suspicion kicking in at this late night visit. She pushed the feelings down with a wry smile. This was Oxford, England, not Jerusalem. A late night visit was only likely to be an academic with a research proposal. She walked into the outer office and opened the door.
A man stood outside, clean shaven, dark circles under his eyes emphasized by the shadow of a nearby street lamp. His indigo pinstriped suit was expensive but understated and he carried a large manila envelope.
“Dr Morgan Sierra?” The man asked with an American drawl; she heard hints of the south in it and thought she recognized the academic from the phone.
“Yes, and you must be Dr Everett?”
“Actually, Dr Everett is indisposed, but I’m his research assistant, Matthew Fry.” He held out his business card to Morgan. She took it as he continued.
“I’m so sorry to call this late but he asked me to come by and discuss his proposal with you. We fly back to the US in the morning so we don’t have much time. Would you have ten minutes now?”
Morgan didn’t sense any threat from him. Fry didn’t look like a research assistant but she knew she didn’t look much like the stereotype of an Oxford professor either. The lure of the potential American grant was too much to knock back. She stepped aside.
“Of course; I still have some coffee on if you’d like some.”
***
Morgan refilled her own mug and poured Fry a coffee in the small kitchen as he looked around her spacious office. The room was a treasure store of accumulated knowledge, walled with bookcases, with one window high up so the night sky could be seen. The books were an eclectic mix of ancient tomes with broken, unrecognizable spines and modern textbooks, all spilling from the shelves to piles on the floor. There was even a small reading nook, a cushioned space surrounded by towering shelves where a picture of a mandala hung on the wall, a circle in a square in hues of turquoise and garnet. Fry recognized it as one of psychologist Carl Jung’s pieces from the Red Book, his private work recently revealed to the public after years of secret storage. A Turkish rug lay on the floor, a runner with woven animals in twin pairs. There was also a black and white photo on her desk, an old man, perhaps her father, his eyes crinkled in laughter.
Morgan came back with the coffee and in the light of the desk lamp he could see her features more clearly. Her long dark curls were roughly tied back from an angular face, alive with expression. She wasn’t conventionally beautiful, but she had a gravity that commanded attention. Her sharp eyes were a keen blue with a curious slash of violet in the right eye. He found himself staring just slightly too long, and then said quickly, “Thank you for seeing me so late. Dr Everett is keen to have you work with us on a research project that you would be uniquely qualified for and we’re sure you would find challenging.”
He opened the envelope he carried and spread the contents out on her desk. Morgan walked around to get a better look. She shuffled through the photos and her eyes darted to one image, a roughly carved stone with a leather cord threaded through it.
“The stone. That’s why you’re here?”
Morgan’s hand flew to her throat where the outline of a similar stone could be seen through her fitted shirt. “It was given to me by my father before he died. But why is Dr Everett interested in these stones?”
Fry shuffled the documents and pulled out a map depicting the ancient world with red markers on it.
“Our research shows that there are twelve of them spread around the world. They’re relics from the early Church.”
Morgan frowned. “Surely not? My father would have mentioned its provenance. If it’s what you say it is, then it should be in a museum, not around my neck.”
“Perhaps, but given that you have one already and you’re an expert in religious history and psychology, we’d like to employ you to find the rest of them. We’d pay significantly for your time, as this is a project that Dr Everett cares deeply about. We have two stones already and we want the others as fast as possible.”
Morgan shook her head.
“I think you have the wrong academic. This stone has great sentimental value to me, but that’s about it.”
Fry frowned, taking a step towards her.
“If we can’t have your time for the project, then we want to buy the stone from you. It’s needed to complete the group. It’s critical that we have all twelve.”
Morgan stood her ground, her face stony. Her mind was reeling at the implications if it were true. This was something she felt drawn to investigate but the aggressive tactics of this man made her hesitant to become involved with his group.
“I think you should go now. Tell Dr Everett to put an offer in writing and I’ll consider it but I can’t promise anything.” She indicated the way out. “Thank you for your time.”
Fry started to walk towards the door, then turned.
“We know your sister has one too. The offer includes her stone. We need them both.”
Morgan opened her mouth to answer him but was interrupted by the sound of glass breaking from the outer office.
“Get down,” Fry hissed, flicking back his suit jacket and pulling a gun from a holster under his arm. Morgan instinctively ducked down behind her desk. Then the lights went out.
As Morgan’s eyes adjusted to the dim glow filtering through the skylight above, she could see Fry crouched low to the floor. A flash of silver from the gun in his hand indicated he was ready for a fight. She realized that he had been expecting trouble of some sort. She cursed under her breath, wishing she had trusted her earlier intuition as the adrenalin flooded her system. Once her military training had kept her alert at all times but she had lost her edge in this protected pocket of academia.
She breathed deeply, trying to still her heartbeat, memory flooding back as she analyzed the situation even as she knew there was no easy way out. In her mind, she was back in Israel, under fire in the Golan Heights. Her husband Elian was by her side, joyous in the adrenalin of battle, his eyes shining as he led his men to the front-lines. It had been a life they had both loved, defending their country together. But when he had been killed in a hail of bullets, she had left the military behind, swearing an oath on his grave to put away her gun and to live a life of peace. Three years had passed since she had left the Israeli forces, but her survival skills were still deeply embedded. She hadn’t forgotten all her training.
Morgan could hear two sets of footsteps in the outer room. The men were careless,
didn’t seem worried about being heard. But who were they? She peered around the desk and saw Fry swivel the wingback chair to provide some cover as he prepared for the men’s entry. She needed to defend herself as well.
Morgan felt around the base of the desk for the compartment she had fashioned in the old wood. She had hidden the gun there when she moved to this office, daring to hope she would never have to use it. Despite feeling it was a crazy precaution and one that could get her arrested, she had cleaned it and kept it ready just in case. She had felt guilty at the possibility of betraying her oath but she couldn’t stop the niggling doubts in her mind and she didn’t trust the world anymore. There were passports there too, and money ready to leave, as if she had always known this life was temporary.
The hidden compartment clicked open to reveal her Barak SP-21 pistol. With one breath, it was back in her hand, the familiar weight giving her confidence against the invaders as she knelt at the edge of the desk, ready to act.
A voice spoke in the darkness with a thick Eastern European accent.
“We just want the Apostle’s stone. If you give it to us, there will be no problems. Dr Sierra, you have a nice, quiet life here in Oxford. It would be a pity to upset it. All we want is the stone. Toss it towards the door and we’ll leave.”
Morgan heard both the threat and the promise in his voice. He clearly wasn’t with Fry so who were this other group? She didn’t understand why this stone was suddenly so important, but she knew hers alone was not enough. Her sister Faye had one too and the men would go after her next. Maybe they were already there? Thinking of Faye, David and Gemma in the house with no idea what was coming, she was determined to keep the men there as long as possible. She called out,
“Who are you? Why do you want the stone?”
She heard Fry’s hurried ‘ssh’ trying to quiet her. But she had never relied on anyone else to keep her safe. After Elian’s death, she had learnt how to protect herself and her own.
“It doesn’t matter who we are or why we want it,” the voice replied. “But if we have to come in to get it, then I can’t guarantee your safety.”
Fry was preparing to fire at the door if they came in. He called out,
“Backup is coming, I’m not alone here. I’m warning you to leave now.”
“Then we’ll be quick,” the voice continued. “I’ll give you five seconds to throw the stone out. Then we’re coming in ...1 ...”
Fry turned towards Morgan and whispered, “You have to get out. Just get the stone away from here.”
“... 2 ...”
Morgan held the pistol out in front of her with both hands, her eyes on the door as the thumping music from the Turf next door seemed to resonate with her pulse.
“You must know my history, Fry. I’m sure you did your homework. I can protect myself and besides, there’s no other way out. I have to go through them.”
She moved quickly to the other side of the room, keeping low and out of direct sight of the door. She held a position opposite to where Fry crouched behind the chair.
“... 3 ...”
“Don’t worry. I’ve done this before.”
He saw the flash of her grin in the pale light, the first dark smile she had given him, her lithe body now moving with a fluid grace, seemingly transformed by the weapon in her hand. This was Morgan the soldier.
“... 4 ...”
The door burst open and a rattle of gunfire exploded into the room, followed by two men in camouflage gear. Whoever they were, the bastards had no intention of waiting, they wanted them both dead. Morgan fired and moved position, back behind her desk as Fry squeezed off two shots. He killed the second man before being blown backwards against the oak paneled wall. Smoke filled the room and the smell of sweat and blood took Morgan back to the close quartered battlefields of Israel’s borders. Now it was just her and the main attacker remaining. They were both breathing heavily. Morgan’s vision narrowed but she embraced the effect of the adrenalin dump, reveling in the heightened sensation. It had been too long since she had surrendered to the rush but even now she resisted the pull of this dark thrill. She didn’t want to go back to the way she had been, but this wasn’t a fight she could run from. She peeked around the corner of the desk. The attacker was protected by the bookshelf that protruded from the wall in her reading alcove. It had been a shelter where she read and learnt, now it was full of cold intent in the form of a man prepared to kill her.
Morgan breathed deeply. This was her space; how dare they invade it with their guns? How dare they threaten Faye and the life she had created here? She could feel rage building. It was one of the reasons she had left the military after Elian’s death. She had become separated from her own humanity, ambivalent to killing. Her life had changed but she could still summon that indifference. Now it would serve her well.
The man spoke, his voice less calm than before.
“I underestimated you, but your colleague seems to be indisposed, so it’s just you and me. If you toss me the stone, I’ll leave. Otherwise, you’ll find it a slow and painful death.”
His threatening words brought back memories long buried. Morgan had been tortured once, but they hadn’t broken her then, and this man would not break her now. She sensed his fear, his easy operation had gone wrong and now he would pay the ultimate price.
The bookcase the man hid behind was actually a thin veneer and she knew the books on it by heart. Morgan looked at them every day, and she knew where each one sat. She could visualize their covers and knew which ones were tall and short on the shelves. There was a place where a shot would not have to pass through books or wood to hit the man, but once she stood to take it, she would be a clear target herself. She considered where the shot would need to go, mentally rehearsing it, then in one movement she stood and fired through the bookcase. Her first shot caught his ear and knocked him off guard. He returned fire but she moved again, ducking to the floor. The framed picture of the mandala smashed down behind him and glass crashed to the floor. She fired again. The second shot blew his head apart and he crashed to the floor.
Morgan walked over to the fallen body of her assailant and flicked on the lights. She looked at her beautiful books, splattered in blood as brain matter dripped down the bookcase onto the carpet. Her heart was racing from the adrenalin of killing, not fear and she pushed thoughts of her oath from her mind. She dropped to one knee and frisked the man for ID. Nothing, as expected, but it was worth a try. He was white, heavy-set, a typical low level bad guy, all brawn, no brains. Morgan noticed that he had a tattoo on his left forearm. She pulled up his sleeve to see a stylized horse’s head, mouth open in a frenzied braying. The lack of color made it eye-catching, for it was ashen, almost as if the pigment had been leached from the man’s skin to make it a paler shade. Morgan took a picture of it with her smart phone. Tattoos had a way of betraying the allegiances of their owners and it was all she had to go on for now.
She turned to Fry, whose dead body was resting against the wall behind the chair. She closed his eyes out of respect, but she hardly knew the man. She didn’t know who this Everett could be, but clearly there was another group who also wanted the stones that she and others held. She had to go now - there would surely be another group after Faye. She needed to protect her sister and her family, her own guilt about the past fueling the need to be sure they were safe. It seemed that her quiet academic life was over for now.
Morgan grabbed the rest of her gear from the compartment under the desk: her passport, cash and more ammunition. She dialed Emergency 999 on her desk phone, leaving it off the hook as the operator repeatedly asked if she was OK. She would deal with the police later but now she had to get to Faye. She left the building, music still pumping from the Turf, that would have drowned out the noise of the altercation. She grabbed her bike and pedaled hard up Holywell Street. She headed towards St Giles and the pay phone there. She had to call Faye but wouldn’t risk it from her own phone in case it was tapped. She had only reached the s
econd lamp post outside the Sheldonian Theatre when a black van screeched to a halt beside her. Three men leapt out and pulled her and the bike inside, slamming her to the floor and driving off at speed.
Oxford, England
May 18 10.33pm
Morgan was held face down by the three men, pressed hard against the handlebars of her bike. She didn’t struggle. There was no use. It was better to lie still, listen and think while she worked out what to do next. She felt her gun digging into her thigh where she had jammed it in her pocket. It would only take a second to draw it and she tensed, waiting for the ease in pressure that would surely come. They hadn’t killed her, so they couldn’t be the same group as the men from her office. Maybe they were Fry’s backup team? The van came to a stop and the pressure lessened. A voice spoke, quiet but authoritative. She could hear a faint South African accent in the deep tone.
“Morgan, I’m Jake Timber. A friend. We’re going to let you up now. Please know that we don’t intend to hurt you. We needed to protect you and getting you off the street quickly was paramount. Please don’t scream. We need to talk.”
He must have motioned to the men to let her go because they loosened their hold and she could move again. Morgan curled and sprang up to a kneeling position, gun in hand pointing straight into the face of the man calling himself Jake. He was dark haired with a rash of stubble on his chin; his amber-brown eyes showed little emotion even though his mouth smiled in welcome. Her gun was inches from his nose but he didn’t flinch. She was so close she could see a faint scar that twisted up, like a mini corkscrew, from his left eyebrow to his hairline. She was aware of his men hovering just behind her, but he wouldn’t have a chance if he tried anything. Jake held his hands up.