Ava smiled sadly. “You’re talking to the wrong Curzon, General. It’s my father who specialized in people like him. He set up a unit within MI6 focused on observing and penetrating occult-political movements. He worked hard to demonstrate that there are networks of them on every continent. It was his life’s work. He was convinced a modern intelligence service should know what these occultists are up to, and understand that they pose a permanent risk of going political. He only needed to cite Rasputin and Himmler to get people’s attention. He broke up a number of significant politico-occult circles, and foiled a handful of religious ritual killings… .” Her voice trailed off. “But, as I say, that was his line, not mine. I do straight archaeology.”
“I know about your father,” Hunter answered. “That’s why I’m going to give you this information—because your world just collided with his.” He pulled a photo out of his breast pocket and gave it to her. “That’s Malchus.”
She looked at the picture.
The image was of a stocky man with a full hairless face and fleshy lips. A pair of cold sea-green eyes stared out from heavy eyelids. Ava felt a shiver. It was a chilling face.
“I still don’t understand.” She looked at Hunter. “What’s this got to do with me?”
“I don’t know what the British authorities told you about your father’s death. But our files say he was investigating Malchus when he was killed.”
Ava went rigid.
She had never been told anything.
Even though she was employed by MI6 at the time, the details were never passed to her, despite her many requests. She had merely been told it was classified information, like all deaths in service.
There had been nothing else.
Hunter continued. “Our files show your father did Malchus’s group quite some damage, and that he was getting close to Malchus himself.” He paused. “Here’s the thing—our files also suggest there’s a strong chance it was Malchus himself who killed your father.”
With no warning Ava felt a bolt of white-hot anger well up and shoot through her as a cocktail of hormones and emotions ripped around her system. This was not the frustrated anger she had felt when he had died. It was different. And she knew instantly what it was.
It was rage.
She could not believe that now, after eleven years, she was hearing this for the first time. She had put her life on the line for the Firm more times than she could remember, yet they had never even given her this simple but life-changing piece of information.
Almost as quickly as it had begun, the heat passed, leaving her feeling drained. She breathed in slowly and deeply, and with it her mind settled into a sense of cold purpose.
“Why was this information never given to the police?” she asked, startled at how steady her voice sounded.
Hunter shrugged. “Maybe it was? Who knows.”
She thought angrily of DeVere. He had been her father’s partner. He had worked alongside him. He had been to their home innumerable times. And yet he had been satisfied with the explanation that her father had died on active service. But then she had always known that he was at heart a career man. He did things by the book. He was a safe pair of hands, and never ruffled feathers unnecessarily.
That was another reason why she had left.
The Firm made people less human.
She looked down at the photograph of Malchus again, her sense of focus now cold and crystal clear.
Regardless of her involvement with the Ark, she was going to see to it that Malchus was made to answer for his role in her father’s death—whatever part he may have played.
She had long ago given up all hope of finding out exactly how her father had died. Now, when she least expected it, she felt the deep drive of a sense of purpose to track down his killer.
She was staring so intently at the photograph that she barely heard Hunter. “Dr Curzon, I’m telling you this for your own safety. If there’s any possibility that Malchus still bears a grudge and might now turn his attention onto you—”
“I’ll recognize him,” Ava finished his thought in a low voice. “You can be sure of that.”
“Okay. We’ve done all we can for now.” From the tone of his voice she could tell the discussion was over.
He opened his door and got out of the jeep, then walked round to Ava’s side. “If I didn’t say so before, I’m sorry for what happened last night. Do you want our medics to check you over?”
Ava shook her head. “A paramedic cleared me before we took off.”
Hunter held out his hand to shake hers. “Then thank you for your time and courage, Dr Curzon. Needless to say, you’ve never been here, and yesterday and today didn’t happen. Please feel free to make use of the facilities on camp before we get you home.”
Ava shook his hand. “You know where to find me if the Ark surfaces again.” She nearly added “or Malchus”, but that was now her own personal issue. No need to confuse the two.
Hunter thumped the driver on the shoulder. “Make sure Dr Curzon gets home safely, door-to-door.”
She watched as Hunter headed through the large dusty doors into a sea of desert-pattern camouflage uniforms.
As the driver started the engine and they headed over to the visitors’ block, she had a deep feeling that, far from being over, her involvement with the Ark—and now with Malchus—was only just beginning.
——————— ◆ ———————
19
Quedlinburg
Saxony-Anhalt
The Federal Republic of Germany
Malchus retraced his steps back to Quedlinburg’s touristy Marktplatz.
It was still deserted.
He passed the statue of Roland, Charlemagne’s famous paladin. The heroic knight was a common sight in Germany’s market-squares, but he did not find this one particularly impressive—not nearly as mighty as the ancient one in Bremen.
As he walked past the medieval Rathaus, the townhall, he stopped briefly to look at the strange carving of a dog over the doorway. But he soon carried on, turning west, leaving the old city behind.
The day was turning nasty, and angry clouds had descended, hiding the mountains and heralding rain.
But he was oblivious to the elements.
He clutched the silver flight case to his chest, and walked as quickly as he could. He only stopped once to visit the ancient Roman Catholic church of St Kastor, before arriving at his destination in under twenty minutes.
It was a nondescript nineteenth-century house. The cream paint had faded, the garden was a little overgrown, and it all had a general air of genteel neglect.
It was perfect for him. Hotels were busy, and asked for too many details. He wanted anonymity and privacy on this trip, and the unobtrusive pension fitted the bill exactly.
Entering the house, he closed the glass-panelled front door quietly behind him, and looked down the corridor past the ornate hall mirror and framed prints and maps. He could hear the television on in the back parlour, along with Frau Hahn’s muffled laughs at the jokes of the breakfast show host.
Without taking off his coat, he slipped swiftly and softly up the once elegant stairs.
His room was basic—not at all what he was used to. Nevertheless, he could see that Frau Hahn had done her best—furnishing it with featureless heavy wooden furniture that had obviously been in her family for generations. She had tried to make it welcoming with some cheap pictures and fabric curtains, but they could not mask the fact it was a tired room for rent.
Closing the door gently behind him, he took off his heavy coat and hung it in the naphtha-scented wardrobe.
Lying on the bed, he picked up a book from the bedside table—a 1611 version of the Missa Niger, bound in the original tooled black calfskin.
Opening the slim volume, he began to read the spiky gothic writing, mouthing and repeating the words aloud as he perfected his memorization of the text he had first learned so many years ago.
Lunchtime came and went, b
ut he did not move from the bed.
At around 4:00 p.m., he padded through to the adjoining kitchenette and boiled a white enamel pan of water, from which he brewed himself a cup of thick bitter coffee.
Returning to his bed, he continued to read the ancient ritual until it got dark.
As the sun finally disappeared over the horizon to the west, he got off his bed and locked the door firmly, before picking up a thick leather bag from the bottom of the wardrobe and carrying it over to the small table by the window.
There was not much space in the room, but it was enough.
He pulled the curtains closed, and extinguished the lights.
After stripping off his clothes, he took four waxy black candles from the leather bag, and laid them on the floor to mark out the four cardinal points. As he lit them, a pungent musky odour began to permeate the room.
Taking a rune-engraved silver knife from the bag, he sliced a neat incision across the flesh of his left palm, then moved slowly around the room anticlockwise, dribbling blood to create the circumference of an imaginary circle around the points marked out by the candles.
Tracing an inverted five-pointed star in blood on his forehead, he sat down in the middle of the circle, and began, “Gloria deo, domino inferorum …”4
——————— ◆ ———————
20
Quedlinburg
Saxony-Anhalt
The Federal Republic of Germany
The reserved landlady of the house, Frau Hahn, had been delighted to have a guest in this low season, even if it was only for two nights.
The quiet man was her first lodger since the three walkers in January, and she had needed to clean the house specially for him. But she did not mind. It was nice to have company again, and the money was very welcome.
Since arriving, her guest had kept to himself and not been any bother. She liked customers like him. Much better than the ones who wanted to talk endlessly, or who expected to be waited on hand and foot. She was quite happy to see her guests for breakfast, and otherwise only in passing on the stairs. It was enough for her to know they were there. It made the house feel less empty.
She nearly made an exception in his case. She was intrigued by the way he talked, unable to place quite where he came from. His German was native, but it was not an accent she recognized.
She looked at her small gold-plated watch. It was getting on for 9:30 p.m.
She had eaten her main meal at lunchtime, so had no great appetite for supper. She would probably just have a little something before bed—a small roll with some cold cuts of Schinken and a spoonful of the leftover potato salad would be perfect.
Meanwhile, she opened the drinks cabinet and poured herself another generous measure of Jägermeister.
Life had been quiet—too quiet—since her husband died four years ago, and she doubted anyone would begrudge her the occasional glass of the warming liquid to see her through the lonely evenings.
As she flicked channels on the television set, she drained the glass and poured another. A third was naughty, she knew, but then she had a lodger for the first time this season, and that was cause for celebration.
She found an interesting documentary on the mysteries of marine life in the deep seas, and watched it through to the end, before getting up to make her bedtime snack.
As she moved into the hallway and looked up the stairs, she thought she should probably first go and check on her guest.
She did not usually bother the lodgers, but he had been so quiet all day, and had not come down for any food even though she had it ready prepared. She wondered if perhaps he was ill in his bed? If he was, she would be happy to make him a hot drink, or even heat him some soup.
She put her glass down on the wooden hall table, and softly climbed the carpeted stairs to the first floor.
Arriving outside Malchus’s door, she momentarily caught the whiff of a strange odour. She inhaled deeply a few times, and smelled it again. Frowning, she turned her head and sniffed the air in the rest of the corridor.
Nothing.
The smell definitely seemed to be coming from the guest’s room.
She raised her hand to knock on the door, but then thought better of it. She did not want to disturb him if he was asleep.
The smell was odd, though. She hoped nothing was burning in his room.
She put her ear against the door and listened.
She could hear nothing at first. But straining for even the slightest sound, she thought she could hear a voice, speaking slowly and quietly.
As her ear tuned in to the sound, she began to make out individual words.
“Turn again and quicken us. Veni Satana, imperator mundi.”5
She strained to make sense of what she was hearing, but her mind was feeling a little fuzzy from the alcohol.
Was it Latin?
It sounded a bit like things the priests at her school used to say during mass, before everything was switched to German.
Struggling to hear more clearly, she bent lower and pushed her ear against the keyhole.
“Make them like a wheel, and as stubble before the face of the wind. Stir up thy might, lord Satan and come. Avenge the blood of thy servants which has been shed. Brothers and sisters, we are debtors to the flesh, to live according to the flesh.”
Perhaps he had bought himself a television, and was watching one of those films? she wondered. Or maybe it was a play on the radio?
As she continued to listen, the voice became slightly louder. Was it now closer to the door, she wondered, pondering how that could be.
“May this incense rise before thee, infernal lord, and may thy blessing descend upon us.”
With a shudder of realization, she suddenly knew it was not the television or a radio. That was her lodger’s voice. She recognized the distinctive accent. She clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle her involuntary gasp.
But not quickly enough.
The door flew open, and her eyes widened in horror at the hellish scene in front of her.
Malchus stood before her, naked, a bloody star daubed on his forehead.
A wave of nausea washed over her as she saw the floor behind him, where there was a circle marked out around four black candles, in the centre of which she could make out what looked like a pair of brass discs, smeared and glistening with something dark and wet.
As her eyes swept the room, the sickness turned to terror at the sight of what lay beside the wet brass discs.
A simple Roman Catholic all her life, she immediately recognized the holy round wafer of Christ’s most precious body, unmistakably stamped with the sacred IHS monogram. But whereas she was used to seeing the wafers nestling in the silver cup in the priest’s hand, the one she was looking at on the floor was dripping with a dark liquid, and raggedly speared through by a dark-stained silver knife.
Putting a hand onto the door post to steady herself, her eyes fell on a shape she could not make out at first.
And then with a sickening lurch, she knew.
It was the gutted body of her cat, lying torn and eviscerated outside the circle. Its blood was seeping out onto the floor, and through her tipsy haze she realized he had used its gore to douse the brass discs and the holy wafer.
She tried to scream, but only a dry hoarse rasp came out. Stumbling backwards to distance herself from the horrific sight, blackness descended as she fainted in terror.
——————— ◆ ———————
21
Quedlinburg
Saxony-Anhalt
The Federal Republic of Germany
A few moments earlier, Malchus thought he heard a noise outside the door.
He did not stop the ritual, but listened acutely. When he heard the stifled gasp, he knew for certain someone was there.
It was an unwelcome development. The gasp could only indicate his nosy landlady had been listening at the door and had heard him.
He cursed. It meant he would have to interrupt
the all-important ritual at a crucial stage.
He knew instinctively that there was only one thing to do now.
He could not let anything or anyone compromise the project.
Not now he had come this far.
Nothing could be allowed to jeopardize the work.
His mind clear, he pulled the door open in time to see her expression of horror as she peered into the room, stumbled, then fainted.
He looked down at her coldly. At least if she was unconscious it would save him the bother of trying to keep her quiet.
Bending low over the still body, he caught a whiff of the spicy spirits on her breath.
Perfect.
This was going to be easy.
He threw on his dressing gown, and pulled on a pair of black gloves from his bag.
Padding down the stairs, he almost immediately saw what he wanted—the half-empty glass on the hall table.
He sniffed it carefully, recognizing the distinctive botanical aroma of the spirit she had been drinking.
Heading into the curtained back parlour, he quickly found the large antique drinks cabinet. Inside was a pathetic selection—an earthenware bottle of garishly labelled German gin, a cheap cherry Schnapps, and an open bottle of the Jägermeister she had been enjoying.
Picking up the bottle, he headed back to the upstairs hallway, where he knelt beside the limp body, lifting her lolling head onto his knee.
Unscrewing the metal cap with his gloved fingers, he held the bottle to her lips, and began to pour the neat alcohol into her mouth.
As the liquid hit the back of her throat, she took a large reflex gulp before choking, spraying the spirit over her chin.
The large dose of fiery liquid was sufficient to bring her round from the faint, and Malchus saw her pale watery eyes widen first with surprise then terror as she looked up at his cold bloodless face.
“Drink,” he ordered, jamming the neck of the bottle hard into her mouth.
He could feel her struggle, but her elderly muscles were no match for him. He held her firm, and angled the bottle so the spirits ran down her throat.
The Sword of Moses Page 11