The Sword of Moses

by Dominic Selwood

  Ava was warming to her theme, enjoying making it all up, “We bring a different sort of expertise. We’re investment managers. Good ones. We’ll provide the most robust and sophisticated cleaning service currently available, but we’ll also make good investments. If a partner gives us a million, we’ll give the whole million back with interest. Our partners are unanimous—this is a truly unique and bespoke service.”

  As she had been mentioning the details, she had seen his eyes widen just a touch.

  He was interested.

  No doubt about that.

  She pressed on. “We have many strategies. Let me give you one example.”

  She remembered a misty Virginia morning in Langley, listening to a humourless CIA anti-money-laundering agent explaining how it all worked. At the time, she had wondered how anyone could do his job, staring at columns of numbers all day. But she had paid enough attention to get a grip of the basics, which she had to admit had a whiff of the exotic, with exclusive banks on tropical islands and go-betweens jetting in and out with steel suitcases.

  “We introduce our partners’ cash into the banking system in a country with water-tight bank secrecy laws. Forget Switzerland. It’s a Hollywood myth. The Swiss were compromised by the U.S. and gave up their independence a while ago. We prefer jurisdictions that still take bank secrecy seriously—like Singapore or Panama.”

  His eyes widened fractionally for a millisecond. But Ava saw it.

  Bullseye.

  It never ceased to amaze her how getting a few facts right led listeners to assume that speakers had real expertise, and that everything else they said was therefore also accurate.

  “It would be rash to assume any jurisdiction is watertight,” Malchus observed coldly.

  Ava had to resist the urge to nod enthusiastically. “Which is why,” she continued, “if ever the accounts are compromised, they all lead back to genuine individuals: highly respectable philanthropists and industrialists—exactly the sort of people who regularly move large sums of money around the world and are beyond suspicion. They work with us, generously allowing us to blend our funds into their accounts in return for certain considerations we can offer them.”

  Malchus was still watching her. Although the intensity of his gaze was unnerving, Ava was delighted to have his attention. It meant she might be getting somewhere.

  She needed this to work.

  “Then we go about mixing the money up. As we aim to deliver a profit, we actively invest the cash. We transfer it from the safe accounts to some of the world’s biggest banks and fund managers. We keep the amounts relatively small, as small sums attract lighter controls, and we spread the money about as much as possible—to make it virtually untraceable. We invest it in shares, bonds, hedge funds, real estate, commodities—anything that will turn a profit. Then, once the trail is a baffling ball of knitting, the cash is paid on to legitimate businesses. We arrange for our partners to have directorships of these companies, or to provide invoiceable services. So our partners get paid back their money, but to the governmental agencies it just looks like legitimate business payments.”

  “How real are these end companies?” Malchus asked, frowning.

  “It varies—according to price, naturally.”

  “Naturally,” echoed Malchus, nodding. There was no hint of humour.

  “They cover all sectors—energy, technology, transport, hospitality, construction, you name it. Our simpler service involves dummy companies with offices in relatively quiet places that rarely get any attention from the authorities—like Copenhagen, Salzburg, Toledo, and other nine-to-five business towns. If anyone investigates, they’ll find these businesses are ultimately owned by a network of holding companies and nominee trusts in privacy-friendly countries like Hong Kong or the Cayman Islands. Law enforcement would waste years trying to unravel it.”

  “And your enhanced service?” Malchus was watching her carefully.

  “If our partners have marketable skills or relevant profiles, we can place them directly onto advisory boards and panels of real companies, often household name companies which are entirely unaware of the true nature of the arrangement. On the other hand, if our partners prefer absolute anonymity, we can create services and paperwork through shell-companies for them. So in all cases, our partners are being legitimately paid for their work. We offer many variations on the theme. As I say, this is just one of our services. We have others.”

  Malchus’s eyes were darting about as he evaluated the proposition from all the angles. “And what credentials can your organization provide?”

  Slowly.

  Ava forced herself not to look too keen.

  Reel him in slowly.

  She knew she had him. But he was volatile, and needed careful handling.

  “I have to earn my money somehow,” Ava said with a smile. “So the security is … ,” she paused, “… me.”

  She had thought that might finally get a response from Malchus.

  His face remained unresponsive.

  She carried on. “I’ll offer you a one-day trade, so you can see how it works. You give me the money in the morning. I’ll arrange for it to be placed in a friendly bank. By that evening, you’ll have your money back again, fully invoiced and legitimately paid to you for consultancy services you will have provided to a hotel chain. You won’t earn much interest for such a short deposit, but you’ll have me, as collateral, with you all day.”

  Ava looked at him hard. “You’ll understand that if I did not have absolute confidence in my organization, I wouldn’t place myself in this position. We know who you are, and we know what you would do to me if your money was not returned intact. That is how strongly I guarantee our service.”

  Malchus nodded again.

  His robot-like coldness sent a shiver down her spine. She knew he would think nothing of disposing of her.

  “After the first trade, of course, we cannot extend you the same security. You’ll never see me again—but then I’m sure that’s the way you’ll want it, too. We won’t communicate, although I’ll give you ways to contact me in an emergency.”

  Ava held her breath.

  Had it been enough?

  She had played her cards. Now she could only wait.

  Malchus stood up. He was still smoothing his dark rosary. “An unusual proposition.” His sea-green eyes seemed to be looking right through her. “I’ll need to make some enquiries.”

  You mean check-up on me.

  “Let’s discuss this again in a few days,” he concluded. “I’m sure we both have practicalities to attend to.”

  “Of course,” Ava nodded.

  It had worked.

  She had to force herself to keep the relief and jubilation off her face. She could not quite believe he had bought it.

  He turned as the door opened.

  His driver entered, carrying a sheet of paper.

  As he handed it to Malchus, Ava thought she saw a photograph of herself on it.

  Her heart skipped a beat.

  What on earth … ?

  As Malchus took it, she saw the paper more clearly. This time there was no doubt. There was definitely a picture of her on it, kneeling on the floor in the room. It could only have been taken in the last few minutes, while she had been talking. Her eyes scanned the walls, and then she saw it—a small white box mounted above the picture rail, high on the wall in front of her.

  A tiny circle of glass in the middle announced it was a security camera.

  Malchus sat back down in the dark brown sofa, and stared at the sheet of paper, tapping it with his finger.

  At length he spoke, his voice betraying nothing except a cold efficiency. “So, it’s all lies.”

  Ava frowned at him. “What?”

  “I’ll grant you this—you’re good. But,” he paused, “not good enough, it seems.”

  “I don’t understand,” Ava countered, unsure what was happening, feeling the situation slipping away from her.

  “Apparently
you have no name and no history.” He turned the paper round so she could read it.

  It was some kind of identity search. She did not recognize the system or database. Her photograph was matched to an old identity photo, but the boxes for name, height, weight, colour of eyes, nationality, employment, and all the other usual fields were blank.

  Ava felt a wave of panic wash over her.

  This was not good.

  Malchus breathed out decisively. “A blank report could be owing to a number of things. Either you never existed—which is plainly not the case. Or maybe you’ve had an identity change, perhaps with extensive reconstructive surgery?”

  He stalked over to her and grabbed her face by the chin. He turned her head roughly from one side to the other, inspecting the skin under her eyes, round her nose, by her ears, and around her hairline.

  His grip was vice-like. She twisted her head in defiance, trying to free herself. But he was too strong.

  “Or,” he continued, still gripping her chin tightly so she could not move her neck, and lowering his face to hers until she could feel his breath, “the international authorities have purposefully erased your profile. And, in my considerable experience of such things, they would only do that if you were in some way connected with them.” He released her head, pushing it away from him as if it were something distasteful.

  Ava’s heart was hammering hard. She had to force herself to keep her breathing under control.

  How could this have happened?

  When she left the Firm, her resettlement programme included resetting her ever-changing profiles in the UK government central intelligence and other databases to her new one. The form Malchus was holding should be showing information on her career in academia and museums, with up-to-date information about her role in Baghdad. It should never, then or now, have been blank. She should have checked out as a legitimate civilian—leaving her free to lead a double life as an unknown money-launderer, or anything else she chose.

  What had happened?

  Her mind was whirring.

  “So, who are you?” He stared down at her. “The truth, this time.”

  Ava allowed herself to show her anger. “I’ve told you who I am, and why I’m here. My line of business requires a certain amount of discretion, trust, and goodwill—and I’m not feeling any of it from you at the moment.”

  Malchus screwed the piece of paper up and dropped it by his feet. He turned to the guard standing by Ava’s side, who still had the Glock trained on her.

  “Take her away. Don’t bring her back until she wants to tell the truth.”

  From the overly precise way in which he had said ‘wants’, she was in no doubt he had just given the bodyguard a free licence to do whatever he wanted with her.

  Malchus turned and left the room, closing the door firmly behind him.

  Ava could not stop herself from looking up at the man looming over her. And she was horrified to see that his thuggish expression had been replaced with a leer of expectant sadism and lust.

  ——————— ◆ ———————

  46

  Stockbridge House

  Nr Newton Tony

  Wiltshire SP4

  England

  The United Kingdom

  The bodyguard wasted no time in complying with Malchus’s instructions.

  “I’m going to enjoy messing you up,” he leered. His South African accent was thick and precise. “Such a pretty thing, too. But you’re going to look even better by the time I’ve finished with you.” He smiled unpleasantly. From the way he was looking up and down her body appreciatively, she was in no doubt he had a particular range of pleasures in mind.

  “Why don’t we start with some water sports,” he smirked, nodding to the large stone fountain in the courtyard outside the French windows. “I want to see you all wet for me.”

  He motioned with the pistol for her to walk towards the French windows. “Hands above your head.” He prodded her with the gun. “If you play any games with me, I’ll know you’re having fun and want me to take longer.” He grunted with pleasure. “I’m going to really enjoy this.”

  Ava shuddered at the thought of what constituted pleasure for him.

  She wanted nothing more than to wipe the unpleasant grin off his face permanently. But she would have to be careful. He was big, and clearly dangerous. No doubt he had earned his position as Malchus’s bodyguard the hard way. She had to assume he could handle himself.

  She turned to the French windows and began to walk towards them, aware he was keeping the gun trained on her.

  She could see the fountain more clearly now. It was made of grey stone, with an ornamental bowl at knee height out of which a spray of water rose gently several feet in the air. It wasn’t especially wide, but easily deep enough for him to hold her head under and drown her.

  She knew she had to do something before they got to it. If not, she would lose any element of surprise, and he would start hurting her severely.

  She could feel her heart racing as her body primed itself, preparing to fight, moving into attack mode.

  One way or the other, things were about to get physical. And it was not going to be in the way the guard was planning.

  Looking about, she could see only one option.

  It was not perfect, but would have to do. She would have to make it work.

  Placing herself at the guard’s mercy was not an option

  Aware she was walking too quickly, she forced herself to slow down, allowing the guard to make up the ground between them and fall into step right behind her.

  Slowly.

  She kept repeating the word inside her head.

  Take it slowly.

  As she drew level with the French windows, she could feel him right behind her.

  All her training had taught her that speed, surprise, and maximum aggression were everything.

  Now!

  With a lightning quick twist, she grabbed the pale blue damask curtaining gathered above and around the glass doorway, and yanked it off its runners with all her strength.

  To her relief, the fabric was heavy and came away easily. As she had expected, it unfolded itself from the neat gathered pleats and spread out, revealing more than enough material for her purposes.

  It fell fast and hard, and she hurdled it onto the guard directly behind her.

  Without pausing, she lunged toward him at full speed, smashing her knee hard up into his groin. At the same time, she punched out both hands with all her force, using them as rams. One of her hands connected with his shoulder, the other with his chin. Pushing him, she powered forward, snapping his head back, driving his upper body until he toppled, disorientated by the curtains and destabilized by her unexpected onslaught.

  As he keeled over, she took aim, stamping hard on the central area just below the intersection of his bottom two ribs. The heel of her boot found its mark, crushing the massive bundles of sensitive nerves that routed into the soft flesh of his solar plexus.

  His body instantly doubled up into a foetal position, and his diaphragm went into spasm. He choked, writhing in agony. As he twisted, the curtain slipped off his right side, revealing his hand still clamped around the grip of the Glock.

  Aware she only had a few seconds to finish the job before his strength returned, she quickly leant over him, jamming her index finger inside the pistol’s trigger guard so it covered his.

  Nauseous from the pain, his reaction was delayed. But as he realized what she was doing, he bellowed, swinging his arm away from his body.

  Not quickly enough.

  With two rapid squeezes, she pushed his finger against the trigger twice. The noise of the Glock was deafening as it discharged a pair of rounds at over a thousand feet per second straight into the soft flesh of his inner thigh.

  When the noise of the explosions faded, she could hear him screaming in agony as he dropped the gun and grabbed his mangled leg, where a dark crimson patch was already bubbling out onto his jeans
.

  She looked at him lying on the ground, and realized it was a long time since she had been in a hand-to-hand fight. She was breathing hard, but grateful to note that lack of practice had not dulled her reactions or instincts.

  Gazing down at the crippled thug, whimpering as he pressed his slippery red hands onto his thigh to staunch the blood loss, she felt no sympathy. He had chosen a life of violence, and this was the price.

  Bending over him, she spoke in a low voice. “If you ever try anything like that on me again, next time I’ll really hurt you.”

  He stared up at her—his eyes gleaming with hatred behind the mask of pain.

  As she spoke the words, she became aware of the full extent of her pent-up tension. It had been building ever since she had regained consciousness in the car, reaching a peak when Malchus had handed her over to this animal. Now she was out of immediate danger, she felt the tension begin to subside, giving way to a sense of sheer outrage at Malchus’s arrogance.

  She grabbed the gun and tucked it into the back of her jeans’ waistband. She was not clear of the danger yet, and had no idea who may have heard the shots.

  Taking a final look at the crippled guard to reassure herself he posed no further threat, she ran quickly out of the French windows and into the garden, heading straight for the woods.

  ——————— ◆ ———————

  47

  The British Library

  96 Euston Road

  London NW1

  England

  The United Kingdom

  The ancient manuscript was vital.