The Lazarus Vault

by Tom Harper

  ‘No.’ Too defensive? ‘Even with the money they were offering, I couldn’t afford to go.’

  ‘It is no bad thing to be afraid,’ Blanchard admonished her. ‘Those who think they have nothing to fear usually have nothing to gain.’

  Ellie wasn’t sure that was true. ‘Anyway, I got to Oxford in the end.’

  ‘Indeed. Top of your undergraduate class, a first-class degree in medieval history, you could have walked into any graduate training programme in the country. Instead, you chose to pursue a doctorate. Not many people would have made the same choice. Were you not tempted to go for the money, to escape your background?’

  Ellie stiffened. Was he being crass? Or was he testing her? She looked into his face, the handsome lines etched deep into the skin, and thought she saw the curl of a smile. Bastard.

  ‘Money isn’t the only way to escape,’ was all she said.

  Blanchard nodded, rocking in his high-backed chair. ‘The poverty of ideas, no?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘But ideas have their own poverty. The ivory tower of academia is an echo chamber, a hall of mirrors. You look at the world through glass and eventually all you see is yourself. Would that satisfy you?’

  You aren’t safe here. The policeman’s words suddenly came back to her.

  ‘Academia’s where I am,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m very flattered you’ve asked me here, but I’ve got three and a half years to go and I’m fully committed to the doctorate. I’m afraid there’s absolutely no way I could give it up at the moment.’

  She’d rehearsed it on the bus, knowing the moment would come and wanting to get the tone right. Don’t give offence, but don’t leave a scrap of doubt. Like telling your date you had no intention of going home with him.

  Blanchard heard her out and looked bored.

  ‘You have worked in banking once before?’

  It took her a moment to realise what he meant. The memory was so distant. ‘Just a summer job. Very different to this.’ Twelve hours a week in the local ex-building society, brown carpets and pebble-dash walls. The only old money there was pensioners drawing their benefits.

  ‘What attracted you?’

  Ellie blinked. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘To that job. Why not a bar, or a clothes shop – the jobs young women do?’

  ‘I thought I should see the other side of the coin.’

  I wanted to see where the money came from. To handle it. To be close to it. Just once, to have enough. She’d been poor all her life and hated it. The desperation in her mother’s eyes when she came home from the night shift, her terror every time there was a knock at the door. More than once, a sudden departure from a house she’d just started to feel happy in, bundled into a car at night with their few possessions. The injustice of seeing other kids at school coming in with clothes and phones and laptops they’d been given by their parents, while she bought her uniforms second-hand. At university the phones and laptops had turned into cars and flats, while Ellie lived above a kebab shop, sweated over her books late into the night to the smell of chip fat, and filled her spare hours earning minimum wage wherever she could find it.

  ‘Let me tell you a little about our pay policy,’ said Blanchard. ‘Because we’re a small firm, we know we have to offer more than our rivals.’ He picked up the silver knife and wiped threads of tobacco off the blade. ‘Fortunately, we have deep pockets. As a starting salary, we will offer seventy-five thousand pounds, plus you can expect a bonus that would increase that by about ten to fifteen per cent. As you become more senior, that percentage grows.’

  Ellie’s mouth hung open. She didn’t care if Blanchard saw it. Had he really said seventy-five thousand pounds? The grant for her doctorate was eight thousand, and that was more than she’d ever had to live on in her life. People she’d known at university who’d gone to the top London law firms weren’t earning nearly that much. She knew, because she’d heard them bragging about it for months.

  ‘We know London is a difficult place to live,’ Blanchard was saying, ‘so we try to help the transition. For the first year you work here, you can live in the company flat. The Barbican, the thirty-eighth floor. The views are stunning.’

  Ellie nodded thoughtfully. Seventy-five thousand pounds.

  ‘Naturally, we provide all the tools you need for the job. A laptop, the latest mobile phone, if that matters to you. A clothing allowance.’

  Unconsciously, Ellie rubbed the cheap fabric of her skirt and imagined herself in some of the clothes she’d seen in the shop windows.

  ‘We don’t provide a car, because you won’t need it. Driving in London is impossible. If we send you further afield we have someone to drive you. And most of your travel will be abroad.’

  ‘Would there be much of it? The travel?’

  ‘Our clients are spread all over Europe. Switzerland, Italy, Germany; France, of course. Sometimes they come to London, but usually they prefer that we go to them.’

  Ellie had only left the country once, at eighteen, when she passed her exams. Six months saving the wages from her Saturday job, gone in a week in a Spanish hostel that smelled of drains.

  ‘Naturally, we make it as comfortable as possible. We send you first class and try to find agreeable hotels.’

  ‘I’m sure –’

  Blanchard cut her off with a flick of the silver knife.

  ‘Ellie, let us be honest with each other. Most job interviews are built on lies. The candidate lies about how fantastic he is, how dedicated, and the company lies about how great it will be to work for them and they know he will have a glittering career. Really, they will work him until he goes blind on paperwork, and then let him go.’

  Ellie listened in silence. The smoke from Blanchard’s cigar was making her dizzy.

  ‘We are not like that. We hunt carefully for the one we want and, when we catch him, we keep him. You are an investment for us – potentially worth millions. Like any investment, we want to help you to grow. Yes, the job is demanding. There will be long days – and nights, sometimes – but I promise you, it will be more fascinating than anything you have ever done before. You will come face to face with some of the most powerful and intelligent men in Europe, and they will listen to what you have to say. Eagerly, gratefully. Because you represent the Monsalvat Bank, and because they will recognise in you a kindred intelligence. As we have.’

  He clasped his hands together and reached forward over the desk.

  ‘Ellie, we very much want you to come and work with us. Can we tempt you?’

  II

  Île de Pêche, AD 1142

  IT’S RAINING ON the morning we come to kill the count. The raindrops make rings on the flat sea, a labyrinth of interlocking circles. Our shallow boats glide across the surface and disturb the pattern. The hulls are so thin I can feel the water beneath, like horseflesh through a saddle.

  The boats are little more than coracles. In a way, we are pilgrims. My scalp itches where Malegant cut me a false tonsure with his hunting knife last night. My skin crawls where the uncombed wool of the habit chafes it. We took the robes off a group of monks we surprised on the road near Rennes a week ago. The seams stretch around our shoulders: we’re broader than the average monk. And we’re wearing chain-mail hauberks underneath.

  A mist has risen off the sea. It encloses us, a blank tapestry on the walls of our world. There are three hundred islands in this bay, but we can’t see any of them. The weather is perfect for us. Dark boats against a dark sea will be almost invisible to the watchmen. Even if they see us, bowstrings soften in the rain. Malegant says it shows God wills it, and we all laugh. We think we understand the joke.

  There are eight of us, and each has at least a dozen battles notched on his sword. We have blood on our hands, scars on our faces and prices on our heads. We are not men you would want to meet on the road – as those monks found to their cost. But we all fear Malegant. He stands a head taller than any of us and everything about him is black: his
hair and his eyes; the stone in the hilt of his sword; the screaming eagle painted on his shield. Even his armour has been alloyed black.

  He pulls out his hunting knife and slices his habit open from neck to hem, as if eviscerating himself. It makes it easier to shrug off the disguise when the battle starts. We all do the same. The sound of tearing cloth rents the silent sea air.

  A shadow appears in the mist ahead. I can hear the lap of water on land. The shadow grows over us. A bittern starts its mournful cry. The castle is built right against the sea here, extruded from the rock itself. We’re close enough now that I can see mussels and barnacles stippling the walls. Sticks poke out of the water to mark the lobster pots.

  We follow the birdcall and find a stone ramp sloping into the sea by a water-gate. The gate has been opened: a Carthusian monk in a robe the colour of mist stands by it. He has his hands cupped over his mouth and is honking like a bittern.

  He drops his hands. He has the youngest, cleanest face of all of us: he makes the most convincing monk.

  ‘Did they suspect anything?’ Malegant asks. Even his voice sounds black, as dry as soot.

  The Carthusian shakes his head. ‘The count’s in his chapel at prayer.’

  We scramble out – our feet get wet, but we daren’t risk scraping the boats on the landing. I take out my sword and unwrap it from its binding. The monks we killed had books with them, and parchment keeps the water out. I drop the pages in the water and watch them float away. The rain tries to drown them.

  ‘Guard the gate,’ Malegant tells the Carthusian. ‘When the fighting starts, no one escapes.’

  He ties his belt in a loose knot over the habit. The pommel of his sword bulges at his waist like an obscenity. We all pull up our hoods and file through the gate.

  It’s barely dawn, but the castle’s already awake. Grooms carry steaming buckets of manure from the stables to the kitchen gardens. Servants sweep out the rushes from the great hall and take them to the bakery to burn. Somewhere, falcons mewl as their keeper brings them fresh meat. A woman in a white dress leans out from a balcony in the keep. I turn my head to see her from the folds of my hood, but the mist wraps itself around her, making her insubstantial as an angel.

  For a moment my imagination insists it’s Ada. I think I see a red cord tying back her hair, dark eyes brimming with laughter and the brooch, my gift, at her throat.

  Don’t look, I beg her. Wherever you are, avert your eyes. There’s no question of asking her to pray for me.

  The woman is not Ada. I pull my hood forward so that she disappears from sight.

  The chapel’s a dark, sunken chamber, half-stone and half-rock. Many feet have worn the floor smooth. A lancet window pierces the rear wall and looks out to sea; three red roundels stain the glass like wounds. There is an altar under the window, and on the altar two branched candlesticks and a reliquary box, all gold.

  The count kneels at the altar. He’s smaller than I expected: a thin, wrenlike man, with receding white hair and apple-red cheeks. He reads from a bible on a low lectern, while two rows of monks – real monks – face each other and sing the liturgy over his head.

  Have mercy on me, Lord, sinner that I am.

  I feel dizzy. I wish I could change my fate. Malegant strides across the room, the cloak slipping from his shoulders. There’s no challenge. His sword taps the count on his shoulder like a lord dubbing a knight, and as the count’s head turns he smites him.

  The weight of the blow slices open the count’s collarbone all the way to his lungs. Blood fountains; his head lolls on his shoulders like a pig’s bladder on a string. Malegant puts his boot against the dead count’s back and pulls his sword free. Blood spills across the book as the count topples forward. One of the monks runs to the altar and smothers the reliquary with his body, but Malegant slits his throat and pulls the corpse away.

  Shouts and footsteps sound behind us. Too late, the count’s guards have woken to the danger. Malegant picks up the reliquary and holds it aloft like a chalice. His face shines with triumph, while the others butcher the remaining monks.

  And I? I know I should draw my sword, perform the service I’ve been hired for. At least protect myself. But a higher power has me in its grip. I remember the oath I took half a lifetime ago.

  To defend the church, my lord, and the defenceless.

  How have I come to this?

  III

  Luxembourg

  LEMMY MAARTENS KNEW he had the easiest job in the world. A bank inspector in a tax haven – the toughest part of his day, he liked to joke, was choosing where to have lunch. But right now, the job wasn’t so easy. Right now, he was sweating.

  ‘You would like more coffee?’

  The secretary had reappeared with a cafetière. Lemmy put his cup on the table and pushed it across so she wouldn’t see his hand trembling. The cup was fine china – Villeroy & Boch. Lemmy had checked the underside of the saucer while the secretary was out of the room.

  ‘The manager will be with you directly.’

  All his life, Lemmy had known that the world owed him more than it gave him. His job, rubbing shoulders with the international financial set, oozing wealth and arrogance, only reinforced the grievance. He wanted the expensive German saloons he saw in the car park; the Italian suits that brushed past him in the corridors. And, he believed, he deserved them.

  So Lemmy went freelance. In other countries, regulators were bribed to turn a blind eye. In Luxembourg, turning a blind eye was pretty much Lemmy’s official job description. But he was also paid for his discretion – and that was definitely negotiable. Nothing serious, but if you wanted to know whether a rival company was having trouble making its payroll, or if a subsidiary was losing money and ripe for acquisition, Lemmy could find out for you. It earned him a tidy ten thousand euros a month on top of his salary, all carefully hidden where no one would find it. But every time, he sweated for it.

  He read the sign on the wall again. Monsalvat Bank SA. Even working for the ministry he’d never heard of them, but that didn’t surprise him. There were more than a hundred and fifty banks in Luxembourg, attracted by the low taxes and regulators like Lemmy who didn’t ask too many questions. Most of the banks didn’t extend to much more than a nameplate and a telephone number.

  A woman came out of the inner door. She wore a grey pencil skirt and a white blouse unbuttoned to her collarbone. She must be approaching fifty, but with her fine bones and slim figure she had a commanding beauty that the twice-divorced Lemmy could appreciate.

  ‘Christine Lafarge.’ She shook his hand. ‘I am the manager of this office. I wasn’t expecting a visit from your department today.’

  ‘A random inspection,’ Lemmy assured her. ‘A formality. The new climate, you know. We must be seen to be active.’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘Your director usually telephones to alert us. A courtesy, so we can prepare our files.’

  Lemmy spread his hands and hoped she didn’t notice the sweat on his palms. ‘I can only apologise.’

  The secretary fetched the printout he needed, a list of accounts. Lemmy scanned it and pretended to choose one at random.

  ‘This one.’

  Mrs Lafarge raised her eyebrows. ‘That is one of our most valuable accounts. If the client knew you were investigating his dealings he would be …’ She thought for the right word. ‘Mortified.’

  In the delicate world of Luxembourg banking, it was as clear a warning as she could give. Back off. Any other time, Lemmy would have apologised at once for his obvious mistake and asked to see a different account, perhaps one that Mrs Lafarge herself could suggest. After three hours of scrupulous inactivity, he’d assure her that everything was in order.

  But the people who’d sent Lemmy were paying too much for that. He pressed his fingertips together and looked stern. ‘I’m afraid I must insist. Our procedures …’ He raised his eyes to the ceiling, servant to a higher power.

  ‘Of course,’ was all Mrs Lafarge said. ‘You will have the
files directly. I’ll telephone our head office in London to inform them.’

  Lemmy smiled his thanks, trying to hide his crooked teeth, and wondered why his mouth felt quite so dry.

  London

  Ellie arrived for her first day at work late and exhausted. A blanket of grey clouds was smothering the city, packing in the heat and the damp so that everything became sticky. She’d meant to come down the night before; instead she’d stayed in Oxford, up half the night with Doug going over the same argument they’d had all summer. Eventually she’d locked herself in the bedroom and cried herself to sleep. Minutes later, so it seemed, the alarm clock dragged her back.

  It would have been so easy to stay in bed. Even now, climbing the stairs to the bank’s frosted front door, part of Ellie wanted to turn and run. She felt a fraud in her new suit and shoes, overdressed and shabby all at once. She half expected the receptionist to turn her away, explain it had all been a mistake.

  You don’t belong there.

  Of all the things Doug had said, that was the one that hurt most.

  The receptionist rang up to announce her. Ellie didn’t catch the reply.

  He’s forgotten, she thought. Or changed his mind. She’d have to trudge back to Oxford, to Doug, admit it was all a mistake. Part of her almost wanted it to be true.

  ‘Ellie.’

  Blanchard strode into the reception area. In one fluid movement he shook her hand, clapped her on the shoulder and leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek. ‘Welcome to Monsalvat.’ He took her elbow and steered her towards the lift. ‘I am so glad you have joined us. Your journey was fine?’

  ‘Fine,’ Ellie echoed. She felt dazed again, swept up in Blanchard’s irresistible aura. It was probably because she was so tired.

  Blanchard was apologising for her flat not being ready the night before. ‘An electrician was installing new wiring and he took too long, something like this. A mess. But it is all well now. My driver will take you after work. How was your summer? The course was good?’