by Unknown
Their eyes met. Hers were large and searching, and when she stood and gathered her unbuttoned raincoat as a shield against the evening chill he caught sight of tight jeans and a clingy sweater.
When he climbed out she called over to him. “Excuse me, you are Arthur Malory?” She had a French accent.
“I am.” Somehow it felt rude to ask who she was.
Her demeanor could not have been more serious. “My name is Claire Pontier … I wonder if I may speak with you?”
He didn’t know why but he found himself smiling at her. “About what?”
Her eyes scanned the road. She looked frightened. “I’m here to warn you. Your life is in danger. There are people who wish to kill you.”
His smile evaporated. He didn’t want to leave the chest in the car but he didn’t want to produce it in front of a stranger, either. Reluctantly, he locked the car and said, “Why don’t you come inside?”
He took her coat and asked if she wanted a drink.
“A tea.” She shook her head. “Or maybe a whiskey, if you have it.”
“How about both? Tea, then whiskey.”
“Why not?”
He spied on the woman from the kitchen. She sat on his sofa with legs tightly crossed and arms folded across her bosom in a defensive posture. He could tell she was reading the spines of books on his shelves. Her thin cashmere sweater was like a second skin, her shapeliness so revealing it almost made him self-conscious to be alone with her.
He came back in bearing a tray of tea. Claire sipped hers unembellished and smiled a bit as he loaded his with milk and sugar.
She seemed to wear little or no makeup, and he couldn’t help but notice other than perhaps a natural gloss because her lips were quite moist for a dry, windy day. A short green scarf the color of her eyes settled into her cleavage. The tea or tea ritual seemed to relax her. She uncrossed her legs and settled back into the cushion, about to speak— —when there was crashing glass and a blinding hot flash.
Arthur and Claire sprang from their seats, spilling their tea as they retreated from spreading flames. The Molotov cocktail had entered through the front bay window and immediately set the curtains and rug afire. In a few seconds the sofa on which Claire had been sitting was alight.
“This way!” Arthur screamed, yanking her arm and dragging her to the rear.
He pulled her through to the kitchen where he grabbed his briefcase, then back to the front hall where they were temporarily spared from fast-moving flames that now had engulfed the sitting room. Claire snatched her handbag and coat while he flung open the front door.
At once, he noticed a black Vauxhall stopped in front of the house. His first thought was that a Good Samaritan had stopped to lend assistance—but then he saw a gun pointing from the half open driver’s side window.
In the next instant came a muffled noise and the light fixture over the entrance exploded, showering them with glass. Claire cowered and screamed but Arthur had the presence of mind to pull her down the stairs to the cover of his Land Rover.
A next-door neighbor appeared from his house and shouted that he’d called the fire department. Just then the Vauxhall sped off.
“We’re okay!” Arthur yelled to his neighbor. “No one’s inside.” Then he fumbled for the car keys and said to Claire, “We mustn’t stay here.”
She didn’t require persuasion. They leaped into the Land Rover. Arthur threw his briefcase into the back and slammed it into reverse.
“Yes, move it away from the house!” the neighbor shouted, but when he saw them driving off he called after them in confusion.
Arthur was breathing hard.
“Jesus, my house … Are you okay?”
“Yes. I think so. Where are we going?”
“I don’t have a clue.”
“They tried to kill us …” She started to shake violently.
Arthur reached for her arm and gave it a squeeze.
“We’re all right now. Let me just think for a minute.”
The London Road was coming up and he had to make a decision. East made as much sense as west and he turned toward Bracknell.
“Who are they?” he asked.
“What?”
“You said they were trying to kill us.”
“I don’t know who they are.”
“But you came to me to tell me …”
“It’s not something I can explain quickly.”
Something caught his attention in the rearview mirror. He swore.
“What is it?” she asked, frightened.
“The Vauxhall’s behind us.”
She turned to look and mumbled something in French. It sounded like a prayer.
Arthur accelerated and moved to the right, overtaking a chain of slower cars.
The Vauxhall did the same, keeping pace.
Arthur’s old Land Rover rode high and with every sharp move of the wheel he and Claire strained against their seat belts. The A329 was well-trafficked with evening commuters but cars were moving at speed. Arthur tried to get some separation from the Vauxhall by weaving lanes, drawing honks and irate hand gestures as he cut drivers off.
“My phone’s in my bag,” Arthur said, knuckles tight on the wheel. “Can you use yours to dial nine nine nine?”
“I used up my battery waiting for you,” she said, looking behind. “Do you want me to climb over and get yours?”
“No! Stay belted. It’s too dangerous.”
“What do you have back there?”
“Just an old chest.”
“No, the machine.”
“It’s a metal detector.”
Arthur kept weaving for the next two miles, pegging the speedometer at 70 plus whenever he had a clear stretch. With a couple of perilous overtakes he managed to get two car lengths ahead of the Vauxhall, all the while checking the mirrors.
“I want you to take down his license plate number but I can’t make it out. Can you see it?” Arthur asked.
She turned. “The car doesn’t have a front plate.”
“Christ.”
In two minutes the Skimped Hill Roundabout came into view. Only one car now separated the Vauxhall from the Land Rover.
“Hold on,” Arthur said. “Local knowledge.”
At the roundabout Arthur signaled and moved right and the Vauxhall did the same.
Then Arthur cut hard to the left, narrowly missing the trailing car, which began furiously honking its horn. The Vauxhall had neither time nor room to make the left exit. As Arthur accelerated, he saw it behind him in the rearview mirror relooping the roundabout.
The entrance to the Odeon Cinema was coming up on the right and Arthur screeched his tires turning into the car park.
He raced into the first space he could find and killed the engine.
“You like movies?” he asked.
“Yes. Especially now,” she said.
He opened the back of the car and threw an old blanket over the chest and metal detector and took his briefcase with him. Then the two ran into the cinema and grabbed tickets to the first movie on the roster. Inside the dark theater they sat near an exit and tried to compose themselves. The film was already playing but didn’t register. Instead of looking at the screen Arthur watched for the driver but no one else entered. He glanced at Claire who sat stiffly. He leaned over and whispered, “This feels like the worst first date in history.”
Either she didn’t understand or didn’t think it was funny because she kept staring straight ahead.
They waited a tense hour before Arthur tapped her shoulder and the two slipped out. They moved cautiously through the car park until Arthur could get eyes on his vehicle. He scanned the area for the Vauxhall then waited another several minutes before they got back into his car.
Arthur started the engine. “We need to go somewhere to talk.”
She looked at her watch.
“I was planning on taking the Eurostar back to France tonight.”
“I don’t think you’ll make the last
train.”
“Where should we go?”
“I don’t think I have a house anymore. Let me call the police first. I know somewhere we can get a bite and talk.”
Arthur fished DI Hobbs’ card from his wallet and rang the mobile number. Hobbs picked up. From the background noise it sounded like he was in a pub.
In a torrent he told Hobbs what had happened. Hobbs asked if he was all right and said he needed to make a call.
Arthur began driving, heading back toward Wokingham.
“What did the police say?” Claire asked.
“Nothing, yet.”
Hobbs rang back before too long. “I’ve had a word with The Fire and Rescue Service. Apparently, a passerby called in a report of a gas smell a few minutes before the explosion. They’re treating it as a gas explosion. Leveled your house, unfortunately. Have you had a problem with any of your gas appliances?”
“No! Look, someone threw a Molotov cocktail through my front window! I’m sure the fire inspector will find evidence for an accelerant.”
“If I recall, Mr. Malory, you had a kerosene lamp in your front room.”
“That may be but someone shot at me! Someone followed me.”
“There were no reports of gunfire.”
“He probably used a silencer.”
“Very cloak and dagger.”
“I don’t appreciate your sarcasm, Detective Inspector. Someone followed me.
“Did you get the plate number?”
“It was a black Vauxhall. Fairly new. There was no front plate that I saw.”
“I see. Why don’t the two of you come in and make a statement? I can meet you at the Reading Police Station.”
The question jolted Arthur. “I didn’t say I was with anyone.”
“Didn’t you? I thought you did. Well then, why don’t you come to Reading, Mr. Malory.”
Arthur immediately hung up and switched off his phone.
“What’s the matter?” Claire asked.
Arthur kept driving, his hands tight on the wheel. “Something’s not right. Not right at all.”
Ten minutes later he pulled into the grounds of the Cantley House Hotel in Wokingham. He had used it for company meetings and knew the place well. It was an old converted country house tucked away in leafy parkland and its seclusion felt right.
The hotel was lightly booked and he had no trouble arranging accommodation without a reservation. He asked for two rooms.
Claire whispered in his ear, “I’d rather not be alone tonight.” When he looked at her quizzically she added, “Don’t think … I’m feeling a bit nervous, that’s all.”
He changed the request to one room with two beds and arranged for some toiletries to be sent up.
He left her alone in the room and came back with the old chest. He heard the water running in the bathroom. When she came out she asked about it.
“I didn’t want to leave it in the car.”
“What’s inside?”
“I think we both have long stories to tell each other,” he said. “Are you hungry?”
“Yes, very.”
The hotel restaurant was nearly empty. They sat at a table for two against a rustic brick wall. They ordered their dinners and Arthur had the server bring a good bottle of red. They drank the first glass as if it were medicine.
“I’m sorry you lost your house. How terrible.”
He drank some more, the reality settling heavily onto his chest. “My books … the family photo albums … my father’s papers … it’s—” He caught himself before losing his composure in front of her. “I’m sorry.”
“No. I can’t believe you’re so calm. I’m a wreck and I didn’t lose my house and my possessions.”
“Okay look,” he said, sucking it up. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”
She seemed hesitant. “This isn’t easy,” she began, looking down. “I don’t do this type of thing ordinarily.”
“You mean come to England, meet a total stranger, get firebombed and shot at then chased down the London Road? I should hope not.”
That finally elicited a half smile. “Okay. Here it is. I have a boyfriend—well, an ex-boyfriend now. Maybe he doesn’t know he’s an ex but he is.”
“Poor chap.”
“I was suspicious of him. He’s usually quite open. He always spoke with his friends in front of me, didn’t log out of his e-mail accounts or delete his call logs. And I’m the same with him. We’ve been together four years. A good relationship, I’d say. This changed two weeks ago. He began to get calls which led him to go into another room or go outside to talk. He religiously started logging out of his personal e-mail account when he was done. His mobile call logs were empty.”
“You know because you checked.”
She thrust out her chin. “I’m not a snoop by nature. It’s not like me but it was such an abrupt change for Simone. Also he became more distant, preoccupied; maybe a little angry. He wouldn’t talk about it. So, I assumed he was having an affair. It happens. It’s human nature but I wanted to know. I never want to be in a triangle. It’s not my nature.”
“I could have sworn you were French.”
Her laugh sounded like a bar of music. “This indifference about affairs—it’s a stereotype. Like the English and their stiff upper lips.” She became serious again. “For some reason I had more nerve to spy on him at work than at home. So last week I did it.”
“You work together?”
“Yes, we’re both at Modane.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You wouldn’t know about this place. I sometimes make the crazy assumption that everyone I speak with is a physicist.”
“You’re a physicist?”
“Yes. Does it surprise you?”
He wasn’t the least sexist but he realized his question came off as just that. “Well, no. Well, maybe it does.”
“Another stereotype? A preconceived notion the way a woman physicist is supposed to look?”
“Actually, for me it’s a conceived notion. I work with a lot of physicists and none of them look like you.”
“Are you a physicist?” she asked, tossing the question back at him.
“I’m a chemist by training but I work at a physics company. Neodymium magnets.”
“Ah, practical physics. At the Modane Laboratory we do impractical physics, particle physics.”
“You were saying you spied on him last week.”
“Yes. I knew his password because I’d seen him enter it so many times. It’s my name, which isn’t so good for security reasons but was a sweet gesture. Anyway I got into his e-mail account while he was in a meeting and I had a quick search for the other woman. I didn’t find her. I found a man.”
“I’m sure you didn’t come to tell me your boyfriend is gay.”
She ignored him. “This man—do you recognize the name Chatterjee?”
He didn’t.
“This man forwarded him an e-mail from another person whose name I don’t remember. The e-mail contained your name, address, phone number, passport number and car registration number.”
Arthur put his glass down, any amusement wiped from his face.
“What else was in the e-mail?”
“This is from memory. The only thing I wrote down was your name and address after I read it. It said something like, ‘Arthur Malory is engaged in a credible pursuit of the Grail based on information obtained from Andrew Holmes.’ I may have gotten this name wrong, I’m sorry.”
“No, go ahead.”
“The message finished with ‘We are tracking Malory and will deal with him at the appropriate time.’”
Though the dining room was warm, Arthur suddenly felt chilled. He poured more wine and had another gulp.
“Did you ask your boyfriend about the e-mail?”
“I couldn’t, could I? I had no right to read it. All I could do was—I don’t know, monitor him, for lack of a better word; evaluate him in a different light. Was there something ab
out him I didn’t know, some affiliation?”
“Had he ever talked about the Grail?”
“No, never. As far as I knew, he wasn’t so interested in history. He’s certainly not religious.”
“He’s French?”
“No, Italian.”
“And that was it? That one e-mail?”
“Two days ago Simone went shopping. He left his laptop in the flat. I checked his e-mails again. There was a new one from this Chatterjee again marked urgent. I clicked on it and it was in a code, just symbols. It needed to be decrypted, which I couldn’t do. So I left it alone and restored it as a new message. But I couldn’t let it rest. I Googled you. You seemed like a good man what with this treasure you donated—so I felt compelled to warn you.”
Arthur wondered if Chatterjee was one of the “interested parties” invoked by the man with a gun.
“Why didn’t you just ring me?”
“You don’t deliver this kind of news by the telephone.”
“You didn’t tell him you were going to see me, did you?”
“Of course not. We had an argument over the way he’s been behaving, something on the surface not related to these e-mails but to me completely related. I told him I wanted to take a break, to see my parents in Toulouse. I took some vacation days. I came here.”
“I’m sorry you were put in danger tonight.”
“Well, it wasn’t so nice. But it happened.”
Their food arrived.
When the server left them Arthur said, “I’ve never been to Modane.”
“It’s very small, out of the way, quite picturesque because of the Alps. Even in the summer they have these beautiful pure white peaks. But I’m only there because of the lab.”
“Sounds like an odd place for a physics lab.”
“No, no, it’s a perfect place. You see there’s a tunnel eighteen hundred meters below the summit that passes through the Fréjus Mountain between France and Italy. The lab is burrowed into the mountain near the middle of the tunnel so it’s naturally almost completely shielded from cosmic rays, which are the biggest enemy in the search for rare subatomic particles.”
“Like neutrinos? Those sort of things?”
“Yes,” she said. “Exactly those kind of things. Very good.”
“As I said, I’m a chemist, but Harp Industries being a physics company—I read some of the journals lying about. What’s your area?”