Echo of an Angry God

by Beverley Harper

  It was perfect. Several shrubs screened him from being seen but allowed enough of a view in each direction to keep watch. The inhabitants of Likoma went to bed early and rose with the sun. Frederick Hamilton knew this. Tim assumed that Alzaga and Hamilton would waste no time retrieving the documents. Whichever direction they went from the beach he was close enough to follow the two men. His eyes quickly adjusted to the dark. The moon would set around midnight. For now, it threw enough light for him to see quite clearly. Tim settled down to wait, his mind drifting unwillingly to the unknown whereabouts of one Lana Devereaux.

  The sound of footsteps refocussed his wandering attention. Then he relaxed. Father Smice’s white surplice was clearly visible as the priest made his way to the crypt, bent down and checked the padlock. Satisfied that all was secure, he headed back towards the cathedral. ‘Please stay there,’ Tim thought.

  The luminous dial on his Rolex Oyster read 1.35a.m. when Tim saw the glint of a flashlight on the water. It snapped off seconds later and then reappeared closer, on the beach. Then it bobbed with the rhythm of a man walking. Tim smiled with satisfaction. Somebody was coming up the hill towards the cathedral. As the light drew closer, Tim could make out two figures and hear their hushed conversation. ‘After tonight I need never see this island again,’ Hamilton’s voice laboured with the unaccustomed exercise of walking uphill.

  ‘My friend, you cannot exactly return to England. My country will welcome you as a hero.’ Alzaga spoke normally, neither the climb, or any need for silence, bothering him at all.

  ‘I’m not sure about that.’ Hamilton sounded worried, as if the enormity of what he was doing had just hit him.

  Alzaga’s voice went hard. ‘It is too late for second thoughts. You should have done your soul-searching before becoming a traitor.’

  ‘Traitor!’ Hamilton’s voice was little more than a squeak as they passed where Tim crouched. ‘I didn’t intend –’

  ‘Shut-up,’ Alzaga snarled. ‘You are becoming a bore. Do as you are told.’

  Hamilton fell silent.

  ‘Well,’ Tim reflected, ‘at least Alzaga got that right. Hamilton is very boring.’

  The padlock was a gift to the talents of Alzaga. He had it open within seconds. Both men disappeared into the crypt, pulling the trapdoor shut behind them. Tim waited ten minutes before moving to follow. ‘Now or never,’ he thought, grasping the iron ring. The heavy, wooden trapdoor began to lift. Tim froze. Soft light flickered through the crack, but no sounds. He widened the gap and looked into the crypt, or what he could see of it down a flight of stone steps. It appeared empty. Stooping inside, Tim moved forward carefully, lowering the door over his head. Although the light was faint, Tim’s eyes were used to the dark and he could see quite easily.

  He was in a small, bare room, the floor unevenly paved with roughly hewn flagstones. Smaller blocks made up the walls supporting heavy wooden beams which appeared to form the entire ceiling. An arched doorway in the opposite wall was back lit by light beyond. Tim cautiously approached the opening and looked through into another chamber. Like the first, it was empty. A single candle flickered on a stone shelf, lighting the chamber except for several dark alcoves in two of the walls. There was another doorway at the far end.

  All his senses alert, Tim heard the faintest sound at the trapdoor. He moved silently forward and into one of the recesses. A few seconds later Father Smice, his face set in uncharacteristic anger, went past the alcove where Tim was hidden. Despite obvious vexation, the priest kept looking around fearfully, as though he expected the hand of God to pluck him from the crypt at any moment. Tim waited, listening. The footsteps slowed, stopped, then carried on again. Father Smice had passed right through the chamber. Following cautiously, Tim stepped through the second archway and into a narrow corridor beyond.

  The absence of anything at all in the crypt was eerie. No ornaments, carvings, religious knick-knacks, not even the odd coffin – there was nothing. The passageway ran for perhaps ten metres and appeared to stop at a blank wall illuminated by a second candle. Father Smice reached the end, looked left, then disappeared to the right. Tim had no idea if the priest knew where he was going. He seemed to hesitate, as though uncertain of the way, then his steps became decisive, making no effort to be quiet. Whether that was because the other two were expecting him or because he was too angry to care remained to be seen.

  The candle threw a little light along the corridor, its flame showing up a hint of unexpected draft. Tim stopped and watched. Even after any disturbance caused by Father Smice, the candle continued to pick up movement in the air.

  The priest had disappeared. Tim followed, his ears on red alert for the slightest sound. Like the priest, he looked left and saw only an alcove. Right led into a small chamber. In the middle of the room was a rectangular sandstone sarcophagus, austere in design, with no inscription or markings. The lid had been turned sideways and, on closer examination, Tim found that it swung, with very little effort, on a heavy vertical rod. The whole stone slab lifted clear of its recessed seating by a foot-operated lever system which terminated outside the coffin as one of many stone squares around its base. Soft light shone upwards through the open stone coffin, bathing the whole room in an eerie yellow glow.

  The coffin was empty, but inside several sandstone blocks had been removed. Through the hole, Tim could see a stone stairway. He eased himself into the coffin and onto the first step. It was smooth, slightly basin-shaped, worn down by use over many hundreds of years. Feeling with his foot, Tim located a second slab and stepped down further. Raising both arms in order to fit through the hole, he descended further. His head was now level with the base of the sarcophagus. Uncertain as to how visible he might be from below, Tim lowered himself and sat on the first step.

  In the distance, he could hear voices. Light was coming from below. Tim could see that he’d entered a kind of natural funnel in the rock. ‘God knows who carved these steps,’ he thought. ‘Or why.’

  Below, some twenty steps away, Father Smice appeared to be having second thoughts. He had reached a corner in the stone steps and was peering around it. Back lit from below, Tim could see him quite clearly. Gathering himself with a deep breath, the priest stepped forward and disappeared from view. Tim drew his pistol, snicking off the safety catch and went softly down the steps. At the turn, he could see why Father Smice had hesitated.

  The steps ran down into a cave, lit by paraffin lamps. Tim could see that it was about six metres across, disappearing into blackness at one end. The other sank into a pool of dark water, perhaps two metres wide, before an overhanging rock curved down from above and into the unseen depths. Left of the last step, stalactite joined stalagmite in a giant hourglass of centuries-old calcium carbonate.

  Stacked along the far wall were dark brown elephant tusks of every conceivable size and shape. Tim had never seen so many in one place. But in the centre of the cave was a sight he would never forget. Gold and green oxidised copper gleamed dully in the lamplight. An ornately carved wooden chest stood open revealing necklaces and bracelets of gold, set with rubies and sapphires, emeralds and malachite. Pots, stools, crowns, masks and idols of gold were everywhere. In one pile, lying neatly one on top of the other, were wafer-thin beaten sheets of the precious yellow metal.

  Ramón Alzaga and Frederick Hamilton were frantically pulling tusks off the stack, examining them in turn and discarding them on the floor. ‘So that’s it,’ Tim thought. ‘Hamilton hid the documents inside one of the tusks. Clever.’

  ‘It’s not here I tell you.’ Hamilton sounded desperate. ‘The tusk has gone.’

  ‘Keep looking,’ Alzaga ordered.

  ‘I’d see it immediately,’ Hamilton protested. ‘I put it right at the back. It was not big and I sealed the end with mud.’

  Their backs were to the steps, both completely absorbed in the search. Alzaga had dropped his guard, the Walther PPK stuffed into the back of his trousers. ‘Not very bright, old son,’ Tim thought.
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  Father Smice reached the bottom step. His voice rang out, full of indignation and disapproval. ‘I warned you not to do this. How dare you enter the crypt again.’

  So unnerved was Hamilton by the unexpected arrival of Father Smice that he dropped the tusk he was examining. It fell to the stone floor with a loud clatter.

  ‘Who the devil are you?’ Alzaga barked.

  The priest ignored him. ‘You must leave immediately, Frederick.’ The priest moved towards him. ‘Please, my boy, don’t make things worse for yourself.’

  ‘Stay where you are.’ Alzaga reached behind his back and produced the small automatic, holding it steady and easy, like an old friend, pointing at Father Smice.

  The priest stopped, looking around, appearing to notice for the first time what was stored in the cave. ‘Is this what made you break the Lord’s trust, Frederick? You chose wealth over Grace?’ He shook his head sadly. ‘If only you had obeyed my letter.’

  ‘You sent it?’ Hamilton found his voice. ‘You knew all the time?’

  Father Smice smiled a little. ‘I am from Likoma, Frederick. Yes I knew of the crypt. It is a Holy place.’

  ‘And the cave?’ Hamilton demanded.

  ‘I knew only that it existed. It does not surprise me. The storytellers speak of it. They’ve been relating the story of treasure for centuries. An ancient kingdom was here hundreds of years ago but . . .’ He looked pointedly at the ivory. ‘Those who tell the tale have never mentioned ivory.’

  ‘But how did you know I’d found the crypt? I’d kept it a secret for so long.’

  ‘It wasn’t difficult. You are easy to read, Frederick. You changed – became self-important, charged up with unexplained energy and, yes, it must be said, you lost the love of God. One night I followed you. I saw you enter the crypt. It was a sin, Frederick. I couldn’t allow you to repeat it.’

  Hamilton’s lip curled. ‘I’ve been coming here for years. Way before you sent the letter. I found this place. The treasure is mine.’

  ‘Enough,’ snapped Alzaga. ‘Go back to your ancestors, meddlesome priest.’

  Tim, frozen in the shadows on the steps, was powerless to stop what happened next.

  Father Smice advanced towards Hamilton. ‘Come, my boy, come away from this place.’

  Ramón Alzaga, with no change of expression, no hesitation, fired, the echo of two shots deafening in the confined space. Father Smice stopped in his tracks, a look more of surprise than pain crossed his face as his legs buckled and he fell, a crumpled heap of white gown, the red stain of blood spreading from where he lay.

  Hamilton, with a cry of horror, ran to the fallen priest and dropped to his knees beside him, weeping.

  Alzaga’s professionalism kicked in. Flicking a look of contempt in Hamilton’s direction, he said, ‘Stay here. I’ll check for others.’

  Tim had nowhere to go. Alzaga was climbing the steps, automatic ready to use. If Tim fired at him and missed, he was in danger of hitting Hamilton. He did the only thing possible. As Alzaga reached the bend, he launched himself straight at the Argentinean.

  Caught unawares, Alzaga fell back, with Tim on top of him, each man grappling for an advantage, each man trying to kill the other, to get off even one shot. Tim felt his left shoulder dislocate as they tumbled head over heels down the stone steps.

  The pain was nothing compared to the moment of despair when he lost the grip on his automatic. He and Alzaga hit the cave floor, Tim grabbing frantically for the Argentinean’s pistol. But Alzaga had lost his own as well.

  Both men scrambled up. The clatter of metal on stone galvanised Tim and he lunged for the weapon, his brain briefly registering that it was his. In a single fluid move, he spun on the ball of one foot, gun coming up ready to fire. Alzaga, anticipating the move, scooped up a burning lamp and swung it viciously at his adversary. Tim flung up his good arm and the hot glass shattered, cutting him to the bone. Alzaga dived sideways, grabbing for his own pistol, rolling, turning and coming to his feet, palming the weapon into firing position. Tim fired first, knowing as he did that he was off balance and the bullet would go wide. He spun left, behind the stalagmite, stopping immediately and propelling himself back the way he’d disappeared, squeezing off a second shot. Perhaps Alzaga expected him to keep going and appear from the other side. That was where his gun was pointing. By the time he realised his mistake, it was too late. He was a fraction too slow. Tim’s bullet found the centre of his forehead, snapping his head back, the nine millimetre bullet knocking him clean off his feet, one outflung arm sending the Walther splashing into the water. Ramón Alzaga was dead before he hit the ground.

  Panting, one shoulder on fire, blood running freely down his right arm which had begun to throb fiercely, Tim staggered to where Hamilton was crouched in frozen terror over the body of Father Smice. Tim shoved him roughly aside and felt for the priest’s pulse. There was none. He checked Ramón Alzaga as well but was just going through the motions.

  ‘They’re both dead!’ Hamilton’s voice strained past the fear in his throat.

  Tim nodded grimly. ‘Thanks to you.’

  Hamilton was reaching the end of his sanity. ‘I didn’t mean . . . I had no idea . . . I . . . my God, . . . dead.’ He drew his knees up under his chin, wrapped both arms around his legs and rocked back and forth, crying.

  Tim had no time for this. The man was likely to become catatonic with shock. He grabbed Hamilton with bloody fingers, hauled him to his feet and shook him roughly. ‘Where are the fucking documents?’

  ‘Wha . . .’

  ‘The documents you’ve been hawking to the highest bidder. You hid them inside one of these tusks.’

  ‘I don’t know. They must be here.’ Hamilton was blubbering like a child. ‘But I can’t find them.’

  Tim looked at the mountain of ivory. There had to be 300 tusks at least. ‘Up,’ he ordered Hamilton tersely. ‘We’ll both look.’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ Hamilton cried. ‘It’s not there.’ He flung his hands helplessly towards the ivory. ‘The tusk has gone.’

  ‘If you didn’t take it, then who the hell did?’

  ‘That’s what I’d like to know as well, Mr Gilbey. I assume that is who you are?’ Karl Henning’s voice echoed around the cave.

  Tim cursed, turning to see an African, hands tied behind his back, standing at the foot of the steps. Lana Devereaux was right behind him. Karl Henning had an arm around her throat. In his right hand, pointing directly at her temple, he held a pistol.

  ‘Now, drop the gun please. If you don’t, the girl dies.’

  Tim’s automatic hit the floor. Henning released Lana, pushing her forward into the African. Tim could see her hands were also tied. ‘Kick the gun over here. No heroics.’

  Tim did as he was told. Beside him, Hamilton moaned with fear. Henning reached down and picked up the discarded pistol. ‘You two, over there,’ he said.

  Lana and Moffat joined Tim and Hamilton. ‘What’s this about missing tusks?’ Henning asked Hamilton.

  The missionary found his voice, but only just. ‘I hid something inside one. It’s not here.’

  Karl Henning was staring at the ivory. ‘There’s more than one missing.’ He turned his gun on Hamilton. ‘Who else knows about this place?’

  Hamilton shook his head. ‘No-one, I swear it.’

  ‘You’re lying,’ Henning said coldly. ‘Who have you told?’

  The missionary began to tremble. ‘I swear to God Almighty, I’ve told no-one.’

  Henning’s eyes became slits. He controlled his temper with difficulty. ‘Who is this?’ He put out a foot and nudged Father Smice. ‘What happened to him?’ He looked over at Ramón Alzaga. ‘Come to that, what happened to my good friend from Argentina?’ His eyes came back to Tim. ‘Had a busy night I see.’

  ‘Alzaga killed him. He’s a priest.’ Hamilton was babbling and pointing at Tim. ‘Then he killed Alzaga. I’m coming with you, Karl, we’re partners, you promised.’

  Karl sm
iled. ‘Wrong again, you pathetic little man. You’re staying here, all of you. I’ll be back in about three weeks. By then . . .’ he shrugged carelessly. ‘Unless of course you’re partial to a little human flesh, but you’ll have competition. I wouldn’t try to get out through the water either. There’s a rather large croc who considers this cave his home. I daresay he’ll tidy up for you.’ He went backwards up two steps. ‘Don’t try anything, Mr Gilbey. I’ll put a bullet in you if I have to. Ng’ona will take care of any evidence.’

  Tim was helpless and he knew it.

  Henning hesitated, then came back down the steps and approached them. He put out a hand to touch Lana on the face but she jerked her head angrily away from him. Something akin to regret shone from Karl Henning’s eyes as he went back up the steps. ‘Farewell, Lana. A pity. We could have been good together.’ He had backed up to the bend. ‘I’d save on lighting if I were you. Won’t be too pleasant down here once the paraffin runs out. Blacker than hell I’d imagine.’ Henning laughed. ‘Oh, and forget the crypt. The hatch locks from outside, as Frederick well knows.’ He looked directly at Lana. ‘I’m sorry about this, my dear, but as I’ve already explained, you give me no choice.’ He turned and disappeared from sight.

  Tim followed to the corner, cautiously checked the steps ahead then climbed to the stone coffin, reaching it just as its lid swung back and dropped into place. They were sealed into the cave.

  ‘Tim!’ Lana’s cry held a note of urgency.

  Tim ran down the steps to where he could see the cave. Hamilton was easing himself into the water. ‘Hamilton! Wait. Don’t be a damned fool.’

  ‘You can’t stop me. I won’t stay here. Henning’s lying. There’s no croc here, I’d have seen it.’ His lower body was in the water. ‘I’ve got to find Karl – he must take me with him – he promised.’ The missionary opened his mouth to say more but a scream of pure terror burst from him.