by K. M. Ashman
‘Yes. The most obvious manifestation of this was on the southern shores where they settled in what is now known as Egypt. Over the next few thousand years, they flourished along the banks of the Nile and the great Egyptian society arose. As the climate warmed up, the scrublands of Egypt died out leaving more and more desert and isolating the Nile from the bigger societies of the east. Egypt became more polarised and their pantheon of gods became based around the legends of those original peoples from the black sea. Assur became Osiris and Aset became Isis.’
‘And you think the link is there?’
‘No actually I don’t. I think the link, if indeed there is one, lies in the history of the people who spread out throughout the Aegean, populating the islands and shores of Thrace, Macedonia and Greece. Though the continuation of the cult of Isis wasn’t as strong as it became in Egypt, it was still there beneath the surface. Female goddesses are rife throughout all the ancient cultures and most can be traced in one way or another back to one mother figure.’
‘Did anyone worship Isis?’
‘Not as such, though smaller pockets of dedicated followers carried on the practise in isolated places.’
‘Where?’
‘Well the most famous was on the island of Samothrace, but…,’ she stopped suddenly and stared at him as her eyes widened in realisation.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.
‘The Samothrace Mysteries,’ she said, ‘that’s our link and I can’t believe I missed it.’
The obvious question was halfway to his lips when he saw the slightest movement of her eyes as she changed her focus to beyond his shoulder.
For the next few seconds everything seemed to move in slow motion. The horror on India’s face, the forming of the words on her lips as she screamed and the echoing thunder of the gunshot outside the window as Brandon leaned backwards and twisted to one side. The action saved his life as the bullet meant for the back of his head scorched its red-hot passage across the flesh of his forehead to ricochet off the stone kitchen wall. He dived to the floor and rolled under the ledge of the window, cutting off any direct line of sight between himself and the would-be assassin.
‘India, are you okay?’ he shouted.
‘Over here,’ she answered.
He looked toward the open door of the walk in pantry and saw her hiding behind the protecting wall.
‘Stay there,’ he said, ‘don’t come out till I say so.’ He crawled to the corner of the kitchen and opened one of the cupboards to withdraw a red-lidded casserole dish. Frantically discarding the lid he reached inside and withdrew a 9mm semi-automatic pistol, pulling back on the slide to load the chamber. He glanced toward the pantry and met the gaze of India in the shadows. ‘India,’ he said, ‘I need you to do something for me.’
‘You’ve got a gun,’ she said half in fear, half in astonishment.
‘I’ll explain later but for now just do as I say, there isn’t much time.’ He outlined the task calmly. ‘We have to do this India,’ he said, ‘I can’t do it from here.’
‘Okay,’ she answered, ‘go for it.’
‘On the count of three,’ he said, ‘one, two, three.’
As he shouted the last number, he spun onto his knees and pointing his gun over the worktop, fired six shots through the window. At the same time India burst from the pantry and crouching low, ran to the kitchen door to slam it into the ancient oak frame. She turned the giant key and dropped to the floor again, crawling as fast as she could to join Brandon below the window.
‘What now?’ she gasped.
‘That’s bought us a few minutes,’ he said and pointed at the chest of drawers, ‘open the bottom one and look under the tray. Pass me what you find.’
Doing as she was told, she lifted the moulded cutlery tray and looked underneath
‘This is nuts,’ she said as she withdrew two Luger magazines and a box of ammunition.
‘Pass them here,’ said Brandon and flicking the lever on the side of the pistol grip, dropped the half-empty magazine into his lap.
‘Who are you?’ she asked, watching as he handled the weapon with obvious familiarity.
‘No time,’ he said, ‘I’ll explain later. Now, in a moment I am going out of here through the door. I want you to open it and as soon as I am gone, lock the door behind me. Whoever it is has probably left but I need to make sure.’
‘And what do I do while you’re gone?’
‘Go down into my study, you will be safe there. I won’t be long I promise.’ He loaded the full magazine into the handle of the pistol and made his way to the door.
‘Ready?’ he asked and receiving a silent nod in return, reached up to turn the key. Without any further hesitation he opened the door and crouching low, ran out into the night.
India locked the door and crawled across to the stairwell down to the study. A few minutes later she was in the familiar surroundings, the door locked safely behind her. She looked around the room, not quite knowing what to do next. Eventually her eyes fell on an antique globe and realizing its purpose, opened it up to retrieve a bottle of vodka. She poured herself a drink and sat in one of the red chairs to wait for Brandon.
The glass was finally empty when she heard a noise up in the kitchen and with relief, ran up the stairs to open the door but as her fingers made contact with the handle, she cried out in pain as the searing heat burnt into the nerve endings. It took a few seconds for the implications to sink in and dropping to her knees, she peered through the keyhole into the kitchen, only to have her worst fears confirmed. The other side of the door was a wall of flames.
India stepped back and looked in horror as wisps of smoke started to creep through the doorframe. There was no way she could go through the kitchen and she turned to run back down the stairs. She searched frantically for any other way out but soon realised that there was no other exit. She was trapped.
‘Phone,’ she said to herself and frantically searched her pockets for her mobile before realising it was missing and probably lay on the floor of the kitchen where she had fallen. Smoke was beginning to crawl its way across the ceiling and she dragged the chair to underneath the stained glass window. Reaching up she banged her fists against the glass.
‘Brandon, help,’ she screamed, ‘someone please, get me out of here,’ Over and over again she hit the glass as the underneath of the poisonous cloud rolled across the ceiling. As the choking wisps started to enter her lungs, the world in front of her eyes exploded as the stained glass window smashed in toward her and a pair of hands reached down through the smoke to grab her arms.
‘I’ve got you,’ roared Brandon’s voice, ‘come on India you need to help me here, push yourself up.’
Choking on the black smoke, she stood on the back of the chair and levered herself upwards. Within seconds she lay alongside Brandon on the gravel path, both coughing violently as the clouds of black smoke escaped from the broken basement window. Brandon got up and threw her his phone.
‘Phone the fire brigade,’ he said.
‘Who’s that?’ she said sombrely, staring at the body of a man lying on the gravel.
‘That’s our attacker.’
‘You killed him.’
‘I had to,’ he said simply, ‘it was him or us. You phone the fire brigade, I’m going to find Agnes.’
India watched him disappear into the darkness before returning her gaze to the dead man.
----
Ten minutes later Brandon returned with Agnes. She was wrapped in her housecoat and carried her dog under one arm.
‘Agnes, thank God you’re okay,’ said India.
‘The rest of the house is unaffected,’ said Brandon. ‘It seems it was a Molotov thrown through the kitchen window.’
‘Molotov?’
‘Petrol bomb,’ he explained, ‘as long as the fire brigade are on the way we should be able to save the building. Kitchen and study have probably had it but the walls are solid stone and over three feet thick.’
&
nbsp; ‘What about him?’ she said pointing at the body.
‘He’ll be dealt with,’ he answered, ‘there are people on the way.’
‘What people?’
‘Enough talking,’ interrupted Agnes, ‘you had better get out of here.’
India shot a look at Brandon.
‘Why?’ she asked.
‘You have to tell her, Brandon,’ said Agnes after a pause, ‘she’s part of this now, tell her everything.’
‘Tell me what?’ asked India, her voice rising, ‘for Christ’s sake, Brandon what the hell is going on?’
Brandon grabbed her arm.
‘Okay,’ he said, ‘I admit I haven’t levelled with you, India but it was for your own safety, I promise.’
‘Well it hasn’t worked has it?’ she shouted, ‘I’ve never been in so much danger. Just tell me what’s happening.’
‘I will, I promise but not now, there’s no time. We have to get out of here before the police arrive.’
India crossed her arms in a gesture of defiance.
‘Not until you tell me who you are,’ she said.
‘India,’ he shouted, ‘come on we have to go.’
She stared at him without moving. Brandon stared back at her, each as stubborn as each other.
‘SAS,’ said Agnes suddenly, breaking the deadlock. ‘His name is Brandon and he is a serving SAS intelligence officer. There, it’s out, now both of you get out of here before it’s too late.’
‘Happy now?’ he asked
‘Not really,’ answered India, ‘I still want to know what this is all about.’
‘And you will.’
‘No more secrets.’
‘None, I will tell you everything I know.’
‘When?’
‘On the plane.’
‘What plane? Where are we going?’
‘Samothrace,’ he said before adding ‘wherever that is.’
‘Samothrace but how? You haven’t had time to get any tickets.’
‘Leave that to Agnes. Now, can we get out of here?’
India looked between both Brandon and Agnes and took a step forward. Before he could react, she slapped him across the face.
‘You lie to me one more time, Brandon Walker, or whatever your name is and I will make a beeline for the Sunday tabloids.’
‘No more lies,’ he confirmed, rubbing his cheek, ‘I will tell you everything on the plane.’
‘Okay then,’ she said eventually, ‘what are we waiting for?’
Agnes threw Brandon the keys to the car and watched them both race across the drive to the garage.
‘Can you stop in an overnight supermarket on the way?’ asked India, as soon as they were in the car.
‘Why?’ he asked as he gunned the engine.
‘I left my suitcase in that house,’ she said, ‘and if you think I am going all the way to the Mediterranean in the clothes I am standing in, then you are sadly wrong.’
‘Oh right,’ he said, ‘I’m sure we can pick up a little something on the way.’
‘Don’t get cocky, Brandon,’ she said, ‘this is just for starters. When we get to the Med I expect a whole new wardrobe.’
‘Lucky I’ve got a company credit card then,’ he mumbled.
‘Credit card?’ she answered, ‘by the time I am finished, you will need a whole pack of them. Now let’s get out of here.’
----
A few hours later, India finished sorting out her make up in front of the toilet mirror and pulled the tag off the new blouse she had donned in the changing cubicle. She placed her old clothes in the new travel case alongside the other new purchases before returning to the waiting area of the airport. Brandon was waiting for her, clutching a fan of tickets.
‘We’re in luck,’ he said, ‘there’s a British Airways flight in a couple of hours. Agnes booked us a couple of seats to Rome.
‘She’s very good,’ admitted India.
‘The best,’ said Brandon.
‘I still don’t understand why you want to go to Samothrace,’ said India, ‘most of the information is available online. What do you expect to gain by travelling all the way out there?’
He reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a wallet.
‘This belonged to the guy back at the house,’ he said and pulled out the contents.
‘You make a habit of robbing the dead, don’t you?’ she stated.
He didn’t answer but continued to empty the wallet.
‘Couple of hundred quid in sterling,’ he said, ‘couple of credit cards and this,’ he handed over a pink plastic card, ‘a European driving license issued in Greece.’
‘Peter Venezelos,’ she read, ‘doesn’t mean anything though, Greece is a big country.’
‘Well, it’s all we’ve got,’ he said, ‘investigations will carry on here but in the meantime we will go out to this Samothrace place and ask some questions about this guy. Perhaps the local police can shed some light on him.’
‘There’s something else,’ said India, ‘when you went looking for Agnes, I went over to look at the body.’
‘Why?’
‘Call it morbid curiosity,’ she said, ‘after all, it’s not often someone tries to murder me. Anyway, I noticed he was wearing a ring.’
‘Phillip of Macedonia again?’
‘No, this was quite different, the genuine article. Made in Greece about a thousand years ago.’
‘What was on it?’
‘See for yourself,’ she said and placed the gold ring on the table.
‘Now who’s stealing from the dead?’
‘I’ve got a good teacher,’ she answered.
----
Brandon examined the ring. It was obviously very old and the engraving very faint.
‘A chariot?’ he suggested. ‘Being driven by an angel?’
‘Almost right,’ answered India, ‘it is indeed a chariot but the person driving it is not an angel, she is known as Nike.’
‘Like the trainers?’
‘Ha ha,’ she said sarcastically, ‘Nike was an ancient Greek Goddess that personified victory.’
‘I’ve never heard of her.’
‘You see her quite often, I would have thought.’
‘Where?’
‘Ever watched the Olympics?’
‘Yes.’
‘She is on the reverse of every gold medal ever issued since the 1920 games.’
‘Can’t say I’ve ever studied one up close.’
‘What about the world cup then?’
‘What about it?’
‘The Jules Rimmet trophy is based on a representation of Nike.’
His brow raised slightly in acknowledgement.
‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘the most famous image is a marble statue which was found in the 1860s and now resides in the Louvre museum in Paris. The head is missing but the statue is breath-taking nonetheless.’
‘Why is she relevant to us?’ he asked.
‘Where do you think the statue was found?’ she asked and waited as realisation dawned on his face.
‘Don’t tell me,’ he said, ‘Samothrace.’
She nodded silently to confirm his assumption.
‘So, Mr whatever your name is,’ she said, ‘we’ve got a couple of hours to kill. Why don’t we go through to the lounge, get a nice cup of coffee and you can tell me everything about this mess.’
----
Fifteen minutes later they sat in a quiet corner of the flight lounge, each nursing a hot coffee.
‘First of all,’ he said, ‘my name is indeed Brandon and Agnes is my mother. I am a serving officer in the intelligence arm of the Special Air Service but would appreciate it if you kept that fact kept to yourself.’
‘I understand,’ she said.
‘Right, all this started when the first girl was found in Victoria Station. At first, it was a simple murder case and was being investigated by the police. We weren’t involved at that stage and ordinarily wouldn’t have been called o
n. However all that changed when the second girl was kidnapped from outside the hotel.’
‘Why?’
‘Because the girl is the niece of the Prime Minister.’
‘What?’ she gasped in astonishment, ‘how can that be? Where was her security? Where were your lot?’
‘We don’t protect extended family members unless there is a specific threat,’ he said, ‘it seems that the family had come to London on a shopping trip and that little girl, Camille, wandered off in Oxford Street. That’s when she was snatched.’
‘But nothing’s been on the television, surely, it would have been all over the news?’
‘Like I said, there was a news blackout.’
‘But why? Has there been a ransom demand?
‘No and there won’t be one. Take a look at these two pictures.’
She examined the two passport size photographs he placed on the table.
‘It’s the same girl,’ she said.
‘That’s just it,’ he said, ‘they’re not. The one on the left is indeed Camille, the one on the right is a girl called Sharon, a young girl who lives in care close to the hotel. We think she is the one that was targeted but Camille was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Whoever the kidnappers are, they’ve got the wrong girl.’
‘But why don’t the police release a statement?’ she asked, ‘wouldn’t the kidnappers just release her?’
‘Think about it,’ he said, ‘at the moment they think they have just got some homeless kid. As soon as they realise it is the prime minister’s niece, her life could be in danger.’
‘But surely she is in danger anyway?’
‘Perhaps so but this way we hope we have bought her some extra time.’
‘We?’ she asked, ‘and who exactly are we?’
‘Everyone and his dog,’ said Brandon, ‘there are hundreds on this case but it seems she has just disappeared off the face of the earth. None of our contacts in the underworld can shed any light. We’ve pulled in every pimp and pervert across London but no one knows anything. The only leads we have are those coins but the fact that someone tried to kill us means that we are onto something.’
‘So why are we travelling second class on a public flight?’ she asked, ‘surely on a task this big you have all sorts of resources to call on.’
‘We do but we want to keep a low profile. Be the ‘grey man’ as we say in the service. If we ran about commandeering all sorts of things, we would attract unwanted attention, not so much from the kidnappers but from the journalists and we can’t afford that. That’s why I whisked you away from Victoria when we found the crucified girl. The paparazzi wouldn’t have been far behind the ambulance. All it would take is one overzealous journalist and the kidnappers would have been tipped off, hence the blackout.’