Alchemist (94 page)

Conor raised a calming hand. ‘There's a lot of stuff we're going to have to deal with, hon, a lot. But I want to be able to sleep easily in my bed at night. So do you and your father. I don't know how many of Rorke's piranhas like Detective Superintendent Levine are swimming around out there beyond these walls, and I don't intend taking my chances with them.'

‘Is it true, what Rorke said? That you haven't a chance?'

He took her hand and squeezed it. Monty felt the pressure of his fingers, tense and nervous. ‘I have a chance, and I have
to take it. We don't have an option. There is only one way I'm ever going to be able to feel safe, and only one way I can ever hope to protect you and your father.'

‘Isn't what you've done on the Internet good enough?'

‘No, it's bullshit and he knows it. They'll crack the code eventually. All I've done is to buy us a little time. Now I have to try to buy us our lives.'

It was nearly nine o'clock when Monty and her father approached the outskirts of Maidenhead. In spite of everything that Rorke had agreed and the documents he had signed, Monty kept a wary eye on the headlights that appeared in her mirrors.

‘What do I tell Anna Sterling?' she asked.

‘The truth,' Dick Bannerman said simply.

‘Conor told me not to.'

He was quiet for some moments. ‘How many more women have had Maternox from this batch and are still at risk?'

‘Ten. That's the number I counted on the Medici File.'

‘Over what time span are they due to give birth?'

‘Between now and June next year.'

‘Molloy really told you not to tell Anna the truth? Doesn't that go against what you and I have always agreed, darling?'

‘Conor said if the truth about Medici got out it would destroy the company.'

‘Yes, I don't doubt it.'

‘And we have to wait, anyway, till Conor's back, Daddy.'

‘You know,' he said at length, ‘I'm surprised at Molloy being prepared to go along with any sort of cover-up. I'd been starting to admire him. Didn't like him when I first met him, but he's been growing on me. Watched his antics on the television monitor – he's a dab hand with pyrotechnics. Didn't seem such a bad bloke after all. Underneath.'

She smiled, then her fear for Conor's safety ran a deep black stain across her meagre relief. ‘No, he's not. He's not a bad bloke at all.'

She pulled up outside her father's front door and switched off the engine. The darkness filled her with foreboding. It was three hours since Conor had left with Rorke.

They went inside and Monty walked quickly through to the kitchen, snapping lights on as she went. She stared at the telephone for a moment then picked it up and dialled Anna Sterling's number, unsure whether she would even be in on a Saturday evening. It was answered on the third ring.

‘Sterling.' A man's voice. Anna's husband, sounding very depressed.

‘Mark,' she said. ‘It's Monty.'

He perked up a fraction. ‘Monty! Hello!' His voice sounded slurred, as if he had been drinking.

‘Are you guys all right?' She tried to sound normal. ‘I tried to ring but things have been a bit – ah – hectic. Is Anna OK?'

There was a long silence, which made Monty deeply afraid. ‘Mark? Are you there?'

‘She lost the baby.'

‘What? What
happened
?'

‘Thursday morning. Three o'clock. They took her to hospital. I was away on business.'

‘Christ. How is she?'

‘Sh'all right. Depressed. Coming home tomorrow. I'm collecting her.'

The sense of loss in his voice resonated through her. She felt for him intensely, felt for both of them, knew instinctively the pain and anguish they had been through.

She squeezed the receiver in her hand, held it close to her ear, her heart pounding. ‘Will you give her a message?' she said, her voice choked, unsure whether she was sad or relieved. ‘Will you tell her – just tell her I'm so sorry.'

Israel Sunday 11 December, 1994

The rim of his Panama shaded Conor's face from the furnace heat of the sun; his suit and sodden shirt clung to his skin as heavily as if he had been swimming in them.

Water.

With growing desperation he stared at the mountains that walled off the desert ahead of him. A sudden blast like thunder ruptured the sky and he ducked instinctively. Two jet fighters roared past overhead; he could see the red balls of their afterburners, then they were gone, leaving only their rumbling echo.

His mouth was parched, his lips leathery. He had drunk nothing since breakfast in the hotel this morning and it was now mid-afternoon. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the movement of Rorke's arm slipping inside his jacket, then heard the sound of the cap of the water bottle being unscrewed. The greedy swigging; Conor could imagine the liquid going down, cool and clear, pure as spring water. Rorke had not offered him any and he was too proud to ask.

Too proud and too angry. And he wanted nothing that would put him in Rorke's debt.

He did not understand why he had not brought water for himself. How could he have set out into the desert without water? There had been plenty of time for Rorke to warn him. He had told him he would need a hat and rubber-soled shoes. He had not told him they would walk for six hours through the searing noonday sun and that he would need to bring water with him.

But why the hell hadn't
he
thought about it?

Conor felt dizzy. The tiny camera in his pocket he had bought on the way to the airport last night weighed down like a brick in his pocket. The desert tilted suddenly to the right; then to the left. He stumbled off the track into deep, hot sand which poured inside his shoes.

Water.

Something stirred in his mind. He could remember
buying
canteens of water in a shop. Had he left his in the shop?

Rorke was plodding steadily on without waiting for him. A camel train moved across the track miles ahead in the distance; it would be long gone by the time they reached it. Conor stumbled forward, struggling to keep his brain clear, to keep his focus, to remember why he was here. Put one foot after the other, had to remember that, just keep moving forward, right foot, left foot, just keep going.

For his father. For his mother. For Monty. Rorke was messing up his mind. Rorke was playing his games. Rorke had deliberately deprived him of water and now he was depriving his mind of the ability to focus.

Water.

There was no water. He had to get used to the fact that there was
no water
. Imagine water instead. Yes, he could do that. He needed to focus his mind on water, imagine he was drinking it, imagine it moistening his lips, imagine gulping it down his throat. Rorke had stopped and was drinking again. It seemed only a few moments since the man had last drunk. Except the mountains were closer now, the sheer faces of sandstone that rose above them into the sky dwarfing the figure of Rorke with his massive bag slung over his shoulder.

He had bought a bag also. A knapsack; he was certain he had bought a knapsack. He had bought a knapsack to carry the canteens he had bought in the shop. But where was it? Had he left it in the taxi?

Yes, Rorke must have made him leave it in the taxi.

Later, Conor wasn't sure how much later, they were climbing up through the rocks. Rorke led the way, picking a steady route up through the ever-steepening wall of rock that rose above them and dropped sheer beneath them into the valley.

There would be water on this mountain, Conor thought. His hopes rose with each turn, expecting to see a spring or a pool, but there were none; only arid dust and rock. Once or twice when he let down his guard Rorke taunted him by making him see an imaginary lake or spring, which disappeared when he scrambled towards them.

The sun was no longer high in the sky. Only a few hours of daylight remained. Then it would be cooler. Then he could suck the moisture from the leaves of –

Anger tore through him like a sudden gust.
I don't need water, Rorke. I don't need anything. I can cope. I will survive. It's all a state of mind. You think you can blunt my mind, Rorke, but you're wrong. You're sharpening it every second. Sharpening it with hatred
.

I don't need water. Unlike you
.

I don't need anything
.

They climbed for another hour and a slight, fresh breeze picked up. Conor followed Rorke up a narrow ridge, and as they rounded a curve at the top he saw a stake, old and weathered, set into a crack, from which hung a short length of frayed, broken rope.

Rorke stopped and gestured with his arm at the mouth of a cave just beyond the stake. The entrance was about twenty feet wide, shrouded by a deep overhang. From its position set back from the ridge Conor realized it would be invisible from both the valley beneath and the air above. A strange noise came from inside sounding like radio interference.

‘This is it, Molloy.' Rivulets of perspiration were pouring down Rorke's face and he was panting with exertion. He pulled out the canteen of water and drank hungrily.

Conor wiped the sweat from his eyes with his sleeve and stood still. They were near the summit; the desert was a long way down. The sun was already low and soon it would be dark. Conor's mouth was dry and his lips sore and cracked.

‘Not much from the outside, is it?' Rorke said, replacing his canteen. Then he wheezed, and took several breaths before speaking again. ‘You know, you're a smart young man, Molloy. Too smart to die. Why don't you join me instead of fighting me? Work together with me?'

‘I'm not for sale.'

‘Everyone has a price.'

‘I don't.'

Rorke mopped his face with a large handkerchief. ‘You may like to think you're different, but you're not, you know.'

‘You killed my father and mother, Rorke. You really think you could buy me?'

‘Parents are nothing, Molloy. Just transporters of your genes. I wouldn't get sentimental. Sentiment is a cheap and dangerous emotion.' He smiled. ‘You ought to drink, Molloy. Dehydration is dangerous in the desert. Why aren't you drinking?'

Rorke was staring hard at him. Something caught Conor's eye. Bright red. Nylon. A strap. A strap over his right shoulder. Then he saw the strap over his left shoulder also. He reached behind his back and felt his knapsack.

Jesus Christ. He had his knapsack! Had had it all the time – how the hell –?

Rorke. Rorke had been playing with his mind. He heaved the bag over his head, pulled the buckles open and pulled out one of the two canteens inside, felt its weight, solid, heavy, filled with water. He unscrewed the cap, brought it to his mouth and swigged hard. Almost instantly he spat it out, coughing and retching.

It was petrol.

He put the cap back on, tried the second canteen. Petrol.
How?
What was going on? He remembered the shop where they had bought the canteens; he had filled his himself from the cold tap at the back. He had put them in his knapsack and kept it with him. There was no way Rorke could have put petrol in them.

He glanced at Rorke's face, saw his eyes watching him, and knew. Knew Rorke's game exactly. He raised the canteen defiantly to his mouth again, careful not to inhale, to breathe in the smell, then tilted his head back, braced himself and began drinking.

The taste was horrendous. He gagged. Forced it down, kept his lips clamped around the neck, swigged, swallowed, swigged, swallowed, kept going, forced himself. He drank until the canteen was drained, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The taste of petrol had gone now. It was water, pure fresh water.

He put the cap back on and tossed the empty canteen back into his knapsack, feeling some of his strength returning.
‘You're right, I did need a drink.' He looked straight at Rorke and then turned and walked towards the entrance of the cave. The whistling shriek of radio interference rose to a cacophony as he approached, and a stench came out to meet him. Bats, he realized with disgust. The cave inside was alive with a vast colony of them. He could see them hanging, hear them rustling, jostling, squeaking.

The cave itself was small, unprepossessing; this was not it, could not be, he thought. Was it a trap? Then, thirty yards across the floor, he saw the second entrance. This was just an anteroom, he realized as he crossed the first cave, ignoring the noise which had become more frenetic with his intrusion. He went through the second entrance and stopped in his tracks, awestruck.

The cave was vast, Far, far larger than he would have believed possible from the outside. Thirty, forty, maybe fifty times larger. None of the few sketchy descriptions he had come across had even remotely done it justice. There was a cathedral-like stillness, but it was many times the size of any cathedral, or indeed of any building he had ever been into. There were bats in here, too, but they were higher up and their sound less intrusive.

Every inch of the walls that he could see was carved with symbols and hieroglyphics, and the stone floor was dominated by a pentagram, thirty metres across. In the centre of the pentagram sat an imposing carved stone chair. The Throne of the Incumbent, Conor remembered from his readings.

The light was meagre and fell rapidly away into darkness. At the far end of the cave, tiers of stone formed a natural auditorium, like an amphitheatre.

He was aware of a power, a force that felt truly demonic, colder, more hostile, more sinister than anything he had ever experienced before. His scalp prickled with fear and he shivered, his shirt clammy on his back. He was cold, bitterly cold. He took a few tentative steps forward. The Cave of Demons. The place where the final confrontation had been fought. Where, according to the legends, God had defeated and banished Satan. And where the demons waited, biding their time for their fallen Master's return.

Rorke walked past him and stopped at the edge of the pentagram. He removed a ceremonial sword from his bag, opened the circle with it, then stepped through, turned and closed the circle with his sword behind him. Conor watched as Rorke moved towards the stone chair, sat down, then slowly unpacked his artefacts and arranged them around him. A gold censer. A gold athame. A chalice. Several more vessels. An ankh.