The Last Enemy
Authors: Jim Eldridge
To Lynne, as ever, for ever, my inspiration
Contents
Alex Munro, CEO of Pierce Randall, got out of his chauffeur-driven car and looked along Crouch End Broadway, his eye lighting on the Red Hen Café just five paces away from where he stood. It was very rare that a man in his position, one of the most powerful lawyers in the world, made a personal ‘home visit’. People came to see
him
, not the other way around. But this was a special case. The person he’d come here to meet could well be the way into the mother-lode; the key to the whole hidden library of the Order of Malichea. If it turned out to be so, then this could signal millions — no,
billions
of dollars coming in to the company for ever.
His driver, Arnold, closed the rear passenger door and shot Munro a questioning look that asked: do you need me with you? Munro shook his head. No, he didn’t need Arnold with him, everything seemed safe. He’d got his security people to check out the Red Hen Café; the owners, the clientele. Five of his bodyguards, all ex-military, were inside the small café posing as customers and ready to spring into action if needed. If there was going to be any hint of trouble they’d have sorted that out already, before Munro even entered the place.
He looked at his watch, and checked it with the giant clock on the imposing brick monument in the centre of the Broadway. 2 p.m. That was the time agreed. He wondered if the person he was due to meet was already inside the café, waiting for him; or whether they’d be late? He hoped they’d be on time; he couldn’t stand unpunctuality.
He nodded at Arnold, who got back into the car. Then Munro moved across the pavement towards the café.
He never made it.
As he took his second step, the bullet smashed into the back of his head and ripped through his brain, sending blood erupting out from the exit wound. He was dead before he hit the ground.
The figure high up on the roof of the old building overlooking the Broadway began to take apart the sniper rifle and put it into its case. When he reappeared on the street below in a few moments, he would just be carrying an ordinary attaché case. He’d disappear into the crowd, just a regular person going about his business.
The first part of The Plan had been carried out. Alex Munro was dead. Now to concentrate on his next target: Jake Wells.
Jake Wells still wasn’t sure if it had been a genuine meeting that had been abandoned at the last minute, or someone playing a trick on him.
‘Someone wants to meet you,’ the voice on the phone had told him earlier that morning. ‘They have information about The Index.’
The Index. The Holy Grail for people who were hunting for the hidden books of the Order of Malichea. The list of where each individual book was hidden.
‘Who?’ Jake had asked.
‘No names,’ the voice had said. ‘Be at Muswell Hill Broadway at half past one today. Come alone. They will recognise you.’
And so, at 1.20 p.m., Jake had been at Muswell Hill Broadway, standing in plain sight so that he could be easily spotted. By 1.40 p.m., he was still standing at the same spot, alone and uncontacted. Then, at 1.45 p.m., he’d got a text. ‘Meeting off. In touch later.’
And that was it.
He’d driven back to his and Lauren’s flat in Finsbury Park, all the way still not sure whether it had been a stitch-up from the start, or if the mysterious person had been genuine but had really been forced to cancel at the last minute and would, as they had promised, be ‘in touch later’. As he drove he reflected on how their lives had changed in the six months since Lauren had returned to England. Before, they’d been separated by a whole planet, with Lauren in New Zealand. Now they had a flat of their own, in London, and even a car. And not just a car but Jake’s dream car, a Mini Cooper.
He parked the Mini in the small car park at their block of flats and wondered what to do. He wanted to phone Lauren and tell her what had happened, how it had been a no-show, but she’d told him it was all too simple, that it was highly unlikely that someone would suddenly appear with information that would lead them to The Index. She’d said it would be a set-up, and now he’d have to tell her she’d been right and he’d been wrong. Not that she’d gloat about it, Lauren wasn’t that kind of person, but there’d be just a little hint of smugness about her when he told her, and that would irritate him.
He sat in the car and weighed up his options. He could wait for Lauren to return from the British Library and then tell her his meeting at Muswell Hill had been a waste of time; but he knew she wouldn’t be back till late in the afternoon. Or he could go to the British Library now and meet her, get his pride dented quickly and over with.
OK, he told himself. The British Library it is.
As Jake stood on the platform at Finsbury Park tube station he could swear that he was being watched. It was strange; there was no logical reason for the feeling, but his experiences over the past eighteen months had shown him that he had entered a world where
everyone
was suspect: so many of the people he’d encountered since he’d started hunting for the hidden books of Malichea hadn’t been what they had seemed to be at first. Harmless-looking people had turned out to be ruthless killers. Apparent villains had turned out to be good guys. And they were just the ones he’d actually encountered. He knew there had to be many more people who’d stayed firmly in the shadows and pulled the strings behind the scenes.
Like now. As he waited for the next train — due in two minutes, according to the display board — a sixth sense he’d developed told him that someone’s eyes were on him. Not just a casual observer, but concentrated on him. When all this had first started, someone had tried to push him to his death under a tube train at Victoria Station. Whenever things got bad, he could still feel the force of that unknown hand against his back, feel himself falling forwards . . .
He looked along the platform. There were about thirty or forty people waiting with him: a mixture of all ages, men and women, young and old, different dress styles. No one stood out.
But that was how they operated, he’d learnt to his cost. People who looked ordinary, nothing special, nothing to attract attention, but who were part of a massive conspiracy to obtain the hidden books of Malichea. People who would do anything to get their hands on them, and especially The Index. People who would kill.
He moved back from his position near the edge of the platform. It wasn’t at all crowded, but Jake was taking no chances.
The train came in and Jake got on board, scrutinising the people who came into the carriage with him. An elderly Asian woman with a shopping bag on wheels. A young black guy, dressed in a smart business suit, wearing headphones, from which Jake could vaguely hear classical music. A pair of teenage girls, chattering away excitedly to one another. An older white guy, shaven-headed and covered with tattoos, who had a deep scowl on his face.
Was the person watching him one of them, wondered Jake. Or had they got into an adjoining carriage, where they could watch him without being observed, and just get off when he did? Or was there even anyone watching him at all? Had his terrifying experiences with the search for the Malichea books made him paranoid?
He got off at King’s Cross. None of the people who’d entered the same carriage as him at Finsbury Park exited with him. But then, that didn’t mean they weren’t watching him. The young black guy could be passing messages on to another watcher via his headphones. Modern technology meant you could be under observation every move you made, wherever you went.
He walked along Euston Road to the British Library. The whole time he still had the same uncomfortable feeling of being kept under watch. He made it to the big red-brick building, checked in his bag at the desk, and then went through to the reading rooms.
Lauren was sitting at one of the computer terminals, and she waved and smiled at him when she saw him walk in.
‘Well?’ she asked.
‘It was a bust,’ he admitted. ‘I got there, and . . .’
A short but severe coughing sound of reprimand from the woman at the next computer terminal made him turn. The woman glared at him. Jake gave her an apologetic smile. He mimed drinking a cup of coffee, and Lauren nodded in agreement. She logged out of the computer, gathered up the sheets of paper she’d written her notes on, then she and Jake headed out of the reading room, for the coffee bar on the same floor.
After they’d sat down with their coffee, Jake told her glumly about his abortive trip to Muswell Hill.
‘So, you can say, “I told you so,” ’ he said with a sigh.
‘Not at all,’ said Lauren. ‘It
could
have been something. After all, The Index is out there somewhere.’
‘But not in Muswell Hill,’ groaned Jake. He gestured towards the reading room. ‘How did you get on?’
‘Brilliant!’ Lauren smiled. ‘They’ve got a copy of a really old herbal from the eleventh century, with recipes for cures for all sorts of diseases.’
Lauren was in the final year of a science degree, with her emphasis on Alternative Sciences.
‘No Malichea book, then,’ said Jake.
‘No,’ said Lauren. ‘But not every ancient science text found its way into the Library of the Order.’
‘Just the key ones,’ said Jake.
‘Mainly the ones threatened with destruction,’ said Lauren. She sipped at her coffee and looked quizzically at Jake. ‘You look worried,’ she said. ‘This Muswell Hill business?’
Jake shook his head.
‘No. Like I said, that was either a practical joke, or — if it was serious — they’ll get in touch later. No, I had this feeling I was being followed.’
‘When?’
‘On the way here. Right from the moment I got on the platform at Finsbury Park.’
Lauren frowned.
‘Did you notice anyone in particular?’
Jake shook his head.
‘No,’ he said. He sighed. ‘It could just be my imagination, but . . .’
He shrugged. Lauren looked around them, at the other people in the cafeteria, and those walking past, going about their business.
‘No one looks particularly suspicious,’ she whispered.
‘They wouldn’t if they were doing their job properly,’ murmured Jake.
‘Why would anyone be following you
now
?’ Lauren frowned. ‘Let’s face it, it’s been a while since we were actively involved in getting our hands on one of the hidden books.’
‘Yes, but then there was this business of the phone call about The Index, and Muswell Hill.’
‘A hoax,’ said Lauren.
‘Maybe,’ admitted Jake.
They finished their coffee and went down to the check-in desk in the lower lobby to collect their bags. Lauren handed over her numbered plastic disc and collected hers. When the assistant returned with Jake’s disc in his hand, he looked puzzled.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘There seems to be some sort of confusion.’
‘What sort of confusion?’ asked Jake.
