The Last Enemy (7 page)

‘So? I expect that’s what Gareth’s told her to do with any phone callers she doesn’t know.’

‘And we don’t know where he is,’ Lauren continued. ‘He never returned my calls.’

‘He’s possibly got caught up in some major spy business somewhere,’ said Jake. ‘Remember, that’s what he does. And if it had been Gareth who’d texted me, it would have shown his name. I’ve got his number in my phone.’

‘Good point,’ she admitted. ‘OK, so the text could be from Guy. So what are we going to do?’

Jake thought it over.

‘I’ll go and see Gareth tomorrow at the office. See if he can get to the bottom of this.’

‘And if Gareth’s not there? Say I was right about why his wife sounded frightened?’

Jake fell silent as what Lauren had said finally sunk in. What if she was right? Say something
had
happened to Gareth?

Chapter 8

The next morning Jake arrived at the offices of the Department of Science in Marsham Street, just a quick dash from the Houses of Parliament at Westminster. The building was a large modernistic glass tower, the glass in various shades of green, aimed at promoting an image of the department as at the forefront of twenty-first-century science, pushing the boundaries for the future. Inside, the main reception area and the first two floors continued that theme: modernistic in design, awash with flat screens and digital technology.

Once you got up to the third floor, however, and only people who worked in the building ever got that high, the interior decor changed. From here upwards it was all very old-fashioned with images of science from the past, along with pictures from Victorian times. Jake had often reflected that the people who ran the department, the decision makers on the top floors, preferred to look backwards to the glories of the past.

Jake’s office, the large open-plan press office, was on the first floor of the building, but right now he had something more important on his mind than work, and that was seeing Gareth Findlay-Weston, his boss.

Jake took the lift up to the third floor and made his way along the narrow corridor, hung with oil paintings of hunting scenes. He reached Gareth’s office, knocked, and went in.

Gareth’s secretary, Janet, was in her usual place, on guard at her desk in the outer office, Gareth’s protector and gatekeeper. She was talking quietly and seriously on the phone, but as Jake came in she said, ‘I’ll talk to you later,’ and hung up.

‘Hi,’ said Jake. ‘Is Gareth in? I need to see him urgently.’

Janet seemed to hesitate a second, then she said, ‘He’s not in.’

‘Do you know when he will be in?’

Again, Janet appeared to hesitate. Then she said, ‘No.’

Jake looked at her, puzzled.

‘Is he
meant
to be in?’ he asked. ‘I mean, he’s not on holiday, or something?’

‘No,’ said Janet. And, although she was doing her best to stay the perfect calm and efficient secretary that she always was, Jake was sure there was something not right. She looked nervous. No, not nervous; upset.

‘Is everything all right? asked Jake.

‘Yes.’

But her answer was too quick. This wasn’t the Janet that Jake was familiar with. By reputation, Gareth’s secretary, although small in size, was a tough woman who scared the life out of everyone in the building, with the exception of Gareth. She was known behind her back as Gareth’s Rottweiler, his fierce guard dog, one who was capable of great savagery — usually verbal — if it meant protecting her beloved boss.

There was no sign of the Rottweiler today. Right now, Janet was nervous, flustered, unhappy. No,
deeply
unhappy.

‘When will he be in?’ pressed Jake. ‘Only there’s something very important I need to discuss with him.’

Janet hesitated, then she said, ‘At the moment he’s on an assignment.’

Jake frowned.

‘What sort of assignment?’

‘I’m afraid that’s classified,’ snapped Janet sharply, a hint of the old Rottweiler surfacing.

‘Do you know when he’ll be back?’

‘It’s . . . it’s open-ended.’

‘So . . . no?’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Janet, although the tight-lipped look she gave Jake said that she wasn’t sorry at all, ‘but I have some important work to be getting on with.’

‘Of course,’ Jake nodded apologetically. ‘But, if you’re in touch with him, will you give him my message? That I need to see him urgently.’

‘Of course.’

With that, Janet turned back to her desk and began sorting through some papers. But Jake felt sure that this activity was just a cover. Something was wrong. Gareth wasn’t in, and Janet didn’t know why. Or, she
did
know why, and she was frightened because of it.

Jake left Gareth’s office and walked back down the stairs to the first floor, and the office where he and the other minions of the Department of Science press office carried out their duties. His friend Paul Evans was just hanging up the phone as he arrived.

‘Bloody Area 51,’ Paul grumbled.

Jake frowned.

‘Area 51?’ he repeated. ‘In America?’

Paul laughed.

‘Not that one,’ he chuckled. ‘Our very own Area 51. Laker Heath. You know, where all the oddball stuff is kept. Our own flying saucers, aliens, that sort of thing.’ He laughed. ‘At least, that’s what the conspiracy freaks seem to believe.’

Jake shook his head.

‘No one’s told me about this,’ he said.

‘Oh, come on!’ said Paul. ‘Remember that time you got caught up in that escape of toxic gas? The hallucinations at that building site. I told you then about Sigma.’

‘Sigma?’

‘The code they use for all these oddball things. Hoax or hallucination.’

Jake felt a sick feeling inside, wondering if this was going to lead up to Paul talking about the Malichea books. It was a subject he’d always avoided talking about to Paul, or anyone else at work, with the exception of Gareth. And, as far as he knew, no one at press office level, except himself, even knew about the hidden Malichea books; and it wasn’t something he wanted to air now.

‘Anyway,’ said Paul airily, ‘you’d be kept out of the loop as far as what goes on at Area 51. You’re not cleared. It’s Level Five security only. You’re still . . . what? Level Three?’

‘That’s nonsense!’ insisted Jake. ‘I went on a training course at Laker Heath when I was first here. There was no suggestion there was anything odd about the place.’

‘Well, they’re hardly likely to admit that to a new trainee,’ said Paul.

‘Yes, but I had an even lower level security clearance then,’ Jake insisted. ‘If Laker Heath really is where all those sorts of things are kept . . .’

‘Rumoured to be kept,’ corrected Paul.

‘OK, rumoured,’ said Jake. ‘The bottom line is that I wouldn’t have been allowed in. But I was.’

‘Did you go into the hangar?’ asked Paul.

Jake frowned.

‘What hangar?’

‘The large aircraft hangar right at the western end.’

‘No,’ admitted Jake. ‘Our training course was in the main building, near the main gate.’

‘There you are, then.’ Paul smiled. ‘It’s inside that hangar that the real stuff is kept.’ He winked. ‘Alien spacecraft. Monsters from the deep.’ Then he sighed and gestured at the phone. ‘Which is why whenever anything happens at Laker Heath we get bombarded with reporters chasing some weird story. Like just now.’

‘What?’ asked Jake, intrigued.

‘Someone in the area reported glowing lights hovering over the hangars at the place, so, naturally, they suspected UFOs.’

‘And were they?’ asked Jake, even more intrigued.

‘Oh, please, Jake!’ scoffed Paul. ‘UFOs, indeed!’

Jake forced a chuckle.

‘Just joking,’ he said, to cover it up. But, with all the things he’d discovered through the Malichea business, he’d learnt that anything was possible.

‘It was a prototype solar-powered weather balloon they were testing,’ said Paul. ‘But try telling that to these lunatics. As far as they’re concerned it’s just another cover-up.’ Then he said, ‘By the way, sorry, but all the talk of Area 51 put it out of my head. There was a call for you while you were out. Switchboard put it through to me.’

‘Oh?’ asked Jake, ‘Who was it?’

‘He said his name was Guy,’ said Paul.

‘Guy?’ echoed Jake. Why had Guy phoned him at the office? Why hadn’t he called him on his mobile? It didn’t make sense. Why should Guy go to all the bother of finding out his number at the Department of Science press office?

‘Did he leave a number where I could get hold of him?’

‘No. He said he’d try again.’

‘How did he sound?’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Paul, puzzled.

‘Well, did he sound nervous? Agitated?’

‘No,’ said Paul. Then he frowned thoughtfully. ‘Actually, he sounded foreign.’

‘Foreign?’

Paul nodded.

‘He had an accent. It sounded sort of Spanish.’

Spanish? That’s not Guy, thought Jake. But why would someone Spanish phone Jake pretending to be Guy?

Changing the subject, Jake asked, ‘Have you heard anything about Gareth?’

Paul frowned.

‘What in particular?’ he asked.

‘Well, where he is?’ said Jake. ‘I’ve just been up to see him and Janet says he’s away.’

‘Well, if that’s what she says, then I guess that’s where he is.’ Paul shrugged.

‘Yes, but we didn’t get a memo saying he was going to be away,’ pointed out Jake. ‘And usually, if he’s away, we get told who to report to in his absence. You know, if anything big comes up and we need to refer it upwards.’

‘Why, has something big come up that you know about?’ asked Paul.

‘Well, no,’ said Jake. ‘But it might.’

Paul shook his head.

‘I’m sure, if anything does happen that needs someone more important than us to handle, you can just pass it up to Janet. She’ll know what to do with it. They don’t call her the Rottweiler for nothing!’ He grinned. ‘I don’t know about you, but I find her terrifying.’

At the moment, I just feel terrified, thought Jake.

The whole way on the Tube home to Finsbury Park, Jake thought about everything that had happened in the last seventy-two hours. Alex Munro being shot dead. Jake being arrested for his murder, and meeting Guy — now
Earl
Guy — de Courcey. Guy vanishing. And now Gareth disappearing. And in both disappearances there was an absolute silence: a refusal by anyone to admit that they’d vanished.

And then there had been the phone call from Guy. Or someone pretending to be Guy. Someone who was possibly Spanish.

Maybe the mystery caller had been someone from Guy’s recent past in Mexico. But why call Jake?

When he arrived at their flat, Lauren was sitting at her laptop. She got up and gave him a welcoming smile, and he realised that what with all this business with Guy and Gareth it had been ages since they’d spent real time together.

Jake made coffee for them and they shared their day’s experiences.

‘Did you see Gareth?’ asked Lauren.

‘He wasn’t in the office,’ said Jake. ‘And I’m pretty sure there’s something going on. Something weird. But if he
is
in any kind of trouble, I’m pretty sure that MI5 will already be swinging into action.’ He gestured towards Lauren’s laptop. ‘How did you get on with checking out our missing friend, Guy.’

‘You still think it was Guy who texted you?’

‘Yes, I do. Call it a hunch, but he’s the only person I can think of who’d do it.’

‘Even though, according to the police, Pierce Randall say he’s safe?’

‘
Because
Pierce Randall say he’s safe,’ said Jake sarcastically. ‘So, what did you find out?’

‘That the de Courceys are definitely heavily involved in the Malichea books,’ said Lauren.

She went to her laptop and began to flick her fingers over the keys. A genealogical family tree appeared on the screen.

‘The de Courcey family tree,’ she said. She scrolled down until the screen showed a date of 1539. She pointed to two names. ‘Edgar de Courcey. He was the librarian of the Order of Malichea from 1536 until 1539.’

‘The year that Glastonbury was destroyed and The Index and the
Journal
vanished,’ said Jake.

‘And Edgar de Courcey died that same year. It wouldn’t surprise me to find he was a victim of Henry VIII’s purge of the monasteries.’ Lauren’s finger moved to the other name on the screen. ‘Earl William de Courcey, brother of Edgar. Direct ancestor of your cellmate.’

‘So it looks like it fits. Edgar de Courcey realises what’s about to happen, and gives The Index and the
Journal of the Order of Malichea
to his brother, William, for safe keeping. And the books get put away in the library at de Courcey Hall, right up until . . . when?’