The Moses Stone (21 page)
That worried Bronson as well, but he wasn’t going to admit it.
“Well, I don’t think we should stick around to find out what they want. We’ve got to find a way to get out of here.”
But as he tugged ineffectually at the plastic ties securing his wrists and ankles, Bronson knew that wasn’t going to be easy. With a blade of some kind, it would have been the work of a few seconds to free himself, but nothing he did had any effect.
Still, he tried, and it was only when he felt blood running down his hands from the cuts he’d opened on his wrists that he gave up and accepted the reality of the situation. He was held fast, and there was nothing he could do about it.
It was several hours before the cellar lights finally flared into life. Bronson closed his eyes tight against the glare, then cautiously opened them, squinting as he took in their surroundings.
Angela was sitting about ten feet away from him in an upright wooden chair, her wrists and ankles lashed to the frame with plastic cable ties. Her clothes were in disarray, but her expression was defiant.
The cellar was a small, more or less square concrete box with white-painted but grubby walls and ceiling, and a flagstoned floor. It was almost empty apart from the two chairs they were sitting on. A short flight of steps led from the cellar up to a solid wooden door directly opposite where they were sitting.
Bronson looked back at Angela, whose eyes were now fixed on that door. It had just creaked open to reveal a whitewashed passageway on the level above them. They heard a faint murmur of voices, then the sound of approaching footsteps.
Moments later, two dark-skinned men wearing
jellabas
strode down the steps into the cellar and stopped in front of Bronson.
jellabas
strode down the steps into the cellar and stopped in front of Bronson.
He looked up at them, committing their faces to memory. One was unremarkable—dark skin, black hair, brown eyes, with regular features—but the other man had a face Bronson knew he’d never forget. He was a full head taller than his companion, and his right cheek drooped slightly, giving his wide mouth a lopsided twist, almost turning it into an S-shape, and his right eye was sightless, a milky-white abomination in his dark-brown skin. But he had an air of confidence, of suppressed power, about him, and Bronson knew instinctively that this man had to be the leader of the group.
“You’re Christopher Bronson,” the tall man said, his voice calm and measured.
It wasn’t a question, but Bronson nodded.
The tall man turned slightly to look at Angela. “And you’re Angela Lewis, the former Mrs. Bronson,” he continued, his English fluent but strongly accented.
“Are these friends of yours, Chris?” Angela asked tightly.
“Absolutely not,” Bronson snapped, his gaze never shifting from the figure standing in front of him, as his mind raced. How, he wondered, did this man—whom he was certain he’d never seen before—know so much about them? His own name, yes. That wouldn’t be difficult to find out from the hotel register, say, or airline records, and even Angela’s name from the same sources, but how could he possibly know that she was his former wife?
“You know our names,” Bronson said. “Who the hell are you and what do you want?”
The tall man didn’t reply, just nodded to his colleague, who walked over to one corner and picked up a collapsible chair. He placed it on the floor close to the concrete steps, then waited while his boss sat down.
“It’s time we talked. I think one of you has something that belongs to me,” the tall man said.
Bronson shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he replied. “And what, exactly, are you talking about?”
The tall man with the frozen face stared at him for a few moments. “The idea,” he said, “is that I’ll ask the questions and you’ll give me the answers that I want.” He turned and nodded to the second man, still standing beside his chair.
Unhurriedly, the man stepped forward, stopped directly in front of Bronson and without warning slammed his fist into his stomach.
Bronson slumped forward, retching and straining against his bonds.
“You bastard,” Angela shouted. “Leave him alone.”
“Ahmed,” the tall man said softly.
Ahmed walked behind Bronson’s writhing body to Angela’s chair, stepped in front of it and slapped her hard across the face.
She reeled sideways with the shock. The chair teetered momentarily on two legs, then crashed backward.
Ahmed stepped forward, seized the back of the chair and levered it upright again. Without so much as a glance at Angela, he walked back to stand beside his boss once more.
“Now, we’ll start again. I believe you’ve acquired something that belongs to me,” the tall man said, his voice still calm and reasonable. He looked at Bronson. “We’ll start with you, I think.” He motioned for Ahmed to move over to one side of the bound man. “A small clay tablet was stolen from me. Do you have it?”
Bronson shook his head. “You mean the tablet Margaret O’Connor picked up in the
souk
?” he gasped, his breath still rasping in his throat.
souk
?” he gasped, his breath still rasping in his throat.
The tall man nodded.
“We’ve no idea where it went,” Bronson said. “Didn’t you find it when your thugs drove their car off the road?”
“That’s very good, Bronson,” the tall man said approvingly. “At least you managed to work that out. No, we didn’t find it in the car, and the police search didn’t find it in the wreckage either.”
“How do you know that?”
“I have contacts everywhere.”
“So why the hell do you suppose we might have it?”
“Because you’ve been dealing with the daughter and her husband. It seems obvious that if the O’Connors didn’t throw the tablet away—and I don’t seriously believe they’d do that—they’re the only other people who could have it.”
“How?” Bronson asked simply. “How could the O’Connors have passed it to them?”
At a nod from the tall man, Ahmed stepped forward and smashed his fist into the left side of Bronson’s face.
“You seem to be a slow learner, Bronson. I’m asking the questions, remember? Now, let’s try again. Does the daughter have the tablet?”
Bronson spat a mouthful of blood onto the discolored concrete floor in front of him. “No,” he muttered, “she doesn’t have it. And neither does her husband. You’re looking in the wrong place.”
For a few seconds the tall man didn’t respond, just looked appraisingly at his two captives. “Now why don’t I believe you?” he murmured. “I think it’s time we asked your former wife.”
“She’s had nothing to do with this,” Bronson said, his voice loud and urgent. “She’s never even met the O’Connors’ daughter.”
“I know. I don’t think she knows anything about the tablet either. But I think it might help
your
memory if we try a little gentle persuasion on
her
. Ahmed really enjoys this kind of thing,” he added.
your
memory if we try a little gentle persuasion on
her
. Ahmed really enjoys this kind of thing,” he added.
“Don’t touch her,” Bronson shouted.
Ahmed reached into the folds of his
jellaba
, pulled out a flick-knife and pressed the button to snap open the blade. Then he dug around in another pocket and extracted a small gray stone. He leaned casually against one wall of the cellar and began running the stone along the blade of the knife, sharpening it, each stroke accompanied by a sinister hissing sound. After a couple of minutes he tested the edge of the weapon with his thumb, and nodded his satisfaction.
jellaba
, pulled out a flick-knife and pressed the button to snap open the blade. Then he dug around in another pocket and extracted a small gray stone. He leaned casually against one wall of the cellar and began running the stone along the blade of the knife, sharpening it, each stroke accompanied by a sinister hissing sound. After a couple of minutes he tested the edge of the weapon with his thumb, and nodded his satisfaction.
“Kill her,” the tall man instructed, as Ahmed walked toward Angela’s chair, “but take your time. Just cut her up a little to begin with. Start with her cheeks and forehead.”
Angela didn’t say anything, but Bronson could see the naked terror on her face, and the effort she was making to hide her fear from their captors.
“You see, Bronson,” the tall man said, his tone conversational, almost friendly, “I’ve always believed that my clay tablet was part of a set. Perhaps you’ve come to the same conclusion? I have a theory. I think the tablets, the complete set of tablets, I mean, reveal the location of the Silver Scroll, and perhaps even of the Mosaic Covenant, though that’s probably a bit less likely. Both of those treasures are worth fighting for, even worth killing for, so you can see why I want the tablet returned.”
Bronson was tugging desperately against the plastic cable ties that held him prisoner in the wooden chair, knowing his efforts were entirely futile, but determined to escape if he possibly could.
“But I don’t have the bloody tablet. Haven’t you listened to a single word I’ve said? I DON’T HAVE THE BLOODY TABLET. And neither of us has any idea where it is.”
“We’ll see,” the tall man said, turning his seat slightly to face Angela’s chair, the better to watch his henchman at work.
“Don’t do this,” Bronson pleaded. “Please don’t do this.”
“It won’t take long,” the tall man said. “And the sooner we get started, the sooner it’ll be over for her.”
Ahmed was standing beside Angela’s chair, stroking his fingers gently down her cheek, a slight smile on his face.
Angela’s eyes were wide, and she was gasping for breath as she strained against the ties that held her firmly in place.
“Wait,” the tall man said, as Ahmed started to lift the blade of his flick-knife toward Angela’s face. “Gag her first, try to keep the noise down.”
Ahmed nodded, clicked the knife closed and took a roll of thick black tape from his pocket. He tore off a piece about eight inches long, walked behind Angela’s chair and positioned the tape over her mouth.
“Keep it clear of her nose. We don’t want her to suffocate.”
Ahmed ensured that the tape was securely in place, then stepped back beside the chair, snapping open his flick-knife again.
“Please, please stop,” Bronson begged.
“It’s too late now.” The tall man nodded at Ahmed. “Get on with it.”
39
“You have some news?” Eli Nahman asked, as he walked into the room in the ministry building in Jerusalem, Yosef Ben Halevi following close behind him.
“Yes,” Levi Barak said, gesturing to the two academics to take seats at the table. “Through one of our operatives in Morocco,” Barak began, “we do now have more information about this relic. But we still don’t know where it is. Our best guess is that the English couple mailed it to their home.”
“Can you send someone to check that?” Nahman asked.
Barak shook his head. “There’s no need,” he said. “Our people in London have already started investigating.”
“And?”
“And we’re not the only ones looking for it.”
Nahman glanced at Ben Halevi. “Who?” he asked.
“There were two obvious addresses to cover in Britain,” Barak began, not answering Nahman’s question directly. “The O’Connors’ own house and the one belonging to their daughter and son-in-law. Both are in a city called Canterbury, in Kent, in southeast England. We organized watchers at both properties. Yesterday, the team covering the O’Connors’ property observed their daughter drive to the house and go inside. About ten minutes later an unknown male was seen at the side door of the house. He’d approached the property from the rear, across a stretch of waste ground, not down the street, which was why they didn’t see him coming. Our team got several photographs of him.”
Barak passed each man two pictures. They showed a dark-skinned, black-haired man, obviously filmed through a powerful telephoto lens, standing beside a house.
“He’s holding a crowbar,” Barak continued, “and he used it to force the side door. He was apparently unaware that anyone was inside the property. A few minutes later he came out of the house and ran away, using the same route as before, down the garden and over the waste ground.
“Several minutes after that, a neighbor entered the house—perhaps she’d seen the daughter’s car parked in the driveway—and emerged seconds later screaming. Police cars and an ambulance appeared, and we now know that Kirsty Philips, the O’Connors’ daughter, had been killed, obviously by this intruder.”
“Who is he?” Nahman demanded.
“We don’t know,” Barak replied. “We’ve circulated an ‘anything known’ request through all the intelligence services with whom we have good relations but I don’t expect this man’s face will be on any of their databases. We believe he’s probably a member of a Moroccan gang.”
“And did he get the tablet?”
“We don’t think so. Our watchers are still in place, and the same man has been seen in the vicinity again, but he didn’t approach the house because of the large number of police there. Obviously, if he
had
got the tablet, he would be long gone.”
had
got the tablet, he would be long gone.”
“So where is it?” Ben Halevi demanded.
Barak shrugged. “We don’t know. It could still be in the post system somewhere, or maybe the British police are sitting looking at it. If they are, we should find out today, through one of our contacts in the Metropolitan force.”
“And if they’re not?”
“The moment this man”—Barak gestured at the photographs on the table—“reappears after the police have left the house, I’ve given orders to our surveillance team to snatch him for interrogation.”
Other books
Jaid Black by One Dark Night
Rising of a Mage by J. M. Fosberg
Jesus' Son: Stories by Denis Johnson
A Dark-Adapted Eye by Crews, Heather
Spiderweb for Two - A Melendy Maze by Elizabeth Enright
Emperor: The Death of Kings E#2 by Conn Iggulden
Coin #2 - Quantum Coin by E.C. Myers
Gabriel’s Watch - Book One: The Scrapman Trilogy by Noah Fregger
Black Stallion and Satan by Walter Farley
