The Alchemist's Secret (29 page)

There was no telling how far they’d come down the road before she came to her senses. Her mind cleared quickly as the adrenaline pumped through her. Beside her in the cramped cockpit of the sports car, her kidnapper’s face looked like granite. He held the blade against her stomach, driving with one hand. The Porsche was racing down the country road with 150 on the clock, open countryside and the occasional tree flashing by.

It would be madness to do anything.
Kill us both. Or else he’ll put the knife in me.

But she did it anyway.

The car was coming into a series of tight S bends, slowing down to 85. For an instant he was distracted. She punched out with all her strength and caught him on the ear. The knife clattered to the floor. He roared. The Porsche swerved. Roberta sprang up in her seat and grabbed the wheel, wrenching it towards her. The car veered crazily to the right, skidded onto the rocky bank and smashed into a tree sideways. Roberta was cannoned against the passenger door, and the force of the impact threw her kidnapper on top of her. His heavy body knocked the wind out of her momentarily.

The Porsche sat still in a haze of dust. Inside, he was pressing hard down on top of her. He picked the knife up and pressed the blade against her neck. He could imagine how, with just a little more pressure, the razor edge of the carefully whetted steel would break through the layers of skin and begin its slow, deliberate journey inwards through the flesh, deeper and deeper as the blood began to spill out. It would come slowly at first. Then in pulsing jets as he held her down and felt her body wriggling against his grip.

But through the red haze of his lust he remembered his phone call to the archbishop the night before. ‘The Englishman has got the manuscript,’ he’d told Usberti, without giving away how he’d let it slip through his fingers.

‘
I want them kept alive, Franco’
, Usberti’s voice had ordered him.
‘If you cannot retrieve the manuscript, we will have to think of a way to force Hope to give it to us
.’

Bozza loved his work for
Gladius Domini
, but politics and intrigue held no interest for him. He looked angrily down at Roberta Ryder’s struggling form, pinning her to the car seat as she squirmed and spat in his face. It was frustrating to be denied the pleasure of killing her. He put down his knife, punched her again and drove on.

The stolen police car threw up clouds of dust as Ben pushed it hard down the empty roads. He was beginning to wonder if he should have gone the other way when he came to the S-bends and saw the fresh black skidmarks leading off to the right, up the rocky bank. At the top of the bank, an old tree had been damaged, bark ripped away from the trunk and a branch left dangling like a broken arm.

He stopped the car and crouched by the side of the road. On the ground and embedded in the torn bark of the damaged tree, he found flakes of black paint.

Something dark and glistening on the roadside caught his eye. He dabbed it with his finger. A blob of motor-oil, still warm to the touch. Judging by their width the skidmarks were made by fat, grippy sports tyres. A black performance car, going somewhere in a hurry. It had to be the Porsche.

He found more oil a little way further down the road, regular spots and dribbles leading away in the direction he was going. The driver must have hit a rock and damaged the sump. Why had the car crashed? How badly damaged was it? There might be a chance of finding it broken down further along the road, if it continued losing a lot of oil. But even though the police car was fast and powerful, it was highly conspicuous and he was a sitting duck in it.

He followed the oil trail for a few more kilometres, keeping an ear open for the crackling messages on the police radio. As he’d expected, it wasn’t long before they noticed that the car was missing and were sending more out to find it. He was going to have to switch vehicles, and lose his chance of catching up with the damaged Porsche.

On the edge of a sleepy rural hamlet was a small garage with a single petrol pump and a sign that flapped creaking in the breeze. Just beyond it was a rutted mud track leading off to the side. He swung the car over into it, sighing with frustration. He followed the track for about half a kilometre before it ended in a rock-strewn field of yellowed brush and thorn-bushes. He took off the police uniform and changed back into his own clothes, wiped down everything he’d touched inside the car, then tossed the keys down a ditch and started running back up towards the garage.

The mechanic looked up as the tall blond man walked through the opening in the metal shutter and into the workshop. He rubbed his bristled chin with coarse, blackened fingers, came away from the battered van he was fixing and lit a smoke. Yes, he’d seen a black Porsche come by. It had been a bit less than an hour ago. Nice car, shame about the damage. Seemed like it’d been in a crash, rear wheel-arch all dented in. Something rubbing on the wheel, sounded like.

‘Yeah, Italian plates? Crazy bastard smacked into me,’ Ben said. ‘Ran me off the road some way back. I’ve had to walk miles.’

‘Need a tow?’ The mechanic jerked his chin in the direction of the rusty tow-truck sitting on the forecourt.

Ben shook his head. ‘I’ve got a special deal through my insurance. I’ll give them a call. Thanks anyway.’ As they talked, he cast his eye around the place. There was a little showroom attached to the garage, selling mostly used small cars and pick-ups. His eye lit on something. ‘Tell you what, though. Is
that
for sale?’

He hadn’t been on a motorcycle for over ten years. The last one he’d ridden was an ancient military despatch bike that vibrated like a pneumatic drill and leaked oil and petrol. The sleek Triumph Daytona 900 triple he was riding now was a different order of machine, brutally powerful and faster than most things on four wheels. He followed the road, keeping a sharp watch for more oil spots. If he was lucky, those small round splashes would be the trail of breadcrumbs that could lead him all the way to wherever the Porsche had gone.

A few kilometres up the road, his heart sank as the oil trail suddenly petered out. He rode on a mile or so, peering down carefully as he backed off the throttle and the Triumph rumbled along at walking-pace. Nothing. He cursed. Either the leak had magically repaired itself, or else the driver had been trailered away somewhere. Roadside service, with a kidnap victim sitting in the car? It seemed unlikely. He must have called a local contact to come and tow him away. And now he was gone.

Ben stopped the bike and sat staring up the empty road.

He’d lost her.

Among the trees at the edge of Saint-Jean he eased the big Triumph down onto its sidestand and slung the full-face helmet over the handlebar. The village streets were as quiet and deserted as always. He found Father Pascal at home.

‘Benedict, I was so worried about you.’ Pascal clasped him by the shoulders. ‘But…where is Roberta?’

Ben explained the situation and the priest’s face fell further and further. He slumped despairingly onto a stool. He suddenly looked all of his seventy years.

‘I can’t stay here long,’ Ben said. ‘The police won’t waste any time tracing the Renault at the hotel to you. They’ll come here to question you about me.’

Pascal stood up. There was a fierce glint in his eye that Ben hadn’t seen before. He took Ben’s arm. ‘Follow me. There is a better place we can talk.’

Inside the church, Ben knelt in the confessional. Pascal’s face was half-visible through the mesh window between them.

‘Do not worry about the police, Benedict,’ Pascal said. ‘I will tell them nothing. But what are you going to do? I am terribly afraid for Roberta.’

Ben looked grim. ‘I don’t know what’s best,’ he said. He couldn’t put a dying child on hold. Every minute he delayed was time lost for her. He could walk away and finish his job-but it was signing Roberta’s death warrant. He could go after her, but if she was dead already or he couldn’t find her, he risked sacrificing the child for nothing. He sighed. ‘I can’t save them both.’

Pascal sat in thoughtful silence for a minute or two. ‘It is a difficult choice that lies before you, Ben. But you must choose. And once the decision is made, you must not regret it. There has been too much regret in your life already. Even if your choice leads to suffering, you must not look back. God will know your heart was pure.’

‘Father, do you know what
Gladius Domini
is?’ Ben asked.

Pascal sounded taken aback. ‘The Latin means “sword of God”. A curious expression. Why are you asking me this?’

‘You’ve never heard of a group, or organization, by that name?’

‘Never.’

‘Do you remember, you told me about a bishop-‘

‘Sssh.’ Pascal interrupted him with an urgent look. ‘Someone is here,’ he whispered.

The priest walked down the central aisle and greeted the police detectives under the arch of the doorway.

‘Father Pascal Cambriel?’

‘Yes.’

‘My name is Inspector Luc Simon.’

‘Let us speak outside,’ Pascal said, leading him away from the church and shutting the door behind him.

Simon was tired. He’d just flown down by police helicopter from Le Puy. The trail there had gone dead, but he’d known that Ben Hope would resurface somewhere soon. He’d been right. But why Hope’s footsteps were leading him to this dusty little village in the middle of nowhere was beyond him. His head was hurting and he was missing his coffee.

‘I believe you’ve lost a car,’ he said to Pascal. ‘A Renault 14?’

‘Have I?’ Pascal looked surprised. ‘What do you mean, lost? I have not used it for weeks, but as far as I know it is still…’

‘Your car has been found at the Hotel Royal near Montségur.’

‘What was it doing there?’ Pascal asked incredulously.

‘That’s what I thought you could tell me,’ Simon replied in a suspicious voice. ‘Father, your car is implicated in a manhunt for an extremely dangerous criminal.’

Pascal shook his head blankly. ‘This is all very shocking.’

‘Who were you talking to in there?’ Simon demanded, pointing into the church. He started opening the heavy arched door.

Pascal blocked his way. The priest suddenly seemed twice his normal size. His eyes were hard. ‘I was hearing a confession from one of my parishioners,’ he growled. ‘And a confession is sacred. My parishioners are not criminals. I will not let you desecrate God’s house.’

‘I don’t give a damn
whose
house it is,’ Simon replied.

‘Then you will have to use force against me,’ Pascal said. ‘I will not let you in until you come back with a proper warrant.’

Simon glared hard at Pascal for a few seconds. ‘I’ll be seeing you again,’ he said as he turned and walked away.

Simon was fuming as he got back to his car. ‘That old bastard knows something,’ he said to his driver. ‘Let’s go.’

They were passing through the village square when he ordered the driver to stop. He got out and strode briskly to the bar.

He ordered a coffee. At the back of the room, the three old card-players turned to look at him. Simon laid his police ID flat on the counter. The barman glanced at it dispassionately. ‘Has anyone here seen any strangers in the village recently?’ Simon asked, addressing the room. ‘Looking for a man and a woman, foreigners.’

The police were back sooner than Pascal had expected. Less than five minutes later, Simon was striding down the aisle, his quick footsteps echoing in the empty church.

‘Did you forget something, Inspector?’

Simon smiled coldly. ‘You’re a pretty good liar,’ he said. ‘For a priest. Now, are you going to tell me the truth, or would you like me to arrest you for obstructing the course of justice? This is a murder investigation.’

‘I-‘

‘Don’t try to bullshit me. I know that Ben Hope was here. He was staying with you. Why are you protecting him?’

Pascal sighed. He sat in a pew, resting his bad leg.

‘If it turns out you’ve been harbouring a criminal,’ Simon went on, ‘I’ll bury you so deep in shit you’ll never get out again. Where’s Hope, and where’s he taken Dr Ryder? I know you know, so you’d better start talking.’ He drew his gun and jerked open the door of each confessional box.

‘He is not here,’ Pascal said, looking furiously at the drawn revolver. ‘I will request you to put that gun away, officer. Remember where you are.’

‘In the presence of a liar and possibly an accessory to crime,’ Simon retorted. ‘That’s where I am.’ He slammed the door of the last confessional box with a bang that echoed through the church. ‘Now-I suggest you start talking.’

Pascal glowered at him. ‘I will tell you nothing. What Benedict Hope has confided in me is between him, myself and God.’

Simon snorted. ‘We’ll see what the judge says about that.’

‘You can take me to your prison if you want,’ Pascal said evenly. ‘I have been in worse jails, in the Algerian war. But I will not speak. I will tell you just one thing. The man you are chasing is innocent. He is not a criminal. This man does only good. Few men I have known are so heroic and virtuous.’

Simon laughed out loud. ‘Oh, really-is that a fact? So perhaps,
Father
, you’d like to tell me more about this saint and his charitable works.’

The Daytona took him far and fast away from Saint-Jean, slicing through the rugged landscape, crouched low across the tank with the wind screaming around his helmet and the road zipping past under his feet. Ben’s face was hard as he rode, thinking what his next move should be. He knew in his heart that there was only one thing he could do, to find Roberta. But she could be anywhere. She could well be dead already.

He backed off the throttle on the approach to a bend, a wall of sandy rock on one side of the road and a plunging drop to the forest below on the other. The motorcycle leaned sharply into the turn, his outstretched knee almost grazing the road. On the apex of the bend he gunned the throttle and the machine straightened up as it accelerated powerfully and the engine note rose to a howl between his knees.

Sunlight glinted off metal in the distance ahead. He swore behind the black visor. Three hundred metres away at the end of a long straight, a roadblock was stopping vehicles. An army of police must have mobilized across the Languedoc by now. Murder at the Manzini villa, kidnapping, and a fugitive on the run. They would have circulated pictures of him to every cop in the region.