The Lost Relic (16 page)

‘I just can’t help myself. I don’t have any control over my feelings. You think I
enjoy
deceiving Phoebe like this?’

‘You’re seriously confused, Marshall. Go away and leave me alone.’ She reached her car, unlocked the back and threw her gym bag inside. When she turned to walk around to the driver’s door, Marshall grabbed her by the shoulders and tried to kiss her on the mouth. She pushed him away. ‘You do that again and I’ll punch you. I swear it.’

‘Brooke—’

‘Piss off, Marshall. Keep away from me.’ Brooke clambered into the Suzuki, slammed the door and roared away, leaving him standing at the side of the road, red-faced and wild-eyed. A hundred metres down the street, she slammed her palms on the steering wheel. ‘Jesus
Christ
!’ she burst out in frustration.

By the time she’d reached her place in Richmond, the realisation had dawned on her that Phoebe’s five days in Devon were only going to make things worse. Marshall wasn’t going to leave her alone, the whole time. Five whole days free to pursue and harass her to his heart’s content. The situation was bound to escalate, and then she’d have little choice but to tell her sister what was happening.
Shit
. God only knew how things would go from there. Unthinkable.

As she parked the Suzuki and walked to the entrance of her ground-floor apartment, Brooke was thinking that maybe she
should
call Ben and get him to have a word with Marshall after all. Maybe the threat of a black eye was the only language Marshall would understand.

But then a better idea came to her. It wasn’t going to cure the problem, but it would put some distance between her and Marshall and buy her some time to figure out what to do.

She dumped her gym stuff in her apartment and then trotted up to the first floor and knocked on her upstairs neighbour’s door. His name was Amal, and he was a twenty-something ‘aspiring playwright’ who kept himself to himself and tended to be around during the day. In fact, she doubted he ever went anywhere. How he paid the dizzying rent was one of life’s great mysteries, but she didn’t ask. She was content to have a nice, dependable guy living upstairs on whom she could call from time to time and get him to water her plants while she was away.

The door opened. ‘Brooke. Hi!’Amal grinned at her like a long-lost friend.

‘Need to ask you another favour, Amal,’ she said apologetically.

He clicked his fingers and pointed at her. ‘The plants, right?’

‘You don’t mind?’

‘My pleasure. Off to Bob’s place in France again? How is he?’

‘It’s Ben.’ She’d been deliberately vague about him with Amal, and had never revealed too much about the nature of her work trips to Normandy. ‘Not this time. I’m nipping over to Portugal for a few days.’

‘Right. Holiday?’

‘More like a retreat. I have a place there, out in the countryside.’

‘Very fancy.’

‘You wouldn’t say that if you saw it. Believe me, it’s tiny – you’d hardly even call it a cottage. And very, very basic.’ In fact it had been a rustic hovel when Brooke had bought it, five years earlier. On her salary, it was the best she could afford. The plan had been to visit at least twice a year, doing the place up, renovating and decorating one bit at a time. That had been before Ben Hope had come into her life and she’d started spending more and more time in France. The tranquil, isolated little
finca
in the hills near Vila Flor was something she’d been neglecting lately, to the point where she’d been thinking of selling up.

Right now, though, she couldn’t think of a place she’d rather be.

‘You’re a star, Amal. I worry about that amaranthus.’

‘Leave it with me. It’ll be ten feet high when you get back.’

‘One thing, though. If anyone comes looking for me, don’t tell them where I’ve gone, OK? And I do mean
anyone
.’

‘No problem. I won’t breathe a word.’ Amal frowned in concern. ‘Everything all right, Brooke?’

‘Everything’s fine. I just badly need to get away from it all. And thanks. I owe you one.’

A quick phone call to Sturmer-Wainwright Associates was all she needed to square the time off work with her bosses. Five minutes later, she’d booked a flight online for seven-thirty the next morning. With a little luck she’d be at her place in Portugal for lunch.

As she started packing her things for the morning trip, she felt a pang of guilt at the thought of Ben. She desperately wanted to see him – and she would, the moment this stupid situation with Marshall was resolved. That couldn’t happen soon enough. She called his mobile number. No reply. After the tone she left her message:

‘Hey, babe, it’s me. You’ve probably been wondering why I haven’t been in touch. I promise I’ll explain everything as soon as I can, OK? Anyway, I’m going to my place in Portugal for a few days. Maybe a week or so. I need a break. Remember there’s no mobile signal there, so you won’t be able to call me – but don’t worry about me and I’ll see you soon. Miss you. Love you.’

172 kilometres southwest of St Petersburg, Russia

The gleaming black Mercedes S-Class limo pulled up on the lonely, empty stretch of country road. When its engine cut out, the only sound was the murmur of the wind and the cawing of a faraway crow. It was the kind of place few people ever passed through, and even fewer people stopped. The road was reduced almost to rubble by the ravages of too many hard winters. The few trees around looked starved and oppressed under the grey sky. The only feature in the bleak landscape was the ruined church steeple a few hundred metres away, its spire just visible from the road over the top of a grassy mound.

Grigori Shikov hauled his bulky frame from the rear of the limo and stretched away the stiffness that had crept through his limbs on the long drive. Spartak Gourko climbed out of the other rear door, while Yuri Maisky stepped down from the driver’s seat.

Barely a word had passed between them since St Petersburg. Gourko hadn’t spoken once. Maisky watched him walk around to the back of the car, pop the boot and take out a green military duffel bag and a large black combat shotgun. It was loaded with solid rifled slugs the size of wine corks, capable of blowing a man in half at thirty metres. Not that anyone was likely to disturb them out here in the middle of nowhere; though Maisky knew that Gourko would have relished the opportunity.

Shikov reached across his chest to his inside jacket pocket, took out a single sheet of paper and unfolded it. For the hundredth time since leaving Georgia, he studied the copy of the document he’d retrieved from inside the broken Goya frame. He glanced up from the paper to look at the distant church ruin. He licked his lips and nodded. ‘This is the place.’

They left the road, and Shikov led the way through the long grass. He was soon breathing hard with the exertion of crossing uneven terrain, but pressed on eagerly.

He’d waited a long time for this moment. Paid a heavy price for what he knew was waiting for him here.

He imagined turning it over in his hands. Caressing it with a lover’s touch. To be able to hold it, own it at last. The excitement was almost more than he could bear. Part of him couldn’t help but question whether acquiring the priceless lost relic – so long dreamed of, so far beyond his reach all these years – had been worth the death of Anatoly. Another part of him hated himself for thinking it.

And yet another part told him he’d thought, and done, things in his time that were far, far worse. He had little time to waste on idle sentiment, especially when something like this was about to become his.

Maisky followed. Gourko brought up the rear, the duffel bag slung over one shoulder and the shotgun dangling lazily at his side. At the top of the grassy rise, the old ruined church came into view. Crows had nested in its steeple, and all but one of the walls had long since crumbled to the ground, their fallen grey stones covered with moss and half obscured by wild flowers. A tree had grown up where the nave used to be.

The paper trembled in Shikov’s hand. The lie of the land was exactly as Borowsky had described. ‘This way.’ He led them over a low broken-down wall to the neglected graveyard beyond. Some of the graves had been grand once, but now the imposing monuments and statues were weathered and streaked with green lichen. Other gravestones were broken or misaligned, like bad teeth. Across the far side of the cemetery was the crumbling outer wall, and next to it an old oak tree.

The tree was the marker. Near to its foot, three simple graves were arranged in a row, the stones lying flat on the ground and half grown over. The resting places of three poor folks, three undistinguished lives that had met unremarkable ends and melted away into history. Shikov lowered his heavy bulk into a crouch and studied the weathered inscription on the first of the three gravestones. He shook his head and stepped over to the next one.

Not this one either. His face darkened. Just one left. He dropped down awkwardly on his haunches and tore away the clump of weeds obscuring the markings on the third gravestone.

‘Andrei Bezukhov,’ he muttered. ‘Born 1794, died 1853.’ He took a deep breath and looked up at Maisky, standing nearby. ‘This is it.’

‘I wonder who he was,’ Maisky said.

Shikov raised himself upright with a grunt of effort and gave his nephew an empty stare. ‘Who gives a damn who he was? It’s here.’ He nodded at Gourko.

Gourko propped the gun against the tree, unslung the duffel bag, reached inside and came out with a heavy iron wrecking bar. He rolled up his sleeves and then stabbed the chisel end of the bar deep into the grass at the edge of the gravestone. The muscles in his forearms bulged and veins stood out from his skin as he heaved it upwards, levering the heavy slab off the ground with a ripping of dead grass. Beetles and woodlice scuttled away from the rectangular patch of bare, damp earth it left behind.

Gourko tossed the wrecking bar down on the grass. He shoved his hand back into the duffel bag and took out a folding military entrenching shovel. As he began to dig, Maisky glanced around him nervously and Shikov looked increasingly restless.

Within less than a minute of fast digging, Gourko’s shovel blade struck something that sounded metallic.

‘Quickly,’ Shikov said. ‘Get it out.’

Gourko stabbed and chopped at the earth and uncovered the top of a metal box, like a small casket. It would have been too small for even a baby’s coffin, and was buried far too close to the surface. Gourko dropped the shovel and got down on his knees to dig around the casket with his hands. He prised the object from the ground and placed it on the grass at the graveside.

Maisky hadn’t seen the Tsar look this excited since the execution of Vladimir Drago and the heads of the four ruling families in ’94. He seemed to savour the moment like a gourmet dish being placed in front of him. He was almost rubbing his hands with glee.

‘So this is where Borowsky hid it.’ His voice was strangled and croaky with emotion. He cleared his throat and ordered Gourko to open the casket.

Gourko grappled with the domed lid of the metal box, but it was rusted shut. He reached down his leg, slipped a small double-edged commando dagger out of the hidden sheath he wore in his boot, and used its sharp tip to force the box open. The lid gave with a crack. Gourko wiped his blade carefully on his trouser leg and slipped the knife back into the boot sheath. He opened the casket and looked inside. His expression didn’t change. He glanced at Shikov. Stared back at the box.

‘Show me,’ Shikov said, panting with anticipation. Gourko slowly turned the casket round so they could see inside.

Empty.

Shikov left the cemetery looking as though he’d just attended the funeral of a dear friend. His shoulders were slumped in grim defeat as they walked back to the limo.

Inside the car, Maisky let out a long sigh. ‘Well, that’s that.’ He thought the old man was as grey as a corpse. ‘I’m so sorry, uncle. Maybe Borowsky went back for it,’ he added after a pause.

Shikov shook his head. ‘No.’

‘Maybe he lied about the whole thing.’

Shikov shook his head again. ‘Impossible.’

‘Then someone else must have taken it,’ Maisky said.

Shikov was silent for a long time. ‘And my boy died for nothing,’ he said quietly, and closed his eyes.

In the driver’s seat, Gourko said nothing.

Shikov was taken by a racking fit of coughing. He grabbed a pill from the tube in his pocket and gulped it down. When he’d finished coughing he said, ‘Spartak.’

Gourko slowly turned to look at him. His eyes stayed blank.

‘One item of business remains unfinished,’ Shikov said. ‘Until it’s done, you work only for me. Is that understood?’

‘Yes,’ Gourko said. It was the first word he’d uttered since they’d left Georgia.

‘You’ll return to Italy, or wherever necessary, and for as long as required. You’ll have unlimited resources. Men, money, transportation, weapons, no object. Eliminate anyone who gets in your way.’

Gourko nodded. A thin smile tugged at the scar.

‘Find this man who killed my boy. However long it takes. Whatever it takes. You find me this . . . this
Ben Hope
.’ Shikov’s eyes brimmed with sudden tears, and he wiped them with the back of his hand and sniffed, then collected himself. ‘You may hurt him if you wish. Hurt him very badly. But keep him alive, and bring him to me. I want to be there at the end. I want to be the one who finishes him. As he deserves to be finished. Is that clear, Spartak?’

Gourko nodded again, smiling more widely.

Shikov snapped his fingers. The tears were gone. ‘Start the car.’

Rome

The taxicab Ben took from the airport was a faded yellow Merc that had seen a lot of hard service and looked like it was a second home for the driver, a cheerful, chubby guy with curly hair. Ben read out the address on Tassoni’s business card, and the guy seemed pleased. It was right across the other side of Rome.

Almost 5.20 and the traffic was intense. As they hustled across town the driver played Iron Maiden loudly from rattling speakers, drummed on the wheel and sang along. His English was even less comprehensible than the lyrics the lead singer was belting out.