The Relic (30 page)

‘No trouble,' he said. He spoke to Volkov. ‘You a good sailor?'

‘I've never been in a boat.'

‘It's fun. Not so great in a storm, but today—beautiful. OK? Have a good trip!' He shook Volkov's hand briefly and jumped ashore. ‘Mr and Mrs de Groot say good luck and goodbye,' he called out. ‘They gone to buy provisions. If the boat don't start, they say come back to us. I tell them, she starts. I make sure of that!'

‘Say thank you again from us, won't you?' Lucy called out.

He waved and hurried back down the jetty. She turned and hugged Volkov.

‘We're all right, darling. We can cast off and start for home. Now, you undo the tow rope and wind up the anchor. Here, you just do this.'

He was clumsy and unsure, but he wouldn't let her use her bandaged hands. Everything had turned out extraordinarily well. They'd breakfasted with the hospitable Dutch couple and spent the morning watching the boy working on the engine.

Lucy knew by the steady throb that it was perfectly tuned. The sky was cloudless and a hot sun blazed down upon them. She went to the controls, leaving Volkov in the stern, and carefully eased the boat out through the other craft moored close by.

They began to rock, and a swell built up behind them as they cleared the congestion and approached the harbour mouth.

‘Are you all right, darling?' Lucy glanced over her shoulder at him.

He was sitting rigidly in the stern, holding the sides with both hands. Suddenly he smiled.

‘I'm more than all right,' He laughed. ‘I like it! When are you going to show me how to sail?'

‘When we're out at sea,' she said. ‘Don't worry, it's not hurting me. We'll keep to this speed. That boy certainly knew what he was doing. She's going like a bird!'

He said, ‘They were so kind, those people!'

‘They were wonderful,' Lucy agreed. ‘I took their address. I'll write and thank them properly.'

‘I was thinking last night while you were asleep,' he said, ‘how brave you are.'

She looked up at him and smiled. ‘Not as brave as you' she said.

Late that afternoon, long after they had left St Malo, Lucy pointed to a land mass on the horizon.

‘Look, you'll see Gorey Castle soon. We're home!'

Chapter 5

The watcher had set up a little tripod, with his binoculars fixed to it, trained on the bay below. He was eating out of a tin, hidden under a camouflaged sun shield. He had his equipment laid out ready. The automatic weapon was quite small, less deadly than the Armalite he preferred, but it fitted easily into the struts of his backpack, the firing mechanism and ammunition sealed up in cans of food.

He was a big man, fit and well-muscled. He'd trained with the French paras and been dismissed after serving a four-year gaol sentence for robbery. He hadn't hesitated when the offer of this kind of job came along. He had no political loyalties or prejudices. He had skills to offer which the French army had provided and he didn't care who paid him.

He had a bicycle hidden under more camouflaged sheeting outside. He had made one excursion in to St Hélier to leave the message for the woman at the restaurant. His instructions were to stay on watch and out of sight. He had spied out a little delicatessen in the village a mile down towards the bay. When he had to make the coded call to the hotel, he could use the phone he'd seen at the back of the shop. He had his story ready.

It was sweltering under the canvas. The sweat ran down into his eyes. He spooned up the last of his cold meal, tossed the empty can aside and swigged from a bottle of beer. It was tepid. He swore; he was impatient to get the job over, slip back to France and collect his money.

His instructions were clear. He was to monitor what happened at the house when the Russian woman and her goon arrived. Their job was to kill the girl he'd seen take out the boat, and her companion, after forcing them to hand over a cross. From this, he judged it better not to intervene if he heard screaming. When the Russians emerged, he was to eliminate them both, the woman with a shot to the head that could be seen as self-inflicted. Her body was to be disposed of among the other corpses, with a handgun left beside her. That had come in in pieces, in his saddlebag behind the bike. The body of the man she'd brought with her could be buried or thrown into the sea.

A single radio call to Carteret would bring a contact to the same restaurant in St Hélier, where he would hand over the cross and get himself on to the next ferry to St Malo.

He wiped his mouth and his sweating face and peered through the binoculars. He saw the small boat, its sail furled, cutting through the slight swell into the bay. Adjusting the focus, he was able to see the girl quite clearly. Blond, blue shirt, shorts. A man with her. He watched the boat slow, inch into its berth at the jetty and drop anchor. He remained absolutely still, concentrating like an animal stalking its prey.

The man helped the girl out, and put his arm round her. They walked up from the sparkling sand to the pathway among the rocks. Up to the little road that ran along the coast, and out of sight until they came into view again, climbing up the steep, grassy incline to the lower reaches of the garden, then through the wooden gate, and up a brick path among the flower borders.

He tightened the focus, bringing them into close-up. She was a goodlooking piece. The man looked like a Slav of some kind. She unlocked the front door and they went inside.

The watcher unscrewed his binoculars and folded down the tripod. He sent the radio signal to Carteret first. ‘Targets One and Two in place. Operation activated.'

He crept out, keeping low and hauled the bike from under its cover. A few minutes later he was pedalling towards the village and the delicatessen. It was pleasantly cool inside and he wiped his face with his forearm. The woman behind the counter said, ‘Good afternoon. Hot, isn't it?'

He smiled at her. He had strong white teeth and he was not bad looking, in a coarse way. She smiled back.

‘You have any Orangina on ice? And I need to make a telephone call, Mademoiselle. Can you help me? I'm meeting a friend in St Hélier and I'm going to be very late.'

‘There's a phone through there,' she said. ‘You're French? On holiday?'

‘Only a week unfortunately,' he shrugged. ‘I like to do a bit of walking, biking round the island and swimming. I'm going home tomorrow. I'll take three Oranginas; I'm gasping. Can I use the phone?'

‘Just give me twenty-five pence for the call,' she said. ‘I'll get the drinks. Bottles or cans?'

‘Bottles'll do fine.'

He grinned at her and made for the telephone. He dialled the number.

A voice said, ‘St Margaret's'.

He spoke as softly as he could.

‘Can I speak to Miss Szpiganovitch …'

He added a choc ice to his purchases and ate it outside the shop quickly before it melted. He went back the way he'd come and slipped under his shelter to watch the house. He guessed the Russian woman wouldn't waste time coming after them.

‘I can't believe we're home and safe,' Lucy said.

He picked up a photograph in a silver frame. ‘This is your father and mother with you? She was very pretty.'

‘She had lovely colouring,' Lucy said. ‘It doesn't show up there. It's very good of my father.'

‘I wish I had met them,' Volkov set the photograph down. He came to her and put both hands on her shoulders.

‘It's time to show me the Relic,' he said.

The shutters were fastened in her father's study. Volkov had to open them. Her hands were painful and very stiff. Sunshine poured in, lighting a million dust motes in its beam.

Everything was as he'd left it. The desk with his selection of pens, the shabby blotter he wouldn't replace because it was a Christmas present from his benefactor, Major Hope, the calendar with the date long past.

She said, ‘Move the desk out and pull up the rug.'

Volkov pushed it aside and rolled up the bright Persian rug. The surface of the parquet glowed dark in comparison with the sun-bleached floor. Lucy stepped forward and pressed the fourth square on the left. The flap rose up.

‘Can you get the box?' she said.

He knelt down to lift out the plain wooden box, and put it on the desk.

‘This is what my father dreamed of,' she said. ‘This very moment.'

The catch was simple, it slipped up and the lid rose. Slowly, reverently Volkov lifted out the gold cross. Red lights danced and flashed as he examined it; the frame was the honey colour of pure gold.

‘A thousand years of our history,' he said. ‘I don't know what to say.'

‘It belongs to you, now,' Lucy spoke quietly. ‘It will give you the power to free millions of our people. It's the proof that Communism didn't win.'

He held it between both outstretched palms. ‘It makes me afraid.' He looked up at her. ‘Am I strong enough, Lucy? Can I really go home and offer myself as a leader?'

‘You must,' she answered. ‘You have the Holy Relic. You've got no choice. You've been chosen.'

‘I could look at it forever,' he said. ‘I could just sit here and look at it.'

She came close and said softly, ‘I'll leave you alone for a while. I felt the same when my father showed it to me. Don't ever doubt yourself, my love. You were born for this. I truly believe that.'

She slipped out of the room.

It weighed very little. The workmanship was as delicate as lace. The big central stone was rounded and roughly polished so that its facets caught the light.

A bloodthirsty tyrant had commissioned it as a proof that he was converted to the Christian faith and would bring peace to the land and mercy to its people. There had been little peace and no mercy from the moment it disappeared from its shrine. Millions starved to death, were deported and murdered. Millions more were slain in Russia's most terrible war.

With the sun shining on him, Volkov's hands looked as if they were dipped in blood. He had never uttered even a mental prayer in his life. He didn't do so then. Lucy saw the hand of God. He felt the touch of history. Destiny had chosen him. She was right. He had no choice.

He laid the Relic back in its box, replaced it in the cunning floor cavity and pressed the section of the wood down. It fitted into the parquet, invisible in the design. The rug was laid on top, the desk manoeuvred back into place. A dead man had guarded his treasure well.

Lucy came to meet him when he left the room. He looked very pale. She put her arms round him and they held each other. They didn't speak.

‘Remus!'

She didn't knock. She opened the door and saw him lying on the bed, his shoes kicked off, his mouth agape, dozing.

His eyes opened and he jerked upright. ‘
Matiushka!
'

‘Get ready,' Irina commanded. ‘You've got work to do. I'll be downstairs. Hurry.'

She went down to the hallway. ‘Rudi' had telephoned and rung off without leaving any message. She'd turned her back on the woman's curiosity and gone upstairs to fetch him.

They
were on the island together. Celebrating their escape. Touching each other. She allowed herself a few seconds of mental torture before blotting out the image of Volkov with his hand on the woman, his mouth closing on hers. She was trembling.

Remus came downstairs. He moved very lightly for such a heavy man. Like a dog, he followed her outside.

‘Get in the back,' she ordered. It would take twenty minutes or so to negotiate the narrow country roads to St Catherine's Bay.

‘You know what to do?'

He nodded.

‘Don't be too hard,' she reminded him. ‘I only want him stunned. Just long enough to tie him up.'

‘Just a tap on the neck,' he promised.

‘They must give me the treasure they stole.'

She saw his reflection in the driving mirror. His eyes were bright and he had wet his lips. He had always reacted like that; violence excited him.

‘You'll torture the woman,' Irina instructed. ‘To make him tell us. If that doesn't work, then we'll make her watch while you work on him. One of them will break. Probably him.'

She bit her lip. She hoped so. She couldn't imagine sweeter music than the screams of Lucy Warren. But to see Dimitri suffer …

‘Men give in quickly when their women squeal,' Remus grunted.

Irina drove as fast as she dared on the twisting roads. Twice they met an oncoming car, had to pull to the side to let the other pass. She didn't want to lose the light. It was better to rush the house in daylight. The back-up was close by, she knew that. But he wouldn't be needed. Remus was at the right pitch of controlled brutality. She could feel the energy emanating from him in the confines of the car. He was like a coiled spring.

She slowed down and took a right turning off the road, which twisted and wound its way through green countryside and little wooded hills. There, just ahead of them, was the driveway leading to the house. On her left Irina could see the blue sparkle of the sea in the bay below, with its little marina and the few boats bobbing up and down on the evening tide.

She stopped the car under some trees. She could see the white painted façade up ahead. They wouldn't be visible.

He was so quiet she didn't hear him close the rear door. And then he was beside her. ‘You're serving the State, Remus,' she said. ‘You will punish our enemies.'

The watcher grunted. He'd seen the car and guessed where it was going. There wasn't another house in sight. He was right. They hadn't wasted any time. He bent low, watching the woman and the man begin to circle round the house to the back. He decided it was time for him to move in closer. He took his weapon and began to run, bent double, down the gentle rise to the level of the distant garden. As soon as he was out of sight of any passing car on the road above, he straightened and broke in to a fast loping stride that brought him to the shrubbery a hundred yards from the house. He waited. He heard a sharp scream that was cut short. He grinned. They were inside.