Tom Harper - The Book of Secrets

‘I told you to gather all the plates so I could bury them.’

He didn’t look up. ‘This is not yours.’

I crossed the barn and looked closer. The lamps shone into the grooves cut into the surface, a herd of lions and bears incised in copper.

‘This was the plate for the ten of beasts.’ Drach lined up the saw blade on the edge of the plate and drew it slowly across the metal. Sparks flew.

‘What are you doing? There is no need to destroy these. This is your art.’

The saw bit. A jagged gash appeared in the copper.

‘I am not destroying it; I am remaking it. We will need more money to continue with your art. I can make more cards and sell them. It will not be much, but it may tide us through.’

‘But you told me half the plates were gone. And now you are breaking this one too.’

‘This card is the sum of all the others. He put his palms against the plate so that he masked off different portions of it. ‘Here is one, and two, and three… I can break it into its parts and combine them to make any number I like.’

I wrapped my arms around him and hugged him close to me. His body was warm against mine, a perfect fit. I loved him.

And in that moment, an angel began to sing inside me. What Kaspar had done with the card, I could do with the indulgences.

We would tear it up and start again.

Strasbourg

On the dresser, the television played silent images of war and grief. Nick watched, hypnotised. The shock of Brother Jerome’s death left him numb.

He had to break the spell. He grabbed the remote and turned off the TV. ‘We need to leave.’

There was an unusual firmness in his voice, an urgency he’d never felt before. It snapped Emily out of her daze.

‘Where? There’s nowhere to go.’

‘Let’s start by getting out of here. The TV said the neighbours heard the shots this afternoon. Whoever did it was only a few hours behind us.’

‘Could they have followed us?’

‘Jerome was the one who suggested Strasbourg. He showed us the ex libris, told us the whole story of the Count of Lorraine. He must have guessed we’d come here. If he told them…’

They took the stairs down to the lobby, out into the street. He didn’t notice the black Audi parked opposite the hotel. The snow seemed to be coming down less heavily now, though there were still flakes whirling in the cones of light under the street lamps. Plenty had fallen already. They crunched deep footprints as they walked around the cathedral and down one of the side streets. Nick looked back but saw no one. The shops were shut, the workers gone home.

A few streets away, they found a small bistro that was open for dinner. It was only half full, but after the wintry solitude outside it felt cosy and welcoming, filled with candlelight and smoky smells of herbs, roasted meat and wine. They took a table behind a wooden pillar, hidden from the windows but with a view of the door, and ordered vin chaud and tartiflettes. In other circumstances it would have been a perfect romantic evening: candelight, hot wine, knees bumping under the small table. Now the intimacy just seemed another rebuke, a taunt from a world that had abandoned him.

He swirled his glass and stared at the dregs. ‘Atheldene was right. I don’t know what any of this means but it’s crazy.’

‘It means something to somebody,’ Emily countered. ‘If we weren’t on the right track, they wouldn’t keep trying to stop us.’

‘We’re not going to find Gillian.’ The words were bitter in his mouth. ‘All I’ve done is get people killed. Bret, Dr Haltung, now Brother Jerome.’

‘Brother Jerome was my fault,’ said Emily quietly. ‘If I hadn’t taken you there he’d never have been involved.’

‘If I hadn’t brought you here you’d never have been involved.’ Nick squeezed the stem of his wine glass, so hard he thought it would shatter.

He glanced up. Emily seemed not to have heard him; her face was fixed in an emotionless stare over his shoulder. He began to turn to follow, but she grabbed his hand and pulled him back.

‘Keep looking at me. There’s a man three tables behind you who’s been watching us for the last five minutes.’

Nick felt a familiar surge of dread. ‘What does he look like?’

‘Dark, heavy build. A crooked nose. Italian, maybe. He hasn’t taken off his coat since he came in.’

Nick flicked his eyes to the gilded mirror on the wall but couldn’t pick him out. His mind raced.

‘I’ve got an idea.’ His whole body was tensed, half expecting to feel a gun in his back any second. He locked his eyes on Emily’s to steady himself. ‘In a moment, we’ll have a blazing row. You’ll run off in tears to the bathroom. I’ll storm out the door. We’ll leave the bag on the table and see what he does.’

‘What if he comes after you?’

‘Then you come after him.’

‘And if he comes after me?’

‘Scream the place down. I’ll be right there.’ Nick gripped her wrist. ‘Are you ready?’

She nodded – then suddenly pushed back her chair and leaped to her feet.

‘How dare you say that?’ she shouted. Around the restaurant, the rattle of cutlery and conversation went still. Even Nick was shocked. ‘You don’t have a clue what I’m feeling.’

She looked wildly around, then threw up her hands and ran out to the toilets. Nick sat stunned for a moment, then pushed back his chair so that the bag hanging on the arm was clearly visible. He slammed a twenty-euro note down on the table and stalked to the exit, keeping his eyes glued to the floor.

Even before the door shut, he heard the scrape of a chair being hurriedly vacated. He ran along the well-trampled pavement to the nearest corner, ducked behind it and looked back.

Almost at once, the restaurant door banged open again. A thickset man in a long black coat strode out. The lantern over the door bathed him in yellow light. Nick glimpsed dark hair, dark skin, a boxer’s nose and his own backpack dangling from the man’s fist. There was something familiar about him – from the Belgian warehouse, perhaps? He looked briskly up and down the street, then pulled his keys out of his pocket. The man pressed whatever was in his hand. Orange lights blinked on a black Audi across the street. No snow had settled on the roof: it couldn’t have been there long. Nick tried to look inside, wondering if there was anyone else behind the dark windows.

The man crossed the street and opened the driver-side door. Nick made up his mind. The snow was silent underfoot. The man had his back to Nick and was fumbling with the backpack, perhaps making sure that the book was inside. He didn’t hear Nick coming until he was almost on top of him. Nick dropped his shoulder and drove his fists into the man’s stomach. All the anger, fear and frustration he’d endured in the last week released itself in that one moment of contact, a perfect spear of rage. The man doubled over; the keys fell out of his hand into the snow. Nick kicked them under the car, then kneed his adversary in the face. He grabbed for the bag.

But Nick was an amateur. The other man was a pro. Nick’s knee had unbalanced his opponent but not knocked him over. As Nick stretched out for the bag, the man’s big hand whipped out and closed around his arm. He twisted; Nick felt his arm almost torn off its elbow. His whole body was wrenched around. His feet skidded on the snow, lost their grip and slid from underneath him. The man threw him back onto the ground.

Nick gasped as the breath was forced out of him. Looming above, the man took a step back. For a split second Nick thought he might just turn and run. But he was only giving himself more space. He reached inside his coat and pulled out a pistol. It looked tiny in his hoof-like fist.