The Helios Protocol

The Inspector Fenchurch Mysteries

By

Carter Seagrove

Text Copyright© 2014

Carter Seagrove

All Rights Reserved

Contents

Author’s Note

Contact Information

Chapter One – Scotch

Chapter Two – In-flight Service

Chapter Three – Villa Melita

Chapter Four – Valetta

Chapter Five – Blue Grotto

Chapter Six – With Jupiter’s Assistance

Chapter Seven – The sect of Helios

Return to Fiavé

Epilogue

The Carter Seagrove Project

Alp Mortal

Chambers Mars

Reviews, Ratings and Recommendations

Author’s Note

‘The Helios Protocol’ is the fourth story from the series, The Inspector Fenchurch Mysteries. It follows immediately on Stradler’s Game (the 3rd) and Black Veil (the 2nd). The series debut is entitled The Blakely Affair. The first three stories are available in eBook format and obtainable through Amazon. The Helios Protocol is available exclusively from The Carter Seagrove Book Boutique.

Carter Seagrove is the pseudonym of authors Alp Mortal and Chambers Mars. The Carter Seagrove Project is our creative space. The Inspector Fenchurch Mysteries is the first output of the union following the experimental project Dust Jacket … and there will be others, including the recently launched bi-monthly newsletter and readers’ digest called The Window On The Workshop.

In The Helios Protocol, reeling from the events in Freiburg, Alfred and Adam are rescued by Yves and Webb; only to be sent to Malta to track down Fulshard and The Daughters of Helios ... they find a lot more than they bargained for and the final showdown with the traitor Fulshard is nothing like Alfred imagined. But only when Alfred and Adam return to Stradler’s family in Italy to visit William and pay their respects, do they find out the whole story of the Helios Protocol.

Part 5 of the series, The Fanshawe Scroll, a more traditional whodunit, based on the Isle of Wight, is already being penned.

We hope that you thoroughly enjoy the story and feedback is always welcome. Please email us or visit the websites to find out what we’re working on next.

Thank you!

Carter Seagrove

July 2014

Contact Information

www.carterseagrove.weebly.com

carterseagrove@outlook.com

www.alpmortal.weebly.com

www.chambersmars.weebly.com

alpmortal@hotmail.com

chambers.mars@gmail.com

Chapter One – Scotch

Who will remember us when we are dead? I travel along this path and believe that someone will mourn my passing and spend a moment to think kindly on their memories of me. The fact of the matter is, no-one will remember us, our deeds or our sacrifice.

“Alfred … say something.”

“He trained me; took a bullet for me in Marseille … and I have left him to be picked over like carrion by our enemies …”

“Was he dead?”

“Not dead … dying … as good as.”

“Where are we stopping?”

I don’t care anymore but that is not our way; if I don’t honour his memory then who will?

“Just before Mullheim there is a road which goes past the aerodrome and on to Innerberg … take the road and stop at Innerberg. There is a barn – least there was – we’ll hole up there for a few hours.”

By the time we reach the barn it is midnight. We have no provisions and only through force of habit do we have our papers in our pockets.

“Do we cross at Neuenburg?” asks Adam.

“I’m wondering if we shouldn’t try and board one of the barges bound for Basel and slip in that way … until we get to the French or Swiss side then we’re fair game.”

“Drive to Galgenloch and try and board a barge as they slow down for the section through Kapellengrien …”

“Yes, okay.”

“I’m sorry, Alfred … he was-”

“The best of men, of brothers and of comrades …”

What the hell am I going to say to William?

“Come and lie with me, Alfred; we can get a few hours’ sleep before making our run for it; the first barge won’t come through before dawn.”

For the first twenty years, since yesterday, I scarce believ’d, thou could’st be gone away. For forty more, I fed on favours past and forty on hopes, that thou would’st, they might last. Tears drown’d one hundred, and sighs blew out two. A thousand I neither think, not do, or not divide, all being one thought of you; or in a thousand more, forget that too. Yet call not this long life; but think that I am, by being dead, immortal; can ghosts die?[1]

oOo

“Let’s go!”

It’s four o’clock in the morning and we’re slipping out of the barn, estimating it to be an hour to the river where, if we’re lucky, we’ll slip aboard a barge which will take us to Basel and the rendezvous with Yves and Webb. I have the Reichsmarks in my pocket should it be necessary to ‘buy a ticket’.

We take the road back past the aerodrome and there is a Caproni CA 102 on the airstrip – which was not there when we passed by earlier – and it is painted in Borelli Industries colours.

“Adam, stop!”

“Why?”

“That’s Borelli’s plane … that cannot be a coincidence … maybe Yves heard something on the transmitter.”

“Or it’s a trap … what do you want me to do?”

“Pull off of the road there and we’ll risk it.”

Two things happen simultaneously; three black cars appear over the brow of the hill which is a mile to our west and the aircraft starts up and someone is signalling with a light from the cargo bay door.

“It’s Yves; C’MON!”

The cars are advancing and the plane is creeping along the runway but gaining speed. Adam and I have no choice but to scale the fence which runs along the edge of the airstrip, separating it from the road. Adam leaps first, hitting the bottom of the fence like a trampoline to propel himself halfway up and high enough to grab the top edge. He hauls himself up, swinging one leg over to steady himself as he holds out his hand for me. I bounce off of the fence as he did and grab his hand, at which point he swings his other leg over to counter the weight and effectively lifts me so that I can reach the top. I grab the top of the fence with both hands and push off with my feet, moving my body to the side as I come off of the bounce to vault the fence and land the other side, rolling like a parachutist. Adam is already up and in a position to grab me under the arm and drag me into a run, using all of my momentum to propel us forward.

The three black cars have reached the entrance to the aerodrome but the bar across the entrance has got to be lifted before they can drive in. Adam and I are running at full pelt towards the side of the aircraft, gaining quickly, now within range of Yves’s shouting.

“Get a bloody move on!”

The bar is up and the cars are moving around the hangar and lining themselves up with the head of the runway for the chase; so far I have heard no gunfire.

We’re within fifty yards of the plane but I feel myself slowing down and Adam is having to pull me along.

“C’MON!” shouts Yves; neither Adam nor I have breath to spare to answer him.

The first detonation nearly knocks us clean off of our feet. It appears that one of the cars has tripped a landmine. The carcass of the Olympia is cartwheeling towards us; body panels and tyres are flying off in all directions. It ignites and the fireball envelopes the other two cars which swerve to avoid the carnage.

We’re by the tail of the plane and six more seconds separate us from the cargo bay door. Adam sprints forward and launches himself into the open doorway, immediately swinging round and leaning out to grab my hand which is inches from his.

“Grab my hand, Alfred!”

The energy from the second detonation literally hurls me into his arms.

“GO-GO-GO!” I hear Yves scream as Adam pulls me to safety. Our speed increases and Yves slides the door into place and scrambles up front to join Webb in the cockpit. Adam and I remain sprawled out on the floor of the cargo bay until we are airborne.

“You need to give up smoking.”

“I will … the second after people stop trying to kill me.”

“Black Veil?”

“A safe assumption … I wonder where we’re going.”

“Malta, gentlemen,” pipes in Yves, “can I offer either of you a drink?”

“Whiskey and soda?”

“Single malt?”

Chapter Two – In-flight Service

“How did you know where to find us, Yves?”

“Gut instinct … as soon as the ticker tape started to spew out of the machine in Badenweiler, our operative relayed the facts and I had to decide where to intercept your getaway.”

“Whose transmission did Badenweiler pick up?”

“Not the police … a transmission between the bank in Freiburg and an unidentified receiving station in Basel - almost certainly Black Veil’s - and judging by your reception, it was almost certainly being read by Fulshard at the same time as me.”

“So you know what happened?”

“Enough … and as there are only two of you …”

“We had to leave Stradler behind … he was …”

“… bleeding to death.”

Adam answers for me; I cannot say the word for the ashes which clog my throat.

“Who?”

“Pierre and one other … we shot Pierre and wounded the other operative but he got away.”

Though it doesn’t come as much of a shock, still Yves sighs very heavily and retreats to the rear of the compartment where there are some seats. He throws himself into one of them and remains inert for the next hour. During which time, Adam joins Webb in the cockpit and I remain seated on the floor, staring out of the cargo bay door window at the Alps beneath us; the tips of which, being ice capped, catch the dawn and send a thousand scintillating darts into the sky. It isn’t mere fancy or sentimentality that I imagine that one of those darts is my best friend being sent on his way.

As the light improves, I’m agreeably surprised by just how well-appointed this aircraft is; and the engines have an unfamiliar beat, suggesting that they are not production standard Bristol Jupiters.

“Prototype, supercharged, twelve radial piston engines producing six hundred and fifty horsepower a piece.”

“Alfa Romeo?”

“In conjunction with Borelli … I’m sorry, Alfred.”

“He was the best friend a man could possibly wish for.”

“He was the best operative that this service has ever had the honour to claim as its own … the answers are in Malta, Alfred … I wish that retaliation could be swifter but as they say-”

“A dish best served cold?”

“In my experience … infinitely better.”

“I will not rest until the person who ordered the hit is lying dead at my feet.”

“And if that happens to be Fulshard?”

“God help him if it was …”

oOo

Our flight aboard this modified CA102 will take six hours; a constant two hundred miles an hour with no re-fuelling stop courtesy of the enlarged tanks. Its predecessor, the CA101, had three engines; one under each wing and one on the nose. The 102 dispenses with the nose mounted engine for improved aerodynamics. The rather slender, slightly over-sized nose cone has earned the aircraft the nickname of Pinocchio.

Adam appears to be content to remain in the cockpit with Webb. I don’t blame him for I am poor company, aimlessly searching out passages in my faithful Donne which might just alleviate the crushing depression which I am feeling right now. Yves is laying out tarot cards and mumbling to himself, occasionally sipping his whiskey and berating me for lighting up another cigarette.

“Where are we landing, Yves?”

Malta remains a British colony and I am expecting him to say Hal Far.

“A private airstrip near Golden Bay. The Borelli’s have a villa there and the son has agreed to assist us by allowing us to use it as a refuge … I believe he wants to meet you.”

“Why?”

“You were present at his father’s death … and apparently you alone know where the Bugatti is to be found.”

I ignore the comment, inwardly smiling at the thought of young Francesco and Marianne making trips into Trento in the mythical beast.

“What’s the plan, Yves?”

“Let’s wait until we’re at the villa … have you ever had your cards read?”

“My mother reads the cards but she refuses to read ours.”

“Fascinating subject …”

I am trying to avoid giving vent to any impulse on my side to encourage Yves to read the cards; I don’t trust them. However, try as hard as I might to give the impression that they do not interest me, he persists in picking up three cards and turning them over.

“Well, well, well …”

“For goodness sake, Yves! They don’t mean anything.”

“Then there can’t be any harm in looking at them, can there? It’ll while away a few minutes.”

“Fine …”

“The Fool-”

“You needed a card to tell you that!”

“Judgement-”

“I’m a policeman, for goodness sake!”

“The Lovers …”

“If you can interpret love, Yves, then you will have my undying gratitude.”

“I thought you were the poet.”

“I read it; I don’t write it.”

“Therein lies the problem perhaps …”

“So, what do the cards tell you?”

“You are no fool, Alfred … but you are unwise in believing solely in Fate … you observe but you do not see the full depth - or the reality - of the truth of what you see. Judgment indicates that you are in the process of a fundamental transformation … regeneration … look for Jupiter’s assistance in the shedding of the old skin … it also signifies that you are a man of principle and in the process of change avoid vanity-”

“Should I not buy the car?”

Yves ignores my quip.

“… your love for Adam will guide you in everything that you seek to do …”

Before I can respond, Yves gets up and swaps with Adam in the cockpit.

“You look thoughtful …”

“Two-tone blue with a body by Castagna …”

“Alfred?”

“The car … anyway, not before we’ve wormed our way out of this hole. Not that I have a clue what we’re actually doing here.”

“Webb told me that the station in Badenweiler picked up a number of instructions to transfer large sums of money to the Valetta branch of the Freiburg bank … and he mentioned something called a binary machine … what does that mean, do you think?”

“It is a sort of mechanical calculator which can be programmed to perform complex calculations - I believe a German scientist has designed one. They call such things computers … which sounds dreadfully boring - and no doubt they are expensive. In whose name were those transfers made?”

“Would you believe D H Holdings?”

“That barely qualifies as a cover. Do we know why?”

“Not yet established … Did Yves say if Fulshard was here?”

“Not in so many words … but my guess is yes and the money arriving at the same time cannot be a coincidence. Yves promised me that we would get the full briefing once we reach the villa … which is owned by Borelli by the way.”

“The son; Webb told me … he also loaned us the aircraft. Why are the Borelli’s assisting us?”

“Some concession or other … perhaps Borelli Industries is angling for a government contract; it’s always about money.”

“Have you been reading your cards?”

Adam has espied the cards on the table; the three cards which Yves picked up are lying on the pull out table in front of me.

“No; Yves wished to while away a few minutes.”

“The Fool, Judgement and The Lovers … what does it mean?”

“It doesn’t mean anything.”

Nothing makes sense.

Wallowing in the doldrums of my shock – and I can’t yet say grief – is no good for us; not if there is a job to do … and then there is the prospect of confronting Fulshard. He may not have pulled the trigger but he ordered the hit. He’s ordered me to hit someone … many times … I would have pulled the trigger myself if it had been proved that Stradler had betrayed us.

We have a few hours left in the air and, as Yves seems happier to be flying, Adam and I are left to our own devices; not that there is anything to do except watch the landscape disappear behind us as we fly along the length of Italy, intending – says Webb – to take a broad clockwise sweep around the island and approach from the north-east to land at Borelli’s own airstrip which lies a mile or two inland from the coast. The villa is, apparently, an architectural gem, just like the villa in Nice.

Adam is reading; some science fiction periodical which he is addicted to, which Yves must have picked up.

Yves’s words are like itches which cannot be scratched; they have unsettled me. I am more of a fatalist than perhaps I care to admit to being; therefore, I couldn’t have saved Stradler if to die was his fate. Then it feels like fate is a convenient lever with which to extract the guilt, like taking a pin and hoicking a whelk out of its shell.

His actions, in retrospect, beggar belief in some ways; to stand and face out the enemy without his weapon drawn; what was he thinking?

The coded phrase he used is not in our training; it is meaningless and clichéd. The response was equally meaningless but it felt like it was expected, programmed … clearly expected.

These two phrases have me chewing on something more productive than guilt. Obviously, they are coded messages or instructions much like those we all are trained to use in many different types of circumstances. Often, they are for the purposes of proving our credentials. But why German? Almost as if Stradler was hiding something; hiding a code within a phrase which he knew that Adam and I would not instantly recognise and might struggle to translate – and consequently recognise as important. They have no literal meaning to us; therefore the phrases are coded and normally that would indicate an anagram. But a phrase of that length could give rise to tens if not hundreds – or even thousands - of possible alternative words and phrases; and I have two phrases to decode. And as Stradler ensured that we could hear them, they were intended to convey some information to us; though I’m struggling to think what he could possibly need to hide which he couldn’t have just shared with us at dinner that night. Then I am reminded that he insisted that we travel via Vaduz and he never disclosed the reason. A deadly game … a lethal game … one he alone was playing; but knowing him a little better now, I cannot believe that it was for any other reason than to protect his family and William, and perhaps Adam and me.

A series of words or another phrase hidden within these two sentences which have meaning to us … which could be crucial to our survival.

Scribbling away on a scrap of paper produces a long list of words and even a few intelligible phrases but nothing jumps out. Already feeling frustrated, I push the paper aside and concentrate on Adam, watching him as he reads, feeling the weight in my heart lift a little.

“Kind pity chokes my spleen; brave scorn forbids those tears to issue which swell my eyelids; I must not laugh, nor weep sins, and be wise …”[2]

All kinds of thoughts trample through my head; some are uncharitable … how dare he die! Some are fruitless … he may have lived. Some are evil … he lied. Some are naïve … he sacrificed himself for the greater good. All are eroding at the edges of my memories of him; this is torment. No man held within the fibre of his being more honour and humility … he loved William as I love Adam; so why then desert the stage when it appeared to be wholly unnecessary?

I suppose it will remain Stradler’s game … he met his match; we all do in the end.

Sensing that my maudlin is becoming infectious and I see Adam start to fidget, I turn over the piece of paper and do as Yves suggests and compose a poem … vain folly to think that I could ever write anything as good as Donne which will convey a grain of the same honesty.

“What are you doing?” Adam asks.

“Composing a poem … and trying to make sense of it all.”

“He died to protect us, in the line of duty … we would have done the same.”

“Something doesn’t feel right about that night or the alleyway; he sacrificed himself. We could have easily shot our way out; his death was not worth the knowledge that Pierre had betrayed us.”

“Who was the other man, Alfred, do you suppose?”

“Not Fulshard; he wasn’t tall enough to be Fulshard … Who was that mutinous Dutchman we met in Marseille?”

“Peter Lethe … I never did much care for him or his manners … read me the poem.”

“It isn’t finished … What is the time?”

“One o’clock; another hour before we land.”

“Finish your reading; I have a feeling there won’t be much opportunity for that - or poetry - once we get back on the ground.”

Chapter Three – Villa Melita

The airstrip is barely visible from the air; hardly more than a beaten track. However, as we sink lower, it is apparent that the strip, albeit narrow and short, is more than just a dusty scar and touching down proves it to be well-made and of fairly recent construction. Yves did not return to the cabin before we landed.

Once we have come to a complete stop, Webb turns the craft around and we trundle back along the two mile runway to the shed. Yves re-joins us.

There is a car waiting, beside which we can see a man who resembles that kind and gentle farmer who took Thillot’s bullet for me; something else I do not yet understand.

“Borelli?”

“Yes, Alfred …”

I am a little nervous. Even at this distance – and through the glass – I sense the anger and barely restrained recriminations, waiting to be levelled at my head. Was I not meant to protect the old man?

“He doesn’t look very happy to see us, Yves,” Adam suggests.

“I gave him my assurances that his father would be perfectly safe … if he is angry with anyone, then it is with me … answer his questions as honestly as you can, Alfred.”

I find my throat to be dry and the taste in my mouth, sour; a mix of whiskey and cigarettes on an empty stomach.

Yves opens and slides back the door, exposing us to the heat which is stifling. He jumps down first and steps lightly to where Borelli is standing, stretching out his hand long before he has reached the man. The hand is grasped enthusiastically and shaken vigorously. I believe it could have gone either way. Taking it as a sign, Adam and I jump down and walk across to the edge of the concrete to be introduced.

“Antonio, may I introduce Inspector Alfred Fenchurch and PC Adam Cowley? … Gentlemen, this is Antonio Borelli …”

I don’t know if I should speak or wait for Antonio to say something first.

“Welcome to Villa Melita, gentlemen. You look hot and tired; why don’t we go to the house and get something to drink?”

“Thank you …”

We wait for Webb before climbing into the Fiat 508 parked by the shed. Borelli jumps into the driver’s seat and expertly navigates us through the scrub, avoiding the deep ruts and huge boulders, finding a path which still tests the suspension of the car but is sufferable. After two miles in the direction of the coast, we drive through a lone archway – a genuine megalith in fact – which denotes the boundary of the property and marks the head of a smoother road which progresses towards an outcrop of rock. However, as we near the outcrop, from within the sweltering heat haze, its true shape materialises into something like a pyramid, rough-hewn and decaying. Driving around it, we are presented with our first view of the sea and despite the heat and airlessness, I can smell the salt. The pyramid – another prehistoric relic – masks a courtyard. We draw into the courtyard and are presented with a true wonder of the world; the face of the pyramid which faces out to the sea is smooth and polished, decorated with carvings of immense size and skill-defying intricacy. A similar megalith to the one we found at the head of the driveway forms a doorway into the interior of the structure.

“What is this place, Signor Borelli?”

“Please call me Antonio, Alfred … the villa is built into and above an ancient temple complex which is older than the pyramids of Egypt; a relic of our Mgarr past. Most of the accommodation is subterranean and there is a tunnel which runs down to the shore. But I don’t think it is my home that you came to see, is it, Yves?”

“I haven’t said anything, Antonio …”

“Probably wise but time is of the essence …”

Antonio leads us across the courtyard, which is paved with small, hexagonal stones interspersed with others which appear to be made from coloured glass, and through the archway into the villa. Immediately beyond the edge of the stone wall, the temperature plummets and I shudder. Then we pass through a doorway with a massive wooden door, into a spacious room which is too grand to be called a foyer or hallway. The light filters in through shafts which work their way down from the higher parts of the pyramid above. In the rosy light – coloured by the stone – the furniture and furnishings become visible once the eye has grown accustomed to the gloom. A temple it was and a temple it remains; austere and hard. The modern furniture – all imported from Paris – clings to the stone like lichen. A staircase leads down and in the direction of the sea. It is down this staircase that Antonio leads us to a better lit salon which feels much more comfortable.

“The courtyard tiles are mostly glass … In antiquity, this room would have been open to the sun; a temple to Helios.”

My heart skips a beat and I throw Yves a glance, seeking reassurance. I receive a smile in return; though there is a nervousness playing around the edges of his mouth.

A woman appears from out of nowhere, carrying a tray upon which there are five glasses.

“Bellini, gentlemen … the peaches and the grapes come from my estate outside of Palermo … did you know that Malta has no rivers?”

“Yes … this is not our first visit.”

The tone of my reply is carefully chosen to convey – as much to Yves as it is to Antonio – that we are not holidaymakers or archaeologists.

“Ah … of course … at least finish your drinks and smoke a cigarette before I show you what all the fuss is about.”

Those words irk me. Stradler’s death is not something to couch in such terms. But before my head of steam threatens to pop my lid, Yves begs me for a cigarette and his eyes counsel forbearance. I grudgingly soften the hard edge of my lips and unclench my jaw. Then I remind myself that the man lost his father; perhaps this is his way of dealing with the grief … and I wonder when he is going to ask the difficult questions. I finish my drink and smoke a cigarette whilst casually examining some books which are spread out on one of the many low tables; mostly engineering themed and a few picture books full of photographs of important island monuments.

“Yves …”

With this, Antonio brings us together again, leading us down another staircase to a lower suite of rooms which appear to be the principal living quarters; the entire floor is similarly lit by shafts fed by the courtyard. On this floor, unlike the one above, there are antechambers and alcoves; I presume they were burial chambers and devotional spaces. One such area is closed off by a steel door. It is towards this door that Antonio leads us. He withdraws a key from his jacket pocket and with a quick glance at Yves, inserts the key and unlocks the door, pushing it back as he steps forward, reaching to his left to flip a light switch.

Much to our surprise, the door opens onto a gallery which overlooks a room which is some ten feet beneath us. We follow Antonio along the metal walkway to a set of metal stairs which lead down to this sunken room in which there appears to be a large piece of machinery … but a machine the like of which I have never before seen.

“Well, gentlemen, here it is … may I present Binarius?”

“What is it; what does it do?” I ask, vainly searching out recognisable components and finding none.

“This, gentlemen, is commonly referred to as an automated theorem checker, a binary engine … a computer … or, as my father termed it, the Mother of the new age of technology. It is the most technically advanced machine ever conceived by the human mind.”

“If this is the Mother … where is the Father?”

Antonio turns to Yves and receives an imperceptible nod.

“The Father of this machine, Adam, is an Italian scientist by the name of Luciano Limbeck … and he has been missing for a week, believed kidnapped by the Daughters of Helios.”

“Why?”

“Because, Alfred, he alone can build this machine … and my fear is that he is being press-ganged into building one for the enemy …”

“The enemy?”

“Black Veil … we think.”

“Hence the money which was transferred to the branch of the Freiburg Bank in Valetta … funds for the purchase of materials and tooling,” Yves proposes.

“Does it matter; we have this one, don’t we?”

“It isn’t complete, Adam. There is a vital component which Luciano still had to manufacture. Without it we have no advantage and the enemy will quickly catch up and overtake us … and I don’t suppose for a moment that they will be as tolerant of Luciano’s interminable delays as I have been … we have to find him and get him back.”

“What does it do; what advantage does it represent?”

“In very simple terms, gentlemen, this engine will condense the efforts of hundreds of engineers, mathematicians and scientists into a handful of hours without the need for rest or the input of any more energy than is needed to power a single light bulb … every technological advance needed to win the next war will be achieved by this machine.”

Both Adam and I turn to Yves.

“We think that Limbeck is somewhere on the island; the money suggests it … it is for you to find him and bring him back here alive … and if you could destroy anything he has been forced to build for the enemy, all the better …”

“Are we sure he was kidnapped?”

“Nothing would have induced him to leave here, Alfred.”

“How can you be so sure?”

A tension springs from somewhere and I can’t work it out. Yves coughs politely and catches my eye.

“Luciano is devoted to the ideals of the Borelli’s and their commitment to maintaining a free Europe. He and Antonio are very closely aligned on this particular project and how the science will be propagated amongst our allies … one might say they have a bond as close as you and Adam have when it comes to their … ideology.”

Oh!

“I understand perfectly … where do we look for him, Yves?”

“Valetta … start with the bank. And Luciano was in Valetta when he went missing; perversely, paying a visit to the bank.”

“Gentlemen, why don’t we break up and reconvene for dinner. Maria will show you to your rooms.”

I get the impression that Antonio wishes to prepare himself for the questions he wants to ask me and the answers which I have for him.

The housemaid shows us to a suite of rooms on a lower level which has access to the passageway that runs down to the edge of the water where there is a diving platform. In our room, we find clothes and articles des toilettes; also swimming trunks and towels.

“So he and Luciano are-”

“Brothers, Adam … fancy a dip?”

“I need you …”

It feels like years have passed since we were just us, allowing ourselves the luxury of a prolonged embrace; all of our defences down albeit the guns placed strategically on the bedside table. I am welcomed into those strong arms and dive into oblivion, finding my faithful companion in the depths and he has lost none of his potency; dare I say, he has missed me. A god with thighs of magma, forcing his material up and through the neck of the cone to send up plumes of ash and cascades of fire to rain down on my up-turned face; and where the flaming fists pound the surface of my opaline-coloured needs, the phoenix of our love is re-born.

“I love you, Alfred.”

“You are everything to me, Adam … I love you so much.”

oOo

Antonio must have spent a small fortune on the clothes which we found in our room. I, myself, usually avoid anything too dressy; Adam is happiest wearing nothing at all. The clothes are made from light-weight linen or silk in burnt pastel shades. I like the shoes which are made from canvass with rope soles. The linen shorts and shirts expose my arms and legs and the tell-tale markings of a man who has a mixed heritage; that doesn’t bother me anymore, but the pale patches of my skin are sensitive and easily sun-burned.

“Let’s take a dip!”

With only a towel in our hand and the canvass shoes on our feet, we walk along the passageway to the diving platform. The tide is high and the water is lapping at the edge of the small terrace making our entry into the water much easier. There are stone steps which begin at the front edge of the platform and disappear under the water.

Adam steps down from the platform first and navigates the steps, sinking out of view slowly until the water is up to his chest, at which point he pushes off but turns immediately to face me, treading water.

“It’s so good!”

I enter the water in the same way and very soon we are paddling around, exploring this natural cleft in the cliff which measures no more than fifty yards from the platform to the open sea and it is probably fifty yards wide at the sea gate; a little nick in the coast.

An hour of swimming from one side to the other and out to the open sea is sufficient to invigorate us and wash the dust out of our hair. We do not venture outside of the entrance because the tides are very strong here and as it is, the tide is going out and the tow is fearsome.

Drying off whilst standing on the platform, Adam suggests, “Perhaps Borelli’s machine can be used to decode the anagrams …”

“I have no idea … I will ask him because as it stands, there are too many possible answers and it would not be Stradler’s way to pose this riddle without giving us a fighting chance of working it out.”

“Will you go and see William?”

“Yes, of course … as soon as we are done here. Will you come with me?”

“Of course … and in any event, Borelli will no doubt want his Bugatti back.”

I am suddenly reminded of something.

“Borelli told me that the car was intended to be a gift to his son on the occasion of his wedding … so where’s the girl?”

“Palermo?”

“Perhaps … maybe Luciano left because of it.”

A moment of silent cogitation is interrupted by the arrival of Yves at the mouth of the tunnel.

“We are meeting in half an hour in the main salon; there has been a development.”

Before either of us can ask, Yves disappears back along the tunnel. Half an hour later, we are installed in the salon with more drinks and some bigilla, waiting for Yves. Antonio has made polite conversation for the last few minutes; those questions about his father still sit on his lips unvoiced. I would broach the subject and I am about to when Yves appears.

“It would seem that the enemy is further advanced than we first thought. Badenweiler has picked up a transmission placed by the bank in Valetta to a metal dealer in Cologne for a quantity of Promethium-”

“Promethium!”

“Yes, Antonio … and whereas you and I know what it is used for, Alfred and Adam do not.”

“It is used in the construction of the power source; we call such things atomic batteries. Luciano has perfected the original beta cell developed by Moseley … if the enemy is trying to source Promethium then Black Veil must be further advanced than we thought … but how?”

We all jump to the same conclusion but allow Antonio to shoot the idea down in flames.

“Luciano would never have betrayed us!”

“Then the enemy got hold of the plans months ago and someone else has been building their machine. Maybe Luciano was kidnapped because they have encountered some difficulties or it is to install this battery … who had access to the plans?”

“Only Luciano and myself … they are kept in the room which you saw earlier …”

“No-one else?”

“My father insisted that a copy of the plans was made and placed in the private family vault at our bank in Milan …”

“Would you be good to enough to find out if they are still there, Antonio?”

“Yes, of course, Yves.”

Antonio rushes out to contact the bank and we are left with the same thought.

“The bank must have records of who has accessed the vault.”

“No doubt, Alfred … it would appear that Black Veil’s reach is longer than we realised. If the enemy is further advanced and close to perfecting their machine then the stakes just got higher.”

“And if we are planning to destroy theirs-”

“Then we can safely assume, Adam, that they plan to destroy Borelli’s once theirs is operational.”

“So our priority is to find their installation.”

“Yes it is, Alfred … and my gut tells me that as soon as Limbeck has manufactured and installed the battery then his days are numbered.”

“So where do we start?”

“I still say at the bank. Tomorrow morning, you and Adam will go to the bank and attempt to find out as much as you can about D H Holdings … Borelli can furnish you with credentials which will provide your cover as directors of Borelli Industries, based here in Malta … you are planning to do business with D H Holdings and you are merely completing the necessary due diligence prior to signing a contract … that should do it.”

Whilst it is in my mind, I ask Yves about Borelli’s betrothal.

“That is news to me, Alfred … Antonio has never mentioned any plans to get married.”

“So why did his father say that the Bugatti was a wedding gift?”

“Because it was, Alfred.”

Antonio has returned.

“Yves, the bank is checking its records of who has accessed our vault … Webb will wait for the reply and bring it to us as soon as they have answered. In answer to your question, Alfred; my father planned to give us the Bugatti once the machine was completed and we had time to prepare for the ceremony.”

“We?”

“Luciano and I … when we excavated this temple and built this house, we found a strange little tomb. The wall art and the pottery are said to be six thousand years old. In that tomb were the graves of two men. All evidence suggests that these men were partnered … and accepted as such. Luciano and I may never be accepted by society but our ancestors understood.”

“What sort of ceremony are you planning to have?”

“A simple ceremony of thanks giving and the exchange of rings … I was due to collect them from Valetta tomorrow in fact.”

“And your father-”

“Understood and had given us his blessing …”

It doesn’t surprise me, knowing him a little.

“… did he suffer?”

“He did not suffer; the bullet went straight through his heart and he died instantly.”

“That is something. His body is being returned to us and the funeral is being held in Palermo in a week’s time. I would like to go with Luciano.”

“Then we’d best find him!”

An hour later, just before dinner is served, Webb delivers the list of the names of the bank employees and Borelli personnel who have accessed the private Borelli vault. It is a long list and likely to take Antonio and Yves a good while to investigate. Dinner is curtailed and Adam and I are left to plan our visit to the bank the following morning. I also have a thought which I am strangely reluctant to share with him.

“What is it, Alfred? You have something on your mind.”

“Would you … I mean … just like Luciano and-”

“Yes.”

During a break later in the evening, I ask Antonio if Adam and I might see the tomb.

“Yves and I are nearly done with identifying possible candidates … I will take you there myself.”

Once Antonio and Yves have finished their sifting of the names on the list, Yves and Webb start to refine the list by comparing it against other lists; for which they decamp to the telegraph room.

Antonio provides us with credentials for the visit to the bank and gives us a brief rundown of the Borelli operations on the island which are centred on the mining of salt and limestone.

“If you wish to see the tomb then now is a good time, gentlemen; the moon is full tonight!”

This doesn’t quite make sense so we are even more intrigued.

We follow him into the main room - the grand hallway – above us. Mounting some stairs, we climb higher and higher into the rough-hewn pyramid. The stairs occasionally stop at what we loosely describe as landings where we traverse short passages to find more stairs, all of which lead us upwards.

The way becomes narrower and the ceilings of the passageways become lower and lower and in the end, we’re practically crawling. After turning one of the many corners we have encountered, the passageway is so much brighter than it was lower down. At the end of this passageway, there is a final staircase carved out of the limestone which opens out into a chamber roughly the size of the cabin of the aircraft in which we arrived.

The source of the light here and in the passageway is now explained; the room is open to the sky. However, we are mistaken in thinking that the room has no roof; it does but one made of a crystal which is so clear that it looks like glass.

“No-one has ever seen crystal like this … an archaeologist who saw it called it ‘specular stone’.”

“It were but madness now t’impart the skill of specular stone, when he which have learn’d the art to cut it, can find none.”

“What is that?”

“It is from the poem, The Undertaking by John Donne.”

In the moonlight, it is easier to see the carvings on the walls which Antonio believes were once painted, now faded and barely visible. In the spaces between the light and shadow, a life story is told. One of the men was a Shaman and the other appears to have been his acolyte. On either side of the room, there is a simple stone sarcophagus. Upon the lids there are carvings which resemble the sun, albeit one is partly damaged but Antonio thinks it was carved to represent an eclipse.

“All of the pottery found in this room – which appears to have been made for ceremonial purposes – is decorated with images of the men in life, every aspect of their life … they were loved and revered.”

Back in our room, it is impossible not to think about the men and the tomb, their lives and their love for each other, and how it has affected Antonio and Luciano.

“We have to find Luciano.”

“We will, Adam …”

I have never known the equal of this night; we make love until the first rays of the dawn begin to filter into our room. We go swimming. I have never felt more alive … or in love.

Send me some honey, to make sweet my hives …[3]

Chapter Four – Valetta

Dressed appropriately for our meeting at the bank, we ascend to the main salon and find breakfast laid out; Yves, Webb and Antonio are already at the table.

“We have a problem, Alfred …”

“What?”

“If we assume that the enemy is much further along in their development of the machine than was believed, the risk to this installation is much greater and the prospect of an attack must now be considered a real threat.”

“Call in the troops.”

“If only such things were that simple.”

“They were in Nice.”

“This is Malta and a British colony, not France.”

“Presumably, the British will co-operate.”

“Without doubt … and no doubt they will also wish to take control of the machine.”

“Wasn’t your father planning to give the technology to them?”

“Yes, he was, Alfred … on certain conditions. If we have to call them in now then the advantage will be lost and the concessions which my father would have demanded in return will now be swept off of the table.”

“Money?”

“No, Alfred … a free Europe … for everyone and we know who we are talking about.”

“So?”

Yves lays it out square and simple.

“We have to act carefully and swiftly … go to the bank and find out what you can about D H Holdings … then you have a rendezvous with a certain shipment coming in this afternoon from Cologne. Follow the shipment and you’ll find the installation and hopefully Luciano. Get both Luciano and the Promethium back here.”

“We do not think they will order the attack on us until they have seen their machine working; then there is no reason to safeguard ours … or keep Luciano alive.”

“Are we to destroy their machine?”

“Unless it can be avoided; its preservation may prove to be a useful bargaining chip with the British.”

“What is plan b, Yves?”

“Good question, Adam … after discussing all of the ramifications with Antonio, if you cannot secure the Promethium and Luciano … destroy everything … and you are authorized to sacrifice Luciano in order to mitigate the threat of the enemy gaining the upper hand.”

“You mean-”

“Yes, Alfred …”

Antonio is prepared to sacrifice his lover for the greater good and safeguard the freedom of Europe, upholding his father’s ideals … Holy God!

“You best get going; the aircraft carrying the Promethium is due to land at three o’clock this afternoon.”

“If we secure both and get them back here then Black Veil will surely attack, no?”

“Almost certainly … Webb and I are working on a plan.”

Adam and I get up to leave.

“And Alfred … if you see Fulshard; be sure to give him my regards … then kill him.”

Adam and I leave. In truth, I had to escape the room. Antonio looked as if he was ready to pop. Yves looked positively freakish; he only needed the backdrop of Hades itself to complete the picture of the Devil in Hell.

oOo

Despite the inferior handling and woefully inadequate suspension, I am very grateful to be on the road in the 508 with Adam bouncing by my side.

“Why isn’t Borelli coming with us?” Adam asks.

“Yves said that he is too important to the long game to risk his life; he forbade him from coming with us … nice of Webb to warn us that the car is loaded with enough TNT to blow Valetta off of the face of the Earth.”

“When the truck leaves the airport, who is going to be in the truck and who is following in the car?”

“I do believe, Adam, that it is your turn to smuggle yourself into the truck.”

“You’re such a poor liar … but I’ll do it.”

“Preferable to driving this bomb around, I would suggest.”

No quip and I think he realises that I’m probably right.

“What about Stradler’s codes?”

“I left them with Yves … he has a cryptologist chum who is a bit of a whizz at anagrams.”

A good amount of tittle-tattle about the redecoration of the house in Le Havre and rehearsing our roles once we reach the bank absorb the tedious journey across Malta from Golden Bay to Valetta; tedious because we are avoiding all of the obvious routes and towns, many of which hold good memories for us because Malta was where we did a lot of our early training.

“Still say I prefer the Isle of Wight.”

Adam and I were schooled in the art of assassination at the training centre which then occupied the Old Battery at The Needles; the training centre is referred to as ‘Station Highmoor’. We were going to buy a house in Freshwater at one time but opted to stay in the house in Le Havre in the end.

We stayed in Ventnor once as children, holidaying with my parents. It was not long after Adam’s father died. That was a terrible time. Adam’s father died from alcoholic poisoning when Adam was six years’ old. His father was a vicious bastard when he was drunk. Adam rarely spoke in those days; his reticence is a legacy of that time. My father was quick-witted and intelligent, so unlike Adam’s father; but the enthusiasm for languages and learning, the games he invented for us and the trips with him to Deauville to visit our aunt did nothing to draw Adam out of his shell. My mother said very little and just let Adam do his own thing; always happy when he agreed to help with the chickens, the sheep and the cows, praising him endlessly. She suggested the holiday and we took the ferry to Deauville and my aunt drove us to Le Havre from where we took a boat to Portsmouth and finally the ferry to Ryde; from there we took the train to Ventnor.

We stayed in a guest house at Steephill Cove and immediately fell in with some local lads who were intrigued by my accent and the fact that I spoke both French and English. One boy made fun of Adam and he ran away along the beach but I didn’t see it, being the centre of adoration for a change. When I realised that Adam had gone, I panicked. The other boys had left for home and I didn’t know what to do at first; I thought that if I told my mother and my father, then they would think I hadn’t taken care of him properly and blame me.

I ran to the end of the beach and scrambled over the tumbled rocks, shouting out his name. At least a mile further on, I came to a small beach above which there was a little cabin. Adam was sitting in front of the cabin with an old man who was smoking a pipe. When Adam saw me, he waved. I scrambled up the shingle slope to reach them, feeling a little annoyed because Adam wasn’t in danger and I was denied the opportunity of saving him.

The man spoke in an unintelligible dialect but Adam seemed to know what he was saying.

“We had better go, Adam; maman and papa will be worried.”

“See you tomorrow, Adam.”

“Goodbye, Garth.”

The first words which Adam had spoken in years.

On our way back to the guest house, I asked the obvious question and received the tantalizing if naïve reply, “He’s a smuggler … he pretends to fish but he’s found a sunken wreck and he says it is full of gold.”

“Did he show you?”

“No; but he said he would tomorrow … you can come too.”

For the next month, we spent a lot of time fishing and generally mucking about on the water. We never did get to see the wreck; there was always some problem with the tides or the wind or some such thing. Then, on the day we left to return to Jersey, we went to say goodbye and Garth took us out in the boat one last time.

“There she lay … look!”

And sure enough, a hundred yards out from the headland, in the deeper water and stuck between two large rocks, we could just make out the outline of the hull, lying on the seabed. Our excitement was unimaginable. Reluctantly, we went back but before we finally left the cabin, Garth gave me a pouch made from leather, tied around the neck with a leather thong.

“Tell no-one and don’t open it until you get back to Jersey; promise!”

“Promise!”

We told no-one and hid the pouch until we got home. After we went to bed, and after we had seen my parents leave to walk the length of the big field to open the irrigation gates, we brought out the pouch and I opened it. We knew it contained something because you could feel a lump inside. I tipped it out and the lump turned out to be a wad of felt wrapped around something hard and flat. I pulled the wadding aside and gasped as I revealed the edge of something shiny and gold-coloured.

“What is it, Alfred?”

“Treasure!”

And it was; two Elizabethan fine gold sovereigns. Each worth thirty shillings in their day; priceless to us then, as now. They sit in a box on our dressing table in the flat in Bristol, rarely seeing the light of day because to lose them would break our hearts.

“What are you thinking about, Alfred?”

“Steephill Cove …”

“We should go back.”

“I expect he’s dead; it was fifteen years ago.”

“The wreck is probably still there.”

“It was never full of gold.”

“It might have been …”

oOo

A tortuous, hot and dusty three hours after leaving the villa, we arrive in Valetta, crossing over the ditch for the first time in three years.

There aren’t too many other cars and it’s a quick job to dump the car in Felix Street behind the Grand Master’s Palace. Armed with our Berettas and briefcases, we walk back along Merchants Street to the corner of Melita Street where we find the bank.

“Good luck!”

“Good luck!”

We are greeted by a walker type, dressed in an expensive Italian wool suit.

“Good morning, gentlemen. May I ask whom you wish to see?”

“We have an appointment with Mr David Carfax.”

“And who shall I say-”

“Mr Drayton and Mr Collingwood, representing Borelli Industries.”

“Very good, gentlemen; won’t you follow me?”

We are escorted through the bank and through a cordon to the large space beyond which is inhabited by the deputy managers and sub-managers, all of whom look fifty years of age, well-groomed and decidedly fat.

However, David Carfax is a notably younger man. He greets us in hushed tones and offers us coffee.

“Tea, please. As Signor Borelli has explained, we need to check the accounts of D H Holdings to satisfy ourselves that the company is of good standing and able to meet its liabilities under the contract as they fall due.”

“I am having the records brought up, Mr Drayton … I was a little surprised that Signor Borelli did not insist on seeing the accounts for himself; his father was most particular in that regard.”

“It is a very difficult time for the family.”

“Yes, of course … terrible. A boating accident, wasn’t it?”

“A tragedy …”

Whilst we wait for the files to arrive, I pummel Carfax for as much information about the company as I dare without raising any suspicions, limiting my questions to the credentials of the key personnel, knowing full well that the accounts will show a very healthy balance.

The all-important files arrive – along with the tea – and we begin our review of the accounts, barely able to stifle our gasps as the amounts on deposit are revealed to us.

“You’re holding a rather large amount of money for D H Holdings, Mr Carfax … rather a lot more than a modest mining concern would expect to have – or indeed warrant.”

“Ah; that would be something to do with the … how shall I put it … rather draconian regime and the effect of the proliferation of the MEFO bills. The price of metal is falling, gentlemen, D H Holdings is attempting to weather the storm and maintain the confidence of its many European partners.”

Reichsmark-speak and I don’t profess to understand any of it but it might be something for Yves to mull over. I want names but there are few.

“Most of the directors of the company appear to be directors of the bank, Mr Carfax, and it has made a significant investment on its own account … that would appear to represent a potential conflict of interest … say, for example, D H Holdings defaulted on a payment; is the bank going to be happy to see its share of the profits eaten up in contractual penalties?”

“I assure you, Mr Drayton, D H Holdings will not be defaulting on its payments.”

My gentle baiting of this bear is to keep Carfax’s eyes in my quarter, allowing Adam to quietly and assiduously review file after file, committing dates, amounts and names to his impeccable memory. D H Holdings is the paymaster for Black Veil in southern Europe; that much is evident.

I hear Adam clear his throat, signalling that he has finished and that we should go.

“Thank you, Mr Carfax; we will recommend to the Borelli board of directors that shipments of the new machinery for the mine at Attard should commence immediately subject to the usual payment on account.”

“I will have the money transferred immediately.”

“On this particular occasion, Borelli Industries would prefer cash.”

Carfax calls over a young runner to whom he whispers something. The young man scoots off to the cashier’s office. Half an hour later, the young man returns with a briefcase which he hands to Carfax.

“The equivalent of one hundred thousand Reichsmarks in Lira, Mr Drayton.”

“Excellent! Signor Borelli will be very pleased.”

Without even opening the attaché case, we leave after much in the way of hand-shaking and nodding. Before the door has closed behind us, Adam is off to the Post Office to send a telegram to the receiving station in Palermo – another Borelli asset which he has put at our disposal. The information will be sent encoded to Basel where the names on the list will be targeted for surveillance, possibly elimination.

We meet in Café Cordina an hour later.

“All done?”

“All done … are we eating?”

“I’ve ordered the aljotta … nothing heavy. Drink plenty of water; you could be in the truck for hours.”

I get the smirk in return which is usually interpreted as ‘You sound like your mother but the thought is appreciated’.

“Why did you swindle the bank out of one hundred thousand Reichsmarks?”

“It’s for William.”

oOo

Lunch is exquisite - as always - and all of the clientele look as if they should be there; no-one triggers a stomach clench or a twitch to ruffle my borrowed board director demeanour.

Our lives are so rarely without these masks which hide the furtive glances and the straining to catch conversations three tables away. Maintaining our cover is simple; polite chit-chat about metal prices and the meat of our report to the Board. Conservative gestures and hushed tones; only our comparative youth and – dare I say it – attractiveness, is causing anyone to look twice.

“Alfred …”

I beckon for the bill and rummage in my pocket for my wallet, finding the piece of paper upon which I had scribbled some of the possible solutions to the anagram.

“Whatever he was trying to tell us, I think it has to do with this business in Vaduz and the set-up here.”

“The machine?” Adam queries.

“Yes … I cannot remember the name of the German scientist who has designed something along similar lines … and Limbeck is not an Italian name … it is German, I think … perhaps there is a family connection …”

“Shall we find out?”

“Yes, let’s go!”

Our credentials as directors of Borelli Industries will hopefully get us close to the airport hangar where the Promethium will be transferred to the vehicle which Adam will board for the journey to the installation where we hope to find Luciano and the enemy’s machine. I simply cannot afford to lose sight of the truck. A no less dusty and hot hour through Hamrun, Qormi, Siggiewi and Zurrieq brings us to the outskirts of Hal Far.

At Ta’Ghammer, Adam changes into overalls, bearing the Borelli Industries livery. He changes in the car and I am treated to the sight of his naked skin as he disrobes. I can barely contain my lust and despite the insane risk, stroke his thighs, which he allows for a minute before half-heartedly pushing my hand away.

“Later.”

Truthfully, I am yearning to be wrapped in his strong limbs, burying my face in his damp hair; damp from the exertion … breath like the autumnal bonfires which we lit in the orchards just before the harvest to stave off the chill that pinched the fruit … I am in love.

Our timing is impeccable; the aircraft from Cologne is banking hard right to line up with Runway 13/31. As we proceed, it’s easy enough for us to remain camouflaged by the cars and trucks pouring in and out of the freight entrance. Dropping Adam off at the gate is tense because of the TNT and the risk of an impromptu search. I’m lucky, the in-bound flight is being met by a convoy of other trucks and in the melee, Adam slips through the gate virtually un-noticed and his fictitious papers receive only a cursory glance. I pull away and drive for five hundred yards along the road towards Birzebbuga, pulling in to stop and angle the car to provide myself with the clearest view of the airstrip closest to the freight hangar; scrutiny provided courtesy of Yves‘s brand new Grodenstock binoculars.

I’m scanning the other vehicles for anything which would suggest a Black Veil presence. There is a vehicle, from the Attard mine, which bears the DHH logo but the mine is a genuine business, and a profitable one; Borelli is already supplying it. I had already discounted the Attard mine as the likely location of the installation and Luciano’s captivity on the basis that the computer – this word is alien to me - requires a clean and dust-free environment; hardly the attributes of limestone workings. The aircraft has landed and is taxiing up to the hangars and sheds. I’m scanning for Adam but I can’t see him yet. The aircraft, a Boeing 247, comes to a standstill and is immediately marooned in a sea of overalls; now I begin to get nervous. If I fail to spot Adam and the vehicle, what do I do?

Fortunately, Adam’s overalls are predominantly white with striking blue and red stripes. I see him and he is loitering at the back of the crowd, presumably looking for his target. At one point, I see him scanning the terrain in my direction and I wonder if it means that he has seen the target and wishes to alert me to the fact. Then he moves quickly and I can only assume that he has seen the package and the target and knows which vehicle is being used to move the consignment.

There is confusion for a moment as trucks, technicians and military personnel mill about; I lose him but then, at the last moment, I see him diving into the back of a black unmarked Alfa Romeo 800 truck.

The game is on.

If the truck turns right out of the gate then my guess is that it will head for Sliema. If it turns left then my guess is perhaps Mdina or Rabbat.

I drive back to the junction to wait for the truck to make up its mind.

It turns left.

Chapter Five – Blue Grotto

By maintaining a safe distance and having allowed two cars to pull out in front of me, I am pretty certain that my presence is – for now – unnoticed by the driver of the truck. Who, as he passed by the front of my bumper back at the junction in Hal Far, looked once and gave no outward sign that he recognised me or suspected that he was being tailed.

My confidence is growing, knowing that we are almost certainly heading for Rabbat or Mdina. Had we been heading for Sliema, I would have been less comfortable; the area is far more densely populated and losing sight of the truck, a real prospect.

That confidence suddenly takes a nosedive as the truck turns and takes the road to Blue Grotto. Having passed through Zurrieq, I assumed we would drop down to the coast and follow it until Dingli, before turning inland for Rabbat. And if I am not mistaken, the truck is aiming for the sea inlet. Worse still, I have lost my camouflage of the two vehicles which were travelling in front of me which continued on towards Hagar Qim Temple. Instinctively, I remove my gun and place it on the seat beside me.

There is only one road in and out of the inlet which serves a fishing community. Fortunately, just before the harbour, there is a boatbuilding shed which I dive in behind, wondering what on Earth the truck is going to do. My nightmare – one of them – is that it delivers the package to a waiting vessel and Adam and I are left high and dry – literally! If the truck driver transfers to a boat, we will have precious little chance of keeping pace with him; and he could be heading for Tunisia for all we know.

If I overpower the driver and he refuses to tell me where he is going, I will have the Promethium but no Luciano or the location of the enemy’s installation. These thoughts run like mice through my brain as I scurry around the back of the cottages towards the slipway which serves the inlet.

The truck has stopped at the head of the slipway, next to the sea wall. At ninety degrees to the head of the slipway there is a flight of stone steps leading down to the edge of the water. The driver of the truck is standing at the top of the steps, looking out to sea with a pair of binoculars. I similarly scan the two thousand square acres of the sparkling Mediterranean which we can see from this vantage point. The afternoon is dying; the heat is not and I spare Adam a thought for he must be baking in the back of the truck.

Hidden from the truck driver’s view by a fishing boat which is languishing on the road to the slipway - and one presumes waiting for repairs judging by the general condition of the craft - I do not see his change in stance until it is almost too late and he begins to move in my direction and is in danger of passing within six feet of me and discovering my presence.

“Faint heart, Alfred, never won a fair maiden…”

Before the man has a chance to react, he is poleaxed and seated with his back against the upturned boat behind which I had been hiding. A search of his pockets reveals nothing. I step quickly to the van and thump the side, giving Adam a heart attack no doubt.

“Adam!” I shout as I dive into the cab to search for anything which would reveal the location of the installation. My heart is sinking because the cab is empty save for the man’s personal paraphernalia: cigarettes, a map, a bottle of water and an ancient yet serviceable revolver. Adam appears at the door window.

“What went wrong?”

“From what I can gather, there is some kind of rendezvous planned; here and soon. What’s in the back?”

“A steel case and a pile of sacks.”

“Help me get the driver into the back; I’ll pose as him and have you hostage for the sake of appearances; we’ll just have to fly blind until we know where we are heading … quickly!”

We manhandle the chap into the back of the truck and bind him hand and foot, gagging him and covering him with the sacks. Retrieving the steel case, which is roughly the same size as a portmanteau, we find the copy of the manifest, signed and stamped by the releasing agent at Hal Far. It’s our best clue and hope of discovering Luciano’s location.

“Comino!”

“That explains why he is here … Adam, look out for the boat; it must be coming from Marsaxlokk.”

I’m tempted to open the case and have a look at this strange substance which Antonio estimates will have cost more than the Bugatti. However, the steel case suggests something delicate or dangerous – most likely both.

“I can see it!”

A small craft, something like a mackerel troller, is chugging around the headland and its course suggests that it is heading for the tiny landing stage at the foot of the stone steps.

“What’s the plan, Alfred?”

“Pose as the contact and allow the boat to take us to Luciano; depends on who is on the boat.”

“Am I playing the part of hostage?”

“For now; walk down the steps slowly, hands behind your back.”

My hope is that the boatman did not know the man in the truck; any uncomfortable questions will have to be dealt with in the usual fashion. Standing on the tiny platform with Adam just in front of me, I watch the boat approach and can make out just one shape which looks to be the boatman, standing at the centre mounted wheel. The miniscule forward cabin looks as if it could house another crew member but certainly not two – decent odds for a change.

“I can hear your heart pounding, Alfred.” Adam whispers.

I smile to myself before answering; Yves’s reading of the cards comes back to me; is this one of those occasions where my love for Adam is going to guide my hand? Certainly, I will not allow him to come to any harm if I have breath and strength to prevent it.

The boat is getting closer and closer and the shape standing at the wheel is becoming more recognisable as a man.

“Get ready, Adam … say nothing and wait for my move.”

The muscles in his shoulders tense and he drops his head. I allow my eyes to follow his arms down to the loosely clasped hands which sit on his rump; that perfect peach of a rump with its soft and downy pelt of golden hairs.

“I love you, Adam.”

“If we get ourselves ki-”

“Shush … not going to happen.”

“AHOI!”

The man’s voice, which is deep and guttural and reminiscent of the bellow of a stag calling out from some Scottish glen, grabs our attention and our eyes snap to the face of the man who is now approximately fifty feet from the landing stage.

“AHOY!” I return.

Ten seconds later and I am beginning to wish that I had spent longer at the firing range; I’d never have missed him in the alleyway in Freiburg if I had known that we would meet here and now.

“ALFRED!”

“Who-”

“Peter Lethe, the mutinous Dutchman … how poetic.”

Chapter Six – With Jupiter’s Assistance

“I am alone and my gun is in the cabin …”

Which would normally be reassurance enough to drop my guard but not in this case.

“Cut the engine and throw me the rope.”

Lethe complies and in seeing him take up the rope in both hands, I feel safe enough to ease my finger off of the trigger of the Beretta.

“Are you coming aboard?”

“That is the plan … sit down on your hands, Peter; one sudden move and I will blow your brains out.”

“I believe you would too … have no fear, Alfred; I’m on your side.”

“That I struggle to believe … your memory must be as short as the odds of you remaining alive to see the sunset.”

“A threat, Alfred? If you plan to kill me then do it … but as I know where they are holding Limbeck, I think my chances of seeing the sun rise are pretty good.”

Without waiting for my order, Adam leaps on board and he immediately searches and finds the gun in the cabin.

“Clear!”

I hand Adam the case before clambering aboard, instantly re-levelling the gun at Lethe’s head.

“Lower yourself to the floor and turn onto your front.”

In a rather ungainly fashion, Lethe falls to his side, trying to avoid the lobster baskets and reels of line which are pre-tied with the hooks for baiting. As soon as he rolls over, I am on him with a knee forced into his back, grappling with his hands to quickly tie them. I use the line and care not that several of the barbs dig into his flesh, drawing a reasonable amount of blood.

“One question and one answer … where is Limbeck?”

“If I tell you, you will kill me.”

“If you don’t, I will kill you.”

“Comino-”

“I KNOW THAT MUCH … where?”

“The … no, why should I tell you; what do I care for this … fight?”

“Where, Lethe?”

“Comino is a small place …”

I can’t help myself and I yank the line tighter; the thin line is as fine as garrotting wire.

“ARGH!”

“Was it your bullet which killed Stradler, or Pierre’s?”

“Definitely Pierre’s.”

“Where on Comino?”

“They will kill me if they see me with you; they will assume I have betrayed them.”

“Tell me and I will protect you.”

“With three revolvers? Are you insane?”

I pause to assess the situation; Adam interrupts my train of thought.

“Alfred; the men are coming out of the cottages to get ready to sail on the tide.”

“Cast off.”

The men are indeed waking up from the siesta and getting ready to sail out on the tide. The full moon is too good to miss for the chance of landing a bonus catch.

Adam pushes us off and starts the engine, expertly navigating us out and away from the quayside. Unable to decide what to do, I sling an old oil jacket over Lethe to hide him from the curious glances from the walls above and make my way to the cabin to search for clues as to where Limbeck is being held. It is true that Comino is a small place - barely three and half miles square - but that’s a lot of terrain to navigate in the dark on foot.

There are some charts but nothing is especially marked. Some food and water and spare ammunition complete the haul.

I blame my father and Yves for my actions; had I not been forced to read the Classics and had not Yves suggested that I would need Jupiter’s help then Lethe would probably have fared better. Angry and nursing a deep-seated flame of pure cold revenge, I dig around in the lumber strewn all over the boat and find a short handled hook; the type with a sharp two-pronged claw for grabbing the lobster baskets up on deck once they have been hauled to the surface. Judging the moment and acting swiftly, I swing the hook and embed the claw in the soft part of Lethe’s thigh, retaining my grip and twisting my hand very slightly.

He screams but the pain is so intense that it has him paralysed, preventing him from struggling too much. In any event, the slightest movement causes the pain to be amplified as the muscle flexes and tears.

“Where, Lethe?”

He forces out a near hysterical laugh to charge his blood with adrenalin.

“I am Zeus and you are Prometheus … you stole the fire and now I have to banish you to an eternity of pain.”

“The old battery!” he spits out.

I twist my hand, “Liar … try again.”

“P-l-e-a-s-e … A-l-f-r-e-d.”

I am conscious of Adam who is standing behind me, praying he says nothing; for if he does, I know I will not be able to finish this job - but finish it I must.

“Where is Limbeck, Lethe?”

“The old isolation hospital; I swear it’s true!”

I know that he is probably telling the truth; question is … do I kill him?

“How do you wish to die?”

Before he has a chance to answer, I plant my foot on his leg and press the claw of the tool deeper into the flesh. His howl is choked by the vomit which fills his throat and mouth.

“Alfred!”

“WHAT?”

“Kill him if you’re going to … don’t torture him.”

The words goad me and I re-fasten my grip on reality - dare I say rationality.

Lethe is still heaving and gasping; I feel disgusted, mainly with myself. Before I can decide what to do, I get a flashback to the clearing in the mountains and the night when I drank a little wine and danced with the girls, remembering how desolate I felt when I saw Stradler leading William by the hand off to the tent.

“You need me.”

Lethe’s words bring everything into sharp focus. Stradler died and Pierre paid the price; Lethe must too. I wish it was Fulshard lying there but that moment will come. Swiftly, I pull out the hook and fling the implement to the floor out of reach. With strength I find it hard to believe that I possess, I grab Lethe by the shirt collar and his belt to haul him up so that his upper body is leaning over the side of the boat. It’s a simple enough task after that to pick up his feet and tip him overboard. He disappears under the water and then re-surfaces, coughing and spluttering. Before I am subjected to his entreaty, I send a bullet through his brain.

“For Stradler …”

oOo

“If poisonous minerals, and if that tree whose fruits threw death on else immortal us, if lecherous goats, if serpents envious cannot be damn’d, alas why should I be? Why should intent or reason, born in me, make sins, else equal, in me more heinous? And mercy being easy, and glorious to God, in his stern wrath, why threatens he? But who am I, that dare dispute with thee, O God? Oh! Of thine only worthy blood, and my tears, make a heavenly Lethean flood, and drown in it my sin’s black memory; that thou remember them, some claim as debt, I think it mercy, if thou wilt forget.”[4]

oOo

“I’m sorry, Adam.”

“He deserved no better … What now?”

“We have a choice. Under the cover of darkness, we can make it to the hospital and find out whether Lethe was telling the truth. But we have no weapons or explosives.”

“We have the Promethium …”

“We need Luciano if that is going to do us any good. The question is, do we go back to Golden Bay and pick up Yves and Webb?”

“We will pass right by the entrance to the tunnel …”

“We have no way of knowing what Lethe was planning; for all we know, he waylaid the captain of this boat and was hoping to intercept the Promethium for the Russians …”

Now I wish that I hadn’t killed him.

“There is only one way to find out … I say pick up Yves and Webb.”

“Agreed.”

Our lives – with the exception of those cases which involve finding old ladies’ diamonds – are always lived on the edge of the knife. I suppose it feeds a need. If it didn’t, I suppose I would be milking cows and harvesting corn. I’m trying to ignore my tally of cold-blooded kills; it’s fifty.

We cling to the coast, staying in the shadow of the cliffs, not forcing the pace for the sake of our fuel. Adam seems relaxed and content to pilot the boat. I wish he could let his hair grow longer.

In a book which my father brought back from Paris, I found a picture of Jupiter, the king of the gods; his hair was streaming behind him in a wild stampede of curls; it was the first time that I realised that I was different to everyone else. A boy of fourteen with hormones and rafts of questions is commonplace but when I thought of that picture I grew aroused and blushed deeply. There was a hut by the big irrigation gate which was rarely used by Jacques. I would run off, making sure that no-one saw me, and dive in to the hut, wedging the door shut with a piece of wood.

I would let my breathing calm down a little and depending on the season, shed my trousers or shorts. My peg would be painful until I released it from my underwear to grip it tightly, not really knowing what to do next. Instinct took over and suddenly my breathing would be ragged and hot - and a fine old mess I would make of myself. Walking back to the house, I would stop briefly at the water trough and splash some water over my face. Seeing my face reflected in the water, I would smile to myself in the knowledge that my hair - then long and unmanageable - resembled the god Jupiter’s and I was him and in control of the Universe. When I stepped into the kitchen, whatever the time, my mother would place a mug of warm creamy milk and a hunk of crusty bread on the table, remarking, “We must get your hair cut.”

I knew she didn’t mean it and she cried when I had to have the mop shorn off for school in Deauville. My father took me to De Chevalier’s for my uniform and Ambrose’s to have my hair cut. Adam came too. He insisted on having his hair cut and created such a fuss until my father relented. Only years later did I discover that whenever I ran off to the hut, Adam had followed me and watched me through a knot hole.

“We need a holiday …”

Adam laughs.

oOo

Time is ticking by and without knowing Lethe’s plan, we cement the decision to stop at the villa and alert Yves, Webb and Antonio to all that has transpired …

“There is no time to muster a landing party … we’ll need a diversion.”

“Yves, do you remember Operation Thunder?”

“Ah!”

Neither Webb nor Adam were party to the details – clearly Antonio is in the dark. An hour of frenetic planning brings us to the point of no return. Yves takes centre stage in order to re-cap the plan and ensure that we all know what the hell we are doing.

“Alfred, you and Adam take the boat to Comino; the landing stage just beneath the tower of St Mary is the safest place to drop anchor. Make your way to the barracks and reconnoitre the site. At precisely ten o’clock, signal to us; we will be directly overhead. If the sideshow is needed, we’ll start to drop the explosives – but remember these are only priming charges and not very likely to inflict much damage – a diversion is all we can hope for. Grab Luciano and run.”

“What about the machine?”

“Forget it; with the Promethium and Luciano safe, we’ll deal with that later. Do not bring Luciano back here, head for Gozo and hole up until dawn; I’ll make contact with you.”

“And if we find nothing?”

“Then Lethe lied and we will be back at square one.”

The slightly raised eyebrow is perhaps an admonishment for my hastiness in despatching the Dutchman without first having substantiated his story.

Antonio pleads to be allowed to accompany Webb and Yves in the aircraft. Yves finally relents, accepting that to leave Antonio unprotected at the villa is just as risky as taking him up. We synchronise our watches and agree on the signal for the drop-don’t drop command. More as an afterthought, Yves relinquishes some of the explosive charges to us for the purposes of creating a second diversion if needed and maybe to inflict some damage on the machine if we find it. We break up; Adam and I head for the boat whilst the others head for the airstrip.

I stop Adam just before we step back onto the boat. There are few words to say; we know the score. We share a kiss and an embrace just in case this is our last – one day it will be.

“I love you, Alfred.”

“I love you too; don’t go getting yourself killed.”

“Promise …”

Save for re-fuelling, we are underway and chugging along the coast, thanking God for the moonlight. Six sea miles separate us from our goal; two hours at this speed, taking account of the tide and the wind.

Chapter Seven – “Bonswa”

Adam pilots the boat and I prepare the charges, trimming the fuses and laying them carefully in my knapsack. That and checking the guns consumes an hour. I allow myself a cigarette and we share a swig of whiskey from the flask which Stradler gave Yves when Yves celebrated his sixtieth birthday. Yves has given it to me for safekeeping, knowing that I have nothing else of Stradler’s to carry back to William.

Half an hour later and we detect the faint drone of the supercharged twelve cylinder radial engines way above our heads.

We pass the battery on the south-eastern tip of Comino, which is barely just visible in the moonlight. Fifteen minutes remain.

Our biggest fear is that there is a welcoming committee but without knowing the time of the planned rendezvous, we can only hope and keep our fingers crossed.

Around the last headland and Adam kills the engine, allowing us to drift in on the tide until we arrive at the four large rocks, which form a natural mooring, just beneath the Tower of St Mary. I drop the anchor and wait for the boat to come to a dead stop. Sensibly removing our boots and socks, we wade in to the beach which is nothing more than screed. Hastily drying our feet on a rag, we re-don our socks and boots, checking our pockets and pouches, finishing with a final check of our weapons and the torch; in fact, Yves’s precious Delta-King sealed beam lantern. The screed slope is not steep and easily navigated with minimal slipping and sliding. Once we reach the top, we flatten ourselves against the hot, dry earth and survey the area around the tower. It is deserted and the only sound is the breeze, murmuring quietly as it caresses the dry stems of the Sedum which is prevalent here.

The barracks, once a hospital, is partly obscured from our view by the tower and the slight gradient upon which the tower is perched; but for this knoll, Comino is very nearly flat.

Scurrying like lizards, we head for the tower to halt and take stock. We can see no lights at the barracks, no vehicles of any kind and as far as we can make out, no evidence of human occupation.

It begins to look as if Lethe was lying.

“C’mon!” Adam urges, feeling the weight of the responsibility for Lethe’s death and our predicament much less than I do.

There is a good, made path from the tower to the barracks which we follow for the sake of expediency. As we draw nearer, we catch the unmistakable aroma of cooking meat. In a quiet, shielded nook between two outbuildings, we see the glowing bed of embers and the faint wisp of smoke.

A shadow appears from around the corner of the nearest of the buildings, stooping to stir something in a pot on the fire and to turn some meat over which we can now clearly hear sizzling. I give Adam the nod and he slinks along the wall of the building, keeping flat to the stonework, cloaked in the shadow. Moving stealthily, he resembles some exotic big cat, a Siberian tiger hunting in the tundra. I see the flash of the knife just before the shadows merge and five seconds later, one alone stands in front of the fire; my Panthera Tigris Altaica.

“Psst!”

Remembering the rules of engagement which Stradler taught me not far from here on Gozo, I pick up the pot from the bed of embers and empty the contents out, re-filling it with as many of the hottest embers as I can scoop in with the meat turning fork. Wrapping the handle of the pot with the rag with which we dried off our feet, we slip around the corner of the building into a courtyard which is completely dark save for the chink of light from a doorway over the way. The sound of the aircraft is louder above our heads.

I gesture to Adam to take up position beside the door. When he is in position, I open the door a little and call out; nothing intelligible and something like “Ahoi!”, immediately stepping to the other side of the doorway.

The sound of boots scraping over a rough surface can then be heard … and the door is suddenly wrenched open.

“Lethe?”

I’m holding my breath, waiting for the man to step outside.

“Lethe!” he repeats as he steps over the threshold into the pool of weak light which now illuminates the patch of flagstones just in front of the door. A brief scrabble and he is being dragged off into the shadows; neck broken. Adam skips back and we dive into the room which is nothing more than a lobby or foyer from which passageways radiate out in three directions. Two prove to be empty and practically derelict and largely blocked by fallen masonry. We proceed along the third corridor with that same cat-like stealth. There is a set of double doors at the end of the passageway; they are closed. I press my ear to the wooden panel.

After a second or two, I detect the faint hum of voices. It’s time to signal the others.

“Adam … go!” I whisper hoarsely.

He dives out to signal to Yves.

I take the explosive charges from my knapsack and shove them into the pail of cooling embers. When I bring my trusty Versailles up to light the fuses, I find my hands are shaking a little.

“Steady, Alfred … softly-softly-catchy-monkey.”

Once the ten second fuses are lit, I count to five and then push the right-hand door open, lobbing in the pail, quickly shutting the door. I care not who is behind the door; the guard was expecting Lethe; there can be no doubt. Three seconds later the charges explode and the door is rattled in its frame. The screams and shouts begin a second after that. Two seconds later and the door is ripped open and two or three men rush out, clasping their heads or chests. I presume the burning embers made for good shot; my fantasy of terrorising the Caribbean as a marauding pirate is partly realised!

Cries and wails of agony mask the sound of my retreat. I have no hankering to rush into the room without back up and just eight bullets in my magazine. Confusion will buy me time to catch up with Adam and find a vantage point to see what the barrage which Yves is planning brings forth.

The three men who rushed from the room are piled up in the courtyard just at the edge of the halo of light. Adam is standing over them like a god; his teeth are barred and his eyes are burning with violent passion; two wells of angry fire.

“ADAM!”

Before the last of the breath has quit my lungs, the first of the charges explodes just beyond the wall of the compound. I run full pelt to grab him by the arm and drag him to safety, fearing he will turn on me.

The demon which had possessed him seeks flight from the cacophony and Adam slumps against me as we careen through an open doorway into some kind of storeroom; a quantity of slat-sided boxes and rotting vegetables arrest our progress. Outside, Hell visits Earth and I surmise that Yves must have found some of the TNT which did not get loaded into the car. The explosions get closer and several rock the foundations of the storeroom as the bombs fall into the courtyard; shrapnel rattles against the wall and some of the fragments rain in through the open doorway. I shield Adam with my body and just hold him tightly, hoping and praying that the roof doesn’t collapse on us.

oOo

Silence; crystal clear, painful silence, as deafening as the bombs, brings me to my senses. I lever myself up a little, readying myself for the next stage which is to survey the barracks and hopefully locate Luciano. They were expecting Lethe; he was not lying.

Adam is semi-conscious, delirious and moaning. I cannot carry him and in any event, he is probably safer in here for the time being. I can only guess at the cause of his collapse; if my tally is fifty kills then his is much the same.

“I’ll be back; don’t move!”

I slip out into the moonlit courtyard and see destruction everywhere.

“My God, Yves!”

Picking my way through the debris, I re-enter the building, mindful of the falling masonry and shattered timbers which threaten to collapse at any moment. The moaning in the big room draws me like a moth to a flame. The doors are broken and lay on the ground. With my gun drawn, I step into the room and for a moment truly believe that I have stumbled into Hell. Contorted bodies lie in small groups; collections of shattered bones, seared flesh and glassy eyes. I swallow my revulsion. Like broken automatons, sounds issue from throats ripped apart by shrapnel, gaping chests and cracked skulls; a symphony of dying breaths.

Once the initial shock has passed, I see sights which will haunt me to the grave. In the dim light of two unbroken lamps, I see that the room is painted blood red and decorated with the most nightmarish images and symbols. Ghouls and demons stare out from the walls, displaying sharp teeth and forked tongues; crudely painted spidery bodies, which appear to exist merely to carry exaggerated phalluses, cling to the ceiling. There are dismembered animals strewn over hastily constructed altars, blood is pooling everywhere; the stench of blood, guts and burnt hair makes me heave.

“What in God’s name …”

A groan, louder than the others, grabs my attention; it is coming from the farthest end of the room which suffered the least damage. Stealing my nerve, I step carefully in that direction. The shape, which materialises out of the gloom as my eyes adjust to it, is almost comical. A man, dressed in a costume which resembles a Bishop’s choir cassock but one which has been embroidered with the same grotesque images which adorn the walls, is seated in some kind of chair or perhaps throne is a better description. Upon his head is an elaborate headdress, a mishmash of horns and evil eyes. He is pinned to the seat by a ceiling beam which lies across his thighs; evidently it smashed his chest as it fell.

“What is your name?”

The man’s eyes are closed and I doubt that he can hear me; the gurgling issuing from his mouth suggests that he is drowning in his own blood. I step a pace closer to examine the make-up on his face; a painted mask of devilry. The eyes flicker and open.

“No!”

The anti-Christ which stares out at me draws its lips back in a grotesque smile. He coughs and blood splatters my face.

“Alfred …”

The word is barely audible and almost unintelligible; but I recognise it and the accent is unmistakeable.

“Fulshard … What abomination is this?”

I doubt he can answer; the effort to speak my name has cost him dearly.

“What has possessed you-”

“HELP ME!”

The shout came from the passageway and the voice is vital, not pained. Dragging myself away from the monster which was once a man who I respected and admired – would have died for - I fly into the corridor, insensible to the risk.

“Help me, please!”

“Who are you?”

“My name is Luciano Limbeck. I found this man in one of the storerooms; he is barely breathing.”

The man, a solidly built specimen of gladiatorial proportions, is supporting Adam who is slumped against him; his head is lolling from side to side.

“Lay him down … gently.”

I have no idea why Adam has not recovered.

“Find more light; there are lamps in that room; QUICKLY!”

I rip off my jacket to screw up and place under his head; my hands fly across his body to find the tell-tale tips of the barbs of shrapnel or patches of sticky, coalescing blood. Nothing.

“Adam, c’mon!”

Luciano returns with the lamps, visibly shaken by his visit to the barrack room.

“Here … why isn’t he breathing?”

“I don’t know … there is no visible trauma … hold the light up.”

“Who are you?”

“Alfred Fenchurch … a friend of Antonio’s-“

“He’s alive?!”

“Yes … very much so … unlike Adam … ADAM!”

I am at a loss to explain his insensibility; his breathing is shallow and raspy but there is no trauma, bruising or swelling either around his throat or over his chest. Drawing close to his face, I see the unmistakable symptom of cyanide poisoning, his skin is turning cherry red and I detect the subtle hint of almonds on his breath.

“What? How?”

“What is it?”

“Cyanide poisoning … but how?”

“What can we do?”

I’m struggling to dredge up my knowledge of chemistry and human biology.

“Nitrite … we need nitrite.”

“There is a pharmacy down there …”

Luciano is gesturing to the passageway which Adam checked when we arrived which appeared to be derelict.

“Any nitrite; amyl nitrite is best; usual in small glass phials … GO!”

Luciano scrambles to his feet and heads off at full pelt, leaving me in the semi-darkness.

“Where, like a pillow on a bed, a pregnant bank swell’d up, to rest the violet’s reclining head. Sat we two, one another’s best.”[5]

Why there should be a stocked pharmacy, I cannot imagine; perhaps a legacy of the days when this place was an isolation hospital for British troops suffering from contagious diseases.

My mother had the pharmacist make her an inhalant of amyl nitrite to relieve the symptoms of mild angina. It can also be used to treat mild cyanide poisoning; the nitrite produces methemoglobin which sequestrates the cyanide. God, I am so grateful to my father for his encyclopaedic knowledge of poisons and their antidotes ... and his devotion to my mother and her ailments.

“I found some!”

Luciano rushes back to my side and shows me the six phials in the palm of his hand.

“What do we do?”

I need an inhaler; but God, what I am going to find in this mess?!

“I need an inhaler … THINK ALFRED!”

I can literally feel the life ebbing out of the young man beside whom I am kneeling, unashamedly anointing him with my tears.

Luciano dives away again, but to be truthful, I am no longer paying attention to him. I am sinking into the arms of despair.

“ALFRED!”

Luciano is back at my side, brandishing a gas mask.

“Will this work?”

“Genius!”

We quickly fit the mask and then ripping the hose from the filter unit, I break the phials and stuff them into the tube, closing the end off with my palm.

“Please, God, do not take him; I have only just begun to learn how to love him-”

“You and …”

“Yes; like you and Antonio … just pray with me.”

Some that have deeper digg’d love’s mine than I, say where his centric happiness doth lie. I have lov’d, and got, and told, but should I love, get, tell, till I were old, I should not find that hidden mystery; Oh, ‘tis imposture all. And has no chemic yet th’elixir got, but glorifies his pregnant pot, if by the way to him befall some odoriferous thing, or medicinal, so lovers dream a rich and long delight, but get a winter-seeming summer’s night. Our ease, our thrift, our honour and our day, shall we for this vain bubble’s shadow pay? Ends love in this, that my man, can be as happy as I can …[6]

Chapter Seven – The sect of Helios

“Is he still asleep?”

“Yes … but his colour is improving. The doctor recommends another transfusion and he must stay in the oxygen tent for the next ten days.”

Antonio has spared no expense or effort to bring about Adam’s full recovery. How well he recovers is a question which the doctor would not answer directly, merely stating that there was every chance.

I have not left his side since Yves and Webb found us in the barracks. The six phials of nitrite were just sufficient to stave off the worst of the effects of the cyanide. Since we were brought back to the villa, Yves and Webb have searched the island and found the source. There was a canister in the storeroom; it was leaking. Adam was closest to it and remained in the vicinity long after I had quit the room.

Luciano found him because he dived into the room to avoid the explosions during his escape. He had heard the commotion and decided to take his chances. One of Yves’s bombs had blown in the window of Luciano’s cell.

These are the least unsavoury of the discoveries which Yves and Webb have made.

“A sect devoted to the Daughters of Helios … with Fulshard at its head. The men and women we found in the barrack room were the directors of the Freiburg Bank – Black Veil’s financiers; the same men and women who you saw in Freiburg at the restaurant. We actually think that Daphne was trying to escape from the group-”

“Why did she blow up my beautiful car?”

“Perhaps to goad Fulshard into acting in some way … it was never considered to be a serious attempt on your life but it directed a response which set the wheels in motion; sadly for her – if escape was the plan – she failed.”

“She escaped; shot to death on the Corniche was preferable to the death waiting for her in that room.”

“He was obsessed with Crowley … the ceremonial costume which he was wearing when you found him was fashioned on one worn by Crowley at Cefalu; they may have been together in Sicily for a while.

“But what happened to him, Yves?”

“From what I have found and pieced together, I think that he - unlike me – must have traded something more important than his virginity in the Durchgangslager; his soul. All possible energy has been devoted to this machine which the German has designed but he was thwarted by the problem with the power source; hence Luciano’s kidnapping.”

“But why did Fulshard get involved with these Daughters of Helios?”

“The perfect cover; madness and anarchy; our sworn enemy – who would have suspected it? I didn’t. They had the money and he had the thirst. I think he met Crowley during the assault on Kanchenganga; the man captivated him and perverted the most ingenious intellect of our age.”

“What about the machine, Yves?”

“The British have commandeered it; personally I’ll be happy never to step foot inside that compound again. Luciano has agreed to complete the construction of it once it is moved to Bletchley. That will not be before he completes the one here; and there is the small matter of the ceremony …”

“Adam and I wish to celebrate our … partnership in similar fashion.”

“I knew that you would; there is the small matter of rings.”

“I believe there may be a jeweller or two in Valetta.”

“I believe there may be …”

Before I can think about that, Adam must wake up and recover; the doctor said that his brain may have been starved of oxygen and he may not regain his faculties. I will play with whatever cards I am dealt … but if he doesn’t recognise me then I know my heart will shatter into a thousand pieces. If he doesn’t wake up and falls into eternal sleep, I have already agreed with myself that – once my mother has passed on - I will join him; I cannot contemplate a life of desolation. However, this is all too depressing and there is every chance of a full recovery. I retreat to the landing stage at the end of the tunnel to sit quietly for a moment and smoke a cigarette, sunning my face, sucking the salt-laden air into my lungs between puffs.

“Alfred …”

For a moment I cannot place the voice or even the name; then I remember myself. The soft, lilting syllables have not caressed my ears for months and months.

“Maman …”

Return to Fiavé

“Are you sure that you know where we are going, Alfred?”

“Adam, just look for the sign for the village of Fiavè … it is just over the next rise if my memory serves me.”

“Why didn’t we drive?”

“And risk the suspension of my Astura! In any event, Castagna would never forgive me if I got the paintwork chipped … uncommonly generous of Yves, don’t you think?”

“Yes it was … Thank you for the gift; how often we get there is another matter.”

“That is up to us and you are still under doctor’s orders … once we have been to Le Havre and over to my mother’s then I suggest we pay it a visit and spruce up the veranda. Ventnor for Christmas sounds very appealing.”

I bought Adam a house at Steephill Cove; the doctor said he would need regular periods of rest in good clean air, and Adam has no property in his own name.

The decision to return to the mountain and pay William a visit was an easy one to make; on horseback was my idea. We camp at the farm where I left the Bugatti and where Stradler and I picked up the wagon. The Bugatti is not in the barn; I didn’t expect it to be.

It is October the fifteenth and cold up here. Pretty soon the fire is blazing and after bedding down the horses in the barn, we huddle up under our blankets and enjoy the sight of the full moon rising up over the mountains, setting fire to the snow which is early this year. The crystalline landscape provides the perfect bed for the opal of my need which pleads to be exposed and laid bare. Prised from the aching jaws of my desires, it gives up its fire in a mesmerising flash of colour as bright as a magnesium flare.

In the dying moments of the fire before we scurry into the barn to bed down with the horses, I remember the telegram which I was handed as we sat in the lounge of the Hotel Sole this morning.

“Was it from Yves?”

“Yes … it says … have cracked the Helios Protocol - stop – Stradler was a genius - stop – persuade William to come to Paris – stop – where are my binoculars – stop …”

“So the code meant something more then?”

“Luciano cracked the anagrams once he realised that there were multiple anagrams, in what he termed a ‘nested’ arrangement. The sentence ‘nice night for a walk gentlemen’ gave up the phrase ‘law enforcement agent’, leaving a group of letters un-used. He then took the sentence ‘stone mushrooms fetch a good price at the market’ and found ‘automated theorem checkers’, leaving another string of un-used letters; combining the two sets of un-used letters he found ‘station highmoor’ again leaving a string of letters un-used; n-s-g-f-p-k … which stumped him.”

“And now Yves knows what they mean?”

“So it appears. My guess was that they were the initials of the agents connected with the Helios sect; g-f … Gustaf Fulshard … p-k … Pierre Kranz but … n-s … drew a blank on every known list.”

“But Stradler knew him or something of him; this n-s …”

“Yves checked the rolls of the law enforcement agents trained at Station Highmoor and there was no-one with those initials.”

“And that was the clue which Stradler was really trying to leave us; the initials of someone who was an agent but never at Station Highmoor but connected with the Binarius machine … someone dangerous and at large.”

“Sounds like Yves is on the case.”

“Peter Lethe was never at Highmoor … and he proved to be a traitor.”

“But he never used an alias with the initials n-s … least not officially.”

“Yves says he’s cracked it … I for one do not want to think about the Binarius Machine ever again.”

“Neither do I, Adam … can we go to sleep now?”

“Recite some poetry; it’ll send me off.”

“Which one?”

“Your love poem … I believe Yves was crying when you read it out at the temple.”

“I love as a rich man, a poor man, a beggar man and a thief.

I love as a rich man; charging interest on the debt, demanding it repaid on the quarter day; the more I have, the more I want; and where love is in short supply, I will take vanity and conceit and write off the losses on the exchange as a trifling expense.

I love as a poor man; the less I have, the more jealously I guard it and eek it out, daring not to squander it or risk it; bringing it forth only on special days to polish and briefly gaze upon, allowing no-one to touch it should the precious thing be broke; but slowly I starve.

I love as a beggar; ‘t’was easily squandered in ripe youth ‘til the cup was empty and my wailing into the dry well, echoed and burst my drums. I love as a beggar; pleading for my daily alms, scratching with torn nails at the scraps left in my bowl.

I love as a thief, stealing the coin from my heart and yours, repaying in vanity and iridescent words which ape the pearls of wisdom; only they are not pearls but the grit which gives birth to the pearl; a thinly cloaked grain of sand but stillborn.

“I love like a blind man; groping in the dark, testing the way ahead, timidly taking my steps one by one; ever mindful of the hooves of the stallion which threaten to crush my skull if I chose the wrong path.”

Epilogue

“They may have gone south, Alfred.”

“It’s possible; if they have gone then the man in the other village will know where they are … c’mon!”

We travel faster than Stradler and I managed that day, being unencumbered by the wagon; still it takes us nearly all day to reach the head of the path.

My apprehension has already bloomed; in fact, an hour ago, once I espied the smoke from the fires. Johann and the others are still at the clearing. I am desperate to see them but I still do not know what the hell I am going to say to William.

Picking our way down the path which leads into the clearing occupies my mind for a few minutes; time enough to rehearse my speech one last time.

The clearing is empty – as expected.

“SALVE!”

The children rush out to greet us first, led by Francesco and Marianne. Only by handing over my knapsack which is full of chocolate and sweets are we allowed to proceed and once the children have dispersed, Johann appears, smiling broadly albeit with tears running down his face.

“My friend; I knew you would come … and you must be Adam.”

Our embrace is a signal for the rest of the band to emerge from the trees. I recognise most; there are a few new faces and at least two new babes in arms. I am scanning the faces for William’s but I do not find him.

“Where is William, Johann?”

A sadness creeps in behind his eyes and when he answers me, his voice is a little shaky.

“Follow the path there, through the trees, down the short slope to the cemetery.”

The word brings a lump to my throat.

“Is he de-”

“No, Alfred; he is saying goodbye to some friends before we leave tomorrow.”

I am almost willing to trade for another night in the barrack room on Comino rather than have to look into the eyes of this man. Adam feels it less and urges me on, reaching for my hand which he grasps firmly.

“He will understand, Alfred … he knew the risks.”

Navigating the path through the dense stand of spruce and silver fir alleviates my angst to something more like manageable trepidation; perhaps he will understand; he did know the risks.

Moving out from the dense foliage, we find ourselves looking directly into the last rays of the setting sun. Momentarily blinded, I cannot see William but I hear his voice clearly enough.

“Be careful on the slope …”

We slide inelegantly and stumble onto the narrow ledge which is home to the family’s cemetery. William is tending a grave at the farthest end; some fifty feet from us.

“I thought he was blind, Alfred.”

“He is … c’mon.”

We walk steadily towards the end of the row, noticing that the graves get newer and newer as we approach the last.

“Thank you for coming, Alfred … is that Adam with you?”

“Yes it is … hello, William.”

“I was just saying goodbye to a few friends before we leave tomorrow.”

“Lucky for us that we arrived today then.”

“I knew that we would see you before we left … how have you been?”

“William … please forgive me-”

“Alfred! You cannot blame yourself … you did not know the game he was playing; no-one did, least of all me. Come here.”

I practically fall into the outstretched arms, insensible to the tears running down my face and the cries which threaten to choke me to death.

After a few minutes, I am sufficiently composed to relinquish my hold on William, suddenly conscious of Adam’s presence.

“I’m sorry.”

“He was as unpredictable as the wind … I don’t deny that I would have liked to have said goodbye properly. He will rest here now, eyes on the west.”

I look down at the simple grave and my eyes are drawn to the newly carved stone at its head; white marble, inscribed very plainly.

“Alfred?”

I have to admit to being flummoxed; the gravestone tells me that a man of thirty-six years old affectionately called Oto by his family who was born Nicola Savoia is laid here, at peace with his God.

“But … who was Nicola Savoia?”

“You knew him as Stradler; we called him Oto … he was Nicola Savoia.”

“… n-s …” murmurs Adam.

“NO!”

“Alfred?”

“Oh, William …”

I am forced to explain the horrible truth and the circumstances of his death.

“There is a storm coming, Alfred, and we are in its path. Oto secured us papers and enough money to leave Italy. It was never discussed where the money or the papers came from. Tomorrow we do not go to the plantation in the south as the family has for more than a hundred years … we are heading for Genoa to sail to Canada.”

“But … but why?”

“Your little expedition to Malta coincided with the passing of the Nuremberg Laws. The Jews are the first to feel the wrath of the Nazis; we’ll be next. Oto knew it was coming and made plans to get as many of the family out of the country as he could. Tomorrow you will see brothers and sisters from Germany and Austria arrive, perhaps some from Hungary and Romania; nothing has been heard from the family in the Ukraine.”

“But you cannot leave.”

“Believe me, Alfred, we don’t wish to leave … but if we stay then most of us will die.”

“I cannot believe this is … we have only just found you.”

“After the war; if there is a free Europe to return to, then we will come back … Come! The party tonight is to honour his memory and if we make enough noise, we might just capture the good favour of our gods and receive their blessing for a safe journey … better this than annihilation, Alfred.”

oOo

Thou’rt quickly born and dost as quickly die. Pity so fair a birth to fate should fall. Now here and now in abject dust dost lie. One moment ‘twixt thy birth and funeral. Art thou, like angels, only shown, then to our grief for ever flown? Tell me, Apollo, tell me where the sunbeams go, when they do disappear?[7]

From Fragments of the Tempest, Alp Mortal

“I love as a rich man, a poor man, a beggar man and a thief. I love as a rich man; charging interest on the debt, demanding it repaid on the quarter day; the more I have, the more I want; and where love is in short supply, I will take vanity and conceit and write off the losses on the exchange as a trifling expense.

I love as a poor man; the less I have, the more jealously I guard it and eek it out, daring not to squander it or risk it; bringing it forth only on special days to polish and briefly gaze upon, allowing no-one to touch it should the precious thing be broke; but slowly I starve.

I love as a beggar; ‘t’was easily squandered in ripe youth ‘til the cup was empty and my wailing into the dry well, echoed and burst my drums. I love as a beggar; pleading for my daily alms, scratching with torn nails at the scraps left in my bowl.

I love as a thief, stealing the coin from my heart and yours, repaying in vanity and iridescent words which ape the pearls of wisdom; only they are not pearls but the grit which gives birth to the pearl; a thinly cloaked grain of sand but stillborn.

“I love like a blind man; groping in the dark, testing the way ahead, timidly taking my steps one by one; ever mindful of the hooves of the stallion which threaten to crush my skull if I choose the wrong path.

The Carter Seagrove Project

The Carter Seagrove Project is the creative space which is the harbour for the ideas and projects which result from the collaboration between authors Alp Mortal and Chambers Mars.

The Inspector Fenchurch Mysteries came about after the first such collaboration which resulted in the publication of the murder mystery Dust Jacket.

Contacting us couldn’t be simpler:

www.carterseagrove.weebly.com

carterseagrove@outlook.com

www.alpmortal.weebly.com

www.chambersmars.weebly.com

alpmortal@hotmail.com

chambers.mars@gmail.com

Alp Mortal

Alp is British, originally from the Isle of Wight, and for most of the year, holed up in a cottage in the Vosges Mountains in France, living the indie dream. Alp says of himself “I have an overactive imagination coupled with a desire to share my stories … if I wasn’t an author then I would have been a politician. I am a vegan of sixteen years’ standing (vegans who sit down aren’t doing it properly) and I am a Buddhist with a healthy interest in all faiths and beliefs, including the concept of ‘being French’, though to become French will require more dedication to the Path of Enlightenment and the purchase of a bicycle.”

Chambers Mars

Chambers is French, born in the tiny village of St Hilaire in Haute Saone (14 kilometres from where Alp now lives as it happens), currently living in St Tropez for reasons of his health (but mostly his tan). He has a dog called Pinocchio; a Jack Russell/Italian Greyhound cross (Jack Russell with long legs and a superiority complex to match). Chambers has travelled widely and through this has developed a fairly unique grasp of the English language … and how to get first class upgrades on most flights. Chambers says; “Being French has its compensations; no-one here complains that my breath reeks of garlic and we keep the best wine for ourselves. Everyone owns at least two bicycles, and as a matter of National Pride must compete in Le Tour de France once in a lifetime … though not necessarily whilst drinking the wine. I smoke more than is good for me and drink coffee as opposed to tea. I’m a recently converted Buddhist and vegan (I don’t eat meat or fish or any dairy products except for cheese on toast but only then as a hang-over cure).”

Reviews, Ratings and Recommendations

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If you have enjoyed this story then you may wish to try the stories which precede it in the series:

The Blakely Affair by Carter Seagrove

Black Veil by Carter Seagrove

Stradler’s Game by Carter Seagrove

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Notes

[←1]

From John Donne, The Computation

[←2]

From John Donne, Satire #3

[←3]

From John Donne, The Token

[←4]

From John Donne, Holy Sonnet #9

[←5]

From John Donne, The Ecstasy

[←6]

From John Donne, Love’s Alchemy

[←7]

From Thomas Heyrick, On a Sunbeam

Table of Contents

Author’s Note

Contact Information

Chapter One – Scotch

Chapter Two – In-flight Service

Chapter Three – Villa Melita

Chapter Four – Valetta

Chapter Five – Blue Grotto

Chapter Six – With Jupiter’s Assistance

Chapter Seven – The sect of Helios

Return to Fiavé

Epilogue

The Carter Seagrove Project

Alp Mortal

Chambers Mars

Reviews, Ratings and Recommendations