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To enthusiastic applause, Sir Roger appeared under the lights, stepped up to the podium and launched into his speech as the glittering Neptune Marine Exploration corporate logo flashed up on the big screen behind him.
Chapter Four (#ulink_be5d1e71-36d4-5b06-8876-616567aad727)
‘It’s no secret,’ Sir Roger began, ‘how in July of last year, after many months of exhaustive mapping and researching possible locations over countless square miles of the Atlantic Ocean, Neptune Marine Exploration, the world leader in historic marine salvage, succeeded in locating one of the greatest finds of the last several decades.’ He waved at the screen, and right on cue there flashed up an underwater image that Brooke had to peer hard at to make out. Against a murky, greenish sea bed was the shape of a decayed hulk barely recognisable as a sailing ship. Its masts had long since vanished, leaving just the crumbling ruin of its hull, scattered in fragments and half buried under countless tons of sand and shingle.
Marvellous, Brooke thought, thoroughly unimpressed. She glanced over in the direction of the bar. Amal had his back to the rest of the room, sitting hunched over his second gin and tonic. Or maybe his third by now.
‘The previously undiscovered wreck of the Spanish warship Santa Teresa,’ Forsyte announced proudly. ‘Sunk in 1588 off Toraigh Island near the Donegal coast after the Spanish Armada, repelled by the Royal Navy following their abortive invasion of England, were chased northwards and headed for Ireland in the hope of finding a friendly port and refuge among their Catholic allies, only to have the remnants of their fleet devastated by freak Atlantic storms.’
He turned to gaze lovingly at the screen. ‘I know, she’s not much to look at after sitting at the bottom of the ocean for over four hundred and twenty years. But thanks to the unique 3D underwater scanning technology developed by Neptune’s own computer engineers, we are now able to reconstruct in perfect detail the splendour of this once magnificent warship. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Santa Teresa.’
Forsyte motioned grandly at the screen, and an appreciative murmur rippled through the crowd as the computer reconstruction of the ancient vessel appeared in all her former glory – a vast spread of pearly-white sails billowing against the blue ocean, her majestic bow splitting the water in a white crest, the sun glinting off the dozens of bronze cannon muzzles protruding from her open gun ports, crewmen swarming up and down her rigging, files of brightly-armoured troops lining the deck. Even Brooke had to raise an eyebrow at the impressive sight.
Amal still had his back to the room.
‘I’m proud to say that the salvage of the Santa Teresa has turned out to be one of the most successful projects ever undertaken by Neptune Marine Exploration,’ Forsyte said with a grin. ‘This incredible achievement would not have been possible without the dedication, determination and diligence of our salvage crew and dive team. Nobody will contradict me when I say the man most directly responsible for this triumphant success is Neptune’s incomparable dive team manager. He’s been with us since the humble beginnings of the company back in 1994 and I’m proud to call him my friend. Ladies and gentlemen: Mr Simon Butler.’
More applause as a slightly-built man with sandy hair appeared on the stage and stepped up to the podium. Forsyte clapped him warmly on the shoulder, then moved aside to give him the mike.
Once the applause had died down, it was immediately apparent that Butler lacked Sir Roger’s flair for public speaking. He stumbled his way, red-faced, through a speech of thanks that consisted solely of cramming as many of the names of his team members as possible into a couple of minutes. The audience was soon shifting about restlessly and losing interest. Butler was visibly relieved when Forsyte returned to the podium.
Forsyte went on, and almost instantly regained the interest of the crowd. ‘As he launched the Armada to its fate, King Philip II of Spain spoke these words: “We are quite aware of the risk that is incurred by sending a major fleet in winter through the Channel without a safe harbour, but … since it is all for His cause, God will send good weather”.’ He gave a dark smile. ‘Sadly for him, and perhaps fortunately for England, it didn’t quite work out that way. And just as the fleeing Armada had to face the most challenging and perilous conditions that Mother Nature could unleash, even a highly skilled and expert outfit like Neptune Marine Exploration, with the most cutting-edge modern technology at its disposal, has faced sometimes appalling conditions and enormous difficulties to restore this historic treasure to the world. All through autumn and winter our salvage vessel Trident was battered by the same severe storms faced by the Spanish sailors all those centuries ago.’
‘That’s true,’ Sam whispered to Brooke. ‘I was seasick like you wouldn’t believe.’
‘We learned first-hand about the force of nature that drove the Santa Teresa onto the rocks off Toraigh Island and sent every one of the six hundred souls aboard to a watery grave,’ Forsyte continued. ‘But thanks to the heroic struggle of our entire team against all the wrath of the elements, we can now reveal for the very first time the extent and magnificence of the treasures that this lost wreck has yielded up for posterity.’
‘He’s a great speaker, isn’t he?’ Sam whispered to Brooke.
‘A little on the florid side,’ Brooke said, ‘but he makes his point.’
Forsyte motioned towards the curtains to his left, and as if by magic they glided open to reveal the screened-off area of the ballroom. This was the moment the audience had all been waiting for, and they surged eagerly forwards, the buzz of chatter rising to fever pitch as they took in the awesome splendour of Neptune Marine Exploration’s haul.
Arranged like a museum exhibit were racks and units covered in a dizzying array of gold and silver plates, goblets, candlesticks, trinkets. Open caskets piled high with coins and jewels. Entire dinner sets of fine porcelain. Then there was the weaponry – row on row of pikes, swords and armour, all gleaming under the lights. Mounted on an enormous plinth, a set of bronze cannons, polished to a dazzle. At the centre of it all was the warship’s salvaged figurehead, badly pitted with age but somehow brought to the surface intact.
Nothing could get a crowd excited like incredible wealth. There were whistles and exclamations. One of the journalists gasped ‘Fuck my boots’ loudly enough to be heard by the mayor, who turned and shot him a filthy look. A scrum of photographers jostled for the best shot. Everyone was thinking the same thing, even Brooke.
‘How many millions must this stuff be worth?’ she asked Sam, who beamed with pleasure.
‘Enough to have already sparked quite a nasty little war between the British government and the Spanish treasury officials claiming ownership of the wreck and its contents. It’ll rage on for months. But however it’s all divided up in the end, Sir Roger will get his forty per cent share. Look at him. I’ve never seen him this chuffed with himself.’
Brooke could see the security men positioned discreetly at the rear of the exhibit, at least eight of them, all extremely serious-looking. She wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d been government agents. There must be an army of them backstage, she thought, and a convoy of trucks waiting to whisk the priceless treasures away to a bank vault somewhere.
Remembering Amal, she looked back over towards the bar. He was still sitting slumped over his drink, mountains of gold coins, emeralds and rubies the last thing on his mind. She thought about going over to him, then decided he probably wanted to be left alone.
‘Now, it was by no means uncommon through history for regular line-of-battle warships of any nation to carry all manner of splendid artefacts,’ Sir Roger went on from the podium as the cameras carried on flashing in a frenzy. ‘But let’s remember that the Spanish Armada was no ordinary naval fleet. This was a full-blown invasion force, whose commanders were quite assured would make short work of the English defences, sweep rapidly inland and within weeks, perhaps even days, establish a new Spanish territory upon English soil. In fact, they were so confident in the overwhelming force of this massive fleet that its officers, many of them noblemen of the highest position, loaded their ships with a wealth of luxury goods, artwork and other finery – not just to enjoy on the voyage, but with which the country’s new Spanish rulers would have refurnished the palaces and stately homes of Tudor England. And of course if you want to set up a new government, you’re going to need money. Lots and lots of it. Aboard the Santa Teresa were scores of wax-sealed casks, stuffed with greater quantities of coin, gold bars, jewellery and precious stones than have ever previously been salvaged from a warship wreck. What you see here is only a sample.’
Perhaps sensing that many of the audience were too busy goggling at the treasure to pay him much attention, Forsyte quickly brought his speech to an end and invited questions from the media people. A forest of hands instantly shot up. ‘Yes?’ he said, picking out the prettiest of the journalists.
‘Sir Roger, Neptune Marine Exploration is famous for the amount of preliminary research it does before starting an excavation project. You must have been aware of what you’d find down there. But were there any surprises among the treasure?’
Sam leaned close to Brooke’s ear. ‘That girl’s a plant,’ she whispered.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Just listen.’
Forsyte chuckled. ‘Apart from the sheer quantity and value of it?’ he said, and the crowd joined in his laughter. More seriously, he added, ‘Well, in fact, we did make one highly unexpected discovery.’ He paused for effect. ‘It’s not on display yet, and I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for me to reveal it.’
There were groans and calls of ‘Give us a clue’ and ‘Come on, Sir Roger’. Forsyte held up his palms. ‘All in good time, my friends. I don’t think you’ll be disappointed when we eventually make it public.’
What a showman, Brooke thought. Forsyte certainly knew how to bait his hook. ‘What’s the big surprise?’ she asked Sam.
Sam shrugged. ‘You think he’d tell me? I only run most of the company for him.’
‘Now, enough talk,’ Forsyte said. ‘Please feel free to wander among the displays, and of course there’s still plenty more food and champagne to come. Enjoy.’ To a final thunderous roar of applause he stepped down from the podium and slipped away among a sea of arms reaching out to pat him on the back and shake his hand.
Sam turned to Brooke and tapped her watch. ‘Now that’s over, it’s party time.’ She seemed to notice for the first time that Amal was missing. ‘Where’s your friend?’
‘He’s … ah …’
‘Best go and get him, eh? Wally’s coming round with the car. We’ll be out of here in a few minutes.’
At the bar, Brooke laid her hand on Amal’s shoulder and said, ‘You okay?’ She knew the answer even before she’d asked the question. There were four empty glasses lined up on the bar in front of him and he was hard at work on the fifth. That many gin and tonics wouldn’t have put too big a dent in Ben Hope’s sobriety – but that was just one of the ways Amal differed greatly from Ben. His eyes were unfocused and his jaw was slack.
‘I’m fine,’ he slurred. ‘Fresh as a daisy.’ He slid down off his bar stool, walked three steps and had to prop himself against a wall for support. ‘Christ,’ he mumbled, clasping his head. ‘I want to be in bed.’
‘Oh, Amal, what have you done to yourself?’
‘The car’s waiting,’ Sam announced, materialising out of the crowd and pointing at a side exit. She was holding a laptop case and had slipped on a green cardigan over her dress. ‘You two ready?’
‘Amal’s not feeling well,’ Brooke told her. ‘I don’t think we can make it to the party.’
‘You’re kidding,’ Sam said, reeling as if all her plans were crumbling.
‘No, no,’ Amal protested. Making an effort to speak coherently, he said very carefully, ‘I don’t want to be responsible for spoiling your evening. You go.’
‘Hurry up and decide, guys,’ Sam said irritably, and headed towards the exit with a glance at her watch.
Brooke sighed. ‘What about you?’
‘Don’t worry about me. I’m still sober enough to call a cab.’
‘Are you sure? I’ve got no problem going back to the guesthouse with you. The party doesn’t mean that much to me.’
He wagged a finger at her. ‘You came here to have a good time. Now go. I … I command it.’
Sam was waving at them from the open doorway, mouthing ‘come on’ and gesticulating at the waiting Jaguar outside.
‘You’re quite sure?’ Brooke asked Amal.
‘Go and have fun,’ he muttered with a sickly smile. ‘Go. Go.’
She made her decision. ‘Oh, what the hell. I’ll see you for breakfast, then,’ she said. ‘Sleep well, and take care, all right?’
Amal watched as she left the building. The Jag’s engine was purring gently, its exhaust billowing in the cold night air. He couldn’t make out the face of the driver, but recognised Sir Roger Forsyte in the back seat. Sam opened the rear door of the Jag, climbed in and slid along to the middle to make room for Brooke. With a final glance back at Amal, Brooke climbed in after her and closed the door.
The Jaguar took off towards the gates.
That was the last he saw of her.
Chapter Five (#ulink_142d1b11-95a9-5f46-bf89-f25a6a1d8fdb)
The pale light of the Sunday morning sun hauled Amal up from the dark, dreamless depths, and with consciousness came the first rush of nausea. ‘Oh God,’ he groaned.
He lay miserably curled up under the covers for a while, nursing his throbbing headache and cursing himself for having drunk so much. What the hell had possessed him? A vision of a tall, frosted glass kept appearing in his mind, making his stomach threaten to flip. He realised he was fully clothed under the duvet. ‘Oh, God,’ he repeated. ‘Why? Why?’
Gradually, the scattered pieces of his memory fitted themselves back together to form a coherent picture of the previous night. He remembered calling the taxi from the country club – nothing at all about the car coming to pick him up, or the journey to the guesthouse. Only the vaguest recollection of letting himself in the door and managing to stagger up to bed.
Once he was fairly certain that the slightest movement wasn’t going to trigger off a violent spate of vomiting, Amal gingerly hauled himself out of bed. He kicked off his shoes and left a trail of scattered clothing on the way to the bathroom. Showered, changed and feeling marginally more human, he left his room. It was twenty past eight. Brooke’s door across the landing was shut. He tapped lightly on it and murmured her name. When he got no reply, he figured she must either be downstairs or had come back so late last night that she was still sleeping.
Amal tramped heavily downstairs. The frying grease smell that wafted up to meet him was almost more than he could bear, but he managed not to puke as he wandered into the breakfast room.
No Brooke. No anybody, except for the landlady, Mrs Sheenan, who was in the adjoining kitchen frying up a mound of eggs and bacon that would have fattened the Irish Army.
Mrs Sheenan didn’t appear to notice his presence, or hear his mumbled ‘Good morning’. That was partly due to the fact that she was half deaf – something he and Brooke had discovered when they’d checked in to the place the day before – and partly due to the blaring TV in the kitchen, which was turned up to full volume.
Amal dragged himself over to a table by the window, where Mrs Sheenan would be bound to notice him sooner or later. He couldn’t stomach food, but yearned for a comforting mug of hot, sugary tea. He sat there for a few moments, gazing towards the misty bay and thinking how strangely out of his element he felt in this place, and then felt suddenly angry with himself for being so ungrateful towards as generous and warm-hearted a friend as Brooke. He started brooding once again over the way he’d let her down by going and getting wasted. What a prat. He could only hope it hadn’t totally ruined her evening.
Eight twenty-five. Amal was lucid enough by now to remember that they’d have to check out in about an hour and forty minutes’ time to catch their flight back to London. If Brooke wasn’t awake soon he’d have to go and rouse her. Then again, he thought, she might have been up for hours and be about to return any moment, rosy-cheeked and tousle-haired from a brisk walk or a run on the windy beach. That was more her style.
Amal’s thoughts were punctured by Mrs Sheenan, who had suddenly registered his presence and begun fussing over him, frying pan in hand, screeching in a voice that pierced through his skull. Yes, he’d slept fine, thank you. Yes, the room was lovely and warm. But her broad, toothy smile vanished as, averting his eyes from the pool of grease swilling in the pan, he informed her as politely as he could that he didn’t want any bacon.
‘Oh,’ she said, scanning his face and then pursing her lips in extreme disapproval. ‘You must be one of them Muslins.’
‘I’m just not hungry … really, a cup of tea would be fine.’
‘Just tea, is it.’ Mrs Sheenan sighed loudly and returned to the kitchen to dump her frying pan with a crash on the stove.
‘You haven’t seen my friend Brooke this morning, have you?’ Amal called after her through the open door. He had to make an effort to raise his voice over the din of the television. The kitchen was now reverberating to the opening theme of the local RTÉ news.
‘Eh?’ Mrs Sheenan screwed up her face with a hand cupped behind her ear, then glanced back at the television. ‘Shall I turn it down?’ she bawled, making a move for the remote control. ‘You’ve an awful quiet voice.’
‘I was asking—’ Amal began.
He stopped mid-sentence as he realised what had just come on TV. He burst out of his chair and hurried towards the kitchen, his hangover suddenly forgotten. ‘No!’ he yelled. ‘Don’t turn it down!’
Too late: Mrs Sheenan had pressed the mute button. Amal stopped in the doorway and gaped at the screen.
The soundless television picture was of a wrecked car on a winding country road, in the middle of a rugged, empty landscape that looked shockingly familiar to Amal.
The black Jaguar had skidded into the opposite verge and smashed into a huge rock. Wreckage was scattered across the road. Teams of police were milling around the vehicle, blue lights swirling in the early morning mist.
As Amal went on staring in increasing horror, he saw a team of paramedics loading a bagged-up body on a gurney into the back of an ambulance. A close-up of the car showed what were unmistakably bullet holes punched through the black bodywork. The rear window was shattered and the rear wheels shredded, the tyres clearly blown out by the gunfire.
‘No, no, no, this can’t be happening,’ Amal murmured. He blinked his eyes tightly shut and then opened them again.
It was happening.
Mrs Sheenan gave a derisory snort. ‘There you go. Another eejit gone and killed himself.’
The silent picture changed to a shot of Sir Roger Forsyte, followed by one of Sam Sheldrake. ‘Turn the sound on!’ Amal yelled. Flustered, Mrs Sheenan fumbled with the remote. Now the picture showed the face of a stocky-looking man in his forties whom Amal didn’t recognise.
At that moment, Mrs Sheenan managed to get the sound back on.
‘… found a short distance from the vehicle, has been identified as Wallace Lander, forty-two, a former British soldier employed as a driver by Sir Roger. Early reports suggest that Mr Lander was gunned down by at least two automatic weapons, killing him instantly. Police sources have confirmed that both Sir Roger and Miss Sheldrake remain missing, presumed kidnapped by the attackers.’
Amal slumped in a kitchen chair and numbly absorbed what he could. It barely seemed real to him. The empty, bullet-riddled car wreck had been discovered before dawn that morning by a night shift worker returning home from a local packing plant. Police had traced the Jaguar to a luxury car hire firm in Derry, and confirmed that the vehicle had been leased to Sir Roger Forsyte’s company, Neptune Marine Exploration. Forsyte was known to have been en route from Castlebane Country Club to nearby Carrick Manor, his temporary base in the area, when the attack took place. Witnesses had reported seeing the Jaguar leave the country club shortly before ten o’clock that evening; it was estimated that the incident had occurred at approximately 10.05 p.m.
Amal’s breath was coming in short gasps as he anticipated the mention of a third passenger. Any moment now, Brooke’s face would be on the screen, with the news that she’d been found dead like the car’s driver, or snatched by the kidnappers. But there was nothing at all.
An idea came to him, like a flash of white light. Maybe Brooke had changed her mind at the last minute – maybe she hadn’t gone off to the party at all, but had got out of the car and taken a taxi back to the guesthouse, assumed he was already in bed and not wanted to disturb him? The wild notion suddenly seemed utterly convincing. Headache and nausea forgotten, he leaped to his feet, ran upstairs and hammered on her door. ‘Brooke? Are you there?’ She had to be. Come on, Brooke. Be there. Come on.
Silence. Amal burst into the room and saw it was empty: the bed neatly made, unslept in, Brooke’s clothes folded on top of the sheet, her travel bag sitting on the rug nearby, the novel she’d been reading propped open on the bedside table. Amal dashed into the ensuite bathroom, but all there was of Brooke were her toothbrush and hairbrush by the sink, her little wash-bag and shower cap on the shelf.
His head was spinning as he thundered back downstairs. ‘You’re sure you didn’t see her this morning?’ he quizzed Mrs Sheenan.
‘Who?’
‘My friend! Brooke! The woman I was here with.’ With some effort, he managed to drag it out of Mrs Sheenan that he was definitely the only guest who’d come down to breakfast that day.
That was when the panic set in for real. Amal began to tremble violently, first his hands, then his whole body, feeling weak and jittery as though his knees might buckle under him. His brow was damp with cold sweat.
‘I have to call the police,’ he said.
Chapter Six (#ulink_b3e0772a-f369-53ea-b425-f1939db3ee66)
Near Étretat, Normandy coast, France
Ben Hope hauled the Explorer sea kayak onto the little tongue of shingle, wiped his hands on his wetsuit and gazed up at the towering white cliff. The saltiness of the cold air was on his lips. Circling gulls screeched overhead. ‘All right,’ he said, as much to himself as to the cliff, ‘let’s see what you’re made of.’
Sunday morning, and the relaxed pace of life in the little corner of rural France Ben now called home was going on much as it always had. He could hear a church bell chiming from a kilometre or so away inland, summoning to Mass those locals who weren’t enjoying a late breakfast, pottering about their homes, feeding their chickens or still lazing in their beds.
Ben Hope’s way of relaxing was a little different from most people’s. The stretch of shoreline he’d driven the ancient Land Rover to that morning with his kayak lashed to the roof was known locally as the Côte D’Albâtre, the Alabaster Coast, for the chalky whiteness of its sheer, gale-battered cliffs. Nineteenth-century painters had travelled here to depict them; writers and poets had been inspired by them – today he was going to climb them. Partly just because they were there, and because Ben’s idea of pleasure was to set himself challenges that normal folks would have done anything to avoid, and also partly because doing this kind of thing helped him to forget all the churning thoughts that otherwise tended to crowd his mind these days.
After securing the kayak and warming up his muscles with some bends and stretches, he pulled on his rock-climbing shoes and gloves, strapped the lightweight waist pack around his middle, then walked up to the foot of the cliff and reached for his first handhold. He paused as a jolt of pain ran up his arm.
The two bullet wounds sustained on Christmas Day were well healed now. They’d both come from the same small-calibre handgun, but even a .25 could do terrible damage at close range. Ben had been lucky. The first shot had glanced off his ribs and passed on through; only the second, lodged in his shoulder, had caused any difficulty to the surgeon who’d pulled it out. Now there was just a little stiffness, some pain from time to time and another couple of scars to add to the collection of war wounds Ben had accumulated over the last twenty years. The man holding the gun had come off very much worse.
