The Deadly Game (13 page)

Jake turned and headed back the way he’d come, towards Finsbury Park station. He could phone Robert and get him to come over and deal with Andy, but Jake didn’t want to hang around any longer than was necessary. As Jake walked, he dialled Robert’s number on his phone. There was no answer, just voicemail. Jake assumed Robert was still sorting out the damage to his van, Lizzie.

It was a long way to go, all the way from Finsbury Park to Robert’s house at Baron’s Court, and Jake considered other options: contacting Michelle and seeking help from her; or maybe even phoning the police and accusing Andy of stalking him. But Michelle only wanted the book to publicise it; and Andy would just claim he was waiting for a friend. No, the only safe place Jake could think of right at this moment was Robert’s house.

When Jake arrived at Robert’s neat terraced house, the old van was still parked on the tiny forecourt, its four tyres still flat. So Robert hadn’t managed to get the damage repaired yet. Jake went to the door and rang the bell.

Usually, Robert opened the door almost as soon as the bell had sounded, but today there was no response. Maybe Robert was out, talking to a tyre company, negotiating a deal to get Lizzie back on the street.

Jake rang the bell again.

‘Come on, Robert,’ he muttered impatiently to himself. He didn’t fancy exposing himself on this doorstep for any longer than was necessary. With so many people after him, who knew who might be watching.

He gave a bang on the door with his knuckles. As he did, the door swung inwards. Immediately, Jake felt alarm bells ringing in his head. Why was the door unlocked? Jake stayed outside and peered into the house, into the long hallway, his ears straining for any sound.

‘Robert!’ he called.

There was no answer.

Something was wrong. Robert wouldn’t go out and leave his front door open and unlocked, he was far too careful for that.

‘Robert!’ Jake called again, louder this time.

There was still no answer.

Warily, Jake entered the house, all his senses alert for any sound or movement. His heart thumped loudly in his chest, adding to his feeling of controlled panic. Was there someone waiting for him, waiting to pounce? But if so, why wait? Surely they’d have come out at him already, as soon as he walked in.

The first door on his left was the small living room. Carefully, slowly, Jake put his fingertips against the door and pushed it open. Nothing happened. No one rushed out at him. He looked into the room. It was empty, everything was in its proper place, everything neat and tidy. No sign of any disturbance.

Jake moved back into the hallway and moved on, still quietly, still listening intently. Next was the kitchen. The door was already half open. Jake entered, and stopped dead, in shock. Robert was tied to a wooden chair, his clothes torn and stained with blood. Blood had run down from a gash on his scalp and was starting to congeal on Robert’s face. He was deathly still, only held upright by the ropes that tied him to the back of the chair.

Jake hurried over and put his fingers to Robert’s neck, and felt a faint pulse.

‘Robert!’ said Jake.

There was no response.

Jake looked at Robert’s bruised and battered face and felt a mixture of fury and nausea rise up in him. He pulled out his mobile and tapped out 999. Urgently, he gave Robert’s address to the operator.

‘He’s been attacked,’ he told her. ‘He needs an ambulance and paramedics urgently.’

‘Your name, please?’ asked the operator.

‘John Smith,’ replied Jake. ‘Please, hurry. He may be dying.’

Then he clicked off the phone and headed back out through the hallway and out to the street. There was nothing he could do for Robert right now. He didn’t know how badly he was damaged, what sort of internal injuries he might have. If Jake tried to take him out of the chair it might make them worse.

Jake crossed the road, walked along to a nearby bus stop and joined the short queue, his eyes on Robert’s house. All he could do for Robert was wait to make sure the paramedics turned up, and if they didn’t, phone again.

He stood at the bus stop for five minutes, checking his watch and getting more and more agitated as he waited for the emergency services to arrive, aware that every second that passed meant Robert could be slipping further into danger. Finally, he heard the sound of the sirens approaching, then an ambulance appeared at the far end of the street and screeched to a halt outside Robert’s house. A police car was close behind it.

Relieved, Jake waited until he saw the medics and police hurry into the house, then he slipped away from the crowd waiting for the bus and headed towards the tube station.
Please let Robert be all right
, he prayed silently.
Let him live. Let him recover. Let him return to full health.

Whoever had done that to Robert had thought he had the book, or that he knew where it was. Who? Not the people that Andy had been hired by, surely. Andy had known that Jake had the book on him. Unless the people who had beaten up Robert had been looking for Jake and were trying to force Robert to tell them where Jake was.

At the thought of Robert, tied to the chair, bloody and unconscious, Jake shuddered. These people would stop at nothing. They wanted the book. If they caught him, they’d do the same to him as they’d done to Robert. He had to get the book to Michelle. There was no time to wait. He had to make sure she went public with it
now
.

He dialled Michelle’s number, but just got voicemail. Where was she? Why wasn’t she answering? The awful thought struck him that the people who’d beaten Robert up so badly had got to her. In which case, they could well be watching the offices of the magazine where she worked, waiting for him to show up.

I’m caught, he realised. I can’t go home. I can’t go to Michelle’s office. I can’t stay around Robert’s house.

He headed into the tube station and got on an eastbound train back towards the city centre. He had to hide; and the best place to hide was in a place filled with people. Safety in numbers, while he worked out what he was going to do next.

Chapter 20

As Jake came out of the entrance of Tottenham Court Road station into Oxford Street, his mobile rang. Michelle calling him back? He looked at the screen: number withheld, but it could still be Michelle.

‘Hello?’ he said.

It was Gareth.

‘All right, Jake. Bring it to me.’

‘Bring what?’

‘The book you found at Glastonbury, of course.’

‘Book?’ queried Jake.

Gareth exploded in anger.

‘For heaven’s sake, you didn’t think I was that gullible to believe you’d suddenly developed a major interest in all things King Arthur, did you? We knew what you were up to, but we decided to let you go ahead and keep an eye on you and see if you turned up anything. And look what happens! Your friend, Robert, for example. In a coma with a fractured skull.’

As he heard these words, Jake felt sick.

‘Is he going to be all right?’ he asked.

Even as he said it, the words felt lame and foolish. Inadequate. Robert had been beaten almost to death, and it was his fault. He had got Robert involved.

‘Is he going to die, you mean?’ snapped Gareth. ‘Frankly, we don’t know. The doctors say he’s only got a forty per cent chance of surviving. The point is, Jake, the people who did it are still out there, and looking for
you
. You’re next. So bring the book to me and stop this now.’

‘I haven’t got it,’ Jake mumbled.

There was a brief pause, then Gareth said, ‘Jake, I don’t think you understand your position and how much danger you’re in, so I’ll spell it out for you. Your friend has had his skull crushed. He may well die. They thought he had the book. He didn’t. They are now coming after you, and they will kill you unless you give them the book, or tell them where it is. I can protect you. Bring the book to me
now
.’

‘All right,’ said Jake. He had to play for time. ‘I’ll bring it to your office.’

Before Gareth could respond, Jake ended the call. Almost immediately, his phone rang.

Michelle, or Gareth calling back, angry at having been cut off?

‘Jake Wells,’ he said.

‘Alex Munro,’ said Alex Munro’s familiar self-assured voice. ‘Your friendly taxi service.’

Jake tensed.

‘I’m a bit busy at the moment,’ he said. And that’s an understatement, he thought.

‘Yes, the book you’ve got,’ said Munro in an almost casual way. ‘The one you found at Glastonbury.’ There was a brief pause, then he added: ‘A pity about your friend. I understand he’s in a bad way.’

How did Munro know all this so soon? thought Jake. But then he reflected that Pierce Randall had contacts everywhere: in the police, inside the Department of Science, possibly in Gareth’s own office.

‘Yes he is,’ he said grimly, adding angrily: ‘and if I find you were behind it . . .’

‘No no, Jake, I assure you,’ said Munro quickly and smoothly. ‘You should know by now that violence is not our style.’

No, but it’s the style of some of the people you use, and who you represent, thought Jake. The Mafia and a whole load of other organised criminal gangs, for example.

‘You’re at serious risk, Jake,’ continued Munro. ‘I can save you, and give you what you want. Just bring me the book.’

‘No,’ said Jake. ‘This one’s going out into the public domain. This one is going to prove to the world that the secret library of Malichea exists.’

‘Which is our aim, too, Jake,’ said Munro smoothly.

‘No it isn’t,’ snapped back Jake. ‘You want to sell this to the highest bidder and keep it secret, just like everyone else. The difference is that you’ll patent what’s in it and make a fortune from it.’

‘You mean you’ve looked inside it?’ said Munro, and now Jake heard a new eagerness in his voice. ‘What’s the subject matter, Jake? Who’s it by?’

Jake hesitated. He was on the point of admitting he didn’t know, he hadn’t even opened the book, then he stopped himself. Don’t give anything away, he told himself. Let Munro think that Jake knew what the contents were. He might need a bargaining chip of some sort in the future.

‘Jake, we can help you,’ said Munro. ‘You want Ms Graham back, we can arrange that. As I told you earlier, dealing with governments is one of our main areas of expertise. Just bring me the book . . .’

‘No,’ said Jake.

‘I understand,’ said Munro. ‘You’re worried about your own safety. So we’ll come to you. Just tell me where you are and we’ll collect you. We’ll send our best people. They’ll make sure you’re safe . . .’

Suddenly, it hit Jake that Munro knew where he was. He remembered what he’d been told, that people could be tracked by the signal from their mobile phone. Munro was using this call to pinpoint Jake’s position. Quite likely, even now, Munro’s people were on their way to him. And maybe Gareth’s people as well. Gareth’s secret services certainly had that same technology.

Fumbling with nervous fingers, Jake opened his mobile phone, took out the battery and SIM card, and slipped them into one pocket, with the dismantled remains of his phone into another. He looked up, and saw a black car pull up about a hundred metres away from him. Two men got out of the back, both dressed in dark suits. Their heads turned swiftly from side to side, scanning the crowds in the street, searching. Plain-clothes police, or secret agents, or Munro’s men? It didn’t matter, Jake just knew that he had to get away.

He ducked down a side street and found himself heading down one of the short streets that linked Oxford Street with Soho Square. Out of the corner of his eye he was aware of the two men turning towards his direction, just before he nipped into the street. He ran, and as he did he heard shouts of complaints from behind him. The two men were obviously pushing people aside as they gave chase.

Jake ducked down as he ran, hoping to keep out of sight. Were the men armed? Were they the people who’d beaten Robert almost to death?

He ran, pushing people aside himself, desperate to get away from his pursuers, but the crowd on the street were too busy. His only chance was to run out into the road, but if he did that he risked them getting a clear look at him, and possibly a clear shot.

Suddenly he saw an alley through an archway, just to his right. He ran towards it, and immediately turned right into yet another narrow alleyway, and as he did so he felt a hand grab him.

Fear surged through him and he turned, and came face to face with a short black teenage girl.

‘In the dumpster!’ she hissed at him.

‘What?’ said Jake, bewildered.

She punched him so that he turned round, and he saw a teenage boy standing by a tall dumpster, holding a hand ready for him to use as a step.

‘Come on, man!’ the boy said urgently, in a whisper.

Jake ran to him, put his foot in the boy’s open palm, and found himself lifted up, and then falling into the large metal box, landing on a foul-smelling mix of paper, cardboard and rotting vegetables.

Immediately, he heard raised voices from just outside the dumpster, the boy’s voice, angry, challenging: ‘What you doin’ smackin’ me like that?’