The Unhappy Medium, page 36
‘Yes, I noticed.’
‘I was trying to hang back a bit – didn’t want to cramp your style. But when I saw that goon grab you, well I thought, OK Reverend, show time!’
‘Well I guess we may as well team up,’ said Newton. ‘I think I’d rather have you close, these guys are pretty dodgy. I’m many things but I’m no Ninja. ’
‘Indeed,’ said the Reverend Bennet. ‘I suggest you let me know where you’ve got to so far. Puzzles are not really my thing, I have to admit, but it’s best I know what’s what, just in case we need to call in back-up. Besides, there’s another reason I’ll need to travel with you.’
‘There is?’
‘Yes,’ said the vicar sadly. ‘Someone’s stolen my moped.’
‘Well that would slow you down a bit,’ laughed Newton. ‘OK, I’ll talk you through what I’ve found out so far.’ He spread out the map. ‘Now then, I suspected that Lupero hid the device near to where they were camped. He couldn’t have outrun the good guys, so he went to ground here.’ He tapped the map. ‘It’s a ruined farmhouse. I checked it out and sure enough, someone’s been there recently. Not only that, but I had one of those charming “sensitivity” moments, and that confirmed it. Lupero did indeed hide up at the farmhouse. He offloaded all the loot he couldn’t carry into the cellar, sealed it, then waited till the search parties gave up. Then, under cover of darkness, he moved out. This loot has just been dug up again, so I’m guessing that these people who’re helping La Senza came back for it before heading off to wherever this bloody machine is.’
‘Which is where?’
‘Well, that’s the biggie isn’t it?’ said Newton. ‘Lupero can’t have gone far before they’d have had to hide it again, but more permanently this time.’ He traced his finger up the map. ‘My money’s on the mountains.’
‘The Pyrenees?’
‘Well not the top of a peak maybe, but at least somewhere in the foothills. Not sure how many of these modern roads are old enough to have been an option for him at the time, though. Back in the day, they must have been awful, no better than the footpath to the toilets at Glastonbury. Shit.’ Newton winced at his own language. ‘Whoops, sorry about the swearing.’
‘Oh don’t mind me Dr Barlow, I can swear with the best of them,’ said Bennet, smiling. ‘Actually, I think I can help you there. You see, there were a few routes through these mountains in the Middle Ages, pilgrim routes. There were only two decent passes – one to the west of here, nearer the coast. Too far away. No, the only possible route would have been this one here.’ Bennet pointed to a thin line on the map, wiggling like a doctor’s handwriting through the peaks. ‘Runs due north out of Jaca and comes out in France, here, at Oloron. ’
‘So he must have taken that then,’ said Newton.
‘I doubt it,’ contradicted Bennet, sipping his espresso.
‘Why so?’
‘It would have been a very busy route, he’d have run headlong into a steady stream of pilgrims. Lupero was a killer, sure, but not even he could have killed that many travellers without leaving a conspicuous trail.’
‘So he hid.’
‘Must have done – but where?’ said Bennet. Newton sat back and closed his eyes, visualising the events.
‘OK ... he’s travelling at night, that’s a fair assumption. But even then he must have avoided any serious towns. You might be able to scare people into silence in your average pueblo, but anything bigger would never wash. My guess is he nabbed a local guide and took the fastest route he could find off the plains.’ Newton ran his hand up the map to the wooded areas north of them. ‘Here, this high ground, he could see it from here – it’s a natural target. That’s what I’d do.’
‘Interesting,’ said Father Bennet. ‘I can see your thinking. Clever. It’s not proof though.’
‘No, it’s just a hypothesis,’ said Newton. ‘But he must have followed the roads to some extent – look at the rivers and valleys. He couldn’t get past those.’
‘So, what’s the next step?’ said Bennet. Newton stared hard at the map.
‘I guess we have to just get up there and look around, see if anything stands out. It’s the only way to test the theory. Bear in mind though, Reverend – these jokers helping La Senza may well be in the area.’
‘Good point,’ said Bennet. ‘That’s why I’ve brought my gun.’
‘You’ve got a gun ?’
‘Just a small Beretta. Px4 Storm, 19mm, semi-automatic.’ He patted his jacket. ‘Of course, I’d be happier with the old assault rifle, but I couldn’t find a way to hide it on the Vespa.’
‘OK ...’ said Newton gingerly. ‘Anyway, there’s no point in us waiting around. Let’s get going.’
‘Right you are Dr Barlow.’
The scientist and the priest got into the Citroën, slammed the doors, and in a cloud of dust, tore out of the sleepy town square heading north for the hills.
***** *
Like many teenagers, Gabby had a vast appetite and a skinny physique that were hard to reconcile. Viv watched her cut through another huge slice of cake, the third in twenty minutes, wolfing down the coffee gateau like a family dog. She smiled. They’d had a great day so far; Gabby had not only liked Greenwich, she was completely bonkers about it.
Her appetite finally sated, Gabby pulled out her sticker-plastered laptop and logged on.
Finding the weird box wasn’t going to be easy. But Viv, in five years of frustrating picture research, had been asked to find a lot worse – such as the idiot junior editor who had once insisted that she dig out a photograph of the big bang. Viv and Gabby tried all the image libraries first, and after coming up with nothing, they browsed a few online antique catalogues. There were a few red herrings – begging Indian women in mahogany, praying nuns – but the misses were all as good as a mile. Then, quite by chance, they came across a picture on a special-interest forum, a photo of the grim and horrible item. There was no mistaking it.
‘Bloody hell!’ said Viv, coughing out her complimentary macaroon. ‘That’s it!’
‘It really looks like it, doesn’t it,’ said Gabby. ‘Look at the hands and the robes – it’s identical.’
‘The V on the front though, that’s not the same. This sketch has an I.’
‘Yeah, and what’s all that tape and wire about?’
‘Yes odd ... you wouldn’t do that to a valuable antique,’ said Viv, frowning. ‘I’m not sure your dad’s going to be pleased when he sees the state of it. So what does it say next to the pic?’ asked Viv, pouring herself a refill.
‘It’s someone saying he’s a curator – he has this object in his museum and he says it’s been causing him a few “unexpected” issues, whatever that means. He’s wondering if anyone might have any idea what it is or where it came from.’
‘Does it say where the museum is?’
Gabby looked again. ‘Somewhere called Langton Hadlow.’
‘Langton what? Where the flipping flip is that?’ asked Viv. Gabby deftly flitted around Google .
‘Dorset. The Purbecks.’
‘The Purbecks?’ said Viv, her interest piqued. ‘I love it down there. We used to have family hols down that way. What’s the nearest town?’
‘Swanage, it’s about three miles away.’
‘Hey! Tell you what, we’re both free tomorrow, wanna go?’
‘Really ?’ said Gabby.
‘Sure, it’ll be a laugh! The car’s just been MOT’d and we’ve got more cash than we know how to spend. We can be down there and back in a day – easy.’
‘Honest? Do you think Dad will mind?’
‘Nah! Anyway, never mind him. He’s not here, is he?’ said Viv, winking. ‘I’ll text him and let him know later, when he’s finished whatever he’s doing. Besides, he told us to have fun, so ... let’s have some fun! Besides, I’m desperate to get out of London. I need to see some countryside or I’ll explode. Then on Sunday, we can do the market before you head back up to Cambridge on Monday.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ enthused Gabby.
‘Better give this curator guy a ring and tell him we’ll be popping in. Would be a shame to arrive and find no one there.’
******
Newton and the Reverend Bennet raced across the plain towards the high ground. Soon they were entering a greener landscape of hills, gullies and pines. They tried to picture La Senza’s ghastly device crawling up the roads at night on its huge cartwheels. Undoubtedly, someone as unpleasantly resourceful as Lupero would have found a way. He’d have found it at the point of a sword or he’d have found it with a handful of gold coins, but he would have found it one way or another. Chasing such an ancient trail was baffling and frustrating, maybe, but its imponderables fixed Newton’s attention completely. Add to this the growing concern about what these ghastly people might be up to, and there was an irresistible drama thrown in. Newton was like a dog with a big fat juicy bone.
They were driving through an increasingly steep series of gorges, with rough tracks disappearing to the sides behind rocks and bushes. Many of them would have been capable of taking the device. But if so, which one? Newton drove on up the road until they finally they reached the summit. It was no Matterhorn, but it was high enough for them to look back over the mass of ridges and gullies that spread out from the main road like the branches of a tree.
‘Here,’ said Bennet, handing Newton a pair of binoculars. ‘See if anything stands out.’ Newton walked to the edge of a small rise and looked down. There was an occasional bell tower and eagles floating in lazy circles on the thermals. Below them on the road, a large freight lorry and an attendant black SUV were crawling away to the south.
‘Almost every one of these valleys has a church or something, most ruined by the looks of it,’ said Bennet. ‘I count fifteen side tracks in total. We’ve no choice but to try each bloody valley, one by one.’
‘Looks like it,’ said Newton, resigned. ‘Pity you don’t still have your moped, we could have split them between us. Oh well, we may as well get started.’ He looked at the map. ‘OK, I reckon we start on the left side and then come back up on the right.’
‘Right oh, Dr Barlow,’ said Bennet, ‘sounds like plan. So, first up is this one, Valle de los Manzanos – apple trees. Then we do Valle de las Espinas. Thorns, nice.’
‘OK – let’s get on with it.’
Newton and Bennet drove away down the road and into the first valley. True to its branding, the valley was almost choked with apple trees. They reached some sad ruins at the end then turned around. They repeated the same futile performance eight times before finally they were back at the base of the hills and ready for a repeat performance up the right-hand side. They wound their futile way up the Valley of the Crows, the Valley of the Four Streams and the somewhat annoying Valley of the Flies, which had them rapidly winding up the windows. Now, with only three turn offs left, the whole exercise was starting to feel like a washout.
‘OK,’ said Newton, leaning on the wheel wearily like a tired chauffer. ‘What’s next?’
‘Three more,’ said the Reverend. ‘First the Valle de las Ortigas.’
‘Ortigas? What’s that in English?’
‘Stinging Nettles. Then Eight Oxen, then Water.’
Newton and the Reverend looked at each other intently, eyes narrowing. The penny rolled and dropped.
‘Why would you get oxen up here ?’ they said, together.
‘That has to be it,’ said Newton, slapping the wheel. ‘Lupero and his boys would have let them go once they’d hidden the damn thing. They’d be so intent on hiding the machine, they didn’t notice the oxen had wandered off. Good news for the locals though – a fully grown ox would be like a lottery win for some poor half-starved peasant in the 1500s, never mind eight of the critters.’
‘Quite, and they wouldn’t have reported it either, would they,’ said Bennet. ‘A gift from God! They’d have kept quiet for fear the animals would be taken away again.’
‘Exactly,’ said Newton. ‘But, the story would have stayed strong with the people that found them, a real folklore moment. Hence the name. And there are eight of the oxen, the number matches. Forget the other valleys,’ said Newton decisively, ‘let’s go.’
Newton gunned the Citroën and they careered back up the narrow winding road until they reached the Valley of the Eight Oxen. Gingerly they nosed their way inside. They noticed evidence of recent intrusion from the get go. Something sizable had clearly barged its way up the simple track – something big enough to snap and break the branches hanging low from the steep banks; they lay in broken bunches on the dusty track and there were fresh treads in the thin mud.
As they neared the end of the track, Newton and Bennet came upon an ancient chapel, long abandoned, and now only a home to nesting rock doves and bats. The late afternoon sun was starting to dip beyond the narrow valley, casting the scene in deep purple and crimson.
They climbed out of the Citroën, cautiously approaching the building, Bennet keeping his hand ready on his Beretta. Where the chapel nestled into the massive overhang, a neat new hole had been punched through a long smooth wall. Rubble was strewn around, and given the intact walls to the sides, it was clear to Newton that this had once been a very neat subterfuge. To anyone passing, the wall would have seemed nothing but a blank expanse, a simple blend between the natural rock and the chapel with no hint that it had anything behind it. Lupero and his men would have worked long and hard to accomplish the job – but it had worked just as La Senza’s lieutenant had intended. An ugly mess of graffiti hinted that visitors had been here many times in the past, but clearly they had all left oblivious to the chamber behind. It was to remain so, until Lupero’s heirs returned to reclaim their lost property.
Walking over a mess of discarded ropes and tackle, Newton and the Reverend Bennet entered the hollow. As expected, the dimensions of the space matched everything they had been told of the machine. The hollow was dry and dusty, and the device could have been safely preserved indefinitely.
And there was a strong smell of cigarette smoke – someone had been here recently.
Very recently.
‘The truck!’ snapped Newton abruptly.
‘Truck?’
‘Yes, the white truck. We saw it from up on the ridge. It’s in the bloody truck. It didn’t pass us on the road, that means it must have come from here. Don’t you see? It’s in the sodding truck!’
‘Bloody hell!’ said Bennet. ‘What are we waiting for!?’
Newton drove the Citroën crazily down the track back towards Sierra de Luna, so fast that the Reverend Bennet had trouble hanging onto the map as the air rushed in through the open passenger window.
‘Looking at this, there are not many turn offs,’ he shouted. ‘They have to be going on all the way to Ejea de los Caballeros.’
‘Gotcha,’ said Newton, ‘and that lorry is going to be crawling on this road, it’s hardly the M4.’
‘As to what we do when we catch them ...’ said Bennet, pulling out his pistol and checking the magazine. Newton looked over and shook his head.
‘You gonna use that?’
‘Certainly, though I’d rather use it on their tyres than on any flesh and blood. Thou shall not kill and all that. Mind you, the good book doesn’t say anything about winging them in the legs.’
‘I’ll bow to your greater knowledge,’ said Newton, and with the road improving, he began to build up speed as they twisted and turned down the switchbacks.
Above them on a hilltop, another vehicle had stopped, its passengers watching with binoculars as the Citroën tore along in a cloud of pale dust.
‘You are being followed, Mr Van Loop,’ said one of the men into his phone. ‘Two men in an old blue and white car.’ Gunter, in the truck cabin, instinctively reached for his stubby machine gun and rammed in a clip.
‘Roger. Contact the other teams and have them form some road blocks.’
‘Yes sir.’ They jumped into their jeep and sped back down the goat track onto the road, beginning their pursuit.
Some two miles ahead of Newton and Bennet, a jeep skidded to a screeching halt as three men spilt out onto the road. Running to the steep embankments they took up their positions. Using the rocks for cover, one of the men shouldered a rocket-propelled grenade and waited. As the streamlined form of Newton’s Citroën rounded the rocks below, he let the missile loose. It hissed and fizzled away in a cloud of smoke and sparks, and for a second, it looked certain to tear into the old saloon. Inside the noisy car, Newton and Bennet didn’t even hear or see it coming. The first signal they were under attack came as the blast erupted in front of them in an ugly grey fountain. The Citroën barrelled through a torment of fire, stones and broken tarmac.
Astonishingly, there was nothing worse than damaged paintwork and ringing ears. But even above the Citroën’s screaming engine, the staccato rip of two assault rifles was clearly audible. The tarmac rippled and danced as bullets flayed the ground around them. One of the rear passenger windows shattered into a cobweb and there were clangs and thuds in the bodywork. The vicar, his eyes steely and full of fight, wound down his window. To Newton’s horror, he leant out and pointed his weapon up at the gunmen.
‘Thou shall not kill!’ he shouted, and he let fly a superbly aimed round that took out a gunman’s knee from a range of some fifty feet. The thug crumpled, his gun spraying bullets high into the air above him as he fell. With a sinuous turn, Bennet then lay his arm across the roof and fired again. With stunning accuracy, the slug tore into the second gunman’s shoulder and screaming, he jerked back like a puppet. ‘Thou shall not kill again!’ Bennet righteously proclaimed and then plopped back grinning into the passenger seat. With the failed roadblock behind them, they pressed on towards the distant truck.
Gunter took the excuses from the savaged roadblock with disgust and frustration. Swearing angrily, he called the second ambush. Just a mile ahead of Newton, more gunmen were heaving boulders into the road until they lay plumb centre of the tarmac. As Newton finally rounded a sharp bend into view, they began firing. Newton threw on the brakes and screeched to a halt. Frantically, he backed up. The gunmen, now out of range if not out of sight, waited behind cover for Newton’s next move. As he revved his engine expectantly they steadied their weapons.
