But she also knew that those forgers would not have been capable of fabricating a piece of parchment containing text that could only be read in a scientific laboratory. That was completely beyond them. And most forgers, quite understandably, produced relics on which the lettering was readable, because that was the major selling point for them. Her only real concern about the parchment was whether or not it was the same relic that Ali Mohammed had examined. At least she could do something to check that.
‘May I?’ she asked, gesturing towards the sheaf of photographs which Husani had lifted out of the steel-lined case.
‘Of course.’
She selected the picture which showed the parchment in full colour, when it had been photographed under normal lighting conditions. Yes. She was quite certain that these pictures were precisely the same as those which she had received. She then compared the photo to the object in the folder. Unless Husani had managed to find somebody of enormous skill who could work incredibly quickly, she knew that she was looking at precisely the same object.
Angela handed back the photograph and closed the folder containing the parchment. Husani replaced everything in the briefcase, snapping the catches closed but not turning the key in the locks, presumably in case he or Angela needed to look at either the relic or the pictures again.
‘Now you make offer?’ Husani asked.
And that was the question Angela had been dreading. When it came to guessing the value of something like the parchment, she really had very little idea of its proper worth. In the end, she decided she needed two things — more time and another opinion — and that meant somehow getting George Stebbins out of his hotel room.
‘It is not quite that simple,’ she said slowly. ‘I am satisfied that the parchment is genuine, but I need to show it to my colleague who is an expert before I can make you an offer.’
Husani didn’t look very impressed.
‘There other buyers interest,’ he said. ‘Your colleague is man in car, yes? Show it him now?’
‘No,’ Angela replied. ‘He is just a friend. My colleague is in a hotel near here. Can we take the parchment to him so he can see it?’
She could almost see Husani’s lips forming the word ‘no’ when she heard the sudden blare of a car horn, then the roar of an engine. She span round to see Bronson powering the hire car out of the parking space, the front tyres smoking and screaming as they scrabbled for grip.
She turned back to Husani, but the Arab had disappeared. Then she saw that he had fallen backwards, out of his chair, the front of his white shirt a mass of crimson.
Angela choked back a scream. Instinctively she grabbed the steel-lined briefcase that had cost Anum Husani so much money. As she wheeled round and looked back towards the road, she saw a black-clad figure standing just a few yards away. He was staring straight at her, and looking down the barrel of a long and strangely shaped pistol.
The open space of the café was a cliché come hideously to life: there really was nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.
She heard the increasing bellow from the engine of Bronson’s car, but she knew he was too far away to help her. Then she saw a faint puff of flame from the end of the weapon, and felt in that same instant a sudden, terrible, searing pain in her chest, and an impact that knocked her flying.
She tumbled backwards, losing her grip on the briefcase. Then the back of her head hit the concrete floor — hard — and instantly her world went black.
65
It was the noise that she noticed first. It sounded strangely distant: an intermittent thumping and rumbling sound, and another more constant hum that rose and fell. For some time — it could have been minutes or seconds — she didn’t move, just stayed as still as she could, trying to make sense of what had happened to her. But it made no sense. There seemed to be huge gaps in her memory.
She gradually became aware of a voice — a familiar voice — close to her. A voice that seemed to be saying her name.
And then, slowly, things started to fit together. She realized that she was in a car, lying crumpled across the back seat. That explained the noises she could hear. But how had she got into a car? And whose car was it?
With a rush, she remembered the café. She remembered talking to Anum Husani, remembered examining the parchment. And then her normal, lineal memory seemed to fail her, and it was as if she was seeing individual frames from a movie inside her head.
Husani no longer sitting beside her, but flat on his back on the ground, his shirt deep red in colour. Grabbing the briefcase. A man dressed all in black. And then the gun. The gun he was holding. And then the man firing the gun.
She gasped with shock as she relived the moment, and struggled to sit up. As she did so, a throbbing pain pulsed through the back of her head, and she cried out involuntarily, reaching up to hold the place where it hurt.
‘Angela. It’s me, Chris. Don’t try to move. Just lie there. Just for a few more minutes.’
‘What happened?’ she asked, her voice weak and slurred. ‘Where are we?’
‘Madrid. We’re still in Madrid, but we won’t be for long. We’re going to have to move quickly, but first I need to take a look at that head of yours. You cracked it pretty hard when you fell.’
‘I don’t remember that,’ Angela said, ‘but I do know that my head hurts.’
Suddenly, the world outside the car went dark as the vehicle angled downwards.
‘Where are we going?’
‘We’re at the hotel. As soon as I’ve parked the car we’re going up to our room. Then I’ll explain what happened.’
Moments later, Bronson pulled the car to a halt.
‘Can you get out by yourself?’ he asked.
‘Did I get in by myself?’
Bronson gave her a slight smile.
‘Not exactly. I’m afraid I had to more or less chuck you in there. There wasn’t time to do anything else.’
Angela turned round on the seat to face the open door and, with legs that suddenly seemed to be made of rubber, crawled clumsily towards his waiting hands.
As soon as he could, Bronson seized her under the armpits and gently lifted her body out of the car. Once he was sure that she could stand, albeit leaning against the side of the vehicle, he let go of her.
‘Just hang on there for a couple of seconds,’ he said.
Bronson glanced round the garage, but he and Angela were entirely alone there, and so far he hadn’t spotted any surveillance cameras. Nevertheless, he used his own body to screen what he was doing from any possible observer. He bent forward, reached down into the passenger-side foot well and removed four objects. The first was a briefcase; and the others a mobile phone and a Beretta semi-automatic pistol with a lengthy suppressor attached to its muzzle, plus a pistol magazine. He snapped open the two catches on the leather-covered briefcase and put the phone, the magazine and the pistol, complete with the suppressor, inside it. Then he closed the briefcase and locked the car.
Holding the briefcase in his left hand, he wrapped his right arm around Angela, pulling her close to him, and then the two of them began slowly walking across the garage floor towards the two lifts.
Bronson ushered Angela inside one of the lifts and pressed the button for their floor. Less than three minutes later, he was able to lock the door of their room from the inside and watch Angela sit down gratefully on the wide double bed.
Bronson put down the briefcase and walked across to where she was sitting.
‘Just lean forward very slightly,’ he said, ‘so that I can see the back of your head.’