The pistol bucked in his hand, and he immediately rolled back inside the office. He thought at least one of the bullets had hit the camera, but he obviously needed to find out for sure.
He slid across the floor once more and risked a quick glance down the passage. The camera was still in place, bolted high on the wall at the far end of the corridor, but one side had been blown off completely, and wires dangled from the jagged opening.
The opposition had lost their biggest advantage. Again there was complete silence.
Four more shots rang through the building, two double-taps, which suggested that the gunman knew his business, the bullets driving more holes through the partition walls at about waist height, the copper-jacketed slugs passing well above Bronson, who was still lying on the floor.
Speed seemed to be more important than stealth at that stage. He stood up, stepped out of the office in which he’d taken refuge and trotted as quickly and as quietly as he could down the passageway, tucking away the Glock he’d taken from the unconscious man who was still lying motionless a few feet behind him.
At the door to the office he stopped, ducked down and snatched a quick glance into the room, registering the scene there in an instant. He immediately took two quick paces backwards. It was just as well that he did so.
Two bullets ripped through the wall just a few inches in front of Bronson, who ducked down, then raised his own weapon, aimed it through the hole that the gunman had just blasted and fired twice. The man might now have moved, but it was worth a try.
There was a yell of pain from inside the office, followed almost immediately by a clattering sound and a heavy thump, and then the unmistakable noise of a body collapsing to the floor.
He stepped forward again and took another quick look.
The man he’d seen in those few microseconds was sprawled on the floor, lying on his back, a dark stain spreading across the front of his shirt.
But that wasn’t what concerned Bronson at that moment. His attention was drawn to the far end of the large room, where a figure sat slumped in an upright chair, his ankles secured to the legs with plastic cable ties and his arms twisted behind his body. Even though the bound man’s head was hanging down, obscuring his features, Bronson was quite certain he was looking at George Stebbins.
Freeing him — assuming he was still alive — would be the work of a few seconds, but right then he knew there was no guarantee that either he or Stebbins would be able to leave the room alive.
Because crouching right behind the bound man was another figure, a pistol resting on Stebbins’s shoulder, the muzzle touching his ear and the man’s finger caressing the trigger.
83
No part of the man’s body was clearly visible from behind Stebbins. Bronson knew he couldn’t shoot until the other man moved.
‘I have to admit that we didn’t expect to see you here, Bronson — you are Bronson, I presume?’ the man said in fluent but accented English. ‘I admire the fact that you managed to track me down. How did you do it, by the way?’
Bronson kept his pistol pointing towards Stebbins, waiting for the opportunity to fire the shot that would end the stalemate. But the other man was taking great care to ensure that he was completely shielded by the body of the bound man.
‘I got somebody to hack into the mobile phone records and trace your location. It wasn’t that difficult, Pere. I’m assuming that’s who you are. Why didn’t you shoot me when I walked into this room?’
The other man smiled.
‘You’re right, I could have killed you a couple of minutes ago, but I don’t want you dead, Bronson — at least, not yet. First, we want the relic. Hand that over and you can take this man away with you, and the two of you and your wife can fly home as soon as you can book seats on a plane. You’ve proved to be resourceful, and I’m prepared to ignore my most specific orders to bury you both. You’ve already caused me quite enough trouble.’
He gestured towards the still shape lying on the floor on the opposite side of the office.
‘Who gave you those orders?’ Bronson asked.
‘It’s a business arrangement. The organization I work for has been retained by the people who own the relic. It was stolen from them decades ago, and they want their property back. I’m sure that by now you’ve guessed who they are.’
‘I have a good enough idea,’ Bronson said. ‘But what exactly does the text on that parchment say which is so dangerous to Christianity?’
The other man shook his head.
‘I have no idea,’ he replied. ‘The instructions I was given included a photograph of the parchment so I could be sure that we had identified and recovered the correct relic, but not what was written on it. Don’t you know what it says?’
‘No. The writing is too faded and indistinct to read it all.’
Pere gave what looked like a shrug.
‘It’s not important, at least not to me. To me this is just a job. But you can walk away from here if you do what you’re told. You have to realize that you have absolutely no chance of getting away with that parchment. My organization is simply too powerful and too widespread for that to happen, with adequate resources in every nation in Europe. My group of people here in Madrid is only a small part of the forces we’ve mobilized against you, and even if by some miracle you did manage to get out of here in one piece, there are others waiting to hunt you down.’
‘So who are you?’ Bronson demanded. ‘The Mafia?’
‘No. We never make the headlines like that organization, but we’re bigger and more deadly,’ Pere replied. ‘Now, the choice is yours. As I just said, if you give me the relic you can walk away. I’ll tell my contact in England that you handed over the parchment in a public place somewhere and I was unable to eliminate you and your wife. Once the relic is back in Rome, where it should be, the two of you will at least have a chance of living normal lives, because there’ll be no proof that the parchment ever even existed. Any photographs you’ve taken can be dismissed as clumsy forgeries if you were stupid enough to try to publicize them.’
The man shifted position very slightly, but still Bronson didn’t have a clear shot at him.
‘This is the end game, Bronson, and it’s your move. Agree to hand over the relic right now or George Stebbins will die and I’ll make sure you and Angela Lewis are hunted down and killed within days. So what’s it to be?’
As far as Bronson could see, there was only one option open to him.
‘You can have the relic,’ he said. ‘Too many people have died already over that scruffy piece of old parchment. It’s in my pocket. You can have it now.’
The man crouching behind Stebbins didn’t move, but Bronson guessed he was smiling.
‘I thought you’d see sense,’ the man replied. ‘Now, drop that pistol onto the floor and kick it away from you. Then you can put the relic on the desk behind you and just walk away. And don’t try anything stupid, or I’ll shoot you down where you stand.’
Bronson nodded, bent his knees and carefully lowered the Beretta to the floor, then kicked it a couple of feet over to his right, his movements stiff and controlled.
‘The parchment?’ Pere said. ‘Where is it?’
‘My right-hand-side jacket pocket,’ Bronson replied.
‘Good.’ Pere’s smile grew broader. ‘Now I know where to shoot you without damaging the relic.’
Bronson knew that either his gamble was going to pay off or he was going to die. As far as he could see there were no other possible outcomes.