The Lazarus Vault Part 3

She still needed another minute before she faced Blanchard. She crossed the empty hall and leaned against the windowsill. The building stood around a central courtyard, like a school or a prison: from the internal window, she could look right down into it. A dove preened itself on the rooftop opposite.

It made her realise something. Pushing her nose against the gla.s.s to see down, she counted the floors of the bank. Ground, first, second, third, fourth, fifth but when she looked up, there was only a flat roof.

No sixth floor.

She shook her head to clear the confusion. An old place like this has plenty to hide. She found a tissue in her bag and dabbed her eyes, just to make sure no rogue tears had crept out to betray her. Then she went to find Blanchard.

Blanchard was out. He'd left a note on her desk apologising: a cream notecard with the bank's crest stamped into it. His handwriting was a quaint, Victorian cursive that slanted across the page in spidery lines. The paper had absorbed his scent: when Ellie picked it up to read it she caught a breath of something floral, and a darker, bitter note underneath. Overnight, the stack of files on her desk had grown several inches higher.

She tapped her pa.s.scode into the laptop and opened it. Locked, the seam between the lid and the body was all but invisible. There was no brand or manufacturer's mark on the anthracite-black sh.e.l.l only the smudges of her own finger-prints. She opened the e-mail program, the way Destrier had shown her.

93 new messages.

But I only just started. Apart from Blanchard, she didn't recognise any of the senders.

The door blew open without a knock. A man in a blue suit and a pink shirt barged through and deposited three more inch-thick files on the front of her desk. His eyes were puffy, his cheeks raw-veined from drink. His hair was parted down the middle and swept back, cl.u.s.tered into fronds by the gel.

'Lockthwaite,' he barked. 'I need two copies of each by lunchtime.'

Without elaborating, he spun on his heel and walked out.

Ellie stared at what he'd left, at the wall of folders already barricading her desk, then back to her computer screen.

99 new messages.

She felt the blood rising in her cheeks again. Calm down, she told herself. But her pulse only raced faster. Think.

The photocopier had its own room down the corridor. It didn't seem to be on; Ellie wasted several vital minutes trying to open it, until she noticed the slot just under the rim. She slid her card in. Red lights flashed on the console; a green glow seeped out from under the lid as the machine growled into life, like a dragon woken in its cave.

Whoever put the file together hadn't meant it to be copied. Most of the papers were stapled together; many were irregular sizes, small notes or flimsy carbons that blew off the copier if Ellie so much as breathed. She had her laptop balanced on the edge of the machine to work on her e-mails, but it was impossible. The copier devoured the paper and spat it out faster than she could keep feeding it. After twenty minutes she'd hardly dented the first file, while rereading the same paragraph of the same e-mail three times over.

'What are you doing here?'

Blanchard stood in the doorway. He had a cigar in his mouth; a small mound of ash at his feet suggested he'd been watching her for some moments. He looked angry.

'Who told you to do this?'

'I think his name was Lockthwaite.'

'Sachervell. Lockthwaite is the client. Can't you read?' Blanchard pointed to the label on the front of the folder. He swept it up one-handed and stormed out of the room. By the time Ellie had grabbed her laptop and followed, he was in an office halfway down the corridor delivering a furious lecture about the proper use of resources. Ellie hung back. A minute later, Blanchard reappeared.

'Come with me.'

Through the open door, she saw the man whose name wasn't Lockthwaite standing behind his desk. His face had grown several shades redder. He shot her a murderous look as she pa.s.sed.

Blanchard marched her to the lift.

'Many things have changed in our profession, but some unenlightened att.i.tudes persist. They will make things difficult for you; they will see you are a woman and a.s.sume you must be a secretary. They are conditioned to think that way: you cannot change it, any more than the mouse can charm a cat. So you must resist them. Force them to accept that they cannot dictate to you. Power is the only language they understand.'

They'd come out in the lobby. Blanchard's car sat waiting outside.

'We're late for the meeting.' He saw Ellie's blank look and gave an exasperated click of his tongue. 'Didn't you read your e-mails?'

Luxembourg Once, the city had been called the Gibraltar of northern Europe. From the moment in the dark ages when Count Siegfried built his castle on the cliffs above two dizzy ravines, eight centuries of human ingenuity had made it impregnable. Now most of the walls were gone; tourists manned what was left. The city's best defences were the invisible ramparts that protected its banks, complex laws and absolute discretion, h.o.a.rding the riches safe inside.

But the ravines remained. Pleasure parks filled the bottom, while traffic thundered overhead across the high Romanesque spans of the Viaduc and the Pont Adolphe. Which was where, on a wet evening in early September, two men walked and argued.

One was a tall man, in a long black coat and a black homburg hat that, even in Luxembourg, was at least forty years out of date. It cast a deep shadow over his face. The other was shorter and rounder, in a shapeless blue mackintosh that did nothing for his figure. He had no hat, and had forgotten his umbrella. The rain slicked his hair against his scalp and ran down the side of his nose like sweat.

'Why did you change the meeting?' the tall man asked.

Lemmy Maartens wiped water from his eyes. He was trembling.

'I thought I was being followed.'

The tall man glanced up and down the long pavement. They were walking with the flow of traffic, so that the headlights of the pa.s.sing cars only shone on their backs. A hundred metres back a man was straggling behind them, his face hunched over a sodden map. He wore a white plastic poncho, the sort that tourists buy if they get caught out by the weather. It made him look like a ghost. About twenty metres ahead, a homeless man sat on a piece of cardboard wrapped in a blanket. Otherwise, the bridge was empty.

Lemmy gestured to the man with the map. 'Do you think he's watching us?'

'Don't worry about him.' The tall man quickened his pace. Lemmy glanced over his shoulder again, almost as if he was expecting someone.

'What did you find?'

The question was urgent, verging on desperate. Lemmy, a keen student of human weakness, saw his opportunity.

'The money first.'

The tall man didn't try to argue. He pulled a packet from inside his coat and pa.s.sed it to Lemmy. A brown envelope Jesus, Lemmy thought, these people had no imagination. He rubbed it between finger and thumb, feeling the thickness of the wad inside.

As a rule, Lemmy preferred electronic transfers. With the Internet, he could conjure money in and out of sight in seconds. Cash was more substantial. But for this amount, it was worth the effort.

They'd come to within a couple of metres of the homeless man. Lemmy stopped and tore open the envelope. If he felt any shame counting so much money in front of a man whose entire wealth sat in a Styrofoam cup by his feet, he didn't show it.

'It's all there,' his companion said. 'Keep moving.' He glanced back. A hundred metres behind, the figure in the white poncho had stopped to study his map under a streetlight.

'You didn't have to risk your career going into that place,' Lemmy grumbled.

A black minivan with a taxi-company number on the side drew up and stopped on the kerb.

'You look wet,' the driver shouted through the open pa.s.senger window. 'You need a ride somewhere?'

'We're fine,' said the man in the hat.

But he wasn't. In the second he was distracted, the van's rear door slid open. Three men in black sweatshirts and black jeans leaped out, straight for him, while a fourth stayed inside and held a gun.

The tall man saw them and acted instantly. He didn't think of trying to fight: he ran straight to the rail and tried to heave himself over the edge. But this had been predicted. Before the man could get over the rail, the tramp had sprung up and wrapped himself around his legs. He clung on; the man kicked and flailed, but it was too late. The men from the van piled in and pulled him down. One took a needle and jabbed it into the side of his neck. He slumped and lay still.

Two of the men carried their victim into the van. Through the open door, Lemmy saw a pair of slim, feminine legs and bright red shoes sitting on the back seat.

The third man picked up the homburg hat off the pavement and tossed it into the car. Then, for the first time, he looked at Lemmy.

'Well done,' he said.

Lemmy stared at him in utter terror. He had a terrifying face, broken in so many places, with a tattoo curling up the back of his neck. A gold stud gleamed in his ear.

'Of course, you didn't see anything.'

Lemmy nodded. He realised he was still holding the open envelope.

'Can I keep this?'

The man shrugged. 'Sure.'

Without warning, strong arms grabbed Lemmy from behind and hugged him tight, pinning his hands to his sides. Before he could draw breath to scream, they dragged him to the edge of the parapet, lifted him up and dropped him over the rail. He fell fifty metres and landed in the concrete ca.n.a.l that was all that remained of the Petrusse river. The men, including the tramp, drove away in their minivan. The tourist in the white raincape had vanished.

Lemmy's body was discovered half an hour later, by a French businessman jogging through the park. It didn't take long for the police to gather the basic facts: his name, his address, his occupation and the envelope stuffed with five-hundred-euro bills still clutched in his hand. Further investigation added the information that he drove a high-specification German sedan and held doc.u.mentation for a number of bank accounts in the Cayman Islands, Liechtenstein and Switzerland. The fact that he had visited the Monsalvat bank the day before was noted but not thought relevant. There were no next of kin.

A pa.s.sing driver came forward to say he might have seen a taxi pulled up, and a gang of men in a brawl on the pavement. But the taxi company in question could prove that none of its drivers had been nearby at the time, and the descriptions of the men were so vague as to be meaningless.

Two days later a small notice in the newspapers reported that Lemmy Maartens, a respected civil servant in the Ministry of Finance, had leaped to his death off the Pont Adolphe. He left no note. The police speculated that he had been under a lot of stress, brought on by the financial crisis and the recent wave of bank failures. Perhaps he felt responsible. He was, his colleagues all agreed, devoted to his work.

VI.

Wales, 1128 You can conquer the Welsh, but you can't defeat them. My father says it's because of the land: mounted knights can't pursue the rebels up mountains and through forests, or into the deep marshes. My mother also says it's because of the land but she doesn't mean it the same way.

My mother is a Breton which, she says, makes her a cousin to the Britons who plough fields and cut wood for my father. She says Brittany is like Wales, a wild realm on the rim of the world. In these places, the borders between worlds grow thin and permeable; we scuttle across the surface like a spider on a pond. In England and Normandy, rocks are rocks and trees are trees, or they are iron and firewood. In Wales, every rock and tree might hide the door to an enchanted land. Once, when I was playing on the mudflats by the river estuary, I saw a shimmering wall of air, as you get over a fire. Another time, I put my ear to a crack in the rocks and heard laughter far below.

Last August, three of my father's hayricks burned in the field. In October, someone broke into the stable and cut the hamstrings on his warhorse. My father had to slit its throat himself: when he came out of the stable, up to his elbows in blood, it was the only time I ever saw him cry. He blames brigands, but behind his back the servants whisper about the faerie people.

My mother knows many stories of the faeries. Sometimes, when the fire has burned low in the hall and my father has drunk his fill, she takes out her little harp and sings the tale, while I sit by the fire and the dogs lick fat off the hearth. Sometimes we sit together on the gra.s.sy bank under the willow by the river. All the ones I like best begin the same way: 'A long time ago, when Arthur was king ...'

I ask my mother when Arthur was king, but she just frowns and repeats that it was a long time ago. I ask Brother Oswald, who has been teaching me history. Was it before Duke William? Before Alexander? Before King Solomon? I think he will cuff me and tell me another story about Jesus or Saint David, but he chews his reed pen and tells me how Arthur was descended from Aeneas and Brutus; how he lived some six hundred years ago in the time of Saint David, when the Romans had gone and the Normans hadn't yet come. He says he killed a giant on Saint Michael's mount, and grew so powerful he even overthrew Rome. Some men, he whispers, say he is not dead but merely sleeping in a cave, and will come again in Britain's deepest hour of need.

A light comes into Brother Oswald's eyes as he tells this. Then he remembers himself, and sends me back to my declensions.

I sit in the sun and listen to my mother.

'A long time ago, when Arthur was king, a knight went hunting. He spied a white stag and gave chase, following it until he found himself deep in the forest.

'Suddenly, on the evening air, he heard a scream that made his horse rear up in fright. He spurred through the trees, and presently came out in a leafy glade. A hawthorn grew there, and tied to it stood a maiden, the loveliest he had ever seen. She wore a plain white shift and a plain white dress, nothing else. Her golden hair was so fair even Isolde the Blonde would have looked like a Moor beside her.'

I stir. 'Who was Isolde the Blonde?'

My mother shushes me. 'I will tell you that story another day. When you're older.

'The knight drew his sword to cut her free. But the moment he dismounted, the ground trembled with the approach of rushing hooves. The lady groaned. "Now you must flee," she warned him. "That noise is Sir Maliant, the wicked knight who holds me prisoner. If he finds you here he will surely kill you."

'"Upon my honour, I have never fled from any man," said the knight. He remounted his horse and spurred towards his enemy. Their lances bent like bows and shattered; they drew their swords, laying about each other with such fury that wood splintered, iron split and both horses were killed. The knight pummelled his opponent until every lace of his armour was broken. At last, he struck off his helmet and knocked him to the ground.

'"Mercy," his enemy pleaded.

'But the damsel demanded his head, and the knight obeyed. His blow fell hard; the head flew out onto the heath and the body crumpled.

'Heedless of his wounds, the knight approached and cut the cord that bound the lady.

'"Thank you, Sir Knight," she said. "You have saved me from a grievous fate. What reward would you have?"

'"Only a token, and perhaps a kiss."

'She laughed. "I will give you better than that." She took his hand and led him around the back of the tree. "This is what the wicked knight sought from me."

'The good knight saw nothing. But the damsel reached into a hollow in the tree and pulled open the bark like a curtain. Within, the knight beheld a tree-root stair twisting down into the earth.

'"This is my realm," said she. "Come down, and I will give you your full reward."

'But the knight delayed, for he saw that the lady was an enchantress, and he feared what might befall him in her kingdom.

'"Have no fear, Sir Knight. You may depart whenever you choose. All you must promise is that whatever you find, you must leave behind when you return. There is a great treasure in my castle, and many are the thieves who have tried to take it."

'Then the knight swore, and eagerly followed her down the twisting stair. And he was not disappointed, for the lady's kingdom was just as she had said. She had a fair castle with a great hall and galleries, and every room was piled with treasure. Servants came to dress his wounds; they served wine in golden cups, and a haunch of venison cooked with hot pepper. And the knight thought there had never been a place so wondrous.

'He stayed there a year and a day. At night he feasted and took his pleasure with the lady, and in the daytimes he hunted and never came home empty-handed, for she had hounds who never lost the scent, and a bow whose arrows always. .h.i.t their mark.

'But eventually he grew weary of this constant leisure, and thought he would return to his own world. And as he took his leave, he spied a goblet of fine, pure gold, set with precious stones. And though it was small and plain next to the other treasures in the castle, yet he thought it was the most beautiful piece he had ever seen.

'"She has so much treasure here she will not miss this one small cup," he said to himself. "And they will never believe me at Arthur's court if I do not take back some proof of where I have been."

'So he slipped the cup inside his tunic and stole out of the castle. He climbed the twisting stair, hurrying until he reached the top. He could see sunlight through the hole in the tree and the green leaves beyond. For the first time in a year he could smell the air of our world.

'But he had forgotten the cup in his tunic. The moment he set foot on the threshold of our world, the earth began to tremble. The jaws of the tree snapped shut; the tree-roots withered to dust, and he fell back to the ground. And when he limped back to the castle, the towers were torn down and the rooms empty; the treasure had vanished.

'The lady received him in her great hall. Her eyes were like drops of ice, her skin white as bone. "You have broken your oath," she told him. "Now you can never leave my kingdom." And she cast him into a dungeon, and whatever he ate tasted like ash in his mouth, and whatever he drank never slaked his thirst.'

'Go on,' I say. 'What happened next? How did the knight escape?'

My mother puts down her harp and folds her hands in her skirt. 'He never did. He had broken his promise, and he could not return to this world.'

I haven't told this story as well as my mother told it. Perhaps because I don't like it. Surely, I think, there is always a way back?

VII.

London Ellie's first week at the bank felt like the longest of her life. On Friday night she ordered a pizza and ate it in bed, trying not to drip grease or tomato sauce on the eighteenth-century woodwork. She slept for twelve hours and was still tired when she woke. She stayed in bed with her laptop and her phone, grinding down the week's backlog and watching the clouds hang over London. Doug was at a conference in Nottingham, which had seemed like a pity when he arranged it, but was now a relief.

At four in the afternoon, she realised she was starving. She got out of bed, reluctantly, and pulled on an old sweatshirt and a pair of jeans. After five days of skirts and stiff jackets, all she wanted was comfortable clothes. She took the lift thirty-eight floors down and went out, surprised by the smell of the outside air. The city had become a ghost town. The streets were empty, the office buildings dark and blinded. It took her half an hour to find a corner shop that was open, where she bought a box of cereal and some milk, and a selection of crisps and chocolate. She'd meant to go further, to walk down to the Thames or St Paul's, but the empty city frightened her. She retreated to her flat, skulking past the concert-goers who had begun to gather outside for the Barbican's evening performance.

By Sunday evening, Ellie had fought back her e-mails to half a dozen outstanding. She'd written one report on the privatisation of the Government's share in a bank, and another on a Belgian conglomerate that wanted to acquire a cement company. She'd learned a whole new vocabulary, using words like leverage and synergy and capital optimisation promiscuously. She felt like an impostor, a student bluffing an exam in a language she barely understood. And the next morning it would start all over again.

There were only two files on Ellie's desk on Monday. She still had no idea who put them there Blanchard? the secretaries? or how they knew so accurately what she would need for the day. Even before she took off her coat, she skimmed the summary pages. She'd learned very quickly it was important to have at least a vague idea what was in your in tray.