The Seven Stars Read online

  Offers of help from fellow professionals came from as far afield as China and the volume of faxes and e-mails soon became overwhelming, leaving Flora not knowing which document to look at next. Try as she might, she couldn’t rid herself of what the Germans call an “ear-worm”, that irritating little voice that kept repeating, “The work of learned Josephus often stretches over one double-sided page.”

  Tired and hot after his day in the capital, Moretti joined Flora after work for a drink at her hotel. They had the little bar to themselves and switched on the evening news.

  ‘Fame at last,’ said Flora. ‘You never know, maybe Anna’s watching in Turin: she’ll be impressed.’

  Moretti muted the sound on the TV as the topic moved on to something else.

  ‘A thirty second interview hardly makes me a movie star,’ he said, taking another sip of his beer.

  ‘True. But it’s not every day you’re on CNN, is it?’

  ‘Do you think it’ll help get the finds back?’

  She shrugged. ‘I can’t see what harm it can do. The news coverage means the fragments will be harder to shift on the black market and it’ll make genuine dealers more likely to call the police if they’re offered anything dodgy.’

  ‘Did you come up with anything new today?’ he asked.

  ‘Everyone’s being very helpful and I’ve been sent more scanned copies of just about every piece of writing from 300 BC to 300 AD than I know what to do with.’

  ‘What about the fragments from the dig?’

  ‘As for the palaeography, it confirmed what I expected: three different writers, all using the same locally-produced atramentum ink made from charcoal, vinegar and acacia sap.’

  ‘And the ciphers?’

  She frowned and rubbed the tiredness from her eyes. ‘I’ve made a bit of progress but it’s very slow and I’m well into diminishing returns. Thanks to what came in today I’ve added a tiny fraction to the grid but there’s evidence of at least two more ciphers that I can’t get near. Either they’re using an additional key text or I’m being stupid.’

  ‘Hardly that,’ said Moretti. ‘Maybe you should ask Lombardi if he can get outside help.’

  ‘I could, but I can’t see national cryptographic agencies giving up their day job to work on our stuff; not when they’ve got their hands full snooping on the latest bunch of madmen who want to blow us all to kingdom come.’

  ‘What about a website?’ he asked. ‘There are plenty of people out there who love this kind of thing and we could set it up as a competition or something.’

  ‘I don’t think that would work either. Fine if you can get additional resources, but it would be a full time job just sorting out the few plausible answers from the tens of thousands of mad ones from the conspiracy theorists,’ Flora replied, cupping her chin in her hands and staring into space. ‘Donald Sumter would be my first starting point but he’s probably back skulking in his den at William Sunday.’

  ‘If he won’t come to us, then maybe one of us should go to him.’

  ‘Fine if you or Lombardi are paying, Francesco,’ she said with a smile. ‘It’s not all bad news, though. You were right about one thing.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The number seven. In one of the dig fragments I found some text that was encrypted using grid two, and it cropped up in a couple of places. One was a clear reference to the Seven Stars but the fragment was so tiny I couldn’t make out any context and the other one I found was just part of a word.’

  ‘So do you think they’re significant?’

  ‘They could be,’ she said placing a hand on his leg. ‘Just keep your fingers crossed.’ She traced her hand along the inside of his thigh and his breathing quickened. They could hear the receptionist shouting at someone in the kitchen and so leaving their half-empty glasses on the bar, slid upstairs to Flora’s room.

  Stokeville, Bibb County, Alabama

  The driver turned off the headlights and killed the engine.

  ‘Jeez, shut the damn window will you, I’m getting bitten to death back here,’ said Luzzo.

  Raymond did as he asked and as the glass slid home, the din of the tree frogs and the crickets carolling in the humid darkness subsided to a bearable level. Among the branches of the Longleaf pines lining the remote forest track, swarms of fireflies danced their nightly courtship ritual.

  ‘So now what do we do?’ asked the third man.

  ‘We wait,’ said Raymond, checking his watch. ‘Be patient, it’s not eleven yet.’

  ‘Think they’ll be there?’

  ‘Sure I do. This shit’s more important to them than it is to us,’ he replied, patting the lid of the coolbox strapped into the front passenger seat next to him.

  Gradually, as the three men’s eyes became more accustomed to the darkness, the building became visible, first as a blank against the starlight and then, little by little, as the identifiable outline of a carpenter-gothic church with a simple wooden spire.

  He looked at his watch: shit, only forty five seconds since he’d last checked it.

  They sat and waited, with the temperature in the SUV rising. Then, from the direction of the church a light flashed three times. Raymond removed the lid of the coolbox, releasing a cloud of CO2 vapour from the dry ice inside. He reached in and removing an oblong package wrapped in canvas, opened the door and moved silently towards the church with the other two following at about ten paces’ distance, each one with a hand on the butt of his pistol. As he neared the source of the light, both sank down into cover to await his return.

  It was pitch dark inside the church porch and he fumbled for the handle, clutching the precious cargo close to his side. He closed the outer door behind him, knocked gently at the double inner doors and waited. A tiny sliver of light shone beneath it and he stood motionless, listening for any sound from the inside, breathing in the familiar childhood aromas of cedar-wood, furniture polish and candle-wax. Then he heard it: a faint creaking sound, footsteps on floorboards, footsteps that were getting closer.

  Choosing what looked like the darkest corner, and shrinking down onto his haunches he pulled the 9mm Glock 17 from his waistband and levelled it at the centre of the doorway. Barely daring to breathe, he heard the bolts sliding back and then, as the doors swung inwards, the porch was filled with light, momentarily blinding him. In the sights of his weapon stood a white man, tall and skinny, barely out of his teens. It took him a few moments to notice Raymond crouched in his corner and at the sight of the pistol aimed at his chest he recoiled in horror, raising both hands.

  ‘Please don’t shoot. I – I’m not armed, I haven’t got anything to give you, I haven’t got any money.’ By his accent, the young man was a long way from his New England home.

  Raymond stood up and maintained his aim as they moved into the nave of the simple church.

  ‘I don’t care whether you’re armed and I don’t care about your wallet,’ he said. ‘I need to know whether you’re alone.’

  ‘Yes. Just like you said in your instructions, I’m alone, I promise. I’ve got the details of the wire transfer –’ He made to lower his hands.

  ‘Whoa, steady now,’ Raymond said. ‘Just keep it nice and slow and your hands where I can see ’em. That’s it.’ From his back pocket the young man slowly withdrew a folded piece of paper.

  ‘Good. Now put it down on the floor and back the fuck away.’ Raymond unfolded the wire transfer certificate. He read it carefully, checked the account number, the amount and the sender’s details and then, seemingly satisfied with what he’d seen, refolded it and slipped it into his pocket, casually tossing the package onto the seat of the nearest pew.

  ‘Now, turn around, feet apart, hands in the air.’

  ‘B-but this wasn’t part of the deal,’ stammered the young man.

  ‘Well it is now. If you’re carrying a cell-phone, get it out now because if I find one on you, you lose both knees and that’s just for starters. Understand?’

  The young man�
�s face was ashen with terror. ‘Please, no. I’m not carrying a phone, I promise. We kept our side of the deal.’ It was an intonation Raymond knew well: panic in the voice of a frightened amateur.

  He continued searching him, all the while keeping the gun trained on his back and watching for the slightest tensing of the muscles that would signal a coming move. Finding nothing of interest Raymond shoved him hard in the back, sending him headlong onto the wooden boards, worn to a shine by over a hundred years of worshippers’ feet.

  He looked down at him with ill-disguised scorn. ‘You see, play straight with us, we play straight with you. Pay us what you owe and you get the rest. Screw us over and we sell it to someone else or throw it in the trash: all the same to me. Now, you listening?’

  He sat up, rubbing his elbow. ‘Yes, sir. I’m listening.’

  Raymond threw his head back and laughed. ‘Shit. Always thought it would take a nine millimetre to get a white boy to call a nigger “sir” down this neck of the woods. Now you listen good. I’m going to walk out that door and you are going to sit tight for one hour as of now. You even think about leaving here early, my buddies will see to it that you’re a dead man. Got that?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good. You won’t see them but they’re out there, be sure of that.’

  Raymond closed the inner doors behind him and waited, listening once more for any sound of movement. None came, so he cautiously opened the outer door and taking a can of spray paint out of his pocket, melted into the shadows at the side of the church. With a final look over his shoulder, he popped the cap off, gave the can a quick shake and sprayed three letters in four-foot-high capitals on the white-painted boards. Replacing the cap, he retraced his steps to the church porch, and, pausing only to make sure the outer door was shut, burst into the church once more. At his arrival, the young white man, his face now streaked with tears, turned and looked up from the pew where he was sitting.

  ‘Told you I’d be back. Here, catch,’ said Raymond, tossing the spray can to him.

  ‘What’s this?’ he asked, turning it over in his hands.

  ‘Yours and my alibi,’ said Raymond with a grin. ‘Don’t lose it or no more handovers. Clear?’

  ‘Uh, yeah, whatever you say,’ he replied, looking at Raymond as though he’d gone mad. He was still gawping at him as he left the building for the last time.

  Outside in the darkness Raymond crouched down, taking out a pocket torch and sending three brief flashes in the direction of where he’d left his companions – at night all cats are grey and the last thing he wanted was a friendly fire accident. Moments later, three answering flashes came and he stood up, moving swiftly towards them, seeing their dark outlines detach from cover and jogging towards the vehicle.

  At once there was a deafening report from somewhere close at hand and simultaneously, a blinding muzzle-flash lit the scene.

  Raymond felt rather than heard the shockwave of a supersonic round as it passed him: instinct told him he’d been lucky by a matter of inches. Cursing, he threw himself to the ground and rolled away from the spot where he’d been standing. Then he turned to face the direction of the shot and saw a figure silhouetted against the glow of the fireflies. He lay still and began to groan as though in pain: the figure moved closer. Raymond tried to remember his training – control your breathing and don’t tense your muscles or you’ll miss. He groaned again and the figure moved closer: just a few more feet to make sure of hitting him, he thought. He was about to squeeze the trigger when a sound of movement came from the tall dry grass close by – probably an animal spooked by human activity on its patch. The figure turned and ran.

  Raymond took aim and fired. Immediately there was a scream, but the muzzle flash from his own weapon had spoilt his night vision and he couldn’t see whether the target had fallen or run off. No time to go and check, so, keeping close to the ground, he ran towards the SUV, gesturing to the others to follow. From behind them came another bang, this time from the outer door of the church slamming shut. They turned in time to see a figure run off into the darkness. ‘C’mon,’ said Raymond. ‘Let’s get out of here before that motherfucker comes back with his buddies.’

  ‘Sorry, boys, but you ain’t going anywhere right now.’ They raised their hands to shield their eyes from the glare of the flashlight, which they could see was taped to the underside of a double-barrelled shotgun.

  Raymond kept his pistol behind his back and peered closely, trying to make out the man’s face: white, in his fifties or sixties, judging by the voice and blowing hard, either from fear or exertion. ‘You must be the Reverend Morley,’ he said, his accent dropping well below the Mason-Dixon line.

  ‘Sure am,’ said the voice from behind the shotgun, and Raymond was pleased to see that the weapon was no longer pointing at them. ‘And who in the name of all that’s holy might you boys be? And more to the point, what in Heaven’s name d’you think you’re all doing shooting at folk?’

  ‘What the police aren’t willing to do, Reverend,’ said Raymond.

  ‘And what’s that supposed to mean? Hey, how d’you know who I am anyway?’

  ‘We make a point of it, sir, it’s what we do.’

  The flashlight beam lit them up one by one as the pastor examined their faces, lingering just that little bit longer on Raymond’s – this was the South, after all. ‘So what is it you boys do? Stealing altar plate? After the collection box maybe? Well if y’are, y’all out of luck –’

  ‘No, sir, just the opposite. If the police aren’t willing to protect the House of God from damage, it’s up to decent folk to do so, just like you said in last week’s Gazette.’ Luckily for them, the Reverend Morley’s flashlight wasn’t on them or the look of incredulity on the faces of Raymond’s two companions as they gaped like the bullfrogs in the nearby creek would have given the game away. ‘Look,’ said Raymond. ‘Let me show you.’

  Leaving the others at the SUV he took out his Maglite and lit the way over to the church. ‘See what I mean?’ he asked, turning the beam onto the wall to illuminate the three stark letters: “K.K.K”. ‘We heard you’d been having problems with people who don’t like us coloured folk in your congregations so we decided to come take a look-see. Third time lucky.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked the pastor.

  ‘Third night we’ve been out here, sir. We take the Lord’s work seriously even though I could do with the sleep,’ said Raymond with a theatrical yawn.

  Reverend Morley looked at him in admiration. ‘Darn it; I come down here most nights and I never saw you once.’

  ‘Then it’s a good job we found them before you did, sir, if you don’t mind my saying. Little punks shot at us – nearly hit us too. Man on his own might’ve come off second best if you know what I mean.’

  Morley nodded gravely. ‘Reckon you may’ve hit one of them,’ he said. ‘I’m sure I heard someone yelling.’

  ‘Reckon we did, and all. I was always told the ones that’re hurt real bad keep quiet but if a critter’s hollerin’, then, he’s still got plenty of life in him.’

  ‘Well,’ said Morley, ‘I reckon I’ve seen it all. I’m sorry if I didn’t seem grateful just now, but I’ve had a whole heap of trouble – damage to the inside, windows smashed, profanities sprayed on the outside that no Christian soul ought to have to read; you name it – and I thought you was them.’

  ‘Don’t mention it, sir. We’re glad to have been of assistance. And if you’ll pardon me for asking, what are you going to do now?’

  ‘Call the police I guess. Why?’

  ‘If you do, can I ask a favour, Reverend?’

  ‘Sure, name it. I owe you boys one.’

  ‘Just don’t mention you saw us and don’t mention no gunfire.’

  Morley scratched his head. ‘Sure, if that’s what you want, but can I ask why?’

  ‘First, if we’re going to catch the dumb-asses behind this – and believe me, there’s someone behind it ’cause yours ain’t the only c
hurch with problems like this – we don’t want them to know we’re on their trail. And second, if they find some punk with a nine millimetre slug in his ass, then it sure didn’t come out of no twelve-gauge and you’ll have some explaining to do.’

  ‘So what should I say?’

  Raymond thought for a moment. ‘Just say you caught a couple of kids damaging the church, you fired in the air and they ran off. You leave the rest to us and the least said, the soonest we can catch these motherf – sorry, these punks.’

  Morley shook Raymond firmly by the hand. ‘Sorry, son, I didn’t catch your name,’ he said.

  ‘No, Reverend,’ said Raymond with a smile. ‘You didn’t. But don’t you worry, sir, we’re never far away.’ And with that he turned, loping away into the darkness towards the SUV.

  Luzzo’s eyes were wide with fear and surprise. ‘What the fuck is going on? We thought you was gonna drop him –’

  ‘Just shut the fuck up and drive,’ said Raymond, removing the coolbox from the front passenger seat and climbing in.

  The SUV jolted along the track and within five minutes they were on the highway leading towards Stokeville.

  There was little traffic at this time of night and they drove on in silence watching the blacktop unroll beneath the beams of the headligh. ‘So what is all this Uncle Tom vigilante shit, Raymond? What the hell you been smoking?’

  ‘It’s called research, asshole. We get invited by a bunch of shitheads we don’t even know to a drop at a church twenty miles from East Jesus and you dumb fucks would just say “yeah” and roll along without checking anything? Shit!’

  ‘So what else are we supposed to do?’

  ‘Like I said, research. For a start, where is the damn church? How many ways in and out are there if things goes wrong? Are there any houses, buildings likely to have security cameras, any streetlights and stuff nearby? Who’s the pastor? A country mouse or an ex-Navy SEAL? This is shit that matters.’