The Ghost Manuscript Read online

  Arcturus has returned from Aquae Sulis, where he went to visit his wife and children. There he heard that a new clan king had risen in the north and threatens to extend his lands south to the peaceful people, whom Arcturus has spent a lifetime defending. My master orders that we bring our legion together and set out. We will wait until the great wave of the Sabrina Flumen can carry us north.

  The passage ended there. On the next page, in a different, sloppier handwriting—a style that looked almost tired—came the final passages of the manuscript.

  My grief is never ending. The Great Bear, my leader and master, is dead, murdered by the Usurper. After Arcturus drove our legion north on the river, we marched over land for two days to seek out the clan leader and create a truce that would save the peace. But a young king of Venedotia, great-grandson of Cunedda, Maelgwn, craved only power. He saw my great master as a threat to his dominion. It was at his hands that Riothamus Arcturus met his end.

  At this point, the tiny, barely legible handwriting in the palimpsest, hidden behind the monks’ prayers, changed from Latin to the strange words—Brythonic, the earliest form of written Welsh known to exist.

  How, by what miracle, had Nicola and Harper figured out what it said? Carys read each line of the translation, then reread the impenetrable Welsh words shown in the X-ray image of the manuscript.

  Head toward the setting sun from Aquae Sulis up the great

  Sabrina Flumen

  The bear unto whom is all the glory save our Lord

  Protector, whose bravery is known to all,

  Is struck down in battle with the Usurper

  They both fed the ravens along the mountain stream, running red with their blood

  The sword pierced his heart

  The great Duke of War is dead

  We and the river carried him down the four falls to a field of flowers

  Adorned with drops of his blood

  They bloom at our arrival then die and fall as we pass

  All nature and man mourn in unison

  Then across the ebullition of the sea

  We land on the island of the apples

  There is a castle of defense under the ocean waves

  Between the mother tree and the last light of the fat sun lies the watery nest where we laid him

  With the sword of Ambrosius—King Saint Protector

  Caledfwlch

  And his belt and ring bestowed

  And the wealth of his people, awaiting his return

  What castles that can never be

  The sea guards better

  And now he is the tree of our faith

  From here his fruit will fall and the land will be fertile.

  Carys sat for a long time with the poem ringing in her head. Why would he write such tortured, opaque clues cloaked in a language that almost no one could read—then or now? Did he want people to find the tomb or not?

  The riddle posed a particular problem. The translation could not be verified, because this was the earliest version of Welsh and there was nothing to compare it with. It didn’t surprise Carys that it’d taken years to translate it—and even then, she knew there was no guarantee that the translated version matched the original Welsh version or intent. She might end up chasing her tail, but she’d come into this expecting that to be the case. Carys’s only hope was that the monk would prove not tremendously clever when it came to crafting word games, and that Nicola and Harper were tremendously clever when it came to linguistics.

  Whatever his ultimate intent, one thing was sure; Lestinus was devoted to protecting the final burial place but felt an obligation to leave the world some proof that this man had lived, even as all record of their previous way of life was again being extinguished by the Anglo-Saxons, who had resumed their assaults at just about the time that the monk would have fled Britain. Lestinus’s journey to Saint Catherine’s Monastery in Egypt would have come years after Arcturus’s death, which itself came decades after the final, decisive routing of the Saxons at Mons Badonicus—Mount Badon.

  Lestinus had felt compelled to leave a trail to the lasting, physical proof that a civilized world once existed, in case his worst fears were realized and the invaders and their ignorance eventually succeeded in plunging humanity into darkness forever. It was a noble task. It was based on a hope that somewhere, one day, the light of learning and knowledge would shine brightly enough that someone would be able to read his words and find his great Dux Bellorum, the Duke of War, the honorific Lestinus used to describe his master over and over throughout the manuscript. She shuddered when she realized how close his fears had come to being realized—if not for Harper’s obsession.

  She felt bonded to Lestinus in that moment. The monk’s mission had now passed from Harper to her.

  Carys was beginning to believe, against her better judgment, that the Arcturus in the journal was the man who inspired the legend of King Arthur. Tomorrow, she decided, she would snip the parchment, collect dust particles for testing, and start the cross-referencing to the primary source material that Harper had collected. Harper and Nicola would be frustrated by her need to verify all the details that they had so clearly and painstakingly unearthed and verified before her, but she needed to be sure. She also relished the chance to feel just a hint of the sense of discovery and revelation that they surely had felt as the carbon-dating tests came back and as the names in the monk’s journal began appearing in equally old documents scattered throughout the library.

  There was no rush, despite what Harper had said. A house of Adeona’s value would not be sold quickly. The library could not be donated to any notable institution or museum without a complete catalog, and she was in charge of creating that. Arcturus had either been in his tomb for fifteen hundred years or had not. That she had agreed to pursue this quest would have absolutely no impact on whether or not he was still there. Whatever the outcome, it could wait a few more weeks. The only urgency came from Harper’s health, and he was receiving the best medical care money could buy.

  She put her nose in the folds of the parchment and inhaled its scent—an intimate goodbye for now. She closed the manuscript, running her hands gently across the nubbly surface. She cradled it in her hands and lowered it into its glass case, closed the lid and locked it. She turned out the lights and for the first time felt the cold of the vault deep in her bones.

  Carys emerged into the library. The sun was just setting over the trees at the front of the mansion, and the light streamed through the library door, which Nicola had left open as she puttered around on the first floor. Golden sunlight fell against the wall with the vertical windows. The room had the bright, peaceful solemnity of a church, and Carys smiled. She closed the sliding vault door and typed in the security code to lock it, removed the key, and replaced everything where Nicola had shown her. She moved into the sunlight and looked out the long vertical windows to catch the view of the forest in front of her as it was bathed by the deepening golden sunset. It was a symphony of colors—a thousand shades of springtime green, punctuated with daffodils and roses. The sun on her back and the view combined to warm and relax her. She stood still, staring out, letting the colors seep into her brain and calm her swirling thoughts.

  6

  Thursday, June 14

  You know the exact moment when you break a man’s nose. It’s the sound. Like a dry branch wrapped in a towel being snapped in two. And this guy’s nose was very broken.

  The man’s mouth dropped open, and the first hint of a scream began to come out as his eyes rolled back in his head. Frank Marshfield clamped his hand over the man’s mouth. He’d be ready to talk now. Frank looked over at the man’s giant desk, so neatly arranged.

  “I’m going to take my hand away,” he hissed. “If you make a sound, I’ll kill you.”

  The man nodded, and Frank slowly removed his bloodied hand.

  On the des
k was a photo of the kids, a boy and a girl, both in that awkward, gangly stage. School insignias on both of their blazers. Solihull School. Big money. Huge money. Could buy a house with the tuition this twat was paying every year.

  There was no paper on the desk. Frank yanked open the top drawer and saw a notepad and a pencil. He pulled them out and slapped them on the desk, then grabbed the broken man by his collar and shoved his face down toward them.

  “Write down where we can find it, or I start breaking your fingers,” he growled.

  The man picked up the pencil, his hand shaking uncontrollably. He looked up at Frank, terrified, and began to mumble.

  “I’ve got a business card,” the man said through bloody drool as he put down the pencil.

  Frank grabbed the guy’s collar again and spun him around to face him, then took his free hand and started pressing on what was left of the bridge of his nose. The man’s scream began, then caught in his throat. His legs gave way underneath him, and Frank found himself holding nearly all the man’s weight in one hand. Fortunately, he wasn’t a big guy and Frank was. He shoved the broken man into the chair in front of his big desk.

  “The card for the person who has the icon?” he asked.

  The man nodded, his face crumpled in agony.

  “With his address?”

  The man nodded gently again.

  “Let’s have it then.”

  The man opened another drawer on the desk, pulled out a neat stack of business cards and began rummaging through them. He pulled one out and handed it up to Frank.

  “You know what’ll happen if it’s not there?”

  The man nodded, his hands moving up to his nose, shaking, afraid to touch it.

  “The kids still up at Solihull School?” asked Frank. “They must be due home any day now for the summer break, huh?”

  The man looked at him from the corner of his eye, and Frank could feel a new kind of fear emanating from him. The man reached back down to the pile of business cards. He pushed through them again, pulled one out, and handed it to Frank. He took it and tossed the other card back onto the desk.

  “Thank you,” said Frank as he pulled back and landed his fist into the man’s jaw.

  The blow pushed in the side of the man’s face. He and the chair tipped over sideways in slow motion. The man spilled onto his Oriental rug, where he lay motionless. A pool of blood began soaking into the rug under his head.

  Frank adjusted his jacket and put the card in its side pocket. His finger toyed briefly with a hole in the bottom where the stitching was coming apart. Cheap-ass jacket. But it was the one he wore when he knew there would be blood. It had been dry-cleaned to near disintegration.

  His burner phone vibrated, giving him a brief start. He flipped it open and answered it.

  “Morning, boss,” he said.

  “Morning,” came a Manchester accent, oozing through the earpiece. “How goes it?”

  “Bloody, but I got it. I’m about to head over now. Should have the icon later this morning.”

  “Brilliant. As soon as you’re done with that, I have something else for you.”

  “What you got?”

  “I need you to go to the U.S.”

  Frank’s shoulders stiffened.

  “I told you, I won’t go back there,” he said.

  “This is big, Frank. And I don’t trust anyone else to do it.”

  “How big?”

  “Quarter million pounds. That’s your take. That enough to overcome your fear of the American constabulary? That case is officially considered cold by the way. Two dead junkies in L.A. Those are a dime a dozen. They barely even bother investigating overdoses.”

  “They do when one of the junkies is the sprog of an Academy Award winner,” said Frank.

  “Don’t worry about it. You didn’t know they had quit using—the dose you gave them should have been just right. All that matters is they told you where the statues were and we found the damn things before they ended up who knows where. They were way out of their league. It’s their own fault they’re dead. You shouldn’t feel bad. Your soul is still intact, I’m sure.”

  “Bugger off,” said Frank.

  A high, tinny laugh came through his phone.

  “More importantly, our clients were very pleased with your work,” said his boss.

  “Bloody murderous camel jockeys.”

  “Don’t be racist. They’re called Islamic fundamentalists, and they’re our best customers. Show them some respect.”

  “They’re bad news,” said Frank. “Those two junkies were lucky they died before the towel-heads got to them.”

  “There you go then. A public service all around. I need you on a plane to the East Coast.”

  “What’s the object?”

  “Dark Age manuscript. Written by a monk.”

  The man on the floor was wheezing but was not quite conscious. Frank landed a solid kick in the man’s rib cage, turned, and let himself out of the ornate office with its view of the twinkling lights along the canals of Birmingham. He locked the door from the inside as he closed it.

  “Guess whose book it is,” said his boss.

  “Whose?”

  “John Harper’s.”

  “Figures,” Frank said.

  The billionaire had been a thorn in their side for twenty years—not that Harper had ever known that. Harper always got his hands on the rarest manuscripts, books that would have done very well in his boss’s “antiquities location and redistribution investment trust,” as he liked to call it. It was annoying.

  God knows, moving books would be easier money than they were making right now. Ancient books are simpler to find, hide, transport, and sell than the clunky artifacts and sculptures they had been dealing lately. And book clients tended to be less…jihadist. His boss had recently climbed into bed with some terrorist cells that were funding their activities with antiquities pillaged from museums and archeological digs in war zones, and they’d both been making a bundle selling the goods into a network of illicit antiquity collectors: men and women who loved a thing more—and would pay way, way more for it—if they weren’t supposed to have it. The icon Frank was about to go collect, from the unsuspecting man whose name was on the now bloodied card in his pocket, had been “misallocated” by one of the many handlers who had helped bring it over from Iraq. The bloke had no idea the hell that was about to be visited on him today.

  But the whole operation made Frank nervous. He’d seen depravity during his time in the British Navy, but nothing like these jihadists could dish out. But the mean mother on the other end of his phone respected depravity—truth was, his boss could give any jihadist a run for his money in that department.

  “Harper’s in a loony bin. Lost his marbles. I need you to go retrieve the manuscript. And the translation of it as well. It’ll be useless without the translation.”

  “Useless?” said Frank. “It’s a manuscript. What’s it do? Make you tea?”

  “No. It bloody spells out the location of a tomb. Supposedly full of Dark Age artifacts and jewelry. If we’re going to find that tomb, we need to know what the manuscript says, don’t we?”

  “Right,” he said. “Where is it, then?”

  “Well, that’s where it gets sticky.” His boss’s voice turned. It was slightly lower, and his delivery, normally rapid fire, became more deliberate.

  A loud squeak came through the phone. The boss was reclining in his big, black leather desk chair in his mahogany-paneled office in Piccadilly. This was bad. Frank knew from bitter experience that his boss spoke in this tone and leaned back in his chair when he was getting ready to do something truly awful. Like the time he had an antique dealer’s private plane blown up for cheating on a deal. Or when he ordered Frank to arrange for the right hand of a young woman, an antiquities courier who had sticky fingers, to be
“separated from its host” and FedExed to her boss in Paris. “Eye for an eye, hand for a hand, all that,” he’d said.

  “The manuscript is probably at the Harper mansion. It’s in a posh town near Boston.”

  “I hear Boston is nice,” said Frank. “Red Sox, lobsters, all that.”

  “Harper has a woman working with him. Carys Jones is her name. I want you to find her and do whatever you need to do to get that manuscript off her. Just don’t leave any trace. At all. Fly out as soon as you can. I’ll call you later with the pick-up arrangements. I’ll get you details on Jones, and a weapon.”

  Frank started to sweat. He hated guns, although they certainly had their uses. But this job was maybe the one he had been waiting for. He’d promised his mum just before she died a few months earlier that he’d get out of the business. He hadn’t meant it at the time, but over the following weeks, and the following crimes, and all the following blood, it had started to sound like a good idea. A big cash infusion right now would provide an excellent jump-start on his new life on St. Bart’s.

  “Right,” he said. “I’ll drop the icon at the usual location later this morning.”

  “Good work, Frank, my friend,” said Martin Gyles. “Good day’s work.”

  ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆

  Carys had arrived at the mansion early, eager to make a full day of it. She let herself in with the front-door key that Nicola had given her when she agreed to the hunt and walked into the kitchen to make some tea. Nicola was standing at the kitchen counter in a thin bathrobe, her hair up in a messy bun.

  “Good lord, child,” Nicola said as she turned toward Carys, clutching her hand to her heart. “You scared the stuffing out of me!”

  “I’m so sorry,” Carys said, stifling a laugh. “I didn’t think you’d be awake yet. I wanted to get an early start. I was even going to make you some tea for a change.”