At hearing Edie’s voice, he glanced heavenward.
She was alive.
“Have they harmed you in any way?”
“No, they—”
“Satisfied?” her captor snarled into the phone.
“Yes, I’m satisfied. What must I do to ensure her safe r eturn?”
The other man chuckled, obviously amused by the question. “Find me the Ark of the Covenant, of course.”
Caedmon fell silent.
Hearing the proviso so bluntly spelled out—in clear, concise, unequivocal terms—made him acutely aware that MacFarlane might very well be asking the impossible. For nearly three thousand years the Ark had remained hidden. Naught but a legend. Many before him had tried—and failed—to find it. Somehow, against impossible odds, he had to succeed.
His stomach muscles painfully cramped; he was afraid that the challenge might prove insurmountable.
Knowing the negotiations would come to a horrible end if such doubts were hinted at, let alone verbalized, he strove for a confidence he didn’t feel. “Do I have your word that when I find the Ark, Edie Miller’s life will be spared?”
“My word is my bond,” the other man promptly replied. “As soon as we hang up, I want you to leave that rathole of a hotel and head three blocks south. Turn left at the telephone booth on the corner. There’s an alley halfway down the street. My men will be waiting for you. Don’t try anything foolish. If you do, the woman dies. And, trust me, it won’t be a pleasant death.”
Instructions issued, the call was unceremoniously disconnected.
For several long seconds Caedmon stared at the telephone, events unraveling at a faster pace than he would have liked.
Needing to be on his way, he banged his palm against the silver bell on the counter. When the Welshman appeared, he slid his hand inside his coat pocket and removed his billfold. “I would like to check out.”
The proprietor suspiciously stared at him. “Where’s the missus?”
“She has gone ahead without me.”
Bill paid in full, he left the guesthouse and proceeded south as directed, his progress slowed by an almost impenetrable fog, the gray mist as dense as Irish oatmeal.
On his right, he passed a pub, its yellow light spilling onto the pavement. Earlier in the evening, he’d glumly sat in that same pub, staring at a full pint of lager. Knowing alcohol would do nothing to resolve the unsettled business with Edie, he’d handed the glass to an inebriated local before wordlessly slinking out.
Had he not succumbed to a moment’s weakness, the abduction might have been thwarted.
Caedmon shoved the thought aside. He couldn’t change the past. He could only affect the here and now.
As he made his way through the dense fog, sound became muffled to such an extent that he couldn’t discern whether a honking vehicle was to his left or to his right. The alarming scene was so cinematic, he wondered if MacFarlane had somehow magically conjured the foul weather on command, such notions reminding him anew that all he had at his command was the nail file hidden beneath the leather insole of his right oxford.
Again, he rehearsed the plan in his mind’s eye. A jab to the eye. A deep puncture to the neck. If used correctly, the metal file could become a deadly weapon. He’d killed before. He could do so again.
Approaching a red call box, he turned left as he had been instructed. When he came to the alleyway, he made another left. At the end of the deserted lane, he sighted two men leaning against a parked Range Rover.
MacFarlane’s bully boys. Dicey characters, the both of them.
Though he had no concrete evidence, Caedmon assumed that MacFarlane recruited his mercenaries straight out of the U.S. military. Special Forces, more than likely.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said, touching his fingers to an imaginary hat brim.
Neither man acknowledged the greeting, although one of them pushed himself away from the vehicle and stepped toward him. Without being asked, Caedmon raised his arms, grasping the back of his head with his clasped hands. The other man impersonally patted him down, searching every crevice where a weapon might be concealed.
Search concluded, Caedmon slowly lowered his arms.
“Strip off your clothes.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me—strip off your clothes.” To ensure that the order was obeyed, the other man pulled aside his jacket lapel, revealing a holstered gun.
Bang goes the smarty-smarty plan to use the nail file.
There being nothing he could do but comply, Caedmon removed his anorak, dropping it onto the ground. Then, giving every indication that he was a man with nothing to hide, he toed off his right leather oxford, purposely kicking it in his escort’s direction.
The subterfuge worked; his surrendered shoe warranted little more than a disinterested glance.
As he divested himself of his garments, he noticed that the thick fog provided a surreal modicum of privacy.
Naked, he stood before his captors. He couldn’t think of a time when he’d felt more vulnerable. “I know. I should probably be more diligent about my exercise regimen.”
Neither man responded, although the one with the holstered weapon did reach inside his jacket pocket. Removing a dark length of fabric, he tossed it at Caedmon’s bare chest.
“Put on the blindfold.”
“Such measures seem a bit draconian, don’t you think?”
Evidently not draconian enough; the other man’s response was quick and unpitying. Removing the gun from its holster, he stepped forward, smashing the revolver butt against the side of Caedmon’s head.
A myriad splash of color, like a Jackson Pollock abstract, instantly flashed behind his eyes.
An instant later, the colors bled together, turning a deep, dark inky shade of black.
CHAPTER 61
Lucidity still beyond his grasp, Caedmon shuffled into the room, clutching his wool jumper and various undergarments to his chest. He heard himself nattering on about something. George Eliot and The Mill on the Floss. Or some such nonsense.
He tried to focus, but couldn’t contain his flyaway thoughts. Couldn’t stop the ringing in his ears.
Bloody hell, but his head hurt.
“Caedmon! Are you all right?”
He turned, his vision still blurred.
“I’m fine,” he lied, uncertain to whom he spoke.
He blinked several times, willing the particulars to come into focus. They came in bits and bobs. Two parallel worry lines between two equally worried brown eyes. Long curly hair. A red bruise on a pale cheek.
“Edie . . . thank God . . . are you all right?” He immediately realized that it was an asinine question; he could see that she wasn’t.
“I’m fine.”
Hearing her automatic reply proved that they were woven from the same piece of fabric.
His vision clearing, he surveyed what was obviously the first floor of an old millhouse. All around him he saw solid eighteenth-century construction. Shuttered windows. Wood-planked floors. Thick stone walls. It was a prison from which there would be no escape, even if he could somehow disable his adversaries, of which he counted four. He wondered which of the quartet was responsible for the bruise on Edie’s cheek; any one of the brutes appeared capable of hitting a defenseless woman.
“Caedmon, what did they do to you?” Edie worriedly inquired, barred from approaching by an older man who had a hand manacled around her upper arm.
As though he were caught in one of those bizarre dreams in which he was naked and everyone else was fully clothed, he belatedly realized that while he was attired in trousers, shirt, and shoes, he held in his hands jumper, pants, and socks. Mercifully, his trousers were zipped, although his shirt was completely unbuttoned.