The darwin manuscript, p.16
The Darwin Manuscript, page 16
“Good grief, that is really astonishing,” said Jeremy, encouraging her to continue before the children returned with their bowls of ice cream. “Did you read the whole document?”
“Yes, Andrew read it to us yesterday evening. I would love you to read it,” she said, “Because it throws a whole new light on Darwin; how he came to write ‘Origins’ and why he abandoned religion and his God.”
Jeremy had completely won her over, and as he heard the children returning he quickly sowed his final seed in her mind, “I would love to read it, later,” he said, letting her know he was aware that she had access to a copy.
The children stormed into the room and Mary just had time to give him a quick smile and a nod, when they swooped all around them.
“Just look at this great ice-cream!” squealed, Harriet.
“Mine’s bigger than that,” said young William, and then the twins joined in and Mary left for the kitchen to find some peace.
[27] City of London
The Starbucks coffee shop was right opposite Fiona’s offices at Tilley & Jones, and Andrew was sitting on a stool in a corner of the large window sipping coffee as he carefully watched both the road traffic and the pedestrians on both sides of the road. He had been there since a little after half-past seven that morning and it was now almost eight-thirty and people were slowly going into the office block opposite.
Before he left Monica’s house, Andrew took up coffees for Joey and Monica who were chatting quietly in her bedroom. Monica lay curled up under the covers and Joey was sitting on a chair staring out of the window, when Andrew came into the room and gave them each a coffee.
“I’m going to Fiona’s office today, but first I shall spend some time watching the building, because I’m sure there will be quite a lot of activity.”
“There is a Starbucks coffee shop right opposite,” said Joey, looking brighter than he did last night, “I know, because I have spent quite some time in there waiting for Fie...”
Tears came into his eyes once more, not so much because he missed his girlfriend, but more because of the dreadful pain that she must have suffered at the hands of those brutes. The late night television news had been quite descriptive of the crime scene and the sex attack on Fiona before they shot and killed her.
Joey and Fiona had been an item, of a sort, although each kept their lives private and both recognised that their relationship, while pleasant and entertaining, was going nowhere in the long term.
“Once I find out where Ber Dov Kedar and gang are holed up, I will be in touch,” said Andrew as he slipped out of the door. He then quickly popped his head around the door and said, “Monica, will you come and lock-up when I leave, we can’t be too careful.”
She slipped on a gown and followed Andrew downstairs. He stopped at the front door and said, “I’ve slipped a sleeping pill in Joey’s coffee, so get him back into bed.”
“Okay,” she said, with a nod, fully agreeing because she had been sleepless for much of the night, and could do with a few more hours herself.
“Might be a good idea to slip him another one after lunch,” he said, opening the front door and after a long look around, he walked slowly to his car.
Andrew shook his head in the coffee shop to clear away the memories. He gestured to one of the staff and said, “Can you get me another Americano, please. A large one thanks.” He gave her a five-pound note, and said, “Put a pastry on the plate, please. Any kind will be okay.”
She smiled at him, happily, she was not supposed to serve customers but who could resist a tall dark handsome stranger, it might just be her lucky day!
His late-model cell phone was set next to his coffee, and every so often he would snap one of the cars that went by, or even the occasional pedestrian. One customer, who did not stay very long, looked at him questionably, and Andrew said, “Market research!” and the man turned away, his interest all ready lost, and he picked up his newspaper in case Andrew was going to start asking him some product questions.
Andrew quickly picked up the phone and took a couple of shots at a man going into the offices of Tilley & Jones. Andrew looked up and down the road, but seeing no other interesting activity, he dialled Bertie.
“I have just seen a ghost from the past walk into Fiona’s offices,” said Andrew, very softly, so people standing nearby with their drinks could not hear him, “You remember, Jack Reynolds, I’m sure...”
“That bastard from Ireland, the one who caused us so much trouble in Beirut a few years back?” said Bertie, remembering all too well the fight he had with Reynolds in a bar in West London after the mission.
“What do you reckon his connection might be with this?” asked Andrew.
“Well,” said Bertie, “The last I heard about Reynolds was that he was taking commissions from the Vatican.”
“Yeah, that makes sense,” said Andrew, “Do you think I should follow him.”
“You’re the man on the spot,” said Bertie, “At the moment I cannot see the benefit, though.”
They disconnected and Andrew put the phone down and picked up his coffee once again. His eyes caught sight of a thick unkempt man sipping a cappuccino at the far end of the same window bar Andrew was sitting at, but the man turned slightly away and he could not make out his face, although there was something familiar about him.
He was also certain the man had been looking at him while he was on the phone to Bertie and in case he had been spotted, Andrew decided to move and pushed away his half eaten pastry and stood up to leave the coffee bar.
While he was walking to the door, another customer bumped accidently into the stranger Andrew was watching.
“I’m so sorry,” said the city gent, in his neat three-piece suit with rolled umbrella dangling from one arm.
“That’s alright, man, tink nothing of it,” said the stranger, in a thick Irish brogue and keeping his head averted from Andrew.
“O’Malley,” said Andrew, clapping the man on his shoulder, “I should have guessed it; where ever Reynolds goes, O’Malley’s sure to follow.”
“Well, will you look who it is,” said O’Malley, feigning surprise, “The last of the Carlish family. I saw yer house burning on the telly, such a shame, begorra!”
Andrew sat down beside O’Malley and without any real hope of a sensible answer he said, “Now, will you tell me why you are watching me?”
“Ya do be talking on yer mobile phone a lot,” said O’Malley, “An’ it just interested me, tha’s all, now.”
“Why’s that,” said Andrew.
“Well, I wouldna’ ha’ seen ya, but I heard ya mention Jack’s name...” said O’Malley, who said no more but sipped his milky coffee.
“Now why do think Jack has gone into the offices of Tilley & Jones?” asked Andrew, his face up close to O’Malley’s fleshy chops.
“Ah, is that where he’s at?” he said, “He said he had a spot of shopping to do, an’ I said I’d wait in here.”
“Those are the offices of the young woman who was murdered yesterday, and perhaps you and your friend are involved,” said Andrew, pleased to see O’Malley twitching nervously on his stool at the news.
“Murdered, ya say,” he said, his eyes shifting from right to left as he took a quick look at the customers in the shop and for any nearby loiterer outside.
“Yes, it was on the television; last night and this morning,” said Andrew, probing for a reaction.
O’Malley was struggling to regain control, and was bursting to find a way to phone Reynolds and warn him the police would be monitoring Fiona’s office. “I never watch the telly, unless Liverpool is playing,” he said, wiping the foamy milk from the cappuccino off his upper lip.
“They were on TV when you watched my house burn, were they?” smirked Andrew.
“No, dat was the news, they were playing United right after that; won two nil, did yer see the match?” said O’Malley, playing Andrew at his own game.
“Perhaps you and I should meet Reynolds and have a little talk,” said Andrew, more serious now and wanting to see what these two villains knew. “I think maybe we should team up, what do you think?”
“I tink it’s colder’n a witches tit outside,” said O’Malley, putting his mug of coffee down and standing up, “But dere’s no sign of hell freezing over, not just yet, anyways.” He pushed past Andrew and was out of Starbucks and across the road in the twinkling of an eye, but stopped just short of entering the building.
O’Malley looked over his shoulder at the two police cars racing towards him, and smartly walked away from them with his mobile phone to his ear.
“No doubt warning Reynolds,” thought Andrew sipping his coffee and watching Detective Inspector Michael Lewis rush into the building followed by his sidekick, DS Joe Williams. A police officer stood outside the building doorway, blocking movement in and out, and another spoke to the receptionist while Lewis and Williams rushed up the stairs to Fiona’s office.
The plain-clothes police officer on duty that morning at Tilley & Jones had alerted them that a man had turned up for an appointment with Fiona Savage, although the company had no record of it. Reynolds was sitting in reception waiting for Fiona, who according to the plain-clothes female police officer acting as receptionist was on her way to the office, when he heard the police sirens stop outside the building.
He quickly stood up and asked where the rest rooms were, but the police officer simply pulled out a revolver and she said, “You can go shortly, sir, meanwhile raise your hands and do not move.”
Movement among other staff in the spacious open-plan office came to a halt as everybody watched the drama unfold before them, except for a young girl with beret on her head, a scarf wound around her neck, and an armful of books in her arms, who bound up the stairs and right between Reynolds and the police officer.
Reynolds grabbed the young girl by her shoulders and thrust her towards the plain-clothes police officer, who lowered her weapon and tried to step aside without luck. The two of them tumbled to the ground. When she stood up, Reynolds was gone, and as she started to dial on her mobile, Detective Inspector Lewis and Detective Sergeant Williams came out of the lift.
“He just ran out of here,” said the distraught police officer.
“Down the stairs, Joe,” said Lewis, using his mobile to alert the officers in reception, but there was no reply to his call. “Damn it,” he said, and turning to the police officer he said, “Wait here, don’t move, I will be right back.”
He went over to the lift and returned to reception to find Joe Williams tending to the fallen police officer on the floor. Outside was another officer, unconscious on the office steps, and when Lewis took a look outside in the street, he saw exactly what he expected—nothing; no sign of any man running at all. He shook his head and re-entered the building.
Fifteen minutes later, while DI Lewis was still sitting in Fiona’s office, the abashed police officer looked in the door. She said, “There is a Mr. Andrew Carlish here to see you, sir, and he says it is urgent.” Lewis was about to shake his head, when he saw Carlish right behind the woman, and he waved him in the office.
“I’m very busy, Carlish, and have no further news for you...”
“You forget Detective Inspector Lewis,” said Andrew with a half-smile, “I am here to help you, as usual.” Andrew walked around the desk with his mobile phone in his hand and showed a small video of Reynolds running out of the building, punching the police office on the back of his head, and jumping into small yellow van.
Andrew showed him a couple of photos of O’Malley, and a close-up of the back of the van and its registration number. Inspector Lewis said, “Can I take that phone as evidence?”
“Well, I’d rather not, it has all my contact information,” said Andrew, knowing the office could take it anyway, but hoping he would not under the circumstances. “However, I will send the video and images to your phone immediately, and promise not to delete the originals until you authorise it.”
Lewis decided to agree with that offer, as he was pleased with the help from Carlish, both now and last night, and did not wish to alienate him.
“Have you managed to trace Feinstein’s men?”
“No,” said Lewis, “And Feinstein is not cooperating at all. In fact, he is claiming diplomatic immunity and says he has a Syrian diplomatic passport. We are checking that out, of course.”
“Damn it,” said Andrew, “That means the man will walk free!”
“No exactly, we will deport him,” said Lewis.
“Same thing,” said Andrew, then added, “Any chance of letting me have the details of that deportation, if and when it happens.”
Lewis looked at Carlish sharply, and knew exactly what he had in mind, and recalling the crime scene in Westminster he did not hesitate, but gave him a nod.
Joe poked his head around the doorway, “Another murder in another publishing house; Centre Point, Tottenham Court Road.”
“Can I tag along, Inspector, I will keep out of the way,” said Andrew.
Lewis knew he owed the man a favour, so he nodded his head and the three of them quickly left Fiona’s office and were soon on their way to Camden.
[28] The Vatican, Rome
Cardinal Gasparri sat with Cardinal Stefano Bonelli the Prime Minister, and Archbishop Franco Trevisano the Foreign Minister for the Holy See.
“What have your departments been able to learn about the Darwin Manuscript during the past twenty-four hours, gentlemen?” asked Gasparri, with a broad smile of anticipation.
They looked nervously at each other, and Trevisano was the first one to speak, “One of my staff told me of a new publication due out next year on Darwin, but when I investigated further it was yet another biography. Apart from that, I have nothing to report.”
“You have nothing else to report? That is strange, seeing the width and scope of your mandate as Foreign Minister,” said Gasparri in a sly voice. “What about the United States? They surely must be aware of something this important; after all, they are a deeply religious country.”
Trevisano shook his head despondently and said, “I have no news on that topic.”
“Well, Mr. Foreign Minister, my offices tell me that the Internet traffic between the CIA and leading religious organisations has been buzzing with Darwin related activity all night!” he snorted with a loud ‘tut-tut’ and waited hopefully for a response.
The archbishop looked crestfallen and then visibly brightened. “There was one more piece of information; well, gossip is perhaps the better description.”
“Never mind the semantics, tell me the news...”
“We have an agent working as a maid within the Royal Family in London, and she overheard the words ‘Darwin Manuscript’ while taking breakfast in to the Queen yesterday.”
“No doubt she is after the original also, to add to her collection. Well, the Pope has declared he will have the original, so let us get busy. Cardinal, what information can you provide me from your researches, I am sure it will be much more detailed?”
Cardinal Bonelli shook his head and said, “There is very little information from my contacts, and I consider this a good thing, because it means news of the Darwin Manuscript has not leaked too far.”
“So far,” said Gasparri, “Surely you have something to report.”
“I have a distant family member in London whose sister is married to an aide of the Archbishop of Canterbury, her name is Margaret Morris and while she is a catholic from birth she has managed to keep this information from her husband,” said Bonelli.
“I don’t want your sordid family history,” said Gasparri, cantankerously, “I want information regarding the Darwin Manuscript.”
“Lambeth Palace have copies, Cardinal,” blurted out Bonelli, “Morris brought home a copy and they read it together last night. She was so upset about it she went immediately to confession and later phoned my distant relative, who then contacted me about it.”
“It seems we have a whole line of people knowing and talking about this document, what shall we do about that?” said Gasparri, glaring at him.
“Well, I will send back instructions they are not to talk about it to anybody, they are after all strict Catholics,” finished off Bonelli, a little lamely.
“Yes, your instructions will stop them completely, I’m sure,” said Gasparri, haughtily, “Well, that will do for the moment, I suppose, and later we can take other measures.”
“Other measures?” said Cardinal Bonelli, perplexed.
Cardinal Gasparri simply smiled and made to leave the room, “Carry on with you contacts, and I will see you both before dinner this evening.”
The two ministers, more used to giving orders rather than taking them, looked at each other in dismay.
“That man is serious about this Darwin Manuscript matter isn’t he?” said Archbishop Trevisano.
Cardinal Bonelli picked up the phone to call his London relative with the bad news and fresh instructions and said, “He is deadly serious!”
[29] Lambeth Palace, London
The Archbishop of Canterbury was in his sitting room and resting in his favourite armchair by the window where he was enjoying a quiet moment while digesting his late breakfast of orange juice, tea, and Danish pastries thick with fruit and jelly of all flavours.
He had summoned the Reverend Canon Mark Griffiths, his Secretary for Inter-Religious Relations and the Reverend Canon John Hughes, Principal Secretary for International, Ecumenical and Anglican Communion Affairs to his office and collapsed in his chair from exhaustion after giving the instructions to his assistant, Jonathan Morris who as usual insisted on using their full titles.
