A fifty-euro note appeared in Michael’s hand. The woman gave it a disapproving look.
‘You are police? You think you can bribe me?’ She shook her head vigorously. ‘This is honest shop.’
‘I’m not police. I need a passport for my sister. Her aunt is very ill.’ Two hundred-euro notes came out.
The woman studied Abby’s face, taking in the bruises staining her cheek, the cut above her forehead. She gave Michael a knowing look, her tongue stuck in the corner of her lips.
‘Maybe you come back in a week. Maybe your aunt gets better. This is honest shop,’ the woman said again. But she was smiling as she said it.
Michael laid the money on the table. ‘Perhaps you could just see what you have in the back room,’ he encouraged her.
They walked out of the travel agent a thousand euros poorer, though that wasn’t what made Abby feel cheap. But they had the passport. She studied the photograph under a streetlight, sucking in her cheeks to try and mimic the pinched face of the woman it had once belonged to.
‘It doesn’t have to be perfect,’ Michael told her. ‘Just credible enough for the border guards to accept the bribe.’
She checked her watch, eager to have something else to think about. ‘It’s been over an hour. I should call London.’
She found a payphone in the main square and dialled the number from memory. Michael waited outside the booth.
The same routine with the Foreign Office front desk took her through to the Office of Balkan Liaison. This time, Mark answered straight away.
‘Where are you?’
‘In the Balkans.’ They’d probably trace the number, but she wasn’t going to make it easy for them.
‘What the hell’s going on? Jessop’s dead; you’re missing. I’m hearing barmy things about a shooting war in Kosovo and a Roman tomb.’
‘It’s crazy,’ Abby agreed. ‘Remind me to tell you about it some time.’
Mark’s tone altered. ‘You have to come in Abby. You haven’t done anything wrong. We just need to speak to you.’
‘You remember the necklace you and Jessop took off me?’
‘What about it?’
‘I want you to bring it to me.’ She felt the stiff new passport in her pocket and prayed it would do the job. ‘You know the town of Split, in Croatia? Meet me at the cathedral there at two o’clock tomorrow.’
‘You’re expecting me to drop everything and fly out, just to give you a piece of jewellery? You’ve got to give me more than that.’
She put her hand over the receiver and looked around. Michael didn’t fit in the phone box; he’d wandered across the square and was buying some cigarettes from a Gypsy woman. He had his back to her.
‘Michael’s alive,’ she said.
‘Michael Lascaris?’
‘He didn’t die that night in the villa. He’s with me now.’
Across the square, Michael was sauntering back towards her.
‘Two o’clock, the cathedral in Split,’ she repeated. ‘Bring the necklace.’
‘Wait –’
She hung up. Michael had opened the door and was peering in.
‘Did they bite?’
‘He’ll come,’ she said. She took out the passport again and stared at the unfamiliar face. ‘The question is, will we get there?’
XXXVIII
THE DARKNESS IN the Chamber of Records is immense. I’ve wandered so far, I don’t know where the door is. I can barely tell which way is up.
But still there’s a voice calling my name. I open my eyes. The darkness recedes. A light approaches, flickering through the gaps in the shelves.
‘Gaius Valerius?’
It’s the archivist.
‘I told you to come out if you wanted to read,’ he reproves me. ‘The atmosphere down here, it can overwhelm you.’
I’m too exhausted for pride. ‘Thank you for coming to rescue me.’
‘Rescue you?’ He sounds amused. ‘I came to fetch you. The Augustus wants to see you.’
