Secrets of the Dead

‘Maybe a prison sentence. Maybe not, if he cooperates and it comes to something. And if he gets a good lawyer.’

‘He wants the same thing you do,’ Abby protested. She stared into Mark’s young eyes and didn’t hide her contempt. ‘He was getting close to Dragovic to bring him down.’

‘Then why are you selling him out?’

Abruptly, Abby stood. Mark jumped up, knocking the table and rattling the coffee cups. The green-coated man in the window looked around.

‘Relax,’ Abby said to the room. ‘I just need a wee.’

Before anyone could stop her, she pushed through the wooden door into the toilet and locked it. She listened for footsteps, for banging on the door, but they didn’t come. The toilet was at the back of the cafe, a windowless dead end. They didn’t have to worry about her escaping that way.

She checked her watch and got to work.

First, she closed the toilet seat and took a piece of paper out of her coat. It was Gruber’s scan of the papyrus, but traced out on clean paper so that the letters were clear and legible. She laid it flat on the toilet seat, then unlatched the necklace and laid it over the text.

The gold fitted exactly – the square outline of the necklace and the square layout of the writing. Abby peered closer, and swore in quiet amazement. Each of the glass beads that studded the gold lined up perfectly with a letter underneath.

She checked the time. A minute gone.

Hands trembling, she took out a magnifying glass she’d bought in Zadar and read off all the letters she could see through the beads. She circled them in pencil on a copy of the text, then traced the outline of the gold over it in case that was important too.

Three minutes gone.

She took a slim digital camera out of her coat and photographed the necklace in place over the writing, holding the camera as close and as still as she could. Then she ejected the memory card, wrapped it in the small square of paper, and tucked it into her bra. She picked up the necklace and clasped it back on. Finally, she lifted the lid of the cistern and dropped in the camera and the magnifying glass, then tore up the extra copy of the papyrus and flushed it down the toilet.

If they don’t find a camera, they won’t look for pictures.

The whole business had taken five and a half minutes. She washed her hands, just in case anyone was going to sniff them, and went back out. Mark was sitting indecisively in his chair, half-poised to get up. The green-coated man had gone.

‘Michael’s not at the Hotel Marjan,’ Mark said. He sounded angry. ‘The receptionist said he checked in an hour ago, but the room’s empty.’

That didn’t take long. She tried to look apologetic. ‘He probably went for a walk. We’ve been on the road for most of the last fourteen hours.’

‘Why didn’t you bring him here?’

‘Because he knows better than to walk into a walled town that’s crawling with SIS.’

‘Did you tell him we were here?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Does he trust you?’

‘Maybe. Probably not.’ She let exasperation show. ‘Michael convinced the world he was dead, and then covered his tracks so well that neither you nor Dragovic could find him. Do you think he’s just going to sit in a bedroom watching TV, while I go and meet with the people who want to arrest him? If I was him, I’d be sitting in the cafe next door to the hotel, watching to see if any flat-footed thugs came charging in looking for Michael Lascaris.’

Mark’s eyes narrowed. ‘How did you get here?’

‘By car.’

‘Make? Model?’

‘It’s blue.’

Mark started to say something patronising and stereotypical, then realised she was playing with him.

‘It’s a Skoda Fabia – the hatchback. I don’t remember the registration.’

This time, he didn’t bother to pretend with his phone. He pushed back his chair and stood. Outside the window, Abby saw the flash of a red skirt between the columns across the street.

‘Where are you going?’

‘We. You’re staying with me until we get our hands on Michael.’

‘Bollocks to that. If he’s seen your people, he’ll know I’ve turned him in.’ She got up and pulled on her coat. ‘I’ll take care of myself.’

‘Come with me,’ he said. Not an order, more a plea. For a moment she could almost believe he cared about her. ‘I’ve got a car waiting on the promenade. A clean passport, too. In three hours you can be back home and safe. You can have your life back.’

And why not? No more running. No more drifting around these concrete cities at the end of civilisation, waking up every morning not knowing if she’d live or die. Out of the cold, into the warmth.

But what was her life, after all? An empty flat, a failed marriage and a lost faith. She’d come too far down this