went. “And Morton wants to meet him to see if it’s true. But how’s he going to do that? Is Matt going to have to see into the future or blow something up to prove it?”
“We don’t know,” Nathalie replied. “Remember. He’s read the diary. We haven’t. He may know more than we do.”
“All we know is that he’s afraid,” Miss Ashwood cut in. “He’s afraid of the man he was dealing with in South America. And he’s afraid of what he’s read in the diary itself. William Morton has realized he’s stumbled into something bigger and darker than anything he’s experienced in his life, and he’s looking for a way out.”
“Where does he want to meet me?” Matt asked.
“At first he wouldn’t tell us.” This time it was a Frenchman who had picked up the story. He was slim and grey-haired and looked like a lawyer. “He speaks to us only with his mobile phone and he gives us no idea where he can be found. But now he has mentioned a church, in the city, not so far from here.”
“St Meredith’s in Moore Street,” Miss Ashwood said.
“He will be there at twelve o’clock tomorrow. He will meet with you but with you alone…”
“Matt’s not going in there on his own,” Richard said.
“He tells us that he will be watching out for the boy,” the Frenchman said. “We have not described to him what Matt looks like but it is unlikely that there will be any other fourteen-year-old adolescents near the church at that time. The deal is very simple. If Matt is not alone, Monsieur Morton will disappear. We will never see him again. And whoever it is that he has been dealing with in South America will have the diary.”
“Why this church?” Richard asked. “It seems to be a strange place to meet. Why not a restaurant or a cafe or something like that?”
“Morton insisted,” Nathalie said. “I guess we’ll find out the answer to that when Matt gets there.”
“Maybe the church is mentioned in the diary,” the bishop suggested. “As it happens, St Meredith’s is one of the oldest churches in the city. In fact, there’s been a church on the site since the Middle Ages.”
“And how can we be sure Matt will be safe there? For all we know, this mysterious South American businessman or whoever he is could have already got to Morton. This could all be a trap.”
“Leave that to me,” the policeman said. Richard had been right. His name was Tarrant and he was an Assistant Commissioner, one of the highest-ranking officers in London. “I’ll have access to the security cameras all around Moore Street. We can’t go into the church, but I’ll make sure there are a hundred officers in the immediate area. One word from me and they’ll move in.”
“But I still don’t understand what happens,” Matt said. “This man – William Morton – meets me. Maybe he asks me some questions. But what then? Is he going to give me the diary?”
“He’s said hell sell it to us if he believes you,” Nathalie replied. “He’s not giving it to anyone! He still wants his money.”
There was a pause.
Richard turned to Matt. “Do you want to go?” he asked.
Matt shook his head. “No, I don’t,” he said. He glanced around the table. Everyone was staring at him. He could see his own face reflected in the black glasses that covered Susan Ashwood’s eyes. “But I will,” he went on. “If you’ll give me something in return.”
“What do you want?” the Australian asked.
“You people have a lot of influence. You stopped Richard getting his article about Omega One published in the newspapers. So maybe you can get him a job, here in London.”
“Matt…” Richard began.
“That’s what you always wanted,” Matt said. “And I want to go to an ordinary school. I’m not going back to Forrest Hill. I want you all to promise me that if you get the diary, you’ll leave me alone.”
“I’m not sure we can promise that,” Fabian said. “You’re part of all this, Matt. Don’t you see that?”
“But if there’s any way we can leave you out of this, we will,” Miss Ashwood cut in. “We don’t like this any more than you do, Matt. We never wanted to bring you here.”
Matt nodded. “All right.”
A decision had been made but even now Matt wasn’t convinced that he’d been the one who’d made it. Much later that night, as he lay in his bed on the third floor of the hotel, he told himself that soon it would all be over. He’d meet Morton. He’d get the diary. And that would be the end of it.
But somehow he didn’t believe it.
Everything that had happened in the last few days had done so against his wishes. And what happened next would be the same. There was no way out for him. He had to get used to it. There were strange forces all around him and they were never going to let him go.
Ten thousand miles away, a man was approaching his desk.
It was the middle of the afternoon here in the town of Ica, south of the Peruvian capital of Lima. Peru was six hours behind Britain. The sun was shining brilliantly and as the room was open to the elements, with a tiled floor that stretched past a row of pillars into the courtyard, the entire room was flooded with light. High above, a ceiling fan turned slowly, not actually cooling anything but giving the illusion that it might. The man could hear the gentle sound of water splashing. There was an old fountain in the courtyard. A few chickens pecked at the gravel. Flowers grew everywhere and their scent hung heavily in the air.
The man was fifty-seven years old, dressed in a white linen suit that hung off him stiffly, as if it was still in the wardrobe. He moved slowly and with difficulty, reaching out with his hands to find his chair and lower himself into it.
His body was all wrong.
He was unnaturally tall – well over six feet – but what gave him his extra height was his head, which was twice as long as it should be. It was huge, with eyes so high up that on anyone else, they would have been in the middle of the forehead. He had a few tufts of hair that were really no colour at all, but mainly he was bald, with liver spots all over his skin. His nose extended all the way down to his mouth, which was too small in relation to everything else. A child’s mouth in an adult face. A muscle twitched in the side of his neck as he moved. The neck was obviously struggling to hold up such a great weight.
The man’s name was Diego Salamanda, and he was the chairman of one of the largest companies in South America. Salamanda News International had built an empire with newspapers and magazines, TV stations, hotels and telecommunications. Some people claimed that SNI owned Peru. And Diego Salamanda was the sole owner, the chairman and single stockholder of SNI.
His head had been stretched quite deliberately. It was a practice from more than a thousand years before. Some of the ancient tribes of Peru had selected newly born babies whom they believed to be “special” and had forced them to live with their heads sandwiched between two wooden planks. This was what caused the abnormal growth. It was supposed to be an honour. Salamanda’s parents had known that their baby was special, so they had done the same to him.
And he was grateful to them.
They had caused him pain. They had made him hideous. They had prevented him from ever enjoying a normal human relationship. But they had been right. They had recognized his talents the very day he was born.
The telephone rang.
Still moving slowly, Salamanda reached out and took the receiver. It looked slightly ridiculous, far too small, as he held it against his ear.
“Yes.” He didn’t need to give his name. This was a private number. Only a handful of people had it. And they would know whom they were calling.
“It’s at twelve o’clock tomorrow,” the voice at the other end said. “He’s going to be at a church in London. St Meredith’s.”
“Very good.” Both of them were speaking in English. It was the language that Salamanda used for all his business.
“What do you want me to do?” the voice asked.
“You have done enough, my friend. And you will be rewarded. Now you can leave it to me.”
“What will you do?”
Salamanda paused. An ugly light shimmered in his strangely colourless eyes. He didn’t like being asked questions. But he was in a generous mood. “I will take the diary and kill Mr Morton,” he replied.
“And the boy?”
