that, in exchange for losing his soul, killing for a living had yielded nothing of real value – only money and its hollow trappings. A chill ran through him. He reached for the string of wooden rosary beads on the side table – a childhood gift, kept more out of sentiment than faith. He focused on the expensive curtains drawn across the window and imagined the looming mountains beyond. Usually their beauty calmed him but now it intensified his loneliness.
Why were the dogs still barking?
He shook his head, trying to focus his mind, and checked the clock beside his bed. Three sixteen a.m. He heard the night nurse murmuring on the landing outside his room, then another, deeper, voice.
Bazin sat up, dizzy and breathless.
A man – at least one – was here. In his home. In the middle of the night.
It was no surprise that his enemies would come for him when he was weak and defenceless. But how had they found him? No one at the clinic was aware of his profession, and hardly anyone knew the location of this house. But that meant nothing, he realized. Everyone had a price. He considered the people who had tried to hide from him in the past. He had found them. And killed them.
Fear galvanized him. He had to live. He searched the gloom for something with which to defend himself, but the nurses had cleared everything away, except the equipment and medicines to keep him alive. There was nothing here with which to take a life.
He listened as the footsteps approached the closed door, something oddly familiar in their irregularity. Ignoring the pain and fighting the nausea that threatened to overwhelm him, he climbed out of bed. More sweat dripped from his forehead. They dared come for him only because they thought he was weak, half the man he had once been. But he'd show them. He tested the thin string of rosary beads. It snapped. He dropped the beads on the bed, yanked one end of the intravenous tube from the cannula in his wrist, the other from the drip stand, then pulled the tube tight in his hands. He steadied himself, then moved across the room and positioned himself behind the closed door.
It opened slowly and a dagger of light cut across the rug. He no longer felt sick or weak as he focused on eradicating the threat to his life. The intruder stopped in the doorway, as if considering whether to enter. As soon as the man's head appeared Bazin pulled the garrotte round his neck and twisted it.
With cheese-wire Bazin could garrotte a victim in seconds, rupturing the jugular and crushing the windpipe. However, the plastic tubing stretched, and as Bazin struggled to tighten it he noticed the man's clothing – and that he was unarmed. Then he remembered the man's gait – his limp. He yanked the intruder round so they faced each other. As he stared into the man's bulging eyes, Bazin froze. He knew why the man had come under the cover of darkness. Not to kill him, but to protect his own identity from prying eyes. He was embarrassed to be seen coming here. And that shamed Bazin.
He loosened the tubing from the man's neck. 'Leo.' He didn't try to disguise his gratitude. 'I can't believe you came.'
The man rubbed his throat. 'You're my half-brother, Marco,' he rasped. 'You said you were dying. Of course I came.' His eyes filled with contempt. 'What do you want from me? What could you possibly want from a priest?'
Now Bazin's gratitude was mixed with anger and something that approximated love. Though larger and more powerful than his elder brother he had always felt in his shadow. Never good enough, always unworthy. He glanced at the rosary on the bed, then at his brother. 'I want redemption. I need absolution before I die.'
The intelligent dark eyes narrowed. 'You're serious?'
'Deadly serious.'
'Then go to confession.'
'I need to do more than say a few Hail Marys, much more…' He explained how he had spent his life. 'I must perform some service for the Church, some penance. Tell me what to do.'
His brother's eyes looked deep into his, searching, evaluating. 'It no longer surprises me how many sinners come back to the Church at times of crisis. But you, Marco?' He sighed. 'God never gives up on a lost soul, provided their act of contrition is genuine.'
'Within my power I'll do anything the Church demands.'
Those dark eyes probed his soul. 'Anything?'
'Yes,' said Bazin, collapsing to his knees. 'Anything at all.'
2
New York, five weeks later As soon as the limousine stopped outside the black glass tower in downtown Manhattan, Ross Kelly jumped out, suitcase in one hand, laptop in the other, and ran to the main doors. He had been cooped up in aeroplanes for the last twenty-four hours, and he was late. He dashed through the lobby, jumped into an empty lift and pressed floor thirty-three.
He studied his reflection in the mirror and frowned. His suit was expensive and, with his tan, height and broad shoulders, should have flattered him, but it looked merely uncomfortable. He had always felt – and looked – better out in the field, wearing Timberlands, jeans and a hard hat, than in the office. He straightened his tie and patted down his unruly sandy hair as the lift pinged and the doors opened. He stepped out and approached a pair of double doors with 'Xplore Geological Consultancy – Specialists in Oil and Gas' etched into the glass. A man in blue overalls was adding another line beneath it: 'A Division of Alascon Oil'. Ross stepped into the reception area. The rumours had been rumbling for months but he couldn't believe so much had changed while he'd been away in the remote Kokdumalak oilfields of southwestern Uzbekistan.
His personal assistant, Gail, was pacing the floor. As soon as she saw him her face relaxed. 'Ross. Thank God you're here. How was Uzbekistan?'
'Good, but I'd have got more data if I hadn't had to rush back for this.' He checked his watch: ten twenty- two. 'Where's the meeting?'
She took his suitcase from him. 'In the conference room. It's already started.'
'Didn't you tell them my plane was delayed?'
'They don't care.'
'What about Bill Bamford?'
'Gone. Ross, all the old Xplore board have gone.'
'What about the handover?'
She lowered her voice. 'There's not going to be one. All that talk about Alascon respecting Xplore's specialist expertise and wanting a partnership was garbage. It's a good old-fashioned takeover. Bill Bamford, Charlie Border and the rest have cleared their desks. They were escorted out of the building this morning.'
'How about you?'
'I can get a job anywhere. I only work here because of you.' She smiled. 'So, tell me if you're planning to leave.'
'You'll be the first to know, I promise.'
'Good. Now, if you want to save your ancient-oil project you'd better get going. These guys take no prisoners.' She shrugged. 'But I guess you already know that.'
'Yup.' Ross grimaced. When Xplore had headhunted him three years ago, he had been working as a geologist in Alascon's respected earth-sciences division. Xplore had offered good money but that wasn't why he'd joined the small oil consultancy. As one of the world's biggest oil companies, Alascon offered excellent training, but they were inflexible, arrogant and risk-averse. Xplore's visionary board had offered him the opportunity for genuine exploration and discovery that Alascon couldn't match. Now he'd be working for Alascon again and that troubled him. He smoothed his hair again and walked down the corridor to the conference room.
As he approached, he heard his own voice. He stopped and peered through the glass. The lights were dimmed but he could see three Alascon executives sitting round the table, watching a plasma screen on which he was presenting his ancient-oil theory. He didn't 11 THE SOURCE recognize two of them: an older, bald guy with round glasses, and a freckled man with curly, greying ginger hair. At the sight of the third, a blond man in a charcoal grey suit, his heart sank. George Underwood was the main reason he had left Alascon. As Ross studied
