The Babylon Thing

THE BABYLON THING

  Copyright © 2013 by Peter Ackers

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  THE BABYLON THING

  1

  Gorges de l’Ardèche, France, March 1997

  Thirty thousand years after man had first daubed his indelible mark on the land, he was back once more to leave a timeless scar. Thirty thousand years ago he arrived after a torturous trek across windswept hills and through thick forests to shelter from the stinging rain; today he came in great machines that carried him through the air in the most resplendent comfort that money could buy. Thirty thousand years ago, man had come to live, to make for himself a secure home in the cavities deep in this clement land of healthy game and fresh water, where he had scratched and inked shapes upon the walls by firelight; today man had come for a much more simple reason.

  To party.

  Six days after the first of the bulldozers had knocked down the first tree, the first of the choppers bringing Callot’s rich guests landed on one a helipad and discharged an elderly couple who sparkled with jewels. This couple was escorted into a marquee, where they were handed expensive drinks and a programme detailing tonight’s activities, which included talks, tours and shows. By this time, the next chopper could be heard high in the night sky.

  The choppers came in a steady stream over the desolate land. The routine never faltered: the choppers gave up their guests, most of who were wealthy and respected members of the social science community, and then retired to a corner of the compound to sit idly in wait, their pilots smoking and laughing in their own private marquee.

  Adam “Jacky” Jackson rode in the last chopper to arrive that night, with his date by his side and a married couple in the seat across from them. He spent the journey staring out the window, although it was night and he could see almost nothing once the city had fallen behind and the landscape gave over to nature. Here and there small lights blazed as the chopper passed high over some small village or farm or remote lane, but mostly the world beyond his window was empty. He saw cloudy black where moorland became lush forests, and the denser gloom of valleys dotted with the shapeless pale patches of craggy cliffs. And then came the area where the party was taking place.

  "Dale?" said a voice beside him. He didn't register that she was speaking to him, not until her hand touched his arm. Then he remembered. Dale. The false name he was using tonight.

  He turned his head to face her. Liza was tall, elegant, just how he liked his women. Although he had approached this one earlier that day, at the airport, with thoughts other than sex on his mind. In part he had sidled up and begun talking to her so he would have a partner for this party...and in part because of who she was. That joker streak in him.

  "You've been silent for a while. Anything wrong?"

  He shook his head. "Just thinking. Sorry." He turned back to the window. Lisa continued to talk to the couple opposite her.

  Below the chopper, the landscape changed. They had arrived.

  Jacky was no die hard conservationist, but it was hard not to be angry at the mass destruction he saw below him. An area about the size of five football pitches had been cleared of all plant life, the rough land flattened to make room for the dozens of heavy marquees, small wooden buildings, the helipads, and even a large area covered with gravel where about twenty choppers sat, bunched so close their rotors almost touched. The whole show had been fenced off by thick chain-link wrapped around posts driven into the earth. Bright lights lit everything up like some Olympic opening ceremony. Despite his anger, Jacky found he was impressed that the organisers had achieved what they had in just a one week. But when this party was over and the marquees came down and the choppers flew away, a giant blemish like a scar on a baby’s cheek would remain forever cut into this beautiful land. Jacky was surprised Callot had gotten permission. Maybe he hadn't. Or maybe he'd bribed someone in the government.

  The thought made any guilt Jacky felt about his secret agenda here tonight dissipate.

  2

  The place reserved for Callot's speech hummed with the sound of hidden generators that provided heat against the chill wind that rattled the thick canvas walls of the marquee, although this noise was masked by the music of a five-piece brass band on a stage-like platform.

  The guests filed towards the seats they had reserved at great fiscal expense weeks earlier. Jacky and Liza made their way quickly towards his own table, a small one in the back corner, right near the entrance. A little card folded into an inverted V sat on the table. BATES, D was written on it.

  He sat and checked his watch. It would soon be time.

  Up front, some of Callot's waiters were setting up the speaker’s platform. One placed a lectern; another set up lights; a final man positioned a flip chart. The waitresses got the easier job of circling the room, pouring wine, and smiling like they meant it.

  Jacky picked up the bottle that had been planted on his table. French, of course, 1995. That figured.

  Jacky watched people mingling, forming cosy groups and chatting excitedly in anticipation of tonight’s ceremony. Couples split, men joining men, women with women. Some of them knew each other already, or had heard of their names. Jacky recognised a few faces. Some bigwigs in the world of archaeology, which was his field. And anthropologists, historians, sociologists: they were all here. The men in their black tuxedos were like clumps of deep space, the women with their glittery dresses and jewellery like the sparkle of a supernova. Jacky felt out of place, despite the fact that he was as rich as any man here and twice as handsome. He always felt this way at glitzy parties. Exposed, as if he stood out and they were all chatting about him. Every innocent glance became a suspicious stare. And maybe this time he wasn't just being paranoid. These people would all know who Leon Callot was, and so they would all know the identity of the woman Jacky sat with.

  He told himself to stop being silly. He didn't care what they thought of him. He was not exactly a respected member of their clan. He knew the problem was his environment, not his partner. He was not one for pomp and glamour. Give him a place with a beer-stained pool table and a barman with fading gang tattoos any day.

  Lisa said, “Don’t stare at him, he hates that. Unless he’s speaking. Then stare all you want, just make sure to laugh and clap at all the right times."

  Jacky hadn't been staring at Leon Callot, but now that she'd mentioned the man, Jacky scanned the room and found him. Over by the stage, awaiting his moment in the limelight. He was surrounded by acolytes and loving it, his arms gesturing all over the place like a guy being electrocuted as he answered their questions. Man of the hour and basking in it. Jacky stared hard at him.

  Leon Callot. The man was tall and silver-haired and in photos Jacky thought he looked every part the ruthless businessman he was. Tonight he had forsaken his eternal white pin-stripe suits and wore something plain and black, like Jacky's. It made him look no less untrustworthy. But, Jacky conceded, maybe that image was purely in Jacky's mind. Certainly nobody else here looked upon him with scorn - more like admiration. Jacky, though, had only come across this guy after reading about his negative exploits regarding the reason they were all here tonight.

  Three years ago three explorers - Etienne Brunel, Jean-Marie Chauvet and Christian Hillaire - had tumbled upon a cave in the hills surrounding the Ardèche River, and what they found there rocked the foundations of the archaeological world.

  The Chauvet-Pont d’Arc Cave, as it became known, hit the headlines. Here was the oldest know decorated cave in the world, with artwo
rk on the walls dating back thirty thousand years to the Aurignacian period. It promised to make its discoverers rich, but then the French state claimed ownership on Feb 14 1997, which annoyed half the archaeological community, and then they annoyed the other half when they sold the cave to business tycoon Leon Callot, who immediately embarked upon a destructive new trend in exploration. Where once archaeologists had treaded carefully, sometimes using suspended bridges to avoid damaging the cave, Callot’s men had trampled in with drills and hammers, bringing down walls and digging holes all over the place. This had infuriated some people, not least the original discoverers, but it had also yielded a hidden cave that more traditional excavation methods would never have disclosed.

  "Will you see if they have anything else to drink, Dale?" Liza said, jerking Jacky out of his reverie. She was pointing over by one wall, where there was a table and a waiter and a selection of bottles and glasses. For those who ran out of table-delivered wine, presumably.

  Jacky approached the table. It was just a cheap, long table made of plastic, a foldaway piece of shit you might take on a camping holiday. Every expense spared. The waiter's uniform was also cheap and tacky and the guy wearing it looked like he knew it. He raised his eyebrows at Jacky, as if to say, what'll you have? Jacky pretended to think, a private joke to himself. Callot hadn't exactly arranged a buffet here. Every bottle of wine was the same, a 1995 claret, in reference to the year the Chauvet Cave was designated an historic monument. According to Callot.

  "You look well pissed off, mate," he said.

  The guy just shrugged.

  Jacky told the guy he'd have two glasses. That was when he noticed someone beside him. His eyes first settled on a set of elegant hips below a thin waist, all wrapped in gold. His eyes followed the gold upwards, where it terminated at an ample cleavage. A pale face framed by blond hair was staring at him.

  "So what do you think of the wine? Good choice?" she said. She sounded American.

  He looked her up and down again, lingering his gaze for an extra second on that cleavage. "Good choice indeed. Two years old. Cheap as hell, exactly why he bought it."

  Jacky looked over at Liza, to see what her expression made of his talking to another woman.

  When he turned his attention back to the woman, he saw they had been joined by a man. Leon Callot, doing the rounds amongst his guests.

  His hand came out. Jacky shook it and noticed how smooth it was. It was not the hand of a man with hard work in his background.

  "Leon Callot. I believe you're called Adam Jackson, right Mr. Bates?" Callot's upper teeth were as white and as straight as the best a dental surgery could manage. But his bottom lip hid his lower set, as if those were still under construction.

  Jacky tried not to show his surprise. There were people out there who'd know him, and he'd waited for one to learn of his false name tonight and confront him about it. Now the main guy just had. He tried to think of a lie, some clever and practical reason why he'd booked his place here tonight under a pseudonym. Nothing came.

  Callot didn't let him suffer long. "So you're my ex-wife's date tonight. Her attempt to make me jealous." His French accent was almost not there.

  Jacky gave a long stare at the woman wrapped in gold, making it clear he thought the same about Callot's date for this party. He then threw a quick glance back at Liza and was unsurprised at her shocked face.

  Callot grinned, took a sip of his own nasty wine. "But at least she picked a man with a genuine interest in antiquities. I knew she was coming tonight, probably just to see how much money I make so she can try to get her claws into it. Are you just here to make sure I get a fair amount so she doesn't feel cheated, or might you be raising your hand at the auction later?"

  This was the reason for the party. Interest in the Chauvet-Pont d’Arc Cave had proved high enough to put great value on anything found inside it. Callot couldn't exactly carve the artwork off the wall and sell it, but the hidden cave that Callot's butchers discovered had been filled with goodies. Apparently it was all just junk, but when it was thousands of years old, even junk was worthy of a glass case under a spotlight in a museum. And Callot was planning to sell it all off, right here on the Chauvet Cave's doorstep, when all his rich guests were drunk and once his team of experts had filled them with the timeless beauty and remarkable history of the cave.

  "I might help you out of your hole, Mr. Callot," he said, noting how the woman on the man's arm flinched at his words. "I got a bank charge once for going overdrawn by five quid, so I know how annoying it is. For the banks to call in your loans, I mean. And just after your divorce, too. Ouch."

  He'd done his research on Leon Callot. The man had lost money on dodgy investments over the last five years. The divorce cost him, and after he'd dropped all that money into his ex-wife's pocket, the banks saw a man who was down and needed a final kick, so they called in two loans he'd taken out years earlier.

  The woman looked shocked, but Callot didn't. He was rolling with the punch and doing a good job.

  "Oh, this isn't for the money, Mr. Jackson. My costs to set all this up-"

  "Including bribes," Jacky cut in, staring at the nails on one hand as if to say he was not interested.

  Callot continued as if he hadn't even heard: "-and hire all those helicopters-"

  "And chainsaws."

  "- negates any profit you might think I'm making."

  Jacky had thought about this. It was a puzzling factor. Tonight, for instance. He had bought wine and food and lights and tents, had paid dozens of guards, promoted the whole thing in newspapers. And then the labour to prepare the land. Not cheap.

  The woman in gold jumped to her date's defence. "Leon is not interested in profit. He does this because the public should enjoy these fine treasures. He's planning to open the Chauvet Cave to the public, at no cost."

  Enjoy these fine treasures... there was a line she'd probably heard from Callot's own renovated mouth. "Yeah, sure. That's going to close the exhibition at Vallon Pont d'Arc. They've got a mock-up of the cave, but who's going to care about that afterwards? Are you an archaeologist?"

  She seemed to think about her answer. "No, but, er, I like art. I'd prefer the real thing to a mock-up."

  "Well I'm an archaeologist. And we hate the thought of letting all sorts of people trample around the oldest-known decorated cave in the world. People, sure, they have a right to enjoy fine treasures, but there's right and wrong ways to do things. You heard of the cave of Lascaux? They opened that to the public. They had to allow more light in the cave, which resulted in the artwork getting maladie verte. Green sickness. And the extra heat from all those bodies caused maladie blanche, the white sickness. It got ruined. That's what'll happen."

  The woman looked at Leon. Callot looked at Jacky, then smiled, then checked his watch, then seemed to remember he needed to be elsewhere. Without a word, glossy black and sparkling gold vanished as if yanked away.

  Nice one, Jacky, he thought. Can't resist a bloody fight, can you? Now Callot's going to remember you were here. He tried not to think of this as a problem, but the nagging fear remained. He saw Liza waving at him, so picked up his drinks and returned to her.

  For the next half an hour, Jacky was paraded like a new toy in front of Callot's guests. He had refused to go around and meet people, but it seemed nosiness was a driving factor in their heads, because they took turns to approach the Bates table. They congratulated the ex-Mrs. Callot on having made such a fine catch since her divorce from Leon last year, but they made sure the man of the hour wasn't within earshot. If anyone recognised Jacky, they didn't show it. Jacky just went with the flow, biding his time, waiting for the party to properly begin. Even though his had been the last chopper to arrive, people were still filing into the marquee and hunting their tables, as if they'd all run to the toilet the moment their choppers landed.

  At that point, Callot called for silence, and every conversation abruptly halted in mid-sentence. All eyes bar one pair, Jacky’s, tu
rned to face the host of tonight’s party. Even Liza was staring intently. She had never stopped loving her ex-husband, Jacky knew; his presence by her side, although exactly what he’d planned, had been nothing more than her attempt to show everyone that she hadn’t been trampled by the divorce, and perhaps to make Leon Callot jealous.

  The lights were finally dimmed and the band fell silent, and Callot took to the limelight for his speech. Everyone still standing darted for their tables and sat down. Jacky was relieved. Callot started by thanking a number of people, milking his time under the lights. Jacky listened for half a minute, then told Liza he needed the toilet. She nodded but didn't take her eyes off her ex-husband. Jacky didn't care. He slipped out of his chair and, unseen, out the door.

  3

  "Composed of fossil deposits, this part of the Ardèche region of France, called the Gorges de l’Ardèche, or the Ardèche Canyon, has fought a ceaseless battle with the mighty Ardèche River. For a hundred million years, the watery blade cut meanders into its solid foe, and more recently - during the Quaternary Period - gouged underground cavities and caves, a vast labyrinth of lost tunnels and chambers untouched, and if touched then since unchanged, for thousands of years. Today the Ardèche Canyon is a thriving tourist spot, although in most parts is only accessible via the river. Of course, to the long dead people who painted on their walls, these caves were simply homes. These artists could never have foreseen that thirty thousand years after their deaths, their legacy would become world-famous..."

  The moment the canvas door slapped shut behind Jacky, Callot's annoying voice was overwhelmed by the wind, and he was thankful. He paused a moment, enjoying the cool wind on his face. Jacky was always more comfortable without a roof above him. He looked around.

  The entire area was lit by lights atop tall tripods that looked aliens without arms. Jacky carefully picked his way through the few shadows they cast, ducking behind marquees whenever he thought he heard voices. The marquees were crammed in tightly, creating thin alleys between them, maze-like. Jacky was able to snake his way through the compound and avoid areas where the light was brightest, and avoid taking routes that took him towards voices. He was tempted to peek inside some of the marquees to see what treats Callot had in store for his guests, but time, he knew, was a factor and none could be spared for his curiosity.

  He reached the perimeter fence without incident, although that was to be expected. There were a lot of security personnel here this night, but those he'd sneaked past had been engaged in idle chatter, not expecting anyone to be lurking around outside. The majority of the security guards, Jacky knew, would mostly be located around the building that housed the valuables extracted from the hidden cave.

  Trouble was, that was where he was headed.

  4

  Once over the fence, Jacky found himself in forested land. He followed the fence, quiet as a cheetah stalking prey, and deep enough into the trees that he would be invisible to anyone in the compound.

  The circular compound was split in two by another fence running across it non-centrally. In the minor segment was the secure building; in the fence was a gate with a keypad lock that Jacky didn’t know the password to. However, he had never planned to enter via this gate, because it would obviously be guarded.

  He followed the circumference of the fence until the secure building was between him and the gate. And there it was, sitting all alone in the dark, nondescript, innocent, fragile-looking, like a flat-pack cabin you might buy from a home and garden superstore. But Jacky knew that within those thin walls were state-of-the art security devices to protect the valuables inside.

  He had noticed that the gate in the fence wasn’t guarded. It should have been. And now he saw that no one was the guarding the cabin's door, either. There should have been. In fact, there wasn't a soul in sight.

  Jacky stared at the wooden cabin, thinking, wondering. Wondering why the lack of flesh security. Sure, there was security inside, but there should also be men watching the exterior. There were enough to spare. Jacky had seen over a dozen just along the trek from the helipad to the marquee where Callot was right now probably trying to impress all with his knowledge of the Chauvet Cave and France's Ardèche region. All wearing tuxedoes to blend in, all carrying guns that created noticeable lumps under their jackets. Where were they? That timid-looking cabin housed a collection of items that Callot hoped would bring him millions of pounds, so why was his security so lax? Was he that dumb? Or maybe he believed the remote location was secure enough. Certainly the opportunist thief wasn't about to stumble by. But this night had been heavily planned and heavily advertised and the location, though remote, wasn't that hard to reach from a local city or commune. Had he failed to secure an invite to the party, Jacky had been planning to cross the terrain by motorbike. Not impossible. Definitely worth the effort for a swag bag filled with millions.

  The door. He looked at the door. It was on the far side of the building, the side he stared at. Just forty metres from the perimeter fence. The building should have been right in the centre of the compound, surrounded by marquees, but it wasn't. So the door should have at least been facing the interior, where those in the populated section could see it. But it wasn't. Getting to that door from where Jacky stood would take five seconds of climbing, and five seconds of running. A thief could be in and out and back over the fence and lost in the forest before the first tuxedo arrived to answer the alarm.

  Something was wrong.

  Instantly Jacky's breath caught. No, Callot was not a stupid man; he was quite the opposite. He was manipulative and scheming and if the security here was non-existent then it was exactly because of that manipulative, scheming nature of his.

  Suddenly Jacky perked up.

  From out of the shadows stepped a man in a tuxedo. The man strode casually across the grass and around the cabin and right up to the door. Jacky hadn't caught the man's face, and now he could see only the back of the guy's head.

  The guy plucked a sheet of folded paper from his pocket, opened it, and began reading. As he did so, he fidgeted inside his clothing, as if he were uncomfortable in eveningwear. Jacky understood completely, for he also abhorred wearing such formal gear.

  The man pocketed the sheet of paper and looked around. Jacky saw his face. The gelled, slicked-back hair, the goatee beard, the long scar on his chin.

  James Boyle. University roommate. Adventuring buddy. Now archenemy.

  5

  “Look at what not even a savage tomcat would drag in!”

  James whirled and stared into the face that hung before his own shocked countenance. It was half in shadow, but easily recognisable. “Werewolf.” Werewolf had been James’s nickname for Jacky at University. Reason: because he inevitably turned into a bastard once his cool, charming persona had hooked a girl. Initially a harmless joke, the name had taken on a more insulting quality since their friendship had eroded. It was James’s method of reminding Jacky that he, Jacky, had also turned on his closest friend.

  The pair might only have met a handful of times since their bust-up some ten years back, most recently nine months ago at an Edinburgh auction, but their friendship had been strong enough that each man remembered virtually every single thing he’d learned about the other: history, hates, likes, ambitions - everything.

  “Why the suit, Jacky? It doesn’t become you. Where’s the hobo-style gear you so love these days?”

  “I dare say I’m wearing this suit for the same reason you’re wearing yours. In his quest to woo, Mr. Callot dispatched invitations to just about everyone who’s ever made a profound mark on the world of archaeology. That explains my presence. But somehow I can’t imagine similar invites going out to the dens of thieves and smugglers. So why are you here, James?”

  “If not the dens of thieves, then neither the lairs of backstabbers.”

  Conversation always went the same way. Each man would speak in measured and refined lines at first, as if to declare he was no longer the rugged yob that
had existed back at university. But the act would soon erode. Jacky decided to go first.

  “Well, she was on her back when I stabbed her with my pork sword.”

  James held at bay his anger. “Touché, dickface.”

  "Dick in her face, yeah, I did that, too." He loved this kind of verbal fight, but his brain was firing questions at him. "What are you doing here, James?”

  “Ladies first. Up to no fucking good as well, obviously.”

  “As well? Nice slip-up. But being a parasite, you need a host. So who’s the silly fuck idiot fleshing out your wallet this time?”

  “Your mother. She wants me to finish what the doctors started in the delivery room when they stamped on you as you crawled out the abortion bin.”

  Between drunken male roommates, insults of this calibre fly like mortar boards at a graduation. Jacky had long ago learned to immune himself to such taunts, and easily let this one slip by. He continued as if James hadn’t even spoken:

  “You must have been sent by someone who could trick the security people away and who could get you an invitation.” He looked James up and down. “And with a warped enough mind to imagine you in a suit. Any chance you want to just say a name for me?”

  James said nothing.

  “Callot,” Jacky said. “Must be. Slimy bastards like you two would be drawn together like magnets. But why? Tell uncle Jacky. Come on, I didn’t think there were secrets between us, James. Not after all we’ve been through. Egypt. Australia. Cambodia.”

  “You first, isn’t that your motto?” James said sarcastically.

  “Fair enough. No secret. Callot is planning to auction off a lot of valuable Aurignacian artefacts found in the Chauvet Pont d’Arc Cave. I have a client who isn't fan number one of that idea, because once these valuables have gone, they probably won't be seen again. Inside that cabin is something he wants. It isn’t valuable in terms of artistic significance, but it just happens to be something that was promised to him. Call me sentimental, but I happen to agree with him. Your turn.”

  Jacky didn’t like James Boyle because besides being a thorn in his side, the Scotsman was basically not likeable. But they had been friends in the beginning, and had had enough good times to have developed a strange kind of affinity that couldn’t be eroded by just a few adversarial collisions. Because of this, Jacky couldn’t bring himself to lie to his former roommate; not about this.

  James read his eyes and thought the same. His shoulders relaxed, as if this gesture touched his black heart.

  “Such a romantic.”

  “Your turn.”

  James shrugged, as if giving up his tale was no big deal. “I’m here posing as an antiques dealer. Like you, trying to act prim and snobbish like all these posh bastards. Callot brought me here, that bit’s right. The goodies inside that cabin are all for auction tonight, but don’t get your eye on the most valuable. They won’t be sold until a later date, in a secret auction that will take place once Callot has claimed the insurance.”

  Jacky let out a low grunt as the last piece of the puzzle fell into place in his mind. “Aha. That’s why Callot arranged this stupid party. He will have a hundred witnesses to say he was nowhere near the artefacts when the theft took place. That’s why they’re housed in such a flimsy-looking cabin. Why we're out in the freezing cold a million miles from anything. And that’s why he has continued to use the Security of Historic Monuments Department instead of his own security - so he can sue, right? Shit, he really is short of money, isn’t he? And brain cells.”

  “But not for long. And neither will I be. And you’ll get your own warped reward, whatever it is. Seventy virgins right here on earth, maybe. So it would be a shame if everyone involved lost out just because the intrepid explorer Jacky Jackson wanted yet another pointless fist fight.”

  Jacky held up his hands in surrender. “Don’t worry, you're more valuable as help tonight. Obviously you know how to get into that cabin and disable the alarms, right?”

  James plucked a key from his pocket. “A copy, arranged for me a week ago. But as for the alarms, no such luck, Werewolf. Disabling the alarms is not part of the boss’s plan. I am to set them off. When the door is opened, a silent alarm triggers in the security office and on the beepers carried by all security personnel. The office is empty at the moment, and most of these security gorillas have been called to a disturbance about five minutes away. Apparently someone told them one of the choppers went down. A fake, obviously. A minute after that alarm is triggered, a bell alarm will alert everyone else. Callot’s speech will be about finishing at that time. A hundred people, as you said, will see the innocent shock on his face as he realises a robbery is taking place.”

  “So if you won't be sneaking away, how the hell are you supposed to escape?”

  “I have my escape plan, nosey. Find your own.”

  He was at the door suddenly, inserting the key, and then the door was open and James was moving inside, moving quickly across the wooden floor. Jacky quickly followed. Somewhere, he knew, fifty beepers were now warning fifty armed men that they should come running with guns drawn.

  6

  James had pulled a black plastic bag from his pocket and was fast filling it with items, everything that Jacky thought looked the most valuable. Mostly, these valuables were in reality junk: shaped stones and wooden pencils coated in manganese oxide, used for drawing; bundles of hair, made hard over the centuries, that had been used to fill in cracks or to serve as fur on the paintings of animals; scraps of clothing, crude weapons and, in a few of the larger cases, whole sections of rock containing complete drawings that had been carefully extracted from the caves. As promised, he did not seek the item Jacky was after, for he went straight past it, allowing Jacky to rush over, open the unlocked glass cabinet, which contained numerous items dumped in a pile on a felt-covered platform, and lift it out.

  It was a necklace of bone, poorly made, the bones chipped, cracked, discoloured and shabbily tied together by wire.

  He turned at the sound of a chortle. James had stopped his thievery to laugh at him.

  “Trust you, Jacky. But I suppose when you have money coming out your arse, it tends to lose its charm. Take your cheap jewellery and go, Jacky, before you fucking get me caught.”

  The only piece of good advice he’d ever had from James. Jacky pocketed the necklace and rushed from the room.

  As he got outside, his ears were suddenly filled with the sound of ringing. The general alarm. Now everyone knew what was going on. What a predicament that James had put him in. Stuck out in the cold, dark hills and cliffs in a foreign land, with a stolen artefact in his pocket and fifty armed security guards coming for him. If he were to be caught, it would certainly mean the end of his career and his reputation, and possibly even jail. He would be blamed for the theft of the things James was taking, too. So -

  James. James was in just as much danger as he was, but James was cool about it. And why? Obvious: he had an escape plan.

  At first he had assumed James had help from Callot with his escape, but upon further thought that didn’t seem likely. Callot had hired the mercenary Boyle because he wanted to wash his hands of the mission; that meant James was completely on his own. But cool. With an escape plan.

  Suddenly he had his own escape plan.

  7

  James exited the cabin with his bag of goodies slung over his shoulder. He looked left and right. No sign of security yet; and no sign of that infernal Jacky Jackson.

  He had itched to slam his fist into Jacky’s nose. But that could wait. Better this way. The man would be found with that artefact he stole and the robbery would be blamed on him. He, James, on the other hand, was going to slip quietly away down the cliffside - well, not so quietly.

  He moved towards the fence, where there was a slash in the chainlink that he'd made earlier. He slipped through easily, but caught his elbow on a sharp part and tore his jacket. He didn't care. He hoped this was the last time he'd ever have to wear such a
thing. Once he was out of the shaved land and submerged in the darkness of the thick trees, he felt so safe that he actually began whistling as he walked.

  It was a mile's walk to his destination. Fifteen minutes after slipping through the fence, he passed the last of the white shoelaces tied around high branches. One needed a guide in this jungle, especially when it was dark. As casually as if he were getting ready for a day at the office, James put down his sack and kicked away some leaves, displaying a thin wooden board, which he lifted and cast aside.

  It took some strength to haul out the machine hidden in the hole out and manoeuvre it onto his back. When it was comfortably placed, he inserted a key from a bunch on a ring.

  The Bell Aerosystems Jet Pack, dubbed the Rocket Belt, was the lightest on the market and that was why James had insisted on it. It wasn’t as fast as the more modern machines, nor could it remain in flight as long, just a mere half minute, but that didn’t matter to the Scotsman, who planned to cast the contraption aside once it had performed this last time for him and, with the profits from this mission, buy a top-of-the-range system.

  “If I’m not wrong,” said Jacky from behind James, making the Scotsman spin towards him, mouth agape, “that machine works by burning hydrogen peroxide. That makes it damn loud. Should bring security running.”

  James couldn’t see the Cheshire cat grin on Jacky’s face: his eyes were stuck on the tiny snub-nosed gun in Jacky’s hand.

  “Like a fucking bad penny, Werewolf. How did you sneak that thing past gate security?”

  “Up my arse.”

  "And I bet it went sideway." Suddenly James pulled a mask of anger over his face. “Are you planning to fuck me over, Jacky? Take this thing from me and just leave me here? Leave your old pal at the mercy of the security guards? That’s a bit extreme, even for you. Why do that when we can both escape?”

  “Sure, James, I’ll just hang onto your feet as we fly down the cliffs. Take it off.”

  There was further arguing from James, but with a little less-than-gentle vocal coaxing he finally took off the Rocket Belt. Jacky put it on, all the while keeping his gun targeted on James’s abdomen in case his old friend tried to rush him.

  When the machine was secure, Jacky said, "Let's go check out the view."

  Walking backwards carefully, throwing the occasional glance over his shoulder to determine a safe path, Jacky moved towards the canyon he knew was just metres away. The wind picked up as the trees grew thinner. The trees surrounded Callot's open area, protecting it from most of the wind, but here, right at the edge of the forest, nature was treating them to a sample of what it could do. And once they had moved beyond the last trees and out in open land, the wind was like a banshee: fast and loud. The mighty canyon was just thirty metres away, the Ardèche far below them.

  The wind whipped Jacky's hair and unbuttoned jacket and tried to wrest the Rocket Belt from his back. It made his straight arm wave the gun enough to put doubt on a good shot. He moved steadily backwards, bringing James with him. When he was as close to the cliff edge as he dared get, he told James to sit down with his hands in his pockets. This close to the canyon, the wind was now frenzied.

  Jacky glanced out and down. The darkness hid the bottom; the cliffs appeared to descend into nothingness, an eternal pit. Jagged rocks and swirling water waited below. Impossible to safely judge a landing in the black night, even allowing for moonlight reflecting off the river. Besides, he knew the drop in some places of the canyon was 300 metres, and that was much too far a distance to be covered by the half-minute or so of flight time the Rocket Belt allowed. Hell, it might take him that long if he just jumped and fell. And even if he made it down there, the gorge was thirty kilometres long: he'd be trapped down there in the dark.

  James was smiling at him. “Problem, Jacky?”

  “What’s the plan, James? Where were you taking this thing? Not down there, that’s for sure.”

  “You know what, I have totally forgotten. Would you believe it? Curse my memory!” He was grinning.

  Jacky looked round again, facing the abyss. Up, across, down. There was nothing but a sheet of black in all directions, a darkness as thick as that of deepest space. This was how the whole world looked in the days before artificial light, which was everywhere these days and, he now realised, very much taken for granted.

  “James, tell me right now!”

  “Good idea. You escape and I’ll stay here to be caught. Tell you what, you can even have my new girlfriend into the bargain. Want her postcode?”

  Hairs stood up on Jacky’s arms and it had nothing to do with the cold, hard wind. Fear. Desperation. All was silent except for the wind and the keys in the machine on his back as they danced in the wind, but Jacky didn’t need to hear the security guards to know that they were even now fanning out, seeking, coming this way.

  He turned his head, his eyes drawn to the key sticking out a hole in the Rocket Belt. Four keys dangled from the key ring, and a small, flat black piece of plastic that he recognised because he had one himself. With a rush of hope flooding through him, pumped by his accelerated heart just like blood, he snatched at the black thing, ripping it from the key ring. He turned to face the abyss once more, not really knowing what he was going to do or what he was expecting, just being driven by that sliver of hope. He pressed the button, pointing the piece of plastic out into space. It might turn on a great celestial light, or explode the world...

  ...or deactivate a car alarm.

  Two quick beeps echoed in the night, barely heard over the roaring wind, and ahead of him, about sixty metres distant, small orange lights blinked on, indicators that briefly illuminated the rough shape of a car, a car that seemed to float above the chasm. Of course, this was a canyon - there would be another cliff on the far side!

  “Tosspot,” James hissed from behind him. Jacky spun, pointing his gun, laughing.

  “Still got that crappy old Fiat, then? Cheers, James. Oh, one more thing.” He slipped a ring off his finger and tossed it to James. The Scotsman stared at it, puzzled. His mouth moved but no words came and first. Then:

  “This was in my . . . this was . . .” What he meant to say was that the ring was his wedding band, which he had never been able to throw away, even after his divorce following Lisa’s affair with Jacky. Instead, he had carried it in his wallet, until a seductive Japanese prostitute had pinched that wallet two years ago.

  “I only wanted the map you drew of the old fort. Binned the credit cards. Don’t know why I kept that ring. Perhaps it brought back memories of fucking your wife up against my car.”

  The insult hardly registered. James was trying to get his mind around another thought. “You set . . . Corona . . .”

  “I set it all up, James, yep. Wanted the map. If it’s any consolation, I didn’t have to pay her much - with your money, of course. Bye.” Jacky threw the gun at James's feet. If he bothered to pick it up, he would see it was a copy, made of plastic, which he had brought only for intimidation purposes, knowing a real one would never get past the metal detectors everyone had been scanned by before boarding a helicopter.

  He pressed a button on one of the handles and the Rocket Belt kicked into life. Its noise was almost deafening, sure to bring the security guards running into this clearing. He didn’t care. They would find only James and a bag of stolen artefacts. James might tell them about him, but that would only make things worse for him. Jacky was here under the name of an archaeologist friend. A check would reveal that tonight Adam Jackson was entertaining friends at his house in London.

  James perhaps realised all of this, for he rushed at Jacky with his teeth bared like an angry dog.

  Jacky wasted no time. He manipulated the controls and the Rocket Belt lifted him into the air with a jerk that pulled the straps tight around his shoulders and chest. The combination of natural wind and jet-massaged air threw Jacky around like a kite at first, but he quickly got the feel of the Rocket Belt.

  With the noise of the je
t engines in his ears, Jacky did not hear the shouts from James. He soared out over the abyss. The old axiom was: don’t look down. That didn’t matter here, because to look down was to see only black.

  It was much easier than he thought. He had imagined a rocky flight, struggling for direction, fighting the wind, the Rocket Belt stalling, a hard landing on the cliff edge, a slip, a mad grip, fighting his way up and onto flat land. Instead, he floated smoothly across the chasm and touched down nice and neat. As the echoing roar of the twin jets faded, the sounds torn away into the night by the wind, different sounds came to Jacky from the other side of the chasm. Men in dark suits had flooded the clearing where he’d dumped James. They had guns trained on him. A torch illuminated him, and Jacky, even at this distance, could see the pain on his face. Yet again Jacky had trodden him into the dirt, and this time it was more costly than ever.

  Quietly, he slipped off the Rocket Belt, dropped it over the cliff, then unlocked the Fiat and climbed inside. The shouting from across the way, the roaring wind and the distance meant he could start the engine without being heard, but the lights that would flicker when the key was turned would betray him, so he simply disengaged the handbrake and allowed the car to roll downhill. In the rear-view mirror, just before the descent of the car filled the reflective glass with land, he saw James, bathed in torchlight, struggling with the security guards, trying to fight his way to the cliff edge. It was as if he were trying to commit suicide, preferring a leap of death to the inevitable prison term. Jacky knew better, however: most likely, James was trying to get his claws around Jacky’s throat, despite the chasm between them.

  Jacky started the engine. The tank appeared full. That was good; he had a long drive to the airport via the Hotel du Parc, where he would enjoy a hot bath and a glass of something stronger than Callot’s 1995 wine.

  8

  London, England

  “You have a tongue like a dog!” the woman moaned.

  Jacky raised his head from her cunt, shocked by this remark. Like a dog? Was that a complement? A Freudian slip? He hoped it was the former, because the latter didn’t bear thinking about.

  “Don’t stop, you fucker!” she moaned, grabbing his hair, digging her nails into his scalp, and forcing his head back between her legs.

  Jacky had met this woman just an hour ago at a posh wine bar. Although Jacky had given up the yuppie lifestyle years ago, he still retained his membership cards to all the best clubs, just for such an occasion as this.

  “Fuck me like a dog!” she screamed, and pushed him violently away before spinning over onto all fours, thrusting her butt out for his attention.

  More dogs! As he made himself hard, Jacky cursed Fabio’s existence. Fabio, the long-time barman at the wine bar, had a special friendship with Jacky. Jacky would enter the club of an afternoon, and Fabio would nod in the direction of any woman that he felt was up for some quick, no-ties fun. Jacky would move in with his shiny hair and sparkling teeth. And Fabio was good. Out of exactly sixty-one “nods”, only twice had the barman failed to see his friend leave with a woman on his arm.

  Jacky inserted himself into the woman, whose name he had forgotten. She squealed like a pig with its balls caught in the sty gate.

  As he pumped away, Jacky built up a rhythm that quickly became robotic, allowing his mind to drift.

  It had been two weeks since he’d returned from France, and he was getting bored. One-night stands had long ago ceased to intrigue him; meaningless violence of a drunken night was no longer fun. These days, he had only his adventuring. Things like the Chauvet Cave thing in France. Mountaineers loved sheer faces; racing drivers loved 180 mph hairpin turns; Jacky Jackson loved dangerous adventures involving lost artefacts, Indiana Jones-style.

  Problem was, missions like those didn’t come around that often. The phone still rung occasionally, but only occasionally. He still did hard fitness training, keeping up the boxing classes and hitting the climbing apparatus in his back garden daily, but lately his only outlet for his energy had been what he was doing now, fucking strangers.

  “Grab my tits, you bastard!”

  Bloody Fabio! This woman was a lunatic. She’d probably eat him praying mantis-style when they were finished.

  Jacky Jackson had been born in 1965 into a rich family, thus instantly treading that path that bypassed all the problems faced by normal children: trying to fit in at school, trying to find a job afterwards, trying to further a career, seeking a mate; basically working at a life. But Jacky had rebelled at an early age. The private tutors had been decent professionals who taught him well; the inherited role as manager of one of the family’s three restaurants had been something to look forward to; and Cassandra, the daughter of a close family friend, had been a pretty girl that he had once happily envisioned marrying, which had been both families’ plan. But in the end, some happy-go-lucky streak in him had blown it all.

  At 18, Jacky had decided he wanted to study archaeology, so his parents had waved a few banknotes under the correct noses and hey presto! Jacky was learning history and archaeology at Nottingham University. That had been the start of his obsession with lost tombs, hidden temples and forgotten lands. Rooming with James Boyle had been the start of his new persona.

  James Boyle was a genius with an evil streak, and certainly not the kind of person associated with the typical student. In no time he had gotten Jacky drinking into states of oblivion, fucking nameless women as if sex was soon to be outlawed, and beating the shit out of innocents on the streets of a weekend night. It was the kind of life James had been taught on the streets of Glasgow, and it came as a welcomed change to Jacky, for too long stifled by cocktail parties, tennis lessons and fox hunts.

  “Put it up my arse now, go on!”

  Jacky did as he was told. It was painful, as always. But fun, as always.

  Reading about historical places and the exploits of other adventurers soon got boring. Jacky had pleaded with his family for money, and soon he and James were taking more and more time off from studying books to visit all the places they’d been obsessed by: the Pyramids of Giza, the remains of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, the palace at Knossos, many others. Then they’d tried solving a few historical mysteries of their own, like finding La Dorada, the Holy Grail, even Lord Lucan for a laugh. All ventures had quickly failed, but the spark that was the love of the hunt remained. It remained even today. His brush with James in France a fortnight ago had proved that the spark hadn’t been extinguished in his old friend, either.

  Sometimes Jacky regretted what had happened between them. His and James’s roles had been reversed. Jacky had turned from yuppie to yob, while James had begun life as a street thug and through his life at university eradicated the violent and wild aspects of his persona, leaving behind a respectable married man who harboured views of a family, a proper job.

  Until Jacky had fucked James’s wife after their graduation party, and the shock had broken James in two, propelling him instantly back into the lifestyle he’d left behind. That same night James had shagged three prostitutes and put an Asian cab driver in hospital.

  They’d had good times. They had together joined the Treasure Seekers’ Society, a year into their university studies. This little-known but powerful organisation was run by a centenarian who, it was rumoured, lived high on a mountain and believed he could converse with long-dead famous historical figures by touching their belongings. He had, supposedly, held a conversation with Leonardo da Vinci by running his hands over the Mona Lisa. Now confined to a bed, his lonely life was played out amongst thousands of friends that his staff couldn’t see, emperors and magicians and soldiers from another age that spoke through the antique artefacts that littered his room. If ever he was bored, he had only to pick up his prized paintbrush and its owner, Adolf Hitler, would be by his side, expounding upon the Americans’ damn cheeky habit of sticking their noses into his business.

  The primary purpose of the TSS was to feed the ego of its founder, and he wasn
’t averse to laying out hefty sums of money to those who brought him the things he wanted. And at first, he had wanted everything. The more things he could get his hands on, the more friends that cluttered his bedroom. Riches were bestowed upon anyone who brought him even the dullest trinket if that item turned out to have been the property of someone who could cheer up the centenarian in times of arthritic pain and general woe. The select members of his TSS all quickly got rich, James included, which was how he managed, years later, to sustain himself without a proper job. These days, though, there were no more parties or group treasure hunts, just the occasional newsletter informing about the current state of health of the founder, who was supposed to be 124 years-old this September. He had tired of all his “friends” and had discarded their items. What he sought now was one simple object, a horseshoe fashioned in the 1700s by a man that the centenarian believed was himself in a past life. With this horseshoe, he would have himself the perfect bedside companion, a man with all the same tastes, all the same knowledge. To the man or woman who brought him this horseshoe, millions had been promised. Literally millions. Obviously, it was being hunted, secretly, by every member.

  After Jacky had fucked James’s wife and James had lost his head, the Scotsman had thrown bad light across the good name of the TSS with his erratic behaviour during the annual Treasure Seek Rally, which was a vehicle race through the streets of Copenhagen in search of a hidden ivory tusk of no major value. For his actions James was tossed from the Society, yet he continued to keep up with events through a female member he occasionally shared a bed with. It was this woman who’d spilled her guts about the horseshoe. In the last ten years, James and Jacky had met only four times, all during the last four years since the faceless founder of the TSS had instigated the horseshoe hunt, and all but one, the most recent, as a result of following up the same leads in pursuit of that horseshoe. It showed that they were alike in their ways of working, which Jacky thought was a good sign that James hadn’t changed that much.

  Without that ugly wife-shagging incident, Jacky suddenly wondered, where might the two of them be today?

  “Phone a friend!” she moaned.

  Jacky pulled out and stood back, shocked. Two women at once he could do - had done - but no way him and another guy.

  She reached out, grabbed his mobile and tossed it to him.

  “Go on, bring a friend round.”

  That was when the phone rang. It was Finch. Finch was a man he kept around to keep track of all his money and other interests. And to be his link to those who could provide the flame for Jacky’s spark.

  A new adventure!

  He answered the phone. The woman watched, perhaps thinking he was phoning a friend. She didn’t seem to realise that he hadn’t called out.

  Finch was like the hackneyed vision of a country-house butler, and spoke accordingly. And why not, since Jacky had poached him from the family estate four years ago, buying him a small house and installing an office from which Finch could effectively control events in Jacky’s life. His opening sentence was typically clipped and straight to the point: “It’s Mr. Piet with an electronic transmission, sir. I believe it concerns possible work for you.”

  Work! “Cool. Be right home.” He hung up. “And you, you foul slag, you sound like you should be on the pull down the pet shop. Get your knickers, and get out of my fucking house.”

  9

  Jacky brought his Harley to a halt outside Finch’s house and climbed off. He removed his helmet and stared down at two kids who had come close to stare at his bike.

  “My tires go flat, I’ll hunt you down,” he told them. They ran away.

  Jacky went through the gate and up the path. He knocked on the door, then pushed his way inside without waiting for an answer. He was paying the rent on this place, so could come and go as he pleased.

  The stairs were not carpeted; Jacky’s boots made a booming echo as he jogged up to the first floor.

  “Sir?” called Finch from somewhere above.

  Jacky went beyond the first and second floors and scaled the ladder to the attic, which was where he found Finch in a dim candlelit room, sat before a computer that washed his face in white light. Finch was tying a shoelace. Jacky knew that Finch had decided to change into his butler’s outfit following his call to Jacky. He was old-fashioned like that. It had impressed the family, but Jacky didn’t care for tradition.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” Finch said, getting out of the chair, and with a wave of the hand he beckoned Jacky to sit. Jacky did.

  “Would you like tea, sir?” Finch picked up a silver teapot from a silver platter. Jacky saw the way the right pocket of his jacket swung as if carrying a weight. Jacky reached inside as Finch bent over to pour tea into a small cup.

  “I prefer this,” Jacky said, unscrewing the top from the half-bottle of gin. “Your addiction is killing me, Finch.”

  “Jacky!” called another voice, somewhat metallic. Jacky looked at the computer monitor, where there was displayed the head and shoulders of his friend Alberto Piet, a barrel-chested, bearded fifty-something. “Alcohol this early in the day?” His French accent, even after eight years a resident of Britain, was still as broad as that of someone who’d freshly learned English.

  “It’s never too early in the day. It just becomes late for the night before. And how are you, Mr. Piet?” Jacky respected his elders; to them, he was as polite a young man as his rugged generation could produce. Aside from Finch, whom Jacky also respected although he rarely showed it, none of those “elders” ever saw just what a bastard he could be to other people, especially his women.

  “A little greyer than last time,” Piet answered. “But seeing you always restores my youth, Jacky.”

  “Then you should pop down for a kickboxing session, sir.”

  Piet was a patriotic Frenchman, but with a job at the Historical Studies Department of Cambridge University, he was required to live in England. Therefore, he could quite easily “pop” down to Jacky’s home any time he wished. The reason why he never had in the four years they’d known each other was that he never granted himself spare time, always working on his own archaeological projects when not on duty at the university. This call, Jacky knew, would be professional, not personal.

  “A new mission for me?” he prompted, knowing Piet’s dislike for small talk.

  “Not really, Jacky. I thought I’d just update you on my findings following analysis of the necklace you brought me.” He paused here for no obvious reason. But Jacky knew from his smile that he was enjoying teasing Jacky. He knew Piet would impart what he knew slowly, savouring each revelation. “This was the first chance I had to work on the necklace, as you know.” Two days after Alberto Piet had arrived in France following his requested presence by Jean-Marie Chauvet, a routine examination of a high natural ledge deep inside the Chauvet Pont d’Arc cave had wielded the dirty little trinket. The next day, Leon Callot, after lengthy secretive legal wrangling, had turned up unannounced and taken over, confiscating everything thus far retrieved from the area.

  “You’ve now had the necklace carbon-dated?” Jacky said, allowing himself to be led by his friend.

  “As you know, radio-carbon dating is a breakthrough that got Willard Libby the Nobel Prize, but it’s talents are limited. It’s only accurate when dating material less than 40,000 years old. The amount of carbon 14 in dead organic material, in this case the bone, decreases by half approximately every 5370 years. After a certain amount of time, there’s so little left it cannot be analysed. That’s what happened when I sent the necklace to the lab.”

  Piet was a smart, knowledgeable guy and Jacky knew it, and Piet knew Jacky knew it, yet he had this habit of regurgitating facts and figures as it to constantly prove it. “Are you saying they cannot date it? But there are other ways of dating. Fission track, K/Ar, USD -”

  “Jacky, I didn’t say that. I simply said they couldn’t radio-carbon date it.”

  “So it has been dated?” He was
getting a tiny bit tired of the game now, wanted it all laid out for him, quick and simple.

  “The cave contains art from as long as 30,000 years ago. But here is something foreign from long before that.”

  “How long before?” Jacky said, trying to keep from snapping at him. But Piet was loving this. He glugged from the bottle again.

  “Well, if you were to go back 40,000 years and try carbon-dating it then, you’d still be unsuccessful. If you then went back another 40,000 years and tried again, you’d have the same result. In fact, you’d have to make that journey quite a number of times before the carbon-dating showed any kind of results.”

  Jacky frowned. In his impatience, he had been slow to catch Piet’s point. A 30,000 year-old cave of art, with a much, much older inhabitant. That could open up a whole new can of worms.

  “In fact, you’d have to make that journey . . . 75,000 times.”

  Piet leaned back in his chair, staring at the screen, watching Jacky, watching for his expression as he calculated the maths. To him, seeing his revelations draw disbelief on Jacky’s face was like watching a baby son learning how to walk.

  Jacky shook his head as if to clear it, to set it working right, because the sum in his mind was wrong, wildly wrong, it had to be. “Three-hundred million years? What number did I carry thrice?”

  A big smile broke Piet’s face. “Your maths is good, Jacky. Humans have previously been dated back as far as almost three million years, with the discovery of homo habilis, but we have found a man-made necklace a hundred times older than that.”