Newton’s Fire. Will Adams

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      ‘Tonight.’

      ‘No,’ said Shlomo. ‘I can’t get my men together that soon.’

      ‘Your men?’

      ‘Of course. A perfect red heifer. The first for two thousand years. And you expect us not to be there?’

      ‘I’m afraid there isn’t time for—’

      ‘Then we make time. For this, we make time. First thing tomorrow morning. I can have them ready by then. Where is she?’

      ‘Near Megiddo,’ said Avram. ‘But I—’

      ‘There’s a car park by the archaeological site. We’ll meet you there. Seven o’clock tomorrow morning.’

      ‘Yes, but—’

      ‘Seven o’clock.’ He got to his feet, the meeting over. ‘And then tomorrow night we’ll do this thing, just as we’ve planned. Tomorrow night, we take the Mount back for Israel and the Lord.’

      II

      ‘What happened to the Alfa?’ asked Luke, climbing in passenger side of a red BMW convertible. ‘I thought you’d never sell that beast.’

      ‘And I never will,’ said Pelham, belting himself in. ‘She’s in the shop. Some bastard telephone pole leapt out in front of us, fucked her bonnet right up.’

      ‘There ought to be a law.’

      ‘There is, apparently. But I’m the one it holds liable, would you believe? One rule for us, another for telephone poles.’ He turned on the ignition, made to lower the roof.

      ‘You couldn’t leave that up for the moment, could you?’ asked Luke.

      ‘Sure,’ said Pelham. He glanced quizzically at him. ‘Why?’

      ‘There are some bikers out looking for me. And the police.’

      ‘The police?’

      ‘It’s nothing to make you ashamed of me. I swear it isn’t.’

      ‘Of course not, mate. I know you better than that.’

      Luke nodded. After the day he’d had, such a simple vote of confidence moved him more than he could say. ‘If the police do stop us, just tell them I turned up out of the blue. You know nothing about anything. I’ll back you up, I promise.’

      ‘You quiet ones, eh,’ grinned Pelham, pulling away. ‘What was it? A bank?’

      ‘That’s where the money is,’ agreed Luke.

      They reached the junction with the main road. ‘Where are we going?’ asked Pelham.

      ‘I need to find a woman.’

      ‘What have I been telling you?’

      ‘Her name’s Rachel Parkes,’ said Luke. ‘She works at Caius College. But she’s not there this afternoon. I already checked.’

      Pelham slid him a glance. ‘You haven’t turned into some weird stalker-man, have you?’

      ‘Look who’s talking.’

      ‘Fair enough.’ Pelham pulled out his phone. ‘Caius, right?’

      ‘Yes. Why? Do you know someone there?’

      Pelham grinned as he scrolled through his address book. ‘Mate, I know someone everywhere.’

      III

      The man had a Midwest accent, and he sounded to be in his fifties or even his sixties, though Croke had been wrong in such assessments before. ‘You don’t need to know my name,’ he said. ‘But my boss was just called by a friend of yours. A reverend friend.’

      ‘Ah,’ said Croke. So this was the Office of the Vice President calling. Instinctively he set down his glass and sat up a little straighter, only to smile when he caught himself at it.

      ‘We’ll speak only this once,’ said the man. ‘If you ever breathe a word about it, you’ll regret it.’

      ‘I’ll bet it turns your wife on when you talk like that,’ said Croke.

      ‘Don’t get smart with me. You’ve already made a bad impression coming in through the back door like this.’

      ‘Would I have got in through the front?’

      ‘That’s not the point.’

      ‘Maybe not to you.’

      ‘If we’re going to work together—’

      ‘We’re going to work together just fine. You know why? Because your boss just ordered you to help us, or we wouldn’t be talking. So stop wasting my time and get on with it.’

      A rustling of paper. ‘I’m reading your CIA file,’ said the man. ‘Fascinating stuff.’

      Croke took a sip of bourbon. ‘I do my best.’

      ‘Front companies in D.C., London and Hong Kong. I’ll bet they could do with an audit.’

      ‘They’re not front companies. They provide high-level business intelligence and security consultancy services.’

      ‘That’s not what it says here. It says here they’re cover for your arms deals.’

      ‘Is this really what you want to talk about?’

      A page was turned. ‘Your father is Dr Arthur Croke, I believe. The guy who used to run our USAF lab up in Rome.’

      ‘He still runs it.’

      ‘Really?’ He sounded genuinely surprised. ‘I thought he’d had to have retired by now. I mean, god, he was getting on when I met him. And that has to be twenty years ago, at least.’

      ‘He’s been running it thirty-three years,’ said Croke, with genuine pride.

      ‘A fine man. A real American patriot. His whole life dedicated to his country.’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘So despite some of these … startling things I’m reading in your file, we’d have no reason to doubt that you’re a patriot too; no reason to fear you’d ever do anything to harm our nation or bring shame upon your father.’

      ‘Quite right.’

      ‘Good. So the story’s going to run like this: in your work as an arms dealer – forgive me, as a security consultant – you sometimes bump up against people of dubious character. СКАЧАТЬ