The Messiah Secret

‘Is this necessary, Je-tsun?’ he asked. ‘You have all been loyal to me and to our master. Such loyalty should not have to be rewarded in this way.’

The older man shook his head. ‘We would not speak out willingly, my lord, but we know not what the future holds, and this is the only way we can be certain the secret will be preserved.’

Sonam shook his head. ‘I cannot witness this,’ he muttered. ‘I will leave you now.’

He stepped forward and clasped Je-tsun around the shoulders, then turned and walked away without a backward glance, down the slope to where the two camels were grazing contentedly.

Behind him, he heard the first cry of pain as Je-tsun began the willing slaughter of his faithful and trusting companions.

England

1

Present day

2 a.m. Total darkness. Oliver Wendell-Carfax was wide awake. An unusual noise had echoed through the house – Carfax Hall was old and creaked at the seams – but for the moment he couldn’t identify it. Maybe a window catch had sprung, or perhaps he hadn’t closed one of the doors properly and a draught had moved it?

He lay completely still in the ancient four-poster bed he’d slept in since he’d reached adulthood, eyes wide open and staring up at the ceiling – the bed’s canopy had vanished long ago.

Then he heard it again. A scraping, rattling sound that he knew instantly wasn’t caused by a door or window banging. Somebody was in the house, moving things around, searching for something.

Wendell-Carfax had lived alone all his life. He’d never married and the days when he could afford live-in staff were long gone. He’d had burglars in the place twice before, both times kids from the local village, looking for something they could grab and sell to pay for cigarettes or alcohol or drugs. Each time he’d taken care of the problem himself because he knew if he called the police they’d take at least an hour to get to him, and wouldn’t do much when they arrived.

He heaved himself out of the bed, pulled a dressing gown around his thin frame and grabbed his walking stick from the chair beside him. Trying to move as quietly as possible, he made his way along the corridor to the head of the central staircase. There he stopped, staring down towards the ground floor. Somebody had switched on the lights in the grand salon.

Not only did he have burglars, he had cheeky burglars.

Holding the end of his walking stick, so that he could use it as a club if he had to, he crept down the stairs to the hall and walked slowly across to the partially open door of the salon.

He peered through the gap into the room, and almost muttered his displeasure aloud. Somebody – Wendell-Carfax could only see the figure from behind – was sitting in his favourite chair beside the empty fireplace, smoking a cigarette and tapping the ash on to the carpet.

Wendell-Carfax straightened up, changed his grip slightly on his walking stick and opened the door. He raised the stick, fully intending to bring it crashing down on the head of the intruder – and froze. An ugly black automatic pistol was pointing right at him.

‘Sit down,’ the stranger said, his voice little more than a sibilant whisper. He gestured towards the chair in front of him.

He was stockily built, about forty or fifty years of age, and there was an air of confidence, of menace, about him that was frightening in its intensity. He had tanned skin and black hair, and his eyes were so dark they almost seemed to have no pupils. But it wasn’t the man’s face that most arrested Wendell-Carfax’s attention – it was what he was wearing.

‘You’re—’ he began.

‘Be quiet,’ the man said softly, but there was no mistaking the power his words conveyed. ‘You have something I want and I’ve come to collect it.’

‘What is it?’ Wendell-Carfax demanded. ‘And who the hell are you?’

The stranger stood up, and stepped across to where Wendell-Carfax was standing.

The old man raised his walking stick threateningly, but the stranger brushed aside his pitiful weapon and with the fluid power and casual malevolence of a striking snake, he smashed the barrel of his pistol into the older man’s stomach.

Wendell-Carfax folded at the waist, gasping for breath, as a second blow crashed into the back of his neck.

* * *

Consciousness returned slowly and painfully. His stomach and his neck ached, but the greatest pain Oliver Wendell-Carfax was feeling was in his wrists and arms – an aching, tugging sensation. When he looked up, he saw the reason.

His attacker had dragged him out into the hall, looped a thin rope over the banister rail of the main staircase, tied the end of it around his wrists and then hauled him upright, securing the rope around another banister. He was suspended, his toes barely touching the floor, completely helpless. Already he had lost almost all feeling in his hands. But that wasn’t his biggest problem.

In front of him, the stranger sat in one of the chairs he’d obviously brought from the salon. His face was calm and relaxed.