Harker winced as he rubbed against the square bandage underneath his shirt, which he had applied to himself from the first aid kit the pilot had provided him with upon entering the Cessna jet. His trip back to Bastia airport had proved mercifully uneventful, even if he had spent much of the short trip glancing nervously in the rear-view mirror for any signs of being chased. His paranoia had led to constant visions of the rabid serial-killing family closing in behind him and doing everything they could to run him off the road and thus silence him, as they had originally planned. With every new car headlight that had appeared in his mirror, he had pushed the stolen Porsche faster, and by the time he had reached the airport turn-off he was having to make a concerted effort to ease off on the accelerator. Getting pulled over by the police in a stolen car, along with the discovery of a minor knife wound to his chest, would have entailed more problems than he could handle.
Having a British EU passport had subsequently made access to his waiting jet a breeze and, with few other commercial flights on the tarmac that night, he had been in the air within minutes and heading to the address that Corsica’s very own version of the Manson family had provided him with.
Harker resisted another urge to scratch at his wound and instead pulled out the piece of paper that Sofia had grudgingly given him back at their mansion. The address comprised map coordinates identifying a small island lying off the south-east coast of Greece and, as far as Harker could make out, it was in private ownership. That the same small island had been removed from Google Maps was to his mind already a reason to be concerned but, after some further quick Google research, the discovery that the small sea-girt rock had once been home to a leper colony only added to his feeling of unease. Despite the fact that it had been abandoned for over fifty years, this information only served to heighten the morbid and mysterious nature of the place that would soon be hosting the occult ceremony that Jacob Winters had orchestrated.
With everything Harker had already witnessed, the once fanciful notion of raising the dead seemed now all too real, but the idea that the Devil himself was about to make an appearance and initiate a new world order was something he was still not ready to countenance, even if the idea did have his stomach performing the bolero in anticipation.
Harker gazed out of the window into the dark night sky and pondered the realities he was being forced to confront. His earlier life in the priesthood had instilled in him the very tangible concepts of good versus evil but, despite believing in God, Harker had always viewed evil as something lying within the hearts of men and women, and not as some extraneous entity watching over us all.
He swiftly batted away these philosophical notions to one side because, although thought provoking, they were as of this moment completely redundant. This was primarily about Chloe, and how to get her back, and this was the only question that mattered.
Harker retrieved his iPhone and, for the third time since taking to the air, he dialled in John Shroder’s contact number. As before, it went to voicemail, so he hung up and then tried Carter’s number, but got the same response. He dumped the mobile onto the seat next to him and let out a frustrated sigh. Where the hell were they? This whole plan had been formulated to give him enough time to locate Winters, and now here he was with the man’s whereabouts and unable to let anyone else know it. As he racked his brain for a way to resolve the issue, an idea sparked in his mind. If he could not reach them, then perhaps it was time to reach out to someone else. Harker grabbed his mobile and dialled in a number he knew so very well.
With each ring his feeling of desperation increased, and by the time the line connected Harker was ready to explode.
‘Hello,’ a weary voice answered.
‘Doggie, it’s Alex. I need help.’
‘Alex, where on earth have you been?’ Dean Lercher asked groggily. ‘Do you have any idea what I’ve been through?’
‘Yes,’ Harker replied, glad to hear the dean’s familiar if somewhat irate voice. ‘I was worried about you too.’
‘Bugger worried – that’s not the half of it. I got interrogated by someone from the Security Service, for God’s sake. A man in my position!’
The dean’s reference to John Shroder had Harker smiling. ‘It’s fine, Doggie. He’s a friend and was only trying to find me.’
‘Fine!’ Doggie yelled. ‘He threatened me with a charge of conspiracy to murder.’
The dean sounded seriously pissed off but, given what Harker was about to say next, it was only going to get worse. ‘I know and I’m sorry. However, it was a threat and nothing more. We have another more pressing problem at the moment.’
There was a pause, and when Doggie spoke again he sounded merely nervous and perhaps a tad concerned. ‘Go on.’
‘OK, you know the Templars?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I might have had a bit of a falling out with them.’ This of course was a major understatement, but Doggie already sounded nervous enough without revealing to him that the entire Templar organization was now after Harker.
‘OK.’
‘I probably should have told you about this before, but it’s been a ridiculously crazy few days and I doubt anything serious is going to happen. But you may be paid a visit by some of them looking for me.’
When Shroder had told Harker how he had sent William Havers on a wild goose chase to the UK, he had reasoned that the last person he would go after for information was Doggie. But he needed the dean to be feeling unsettled if this was going to work.
‘Go on,’ Doggie demanded in an uncharacteristically calm tone.
‘OK, well, I need you to call this number and speak to one Tristan Brulet, who is the head of the Knights Templar, and tell him that I contacted you in need of your help. And you are now extremely worried about me, and don’t know where else to turn.’
‘Why don’t you call him yourself?’
‘Honestly, Doggie, I’m not sure he would believe anything I told him right at the moment, but coming from a concerned friend with no obvious involvement in ongoing events, he might be willing to listen.’
‘How would I know his number?’
‘Just tell him I gave it to you in case of an absolute emergency.’
‘OK.’
Doggie was sounding far too calm and Harker couldn’t help wondering why his friend was not howling at him for getting him so involved in such trouble. Perhaps events over the past few years had finally cured him of his cowardice. ‘Are you sure you’re all right, Doggie?’
Dean Thomas Lercher gripped the handset of his telephone tightly as he stared into the menacing gaze of the Templar William Havers with hands trembling. A number of bruises on his cheeks bore thin cuts where the man’s punches had torn the skin, and a line of dried blood ran down from one nostril to his lips. ‘I’m fine, Alex. It’s just a lot to take in, that’s all. Where are you anyway?’
‘On a private jet, believe it or not, and heading for the same location I want you to pass on to Tristan Brulet.’
‘Not a problem. Let me just write it down.’
‘Don’t bother. I’m going to text it over. I just hope the Templars can reach me in time.’
‘Oh, I’m sure they will.’
‘You’re a good friend, Tom,’ Harker replied as the connection began to fade. ‘I owe you.’
Doggie stared down the barrel of the smoke-blue metal Colt 45 in Havers’s hand and nodded, trembling. ‘Yes, you do, Alex. Yes, you do.’