Christian Marlowe and the Fabergé Egg

By C. A. Lockwood

“This is going to be impossible,” I whispered to Abi.

“It can’t be,” she whispered back. “Failure is not an option.”

Christian Marlowe’s parents have been keeping secrets from him. But when they disappear on a trip to London he discovers that secrets are the family business.

Recruited into a spy school, hidden in the heart of the capital, he finally discovers the truth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Feb 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483445168

Book preview

possible.

PROLOGUE

The Englishman had begun to wonder if coming to this remote place had been a mistake. The helicopter landing had been nightmarish in the brisk subarctic breeze and he felt suspicious of the pilot Mikhail had sent. The weather was unseasonably cold even for the Kola Peninsula – barely above freezing. He looked out of the window at the bleak tundra stretching as far as the eye could see in any direction. The laboratory was housed in a low, bunker- like, concrete box hunkering down on the shores of the Barents Sea and yet it was still the highest point for miles around. Even the small, triple glazed windows, designed to keep out the ice and snow, couldn’t mask the increasingly relentless assault by the arctic wind. He felt anxious to see the results of the tests and get away. No one must know he’d been here.

He perched on the edge of a table watching the subjects through the Two Way mirror, hunched over in his lab coat like a great white vulture. The coat wasn’t strictly necessary but he felt that it served as a visual reminder of why he was here. He had hand picked the five subjects himself. They were the kind of men he despised, already consumed by ambition in spite of their youth – men like he’d once been himself, he realised with distaste. That none of them was older than twenty- five was important to the experiment, this being the age at which the male brain comes to full maturity. He was pleased with their appearance. Well practised at hiding their true feelings, they chatted and laughed with a false camaraderie that was difficult to detect to the untrained eye. They had been lured here by the promise of power not money and that, the Englishman mused, had been the downfall of many greater men than these. Just at that moment, Mikhail came in, dressed in black as always, and broke into his reverie.

Henry, my old friend – it’s been too long! He held his arms wide. How was your journey? The change in Mikhail’s appearance was shocking. Even smiling he looked like an assassin. He was a tall man with slate-grey hair and a quiet watchfulness that meant few people felt easy in his company. All the old warmth seemed to have gone from his eyes, the Englishman noted, as though the hatred he was concealing had eaten it away. Those familiar eyes, dark like a hawk’s, fixed steadily on him now, giving him an uneasy sensation of being the Russian’s prey.

Excellent, Mikhail. My compliments to your pilot – I hardly noticed the wind, he lied to hide his discomposure and, in truth, the pilot had coped well with the bad weather.

Yuri is one of the best. I’ll tell him what you said, he’ll be very pleased.

And the tests have gone as planned?

Even better, I think. Shall I call the first one through?

Mikhail led the way into his office. It seemed overly brightly lit and clinical after the gloom of the observation room, stark almost, and this was out of keeping with the Russian’s previous life of luxury. Everything from the walls to the chair that Mikhail settled himself on was white except for a pristine black leather attaché case that sat neatly on the centre of his desk. Mikhail seemed at ease here. Perhaps he had cut comfort as well as connections from his life when he had shuttered himself away. The Englishman seated himself on an uncomfortable chair, the light behind him to shield him from the subject. There was little danger in being seen but success was bought by marginal gains and there was no point increasing the risk unnecessarily.

The first boy - man he supposed really although he looked little older than the Englishman’s teenage daughter - came in, his cockiness transformed into deference with the change in his audience. Mikhail, the smiling assassin, told him to sit down and then busied himself with his laptop. The expression froze on the young man’s face immediately and he took on a strange blank look as though his mind had suddenly been switched off. His coal black eyes staring, unfixed and opaque, like night-time windows on his empty thoughts.

This is number one, Andrew Maitland. As you can see his scans and skull x- rays – taken a month after the Trojan was implanted - look entirely normal, Mikhail pointed to a viewer on the wall, the back light illuminating in black and white the intricacies of the boy’s brain. The Englishman observed his chilling disconnect from the plight of the boy with rising unease. This cold-hearted monster was not the man he used to know. An autopsy, should some mishap befall our friend here, would be the same. It would be completely ordinary.

Very good. The Englishman made sure he kept his alarm at the Russian’s words under wraps –besides, it was always best to maintain a poker face in business negotiations, with old friends or with new enemies. And the other tests? You’re pleased with those too?

The Russian keyed more instructions into his computer. The blank expression of the subject never changed but he rose swiftly from his seat and walked towards the desk. He showed no sign that he was aware that anyone else was in the room with him. He clicked the black attaché case open and took out a pistol, the end elongated by a silencer. In one rapid movement he turned and finding a spot directly between the Englishman’s horrified eyes, he fired. The action had been so seamless there had been no time for the Englishman to duck or prepare for the shot and he stared in mute panic down the barrel of the gun. There was a soft click and then a chuckle as Mikhail watched the scene with amusement. The pistol had not been loaded. Number one calmly replaced the gun in the case and returned to his seat as though nothing had happened.

I am sorry, my friend. I could not resist a little joke but does that answer your question? The Englishman noticed, through his relief, the first fleeting glimmer of excitement on the Russian’s impassive face. He knew in that moment that Mikhail was hooked and felt a swell of satisfaction grow in his chest along with the grain of fear at the possibilities his invention would hold in this man’s hands. He had avoided the awkward question about the Russian’s reasons for buying his creation until now and he had the first frisson of regret that he’d been so neglectful. He quickly put his doubts to one side – he had known Mikhail, man and boy, for many years, though of course, they had lost touch lately. But Mikhail had at last put an end to his self-imposed exile. Surely that was a cause for celebration rather than worry.

The first proper test - in the field as it were – will take place in two weeks. The tone of expectation now was unmistakeable in his voice and the Englishman supressed a shiver. Andrew here, he gestured towards the boy, will be a deckhand on the yacht of a Russian oligarch, an old rival of mine, where he will arrange a little accident for him. Look out for it- it should make a big splash in the news everywhere.

I will. I will. Anything else?

Just Jonathan Lowe, subject number five. He seems to have some memory of events- hazy and indistinct but it is a worry all the same. Mikhail’s unreadable brow creased momentarily into a frown. Perhaps it would be better if he stayed with you at Longwood – you could keep him under observation for a while longer.

The Englishman shifted uneasily in his chair, wrong-footed by this turn in the conversation. Yes, of course, I’ll keep him with me, then and watch out for any signs of resistance to orders, he said, though he was wondering if he himself would really be the subject of the scrutiny.

Mikhail typed a code into his laptop and number one looked up suddenly as if caught out in an afternoon nap.

How have you enjoyed your training here? The boy turned towards the voice and squinted in the direction of the Englishman, turning his head to try and get a better view of him, his vision blurred by the bright light behind him.

It’s been great, he said enthusiastically. I’ve learned such a lot. I can’t wait to put it all to good use.

Oh, the Russian supressed a smile, we’ll make sure you get every opportunity to do that.

Mikhail walked with the Englishman back towards the helicopter. The wind was picking up but there was still time before it became too strong for the aircraft to take off.

I’m sorry you cannot stay longer, Henry. We have had no time for – how do you English say it? – for pleasantries. Henry Hudson looked into the Russian’s aloof face and shuddered. He tried and failed to detect even the smallest trace of his old comrade in arms but found only the certainty that his companion was glad to be rid of him. Something told the Englishman that as soon as he had delivered on his side of their bargain their association would be at an end – he had not been forgiven and would play no part in Mikhail Pasternak’s plans. He felt relieved. He hadn’t been afraid of Mikhail in all the long years they had known each other but he began to feel fearful now.

We must get together when you come to London, Henry lied, climbing into the aircraft. Lying, he concluded, was a skill that improved with practise.

The Russian’s reply was lost in the roar of the engine but it did not matter. The downdraft from the rotor blades sent him scuttling for the cover of the building. The Russian had been right - the pilot was excellent, the take off smooth in spite of the weather. But then, Mikhail always did surround himself with the best.

CHAPTER ONE

‘Honour is purchas’d by the deeds we do’

Christopher Marlowe

The beauty of being a teenager is that nobody bats an eyelid when you’re late. I made it to the hotel’s restaurant just as breakfast was about to finish, ruffling the feathers of a bored looking waitress who showed me reluctantly to a table.

Christian Marlowe, I said to her as she paused with her pen and paper ready. Room two – three – eight, I added hastily as she continued to stare expectantly at me. She rolled her eyes when I ordered a full English breakfast.

Settling into my seat in a sunlit corner of the room I concentrated on the twenty -four hour news playing quietly on a gigantic TV screen, the better to ignore the waitress’s exasperated glances. Another massive traffic jam on the M25, the Prime Minister was on a visit to France, a billionaire Russian businessman had been swept overboard in a freak accident while cruising around Antigua on his private yacht and was missing feared dead. It was both the same and different to any other day. The breakfast came quicker than I would have expected –no doubt the kitchen staff were keen to finish their shifts too. I flashed the waitress a huge smile but she didn’t really soften any. I sighed and tucked in, ignoring her frown.

Of course, my parents and sister Meggie weren’t still hanging around the hotel’s restaurant. I’d probably missed them by about an hour, I guessed, checking the time on my phone. I thought it was strange that they hadn’t tried to rouse me to go down with them but hey - never complain about a lie in! The breakfast bar was light, airy and determinedly modern with huge glass panels overlooking a spectacular atrium. The morning sunshine streaming in from all angles made it a pleasant place to sit and I was in no hurry as I munched happily through cereal, the full English and toast all washed down with bucket loads of tea. The waitress began to clear up around me and when she started to encroach into my personal space I gave in to the pressure, pushed my plate away, thanked her cheerfully, earning myself another hard stare, and went off to find out what ‘educational’ torture my mum had planned for us this morning.

We were on a family weekend to London, though none of us had much hope of enjoying it apart from mum. She’s a little obsessed (to put it mildly) with showing us what she calls our ‘heritage’ but since I’m sixteen and Meggie’s just thirteen it goes without saying we submit to this about as enthusiastically as two turkeys at a Christmas party. We should have been holidaying on the Costa Brava but a problem at dad’s work had brought us all home early - this weekend was supposed to be compensation. I should have been lying on a golden Spanish beach right now beside a gently lapping sea working on my tan. To be honest, it didn’t seem like a very good swap. This hotel was nice enough but, I’d noticed with dismay, it was sandwiched between St. Paul’s Cathedral and the Globe Theatre. We’d done St. Paul’s yesterday so I guessed we were in for a dose of Shakespeare this afternoon.

You’ll appreciate all this one day, mum liked to say as we approached another ancient wreck of a building or she enthused over some Old Master which looked like all the others to me. "Where we came from, who our ancestors were and what they did is so important. I’m sure you’ll find it useful one day." I seriously doubted it but Meggie and I had found from bitter experience it was best just to get it over with. So I sauntered lazily back to my hotel room, no inkling of what was to come.

I was camping out in a room on my own – too old to share with Meggie now - and I went there first. I leisurely cleaned my teeth and then packed a light bag with essentials such as my phone, wallet and a rain mac - even though the weather forecast said sun I’ve been caught out often enough not to believe it. I am from Wales after all. One whole wall of the room was a huge window, the view from which was dominated by the majestic dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral. I glanced enviously at the little people scurrying around like ants that I could see on the street far below me for a moment, then reluctantly picked up my key card, went out into the corridor and banged on the door next to mine.

Dad. Mum. Come on, open up, it’s me! Nothing happened. I knocked again, louder still this time. In the claustrophobic gloom of the corridor I began to wonder if hotels deliberately made these places depressing so that people wouldn’t linger in them. The silence stretched on.

Dad, come on. It’s not funny, I groaned. I hammered on the door this time so the others would be in no doubt I’d reached the limit of my patience.

A short, paunchy man emerged from the room opposite wearing a pinstriped suit and a frown. He glared across at me. I mouthed, Sorry, at him and he shook his head disapprovingly, closing his door on me with exaggerated care. Good joke, Dad, I called, taking the volume down a notch or two. I was beginning to worry. Why they were being so slow?

The no show was typical of one of Dad’s bad jokes but this was a step too far this time. You’re so annoying, Dad, I grumbled, pulling out my phone. I was just about to ring him when a text showed up. Finally! I sighed.

The text read: Go back to your room and wait for a phone call.

Ha, so they were annoyed that I didn’t get up this morning! There seemed little point in standing here risking the wrath of Mr Pinstripe, so I pulled the key card from my backpack and retraced my steps feeling more than a little bit irritated myself. Talk about making a mountain out of a molehill! As I stood by the window distracted by view of the cathedral the phone rang. I answered slowly waiting a few rings to show Dad how pathetic I thought his little game was.

Christian Marlowe? - an unfamiliar man’s voice. There was nothing distinguishing about the voice, nothing memorable, no accent even. It was a quiet, calm voice, yet it made me feel uneasy all the same. I’d been expecting my dad ranting about my lateness and I suddenly wished it had been him. Something told me that this wasn’t going to be good news. The hairs stood up on the back of my neck in spite of the heat in the room and I gripped the phone tight against my ear. Confused and alarmed, I didn’t reply but the disembodied voice went on regardless and I wasn’t at all prepared for what came next. "We have your parents. They are, as yet, unharmed. A pause for this little detail to sink in. We need you to do something for us before they are released. Do you understand?"

Dad? I said, somewhat shakily. Dad, is that you? I…

You will find further instructions at the tomb of Sir Christopher Wren in St. Paul’s Cathedral. Do not contact the police. Do not speak to anyone. You have twenty four hours to do as we ask.

When the caller rang off I found I was gripping the phone at arm’s length as though it might explode at any minute. The noises from the street outside seemed to have receded and I was only aware of my own quickened breathing and the rapid thump of my heart. Well, if this was Dad’s idea of a joke it was missing the vital ingredient. It wasn’t making me laugh. I had no idea how he’d persuaded someone to make the call but that intimidating, flat, creepy voice was a very nice touch.

I redialled dad’s number but it went straight to answerphone. I was thinking maybe I should contact the police after all when my phone pinged again and two snapshots blinked up at me. I opened them. The first was my parents sitting on a battered old couch, bound and gagged, their hands secured in front of them on their laps. Mum’s soft, brown hair was caught up in the gag and her grey eyes were staring straight into the camera. Dad was leaning protectively towards her.

The second photo was of me studying the shocking images I’d been sent. I turned to the office block across the road, scanning the facade for clues as to where the mysterious photographer might be. Directly opposite my room a tall figure dressed in dark clothes was standing, partly obscured by the shadows. There was something menacing in his stillness. Spooked that he was watching me I instinctively stumbled away into the semidarkness of the interior of the room. I leant against the wall by the bathroom, breathing hard, waiting for my brain to try to catch up with events. How can your life become so nightmarish in the length of time it takes to make a phone call? The carefree breakfast in the sunny restaurant seemed a lifetime ago.

After a few minutes I warily crept towards the window, this time keeping low. But when I checked the office across the street, the sinister figure had vanished.

I sat on the bed and stared, unseeing, at the place where the man had been for what seemed a long time. Okay, so this wasn’t one of Dad’s pranks - even he wouldn’t find scaring me like this amusing. But why would anyone want to kidnap my family?

Meggie’s just a child – a funny, bubbly, slightly annoying little sister. My mum, Alice, is a doctor – her job has its downsides but being abducted isn’t usually one of them. My dad, William, looks like a physics teacher although he actually works in telecommunications. I’ve never really got to grips with what he does – I usually put my headphones in and zone out when he talks about it - but let’s just say he makes teaching sound quite interesting by comparison. The kidnappers must have felt that life had got a tad too exciting to think my dad was prime hostage material.

Admittedly, to make up for this dearth of drama in his life dad has become a survivalist - a hobby that entails spending his weekends tramping up the hills of the Brecon Beacons carrying a huge rucksack like an ageing Bear Grylls. This would be embarrassing enough but he insists on having me, reluctantly, in tow (Meggie is, for some reason I could never fathom, always exempted from these trips - probably because she’s always been his favourite). He’s actually converted the cellar of our house in Wales into a bomb proof bunker where even the mice can hardly move for the cans of baked beans, bags of rice and crates of bottled water he’s hoarded. In spite of my distinct lack of interest he’s taught me how to trap rabbits, tickle fish and I am now an expert at navigating with an old- fashioned Ordinance Survey map and compass. When World War Three rips the country apart and the supermarkets fail to deliver our weekly shop I’ll be fine, surviving on foraged berries, ants and half cooked squirrels. I couldn’t see how this tragic hobby would make him worth holding him to ransom though.

It just didn’t make any sense at all. It had to be a case of mistaken identity but what would the kidnappers do when they realised their error? A little voice in my head told me the outlook wasn’t good.

My dad has drummed into me not to panic in a crisis but I needed to come up with some sort of plan. To give myself time to think I picked up my rucksack, unpacked it and started to repack it more methodically this time. As well as my waterproof I put in my mobile phone charger, all of my money and the water bottles and chocolate snacks out of the mini bar. On top of this I placed a spare hoodie and my room key. I was desperate to call the police but the kidnappers had warned me not to speak to anyone and I was afraid I was being watched. I decided to risk leaving a note for the room service people to find. I was searching for a pen to write the note when my phone, which I was still clutching like a talisman in my shaking left hand, pinged and the photo of mum and dad reappeared. A warning? I wasn’t taking any chances. I put the pen down, put my phone in my rucksack and headed out of the door.

The street outside the hotel was narrow with high- rise blocks on either side so that the sunshine was confined to the bright blue square of the sky overhead while down here the street was plunged into shade. Shivering, though not really from the cold, I pulled my hoodie more tightly round me and set off for St Paul’s, all the time going over in my head: Why have my family been taken? What do they want from me? What ‘job’ could be better suited to a sixteen year old than an adult? News stories about drug mules barely older than me flashed into my mind and that was an image that didn’t make me feel any better.

It was already late morning when I reached the cathedral and the entrance was packed with tourists. I was so agitated by now that I could barely tell Spanish or Japanese from English even though languages are my strong suit at school. A nagging sensation of nausea was threatening to overwhelm me as I queued. I told myself to get a grip - it wouldn’t help to go to pieces.

When it got to my turn I handed over the entrance fee to the attendant barely looking at her and took the proffered guidebook. Usually nerves would make me ready with a smart quip but I could sense I was being followed although, try as I might, I couldn’t pick my stalker out from the people milling around me. I was anxious to show that I was doing as I was told and not stepping out of line at all. I was anxious to make sure I didn’t do anything that would put my family in more danger than they were already in.

The crowds thinned out once I entered the cathedral, the cavernous interior swallowing them up. I barrelled straight across the aisle making for the stone steps down to the crypt beneath the church where I knew the tombs of the famous people lay. I couldn’t remember Sir Christopher Wren’s tomb from yesterday. Strange, now I thought about it. You would have thought the memorial of the cathedral’s architect would have merited pole position in the building he’d devoted so much of his life to.

It was cold in the crypt. Gravestones adorned the walls and paved the floor and I was reluctant to walk across them. I felt surrounded by the watchful presence of the departed, a legion of the dead, bearing silent witness to my fear. Thinking that the sombre, black marble sarcophagus of Lord Nelson, hero of Trafalgar would be a good place to start I searched the surrounding graves for Wren’s name but as time passed without success I began to panic. The sense of purpose I’d been feeling since I’d had something concrete to do had evaporated. I felt very alone. In desperation I asked a small, kind- faced, grey haired lady with an official sort of badge on. She beamed at me - clearly I was making her day - and said she would take me to Sir Christopher’s tomb personally. We went at an agonising tortoise pace while she took the opportunity to point out the resting places of other famous people, gave me potted biographies of them and told me how nice it was to have a young person who was genuinely interested in the place.

Most people of your age come on school trips or are dragged around by their parents but you can tell they don’t really want to be here, she told me sadly. I tried to seem sympathetic rather than impatient while I wondered how I could shake her off once she’d showed me where the tomb was.

If the kidnappers had thought that I’d find a hushed, dimly lit, eerie crypt unsettling then they’d have been spot on. ‘Another nice touch from them,’ I thought. ‘It’s as if they’ve done this sort of thing before.’ Trying to put that troubling notion out of my mind, I was relieved when the old lady pointed out a rather unprepossessing grey marble slab at the far end of the south aisle and said that this is where the famous architect was buried. At first, I thought she must be mistaken. It was one of the least ornate memorials I’d seen, but a quick inspection of the inscription on the tombstone showed me I was at the right place.

The Latin inscription above says, ‘Here in it’s foundations lies the architect of this church and city, Christopher Wren, who lived beyond ninety years, not for his own profit but for the public good. Reader, if you seek his monument look around you ’, the lady remarked. A lovely sentiment, don’t you agree? Sir Christopher is buried here with his family, his friend Robert Hooke and some of the masons and other craftsmen who worked on the cathedral. I like to think of him resting here in this quiet corner surrounded by his greatest achievement and those he loved. He doesn’t need a gaudy memorial. She paused while I nodded my agreement. Actually, she had a point. Now you’ll have to excuse me, I’m afraid, dear, I must get back to my post in case anyone else needs help.

I thanked her profusely, glad to be left alone at last and set to work examining the grave stone which lay in an alcove of rather rough stones painted a grubby shade of white, somewhat bizarrely squashed up against a modern radiator. On the wall above it was a plaque bearing the Latin inscription the guide had translated for me. I studied this for a while but try as I might I couldn’t read anything clandestine in to it. Then I turned my attention to the simple dark marble slab - it read:

Here Lieth

Sir Christopher Wren

The Builder of This Cathedral

Church of ST PAUL, &c

Who Dyed

In the Year of our Lord MDCCXXIII

And of his Age XCI

Someone seemed to have gone a little bit over the top with the capitals. I wasted a few minutes trying to rearrange the capitalized letters into an anagram but eventually had to conclude this was merely an eighteenth century fad.