Total pages in book: 161
Estimated words: 151845 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 759(@200wpm)___ 607(@250wpm)___ 506(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 151845 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 759(@200wpm)___ 607(@250wpm)___ 506(@300wpm)
‘As did I. But the Pantheon was never on my hit list, nor his father’s, and nor Becker’s.’
‘The Pantheon?’ I blink my surprise, wondering why on earth it would be hidden there. There’s no connection with Michelangelo. None at all.
‘Yes, the Pantheon. Beats me too, but that’s exactly where the code points to.’
‘The code?’
‘Yes, those damn numbers had me scratching my head for years.’
‘And Becker cracked it?’
‘Of course he cracked it. Within fifteen bleedin’ minutes. The boy’s a genius.’
I’m a genius. ‘And what if it isn’t there?’ I ask. God, what if it isn’t anywhere? I’ll have to live in fear for the rest of my life. I’ll panic every time Becker leaves The Haven.
‘I have a feeling in my bones, Eleanor.’ He winks.
‘So I have to just hang around and wait for word from him? A call to tell me he’s alive?’
‘Welcome to the Hunt family, dear girl.’ He turns and ambles back to the table, cool and calm as can be, while I remain by the door, stunned. ‘Come eat,’ he calls, settling down and letting Mrs Potts finish loading his plate.
‘I’m suddenly not hungry,’ I reply quietly, opening the door. ‘I think I need a lie down.’
The old pair smile mildly, both nodding their understanding, as I let myself out of the kitchen. I stand in the corridor for an age, wondering what on earth I’m going to do with myself. What if he doesn’t call? What if . . .
There are so many what ifs, none of which I like. This is going to be torturous. Just wait here, my mind dreaming up all kinds of things? I can’t.
I rush back to the library and replace the leather bound book in the secret compartment and then take myself up to Becker’s apartment. And my hands are in his wardrobe as soon as I make it to his bedroom. And a small suitcase is on the bed soon after that. And my clothes are being stuffed inside a few seconds later.
I’m on my way out the door with my packed case and my passport before my brain has told me what the plan is. Wait for word? Wait here worrying to death whether he’s safe? Whether he’s alive? I don’t think so.
And, actually, if that damn sculpture is there to be found, I want to see my man’s face when he lays his hands on it. I want to see the exhilaration. I want to feel his peace. It’s not just him now, it’s us, and after everything I’ve been through to get to now, I feel like I deserve to experience the climax and know that it’s the end of his mission. I need to know that we can get on with our lives without the mystery of that godforsaken sculpture hanging around our necks.
So God’s speed to me, too.
Chapter 40
I stare at my reflection in the mirror of the ladies’ bathroom at Fiumicino Airport, taking in my new appearance while I chew my lip. I’m wearing a wig – a black, glossy one that’s poker straight to my shoulders with a fringe. I haven’t had a fringe since I was six, and my pasty complexion definitely doesn’t carry jet black very well. But I don’t look like me. My red hair is like a beacon, would be noticed a mile off. Over the top? Not at all. Brent Wilson could be tailing Becker. I can’t risk being seen, especially after his attempt to remove me from Countryscape.
On a deep breath, I have another quick faff with my new hairstyle before slipping on some shades. ‘Perfect,’ I say to my reflection, then I grab my case and head for the taxi rank.
I’ve always wanted to visit Rome – always been desperate to indulge in the ancient city and visit all the places that I’ve read about. But as the taxi takes me through the streets that I’ve longed to lose myself in, my focus is set firmly on the disposable phone that I bought at Heathrow as I programme in Becker’s number. I’m not stupid. He has my phone tracked and bugged, and I know Percy the whizz kid will give Becker the heads-up on my whereabouts. Or Mrs Potts and Gramps will have raised the alarm when they realise I’m missing. Becker would have found out I was on my way to the airport before I made it there, and I know he would have me stopped from boarding the flight one way or another. I’m taking no chances.
It’s still light, though dusk is falling, and I know Becker will be waiting for darkness before he hits the ancient church. We rumble down a cobbled side street, and the taxi rolls to a stop, the driver looking at me in the rear-view mirror. ‘La strada finisce qui. Bisogna camminare il resto.’