Death Shall Come

  Contents

  Cover

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Simon R. Green

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Call me Ishmael …

  Chapter One: In the Midst of Death

  Chapter Two: In a Dark Place

  Chapter Three: Struck Down

  Chapter Four: There is No Thief

  Chapter Five: The Wrong Kind of Footsteps

  Chapter Six: Hidden in Plain Sight

  Chapter Seven: A Matter of Death and Life

  Chapter Eight: Questions and Answers

  Chapter Nine: The Jewel in the Mummy

  Chapter Ten: Afterwards

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Simon R. Green

  The Ishmael Jones Mysteries

  THE DARK SIDE OF THE ROAD *

  DEAD MAN WALKING *

  VERY IMPORTANT CORPSES *

  DEATH SHALL COME *

  The Secret History Series

  PROPERTY OF A LADY FAIRE

  FROM A DROOD TO A KILL

  DR. DOA

  MOONBREAKER

  The Nightside Series

  JUST ANOTHER JUDGEMENT DAY

  THE GOOD, THE BAD, AND THE UNCANNY

  A HARD DAY’S KNIGHT

  THE BRIDE WORE BLACK LEATHER

  * available from Severn House

  DEATH SHALL COME

  An Ishmael Jones mystery

  Simon R. Green

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2017 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

  This eBook edition first published in 2017 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2017 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD

  Copyright © 2017 by Simon R. Green.

  The right of Simon R. Green to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8721-4 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-828-6 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-896-4 (e-book)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  Call me Ishmael. Ishmael Jones.

  I go walking in dangerous places, and if I do my job right no one ever knows I’m there. I work for an organization that doesn’t officially exist, dealing with all the weird and unnatural things that shouldn’t exist in any sane and rational world. It’s my job to deal with what lurks in the shadows, on the borders of the rational, and stamp on them hard if they look like getting out of hand. To keep Humanity safe, and blissfully unaware of just how big the world really is.

  Back in 1963 a star fell from the heavens to land in an English field. Or, to put it another way, an alien starship dropped screaming from the outer dark and buried itself in the earth. Before I left the cracked-open ship its transformation machines made me human, right down to my DNA, so I could walk the Earth unobserved. But the machines were damaged in the crash, and they wiped all my previous memories.

  Of who and what I used to be.

  I haven’t aged a day since I first came to myself, staggering bewildered across a forgotten field, in 1963. I like to think of myself as human. It’s all I ever want to be. But sometimes in my dreams I look into my mirror and catch glimpses of something else looking back at me … Then I wake up screaming.

  Together with my partner and my love, Penny Belcourt, I solve mysteries and protect people from all the monsters of the hidden world. And sometimes from the monsters inside people.

  I walk among you, but I’m not one of you. Which is probably why I’m so good at seeing things and people for what they really are.

  ONE

  In the Midst of Death

  Death shall come on swift wings to whoever desecrates this tomb. An ancient curse, supposedly unleashed on the archaeologists who broke into the tomb of Tutankhamun. A number of people connected to the tomb’s desecration died suddenly, mysteriously and sometimes horribly. Even those who left Egypt to return home. Whatever it was that flew on swift wings, it pursued its prey wherever they fled.

  Of course, that all happened a long time ago. No one believes in such superstitions these days.

  When you don’t officially exist, you can’t afford to stand out. I live in small hotels, boarding houses and rented rooms, always moving on before anyone can notice me. These days, with so many cameras everywhere, I’m not even safe walking down the street. So I just keep moving from place to place, using this name and that, always dealing strictly in cash, while I wait for the Organization to call and put me to work again. There are lots of people like me; not so much homeless as rootless. Living very private lives off the grid and under the radar, for any number of perfectly good reasons. Hiding from the people who would hurt us, if they could. Denied the comforts of close friends or families, or any of the ties that bind. Because we’re different.

  And yet, knowing all this, I still fell in love. After all, I’m only human. And that’s when my life got really complicated. Because one of the main definitions of love is when someone else’s safety and happiness becomes more important than your own. My love, my fellow conspirator and partner in crimes: my Penny Belcourt. I can’t live with her, or plan for a future together; but I share as much of my life with her as I can.

  Sometimes I think I’ve never been happier, and sometimes I think I’ve never been more scared. That something will happen to her, as well as me.

  My latest case started with a visit to the Ancient Egypt rooms at the British Museum. I’d been summoned to this venerable institution by the Colonel, my only personal contact with the Organization. After all the years I’ve worked for them, doing good work for the good of my soul, I still have no idea who or what they really are. It’s enough that we have interests in common, and look out for each other as well as the world. So when the Colonel calls, on the very private number that only he knows, I always answer. Because that was the deal I made with the Organization: service in return for protection.

  Museums make for excellent meeting places. Always lots of crowds to hide in, and a multitude of interesting things to draw attention away from me. I made a point of casually strolling into the museum lobby at midday, when it was sure to be packed with holiday crowds and noisy packs of schoolchildren. My clothes were nicely anonymous, and I kept the peak of my baseball cap pulled well down to hide my face in shadow from the ever-present cameras. The cap bore a logo from the film Alien, because you have to find your laughs where you can. I eased through the bustling crowds like a ghost, quiet and remote; and no one knew I was there.

  Even the uniformed security guards paid me no attention, because I have learned to move in public without being not
iced. To be just another face in the crowd, of no interest to anyone. It’s all in the walk and the body language. Security cameras are another matter: those unblinking observers of every moment and every person. Society’s merciless conscience. The Organization is supposed to make sure I never show up on any recordings; but I haven’t survived this long by relying on the efficiency of strangers. I put more faith in my baseball cap.

  I wandered around for a while, just to make sure no one was lying in wait for me, and then casually made my way to the upper floor, heading for the burial exhibits in the Egyptian rooms. Taking my time, because something about this particular summons bothered me. The Colonel had been very insistent I come alone, without Penny. He knew we work together these days … So what could the Colonel have to say that he didn’t want Penny to hear? And what did he think he could say that would stop me telling her everything afterwards?

  I was still considering the implications of this as I approached rooms 62 and 63. Then I suddenly realized that the crowds had faded away and I was on my own. I stopped at the entrance and looked around thoughtfully. The rooms hadn’t been officially closed off with NO ENTRY signs or apologetic little notices about cleaning or safety or refurbishment. But the word had clearly gone out, and museum people had been put in place to steer the general public away. When the Organization speaks, everyone listens. Even if they’re not sure why. And yet no one had tried to stop me – which suggested that not only was I expected but someone had told them who to look for. I really didn’t like that.

  I seriously considered turning around and heading for the exit with all speed. But the Colonel had called … and I was curious. As I stepped cautiously into the Egyptian rooms, the first thing I noticed was that all the surveillance systems had been turned off. Not a movement or a winking light anywhere. Whatever the Colonel and I were here to talk about, no one was going to know but us.

  I strolled through the exhibits, ostentatiously calm and relaxed. Taking in the coffins and the mummies, the funerary masks and stylized portraits … and all the other things the Ancient Egyptians had meant to stay buried with their honoured dead. Some of the exhibits were protected inside glass cases, while others were set out on pedestals; but most had just been laid out quite casually, under helpful explanatory signs, on long tables. The bric-à-brac of ages, everyday items made special and significant just by the passing of time. Pots and pans and household junk, most of which had probably looked seriously ugly even in their day. Lots of gold, and lots of things with enigmatic cat faces. The Ancient Egyptians liked gold, and cats. There was no sign of the Colonel anywhere.

  The air was heavy with all kinds of scents. Spices, preservatives, dust and cleaning products. For me, the world is saturated with odours packed with information. I’ve learned to tune most of them out, in self-defence.

  I don’t know how dogs stand it. But then, they sniff each other’s arses. Because they want to.

  The museum likes to call this particular collection a celebration of eternal life, but really it’s like walking through a graveyard with its own concession stands. All the trappings and accessories of the ancient funeral trade; to help you contemplate your own mortality, and ram home the point that you really can’t take it with you. Because even if you try, someone will only dig it up and put it in a museum. Don’t let the scholars fool you, it’s nothing to do with accumulating treasures from the past. It’s all about trophies. To show who’s in charge, and who’s ahead in the game.

  I have thought about my own death. I was made human from something else and, while I’m pretty sure I could be killed by any number of things, I haven’t aged a day in more than fifty years. Perhaps one day, thousands of years from now, I’ll visit another museum and walk among exhibits from this culture, from this time. I wonder how I’ll feel about them then.

  I finally ended up before a standing sarcophagus. No glass case, no protections, even though it was covered with gold. The dully burnished metal gleamed sullenly under the bright lights as if it resented the attention. And although the lid was still in place, it was entirely blank. None of the usual exquisite detailing or stylized artwork. No face, no name; an entirely anonymous death. The Unknown Mummy. I considered my distorted reflection in the gleaming surface; almost human, but not quite. I looked round sharply as I heard footsteps approaching. And there was the Colonel, striding briskly through the exhibits with his usual stiff-backed military bearing.

  He had dressed for this meeting in what he obviously considered to be unremarkable clothes, so he wouldn’t stand out. Instead of the usual impeccably tailored Savile Row three-piece suit, he’d settled for a dark blazer over grey slacks. But he was still wearing his old-school tie and there was no disguising his ex-military background, where arrogance comes as standard. The Colonel didn’t know how to look like anything but officer material. A tall striking presence in his late thirties, he was handsome enough in a supercilious kind of way; right down to the neatly trimmed military moustache. He nodded briefly as he crashed to a halt in front of me and tried for a cordial smile, but couldn’t quite bring it off.

  I nodded easily back at him, stuck my hands in my pockets, and slouched. Just because I knew that would irritate him. First rule in dealing with authority figures: never give them an inch or they’ll walk all over you. My interest was piqued as I realized there was something different about the Colonel’s body language. Normally the man was so stiff and formal I half expected him to pull a muscle from sheer internal discipline. But today the Colonel looked … troubled. My first thought was that he was nervous because he’d brought me here to lure me into a trap. I looked around quickly, checking the distance to the exit and readying myself for a fight. The Colonel managed his first real smile.

  ‘Relax, Mister Jones. You’re in no danger. Not everything is about you. I’m just … concerned that what is about to pass between us stays between us. The Organization doesn’t know that you and I are meeting here.’

  I looked at him thoughtfully. ‘That isn’t normal procedure.’

  ‘This isn’t a normal case,’ said the Colonel. ‘Though the matter we’re about to discuss does have … Organization connections.’

  He paused, considering his next words carefully. It amused me, to see the normally confident and assured Colonel so off balance.

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’m intrigued. What’s this all about?’

  He squared his shoulders and met my gaze steadily, bracing himself to move into territory beyond his normal comfort zone.

  ‘I need you to work on a case outside the Organization. No contact, no backup, no reports. Taking it on would not be part of your usual agreement, it would be more in the nature of a personal favour to me.’

  I could see how embarrassed he was to be asking me this, even desperate. My first instinct was to say no and run like hell; but I could tell that something about this case really mattered to the Colonel.

  ‘Are you in trouble?’ I said.

  ‘Not me,’ said the Colonel. ‘But someone close to me might be. Someone I am determined to protect at all costs. I need your help to determine what’s really going on. And what to do about it.’

  ‘You want me to run a case without the Organization’s knowledge or protection, knowing that if they find out they might cut me loose? You want me to put my hard-earned security at risk, just to help you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the Colonel.

  ‘Why on earth would I do that?’

  ‘I can’t think of one good reason,’ the Colonel said steadily. ‘There’s nothing in it for you. But I need this. So I’m asking you, because there’s no one else I trust.’

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’m in. But … you will owe me a serious favour in return.’

  The Colonel nodded stiffly. ‘Understood.’

  ‘Why bring me here to discuss this?’ I said. ‘Why the Egyptian rooms, in particular?’

  ‘Because it’s relevant to the case,’ said the Colonel. He was back in control, now I was just hir
ed help again. And he always liked it when he could lecture me about things he knew that I didn’t. ‘The Cardavan family have been collecting Ancient Egyptian relics and curios for generations, and have assembled a private collection that would be the envy of many major museums if anyone outside the Cardavans’ small circle of private collectors ever found out what was in it.’

  ‘You couldn’t build a private collection that size through official channels,’ I said. ‘So we’re talking theft, smuggling and bribery on a really impressive scale. How did the Cardavans pull that off?’

  ‘Influence,’ said the Colonel. ‘They’re a very old established family with all kinds of political connections, and until recently almost indecently wealthy. An unbeatable combination when it comes to looting the treasures of other nations. And now the family have acquired their first mummy. George Cardavan paid a great deal of money to get his hands on a famous name from the past that has never seen the inside of any museum. Shipped directly to Cardavan House from its recently discovered tomb in the Valley of the Sorcerers, this mummy is supposed to be the very first Cleopatra … A previously unknown progenitor of that famous line, dating back further than the second century BC.’

  He paused a moment to make sure I was properly impressed. I felt obliged to make it clear I wasn’t entirely ignorant on the subject.

  ‘Most people think there was only the one Cleopatra,’ I said. ‘Immortalized in legend, and any number of dubious movies. In fact, Mark Antony’s Cleopatra was the seventh to bear that name and the last. The last real Pharaoh before Egypt became just another outpost ruled by Rome.’ I looked thoughtfully at the Colonel. ‘If a previously unknown Cleopatra has turned up, I would have expected it to be all over the news. And I haven’t heard anything.’

  ‘And you won’t,’ said the Colonel. ‘No one has and no one will, outside the Cardavan circle. Money talks, and enough of it ensures silence.’