The Valhalla Prophecy

  Eddie grinned. “They’re going smoothly,” he insisted, “and you know why? Because you put people in charge of each of ’em who know what they’re doing. So that means you don’t have to micromanage everything anymore.”

  She treated him to a particularly sulky scowl. “What do you mean, ‘anymore’?”

  “No, you never once looked over anyone’s shoulder and told them to dig six inches to the left, did you?” he said, kissing her again. “But the IHA’s in a quiet patch at the moment. We’ve been talking about taking a break for a while—maybe now’s the time. And there’s the book thing too.”

  “Right, the book thing,” Nina echoed. It was her turn to become thoughtful. “I still don’t know what I want to do about that.”

  “What’s to think about? For fuck’s sake, love, they’re offering you six figures to write about all the stuff you’ve discovered! I know it’s not like we desperately need the money or anything”—he waved a hand to encompass their Upper East Side apartment—“but you’ve got to admit it’d be a hell of a bonus. Christ, if you want I’ll write everything up for you. Although I can’t type, so I’ll have to scribble it all down in biro.”

  “Just make sure you leave out all the things that are top secret,” she reminded him, amused. “Oh, and the part where you were wanted for murder by Interpol.”

  “And the part where you got a faceful of crap while you were crawling through a sewer pipe.”

  She grimaced at the memory. “It’s all glamour being a famous archaeologist, isn’t it?”

  Eddie sniffed her cheek. “You got most of it off. This book, though—it might be the perfect time to take a bit of a break and write it, while things are quiet at work. And we could also do some”—a lascivious smirk crept across his square face—“other stuff.”

  Nina feigned innocence. “What kind of stuff, Mr. Chase?”

  “Oh, you know. Shagging like rabbits.”

  She laughed, swatting his hand off hers. “There’s that subtle charm I fell in love with.”

  “Yeah, it’s irresistible, innit? I’m serious, though, and not just about a nonstop fuck-fest.” Nina giggled. “I mean about the book, and having a break from work. We could take a really long holiday, somewhere we haven’t been before—and with absolutely nothing to do with archaeology.”

  Now she feigned horror. “Oh, let’s not do anything crazy …”

  “Grant invited us out to Hollywood, remember? We could do that as part of a West Coast tour, maybe—start off in Seattle, then go down through San Francisco to LA to watch him filming his next movie. Even though it’ll probably be as big a piece of crap as his last one.”

  “I thought you liked action movies.”

  “I like good action movies. Nitrous 2 was absolute bollocks, though.”

  “I think you mean Ni-two-rous,” Nina corrected with a smile. Their movie-star friend Grant Thorn’s most recent film had gone by the rather awkward moniker of Ni2rous on its posters, providing a source of endless amusement to the couple—as well as late-night talk show hosts.

  “Yeah, when nobody even knows how to pronounce the title, that’s probably a bad start. It really was complete arse, though. That bit where he dived out of the car that went over the cliff and fired a grappling hook to grab hold of his mate’s car that was jumping the other way? That was so fucking unrealistic they might as well have had him grow wings.”

  “It wasn’t any more unbelievable than his other movies, and you liked those.”

  “I used to like ’em. Maybe I’m growing old.”

  Her smile returned, wider. “Maybe you’re growing up.”

  Eddie snorted. “No danger of that, love. But I’ve got to admit, these days I’m happy just to watch Matt Damon moving purposefully for two hours. Still, actually getting to see Grant filming should be fun. Something to tell the grandkids.”

  “That kinda presupposes kids,” said Nina. “I guess this conversation’s come around full circle.”

  He shifted position to face her. “So … what’s your view on that? You’re …” He paused, choosing his words. “You’re not dead set against it, are you?”

  She also gave careful consideration to her reply. “No,” she said at last. “No, I’m not against it. It’s just that, like I said, our lives have been complicated. But if things did get more straightforward, then …” Another moment of thought. “I wouldn’t say no.”

  From the look of delight Eddie was trying hard to contain, it was clear he was happy with her answer. “Nor would I.”

  They kissed, then held each other tight. “It’s a big decision, though,” Nina said at last.

  “Yeah, taking a sabbatical to get paid half a million dollars and have loads of sex. Big decision.”

  Nina prodded him in the stomach, making him flinch and laugh. “I don’t mean like that. It’s more about … well, what Don blurted out.” She became more serious. “We are getting on, in a purely biological sense. The risks start to increase almost geometrically every year once a woman passes thirty, and the older the man is, the greater the likelihood of complications too.”

  “What kind of complications?”

  “Just getting pregnant in the first place becomes harder, for a start. Then there are things like an increased risk of pre-eclampsia, high blood pressure, gestational diabetes—”

  “I thought you were a doctor of archaeology, not pregnancy!”

  “Ah, well,” she admitted sheepishly, “when Lola was still at work, I got worried about her and the baby’s health, so I did some reading about any potential problems she might have. What?” she went on, seeing his mocking expression. “She’s the first close friend I’ve had who’s been pregnant. I wanted to be prepared if anything happened to her!”

  He chuckled. “See? This is that whole micromanagement thing again. Pretty sure the UN has a couple of actual medical doctors on staff somewhere.”

  “Oh, shut up,” she said, jabbing him again. “The point is, it made me realize that the odds of anything going wrong with Lola’s pregnancy were pretty low—but the risks start rising once a woman gets to my age.”

  “But they should still be pretty low,” Eddie said. “I mean, you’re in good nick—you exercise, you’re not a lard-arse, you don’t eat junk, you don’t even drink all that much anymore. And I’m still in exactly the same shape I was in when I left the SAS.”

  Nina eyed his midsection skeptically. “Uh-huh.”

  He made a rude sound. “Okay, so maybe I’ve put on a little weight in nine years. But I’m not spending every day running twenty miles with a full pack of gear anymore, so what do you expect? Anyway, we’re both in decent nick, so that should put us in a better position than most people our age right from the start.”

  “It’s not just about health, though. There are some things that are still a danger even if both people are in perfect condition. I don’t want to be morbid and depressing, but the chances of a miscarriage go up enormously after thirty. And then there are higher risks of delivery complications, birth defects—”

  “Birth defects?” Eddie said sharply, straightening.

  “Yeah, I’m afraid so. Autism’s more common in kids with older parents, as well as Down syndrome and other genetic disorders.” She took in his oddly stricken expression. “What’s wrong? Sorry, I didn’t mean to bring you down so much.”

  He shook his head. “No, it’s okay.”

  “Is that something you’re worried about?” But there was something deeper to his reaction, she realized. “Something you’ve seen?”

  His reply took a moment in coming. “Yeah.”

  “Where?”

  “On a job,” he said, tone becoming brusquer. “Can’t talk about it.”

  After six years together, she was attuned enough to her husband to pick up the nuances of those rare occasions when he discussed his professional past—first as a British special forces soldier, then a hired troubleshooter. “A job, not a mission?” The difference was small, but crucial. The lat
ter were covered by the laws of state security; any secrets from the second stage of his career, however, would be kept for more personal reasons.

  “Doesn’t matter. Let’s just say I’ve seen that kind of stuff. And that I don’t really want to talk about it.”

  Nina decided not to push him. “Okay, no problem. You and your secrets, though,” she continued, deliberately teasing in the hope of changing the subject. “I think I know you fairly well by now. And after everything we’ve been through together, I can’t believe there’s anything in your past that could shock me.”

  Eddie smiled. “Nah, probably not.”

  But she couldn’t help noticing that he hesitated before replying.

  2

  London

  Eight Years Earlier

  Eddie Chase stared disconsolately up at the flaking ceiling, debating whether it was worth getting out of bed.

  There was little to look forward to if he did. It was unseasonably hot and unpleasantly humid, the temperature in the cramped studio flat already oppressive even at this time of the morning, but things would be no better outside. He had no job, was almost out of money … and in the middle of a bitter separation from his wife.

  What the hell had gone wrong? He and Sophia had married less than a year and a half earlier, in a mad whirlwind of passion that he thought would last forever. But everything collapsed with shocking suddenness, leaving him stunned and blinking in the wreckage.

  The wedding—practically an elopement—was only a month after they met, so the first time Chase was introduced to Sophia’s father was after the honeymoon. And Lord Blackwood had made it clear with every aristocratic curl of the lip that his daughter’s marriage to a soldier—not even an officer, but a common squaddie!—was something of which he utterly disapproved. Sophia soon afterward found herself cut off from her father’s money for the first time in her life—and not long after that, Chase began to find himself on the outside looking in as she renewed old friendships. Friendships exclusively of the male, young, upper-class, and wealthy variety.

  So now he was here, alone in a crappy rented flat overlooking a congestion-clogged main road through one of the grottier parts of London. He couldn’t even open the window to let in cooler air without its being joined by noise and diesel fumes.

  Staying in bed was not an option, he finally decided. If nothing else, years of military routine made inactivity seem almost criminally wasteful. He shoved away the covers and rolled upright.

  The sight of his surroundings lowered his mood still further. One room; that was what his life had been reduced to. He even had to share a bathroom with one of the other tenants.

  But the damp-stained studio was not nearly so depressing as what was on the little folding table by the door. Chase stared at the documents poking out of the torn envelope like spilled guts from a small animal. They were from Sophia—or rather, her solicitor—and one of them, once he signed it, would probably be the last thing she ever wanted from him.

  If he signed it.

  He let out a sound that was somewhere between a sigh and a growl. Sophia was seeking a divorce, to get rid of him as soon as possible so she could hook up with whichever rich, braying arsehole from the City she’d set her sights on. Under British law, before a divorce could be granted husband and wife needed to be separated for at least two years, or there had to be reasonable grounds.

  Adultery was one of these, and it had certainly been a factor; Sophia had practically rubbed his face in it before he finally moved out, unable to tolerate her taunting any longer. But there were two problems. The first, in which he saw the hand of her father, was that Sophia wanted Chase to be the one who admitted to an affair. Daddy dearest was protecting the reputation of his daughter—or, just as likely, the Blackwood name. An heiress sleeping around behind the back of her war-hero husband was irresistible gossip fodder, whereas some yob from Yorkshire betraying a beautiful aristocrat would arouse nothing but sympathy for her.

  The second was more simple. He didn’t want to end the marriage.

  For all Sophia had done to him, for all the arguments and screaming and unfaithfulness … he still loved her. He had made a commitment to her, a promise, and the thought of breaking that promise was almost physically painful. Though he was no longer a member of the armed forces, he still placed a high value on duty, honor, and loyalty—even if Sophia did not.

  It also implied surrender, failure. As a former member of the Special Air Service, he was unwilling to accept either.

  Another sound, this time definitely a sigh. Chase forced himself to his feet and stretched, working the stiffness out of his muscles. The mattress was as unforgiving as his wife. He crossed the room to the counter that acted as his kitchen and filled the kettle, preparing—however reluctantly—to start the day.

  Half an hour later, he had eaten, showered, and dressed. To his disappointment, the letter had not magically vanished in the meantime.

  “Buggeration and fuckery,” Chase muttered, glaring at it. Sophia’s solicitors, he already knew from experience, would not hesitate to follow up on their inquiries by phone or even in person if a response didn’t come immediately. Their letterhead said they were based in the City of London, so they were probably charging her father a thousand pounds per hour for their time, while his own financial situation forced him to traipse across two boroughs to get what free help he could at the nearest Citizens Advice Bureau.

  He tried to suppress a churning feeling of disgust. Money. That was what everything came down to. Sophia was used to it, couldn’t live without it, wanted more of it—and now that she had access to it again, was using it against him.

  And she knew his sense of dignity wouldn’t allow him to beg others for it. He had friends all around the world, but while he could always rely on them for a favor, since he in turn would always help them if they needed it, the one thing he couldn’t bring himself to ask for was money.

  So now he was trapped by his own pride. Whether he caved in to Sophia’s demands or asked for monetary help from others to fight her, it would feel like failure either way. At least in combat there was always the possibility of beating the odds to reach victory, but right now he couldn’t see any good way out short of a miracle …

  His phone trilled. Chase knew it wasn’t Sophia; he had set her ringtone as Cliff Richard’s “Devil Woman,” but this was the cheap pre-paid Nokia’s default. He picked up the mobile and flipped it open, seeing on the screen that it was a London number. “Is that you, Jesus?”

  “I’ve heard some strange things from your mouth, Eddie, but that’s got to be near the top of the list.” Not a miracle, but the familiar voice was nearly as welcome.

  “Mac!” Chase cried, smiling for the first time in several days. “Fuck me, I wasn’t expecting to hear from you. I thought you were out of the country?”

  “I’m back, for the moment,” said the Scotsman. “I’ll tell you about it—well, as much as I can within the bounds of the Official Secrets Act—if you’d like to meet up. Are you busy?”

  “Let me check my Filofax,” Chase said sarcastically. “No, I’m free. Where do you want to meet?”

  “Come ’round to my place—you remember where it is?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. Half eleven or thereabouts? Oh, and there’ll be someone else here I’m sure you’ll be pleased to see again.” Even over the phone, Chase could detect the amusement in the other man’s voice. “An old friend.”

  “Well, fucking hell,” said Chase, unable to hold back a grin. “Look who it is. Hugo Castille, the Belgian waffler.”

  The lanky Castille sniffed through his beaky nose.

  “And Edward Chase, as polite and charming as always.” He peered at the shorter man’s head. “Your hair … it is getting a little thin, no? Especially on top.”

  “Oh fuck off, Hugo.” Still grinning, Chase shook the mustachioed Belgian’s hand, before the pair embraced and clapped each other on the back. “Christ, how long’s it been? A y
ear?”

  “More than that,” Castille replied. “I have not seen you since the wedding.” His expression became mournful. “Mac told me what has happened with you and Sophia. I am very sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” said Chase, rather brusquely, before moving the conversation along. “Everything’s good with you, then? Coping with civilian life?”

  “I have a new line of work. Not too different from my old one,” he added with a sly smile. “I will tell you about it. You might find it interesting.”

  “Can’t wait.” Chase turned to his former commanding officer. “What about you, Mac? How’s the leg?”

  Jim “Mac” McCrimmon shifted his stance to put his left foot forward, supporting himself on a metal cane. A faint creak came from the ankle joint—not of bone, but aluminum and plastic. “Bearable. They think that given another two or three years, I should regain more or less full mobility. I intend to do it in one.”

  “Anything I can do to help, you just say the word.”

  The tall, bearded Scot smiled. “You already did, Eddie. If it hadn’t been for you, I would have lost more than just a leg to those Taliban bastards.” He gestured for Chase to take a seat in one of the deep red leather armchairs in his living room. “In fact, we might be able to help you.”

  The Yorkshireman didn’t move, his expression darkening. “I’m not here to take charity.”

  “And I didn’t ask you here to offer it. I know you better than that, Eddie. Come on, sit down. I’m going to, whether you do or not.” He rapped his left shin with the cane. “Standing on this bloody thing isn’t exactly comfortable.”

  Chase reluctantly sat as Mac and Castille did the same. “So,” he said, “you’ve become a spook, eh? You bloody sellout.”

  Mac chuckled. “Yes, I remember what you think of the men and women of our intelligence services. But they’re not all that bad. Well, a few of them. Actually, I’ve been working with somebody you’ve already met.”

  Chase pulled a disgusted face. “Aw, not that fucking Capri-driving bell-end Alderley, surely?”