This is the language of angels.

He puffed out a cloud of air and felt momentarily dizzy from the exhilaration of it all.

‘You okay, Mr Shepherd?’

Shepherd looked up to see the sturdy outline of Carl squatting beside the shallow ditch.

‘I’m fine, Carl.’

‘This is what you came for?’

Shepherd nodded.

Carl looked over his shoulder at the tents in the distance. ‘I should warn you, the others are stirring now. It’s gone seven.’

Shepherd’s mind was elsewhere. ‘Thank you,’ he answered absent-mindedly, as his fingers gently grasped hold of the threadbare cotton. He delicately lifted the bag out of the chest, warily holding one hand beneath it in case the frail bag ripped and dropped its precious contents.

‘Could you open that for me?’ he said, nodding towards a reinforced aluminium travel case on the ground beside him. Carl flipped the latches on the side and opened it, revealing a layer of black cushioning foam. Shepherd gently rested the tattered cotton sack inside.

‘Can I see?’ asked Carl, studying the bag with a puzzled expression on his face.

Shepherd nodded as he carefully opened the bag to reveal a glimpse of the tablets. They were each roughly the size of a sheet of foolscap - copper sheets, green with corrosion and richly textured with rows of indented glyphs.

‘That’s really the word of God?’ he asked.

‘You sound disappointed.’

‘I guess I expected the word of God to look more . . .’

‘Important?’

Carl nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘That’s why I know this is genuine, Carl. The Lord speaks with the quietest whisper, not a shrill cry. If this were a shimmering golden tablet, I would be sceptical.’

The man considered that. ‘I guess you’re right.’

Shepherd turned back to the dark metal chest in the ground. Carefully he reached in and pulled out another tattered canvas sack. From within came the soft clink of fragile bones.

‘What’s that?’

‘The remains of an angel, Carl.’

The man looked at him. ‘An . . . an angel?’

Shepherd smiled. ‘That’s right, a real angel, one of God’s own. These tablets are written in a language that you or I would never understand - the language of angels.’ Shepherd gently placed the sack alongside the other in the case. ‘This angel is called Nephi, and when I’m ready to transcribe these tablets, he’ll appear to me in the flesh and read to me so that I can write it down.’

Carl’s eyes widened. ‘My God, Mr Shepherd,’ he whispered, ‘this . . . this is for real, isn’t it?’

Shepherd placed a reassuring hand on his arm. ‘Oh yes, Carl, this is the real deal.’

He closed the lid of the travel case.

Carl glanced back at the tents, leaned forward slightly and whispered. ‘Mr Shepherd, they’re up now.’

Shepherd stretched up to look out of the shallow ditch he’d excavated. He could see Cooke ambling casually towards them across the clearing, yawning out a cloud of breath as he made his way over, and the park ranger, Grace, heading into the trees to forage for some firewood.

You have it now.

Yes.

They are no longer needed.

The voice in his head was just a little louder than earlier, a little more insistent, as if it had emerged from a dark corner at the back of his mind and moved a step or two towards the front. Shepherd hesitated. There was something implied in what it had whispered.

Would that be necessary?

The voice was quiet for a moment.

I have what we both want now. There’s no need for anyone else to die.

Do not be weak.

It’s not weakness. It’s common sense. We don’t need any more bodies, not with what lies ahead for us. You understand the importance of my campaign? The potential to be President . . . how that can help us spread the new word of God?

There was no reply. Shepherd sensed it stirring, distracted with thought. Perhaps he could argue it round. Is this what God wants? For us to start work on his message with blood freshly on our hands?

Shepherd sensed the simmering heat of anger, disapproval somewhere amongst the dark recesses of his mind.

I wonder, have I chosen wisely?

Yes, you have.

Then do as I say.

Carl was watching him. ‘Mr Shepherd? You okay?’

Shepherd looked up at him, his eyes barely registering the man. He stood up slowly, feeling an ache in his back from having crouched for too long, and watched as Cooke covered the last few yards towards them with a look of growing curiosity on his face.

‘Morning,’ Julian called out, approaching the edge of the ditch. ‘You’ve started already? We’ve not even had breakfast.’

Shepherd offered him a tired smile. ‘Yes . . . yes, I wanted to . . . uh, make a start.’

Julian looked down into the dark trench and spotted the open metal chest. His eyes instantly widened. He looked around at the faint outline of a much larger shelter than the others and instantly realised that this was the ‘temple’ Lambert had frequently mentioned in his journal.

‘Shit!’ He looked at Shepherd. ‘Is that Preston’s . . . ?’

‘Yes,’ he replied evenly, ‘I believe it is. Preston’s belongings. ’

Julian shook his head. ‘How the hell did you find it so easily?’

‘I prayed,’ Shepherd shrugged and offered a hazy smile, ‘and the Lord showed me the way.’

Julian grinned. ‘Well, however you managed it, this is fantastic. You know, having read through Lambert’s journal last week, and reading about this’ - he pointed to the ditch, the nubs of dark rotten wood poking through the soil and moss - ‘. . . and here it is!’

‘Yes.’ Shepherd replied dully.

You know what needs to be done.

‘Perhaps, Mr Cooke,’ Shepherd continued, ‘you should gather up the other two and we shall celebrate this find properly.’

‘Yeah.’ Julian grinned. ‘Yes, of course.’

Shepherd’s slack face came to life with a generous smile. ‘Then, I think you and I should discuss how much money you’re going to need for your documentary. How does that sound?’

Cooke’s grin widened. ‘That would be good.’

‘Excellent,’ Shepherd replied, pulling himself up out of the muddy trench. Carl reached out a hand to help him. ‘Off you go and get the others, then.’

Julian turned away and headed back towards the tents. Shepherd watched him silently for a moment, the false smile draining away swiftly.

‘Carl,’ he said, ‘you know what needs to be done?’

‘Now?’

He nodded sadly. ‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’

I’ve seen that tattoo before.

It was distinctive: a fox.

Damnit, where’ve I seen that? On whose bloody hand did I . . .

A cold loop of realisation suddenly curled through his stomach.

That man was at Heathrow.

He glanced back over his shoulder and saw Barns watching him. If Barns was in London . . . ?

He’s been following me.

Other things that he had almost managed to forget about, to dismiss as the product of an over-active imagination, came back to mind: a noise on his phone line, the suspicion that somebody had entered his flat. The unsettling curl of anxiety in his stomach turned into something more acidic and uncomfortable.

And Sean, dead twenty-four hours after doing lunch with me.

He remembered Tom’s caution about looking for skeletons in the closets of the powerful.

‘Oh, Christ,’ he muttered to himself as he stepped across a gentle hump in the ground. He knelt down outside Rose’s tent and fumbled for the zip.

Or am I being paranoid? Shit. I dunno . . .

‘Rose?’ he called out softly.

There was no answer, no noise at all coming from inside.

‘Rose, it’s me . . . coming in,’ he said, pulling the zipper up.