Page 73 of King’s Ransom

And then, abruptly, the most surprising thing of all happened.

A man popped up from the grave in which Garrett stood.

His face and hair were dirty, as was his Violent Femmes rock’n’roll band t-shirt, but like everyone else in the world, I’d have recognised him anywhere.

It was Aristo King.

And he was alive.

The cemetery was silent.

After all the gunfire—from the military drone down at the bridge and from Garrett and his assailants—the silence felt profound.

Snow drifted down through the air.

I ran over to Garrett and Aristo King, calling, ‘You guys okay?’

‘I’m hit, but not bad,’ Garrett said, glancing at the bullet wound on his upper left arm.

‘Miss? Are you hurt?’ I asked the gardener, still huddled in the bushes. ‘You weren’t hit, were you?’

‘No, no . . . I’m . . . I’m all right,’ she stammered. She clearly hadn’t expected to see a gun battle at work today.

‘What’s your name?’ I asked.

‘Maria. Maria Dubrowski.’

‘Stay close, Maria, till we’re sure this area is secure.’

I turned to check on Aristo King.

He didn’t look all right. He looked shell-shocked. His mouth hung open. The plastic oxygen mask dangled from his neck. He and Garrett were still standing in the open grave, on top of a wooden coffin whose lid had been pulled open.

A yellow Post-It note was pinned to King’s Violent Femmes t-shirt. It read:

TITANIC OSCAR2

A final riddle.

‘Sir, are you okay?’ I asked again. ‘You’re not wounded at all?’

‘No . . . um, yeah . . . I’m . . . fine,’ the world’s richest man mumbled.

‘Hang back a second.’ I went over to check on the three men Garrett had shot, to make sure they were no longer threats.

They weren’t going to bother us anymore.

They were all dead, variously shot in the heart or head. Blood was still draining out of their bodies into the snow.

Two wore black Adidas tracksuits and trashy gold chains around their necks. They were big men, with broad faces, buzz-cut hair, unshaved chins and boxers’ noses.

Everything about them screamed Russian.

That made sense.

The Grandmaster had Russian ties.

The third dead man was leaner than the other two, less obviously thuggish.