Island of Time Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Also by Davis Bunn

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Also by Davis Bunn

  Speculative fiction *

  TRIAL RUN

  FLASH POINT

  FAULT LINES

  EMISSARY

  MERCHANT OF ALYSS

  THE GOLDEN VIAL

  RECRUITS

  RENEGADES

  ENCLAVE

  PRIME DIRECTIVE

  Novels

  THE GREAT DIVIDE

  WINNER TAKE ALL

  HEARTLAND

  LION OF BABYLON

  UNSCRIPTED

  BURDEN OF PROOF

  Miramar Bay series

  MIRAMAR BAY

  FIREFLY COVE

  MOONDUST LAKE

  TRANQUILITY FALLS

  THE COTTAGE ON LIGHTHOUSE LANE

  * Published under the pen name Thomas Locke

  ISLAND OF TIME

  Davis Bunn

  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 world edition published in Great Britain and the USA in 2022

  by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd,

  14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE.

  Trade paperback edition first published in Great Britain and the USA in 2022

  by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd.

  severnhouse.com

  Copyright © Davis Bunn, 2022

  All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. The right of Davis Bunn 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: 978-1-4483-0844-6 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0856-9 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0855-2 (e-book)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. 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 actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,

  Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  This book is dedicated to

  David Lipman

  Sharing the vision

  ONE

  Jackson Burnett was seated in the ready room, observing the watch officer field-strip a weapon that had never been fired. Jackson was supposed to be off duty, but Interpol’s headquarters in Brussels had appointed him liaison on a possible police action. Dawn was less than two hours away, and the alert had never come. Jackson did not mind. He had arrived in Geneva twenty-two months earlier, after frontline action had reduced him to wanting nothing more than a few safe days. As if quiet hours might make a difference and heal the wounds nobody saw.

  Interpol was the international agency tasked with policing magic and Talents, those gifted in the arcane arts. But Switzerland had outlawed all magic seven hundred years earlier. As a result, Interpol’s presence in Geneva was limited to sixteen officers and four support staff. They occupied two floors in a nondescript building a block from Geneva’s main train station. The ready room held a coffee maker, kitchenette, battered sofa set, three scarred tables, and the weapons safe.

  Tonight’s duty officer was Krys Duprey, a recent transfer from Brussels. Krys possessed a hard-edged beauty and a wealth of mystery. She was just thirty years old and had already been with Interpol for seven years. Normally, Interpol only accepted seasoned veterans who had served their home force with distinction. Jackson could not recall another agent who had shifted straight from training to a field position, even one in Geneva.

  Krys used a soft cloth to rub off the excess gun oil and began reassembling the weapon. Her actions were swift, practiced, and utterly pointless. The Geneva office had not seen a major bust in five years.

  Except for Jackson and Zoe Meyer, chief of the Geneva office, the local agents came in two flavors. Either they had failed at their duties or they had applications pending to be relocated. There was no overtime. The chance for advancement was nil. Zoe Meyer was retiring in eleven months. Everyone assumed Jackson was hanging around to be named the new chief. Meyer herself treated Jackson as an unofficial deputy. Jackson saw no need to correct them.

  Jackson’s Geneva assignment came in the wake of some very hard years. He had seen postings in several of the globe’s most intensely contested regions. His file was two and a half inches thick, much of it blacked out. He had fought against some of this era’s darkest Talents. He had survived cases in Singapore, Malta, Cairo, Lagos. Two years back, Jackson’s wife had been felled by a sudden illness while he was off on assignment. By the time Jackson had been alerted, his wife was already gone. Afterwards, he had slunk into this backwater posting, wanting nothing more than to be forgotten.

  Jackson watched as Krys s
et the weapon back in the gun rack and locked the door. Then she just stood there, staring at the painted steel surface, her features slack, her eyes blank. Krys Duprey possessed a rare blend of bloodlines. She had been born in Ethiopia to an Egyptian mother and a Canadian father. She was fluent in six languages. Krys was a poster child for the agency’s global reach. Which only added to the mystery of how she had landed in Geneva. Serving the midnight watch in a nowhere office.

  She said to no one in particular, ‘I’m dying here.’

  There was nothing Jackson could say to make things better, except, ‘Go home.’

  Krys blinked and focused. ‘What about your raid?’

  ‘It’s an hour to dawn. The strike was timed for midnight. It’s not happening.’

  When he was alone, Jackson carried his coffee back into the central office. He didn’t mind staying because he didn’t have anywhere else to go. He rarely slept more than a few hours. Sitting here was better than in his cramped studio apartment, waiting for another empty sunrise.

  He had scarcely settled behind his desk when his phone rang. The read-out said it was the chief, who had been called the previous day to Brussels. The wall clock read a quarter past five. When he hit the connection, Zoe Meyer demanded, ‘Are you still in our offices?’

  ‘Eight hours and counting.’

  ‘Good. The Geneva police have been called out to a fire. They’re classing it as suspicious and have asked for our input.’

  Suspicious was Geneva cop-speak for possible magical ties. This meant the serious crimes squad would roll out. The serious crimes detectives included Jackson’s principal ally on the local force. ‘Why contact Brussels and not our office here?’

  ‘Because the request came from the federal government in Bern.’ Zoe Meyer was former Swiss military intelligence, with a grandmother’s build and a cop’s merciless gaze. ‘HQ wants you to team up with a temporary staffer on this call.’

  ‘Brussels is sending us another agent?’

  Meyer answered carefully, ‘Luca Tami is not an agent. He has been seconded to our Brussels office.’

  ‘Where from?’

  ‘I am not at liberty to say.’

  Jackson pondered this. There was not nearly enough work for the current staff. To have Brussels formally ask the Geneva head of station to make room for an outsider made no sense. ‘We don’t have any cases that could possibly draw that sort of outside attention.’

  A voice behind him said, ‘You do now.’

  Jackson sprang to his feet, overturning his chair. The Interpol offices were isolated from the outside world by bulletproof glass barriers and portals that were electronically sealed. ‘How’d you get in here?’

  The man was an inch or so taller than Jackson’s six-three and had no eyes. The holes were crudely gouged and old enough for scar tissue to fill the space. He pointed behind him with the hand not holding his long white staff. ‘I asked, it opened.’

  Jackson heard his boss calling. He lifted the phone and said, ‘Tami is already here.’

  The call-out address was on Rue Gambord, a stubby lane rising from the lake’s eastern rim. Jackson took the Mont Blanc Bridge and headed down the lakefront highway. For once he ignored the Alpine peaks glistening silver in the moonlight. Jackson drove and inspected the man seated beside him. At first glance, it appeared that Luca’s pale hands were wrapped around a chest-high white stick. But passing streetlights flashed glimpses of half-seen carvings and a script Jackson could not read. When he stopped for a light, Jackson asked, ‘That thing you’re holding, is it a cane or a wand?’

  He did not actually expect the man to answer. Luca had not spoken since they had left the station. But the head came around, and the sightless face met him straight on. ‘Why must it be one or the other?’

  Jackson remained as he was, confronting a blistering array of unasked questions. Talents did not ally themselves with Interpol. The seven global Institutes of Magic were determined to police their own ranks. They considered Interpol a threat to their way of life. Yet Jackson now shared his ride with a man sent from headquarters who used a wand for a cane. And doing so in a country that had outlawed all magic seven centuries ago.

  Finally, the car behind him hit the horn. Jackson accelerated into the night.

  Rue Gambord climbed a steep rise off the highway hugging the lake’s southern rim. Although the city officially ended about four miles back, Geneva’s cops were responsible for patrolling all the villages leading to the French border, which was twelve miles further on.

  The Rive Droite district was home to numerous corrupt diplomats and rapacious financiers. Swiss gendarmes stood guard by a set of tall open gates. Jackson showed his badge and was directed into a graveled forecourt. At first glance, the house appeared to have been built entirely of glass. From this perspective, Jackson could see no visible support. The house lights glared overbright, illuminating windows streaked by smoke.

  As Jackson cut the motor and opened his door, Luca said, ‘Wait.’

  ‘What for?’

  In reply, Luca rolled down his window and took a long, slow breath.

  Jackson felt his hackles rise once more. ‘You can smell magic?’

  Luca took another breath, then nodded slowly. ‘I can and I do.’

  ‘It’s here?’

  ‘Thick as sulfur. Tell me what you see.’

  ‘The house—’

  ‘Not the house. The surroundings. Do you see a sculpture?’

  He did. ‘An obelisk – looks like black granite. Maybe thirty feet high. In a pool of water, surrounded by flowers, in the center of the drive. Shaped like a giant black spear.’

  Luca kneaded the handle of his cane. ‘Is there anything strange about the lake?’

  ‘The lake …’ Jackson swung in his seat. The city of Geneva wrapped around the western tip of a lake seventy miles long, curved like a crescent moon. On the lake’s opposite side, the Alps rose in shadowed majesty, silhouetted against a cloudless sky. As he watched, an army of mist spread across the lake, like tongues of silver beasts. He said, ‘There’s a fog coming in from the west.’

  Luca replied, ‘It is not fog.’

  Jackson watched the mist-figures approach, swirling like slow-motion dancers over the lake’s surface. ‘What is going on?’

  Luca reached into his pocket and drew out a phone. ‘Go see to the police.’

  ‘You’re not coming in?’

  ‘I can shield you better from here.’ Luca coded in a number by touch. ‘That is what partners do, yes? Watch each other’s back.’

  TWO

  As Jackson walked up the graveled drive, mulling over Luca’s words, a police officer stepped through the home’s front door and called, ‘Jackson! I hoped it would be you.’

  Simeon Baehr was senior detective in the serious crimes division of the Geneva force. Jackson considered him both a friend and a very fine police officer. Simeon’s English was perfect, except when they were together in public. Then he liked to play the Swiss clown. Whenever Jackson tried to respond in French, Simeon held his ears and groaned. Then he called Jackson the butcher.

  Simeon clapped Jackson on the back. ‘So good it is, dealing with, how you say it …’

  ‘An officer of vastly superior intelligence,’ Jackson said.

  ‘No, no, what is the word I am seeking.’

  ‘Someone to teach you manners.’

  ‘A murderer,’ Simeon said, then slapped his forehead. ‘Wrong, wrong. Forgive me. An officer who knows murder.’

  Jackson ignored the grins of the police within hearing range. ‘You’re treating this as a homicide?’

  ‘Why don’t you come inside and tell me.’ As usual, Simeon was dressed in rumpled elegance, sports jacket and gabardines and loosened silk tie. He smirked at Jackson’s outfit of jeans and polo shirt. ‘That is, unless you are concerned about staining your extremely limited American wardrobe.’

  Jackson saw no need to respond. He stepped aside as the two crime-scene investigators c
ame padding out. Their paper booties and coveralls were stained black with ash.

  Simeon asked, ‘Anything?’

  ‘Questions only,’ the CSI replied. ‘I have never seen a place so full of mysteries.’

  ‘No prints?’

  ‘Not only no prints,’ the investigator replied. He brushed back his hair from a weary face, streaking his forehead with ash. ‘No clothes. No toys in the children’s rooms. No footprints other than our own. No personal items. No documents of any kind. We’ll come back tomorrow and go over everything once more. But I am not optimistic.’

  Simeon must have expected this, for he merely grunted and wished the CSI a good night. Now that they were alone, he dropped his jocular shuffle. He pointed to stacks of white disposable protective garments. ‘We must suit up.’

  Jackson donned the coverall, hairnet, gloves, and booties. He then followed Simeon inside. They stood in an open-plan middle floor that contained a kitchen, dining area, and a living room whose interior walls were charred and blackened. The floor was covered with a thin veil of ash that lumped and clung to his feet and legs. Simeon watched him bend over to touch the ash, which felt treacly and gooey. Jackson asked, ‘Fire retardant?’

  ‘The house has a sprinkler system, but it was not activated.’