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until I find the Evangelium Gaspar .’
    ‘ Our daughter.’ Correction made, Caedmon continued to examine the digital photos of the Maharaja plate.
    Although she should have been pleased that Caedmon so readily acknowledged paternity, for some inexplicable reason the fact that he did made her acutely uncomfortable.
    Ill-at-ease, Gita turned her head and stared listlessly at the nearby streetscape. She’d always wanted to travel to Paris, but had never got beyond the initial dreaming stage. Paris was a city for lovers. Not a lone woman, map in hand, trying to find the Louvre.
    ‘ I’ll need a list of everyone who has knowledge of the Maharaja plate.’
    Hearing that, Gita glanced back at Caedmon. The late-day sun slanted across the pavement, throwing his face into shadow.
    ‘ It’s not a very long list,’ she told him. ‘Although I should mention that soon after the plate was brought to the museum, I contacted the Vatican Secret Archives.’
    ‘ You did what ?!’

7
     
     
    Anala ripped the strap of duct tape binding her wrists, having used the metal screw head to cut through the restraint.
    Hands freed, she yanked the piece of tape from her mouth and gulped in a mouthful of musty air. Not that she minded the poor air quality. It was better than no air. Which is what she’d be breathing in the grave. Bending forward, she removed the straps of tape from her ankles. Unshackled, she was ready to make a prison break. While she had no idea where she was or how long she’d been unconscious, she only knew that she had to escape before the mustachioed kidnapper returned to the room.
    She glanced at the slanted beam of dust-laden light that shone through the dirty panes of glass; the window set approximately six feet above the floor.
    Good. She preferred to escape in broad daylight rather than dead of night.
    Ready to leave, Anala surged to her feet. Only to sway unsteadily, hit simultaneously with a dizzy undertow and an excruciating burst of pain radiating from her skull. Grasping the bed frame, she refused to give in to the siren’s call to lie back down on the lumpy mattress.
    She waited a few seconds for the lightheaded hubbub to diminish. Hobbled by aching joints and a walloping headache, she put a hand to the paneled wall. Holding on to it for support, she moved gingerly around the perimeter of the room towards the exit.
    A few seconds later, she reached for the door knob.
    Damn! It was locked from the outside.
    Frustrated, she leaned her head against the door. Of course it was locked from the outside. She’d been a fool to think that it would actually have been unlocked. Why would anyone have gone to so much trouble to abduct a woman from her home, only to deposit her in an unlocked room?
    Angry that she’d wasted valuable time – worried that the warden would return at any moment – Anala shuffled back to the metal-framed cot. Gritting her teeth, she dragged it several feet, flinching at the harsh grating sound that ensued. It took several determined tugs for her to maneuver the bed under the window. But the effort cost her. Panting from exertion, she bent at the waist and promptly vomited a stream of watery stomach bile on to the linoleum floor.
    Straightening, Anala spat out a mouthful of acidic residue before wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. At that moment, she’d gladly have given her back teeth for a gulp of fresh water.
    Needing to quicken the pace, she snatched the grungy-looking pillow and wadded it over her right forearm and hand. She then stood on top of the cot and bashed her padded fist through the window pane, shattering the glass on contact.
    She peered through the opening, taken aback by the lavish vista of verdant scenery. Lush trees. Rolling hills. Flowering shrubs. She blinked, her ocular nerve overloaded with every imaginable shade of green – hunter, forest, fern, pine and shamrock. At a glance, she could see that it wasn’t the tropical green of India.
    More like the bucolic