‘Unfortunately for you, my people have already come and gone through this vault and found the information we needed. The answer is London, by the way. It’s time your mission ended, you spoilt little rich girl. It’s time for you to die. Ta-ta.’

A shrill beep rang out.

And sixty seconds later a colossal explosion ripped through the massive space, filling it completely with a blast wave of flames and smoke that destroyed everything in the historic vault: the supertall statues, the stone dock and even the famed boat with the horse-shaped bow.

It was a blast of such ferocity that no-one could have survived it.

It happened so fast that there was no time for Nobody, Iolanthe and Bertie to escape back out through the entry canal.

When the smoke and dust finally cleared, in the light of Bertie’s dropped flashlight, the ancient vault of Troy lay broken and destroyed.

Its statues had fallen from their alcoves—including the one of Priam—and they now lay in shattered pieces on the floor. The famed Greek ramming ship, the source of one of humanity’s most enduring stories, had been turned to splinters, its bronze horse head now lying askew on its side.

And no-one—not Iolanthe or Nobody or Bertie—remained alive in there.

A7 Motorway between Lyon and Marseille, France

28 December

‘Begging and screaming,’ the man in the twenty-thousand-dollar suit said evenly.

He made for an incongruous sight: seated in a small cell in the back of a speeding police van with his hands flex-cuffed, and yet dressed in a perfectly tailored Brioni suit. His fingernails, Stretch saw, were manicured.

He was Sir John Marren, the royal banker to the four legendary kingdoms.

And right now, he was sitting inside the back of the van as it sped down the eerily empty A7 motorway toward Marseille, in the custody of Jack’s people, having been duped by them on the tarmac in Salzburg, Austria.

In the police van with him were Stretch, Pooh Bear, Sister Lynda and Dr Tracy Smith, who was up front driving.

‘That’s how you’re all going to die,’ Marren said. ‘Begging for your lives and screaming in agony.’

Marren was maybe sixty years old, with a sharp nose and a high forehead. He wore his hair slicked back, making his forehead seem longer. He was fit and healthy-looking in the way that rich people with private yoga instructors are, with polished pink skin that matched his manicured fingernails.

Pooh Bear said, ‘Oh, that’s charming.’

Marren snorted. ‘I’ve watched stronger men than you cry like babies on the torture slab and plead to die. This will not end well for any of you.’