The Theft of Magna Carta by John Creasey

some paintings,” said the American. “A lot of those you’ve got are cool enough by now. You’ll miss the market if you don’t sell before long.”
    â€œI’ll miss the market if I let you sell too soon,” the Englishman remarked dryly.
    Stephenson laughed.
    â€œOkay, so no one makes a mickey out of you. But this big deal could make or break even Nicodemus!”
    Both men laughed, the Englishman on a wry note before he replied: “You’ve got Ledbetter at the ready and this electronics man on your hook, you say.”
    â€œI certainly have.”
    â€œI’ve got my end sewn up. I can have the loot out of the country within an hour of it being stolen,” said the Englishman.
    Linda knew she would recognise the voice eventually, but recollection still evaded her. Not that it mattered! Stephenson was the key, once she was able to report.
    Suddenly, before she could do anything to get away, a car swung into the car park, hemming her against the wall. The driver was the man from the bedroom, in chauffeur’s uniform. Linda moved to one side, but the chauffeur moved to block her. At the same moment the door of the car was opened, and he ordered: “Get in.”
    â€œI certainly won’t get in!”
    He drew a knife from his pocket, the blade very bright, and repeated: “Get in if you don’t want your throat cut.”
    For the first time in her life, she was afraid.
    There was not only the knife, but the expression in his eyes which convinced her that he would use it. She knew every kind of move in self-defence – but for the open door and the position in which he stood she would have taken a chance at attacking him. As it was, she stood very still, not quite sure what to do.
    A man appeared from inside the back of the car and gripped her wrist.
    â€œGet in,” the chauffeur ordered.
    He moved the knife. The man in the car pulled. She found herself dragged into the car, now utterly unable to help herself. The man in the car kept a grip on her wrist in such a way that she could not move but sat in an upright position. The chauffeur got into the front seat and started off. Leaving the car park, she saw him glance along the pavement and into the driving mirror, and then act with great unconcern. She half-turned her head but the man alongside her twisted her wrist enough to make her gasp.
    â€œOh!”
    â€œHurt you?”
    â€œYou—you know it hurt!”
    â€œHurt nothing,” he sneered, “compared with what I could do.” He twisted again and pain seared through her arm. “See what I mean?”
    â€œWhat—what do you want?”
    â€œLucy Locket,” the man answered.
    She stared. “Lucy Locket—”
    â€œThat’s right,” he said. “Take off your locket, Lucy, and give it to me.”
    Her free hand flew to the locket and its metal chain, and she clutched and covered it, until the man hoisted her left hand again and the pain became unbearable. She screamed out, but they were going fast along a country road and no one was in sight or earshot. Her fear was greater because of a sense of helplessness and because she was over the first shock and knew that this was really happening.
    â€œGimme the locket,” the man ordered.
    She fumbled with the clasp at the back of her neck, and now began to think more rationally. Her fear had not subsided but was under control. The clasp came undone. If she could sling the heavy locket into the man’s face, it might hurt enough to make him let her go. If it caught his eyes it could blind him, but whatever the risk she had to try.
    He twisted viciously. She cried out, and the locket fell into her lap. She tried to strike him, but he fended the blow off and struck her savagely on the back of the neck with a chop of a blow. She gasped and doubled up, unconscious, as the man slid the locket from her lap. She crumpled up while he made no attempt at all to