by D C Macey
Simon was on the ground, only a couple of metres away from her, one guard grappling with his arms; another, standing over him, had managed to land one kick to the ribs and was trying to line up the head kick that would take Simon out of the equation. Beside them on the floor, Sam and Robertson wrestled for supremacy. Sam had taken several heavy blows before Simon had joined him to share the burden but those blows and the damaged ligaments in his shoulder had weakened Sam, enabling the bigger man to work himself into a dominant position.
Robertson’s forearm slipped round to the front of Sam’s neck. His other arm locked against it. Sam was choking. With his good arm trapped behind him, only his ligament damaged side could resist and to little effect. If Sam didn’t suffocate, his neck would snap.
Helen crossed the gap between them in just a moment and used all her strength to bring the pistol’s handle down on the giant’s head. He seemed startled by the blow but did not release Sam; instead, he tightened his neck lock.
‘I’m guessing you don’t have what it takes to use that pistol,’ said Robertson as he applied a little more torque on Sam’s neck. He leered at Helen. ‘Him first, then I’m coming for you. Better run while you still can.’
In a single flowing movement, she pressed the muzzle of the pistol against the taught bulging muscle of Robertson’s upper arm, and carefully angling the aim away from Sam’s neck, she pulled the trigger. The shot filled the chamber with a roar that swept away all the sounds of fighting.
Robertson bellowed in pain. His arm turned blood red and his upper arm bone shattered into fragments as it stopped the bullet. He rolled back, the arm flopped, now just a useless leaking bag of flesh and broken bone. Helen ignored the screaming man. He had guessed wrong.
Sam gasped for air, clutching at his throat. Simon and the other two guards stopped for a moment to assess what the shot meant. As Helen brought the pistol to bear on them, the guards realised at once. They glanced at Robertson and any thoughts of testing Helen’s nerve were dispelled. Raising their arms, they backed away from Simon.
Sam pulled himself to his feet, rubbing his throat; then shifted his hand to rest it on Helen’s shoulder. ‘Thanks, that was getting a bit hairy.’
‘You’re welcome,’ said Helen and she handed Sam the pistol. ‘What now?’
As Simon pushed the two standing guards on to the ground, Sam weighed their options.
He looked down at Robertson, then at the other two sitting beside him; they were making no attempt to help their wounded comrade. The fourth guard had come to and was gingerly sitting up. In the middle of the chamber, Parsol and Cassiter were standing now, both faces loaded with fury.
‘We need to get Nick some treatment right away,’ said Sam. ‘I’m afraid we are going to have to retreat.’
‘That means we’ll leave this lot with your treasure,’ said Simon.
‘Well, there’s no choice unless we shoot them,’ said Sam.
‘So shoot them,’ said Simon. ‘They were going to shoot us.’
‘We won’t shoot anyone - unless we have to,’ said Helen. ‘Sam’s right, we must put Nick first.’
Simon shrugged towards Sam. ‘It’s your call. Just sticks in the throat, that’s all.’
‘Yes, it’s my call. We’re not stooping to their level. Simon, I want you to help Helen get Nick back along the tunnel. I’ll stay here with the gun to give you a head start. Then I’ll follow you.’ Sam moved closer to Helen and whispered. ‘Ten minutes, no more. I can’t keep all of these covered for too long before they begin to think it’s worth chancing their luck.’
‘So let them live,’ said Simon, ‘but at least let me stay here to cover them, you and Helen get the boy out of here.’
‘My shoulder is out of action. I couldn’t manage to get Nick through the tunnels.’
Simon looked at Sam for a moment then nodded acceptance of the obvious. ‘Fine, let’s do it then.’
‘You’ll need your pistol, Simon. I would bet they have posted guards at the tunnel entrance.’
Simon nodded a curt agreement and retrieved his weapon, shoved it in its holster. Then, to the slightest of groans from a semi-conscious Nick, Simon lifted him up.
Helen rested her hand on Sam’s forearm for a moment; she glanced at the men ranged in front of them and went quickly to help Simon move Nick. ‘We can’t do anything for him here so I think speed is the answer,’ she said and they hurried away down the tunnel.
• • •
Sam reckoned the others had been away for around ten minutes; it was hard to tell for certain. Blood was trickling down his forehead. Though he kept wiping his eyes, his vision was being repeatedly obscured. He knew that his captors knew too, could see glances being exchanged. He felt trouble brewing. ‘Stay where you are,’ he snapped.
As Sam again wiped the back of his pistol hand over his eyes, shifting the blood away, a rapid movement in the room was followed by instant darkness. Cassiter had thrown himself on to the lantern torch and killed the power and at the same moment, one of the guards went for Parsol’s pistol that lay unattended across the floor on the far side of the chamber.
Crouching down at the mouth of the tunnel Sam’s gaze cast about through the darkness. He listened acutely for any sound. Nothing, silent, black; now it was a hunting game.
Then he heard a sound, but not from where he had expected; it came from the tunnel behind him, approaching fast. His heart sank; it could only mean Parsol and Cassiter had posted guards at the exit. They must have taken Helen, Simon too. He weighed up his chances, not good - between a rock and a hard place.
Suddenly a distant light flickered behind him, streaking past him into the chamber, silhouetting him in the tunnel mouth. He was a sitting duck. As he threw himself to one side, a pistol flashed and roared in the darkness. He gasped in pain as his damaged shoulder took a bullet and another shot ricocheted off the wall beside his head. Then he was into the dark shadows, crawling away towards the wall. His weapon dropped.
Parsol’s voice filled the cavern. ‘Here comes the back-up, men. Let’s get the light on and finish Cameron off once and for all. Cassiter, where are you?’
Cassiter switched the lantern torch back on. The room flooded with light again, revealing Sam, propped up against the far wall.
‘I’m here. Situation recovered,’ said Cassiter.
Parsol stooped to lift the pistol Sam had dropped.
‘Yes. But Cassiter, that church girl. It’s not enough now that she dies. She must be punished; she has to suffer in every way you can imagine. I want to hear her praying, begging her God for death, long before it comes. Can you oblige?’
‘It will be my pleasure,’ said Cassiter, as he and the guards got to their feet.
Parsol brought his pistol to bear on Sam. As he refined his aim, a shot rang out from the tunnel. For a moment, Cassiter and the guards assumed Parsol had fired at Sam. But as Parsol suddenly swung his pistol and fired into the tunnel they realised they were under attack. Parsol fired two shots. They heard cries; he had hit somebody, for sure. But shots continued to come out from the tunnel mouth, lots of them.
Immobile, Sam watched as the guard with a loaded weapon started firing into the tunnel. But the return fire was rapid, overwhelming and moving closer. ‘Let’s go,’ shouted Parsol as he headed for the opposite end of the chamber and the sanctuary of its tunnel mouth. Cassiter joined him, together with Robertson and the other guards. As they entered the tunnel, Parsol handed his pistol to one of the guards then shouted at him and the guard with the other loaded gun. ‘You two, cover the retreat. Hold them off.’
A few metres into the tunnel the armed guards turned and knelt. Raising their guns, they started to fire back into the cavern at the onrushing men.
Sam blinked, peering through dazed and blood drenched eyes, fighting to remain conscious. Where was Helen? Who were these men entering the cavern? Six, eight, ten and more, they spread out and moved through the cavern while maintaining a steady rate of fire into the tunne
l at the far end. One man went down, and another, but still they advanced. Only serious training and discipline produced this sort of behaviour. A scream from the tunnel signalled one of Parsol’s men was down and the newly arrived attackers continued their assault, four of them disappearing into the tunnel in hot pursuit. One took up station at the tunnel mouth and the others paused to tend the wounded and secure the scene.
Sam tried to speak to the man who was approaching him, but found his mouth was too dry, he couldn’t form the words. So he just looked, wondering if he was to get a bullet or a bandage. The man loomed over him; just as Sam had given up worrying about the answer, the man was pulled aside and in his stead stood Helen.
She knelt beside Sam, checked his wounds. Pulling open a medical kit, she began to patch him up while delivering a normalising stream of chatter. ‘You’re going to need the hospital, Sam. There’s a bullet in your shoulder. Just a flesh wound I think, you’ll be fine.’
The sound of sporadic gunfire continued to emerge from the tunnel, but it was more distant now.
As she tended to his reopened head wound, Sam registered another figure in the background. He looked again but his vision was obscured by a wet swab wiping across his forehead and eyes. ‘You’ll need more stitches there,’ said Helen, leaning in to look closely before wiping the wound again. ‘You’ll be okay though. No long-term harm to your looks.’ He felt a light kiss on his cheek, and then a gentle pressure as a pad landed on his injured head. ‘Hold that in place for a moment while I sort out the fixing,’ she said.
He complied and a couple of minutes later she finished the dressing, rocked back on her heels to take a look at the whole. ‘You’ll live,’ she announced. ‘Just be careful who you play with next time. I’ve warned you about the bad boys before.’
She helped him take a mouthful of water then leant forward and placed a firm kiss on his lips before making a start on dressing his shoulder wound.
‘What’s going on? Who are all these people, where’s Simon and Nick?’
She looked into Sam’s eyes and gave him a reassuring smile. ‘Everything’s all right, I think. Nick’s been taken down to the doctor, Simon’s gone with him.’
‘What doctor?’ said Sam.
‘The doctor, down on the cruiser. They’ve got all the kit, I’m sure he’ll be fine.’
Sam’s head ached. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Apparently, Francis blabbed to the Pope’s boys.’
‘He did what? How? When? Come on Helen, get me up to speed.’
‘I’ve told you, Francis sneaked on us in Rome, but it doesn’t matter; if he hadn’t we’d all be dead by now.’ There was a glint in Helen’s eye. Whatever was happening, she clearly wasn’t worried, didn’t feel threatened; he relaxed a little.
• • •
The shadowy figure he had seen previously reappeared behind Helen. This time it didn’t vanish. It knelt beside Sam.
‘Might I assume you are Sam Cameron, the urh, friend, of the Reverend Helen Johnson?’ said the man.
Sam looked at him. ‘I am and who’s asking?’
‘I am Monsignor Acciai, a most humble member of the Papal Curia. Guided here today in the service of God.’
Sam snorted. His time in Italy had been spent mostly in the south but once or twice he had met members of the Papal Curia when they visited his university. He had yet to encounter a humble member.
Sam tried to sit up properly. ‘I don’t understand. Why are you here, how?’
‘Helen is correct in saying your friend Father Francis alerted us to the danger you faced. But let me assure you, he did not, how did you say? Blab? The Vatican authorities have been very concerned over what had happened to our priests in Sardinia recently. When it was realised Francis was their friend and had visited them on his way to Rome, naturally, we wanted his perspective and he was vigorously encouraged to explain. And, well, one thing led to another, and here we are.’
‘And thank Heaven you are,’ said Helen.
Sam grimaced with pain and struggled to rise. Helen and Monsignor Acciai reached out to help him to his feet just as the earth rocked.
It had started as a dull thud, only a little louder than the sound of the intermittent gunshots that still carried down the tunnel towards them. Then it had doubled and redoubled into a roar that filled their ears to bursting. A plume of smoke jetted out of the tunnel and filled the chamber. The force of the blast knocked all three into a heap and swept dust and debris past them and on into the tunnel beyond.
For what seemed a long time nobody moved. Then, one by one, torches appeared; pinpricks at first, then dull lights, gradually glowing stronger as the cloud of dust started to thin and settle. Italian voices called out to one another, a roll call of sorts.
Heralded by a fit of coughing, Helen fumbled to her knees. ‘Sam, are you okay?’ Relieved, she felt his hand give a reassuring squeeze to her hip. ‘Monsignor, are you unhurt?’
‘I am, thank God, and thanks for you both too. But what in the Lord’s name just happened?’
Sam coughed. The blast had stunned the others; for him it had swept away the fog that had been clouding his mind. ‘The whole place is rigged with explosives. Someone must have triggered the blast. Probably a stray bullet,’ he said.
The monsignor’s voice cracked a little. ‘My goodness. We must retreat. How did we survive? It’s a miracle.’
‘No miracle,’ said Sam. ‘We were just lucky. I’d cut the cables to the explosives in this chamber and further back, but that blast was probably not triggered by a regular ignition system. Just a stray shot setting off some of the explosives. Luckily the blast didn’t spark a chain reaction or the whole lot would have gone up.’
‘Hmmm. Perhaps you are right,’ said the monsignor. He broke off to stand up and fire instructions to his men. Through the clearing dust, two armed figures set off cautiously towards the source of the explosion.
Helen stood and then helped Sam up to his feet.
Sam watched as members of the strike force maintained its guard on the tunnel mouth, while others commenced the evacuation of the wounded.
Monsignor Acciai turned to Sam. ‘We are here to rescue you in the furtherance of God’s work. You will all be evacuated to our vessel. It is safe there. There you will meet my superior. His Eminence is very keen to speak with you all.’
‘You have a cardinal on your ship?’
‘I do. A very powerful cardinal. Very close to the Holy Father and very close to the Vatican Bank. I will say no more.’
‘And the treasure?’ said Sam.
‘We will ensure it is taken to safety.’
‘Which means?’
‘Taken to Rome, of course. It is the rightful property of the Catholic Church. The Templars were an organisation of the Church, founded by the Church, and ended by the Church. Therefore, any assets must naturally belong to the Church.’
‘Do we have any say in this?’ said Sam.
‘No. No say, but you do all live safe and free. For many that is enough.’
Helen put a hand on Sam’s arm, restraining him. ‘Sam, let’s not fight. We’re all alive and going home. Remember, we never wanted the treasure; we just wanted to end the killings. Let’s get down to the cruiser. Francis is there. He’ll be desperately worried.’
Sam bit his tongue. It felt like a rip off. But Helen had a point. They didn’t need the money and perhaps Monsignor Acciai had a point too. The Templars had been part of the Church of Rome. He nodded a begrudging acquiescence.
By some unspoken agreement, the trio stepped across to the gaping hole in the cavern wall.
‘Ladies first, I think,’ said Monsignor Acciai, bowing very slightly towards Helen and waving her forward to the hole.
She smiled and did not need a second prompt to look inside. ‘Oh… my… God,’ she said. ‘You are not going to believe it. Just have a look at this.’ She stepped back from the hole; smiling and beckoning them on, Monsignor Acciai waved Sam forward.
&
nbsp; ‘Go! Go look! You made it possible,’ he said, while beckoning to a couple of his men who had appeared equipped with hammers.
It took only a few minutes for the men to clear the false wall panel away completely. It then took real restraint not to just rush into the chamber. Having been sealed for over seven hundred years, Sam insisted they wait a little while to let the air inside exchange and freshen. Eventually, he gave a nod and they crowded in. Sam and Helen stood close to each other, he felt her hand slide into his, he squeezed gently, felt the same back.
The chamber was around two metres high, two metres wide and five metres long. Three shelves had been hewn out of the rock, tiered; each one set back a little from the one below. Horseshoe like, the shelves ran round three sides of the compartment. On the shelves were tightly packed rows of small iron bound wooden chests, each somewhat bigger than the size of a modern shoebox, but chunky and solid.
Monsignor Acciai waved Helen forward to open the first chest. She had seen one just like these before, in Switzerland. She lifted the lid from a chest; it took a little pressure, though she was careful not to damage the integrity of the ancient wood. The lid lifted and Helen saw a familiar sight, a row of little gold bars. From their position in the box, she knew there were more layers beneath. There was a collective intake of breath as the gold was revealed. She lifted one out; held it up for the men to see.
Monsignor Acciai reached out and took it, pressed it to his lips and muttered thanks to God. There were tears in his eyes as he looked round. ‘My friends, you do not know how important this is. You have saved the Church. The Vatican Bank has had its troubles in recent times, some public, others private, but all in all, we were very short on reserves. And this, praise God, this will save it for a hundred years, no, save it forever. His Eminence will be delighted!’
‘I think that’s code for, we were broke and now we’re not,’ whispered Sam into Helen’s ear.