In front of him, a light turned red. The intersection was still empty and Tom floored the gas pedal once again. The Mustang certainly had some years on it, but the 400+ horsepower under its hood pressed him back into his seat, putting some distance between him and the BMW.
But not for long. The BMW driver also saw that he now had a clear lane, and faster than Tom could think, he was on his bumper again. More bullets flew. Windows shattered and Tom banged his forehead on the steering wheel when he reflexively leaned forward and down as far as he could go. An idea came to him: the Ringstrasse—Vienna’s grandest boulevard, on which almost all the major sights of the former imperial city stood—was closed to traffic today. At the next intersection he could swing right, against the flow of traffic, and shake off his pursuers.
A few seconds later, Tom slammed on the brakes as hard as he could, straining the Mustang’s chassis to its limits. He hauled on the handbrake with his right hand while his left swung the wheel to the right. At the same time, he floored the gas pedal. The car slowed so fast that it felt to Tom almost as if he’d thrown out an anchor. For the first time, all the driver training he’d had was finally paying off.
Tires squealing and smoking on the asphalt, Tom drifted onto the Ringstrasse at nearly sixty miles an hour. Seconds later, motor howling, he raced past the Vienna stock market, the university and the Burgtheater.
He glanced in the mirror. The BMW was nowhere to be seen. Tom sighed with relief. He planned to turn into one of the side streets as quickly as possible, throwing the BMW off his tail once and for all—especially because he had no idea how far the street was closed off, or how much longer he could keep up this speed driving the wrong way on a one-way street through the heart of Vienna.
But Tom’s relief did not last long. The BMW reappeared in the side mirror, and Tom was instantly certain of one thing: the BMW was far more powerful than he’d supposed. His Mustang pulled four hundred goddamned horses! What kind of beast were they driving? Because whatever it was, it was catching up way too fast.
But that was far from Tom’s biggest problem. Ahead, he saw that he was racing at full speed toward the end of the closed-off section, and thousands of people were already gathered on the far side of the barriers, waiting for the charity race to start. The BMW was almost on him, and he had very few options left. Turning right was out of the question now: hundreds of spectators were already lining the street on that side. Turning left would lead him, in less than a hundred yards, to the Kärntner Strasse—Vienna’s main shopping drag, a pedestrian zone swarming with tourists and Viennese alike. He was stuck between shitty and shittier.
The BMW took the choice out of his hands. The driver drew level on his right, then swung hard, ramming the Mustang and sending it skidding to the left. Tom had no choice: he roared into the pedestrian zone at high speed.
The first group that was forced to jump for their lives was a handful of tourists, who had just purchased the obligatory Sacher torte and had left the eponymous hotel not a minute earlier. The cake, presumably, did not survive their panic-stricken leap.
Tom swerved left and right, honking frantically, mowing down trash cans, street signs, advertising boards, tables, chairs and the umbrellas of sidewalk cafés. By some miracle, he managed not to injure anybody.
More shots rang out, reverberating loudly through the canyons between the buildings. Apart from the Mustang and the BMW, there were no other vehicles at all, which only amplified the howl of the engines and the sound of the gunshots. Although the bullets were whistling past Tom’s head, they had one benefit: the noise of the gunshots was helping to clear the street ahead of him.
Unfortunately, Tom knew there was no way to clear the square at Stephansplatz, which lay just ahead. Every day, thousands of tourists flocked to Vienna’s biggest, most impressive landmark, St. Stephen’s Cathedral. The square was always jammed with people.
Tom’s desperation continued to grow. He could see no way out; the BMW would force his Mustang into the crowd. He had to make a decision—and he chose to slam on the brakes. This happened to be exactly what the BMW driver hadn’t counted on. Now Tom, at least for a moment, had the upper hand. Just before the BMW slammed into the rear of the Mustang again, Tom whipped the wheel around. People scattered, and the car swung around ninety degrees, crashing with its left side against the wall of a construction trailer beside the cathedral. The BMW roared past, tires screeching, just missing the Mustang.
Tom’s car slid a little farther and smashed head-on into the projecting corner of the cathedral’s south tower. The force of the impact turned the car clear of the edifice, and it rolled to a stop a moment later.
Tom threw his head back and took a deep breath, but he knew it wasn’t over yet. He needed his pistol now, but it had slipped under the passenger seat during the chase. He unclipped his seatbelt, leaned down quickly and began feeling beneath the seat for the gun. The few seconds before his hand touched the cold metal felt like hours. Finding the pistol, he snatched it from under the seat and straightened up, just in time to see a fist coming at him. A half-second later it slammed into his left temple and everything went black.
9
Meteora Monastery, Greece
In the parking lot, Ossana Ibori swung her leg over the back of her motorbike and dismounted. She was a woman with little use for sentiment, and not much in her life impressed her. But the view of the Meteora monoliths, columns of stone soaring upwards, the almost menacing drifts of fog suspended between them and the monastery complexes on their summits—this commanded respect even from her. There had been a time when the only way to reach the monasteries had been rope ladders hundreds of feet high, and many monks had paid with their lives for the path of contemplation. The monasteries had also served as a backdrop for many Hollywood productions.
The monasteries presided over the landscape with breathtaking majesty. Several buildings stood on the individual summits. Some were nothing more than ruins; others were abandoned and uninhabited. Only a handful were still intact and accessible to tourists—without the rope ladders, of course.
Ossana glanced at the key she had taken from the old priest in Glastonbury. She knew exactly what her next step was. She grabbed her backpack, which held an FN P90 machine pistol, slung it over her shoulder, and strode confidently past the crowds of tourists who had been pouring from the buses strewn across the parking lot since early in the morning. She bought a ticket and entered the monastery.
Ossana had memorized her route precisely. She quickly left the usual route that led through the monastery and exhibition rooms. She swung a leg over one of the typical museum-style rope barriers and took the stairs down to the secret monastery library, where rare and valuable books, scrolls and manuscripts had been collected since the first hermitage had been built there in the 11th century. Without hesitation, she pushed open the old wooden door that marked the entrance to the library. Its creaking caused two monks working in the library to look up in surprise.
Ossana barely broke her stride: she slid the machine pistol out of the backpack and shot down the two monks with a brief salvo. She didn’t care if anyone heard the shots. By the time the Greek police arrived, she’d be miles away. She scanned the library and immediately saw what she was looking for: a shelf upon which all the books were bound in red. Two steps brought her to it, and she pushed five identical-looking books two inches back. Part of the shelf slid aside, revealing a tabernacle crafted from solid mahogany with gold inlays.
Ossana slipped the key from inside her jacket and opened the shrine, then carefully removed the book lying inside. She slid it into a large plastic bag and stowed it in her backpack, along with the machine pistol—she would not be needing it again soon, she was certain. She left the library without a backward glance, climbed the stairway and slipped in among a guided group of tourists. As the tour continued, she noticed a ripple of unrest moving through the monks. Someone had discovered her handiwork in the library. More and more monks streamed past, th
eir agitation palpable.
The tour came to an end, and Ossana exited the monastery with the rest of the group. As she mounted her motorbike she could see the flashing blue lights of police cars down in the valley, on their way to the monastery. Just then, the fog cleared and the sun broke through. Ossana smiled, as if it were a sign from above. She started the engine and calmly rode away with the book.
10
Stephansplatz, Vienna
When Tom came to, his skull was pounding.
“Holy shit, Wagner, have you completely lost your mind?” a harsh voice snarled. Tom looked around in confusion. He was lying on a gurney at the rear of an ambulance that had pulled up a few yards from his Mustang. Firefighters, paramedics, and a horde of cops surrounded him, all trying to clear the scene and reopen it to the public.
The area around St. Stephen’s Cathedral had been sealed off, and most of the police officers were busy trying to explain to angry tourists from Italy and Japan that they would not be visiting the cathedral that day.
Tom recognized the cop who had just snarled at him. He’d had an unpleasant run-in with him on an earlier assignment. He was dead weight, a hack who had moved up in the department by brown-nosing his superiors his entire career; he had never seen any action “at the front”. On top of that, he’d mispronounced Tom’s name.
Tom sat up on the gurney and glared at the cop. “Me? Lost my mind? Go ask the guys who were just shooting at me!”
“Pity they missed. Then we wouldn’t have this mess to clean up.” The officer was getting louder.
“Sorry, did you hear what I said? Someone tried to kill me! I don’t even know what those psychopaths wanted.”
Tom paused and got to his feet. He stalked over to his Mustang, jerked open the door and searched through it.
“What are you doing now? What the hell are you looking for?”
Tom cursed. “They’ve got the iPhone. They’ve got the damn phone! All this for a fucking phone?”
“What are you talking about? Who’s got your iPhone?”
“They totaled my Mustang for a goddamned phone!” Tom raged.
“Aw, your Mustang got a boo-boo,” goaded the cop. He looked at the other officers around them, who only shook their heads. “You turn Kärntner Strasse into a war zone and crash into St. Stephen’s, and all you’re worried about is your damn car? Wagner, seriously, I don’t know why you still have a badge.”
Again, he had mispronounced Tom’s name
11
Cobra Task Force HQ, south Vienna
“Bravo! You’ve outdone yourself this time, Wagner.”
Tom hadn’t even stepped out of the elevator, and it was already raining spite and mocking applause.
“We know you’re bored, but did you really have to ram the cathedral?”
The expressions on the faces around him ranged from disbelief to scorn to downright disgust—the entire range of reactions from a team where you don’t quite fit in. He looked around at the large, bleak room with its familiar desks, filing cabinets and office equipment. Air-conditioned air, ringing telephones, squeaking office chairs, the normal hustle and bustle of headquarters. He shook his head. He didn’t belong here. From the beginning, Tom had been an outsider. He had no problem being a loner; it suited his temperament, and most of the time he didn’t give a damn what his colleagues thought about him. But in moments like this, he realized once again just how out of place he was.
It wasn’t just that he didn’t get along with his colleagues; it wasn’t even that they made it crystal clear to him that he didn’t belong. Most of all, they didn’t understand what drove him. No one seemed to understand that he genuinely wanted to make the world a slightly better place.
This had led to heated discussions more than once. Most of his colleagues saw what they did as a job, like any other. Oh, sure, they did their work with enthusiasm and idealism—they had to, considering the salary—but no one understood Tom’s deeper motivation. None of them had lost their parents to war or terrorism. None of them wanted as much as he did to put their skills to work to actually change anything. And not a single one of them found the day-to-day work as tedious as Tom did. Again and again, this tedium had led to Tom to make spur-of-the-moment decisions in the field—sometimes risky, overconfident decisions—antagonizing both his colleagues and his superiors.
Tom was on the way to suit up when he spotted Noah. Every time he saw his old friend in the wheelchair, a cold chill ran down his spine. He gave Noah a pained smile.
“You okay? I just heard,” Noah said.
Tom nodded. “I’m fine. The Mustang’s a wreck and the phone’s gone. But we got cut off just when you were about to tell me the name of the guy at the airport.”
“Jacinto Guerra. Spanish. Unfortunately, that’s all I know.”
Tom nodded gratefully and clapped Noah on the shoulder. “Stay on it, please.”
“The investigation’s already in full swing anyway, but we’ve gotten nothing out of the hijackers from yesterday yet,” said Noah, a little resignation creeping into his voice. “Any idea what that was about today?”
“The phone from the plane. After I ran into the cathedral and they knocked me out and took the phone,” said Tom. “By the way, one of the hijackers had the same tattoo as Guerra.”
Noah’s eyes widened. “What? The same tat . . . man, Tom, what hornet’s nest have you been throwing rocks at now?”
“I’m going to have a chat with those two guys personally. Maybe they know something about Guerra.”
“Count yourself lucky Maierhof’s not here. Your rescue ‘strategy’ yesterday wasn’t exactly by the book. You were being impulsive and reckless again.”
“But it all worked out, right? There wasn’t one moment when I didn’t have the situation under control,” Tom said defensively.
“Yeah, right. You’ve got more luck than brains, you know that? You’re good. Very good, even. But if you keep playing by your own rules, it isn’t going to do you any good in the long run. Nobody’s that good. The boss will always be on your case, and one day you’re going to fall flat on your face.” Noah picked up a file lying on his lap and handed it to Tom. “Here. Today’s briefing.”
Tom opened the file, leafed through the contents, and rolled his eyes. “Personal security. Another conference in the Hofburg. Oh, joy. Could it get any duller?” Tom could not think of a single situation in recent years in which his presence had really been necessary. He knew, of course, how important it was that politicians, industry heads and such were safe in Vienna. He even knew how threatened those people were in this day and age, but it didn’t change how he felt. Walking next to some VIP and making sure they didn’t stumble or get jostled or get food thrown at them was not high on his list of favorite things to do.
“When are you finally going to get it?” Noah said. “Your job here is to do a solid and very important job—one that, most days, does not make the headlines. You’re not James Bond, and the job’s not about breaking into fortresses or swapping bullets with terrorists every day. You’re not disarming nuclear bombs like Jack Bauer. And you’re not one man fighting some unknown evil, like Jason Bourne, or foiling assassination attempts on the US president or the Pope. Your initials aren’t even J.B., they’re T.W.” Noah laughed at his little joke, but Tom wasn’t impressed. “You’ll have to save the world next week, Tom. All you get to do today is look after a few semi-important folks from UNESCO,” he said with a smile.
Tom started at the mention of UNESCO. His thoughts began to race, and he shook his head. No, it couldn’t be. The chances were slim. On any given day, countless conferences involving all kinds of UNESCO organizations took place. Fate wouldn’t do this to him.
“All right. Get to it.” Noah clapped Tom on the shoulder, and Tom went into the locker room. He pulled on his spare uniform, the usual dark gray, and a fresh shirt that he always kept in his locker for emergencies. As always, he wore a bulletproof vest beneath the shirt. Noah rolled in behind him
.
“I’m going to pay our two hijackers a little visit.” Tom narrowed his eyes.
Noah sighed audibly. “Do me a favor and stick to the rules. We’re not the CIA, and this isn’t Guantanamo. You can’t go waterboarding them in the hospital.”
Tom looked Noah in the eye as he spoke, wanting to give his words the necessary emphasis. “I got shot at today, and a lot of people had their lives put in danger. It’s a miracle no one was seriously injured by a flying bullet—or a flying car. And everything, apparently, is tied to that tattoo, and to my parents’ killer. I’m not going to go easy on them in there.”
Noah, unimpressed, just looked at him reproachfully. Tom checked the rest of his equipment: pistol, spare magazines, ID and communications gear.
He raised his hands appeasingly. “Okay, okay. I promise I’ll behave myself. I’ll be nice. Scout’s honor.”
12
Vienna General Hospital
Tom stepped out of the elevator on the twenty-second floor. To the right of the elevator was a nondescript door with a sign reading “No Entry.” The door led to a private wing of the hospital, to which normal patients and visitors had no access. Vienna General Hospital was located on a sixty-acre site; it was home to twenty-five different university clinics on twenty-two floors, with over 1,700 patient beds. No surprise, then, that some parts of the hospital were for patients who needed a little more than just medical attention—usually injured criminals and other offenders.
The Sacred Weapon: A Tom Wagner Adventure Page 4