The Sacred Weapon: A Tom Wagner Adventure

by Roberts, M. C.

  Tom yelled at Cloutard and waved him over, “If you want to get out of here alive, stick with me!”

  Tom’s gut told him that Cloutard had now become his only ally. He fired another volley at the guards to give Cloutard cover, and Cloutard, ducking, ran to Tom. The two guards above had started shooting, too; the hail of bullets missed Cloutard by a whisker. Now both of them were covering behind the massive column. A stream of bullets slammed into the marble next to their heads.

  “You’re all fired!” Cloutard yelled at his guards. “This is Lasser marble. I had it shipped specially from Vinschger Nördersberg in South Tyrol. These columns are priceless, you bande d’abrutis!”

  Tom grinned and swapped the magazine on the machine pistol. There were two magazines, duct-taped together to allow for quick reloading. He returned fire, alternating between shooting upwards and toward the entrance, where the guards were edging closer. Then the gun ran out of ammo. Tom threw it aside, reached behind his back and pulled the pistol out of his waistband. He tugged on Cloutard’s pajama sleeve.

  “Where do you keep your chopper?” Tom asked in a whisper.

  “In the courtyard,” Cloutard replied in a tone that implied “Where else?” “Follow me!”

  By now, Cloutard had also understood that Tom was the only one on his side; he ducked and ran as Tom fired two shots to cover their departure. Cloutard left the ground floor on the inland side of the fortress and ran along a corridor that led to a steep, narrow staircase. Tom kept firing over his shoulder at the pursuing guards. Moments later, he and Cloutard were standing in the fortress courtyard, where the helicopter sat waiting. The guard stationed by the machine immediately turned his attention, and his gun, toward the approaching fugitives, but lowered the weapon again when he recognized Cloutard. The news that Cloutard was now the enemy had not yet reached him. But Tom wasn’t about to wait: he took the man down with a well-aimed bullet to the leg. Cloutard jumped into the cockpit to initiate the start sequence while Tom covered the entrances to the courtyard, from which several guards would come charging at any moment. Slowly the rotor blades began to turn, and Tom circled around the helicopter to climb in on the other side.

  “Get us out of here, Cloutard!” Tom cried over the deafening roar of the blades.

  Armed guards now appeared from all sides and opened fire on the helicopter as its skids left the ground. A whirlwind of sand enveloped the rising machine and the courtyard, leaving the guards struggling. They fired wildly, unable to aim accurately, but several shots still slammed into the body of the helicopter, and the window on Tom’s side exploded into a thousand pieces. Tom returned fire.

  Ossana, too, was now standing in the courtyard, bent over and holding her hand in front of her face, watching the departing helicopter. The machine rose swiftly, and Cloutard turned it out to sea. A few moments later, they were out of range.

  Cloutard, furious, turned and glared at Tom. “Merde! What the hell is going on here—and who the hell are you? You’re no sensal, that much is crystal clear.”

  “The name’s Wagner, Tom Wagner. I’m with the Austrian task force Cobra. I don’t really know the first thing about art or antiques; I’m only here to find out who kidnapped my ex-girlfriend.”

  With a grin, Tom held out his hand to Cloutard.

  35

  In a helicopter over the Mediterranean Sea

  “An austrian antiterror unit? Ha-ha-ha . . .”

  Cloutard began to laugh out loud and shook his head repeatedly in disbelief. It seemed like an eternity before he got himself under control again. Then he turned to Tom and narrowed his eyes to slits. Now deadly serious, he asked, “What the devil were you doing with my lover in your bedroom”?

  Tom swallowed. “Honestly, I’m just glad I made it out of there alive.” He dabbed at his bloody face.

  Cloutard laughed again. “Well, at least I’m not the only one that bitch hurt. Sometimes she takes that whole S&M thing too far.”

  The two sat in silence for a few moments, until Cloutard could not keep it in any longer. “Why on earth would cette salope order my own guards to kill me and only take you prisoner? Merde!”

  “You’re asking the wrong guy. The first time I saw Ossana was at the auction. It was you who introduced her to me. And right now, I’m in no hurry to cross paths with her again.”

  “Well . . . maybe I believe you, maybe I don’t. The fact is, because of you, I have been hounded out of my own house, my former girlfriend ordered my guards to kill me, and those overpaid, ungrateful fils de putes seemed more than happy to try. Not only that, they reduced my home to rubble.” Cloutard was still stunned. “It seems more absurd every time I play it back in my mind.”

  Tom wondered for a moment whether he could trust Cloutard. The man was a criminal. Could he take the risk of telling him the whole story? With the exception of women, Tom was an excellent judge of character. He decided to entrust Cloutard with at least some of the story, for now.

  “All right. I’ll tell you what I know.”

  “Well, then. Out with it!”

  Cloutard gestured with his right hand in a clear invitation to Tom to begin. As concisely as possible, Tom summarized the events of the last few days: the hijacking, the tattooed symbol, the theft of the Holy Lance, the murder of the stewardess, the stolen artifacts, Hellen’s abduction, and his reasons for coming to Tunisia. The Frenchman listened attentively, making a face now and then, and raised his index finger questioningly when Tom concluded.

  “Monsieur Wagner, this all sounds like something out of a Dan Brown thriller. But where do I fit in? I don’t seem to enter your story until the end.” Cloutard looked searchingly at Tom.

  Tom shook his head. Cloutard, too, had managed to mispronounce his name. Although, with a French accent, it brought a smile even to Tom’s face. He refrained from correcting the pronunciation.

  “I first heard your name when one of the hijackers mentioned it. He was in the toilet on the plane, talking to someone on the phone.”

  “Qu’est-ce qu’il y a?” Cloutard said, turning pale. “What is going on?” But Tom thought he saw a ghost of a smile cross Cloutard’s face . . . although he might have been mistaken.

  “Okay, Cloutard. I’ve bared my soul and told you my side of the story. I still can’t make much sense of what’s happened in the last few days, but maybe you can shed some light on it.”

  Cloutard nodded. “I don’t know why, Mr. Wagner, but I trust you. I like you, even if you are a policeman. Right now, you and I are in the same boat—I beg your pardon: in the same helicopter. I can only assume you are not wearing a wire, and that we don’t presently have Interpol or the CIA listening in.” He glanced at Tom with a smile to make it clear he was joking, then went on, “I am a thief, a smuggler, a fence, a forger, a fraud and probably everything else that one can be in the international art scene. I was approached recently, and commissioned to acquire the shield and deliver it to a certain location.”

  “Who approached you?” Tom’s interest was aroused.

  “Like you, I have an excellent network. My contacts range from the Cosa Nostra to the Vatican, from the Russian mafia to the Triads, and from pharmaceutical lobbyists to a number of political parties. And I tell you this openly: I have no idea who the client is, no idea who was really behind the people who approached me. Even my contacts could not help me find that out.”

  Tom raised an eyebrow. “Sounds mysterious. I hope you’re not going to start talking about the Illuminati or some other conspiracy theory crap.”

  “Not at all, I assure you. These are not some devil-worshipping crazies who rip the hearts out of human sacrifices at black masses, nor are they insane billionaires planning to rule the world. And that is precisely why all sides are rather circumspect. Believe me, when the Russians and the Italians speak about a competitor with respect, then something is most certainly going on.”

  “You said you had to hand over the shield. Have you really done that? And if so, where?”


  Cloutard turned around and opened a beautifully crafted wooden box mounted behind his pilot’s seat. Inside it, Tom saw yet another bottle of cognac and two lead-crystal snifters. Cloutard removed the bottle, opened it and poured a generous amount into each glass. He handed one of the snifters to Tom, then replaced the bottle in its case.

  “This is Hennessy Louis XIII, among the finest and most exquisite cognacs you will find anywhere in the world. I rarely share my cognac, you should know. But somehow I think you and I, one way or another, are going to be spending a lot of time together. For now, we should trust one another. Let us drink to that, and then I will answer your questions and even tell you one or two things that I am sure will be of interest to you.”

  Tom raised his eyebrows in surprise and the two men touched glasses. The chime of the elegant glasses amidst the helicopter noise and the smell of engine oil and both men’s sweat gave the proceedings an absurdly formal touch. Both took a generous mouthful and let the pleasurable warmth of the golden liquid take effect.

  “I love single-malt whiskies myself,” Tom said. “I’ve never been much of a cognac man, but this isn’t bad at all,” he conceded appreciatively.

  He looked at Cloutard, but did not urge him to go on. He respected the trust the Frenchman seemed to have in him. Cloutard was a crook, but he was a crook with dignity and style.

  “Immediately after the auction, I took the shield to the agreed handover point, a villa on Lake Como.” Cloutard nipped at his cognac and went on. “I did not see very much there, but I did observe two things I am sure you will be pleased to hear about.”

  “And they would be . . . ?”

  “Madame de Mey of UNESCO was in the house. Is she the ex-girlfriend you spoke of?”

  Tom gaped, unable to say a word.

  “I was able to look into one of the rooms, and it was there that I recognized her. I think she was unconscious, but I believe she is well. I thought no more about it. In my trade, I have learned to mind my own business.”

  Tom was confused. “What do you mean?”

  “It is only your story that has made me realize that Madame de Mey is being kept there against her will. It was you who told me about her abduction.” Cloutard paused to weigh his next words, then asked, “Are you one hundred percent certain she is not part of this? Are you sure she was not . . . pretending . . . when you saw her in Switzerland?”

  Tom and Hellen saw so many matters differently, and she had often done things that had made him furious, but the idea that she would lie to him? Impossible.

  “No. No, definitely not. Not Hellen. I’d stake my life on it.”

  Cloutard shrugged and decided not to pursue the point.

  “The other thing I noticed is that the artifacts so recently stolen are also being stored in that house. All of them. If you get Hellen, you’ll also get the artifacts,” Cloutard said.

  “You mean the stolen relics are hidden there?” Tom’s enthusiasm was palpable. “I have to get there as soon as possible.”

  It occurred to Tom that this could be a trap, and that Cloutard was only trying to get his own head out of the noose. He had to keep that possibility in mind, of course.

  “And what will you do when you arrive?” Cloutard asked. “They have half an army there. And to my chagrin, I must confess that the men I saw there all looked far more determined and professional than my own security guards, whom you had the pleasure of meeting earlier.”

  Tom finished his drink. He grinned broadly. His spirits and his motivation were back. In his head he was already working on a plan to free Hellen and retrieve the artifacts for Blue Shield.

  “I’ll come up with something.”

  36

  Villa on Lake Como, Italy

  Hellen had been moved back to her room, and she was certain that guards had now been posted outside her door. She could forget about getting out of there on her own. As much as she hated it, she would have to rely on Tom. They had their differences, certainly, but he would not rest until he had found her and freed her. She was slightly disgusted at herself to admit that the thought of Tom felt good. She quickly banished the idea from her mind and blamed it on her present situation. She couldn’t follow it any further anyway: the door opened and her captor entered, holding a large, ancient book in his hands. Finally, Hellen would find out why she was being held captive.

  “You and me, we have a lot in common.” Guerra’s voice sounded neutral, almost indifferent.

  “I doubt that,” said Hellen, defiant.

  “No, really.” Guerra spoke patiently, as if to a child who doesn’t understand a math problem. “For some time now, we have both been searching for something of great value.” Guerra spoke very quietly now, almost whispering, and he watched Hellen closely. Suddenly, she realized what he was talking about. “We have taken some of the hard work off your hands—you can save yourself a trip to Meteora. I already have what was there to find.”

  Guerra tossed the old book onto the table in front of Hellen. The thick tome slammed loudly, startling her. She looked at the book. With a gesture, Guerra indicated that it was now her job.

  “Take a look, be my guest.”

  Hellen opened the book carefully and looked at the title page in astonishment.

  “The Chronicle of the Morea”? She glanced at the first pages. “This is a . . . an unknown version of the Chronicle of the Morea!”

  Hellen forgot for a moment that she was facing her kidnapper and that she was his captive. Her scientist’s heart somersaulted for joy.

  “I see you know what we’re dealing with,” Guerra said. “From the information I have, the solution is in there. The book contains the clues to where it is, and you’re the one to find them. Get to work.”

  He turned away without another word and the door closed behind him. Hellen heard the lock click and something being pushed in front of the door. She looked down at the book. Her mind was racing, as was her heart. Could it be? Could her abductor really be right, that this book held the clues she had been seeking for so long? And another problem—how could she use this information to help herself, and prevent it from aiding her captor? One step at a time. First, you need to find the clues, she thought. But the book was massive. She had a lot of work ahead of her. She pulled a chair over to the table, turned the pages and began to read.

  37

  In a helicopter over the Mediterranean Sea

  “How far will this thing take us? What kind of range does it have? I need to get to Como as fast as I can.” Tom was chafing at the bit.

  “Calme-toi. The helicopter was fully fueled. If Italy is our destination, we can get as far as Rome. It is a good choice, because I have to go to Italy myself. I need to get to my safe house there and work out how I can deal with Ossana. I also have to find out how far she has infiltrated my network. Someone sent her after me and slipped her into my organization. I need to know exactly what she’s up to and where she’s been planting her seeds. We can land near Rome; I just have to make a couple radio calls to members of the family there.”

  Cloutard emphasized the word “family,” and Tom understood at once what he meant. He had to squint to see the instruments in the cockpit. The bright morning sun that had risen over Sardinia an hour earlier was dazzling.

  “All right. Rome is a big help. I’ll take a train north and get to Como from Milan or Bergamo.”

  Cloutard made contact with the “family” by radio, and launched into a loud discussion in Italian with the other side. Tom decided to update Palffy. He tapped a short SMS into his phone, limiting himself to the highlights and deliberately omitting the fact that he had—at least temporarily—joined forces with an international criminal. He mentioned the lead to the artifacts, that he was on his way to Rome and would continue to Como from there. He pressed send, but the message did not go through: over the open sea, he had no phone connection. It didn’t matter. He typed a second message, this one to Noah. Both messages would go out as soon as they were back on land, Tom thoug
ht, and put his cell phone away. Cloutard switched off the radio.

  “It seems my network is at least partially intact,” Cloutard said. “We now have coordinates for a landing site. My Italian friends will be there when we arrive and will help us. They will ensure you get to Como and that I . . . well, that I get to my safe house.”

  Tom nodded. Teaming up with Cloutard, and now the Mafia . . . the end justifies the means, he told himself. But he could never tell Hellen about it, and God forbid that Maierhofer should ever find out. Another bawling out was the last thing he wanted.

  “We can land in the woods near Castel di Decima. That is about fifteen miles from Rome.”

  “I’m grateful for everything, Monsieur Cloutard. I’m a police officer, it’s true, but I also sense you’re not an evil man. You may steal works of art, but I can turn a blind eye to that. Still, I’m not sure I should be hoping that your criminal organization is still intact.”

  Both men laughed. They shook hands, both feeling the beginnings of a very unusual bond of friendship.

  Cloutard pointed ahead and joked, “Land ho. We’ll descend a little and prepare to set down.”

  Only now did Tom realize Cloutard was still in his pajamas. He was already imagining the looks of the hard-nosed Mafiosi when a crazy, mustachioed Frenchman climbed out of the helicopter in Louis Vuitton silk pajamas, with a cognac glass in his hand.

  They crossed a narrow strip of beach and found themselves cruising over a forest. After a few minutes flying low over the treetops, Cloutard eased back on the throttle and pointed to a three-hundred-foot-wide clearing that appeared before them.

  “Our landing area.”

  From a road a quarter of a mile away, they saw two off-road vehicles turn into the meadow and head for the field where they would land.

  “The cavalry’s on its way,” Tom said.