The Sacred Weapon: A Tom Wagner Adventure

by Roberts, M. C.

  He pointed to the men now getting out of the SUVs. He was impressed at how quickly the “family” worked. Cloutard had now reduced his speed to zero, and the helicopter hovered above the clearing. He had just started to descend when Tom realized that the welcoming committee was not very welcoming at all. The men had automatic weapons aimed at the helicopter. The first shots came before Tom could even react. The helicopter was hit along one side and several shots damaged the main rotor.

  “Merde!” cried Cloutard, already trying to regain altitude. Shots were coming from both sides, and Tom had no idea how many bullets had hit them. He was just amazed that the crate didn’t explode under them.

  Cloutard turned the helicopter back over the forest, veering dangerously to the right. He had no idea where he was going, but they had to get out of the line of fire fast. But the helicopter was almost impossible to control; both the tail rotor and main rotor had been hit and were badly damaged. Dense smoke spewed from the engine. They made it another five hundred yards before the helicopter went down. It fell quickly, crashing through the trees, the branches and trunks reducing it gradually to spare parts.

  The fuselage slid across the ground with Cloutard and Tom inside, passing through a small stand of old pine trees and finally grinding to a halt beside a deserted country road. Quickly, they unfastened their seat belts and climbed out of the wreck. Cloutard had just enough time to rescue the cognac box from the helicopter before it exploded, and he and Tom immediately put some distance between themselves and the burning helicopter. A hundred yards away, they collapsed into the grass, both needing a few seconds to process what had just happened. Tom was back on his feet first.

  “We have to get out of here. They had SUVs—they’ll be here any minute. I’m not up for that right now.”

  Cloutard nodded. “Here’s where we go our separate ways. I have to make some calls. After this attack, I have no idea how much of my organization is left.”

  Tom shook Cloutard’s hand again, and they ran off in separate directions. Tom’s phone pinged; Noah’s help had come in the nick of time. The message to Palffy had also been sent.

  38

  Spinaceto, about ten miles south of Rome

  Tom had been running north for about fifteen minutes before he arrived in Spinaceto, an unprepossessing district on the outskirts of Rome. He had thrown away his linen shirt; it was covered in blood from the fight with Ossana. Fortunately, the T-shirt he’d been wearing underneath had remained clean. It was still early in the morning, but the Italian sun was already making its presence felt, and the T-shirt was soaked with sweat. Tom slowed to a walk to avoid attracting unnecessary attention and made his way as casually as he could along the main street. Noah had sent him the address of a motorcycle repair shop close to Tom’s location. He would be able to get himself some wheels there.

  Tom looked at his phone and oriented himself. A couple of hundred yards ahead, he saw the local police station, the Carabinieri Comando Stazione Roma Tor De Cenci. He could not imagine that the Interpol search had made it this far or that his photo was hanging in every police station in Europe, but to be on the safe side he turned into a narrow street just before he reached the police building. He kept a lookout for surveillance as he went, turning away as he passed a camera-monitored entrance at the back of the station.

  He crossed a few small streets and then turned into Via Livio Marchetti. He smelled motor oil, and saw the repair shop a short distance ahead. More than twenty motorbikes and scooters were standing in the driveway and on the street, ready to be picked up by their owners after being serviced or repaired. Tom walked slowly past the repair shop and saw that some of the bikes had keys in the ignition. In the driveway, two mechanics were sitting on car tires, chatting loudly and eating a typically meager Italian breakfast of espresso and biscotti. They took no notice of him at all.

  Tom approached a blue Moto Guzzi V7 II Special. He quickly swung himself onto the saddle, started the engine and raced away. He turned right at the next corner and rode the wrong way along a one-way street for a block, then crossed a Carrefour supermarket parking lot diagonally and, thirty seconds later, reached the on-ramp of the Strada Statale 148 toward Rome. He twisted his right wrist down, opening the throttle. In thirty minutes, he would be at Rome’s central station, Roma Termini, and from there would take the express train to Milan, about an hour away from Como.

  However, hadn’t noticed the security cameras installed at the motorcycle shop. The garage belonged to the regional Harley Davidson dealer, also based in Spinaceto, who had recently upgraded the repair shop with a modern security system. Five minutes after Tom had stolen the Moto Guzzi, two carabinieri were looking at the security video. One of them recognized Tom as the man wanted by Interpol for murder, and minutes later an order to be on the lookout for him went out to the greater Rome area.

  39

  Castel Porziano, about 12 miles south of Rome

  François Cloutard was far less fortunate. He had headed west through the woods, and suddenly found himself confronted by five armed carabinieri. Cloutard did not realize that he was on Castel Porziano, the private estate of the Italian President. The 23-square-mile nature reserve was closed to the public.

  For their part, the carabinieri were astonished to see a sweaty, pajama-clad man with a wooden box under his arm emerge without warning from the forest. They wasted no time, though, and promptly arrested him. The Frenchman’s protests fell on deaf ears. They bundled him into a police car and took him to the nearby Carabinieri Commando Stazione Roma Tor De Cenci, the same station Tom had passed just minutes earlier.

  “I would like to call my lawyer.”

  Cloutard was beyond exasperated. The work of years was slipping away like sand through his fingers. He had no idea how far Ossana had infiltrated his organization in the last year, since they had become a couple. By rights, he should have been making sure his funds and the most valuable items in his possession were secure and working to regain control of his organization. Instead, he was sitting in a stuffy little Italian lockup dressed in pajamas, trying to convince the duty officer to finally let him make a phone call.

  After a lengthy discussion, Cloutard was led into a small, air-conditioned room where a push-button telephone squatted on a table. The officer pointed to it, left Cloutard alone and locked the door. Cloutard punched in Karim Shaham’s number and sat drumming his fingers on the table. He didn’t have to wait long: after the third ring, Karim answered.

  “Hello? François?” Karim said, and Cloutard knew instantly that something was wrong. Karim sounded distressed, even scared.

  “You must help me!” Cloutard said. “Ossana has been screwing with us. I don’t know what you have heard, but I had to fly the helicopter to Italy. Unfortunately, it looks like Ossana has gotten to our Italian friends, too, and they shot down the helicopter. I barely made it out alive. Now the carabinieri have me and I’m behind bars. I have to get out of here and get to the safe house. Can we meet there? And can you secure the money as soon as you can?”

  Cloutard was speaking extremely fast. In his animated state, he did not notice that Karim was not responding. Now there was silence on the other end of the line.

  “Karim? Is everything all right?” No answer. Cloutard grew suspicious.

  “Karim’s fine. But probably not for long.”

  Ossana. Cloutard had to compose himself. His equanimity and diplomatic skill stopped him from actually putting into words the ranting and raving in his head.

  “What is it you want, Ossana?” he said calmly, surprising himself.

  “From you, nothing. After a year at your side, I know everything I need to know. And I don’t need Karim anymore.”

  The gunshot was so loud that the phone receiver seemed to explode. Cloutard heard a short groan, then a second and a third shot rang out.

  “Karim!” Cloutard shouted into the line, but he knew it was useless.

  “Stay out of my way, François. Or you’ll end up like K
arim.”

  Ossana hung up. Cloutard was stunned. He still could not fully comprehend what had happened in the last few hours. He looked around and shook his head. He had one more chance. If things went wrong again, he was finished. He picked up the receiver once more and punched in a number. Two hundred miles away, somewhere in Tuscany, an old rotary-dial phone rang.

  40

  Rome

  Tom had abandoned the motorcycle outside the city center and had switched to a local train. As he had drawn closer to central Rome, he had noticed an increasing number of police cars; he would be able to disappear better among the overcrowded and forever-delayed trains of the Italian railway system.

  He bought a ticket to Como at Marconi station. Luckily, he still had his money clip with some cash and the credit cards, as well as his fake passport. Everything else had been left behind at the hotel in Tabarka. He boarded the subway in the direction of Roma Termini, where he would change to the Italo Treno express to Milan. He would reach Milan about two hours later . . . if everything went smoothly.

  Roma Termini, as expected, was a seething mass of people. Tom pushed his way into the large, reinforced-concrete reception hall. He moved past the remains of the Servian Wall, which dated from the 4th century B.C., proceeded through the enormous main hall and finally made it to the station shops. He bought himself a baseball cap and an AS Roma fan scarf—not exactly the best camouflage, but better than nothing—and procured a cheap knife with a locking blade from a from a tobacconist’s shop, also better than nothing. Tom looked at the departures board and was heartened to see that a Rome-Milan express was leaving in ten minutes. The classic Italian pasta-and-pizza smell filled his nose as he melted back into the crowd, which practically carried him to his platform.

  Vittoria Arcano was running late. She was furious with herself: her first day at her new job, and she already knew she wasn’t going to make it on time. This was not exactly the best way to start her dream job at Interpol National Central Bureau. With a cappuccino and a copy of “La Repubblica” in her right hand and the remains of a panino prosciutto e ruccola in her left, she stepped off the regional train and headed for the subway. She passed a station clock: maybe she would still make it after all. With her thoughts already in the office, she collided with a man going the other way, and the hot cappuccino splashed over the new Armani costume she had bought especially for her first day at work.

  “Porca miseria,” Vittoria cursed. Could the day get any worse? She guessed not, and cursed again at the guy who had bumped into her, who was no doubt just as caught up in his thoughts as she was. The man, wearing an AS Roma scarf and baseball cap, raised his hands apologetically and went quickly on his way. Vittoria was taken aback. Such a gesture was so completely untypical for an Italian. The man had also not said a word, nor had he started to swear, as she had—very strange. Then it struck Vittoria like a thunderbolt. She fished her mobile phone out of her handbag and quickly searched her emails for the latest Interpol “wanted” mug shots.

  Bingo! She knew it. She’d just bumped into an internationally wanted killer. Vittoria could still see him, the AS Roma outfit practically glowing amid the masses of commuters. Maybe not such a bad first day after all, Vittoria thought, as she began to pursue the man. At the same time, she called Interpol for reinforcements.

  Tom had reached his platform. He threw the cappuccino-stained scarf into the trash, checked with a conductor standing by the train that he was in the right place, and climbed aboard. The Italo was one of the most modern trains in Europe, and was operated by NTV, a private train company. NTV had been founded by Luca di Montezemolo, the one-time chairman of Ferrari, which meant two things: the trains were red, and hellishly fast. On the Rome-Milan route, they would reach a maximum speed of almost 200 miles per hour, just what Tom needed. He found his seat and collapsed into it. He could use a little break. The train began to roll, and Tom was grateful when the conductor came through almost immediately to check tickets. Now he could rest, maybe even get a little shut-eye.

  Vittoria had boarded one car further back, and immediately informed the train crew of the situation. She found a seat a few rows behind Tom. Interpol HQ in Rome had instructed her not to let the suspect out of her sight, and under no circumstances to act on her own. They were working on a solution; the Italian police would send a team as soon as possible.

  Vittoria was not very enthusiastic about just sitting back and observing the man. She would have loved to be able to arrest him there and then, and be celebrated as a heroine on her first day on the job. But perhaps an opportunity to take the credit herself would present itself after all. Vittoria watched as the man dozed off, briefly wondering if she should try to cuff him right now. But she dismissed the idea out of hand: too many civilians. The man was said to be armed and dangerous. Injured—or, God forbid, dead—passengers would not look good on Vittoria’s record. She decided to wait for the backup to arrive.

  Half an hour later, the man woke up. He glanced at his watch, looked around, stood up and made his way back to the bathroom. This was Vittoria’s chance. She followed him along the aisle to the end of the passenger car, where the bathroom was located. She could picture it clearly: the man would open the bathroom door and find her holding her service pistol under his nose. Snap on the handcuffs, and that was that. Vittoria grinned, already looking forward to her supervisor’s praise.

  She made the other passengers in the car aware of who she was, showing them her badge and gun and gesticulating frantically to tell them that she was about to arrest a suspect. Horrified, most of the passengers stood and made their way to other cars, looking for safety elsewhere. Vittoria positioned herself in front of the bathroom door, pistol at the ready. Her heart was pounding. She already loved her job.

  Tom washed his hands absently. He had to check in with Noah and see if he’d been able to dig up more information about the house at Lake Como. Without Noah’s help, it would probably be difficult for Tom to break in, take down the guards, and get Hellen out unharmed. But then he reprimanded himself: one thing at a time. Focus on the current situation, he thought. You’re not in Como yet, and a thousand things could happen before you get there.

  He took a deep breath and his mind went back to his training. He was not on a train journey, but on a mission, and was annoyed at himself for having fallen asleep. He had to be more professional, had to stay on guard. Danger could be lurking around every corner, as he had seen very clearly in the last two days. Hell, someone might even be lying in wait for him outside the bathroom door. And it was in exactly that frame of mind that he opened the door—to his great benefit, as he discovered a heartbeat later.

  A pistol appeared, pointed at his nose. Tom instinctively moved his head to the right and, with his left arm, knocked the gun a few inches aside so that a shot would miss him. With his right hand he grabbed the pistol itself and twisted the attacker’s arm until she screamed and let the weapon fall.

  The move caused the woman to fall backward, and she hit her head against the wall. Narrow things, trains, Tom thought. He quickly grabbed the woman’s pistol and pointed it at her head. He looked around quickly to see if he could expect any more adversaries, but the compartment was almost empty. The woman raised her hands in surrender. She looked up at Tom, her expression a mixture of astonishment, fear and anger at herself.

  The train jerked slightly and seemed to slow down. Tom heard the unmistakable thrum of a helicopter and, a moment later, several dull thuds on the roof. He and the woman looked up in surprise.

  No way, Tom thought. They still had to be doing a good 150 miles an hour—rappelling from a chopper to a train at that speed was suicide. Vittoria, still on the floor, took a deep breath and smiled archly at Tom. “My reinforcements are here. There’s no way out.”

  Suddenly, Tom heard an ear-splitting whistle and two windows of the compartment shattered. Someone had used a sonic hammer, transforming the train windows into fine glass dust that was instantly sucked out of the
train.

  41

  Villa on Lake Como

  The pain in Hellen’s neck was almost unbearable. She had been bent over the ancient book for hours. The Chronicle of the Morea was an anonymous historical text dating from the 14th century. In over nine thousand lines, it described events that took place between 1204 and 1292, following the First Crusade; some versions also included later events. Versions had been handed down in four languages: French, Greek, Italian and Aragonese; the Greek text was set in verse. Hellen was familiar with each of the different versions, which were distributed among libraries throughout Europe.

  The Chronicle in front of Hellen was in Aragonese, but this version was unknown to her; it dealt more extensively with the Crusades and the stolen relics. More space was also devoted to the battle for Constantinople, to which Hellen paid special attention. The Aragonese version of the chronicle, she knew, covered the longest period of all the extant texts, covering events up until 1393.

  Hellen combed page after page but could not begin to imagine what “clues” she was supposed to find in the book. She stood up and paced the room for a minute. Her father and grandfather had been on this same search, and from the first moment her father told her about the artifact, she had been hooked. Since then she had spent every spare minute collecting clues from around the globe. But in all that time, she had never realized that someone else might also be hunting for the same thing.

  That had all changed two days before. The others on this search had clearly devoted serious resources to the job. All her doubts in recent years about whether her quest made any sense had now been swept away. Whoever was behind her abduction and the plundering of the relics was certainly committed. For Hellen, this only confirmed that the stories her grandmother had told her as a child were true. Instinctively, her fingers rose to the amulet around her neck. It was adorned with a Maltese cross, and had been left to her by her grandmother. The memory made her smile, and a small tear ran down her cheek as she recalled the many happy hours spent with her grandmother and all the exciting stories she had told. She wiped the tear away and turned her attention back to the book. It certainly meant something, if her kidnapper was right, and if the book was indeed the clue that Father Montgomery had spoken of in Glastonbury.