The Sacred Weapon: A Tom Wagner Adventure

by Roberts, M. C.

  The lock clicked, he opened the door, and their eyes met. For a few seconds that felt like an eternity to them both, they just gazed at one another, neither of them knowing just how to deal with what they were feeling. Tom stepped inside and carefully closed the door again, checking to make sure no one was coming in the hallway.

  “Uh, Tom . . .” Hellen began, clearing her throat. “Could you come back and save me in maybe thirty minutes?”

  Tom thought he had heard wrong. “What? Are you drunk?”

  “I’ve figured out what this is all about. It’s about the Sword of Saint Peter, the sword I’ve been after for so long. The guys who kidnapped me are after it, too. I think I know where to find it but I have to send them off on a wild goose chase first, so your timing’s a little off.” She smiled mischievously. “As usual, you came a little too soon.”

  Tom couldn’t believe it—she was actually serious. He was so put out that he didn’t even notice the double entendre.

  “A guy can’t even save you normally. Is this really the time to start a debate? In the middle of your own rescue? What am I supposed to do in the meantime, go for a stroll? Maybe play a couple hands of poker with the guards until the lady’s ready to be released? Forget it—this rescue is happening now!”

  He knelt down in front of her and turned his attention to the handcuffs.

  “Just a few minutes. The guys are on their way here anyway.”

  “Thanks for letting me know. I’m sure they’ll be happy to see me.”

  In fact, Tom could hear footsteps outside, still a little way off. “Okay, you’re right, they’re coming. We’ll postpone the rescue for now.”

  “Tom.”

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you. I’m glad you’re here.”

  Tom smiled. “See you in a few minutes. I’ll get you out of here, I promise.”

  He went out, relocking the door, and disappeared in the opposite direction. This isn’t so bad, he thought. Now I can look around the house a little more. And then Tom had an idea that made him smile.

  “So you’ve finally got something?” Guerra said the moment he entered the room with the guard. He pressed his gun to Hellen’s forehead, presumably to add a little more weight to his question, and stared down at her, his head tilted to one side.

  “Yes. I’ve found something. I assume you’re also looking for the Sword of Peter,” said Hellen.

  “Clever girl.” Guerra took a step back and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Talk.” The guard unlocked Hellen’s right handcuff.

  “I found evidence in the book that a knight, one of the Knights Hospitaller, spirited the sword to safety while Constantinople was under siege.” Hellen opened the book and pointed to the relevant passage. “At that time, the Knights Hospitaller, now known as the Order of Malta, were operating from a fortified complex—a castle in Syria called Krak des Chevaliers,” Hellen said with as much conviction as possible.

  “In Syria? Krak des Chevaliers?” Guerra’s face twisted into a broad grin. “That sounds . . .”

  Without warning, an explosion shook the building, taking Guerra, the guard and Hellen by surprise. Dust trickled down from the ceiling. Guerra’s radio filled with chatter and he snarled into it, “Everybody shut up. I can’t understand a word. What’s happened?”

  Silence, static. Then a voice, surprisingly timid-sounding for the situation, said, “We’re under attack. They’re all around us!”

  “Whoever they are, find them and kill them,” Guerra snapped into his radio. Then, regaining his composure, he turned back to Hellen.

  “I suppose this castle in Syria is pretty big. Can you be a little more specific?”

  Guerra nudged her temple with the gun again. She closed her eyes. She would have to improvise, she thought. “Well, it’s difficult to say exactly . . .” she began. In the distance, bursts of machine gun fire and scattered shots and screams could be heard.

  Guerra gave the guard a nod and, without warning, the man punched Hellen in the face. Her cheek felt as if it had exploded and she crashed to the floor along with the chair. The guard pulled her up again. She twisted angrily, her nose and lip bleeding. Guerra leaned uncomfortably close to her, this time pressing the gun under her chin.

  “I have no time for games. Tell me,” he hissed.

  “Okay! Okay!”

  Hellen pinched her eyes shut and forced herself to calm down, then opened them again and immediately began to speak. The words poured from her like a waterfall, and she amazed even herself at the flashes of inspiration that came to her. She was glad that Krak des Chevaliers was a UNESCO World Heritage Site, and that she knew quite a lot about it.

  “In the Knight’s Hall at the castle, there are several statues, including one of Saint George,” she said. “Saint George possessed the Sword of Peter, and according to legend he killed a dragon with it. This part of the Chronicle contains the reference to Saint George.”

  “And this is an old Syrian word.” She pointed to the faded “Tifla” in the margin. “It means ‘fortress,’ and it points directly to the Krak des Chevaliers. The sword is hidden inside the statue of Saint George, I’m certain of it. The Knights Hospitaller had to hide it because the castle was constantly under attack.”

  Hellen could not stop talking.

  “The Knights’ Hall in the Krak des Chevaliers was said to be comparable to King Arthur’s Round Table. And another parallel: Excalibur was the sword of King Arthur, Meribah was the Sword of Saint Peter,” she said, and pointed to the word in the margin. “It can only be in the statue,” she said, finishing her monologue.

  An icy smile crept over Guerra’s face as Hellen told him the monumental lie.

  “Fuck!” someone shouted on the radio. “They’re everywhere. They’ve got us surrounded.”

  Two more explosions, closer this time. Screams and more shots. Hellen was trying hard not to smile. Guerra grabbed the Chronicle and bawled over the radio:

  “We’re moving out! Everybody to the speedboat. If you’re not at the boat in thirty seconds, you stay here.”

  With one foot out the door, Guerra paused, turned back to Hellen, and pointed his gun at her.

  “Thanks, by the way. You’ve been a big help.”

  Hellen eyes opened wide with fear. At that moment another explosion shook the building, but this one sounded different. It wasn’t just one big bang, but a quick series of smaller explosions. Smoke, splinters and fragments of stone shot upwards from the floor in a circle around Hellen’s chair. The floor trembled, then collapsed underneath her, and she and the armchair dropped straight down into the cellar. Guerra was knocked down, his shot missing Hellen by inches. In seconds, the room and the corridor filled with billowing dust. Guerra, dumbfounded, stared at the circular hole in the floor. His colleague pulled Guerra to his feet. “We gotta get out of here!”

  Hellen had cried out in horror as she dropped through the floor. She coughed and spluttered. After the dust had settled, she saw Tom stepping out of the dust cloud with a grin covering his face.

  “Are you crazy? You could have killed me!”

  “No way,” he replied. “Shaped charge. It’s like an explosive scalpel.” Still grinning, he showed her the remote detonator in his hand. “I wanted to make sure you’d actually come with me this time, instead of sending me away again.”

  When he got outside, Guerra looked around at the rising smoke and devastation, caused by the numerous explosions that had been triggered in different parts of the grounds. He ran down to the pier, followed by the last of the guards, who came running from all directions. Only four made it to the boat; the rest had either fallen victim to one of the explosions or been put out of commission by Tom. One by one, the men jumped into the speedboat as Guerra started the motor. He gunned the throttle just as the last of the survivors was pulled into the boat by his comrades. Moments later, the boat disappeared into the darkness.

  Tom freed Hellen from the handcuffs still holding her to the chair and helped
her to her feet. She threw her arms around his neck and held him tightly for a moment.

  “Thank you for coming for me,” she said. Then she stepped back and slapped his face. “And that’s for almost getting me killed.”

  Tom lifted his hand to his stinging cheek and said, “You’re welcome. By the way, the stolen artifacts are all in the wine cellar. We should tell your boss at Blue Shield.”

  “What? Where? I need to see this!”

  She clambered over the pile of rubble and ran down the passage to the wine cellar. Tom was close behind her.

  “A couple of the smarter guards let me overpower them. I’ve left them in cable ties for the authorities, but a few weren’t so bright. They’ll need to be picked up around the grounds.”

  Tom grinned smugly as he walked behind Hellen, who paid no attention to him whatsoever. She cried out joyfully when she entered the wine cellar, to find the stolen relics lined up neatly before her.

  50

  Teatro Titano, San Marino

  Ossana parked her Alfa Romeo Giulietta on the piazza, directly in front of the main entrance to the Teatro Titano. She never entered any building through the back entrance; that would be beneath her. The plaza was deserted. There was almost no sound at all, in fact, apart from the distant buzz of an Italian city awakening. No performances were taking place that day and only the small box office, where one could buy tickets at any time, was occupied. Ossana entered the small, musty room and leaned across the counter. On the other side sat a thin, older woman with pinned-up hair and thick glasses dangling from her neck on a gold chain.

  “Buongiorno. Can I help you?”

  Ossana saw immediately that the woman’s friendliness was feigned. She had probably been selling tickets there for decades and hated her job.

  “I have an appointment with Direttore Merelli.”

  The elderly woman’s expression didn’t change. She picked up the rotary phone and dialed a single-digit number. “Who shall I say is calling?” she asked Ossana without turning away from the phone.

  “Just tell him I’m here for the package.”

  Again the woman’s expression didn’t change. “Direttore Merelli is in the auditorium.”

  “I must speak with him alone,” Ossana said.

  “He is alone. He likes to work on the stage or up in one of the boxes. He loves the atmosphere.” The woman smiled a little wistfully, as if she admired the way the theater air could still stir Merelli’s blood. The woman pointed to a door.

  “Through there and left, up the stairs to the parterre. Go straight ahead and you’ll come to the auditorium.”

  Ossana nodded and left.

  François Cloutard hadn’t been to San Marino in years. He was pensive and on edge, but he still smiled to himself as he steered his car up the steep, narrow mountain road. Realizing that, as usual, there would be no free parking spaces behind the Teatro, he drove around to the main entrance. He parked his old Renault and looked across the Piazza Sant’Agata. The sun was shining, and the square radiated peace and quiet. There was not another soul in sight, but there was one other car, an Alfa Giulietta parked in front of the box office. Cloutard’s gut was telling him to be careful.

  The woman in the ticket office looked up when he entered.

  “I’d like to see Direttore Merelli,” Cloutard said.

  The woman narrowed her eyes. The crowds they were getting today! But she decided it was none of her business.

  “You’ll have to wait. He’s in a meeting.”

  “It’s important. Is he in the auditorium?”

  Surprised at how well the man seemed to know the direttore, she simply answered, “Yes, of course. But—”

  She didn’t get to finish her sentence. Cloutard was already through the door and racing up the stairs.

  Ossana reached the parterre and looked around. The auditorium was plain by the standards of an Italian theater: sparsely decorated, almost barren. She had never had any interest in theater or opera, and the Teatro Titano was not going to change that.

  Merelli approached her from the stage, already carrying the package. Puffing a little, he placed the heavy box at Ossana’s feet. “Buongiorno. I think this is why you’re here,” he said.

  Cloutard reached the top of the stairs and saw the doors leading to the parterre. He paused briefly, trying to recall the way to Merelli’s favorite loge, and it was then that he heard it: Cloutard was no weapons expert, but he knew what a pistol sounded like, the otherwise deafening shot muffled by a suppressor. Three more muted shots followed, and each one hurt as if Cloutard himself had been struck. Someone certainly wasn’t taking any chances.

  Cloutard knew at once that he was too late. He had to decide, and fast. Shootouts and hand-to-hand combat were not his style. Instead, he tiptoed to the cloakroom, crouched behind the counter, and peeked out at the main entrance to the parterre.

  He ducked back and held his breath when Ossana exited with the flight case. She strolled down the stairs without haste, almost pensively, with a smile on her face as if she were enjoying herself. For a moment, Cloutard was tempted to rush to Merelli’s aid, but he knew it would make no difference. His old friend Jacopo was dead. There was nothing Cloutard could do for him now. He hated himself for it, but it made more sense now to follow Ossana. He had to hurry to make sure she didn’t get away, though he still had no idea what to do about her.

  He hurried down the stairs, careful not to make any noise. At the bottom, he looked cautiously around the corner in time to see Ossana leaving the theater. Cloutard watched her go to the trunk of her car, put the case inside and drive off. His chances were not good. He had to wait until she left the piazza or she would see him, so she would have a solid head start. There were only a few roads from San Marino back to the valley, but Ossana would still be able to escape him quickly. He waited inside the entrance doors until her car disappeared around the corner of the building, then he ran across the piazza, jumped into his car, and went after her.

  The first few hundred yards were easy, as there was nowhere a car could turn off Contrada delle Mura. The first intersection was by the Museo di Stato, but Cloutard was close enough to see Ossana’s Giulietta continuing straight on. That meant she was probably taking the usual route out of San Marino, a route Cloutard knew well. The direction she took at the traffic circle at Stradale Provinciale 258, a few miles beyond the border of the tiny republic, would tell him where she was headed. Cloutard hoped he would be able to keep enough distance between them—he did not want to attract Ossana’s attention.

  He reached the intersection just in time to see Ossana turning north, toward the highway to Bologna. Cloutard was glad that he had filled the tank just before San Marino. He settled in for a long chase.

  51

  Villa on Lake Como

  “Okay, tell me everything. What’s the deal with this sword?”

  Hellen and Tom were sitting in the living room at the villa, waiting for the Blue Shield people to arrive.

  “I’ve been searching for the Sword of Peter for years, and my family has actually been searching for it for much longer.”

  “The Sword of Peter? The thing Peter used to cut off Malchus’s ear when he tried to stop Jesus from getting arrested?”

  Hellen was impressed. “So you’ve got more upstairs than guns and women after all.”

  “My religion teacher at school made us do drawings of every scene from the New Testament. There was blood and action in that one. That’s why I remember it.”

  Tom smiled mischievously in a way that Hellen had always found irresistible. She caught herself rediscovering just how attractive she found that smile, and quickly went on.

  “It seems we’re not alone in our search for the sword. Someone else who was looking for it murdered Father Montgomery in Glastonbury, but not before he pointed them toward a book called the Chronicle of the Morea. Remember that shooting at the Meteora monastery in Greece?”

  Tom nodded.

  “Same guys. In
Meteora, they got their hands on the book—the same book in which I’ve just found indications that the Maltese Knights took the sword during the siege of Constantinople, after the Fourth Crusade.”

  “Maltese? The guys with the falcon?” Tom said, teasing. But he quickly corrected himself. “You mean the Order-of-Malta Maltese, right? The one that’s a relief organization now.”

  “Yes, that’s them—the Order of Malta. Like the Knights Templar, the Order of Malta was formed in Jerusalem in the 11th century, but quickly changed from a religious order to a chivalric order, the Knights Hospitaller. Emperor Charles V gave them the island of Malta in 1530, but they lost it to Napoleon in 1798. There are quite a few myths woven around the knights . . . and a whole lot of conspiracy theories, too. When the Knights Templar were crushed, the Order of Malta got most of the Templars’ wealth. Even today, no one knows whether they ended up with the great treasure of the Knights Templar as well.”

  “And they still exist today? That would mean the relief agency is just a front for an ancient order of knights pulling strings in the background, an order whose power spans the entire globe? Some conspiracy theory crap like that?”

  “Yes, exactly that kind of conspiracy theory crap. But let me clear that up right off the bat: there’s no substance to any of it. Yes, there are definitely a couple of question marks hanging over the history of the Order of Malta, but I don’t buy into the conspiracy idea at all.”

  “Question marks?”

  Hellen pondered for a moment. “Many intelligence officers were part of the Order: Hitler’s chief of intelligence, Reinhard Gehlen, was a Knight of Malta. So were William Casey, the CIA chief during the Iran-Contra affair, and Alexandre de Marenches, head of the French secret service. And they’re just the ones we know about.”