He had to climb across the seats to get out on the passenger’s side.
He stumbled unsteadily onto terra firma, surrounded by a growing throng of concerned bystanders shouting at him in Italian. That single moment of culture shock rammed home exactly where he was and what he was doing. Frost stuck his head back into the car to retrieve two items, both of which had ended up in the foot well.
There was a gasp from the crowd as he emerged from the Fiat with the pistol, but Frost barely heard it. His attention was consumed by the display on the mobile phone. According to the GPS, he was .3 kilometres from his destination—300 hundred metres. “Out of my way!” He yelled, and charged through the arch, breaking into a flat out sprint as soon as he was clear of the traffic.
He knew where he was, but only because of the GPS: the campus of La Sapienza Universita di Roma.
Sapienza. The word literally meant wisdom, but Frost knew that what had begun here was not wisdom, not by any stretch of the imagination. It was madness.
Lorenzo Martedi, senior chair of the school’s department of classical studies, had first proposed the idea of the Book of Revelation serving as a blueprint for world domination, and was in all likelihood, the chief architect of the Four Evangelists. Martedi had also been Lilijana Pavic’s thesis advisor.
All the threads were tied to Martedi.
It was Martedi that had introduced Lili to the Path of Mars and to the modern Salii who kept the sacred relics and continued the ancient rites. It was Martedi that had given Lili the palimpsest, proof of the existence of the Crocea Mors, and had arranged for her to team up with Denison in order to track down that sword, all as part of his crazy scheme to unleash the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. The sword was only symbolic, not a prerequisite to the success of Martedi’s plan, but what a symbol it was: the sword of Julius Caesar.
The sword of the War God himself.
It had never been meant for the rider of the white horse, the man who would be king. The Crocea Mors was for the red horseman, the living embodiment of global war.
The phone flashed a new message: You have reached your destination.
Not quite, Frost thought, glancing around.
From where he stood, he was equidistant with three buildings. GPS coordinates weren’t pinpoint accurate, but he was close.
Two of the structures were exactly what one would expect from a college campus, with students and faculty streaming through the doors for the first lectures of the day, but the third appeared to be undergoing a major renovation. Half of the three-storey building was covered in a tent of plastic sheeting, which hung from a skeleton frame of scaffolding. The only sign that the building might be occupied was the presence of a white panel van parked near the east corner.
Frost stuffed the phone in his pocket and hefted the pistol as he turned toward the van and resumed his sprint. Not for the first time he wished he’d pressed Denison for details sooner: the size of the group that had been waiting in the subterranean vault; how many would he be facing now? Two? Four? Ten?
Again, he couldn’t let himself worry about it.
He had the element of surprise, which would count for something, but no matter what the odds, there was no changing his side of the equation. There was only him—one man—against the tide. With a lot of luck, he would kill them all. Without that luck...well, he’d take as many with him as he could. He owed Denison that much.
He dashed up the front steps and hit the door without breaking stride.
It flew open.
He ran into a hallway with a lot of open doors—and one that was closed to his immediate right.
He pivoted and launched a heel kick at the latch plate.
The door exploded off its hinges, and with the silenced pistol held out before him, he swept inside.
The sight that greeted him was not exactly what he expected, but the differences weren’t enough to give him pause.
The room looked and smelled like a charnel house.
A decapitated corpse sat bound to a chair in the centre of the room, the severed head lying on its side in a spreading pool of blood. Despite the streaks of red that obscured the waxy countenance—the expression a frozen mask of disbelief—Frost recognised the victim, and the last piece of the puzzle fell into place.
Four figures, all clad in black were huddled around another bound figure. Frost recognised this man too, and felt a surge of hope.
Konstantin Khavin was still alive.
Barely.
One of his tormentors had a blade pressed against the side of his neck...a very familiar blade.
There were other details that flooded Frost’s awareness; other men in the room, the camera on the tripod, the red flag that served as a backdrop. He ignored everything except the person holding the Crocea Mors to Khavin’s throat.
He got the pistol up and took aim.
But before he could squeeze off a shot something heavy crashed across his back and sent him reeling.
He sprawled into the knot of men holding Konstantin and rebounded, landing on his back as the object that had hit him—a folding metal chair—clattered to the floor beside him.
Konstantin’s would-be executioner sprang into motion, leaping over the huddle, holding the Crocea Mors high.
The blade flashed, burning like sunlight, as it arced toward him.
Frost made a desperate grab for the discarded chair and brought it up to parry the killing blow. The impact vibrated through his arms as, in a spray of yellow sparks, the sword cleaved halfway through the chair. Frost held tight. The sword stuck there.
The executioner hauled back, trying to wrestle the blade free.
Frost also pulled, twisting the chair as he rolled away, and wrenched the hilt from the killer’s grasp.
The executioner stared in dumb disbelief as the weapon was torn away from them. That little bit of luck. Frost’s fingers curled around the polished brass hilt. With one hand still holding the chair, he yanked at the sword. It came free as if embedded in soft butter. It was hardly Excalibur out of the stone, but he wasn’t complaining.
The Crocea Mors hummed in his grasp like a living thing.
Frost was on his feet, moving with a speed he wouldn’t have thought possible.
It was as if someone had pressed the freeze-frame button on everything in the universe but him.
A machine pistol swung his direction, the muzzle spitting flame. The small room rang with the thunderous report, but Frost sidestepped the point blank barrage. The Crocea Mors flashed, and the gunman fell back, a bloody geyser erupting from a gaping wound that stretched from his collarbone to his navel. It was a brutal way to die.
Frost slashed again, taking a second gunman, and then another.
He wasn’t a swordsman. He’d never held a sword before, but it felt absolutely natural in his hands. As if he’d been born to wield the Crocea Mors.
He mowed through the gunmen, and in what seemed the blink of an eye, was surrounded by an array of hacked apart human flesh.
Only the executioner remained standing, dazed and incredulous, backed up against the hanging flag.
Frost advanced, sword in hand, blood dripping from the blade.
There was nowhere for the black-clad figure to go.
The sword continued to hum in Frost’s grasp, a siren song that burned through him like hunger... like lust. Yes, it seemed to say. Just this one more, and I will be sated.
He didn’t need it now. He wasn’t a murderer. The fight was over.
He let it fall to the floor.
The executioner let out a strangled whimper and took half a step forward, away from the wall, eyes locked on the blade. Frost blocked the way. His right hand seized the executioner by the collar. His left tore the balaclava away, releasing a cascade of hair.
He dragged the woman in front of the camera, letting the world see her face.
For a moment, he considered saying something to the unseen audience, to all those who had chosen to bear witness to this atrocity�
��
Here is your war leader. Your bloody messiah. Not a holy warrior; just a bitter angry girl who was so ashamed of her father that she cut his fucking head off.
—but he stayed silent.
He held her there a few seconds longer, and then let go.
There were sirens in the distance, the police were coming.
He didn’t want to be around when they came bursting in.
He retrieved the sword and used it to cut Konstantin Khavin free.
The Russian opened one eye groggily—the other was a swelling mass of cuts and bruises—and stared up at him. He’d taken one hell of a beating. “I didn’t think you’d be the one to great me in heaven.”
“Who said you’d go to heaven? Come on, Koni. On your feet. This isn’t over yet.”
“It never is.”
THE CARABINIERI, RESPONDING to reports of gunfire at the university building, arrived on the scene ninety seconds later.
The two Ogmios operatives were long gone.
Only Lilijana Pavic remained, as unmoving as the dead that surrounded her, still staring into the unblinking camera eye.
22 Fallout
London—0730 UTC
Sir Charles had always thought the old beech—Hyde Park’s famous Upside-down Tree—looked like something from Tolkien. Instead of stretching up to the sun, the branches drooped low, spreading out on the ground like the tentacles of some ponderous Old Man Willow tree monster.
He came to the park as often he could, even now when he needed Maxwell to push him along the paths. He refused to allow his disability to lessen the simple pleasures of life and the sensory feast—the sights, sounds, and smells of the park—the animals, the trees, even the visitors.
People were usually happy here, he could see it in their faces, and happiness was a contagious emotion.
His visits to this particular spot however were infrequent, and as a general rule, not at all pleasurable.
He’d sent Maxwell off and now sat alone, his wheelchair parked alongside a vacant bench. He watched Quentin Carruthers—Control—stroll along the path toward him. Their eyes did not meet, but Carruthers casually approached and settled onto the bench beside him.
“Well played, Charles,” he said, without preamble. “You not only saved your man—”
Sir Charles’ hand snaked out and struck Carruthers’ face. His open palm cracked like a gunshot against the other man’s cheek. Carruthers rocked back and one hand immediately came up to the offended area. A white handprint was visible outlined by a deepening red flush.
“Bloody hell! If you weren’t a cripple I’d—”
“If I weren’t a cripple, I’d have rammed your teeth down your throat,” the old man growled. “Remember that.”
Carruthers glowered and caressed his cheek a moment, mastering his fury. “You’re insufferable.”
Sir Charles offered no rebuttal and after a long pause, Carruthers spoke again. “I was only ever the messenger, you know.”
The old man shook his head. “It didn’t have to end this way. Frost could have brought Denison in, debriefed him, wrapped him up in a bow and kept the whole thing deep below the radar. That was the obvious play and you ignored it. You wanted this to happen.”
“This was a nasty business all around. You should know as well as anyone that there’s no point in recriminations.”
“No point? You assassinated the man, a public figure no less. You don’t think that’s going to come out?”
Carruthers glanced around. “Keep your bloody voice down, Charles. I told you, it wasn’t my call. You’re right. There, I said it. What more do you want? An apology? Fine. I’m sorry. But it’s done now, we dodged a proverbial bullet. All’s well that ends well and all that.”
“This hasn’t ended, not by a long shot. We’ve only scratched the surface. Four Evangelists—four.” He held up his hand, four fingers pointing skyward, to emphasize the point. Carruthers winced, as if expecting another blow. “Four parts to their plan. Four Horsemen, and what have we got?”
“We’ve got Habersham. Our men in Rome rolled him up. And we’ll have Martedi soon enough. That’s half of them. Their whole bloody plan was predicated on executing all four parts in tandem.”
“And you don’t think they’ll try again? We don’t even know who the other two are, much less what they were ready to unleash. Economic upheaval? We’re a hair’s breadth from that already. And God only knows what they had planned—what they still have planned—for the fourth horseman.”
“We’ll find out soon enough.”
“I don’t share your optimism, Quentin.” He took a breath, bringing his own rage under control. “My team got dragged into this, that makes it my fight now. We’re going to hunt them down and see an end to it, and I don’t give a good God damn who gets hit by the blowback.”
Carruthers shook his head. “I can’t let you do that. You’ve done a good job for us all...you saved the day and brought your man home safe and sound, you’re a hero, enjoy the moment, and step back and let us handle this.”
Sir Charles fixed the other man with a hard stare. “I wasn’t asking your permission. In fact, I don’t think I will need to ask you for anything ever again. I’m only going to say this once, Quentin, I’m taking Ogmios away from you.”
“Like Hell you are—”
“Consider it the price of my silence. You’re right; there’s nothing to be gained by recriminations. All the same, I shudder to think of what would happen if the world learned how royally you fucked up.” He placed the emphasis on the word deliberately.
“Blackmail, Charles? How very uncouth.” Carruthers scratched his head. “It won’t work. Ogmios can’t exist in a vacuum. Funding, intelligence...you’re nothing without that, no matter what you might think, you’re an extension of Six, and you don’t get anything if you don’t play by the rules.”
Sir Charles waved dismissively. “Not anymore. Think of it as a divorce and I’m the bitter wife. I’ll claim alimony from Vauxhall, that will give us autonomy and resources, and you, dear boy, will be Control in name only. Those are the terms of my silence. Otherwise I’ll make sure you’re finished politically, my friend. I’ll end you.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“Try me. And in case you get some bright idea about sending your bloodthirsty goons around to permanently change my mind, I would remind you that I employ a very talented young man named Jude Lethe, who can do the most wonderful things with computers. Everything’s connected these days, or so he tells me. Everything’s recorded by some camera or other in this city.”
“Divorce.” Carruthers chuckled mordantly. He got up. “A bit of advice, from one friend to another: watch your back.”
Sir Charles Wyndham nodded. “One friend to another. Don’t become another bitter old queen who doesn’t realise when it’s time to abdicate.”
23 LIVE BY THE SWORD
Westminster—1200 UTC—Two days after
IGNORING THE PROMINENTLY posted ‘No Parking’ signs, Ronan Frost pulled the Ducati Monster to the curb in front of Clarendon House. He engaged the clutch and goosed the throttle. The 696 cc engine gave an animalistic roar, like a herald’s trumpet announcing the return of a Knight Errant, and then fell silent as he switched it off.
Knight Errant.
He’d always found that term amusing. Although the literal definition described a knight who wandered on a quest—an errand—Frost had always thought it meant something different; a knight who’d made a mistake—an error in judgment—and lost his way.
He felt that he’d lost his way.
His own name—Ronan—sounded so much like ronin, the Japanese word for a rogue samurai, a bushido knight who’d lost his way. He had never really fit in; not on the streets of Derry, not in 1 PARA...and now not Ogmios.
Sir Charles had explained everything, told him how Control had forced his hand and how he’d done everything in his power to throw Frost a lifeline, and now of course, how he’d cut the team off fro
m Vauxhall once and for all. But it didn’t change the fact that for those few hours, he’d been cut loose, set adrift...
He let go of the handlebars and dismounted stiffly.
Every muscle in his body ached, and the ache seemed to be getting worse with each passing day. The wound in his shoulder was healing without infection, but it was the car crash in Rome that had left him feeling like...well, like a car crash victim. He’d been popping paracetamol and codeine tablets like they were candy; they might as well have been for all the good they did. Still, he’d come out of it better than Konstantin, who didn’t make a good patient.
He shifted the heavy duffel bag slung across his back and headed up the walk toward the front entrance of Clarendon House.
The Knight Errant, returning victorious from his quest.
It wasn’t a good fit.
Tony Denison had been the one who’d bought into the notion of the knight’s quest; Konstantin had told Frost about the letter, with its tacit promise of a knighthood. Frost had no interest in that. One Sir on the team was enough.
A cluster of Protection Service guards waited at the entrance, making no effort to mask their wariness, their contempt, as he walked towards them. They obviously assumed he was a bike messenger. Frost climbed the steps to the slab of carved marble that served as the porch of the royal residence. “Frost. I’m expected.”
One of the men grunted, “Wait here,” but made no move to announce Frost’s arrival to anyone within the residence.
Frost leaned against the wrought iron stair rail, and crossed his arms.
He didn’t want to be here, but in some strange way by taking the sword, he’d also accepted the quest. He’d become Percival to Denison’s Galahad. And now, like Percival, he was returning alone, albeit with one significant difference. Percival had only brought back the tale of the quest for the Holy Grail; Frost had the prize.
The doors swung open and he caught the last few words of a heated discussion—he distinctly heard someone say: “I will not leave you alone with some Irish wanker”—and then a voice, quiet but commanding, declared the matter closed.
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