“Well, I’m dreadfully sorry, Fairfax,” I huffed as more bullets sailed overhead, “but I was under a little pressure. Let us not forget whose idea this little jaunt was.”
Urban-Smith retrieved my fallen torch and switched it off.
“I am going to make a break for it, Rupert. To stay here together will mean certain death.”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” A female voice. A familiar female voice.
“Clara?” I called. “Is that you?”
A bright light hit me squarely in the face, and I raised my hand to shield my eyes.
“Hello, Rupert. Hello, Mr Urban-Smith.” I could make out the silhouettes of several others flanking the speaker. “Whatever are you doing down there?”
“Why not come down and find out?”
Clara laughed, a soft tinkling laughter so strangely at odds with her murderous temperament.
“I have a better idea, Mr Urban-Smith. Why not pass me the Atman, and I won’t have to shoot you both?”
“I have no idea what you mean.”
There was the deafening roar of a gunshot nearby, and I collapsed backwards in fear and surprise.
“Don’t test me.” Clara slid the gun’s slide back for effect. “You are in no position to negotiate.”
Reluctantly, Urban-Smith held the Atman aloft.
“You,” barked Clara, indicating one of her companions. “Take it,” but as the man leaned over, Urban-Smith stepped back and drew his arm back to the furthest extent the cramped space would allow.
“No!” he roared defiantly. “You shall not have it. It shall be set free,” and with all his might, he hurled the Atman directly at the headstone. With a clink and then a thunk, the Atman rebounded from the stone and fell into Schwarzkröte’s coffin, shaken but intact.
“Oh,” muttered Urban-Smith with disappointment. “The glass is sturdier than it appears.”
“Enough stalling,” snarled Clara. “Both of you; out of there now.”
I looked to Urban-Smith for guidance, but it was obvious that we were at the mercy of Clara and her minions. With heavy hearts, the pair of us clambered out of the grave. From this elevated vantage point, I saw that Clara had four companions, each equipped with night-vision goggles and assault rifles, and clad in dark combat gear. One of the four shouldered his rifle and hopped nimbly into the grave, emerging again a few moments later clutching The Atman.
Urban-Smith tossed his head defiantly. “So, Miss Schwarzkröte. Do you intend to kill us?”
Clara stepped forward and pushed the muzzle of her gun beneath his chin.
“Believe me, Mr Urban-Smith; nothing would give me greater pleasure.”
I shuddered with fear. I had witnessed Clara’s handiwork and I knew the truth in her words. Every fibre of my being strained to leap at her and disarm her, but I knew that I would not make a single step before she pulled the trigger. We stood still for what seemed like an eternity, the seven of us poised in a grim tableau of latent violence until, finally, Clara lowered her arm stepped backwards.
“It is fortunate for you that my father wishes to make your acquaintance,” she muttered, not bothering to disguise the contempt in her voice. She turned and stormed away.
“Bring them,” she shouted over her shoulder, and I was roughly prodded in the small of the back with the barrel of a rifle, causing me to stumble and fall onto the damp ground.
“Move it, weasel,” growled my tormentor.
“Steady on,” I complained, rising to my feet and brushing down my muddied trouserware. “No need to lose one’s decorum.”
Our captors marched us at gunpoint through the cemetery to the main entrance, where an armoured van awaited our arrival. We were herded into the back of the van along with three armed sentries, whilst Clara and the remaining man climbed into the front, separated from us by a solid partition.
“Where are we going?” I demanded, but my brutish companions refused to engage in discussion, answering only with laughter and a blow to the jaw. For several minutes, I remained incapacitated and collapsed, until able to crawl warily back onto the seat and sit forlornly, rubbing my traumatised mandible. It had swollen considerably, but I was able to masticate and gurn, so the bone had not broken, much to my surprise and relief.
I carry no wristwatch, and my mobile telephone had been confiscated, but I estimated the journey to be something over an hour. The van had no windows, so there were no landmarks to guide me, but I knew that we were heading to London, the stamping ground of The Fervent Fist and their cunning leader, Saxon Schwarzkröte.
Schwarzkröte’s reputation preceded him, and I was frightened. Prior to his defection to the Fervent Fist, he had worked his way up the ranks of the KGB, overseeing secret military projects such as the lamentable Project Tremble, which had led to the previous year’s LOL curse. He was ruthless and dangerous, with no hesitation in ordering the assassination of his enemies, which led me to ponder; in view of the threat to his plans posed by my friend and colleague, author, detective and paranormal researcher and investigator, Fairfax Urban-Smith, why were we still alive?
*
23. Serpent in the Shrubbery
Towards the end of our journey, the pace slowed dramatically, and I assumed that we had reached the metropolis. One cannot hear a great deal through the walls of an armoured van, but I definitely had the impression that the surrounding traffic was of closer proximity.
Eventually, we drew to a halt, the doors were flung open from without, and I was shepherded out of the van to liaise with Urban-Smith at the entrance to a large dockside warehouse, its grim brick edifice punctuated by a great pair of steel doors with a smaller door to the side. I turned about this way and that, looking for help but finding none. Traffic passed by, but not close enough to hail or signal. The warehouse was one of several, but this one was the closest to the riverside. Our surroundings were tarmacked, and enclosed on all sides by mesh fencing, crested by razor wire. There were several vehicles about us including the two armoured vans, several dark sedans and a heavy-duty truck with flatbed trailer.
We were guided through the smaller side door and into the warehouse, which was indeed cavernous, our footsteps bouncing from its walls and echoing strangely back upon our ears. At the far end of the warehouse stood a steel chamber, perhaps ten or more feet high, though it was cast mostly in shadow and its dimensions could not be accurately discerned.
“It is the Apple,” whispered Urban-Smith.
And indeed it was. As we crossed the warehouse floor, it became clear that lurking within the shadows were at least a dozen more guards, black clad, armed and vigilant. Though they too were cast in shadow, I could feel their murderous gazes upon me and I felt like a man condemned.
I knew that this night may well have been my last, yet the larger part of me burned with curiosity. What secrets were contained within the Apple’s core? What dreadful malady had the doctors and scientists of Unit 731 and the Nazis’ abominable death camps concocted and secreted here for posterity? I could scarcely imagine, yet my morbid fascination welled up like a beaker of bubbling botulism above a Bunsen burner and, despite my best efforts, my pace quickened.
As we breached the darkness, a tall figure hove into view. I recognised him from Dr Arisov’s description. It was Saxon Schwarzkröte.
He stood erect, hands clasped firmly behind his back, accentuating his wide shoulders and broad chest. The cut of his suit was immaculate, as was his slicked back grey hair, and the fluorescent light danced and glinted upon the surface of his polished black brogues and round, metal-rimmed spectacles. His cheekbones and nose were angular, and his eyes burned with a fierce intelligence, coupled with wry amusement at our situation.
Clara stepped forward, and he stooped for her to lay a kiss upon his cheek.
“Good morning, father.”
“Hello Clara, dearest.”
Our host stepped forward and extended his hand to Urban-Smith, who set his jaw and refused to reciprocate.
“Now, now, Mr Urban-Smith, no need to forget your manners,” said Schwarzkröte. His accent was Germanic, but tainted with an English sensibility. “After all,” he continued, “I owe you a great debt. Without your assistance, I believe that it could have been many months until I finally discovered the whereabouts of both lock and key.”
He turned to me, and I confess that I quailed beneath his domineering authority.
“And you, Doctor Harker. I suppose that I should thank you for servicing my daughter’s needs.” He shot Clara a knowing glance. “It seems that she has inherited her mother’s stamina and appetites.”
He leaned down to me conspiratorially.
“Sometimes my punishment would last until the dawn,” he whispered, and I shuddered as visions of my mangled man-parts flashed before me.
“Come!” shouted Sebastian Schwarzkrote, spinning on his heel, “I should like to show you the prize.”
We were roughly shoved from behind, and reluctantly followed to the door of the steel chamber. The Apple of Eden was an impressive construction, solid steel, painted khaki green, although in many areas the paint was flaked and dusty. Its front measured about twenty feet wide by twelve tall, with access provided to its interior by a solitary steel door. To one side, there was a lighter coloured panel, indented in its centre, the indentation being just large enough to accommodate a golf ball. I ambled around to the side and admired the structure’s length, about fifty feet.
I had briefly met one of the engineers responsible for the vault’s design, who had described the Apple of Eden’s security measures. He had explained that the vault was sealed and pressurised and lined with explosives on a pressure-sensitive switch, and that if the vault were penetrated, the resultant change in air pressure would trigger the explosives and destroy its contents.
“How on Earth did you bring it here?” I asked Schwarzkröte.
“We strung it between two military transport helicopters and flew it to the coast, before bringing it around by sea. Once we reached the dock, it was a simple matter to lower it onto the back of a lorry and reverse it into the warehouse.”
“You have access to military helicopters?” I was beginning to wonder just how pervasive this man’s influence was.
He uttered a short bark of mocking laughter. “My dear doctor, we have access to enormous resources. You have no idea.” He turned and walked a few yards, then turned and returned, pacing back and forth, clearly relishing having an audience.
“The Apple of Eden, gentlemen,” he announced with a flourish. “Sought by many for decades, hidden by my father and my uncle, almost lost to posterity, but here it stands, passed unwittingly from father to son. Said to contain the most valued and best guarded secrets of the Third Reich.” He ceased his pacing and spun to face us. “It has been the subject of rumour and innuendo for decades. Some say it contains the whereabouts of enough Nazi gold to destabilise the economy of the United States. Some say it contains the results of years of Japanese and German research into the nature of life and death. Some say it contains nothing but ghosts and whispers; but do you know what I say it contains? The future. The beginning of the next phase of the New World Order.”
“Hah!” Urban-Smith snorted scornfully. “Do not romanticise your organisation, Schwarzkröte. You are a criminal, presiding over a gang of thugs. Do not bore us with your false nobility.”
“False nobility.” Schwarkröte’s face was a mask of outraged indignation. “The Illuminati is presided over by the noblest bloodlines in history; The Cartmans, The Hasselhoffs, The Fudds. You want to speak of false nobility? What of your plastic, impotent leaders for whom you trek to the ballots every half-decade to express your support? You think them noble, those puppets?” He scampered a few steps in playful mockery. “Ooh, which should I choose? The puppet on the left, or the puppet on the right?” He held his hands out towards us. “Don’t you see, we are the hands that control your puppets. We have chosen and controlled your leaders for more than a century. You aren’t voting for the Conservatives or Labour or the Liberal Democrats; you vote for us, and only for us. We control your banks, your governments, your schools, your armies. We control everything. We are your lords, your leaders, your nobility. The only falsehood is that you believe differently. Freedom and democracy are an illusion.”
I confess that his words shook me, shook me to the very core, not merely due to the ferocity and conviction with which they were spoken, but because of the many times that I had expressed the same sentiments myself in jest, yet hearing them spoken so plainly in fact resonated within me in a deeply unsettling fashion.
“What is in the container?” I blurted in spite of myself.
“Fear not, doctor. We shall all see soon enough.”
Urban-Smith’s voice was low and quiet. “Whatever lies therein, it cannot possibly justify the murder and mayhem that accompanied its liberation.”
“Hmm.” Schwarzkröte regarded him appraisingly. “You speak of the twin towers, do you not?”
“Indeed I do. More than two and a half thousand lives taken.”
I felt ashamed because, for a moment, I had forgotten the appalling depths to which the Illuminati had plunged to locate Hitler’s Archive, so consumed was I by my curiosity.
“I must concur,” said I. “No reward could be worthy of such barbarism.”
Schwarzkröte waved his hand dismissively.
“Those people were destined to perish, Dr Harker. New York was to suffer a catastrophic terrorist attack. It just so happened that we were able to kill two birds with one stone.”
“I don’t understand.”
He sighed, as if explaining some simple matter to a slow child.
“You are aware, of course, that The Fervent Fist is merely the London franchise of The Illuminati.” He awaited my acknowledgment, then continued. “At the start of the third millennium, our New York affiliates, The Blooded Apple, were tasked with staging a terrorist attack in their city, the resultant carnage to be blamed on a new radical organisation, The Al Queda, which we had funded and supported from its inception. When I became aware of this plan, I requested that the twin towers be the target, both for their symbolic value and also because I had information to suggest that the Apple of Eden was located beneath the foundations, a site impossible to access while the towers stood.”
I could barely comprehend the depravity of his words, spoken as casually as one ordering a pancake or French pastry.
“But to what end?” I insisted. “Why did they have to die?”
He shook his head. “You have learned nothing from Urban-Smith have you? Can you not make the connections, join the dots? Surely once you have one link in the chain, it should be a simple matter to infer the rest.”
I snarled in exasperation. It seemed that Dr Schwarzkrote shared Urban-Smith’s innate ability to make others feel incompetent.
He turned to Urban-Smith. “Your faculties for deductive reasoning are legendary, Sir. Perhaps you can explain it to Dr Harker.”
“You see, Rupert,” said Urban-Smith, “what we have here is a classic example of problem-reaction-solution. The attack on the twin towers was orchestrated to engender within the citizens of America an atmosphere of fear and hostility and a clamouring for revenge. These sentiments were engineered and exploited to justify an American invasion of Afghanistan and Iraq in order to destabilise the region. This, in turn, would provide the necessary impetus for regime change, presumably to accelerate the formation of an Arab union to sit alongside NATO and the EU. Once the Middle East is united, I suspect China and the Asia Pacific will be targeted.
“And, of course, let us not forget the oil. The Illuminati seek to control the world’s population on multiple levels; politically, socially, militarily and economically, but as oil becomes scarcer, those who control its distribution will become more and more powerful. There are rumours of plans to build oil pipelines through both Iraq and Afghanistan.”
“Very good, Mr Urban-Smith,” drawled Saxon Schwarz
kröte. “A little crude, but the basic elements are present and correct. As you say, he who controls the World’s natural resources will exert the ultimate authority over the population. First the oil, then the natural gas reserves beneath the arctic circle, then the food supply, and finally the water.”
“You fiend!” I spat. “You rotter! You rogue! You scoundrel! You blackguard! You… you… you…”
“Serpent in the shrubbery?” offered Urban-Smith.
Schwarzkröte groaned and rolled his eyes to the firmament. “Spare me your derogatory synonyms, Doctor.”
“Why are we here, Schwarzkröte?” Urban Smith’s patience was wearing thin. “Have you merely brought us here to gloat?”
Schwarzkröte’s eyes widened, and his hand flew to his chest, clearly affronted by the suggestion.
“Heavens, no!” he wailed. “I mean to make you an offer. An offer to join us. Without your brilliance and tenacity, we may never have located the Atman.”
I shook my head in wonder. “This must be a joke. A jape or a jest.”
“Come, come,” said Schwarzkröte. “After all, you have been working to my advantage for weeks. All I seek to do is reward you for your efforts.” He lowered his voice and took a step towards us. “Think of what our organisation can offer you; riches, power, knowledge and a chance to be a part of a New World Order.”
He turned to Urban-Smith. “Think about it, Mr Urban-Smith. You have a burning curiosity in all matters of the arcane, cryptic and bizarre. Your thirst for truth drives your every action. It is your raison d’être.” He motioned grandly with his hand. “The Apple of Eden is merely the tip of the iceberg.”
He came to tower over me, staring at me over the top of his spectacles like an owl sighting a field mouse in the long grass.
“And you, my dear Doctor Harker. You have tasted the pleasures of the flesh, but you seek more. Much more.” He leaned further forward and it took all of my muster not to recoil in disgust. “Imagine having enough wealth to indulge your every perverted whim, your blackest fantasy. Imagine women and men of every creed, colour, size, shape and sentiment as your playthings. A veritable harem at your beck and call.” He licked his lips greedily. “Imagine the pleasure. Imagine the pain.”
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