by Alex Lukeman
Nick's voice was quiet. "It's a storeroom. Looks like it's part of the original keep. We're probably on the main floor."
They went to the door. Ronnie eased it open a crack and looked out.
"It's a library. I can see the door, it's closed. Nobody here."
They moved into the library. Across the room was a wall full of books. Nick crossed to it. Many were obviously old, with bindings of faded leather. Most of the titles were in languages he couldn't read. Some were in Arabic.
"If that book is here, we'll never find it."
A murmur of voices came from the other side of the closed door.
"Someone's coming," Ronnie said.
The voices got louder.
Nick held up two fingers and gestured at the door. Ronnie nodded. They took up position on either side of the entrance. It opened and two men dressed in black, hooded robes entered the room, absorbed in their conversation.
The first man stopped and put his hand on the other man's arm.
"Are you sure we have time, Robert? What if someone comes in?"
The second said, "Don't worry, they're..."
Nick wrapped an arm around his throat in a chokehold and cut off whatever he was going to say. Ronnie struck the first man in the back of his head with the butt of his rifle. The only sound as he fell was the soft rustle of his robe.
Nick kept the chokehold until the man stopped struggling. He held it a little longer, then eased him to the ground.
"What's with the robes?" Ronnie asked.
"Payne is going to conduct some kind of ritual. It must be part of that. Selena said there were at least twenty people here. Five will get you ten they're all dressed like this. Take the robes and we'll join the party."
They stripped the robes off the men. Ronnie took a roll of duct tape from his pack and bound their hands and feet, then pasted a wide strip over their mouths.
"Don't know what I'd do without duct tape," he said.
They put on the robes.
"I feel really stupid in this," Ronnie said. "Like a character in a bad movie."
Nick paused. "Listen. You hear something?"
"Sounds like mumbling."
"They're chanting. I can't make out the words."
They left the library and entered the great room. The sound of chanting grew louder, rhythmic and strange. It came from the other side of the room, from behind another door. They ran in a fast crouch toward the sound. The door was ajar. Ronnie peered through the crack.
"Take a look," he whispered.
Nick looked and sucked in a breath.
The door opened into the chapel. Torches flared at regular intervals along the walls, set in sconces of iron. The flames sent shadows dancing about the room.
A group of people dressed in the black robes were clustered in the chapel, chanting. All of them were looking toward a terrifying statue at the far end. They swayed as they chanted, moving to a monotonous, rhythmic sound that made Nick's stomach turn over.
The statue dominated the room. It was huge, made of black stone. It depicted the muscular body of a naked man with the face of a goat, seated on a throne. The figure had long, pointed horns jutting from its head. The expression on the animal face was one of indescribable evil. The feet were crossed and ended in cloven hooves. The right arm was raised with two fingers pointing upward. The other arm and hand pointed down at the earth, the fingers crossed in an obscure symbol. Feathered wings emerged from the shoulders. A huge, erect phallus rose at the groin over a set of swollen testicles.
High on the wall behind the statue, the full moon shone through a window. In front of the window was an iron pentagram. Nick thought of the Templar church in Portugal. There had been a window with a pentagram there as well, the Templar Seal of Solomon. But here the pentagram was inverted, turned upside down.
The sign of Satan.
Geoffrey Payne stood facing the statue. Unlike the others, his robe was blood red. He was singing from a book he held in his hands, the words flowing like a poisonous river, dark and strange. At the feet of the statue, a naked girl lay bound by chains of black iron to an altar draped in black cloth.
She was tugging at the chains that imprisoned her, her face contorted with fear as she watched Payne.
Alan Dubois stood next to Payne, holding a golden tray. A long, sharp knife lay on the tray. It glittered in the light of the torches.
"Sweet Jesus," Ronnie said.
Nick's voice was tight. "They're going to sacrifice the girl."
The chant got louder. Payne's voice rose in a singsong cadence that echoed from the walls of the chapel. Nick struggled to raise his rifle. Something pushed against him, holding him back, stifling his breath, stealing the strength from his arms.
As Payne sang the loathsome words of the book, a round, black hole suddenly appeared behind the statue. It grew until it covered most of the back wall of the chapel. The flames from the torches blazed and flared as if a sudden wind had struck them.
A foul stench seeped into the room. Nick choked down the urge to vomit. He'd smelled it before in Afghanistan and Iraq, but never like this. It was the stench of a thousand corpses rotting under a merciless sun.
The stench of death.
The hairs on Nick's neck rose. His feet felt nailed to the floor. The room went cold, as if all the heat inside had been sucked away. A high pitched, keening sound came out of the dark portal behind the statue, the sound of something alien and old and full of hate.
The sound of something coming.
Dubois turned pale, his face bloodless white. His hands shook as he held the tray with the sharpened blade. Payne took the knife from the tray, still chanting, and turned to the altar where the girl lay. She saw the knife and began screaming.
Something thick and black flowed out of the opening behind the statue and began to take shape. Payne raised the knife high over his head. His voice rose to a scream as he sang the words from the book.
Nick raised his rifle and tried to aim at Payne. It was like pushing through glue. He pulled the trigger. The bullets missed Payne and caught Dubois and flung him backwards in a spray of blood. The golden tray skittered across the stone floor. The spell broken, Nick kicked the chapel door all the way open.
Shocked, Paine stopped chanting. He turned toward them.
"NO," he yelled.
Ronnie moved up next to Nick.
Nick yelled across the room. "Give it up, Payne."
Payne pointed in their direction. The men in robes turned.
"Kill them!" he screamed.
The faces in the crowd were twisted in rage, ugly with hate. They surged forward as Nick and Ronnie opened fire. The bullets scythed into them, cutting them down. The air filled with the smell of burnt powder and blood and cries of pain. Nick ejected an empty magazine, slammed in another and kept firing.
As the last black robe dropped, a terrified scream came from the direction of the altar. Something that looked like a black tentacle wrapped around Payne. He struggled to break free, writhing in pain. The book lay forgotten on the floor of the desecrated chapel.
"Master! No!"
"Holy shit," Ronnie said.
Payne was lifted off the floor. Blood spread in dark splotches on his robe. He screamed, a horrible sound, his legs kicking in the air. The tentacle dragged him back through the opening behind the statue. Lightning crackled around the room. Then the portal collapsed in on itself with a deafening clap of thunder.
Payne was gone.
"Holy shit," Ronnie said again.
The floor vibrated under their feet. An ominous, rumbling sound began.
"The girl," Nick said. "Get the girl."
They ran to the altar and undid the chains. The girl's eyes were wide open, staring at nothing. A thin trail of drool ran from her mouth. Nick bent over her.
"We'll get you out. Don't worry. We're friends."
There was no answer.
"She's in shock. Cover her with the cloth."
They wrapped the bl
ack altar cloth around her. Nick picked her up. A large stone fell from the ceiling and smashed onto the floor nearby. A second shattered a few feet in front of him.
They ran for the door leading to the great hall. A wide crack opened in the floor and spread to the statue. The demonic image tipped sideways and fell with a loud, echoing crash. Stones rained down from the roof of the chapel.
They ran through the great hall toward the exit. A spider web of cracks climbed up the walls. Stones rained down on them. They burst through the main doors and ran out into the compound in front of the keep. Behind them, the rumble of collapsing stone grew louder. The ground shook under their feet.
They turned and looked.
Long cracks shot up the walls of the keep. With a sound like rolling thunder, the building collapsed inward in a cascading jumble of stone. A huge, billowing cloud of dust rose into the night. A tongue of flame flickered in the ruins.
Silence.
"Whoa," Ronnie said.
Nick set the girl down and shrugged off his black robe, then wrapped it around her. Ronnie tore his off and threw it away. Nick picked the girl up again and held her in his arms.
"Let's get out of here."
Lights on the garage and barracks illuminated the compound. Nick nodded at a gap in the outer wall.
"We can get through over there."
They started for the wall. They'd reached the garage when a shout came from the other end of the compound.
"Hey, you. Stop where you are."
One of Payne's guards pointed a rifle at them. Several more came running up behind him.
"No way," Ronnie said.
He lifted his MP7 and fired a three round burst. The guard fell. They ducked behind a Land Rover parked in front of the garage. The other guards opened fire. Bullets peppered the truck, shattering the windows, punching holes in the body with harsh, metallic sounds. A tire blew, settling the truck at an awkward angle. Nick gently put the girl on the ground and returned fire.
The guards took cover behind the old stables and blasted away at the car. Bullets punctured the fuel tank. Gas poured out and began pooling under the truck. Ronnie reached into his pack and took out a grenade.
Nick was busy pinning down the guards. He caught Ronnie's motion from the corner of his eye.
"You'll never reach them from here."
"Don't have to."
Ronnie pulled the pin and heaved the grenade in the direction of the guards. When it went off, thick, roiling smoke poured out, blocking the view from the stables. Ronnie picked the girl up.
"I'll carry her. You cover."
They ran for the opening in the wall. Nick fired through the smoke, in the direction of the stables. Somebody yelled. They reached the wall. Nick fired a last burst at the Land Rover. The gas ignited, then exploded.
WHUMPF!
A ball of flame engulfed the Rover and lit the night with an orange glow. They clambered over the rubble of the wall and ran for where they'd left the car. They reached it and Nick pulled open the rear door. Ronnie lowered the unresponsive girl onto the back seat.
Nick fumbled for the key, started the car and threw it in gear. Behind them, the fire made a dull, red glow, a false sunrise that receded in the rearview mirror as they drove away.
They drove in silence. Nick watched the mirror for following headlights, but there was only the dark.
They'd gone several miles before Ronnie broke the silence.
"What the fuck was that in there?"
"I don't know. Whatever it was, it's gone."
"Man, I'm never gonna doubt my uncle's stories again."
In the back seat of the car, the girl moaned. Ronnie looked back at her.
"She's coming around."
"We have to get her somewhere safe."
"How are we going to do that without getting locked up? Whoever we leave her with will have a lot of questions we can't answer."
"I'll call Harker. She'll handle it."
CHAPTER 51
Harold Buttonwood was a senior collection management officer in the Europe Division of the Directorate of Operations at Langley, more commonly known as the National Clandestine Services. His job was to help evaluate intelligence involving Europe from all of Langley's sources.
He'd been recruited on the day he graduated from Princeton. Harold had an IQ of 170. He could look at things that seemed to have no relationship to each other and put them together to make a whole. He made connections and saw implications that others missed. In the world of the CIA, that made Harold a valuable asset.
He'd been working at Langley for more than twenty years. He was trusted. Along with the trust came a high security clearance.
The Directorate of Operations had seven separate divisions covering different parts of the world. Intelligence collected from the CIA's many informants throughout the globe often overlapped. The CMOs of the respective divisions shared information in joint meetings designed to prevent duplication of effort and wasted resources. The result was that Harold knew just about everything Langley was doing and where they were doing it.
In spite of his obvious abilities, promotion was slow. Over time, Harold developed a seething resentment toward the agency culture that promoted incompetent people past him. Harold hated incompetence.
In the privacy of his inner world, Harold thought of himself as a dangerous man. His idol was Dirty Harry. He'd even purchased a Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum revolver, like the one the character carried in the movies. But Dirty Harry was only a fictional character. Harold was far more dangerous.
Harold was a traitor.
He hadn't decided to betray his country for money, or because of some warped ideology. Harold had turned traitor because he wanted to get even. He was fed up with the fools who ran the agency, with their smug feelings of superiority. He was tired of having bosses who took credit for his brilliant analyses, men of lesser intelligence who used him to further their own personal advancement.
Once he'd made his decision, Harold had thought carefully about who to choose as a client for his treason. He prided himself on his analytical skills. He'd considered various alternatives, but the reality was that the choices were limited. In the end it came down to the big three, nations who were America's enemies and who could afford to pay for information.
China, Iran, and Russia.
China would pay well, but the Chinese were – well, they were Chinese. Yellow people. Harold didn't consider himself prejudiced, but he didn't like the Chinese. The Chinese just felt wrong.
The Iranians were too excitable. They weren't trustworthy. No, Iran wouldn't do.
That left Russia. It wouldn't be the first time someone within the agency had decided Moscow would be a good paymaster.
He couldn't just walk into the Russian Embassy and tell them he wanted to work for them. At best he'd be dismissed as a crank or considered a provocateur. To get the kind of payout he wanted and deserved, he would have to convince a senior officer that he was for real.
That evening Harold composed a letter offering his services. He used his left hand to print the words in block letters. As a sign of good faith and authenticity, he included a copy of classified intelligence about advanced Russian missiles secretly placed in the Ukraine. The Russians thought the Americans didn't know about them. As a final touch, Harold included the name of the Ukrainian asset who had passed on the information.
He was signing the man's death warrant, but that was none of his concern. Harold finished with a promise to provide more top-secret information and instructions about how to make contact. He placed the letter in an envelope addressed to the man he knew was the SVR Resident at the Russian embassy. From start to finish, he'd been careful not to leave fingerprints.
The next day he mailed it.
That had been three years before. Since then Harold and the Russians had enjoyed a simple and mutually beneficial relationship. He gave them important classified secrets. They gave him money. The real payoff was the immense sense of satisfac
tion he got when he watched the results of his treachery confound the men who had taken him for granted for so many years.
In the last week he'd started seeing intelligence from a new source, codenamed GROUNDHOG. GROUNDHOG was a ranking Russian officer stationed somewhere in Europe. The specifics of his identity, rank and responsibilities could only be found in a restricted file.
Harold's security clearance would allow him to see the file, but that would introduce an element of risk. He didn't have a need to know who GROUNDHOG was. He only needed to know that the information came from a reliable source. If he accessed the file, the system would automatically record his ID. Someone in security might wonder why he'd been looking.
Harold considered the risk. How much was the identity of GROUNDHOG worth to his Russian handlers? A million dollars? More? The Russians were always generous with their payments. His bank account in Switzerland contained almost ten million dollars. Another million or so would pad it out nicely.
Lately he'd been getting a feeling something wasn't quite right. He couldn't put his finger on it, there was nothing specific he could point to, but it made him nervous. He'd started thinking about getting out.
At first the game had been exciting. The feeling he got when he stole forbidden information was a high addictive as any drug. By now the high had passed, replaced with paranoia and a touch of fear. If they caught him, he'd spend the rest of his life in a super max cell staring at the walls.
Harold didn't like small spaces. He'd kill himself before he'd let them put him in a place like that.
Maybe that uneasy feeling was his subconscious telling him to leave before the axe fell. Maybe it was time to disappear to someplace warm where he couldn't be extradited.
He looked at the CIA logo drifting across his computer monitor and drummed his fingers on his desk.
A million dollars wasn't too much to ask for the identity of an important Russian traitor. The Russians would pay. The money was only a few keystrokes away. One last pay off, and he could quit.