The Apocalypse Fire (Ava Curzon Trilogy Book 2)

by Dominic Selwood

  Recognition.

  Struggling to place it, the memories suddenly clicked into place.

  He had been here before. Many years ago.

  With Sami.

  He looked hurriedly across the street, and there it was – the small stone fountain with the bronze mermaid.

  Al-hamdu lillah.

  Thanks be to God for Sami.

  The details were coming back now.

  While he had been studying at the Lycée and then the Grande École, Sami had been bunking off, on the streets, soaking up the limited thrills the city’s northern ghetto could offer a young Maghrebi outcast.

  He and Sami had always been outsiders.

  In Algeria, they were reviled as Christians. Now, here in France, in their new life away from the horror, they were shunned as North Africans. No one seemed aware that Algeria had been Christian long before France. Or that Saint Augustine – the most brilliant thinker and luminary of the early Church – had been African.

  It did not even seem to make any difference when, years later, he landed a good job at the university, rising to become one of the foremost specialists in his field.

  He could never expect to be one of them.

  He lurched into the road, his eyes flicking again to the strikingly curvy statue in the fountain.

  This was definitely it.

  They had laughed at the French back then. Sami and his friends had joked how the streets of Paris had been so poorly built that many had collapsed. There was a time when the Rue d’Enfer – the Road of Hell – had caved in completely.

  Reaching the middle of the street, he looked down and saw it.

  The next thing he knew, he was on his knees, hooking his fingers into the small holes piercing the elegant wrought-iron manhole cover. He strained, tugging at the metal disc, pulling it upwards with all his might, praying it had not rusted shut – or worse, been welded down.

  The metal moved fractionally as he again heard the roar of the BMW’s six cylinders accelerating. It sounded closer now – just the other side of a nearby junction.

  With a renewed urgency, he yanked harder, feeling the muscles in his back spasming as his whole body willed the metal to move.

  And then, suddenly, it was free.

  Somewhere nearby, gears crunched and the engine picked up speed.

  He hauled the heavy disc to one side, and threw his legs down into the blackness beneath.

  Up ahead, the tyres screeched, and his feet found the small irregular ladder of iron rungs embedded into the concrete wall.

  He had lost all sense of time, and everything was happening at once.

  The headlights were bearing down on him as he stretched for the manhole cover. With a burst of strength born of desperation, he hauled it back into place over his head, hearing it clang into position.

  Now he was suddenly in darkness, and shaking uncontrollably.

  Sami had pointed out the manhole cover all those years ago, but they had not gone down it together. That was something Sami did with his friends – the secretive army of cataphiles who moved about the uncharted city of catacombs.

  Here, in the north, Sami had told him, the tunnels and shafts were not sanitized like those in southern Paris, where in the late 1700s around six million corpses were dug out of the city’s graveyards, and deposited into the endless miles of subterranean gypsum and limestone quarries. Nowadays, boggle-eyed tourists could pay a handful of Euros to spook themselves in the skull-lined tunnels, but come closing time, the officials made sure everyone was out, before locking the gates for the night and going home to their baguettes and wine.

  These northern quarries were very different, Sami had explained. These were not the 0.2 per cent of catacombs that had been made safe. These were unmapped and unknown, unstable and off-limits. Only the cataphiles moved about down here – oblivious to the world above – in a shadowy parallel universe of druggies, dropouts, and freedom warriors.

  Amine’s coordination was gone, and he slid clumsily down the rungs as the pencil-beam shafts of pale light from the manhole cover above became fainter.

  His feet eventually hit the wet sludge covering the tunnel’s floor.

  The air was colder here.

  He clutched the leather bag closer to his body.

  They were not going to get it.

  He could not believe they knew about it. He had told almost no one.

  Ahead were two openings into the catacombs. After a second’s indecision, he broke into a run again, heading right.

  Left was bad luck.

  Suddenly hearing a noise behind him, he stopped with a jolt, straining to listen.

  Then he heard it again, echoing around the rocky walls.

  There was no mistake.

  It was the distant rasp of the manhole cover scraping on concrete and grit.

  They must’ve seen him.

  Picking up speed, he began to sprint, the fear now a physical lump in his throat.

  He was clutching the bag more tightly than ever.

  They would not find it.

  They must not find it.

  He could not let them get what was inside the bag.

  The catacombs were infinite.

  He hurled himself forwards into the darkness, aware now of ominous pale shadows moving behind him, cast by far-off lights. His lungs were on fire, and his heart was pounding too fast.

  As he powered blindly ahead into the gloom, he looked back, and saw the shadows on the walls becoming more distinct.

  They were getting closer.

  He held his arms out and sped up, blocking off the blinding pain from his exhausted muscles.

  The next moment, his palms slammed hard into a rock wall, followed milliseconds later by his left knee, then his face.

  Whimpering, he slid to the floor, tasting blood in his mouth and throat, aware from the burning in the front of his skull that he had shattered his nose.

  Panicking, he struggled to get up, but his left knee was not responding, and below it his leg was twisted at an impossible angle.

  He put out his arm to lever himself up, but the moment his hand touched the ground a sickening red-hot sensation engulfed his forearm.

  He gazed about wildly, but could only look on helplessly at the grotesquely distorted and elongated shadows on the walls advancing towards him.

  Paralyzed, he sat in terror as the beams fell onto him, and the figures of four men emerged out of the gloom.

  From their Asian appearance, full beards, knee-length black kurta shirts, and drawn handguns, he was in no doubt who they were.

  One of the torches picked out a rusty metal gate set into the solid rock wall behind where he was slumped.

  He had come to a dead end.

  One of the men stepped forward.

  He had a long angular face with fleshy lips and oiled collar-length hair. His right eyelid was frozen half closed.

  The shadows of the torchlight distorted his features even more, rendering them grotesque. He locked eyes with Amine arrogantly. “Give me the bag,” he grunted with a sandpapery growl, pointing at the satchel.

  His Arabic was fluent and flawless, but Amine struggled to place it. The man looked Pakistani, yet the accent was something he had not heard before.

  Amine shook his head. As he did, a fresh clot of blood and phlegm slid from his nose into his throat. “Please,” he begged, replying in the same language, his voice cracking. “Don’t kill me.” His eyes were filling with tears from the pain of his broken body. “I am a nobody.”

  One of the men yanked the bag off his shoulder.

  Amine felt sick.

  The man handed the bag to the leader, who slowly opened its flap. He stuck a hand inside, and pulled out a notebook, followed by a piece of pottery the size of a paperback book.

  “Good.” He put them both back into the bag, and hung it from his shoulder.

  From somewhere deep down, Amine felt a surge of defiant hope amid the senselessness of it all.

  Maybe it would
be okay.

  At least they did not have the letter.

  They would never find that.

  The leader walked across to the gate, grabbed one of its rusty bars, and rattled it.

  The metal stayed firm.

  “Crucify the kaffir here,” the jihadi ordered, his obsidian-black eyes filling with pleasure.

  As Amine’s brain struggled to take on board the enormity of the words, he looked on in horror as the three men approached.

  Chapter 5

  The Kremlin

  Moscow

  Russian Federation

  ON THE NORTHERN bank of the River Moskva, high above the great medieval tower, the ten-foot ruby glass communist star gleamed in the strong morning sunlight.

  Far below, Oleg Durov’s car swept through the grand red-brick gate.

  In former days, visitors approached the formidable nineteen-towered curtain wall via Red Square and the Place of Skulls. But now all traffic entered at the south-western Borovitskaya Tower, passing directly into the heart of Russia’s political machine.

  Once past the checkpoint, the limousine moved confidently through the ultra-high-security complex, navigating its way between the five palaces, four cathedrals, assorted historic buildings, and governmental offices.

  Durov gazed out of the tinted window as the car passed the Grand Kremlin Palace of the Tsars, now home to the President of the Russian Federation.

  He was euphoric.

  Today was only the beginning.

  In Russia, Italy, and America, they would start to feel it happening.

  Thanks to him.

  The chauffeur pulled up at Cathedral Square. The oligarch climbed out, and strode between the Cathedrals of the Annunciation and the Dormition, towards a rectangular building. Its unique façade stuck out among the ancient sacred architecture, arresting in its faceted white limestone bricks, each sharpened at the front to an aggressive point.

  As Durov approached, the uniformed guard on the door snapped to attention and nodded him through into the oldest set of rooms in the Kremlin.

  Inside, General Gennady Zhurikov was waiting in the Faceted Chamber.

  The ancient room was dominated by a vast central column supporting four radiating ceiling vaults, each illuminated by a large triple-tiered medieval chandelier.

  Zhurikov was gazing at the gold walls and ceiling, and at the hundreds of frescoes and gilded carvings jostling in a riot of exuberant reds, blues, and greens.

  Durov joined him, looking around reverentially.

  He loved this room above all others.

  It filled him with the Spirit.

  He stepped over to one of the large windows, transfixed by the sight of the square’s gold onion domes blazing in the sun.

  There was Grace in this place.

  “Do you know why I’ve called you here, General?” Durov asked, turning after a moment’s pause.

  The old soldier’s jaw was clenched tightly shut – the white hair and eyebrows taking away none of the face’s strength.

  Durov looked disdainfully at the crisp khaki uniform, medals, and peaked hat tucked smartly under an arm.

  He had no time for the Old Guard. The world had moved on. He struggled to believe that there were still many who had not adapted to the changes in 1991, and that Zhurikov was their poster boy.

  “You’re not still a member of the Communist Party, are you?” Durov’s tone was mocking.

  The general bristled visibly.

  Durov turned his back on the soldier again and looked out of the window, surveying the five mighty cross-topped domes of the Cathedral of the Dormition, where the tsars had all been crowned.

  It was sublime – earthly and heavenly rule, operating in unison.

  “But you’re still a Communist?” he persisted.

  The general’s anger flared. “As was this country, for the first forty years of my life.”

  Durov held his hand up dismissively. “And Comrade Stalin was Premier when you were born. But we were a backward nation then, technologically far behind the West and Asia. Now, we’re forging ahead. Yet you,” he turned to face the old soldier, eyeing the three stars on his epaulettes, “you want your glory days back, heroically fighting yesterday’s battles.”

  Zhurikov was visibly measuring his words. “Russia stands for nothing anymore. You capitalists have pissed away an empire.”

  Durov walked towards the older man aggressively. “How many barrels of oil do we make now?”

  Zhurikov shook his head. “It belongs to the people. It’s not your personal casino chip.”

  Durov ignored him. “Per day, the US and Saudi produce twelve million each. We make eleven million. China and Canada four million each. Iran, Iraq, the UAE, Mexico, and Kuwait three million each. So you see, General, we’re a giant.”

  “And yet,” Zhurikov answered, “we’re crippled by US and European sanctions. You can’t sell it. Our people starve. So what does it matter?”

  Durov felt himself getting angry. “Europe is finished,” he sneered. “It’s a museum. And the American dream is over, stagnating in disposable culture. The world has new markets now – to the east.”

  Zhurikov looked unimpressed. “You sell to China at forty dollars a barrel? Why bother?”

  He did not have time to give the old man a lesson in petro-economics. “The Saudis have floored the price to squeeze Iran out. It’s politics. And it’s temporary.”

  The old soldier looked ahead warily. “Why did you call me here?”

  Durov was soaking in the sacred images all around.

  This was the beating heart of Russia.

  Vlast i vera: power and faith.

  “For over five centuries, much of this nation’s most important history has unfolded in this very room, where the disciplines of politics and war have come together many times.”

  The general glared at him disdainfully. “What do you know of war?”

  “That it belongs to politicians, General, not soldiers,” Durov retorted. “Wars begin and end with men in suits around tables. Your role is a means to an end. Nothing more. To obey, not to question.”

  Zhurikov stared at him defiantly.

  “Don’t misunderstand.” Durov moved back towards the window. “A government only stands with an army behind it. We have a mutual self-interest. Which is why you can now do something. For Russia.”

  Zhurikov frowned.

  “Thanks to our strategic placement in Syria, we now have – how shall I put it? – capabilities, in the Middle East?”

  “You know very well what the position is,” Zhurikov answered quietly.

  Better than you, Durov mused. “I wonder what would happen if an accident befell an oil supertanker leaving the east coast of Saudi. Say, en route from Jubail or Ras Tanura to the US?”

  Zhurikov’s lip curled. “You have assets for that type of operation. You don’t need my men…” He stopped, the penny dropping. “Unless you’re looking for a scapegoat if it goes wrong.”

  “The state is shrinking.” Durov allowed a note of concern to enter his voice. “It’s a sad but inevitable fact. When the dust settles, I sincerely hope you, and those loyal to you, are still serving the motherland.”

  Zhurikov stared off into the middle distance, his expression twisting with emotion. When he replied, there was steel in his voice. “Without the army, you’d be nothing.”

  Durov breathed deeply.

  How much longer were these Cold War dinosaurs going to last?

  “Of course, you’re right.” He stepped closer. “But, unless I’m mistaken, you’re not the army. You’re one man.”

  “As are we all.” Zhurikov was now making no effort to conceal his hostility.

  “You should have more faith, General.” Durov smiled, lightening the tone. “Faith is all.”

  The corners of Zhurikov’s mouth turned down with disgust. “I have found faith to be a poor answer to most questions.”

  Durov looked over the soldier’s shoulder at the icon of Saint
George on the wall. The warrior was victoriously skewering the dragon to the floor with his lance, trampling it under his horse’s hooves. It was a holy image of sanctity and strength.

  It was perfection.

  “Then tell me,” Durov was genuinely interested. “When you took your first command, did you not have faith in the Politburo? In the Praesidium?”

  Zhurikov rounded on him, anger blazing openly in his eyes. “I was commanding Red Army brigades when you were still begging in the forests.”

  With no warning, Durov strode rapidly over to Zhurikov, only stopping when his nose was level with the soldier’s eyes. “You don’t want to pick a fight with me,” he whispered.

  “From what I hear,” Zhurikov snarled, “you don’t have the balls.”

  Durov smiled nastily, before grabbing Zhurikov’s hand and clamping it over his groin.

  The material of the expensive vicuña suit crumpled softly, and Zhurikov’s palm and fingers met no resistance as they closed over the empty space over Durov’s pubic bone.

  Zhurikov pulled away, a look of shock and revulsion on his face as he turned and strode for the door.

  Durov watched him stalk out, under the gaze of the holiest saints of Russia. “Be careful, Comrade,” he called after him, emphasizing the word disdainfully. “The thing about generals is that it’s good for an army’s morale to occasionally stumble across a dead one.”

  Chapter 6

  Nuremberg

  Free State of Bavaria

  The Federal Republic of Germany

  DURING THE NOISY and uncomfortable flight in the stripped-down Dauphin, the SAS corporal with the mutton-chop sideburns had been in almost constant radio communication with the Bavarian police’s Spezialeinsatzkommandos in Nuremberg.

  Swinton, meanwhile, had the job of keeping London and Munich happy with the details of the unfolding operation.

  Flying fast and low over Franconia, Ava recognized the immense twin spires of Nuremberg’s great medieval Saint Lorenz Church. The two vast stone needles came swiftly into view, like a dramatic shot from Riefenstahl’s Triumph of the Will. But instead of Hitler’s corrugated Junkers JU-52 swooping low over the picturesque rooftops, it was a disguised SAS flight, on its way to do what the Regiment did best.