The Apocalypse Fire (Ava Curzon Trilogy Book 2)
Page 26
The icon must be in the Chapel of Adam.
Hitting the ground floor hard, she swung right, and was immediately in front of the doorway into the chapel.
With her heart hammering, she ran forward, and found herself in a small room directly underneath the crucifixion altar above.
She gazed around intently.
It was an intimate space, with smooth stone flags on the floor, and ancient low arches overhead. All the edges and right angles had worn off the walls’ aged blocks, giving the windowless chapel a mellow feeling of the passing centuries. At the east end, behind a low gate, there was a semi-circular apse with a simple undecorated altar. Behind it, a glass panel in the brickwork revealed the natural rock, said to be Golgotha, with a crack visibly running through it.
She looked back down at the leaflet’s description of the chapel.
All medieval crusader kings of Jerusalem were buried in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. The tombs have been lost, although two survived in the Chapel of Adam until 1808, and their designs are known from drawings.
Ava felt a frisson of anticipation.
Was that why Rasputin had drawn a Templar cross?
Was it an oblique reference to the crusader tombs?
Off to her right, at the end of a barrel-vaulted tunnel, there was a low narrow doorway connecting the chapel back to the church’s main entrance area where she had first entered.
And there – either side of the narrow doorway – were two long stone slabs.
Her heart was beating harder now.
The low plinths were exactly the sort of place where sarcophagi would once have been placed.
Her mind was racing ahead, and suddenly another piece of Rasputin’s cryptograph slotted into place.
She already knew that none of the clues had a Russian link. They were not about Anastasia or Saint Petersburg, and DISEASED ROYAL BLOOD was not an allusion to the haemophiliac Tsesarevich Prince Alexei Nicolaevich Romanov.
She now knew exactly who it referred to.
She could not believe that she had not made the connection earlier.
Alongside Prince Alexei, the most famous diseased royal in history was a king – a very powerful one.
A king of Jerusalem.
His crippling disease formed the basis of the Arthurian myths of the wounded fisher king, whose illness brought blight to the land.
He was Baldwin IV – the leper king of Jerusalem, and his demise was forever linked to the twilight of the once indomitable Crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem.
It all made sense.
She ran to the two stone plinths, and looked about feverishly.
As her eyes scanned the rows of icons hanging in the vault above the slabs, she registered a succession of traditional Orthodox images of patriarchs and saints.
And there, in a darkened recess by the narrow entranceway, was the icon of Our Lady of Philermos.
A wave of elation ripped through her.
She had been right!
Although blackened by age almost beyond recognition, the image of the Virgin Mary had exactly the same long mournful face and sad eyes as the one she had seen at the Palazzo Malta. And, almost imperceptible in the gloom, she could just make out some of the eight points of the Maltese Cross radiating from behind her head.
Grand Master Torquemada had mentioned a legend that the icon had been painted by Saint Luke. Looking at it now, she doubted that. But it was definitely medieval – from at least the 1200s. The frame was a later addition, maybe from the 1500s. And the golden jewelled riza mounted on the front was the most recent part of all, but still centuries old.
She checked there was no one about, then leant forwards and put her fingers behind the icon, lifting gently to pull it away from the wall.
To her frustration, it did not move.
She probed behind the icon more thoroughly with her fingers, and discovered that it was firmly bolted into place by metal pins sunk into the vault’s stone ashlars.
The icon was not going anywhere, and there was no way she was going to be able to force it off the wall. The wood was old, and if she exerted any more pressure it would splinter or crack.
She was just going to have to examine it in place.
Leaning in close, she began to study it in detail.
The image itself was identical to the one in the Palazzo Malta and the various copies she had seen in books in the Vatican Library.
There did not appear to be anything unusual about the icon – and she doubted that whatever it was hiding was in plain sight, anyway.
It was far more likely to be concealing something.
She ran her fingers around the smooth wooden edges of the frame.
It was hiding a secret.
She was sure of it.
She laid her hand lightly on the riza, and tried sliding it.
The covering stayed firm.
What was she missing?
She pictured the second cryptograph in her mind’s eye again, and then suddenly it hit her.
There were the two letters at the bottom.
ZZ
She had not paid much attention to them so far.
Did they tell her what to do now she had found the icon?
She concentrated on them.
Did ZZ mean something in Russian?
If it did, then she was stuck.
She did not speak Russian.
There were probably Russian tourists in the building, but the last thing she wanted was to draw attention to what she was doing.
She thought back to the meeting in the Cavalry and Guards Club, when Swinton had shown her the photograph of Durov, in his car, looking at Rasputin’s notebooks.
She concentrated hard, recalling the original image in the notebook.
She had clearly seen the two Russian letters: ze and ze.
What on earth began with Z and Z in Russian?
She could not think of anything. She simply did not know enough Russian.
As she pictured the letters in her head, she suddenly felt a wave of doubt, followed by excitement.
What if they weren’t Russian letters at all?
The Russian letter for Z was З.
What if didn’t say ZZ at all?
What if they were numbers?
What if it said thirty-three?
She let the idea sink in for a moment.
It was certainly possible that Swinton’s translator had assumed they were Cyrillic letters and overlooked the possibility they were just ordinary numbers.
Three and three. Or thirty-three.
In handwriting – especially Rasputin’s scrawl – it would be easy to confuse them.
But what would that mean?
What was the significance of 33?
Jesus was thirty-three years old when he was executed.
Was that it?
She dismissed the idea.
No.
The clue had to tell her what to do with the icon.
She stared at the sorrowful image of the Virgin Mary, and noticed that the riza was surrounded by pearls. Hundreds of them.
Was it a reference to those?
Was she supposed to count the pearls somehow?
She doubted it. They were in a continuous loop, with no obvious start or end.
Inside the outer band of pearls were larger rubies and clusters of pearls.
Did it refer to those?
She started at Mary’s left shoulder, and counted the third ruby up from the left.
She pressed it, and felt a surge of exhilaration run through her as it sank gently into the frame, then popped back to its original position.
That was it!
On the other side of the icon, she counted up three rubies from Mary’s right shoulder, and pressed it.
The precious stone did exactly the same as the first, sinking softly into the frame, then popping out.
She frowned.
Nothing had changed.
Frustrated, she pressed both stones simultaneously.
She stared in disbelief.
Reaching gingerly for the bottom bar of the frame, she pulled it down slowly.
To her amazement, it slid freely, opening like a drawer.
As she continued to pull, the breath caught in her throat at the sight of a recess carved into the drawer – and at what it contained.
A small rectangle of vellum.
With trembling hands, she carefully lifted the ancient piece of skin out of the concealed hiding place.
The side facing her was blank.
Momentarily overwhelmed by the enormity of what she had discovered, she slowly turned it over, and gasped at the medieval script covering the other side.
It was bold and black, in a crisp neat hand.
She gaped at the seven-pointed star, lost for words.
Around it were twelve smaller circles, and at each of its tips was a black circle with a letter in it. Beside each black circle was a word.
She read them:
APOCALYPSIS
SMYRNE POLYCARPUS
PETRUS BARTHOLOMEUS
MONS SECURUS
ECCLESIA ANTIQUA
ANTIOCHUS
RAIMUNDUS FAIDITUS
She goggled at the star blankly, translating the words from the medieval Latin.
It meant absolutely nothing to her.
It seemed meaningless. Incoherent.
Pulling out her smartphone, she took several photos of the bizarre drawing, then pushed the concealed drawer closed again, and clicked the bottom bar of the icon’s frame back into place.
She was about to place the piece of vellum between the pages of a book in her jacket pocket, when, with no warning, she felt a blow to the back of her head.
It was fast and savage, and as the pain exploded across her skull, she went hot then ice cold, and started to black out.
Chapter 48
Church of the Holy Sepulchre
Shuk ha-Tsaba’aim Street
Jerusalem
The State of Israel
FIGHTING TO STAY conscious, she was aware only of an overpowering nausea, then a pain in her knees as they crashed into the stone slab in front of her, and she was sent sprawling over it.
At the same time, there was a burning pain in the back of her hand as something was jabbed into it hard, breaking the skin.
She instinctively opened her palm, and the piece of vellum was snatched away.
Through a daze, she realized she was still holding the smartphone in her tight hand. Without pausing, she swung her arm round hard and fast, angling the corner of the phone into the head of her attacker.
He grunted as it connected, and she got her first glimpse of who it was.
He had a broad face with high cheekbones and brown hair swept back in a ponytail.
Durov.
Her mind immediately filled with images of him slicing her ear the previous day, and she felt her rage rising.
He was not going to get the better of her this time.
And he was absolutely not going to take the vellum.
Without pausing, she kicked him savagely in the kneecap.
He might be strong, but she was better trained.
Now off balance, he swung a vicious backhand at her, but she saw it coming, and ducked. Before he knew what was happening, she hammered her elbow into the back of his shoulder, and he grunted as he crashed to the floor.
The vellum was still in his hand and, without pausing, she stooped to grab it back.
But before she reached it, her left arm was yanked backwards so hard her shoulder burned, then she was smothered in a crushing hold from behind.
Completely trapped, she twisted to look backwards, but the person was behind her, and she could not see his face.
“Don’t struggle, and it won’t hurt,” a voice commanded her.
She knew that voice anywhere.
Uri.
Something inside her snapped, and she began to lash out with her head and legs.
But Uri was far too strong. He was restraining her so hard she could not breathe.
She fought for air, watching helplessly as Durov picked himself up and walked briskly out through the chapel’s doors, tucking the vellum into his jacket pocket as he left.
Uri loosened his grip on her slightly.
“What the hell are you doing?” Ava shouted as her coughing subsided. “He’s got the…”
With an iron effort of will, she stopped herself just in time. Things were complicated enough, without Uri knowing about the icon and the vellum.
She was apoplectic with rage, and started struggling again, converting all her frustration into aggression. “You bastard. You have no idea what you’ve just done,” she spat.
“I warned you,” he answered coolly, with no trace of emotion. “I told you clearly to leave Durov alone. But you didn’t listen.”
“Nice friends, you keep.” Ava hurled the accusation at him. “What is it? Money? Favours? Dirty laundry?”
Uri did not reply. He checked that Durov had disappeared, then released her.
Her blood was still pumping hard, and without hesitating she grabbed the diminutive gun from her pocket, raised it, and pointed it directly at Uri.
He was at point blank range.
“Come with me,” he ordered, ignoring the weapon.
For a split second she found herself squeezing the trigger a little tighter, taking aim.
“If I put a hole in you,” she was breathing hard, still struggling to control her anger, “no one in London would blame me – not after what you just did.”
Uri looked dismissively at her. “But you’re not in London. This is Jerusalem.”
As she absorbed his words, the reality of the situation sank in.
He was right.
She was in Israel. On his territory.
She gradually released the pressure on the trigger and lowered the gun.
Slumping against the cold wall in defeat, she took several deep breaths to calm herself.
Praying that her phone was still working, she swiped it on, and heaved a sigh of relief when the camera app appeared with a little square in the corner showing the last photo she had taken.
It was a miniature image of the piece of vellum. She tapped it, and the photograph filled the screen. The focus was sharp, and she could make out all the words clearly.
At least it was something.
“Now what?” She pushed the hair out of her face and glared at Uri.
“Follow me,” he answered, reaching down and taking the gun from her hand.
He turned and started walking back out of the chapel into the entrance area, then out of the building and onto the parvis in front.
Drained, Ava followed.
As they approached the archway back into the souq, he took her arm – more gently this time – and steered her through it.
She pulled away in irritation.
Without stopping, he turned left at the end of the square, and made for the labyrinth of stalls lining the narrow streets of the Muristan.
Looking around, Ava figured she could easily make a run for it. There were alleyways branching off the narrow street in all directions, and there were so many stalls and goods cluttering the area that she would have a hundred places to hide.
She was confident she could lose him pretty quickly.
But logic told her that if Durov had the piece of vellum, then she was more likely to get it back if Mossad was not on her case as well.
Right now, that meant going to the station with Uri, and answering whatever questions he had.
She was reassured by the fact he would not be able to pin anything on her. She had not followed Durov to Israel, and Uri knew nothing about the icon. So when it was over, he would let her go, and she could carry on.
Except this time, she
promised herself, she would make sure Uri was nowhere near her.
Chapter 49
The Muristan
Jerusalem
The State of Israel
URI WAS SILENT as he led Ava through the narrow streets of the Muristan’s spreading souq.
That was fine by her. She did not want to say anything more than she had to. Her head still hurt from where Durov had tried to knock her out, and she was grateful for the silence.
Uri turned up a stall-cluttered side street, and then again into another narrower street which led up a slight hill. The goods on display here were altogether less shiny – thin bunches of tired and unwashed vegetables, and limp sprigs of yellowing herbs.
He stopped at a small wooden door – its worn geometric carvings battered and chipped by the decades – and tapped a code into a panel mounted beside it.
The mechanism clicked noisily open, and he ushered her into a bare tiled hallway, up a narrow stone staircase, then through another locked doorway, and into a small sitting room.
A mellow light filtered in from the warped wooden shutters, through which she could see slices of the Muristan’s chaotic roofs and alleyways.
There was a low carved wooden table in the middle of the room, with a sofa, two armchairs, and a television arranged around it. A door opened into a small kitchen, and another to a room with a bed, a desk, and a window with bars and solid wooden shutters.
“Safe house,” Uri said, locking the door behind them. “Sit down,” he said, indicating the sofa. “You’ve got a lot of explaining to do.”
“As have you,” Ava retorted. “What the hell were you doing back there? And why are you following me?”
“I told you,” he answered, taking out her Curve gun. “Some senior people in the Institute want you to leave Durov alone.”
“Why?” Ava fired back. “What’s the connection between Mossad and an insane petro-oligarch?”
Ava sank into the sofa, glaring at him as he moved over to the window.
“I’m not holding you here,” he answered, unclipping the magazine. “You’re free to go. But if you keep harassing Durov, someone from the Institute – and it will probably be me – will be tasked to put you permanently out of action. You can’t say you haven’t been warned.”