Jennings was staring into the middle distance, his breathing inaudible.
She carefully wiped down the gun and placed it beside Jennings, then slipped out into the hallway.
There was nothing she could do for him. The ambulance would do their best, but he had lost a critical amount of blood.
There was going to be all hell to pay when the Police arrived. Jennings was a senior public figure, and she assumed Swinton would show up on some system somewhere.
She let herself out of the front door, and left it open a fraction for the emergency services.
As she closed the gate behind her and stepped onto the pavement, the rear window of a large black limousine in front of Swinton’s house slid down.
“Dr Curzon.” It was a man’s voice. “Won’t you get in?”
Chapter 53
National Defence Control Centre
Frunze Naberezhnaya
Moscow
Russian Federation
TWO MILES SOUTH-WEST of Red Square, on the left bank of the River Muskva, the National Defence Control Centre gleamed under the security lights.
Aside from the military staff who worked inside the heavily fortified ultra-modern building, few people had ever been behind its doors.
Only recently, images of the interior of the vast three-decker main situation room had been beamed all over the world for the first time. Media-friendly broadcasts had showcased the serried ranks of analysts on the ground floor, and the banks of political and military commanders in the dress circle, all gazing intently at the megaplex cinema-style wrap-around screens dominating the situation room. But the rest of the military nerve centre was shrouded in secrecy.
In an ops room several floors below ground level, deep in a part of the building belonging to the GRU, a committee of four men and a woman sat around a board room table. In front of each of them, in a plain brown folder, was a photograph of the strike coordinates document recovered from Donetsk, along with a report from the city’s GRU chief.
It did not make for comfortable reading.
The report confirmed that the strike coordinates document was a genuine Russian Air Force target list that had been filed with a Mossad crest and a sixteen-digit number in Hebrew. The circumstances surrounding its discovery had been investigated, and everything pointed to Mossad having passed the target list to one of the moderate groups fighting the Syrian regime – exactly the groups who were being targeted by the airstrikes detailed in the list.
The star phone in front of the burly man at the head of the table rang. He punched the answer button, and the line was diverted to the speakers set into the room’s acoustically shielded walls.
Nearly two thousand miles away, in the south of France, Oleg Durov’s secure telephone connection went live.
“Gospodin Durov,” the chairman began, his voice picked up by the microphone embedded into the table in front of him. “We are grateful for your contribution to the deliberations of the committee.”
“I have been made aware of the Donetsk documentation,” Durov began. “And I have information on who is behind it.”
“You have our attention.” The chairman leaned his bulk back in the chair, tilting it backwards.
“The responsible party is a senior military figure,” Durov continued. “One who has developed close links with the Israelis – cemented during our President’s visit to Israel in 2014 to unveil the statue to the Red Army forces who defeated Hitler.”
“Are you able to share the name with us?” The chairman sounded less than pleased.
“I am”, Durov replied. “General Gennady Zhurikov.”
The chairman leaned forward in his chair, and towards the microphone. “That’s a very serious accusation.”
“His men carried out the attack on the Saudi tanker that was damaged on leaving Ras Tanura three days ago,” Durov continued. “His actions were strictly contrary to Russia’s interests, which are not to openly antagonize the Saudis outside the battlefields of Syria. I need not remind you that damaging Saudi’s economic petrochemical interests remains a key priority of Israel.”
There was silence in the room.
“You won’t get anything from General Zhurikov,” Durov continued. “He’s been doing this for too long. But you might want to ask his men about it. They will confirm that they were there.”
“We will investigate this matter,” the chairman confirmed. “And what about the Donetsk papers?” He tapped the folder in front of him with a large finger.
“Photographs have been passed to me of General Zhurikov meeting with a known Mossad officer,” Durov affirmed.
It had been so easy to arrange.
The world of Russian intelligence was worse than cats in a sack. The GRU, the FSB, the SVR – all with overlapping interests and heated rivalries. All had separate networks. And all virulently distrusted each other.
Durov had brought in Yegor, his loyal ex-FSB follower, who had instructed an FSB man to contact a known Mossad officer in Moscow and pass him Zhurikov’s description and daily routine. It had not taken long for the surveillance team to get the necessary photos. When interrogated, Zhurikov would say that the man was a stranger who had approached him. But by then, no one was going to believe him.
However, the evidence that would seal his fate was the copy of the exact same Russian Air Force coordinates strike list that the GRU would find in Zhurikov’s house when they searched it.
He was so Old School he did not even have surveillance cameras on his property.
The chairman scowled. “Very well, we will take the appropriate action.”
Durov smiled to himself as he hung up.
That’s the last anyone would hear of the general.
Chapter 54
Belsize Park
London
England
The United Kingdom
ON HER GUARD, Ava peered through the limousine’s open rear window.
It was dark inside the car, but she started as she made out the hooded eyes, full lips, and heavy jaw of the occupant in the back seat.
What on earth was he doing here?
“People don’t just waltz in and out of my palace without me making further enquiries.”
The man indicated for her to join him.
Ava was not in the habit of getting into strangers’ cars at night – even if the occupant was a Prince of the Church and Grand Master of the Sovereign Military Order of Malta.
She was thinking fast, trying to work out why he was outside Swinton’s house.
Was he linked to Swinton?
Or to Jennings, and his mad apocalyptic movement?
Or had he been following her?
His face was impassive, revealing nothing.
She glanced swiftly up and down the street.
Was this a trap?
She could see nothing out of the ordinary – just empty parked cars on either side of the road.
“I want to talk to you about Oleg Durov,” he continued.
Her mind flashed back to the entrance hall of Torquemada’s palace, with its displays of weapons and flags celebrating the Order’s thousand years of survival in an ever-changing world.
Her instincts were not to get entangled with Torquemada.
Last time she had seen him, he was hosting Durov in his palace.
“You might be interested in what I’ve found out,” he added, leaning across and opening the passenger door.
She peered into the car.
What was his involvement in all this?
Jennings said that he had friends everywhere.
Did that include the Order of Malta?
She could not be sure, but she doubted it.
If Torquemada and Durov were working together, then why would Durov have called off his bodyguard in the chapel at the Palazzo Malta? And why would Torquemada have allowed her to leave?
In the distance, she heard the wail of sirens.
She had no intention of hanging around. All she needed to do was
walk quickly up to the next junction and collect her bike.
She glanced back at Torquemada.
Things were complicated enough already.
Even if Torquemada was not linked to Durov or Jennings, she still had no desire to get mixed up with the Order of Malta.
On the other hand, she had no further leads. With Swinton and Jennings dead, the trail was cold. Durov had the fragment of vellum from Jerusalem. And she had nothing to go on except an icy dread at what Durov might be up to.
If Torquemada genuinely had new information, it might open up a new way to get to Durov. And at the moment, that was her number one priority.
Breathing out deeply, she climbed into the car, and closed the door behind her.
She needed to know what Torquemada knew.
And now she owed it to Swinton, too.
The limousine pulled away smoothly into the road, and Torquemada turned to her.
“I received Mr Durov yesterday at my palace as a courtesy to his government,” he began. “I also confess to a certain amount of self-interest. My Order has houses in Moscow and Saint Petersburg, and I have no intention of being the Grand Master who loses them.”
He pursed his lips. “But Mr Durov is a complex man, and I confess that his real motivation in visiting my residence is still unclear to me.” He paused. “As is yours. So maybe we can start there?”
Ava had no desire to open up to Torquemada without knowing what he really wanted. But she also knew that the meeting was going to go nowhere unless she gave him something.
“He’s interested in your icon,” she answered. It was a safe bet. Torquemada had no doubt worked it out for himself already. “Our Lady of Philermos.”
“Which you also asked about.” He looked out at the darkened houses sweeping by. “So you’ll forgive me if that leaves me equally distrustful of you both.”
“What did you want to tell me?” Ava had no appetite for games. If Torquemada just wanted to spar with her, she had better things to do with her time.
“I’m aware you were badly treated in my palace by Durov’s men,” he answered sombrely. “But the appearance of things can be deceptive. If I’m to help you, I need your assurance that you’re not connected with him, and that you mean my Order no harm. You may choose, of course, to mislead me. But I will eventually find out. And there will be consequences.”
Ava did not appreciate the threat.
“Two men are dead in that house because of Durov,” she pointed angrily back down the street, “And he’s been trying to kill me ever since I met him. I entered your palace because I was following him. You can draw your own conclusions.”
Torquemada gave a shallow nod. “Very well,” he answered. “Then we have an understanding.”
He settled himself more comfortably in his seat. “You may or may not know that my Order is a very large organization, spread across the world. Our medieval forebears were celibate knight-monks and nuns, living a religious life in our commanderies and nunneries. Some of us still live this way. We are an unbroken link to the past. In addition, the Order also numbers knights and dames who live ordinary lives – an arrangement that is perhaps more adapted to the modern world. Beyond these loyal men and women, we are further strengthened by a vast network of associates and helpers. All together, these faithful servants are our eyes and ears – the spreading leaves of a tree that nourish the trunk. As you can imagine, there is not much we do not know about once we make it our business to find out.”
He paused. “And so we have come to learn that Durov leads a religious group, known as…”
“The Skoptsy,” Ava completed his sentence.
“You know what they believe, and what they do to themselves?”
Ava nodded.
“What happens in the steppes of Russia is beyond our influence. But if these monstrous beliefs start to spread west from Orthodox lands, then they become all of our problem.”
Ava was listening intently.
“We are informed that Durov is coordinating the arrival of a large number of his Skoptsy followers at a small private airfield in south-west France. They are arriving from Russia and elsewhere.”
He turned to Ava again. “That is what I had to tell you. And I’m hoping you may be able to explain to me why this might be happening.”
“I’m afraid not.” She shook her head.
There had been nothing on the vellum fragment to point to France.
And Jennings had not mentioned France, either.
It was all news to her.
“What do you and Durov want with the icon of Our Lady?” he asked, changing the subject.
Ava was still not sure what Torquemada wanted, and there was no way she was going to tell him about Rasputin’s notebooks.
“I found the original,” she answered. “The real one.”
He nodded. “In Cetinje, at the National Museum of Montenegro. That’s not a secret.”
She shook her head. “In Jerusalem,” she corrected him. “In the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.”
“You’re mistaken.” He smiled apologetically. “The icon’s history is well known.”
“Up to a point,” Ava agreed. “The Romanovs looked after it until the dowager empress smuggled it out of Russia at the Revolution. But the rest of the traditional story is wrong. The icon didn’t go from Belgrade to Berlin, Dedinje, Ostrog, and Cetinje. It was taken to Jerusalem. I’ve seen it.”
Torquemada shook his head. “You’re not the first to hunt for our relics. There are dozens of copies – old and new. Not even experts can tell some of them apart.”
“Well, I’m not an expert.” Ava shrugged. “But the original is in Jerusalem. I’ll guarantee it.”
“Certainties unnerve me,” he smiled. “I prefer leaving them to men like Durov.” He looked out of the window and then back to Ava. “What makes you so sure?”
“Because,” she answered confidently, “one of your medieval knights left a message inside it – which I found.”
Torquemada’s eyes widened.
“Although, Durov took it,” she added quietly.
His breathing grew noticeably faster. “And was there any mention of,” he paused, his tone dropping, “the Apocalypse… of Saint John?”
Ava nodded.
“Then it’s true,” he whispered, his eyes now shining.
He leant towards her, barely able to contain his excitement. “In the dark days after the crusades, the Order’s greatest relics were the icon of Our Lady and the arm of Saint John the Baptist. Our brothers and sisters took great comfort from them. But there has always been a persistent rumour down the ages that we once possessed something else of great significance.” His voice dropped lower. “One of Saint John’s original letters of the Apocalypse.” He stared at Ava expectantly. “And it is rumoured that the icon of Our Lady holds the clue to it.”
Ava pushed the button to wind the window down an inch.
So it was not all in her imagination.
It really did look as if the piece of vellum had been written by a medieval Knight of Saint John.
She took a gulp of the night air, trying to understand what it all meant.
Why had a medieval knight left the message?
And why was Durov assembling the Skoptsy in the south of France?
“The rumours of the hidden Apocalypse letter originated in Toulouse, during the crusades,” Torquemada continued. “Back then, long before our Order moved to Rhodes and Malta, our European headquarters was in the south of France – at our commandery in Saint-Gilles.”
Now it was Ava’s turn to be surprised.
That was the territory of the crusader warlord, Raymond of Saint-Gilles, who played such a crucial role in the drama at Antioch with Peter Bartholomew.
“The counts of Saint-Gilles were also the counts of Toulouse. And we had a very important commandery there, too. In those days the Languedoc was a separate country from France, and the counts of Toulouse who ran it were immensely powerful. But it was a
turbulent time. From the early 1100s, vast swathes of the Languedoc abandoned the Catholic faith and embraced a virulent heresy.”
“The Cathars.” Ava nodded.
“Relations between the counts and the Church became fraught. When the pope’s special envoy was assassinated by one of the count’s men, Rome unleashed a dreadful crusade against the heretics. A massive army from northern France marched south, keen on spoils and plunder. The inhabitants of the Languedoc were massacred in their thousands. You must know the apocryphal story of the papal legate accompanying the crusaders, who told his forces ranged against Béziers not to bother enquiring which of the locals were Catholics and which were Cathars. ‘Kill them all,’ he is alleged to have said, ‘God will know his own’.”
Ava nodded. The story rang a bell.
“An apocryphal anecdote. But it shows how strongly people felt about the crusade. Terrible things happened – like at Montségur, where the Cathars preferred to commit mass suicide rather than renounce their beliefs. Anyway, the Languedoc was savagely conquered, and eventually annexed to the kingdom of France.”
“You said the rumours of the Apocalypse letter came from Toulouse.” Ava was intrigued.
Torquemada nodded. “There have always been legends that the Cathars possessed a treasure or secret knowledge. Many people say they were in league with the Templars.” He shot Ava a meaningful glance. “But I think you’ll find they had nothing very much to do with the Templars. The Cathars’ real connection was to us, the Knights of Saint John.”
Ava raised an eyebrow.
It was a pretty big claim.
“Many of the local nobility – including the counts of Toulouse – supported the Cathars. The count who ordered the assassination of the papal legate was excommunicated several times for his Cathar sympathies.” Torquemada’s tone became more confidential. “But what has been overlooked is that he was a very close friend of our Order. In fact, he was a member. He joined first as an affiliate-knight, then finally, on his deathbed, as a full knight-monk. He was duly buried according to ancient custom, wearing our Order’s habit, in our commandery at Toulouse.”
The Apocalypse Fire (Ava Curzon Trilogy Book 2) Page 29