The Apocalypse Fire (Ava Curzon Trilogy Book 2)
Page 32
As they started to skirt the castle anticlockwise, the southern wall ended abruptly at a sharp corner. They turned it, then followed the next section north-east, until it turned again, this time into the long northern wall.
Until now, apart from the main south-western entrance, Ava had seen no other entry point into the castle – just high solid ashlar block walls. But about halfway along the north wall there was another entrance. The earth on that side of the castle had been banked up so it could be accessed without steps, and Ava calculated that it was roughly opposite the main entrance in the south-western wall.
After listening carefully for five minutes to check no one was around, she left the cover of the scrub and approached the arched entranceway. Whatever door had once been there had gone centuries ago, and she could see directly through into the long narrow bailey.
The first thing she noted was that it was empty. The smaller buildings that it would once have sheltered were all gone.
It was still impressive, though. The walls were at least three feet thick, with rows of putlog holes running around at varying heights for scaffolding and hoardings in time of attack. She could not see much else, except a rocky floor and the far wall. There was no sign of anyone moving about in the building.
It was deserted.
Returning to the cover given by the shrubs a few feet below the plateau, they continued westwards, until they reached the area where the bailey met the donjon.
Pausing to listen, Ava could now hear the distinct sound of construction work – hammering, sawing, and voices speaking Russian.
It was coming from inside the donjon.
She motioned for Ferguson to follow, and set off again, more slowly and carefully this time, inching her way around the corner until they were now moving down the west wall of the donjon.
There were weathered wooden steps up into the keep, and around the area were scattered piles of timber planks, and other objects concealed by tarpaulins.
From inside the donjon there was the sound of continued construction, and Ava could hear the voices more clearly now. The conversations sounded muted and practical, with none of the banter or pop music she usually associated with building work.
The atmosphere was distinctly sombre.
“They must’ve brought this lot overnight,” Ferguson indicated all the building materials. “Nasty job carrying it up here.”
“Think of the people building the original castle.” Ava pointed to the castle’s massive stone blocks.
Drawing closer, she spotted a pile of canvas sacks stacked up against the exterior wall.
Checking no one was approaching, she broke cover again, and swiftly walked over to them, undoing the rope fastener at the top of the bag nearest to her.
She was not sure what she had expected to find inside.
But it was definitely not dozens of pieces of folded material.
She pulled one of them out, to find it was a white floor-length robe, with wide sleeves and a hood.
There were no other markings on it, and no indication what it was for.
She took out another two, and resealed the sack, before heading quickly back to the cover of the shrubs.
“God knows what Durov’s got planned for this evening,” she whispered to Ferguson. “But there must be a dozen of these robes.” She handed one to him. “We wouldn’t want to miss the party.”
“And in my colour, too.” Ferguson smiled, taking one.
“I’ve seen enough,” Ava announced. “Something’s definitely happening here tonight. We’re just going to have to wait until later to see what it is.”
She set off again, retracing her steps back around the castle in order to avoid crossing the main path just to the west of where Mary was lying up.
But as they approached the clump of trees where they had left her, Ava could clearly see that Mary had gone.
Chapter 61
Château de Montségur
Languedoc-Roussillon-Midi-Pyrénées
The Republic of France
MARY HAD NOT seen the men coming until it was too late.
Five of them had emerged silently from the undergrowth.
It had taken her only a few milliseconds to take in the hammers and crowbars they were armed with, and to conclude they were not friendly.
As the shock sank in, she had considered calling out for Ava and Ferguson. But she immediately realized that would only have alerted the men to their presence, risking all three of them being captured.
It was better to hope that she would find a chance to escape. Or perhaps even that Ava and Ferguson might locate her and attempt to rescue her.
As the men had surrounded her, there was nothing she could do. In her days as a Los Angeles police officer, she had seen and learned first-hand when to put up a struggle and when not to. Right now, resistance was going to get her badly hurt. Until she knew what they wanted, her best chance was passive cooperation.
One of the men had stepped forward and confronted her. “Bludnitsa,” he spat, as another moved behind and bound her wrists with a short length of twine.
The others had closed in to form a tight group and, when her wrists were secure, they had sealed up her mouth with several patches of duct tape, then shoved her towards the path, and marched her down the mountain.
None of them had spoken.
Once down at the car park, they had taken her to a battered old Citroën ‘pig’s nose’ van, and pushed her inside, onto its dirty floor.
As they had moved off, she had been struggling to keep calm.
Now, after a short journey – ten minutes at the most, she estimated – they were bundling her out, and into the stone outbuilding of an isolated farmhouse.
It was largely empty, except for a few old items of furniture and a scattering of straw on the floor. One of the men pulled a broken plastic chair from a corner, and sat her on it.
They then moved behind her, out of her sight.
Aware something was about to happen, she fought to control her rising levels of panic.
In the van, she had comforted herself with the thought that if they meant to hurt her, they would have done so already. While they had been in transit she had been safe. But now they had her in the middle of nowhere, it was entirely possible that was about to change.
Up ahead, she saw the heavy wooden door at the far end of the room open, and a man entered.
From the broad face, high Slavic cheekbones, and bright blue eyes, she immediately recognized Oleg Durov.
“Who are you?” he asked, entering and stopping in front of her, tearing the patches of duct tape from her mouth.
She looked up at him, then away. She knew that captives should cooperate politely and non-antagonistically. “An American tourist,” she answered flatly.
“I see.” Durov nodded. “And your friends?”
Mary tried to keep the surprise from showing on her face.
“Which friends?” she asked, playing for time.
Durov stepped back and eyed her slowly. “A pity,” he answered, indicating for his men to come forward.
She sensed a movement behind her, and, before she had time to brace herself, was suddenly being lifted off the chair by pairs of hands all over her.
Overwhelmed, she began to lash out with her legs, but strong arms quickly restrained her.
She was dropped heavily onto the floor, and ropes were tied around her chest, knees, and ankles.
Flooding with terror, she watched as two of the men walked to the end of the room. They positioned themselves either side of the barn’s thick door, then grunted with effort as they lifted it clean off its hinges.
“Who are you?” Durov asked again, beckoning the men forward.
Her eyes flicked from Durov to the men, unsure for the moment which posed the greatest danger.
“I’m going to call you Margaret,” he continued. “Because you shelter my enemies. Do you know what happened to Margaret, who harboured Queen Elizabeth’s enemies?”
She began to struggle more wildly, but the ropes were restricting all movement, and the hands were still holding her down.
One of the men with the door stepped across her, so the two of them were now standing on either side of her, with the door directly above her body.
Surely they were not going to drop it on her?
It would crush her skull.
“What are—” she shouted, but the breath died in her throat as the men lowered the door onto her, covering her legs and chest, but leaving her head free.
The crushing weight of the thick wood was unbearable.
Before she could breathe in fully, she saw hands appearing from nearby, placing large rocks and stones onto the board.
“I know exactly who you are,” Durov continued. “You were seen on the hill with two companions – a woman and a man. From their descriptions, the woman is someone I’m very keen to meet again.” He paused. “So – where is she now?”
The weight crushing Mary’s ribs was beyond agonizing. She did not even have the breath to scream.
“It’s no matter,” he turned away. “They’ll come for you.”
Chapter 62
Château de Montségur
Languedoc-Roussillon-Midi-Pyrénées
The Republic of France
AVA AND FERGUSON had retraced their steps to the donjon, but there had been no sign of Mary.
They scrambled a little way back down the mountain to a spot where they could get a view of the car park, but there was no evidence of anyone other than the three men on guard, as before. Without binoculars, there was nothing else to see on the low jagged green mountains rising from the surrounding countryside.
Returning to their observation point, they sat down, exhausted, resting against a tree.
There was nothing to do now except wait until whatever was planned for the evening, and hope that there would be some further clue to what had happened to Mary.
Ava leaned back against the trunk of the tree, getting more comfortable.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small leaflet she had grabbed off a table when they had passed through the village earlier. It was a history of the castle.
In 1232, Montségur became the official centre – the “seat and head” (domicilium et caput) – of the small Cathar Church that had survived the crusade. However, the end came after a group of fifty men from Montségur and some faidit lords murdered two Inquisition priests and their retinue at nearby Avignonet. In reprisal, royal forces marched on Montségur to ‘cut off the head of the dragon’. Aware that a direct assault was impossible up the steep escarpments, they started a siege, pitting around ten thousand royal troops against the hundred or so hired defenders (the Cathars were pacifists who did not fight). Eventually, Basque mercenaries scaled the cliff face at the far end of the crest by night, and took the small citadel known as the Roc de la Tour. The archbishop of Albi installed a trebuchet there, and was able to bombard the Cathar village from close range, forcing those living on the hilltop to move inside the castle. By March, all hope was lost, and the Cathars negotiated for peace. The terms offered to the survivors was harsh. The castle was to be surrendered within fifteen days. All defenders were to be given punishments by the Inquisition. All civilians were to be pardoned, as long as they renounced their heresy. Anyone refusing would be burned. Around 190 Cathars refused to repent, and a number of defenders joined them. On 16 March 1244, following two weeks of prayer and fasting, around 225 Cathars voluntarily entered a pen, mounted the bonfires, and were burned alive. The Cathar castrum was razed. The castle fortifications visible today date from a later period.
It was a terrible story.
Ava put the pamphlet down and looked across at Ferguson, whose eyes were closed.
Typical soldier.
She was happy to take first watch. She would wake him in an hour, then try and get some rest herself.
The time passed uneventfully, and she was grateful for the chance to recharge.
Once dusk fell, things started to happen quickly.
The team that had been working in the donjon all day switched on portable floodlighting, and continued with last-minute adjustments.
Ava could not see what they were doing, but there was the continuing sound of woodworking and, one by one, flaming torches were illuminated around the inside of the bailey, and on the outside wall by the entrance.
She closed her eyes for a while, and the next thing she knew Ferguson was tapping her shoulder, and indicating for her not to make a sound.
She followed his gaze towards the path.
She did not have to wait long before she saw a line of the Skoptsy appearing, snaking their way towards the wooden steps leading into the castle’s great south-western entrance.
They were all wearing robes like the ones she had found earlier, with the hoods obscuring most of their faces. They were moving slowly and purposefully, and were it not for the Russian hymn rising above them, they could have been a procession of medieval Provençal monks.
As they passed, Ava saw a group of children in the same robes bringing up the rear. She counted fourteen of them, each carrying a large silver globe the size of a football.
When the procession had disappeared into the castle, Ava quickly slipped on the robe she had taken earlier, pulled up its hood, and indicated for Ferguson to do likewise.
When his was on, they quietly moved out from the cover of the trees, and followed the Skoptsy, making for the castle’s wooden steps.
Reaching the top of the stairs, the breath caught in her throat as she got a view into the bailey.
The castle had been arranged like a stage set.
The large group of Skoptsy was gathered to the right, at the far end of the courtyard. They were facing across the length of the bailey, looking towards the great wall of the donjon.
Ava lowered her head to obscure her face, and entered, heading for the group, where she could blend in.
Glancing left, she saw to her amazement that the wall of the donjon was draped with an immense image of the battered ghostly face of the Turin Shroud, dominating the courtyard with a macabre sense of foreboding.
Ava stared at it in surprise.
Durov had stolen the Shroud from Turin Cathedral in error, believing it to have been the solution to Rasputin’s cross cryptograph. But, from the disturbing icon room in his house – and the evidence before her now – it was plain that he had an all-consuming obsession with it.
Either side of the hollow face were flaming torches, and above it was the only way into the keep from the courtyard – a doorway set high up into the thick wall.
She estimated the doorway was at least forty-five feet off the ground, and she was startled to see that a small wooden platform had been built in front of it, jutting out like a mini-stage. Narrow walkways had been attached to the platform, and they branched off to the tops of the adjoining bailey walls. It was pretty much how it would have looked in medieval times, with the wooden stairs and walkways removable when the donjon was under attack.
The doorway and platform were illuminated by small spotlights, but there was nothing to see there, or on the pair of giant flat screens mounted either side of the doorway, each displaying a static image of the icon of Our Lady of Philermos.
It was clear to Ava that the stage was set for something spectacular.
But for now, she had no idea what.
Chapter 63
West Syrian Desert
The Syrian Arab Republic
IN THE SHADOW of the Golan Heights, the MLRS rocket platform was in place.
Up front in the cab, the soldier at the fire control panel flicked the weapons system to STANDBY.
Twenty-five yards away, they had dug a small satellite camera into the sand.
The two men inside knew that the beauty of the MLRS was that they were totally independent. T
hey did not need any defensive emplacements or fire support to protect them. The heavily armoured vehicle was ‘shoot-and-scoot’. Once the rockets were away, the half-tracks and five-hundred-horsepower engine would carry them off into the desert again, long before any enemy reconnaissance scouts arrived at the launch zone. By the time anyone was on site to investigate, there would be nothing to see. They would be long gone.
Now all they had to do was wait.
The order would come soon.
Chapter 64
Château de Montségur
Languedoc-Roussillon-Midi-Pyrénées
The Republic of France
IN THE DONJON, Durov kissed the white robe reverentially, mouthing the familiar words in silent prayer.
“These are they which came out of great tribulation, and have washed their robes, and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.”
He took off his clothes, and slipped on the robe, enjoying the sensation of the cool material against his skin. It was the last piece of clothing he would ever wear, before his soul would be clothed forever in light.
It had all come together so simply.
By providence, the Rasputin notebooks had arrived in his lap – the gift of ‘489’. He had tried to investigate the numerology of the name – looking for any clue in the seemingly random digits – but he had drawn a blank. Yet it was of no consequence. The Panagia was all knowing, and he felt her heavenly hand in it.
The idea for raining Armageddon down onto Damascus had been a stroke of his own genius.
A new researcher at the Ministry of Energy had shown him an early draft of a working paper on the instability in the Middle East – highlighting that the Israeli-Syrian fault line was the most volatile. The researcher had given as an example the likely disastrous consequences if any of Israel’s weaponry in the Golan Heights was accidentally discharged.
The innocent discussion had lit a spark in Durov’s mind that had given him the answer he had been seeking.