The 4th Secret

by R D Shah

  The 4th Secret

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  The Sword of Moses

  The 4th Secret

  R.D. Shah

  To the young lady who stole my heart and the reason this book is so very late.

  ‘Charlotte Isabella’

  My beautiful daughter

  Chapter 1

  That blood-curdling growl echoed down the murky stone-walled corridor once again, as Father Danilo Baziak stumbled upon the soft uneven soil surface beneath him and fell face-first to the mud floor. The sharp pain barely registered as he looked down to see a jagged piece of stone protruding from the earth, which had dug deeply into his thigh. Immediately he scrambled to his feet and forcefully limped onwards even as a feeling of sheer terror engulfed him.

  What in God’s name were those things? Human beings or animals? And as for their teeth!

  Baziak pushed the horrifying image of them from his mind and focused on the wooden ladder at the end of the passageway, just metres ahead. If he could only make it outside, his jeep was parked within a stone’s throw. Those damn things might be fast but let them try and outrun a four-litre engine.

  Baziak struggled to keep his injured leg moving forward, as the pain from the jab he had received began to stifle his senses, but a distant scuttling sound behind him now encouraged him to step up the pace.

  They were getting closer.

  Within seconds he had reached the steps and was already pulling himself up them as, somewhere below, the sounds of scuffling grew louder and louder. Reaching the top step, he threw back the trapdoor and pulled himself up onto the cold floor, before slamming the cover back down and locking it shut as, below, that something began to thump heavily against it

  The room around him was dark except for a few silver rays of moonlight shining through the two large shattered windows in the wall opposite, exposing the dilapidated interior of a small church. The wooden flooring was peppered with gaping holes through which an assortment of thistles and other weeds had sprung up, and chips of grubby white paint littered the ground like fallen snowflakes encountered on a cold winter’s night.

  Baziak was back on his feet in an instant, and racing over to the Church’s only exit. But, as he reached the door something solid struck the other side of it with such force that the cleric was thrown right back across the room, and slamming hard against some desiccated wood panelling that gave way with a loud crack. As dust and splinters of fractured wood sprinkled all around him, Baziak struggled to focus his thoughts on the cause of the blow… though he realised he already knew. The impact had hit him pretty hard and his vision was blurred, but it wasn’t what he saw but what he smelt that sent a fresh wave of fear coursing throughout his body. A blend of rotting flesh and pungent chemicals assaulted his nose like smelling salts, and out from the now open entrance doorway something moved. Something fast. Something big.

  A bulky shadow swept across the wall and then came to a halt within inches of the strip of moonlight separating them. Baziak could feel his breathing quicken uncontrollably as his eyes tried to focus. He couldn’t yet get a clear image; the force of the impact and the dust in his eyes having seen to that, but he didn’t need one… for he knew what was there. That swaying shadowy outline was now joined by two others and the reflective glint from their teeth betrayed the true height of these things.

  Father Baziak shakily got to his feet, but his wounded thigh immediately gave way and he crumpled back onto the floor with a thud. The heaving silhouettes began to encircle him whilst all the time staying just out of the moonlight, and expelling a series of scratchy low-level grunts. Baziak felt a stream of warm liquid trickle down inside his trouser leg as he lost control of his bladder, but the humiliating sensation seemed to bring some clarity to the priest’s thoughts and he felt a sliver of strength return to his muscles. He immediately latched onto this resurgence and then closed both his eyes and pressed his hands together in prayer. ‘Oh, my Lord, give me the strength to do your will and endure this evil…’ He was only halfway through uttering his prayer when a warm and fetid breath brushed his cheek, the putrid and offensive smell of it now overpowering.

  ‘I have a message for your masters,’ a voice whispered, in a deep and husky tone, as the priest continued to mutter prayers, his eyes still tightly shut. ‘And don’t bother wasting your breath as it won’t do you any good here, priest,’ the voice then hissed angrily. ‘Your soul now belongs to me.’

  Chapter 2

  ‘And welcome back to The Midnight Hour, where we’re talking to the renowned archaeologist and Cambridge professor Alex Harker about the success he’s enjoyed during the past year, and to try and dig a little deeper into his personal method for success.’

  Alex Harker sat back deeper into his chair and forced a smile at this wholly unremarkable pun, with only one thought occupying his mind: What the hell was he doing here on a late night show that catered to a mixture of drunken college students and the unemployable, even if it was being filmed during the afternoon. Just off stage, the keen-looking and wide-eyed expression of Dean Thomas Lercher – or Doggie to his friends – instantly reminded him.

  While being persuaded to participate, Harker was told: ‘Look, I know this show’s not your usual kind of thing but its youth demographic is off the chart, and that’s who we primarily want to attract to Cambridge University; the best young minds of tomorrow.’ The head dean of archaeology had continued. ‘Besides there is no such thing as bad publicity, so do this one for me would you?’

  Since Harker’s recent discovery of the still-surviving Knights Templar, along with their sworn enemies, the secretive religious sect known as the Magi, he had been working hard to keep Doggie appeased. Even though the archaeology dean had learned only a fraction of the Secrets Harker himself had uncovered, keeping him off the subject of the relics they had both discovered had proved a considerable challenge. Harker had been forced to mollify the older man by agreeing to any piece of promotional activity that was asked of him and that had unfortunately included a toe-curling interview with none other than this star of late-night talk-show cheese, Vinnie McWhicker. Aggressive, unashamedly coarse and frankly just plain offensive, McWhicker had garnered a reputation for his on-air rants, most of which subsequently ended up littering the next day’s tabloids. From people with a fetish for plastic surgery to
proponents of gay marriage, Vinnie hated them equally. That it was such a widely watched programme astounded Harker, but to his mind it probably had something to do with the majority of its audience at home on a Friday night being fairly drunk and killing off their last half hour of consciousness with this outrageous weekly spectacle of depravity. To be fair, the host had been taking it quite easy on Harker so far but that was probably more to do with the last guest – a prized poodle who could fart on command – that had taken a chunk out of Vinnie’s hand when the host’s wandering finger had got rather too close to the offending orifice and less to do with any respect the man might feel for Harker. With his greasy-quiff haircut, a bandage wrapped around his bitten digit and a truly revolting diamond-cut yellow blazer, McWhicker was rightly at the top of his game in the world of late-night sleaze, and Harker was just praying that he could get through this with as much of his dignity intact as possible.

  ‘Right, so let’s chuck away any notions of grandeur that come with your being a professor and get down to the nitty-gritty.’ McWhicker began snidely. ‘Many of our viewers may know you from your work in bringing the Dead Sea Scrolls to the UK blah, blah, blah. But I’m sure our viewers are more interested in your most recent discovery… Maybe not!’ McWhicker let out a sarcastic laugh, and much to the amusement of his audience. ‘No, but seriously, you’ve had a pretty good time of it lately and your newest find has made all the papers but, for anyone who’s been living under a rock, why don’t you tell our viewers exactly what you found and, more importantly, what’s your secret to discovering these things?’

  Harker ignored the host’s attempt to goad him and, with a glance at Doggie offstage – who was drawing his fingers across his mouth in the shape of a smile so as to encourage him to be play nice – Harker moved straight into his answer. ‘I’d like to claim that I had a secret but I would be merely lying. As archaeologists, we can spend our entire lives sifting through the earth while searching for clues to human history and ninety-nine percent of the time our discoveries are simply down to hard work, data analysis of digs and we pursue clues found in the history books, but rarely do we just simply stumble across artefacts by sheer luck. Yet in this case, that’s exactly what happened.’

  ‘Come on, Professor, you’re being modest.’ McWhicker butted in, and almost managed to sound sincere.

  ‘Honestly, it’s the truth. You see, about four months ago I was given permission to examine the archives of the British museum right here in London and hidden away in some of the dustier sections I came across a written tablet. The text had been written in Latin and must have been stored in there since God-knows-when. At first I just glanced over it and was about to move on, but something caught my eye. It was a word – Caesar. Even now I’m not sure why but I had a feeling it was important.’

  ‘And you were right to be curious?’ The TV host was now sounding genuinely intrigued by Harker’s account.

  ‘Yes, thankfully. Upon closer inspection, the tablet I had discovered proved to be an eye-witness account of Caesar’s funeral. Now the body was cremated eventually, but this account stated that for three days the corpse was on exhibit for the masses to come and pay their last respects. What was really interesting, however, was the mention of a vault where Caesar’s most personal effects were taken and stored. The tablet didn’t mention the exact location, but it did include references to a few ancient sites around the city of Rome. With some further investigation these clues led my team and myself to a certain area on the outskirts of the city. After permission from the authorities, we formed a dig site, and within days we came across a hollow stone structure or vault. And it was inside it that we made this remarkable discovery.’

  Behind Harker a large plasma screen burst into life, displaying the image of a ghostly-white face, the edges of which were lined with a mix of sparkling rubies, emeralds and diamonds.

  ‘This is what we found: the death mask of Julius Tiberius Caesar.’ Harker shifted in his seat so as to get a better view of the bright screen, while McWhicker also edged closer.

  ‘That’s fascinating, Professor, but don’t we already know what Caesar looked like?’ McWhicker said at last, clearly unimpressed by the discovery. ‘Aren’t there hundreds of sculptures and coins depicting the face of the Caesar?’

  ‘You’re correct that there are many depictions but they are exactly that,’ Harker gestured towards the screen, ‘simply depictions. This is a real-life snapshot, if you will, of Caesar at the very end of his life, and you can make out every feature – the wrinkles, the scars, everything.’ Harker now returned his full attention to the monitor, which zoomed in closer to reveal the intricate details of the corpse’s skin.

  ‘Wow!’ McWhicker offered, sounding even more sarcastic than usual. ‘You can even make out the individual pores.’

  Harker ignored the man’s habitual flippancy and thankfully the audience did as well. ‘Yes, it has to be the most accurate representation of Caesar’s features that’s ever been found. The find of a lifetime in itself but, more remarkably still, the vault was full of the great man’s personal effects, including his sword and battle armour. They’re still in excellent condition given that they’re a few thousand years old.’

  The screen faded into a gold breast-plate neatly displayed on a wooden mannequin, with a shiny sword propped underneath.

  ‘That must be worth a fortune?’ The McWhicker stammered, finally seeing something of sufficient interest to quell his continuous mockery.

  ‘Absolutely priceless.’ Harker affirmed, and momentarily glanced over towards Doggie, who looked ecstatic at this assessment of its worth.

  ‘Very impressive, Professor,’ McWhicker declared, before reverting back to his questioning stance. ‘Will the public be able to view these items for themselves?’

  ‘I’m happy to say yes. All the items we’ve recovered will be put on display at Cambridge University between the 1st and the 28th of next month, for anyone to see totally free of charge…’ Harker paused briefly as he spotted Doggie rolling a finger at him, urging him to include a pre-prepared snippet. ‘…but we will of course welcome donations from the public, as funds are essential to carrying out this type of discovery.’

  This suggestion brought a sly look to McWhicker’s face. ‘Well, you’ve got to make money out of it somehow, haven’t you? OK we still have a few minutes, so let’s take some questions from the audience.’

  McWhicker scanned the various raised hands before his pointing finger settled on an attractive blonde in her twenties. ‘Yes, you there in the purple tank-top.’

  The girl stood up with her hands nervously clasped together. ‘Professor Harker, you exhibited the Dead Sea Scrolls only last year, and now you’ve found this, too. Can we expect such a discovery to become a yearly event?’

  The question was slightly tongue-in-cheek of course, and the sentiment was not lost on Harker as he casually slumped back in his chair. ‘I really hope not, because I could use a holiday at some point.’ The reaction of amusement he got was somewhat muted, so he immediately sat back upright and continued. ‘Er, finds of this importance are rare but, as an archaeologist, it’s what keeps me going and I can only hope that my luck holds out.’ This answer was received with a bit more enthusiasm, and the woman sat back down with a smiling nod, even as McWhicker motioned for another member of the audience to stand up.

  ‘You mention luck, Professor, but surely you must be the luckiest man alive to have achieved the success you’ve had just in the last year. Truthfully, what is your secret?’

  Even as the man sat back down, Harker’s thoughts began to wander. The fact was he had not found the tablet hidden away in the archives of British museum, as he had just announced, but actually in one of the Templar’s highly guarded vaults that Sebastien Brulet had allowed him access to. At first the Templar Grandmaster had not exactly been bowled over by Harker’s idea of using the collection of numerous artefacts in their possession to enable new archaeological discoveries but, after som
e convincing, Brulet had eventually allowed him admission to the less sensitive areas of the vault. The Templar’s leader had delivered only three stipulations. The first was that Harker should not embark on any all-out crusade to unearth as many items as possible, one rapidly after the other, and thus incur a high level of suspicion regarding such finds. The second was that he was only to go after items of historical and not religious significance, and thirdly there was to be no suggestion of any connection with the Knights Templar and their organisation. This last was a no-brainer, of course, but as always Brulet had laid down the law and therefore it had to be said.

  Harker, of course, agreed to all three demands and, after finding the ancient tablet referring to Caesar, he had smuggled the item into the British Museum in a satchel, and then placed it on one of the many rows of shelves, just waiting to be discovered. He had even scrawled a fake filing number in black crayon onto the side of the piece, to ensure that the curators would believe it had simply been misfiled, and therefore become lost amongst the thousands of artefacts stored there. The ploy had worked and the Museum’s curators had been extremely grateful to Harker for making such an important discovery.

  At the time Harker had felt like a bit of a scam artist, but how else could he bring such a wealth of discoveries to the world’s attention without actually mentioning the Templars. A thought that reassured him was that the true crime would be to never let these treasures of history see the light of day. For they belonged to the people of the world and not just to a select few, and it was a sentiment that, thankfully, Brulet agreed with whole-heartedly.

  ‘Lucky, yes, but, as I said I’m not sure I have a secret,’ he eventually replied. ‘I like to think that archaeological discoveries are born out of making connections. Linking pieces of a puzzle which in turn allow us to make an educated guess as where we should look next. Sometimes you find you’re right, and sometimes you’re wrong… This time I was right.’

  This response drew a look of confusion from McWhicker. ‘But I thought you said it was all pure dumb luck?’