The Bordeaux Connection
John Paul Davis
The Bordeaux Connection
First Edition
© John Paul Davis 2015
The right of John Paul Davis to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.
The following tale is a work of fiction. All names, people, locations and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or else used fictitiously. Any similarity to people, living or deceased, events, organisations or locales not otherwise acknowledged is coincidence.
This book or eBook is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be resold, lent, hired out or otherwise circulated without the author’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Praise for The Templar Agenda
Can’t wait for the new one…
Richard Doetsch, international bestselling author of The Thieves of Heaven
John Paul Davis clearly owns the genre of historical thrillers.
Steven Sora, author of The Lost Colony of the Templars
A well-researched, original and fascinating work – a real page-turner
Graham Phillips, international bestselling non-fiction author
Books by John Paul Davis
Fiction
The Templar Agenda
The Larmenius Inheritance
The Plantagenet Vendetta
The Cromwell Deception
The Cortés Enigma
Non-Fiction
Robin Hood: The Unknown Templar (Peter Owen Publishers)
Pity For The Guy – a Biography of Guy Fawkes (Peter Owen Publishers)
The Gothic King – a Biography of Henry III (Peter Owen Publishers)
For more information please visit www.johnpauldavisauthor.com and www.theunknowntemplar.com
Shamed be the person who thinks evil of it
Edward III of England
Prologue
Bordeaux, France
The old man watched from the window as the cars began to leave. Each one was identical; limousines of the same type had been in his family for over a decade, though the models were upgraded every few years. It was a neighbourhood where the residents demanded it; where even the slightest blemish on a car door could irreparably damage one’s reputation. The same was true of the drivers; each had been handpicked for specific reasons, an ability to drive being only one of them. None of them were inexperienced dealing with those of status; nor were they the type of people foolish enough to enquire into such a person’s business when it didn’t concern them.
Like the cars themselves, they were renowned for their discretion and efficiency.
As the final limousine departed along the short winding driveway, heading back on to the long avenue situated close to the banks of the Garonne, the old man shuffled away from the window, his eyes taking in the features of the well-lit room. The recent meeting had gone to plan, just like the majority did. Eighty years had taught him much about the business world; a man could work with the same people for years, only to find those he trusted most had been twisting a knife in his back since day one. A boss can pay a man for many services and be met with many results. In a business where both trust and quality were paramount, he employed only those dearest to him.
As he moved about the deserted room, the house adjusting to the new quietness, he found himself replaying recent conversations in his mind. The chances of carrying out the dream of a lifetime depended solely on the successful acquisition of three important things.
The first would be found in England, in an estate once associated with a family of similar prestige.
The second would be found in the capital of Scotland, somewhere among the official archives.
The third, perhaps most importantly, would be found closer to home, on the walls of a museum.
Each endeavour would be conducted independently; success in one would not guarantee success in all. Worse, failure in one could end everything. Only with all three could the dream be fully accomplished.
Leaving the luxurious room, he saw from the face of the grandfather clock on the landing it was exactly 3 p.m. If all went to plan, the first of the men would be leaving the city now, catching a plane to England.
Once successful, they would find their own way north.
Edinburgh, Scotland, 11 p.m.
If there are enemies on the left and enemies on the right, which way do you go?
The man from Bordeaux knew he had a decision to make. The ancient room that had been filled with smoke seconds earlier, restricting his vision and causing his breathing to shorten, was now swarming with armed guards, its historic walls echoing with the sound of footsteps. Though he was still to see gunfire, he knew it wouldn’t take long for that to come. Time was precious.
As were the items he’d come for.
Further reinforcements were arriving from two winding stairways, their presence clearly announced by the consistent dull thuds of heavy boots on stone, accompanied by short military commands barked out over a dozen radio headsets, the crackling sounds exaggerated by the building’s acoustics. Though the smoke had largely dispersed, visibility was limited and the faces of the newcomers were obscured by shadow. In the dim light of the cold heavy stone surroundings sound seemed to intensify, heightening the growing feeling of anticipation that had been building steadily in the pit of the Frenchman’s stomach. In seconds it would begin.
Enemies on the left. Enemies on the right. Which way to go? He made his decision.
The way with fewer enemies.
Another thunderous crash, the fourth in the last forty seconds, pierced the vaults, causing the ground to shake. The first had occurred above ground at the east end of the Royal Mile, ten seconds before the second, half a mile to the west. Ten seconds after that came a third, exactly ten seconds before the most recent. Being underground, the Frenchman hadn’t witnessed the sights, but the noises left him in no doubt that the eruptions had been severe. The news he was getting through his earpiece confirmed that all four had been executed on schedule.
The plan had gone off perfectly.
The gunfire started within seconds of the fourth explosion. A series of ear-splitting roars erupted from both doorways, the bright flashes from semi-automatic weapons unleashing a constant barrage of heavy fire that lit up the chamber.
Instinctively, he dived to his right. In the underground archive, the only available cover was a sophisticated racking system. Although the setting was as he had anticipated from the information he had obtained prior to arrival, he still found it hard to believe such a place could exist in the 21st century. Throughout his career, he had observed many vaulted rooms located below ground in the capital cities of Europe, but what he saw now was unlike any he could recall. It was primitive, yet futuristic. Efficient, but elaborate. The average citizen could walk the famous road above, passing in and out of its renowned classical buildings, and never know what existed just twenty metres below them.
Staying low, he darted from left to right behind one of the racks and dived into the row behind.
“Quelle direction?” he bellowed at the nearest of his three accomplices, his voice drowned out by gunfire. Which way?
The man next to him was of almost identical appearance: short black hair and a dark combat uniform that represented no one organisation or country. “Up. The stairs are the only way. The builders constructed no escape route.”
The Frenchman cursed his luck, quietly unsurprised. The vault had been designed specifically t
o keep priceless objects safe.
Not to facilitate a quick exit.
As the room fell quiet, he returned fire at the left stairway, the bullets causing sparks to bounce off the stone. No explosions had occurred beneath the ground, nor would they; the smoke that had recently filled the far side of the chamber, forming quickly and dissipating like a passing river mist, had been a deliberate masking tactic. Setting off explosives underground was unthinkable. Even if the way out was clear, the foundation walls were far too old to take such a risk.
One mistake and it would be game over.
More reinforcements were descending the left stairwell, their movements clearly audible. The man from Bordeaux replaced another magazine on his Uzi submachine gun and fired wildly at the intruders. Amidst the sound of gunfire, he heard people screaming, their cries of anguish echoing off the nearby rocky surroundings.
Without warning the room became darker; what little light had entered through the far doorways had been extinguished – he guessed deliberately. As he retreated further into the heart of the archive, he activated the night-vision setting on his goggles. Guards advanced from both stairways, more than twenty in total – outnumbering him and his men by five to one. From headwear to boots their appearance was immaculate. Scotland’s finest was out in force, he estimated perhaps as many as half the roster. Experience told him whatever covert personnel the UK government was blessed with, the cream would probably not be present in Scotland’s capital.
He fired, concentrating on the left side, keeping low behind the metallic shelving units as the enemy returned fire in force. As his ammunition magazine ran low, he heard a shout, a warning from behind him. Through his night-vision goggles, he saw his accomplice’s arm move in a pendulum motion. A round grenade-like object left his hand, launched in the direction of the stairways. It exploded on hitting the ground, the sounds softer than before.
The room filled with smoke.
*
It took longer to clear than the first time; he estimated thirty seconds. When it did, he saw nothing but stillness – more than a dozen bodies lying unconscious in a heap.
Slowly he approached, satisfied the potency of the gas had worn off. In the silence, he noticed his ears were ringing, his skin patchy with sweat. As he adjusted to the quiet, new truths began to dawn on him.
Outside, the explosions had also ceased.
He turned to his accomplices; all were still alive, each carrying a large holdall filled to the limit with artwork and historical manuscripts.
“Quelle destination maintenant? La gauche ou la droite?” he asked. Where to now? The left or the right?
The man alongside him rubbed his beard, his eyes still piercing with aggression. He’d learned in the briefing that the upper part of the vault was more modern than the rest of the building, yet was still over five centuries old.
“La Gauche,” he replied, pointing to the left stairwell. “The tunnel ends after two hundred metres. It will lead us out the same way. The grounds of the old abbey.”
The man from Bordeaux nodded and checked his watch. “Ten seconds. Remember, whatever happens. This,” he removed one particular article from the man’s bag, “must return home at all costs. The fate of our mission depends on this.”
Though no words were said, the message was clearly understood. The small window of opportunity between the discovery and the raised alarm had been enough to confirm the facts. The item was old, early 15th century, and marked with the correct insignias.
The chances of forgery or human error were slight.
The leader of the four ascended the left stairwell and continued without pause along the tunnel. Its appearance was similar to the vaults below, arched, walled, with a glimmer of light coming from the far end. In his mind he counted down the seconds: four, three, two, one . . .
A fifth explosion, the loudest yet; it appeared to come from directly behind them. Again the surroundings shook violently, causing his legs to buckle. Retaining his balance, he sprinted to the end of the tunnel where the light was brighter, making his night-vision goggles redundant. He finally emerged into the night air, and was greeted by the smell of wet grass and the sound of nearby traffic.
But amongst the smells and sounds, he sensed screaming and burning.
1
The mission ended in Peterhead, a small port on the east coast of Scotland. It had begun twenty-four hours earlier, one hundred and fifty miles south in Edinburgh. The catalyst was a terrorist attack: five explosions, each occurring in the heart of the city sometime between 23:02 and 23:06. Repercussions inevitably ensued, ranging from rioting in the inner city to a cross-country chase for those responsible.
No fewer than twenty people had been confirmed injured.
The terrorists had first been witnessed outside the Scottish Parliament Building after successfully carrying out an apparent heist on the vaults beneath the Royal Mile. Within two hours of their leaving the city, intelligence sources confirmed the culprits were heading north. On reaching the coast, they ran into their biggest challenge.
The mission ended in bloodshed.
Exactly what the terrorists’ motive was remained unclear. The two that had been caught were both French, and armed with weapons that usually only showed up on the black market. Both were carrying artwork, the majority oil on canvas and dating from the 17th century. Also amongst their possessions were manuscripts from the same period of history. Both of the terrorists were known to Interpol.
Both were now behind bars.
The fate of their accomplices remained unknown.
Suffolk, England, 1 a.m.
The black BMW moved swiftly along the tree-lined country roads of Charlestown. The roads were deserted, as they always were at that time of night. Even in the height of summer, it had never been the liveliest of areas.
The village was smaller than most. The 1,100-strong population recorded at the previous census had further reduced since then, a number meeting their end overseas. Throughout its history, the village had been no stranger to war. From the days that preceded the Domesday Book to the defeat of the Spanish Armada, there was something about it that made it a magnet for soldiers. Most of the villagers had served their country during the darkest days. Those who hadn’t had grown up listening to the tales.
The man behind the wheel of the BMW had heard them all before, cherished them even. Many of them held a personal connection, as they concerned the lives of his kin. If someone had been walking the streets at that time, witnessing his headlights as they moved along the historic high street or lighting up the nearby side roads where the signposts pointed to farms and nearby hamlets, they were unlikely to have been suspicious. Even had they not been one of his relatives, they would have been part of the same circle.
Everyone in the village belonged to the same circle.
A second car was in front of him, its full-beamed headlights moving left to right as the driver negotiated the perpetually winding stretch of road. The occupant of the BMW smiled to himself. The village didn’t appear on any ordinary maps. Only a handful of people alive were familiar with the route: a series of unclassified roads that could only be found by those who were either completely lost or knew exactly where they were going. Fewer still drove a black Honda Civic that growled like a Jaguar on steroids when changing gear. He smiled harder as the leader of the two-car convoy braked hard, taking up the wrong side of the road as though initiating a mini drag race. Nothing was at stake but personal pride. Should the sounds be overheard by one of the well-known residents, the response would have been the same as always. A casual shrug, perhaps a smile.
Even before the invention of the motorcar, the village had been famous for its camaraderie.
As the cars took an innocuous looking right turn, now over three quarters of a mile from the high street, the unclassified road, that a tourist could easily mistake as being part of an access road to a local farm, soon took on a totally different appearance. As the tarmac disappeared, the gravel
surface that replaced it continued all the way to an isolated building located in over two acres of greenery. What on first impression appeared to be an unused barn, on closer inspection was in fact something different. A sign swinging from a freestanding pole alongside the building read simply:
The White Hart Inn.
The BMW skidded to a halt alongside the Honda in one of thirty unused parking bays. In the solitude the driver heard the engine tick slowly silent as he switched off the ignition. There were no lights shining in the windows of the nearby building; instead the interior, like the night, was obscured by the blackness of the sky. He hadn’t seen evidence of artificial lights for over a mile, not that the average passer-by would expect otherwise; even in the middle of a city, pubs were rarely found open after midnight on a Tuesday. Nor would there be any great light aiding them from above. Despite the clear star-filled sky, there was no moon; instead, a cloudless darkness and penetrating coldness that promised imminent frost. A stranger passing by might have questioned why two such men would be arriving at such a time.
The locals already knew the answer.
As the driver of the BMW got out from behind the wheel, the lights on all sides flashing quickly as he locked the car, he met the driver of the Honda. Despite the lack of light, he could make out the man’s features and clothing clearly: a dark blue windproof jacket tailored to his firm physique, almost certainly hiding a USP45, PP-19 submachine gun, special crossbow, and other fancy equipment that he, too, had concealed within his own identical attire. Unlike the last time he saw him, the classic ops suit, operative gloves, combat boots and high-frequency night-vision goggles had been replaced by something more casual. Like himself, his well-toned arms and short, neatly cut hair told a story of a man who had known only one way of life. An amused smile formed on lips that appeared slightly raw and chapped after twenty-four hours in the cold of Scotland, probably preceded by three days non-stop kissing with his fiancée.
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