Pooh Bear gathered everyone together—Lily, Stretch, and Big Ears—and they all clambered to the side and rear doors of the bus.
The bus swept past the Pont d’Austerlitz, roaring toward the next bridge: the Pont Charles de Gaulle. Like the Austerlitz before it, the Charles de Gaulle Bridge branched out to the right, stretching over the river; beyond it, the glass towers of the Economics Ministry stabbed into the sky.
The riverside drive rose to meet the Charles de Gaulle Bridge, providing West with a ramp of sorts.
And while every other car in Paris would have slowed as it climbed this exit ramp, West accelerated.
As such, he hit the Charles de Gaulle Bridge at phenomenal speed, whereupon the great battered double-decker tourist bus performed its last earthly feat.
It exploded through the low pedestrian fence on the far side of the bridge and shot out into the air above the Seine, flying in a spectacular parabolic arc, its great rectangular mass soaring through the sky, before its nose tipped and it began to fall, and West bailed out of the driver’s compartment and the others leaped from the side and rear doors and the big bus slammed into the river.
As the bus hit the surface of the Seine, the four people on its doors went flying to the side of it, also crashing into the water, albeit with smaller splashes.
But to the shock of those in the two pursuing French helicopters, they never surfaced.
Underwater, however, things were happening.
Everyone had survived the deliberate crash, and they regrouped with West, all of them now wearing divers’ masks and breathing from pony bottles.
They swam through the murky brown water of the river, converging on the cobblestoned northern wall of the Seine, underneath the Charles de Gaulle Bridge.
Here, embedded in the medieval wall, under the surface of the river, was a rusty old gate that dated back to the 1600s.
The padlock sealing it was new and strong, but a visit earlier that morning by Pooh Bear with a boltcutter had altered it slightly. The padlock hung in place, and to the casual observer, it would have looked intact. But Pooh Bear had cut it cleanly on the rear side, so that now he just pulled it off the rusty gate by hand.
Beyond the gate, a brick-walled passageway disappeared into the murky gloom. The team swam into the passageway—with the last person in the line, Big Ears, closing the underwater gate behind them and snapping a brand-new padlock on it, identical to the one that had been sealing it before.
After about twenty yards, the underwater passageway rose into a dry sewerlike tunnel.
They all stood in the sewer tunnel, knee deep in foul-smelling water.
“How very Gothic,” Stretch said, deadpan.
“Christian catacombs from the seventeenth century,” Pooh Bear said. “They’re all over Paris, over one hundred seventy miles of tunnels and catacombs. This set of tunnels runs all the way along the Boulevard Diderot. They’ll take us past the Economics Ministry, right to the Gare de Lyon.”
West checked his watch.
It was 12:35 P.M.
“Come on,” he said. “We’ve got a train to catch.”
The three remaining French Army Panhards descended on the Charles de Gaulle Bridge, disgorging men. The big red bus was still actually half-afloat, but in the process of sinking.
The two choppers patrolled the air above the crash site, searching, prowling.
Curious Parisians gathered on the bridge to watch.
Extra commando teams were sent into the Ministry complex and also into the Gare d’Austerlitz, the large train station that lay directly across the Charles de Gaulle Bridge, on the southern side of the Seine.
Every train that hadn’t yet departed from it was barred from leaving. As a precaution, trains from the Gare de Lyon—farther away to the north, but still a possibility—were also grounded.
Indeed, the last train to depart the Gare de Lyon that day would be the 12:44 TGV express service from Paris to Geneva, first stop Dijon.
An hour later, now dressed in dry clothes, West and his team disembarked the train in Dijon, smiling, grinning, elated.
There they boarded a charter flight to Spain, where they would rendezvous with Sky Monster and the Halicarnassus and commence their journey back to Kenya.
But their smiles and grins said it all.
After two failed attempts—or three if you counted the Mausoleum Piece—they had finally obtained a Piece of the Capstone.
They were now in a position to bargain.
They were now well and truly in the game.
ST. PETER’S BASILICA
VATICAN CITY, ROME
MARCH 18, 2006, 12:45 P.M.
TWO DAYS BEFORE THE ARRIVAL OF TARTARUS
At the same time, twelve hundred miles away, in Rome, a long-bearded man wearing the all-black robes of a Catholic priest strode across the wide square in front of St. Peter’s Basilica, the magnificent domed cathedral designed by Michelangelo, the most holy place of worship in the Roman Catholic Church.
With his long gray beard and stooping walk, Max Epper looked very much the part: an old and wizened priest, perhaps even an Eastern Orthodox one, making a pilgrimage to the Vatican.
With him walked Zoe and Fuzzy, and as they crossed St. Peter’s Square in the midst of hundreds of tourists, Zoe gazed up at the gigantic stone obelisk that stood proudly in the exact center of the Square.
“Cult of Amun-Ra,” Wizard said flatly, striding past the towering stone needle.
Zoe turned as she walked, gazing up at this Egyptian structure taking pride of place in front of the biggest Catholic church in the world.
She shrugged. “The Cult of Amun-Ra …”
They entered the Basilica.
Few man-made structures on earth can match St. Peter’s Basilica for sheer scale. It is shaped like a giant crucifix—just like the center of Paris—and its famous dome soars three hundred feet above a glistening marble floor. Brilliant shafts of sunlight penetrate its impossibly high windows, as if sent by God himself.
Michelangelo’s Pieta flanks one side of the main entrance. Giant statutes of saints stand in alcoves lining the main hall—St. Ignatius, St. Francis of Assisi—looming over the faithful.
It is designed to inspire awe.
But the most spectacular section of the great cathedral is to be found at its most holy place, the junction of the cross.
Here you will find the altar of St. Peter’s, covered by a colossal four-pillared awning made of sturdy iron laced with gold. At the top of each tree-trunk-like pillar, you will find angels leaning outward, blowing trumpets, praising the Lord.
And beneath this awning is the altar.
“It looks so plain,” Fuzzy said, gazing up at it.
He was right. The altar of St. Peter’s was remarkably plain, just a large oblong block of marble mounted on a raised platform. At the moment, since it wasn’t being used, it was covered by a simple red-white-and-gold cloth and some candles. A thick rope suspended from brass poles prevented the public from surmounting it.
“Yes,” Wizard said. “Considering its importance, it is very plain.”
“It’s only important if Zaeed was telling us the truth,” Zoe commented.
Before they had all split up on their separate missions, Zaeed had explained that the Artemis Piece of the Golden Capstone lay embedded in the altar at St. Peter’s Basilica. The trapezoid, he claimed, had been incorporated facedown in the otherwise solid marble altar—so that its base lay flush with the flat upper surface of the altar. To the uninitiated, it would just look like a square plate of gold on the flat surface, a square plate with a crystal in its center.
To the initiated, however, it would mean much more.
Wizard stared at the altar. “I imagine that only a handful of cardinals have ever been allowed to gaze upon the naked surface of this altar. Fewer still would know the true nature of the golden trapezoid embedded in it. All would be very senior, privileged initiates into the true history of the Church.”
&nbs
p; “So what do we do?” Zoe asked. “We can’t just pull out a crowbar and prise the trapezoid from the altar in front of all these people.”
“I only need to look at it,” Wizard said. “To memorize the inscription if I can.”
They were surrounded by tourists and uniformed Swiss Guards—and, Wizard guessed, many plain-clothed guards, ready to grab anyone who tried to step onto the altar.
Anyone, except maybe a doddery old Orthodox priest.
“Run me some interference,” Wizard said. “Here I go.”
He moved quickly, gazing adoringly up at the awning above the altar, stepping close to the rope, seemingly rapt with wonder.
Then before anyone could stop him, Wizard stepped over the rope and up the steps…
… and stood behind the altar of St. Peter’s, running his hands across the flat surface of the big oblong block as if it were made of some holy substance itself.
Plainclothes Swiss Guards appeared at once, emerging from the crowds, converging on the altar.
Standing behind the great oblong block in the exact heart of the Basilica, Wizard swept aside the red cloth that covered the altar and beheld its bare upper surface.
What he saw was dazzling.
The flat surface of the altar was made of exquisite white marble, except in its very middle. Here Wizard saw, flush with the flat marble surface, a square-shaped section made of gold.
It was medium-sized, perhaps three feet to each side. And you couldn’t tell it was a golden trapezoid, since only its base side was visible. But there in its exact center, was a small diamondlike crystal.
The Artemis Piece.
Wizard saw the inscriptions carved into the surface of the trapezoid:
His wide eyes flashed like camera lenses, attempting to memorize the inscriptions in the short window of time he had—
“Excuse me, Father, but you cannot step up here.” Wizard was yanked away from the altar.
Two Swiss guards had grabbed him firmly by the arms and were removing him politely but forcibly.
At the same time another guard redraped the red cloth back over the altar top, concealing the golden trapezoid—although he seemed to do it merely to restore the order of the altar, not out of any sense that a great secret had been unveiled.
“I-I-I’m s-s-so sorry,” Wizard stammered, feigning senility and offering no resistance. “I just wanted to f-f-feel the power of my Lord in all h-h-his glory …”
The lead guard escorting him off the raised stage assessed him more closely, saw Wizard’s earnest eyes, his scraggly beard, his tattered robes, and he softened. “All right, old man. Get out of here. Just stay behind the rope next time.”
“Th-th-thank you, my son.”
The guard escorted Wizard back to the main doors.
As he walked, Wizard tried to contain his excitement. He had the Artemis inscription burned into his brain—which was the next best thing to getting the Piece itself. Soon, he, Zoe, and Fuzzy would be winging their way out of Rome’s Leonardo da Vinci International Airport and heading for home.
Flanked by the guards, he stifled the smile that was beginning to spread across his face.
At that very same moment, in a darkened room elsewhere in the Vatican, someone else was watching Wizard on a small security monitor.
Francisco del Piero.
“I knew you would come, Max, my old colleague,” del Piero said to the image on the screen. “That’s why I did not remove the Piece from the altar. I knew it would bring you out into the open.”
Del Piero turned to the Vatican Security Chief next to him. “They’ll head for the airport. Follow them, but do not grab them yet. Monitor their radio transmissions. The old man will send a signal soon after he leaves St. Peter’s to inform his teammates that he has succeeded in his mission. Let him send his message. Then seize him and his accomplices at the airport and bring them to me.”
Minutes later, speeding through the streets of Rome in a rental car, heading for the airport, Wizard sent a short encrypted text message to Doris in Kenya.
It said:
Mission accomplished.
On our way back now.
Wizard
Shortly after, his car arrived at the airport and swung into the parking lot—
—just as the air all around it was pierced by sirens and police cars appeared from every side, swooping in on Wizard’s car, blocking it, surrounding it.
Wizard, Zoe, and Fuzzy could do nothing.
VICTORIA STATION
KENYA
MARCH 18, 2006, 9:45 P.M.
TWO DAYS BEFORE THE ARRIVAL OF TARTARUS
In the basement radio room at the farm in Kenya, Doris Epper spoke into her mike: “That’s great news, Huntsman. Wizard is on his way, too. He just text-messaged me a few hours ago. The mission in Rome was a success. He’ll be here in the morning. See you in a couple of hours.”
With a spring in her stride, she hurried up the steps to the kitchen. She was relieved that everyone was OK and that their missions had succeeded and she wanted to prepare a nice dinner for when they got back.
She stepped up into the kitchen … to find that someone was already there.
“That’s wonderful news, Mrs. Epper.”
Doris froze.
There before her, sitting casually at her kitchen table, was Marshall Judah. Standing behind him were twelve heavily camouflaged, heavily armed U.S. special forces troops.
Judah’s head was bent, his eyes low, his voice laced with menace. “Take a seat, Doris, and let’s wait for them together.”
VICTORIA STATION
KENYA
MARCH 18, 2006, 11:45 P.M.
TWO DAYS BEFORE THE ARRIVAL OF TARTARUS
West and his subteam returned to Kenya.
On the way, they’d stopped in Spain to refuel, at which point Lily had had another breakthrough with the Callimachus Text. She was suddenly able to read the next entry.
“What’s it say?” West asked.
“It’s about the Hanging Gardens of Babylon,” she said. “It says:
“The Hanging Paradise of Old Babylonia.
March toward the rising Sun,
From the point where the two life givers become one.
In the shadow of the mountains of Zagros,
Behold the triple falls fashioned
by the Third Great Architect
To conceal the path he hewed
That climbs to the Paradise
Which mighty Nebuchadnezzar built for his bride.”
West tousled her hair. “Nice work, kiddo. Nice work. Wizard’s going to be thrilled.”
The Halicarnassus landed with a roar on Victoria Station’s airstrip just before midnight. It was a classic African night—a swollen full moon illuminated the grassy plains like a floodlight, while the low hills loomed, dark teeth against the moonlit sky.
About a mile from the runway stood the farmhouse, its windows glowing orange. The emergency signal—the lights on the juniper bush in the front garden—was not on.
Sky Monster swung the plane toward the hangar dug into the hill at the end of the runway. As it taxied slowly, everyone grabbed their gear, preparing to dis-embark.
None of them could know that as they did so, two hundred pairs of eyes watched them closely.
Turbines whirring, the Halicarnassus came to a halt just outside the doorway of the brightly illuminated hangar.
A flight of airstairs waited for it there, just outside the open doors. And beyond the airstairs, maybe forty yards away, stood a welcoming party of one: Doris, standing by the hangar doors themselves.
It was impossible for those on the plane to know that she was standing there at gunpoint.
The plane stopped alongside the airstairs at the entry to the hangar, its nose section poking into the actual hangar (it had to cool down outside for a few hours before it could be brought fully inside for storage).
As soon as it had stopped, its forward side door was flung open from within and Big Ears and
Lily—eager to see Doris and show her the Zeus Piece—dashed out of the plane and scampered down the airstairs. Big Ears wore his backpack, containing the Piece.
Not far behind them came Pooh Bear and Stretch, escorting Zaeed—now flex-cuffed again. They emerged from the plane into the fresh night air, began stepping down the stairs.
Sky Monster and West lingered in the plane—Sky Monster to do a postflight check; West just to collect all his things: notes, parchments, Hessler’s Nazi diary.
It was noisy outside—the Halicarnassus’s four massive wing engines still whirred loudly, winding down.
Big Ears and Lily were halfway to Doris.
“Hey, Doris! We did it!” Lily called over the din, but Doris’s usually warm face was stony, cold—as though she knew something that she couldn’t disclose.
Then she seemed to regather herself, smiled kindly, and called back: “Well done, little Eowyn! What a triumphant return. This is all a bit like Gimli returning to Moria, isn’t it!”
At Doris’s words, Lily slowed her stride.
Then she stopped completely.
Big Ears paused, turned to her. “What is it?”
Worried, Lily peered fearfully at the dark grassy fields that surrounded the hangar’s entrance. Apart from Doris, the area was completely deserted.
“Big Ears, we’re in trouble,” she said evenly. “We have to get back to the plane. This is a trap.”
“How do you know—”
“Just go! Now!” she said with an authority that belied her age.
And abruptly, she spun, grabbing Big Ears’ hand, and together—still twenty yards from the plane—they bolted back toward the Halicarnassus.
No sooner had they moved than all hell broke loose in the hangar.
Every door on every side of the hangar burst open and disgorged dozens of black-clad American troops.
A maintenance door behind Doris was also thrown open and Marshall Judah rushed out of it, accompanied by a CIEF team led by Cal Kallis.
Kallis pushed roughly past Doris and opened fire on the fleeing pair with a god-almighty fury.
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