The Library of the Kings: A Tom Wagner Adventure

by Roberts, M. C.

  “No problem at all. It’s all been very enlightening,” said Noah reassuringly. He secretly shared a look with Scott and sighed with relief. The three of them headed for the elevator. When they reached the bottom, their hostess offered to show Noah and Scott to their seats.

  “Thank you, that’s very kind, but we’ll find them ourselves.” A little surprised at Noah’s tone, the young woman smiled then left him and Scott alone and disappeared into the theater. A large crowd was now gathered at the entrance, the guests wanting to get to their seats as quickly as possible.

  Noah suddenly started. Was it really possible? He pulled Scott down to him and nodded toward the mass of guests.

  “She’s here!”

  “Who’s here?”

  “Ossana. Back of the crowd, white dress.”

  As unobtrusively as he could, Scott turned to look.

  “Go find security, fast. Before it’s too late,” Noah said.

  Scott didn’t need to be told twice. A minute later, he returned with two security guards.

  60

  George Washington Masonic National Memorial, lower level

  The elevator doors opened and Tom and Hellen stepped out at the level of the Masonic Hall, but quickly realized they had gone one floor too far. This was the level where the dinner would take place later, but for now it looked as if the entire floor had been abandoned. They turned to get back into the elevator, but it was already on its way back up. Tom jabbed at the button impatiently.

  “Oh, that’s going to make it come faster,” said Hellen, pulling his hand back.

  “I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” said Tom, looking around, puzzled.

  “Because of Cloutard?”

  “No. I mean, this, here, now. Where is everyone? Where’s all the staff? They’re supposed to be doing dinner for four hundred people in one hour. This place should be crawling.”

  Now Hellen was getting nervous herself. Tom was right. A security guard suddenly appeared from around a corner.

  “Hey, what are you doing here? You’re not supposed to be down here.” He strode toward them. He was wearing a black suit and as he walked he raised his radio to his mouth. The sleeve of his jacket slipped down a little as he lifted his hand, and Tom saw it.

  Hellen’s not going to like this, he thought, and in the same breath he had already overwhelmed the man. A blow to the throat to shut him up, a boot to the family jewels, and when the man dropped to his knees, a chokehold silently sent him to dreamland.

  “What are you doing? Are you out of your mind?”

  “Take his legs,” said Tom, and they dragged the man into a small closet. Tom searched him, found a pistol and took it.

  “Ossana’s here. We have to hurry.”

  Tom grabbed Hellen by the hand and pulled her with him up the stairs to the level above. Not wanting to run into another “security guard,” they stopped just before they rounded next corner, and Tom peeped around cautiously.

  “What makes you think Ossana is here?” Hellen asked in a whisper.

  “I’m guessing you didn’t see that guy’s tattoo. I’d know that pattern anywhere, even if only a corner of it is visible.”

  “You mean THE tattoo? The one you saw when you recognized Guerra after all those years?”

  “Yes. The AF special.”

  “We have to warn the others!” Hellen took out her cell phone to call Scott.

  “That won’t work. They’ll be blocking everything.”

  Tom was right. The mobile network was dead.

  “Uncle Scott’s going to have look after himself. Our job is to find the stone as fast as we can and get it away from here.”

  “But—”

  “We knew all along that something like this could happen. Uncle Scott and Noah are capable guys. They’ll work it out,” he said, trying to calm Hellen down.

  He took her by the hand again, and when the coast seemed clear, they dashed down the hallway and into the Memorial Hall, now deserted. They ran to the alcove where the statue of Washington stood.

  The bronze sculpture stood on a stone plinth about six feet high. A narrow space led around the base, inside the alcove. They climbed over the red cord that blocked access and slipped behind the statue. Hellen was surprised. Was there a door back there? But no, once they were in the narrow space behind the pedestal, she saw nothing at all in the seamless block of stone.

  Before she could say a word, Tom took out the small package Scott had given him upstairs. He unfolded the paper to reveal a metal card with irregularly arranged holes. It was the size of a credit card and hung from the kind of ball-link chain soldiers usually used for their dog tags. He handed the paper to Hellen and looked at the card for a moment. It reminded him of an ancient computer punch card.

  “What are you going to do?” Hellen whispered as she watched Tom’s fingers glide over the massive stone block. He paused. He’d found it: a slot as thin as his thumbnail. Scott had explained precisely how and where he would find it. He took the card and slipped it carefully into the opening. A moment later, a section of the plinth moved inward with a grating noise. At the same time, two rows of base plates slid downward, forming the first step of a staircase.

  Hellen and Tom looked at each with a mixture of amazement and delight. Tom removed the key, took out his cell phone, activated the flashlight and led the way down the dark stairs, with Hellen close behind.

  At the bottom of the short stairway, they reached an old elevator. On the wall next to it was a keypad.

  “Read me the code,” Tom said, and Hellen recited the string of twelve numbers printed on the piece of paper that had been wrapped around the key. Tom tapped the numbers into the keypad, a little red light on the console switched to green, and a moment later the elevator door opened and they stepped inside. The tiny cabin, just large enough for two people, dropped instantly into the depths.

  “Who would ever be in such a hurry?” Hellen said, already feeling a little nauseous as the elevator came to an abrupt stop. A light flickered on. In front of them a narrow, seemingly endless corridor disappeared into the darkness. Hesitant, they stepped out of the elevator. With every step they took, another light came on and the one behind them switched off again.

  “According to Uncle Scott, we’re now about 250 feet below the Memorial Hall. This corridor is aligned east to west and leads right under the huge Masonic symbol displayed out the front.”

  Moving quickly, they covered the length of the corridor. Tom estimated they covered about 130 yards. At the end was a steel door; as before, Tom inserted the punch card into a slot. Below an old monitor, a keyboard slid out of the wall.

  “Old-school security,” Tom said, surprised. “Kind of a steampunk vibe.”

  “Budget cuts, probably. This whole place is funded by donations from the Masonic community.”

  “What’s the text under the code?”

  Hellen handed him the piece of paper and he typed the first phrase into the computer. The door opened to reveal an airlock, and a light came on automatically. They stepped inside. The airlock clearly doubled as an additional level of security: for a moment, they were trapped between the two steel doors. A second terminal secured the door at the other end of the room. Tom typed the second phrase from the piece of paper into it, and pressed the “Enter” key.

  Hellen’s excitement grew—she was about to see the second part of the Library of the Kings, just days after her visit to Rome. The door hissed and swung slowly on its hinges. The space beyond it was quite a bit smaller than the Vatican archive, but for Hellen it was no less fascinating. The lights blinked on with the familiar pop-pop of neon lamps, illuminating a room about forty yards long. The left wall consisted of at least sixty vertical columns of small doors, six to a column, with hundreds of transparent viewing windows set one above the other. Behind the small windows lay thousands upon thousands of scrolls. Climate-controlled vaults, thought Hellen. Small control panels could be used to individually regulate the atmosphere inside
each one. The right wall looked the same, with the exception of two large doors set into the middle of the wall. Behind the doors were two laboratories in which the scrolls could be studied under controlled conditions.

  A pity, thought Hellen. Despite her excitement, the situation made her a little sad. Would she ever have the opportunity to enter this room again, or to take a closer look at what it contained?

  Tom noticed Hellen’s despondency as she walked, mesmerized, past the climate-controlled chambers, no doubt tempted to take out every single scroll and study it more closely. “We don’t have the time for what you want, Hellen. But I’m sure Scott can try to arrange a longer visit for you,” he said, hoping to cheer her up.

  Hellen smiled radiantly at the notion, and her focus returned. The wall opposite the entrance, at the far end of the room, consisted almost entirely of safe-deposit boxes, the kind usually found in a bank vault. On one side was another small card terminal, but this time only the card was needed. Tom slid it into its slot, and a single safe-deposit box in the center of the wall popped out a short distance. Excited, cautious, they eased the drawer out a little farther and lifted the lid. And there it was. Before them, embedded in ordinary foam rubber, lay the second fragment of the emerald-green Philosopher’s Stone.

  61

  Memorial Hall

  “I’m sorry, Tom,” were the first words Tom heard when he stepped out from behind the stone plinth and back into the Memorial Hall. Momentarily startled, he reassessed quickly and took cover with Hellen behind the base of the Washington statue. It was a no-win situation. In the center of the empty hall, Ossana held a gun to Scott’s head. Noah sat in his wheelchair next to Scott, his hands raised. Three of the mercenaries had assault rifles aimed in Tom’s direction. On the left, by the entrance, lay two dead security guards.

  “Mr. Wagner, I believe you have something that belongs to me,” said Ossana.

  “How do I know you’ll let us go if we give it to you?”

  “You don’t, of course. Nevertheless, I give you my word. Give me the stone and your uncle doesn’t have to die.”

  Tom thought it over for a moment. Hellen nodded. They were crouched together at the stop of the narrow stairway.

  “All right. I’m coming out.”

  Tom held the stone over his head in both hands. He moved slowly out of the niche and stepped over the barrier cord.

  “The stone. Now!”

  Ossana kicked the backrest of Noah’s wheelchair and Noah hesitantly rolled toward Tom. Tom nodded almost imperceptibly at Noah and looked intently at Scott, a signal that something was about to happen. Everything happened fast. Tom tossed the stone to Noah in a high arc. Scott exploited the distraction: he turned and ducked, knocked Ossana’s weapon clear and slammed his shoulder into her, sending her flying. She went down hard, and her gun clattered onto the floor and slid across the smooth marble. Scott, moving quickly, turned and snatched it up as he jumped behind one of the green marble pillars. Bullets ricocheted off the column next to his head. At the same time, Tom drew the pistol tucked into the back of his pants and, aiming fast and accurately, took out two of the soldiers as he sprinted to the opposite side of the hall and took cover behind another column.

  Hellen, who had followed close behind Tom when the mayhem broke out, grabbed the handles of Noah’s wheelchair; he had rolled quickly in her direction after catching the stone. Tom and Scott took turns firing at the last soldier, keeping him pinned down and covering Noah and Hellen’s escape from the Memorial Hall. With Tom and Scott both barricaded behind the columns, the tables had turned.

  The third soldier gave Ossana cover, firing alternately at Tom and Scott. Furious, she ducked behind a column on Tom’s side of the hall, and kicked off her high heels.

  Only now did Tom see that Scott had been hit. His face twisted in pain, Scott crouched at the foot of a column and examined the gunshot wound in his stomach. He looked over at Tom and, with more of a grimace than a grin, raised his thumb to signal that he was okay.

  Tom had to get the situation under control, fast. He signaled to his uncle that he would come to him, but Scott signaled back No. Tom was to stay where he was. In severe pain, Scott struggled to his feet, pushing himself up the column with the last of his strength. He checked his pistol. Then he saluted Tom and broke cover.

  “Hey, asshole,” Scott shouted, and he fired his last three shots at the column where the soldier had taken cover. Then he threw the empty pistol in the same direction. When the soldier realized Scott was unarmed, he peeked out from behind the column. Far enough—Tom took the opportunity and put a bullet through the soldier’s head.

  Tom sprinted to his uncle, who had collapsed at the bottom of the three steps that ran the length of the colonnade.

  “Hurry, or she’ll get away,” Scott croaked and pointed at the opposite side, where Ossana had just run off.

  “Stop! Hands behind your head!” Tom shouted, and Ossana froze.

  “Go help your friends. I’m okay. I’ll survive.”

  Scott was sitting on the steps. He pressed one hand onto his wound, and signaled again with the other to Tom to go. Tom glanced back at his uncle and gave him a nod, then he went to Ossana, who was standing where she’d stopped with her fingers laced at the back of her head. Along the way, he picked up one of the soldiers’ assault rifles and tossed the pistol aside.

  “Mine was empty, too,” he said.

  Tom pressed the rifle to the back of Ossana’s head and they started to move outside. Tom looked back one last time at his uncle, who waved him on.

  “How do you see this playing out?” Ossana asked.

  “An exchange of prisoners,” Tom replied confidently. They were headed toward the side exit, which led to the rear parking area. But when they stepped outside, Tom was struck speechless. An enormous black eighteen-wheeler stood in the parking lot. The canvas walls of the trailer had been folded back to reveal a Black Hawk helicopter perched on the flatbed. Six guns rose instantly as the side door of the memorial opened. And in the middle of it all stood Hellen, her hands in the air, with Noah beside her.

  But more than anything else, Tom’s brain was failing to process the sight of Noah with a gun in his hand, aimed straight at Hellen.

  62

  Outside Cloutard’s house, near Siena, Tuscany

  Peering at the house through the thermal imaging camera, Hagen could make out two figures in separate rooms. Both seemed to be asleep. Ossana’s instructions had been clear: “Eliminate Cloutard. He knows too much. More importantly, he has our money.”

  Thankfully, Ossana also knew exactly where to find Cloutard. In retrospect, Hagen found himself a little upset at her promise that he “might get a kick out of it.” Not this. This was going to be the least exciting kill he’d taken on in years. They were out in the Italian boondocks, in the middle of nowhere. A lonely house, no neighbors close by, an open access road, the nearest police station miles away, and a completely unsuspecting victim—for him, no challenge at all. He checked his watch.

  In, kill, out, he thought. Like taking candy from a baby.

  Hagen checked his thermal imaging a final time. The two bodies did not move. Both appeared to be sound asleep. He covered the distance from the top of the hill to the house in ten minutes. He checked the windows and doors on the ground floor but found no sign of an alarm system, which only annoyed him more: nothing, not even the smallest obstacle. Still, there was one small decision to make: one bedroom was on the ground floor, the other on the floor above. Where to go first? According to his information, Cloutard’s aging mother lived in the house, so no danger there. He decided to flip a coin. With barely a sound, he opened the front door and crept through the hallway to the foot of the staircase. The house was totally silent. He felt in his pocket for his lucky penny, took it out and looked at it through his night-vision goggles.

  Heads, first floor. Tails, second floor, he thought. He tossed the coin and caught it: heads. First floor first.

  Sudden
ly, every light in the house came on, blinding Hagen. He tore the night-vision goggles from his head and found himself staring into the eyes of an old woman, not even five feet tall, wearing a friendly smile. Then everything went black again, as the blow to the back of his head knocked him out. Hagen slumped to the floor.

  * * *

  “Evviva il mattarello!” said Giuseppina and she grinned at Hagen, who had just come to. Someone had poured a bucket of ice-cold water over his head. “And because you English can’t speak Italian, that means ‘hooray for the rolling pin.’” He had to be hallucinating. He was tied to a chair, and in front of him stood an eighty-year-old woman with a rolling pin in her hand. Cloutard was sitting a few feet away in a rocking chair, a glass of cognac in his hand; he stood and sidled toward Hagen.

  “I can already imagine who sent you. Our dear mutual friend, Ossana Ibori, n’est-ce pas?”

  Hagen’s face revealed nothing. He strained at his bonds, but he was secured with several well-placed cable ties. Nothing he could do about that.

  “You don’t need to answer. I know Ossana well enough.”

  Giuseppina came to him now. She pulled up a chair in front of him and calmly sat down, looking at him with eyes like chips of ice. Cloutard knew that look. He also knew no one in the world who could look so deeply into your soul and scare the living shit out of you quite as well as Giuseppina. She had never gotten her hands dirty personally, not while Innocento was still alive. That was what soldiers were for. But she had learned psychological warfare from her husband, the art of manipulating people. For years, she had seen how one look from her husband could make an adversary, or even a friend, break into a cold sweat. She had learned that people yield to a strong leader, and that it all comes down to who had the power. Or who pretended to. It was the gestures, the face, the voice and the body language that made people compliant—there was no need to threaten someone with torture, let alone to actually do it. Nor was there any need to set an example. Giuseppina was pulling out all the stops, and Cloutard watched as Hagen’s facade began, slowly but surely, to crumble. And she hadn’t even asked him a question yet.