The Final Days.
How long Akdemir had dreamed and prayed for this moment, when battle would be joined against the infidels and the corruption of the Scarlet Whore would be obliterated. There would be sacrifices, certainly—his own life possibly among them—but that was a price all members of Custodes Foederis accepted on initiation to the church. They understood what God required of them, how they had to fight and suffer for their faith before the final victory was theirs. No prize of any worth came cheaply; what, then, was the price of an eternity in paradise?
In truth, when Akdemir had learned he would play host to liberators of the Ark, he had been both excited and intimidated. So much power resting, even for a moment, at the temple he was privileged to supervise, caused Akdemir to wonder whether he was worthy of the honor. Then, casting false modesty aside, he knew that he was equal to the task.
A brief stop only, since Dei Legatus and his men had an exacting schedule to keep. A literal appointment with destiny. The fate of all humankind hinged on their mission, its success or failure in the coming days.
And they could fail. Akdemir realized that, felt the truth of it like a lead weight in his stomach. Scripture overflowed with tales of heroes who had done their best but fallen short in some respect of God’s exalted expectations. Adam, Abel, Noah, Moses, David, even Christ Himself had weakened for a fleeting moment at Gethsemane. The smallest doubt, the slightest second thought, could ruin everything and snatch defeat from the jaws of victory.
The best that Bishop Akdemir could do was feed the warriors, offer them a place to rest, and pray with them for strength to see their holy mission through to its conclusion. And if need be, he could spend the last drop of his blood crushing the enemies who stalked them, seeking to derail their quest before it could succeed.
In which case, he’d have spent his final moments on earth in righteous struggle and would be rewarded in due time. Of that, Akdemir had no doubt at all.
In death was life. In sacrifice, salvation.
Let the devils come.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Atatürk International Airport, Istanbul, Turkey
Flying into Istanbul cost Bolan nearly twice as much as he had spent at Alexandria. It was to be expected, he supposed: eighth busiest airport in Europe, twelfth busiest on earth, and the customs officers were underpaid for long days hunting terrorists and smugglers. Or it may have just been bribery in the grand old Turkish tradition, stretching from the days of camel caravans to massive Afghani heroin shipments.
Bolan was prepared to fly with empty pockets if he had to, but he also thought a certain measure of negotiation would prevent the men in uniform from thinking twice and coming back for more. He ultimately talked them down by ten percent from what they’d asked up front, and paid out twenty-seven hundred Turkish lira, the equivalent of fifteen hundred U.S. dollars. Halloran had helped interpret—yet another language that he managed well enough to get them by—while their pilot stood waiting for his cut, bemused at the actions of his passengers.
They were leaving Ibrahim Abdella there, or he was leaving them, returning to Massawa with enough cash in his pockets for a long vacation, plus a story he would no doubt tell to everyone he knew. That didn’t worry Bolan, since nobody in Eritrea could reach them now, and any warnings likely to be sent ahead had probably already been received.
Next stop, the acquisition of a rental car. They went with Hertz, Bolan a little edgy as he walked along the concourse with a pistol strapped beneath his arm, a bag of weapons in his hand and uniformed police passing in both directions. No one seemed to notice them, however, even with the garb that marked them as spokesmen for a tiny religious minority. In flight, Halloran had informed him that the country harbored some thirty-five thousand Catholics, nearly invisible among seventy-five million Turks.
They wound up with a Fiat Stilo, rated as a “five-door” with its hatchback. It was beige, the next best thing to gray for passing unobserved in traffic, and was powered by a 2.4-liter straight-five engine with a six-speed manual transmission. Bolan saw that it was right-hand drive, as in Eritrea and Ethiopia, so nothing changed in that regard. He signed for full insurance, paying extra, in full knowledge that the car could be destroyed while they were using it.
Why stick a total stranger with the tab?
European route E80 lay before them, also known as the Trans-European Motorway or TEM. In fact, it ran thirty-five hundred miles from Gürbulak, Turkey, on the Iranian border, to Lisbon, Portugal, but Bolan and Halloran were traveling only a fraction of that distance, from Istanbul to Çorlu. Halloran’s guidebook pegged the trip at seventy-five miles, passing through Kavakli at the midpoint of their journey.
Halloran wanted to drive and Bolan didn’t argue. Riding shotgun gave him time to think and watch the scenery.
“There’s a good chance we could miss them where we’re going,” he reminded Halloran.
“I know,” the brother replied.
“You have a list of all the temples they might visit on their way to Rome?”
“Right up here.” Halloran tapped his temple with an index finger.
“Fair enough,” Bolan replied, hoping a bullet wouldn’t blow that list out of his skull before they found their targets on the road.
Temple of the Resurrection, Çorlu
“WE ONLY HAVE a short time here, you understand.” Claudio Branca spoke while watching as his soldiers ringed their van outside the temple, keeping weapons out of sight but close to hand.
“It’s disappointing,” Bishop Mehmet Akdemir replied. “We have a feast prepared, and beds if you need rest.”
“We’re sleeping on the road, in shifts,” Branca stated. “Thank you for your preparations, but we’ll need that food to go.”
“I understand, of course,” the bishop said. “Your mission takes priority.”
“You’ve heard about the raids in Africa, I take it?” Branca asked.
“Indeed. And we’re prepared to meet the infidels if they assail us here.”
Branca lowered his voice. “It troubles me to say it, Bishop, but there may be traitors in the flock.”
Frowning, the clergyman replied, “I vouch for every member of my congregation,” but his voice was tinged with something that bespoke uncertainty.
“I don’t accuse you or your followers,” Branca said. Lowering his voice still further, almost to a whisper, he went on. “I thought, perhaps, someone in Rome.”
The bishop stared at him, aghast. “You mean, within the Sedem Illustratio?”
Branca allowed himself a shrug. “Christ had his Judas, eh? I have no suspects, nothing to support it but my feeling that the enemy has followed us too quickly and too closely.”
“It is known among the Scarlet Whore’s disciples that we have the Ark,” the bishop said. “No doubt they’ve charted the location of our congregations. If they reckon that the Ark must travel overland...”
“Perhaps you’re right,” Branca replied. “I pray you’re right. If not, when we’ve fulfilled our destiny, we must determine who’s attempted to subvert us.”
“There’ll be ample time for that when we have finished sifting through the ashes of the infidels,” Akdemir said.
“Amen!”
“Amen!” the bishop echoed. “Now, as to your food...”
Branca directed half a dozen of his men to follow Akdemir inside the temple, help him box their meal and get it ready for the road. Two more were at work refueling the van and their cars, from cans of gas Akdemir had waiting for them at the church. No time spent at a local filling station, where they might be noticed and reported by suspicious witnesses.
Branca was briefly worried that he might have overstepped, by sharing his suspicion with the cleric. It was possible, he realized, that Akdemir could pass his words along to Rome, where they might fall on the wro
ng ears. It was a calculated risk, but if there was a traitor, and if he—or she—planned a move against Branca, it could be the maggot’s undoing.
Judas had endured remorse after betraying Jesus, and had hanged himself. Branca determined that a traitor who betrayed their holy mission wouldn’t have that opportunity. Their modern Judas would die screaming at the hands of Dei Legatus—assuming Branca lived that long.
His men returned with plastic bags and cardboard cartons, one hauling an insulated cooler. Akdemir waited to see the food distributed among Branca’s commandos, each man with an equal share to eat while traveling, with canned soft drinks to wash it down. Branca shook hands with Akdemir in parting and accepted his best wishes for the task ahead. Leaving the Temple of the Resurrection, he was moved to wonder if they’d ever meet again.
And realized it didn’t matter, either way.
If he succeeded, they would have eternity. If not, at least his enemies would know a little taste of hell on earth.
Custodes Foederis Headquarters, Rome
UGO TROISI SWITCHED off his sat phone, set it on his desk and prepared to face Janus Marcellus. There was good news from the Turkish front, with Branca’s team on schedule and proceeding toward their target, thus far unencumbered by the raids on temples in the Horn of Africa. However enemies had gotten on their track, at least the infidels were still behind them, with no sign of catching up.
But could their good luck last?
Delivering the latest news to Marcellus was Troisi’s job, but he couldn’t help being nervous any time he faced his master. That was only natural, he thought, all things considered, but he feared that Marcellus might detect his guilt, smell his duplicity and call him out for violating one of their most sacred principles, the sanctity of home and family.
Marcellus had powers; that was understood. As Pontifex Rex, he had received successive revelations from the Lord instructing him to found the church and lead it toward a final cleansing of the world. Marcellus could read the hearts of men—and women, too, presumably—although he hadn’t managed yet to see that Mania enjoyed the company of others when his back was turned.
Or did he know? Was it some kind of game they played, planned out between them? And if so, what was the benefit to Janus?
For a nauseating moment, Troisi wondered if Mania had been using him. Was Janus one of those who liked to watch, perhaps from hiding or on video, while his wife cavorted with other lovers? And if so, was the Pontifex privy to Troisi’s greater betrayal, the offer to take her away from her husband? Away from the church?
It seemed unlikely, since Troisi still drew breath. He could name half a dozen Keepers who had sinned against the sect in lesser ways and paid the price in blood. It had been his task to deliver them for sacrifice, and to dispose of their remains after the executions were completed.
No. If Marcellus knew that he had shared Mania’s bed, much less proposed elopement, Troisi would be dead and buried now. Their masquerade was still intact. So far.
Approaching the royal chamber where Marcellus met with his minions, Troisi forced himself to focus on Claudio Branca’s brief message. The team had left Çorlu with fresh supplies from Bishop Akdemir and was proceeding toward their next stop on the road to Rome. Instead of following the TEM into Bulgaria, they would divert to Greece; a boat was already waiting to receive them for travel by water, defeating pursuers who sought them on land. Troisi gave full credit for that masterstroke to Branca, hoping that it would succeed.
Good news for Marcellus, and an opportunity for Troisi to read his mood, watching for any indications of suspicion.
Riflemen stood watch over the Pontifex, outside his study’s ornate door. They recognized Troisi, snapping to attention and admitting him without the pat-down search that any lesser member of the sect would have endured. Not for the first time, it occurred to Troisi that he could kill Marcellus anytime he wanted to—but then what? Mania would likely shun him, while the wrath of God propelled his soul into the everlasting fires of hell.
Perhaps it was his destination anyway, considering his many sins.
Marcellus waited to receive him, seated on a throne plated with fourteen-karat gold. Some of the gems that decorated it were copies—garnets in the place of rubies, cubic zirconia instead of diamonds—but it still made an impressive show.
“What word?” the Pontifex inquired.
“My Lord,” Troisi said, forcing a smile, “I have good news!”
European Route E80, Istanbul Province, Turkey
BROTHER HALLORAN FROWNED at the buzz of his sat phone, considering whether he should stop on the roadside to answer the call. It could be from only one source, and he could have left the car to have some privacy, but by the second tone decided that it didn’t matter. He’d already been through hell with Cooper, and more of it still lay ahead of them.
He answered simply, “Halloran,” and waited for the deep familiar voice to fill his ear.
“You’re still alive, then.”
“Yes, Prefect.” Nearly fifteen hundred kilometers separated the men, and he still couldn’t miss the undercurrent of displeasure in the voice of his superior. With nothing to lose, he added, “I suppose the tracker must have shown you that.”
“Indeed,” the answer came. “But we could not say whether you were traveling with purpose, if you’d been abducted or if someone had your corpse in transit.”
Hardly plausible, Halloran thought, but kept it to himself. “You’re right, Prefect. I should have called you sooner. I apologize.”
“You haven’t called me yet,” the scolding voice replied. “I’ve just called you.”
“Again, sir—”
“You’re aware of what has happened at the sites in Africa?” The prefect was playing cagey, even though the phones they used for missions out of country scrambled all calls automatically.
“I am. Yes, sir.”
There was a momentary pause before the next inquiry. “And were you in any way responsible?”
“I used my personal initiative,” Halloran said. “If I am to succeed in my assignment, I must gather all available intelligence.”
“And have you, Brother? Are you any closer to your goal?”
“Yes, Prefect. I believe so.”
“Ah, belief. And what supports it, may I ask?”
“The cargo travels overland. It can’t be flown, sir. Those transporting it will naturally seek to keep a low profile. Most of their needs, I think, will be supplied whenever possible by their associates along the way.”
“I see. When you say overland...how would they reach the place where you are now?”
“A fast run through Sudan and Egypt, then through Jordan, circumventing the Israelis, and through Syria. You may recall, Prefect, they had the best part of a week’s head start.”
“Yes, yes. And they’re advancing, Brother. How much longer will this take?”
No longer worried about body counts, apparently.
“Sir, I can hardly offer you a date or time. We’re close, I think, and—”
“We?”
“Yes, sir. I meant to tell you.”
“Then by all means do so, Brother.”
“Back in Axum, I encountered someone with an assignment similar to mine.”
“Assigned by whom? From where?”
Halloran glanced across at his companion and found him focused on the passing scenery. “America, I think.”
“You think?”
“Most certainly.”
“The CIA? NSA? DIA?” the prefect probed.
“Of that, I can’t be sure.”
“You haven’t asked?”
“There seemed to be no point, Prefect.”
“No point. And was there no point in consulting me before you entered into this unauthorized alliance?”
“Frankly, sir, I calculated that it would be easier to win forgiveness than approval.”
Was that choking sound a growl of anger or a stifled laugh? Even in person, face-to-face, it could be difficult to tell.
“It seems that I’ve been too indulgent in the past. Now you confront me with a situation I cannot control, unless I call you back to Rome directly.”
“And allow the cargo to proceed.”
“Carry on, then. We shall certainly discuss this at a later time.”
If I survive, Halloran thought. And said, “Yes, sir,” before he broke the link. “My prefect, checking in,” he said to Bolan.
“I got that part. You good to go?”
Halloran focused on the highway. “Yes, I am,” he answered. “Good to go.”
Feres, Greece
CLAUDIO BRANCA WASTED no time departing from Turkey. The coastal town of Feres, situated almost on the border in the Evros regional unit of East Macedonia and Thrace, boasted a population large enough that Branca’s three-car caravan could pass unnoticed. Lying at the mouth of the Maritsa-évros River, the longest in the Balkans, it was also a convenient port on the Aegean Sea. From there, they would be traveling by water to the Cyclades, and on from there to Sicily, eluding any hunters who pursued them overland.
And on from there to Rome. The final act.
Their ferry captain, Nikolaos Anatolakis, was a member of Custodes Foederis who had volunteered to carry them across on this leg of their mission. His three crewmen hadn’t been initiated to the sect, but they were silent, surly types who kept their mouths shut around strangers and policemen. By the time they went ashore next and were drunk enough to blab, it would not matter who they told of what they had or had not seen aboard the Oceanus.
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