Matt Drake 14 - The Treasures of Saint Germain

by David Leadbeater

  The perfect seed, Webb thought. Fit for proliferation.

  The use of water, air, earth and fire in conjunction with salt, mercury, sulfur and other elements was paramount and divinely sound. A medieval chemical science? So it had been said, but Webb believed differently. Speculative? Not anymore. He touched the dusty leaves of the book, reverently, as a priest might touch the hand of the greatest martyr. Oh, if only things had gone differently and he could linger here. Linger for days, weeks. The agony of being forced to forge ahead tore ragged strips from his soul.

  But in this room somewhere was written the type of cipher to use on the next part of the scroll. Webb had to locate it quickly in case he was interrupted. The many secrets of alchemy were in plain sight; the cipher would not be. Shaking off his humble reverence, Webb took out the scroll and read the last clue once again in conjunction with the Baconian cipher. It pointed him toward the open book itself, the tome Webb least wanted to tamper with. Inside here . . .

  Inside here is . . . everything.

  He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. No time to double check, no time to dally. The hallowed shouldn’t be besmirched, however, so Webb slipped on gloves and took his time turning the pages. Inside, they were unsullied, the symbols and words leaping up at him like playful children, demanding attention. He fought against considering them, at last finding the page he sought.

  The next clue in the scroll would be decoded using the Shakespearian Cipher. Made sense, of course. Many down the years had unearthed facts proving Sir Francis Bacon had actually written the Shakespearian works. And Sir Francis Bacon was Saint Germain. Depended how far you bought into the histories. Webb knew from this new group that if you followed them blindly all the way to the nth degree you’d end up believing the Count was an Ascended Master and still alive to this very day.

  He shook it off, already seeing the next clue in the text. In addition to alchemy, Germain had been a master of languages too, and the key to that discipline lay in another European city the Count had visited—only by resolving that clue would he learn how to find the next.

  Another day, another trip.

  Webb had done all he could in this lab, on this day. He assumed all would remain in place until he found a way to return. It was well concealed, even with the wall busted. He would take this to the very end, earn the greatest reward and then take all of Saint Germain’s treasures to a place only he deemed worthy, to own for the rest of his very long life.

  Webb smiled in the dark, then headed for the door.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Outside again, and it seemed an age since he’d seen the same darkness, smelled the same air. Paris had changed considerably; the entire world was smaller, less significant. Webb, questing alone, had solved age-old mysteries.

  Not that he’d doubted himself.

  Out here, the air should be his to manipulate, the earth a possession he might control. One day. A patch of lamplight pooled off to the right, and Webb shied away. He left the Parisian vacation home and checked the time, surprised to find it was only around 9 p.m. He’d imagined he’d been down there half the night. And that was a shame, because tourists still littered the streets with their cameras, food bags and backpacks, and Webb wanted them all to himself.

  Everything changed a moment later.

  From out of the shadows and through the solitary lake of light they came, six this time and all with faces as hard as forged steel. Webb took off fast, bruised muscles from a few days ago flaring up as if in warning. Heavy boots thundered after him. Not a word was spoken though, and that sent a bolt of fear through Webb’s very soul. They would wipe him from the face of the earth tonight, if they could.

  He raced head down, and aimed toward the only people he could see, but in the direction of the famous Champs Élysées. The crowds roamed there twenty-four-seven it seemed, and offered Webb his best chance of melting away. A car crossed his path, almost silent in the night, a freakin’ electric mutant that he never heard. Webb’s heart leapt in surprise, his awareness increasing exponentially. He followed the car as best he could, hopeful the owner would slow, but of course, on this occasion, he had no luck.

  Dark windows lined the street and several rows of topped trees. A small group of tourists stared, watching the action, one even starting to take the cap of his big Nikon. Webb veered toward them with an idea in mind, then sprinted past only to hear shouts from behind as the cameraman was assaulted. Good. The goons thought he’d taken a snap and were now wasting precious time teaching him a lesson.

  He glanced back. No such luck. Only one goon had remained back there, the others were closer still. He saw garbage cans lined up ahead, ready for recycling day, and toppled them in his wake. Leaves, branches and vegetation spilled over the road, the big bins getting in the way of one pursuer and sending him headlong and face-first into the road.

  Webb then experienced some more misfortune, landing badly as he crossed a standard curb and turning his ankle. He went down. The goons were on him in eight seconds as he struggled to his knees.

  “ ’Old ’im,” one said in British accent.

  “No,” Webb said. “Not now. I’m too close. I—”

  A fist slammed off the side of his head, sending spots dancing all across his eye line.

  “Shut the hell up.”

  Webb hung his head, making himself heavy. His ankle throbbed. “Please.”

  They shook him violently and the spots kept on dancing.

  “Gun,” one of them said menacingly.

  “I have money,” Webb tried. “More than you can imagine. Shit, a month ago you were all probably working for me.”

  “Shut yer gob.”

  “Who do you work for now?”

  “Our employer doesn’t like violence,” another man said. “So he employs others who do. That’s us.” A jab to the ear. “Get the picture now?”

  “Yeah, but I could double your pay.”

  “You got the wedge on ya?”

  “No. It’s—”

  “Then stop wastin’ my time. I’m already knackered from the run and gobsmacked you even got this far. Now stop all yer kerfuffle and die.”

  Webb understood little of it, but got the general idea. He cast around for anything he could use, but the mercs were covering him well, all angles spoken for. This time he had no way out. This time Tyler Webb’s lifelong dream was really going to sputter to a stop.

  Webb was down to the desperate measures he’d hoped never to have to call upon.

  A small incendiary device, almost like a firecracker or vigorous sparkler, might make these hardened men laugh in the battlefield, but one shoved inside their clothing was no lightweight matter. Webb had palmed one from his small backpack earlier and now thrust it inside the Englishman’s jacket. The reaction was instant, flames singeing and scorching, and the man jumped back with a screech, smashing at his own chest.

  Everyone stared.

  Except Webb.

  Pushing from his heels and with every ounce of strength, he broke through the shocked men just as flames burst through the man’s jacket. These men didn’t know whether to stop and help their leader or give chase. This then, was why the Pythian mercenary force never conquered the world.

  Webb saw it all first-hand now and ran hard for the end of the road. A man stayed with him, though, sending a fist to the ribs which, on the run, gave Webb heart palpitations. He veered away, saw a man walking a small dog, picked up the sniveling mutt and hurled it straight at his looming attacker. Mayhem surrounded him. The dog walker complained loudly, the dog itself snarled satisfactorily, and Webb broke away.

  Free. Now don’t—

  A gunshot blasted from behind, the bullet slicing across his left thigh. Webb squealed, the pain temporarily washing all else away, the terror blinding him. The dog walker screeched too, then fell into him as he turned to run, tiny mutt forgotten.

  Webb staggered, holding up both hands. He looked down, expecting ragged flesh, protruding bone, but saw only a
thin tear in his jeans, and thus an even thinner tear in his flesh.

  I got shot.

  And lived! The leg was already badly wounded of course. Webb had twisted an ankle. Maybe fate was giving him a chance. Feeling like the world’s most heroic soldier, he limped away toward the Champs Élysées, now close enough to smell the exhaust fumes and see the endless droves milling around.

  A chancy look back. The fire still blazed, though the man now lay prone on the ground. A shotgun aimed at Webb. Briefly he wondered if he might be able to dodge a bullet, rating his chances a little better than fifty-fifty. Best not to wager on that and his newfound prowess yet, though. He snaked between parked cars. The next shot blew out a windscreen, then another thunked into the door skin. Webb scrambled on, knees ablaze now too.

  Tourists stared at him, cameras twitching. He ignored them, skirting their mindless groups. Some laughed, some looked concerned. Others ate out of fast-food bags or stood staring at buildings, probably imagining what it might have been like hundreds of years ago. Actually, Saint Germain may have done the very same thing in this neighborhood, considering what it had been like in the sixteenth or fifteenth century perhaps, and wondering if he might find the answer to the meaning of life. Cars honked their horns, taxis sped by, safe in their imagined immunity to all things bad. These people had heard the noise, probably couldn’t get their tiny little minds around the fact that, yes, it was actually a gunshot!

  Once on the Champs Élysées, he headed unerringly toward the throngs and the wider spaces, toward the Place de la Concorde.

  The place of many executions.

  Webb would never stop running, nor searching. Here he was, finding new depths to himself and new abilities.

  It was then he saw her to his left; his favorite victim.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Drake pounded down the Champs Élysées, the team running with him, spread out to all sides. Interpol agents and French police dashed along too, the group making quite a sight as they rushed headlong up the wide, tree-lined road. Tourists made way for them and when they didn’t, the team leapt over the front ends of cars or jogged right over the top. The world’s most wanted man had been spotted up ahead, and pieces of him were required.

  It had started as a phone call, filtering through to the pocket-sized ops center Hayden had arranged to be set up. Webb was sighted somewhere near the Eiffel Tower, reports streamed in. Forces had been mobilized; Interpol in charge but allowing the SPEAR team almost full reign due to their reputation and work on the Pythian case so far.

  Argento slapped down half a dozen complaints by jumped up, pompous officials so full of themselves and their own importance that they couldn’t tolerate help from outside forces, and others who just couldn’t see that foreign forces could and should work in tandem. These men, these arrogant pricks, would rather Webb escaped than have their pride walked upon.

  The Eiffel Tower sighting was a gaffe. Alicia ended up taking the man they thought was Webb down with a tackle worthy of Jonah Lomu, after deciding the French police were a bunch of “pastry-eating pussies standing around and waiting for the worst to happen”. The man bounced—three times—before rolling onto his back with a look of utter shock on his face. Right then, they knew they’d made a mistake. Alicia picked him up, brushed him off none too gently, and then walked away, not noticing as his legs wobbled, gave way, and sent him pouring back down to the floor.

  She eyed Drake and Dahl. “You know it was the right thing to do. Could have ended this shit right there.”

  Drake glanced over at the weeping huddle of a man. “I guess he got lucky you went soft on him.”

  “Never gonna happen, Drakey. Not whilst there’s filth and cowards out on our streets, hurting civilians because they think they have some kind of right to.”

  “You and me both,” Dahl agreed, his recent vacation highlights no doubt surfacing.

  Hayden rounded them all up. “Another sighting, now along the Champs,” she said. “This one accompanied by gunfire.”

  “Sounds more credible,” Mai said. “And we really need to leave this place behind. Fast.”

  Drake saw the recovering figure waving to the assembled authorities.

  “How far is the Champs?”

  “A fast run,” Beau said. “I know this place. Just follow.”

  “Gladly.” Kenzie fixed her gaze on the seat of his tight-fitting trousers and jogged into line. Drake settled alongside Smyth, noting that the soldier seemed even more irritable than normal these days.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll get him this time. No more Pythians. No more stalking.”

  Smyth’s return was revealing, at first incomprehension and then a blank nod. “Sure, man. Sure.”

  Beau led them directly to the famous street and its brightly lit byways. As if in greeting, gunshots rang out ahead and the entire force burst in that direction, flowing along the road beside crawling cars, dodging excited tourists and mingling locals, using benches and verges, car roofs and the sides of statues, anything to thread through the throng and get ahead. A motorcyclist veered and then stalled in front of Alicia and Mai, but the pair picked him up by the front and back wheels and tossed him aside. Another insistent weaver found his bicycle lifted and deposited in a nearby tree by a growling Torsten Dahl and decided to remain there for a while, amidst the branches.

  More shots ahead, and the force poured the speed on to the very limit. Mai inched ahead, surprisingly followed by Kenzie and then the Swede. Drake slipped back, panting slightly.

  “Quit with the bacon sandwiches,” Dahl exhaled at him out of the corner of his mouth.

  “Meatballs and muesli,” Drake wheezed back. “Is that what you think I need?”

  “Anything would help.”

  “Maybe . . . maybe I’ll try a holiday. Oh no, wait . . .”

  Dahl ignored the jibe as Beau slid past them all, giving the impression he was bouncing from place to place, the soles of his feet barely touching earth, the panther-like gait eating up the distance.

  “A bloody real-life Tigger,” Drake moaned, not for the first time wondering where the Frenchman found so much speed, poise and energy.

  “And a Yorkshire Winnie the Pooh,” Dahl chuckled back at him.

  “Fuck off, Dopey.”

  They saw the running figure ahead at the same time.

  “Bloody hell!” Drake shouted. “He’s right there.”

  Beau was already arrowing in on Webb, determined to close the man down. From a side street came a flood of men, clad in black and making a very poor attempt at concealing nasty looking weapons.

  The French police went ballistic, screaming at the new arrivals to desist or die. Interpol agents swerved to and fro, caught in two minds, but seemingly unworried about the threat to themselves. Drake and the SPEAR team had only their major goal in mind.

  Hayden leapt over a fallen civilian, whilst Kinimaka bent down to help the man up. Mai matched Beau for speed. Alicia’s lips were in constant motion, but Drake couldn’t hear the words. Probably for the best. Smyth ran beside Lauren and Yorgi, though Drake could tell he was holding back. Nobody looked comfortable. Kenzie fairly galloped along ahead of Dahl, grinning wildly as if this place, on this night, was exactly where she wanted to be.

  A car zoomed ahead of Beau, cutting him off. Tyler Webb ran on, limping, a wild look back confirming his identity. Drake closed the gap. They were almost abreast of the chasing mercs, and had to decide how to handle them. Hayden was expected to shout out the orders and didn’t disappoint.

  “Drake, Dahl, Alicia, Smyth—take ’em out. The rest on Webb!”

  Drake immediately pivoted, aimed and sighted a handgun. Mercs scattered, seeing the attention switch. One remained standing, tracking Webb. Smyth fired first, spinning the man around with two bursts and spraying the nearby trees red. Drake rolled past a slow-moving car, its wheels crunching a few meters from his head. Then quickly up, two-short bursts, and another move. Mercs dived for better cover.


  “Who the hell are we fighting?” Dahl asked.

  “Not a friggin’ clue, mate.”

  Hayden lowered her head and increased her speed, pushing harder than she’d known she could. More than anyone in the team, she had reason to take Webb down. She had reason to take him down as hard as she possibly could.

  Good job Kinimaka isn’t around.

  Knowing the big Hawaiian was back helping the civilian when the man who’d sneaked around, filmed and tried to terrorize them in their own homes was a hundred meters away, took a storm-cloud to Hayden’s already thundery outlook and made a volatile tempest out of it. She was close to becoming her own woman again: solitary, self-contained, intense. Already, she’d tried that new mantle on in her head and liked how it felt. The writing, as they said, was well and truly on the wall.

  Webb scuttled gamely up ahead, listing from side to side and clearly drawing each consecutive breath as a scream through tortured lungs. The man was unfit, but he wasn’t giving up. Hayden saw Beau lock on to a running merc like a heat-seeking missile and veer away to head him off.

  That left just her and Mai at the front of the remaining pack, with Kenzie gesturing in confusion.

  “Are we taking this man down? Or not?”

  Hayden surged ahead.

  “For good.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Ever since the stalking began, Hayden had known she would come face to face and on equal terms with her shadow. Seeing him now, exhausted, panting and bloody, his face slack, made her wonder how on earth he’d ever gotten so far under her skin. But that didn’t matter now.

  What mattered was what happened next.

  Webb stared, a mini-shockwave trembling though his features. “Hayden Jaye.”

  “You have two choices. Come with me now or go straight to Hell.” She shrugged, holding her weapon angled at his feet. “Either way, I’m good with it.”

  “I’m unarmed,” he said. “And I must say . . . it’s good to see you again.”