by C. M. Palov
Kate’s brow wrinkled. ‘It certainly makes you wonder who’s got the instruction manual.’
‘Which brings up my next question: so far, you’ve given the “where”, the “why” and the “when”. Call me crazy, but I’m still waiting for the “who”.’ Point made, McGuire unhooked a pair of black sunglasses from the neck of his T shirt and slipped them on.
Carefully considering his reply, Cædmon shoved his hands into the pockets of his well-worn trousers. ‘Throughout history, there has always been a tight-knit cadre that operates in the shadows. Powerbrokers. Kingmakers. These men wield enormous influence. They do so because they are the keepers of the secrets. Secrets that they share only with the initiated few.’
‘In other words, you don’t have a friggin’ idea who’s responsible for building this axis.’
‘The Knights Templar, the Rosicrucians, the Freemasons, the Illuminati.’ He shrugged, McGuire having posed a thorny question. ‘I assume that at one time or another, each group contributed a piece to the axis. And while seemingly separate, all were germinated from the same seed. Indeed, these sects, orders and secret societies form an esoteric matrix that spans the ages. The names may change, but the agenda remains the same.’
‘I think you can guess at my next question … What’s the agenda?’
Cædmon took a moment to consider his reply, Kate’s query no more easily answered than her cohort’s.
‘These shadow groups are the designated guardians of a body of sacred knowledge which includes the Lost Science of the ancient world,’ he said, admittedly sloshing in murky water. ‘Over the centuries, that knowledge has been transmitted from one group to the next. The agenda, simply put, was to safeguard this knowledge so that it wouldn’t fall into the hands of a despot who would use it for maniacal ends. And then, of course, one must always stay two steps ahead of the black-robed gents in the Inquisition, jolly fellows who wouldn’t hesitate to consign the whole of ancient knowledge to the bonfire.’
‘That’s rather damning, don’t you think?’
‘Is it? In the thirteenth century, the Church not only exterminated the Cathars, but they managed to destroy all of the Cathars’ written texts and documents. Only the legend remains.’
Sliding a black rucksack off her shoulder, Kate unzipped the front pocket and removed a pair of blue-tinted sunglasses. The eyewear did little to hide the fact that her cheeks had suddenly flushed a bright shade of crimson red.
Jaw locked tight, McGuire wordlessly took hold of the rucksack and swung it on to his own shoulder. Then, taking her by the arm, he escorted Kate into the shadows of a nearby tree.
Watching them, Cædmon grudgingly acknowledged that the man’s only saving grace was the care he took with Kate.
‘The design and construction of the Axe Historique is one of the great mysteries of Paris,’ he continued, joining the pair in the shady patch. ‘A massive building project, the construction of each monument required an enormous outlay of cash, funds the French government didn’t always have at its disposal. Just when a project seemed doomed to failure, an anonymous largesse would suddenly be made and – voila! – the project would miraculously be saved.’
‘Do you mean that all of this –’ McGuire swept his arm from the pyramid to the obelisk – ‘was created by a secret sugar daddy?’
‘Some would say that it’s a centuries-old conspiracy.’
‘And you wanna know what I say? All of this was built to give Parisians something pretty to look at as they trudge to and from work every day.’
‘Oh, ye of little faith,’ Kate chided playfully, nudging McGuire with her shoulder.
Feeling a vibrating pulse, Cædmon unclipped his mobile from his waistband and checked the display screen.
‘I’ve just been emailed the dossiers on Fabius Jutier and the Seven Research Foundation,’ he informed them. ‘If we head back to the bookstore, I can open the attachments on the computer.’
‘No need.’ Kate patted the side of the rucksack that was slung over McGuire’s shoulder. ‘We’ve got a laptop with a wireless Internet connection.’
Ah, perfect.
‘I see a vacant bench on the other side of the hedgerow. Shall we?’
35
Dolf Reinhardt glanced at the hand-held transmitter, squinting to better see the small map.
Unknown to Finnegan McGuire, the laptop computer that he had stolen from the French Embassy had a GPS tracking device embedded in the hardware. For the last two days, the Seven had been waiting for the commando to arrive at their lair – from where there would be no escape, the jaws of death very sharp.
While he didn’t know where precisely his quarry was located, Dolf knew that the pair was in the near vicinity. Because of the hundreds of milling tourists, he’d not yet caught sight of them. But since their position updated every five seconds on his transmitter, there was no chance of losing them. They were here. Somewhere.
As he studied the map screen, trying to orientate his position with the landmarks indicated, a gaggle of laughing, half-dressed teenage girls strolled past. Legs, midriffs and cleavages all on eye-popping display. One of them, a curly-haired hussy, glanced over at him and snickered.
‘Schlampe,’ he muttered under this breath, the little tramp a disgrace to her sex.
Hard as a rock, he watched their hips provocatively swing in shorts so tight he could see the cracks in their asses. He wanted to fuck them all. Make them go down on their knees and suck him dry. That would teach them a lesson. That’s all they were good for. He couldn’t respect a woman who didn’t behave like a lady.
Dolf swiped at a bead of sweat that trickled down the side of his face. Scheisse. He hated the summer, the heat and humidity an uncomfortable reminder of what didn’t happen the summer of ’92. That was when the Barcelona Olympics took place. The summer that he should have represented East Germany. Instead, he was on the dole. Twenty-one years of age. No job and no prospects. Since he couldn’t find steady work, he couldn’t afford to train at the boxing gym. Everything in the fucking West cost money. And without the regulated discipline of the Sports Dynamo, his life had fallen into a tailspin.
His mother, Hedwig, who lost her former job with the state-run utility, earned a pittance cleaning toilets at the Alexanderplatz train station. When she came home after working a double shift, haggard, barely able to put one swollen foot in front of the other, Dolf would slink off to his bedroom and put on his headphones. Losing himself in heavy metal music. Forgetting, at least temporarily, that he was a useless excuse for a man. Even more useless than his father who’d dropped dead from a heart attack at the age of thirty-seven.
Like so many former East Germans, Dolf felt lost after Reunification. From the brands of cigarettes and beer to the programming on television, nothing was as it had been. In the GDR, there had been full employment. Not only did every citizen have a job, they each had a sense of purpose that came from knowing their specific place in the regime.
Although he didn’t believe in God, Dolf would have cut a deal with the devil to keep the Berlin Wall in place.
The only good thing that came out of that miserable summer of ’92 was that he met Stefan and the Blut Brüder. Although his mother didn’t approve of his new acquaintances, claiming the Blood Brethren were all unemployed hooligans, Dolf liked hanging out with his tough-talking pals. Liked the fact that people gave the twelve ‘hooligans’ a wide berth. According to Stefan, their shitty lot in life was due to the influx of immigrants into Germany, the government allowing any dark-skinned foreigner into the country.
One night, drunk on schnapps, the Blut Brüder decided to torch a local hostel overrun with Turkish immigrants. Excited by the prospect of taking back their country, they tossed Molotov cocktails into the building then chained the exit doors. Soon the fun began, Stefan and Dolf laughing their asses off as they watched those filthy foreigners toss their screaming brats out of the windows. By night’s end, there were three less Turks to steal jobs from native G
ermans. Not bad for a night’s work.
Anxious, Dolf glanced up from the hand-held transmitting device and scanned the vicinity. Where the hell was McGuire? Like a never-ending plague of locusts, big buses kept dropping off tourists. He walked away from his position near a metal lamp post and headed towards a long line of neatly clipped hedgerow. The Mark 23 pistol, plastered against the small of his back, was an uncomfortable reminder that he’d not yet bagged his prey.
When he did find them, Herr Doktor Uhlemann had been adamant: the kills must be quick and quiet. No advance warning. Pull the trigger, grab the dead commando’s canvas bag and immediately leave the vicinity. The dense crowds of tourists would give him cover as he made his escape. No running. No furtive glances. Instead, walk calmly to the nearest Metro station and board a crowded car.
Scanning the crowd, Dolf finally caught sight of the American commando, recognizing him from the photo that he’d earlier been given. A muscular hulk, Finnegan McGuire looked like he could hold his own in any ring. The Bauer woman was approximately thirty feet from him, seated on a low retaining wall. A second man, with red hair, stood beside her.
Dolf did a double-take.
Who the fuck was that?
There were only supposed to be two targets. Not three.
Bewildered, Dolf wondered if he should apprise Herr Doktor Uhlemann of the situation and ask for revised instructions.
No sooner did the idea pop into his head than he nixed it, worried that he’d come off looking incompetent. The last thing he wanted was for Herr Doktor to think that he was a plodder who couldn’t move his feet and fists fast enough.
He had enough bullets to deal with the problem.
What was one more dead body?
36
In dire need of a drink, Cædmon glanced at his watch.
Mmmm … wonder if it’s too early to suggest an aperitif at a nearby café?
‘We’re not keeping you from anything, are we?’ Kate enquired pleasantly.
‘No, no,’ he assured her. ‘Although I was wondering if –’ Hit with a sudden change of heart, he waved the errant thought away. ‘Never mind.’
On edge, Cædmon paced in front of the granite retaining wall where Kate had set up a makeshift office beneath a towering maple tree. Uncertain as to the cause of his unease, he glanced to and fro. In the near distance, the Louvre’s two Neoclassical wings flamboyantly defined the open-ended courtyard. A typical August afternoon, the Cour Napoléon was a veritable hive, hundreds of people swarming about in the sweltering heat. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Then why the bloody hell am I so apprehensive?
‘Cædmon, sit down.’ Kate smiled winsomely. ‘You’re making me nervous.’ Prising the laptop open, she pressed the ‘on’ switch.
‘My apologies.’ Hoping he didn’t appear as anxious as he felt, he obediently sat beside her.
Kate playfully nudged him with her elbow. ‘Much better.’
‘Is it?’ He held her gaze. Only to sheepishly glance away an instant later, afraid that Kate would suddenly see him for what he was – a wreck of a man who lacked the wherewithal to put his life in order.
Standing sentry some thirty feet away, Kate’s brooding mastodon openly glared at him.
Soldier and spy … never the twain shall meet.
‘Pardon me if I’m out of line –’ Cædmon lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone – ‘but he doesn’t seem your type.’
‘Wh-why would you say that?’ Kate stammered, clearly taken aback. ‘Have you lost your mind?’
‘Still intact last time I checked.’
‘Then why would you ever think that Finn and I –’
‘What else was I to think? The two of you seem rather chummy.’
‘Like you said, he’s not my type.’ The telltale blush belied the denial.
‘I see,’ Cædmon replied, thinking ‘the lady doth protest too much’. Particularly since he’d caught Kate and McGuire sharing more than a few sly glances. Although he was rusty when it came to affairs of the heart, those telltale exchanges implied a mutual attraction. One which Kate was taking great pains to refute.
‘So, I would greatly appreciate it if you, um, not mention anything to Finn about this conversation. He doesn’t need the distraction. As for me, without going into the details, what happened in Washington was –’ Kate paused, a shadowed expression on her face – ‘ harrowing. So I thought it might be a good idea to have my own personal bodyguard. In case you haven’t noticed, Finn McGuire is a human predator drone.’
‘Yes, well, he’s a trained commando. Quick to grab the battering ram. Sleeping with one eye open. All that.’ Concerned that she captained a listing ship, he placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘I imagine that McGuire has a full plate, what with being a fugitive-at-large. If the authorities try to apprehend him, you could find yourself in a very dangerous predicament. I can have you placed in an MI5 safe house,’ he offered, hoping to lure her away from the shoals.
‘But you can’t give me a trained commando who will lay down his life to protect me.’ Kate set the notebook computer on his lap. ‘All booted up and ready to go,’ she said, effectively changing the subject.
As he accessed his email account, Cædmon noticed that McGuire, a belligerent swagger to his step, was headed in their direction. He gave the man full marks for ably toting his gargantuan chip.
‘All right, so what’s in your little spy report?’
Determined to prove himself the better man, Cædmon strove for a civil tone. ‘I’ve been sent two dossiers: one for Fabius Jutier, the other for the Seven Research Foundation.’
‘Since the French dude’s dead, let’s first check out the foundation.’
‘Right.’ Opening the attachment, he obligingly read the summary bullets aloud. ‘Founded in 1981 by Dr Ivo Uhlemann, a German national, the Seven Research Foundation is headquartered in Paris. My, my, I’m impressed. Uhlemann has a doctorate degree from Göttingen University in theoretical physics.’
‘The group of physicists that my father always refers to as the mathematical daydreamers.’ Turning to McGuire, Kate said in a quick aside, ‘It’s a branch of physics that relies heavily on mathematical equations rather than physical experimentation.’
‘Albert Einstein, also a theoretical physicist, might take exception to that characterization,’ Cædmon remarked before continuing with the particulars. ‘A nonprofit foundation, the Seven awards academic grants across a diverse research spectrum. Everything from physics to electrical engineering to archaeology.’
‘No smoking gun there.’ Leaning close, Kate propped her cheek against his jacket-clad arm as she peered at the dossier. ‘Downright respectable, actually.’
‘Yeah, that was real respectable what they did to my two buddies.’ Punch-line delivered, McGuire yanked a leafy sprig from the imposing hedgerow that grew just behind the retaining wall.
Ignoring the other man, Cædmon skimmed through the next few paragraphs. ‘Now this is interesting. Not only do they maintain office space in the Grande Arche building, but the Seven Research Foundation was instrumental in getting the building project off the ground.’
Kate’s eyes opened wide. ‘Then all of this murder and mayhem does have something to do with the Axe Historique.’
‘Moreover, a cloud of suspicion still hovers over the Grande Arche and its design,’ he told her, assuming she’d be more interested in the information than her surly companion. ‘Although no proof has ever been tendered, that hasn’t stopped the chattering café classes from claiming that a secret esoteric group was involved in the construction project.’
‘That’s scary.’
‘That’s bullshit,’ the commando muttered.
‘That’s the least of your worries.’ Cædmon glanced up, stunned by what he’d just read. ‘According to the dossier, each and every member of the Seven’s Board of Trustees is a direct descendant of an SS Ahnenerbe officer.’ He paused, assailed with a dark foreboding, his earlier anxiety having
come full circle. ‘I fear that you’re dealing with a very dangerous enemy.’
McGuire shrugged and said, ‘Tell me something I don’t know.’
Troubled by a niggling thought, Cædmon ran a hand over his unshaven cheek. ‘There’s a piece of the puzzle that we’ve not yet considered. The Seven Research Foundation is desperately trying to recover the Montségur Medallion on which, reputedly, there’s an encrypted map that leads to a long-lost Cathar treasure. How does that come into play? And, more importantly, is there a connection between the Axe Historique and the Cathar treasure?’
Cheeks noticeably flushed, Kate grabbed hold of McGuire’s wrist. ‘Finn, I think you’d better show him.’
‘I’m not showing him jack.’
‘You’ve been falsely accused of killing two men. Do you next want to be falsely accused of associating with a bunch of latter-day Nazis?’
‘Pardon me for interrupting your tête-à-tête, but what the bloody hell is going on?’ Cædmon demanded to know, the two of them behaving like criminals in the dock.
‘If you won’t do it, I will.’ Ultimatum issued, Kate made a futile grab for the canvas satchel that McGuire wore, bandolier-style, across his chest.
‘Shit.’
With that muttered oath, McGuire capitulated. Unzipping the canvas satchel, he shoved his hand inside. When, a few seconds later, he pulled out a gleaming gold pendant, Cædmon’s eyes opened wide.
Shite.
‘You actually stole the Montségur Medallion. You lying bastard!’ Shoving the computer on to Kate’s lap, Cædmon lurched to his feet. Fists clenched, he was sorely tempted to bash McGuire in the face.
‘I can assure you that Finn had the noblest of intentions,’ Kate exclaimed, quick to defend her mastodon. ‘The only reason he took the medallion was to keep it out of the hands of men who would profit from it.’
Pitying Kate for being so sadly deluded, Cædmon thrust out his hand. Glaring at McGuire, he silently dared the commando to refuse the request.