by C. M. Palov
Chortling, Dr Uhlemann absently stroked a small salt-and-pepper Schnauzer that was curled on his lap. A moment later, his facial muscles reconfigured into an ill-tempered frown. ‘Why isn’t Dolf driving? I don’t like looking at the back of this man’s head.’
‘The view from the front isn’t much better,’ Angelika remarked cruelly. ‘As for Dolf, I dismissed him early. Not only did he smell like a shit pile, but he looked like one, too.’
Worried that she might be the only sane person in the vehicle, Kate took a deep, serrated breath. The gunfight, the dog, the needle, the J. S. Bach cello suite softly playing on the sedan’s sound system. It was all so surreal. As though she’d just landed in the middle of a Fellini movie with a cast of macabre characters.
Angelika peered over the back of her seat. A quizzical expression on her face, she said, ‘I’m curious, little mouse … did you love Finnegan McGuire?’
Refusing to share something so personal with a heartless killer, Kate bowed her head. Eyes welling with tears, she clasped both hands together and placed them squarely in her lap, Angelika’s mocking tone the proverbial dagger to the heart.
The little Schnauzer, sensing Kate’s distress, whimpered softly.
‘Alas, Sergeant McGuire has no one but himself to blame for his demise,’ Dr Uhlemann intoned, proving that his blade was just as sharp. ‘Like Thor, he arrogantly thought that he was invincible.’
‘Only to discover that a hammer is no match for a sub-machine gun,’ Angelika jeered. Removing a tube of lipstick from a storage compartment, she flipped down the sun visor and proceeded to apply a coat of crimson red lipstick.
Sickened by their callous remarks, Kate turned her head and stared out of the window. Although it was difficult to see through the tinted glass, she recognized the wrought-iron fence that bordered the Jardins des Tuileries.
The chauffeur slowed for a red light.
‘When I was a child, I visited my father while he was stationed in Paris.’ Raising his arm, Dr Uhlemann directed Kate’s attention to the esplanade on the other side of the fence. ‘The SS officers, attired in white shorts and tank tops, would perform their morning calisthenics on that grassy field to your left.’
‘Ooh-la-la! How I would have enjoyed seeing that,’ Angelika cooed before lifting a folded sheet of paper and blotting her lipstick.
‘Parisians, notoriously slothful by nature, would stand at the fence and gawk. What they didn’t grasp, and still don’t comprehend, is that communal exercise provides the foundation for a vigorous society.’
‘Don’t you mean a martial society?’ Kate counterpunched.
‘Any society,’ Dr Uhlemann retorted, a marked edge to his voice. ‘Indolent people are inherently weak. Of body and mind.’
Still preening in front of the visor’s mirror, Angelika said, ‘And since we have no souls, you need not enquire about that.’
The traffic light changed to green.
‘Driver, take us to the obelisk. Wolfgang needs to be walked,’ Dr Uhlemann ordered, an imperious monarch who couldn’t be bothered using a polite tone with one of his subjects.
Wordlessly nodding his head, the nameless chauffeur turned left at the corner. A few moments later, in typical Paris fashion, he pulled the vehicle on to the pavement at Place de la Concorde. At that hour of the day, there was no one lurking to protest the illegal manoeuvre.
The back-seat locks popped up with a loud click!
Clipping a leash on to Wolfgang’s collar, Dr Uhlemann glanced over at her. ‘I insist that you accompany us, Doctor Bauer.’
Intuiting that it was a royal command, Kate dutifully got out of the sedan. Angelika stood at the ready beside the open door. Red lips curled in a smirk, the blonde flipped open her leather jacket, letting Kate glimpse her holstered gun.
‘You can’t run fast enough, little mouse.’
‘As I am well aware,’ Kate muttered under her breath. Although the occasional car drove past, there was no cover, Place de la Concorde being an open plaza that encompassed nearly twenty acres. She’d be shot in the back before she could flag down a passing motorist.
Grabbing hold of Kate’s elbow, Angelika ushered her over to the wrought-iron fence that surrounded the base of the obelisk. She then took the leash from Dr Uhlemann and proceeded to walk the Schnauzer.
At a loss for words, Kate stared at the 75-foot-high monument. Illuminated by spotlights, the red granite appeared tawny hued. In a city dominated by neo-classical architecture, the ancient Egyptian obelisk was an exotic sight.
‘Given that it weighs over two hundred tons, it’s amazing to think that it’s carved from a single piece of granite,’ Dr Uhlemann remarked conversationally. ‘In order to transport it from Thebes, a special ship had to be built, an engineering feat. The details of that epic journey are illustrated on the pedestal.’ He pointed to the inlaid gold diagrams that decorated the base of the obelisk. ‘As you undoubtedly know, the monument is a key element on the Axe Historique.’
Hoping to establish a rapport with Dr Uhlemann – Captivity Tactics 101 – Kate asked the obvious: ‘How exactly does the obelisk fit into the Vril equation?’
‘At the heliacal rising of Sirius, a tremendous burst of astral energy is released. The obelisk acts as an antenna to transmit and direct that astral energy along the Axe Historique.’
Kate tipped her head back and peered at the gold cap on top of the monument. ‘So the obelisk acts like a radio tower?’
‘Precisely.’
Just then, Angelika walked towards them, Wolfgang obediently trotting at her heels. ‘I love this feeling,’ she purred. ‘It’s incredibly invigorating. Like the time I rode the waves at Big Sur.’
She was right; there was a palpable energy in the air.
‘What you’re feeling is the discharge of negative ions from the electromagnetically-charged telluric line. The water spewing from the fountains magnifies the effect.’ Dr Uhlemann jutted his chin at the two massive water fountains situated approximately fifty yards away.
‘I don’t care what causes it,’ Angelika replied as she flung her long blonde tresses over her shoulder. ‘It feels so wonderfully –’ A buzzing sound stopped her in midstream. Unclipping the cell phone at her waist, she glanced at the display screen. ‘I must take this call.’ She handed the dog lead to Dr Uhlemann before stepping away from them.
The call was brief, Angelika returning within moments. Approaching Dr Uhlemann, she placed a hand on his shoulder as she leaned close to whisper something in his ear.
Clearly stunned, he said, ‘Are you absolutely certain?’
Angelika nodded. ‘He has an eight-hour drive back to Paris. We’ll have it by one o’clock this afternoon.’
‘Just in time for tomorrow’s heliacal rising.’ Dr Uhlemann turned towards Kate. ‘Our mission in the Languedoc was successful. I’ve just learned that we retrieved the Lapis Exillis from your cohort, Cædmon Aisquith. Twenty-six hours from now we will be able to perform das Groß Versuch and generate the Vril force. “O brave new world!” ’
Hearing that jubilant exclamation, Kate’s heart painfully constricted. ‘Is Cædmon still alive?’ she asked, barely able to get the words out of her mouth.
‘I would certainly hope not,’ Dr Uhlemann snapped testily.
Oh, God … Finn and Cædmon, both dead.
Afraid that she might collapse, Kate grabbed hold of the wrought-iron fence. Unbidden, one of the Four Reminders that Buddhists chant daily popped into her head. Death comes without warning, this body will be a corpse.
‘What about me? Are you planning to kill me, as well?’
His blue eyes glazed from the narcotics in his bloodstream, Ivo Uhlemann tipped his head to one side, scrutinizing Kate as if she was some rare specimen.
A long silence ensued.
Then, shrugging carelessly, he said, ‘I’m still undecided.’
69
Saint Clotilde Basilica, Paris
0638 hours
Bending over the e
laborately carved font, Finn scooped holy water into his cupped hands rather than politely dipping his fingers. Eyes closed, he splashed the cool water on to his face. A bracing wake-up tonic.
Out of habit, one engrained at Catholic school, he silently blessed himself. In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Then, for good measure, he murmured, ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.’
Water dripping off his chin, Finn snorted to himself. Like I’m telling the Big Kahuna something he doesn’t already know.
Not only had he earlier committed four mortal sins, but he’d committed a major screw-up. He should never have left Kate alone in the cemetery. Christ! What had he been thinking? He was supposed to have kept Kate safe from harm. To protect her from the big bad wolf. But, instead, he left her alone. Sweet, gentle little Katie. Who was too inexperienced to escape from danger. And too scared to hit the target. Hell, she probably didn’t see the Dark Angel approach until it was too late.
Yanking his T-shirt hem up to his face, Finn dried his wet cheeks before he stepped through the double doors that led inside the nave.
Again out of habit, this one engrained by the US military, he scanned the cavernous interior, checking for unfriendlies, and points of egress should he run into any. He could not, under any circumstances, fall into a police dragnet, for the simple reason that he couldn’t rescue Kate from a Paris jail cell.
Although the basilica was constructed in the nineteenth century, it had a distinctly Gothic feel to it. Intimidating in the way that only a Catholic church could be. On each flank, dour-faced martyrs were eternally trapped in the long line of stained-glass windows. Sunken-cheeked and hollow-eyed, they were the guardians of the Faith. Ahead of him, prominently displayed above the altar, was a big golden cross with a dying Jesus nailed to it.
Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.
Verifying that the only person inside the church was a humpbacked crone plying her fingers to a set of rosary beads, Finn walked towards the apse. He didn’t bother bending his head or displaying false piety. He wasn’t there to repent, ask for pastoral guidance, or seek absolution. He was there to reconnoitre. To take a much-needed rest and figure out his next move.
Because, so far, the situation had gone belly up and totally fubar. As in ‘fucked up beyond all repair’.
And had become more fucked up with each passing hour as he’d hit one dead-end after another. If he’d had a knotted cat-tail whip, he would have flogged the shit out of himself. Mortification of the flesh. A time-honoured Catholic tradition practised by those wracked with guilt.
Now, because of his mistake, Kate was at the mercy of –
Don’t go there, soldier! a voice inside his head boomed. In order to find and rescue Kate, he had to stay calm. That meant suppressing his emotions. Turning ’em off and shutting ’em down.
Determined to do just that, Finn ducked to the left, parking his ass on a rush-bottomed chair. Unlike the Catholic churches in Boston, there wasn’t a pew in sight. Exhausted, he stared at the suspended dust particles, tinted red and blue from the early-morning light that shone through the stained-glass windows. Refusing to give in to the urge to close his eyes and catch a quick catnap, he unclipped his cell phone from his waistband. He’d already called Ivo Uhlemann. Repeatedly. Twice at his apartment and three times at the Seven Research Foundation headquarters. Each time, he’d left the same message. ‘The Montségur Medallion is yours in return for Kate Bauer.’
None of his calls had been returned.
Why the hell wasn’t the evil bastard answering the phone?
Surely Uhlemann knew that he had him by the short and curlies. That’s why they’d abducted Kate rather than execute her, to force his hand.
Hand broken, Finn was willing to give them what they’d wanted all along, the damned medallion.
So, just answer the fucking phone! Or at least let me find your sorry ass so we can make the trade.
Since the subway had been closed, he’d earlier retrieved Cædmon Aisquith’s Vespa, using it to go to the Grande Arche. A wasted effort. The Seven Research Foundation office suite had been locked, all of the lights turned off. Not about to call retreat, he then headed to Rue des Saints-Pères, hoping to catch Uhlemann at home. Although he’d scared the hell out of the live-in maid, she claimed that she hadn’t seen or spoken to Herr Doktor Uhlemann in the last twenty-four hours.
Belly up and totally fubar.
For several long moments Finn stared at the cell phone; he had one option left.
Shoving his pride to the wayside, he dialled the number. The call immediately went to Aisquith’s voice mail.
‘Call me the instant you get this. It’s urgent!’
He hit the ‘disconnect’ button.
‘Shit! Why isn’t anyone answering their damned phone?’
On hearing the muttered expletive, the old bag on the other side of the aisle momentarily stopped reciting the rosary and glared at him. Finn mumbled an apology.
Where did they take Kate? I have to find her!
Gut churning, he took a deep breath, able to smell incense and candle wax. Along with the unmistakeable stench of his own fear. Out of options, Finn grabbed the chair in front of him and dropped to the stone floor.
On his knees, he clasped his hands to his chest … and prayed his ass off.
PART IV
‘There was a thing called the Grail, which surpasses all earthly perfection’ – Wolfram von Eschenbach, Parzival
70
Paris
1932 hours
Cædmon Aisquith slowly made his way down Rue de la Bûcherie. Jaw clamped. Teeth clenched. By dint of sheer will.
A battered warrior come home from the wars, he owed his life to a wizened old shepherd. Barely conscious, trapped in a hawthorn bush, Cædmon had used the torch in his pocket to flash a distress signal on to the granite cliffs of Mont de la Lune. Three short light beams. Three long. Three short. Over and over. My soul is beyond salvation, but for God’s sake, save our ship. Before it sinks into the oblivion of chill death. Tending to his flock in the nearby mountain meadow, Pascal Broussard had seen the SOS.
‘O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, alone and palely loitering?’
For starters, a hole in his upper right arm and a shallow furrow along his outer skull. Both courtesy of an unknown assassin who hit the target but missed the mark.
Utterly demoralized by what had happened in the Languedoc, Cædmon had no idea who had ambushed him on that dark stretch of rocky terrain. He presumed it was someone in the employ of the Seven Research Foundation. Without question, La belle dame sans merci was merrily laughing at his plight. He had actually found the Grail. But, like Parzival after his first visit to the Grail Castle, he’d been tossed on his arse, the castle having vanished into thin air.
Cædmon glanced at the wadded bandage under his shirtsleeve, relieved to see that there was no blood seepage. The sutures were holding. Forced to operate in primitive conditions, the shepherd had removed the bullet from his triceps brachii with a pair of needle-nosed pliers, the man actually annoyed that Cædmon ordered him to first sterilize the pliers in boiling water. As well as the needle used to suture his flesh together. For an old man with gnarled, arthritic hands, Pascal sewed a surprisingly neat stitch.
He was lucky to be alive. The first bullet had grazed his skull, leaving a superficial gully above his left ear. The second bullet had lodged in his arm muscle, missing the arteries and veins that siphoned blood to and from his heart. A blessing, Pascal claimed. More jaded, Cædmon knew better. After he’d tended to his wounds, the shepherd gave Cædmon the only painkiller he had – a half-full bottle of Pastis. Although he loathed aniseed, Cædmon gratefully accepted the gift. Polished it off, in fact, during the three-hour train ride to Paris.
A gruelling journey, made worse by the vile tasting liquor, he slept fitfully on the train. Twice he awoke, panic-stricken, frantically patting the seat, searching for his rucksack, worried that someone had pinched t
he Grail while he slept. And then he remembered that an assassin had stolen the Grail. Both times, in a Pastis-induced haze, Cædmon wondered if he’d actually found the blasted relic. Or had it all been a figment of his wild imagination?
On seeing the bookshop sign – emblazoned with the naive Fool about to embark on his grand adventure – Cædmon wearily sighed. Head throbbing, he gingerly touched the bandage wrapped around his skull. It felt like an iron band. One that tightened with each footfall.
Just a few more steps.
He pulled a key ring from his jacket pocket. A storm-damaged man-of-war about to sail into safe harbour.
Inserting the key in the lock, he opened the door. The hinges noisily squealed. He grunted, hit with an incendiary burst of pain that radiated from his arm to his skull. As he stepped across the threshold, Cædmon was greeted by a miasma of dust motes lazily floating in the slanted light. He waited a few seconds, giving his eyes a chance to adjust to the dimly lit shop before he walked over to the wall-mounted key pad. His shuffling gait was that of a much older man.
Squinting, he peered at the digital display.
Shite!
The security alarm had been deactivated, two loose wires protruding from the device!
Hackles instantly raised, he spun on his heel. He then proceeded to scrutinize each dark shadow.
Everything seemed in order.
On high alert, he cautiously made his way to the closed door at the rear of the shop that led to his flat. Holding his breath, he reached for the doorknob. Uncertain what he would find on the other side, he flung the door wide open.
‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?’ he bellowed crossly.
‘What does it look like I’m doing?’ Finnegan McGuire retorted. ‘I’m catching some Zs.’ Stretched out full-length on the tufted leather sofa, the commando propped his head on a beefy arm.
The tension left Cædmon’s body in one fell swoop, replaced with a jaw-grinding pain. He walked over to the sofa.
‘Nice place you got here,’ McGuire quipped as he rose to his feet. ‘I was almost tempted to pull out the feather duster and plug in the vacuum cleaner.’