“It’s time to act. And what counts above all are deeds not words. Make no mistake, my brothers—we’re in the vanguard of a new Enlightenment, and we must hold aloft our flaming ideals. But we will not allow ourselves to put ‘Victory’ on our banners until we have triumphed. Until then, we will only write the word ‘Fight’.”
“So go on, then.” The man next to Uri seemed bent on irritating him. “Are you with the Thelema?”
Uri knew Danny Motson would have a snapping point. He spun to face the man. “Look, I’ve asked you politely, but you’re not getting it. Do me a favour—get out of my face.”
The man’s genial expression changed in an instant to one of unmistakeable hostility. “Who do you think you are?” he rounded on Uri. “You might be some big shot where you come from. But you’re a nobody here.”
“Look—” Uri began, but was cut off.
“I know everyone, and I’ve never seen you before,” the man snarled. “Who the hell are you, anyway?” He turned to face the bar, grinding his mini-cigar out in a large plastic ashtray.
Uri took a deep breath. This was rapidly getting out of hand. “No disrespect. I just want to listen to the man up there. That’s all. Alright?”
“No it’s not alright.” The man had worked himself up into a quiet rage. “It’s not alright at all. Someone needs to teach you some manners.”
With no warning, the man slugged down the remaining amber spirit in the balloon glass he was drinking from, upended it, and drove it firmly into the top of the wooden bar. A number of shards broke off its lip, leaving a jagged edge where the rim had been a moment earlier.
He had done it quickly and quietly. No one else at the bar seemed to have noticed.
He turned to Uri, leering, brandishing the jagged weapon. “Come on then. Let’s go.” He jabbed the glass towards Uri a few times, as if sparring with an imaginary target. “I’ve got your attention now, haven’t I?”
Uri reluctantly stopped listening to Malchus and focused fully on the man waving the broken glass at him.
He was more agile than he had imagined.
More hostile, too.
Uri quickly guessed this was not the first time the rat-faced man had wielded a broken glass in a bar brawl.
He cursed under his breath. This was all he needed.
As he turned to face the man full on, he caught sight of Otto and the Skipper over at their table. To his surprise, they were looking over in his direction with interest, but quickly turned back to their own discussion once they saw he had spotted them.
It struck Uri as odd that they seemed embarrassed to have been seen watching him.
As he continued to watch them out of the corner of his eye, he saw them look over to him again.
Suddenly the penny dropped.
He had thought there was something odd about the way the rat-faced man had been goading him, and then immediately picked a fight with minimal cause.
It was a set up.
The annoying rat-faced man had been primed to pick a fight so the Skipper could see how Uri handled himself.
Not subtle. But thorough.
Uri smiled to himself. The rat-faced man had done a pretty good job.
Rapidly assessing the new development, there seemed only one good choice.
If they wanted a show, he would give them one.
No problem.
The man was still taunting him. “Come on then, sunshine. You’re going to learn some manners.”
Uri relaxed himself, letting his shoulders drop, and bending his neck slowly to the left and then to the right.
His eyes never left the man.
“I’m gonna carve you,” the man threatened, his eyes narrowing.
Uri looked at the jagged glass being pointed at him, aware of the damage it could do. Broken glass or bottles were like a fistful of scalpels—capable of slicing through flesh, muscles, and nerves, leaving a slashed mess of severed tissues that surgeons were unable to put together again.
It was a highly effective weapon.
“You’re going to remember me,” the man leered.
Not as much as you’ll remember me, Uri thought.
The man was moving his weight from one foot to the other, trying to confuse Uri as to when the attack would come.
“I’m going to give you something you won’t forget,” he growled.
Uri ignored the adolescent monologue, and kept his eyes firmly locked on his adversary’s face.
He saw it first in the man’s small eyes, a split second before he lunged with the jagged glass, a hard punch at Uri’s face with the improvised weapon.
But Uri knew what was coming, and was quicker. He parried the arm powering towards him, deflecting it off course so it sailed harmlessly past his ear.
Whipping round, he grabbed the man’s extended arm with both hands and twisted it hard and viciously, forcing his assailant over, his chest parallel to the floor, his arm wrenched out at right angles behind him.
Keeping hold of the man’s wrist with one hand, Uri aimed a savage flat-handed blow at the back of the exposed elbow.
There was a squelching and popping sound as the elbow flexed the wrong way and the ligaments sheared. The man shrieked in pain, his face contorting into a mask of agony. Turning to face Uri, he realised his mistake too late, as Uri’s fist hammered hard into his Adam’s apple.
The man staggered before dropping to the floor, his eyes bulging as he struggled for air—a look of incomprehension on his face at how in less than three seconds he had a snapped arm and a crushed larynx.
Uri stood over him, contemplating whether to stand on his broken elbow and force an apology.
“Alright, I’ve seen enough.” The voice was familiar. Uri turned to see the Skipper approaching with a hand held up to stop him. “Come with me, Danny.”
Uri gave the man on the floor a final glance. His throat would heal if he was lucky, but the arm would never be the same again.
That was fine by Uri. The man was a nasty piece of work. Anyway, he had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Life was like that.
Uri followed the Skipper out through the door and back into the stuffy hallway.
The larger man pushed open one of the other two scuffed grey doors, and indicated for Uri to follow him in.
Once inside the small room, Uri quickly took in that it was empty apart from a bare table.
It was just the two of them.
The Skipper leaned up against the wall and looked at Uri, as if assessing a piece of livestock. “Take off everything except your underwear,” he ordered simply, his voice as flat and expressionless as before.
Uri had thought he might be searched at some stage of the evening, although he had been expecting merely to be patted down.
Clearly not.
“I’m not the law, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Uri answered.
The Skipper did not reply,
“There’s no wire,” Uri added. He patted his shirt theatrically to demonstrate there was nothing concealed underneath.
“Just do it.” The Skipper’s voice was cold.
Uri hesitated for a moment, wondering if there was any way to avoid the indignity of stripping off.
The Skipper looked over at him, unimpressed. “I warned you, Danny. Either you’re a team player, or you’re not.”
With a sigh, Uri began unbuttoning his shirt. It’s what Danny Motson would have done. He folded it loosely and put it on the floor, then unbuckled his belt and took his trousers off.
To Uri’s surprise, the Skipper walked away. “Wait here.” The larger man shot him a warning look before leaving the room.
The grey door swung shut, leaving Uri to wonder what on earth was happening. The Skipper could clearly see he was not wearing a wire. So what was the delay for? He had no desire to hang around half-undressed for any length of time.
In less than a minute, the door opened again.
Unsure who it was or what intentions they might have, he braced hims
elf. The blood was still up, and he was quite happy to lay into anyone who wanted to have a go.
But it was the Skipper, accompanied by the man with the steel-framed glasses he had seen him talking to when he had first entered the bar with Otto.
The man was carrying a slim grey metal box.
“This is one of the team docs,” the Skipper announced, leaning again against the wall opposite Uri. “He patches up the lads when they need a puncture repair.”
The doctor had yellow stains on his uneven teeth, and smelled strongly of alcohol and stale nicotine. Looking at him, Uri doubted he had many female patients. Or even a current medical licence, for that matter.
The doctor placed the metal box on the table and stood in front of Uri, looking him up and down.
“Open your mouth,” his speech was rasping.
Uri did as he was asked, and the doctor peered carefully at his teeth.
Were they serious? Uri wondered. Did they really think he might have a concealed transmitter in his fillings?
Clearly they did.
“Stick out your tongue.”
The doctor looked at it critically, before indicating for Uri to turn his head. He peered closely into each of his ears.
“Hold out your hands, palms down.”
Uri held them out, and the doctor examined his nails carefully before straightening up again.
“Now, drop your pants.”
“Come on.” Uri stared at the doctor. “Seriously?” But even as he said it, he knew he was wasting his time. They were being thorough. He could have something concealed there. If he had been in their shoes and had taken it this far, he would have insisted on the same.
Glancing up, he saw the Skipper scowling at him.
He knew he had no real option but to comply. He was working. This was his job. It was what he was paid to do. If he refused to go along, he risked torpedoing all his achievements so far, and he could not afford to do anything that jeopardized his chances of getting to Malchus.
Barely concealing his annoyance, he did as he was asked.
The doctor looked down. “Not Jewish, are you?”
To Hell with them, Uri thought. All of them. He wanted them to know who they were dealing with.
“Sure. Israeli. Born and bred. Can’t you tell?” he stared defiantly at the doctor,
The doctor chuckled at the joke, before turning to the small metal box he had placed on the table.
Uri was not sure quite what was happening. The body search he understood. But why had the doctor looked at his nails? And his tongue?
The doctor turned around. He was holding a familiar object—a strip of canvas with a long rubber tube and bulb attachment.
Uri fought hard to keep the look of surprise off his face. “Are you serious?” he turned to the Skipper, looking for some clue to what was happening. “You’re giving me a medical?”
The Skipper did not answer.
Uri watched with irritation bordering on hostility as the doctor wrapped the canvas strip around his upper arm, pumped the bulb so the inflatable tourniquet tightened round his lower bicep, checked his watch as he decreased the tension, and took Uri’s blood pressure.
“Date of birth?” the doctor asked.
“Twenty-first November, 1978,” Uri answered automatically. He had committed it to memory before leaving Israel.
Placing the equipment back in the metal box, the doctor turned to the Skipper. “He’s fine. No problems.”
“Like I said, I’m not wearing a wire.” Uri did not wait to be asked, but began to put his clothes back.
The doctor continued. “Perfect Aryan type. Good health, fitness, and bearing. No imperfections.”
Uri looked over at the Skipper incredulously. “All of this tonight—-a fight, a medical. Do you do this for everyone you take on?”
The Skipper shook his head. “I needed to see how you handled yourself.” He paused. “And for what I’ve got in mind for you, there’s always been a medical, by order of Reichsführer-SS Heinrich Himmler himself. So, congratulations, Danny. If you want it, you’re in. You just passed full SS selection. I’m putting you in the Stosstrupp, the elite Shock Troops.”
DAY NINE
——————— ◆ ———————
68
Via Labicana
Rione Monti
Rome
The Republic of Italy
The hot Mediterranean sun beat down from the cloudless blue sky onto the back of Ava’s neck.
It had been a few years since she had been in Rome. It felt good to be back.
Rounding the south side of the mighty Colosseum, she looked up at the towering shards of the largest amphitheatre ever built by the ancient Romans, still casting its immense shadows over the city centre after nearly two thousand years.
She passed an animated tour leader, explaining in a loud voice to a group of bag- and camera-bedecked sightseers that in Roman times the great amphitheatre was built over a vast underground wonder world of tunnels, chambers, and cages. He described how they connected to the stadium floor via eighty shafts, some fitted with hydraulic lifts, so the stagehands could manoeuvre anyone or anything into the arena in seconds.
The tourists stood agog as the guide told them the arena had not only been used for blood-soaked gladiatorial bouts, but at times was covered in trees and bushes, then filled with rhinoceros, giraffes, elephants, and other exotic wildlife for live animal hunts. On several notable occasions, it had even been flooded to stage epic re-enactments of great Roman naval battles.
Walking around it, Ava gazed up at the seating area once specially reserved for the powerful Vestal Virgins, Rome’s most privileged women. They lived their extraordinary lives free of ownership by husbands, and enjoyed the unique status among Roman women of possessing property, the right to vote, and even the power to grant condemned prisoners their freedom by a single touch.
Ava had always been amazed how they were volunteered for the prestige and privilege before they were ten years old. They began with a decade of study. Once trained, they spent a decade tending the sacred flame of Vesta and officiating at state ceremonies. Then they ended their careers with a decade sharing their knowledge with the neophytes. When the three decades were up, they were finally free to leave the House of the Vestals and marry—although few did, preferring instead the comfort and privileges of their status as the high-priestesses of Rome. Ava had even heard it suggested that the origin of the expression to be ‘over the hill at forty’ came from their freedom at that age to leave the House of the Vestals at the foot of the Palatine Hill and return, over the hill, to their family homes.
It was a sobering reminder, she mused, that ‘pagan’ did not always mean barbarous.
She looked over at Ferguson, and nodded at him to turn east, down the ancient Via Labicana.
Given the short notice, Ava had been thankful she did not need any special gear for this operation—just good old-fashioned deception. She had told Saxby the plan and what she required. It was pretty straightforward. As her instructors had drilled into her at every opportunity: complexity led to problems. The simpler the better.
In constructing the plan, she had been aware that the main challenge lay in the fact the basilica was a large building, open to the public. That meant there was zero opportunity for her to explore the underground mithraeum unobserved or undisturbed.
In addition, she was pretty sure there would be extensive internal camera surveillance. The equation was simple. Churches contained highly valuable artefacts, while CCTV cameras and monitors were relatively cheap. One good pair of church candlesticks was worth more than the cost of installing an entire surveillance system. Therefore the basilica would be wired for visuals.
As she walked further down the Via Labicana, away from the Colosseum, she scanned the area for the van she had asked Saxby to park a few doors up from the basilica’s entrance.
Expecting a nondescript vehicle, she failed to register the two faded blue Gas di
Roma vans parked ahead of her at the junction of the Via Labicana and the Piazza di San Clemente. She did a double take as Saxby stepped out from the lead van, his silver hair glinting in the sunshine.
As she drew level with the van, she peered into the passenger window, noting the stained and tired-looking upholstery, the battered equipment, the dog-eared log books, and the other scattered paraphernalia.
There could be no doubt—it was a genuine working gas van.
“How on earth … ,” she looked questioningly at Saxby. “I thought you’d just get a plain van, maybe spray it a little?” She trailed off, wondering if Ferguson was right. Perhaps the Foundation was a network of freemasons after all?
Saxby smiled. “There’s not much we can’t do if we put our mind to it.”
Registering the dubious look on her face, he continued. “You must be a little baffled by it all, Dr Curzon. And I don’t blame you. Rest assured, I haven’t forgotten my promise to explain to you more about the Foundation, and what we do. Maybe once we’re finished here and have some time?”
Ava nodded.
That would be good.
She had decided to continue working with the Foundation in order to recover the Menorah. And she knew that the Foundation was ultimately her best chance of getting to Malchus. But she needed answers to some fundamental questions if she was going to continue the arrangement.
“You’ve shown faith in us, and put your life on the line in our service.” Saxby’s eyes softened. “In my opinion, exceptionally, I believe you’re therefore entitled to know more of who we are, and what we do. And,” he gestured to the vans, “how we come to have this small amount of influence.”
That was an understatement.
She had been impressed by how quickly Saxby had provided her and Ferguson with aeroplane tickets to the Eternal City. But that was clearly the least of his abilities.
The Foundation evidently had more than a ‘small amount’ of influence. In fact, it seemed to be incomparably well-connected and resourced. Ava had asked Saxby for a van that could plausibly pass as a gas repair van. But he had effortlessly acquired two real vans belonging to one of Italy’s major gas companies.
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