“You too, Sergeant Major,” replied Clancy as Dawson opened the door. “Oh, and Sergeant Major?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Try not to blow up half of London this time.”
Dawson snapped his sandaled heels together and gave the Colonel a Sergeant Bilko salute.
“Yes, my Colonel!”
“Piss off!”
Dawson stepped out and closed the door as a roar of laughter erupted from the other side. The smile on his own face quickly faded however as he recalled the events that had ended with dozens dead, all innocent, due to the manipulations and obsessions of one crazed man.
The President of the United States.
Stewart Alfred Jackson.
And he couldn’t help but wonder if his son was another innocent, caught up in his father’s affairs, or a willing participant.
All he could say for sure was that this time they wouldn’t be manipulated into doing anything.
Outside the Red Mosque, Karakorum, Mongol Empire
March 29th, 1275 AD
Giuseppe’s arms pumped, his chest heaving from exhaustion. Never would he have thought he’d long for the simple hand-to-hand combat they had just experienced. At least it involved little running. But now the four of them were sprinting across the city in the darkness, hoping to not be spotted and praying the massacre at the mosque wouldn’t be discovered until they were long gone.
Marco led the way, his level of energy remarkable. Giuseppe was gasping, sucking in lungsful of air and near collapse. The two young men appeared none the worse for wear.
Who would have thought the life of a slave would leave you weak?
He couldn’t remember the last time he had run so hard for so long. Thankfully Marco suddenly came to a stop at the side of a building. Giuseppe dropped to the ground, lying on his back, gasping for air as the others gathered around, all taking a knee.
“Try to slow your breathing, my brother,” said Marco calmly, placing his hand gently on Giuseppe’s chest.
It didn’t help.
Marco turned to their companions. “This is the end for you two. We will continue through the nomad’s camp to the southern wall, then once over, will make haste to the south, and eventually safety.” Vincenzo opened his mouth to protest, but Marco cut him off with the raising of his hand. “Your duty now is to Father Salvatore. All I ask is that you remain here until we are out of sight to cover our escape, then return with caution to the church. I suggest you leave your weapons here then burn your clothes once you return as they are soiled in blood.” Marco looked from man to man. “There must be no evidence you were involved. If you are questioned, and someone says they saw us enter the church, confirm this. Don’t deny it. Simply tell them that we sought sanctuary then left shortly after, claiming we would be back, but never returned. Remember our horse is there. When things have calmed down, you may sell it and our belongings and donate it to the church.”
Roberto and Vincenzo reluctantly agreed, stripping themselves of their weapons as Marco rose, holding out a hand to Giuseppe, his gasps shallower, but exhaustion still his master. Giuseppe reluctantly took the hand and let himself be hauled to his feet.
Marco smacked him on the back. “Do not fear, my brother. We will walk most of the way. Two people running past tents won’t go unnoticed. Two men strolling toward the south gate shouldn’t attract any attention.”
Giuseppe smiled in relief as Marco turned to their companions, shaking their hands. Giuseppe did the same, still thankful for their ignoring orders and following him inside the tower. If it weren’t for them, he and his master would surely be dead now.
With one final expression of gratitude, Marco stepped onto the road and set a brisk but reasonable pace, Giuseppe casting a final wave over his shoulder and following. To their right were the large round tents of the nomads, the Bedouins, occupying the entire south-western quarter of the city. As he continued to catch his breath from their ordeal, the southern gates slowly increasing in size as they neared, he wondered if those in the tents were permanent residents or merely travelers. And if travelers, what was their purpose here? Was it the crystal skull now slung over Marco’s shoulder, or were they merely traders? All he was sure of was if they were at cross-purposes with them, he and his master would surely die, for the Bedouin’s penchant for and ability to fight was legendary.
The gate continued to get closer as their pace remained brisk and he began to wonder if his master intended to walk right through them, but as they neared the final tent, the gate only five hundred paces ahead, if that, Marco suddenly veered off the road and into the snow covered field.
With the city still bathed in darkness Giuseppe was certain anyone manning the gate or the towers could not have seen them, however his master was cutting it awfully close. Almost fifteen minutes had passed since they said goodbye to their companions in this endeavor, and Giuseppe stood with his master between two guard towers on the southern wall, their torches casting a blinding glow just as his master had predicted.
“How will we scale this wall? It’s far higher than that at the mosque.”
Marco jerked a thumb at his pack strapped to his back. “There’s a length of rope with a hook in my pack. Get it for me.”
Giuseppe undid the straps holding the pack closed and found the rope in question, coiled at the top. He removed it, handing it to his master as he retied the pack. Marco began to approach the wall, wrapping a portion of the rope around his arm, leaving the rest in his right hand with the hook. They were within ten paces of the massive stone and mud barrier when footfalls in the distance, rapid and heavy, had them spinning.
A robed figure was rushing down the road.
Followed by at least a dozen men, giving chase.
As the figure approached, Marco turned and rushed to the wall, spinning the rope with the hook several times then tossing it in the air and over the wall as Giuseppe continued to watch the figure, hand on his sword, ready to draw it should it become necessary.
“Climb!” hissed Marco.
“You first, Master. I will hold them off while you make your escape.”
“Brother! Go! Now!”
The voice was still low but insistent. But it was time to make a stand, the first figure too close. “Master, I insist. Go now, I will follow you immediately!”
Marco shook his head in frustration then grabbed the rope, quickly scaling the wall. Giuseppe saw him reach the top then grabbed the rope himself, taking one last look at the robed figure. The man tossed his head covering back and Giuseppe gasped.
It was Roberto.
Laura Palmer’s Flat, London, England
Present day, one day after the kidnapping
“They must be after the Mitchell-Hedges skull,” said Laura, sipping a glass of ice water, she having indicated to Acton she had had enough wine for the evening with a wave of her hand over her glass when he had tried to fill it.
Reading hadn’t been so quick, holding his own out. Acton’s friend’s cheeks were flushed and his voice a little louder than normal, he on his fourth glass, but with the bottle now empty, a third bottle had already been ruled out by everyone.
Acton, himself a little buzzed, finished his own fourth glass with a flourish, placing it down a little harder than he had intended, shooting a quick apology with his eyes at Laura who winked at him then toasted him with her water, she having stopped at two.
“It doesn’t make sense though. The Triarii are usually non-violent—”
“They did use tranquilizers like last time,” interjected Reading.
“True,” agreed Acton. “But why now? They’ve had years to try and get it. It just doesn’t make sense.”
“Nothing makes sense to me about those people,” muttered Reading. He jabbed at the air. “Think about it. Perfectly sane people, well educated, well balanced—like Martin—believing in magical crystal skulls with magical powers that will magically save mankind in some magical way in some magical future.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Bollocks.”
A noise from the front of the apartment had them all jumping to their feet, it so loud it was as if someone had tried to knock down the door.
“Stay back, I’ll check it out,” said Reading, his police instincts immediately kicking in.
“It’s times like these I wish you guys carried guns like back home,” said Acton as he followed Reading to the door, Laura close behind—Acton knowing better than to tell her to stay back.
Reading crept to the door and looked through the peephole.
“No one there,” he whispered. He stood to the side, the others mimicking him, and he placed his hand on the doorknob. Exchanging glances with the others, he suddenly yanked the door open and they all gasped.
Lying on the floor was their friend, Martin Chaney.
“Bloody hell!” exclaimed Reading, grabbing his friend by the shoulders and pulling him inside. Acton closed the door as Reading helped the moaning Chaney to his feet, Laura rushing back into the apartment. Acton slung one of Chaney’s arms over his shoulder, Reading doing the same, and they both carried him into the apartment. Laura had cleared off the couch, propping several pillows at the end and moved anything breakable out of the way.
Carefully placing him on the couch, Laura went to the bathroom and returned with several wet cloths and knelt beside him, applying the cool compresses to his face as she wiped away the sweat he was drenched in.
“James, grab a blanket, would you? He’s shivering something fierce.”
Acton went to the hall closet and grabbed a blanket and a duvet just in case. Returning to the living room he put the duvet aside and tossed out the blanket, covering Chaney from chin to toe as Reading removed the man’s shoes.
“Should we call 9-9-9?” asked Laura.
Reading shook his head. “Not until we know why he’s here. For all we know he was escaping someone.”
Chaney continued to shiver and Laura motioned for the duvet. Acton and Reading folded it out and put it over him while Laura left the room. She returned a few minutes later with two hot water bottles. She placed them at the foot of the couch, positioning the bottoms of his feet on both. Within minutes the shivering stopped and their friend began to rest comfortably.
“What was the daft bastard thinking?” whispered Reading. “He could have got himself killed!”
“He was pretty confused when we saw him,” said Laura, kneeling beside their unexpected guest. “Maybe he just wandered off?”
“And came here?” Acton’s skepticism was easily read.
“Maybe he’s remembered the message he was trying to deliver from the Triarii?” suggested Laura.
Acton nodded. “That has to be it; why else would he come here?”
“How about we ask him?” suggested Reading, motioning toward Chaney. Acton looked and saw their patient’s eyes were now open, color returning to his cheeks.
“Where am I?” he asked, his voice weak.
“You’re at my flat,” answered Laura as she wiped his damp hair off his forehead. “We found you on the landing outside the door.”
“I feel like shite.”
“You look it too, mate,” replied Reading. “What the bloody hell were you thinking?”
Chaney pushed himself up on his elbows and Laura helped reposition the pillows so he could sit up. He smiled his thanks then looked at Acton.
“I remember everything now.”
“So you know what the message was you were supposed to give me in Egypt?”
Chaney nodded. “They want you to return to the Vatican and find the Thirteenth Skull then bring it to London.”
Acton felt a pit form in his stomach at the thought of getting involved with the Triarii once again. The last time they had been called to the Vatican a worldwide religious war had almost broken out, and the time before, he and the Pope had been kidnapped.
The Vatican was not his favorite place.
“Why can’t they just get it themselves?”
“His Holiness trusts you.”
Acton frowned, dropping into one of the chairs. “He’s Triarii for Christ’s sake! He doesn’t trust his own people?”
Chaney shook his head. “No.”
“Does this have something to do with yesterday’s kidnapping?” asked Laura as she handed Chaney a glass of water.
“What kidnapping?”
“President Jackson’s son was kidnapped today, and it looks like the Triarii are involved.”
Chaney sipped the water and handed the glass back to Laura. “How?”
“We saw the tattoo on one of the dead kidnappers,” replied Reading.
Chaney seemed to pale slightly. “Then it’s even more important that you retrieve the skull.”
“Why?”
Chaney sighed. “There’s a split in the Triarii.”
“A split?” asked Reading, perching on the end of the couch. “What kind of split?”
“We call them the Deniers. I call them bloody daft maniacs. They deny that there is any danger in uniting the skulls, and they are demanding that we unite at least three of them—under controlled conditions with modern technology of course—to determine if the Great Fire of London was actually caused by the union of the skulls. If nothing happens, then they want to unite all thirteen skulls to trigger what they believe will be a new age of enlightenment.”
“And if the three skulls blast the shit out of everything?” asked Acton.
“They believe with modern technology they’ll be able to harness the energy created, and mankind will benefit regardless.”
Acton pursed his lips. “You know, Martin, no offense, but I don’t believe in the skulls, their power, whatever. I don’t think any of us really do with the possible exception of Laura”—he winked at her and she shrugged her shoulders—“but why is this our problem? Don’t you have any Triarii you can trust?”
Chaney swung his feet to the floor, sitting up. He spotted the hot water bottles and placed one behind his back, the other on the floor where he rested his feet on it.
“Of course we do, but the problem is we don’t know who we can trust. I was given the message by the Proconsul himself. Only the counsel and His Holiness know of this. We want someone from outside of the organization to retrieve the skull, someone who wouldn’t raise suspicions at the Vatican, and then transport it to our headquarters here in London, where it will then be placed in safekeeping until a permanent home can be found for it.”
“Why not just leave it where it is?” asked Laura.
“Because we have no control in the Vatican,” replied Chaney.
“Umm, isn’t the top man there yours?” asked Reading.
“For now. But maybe not tomorrow. And once he’s gone, we’ll never be able to gain access to it.” Chaney leaned forward and picked up the glass of water. “Remember, our goal is to have the skulls circulated through society so they may have their effect on mankind as we believe they were designed to do. And by having them in public, we too have access to them should they need to be protected. But in the Vatican? It’s not circulating, and it’s out of our reach should it need protection.”
Acton waved his hand in the air, cutting off the line of conversation knowing full well there was no way they would change Chaney’s mind, the man clearly a true believer.
“Okay, so you need me to go to the Vatican and find the skull, then bring it back here. Why is it more urgent now that this kidnapping has happened?”
“The Triarii would never have kidnapped President Jackson’s son. His father was a member of the Triarii for most of his life and betrayed us in the end. In fact he is the founder of the Deniers and they were thought to have given up after his death, but clearly they’re back. If they have his son, they’re after the Mitchell-Hedges skull that his father stole. With one in their possession, they might be bold enough to try and break into the Vault of Secrets at the Vatican to get a second. Then all they would need is one more skull to have an incredibly destructive power at their disposal.�
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“So you believe,” said Acton with a frown.
“Yes, so I and many others believe.”
Acton looked at Laura. “What do you think?”
She shook her head. “I think I know you well enough to know we’re going to the Vatican.”
“And I’m coming with you,” added Reading. “You two will need someone to watch your backs.”
Acton smiled at his friend then turned to Chaney. “Anything else we should know?”
Chaney nodded, his face grave.
“Yes. Trust no one.”
Southern Wall, Karakorum, Mongol Empire
March 29th, 1275 AD
“It’s Roberto!”
Giuseppe tried to keep his voice as low as possible, but it was clear Marco couldn’t hear him over the wind, and yelling louder would risk the guard towers hearing him. Instead he waved for Roberto to run faster, hoping his master would get the message without putting an arrow through the man’s chest.
Roberto hit Giuseppe hard, pushing them both back into the wall, the young man’s gasps reminding Giuseppe of his own exhaustion not so long ago. Roberto’s pursuers were only a couple of hundred paces away now, the heavy blanket of snow slowing them down only slightly. Giuseppe grabbed the rope and gave it to Roberto.
“Go! Climb now!”
The young man nodded and took hold of the rope, pulling himself up, Marco above straddling the wall, hauling on the rope, speeding up the process. But Giuseppe already knew it would be too late for himself. He turned to face the pursuers, drawing his sword, the wall at his back providing no hope of retreat. He glanced over his shoulder and saw young Roberto now straddling the wall with Marco, the latter pulling his bow and taking aim.
I won’t die without a fight!
He took position, rear foot back, perpendicular to the front, sword held over his right shoulder, both hands gripping tightly, but not too tightly, his eyes focused on the closest man.
Who dropped from an arrow embedded in his chest.
Another fell, then another, and Giuseppe quickly glanced over his shoulder at the top of the wall and felt his chest swell with hope and pride as the situation turned, for atop the wall perched Marco’s father and uncle, bows in hand, Roberto now with one of his own, as all four men evened the odds. Giuseppe looked back at the horde and smiled. Only two remained and they had turned to flee. He grabbed the rope and felt strong hands above drag him up as his feet scrambled to help. Seconds later he was on the top of the wall, looking back at the battle that hadn’t involved a single swing of his sword to see all were dead, including the two who had tried to flee.
The Venice Code (A James Acton Thriller, Book #8) (James Acton Thrillers) Page 7