by Alex Lukeman
No one could approach across the lawns and gardens without triggering an alarm. All of the windows and entrances had infra-red and motion sensors. The sheer size of the place meant the camera views had to switch in ordered sequence. There were gaps in the continuous coverage.
There hadn't been much time to prepare a plan. They'd gone over maps and old blueprints of the palace. Nick had decided to go in through the cover of the park and access the ancient sewer system under the palace. From there they would find a way into the palace itself.
"This moon could be a problem," Nick said.
"The light might keep the rats away," Selena said.
"Rats?"
"There's a legend the sewers breed giant man-eating rats that come out at night."
"I hate rats." Ronnie looked out at the trees and paths of the park. "Doesn't seem fair."
"What doesn't?"
"You said man-eating. Means they won't go after you."
Nick rolled his eyes. "Check your gear," he said.
They got out of the van. They were dressed in black. Black jackets, black pants and gloves, black Kevlar vests, black shoes with soft soles. Black balaclavas. Ronnie carried a pack. Each had a pistol, knife, light, ammunition and a suppressed MP-5. They had earpieces and microphones. If they split up, they could stay in contact.
"Remember the ROE," Nick said. Rules of Engagement. "The Portuguese guards are off limits. Subdue them if you have to, don't kill them. They have uniforms, they're easy to ID. No one else should be there. You see anyone else, they're one of the bad guys and fair game."
"Got your library card with you?" Lamont said.
"Let's go get something for Selena to read."
They moved into the park. The gravel path crunched under their feet. The moonlight made dark pools of shadow under the trees. The night air was cool and smelled of pine and the mixed, dark scent of the zoo animals. A bird called, high, mournful sounds that sent shivers up and down her spine. She felt the adrenaline kick in and forced herself to walk calmly.
They came to a large maintenance shed housing a pumping sub-station for the sewer system.
Nick consulted his map of the grounds. "The entrance should be in here."
He had the lock open in a few seconds. They stepped inside and closed the door. He flicked on his light. The pumps and a generator sat silent against one wall. A round steel plate was placed in the center of the floor. Ronnie and Lamont lifted it away. Iron rungs descended down a brick shaft into darkness. A foul odor of ancient and modern waste drifted up through the opening.
"Phew," Ronnie said.
"What did you expect? Roses? I'll go first. Lamont, you bring up the rear."
They entered the shaft and climbed down. The ladder ended on a platform with an iron railing. The platform opened onto a walkway of stone wide enough to move single file along the sewer wall.
The sewer was horseshoe shaped, big enough to stand up in. A dizzying pattern of ancient stone bricks laid in concentric circles ran off toward the palace on the right and the ocean to the left. The walls dripped with gray slime that sucked the light away. The air was thick, like breathing syrup. A trickle of dark water ran down the center of the passage.
"Smells like shit," Ronnie said.
"Good one, Sherlock." Lamont wrinkled his nose. ''At least we can stand up."
"That way." Nick pointed right.
They walked along the tunnel. There were rats. They weren't giant rats but they were black and they were big. They squeaked and ran past their feet. Selena shuddered. She met Nick's eyes.
"Like California," she said.
He nodded. "At least we've got light this time."
"And no spiders."
Ronnie kicked a squealing rat into the center channel.
There was something darker than human offal in the tunnel. A miasma of centuries, of a time when kings ruled Europe and wore golden crowns worth enough to feed thousands. As he walked, Nick thought not much had really changed since the kings ran things. The crowns were gone, but in their place were plenty of new symbols of power. Hi-tech weapons that cost countless billions of dollars. Television commercials for unneeded and meaningless products. Expensive political ads that sold dishonest hypocrites and liars as smiling men of the people. And the same age old, hopeless poverty for most of the human race.
They came around a long curve to a place where the tunnel branched in two. Nick chose the passage on the right. After ten minutes they came to a second platform, old and crumbling. Another set of rungs led upward.
Nick shone his light up the shaft. The rungs ended at an iron cover. He climbed. Bits of old rust drifted down in a shower. At the top, he pushed against the plate. He put all his strength into it. It didn't move. Nick climbed back down.
"No good. Let's look for another."
"What if they're all like that?" Selena asked.
"Then we'll figure something out."
They walked on. They'd reached the original tunnel, dating back to 1717. Moisture dripped from the walls. Nick tried not to breathe. They came to another set of rungs. Nick climbed to the top and pushed against the cover. It moved, just a little. Something popped in his back. He took a deep breath.
"Ronnie, climb up here and help me."
The two men pushed against the plate. It moved. Steady pain radiated down Nick's left leg. The plate slid to the side. They climbed out of the hole. The others came through.
"You okay?" Ronnie looked at him.
Nick wiped a sheen of sweat from his forehead. "Yeah. I'm fine."
The air was stale with dust. Compared to the sewer it felt like a spring day in the country.
"Glad we're out of there," Lamont said.
The room was a sub basement full of boxes, crates, broken statuary and junk of every description. It might once have been a dungeon. The ceiling was of rock, low and dark. A narrow flight of worn stone steps led upward. At the top of the steps was a solid wooden door. Nick climbed, the others behind. Pain was steady in his leg.
"You're limping," Selena said.
"It's nothing."
Nick adjusted his gear, unslung his MP-5. He opened the door into another basement.
"Looks like we got lucky," Lamont said.
They were in the electrical room, modern and clean. Thick metal conduits housing the main power supply fed into panels of circuit breakers. Dozens of lines led away from the panels into the building.
"Those look like the video feeds." Nick shone his light on a thick bundle of colored wires.
Ronnie opened his pack and took out a small video recorder, a series of probes and what looked like a pocket television with a digital meter. He went over to the wires and began probing.
"We've got cameras," he said. On the fifth try he said, "Got it." He clipped the probe onto the wire.
The screen showed 24 tiny images from the security cameras above. "This one is the main feed. Everything routes through here. We're looking at everything they see."
He plugged the video recorder into the device and turned it on.
"We'll set up a two minute loop and take the real ones off line. Whoever's looking will see what we want them to."
"Nothing."
"Right." They waited. Ronnie checked the recording and attached another lead to the main feed.
"Taking the cameras off line...now." Ronnie pressed a switch. The image flickered and steadied.
"We're good to go."
Nick said, "Once we get oriented, we head for the second floor. The library is in the rear. When we find it, Selena, you're the boss. Tell us what to do. When we get the Codex, we get out."
"What could be simpler?" Lamont said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Project security went everywhere with Elizabeth since the attacks on her team. She had 24/7 surveillance on her Georgetown home. She was always guarded when she wasn't inside Project HQ.
Elizabeth closed her office door and took the elevator down to the ground floor exit. A black, armored Lincol
n waited for her. It had five inches of armor plate, bullet proof glass, steel sidewalls, run flat tires and a turbo-charged diesel engine. It wasn't good on mileage. Her driver held the rear door open for her.
"Good evening, Director."
"Good evening, Tom."
Tom closed the door after her. Her other bodyguard was a big man, a comforting presence. He got in the front passenger seat. A Remington 12 gauge pump stood upright in a rack next to him. Elizabeth began reviewing the latest satellite data from Russia as the car rolled out of the garage.
There was new activity at the Irtysh air base. She had battled with DIA over getting a satellite tasked full time to observe, with only partial success. There were windows of time when the satellite was out of range. But a picture was emerging.
The Russians had increased security. She estimated that a full company of soldiers was stationed at the base. Anyone approaching the pyramid had to pass through three checkpoints, each one more elaborate than the one before.
There was new fencing. A new road from the base to the pyramid. Guards patrolled. Dogs. Light towers were going up. Someone was putting a lot of effort into guarding something.
She glanced out through the tinted windows of the Lincoln. A yellow motorcycle with two riders in black leather sped by. Both riders wore full helmets with black visors that concealed their faces. As the bike pulled ahead, the passenger turned and threw a dark package behind him toward the car.
"Fuck!" Tom yelled and hit the brakes.
The heavy car shuddered and slowed. The armor underneath the engine took the blast. The explosion sounded like a thunderclap inside the car. The Lincoln lifted into the air and the windshield blew out. Bits of glass cut her face. Elizabeth was thrown hard against the door as the car came down on its side and slid along the pavement to a stop.
Her driver lay unmoving against his door. His partner hung sideways from his seatbelt, unconscious and bleeding. Dazed, she saw the motorcycle turn back. The passenger leaned out with another bomb in his hand.
Elizabeth never went anywhere without her gun. She drew the Glock and aimed with shaking hands through the opening where the windshield had been. She was seeing double through the smoke, two motorcycles coming toward her. She pulled the trigger as fast as she could, again and again. It felt as if she were underwater, everything in slow motion, the sound of the gunshots muffled and indistinct. Hot brass shells fell around her, a shiny, strange rain.
The motorcycle slammed down onto the pavement and the bomb meant for her exploded. The bike and riders were enveloped in flame.
Later, she couldn't remember how she'd gotten out of the car. What she remembered was the sound of sirens and the body of her driver, covered in blood.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The Library of Mafra Palace wasn't like any library Nick had seen before. The room was the length of a football field. Ceilings of white plaster molded with floral accents radiated in ribbed arches from a high, closed dome in the center. The library was a testament to the golden age of Baroque architecture.
The floor was paved with tiles in white, rose and gray. Under the central dome, the tiles formed a circle of geometric patterns bounded by a square. It looked like an expensive oriental rug woven of marble. Two tiers of wooden shelves stretched away on either side of the room. Thousands of books lined the shelves. Marble columns supported the second tier and a balcony bordered by a marble balustrade. Pale moonlight streamed through large windows. The library was eerily beautiful in the cold light.
Dark shapes swooped down on them and darted away as they moved into the room. Ronnie ducked and swore.
"Bats. They've got bats in here. Rats and bats. What the hell kind of a palace is this?"
Nick laughed. "Rats and Bats. Sounds like a good name for a rock band."
"The bats eat insects that would eat the books," Selena said. "The Portuguese let them live in here."
Lamont sighed. "How do you know stuff like that?" He looked at the leather bound volumes lining the shelves. "Lots of books. Where's the Codex?"
"The Codex isn't on display. Look for another room. There has to be a place where they keep damaged books for restoration or storage."
Five minutes later they found it, locked with an electronic key pad. Ronnie took a device from his pack and placed it against the lock. Digital numbers in green blurred and stopped one by one until a five number combination appeared. The door clicked open.
In the security station near the main entrance, a red warning light illuminated. The guard watching the monitors didn't see it. He was lying on the floor. The back of his skull was gone, where a bullet had exited and taken most of his brain with it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The restoration room was the size of a large garage. A workbench along one wall bore a neat array of glues, inks and odd tools no one but a book restorer would ever understand. A leather bound volume lay on the bench, open to a drawing of a medieval knight stepping off into an abyss.
Selena walked over to the table.
"This is incredible." Selena's voice was hushed, almost reverent. "This is a 14th Century illustrated edition of Le Morte D'Artur. The Death of Arthur."
"King Arthur?" Nick walked to her, looked down at the book.
"The same."
"Very nice," Nick said, "but not what we came for."
"Sorry." She scanned the room. "Try that cabinet with the keypad. It's temperature controlled."
The code they had used to enter the room opened the cabinet. Inside was an oblong wooden box about six inches deep and a foot long. Selena took it out and opened the lid.
"This is it," she said. She closed the lid and placed the box in a large, empty pocket in front of her jacket. It made the jacket bulge out in front. Nick thought of Afghanistan and suicide bombers. He shook off the memory.
His ear began itching.
"Something's not right," he said.
Nick's ear burned. He tugged on it. Ronnie and Lamont looked at each other. They all knew what that meant.
"Shit," Ronnie muttered.
"Kill the lights." Nick's voice was quiet, calm. He felt the old pre-combat surge.
He let the door open a crack. They heard muffled whispers, the scrape of a boot on marble. MP-5 up by his cheek, Nick pulled the door open.
Five men, dressed in black, wearing balaclavas and holding ugly, short barreled automatic weapons.
Nick opened fire. The gunfire lit the library in bright flashes with a disorienting, strobe-like effect. Everyone began yelling and shooting. Something slammed into his chest and spun him around. He saw Selena hit as he went down. It was a ballet of death, shadow men dancing in the moonlight and the light from the guns...
...and the bullets shattered the market stalls around him, ricocheting from the stone walls, the AKs a constant roar in his ears. He made it to a doorway. Across the dirt street a child ran toward him shouting about Allah. The child had a grenade...
...and he was back in Portugal. The flashback was over. The fight was over. He'd been gone for a minute. He broke out in a cold sweat. Five black shapes lay crumpled on the marble. The floor was littered with spent brass. The smell of the guns filled the air.
Lamont bent over him. "You all right?" He helped Nick to his feet.
"Yeah." His chest was bruised. His left arm was numb. Selena was doubled over, gasping for air.
"S'all right," she said. She struggled for breath. "Knocked the wind out of me."
Ronnie helped her up. She pulled the box with the Codex from her jacket. The round had punched through the book and been stopped by the armor underneath.
"Nick," Lamont said.
"I'm okay. Jesus, I love this armor."
Ronnie bent over one of the dead men. "Guess theirs wasn't as good as ours." He picked up one of their guns. "Russian. PP-19. Good weapon."
"Not good enough," Lamont said. "What are Russians doing here?"
"Same as us."
"This one is still alive." Ronnie knelt next
to one of the prone figures. The man's eyes fluttered and opened. Blood ran from his mouth. Ronnie knew he wasn't getting up again. So did the man on the floor.
"Fuck your mother," he said in Russian. Then he was gone.
"Definitely Russians," Lamont said.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Elizabeth sat in Stephanie's office drinking coffee and thinking about people trying to kill her. She'd dressed all in black today. Black silk blouse, black suit, black shoes. It suited her mood. The only touch of color was a silver pin in the shape of a swan over her left breast, set with tiny diamonds.
Nine in the morning, and she was already on her fourth cup. Her stress levels were somewhere in the stratosphere.
Stephanie's desk had three large monitors and built in keyboards linking to the bank of Crays downstairs. A bobble doll of Elvis Presley was stuck on top of the monitor in the middle. A framed travel poster of Venice hung on one wall.
A large corkboard over the console was pinned with notes to herself and pictures of friends and family. A vase with fresh flowers was placed between two of the monitors. On the right wall was a realistic photo picture of a window looking out over an ocean scene and a sunny day.
"No clues?" Stephanie asked her. "Nothing to indicate who sent them?"
"No. My guess is AEON."
There were no long term physical effects from the bomb. She'd been partially deaf for a day. Her face bore several cuts from flying bits of the windshield. She had bruised ribs where she'd been thrown against the door. Apart from that, her body was fine.
The attack replayed itself in her mind. The car lifting into the air and crashing down onto it's side. The impact. The noise as it scraped along the pavement. The pistol recoiling in her hands as she shot at the faceless riders, the explosions. The scene was etched into her thoughts forever. She thought of her guards, one dead, one on life support.