‘Shit, not this again,’ was Doggie’s only comment. As Harker hovered over him he could hear the guns start up again, now more measured and in shorter bursts, as if the attackers were going from room to room, dealing with anyone in their way as they went.
‘Shh,’ Harker urged, still lying on top of the dean while regaining his composure after the initial shock. In an open space surrounded by mountains, the gunfire could be heard echoing off in the distance, which only added to the overall eerie effect. ‘Stay still.’
Judging by the dean’s frozen demeanour he didn’t have to be told twice, and Harker raised his head until he managed to get a clear view through the restaurant windows, just as the terrace door opened and Wexler emerged on his hands and knees. His eyes were wide with fear and, although he noticed Harker immediately, he let the door close behind him and huddled against its frame.
In the restaurant the bartender could be seen raising his arms above his head, before his upper torso was shredded by a hail of bullets and he dropped down out of sight. Simultaneously a man dressed in black approached Nicholas Wattling who, although slumped in his chair, had his hands also raised. Harker beckoned Wexler over. The good news was that Wattling hadn’t yet been shot and instead it appeared the man clasping the Steyr AUG assault rifle to his chest was now engaging him in conversation.
Wexler slowly began to crawl over to the others. As the sounds of gunfire started up again on the hotel’s first floor, flashes of light could be seen illuminating each of the rooms in succession.
Harker recognised the type of assault rifle being used – he had seen the same model in the hands of Legrundy’s henchmen back in that decaying house – and so made an educated guess. ‘Mithras,’ he whispered to himself as Wexler finally reached them.
‘Who the fuck are they?’ Wexler hissed, sounding as if Harker should know.
‘I think they’re the same people you were working for at the dig site,’ Harker whispered. ‘The ones you thought wanted to kill you.’
There was no shock in Wexler’s eyes. Clearly, he had been expecting them to find him eventually.
‘We need to get back to the train,’ Harker decided. And then he looked up towards the restaurant to see the gunman fire a single round into Wattling’s chest. Clearly he had not got whatever answers he wanted.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he muttered as Wexler looked on in horror at the death of his friend. ‘Stay focused, Michael – if you want to live. Keep low and keep quiet. Let’s go.’
The gunmen appeared to be killing everyone they found, and as the three crawling figures reached the end of the veranda overlooking the front patio, they crouched together nervously.
Again, the muffled sounds of gunfire could be heard coming from the rear of the hotel, as the meticulous mop-up operation continued. The Mithras – if that was indeed who they were – obviously did not care to leave any loose ends.
When Harker peeked over the edge of the veranda and down to the hotel entrance, he saw the train was still at the platform.
The drop was about three metres, and although it didn’t look like much, someone could quite easily crack an ankle on impact.
‘We’re going to drop down this gap and make our way to the train,’ he whispered. From the expression on their faces, one would have thought he had just asked if they would give themselves up so he could slip away safely into the night.
‘We have to do something,’ Wexler muttered quietly.
It was an honourable thing to say but they had few options. Protest and harsh language were no substitute for deadly weapons.
‘What can we do? We’re not armed. We’ll contact the police the moment we get ourselves down the mountain.’
Wexler offered an unhappy nod of the head but Doggie looked troubled by this plan. ‘Do you know how to drive a train?’
It was a good point that Harker had not yet considered. ‘I’ll figure it out. Now let’s go. I’ll drop down first.’
Doggie still didn’t look convinced but the sound of gunfire starting up again on the far side of the hotel overcame any concerns he had. So, with a nod from the Dean, Harker clambered over the railing and seeing the coast looked clear, he dropped to the ground with a thud. He was already gesturing to Wexler to take the plunge, when the sound of footsteps had him slinking backwards until he was flat against the wall. The patio in front of the main entrance was covered in broken glass where the door had been shot out, and Harker quickly nestled his chin below the collar of his jacket, not wanting his warm breath to give him away. Then he waited.
The sound of footsteps moving slowly closer could still be heard, then came a crunching of glass as the tips of a pair of black, rubber-soled army boots became visible in the doorway, along with the tip of an assault rifle at about waist height. A thick mist of warm breath was exhaled into the cold outside, and Harker now restrained his own breathing as much as he could, without risking the need to gasp suddenly.
The killer was less than a metre to his right, and Harker was already forming a plan in case the man took a single step forward, in which case his hiding place would be blown. As another misty breath emerged from the entrance, he came up with the only choice available to an unarmed man wearing a pair of trousers, a shirt and a puffer jacket. If the killer moved forward, Harker would grab the barrel of the gun and proceed to deliver a bone-crunching Glasgow kiss to the fellow’s nose. If that headbutt connected, he would then pull the gun away, shoot the man and hold the others off, if needed, until Doggie and Wexler reached the train, before finally making a run for it himself, firing back as he went. It was a plan with a lot of drawbacks admittedly, but beggars can’t be choosers, and he was preparing himself to go berserk – clear-minded but absolutely bloody berserk – when the gunfire ceased deep within the hotel. A single last breath was blown out into the cold air, then the boots disappeared and Harker could hear the sound of footsteps growing fainter and more muffled, until finally he could hear them no more.
He was already waving for Wexler to jump, and within seconds the man let himself drop without incident, before he also hugged the wall. Next came Doggie who also dropped without a problem. With a final peek around the corner towards the entrance, they crouched as low as they could and in a tight procession cut through the snow, taking the shortest possible route to the station platform.
They slowed down as they approached the train and the other two paused in the shadows, well out of range of the station lighting high above, as Harker crept forward to take a look. There was no sign of movement and the train’s sliding doors were open wide, so he nipped inside and, still crouching below the window level, he waved the others over to join him. Once they were inside the first carriage, Harker pulled open the driver’s cabin door and peered inside.
The sight was not a pleasant one, for he found the corpse of the driver still wearing his round hat, but with a deep knife wound across his neck and his shirt soaked in his blood.
Harker ignored this gruesome scene and instead focused on the train’s controls, which fortunately looked simple enough. There was a basic stick throttle to go forwards and backwards and just two buttons: one red and one green. Harker chose green, and poised his finger over the green button, his other hand holding the throttle. He pushed firmly down on the green button and immediately a horn began wailing loudly while the train’s exterior lights blinked rapidly.
Harker retracted his finger as if the button was red hot and ducked as the horn reached a climax, then faded out, leaving them in silence once more.
‘Shit!’ Harker cursed and he glanced back at Doggie, who was staring at him angrily. From the direction of the hotel the sound of footsteps could be heard, getting ever closer. Harker scanned the driver’s dashboard, then he peeked outside and what he saw was, frankly, not a surprise.
Three of the killer ninjas now stood on the platform, aiming their assault rifles directly at the train. Harker ducked his head back down as a man with a French accent called out.
‘Dr
Wexler, we wish to speak with you, if that is not too inconvenient. I promise you no one will be harmed.’
The killer’s words did nothing to reassure them. Harker thought that if they exited the train they – perhaps minus Wexler – would likely be shot there and then. If they stayed on it, the gunmen would board it and then they would definitely get shot for their defiance. So Harker did the only thing he could and that was to press the green button for a second time.
Once more the train’s lights began to flash, and the horn wailed away, as Doggie shook his head at Harker in despair.
The killer called out to them again. ‘You need the keys to make it start, idiot,’ he shouted, and they heard what sounded like a set of keys rattling. ‘You foolish professor, you stupid roast beef,’ he taunted, and his words gave Harker pause for thought. Not about the roast beef, of course, since that was a standard French insult, but that he had mentioned ‘professor’. It meant they knew who was hiding on board with Wexler, and that it was Harker. If this were true then these killers were definitely the Mithras, for who else would be after him? And, more importantly, they were unlikely to shoot him on sight, as they had done unhesitatingly with the other hotel guests. It also meant they may not know Doggie was with them.
‘Come on now, boys,’ the killer shouted impatiently. ‘If you make us come in there, I promise to blow off your kneecaps for causing the extra effort.’
It wasn’t much of an option and Harker pointed at Doggie and gestured his hand down towards the floor, signalling him to lay low as the other two exited. It was a gamble but maybe they would not bother to check the train after the two of them surrendered. He then looked at Wexler and, with a nod, slowly stood up to see a number of assault rifles pointing at him.
‘OK, Dr Wexler and I are coming out.’
The pleased look on the lead ninja’s face seemed to confirm they didn’t know about Doggie. And now Wexler also rose to his feet, and the pair of them began to slowly make their way towards the still open carriage doors. As Harker reached the exit he heard a faint buzzing noise and looked across at the gunmen, who were scanning all around to find the source as the noise grew louder. Then suddenly, like a car radio turned up to max at the flick of a wrist, the buzzing turned into a tremendous roar overhead, whereupon the sound of a shot rang out. The gunman on the far right’s head literally exploded into a puff of red mist and he dropped to the floor, at which point the other two made a run for the hotel. Overhead, the underbelly of a Hughes 500C helicopter screamed by, sending a down draft through the open train doors. It spun back around and in one smooth move landed directly on the large viewing platform on the other side of the train.
‘Move!’ Harker shouted, dragging Doggie to his feet.
‘Who are they?’ Doggie yelled above the roar of the engine.
‘I’ve no idea but they’re not shooting at us, so move your arse, Thomas.’
The three men leapt onto the platform and ran around the front of the train, as bullets began flying from the direction of the hotel. As they reached the helicopter, with the train providing a wall of cover, the pilot’s window slid down to reveal Xavier Botha.
‘Can’t leave you alone for a second, Harker, you idiot. Now get in the front before we’re shot,’ he yelled, only just audible over the whine of the rotors. ‘You two, get in the side.’
Harker jumped into the passenger seat. At the same time one of Botha’s men pulled Doggie and Wexler inside the cramped rear, before he reloaded his Barrett M82 sniper rifle with another 0.50-calibre round, and began looking for a target through a small hole in the window.
Harker was feeling nothing but absolute relief as, in silence, Botha barely lifted them off the ground before tipping the Hughes 500C forwards and skimmed off to the right, followed by a hard ascent over the same tall rocky outcrop from behind which he had emerged. He then dropped down the other side of it and headed deeper into the mountainous valleys.
Botha pointed to a pair of headphones hanging on a clip. Harker slipped them on and Botha’s voice filled his ears.
‘You really are a pain in the arse, Alex,’ the Templar began as they continued to descend in altitude.
Harker ignored this friendly welcome and instead glanced back at Doggie, who was looking thoroughly relieved.
‘How did you know where I was?’
Botha looked unusually serious and he began to grind his teeth, his habit when something truly got under his skin. ‘It’s a long story. And I’ll give you the full picture when we land, but you should know the Templars now have a mole within their ranks. Someone’s been working with the Mithras.’
The admission shocked Harker. He knew the Templars were an extremely tight-knit organisation, because most of them had grown up within the fold, and to think there was a breach somewhere was a difficult pill to swallow. ‘Who?’
‘I’ll tell you soon,’ Botha replied with a deep grimace, looking more disappointed than angry. ‘But you’re not going to believe it.’
Chapter 19
‘David,’ a voice called out, causing Carter to jerk his head up from the row of books he was buried in, slamming it against the metal shelf above with a painful bang.
‘Ow,’ he moaned and rubbed his scalp furiously.
‘Sorry, David, I didn’t mean to startle you.’
Carter readjusted his steel-rimmed glasses and, still wincing, turned to see Sebastian Brulet standing close behind him, wearing a black pinstripe suit and with his long, white hair neatly tied in a ponytail.
‘Not a problem, Sebastian,’ Carter lied, giving his head a final comforting rub as he made his way over to the Grand Master. ‘I wasn’t expecting a visit. Everything all right?’
Even with the pair of aviator sunglasses covering his eyes, it was apparent from Brulet’s expression that everything was most definitively not all right.
Carter began to feel concerned. ‘Alex?’
‘No, Alex is fine,’ Brulet replied, whereupon Carter crooked his head curiously.
‘Doggie?’
‘No, they’re both fine. I wondered if we could have a word, though.’ Brulet was now gazing around the numerous rows of shelves running the length of this secret Templar vault located deep beneath the foundations on the island of MontSt-Michel, off the coast of northern France. ‘I hope we’ve not had you confined too much down here. It can get somewhat suffocating at times.’
When David Carter had been offered the position of overseer of the Templars’ most prized possessions he had been ecstatic. With well over two thousand years’ worth of historical antiquities and documents, collected by generations of successive Templars, the vault was like nothing else on earth. There was no public or private collection anywhere in the world that matched it – and it even made the secret Vatican archives look like a public library, as far as Carter was concerned. He relished every moment spent in this place, the ‘holy of holies’ as he liked to call it. His days were consumed with unearthing and cataloguing every meaningful item that the Templars had ever collected, and while others might be gallivanting around topside in their adventures, that bothered him not one iota. For the real mysteries were right here, all around him, and never a week passed when he did not come across something remarkable, and usually of significance, whose existence even the world’s leading scholars didn’t know about.
‘I’m in seventh heaven, Sebastian,’ Carter replied with a contented smile. He patted his protruding stomach. ‘I’ve even lost weight, although I think a lack of alcohol could account for that.’
‘Splendid, David. Good to hear.’ Brulet smiled and tapped his thigh. ‘So could I bend your ear, then?’
‘Of course. What can I do?’
‘Come walk with me.’
Brulet rarely visited the vault these days, and as the two walked back towards the entrance, Carter began to feel anxious. Not because of this unscheduled visit but rather because of the two broad-shouldered, six-foot security personnel now standing by his work desk.
&nb
sp; ‘I wanted to know if you’ve spoken with anyone since I called to tell you Alex was on his way back from Gibraltar?’
Carter’s nose began to wrinkle and he shook his head. ‘Apart from the conversation we’re having now, no.’
Brulet merely nodded, and coming to a stop by Carter’s desk he reached over and tapped the smartphone lying on it. ‘No one at all, using this phone?’
The question, while not exactly accusatory, for some reason had the hairs standing up on the back of Carter’s neck.
‘No, Sebastian, I’ve not called anyone. But I did go up to the coffee shop a few hours ago to get myself a drink.’
‘Mmm.’ Brulet stopped tapping the phone and placed his hands on his hips. ‘That’s curious.’
Squinting at the Grand Master through his thick lenses, Carter was now feeling a bit uncomfortable, and was about to ask what exactly was being implied when the main lift down to the vaults beeped and its doors slid open.
John Schroder stepped out and made his way briskly over to join them, wearing a charcoal work suit and red tie and clutching a thin brown folder. With a stern glance in Carter’s direction, he dropped the folder onto the desk.
‘I have the information you wanted,’ he began, his eyes never leaving Carter’s. ‘And it’s just as we thought.’
At the best of times David Carter was not a man who enjoyed confrontation, and as both Brulet and Schroder stared at him, he began to feel like a cornered rat.
‘Look, I don’t know what all this is about, but you have my word I’ve not made a single call since we last spoke. Besides, the reception is bloody awful down here.’
Brulet remained expressionless as he picked the file up off the desk, flipped open the front cover and began to read. Schroder continued meanwhile to glare judgementally at Carter.
‘Does the name Herbert Pelosi ring any bells?’ Brulet asked.
Carter thought about this for a moment, then shook his head. ‘Doesn’t sound familiar, but why?’
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