“Shall we go on? If we don’t, we’ll be sitting in the dark soon,” said Tom. Hellen looked at the glow sticks and got back on her feet.
“Okay, what do we do now?”
“Bad news, I’m afraid. I don’t know where the other corridor leads. I swam in a short way and found an air pocket, but then I turned back. I saw light coming from somewhere, but I don’t know if we can get out that way. And there’s a narrow spot in the passage, too.” He showed her his torn trouser leg and the raw skin below it. “You have to be careful. I suggest we get to the air pocket and decide what to do from there.”
Hellen nodded. She trusted him and had regained a little of her confidence—after all, everything had gone smoothly up till now. But her fear was still strong.
“Don’t worry, we can always come back here,” Tom said, trying to allay her fears. “You swim behind me, but I’ll be looking back to make sure you’re doing all right.”
They went down the stairs and back into the water, took a deep breath and dived. In a few seconds, they passed the spiral staircase and swam into the passage that led to the northwest. For Tom, getting to the point where the passage narrowed seemed to take much longer than the first time; his exhaustion was slowly but surely taking its toll. He looked around and saw Hellen right behind him. He squeezed through the narrow spot, and Hellen also made it through quickly. Above and to one side, he saw the reflection of the water’s surface at the air pocket, and he swam up. Hellen followed. The space was too narrow for the two of them, though, and they had to hold onto each other tightly to avoid banging their heads against the walls in the tiny hollow. Hellen spat out the mouthful of salty water that she had taken when she surfaced. She struggled, gulping at the air in the air pocket, and Tom could see that she would not be able to hold out much longer.
“From here, I have no idea what to do,” he said. “I suggest I swim ahead and check things out. Then I’ll come back and we’ll decide on our best course.”
“I’d rather come with you right now. Waiting here alone would scare me even more.”
She hated showing any sign of weakness in front of him, but she couldn’t help herself. Tom didn’t reply. He wedged himself with one arm and pulled her close with the other.
“We can do this,” he whispered.
And though Hellen was trembling all over, for a few seconds she felt warm and safe.
“No time like the present,” she whispered back.
“You sure about this?” Tom asked.
“Come on, our lights are fading. Mine’s down to a night-light. I want to get out of here.”
Tom wasn’t sure if this was newfound courage or plain desperation, but the message was clear. They took another deep breath and dove again. Tom swam ahead. After a few yards, he realized the passage was narrowing again. Dangerously, too, it looked like. He swam ahead strongly and squeezed himself between the walls. The masonry scraped against his shoulders and he felt the wall partially begin to loosen. Hellen was close behind him and, like him, pushed through the narrow spot. Without warning, part of the wall came loose, pinning Hellen against the opposite side. Panic instantly overcame her. More of the masonry broke away; she was in danger of being buried underneath it. Tom saw her eyes widen in horror as she frantically tried to break free. She almost made it, but her right leg was still stuck fast. She began to tug desperately at her calf, but her leg didn’t move an inch.
Tom tried frantically to help Hellen free herself. And gradually, he began to notice the pressure in his chest. His lungs started to burn, and he realized that there was no way they could make it back to the small hollow with the air pocket. He felt the fear rising inside him, too. But he also knew that fear was the surest way to die down here. He pulled himself together, kicked some rocks clear, and between them they were able to pull Hellen’s leg free. He grabbed her by the hand, and they swam on. His lungs burned like fire; he could hardly imagine how Hellen had held out this far. He felt her grip slacken in his hand, and then her strength vanished completely. Her hand slipped from his, and she hung motionless in the water.
57
Barcelona, Spain
Cloutard sighed with relief when he saw that Ossana had stopped. He had been trailing Ossana for more than 24 hours and had felt himself nodding off at the wheel time after time; he wouldn’t have lasted much longer. Now she had stopped at a gas station on the outskirts of Barcelona. Next to the gas station was a car wash which, like the station itself, was open around the clock. Cloutard had pulled over on the opposite corner and watched her drive into the car wash.
He frowned. Why would she bother washing the van now? he wondered. She drives through half of Europe from San Marino to Barcelona and the first thing she does is wash her car?
Cloutard could feel himself starting to doze again when he saw her emerge from the car wash. And all of a sudden, he was wide awake again. The van had been plain white when Ossana drove into the car wash, but it had come out bearing the same logo and text on its sides as on the ticket he’d found in her car just outside Nice. In turquoise letters it said “Area Barcelona – Autoritat del Transport Metropolità.”
What was Ossana up to? What was she planning with Barcelona’s public transport? And what was in the van?
Cloutard had no time to dig into these questions; the next surprise was not long in coming. Ossana parked the van in a small parking lot next to the gas station. She got out and looked at her watch, obviously waiting for something or someone. She got coffee from the gas station shop, leaned against her van and waited.
I could use some of that right now, Cloutard thought, rubbing his eyes.
Before long, an old blue Seat Ibiza arrived and pulled up next to the van.
Cloutard couldn’t make out who was in the Ibiza, into which Ossana now climbed on the passenger side. Ossana and the man kissed fiercely, falling on one another like hungry wolves attacking a flock of sheep. When their passion had subsided a little, it gave way to a no-less-heated discussion. After about fifteen minutes, Ossana got out of the car and returned to her van.
When the blue Seat left the parking lot again, Cloutard was finally able to catch a glimpse of the driver.
Cloutard knew him only too well. So these were the people Ossana was in league with. Cloutard was furious that he had let the woman fool him.
Ossana drove off too, and Cloutard resumed his pursuit. In his present situation there was only one person he could think of to ask for help, but first he had to find a way to contact him.
58
The catacombs of Valletta
Not like this! cried his inner voice. We will not die here!
Adrenaline pumped madly through his body. He fought down his panic, fought his empty lungs. If he wasn’t hallucinating, that reflection above him suggested air. With his last ounce of strength he swam toward it.
Just before his lungs exploded, his head broke through the surface and he sucked in air. He could not remember the last time he felt a release like this, as fresh oxygen flooded his lungs and reenergized his body. It was not just an air pocket, it was the end of the flooded passage. He was in a chamber like the one where he had found the chest, with stairs leading up from the water ten yards ahead of him.
He hauled Hellen’s lifeless body out of the water, laid her on her back and started to try to resuscitate her. He placed his fingers at her neck: no pulse. Gently, he placed his hand under her neck, puller her chin down and turned her head to the side. He put the heels of his hands on her chest and began chest compressions. Water gushed from her mouth. After thirty compressions, he stopped, held her nose closed, raised her chin, pressed his lips to hers, and blew. Two breaths. His strength almost gone, depleted air from his lungs passing into hers. He checked her pulse again—still nothing—and started over.
He repeated the procedure several times. His hope was fading when Hellen suddenly reared up and coughed her soul out. Tom pulled her close.
“Don’t ever do that again,” he whispered, endlessl
y relieved.
It took both of them some minutes to recover from the shock. Tom was back on his feet first. “We have to go,” he said. “We’re almost out of light.” Tom’s glow stick was no more than a faint glimmer. Ahead of them was a long, straight passage. The walls looked sturdy, and best of all, they were dry. There was no sign that they had ever been under water.
“I just want to get out of here,” Hellen said as Tom helped her up.
He kept his arm around her, supporting her a little, and they walked straight ahead for a few minutes. Gradually, the path rose.
“What do you think Guerra meant by ‘Project Cornet’?” Hellen’s spirits seemed to be returning. Tom was impressed at how quickly she was recovering from her ordeal.
“We’re not even out of here, and you’re already thinking about that?”
“Apparently they need the sword for this ‘Project Cornet,’ whatever it is.” She stopped. “Cornet. Cornet . . . I have no idea what it means.”
The passage continued to rise. When Tom looked up, he saw small openings along the ceiling. Probably air vents, he thought, but the moonlight entering through the openings also lit the passage a little.
“Look. We’ll be out in a few minutes.” Tom directed Hellen’s gaze up to the holes, and she smiled tiredly and hugged him. She laid her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes for a moment.
Then, without warning, she pushed away from him.
“Oh my God!”
“Was the hug that bad? It can’t be my BO—you smell just as bad as I do,” Tom said, a little offended.
“What are you talking about? No, not that.” She waved dismissively. “It’s Project Cornet. I know what Nikolaus is up to. And we have to hurry.”
59
Fort Manoel, Manoel Island, Bay of Valletta
Tom tipped the iron grate out of the way and they clambered out of the shaft. Tom was the first to surface. In front of him was the sea and behind him a high wall, like the wall of a castle. They were alone and in no immediate danger. The starry night and the full moon offered enough light for them to orientate themselves. Tom took a deep, relieved breath and helped Hellen out of the shaft.
“So Antoni Gaudí i Cornet was Gaudí’s full name,” Tom said, repeating Hellen’s theory.
“Yes. And it cannot be a coincidence that they named the project after the lesser known part of Gaudí’s name and that tomorrow marks the official completion of the Sagrada Familia, Gaudí’s greatest work of art, in Barcelona.”
Tom’s eyes widened. “Woah! The Pope will be there in person to celebrate mass. The nuns who drove me to Como told me.”
“The opening of the Sagrada Familia, the Pope, and the Sword of Peter in the hands of psychopaths. And the whole world will be tuning in tomorrow morning.” Hellen looked at Tom in horror. They were making their way around the side of the construction, moving away from the sea. “My God. They’re planning to murder the Pope with the Sword of St Peter and broadcast it live to the whole world.”
“It would be a catastrophe for the Catholic church and the faithful all over the world. It would be Europe’s 9/11,” said Tom in dismay.
“All that nonsense Nikolaus was spouting . . . they’ll blame Islamists for the whole thing. We have to try to stop them!”
“Noah’s in Barcelona,” Tom said as if it were obvious.
Hellen looked at him in surprise. “Why would Noah be in Barcelona?”
“Maierhofer mumbled something about an ‘Atlas mission’ when he so kindly gave me this little vacay. It must be for the Sagrada Familia event. The Cobra are working there with other antiterror units. Noah has to be there.”
“Then it’s up to us to warn them about what Nikolaus is up to,” said Hellen.
“That won’t be so easy. What are we supposed to tell them? That a murderer wanted by Interpol and his ex-girlfriend, who is an archaeologist, think that the boss of Blue Shield wants to destabilize the political situation in Europe, so he’s hired a few insane killers and has been swiping Catholic artifacts all over Europe? And now he’s found the Sword of Saint Peter and wants to kill the Pope with it? Even if they listened to us for that long, they’d think we were batshit crazy—to put it mildly.”
Hellen was not about to give up easily. “But we have to try, at least,” she said despairingly.
“I know how these things work,” Tom said. “Every time there’s an event like this, you get an endless stream of threats. They won’t take ours any more seriously than anyone else’s. Less, probably, since our version sounds really loony. They’ll tell us they’ve got the highest level of security in place and they’re already on top of it. And if I go to my boss, he’ll tell me to go to hell and won’t do a thing.”
Tom’s eyes scanned the large, open square ahead, just to make sure there wasn’t someone at the next corner waiting to kill them. “Where are we, anyway?” he asked.
Hellen looked around. “Ah, Manoel Island. On the west side of the fort, by the looks of it. She pointed to the northwest. “In that direction is the Carmelite Church and back there is the Grand Master’s palace.”
“If I have the map right in my head, we must be close to the marina. I have an idea, but we need a phone. Noah can help us,” said Tom.
They started running toward the marina. The last few hours had taken a lot out of them, but their strength returned quickly. This was no time to be tired. They had things to do, and the sooner the better.
The marina lay before them, peaceful in the moonlight. Countless luxurious yachts of every size and price range bobbed at their moorings. Only the moon and the sparse lighting on the jetties gave them a little light. It was quiet except for the gentle wash of the water and the creak of mooring ropes.
“This looks like the harbormaster’s office.” Hellen stopped in front of an ancient, light-blue house that, in another city, would probably have been a landmark. Here in Valletta, however, it was nothing special. Tom went to the door and tried it.
“Locked. Go figure.”
He took a few steps back, then threw himself against the door with all the force he could muster. The old door gave way more easily than expected and he stumbled into the office. Hellen followed; she was getting used to not doing things by the book. You make an omelet, you break a few eggs. But more importantly: the clock was ticking. In a few hours the Pope would be sanctifying the Sagrada Familia.
Seven hundred and fifty miles northwest of Malta a telephone rang. It rang twice, then Noah picked up.
“What the hell are you doing in Malta?” said Noah before an astonished Tom could say a word.
“How did you know . . . ? Look, never mind. I don’t have time to tell you the whole story right now. In about twelve hours, there’s going to be an assassination attempt on the Pope in Barcelona. The killers are planning to use the Sword of Saint Peter to kill him, on camera. I’m with Hellen in Valletta. We found the sword, and Hellen’s boss and some other bad guys—”
Noah interrupted him. “I thought you didn’t want to tell me the whole story. What do you need?”
Tom took a breath. “You’re in Barcelona, right? I don’t think explaining all this to Maierhofer would help.”
“Yes, I’m here. And yes, no one’s going to listen to the crazy story you just babbled. We’re going to have do this our own way,” Noah said, already thinking.
Tom smiled. His old friend had gone over to “we” straight away. He was on board without even knowing all the details. “We are,” he said. “The question is, how do I get from Valletta to Barcelona as fast as possible?”
Tom could already hear Noah typing frantically on his computer.
“Well, you can forget the regular flights. You’ll never make it. Boats, no way. The fastest yacht in the world would be too slow.”
Tom shook his head at what Noah could learn in seconds. He hadn’t even finished the thought when he heard Noah say, “Hold on, this could work! Where are you exactly?”
“The marina on Manoel Island.�
��
“Perfect. Harbour Air Malta is just around the corner.”
“Harbour Air Malta?” Tom shook his head, not understanding. Hellen, who had her ear pressed to the back of the phone receiver, was just as confused.
“Harbour Air Malta. They offer sightseeing flights over Malta and Gozo, the island next door.” Noah paused for effect. “With seaplanes.”
“Woah, woah . . . a seaplane? I have to get to Barcelona. I don’t want to go sightseeing.”
“No problem, they’ve got a Cessna 172 Cutlass there, amphibious version. That baby will get you almost 1200 miles. Barcelona’s about 750 miles from Valletta. You’ll be here in a few hours.
“Noah, it’s almost 11:00. No one’s going to . . .”
Tom stopped talking and smiled. He could see where Noah was headed.
Hellen had overheard and already suspected the worst. She looked at Tom. “So now we’re going to steal a plane?”
Tom nodded and put on his biggest smile. “Hey, anyone can just charter a plane. And stealing is such an ugly word—we’re just borrowing it.”
“The alarm system shouldn’t be a problem,” said Noah. “Just get in, get the keys and go. According to the online logbook, the Cessna’s fueled up and Barcelona-ready. All you have to do is turn off the transponder. Then no one will see you until you’re close, at least. I’ll stay in touch on the radio.”
Tom didn’t stop to think about how Noah was once again pulling him out of a hole. He asked for directions to the Harbour Air Malta office, hung up, and they ran off. Hellen had given up trying to stop Tom from doing dumb things. As she ran after him, she called out, “When was the last time you flew anything? It must have been years ago. Can you even fly a seaplane?”
The Sacred Weapon (A Tom Wagner Adventure Book 1) Page 21