by D C Macey
The tall guard had his pistol in hand and fired off a shot, wounding the priest’s left arm just before the thrusting sword split his belly open. The sword pulled out from the wound, drawing the tall guard’s innards with it. One hand gripping at his belly, the tall man slipped to his knees, roaring in pain and fright. The finger of his pistol hand squeezed against the trigger in a despairing effort to control something, anything, as he moved towards death. Bullets sprayed around. Shattered windows showered glass into the courtyard below.
Cassiter took it all in and realised he was suddenly in a difficult position. The priest, with his blood stained sword was stood between him and the desk where he had placed his pistol before commencing the interrogation. Without it, he was vulnerable to what looked like an impressive 36 inches of very efficient traditional killing technology.
He acted. Stepping behind the wheelchair, he bent down, pressing his head close to Father Andreas and wrapped one hand round the old man’s throat; some leverage to exert control over the environment. He reached his other hand out to the arm of the chair and gripped the driver’s control joystick. Pulling it back, he got the wheelchair reversing slowly away from the desk and shuffled backwards in pace with its retreat.
The bloodied priest advanced, sword pointing at Cassiter. Now the initial onslaught was passed, the priest was unsure how to proceed. He was worried for Father Andreas, and Cassiter smelt the growing fear, the anxiety; he could exploit that.
Cassiter tightened his grip round Father Andreas’ neck. ‘Back off or the old priest dies.’
The point of the priest’s sword wavered a little as he looked from Cassiter to Father Andreas and back. His assault had been launched as a forlorn bid to save his leader. He had not thought the details through, certainly not considered the possibility of a hostage standoff. Now he was out of his depth.
Cassiter could sense the confusion. It was something he could work on, but carefully, very carefully. The priest had demonstrated remarkable ability with the sword. Cassiter could not think where or why the man would have developed such a skill, but the ability was there and right now the odds were all in the priest’s favour but he was not experienced enough in real combat to understand that and press home his advantage.
Step for step, the bloodied priest tracked Cassiter’s retreat across the room. Cassiter could read the priest’s confusion, the wavering blade, a free hand repeatedly raised to sweep perspiration away from his forehead. The man was right out of his depth.
Cassiter stopped his retreat and saw the wounded priest stop his advance. Cassiter smiled dryly, now he was in control. ‘I think we can sort this out don’t you?’ he said.
The priest did not reply to him. Instead, he directed a short stream of Greek towards Father Andreas. The angst was clear in his voice, though Cassiter did not understand a word.
‘He does not speak English,’ said Father Andreas, managing to force his words out in spite of the arm locked around his neck.
‘Well tell him I will not kill you provided he backs away and, of course, you must give me what I want.’
‘I do not know what you want.’
‘You do. The same thing that Cameron and the American girl wanted. The dagger. Last chance,’ said Cassiter, suddenly tightening his grip around Father Andreas’ neck. The old priest grimaced in pain and the younger priest thrust the sword blade forward a few inches in response, then pulled it back, at a lost how to proceed.
Cassiter smiled again. Then he whispered into his captive’s ear. ‘You will die old man. That’s certain. I’ve dealt with others like you, so I know you won’t mind that, but look at the boy there. He could live. I can let that happen if you give me what I want.’
Father Andreas hissed his words through the pain in his neck. ‘Ease my neck so I can speak with him. He needs some guidance if this is to end well.’
Cassiter nodded and very slightly eased the pressure on the old priest’s throat.
Father Andreas took a moment to gasp in a couple of breaths; then he looked intently at his acolyte and spoke quietly and calmly in Greek. Cassiter read the measured pace and intonation in the old priest’s voice, he saw the confusion in the young priest’s expression, saw the doubt as his eyes flicked back and forth. Cassiter was satisfied. The old priest was following his advice; this would soon be over.
But Father Andreas was not. ‘Listen carefully to me, my son. This man will kill me; no matter what you do I will die. I want you to save yourself. That is what our God would want today. You should live. When I say, I want you to raise that sword, the sword that came here at the very beginning. Came in the hands of my, our, predecessor. Raise the sword and cut through me to kill the monster. One great stroke and it is done. Father Christos and the others will support you when they return. Listen carefully. This is not a request, this is an order, you must do it, save yourself and make sure Father Christos and the others know what happened. Will you do that for me?’
‘Well priest, have you persuaded him? If he backs away I’ll release your neck.’
‘I hope I have persuaded him, we will see in a moment,’ said Father Andreas.
Then he spoke in Greek again. ‘God bless you my son. Do it now. You know the American has what she needs. End the story. Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end. I have done my duty, now it ends - do yours. You and Christos must build a new story. Strike! Strike now!’ his voice rose to a shout, urging the blade into its killing arc.
Too late, Cassiter realised he had been duped. The blade was moving. He had seen it in action, knew that the old priest’s body would provide no protection for him. They were both going to die. He could hear it hissing through the air. His last thought was fury; there was not even time to break the old priest’s neck before the blade would start its butchery.
An explosion of noise filled the room. For just a moment, Cassiter wondered if this was what death sounded like. Then he realised he was alive. In a single instant, the sword blade lost its momentum, twisting and dropping, hitting its flat edge against the old priest’s arm before clattering to the wooden floorboards.
Cassiter looked across the room; the priest was on his knees, hands frantically reaching behind him, clawing to find the bullet holes that had just appeared in his back. A red smear was spreading over his fingers. Confusion was writ across the priest’s face, but now mixed with horror at the realisation that he was dying and had not done his leader’s bidding. Standing in the doorway behind him was Robertson. Pistol in hand, he was scanning the room for further dangers.
Cassiter straightened up, nodded to his man and then patted the old priest on the head, allowing his hand to linger, playing with his thin silver hair. ‘Should have taken my advice old man,’ he said, as Father Andreas shook his head to dislodge the hand.
The wounded priest was gasping, mouthing silent words. Cassiter stepped closer to him, raised his boot and kicked him hard. Instantly, the victim collapsed from his knees to the ground. Stooping, Cassiter picked up the sword and hefted it in his hand; the weighted counterbalance of the pommel was perfect. Moving the blade was almost effortless; he swung it back and forth two or three times. Then he looked down at the despairing priest who lay wounded on the floor.
‘This blade could have done me some damage,’ said Cassiter, glancing back towards Father Andreas. ‘I think you must have told him, yes?’
‘Spare him; he is young, just following my orders.’
‘No, I can’t do that.’ Cassiter prodded the wounded priest with the toe of his boot. ‘And now, this is down to you old man.’
Cassiter raised the blade above his head and watched Father Andreas avert his gaze. He saw the young priest raise his hands in futile defence. Then he swung the blade down hard to the sound of the young priest’s scream of fear.
The sword swept through the outstretched arms, severing one completely as the irresistible cutting arc continued its journey on into his flesh, resting only after it had sliced open chest and belly.
For a moment or two Cassiter admired the efficiency of the blade, then threw it down and left the man to bleed out while he retrieved his pistol from the desk.
‘Good timing,’ he said to Robertson. Then he waved his pistol towards the dying priest. ‘That was the last of them. Now let’s do what we came for. Oh, and call the others back from behind the building. They will be more useful here now.’ Cassiter looked appreciatively at his man who showed no sign of concern at the bodies strewn across the room. That was what he looked for in his people, unflinching.
‘Now old man, let’s get it over with. Give me the dagger.’
‘Never,’ said Father Andreas defiantly. ‘Never. Butcher!’
Cassiter took the wheelchair’s joystick and steered the chair across to the room’s centre window. He directed Father Andres’ attention outside into the enclosed space of the broad courtyard.
‘Look, see how quiet it is? When will the rest of your people return? Later this afternoon, perhaps? It won’t be so quiet then. The rest of your little band; your little choir boys, tired from a day of service, anxious for their evening meal and eager to share the events of the day. How will that play out I wonder.’
Father Andreas closed his eyes tightly, as though it might bar the car access to the courtyard.
‘Will we wait for them to come back? What events will we share with them, old man? And look, here are more of my people coming.’ Cassiter slipped his fingers down over Father Andreas’ forehead and pulled the old man’s eyelids up, forcing his eyes open, compelling him to look out into the courtyard where the men who had been posted on the hillside behind were entering through the arch.
‘Give me what I want or you can watch from this window as the rest of your people die one at a time and very slowly. You’re dead already old man. But you can save your people. They are nothing to me, provided I have what I want.’
Father Andreas sagged further into his chair. Sighed, nodded, and pointed towards his bookcase. ‘And the others will live?’
‘Provided we can be away now, so our paths don’t cross. Delay and I make no promises.’ Cassiter stepped back, allowing the old priest to drive his chair across the room.
He watched as Father Andreas struggled to work some secret lever at the bookcase. With only his right hand functioning, it took a little while, but he managed and suddenly a small section of bookcase swung out and to one side. Behind was a safe. Father Andreas quickly keyed in the code and then turned to Cassiter. ‘The key is in my trouser pocket,’ he raised his twisted and broken hand. ‘This won’t work.’
Cassiter retrieved the key and quickly unlocked the safe. Pulling open the safe door, he reached in and withdrew a dagger. He reviewed the artefact. It took only the most cursory of glances to confirm this was what he had come for. It was just like the others but with a Roman numeral one engraved on the blade. He stroked it gently and nodded in satisfaction before glancing round the room. He had lost three people here today. A very high price. He could not afford many days like this but it was a price worth paying on this occasion.
Gripping the dagger handle, he looked at Robertson. ‘We’re done here. Let’s go.’ He walked for the door without even a glance towards the broken old man. ‘And finish him,’ he said, almost as though it were an afterthought.
As he reached the doorway, a single shot rang out behind him. He did not bother looking back. It was done.
• • •
Helen stepped out of the limousine and made straight into the airport terminal. A different driver today; Simon was walking beside her. When Franz Brenner had heard she intended to take the gold framed glass from the safe deposit, he had insisted that Simon travel with her, at least until she linked up with Sam. Simon was trusted and knew how to handle himself. After all, it was a dangerous world. She knew it, was happy to accept the offer and was now hurrying for the private departures gate. She was getting quite used to the benefits of private travel.
Next stop, Crete, she thought, where Sam was waiting to test his theory about a labyrinth map. She hoped he was right and could track it down. For now, they were ahead of their enemy, but no matter how many steps she and Sam took, their pursuers always seemed to be close behind.
• • •
Sam stood on the beach with his back to the sea. He looked up the course of the ravine he had just spent the past half an hour working his way down. He could see Nick standing at the top of the cliffs. The young man that Father Andreas had sent from Kefalonia as a translator was not dressed for rock climbing so Sam had left him at the top, he’d get him kitted out properly this evening.
Right now, it was the ravine that interested Sam. It offered the only landward access to the beach where it cut down through the rugged cliffs. Without a boat, there was no other access point and the rough terrain and steep incline of the ravine was not exactly tourist friendly. This was a lonely spot.
He glanced down at the map in his left hand, then looked at Helen’s photograph of the gold framed glass in his right, and then back up at the cliffs. This was the best candidate; no, he told himself, it was the only candidate.
He had spent the past day rushing along the Cretan coast and this had to be it - unless he had read the whole process incorrectly.
He knew medieval map projections could not be trusted; hence, the topography was normally open to question. Only very localised line of sight mapping could bear any relation to the reality on the ground. He was certain that the gold frame was very precise; he trusted that, like every other part of the puzzle, whoever created this section had paid the same attention to detail as had been accorded everything else.
Always with the proviso that his interpretation was correct, then he knew there really was a labyrinth where something was hidden. It was on Crete because the scroll said it was - it had been accurate in every other respect. The unanswered question remained, where on Crete? And here he was, on the coast. The Templars would have wanted to be able to slip ashore and leave unnoticed, that was certain.
Once again, he followed the logic. The cross, engraved into the golden frame, would mark the top - in medieval times, the top was east - and that side was trimmed with a perfect inlay of lapis lazuli to mark the sea or coast - so, water to the east. The side opposite, west, had lapis too, and the right hand side that joined them, representing south, was also lapis blue. To the left the remaining side, north, was plain gold - landward. That configuration meant the labyrinth must be situated at a promontory on the south side of the island. His attention had been taken, on what he had determined was the south side, by the way the otherwise straight edged lapis inlays were laid into the gold to form a concave shape. Nothing was sloppy about the construction, it was all meant. But meant what? It had taken a while but finally he settled on the concave representing a bay.
There had been half a dozen candidate promontories scattered along the coast. He had visited them one by one and quickly ruled out all the others: too open an aspect; ancient fishing villages nearby; too accessible; disappointing bay; and finally, rocks off shore that barred access from the sea.
He turned, looked at the sea, turned again to look back to the cliffs. Here was a rectangular promontory - three sides bounded by the sea, and northwards lay the land. It was rough and isolated terrain, no signs of the area ever having been populated. Finally, here at the south side of the promontory was a sheltered bay, almost inaccessible by land and certainly only visible from the sea. It had all the features of the line of sight mapping so perfectly represented in the gold framed glass by some ancient craftsman and mapmaker. Here at last was everything they needed.
He looked carefully at the photograph again, touched where the gold frame came between the arc of lapis and the glass. His finger rubbed the photograph where the otherwise perfectly smooth gold frame seemed to present an anomaly. He didn’t buy it as an imperfection in the craftsmanship now. He squinted at what appeared the slightest of ridging running through the gold; starting from the blue of the lapis defined bay,
it ran through the gold frame edging, which now clearly represented the cliffs bounding the bay, to finally reaching the edge of the glass - from where the gold thread started its winding journey. Instinctively, he knew it was no anomaly; knew the ridging marked the ravine he had clambered down to reach the beach.
Somewhere, up in the ravine was an entrance to the labyrinth. He was sure of it. Now he needed Helen and the gold framed glass itself to put his theory to the test.
He began the climb back up the ravine. Beyond that lay a kilometre’s hike to the little road where he had parked his car. Helen would be landing quite soon. He’d better get to the airport to collect her and the package from Switzerland - it would provide the answer to all their questions, he hoped.
CHAPTER 31 - TUESDAY 10th SEPTEMBER - MORNING
Helen glanced towards Sam; she could see his full attention was focused on the road ahead. Out here was a lonely place, far from the tourist hotspots. They had left the main road a while back and driven across a plateau dotted with villages and homesteads, places where locals eked a living out of the uncompromising land. Now, high in the mountains that bounded this part of the island’s coast he had to be vigilant. A moment’s lapse or a simple slip and they would plunge down into one of the anonymous ravines that the narrow road traced on its route to the sea.
Helen turned in her seat and looked into the rear. Simon looked back at her. The previous evening he had declined the chance to join her on a trip to buy suitable clothing and footwear. Now she could see why; Simon was clearly a man who planned for every eventuality. From his walking boots through the tough but lightweight trousers and top, and on to the wide brimmed hat, he was dressed for the occasion. Every occasion, she thought, noting the slight bulge beneath his lightweight cotton jacket. He may have abandoned the suit but the tools of his trade were always with him.
