The Sacred Weapon: A Tom Wagner Adventure

by Roberts, M. C.

  Hellen had seen a dead body or two in her life and thought of herself as pretty tough, generally speaking, but this was beyond anything she’d ever dealt with. Her blood pounded in her veins, and she felt her body producing an excess of adrenaline. She was breathing quickly, her face was hot and flushed, and her hands and feet were ice-cold. She stood and stared, not knowing what to do. Again and again, she looked back over her shoulder: hoping for someone who could help, terrified that the killer was still around.

  Several seconds passed. Hellen remained rooted to the spot, staring at the dead priest. Then she noticed a detail she hadn’t immediately seen. With his bloody finger, Father Montgomery had scrawled the word “METEOR” on the chapel floor. Tentatively, she moved closer and crouched, leaning over the priest’s body to see if she could find anything else. Outside, something clattered in the garden, as if a flowerpot had fallen and smashed. The wind? Or was the killer still nearby? She was about to stand up and leave the chapel when Father Montgomery moved.

  Hellen immediately reached for her mobile phone to call for help, but she didn’t get that far. Without warning, Father Montgomery snatched at the amulet that had fallen free of her blouse when she leaned forward. He pulled on the pendant, drawing her closer, raising himself a little from the floor. Hellen gasped in fright, partly because she hadn’t believed for a moment that the priest was still alive, let alone able to muster so much energy, and partly because she was scared for the amulet, which had been left to her by her grandmother. Wheezing, he whispered into her ear:

  “You’re going to n . . .” Father Montgomery coughed blood, then inhaled sharply with a whistling, gurgling sound, “. . . to need the key.”

  “What key, Father?”

  Father Montgomery released the amulet. He sank back to the floor. She pressed both hands over the wound to try to stop the bleeding.

  “Hold on, Father. Don’t give up!” she said.

  A tear rolled down her cheek. A moment later, a young priest suddenly entered the chapel. He jumped back with a startled cry when he saw Hellen kneeling beside the blood-covered priest with her hands pressed over the wound.

  “Dr. de Mey?” he asked in shock.

  The young priest was the one who had arranged the meeting with Father Montgomery. Although Hellen was afraid that the murderer might still be close by and could reappear any second, she remained calm and focused for the moment.

  “Call a doctor. Father Montgomery’s been shot,” she shouted at the young man, who still stood frozen. “Now!” she added, louder and more emphatically.

  That tore the young man out of his trance. He took out his phone and dialed 999. Hellen stayed by the priest, but after a short time she had to admit defeat. Father Montgomery was dead. She slumped back, wiping the sleeve of her jacket across her eyes. She gazed uncomprehendingly at her trembling, blood-soaked hands, and remained like that beside the corpse for a moment. Finally, she stood up and walked past the young priest, into the open air.

  Hellen still failed to notice the woman, who had been leaning against the wall of a house across the street the entire time. Nor did she notice that the woman was taking pictures of her. In the distance, Hellen could hear police and ambulance sirens racing toward her. While Hellen and the young priest waited for them to arrive, the black woman turned around, looked at the ancient key in her hand, and slowly made her way back to the parking lot at Glastonbury Abbey.

  6

  Tom’s houseboat, Danube River, Vienna, Austria

  “So you’re really one of those air marshals? On just about every flight I’ve wondered which one of the passengers it might be, or if we even had one on board,” said Denise, as Tom handed her a cup of hot coffee. She looked gorgeous: a little sleepy, her hair tousled. While he made coffee, she had borrowed one of his shirts. She looked out from the small porch of the houseboat at the quietly murmuring river.

  “I’m an officer with the Cobra task force, actually. Austria’s antiterror unit. Flying as air marshals is part of our job.”

  “And that’s where you learned to foil hijackings in creative ways?” Denise held the cup in both hands and took tiny sips of her coffee.

  “That wasn’t exactly standard procedure last night. Not textbook, anyway.” He smiled mischievously. “That was all Tom Wagner.” He paused for a moment. “The job’s not always as exciting as that, unfortunately. It sounds more dramatic than it really is.”

  “So what makes a guy decide to be an antiterror officer?” Denise looked at him with interest.

  “Even as a kid, one thing was clear to me: there are too many assholes in this world.”

  Denise laughed. “Was that all it took?”

  “My mother was a trauma surgeon and worked for Doctors Without Borders. My father was a US marine. I’m pretty sure I was conceived in a war zone; I probably absorbed all that insanity while I was still in the womb.”

  “You didn’t grow up surrounded by bombs and body parts, I hope?” Denise narrowed her eyes, taken aback.

  “Not exactly. But we traveled all over the world, and I figured out fast that it’s pretty damn messed up. Especially when . . .”

  His voice faltered. His eyes turned glassy, empty.

  “. . . especially when my parents were killed in an attack in Syria. I’d just turned seven.” Tom’s voice had lost its strength. Denise placed a hand on his upper arm.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, a little abashed.

  “To this day, nobody’s figured out who was behind it. It’s been on my mind all these years. When I was six, I swore to myself I’d find those responsible and bring them to justice. My grandfather’s still alive. He’s the best. And I have an uncle in the States, too, also in the military.” He inhaled deeply. “I knew very early that I wanted to do something about all the violence and injustice, and not only because I’d vowed to find out who killed my parents. I made it into the Cobras, the youngest member ever, and I thought to myself, hey, now you can make a difference.”

  “But you can’t?”

  “No,” he said, his voice cold. “I spend most of my time protecting people who aren’t in danger, watching buildings that don’t get attacked, and showing off what I can do in stupid competitions with other special service units around the world.”

  “It sounds like it gets to you.”

  “It does,” said Tom. “I go back and forth between being bored and being pissed off. There’s so much going on out there, but we’re so bogged down by regulations and red tape that we can hardly lift a finger against the really evil bastards.”

  Tom stood, stepped out onto the porch, and glanced at his watch.

  “I have to go. Duty calls. Take a shower, take your time. Just close the door behind you when you leave. I don’t have anything worth stealing.”

  He smiled and kissed her goodbye.

  “Will I see you again?” She looked hopefully at him.

  He turned away and gazed out over the Danube.

  “I’ll be honest with you. Last night was fun, but I’m not made for relationships. I’ve had one real relationship in my life, and all the emotional chaos that goes with it . . . well, it’s not my thing. I’m good when it comes to terrorists, weapons and exploding cars. Not so much with women.”

  “I didn’t notice that last night,” she said, smiling playfully.

  “You know what I mean. I’m just not good at anything long-term,” Tom said.

  “Now you’re misunderstanding me. I fly long-distance, which means I’m only ever home for a few days, or even just a few hours. I’d settle for a little meet-up like this every now and then.”

  He nodded, his mind somewhere else. “I have to go. Maybe we’ll find ourselves on the same plane again sometime.”

  Tom was almost out the door when he turned back again. He fished the hijacker’s phone out of his jacket and slipped it into his pocket.

  Denise watched through a small window as he climbed into his car, not turning back once. As she watched him drive away, she took o
ut her mobile and tapped in a number. The phone was answered after one ring.

  “It’s me. Sorry, there was nothing I could do.”

  Denise listened to the reply, but cut off the person on the other end almost immediately.

  “That’s exactly the problem. I have no idea why he took the phone. That’s why I threw myself at him and had to listen to his whole shitty, sentimental life story over coffee.”

  Another pause.

  “That would have been nice, but we’re on a mini-houseboat. If I’d grabbed the phone during the night, he’d have noticed. Now he’s taken it with him and he’s heading to Cobra HQ. Looks like you’re going to have to get that phone back the hard way. He’s driving an old red Mustang. He’s just left.”

  7

  Sacher Hotel, Vienna

  Guerra exited the lift at the top floor and nodded to the two bodyguards stationed outside the door of the suite. He felt a little honored. He would be meeting the innermost circle for the first time. Until today, he had only ever gotten his assignments through go-betweens, and while he knew perfectly well who was pulling the strings, he’d never actually met them. It surprised him to find them all gathered in one place now. One thing was clear to him: he’d made it to the top.

  He stepped into the Grand Signature suite. He’d seen a lot of hotel rooms, even high-end suites of every size, but the Hotel Sacher had a flair all its own. He couldn’t say exactly what it was. The furnishings were stylish, done in white, light gray and imperial red—nothing special, but still impressive in their simple appeal. He went out onto the terrace, which offered a stunning panoramic view from St. Stephen’s Cathedral to the Vienna State Opera.

  He was expected.

  “Sit down, Guerra.”

  The woman with the Russian accent who offered him a chair must have been about fifty, but she radiated the erotic allure of a twenty-five-year-old model. Her simple Chanel dress, the diamond-studded Rolex, the Hermès handbag, the Christian Louboutin shoes. None of it looked ostentatious on her. She looked born to it, as if she could not wear anything but the best of the best.

  Guerra sat and looked around the gathering. From the ring road below came the sound of hoofbeats from the horses pulling the fiaker, the open, horse-drawn cabs that catered to the tourists. The waiter brought Guerra a cup of Wiener Melange and a glass of champagne. Guerra took the cup and turned to the waiter.

  “Thank you. You can take this away. I don’t drink alcohol.”

  The waiter nodded. The man in the center, wearing a three-piece Brioni suit in the exact same shade as his graying temples, opened a laptop and linked in another participant. Guerra noted the anticipation that spread among the others. Whoever the newcomer was, he seemed to be yet another level higher.

  “A brief situation report, please.” The voice from the laptop was neutral and yet decisive—a man used to giving orders.

  Guerra straightened up a little in his seat. “As planned, most of the artifacts are now in our hands. In the last few weeks, we have been able to take possession of the Crown of Thorns from Notre Dame in Paris, the Holy Nails from Monza and Rome, Saint Wenzel’s helmet from Prague, the bones of the Three Wise Men from Cologne and the Shroud of Turin.” Guerra paused momentarily and his eyes scanned those assembled. There was no sign of emotion on any of their faces. Apparently, they took such results as given. “Today and tomorrow, we will be taking possession of the last of the relics.” Not for a single moment did Guerra’s voice betray a hint of doubt in the flawless execution of their plans.

  “They’re not the last relics, as you most certainly know,” piped a high-pitched voice from among those present.

  To the left of the man with the graying temples sat an Asian man, whose unusually high voice did not fit at all with the rest of his body—he could have been a sumo wrestler, but he still cut a surprisingly good figure in his black suit and turtleneck sweater.

  “Of course,” Guerra quickly corrected himself. “However, we are confident that the problem will soon be solved, and we will discover the whereabouts of the most vital relic.”

  The voice from the laptop cut in. “With all due respect for your confidence, we need a Plan B in case you should fail. You know that nothing we do is done without a Plan B.”

  “Plan A or B aside, will we be in time to execute Project ‘Cornet’? How likely is that?” the graying man asked, a typical Texas lilt in his voice, and he looked around the small gathering. “The complete ‘Cornet’ plan has always been our preferred alternative. It would be most advantageous if we could realize that.”

  The others nodded silently.

  “The clues are all pointing in one direction. I therefore assume that we will be able to obtain the last of the relics in time to put ‘Cornet’ into operation as planned.” Guerra’s voice was clear and determined. He looked around, meeting every eye unflinchingly.

  “Good. If that is the case, it will not be to your disadvantage,” the graying man said. “We need men like you who are able to execute our plans without mistakes.”

  Guerra nodded and was about to reply, but he did not get the chance.

  “That is all, Guerra,” the second woman present said, closing the meeting. She spoke to Guerra in his native Spanish, but he could see that she was probably from the Middle East. The United Arab Emirates, he guessed.

  “Guerra, radio silence from now on, until the last of the artifacts is in our hands.” The words of the man from the laptop were unequivocal.

  Guerra stood and departed with a nod. As he left the terrace, the last words he heard from the laptop were, “I’ll make sure the media is working in the right direction. Who’s sorting out our little problem here in Vienna?”

  8

  The streets of Vienna

  Tom dropped into the driver’s seat of his 1967 Shelby Mustang GT500. He leaned his head back, closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. Too many thoughts were swirling in his head since his talk with Denise. After a few seconds, he started the Mustang and drove off, cursing loudly at himself: “Tom! You jump out of airplanes. You rappel head first down ten-story buildings. You fight terrorists and you can fly a chopper through the tightest mountain gorges. Pull yourself together, goddammit!”

  His phone rang, cutting into his thoughts. Tom, grateful for the distraction, took the call.

  “Hey, Tom, where the hell are you?” asked Noah Pollock, the Cobra IT expert and Tom’s best friend.

  “Sorry. I got held up.”

  “Blond or brunette?” Noah said. “Have you got the phone?”

  “Sure have.”

  “Why didn’t you hand it over to the airport guys as evidence?”

  “You know those idiots. They wouldn’t even know how to unlock it. Besides, you’re the only one I trust with it.”

  “I’m honored,” said Noah. “But if you refuse to follow the rules, then you shouldn’t wonder why none of the guys like you, or why the powers that be keep reading you the riot act,” said Noah in a reproving tone of voice.

  Tom grimaced. “Yeah, yeah. You’re right, as usual. But in this case, I had no choice. Did you find out anything about the guy in those photos?”

  “What does he have to do with this?” Noah asked.

  “The guy . . .” Tom paused. “It’s the guy who killed my parents.”

  There was silence at the other end of the line. Noah had to process that information. “What makes you think that?”

  “I told you about the man I saw after the explosion, when I was a kid. He was in the VIP lounge in Milan with me. I recognized him by his tattoo.”

  “By his tattoo? Jesus, Tom, you were seven years old. Are you sure?”

  “More certain than I’ve ever been. I can remember it like it was yesterday. No doubt whatsoever.”

  “Well, I haven’t found out much about him yet. He’s a diplomat, and he’s clean as a damned whistle. Too clean. There’s practically nothing on the guy at all apart from who he is. His name’s—”

  The call was a
bruptly interrupted when Tom’s Mustang was rammed from behind, almost sending him into a spin. His phone flew out of his hand and landed in the footwell on the passenger side. At the last second, he was able to switch lanes to avoid slamming into the car in front.

  “Fuck!” Tom shouted. “You son-of-a-bitch!” He mentally calculated the repair costs for the Mustang. He’d inherited the beautiful beast from his father, and it was almost impossible to find parts for it in Europe. He’d be without wheels for months, all because the guy behind him couldn’t watch out.

  Furious, he glanced in the mirror. He was about to pull over to the right and tell the incompetent driver what he thought of him when he realized that the souped-up 1990s BMW was lining up to ram him again. He swung the wheel to the right and stepped on the gas. For the time of day, there was surprisingly little traffic on Vienna’s streets. There was a charity race happening that day, and half the streets were closed. Everyone was probably using the subway, and most of those who drove had probably already made their way into the city center. He found space in the next lane and was able to squeeze past two cars that were practically crawling compared to him.

  It took Tom a few seconds to fully realize that this was no normal fender bender. Someone was after him. It didn’t take an Einstein to figure that out, however: in the rearview mirror he saw the passenger lean out of the window with a pistol pointed in his direction. A second later, the rear window shattered.

  Tom’s earlier swerve had also sent his service pistol, which he normally kept on the passenger seat, flying into the footwell. Out of reach, especially when he was weaving through the city at 100 mph. A second shot shredded part of the passenger seat.

  Who the fuck are these guys? Are they totally crazy? Tom thought as he shaved the side mirrors off three cars as he roared past, fighting desperately to keep the Mustang on the street without seriously endangering anyone else. Escape opportunities were limited: on his left was the river, winding its way through the city thirty feet below street level; on his right were two lanes of traffic. Escaping into one of the narrow alleys on the right was out of the question.