The Sacred Weapon: A Tom Wagner Adventure

by Roberts, M. C.

  “It’s getting late, François. Why don’t you talk to Dr. Pfeiffer about other plans over breakfast? He can stay in one of our guest rooms.”

  “You’re right, ma chère. Business is better discussed when one is rested, and most importantly with a clear head.” He sipped his cognac again. “Dr. Pfeiffer, you will be our guest tonight. I will not take no for an answer. I’ll have one of the guest rooms made up for you. Someone will come to show you to your room in a few minutes.”

  Cloutard stood, drained the last drops of his Louis XIII, nodded to Tom and left the terrace. Ossana also wished him good night, and followed Cloutard.

  Tom sat alone on the terrace, enjoying his espresso and looking out to sea, where the moonlight glittered on the water. Had it really been that simple? The lion had invited him into its den and offered him a place to stay. Tom smiled. Now he could explore the house in the night. Perhaps he would discover more about Cloutard’s mysterious buyer, who might also be connected to Hellen’s abduction. Tom picked up his cell phone and tapped out a message to Noah: “I’m in!”

  31

  Unknown location

  Hellen’s skull throbbed as if it were about to explode. She opened her eyes, straightened up and immediately fell back onto the mattress. Everything was spinning. After a few seconds, she tried again. Despite the horrendous headache, she remained sitting upright and tried to orient herself in the room. Bit by bit, her eyes adjusted to the darkness. In the pale gleam that shone beneath the door, Hellen was gradually able to make out the room around her. A bed. A window with closed shutters. A closet. A ceiling lamp. A door. The place had a specific smell to it, a smell Hellen knew very well: the familiar bouquet of old furniture, carpets, clothes and mothballs. She saw her purse on the floor next to the bed and snatched it up, knowing as she did so that the thought was foolish. Her mobile phone was gone, of course.

  Memories began to return. The auction. The shot. Being dragged from the room. That was all; after that her memory was blank. She looked at her watch, which they had left with her: about four hours had passed since the auction. As her mind cleared, her emotions grew more intense. Fear of her kidnappers’ plans alternated with incomprehension about why she had been taken at all.

  It was not the first perilous situation she had confronted in her life. She had been in extreme danger more than once, but she had never been alone before. Now she was on her own. She had no idea who the kidnappers were or what they wanted from her. Maybe it had something to do with what she’d discovered in Glastonbury. Maybe the thieves were hunting for the same thing she was.

  Hellen pressed her ear to the door of her cell and listened. The light beneath the door gave her hope that she might be able to hear something that would give her a better picture of her situation. But she heard nothing. The pounding headache was limiting her senses severely, and too many horrific scenarios were swirling in her head. She had to get her fear under control. She needed to clear her head and weigh her options.

  She grasped the door handle and eased it down. It was locked, of course, but it was worth a try. Then she sneaked over to the window. It wouldn’t open either. She sat down on the bed and ran through her very few options. She knew she didn’t want to just wait and see what her captors intended for her, or whether she would be freed. The latter seemed unlikely, anyway. She had to find her own way out.

  32

  Tom’s room, Fort Tabarka, Tunisia

  Tom planned to wait until about 3 a.m., then start his search on the ground floor. He was hoping to find a clue somewhere in the house, and wondered whether he would run into any guards during the night . . . most likely yes, he decided. He looked around the room: to describe it as opulent would be putting it mildly. Cloutard’s luxurious tastes extended into the furthermost corners of the ancient structure. Tom’s room alone held a four-poster canopy bed of white-enameled wood with gilded ornaments and a baroque headboard and heavy, wine-red curtains with floral patterns embroidered in gold. A gold and crystal chandelier hung suspended from the ceiling. On the mantelpiece stood a heavy gold candelabra. Sumptuous oil paintings decorated the walls, while the stuccoed ceiling and wood paneling would have done credit to Marie Antoinette. Tom knew very little about art, but he had the impression that everything he saw in there was the real thing, not some Chinese copy from Alibaba. Tom lay back on the huge bed and picked up his iPhone. To be on the safe side, he read the extensive dossiers on Cloutard and Joan of Arc’s shield again, as well as the ones on Blue Shield and the other stolen artifacts. Noah was very thorough when it came to briefings of this kind, and maybe Tom would find more clues to help him locate Hellen.

  Suddenly, he put down the phone and listened: footsteps sounded in the hallway outside. Tom slipped off the bed, put the phone in his pocket, and crept to the door. He listened, but heard nothing. He had the impression that the steps had stopped right outside his door. He turned out the light, grabbed a candlestick from atop a chiffonier, and positioned himself behind the door, where he could keep a close eye on the handle. Just then, it began to move slowly downward—someone was opening the door. Tom pressed himself against the wall. The intruder took a step into the room and Tom saw instantly who it was: Ossana.

  He did nothing for a moment, calculating the best way to deal with the situation. What was Ossana up to? Were her intentions good? Quick as a shot, he stepped out from behind the half-open door and gave Ossana a powerful shove in the back that sent her tumbling rather awkwardly onto the bed. He closed the door and flipped on the light.

  “Couldn’t you knock?” he said with a roguish grin. He returned the candlestick to its place on the chiffonier.

  Ossana turned over and looked at him. There was astonishment on her face, and a little anger, but also respect.

  “Shouldn’t you be in bed instead of lurking behind the door for burglars?” she countered.

  “Maybe. But waiting for burglars in this place apparently makes sense, too.”

  Only now did Tom realize that, beneath her silk dressing gown, Ossana was naked. The fall onto his bed had caused her nightgown to slip a little, exposing one of her breasts. But Ossana made not the slightest move to cover herself again; it didn’t seem to bother her at all to be lying so revealingly in front of him.

  She got up from the bed again and sidled toward Tom. Tom was torn. On the one hand, this stunning woman standing before him, wearing next to nothing, made his pulse race—but his conscience was gnawing at him as well. He was here to track down Hellen’s kidnappers and find his own parents’ murderers, not to steal some French art-mafia boss’s hot girlfriend.

  “Well?” Ossana murmured. “What are you going to do with this burglar?” Ossana’s lips were two inches from his. Her fingers slid up and over Tom’s hips, and her long, coral-colored fingernails explored his torso and shoulders, coming to rest at his neck. She yanked Tom’s head back by his hair and snapped at his chin with pearly teeth. “Don’t you want to punish me, Dr. Pfeiffer?”

  Her hands released him and slid down her own body, slowly unknotting the band around her silk gown. The delicate fabric drifted slowly down her velvety body and fell to the floor and she stood before him, utterly naked. Tom gasped audibly. It was like he was hypnotized, which turned out to be a problem. A split second later, Ossana took a step to one side and tossed him with an expert judo move. He landed on his back on the bed. Ossana jumped on top of him, straddling him, then bent down and kissed him wildly and passionately, biting a little at his neck. She grabbed his arms and pressed them firmly onto the bed, above his head. Much more firmly than expected, in fact—Tom felt as if his hands were clamped in a vice.

  33

  Unknown location

  Hellen was usually angry at herself when she wasted hours on YouTube, surfing from one video to the next. But right now, being a declared YouTube addict was reason to be grateful. Only recently, she had stumbled onto a how-to video entitled “Pick a Lock with a Hairpin” and she had tried it out. Of course, it wouldn’t wor
k with new, modern locks, but the door she was now kneeling in front of wasn’t one of those.

  Her hair had become completely disheveled during the struggle and abduction, and her two hairpins had vanished somewhere inside the mess atop her head. It took her a little while to find one of them and extricate it from her hair.

  The principle was simple enough: use the slightly bent end of her hairpin to push the various pins up to the right position. Not an easy task, but doable. Outside, the lights had been turned off. There was complete silence. Hellen concentrated on two things: making as little noise as possible, and hearing the faint click of the pins inside the ancient lock. At home, when she had tried to apply the technique in the video to her own front door, she had succeeded in just five minutes. Horrified at how easily her apartment door could be jimmied open, she had immediately had a new security lock installed.

  This lock was proving harder to crack; she had already been working at it for a good twenty minutes. She thought she had managed to push up four pins, but there was still one to go. Her neck and arms were aching, but she ignored the pain as best she could. She kept at it and was just getting the fifth pin into place when the hairpin broke. The “snap” seemed deafening in the complete silence.

  Hellen froze, listening for any sound outside, mentally cursing herself. The broken section of the hairpin was still stuck in the lock; even if she managed the last pin now, she would not be able to turn the cylinder or open the door. She removed the second pin from her hair and started digging in the lock for the broken piece. With tweezers she might have been able to fish it out, but with only the tip of a hairpin to work with it proved difficult. She could feel the broken piece wedged in one of the pin slots; it would take a certain amount of force to pry it out. It would make some noise, and she risked breaking the second hairpin as well—and then any chance she had of getting out of there would be gone.

  With a mixture of caution and strength, Hellen poked and prodded and finally managed to free the broken piece from the lock. One of the pins had slipped back into its original position in the process, but she was able to rectify that quickly enough. Now only one pin separated her from freedom.

  Hellen’s heart was beating so loudly that she was afraid whoever was outside would hear it. Her final attempt with the hairpin did the trick: the fifth pin slid into place, and Hellen began to turn the cylinder carefully. The hairpin held, and Hellen was overjoyed when she heard the low scrape of the rotating cylinder. She took a few deep breaths, relieved. Now she had to get out of there.

  She grabbed her purse and returned to the door. Grasping the door handle, she turned it bit by bit. The handle made a faint squeaking sound, and Hellen could only pray that the hinges wouldn’t wake the entire house when the door opened. But she had to take the risk. As gently as possible, she pushed the door. To her astonishment, it swung open silently. She found herself looking into a room faintly lit by the moon outside. Even in the dim light, she saw at once that the room was filled with art objects and artifacts of every description. Unfortunately, none of them were the artifacts she was looking for.

  The next moment the room was brightly lit, and Hellen reflexively raised one hand in front of her eyes. For hours her eyes had been accustomed to the darkness, and the sudden glare hurt. She held her breath.

  “Leaving so soon?”

  The voice struck Hellen like a slap to the face. She stared into the eyes of her abductor. Jacinto Guerra was standing in front of her, a pistol in one hand, his other index finger raised in reproach.

  34

  Tom’s room, Fort Tabarka, Tunisia

  There was a moment when it became clear to Tom that Ossana wasn’t looking for a night of love after all: the headbutt to his face three seconds after she kissed him was fairly unambiguous. Blood spewed from his nose, and a searing pain shot through his skull.

  It took him a few seconds to adjust to the new situation. Just moments before, he’d been thinking of some way to extract himself from his slippery position. Now, however, the situation had changed.

  “Dr. Pfeiffer, you haven’t been truthful with me,” she said, putting on a scolding voice. “Or should I say Thomas Maria Wagner?” Her voice switched from childlike annoyance to ice-cold aggression.

  Tom flinched. His cover was blown. But almost more annoying was that his middle name had been used—again—and that, like almost everyone, she had pronounced his family name wrong. Ossana struck again, this time with a fist aimed at Tom’s face, but this time he was prepared. He managed to deflect the blow, and with a skillful twisting movement he wormed out from under Ossana, simultaneously throwing her off. He jumped up and wiped the blood from his nose with a forearm.

  “Ohhhh, don’t you want to play with me anymore?” Ossana pouted, standing up beside the bed and dropping, catlike, into attack position.

  It was probably the most bizarre duel of his life. In front of him stood a gorgeous black woman, stark naked and blessed with a body to shame a supermodel. Highly trained in close combat, she wanted to get into his pants at any cost—but not in a pleasant way. Concentrate, Tom told himself. He shook his head to dislodge the blood still trickling from his nose and over his mouth. Ossana’s reflexes and coordinated movements were quick and graceful. She pirouetted swiftly on her own axis, and her elbow crashed into Tom’s temple. The blow made him stagger. He had never seen the technique before and, for the moment, had no desire to experience it again. He had to come up with something.

  The guards, he guessed, were not only posted around the property, but also patrolled inside the fortress. His chances did not look good. He hated the idea of retreating with no new leads and with unfinished business, but he could only help Hellen if he got out of there alive.

  Tom put a little distance between himself and Ossana, trying to gather himself. He had to put her out of action as quickly as possible, even if only momentarily.

  He was able to dodge Ossana’s next assault and got in a solid blow himself, but Ossana’s next punch found its mark and Tom went down. This was exactly what he had been waiting for: he fell backward and crashed onto the floor. As he fell, he saw Ossana’s confused look. But he lay still with his eyes open, staring into space.

  Ossana, suspicious, moved closer, but she lost her focus for a second. That was all Tom needed to sweep his legs to the left with extreme force, and to Ossana’s surprise he knocked her legs from under her. Simultaneously, he clenched both hands into a double fist and Ossana crashed forward onto it, with no way to slow her fall. Tom actually heard the air abruptly exit her lungs. She lay on the floor winded, gasping for breath. Taking advantage of the momentary lull, Tom jumped up and ran out of the room.

  Ossana’s piercing cry broke the silence in the fortress and brought the guards running. One came charging up the stairs three at a time, but Tom’s close-combat training served him well. Faster than the man could think, Tom landed a targeted strike on his chin. The guard’s head cracked hard on the stone floor and he didn’t get up. In an instant, Tom relieved the man of his weapons. He pushed the pistol into the back of his waistband and hung the submachine gun over his shoulder, first checking that it was loaded and clicking off the safety—the familiar routine.

  Ossana, once again in her flimsy nightgown, came running out of Tom’s room. “Get him!” she ordered the two guards who came running in through the front entrance into the main hall.

  Tom, in the meantime, had reached the foot of the stairs. He didn’t think for long, but fired a salvo at the guards and immediately took cover behind one of the enormous columns in the hall. Bursts of machine gun fire kept him pinned there, chipping bits off the column all around him.

  François Cloutard came storming out through the double doors of his room. Confused, he looked down and saw Tom where he had taken cover behind the column.

  “What’s going on? What do you think you’re doing, shooting up the place?” Cloutard’s white silk pajamas, sprinkled with Louis Vuitton logos, undermined some of his natural a
uthority.

  The guards fired another volley at Tom, who responded in kind. Ossana was standing in front of Tom’s room, directly opposite Cloutard, and shouted down at the guards, “Hold your fire. I need him alive.”

  “What do you mean you need him alive? For what?” Cloutard yelled at her. He started to run down the stairs. “And what makes you think you can order my security people around?” Reaching the bottom of the stairs, he found himself between Tom and the guards. “Hold your goddamn fire!” he bellowed at the guards.

  He looked up at Ossana expectantly, obviously waiting for an explanation. The two guards looked from Tom to Ossana to Cloutard, uncertain what to do. Tom realized that he was dealing with more than one front; Ossana was clearly playing her own game, and he had no desire to end up as collateral damage in this domestic squabble. Nevertheless, her next order took even Tom by surprise.

  “You can shoot Cloutard. We don’t need him anymore,” she shouted down indifferently, with a dismissive wave of her hand. Her voice took on a more determined tone. “But bring me the other one. Alive.”

  Cloutard was a crook, but he was a man of the world, not prone to losing his composure. Still, when his lover ordered his own security men to kill him, he lost his temper completely. The guards were not quite sure who to listen to. Tom took advantage of the general confusion, firing two quick volleys at the guards at the entrance and then turning the gun upward to fire at Ossana. She stepped backward calmly, and the bullets only slammed into the solid marble railing. On the top floor, two more guards came running.