The Sacred Weapon: A Tom Wagner Adventure

by Roberts, M. C.

  “For you, Grandmother,” she said half-aloud as she sat back down at the table, immersing herself in the ancient language in which the book was written. She would plow through the book letter by letter if it meant that she would finally be able to unearth the clues her family had sought for so long. As she read on, she realized how indebted she was to her professor of ancient languages. Like him, she was one of around fifty thousand people in the world who could still speak Aragonese.

  42

  In the Italo Treno, en route to Milan

  Tom ducked for cover as four men in state-of-the-art combat gear swung through the windows and rolled skillfully to their feet. Instinctively, Tom had also grabbed Vittoria by the collar and had pulled her into cover with him. It was slowly dawning on Vittoria that these guys could not be her backup. The Italian police would never board a high-speed train. Fifteen seconds after the tactical team swung inside, the train lights went out. At the same time, all the windows still intact turned black. The train was equipped with smart glass, the kind also used for offices or in the sunroofs of modern sports cars. An electrical charge could change the opacity of the glass. Someone’s hacked the train’s controls, thought Tom. He was at the end of the car with Vittoria, holed up near the exit door.

  “Go! Into the next car,” Tom whispered to Vittoria impatiently. She obeyed, although she had no idea which side she was on, or what was really going on. But her instinct told her she was better off with Tom than with the men in black. Ducking low, with Tom holding the pistol at the ready, they moved into the next compartment. They found the conductor huddled in a corner, screaming vainly into his radio. Tom could decipher only one word in the desperate stream of language: Aiuto. Help. The man was as white as a ghost and his forehead gleamed with sweat. Clearly scared to death, he kept crying into the radio for help.

  Vittoria slapped the man hard in the face to break his panic. Once he had calmed down a little, she exchanged a few words with him and learned that, along with the loss of control over the train, all on-board communications had apparently been blocked. In the next car, the team was getting organized, and Tom saw them split up. He could see from their equipment that he was up against professionals: their state-of-the-art combat gear included ballistic vests, tactical helmets, night-vision goggles, grenades, Heckler & Koch assault rifles and pistols with laser sights—all the tools of the trade. Any remaining doubt about their allegiance was put to rest when one of them shot a passenger. These were the bad guys. And they’re here for me, Tom thought. They were everywhere. Vienna, Switzerland, Tunisia, and now here. Who were they? And why did they want him so badly?

  Two of the men made their way forward, toward the driver’s cabin, while the other two headed straight back toward Tom and Vittoria. Once they moved away from the shattered windows, Tom could make out little more than the red shimmer of their night-vision goggles and the lasers from their pistol sights. Stunned passengers, their faces visible only as red shadows, cowered in their seats, petrified. The intruders ignored them.

  The team moved with military precision. A quick look to the left, then to the right, weapons following their line of sight, making sure that the space they were entering wasn’t hiding any surprises. Step by step, they moved closer to Tom and Vittoria.

  Tom signed to Vittoria to move further toward the rear of the train. As they edged back through the compartment, Tom saw a camera bag on a seat beside an older passenger. Without waiting for permission, Tom opened the bag and removed a large, professional flash unit. The man looked at him angrily, but after a moment’s hesitation he seemed to think better of protesting. Apparently, he had learned to distinguish the good guys from the bad very quickly. Tom gestured to the passengers, instructing them to take cover behind the seats and to stay quiet.

  Tom folded down the table between two rows of seats that were facing each other and entrenched himself in the gap he’d created. On the other side of the aisle, Vittoria did the same. Then they waited.

  The compartment door slid open and the two mercenaries continued their search through the dark train. Four yards, three yards, two. Vittoria clenched the flash in her trembling hands. Tom counted down with his fingers: three, two, one, go! Vittoria jumped up and tripped the flash several times. Like a stroboscope, it fired bursts of light through the dark wagon. The gunmen, blinded by the sudden brightness, swore and tore off their night-vision goggles. Simultaneously, Tom leaped from his hiding place at the nearest of the two men and rammed his knife into the man’s throat. The mercenary went down gurgling, but that was the only sound he made: Tom had severed his vocal cords.

  The second gunman had also been knocked down by the force of Tom’s attack, but he recovered quickly and whipped his pistol into firing position. Tom was faster: his first kick sent the gun flying and it went off, firing a bullet through a window. The second kick knocked the mercenary down and he crashed to the floor between two rows of seats. As he tried to get up again, Tom, supporting himself on the opposite armrests, kicked hard at the man with both feet. The force of the kick launched him against the window; weakened by the bullet, the glass shattered under the man’s weight. At 150 miles per hour the noise of the wind was deafening. It drowned out the man’s scream as he was sucked out of the compartment.

  A few of the passengers spontaneously jumped up and clapped, but Tom signaled to them to keep quiet and sit down. He still had the other half of the team to deal with. He bent over the dead mercenary and searched his pockets. Unsurprisingly, there were no clues to the man’s identity. But he had the same, all-too-familiar tattoo on the inside of his forearm. Tom quickly removed the man’s headset and attached the radio receiver to his own belt. Then he picked up the assault rifle and ran through the routine check. He looked at Vittoria, briefly considered his options, then pressed the rifle into the young Interpol agent’s hands.

  “Stay here and look after the passengers. There may be guys on the train that we don’t know about,” he said.

  Vittoria was torn. On one hand, adrenaline was pumping through her veins and she felt like Lara Croft and Wonder Woman rolled into one. On the other, she was pissing herself in fear. Hesitantly at first, but then with growing confidence, she took the gun and nodded at Tom. Vittoria Arcano had grown up several years in the space of a few minutes.

  Tom made his way forward with Vittoria’s gun in his hand. He had to neutralize the other two men. He moved quickly through the compartments, indicating to the passengers that they should go to the rear of the train. Seeing the gun in Tom’s hand, no one argued. They got up and crept toward the last compartment, where Vittoria was waiting for them.

  As Tom entered the front section of the train, he heard a shot and instinctively ducked into the alcove by the bathroom for cover. Soon after, the train seemed to leap forward, picking up speed rapidly. At that moment, Tom heard one of the remaining mercenaries speak on the headset: “Have you got Wagner?”

  Although Tom was not surprised to hear his name spoken—and naturally mispronounced—it was still like a punch to the gut. All this madness really was about him. What had he gotten himself mixed up in? Why had these guys been sticking to him since Vienna like gum to the sole of a shoe? his questions would have to wait. First, he had to neutralize these two and find out why the train was roaring through the Italian countryside at what had become a terrifying speed.

  He decided to shift out of defense mode and go on the attack. Years of training were etched deeply into his brain as he switched to battle mode. He saw the two men ahead, in the next compartment.

  “Sorry for the bad news, fellas, but no one’s got me. One of your guys is sleeping back there. Doesn’t look like he’ll wake up, either. The other one had to get off the train early.” He paused, then said, “By the way, you should figure out how to say the names of the guys you’re supposed to kill.”

  While the mercenaries were still processing this new information, Tom jumped into the compartment. “Hands up and drop your weapons,” he yelled, pist
ol in hand. The two men weren’t particularly impressed by his order, and reacted more quickly than Tom had expected. They opened fire immediately.

  Tom dropped behind the seats. He returned fire, hitting one of them in the knee. The man collapsed like a marionette, screaming. His partner didn’t flinch and left the man where he lay.

  Guns for hire, Tom thought. No camaraderie, no loyalty.

  Tom and the last of his adversaries had both taken cover behind the seats. Stalemate. Tom had to act fast. Sneaking a glance, he saw that the man had taken cover directly beneath a fire extinguisher. He took careful aim and fired. The mercenary, trying to get clear of the chemical cloud spewing from the extinguisher, gave Tom a clear shot, and he took him down with one bullet. Suddenly, Vittoria was standing behind Tom with the assault rifle raised to her shoulder. She pulled the trigger, and the second man, whom Tom had thought out of commission moments earlier, went down for good. He had been about to shoot Tom, who had lost sight of him in the white cloud from the fire extinguisher.

  Quietly, Tom said a simple “Thank you.”

  “Prego,” Vittoria replied, smiling. A good-looking guy, she thought to herself.

  Quickly, Tom opened the door to the cab. The control space in front of him looked more like something from a modern fighter jet than a train. Across one of the large touch screens lay the body of the driver, a bullet hole in the back of his head.

  The lights and indicators in the cockpit were flashing like a Christmas tree. Tom didn’t need to know how to drive a train to know that this was not good. He looked out of the windshield and was momentarily horrified to see the speed at which the train was slicing through the landscape. On the map display, Tom saw a tight curve and a flashing dot moving toward it, far too quickly. At this speed, it was inevitable: the train would jump the tracks on the curve.

  “Sorry, friend, but time’s running out,” Tom said, and he pushed the dead driver out of his seat. He tried to get an overview of the controls, found the emergency brake button and hammered on it. Nothing happened. At 230 miles an hour, the train continued its headlong rush toward the curve. If they didn’t manage to stop it, there was no way they could avoid derailing.

  “Any ideas?” He looked at Vittoria, who shook her head. Tom jumped up and ran back to the conductor, who was still sitting on the floor. He pulled him to his feet and dragged him forward.

  “You’re the only one board who can stop this train, and you’re going to do it!”

  “But . . . I . . .” the conductor stammered.

  “Get it together! Or do you want to die here?”

  Back in the driver’s cab, the conductor looked around. He tapped like a madman on the touchscreen displays. “Somebody’s damaged the software. I can’t stop the train from here.”

  The curve was now alarmingly close. If they didn’t come up with a solution soon, it would be too late.

  “Think! There must be something!” Tom yelled at the conductor.

  “All right! If sections of the train separate for any reason, it triggers an automatic brake. It’s not dependent on the software that controls the train; it’s a completely autonomous emergency brake.”

  “Then how do we separate the sections?”

  “We can’t. They never planned for it. It’s just for emergencies.”

  Tom looked at the map display in alarm and then out the window.

  “Are all the passengers at the rear of the train?” he asked Vittoria. She nodded.

  “Okay, we do it the hard way. You two get back there, too.” The conductor left at once, but Vittoria stopped for a moment.

  “What . . . what about you?” she said, her voice faltering.

  “Let me worry about that. Make sure the passengers are as far back as possible.”

  Vittoria nodded. She looked at Tom for a moment and then ran after the conductor. Tom crouched by one of the two mercenaries and took the two hand grenades clipped to his belt.

  He ran to the next compartment, only then realizing that the train didn’t have the usual doors at both ends of each car. In reality, it was a single long tube, with glass doors separating one compartment from the next. He yanked the pins and jammed the grenades into the joint connecting the locomotive to the car behind it. Then he released the levers on both grenades and dashed back toward where the rest of the passengers were waiting.

  The grenades exploded, and the locomotive lurched and separated from the cars behind it. Just as the conductor had said, the brake system kicked in. It activated with so much force that it knocked Tom off his feet. Just ahead, at the curve, the locomotive jumped the rails and plowed into the landscape like a gigantic bullet.

  Seconds later, the passenger cars ground to a stop. Tom sighed with relief, but knew he had no time to rest. Rescue teams and the police would be there very soon. He had to get away as quickly as possible and find another route to Como.

  He raised one hand to Vittoria in thanks and stumbled out of the train, exhausted. Vittoria made no attempt to follow him.

  43

  Near San Francesco-San Pietro, Lombardy, eighty miles southeast of Como

  Ready to drop, Tom stomped along a path that crossed a field, heading for the nearest road. When he reached it, he sat down on a stone mile marker at the side of the road to collect his thoughts. The midday sun burned mercilessly. He could hardly believe how many obstacles he’d had to overcome in the last few days. The enemy he was dealing with seemed to be everywhere. No matter where he went, the guys with the tattoos were there too. And they were starting to wear him down.

  Once again, Tom weighed his options and thought about what to do next. He was stuck in the wilds of Italy, somewhere between Cremona and Piacenza. He had the tattoo guys and the Italian police on his tail. His phone had been smashed during the fight on the train, he was sitting on a lonely road in the middle of nowhere, and he had no idea how he was going to make it to Como. Hellen had been kidnapped about 36 hours earlier. Whatever the kidnappers were up to, he knew she didn’t have much time left.

  He was amazed at how quickly a life could be turned around—in fact, it was totally absurd. Out of the blue, his life was suddenly overflowing with exactly the kind of action and excitement that he’d been craving just a few days earlier. The thought made him smile. One thing was certain: if there were ever a worthy opponent in his fight to make the world just a bit safer, it was surely the tattoo gang.

  The thought of making the world safer reminded him of his father. In the short time they had had together, his father had said Tom one thing that Tom had never forgotten: “If you find something in life you believe in, never let go of it. You will never forgive yourself if you do. For the rest of your life, you’ll wonder what your life could have been like if you’d only kept trying.”

  So far, not much had gone his way. Every time he’d faced the tattooed guys, he’d drawn the short straw. He needed to change that dynamic, and fast. He would free Hellen, find the artifacts, hand them over to Palffy, and then hunt down his parents’ murderer. As his friend Noah always said, “If there’s a knife stuck in my back, it’s not time to go home yet.” Tom felt new energy course through him and he realized suddenly just how much Hellen mattered to him. Whether or not they ever became a couple again, her well-being meant more to him than anything else in the world.

  Tom stood up from the mile marker and followed the road north, hoping to hitch a ride. At the same time, however, he realized that no sane person would pick him up—not the way he looked. He could hardly believe his eyes when he walked around a bend just after a railway underpass and saw an old but well-preserved bright red Alfa Romeo Autotutto microbus with a flat tire. Around the bus stood four nuns, looking utterly perplexed.

  “Posso aiutarti? Can I help you?” stuttered Tom in broken Italian, and four concerned faces turned toward him.

  He must have made a disconcerting picture: torn jeans, a dirty T-shirt, scratches and wounds marking his face and upper arms. For a few seconds, none of the sisters sai
d a word. Then one of them approached Tom and asked him in English, “What happened to you? Were you on that train that just crashed? Are you all right?”

  The nun’s concern touched Tom.

  “I’m fine, really. It’s just a few scratches. And yes, I was on the train.” Tom smoothed his clothes a little and ran his fingers through his hair. “I can change that tire for you real quick. It’s no problem.”

  Tom inspected the punctured tire, grabbed the jack and the spare, and in a few minutes had swapped out the tire. The nuns were thrilled.

  “Thank God for sending you to us. How can we repay you? Oh, excuse my rudeness I’m all flustered. I’m Sister Lucrezia, the Mother Superior. And these are Sisters Alfonsina, Renata and Bartolomea.”

  Tom had to smile: the three nuns had unconsciously lined up according to size. Like organ pipes, he thought. Sister Alfonsina was at least six foot three and towered noticeably over the others. Sister Bartolomea, on the other hand, was under five feet tall, with Renata and the Mother Superior somewhere in between. Tom grinned, unsure about the correct way to formally greet a nun. Shaking hands seemed inappropriate, so he nodded to the sisters one by one.