‘There’s a contact of mine with Interpol who’s been tracking Jacob Winters ever since he first appeared on the criminal scene. I’m hoping he can provide something that we can use to locate him.’
‘Can’t you do that over the phone?’ Harker asked, not particularly happy either at having to leave Shroder, having only just met up with him again.
‘No.’ Shroder shook his head firmly. ‘I need to do this face-to-face. Winters is currently at the centre of an ongoing investigation involving multiple agencies, which means I have to tread carefully.’
‘Christ, John, we’ve only just caught up with you.’ Harker sounded a bit desperate, which he sought to rectify immediately. ‘Will be fine, though.’
Shroder rested his hand on his shoulder. ‘I know it’s a shit deal, Alex, but if we’re going to find this man, and with little time to spare, we need to explore any lead we get. Chloe’s life as well as the Templars’ survival may depend on it.’
That was clearly the right call, for Harker found himself grudgingly nodding in agreement, even though he still didn’t like the idea of the three of them going solo.
‘I’ll track down the Codex pages,’ Carter offered, much to the surprise of both the others. ‘This Winters fellow will only be communicating by text, so he won’t have any idea it’s just me. And besides, if your Corsican lead can offer a clue to locating the men who kidnapped Chloe, then you need to get to it first.’
Considering his own previous encounters while retrieving Codex pages had been near-death experiences, this offer by Carter seemed nothing short of bloody heroic, and Harker was stunned. ‘Are you sure about this, David? For all we know, Winters could be throwing you right into the grinder again.’
But Carter was already nodding his head thoughtfully at the prospect. ‘Possibly, Alex, but if you do find something in Corsica, then you’re the best one to follow it up. Besides’ – Carter removed his glasses and began to clean the lenses with his shirt tail – ‘I’m sure I can find ways to slow down my journey.’
‘That’s not a bad idea,’ Shroder now interrupted as Carter popped the spectacles back onto the bridge of his nose. ‘With the Templars now looking for you both as well, we could pretend to be playing it cautious. Wherever Winters sends you next, you tell him that air travel is out of the question because any place with a high security presence could potentially alert the Templars to your whereabouts, and therefore you’ll need to take other, slower forms of travel.’
Carter looked pleased that his suggestion was being taken seriously. ‘And cars break down, and trains and boats often get delayed.’
‘Winters is not a very forgiving man,’ Harker reminded him, playing devil’s advocate.
‘It’s a gamble, yes, but we’ll need all the time we can get,’ Shroder replied.
‘It is called stalling,’ Carter stated confidently, and licking his lips enthusiastically at the challenge. ‘Trust me, I’ll give you as much time as is humanly possible without tipping the balance.’
Harker took a moment to think about it but the look of determination and assurance in Carter’s eyes finally convinced him. ‘OK, David, good man.’
All three of them shared a few seconds of calm as the encouraging feeling of gaining some control over the situation settled in the air.
‘Right,’ Shroder said, slipping into command mode, ‘David will wait here for Winters’s message regarding the location. Alex, you’re going straight to Corsica to learn whatever you can. You can use the Templars’ private jet I’ve already been using. In the meantime I’ll meet up with my Interpol contact and discover as much about Winters as possible, and also anything else about these super-wealthy types you photographed in Spreepark. There’s obviously a link between them all, and I need to find out what it is.’
So far, it sounded like a good plan, but there were still a few questions burning at the forefront of Harker’s mind. ‘Meanwhile, what about the Templars?’
Shroder looked unconcerned. ‘I’ll call Tristan and tell him I haven’t found you yet, but have reports that you’ve returned to the UK… That should send Havers on a wild goose chase if we’re lucky. And concerning the Illuminismo, well, I’ve got a feeling that Winters is definitely behind the theft, and so if we find him, we find that.’
‘OK,’ Harker agreed, ‘and how should we contact each other?’
Shroder grabbed a black zip-bag from the bed and pulled out a couple of scratched-up-looking iPhones which he then passed over to Harker and Carter. ‘We can use these, as they’re both unlisted, but don’t use them unless it’s absolutely necessary. We can’t be sure exactly what Winters’s capabilities are, so let’s play it safe and smart.’
With most everything settled, there was just one last thing that no one had mentioned thus far, and it was Harker who brought it up. ‘And how about the small question of Judgement Day?’
Shroder looked unfazed as he pursed his lips. ‘For the record, I believe what you say you witnessed, but don’t ask me to jump on board with that whole supernatural shtick, Alex. There’s nothing we can do about any of it right now and, from what you’ve told me, everything appears to revolve around Winters, so he’s our priority. Finding him will lead us to Dr Stanton.’
The mention of Chloe brought everything back down to earth for Harker and he found himself in complete agreement. The only loose end was Vlad, but that madman now had everything he wanted, including the Illuminismo, so it was unlikely he would waste further time in chasing them. Or so he hoped. ‘There are a lot of moving parts in this plan,’ he said with a dry smile, and Shroder smiled along with him and placed a hand on Harker’s shoulder.
‘In my world there always are.’
Chapter 29
Dr Gavin Wheatley trod carefully along the Governorate basement corridor as he approached the secured makeshift holding cell with the key already raised in front of him.
The past night had seen his patient, Bishop Alfonse Esposito, howling continuously and banging ceaselessly against the walls, but then for the past four hours there had been total silence. Since the ‘thing’s’ arrival it had not been uncommon for an hour of eerie quiet before the screaming began once again, but never for quite this long.
Wheatley pressed an ear against the metal door to listen but all he heard was a light humming from one of the air-conditioning units positioned further along the corridor. He nevertheless kept his ear glued to it for over a minute, even closing his eyes in an effort to concentrate, but still nothing.
Wheatley pulled away from the door, then very slowly pressed the key into the lock. With his other hand he held the key’s shaft firm as he slid it in further, wanting to make as little noise as possible. Then, centimetre by centimetre, he turned it until he heard a click.
The door slowly swung open under its own weight, the light outside illuminating a small portion of the room beyond through the grilled inner door, and he cautiously peered inside to scan its dark interior for the now massive and distorted shape of Bishop Alfonse Esposito. He couldn’t see anything at first but, as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he eventually made out a large, huddled shape in one corner.
‘Bishop Esposito,’ he called out, still using the inmate’s name even if he now resembled nothing of the man he once was.
No response.
‘Bishop Esposito,’ Wheatley called out again, this time louder, but still there was nothing, not even a groan. As he eyed the motionless, shadowy mass, he considered turning the lights on even though, since the bishop’s transformation, he had kept the lights off continuously; to turn them on instantly generated the most violent of outbursts from the poor man but, given such a long period of silence, Wheatley could now see little other choice. He placed his finger on the light switch next to the doorway, then he moved back a step and prepared for the uproar he had come to expect. Wheatley flicked it on, the room lit up brightly as the mesh-covered strip lights above burst into life, and he found himself staring at the bishop’s disfigured bo
dy as it lay in a heap in the corner. It was the first time in days he had been able to see properly the changes that had taken place in the man, and he winced as he took in their full extent.
Esposito’s body had turned a blackened colour and the bony plates protruding from his shoulders had grown significantly. They appeared to now be attached to his spine as a single entity, with bulging back muscles that had caused tears in the skin. The face was hidden as the body hunched over in a kneeling position, facing the corner, with its thick bulky arms thrust behind to reveal open palms and sharp fingers. The digits looked claw-like, as if the individual finger bones had outgrown the enveloping skin and broken through at the tips, and they now lay against Esposito’s thick swollen thighs, which terminated in little more than stumps where his feet had once been.
Wheatley reached down and picked up a billiards cue off the floor which he had used previously to prod the man in order to have him angrily rush the door, allowing him to examine the prisoner more closely. This was not how he would ever normally treat his patients of course, for he was a doctor not a sadistic baiter, but this was no ordinary patient and so far any attempts to actually converse with the bishop had proved futile.
Wheatley reached through the bars with the cue and gave a gentle prod to the man’s buttocks. With no obvious reaction he followed this up with a far more forceful jab to Esposito’s thigh – but still nothing. Undeterred, and needing to be sure, Wheatley raised the cue upwards with both hands and slammed the tip down hard against Esposito’s lower back, which was as far as he could reach. Despite feeling as if he were striking it against concrete, the mass of deformed muscle and bone did not move a millimetre.
Wheatley drew the rod back towards him and placed it on the floor nearby, then did something that, during his whole career in medicine, he never for a moment had thought he might ever do. From his white lab coat pocket he pulled out a black 9mm Glock handgun and cocked its slide to chamber the first bullet. The guards outside had given him the gun at his request, even though they had no idea what it was intended for. Still, this seemed insane; he was a physician not a soldier, for God’s sake, but this was his patient, ergo his responsibility, and it genuinely looked as if the physical changes Esposito was experiencing might have proved fatal.
Wheatley pushed his key into the lock of the inner door and turned it. Then, as the barred door opened, he slowly took his first step inside with the Glock held up in front of him.
* * *
The two armed guards stood at the locked entrance leading into the Governorate basement, chatting away casually as they always did. With little else to do except stand there, the two men continued their usual routine of swapping bad jokes and stories of conflict until the next change of shift. At age thirty-two, Richard Dice was already a seasoned veteran, having served one tour in Iraq and a further two in Afghanistan, but although his was an impressive résumé it did not compare to that of his counterpart. Fifty-year-old Kyle Evans had served in the first Gulf War before making it into the Navy Seals, where he had a distinguished, if not publicly reported, career serving in some of the worst hotspots the planet had to offer. Both men had since left the military and found work in the private sector, but without doubt this assignment had to be the most boring. Contracted directly by the Vatican to act as little more than doormen, the two of them had taken the job because it meant good pay for almost no work, but after days of doing nothing except letting in a few bishops and Dr Wheatley, their routine had become tedious. Whatever was going on down there was unknown to them, but so long as the pay was good, then fair enough.
‘C’mon, that’s a funny joke,’ Dice moaned, giving his colleague a dirty look. ‘Don’t you get it?’
‘I get it,’ Evans replied, without even a hint of a smile. ‘But you told me the same joke last week, and it wasn’t even funny the first time.’
Dice went silent as he racked his brain trying to remember when but, amid the mountain of gags he had been delivering in recent days, he honestly couldn’t recall the occasion. ‘Then that’s the last joke you get out of me, pal.’
‘My days just keep getting better and better,’ Evans replied, smiling. ‘Now that’s funny.’
A reply from Dice was cut short when the sound of tapping began on the other side of the security door. Evans immediately approached it and tapped in response.
‘Dr Wheatley?’ Evans called out, but there was no answer except for another couple of taps.
‘Must be his break time,’ Evans decided and, with a nod from Dice, he unlocked the door and began to open it slowly – when something on the other side hit it with such force that Evans was sent hurtling backwards across the room, slamming into the far wall.
Dice already had drawn his gun but a thick, muscular and discoloured arm flew out through the doorway and landed a blow across his face, sending him to the ground in a crumpled heap. As blood trickled into his eyes, he stared up to watch as something lumbered out from behind the security door.
The huge frame of the erstwhile Bishop Esposito plodded out into the centre of the room and glanced over at the unconscious Evans and then at Dice, who was reeling from the blow. With a screeching howl, Esposito took off at a run in the direction of the exit, as best his seriously deformed feet would allow.
Dice instinctively pulled himself upright and rushed to Evans’s side. He pressed a couple of fingers against the man’s throat and, satisfied he could feel a pulse, he about-turned and began sprinting after the howling sound in the distance.
Within seconds he reached the exit, having already wiped the blood from his eyes. As he burst out through the half-open door, gun at the ready, he spotted the bulky frame of Esposito lumbering down the steps leading to the courtyard. Dice aimed his gun and let off a single shot into Esposito’s back, but it penetrated the solid muscle with a thud and did nothing to slow him down. Dice lowered his aim and shot three times at the creature’s thighs, and this time he got a reaction. Esposito stopped in his tracks and then slowly turned around to face his attacker, who had now approached to within metres, and without pause lunged towards Dice, who managed to get off a couple more shots before the bishop’s bulky frame had pinned him to the ground.
The stench of decomposition was nauseating and, as Esposito’s long, scaly tongue slid down and slapped against Dice’s cheek, the guard wrestled free his gun which had become trapped between them. He then jammed the barrel hard into what was left of the bishop’s mouth and pulled the trigger, sending a thick spattering of blood down onto his own face. Then, with a deafening ringing in his ears, he shot twice more.
Esposito’s tongue suddenly went limp and, as his single eye dulled, he let out one final deep, husky breath before collapsing right on top of Dice. After a few tries at going back and forth, Dice finally managed to roll the dead brute off to one side, then he slid out from underneath and scrambled backwards on his rear end. Still reeling from the shock of what had just occurred, he began wiping the thick clotted blood from his face and, unable to hold it in any longer, he vomited all over the stone slabs of the courtyard.
Vatican staff now began approaching him with looks of astonishment and circled the bloody scene as if not wanting to get too close to the disfigured, motionless corpse of what had once been Bishop Esposito.
The emergency services would not arrive for another five minutes, and it would be another twenty before the broken and battered body of Dr Wheatley was discovered deep within the bowels of the Governorate basement.
Chapter 30
The refreshing Mediterranean air rolling in off the water energized Harker with every breath he sucked through the open window of the taxi, as it made its way through the winding streets of the small town of Bastia. Nestling between the shoreline and the base of a mountain, this rustic paradise was the kind of place in which a person would be happy to forgo the toils of work and everyday life in order simply to reside or to just exist. Being a minor shipping hub meant Bastia was the centre for trade and commerce in
the north of Corsica, but the local economy thrived on leisure-ship travelling tourists, all eager to experience a slice of this picturesque region for themselves.
Unfortunately for Harker it was well past midnight and pitch dark by the time he arrived, so the only sights to enjoy were the street lamps and various house porch lights left on by the residents. Worse still, his taxi driver had been plagued by a chronic case of flatulence throughout the thirty-minute trip from Bastia airport, which was another reason for the passenger-side window being open.
Before leaving Shroder’s safe house, he and Carter had shared a good-luck shot of the cheap whisky Shroder had on hand and, given the dangerous task the ex-don had elected himself for, it was the least Harker could offer. Just for his own peace of mind though, Harker had instructed Shroder to empty the rest of the bottle down the sink after he departed, leaving Carter subsequently unamused by his friend’s lack of trust in him.
The taxi to Granville airport had taken about an hour from Mont-Saint-Michel and, as per the MI6 agent’s promise, he had found a Cessna Citation X+ waiting for him on the tarmac. The pilot had barely said a word to him, no doubt under orders from Shroder, and within minutes they were in the air and heading south towards the island of Corsica. The flight had taken them a few hours, during which time Harker had slept. After waking up on their arrival at Bastia, he had still felt woozy, sluggish and tired. This, thankfully or not, had been swiftly rectified upon being confined in a car that smelt of high-grade methane courtesy of the taxi driver, and his eyes had been watery ever since, although he was now at least up and alert.
The taxi came to a slow halt at the entrance to a dusty driveway. Harker was out like a shot and, after gulping down a few breaths of fresh, untainted air, he approached the driver’s window with caution and with his nose wrinkling.
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