Relics

by Relics (retail) (epub)

  Brulet gave another smile. ‘Don’t worry about me. I’m not down by a long shot, trust me. Now go.’

  Harker felt a quick sharp shove to his chest, and then he was falling backwards through the hole and tumbling on to soft grass.

  The high-pitched whine of a jet roared nearby, and he looked up at the craft to see Lusic crouching in the open hatch, beckoning him over. The Cessnar Citation’s twin turbines sent shockwaves rippling through the earth underfoot as it throttled its engines, readying to take off from the private tarmac runway. Harker picked himself up and began heading towards the jet, just as gunfire started up again from the gap in the wall behind him, encouraging him to run flat out.

  The jet aircraft was already moving as he reached the hatch, where Lusic hauled him up into the cabin with a firm grip before slamming the pressurised door shut behind him. Suddenly, everything was quiet except for the muted roar of the engine. A face intruded into Harker’s vision, and he looked up to see a worried-looking John Caster. ‘What the hell’s going on, Professor Harker?’

  He grabbed the lawyer’s clammy hand, pulled himself up on to one of the seats, and looked out of the window as the engine throttled up further, the g-force pressing against him. It was hard to see anything happening inside the villa as all the lights were now out, but, as the jet rumbled along the airstrip and lifted itself into the darkening sky, he could make out sporadic flashes of gunfire as the building began to fade into the distance.

  ‘Well? What the hell’s going on?’ Caster repeated, his eyes bulging in alarm. Lusic nudged the older man back into his seat before he himself sat down opposite.

  ‘It was an ambush by the Magi,’ Harker spluttered in explanation.

  ‘The Magi!’ Caster looked horrified. ‘How the hell did they find us?’

  Lusic shot Harker an accusing look before turning back to the lawyer. ‘Don’t you get it? We were set up.’

  The lawyer rubbed his balding crown vigorously. ‘And how about the chief?’

  Lusic smiled confidently. ‘I don’t know, but Sebastian’s got more lives than a cat. If there’s a way, he’ll make it.’

  Caster cleared his throat with a grunt and wiped away the bead of sweat that had broken out on his forehead with a white handkerchief. ‘The real question is where do we go now?’

  Both men turned to face Harker, who was still trying to gather his thoughts. He recalled how Maddocks had mentioned London as one of Archie’s destinations but nothing more. At least, it was a start. ‘London,’ he said firmly. ‘Tell the pilot to plan a course to London Heathrow.’ He turned his attention to the window and stared at the scattering of house lights a few thousand feet below whilst he attempted to figure out his next move.

  Damn it, Archie, what the hell did you get yourself involved in?

  Chapter 20

  Drazia Heldon slammed his massive fist down on to the kitchen counter, causing the entire surface to shudder before pulling his hand away and peering at the black smudge that had been a bluebottle only moments earlier. ‘At least you won’t be annoying me any more,’ he muttered, wiping his hand on a grubby dishcloth before heading back to the lounge with his steaming cup of Capo Colombo. The seven-foot tall, three-hundred-pound assassin set his coffee on a cheap metal table and stared out through the grit-stained window and across the small floodlit airfield spread out below.

  He had always felt at peace in this flat despite its filthy conditions. To anyone else, this place looked and smelt like a crack den, somewhere to be avoided at all costs, but to him, it was a sanctuary. He had used the airfield safe house many times over the past couple of decades, and practically nothing had changed in that time period, which, for some reason, he found extremely comforting. Outside, a small single engine Piper Lance awkwardly lowered itself onto the overgrown grass runway. This jerky landing brought a smile to the giant’s lips.

  ‘That’s a newcomer to night-time landings, if ever there was one.’

  The small private airfield was snugly located between the foothills of the Monti Tiburtini and was used mainly as a pilot school. Situated just twenty miles outside Rome, it was a perfect place for beginners and was far enough from any main roads to not draw any undue attention. The old airstrip had been purchased by the Magi seventy years previously, and the small pilot-training school had been set up there in order to hide its true operational purpose. It was one of many such landing strips composing a flight network that allowed agents of the Magi to travel around the globe without attracting the watchful eyes of border controls. Couple this advantage with the scores of customs and excise agents on the organisation’s payroll, and it ensured that flying from country to country was a very private affair.

  The apartments bordering the northern edge of the airfield had once been furnished to the highest standards, but, as the years progressed and the interiors had faded, they now looked almost ready to be condemned. At a glance, even the exteriors would now convince most people to stay away for fear of getting mugged or raped. This provided a perfect location for a safe house.

  At the northern apex, a rusting, though well secured, hanger concealed a fleet of five Lear jets, allowing quick access to anywhere throughout the world. There was even a rota of eight pilots undertaking specific shifts so that there would always be one on call, twenty-four seven. It was a sharp set-up that ensured Magi operatives could reach their destination within hours of receiving their orders.

  Outside, on the rain-sodden grass runway below, the trainee pilot of the small single-prop Piper peered triumphantly out of the cockpit window as he pulled into a floodlit, demarcated parking space. Heldon pulled himself away from the window, not wanting to be spotted, and slumped on the dirty brown sofa with a gasp of discomfort. He cursed both his lungs and the cigarette that was jammed between his lips. He really had to give up this filthy habit; it was so dirty, so unhealthy but, unfortunately, so fucking necessary. The thought of not being able to light up a cigarette first thing in the morning made him even more anxious than the prospect of contracting lung cancer.

  Heldon pulled out a plain brass Zippo and, with one oversized thumb, flicked open the lid with a metallic click. He then lit his cigarette before closing the lighter with a flick of his wrist. He took a long, deep drag and settled into the sofa as an episode of Star Trek began showing on the small TV balanced precariously on a rickety wicker chair in front of him.

  He wasn’t a natural fan of the show, but this old colour television set could only receive two channels, and because Momma’s Family, which he hated, was on the alternative, Star Trek had won his vote outright. Heldon had never understood why his superiors spent so much money on these secret hangars but were far too cheap to buy him a decent TV. And if they thought he was going to waste his own money on acquiring one, then they could fucking forget it. What did they take him for, a total mug?

  Outside, another light aircraft began flaring its engines as the pilot attempted a textbook landing, its wheels touching down with a few brief thuds that sent a light tremor through the apartment building and the TV.

  As the show’s credits began to roll, the assassin’s stomach clenched once again, his anger suddenly spiking as it had done at the monastery earlier that same day. What a mess, he reflected, to have been so close to ending the game that had begun with Archie Dwyer stealing what did not belong to him and should have finished with the death of that prick Harker. How could he have fallen for such an obvious trick – allowing the professor to slip away right between his legs? It was almost unforgivably stupid. He punched his own cheek with such force that he felt his teeth rattle.

  ‘Idiot.’

  Balthasar had taken it relatively easy on him, but he could tell his mentor was furious, and he had promised himself no more slip-ups. Heldon thought back to a meeting a few weeks earlier with Lord Balthasar and Cardinal Rocca: how Rocca had held no faith in his ability to track down and acquire the relics, and how his master had defended him.

  Cardinal Rocca had even declared
to his face that, whether Drazia was a member of the Magi or not, he wasn’t smart enough to do this job quietly and such an important task shouldn’t be left to a simpleton.

  Simpleton!

  Heldon had needed all the restraint he could muster just to stop himself from grabbing Rocca by the neck and snapping it in half like a breadstick. Luckily, Balthasar had rallied to Heldon’s defence by taking the decision out of the cardinal’s hands.

  The giant let out an uncomfortable sigh. And now here he was after fucking everything up. Thank God, he had at least captured the Dwyer woman and managed to smuggle her into the Vatican without anyone seeing. Otherwise, they might have turned their backs on him completely.

  Heldon stubbed out his cigarette and clasped his thick skull with both hands. Throughout his life, he had never before failed his master, but to do so now during such an important mission was … well, it was really fucking bad. When Lord Balthasar had inducted him into the Magi, almost two decades ago, it had been merely a blessing, but now it had become the only family he had and he would do anything to protect it.

  After the war in Yugoslavia during the ’90s, he had spent a whole year evading those wretched war crime tribunals, who insisted in sticking their noses into affairs that did not concern them. With time running out until they finally caught up with him, the hulking giant had seen it as a godsend when someone approached him with an invitation to meet the master. Heldon had never even heard of the Magi, but, they, nonetheless, sought him out because he had, as it was explained, the right aptitudes and character to serve their organisation, and he formally entered their ranks that very same day. On further training as an assassin, the younger Heldon discovered he had a special talent for it, even if things often ended up getting a little messy. Brute force, he had already discovered during the war, was his major strength, and he now put it to good use. If the powers that be wanted a quieter, more subtle message to be delivered, then someone else was sent to do so, but if they wanted to cause fear and destruction, then he was the one they called on. In hindsight, therefore, he may not have been the right candidate for this job, but once Cardinal Rocca had referred to him as a simpleton, he was forced to protect his reputation and had begged Lord Balthasar to give him the task. Heldon gave an annoyed shake of his head. No, he didn’t want to think about that now, and next time, he would not fail.

  He slid another cigarette from the pack and flicked open his Zippo, ready to spark it up, when suddenly the phone in his trouser pocket began to vibrate. He put down the cigarette and flipped open his mobile.

  ‘We have a location on the second item. Our contact is currently with the professor on a jet heading there right now, so time is of the essence.’ Balthasar’s voice sounded rasping and shrill, obviously excited by this new information.

  ‘Yes, My Lord. I will prep the plane immediately. Where to?’

  ‘London. Get going, and I’ll call you with more instructions.’

  Heldon unconsciously nodded in agreement at the mobile. ‘Yes, sir, I’m on my way.’ There was a brief awkward silence before the line crackled back to life.

  ‘And Drazia … My friend, there is no more room for any mistakes. Do you understand what I’m saying? You know what happens to those who don’t fulfil their tasks, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I do.’

  ‘Good. Then do not fail me.’

  ‘Thank you, my …’ He had not even finished before the line cut out, and within seconds, he was heading for the door, already scrolling through his contact list for one of the pilots’ contact number. Heldon gulped nervously as there would be no second chances this time around; if he screwed up again, he would end up dead just like that professor was soon to be.

  Chapter 21

  Superintendent Perone lit one end of his tightly rolled Villager cigar and sucked on it until the tip glowed bright red before blowing out the match and dropping its smoking corpse over the edge of the police station roof, down on to the pavement thirty feet below. He took another deep refreshing drag and let the thick smoke seep slowly from his mouth into the night air, enjoying the bitter aftertaste on his tongue.

  At the end of a working day, he enjoyed coming up to the roof for a well-earned smoke and the chance to gaze out across the city he protected. The police station was one of the older buildings in the area, and many newer structures had grown up around it. The top storeys of them now hid most of the natural skyline, giving the view a closed and slightly claustrophobic feel, but, to Perone, it nevertheless felt cosy.

  In the sky above, a full moon was just beginning to rise, bathing the crowds of hurrying people below in a white-yellow hue as its clear light blended with the street lamps. The bustling activity of people coming and going brought comfort to the greying superintendent, and after such a shitty day, he deserved a little uplifting. He leant over the handrail to get a better view of an attractive blonde mother with two young children in tow, and the feel of the leather wallet containing his police badge jutting into his ribs made him smile.

  ‘Yes, sir, even cops need a little moment of comfort from time to time,’ he murmured to himself.

  He took another drag on his cigar and flicked some ash over the roof edge before spitting out a small piece of tobacco that had got stuck to his lips into the dried-up potted rose bush to his left. He gave a sigh of deep frustration at the day’s events involving the Cambridge professor, his chief suspect for at least five murders, who had been politically wrestled from his grasp. The muscles in his cheeks bulged as he cursed his superior’s decision to let them haul the professor away like that, right in front of his team. Christ, what a morale killer! He had contacted the chief of police immediately and argued furiously with the man, even making this call in front of the entire station team so everyone would know that he had done everything possible. But that hadn’t made a blind bit of difference, and Chief Diego had refused even to discuss it, making it clear that the decision had been made by someone well above his pay grade, in the government itself, and if he wanted to complain, he should start there. It seemed the chief had been assured by the minister of the interior himself that Professor Alex Harker was not guilty of the charges and that instead the real suspect should be found and arrested without delay. It was at this point that Perone had laughed out loud; after all, there wasn’t another suspect except for this Dwyer woman Harker had kept squawking about – of whom, by the way, there was absolutely no trace whatsoever.

  Within minutes of arresting that British bastard, his team had searched the monastery from top to bottom, and the only thing they had discovered were the mutilated bodies of two monks. As for the seven-foot assassin with a sword for an arm and the body of a professional wrestler, there was no evidence of him. And although the murder weapon had not been found, it would probably turn up somewhere in the monastery grounds, wherever the professor had dropped it.

  Perone shuddered at the memory of Father Valente’s head roasting amongst the smouldering embers of the open hearth. He was not much of a religious man, but to have a priest’s death go unsolved – let alone two – was not something he wanted resting on his conscience. He puffed away on his cigar, once more allowing that feeling of contentment to fill his mouth. No, sir, he didn’t need that kind of shit weighing on his shoulders.

  Behind him, the fire door creaked open, and a young officer in plain clothes poked his head through the gap. ‘Sir, I’m sorry to disturb you but …’

  Perone cut him off straight away. ‘It’s pretty clear you’re not sorry, or you wouldn’t have disturbed me in the first place. I only asked for five minutes, a crappy five-minute break, that’s all.’ He sighed deeply and took another puff of his cigar.

  ‘Understood, sir, I’ll come back in a few minutes.’

  The older growled loudly, ‘Kid, you’ve already ruined the moment. Don’t you fucking dare now disappear without telling me what you want.’

  The junior officer cleared his throat with a cough. ‘You asked Benito and Gaetano to follow
the consulate car carrying the professor. Well, you were right. They didn’t go anywhere near the British embassy. They followed them to a large villa on the edge of town, and now they’re reporting gunfire. I’ve told them to hold off until a back-up team arrives.’

  A satisfied grin spread across Perone’s lips. ‘I fucking knew it. Is the team tooled up?’

  ‘Yes, sir, awaiting your orders.’

  The superintendent nodded approvingly. ‘Then get them in the vans and over to that villa, now.’

  The subordinate gave a jerk of his head and was already disappearing down the fire steps when his superior called out after him.

  ‘And, Detective, no one goes in there until I’m on site, understand? I don’t care how bad it is.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ And with that, the officer was gone, leaving Perone free to take one last drag of his cigar before lobbing it over the roof edge and heading downstairs. The feeling in his gut told him this was going to be a long night – just the kind he loved.

  On the street below, an old man with a wicker shopping basket and a light but sturdy wooden cane hobbled home after an hour’s shopping. It wouldn’t be until he arrived there and unpacked that he’d notice the large hole burnt into his basket and the half-smoked cigar that had caused it.

  Chapter 22

  A loud rattling sound assaulted Father Reed’s eardrums.

  ‘Wake up, you treacherous wretch.’

  Reed clasped his ears with both hands and glanced towards the source of the din, his vision blurry and eyelids heavy.

  ‘That’s it, Father. Over here.’ Again, Cardinal Rocca swiped a metal drinking cup back and forth across the prison cell bars, each clink mercilessly increasing Reed’s already throbbing headache.

  ‘Enough, I’m awake!’ he protested, massaging his aching skull as a flickering light bulb overhead added to the violation of his senses.

  Rocca threw the cup to the floor and grasped the bars of the cell door with both hands. ‘I want you to clear your head and take a good look at your surroundings, Father Reed, because if you don’t answer my questions truthfully, then I swear by Christ you’ll spend the rest of your life in this dark, dank shithole. Do you understand me?’