The Eye of Moses - Vatican Knights Series 22 (2020)
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THE EYE OF MOSES
By
Rick JONES
© 2020 Rick Jones. All rights reserved.
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The Vatican Knights is a TRADEMARK property
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For more information e-mail all inquiries to:
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Also, by Rick Jones:
Vatican Knights Series
The Vatican Knights
Shepherd One
The Iscariot Agenda
Pandora's Ark
The Bridge of Bones
Crosses to Bear
The Lost Cathedral
Dark Advent
Cabal
The Golgotha Pursuit
Targeted Killing
Sinners and Saints
The Barbed Crown
The Vatican Knights series continued:
The Devil’s Magician
The Nocturnal Saints
The Brimstone Diaries
Juggernaut
Original Sins (a prequel)
In Between God and Devil
The Sinai Directive
The Barabbas Connection
The Eye of Moses
The Eden Series
The Crypts of Eden (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)
The Thrones of Eden (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)
City Beneath the Sea (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)
The Sacred Vault (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)
City Within the Clouds (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)
City Beneath the Ice (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)
With RICK CHESLER
First Strike
Standalone ADVENTURE:
The Menagerie (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)
The Man Who Cast Two Shadows
The Valley (Severed Press)
Mausoleum 2069 (Severed Press and Luzifer-Verlag)
The Hunter Series:
Night of the Hunter
The Black Key
Theater of Operation
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
CHAPTER SIXTY
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
CHAPTER SEVENTY
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
CHAPTER EIGHTY
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
Mayfair, the West End of London
Nineteen Days Ago
On a beautiful evening with streamers of fading light disappearing beyond the horizon, Wendall J. Somerset could not have been happier. Not only did he live in one of the most affluent locations in London, he also adored his family. And since little in life was perfect, he considered his wife and daughter to be close to it.
Getting off the tube at Mayfair, Somerset stopped by a flower shop to purchase a colorful arrangement of roses before continuing to his residential flat. Entering his home, he called out to his wife from the foyer while placing his fedora on the entry table, then walked into the dining room with the bouquet in hand. Within the subsequent moments that seemed to move with the slowness of a bad dream, Wendall J. Somerset released the bouquet to the parquet floor.
Sitting at the table with his wife and daughter was a man with a pallid complexion, shock-white hair, and eyes so pale they appeared almost entirely white. When Somerset tried to pin the stranger with a matching stare, it was as though he was looking directly through the man.
“Good evening, Mr. Copernicus,” the stranger stated evenly. In his hand and directed to his daughter’s head was a suppressed Glock. Across the table and sitting with paralytic terror was Somerset’s wife, whose eyes darted inquisitively from her husband to the stranger as their daughter wept. Then from the stranger whose measure remained strangely indifferent, he said, “You’re ten minutes late.” Looking at the roses on the floor, he added, “But now I see why.”
“What do you want?”
“What I want from you, Mr. Copernicus, is the answer to a single question. That’s all I’m asking for.”
At the mention of the name ‘Copernicus,’ Somerset let a facial tic slip that was noticed by the man holding the Glock.
“I see,” the pale man said after intuiting the movement. “You obviously left your family in the dark regarding certain moments of your life, didn’t you? Choosing to be a man of mystery by allowing your family to live with a lie.” He turned to Somerset’s wife. “Did you think that your husband could provide you with such a lavish lifestyle in one of the most affluent places in London simply on an accountant’s
salary? Or did you turn a blind eye because you were afraid to learn the truth in fear that it might all go away?” Then he cocked his head like a baffled dog to study her features before he made his conclusion. “No,” he said, “I believe you really thought that he was an accountant.” He turned to Somerset. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Copernicus? You lied to your family as to who you really work for. Or what you really do.” Then the stranger clicked his tongue several times as if to shame Somerset, though in jest.
“I don’t have anything you want,” Somerset informed the stranger. “Believe me.”
“Believe you? I believe you have the answer I’m looking for, Mr. Copernicus. And I plan to get it.”
Then from his daughter who, in between hitching gasps, asked, “Why does he keep . . . calling you . . . Mr. Coperni—”
Somerset cut her off by patting the air with his hands. “It’s going to be all right, sweetheart. Everything’s going to be fine. Trust me.”
Then the stranger whispered into the daughter’s ear with the point of his weapon pressed to her temple, causing the flesh to dimple beneath its touch. “Yes, sweetheart. Everything’s going to be fine as soon as your father tells me what I want to know.”
At this precise moment when Somerset saw his daughter sobbing with indescribable fear, it was then that his integrity broke down to the point of disavowing any honorable oaths he had taken to conceal ancient secrets. Then, and in a voice that was on the edge of cracking, he said, “Please . . . All I ask is that you don’t hurt my family. I’ll give you whatever you want. Whatever you need.”
“I know you will.”
The man was so calm and so contained with a skinny range of emotions, Somerset had come to realize that this stranger was more than capable of committing murder without a conscionable pang of guilt.
“What do you want?” Somerset asked him. “Why are you here?”
After a moment of dramatic pause, the stranger finally said, “I want to know where the key is.”
“The key? What key? I have no idea what you’re talking—”
The man turned the Glock on Somerset’s wife and pulled the trigger, the dampened sound no louder than a spit. A moment before she fell back with the force of the round’s impact, a bullet hole magically appeared in the center of her forehead as a bloodless wound.
As Somerset’s daughter cried out, the assassin cupped a hand around her mouth to shush her. With his other hand, he directed the weapon at Somerset. “This could have been avoided,” he said. “You could have saved her life if you had told me what I needed to know, Mr. Copernicus. Her death is on you.”
Somerset’s vision began to turn purple along the edges before darkness started to inch inward. Then his legs appeared to take on a boneless wobble to them and threatened to buckle.
“Perhaps you should sit down, Mr. Copernicus.”
Appearing adrift with his wife on the floor and her eyes at half-mast, Somerset fell into a chair and cradled his head within his hands, the man finally breaking.
“Come-come, Mr. Copernicus. You still have a lovely daughter, yes?”
Thick strands of hair bled through the gaps between Somerset’s fingers, as he clenched his pompadour mane. “Please don’t hurt my baby.” The man sounded so lost and empty; all he could cling to was marginal hope that everything would work itself out in the end. “I’m begging you.”
The assassin turned to Somerset’s daughter. “What’s your name sweetheart?”
Through hitches and sobs, she answered, “Amy.”
“Amy.” He nodded at this as though he approved. Then: “That’s a pretty name for a pretty girl. How old are you, Amy?”
“Thirteen.”
“Thirteen. A teenager. How about that?” Then he returned his focus on Somerset, who was watching every move of the assassin from eyes that had a hot and rheumy thickness to them. “A very pretty girl for thirteen, Mr. Copernicus. For sure. Can you even begin to imagine how beautiful she would be at twenty-one?” After a beat, the stranger added, “That is, of course, if she lives to reach that momentous time of her life, which is completely up to you.”
“Do I have your word on that?”
“My word is as good as my bond, Mr. Copernicus. All I ask is that you give me what I want. It’s that simple.”
Somerset began to size up the situation and saw nothing but dead ends. His only option was to concede and hope for the best.
“Are you ready, Mr. Copernicus?” When the stranger pressed the point of his weapon harder against Amy’s temple, she arched her back and gave off a mewling sound. In turn, the man with the Glock spoke softly into her ear, his voice calming and soothing. “As your father promised, my dear, everything will be fine once he tells me what I need to know.” Then he turned to Somerset and with a slight edge to his tone, he asked, “Where’s the key?”
After committing the sin of hesitating, which caused the assassin to flex his trigger finger, Wendall J. Somerset told the man everything about the key, its location, and how to resurrect it from its grave.
Moments later, the assassin left Somerset’s flat in Mayfair untrue to his word.
He made sure that there were no loose ends.
CHAPTER TWO
Collégiale Saint-Laurent
Salon-de-Provence, France
Early Morning Hours, Eighteen days Ago
Close to the Collégiale Saint-Laurent in Salon-de-Provence in France, a man dressed entirely in black walked along the streets during the early hours of the morning carrying a weighted satchel. As he walked beneath the sodium-vapor lamps, his shadow waxed and waned as he moved from one cone of light and into another. The air was damp and chilly, at least enough for him to hike the collar of his coat around his neck. At so early an hour when the streets were vacant, the clicks from his footfalls echoed.
When he reached the door to the Collégiale Saint-Laurent, the man removed a lock pick Snap Gun from the inner pocket of his coat, inserted the points into the lock, and engaged the device. Multiple muted clicks sounded off as the trigger-powered needles maneuvered through the locking mechanism to strike all the pins at once, unlocking it. Once the Snap Gun did what it was invented to do, the man returned the unit to his pocket, grabbed his satchel, and entered the ossuary.
Walking down a cramped hallway, he could see the aura of burning candles peeking out from a doorway at the end. The moment he entered the chamber—which was heavy with the scent of melted wax—he noted the number of candles that burned close to a tomb.
Against the far wall was a memorializing plaque in French in regard to Michel de Nostredame, who died in 1566, and his wonders of foresight. Here were the remains of Nostradamus who had been reinterred inside this tomb in Salon-de-Provence, after having been transferred from a Franciscan chapel.
Moving away from the honorary plaque and toward an ornately designed tomb, the man searched for the seams between the tomb’s body and its lid. But he quickly discovered that the stone cover was tight-fitting as if hermetically sealed.
Opening his satchel, he removed a crowbar, a hammer, a chisel, then laid them aside. First, he attempted to soften the lid’s grip by jamming the crowbar between the crack where the lid and body met, then working the crowbar as if he were cranking the handle of a well. Seeing that he was getting nowhere, he grabbed the hammer and chisel and began to break away the cement that held the lid firm.
With the echoes of his hammering sounding off louder than he wanted, he would often stop and listen for a member of France’s Police Nationale, should they have been alerted. When silence bounced back, he continued his efforts to loosen the tomb’s cap. Within three hours, and after working up enough perspiration to reveal the Rorschach sweat stains that formed on the back and underarms of his shirt, the man was able to move the lid, though it was only a few inches. With more hammering, he was able to loosen it enough to slide the entire cap off the tomb and to the floor. Grabbing a flashlight, the man in dark clothing scanned
the tomb’s interior. Scattered bones were lying within the vault—a femur, a tibia, ribs, a grinning skull. While running the light, he questioned if these were truly the reinterred bones of Nostradamus, since some were stained a deep-coffee color, whereas others appeared to have been bleached white.
Casting the bones aside as though they were nothing more than annoying playthings, he brushed away an area of cement where the head would normally lie, then brought the head of a steel mallet to the vault floor. Cracks began to show themselves, the floor weakening. Then after being nearly spent with the weight of the hammer almost too heavy to bear, the vault’s floor finally gave way. Reaching inside, the man started to toss broken stones and debris aside until he saw a glitter of gold within the recess.
After setting aside more stones, he grabbed the item and held it aloft. In the cast of burning candles, the polished gold-plating of a crucible that was about the size of an ancient column krater, which was a vase-like bowl, shined as though it was truly divine. On the side of this vessel was an emblem. It was the Red Cross of the Knights Templar.
The man with the incredibly pale eyes smiled. “The key,” he whispered. In his hands was a world of riches that was far greater than the wealth of the Templars, he considered. Here, cupped within his hands, was the key that could access a power so great it could diminish continents down to ruins.
Quickly, the man gathered his items, stowed them into his bag, and just as he was about to get to his feet, heard approaching footsteps. His mission had been compromised, which really came as no surprise to him with all the hammering.
The footsteps became louder, grew closer. At least two people, he considered, maybe three.
Two officers of the Police Nationale rushed into the chamber with their weapons drawn, both demanding in French for the man to take to the floor in the prone position.
Then in a moment too fast for the officers to comprehend, the man removed his hand from the satchel, drew a suppressed weapon, and pulled the trigger in quick succession.