by George Mann
The two men clambered out of the car. The Ghost was thankful there were no guards on the gates, but that didn't mean they wouldn't be seen. They had to tread very carefully.
The gates were too high to scramble over, so instead they took the wall, Donovan hoisting the Ghost up first and then allowing himself to be pulled up behind him. They dropped into a tree-lined bed of shrubbery, ducking into the shadows, watching the great house for any signs of movement. There were none. The gardens seemed to be deserted. The Ghost couldn't help feeling suspicious at the lack of guards. It was either a sign that they were, indeed, walking into a trap of some kind, or else that the Roman was so arrogant as to assume that he didn't need to post guards in the grounds of the mansion. He hoped it was the latter.
The Ghost beckoned to Donovan, and together they set out, clinging to the flower beds and the shadow of the redbrick wall, which appeared to run around the entire perimeter of the property.
As they drew nearer to the side of the house, Donovan pulled gently on the Ghost's sleeve, drawing his attention. He followed the line of Donovan's finger, seeing a man in a gray suit emerge from behind the big house, carrying a snub-nosed tommy gun under his arm. So he'd spoken too soon. There were guards, after all.
The Ghost considered his options. Too much trouble now would almost certainly get them caught. He didn't want to bring the Roman's whole household down on them, at least not until they were well inside and had a measure of where they might be holding Celeste. But if they didn't get rid of the guard, there was no way they were going to make it across the lawn to the house without being seen. The net effect was the same: either way, there would be trouble.
Carefully, the Ghost reached up and flicked the lenses of his goggles down over his eyes. Suddenly, everything was red. He twisted the dials, zooming in on his target. The man was heavy and overweight. He had one arm in a sling beneath his suit jacket and he was sweating profusely, out of breath from his walk around the gardens. The Ghost smiled to himself. It was the man from the bank, the mobster he had allowed to live, the one he had sent away with a message for the Roman. Well, here was his chance to take another message to his employer. The Ghost dropped to his knees, squelching in the soft loam. He raised his arm, sighting along the barrel of his flechette gun. He grabbed the rubber bulb that served as a trigger and gave it one short, hard squeeze, opening his palm to let it fall away again. A single flechette whistled away into the air. Seconds later, the fat man gave a short, stifled cry, dropping his gun and glancing down at his belly. Confused, he lifted his jacket, revealing a small tear in the white fabric of his shirt and a tiny sickle-shaped stain of blood. He looked as if he was about to cry out, but then the little blade exploded inside his belly, blowing a fist-sized hole right through him, scattering offal and blood over the gravel path with a sickening squelch. The man folded and collapsed into a heap.
The Ghost didn't bother to look over his shoulder at Donovan. He simply got to his feet and ran for the house, bursting from the cover of the trees and hurtling across the lawn toward the cover of the walls. He heard the thunder of Donovan's footsteps behind him. He tried not to look down at the body of the dead mobster as they rushed past, rounding the corner to the back of the building and finally coming to rest in the shadow of a large awning. Donovan was panting for breath. He looked as if he wanted to say something, to comment on the Ghost's actions in taking the guard's life in such a peremptory fashion, but the Ghost silenced him with a stare. Now was not the time for squeamishness or morals. Now was the time for action.
As the Ghost had anticipated, there was a rear entrance into the house, through a set of glass double doors that opened into a large solarium. Inside, the solarium was filled with exotic plants; large leafy specimens, covered in bright green foliage, along with lemon trees and colorful orchids, as well as a plethora of other flowers he could not identify.
That was their way in. That was their chance. They risked encountering more guards, hidden behind the foliage inside, but if they did, he'd just have to deal with them at the time.
The Ghost crossed to the solarium doors, ducking beneath the sill of a tall window to avoid being glimpsed by anyone inside. Beyond the window the room seemed to be a refectory or dining room laid out for a large group of people; no doubt this was where the Roman's men-or at least the ones he kept closest to him-took their meals under his watchful gaze.
He tested the doors, was surprised to discover they were unlocked. Again, that cold sense of fear and doubt. It felt too easy.
The solarium was hot and humid, even now, in the midst of a freezing November. He felt prickles of sweat stand out on his forehead as he worked his way inside, snaking through the leafy avenues of plants and vines, the columns of fruit trees and beds of orchids. He kept the barrel of his weapon raised at all times, scanning the spaces between the flora, alert for any sign of danger.
The solarium opened out onto a dayroom with gleaming, polished floorboards the color of amber and thick Turkish rugs in myriad hues and patterns. Landscapes-of Europe, he supposed-lined the walls, and a walnut sideboard was covered with a plethora of antique items, from a golden carriage clock to a silver letter opener in the shape of a miniature sword. There was one door-currently closed-that would presumably take them deeper into the house. The room had a musty smell about it, of dust and neglect. The fireplace told the same storyit had not been used for months, perhaps longer. The room evidently now served only as a corridor to the solarium and gardens.
The Ghost turned to Donovan, who was still extracting himself from amongst the maze of plant life. "Once we go through that door, we should split up. I'll look for Celeste, you look for the Roman."
Donovan frowned. "Are you sure that's a good idea? What if we run into trouble?"
The Ghost's expression was serious. "We've come here looking for trouble, Donovan." He let that hang for a moment, then continued, "I'll locate Celeste, get her out to the car, and come back. If you find yourself in a tight spot, try to hold them off until I can get to you. This way, at least one of us has a chance of success, even if the other gets caught. We'll end it, here, today. All of it."
Donovan didn't look happy with the arrangement. His face took on a dark and brooding expression, but he nodded in acknowledgement.
The Ghost crossed to the door, pressed his ear up against the panel. No sound from beyond. He guessed the door would open into a hallway connecting the refectory with the rest of the house. He waited for a moment, glanced up at Donovan to ensure he was ready, and then turned the handle and eased open the door. His heart was in his mouth as he readied himself for a shooting match.
But he was greeted by silence. The hall beyond the door was quiet and dimly lit by the watery afternoon sunlight that was streaming in through a glass dome in the ceiling. There was a grand staircase leading to the upper floor, with sweeping balustrades and a sumptuously carpeted tread. A small oak side table housed an old holotube unit, and a great, shimmering chandelier hung low over the marble floor, set with long strings of glassy stones. Five other doors radiated out from the large space: the main entrance, the door to the refectory, and three others leading to unknown destinations.
The Ghost would start with the upper floor, work his way back down. If Celeste were here, as he hoped, they'd most likely be holding her in one of the bedchambers. He'd leave the ground floor to Donovan for now. He looked at the policeman, who was glancing nervously out into the hallway, clutching his borrowed gun. Was it really fair for him to send this man into the lion's den alone? He knew it wasn't. But then ... Celeste. Celeste was here, and she needed his help. At least the policeman could look after himself in a fight. He clapped a hand on Donovan's shoulder. His voice was low and soft. "I'll take the upper floor. When I find her, I'll get her out quick and come after you."
He slipped into the hallway, moving lightly so that his boots made hardly a sound as he crossed the marble floor. He reached the stairway; looked back to see Donovan inching across the hall tow
ard one of the other doors, and then ran on up the stairs, the soft maroon carpet muffling the sound of his passing.
The Ghost had no idea what he was going to find up there, but he hoped-beyond all reasonable hope-that he would find Celeste, and that she would still be alive and well.
Donovan was still aching from his fight at the power station, from the gunshot wound in his shoulder, and from two sleepless nights spent tossing and turning in a strange apartment, worrying about his wife. His entire life had been suddenly turned upside down, seemingly on the toss of a coin, and he was still trying to make sense of what had happened. The death of Gideon Reece had lifted a heavy weight from his shoulders-regardless of how it had happened-but he wasn't so naive as to assume the problem had gone away. Reece was simply the Roman's mouthpiece, the man who did the dirty work, and Donovan needed to tackle the problem at its core. He needed to take down the man at the center of the web.
The only thing was, when it came down to it, he didn't know if he'd be up to the job.
He supposed it didn't matter how he felt. He was there, with a gun in his hand, creeping around inside the mansion of a murderous mob boss. He had a job to do, and he needed to keep the mobsters busy while the Ghost got the girl away to safety.
He eyed the three doors on the other side of the hall. He had a suspicion that the door on the far left, behind the stairs, would lead to the kitchens. Of the other two he was unsure. One could be the drawing room. The other a library or study. There was only one sure way to find out.
Donovan decided to try the middle of the three doors. He crossed the hall, glanced once at the stairs to discover the Ghost had already ascended out of sight, and then, drawing a deep breath, opened the door and stepped into the room beyond. It was dark, and he scrabbled for a light switch on the wall behind him. He found it, flicked it, and then stared in awe at the wondrous scene that stuttered to life before him.
He'd been wrong on all counts. The room beyond the door did not house a library or study, nor was it set out as a drawing room. Rather, it was a fantasia of bizarre artifacts and oddities from all over the world, a cornucopia of priceless artwork and treasures. Donovan tried to take it all in: a Michelangelo-an original-housed in a rough wooden frame. A Rembrandt, the same. A collection of ancient swords from all periods of history; a Saracen blade, a machete, a European broadsword-even a cavalry sword from the last war. Jewelry, pottery, papyrus scrolls. A set of leather-bound Latin tracts from Old Europe. A statue of Isis from Ancient Egypt. The model of a small wooden boat, a stone tablet engraved in an ancient language, a marble statue of a Greek or Roman god slaying a bull. All of these things and more. And to top it all, a glass case containing a tailor's dummy dressed in the armor of a Roman centurion, carrying a long spear and a tall, curved shield.
It was a treasure vault, filled to the very brim with items of unimaginable value. The Roman must have been hoarding them for years. How long had his criminal network been in operation? How many priceless artifacts had he stolen from vaults or museums around the world? Donovan couldn't believe the gall of the man. He was clearly an egomaniac, a collector who had taken his obsessions to a ridiculous extreme.
He moved further into the room, awestruck by the scale of the hoard. He approached the glass case, leaned closer to examine the centurion's armor. It was probably the best-preserved example in the world. It was near immaculate. Scarred, yes, where the man who had originally worn it had been struck in battle, but it gleamed like burnished gold, its decals and detailing still vivid. The chest bore the engraved head of a lion, the mouth fixed open in a fierce roar. He examined the spear. Surely the wood must have been replaced? Its long, sturdy shaft was the height of a man, tipped with a razor-sharp head of iron. The shield was a beaten panel, dented from successive blows, but still ablaze with color: bright, fiery red, crossed with flashes of yellow lightning. From the helmet, a plume of jet-black hair erupted.
Donovan heard someone laughing, softly, in the doorway behind him. And then a voice: "Remarkable, isn't it? I come here every day to look at it, to remind myself of how far I've come. Sometimes it saddens me, to think of home. But mostly it gives me the resolve to carry on. I don't suppose you'll understand, Inspector Donovan, but I miss those days. I miss the urgency of it all, the danger. Rome was such a jewel, a bright, shining light of civilization in a barren, heathen world." The voice was warm and gentle, thickly accented with a somber Italian lilt.
Donovan whirled around, his handgun by his side, his finger already twitching on the trigger. The man in the doorway was of average build, middle-aged, with olive-green eyes and coarse black hair that was turning to gray around the temples. He was holding his hands out before him to show he was unarmed. He was dressed in a neat black suit with a black tie, and he had a stately air about him, the air of a man untroubled by something so mundane as an armed intruder in his home. He seemed to accept the situation with grace, as if he'd seen it all before and knew the incursion for what it was.
The Roman looked longingly at the armor in the case behind the inspector. "I remember when it was made for me, as if it was yesterday." He sighed. "It still fits, you know. Just as snug as it did all those many years ago."
Donovan just stared at him, clutching the grip of his gun.
The Roman seemed to shrug off the reverie. "I see Gideon failed me once again." He regarded Donovan through narrow eyes. "So be it. He's an impulsive fool, full of self-import and theatrics."
"He's also dead," Donovan replied laconically, trying to prevent his hand from shaking.
The Roman nodded slowly, accepting this information without even a flicker of emotion. "How interesting. Did you enjoy his death, Mr. Donovan? I hope very much that you did. It's important to take at least some satisfaction in the killing of another, don't you think? Otherwise it's such a waste of a life."
Donovan didn't know how to respond to such heinous logic. Instead, he indicated the glass case with the nose of his gun. "It's quite a collection you have here. But I don't see the marble wheel you stole from the museum the other night. Where is it?"
The Roman's expression changed. All of a sudden he looked hard, serious, dangerous. His ire was up. Donovan repressed a shudder. The timbre of the man's voice had altered, too, becoming stern and commanding. "The item you refer to, the marble `wheel,' belongs to me. It was stolen from my house in Pompeii over eighty years ago, taken by a cadre of amateur grave robbers. They sold it to your precious museum, and I decided it would serve me well to leave it there until I needed it. Circumstances have changed. Now I want it back."
Donovan offered the Roman an incredulous stare. Was he really claiming to have owned a house in Pompeii? That this armor-this centurion's armor-was originally his? Donovan nearly lost his composure. The Roman was clearly insane, so wrapped up in his fantasy that he'd begun to believe it himself, begun to adopt the personality and history that his assumed moniker implied. Only ... the man's eyes were sharp and appraising, and he lacked the maniacal qualities of Gideon Reece. He didn't look insane. The artifacts in the room, too: none of them would have been easy to acquire, unless he'd been there at the time they were made ...
But Donovan knew that was crazy talk. Nobody lived that long. Most likely he'd acquired the items through nefarious means, exploiting his criminal network to obtain the treasures he desired, and was now so addled by the power he'd attained that he'd been swept up in his own myth, convincing himself he was a reincarnated Roman foot soldier.
Donovan actually found himself feeling sorry for the man, right up until the moment he swept into the room, catching Donovan off guard, and twisted his wrist so sharply that he dropped the gun on the hardwood floor and fell to his knees, croaking in agony. Then he remembered just who he was dealing with. But by then it was too late, and the Roman was calling for guards, who appeared moments later in their droves, armed and ready to serve their insane master.
Upstairs, the Ghost was having trouble restraining himself. He'd been lurking around the corner
at the top of the stairs for nearly five minutes, concealed behind a wall, patiently watching two goons as they paced back and forth along the landing, shooting the breeze in a relaxed fashion as they guarded one of any number of white bedroom doors.
He fought the urge to step out onto the landing and shoot them both dead. He much preferred the direct approach, but he needed to know which of the rooms they were watching over, and besides, he had his principles. When the time came, he would let them be the first to raise their guns in anger. Then he would kill them both and find Celeste.
Standing there, deadly still, was beginning to take its toll on him. As long as he kept on moving, he was okay, but now his muscles were starting to protest and the aches and bruises of the previous few days were starting to light up his nerves with pain. The moss man at the power station had given him a severe beating-more severe than he'd let on to Donovan-and he was starting to fear that the blow to his head had left him concussed. He was tired and sick to his stomach. But he recognized that could also be to do with the fact that he hadn't eaten that day, or a symptom of his reticence to discover the truth about Celeste. He had to save her-of course he did-but just as powerful as his desire to do so was his fear over what he might find. And even then, there was the terrible secret she had kept from him. Was it connected to all this? Did she know something about the Roman that she hadn't been able to tell him?
The Ghost watched the two mobsters as they reached the far end of the landing, tuned, and started back. As they did so, the one on the left flicked a quick glance at one of the bedroom doors, the same door he'd glanced at as he passed along the landing in the opposite direction. That was it, then. That was the door to Celeste. To his future. To whatever lay ahead.
The Ghost readied his flechette gun and strode out casually into the passageway, facing the two goons as they strolled toward him. The one on the right saw him first and started, recognition flaring in his eyes. He scrambled for his gun. The other, who'd been talking, took a second longer to realize what was happening, and by the time he'd reached for his weapon he was already dead, an explosive round in his throat. The Ghost had seen him go for his gun. That was enough. He couldn't help it if the goons were slow to the draw.
