EMERALD
A NOVEL BY BRIAN JANUARY
To my parents
Emerald
© Copyright 2011 by Brian January
Published October 2011
All rights reserved worldwide No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, transmitted, or copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the author. You must not circulate this book in any format.
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BOOK ONE
ONE
St. Mark’s Basilica, Venice, Italy
WHEN the chancel floor exploded, Skarda hunched his shoulders and dove into the shadow of a colonnaded archway. Above his head shattered marble flew like shrapnel, gouging furrows in the frescoed plaster with a sound like chisels grating through stone.
A scream cut through the aftershock of the blast. Then another, jagged with pain. Getting to his haunches, he spun around. Through coils of acrid black smoke he could see strobelike images of three men storming up through the jagged hole at the presbytery: assault troops, dressed in pale red jumpsuits and military-style body armor. Gun oil gleamed in the candlelight as each man unslung a Kalashnikov AK-47 automatic rifle from his shoulder.
Parishioners sprang up from pews and wooden chairs, at first milling in terror, then fleeing for the narthex and the exit to the Piazza. Others stood frozen in place, their faces slack with disbelief. Under the canopy of the high altar a young black-robed priest broke and ran, his arms flailing wildly.
A second explosion made Skarda duck. High above the altar the apex of the Ascension Dome blew to pieces, raining down fractured wooden ribs, chunks of gilded stucco, and lead tiles. Smoke boiled through the opening, shredded to tatters by the rotor wash of an Mi-25 gunship silhouetted against the bright blue sky.
The fuselage door slid back. Black polyester ropes snaked down, blown almost horizontal by the downdraft. Then they grew rigid as three more armed commandos rappelled down, their boots hitting the gleaming floor with echoing thuds. The men fanned out, bringing their rifles to bear on panicked tourists. Two of the men were tall and heavily-built: one with close-shaved reddish-brown hair and a prominent nose; the other with a blond buzz-cut and the high cheekbones of an eastern European.
But it was the third man who got Skarda’s attention. He was at least five inches taller than the other two and sinewy-lean, with broad shoulders that looked unnatural on his slim build. His shaved head and dark skin made him look like an ancient Egyptian, but his eyes, sunken deep into oversized orbits, shone a striking azure blue, made more intense by the contrast to the color of his skin.
Clearly he was in command.
“Everybody down!” the tall man ordered. He said it first in Italian, then repeated the command in German and English. His rifle chattered out a few rounds at the ceiling.
A woman shrieked. Fleeing people flopped on their bellies, hands flung out in supplication. A child whimpered, its cry drowned out by a quavering voice praying in Italian.
A new sound reached Skarda’s ears: the muffled tread of booted feet from beyond the wall of the narthex. He twisted around, seeing the bronze doors flung open as three more armed men marched in and took up positions in the nave, their rifles raised and ready to fire.
Shrinking back into the deep shadows of the alcove, he quickly assessed the situation. So far the commandos hadn’t seen him, which gave him an edge. But it wasn’t worth much: with no weapons he didn’t have a chance against their firepower.
A tight smile pulled at the corners of his lips. There was another thing they didn’t know about: April.
Outside, on the broad Piazza, she would have seen the Mi-25 and the onion-shaped dome being blown to pieces.
She’d be coming.
But right now his eyes were locked on the auburn-haired woman with the funky black glasses who was backing up against the inner wall of the iconostasis, the marble-columned wall that separated the main nave from the chancel and apse. Her name was Dr. Laura Carlson, aka Flinders Carlson. He and April had picked up her trail half an hour ago and followed her here.
And now she was about to do something stupid.
Next to the smoking hole in the floor four carpeted steps led up to the high altar, and on it lay a sarcophagus enclosed in a pale green marble sheath covered by a metal screen. It was here that Church tradition maintained the skeletal remains of St. Mark the Apostle rested.
Now the blond man stepped up beside it, yanking a battery-powered jackhammer from his pack. Without hesitation he fired it up, gripping the rubber handles and thrusting the machine at the marble sheath like a spear. The chisel bit chewed into metal and stone, hammering at thirty-five times a second, spewing out a fountain of jade-green chips.
A man’s voice shouted in Italian. Skarda cut his eyes left, seeing the young priest who had run away earlier now coming storming back, brandishing a huge jeweled crucifix like a broadsword. His voice rising to a howl, he charged the commandos.
The big-nosed man lifted his rifle and pulled the trigger. Bullets tore the priest’s chest into a crimson mess and he was flung back against a fallen painting in a slick of blood.
Unfazed, the blond-haired man continued to blast the top of the sarcophagus to rubble.
Skarda’s intense blue eyes hardened into chips of polar ice. Again he looked at Flinders.
She was going to charge the altar.
Weapons or not, he knew what he had to do. Sucking in a deep breath, he stepped out into the open, very slowly, raising his hands high in the air. Immediately rifle muzzles tracked his position. Catching the attention of the leader, he rolled his eyes in Flinders’ direction, indicating they were together. The tall man nodded an okay.
Skarda moved out along the line of the iconostasis, mentally wincing as he glanced to his right and saw a tourist on the cold floor, his arms flung wide, a pie-shaped shard of marble buried in the center of his forehead. Next to him a woman had sunk to her knees, sobbing.
And on the other end, Flinders was rising—
He yelled out a warning.
But he was too late—
With a harsh cry, she exploded forward. “Stop!” she shouted at the blond man. “You can’t do that!”
The big-nosed man swung his rifle up to fire just as Skarda tackled her by the waist, dragging her to the floor and pinning her in place with his body. Breath exploded from her lungs, cutting off her cry of surprise.
Flicking his eyes up, he watched the gunman’s finger tighten on the trigger—
But the tall man stepped forward. An emotion had caused his eyes to narrow.
Recognition.
Reaching out, he grabbed the other man’s barrel and thrust it away. The man stepped back.
Flinders squirmed. “Get off me!”
Scrambling to a crouch, Skarda wrapped an arm around her waist and dragged her backward, struggling and kicking. With his free hand he fished out his Stealth VII smartphone, tapping 112, the local police emergency number.
No reception.
That meant the Bad Guys were jamming the signal. Using Flinders’ body to shield his action, he brought his hand up, snapping a surrept
itious photo of the leader and his men.
She was still wriggling like a netted eel. “Let me go! Don’t you see what that man is doing? He’s destroying a priceless historical artifact!”
He pressed his mouth against her ear. This close, he could hear her heart hammering like a frantic animal trapped inside her chest. “If you want to stay alive, shut up and stay down.”
She jerked her head away, eyes flashing. “Let me go! I have to stop them!”
Then a flicker of movement attracted his eye. Without turning his head, he slid his gaze toward the rear of the church.
A flash of dark hair.
April.
Letting him she know she was there.
She was crouched behind the railing of the woman’s gallery above the row of arched colonnades on the opposite wall about twenty feet above the floor. Below her position the three armed men covered the nave.
A wave of hope washed over him.
Catching his eye, she motioned for him to stay put. Then she swung her legs over the rail, letting go and dropping through empty space. Her fingers hooked on the top edge of the colonnade wall. Immediately she released her grip, reaching out again and grabbing the capital of a marble column to slow her speed. Then she slapped her feet against the column and launched herself into open space, landing on the shoulders of the nearest commando.
With a quick twist of her thighs she snapped the man’s neck like a rotten twig.
In blurs of black metal the other two commandos arced up their guns, but April was still in motion, grabbing the dead man’s rifle and jerking back the trigger, stitching a line of slugs across their torsos, almost cutting them in half.
Immediately bullets whizzed past her head from the direction of the altar, splintering pews and smacking into stone. Diving for the shelter of a column, she let loose a barrage of slugs, seeing the commandos scurry for the protection of the sarcophagus.
The pin clicked on an empty chamber. Tossing the gun away, she dived out into the open, sliding on her belly on the slick floor for the shelter of one of the dead men. Bullets cracked all around her, ricocheting, punching into the wall at her back and thudding into the corpse with the sound of meat cleavers chopping up a carcass. Snatching up the man’s rifle, she shoved to her feet and sprinted for the shelter of an archway, firing as she ran.
At the altar, two men charged down the steps, their AK-47’s blazing swaths of lethal fire. The big-nosed man shot to his feet, hoisting an RPG rocket grenade launcher to his shoulder, not bothering to snap up the sights. His finger jerked back and a rocket streaked towards April’s position.
She threw herself to the floor—
The rocket zoomed over her head. Behind her, a frescoed wall exploded, raining down fist-and-head-sized chunks of rubble.
Getting to her feet, she charged out into the open in a low crouch, firing until the magazine was empty. Around her a storm of bullets chewed pews to kindling.
The big-nosed man shouldered another RPG and fired a second rocket. Yards in front of her a gout of orange-red flame tore the marble floor into a maelstrom of shrapnel, blowing a pew to shreds and hurling her backwards to slam against an archway with a meaty smack.
Her body slid down the wall in a heap.
Horror filled Skarda’s eyes. His stomach clenched.
Shooting to his feet, he yelled at Flinders to stay down, then sprinted for the narthex, crouching low. In the vast hall of the church, the abrupt sound of silence rang in his ears, broken only by a low, insistent sob from one of the tourists.
At the altar the leader raised himself up, staring with icy detachment into the hole in the shattered sarcophagus. Then, with a curt signal to his men, he rappelled up to the waiting helicopter.
Skarda raced to April’s side. She was lying curled in a ball next to a broken column, her bare arms and face streaked with blood. He winced when he saw marble shards sticking from her body like miniature arrows.
He called out her name.
Her eyelids fluttered.
Then a second later she was on one knee, her black eyes watching the men rappel out of sight. Rivulets of blood flowed down both sides of her head, matting her long, dark hair.
Relief poured through Skarda like a healing drug. “You okay?” he asked.
Nodding, she flashed him a stiff grin, ripping one of the marble slivers from her arm. “I’ll live. The pews blocked most of the blast.”
“Any ideas who they were?”
She shook her head. “Nope. That chopper was an Mi-25 Hind gunship. Titanium armor, S-8 rockets, a twin-barrel autocannon, and a Yakushev-Borzov Gatling gun. Russian. Like the AK-47’s and RPG. Heavy firepower. Those guys weren’t amateurs.”
“Not good.”
“Not good.”
A minute later they had checked the tourists for casualties. Only the priest and the man in jeans had been killed. Now at the altar, Flinders stood beside the sarcophagus, staring down into the hole the blond man had jackhammered. Her body was trembling as though invisible hands were shaking her.
She looked up, her eyes glassy. “It’s empty,” she said. “There was nothing in it.”
Skarda recognized the symptoms of shock. Stepping up, he put an arm around her shoulders, beaming out a reassuring smile. He could feel her muscles quivering under his touch. “I’m Park Skarda,” he said. “And this is April Force. We’re the Good Guys.”
She turned her head up, gazing into his eyes. She seemed to be channeling strength from the muscular clasp of her arm.
“I’m Flinders Carlson,” she said.
Skarda already knew that, but he didn’t let it show on his face. In the distance he could hear the wail of sirens, dopplering closer. “Well, Flinders,” he said, “unless you want to spend the rest of the day filling out forms with the Venetian police, I’d say we’d better get the hell out of here.”
TWO
SHE had a face made to wear glasses, Skarda decided.
They were sitting at a rooftop table at the Terrazza Danieli overlooking the Laguna Veneta, the crescent-shaped body of water that separates the city of Venice from the Adriatic Sea. The late afternoon sun had transformed the lagoon into a sheet of hot, dazzling metal, broken by the shimmering crisscrossing wakes of ferries, gondolas, and water taxis. Skarda had ordered bruschetta, an antipasti platter, and grigliata di verdure, plus a bottle of Vietti Barolo.
Taking a sip of the excellent wine, he studied Flinders as she talked. She was in her late twenties, slightly younger than he was, with a sprinkle of pale freckles under her square-cut glasses and questing, intelligent eyes the color of sapphires. The stubborn set of her mouth suggested determination, or—what was worse—foolhardiness. Her thick auburn hair was cut short in the style worn by women who don’t want to bother with styling but still want to retain their femininity.
He found himself instantly attracted to her.
“Actually, my real name is Laura,” she was going on in a non-stop monologue. It was almost an hour after the attack but the words were still pouring out of her mouth in an adrenaline-fueled torrent. “But both my Mom and my Dad were archaeologists and my Dad’s personal hero was Sir William Flinders Petrie, a nineteenth-century archaeologist and Egyptologist, so that’s how I got Flinders as my middle name, and when the kids at school found out, they started calling me that, and it stuck.
“So anyway, I wound up getting my doctorate in Egyptology, but then I got fascinated by hieroglyphics and got a second Ph.D. in linguistics, so now I’m working on reconstructing proto-hieroglyphics and the languages that led up to the formation of ancient Egyptian—“
Abruptly she broke off, suddenly staring at this tall, dark-haired man with the intense cerulean blue gaze and his exotic-looking companion as if they had just materialized out of nowhere.
Her glass clinked on the tabletop. “Who are you people?”
Shifting in her seat, April scowled, letting out an almost imperceptible growl. All this talk was making her impatient—she preferred dir
ect and instantaneous action.
But Skarda flashed a charming smile. “As I said, we’re the Good Guys.”
Flinders’ scrutiny shifted from Skarda to April and back again, her eyes narrowing a bit. “That doesn’t mean anything. What do you do?”
His smile didn’t waver. “We work for OSR. The Office of Special Research.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Not surprised. We tend to keep a low profile.”
Suspicion shrouded Flinders’ face. “I.D.?”
Without hesitation he pulled a leather case from his pocket and flipped it open to show her a U.S. government identity badge.
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