The Protocol (A James Acton Thriller, Book #1)

by J. Robert Kennedy

  “When our ancestors came here with the original skull we believed it to be the only one. Then centuries later a second was discovered, and this was considered a great gift. Now a third has been delivered to us and look what devastation it has wrought! No man here can look me in the eye and deny that the third skull is responsible for this!”

  There were several nods and grunts of agreement, but no one yet was willing to back him verbally.

  “But we are sworn to protect the skulls! What you propose goes against the very purpose of the Triarii!” Jonathan protested.

  “No,” said Richard softly, trying to calm Jonathan down. “That is where you are wrong. We were sworn to protect the original skull by the Emperor, not the others. Our predecessors took it upon themselves to extend that oath to all other skulls that may be found when we discovered the second skull. Once we realized there may be more, a decision was made to actively seek them out and protect them, but it was not our original mission.”

  This finally elicited a response from William, one of the oldest surviving members of the council, official records keeper, and chronicler of the deeds of the Triarii.

  “He’s right, Jonathan. According to the scrolls, when the second skull was discovered the council decided to actively seek out any other skulls that may exist and protect them from the unworthy. If that council could change our mandate, then this council can change it yet again.”

  “Thank you, William,” nodded Richard.

  “But what he proposes….” Jonathan was quieter now that William had spoken, but still shook his head. “It’s madness!”

  “It would be madness not to,” replied Richard.

  “But who would undertake such a mission?” asked another.

  “I volunteer,” answered Richard. “I have nothing left here except my duty and honor. And I can think of no greater duty or honor than preventing a disaster such as has befallen us from ever happening again.”

  “But you would never return! It’s suicide!” exclaimed Jonathan.

  “It is my life to give and God’s to take,” he replied as he placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I propose that this council pass my resolution forthwith so that I may leave without delay.”

  The nods of agreement were unanimous this time, but few had the courage to meet his gaze, knowing what they were about to agree to meant the death of their companion.

  Chevy Chase, Maryland

  George Guthrie shook his head.

  “I can’t believe it. Lesley Darbinger?” He sat in a high-back leather chair in his den, the two detectives sitting across from him.

  “Yes, sir,” said Wheeler. “We both got the definite impression that he was holding out on us. That and the fact your son worked for him and was carrying a coffee-stained folder into a supply room, then was later seen with a matching folder that didn’t have coffee on it, leads us to believe that he stumbled onto something he shouldn’t have.”

  “How?”

  “He must have switched envelopes and seen what was inside when doing so,” explained Schultz. “We think that this switch was discovered and they had him eliminated.”

  Guthrie sank back into his chair. “Where was the file heading?”

  “It looks like the President’s office.”

  “Do you have any proof?”

  Wheeler shook his head. “No, and I’m not sure how we can get any. If this were indeed something sanctioned from within the White House, you can bet they’ve covered their tracks.”

  Guthrie nodded. “So, my son’s killer may go free.” He clenched his fists and slammed both of them into the arms of the chair he was sitting in. Taking a deep breath, he reigned in his anger. “Okay, I’m going to make some calls. If Darbinger did this, I’m sure Stew—I mean the President—didn’t know. I’ll see if I can get in touch with him. If all else fails, I’ll call in some markers and have a damned Senate investigation into the matter convened. I won’t stop until we get to the bottom of this.” He stood and motioned the two detectives toward the door. “I’ll call you as soon as I have something for you.”

  “Thank you, sir,” replied Wheeler. He and Schultz headed out the door and toward their car.

  Schultz looked at Wheeler. “You realize if Darbinger is behind this, we’ll never be able to touch him.”

  Wheeler nodded. “Perhaps. But Guthrie still has a lot of pull in this town.”

  “Maybe, but he’s liable to get himself killed just for nosing in. This kid saw something he shouldn’t have and they killed him for it. They obviously think they’re untouchable. Guthrie should be careful.”

  Wheeler tossed the keys to Schultz. “You drive, I forgot to ask Guthrie about how Billy got hired in the first place.”

  “How’s that important?”

  “I want to know if it was general knowledge whose son he was.” He headed back to the door as Schultz climbed in the driver’s seat and turned the key. The car turned over a few times, but didn’t start.

  Wheeler heard this and spun around as he yelled, “No!”

  Schultz didn’t have time to react to the warning before he turned the key again. This time the car started, the sound of the engine immediately overwhelmed with the gut wrenching roar of hatred as an explosion tore through the car, the flames rushing out from under it sending a shockwave that sent Wheeler flying back toward the entrance of Guthrie’s house. Shrapnel from the gutted car tore through everything in its path, including a small piece that sliced Wheeler’s arm.

  He picked himself up just as Guthrie ran out of the house.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, as he grabbed Wheeler to steady him.

  “Justin!” cried Wheeler at the now roaring fire that was his partner of seven years. He fell down onto a porch bench, grabbing his head and pulling it down toward his chest as he tried to control the sobs that desperately wanted to be heard. Several of Guthrie’s staff ran toward the scene, one with a fire extinguisher that proved of no use.

  They’re too late.

  Wheeler looked up at Guthrie, rage written all over his face. “They have to pay.”

  “And they will.”

  The Ritz, 150 Piccadilly, London

  Serge toweled himself off in front of the window as he looked out at the London skyline. The view was magnificent and he was starting to think switching hotels was not such a bad thing. He tossed the towel over his shoulder and was about to head back to the bathroom when he heard a knock at the door. “Who ees eet?” he asked. He had ordered a massage to unwind from his experience with the Americain, but was told she wouldn’t arrive for hours.

  “Room service, sir,” replied the muffled voice.

  “But I did not ordare anyting,” Serge replied, pulling on a bathrobe.

  “It’s champagne, sir, complements of the hotel.”

  Ahhhh, excellent! He unlocked the door and, just as he began to turn the knob, the door was shoved open from the other side, knocking him to the floor as two men rushed in. One quickly closed the door and locked it while the other stuffed a rag in Serge’s mouth before he could protest. They then bound his hands and feet with plastic ties and in less than a minute he was sitting in a chair, terrified, as he watched the men search his room.

  One of the men stood in front of him, staring through his sunglasses before ripping the gag from Serge’s mouth. “Where is Acton?”

  “What? What are you talking about? What ees an Ac-ton?” asked Serge, trembling in his chair, desperately trying not to urinate.

  “Don’t bugger about, mate,” replied the man. “We saw you meet him at the airport and get in a taxi together. Now where is he?”

  “That stoopeed Americain from the aeroport?” Serge asked incredulously. “I’ve never met eem before today!”

  “Bollocks!” The man removed his sunglasses and leaned in toward Serge. “I guess we do this the hard way.”

  Serge pissed himself. Merde.

  Triarii Headquarters, London, England

  “He knows nothing, sir,�
� said the voice over the speaker. “The professor apparently approached him in the bathroom and ingratiated himself upon Mr. Savard.”

  “Could he be lying?” asked the British Museum member.

  “No, mum, I’m quite certain he isn’t lying. As soon as I threatened him he urinated himself and told us everything. He even switched hotels to avoid him.”

  “Very well, keep us posted,” said the Proconsul as he hit a button, cutting off the conversation. “I’m not convinced there’s malevolence here.”

  “He never reported his find, he’s actively hiding from us, he’s been using disguises,” said the British Museum member as she counted off on her fingers. “What more evidence do we need? He is trying to either bring the skull to someone for their own purposes or he has a purpose of his own. Either way we can’t take the risk that three or more skulls may come together. The Protocol is clear. If two or more skulls are at risk of coming together, then the Triarii Council must take action to prevent this.”

  The Proconsul listened quietly then leaned forward. “You are right. Even just three skulls together have resulted in disaster in the past. We cannot risk an unknown rogue element with an unknown agenda to have access to the skulls.” Nods of agreement circled the table. “I do however think it is premature to activate The Protocol. We should however switch the British Museum skull.” He turned to the British Museum member. “You proceed tonight.”

  “Yes, Proconsul.”

  Professor Palmer’s Office, University College London, Gordon Square, London

  “Skeleton?” exclaimed Palmer. She shook her head in disbelief, as though unsure she had understood him correctly. “You found a thirteenth century European skeleton at an Incan dig in the Andes?”

  “Yes, Professor,” grinned Acton. “It was incredible, but there was no doubt. He was buried in a combination of Incan and European traditions. He was wrapped, but there was also a golden cross buried with him, held in his hands on his chest.”

  “He was buried as a nobleman?”

  “Yes.”

  “Incredible!” exclaimed Palmer. “And please, call me Laura.”

  Acton smiled, relieved to be finally able to talk to someone about what had happened over the past week. “Call me Jim.”

  “Thank you,” she nodded, smiling back. “Now,” she asked, lifting up the skull, “how does this fit in with your story?”

  “Well, I noticed that the body was oriented pointing directly at a recently discovered cave entrance on a nearby hillside. At first I didn’t think much of it, but had one of my students do some exploratory digging.”

  “And this was inside?”

  Acton nodded. “Yes, deep in the cave there was evidence that dirt had been packed by hand against the far wall so we had one of our guys start to dig at it. It took a couple of days, but he finally broke through to a chamber on the other side and then saw this. Scared the shit out of him,” laughed Acton, recalling Garcia’s panicked ranting. The memory cast a shadow over his face as he remembered Garcia was now dead.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Laura softly.

  “When I saw what we had I realized we might have a problem. If word got out, we could end up with every nut-job on the planet swarming our camp which would draw too much attention from rebels and other elements. So I shut down the dig for the day and had everyone go to Lima for some R and R,” continued Acton. “I completed the excavation myself and put the skull into that case and locked it in my cabin. They arrived the next night.”

  “Who?”

  “The men in the helicopter. They had to be military, probably Special Ops guys, Delta Force maybe. I saw them take out our guards before they landed, probably with a sniper. I grabbed the case and ran into the cave just as their chopper landed. At first I thought it was the Peruvian police coming to loot our camp or fake some kind of hostage situation for the ransom, but then two of them came after me.”

  “What did they do?” asked Laura as she put the skull down and walked around the desk.

  “They,” Acton’s voice cracked, “they killed everyone.”

  Laura gasped. “But why?” She pointed at the skull she had placed on the desk. “Why would they kill for that? It’s just a piece of quartz crystal!”

  “I have no idea, but these guys were professional, well-armed, well disciplined,” replied Acton. “And they’ve killed again since then.”

  Laura sat down in the chair beside him. “Again?”

  Acton nodded. “My best friend, Professor Gregory Milton.” He pulled out his Blackberry, scrolled to the message and handed it to her. Her hand immediately went to her mouth as she read it. Tears filled her eyes.

  “I’m so sorry, James,” she said as she passed the Blackberry back. “How did you escape?”

  “Myself and one of my students, Robbie—he’d been standing guard at the cave entrance—hid in the chamber where we found the skull. He tried to save me by telling them I wasn’t there, but he was shot. I took the guy out with a pickaxe. I used his gun on another one and then some grenades to collapse the cave entrance.”

  Laura looked on wide-eyed. “You killed one of them?”

  “I had no choice, I just reacted. It was him or me. I did a stint in the Guard when I was younger so it was just the old training coming back,” explained Acton. “Anyway, I found a hidden passageway that led to another entrance in the side of the hill. When I got out I found that the camp was empty and everyone was dead, executed. The supply truck arrived shortly after and I was able to get to Lima.

  “Whenever I’m on a dig I get a safety deposit box at a local bank and put all of my papers and some emergency cash in there, so I picked up that stuff and stowed away on a ship for a few days until it docked up the coast in Mexico. I sent the package to you, snuck across the border, and in Phoenix sent a decoy package. From there I went to New York and made contact with Greg. I caught a flight to London, ditched them at the airport, and came here.”

  “Amazing,” said Laura. “I have to confess something.” She reached under a pile of papers on her desk and pulled out a newspaper. She flipped a few pages in and pointed out an article to him. Archeological Team Massacred By Rebels. “You’ve been big news. It says you were missing and presumed dead. When I got the parcel from you I realized you were alive, but wasn’t sure whether or not I should contact the authorities.”

  “You—”

  “No, I didn’t,” reassured Laura. “Against my better judgment I decided to hear what you had to say. As I said, I’ve followed your work for years and couldn’t believe you had anything to do with what happened. Now that I hear your story—I’m not sure what to think.”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “No, it’s not that, I do believe you!” she said. “I’ve just never met anyone who’s gone through this type of thing, and I have to admit I’m scared just having you here.”

  “You’re right,” said Acton as he rose. “I shouldn’t have involved you. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’ll leave now.”

  She grabbed his arm and pulled him back onto the chair. “No, that’s not what I meant. I mean, I’m scared, but I want to help, if I can. Which brings me to my question: Why me? Why did you contact me?”

  “Because according to what I’ve read, you’re the one expert on these things who isn’t considered a quack.”

  She laughed. “Some of my colleagues might disagree.”

  “What can you tell me about the skulls? Why would someone kill over one?”

  “Well, let me say that this wasn’t the first time someone has died because of the skulls.”

  The Ritz, 150 Piccadilly, London

  Maria leaned against the doorframe, closed her eyes and sighed. I’m the one who needs the massage. She was exhausted from fending off a group of Japanese businessmen who thought all massages should have happy endings. She opened her eyes and looked down at the Do Not Disturb sign on the door, then at the room number. Right room. She looked at her watch. A little late. Perhap
s he fell asleep? She knocked anyway rather than risk getting in trouble for not showing up for an appointment. There was no response. She knocked harder and called into the door, “I’m here for your six p.m. massage, sir!” Still no answer.

  Or was there?

  She thought she heard a moan. She pulled out her access pass and swiped it, opened the door and peeked around the corner.

  “I’m here for your massage!” she called out again. This time she definitely heard a noise. She pushed the door all the way open and lifted her massage table through. As she cleared the frame she let the door close behind her and walked into the room. She saw no one, but heard the moan again from the bedroom. Immediately her thoughts were of another perverted client. She peered around the door of the bedroom and screamed at the scene that greeted her, dropping the massage table onto the glass table in the center of the room, shattering it.

  There was blood everywhere. Splattered on the walls, the ceiling, the carpet. So much that she couldn’t believe whoever it belonged to could have survived. Her heart thumping, she began to back out of the room when she heard the moan again. She rushed for the suite door, afraid whoever had done this was still there. Reaching the door, she stopped. What if they need help?

  She inched toward the bedroom. Again she heard a moan. Peering around the doorframe, she saw a man who was making the sound. He was tied to all four posts of the bed naked and bleeding from his eyes, ears, nose, mouth, arms, chest, legs, feet, even genitals. He had a rag stuffed in his mouth and was barely conscious. She removed the rag and he turned his head to her.

  “Bloody hell!” she exclaimed. “Who would do such a thing?”

  “Ac-ton,” he whispered.

  “What? What did you say?”

  “Ac-ton,” he said, a little louder.

  “The man who did this was named Acton?” she asked. He looked at her and passed out. She immediately lifted the phone and called reception. “Call nine-nine-nine, someone has been hurt very badly in room six-one-two. Send an ambulance immediately.” She paused a moment then added, “And the police.”