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

by J. Robert Kennedy

  Detective Chief Inspector Hugh Reading entered the bedroom of the suite and whistled at the scene before him. A tall, large-framed man, he cut an imposing figure to those who didn’t know him, but those who did knew he was intensely loyal to his subordinates—and had a legendary penchant for tea.

  After serving over twenty years, he was nearing retirement. Not that he wanted to retire. He loved his job. It would be a true forced retirement. It was his life. Divorced long ago, he had decided ruining his life by devoting it to the job was better than ruining the lives of an entire family, so he hadn’t remarried or even tried. He had seen a lot of things over the years, but this was something new. He could tell just from looking that this was going to consume him for the coming days.

  The staff member who had phoned it in was sitting on a chair, being comforted by a WCI as the coroner’s staff zipped up the body bag, preparing to transfer it to a gurney. Blood was everywhere. The poor bastard never had a chance. He looked at the floor to make sure he wasn’t stepping in any of it and was surprised to see there wasn’t much, just the odd splatter the crime scene guys had already marked and photographed. Surveying the room, he looked at the splatters on the bed, ceiling, walls, and lamps around the bed. There’s something odd about this.

  “Okay, what do we know?” he asked the room in general.

  Immediately Detective Inspector Chaney approached him. His slight yet athletic frame made him seem tiny compared to his supervisor. “His name is Serge Savard, French national, arrived on an Air France flight today at eleven-thirty a.m. Miss Barnaby here discovered the victim when she came to give him a scheduled massage at six p.m. TOD was several minutes after that.”

  “After?”

  “Yes, guv. He was apparently alive when she found him.”

  Reading looked around the scene again. “Somebody survived this?”

  “Not for long, guv. According to her, before he passed out he said a man named Acton did it.”

  “Acton?” He looked at Miss Barnaby and approached her. He motioned for the WCI sitting with her to leave and sat down beside the distraught woman. “Miss, my name is Detective Chief Inspector Reading of Scotland Yard. I’m leading the investigation into Mr. Savard’s death. Can you please tell me again exactly what happened?”

  She relayed the story to him, ending with her phone call to the police.

  “And he said a man named Acton did it?” asked Reading.

  “Yes.”

  “Those were his exact words? ‘Acton did it.’?”

  “Well, not exactly. I said something like ‘Who did this to you?’ and he said ‘Acton’. He said it twice to me before he died,” she replied confidently.

  “That’s all he said? Acton. Just that one word?”

  “Yes, sir. All he said was Acton, twice.”

  “Thank you, Miss.” He patted her on the knee and got up, heading over to the bed where Chaney was examining the plastic ties that had bound the Frenchman. What happened here?

  “The coroner said that this went on for hours,” explained Chaney. “You can tell by the blood splatter. Some of it’s dry, some of it just starting to congeal. The dry stuff is from the beginning of the torture, the fresh stuff toward the end. Whoever did this certainly knew what they were doing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, to keep somebody alive that long while torturing them with this much blood, they would have to be professionals wouldn’t they?” Chaney said. “I mean, one wrong cut and you hit an artery. Then he’s dead and of no use. This guy was still alive when he was found.”

  Reading nodded. Impressive. “Did you notice anything else?”

  “Such as, sir?”

  “The blood splatter.”

  Chaney looked around the room then back at his boss and shook his head.

  “If no arteries were hit, why the splatter?”

  Chaney’s jaw dropped. “I can’t believe I missed that. Could there be a second victim?”

  “Possibly, however my guess is the splatter was part of the torture,” explained Reading. “Your victim needs to see blood, to think he’s going to die. Small, precise cuts, especially where the victim can’t see, don’t scare once the pain is gone. Cut the person, and whip your scalpel toward the wall, the blood splatter is there for him to look at the entire time. Keep doing that for hours and you get a scene like this.”

  Chaney winced, clearly disturbed by the image. “Sir, how—”

  “How do I know this?” asked Reading. “I wasn’t always a copper.” With that, he swung around and exited the room, Chaney scurrying after him. “We need to find this Acton person. He’s the key to this. Let’s trace the victim’s movements starting with how he got here. We need to figure out what happened between him getting off the aircraft and arriving here. Somewhere along the way he met this Acton person who either killed him, or knows who did.”

  Heathrow Airport, London, England

  Jasper leaned back in the cab seat and closed his eyes, exhausted from their long flight. And from his partner’s constant chatter.

  “Scotland Yard,” he said.

  Lambert, though tired, was apparently too excited to rest. He pressed his head to the window, eagerly taking in as much as he could. “Have you ever been to London before, sir?”

  “No.”

  “Did you know that it’s actually called New Scotland Yard?”

  “No.”

  “Yeah, the original burnt down so they had to build a new one.”

  “Lambert?”

  “Yeah, boss?”

  “You do know that I will get my gun back eventually?”

  “Shutting up, sir.”

  Jasper managed to catch a few minutes of peace before the cabby announced their arrival. Lambert paid and they grabbed their luggage, entering the large, bustling facility. They presented their credentials to the desk sergeant.

  “You the yanks we’ve been expecting?”

  Lambert nodded as the man called up to the Detectives’ Office. A few moments later he put the phone down.

  “Sorry, sirs, but the Chief Inspector isn’t available at the moment. Would you care to wait?”

  “Wasn’t he expecting us?” asked Jasper. “The State Department was supposed to arrange a meeting to discuss a very important matter.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied the Desk Sergeant. “Your people called here earlier but the Chief was called away on urgent business. Don’t worry gents, shouldn’t be long. I’ll have a cuppa brought for you.”

  “Coffee please,” replied Jasper. “And lots of it.”

  The Sergeant frowned, his thoughts clear. Coffee? Uncivilized!

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

  As Laura explained the little that was known about the skulls, the overcast sky had turned into a heavy downpour, and sheets of rain driven by gusts of wind rattled the windows. A lone desk lamp cast a gentle glow on the office.

  “Most of the skulls we know about are fakes,” she said, “believed to have been made by European craftsmen in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, including the ones located here and at the Smithsonian.”

  “The one here is a fake?” asked Acton.

  “Yes. According to tests performed for a BBC documentary it’s one of those that was created in Europe within the past two centuries.”

  “You sound doubtful.”

  She sighed. “James, I studied that skull for years and I swear the things they said about it during the study just don’t match up with what I’ve seen.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, they said that you could see the tool markings from polishing equipment that dated from the past two centuries,” explained Laura. “I’ve examined it for years and never found even the minutest trace of any markings. I also studied the one at the Smithsonian and found it to be the same.”

  “So, how do you explain it?”

  “Better equipment? Incompetence maybe?” she suggested. “I don�
��t know. Anyway, here’s what we do know. Most of the skulls that are considered genuine were found in Mexico, Central and South America. It is believed that they are some sort of ancient religious icons from the Mayan, Aztec, or Incan civilizations, or maybe even from more than one.”

  “We were at Incan ruins, so that would fit.”

  “Yes, it would,” she agreed. “The indigenous people of the area believe that the skulls have magical healing powers, but nobody really knows what they were used for. Some claim that if you bring them together and shine certain colors of light at them they give off energy patterns that match the human brain and can even affect time as we know it.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “Remember those quacks you talked about?” Acton laughed as she continued. “The lore surrounding the skulls is varied and most of it unbelievable. Some believe there are twelve genuine skulls, others thirteen, and that bringing them together will mark the dawn of a new age. Others believe that bringing them together will destroy the world. Still others believe it will send a signal to aliens. The fact is, nobody knows what they do because nobody really knows where they came from.”

  “But, I thought they came from the Aztecs, Mayans and Incans?”

  “That’s where many of them have been found, but those cultures didn’t have the technology to create them.” Acton looked at her, puzzled. “In fact, even today we don’t have the technology to create the genuine ones.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean just that.” Laura got up from her desk and went to one of the bookcases. Turning on a switch that lit the beautiful oak shelves from end-to-end, she scanned several volumes, pulled out a binder, and returned to the desk. “In 1970, the most famous skull, the Mitchell-Hedges skull, was given to Hewlett-Packard to do some testing on it. Their labs in Santa Clara, California, were renowned for crystal research and leading experts were involved in the testing. What they found was astonishing.”

  Acton leaned in. “What did they find?”

  Laura smiled, seeing the eagerness in his eyes. He’s hooked. “As you may be aware, crystal has a natural axis. This axis is the natural orientation of the molecular symmetry of the crystal. When carving crystal, modern carvers will always determine the natural axis of the crystal and carve with it. If you carve against it, or against the grain if you will, the crystal will almost always break, especially a piece the size of one of these skulls. The genuine skulls are all made of a single piece of crystal, which in itself is quite amazing, but even more so, the genuine skulls were carved against the axis, which is unheard of. No one to this day has been able to duplicate this. Not even with the use of lasers.”

  Acton let out a low whistle. “Amazing. How do they explain this?”

  “They can’t,” replied Laura. “But that’s not all they found. They also determined that there were no markings whatsoever on the skull to indicate that any kind of tool had been used in the carving of the skull. They hypothesized that it could have been roughly carved with diamonds and then a solution of silicon sand and water used for the detail work. There’s only one problem with this explanation though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It would have taken over three hundred years to complete.”

  The British Museum, London

  Rodney looked down at his friend Clive who lay motionless on the floor with a look of astonishment still on his face. He hated having to do this to him, Clive truly was a good friend, but he had no choice—it was his duty. He pulled him into a storage closet then picked up his chair and sat on it while examining the monitors. At the back gate a truck pulled up to the loading dock. He hit a few keys on the console and the large metal door of the loading dock rolled open, the truck driving in seconds later. He watched on the monitors as it followed the ramp down into the underground shipping and receiving area. It backed up to a platform then bumped the lip. The door to the back of the truck burst open and six men exited, the driver remaining in the truck. Rodney closed the front gate and watched on the monitors for the other guards patrolling, then radioed the go ahead as each area was cleared.

  The team rapidly made its way to one of the storage rooms and waited for Rodney to enter the code to open the door from the control room. The door buzzed open then the men entered, closing the door behind them. Two headed directly to the third row of shelving, another two grabbed a wheeled ladder and followed them. The remaining two covered the door.

  “There it is,” said the first man, pointing to the fourth shelf about twelve feet up. The team with the ladder locked it in place and two men rushed up the steps. The first to arrive grabbed the box and handed it to the other. He opened the top to make sure what they were looking for was inside. Underneath the velvet wrapping the grinning face of a skull stared up at him. He shivered. Covering it back up, they transferred the skull into a backpack then replaced the original with the fake skull used on the BBC documentary. No one would ever know they had been there. They descended the ladder and ran to the door, the second team placing the ladder back where they found it, then they waited for the all-clear signal.

  Rodney checked the halls again then sent the signal. The team raced back to the loading dock, boarded their truck and exited the underground garage through the doors Rodney opened for them. When they were clear he closed the doors and breathed a sigh of relief. Done! Looking around to make sure there were no signs of what had just happened, he rose from his chair and walked to the closet. Pulling Clive out, he removed the tranquilizer dart from his friend’s chest, placed the chair on its side again, then hid his gun in his bag. He took out another gun and stuck it in his belt behind his back.

  Kneeling down beside Clive, he slapped him gently on the face.

  “Clive, wake up!”

  Nothing.

  He slapped him a little harder.

  “Clive, wake up!”

  This time Clive moaned.

  “Wake up, mate, you fell out of your chair and hit your head!”

  “Wh-what happened?” asked Clive groggily, rubbing his eyes then looking up at Rodney. “You shot me!” he cried as he grabbed at his chest, looking for the wound. He started to panic and scurry backward on the floor.

  Rodney laughed. Pulling the gun out from his belt, he pointed it at him. He squeezed the trigger and a flag snapped out with Liverpool F.C. emblazoned on it. “I’m sorry mate. I guess I scared the shite out of you on that one. You fell right out of your chair and hit your head pretty bad. You’ve been out for almost fifteen minutes.”

  “Really?” A bewildered Clive rubbed the back of his head, wincing when he felt the lump that had formed. “I could have sworn….” He looked at his chest, seeing he was clearly not shot. Still confused, he extended a hand. “Help me up, you wanker.”

  Rodney laughed again and pulled his friend to his feet.

  “Complete success, Proconsul. Nobody will ever know we were there. Our inside man will wipe the tapes showing our presence.”

  “Very good, Centurion,” said the Proconsul, looking at one of the team member cameras showing an image of the mission commander. The operation at the British Museum had been monitored by the council through camera feeds from their agents’ headgear and had gone like clockwork. “Move the item to its secondary site and await further instructions.”

  “Yes, Proconsul, we’re on our way—”

  The view from the camera shifted unexpectedly as the team leader lost his footing. Shouts of confusion rang out as the truck swerved wildly, tossing men in the back of the truck around. They were all abruptly thrown forward as the vehicle screeched to a halt.

  “What’s going on there?” yelled the Proconsul. He hit a button in front of him and the view split to all of the different camera angles available.

  “I’m not sure, Proconsul,” was the reply. “What the hell is going on up there?” the Centurion shouted into his mike to the driver. There was no answer. The camera showed the commander getting up and approaching the back doors to
the truck. He was about to open them when they exploded outward. Three men standing in jeans and plaid shirts with balaclavas over their faces rained gunfire into the truck.

  In the Triarii chamber the onlookers watched, stunned, as each camera view either went dead or dropped to the floor, the entire scene unfolding in less than a minute.

  Then there was silence.

  Dawson climbed into the back of the truck and looked around, his gaze landing on a bag he thought might contain what they were looking for. Stepping over the bodies, he approached the rear. When one of the occupants to his right moaned, Dawson put a bullet in his chest. He opened the bag and looked inside. Are you kidding me? Immediately the words from Control Actual echoed in his head. “You’ll know it when you see it.” But this wasn’t it. At least it shouldn’t be. The Professor still had the item from Peru as far as they knew. And this looked like some carving belonging to a museum.

  Why the hell did I just kill seven men over a crystal skull?

  Under orders from Control his men had set up surveillance on the Triarii Headquarters—the apparent home of the Professor’s terrorist cell—when they first arrived, and when his team reported the vehicle leaving, he had ordered it followed. This had proven a wise move, allowing them to ambush the terrorists as soon as they had left the museum. But nothing was making sense. This skull certainly fit the loose description of knowing it when seeing it and being made of crystal, but he refused to believe his country would have him chasing trinkets.

  But if these terrorists are actually a cult, it might make sense.

  Perhaps they were stealing crystal objects, including the DARPA project, all over the world? At the moment he could care less about what was in the bag, except that Control had instructed that they retrieve whatever was stolen.

  It’s as if they knew exactly what was going to happen.

  He took the bag and left the truck, his men jumping into the two SUV’s they had arrived in, leaving in opposite directions. They would meet up later after switching their vehicles and clothing to confuse London’s cameras.