by A J Marshall
At that moment Richard felt something pointed pressing into his lower back. He half-turned to see one of the onlookers from earlier on. It was an elderly man, lean and angry looking, and he pushed the point harder into Richard’s side. “Move!” ordered the man. And then Richard’s arm was gripped and someone jostled him – it was the other onlooker. “I said, move!”
Suddenly, there was a massive explosion. It was loud and intense, a combination of unearthly rumbling and ear-piercing crackling. The crowd gasped in unison. Richard looked over his shoulder. High above the rooftops to the east and in the near distance he saw an enormous column of flames and black soot thrusting upwards into the sky. And then the ground began to move. At first it was an underlying shaking and then intermittent, erratic juddering, but soon the movement grew to be violent, continuous shudders. A wide crack opened in the plaza not metres from where Richard stood – a man lost his balance and fell, disappearing in an instant. Panic ensued. People ran for cover. It was bedlam. Screams and shouts and calls of names filled the air and the rumbling intensified. A more distant chain of explosions merged to one continuous catastrophe and the sky darkened.
Richard shook his arm free and turned on the man with the knife. Momentarily startled, the two assailants were caught unawares. A scuffle broke out. Richard grappled for the weapon.
Around the plaza, buildings became unseated as their foundations shook. Great stone columns teetered and fractured and then crashed to the ground. Fleeing people were crushed by falling masonry and porticos broke and tumbled down.
Richard had a hand on the knife and tried to turn it inwards, but the second assailant was upon him. Realising what was happening, Diomedes joined the fray. The knife caught Richard’s arm and cut it. Diomedes was thrown aside. The two men had skills at close quarters but Richard fought back.
Wide rifts opened in the ground. Pieces of fiery debris fell from the sky and caused small, splintering explosions as they impacted the ground. People were burning; it was carnage. Hot acidic soot began to fall like black snow and there was a pungent smell of sulphur in the air and all the while massive explosions continued to the east. The earth trembled.
Diomedes, who was on the ground, called out for help. Having hit his head this expression went blank momentarily and his eyes rolled upwards. Suddenly he came to and hesitantly at first climbed to his feet. Then, without a thought for his own safety, was into the fight and hard at the two men. Richard got a leg behind the man with the knife and tripped him over backwards; Diomedes, throwing his full weight, came crashing down on the man. Richard, thereafter, had the upper hand and turned the knife to threaten the man. Suddenly Diomedes screamed out in pain – a deathly scream. Richard turned to see that the second man had drawn his own knife and was stabbing Diomedes repeatedly in the back.
“No!” Richard shouted. The callous attack enraged Richard, who stabbed the knife between the restrained man’s ribs; blood oozed from the slit.
Instantly, the second man turned on Richard. With his blood-stained knife he attacked with a determined lunge at Richard’s neck. Richard dodged the first thrust and parried the second. He quickly leaped to his feet and stepped back a few paces to find his footing for the fight. The man, who was in his sixties, but fit and agile, half-crouched and made ready – like a big cat on its haunches set to pounce. He passed the knife quickly between both hands to confuse Richard as to the direction of attack. Suddenly he lunged forward again and slashed with the blade from left to right. Richard narrowly avoided the attack, but was on his back foot. There was a scratching of metal as Richard used his knife to fend off another wild swipe. With weapons raised and legs tensed like springs the two men circled each other warily, jostling for position. One of them lunged forward. The assault failed and then a counter-attack – knife on knife.
Above them the sky darkened. A vast column of black dust and soot and pyroclastic material ascended and spread; it billowed like an ominous thunder cloud and there was the red of flames and frequent lightning bolts. Loud claps of thunder added to the deep rumblings and echoes. There were explosions as buildings fell around the periphery of the plaza.
Richard paid no heed to the terrible screams of panic as people fled in chaos – one way, and then another – for he was losing the battle of wits. The man had training and he pressed home his advantage with well-timed lunges. Gradually Richard’s defences weakened. The air seemed hard to breathe. It was thick with gases and sulphur burned his eyes and his throat. Shock waves rumbled overhead and flakes of black snow settled on his shoulders.
The large van drew quietly to a halt at the kerbside. It was at a safe distance but within view of Peter Rothschild, who sat watching the events unfold. The two rear doors opened and the van disgorged its contents of twelve armed men in black. They were helmeted and with visors down. Their coordinator climbed from his seat at the front of the van and Rothschild went quickly over to brief him on the situation. The menacing group then split into two, one half slipping quietly into the darkness, bound for the rear of the building.
With seven men, Rothschild approached the front door of the safe house. On the pavement and at the foot of the steps two were set for sentry duty; they combed the area with infrared telescopic sights. Gingerly, Rothschild approached the door and tapped in the security code. Hand signals passed between the men as the locks clunked and the door opened. The hall was dimly lit and, with weapons at the ready, the platoon slipped inside.
No one spoke. The Coordinator dispatched four men to search downstairs. Straight, pencil-thin, red beams from laser sights criss-crossed the area. Rothschild stood still in a shadow. Rooms were searched, one by one – infrared and movement detectors used as a precursor. And then, surreptitiously, two men began their ascent of the stairs – pausing halfway up. Moments later the all-clear came in.
In response and in single file the entire group crept upstairs and onto the landing. Rothschild followed them up. Infrared detectors pinpointed two rooms with heat sources, but only one with movement. The platoon made ready outside. Rothschild stood back. The Coordinator used his fingers to countdown – 3, 2, 1 – and then the door was kicked open and there was a rush.
Shouts went up, and demands: “Hands up!” Immediately, shots were heard; the rat-a-tat of automatic fire. Rothschild rounded the door to see a team member go down with a knife protruding from his throat. More shots! And then Rhinefeld, who had been in the bathroom, opened fire with a Lurzengard semi-automatic pistol. Sublets peppered the walls as he sprayed the room indiscriminately. Rothschild dived to the floor. Two men immediately fell heavily beside him. A volley of return fire from four officers cut down Rhinefeld in an instant. Blood spurted from his face even before he hit the ground. The oriental man twitched on the floor – he may have been reaching for his gun – and another burst of gunfire made his body jump awkwardly – but only for a few seconds. And then all fell silent. The Coordinator set a search in progress and thorough checks for explosives. Rothschild climbed onto one knee. He felt the neck of one of the fallen officers for a pulse but shook his head after half a minute. Another officer reported what he had found and Rothschild went quickly into the lounge area where he saw Richard, Naomi and two men on the floor with their hands joined together and all strangely unconscious. He pulled his telephone from his coat pocket. The young coordinator removed his helmet.
“Get the medics!” Rothschild ordered.
Rothschild was immediately on the telephone to Abbey Hennessy in London. While the line was connecting he pointed to Richard and Naomi. “Those two are ours,” he said. “Those two are not! See if they are carrying papers.”
The Coordinator directed two officers to search the clothing of the men who were lying on the floor. It was then that blood was seen under Naomi’s body. One of the officers looked up. “The lady’s been hit by a stray sublet, sir,” he said. “She has a penetration wound in her thigh and she’s losing blood!”
“Shit! That’s all we need,” replied Rothschild.
“He turned to the coordinator. “Where are the medics?”
“On their way, sir. Not more than a few minutes.”
“Listen!” Rothschild pointed towards Richard. His expression was uncompromising. “We do not move these people. There’s something going on here that I don’t understand. It’s better to leave well alone until I get some answers.”
The Coordinator nodded and then one of the officers kneeling on the ground said: “I’ve found their IDs, sir.”
“Go on!”
“Both American by their passports . . . This one is Charles Springer and that one is Leon Rickenbach. The date in their travel papers indicates that they have been in Europe almost a month.”
“Anything on what they are doing here – their line of work?”
The man shook his head. “No, sir . . . nothing.”
Rothschild tried another line to London. This time Abbey Hennessy picked up.
“Yes, Peter.”
“Abbey, I need your help and quickly. I’ve found Richard and Madame Vallogia along with two other men. They are tied together and unconscious. It’s very odd – some kind of ritual, perhaps. I have two names; I want you to check them out.”
“Of course . . . Who are they?”
“They could be pensioners actually. Charles Springer and Leon Rickenbach.”
“What! Springer and Rickenbach! But they are the two RVers who are missing from the CIA’s alternate identity programme. They are overdue and deemed to be defectors.”
“You mean they are Remote Viewers . . . part of the same programme as Mr Ike Smith and Mr Perram?”
“Yes . . . exactly!”
“Then there is something going on here. Where are Smith and Perram now?”
“I told you – on their way back to the States, via Paris. Although I hear that their military flight was delayed.”
“Abbey! This is imperative! Find out exactly where they are now and get back to me ASAP!”
“Yes, Peter.”
“Sir, the Medics have arrived,” said the Coordinator.
“About time!”
“Yes, sorry, they will get on with patching up the woman as best they can. We have two fatalities and one wounded.” The Coordinator pointed towards the bathroom. “That man is Karl Wilhelm Rhinefeld, a German National. That one, the Asian, does not appear to have an ID. We are running a fingerprint check with Interpol – nothing back as yet.”
Rothschild’s telephone rang. “Yes, Abbey,” he barked, holding the phone to his ear.
“Smith and Perram . . . I sent them over to Paris in a helicopter care of the Royal Air Force – the least we could do. But their flight was delayed. They are due to land at Le Bourget in the next ten minutes.”
“Right! Get on to Northwood! Have the Duty Officer call the pilot. They are to divert immediately to Strasbourg – it’s not more than twenty minutes by air. Top speed, you hear me. Get the safe house coordinates and have them land here; I’ll arrange for some lighting. This is absolutely critical. The lives of Madame Vallogia and Richard are at risk. And, for the record, Karl Rhinefeld is terminated!”
A woman screamed; it was shrill and piercing. It came from across the plaza and interrupted Richard’s concentration. He glanced in that direction but only momentarily, and immediately parried another more penetrating lunge from his assailant. Richard felt his hand wet with blood and realised he’d been scored. Sweat ran into his face. The air was hot and choking. He kept a cautious eye on the man, as their fight was far from over. His throat was burning.
Sometimes staggering, and with robes flowing, the screaming woman ran towards Diomedes. Richard recognised her as three armed guards in scarlet cloaks threatened him and his attacker with long spears. They forced Richard and the man to back off and drop their weapons. Richard threw his knife aside and the man reluctantly did the same. The woman crouched beside Diomedes who lay motionless and in a pool of blood. With an expression of horror and disbelieving, she looked for his wounds. Diomedes looked pale. He limply raised an arm and pointed to Richard. “He is a friend,” he groaned in a hoarse whisper.
“Who did this to you?” the woman pleaded.
Diomedes shifted his pointing finger and all heads turned towards the assailant. The man’s eyes darted from side to side and a look of fear spread across his face. He turned and fled. He ran towards the nearest street, dodging and curving his track and leaping over displaced flagstones, cracks in the ground and hapless bodies. The woman shouted a warning at him and one of the soldiers raised his spear to a throwing position. The man kept running. The woman shouted for him to stop, but when the man was at twenty paces and about to disappear, she screamed an order at the soldier who loosed his spear with a grunt of effort, like a javelin thrower would in competition. Seconds later the spear penetrated the man in the centre of his back and his fall pinned him to the ground.
Richard immediately turned his attention to Diomedes and the woman. As he walked towards them he called her: “Naomi!”
The woman glanced up at Richard with a look of distress and disgust. “I am Isabelle – Isabelle of Noon. I do not know of this Naomi!”
Diomedes shifted painfully. He beckoned for the woman to draw nearer and listen to his words. Richard crouched beside her on one knee and put a gentle hand on Diomedes’ shoulder.
“Take the stone from the temple and put it in its place in the Colossus,” Diomedes croaked. “Enter by the left heel. The great memorial will come to life again. Take as many people with you as you can, but be sure to gather my associates, for only they have the knowledge to build another temple in the like of ours. You must remember our brethren on the red world. Find a place . . .”
“We will Diomedes, we will, but where should we go first?”
With dying eyes, Diomedes looked first at Richard and then at Isabelle. “Rhodes!” he spluttered. “Direct the Colossus to Rhodes. The sea is shallow between the islands. Let it stand there, astride the harbour entrance as it did here – in everlasting memory of our forefathers and the lost of this city.”
Isabelle nodded and she smoothed her hand over Diomedes’ head. “You will come with us.”
“No! You must leave me . . . There is no time! It is coming; soon it will be upon us. Go! Before the Destina Aquara engulfs you all.” With that, Diomedes’ head fell to the side and he stared unseeing. He was gone.
The woman gently touched her fingers to Diomedes’ eyelids to close them as a tear ran down her face. One of the soldiers stepped forward. “High Priestess,” he said. “If we are to do his bidding we should leave now.”
The men coughed repeatedly and Richard’s eyes were streaming. Isabelle covered her head with her shawl, stood and bowed her head in order to pay her last respects and then hurried off towards the pyramid of glass with her guards.
Richard scanned the area and considered the scale of the carnage – he could barely believe the situation he found himself in. Like dirty snow, a layer of dust and ash began to build on the ground around him. Forks of lightening flashed in the brooding sky above him and thunder crashed all around. He could feel the flakes of ash burning his shoulders and head. And he knew of the Destina Aquara – water’s destiny. He knew a tsunami was approaching, and it would wipe Atlantis from the records of time forever. If he was to survive as Richard Reece he needed to get back quickly – but he was completely disorientated.
Peter Rothschild was very pleased to see Ike Smith and Oscar Perram walk into the room. He directed them to the four people lying on the wooden floor and explained what he knew. They were totally surprised to see former colleagues Springer and Rickenbach in that situation. They dropped their bags and performed an examination, taking time to assess the psychic elements and the dangers of what was happening. Their astonishing appraisal was the same that Rickenbach had made only an hour or two earlier. But they were more reluctant to participate.
Madame Vallogia was suffering in her unconscious state – that much was clear. She had lost a quantity of blood, her
brow glowed with perspiration and she twitched constantly.
“The woman is struggling to hold open the neural pathway, Mr Rothschild,” said Oscar Perram, matter-of-factly. “If it collapses, or she regains consciousness because she loses her ability to meditate, then those men will lose their minds. They will become amnesiacs and spend the rest of their days in an asylum.”
“How long have we got?” Rothschild asked.
“Impossible to say, but looking at her physical state, not long, perhaps minutes.”
“Can you help . . . ? Will you help?”
Smith and Perram glanced at each other – they had similar thoughts. “There is one chance, that’s all, but we have to go for it now!” Perram said. Smith nodded his agreement.
“Please. Let’s do it. Whatever it is, let’s do it!” Rothschild replied.
Smith retrieved a small cloth pouch from his bag. He stretched open the drawstring and sprinkled a number of beads into his hand. They were small and circular and were hand-painted in a variety of bright colours. Some had lengths of thread attached to them. The patterns were in a style easily associated with primitive tribalism.
“We got these from a Shaman in South America a few years ago when we were doing some research. There was a lost tribe in the upper Amazon delta – no previous contact with the outside world. Sometimes, when they travel into the spiritual world, they become lost, and they use these ornaments to help them find their way back.”
“You mean like the children’s story . . . ?”
