All this flashed through the Turk’s mind in an instant. This might be his only moment. He motioned to the spectral shadow against the far wall as he sped across the floor and stood in front of the blast chamber, only paces from Mullaney. He placed his hands above the shelf. The steel mesh that encased the box of power lifted into the air above the chamber. Without touching the box or the mesh encasing it, the Turk guided the levitating box before him. He did not approach the only door, nor did he advance on the three tunnel openings to his left. He heard the ripping sound of an electric motor behind him, a piercing scream, as he whispered a word unheard on the earth for millennia. A stone in the floor slid to the right, revealing stone steps leading down, deeper under the mountain. The Turk maneuvered the box through the opening, keeping it in front of him, and started down the stairs, followed by the figure in the black cape. Speaking the word a second time, the stone in the floor slid closed over his head, once again surrounding the Turk in darkness.
His left hand locked on Cleveland’s wrist, Mullaney stretched his right arm before him and started inching in the direction he hoped would bring him to the door. Straining his senses into the dark before him, his fingers outstretched, Mullaney was distracted by an increasing level of heat he felt on the back of his neck. He looked back, over his right shoulder. What was back there?
Something red, flaming, was swirling in the midst of the darkness, coalescing into denser folds of red. As the color intensified, an evil presence surrounded him—heavy and oppressive. He felt his body, mind, and spirit probed and violated by a ravenous malevolence that sought to consume his very soul. Fear rising, his heart thumping, Mullaney pushed harder to find the door.
Dragging Cleveland through the dark, Mullaney’s hand struck stone, then wood, side by side. The wood vertical. The door jamb?
In that moment, before he could signal to Cleveland, Mullaney heard the whisper of a voice near his right ear. It did not come from the vortex of swirling crimson heat behind him.
“I’ve been living for this moment. My father’s revenge is in …”
All his instincts and training triggered without thought. Mullaney ducked low, to his left, put his right hand on the floor for leverage, and pulled Cleveland in a wide arc as far from the voice as his arm would allow.
A face flashed into his memory … the rage of the young man with the scar across his face who was trying to reach the embassy car on the Namir Road, who was waiting for him at the monastery.
As he ducked, Mullaney felt more than saw the sweep of a right arm into the space he had just vacated. A knife. He couldn’t fight, not with Cleveland. But there was no time to flee!
He threw Cleveland to the ground, freeing his left hand, and turned on the balls of his feet. I hope I’m behind him. Still crouched low to the floor, Mullaney launched his body forward. His shoulder made contact … legs! … and he drove his shoulder under the man’s body, wrapped his arms around the attacker’s legs. In one swift, fluid movement, Mullaney lifted the body off the ground and, with a violent twist of his shoulders to the left, slammed the top of the man’s body into the wall he knew was there.
But not before the man, flung to the left, swept his right arm in an arc and buried the knife into Mullaney’s left bicep, just below the shoulder.
He was going for my heart!
There was a sickening thunk as the man’s head smashed into the stone wall and his body went limp. It barely registered. Mullaney dropped the limp body and fell to his knees, his right hand finding the hilt of the knife as an explosion of pain burst down his arm and through his chest.
Cleveland!
45
Alitas Street, Ankara
July 23, 6:38 p.m.
At the bottom of the stone stairs, the being occupying Arslan Eroglu’s body turned to the right and guided the blast container down a stone passageway barely lit by oil lamps attached to the walls at long distances.
Halfway down the passage, the Turk halted.
The specter in the black cape and cowl came forward on his left and turned to a reinforced metal door. He took a key from the pocket of his cloak, turned the lock, pushed the door open, and stepped aside to allow the Turk to steer the box into the room.
The room was painted a deep crimson, the color of blood, on walls, ceiling, and floor. On the walls were a riot of designs in gold paint—a wide spectrum of designs from astrology, occult, Egyptian ritual, and others that no human being could, or would want to, decipher. The room was as cold as a crypt.
To the left was a stone altar of sacrifice, runnels carved into the top of the capstone around all four edges, a chute for drainage at the lower right corner. On top of the altar lay the inert body of the Turk.
But the live Turk, the essence living inside Arslan Eroglu’s body, moved the box and its mesh enclosure to the right, away from the altar. He levitated the box over a small, stone table that sat in front of a massive stone throne.
Ignoring the pain, holding his left arm close to his body, Mullaney shifted toward his right, the ambassador’s name on his lips. “Atticus?”
Distracted by the fear and adrenaline of his short-lived, life-or-death fight, Mullaney’s senses revived with a rush. He retched. He was assaulted by a wall of heat and polluted by the putrid stench of festering decay. His repressed fear and anxiety suddenly trebled into terror.
A red glow, like a vibrating emergency sign, colored the darkness and spread a surreal light around Mullaney. In the little he could see, the red swirling, flaming vortex had moved between him and Cleveland. Its shape was becoming more defined. And it appeared to be looking at Cleveland. Mullaney’s mind leapt to action. He needed to defend the ambassador. He tried to push off with his right hand, but his body was locked in place. Movement was impossible. Terror multiplied.
And the swirling red menace—it appeared to be growing eyes—turned its attention upon Mullaney.
“Guardian,” came a whisper from the halls of Hades.
Mullaney moaned, Oh, God of heaven, help us!
A silver sword split the red gloom between Mullaney and this manifestation of evil, its point shattering the stone of the floor and taking root. A silver breastplate reflected the red light. “You cannot have him.” It was Bayard’s voice. “Neither of them. They are sons of the King, heirs of heaven. He is the anointed of the Creator. No weapon of evil formed against them will succeed.”
Mullaney watched the swirling red mist as it jerked wildly in the gloom. In his spirit he realized that, if this demon could form itself, if it materialized here, it would be much more difficult to defeat. A thought flashed into his mind—could he look into the face of pure evil, into the eyes of the evil one himself, and survive? Mullaney didn’t want to find out.
Struggling, but now able to stand, Mullaney put Bayard behind his back, between him and his enemy. He reached out with his good arm and pulled Cleveland to his feet.
Which way to go? In the red gloom he could see the outline of the door in front of him. Was it locked? Was it safe? Were there disciples waiting on the other side?
He looked over his left shoulder to where he knew the three tunnel entrances were located. Could they escape that way? But which one?
Cleveland gave voice to his thoughts. “Which way?”
A thunder of fiendish power erupted behind Mullaney. “You are in my domain!” It was a bellow from the abyss. “You cannot—”
Light erupted from two directions at once. Dazzling brightness exploded from behind Mullaney, vaporizing the darkness. He heard a … whimper? In the same instant, a fierce burst of sparks melted the lock on the door in front of him.
A dozen black-clad men spilled into the cavern, spreading out in a wide arc, the red beams of their laser sights seeking a target.
Aged and wrinkled, his bald head hidden by the cowl of his long, black cape, Assan, the Turk’s spiritually indentured servant, closed the door and turned the lock. He seldom entered the red room. His visits were normally moments of high drama and
higher risks, injections of adrenaline that called to Assan like a needle to an addict. Until something went wrong. Then the Turk’s wrath transformed thrills into threats he was likely to fulfill.
Assan’s eyes avoided the lifeless carcass to his left. The spectacle was unfolding in front of him. He knew the Turk was there, assimilated into and controlling the body of Arslan Eroglu. But it was startling to see Eroglu’s shell orchestrating the dark power flowing through the room.
Standing in front of his stone throne, hovered over a low, stone table, Eroglu rotated his hands above the bronze box and the metal mesh that enclosed it. There were things Assan heard in this room, words that were offered as supplication or demand that belonged in the realms of darkness. But in all his many years serving his master, the litany of urgent summonses now spoken into the atmosphere of the red room were both foreign and disturbing to Assan’s ears. They carried the weight of pleading petitions. The Turk was begging.
As he watched, the box and its enclosure began to move in a circular pattern following the direction and pace of the Turk’s hands. A wave of energy washed across the ceiling and over the red walls, bringing life to the strange golden symbols painted on the walls. Like crazed dancers around a pyre, in cadence with the Turk’s incantations over the box, the symbols pulsed, spun, and twisted in upon themselves in fantastic patterns. Startled, Assan looked at the wall to his left then to the wall on his right. Were his ears deceived? The walls appeared to be singing … no, chanting … to each other. And the volume was increasing.
Captain Traynor swept the scene with a trained eye. Two men writhing in pain in the middle of the cavern; a third to the left with something impaled into his heart; and a fourth a bloody heap on the floor to the left of the door. He saw no threats. But he sensed evil. Powerful evil.
He pointed to Mullaney and Cleveland. “We’re moving.”
Four of his men stepped forward. Two nearly picked Cleveland off his feet, a hand in each armpit, and hustled him through the open door. One slung his weapon, stepped to Mullaney’s right side, and clamped his arms front and back and held on while the other pulled the knife out of Mullaney’s arm. He slapped a compress over the wound, wrapped it once with an adhesive bandage, and then they moved Mullaney out with as much dispatch.
Traynor kept his eyes scanning the room … the stench was awful, like a garbage truck convention … his remaining men exited in pairs. There was a strange taste to the air—metallic and singed, like burning metal … until it was only he and the sergeant. He saw no threats, only a dissipating red mist in the gloom. But he knew the presence of evil. He spun on his heel and disappeared through the door, thanking his God to be out of that room.
46
Alitas Street, Ankara
July 23, 6:43 p.m.
Assan’s heart jumped in his chest when the wire mesh surrounding the box was rent in two and hurled into the corners of the red room, the Turk throwing his arms wide. The Gaon’s accursed box descended to rest on the table, and the chanting filling Assan’s ears grew in fervor and tempo.
The symbols gyrating wildly on the walls, a gilded aura—like the gold lust of a buccaneer staring into a chest of stolen treasure—illuminated the face that was not the Turk’s, but contained his eyes. The Turk reached toward the box.
Four in front fast-walked up the dimly lit ramp. Then two came with Cleveland in tow; two others moving swiftly in tandem alongside Mullaney who, in fact, could make it on his own. Then four as rear guard … the last two trotting backward, up the ramp, their eyes fixed into the blackness below.
Captain Traynor glanced at the myriad-function watch on his left wrist. They had traveled about one hundred meters down the ramp—twenty meters in depth—once they had breached the garage. Another fifty meters remained in the ramp. He had commenced the action at 6:29. It was now 6:41. In his business, time was everything. In. Hit. Out. Before anyone even knew you were there. This was taking too much time. His men at the garage, those on the street, were exposed. Too much time.
He turned and tapped the two men behind him on the shoulder as he spoke to his team and into the mic at the same time. “Gotta move … gotta move.” Twelve men and Mullaney broke into an uphill run. Cleveland, like the knocker on a bell, careened from side to side between the two soldiers who held him fast.
“We’re fifty meters out, hustling,” Traynor said into the mic, “on our way to you. Prepare for evac.”
Blood racing through his veins, the whirlwind of concentrated power swirling like a tornado around the red room, the Turk licked his lips but fought for discretion. The box was within his reach. But he wasn’t fully prepared. Not yet.
He reached inside the container and gingerly grasped the handle on the shelf in the middle.
Just short of the top of the ramp, all but the first four slowed into a trot. The first four soldiers kept running.
“Coming out,” Traynor barked before his men got to the ramp’s apex. Mullaney watched as the first four, in two pairs, hesitated at the lip, looked side-to-side, and then broke out in opposite directions. Once all four had disappeared into the garage, Mullaney heard voices from each side of the garage. “Clear.” “Clear.” “Vans in place.”
“Let’s move,” said Traynor, leading the way.
The first of the JSOC soldiers exited the garage and ran to the two vans in the street. They opened the doors then turned outward, covering the others’ approach.
“Get the ambassador in the lead van,” ordered Traynor, who grabbed Mullaney by the elbow and guided him to the second van.
As the JSOC team exited the garage and raced into the street, a fusillade of gunfire exploded from rooftops on three sides.
The world became a blur for Mullaney. A rain of bullets tore up the stones in the street, sending lethal shards of rock whistling through the air, and riddled the vans through the sides and the roof. Mullaney frantically glanced to his right to find Cleveland, but Traynor grabbed his arm and literally threw him behind an outcropping of masonry stairs that came down the side of the hill and into the driveway.
“Code red,” called Traynor. “Code red … above us.”
Mullaney could see little from the corner in which he crouched, Captain Traynor kneeling at the edge of the stairs and returning fire across the narrow street. What he saw broke his heart and ignited his blood lust. At least four of the JSOC soldiers were on the ground, bleeding. Only one moved, crawling desperately for cover. And Mullaney could see only the rear half of the lead van. All its windows were shattered by the bullets, the metal body a warren of holes, its engine apparently on fire. But no Cleveland.
The sound of gunfire was relentless and deafening, both from their attackers and from the remaining JSOC soldiers. A grenade erupted above their heads, a second obliterating most of the upper floor of a building across the street.
“Move and advance,” roared Traynor, as Mullaney noticed another of the black vans rounding a corner down the street. The van stopped short of the fighting as six soldiers and the driver poured out of the vehicle and rapidly scrambled to higher ground on both sides of the street.
“Where’s Cleveland?” Traynor shouted. From his reaction, Mullaney could tell that Traynor had received no answer. Shaking his head, the captain peaked around the corner of the steps and emptied a clip into the far buildings. Then he turned to Mullaney, a puzzled look on his face.
“They’re not shooting at us,” he said, pulling a 9-millimeter automatic from his holster, two clips, and handing them to Mullaney. “They’re shooting at everybody else, but they’re not shooting at us.” He pointed at the automatic. “Use it!”
He withdrew his hand from above the box, turned, and looked to his right. In a stone basin just above the floor was the skinned pelt of a perfect ram, without blemish. He reached down and pushed his hands under the pelt, feeling the still-warm sticky thickness of the ram’s blood as it slid through his fingers. The Turk lifted the pelt with care, like it was a gossamer web, and laid it across the
top of the bronze box that had eluded him for centuries. Centuries when he chased the prophecy held within the box, unaware that it was the box that held the power of life and death.
Now was the moment, his moment. He hesitated. How to open the box? Was there a pattern, a secret step-by-step method that would assure success? So much he didn’t know. But he had waited so long.
The Turk raised his bloody hands into the air, above the box. He focused the power of his eyes upon the ram’s fleece and the box beneath. Spells taught to him in the caverns of darkness spilled over his lips while maelstroms of psychic eruptions raged through his yellow eyes and burrowed into the pelt and the box.
The surge pulsing power sped through the red room, expanding in depth and strength. The chanting echoes from the room’s walls roiled to a manic crescendo.
The Turk lowered his hands toward the ram’s pelt.
Pat McKeon had a formidable force of eight DSS agents with her, heavily armed and wearing body armor, as the flat-lining truck bounded over a curb and careened into the street in front of the Ozkan Market. She heard the riot of gunfire ahead of her. “Faster.”
47
Alitas Street, Ankara
July 23, 6:52 p.m.
Mullaney glanced around for a target, then looked over his shoulder. The steps behind him were uncovered. Still in a crouch, he swiveled on his heel, grasped the Glock with two hands, and peeked up the stairs. Two men in black were firing down into the street as they cautiously descended the stairs, one step at a time.
Without hesitation, all his training on the firing range clicked into gear. Two quick, smooth squeezes of the Glock and the head shot dropped the lead man to the stairs. In almost the same motion, Mullaney fixed his sights on the second and, before he could turn his machine pistol down the stairs, placed a three-pattern into his heart.
Ottoman Dominion Page 27
