Alicia Myles 2 - Crusader's Gold

by David Leadbeater

  She climbed on top.

  TWENTY SIX

  In the shadow of the great Arc de Triomphe the Gold Team regrouped. Though surrounded by light, noise and groups of locals and tourists they felt as unobtrusive a crew in Paris as they were ever likely to get. Alicia knew none of them had had time to process the Riley or even the Kenzie angle yet. A team like theirs simply couldn’t disappear off the grid forever.

  Action would have to be taken.

  “It’s a clue buried deep within the Congress of Vienna.” Crouch pitched his voice below the timbre of the crowd. “But on the same page that ceded the Horses back to Venice. Listen up and tell me what you make of this:

  ‘From an Ancient Wonder’s home to the Domus,

  ‘From the Golden palace to the Emperor’s Circus,

  ‘The First riding above all,

  ‘The Second supporting the wall.

  ‘From the Floating City to the New Rome,

  ‘Undivided as Lysippos intended,

  ‘The Tarentum—the strength, the bolster,

  ‘The Quadriga—the show, the vision.

  ‘Then sundered materially as never in spirit,

  ‘One always the show,

  ‘The other below,

  ‘By the Pillars of Hercules he endures,

  ‘A part of the soil,

  ‘Hiding among New Arches envisioned,

  ‘To the victor the spoils.’ ”

  Crouch finished and looked expectantly at the others. Russo grunted. Healey stared. Alicia put their expression into more eloquent words.

  “Fucked if I know.”

  “Well, luckily for you guys Caitlyn and I have been working on it all night,” he said. “We have some of the stanzas figured out. It’s a history, a chronology if you like, of the Hercules Tarentum and the quadriga. ‘From an Ancient Wonder’s home’ is . . .” he paused.

  Alicia shrugged. “There were only seven. And I’m guessing this also revolves around their maker so I’m guessing Alexandria.”

  “Yes. The Lighthouse of Alexandria was one of the seven ancient wonders and where Lysippos created both pieces. Now, through some web research we have determined that the Horses then came to Rome. The Romans certainly knew of Lysippos through the writings of Pliny—there was a huge market for his work. A big emperor needed a big Lysippos to prove his power, his manhood. So, according to the records the Horses made their way to Emperor Nero who displayed them in his Domus Aurea, which was a huge landscaped villa built at the heart of ancient Rome around AD 68. Pliny the Elder was there whilst it was being built, this so-called Golden House, and mentions it in his writings.”

  “Is it also the Golden Palace?” Alicia asked.

  “Yes, nicely thought out. The next two lines are a reference or a clue to the actual pieces, of course, possibly a way of covertly alluding that the Hercules goes in tandem with the quadriga. Suggestions of spectacle and strength—the Horses and the Hercules. It also hints that the Horses are for display whilst the Hercules is concealed, a suggestion that is reinforced later in the verses.”

  Caitlyn broke in as Crouch took a breath, unable to curb her enthusiasm. “Right! Next verse. ‘From the Floating City to the New Rome’. It’s now you realize that they skipped Constantinople, see? Where we know the Horses stood atop the Hippodrome. We think this is because the people who wrote these verses in 1815 and ceded the quadriga back to Venice were more than a little embarrassed at themselves for not sending it back to the only place they knew positively that it actually came from. Anyway, the Floating City is naturally Venice whilst the New Rome, we think, is a dig at Napoleon.”

  “Nobody’s above a good dig it seems,” Russo commented.

  “Nope. And with Napoleon just defeated and jailed after referencing his Paris as the New Rome we think the theory stands up.”

  Alicia racked her memory. “ ‘Undivided as Lysippos intended’. That’s pretty clear.”

  “It is,” Crouch broke back in with a smile. “Lysippos built these pieces to complement each other. Spectacle and strength. The show and the unseen power at its back. They were never meant to be parted.”

  “So maybe they never were,” Healey said. “And we head back to St. Mark’s Basilica.”

  “Maybe.” Crouch nodded. “The next two lines are more references to the pieces’ meaning. What they signify to each other. The quadriga—”

  “Wait.” Healey broke in, waving an arm and sidestepping a bungling tourist. “What is a quadriga anyway? I missed that bit.”

  “A quadriga is four horses. Four horsepower. It was pretty quick back in the day.”

  Alicia laughed. “Fourth century BCE? I’ll bet.”

  “Now,” Caitlyn took up the metaphorical reins, “is where it gets interesting. The final stanza tells us where the Hercules is currently, or at least where it was taken after 1815. And looking at the big picture, that’s just a moment ago in history. It says ‘then sundered materially but never in spirit’. This points to the very real possibility that the pieces were parted. The Horses sent to Venice, the Hercules . . .”

  “But why?” Russo asked.

  “There must have been a very good reason. The people who wrote the congress clearly knew the pieces were meant to stay together.”

  “And where?” Alicia asked.

  “Read the rest of the verse. What do you think?”

  “By the Pillars of Hercules,” Alicia recalled. “A part of the soil. Hiding among New Arches envisioned. To the victor the spoils.”

  “This is where we falter,” Crouch admitted. “I’ve never heard of the Pillars of Hercules or the New Arches. And ‘to the victor the spoils’ seems almost to be a challenge. More like the hunt, a riddle-master saying—if you find it it’s yours.”

  Caitlyn stared into the middle distance. “Well, I do know that the Pillars of Hercules are two promontories at the Strait of Gibraltar. One of them is the actual Rock of Gibraltar.”

  “Lots of, um, toffs out that way,” Russo said. “I don’t think we’d fit in.”

  “I know of the Rock of Gibraltar,” Crouch said. “Of course. But I didn’t realize the Pillar of Hercules connection.”

  “And Napoleon’s activities in the Med are well documented,” Caitlyn added. “My only problem is the quote we found from Napoleon: ‘I have found the Pillars of Hercules. That doesn’t quite fit.”

  “All right.” Crouch stored that away for later perusal. “Let’s concentrate on the New Arches reference for a bit. We’ll revisit the Pillars of Hercules later.”

  “Wasn’t the Arc de Triomphe built after the Arc du Carrousel?” Alicia asked.

  “Yes, but they were designed and begun at the same time. You think ‘arches’ refers to the triumphal arches of Paris?”

  “Or Rome.” Alicia shrugged. “Wasn’t that where arches first started off?”

  “Ancient Rome, yes,” Crouch replied quietly, clearly thinking hard. “As I mentioned there’s an Arch of Constantine in Rome.”

  Healey jerked alert, ready to go. Alicia waved him down. “Relax, boy. We’re just guesstimating here.”

  “Constantine just doesn’t fit,” Caitlyn said. “Yes, he built Constantinople but the congress washes right over the history around Constantinople and the Hippodrome.”

  Crouch agreed. “All Roman arches are old,” he said. “Dating, I think from around the first century BCE onwards.”

  “And they meant ‘envisioned’ back in 1815.” Alicia said. “That means they hadn’t been built yet.”

  Crouch shook his head. “But that doesn’t fit either. Nobody would build a triumphal arch just to hide the Hercules. They’d secrete it in a quiet place they already have. I mean, the Hippodrome was already there. So was the Golden Palace and St. Mark’s Basilica. Even the Arc du Carrousel was built to commemorate Napoleon’s victories.”

  “So maybe the arches weren’t built just for the Hercules,” Alicia shrugged, “but agreed at the secret congress to be utilized later in some way.”

  Ca
itlyn stared at Crouch. “Something you just said.” She creased her brow. “Niggles at me. About Napoleon and his victories. I don’t . . .” she broke off, deep in thought.

  “So where does all that leave us?” Russo grumbled, staring around at the erratic flows of tourists, the drifting crisp packets and empty coffee cups, the local cops trying their best to look friendly on every street corner, the ever-present, all-seeing monuments that marked eras long since absent from the world.

  “Well, it leaves us with plenty to think about,” Crouch said a little grumpily. “And that’s why we’re here.”

  “Not me.” Alicia looked like a caged lion. “I’m here for the mayhem. I’m just dying for some lout to bump into me so I can tear his head off.”

  “Frustrated?” Russo enquired with a little smirk.

  “I may be the worst woman here,” Alicia said with a tight, haughty smile. “But I’m still the best man.”

  Crouch started walking away from the arch, pulling the team with him. “Do we know of any arches built after 1815?”

  Alicia turned to Caitlyn. “Geek?”

  The ex-MI5 agent looked flustered. “Sorry, I was . . . lost for a moment there. I’m sure the answer is staring us right in the face.”

  “No,” Alicia said drily. “That’s me. And I’m not hiding any Hercules.”

  “It’s not that.” Caitlyn said, oblivious to the sarcasm. “I’m thinking Napoleon was defeated. The Hercules and to some extent the quadriga always seem to have been spoils of war. So who defeated Napoleon?”

  Crouch stopped very quickly. “Field Marshal Arthur Wellesley at the battle of Waterloo,” he said. “Better known as the Duke of Wellington.”

  “And you’re saying the British built an arch in acknowledgement of that?” Alicia asked.

  “No.” Caitlyn flicked rapidly at her Kindle Fire. “We built two. The first design was based on the Arch of Constantine,” she breathed rapidly. “and wow . . . the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel. The second, complete with quadriga, was also built to commemorate Britain’s victories in the Napoleonic Wars.”

  The team stared at each other, mesmerized by Caityln’s words, astonished at the breakthrough.

  “Which arches?” Crouch asked. “Don’t tell me—”

  Caitlyn nodded. “You got it. The most obvious ones in plain sight. The first is Marble Arch, the second is Wellington Arch.”

  TWENTY SEVEN

  Alicia watched as the expression on Crouch’s face changed from incredulity to hope and determination.

  “By the Pillars of Hercules. A part of the soil,” he said. “But what of the last line—to the victor the spoils. Wait . . .” He palmed his head, the blow audible to all. “Of course. It’s not referring to those hunting the Hercules, it’s referring solely to Wellington. To the victor the spoils. He claimed it.”

  “Time to gen up on our British history,” Alicia said. “Where did Wellington—”

  At that moment her text-message tone went off. A message from Beau—get ready.

  That can’t be good.

  A few seconds later Crouch’s cell rang. He held up a hand as he answered. “Yes?”

  Again, many guises warped his features from one emotion to the next. “Now?” he asked. “Here? Where?”

  Alicia didn’t like the sound of it, and liked waiting to hear the forthcoming revelation even less. The connection between Beau’s text and Crouch’s call didn’t escape her. Crouch let out a long sigh and held the phone’s speaker against his chest.

  “I have intel that Riley is here in Paris,” he said. “I also have a locality. We could hit him whilst he’s unprepared.”

  Alicia saw the man’s turmoil. They all sensed how close they were to the prize, yet here was an opportunity to rid themselves of a new and extremely deadly disease.

  “Do it,” she said. “It’s worth the time and effort.”

  Russo grumbled in agreement. Crouch was already nodding. Quickly, he thanked the person on the other end of the phone, took a few notes and then ended the call.

  “Out of interest.” Alicia raised her chin. “Who was that?”

  Crouch eyed her keenly. “I think you already know.”

  Alicia couldn’t hide her surprise. “Now that’s a shocker.”

  “I can’t explain now but I will explain later. When all this is over.”

  “Can’t?” Russo repeated in bewilderment. “Explain? Over? What the hell are you two talking about?”

  Couch brandished a small piece of paper. “Doesn’t matter now,” he said. “We have a job to do,”

  *

  Alicia watched Crouch work his magic, contacting Armand Argento at Interpol and finding a local contact that would be willing to help with weapons. It helped that Interpol was located not too far away and that Argento knew Crouch inside out. The two had worked together more times than either cared to remember down the years.

  Within an hour, by way of a hastily commandeered governmental van, they were approaching the address Crouch’s mystery caller had provided.

  A petite abandoned train station stood atop a small bridge above a fully-functioning railway line, just ten meters from the entrance to a long tunnel. The station was painted white and black, a classic destination for graffiti artists, and still had all its windows intact and sparkling clean, its roof whole and free of moss and its drainpipes freshly painted. The small staircase that ran up to its door, however, was railed off both to the sides and above. Small trees had begun to grow along its length. Alicia saw now that Riley’s men had broken the locks on the gate and made their way up the stairs and into the station. It was a perfect hiding place, central, clean and so long as they were careful, anonymous.

  How had Beau . . . ?

  She didn’t want to know. Beauregard had his sinuous ways and his sneaky secrets. Alicia preferred not to dig too deep. One thing was certain—she could never hope to worm her way into the heart of a deadly, global secret sect like the Pythians. All glory to Beauregard for doing so.

  The team crept along the embankment, sticking to the top where the hedges were overgrown and offered maximum concealment. Crouch pointed out there was no second-guessing Daniel Riley, the man made everything up as he went along and rarely acted the same way twice. His skills are his unpredictabilities, Crouch told them. His security his craziness. His strength his depravities. Do not expect mercy nor surety from this man.

  Alicia trod lightly, guns in both her hands. One held a standard Glock, the other a HK machine pistol, both fully loaded. Other weapons were concealed about her person. The team could not know how many men Riley had recruited, though their “informant” had mentioned “more than a dozen”. Alicia was happy to be working proactively against him at last. No more running.

  Ahead, the station stood atop the graffiti-covered bridge, gleaming in the sunlight. Alicia could see heads bobbing through the windows. She signaled Crouch.

  “Enemy’s at home.”

  “Good.”

  Together, they advanced. No sentries appeared to have been placed, but Alicia knew there would be no access to the station except through the railed off staircase. Even if they could gain the roof unseen the noise would alert those inside. Crouch bent down, crawling as close as he dared, and raised high-powered binoculars to his eyes.

  “Target confirmed,” he said. “I see Riley and . . . eight more men.”

  At that moment a train approached, clattering hard down the rusted tracks before passing under the bridge and disappearing into the long tunnel. Alicia watched the carriages flash past, their seats full of unsuspecting passengers. The noise made Riley’s mercs glance out the window. Crouch could have waited; he could have crept closer; he could even have pinned the mercs down. But instead, probably still unsettled by the appearance of an old nemesis, he unloaded his machine pistol into the train station. Even Alicia yelled in alarm, but by then the blood was already flowing.

  Mercs tumbled left and right and sheets of glass rained from the windows down onto th
e track. Alicia had a wild, displaced thought: Good job it wasn’t leaves! and crabbed forward. Men approached the frame, bodies revealed, and she made them pay the price. Quickly, she half ran down the embankment to the train tracks, knowing the carriages thundered along at seven minute intervals.

  Mercs leapt out of the windows, landing on the embankment and trying to steady their feet. One brushed by her as he landed, his momentum forcing her to her knees. Russo was at her side, snapping the unfortunate’s neck and hurling him aside.

  Healey bounded like a spring lamb ahead, happy to be unleashed. A man came at him head-on. Healey upended his machine pistol into his chin, poleaxing him faster than thought. Bullets chewed up the dirt at his feet.

  Alicia aimed her own weapon up at the smashed windows above. The mercs were lining the opening, four of them with smirks on their faces. Alicia dived aside. As she did so bullets ripped across the mercs’ chests, fired from Crouch and Caitlyn’s direction. Two dropped outside, two inside, and then two more jumped out. Alicia met the first as soon as he landed, dodging a wild swing. First she broke ribs, then a knee and finally a neck.

  No mercy. These people had already fired on civilians.

  The second man landed. Alicia disarmed him, taking an elbow to the cheekbone for her trouble. Pain flashed at the center of her brain. More mercs were appearing now from the fringes of the battle, as if they’d been ensconced in some other hiding place. Alicia saw Riley. Crouch’s weapon barked faster. A merc tumbled down the uneven slope. There was suddenly the rumble and clank of an approaching train. Alicia gripped her opponent by the throat, batted away his strong arms, and then hurled him against the flashing carriage. The body bounced and flopped and then lay still, broken.

  Two men leaped onto her. Alicia fell under their onslaught, now finding herself rolling unstoppably toward the reverberating carriages. She dug her fingers hard into the grass, but came up only with soil. As she made one more revolution, her arms held out protectively before her, the last carriage raced past. Alicia bounced onto the empty track, the solid rails jarring her spine.