The Twelfth Ring (Noah Larsson Book 1)

by Sam Clarke

  ‘But the faith is strong with this one,’ said Isabelle, unashamedly rephrasing Darth Vader’s quote. ‘Viggo found his way again, and he will soon find his way to his new parish in a remote African village. You should say your goodbyes now.’

  ‘I had forgotten about your “lovely” sister,’ said Ursula, unashamedly turning her back to Isabelle. ‘So, Viggo, what are you doing here? Making the most of the internet before being shipped off to your desolate parish to be?’

  The way she stressed his name implied that Isabelle should keep her gob shut. ‘Actually, we’re here because we have nowhere else to stay, money’s tight and I’m in trouble,’ he answered frankly.

  ‘Are you in trouble with the Vatican?’ asked Ursula, overstressing each syllable.

  ‘Probably.’

  Considering we were wearing stolen cassocks and posing as clerics, his words weren’t far from the truth. Ursula rested a sympathetic hand on his bicep. ‘You don’t want to go to this remote African village, do you?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m a very bad priest.’

  That was indisputable. Ursula withdrew a key card from her silver clutch bag. ‘I cannot help with Vatican troubles, but you can stay at my aparthotel for tonight. It’s just around the corner. Helga’s already left, so there’s space for everyone, even your awful sister.’

  He accepted the key card and instinctively pushed it in a side pocket that wasn’t there. ‘Will you be… around?’

  Ursula didn’t miss the quaver his voice. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t lead you further into temptation. Helga and I had double-booked our accommodation and missed the cancellation deadline, I’ll stay at the other hotel.’ She stepped closer, slipped him her card and gave him a peck on the cheek. ‘Goodbye handsome Viggo, if you have another mystical crisis and happen to be stranded in Hamburg, look me up.’

  #

  Ursula’s self-catering apartment was stifling hot. The air-con unit wasn’t working. I debated whether to take my cassock off, but decided against it. There was no way I could sit in front of Isabelle wearing nothing but a pair of uncool Y-fronts. I copied Viggo and undid the top buttons. He was still off with me and I hoped that my recent actions wouldn’t permanently dent our friendship. Isabelle busied herself in the kitchen and surprised us with some sandwiches, which we ate in religious silence. ‘I need to get you to Palermo,’ said Viggo out of the blue, undoing a few more buttons.

  ‘You agreed to give my father twenty-four hours,’ I reminded him, unable to get past button number seven, which was particularly hard.

  ‘I know, but I never said we’d stay here. Plan B’s objective is to get you to a safe place in Palermo as quickly as possible.’ He shot me a reproaching stare. ‘And if you’re thinking of pulling another one of your stunts, think again because there is no Plan C. I really can’t tell you more, so you’ll have to trust me, I’m in charge and—’

  ‘Oh Viggo, cut it,’ erupted Isabelle. ‘If you give yourself any more airs, there’s going to be a tornado! You’re nothing but a lowly squire, not even a fully-fledged knight!’

  Her outburst caught me completely unaware and I feigned sudden interest in button number eight. Viggo went down the same route and finished unbuttoning his whole cassock before he found the nerve to look up. We noticed the empty bottles of Heineken on the kitchen counter at the same time. While making sandwiches, Isabelle had sampled Ursula’s beer and was now as drunk as a skunk. Viggo, cassock open down the front like a robe, walked to the sink and filled up a glass of water. ‘You’ve been drinking,’ he said, placing the glass in front of her.

  She definitely had, because she didn’t flinch at his half-naked passage. ‘I only had a few beers,’ she moaned, as if he was a party spoiler. ‘Hey, your cassock’s open.’

  Yep, unquestionably drunk. She got her face embarrassingly close to the elastic of his boxer shorts and tried to identify the brand. Such intense concentration was usually devoted to Teen Vogue. ‘Who’s Björn Borg?’

  He put some decorous distance between them. ‘A Swedish tennis player, five times Wimbledon champion. He’s got his own line of underwear.’

  ‘Wow! For a squire you do know a lot of stuff!’ She concentrated on his boxers again. ‘Hey Noah, did you know about this Björn Borg guy? His underpants are pretty cool.’

  I wasn’t sure I wanted to be part of this conversation. I pretended not to hear. Viggo sighed. ‘Princess, drink your water.’

  ‘I’m not taking orders from a squire,’ she replied haughtily.

  He nervously shifted from one foot to the other, open cassock flapping back and forth. ‘Give it a rest, Sesame’s squire thing was just a joke.’

  ‘This whole thing’s a joke!’ she screamed, gesturing towards the nearest piece of furniture, which happened to be the sofa.

  ‘What thing?’ he asked, struggling to follow the boozy meanderings of her mind.

  ‘You, a squire! Magnus and my father, Templars! Knut, God knows what! I may not have all the facts, but I’m not stupid! Did you really think I wasn’t going to figure it out? The matching tattoos, the hierarchy, the international web of contacts… Noah, stop fiddling with that button and tell him! Tell him we’ve known all along!’

  Great. She had blown my cover with the subtlety of a dynamite stick. Viggo retreated behind a wall of silence and I had a feeling that she had dug us into a very deep hole. ‘That’s complete madness,’ he eventually murmured unconvincingly.

  ‘Is it? So, tell me, squire, why are you obsessed with fighting techniques? Why do you all have matching tattoos of the Templar cross? Why do you need contingency plans for a holiday and, most importantly, why aren’t you married?’

  He glowered at her, particularly bewildered by the last accusation. He opened his arms. ‘I’m only nineteen.’

  I was too slow to avoid his gaze and my embarrassed face confirmed his worst fears: I knew everything, or at least as much as she did.

  ‘I’m only nineteen,’ he repeated to no-one in particular. ‘And this is the worst day of my life.’

  Sometimes I forgot that he wasn’t that much older than us. This was probably his first time in charge of an operation and Isabelle and I weren’t making things easy. It hit me that failing to deliver the ring, or save us, could have tarnished his reputation forever. His Templar dream, like Jacques De Molay, would go up in smoke. I shuddered at my own imagery, tasteless, completely tasteless. ‘Viggo,’ I said, ‘for the record, it’s nothing you’ve done. At first it was just a theory, then—’

  ‘My theory,’ boasted Isabelle. She hadn’t registered that her glass was empty and kept on bringing it to her lips. I quietly replenished it and saved her from drinking more air.

  Viggo sat across the table from me and raised his hand. ‘Dude, stop right there, I don’t want to know. The less you tell me, the less I have to lie if… when Magnus makes contact.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I’m the eldest and I’m in charge,’ he said confidently. ‘Tomorrow I’ll deliver you and the ring to a safe house in Palermo. Afterwards, if you think it’s a smart move, you can discuss your theories with your father. If I were you, I’d think long and hard about how you’re going to handle this alleged information. The same goes for you, Isabelle.’

  She raised a challenging eyebrow. ‘Alleged?’

  ‘Alleged. You have no proof.’

  ‘You’re so defensive,’ she said airily. ‘Why don’t you come clean? You can trust us. If you don’t want to trust Noah, trust me, just me. You can trust me, Viggo.’

  I guess she wanted to be enticing, but her inebriated attempt reminded me of the snake from The Jungle Book trying to hypnotise Mowgli. Viggo didn’t seem particularly mesmerised and the timing of her escaping burp couldn’t have been worse. He leaned backwards to escape the fumes and she fell forward into his arms. Had she been sober, she would have turned crimson but, despite being half on her chair and half on him, she searched for an impossible comfortable position. She squashed her face against hi
s naked chest, mumbled in French for a few more minutes and fell asleep. ‘We should put Snoring Beauty to bed,’ he said, looking down at her. ‘She’s going to have a major hangover tomorrow. And she’s dribbling on my chest.’

  I went to the bedroom, switched the light on and pulled the sheets back. He carried Isabelle over and gently laid her to sleep. His tenderness was rewarded with a second burp. He sat at the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, and slowly sunk into his hands. ‘I’m sorry about the phone,’ I said, stepping closer.

  He spread his fingers over his face and looked up. ‘I’m not happy about it, but you were in a tight spot.’

  ‘About the rest…’

  He didn’t speak, but didn’t interrupt me either.

  ‘Your secret’s safe with me,’ I said. ‘I have no intention of landing you in any trouble with your… superiors.’

  He scratched the nape of his neck. ‘Thanks. Let’s hope Magnus makes contact. If he doesn’t, this is going to be my last assignment anyway. And if your theories had to reach the wrong ears, this would most definitely be my last assignment.’

  In my head, it was as good as an admission. Probably in his too. ‘I know we’re in trouble,’ I said, ‘and I can tell you’re not very… experienced.’ I waited for him to stop me. I didn’t want to push it if my help wasn’t wanted.

  He wet his lips. ‘Go on.’

  ‘If you need a wing man you can trust, I’m here.’

  He scanned me so thoroughly I thought I was going to turn into a PDF. ‘A wing man? You? I would need to interview you. How tall are you, a bit under 1.80?’

  ‘And still growing,’ I specified.

  ‘Ah, the perks of being fifteen. Have you started shaving yet?’

  ‘Yes. Once. For Christmas. I plan to shave again next Christmas.’

  ‘Academic titles?’

  ‘Zero, my academic career is a work in progress.’

  ‘Progress rate?’

  ‘Slow. Bordering on the undetectable.’

  He pretended to be impressed by my answers. ‘Job’s yours, the only other unsuitable candidate has drunk herself into a stupor.’

  Our one-to-one had put us into a better mood and I briefly wondered what his interview with my father must have been like.

  ‘Seriously, dude, I could do with some help. This is just me and you though, no superiors involved, is that clear?’

  ‘Crystal.’

  ‘OK, here’s conundrum number one. The best way to get to Palermo is by car. We can’t hire one, my credit card and driving license are at the hotel which is likely to be under surveillance. We have the Discovery keys, but the car is cocooned in the hotel parking lot. Even if we manage to get it out, petrol is very expensive and we have roughly four hundred euros. I have no idea how much the Discovery guzzles, but I’d say on a par with Ursula, and Palermo is over three hundred kilometres away. Any ideas?’

  CHAPTER 40

  Viggo, freshly shaved and respectably styled, slowed his pace down Viale dei Mille, around the corner from the Grand Hotel Ortigia. He was about to run a hand through his sticky hair, then thought better of it. His combed-back wavy curls lay flattened under half a tube of gel – I sincerely hoped it was gel, I couldn’t read German and Ursula’s bathroom had more potions than the Harrods beauty department. ‘Are you ready?’ I asked him.

  He straightened his cassock. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Isabelle and I will wait for you here,’ I reminded him. ‘All you have to do is walk into the hotel, as if you were a guest—’

  ‘I am a guest, I never checked out,’ he said with a serene look on his face. I couldn’t fault his logic.

  ‘The doorman will not stop a priest,’ I continued, wishing I could be as chilled as he was, ‘and the goons aren’t watching out for a cleric. When you’re inside, go to our rooms, get our stuff and make your way to the parking lot. Take the Discovery, exit via the back and come back here to pick us up.’

  ‘Fine. If I’m not out in ten minutes—’

  ‘I’ll contact Knut. I promise.’

  He jerked his thumb in Isabelle’s direction. ‘Is she OK?’

  She was suffering the consequences of her drunken episode: splitting headache, sensitivity to light, queasiness, overall grumpiness and generic mortification. We had made her drink enough water to make a desert fertile and forced her to wear a pair of Ursula’s sunglasses. ‘I’m fine,’ she grumbled unconvincingly, parking herself on a public bench. She looked like a three-dimensional black-and-white photograph, her skin had taken on a slight tinge of grey. I had no idea how much she remembered from the night before and I think she was too afraid to ask.

  ‘I’m off then,’ said Viggo.

  He gingerly made his way to the hotel and I joined Isabelle on the bench. All we could do was wait. ‘Did I do anything stupid last night?’ she murmured, after a long silence.

  ‘Other than getting plastered?’

  She sighed. ‘Yes, other than that.’

  Tormenting her was more enjoyable than I thought. ‘What makes you think you did?’

  ‘I had this really strange dream. Have you ever heard of a Björn Borg?’

  ‘He makes Viggo’s boxers.’

  A shade of red took over the grey.

  ‘You seemed to like them,’ I added casually.

  She yanked her sunglasses off. Deep frowns deformed her pretty features. ‘I liked his b-boxers? H-how…?’ she stammered.

  A familiar Range Rover Discovery pulled up next to us, the driver’s window framed Viggo’s chiselled cheekbones. ‘Why don’t you ask him?’ I said, opening the door for her. She shot me a half-hearted death stare and climbed in. I joined Viggo in the front and scanned the empty seats. ‘Where’s our stuff?’

  He glanced at the rear-view mirror. ‘Don’t know. Our rooms were wiped clean. They took everything.’

  I gaped. ‘Everything? Including personal phones?’

  ‘Everything.’ He checked the mirror again and got into first gear. ‘Let’s get out of here. I’m pretty sure one of the goons was hanging around the reception area.’

  My chest tightened. ‘Did you manage to check the morning papers?’

  ‘Dead-end, but it was to be expected. By the time Ariel got shot, they had already been printed. We’ll give it a couple of hours and check real-time websites.’ He turned into a quiet side street and parked in front of an electronics shop to input our destination details in the satnav. The shop’s window was crammed with hoovers, blenders and switched-on TV sets. A stiff anchor lady was mouthing the news. Suddenly, Ariel’s face flashed across the screens, surrounded by some paramedics who tried to push the cameraman out of the way. I dug my elbow in Viggo’s side, he looked up from the satnav and let out a very unpriestly exclamation. ‘We’ve got to find him,’ I said. ‘He’ll know what happened to my father!’

  Viggo grimaced. ‘No detours until we know more. If he’s under arrest, we’d better stay clear.’

  I pointed at a small café next to the electronics shop. ‘I bet the barista is an authority on local gossip.’

  He pulled the hand-brake and winked. ‘I like your plan, wing man.’

  #

  The tiny bell above the café’s door tinkled. I wasn’t sure why they had bothered hanging it there, the place was no bigger than a caravan and couldn’t handle more than five standing customers at a time. We were on an economy drive (in the sense that we were saving all our money for petrol) and only ordered three espressos. Isabelle checked out the sweet rolls. ‘Stop dribbling over those pastries,’ said Viggo. ‘They’re staying put behind the counter.’

  Unsure about the events of the previous night, she complied without a peep. Her meekness worried him. ‘Is she alright? Did you two have a fight or something?’

  ‘Nope, all rosy,’ I answered with the enthusiasm of an octogenarian convict nearing the end of his life sentence in solitary confinement.

  Viggo focused on the barista. ‘I heard a lot of police sirens last night. Any idea what happened
?’

  ‘Two separate incidents,’ said the barista, depositing the espresso cups on their respective saucers. ‘A tourist was shot right next to Piazza Duomo and our cathedral, our beautiful cathedral, was desecrated by the Russian mafia. They had the audacity to settle some business right in the Sacramento Chapel.’

  Viggo theatrically crossed himself. ‘Any casualties?’

  The barista wasn’t the charitable type. ‘Don’t think so, but if anyone died, they got what they deserved.’

  ‘What about the tourist?’ I asked, downing my coffee in a single gulp. If espresso was an acquired taste, I had acquired it.

  ‘He’s in hospital,’ said the barista. ‘An Israeli teacher. Found it too hot to run during the day, so he jogged at night. Poor man! Shot, concussed and left for dead. I bet he’ll never come to Sicily again.’

  If Ariel had had the presence of mind to get out of the cathedral and justify his outfit, he couldn’t be truly concussed. And if he had passed himself off as a victim, he wouldn’t be under arrest either. We paid for our coffees and jumped into the car.

  #

  Umberto I, Syracuse’s only hospital, was a five-storey block that favoured practicality over elegance. Inside the main entrance, a large sign listed the hospital services. We grouped in front of it, trying to determine the correct wing for victims of gunshot wounds. ‘You’re a med student, what do you think?’ I asked Viggo.

  He pensively rubbed his forehead. ‘We can exclude maternity and gynaecology…’

  ‘Do mankind a favour, stick to archaeology! You can’t kill what’s already dead!’ snorted Isabelle, jostling him out of the way. She ran her finger over the list of departments. ‘They must have taken the bullets out. He’ll be recovering in General Surgery.’

  Without waiting for our opinion, she approached a nurse and asked for directions to the surgery wing. ‘It’s on the fourth floor,’ replied the nurse in fluent English, ‘but visiting times are over.’ She then noticed our cassocks and presumed the worse. ‘Oh mamma mia, are you together? I hope you’re not here to administer any last rites.’