by Peter Ackers
39
Jacky ducked. He peered through the foliage, watching with baited breath as more of the figures emerged from the water, walking slowly and carefully but confidently onto the beach. Each carried a short-barrelled machine gun held firmly against his shoulder, eyes sighting along the weapon, leading with it. Professionals. But what was their mission on Plum island? What did they want with a bunch of American teenagers?
After kicking off their flippers, the men spread out around the tent town. There were nine of them and eight tents. One man left the others to guard a tent each while he crossed the beach, heading in Jacky’s direction, into the foliage, to climb the hill.
He knew instantly what was happening. The man coming at him hadn’t seen him; he was coming to the top of the hill to make sure there was nobody on the other side. Then he would give the order to fire upon the sleeping innocents in the tents.
Jacky felt himself suddenly getting warm as his heartbeat increased, sending the blood pumping faster around his body. That spreading warmth could have been the alcohol diffusing from his body, for suddenly he felt sharp.
His hands felt on the ground, coming up with a branch. Thick, short, hard - just right.
He lay on his right side on the cold ground, ignoring the sharp stones and twigs that dug into his flesh. The foliage surrounded him, but through the gaps he could see the lightening sky. He knew that anyone looking in at him would see nothing, while he had a clear view.
The black-clad man was coming right towards him, following the same path of trampled foliage that he had traversed. Jacky lay flat, the branch held close-gripped and two handed at his left breast as if he were bench-pressing with it. His right leg was bent beneath his outstretched left, creating an L-shape. Or the Bear-trap, as he called it.
People trained in the art of attack are expected to know all the tricks, but that’s only when they expect there to be trickery. No man except the most paranoid could ever have expected to walk through foliage on a deserted island and suddenly step into a bear-trap.
His right foot came down inside the L-shape Jacky had created with his legs. Instantly the trap was sprung. His left leg closed, his right extending, swapping places. Left caught him behind the knee, right swept the man's foot backwards from under him. The result was that he fell instantly, crashing through the foliage, landing on top of Jacky. Under better circumstances, it would have been a dream come true. He hardly had to thrust upwards with the branch at all; the assailant's momentum was enough. His nose and goggles broke and he was still, silent. Blood from his crushed nose dripped onto Jacky’s neck.
Jacky froze, waiting. Down below, he knew, the other men would perhaps be looking up the hill, wondering what the sound was, where their boss was. Their stealth was his ally, for he knew they could not risk calling out to him; nor would they open fire until he had assured them the Canadian army wasn’t practicing manoeuvres on the other side of the hill.
Quietly, Jacky rolled the unconscious man off him. He slipped the strap of the gun off the guy's shoulder and then over his own: the machine gun felt light and comfortable to hold. Still, he would have preferred his own pistol.
Suddenly there was a crackle from the unconscious man. An ear-piece. Damn! They were in contact by radio headset; he had under-estimated them.
Quickly now he crawled through the foliage, knowing he didn’t have much time. If the man he’d incapacitated didn’t respond soon, they’d assume him out of action and all hell would break loose.
He moved down the hill, now not caring if he made noise. He had to get low. He would get just one chance and had to try to take as many of them as possible.
Looking through the foliage, Jacky saw that two of the men were in line. He had a plan, but it would require excellent targeting.
He put the butt of the gun to his shoulder, peering along the sight, targeting the nearest man’s left trapezius at a point right by his neck. He adjusted his position slightly until he had the view he needed. Poof! The silenced weapon, set to semi-automatic, spat a single bullet. The man with his back to Jacky jerked as the round passed through his trapezius, splashing blood over his neck. A nanosecond later the man eight feet beyond him jerked as the same bullet, greedy for another victim, buried itself in his groin. Both dropped simultaneously.
The other assailants turned in the direction of the soft thud from the gun. Jacky crawled for his life as bullets crashed through the foliage in search of him. He was moving too slowly and figured his only chance was to run. So he stood up, giving the men a visible target.
Alerted by the gunfire, the teenagers had woken, were exiting their tents. The assassins fired at them, or beat at the ones who were too close. Hell had broken loose.
Surprisingly, the teenagers didn’t drop like rabbits but fought back, even the girls. Survival instincts? Or were they more than just simple students?
The wind was suddenly fast, tugging at the tents and the girls’ long hair. Jacky stopped; no one was firing at him. He used the moment to sight again. Excellent aiming put a bullet through a rope securing a tent to the beach on the side the wind was coming from. The tent flipped up, pulled by the hard wind, still secured at the other side. It arced up and over the heads of an assassin and the naked woman who was clawing at him. Perhaps that would buy him some time.
Jacky rushed onto the beach, fired again and another man dropped, a bullet in his brain. Bullets hit the sand by his feet and he instinctively jumped, landed, rolled, came up and shouldered one of the teenagers who was standing frightened like a deer caught in headlights. The teenager crashed into the assassin was who about to put a round through his back. Both went down. Jacky aimed; only one would ever get up again.
A man in black was smashing his weapon’s butt repeatedly into the head of a cowering man who was trying to crawl into the sea. This action flared anger up in Jacky even more than the murder going on around him. The assassin could have dispatched his victim easily, but was instead torturing him and obviously enjoying it.
Jacky ran at him, but he turned, perhaps sensing Jacky's fury, his gun coming around. Jacky tossed his weapon, pushing it away from him as one might a snake that has dropped into his hands. The result was adequate; it hit the assassin’s weapon, and knocked his aim off. The bullet that had Jacky’s name on it went wild.
He crashed into the assassin and they fell into the sea. Jacky pulled at the man’s mask and managed to dislodge his goggles. He forced the killer’s head under the water. The man was punching at him, but Jacky hardly felt the blows. Then his hands stopped, but Jacky continued to rain blows. Too late he realised why; the blade he’d extracted bit into Jacky's arm as he slashed. The blood seemed black in the night, despite the moonlight.
Jacky moved away, fearing a grave injury; the thought of a deep slice through flesh sickens the mind. The assassin stood up and calmly pulled off his mask, revealing himself. He was between Jacky and the beach, blocking his view of most of the carnage. But Jacky could see that the assassins were taking control, subduing the college students.
Jacky and the assassin with the beard and cold green eyes stared at each other. On the beach, a man with a wounded arm raised his gun, aimed at the man who was facing up to his boss, who’d for some reason revealed himself.
Jacky and the bearded man embraced each other, but not in a friendly way. Jacky planned to bite him; it was the kind of dirty move the assassin deserved. But before he could sink his teeth into the guy's bulbous nose, there was a shot that should have gone unheard amongst all the others, but Jacky knew this one was meant for him and perhaps that was why he heard it even above the roaring wind and the screams. Just like the cocktail party effect of hearing your own name amongst the jumbled words of social chatter. There was a thud and his head was snapped back, pain spreading quickly from his temple. As all went black and he collapsed into the sea, his last vision was of more blood, but this time it was not in the sea: it was running over his face.
40
Drumcliff, Ireland
/> As Theodore Marcellus replaced the phone, blood draining from his face, he knew that the assassins who’d four days ago terminated Jacky Jackson had finally arrived to kill him too.
That they’d taken four days to travel from Nova Scotia to Ireland didn’t puzzle him. For a whole day after he’d heard the news, Marcellus had stayed with his son in the lush lounge of one of his larger planes, circling the skies a couple of thousand feet above the nearest enemy gun. Since then he’d relaxed a bit, begun to think that the people who’d targeted Jacky Jackson had sought him and him alone - a rogue and a womaniser like Adam Jackson had surely made a few enemies over the years. The predicament he found himself in now, sharing his family home with just eight staff and his son in the dead of night, suggested that the enemy had decided to wait before coming at him. If they had figured that the first few days would see Marcellus beef up his security, they had been right. If they had guessed he'd let his guard down after that, they'd been right again.
Clutching his scared little boy’s hand, he crossed the small round room, which was filled with apparatus and amenities, including water, food and a toilet, to allow comfortable residence - “imprisonment”, he called it - for at least a month. He stared out the small, reinforced window, which was too high for his boy to see out. Not that he wanted him to see what was out there in the dark, coming this way.
They were coming from the front, Jameson, his chief of security, had just informed him. That had puzzled Marcellus; wouldn’t a rear attack, from above, prove to be more profitable?
No, Jameson had said. He explained why.
The house, a 13th century remodelled Carmelite friary, was built on a flattened area cut into Ben Bulben, a 1700ft table mountain, almost two-thirds of the way up. Marcellus had chosen the spot because the mountain blocked any possible attack by missile - a potent if improbable fear of his - from across the sea less than a mile to the west, while radar secreted atop the mountain prevented aircraft from infiltrating surreptitiously, and from this height his men could see any attack coming from the east. For a ground-based intruder, a west approach seemed the better option, for once on top of the mountain the elevated position gave the best chance in a fight. The problem was, the climb to the top from the west side was heavy going, and besides, the flat top of the mountain was wide open and offered virtually no cover. Much easier from the east side, Jameson said. Intruders could mingle in the town of Drumcliff at the foot of the mountain, and there was an abundance of trees that offered cover - not to mention the fact that an east attack meant less legwork because the friary was on this side. Furthermore, attacks were always expected from the rear. It was how you shot someone in the back.
That made perfect sense, Marcellus realised. Down below, his security consisted of nothing but an inner and outer fence at 100 and 150 metres respectively. Up above, on top of the mountain, there were three guard stations along the outer fence, which climbed the mountain and dissected its table-flat top.
Station #2, the centre cottage, was owned by Billy MacArthur, who lived there with his collection of dogs and sold hand-woven baskets at the local market. Marcellus heard MacArthur’s strong Irish voice on the radio now, urged by Jameson to report on any activity at the mountain top.
No activity, MacArthur reported. The Yeats Freaks were still singing and drinking.
Famous Poet W.B Yeats, Marcellus knew, was buried in the graveyard of St Columba, the small church at the foot of Ben Bulben. Yeats’ grandfather had once been rector of this church, and Yeats himself had written a poem expressing a desire to be buried “Under Ben Bulben.”
“Cast a cold eye
On life, on death.
Horseman, pass by,” read the words on his gravestone. Marcellus wished whoever was coming for him would pass right by. But he didn’t think it likely.
Jameson came in the door, wheezing. Marcellus thought he should cut the man’s wage. He was bloody good at his job, but he was able to afford too many pies on what he earned, and it showed in his big, rounded gut.
“Sir, we should get you to the Batmobile,” he said. His face was serious, this situation was serious, but that name just made it all so funny. Batmobile. It was what his son called it, and that was why the name set. A real Batmobile at this moment would have been bloody helpful.
Grabbing his son into his powerful arms, Marcellus followed Jameson out of the room. They ignored the express lift whose shiny steel doors looked so out of place set into age-worn stone. The stairs offered less chance of being cornered.
They went down spiral stone stairs worn out of shape by generations of feet. For all his controlled panic, Jameson still wasn’t able to move his fat ass quick; Marcellus almost wanted to barge him out of the way.
They reached the first floor and the solid iron shutter. Jameson pressed the switch, which did not need a retinal scan to operate it from this side, and the shutter whooshed up into its sleeve. That was a lethal accident begging to happen. They exited the belltower, which hadn’t had a bell for 96 years, and Marcellus felt the fear rising. The belltower had been turned into a secure vault, a safe room, yet he was being escorted out of it. The people coming for him must be very determined indeed.
“Daddy, which one’s coming after you?”
Marcellus held his boy more tightly as they rushed along a gallery overlooking a vast, circular hall. Anyone who’d ever been rumoured or known to be a rival, business or personal, of Marcellus's was thoroughly researched and discussed; Darren must have heard a hundred names mentioned and consequently thought every one of those people was a daddy-disliker.
“No one, Chocolate. Bad weather’s coming. We’re going on the boat.”
“Using Batmobile?”
“Using Batmobile. You can ride up front.”
“I like that.”
“I know you do, Choc.”
Down the wide stairs at the end of the gallery, left along a short hallway hung with paintings, through a door that was invisible in a white wall when closed, and down a thin tunnel that was bare brick and concrete floor. At the end was a blank wall. Here was another secret door, but this time in the floor. Jameson pulled up a large trapdoor made of wood but laid with thin concrete in order to blend in when shut, then pulled out a radio.
“Baker, are you there? What’s going on?”
A voice crackled on the radio, echoing in the stone gallery. “Multiple movements. Only make out a couple on the monitors. Sensors say nine. Metal detectors weigh each one in at a few kilos.”
A few kilos. Marcellus didn’t have to be told to know what that meant: the whole reason for the metal detectors was determine if guns were being carried by anyone on the grounds. A few kilos each meant big guns. Machine guns.
“Courtyard?” Jameson barked.
“Nothing yet,” the radio cawed back. “Inner fence breached, though. Few minutes, they’ll be at the house.”
“Get the Rover online. Retransmit to onboard screens, right?”
“Doing.”
“I assume a clear courtyard means a clear back alley for us?”
“Go.”
Jameson stuffed the radio in his pocket and went down the steps that were under the trapdoor, hauling Marcellus with him by the elbow. Marcellus let himself be tugged about like this, knowing that Jameson knew his stuff.
Round the back of the friary, there was a space about fifteen feet wide between the building and the smoothened, sheer face of the mountain. Here there was a hole cut into the mountain wall with a gate that stood open. Just inside the mouth of the hole was a black vehicle, the Batmobile. Really, it was a Land Rover modified to run on electric rails that went deep into the mountain, descending almost to sea level, and emerged from underground over half a mile beyond Ben Bulben. The spot where the rails terminated was inside a decrepit stone cottage by the sea, not coincidentally just a few metres from a sturdy, modern jetty that seemed as out of place here in this timeworn, tranquil and barren land as did the toughened, brand-new steel security fencing sur
rounding the abandoned cottage.
They climbed in the vehicle. Marcellus strapped his son in the back, leaning over the backrest from his place in the front passenger seat. Choc moaned that daddy had said he could sit up front. Marcellus said he’d forgotten and there was no time to switch places. Jameson took the driver’s seat, although there would be no need to use the pedals or steering wheel or even the engine. All that would be controlled by the touch of a button.
It was a big red button on the modified dashboard, amongst many other buttons, all smaller, none as colourful, that worked the electronic surveillance and security systems of the vehicle and house.
Jameson pressed the big red button. That was all it took. Electricity crackled. The Batmobile began to move, quickly, its great acceleration throwing its three passengers against the back of their seats. Darren glared out the toughened windows, grinning even though there was nothing but darkness to rival an Abyssal plain outside. They were now deep inside Ben Bulben.
Up front, the two men were hunched over the dashboard, scrutinising the small screens. One, which Jameson pointed at, was an infra-red radar display that cleverly used an aerial photograph of the mountain and the house. Three green dots were moving down the mountain, towards the house. The radar, Marcellus knew, was programmed to recognise a specific temperature: that of the three electrically-heated suits worn by the guards who each ran one of the mountaintop guard stations. Any other heat sources would show up white.
“As we figured, no activity from the top. Shall I let the men approach the house or return to their stations to keep watch?”
Angrily, Marcellus snapped: “How do I know? This is your department. Make a professional decision.”
Jameson pressed a button and then spoke into a microphone set into the dashboard. He ordered the men to continue their approach, but not to enter the house.
Next, Jameson played with a few controls and a small joystick. Marcellus leaned back in his seat, sighing. He was free, safe, but he had grown attached to that house, and was sure that when whoever was coming got there and found him gone, they’d just trash the place to be spiteful.
“Hello strangers,” Jameson said. Marcellus looked. On a monitor there was a colour image from one of the many auto-iris 6mm cameras, in weather- and shock-resistant casings, that were scattered about the woods directly below the house, just inside the interior fence. Men in black, carrying guns. Six, eight, nine they counted, although the sensors noted the total as eleven. They were swift and stealthy, always ducking behind new trees so that Jameson had to work his fingers fast switching from camera to camera so he could keep at least one of them in sight. They looked like true professionals, here with a do-or-die mission, and Marcellus suddenly didn’t care about his house any longer. He fiddled nervously with the strap round his right wrist, his duress pad. It served no useful purpose here, all knew he was in trouble, but it gave his fingers something to fidget with.
Jameson fiddled with the controls, then sat back. Now the cameras were operated by PIR infra-red sensors, triggered by the presence of heat or by movement. The images changed constantly as any camera that was activated assumed priority. Marcellus couldn’t watch.
The Batmobile slowed, tilted upwards. A moment later it turned horizontal again. Now there was light coming in the windows, light that was just the less-black darkness of the night sky pouring in through the holes in the roof of the crumbling old cottage by the jetty.
Quickly they got out, Marcellus helping his son out of his seatbelt. They went through a heavy metal door, which swung shut on a spring and automatically locked - wouldn’t do to have just anyone waltz inside.
Now they were outside, half a mile from the nearest bad guy. They rushed across the muddy grass. Jameson unlocked the gate in the fence and they were through, now stood on the edge of Ireland, looking down. Ten feet below, the jetty, and a small but powerful yacht tied there, awaiting them. The boat had been on standby further up the coast, its sole purpose to zoom down here as quickly as possible when the alarm went. Its pilot was inside checking controls and sweating because this was the first ever time he’d had to do this - day-in, day-out he usually sipped tea and watched TV on the deck until he was relieved.
“We have to climb down.”
“There’s a quicker way,” came a husky voice from behind them. Before they could do more than turn their heads - Darren didn’t bother, he was fascinated by the roiling black sea - a figure hit Jameson with a Hollywood feature flying kick in his meaty back. One arm-flailing somersault later, he slammed down hard on his back in the sea, narrowly missing the jetty.
Marcellus stared at the assailant with wide eyes, disbelieving. Darren stared with an intrigued grin, not realising the significance of the pistol aimed at his father’s chest.
Marcellus found his voice, albeit a croaky one: “Jacky!”
41
Jacky wore the water-heated uniform of the men Marcellus employed to guard the top of the mountain. At first Marcellus was going to ask how he got hold of one, then checked his tongue, remembering that this was Jacky Jackson. He formulated a new question: “Did you kill my man?”
Under the cap, which threw a shadow over his eyes so Marcellus couldn’t read them, Jacky smiled. “No. I just put him out.” He holstered his pistol. “A little bit like this -“
Before Marcellus’ tae kwon do-honed reactions could kick in, he was doubling over, wheezing, the result of a spinning kick to his abdomen.
“Daddy!” Darren cried, throwing his arms around his father. This threw Jacky off; his stance weakened. Marcellus sensed this, reared up with a roundhouse kick. Jacky staggered rather than moved back. He felt the wind from the kick on his lips as it narrowly missed.
They stood there in the night, the frothing sea creating the only noise, squaring up to each other. It was like a scene from some epic martial arts movie, something that Jacky found amusing: “All we need is the tense music. Close-up on Jacky’s eyes.” He squinted, stepped forward. Marcellus was quick. His right leg came up, straight as an arrow, arcing clockwise. Jacky ducked under it, just. Marcellus was ready for this, though: the leg continued round, completing the circle. With a flick of his heel, Marcellus used the ground to bounce his foot right back into the air, now arcing anti-clockwise, returning even faster because the arc was smaller, tighter. His foot caught Jacky right in the temple. The stars Jacky saw weren’t the ones in the sky.
He felt himself hit the ground. Then there was pressure on top of him. The cap came off, a hand pulled at his hair. His face was pushed into the mud, left eye smothered, right eye seeing out across the sea but unfocussed.
Then his face was out of the mud and against Marcellus’ shoulder and the hand in his hair was stroking, smoothing, soothing. Then a voice was speaking right by his ear, loud and booming to his still-disoriented mind:
“Oh God, Jacky, I thought you were dead, I thought you’d been killed.”
The sincerity in voice was the most disorienting thing of all, and it pushed him over the edge, into the abyss, which greedily swallowed him.
42
When Jacky Jackson returned to consciousness, his eyes at first failed to fully perceive his surroundings, and his brain, devoid of information, filled in the gaps, incorrectly.
He sat bolt upright, his head throbbing, believing he had been buried or imprisoned in a tomb. Then he noticed that the walls of the tomb were folded and soft, and patterned, and that the thing he sat on was also soft, with a pillow.
He was in a bed. A four-poster, very luxurious. Red and yellow velvet, and sprigged satin. The walls were nothing but thick woollen hangings pulled to accord him privacy. He pulled one back to expose the room beyond. Originally, bed hangings had been designed to provide insulation against noise and privacy from servants who slept on straw pallets in the same room. However, this room was empty of other people. Jacky climbed out of the bed.
Someone had stripped the stolen uniform from him; now he wore what he’d arrived in.
Tight dark green jeans and a tight long-sleeved black T-shirt, with his brown suede jacket folded neatly and laying at the foot of the bed.
The bedchamber was a curious mix of new, old and even older. He knew the building was a 13th century friary, and the bare parts of the walls and the ceiling were testimony to this, yet all of the furniture - the bed, dresser, draperies and paintings, and even a real-life X-frame chair derived from the sella curulis (folding throne), which he’d only previously seen on a portrait by William Larkin that was hung in his own house - were from the 15th to 19th centuries. Add to this the modern amenities - TV, phone, stereo - and the result was quite strange yet pleasing.
He was about to exit the bedchamber when the door opened and Jameson came in. He was in a new suit now. He looked like a butler, but Jacky knew he wasn't. Butlers would be liabilities to Marcellus: they couldn’t fight or shoot, couldn’t recognise the telltale signs of imminent danger, and they sure as hell couldn’t keep secrets under duress. Marcellus only had room around him for professionals.
Jameson stood in the doorway and informed Jacky that he was to follow him to see Marcellus. He didn’t look happy. But Jacky wasn’t about to apologise for kicking him into the sea.
He followed Jameson. They travelled down a corridor, across a dining hall, and stopped at a set of double doors at the end of another corridor. Neither man spoke during the two minute trek. Jameson, obviously, was smarting from being kicked into the sea. Jacky was smarting from being kicked in the head, from being put down by an older guy. And he was embarrassed that he'd been out long enough to be brought all the way back here, then undressed, dressed again, and laid in a bed.
Jameson showed Jacky the door then left. Jacky figured he was supposed to go in.
Marcellus was sat behind a large desk in this large withdrawing room stroke study. Whatever he was doing, he stopped it when he saw Jacky. His son was in a carpeted corner, playing on a full-size video game. Marcellus looked nervous, but not because he feared an attack. No, this was something else.
“What is going on, Jacky?”
He glared at him from across the room. “I could ask you.”
“Four days. No word. Where did you go?”
He couldn’t believe his cheek!
“Your spy woman left me,” he said. “And coincidentally, some other people showed up not long afterwards.”
“Who? Have you been with them? Why didn’t you call? What were you doing for four days?”
What indeed! Well, he wanted to say, first I nearly got my head blown off by one of your cronies, but fortunately he was a poor shot and ended up shooting his own man in the head, and said head was slammed into mine, knocking me unconscious. Then I woke washed up further down the beach. After that it was a nice trip back to the mainland, all the time trying to stay hidden. There, the simple matter of stealing a helicopter from a tour company, loading up on fuel and flying halfway across the Atlantic before finding a ship I could refuel at and use the Internet to trace you right here via the sale of the deeds to this place. And all that so I could stroll across the room and choke the life from you.
Except he wasn’t going to do that. Because he was reading Marcellus's tone, his body language, his eyes, and they were unanimous: Theodore Marcellus knew nothing about the attack. Unbelievable as it sounded, Jacky had to accept what his logic was telling him.
That left . . .
“Where’s your monkey?”
Marcellus simply looked puzzled.
“Leo. Where is she?”
“Leo? I haven’t seen her for two days. She’s with her family, getting ready.”
Ready? “Get on the phone, bring her here. Do it now.” He tried a threatening tone, but it didn’t work. The way Marcellus snatched up the phone, Jacky figured he thought Jacky was preparing to divulge some important piece of information and wanted both Marcellus and Leo present.
When Marcellus hung up, his orders to the aide on the other end given, Jacky said, “Getting ready? For what?”
Marcellus ignored the question. “You sneaked in here, to my home, but why? When we brought you back, the house was surrounded by armed police officers. Jameson had to talk them out of trashing the place and arresting us all. Why was this, Jacky? Why did you come here to attack me?”
Oh yes, the police. He had called them with a claim that guns were being illegally mass-produced and sold at Marcellus’s home, then used the cover of their assault to mount his own. It had been a work of art. First pretending to be one of the Yeats clan singing on the mountaintop, then slugging the sentry who guarded the centre fence gate and taking his suit.
“What were you doing at the jetty? Were you waiting for me? How did you know I’d go there?”
Oh yes, the jetty. The house, he knew, would be too hard to break into, very secure, lots of modern protection equipment. So, after seeing the strange hybrid train/car inside the hole in the mountain, he’d quickly figured it as an escape vehicle and had climbed on top, where the darkness covered hi like a blanket. The trip through the mountain had been like a rather enjoyable, and very scary, amusement park ride. Had had to jump off and hide behind the vehicle when it emerged from underground in the run-down stone cottage.
Marcellus shook his head like a father disappointed in the actions of his young son.
Jacky didn’t care: something was wrong here. People had tried to kill him and it definitely had something to do with this Money Pit and Babylonian king lark.
Unaware he was doing it, Jacky crossed the room and sat in the chair that faced Marcellus’ across the desk. Their eyes met briefly, then Jacky’s travelled upwards.
Behind Marcellus - in fact, everywhere on the four walls - there were large paintings, very well done in watercolours. Most were of a man, a man about Marcellus’ age and with similar looks. But the backgrounds - and the state of the paintings - suggested age, as if they were painted long ago and depicted a predecessor.
“Lawrence Marcellus,” Marcellus spoke up proudly. “These were painted by his closest friend, Patrick. Yes, that’s the man himself.”
He spoke as if Jacky were glaring in awe. He wasn’t.
“He was like you, a treasure hunter. A bonedigger. Very respected, quite famous. He always wanted to find the most sought-after of lost treasures. The hanging Gardens of Babylon appealed to him and he promised himself he would find the truth about this wonder of the technological world. His research didn’t pay off in that respect, though it did give him insight into the truth about Shamash Mudammiq.”
There was still a strange vibe between them. Marcellus was forcing the talk, and neither of them felt comfortable with it. It was like the tension between lovers after an argument; except they weren’t lovers, and what had occurred couldn’t in any way be likened to an argument.
“You did it, Jacky. You found the country where the tomb lies. You have taken the Marcellus family closer to that tomb and a better world, as Lawrence did two hundred-and-fifty years ago.”
This praise was supposed to make Jacky forget his anger and smile and say everything was alright. It didn't. He could hear a clock somewhere and knew it was ticking away the seconds until Leo, that traitorous bastard, got here.
“When Leo told me, I was so overjoyed, and proud, too. You might have solved the riddle, but I was the one who picked you. I picked you out of all the possibles, and you came through, you came through for me, Jacky.”
Jacky blinked, once, slowly, and suddenly he was clear-headed. He stood up, his eyes on the larger of the paintings behind Marcellus’ head. He came around the desk, staring up at that picture. Marcellus stood too, wary of his approach because he was still unsure of Jacky's intentions.
“So this is Lawrence Marcellus, eh? Who’s that with him?”
Lawrence and another man were shaking hands on a background that looked like the deck of a ship. The theme seemed to be a deal, a journey, good friendship through the troubles ahead, that sort of thing - at least that was Jacky’s feeling.
&n
bsp; “That is Henry Wren, another explorer. Lawrence’s comrade, his colleague.” Marcellus fairly spat the words, as if disliking their taste on his tongue. “They met when Lawrence was to buy a boat from Wren. It was Lawrence’s first attempt at sailing in search of treasure. He didn’t have enough money for the boat, so paid half. Wren accompanied him on the trip out of fear of being robbed of the remainder of his payment.
“Did they both plan to find Mudammiq’s tomb?”
“They went everywhere together,” Marcellus answered, full of pride.
“Does that mean they planned it together? Mass murder, I mean?”
The smile dropped right off the tall Irishman’s face.
“Or was it just your ancestor?” Jacky could feel Marcellus staring at him, wanting to read Jacky's eyes, which deliberately stayed on the painting.“Because I remember you said it was Lawrence who envisioned the great Money Pit decoy.”
Marcellus took a breath. He looked very angry, Jacky noted out the corner of his eye. Jacky remembered the speed of the man's kicks and was suddenly on edge himself, just as Marcellus had been when Jacky came around the desk. Still, he stared up at the painting.
“I mean, you never mentioned this man before now.”
“Henry Wren was a partner, but he wasn’t the intellect of the pair. That was Lawrence. Lawrence did all the research into whatever expeditions they went on. Lawrence envisioned the Money Pit and the great hoax that would allow him and his followers to safely, secretly go in search of Mudammiq’s lost tomb. It was Lawrence who found the location of that tomb. Without him, Henry Wren would have sold his boat to a fisherman and died alone in his bed, a withered old man, instead of as a hero on his final quest.”
Jacky looked at him now, puzzled.
“That’s right. You never did ask why my ancestor never recovered the tomb if he knew where it was. He knew it would be a dangerous journey. His diary was sent to his son from the country of their destination, which we now know is French Guiana. It was sent there with a note inside warning about Henry Wren. Henry Wren was a disease-ridden old fool who succumbed slowly to insanity. The legend says they died hunting treasure. I say Henry Wren killed my forefather and then later killed himself. Wren was capable of murder, my forefather was not. So my question to you is, what the hell do you mean about mass murder?”
The last words were shouted so loudly that Jacky flinched like a little boy. After, Marcellus just stood there, face reddened, chest heaving, staring at him.
Jacky quickly composed himself. The thought of his own near-death at the hands of unknown assassins helped. “If the Money Pit was a decoy to shift attention away from their true mission, then why did it never come to light?”
Marcellus stiffened, not liking Jacky’s tone, and not liking the fact that he didn’t know where this was heading.
“They plan it. They hire a group of African labourers and take a ship containing twenty massive iron vaults across an ocean to Oak Island, where they prepare a decoy that will stand up against two hundred years of technology. It should have been world famous, the tomb of King Shamash Mudammiq. And while the world flocks to this tiny island, your forefather and his partner sail to South America to unlock the real tomb. Why didn’t this happen? Why didn’t they tell anyone? Why did it take a kid playing a dare to discover the Money Pit years later?”
Marcellus’ mouth moved, fish-style. But words refused to come.
“I did some research of my own once I’d investigated the Money Pit, based on things I found and saw down there. I won’t go into detail. Suffice to say, the men hired to build the Money Pit were not Africans. They did not have the correct shape skulls. They were white, most probably Irish. I read some of their writings, from a satchel I took out of the Pit -“
“But Leo said you said there was nothing...“ Marcellus sounded flustered.
“I lied. I saw them because they were dead, all of them. More than a dozen, or two dozen. I read their writings, saw their documents, their plans for the Money Pit. Their plans, Marcellus. They were professional engineers and architects, one even a dowser who helped them avoid tunnelling into flooded caverns deep below ground. They built the Money Pit.”
“But -“
“The plan might have worked, but already, before the Pit was finished, your forefather and Henry Wren were getting paranoid. Too many people already knew the truth. One slip of the tongue and the secret would be out. That was why the story never got out, why the decoy was never made public. It was never supposed to be found once it was created. Because it had suddenly taken on a new purpose. Oh, the original treasure chamber was left as a token in case of discovery - they feared a leak, remember - but the real story of the Money Pit is the bodies below that chamber. The bodies of all those people, all those men who helped your forefather carry out his plan. Everyone who knew about it.”
Marcellus slumped against the wall, his shoulder nudging the painting of Lawrence and Henry Wren.
“A diary is a sacred item, a personal item, so why couldn’t your forefather use it to describe the location of the King’s tomb? Well, he couldn’t just write down the tomb’s location, because the diary might have gotten into the wrong hands. This was the same reason why he couldn’t outright give away tips on how to beat the Money Pit. He’d just killed to protect his secret; how could he possibly allow anyone to quickly excavate the Money Pit and find his gruesome treasure?
“But why not simply dispense with the Money Pit altogether, deny its existence, forget about it? Because the Pit was his way of disclosing the location of the King’s tomb. He knew the Pit was a tough enough problem to resist people for a good many years, a good many generations. Metaphorically it was like a timelocked safe. Waiting to open at the right time. The Money Pit would eventually disclose its secrets, he knew, but not until he was long dead and way beyond punishment.”
Jacky and Marcellus stared at each other. Marcellus was thinking of a response; Jacky was waiting for that response. While they waited, while the clock on the wall ticked away, rather as if it were counting down the seconds until a violent explosion, the phone rang. Marcellus put it to his ear, his eyes never leaving Jacky’s. A few seconds later, he hung up without speaking.
“Leo’s here,” he said finally.
Jacky backed away, never looking from Marcellus. He pressed himself against the wall just behind the door.
“What is all this?” Marcellus said.
“A pivotal moment,” Jacky said. It was meant to be cryptic; it just came out cheesy.
The door opened and Leo walked in, panting slightly. Despite the less-than-warm March weather, she wore a thin T-shirt that was wet with sweat. Biker’s leathers were on her legs and there was a crash helmet in her hand.
Leo stopped in front of Marcellus’s desk. “I counted sixteen times I nearly died and fourteen people I nearly killed on the way here. What’s the rush?”
“Jacky’s back,” Jacky said. Leo spun. Jacky pushed the door shut. He was leaning against the wall.
Leo broke into a grin. “Couldn’t keep away from me, eh?”
Jacky moved closer, looking carefully at her face, trying to read it. He hoped to see lies - or hoped not.
“Where did you disappear to?” he said, trying not to sound accusatory.
“Had to shoot off. You were having so much fun with that girl, so I didn’t disturb you.” She punched his shoulder playfully. “And then you don’t call.”
Jacky stepped back, looking between the two of them, feeling dizzy suddenly. He had expected so much from this confrontation, had felt so much anger over the past four days. And now it was all blown to pieces. But he should be happy, or at least relieved. Leo wasn’t lying; she didn’t know anything about the beach attack, and nor did Marcellus. He decided not to tell them.
But if the attack wasn’t planned by Marcellus - then who? Had those men been after Jacky? Or had their target been the American teenagers? After all, Jacky knew nothing about them, who they were, who they knew, who
they owed, who they’d pissed off . . .
“Jacky!” Leo repeated, snapping his out of a trance. “Where have you been? We’ve been waiting by the phone. We almost thought you’d gone in search of the tomb yourself. We know you have a dislike of partners. Where have you been?”
“I er, I also got called away.”
“But now you’re back. And the ball’s rolling again.” She turned to Marcellus. “Why didn’t you tell me Jacky was coming? Shame on you, boss.”
Marcellus shrugged. “I didn’t know.”
Leo looked at them both. “I smell tension. Problems?”
Marcellus spoke to Jacky. “I’m sorry about what you saw. I’m sorry to hear what you’ve just told me. But that wasn’t me. That was a man who is connected to me only by history. Whatever he got up to, I can’t possibly be blamed for. Can you accept that?”
“Saw?” Leo said, smirking. “Jacky, what did you see? Did you peek at me getting laid in that tent, you rogue you.”
Marcellus spoke to Jacky again: “We can be ready to go in two days' time. I have already arranged everything. I have all the equipment and manpower you’ll need.”
“I’ll need?”
“I brought you on board because you’re an all-rounder, Jacky. You know Babylonian history and you know archaeology. I want you to lead the project. I’ll be coming along, but I won’t get in your way. I will veto nothing you propose and will give you anything you need.”
“And if you say no to that,” Leo cut in, “you even get a free hour with his head doctor. Who knows, as a bonus he may even cure your obsession with me.”
The three of them just stood there, Marcellus and Jacky staring at each other, Leo caught between them, trying to watch both faces. She tried another ice-breaker: she spat into her hand and offered it. “One for all and . . . come on, you know what’s next, we’ve all seen the Three Musketeers cartoon. One for all and . . .”
Jacky turned and went for the door. Leo let her hand drop by her side.
“When you’re ready, I’ll be at home,” Jacky said, and slammed the door behind him.
43
French Guiana, South America
“They named a river after an Enya song!” Leo blurted.
Everyone looked up from their reading material to see that she was also looking up from hers, a great grin on her face.
“She sang a song called Oyapock?” said Jameson, who was dressed, rather stupidly Jacky thought, like some big game hunter from the forties, complete with high white socks.
“Not this one. Orinoco.”
“But we’re nowhere near that one,” Jameson offered.
“I know. Just noseying at the map.”
“Are you sure they named it after the song?”
For all his security expertise, Jameson could be very naïve about other subjects, it seemed. Jacky smirked as he saw Leo’s eyebrows rise; it had been a joke, but that obviously was lost on Marcellus’s primary bodyguard.
“Sure is,” Leo continued. “At one point the Orinoco looks like Enya’s face from the sky; so they named it after her first big hit.”
“Wow.”
The helicopters - three Bell 412EPs and a Bell XZ 100 - were skimming low over the rushing waters of the wide, meandering Oyapock River that divided eastern French Guiana from western Brazil. The rear chopper, the XZ, towed a Land Rover, which swung underneath it on heavy cables like a giant pendulum; the next chopper carried equipment that included four off-road motorbikes; the other two carried human cargo. The 412 seated fourteen passengers, but Marcellus had wanted his close crew - himself, Jacky, Jameson, Leo and another man - separated from his military group of nine. These were highly trained ex-soldiers, men who knew nothing about what was going on here, only that they might be required to wreak havoc, which was right up their dishonourable alley.
Their destination was still thirty miles distant. A walk in the park in a continent the size of South America. They were only four miles along the river currently, the amount of time that short distance had taken made to seem much longer by the monotony of the landscape - water, trees, and the occasional riverbank village.
Despite being a possession of one of the richest countries in the world, France, since 1667, French Guiana was over 97% forest, with few cities and a small population, 38% of its 100,000 inhabitants living in the capital, Cayenne. Two-thirds of the population are descended from African slaves from the two other Guiana countries, Guyana and Surinam. Originally the Guianas were claimed by the Spanish, who failed to settle here. The English came next, but treasure rather than settlement attracted them, for stories of hidden natural gold sources were abundant. Following the permanent settlement of Guyana by the Dutch in 1615, West African slaves were imported to work in tobacco, cocoa and other types of plantations. By this time the French and English had also established colonies, and there was a rich mixture of races present. Once slavery was abolished, in 1836, many slaves infiltrated into the barren, forested land, to mix, mate and create a new ethnic group. Contractual labour was later brought in, including Indian and Chinese workers. The result of all these actions was to leave the Guianas with an abundance of minority groups.
French Guiana became one large prison colony for the period 1852-1947. After this period, the French tried to promote settlement by a variety of methods. While most of the prisoners were returned to France to continue their sentences, some were given houses and jobs with local landowners. However, none of these methods was successful. Furthermore, attempts to attract foreign businessmen failed too, and the Overseas Department of France is today the main employer, with over 60% of products imported from France.
Jacky stared out the open fuselage door at the sun-sparkled Oyapock River, thinking about what lay ahead. And about what lay behind . . .
44
Lunenburg County, Nova Scotia
. . .
“So explain to the layman in me. What is all this stuff?” Leo had said, back in the bar, close to closing time.
Jacky smiled. He indicated the items he'd spread on the table.“These are the contents of a satchel carried by Lawrence Marcellus’ biographer.”
“Biographer?”
“Like his boss, he was big of ego. As an explorer, he knew that the story of his life would appeal to people. More than likely, he likened himself to Columbus or Marco Polo.”
“I get it. Historical purposes. So there’d be a record of his activities for future archaeologists.”
“Spot on. Lawrence Marcellus kept his own log, his diary, but that was simply his private stuff, just scribblings, notes. He wanted his exploits documented properly, so the man who carried this satchel was an expert writer paid to accompany Lawrence on his journeys and, basically, write a book.”
“Did this bag get lost? Or did Lawrence leave it behind as a clue?”
It was left behind because he didn’t want his story told, especially when that story involved mass murder, Jacky wanted to say. Instead, he said: “Probably it was a clue left for his future generations. Remember, the Marcellus clan believes in its own brilliance wholeheartedly. He knew someone further down the family line would find it based on the clues left in his diary, and that the book he wanted written eventually would be, making him a cult hero of sorts.”
Leo looked amazed. “Wow. So what do we know?”
Jacky talked, and illustrated with various things from the satchel. “1751, 3 years before the Money Pit was created. Lawrence was intrigued by Babylon. This series of notes by the writer describes the excavation of a stele at Shush in Iran. Shush is the present name of Susa, capital of ancient Elam, which -“
“What’s a stele?” Leo said.
“A big stone carving with inscriptions. This particular one was adorned with Akkadian cuneiform. Akkadian cuneiform became out of date by about 140bc. It has about 600 symbols and is very complex. Somehow, the story of King Shamash Mudammiq’s journey was translated into this language. Lawrence Marcellus wasn’t sure how or by who. But the tabl
et itself, the stele, was translated by an astronomer, one of the few professionals still able to read the obsolete Akkadian cuneiform.”
“What’s Akkadian?”
Jacky groaned, laughing. “Babylon was split into two sections. Sumer was the southern part, Akkad the northern. Cuneiform is a language of symbols. Obsolete means gone, not in use any more. The word ‘professional’ means -“
“Ha ha. Look, I’m not as good as you lot at this sort of thing. Be gentle.”
“Okay.”
“So, the journey?”
“Even as late as 600bc, the Babylonians didn’t know too much about the geography of the world. They thought the sea encircled all the continents on a flat surface, like an outer ring of water. So when Mudammiq left on his journey, the new King sent along someone to map out the world, because Mudammiq wasn't planning to come back. The chances of the map-maker returning were considered small, but he was one man and that gave a better chance. As it was, he did return, using the very same boat that Mudammiq and his men sailed in, as soon as they’d hit land. The stele described lighter skinned people they discovered on this new land.”
“What land was it?”
“Around this time, the continent was inhabited by many civilisations, the Amerindians being the oldest, followed by the Na-Dene then the Eskimo-Aleut. The first states involving kings and queens were coming into realisation, but it isn’t certain that it was one of these that the Babylonians discovered because they were emerging far across the continent. The people who -“
“Jacky,” Leo said, shaking his head. “If you don’t tell me right now, I’m going to lean over this table and kiss you.”
“South America,” Jacky blurted.
“South America? Big place. Narrowed it down at all?”
“It was a long way to sail. Currents played a part. Basically, because they had no destination in mind, they let the water take them wherever. It was a devilishly long journey. They travelled by foot and cart south to the coast, then sailed across what today is called the Gulf, round the Strait of Hormuz and out into the Gulf of Oman. Now they find themselves in the Pacific Ocean, carried along the S.W Monsoon Drift, then west and south-west along the South Equatorial current. This takes them around the southern tip of Africa, where they are arrested by the cold Benguela Current. North, turning north-west. Now the ship is taken by warmer currents that carry the poor battered ship north-west somewhat parallel to the north-east coast of South America.”
“I hope you don't think I was mentally following that route you just explained. Cut to the chase.”
“It could be Brazil, Venezuela, any of the Guianas -“
“But it is actually . . . ?”
“French Guiana. You see, once Lawrence Marcellus had worked it all out, he decided on creating a decoy. He wanted the site of this to be far, far away, but within easy reach of French Guiana. It is a straight sail directly south from Nova Scotia to French Guiana, and a straight sail directly east from Ireland to Nova Scotia, creating a kind of inverted L-shape. The shortest route possible from A to B to C.” Jacky had sketched an outline of what he meant on a napkin. Leo nodded, understanding. “While in Nova Scotia, the man called Patrick discovered some old bones and made a necklace, which he took with him to French Guiana. He had a son and gave the necklace to him. The necklace went down the family line”
“But how do you know it’s French Guiana?”
“Because French Guiana belongs to France. Where was the necklace found?”
Leo slapped the table. “Of course. Silly me.”
"Over a hundred years later, one Patrick's descendants was arrested and imprisoned and later shipped to France. He had the necklace with him. Eventually it ended up in a cave that had a little bit of artwork in it that a lot of people were going to like quite a bit.”
“And you worked all this out how?”
. . .
