by C. M. Palov
Wearing his trademark sneer, McGuire dropped the medallion into his palm. ‘Read it and weep.’
For several long moments Cædmon stared at the relic, the gold pendant divided into four separate quadrants, each containing a unique image.
‘You do know that this may actually be the Cathars’ only material legacy, making it an incredible historic find?’
‘Well, don’t get any ideas about putting it in a display case at the Louvre,’ McGuire shot back.
‘Any guesses as to what it means?’ Kate enquired in a conciliatory tone.
‘No need to guess. Its meaning is perfectly clear. These symbols are a hieroglyph of the heliacal rising of Sirius. Viewed as a pictorial depiction of the cosmos, the setting sun is seen in the west with the star, Sirius, in the east and the moon directly overhead. Clearly, the medallion is connected to the Axe Historique.’
‘What about these four As?’ Kate pointed to the fourth quadrant. ‘Instead of the usual horizontal cross bars, they all have an angled crossbar.’
‘A stylistic flourish, and as such, inconsequential. As to what they mean, I’m no expert on the Cathar religion, but the “A”s may represent the Four Ages of Man. Difficult to say.’ He flipped the medallion over to examine the back.
‘We were hoping you could translate the inscription.’
Cædmon tapped the first two incised lines with his index finger. ‘These are inscribed in medieval Occitan, the lingua franca of the Cathars. The inscription reads “In the glare of the twelfth hour, the moon shines true.” The last line, Reddis lapis exillis cellis, is written in Latin.’ Belatedly realizing the meaning of what he’d just said, his heart slammed against his breastbone. ‘I don’t bloody believe it!’
‘Believe what?’
He brought the medallion several inches closer to his face. Squinting, he reread the inscription, verifying the translation.
‘The inscription is written in grammatically incorrect, corrupted Latin. That said, it roughly translates, “The Stone of Exile has been returned to the niche.”’
‘What the hell does that mean?’ McGuire asked gruffly.
‘A great deal to anyone who has read Wolfram von Eschenbach’s Parzival. In that classic medieval tale, von Eschenbach refers to the Grail as the Lapis Exillis. The “stone in exile”.’
Hearing that, Kate gasped. Even the dour-faced commando seemed genuinely taken aback.
‘As in the Holy fucking Grail?’
‘Yes, that Grail. Which means –’ Suddenly noticing a pinprick of light in his peripheral vision, Cædmon stopped in mid-stream. Glancing down, he was horrified to see a red laser dot on his chest, centred over his heart.
Jesus!
37
‘Christ!’
His reflexes honed from three wars, Finn roughly shoved Cædmon Aisquith in the shoulder, knocking the other man off-centre. The bullet, intended for the Brit’s heart, ploughed into a maple tree instead, a chunk of sheared bark blasted into the air.
The next instant, seeing a red laser light bounce in Kate’s direction, Finn spun on his booted heel and dived straight at her, lifting her up and over the retaining wall. The two of them crash landed in the narrow gully behind the concrete barrier – just as another piece of bark chipped off the tree trunk.
Finn clamped a hand over Kate’s mouth, muffling her in mid-scream.
‘We’re under fire!’ he hissed. ‘I need you to stay calm. Got it?’
Grey-blue eyes wide with fear, Kate nodded. Finn removed his hand from her mouth.
‘Where’s Cædmon? And why didn’t I hear any gunfire?’
Her questions were asked with the rat-a-tat-tat rapidity of automatic weapons fire.
‘The shooter’s got a silenced weapon.’ Finn raised up slightly and peered over the top of the retaining wall. Aisquith was nowhere in sight, the man smart enough to turn tail and run. He also didn’t see anyone who looked like a cold-blooded killer on the prowl. In fact, none of the milling masses was even aware that there was a gunman in their midst.
Fuck.
He slammed shut the upended laptop computer. Then, snaking his hand over the top of the retaining wall, he snatched Kate’s knapsack and dragged it down into the gully.
‘Quick! Stick this inside the knapsack.’ He shoved both items at Kate.
No time to lose, he scoped out their position – hunkered behind the three-foot-high retaining wall, with a four-foot-high hedgerow to the other side of them, they didn’t have a whole helluva lot of options. Just the one, actually. Seeing a narrow gap in the hedgerow, he looped his left arm around Kate’s torso.
‘Carpe diem,’ he muttered, dragging her through the leafy breach, branches snapping in his broad-shouldered wake. While the thick bushes wouldn’t stop a bullet, they’d camouflage their whereabouts. An expert marksman, he knew that you gotta be able to see the target in order to shoot at it.
Aisquith, crawling on all fours, came barrelling through the bushes about ten feet away. Moving surprisingly fast for a tall man, he scurried over to their position.
He removed the Montségur Medallion from his jacket pocket and handed it to Finn. ‘You left your trinket behind. Tad close for comfort. My heart is still racing.’ Obviously, the Brit referred to the fact that he’d narrowly escaped the grim reaper and his laser-guided pistol. ‘Unless I’m greatly mistaken, our gunman is a bald bloke in a black jacket. He’s positioned approximately sixty-five metres away, standing behind the statuary just south of the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel. I saw him dash in that direction after he fired his weapon.’
‘I think I know the dude that you’re talking about,’ Finn said, quickly searching his memory bank. ‘I saw a bald-headed guy earlier, staring at his iPod or cell phone or something. A big-ass cue ball who didn’t strike me as the artsy-fartsy let’s-do-lunch-at-the-Louvre type. I’d peg him at six two, two twenty.’
Aisquith nodded tersely. ‘That’s our man.’
Unzipping his Go Bag, Finn deposited the gold medallion. He then pulled out a pair of Bushnell binoculars, aiming them at the statue on the other side of the Arc de Triomphe. ‘Got him. The bastard hasn’t moved to a new position.’ He handed the binocs to Aisquith.
‘Which tells me that our shooter is a rank amateur.’
Finn didn’t bother informing Aisquith that even a rank amateur could pull a trigger and kill a man. ‘I’m guessing he’s packing a forty-five outfitted with laser-aiming device and a sound suppressor.’
‘That or an invisible ray gun,’ Aisquith deadpanned, returning the Bushnells to him.
‘Since you know the lay of the land better than I do, what are our escape options?’ Finn already knew they could rule out the Citroën; it was in the museum’s underground car park, the Ruger locked in the glove box.
Using the tip of his finger, Aisquith drew an open-ended rectangle in the dirt. ‘The Cour Napoléon is enclosed on three sides by the Louvre which is shaped like a massive horseshoe. Our position is here.’ He tapped a spot centred near the open end of the horseshoe. ‘There are three escape routes. The first option: we can dash seventy metres to the open end of the horseshoe and flag a passing motorist on the Avenue du Général Lemonnier.’
Finn impatiently made a rolling motion with his left index finger. ‘Next option,’ he ordered, figuring that Door Number One would get them mowed down the fastest with the hedgerow the only cover in those seventy metres.
The Brit pointed to the two long sides of the horseshoe. ‘On the north and south wings of the Louvre, there are guichets –’
‘What?’
‘Wickets,’ the other man translated.
Finn shook his head, still in the dark. ‘Try again.’
‘Archways,’ Kate said. ‘Actually, they’re huge portals cut into each wing of the Louvre, enabling traffic to pass through the Cour Napoléon.’
Finn raised the Bushnells and took a gander, first at the gunman, still hunkered behind the statue, then at the arched portals. He’d earlier noticed t
he archways when they crossed the thoroughfare that passed between the Louvre’s inner courtyard and the Arc de Triomphe plaza. From their current position, the two sets of archways were equidistant, each about two hundred metres away. On the plus side, there were trees, shrubs and statues to give them cover. In the minus column, there were hundreds of tourists strolling about.
‘Okay, here’s the plan,’ he announced, stuffing the Bushnells in his Go Bag. ‘I’m going to make the first prison break through the archway on the southern wing. That will draw the shooter in my direction. Before I reach the archway, I’m going to create a loud commotion. That’ll be your signal to haul ass towards the opposite archway on the north wing.’
‘What sort of commotion?’ Aisquith enquired.
‘I haven’t thought that far in advance. Don’t worry. I’ll devise something.’
‘Finn, have you lost your mind?’ Kate hissed, frantically grabbing him by the forearm. ‘You can’t go out there! You don’t have a weapon.’ Because of tight security inside the Louvre, he’d had to leave his KA-BAR knife locked inside the Citroën.
Finn held up his two hands. ‘Kingdom Come or the fiery pits of hell. I can send the bastard to either locale with these two babies.’
‘This is no time for do-or-die theatrics. What if –’
‘Kate! Leave be!’ the Brit interjected in a lowered voice. ‘The man is a trained commando. He knows what he’s doing.’
‘I’ll meet you two jailbirds at the Eiffel Tower in thirty minutes.’ Finn purposefully picked that location because it was the one spot in Paris that he didn’t need a map to find, the damned thing visible from just about everywhere.
‘There’s a café on the corner, one block due east of the tower,’ Aisquith said, jutting his chin towards the famous landmark on the other side of the Seine. ‘We’ll wait for you there.’
‘Gotcha.’ Swinging his Go Bag behind him, Finn went into a sprinter’s stance. ‘Time to do or die.’
38
How could I have missed both shots!?
Standing in the shadow cast by a stone sculpture, Dolf Reinhardt stared at the offending Heckler & Koch Mark 23, ready to hurl the piece of shit across the Jardin du Carrousel. The American soldier who sold it to him had claimed that with the laser-aiming device, hitting the target would be child’s play.
Humiliated by his ineptitude, Dolf shoved the pistol into his waistband. He then wiped his palms on the leg of his jeans. That’s why he’d missed both shots: his hand slipped on the gun handle because of his excessively clammy palms. Palmar hyperhidrosis. Another side effect of all those fucking steroids he’d been force-fed at the Sports Dynamo.
I should have worn gloves.
But it was ninety degrees in the shade. And Herr Doktor Uhlemann had been adamant that he not draw any attention to himself. People would have noticed a big bald-headed man wearing gloves in August.
‘Scheisse! ’ How was he going to make this right? The trio had dived into the bushes, vanishing from sight.
Removing the GPS transmitter from his pocket, Dolf stared at the minuscule screen. According to the map, they were somewhere in the bushes southwest of his current position.
Yes! But which fucking bush?
And what if they were armed? It would be three against one. They could shoot him dead, piss on his corpse, and walk away with no one the wiser. Then who would take care of his mother? He couldn’t take that kind of chance.
Overcome with shame, his chin dropped to his chest. Unable to think straight, he stared at the ground. A few feet from where he stood, two tottering pigeons fought over a discarded crumb. Flying rodents, the city should poison them all, he thought, tempted to blow the heads off of the squabbling pair.
Instead, he shoved the transmitter back into his jacket pocket and retrieved his cell phone. For several long seconds, he stared at it, vacillating. He wanted to call Herr Doktor and ask whether he should remain in the Jardin du Carrousel or leave the vicinity.
But if I make the call, I’ll have to own up to my colossal failure.
Dolf bit his lip, well aware that he was knee-deep in shit without a shovel.
It was like the summer of ’92 when his thirteen-year-old sister, Annah, had been raped. While Annah refused to go to the police and identify the bastard who attacked her, Dolf had been certain that her rapist was the Turkish fruit vendor down the street. Dolf had seen the bastard eyeing his sister. Blonde-haired, blue-eyed, she was like an angel, and the rape was retaliation for the apartment fire.
Determined to avenge his sister, Dolf had waited in the dark alley behind the market where the Turk sold his over-priced produce. When the Turk hauled a crate of rubbish out to the metal dumpster, Dolf sneaked up from behind and bashed him on the head with his grandfather’s truncheon. Gasping for breath, the Turk had peered at Dolf, a pleading look in his limpid brown eyes. ‘Please, who will take care of my wife and four children if you kill me? I beg you, sir! Have mercy!’
About to bash him again, Dolf hesitated. Confused. Uncertain what to do. When he had earlier fantasized about killing the Turk, it had been quick and easy. Like in the movies. He hated the fact that his enemy, the man who raped his sister, had just caused this minefield of doubt. Enraged, Dolf ended up pummelling the man with his bare fists, swinging with all the might of his 223-pound body.
The long-ago memory caused Dolf’s gut to twist into a painful knot. Afraid that he might actually puke the contents of his stomach on to the pavement, he removed a roll of antacids from his pocket.
Just as he was in the process of peeling the foil away from a pink tablet, he saw Finnegan McGuire emerge from the hedgerow and sprint towards the plaza.
Stunned by the miraculous sight, Dolf dropped the roll of antacids.
He could now make things right!
And when he did, that bastard McGuire would pay dearly for the earlier humiliation. This time Dolf would shoot the American in the kneecaps. Then, when he was incapacitated, he would beat the bastard to death with his bare hands.
Just like he did to that Turk back in Berlin.
39
Planning to do rather than die, Finn ran across the open plaza in a zigzag pattern, a moving target being more difficult to hit.
When he reached the first goalpost, the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel, he put on the brakes. Standing in the shadow of an ornately carved archway, he scanned the terrain behind him. No Cue Ball.
‘Where is he?’ Finn muttered under his breath, worried that the gunman may have decided to go after the soft targets, Aisquith and Kate, instead.
Catching a fast-moving blur out of the corner of his eye, he swung his head to the left. Relieved, he saw the bald gunman, approximately sixty-five yards away, scurrying towards the monument.
Hurriedly plotting his course, Finn craned his head in the other direction, sighting an enclosure about fifty yards beyond the archway, completely surrounded by an eight-foot-high hedge. Perfect. All of the touristos were focused on one of three things: the Arc de Triomphe, the glass pyramid or the Louvre. Nobody gave a rat’s ass about a bunch of shrubs on the far side of the plaza.
He purposefully stepped away from the niche, putting himself in Baldy’s direct line of sight.
Bear baited, Finn took off running.
No sooner did he pass through the narrow opening in the hedges than he realized that he’d entered an eight-foot-high maze. Going with the flow, he cut to the left and ran to the end of the aisle. Flanked on both sides by towering shrubs, he was completely hidden from view.
At the end of the aisle, Finn hung to the right. He then dodged into the first cutaway that led to the interior of the maze. Coming to an abrupt halt, he flattened his spine against the manicured shrub. A quick peek verified that the goon, silenced gun now gripped in his right hand, was warily venturing down the aisle.
Reaching into his trouser pocket, Finn removed a coin and – aiming for a spot ten yards away – he tossed it up and over the hedge. Even with all the noise emanati
ng from the plaza, he could hear the slight rustle as the coin landed. Well worth the two euros if it fooled the gunman into thinking that he was somewhere other than his current position.
Trap set, he waited until … he glimpsed the gun’s silencer.
Springing out of the shadows, Finn pounded the other man’s right wrist with spine-jangling force. Stunned by the blow, the big bruiser dropped the gun.
A bullet discharged.
Grunting, the goon automatically stooped to pick up his downed weapon. Finn beat him to the prize, kicking the pistol into the hedges. He then threw his weight into a powerhouse right jab, his balled fist connecting with the other man’s face. A thunder punch that induced a sickening crunch! of broken bone and busted cartilage. The bald head instantly whipped to the left, spewing blood spray-painting the nearby bushes crimson red.
A painful blow, it would have felled most men. But the big Neanderthal simply shrugged it off.
That was when Finn noticed the scar tissue around the other man’s eyes, the beefy fists and cauliflower ears: the telltale marks of a trained boxer.
Fuck.
Sneering, the other man whipped a foot-long truncheon out of his belt loop.
Double fuck.
Not about to let the bastard knock him out, Finn lurched towards his adversary, using his raised forearm to block the other man’s swing in mid-air.
Which was why he didn’t see the uppercut aimed at his left jaw.
Thrown off his stride by the intense burst of pain, Finn staggered backward. The bald dude, no doubt figuring his fists were the better weapon, hurled the truncheon aside and came at him fast and furious. Power jab. Straight right. Left hook to solar plexus.
Grateful for the six-pack abs, the best armour a man could have in a no-holds-barred contest, Finn retaliated with a quick left to the jaw and a right shovel to a less than rock solid gut.
Wham, bang, thank you, ma’am!
Dazed, the other man swung wild.
Seizing the advantage, Finn slammed the heel of his hand against his adversary’s chin. The money shot.
