His work finished for now, he placed the phone onto the table beside him and flicked the television on. It was showing a documentary about Kazakhstan’s uranium mining industry—which the colourful charts seemed to claim was the world’s largest. He could not understand a word of the commentary, but was too wired to sleep.
In less than a minute, his phone buzzed with a reply.
——————— ◆ ———————
11
Western Suburbs
Astana
The Republic of Kazakhstan
It was hot in the back of the van.
From the warm acrid smell filling Ava’s nostrils, it was evident the militiamen had been living rough for a while.
She was lying on her side next to Ferguson on the grimy floor, her wrists bound behind her back. Two militiamen were sitting up front, the other four were lolling on wooden benches along the sides of the van’s interior, staring grimly at their prisoners.
No one spoke.
Ava’s heart was pounding. They had not hurt her or Ferguson so far. She kept telling herself that was a good sign.
Despite her joke earlier, she was in no danger of developing Stockholm syndrome. The last things she felt towards her captors were warmth, trust, or gratitude.
One of the men near her lit a match. With all her senses on overdrive, its hot sulphurous smell was overpowering, filling her nostrils, before being replaced by the cloying fumes of cheap tobacco.
Opposite her, another of the militiamen leant across and unzipped one of the grubby holdalls on the van’s floor, removing what looked like a black T-shirt.
He stared at her provocatively—the slow movement of his dilated pupils and yellowed eyes suggesting long-term drug use. Without taking his gaze off her, he separated the black material into two pieces, and laid them out on his knees.
As Ava took in the shapes, she realized with a start what they were.
Her body released a jolt of adrenaline and she fought to stave off a rising wave of nausea.
Hoods.
She glanced at Ferguson, who had also seen what the man was doing.
Looking on with dread, she watched as the man leant towards Ferguson and pulled the black bag over his head, before sealing the opening around his neck with strips from a roll of shiny black duct tape.
Ava clamped her jaw tightly shut as the man turned to her, bending forward, angling the second hood towards her.
As she smelled the gun oil and tobacco on his fingers, every fibre of her being screamed at her to resist.
But she knew it would be futile, and would only result in her getting unnecessarily hurt. She had no idea what lay in store when they reached their destination, and needed to avoid any injuries that could compromise her ability to react.
Sucking in deep breaths, she offered no resistance while the man hooded her.
As the darkness descended, she could feel strips of sticky duct tape being wound round the base of her neck, sealing the hood onto her head, shutting out the last slivers of light.
Enveloped in blackness, defenseless and vulnerable, she closed her eyes to try and fight the panic that was welling up inside her.
It was frightening enough being tied up, a prisoner, hurtling through the Kazakh night in the back of a vehicle with armed militiamen and no backup.
Being deprived of her primary senses only intensified the mounting fear.
——————— ◆ ———————
12
The Knights’ Refectory
Castrum Lucis
Musandam Peninsula
The Sultanate of Oman
The Arabian Gulf
The Grand Chapter meeting was over. A plan had been devised, and was already being implemented.
The Templars were now in the Knights’ Refectory—a low stone-vaulted room set with three long wooden tables, each weighed down by an imposing array of silver candelabra, plates, goblets, and other vessels. The metalware glowed a pale orange colour, reflecting the warm stone lit softly by the guttering candles.
The knights ate in silence on benches, their white cowls hooding their heads and faces. In the timeless monastic tradition, they communicated only by occasional hand-signals, while one brother stood in a stone pulpit in the corner, reading extracts aloud from the Order’s medieval rule.
Two of the long tables ran the length of the room, the other joined them to form a U-shape. Each was dominated by a large ornamental jewelled metal centrepiece.
The imposing sculpture in the middle of the right-hand table was a silver ring, a foot high, off which radiated seven flames, seemingly frozen in time, wrought in silver and multicoloured precious stones. As the glow from the room’s candles bounced off its gems, the metal flames appeared to dance in the mellow light.
On the left-hand table, the centrepiece was an ornate silver triangle enclosing a large all-seeing Eye of Horus, gleaming in gold and blue lapis lazuli.
Grand Master Olivier De Molay sat on the high table, raised on a stone dais at right angles to the others. He was flanked by seven knights either side of him. The centrepiece on his table was a gold and ruby sculpture with the letters ‘XV’ enclosed in a fifteen-pointed star.
As the last of the food was cleared away, De Molay rose to his feet.
“Brothers.” His voice filled the low stone room, as his predecessors’ had for generations.
“This year is the eight hundred and ninety-third anniversary of the foundation of our Order by Master Hugh de Payns—a poor knight of Jerusalem with a humble vision for the defence of the Holy Land. Yet from these small beginnings, the mightiest of Orders grew.”
The knights were all listening carefully. The Grand Master rarely spoke unless he had to.
“This year is also the seven hundred and sixth anniversary of the relocation of the Ordo Antiquus, the Order within the Order, to our new headquarters here at Castrum Lucis—ordered by Grand Master Jacques de Molay himself in 1307 when he foresaw the imminent destruction of the wider Order.”
De Molay looked around solemnly. “Since then, the world around us has changed beyond recognition. But our loyalty to the cause and to each other has never faltered. We stand together now, stronger than we have ever been.”
There were nods of agreement from the knights.
“Lest we forget, we are still a fighting Order—and we have a mission, which has been our purpose for centuries.”
He surveyed the room.
Every eye was on him.
“Our founding of the elite French Foreign Legion in 1831 has enabled us to recruit the toughest and most disciplined special forces in the world—with full land, sea, and air capabilities.”
He looked at those on the right-hand table seated around the seven-flamed ring. “Brother Knights of the East and West, you are the world’s finest military forces. You have risen through the Légion’s elite Sword and Axe fraternity. You travel the globe. You live in inhospitable climes. You are the true inheritors of our desert fathers’ warrior legacy.”
He raised his heavy gold goblet in their direction. Each of them had been hand-picked by their superiors in the Foreign Legion as suitable for initiation into the Templars. “Vos salutamus,”1 he toasted them earnestly, honouring them with the Grand Master’s ancient salute.
“And yet our strength goes wider and deeper,” he continued. “For we live in a world where civil society wields many powers. Through our founding of freemasonry in the early fourteenth-century, we have long drawn on the finest of the civilian world.”
He looked at the men on the left-hand table grouped around the Eye of Horus. “Freemasonry has ever brought us exceptional men from all walks of life—public and private, from every field of human endeavour. Any freemason selected for elevation into this Order has shown his deep commitment to our arts and mysteries, and has proved his skill in maintaining the utmost fidelity and secrecy.” He raised his goblet to them. “Brother Knights Kadosh, vos salutamus.”
He paused
, replacing the goblet on the table.
“And finally, my brothers of The Elect of Fifteen.” He turned to survey those on the dais alongside him. “You are the family descendants of the fifteen knights who first escaped and journeyed here in 1307 at the command of my ancestor, Grand Master Jacques de Molay. You are the blood link to our forebears, who carried their heavy secrets here that we may preserve them. Your families belong to our Order as of right, in perpetuity. You are our beating heart.” He raised his goblet a third time. “To you also my brothers, vos salutamus.”
De Molay lowered the heavy goblet once more and surveyed the room slowly. “My brothers, these are dark times. And they may yet get darker. But we have always prevailed. And we shall again. It is our privilege, and our duty.”
He paused, and in a ritual gesture made a fist of his right hand, before thumping it hard onto the left side of his chest, where he held it. “Brothers of the House of the Temple of Solomon of Jerusalem,” he called in a raised voice. “Si vis pacem … .”2
The hall filled with the sound of scraping as the benches were pushed back and every man in the room stood, likewise thumping their fists to their chests, and bellowing the ritual reply, the sound ringing around the stone walls of the room, as it had done for seven centuries, “ … para bellum!”3
——————— ◆ ———————
13
Western Suburbs
Astana
The Republic of Kazakhstan
Eventually, Ava felt the van slowing down.
She had no idea how long she had been lying on its floor in the dark. They had stopped for a while at one stage, and she had a feeling the van had taken one particular road a number of times, judging by its uniquely noisy surface and the number of distinctive sharp bends. But she had no visual clues to where they had driven her.
It felt like they had been travelling for half a day. But realistically she suspected it had been no more than several hours.
The driver cut the engine, and in the welcome silence she could hear the sound of men outside.
Before she could work out what they were doing, the doors were wrenched open.
As the fresh air flooded in, she gulped it down hungrily, grateful for relief from the foetid smoky atmosphere in the back of the van.
But she was immediately conscious of the new danger, and with no warning she felt hands grab her, pulling her roughly into a crouching position.
A spasm of pain shot through her cramped shoulders, which had been forced into an unnatural position on the floor for too long. As she was dragged forward, she discovered the rope binding her wrists behind her back had dug in, and she could not feel her hands at all.
“Allez, bougez!” She recognized the heavy Congolese-French accent immediately.
Hands guided her out of the van, shoving her forwards.
The sweat was pouring down her face inside the hot hood.
There was gravel under her feet, but it suddenly gave way to a harder surface, then a step.
As she concentrated on finding her footing, with no warning the floor began to move impossibly, rolling towards her.
A wave of panic flooded through her as she sensed her balance failing. She tried to reach out and grab something to steady herself, but her wrists were still tied tightly behind her back.
With a sickening jolt, she realized she had no way of protecting herself from the fall.
Unable to stop herself tumbling face forward, she braced for the impact, twisting her body sideways in the hope her shoulder would hit the floor before her head.
But someone caught her, and she was shoved forward again, arms guiding her from behind.
Her heart hammering, she staggered and stumbled, before the floor suddenly disappeared from under her feet entirely.
Her brain spun uncontrollably, and she felt a hot surge of primal terror flush through every muscle of her body.
What had she fallen off?
Her mind filled with images, flashing through at breakneck speed—cliffs, tall buildings, and even the high ledges people were cast off in the ancient biblical execution of stoning, condemning them to a gory death on the stone-flagged floor far below.
But then she realized there were arms holding her from behind, and now there were more, grasping her from the front.
She could make no sense of what was happening. She was gulping in breaths. Trying not to shout or struggle.
She kicked out with her legs, but they sliced ineffectually through empty air.
Completely disorientated, and struggling to visualize where she was, the arms suddenly released her, and she was shoved down into what felt like a hard chair.
Gasping for breath, she tried to steady herself. But immediately, hands began groping at her neck.
For a moment, another spike of adrenaline coursed through her strung-out system, filling her with a fresh panic that she was about to be strangled.
But a moment later, there was a searing pain at the base of her neck, and the hood was gone.
——————— ◆ ———————
14
Omsk Street
Saryarka District
Astana
The Republic of Kazakhstan
On top of the warehouse, Uri narrowed his eyes against the cold morning wind.
He looked at his ops watch. Its tritium hands and markers showed 3:30 a.m.
He had specifically chosen this early hour so that if the militiamen in the warehouse were asleep, they would likely be in the deepest part of the cycle, and disorientated on waking. Their grogginess could prove invaluable, buying him a few precious extra seconds before they realized what was happening.
He looked around the crumbling district carefully. Everything was quiet, aside from the occasional purr of a car on the main road a hundred yards behind him.
Nobody was about.
He nodded to the three men on the roof with him. Moshe had delivered quickly, and the small team from the elite Sayeret Mat'kal division had arrived fast. They could not have come from Tel Aviv in that time, but Uri knew better than to ask.
He peered into the warehouse through the large middle skylight. The building was dark inside—he could see nothing.
Working quickly, the team silently forced the skylight’s rotting frame and lifted off the glass. Without speaking, they expertly anchored hooks and single kernmantel ropes to the roof, before running the ends into their quick-release harnesses.
They were dressed in full black tactical ops kit and vests over kevlar body armour. It was generic clothing that would not identify their country of origin. They carried no objects or papers. Even their weapons were non-traceable—standard NATO Heckler and Koch G3 assault rifles. If anything went wrong, they were on their own. They would be disowned by Israel. It was part of the deal.
On Uri’s silent signal, they pulled on their helmets and flicked the selector switches on their weapons to auto-fire. Each checked their night-vision was turned off, then waited.
With everyone ready, Uri held a pair of M-84 flash-bang stun grenades over the open skylight. He pulled the pins a second apart, before dropping them into the gloomy space below.
As the grenades tumbled through the darkness, he looked away, holding his hands over his ears. The men with him did likewise, as two searing bursts of blinding magnesium-white light split the darkness, and a pair of thunderously deep bangs ripped through the warehouse.
Uri did not need to give any additional signal. With a precision borne from years of intense repetitive training, the team flicked on their night vision and hurled themselves into the void, rappelling down the single ropes at breakneck speed.
They all knew they had only five seconds before the militiamen below would be able to see again, and perhaps a little longer until the sensory disorientation and sleepiness wore off.
All four of them hit the cracked concrete ground hard.
In one orchestrated motion, they brought their weapons up to the fire position a
nd spread out, covering all corners of the hangar, ready to return any hostile fire.
There was none.
Uri quickly scanned the warehouse, but could immediately see it was completely empty.
There were no adjoining rooms—just a large bare space.
As the men fanned out, Uri studied the floor. It was littered with cigarette ends and take-away food wrappers, and fresh ash covered an area of burnt concrete where a fire had been lit for cooking and heating. He held his hand over the ashes—they were still warm.
The building had clearly been occupied until very recently.
But the militiamen were now gone. And so was the object they had brought with them.
Uri cursed quietly under his breath.
After swiftly checking the front door for booby-traps, he waved the men out into the morning air. Even though it would be a while before anyone turned up to investigate the explosions, they ran to the car—another habit instilled by years of disciplined training.
Speeding off into the Astana night, Uri pulled out his mobile to text Moshe the bad news.
——————— ◆ ———————
15
Western Suburbs
Astana
The Republic of Kazakhstan
Ava winced with pain.
As the hood was pulled off, the light tore directly into her dilated pupils, which began contracting immediately, but not fast enough to prevent a searing pain ripping through her head.
She looked around, blinking, and instantly understood why the floor had moved as she had been led there, and why it had then suddenly disappeared completely.
She was in the rusty hold of a grimy stripped-down tug boat. To get her there, the men must have walked her along the yawing deck, then lifted her through the open hatchway she could see off to her left.
It was bare and functional—just reddish-brown rusty bulkheads enclosing an empty section of the hold. Two naked bulbs lit the space—not well, but enough to force her to squint as her eyes adjusted to the unaccustomed light.
The Sword of Moses Page 8
