The Templar's Quest

A guilty expression crept into her eyes. ‘I know that you loved your friends and I promise that I won’t do anything to distract you from your mission.’

Whether you know it or not, Kate, you’ve already become a damned distraction.

Wanting to close the book on that particular topic, Finn unzipped the canvas satchel strapped to his chest and shoved his hand inside. Rummaging through the bag, his fingers grazed his KA-BAR commando knife. And because he was one prepared son of a bitch, his Go Bag also contained a roll of duct tape, a ball of wire, a flashlight, a two-day supply of dehydrated meals, baby wipes and a can of Combat Bath.

‘I gotta check our coordinates before we hit the road,’ he informed her, purposefully changing the subject as he unfolded the Paris map.

Kate placed a restraining hand on his wrist. ‘Actually, I was hoping that we could check into a hotel. I’m utterly exhausted and in desperate need of some sleep.’

He glanced at her face, forcing himself to ignore the dark circles that rimmed her exotic grey-blue eyes. ‘Later. We gotta first take care of logistics.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘You’ll find out when we get there.’

‘No. I will find out right now.’ The lady defiantly folded her arms over her chest. ‘I’m tired of being dragged willy-nilly, absolutely clueless as to what we’re doing or why we’re doing it. I’ll be happy to assist you with logistics if you would be so kind as to give me a mission brief.’

Finn conceded reluctantly with a nod. ‘According to my buddy at Mildenhall, there’s a military supply store near the subway station at Montparnasse. I also need to find the Paris equivalent of a spy shop. Some place that stocks surveillance equipment and high-end recording devices.’

‘Thank you. And I would appreciate it if, from here on out, you kept me in the loop.’

Rather than reply, Finn raised his left hand and smoothed away a silky skein of dark hair that had snagged in the corner of her mouth.

‘Thank you,’ Kate murmured again, this time noticeably blushing.

‘You’re welcome,’ he replied, uncertain what to make of her reaction.

‘I should probably get a, um, hair band to keep the flyaway strands out of my face.’ Suddenly turning skittish, Kate gnawed on her bottom lip.

Groin tightening, Finn stared at those pearly-white teeth clamped down on that plump bit of flesh. ‘I like your hair loose … it’s pretty.’

Ah, shit! Did I really just say that?

Kate was right; he was a total Neanderthal. Hubba-hubba. You pretty. Me strong. Not like her old buddy Aisquith who, even in an alcoholic fog, could effortlessly recite lines of poetry.

Feeling like a tongue-tied teenager, Finn turned towards the Vespa. ‘Hop on. We need to hit it,’ he said gruffly, swinging his leg over the padded seat. ‘I’ve got a long shopping list.’

24

‘Writing a book, my arse,’ Cædmon Aisquith grumbled uncharitably as he picked up the teacups and crumb-laden plates scattered about the snuggery. For the life of him, he couldn’t imagine what Kate Bauer was doing with that muscle-bound Celt; the man was an absolute boor.

Although who am I to criticize?

He’d awakened that morning, head throbbing, stomach reeling, each and every movement requiring advance planning. Bumbling into the kitchen, he’d groped his way towards the kettle, intending to brew a pot of coffee. Only to grab the Tanqueray gin bottle instead.

Similia similibus curantur.

Like cures like. As good a reason as any for an early-morning stroll down gin alley. While admittedly a contemptible act, it did cure the malady. In fact, he’d just unscrewed the cap from the bottle when he’d heard the fateful knock at the door. An inopportune moment for Kate Bauer to pay her overdue respects.

Empty teacups and plates neatly stacked, Cædmon set them on the ridiculously ornate serving tray, an eighteenth-century relic he’d picked up at a Paris flea market. He’d yet to purchase a bottle of silver polish so the tray, like everything else in his life, was badly tarnished.

He finished tidying up and carried the tray to the small flat at the rear of the bookstore. Stepping through the door that separated retail space from residence, he entered the ‘drawing room’ – a cramped space that barely accommodated a sagging but comfortable tufted leather sofa. In front of the sofa, a scarred Edwardian coffee table was burdened with old issues of The Times, a half-full carton of takeaway, classical music LPs, a dog-eared copy of Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations and a messy pile of clean laundry.

Hard to believe that at Oxford he’d been considered something of a neat nick.

Oh, sweet Kate. What must you think of me?

From the onset, he’d been attracted to Kate because, unlike so many of his one-dimensional classmates at Oxford who were experts in their chosen academic field but unable to converse on any other subject, Kate was interesting. Not only could she speak fluidly on any number of topics, she had an innate curiosity about the world that he found compelling.

Which is why it pained him that she’d severed the relationship, claiming he loved his studies more than he loved her. ‘Still climbing after knowledge infinite.’ Another plagiarized line from her ‘classy Dear John’ letter. While the accusation stung, he couldn’t deny that he’d been totally obsessed with the Knights Templar, the medieval order of warrior monks that was his chosen research niche. In the end, the Templars spelled his doom; the head of the history department at Queen’s College refused to confer his doctoral degree because of unfounded claims he’d made in his dissertation regarding the Templars’ exposure to the Egyptian mystery cults.

Hail and well met, Brother Knight. How the mighty have fallen.

Certainly, he didn’t want to dwell on the maudlin. Didn’t want to admit that Kate Bauer was little changed from Oxford, while he’d become the proverbial pale shadow. And he certainly didn’t want to conjure from his memory that single sheet of watermarked stationery neatly inserted into the tissue-lined envelope. He wouldn’t contest the Marlowe, but the line from Yeats still rankled.

Heading towards the kitchen, Cædmon sidestepped a pile of books stacked next to the sofa. As he did, the nestled teacups on the tray rattled, inciting a migrainous thunder.

‘Christ,’ he muttered. ‘Sod all Irishmen.’ Or Irish-Americans as the case may be.

Was there even a difference?

He had his doubts, the English and the Irish locked in mortal combat. It had been that way for eight hundred years. If the bastards in the Real Irish Republican Army got their way, it would be that way for another eight hundred.

So who the bloody hell was the morbidly named Finnegan McGuire?

Certainly no would-be writer. On that Cædmon would wager the entire bookstore.

Suddenly curious, he walked back to the cluttered Edwardian coffee table. Shoving the laundry on to the carpet, he set the tray down. He then strode over to the mahogany corner cabinet where he kept his laptop computer.

When he left Oxford, he’d promptly been recruited into service in Her Majesty’s government. It was an interesting venture, his duties extending beyond the typical paper-pushing. Having recently severed his ties with his former employer, he still maintained a few valuable contacts with individuals who had access to every computer database in the United Kingdom. And a goodly portion of the rest of the world, for that matter.

He quickly typed in the request and hit the SEND button. Soon enough he would know if there was more to Finnegan McGuire than an impolite fellow who didn’t speak German. Also desirous to know why Kate had attached herself to such a brute, he typed a second request for Katsumi Bauer.

‘I apologize, dear Kate, but needs must.’

Retrieving the tray, he carried it into the kitchen. As usual, he braced himself for the onslaught – the sink full of dirty dishes, the countertop inundated with empty food containers. He set the tray on the counter, inadvertently knocking over a tonic bottle. Its evil twin, a green bottle of Tanqueray, remained upright. He could see that there were two fingers of gin left. Enough for a double.

He reached for an empty glass, unconcerned that it had a dirty smudge on the rim.

By his own admission, he’d succumbed to a pitiful paralysis of mind and spirit, having experienced grief in all its myriad forms over the course of the last two years. Indeed, there were many times when he’d been unable to utter the words ‘Juliana is dead’ without tearing up. And having to hear the ‘I’m so sorry’ speech was pure torture. While the condolences were well-intended, they couldn’t resuscitate the dead.

At least Kate had spared him that torment. Clearly, she had no idea that he’d met Juliana Howe, an investigative reporter for the BBC who, one humid August evening, happened to be standing at a London tube station when a RIRA bomb detonated. He’d just ‘celebrated’ the two-year anniversary of that horrific event; the reason for the drunken binge.

He raised his glass in mock salute. ‘To Ars Moriendi, the art of dying.’

A contrarian, he was clearly determined to end his own life in the most craven way imaginable, nothing quite as reprehensible as an unrepentant inebriate. Unless it was a cold-blooded killer. He had the dubious distinction of being both, having killed the man responsible for Juliana’s death. Moreover, he’d stood by and watched as a nine-millimetre bullet ploughed through his enemy’s skull. Rendering the bastard a graceless heap, arms and legs splayed like spokes on a blood-stained wheel.

Certainly, he’d had just cause.

Juliana Howe had been brilliant. And beautiful. And she did not deserve to die because a rebellious Irishman wanted to terrorize London. Christ. It’d been a scene right out of the Apocalypse, the bomb blast having turned the tube station into a fiery death trap. A maelstrom of twisted metal, chunks of concrete and deadly steel rods. In a frantic state, he’d shouldered his way past the dazed survivors, screaming her name. When his gaze landed on a familiar black high-heel shoe still attached to a foot, he’d lurched, heaved, then promptly vomited. His gut painfully turned inside out at the realization that Juliana had literally been blown to bits. Nothing to recover but that bloody stump.

Having vowed to find the perpetrators, he used his government contacts to track down the RIRA mastermind. In the days preceding the execution, he’d been so consumed with bloodlust that he had no recollection of the trip from London to Belfast.

How is it possible to forget the road from Gethsemane to Calgary?

Once he’d arrived in Belfast, he’d tracked Timothy O’Halloran to a raucous pub on the Catholic side of the peace wall. No surprise there, the Irish being fine ones for drinking and blathering ad nauseam. Committed, he waited in a darkened doorway for three hours and seventeen minutes. Legs cramped. Neck pinched. Finger poised over the trigger. And then the pub door swung open and O’Halloran, jolly smile plastered on his drunken face, blithely stepped across the threshold. Cædmon followed him down the rain-slicked pavement, until O’Halloran ducked into an alleyway to relieve himself. That’s when he pulled the black balaclava mask over his face and removed the Ruger pistol from his pocket.

Having been obsessed with revenge, he’d not reckoned for the ensuing guilt that now clung to him like a second skin. Killing his enemy in cold blood was supposed to set him free. But, instead, he discovered that you take everything from a man when you kill him. And he, in turn, steals everything from you. Gin was simply the most expedient means of dulling the pain.

How pathetically trite. A man drowning his sorrows in a bottle of distilled spirits.

Knowing that his battle with the bottle trivialized Juliana’s death, Cædmon ran his thumb over the glass rim, wondering if he should, if he could, pour the remaining contents down the drain. After two years, surely the time had come to put his life in order?

He raised the glass to his lips. Shag it. What was the point? So he could return to the infantile enthusiasm of his youth? At forty years of age, he was too jaded to believe in a Second Coming.

‘Rack and ruin. The measure of this man.’

Hearing a chime emanate from his laptop, Cædmon, glass in hand, wandered into the other room. Curious about his old lover, he first opened the attachment marked ‘Katsumi Rosamund Bauer’. Rosa Mundi. The Rose of the World, as he used to affectionately call her. He quickly scanned the particulars of the dossier. As he neared the bottom, his stomach clenched, horrified to read that two years ago Kate’s infant son had died of SIDS, cot death.

We are kindred after all, Rosa Mundi.

Cædmon opened the next attachment.

‘Shite,’ he muttered, utterly astounded. While the ex-Delta Force commando didn’t fit the typical stereotype of a RIRA terrorist, the connection was there. Even more worrisome, the man was a fugitive from the law, accused of committing two heinous murders.

The skin on the back of his neck prickled, as though a ghost from his old life had just flitted past.

Concerned for Kate’s safety, Cædmon snatched his car keys out of the crystal bowl on top of the cabinet and stuffed them into his trouser pocket. That done, he opened the top drawer and removed a leather holster, quickly strapping it on to his shoulder. Spinning on his heel, he rushed out of the room, grabbing a tweed jacket off the arm of the sofa on his way to the door.

Just you wait, you bloodthirsty Irish bastard.

25

Finn turned the ignition key, the Vespa thrumming to life.

Clambering on to the back of the scooter, Kate adjusted her hips so that she wasn’t pressed so intimately close to Finn’s rear end.

‘Since we can both use some shut eye, as soon as we finish buying the supplies I’ll find us a secure hotel room.’

The offer came as something of a surprise, with Kate beginning to worry that Finn was the product of a clandestine military experiment, reprogrammed to function on little to no sleep.

‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome, Katie.’ Finn turned his head a few more inches in her direction, his whiskered cheek brushing against the side of her face. ‘Okay. We’re ready for takeoff.’

Warning issued, he steered the Vespa down the rutted alley, merging on to a narrow street jam-packed with parked cars and Greek cafés.

Kate glanced back at L’Equinoxe. At the gently swaying sign emblazoned with The Fool. She’d never dreamed that she’d see Cædmon again, had long since shoved recollections of their time at Oxford to the wayside of her youth. Seeing him after so many years brought it all back. So many endearing memories. The chiaroscuro light and early-morning mist that suffused Oxford. The silliness of trying to learn the meaning of a ‘quid’ and a ‘crisp’. The challenging debates that lasted well into the night. The lazy Sunday afternoon picnics along the River Isis.

Hard now to imagine herself ever being that young. That naive about relationships. About love. Betrayal. The evil that men do.

With a forlorn sigh, Kate leaned her cheek against Finn’s broad back. So strong and dependable. Her bulwark against all that evil. And while Finn McGuire was an unrepentant smart-aleck, he would never harm or demean her in any way.

Maybe her strange attraction to Finn McGuire wasn’t a form of Stockholm Syndrome so much as an actual stirring of the heart. Not only was he a physically fit male, but he was honourable and courageous. And much smarter than he let on. The fact that he didn’t preen or showboat made him even more attractive. Attractive like a standing stone. Or a towering oak tree. Beautiful and solid and wildly primitive.

But he is so not my type.

Having always dated ‘academic’ types, it made Kate think that it might be a case of opposites attracting. Like positive and negative poles on a magnet. Or the Yin and Yang of Chinese –

Finn elbowed her in the ribs. ‘We’ve got a crotch rocket on our six!’

‘What?’ Kate had to screech to be heard over the top of the sudden roar of a loud engine.

‘I’m going to make a sharp left up ahead.’

Uncertain who or what a ‘crotch rocket’ was, Kate tapped him on the shoulder. ‘But, Finn, that’s a one-way street. If you turn left, we’ll be headed in the wrong –’

She grabbed his waist as the scooter suddenly made a very tight turn, the illegal manoeuvre inciting a loud horn blast from a passing motorist. Craning her head, Kate caught sight of a silver motorcycle about thirty yards behind them, its rider decked out in head-to-toe black leather.

Menacing? Yes. Dangerous? She hoped not.

Wrapping her arms around Finn’s torso, Kate clutched her left wrist with her right hand, locking herself into place. Terrified, she couldn’t tell if her heart was beating too fast or too slow.

Finn glanced in the side mirror, his expression grim. ‘Hold on tight,’ he ordered as he opened the throttle, the Vespa quickly picking up speed.

But not enough speed; the motorcycle was no more than fifteen feet behind them. And gaining.

Accelerating, Finn crossed the heavily-trafficked Boulevard Saint Germain to the accompaniment of blaring horns and foul-mouthed yells. Certain they were going to be hit by a delivery truck, its driver wildly gesturing at them, Kate wrapped her arms even tighter around Finn’s waist.

Somehow, miraculously, they crossed the busy thoroughfare without incident.

Glancing behind her, Kate saw that the driver of the hotrod motorcycle had been the recipient of the same miracle.

Directly ahead of them, the view wasn’t much better, a green street-cleaning truck hogging the entire lane. In a manoeuvre Kate didn’t see coming, Finn jumped the kerb to the right of the truck and passed it on the pavement. The motorcycle also jumped the kerb, its front wheel coming off the ground at least two feet as the driver gunned the engine. The sinister theatrics elicited a cacophony of terrified screams, pedestrians running pell-mell to escape the two vehicles.

Seeing a small cluster of people gathered around a vegetable stand, Kate hollered, ‘Watch out!’

‘I know!’ Finn yelled back at her, both of them flinching as someone threw a head of lettuce, the green projectile bouncing off the scooter’s windshield with a resounding thud.

Having successfully navigated around the vegetable stand, Finn took a hard right, narrowly missing a bicyclist. The sudden turn put them on a cobbled street, one of the tiny lanes that made up the labyrinth of pedestrian streets bordering St Séverin Church. Motorized vehicles were forbidden, but Finn clearly didn’t care about Parisian road regulations.

The same could be said of the driver on the motorcycle, Kate glimpsing a silver flash to the rear of them.

‘Oh, God! Don’t hit the pigeons!’ she screamed a few seconds later as they sped down a minuscule street that was little more than a fissure between two adjoining buildings.

Finn shot her a warning glance in the side mirror. Kate didn’t have to be a mind reader to know she’d just been telepathically ordered to ‘Shut up and stop back-seat driving! ’

Moments later, as they passed the Gothic St Séverin, she caught sight of the grotesque stone gargoyles that extended from the gables. For centuries they’d stood sentry high atop St Séverin, keeping evil at bay. She offered up a quick prayer, the silver motorcycle still ‘on their six’.

As they approached the congested Quai St Michel, Kate knew Finn had only one option – turn left or end up in the River Seine. Leaning close as he made the approach, she braced herself for the sharp turn, the Vespa precariously lurching off balance.

Which is when it occurred to her that neither of them wore a helmet. Or any other form of protective clothing.

That realization made her pray all the harder.

No sooner did they make the turn on to Quai St Michel than Finn proceeded to weave in and out of traffic. The silver sports bike zigzagged right along with them, easily keeping pace with their every manoeuvre, the helmeted driver waving at her as she glanced at him over her shoulder.

‘Hasn’t your buddy Aisquith ever heard of a tune-up?’ Finn complained. ‘We’d have more power on a tricycle.’

Evidently their pursuer thought the same thing because suddenly he revved his engine. Where before there had been five feet between them, the distance was now reduced to five inches.

Like a high-speed battering ram, the motorcycle butted the back of the scooter.

‘Finn!’

‘I know! I can’t go any faster!’ he hollered, veering in front of a taxi.

The motorcycle pulled abreast of them.

Which is when Kate saw the driver remove a weapon from his jacket.

‘He has a gun!’ she screamed, every muscle in her body tensed, already anticipating rigor mortis.

What happened next was a visual blur as Finn abruptly swerved to the right on to an exit ramp – an exit ramp that descended to the paved wharf that fronted the Seine. On one side of the pavement there was a two-storey retaining wall that abutted the multi-lane speedway; on the other side was the river.

Finn cut the engine on the Vespa and slammed his booted foot against the kickstand.

‘Get off! Quick! He’ll be here any second!’

Kate did as instructed, offering no resistance when Finn grabbed her by the hand and ran over to the water’s edge. About a hundred yards away a grey-haired man seated in an aluminium deck chair was fishing, a dog asleep at his side. Fifty yards in the other direction were two parked cars, their owners nowhere in sight. For all intents and purposes, they were alone.

‘Okay, it’s show time,’ Finn hissed, jutting his chin towards the silver motorcycle zooming down the concrete ramp. ‘You let me handle this. No interfering. Understood?’ As he spoke, he shoved her behind him, shielding her with his much larger body.

‘What are you going to do?’ Kate asked fearfully, wondering if there was anything he could do.

‘I’ll tell you what I’m not going to do … I am not going to retreat.’ Unzipping the canvas satchel slung across his chest, Finn removed the Montségur Medallion from his bag, the gold disc brightly gleaming in the midday sun.

‘Drop your weapon!’ Finn shouted at the helmeted man on the motorcycle. ‘Or the medallion gets hurled in the river!’

26

‘And just so we’re clear –’ smiling mirthlessly, Finn tossed the Montségur Medallion into the air, catching it in his left hand – ‘this has no value to me whatsoever. One wrong move from you and I will not hesitate to fling it like a damned frisbee into the Seine.’

He hoped to God the bravado worked. If not, they were screwed. Other than the somnolent old man with the hook’n’line dangling in the water, there wasn’t a soul in sight. He and Kate were in the open. Completely exposed. Even the old man wouldn’t know what had happened until all was said and done; the bad guy’s HK semi-automatic had a silencer on the end of it.

Which probably explained why Kate was quaking against his backside.

Or maybe she knew there was one really big chink in his armour – he had no weapon.

In those few seconds before the motorcycle roared on to the wharf, he thought about grabbing the KA-BAR knife. He had a deadly aim and to hell with the legal consequences. He always said he’d rather be tried by twelve than carried by six. But at the last moment something made him reach for the medallion instead. He wasn’t altogether certain why he did it, other than he had a gut feeling it was the better weapon to draw from his holster.

The helmeted rider, his features obscured by the black-tinted face guard, lowered his weapon, setting it on the ground. The bastard then did the unexpected and kicked the damned thing into the Seine, the gun hitting the water with a loud splash.

Cocky motherfucker.

Finn raised a quizzical brow. ‘You know, I was fully expecting you to play a few more hands before folding. You must want this medallion real bad.’ When his adversary made no reply, he said, ‘I’ll take that as a “Yes”. Now that we’ve got that settled, lose the helmet, asshole. I want to see your face. Slowly. No sudden moves or the medallion will end up next to the HK at the bottom of the river.’

Clasping either side of the metallic grey helmet, the other man complied with the request.

The moment the helmet was removed, Finn sucked in a deep breath, completely blown away.

Holy shit!

Unhurriedly, well of aware of the effect, his adversary shook out a mane of long, silver-blonde hair. Hearing Kate’s indrawn breath, Finn could only assume that she was equally stunned to discover that the person standing opposite them was a woman.

Quite possibly the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

‘Who the hell are you?’ he demanded to know, still getting over the shock.

‘Some call me Angelika; others, the Dark Angel,’ the woman calmly replied in a husky French accent.

The Dark Angel!

Fuck!

Finn glared at the leather-clad assassin. Although sorely tempted to kill the bitch with his bare hands, he’d vowed that Dixie and Johnny K’s murderer would stand trial. That meant he had to have her alive and kicking. She wasn’t worth a damn to him dead.

‘So, which do you prefer … the Dark Angel or Angelika?’

‘I prefer the Dark Angel.’

‘What is that, your alter ego?’

‘Mais, oui. In the war between the Sons of Light and the Sons of Darkness, the Dark Angel will be triumphant.’

Finn snorted derisively. ‘Thanks, Yoda. So, how about telling me how you tracked us. Hell, we haven’t been in Paris but a few hours.’

‘While you have many skills, you committed a glaring blunder.’

‘Yeah? What was that?’

‘You took Fabius Jutier’s laptop from his embassy office.’ Her lips curled in a gloating smirk. ‘We surmised that you did so in order to mine the computer for information regarding our organization. Information which would have led you directly to our headquarters here in Paris.’

‘I didn’t steal a damned thing,’ Finn said with a shake of the head.

‘There’s no sense lying. The misdeed is done. Since you are a decisive man, we knew that you would go on the offensive. Which is why we’ve been watching the airports and train stations around Paris.’ The smirk morphed into a come-hither smile. ‘If you must know, I had you in my gun sights earlier this morning at Gare du Nord.’

‘Why didn’t you pull the trigger?’

‘Regardless of what you think, the Seven has no desire to see you dead.’ As she spoke, the Dark Angel unzipped the pocket on the left arm of her jacket and removed a box of Lucky Strike cigarettes. ‘If I wanted you dead, I could have killed you at any time.’ She nodded at the Ducati 999R parked a few feet from where she stood. ‘Mine is the more powerful vehicle. It would have been child’s play to have caused a fatal accident.’

‘And the only reason you didn’t mow us over with your Italian crotch rocket is because you had no way of knowing whether or not I had the medallion on me.’ For damn sure, she didn’t spare their lives out of the goodness of her heart.

Opening the box of Lucky Strikes, the Dark Angel removed a gold lighter. She then shook a cigarette loose and extended her arm towards Finn. ‘Fumez-vous? ’ When he shook his head, she lit a cigarette, throwing her head back as she languidly blew out a perfectly shaped smoke ring.

‘I’m curious: are you just a hired gun or are you a card-carrying member of the Seven?’ he asked, admittedly having a hard time getting a handle on her.

Her brow wrinkled. Either she didn’t understand the question or she was playing dumb.

‘Okay, I’ll put it another way … are you the proud owner of a Black Sun tattoo?’

‘Would you like to see my tattoo?’ Looking like a poster girl for sin city, the blonde started to unzip her Joe Rocket motorcycle jacket.

‘Not especially.’

Affecting a pout, she released the zipper. ‘Perhaps later I could tempt you into taking a peek.’

‘Don’t count on it,’ he snarled, refusing to let himself be affected by his adversary’s beautiful packaging.

Just then, Kate stepped out from behind him, taking up a new position on his left flank. ‘What do you know about the connection between the Black Sun and the Vril force?’ she asked in a quavering voice. Although scared, she didn’t lack for gumption.

‘Ah, le petit souris avec les yeux bleus. Ou peut-être gris.’ Tilting her head to one side, the Dark Angel contemplatively assessed Kate. ‘Blue. Grey. It matters not. To answer your question, little mouse, Vril is the force that allows us to escape the prison of the here and now.’

What the fuck did that mean?

‘Okay, next question: who hired you to kill Dixie and Johnny K?’ Finn asked, steering away from the mumbo-jumbo.

‘I was sent by the Seven Research Foundation.’ She lifted a shoulder in an elegant Gallic shrug. ‘But then you already knew that.’ With an impatient flick of the wrist, the Dark Angel flung her cigarette aside. ‘You do realize, don’t you, that we have a great deal in common?’

‘News flash: We don’t have a damned thing in common.’

‘Don’t fool yourself, Finnegan … We are both killers, n’est-ce pas?’

‘I’ve only killed out of necessity.’

‘And I kill for the sheer pleasure of it, but that doesn’t change the end result.’

‘What about Dixie and Johnny K? Did you enjoy killing them?’

She wistfully sighed as though recalling a fond memory. ‘Oui. Very much so. They were both strong, their will to live immense. Their deaths brought me much pleasure.’

Jesus H! What a fucking psychopath.

A male assassin wouldn’t have stood a chance getting through a Delta trooper’s front door. But Angelika was the enemy a man didn’t expect – a drop-dead gorgeous woman.

‘I want names and I want them right now. Who hired you?’ All he needed to squeeze out of her was one goddamn name.

The Dark Angel answered the demand with stony-faced silence.

Fine. Finn unclipped the phone from his waistband and handed it to Kate. Although he wanted to personally avenge the deaths of his two comrades, he knew that he had to turn the Dark Angel over to the authorities. Since they were in Paris, that would be the French authorities. They, in turn, could contact CID and arrange to have the bitch extradited to the US.

‘Call the police for me, will ya?’ he said to Kate.

‘Non! ’

Surprised by the blonde’s frantic tone, Finn raised his hand, signalling Kate to hold off on making the call. ‘Okay, you’ve got a temporary reprieve. Give me a name.’

Staring at the medallion, the Dark Angel extended an arm in his direction, a beseeching look in her eyes. ‘The Montségur Medallion is the key to unlock the door to other worlds. We must have it returned to us. Soon the great star will rise with the sun. You have but to name your price.’

Not missing a beat, Finn said, ‘You. That’s my price. And I also want a signed confession. When I get that, I’ll gladly turn over the Montségur Medallion to whichever tattooed bastard wants it. That’s my final offer. Take it or leave it.’

‘Ne soyez pas un idiot! ’

‘Hey, I’ve been accused of worse things than being an idiot.’ He took several steps in her direction.

‘Don’t come any closer!’

‘Or what? You gonna chomp down on a cyanide –’ Finn stopped midstream, suddenly catching sight of a black Citroën C4 barrelling down the quayside ramp, its tyres loudly squealing as the driver took a sharp left at the bottom of the incline – the speeding vehicle heading right towards them.

‘What the … ?’

Seizing her chance, the Dark Angel charged forward, taking a nosedive into the River Seine.

‘Oh, my God!’ Kate screamed.

An instant later, the bitch had vanished from sight, cloudy water rippling in her wake.

Fuck!

The Citroën skidded to a stop a few feet from where they stood, the four-door hatch shaking on its frame from the sudden manoeuvre. Almost immediately, the dark-tinted front passenger window came down.

Finn caught a glimpse of dark-red hair.

‘What the … ?’

‘Get in!’ Aisquith hissed.

‘Fuck you!’ Finn hissed right back at him.

‘I think not.’

To Finn’s surprise, the Brit, in a lightning-fast move, whipped out a Ruger P89 semi-automatic pistol. Even more surprising, there was deadly intent in the other man’s eyes. Like it wouldn’t take much for him to pull the trigger. In that instant, Finn knew that Cædmon Aisquith did not play the lute at the Renaissance Festival.

But he’d bank that the other man was a player. SAS? Counter Terrorism Command? The Royal Marines?

Fuck.

Muttering under his breath, Finn opened the back passenger door and, ducking his head and crouching low, clambered into the not-so-roomy vehicle. He immediately slid across the leather bench seat, making room for Kate, who was right behind him.

Still training the gun on him, the Brit smiled nastily. ‘You made a wise decision, Sergeant McGuire.’

27

‘Cædmon! My God! Have you lost your mind?’

Indeed, there were days when he wasn’t altogether sane. But this wasn’t one of them.

‘I can assure you that I’m not bonkers,’ Cædmon quietly informed Kate. As he spoke, he debated whether or not to slide the Ruger back into the leather shoulder holster. If McGuire was armed, surely he would have already drawn his weapon. Although he could be carrying a knife and is simply biding his time, waiting for an opportune moment to slit my throat.

He placed the gun on his lap with the safety off.

Driving at a more sedate speed than when he arrived, Cædmon headed up the concrete ramp. He flipped on the indicator light, manoeuvring the Citroën into the fast-moving traffic on Quai D’Orsay.

‘Does she know?’ Cædmon directed the question to Sergeant McGuire.

Eyes narrowed, the commando glared at him; an infuriated bull ready to charge. ‘About the two murders at Fort Bragg? Yeah. She also knows about the suicide at the French Embassy.’

‘There was nothing in the dossier about the French Embassy.’

‘Really? Huh. Guess your source isn’t so reliable after all,’ the American snickered.

‘My source is British Intelligence.’

‘Shit!’ the other man exclaimed, clearly surprised. ‘You’re MI6?’

‘I’m an intelligence officer in MI5. Or rather, I was,’ Cædmon amended. ‘My tenure with Her Majesty’s Secret Service ended several weeks ago. However, I still maintain my connections at Thames House.’

‘You’re a spy!? Caedmon, how can that be? You studied medieval history.’ Ashen-faced, Kate turned to her companion. ‘Finn, I’m so sorry! I swear! I had no idea. I would never have taken you to –’

‘Shh, Katie. It’s okay.’ The mastodon put his arm around Kate’s shoulders and gave her a reassuring squeeze. ‘Spooks are trained to keep secrets. I suspect his own mother doesn’t know.’

Something about the familiarity of the gesture plus the pet name irked the bloody hell out of Cædmon.

Crossing the Seine at Pont des Invalides, he headed due east. Because the Seine so thoroughly separated the city, north and south, la Rive Droite et la Rive Gauche in the local parlance, it seemed that all one ever did was leapfrog across the watery divide. It was the reason why Paris boasted thirty-seven different bridges. This particular expanse was anchored on the other side by the flamboyant, glass-roofed Grand Palais, the building punctuated at each corner with flying horses and chariots sculpted in bronze. Although the colossal palace demanded one’s attention, Cædmon barely glanced. Like most Parisians, he’d become anaesthetized to the majestic architecture that greeted every turn of the head. Yes, Paris was arguably one of the most beautiful cities in the world. But a man still had to buy toilet paper and mouthwash.

He spared a quick glance in the rearview mirror: Both passengers stared, unblinking, at the back of his head, Kate’s brow furrowed, McGuire’s jaw clamped. One baffled, one thoroughly enraged.

Navigating the Citroën towards the Isle de la Cité, he crossed the Seine at Pont Notre-Dame. To the left, L’Hotel Dieu, the city hospital; to the right, the black turrets of the Conciergerie, Marie Antoinette’s prison before being hauled to the guillotine. He headed towards the fabled turrets. Neither of his passengers said anything as he drove past the line of outdoor stalls that housed the Paris flower market.

Well aware that the plot was about to thicken, he turned left on to Boulevard du Palais, the scenery changing dramatically, the streets and pavements teeming – not with tourists, but with sombre-suited bureaucrats. And a very visible police presence.

Reaching under his tweed jacket, Cædmon returned the Ruger to its leather holster. Out of sight.

‘Where the hell are we?’ McGuire hissed as they drove past two black-garbed riot police standing guard in front of an imposing building, automatic weapons at the ready.

‘The Palais de Justice,’ Kate whispered. ‘It’s the equivalent of our Supreme Court. Across the street is city hall and beyond that is the Prefecture de Police.’

‘Jesus! You drove us right to the lion’s den.’

‘Merely to the gate,’ Cædmon replied, having purposefully chosen the location. If the American commando made one wrong move, he wouldn’t hesitate to summon the police. Given that there was a multitude of them within shouting range, he would have his pick.

Leaning forward, Kate grasped the side of his headrest. ‘Are you going to the authorities?’ There was no mistaking her distress. It was plain to see and hear.

Rather than answer, Cædmon tucked into an available parking spot on the tree-lined Quai du Marché Neuf and turned off the ignition. On the other side of the narrow street, a uniformed gendarme leaned casually against a parked motorcycle, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.

Shifting his hips, Cædmon turned towards his two passengers. He threw the question right back at Kate. ‘Do you want me to go the authorities?’ he asked, raising his voice to be heard over the blaring two-tone siren of a speeding police car.

‘No! Absolutely not. Finn’s been falsely accused of murder. That’s why we’re here, so he can find the real killer and avenge his comrades. Furthermore, Finn’s a brave soldier who –’

‘That’s enough, Kate,’ McGuire interjected in a lowered voice. ‘The less he knows, the better.’

‘It just so happens that I know quite a bit.’ Deciding the time had come to divide and conquer, Cædmon directed his next remark to the scowling commando. ‘Have you told Kate that your twin brother Mychal is a notorious gangster in Boston’s Irish mob?’

‘Fuck you!’

‘I believe that we’ve already had that conversation,’ he calmly replied.

‘No, I … I had no idea.’ Kate’s eyes opened wide, the rose tint thoroughly removed from her glasses. ‘A gangster … my God.’

Having successfully ‘divided’, it was now time to hand the commando his Waterloo.

‘Even more worrisome, my intelligence report indicates that Mychal McGuire has, on more than one occasion, aided and abetted terrorist cells in Northern Ireland, providing them with cash, arms, bomb-making devices and moral support.’

‘That’s Mickey for ya.’ The American smirked, proving that he was not yet vanquished. ‘Always had a generous streak.’

The callous remark incited a silent rage, a fury so dense, so potent, Cædmon’s hands noticeably shook. After the bomb blast in London, there had hardly been enough left of Juliana Howe to even bury.

Cædmon blinked and took a deep breath, clearing the gruesome image from his mind’s eye.

‘British Intelligence would very much like to question Sergeant’s McGuire’s brother,’ he continued. ‘I mention this, Kate, because I’m deeply concerned that you may have unwittingly aligned yourself with a very dangerous cohort.’

Kate opened her mouth to speak, but it was her ‘cohort’ who returned the salvo.

‘Listen, asshole! I’m only going to say this one time: Mickey’s business is just that, Mickey’s business. Look at your friggin’ dossier, will ya? The McGuire brothers took radically different paths. I’ve spent the last seventeen years risking my life in places with names that I can’t even pronounce to keep people safe from terrorism. Not that it’s any of your business.’ Folding his arms over his chest, McGuire turned his head and stared sullenly out of the window.

‘Oh, but it is my business.’ MI5 was responsible for intelligence gathering related to terrorism in Northern Ireland. The official tie may have been severed, but the bond with Five still ran deep. ‘While you claim not to be your brother’s keeper, I suspect that you’re very good at keeping the family secrets. And that makes you complicit.’

‘In your book.’

‘In a great many books, I daresay. Poisoned fruit falling from the same tree and all that.’

Swivelling his head, the commando glared at him. ‘Hey, Aisquith. Go fuck my left nut.’

‘Stop it! Just stop it! The both of you!’ The normally placid Kate shot each of them a look that powerfully conveyed the message ‘Cease and desist’. ‘Okay, I get it. You don’t like each other. But that’s no reason why we can’t act like grown adults. That said, I can personally attest to the fact that Finn McGuire did not kill anyone.’

‘That you know of,’ Cædmon retorted. Despite the fact that he had once deeply loved Kate Bauer, he would not concede the field to a cold-blooded killer.

‘I told you: we came to Paris so that Finn can apprehend the assassin hired to kill his two slain comrades.’ Chest heaving, Kate placed a hand on the commando’s shoulder. A show of good faith. ‘The individual whom you undoubtedly saw dive into the Seine freely confessed to the murders. And I was a witness to that confession.’ Removing her hand from McGuire’s shoulder, she leaned forward and grabbed hold of Cædmon’s upper arm. ‘Please, Cædmon. I’m begging –’

‘No way am I begging anything from this guy,’ McGuire gruffly said over the top of her.

‘If you let your pride intervene, you won’t be able to get justice for your two friends. They were both brave soldiers who didn’t deserve to be tortured to death. You know full well that you’re the only person who can avenge those brutal murders.’ Kate shot McGuire a meaningful glance. ‘But you won’t be able to do that if you’re apprehended by the authorities.’

Cædmon watched the exchange, glimpsing a moment’s hesitation in the other man’s eyes. Unknowingly, Kate had brought up the rear and struck a nerve, all in one fell swoop.

I might yet win the battle.

Having no qualms about kicking the commando when he was down, Cædmon said, ‘For Kate’s sake, I won’t turn you over to the police … provided you make a full confession to Father Cædmon.’

28

‘I need some fresh air.’ Purposefully testing his jailer’s limits, Finn didn’t wait for a reply. Opening the back door on the Citroën, he got out, slamming the door behind him. To his surprise, Aisquith made no move to stop him.

Why expend the energy? It wasn’t like he could fly the coop. The place was crawling with cops, one of ’em propped against a dark blue Yamaha bike no more than thirty feet away.

Strolling to the back of the vehicle, Finn leaned against the Citroën’s hatch, crossing his feet at the ankles and his arms over his chest. The cop glared at him; he glared right back.

The English bastard was clever, he’d give him that. But goddamn the man. Just when he’d been so close to apprehending the Dark Angel. Shit! Back to square one. Except he now had Aisquith trying to nail his dick to the wall.

Thank you, Mickey.

Because that’s what really had Aisquith up in arms, the fact that his brother had ‘aided and abetted’ Irish rebels who refused to accept the Good Friday Peace Agreement.

Hearing a car door open, he didn’t bother to turn his head. A few seconds later, just as he figured, Kate materialized at his side. Anxious expression a given.

‘Don’t worry. I’m not planning a prison break,’ he assured her. ‘Just taking a breather while I consider the Scarlet Pimpernel’s magnanimous offer.’

Kate sidled next to him, the curve of her outer hip brushing against his leg. ‘Is it true?’

‘That I have a twin brother? Guilty as charged. Although Mickey’s the one with the goatee. That’s how you can tell us apart.’

‘That’s not what I meant, Finn.’

Don’t I know it? Little Katie wanted to know if Mychal McGuire really was a gunslinging gangster.

Always uncomfortable when the topic of family came up, he stared at his boot tip. On the plus side, his brother loved Irish music, beautiful women and shooting the breeze. But in the debit column, he loved robbing banks, running guns and snorting coke. Which made Mickey a big-league criminal. His mother used to say that Finn got the brawn and Mickey got the brains. What a crock.

He shrugged, not sure what, exactly, Kate wanted to hear. ‘In all honesty, I have no friggin’ idea if Mickey did the things that Ass-wipe –’

‘Aisquith.’

‘– accused him of. Although …’ He hesitated, his gut churning, forced to admit that Mickey had taken his criminal activity to the next level. ‘There’s probably more than a little truth in Aisquith’s accusation. I won’t lie. My parents raised us to hate the English. What can I say? They were Irish Catholics from Derry. For the last seventeen years of his life, my old man carried a piece of lead in his back courtesy of a British soldier firing into an unarmed crowd of demonstrators.’ Finn shook his head, having heard the story so many times he could recite it in his sleep. ‘Fourteen people lost their lives on that Bloody Sunday. So I guess Da got off lucky.’

‘I can understand why your brother would harbour antipathy towards the English,’ Kate said quietly.

‘But that doesn’t give him a free pass to aid terrorists. Which I suppose makes him one of ’em,’ Finn added, refusing to split the difference. ‘And just so you know, I haven’t seen or spoken to Mickey in the last five years.’

‘We all have skeletons in our closet.’

‘Yeah, but mine are scarier than most.’

‘Change of subject –’ Kate glanced expectantly at him – ‘I actually do think it’s a magnanimous offer.’

Finn made no reply. Instead, he checked his watch, stalling for time. He then craned his neck and peered through the Citroën’s rear window; his jailor was busy rummaging through the glove compartment. Probably searching for a flask.

‘I don’t trust him,’ he said flatly, turning his head back in Kate’s direction.

‘But I do.’ Pivoting on her heel, she stepped directly in front of him. ‘For all his faults, past and present, I know that Cædmon Aisquith is a man of integrity. He will keep his end of the bargain.’ Kate put a placating hand on his crossed arms. Smiling wistfully, she said, ‘What choice do we have?’

Maybe it was the fact that she used the word ‘we’. Or that she’d been like a fierce lioness defending him to Aisquith. Maybe he just needed to make a physical connection. Whatever the reason, Finn pulled her towards him. To his surprise, Kate wrapped her arms around his waist and rested her cheek squarely against his pectoral muscle.

For several long moments they held each other. Neither spoke. Neither moved. If Aisquith hadn’t been sitting a few feet away, Finn would have kissed her. If for no other reason than to find out if her lips were really as soft as he imagined.

I am a soldier on a mission. I do not need this kind of distraction.

Yeah, now tell that to a certain male organ.

Kate tipped her head to meet his gaze. ‘Well … ?’

The battle lost, Finn acquiesced with a brusque nod. ‘All right. Let him know that I’m ready to talk. And Kate –’ he grabbed her by the arm as she turned to leave, stopping her in mid-spin. ‘Let me do the talking. All right?’

‘Afraid I’ll steal the show?’ she teased, pulling her arm free.

That or tell the truth.

Stepping away from the Citroën, Finn waited for Aisquith to get out of the car, his gaze zeroing in on the slight bulge of tweed fabric under the other man’s left arm. Still pissed off, he recalled the bastard’s fast draw.

‘Okay, you win,’ Finn said grudgingly, the concession leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. ‘I’ll tell you about the murders.’

‘And the Black Sun tattoo?’

‘Yeah, that too. But I’ve already said everything that I’m going to say about my brother. Capiche?’

Aisquith was silent for several seconds. Then, eyes narrowing, he nodded his consent. ‘Agreed. Shall we adjourn to the café across the street?’

‘I think that’s a great idea,’ Kate said, hers the only smiling face. ‘I certainly could use a cappuccino.’

Turning his head, Finn sized up the joint. ‘Yeah, all right.’

Decision made, the three of them trooped across the street. Playing the gallant, Aisquith opened the door to the café, motioning Kate through.

At a glance, Finn could see that the establishment was low-key; a couple of suits, a couple of touristos, a couple of waiters. On the far left, behind the bar, was a back exit. About to bolt in that direction, he pulled up short when Aisquith slid his right hand under his tweed jacket, having gauged his intentions.

Finn figured Aisquith would like nothing better than to lay him low with a nine mil.

Already a disgruntled customer, Finn walked over and seated himself in the rickety cane chair next to Kate. The Brit took the vacant chair across from them.

A waiter approached. Not bothering to ask Finn what he wanted to drink, Aisquith rattled off an order.

No sooner had the waiter left than he jutted his chin at Finn. ‘It’s your turn at bat, I believe.’

Ready to hit one out of the park, Finn got right to it. ‘There’s a group headquartered here in Paris called the Seven Research Foundation that’s convinced I found a gold medallion during a black-ops mission in Syria. They’re so convinced that I have this damned medallion that they sent an assassin called the Dark Angel –’

‘That’s the blonde-haired woman at the quay,’ Kate said in a quick aside.

‘– to take out two Delta Force troopers. Which she obligingly did. She was even kind enough to leave evidence making it look like I wielded the knife.’

‘To what purpose?’

‘To force my hand. Fabius Jutier, a bigwig at the French Embassy, offered me a very sweet deal: I give him the medallion and the Seven gives me one million dollars and a “Get Out of Jail” – Shit! ’ Finn muttered under his breath as two uniformed police officers entered the café.

‘Oh, God … they’re looking for someone,’ Kate anxiously hissed.

Reaching under the table, Finn squeezed her leg, wordlessly ordering her to remain calm. No easy feat given that both cops were scoping out the joint. Kate was right; they were obviously searching for someone.

‘Did you use your own passports to enter France?’ A cool customer, Aisquith didn’t even glance at the uniformed pair.

No point in lying, Finn said, ‘We came in through the back door with forged papers.’

‘Who knows that you’re in Paris?’

‘No one.’

‘Insurance of a sort. However, because you’re a member of the US military, your photo is on a computer database. For Kate’s sake, let us hope that the authorities don’t employ photo recognition software to track you.’

‘Yeah, let’s hope they don’t do that.’ Bastard.

Just then, the owner of the café rushed out of the kitchen, greeting the two cops effusively. It was obvious from the exchange that they were regulars. Finn marginally relaxed. Kate one-upped him, visibly slumping in her chair.

‘To get back on point, where is the medallion now?’

Trained to lie under pressure, Finn stared the Brit right in the eye and said, ‘How the hell should I know? Still in Syria, I figure. I’m a soldier, not a treasure hunter.’

On hearing that whopper, Kate immediately straightened in her chair. If she had laser vision, she would have bored a hole right through his cheek.

‘And the tattoo?’

Gathering that his lie passed muster, Finn folded his arms over his chest and said, ‘That beaut was emblazoned right over Fabius Jutier’s heart. Sweet, huh?’

‘Mmmm … I take it the man is no longer among the living?’

‘See, it’s like this –’ Finn lowered his voice, forcing Aisquith to lean towards him. ‘I was in the middle of questioning Jutier – and, yeah, I admit, I was using an enhanced interrogation technique – when the weasel chomps down on a cyanide capsule.’

‘How interesting. Cyanide was the preferred suicide method for many of the Nazis.’

‘Except Jutier was French, not German,’ Kate pointed out.

‘We need to get to the bottom of this.’ Reaching into his breast pocket, Aisquith removed a BlackBerry phone.

‘What are you doing?’ Finn hissed, suddenly worried that Aisquith had duped him.

The other man glanced up from the device. ‘Requesting dossiers on Jutier and the Seven Research Foundation.’

‘But, Cædmon, you said that you wouldn’t contact the authorities.’ Reaching across the table, Kate tried, unsuccessfully, to snatch the BlackBerry out of his hand.

‘I would think that you and Sergeant McGuire would want this information.’

Hearing that, Finn was taken aback. ‘Are you saying that you’ll actually share the dossiers with me?’

‘Yes, of course. Why else would I request them?’ Aisquith snapped irritably. ‘Ah! Our order has arrived.’

Their unsmiling waiter plunked three cups of cappuccino and a wire basket of croissants on the table.

‘At this point we should mention that Finn and I don’t know if there’s a connection between the Black Sun tattoo and the Montségur Medallion,’ Kate remarked as she unwrapped a sugar cube.

In the process of stirring his cappuccino, Aisquith let go of the spoon. ‘Good God! That’s what all this murder and mayhem is about, the Montségur Medallion?’

Kate’s eyes opened wide. ‘You’ve actually heard of it?’

‘There are few medievalists who’ve not heard the rumours about the doomed Cathars and their fabled gold medallion. Their days numbered, the Pope’s army having laid siege to their last bastion at Montségur, the Cathars supposedly smuggled a treasure out of their mountaintop stronghold.’

Having just snatched a croissant from the basket, Finn glanced up. ‘You’re talking about the medallion, right?’

‘No. The medallion is simply an encrypted map that reveals the location of the treasure. And before you enquire, no one knows what comprised the fabled treasure. Some claim it’s a sacred text, others a biblical relic.’ Aisquith dunked a croissant into his cappuccino. ‘Truly one of the great mysteries of the Middle Ages.’

‘Then we have to assume that the Seven Research Foundation wants the medallion so they can find the Cathar treasure trove.’

Still in the process of dunking, Aisquith nodded. ‘Jutier’s tattoo suggests that the Seven Research Foundation is somehow connected to the Ahnenerbe. Who, I might add, were obsessed with the Cathars. No doubt the Ahnenerbe also searched for the Montségur Medallion. The Nazis were quite intent on finding ancient relics.’

‘Speaking of Jutier’s tattoo, I asked the Dark Angel about the Black Sun and the Vril force.’ Kate raised her cup. Before taking a sip, she said, ‘Although Angelika gave a vague reply, she clearly knew what I was talking about.’

‘Mmmm … interesting. More than a few historians have speculated that Adolf Hitler decided not to destroy Paris because there was something in the city that he very much wanted.’

‘I take it it wasn’t the Eiffel Tower.’ Holding a half-eaten croissant in his hand, Finn glanced at his crumb-littered chest. Not exactly the breakfast of champions.

‘While I have no proof, I suspect the Führer was very keen to generate the elusive Vril force.’

‘To power his flying saucers?’ Finn couldn’t help but snicker.

‘Fighter planes and Panzer divisions more than likely,’ Aisquith replied, refusing to pick up the gauntlet.

‘I’m confused, Cædmon. What does the city of Paris have to do with the Vril force?’

The Brit smiled fondly at Kate. ‘More than meets the eye. In that it’s invisible to the naked eye. But the best way to explain the connection is to show rather than tell. Assuming, of course, that I’m not keeping you from a prior engagement.’

‘Do we have time, Finn?’ Kate peered anxiously at him.

Figuring he needed to play along in order to get Aisquith to share the dossiers with him, Finn shrugged and said, ‘Yeah, why not? I’ve never seen a flying saucer.’

29

Tipping her head, Angelika Schwärz slowly blew a smoke ring, the diaphanous spiral floating towards the coffered ceiling. Somewhat moodily she stood at the open French doors that led to a small Juliet balcony. Below her the Seine flowed past the Île St Louis, the posh island enclave where she maintained an apartment.

Like her alter ego, she’d managed to fly away at the last moment. Or, in this case, swim away.

The Dark Angel.

A play on her birth name, the nom de guerre suited her. For she was the bringer of death and destruction. The one who liberated man’s soul from his physical body. Life or death. Good or evil. Sacred or profane. She could be any or all of them. Today, she’d been good. Merciful, even. She could easily have pulled the trigger and ended it at the quay. But instead she’d decided to play with Finnegan McGuire. Taunt him with innuendo. Mystify him with shadowy allusion.

She already looked forward to the next bout.

Suddenly losing her taste for the Lucky Strike, Angelika smashed it into a crystal ashtray. As she did, a man approached from behind. Wordlessly, he pulled aside the right lapel of her red silk kimono and cupped her bare breast in his hand. Several passengers sitting on the upper deck of a bateau-mouche, one of the many tourist boats that routinely cruised the Seine, stared in slack-jawed amazement. One or two turned away, overcome with Puritanical outrage. A few pointed excitedly to the French doors where she stood, two storeys above them. Someone else aimed a video camera.

Well aware of the effect that her beauty had on men and women alike, Angelika graced them with a smile.

‘You’re quite the exhibitionist, aren’t you?’ the man whispered in her ear, tweaking her nipple between his fingers.

Thinking the answer rather obvious, she arched into his calloused hand. ‘Ah, Finnegan, a little harder.’

‘I told you, my name is Ryan,’ he whined petulantly, even as he twisted her turgid nipple that much harder.

‘Umm …’ She luxuriated in the pain, feeling every agonized jolt. ‘No. Today your name is Finnegan.’

The young man knew better than to argue. He was an American in Paris. A polite way of saying that he was a male escort, a gigolo who plied his trade to bored upper-class women with money to spend. Without being told, she knew that he was an exchange student at the Sorbonne who turned tricks to pay the rent. Not that she cared about the particulars of his life. She’d picked him because he bore a striking resemblance to Finnegan McGuire. While the accent wasn’t quite right, the colouring – brown hair, brown eyes, bronzed skin – was identical. All in all, a good match.

Finnegan McGuire.

An uncommon name for an uncommon man. When she and Finnegan had faced one another on the quay, she’d found herself sexually aroused by his rugged features and cocky self-assurance. So rough around the muscular edges.

The gigolo raised a hand to the still wet hair that was twisted in a chignon at the back of her head. Realizing he was about to remove the etched silver hair pin, she pulled away from him.

‘I just wanted to –’

‘I have paid you a generous sum of money to tend to my wants,’ she interrupted, annoyed with his presumption.

He threw up his hands in a show of surrender. ‘Hey, no problem. Like you said, you’re calling the shots.’

Actually, when she went for the kill, she preferred more silent methods. But she doubted that her paid paramour would be especially interested in the dark particulars of her life.

‘Are you thirsty?’

‘For you, baby. I’m thirsty for you.’

Angelika resisted the urge to laugh at his sophomoric repartee. Instead, she shoved him aside. ‘I was asking if you’d like a drink,’ she said over her shoulder as she strolled across to the bar.

Like a lost puppy, the gigolo trailed on her heels. ‘A drink. Yeah, sure. What have you got?’

‘La Fée Verte,’ she said, lifting a bottle for his inspection.

His brow wrinkled. ‘The green fairy?’ He took the proffered bottle and read the label. A moment later, a look of near-comical shock on his face, he said, ‘Absinthe! Is this shit even legal?’

‘More or less,’ she equivocated. French distilleries still brewed the mythical green liquor despite the fact that the original 1915 ban on absinthe had yet to be revoked.

‘I thought this stuff was outlawed for, you know, making people go insane.’

‘I don’t think you need to worry about that happening.’ Not bothering to ask if he wished to imbibe, she poured the absinthe into two hand-blown glasses. She then placed a slotted silver spoon over one of the glasses and, reaching into a sugar bowl, removed a cube.

‘Are you going to set it on fire? I once saw Susan Sarandon do that in a movie.’

Although Angelika had not seen the movie in question, she knew that he referred to the modern ritual of setting the sugar cube aflame. While dramatic, she preferred the Zen-like simplicity of the old ways.

‘The fire will come later,’ she promised.

‘I bet. I mean, man alive, you’re one hot babe. Usually my clients are, you know, older women who schedule me between morning shopping sprees on the Champs-Élysées and afternoon tea at the Ladurée Salon.’

‘Poor bébé. Such a difficult life,’ she said with a taunting sneer.

Reaching for a decanter, she slowly drizzled cold water over the sugar cube, the green liquid replaced with an opalescent cloud. Within moments, a strong liquorice aroma wafted from the glass.

‘Way cool!’ her companion enthused, his earlier hesitancy about drinking absinthe having vanished.

Angelika repeated the ritual with the second glass.

‘A votre santé,’ she said, handing him the milky green beverage.

Doing a fair imitation of a thirsty man in the desert, he quaffed half the contents of the glass in one swallow. Like most Americans, he drank to get intoxicated, the subtlety of the honeyed herbs and floral bouquet beyond his appreciation.

Wearing an asinine expression, he giggled. ‘I can’t feel my tongue. Jeez, no wonder Van Gogh cut off his ear. Talk about a buzz.’ Two gulps later, he’d finished his drink.

Ah, ‘The ceremony of innocence is drowned’.

Wordlessly, Angelika turned away from the bar and walked down the hall to her bed chamber.

‘Nice digs,’ her companion remarked as he stepped into the bedroom, the stark space a study in white fabric and ebonized furniture. ‘It’s like, what, contemporary Asian?’

Not in the mood for chit-chat, she impatiently waved a hand in his direction. ‘Remove your clothes. I wish to see what I paid for.’ She sat down on the white leather chaise adjacent to the bed, her kimono fanning out from her bare legs like a giant blood stain.

‘Whatever the pretty lady wants. I’m not one to brag, but I think you’ll be pleased,’ the young man said with a brash smirk as he unzipped his Levi jeans. ‘I work out five times a week.’

‘Very nice,’ she complimented once he’d removed all of his clothing. Not nearly as impressive as Finnegan McGuire, but more than satisfactory. She jutted her head towards the king-size platform bed. ‘On the bed. Spread-eagle.’

‘A lady who knows her mind. I like that. Most of my clients aren’t nearly so assertive.’

Because I’m not like any of your other clients, she silently mused as she got up from the chaise. Taking a last sip of her absinthe, she placed the glass on the Tansu cabinet before walking over to the bed. Pleased to see that he was fully aroused, she let the red kimono slide off her shoulders and drop on to the white carpet.

The young man’s eyes opened wide. ‘What’s that tattooed on your left tit?’

She glanced at the circular tattoo with the Black Sun symbol. ‘That is my talisman,’ she said as she straddled his hips. Grasping his erection in her right hand, she pulled it towards her, impaling herself with one quick plunge.

‘Oh, babe, that’s good!’ her paramour crooned, moving his hands towards her waist.

She slapped at his groping hands. ‘I want you spread-eagled.’

‘Just like Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man, huh?’

Annoyed with his non-stop banter, she quickened the pace.

‘You need to slow down,’ he moaned. ‘I’m about to come.’

‘I sincerely hope so,’ she quietly remarked. Reaching behind her head, she removed the ornately incised stiletto from her rolled chignon, damp locks tumbling past her shoulders.

She spared a quick glance at the silver emblem of the sacred Irminsul, the ancient Saxon tree of life that adorned the slender hilt. Her lips curved into a smile.

Closing her eyes, Angelika conjured Finnegan McGuire’s image in her mind’s eye, able to see his brown eyes roll to the back of his head as he writhed beneath her. Able to feel his strong, muscular hips buck to and fro. Pleased with the image, she grasped the stiletto in her fist and, just at the moment of mutual orgasm –

– plunged it into the young man’s heart. Then across his throat. His face. His chest.

Warm blood splattered her bare breasts, Angelika gasping with pleasure.

Die, Finnegan McGuire, die. A thousand deaths. Each more painful than the one before.

30

‘How the hell did I get roped into coming to an art museum?’ Finn grumbled. ‘If you ask me, this is just a waste of time.’

‘I didn’t ask,’ Kate promptly retorted.

Ten minutes ago they’d arrived at the Musée du Louvre, Cædmon silent as to the reason for the visit. In that short time span, they’d climbed two flights of marble steps, waded through throngs of yammering tourists and seen centuries of art and antiquities pass in a surreal blur. Like billboards on the interstate.

A general leading his war-weary troops into battle, Cædmon strode into the high-ceilinged Salle des Bronzes. A cavernous gallery, it benefitted from the abundant natural light streaming through a bank of tall windows. Glass display cases affixed to the walls and lining the centre of the salon contained exquisite pieces of metalwork from the Classical period.

Originally a sturdy but simple medieval fortress, over the centuries the Louvre had undergone numerous renovations and expansions, evolving into the palatial residence of the kings of France. Through conquest and outright theft, those same kings amassed one of the most impressive art collections in all of Europe. Confiscated during the Revolution, the royal palace officially opened its doors as a public museum on 10 August 1793. Ironically, the event coincided with the one-year anniversary of the monarchy’s downfall.

‘Jesus, this place is at least twenty times bigger than anything Saddam built.’

Exasperated, Kate shook her head. Always trust Finn to be utterly irreverent.

But also trust him to be incredibly valiant. During the standoff with the Dark Angel, he’d actually shielded her with his own body, fully prepared to take a bullet for her. Kate was still awestruck at his incredible bravery. Even at the beginning of her disastrous marriage, during the ‘happy years’, she somehow doubted that her ex-husband would have gone to such extraordinary lengths to protect her. And while Finn liked to play the foul-mouthed commando, she knew that he had true courage and conviction. In a word, he was an unsung hero.

But she wasn’t about to sing his praises or reveal her feelings. Finn was on a mission to avenge his slain comrades and did not need or want any distractions. Earlier today, he intimated that she was just that, an unwanted distraction that he was obliged to protect.

Because she so greatly admired Finn’s loyalty to his two friends, she wanted to help, not hinder him.

Having yet to explain the purpose of the excursion, Cædmon headed for the last window in the salon. ‘From this vantage point, we can see the spectacular Axe Historique de Paris,’ he said over his shoulder, motioning them to join him.

Sandwiched between her two taller companions, Kate peered through the window; directly below them was the crowded Cour Napoléon and I. M. Pei’s famous glass pyramid.

‘As you can see, the Historic Axis runs in a westward trajectory from the apex of the glass pyramid, through the middle of the Tuileries Gardens and the Place de la Concorde.’ Cædmon tilted his chin at the two famous landmarks, visible in the hazy distance. ‘The axis then continues along the Champs-Élysées, dramatically terminating at the ultra-modern Grande Arche. Without a doubt, one of the most beautiful stretches of real estate in the world. While lovely to behold, most people are unaware that this famous axis is identical to the Sacred Axis in ancient Thebes that connected the Temple of Luxor to the Temple of Karnak.’

Finn glanced out of the window. ‘Oh, yeah. I’m sure that King Tut had a glass pyramid just like the one down there on the concourse.’

‘By “identical”, I meant that both axes were constructed on an alignment twenty-six degrees north-of-west in one direction and twenty-six degrees south-of-east in the other. Fascinating, don’t you think?’

Intrigued, Kate asked the obvious: ‘Identical by design or accident?’

‘The layout of the Axe Historique is quite intentional.’ As he spoke, a lock of red hair fell on to Cædmon’s brow.

Something about those errant strands called to mind a long-forgotten memory of Cædmon, sprawled on a rumpled bed, hands wrapped, not around her, but around a leather-bound history book. Utterly enthralled. That was when Kate realized that Cædmon Aisquith loved the mysteries of history more than he loved her. Soon thereafter, she sent the infamous ‘lettre de rupture’.

Unnerved by the memory, Kate refocused her attention on the axis. ‘The Egyptian obelisk that’s located at Place de la Concorde, wasn’t that brought to Paris from the Temple of Luxor?’

‘Hauled from Egypt to France in the nineteenth century, the obelisk originally stood sentry along the Sacred Axis at Thebes. And just like its Egyptian twin, the Paris axis is orientated to the Heliacal Rising of Sirius.’

‘Sirius is that big bright star in Canis Major, right?’

Pleased that Finn was making an effort to participate, Kate enthusiastically nodded. ‘Big and bright because Sirius is twice the size of the sun and approximately twenty times more luminous.’ She’d always attributed her avid interest in astronomy to the fact that her father was an astrophysicist.

‘Sirius is also the celestial abode of Isis, the queen of the Egyptian pantheon,’ Cædmon added. ‘Marking the beginning of the Egyptian New Year, or Prt śpdt, the heliacal rising of Sirius was heralded as a sacred event.’

‘Wouldn’t the heliacal rising of Sirius happen every morning when the sun came up?’

Although Finn’s question had merit, Kate shook her head, disavowing him of the notion. ‘You’d think so. However, in the spring, Sirius drops below the horizon, vanishing from sight for a seventy-day period. During that time, it drifts approximately one degree each day as it hovers near the Pleiades. The heliacal rising refers to the star’s re-emergence after its lengthy absence.’ She thoughtfully tapped her finger against her lip. ‘Cædmon, what exactly did you mean when you said that the Axe Historique and the Sacred Axis in Thebes are both orientated to the heliacal rising?’

‘I meant that at dawn on the morning of the helical rising, if you were to stand on the Axe Historique and gaze due east –’ turning, he extended his arm towards the wall behind them – ‘Sirius would be in your direct line of sight. But, even more amazing, that evening at sunset, if you stood in the same spot and looked due west –’ he pivoted, resuming his original stance – ‘you would see the setting sun perfectly framed within the open cube of the Grande Arche.’

‘Wow. I bet that’s an awesome sight,’ Kate murmured.

‘Truly magnificent. And while we can only assume that the Egyptians contrived an equally stunning spectacle, the Sacred Axis at Thebes was designed for one specific purpose: at the heliacal rising, the temple priests would draw the astral energy emanating from Sirius along the axis that connected the two temples.’

Hearing that, Finn said, ‘All right. I’ll bite. What’s astral energy?’

‘All stars emit electromagnetically charged energy,’ Cædmon replied. ‘The Egyptians believed that at the heliacal rising of Sirius, an opening was created in the cosmos, an aperture through which the energy of Sirius could be accessed and manipulated.’

‘And what does that have to do with the Dark Angel or those bastards at the Seven Research Foundation?’

‘I would think a great deal. German scholars in the Ahnenerbe referred to Sirius as the Black Sun. That being the same Black Sun depicted on the tattoo that you earlier showed me.’

Surprised, Kate’s eyes opened wide. ‘Which suggests that there is a connection between the Ahnenerbe and the Seven Research Foundation.’

Cædmon concurred with a nod. ‘Obsessed with Egypt, the Ahnenerbe was convinced that the origins of physics, chemistry and biology were encoded in the Egyptian glyphs, texts and sacred monuments. Whole divisions within the Ahnenerbe were dedicated to recovering the lost sciences of the ancient world.’

‘And wasn’t that a waste of time,’ Finn muttered disagreeably under his breath. ‘Talk about a bogus load of malarkey.’

‘Why is it so difficult to accept that the ancients may have possessed scientific knowledge that was equal, if not superior, to our own?’ Exhibiting the unflappable calm for which the English were famous, Cædmon stood his ground. ‘One need only examine the pyramids to know that the Egyptians were brilliant engineers.’

‘In fact, modern engineers still haven’t figured out how they built those darned things,’ Kate informed her sceptical companion.

‘And let us not forget that many of those pyramids were orientated to the constellations in the night sky. A notable achievement in any century.’

‘That reminds me, Cædmon.’ Kate suddenly recalled a remark made earlier in the day. ‘When we questioned the Dark Angel, she made a passing reference to “the great star rising with the sun”.’

‘Indeed? Then we must presume that the Seven Research Foundation knows about the heliacal rising of Sirius.’

‘Which leads to my next question: what was the purpose of drawing the astral energy from Sirius along the Sacred Axis?’

‘Ah! We finally get to the marrow.’ Blue eyes glittering, the man clearly in the know about something, Cædmon stared intently out of the window. ‘The purpose of the exercise was to create the Vril force by fusing astral energy to the telluric currents deep within the earth. And, according to the foremost Freemason of the nineteenth century, Albert Pike, the man who can glean that lost science can control the world.’

31

Jardins des Tuileries

‘I am grateful, Herr Doktor, for this opportunity to prove my worth,’ the chauffeur energetically affirmed. ‘And I will succeed where the Dark Angel failed.’

Ivo Uhlemann lightly patted Dolf Reinhardt on the chest, pleased that he relished the upcoming assignment. Although a coarse bully boy, he was dependable, a truncheon now in order. Time was running out with the heliacal rising of Sirius only three days away. Since Finnegan McGuire refused to surrender the Montségur Medallion, they must resort to brute force. Pity the poor Americans.

‘I have every confidence in your abilities,’ Ivo replied.

‘Would you like for me to drive you home beforehand, Herr Doktor?’

‘A bit more sunshine will do us both good, I think.’ Ivo glanced at the Schnauzer obediently sitting at his feet. ‘Since I’ve a yen for wild duck with chutney, I’ll have Boris drive me to Le Meurice when I’m ready to depart.’

With a blank expression on his doughy face, Dolf stared, uncomprehending. A man of plebeian tastes, he ate sausage by the pound and sauerkraut by the crock.

Suddenly annoyed, Ivo waved the chauffeur on his way.

Clucking his tongue, he signalled to Wolfgang that he was ready to continue the stroll through the Tuileries. Attentive, as always, the Schnauzer walked sedately beside him. While Ivo wouldn’t go so far as to claim that the beast was his best friend, the little salt-and-pepper dog had been a loyal and uncomplaining companion for the last twelve years.

Several minutes later, energy flagging, he sat down in one of the vacant chairs located near the model boat pond. Snapping his fingers, Ivo motioned Wolfgang to the shady spot beneath the metal chair. The pain in his abdomen severe, he took several slow deep breaths. As he did, he noticed the nearby statue of La Misére by Jean-Baptiste Hugues, a monumental nude whose limbs and torso were entwined with a constricting serpent. Ivo thought it cruelly apropos.

How the gods must be laughing.

Adjusting his panama hat to better shade his face, Ivo glanced around the pond, appalled at seeing scores of young people chattering on their phones or jabbing their thumbs across ridiculously small keypads. True narcissists, they were busily engaged in disseminating the petty details of their lives. To anyone and everyone.

Twenty years ago, these same youths would have each had their nose in a book. But, sadly, they’d had the capacity for wonder bred out of them. In its stead was a collective ennui that demanded an endless stream of mindless stimulation. While able-bodied, these loafers had no higher purpose. If they continued in this vein, they would not be able to meaningfully contribute to society. Once that happened, it would be difficult to justify their existence.

Determined to create a better world, Ivo knew that it was simply a matter of purging the horde. Certainly, there were capable and competent individuals. But too often they were held back by those of lesser intelligence. For years now, the imbeciles had been convinced by well-meaning do-gooders that their answer mattered. Their opinion counted. And, exacerbating the situation, the digital age had empowered these cretins, reinforcing the great deceit. The fact that the imbeciles reproduced at an alarmingly fast rate was a grave concern. Eventually, their escalating birthrates would enable them to conquer Europe without ever firing a single bullet.

Because that was a very real danger, those who did not meet requisite IQ standards must be sterilized. While the do-gooders would decry it as a drastic measure, Ivo contended that it was nothing less than scientifically controlled evolution aimed at improving the collective gene pool. A social theory that originated in the late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century, eugenics had been championed by such luminaries as Henry Ford, Theodore Roosevelt and Linus Pauling. Their opponents claimed that the criteria for determining a ‘defect’ was too subjective. Again, he would argue that a standardized IQ test was an objective measure.

And who among them would dare claim that ignorance was a virtue?

In point of fact, low intelligence had been scientifically linked to a host of medical and social defects such as morbidity, schizophrenia, criminal behaviour, sexual deviance and dementia. The evidence was glaringly clear: individuals with a low IQ were destined to become a burden to society. This could not, and would not, be tolerated. Through selective breeding, the dangerous trend towards mediocrity could be reverted, creating a nation of exceptional citizens.

A humane man, he’d always favoured eugenics rather than extermination. Which is why the Seven Research Foundation had spent years formulating a Universal Intelligence Quotient Policy, consulting with a wide range of experts that included social scientists, geneticists, neurologists and psychologists. Several standardized tests had been designed to measure both intelligence and aptitude. These tests would be administered to every man, woman and child, the results stored in a central data bank. Additionally, all citizens would be implanted with a microchip that not only indicated their IQ test scores, but pertinent medical and genetic screening data. Those who refused to take the IQ test would be summarily sterilized. To enforce the policy, the police would have broad authority to use a hand-held digital scanner which would quickly determine if a citizen was microchipped.

Those with an IQ less than 100 would be sent to a Eugenics Centre where they would be sterilized before being assigned to a Work Detention Programme.

The last thing that anyone wanted was another holocaust; a disastrous policy that cost the Third Reich its true place in history. Besides, he had nothing against the Jews and admired a good many of them. An enlightened plan, the Universal IQ Policy would create a society of Übermensch, Supermen, fit of body and mind, who would populate their glorious new Reich.

Hearing a sudden childish peal of laughter, Ivo glanced at the shallow pond. A colourful regatta of toy yachts gracefully bobbed and weaved on the glistening surface. A charming sight, it put a smile on his face.

With good reason, this was his favourite spot in the park. From where he sat, he could see the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel to the east and the Obelisk at Place de la Concorde to the west. Both monuments were part of an elaborate blueprint originally devised by the Knights Templar that could unlock the entire scientific mystery of the universe.

Provided they find the Lapis Exillis.

‘And we will find it,’ Ivo rasped, not about to let Finnegan McGuire – or any man for that matter – stand in his way.

32

‘… but, of course, the trick is to maintain that power once it’s been seized,’ Cædmon Aisquith continued, having just dropped a bombshell about Freemasons controlling the world. ‘That said, I should preface my next remarks by saying that I’m about to go out on a limb –’

‘Buddy, you’ve been hanging from a twig since we got here,’ Finn muttered under his breath.

‘– but I believe the Axe Historique in Paris was constructed so that some unknown group could harness the astral energy that emanates from Sirius at the heliacal rising and fuse it to the telluric energy that emanates directly beneath the axis.’

A thoughtful expression on her face, Kate took a moment to digest Aisquith’s assertion. ‘When you say “telluric” energy, you’re referring to the earth energy that moves underground along the Earth’s crust and mantle, right?’

Aisquith smiled fondly at his favourite pupil. ‘Telluric energy is derived from the primary water system that exists inside the Earth as hydrated minerals. It’s considered a geophysical phenomenon which emits radiation and can be enhanced when there are changes in the magnetic field. In fact, telluric energy was used during the nineteenth century as a type of earth battery to power the early telegraph grids. Although little understood, some scientists believe that the power potential of telluric energy is far greater than the electricity we generate above ground.’

‘Begging the question: how do you fuse astral and telluric energy?’

‘By building a ley line.’ Just warming up, Aisquith’s smile broadened. ‘Which is exactly what the ancient engineers constructed at Thebes. And, no coincidence, it’s what their French counterparts have constructed on the Axe Historique.’

Half tempted to tell the Brit to pull the wine cork out of his ass, Finn instead said, ‘That’s a ley line?’ As he spoke, he jutted his chin at the chaotic scene below, tourists milling around as far as the eye could see.

‘Ley lines are man-made energy conduits. Built over the top of telluric currents, the stones used in ley lines can carry electromagnetic energy for hundreds of miles,’ Aisquith replied. ‘This particular ley line is comprised of five monuments: the Pyramid, the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel, the Obelisk, the Arc de Triomphe l’Étoile and the Grande Arche. Not surprisingly, during the Paris Occupation, the Ahnenerbe spent an inordinate amount of time mapping and measuring the Axe Historique.’

Clearly on board, Kate’s head energetically bobbed up and down. ‘Let me make certain that I comprehend how the pieces fit together: there’s astral energy radiating from Sirius and telluric energy radiating from beneath the ground. But in order to fuse these two different forms of energy, a ley line must be constructed.’ She pressed her palms together to illustrate the point.

‘Precisely. As above, so below.’

‘And then what?’

‘Then, if all the pieces of the puzzle have been properly placed, you can now create the Vril force. Vril, chi, orgone, mana –’ as he reeled off the list, Aisquith waved his hand in the air – ‘they’re all names for the same fused energy force.’

‘How very interesting,’ Kate murmured. ‘Were the ancient Egyptians able to fuse astral and telluric energy and create the Vril force?’

‘The Germans were convinced that the megalithic structures built along the Nile delta enabled the Egyptians to do just that. Determined to resurrect this lost science, the Ahnenerbe spent a small fortune studying the texts and monuments of ancient Egypt. As I said earlier today, the Ahnenerbe were desperately trying to devise military applications for the Vril force.’

‘Just a pie-in-the-sky theory,’ Finn said dismissively, certain he was the only one in the group able to distinguish fact from fantasy.

‘All great ideas begin with a theory,’ Aisquith was quick to assert. ‘If the Vril force could be harnessed, it would create a powerful biodynamic comprised of magnetic, electromagnetic and electrical energy.’

‘Yeah, whatever.’

Needing to clear his head – having reached his bullshit quota – Finn strode over to a nearby display case and peered inside. For several seconds he stared at a little bronze statue of a nude dude hefting a weird-looking beast on to his shoulders. He read the neatly typed tag: ‘Anonymous; Archaic Period; Around 530 BC.’ Guess that was before they invented pants.

Bored, he glanced at his watch. 1203 hours. Jesus. How long was it going to take for Aisquith to get the dossiers? He still needed to buy supplies and find a hotel room so he and Kate could hunker down and get some shut-eye. Tomorrow the mission would kick into full gear and they needed to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. And here I am fucking around at the Louvre.

Just then, Kate looked over and smiled shyly at him. As though his eye muscles had a mind of their own, Finn winked at her. A split-second later, self-consciously aware of what he’d done, he lowered his head and feigned an interest in the display case.

Not for the first time, he was surprised that he could be turned on by Kate’s winsome personality. In the past, sexual arousal had always been linked to lots of cleavage, swaying hips and pouty lips. But Kate roasted his nuts because her dainty femininity was wrapped around a steel core of quiet strength. And, yeah, he found that sexy as hell. He also found that scary as hell. If he lost his focus for one moment, the Dark Angel could blow them away. Or the French authorities could catch him in a dragnet, allowing CID to extradite his ass to the US. Who would protect Kate if that happened? Though he’d never admit it to Aisquith, that business about the photo recognition software spooked him. Just one more thing to worry about.

Still standing next to the display case, Finn watched as Aisquith placed a hand on Kate’s shoulder. Obviously, the Brit still carried a torch. Well, fuck that shit.

Finn strode over to where the pair stood at the window.

‘And another thing,’ he announced without preamble, determined to break up their little exchange. ‘You don’t have one scrap of evidence to prove any of your theories. You keep yammering about something that I can’t see, touch or smell. Just how the hell do you use the ley line that’s on the axis to create this all-powerful Vril force?’ Monkey wrench hurled, he belligerently put his hands on his hips.

Aisquith shrugged. ‘I have no idea.’

‘Finally! An honest answer.’

‘Cædmon, do you by any chance know when the heliacal rising of Sirius will take place?’ Kate enquired, still riding the Vril bandwagon.

‘Unless I’m greatly mistaken, it will occur on the seventh of August.’

Kate’s jaw visibly slackened. ‘Oh, my God … that’s just three days away.’

33

‘Scheisse! ’

Annoyed that the dresser drawer had jammed, Dolf Reinhardt yanked it off the runner, several pairs of rolled socks bouncing free and rolling across the bare floor.

In a hurry, he deposited the drawer on to the nearby bed. Hearing the pulsating beat of loud music emanate from the next-door apartment, he strode over to the adjoining wall and roughly banged it with a balled fist.

‘Halt die fresse, drecksau! ’

Uncertain if what he was hearing was rap or hip-hop, Dolf was absolutely convinced that the Senegalese family who had recently moved into the flat was a gang of dirty pigs. Ear to the wall, he listened as a female berated someone in a foreign language. Whatever was said, it had the desired effect, the offending music turned down. Satisfied, Dolf gathered his small bundle of clean clothes and headed into the bathroom.

Over the last three years, his Oberkampf neighbourhood had become infested with dark-skinned foreigners and homosexuals. Dolf was repulsed by the sight of them. Willing to put up with leaky plumbing and having to climb six flights of steps, he could not tolerate living in a mixed apartment building. Unfortunately, Paris was a rich man’s city, the lower-class enclave all that he could afford.

Squeezing his six-foot-two frame into the ridiculously small bathroom, he set the pile of clothing on the toilet lid. He then peered into the cracked mirror above the sink, ignoring the incessant plop plop plop that emanated from the tap. Examining his bald pate, he detected a slight golden shimmer. His light blond hair made him look like a gargantuan baby chick – the reason why he kept his head shaved. Striking a bad-ass pose, he flexed both arms, pleased, as always, at seeing the veined muscles. Check out these gunz! Although it’d been twenty years since he’d been crowned the European Junior Boxing Champion, Dolf still had the arms of a heavyweight contender.

Born in East Berlin, he’d been recruited from elementary school into the world-renowned Sportvereinigung Dynamo. Only the most talented athletes were placed into the state-run sports programme. His mother predictably baulked at the idea of her eleven-year-old son living away from home but, with a bit of coaxing, soon relented. Dolf assured her that he would bring honour to the family and, more importantly, to the German Democratic Republic. Since the 1970s, the GDR had dominated the Olympic games, their athletes the best trained in the world.

When, on a rainy October morning, Hedwig Reinhardt signed the official paperwork, she in effect legally turned her only child over to the Stasi, the secret police who were in charge of running the Sports Dynamo.

For the next six years, Dolf’s life was strictly regimented, the sports ideology of the GDR relentlessly hammered into him. Training, teamwork, good hygiene, healthy nutrition and self-discipline were the core principles of the elite sports programme. Because of his size and strength, Dolf quickly came to the attention of the boxing coaches. As his training intensified, Dolf, like many of the top-tier athletes, was constantly monitored. Whenever he left the dormitory, he had to sign a register, indicating what time he would return. If, for whatever reason, he was tardy, a Stasi agent would be sent to locate him. At international boxing matches, he was instructed by these same Stasi agents not to speak to foreigners, especially members of the press.

In 1988, at the age of seventeen, he became the European Junior Champion in his weight division. His coaches were ecstatic, certain that Dolf would be a medal contender in the 1992 Barcelona Olympic Games.

And then, in 1989, the fucking wall came tumbling down, literally, the tide of history turning very much against him.

Within days of the collapse of the Berlin Wall, the Sports Dynamo was closed; all of the athletes put out on the street. Hopes dashed. Dreams destroyed. While thousands cheered throughout the city, Dolf sat huddled in a locker room sobbing. Everything he’d known had just been robbed from him. The glory, the greatness, of being an East German athlete. How many times had he dreamed of carrying the GDR flag in the opening ceremony at Barcelona? Head held high. The pride of his country. The envy of the world.

Grief soon mutated into confusion when, several weeks after his training abruptly ended, he began to notice unusual changes in his body, horrified that his testicles were shrinking. But, even more worrisome, he was starting to develop breasts! Too humiliated to tell his mother, he began to wear baggy shirts. Finally, afraid that he might actually be morphing into a girl, he went to a health clinic on the west side of Berlin. Where no one knew him.

The doctor took one glance at his plump boobies and, like he was a mind reader, said, ‘You were an athlete at the Sports Dynamo, weren’t you?’

Dolf hesitantly nodded his head, too afraid to do anything other than admit to the truth.

‘You have a condition known as gynaecomastia. In your case, it’s the result of having been administered androgenic steroids.’

Vehemently shaking his head, Dolf denied the charge. ‘That is a lie! We were only given vitamins and regeneration tablets.’

‘Yes, so they all claim,’ the doctor replied wearily. ‘I can refer you to a specialist who’ll remove the breast tissue.’

Although a surgical referral was made, Dolf never went to the appointment. He was terrified that, once it was revealed he’d been doped with steroids, his Junior European Championship medal would be stripped from him.

Still standing at the bathroom sink, Dolf glanced at his breasts. They weren’t huge, thank God. But they were decidedly feminine, the skin soft, the nipples enlarged. Over the years, he’d often contemplated having the breast tissue removed. But, just when he’d be on the brink of making an appointment, thinking it was finally safe, there would be a new media story about the East German doping scandal – usually triggered by some emotionally traumatized ex-athlete who felt betrayed by the old regime.

Why the hell can’t they keep their mouths shut?

It’d been twenty years! Who gave a shit if those female athletes had been turned into hairy-assed infertile Amazons?

Knowing that the details of the 1988 European Junior Championship were readily available on the Internet, Dolf feared some nosy surgeon would key his name into a search engine. Twenty years may have passed, but they could still take his medal from him. Better to live with a pair of boobies than the shame of having his one glory in life wrenched from his grasp.

Pulling the oversized black T-shirt over his head, Dolf slightly hunched his shoulders, making the telltale bumps barely noticeable. Finished dressing, he headed back to the small bedroom and rifled through the drawer on the bed, removing a twelve-inch painted truncheon decorated with the SS Totenkampf Death Head. The impressive cudgel had belonged to his grandfather, Josef Krueger, an SS officer in the elite Reich Security Service. It was his second most prized possession after his championship medal. Dolf slid the smooth wooden truncheon into his jeans belt loop. A perfect fit.

He then walked over to the wardrobe and retrieved an oversized black satin jacket, emblazoned on the back with Iron Maiden’s famous ‘Evil Eddie’ emblem. Jacket donned, he removed a cardboard shoebox from the top of the wardrobe. Inside was a Heckler & Koch Mark 23 pistol with laser device and an attached silencer; a beautiful piece that he’d bought from an unscrupulous American soldier stationed at the Bamberg military garrison. He shoved the pistol into the back of his waistband. Gangsta-style.

Ready to depart, Dolf walked down the narrow hallway to the second bedroom. Opening the door, he peered inside. A woman with braided grey hair sat at the window, staring at the Paris rooftops.

‘I will be back later. We’re having pickled ham hocks for dinner. Your favourite,’ he added, hoping to elicit a response. When no reply was forthcoming, Dolf sighed wistfully. ‘Auf wiedersehen, Mutter.’

34

‘La Pyramide Inversée, as you can see, is the inverted twin to the glass pyramid directly behind us,’ Cædmon said in passing, as the three of them trooped across the street.

‘As above, so below,’ Kate sagely remarked.

‘Indeed.’

Set in the middle of the four-lane thoroughfare, the inverted glass pyramid could only be viewed underground – the reason why the architectural curiosity was often overlooked by tourists strolling in the Cour Napoléon.

Taking a deep breath, Cædmon filled his lungs with muggy air. Despite the sun beating down on his head, neck and face, he’d had his fill of the Louvre. During the summer months, jam-packed with tourists, the museum often felt like a lavish sardine can, which was why he had suggested that they adjourn to the outdoors and view the Axe Historique in situ.

He cast a sideways glance at the grim-faced Finnegan McGuire. Since leaving the museum, the commando had gone on high alert. Although outwardly calm, the man’s gaze constantly shifted from person to person. The roving eye of a fugitive at large. Should the police try to apprehend him, he suspected McGuire would retaliate rather than run, the man a natural-born fighter. Not to mention a cocky son of a bitch.

Whatever does Kate see in him?

Leaving the Pyramide Inversée in their wake, they approached the blush-hued Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel, the second monument on the Axe Historique. ‘War and peace have never been so powerfully articulated,’ he commented, having always been drawn to the magnificent landmark. ‘Derived from the triumphal arches of the Roman Empire, the memorial was commissioned by Napoleon to commemorate his stunning victory at Austerlitz. Composed of not one, but three arches, it’s surmounted by a quadriga that depicts Peace holding the reins of a horse-drawn chariot. Flanked by the gilded Victories, the group perpetually gleams. Rain or shine.’

‘I’ve always thought that the rose marble on the columns and front panels softens the lines, adding a surprisingly feminine aura to a monument designed to celebrate the unabashed pursuit of war,’ Kate remarked as the three of them strolled through the centre arch of the monument.

‘Our thoughts run a similar course.’

‘This arch looks a lot like the big one down the road.’ McGuire’s aside was made in his typical blunt fashion.

‘You refer, of course, to the Arc de Triomphe de l’Étoile, the Triumphal Arch of the Star,’ Cædmon said in response. ‘Seen from the sky, the twelve evenly spaced avenues that radiate from the larger arch create a star pattern. I would posit that the star in question is none other than Sirius.’

‘An interesting premise.’ Kate raised her right hand, shielding her eyes from the afternoon glare. ‘But why do you think that?’

‘Because here –’ raising his arm, Cædmon gestured to the monument before them – ‘at the smaller Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel, the thick lines of hedgerow that you see radiating from the arch and extending into the adjacent garden have been carefully manicured to resemble the rays of the sun.’

Eyes opened wide, Kate’s head slowly swivelled from side to side. ‘Ohmygosh. You’re right. The summer I spent in Paris, I walked along this path quite a few times and never noticed that.’ Using her finger as a pointer, she counted the number of ‘rays’. ‘What do you know? There’re twelve of them.’

‘Every day, hordes of tourists rush past these monuments, digital cameras madly clicking, and not one of them truly sees what has been depicted in the landscape, the sun and the star harkening to the heliacal rising of Sirius. Indeed, the cloak of invisibility was part of the original blueprint,’ he said with added emphasis, Kate having ably made the point for him.

‘Were there any arches on the Egyptian axis at Thebes?’ Kate asked thoughtfully,

‘Instead of arches, the ancients built a series of pylons that were set along the Sacred Axis. The rectangular gateways served the same purpose as the arches in Paris; they created an enormous horizontal telescope through which astral and telluric energies were funnelled.’ Cædmon turned towards the Egyptian obelisk, clearly visible just beyond the garden. ‘What’s so utterly fascinating about the Axe Historique is that, from this position, as you head west along the axis, the distance between each monument precisely doubles. Even more astounding than that, the size of each of the three arches doubles as well.’

‘I’m wondering just how long it took to build this damned thing?’ McGuire enquired gruffly.

‘The Axe Historique was a project several hundred years in the making,’ Cædmon replied, surprised that the commando had even asked the question. ‘Officially it was begun in 1564 when Catherine de Medici ordered the planting of the Tuileries Gardens. It then took another four hundred years for the axis to finally be completed, the last monument, the Grande Arche, erected in 1989. All in all, the Axe Historique is a sophisticated piece of ancient technology.’

Kate’s brow wrinkled. ‘It certainly makes you wonder who’s got the instruction manual.’

‘Which brings up my next question: so far, you’ve given the “where”, the “why” and the “when”. Call me crazy, but I’m still waiting for the “who”.’ Point made, McGuire unhooked a pair of black sunglasses from the neck of his T shirt and slipped them on.

Carefully considering his reply, Cædmon shoved his hands into the pockets of his well-worn trousers. ‘Throughout history, there has always been a tight-knit cadre that operates in the shadows. Powerbrokers. Kingmakers. These men wield enormous influence. They do so because they are the keepers of the secrets. Secrets that they share only with the initiated few.’

‘In other words, you don’t have a friggin’ idea who’s responsible for building this axis.’

‘The Knights Templar, the Rosicrucians, the Freemasons, the Illuminati.’ He shrugged, McGuire having posed a thorny question. ‘I assume that at one time or another, each group contributed a piece to the axis. And while seemingly separate, all were germinated from the same seed. Indeed, these sects, orders and secret societies form an esoteric matrix that spans the ages. The names may change, but the agenda remains the same.’

‘I think you can guess at my next question … What’s the agenda?’

Cædmon took a moment to consider his reply, Kate’s query no more easily answered than her cohort’s.

‘These shadow groups are the designated guardians of a body of sacred knowledge which includes the Lost Science of the ancient world,’ he said, admittedly sloshing in murky water. ‘Over the centuries, that knowledge has been transmitted from one group to the next. The agenda, simply put, was to safeguard this knowledge so that it wouldn’t fall into the hands of a despot who would use it for maniacal ends. And then, of course, one must always stay two steps ahead of the black-robed gents in the Inquisition, jolly fellows who wouldn’t hesitate to consign the whole of ancient knowledge to the bonfire.’

‘That’s rather damning, don’t you think?’

‘Is it? In the thirteenth century, the Church not only exterminated the Cathars, but they managed to destroy all of the Cathars’ written texts and documents. Only the legend remains.’

Sliding a black rucksack off her shoulder, Kate unzipped the front pocket and removed a pair of blue-tinted sunglasses. The eyewear did little to hide the fact that her cheeks had suddenly flushed a bright shade of crimson red.

Jaw locked tight, McGuire wordlessly took hold of the rucksack and swung it on to his own shoulder. Then, taking her by the arm, he escorted Kate into the shadows of a nearby tree.

Watching them, Cædmon grudgingly acknowledged that the man’s only saving grace was the care he took with Kate.

‘The design and construction of the Axe Historique is one of the great mysteries of Paris,’ he continued, joining the pair in the shady patch. ‘A massive building project, the construction of each monument required an enormous outlay of cash, funds the French government didn’t always have at its disposal. Just when a project seemed doomed to failure, an anonymous largesse would suddenly be made and – voila! – the project would miraculously be saved.’

‘Do you mean that all of this –’ McGuire swept his arm from the pyramid to the obelisk – ‘was created by a secret sugar daddy?’

‘Some would say that it’s a centuries-old conspiracy.’

‘And you wanna know what I say? All of this was built to give Parisians something pretty to look at as they trudge to and from work every day.’

‘Oh, ye of little faith,’ Kate chided playfully, nudging McGuire with her shoulder.

Feeling a vibrating pulse, Cædmon unclipped his mobile from his waistband and checked the display screen.

‘I’ve just been emailed the dossiers on Fabius Jutier and the Seven Research Foundation,’ he informed them. ‘If we head back to the bookstore, I can open the attachments on the computer.’

‘No need.’ Kate patted the side of the rucksack that was slung over McGuire’s shoulder. ‘We’ve got a laptop with a wireless Internet connection.’

Ah, perfect.

‘I see a vacant bench on the other side of the hedgerow. Shall we?’

35

Dolf Reinhardt glanced at the hand-held transmitter, squinting to better see the small map.

Unknown to Finnegan McGuire, the laptop computer that he had stolen from the French Embassy had a GPS tracking device embedded in the hardware. For the last two days, the Seven had been waiting for the commando to arrive at their lair – from where there would be no escape, the jaws of death very sharp.

While he didn’t know where precisely his quarry was located, Dolf knew that the pair was in the near vicinity. Because of the hundreds of milling tourists, he’d not yet caught sight of them. But since their position updated every five seconds on his transmitter, there was no chance of losing them. They were here. Somewhere.

As he studied the map screen, trying to orientate his position with the landmarks indicated, a gaggle of laughing, half-dressed teenage girls strolled past. Legs, midriffs and cleavages all on eye-popping display. One of them, a curly-haired hussy, glanced over at him and snickered.

‘Schlampe,’ he muttered under this breath, the little tramp a disgrace to her sex.

Hard as a rock, he watched their hips provocatively swing in shorts so tight he could see the cracks in their asses. He wanted to fuck them all. Make them go down on their knees and suck him dry. That would teach them a lesson. That’s all they were good for. He couldn’t respect a woman who didn’t behave like a lady.

Dolf swiped at a bead of sweat that trickled down the side of his face. Scheisse. He hated the summer, the heat and humidity an uncomfortable reminder of what didn’t happen the summer of ’92. That was when the Barcelona Olympics took place. The summer that he should have represented East Germany. Instead, he was on the dole. Twenty-one years of age. No job and no prospects. Since he couldn’t find steady work, he couldn’t afford to train at the boxing gym. Everything in the fucking West cost money. And without the regulated discipline of the Sports Dynamo, his life had fallen into a tailspin.

His mother, Hedwig, who lost her former job with the state-run utility, earned a pittance cleaning toilets at the Alexanderplatz train station. When she came home after working a double shift, haggard, barely able to put one swollen foot in front of the other, Dolf would slink off to his bedroom and put on his headphones. Losing himself in heavy metal music. Forgetting, at least temporarily, that he was a useless excuse for a man. Even more useless than his father who’d dropped dead from a heart attack at the age of thirty-seven.

Like so many former East Germans, Dolf felt lost after Reunification. From the brands of cigarettes and beer to the programming on television, nothing was as it had been. In the GDR, there had been full employment. Not only did every citizen have a job, they each had a sense of purpose that came from knowing their specific place in the regime.

Although he didn’t believe in God, Dolf would have cut a deal with the devil to keep the Berlin Wall in place.

The only good thing that came out of that miserable summer of ’92 was that he met Stefan and the Blut Brüder. Although his mother didn’t approve of his new acquaintances, claiming the Blood Brethren were all unemployed hooligans, Dolf liked hanging out with his tough-talking pals. Liked the fact that people gave the twelve ‘hooligans’ a wide berth. According to Stefan, their shitty lot in life was due to the influx of immigrants into Germany, the government allowing any dark-skinned foreigner into the country.

One night, drunk on schnapps, the Blut Brüder decided to torch a local hostel overrun with Turkish immigrants. Excited by the prospect of taking back their country, they tossed Molotov cocktails into the building then chained the exit doors. Soon the fun began, Stefan and Dolf laughing their asses off as they watched those filthy foreigners toss their screaming brats out of the windows. By night’s end, there were three less Turks to steal jobs from native Germans. Not bad for a night’s work.

Anxious, Dolf glanced up from the hand-held transmitting device and scanned the vicinity. Where the hell was McGuire? Like a never-ending plague of locusts, big buses kept dropping off tourists. He walked away from his position near a metal lamp post and headed towards a long line of neatly clipped hedgerow. The Mark 23 pistol, plastered against the small of his back, was an uncomfortable reminder that he’d not yet bagged his prey.

When he did find them, Herr Doktor Uhlemann had been adamant: the kills must be quick and quiet. No advance warning. Pull the trigger, grab the dead commando’s canvas bag and immediately leave the vicinity. The dense crowds of tourists would give him cover as he made his escape. No running. No furtive glances. Instead, walk calmly to the nearest Metro station and board a crowded car.

Scanning the crowd, Dolf finally caught sight of the American commando, recognizing him from the photo that he’d earlier been given. A muscular hulk, Finnegan McGuire looked like he could hold his own in any ring. The Bauer woman was approximately thirty feet from him, seated on a low retaining wall. A second man, with red hair, stood beside her.

Dolf did a double-take.

Who the fuck was that?

There were only supposed to be two targets. Not three.

Bewildered, Dolf wondered if he should apprise Herr Doktor Uhlemann of the situation and ask for revised instructions.

No sooner did the idea pop into his head than he nixed it, worried that he’d come off looking incompetent. The last thing he wanted was for Herr Doktor to think that he was a plodder who couldn’t move his feet and fists fast enough.

He had enough bullets to deal with the problem.

What was one more dead body?

36

In dire need of a drink, Cædmon glanced at his watch.

Mmmm … wonder if it’s too early to suggest an aperitif at a nearby café?

‘We’re not keeping you from anything, are we?’ Kate enquired pleasantly.

‘No, no,’ he assured her. ‘Although I was wondering if –’ Hit with a sudden change of heart, he waved the errant thought away. ‘Never mind.’

On edge, Cædmon paced in front of the granite retaining wall where Kate had set up a makeshift office beneath a towering maple tree. Uncertain as to the cause of his unease, he glanced to and fro. In the near distance, the Louvre’s two Neoclassical wings flamboyantly defined the open-ended courtyard. A typical August afternoon, the Cour Napoléon was a veritable hive, hundreds of people swarming about in the sweltering heat. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Then why the bloody hell am I so apprehensive?

‘Cædmon, sit down.’ Kate smiled winsomely. ‘You’re making me nervous.’ Prising the laptop open, she pressed the ‘on’ switch.

‘My apologies.’ Hoping he didn’t appear as anxious as he felt, he obediently sat beside her.

Kate playfully nudged him with her elbow. ‘Much better.’

‘Is it?’ He held her gaze. Only to sheepishly glance away an instant later, afraid that Kate would suddenly see him for what he was – a wreck of a man who lacked the wherewithal to put his life in order.

Standing sentry some thirty feet away, Kate’s brooding mastodon openly glared at him.

Soldier and spy … never the twain shall meet.

‘Pardon me if I’m out of line –’ Cædmon lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone – ‘but he doesn’t seem your type.’

‘Wh-why would you say that?’ Kate stammered, clearly taken aback. ‘Have you lost your mind?’

‘Still intact last time I checked.’

‘Then why would you ever think that Finn and I –’

‘What else was I to think? The two of you seem rather chummy.’

‘Like you said, he’s not my type.’ The telltale blush belied the denial.

‘I see,’ Cædmon replied, thinking ‘the lady doth protest too much’. Particularly since he’d caught Kate and McGuire sharing more than a few sly glances. Although he was rusty when it came to affairs of the heart, those telltale exchanges implied a mutual attraction. One which Kate was taking great pains to refute.

‘So, I would greatly appreciate it if you, um, not mention anything to Finn about this conversation. He doesn’t need the distraction. As for me, without going into the details, what happened in Washington was –’ Kate paused, a shadowed expression on her face – ‘ harrowing. So I thought it might be a good idea to have my own personal bodyguard. In case you haven’t noticed, Finn McGuire is a human predator drone.’

‘Yes, well, he’s a trained commando. Quick to grab the battering ram. Sleeping with one eye open. All that.’ Concerned that she captained a listing ship, he placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘I imagine that McGuire has a full plate, what with being a fugitive-at-large. If the authorities try to apprehend him, you could find yourself in a very dangerous predicament. I can have you placed in an MI5 safe house,’ he offered, hoping to lure her away from the shoals.

‘But you can’t give me a trained commando who will lay down his life to protect me.’ Kate set the notebook computer on his lap. ‘All booted up and ready to go,’ she said, effectively changing the subject.

As he accessed his email account, Cædmon noticed that McGuire, a belligerent swagger to his step, was headed in their direction. He gave the man full marks for ably toting his gargantuan chip.

‘All right, so what’s in your little spy report?’

Determined to prove himself the better man, Cædmon strove for a civil tone. ‘I’ve been sent two dossiers: one for Fabius Jutier, the other for the Seven Research Foundation.’

‘Since the French dude’s dead, let’s first check out the foundation.’

‘Right.’ Opening the attachment, he obligingly read the summary bullets aloud. ‘Founded in 1981 by Dr Ivo Uhlemann, a German national, the Seven Research Foundation is headquartered in Paris. My, my, I’m impressed. Uhlemann has a doctorate degree from Göttingen University in theoretical physics.’

‘The group of physicists that my father always refers to as the mathematical daydreamers.’ Turning to McGuire, Kate said in a quick aside, ‘It’s a branch of physics that relies heavily on mathematical equations rather than physical experimentation.’

‘Albert Einstein, also a theoretical physicist, might take exception to that characterization,’ Cædmon remarked before continuing with the particulars. ‘A nonprofit foundation, the Seven awards academic grants across a diverse research spectrum. Everything from physics to electrical engineering to archaeology.’

‘No smoking gun there.’ Leaning close, Kate propped her cheek against his jacket-clad arm as she peered at the dossier. ‘Downright respectable, actually.’

‘Yeah, that was real respectable what they did to my two buddies.’ Punch-line delivered, McGuire yanked a leafy sprig from the imposing hedgerow that grew just behind the retaining wall.

Ignoring the other man, Cædmon skimmed through the next few paragraphs. ‘Now this is interesting. Not only do they maintain office space in the Grande Arche building, but the Seven Research Foundation was instrumental in getting the building project off the ground.’

Kate’s eyes opened wide. ‘Then all of this murder and mayhem does have something to do with the Axe Historique.’

‘Moreover, a cloud of suspicion still hovers over the Grande Arche and its design,’ he told her, assuming she’d be more interested in the information than her surly companion. ‘Although no proof has ever been tendered, that hasn’t stopped the chattering café classes from claiming that a secret esoteric group was involved in the construction project.’

‘That’s scary.’

‘That’s bullshit,’ the commando muttered.

‘That’s the least of your worries.’ Cædmon glanced up, stunned by what he’d just read. ‘According to the dossier, each and every member of the Seven’s Board of Trustees is a direct descendant of an SS Ahnenerbe officer.’ He paused, assailed with a dark foreboding, his earlier anxiety having come full circle. ‘I fear that you’re dealing with a very dangerous enemy.’

McGuire shrugged and said, ‘Tell me something I don’t know.’

Troubled by a niggling thought, Cædmon ran a hand over his unshaven cheek. ‘There’s a piece of the puzzle that we’ve not yet considered. The Seven Research Foundation is desperately trying to recover the Montségur Medallion on which, reputedly, there’s an encrypted map that leads to a long-lost Cathar treasure. How does that come into play? And, more importantly, is there a connection between the Axe Historique and the Cathar treasure?’

Cheeks noticeably flushed, Kate grabbed hold of McGuire’s wrist. ‘Finn, I think you’d better show him.’

‘I’m not showing him jack.’

‘You’ve been falsely accused of killing two men. Do you next want to be falsely accused of associating with a bunch of latter-day Nazis?’

‘Pardon me for interrupting your tête-à-tête, but what the bloody hell is going on?’ Cædmon demanded to know, the two of them behaving like criminals in the dock.

‘If you won’t do it, I will.’ Ultimatum issued, Kate made a futile grab for the canvas satchel that McGuire wore, bandolier-style, across his chest.

‘Shit.’

With that muttered oath, McGuire capitulated. Unzipping the canvas satchel, he shoved his hand inside. When, a few seconds later, he pulled out a gleaming gold pendant, Cædmon’s eyes opened wide.

Shite.

‘You actually stole the Montségur Medallion. You lying bastard!’ Shoving the computer on to Kate’s lap, Cædmon lurched to his feet. Fists clenched, he was sorely tempted to bash McGuire in the face.

‘I can assure you that Finn had the noblest of intentions,’ Kate exclaimed, quick to defend her mastodon. ‘The only reason he took the medallion was to keep it out of the hands of men who would profit from it.’

Pitying Kate for being so sadly deluded, Cædmon thrust out his hand. Glaring at McGuire, he silently dared the commando to refuse the request.

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 the 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 emanating 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.

Like a giant Weeble, the other man swayed to one side … just before the part of his brain that controlled autonomic function temporarily shut down. Causing the bruiser to collapse in a shuddering heap.

Mass times acceleration equals K.O. Simple physics.

Finn ran over and retrieved the discarded truncheon. Unzipping his Go Bag, he shoved it inside. The gun, having been kicked into the hedges, was a lost cause. He spared a quick glance at his unconscious adversary. If it had been a combat situation, he would’ve neutralized the target. But given that he was already wanted for two murders, he wasn’t about to up the ante. It was enough that he’d disarmed the big bastard.

‘Count your blessings, Baldy.’

No time to gloat, Finn retraced his steps. He guesstimated that he had no more than fifteen seconds before the goon revived.

Reaching the entrance to the maze, he could see that the guichet was sixty metres away. Between Point A and Point B, there were scores of gawking sightseers, some bozo on rollerblades and one dipshit pulling a red wheeled suitcase.

The perfect props to create a diversion that would confuse the hell out of his attacker.

To that end, Finn charged through the plaza, grabbing purses, backpacks, camera bags, shopping totes – whatever he could snatch – flinging each, in turn, into the air. A mad man run amuck, whipping docile bystanders into a frenzied horde.

Sparing a quick glance over his shoulder, he saw that Cue Ball had revived. Face smeared with blood, the big brute stood at the entrance to the maze, staring at the melee.

Time to haul ass.

Arms pumping, Finn sprinted towards the roadway, leaping over the front-end of a baby stroller, in too big of a hurry to sidestep it.

Needing an escape vehicle, he scanned the southbound lane of traffic that had stopped at the red light. His gaze settled on a canary-yellow Yamaha motorcycle.

Just then, the light turned green.

Worried that he was going to miss his ride, Finn ran over to the dipshit with the wheeled luggage. Bending at the waist, he grabbed hold of the bright red suitcase and hurled it towards the southbound lane, the red suitcase bouncing off a sedan’s front bumper, creating a clamour that caused the moving traffic to come to a sudden halt.

Finn ran up to the yellow motorcycle that had slowed to a stop near the kerb. Not bothering to ask for a lift, he clambered on to the passenger seat. To make certain the biker cooperated, he shoved the truncheon into the driver’s ribs.

‘Make like the wind, asshole!’

40

Standing in the midst of the chaos, Dolf watched impotently as Finnegan McGuire escaped on the back of a motorcycle.

Unable to think straight, he staggered to a nearby bench and collapsed. Head clutched in his hands, he felt as though he’d just wandered into an asylum. So much was going on – people shouting and rushing about – the only thing that he could process was the fact that the motherfucker McGuire had stolen his grandfather’s truncheon. That and he’d bested Dolf in a fist fight.

I should have won that bout.

Just then a black Scottish terrier darted over to the bench. Curious, the dog sniffed at him. A few seconds later, it growled ferociously.

‘Get lost!’ Dolf hissed, ready to hurl the shaggy beast across the plaza if it came any closer.

The owner, a leash dangling from her hand, breathlessly rushed up to him. ‘I’m awfully sorry, but in all the madness, Sadie flew the coop and I – My God! There’s blood all over your face! Do you want me to call an ambulance?’

‘I want you to take your furry piece of shit out of my sight! I hate dogs!’ Dolf glared at the annoying American woman with the sing-songy accent. ‘In my country, we grill little dogs on a spit.’

Bending at the waist, the woman hurriedly scooped the squirming animal into her arms. ‘Aren’t you a miserable excuse for a human being!’

Tell me something that I don’t know, bitch.

Lacking the enthusiasm to hurl a parting insult, Dolf unzipped his jacket and, raising the hem of his cotton T-shirt, wiped the blood from his face. Like most former boxers, his nose had been broken so many times, he’d lost count.

Bewildered, events having transpired too rapidly, he wondered how he was going to explain the debacle to Herr Doktor.

Per usual, his life was a big fucking catastrophe, this just one in a long series of disasters. Every time he thought he’d done the right thing, he’d later discover he’d fucked everything up. Just once, he wished things would go his way. But they never did. Always things went left instead of right. Like what happened with that fucking Turkish fruit vendor.

Three months after his sister Annah had been raped, she’d slashed her wrists in the bathtub. In her suicide note, she claimed that Stefan, Dolf’s best friend in the Blut Brüder, had entered her bedroom one afternoon while she was getting dressed and sexually assaulted her. Dolf felt as though a sledge-hammer had been swung at his head. Why couldn’t Stefan have raped someone else’s sister? Why his? And why did Annah have to ruin his life with her tell-all suicide note? He’d already killed the Turk.

Having been the one to find his sister floating in a tub of bloody water, he tore up the piece of lined notepaper and threw the shreds into the incinerator.

Betrayed by Stefan, he left the Blut Brüder gang. That’s when he started to hang out at the boxing gym. Since he was on the dole, he offered to wipe down the ring, get equipment, hold the punching bag, whatever odd chore needed to be done. In exchange, he could work out at the gym free of charge. Eventually, Dolf was asked to be a sparring partner for some of the up-and-coming boxers. Excited, he saw this as his big chance to catch the eye of a boxing promoter. But it never happened. He’d lost his touch. Without his ‘vitamins’, he was just an average boxer with a strong punch, lacking the speed and agility of a prize fighter.

A big fucking catastrophe.

Reaching into his pocket, Dolf removed the GPS transmitter. According to the data on the small screen, the tracked target had yet to move from the hedgerow.

How could that be? With his own eyes, he’d seen McGuire leave the plaza.

Either McGuire had discovered the tracking device on the computer and left it by the hedgerow or his two companions now had the laptop.

Although he’d been ordered to kill McGuire and commandeer the medallion that he carried in his canvas bag, what if he killed the red-haired man and abducted the woman? Herr Uhlemann could ransom her for the medallion.

Dolf stared at the transmitter. It was a good plan. Better to kill someone than no one. And when he returned to the foundation’s office suite with the bitch in tow, everyone would see that he was a valuable asset. Then, finally, he would get his due. Prove to all of the naysayers that he was more than a mere chauffeur.

He just needed to find his Mark 23 pistol, the motherfucker McGuire having kicked it into the bushes.

Fully prepared to crawl on all fours and dig through the dirt with his bare hands, Dolf lurched to his feet and ran back into the maze.

41

‘Do you think Finn’s all right?’ Kate worriedly asked, pandemonium raging on the other side of the Cour Napoléon.

‘Ours is not to reason why,’ Cædmon replied. Snatching hold of her elbow, he pulled her upright. ‘Your commando has created the necessary diversion so that we can escape undetected. I suggest that we do so immediately.’

‘I’m ready when you are.’

Stomach butterflies in a tumult, Kate ran faster than she would have thought possible, Cædmon pulling her through a cutaway in the hedgerow. She didn’t resist. She trusted him implicitly. They then sprinted along the line of shrubs, dodging a group of squatting backpackers sharing a joint.

A few moments later, they emerged from the hedgerow, the arched guichets no more than two hundred and fifty feet away. Closer at hand, approximately twenty metres from their position, a swarm of people hurriedly rushed towards them, led by two men attired in blue uniforms. The Paris police!

‘Do you think those gendarmes are looking for Finn?’

‘No need to worry. They’re simply directing the crowd to the northern end of the courtyard,’ Cædmon said, slowing to a more sedate speed.

Within seconds, the two of them were suddenly engulfed by a crowd of jostling tourists, all excitedly chattering and gesturing about what they’d just witnessed on the far side of the plaza. Overhead, fast-moving clouds malevolently cast a dark shadow, a summer storm about to break.

As if on cue, soft raindrops pelted the ground.

Worried that Finn might not have successfully escaped, Kate peered behind her. As she did, she caught sight of a red-faced, bald-headed man, fifty yards away, stridently moving in their direction. Hit with a burst of raw terror, she opened her mouth to sound an alert but her larynx produced a sound more akin to a high-pitched wheeze. Unable to speak, she yanked on Cædmon’s tweed jacket.

‘What’s the mat– Bloody hell!’

Cædmon’s expletive confirmed her worst fear – the gunman and the great hulk of a man charging towards them were one and the same.

‘Hurry!’ Cædmon’s hoarse command was punctuated with a loud clap of thunder. ‘We need to reach the portal!’

A split-second later, the skies opened up, soft raindrops instantly transformed into stinging pellets that fell at a furious rate.

Another ear-splitting boom of thunder reverberated in the Cour Napoléon.

The ominous sound triggered a mad dash towards the guichet, at least two hundred people rushing, en masse, in that direction. A long tunnel cut into the massive north wing of the Louvre, the narrow pedestrian guichet was the only shelter to be had in the near vicinity.

Kate spared a furtive glance over her shoulder, relieved to see that their assailant was completely enveloped by a large group of Japanese tourists, a human dragnet having been thrown around him.

‘Arigato,’ she whispered, grateful for the reprieve. Even if it was accompanied by a driving rain. And even if it was only temporary.

Cinching his left arm around Kate’s shoulders, Cædmon pulled her close to him as he navigated through the horde.

Up ahead, a bottleneck had formed at the entrance to the guichet as a veritable mob descended on the single six-foot-wide opening. While there were a total of six guichets on the northern wing of the Louvre, the four large wickets in the middle were strictly for vehicular traffic. Conversely, the two narrow portals flanking either side of the thoroughfare were designated for pedestrians. At a glance, Kate could see that there was a similar log jam across the street in front of the second pedestrian portal.

With each boom of thunder, the soaking wet crowd to the rear of them became more insistent. Pushing that much harder. A living, breathing battering ram. Stuck in the middle of the pack, she feared they might not make it through the guichet.

But even if they did reach it, then what? Their assailant was a mere fifty metres behind them. He had a gun with a silencer. No doubt he intended to follow them through the portal. Then pull the trigger with no one the wiser.

‘I th-think we should s-summon the g-gendarmes,’ she stammered, grasping the front of Cædmon’s jacket to get his attention.

Barely glancing at her, Cædmon scotched the idea with a terse shake of the head. ‘Too much is at stake. If we go to the police, the Montségur Medallion will end up in the bloody Louvre.’

‘B-better that than the two of us ending up in the grave,’ she retorted.

Cædmon made no reply.

Fear level spiking, Kate took a deep stabilizing breath. In through her nostrils, out through her mouth. She kept a mental count until finally they reached the guichet.

‘Quickly! Take the lead!’ Cædmon ordered, pulling her in front of him.

Shoving wet hanks of hair out of her face, she did as instructed, belatedly realizing that Cædmon was shielding her with his own body, protecting her from the monster to the rear of them.

Although a full storey in height, the dimly lit guichet was stifling. Kate was pressed in on all four sides. The crowd’s mood having noticeably soured, the thick stream of soaking wet tourists trudged through the dank chasm.

Craning her neck, Kate caught Cædmon’s eye. ‘Is he still –’

‘Yes. About forty metres back.’

‘How are we going to elude him?’

‘I’m not altogether certain.’

Seconds later, like projectiles fired from a cannon, they burst free of the guichet, the summer tempest no less severe on the other side. Many in the throng rushed across the street, taking shelter under the covered arcade that ran parallel to Rue de Rivoli.

‘We mustn’t tarry. Our assailant will emerge from the portal at any moment.’ Snatching hold of her hand, Cædmon turned to the right and ran up to a middle-aged man holding a large black umbrella over his head.

Tapping the bespectacled gentleman on the shoulder, Cædmon, speaking in flawless French, told the stranger that he’d give him fifty euros for his umbrella.

Brown eyes opened wide. ‘Mais, oui! ’

Ten seconds later, the transaction complete, Cædmon shepherded the two of them, now huddled under the umbrella, down Rue de Rivoli.

‘Cædmon, have you lost your mind?’ Kate hissed. ‘You just paid that man the equivalent of sixty-eight dollars. For an umbrella! ’

‘I didn’t think that twenty euros would seal the deal. Trust me. There’s a method to my madness.’

‘Who cares if we get – Oh, I get it,’ she said abruptly, noticing that the pavement teemed with people carrying umbrellas, most of which were basic black. Just like the one that Cædmon now held over their heads. ‘The black umbrella isn’t to keep us dry. It’s to camouflage us.’

‘Our assailant will, hopefully, assume that like everyone else who doesn’t have an umbrella, we sought dry shelter under the arcade.’

‘So, what’s our next move?’ she huffed, barely able to speak and draw breath at the same time.

Cædmon jutted his chin towards the taxi stand a block away. ‘Do you have enough energy left for one last sprint?’

Despite the fact that her shins ached and the sides of her abdomen were painfully cramped, Kate gamely nodded. She hoped fear would make her fleet of foot. Or at least keep her on her feet.

Hand in hand, they sloshed down the pavement.

A few moments later, her lungs on fire, they reached the taxi stand. Opening the door of the cab, Cædmon motioned her into the back seat. He then closed the umbrella and sidled next to her.

Red hair plastered to his skull, Cædmon leaned forward and said, ‘À la Tour Eiffel, s’il vous plaît.’

42

‘… avec le citron.’

Nodding, the waiter scribbled the drink order on to a notepad before heading back into the café, muttering under his breath about the crazy Englishman who insisted on sitting outside during a deluge.

What the sulking Frenchman failed to mutter was that Cædmon and Kate were protected from the rain, their small table situated beneath a canvas awning.

‘Where is he?’ For the fourth time in as many minutes, Kate anxiously glanced at her wristwatch.

About to inform his overwrought companion that he didn’t know and, moreover, he didn’t give a monkey’s, Cædmon thought better of it at the last. ‘He’s only six minutes late. Let’s not sound retreat just yet, eh?’ At least, not until my G&T arrives.

‘What if Finn didn’t make it? Maybe the gunman shot him at the Arc de Triomphe plaza. If that happened, he could be injured or –’

‘But he’s not,’ Cædmon interjected in a firm tone, alarmed by Kate’s runaway imagination, concerned that she might be suffering from a mild case of hysteria. An understandable enough reaction given the recent hair-raising episode.

In truth, the skin on the back of his neck still prickled, his senses in a heightened state of awareness.

Feigning an interest in the large potted palm diagonally opposite their table, he surreptitiously scanned the bustling cityscape; the driver of a panel truck parked directly across the street was in the process of delivering plastic tanks of bottled water; motorists weaved in and out of traffic; pedestrians, huddled beneath their brollies, scurried down the pavement.

Nothing out of the ordinary.

So, why this dread feeling in the pit of my stomach?

The waiter, lips turned down in a classic Gallic sneer, returned with their drinks. Cædmon, accustomed to the French and their infernal bad manners, wordlessly handed the man ten euros.

Reaching for the white ceramic cup set in front of her, Kate smiled weakly. ‘If I didn’t need the caffeine fix, I would have joined you.’

She referred, of course, to the fact that he’d ordered a gin and tonic. And a double, at that.

Unable to meet her gaze, Cædmon squeezed the wedge of lemon before dropping the mutilated piece of fruit into his glass. ‘Having successfully outwitted the evil ogre, a celebratory drink is in order.’ Affecting a jovial air, he toasted the sentiment with a raised glass. A glass punctured with a red light beam.

No sooner did the unexpected image hit his ocular nerve than the glass shattered in his hand.

‘Shite!’

In the next instant, a green bottle of Perrier exploded.

Lurching at Kate, Cædmon none too gently yanked her out of the bistro chair, pulling her under their table. Hunched over the top of her, he grabbed the nearby potted palm and dragged it in front of them. Because of the rain, all of the outdoor tables were vacant. Because the gunman’s weapon was suppressed, no one inside the café was even aware of what was happening, the bullets silently lodging in the stucco wall behind them.

‘Oh, God!’ Kate moaned, her body contorted into a quivering ball.

Acid churning like mad in the pit of his gut, Cædmon ventured a glance across the street. The gunman had to be hiding behind the delivery van parked on the other side of the road!

Just then, a taxi pulled up to the front of the café. Both rear doors, as well as the front passenger door, flung open. Four tall Swedes, businessmen on a working holiday from the looks of them, got out of the cab.

Cædmon, seizing what might be their one and only chance to escape unscathed, quickly stood up. Extending a hand, he helped Kate to her feet. ‘She lost a contact lens,’ he said to one of the men in the group who glanced quizzically at them.

‘Found it.’ Raising an index finger, Kate displayed a nonexistent lens.

Explanation offered, Cædmon immediately insinuated himself into the middle of the foursome, dragging Kate along with him, purposefully sandwiching her between his chest and a hefty blond bloke. Tightly clustered, the six of them entered the café. Once they were safely over the threshold, Cædmon splintered off, pulling Kate towards the polished bar that ran along the back wall of the café. Out of the gunman’s line of sight.

‘Are you all right?’ As soon as he asked, he shook his head. ‘Yes, I know, an asinine question.’

‘H-how is this happening?’ she stammered. ‘How does he k-keep f-finding us?’

‘That is a damn good question.’ His gaze trained on the truck still parked across the street, he said matter-of-factly, ‘The situation being what it is, we can no longer wait for your mastodon.’

‘My what!?’

‘I refer, of course, to McGuire, who is –’

‘Right here. I came in through the back exit.’

Hearing that raspy baritone, Kate spun around, throwing herself at Finnegan McGuire’s chest. Drenched from head to foot, the commando hesitated a moment before wrapping his wet arms around Kate’s backside.

‘I was so worried about you, Finn! I thought … thought that something terrible had –’

‘Hey, Katie. Shhh. I’m here now. It’s all right.’ His movements curiously tender, McGuire smoothed his hand over Kate’s flushed cheek.

‘Actually, it’s not all right. We just came under fire,’ Cædmon informed the other man in a lowered voice. ‘I suspect our gunman is positioned behind the delivery truck that’s parked across the street.’

Eyes narrowed, McGuire stared out of the bank of plate-glass windows. ‘I know that the bastard didn’t follow me. Hell, my own shadow couldn’t keep up.’

‘I assume that our assailant is using some sort of GPS device.’ Cædmon grabbed a handful of paper napkins from the top of the bar, ignoring the waiter’s furious glare. As he dabbed at his jacket, trying to soak up the spilled gin and tonic as best he could, he turned to Kate. ‘I need the laptop computer that’s in your rucksack.’

‘We’ve got a gun-toting Oom-pah-pah on our six and you’re worried about a damned computer!’

Cædmon shoved the saturated napkins on to the bar, halfway tempted to stuff the wad into the commando’s mouth. ‘You earlier mentioned that it was Fabius Jutier’s laptop, did you not?’ When McGuire nodded warily, he said, ‘I believe that’s how the Seven Research Foundation tracked you from Washington to Paris.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘Commandos attack, snoops track. Trust me, there’s a microchip implanted on your pilfered laptop.’

McGuire snatched the laptop out of Kate’s hands. ‘If that’s the case, I’m going to use this sucker to throw the hound off the scent. While I’m doing that, I want the two of you to exit out the back alley.’

‘I have a better idea.’ Cædmon reached for his mobile phone. ‘While I may not have battlefield experience, I know how to escape the enemy.’

‘What are you doing?’

‘Calling for an ambulance.’

‘Hey, grow a pair, will ya? I’m planning on all of us getting out of here alive.’

‘As am I.’ Turning his back on McGuire, Cædmon informed the emergency operator that an ambulance was immediately required at the Bistro de la Tour Eiffel, an older gentleman having just gone into cardiac arrest in the men’s WC. Call made, he redirected his attention to McGuire. ‘Take the laptop and hide it behind the commode in the gents. When you leave, make certain that the door is locked from the inside.’

Scowling, the commando strode towards the back of the café.

Her delicate features marred with anxiety, Kate sidled next to him. ‘What are our chances of getting out of here alive?’

Unable to offer false comfort, Cædmon told the truth. ‘The situation is extremely fluid. The dynamics could change in an instant.’ He jutted his chin, first at the crowded café with its harried waiters and boisterous clientele, then at the congested streetscape beyond the plate-glass windows.

‘But as long as we stay inside the café, we’re safe, right?’ There was no mistaking the hopeful glimmer in Kate’s eyes.

‘The danger is that our gunman will simply charge through the front entrance, gun barrels blazing.’ Glancing at his right hand, Cædmon noticed that it was visibly shaking. Bloody hell, but I need a drink. ‘However, you mustn’t dwell on –’

‘The laptop is out of sight, stuffed behind the water tank,’ McGuire interjected. ‘Now what?’ He had to raise his voice to be heard over the shrieking siren, a bright-red ambulance having just pulled up to the front door of the café. ‘I hope to God that you’re not expecting me to fake a heart attack.’

‘I’m not. That said, follow my lead.’

Just as he expected, the atmosphere inside the café instantly changed with the arrival of the ambulance, patrons frantically glancing about, huddled waiters pointing to the front entrance. Everyone wondering for whom the sirens blared.

A suitably worried expression affixed to his face, Cædmon rushed over to the entrance, holding one side of the double doors open as the emergency crew hauled their stretcher and equipment into the café. With an air of heightened excitement, he directed them to the WC, which was located down a narrow hallway.

As soon as the crew was out of ear-shot, he motioned McGuire and Kate through the open door. ‘Hurry! There’s no time to lose!’ Espying a folded umbrella propped near the entry, Cædmon pinched it before stepping across the threshold. He then closed the door and slid his purloined brolly through the metal handles, effectively barricading the entrance.

Since the parked ambulance completely blocked the front of the café, the gunman across the street couldn’t see that they had departed the premises. And, if he was tracking them on a GPS system, he would erroneously assume that they were still inside.

Having correctly guessed the game plan, McGuire opened the passenger door on the ambulance. ‘There are no keys in the ignition.’

‘Ambulances are always equipped with an emergency starter button located under the driver’s seat,’ Cædmon informed him as he climbed into the vehicle. Folding his legs, he awkwardly manoeuvred to the driver’s side.

Taking the co-pilot’s seat, McGuire slid his hands under Kate’s arms and unceremoniously hauled her on to his lap. To say the woman was shell-shocked would be putting it mildly.

‘Let’s haul ass.’

‘Right.’ Reaching under his seat, Cædmon pushed the protruding knob, the engine immediately turning. Yanking the gear lever down, he slammed his foot on the accelerator and pulled away from the kerb at a frighteningly fast speed, city blocks passing in a blur.

‘All in all, not a bad idea,’ McGuire grudgingly complimented as he forcefully ripped the satellite navigation device off the front dashboard. Rolling down the window, he hurled it to the kerb.

‘Bloody brilliant, I’d say.’

Craning his neck, McGuire peered into the wing mirror. ‘I figure we got another forty-five seconds before we run into a cop car.’

‘If that.’ Pulling over to the kerb, Cædmon braked to a stop. ‘There’s a Metro station around the corner. I suggest that we jump into a crowded subway carriage post-haste.’

Kate, still wearing a stupefied expression, reached for the door handle. ‘I can’t get out of this stolen ambulance fast enough.’

‘Er, McGuire.’ When the other man glanced over at him, Cædmon cleared his throat. ‘Earlier today, you saved my life … I’m indebted.’

One side of the commando’s mouth curved in his trademark sneer. ‘Gee, don’t know what got into me.’

43

A gasoline-laced breeze wafted through the open French doors, carrying with it the discordant blare of honking horns, traffic heavy this time of day in the Marais district. From where he stood, Cædmon could watch the building entryway. An excellent vantage point. Even the commando had acknowledged that the St Merry Hotel was a good choice.

‘ “To be of no church is dangerous,” ’ he murmured, letting the drapery fall into place as he stepped into the room. Let us hope this one proves a safe haven.

Shoulders drooping, Kate deposited her rucksack on the Gothic-style desk across from the bed. ‘I was thinking more along the lines of “Get me to the church on time”. Normally, I’d be bowled over by the fact that we’re staying in a restored seventeenth-century presbytery which is next door to an equally old church. But after everything that’s happened today, I just can’t drum up a whole lot of enthusiasm.’ Peering in his direction, she graced him with a weary smile. ‘Although I’m greatly relieved to be here. And for that we have you to thank.’

‘Flying bullets will make any man quick on his feet.’

‘Luckily, you’re quicker than most.’

Clearly fatigued, Kate plopped into a high-backed chair. Like everything else in the room, it was fit for a feudal lord, the room’s stone-block walls enlivened with oak quatrefoils and tracery cutouts, the centrepiece being a massive bed with an intricately carved seven-foot-high headboard. Fit for the feudal lord and his lady love. Despite the fact that Kate had vehemently denied a romantic involvement with McGuire, Cædmon couldn’t help but wonder at their sleeping arrangements.

‘This wood-beamed ceiling reminds me of your room in Oxford,’ Kate remarked, tilting her head to glance upward.

‘The hearty souls were housed in the medieval wing of the college; those able to withstand winter chill, summer heat and leaky pipes. Punishment for crimes yet committed,’ he deadpanned.

‘Faulty plumbing aside, I used to think that there wasn’t anything quite as beautiful as when the setting sun tinted your centuries-old window a rich shade of tangerine.’ As she spoke, Kate girlishly tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. ‘Such a lovely memory.’

Cædmon seated himself on the opposite side of the desk. Surprised that Kate harboured warm memories of their time at Oxford, he was at a loss for words. Sixteen years had come and gone since they’d last seen one another. A lifetime. And yet he could easily envision her studiously bent over an open book. Claude Lévi Strauss’s A World on the Wane. Or some other anthropology tome. Committed scholars, they used to spend hours in that medieval room, each engrossed in their separate studies. Each oblivious to the other’s presence. Until one of them would look up and catch the other’s eye. A come-hither smile later, they’d end up under the duvet. Now that was a lovely memory.

‘Do you realize that I wouldn’t know how to ride a bicycle if it wasn’t for you,’ Kate remarked, unaware that his thoughts were running along a more lurid path. ‘Since my parents were both academics, they didn’t consider riding a bike a necessary life skill.’

‘Don’t know if it’s necessary in the larger scheme of things, but certainly essential at Oxford.’ Still stuck under the duvet, he smiled fondly. ‘Indeed, you were so enamoured with your newly acquired skill that you would drag me out of bed at an ungodly hour for early morning rides in the mist.’

‘You can’t deny that there was a surreal beauty to it. As though we were trapped in a medieval dreamscape. Just the two of us peddling through a heavenly realm.’ She closed her eyes; a woman lost in reverie.

‘I also taught you how to drink sherry.’

Hearing that, her eyes popped wide open. ‘Dry, chilled, served in a hand-blown copita glass, and –’ an animated gleam in those greyish-blue eyes, Kate raised an imaginary glass – ‘accompanied by your favourite toast –’

‘Bottoms up and knickers down,’ he chimed in, chortling.

No sooner did the shared chuckle fade into silence than a furrow appeared between Kate’s brows. ‘Were you really that upset by my lettre de rupture?’

Take aback by that unexpected query, he was tempted to play the cavalier. To make light of the whole affair.

‘Utterly destroyed,’ he confessed at the last, hoping the truth would finally set him free. ‘I’d given you my heart.’

‘As I recall, you were quite obsessed with the Knights Templar. I was tired of playing second fiddle to a bunch of dead monks.’

His regret real, Cædmon penitently bowed his head and stared at his hands. ‘Like most men, I didn’t realize what I had until I lost it.’

‘And when we lose that thing that we hold so dear, it never comes back.’

Hearing a husky catch in her voice, he intuited that Kate was referring to her own life. Her own painful loss.

Raising his head, he gazed intently at the sad-faced woman seated across from him. He knew from Kate’s dossier that life had flung her to the cement pavement. And from a very high rooftop. Her only child, a baby boy named Samuel, had died from SIDS. An unfathomable loss.

‘I know about Samuel.’

Eyes welling with emotion, Kate flinched. A terrified animal caught in the headlights. ‘Oh, God,’ she moaned.

He reached across the desk and cupped her cheek in his hand. Gently, he swiped the pad of his thumb under her eye socket, catching a runaway tear. ‘You probably loathe the “I’m so sorry” speech, but I understand, Kate. There’s a gaping hole in your heart. I know … I, too, lost someone,’ he confessed, words and sentiments jumbling together. ‘And when Juliana died, it devastated me.’

‘Oh, Cædmon … I … I’m so very sorry … there, I said it.’ Turning her head, Kate lightly pressed her lips to his palm. She then gazed at him, eyes clouded with concern. ‘If you need someone to talk to … or a shoulder to cry on … I can help you get through this. Maybe that’s why we’ve re-connected after all these years. Because we need each other.’ Clearly empathizing with his pain, she placed her hand over his. ‘Was Juliana your wife?’

He dolefully shook his head. ‘But I had given great thought to asking –’

‘Sorry to interrupt the canoodle fest.’

Hearing that deep-throated voice, Cædmon and Kate quickly and gracelessly pulled apart. McGuire, an old-fashioned skeleton key in one hand and two plastic shopping bags dangling from the other, stood in the doorway. ‘I bought some refreshments. Not that you two lovebirds would care.’ He stomped over to the desk, managing to look more intimidating than usual.

‘We were just reminiscing about old times at Oxford,’ Kate assured her surly companion, cheeks guiltily stained a vivid bright red. ‘Cædmon, do you remember Sidney Hartwell?’

‘Pudgy Classics major prone to drunken stupors,’ he replied, playing along with the game. ‘Liked to wave his trousers in the air while he shouted obscene profanities.’

‘In Latin and in the middle of the night, no less.’ Never good at subterfuge, Kate nervously giggled.

McGuire dragged a chair over to the desk and set it inches from Kate’s Gothic monstrosity. A man staking his claim. He then proceeded to remove a six-pack of beer from one bag and a litre bottle of water from the other. ‘Choose your poison – Kronenbourg or H2O. And just so you know, I cannot abide a country that doesn’t sell cold beer at the grocery store. Here. You look like you could use one of these.’ McGuire pulled a can free from the plastic ring and slid it across the desk in Cædmon’s direction.

‘An Irishman who would refuse a pint of warm Guinness. Well, well, wonders never cease.’

‘You’d turn your nose up, too, if you’d ever seen how my Da downed the black stuff. Surprised I’m able to enjoy a brewski.’ Shaking his head, McGuire rolled his eyes. ‘If only he’d waved his trousers in the air.’

Cædmon wondered at the startling admission. Perhaps the earlier brush with death is causing the three of us to come apart at the seams.

Seams ready to burst, he rapaciously eyed the unopened can. Like McGuire, he didn’t much care for warm beer. A G&T on ice would be better. But this might quell the pang.

He reached for the Kronenbourg.

Only to retreat at the last.

Then, not fully trusting himself, he slid the proffered can back in McGuire’s direction.

‘No, thank you.’ Jaw tight, those three simple words sounded unnaturally clipped. Probably because he’d recently come off a three-day binge. A bender, as the Yanks called them. Usually his drinking bouts lasted no more than a few days. Although the first, after the ‘incident’ in Belfast, extended to a full two weeks. The boys from Thames House found him slumped over a bar in Budapest. According to his passport, he’d been to six different countries in those two weeks. To this day, he had no recollection of that drunken fortnight, although it was his lone act of vengeance in Belfast that angered the powers that be at Thames House more than the drunken spree. In the two years since, he’d paid heavily for the transgression. Seconded to MI6, he’d been made to run a safe house in Paris. A humiliating demotion.

‘You know, I’ve been thinking about it –’ McGuire popped the lid on his can, misting the air with the tang of Strisselspalt hops and a light citrus aroma – ‘and no way in hell can I accept that the Holy Grail is “the stone in exile”. Sister Michael Patrick, a woman whose authority even a smart aleck like me didn’t dare question, taught us that the Grail is the chalice that was used at the Last Supper. And when Jesus was on the cross, that same chalice was used to collect his blood. That’s how it became the Holy Grail.’

Dissertation delivered, the commando raised the can to his lips and drank deeply.

Astonished that the other man had deliberated on the matter, Cædmon countered by saying, ‘Don’t know how “holy” it is. According to Wolfram von Eschenbach’s Parzival, the Lapis Exillis was the stone knocked free from Lucifer’s crown when he was cast from heaven. As you undoubtedly know, Lucifer had originally been God’s favourite until he committed the grave sin of putting himself on a par with the Almighty. A heavenly insurrection ensued, the angelic legions battling for supremacy. In the end, Lucifer was tossed on his arse.’ As he spoke, Cædmon belatedly realized that he shared a common bond with the ousted angel, having taken upon himself the power of life and death. And look where it landed me.

‘Given its ignominious provenance, I’m surprised that the Lapis Exillis would be deemed sacred,’ Kate said, twisting the lid on the water bottle. ‘And Finn raises a valid point: most people believe that the Grail is a chalice.’

Getting up from his chair, Cædmon walked over to the other side of the room and retrieved a water glass from the bedside table. ‘During the Middle Ages, there were three different Grail camps: those who believed the relic was a chalice; those who were convinced that it was a stone; and the peacekeepers who, through a convoluted twisting of both tales, declared that the Grail had been a stone that became a chalice.’ Reseating himself, he handed the glass to Kate. ‘Although what’s not in dispute is the fact that the Grail, whether it be stone or chalice, has miraculous power. And what is power if not energy?’

‘So you’re thinking that the Grail has something to do with the Axe Historique and the Vril force,’ Kate said, quick to catch his drift.

‘Depictions of the Grail often render it shrouded in a brilliant burst of light.’ Vexed, Cædmon shook his head. He had a gut feeling that the Lapis Exillis was connected to the Paris axis, but not a shred of evidence to prove it. ‘Mind you, this is mere speculation, but it could be that the Grail is some sort of transducer that can convert one type of energy into another.’

‘How do the Cathars fit into the Grail story?’ Kate poured herself a glass of water, then, holding the bottle aloft, silently enquired if he cared for some.

‘Difficult to say,’ Cædmon replied, politely shaking his head, water no substitute for alcohol. ‘The Cathars were dualists who believed that there were two gods, not one. The god whom they referred to as Rex Mundi, the king of the world, they associated with Lucifer who ruled the material realm. Conversely, the good god was the Light that illuminated the heavenly sphere. How the Cathars came to be in possession of a uniquely Christian relic is anyone’s guess.’ He paused, well aware that the conversation was about to veer off course. ‘Although it’s abundantly clear from the Latin inscription on the Montségur Medallion that the Cathars were the Grail Guardians.’

‘But I always thought that the Cathars were a Christian sect.’ Kate’s brow furrowed, having jumped to the same erroneous conclusion that most people made.

‘While the Cathars thought of themselves as upright Christians, their rituals did not include the traditional Catholic sacraments. And, of course, there was that heretical business about Jesus being a divinely inspired prophet rather than the divine Son of God.’

One side of McGuire’s mouth quirked in a wry half-grin. ‘Reason enough for Sister Michael Patrick to pull out a box of Diamond matches and light a pyre.’

‘How strange that you should make reference to the Inquisitors’ funeral pyre since I’m about to throw caution aside and leap into the fire. After due deliberation …’ Cædmon paused, on the cusp of a decision that could well change his life. ‘I’ve decided to search for the Grail.’

44

‘Jesus H!’ Finn’s shoulders jack-knifed off the back of the chair. ‘You are off your freakin’ English rocker if you think you can find the Holy Grail!’

‘Thank you for that resounding vote of confidence,’ Aisquith deadpanned, unfazed by the criticism.

‘Finding the Grail is like putting toothpaste back in the tube. It ain’t gonna happen. And didn’t you see the movie? Indiana Jones already beat you to it,’ Finn taunted, beginning to think the Brit needed to be knocked on the head with a 2 x 4. Drastic? Maybe. But he didn’t know what else besides a wood kiss would knock sense into the guy.

‘Do you have any idea what these people are capable of?’ Folding his arms over his chest, Aisquith patronizingly looked down his nose. Like he was the school master and Finn the class dunce.

‘They butchered two good buddies of mine, so, yeah, I think I know what I’m up against.’ Raising the beer can to his lips, Finn polished it off.

‘And before that, they butchered as many as seventeen million innocent people.’

‘Cædmon, have you really thought this through?’ Kate enquired in concern, having remained silent up to this point. Probably in a state of shock. ‘The Seven Research Foundation could easily target you.’

‘If memory serves correctly, they already have.’ He glanced down at the spot on his chest where he’d almost taken a bullet to the heart. ‘Although not to worry. I’m well armed. Fortis est veritas.’

Kate smiled wistfully; the phrase obviously meaning something to her. ‘And just as truth is strength, scientia potentia est.’

‘Knowledge is power,’ Aisquith replied.

‘Hey, excuse me. I didn’t get to go to Awxford. I got my education at Boot Camp U. So, can we all stick to English?’

‘Very well. Here is a fact that requires no translation: the Ahnenerbe was obsessed with finding the Holy Grail. Their descendents seem no less fanatical. While I don’t know the foundation’s reason for coveting the relic, I’m certain that it pertains to the Axe Historique and the creation of the Vril force.’ Doing a fair imitation of a traffic cop, Aisquith held up his right hand. ‘And please spare me the stale refrain about flying saucers and Nazi ray guns.’

‘Fine,’ Finn muttered, having been two seconds shy of throwing a zinger. ‘But do you actually expect me to believe that a bunch of Nazi descendants are planning a comeback? There’s nothing left of the Third Reich. My great-uncle Seamus and all the other men who kicked Nazi ass sixty some years ago saw to that.’ Point made, he reached for another beer.

‘And my grandfather, who was a prosecuting attorney at the Nuremberg trials, was appalled that the high-ranking members of the Nazi Party considered themselves avatars, gods in the making. Indeed, he said on more than one occasion that it was impossible to reason with them. It’s naive to think that the evil was completely eradicated at war’s end. We must assume that the Ahnenerbe’s spawn have been indoctrinated in this dark belief system.’

Finn lifted a disinterested shoulder. ‘That was then, this is now.’

‘Is it?’ For several long seconds Aisquith stared at him, grim-faced. ‘Many of the same global crises that gave rise to National Socialism in the 1930s again threaten to cripple world governments. This is a movement that thrives on despair and discontent. Pick up any newspaper; there’s plenty of that to go around.’

‘As a cultural anthropologist, I can attest to the fact that Western Europe and America are both in the midst of a social upheaval,’ Kate remarked, throwing in her lot with Aisquith. ‘Xenophobia and religious intolerance are rampant and could easily reach a dangerous tipping point. It’s happened before. It could happen again.’ Lips slightly quivering, her voice dropped to a husky whisper. ‘Although a proud American citizen, my grandfather was forcibly imprisoned in a Japanese internment camp.’

Jesus. I had no idea. Finn stared at his beer can, wanting to give comfort, but uncertain how to act on the impulse.

‘Lest we forget,’ Aisquith said consolingly, reaching across the desk to squeeze Kate’s hand. Then, his voice more strident, ‘My aim is to destroy the enemy’s arsenal. And, yes, I believe that the Vril force, if harnessed, could be used as a weapon. Had Nazi physicists been successful in their quest to weaponize the Vril, there would have been a far different outcome to the Second World War.’

‘Hey, I can’t get bogged down by something that didn’t happen. If it doesn’t relate to my mission op tomorrow at the Grande Arche, I’m not interested.’ Beer can in hand, Finn jabbed it in Aisquith’s direction. ‘And don’t get any funny ideas in your head about borrowing the medallion. That sucker is the only bargaining chip I have to get the Dark Angel.’

‘A digital photo of the Montségur Medallion will suffice. If you would be so kind.’

‘Whatever.’ Unzipping his Go Bag, Finn extracted the medallion and handed it over, figuring it was the quickest way to get rid of the other man.

The Brit wasted no time whipping out his BlackBerry, Kate getting up from her chair to play photographer’s assistant. Annoyed that they kept making goo-goo eyes at each other, Finn stood up and walked over to the French doors, almost stumbling on the bed’s footboard en route. The damned thing was enormous and, try as he might, there was no escaping it.

Opening the set of doors, he purposefully turned his back on the king-size mattress with the silky royal blue spread. While women needed a reason to have sex, men just needed a place. A bed. The back of a truck. A concrete floor. Didn’t much matter. Although the floor was probably where he’d end up spending the night while Kate, sacked out on that huge mattress, dreamed about the Scarlet Pimpernel.

In a foul mood, Finn scanned the streetscape below, on the look-out for unfriendlies, cops or the Dark Angel, his enemies fast mounting. Aisquith had assured him that the hotel was secure, but his trust only went so far. Which was the reason why he had the floor plan for all five storeys of the hotel committed to memory and had checked out all of the exits before making his beer run.

Ignoring the murmured conversation taking place behind him, Finn watched as a grey Peugeot taxi sped down Rue de la Verrerie like it was in a Formula One time test. Not seeing anything suspicious, he closed the doors.

Still fuming, he headed back to the desk. Standing side-by-side, Aisquith and Kate were staring intently at the digital photos that they’d just taken of the medallion.

‘Do you think the encoded map is contained within the pictorial symbols or the inscription?’ Kate asked.

‘The clues to the Grail’s whereabouts could be embedded in the inscriptions as well as the symbols. A two-prong encryption code.’ As he spoke, Aisquith fingered the rim of the medallion. ‘Deciphering an esoteric mystery is akin to finding one’s way through a Georgian maze. You spend hours aimlessly wandering, hitting one dead-end after another, only to find yourself standing at the very spot where you began.’

‘Which begs the question: where are you going to begin the search?’

Not particularly interested in hearing Aisquith’s reply, Finn reseated himself at the desk. Forced to take a back seat, he took a swig of warm beer, wondering if there was anything he could do to get Aisquith out of the door – other than the time-honoured boot to the ass.

‘The legends state that the Cathars smuggled a treasure from their mountaintop citadel at Montségur several days before the fortress fell to the Pope’s army,’ Aisquith pontificated in his snooty Awxford accent. ‘Making Montségur the logical place to begin the hunt. That said … ?’

Finn watched as Aisquith looked expectantly over at Kate. A silent invitation.

One second slipped into the next, Finn’s hand tightening around the beer can.

‘It’s, um, probably best if I stay in Paris.’

Hearing that, the bottom half of him – that being the part between his hips – was relieved that Kate had rejected the Brit. But the top half – the part between his ears – was annoyed as hell. Kate Bauer was a complication. And a physical distraction. He had three irons in the fire. He didn’t need a fourth one scorching his pants.

Aisquith glanced at his watch. ‘I have just enough time to pack a bag and catch a southbound train.’ Turning towards Kate, he cupped her face between his hands and quickly kissed her on the lips.

‘Goodbye, Cædmon and … please be careful,’ Kate whispered, clearly upset by the other man’s imminent departure.

About to take another swig of his beer, Finn glanced at Aisquith. ‘Needle. Haystack,’ he said, summing up the crazy-ass, half-baked quest. ‘That said, good luck, Sir Prancelot. And may the Force be with you.’

Aisquith’s mouth contorted into a snide smile. ‘You do realize, don’t you, that if I find the Grail, your little gold trinket will be utterly worthless?’

45

Ivo Uhlemann raised the china cup to his lips and took a sip of green tea.

Without the tracking device, finding Finnegan McGuire in a city of two million inhabitants would be next to impossible. Particularly since they only had three days until the heliacal rising of Sirius. Although they had managed to track down McGuire’s cohort, Cædmon Aisquith, the owner of L’Equinoxe bookstore.

The day’s events having taken their toll, he’d sought his favourite sanctuary, the secluded alcove that overlooked the Seven’s research facility. Constructed underground, the installation was designed around a three-storey faux atrium. Multiple laboratories, work stations, a well-stocked library and several conference rooms lined the top two storeys. With its full-spectrum illumination, banks of frosted glass and lush plants, it was a visually appealing environment.