Stones of Fire

83

Cædmon made his way up the treacherous path cut into the side of the limestone cliff, grateful for the faint light shed by the stars overhead. He couldn’t risk using the torch, at least not until he had reached the summit and surveyed the area. MacFarlane would undoubtedly have sentries posted. Men who would not hesitate to shoot at a suspicious light.

His forty-year-old knees aching from the ascent, he was very much aware of the fact that he did not have the resources or influence of the British government behind him. He was on his own. A lone and hungry wolf.

He snorted, amused by the thought.

In sheep’s clothing.

Puffing slightly, he reached the top; the top being a treeless, rocky plateau. About two hundred yards to the north-west he could make out the outline of St Paul’s Tower, the only visible landmark on the barren escarpment. Wishing he had a pair of night vision goggles, he thought he spied what looked like a large military truck parked beside the tower.

MacFarlane might have the Ark stored inside the tower. Out of sight of prying eyes. Or it could be in the truck, ready for transport.

Motionless, he scanned the terrain, searching for the slightest sound or a suggestion of motion. Something to indicate that he was not alone. That others lurked in the shadows.

A good two minutes passed before he saw a faint flicker, little more than a pinprick of light.

A burning cigarette.

The target sighted, he set off.

As he navigated his way across the bramble-strewn plateau, his thoughts turned to the Knights of St John, who for nearly three centuries had patrolled those same craggy heights, safeguarding their domain from Turkish corsairs. During the great siege of 1565, sixty stalwart knights had defended the fort at St Elmo against a Turkish force numbering eight thousand. Perhaps this night history would repeat itself.

Lord, I hope so.

The thought that he might never again set his gaze upon Edie Miller’s face left him bereft.

Shoving this thought aside, he turned his attention to the man negligently leaning against a large slab of limestone, a lit cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. And a MP5 sub-machine gun cradled against his chest. Though it was impossible to see in the darkness, Cædmon assumed the man’s finger was on the trigger and the safety catch was off.

Keeping to the shadow cast by the limestone outcrop, he slid the five-inch diving knife from its sheath. The hilt securely grasped in his right hand, he inched forward, hoping the sentry didn’t suddenly turn, praying he didn’t inadvertently kick a loose stone. To his dismay, he saw that the man had a communication device protruding from the side of his head.

If the sentry as much as whimpered, the game would be over before it even began.

Cædmon slowed his breathing. An age-old trick to calm one’s nerves.

Then, coming within two feet of the sentry, he lunged forward.

In one smooth, sure-footed motion, the movement ingrained from his distant training, he grasped the other man from the rear, clasping a hand over his mouth as he yanked his head back, exposing the jugular vein and carotid artery. First he slashed. Then he ripped.

Warm blood gushed from the opened artery.

A silent kill.

As the sentry dropped to the ground, Cædmon shoved his finger into the weapon’s trigger guard, yanking the MP5 out of the dying man’s grasp, knowing that a shot would be his undoing. Sliding his arm through the gun’s shoulder strap, he crouched beside the now-dead sentry, relieving him of the radio equipment, the device both a blessing and a beast. While he’d be able to monitor sentry movement in and around the tower, when the man failed to report in, MacFarlane and his henchmen would know they had an enemy in their midst.