The Bones Of Odin

ONE

The darkness exploded.

“This is it.” Matt Drake placed his eye over the view-finder and tried to ignore the spectacle, and capture the image, as an outlandishly clad model prowled along the cat-walk towards him.

Not easy. But he was a professional, or at least trying to be. No one ever said the transition from SAS soldier to civilian would be easy and he’d struggled through the last seven years, but photography seemed to be striking the right chord in him.

Especially tonight. The first model gave a wave and a haughty little smile, and then sashayed away amidst a din of music and cheering. Drake kept the camera clicking as Ben, his twenty-year-old lodger, began to shout in his ear.

“Programme says that was Milla Jankovich. I think I’ve heard of her! I quote ‘a chic Frey designer model’. Wow, is that Bridget Hall? Hard to say, under all that Viking gear.”

Drake ignored the commentary and stayed on his game, partly because he wasn’t sure if his young friend was yanking his chain, so to speak. He captured the vivacious cat-walk images and the disparate play of light across the crowd. The models were decked out in Viking ensemble, carrying swords and shields, helmets and horns — retro costumes conceived by the internationally renowned designer, Abel Frey, who had weaved new season vogue with Nordic battledress to commemorate the evening.

Drake switched his attention to the head of the cat-walk and the object of tonight’s celebrations — a new-found relic ambitiously named ‘Odin’s Shield’. Recently discovered, to massive worldwide acclaim, the shield had already been hailed as the greatest find in Norse mythology and had actually been dated to before Viking history began.

Odd, said the experts.

The ensuing mystery was immense and intriguing and had captured the world’s attention. The Shield’s value had only increased when scientists joined the publicity circus after some unclassified element was discovered within its make-up.

Nerds coveting their fifteen minutes of fame, the cynical side of him spoke up. He shook it off. No matter how hard he fought against it, the cynicism that became a part of him when he was made a widower bloomed like a poisonous rose whenever he let his guard down.

Ben tugged at Drake’s arm, abruptly turning his artistic composition into a snap of the full moon.

“Whoops.” He laughed. “Sorry, Matt. This is pretty good. Apart from the music,… that’s shite. They could have hired my band for a few hundred quid. Can you believe that York landed something as awesome as this?”

Drake waved his camera in the air. “Truthfully? No.” He knew York’s city council with their decayed visions. The future is in the past, so they say. “But listen, York’s paying your landlord a fair few quid to take pictures of models, not The Sky At Night In September. And your band’s shite. So, chill.”

Ben rolled his eyes. “Shite? The Wall Of Sleep are even now considering umm… multiple offers, my friend.”

“Just trying to focus on the nice models.” Drake was actually focused on the Shield, illuminated by the cat-walk lights. It was made up of two circles, the inner covered with what looked like ancient depictions of animals, the outer a mix-match of animal characters and symbols.

Very mystical, he thought. Great for the conspiracy fruit and nuts.

“Nice,” he whispered as a model walked by and he caught the contrast of youth against age on digital film.

The cat-walk had been quickly erected outside York’s renowned Yorvik Centre — a museum of Viking history — after Sweden’s Museum of National Antiquities granted a brief loan for early September. The importance of the event increased exponentially when superstar designer Abel Frey offered to fund a cat-walk event to kick-off the exhibition.

Another model stalked the makeshift tiles with an expression like a cat seeking its nightly bowl of cream. Airhead, the cynicism rose again. Here was a star-fucking paradigm, fated to appear in a future ‘celebrity’ reality TV programme, and be Tweeted and Facebooked about by a million beer-swilling, ten-a-day smoking morons.

Drake blinked. She was still someone’s daughter…

Spotlights rolled and raked the night sky. Bright light bounced from shop window to shop window, ruining what little artistic aura Drake was managing to muster. The distracting dance music of Cascada assaulted his ears. Christ, he thought. Bosnia had been easier on the senses than this.

The crowd swelled. Despite the job, he took a moment to scan the faces around him. Couples and families. Designer straights and gays, hoping for a glimpse of their idol. People in fancy dress, adding to a carnival atmosphere. He smiled. The watchful urge was admittedly duller these days — the army alertness wearing off — but he still felt some of the old perceptions. In a perverse sense they had gained strength since Alyson, his wife, died two years earlier after driving away from him, angry, heart-broken, stating that he might have quit the SAS but the SAS would never quit him. What the hell did that even mean?

Time had barely touched the pain.

Why did she crash? Was it a bad reflection on the road? Bad judgement? Tears in her eyes? Premeditated? An answer that would forever elude him; a terrible truth he would never know.

An old imperative snapped Drake back to the present. Something remembered from his army days — a distant thunk, thunk, long forgotten… old memories now… thunk….

Drake shook away the fog and focused on the cat-walk show. Two models were staging a mock battle beneath Odin’s Shield: nothing spectacular, just publicity fodder. The crowd cheered, the TV cameras whirred, and Drake clicked like a dervish.

And then he frowned. He lowered the camera. His soldier’s mind, lethargic but not decayed, picked up on that distant thunk, thunk again and questioned why the hell two army helicopters were approaching the event.

“Ben,” he said carefully, asking the only question he could think of, “during your research, did you hear about any surprise guests tonight?”

“Wow. I didn’t think you’d noticed that. Well, it was twittered that Kate Moss might show up.”

“Kate Moss?”

Two helicopters, the sound unmistakable to the trained ear. And not just helicopters. They were Apache attack choppers.

Then all hell broke loose.

The helicopters blasted overhead, circled around and began to hover in sync. The crowd cheered ecstatically, expecting something special. All eyes and cameras turned to the night sky.

Ben cried, “Woah…” but then his mobile rang. His parents and his sister called constantly and, a family boy with a heart of gold, he always answered.

Drake was used to the short family interludes. He scrutinized the helicopters’ positions, the fully-loaded rocket pods, the 30 millimetre Chain Gun visibly housed under the aircrafts’ forward fuselage, and assessed the situation. Shit…

The potential for utter chaos. The ecstatic crowd was crammed into a small square circled by shops with only three narrow exits. Ben and he only had one choice if… when… the crush came.

Head straight for the cat-walk.

Without warning, dozens of ropes slithered from the second chopper which Drake now realised must be an Apache hybrid: a machine modified to house multiple crew-members.

Masked men descended the swaying lines, disappearing behind the cat-walk. Drake noticed guns strapped across their chests as a wary hush began to spread through the crowd. The last voices were those of children asking why, but soon even they went quiet.

Then the lead Apache unleashed a Hellfire missile into one of the empty shops. There was a hiss like a million gallons of steam escaping, then a roar like the meeting of two Dinosaurs. Fire, glass and fragmented brick exploded high across the square.

Ben dropped his mobile in shock and scrambled to retrieve it. Drake heard the screaming rise like a tidal wave and sensed the mob instinct grip the crowd. Without a moment’s thought he grabbed Ben and manhandled him over the railing, then vaulted over himself. They landed next to the cat-walk.

The Apache’s Chain Gun rang out, deep and deadly, its rounds fired above the crowd but still invoking pure panic.

“Ben! Stay close behind me.” Drake raced around the foot of the cat-walk. A few of the models reached down to help. Drake gained his feet and looked back over the surging mass of people stampeding towards the exits. Dozens were clambering onto the cat-walk, being helped by models and staff. Terrified screams laced the air, causing the panic to spread. Fire lit the dark, and the heavy thunk of helicopter rotors drowned out most of the tumult.

The Chain Gun rang out again, sending heavy lead into the air with a nightmare sound no civilian anywhere should ever hear.

Drake turned. Models cowered behind him. Odin’s Shield was in front of him. On impulse he risked a few snaps just as soldiers in bullet-proof jackets appeared from backstage. Drake’s first concern was to position himself between Ben, the models and the soldiers, but he kept clicking, narrowing the viewfinder….

With his other hand he pushed his young lodger further away.

“Hey!”

One of the soldiers eyeballed him and swung his machine-gun around threateningly. Drake quelled a feeling of disbelief. This kind of thing didn’t happen in York, in this world. York was tourists, ice-cream and American day-trippers. It was the lion that had never been allowed to roar, not even when Rome ruled. But it was safe and it was prudent. It was the place Drake had chosen to get away from the damn SAS in the first place.

To be with his wife. To escape the… bollocks!

The soldier was suddenly in his face. “Give me that!” he screamed in a German accent. “Give it to me!”

The soldier lunged for the camera. Drake chopped at his forearm and twisted his machine-gun away. Surprise lit the soldier’s face. Drake palmed the camera off to Ben behind his back with a move any New York maitre d’ would have been proud of. Heard him move away at a sprint.

Drake pointed the machine-gun at the floor as three more soldiers started towards him.

“You!” One of the soldiers raised his weapon. Drake half-closed his eyes, but then heard a raucous shout.

“Wait! Minimal casualties, idiot. You really want to shoot someone in cold blood on national television?”

The new soldier nodded at Drake. “Give me the camera.” His German pronunciation carried a lazy twang.

Drake thought ‘Plan B’ and let the gun clatter to the floor. “Don’t have it.”

The commander nodded to his subordinates. “Check him.”

“There was someone else…” the first soldier picked up his gun, looking embarrassed. “He… he’s gone.”

The commander stepped right up in Drake’s face. “Bad move.”

A muzzle pressed against his forehead. His vision was filled with angry German and flying spittle. “Check him!”

As they frisked him he watched the orchestrated theft of Odin’s Shield under the direction of a newly-arrived masked individual wearing a white suit. Somewhat ostentatiously, he waved and scratched his head, but never spoke. Once the Shield was safely away the man waved a walkie in Drake’s general direction, clearly attracting the commander’s attention.

The commander placed his own walkie to his ear, but Drake kept his eyes on the man in white.

“’til Paris,” the man mouthed. “At six tomorrow.”

SAS training, Drake reflected, still came in handy.

The commander said, “Dah.” and was back in Drake’s face, brandishing his credit cards and photographer’s credentials. “Lucky snapper,” he drawled lazily. “The boss says minimal casualties, so you live. ‘But,’ he waved Drake’s wallet, “we have your address, and if you talk,” he added, flashing a smile colder than a polar bear’s scrotum, “trouble will find you.”

TWO

Later, at home, Drake handed Ben a filtered decaf and joined him to watch coverage of the night’s events.

Odin’s Shield had been stolen because the city of York simply hadn’t been prepared for such a violent onslaught. The real miracle was that no one had died. The burning helicopters were found miles away, abandoned where three motorways converged, their occupants long gone.

“Ruined Frey’s show,” Ben said, partly serious. “The models are already packed up and gone.”

“Damn, and I changed the bed sheets. Well, I’m sure Frey and Prada and Gucci will survive.”

“The Wall of Sleep would’ve played through it all.”

“Been doing the family movie-fest Titanic thing again?”

“That reminds me — they cut my dad off in mid-flow.”

Drake topped his mug off. “Don’t worry. He’ll ring back in three minutes or so.”

“Making fun, crusty?”

Drake shook his head and laughed. “No. You’re just too young to understand.”

Ben had been lodging with Drake for about nine months now. They had grown from strangers to good friends in a few months. Drake subsidised Ben’s rent in return for his photographic knowledge — the young man was on his way to a college degree — and Ben helped by sharing everything. He was the kind of guy who wore his feelings on his sleeve, a sign of innocence maybe, but admirable too.

Ben put down his mug. “Night, mate. Guess I’ll go ring sis.”

“Night.”

The door closed, and Drake sat watching Sky News sightlessly for a while. When a picture of Odin’s Shield appeared he started back to the present.

He picked up the camera that represented his livelihood, pocketed the memory card with a mind to view the pictures tomorrow, and then headed for the whirring PC. Having second thoughts he paused to double-check the doors and windows. This house had been safe-proofed years ago whilst he was still in the army. He liked to believe in the rudimentary good of every human being, but one thing war taught you was never to put blind trust in anything. Always have a plan and a back-up — a Plan B.

Seven years on, and now he knew the soldier’s mentality would never leave him.

He Googled ‘Odin’, and ‘Odin’s Shield’. The wind picked up outside the house, rushing around the eaves and wailing like an investment banker who’d had his bonus capped at four mil. He soon realised the Shield was big news. It had been a major archaeological find, the biggest ever in Iceland. Some Indiana Jones types had strayed off the beaten track to investigate an ancient ice flow. A few days later they unearthed the Shield, but then one of Iceland’s largest volcanoes started rumbling and further exploration had to be postponed.

The same volcano, Drake mused, that had sent the ash cloud across Europe recently, disrupting air traffic and people’s holidays.

Drake sipped his coffee and listened to the wind howl. The mantel clock chimed midnight. A glance at the wealth of information provided by the internet told him Ben would make more sense of it than he could. Ben was like any student — able to make fast sense of the mush that came with technology. He read that Odin’s Shield sported many fancy carvings, all of which were being studied by basement-boffins, and that J.R.R.Tolkien had based his wandering wizard, Gandalf, on Odin.

Random stuff. The symbols or hieroglyphs that ringed the outside of the shield were believed to be an ancient form of Odin’s Curse:

No script existed explaining the curse, but still everyone believed in its authenticity. At least — it was attributed to the Vikings, not Odin.

Drake sat back in his chair and ran through the events of the night.

One thing cried out to him but at the same time gave him pause. The guy in white had mouthed ‘’til Paris, six tomorrow.’ If Drake followed that path he could be putting Ben’s life in danger, not to mention his own.

A civilian would let it go. A soldier would reason that he’d already been threatened, that their lives were already in danger, and that any information was good information.

He Googled: Odin+Paris.

One bold entry leapt out at him.

Odin’s Horse, Sleipnir, was on display at the Louvre.

Odin’s Horse? Drake scratched his head. For a God this guy was laying claim to some highly material things. Drake brought up the Louvre’s home page. It seemed the sculpture of Odin’s fabled Horse had been discovered years ago in the mountains of Norway. More tales followed. Drake soon became so wrapped up in the many tales of Odin that he almost forgot He was, in fact, a Viking God, simply a myth.

The Louvre? Drake chewed it over. He finished his coffee, tired now, and pushed away from the computer.

In another moment he was asleep.

He woke to the sound of the croaking frog. His little sentry. An enemy might expect an alarm or a dog, but he would never suspect the little green ornament nestling beside the wheelie bin — and Drake had been trained to sleep light.

He’d fallen asleep at the computer desk with his head in his arms; now he came instantly awake and slipped into the darkened hallway. The back door rattled. Glass smashed. Only seconds had passed since the frog croaked.

They were in.

Drake ducked below eye-level and saw two men enter, sub-machine-guns held competently, but a little shabbily. Their movement was clean, but not graceful.

No problem.

Drake waited in the shadows, hoping the old soldier in him wouldn’t let him down.

Two came in, an advance team. That showed someone knew what they were doing. Drake’s complete strategy for this situation had been planned years ago when the soldier’s mentality was still strong and experimental, and he’d simply never had to change it around. It was now re-focusing in his mind. When the first soldier’s muzzle poked out of the kitchen Drake grabbed it, jerked it towards him, then twisted it back. At the same time he stepped toward his opponent and spun, effectively wrenching the gun away and finishing up behind the man.

The second soldier was taken aback. That was all it took. Drake fired without a milli-second of pause, then spun and shot the first soldier dead before the second had even crumpled to his knees.

Run! he thought. Speed was everything now.

He sprinted up the stairs shouting Ben’s name, then squeezed off a burst of automatic fire over his shoulder. He reached the landing, shouted again, then hit Ben’s door at a dead run. It burst open. Ben stood in his boxer shorts, mobile in hand, sheer terror etched into his face.

“Don’t worry,” Drake winked. “Trust me. This is my other job.”

To his credit, Ben didn’t ask questions. Drake focused hard. He had disabled the house’s original loft-hatch, and then installed a second one in this room. After that he’d reinforced the bedroom door. It wouldn’t stop a determined enemy but it would certainly slow them down.

All part of the plan.

He bolted the door, making sure the integral bars were fixed to the reinforced frame, then pulled down the loft ladder. Ben shot up first, Drake a second later. The loft space was large and carpeted. Ben just stood and gaped. The entire wall space to east and west was dominated by large bespoke bookcases overflowing with CDs and old cassette cases.

“These all yours, Matt?”

Drake didn’t answer. He crossed over to a pile of boxes that concealed a door tall enough to crawl through; a door that led to the roof.

Drake upended a box on the carpet. A fully packed rucksack fell out which he secured over his shoulders.

“Clothes?” Ben whispered.

He patted the rucksack. “Got ‘em.”

When Ben looked blank Drake understood just how scared he was. He realised he’d turned back into that SAS guy a little too easily. “Clothes. Mobiles. Money. Passports. I-pad. I.D.”

Didn’t mention the gun. The bullets. The knife…

“Who’s doing this, Matt?”

A boom came from below. Their unknown enemy hitting Ben’s bedroom door, perhaps now realising they had underestimated Drake.

“Time to go.”

Ben turned without expression and crawled out into the windswept night. Drake dived after him and, with a last glance at the walls full of CDs and cassette tapes, pulled the door shut.

He’d adapted the roof as best he could without drawing people’s attention. On pretence of installing new guttering he’d fixed a three foot wide walkway that ran the length of his roof. It was his neighbour’s side that would pose the problem.

The wind tugged at them with eager fingers as they traversed the treacherous roof. Ben stepped carefully, bare feet slipping and jarring against the concrete tiles. Drake held his arm tightly, wishing they’d had time to find his trainers.

Then a strong gust howled around the chimney breast, struck Ben full in the face and sent him stumbling towards the edge. Drake pulled back hard, heard a shriek of pain, but maintained his grip. After a second he reined his friend in.

“Not far,” he whispered. “Nearly there, mate.”

Drake could see that Ben was terrified. His eyes darted between the loft-door and the edge of the roof, then to the garden and back again. Panic twisted his features. His breathing was coming too fast; at this rate they’d never make it.

Drake stole a glance at the door, steeled himself, and turned his back to it. If anyone came through they would see him first. He took hold of Ben’s shoulders and locked eyes.

“Ben, you have to trust me. Trust me. I promise I will get you through this.”

Ben’s eyes refocused and he nodded, still terrified but putting his life in Drake’s hands. He turned and stepped forward gingerly. Drake noticed blood dripping from his feet, draining into the gutter. They traversed the neighbour’s roof, stepped down onto his conservatory and slithered to the ground. Ben slipped and fell halfway, but Drake had gone first and broke most of his fall.

Then they were on solid ground. Lights were on next door but no one was around. They had probably heard the automatic fire. Hopefully the police were on their way.

Drake gripped Ben tightly around the shoulders and said: “Fantastic stuff. Keep it up and I’ll get you a new climbing frame. Now let’s go.”

It was a standing joke. Whenever their spirits needed lifting, Ben harangued Drake about his age and Drake made fun of Ben’s youth. Friendly rivalry.

Ben sniffed. “Who the hell’s up there?”

Drake was looking up at the loft and its secret door. No one had poked anything out of there yet.

“Germans.”

“Eh? Like World War Two Bridge over the River Kwai Germans?”

“I think those were Japanese. And no, I don’t think these are anything like World War Two Germans.”

They were already at the rear of the neighbour’s garden. They ducked through the hedge and pushed out through a dummy section of fencing Drake had crafted during one of the Swift’s annual holidays.

Straight out onto a busy street.

Directly opposite a taxi rank.

Drake walked towards the waiting cars with murder in his mind. His soldier’s insight had resurfaced. Like Mickey Rourke, like Kylie, like Hawaii-Five-O… it had just been lying dormant, waiting for the right time to make its glorious comeback.

He was sure the only way to protect the two of them was to get the bad guy first.

THREE

The flight into Charles De Gaulle touched down just after 9 AM that same morning. Drake and Ben landed with nothing but the rucksack and a few of its original contents. New clothes were on their backs, new mobiles prepped. The I-pad was charged. Most of the cash was gone — spent on transport. Weapons had been ditched as soon as Drake decided their destination.

During the flight, Drake had brought Ben up to date with all things German and Viking, and had asked him to help with the research. Ben’s sarcastic comment was: “Bang-bang goes my degree.”

Drake approved of the attitude. The family guy hadn’t cracked, thank God.

They exited the airport into a cold Paris drizzle. Ben found a taxi and waved at it with a guide book he’d bought. Once they were inside he said: “Umm… Rue… Croix? Hotel opposite the Louvre?”

The taxi shot off, driven by a man whose face betrayed that he was driven by nothing. The hotel, when it appeared forty minutes later, was refreshingly atypical for Paris. There was a large lobby, lifts that could accommodate more than one person, and several corridors of rooms.

Before they booked in, Drake used the cash machine in the lobby to withdraw the rest of his money — about five hundred Euros. Ben frowned, but Drake reassured him with a wink. He knew what his smart friend was thinking about.

Electronic surveillance and money trails.

He paid for one room by credit card and then acquired the room opposite with cash. Once upstairs, they both entered the ‘cash’ room and Drake set up surveillance.

“Our chance to kill a few birds with one stone,” he said, watching Ben scout the room with a critical eye.

“Eh?”

“We see how good they are. If they come soon they’re good, and probably trouble. If they don’t, well, it’s important to know that too. And you get a chance to break out your new toy.”

Ben switched on the I-pad. “It’s definitely happening today, at six?”

“It’s an educated guess.” Drake sighed. “But it fits the few facts we know.”

“Hmm, well step aside, Crusty…” Ben made a show of cracking his fingers. His confidence shone now that he was assisting rather than being rescued, but then he’d never been an ‘action’ guy. More the type of person identified by his first name, or by a nickname — mostly Blakey — never dynamic enough to earn that last name moniker.

Drake fixed his eye to the peep-hole. “The longer they take,” he murmured. “The better our chances.”

It didn’t take long. Whilst Ben was tapping away on the I-pad, Drake saw half a dozen big guys gather outside the door opposite. The lock was picked and the room invaded. Thirty seconds later the team reappeared, looked around angrily and dispersed.

Drake set his jaw.

Ben said. “This is really interesting, Matt. It’s believed there are actually nine pieces of Odin scattered throughout the world. The Shield is one, the Horse another. I never knew that.”

Drake barely heard him. He wracked his brain. They were in trouble here.

Without a word he backed away from the door and tapped a number into his mobile. Almost immediately the call was answered.

“Yes?”

“This is Drake.”

“I’m shocked. Long time, pal.”

“I know.”

“Always knew you’d call.”

“Not what you think, Wells. I need something.”

“Of course you do. Tell me about Mai.”

Damn. Wells was testing him with something only he would know. Problem was, Mai was an old flame from their down-time in Thailand before he was married to Alyson — and even Ben shouldn’t hear those sordid details.

“Second name — Shiranu. Location — Phuket. Type — umm…exotic…”

Ben’s ears were twitching. Drake read it in his body language as clearly as he could read a politician’s lie. The open mouth was the clue…

Drake could almost hear the laughter in Wells’ voice. “Exotic? That the best you can do?”

“At the moment — yes.”

“Someone there?”

“Very much.”

“Gotcha. OK, pal, whatcha want?”

“I need the truth, Wells. I need the raw intel that the news and the internet aren’t allowed to broadcast. About Odin’s Shield being stolen. About the Germans who stole it. Especially the Germans. Real SAS intel. I need to know what’s actually happening, mate, not the public drip-feed.”

“You in trouble?”

“Immense.” You don’t lie to your Commander, former or not.

“Need a hand?”

“Not yet.”

“You earned a hand, Drake. Just say the word and the SAS are yours.”

“I will.”

“OK. Give me a few. And by the way — you still telling yourself you were plain old SAS?”

Drake hesitated. The term ‘plain old SAS’ shouldn’t even exist. “It’s an acceptable term of explanation, that’s all.”

Drake disconnected. Asking his former Commander for help hadn’t been easy, but Ben’s safety overrode all sense of pride. He checked the peep-hole once more, got an eyeful of empty corridor, and then went to sit next to Ben.

“Nine Pieces of Odin, you say? What the hell does that mean?”

Ben clicked quickly away from his band’s Facebook page, muttering that they had two new friend requests, which now made seventeen.

He studied Drake for a moment. “So you’re an ex-SAS captain and a cassette tape fanatic. That’s odd, mate, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“Concentrate, Ben. What have you got?”

“Well… I’m following the trail of this Nine Pieces of Odin. It seems that nine is a special number in Norse mythology. Odin was self-crucified on something called the World Tree for nine days and nine nights, fasting, with a spear in his side just like Jesus Christ, and many years before Jesus. This is real stuff, Matt. Real scholars catalogued this. It might even be the story that inspired the tale of Jesus Christ. There are nine Pieces of Odin. The Spear is a third Piece, and is linked to the World Tree, though I can’t find any references as to its location. The Tree’s legendary location is in Sweden. A place called Upsalla.”

“Slow down, slow down. Does it say anything about Odin’s Shield or his Horse?”

Ben shrugged. “Just that the Shield was one of the greatest archaeological finds of all time. And that around its edge are the words: Heaven and Hell are but a temporary ignorance. It is the Immortal Soul that sways towards Right or Wrong. Apparently it’s Odin’s curse, but no-one in living memory has ever been able to figure out what it’s trying to get at.”

“Maybe it’s one of those curses where you just have to be there,” Drake smiled.

Ben ignored him. “Says here that the Horse is a sculpture. Another sculpture, ‘Odin’s Wolves’ is on show in New York right now.”

“His wolves? Now?” Drake’s brain was starting to fry.

“He rode two wolves into battle. Apparently.”

Drake frowned. “Are all the nine parts accounted for?”

Ben shook his head. “Several are missing, but…”

Drake paused. “What?”

“Well, it sounds daft, but there are bits of a legend building up here. Something about uniting all of Odin’s pieces and starting a chain reaction that will bring about the end of the world.”

“Standard stuff,” Drake said. “All these ancient Gods have some ‘end of the world’ fable attached to them.”

Ben nodded and looked at his watch. “True. Look. Us internet wizards require sustenance,” he thought for a second. “And I think I can feel some new band lyrics coming on. Croissants and Brie for brunch?”

“When in Paris…”

Drake cracked the door, checked around, then motioned Ben out. He saw the smile on his friend’s face but also read the terrible strain in his eyes. Ben was hiding it well, but was floundering badly.

Drake went back into the room and stowed all their belongings in the backpack. As he was securing the heavy strap he heard Ben say a subdued hi, and felt a heart stopping jolt of fear for only the second time in his life.

The first was when Alyson left him, citing that irreconcilable difference — you’re more soldier than a friggin’ boot camp.

That night. When the endless rain filled his eyes like tears, like never before.

He ran for the door, every muscle in his body coiled and ready, then saw the old couple toiling their way along the corridor.

And Ben noticed the stark terror that filled Drake’s eyes before the ex-soldier had a chance to mask it. Stupid mistake.

“Don’t worry.” Ben said with a pale smile. “I’m okay.”

Drake took a shuddering breath and led them down the staircase, constantly alert. He checked the lobby, saw no threat, and stepped out onto the street.

Where was the nearest restaurant? He took a guess and headed towards the Louvre.

The fat man from Munich with the brain-surgeon’s touch saw them straight away. He checked his photographic likeness and recognised the well-built, capable Yorkshireman and his long-haired dweeb of a friend in two heartbeats and fixed them in his cross-hairs.

He shifted his position, not liking the high vantage point or the white chippings that were digging into his fleshy extremities.

Into a shoulder-mic he whispered: “Got them on a hair trigger.”

The answer was surprisingly immediate. “Kill them now.”

FOUR

Three bullets were fired in quick succession.

The first deflected off the metal door frame beside Drake’s head, then ricocheted down the street, striking an old woman in the arm. She twisted and fell, spraying a question mark pattern of blood through the air.

The second parted the hair on Ben’s head.

The third hit the concrete where he had been standing, a nano-second after Drake tackled him roughly around the waist. The bullet glanced off the pavement and smashed the hotel window behind them.

Drake was rolling and roughly crab-walking Ben behind a row of parked cars. “I’ve got you.” He whispered fiercely. “Just keep going.” Staying low, he risked a glance through a car window and saw movement on a roof top, just as the window shattered.

“Shite shooting!” His Yorkshire accent and army slang thickened his voice as the adrenalin pumped. He surveyed the area. Civilians were running, screaming, causing all sorts of distractions, but the problem was that the shooter knew exactly where they were.

And he wouldn’t be alone.

Even now, Drake recognised three guys he’d seen earlier on lock-picking duty step out of a dark-coloured Mondeo and start purposefully towards them.

“Time to move.”

Drake crab-walked them two cars down to where he’d already spied a young woman crying hysterically in her car. To her surprise, he cracked open her door and felt a quick rush of guilt at her terrified expression.

He kept a poker face. “Out.”

Still no shots. The woman crawled out, fear icing her muscles to dead slabs. Ben slithered inside, keeping his body mass as low as possible. Drake followed him in a hurry and then turned the key.

Taking a breath, he jammed the car into reverse, and then shot forward out of the parking space. Rubber smouldered across the road in their wake.

Ben cried: “Rue de Richelieu!”

Drake swerved in anticipation of a bullet, heard the metallic twang as it bounced off the engine, then floored the accelerator. They passed the surprised lock-pickers on the pavement, saw them hurrying back to their car.

Drake flung the wheel into a right, then left, and left again.

“Rue Saint-Honore.” Ben shouted, craning his neck to see the road name.

They entered a flow of traffic. Drake made haste as best he could, zipping the car — which to his delight was a Mini Cooper — in and out of the lanes and keeping a steady eye on the rear-view.

The rooftop shooter was long gone, but the Mondeo was back there, keeping pace.

He turned right and then right again, got lucky at the lights. The Musee Du Louvre shot by on the left-hand side. This was no good: the roads were too crowded, the lights too frequent. They needed to get the hell away from central Paris.

“Rue De Rivoli!”

Drake frowned hard at Ben. “Why the hell do you keep shouting out street names?”

Ben stared at him. “I don’t know! They… they do it on TV! Is it helping?”

“No!” he cried back above the roar of the engine as he zoomed down a slip road and away from the Rue De Rivoli.

A bullet ricocheted off the boot. Drake saw a passer-by crumple in agony. This was bad; this was serious stuff. These people were arrogant and powerful enough not to care who they hurt, and could obviously live with the consequences.

Why were the Nine Pieces of Odin so important to them?

Bullets struck concrete and metal and zinged patterns all around the Mini.

At that moment Ben’s mobile rang. He made a complicated shoulder-wrenching manoeuvre to twist it out of his pocket. “Mum?”

“Christ!” Drake cursed quietly.

“I’m fine, ta. You? How’s Dad?”

The Mondeo powered its way up to the Mini’s boot. Glaring headlights filled the rear-view, along with the faces of three jeering Germans. The bastards were loving this.

Ben was nodding. “And sis?”

Drake watched as the Germans pounded the dash with their guns in frenzied excitement.

“Nah. Nothing much. Umm…what noise?” He paused. “Oh… Xbox.”

Drake floored the accelerator. The engine responded speedily. Tyres squealed, even at sixty miles-an-hour.

The next shot destroyed the back window. Ben scrambled down into the front crawlspace without being asked. Drake allowed a moment of assessment, then bounced the Mini up onto the empty pavement before a long line of parked cars.

The Mondeo’s occupants fired recklessly, bullets shattering through parked car windows to strike and glance off the Mini. After a few seconds he tramped on the brakes, reversed with a screech, threw the little car into a quick 180, then raced off back the way they had come.

It took the Mondeo’s occupants precious seconds to realise what had happened. That car’s own 180 was sloppy and dangerous, and took out two parked cars with an awful crunch. Where in God’s name were the police?

No choice now. Drake threw the car around as many corners as he could. “Get ready, Ben. We’re gonna run.”

If Ben hadn’t been there he’d have stood and fought, but the priority was his friend’s safety. And getting lost was the prudent move now.

“Ok Mum, catch you later.” Ben flipped the mobile closed with a shrug. “Parents.”

Drake rode the Mini up the kerb again and braked hard half-way across a manicured lawn. Before the car stopped they flung their doors wide and jumped out, heading for the nearby streets. They had mingled with home-grown Parisians before the Mondeo was even in sight.

Ben managed a little croak and blinked at Drake. “My hero.”

They hid out at a little internet cafe near a place called Harry’s New York Bar. To Drake this was the wisest move. Inconspicuous and cheap, it was a place where they could continue their research and decide what to do about the Louvre’s imminent break-in without concern or interruption.

Drake set up the muffins and coffees whilst Ben logged in. Drake hadn’t been affected by the trauma so far, but guessed Ben had to be a little disturbed. The soldier in him didn’t have a clue how to handle him. The friend knew they should talk. So he slid the young man’s food and drink across, settled into the cosy booth, and held his gaze.

“How you doing with all this crap?”

“I don’t know.” Ben said truthfully. “Haven’t had time to take it in yet.”

Drake nodded. “That’s normal. Well, when you do…” he gestured at the PC. “Whatcha got?”

“I logged back onto the same website as before. Amazing archaeological find… nine pieces… yada, yada, yada… ah yes — I was reading about Odin’s spectacular ‘end of the world’ conspiracy theory.”

“And I was saying…”

“It was a load of bollocks. But not necessarily, Matt. Listen to this. As I said, there is a legend, and it has been translated into many languages. Not just the Scandinavian ones. It seems pretty universal, which is highly unusual according to the crusties who study this sort of thing. It says that if Odin’s Nine Pieces are ever assembled at Ragnarok they will reveal the way to the Tomb of the Gods. And if that Tomb is ever desecrated… well, sulphur and brimstone and all Hell breaking loose is just the start of our problems. Notice I said Gods?”

Drake frowned. “Nah. How can there be a tomb of the Gods? They never existed. Ragnarok never existed. It was just the Norse place for Armageddon.”

“Exactly. So what if it did exist?”

“So imagine the value of a find like that.”

“A tomb of the Gods? It would be beyond everything. Atlantis. Camelot. Eden. They would be nothing compared to that. So you’re saying that Odin’s Shield is just the start?”

Ben bit off the top of his muffin. “I guess we’ll see. There are eight other Pieces to go for, so, if they start disappearing,” he paused. “You know, Karin is the brains of the family, and sis would love making sense of all this internet crap. It’s all in bits and pieces.”

“Ben, I feel guilty enough involving you. And I promise nothing’s gonna happen to you, but I can’t involve anyone else in this.” Drake frowned. “I wonder why the bloody Germans kicked this off now though. Surely the other eight parts have been around a while.”

“Less with the football analogies. And they have. Maybe the Shield was special in some way? Something about it made everything else worthwhile.”

Drake remembered taking close-up snaps of the Shield, but they could save that investigation for later. He tapped the screen. “It says Odin’s ‘Horse’ sculpture was found in a Viking longboat, which is actually the Louvre’s chief exhibit. Most people wouldn’t even notice the Horse sculpture itself whilst walking around the Louvre.”

“The longboat,” Ben read aloud. “Is a mystery of its own — it’s constructed of timbers that predate known Viking history.”

“Just like the Shield,” Drake exclaimed.

“Found in Denmark,” Ben read on. “And see here,” he pointed at the screen, “it focuses on the other Pieces of Odin I mentioned earlier? The Wolves are in New York, and the best guess is that the Spear is in Upsalla, Sweden, having fallen from Odin’s body when he climbed down from the World Tree.”

“So that’s five.” Drake settled back into the comfy seating and sipped his coffee. Around them the internet cafe buzzed with restrained activity. The pavements outside were filled with people zig-zagging their way through life.

Ben had been born with a steel-lined mouth, and downed half of his hot coffee in a single gulp. “There’s something else here,” he tapped away. “Jeez, I don’t know. It looks complicated. About something called a Volva. Which means — Seeress.”

“Maybe they named the car after her.”

“Funny. No, it seems Odin had a special Volva. Wait — this could take a while.”

Drake was so busy switching his attention between Ben, the PC, the stream of information and the bustling pavement outside, that he didn’t see a woman approach until she stood right next to their table.

Before he could move she raised a hand.

“Don’t get up, boys,” she drawled in an American accent. “We need to talk.”

FIVE

Kennedy Moore had been evaluating the pair for a while.

At first she’d thought it harmless. After a while, analysing the younger man’s scared but determined body language and the older dude’s vigilant demeanour, she’d come to the conclusion that trouble, circumstance, and the Devil had snagged these two in an unholy trinity of danger.

She wasn’t a cop here. But she was a cop in New York, and that relatively small island with its big concrete towers was a tough place to grow up. You developed cop’s eyes before you even knew your destiny was to join the NYPD. Later, you honed and recalculated, but you always had those eyes. That hard, calculating stare.

Even on vacation, she mused bitterly.

After an hour of sipping coffee and surfing aimlessly, she couldn’t help herself. She might be on vacation — which sounded better than forced leave to her — but that didn’t mean the cop in her just gave it up quicker than a Brit surrendered his virtue on his first night in Vegas.

She sidled over to their table. Forced leave, she thought again. That put her glittering NYPD career in perspective.

The older guy appraised her fast, raising her antennae. He weighed her up quicker than a U.S. Marine would assess a Bangkok brothel.

“Don’t get up, boys,” she drawled disarmingly. “We need to talk.”

“American?” the older guy said with a hint of surprise. “What do you want?”

She ignored him. “Are you OK, kid?” She flashed her shield. “I’m a cop. You be honest with me now.”

Older guy clicked immediately and gave a grin of relief, which was odd. The other one blinked in confusion.

“Eh?”

The cop in Kennedy pressed the issue. “Are you here by choice?” It was all she could think of to get next to them.

The younger guy looked pained. “Well, the sightseeing’s ok, but the rough sex ain’t much fun.”

Older guy looked surprisingly grateful. “Trust me. There’s no problem here. It’s good to see some of the law enforcement community still respect the job though. I’m Matt Drake.”

He held out a hand.

Kennedy ignored it, still not convinced. Her mind snagged on that phrase still respect the job and flicked back over the last month. Stopped where it always stopped. At Kaleb. At his brutalised victims. At his unconditional release.

If only.

“Well… thanks, I guess.”

“So, you’re a cop from New York?” The younger man augmented the nuance with raised eyebrows that he directed at the older.

“Bloody subtle.” Matt Drake laughed easily. He seemed confident in himself and, though he sat easily, Kennedy could tell he had the competence to react in a second. And the way he constantly surveyed his surroundings made her think cop. Or army.

She nodded, wondering if she should invite herself to sit down.

Drake indicated the free space, at the same time leaving him a clear way out. “Polite, too. I heard New Yorkers were the most over-confident people in the world.”

“Matt!” The kid frowned.

“If by over-confident you mean egotistical and arrogant, I heard that too.” Kennedy slid into the booth, feeling a bit awkward. “Then I came to Paris and met the French.”

“Vacation?”

“So I’m told.”

The guy didn’t push it, just held his hand out again. “I’m still Matt Drake. And this is my lodger, Ben.”

“Hey, I’m Kennedy. I overheard what you were saying, the headlines anyway, I’m afraid. That’s what hit me up. And what’s that about Wolves in New York?” She raised her eyebrows in imitation of Ben.

“Odin.” Drake was studying her closely, watching for a reaction. “Know anything about him?”

“He was Thor’s dad wasn’t he? You know, in the Marvel comic.”

“He’s all over the news.” Ben nodded at the PC.

“I’ve been keeping pretty clear of headlines lately.” Kennedy’s words came fast, wrung tight with hurt and frustration. It was a moment before she could carry on. “So, not much. Just enough.”

“Sounds like you’ve created a few.”

“More than is good for my career.” She returned, and then gazed out through the dingy cafe windows into the street.

Drake followed her gaze, wondering if he should push her, and his eyes locked on to those of one of the lock-pickers from earlier, peering through the glass.

“Shite. These guys are more persistent than an Indian call centre.”

The guy’s face lit up with recognition when Drake moved, but now Drake decided he wasn’t fucking about any more. The gloves were well and truly off, and the SAS Captain was back. He moved fast, picked up one of the armchairs and flung it through the window with an almighty crash. The German flew backwards, collapsing to the pavement like dead meat.

Drake waved Ben to the side. “Come with us, or don’t,” he called to Kennedy as he ran. “But stay out of my way.”

He moved quickly to the door, flung it open, and paused in case there was gunfire. Shocked Parisians were standing about. Tourists were snapping away. Drake cast a probing gaze down the street.

“Suicide.” He ducked back in.

“Rear entrance.” He tapped Ben, and they headed towards the counter. Kennedy had yet to move, but it didn’t take a cop’s analytical mind to see these people were in genuine trouble.

“I’ll cover you.”

Drake strode past the frightened counter-man into a dingy corridor lined with boxes of coffee, sugar and stir-sticks. At the end was a fire-escape. Drake hit the bar, then peered cautiously outside. The afternoon sun stung his eyes, but the coast was clear. Which, for him, meant there was only one enemy out there.

Drake motioned the others to wait, then strode purposefully towards the waiting German. He didn’t avoid the man’s punch, but took it hard in the solar-plexus without flinching. The shock on his opponent’s face gave him momentary satisfaction.

“Pussies aim for the plexus.” He whispered. Experience had taught him that a trained man would strike at one of the body’s obvious pressure points and pause for effect, so Drake compartmentalised the pain — as he’d been endlessly taught — and ploughed through it. He broke the guy’s nose, shattered his jaw and almost snapped his neck with two strikes, and then left him sprawled on the pavement without breaking stride. He waved the others forward.

They exited the cafe and looked around.

Kennedy said: “My hotel’s three blocks over.”

Drake nodded. “Bloody awesome. Let’s go.”

SIX

A minute later Ben said:” Wait.”

“Don’t say you need the toilet, mate, or we’re gonna have to get you some nappies.”

Kennedy hid a grin as Ben flushed.

“I know you’re due a nap, old man, but it’s nearly time to… umm… visit the Louvre.”

Shit. Drake had lost track of time. “Bollocks.”

“The Louvre?”

“About turn.” Drake waved at a passing taxi. “Kennedy, I will explain.”

“You’d better. I’ve already been to the Louvre today.”

“Not for this…” Ben murmured as they climbed into the taxi. Drake said the magic word and the car sped off. The journey was undertaken in silence and lasted ten minutes, through streets clogged with traffic. The pavements were no better when the three of them tried to hot-foot it towards the museum.

As they walked, Ben brought Kennedy up to speed. “Someone found Odin’s Shield in Iceland. Someone stole it from an exhibition in York, completely ruining Frey’s amazing cat-walk show.”

“Frey?”

“The fashion designer. Aren’t you from New York?”

“I am from New York, but I’m not big on fashion. And I’m not big on being dragged blindly into some kind of conflict. I really don’t need more problems right now.”

Drake almost said ‘there’s the door’ but stopped himself at the last second. A cop could prove useful tonight for many reasons, especially one from the States. As they approached the glass pyramid that marked the entrance to the Louvre, he said: “Kennedy, these people have tried to kill us at least three times now. It’s my responsibility to make sure that doesn’t happen. Now, we need more information on what the Hell’s going down here, and for some reason they are interested in something that Ben has found out that’s called the ‘Nine Pieces of Odin’. We don’t really know why, but in here—” he pointed past the glass pyramid, “is the second Piece.”

“They’re gonna steal it, tonight,” Ben said, then added: “Probably.”

“And what’s the New York angle?”

“That’s where another one of Odin’s Pieces is on display. The Wolves. At the Natural History Museum.”

Drake was studying a map. “Seems the Louvre doesn’t normally display Viking collections. This one’s also on loan, like the one at York. Says here, the biggest interest is the Viking longboat, one of the finest ever discovered, and its renowned notoriety.”

“Meaning?” Kennedy paused at the top of the steps, a reed against the storm as many pairs of feet tramped around her.

“The anomaly presented by its age. It predates Viking history.”

“Well, that’s interesting.”

“I know. It’s displayed on the lower ground floor of the Denon Wing, near some Egyptian… Coptic… Ptolemaic… bollocks. .bollocks… whatever. It’s this way.”

The wide, polished corridors gleamed all around them as they merged with the throng. Locals and tourists of all ages filled the grand old space and brought it to life during the day. One could only guess as to its tomb-like, eerie nature through the night.

At that moment there was a thunderous boom, like a concrete wall collapsing. They all paused. Drake turned to Ben.

“Wait here, Ben. Give us half an hour. We’ll find you.” He paused, then added, “If they evacuate, then wait as close to the glass pyramid as you can.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. Ben was fully aware of the danger. Drake watched him shake his mobile free and hit a speed-dial number. That’d be Mum or Dad or sis. He motioned to Kennedy, and they proceeded carefully down the spiral staircase towards the lower ground floor. As they started towards the room that housed the Viking exhibition, people were starting to rush out. A thick cloud billowed behind them.

“Run!” A guy who looked like a Hollister model shouted. “There’s dudes with guns in there!”

Drake stopped at the door and risked a look inside. Total chaos greeted him. A scene from a Michael Bay action movie, only weirder. He counted eight guys in camouflage gear, with face-masks and machine-guns, clambering into the biggest Viking longboat he’d ever seen. Behind them, in an act of unbelievable recklessness, a smoking hole had been blasted through the side of the museum.

These guys were crazy. What gave them their edge was that they possessed the shocking directness of fanaticism. Blowing entrances into buildings and firing rockets into crowds seemed to be their norm. No wonder they’d chased Ben and him around Paris earlier. Car chases were probably just their wind-down-before-bed activity.

Kennedy put a hand on his shoulder and peered around him. “Jeez.”

“Proves we’re on the right track. Now we just need to get close to their Commander.”

“I ain’t getting close to any of those wankers.” She swore with a surprisingly good English accent.

“Cute. But I gotta find a way to get us off their shit list.”

Drake noticed more civilians running towards the exit. The Germans weren’t even watching them, just confidently executing their plan.

“Come on.” Drake slipped around the door frame into the room. They used the perimeter exhibits for cover and padded their way as close to proceedings as was safe.

“Beeile dich!” someone shouted urgently.

“Something about a ‘hurry’. Drake said. “Bloody bastards will have to be quick. The Louvre must be high on the French response list.”

One of the Germans shouted something else, and held up a slab of stone the size of a dinner tray. It looked heavy. The soldier was beckoning two others to help unload it from the longboat.

“Clearly not SAS,” Drake commented.

“Or American,” Kennedy noted. “I used to have a Marine boyfriend who could’ve tucked that trinket under his foreskin.”

Drake choked a little. “Nice image. Thanks for contributing. Look.” He nodded towards the gap in the wall where a masked man dressed all in white had just appeared.

“Same guy who robbed the Shield in York. Probably.”

The man briefly examined the sculpture, then nodded in approval and turned to his Commander. “Time to….”

Gunfire erupted outside. The Germans froze for a second, seemingly to stare at each other in confusion. Then bullets ripped through the room and everyone dived for cover.

More masked men appeared in the newly-blasted entrance. A new force, dressed differently to the Germans.

Drake thought: French police?

“Canadians!” One of the Germans shouted in disdain. “Kill! Kill!”

Drake covered his ears as a dozen machine-guns opened fire at once. Bullets ricocheted from human body, to wooden exhibit, to plaster wall. Glass shattered, and priceless displays were ripped to shreds and sent crashing to the floor. Kennedy swore loudly, which Drake was starting to realise was not exactly ‘fresh ground’ for her. “Where’re the fucking French for fuck’s sake!”

Drake’s head was spinning. Canadians? What kind of twisted hell had they stumbled into here?

The exhibit beside them exploded into a thousand pieces. Glass and bits of wood rained down on their backs. Drake started to crawl backwards, dragging Kennedy with him. The longboat was getting riddled with lead. The Canadians had advanced into the room by now and several of the Germans lay dead or twitching. As Drake watched, one of the Canadians fired point-blank into a German’s head, blowing his brains out all over a 3000 year-old Egyptian terracotta vase.

“No love lost between looney relic hunters.” Drake winced. “And all that time I spent playing Tomb Raider — it was never like this.”

“Yeah,” Kennedy shook shards of glass from her hair. “But if you’d actually played the game, instead of staring at her ass for seventeen hours you might actually know what’s going on.”

“Ben’s forte. Not mine. Playing the game that is.” He ventured a glance up.

One of the Germans was trying to escape. He ran right up to Drake without noticing him, then gave a start of surprise when his path was blocked. “Bewegen!” He raised his gun.

“Yeah, up yours too.” Drake raised his hands.

The man’s finger tightened on the trigger.

Kennedy made a sudden movement to the side, causing the German’s attention to flicker. Drake moved in and elbowed him in the face. A fist came swinging towards Drake’s head, which he side-stepped, even as he kicked out the soldier’s knee. A shriek barely covered the sound of snapping bone. Drake was on him in a second, knees pressing hard on his heaving chest. With a quick flurry he ripped away the soldier’s mask.

And grunted. “Uhh. Don’t know what I was really expecting.”

Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Solid features. Confused expression.

“Later.” Drake rendered him unconscious with a choke hold, trusting Kennedy to keep an eye out for his comrades. When Drake looked up, the battle raged on. In that moment, another German came barrelling around a falling exhibit. Drake shoulder-charged him to the side, and Kennedy kneed him in the solar-plexus. The man went down faster than a new boy-band on X-factor.

Now one of the Canadians was dragging the Odinic sculpture away from the dead and bloody fingers of his enemy. Another German outflanked him and attacked from the side, but the Canadian was good, twisting and delivering three deadly strikes, then heaving the limp body over his shoulder and smashing it to the ground. The Canadian fired three close shots for good measure and then continued dragging the sculpture towards the exit. Even Drake was impressed. When the Canadian reached his comrades, they shouted and laid down a hail of fire before retreating over the still-smoking rubble.

“Upsalla!” The first-class Canadian cried, and raised a fist at the surviving Germans. Drake detected arrogance, challenge and excitement in that one word. Surprisingly, a woman’s voice.

Then the woman paused and removed her mask in a gesture of absolute disdain. “Upsalla!” She cried again at the Germans. “Be there!”

Drake would have staggered if he hadn’t already been on his knees. He thought he’d been hit by a bullet, such was the shock. He recognised this so-called Canadian. He knew her well. It was Alicia Myles, a Londoner, who used to be his equal in the SRT.

A secret company within the SAS.

Wells’ earlier comment had unearthed old memories that should stay buried deeper than a politician’s expenses history. You were more than the SAS. Why would you want to forget that?

Because of what we did.

Alicia Myles was one of the best soldiers he’d ever seen. Women had to be better than men in the Special Forces to get even half as far. And Alicia had gone right to the top.

What was she doing mixed up in all this, and sounding like the fanatic he knew she certainly was not? Only one thing motivated Alicia — money.

Could that be why she was working for the Canadians?

Drake started crawling towards the room’s real exit. “So, far from getting us taken off the kill list and unmasking our enemies,” he panted, “we’ve now got more enemies, and achieved nothing except to confuse ourselves even further.”

Kennedy, crawling after him, added, “My life… in a Goddamn nutshell.”

SEVEN

Kennedy’s hotel suite was somewhat nicer than the one Drake and Ben had spent a couple of hours in.

“Thought all you cops were broke,” Drake grumbled, as he checked ingress and egress points.

“We are. But when your vacation time is pretty much non-existent for ten years, then I guess your checking account starts stacking up.”

“That a laptop?” Ben had reached it before the rhetorical question was answered. They had found him lurking near the glass pyramid after meandering their way out of the museum, acting like two more frightened tourists, too scared to remember any details.

“Why aren’t we alerting the French to what we know?” Kennedy asked as Ben opened up the laptop.

“Because they’re French,” Drake said with a laugh, then sobered when no one joined in. He perched on the edge of Kennedy’s bed, watching his friend work. “Sorry. The French won’t know anything. Going through this with them now will slow us down. And I think time is the issue. It’s the Swedes we should contact.”

“Know anyone in the Swedish Secret Service?” Kennedy raised an eyebrow at him.

“No. I have a call in to my old Commander though.”

“When did you quit the SAS?”

“You never quit the SAS.” When Ben looked up he added: “Figuratively.”

“Three heads should be better than two.” Ben stared at Kennedy for a second. “That’s if you’re still in?”

A slight nod. Kennedy’s hair fell over her eyes, and she spent a minute tying it back. “I get that there are nine Pieces of Odin, so my first question is why? Second question is — what are they?”

“We were just figuring that out back at the cafe.” Ben was tapping furiously at the keyboard. “There’s a legend, which Mr Crusty here disproves of, that alleges there’s an actual Tomb of the Gods — literally, a place where all the ancient Gods are buried. And it’s not just a dusty old legend either; a number of academics have debated it, and many papers have been published over the years. Problem is,” said Ben rubbing his eyes, “it’s tough reading. Academics aren’t renowned for their prosaic language.”

“Prosaic?” Kennedy echoed with a smile. “You go to college?”

“He’s the lead singer in a band,” Drake shot back, deadpan.

Kennedy raised an eyebrow. “So you have a Tomb of the Gods that never existed. Okay. So what?”

“If it’s ever desecrated the world will drown in fire… etc… etc.”

“I see. And the Nine Pieces?”

“Well, once assembled at Ragnarok, they point the way to the tomb.”

“Where’s Ragnarok?”

Drake kicked at the carpet. “Another red-herring. It’s not a place. It’s actually a series of events, a great battle, the world cleansed by a flood of fire. Natural disasters. Pretty much — Armageddon.”

Kennedy frowned. “So even the hard-assed Vikings feared the apocalypse.”

Looking down, Drake noticed on the floor a recent but very creased copy of USA Today. It had been folded around the headline — ‘FREED SERIAL KILLER CLAIMS TWO MORE.’

Nasty, but not unusual for the front page of a newspaper. The thing that made him snatch a further look, as if his eyes had been burned, was the picture of Kennedy, in her cop’s uniform, within the body of the text. And the smaller headline beside her photo — Cop Can’t Take It — Goes AWOL.

He linked the headlines to the almost empty bottle of vodka on the dresser, the painkillers on the bedside table, the absence of luggage and tourist maps and souvenirs and an itinerary.

Shit.

Kennedy was saying: “So these Germans and Canadians want to find this non-existent tomb for the glory maybe? For the riches it might bring? And to do this they have to assemble Odin’s Nine Pieces in a place that’s not a place. That right?”

Ben pulled a face. “Well, a song’s not a song ‘til it’s been pressed into vinyl’ — as my dad used to say. In English — we still have a lot of work to do.”

“It’s a stretch.”

“This is more like it.” Ben turned the laptop screen around. “Odin’s Nine Pieces are — Eyes, Wolves, Valkyries, Horse, Shield and Spear.”

Drake counted. “That’s only six, kiddo.”

“Two Eyes. Two Wolves. Two Valkyries. Duh.”

“Which one’s in Upsalla?” Drake winked at Kennedy.

Ben scrolled for a while, then said: “It says here that a Spear was thrust through Odin’s side while he hung fasting on the World Tree, revealing all his many secrets to his Volva — his Seeress. Listen to another quote — ‘near the Temple at Upsalla is a very large tree with widespread branches that are always green both in winter and summer. What kind of tree it is nobody knows, for no others like it have ever been found.’ That’s hundreds of years old. The World Tree is — or was — in Upsalla and is central to Norse mythology. It says nine worlds exist around the World Tree. Yada… yada. Oh, another reference — ‘the sacred tree at Upsalla. Odin used to sojourn there a lot, near an immense ash called Ygdrassil, considered holy by the locals. It’s gone now though.’

He read on: ‘Scandinavian chroniclers have long held Gamla Upsalla to be one of the oldest and most important locations in Nordic history.’

“And this is all out there,” Kennedy said. “Where anyone could find it.”

“Well,” Ben said, “it all needs linking together. Don’t underestimate my powers, Miss, I’m good at what I do.”

Drake nodded in appreciation. “He is, believe me. He’s helped me blag my way through a photographic career for the last six months.”

“You have to piece together lots of different poems and historical Sagas. A Saga is a Viking poem of high adventure. There’s also something called the Poetic Edda, written by descendants of people who knew people, who knew the chroniclers of that time. There’s a lot of information.”

“And we know nothing about the Germans. Not to mention the Canadians. Or why Alicia Myles is—” Drake’s mobile started to ring. “Sorry… yes?”

“Me.”

“Hello, Wells.”

“Sit down for this, Drake.” Wells had taken a breath. “The SGG — the Swedish Special Forces, and elements of the Swedish army have been recalled from all over the world.”

Drake was momentarily speechless. “You’re kidding?”

“I don’t joke about work, Drake. Only women.”

“Has that ever happened before?”

“Not that I recall.”

“Do they give a reason?”

“Usual bollocks, I’m afraid. Nothing definitive.”

“Anything else?”

There was a sigh. “Drake, you really owe me some Mai-time stories here, pal. Is Ben still there?”

“Yes, and do you remember Alicia Myles?”

“Jesus. Who wouldn’t? She with you?”

“As a matter of fact, no. I just came across her in the Louvre, about an hour ago.”

Ten seconds of silence, then: “She was part of that? Impossible. She would never betray her own.”

“We were never ‘her own’, or so it seems.”

“Listen, Drake, are you saying she helped rob the museum?”

“That I am, sir. That I am.” Drake walked to the window and stared at the car-lights whipping by below. “Hard to digest isn’t it? Maybe she has made money her new vocation.”

Behind him he could hear Ben and Kennedy making notes about well-known and unknown locations of the Nine Pieces of Odin.

Wells was breathing heavily. “Alicia fucking Myles! Riding with the enemy? No way. No way, Drake.”

“I saw her face, sir. It was her.”

“Jesus on a sidecar. What’s your plan?”

Drake closed his eyes and shook his head. “I’m not part of the team anymore, Wells. I don’t have a plan, dammit. I shouldn’t need to have a plan.”

“I know. I’ll assemble a team, pal, and start looking into it from this end. The way things are progressing, we might want to make some big strategies. Keep in touch.”

The line went dead. Drake turned. Both Ben and Kennedy were staring at him. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not cracking up. What have you got?”

Kennedy used a spoon to whack a few sheets of paper she’d covered in cop shorthand. “Spear — Upsalla. Wolves — New York. After that, not a spiffing clue.”

“We don’t all talk like we were born with silver spoons up our arses,” Drake snapped before he could stop himself. “Okay, okay. We can only deal with what we know.”

Kennedy gave him an odd smile. “I like your style.”

“What we know—” Ben repeated, “is that Upsalla’s next.”

“The question is—” Drake muttered, “can my Gold Card handle it?”

EIGHT

During the flight to Stockholm, Drake decided to take advantage of Kennedy.

Following a series of furious hand-signals between Drake and Ben, the New York cop ended up sitting by the window, with Drake next to her. Less chance of escape that way.

“So,” he said as the plane finally levelled off and Ben flipped open Kennedy’s laptop. “I’m picking up a vibe. I’m not being nosey, Kennedy, I just have a rule. I need to know about the people I work with.”

“I should’ve known… always a price to pay for the window seat, eh? Tell me first, how’d that vibe work with Alicia Myles?”

“Reasonably well,” Drake admitted.

“Can it. Whaddya wanna know?”

“If it’s a personal problem — not a damn thing. If it’s work — a short synopsis.”

“And if it’s both?”

“Shit. I don’t want to pry, I really don’t, but I have to put Ben first. I promised him we’d survive this, and I’d say the same to you. We have a kill order against us. One thing you’re not is stupid, Kennedy, so you know I need to be able to trust you to work with me on this.”

A flight attendant leaned over, offering a paper cup that read ‘We proudly brew Starbucks Coffee’.

“Caffeine.” Kennedy accepted it with apparent glee. She reached out, brushing Drake’s cheek in the process. He noticed she was wearing the third nondescript pant-suit since he’d met her. It told him she was a woman who received attention for the wrong reasons; a woman dressing down to fit in where she seriously wanted to belong.

Drake snagged one for himself. Kennedy drank for a minute, then slipped a strand of hair behind her ear with a gentle gesture that Drake found himself drawn to. Then she turned to him.

“None of your damn business really, but I… I bagged a dirty cop. A forensic scientist. Caught him pocketing a fistful of dollars at a crime scene, and told I.A. about it. Ended up he got a stretch. A few years.”

“Nothing wrong with that. His colleagues giving you shit?”

“Man, shit, I can take. I’ve been taking it since I was five. What isn’t right, what fucks with my brain like a fucking power drill, is the reality you don’t think about — that every single one of this thieving bastard’s previous cases is then brought into question. Every. Single. One.”

“Officially? By who?”

“By shit-eating lawyers. By shit-eating politicians. By future Mayors. By fame-seeking publicity nuts, too blinded by their own ignorance to tell right from wrong. By bureaucrats.”

“Not your fault.”

“Oh, yeah! Tell that to the families of the worst serial killer New York State has ever known. Tell that to thirteen mothers and thirteen fathers, all knowing every terrible detail of how Thomas Kaleb killed their little girls, because they sat through his entire trial at court.”

Drake clenched his fists in anger. “They’re going to release this guy?”

Kennedy’s eyes were dead pits. “They released him two months ago. He’s killed again since, and has now disappeared.”

“No.”

“All on me.”

“No it’s not. It’s on the system.”

“I am the system. I work for the system. It is my life.”

“So they sent you on holiday?”

Kennedy wiped her eyes. “Forced leave. My mind isn’t… what it was. The job requires clarity every minute of every day. A clarity I just can’t achieve anymore.”

She turned her abrasive attitude up full. “So? You happy now? Can you work with me now?”

But Drake didn’t respond. He knew her pain.

They heard the captain’s voice explain that they were thirty minutes from their destination.

Ben said: “Crazy. I just read that Odin’s Valkyries are part of a private collection, whereabouts unknown.” He broke out a notebook. “I’m gonna start writing all this shit down.”

Drake barely heard any of it. Kennedy’s story was tragic, and not what he needed to hear. He buried his reservations, and didn’t hesitate to cover her shaking hand with his own.

“We need your help on this,” he whispered so Ben wouldn’t hear and quiz him later. “I do. A good back-up is essential in any operation.”

Kennedy couldn’t speak, but her brief smile spoke volumes.

A plane change and a fast train later, and they were nearing Upsalla. Drake attempted to shrug off the travel weariness fogging his brain.

Outside, a late afternoon chill brought him around. They waved down a taxi and climbed in. Ben broke the fog of fatigue by saying:

“Gamla Upsalla.That’s old Upsalla. This place—” he indicated Upsalla in general, “was built after a cathedral burned down in Gamla Upsalla a long time ago. This is, essentially — new Upsalla, though it’s hundreds of years old.”

“Wow,” Kennedy drawled. “How old does that make old Upsalla?”

“Exactly.”

The taxi hadn’t moved. The driver now turned half around. “Mounds?”

“’S’cuse me?” Kennedy sounded aggrieved.

“See the mounds? The Royal mounds?” The halting English didn’t help.

“Yes.” Ben nodded. “The Royal burial mounds. It’s in the right area.”

They ended up taking a mini tour of Upsalla. Playing tourist, Drake couldn’t really contend with the circuitous route. And on the bright side, the Saab was comfy, and the city impressive. Upsalla was a university city these days, and the roads were crammed with bikes. At one point their chatty, but hard to decipher, driver explained that a bicycle wouldn’t stop for you on the road. It would plough you down without thought.

“Accidents.” He waved his hands at flowers adorning the pavements. “Many accidents.”

Old buildings passed by on either side. Eventually the city relented, and some countryside started to creep into the landscape.

“Okay, so Gamla Upsalla is now a small village, but was a big thing back in the early ADs,” Ben said from memory. “Important Kings were buried there. And Odin lived there for a time.”

“It’s where he hung himself,” Drake recalled the legend.

“Yes. He sacrificed himself on the World Tree whilst his Seeress looked on, and listened to every secret he’d ever kept. She must have meant a lot to him.” He frowned, thinking: “They must have been incredibly close.”

“It all sounds like a Christian confessional,” Drake ventured.

“But Odin didn’t die here?” Kennedy asked.

“No. He died at Ragnarok, along with his sons — Thor and Freyr.”

The taxi swung around a wide parking area before stopping. To the right, a well-worn dirt path led off through sparse trees. “To the mounds,” their driver said.

They thanked him, and exited the Saab into bright sunlight and a crisp breeze. Drake’s idea was to reconnoitre the immediate area and the village itself to see if anything jumped out of the woodwork. After all, with so many international arseholes applying their well-stroked egos to what could only be described as a global free-for-all, something should stand out.

Beyond the trees the landscape became an expanse of open field, interrupted only by dozens of small hillocks and three large mounds that lay dead ahead. Beyond this, in the distance, they spied a pale-coloured roof and another building to its right, which marked the start of the village.

Kennedy paused. “No trees anywhere, guys.”

Ben was engrossed in his notebook. “They’re not gonna hang a sign out now are they?”

“You have an idea?” Drake watched the wide open fields for any signs of activity.

“I remember reading there were up to three thousand burial mounds here once. Today, there’s a few hundred. Do you know what that means?”

“They didn’t build ‘em very well?” Kennedy smiled. Drake noted with relief that she seemed fully focused on the job at hand.

“Lots of underground activity in ancient days. And then these three ‘royal’ mounds. In the nineteenth century they were named after three legendary Kings of the House of Yngling — Aun, Adil and Egil — one of Scandinavia’s most renowned royal families. But—” he paused, enjoying himself, “it also claims that the earliest mythology and folklore had the mounds already there — and that they were ancient tributes to the earliest — original — three Kings — or Gods, as we would know them now. That’s Freyr, Thor and Odin.”

“Random input here,” Kennedy said. “But have you noticed how many references to biblical stories we keep getting from all these ancient stories.”

“They’re Sagas.” Ben corrected her. “Poems. Academic scribblings. Something that might be important — attached to the mounds are dozens of references to the Swedish word falla, and manga fallor — not sure what that means. And, Kennedy, didn’t I read somewhere that Christ’s story was very similar to one involving Zeus?”

Drake nodded. “And the Egyptian God, Horus, was another forerunner. Both were Gods that supposedly never existed.” Drake nodded towards the three royal mounds standing prominent against the flat landscape. “Freyr, Thor and Odin, eh? So who’s who then, Blakey? Eh?”

“Not a clue, mate.”

“Worry not, munchkin. We can torture the information out of those villagers if need be.”

They proceeded past the burial mounds, playing the part of three weary tourists for the benefit of watching eyes. The sun beat down hard on their heads and Drake saw Kennedy break her sunglasses out.

He shook his head. Americans.

Then Ben’s phone rang. Kennedy shook her head, already bemused by the frequency of family contact. Drake just grinned.

“Karin,” Ben said happily. “How’s my big sister?”

Kennedy tapped Drake on the shoulder. “Lead singer in a band?” she inquired.

Drake shrugged. “Heart of gold, that’s all. He’d put himself out to do anything for you without complaint. How many friends or colleagues have you got like that?”

The village of Gamla Upsalla was picturesque and clean, a few streets of land-locked, high-roofed buildings, all hundreds of years old, well-preserved and sparsely populated. The occasional villager regarded them with curiosity.

Drake headed for the church. “Local vicars are always helpful.”

As they approached the porch, an old man wearing ecclesiastic robes all but ran them down. He paused in surprise.

“Hej. Kan jag hjalpa dig?”

“Not sure about that, mate.” Drake gave his best smile. “But which one of them mounds over there belongs to Odin?”

“English?” The priest spoke the world well, but struggled to understand. “Vad? What? Odin?”

Ben stepped forward and drew the vicar’s attention to the royal mounds. “Odin?”

“See.” The old man nodded. “Yes. Umm. Storsta…” He struggled to find the word. “Big.”

“The biggest?” Ben held his hands wide apart.

Drake smiled at him, impressed.

“Figures.” Kennedy started to turn away, but Ben had one last question.

“Falla?” He mouthed wonderingly at the vicar, and exaggerated a shrug. “Or manga fallor?”

It took a while, but the answer when it came, chilled Drake to the bone.

“Traps… many traps.”

NINE

Drake followed Ben and Kennedy towards the largest of the royal mounds, making a play of adjusting the straps on his backpack so that he could calmly survey the area. The only cover was about a mile beyond the smallest barrow, and for a second he thought he saw movement there. Quick movement. But further scrutiny revealed nothing more.

They paused at the foot of Odin’s barrow. Ben took a breath. “Last one to the top’s gonna get some shit on my Facebook page!” he cried out, setting off in a hurry. Drake followed more serenely, and smiled at Kennedy walking just that little bit faster than him.

Underneath, he started to grow more and more agitated. This did not sit well with him. They were hopelessly exposed. Any number of high-powered rifles could be tracking them, crosshairs steady, just awaiting the order. The wind whistled loudly and snapped at his ears, increasing his sense of exposure.

It took about twenty minutes to gain the top of the grassy knoll. When Drake reached it, Ben was already sitting down in the grass.

“Where’s the picnic hamper, Crusty?”

“Left it on your buggy.” He looked around. Up here, the view was breathtaking, endless green rolling fields, hills and streams everywhere, and purple mountains in the distance. They could see the village of Gamla Upsalla spreading out to the city boundaries of new Upsalla.

Kennedy stated the obvious. “So I’m just gonna say something that’s been bothering me for a while. If this is Odin’s mound, and it hides the World Tree — which would be a killer discovery — why hasn’t anyone found it before? Why would we find it now?”

“That one’s easy.” Ben was tying back his unruly locks. “No one has thought to look before. Until the Shield was discovered a month ago, this was all a dusty legend. Myth. And it wasn’t easy connecting the Spear to the World Tree — now called Yggdrasil almost universally — and then to Odin’s brief nine days there.”

“And—” Drake interjected, “this tree ain’t gonna be easy to find, if it exists. They won’t have wanted any old bastard stumbling on to it.”

Now Drake’s mobile started to ring. He glanced at Ben in mock seriousness as he picked it out of his backpack. “Jesus. I’m starting to feel like you.”

“Wells?”

“Ten man team at your disposal. Just say the word.”

Drake swallowed his surprise. “Ten man. That’s a big team.” A ten man SAS team could take out the President in his oval office, and still find time to star in the new Lady Gaga video before heading home for tea.

“Big stakes, so I hear. This thing’s escalating by the hour.”

“It is?”

“Governments never change, Drake. Slow to start, and then eager to bulldoze their way in, but scared to finish. If it’s any consolation though, it’s not the biggest thing going on in the world at the moment.”

Wells’ statement was designed to be tackled like a lion tackles a zebra and Drake didn’t disappoint. “Like what?”

“The boffins at NASA just confirmed the existence of a new super-volcano. And…” Wells actually sounded apprehensive, “it’s active.”

“What?”

“Slightly active. Slightly. But, think, the first thing you imagine when you mention a super-volcano is—”

“- the end of the planet,” Drake finished, his throat suddenly dry. The coincidence was that Drake had now heard that phrase twice in as many days. He watched Ben and Kennedy tracing the mound’s circumference, kicking grass, and felt a deep-rooted fear like nothing he’d ever experienced.

“Where is it?” he asked.

Wells laughed. “Not far, Drake. Near where they found that Shield of yours. It’s in Iceland.”

Drake was about to bite for the second time, when Ben shouted, “Found something!” in a high-pitched voice that showed his naivety, as it travelled far and wide.

“Gotta go.” Drake raced over to Ben, casting about as best he could. Kennedy was also looking around, but the only activity they could see was in the village.

“Keep it down, mate. Whatcha got?”

“These.” Ben dropped to his knees, and brushed away tangles of grass to reveal a stone slab about the size of an A4 piece of paper. “They line the entire perimeter of the mound, every few feet, in rows from the top to about halfway down. Must be hundreds of them.”

Drake peered closer. The stone’s face was badly weathered, but had been partially protected by the over-growing grass. Its surface bore some kind of marking.

“Runic inscriptions I think they’re called,” Ben said. “Viking symbols.”

“How the hell do you know?”

He grinned. “On the plane I checked out the shield’s markings. These are similar. Just ask Google.”

“Kid says there are hundreds,” Kennedy drawled, looking around the steep, grassy hillside. “So what? Doesn’t help.”

“Kid says it might do,” Ben said. “We need to find the runes associated with what we are seeking. The rune for spear. The rune for tree. And the rune for — “

“Odin,” Kennedy finished.

Drake had an idea. “I’m betting we can use line of sight. We all need to see each other to know it’s worked, right?”

“Soldier’s logic,” Kennedy laughed. “But worth a try, I guess.”

Drake was itching to ask her about ‘cop’s logic but time was slipping away. Other factions were coming and surprisingly absent, even now. They all started kicking the grass from each stone, scurrying around the green knoll. At first it was a thankless task. Drake made out symbols that looked like shields, crossbows, a donkey, a longboat, then — a spear!

“Got one.” His low pitched voice carried to the other two, and no further. He sat down with his back-pack and organized the supplies they’d bought during their taxi ride through Upsalla. Torches, a big flashlight, matches, water, a couple of knives he’d told Ben were for clearing debris. He’d received an I’m not that bloody gullible look, but their need was more imperative than Ben’s unease right now.

“Tree.” Kennedy fell to her knees, scraping at the stone.

It took Ben ten more stressful minutes to find something. He paused, then retraced his recent steps. “Remember what I said about how Tolkien based Gandalf on Odin?” He tapped the stone with his foot. “Well, that’s Gandalf. Even has a staff. Hey!”

Drake watched him carefully. He had heard a grinding sound, like heavy shutters rasping open.

“Did you cause that by stepping on the stone?” He asked carefully.

“Think so.”

They all looked at each other, expressions flickering from excitement, to worry, to fear, and then, as one, they stepped forward.

Drake’s stone gave slightly. He heard that same grinding sound. The earth in front of the stone sank, and then the depression ran away around the mound like a turbo-charged snake.

Ben shouted: “There’s something here.”

Drake and Kennedy tracked around the sunken earth to where he stood. He was crouching down, peering into a crack in the ground. “Some kind of tunnel.”

Drake brandished a torch. “Time to grow a pair, people,” he said. “Follow me.”

The moment they were out of sight, two radically different forces started to mobilise. The Germans, content until now to lay low in the sleepy town of Gamla Upsalla, geared up and started to follow in Drake’s footsteps.

The other force, a contingent of troops from the Swedish Army’s Elite Forces — the Sarskilda Skyddsgrupen or SSG — continued to watch the Germans, and discussed the odd complication proposed by the three civilians who had just descended into the pit.

They would need to be fully debriefed. By any means necessary.

That is, if they survived what was about to come.

TEN

Drake stooped. The dark passageway had started as a crawl-hole, and was now less than six feet high. The ceiling was rock and dirt, and riddled with big, dangling loops of over-growing grass they had to chop out of the way.

Like tackling a jungle, Drake mused. Only underground.

Some of the tougher vines, he noticed, had already been hacked apart. A shaft of unease ran through him.

They came to a section where the roots were so dense they were forced to crawl again. The going was tough and filthy, but Drake put elbow before elbow, knee before knee, and encouraged the others to follow. When, at one point, even persuasion failed for Ben, Drake turned to bullying.

“At least the temperature’s dropping,” Kennedy muttered. “We must be going down.”

Drake resisted the standard soldierly reply, his eye suddenly caught by something revealed in the light of his torch.

“Look at that.”

Runes, carved into the wall. Odd symbols that reminded Drake of those that decorated Odin’s Shield. Ben’s choked voice echoed up the passage.

“Nordic runes. Good omen.”

Drake shone his light away from them with regret. If only they could read them. The SAS, he thought briefly, would have better resources. Maybe it was time to bring them in.

Another fifty feet, and the sweat poured off him. He could hear Kennedy breathing heavily and cursing that she’d worn her best pant-suit. He heard nothing from Ben at all.

“You ok, Ben? Got your hair tangled on a root?”

“Ha bloody ha. Keep going, you tosser.”

Drake continued crawling through the dirt. “One thing that worries me,” he panted between breaths, “is that ‘many traps’ thing. The Egyptians used to build traps, elaborate ones, to protect their treasures. Why not the Norsemen?”

“Can’t imagine a Viking thinking too hard over a trap,” Kennedy puffed back.

“Dunno,” Ben shouted along the line. “But the Vikings had great thinkers too, you know. Just like the Greeks and the Romans. They weren’t all barbarians.”

A few turns, and the passage started to widen. Another ten feet, and the roof vanished above them. At this point they stretched and took a breather. Drake’s torch picked out the passageway ahead. When he shone it on Kennedy and Ben he laughed.

“Shit, you two look like you’ve just risen from the grave!”

“And I guess you’re used to this crap?” Kennedy waved an arm. “Being SAS and all?”

Not SAS, Drake couldn’t shake the poisoned words. “Used to be.” He said, and walked ahead more quickly now.

Another abrupt turn and Drake felt a breeze on his face. A sense of vertigo hit him like an unexpected clap of thunder, and it was a second before he realised he was standing on a ledge, a cavernous drop below him.

An unbelievable sight greeted his eyes.

He stopped so suddenly that both Kennedy and Ben walked into him. Then, they too, beheld the sight.

“OMFG.” Ben spelled out the title of the Wall of Sleep’s signature track.

The World Tree stood before them in all its glory. It never had been above ground. The tree was inverted, its solid roots delved into the mountain of earth above them, held fast by age and surrounding rock formations, its branches golden brown, its leaves a perennial green, its trunk stretching a hundred feet down into the depths of a gargantuan pit.

Their path became a narrow staircase, cut into the rock walls.

“Traps,” Ben breathed. “Don’t forget the traps.”

“Screw the traps,” Kennedy voiced Drake’s very thought. “Where’s Goddamn light coming from?”

Ben looked from side to side. “It’s orange.”

“Glow sticks,” Drake said. “Christ. This place has been prepped.”

In his SAS days they would send men in to prepare an area such as this; a team to assess the danger and neutralize or catalogue it before returning to base.

“We don’t have long,” he said. His faith in Kennedy had just risen. “Come on.”

They descended worn and crumbling steps, the sudden drop always to their right. Ten feet down, and the staircase started to slope sharply. Drake stopped as a three foot gap opened up. Nothing spectacular, but enough to give him pause — because the yawning drop below became all the more apparent.

“Shit.”

He jumped. The rock staircase was about three foot wide, easy at play, terrifying when any misstep meant certain death.

He landed true and turned immediately, sensing Ben would be on the verge of tears. “Don’t worry,” he ignored Kennedy and concentrated on his friend. “Trust me, Ben. Ben. I will catch you.”

He saw the faith in Ben’s eyes. The absolute, child-like trust. It was time to earn it again, and when Ben jumped, then tottered, Drake steadied him with a hand on the elbow.

Drake winked. “Easy, eh?”

Kennedy jumped. Drake watched closely whilst pretending not to. She landed with no problem, saw his concern and frowned.

“It’s three feet, Drake. Not the Grand Canyon.”

Drake winked at Ben. “Ready, mate?”

Twenty feet more and the next gap in the staircase was wider — this time thirty feet, and spanned by a thick wooden plank that rocked as Drake walked it. Kennedy followed, and then poor Ben, compelled by Drake to keep his eyes up, to look ahead and not down, to study his destination and not his feet. The young man was shaking by the time he reached solid ground, and Drake demanded a brief break.

As they paused, Drake saw that the World Tree had spread so wide here that its thick limbs almost touched the staircase. Ben reached out reverently to stroke a limb that shivered at his touch.

“This is… this is mind-boggling,” he breathed.

Kennedy used the time to retie her hair and study the entrance above them. “So far, all clear.” she said. “I gotta say, on current form it sure as hell ain’t the Germans who prepped this place. They woulda ransacked it and burned it to the ground with flame-throwers.”

A few more gaps and they had descended fifty feet, almost halfway. Drake finally allowed himself to think that the old Vikings weren’t the equal of the Egyptians after all, and gaps were the best they could do, when he stepped on a rock stair that was in fact a cleverly fashioned section of hemp and twine and pigment. He fell, saw the endless drop, and caught himself by the fingertips.

Kennedy hauled him up. “Ass swaying in the breeze, SAS man?”

He scrambled back on to solid ground and flexed his bruised fingers. “Thanks.”

They proceeded more carefully, now more than halfway down. Beyond the empty expanse to their right the massive tree stood in perpetuity, untouched by breeze and sunlight, a forgotten wonder of olden days.

They passed more and more Viking symbols. Ben guessed the odd one. “It’s like a primordial wall of graffiti,” he said. “People just carving their names and leaving messages — early versions of ‘John was ‘ere!’”

“The cavern’s makers, maybe,” Kennedy said.

Drake tested another step, clinging to the cold rock-wall, and a deep grinding roar echoed across the cavern. A river of rubble fell from above.

“Run!” Drake cried. “Now!”

They pelted down the staircase, heedless of other traps. A gigantic boulder fell from above with a mighty roar, chipping off more ancient stones as it clattered down. Drake covered Ben’s body with his own as the boulder smashed through the staircase where they had stood, taking about twenty feet of precious steps with it.

Kennedy flicked stone chips off her shoulder, and regarded Drake with a dry smile. “Thanks.”

“Hey, I knew the woman who saved the SAS guy’s ass could outrun a mere boulder.”

“Funny, man. So funny.”

But it wasn’t over yet. There was a sharp twang and a thin but solid length of twine snapped across the step that separated Ben and Kennedy.

“Fuuuck!” Kennedy shouted. The length of twine had shot out with so much force it could easily have separated her ankle from the rest of her body.

Another snap two steps further down. Drake danced in place. “Shit!”

Another roar from above signified the next falling rock.

“It’s a replicating trap,” Ben told them. “Same thing keeps happening over and over. We need to get below this section.”

Drake couldn’t tell which steps were snared and which ones weren’t, so he trusted to luck and speed. They ran headlong down about thirty steps, trying to stay airborne as much as possible. The sides of the staircase crumbled as they traversed the ancient pathway, scathing away into the depths of the rocky cavern.

The sound of rubble hitting the bottom began to grow louder.

The snapping of hard twine followed their flight.

Drake stepped on another false stair, but his momentum took him over the short void. Kennedy leapt it and him, graceful as a gazelle in full flight, but Ben tumbled in her wake, now rolling into the gap.

“Legs!” Drake shouted, then fell backward across the void, becoming the ground. Relief washed tension from his brain when Kennedy pinned his legs into place. He felt Ben hit his body, then tumble across his chest. Drake guided the kid’s momentum with his arms, then gave him an extra push onto solid ground.

Sat up quick, crunch style.

“Keep going!”

The air was filled with bits of rock. One glanced off Kennedy’s head, leaving a cut and a gush of blood. Another struck Drake’s ankle. The agony made him grit his teeth, and spurred him to run faster.

Bullets raked the wall above their heads. Drake ducked, and took a momentary look up at the entrance.

Saw a familiar force gathered there. The Germans.

They ran at full pace now, beyond reckless. Drake took precious seconds to fall to the rear. When another salvo of bullets pitted the stone next to his head he dived forward, bouncing down the steps, rolling full circle with his arms tucked in, and coming back up to full height without losing an ounce of momentum.

Ah, the good old days were back.

More bullets. Then the others collapsed in front of him. Horror sheared a hole through his heart until he realised they’d simply hit the bottom of the cavern at a dead run and, unprepared, had ran themselves right into the ground.

Drake slowed. The bottom of the cavern was a thick mess of stone and dust and tree-debris. When they rose, Kennedy and Ben were a sight to behold. Not only covered in dirt and mud, but now with extra baked-on dust and leafy mould.

“Ah, for my trusty camera,” he intoned. “Years of blackmail stands before me.”

Drake picked up a glow stick and hugged the curve of the cavern that ran away from the gunmen. It took five minutes to walk the outer limits of the tree. They were constantly overshadowed by its imposing stillness.

Drake clapped Ben on the shoulder. “Better than any Friday night groupie sesh, eh mate?”

Kennedy glanced at the young lad with new eyes. “You have groupies? Your band has groupies? That’s a conversation we’re gonna have real soon, bro. Believe it.”

“Only two—” Ben began to stammer as they rounded a portion of the final curve, and then clammed up in shock.

They all stopped.

Ancient dreams of amazement stood before them, rendering them speechless, practically brain-dead for about half a minute.

“Now that’s… that’s…”

“Gobsmacking, ” Drake breathed.

A row of the biggest Viking longboats they’d ever imagined stretched away from them, single file, resting end to end, as if stuck in the middle of an archaic traffic jam. Their sides were adorned with silver and gold, their sails festooned with silk and jewels.

“Longboats,” Kennedy said dumbly.

“Long-ships.” Ben still had wits enough to correct her. “Damn, these things were considered great treasures of their time. There must be… what? Twenty here?”

“Pretty awesome,” Drake said. “But it’s the Spear we came for. Any ideas?”

Ben was now staring at the World Tree. “Jesus, guys. Can you imagine? Odin hung in that tree. Fuckin’ Odin.”

“So now you believe in Gods, hmm? Groupie-boy?” Kennedy sidled next to Ben a little saucily, making him blush.

Drake climbed onto a narrow ledge that ran the length of the long-ship tailback. The rock felt sturdy. He gripped a timber edge and leaned over. “These things are filled with loot. Safe to say, no one’s ever been here before today.”

He studied the line of ships again. A display of unimaginable riches, but where was the real treasure? At the end? The end of the rainbow? The sides of the cavern were adorned with ancient drawings. He saw a depiction of Odin hanging on the World Tree, a woman kneeling before him.

“What does this say?” He beckoned Ben over. “C’mon, hurry. Those dodgy bastards aren’t jamming Bratwurst down their throats up there. Let’s move.”

He indicated a rough swirl of text underneath the woman’s supplicating figure. Ben shook his head. “But technology will find a way. “ He took a snap with his trusty I-phone, which, thankfully, had proved to be out of signal down here.

Drake took a moment to include Kennedy. “My only idea is to follow these longboats,” he said. “You okay with that?”

“Like the cheerleader said to the football team — I’m game, boys. Lead the way.”

He forged ahead, aware that if this super-tunnel came to a dead end they would be trapped. The Germans would be hard on their tail, not sat resting on their laurels. Drake compartmentalised the thought, focusing on the ledge that had been hewn into the rock. Every so often they came across another glow stick. Drake masked them or moved them to create a more shadowy environment, preparing for the struggle ahead. He searched constantly among the long-ships, and finally made out a tight path meandering between them.

Plan B.

Two, four, and then ten long-ships went past. Drake’s feet started to ache with the effort of negotiating the narrow path.

The faint noise of a tumbling boulder, and then a louder scream echoed through the gargantuan cavern, its meaning obvious. Without a sound they bent even harder to their task.

Drake came at last to the end of the row. He’d counted twenty-three ships, every one pristine and laden with loot. As they approached the back of the tunnel darkness started to encroach.

“Guess they never got this far.” Kennedy remarked.

Drake rummaged for the big flashlight. “Risky,” he said. “But we need to know.”

He clicked it on and swept the beam from side to side. The passageway narrowed drastically, until it became a simple archway up ahead.

And beyond the archway lay a single set of stairs.

Ben suddenly stifled a scream, then stage-whispered: “They’re on the ledge!”

This was it. Drake took action. “We split up,” he said. “I’ll go for the stairs. You two get down there among the ships and head back the way we came.”

Kennedy started to protest, but Drake shook his head. “No. Do it. Ben needs protection, I don’t. And we need the Spear.”

“And when we reach the end of the ships?”

“I’ll be back by then.”

Drake sprang away without another word, leaping off the ledge and making for the blind staircase. He looked back once and saw shadows advancing along the ledge. Ben was following Kennedy down the rubble-strewn slope to the base of the last Viking ship. Drake sent a prayer of hope and hit the stairs at a dead run, taking them two at a time.

Come on. He climbed until his calves ached and his lungs burned. But then he came out onto a wide landing. Beyond that lay a wide stream, rushing madly, and still further away stood a raised altar of rough hewn rock, almost like an archaic barbecue.

But it was the massive symbol engraved into the wall behind the altar that caught Drake’s attention. Three triangles, overlaying one another. Some mineral within the carvings caught the artificial light and gleamed like sequins on a black dress.

No time to lose. He waded across the stream, sucking in air when the freezing water rose to his thighs. As he approached the altar, he saw an object resting on its surface. A short, pointed artefact, not astonishing or impressive. Actually mundane…

… the Spear of Odin.

The object that had pierced the side of a God.

A surge of excitement and apprehension passed through him. This was the event that made it all real. Up to now it had been a bunch of maybes, just clever speculation. But beyond this moment it was frighteningly real.

Horrifyingly real. They were facing a countdown to the end of the world.

ELEVEN

Drake didn’t stand on ceremony. He grabbed the Spear and headed back the way he’d come. Through the freezing stream, down the crumbling stairs. He switched the flashlight off half-way, and slowed as utter darkness enveloped him.

Faint beams of light swept the entrance below.

He kept going. It wasn’t over yet. He’d long since learned that, more often than not, the man who thought overlong in combat was the man who never made it home.

He stopped dead on the last step, then crept into the passageway’s deeper darkness. The Germans were close now, almost at the end of the ledge, but their flashlights would only pick him out as another shadow at this range. He skipped across the passage, hugged the wall, and started for the slope that led to the base of the Viking ships.

A man’s voice snapped: “See that! Look sharp, Stevie Wonder!” The voice surprised him, carrying the deep twang of the American South.

Dammit. The eagle-eyed bastard had seen him — or at least a moving shadow — something he wouldn’t have thought possible in this gloom. He ran faster. A shot rang out, striking rock close to where he’d just been.

A shadowy figure leaned out over the ledge — probably the American. “There’s a path down there among the ships. Get your dicks movin’ ‘fore I stick ‘em down your lazy throats.”

Damn. The Yank had seen the hidden path.

Harsh, arrogant, superior. One of the Germans said: “Fuck you, Milo,” and then squeaked as he was manhandled bodily down the slope.

Drake thanked his lucky stars. He was on the man in a second, smashing his vocal chords and twisting his neck with an audible crack before anyone else could follow.

Drake raised the German’s gun — a Heckler and Koch MG4 — and fired a few rounds. One man’s head exploded.

Ah, yes, he thought. Still better at shooting a gun than a camera.

“Canadians!” was the concurring series of hisses.

Drake smiled at the furious whispers. Let them think that.

Without any more dalliance he sprinted along the path as fast as he dared. Ben and Kennedy were ahead, and needed his protection. He’d sworn to get them out of this alive, and he wouldn’t let them down.

At his back, the Germans were proceeding down the slope with caution. He fired off a few rounds to keep them busy, and started counting ships.

Four, six, eleven.

The pathway grew precarious, but finally levelled out. At one point it thinned so drastically that anyone over fifteen stone would probably break a rib squeezing between timbers, but it widened again as he counted the sixteenth ship.

The vessels loomed above him, ancient, intimidating, smelling of old bark and mould. A fleeting movement caught his attention and he glanced left to see a figure that could only be this new guy Milo sprinting back along the narrow ledge which most humans could barely walk along. Drake didn’t even have time to fire — the American was moving so fast.

Damn! Why’d he have to be so good? The only other person Drake knew — apart from himself — who could perform such a feat was Alicia Myles.

Landed myself in the middle of an approaching Gladiator competition here…

He leapt forward, past the ships now, using his momentum to bounce from step to step, almost free-running from random mounds to deep clefts, and angle-jumping off the sandy walls. Even using the ships’ flexible timbers to gain momentum between jumps.

“Wait!”

The disembodied voice floated from ahead. He paused, seeing Kennedy’s vague shape, relieved to hear that American drawl. “Follow me,” he cried, knowing he couldn’t let Milo beat him to the end of the passage. They could be pinned down for hours.

He broke past the final ship at a break-neck run, Ben and Kennedy lagging in his wake, just as Milo leapt off the ledge and cut past the front of the very same ship. Drake tackled him around the waist, making sure he landed heavily on his sternum.

He wasted a second flinging the gun towards Kennedy.

Whilst the gun was still in mid-flight, Milo scissor-kicked and twisted loose, flipped over onto his hands, and was up abruptly facing him.

He snarled: “Matt Drake, the one and only. Been lookin’ forward to this, pal.”

He struck with elbows and fists. Drake caught multiple blows on his arms, wincing as he backed up. This guy knew him, but who the hell was he? An old faceless enemy? A shadow-ghost from a dark SAS past? Milo was in close and happy to stay there. Drake’s peripheral vision noted the knife at the American’s waistband, just waiting for a distraction.

He caught a vicious kick on his own instep.

Behind him he could hear the first clumsy movements of the advancing German force. They were just a few ships back.

Ben and Kennedy watched in amazement. Kennedy had the machine-gun raised.

Drake feinted one way, then twisted the other, spinning away from Milo’s vicious leg-breaker. Kennedy fired her shot, kicking up dirt an inch from Milo’s foot.

Drake grinned as he moved away, made as if to pet a dog. “Stay,” he said mockingly. “There’s a good boy.”

Kennedy fired another warning shot. Drake turned and ran past them, caught Ben’s arm, and pulled as the young man turned automatically towards the crumbling staircase.

“No!” Drake shouted. “They’ll pick us off one by one.”

Ben looked aghast. “Where else?”

Drake shrugged disarmingly. “Where’d you think?”

He headed straight for the World Tree.

TWELVE

And up they went. Drake had gambled that the World Tree was so old and strong that its limbs would be plentiful and sturdy. Once you accepted you were climbing a tree that was literally upside down, the physics hardly mattered at all.

“Just like being a boy again,” Drake egged Ben on, urging him faster without causing panic. “Shouldn’t be a problem for you, Blakey. You okay, Kennedy?”

The New Yorker climbed last, keeping the gun trained below her. Luckily, the World Tree’s extensive symmetry of branches and leaves concealed their progress.

“I’ve climbed a few stalks in my time,” she said light-heartedly.

Ben laughed. Good sign. Drake thanked Kennedy silently, starting to feel even better about having her along.

Damn, he thought. He’d almost added: on this mission. Back to the old vernacular in less than a week.

Drake climbed from branch to branch, ever upward, sitting or standing astride one branch whilst reaching for the next. The progress was quick, which meant their upper-body strength lasted longer than expected. Even so, about halfway up Drake noticed Ben was flagging.

“Tweenie getting tired?” he asked, and saw an immediate doubling of the effort. Every so often, Kennedy cracked off a bullet down through the branches. Twice, they managed to make out the stone staircase rising beside them, and saw no sign of pursuers.

Voices echoes up to them. “Englishman — Matt Drake.” The ex-SAS soldier heard once, the voice distorted by a thick German accent that his sixth sense told him had to be the man in white. The man he’d seen twice now accepting stolen artefacts.

Another time he heard: “SRT dropout.” The drawl was Milo’s, exposing his past, revealing the unit they kept secret even within the SAS. Who in God’s name was this guy?

Shots splintered the heavy boughs. Drake called a pause to resettle the rucksack with its shifting treasure inside, then spied the wide branch he’d been aiming for. The one that reached almost to the place on the staircase where they’d rested earlier.

“Out there,” he motioned to Ben. “Straddle the branch and move,…fast!”

They would be exposed for about two minutes. Subtracting surprise and reaction time that still left over a minute of extreme danger.

Ben broke cover first, Drake and Kennedy a second after, all bouncing on their hands and haunches along the branch towards the staircase. When they were spotted, Kennedy bought them precious seconds by firing off a fusillade of lead, punching holes through at least one unlucky tomb-raider.

And now they saw that Milo had indeed sent a team running up the staircase. Five men. And the team was fast. They would reach the end of the branch before Ben would!

Shit! They didn’t stand a chance.

Ben saw it too, and faltered. Drake shouted in his ear: “Never give up! Never!”

Kennedy squeezed the trigger again. Two men fell: one flying off into the pit, the other clutching his side and screaming. She squeezed it once more, and then Drake heard the mag run dry.

Two Germans were left, but now stood facing them, weapons ready. Drake set his face hard. They had lost the race.

“Shoot them down!” Milo’s voice echoed up. “We’ll search through the scraps down here.”

“Nein!” The thick German accent rang out again. “Der Spear! Der Spear!”

The gun barrels didn’t waver. One of the Germans taunted: “Crawl, little pigeons. Come here.”

Ben moved slowly. Drake could see his shoulders shaking. “Trust me,” he whispered into his friend’s ear, and coiled every muscle. He would leap just as Ben reached the end of the bough, his only play was to attack and use his skill-set.

“I still have a knife,” Kennedy murmured.

Drake nodded.

Ben reached the end of the bough. The Germans waited calmly.

Drake started to rise.

Then, in a blur, the Germans flew to the side as if hit by a torpedo. Their bodies, ragged and bloody, slammed off the wall and rebounded wetly down into the pit, cart-wheeling.

A few metres above the bough, where the stairs curved, a massive contingent of men stood, bearing heavy arms. One held a still-smoking AK-5 assault rifle in his hands.

“The Swedish,” Drake recognised the armament as that typically used by the Swedish military.

Louder, he said: “About bloody time.”

THIRTEEN

The room they ended up in — a Spartan twelve-by-twelve with a desk and an ice-rimmed window — took Drake back a few years.

“Relax,” he tapped Ben’s white knuckles. “Standard military bunker, this place. I’ve seen worse hotel rooms, mate, believe me.”

“I’ve been in worse apartments.” Kennedy seemed at her ease, the cop training at work.

“Another boyfriend’s?” Drake raised an eyebrow.

“Sure. Why?”

“Oh, nothing.” Drake counted past ten on his fingers, then looked down as if to start using his toes.

Ben managed a thin smile.

“Listen, Ben, I grant you it was hairy at first but you saw that Swedish guy make the calls. We’re good. Anyway, we need to hang out a bit. We’re knackered.”

The door opened, and their host, a well-built Swede with blonde hair and a hard-as-nails gaze that’d make even Shrek turn white, clipped across the concrete floor. When they’d been captured, and Drake had carefully explained who they were and what they were doing, this man had introduced himself as Torsten Dahl, and had then withdrawn to the far side of his chopper to make a few calls.

“Matt Drake,” he said. “Kennedy Moore. And Ben Blake. The Swedish government has no quarrel with you…”

Drake was disturbed by the accent which wasn’t at all Swedish. “You go to one of them shiny-arse schools, Dahl? Eton, or some such?”

“Shiny-arse?”

“Schools that promote their officers through lineage, money, and breeding. Whilst saying fuck you to skills, proficiency, and enthusiasm.”

“I imagine I did.” Dahl’s tone was even.

“Great. Well… if that’s all…”

Dahl held up a hand, whilst Ben gave Drake an aggrieved look. “Stop being a tit, Matt. Just because you’re a coarse Yorkshire peasant doesn’t mean the rest of us are all Royal inbreds, does it?”

Drake blinked at his lodger in shock. Kennedy made a ‘roll with it’ motion. It occurred to him then that Ben had found something in this mission that had truly hooked him and wanted more.

Dahl said: “I’d appreciate a sharing of knowledge, friends. I really would.”

Drake was all for sharing, but knowledge was power as they say, and he was trying to figure a way to enlist the Swedish Government’s help here.

Ben was already warning up to his tale of the Nine Pieces of Odin and the Tomb of the Gods, when Drake interrupted.

“Look,” he said. “Me and the kid here, and now maybe the gronk, are eight-inch headlines on some kind of Kill List…”

“I’m no gronk, you English asshole.” Kennedy half rose to her feet.

“Impressed you know the word.” Drake lowered his eyes. “Sorry. It’s the lingo. It never leaves you.” He flashed back to Alyson’s parting words: you’ll always be SAS.

He studied his hands, still scarred from tussling with Milo and climbing the World Tree, and thought about his quick and true reactions over the last few days.

How right she’d been.

“What’s a gronk?” Ben wondered.

Dahl sat on a hard metal chair and clomped his heavy boots down on the table. “A female who… umm… ‘enjoys the company of servicemen.’” he said, diplomatically.

“My own description would have been a little coarser,” Drake glanced at Ben, then said: “The Kill List. The Germans want us dead for crimes un-committed. How can you help, Dahl?”

The Swede didn’t answer for a while, just stared out the icy window into the snow-blanched landscape and beyond, at crumbling cliffs that stood desolate and alone against a wild ocean.

Kennedy said, “Dahl, I’m a cop. I didn’t know these two until a couple of days ago, but they have good hearts. Trust them.”

Dahl nodded. “Your reputation precedes you, Drake. The good and the bad of it. We will help you, but first—” he nodded at Ben. “Continue.”

Ben ploughed through as if he’d never been interrupted. Drake sneaked a glance at Kennedy, and saw her smile. He looked away, shocked on two counts. First, by Dahl’s reference to his reputation, and second, by Kennedy’s heartfelt endorsement.

Ben finished. Dahl said: “The Germans are a new entity in all this who had not engaged our attentions before that business in York.”

“New?” Drake said. “They’re good. And very well organised; controlled by fear and iron discipline. And they have a major asset in a guy called Milo — American Special Forces at a guess. Check the name.”

“We will. The good news is that we do have intel on the Canadians.”

“Eyes on?”

“Yes, but partial, inexperienced, and alone,” Dahl cast a surreptitious glance towards Kennedy. “The Swedish government’s relationship with your new Obama regime isn’t what I’d call first-rate.”

“Sorry about that,” Kennedy faked a smile, then made a show of looking around. “Look, dude, if we’re gonna be here a while do ya think we might get a little food?”

“Already being prepared by our sous-chef,” Dahl batted her false smile right back. “Seriously though, there’s burgers and chips on the way.”

Drake’s mouth started to water. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten.

“I’ll tell you what I can. The Canadians began life as a secret cult, devoted to the Viking — Eric the Red. Don’t laugh, these things do exist. These people, through cosplay, act out events and battles, and even sea voyages on a regular basis.”

“No real harm there,” Ben sounded a little defensive. Drake stored that wonderful nugget away for later.

“Not at all, Mr Blake. Cosplay is common, enjoyed by many people at conventions everywhere, and becoming more common as the years go by. But the real damage begins when a billionaire businessman becomes the modern-day leader of that cult, and then throws millions of dollars into the ring.”

“So light-hearted fun becomes — “

“Obsession.” Dahl finished as the door opened. Drake moaned as a standard meal of burger and chips was placed before him. The smell of onions was divine to his ravenous belly.

Dahl continued as they tucked in: “A Canadian businessman called Colby Taylor devoted his life to the well-known Viking, Eric the Red, who, as I’m sure you know, landed in Canada shortly after discovering Greenland. From out of this study was born a manic fascination for Nordic mythology. Explorations, digs, discoveries. Endless searching. The man purchased his own library, and tried to buy up every Nordic text in existence.”

“Nut job,” Kennedy said.

“Agreed. But a ‘nut job’ who funds his own ‘security force’- read that as army. And he stays reclusive enough to stay below most people’s radar. His name has come up time and again over the years with regard to the Nine Pieces of Odin so, naturally, Swedish intelligence has always tagged him as a ‘person of interest’.”

“He stole the Horse,” Drake said. “You know that don’t you?”

Dahl’s wide eyes indicated he hadn’t. “We do now.”

“Can’t you get him arrested?” Kennedy asked. “On suspicion of theft or something?”

“Envision him as one of your… gangsters. Your mafia or Triad leaders. He is untouchable — the man at the top — for now.”

Drake liked the implied sentiment. He told Dahl about Alicia Myles’ involvement, and gave Dahl as much background as he was allowed to disclose.

“So,” he said when he’d finished. “Are we helpful, or what?”

“Not bad,” Dahl admitted, as the door opened again, and an older man with a surprisingly thick mane of long hair and a lush beard walked in. To Drake he looked like a modern, aging Viking.

Dahl nodded. “Ahh, I’ve been waiting for you, Prof. May I present Professor Roland Parnevik,” he smiled. “Our expert in Nordic mythology.”

Drake nodded, then saw Ben sizing the new man up like he would a love rival. He understood now why Ben was secretly loving this mission. He patted his young friend on the shoulder.

“Well, our family guy here might not be a Professor, but he sure knows his way around the Web — a kind of modern medicine versus old remedies, eh?”

“Or the best of both worlds,” Kennedy pointed her fork at both parties in question.

The cynical side of Drake calculated that Kennedy Moore might be angling this mission in a way that might save her career. A surprising, softer side enjoyed watching the way the edges of her mouth turned up when she smiled.

Parnevik stumbled into the room clutching an armful of scrolls and balancing several notebooks on top of the pile. He looked around, stared at Dahl as if he couldn’t remember the soldier’s name, then dumped his load on the table.

“It’s in there,” he said, jabbing a finger at one of the scrolls. “That one. The legend is real… like I told you months ago.”

Dahl plucked out the indicated scroll with a flourish. “You’ve been with us a week, Professor. Just a week.”

“Are… are you sure?”

“Oh, I’m sure.” Dahl’s tone conveyed a prodigious amount of patience.

Another soldier walked in the door. “Sir. This one’s mobile,” he nodded towards Ben, “has been ringing incessantly. Hela tiden… umm… non-stop.” The smirk came next. “It’s his mother.”

Ben was up in a second and hitting a speed-dial button. Drake smiled with affection, and Kennedy looked mischievous. “Jeez, I can think of so many ways to corrupt that boy.”

Dahl began to read from the scroll:

“I heard he died at Ragnarok, swallowed whole by his doom. By the man-wolf-Fenrir — once turned by the moon.

And later, Thor and Loki lay cold by his side. Great Gods among countless Gods, our rocks against the tide.

Nine Pieces scattered to the wind along the One true Volva’s ways. Bring not these parts to Ragnarok or risk the end of days.

Forever shall thou fear this, hear me sons of men, for to defile the Tomb of Gods is to start the Day of Reckoning.”

Dahl shrugged. “And so on. And on. And on. I already got the gist of this from momma’s boy over there, Prof. Seems the Web is indeed mightier than the scroll. And faster.”

“You have? Well, like I said… months, Torsten, months. And I’ve been ignored for years. Institutionalised, even. The Tomb has always existed you know, it didn’t just materialise in the last month. Agnetha gave me that scroll thirty years ago, and where are we now? Hmm? Are we anywhere?”

Dahl was struggling to stay calm. Drake stepped in. “You talk of Ragnarok, Professor Parnevik. A place that doesn’t exist.”

“Not anymore, sir. But once — yes. Once it certainly existed. Otherwise — where did Odin and Thor and all the other Gods die?”

“You believe they existed then?”

“Of course!” Parnevik practically screamed.

Dahl’s voice was lower. “For now,” he said, “we’re suspending disbelief.”

Ben was back at the table, pocketing his mobile. “So you know about the Valkyries then?” he asked cryptically, with a sly look at Drake and Kennedy. “You know why they’re the jewel in Odin’s crown?”

Dahl just looked exasperated. Parnevik blinked and stammered. “Th… the… jewel in… the… what?”

FOURTEEN

Ben smiled as the room grew quiet. “This is our admittance ticket,” he said. “And my guarantee of respect. It is written time and again throughout Norse mythology that the Valkyries ‘ride to the realms of the Gods.’ Look it up — it’s there.”

Kennedy tapped her fork against her plate. “Meaning?”

“They show the way,” Ben said. “You can assemble the Nine Pieces of Odin at Ragnarok all month long — but it’s the Valkyries that show the way to the Tomb of the Gods.”

Drake frowned. “And you’ve been keeping this to yourself, eh?”

“No one knows where the Valkyries are, Matt. They’re in a private collection, only God knows where. The Wolves in New York are the last Pieces we have a location for.”

Dahl smiled as Parnevik practically attacked his scrolls. White tubes flew everywhere amidst a storm of muttering. “Valkyries. Valkyries. Here — no. There — maybe. Ahh, here. Hmm.”

Drake caught Dahl’s eye. “And the Apocalypse theory? Hellfire on Earth and every living thing razed etc… etc.”

“I could recite you a similar legend for almost every God in the pantheon. Shiva. Zeus. Seth. But Drake, if the Canadians find that Tomb they will desecrate it, never mind the other consequences.”

Drake flashed back to the crazy Germans. “As would our new friends,” he nodded and gave Dahl a slight smile. “Out of choices…”

“Balls to the wall.” Dahl finished the little military mantra, and the two shared a look.

Ben leaned across the table to catch Dahl’s attention. “Excuse me, mate, but we’re wasting time here. Give me a laptop. Let me surf. Or better still, get us en route to the Big Apple and we’ll surf in the air.”

Kennedy nodded. “He’s right. I can help. The next logical target is the National History Museum and, let’s face it, the U.S. ain’t ready.”

“Familiar story,” Dahl said. “Mobilisation is already underway.” He looked hard at Ben. “Are you offering to help, young man?”

Ben opened his mouth, but then paused as if sensing the importance of his answer. “Well, we’re still on the Kill List, right? And the Wall of Sleep’s on hiatus this month.”

“Mum put a curfew on our young student?” Drake prodded.

“The Wall of — ?” Dahl frowned. “Is that a sleep deprivation study class?”

“Doesn’t matter. Look at what I uncovered already. And Matt’s SAS. Kennedy’s an NYC cop. We’re practically the perfect team!”

Dahl’s eyes narrowed, as if weighing his decision. Silently, he slid Drake’s mobile across the table and indicated the screen. “Where’d you photograph the runes in that picture?”

“In the Pit. Alongside the long-ships, there was a wall with hundreds of carvings. This woman,” he tapped the screen, “was knelt by Odin’s side as he suffered on the World Tree. Can you translate the inscription?”

“Roughly, yes. It says — Odin and the Volva — Heidi entrusted with the God’s secrets. The Professor is researching this now….” Dahl glanced at Parnevik as the man tried to collect all his scrolls at once.

“God’s secrets.” Parnevik swung around like a hellhound had landed on his back. “Or Gods’ secrets. Hear the nuance? Understand? Let me through.” He spoke to the empty doorway and disappeared.

“We will take you,” Dahl told them. “But know this. Talks with your government have not yet begun. Hopefully, this will be taken care of during our flight. But for now, we’re heading to New York with a dozen Special Forces soldiers and no clearance. We’re taking guns into the National History Museum.” He paused. “Still want to come?”

“The SAS will help,” Drake said. “They have a team standing by.”

“I guess I’ll try the precinct Captain, see if we can grease a few wheels.” Kennedy’s dark change of demeanour at the thought of going home was obvious. Drake promised himself there and then that he would help her if he could.

Trust me, he wanted to say. I’ll get you through this. But the words froze in his throat.

Ben flexed his fingers. “Just gimme an I-pad or something. Quick.”

FIFTEEN

Their aircraft was equipped with a device called a picocell, a mobile telephone tower which allows the use of all mobile phones on planes. Essential for Government military forces, but doubly essential for Ben Blake.

“Yo, sis, got a job for you. Don’t ask. Listen, Karin, listen! I need info on the National History Museum. Exhibits, Viking stuff. Blueprints. Staff. Particularly the bosses. And…” his voice lowered several octaves, “… phone numbers.”

Drake heard a few moments of silence, then: “Yes, the one in New York! How many are there?… Oh… really? Well, okay, sis. I’ll Paypal you some dosh over to cover it. Love you.”

As his friend broke the connection Drake said: “She still out of work?”

“Sits at home all day, mate. Works ‘lates’ in a dodgy bar. Prodigy of old Labour politics.”

Karin had struggled for seven years to get her degree in computer programming. When the Labour Government folded at the end of Blair’s reign, she left Nottingham Uni — a confident, highly-skilled worker — to find nobody wanted her. The recession had arrived.

Exit University Row — turn left for the scrapheap, turn right for pregnancy and State Aid. Continue straight ahead for the road of shattered dreams.

Karin lived in a flat near the centre of Nottingham. Drug addicts and alcoholics rented the properties around her. She rarely ventured out during the day, and took a trusted taxi to the bar where she worked an eight ‘til midnight shift. The most terrifying moments of her life were when she returned to her flat, darkness, stale sweat, and other nasty odours surrounding her, a walking felony just waiting to happen.

In the land of the damned and the ignored, the man who lives in shadow is King.

“Do you really need her for this?” Dahl, who was seated on the other side of the plane, asked. “Or…”

“Look, it’s not charity, mate. I have to concentrate on the Odin stuff. Karin can do the museum legwork. Makes total sense.”

Drake made his own speed-dial call. “Let him work, Dahl. Trust me. We’re here to help.”

Wells answered immediately. “Been catching zeds, Drake? What the hell’s going on?”

Drake filled him in.

“Well, here’s a solid gold nugget. We checked into Alicia Myles. You know the score, Matt. You’re never truly out of the SAS,” he paused. “Last known address — 111 Hildegarde Strasse, Munich.”

“Germany? But she was with the Canadians.”

“Uh huh. That’s not all. She lived in Munich with her boyfriend — one Milo Noxon — a rather nasty citizen of Las Vegas, USA. And he’s Ex-Marine Force Recon. The best the Yanks have to offer.”

Drake took a moment of evaluation. “That’s how he knew me then, through Myles. The question is — did she swap sides to spite him, or to help him?”

“Answer unknown. Maybe you could ask her.”

“I’ll try. Look, we’re swinging by our balls up here, Wells. Think you could contact your old mates in the States? Dahl’s already been in contact with the FBI, but they’re stalling. We’re seven hours out… and coming in blind.”

“You trust them? These turnips? You want our guys in to clean up the inevitable cluster-fuck?”

“They’re Swedes. And yes, I trust them. And yes, I want our guys in.”

“Understood.” Wells cut the connection.

Drake glanced around. The aeroplane was small, but roomy. Eleven Special Forces Marines sat in the back, lounging, snoozing, and generally bulling each other up in Swedish. Dahl snapped constantly on the phone across the aisle, and in front of him the Professor rolled out scroll after scroll, resting each one delicately on the seat-back, scanning for the ancient differences between fact and fiction.

To his immediate left, Kennedy, back to wearing her Number One formless pantsuit, made her first call. “Captain Lipkind there?… ahh, tell him it’s Kennedy Moore.”

Ten seconds passed, then: “No. Tell him he can’t ring me back. This is important. Tell him it’s about national security if you want, just get him.”

Ten more seconds, then: “Moore!” Drake heard the bark, even from where he sat. “Can’t it wait?”

“Listen to me, Captain, there’s a situation. First, check with Officer Swane of the FBI. I’m here with Torsten Dahl of the Swedish SGG, and an SAS officer. The National History Museum is under direct threat. Check the details and call me back straight away. I need your help.”

Kennedy closed her phone and let out a deep breath. “Bang goes my pension.”

Drake checked his watch. Six hours until landing.

Ben’s mobile chirped, and he snatched it up. “Sis?”

Professor Parnevik was leaning out across the aisle, chasing an errant scroll with a veiny arm. “Kid knows his Valkyries.” He said to no one in particular. “But where are they? And the Eyes — yes, I will find the Eyes.”

Ben was saying. “Great stuff, Karin. E-mail me the blueprints of the museum, and highlight that room for me. Then send the Curator’s details by separate mail. Hey, Sis, say hi to Mum and Dad. Love ya.”

Ben resumed his clicking, then started taking a few more notes. “Got the museum Curator’s number,” he shouted. “Dahl? Want me to scare the crap out of him?”

Drake broke out into a disbelieving smile as the Swedish intelligence officer waved a frantic No! without dropping a vowel. It was good to see Ben exhibiting this kind of confidence. The geek had withdrawn a little to allow the man inside some room to breathe.

Kennedy’s phone broke out into song. She flipped it open quickly, but not before she treated the entire plane to a snatch of The Pretty Reckless playing Goin’ Down.

Ben nodded in time. “Nice. Our next cover song for sure.”

“Moore.” Kennedy flicked her speaker-phone on.

“What the crap is going on? I’m blocked by half a dozen shit-heels, and then told, not so politely, to keep my nose in the gutter where it belongs. Something’s got all the big dogs barking, Moore, and I’m betting it’s you.” He paused, then said reflectively: “Not for the first time, I guess.”

Kennedy gave him the abbreviated version that ended with a plane full of Swedish Marines and an unknown SAS team en route, now five hours away from U.S. soil.

Drake felt a flutter. Five hours.

At that moment Dahl shouted: “New intel! Just heard the Canadians weren’t even in Sweden. It seems they sacrificed the World Tree and the Spear to concentrate on the Valkyries.” He sent a nod of praise towards Ben, pointedly excluding the grimacing Professor. “But… they came up empty-handed. This private collector must be a real recluse… or…” Drake shrugged, “he could be a criminal.”

“Good suggestion. Anyway men — this is where it gets ugly. The Canadians are gearing up to hit the museum early morning, NYC time.”

Kennedy’s face took on a murderous look as she listened to both her boss and Dahl at the same time. “They’re using the date,” she suddenly hissed to both parties as it hit her. “Those absolute bastards — and the Germans, no doubt — are concealing their real intentions behind the fuckin’ date.”

Ben looked up. “I’ve lost track.”

Drake echoed him. “What date?”

“When we land in NYC,” Dahl explained, “it’ll be around eight A.M. on September 11^th.”

SIXTEEN

Four hours left. The aircraft droned on through the soupy sky.

Dahl said: “I’ll try the FBI again. But it’s odd. I can’t get past this level of screening. It’s a friggin’ stone wall. Ben — call the Curator. Drake — your old boss. Clock’s ticking, men, and we’re nowhere. This hour requires progress. Let’s go.”

Kennedy was pleading with her boss: “Shit on Thomas Kaleb, Lipkind,” she said. “This has nothing to do with him, or my damn career. I’m telling you something the FBI, the CIA and all those other three-letter-pricks don’t know. I’m asking…” she paused, “I guess I’m asking you to trust me.”

“Three- letter- pricks,” Ben grunted. “Brilliant.”

Drake wanted to slide up to Kennedy Moore and offer a few words of encouragement. The civilian in him wanted to hug her, but the solider made him stay aloof.

But the civilian was starting to win that battle. He’d used the word gronk earlier to ‘soldierise’ her, to rebuff the growing spark of a feeling he recognised, but it hadn’t worked.

Wells answered his call. “Speak now.”

“Been listening to Taylor again? Look, where we at, mate? You talked us into U.S. airspace yet?”

“Well — yes… and no. I’m hitting reams of red tape, Drake, and that doesn’t sit well on my lap — ” He waited a while, then grunted in disappointment. “That was a Mai reference, pal. Try to keep up.”

Drake smiled despite himself. “Damn you, Wells. Look, keep your head together for this mission — help us out — and I’ll tell you about the filthiest club in Hong King where Mai ever worked undercover, called the Spinning Top.”

“Fuck me, that sounds intriguing. You’re on, my man. Look, we’re en route, tooled up to the gusset, and my people over the pond have no problem with that.”

Drake sensed the ‘but’. “Yes?”

“Someone in authority is denying landing privileges and no one’s ever heard of your plane, and that, my friend, smacks of insider corruption.”

Drake heard him. “Okay, keep me posted.” The careful press of a button ended the call.

He heard Kennedy say: “Low level is perfect, Captain. I’m overhearing chatter here that speaks of conspiracy. Be… be careful, Lipkind.”

She closed her phone. “Well, he’s prickly, but he’s taking me at my word. He’s sending as many black-and-whites to the scene as he can, low key. And he knows someone in the local Homeland Security field office,” she said, smoothing her limp blouse. “Beans are being spilled.”

Christ, Drake thought. There’s a shitload of firepower heading for that museum. Enough to start a damn war. He didn’t say anything out loud, but he did check his watch.

Three hours left.

Ben was still involved with the curator: “Look, we’re not talking a major overhaul here, just moving the exhibit. I don’t need to tell you how large the museum is, sir. Just move it, and all will be well. Yes… the SGG… Swedish Special Forces. The FBI are being informed as we speak…no! Don’t wait for them to call. You can’t afford to delay.”

Fifteen seconds of silence, then: “You never heard of SGG? Well, Google it!” Ben jabbed at his phone in frustration. “He’s stalling,” Ben said. “I just know it. He sounded cagey, like he couldn’t think of enough excuses.”

“More red tape.” Drake gestured to Dahl. “This is fast becoming an outbreak.”

A heavy silence followed, then Dahl’s mobile rang. “Oh, my,” he said in reaction. “Den Statsminister.”

Drake made a face at Kennedy and Ben. “Prime Minister.”

Some respectful, but nevertheless candid words were passed that increased Drake’s respect for Torsten Dahl. The Special Forces officer told his boss the way it was. Drake was gloomily convinced he was going to end up liking this guy.

Dahl ended the call, and then spent a moment gathering his thoughts. At last he looked up and addressed the plane.

“Straight from a member of the President’s Cabinet, his closest advisors,” Dahl told them. “This flight will not be cleared to land.”

Three hours to go.

“They wouldn’t inform the President,” Dahl said. “Washington DC and Capitol Hill is deeply immersed in this, my friends. The Statsminister says it has gone global now, a conspiracy of international proportions and nobody knows who supports who. That alone,” he said frowning, “speaks to the gravity of our mission.”

“Cluster-fuck,” Drake said. “It’s what we used to call a fuck-up on a massive scale.”

Ben, in the meantime, had tried the Curator of the National History Museum again. All he got was voicemail. “Not right,” he said. “He should have checked on something by now.” Ben’s dextrous fingers immediately began flying over the virtual keyboard.

“Got an idea,” he said loudly. “Hope to God I’m wrong.”

Then Wells rang back, explaining that his SAS team had sneaked a landing at an abandoned New Jersey airfield. The team was inbound towards central New York, travelling by any means necessary.

Drake checked the time. Two hours to landing.

And then Ben cried out: “Nailed it!” Everyone jumped. Even the Swedish Marines gave him their full attention.

“It’s here!” he shouted. “Plastered all over the internet, if you have the time to look.” He jabbed at the screen angrily.

“Colby Taylor,” he said. “The Canadian billionaire is the National History Museum’s biggest contributor and one of New York’s major financiers. Whatcha bet he made a few calls?”

Dahl grimaced. “That’s our blockage,” he groaned. “The man they say owns more people than the Mafia.” For the first time, the Swedish officer appeared to slump in his seat.

Kennedy couldn’t hide the hate. “Fat-cat suits win again,” she hissed. “Bet the bastard’s a banker as well.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Drake said. “I always have a Plan B.”

One hour to go.

SEVENTEEN

The Port Authority Police Department of New York is arguably best known for its humbling bravery and loss during the events of September 11^th. What it is less known for is its covert handling of most SAS flights originating out of Europe. Whilst not employing a dedicated team to police this element of its work, the intercontinental personnel involved are in such a small minority that, over the years, many of them have become close friends.

Drake made one more call. “Coming in hot tonight,” he told Jack Schwarz, PAPD Inspector. “You missed me, pal?”

“Jeez, Drake, been… what? Two years?”

“Three. New Year’s Eve, ’07.”

“Wife okay?”

“Alyson and I split, mate. That enough chitchat to mark my identity?”

“Thought you left the Service.”

“I did. Wells called me back for one last job. He call you?”

“He did. Said you promised him some Mai-time.”

“Did he now? Schwarz, listen to me. This is your call. You should know that the shit will hit the fan, and that our entry will be traced back to you, eventually. I’m sure, by then, we’ll all be heroes and this will be considered a favourable act, but…”

“Wells filled me in,” Schwarz said, but Drake heard the undertone of unease. “Don’t worry, bud. I still have enough juice to swing landing permission.”

Their plane glided into U.S. airspace.

The plane landed in weak daylight and taxied right up to a small terminal building. The minute the door cracked open, twelve fully loaded members of the Swedish SGG jogged double-time down the rickety metal stairs and piled into three waiting vehicles. Drake, Ben, Kennedy and the Professor followed, Ben almost wetting himself when he saw their transport.

“They look like Hummers!”

A minute later the cars shot down an empty runway, picking up speed, aiming for a concealed exit at the back of the inconspicuous airfield that, after a few turns, emptied onto a discreet slip-road to join one of Manhattan’s main tributaries.

New York City stretched out before them in all its splendour. Modern skyscrapers, old bridges, classic architecture. Their convoy cut directly to the heart of the city, taking chances, using every wily short-cut known to their native drivers. Horns blared at them, curses curdled the air, kerbs and trash cans were clipped. On one occasion, a one-way street was employed that cut seven minutes off their journey and caused three fender-benders.

Inside the cars the action was almost as hectic. Dahl, at last, got the call from the Swedish Prime Minister, who had finally reached a friendly FBI suit and received clearance to enter the Museum if they got there first.

Dahl turned to their driver. “Faster!”

Ben handed Dahl a map of the museum, complete with the Wolves’ location.

More information filtered through. Black-and-whites had arrived. Rapid Response teams were being notified.

Drake reached Wells. “Sitch?”

“We’re outside. Cop-cavalry arrived two minutes ago. You?”

“Twenty away. Give us a shout if anything happens.” Something caught his eye, and he fixed on something outside the window for a moment. An intense feeling of déjà vu sent shivers dancing across his ribs as he saw a huge billboard proclaiming the arrival of the fashion designer, Abel Frey, in New York, along with his stunning cat-walk show.

That’s mad, Drake thought. Truly insane.

Ben had awakened his sister in the U.K. and, still breathless at their mode of transport, managed to enrol her for Project Valkyrie — as he called it. “Saves time,” he told Dahl. “She can continue the research whilst we’re in there saving those Wolves. Don’t worry, she thinks it’s because I want to photograph them for my degree.”

“Lying to sis?” Drake frowned.

“He’s growing up.” Kennedy patted Blake’s arm. “Give the kid some space.”

Drake’s mobile chirped. He didn’t have to check the caller I.D. to know it was Wells. “Don’t tell me, mate. The Canadians?”

Wells laughed softly. “You wish.”

“Eh?”

“Both the Canadians and the Germans, using separate routes. This war’s about to get started without you. ”

Dahl said: “A Rapid Response SWAT team is three minutes away. Frequency is 68.”

Drake glanced out of the wide window. “We’re here.”

“Central Park West entrance,” Ben said as they exited the cars. “Leads to the only two sets of staircases that ascend from the lower level all the way to the fourth floor.”

Kennedy jumped out into the morning heat. “Which floor houses the Wolves?”

“Fourth.”

“Figures.” Kennedy shrugged, and patted her midriff. “Knew I’d end up regretting those holiday pastries.”

Drake hung back as the Swedish soldiers ran hard at the museum steps. Once there, they started to un-sling their weapons. Dahl stopped them in the shadow of the high entrance, the team flanked by circular pillars.

“Tweeters on.”

A dozen ‘Checks!’ sounded out. “We go first,” he looked hard at Drake. “You follow. Grab these.”

He handed Drake two cylindrical objects the size of lighters, and two ear-pieces. Drake twisted the cylindrical barrels to 68 and waited until both started emitting a green light from their bases. He handed one to Kennedy and kept the other for himself.

“Tweeters,” he said to the blank looks. “It’s the new ‘friendly fire’ aid. Friendlies are all tuned to the same frequency. Look at a colleague and you get an annoying chirp in your ear, clock a bad guy and you hear nothing….” He fitted his ear-piece. “Not foolproof, I know, but it helps in situations where you’ve got a lot going on. Like this.”

Ben said: “What if the frequency clashes with another?”

“It won’t. It’s the newest Bluetooth technology — adaptive spread-spectrum frequency hopping. The devices ‘hop’ through seventy-nine randomly chosen frequencies within pre-assigned ranges — together. Has a range of around two hundred feet.”

“Cool,” Ben said. “Where’s mine?”

“You and the Prof get to spend some time in Central Park,” Drake told him. “Tourist stuff. Chill, mate, this is gonna get hairy.”

Without another word, Drake spun to follow the last of the Swedish soldiers through a high archway into the museum’s murky innards. Kennedy followed closely.

“Could do with a gun,” she mumbled.

“Americans,” Drake intoned, but then smiled quickly. “Relax. The Swedes should mop up the Canadians, double-quick.”

They reached an immense Y-shaped staircase overseen by arched windows and a vaulted ceiling, and hurried up without pause. Normally this staircase would be crammed with wide-eyed tourists, but today the whole place was eerily silent.

Drake paced himself, and stayed vigilant. Scores of dangerous men were racing through this vast old space right now. It was only a matter of time until they converged.

Up they ran, their boots echoing loudly off the high walls, squeaks of static from their throat-mics resonating with the building’s natural acoustics. Drake was concentrating hard, recalling his training, but trying to keep a close eye on Kennedy without appearing to. The civilian and the soldier continued to conflict inside him.

Approaching the third floor, Dahl motioned an ‘ahead-slow’. Kennedy moved close to Drake. “Where’s your SAS buddies?”

“Hanging back,” Drake said. “After all, we don’t wanna commit overkill now, do we?”

Kennedy stifled a laugh. “You’re a comedian, Drake. A real funny guy.”

“You should see me on a date.”

Kennedy missed a beat then said: “Don’t presume I’d accept.” Her right hand went habitually to smooth out the front of her blouse.

“Don’t assume I was asking.”

They started up the final staircase. As the lead soldier approached the last curve a shot rang out, and a chunk of plaster exploded an inch away from his head.

“Down!”

A fusillade of shots peppered the walls. Dahl crawled forward on his stomach, making a series of motion with his hands.

Drake said: “The scarecrow method.”

One soldier fired off a quick volley to keep their enemy busy. Another took off his helmet, hooked his rifle into the strap, and inched it forward, into the line of fire. They heard a faint rustle of movement. A third soldier popped up from cover below the staircase and nailed the sentry between the eyes. The man fell dead without getting a shot off.

“Nice,” Drake liked the well-planned movements.

They ploughed on up the stairs, weapons ready, as they fanned out around the arched entrance to the fourth floor, then peered cautiously into the chamber beyond.

Drake read the signs. This was the hall of Saurischian Dinosaurs. Christ, he thought. Wasn’t the bloody T-Rex kept in here?

He sneaked a glance inside the room. Several professional-looking dudes in civvies were looking busy, all equipped with some kind of heavy machine-pistol, most likely a ‘spray and pray’ Mac-10. The T-Rex stood before him though, rearing in nightmarish majesty, the enduring epitome of nightmare even millions of years after its extinction.

And walking right past it — clipping smartly past its jaws — was Alicia Myles, that other deadly predator. She was shouting in her signature fashion: “Keep it on the clock, boys! One fuck-up here and I’ll personally de-ball every last one of you fag-hags! Hurry it up!”

“Now there’s a lady,” Kennedy whispered mockingly from a millimetre away. Drake became aware of her understated perfume and slight breathing. “Old friend, Drake?”

“Taught her everything she knows,” he said. “Literally, at first. Then she went way past me. Weird Ninja-Shaolin shit. And she’s never been a lady, that’s for sure.”

“Four on the left,” a solider reported. “Five on the right. Plus the woman. The Odin exhibit must be near the back of the room, maybe in its own alcove, I don’t know.”

Dahl took a breath. “Time to move.”

EIGHTEEN

The Swedes burst out of hiding, firing with precision. Four Canadians dropped, and then another, three of them flying back into a glass exhibit which, in turn, toppled and crashed to the floor with a noise like an explosion.

The remaining Canadians spun and fired in place. Two Swedes screamed. One fell, leaking blood from a head wound. The other collapsed in a writhing heap, clutching his thigh.

Drake slithered into the room across the polished floor, and crawled behind a massive glass display of giant Armadillos. After checking Kennedy was safe, he raised his head to peer through the glass.

Saw Alicia kill two running Swedes with two perfect shots.

From beyond the T-Rex now appeared another four Canadians. They must have been in the alcove where the Wolves were on display. They had odd leather-harnesses strapped to their bodies and heavy-duty rucksacks on their backs.

And more Mac-10’s. They sprayed the room with bullets.

The Swedes dived for cover. Drake hit the floor, making sure he snaked an arm around Kennedy’s head to keep her as low as possible. The glass above him shattered, fragments spraying the area and pattering down on them. Armadillo fossils and replicas burst and disintegrated around them.

“Mop up quick, huh?” Kennedy muttered. “Yeah, right.”

Drake shook himself, scattering glass shards everywhere, and checked the outer side-wall of the museum. A Canadian had fallen there, and Drake had marked him immediately.

“Already on it.”

Using the shattered display unit as cover he shuffled over to the prone guy. He pulled at the Machine Pistol, but the man’s eyes suddenly snapped wide open!

“Jesus!” Drake’s heart hammered faster than the hands of Noah when he built the Ark.

The man grunted, eyes wide in pain. Drake recovered quickly, wrestled the weapon away, and clubbed him into oblivion. “Bloody zombie.”

He spun on one knee, ready to spray, but the Canadians had retreated beyond the ribbed belly of the T-Rex. Damn! If only they hadn’t altered its stance recently, making it walk less erect than previously. All he could see were a few disembodied legs.

Kennedy scooted next to him, sliding to a stop by his side.

“Nice slide,” he said, bobbing left and right, trying to see what the Canadians were up to.

At last, he saw movement between three cracked ribs and gasped in disbelief. “They have the Wolves,” he breathed. “And they’re smashing them to pieces!”

Kennedy shook her head. “No. They’re breaking them into bits,” she pointed. “Look. See the rucksacks. No one said all the Pieces of Odin had to be intact, did they?”

“And it’s easier to carry them out in bits,” Drake nodded.

He was about to move to the cover of the next exhibit, when all hell broke loose. From the far corner of the room, through a door proclaiming ‘Vertebrate Origins’, a dozen screaming banshees stormed. They whooped, they fired wildly, they laughed like geeks overdosing on multi-double-Yaeger’s at spring-break.

“Germans are here.” Drake said drily before hitting the floor.

The T-Rex shook madly as a lead fusillade smashed through it. Its head drooped, teeth gnashing as if the violence around it had pissed it off badly enough to come back to life. A Canadian flew backwards amidst a cloud of gore. Blood sprayed all over the dinosaur’s jawbone. A Swedish trooper lost his arm at the elbow and flailed about screaming.

The Germans piled in, manic.

From outside the window nearest Drake came that familiar whump whump of helicopter rotor blades.

Not again!

At the edge of Drake’s peripheral vision, a creeping team of SWAT figures stole towards him, all darkly dressed. When Drake glanced that way, the Tweeters went crazy in his ear.

Good guys.

The Canadians went for it, causing mayhem. They burst from underneath the giant belly of the T-Rex, firing frantically. Drake grabbed Kennedy’s shoulder.

“Move!” They were in the line of flight. He pushed Kennedy away, just as Alicia Myles ran into view. Drake raised his weapon, then saw the massive German, Milo, barrelling in from the left.

In one mutual second of pause, all three lowered their weapons.

Alicia looked surprised. “I knew you’d get into this, Drake, you old fuckeroo!”

Milo stopped dead. Drake glanced between the two. “Shoulda stayed in Sweden, dog-breath.” Drake tried to goad the big man. “Missing yer bitch, eh?”

Bullets laced the air around them, not penetrating their tense cocoon.

“Your time will come,” Milo whispered thickly. “Like your little boyfriend there, and his sister. And Parnevik’s.”

And then the world returned, and Drake was instinctively ducking a millisecond after he saw Alicia fall unaccountably to the ground.

An RPG missile blasted through the belly of the T-Rex, sending knives of bone scything in all directions. It swept across the hall, straight through one of the side windows. After a heavy pause there was a gigantic explosion that shook the room, and then a tortured sound of ruined metal and shrieking joints.

Metallic death crashed into the side of the National History Museum.

Drake flattened himself on top of Kennedy as the helicopter’s momentum made it rotate into the museum’s wall, causing a cave-in of heavy debris. The nose smashed right through, sending rubble forward in undulating heaps. Then the cockpit hit the collapsing wall almost vertically, the pilot seen yanking on the cyclic stick in mad panic before being smeared like a fly inside his own windshield.

Then the rotor blades struck… and sheared off!

Spears of flying metal created a kill-zone inside the room. A six foot long spike made a whickering noise as it flew towards Drake and Kennedy. The ex-SAS man flattened himself as much as possible and then felt the top part of his ear shorn off before the scythe sliced off a piece of Kennedy’s scalp and embedded itself three feet into the furthest wall.

He lay stunned for a moment, then whipped his head around. The helicopter had stalled and lost momentum. In another moment it slipped down the side of the Museum like Wile E. Coyote slides down the side of the mountain he’s just hit.

Drake counted four seconds before the resounding crunch of heavy metal rang out. He took time to survey the room. The Canadians hadn’t broken stride, even though one of their own had been chopped apart by a rotor blade. They had reached the side of the room, four guys with heavy rucksacks as well as Alicia and one covering fighter. They were deploying what looked like abseiling units.

The Germans had horror written all over their unmasked faces. Drake didn’t spot the man in white, and wondered if this mission had been too risky for him. He saw SWAT approaching them in a sweeping pattern, the Swedes having surrendered authority when the Americans arrived.

The Canadians were escaping with the Wolves! Drake attempted to rise but found it hard to lift his body, much shaken by the near miss and the astonishing scene.

Kennedy helped out by elbowing him hard before wriggling out from under him, sitting up, and wiping blood from her scalp.

“Perv.” she muttered, in mock anger.

Drake pressed a hand to his ear to help staunch the flow of blood. As he watched, three of the five remaining Swedish Special Forces troops tried to head off the Canadians as the first used his rappel unit to leap out the destroyed window.

But Alicia spun around, her face sporting a playful smile and Drake cringed inside. She skipped forward and darted through them, a black widow of violent execution, bending highly trained soldiers in a way that broke their bones with consummate ease, taking less than twelve seconds to decimate the team.

By then, three Canadians had jumped soundlessly and expertly out of the building.

The remaining Canadian solider sprayed cover fire.

The New York SWAT team assaulted the Germans, driving them towards the rear of the room, dropping all but three of them where they stood. The remaining three, including Milo, dropped their weapons and ran.

Drake flinched as the T-Rex finally gave up the ghost and collapsed in a pile of old bones and dust.

Kennedy cursed as the fourth Canadian jumped, quickly followed by Alicia. The final soldier took a bullet to the skull as he prepared to leap. He fell back into the room to sprawl amidst the burning rubble, just another casualty of a madman’s war, and his race towards apocalypse.

NINETEEN

Almost immediately, Drake’s wits were evaluating and analysing. Milo had inferred something about Ben and Professor Parnevik.

He fished his mobile out, and checked it for damage before hitting speed-dial.

The phone rang and rang. Ben wouldn’t leave it this long, not Ben…

His heart sank. He’d tried to protect Ben, promised the lad he’d be alright. If anything…

A voice answered: “Yes?” A whisper.

“Ben? You okay? Why are you whispering?”

“Matt, thank God. I got a call from Dad, wandered off to talk, then looked back and saw these two goons hitting the Prof. I started to run towards them and they took off on motorbikes with a few others.”

“They took the Prof?”

“Sorry, mate. I would’ve helped him if I could. Damn my Dad!”

“No!” Drake’s heart was still recovering. “It’s not your fault, Blakey. Not at all. Did these bikers have big rucksacks strapped to their backs?”

“Some did.”

“Okay. Stay there.”

Drake breathed deeply and tried to calm his nerves. The Canadians would have been in a hurry. Ben had dodged a nasty one, thanks to his dad, but the Professor was in deep shit. “Their plan was to abseil out of here onto some waiting bikes,” he told Kennedy, then looked around the demolished room. “We need to find Dahl. We have a problem.”

“Only one?”

Drake surveyed the devastation they had made of the museum. “This thing just exploded big time.”

Drake exited the museum among an assortment of government personnel. They were setting up a staging post outside the Central Park West entrance, which he deliberately ignored when he spotted Ben sitting on a bench opposite. The kid was crying uncontrollably. What now? Kennedy sprinted beside him across the stretch of grass.

“It’s Karin,” Ben’s eyes were overflowing like Niagara Falls. “I e-mailed her to ask how she’d gotten on with the Valkyries and got… got this MPEG in… in reply.”

He spun his laptop around so they could see. The screen showed a tiny video file playing on repeat. The clip lasted about thirty seconds.

In black-and-white stop-motion it showed fuzzy images of Ben’s sister, Karin, hanging limply in the grip of two heavily-set masked men. Dark patches that could only be blood were smeared around her forehead and mouth. A third man had his face up to the camera, shouting in a thick German accent.

“She put up a fight, the little minx, but rest assured, we’ll be teaching her how stupid that is over the next few weeks!” The man wagged his finger, spit spraying from his mouth. “Stop helping them, little boy. Stop assss… isss… ting them. If you do, you’ll get her back in one piece—” a nasty laugh. “More or less.”

The fragment began to repeat itself.

“She’s a second Dan,” Ben was babbling. “Wants to open her own martial arts school. I didn’t think anyone could b-b-beat her, my — my big sister.”

Drake put an arm around Ben as his young friend broke down. His gaze, seen by, but not meant for Kennedy, was pure battlefield hatred.

TWENTY

Abel Frey, world renowned fashion designer, multi-millionaire, and owner of the infamous 24-hour Party-Chateau — La Verein sat backstage at Madison Square Garden and watched his minions scuttle about like the free-loading vermin they really were.

During solstice or periods of hiatus, he provided for them in the confines of his extensive home in the Alps — everything from world-famous models, all the way down to lighting techs and security staff — the parties never stopped for weeks on end. But when the tour was on, and the name of Frey graced the spotlight, they scurried and worried and catered to his every whim.

The stage was taking shape. The cat-walk was half erected. His Lighting Designer was interfacing with the Garden’s crew, trying to come up with a mutually respectful Magic Sheet: a synchronised light and sound schedule — for the two hour long show.

Frey intended to hate it and make the bastards sweat and start again.

Supermodels strutted back and forth in varying stages of undress. Backstage at a fashion show was the opposite of a stage show — you needed less material rather than more — and these models — at least the ones who lived with him at La Verein — knew he’d seen it all before anyway.

He encouraged exhibitionism. In truth, he demanded it. Fear reined them in, these cattle. Fear and greed and gluttony, and all the other wonderful common sins that chained ordinary men and women to holders of power and wealth — from the Victoria’s Secret candy-stripers to the East European ice sculptures and the rest of his fortunate staff — every last snivelling bloodsucker.

Frey saw Milo threading through the nubile bodies. Saw the models shying away from the violent brute. Smiled inwardly at their obvious tell.

Milo didn’t look pleased. “Back there!” He nodded towards Frey’s makeshift travelling office.

Frey’s face hardened as they sat in private. “What happened?”

“What didn’t? We lost the chopper. I squeaked out of there with two guys. They had SWAT, the SGG, that fucker Drake, and some bitch. It was hell in there, man.” Milo’s American inflections literally wounded Frey’s more cultured ears. The brute had just addressed him as ‘man’.

“The Piece?”

“Lost to that bareback whore, Myles.” Milo was grinning.

“The Canadians got it?” Frey gripped the arms of his chair in anger, causing them to distort.

Milo pretended not to notice, betraying an inner unease. Frey’s ego made his chest swell. “Fucking useless bastards!” He screamed so loudly Milo flinched. “You useless bastards lost out to a bunch of fuck-shit Mounties!”

Spittle flew from Frey’s lips, spattering the table that separated them. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for this moment? This time? Do you?”

Unable to control himself, he slapped the American Special Forces man across the face. Milo’s head whipped around and his cheek coloured, but he gave no other reaction.

Frey forced a superior cocoon of calm to envelop him. “My life,” he said with a supreme effort that he knew only those with high-breeding could pull off, “has been dedicated — no devoted — to finding this Tomb… this Tomb of the Gods. I will transport it — piece by piece — to my Chateau. I am a ruler—” he said waving a hand towards the door, “and I do not mean a ruler of those idiots. I can force five supermodels to fuck my lowliest guard, just because I had the idea. I can force a good man to fight to the death in my Battle Arena, but that doesn’t make me a ruler. Do you understand?”

Frey’s voice dripped with intellectual superiority. Milo nodded, but his eyes were blank. Frey read it as stupidity. He sighed.

“Well, what else do you have for me?”

“This.” Milo stood up, and tapped for a few seconds on the keyboard of Frey’s laptop. A live feed came up, focused closely on an area near the National History Museum.

“We have men posing as a TV crew. They have eyes on Drake, the woman, and the boy — Ben Blake. Also SWAT and whatever SGG remain and, look, I believe that- ” he tapped the screen lightly, leaving unwanted smears of sweat and God knew what else behind, “is an SAS team.”

“You believe…” Frey said. “You’re trying to tell me that we now have a multi-international race on our hands? And we no longer have the greatest resources.” He sighed. “Not that it’s helped us this far.”

Milo shared a secret smile with his boss. “You know it has.”

“Yes. Your girlfriend. She is our best placed asset, and her time is approaching. Well, let us hope she remembers who she answers to.”

“It’s more the money she’ll remember,” Milo said, with great vision.

Frey’s eyes lit up, and a depraved light entered his eyes. “Hmm. I’ll not forget that.”

“We also have Ben Blake’s sister. A wildcat by all accounts.”

“Good. Send her to the Chateau. We will return there soon.” He paused. “Wait… wait… that woman with Drake. Who is she?”

Milo studied the face and shrugged. “No clue.”

“Well, find out!”

Milo placed a call to the ‘TV crew’. “Use the facial recognition software on Drake’s woman,” he growled.

Four silent minutes later he received an answer. “Kennedy Moore,” he told Frey. “New York cop.”

“Yes. Yes. I never forget a depravity. Move aside, Milo. Let me work.”

Frey Googled the name and followed a few links. In less than ten minutes he knew everything, and his smile grew broad and even more twisted. The beginnings of a superlative idea grew past puberty in his mind.

“Kennedy Moore,” he couldn’t resist explaining to the grunt, “was one of New York’s finest finest. She is currently on forced leave. She arrested a dirty cop and got him sent to prison. His conviction led to the release of some of the people he’d helped convict, something to do with a broken chain of evidence.” Frey paused. “What kind of backwards country would implement a system like that, Milo?”

“The U.S.” His goon knew what was expected of him.

“Well, a wonderful lawyer got a man called Thomas Kaleb released — the ‘worst serial killer in Northern United States history’ it says here. My, my. This is deliciously gross. Listen!

‘Kaleb fixes his victim’s eyes open by using a staple-gun to fire fixings through the lid and the forehead, then forces live insects down their throats, forcing them to chew and swallow until they choke to death.’” Frey gave Milo wide eyes. “A little like eating at Mcdonald’s, I’d say.”

Milo did not smile. “He is a murderer of innocents,” he said. “Comedy does not jive with murder.”

Frey smiled at him. “You have killed innocents have you not?”

“Only in the execution of my job. I am a soldier.”

“Hmm, well, it’s a thin line, yes? Never mind. Back to the job at hand. This Kaleb has murdered two more innocents since his release. The clear result of an ethical doctrine and a bunch of moral values I’d say, eh Milo? Anyway, this Kaleb has now disappeared.”

Milo’s head swerved towards the laptop screen, towards Kennedy Moore. “Two more?”

Frey laughed now. “Ha, ha. You’re not so dense that you don’t get it, are you? Imagine her grief. Imagine her torture!”

Milo caught on and, despite himself, gave the grin of a polar bear ripping apart his first catch of the day.

“I have a plan.” Frey giggled with delight. “Oh hell,… do I have a plan.”

TWENTY-ONE

Inside the mobile HQ chaos was king. Drake, Kennedy, and Ben followed Torsten Dahl and the furious SWAT commander up the steps and past the commotion. They passed through two compartments before stopping in the relative quiet afforded by an alcove at the end of the metal shed.

“We got a call,” the SWAT commander threw his weapon down in anger. “We got a Goddamn call, and fifteen minutes later three of my men are dead! What the…?”

“Only three?” Dahl asked. “We lost six. Respect requires we take a moment for…”

“Screw respect,” the SWAT guy was furious. “You invaded my turf, you English asshole. You’re as bad as the goddamned terrorists!”

Drake held up a hand. “Actually, I’m the English asshole. This prick’s Swedish.”

The American looked bewildered. Drake gripped Ben’s shoulders tighter. He could feel the lad shaking. “We helped,” he told the SWAT guy. “They helped. It could’ve been much worse.”

And then, as fate dropped its ironic hammer, there was the shocking sound of bullets peppering the HQ. Everyone hit the floor. Metallic pings bounced off the east wall. Before the firing had ended, the SWAT commander stood up. “It’s bulletproof,” he said with a little embarrassment.

“We need to go,” Drake looked for Kennedy, but failed to spot her.

“Into the line of fire?” the SWAT guy said. “Who the hell are you?”

“It’s not the company or the bullets that bother me,” Drake said. “It’s the rocket-propelled grenade that might soon follow.”

Prudency dictated evacuation. Drake exited in time to see black-and-whites screaming off in the direction the bullets had come from.

He looked around for Kennedy again, but she seemed to have vanished.

Then, a new face was suddenly amongst them. A Bureau Chief, judging by his three-star insignia and, as if that wasn’t enough, pushing in behind him was a man sporting the rare five stars of Police Commissioner. Drake knew immediately that this was the guy they should be talking to. Police Commissioners handled counter-terrorism.

The SWAT commander’s walkie squawked: “All clear. Got a weapon on the roof here, controlled by remote. It’s diversionary.”

“Bastards!” Drake thought about the Canadians and the Germans getting further away with their captives.

Torsten Dahl addressed the newcomer. “You really should speak to my Statsminister.”

“It’s done,” The Commissioner said. “You’re outta here.”

“No, wait,” Drake began, physically restraining Ben from rushing forward. “You don’t understand….”

“No, no,” the Commissioner said through gritted teeth. “I don’t. And what I mean is you’re outta here, on your way to Washington DC. Capitol Hill wants a piece of you guys, and I hope they take it in big slices.”

The flight lasted ninety minutes. Drake worried about Kennedy’s mysterious disappearance right up until the time she reappeared, which was when the jet was about to set off.

She came running up the aisle, breathless.

“Thought we’d lost you,” said Drake. He felt enormous relief, but tried to keep it light-hearted.

Kennedy didn’t answer. Instead she threw herself down in a window seat, out of chatting distance. Drake got up to investigate, but stopped when she flinched away from him, her face as white as alabaster.

Where had she been, and what had happened there?

No calls or e-mail communications were allowed during the flight. No television. They flew in silence; a few guards watched them without interfering.

Drake could have let it flow over him. SAS training called for hours, days, and months of waiting. Of prepping. Of surveilling. For him, an hour could pass in a millisecond. At one point they were offered alcohol in those little plastic bottles, and Drake hesitated for more than a moment.

The whisky gleamed, the amber charm of disaster, his weapon of choice the last time things got hard — when Alyson left. He remembered the pain, the desperation, and still his eyes lingered.

“Not here, thanks.” Ben was alert enough to motion the hostess away. “We’re Mountain Dew boys. Bring that.”

Ben even tried to snap Drake out of it by doing the geek thing. He leaned into the aisle, watching the hostess sway back to her station. “In the lingo of our American brethren — I’d hit that!”

His face reddened when the hostess stared back at him in surprise. After a second she said: “This ain’t Hooters Air, kid.”

Ben shrank back into his seat. “Damn.”

Drake shook his head. “Cheers, mate. Your constant humiliation serves as a happy reminder that I was never your age.”

“Bollocks.”

“Seriously — thanks.”

“No worries.”

“And Karin — she will be okay. I promise.”

“How can you promise that, Matt?”

Drake paused. His inbuilt obligation to help the needy had spoken out, not the clear-cut judgement of the soldier.

“They won’t hurt her yet,” he said. “And very soon, we’re going to have more help than you can imagine.”

“How do you know they won’t hurt her?”

Drake sighed. “Okay, okay, it’s an educated guess. If they wanted her dead they’d have killed her straight away, right? No messing. But they didn’t. So…”

“Yes?”

“The Germans want her for something. They’ll keep her alive.” Drake knew they could have taken her for isolated interrogation, or something even more common — to a dictator-like boss who liked to exert dominance over every event. Through the years Drake had come to love that particular type of tyrant. Their authoritarianism always gave the good guys a second chance.

Ben managed a strained smile. Drake felt the plane begin its descent, and started to review the facts in his head. With his little team falling apart, he had to step up and protect them even more now.

Within two minutes of disembarking the plane, Drake, Ben, Kennedy and Dahl were ushered through several sets of doors, up a quiet escalator, along a plush corridor lined with thick blue panelling, and finally through a heavy door which, Drake observed, was discreetly locked behind them.

They found themselves in a premier first-class lounge, empty except for themselves and eight other people: five armed guards and three suits — two women and an older man.

The man stepped forward. “Jonathan Gates,” he said softly. “Secretary of Defence.”

Drake felt a sudden rush of panic. Christ, this guy was mega-powerful, maybe fifth or sixth in line for the Presidency. He took a breath and stepped forward, noting the offensive movements from the guards, then spread his hands.

“All friends here,” he said. “At least… I think so.”

“I believe you are right.” The Secretary of Defence came forward and offered his hand. “To save time, I have already been apprised of events. The United States is willing, and able, to help. I’m here to… facilitate… that help.”

One of the women offered drinks all round. She had black hair, sharp eyes, and was mid-fifties, with worry-lines thick enough to conceal state secrets, and a manner of ignoring the guards that spoke of her discomfort with them.

The drinks broke the ice a little. Drake and Ben stayed near Gates, sipping diet Dew. Kennedy went over to the window, swirling her wine and staring out at the taxiing planes, seemingly lost in her own thoughts. Torsten Dahl sank into a comfy seat with an Evian, body language tailored to pose no threat.

“My sister,” Ben spoke up. “Can you help her?”

“The CIA has contacted Interpol, but we have no leads on the Germans yet.” After a moment, noting Ben’s distress and what effort it took to address a member of Congress, the Secretary added: “We are trying, son. We will find them.”

“My parents don’t know yet.” Ben glanced involuntarily down at his mobile. “But it won’t be long—”

Now the other woman stepped forward — a vivacious, self-assured, much younger specimen with the look of the future ex-Mrs Secretary all over her, a true carnivore or, as Drake said to himself, a political version of Alicia Myles.

“My country is nothing if not realistic, Mr Dahl, Mr Drake. We know we are a long way behind in this, and we know the stakes. Your SAS team has been cleared to operate. SGG also. We have a Delta team standing ready to assist. Just add numbers…” she waggled her fingers. “Coordinates.”

“And Professor Parnevik?” Dahl spoke for the first time. “What news on the Canadians?”

“Warrants are being issued,” the Secretary said a little stiffly. “It’s a diplomatic situa — ”

“No!” Drake shouted, then exhaled to calm himself. “No, sir. That’s the wrong approach. This thing kicked off… what?… three days ago? Time is everything here, especially now. This next few days,” he said, “is where we win or lose.”

Secretary Gates gave him an amused look. “I heard you still had some soldier in you, Drake. But not by that reaction.”

“I’m switching between solider and civilian when it suits,” Drake shrugged. “Benefits of being ex-army.”

“Uh, huh. Well, if it makes you feel any better, the warrants won’t help. Colby Taylor has disappeared from his Canadian mansion, along with the majority of his staff. My guess is he’s been planning this for a long time and has switched to some pre-arranged contingency. Essentially — he’s off the grid.”

Drake closed his eyes. “Any good news?”

The younger woman spoke up. “Well, we are offering you the full resources of the Library of Congress to help your research.” Her eyes twinkled. “The largest Library in the world. Thirty-two million books. Rare prints. And a World Digital Library.”

Ben looked at her as if she’d just agreed to enter a Princess Leia cosplay contest. “Full resources? So — theoretically — you could find out which German person is obsessed by Norse mythology? You could find texts on Odin and this Tomb of the Gods. Stuff that’s not on the internet?”

“You could, and at the touch of a button,” the woman said. “And, failing that, we have some very old Librarians.”

Ben’s eyes lit with hope as he glanced at Matt. “Take us there.”

The Library of Congress was unlocked for them in the very early hours of Sunday morning. Lights on, staff attentive, the world’s largest Library was certainly impressive. At first the architecture and feel of the place reminded Drake of a museum, but when he got a look at the ranks and ranks of bookcases and the circular reading balconies, he soon sensed the respectful ambience of ancient learning, and his mood changed to match his environment.

Whilst Drake spent some time stalking the halls, Ben wasted no time getting into the research. He sidled into a balcony, booted up a laptop, and sent their Swedish Special Forces commander in search of coffee and cookies.

“Nice place,” Drake said when he’d completed a circuit. “I feel like Nicholas Cage might pop out at any minute.”

Ben gripped the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know where to start,” he confessed. “My head’s a shed, mate.”

Torsten Dahl tapped the rail that ran around the balcony. “Start with something you know,” he said in those learned Oxford tones. “Start with the legend.”

“Right. Well, we know the poem. It pretty much says that whoever desecrates the Tomb of the Gods will bring hellfire to Earth. And that’s fire, literally. Our planet will burn. We also know this legend has unique parallels throughout history to other corresponding legends written about other Gods.”

“What we don’t know,” Dahl said, “is why? Or how?”

“Fire,” Drake said sharply. “The kid just said it.”

Ben closed his eyes. Dahl turned to Drake with a tight smile. “This is called brainstorming,” he said. “Sifting through the facts often helps reveal the truth. I meant — how the disaster is triggered. Please either help, or go away.”

Drake sipped coffee and kept quiet. Both these guys had lost people and deserved space. He drifted to the railing and glanced over, running his eyes around the circular room, noting the positions of staff and American agents. Kennedy sat two floors below, tapping away furiously at a laptop, isolated by her own… what? Drake wondered. Guilt? Fear? Depression? He knew all about that, and he wasn’t about to start preaching.

“The legend,” Ben was saying, “indicates that it is the desecration of Odin’s tomb alone that will start the rivers of fire flowing. I’d say that’s as an important thing to know as anything else here.”

Drake frowned as his recent memory jump-started. Rivers of fire? He’d seen that.

But where?

“Why’d you say it that way?” he asked. “Rivers of fire?”

“Dunno. Maybe ‘cos I’m sick of saying ‘hellfire spews forth’ and ‘the end is nigh.’ I feel like a Hollywood movie trailer.”

“So you went for rivers of fire?” Dahl raised an eyebrow. “Like lava?”

“No wait,” Drake snapped his fingers. “Yes! The supervolcano! In… in Iceland, right?” He looked to the Swede for confirmation.

“Look, just because I’m Scandinavian doesn’t mean I — ”

“Yes.” The Secretary of Defence’s younger assistant materialised at that moment from a nearby rack of books. “On the South-eastern side of Iceland. The entire world’s aware of it. From reading new governmental research, I think it’s the seventh Supervolcano in existence.”

“The most famous one being at Yellowstone Park,” Ben said.

“But is a Supervolcano such a threat?” Drake asked. “Or is that another Hollywood myth?”

Both Ben and the Secretary’s assistant nodded. “The term ‘extinction of the species’ is not overused in this context,” the assistant said. “Research tells us that two previous eruptions of supervolcanoes are coincident with the two largest mass extinction events that have ever occurred on our planet. The second, of course, being the dinosaurs.”

“How coincident?” Drake asked.

“So close that if it happened once, you’d wonder about it. But twice? Come on…”

“Damn.”

Ben held his hands in the air. “Look, we’re getting distracted here. What we need is loadsa crap on Odin.” He highlighted several titles on the screen. “That, that, and woah¸ definitely that. The Voluspa — where Odin tells of his visits with the Seeress.”

“Visits?” Drake made a face. “Viking porn, eh?”

The assistant leaned over Ben and clicked a few buttons, entered a password, and typed a line. Her pantsuit was the opposite of Kennedy’s, designed to tastefully enhance her figure rather than conceal it. Ben’s eyes went wide, his troubles momentarily forgotten.

Drake mouthed: “Wasted talent.”

Ben gave him the finger just as the assistant stood up. Luckily she didn’t see him. “They will be brought to you within five minutes,” she said.

“Thank you, Miss.” Drake hesitated. “Sorry, I don’t know your name.”

“Call me Hayden,” she said.

The books were deposited next to Ben a few minutes later, and he immediately chose the one titled Voluspa. He leafed through the pages like a man possessed; like an animal smelling blood. Dahl chose another volume, Drake a third. Hayden sat close to Ben, studying the text with him.

And then Ben cried out “Eureka! I’ve got it! The missing link. It’s Heidi! Bloody Heidi! This book follows — quote ‘the travels of Odin’s beloved Seeress — Heidi’.”

“Like the children’s book?” Dahl obviously remembered his school days.

Drake just looked blank. “Eh? I’m more of a Heidi Klum type of guy.”

“Yes, the children’s book! I suppose the legend of Heidi, and the story of her travels must have integrated itself from Norse Saga into Scandinavian myth through the years, and then a writer from Switzerland decided to use the fairy-tale as a base for a kid’s book.”

“Well, what does it say?” Drake felt his heart beat faster.

Ben read for a second. “Oh, it says a lot,” he rushed on. “It says damn well everything.”

TWENTY-TWO

Kennedy Moore sat staring at her PC screen, seeing nothing, and thought about how when you ground life down beneath your heel it was basically just a tennis ball, served by a master. A bit of backspin changed your destiny, some unexpected sidespin sent you into a spiral of self-destruction, then a few days of topspin propelled you right back into the game.

She’d been feeling upbeat on the drive into New York, even better after the museum madness. She’d been feeling good about herself, and maybe even a little bit good about Matt Drake.

How perverse, she’d told herself. But then, didn’t someone once say that out of great hardship comes great progress? Something like that.

Then the Professor was kidnapped. Ben Blake’s sister was abducted. And Kennedy had walked towards that mobile HQ with determination, head straight and fully in the game again, her thoughts focused on making sense of the turmoil.

Then, as she went to start climbing the steps, Lipkind materialised from the crowd and stopped her short.

“Captain?”

“Hey, Moore. We need to talk.”

“Come inside,” Kennedy motioned towards the HQ, “we could do with the help.”

“Uh, uh. No. This is not about the museum, Moore. Cruiser’s this way.”

He moved off through the crowd, stiff back now facing her like a silent accusation. Kennedy had to hurry to catch up.

“What… what’s happened, Captain?”

“Get in.”

The cruiser was empty except for the two of them. The street-noise was dulled, the world-shattering events outside now locked further away than a party-hopping socialite’s virtue.

Kennedy half-turned in her seat to face Lipkind. “Don’t tell me… please don’t tell me…” the catch in her throat made Lipkind’s stern expression slip, telling her everything before the words had fallen out of his mouth.

But fall they did, and each word was a drop of venom in her already blackened soul.

“Kaleb struck again. We had a month’s grace — then yesterday afternoon we got the call. Girl… ahh… girl from Nevada,” his voice thickened. “New to the city. Student.”

“No. Please…”

“I wanted you to know now, before you heard some rat-fuck kinda way.”

“No.”

“I’m sorry, Moore.”

“I want back in. Let me come back, Lipkind. Let me in.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I can help you. It’s my job. My life.”

Lipkind was chewing his bottom lip, a sure sign of stress. “Not yet. Even if I wanted to, the Brass wouldn’t approve. You know that.”

“Do I? Since when would I know the thoughts of politicians? Everyone in politics is a bastard, Lipkind, and since when did they do the right thing?”

“Ya got me,” Lipkind’s growl betrayed his heart. “But orders, as they say, is orders. And mine ain’t been changed.”

“Lipkind, this is… ruining me.”

He swallowed drily. “Give it time. You’ll be back.”

“It’s not me I care about, dammit! It’s his fucking victims! Their families!”

“So do I, Moore. Believe me.”

After a moment she said: “Where?” It was all she could do, all she could ask, all she could think about.

“Moore. You ain’t gotta pay no penance here. Ain’t your fault this psycho’s a fuckin’ psycho.”

“Where?”

Lipkind knew what she needed and told her the place.

Open building site. Three blocks south of Ground Zero. Developer by the name of Silke Holdings.

Kennedy found the site in twenty minutes, noted the fluttering crime-scene tape on the fourth floor of the open shell, and sent the cab away. She stood before the building, staring up with spiritless eyes. The place was deserted — still an active crime-scene — but it was getting late on Saturday, and the incident was over twenty-four hours old.

Kennedy kicked at the rubble, then let herself onto the construction site. She followed an open flight of concrete stairs up the side of the building to the fourth floor, and walked out on to the concrete slab.

A strong breeze tugged at her loose blouse. If her hair hadn’t been scraped back with a heavy-duty band it would have thrashed around as if possessed. Three views of New York opened up before her, rattling her vertigo, a condition she’d had all her life but had strangely only just remembered.

Yet she had climbed Yggdrasil, the World Tree.

No vertigo then.

It reminded her of the Odin case and of Matt Drake in particular. She wanted to return to it, to him, but wasn’t sure she had the balls.

She ventured out across the dusty slab, avoiding heaps of rubble and contractors’ tools. The wind tugged at her sleeves, at her pants, making them billow because of the excess material. She stopped near to where Lipkind had described the body’s location. Contrary to popular TV, bodies are not marked out in chalk — they are photographed, then its exact location measured from various fixed points.

Anyway, she just needed to be close. To bend down, to fall to her knees, close her eyes and pray.

And it all rushed back. Like the fall of the Devil from heaven. Like the making of an archangel, everything flashed through her mind. The moment she’d seen Chuck Walker pocketing a slab of dirty money. The crash of the Judge’s gavel proclaiming his guilt. The dead stares of her colleagues, the obscene drawings that started appearing on her locker — attached to the hood of her car — fixed to her apartment door.

The letter she’d received from the serial killer where he thanked her for all her help.

She needed to do penance for the new murder she had helped Thomas Kaleb commit.

She needed to seek forgiveness from the dead and the grieving.

TWENTY-THREE

“This thing’s more revealing than Britney,” Ben was rushing his words with choked excitement. “It says — ‘Whilst he is on the World Tree, a Volva reveals to Odin that she knows many of his secrets. That he sacrificed himself on Yggdrasil in pursuit of knowledge. That he fasted for nine days and nine nights for the same end. She tells him she knows where his Eyes are hidden, and how he gave them up in exchange for even more knowledge.”

“Odin the Wise,” Dahl interrupted. “Parnevik said he was always considered to be the wisest of all Gods.”

Drake muttered: “Revealing your secrets to a woman is never wise.”

Ben sent him an eye-roll. “Odin fasted on the World Tree for nine days and nine nights with a Spear thrust through his side, like Christ on the cross. Heidi says that in his delirium Odin told her where his companions were hidden. And where his Shield was hidden. And that his Spear should stay there. And that he wanted her to scatter his companions — his Pieces — and lay his body in the Tomb.”

Ben grinned at Drake, wide-eyed. “I may not have completed my quest for the fabled clitoris, my friend, but my work here is done.”

Then Ben remembered where he was, and the woman who stood beside him. He gripped the bridge of his nose. “Damn and bollocks.”

Dahl didn’t bat an eyelid. “To my knowledge — which extends only to what I bothered to listen to as Parnevik lectured — is that Volvas, like Egyptian Pharaohs, were always buried in the richest graves with many valuables beside them. Horses, wagons, gifts from faraway lands.”

Hayden appeared to be hiding a smirk. “If we follow your story logically through its entire course, Mr Blake, then I guess Heidi’s so-called travels are in fact an explanation of where all the Pieces of Odin were scattered…or hidden.”

“Call me… Ben. Yes, Ben. And yes, you are right. Of course.”

Drake helped his friend out. “Not that it matters now. All the Pieces have been found, except for the Valkyries and…” he paused.

“The Eyes.” Ben said with an intense smile. “If we can find the Eyes we can stop this and grab ourselves a bargaining chip for Karin.”

Drake, Dahl, and Hayden remained tight-lipped. Drake eventually said: “The Valkyries must be out there too, Blakey. Can you find out where they were discovered? There has to be some old newspaper account or something.”

“Heidi devised the legend and the Ragnarok thing,” Ben was still musing, lost in his research. “Odin must have tutored her before he died at Ragnarok.”

Drake motioned Dahl and Hayden aside with a nod of the head. “The Valkyries,” he said to them. “You remember the complete lack of information, and thus the possible criminal angle? Any chance Interpol can get together with the CIA and give it a shot?”

“I’ll go authorise it now,” Hayden said. “And I’ll follow up on the investigation our IT techs have been carrying out on the Germans. Like your cute little friend here almost says — electronic trails should lead us to them.”

“Cute?” Drake smiled at her. “He’s more than that. DIP in photography. Lead singer in a band. Family man, and… ” he shrugged, “yes… my friend.”

She leaned in close, said: “He can take my picture any time,” then laughed lightly and walked away. Drake started after her, both puzzled and pleasantly surprised. He’d been wrong about her. Christ, she was harder to read than Kennedy.

Drake prided himself on his judge of character. Was he slipping? Had the civilian years made him go soft?

A voice spoke in his ear, making his heart leap. “What’s that?”

Kennedy!

“Crap!” He jumped, and tried to disguise his little leap in the air as a routine stretching of the limbs.

The New York cop read him like a book. “I’d heard the SAS have never been ambushed in enemy territory. Guess you were never part of that team, huh?”

“What’s what?” Ben asked distractedly, in answer to her question.

“That?” Kennedy leant forward and tapped the side of the monitor, indicating a tiny icon hidden among a jumble of manuscript symbols.

Ben frowned. “Dunno. Looks like a picture icon.”

As Kennedy straightened herself, her hair came free of its bindings and fell across her shoulders. Drake watched it cascade down to the small of her back.

“Woah. That’s a lot of hair.”

“Can it, freak.”

Ben double-clicked the picture icon. The screen transformed into text, its bold title leaping out at them. Odin and the Seeress, arrayed at Ragnarok. And beneath that, a few old lines of explanatory text.

This painting, by Lorenzo Bakke in 1795, impounded from the private collection of John Dillinger in 1934, is believed to be based on an older image and shows the Norse God Odin’s companions laid out in peculiar order in the place where Odin died — the mythical battlefield of Ragnarok. His favoured Seeress looks on and weeps.

Without a word Ben clicked again, and the painting materialised before them.

“My God!” Ben murmured. “Well done.”

Kennedy said, “It’s a blueprint… of how to arrange the Pieces.”

TWENTY-FOUR

“Let’s get some copies made.” Ever cautious, Drake took a few quick snaps with his phone. Ben had tutored him to keep a good, workable camera handy at all times and this was unforeseen pay-dirt. “All we need now are the Valkyries, the Eyes and a map to Ragnarok.” He stopped abruptly, jabbed by a splinter of memory.

Ben said: “What?”

“Not sure. Damn. A memory. Maybe something we’ve seen these last few days, but we’ve seen so much I can’t narrow it down.”

Dahl said: “Well, Drake. Maybe you were right. It could be that a modern-day Dillinger has an interesting private collection of his own.”

“Look here,” Ben read on. “It says that this painting is unique, a fact unrealised until the early 1960’s, whereupon it was included in a Norse Mythology exhibition and sent on a short world tour. After that, and with waning interest, the painting was locked in the museum’s vault and… well, forgotten about. Until today.”

“Good job we brought along a cop.” Drake was making an attempt to boost Kennedy’s self-esteem, still unsure where her head was at after New York.

Kennedy began to tie her hair back, then hesitated. After a moment she jammed her hands in her pockets, as if trying to trap them. Drake tapped her on the shoulder. “So, how about you go get that painting and bring it here. There might be something we can’t see from a photo. My old mate Dahl and me’s gonna check out the shady side of art collecting. Shake a few trees.” He paused, grinning. “More trees.”

Kennedy groaned before walking away.

Dahl fixed him with narrowed eyes. “So. Where do we start?”

“We start with the Valkyries,” Drake said. “Once our friendly munchkin here tells us where and when they were discovered, we can try tracking them.”

“Detective work?” Dahl asked. “But you just sent our best detective away.”

“She needs physical distraction right now, not mental. She’s frayed enough.”

Ben spoke up. “Good guess, Matt. The Valkyries were discovered amongst other great riches in the grave of a Viking Seeress, a Volva, in 1945, in Sweden.”

“Heidi’s grave?” Drake ventured.

“Had to have been. Damn good way to hide one of the Pieces. Get your minions to bury it with you after you’re dead.”

“Fire that article across to the other PC.” Drake and Dahl sat down next to each other with an air of uneasiness.

The clock was still ticking, Drake knew. For Karin. For Parnevik. For their enemies, and for the entire world. He pecked furiously at the machine, running through the museum’s archives and trying to find out when the Valkyries disappeared from the inventory.

“You suspect an inside job?” Dahl immediately saw where he was going.

“Best guess — lowly-paid museum guard or entrapped curator… something like that. They’d have waited until the Valkyries were demoted to the vault perhaps, and then quietly shipped them out. No one realises for years, if at all.”

“Or a robbery,” Dahl shrugged. “Christ, man, we’ve got over sixty years to trawl through.” He fingered the wedding band he’d slipped back on since they entered the Library. Drake paused for a second. “Wife?”

“And kids.”

“Miss ‘em?”

“Every second.”

“Good. Maybe you’re not quite the prick I thought you were.”

“Fuck you, Drake.”

“More like it. No robberies that I can see. But look here — the Valkyries went on tour in 1991, as part of the Swedish Heritage Trust’s public relations campaign. By 1992 they were missing from the Museum’s catalogue. What does that tell you?”

Dahl pursed his lips. “That someone connected with the tour decided to steal them?”

“Or… someone who viewed them on tour decided to!”

“Okay, that’s more likely.” Dahl’s head was bobbing. “So where did the tour go?” His fingers tapped four times on the screen. “England. New York. Hawaii. Australia.”

“That really narrows it down,” Drake said sarcastically. “Damn.”

“No, wait,” Dahl exclaimed. “It does. The theft of the Valkyries had to be smooth, right? Well-planned, well-executed. Perfect. That still reeks of criminal involvement.”

“If you were any sharper you’d…”

“Listen! In the early ‘90’s the Serbian Mafia started to dig its claws into Sweden’s underbelly. In less than a decade extortion crimes doubled, and, as of now, there are dozens of organised gangs throughout the country. Some call themselves Bandidos. Others, like a chapter of the Hell’s Angels, are just biker gangs.”

“You’re saying the Serbian Mafia have the Valkyries?”

“No. I’m saying they engineered their theft and subsequent sale, for money. They’re the only ones with the connections to pull it off. These people are into everything, not just extortion. International smuggling wouldn’t be above them.”

“Okay. So how do we find out who they sold them to?”

Dahl unhooked his phone. “We don’t. But at least three of the older kingpins now sit behind bars near Oslo.” He moved off to make a call.

Drake rubbed his eyes and leaned back. He checked his watch and was shocked to see it was almost 6 A.M. When had they last slept? He looked around as Hayden returned.

The Defence Secretary’s pretty assistant looked downcast. “Sorry, you guys. No luck with the Germans.”

Ben’s head whipped around, the strain telling. “None?”

“Not yet. I’m sorry.”

“But how? This guy has to be somewhere.” Tears filled his eyes and he locked them on Drake. “Doesn’t he?”

“Yes, mate, he does. Trust me, we will find him.” He grabbed his friend in a bear hug, his eyes pleading with Hayden to make the breakthrough. “We need to take a breather and get a proper breakfast,” he said, his Yorkshire twang shining through.

Hayden shook her head at him as if he’d just spoken Japanese.

TWENTY-FIVE

Alicia Myles watched the multi-billionaire, Colby Taylor, as he sat on the expansive floor of one of the many apartments he owned, this particular one twenty-two flights above Las Vegas Boulevard. One entire wall was glass, giving a fantastic view of the Bellagio fountains and the golden lights of the Eiffel Tower.

Colby Taylor didn’t give it a second glance. He was enwrapped in his latest acquirement, Odin’s Wolves, which he’d spent two hours carefully piecing together. Alicia prowled over to him, stripped her clothes off one by one until she was naked, and then got down on all fours until her eyes were level with his, a foot off the ground.

Power and danger were the two things that got her off. The power of Colby Taylor — megalomaniac extraordinaire — and the danger from the delicious knowledge that her boyfriend, Milo, that big, powerful bruiser from Vegas, actually loved her.

“You going to take a break, boss?” she asked breathily. “Bareback me. No extra charge.”

Taylor looked her over. “Alicia,” he said, taking ten dollars out of his wallet. “We both know it’d turn you on more if I paid.” He forced the bill between her teeth before taking up position behind her.

Alicia flung her head high, almost slavering, taking in the glittering lights of the Strip as they spread out before her. “Take your time. If you can.”

“How’s it going with Parnevik?” Taylor enunciated his question with grunts.

“Soon as you are done,” Alicia answered in her clipped English tones. “I’m going to break him in two.”

“Information is power, Myles. We… need to know what they know. The… Spear. All the rest of it. We’re ahead, for now. But the Valkyries and the Eyes — they are the… real prizes.”

Alicia tuned it out. The droning. The grunting. The obsessing. She lived for two things — danger and money. She had the skills and the charm to take whatever she wanted, which she did every day, without thought or regret. Her days in the SAS had been mere preparation. Her missions in Afghanistan and Lebanon had been simple homework.

This was her play, her means to self-sufficiency. This time with Colby Taylor and his army was fun, but soon the Germans would offer the big pay day — Abel Frey represented real-world power, not Colby Taylor. Mix that with the heady danger of having the ever-loving Milo close-by, and she saw nothing but fabulous fireworks on her horizon.

She gazed over the Strip, recognising the ultimate power in those flashing lights and grand casinos, and took the small distractions Colby Taylor had to offer, all the while thinking about Matt Drake and the woman she’d seen him with.

She entered the guest bedroom of the apartment to find Professor Roland Parnevik tied spread-eagled to the bed exactly as she’d left him. With Taylor’s heat still glowing between her thighs and a flush in her cheeks, she cried Geronimo! and jumped onto the mattress to land beside the old man.

She bounced on her knees and ripped the silver duct-tape off his lips. “You heard us, didn’t you, Prof? Course you did.” Her gaze strayed to his groin. “Still some life down there, old man? Need a hand?”

She laughed maniacally, and bounced off the bed. The Professor’s terrified eyes followed her every power-hungry move, firing her ego, spurring her to wilder displays. She danced, she twirled, she turned coy.

But, ultimately, she sat herself on the old man’s chest, causing his breathing to labour, and brandished a pair of rose-cutters.

“Finger-chopping time,” she said gaily. “I like my torture as I like my sex — one inch at a time. And the longer it lasts, the better. Seriously, pal, I’m just here for the blood and the mayhem.”

“What… what do you want to… know?” Parnevik’s Swedish accent was thick with fear.

“Tell me about Matt Drake, and the whore who helps him.”

“Drake? I… I don’t understand… do you not want — Odin?”

“I don’t give a dry fuck about all that Norse crap. I’m in this for the sheer violent excitement of it all.” She clacked the rose-cutters rapidly near the tip of his nose.

“Umm… Drake is — was — SAS, I heard. He became involved by… by accident.”

Alicia felt ice wash over her. She shuffled carefully up Parnevik’s body, positioned both blades around his nose, and squeezed until a trickle of blood appeared.

“I sense you stalling, old man.”

“No! No! Please!” Now his accent was so thick and distorted by the pressure on his nose that she could barely understand the words. She giggled. “You sound like that chef from The Muppets. Blah, blah, bla-bla-bla, blah blah.”

“His wife — she left him. Blame SAS!” Parnevik blurted, and rolled his eyes in terror. “His friend has a sister who help us! The woman — she is Kennedy Moore, police, from New York. She set free serial killer!”

Alicia wiggled the blades nastily. “Better. Much better, Prof. What else?”

“She… she is on… umm… holiday. No. Forced holiday. You see, the serial killer — he killed again.”

“Jeez, Prof, you’re starting to turn me on.”

“Please. I can tell Drake is a good man!”

Alicia withdrew the rose-cutters. “Well, he certainly comes across that way. But I got bloody with him in the SRT, not you. I know what haunts that bastard.”

There was a shout and a bang, and then Colby Taylor thrust his head through the door. “Myles! I just got a call from our ally in the Swedish government. They’ve figured out where the Valkyries are. We need to hurry. Now!”

Alicia took the rose cutters and snipped off the tip of the old man’s finger.

Just because she could.

And whilst he screamed and writhed, she straddled his back and stuck him with a jet-injector, a needle-free syringe, delivering a miniscule tracker just under his skin.

Plan B, Alicia thought, her soldier training still running strong.

TWENTY-SIX

When Torsten Dahl’s mobile rang, Drake’s mouth was full of blueberry muffin. He gulped it down with fresh coffee, listening expectantly.

“Yes, Statsminister.” After that surprise, the rest of Dahl’s side of the conversation was bland, a series of ‘I sees’ and affirmations and respectful silences. At the end there was an ‘I will not let you down, sir,’ which sounded a little ominous to Drake.

“Well?”

“My government has had to promise one of these Serbian scumbags a reduction in prison time in exchange for help, but we do have confirmation.” Drake could tell that under Dahl’s conservative exterior there was a man wanting to rejoice.

“And?”

“Not yet. Let’s get everyone together.” In a few moments Ben had been dragged away from the laptop screen, Hayden was perched within an inch of his elbow, and Kennedy was standing expectantly beside Drake, long hair still unfettered.

Dahl took a breath. “Short version — the leader of Sweden’s Serbian Mafia in the nineties — a man currently in our custody — gave the Valkyries to his U.S counterpart as a gesture of goodwill. So, Davor Babic received the Valkyries in 1994. In 1999 Davor stepped down as leader of the Mafia and passed control over to his son, Blanka, retiring to the place he loved more than anywhere in the world — even his homeland.”

Dahl paused for a moment. “Hawaii.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

Abel Frey stared from his top-floor apartment window down at the millions of tiny ants scurrying along the pavements below. Unlike ants though, these people were pointless, aimless, lacking the imagination to see beyond their miniscule lives. The term ‘headless chickens’, he imagined, had been coined by a man standing at this very height, whilst he surveyed the disenchanted cesspool that was humanity.

Frey had long since set his fantasies free. A much younger version of him had learned that being able to do anything made everything boring. You had to come up with new, more diverse and entertaining pursuits.

Hence the battle arena. Hence the fashion business — initially a way to own beautiful women, then a front for an International smuggling ring, now a way to conceal his interest in the Tomb of the Gods.

His life’s work.

The Shield was flawless, a work of art, and, in addition to the coded map carved into its convex surface, he’d recently discovered a cryptic sentence inscribed around its upper rim. His pet archaeologist was hard at work on it. And his pet scientist was trying to figure out another recent surprise — the Shield was formed of a curious material, not an obvious metal but something more substantial, yet startlingly light. Frey was both happy and frustrated to find that there was even more to the mystery of Odin than he had first imagined.

His frustration came from the lack of time to study it. Especially now he was part of this international race. How he would have loved to retire everyone back to La Verein, and, whilst the improper socialites partied, he and a few select others would analyse the mysteries of the Gods.

Then he grinned to the empty room. An analysis always had to be punctuated with a few precious moments of uncouth respite. Maybe set a couple of male models against each other in the arena, offer them a way out. Better still, pit a few of his captives against each other. Their ignorance and desperation always offered up a better spectacle.

His e-mail pinged. A video-feed came up on the screen, showing the new girl, Karin Blake, sitting on her bed in chains.

“At last.” Frey got his first look at her. The Blake woman had marked every one of the three mercenaries he’d sent to abduct her, one quite viciously. She was highly intelligent, quite a catch, and she’d just been locked in her little prison back at La Verein to await Frey’s arrival.

Fresh meat for his delectation. From the blood of innocents — his eternal bliss. She was his property now. She sported short-cropped blonde hair, a nice fringe, and a pair of wide eyes — though Frey couldn’t be sure of the colour at this pixel quality. Nice body — not the skinniness of a model; more curvy, which would no doubt appeal to the lower masses.

He tapped her digitised face. “Be home soon, my little…”

At that moment the door burst open and the brute Milo came through, cell-phone brandished in one hand. “It’s her,” he cried. “Alicia!” There was a goofy grin on his idiotic face.

Frey kept his emotions hidden. “Ja? Halo? Yes, tell me. That last Piece in New York, it should have been mine.” He didn’t trust the English bitch one bit.

He listened to her, smiling when she explained where they should head to next, frowning when he heard that the Swedes and their companions were already en route, and then he couldn’t help but beam when she promised that soon he would hold both of the Canadians’ Pieces in his hands.

Then he’d be able to figure out that odd writing around the edges of the Shield, and to see if the other Pieces were fashioned from the same rare material. Then he’d have three Pieces and the upper hand.

“You are, if nothing else, resourceful,” he said into the phone, whilst staring at Milo. “I look forward to using that resourcefulness when we meet, soon.” He hadn’t speared an English rose in quite some time.

Frey smirked on the inside when Milo’s eyes lit up at the thought of being reunited with his girlfriend. Alicia’s reply still echoed through his brain.

Any way you like, sir.

TWENTY-EIGHT

On September 12^th the midday sun over Hawaii was obscured by a dark rain of ‘jellyfish’ parachutes — the signature chute of the American military. In a unique operation, Delta commandos landed amidst Swedish SGG and British SAS — and one New York cop — on a remote beach at the north side of the island.

Drake hit the beach at a run, the sand cushioning his landing, clicked free of the dragging chute, and turned quickly to check Kennedy’s progress. She landed amidst a couple of Delta boys, falling to one knee but soon regaining her feet.

Ben would stay with the aircraft, continuing his research with the help of Hayden, who had been sent as a U.S. ‘advisor’ on the mission.

In Drake’s experience, advisors were usually better trained versions of their bosses — spies in sheep’s clothing so to speak.

They ran across the beach under the hot Hawaiian sun, thirty highly trained special-forces soldiers, before hitting a gentle slope with the advantage of a tree-lined canopy.

Here Torsten Dahl stopped them. “You know the drill. Quiet and hard. Vault room’s the target. Go!”

The decision had been made to hit the ex-Serbian Mafia leader’s mansion with maximum force. Time was horribly against them — their rivals might also know the location of the Valkyries by now, and to get the upper hand in this race was vital.

And during his term of leadership Davor Babic had not been a merciful man.

They topped the slope and ran across a road, straight up to Babic’s private gate. Not even the breeze stirred against them. A charge was set, and in under a minute the high wrought-iron gates were tumbling pieces of metal. They charged through the gates and spread out through the grounds. Drake sheltered behind a thick palm tree, studying an open lawn that led to a massive set of marble-lined steps. At their summit was the entrance to Babic’s mansion. To either side were a bizarre array of statues and Hawaiian cultural treasures, even a Moai figure from Easter Island.

No activity yet.

The Serbian Mafia retiree was fatally complacent.

An SAS man, his face half-hidden, slid in beside Drake.

“Greetings, old pal. Nice day, eh? Love that direct sunlight on the lenses. Wells sends his regards.”

“Where is the old wanker?” Drake didn’t take his eyes off the garden.

“Says he’ll get in touch later. Something about you owing him some Mai-time.”

“Dirty old bastard.”

“Who’s Mai?” Kennedy asked. She had scraped her hair back again, and wore a shapeless army uniform over her pantsuit. She carried a pair of Glocks.

Drake, as usual, carried no weapons, save for his special-forces knife.

The new SAS guy said: “Old flame of Drake’s here. More importantly, who’re you?”

“C’mon guys. Focus here. We’re about to launch one of the biggest civilian assaults in history.”

“Civilian?” Kennedy frowned. “If this guy’s a civilian then I’m Claudia Schiffer’s ass.”

The Delta team was already at the steps. Drake stepped out of cover the moment they started up and raced across the open ground. When he was halfway across the shouting began.

Figures appeared at the top of the steps, variously dressed in suits and boxer-shorts and cut-off T-shirts.

Six brief shots rang out. Six bodies dropped lifelessly down the steps. The Delta team was halfway up. Urgent shouting was now coming from up ahead as Drake reached the bottom of the steps and crabbed to the right where the curving stone banister afforded a bit more cover.

A shot rang out, loud, meaning it came from the Serbs. Drake turned to check on Kennedy once more, then double-stepped to the top.

Beyond, a short expanse of gravel led to the mansion’s entrance which lay between the two halves of an H-shaped building. Armed men were filing out of the open doors, and from the flapping French doors to either side of the entrance.

Dozens of them.

Caught napping — but quick to regroup. Maybe not so complacent after all. Drake saw what was coming and took cover among the odd collection of statues. He ended up pulling Kennedy behind the Easter Island figure.

A second later, machine-gun fire erupted. The shaken guards laid curtains of lead in every direction. Drake dropped to his belly as several bullets hit the statue with dull thuds.

The guards came running forward. This was hired muscle, chosen more for their brawny stupidity than intellectual prowess. They ran straight into the Delta boys’ careful lines of fire, and fell writhing amidst hails of blood.

Glass shattered behind them.

More shots were fired from windows around the mansion. A luckless Delta soldier caught a bullet in the neck and fell instantly dead.

Two of the guards had blundered amongst the statues, one of them slightly wounded. Drake unsheathed his blade in silence and waited for one of them to step around the statue.

The last thing the wounded Serb saw was his own spraying blood as Drake slashed his throat. Kennedy fired at the second Serb, missed, then dived for cover as he raised a weapon.

The hammer clicked on empty.

Kennedy rose. Empty weapon or not, there was still an angry opponent facing her. The guard swung a haymaker, muscles flexing.

Kennedy stepped out of range, then leapt forward as his momentum left him exposed. A swift kick to the groin and an elbow to the back of the neck sent him crashing to the ground. He rolled, a blade suddenly in his hand, and slashed in a wide arc. Kennedy jerked back just enough to let the deadly tip pass her cheek before jabbing her stiffened fingers into his windpipe.

She heard soft cartilage break, heard him start to gasp.

She turned away. He was done for. She had no wish to watch him die.

Drake stood watching. “Not bad.”

“Maybe you’ll stop mollycoddling me now.”

“I wouldn’t-” he stopped short. Had he? He covered his shame with manly bluster. “Nothing like watching a woman with a gun.”

“Never mind.” Kennedy crept behind a totem-pole, another of the mansion’s incongruous features, and surveyed the scene.

“We’re splitting up,” she told him. “You’re going to find the vault room. I’m going round back.”

He made a reasonable job of hiding his hesitation. “You sure?”

“Hey, bucko, I’m the cop here remember? You’re the civilian. Do as you’re told.”

Drake watched Kennedy creep off to the right, heading towards the rear of the mansion where satellite surveillance had shown a Helipad and several low-slung buildings. The SAS team had been deployed there already, and would be infiltrating it at that very moment.

He found his eyes lingering on her form, his brain suddenly wishing that the clothes she wore showed her ass off.

Shock jarred him. Humility and uncertainty joined forces in his head, causing a maelstrom of self-doubt. Two years since Alyson left, over seven hundred days of instability. Unfamiliar depths of constant inebriation, followed by bankruptcy, and then the slow, slow rise back to normality.

Not even there yet. Nowhere near.

Was it his vulnerability talking?

Plan B.

The job at hand. Try to regain that military focus and leave the damn civilian stuff behind for a while. He relieved both guards of their weapons, and sneaked through the statues until he stood at the edge of the gravel driveway. He noted three targets at three different windows, and fired off three bursts in quick succession.

Two screams and a yell. Not bad. When the surviving head popped back out, searching for his position, Drake reduced it to a red haze.

Then he ran, only skidding on his knees to a halt right up against the mansion’s exterior, his head against the rough stonework. He glanced back towards the Delta team as it rushed to catch up with him. Nodded at their leader.

“Straight through.” Drake nodded at the door, then to the right. “Vault room.”

They filed inside, Drake last, hugging the curve of the wall. A wide, wrought-iron staircase spiralled up before them to the mansion’s second level.

As they crept along the wall, more Serbs emerged along the upstairs balcony, right above them. In an instant, the Delta team had made themselves sitting ducks.

With nowhere to go, Drake fell to his knees and opened fire.

Kennedy sprinted to the tree-line that bordered the mansion’s exterior wall and started to move faster. In no time she had reached the back of the house, whereupon a faceless SAS soldier fell on his belly before her.

Like a rabbit she stood still, mesmerized by the barrel of the rifle. For the first time in months all thoughts of Thomas Kaleb deserted her.

“Shit!”

“It’s okay,” a voice said next to her right ear. She sensed the cold blade only millimetres away. “It’s Drake’s bird.”

The comment swept away her fear. “Drake’s bird? I am not!”

A man moved in front of her, smiling. “Well then, in the words of your President, Miss Moore — whatever. I would prefer to properly introduce myself, but this is not the time or place. Call me Wells.”

Kennedy recognised the name, but said no more as a large team of British soldiers materialised around her and began to make tracks. The rear of Babic’s property comprised an immense patio lined with Indian stone, an Olympic-size swimming pool surrounded by sun-loungers and white pavilions, and several squat, ugly buildings out-of-keeping with the rest of the decor. Situated next to the largest building was a round Helipad, complete with civilian chopper.

After years of walking the New York beat, Kennedy had to question then whether crime did, in fact, pay. It paid for these guys, and Kaleb. It would have paid for Chuck Walker if Kennedy hadn’t seen him pocketing that wad.

The sun-loungers had been occupied. Several half-naked men and women now stood around in shock, clutching clothes and trying to cover excess flesh. Kennedy noted that some of the older men couldn’t have managed it with a hippopotamus hide, whilst most of the younger women took care of it with just two hands and a twist to the left.

“Those people… let’s call them guests… are probably not a part of the Serbian group,” Wells said softly into a throat mic. “Move them away,” he nodded to the three lead men. “The rest of you head for the seaward side of those buildings.”

As the group began to split, several things happened at once. The chopper’s rotor blades started rotating; the sounds of its engines immediately overpowered the shouts of those nearby. Then, a deep rumbling, like the sound of a roller-shutter door preceded the sudden scream of a powerful automobile. From around the seaward side of the ugly buildings came a white streak of metal, an Audi R8 accelerating at top speed.

By the time it reached the patio area it was a lethal ton bullet. It ploughed into the stunned SAS men, sending them sprawling and tumbling through the air. Behind it came another car, this one black and larger.

The chopper’s blades began to rotate faster, its engines screaming. The whole machine shook as it prepared to take off.

Kennedy, dazed, could only listen as Wells barked orders. She winced as the remaining SAS soldiers opened fire.

All hell broke loose in the garden.

Soldiers fired on the speeding Audi R8, bullets struck through its metal casing, penetrating the wing and door skins. The car raced for the corner of the house, slewing at the last minute to make the tight turn.

Gravel shot from under its tyres like tiny missiles.

A bullet smashed the windshield, obliterating it. The car literally died in mid-flight, its engine quieting as the driver slumped behind the wheel.

Kennedy ran forward, gun up. “Don’t move!”

Before she reached the car it was obvious that the driver was its lone occupant.

Decoy.

The helicopter was two feet off the ground, spinning slowly. An SAS soldier shouted, but without any real venom in his voice. The second car, a black four-door Cadillac, was now barrelling alongside the huge pool, its tyres spewing tidal waves of water in all directions. The windows were blacked out. No way to tell who was inside.

A third motor started up, this one currently out of sight.

Soldiers fired on the Caddy, taking out its tyres and the driver with three shots. The car skidded, its rear end crashing into the pool. Wells and three other soldiers ran towards it, shouting. Kennedy kept an eye on the chopper, but, like the Caddy, its windows were opaque.

This was all part of some elaborate escape plan, Kennedy guessed. But where was the real Davor Babic?

The chopper started to rise higher. The SAS finally got tired of warnings and shot out its rear rotary propeller. The monstrous machine started to spin, and then a man knelt underneath it with a grenade-launcher steadied.

Wells reached the Caddy. Two shots were fired. Kennedy heard on the mic that Babic was still at large. Now the third car shot around the corner, engine screaming like a Formula 1 racer, but this thing was a Bentley, big and brash, its presence screaming get the hell outta my way!

Kennedy leapt into the trees. Several soldiers followed her. Wells spun and fired three quick shots that bounced right off the side-windows.

Bullet-proof glass!

“That’s the wanker!”

The words were uttered a split-second too late to save the chopper — the grenade had been fired — its explosive charge detonating against the chopper’s underbelly. The chopper burst apart, sending shards of metal blasting everywhere. The mangled chunk of wrecked steel crashed straight down into the pool, displacing thousands of gallons of water with immense force.

Kennedy waited until the monster Bentley shot past her, then took off in pursuit. Swift deduction told her there was but a single chance to catch the fleeing Serb.

Wells saw it at the same time, and leapt into action. The R8 was totalled, but the Caddy was still serviceable, its wheels resting only an inch underwater on the pool’s marble steps.

Wells and two of his soldiers ran for the Caddy. Kennedy took off in hot pursuit, determined to get a seat. At that moment there was an uncanny fizz of air as if a whirlwind had blown by and suddenly the corner of Babic’s house exploded.

“Christ!” Wells hit the dirt as even his calm was destroyed. Rubble burst in all directions, raining down into the pool and on the patio. Kennedy staggered. She turned her head towards the cliffs.

A black helicopter hovered there, a figure waving through its open door.

“Did you like that?”

Wells raised his head. “Alicia Myles? What in God’s name are you doing?”

“Could’ve taken even your tiny bollocks off with that shot you old fuckhead. You owe me.” Alicia laughed as the chopper rose for a moment before swinging around in pursuit of the Bentley.

The Canadians were here.

Drake rolled forward an instant before the wall behind him turned into Swiss-cheese. At least one bullet passed so close he heard its sonic whine. He somersaulted forward to gain the ground underneath the balcony at the same time as most of the Delta team. Once there, he aimed upwards and opened fire.

As expected, the balcony floor was relatively weak. The firing stopped up there and the screams began.

The Delta commander signalled to his left in the direction of the vault. They ran quickly through two grandly furnished but empty rooms. The commander motioned a halt outside one that satellite surveillance had forewarned them sported something a little special — a hidden, underground room.

Flash-bangs were thrown inside, followed by the American soldiers, crazy-shouting to enhance the disorientation effect. Immediately though, there were half-a-dozen Serb guards grappling at close quarters with them. Drake took a breath and stepped inside. Chaos and confusion filled the room from end to end. He blinked to find himself confronted by a huge guard who grinned and belched, and then lunged forward for a bear hug.

Drake sidestepped hurriedly, delivered a blow to the kidneys and a stiff dagger-hand to the solar-plexus. The man-beast didn’t even flinch.

An old bar-fighting adage came back to him then — if your opponent takes a hit to the plexus without wincing then you’d better start running dude, cos you’re in deep fucking shit….

Drake backed off, warily circling his unmoving enemy. The Serb was huge, lazy fat over solid muscle, with a forehead big enough to break six-inch concrete blocks. The man lumbered forward, arms wide. One slip up and Drake would be crushed to death, squeezed and popped like a grape. He quickstepped away, feinted right, and came forward with three instant jabs.

Eye. Ear. Throat.

All three connected. When the Serb squeezed his eyes shut in pain, Drake executed a risky dummy roll into a flying kick that generated enough momentum to knock even this brontosaurus off its wide feet.

The man crashed to the floor with a sound like a mountain collapsing. Pictures fell off the wall. The force he generated with his own backwards plunge knocked him unconscious when his head hit the deck.

Drake ventured further into the room. Two Delta guys were down, but all the Serbs had been neutralised. A section of the eastern wall had swung open and most of the Americans had been standing around the opening, but were now backing slowly away, cursing in fear.

Drake hurried to join them, unable to imagine what could make a Delta soldier panic. The first thing he saw was a set of stone steps descending into a well-lit underground chamber.

The second was the black Panther stalking slowly up the steps, its wide snarl showing a razor-sharp set of fangs.

“Fuuuuuuck…” one of the Americans drawled. Drake couldn’t agree more.

The Panther hissed as it crouched to strike. Drake backed off as the beast leapt through the air, 100 pounds of lethal muscle in a rage. It landed on the top step and scrabbled for purchase, all the time pinning its hypnotic green eyes on the retreating soldiers.

“Hate to do this,” the Delta commander said, as he sighted down his rifle.

“Wait!” Drake saw something glinting under the lights. “Just wait. Don’t move.”

The Panther prowled forward. The Delta team kept it in their sights as it passed between them and sniffed disdainfully at the incapacitated Serb guards on its way out of the room.

“What the — ?” one of the Americans frowned at Drake.

“Didn’t you see? It was wearing a diamond-studded necklace. Cat like that, living in a house such as this, I’m guessing, is trained to attack only when it hears its master’s voice.”

“Nice call. I would’ve hated to kill an animal like that.” The Delta commander waved at the Serbs. “These fuckers I’d waste all day for fun.”

They started to descend the steps, leaving two men on guard. Drake was third to reach the vault floor and what he saw made him shake his head in amazement.

“How twisted are these crazy bastards?”

The room was jam-packed with what he could only describe as ‘trophies’. Items Davor Babic considered valuable because — in his perversions — they were valuable to other people. Cabinets stood everywhere, large and small, haphazardly arrayed.

A jawbone from a T-Rex. An inscription beside it read ‘From the collection of Edgar Fillion — Life reward’. Beyond that, a revealing photographic sequence of a famous actress, inscribed ‘She wanted to live’. Next to that, and resting in a grisly manner atop a bronze pedestal — a mummified hand, identified as ‘District Attorney No. 3’.

And many more. As Drake skirted the display cases, trying to reel in his morbid fascination and focus, he finally spotted the fantastic items they were looking for.

The Valkyries: A pair of pure white statues mounted on a thick circular block. Both sculptures were about five feet in height but it was the striking detail in them that took Drake’s breath away. Two buxom women, nude and like the mighty amazons of old, both with legs apart as if sitting astride something. Probably a winged horse, Drake mused. Ben would know more, but he recalled that the Valkyries used them to fly from battle to battle. He took in the muscled limbs, the classically-boned features and the bewildering horned helmets.

“Sheeyit!” a Delta guy exclaimed. “Wish I had me a set of six-packs like that.”

More revealingly, both Valkyries were pointing upwards at something unknown with their left hands. Pointing, Drake thought now, straight at the Tomb of the Gods.

If only they could find Ragnarok.

At that moment one of the soldiers tried to remove an item from its display case. A loud buzzer sounded and a set of steel gates came crashing down at the base of the steps, blocking their exit.

The Americans reached immediately for gas-masks. Drake shook his head. “Don’t worry. Something tells me Babic is the kind of scum who’d prefer a thief caught live and kicking.”

The Delta commander eyed the still-vibrating bars. “Blast those sticks apart.”

Kennedy stared after the chopper and the fleeing Bentley in amazement. Wells, it seemed, was also at a loss as he gaped at the sky.

“Bitch,” Kennedy heard him breath. “I damn well trained her. How dare she turn into a traitor?”

“It’s a good thing she’s gone,” Kennedy made sure her hair was still tied back after all the diving around, and looked away when she noticed a couple of SAS men assessing her. “She had the elevated ground. Now, if Drake and the Delta team have secured the Valkyries we might be able to slip away while Alicia’s occupied by Babic.”

Wells looked like he was torn between two meaningful choices, but said nothing as they raced around the house to the front entrance. They saw the chopper spin around to confront the Bentley head on. Shots were fired that bounced off the fleeing car. Then the car suddenly braked hard and stopped in a cloud of gravel.

An object was poked out of a window.

The chopper plummeted out of the sky, its operator possessed of almost supernatural instinct, as the RPG whistled overhead. As its skids touched the ground, Canadian mercenaries spewed out of the doors. A fire-fight erupted.

Kennedy thought she saw Alicia Myles — a lithe figure clad in skin-tight body-armour — jump into the fray like the proverbial lion. A beast made for the fight, lost in the violence and fury of it all. Despite herself, Kennedy felt her blood running cold.

Was that fear she was feeling?

Before she could brood over it, a thin figure collapsed out of the opposite side of the chopper. A figure she recognised in an instant.

Professor Parnevik!

He limped along, at first faltering, but then showing renewed determination and finally crawling, as bullets laced the air above his head, one of them passing within a hands-width of his skull.

Parnevik at last inched close enough for the SAS and Kennedy to pull him to safety, the Canadians ignorant, fully engaged in battle

“Right,” said Wells motioning to the house. “Let’s get this done.”

Drake helped haul the Valkyries forward as a couple of guys fixed a small amount of explosives to the bars. They threaded a narrow path through the appalling exhibits, trying not to look too closely. One of the Delta guys had come back from a morbid inspection a few minutes ago to report a black coffin sitting at the rear of the room.

An air of expectation had lasted an entire ten seconds. It took a soldier’s logic to shut it down. The less you know…

Not Drake’s logic anymore. But he seriously didn’t want to know. He even flinched like a regular civilian as the bars were blown apart.

Gunfire erupted from the room above. The Delta guards clattered down the steps, dead, full of bloody holes. In another second, a dozen men armed with sub-machine-guns appeared at the top of the steps.

Outflanked and out-gunned, covered from a higher vantage point, the Delta team had had the tables turned on them, and were now vulnerable. Drake inched towards a cabinet and its relative safety, trying not to think about the stupidity of getting caught like this and that it wouldn’t have happened to the SAS, and trusting to luck that these new enemies wouldn’t be foolish enough to shoot at the Valkyries.

There were a few moments of unrelieved tension suffered in a stifling silence until a figure came down the steps. A figure dressed in white and wearing a white mask.

Drake recognised him instantly. The same man who had received the Shield on the cat-walk in York. The man he’d seen in Upsalla.

“I know you,” he breathed to himself, then louder. “The bloody Germans are here.”

The man raised a .45 and waved it around. “Drop your weapons. All of you. Now!”

An arrogant voice. A voice that belonged to smooth hands, its owner possessed of real-world power, the kind that’s written on paper and granted in member-only clubs. The kind of man who had no clue what real world toil and drudgery was all about. A banker, maybe, born into banking, or a politician, son of politicians.

The Delta men held their weapons steady. No one spoke. The stand-off was menacing.

Again the man shouted, his breeding keeping him ignorant of the danger.

“Are you deaf? I said now!”

A Texan voice drawled: “Not happening, motherfucker.”

“But… but…’ the man stammered in astonishment, then abruptly ripped his mask off. “You will!”

Drake almost collapsed. I know you! Abel Frey, the German fashion designer. Shock swept through Drake in a poisonous tide. It wasn’t possible. It was like seeing Taylor and Miley up there, cackling about taking over the world.

Frey locked eyes with Drake. “And you, Matt Drake!” his gun arm trembled. “You cost me almost everything! I’ll take her from you. I will! And she’ll pay. Oh, how she’ll pay!”

Before he could assimilate that, Frey aimed the gun between Drake’s eyes and fired.

Kennedy raced into the room to see the SAS men fall to their knees, motioning for silence. She saw before her a group of masked men, clad in body-armour, angling their weapons into what she could only think was Davor Babic’s secret vault.

Luckily, the men hadn’t spotted them.

Wells looked back at her and mouthed: “Who?”

Kennedy made a confused face. She could hear someone ranting, she could see his side profile, the .45 he held waving inexpertly. When she heard him scream the name Matt Drake she knew, and Wells knew, and a few seconds later they opened fire.

In the sixty seconds of gunfire that followed, Kennedy saw it all in slow motion. The man in white firing his .45, her shot arriving a split-second later and tugging the side of his coat as it passed through the hanging material. His shocked face as he turned. The puffy, slack softness of it.

A pampered man.

Then the masked men — spinning and firing. SAS soldiers squeezing off well-placed shots with precision and composure. More fire coming from inside the vault. American voices. German voices. English voices.

Sluggish chaos, like the poetic tones of Taylor Swift mixed with the archaic rock of Metallica. She hit at least two of the Germans — others fell. The guy in white screamed and waved his arms, and made his crew beat a hasty retreat. Kennedy saw them covering him and dying in the process, falling like decay from a wound, but the wound lived on. In the end he escaped into a back room, with only four of his men alive.

Kennedy raced desperately down the corridor, a strange lump in her throat, an ice-pick in her heart, not even realising how worried she was until she saw Drake alive and felt a cooling flood of elation wash through her.

Drake picked himself up off the floor, thankful that Abel Frey’s aim had been every bit as loose as his grasp over reality. The first thing he saw was Kennedy rushing down the steps, the second her face as she rushed up to him.

“Thank God you’re alright!” she cried, and gave him a hug before remembering her reserve.

Drake stared into Wells’ knowing eyes before closing his own. He held her for a moment, feeling her slim body, her powerful frame, her fragile heart beating against his own. Her head was nestled against his neck, the sensation wonderful enough to send tingles across his synapses.

“Hey, I’m good. You?”

She pulled away, smiling.

Wells came up to them and locked away his sly smile for a minute. “Drake. Strange place to meet up again, old mate, and not the corner pub in Earls Court I had in mind. I have a few things to tell you, Matt. Things about Mai.”

Drake was momentarily thrown. Wells had said the very last thing he had expected. After a second he noticed Kennedy’s fading smile, and took control. “The Valkyries,” He pointed. “C’mon, while we have chance.”

But the Delta commander was already organising it and beckoning them. “This ain’t England, guys. Let’s get movin’. I’ve had about all the Hawaii I can handle on this vacation.”

TWENTY-NINE

Drake, Kennedy, and the rest of the assault team rendezvoused with Ben and Hayden several hours later at a military base near Honolulu.

Time passed. Red tape was cut. Bumpy roads were smoothed over. Governments bickered, then sulked, then finally started talking. Jumped up bureaucrats were appeased with the political equivalent of milk and honey.

And the end of the world drew ever closer.

The real players talked and worried and reasoned, and slept in a badly air-conditioned series of buildings near Pearl Harbor. Drake immediately assumed that Ben’s pensive greeting meant they had little progress to report on the hunt for the next Piece of Odin — His Eyes. Drake concealed his surprise; he had truly believed that Ben’s expertise and motivation would have cracked the clues by now.

Hayden, the Secretary of Defence’s sharp-witted assistant, had been helping him but they had made little progress.

Their single hope was that the other apocalyptic contestants — the Canadians and the Germans — were faring little better.

Ben’s attention had initially been broken by Drake’s revelation.

“Abel Frey? The German mastermind? Bog off, dickhead.”

“Seriously, mate. Would I lie to you?”

“Don’t quote Whitesnake at me, Matt. You know our band have a problem playing their music, and it’s not funny. I just can’t believe… Abel Frey?”

Drake sighed. “Here I go again. Yes. Abel Frey.”

Kennedy backed him up. “I saw him and I still want to tell Drake to stop spouting bullshit. The guy’s a recluse. Has a place in the German Alps — the ‘Party Chateau’. Supermodels. Money. A superstar life.”

“Wine, women and song,” Drake said.

“Stoppit!” Ben said. “In a way,” he mused, “it’s the perfect cover.”

“Easy to fool the ignorant when you’re famous,” Drake agreed. “You get to choose your destination — wherever you want to go. Smuggling must be easy for those people. Just find your ancient artefact, choose your diplomatic suitcase, and…”

“… Slide it in.” Kennedy finished seamlessly, and turned laughing eyes on Ben.

“You two should…” he spluttered. “…You two should get a fuckin’ room.”

Wells came over at that moment. “This Abel Frey thing… it’s been decided to keep it low-key for now. Watch and wait. We’re putting an army around his chateau, but we’re giving him free reign, in case he ends up knowing something we don’t.”

“On the surface that’s sound,” Drake began, “but-”

“But he has my sister,” Ben hissed. Hayden held up a hand to calm him. “They’re right, Ben. Karin’s safe… for now. The world isn’t.”

Drake narrowed his eyes, but held his tongue. To protest would achieve nothing. It would only help distract his friend even more. Again, he had trouble fathoming Hayden out. Was it his new-found cynicism eating at him? Had she thought quickly for Ben, or had she thought prudently for her government?

Either way, the answer was the same. Wait.

Drake changed the subject. He probed another one close to Ben’s heart. “How are your mum and dad?” he asked carefully. “They cottoned on yet?”

Ben gave an anguished sigh. “No, mate. Last call, they mentioned her, but I said she’d snagged a second job. It’ll help, Matt, but not for long.”

“I know.” Drake eyed Wells and Hayden. “As leaders here, you two should help.” Then, without waiting for a reply he said: “What news on Heidi and Odin’s Eyes?”

Ben shook his head in disgust. “Plenty,” he complained. “There’re snippets everywhere. Here — listen to this: to drink from Mimir’s Well — the Well of Wisdom in Valhalla — everyone must offer up a critical sacrifice. Odin sacrificed his Eyes, symbolizing his willingness to gain knowledge of events both current and future. Upon drinking he foresaw all the trials that would affect men and Gods throughout eternity. Mimir accepted Odin’s Eyes, and they lie there still, a symbol of what even a God must pay for a glimpse of ultimate wisdom.”

“Okay,” Drake shrugged. “Standard historical stuff, yeah?”

“True. But it’s all like that. The Poetic Edda, the Saga of Flenrich, another I have translated as The Many Travelled Paths of Heidi. They explain what happened, but they don’t tell us where the Eyes are now.”

“In Valhalla,” Kennedy made a face.

“That’s the Norse word for Heaven.”

“Not a chance I’ll ever find ‘em then.”

Drake considered it all. “And there’s nothing else? Jesus, mate, this is the last Piece!”

“I’ve followed Heidi’s path — her travels. She visits the places we know of, and then returns to her home. This isn’t Playstation, mate. No side trips, no hidden achievements, no alternate paths, zilch.”

Kennedy took a seat beside Ben and shook her hair out. “Could she have deposited two Pieces in one location?”

“It’s possible, but it wouldn’t play well with what we know so far. The other clues, followed over many years, have all pointed to one Piece in each place.”

“So you’re saying that’s our clue?”

“The clue has to be Valhalla,” Drake said quickly. “It’s the only phrase that hints to a place. And I remember you said something earlier about Heidi telling Odin she knew where his Eyes were hidden, ‘cos he spilled all his secrets whilst hanging on the cross.”

“Tree,” Torsten Dahl entered the room at that moment. The Swede looked worn, more battle weary from the administrative side of his job than the physical. “Odin hung on the World Tree.”

“Whoops,” Drake muttered. “Same story. Is that coffee?”

“Macadamia,” Dahl looked smug. “The best Hawaii has to offer.”

“Thought that was Spam,” said Kennedy demonstrating her New Yorker condescension.

“Spam is widely loved in Hawaii,” Dahl agreed. “But coffee rules all. And Kona Macadamia Nut is king.”

“So you’re saying that Heidi knew where Valhalla was?” Hayden tried her best to look confused rather than sceptical as Drake signalled someone to bring them more coffee.

“Yes, but Heidi was human. Not a God. So what she would have experienced was a worldly Heaven?”

“Sorry, dude,” Kennedy joked. “Vegas wasn’t founded ‘til 1905.”

“To a Norsewoman.” Drake added, trying not to smile.

Silence followed. Drake watched Ben mentally clicking through everything he’d scrutinized so far. Kennedy pursed her lips. Hayden accepted a tray of coffee mugs. Wells had long since retired to a corner, feigning sleep. Drake remembered his intriguing words — I have a few things to tell you. Things about Mai.

Time for that later, if at all.

Ben laughed as he shook his head. “It’s easy. Christ, so easy. A person’s heaven is… their home.”

“Exactly. The place she lived. Her village. Her hut,” Drake affirmed. “My thoughts too.”

“Mimir’s well lies inside Heidi’s village!” Kennedy looked around, excitement shining in her eyes, then gave Drake a playful punch. “Not bad for a grunt.”

“I’ve grown some real brain since I quit.” Drake watched Wells flinch a bit. “Best move of my life.”

Torsten Dahl rose to his feet. “To Sweden then, for the final Piece.” He looked pleased to be heading back to his homeland. “Umm… where was Heidi’s home?”

“Ostergotland,” Ben said, without checking. “Also home to Beowulf and Grendel — the place where they still talk of monsters roaming the lands at night.”

THIRTY

La Verein, the Party Chateau, was located south of Munich, near the Bavarian border.

Like a fortress, it hunched halfway up a gentle mountain, its walls crenulated and even pocked with arrow-loops in various places. Round-topped towers perched at either side of the arched gate, and a wide sweeping drive allowed expensive motor cars to arrive in style and discard their latest sensations, just as hand-picked Paparazzi knelt down to snap their photos.

Abel Frey took a turn through the party, glad-handing several of the more important guests and ensuring his models behaved how they were supposed to. A pinch here, a murmur there, even a rare joke, kept them all performing to his expectations.

Inside the private alcoves he pretended not to notice the white trails laid out on knee-high glass tables, executives bending with straws up their nostrils. Models and well-known young actresses wearing baby-dolls made of satin, silk and lace. Pink flesh, moaning, and the heady scent of lust. Fifty-inch plasmas showing MTV and hardcore porn.

Live music pumped through the Chateau, Slash and Fergie — singing ‘Beautiful Dangerous’ on stage far away from these decadent rooms — the upbeat rock music sparking even more life into Frey’s already dynamic party.

The fashion designer left without being noticed, and headed up a grand staircase towards a quiet wing of the Chateau. Another flight and his guards closed a secure door behind him, accessible only through key-combination and voice-recognition. He entered a room bristling with communications equipment and a bank of High-Def TV screens.

One of his most trusted geeks said: “Good timing, sir. Alicia Myles is on Sat-phone.”

“Excellent, Hudson. Is she encrypted?”

“Of course, sir.”

Frey accepted the proffered device, curling his lip at being forced to put his mouth so close to where his lackey had already sprayed spittle.

“Myles, this better be good. I have a house full of guests to attend to.” The lie of convenience didn’t register as a fabrication to him. It was simply what these low-lives needed to hear.

“Worth a bonus I’d say,” the well-bred English tones said ironically. “I have the web-address and password to Parnevik’s locator.”

“All part of the deal, Myles. And you already know there’s only one way you’re getting a bonus.”

“Milo not around?” The tone had changed now. Throatier. Naughtier…

“Just me and my top geek.”

“Mmm… invite him too if you like,” her voice changed. “But sadly I have to be quick. Log on to www.locatethepro.co.uk, and type the lowercase password: bonusmyles007,” a laugh. “Thought you’d appreciate that one, Frey. A standard tracker format should come up. Parnevik is programmed as number four. You should be able to track him anywhere.”

Abel Frey saluted in silence. Alicia Myles was the best operative he’d ever used. “Good enough, Myles. When the Eyes are secured, you’re off the leash. Come back to us then, and bring us the Canadians’ Pieces. Then we’ll… talk.”

The line disconnected. Frey put the mobile down, content for now. “Ok, Hudson,” he said. “Get the machine rolling. Send everyone to Ostergotland now.” The final Piece was within his grasp, as were all the other Pieces, if they played the end games right. “Milo knows what to do.”

He studied the row of TV monitors.

“Which one is captive 6 — Karin Blake?”

Hudson scratched at his untidy beard before waving a hand. Frey leaned forward to study the blonde girl in the middle of her bed sitting with legs tucked up to her chin,

Or more accurately — sitting on a bed that belonged to Frey. And eating Frey’s food, inside a locked and guarded hut that Frey had commissioned. Using electricity that Frey paid for.

Wearing an ankle chain he had designed.

She belonged to him now.

“Send the video feed to my room immediately — the big screen. Then tell Chef to send dinner there. Ten minutes after that I want my martial arts expert.” He paused, thinking.

“Ken?”

“Yes, that one. I want him to go in there and take her shoes away. Nothing else for now. I want the psychological torture to be deliciously long until this one is crushed. I’ll wait a day, and then I’ll take something more important to her.”

“And captive 7?”

“Good God, Hudson, treat him well, as you would treat yourself. The best of everything. His time to impress us is coming….”

THIRTY-ONE

The plane lurched. Kennedy Moore started awake, relieved to have been jolted to consciousness by the turbulence, the new day chasing away her very own Haunter of the Dark.

Kaleb existed in her dreams as he existed in the real world, but at night he killed her repeatedly, forcing live roaches down her throat until she choked and had to chew and swallow, the single betrayal of her torment the horror on her eyes, constant until the last spark died.

Suddenly awake and snatched from the underbelly of hell, she stared around the cabin with wild eyes. It was quiet; civilians and soldiers were napping or talking quietly. Even Ben Blake had fallen asleep, clutching his laptop, the worry lines not smoothed out by sleep, and tragically out of place on his boyish face.

Then she saw Drake, and he was gazing at her. Now his worry lines simply improved an already striking face. His honesty and selflessness shone plainly, impossible to hide, but the hurt concealed behind the composure made her want to comfort him… all night long.

She smiled inwardly. More Dino-rock references. Drake’s pastime was a great diversion. It was a moment before she realised that her inner smile might have touched her eyes, because he smiled back at her.

And then, for the first time in all the years since she’d started at the Academy, she regretted that her vocation required her to de-sexualise her personality. She wished she knew how to flip her hair in that way. She wished she had a bit more Selma Blair in her and a bit less Sandra Bullock.

Having said all that, it was quite apparent that Drake liked her.

She returned his smile, but at that moment the plane lurched again and everyone came awake. The pilot announced that they were an hour out from their destination. Ben came awake, and walked zombie-like to grab some of the remaining Kona coffee. Torsten Dahl stood up and looked around.

“Time to break out the GPR,” he said with half a smile.

They were routed to fly over Ostergotland, targeting the areas where both Professor Parnevik and Ben agreed Heidi’s village would have stood. The poor Prof was clearly in pain from a severed finger-tip, and deeply shocked at how callous his torturer had been, but gleeful as a puppy in the way he told them about the map engraved into Odin’s Shield.

The way to Ragnarok.

Supposedly.

So far, no one had been able to translate it. Was it more misdirection from Alicia Myles and her misguided crew?

Once the plane broke through Dahl’s rough perimeter, he pointed out an image that came up on the plane’s TV. The Ground Penetrating Radar sent short pulses of radio-waves into the ground. When it hit a buried object or boundary or void it reflected the image in its return signal. Difficult to pick out at first, but simple with experience.

Kennedy shook her head at Dahl. “Does the Swedish army have everything?”

“This sort of thing is essential,” Dahl told her seriously. “We have a hybrid version of this machine that detects landmines and hidden pipes. Very high-tech.”

The dawn had broken over the horizon and then been chased away by tattered grey clouds, when Parnevik gave a shout. “There! That image looks like an old Viking settlement. You see the circular outer rim — that’s the protective walls — and the rectangular objects within? They’re small dwellings.”

“So let’s pinpoint the largest house…” Ben began hurriedly.

“No,” Parnevik said. “That would be the community Longhouse — the meeting place or feasting place. Heidi, if she was indeed here, would have the second largest house.”

Clearer images were coming through as the plane descended slowly. The settlement was soon mapped plainly, several feet below ground, and the second largest home was soon evident.

“You see that,” Dahl pointed to a deeper colour, so faint that it might have been overlooked if someone wasn’t searching for it. “That means there’s a void, and it’s right under Heidi’s house. Damn,” he said turning around. “She built her home right over Mimir’s Well!”

THIRTY-TWO

Once they were on the ground and had trekked across several miles of damp grassland, Dahl called for a halt. Drake cast around at what he could only describe as — in the new spirit of Dino-rock Kennedy and he were sharing — a motley crew. The Swedes and SGG were represented by Torsten Dahl and three of his men, the SAS by Wells and ten soldiers. One had been left in Hawaii, wounded. The Delta team was down to six; then there were Ben, Parnevik, Kennedy and himself. Hayden had stayed with the plane.

Not a person among them appeared untroubled by the difficulties of their task. The fact that the plane was waiting, fully-fuelled and armed and with the Pieces on board, ready to fly them anywhere in the world, only brought the graveness of the situation into bolder relief.

“If it helps,” Dahl said when everyone looked expectantly at him, “I don’t see how they can find us this time,” he pointed. “Start by using the light explosives to clear a few feet down, then it’s shovel time.”

“Be careful,” Parnevik was wringing his hands. “We don’t want a cave-in.”

“Don’t worry,” Dahl said with good cheer. “Between the various forces here I think we’ve got an experienced crew, Prof.”

There was grumpy laughter. Drake scanned their surroundings. They’d set up a wide perimeter, leaving men atop several hills that ringed the place where the GPR system told them old Guardhouses once stood. If it was good enough for the Vikings and all that…

The flatlands were grassy and calm, the slight breeze barely ruffling a stand of trees that stood to the east of their position. A slight drizzle began and then gave up before trying again.

Ben’s mobile rang. His eyes took on a haunted appearance. “Dad? Just busy. I’ll ring you back this aft.” He closed the device with a look at Drake. “I’m out of time,” he mumbled. “They already know something’s up, just not what.”

Drake nodded, and watched the first explosion without flinching. Grass sod and dirt plumed into the air. It was immediately followed by another slightly deeper thump, and a second cloud rose out of the ground.

Several men clattered forward, holding shovels the way they held weapons. A surreal scene.

“Be careful,” Parnevik wittered. “We wouldn’t want anyone to get their feet wet.” He cackled as if it were the greatest joke in history.

A clearer survey picture had shown a hole beneath Heidi’s longhouse that led to an extensive cavern. Obviously, something more than a mere well lay down there and the team were erring on the side of caution. It took another hour of careful digging and several pauses whilst Parnevik crowed and studied unearthed artefacts before they struck thin air.

Drake used the time to organise his thoughts. To date, it felt like he’d been on a roller-coaster ride without any brakes. Even after all these years he was still more used to following orders than carrying out a course of action, so he needed longer to think than, say, Ben Blake. Two things he knew for certain — they were always on the back foot, and they had been forced by their enemies to react to situations, rather than create them; a result of entering this race behind their opponents, no doubt.

It was now time to start winning this race. Especially as they seemed to be the only faction dedicated to saving the world, rather than risking it.

So you believe in ghost stories? An old voice whispered in his brain.

No, he answered as he had back then. But I do believe in horror stories…

During his last mission as a member of the secretive SRT, a Special Branch of the SAS, he and three other members of his team — including Alicia Myles — had stumbled across a remote village in Northern Iraq, its inhabitants tortured, massacred. Assuming the obvious they had investigated… to find British and French soldiers, still in the throes of conducting their interrogation.

What followed would blight the rest of Matt Drake’s days on Earth. Blind with rage, he and two other team members had stopped the torture.

One more ‘friendly-fire’ incident among many.

Alicia Myles had stood and watched, not tarring herself with any brush one way or the other. She couldn’t stop the torture and she couldn’t stop the demise of the torturers. But she did follow the orders of her commanding officer.

Matt Drake.

After that, the soldier’s life was over for him, any romance it had held torn to pieces. But leaving the service didn’t mean the memories dimmed. His wife used to shake him awake night after night, and then slipped out of a sweat-soaked bed, crying to herself downstairs when he refused to confide.

Now he noticed Kennedy standing across from him, smiling as she had on the plane. Her hair hung free, her face turned lively and mischievous by the grin. Centrefold eyes and a Victoria’s Secret body, mixed with schoolteacher propriety and businesslike reserve. Quite a blend.

He grinned back. Torsten Dahl shouted: “Take a depth reading! We need a guide for the Descenders.”

When Ben asked him what a Descender was, he just grinned. “Straight out of Hollywood legend, my friend. Remember seeing a thief take a dive off a building and have his jump regulated down to the exact millimetre, at which point his fall is arrested? Well, a Blue-Diamond Descender is the device they use.”

“Cool.”

Drake noticed his old Commander inching his way around, and took a proffered flask of coffee. This chat had been coming awhile. Drake wanted it over with.

“Mai?” He asked, lips firmly pointed at the ground so that no one knew his question.

“Hmm?”

“Just tell me.”

“Good God, man, after the marked lack of information you hand out in regards to your old flame, I can hardly expect to be handing out freebies now, can I?”

Drake resisted the smile, despite himself. “You are one dirty old man, you know that?”

“It’s what keeps me at the top of my game. Now, tell me a story from one of her undercover missions — any of them.”

“Well… I could waste your chance here and give you something tame,” Drake said. “Or you could wait until this is all over, and I’ll give you the gold… you know the one.”

“Tokyo Cos-con?”

“Tokyo Cos-con. When Mai went undercover at Japan’s biggest Cosplay convention to infiltrate and detain the Fuchu triads who ran the porn industry at the time.”

Wells looked like he was about to have a seizure. “Jesus, Drake. You twat. Alright then, but believe me, you owe me now,” he took a breath. “The Japs have just pulled her out of Hong Kong, straight out of an assumed identity, without warning, totally blowing the cover she’s been crafting for two years.”

Drake gave him a look of open-mouthed incredulity. “No way.”

“My words too.”

“Why?”

“Also my next question. But, Drake, isn’t it obvious?”

Drake thought about it. “Only that she’s the best they’ve got. The best they’ve ever had. And they must need her desperately.”

“We’ve been fielding calls from their Justice and Prime Ministers for about fifteen hours now, as have the Yanks. They’re coming clean with us — they’ve sent her to scout out La Verein because it’s the only connection they’ve found to this mess, which has already escalated to the biggest thing happening on the planet right now. It’s only a matter of hours before we’re forced to come clean with them.”

Drake frowned. “Is there a reason not to come clean right now? Mai would be a fantastic asset.”

“Agreed mate, but, governments are governments, and, world in peril or not, they love to play their little games, don’t they?”

Drake indicated the hole in the ground. “Looks like they’re ready.”

Drake’s Descender was set to 126 feet. A device called a ‘quick-release muzzle’ was thrust into his hand, and a backpack was handed to him. He crammed a fireman’s helmet with a torch strapped to it onto his head, and rummaged through the pack. A big flashlight, an oxygen tank, weapons, food, water, radio, first-aid — all of his spelunking needs. He tugged on a heavy-duty pair of gloves and walked to the rim of the hole.

“Geronimo?” he asked Kennedy, who was staying topside with Ben and the Professor to help watch their perimeter.

“Or grab your ankles, stick out your ass, and hope,” she said.

Drake gave her a wicked grin, “We’ll get to that later,” he said and leapt into darkness.

Immediately, he felt the Red-Diamond Descender working. The velocity of his fall lessened as he fell, and its little wheel ticked a hundred times a second. The sides of the well — now dry, thankfully — flashed past in kaleidoscopic glimpses, like an old black-and-white movie. At last the Descender slowed to a crawl, and Drake felt his boots gently bounce off hard rock. He squeezed the muzzle, and felt the Descender unlatch from its harness. Drake familiarized himself with the process of turning it into an ascender, before moving off to where Dahl and half a dozen men stood waiting.

The floor crunched alarmingly, but he put it down to mummified debris.

“This cavern is oddly small compared to what we saw on the GPR,” Dahl said. “It could have miscalculated. Spread out and look for… a tunnel… or something.”

The Swede shrugged, amused at his own ignorance. Drake liked it. He inched around the cavern, studying the uneven walls and shivering despite the heavy coat he’d been given. Thousands of tons of rock and earth pressed down above him, and here he was, looking to go deeper. Sounded like a soldier’s life to him.

Dahl was communicating with Parnevik through a two-way video-phone. The Prof was shouting out so many ‘suggestions’ that Dahl muted the thing after two minutes. The soldiers shuffled and bumped their way around the cave until one of the Delta guys shouted: “I got a carving here. Tiny-ass thing though.”

Dahl un-muted the video-phone. Parnevik’s voice came through loud and clear, and then stopped when Dahl held the mobile to the wall.

“You see that?”

“Ja! Det ar bra! Bra!” Parnevik lost his English in excitement. “The Valknott. The… umm… slain warriors’ knot. It is Odin’s symbol, the triple triangle, or Borromean Triangle, connected with the idea of glorious death in battle.”

Drake shook his head. “Bloody Vikings.”

“This symbol is often found on ‘picture stones’ that depict the death of heroic warriors either travelling by boat or on horseback to Valhalla — Odin’s palace. This further cements the idea that we have found a worldly Valhalla.”

“Sorry to piss on your parade, pal,” a blunt SAS man said, “but this wall’s as thick as my mother-in-law.”

They all took a step back, sweeping their helmet-lights across the unbroken surface.

“It has to be a false wall.” Parnevik was almost screaming in excitement. “Has to be!”

“Wait,” Drake heard Ben’s young voice. “It also says here that the Valknott is also called the Death Knot — a symbol of Odin’s followers who had a tendency to die violently. I do believe it could be a warning.”

“Bollocks.” Drake’s sigh was heartfelt.

“Here’s a thought, dudes,” Kennedy’s voice cut across. “How about searching all the walls more closely. If you get more Valknotts, but then find a blank wall — I’d choose that one.”

“Easy for you to say,” Drake murmured. “Being up there and all.”

They split up, combing the rocky walls inch by inch. They scraped at age-old dust and waved at cobwebs and kicked mould away. In the end, they found three more Valknotts.

“Great,” Drake said. “That’s four walls, four Knott-things. What the hell do we do now?”

“Are they all identical?” the Professor asked in surprise.

One of the soldiers tapped Parnevik’s image on the videophone screen. “Well I don’t know about you guys, but I’m sure done listening to him. Damn Swede would’ve gotten us dead already.”

“Wait,” Ben’s voice said. “The Eyes are in Mimir’s Well, not…” his voice was lost beneath a hiss of static and then the screen went blank. Dahl shook it and switched it on and off, but to no avail.

“Damn. What was he trying to say?”

Drake was about to venture a guess when the videophone burst into life again and Ben’s face filled the screen. “Don’t know what happened. But listen — the Eyes are in Mimir’s Well, not the cavern beneath it. Understand?”

“Yes. So we passed them on the way down?”

“I think so.”

“But why?” Dahl asked in disbelief. “Why create this cavern at all then? And the GPR showed clearly that a massive space exists beneath this one. Surely the Piece would be down there.”

“Unless — ” Drake felt a terrible chill. “Unless this place is the trap.”

Dahl looked suddenly unsure. “How so?”

“That space beneath us? What if it’s a bottomless pit?”

“That means you’re standing on clay hardpan!” Parnevik shouted in terror. “A trap! It could shatter at any moment. Get out of there now!”

They stared at each other for one timeless moment of desperate mortality. They all wanted to live so badly. And then everything changed. What had at one moment been a fissure in the concrete floor was now the hardpan cracking open. That odd tearing sound wasn’t the rock shifting, but the floor fracturing slowly from end to end.

With the endless pit below them….

Six men leapt fiercely for the two Ascenders. When they got there, still alive, Dahl shouted to regain order.

“You two, go first. Be snappy, for God’s sake.”

“And on your way up,” Parnevik commented, “be especially aware of your surroundings. We don’t want to miss the artefact.”

“Don’t be a tit, Parnevik.” Dahl was beside himself with apprehension. Drake had never seen him like this before. “The last two of us will check as we go,” he said, staring at Drake. “That’s you and me.”

Again the videophone squawked and went dead. Dahl shook it as if he was trying to throttle it. “Made by the damned Yanks, no doubt.”

It took three minutes for the first pair to reach ground level. Then another three for the second pair. Drake thought about everything that could happen in six minutes — a veritable lifetime of experience or nothing at all. For him it was the latter. Nothing but creaking clay, the groan of shifting rock, the rasp of chance deciding to reward him with life or death.

The floor below the first symbol they found gave way. There was no warning; it was as if the floor just gave up the ghost and tumbled into oblivion. Drake climbed as far up the well as he could. He balanced on its sides, rather than on the fragile cavern floor. Dahl hugged the other side of the well, gripping a length of green twine with both hands, the ring on his wedding finger reflecting Drake’s helmet light.

Drake kept his gaze upwards, searching for any sturdy lengths of twine they could attach to their harnesses. Then he heard Dahl shout: “Shit!” and glanced down just in time to see the videophone cartwheel end over end in wicked slow-mo, before hitting the cavern floor with a crunch.

Weakened, the hardpan gave way, dropping into the black pit like Drake’s old dreams of starting a family. A gale wooshed up to meet them, murky air set free, rustling with unspeakable darkness from a place where blind things crouched and slithered.

And looking down into that pit of nameless shadow, Drake rediscovered his childhood belief in monsters.

There was a faint slithering noise and a line came flapping from above. Drake grabbed it gratefully and attached it to his harness. Dahl did the same, looking equally white, and they both clicked their respective buttons.

Drake watched the altimeter click by. He studied his half of the well, whilst Dahl replicated him on the other side. Several times they stopped and swayed forward to make a closer inspection, but each time they found nothing. One hundred feet passed, and then ninety. Drake scraped his hands bloody, but found nothing. On they went, now passing fifty feet, and then Drake saw an absence of light, a dullness that just ate the light he threw towards it.

A wide plank of wood, jagged around its edges, untouched by damp or mould. Drake could see carvings on its surface, and it took him a while to angle his helmet properly.

But when he did….

Eyes. The symbolic representation of Odin’s eyes, carved into wood and left here… by whom?

By Odin himself? Millennia ago? By Heidi? Was that more, or less, believable?

Dahl cast an anxious glance below. “For all our sakes, Drake, don’t drop it.”

THIRTY-THREE

Drake emerged from Mimir’s Well holding the wooden tablet aloft like a trophy. Before he could utter a word, he was plucked roughly out of his harness and thrown to the ground.

“Hey, steady on — ” He looked up into the barrel of a HK dream-machine, one of the new ones. He rolled slightly, and saw dead and dying soldiers lying on the grass — Delta, SGG, SAS — and beyond them Kennedy, kneeling with a gun held to her head.

Saw Ben being forced to stand upright in a choke hold, Alicia Myles’ merciless hands tight around his neck. Drake’s heart almost broke when he saw Ben still clutched his mobile in his hand. Clinging on ‘til the last gasp….

“Let the Brit stand,” the Canadian, Colby Taylor, came into Drake’s eye-line. “Let him watch his friends die — proof that I can take all his Pieces away before I take his life.”

Drake let the fire of battle infuse his limbs. “You prove only that this place is as stated in the damn guide book — that it is a land of monsters.”

“How poetic,” the billionaire chortled. “And true. Give me the Eyes.” He held his hands out like a child asking for more. A mercenary handed over the depiction of Odin’s Eyes. “Good. This’ll do. Now where’s your plane, Drake? I want your Pieces, and then to get out of this crap-hole.”

“You won’t get anywhere without the Shield,” Drake said… the first thing that came into his head. “And then figure out how it becomes the map to Ragnarok.”

“Fool,” Taylor laughed nastily. “The only reason we’re here today and not twenty years ago is because the Shield’s only just been found. I’m sure you already know that though. Are you trying to slow me down? Think I’ll slip up and give you another chance? Well, Mr Drake, let me tell you. She…” he pointed at Alicia, “she doesn’t slip up. She’s. . hard ass gold, that’s what she is!”

Drake watched as his ex-colleague throttled Ben to death. “She’ll sell you out to the highest bidder.”

“I am the highest bidder you washed-up piece of shit.”

And by a stroke of providence, someone used that moment to fire a bullet. The report echoed loudly, cracking through the woods. One of Taylor’s mercenaries collapsed with a new third eye, instantly dead.

Colby Taylor looked incredulous for a second. He stared as if Bryan Adams had just jumped out of the woods and launched into ‘Summer of ‘69’. His eyes became saucers. Then one of his mercenaries crashed into him, knocking him to the ground, the mercenary bleeding, screaming and thrashing as he died. Drake was beside them in a heartbeat as lead shredded the air above.

Everything happened at once. Kennedy slammed her body upwards. The top of her skull connected so solidly with the chin of the guard covering her that he didn’t even know what happened. Instant lights out.

A barrage of bullets flew back and forth; the mercs caught out in the open were decimated.

Torsten Dahl found freedom when the mercenary holding him lost three-quarters of his head to a third echoing rifle shot. The SGG commander crab-walked to Professor Parnevik’s side and started dragging the old man towards a bunch of scrub.

Drake’s first thought was for Ben. As he prepared to make a desperate bid, disbelief jolted him like a thousand-watt electromagnetic pulse. Alicia had thrown the boy aside and was advancing on Drake himself. All of a sudden, a pistol appeared in her hand; didn’t matter which one. She was equally deadly with both.

She raised it, centred on him.

Drake held his hands apart in a confused gesture. Why?

Her smile was gleeful in the way of a demon discovering virgin meat in a lair it thought long since expended.

She squeezed the trigger. Drake flinched, expecting the heat and then the numbness and then the pain, but his mind’s eye caught up with his brain, and he saw she’d switched her aim at the last instant… and pumped three bullets into the mercenary covering Colby Taylor’s indignant form. Taking no chances.

Two SAS soldiers and two Delta Marines had survived. The SAS had grabbed Ben and were dragging him away. What remained of the Delta team geared up to return fire into the nearby stand of trees.

More shots rang out. A Delta guy twisted and fell. The other scrambled away on his belly to where Wells had fallen on the other side of Mimir’s Well. Wells’ prone body twitched as the American dragged him away, proof of life.

The next few minutes happened in a blur. Alicia cried out in anger and leapt after the American soldier. When he turned and confronted her with his fists she stopped for a second.

“Turn away,” Drake heard her say. “Just go.”

“I won’t leave this man behind.”

“You Americans, just give it a rest,” she said, before unleashing hell. America’s finest backed away, stumbling through the thick grass, first favouring one arm and then staggering when it was broken, before losing the sight in one eye and finally collapsing without even a twitch.

Drake was shouting, running towards Alicia when she lifted Wells by the scruff of his neck.

“Are you mad?” he shouted. “Have you gone absolutely mad?”

“He goes in the well,” Alicia’s eyes were murderous. “You can join him or not, Drake. Your decision.”

“Why for God’s sake? Why?”

“One day, Drake. One day, if you live through this, you’ll find out.”

Drake paused for a breath. What did she mean? But to lose focus now was to invite death as surely as if he’d committed suicide. He summoned his memories of training, his wits, all his SAS skill. He struck at her with a straight-up boxer’s jab, jab, cross. She parried, making sure she struck his wrist each time with bruising force, but he was in close now.

Where he wanted to be.

He finger-jabbed at her neck. She side-stepped, right into his rising knee — aimed to crack a few ribs and slow her down.

But she rolled inside his knee so that they were shockingly close, an inch apart, eye to eye.

Great eyes. Wonderful eyes.

That belonged to one of the world’s greatest predators.

“You’re weak as a wickle babe, Matt.”

Her whisper chilled his bones as she stepped right in, extended an arm and threw him skyward. He landed on his back, winded. Before a second passed she was atop him, knees ramming his solar-plexus, forehead striking his own, making him see stars.

Again eye to eye, she whispered, “Stay down.”

But the choice wasn’t his to make. It was all he could do to raise an arm, to roll sideways, to watch as she half-dragged a semi-conscious Wells to the edge of the bottomless pit known as Mimir’s Well.

Drake screamed with the effort of rising to his knees. Embarrassed by defeat, shocked by how much edge he’d lost since joining the human race, he could only watch.

Alicia rolled Wells over the edge of the well. The SAS commander didn’t even scream.

Drake swayed as he lurched to his feet, head and body screaming. Alicia was approaching Colby Taylor now, still as fresh and agile as a spring lamb. Drake’s back — facing the Germans — felt about as exposed as a sailor on a raft up against a prehistoric Kraken, but he didn’t waver.

Alicia dragged the dead merc’s body off Taylor. The billionaire scrambled up, eyes wide, staring from Myles to Drake to the trees.

Figures were starting to emerge from between the mist-wreathed trunks, like ghosts at home in this fabled land. The illusion shattered when they came close enough to make out their guns.

Drake had circled around now. He could see the men approaching, knew that it was the vulture-like Germans, come to claim all the spoils.

Drake eyed the instrument of their victory with bewilderment. Alicia simply grabbed the Canadian billionaire by the crotch, and squeezed until his eyes popped. She smiled at his bewilderment before marching him over to Mimir’s Well and angling his head over the edge.

Drake realised he had other priorities. He skirted the action, using Alicia and Taylor as a shield. He reached the scrub and kept going, edging slowly up a slight grassy knoll.

Alicia pointed into the pit and shook Taylor until he screamed for mercy: “Maybe you’ll find something to collect down there you megalomaniac prick,” she hissed and threw him bodily into the endless void. His screams echoed for a short while, then cut off. Drake wondered if a man who fell into a bottomless pit screamed forever and if no one was there to hear him, did it really count?

By now Milo had reached his girlfriend. Drake heard him say: “Why’d the hell you do that? The boss would’ve liked that asshole alive.”

And Alicia’s answer: “Shut up, Milo. I’ve been looking forward to meeting Abel Frey. You ready to go?”

Milo grinned nastily up towards the top of the knoll. “We not gonna finish them off?”

“Don’t be an arse. They’re still armed and they hold the high ground. Do you have what we came for?”

“All nine Pieces of Odin present and correct. Your plane is toast!” he cried. “Have a ball out in this dead land at night!”

Drake watched the Germans beat a wary retreat. The world had just teetered over the brink. They’d come all this way, made a ton of sacrifices. Beaten themselves into the ground.

Only to lose everything to the Germans at the last hurdle.

“Yeah,” Ben caught his eye with a humourless grin, as if reading his mind. “How life imitates football, eh?”

THIRTY-FOUR

The sun was setting over a crisp horizon as the Europeans and their single remaining American ally limped to higher ground. A thin, cold breeze was blowing. A quick assessment found that one of the SAS soldiers was wounded, and Professor Parnevik was suffering from shock. No surprise there, given what he’d been through.

Dahl was radioing in their position by Sat-phone. Help was about two hours away.

Drake plonked himself down beside Ben when they stopped amidst a tiny stand of barren trees with open grassland all around them.

Ben’s first words: “I know other people have died, Matt, but I just hope Karin and Hayden are okay. I’m sorry.”

Drake was ashamed to say he’d forgotten that Hayden had been left with the plane. “Don’t worry. It’s natural. Chances are extremely good for Karin, fair for Hayden,” he admitted, having lost his sugar-coating abilities somewhere along the course of the mission. “How are you holding up, mate?”

Ben raised his mobile. “Still alive.”

“We’ve come a long way since the fashion show.”

“I barely remember it,” Ben said seriously. “Matt, I barely remember what my life was like before this began. And it’s been… days?”

“I could remind you if you want. The Wall of Sleep front-man. Swooning over Taylor Momson. Mobile overcharges. Rent arrears. Swooning over Taylor.

“We’ve lost everything.”

“No lie here, Ben — we couldn’t have gotten this far without you.”

“You know me, mate. I’d help anyone.” It was a standard reply, but Drake could tell he was pleased with the praise. He hadn’t forgotten that when Ben was out-thinking the suits and even the Nordic Professor.

No doubt that was what Hayden had seen in him. She saw the man inside, starting to shine through. Drake prayed for her safety, but there was nothing he could do for her right now.

Kennedy dropped beside them. “Hope I’m not interrupting, you guys. You look kinda tight.”

“Not you,” Drake said and Ben nodded. “You’re one of us now.”

“Um, thanks, I guess. That a compliment?”

Drake lightened the mood. “Anyone who can segue a few Dino-rock titles with me is a brother for life.”

“All night long, dude, all night long.”

Ben groaned. “So,” he glanced around. “It just got dark.”

Drake considered the endless grasslands. A last sliver of deep red was just dripping down the farthest horizon. “Damn, I bet it gets cold here at night.”

Dahl walked up to them. “Is this over then, men? Are we done? The world needs us.”

A biting wind tore his words into shreds, scattering them across the plains.

Parnevik spoke from where he rested with his back against a tree. “Look, umm, you told me you’d seen the only known depiction of the Pieces in true arrangement. The painting once owned by John Dillinger.”

“Yes, but the thing went on tour in the ‘60’s,” Dahl explained. “We can’t be positive it hasn’t been copied, especially by one of these Viking history freaks.”

The professor was well enough to murmur: “Oh. Thanks.”

Full dark and a million stars twinkled overhead. Branches swayed and leaves rustled. Ben instinctively inched closer to Drake on one side. Kennedy did the same on the other.

Where Kennedy’s hip touched his own, Drake felt fire. It was all he could do to concentrate on what Dahl was saying.

“The Shield,” the Swede was saying, “is our last hope.”

Is she sitting this close on purpose? Drake wondered. Touching….

Christ, it was a long time since he’d felt this way. It took him back to when girls were girls and boys were nervous — wearing T-shirts in the snow, and walking their girlfriends round town on a Saturday afternoon before buying them their favourite CD and sharing popcorn and a straw at the cinema.

Innocent days, long gone. Long remembered and sadly lost.

“Shield?” He blurted into the conversation. “Huh?”

Dahl frowned at him. “Keep up, you thick Yorkshire bastard. We were saying that the Shield is the principal Piece here. Nothing can be achieved without it, since it gives the location of Ragnarok. It’s also made of different matter than the other Pieces — almost as if it has another part to play. An objective.”

“Like what?”

“Fuuuuuck,” Dahl said in his best Oxford accent. “Ask me one on sport.”

“Okay. Why the hell did Leeds United ever sign Tomas Brolin?”

Dahl’s face fell and then hardened. He was about to retort, when a peculiar noise shattered the stillness.

A wail. A moan from out of the darkness.

A sound that triggered primordial fear. “Christ alive,” Drake whispered. “What — ?”

It came again. A yowl, animal-like but throaty, as if from something big. It made the night crawl.

“You remember?” Ben said in a whisper stilted by terror, “this is Grendel’s country. The monster from ‘Beowulf’. There are still tales that monsters haunt this area.”

“The only thing I remember from Beowulf is Angelina Jolie’s arse,” Drake said fondly. “But then I suppose the same could be said for most of her movies.”

“Shhh!” Kennedy hissed. “What the hell is that noise?”

The howling came again, closer now. Drake tried desperately to distinguish anything through the darkness, imagining bare fangs exploding towards him, dripping saliva, strips of rotten flesh caught between their jagged teeth.

He raised his gun, not wanting to frighten the others but just too uncertain to take any risks.

Torsten Dahl levelled his own rifle. The fit SAS trooper unsheathed a knife. Silence gripped the night tighter than Gordon Brown had gripped the U.K. economy whilst wringing it dry.

A faint sound. A clunk. Something that resembled a light footfall….

But what kind of feet? Drake wondered. Human or…?

If he heard the clicking of claws he might well squeeze off his entire magazine in terror.

Damn those old tales.

The very ventricles in his heart almost exploded when Ben’s mobile phone suddenly exploded into life. Ben threw it in the air with shock, but then commendably caught it on the way down.

“Bollocks!” He whispered before realising he’d answered it. “Oh, hi Mum.”

Drake tried to quiet the thumping of blood through his brain. “Cut it off. Cut it off!”

Ben said: “In the loo. Call you later!”

“Nice.” Kennedy’s voice was remarkably calm.

Drake listened. The moaning came again, thin and anguished. Followed by a distant thud, as if the noise-maker had thrown a rock. Another weeping cry, and then a howl….

This time definitely human! And Drake exploded into action. “That’s Wells!” He raced into the dark, instinct sending him right to Mimir’s Well and stopping him at the rim.

“Help me,” Wells moaned, cracked and bloodied fingers reaching over the ragged edge of the drop. “Caught one of the ropes… on the way down. Nearly broke my arm. That bitch has… has to do more than that to kill… me.”

Drake took his weight, saving him from free-falling back into infinite night.

With Wells warmly wrapped and resting, Drake just shook his head at him.

Wells croaked: “I never meant to start a war… within the SAS.”

“That’s okay then, ‘cos Alicia and I no longer belong to the SAS.”

Beside him, Ben was questioning Parnevik as if nothing had happened. “You think the Shield is some sort of key?”

“The Shield is everything. It could be a key, but it’s definitely all we have left.”

“Left?” Drake repeated, raising an eyebrow. He focused on Ben’s I-phone. “Of course we do!”

Ben was a step ahead, Googling ‘Odin’s Shield’ at the speed of geek. The image that came up was small, but Ben zoomed in faster than Drake could even think. He tried to remember what the Shield looked like. Round, with a raised round centre, the outer rim sectioned into four equal parts.

Ben held the I-phone at arm’s length, letting everyone crowd around.

“It’s easy,” Kennedy said. “Ragnarok’s in Vegas. Everything’s in Vegas.”

Parnevik rubbed his chin. “The layout of the Shield indicates four separate parts surrounding an answer in the centre. You see? Let’s label them North, East, South and West so we know what were referring to.”

“”Neat,” Ben said. “Well, West is obvious. I see a Spear and two Eyes.”

“South is a Horse and two, um, Wolves, I think.” Drake squinted as best he could.

“Of course!” Parnevik cried. “You are right. Because East has to be two Valkyries. Yes? You see?”

Drake blinked hard to focus properly, and he made out what could be taken for warrior women sat atop a pair of winged horses. “Damn Starbucks!” He cursed. “A cafe with free Wi-Fi on every corner of the world except this one!”

“So…” Kennedy said haltingly, “no Shield shown on the umm, Shield?”

“Hmmm…!” The Professor studied hard, getting in Ben’s eye-line and receiving a friendly swat. “Can you zoom in a bit more?”

“Nah. That’s its limit.”

“I see no other markings in the Eastern section,” Dahl said from his standing position. “But North’s pretty interesting.”

Drake flicked his attention, and felt a rush of shock. “Christ, that’s the symbol of Odin. Three interlocked triangles. Same thing we saw down the well.”

“But what’s that.” Dahl pointed at a tiny symbol positioned at the bottom left of one of the triangles. When Ben zoomed closer they all exclaimed: “It’s the Shield!”

A confused silence reigned. Drake wracked his brain. Why had the Shield symbol been placed within the triangles? Obviously a clue, just not a clear one.

“This would be a lot easier on a bigger screen!” the Professor huffed.

“Stop whining,” Ben said. “Don’t let it beat you.”

“Here’s a thought,” Kennedy spoke up. “Could the triangles stand for something other than this ‘Odin’s knot’, or whatever?”

“A secret purpose for a mystical symbol attached to a God previously thought mere legend?” Parnevik scoffed. “Surely not.”

Drake rubbed his ribs where Alicia Myles had taught him that seven years without training took a heavy toll on your combat performance level. She’d humiliated him, but he took comfort in the fact that he was alive and they were still — just — in the game.

“The chopper will have onboard internet,” Dahl tried to calm everyone. “In about… oh, thirty minutes.”

“Okay, well, what about the central section?” Drake did his bit. “Two outlines that look like a child’s drawing of three udders and a jellyfish.”

“And the Shield again,” Ben zoomed in on the ‘jellyfish’s’ eye. “Same representation as the North section. So we have two depictions of the Shield on the Shield itself. A centrepiece composed of two random outlines, and the three Odinic triangles,” he said, nodding at Kennedy. “That may not be triangles at all.”

“Well, at least it proves my theory that the Shield is the principal Piece,” Parnevik pointed out.

“Those outlines remind me of something,” Dahl was musing. “I just can’t say what.”

Drake could think of several nasty personal comebacks, but held himself in check. Progress, he thought. The poncy Swede had come a long way with them, and had now earned a little respect.

“Look!” Ben shouted out, making them all jump. “There’s a thin, almost irrelevant, line connecting both Shield images!”

“Which actually tells us nothing,” Parnevik grouched.

“Or…,” Drake mused, thinking about his army map-reading days, “or… if you come at it a different way — we know the Shield is a map to Ragnarok. The two images could be the same focal point on two different views… only one view is the elevation and the other-”

“-is plan!” Ben said.

At that moment there was the sound of a chopper approaching. Dahl talked it in, showing his old-school dependencies by shutting off the GPRS. He squinted into the dark along with everyone else when the big, black shape approached.

“Well, we don’t have much choice,” he said with half a smile. “We’re going to have to, um, wing it.”

Once aboard and settled, Dahl booted up a 20” Sony Vaio laptop that used its own portable modem, like an I-phone. Depending on the mobile network coverage, they would have internet access.

“It’s a map,” Drake continued his line of thought. “So let’s treat it that way. Clearly the middle, the centrepiece, is the plan view. So — copy the outline, use some kind of geographical recognition software, and see what comes up.”

“Hmm,” Parnevik studied the enlarged view dubiously. “Why include that other udder-like image if the shield symbol lies on the, um, Jellyfish.”

“A point of reference?” Kennedy ventured.

The chopper swayed, buffeted by high winds. The pilot had been told to head for Oslo until he received further instructions. A second SGG team awaited them there.

“Try the software, Torsten.”

“I already have, but I don’t need it,” Dahl replied in sudden wonder. “I knew that outline looked familiar. It’s Scandinavia on a map! The udders are Norway, Sweden and Finland. The Jellyfish is Iceland. Unbelievable.”

A split-second later, the laptop pinged with a total of three possible matches. The recognition software algorithms had weighted the closest at ninety-eight percent — it was Scandinavia.

Drake nodded towards Dahl in respect.

“Ragnarok’s in Iceland?” Parnevik wondered. “But — why?”

“Get those coordinates to the pilot,” Drake jabbed at the coastline of Iceland and the position of the Shield symbol. “Now. We’re already hours behind.”

“But we don’t have the damn Pieces,” Ben said plaintively. “The Germans have them. And only they can find the Tomb of the Gods by using the Pieces.”

And now Torsten Dahl actually laughed, causing Drake to double-take. “Oh, no,” the Swede said, and his guffaw was almost villain-like. “I have a much better idea than fiddling about with those friggin’ Pieces. Always have had. Let the Sauerkrauts keep them!”

“You do? Let me think — wasn’t Iceland where the Shield was found?” Ben asked, impressing Drake yet again with his clear thinking under pressure.

“Yes, and if that’s the ancient site of Ragnarok,” Parnevik said, “it makes perfect sense. Odin’s Shield would have fallen where he died.”

“Oh, it makes sense now, Professor,” Kennedy teased him. “Now these guys have worked it all out for ya.”

“Well, if it helps, we still have the greatest mystery to solve,” Ben said with a slight smile. “The meaning of the ancient symbol of Odin — the three triangles.”

THIRTY-FIVE

The Icelandic coastline is ice-laden, rugged, and awash with colour, sheared in some parts by great glaciers, and beaten smooth in others by lashing waves and scouring winds. There are coasts of lava and black cliffs, majestic icebergs, and, overall, a kind of zen-like calm. Danger and beauty stand hand-in-hand, ready to lull the unwary traveller to an untimely end.

Reykjavik passed beneath them in a matter of minutes, its bright red roofs, white buildings, and surrounding snow-covered mountains guaranteed to stir even the most jaded of hearts.

They stopped briefly at a sparse military base to re-fuel and upload snowsuits, ammunition and rations, and anything else Dahl could think of in the ten minutes they were at a standstill.

But the people on board the black military chopper saw none of it. They were connected as a group — discussing the same objective — but their inner thoughts were of their own mortality and the world’s — of how scared and apprehensive they were, and how frightened for others.

Drake was apprehensive. He couldn’t see how to keep everyone safe. If this was Ragnarok they had found, then the legendary Tomb of the Gods was next, and their lives had just become a game of roulette — the kind you played in Kennedy’s favourite allusion — Vegas — where the table was rigged.

Rigged in this particular allusion by every secret player’s secret agenda, and by the unknown agendas of their many enemies.

And now in addition to Ben and Kennedy — the two people he would protect with his life — Drake had to consider both Hayden and Karin too.

Would all these concerns get in the way of saving the world? Only time would tell.

Endgames were being played out in every corner. Abel Frey had already begun his. Alicia and Milo might have one of their own, but Drake suspected his ex-SRT colleague had a killer-surprise in store that even her boyfriend hadn’t anticipated.

Torsten Dahl and Wells had rarely been off the phone since they crossed the coast of Iceland, receiving orders, hints and whispered advice from their respective governments. At length, Kennedy answered a call that made her sit up straight for a few minutes and shake her head wearily in shock.

She turned only to Drake. “Remember Hayden? The secretary? Yeah, she’s just doing her job alright.”

“Meaning?”

“She’s CIA, dammit. And right where she wants to be. In the middle of all this bullshit.”

“Bollocks.” Drake sent a troubled glance over towards Ben, but still fancied she harboured a soft spot for his friend. Was it just Drake’s heart feeding him romantic notions, telling him Hayden’s feelings had been true, or was she for real?

“That was the Secretary of Defence,” Kennedy went on matter-of-factly. “Wanting to be, umm, ‘kept in the loop’.”

“Indeed.” Drake nodded at Dahl and Wells. “And, over there, that’s just history repeating.” He looked tiredly through the closest window. “Can you believe, Kennedy, after the last week or so, that we’re still in the game here?”

“Can you believe,” Kennedy said, “that everyone’s buying in to this end of the world ‘fire will consume us’ theory?”

Drake was about to answer with weary aplomb when the bottom fell out of his world. The blood froze in his veins as something gigantic loomed outside the window.

Something so huge….

“I do now,” he hissed in the dread-filled voice of a man suddenly realising that everything he loved might die today. “Damnit… Kennedy… I do now.”

When he pointed out his revelation and Kennedy leaned across to take a look, he felt her entire frame stiffen.

“Oh my God!” she said. “That’s the…’

“I know,” Drake interrupted. “Dahl! Look at that. Look!”

The Swede caught his uncharacteristic show of fear, and quickly ended his call. A brief glance through the window made him frown in confusion. “It’s just Eyjafjallajokul. And yes, yes, Drake, I know, it’s easy for me to say, and yes, yes, it’s the one that made all the news in 2010… ” he paused, riveted, expectant.

Parnevik’s eyes were bugging. Swedish swear-words shot from him like poisoned darts.

Now Ben scooted close to the window. “Wow. It’s Iceland’s most famous volcano and it’s still erupting it seems, albeit gently.”

“Yes!” Drake cried. “Fire will consume us. The Goddamned Supervolcano.”

“But more importantly,” Kennedy now managed to continue, “look at the Shield’s image in elevation, Matt. Look at it!”

Parnevik now managed to find his flow: “Three mountains — not three triangles as has always been thought. The ancient scholars erred. Odin’s most famous symbol was decoded wrongly. Oh dear!”

Drake looked beyond the erupting volcano, and saw two even taller mountains flanking it that, when looked at in elevation, closely resembled Odin’s symbol.

“Oh dear,” Parnevik said. “Our eyes do play a trick here, because although those mountains appear next to Eyjafjallajokul, they are in fact hundreds of miles away. But they are part of the chain of Icelandic volcanoes. All connected.”

“So if one goes up with enough force, and is directly linked to those other two…” Kennedy continued.

“You’ve got the beginnings of a Supervolcano,” Drake finished.

“The Tomb of the Gods,” Dahl breathed, “is inside the erupting volcano.”

“And the removal of Odin’s bones makes it go boom!” Kennedy shook her head, unfettered hair flying. “Would you expect anything less?”

“Wait!” Dahl was watching the satellite image now that told them when they would reach the ‘Jellyfish’s’ eye. “We still need a bit of help with the directions, and this has always been my Plan B. That’s one enormous mountain there, and Abel Frey’s going to show us right through the front door.”

“How?” At least two voices asked.

Dahl winked and spoke to the pilot. “Take us higher.”

They were now so high that Drake couldn’t see even the mountains through the clouds. His new-found respect for the SGG Commander was in dire need of a lift.

“Alright, Torville, put the peasants outta their misery, eh?”

“Torsten,” Dahl corrected, before realising he was being goaded. “Oh, I see. Okay then, try to keep up if you can. This is my army speciality, or was, before I joined SGG. Aerial reconnaissance photography, in particular, Orthophotos.”

“That’s brilliant,” Drake said. “I’m erect as we speak. What the hell are those?”

“They are photographs taken from an ‘infinite’ distance, looking straight down, which are then geometrically altered into the accepted standard of a map. Once the photo is uploaded, all we have to do is align it with ‘real-world’ coordinates, then…” he shrugged.

“Boom!” Kennedy laughed. “You mean like Google Earth, right? Only without the 3D?”

“Indeed.” Drake made a face. “Hope this works, Dahl. It’s our only chance to get ahead of the endgame.”

“It will. And not only that, when the computer calculates the coordinates we will know exactly where the entrance to the Tomb of the Gods is. Even the Germans, in full possession of all nine Pieces, will have to estimate.”

“Assuming that the Germans align all the Pieces correctly,” Ben said with a humourless smile.

“Well, that’s true. We can only hope that Abel Frey knows what he’s doing. He’s certainly had enough time to practice.”

Drake slid out of his seat and looked for Wells. Saw him tapping his mobile against the window in frustration.

“Any news on Frey’s Chateau, mate?”

The SAS commander snorted. “Surrounded. But covertly — the Chateau is unaware of its new-found attention. German cops’re there. Interpol. Representatives from most of the world’s Governments. But not Mai, for some reason. I’ll not lie to you, Matt, it’s going to be one hard rock to crack without a shitload of losses.”

Drake nodded, thinking of Karin. He knew the odds, having played them many times. “So we’ll do the Tomb first… then see where we’re at.”

Just then there was some excitement near the front of the cramped chopper. Dahl turned around with a gleeful smile on his face. “Frey’s down there now! Arranging the Pieces. If we set this baby on full res and a snap-happy one-frame-per-second we’ll be inside that Tomb within the hour!”

“Have some respect,” Parnevik breathed reverently. “That’s Ragnarok down there. One of the greatest battlefields in known history, and the site of at least one Armageddon. Gods died screaming in that ice. Gods.”

“And so will Abel Frey,” Ben Blake said quietly. “If he’s harmed my sister.”