The Templar's Quest

Cathedral-like, it was here that Ivo prayed daily to the gods of Galileo, Copernicus, Newton and Planck.

Peering over the railing, he was pleased to observe the researchers, scientists and scholars seated at various tables on the mezzanine level. In order to maintain secrecy, they endeavoured under the false belief that they were working on a covert government project. To further the deceit, they’d been forced to sign an ‘official’ confidentiality disclosure agreement. Should they reveal the nature of their work to anyone outside of the foundation, they would be hit with heavy monetary fines and possible imprisonment. Or so they believed. If, in fact, any of the researchers ever did violate the terms of the agreement, a far more severe penalty would be meted out. Administered by the Dark Angel.

The sight of so much industry, of virtuosi working for a common cause, was a soothing balm for Ivo’s frazzled nerves. An organized collective, all of the researchers at the Seven Research Foundation were in pursuit of the same primary objective – to analyze the effect of fusing astral and telluric energies to create the Vril force.

The Lost Science of the ancient world.

While they’d had great success engineering a special generator to create the Vril force, they were missing the unique integral component that would operate the device – the Lapis Exillis.

Once they found the Lapis Exillis, and they would find it, das Groß Versuch, the Great Experiment, could be conducted. In Stage One of the experiment, they would generate the Vril force. In the next stage, the Vril force would be used to do the unimaginable … to create a loop in the space–time continuum.

The ultimate physics experiment.

Glancing dismissively at his tepid cup of tea, Ivo hoped that he lived long enough to witness that history-altering event.

The pain having become more than he could bear, he gracelessly lumbered to his feet. The metastasized tumour in the back of his abdominal cavity pressed against his spine, creating near-constant pain. According to his oncologist, he had no more than four months to live. Even if he underwent the gruelling treatments, it would only add an extra two or three months to his life. Preferring pain to debilitating nausea and uncontrollable diarrhoea, he’d elected not to undergo the chemotherapy and radiation treatment. At least the pain could be managed.

Slowly shuffling to a locked door on the other side of the alcove, Ivo keyed a numeric code into the security pad, the door unlocking with a soft pong!

A private lavatory, it was painted and tiled in neutral shades of brown, the cabinetry stained a dark espresso. An elaborate dried floral arrangement, an upholstered high-backed chair and several pillar candles created a tasteful décor.

Ivo stepped over to the basin and washed his hands. Seating himself on the edge of the chair, he opened a drawer and removed a small bottle of white powder, a second bottle of sterile water, a tiny piece of cotton, an alcohol swab, a tourniquet, a wrapped syringe and a spoon. Hands shaking, he lit the nearby candle. He deemed it a bitter irony that his pain medication derived its name from the German word heroisch meaning ‘heroic’.

From his perspective, there was nothing heroic about dying from cancer or shooting up with heroin.

However, he’d long since got over the shame of the latter. For him, it was a matter of simple expedience; heroin crossed the blood–brain barrier faster than morphine and was a far more potent analgesic.

Removing the needle from his vein, Ivo leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes, able to see a luminous fire burning in the dark void. An instant later, Wotan appeared, hanging from a gnarled oak tree.

Pain dissipating, Ivo softly cackled.

The fallacy of religion was that the Church Fathers adamantly asserted transcendental experiences proved the existence of God. How trite. One had only to inject a small amount of heroin into a vein to induce a spiritual euphoria.

Ivo savoured the bliss as the bright ball of fire travelled to his left breast, burning a hole through the middle of his tattoo.

Yes!

They would find the Lapis Exillis. He was certain of it. Then they would put his father’s theory to the ultimate test. Transform the past into the present. And when they did, they would restore das Dritte Reich … the Third Reign … one that would indeed last a thousand years.

How amazing to ponder that the course of all their lives could be dramatically altered by fusing different types of energy. Creating an invisible force that had no intelligence, no scent, no taste and made no sound.

Yet, despite all that, a force to be reckoned with.

46

What was the Grail if not the Mysterium cosmographicum? Cædmon silently mused.

Excited by the prospect of finding the ‘secret of the universe’, he had nonetheless taken the time to shave, shower and don fresh clothing. Keys in hand, he swung the leather tote bag on to his shoulder. For some inexplicable reason, he felt like a new man.

Ready to depart, he shut the bedroom door and headed into the flat’s cluttered sitting room. Opening the top drawer on the corner cabinet, he reluctantly deposited his holster. As he did, his gaze landed on a smudged glass with a finger’s measure of gin, in plain sight where he’d left it earlier that morning on top of the cabinet.

For several long seconds he stared, his old self tempted.

‘ “And every spirit upon earth seemed fervourless as I,” ’ he muttered, well aware that he’d become a predictable bore.

Tuning out the Siren, he purposefully hitched the satchel a bit higher on his shoulder and strode out of the room.

A few moments later, alarm set and shop door locked, he departed L’Equinoxe bookstore. The gaily painted shop sign swayed ever so slightly in the breeze, rusty hinges jangling. He’d designed the signage, which depicted the Fool, the first card in the Tarot deck, as a satirical self-portrait. The innocent young man blithely setting forth on an adventure. So consumed in his joie de vivre, it rendered him oblivious to the fact that he was about to step off a cliff and break his bloody neck.

Although, strangely enough, today the image bespoke a deeper meaning. In truth, he felt uplifted. Invigorated, even. Certainly a departure from the self-loathing he’d experienced upon rising. For what began as a day like any other had unexpectedly turned into an odyssey. A mental challenge had presented itself, wrapped in the tantalizing ribbons of a centuries-old mystery.

However, unlike the Fool, he wasn’t naive. The Seven Research Foundation sought the Grail so they could put a dark plan into play. The progeny of monsters, God only knew what they intended. The Cathars would claim, and rightly so, that the Seven owed allegiance to none save Rex Mundi, Lucifer, the god of the material realm. The evil one who lured young fools from the straight and narrow path.

As he hurriedly made his way down Rue de la Bûcherie – feeling very much like a newly released penitentiary inmate – it dawned on Cædmon that all of the cock-ups in his life had transpired after he’d veered from the straight and narrow. His father, were he still alive, would maintain that he’d taken his first misstep when he’d journeyed down the birth canal. Indeed, he held Cædmon personally liable for the fact that Helena Aisquith died while she laboured to bring their first child, a squalling baby boy, into the world.

Because of that tragic misfortune, he’d been raised in a cheerless household. When he turned thirteen, his father shunted him off to Eton College. A malicious contrivance, Cædmon was forced to bear a whole new torment, pecking order at the hallowed public school determined by one’s lineage. Lacking the ancestral prestige of his classmates, he had to best them with the only tools in his arsenal: a sharp mind and a well-honed body. By the time he left Eton, he boasted membership in the elite Sixth Form Select and had captained the cricket team that victoriously took the field against Harrow. For five arduous years he had stayed true to the straight path until, finally liberated, he set forth for Oxford.

In no time at all, he veered on to a crooked lane.

For the first two years he ran with a fast crowd who fancied themselves latter-day libertines, ‘Mad, bad and dangerous to know.’ When the late-night revels became old hat, his scholastic passions revived. However, craving academic excitement, he did the unthinkable and changed from Egyptology to medieval history, the Knights Templar far more thrilling than mummified pharaohs. Earning a reputation as a rogue scholar, the impulsive move eventually resulted in his ousting from Queen’s College. ‘The Manifesto’, as he jokingly referred to his dissertation, was summarily dismissed as a ‘harebrained hypothesis that could only have been opium-induced’. When, a few months later, MI5 came knocking at his door, it seemed a blessing in disguise.

Little did I know …

But the overlords at Thames House had not deadened his spirit. Nor had the dons at Queen’s College blunted his academic passion. The fact that he was setting off for Montségur proved that he was still curious. Still intrigued by those questions that had no answers.

In a hurry to get to the Metro, Cædmon sidestepped a group of tourists who, maps and cameras in hand, huddled on the pavement. He glanced at his wristwatch. The high-speed TGV train for Marseille was scheduled to depart Gare de Lyon in forty-five minutes. Giving him just enough time to arrive at the train station and purchase a ticket. According to the schedule, they would arrive in Marseille by mid-evening. He intended to use the three-hour train ride to devise a plan of action. Wi-Fi Internet access would enable him to begin his preliminary research.

He knew that the trip might prove a fool’s errand. Many men had sought the Grail. Many had met their death in the ill-fated quest. Be that as it may, he felt compelled to join the hunt.

Making his way across the Square René Viviani, the small park adjacent to St Julien-le-Pauvre Church, Cædmon sensed an unseen presence following in his wake. The nape of his neck prickled as he ducked into a church doorway.

Hidden in a dark alcove, cheek pressed to the fluted limestone, he surreptitiously peered around the corner. This time of day the tree-lined park brimmed with harried mothers chasing tots and pushing prams. From where he stood, he had an unobstructed view across the Seine to the much larger, and more magnificent, Notre-Dame.

Eyes narrowed, Cædmon searched for the telltale person who did not belong. The anomaly in the endless stream.

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

As a precaution, he waited a few seconds more. Because all train passengers had to pass through a metal detector, he’d been forced to leave his Ruger pistol back at the flat.

He released a pent-up breath. ‘I’m seeing fiends where none exist.’

Stepping away from the portal, he continued on his way. He quickened his pace as he glanced at the western horizon and noticed a strange chartreuse cast to the sky.

A warning that a violent storm was brewing.

PART III

‘The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeing new landscapes, but in having new eyes’ – Marcel Proust

47

Montségur Castle, The Languedoc

0914 hours

Could anything be more ridiculous than a middle-aged man on a Grail quest?

‘Only the Fool about to blithely step off a steep cliff,’ Cædmon muttered under his breath.

To prevent a fatal mishap, he braced both hands on the ruined battlement as he set his gaze on the Pyrenees. Perched atop a limestone and granite outcrop that rose an impressive three thousand feet into the air, Montségur commanded a panoramic view that left one awestruck. Ragged peaks. Colossal mountains. Sheer precipices. Set against a cerulean blue sky, the ancient mountains seemed impregnable.

Although appearances could be deceiving as the doomed Cathars discovered when their ‘impregnable’ citadel was besieged by the Pope’s army.

According to legend, just before the fortress capitulated, on a frigid and moonless night, four brave Cathars scaled Montségur’s western cliff. Managing to sneak past the enemy line, they travelled under cover of night to the Templar preceptory located twelve kilometres away. To persuade the warrior monks to fight on their behalf, the four Cathars bore a gold medallion with an encrypted map that revealed the secret location of the greatest treasure of the Middle Ages, the Holy Grail. Having presented the medallion to the Knights Templar, the Cathar emissaries promised that the encryption key would be turned over as soon as the Templars took up arms. The prize too tempting to resist, the Templars saddled their war horses and set off for Montségur.

By the time they arrived, the citadel had already fallen, the last two hundred and fifty Cathars forcibly marched through the barbican gates. They were put to the torch by order of the Pope’s envoy, a white-robed Dominican priest, thus bringing to a fiery close the thirty-year-long Albigensian Crusade.

As had happened on all of his previous visits to Montségur, Cædmon found himself contemplating the tragedy with renewed vigour. Everywhere he looked the ghost of those humble heretics hovered amidst the ruined ramparts and shattered curtain walls, all that remained of the Cathars’ mountaintop eyrie. A limestone monument to the dead, it invoked the memory of that other doomed mountaintop fortress, the Jewish bastion at Masada. Which no doubt explained the heart-rending aura that clung to the citadel like a finely spun burial shroud.

Opening the flap on his field jacket, Cædmon removed his BlackBerry. Because of the precipitous hike up the winding mountain trail from the village below, he’d dressed in khaki cargo pants, a practical long-sleeved shirt and rugged boots. Accessing the photo log on the BlackBerry, he stared at the symbols incised on the medallion: star, sun, moon and four strangely-shaped ‘A’s arranged in a cruciform.

His gaze zeroed in on the four ‘A’s.

Yesterday, on the train ride from Paris, he’d carefully examined a map of the Languedoc. With numerous place names in the region beginning with the letter ‘A’, it would take a lifetime to search each and every one. Moreover, the Languedoc encompassed an area that measured nearly sixteen thousand square miles. Most of it, mountainous terrain. The disheartening reality was that the Grail could have been hidden anywhere within those sixteen thousand square miles.

He skipped to the next photograph, a close-up of the engraved text on the medallion’s flipside. The first two lines, written in the Occitan language, read: ‘In the glare of the twelfth hour, the moon shines true.’ A curious turn of phrase since the moon was most often associated with the night sky. The last line of text had been scribed in Latin. Reddis lapis exillis cellis. ‘The Stone of Exile has been returned to the niche.’ While the meaning was obvious, it was also frustratingly vague, no mention made of where ‘the niche’ was located.

The mystery compounding, Cædmon took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the pine-scented air as he stared at the craggy mountains in the near distance. Terra incognita.

Worried that he’d journeyed to Montségur in vain, he gazed at the barren courtyard beneath the ramparts. Two blokes who’d hauled surveying equipment to the citadel were toying with a transit-level. Another pair, who were filming a documentary, had just set a very professional-looking video camera on to a tripod. A tour group on the far-side of the courtyard was taking turns reading aloud from Wolfram von Eschenbach’s Parzival.

Cædmon suspected that, like him, they were all attempting to solve the mystery of the Cathars’ mountaintop –

Mountain!

‘Bloody hell,’ he whispered, hit with a sudden burst of inspiration.

Sliding his rucksack off his shoulder, he hurriedly loosened the drawstrings, retrieving a small leather-bound journal and a sharpened pencil. His hand visibly shaking, he opened the journal to the first blank page and drew one of the ‘A’s from the medallion cruciform.

His breath caught in his throat.

It’s not an ‘A’ … it’s a mountain peak!

Taken aback by the revelation, Cædmon hitched his hip on to the battlement as he examined the digital photos on the BlackBerry with fresh eyes. If he was right, it meant that, rather than four ‘A’s, there were four mountain peaks depicted on the medallion. A pictogram of the landscape visible from Montségur. Hope renewed, he stared intently at the other engraved symbols.

Certain that the star and the sun represented the heliacal rising of Sirius, that left the moon in the top quadrant to decipher. An age-old symbol found in almost every culture, its meaning and significance was myriad. Birth. Death. Resurrection. Cyclical time. Spiritual light in the dead of night.

But how did any of that relate to the four mountain peaks?

‘ “In the glare of the twelfth hour, the moon shines true,” ’ he quietly recited, the moon not only depicted on the medallion, but specifically mentioned on the reverse inscription.

Could the ‘moon’ be the key to unlocking the riddle of the Montségur Medallion?

Again, he was struck by the strange reference to time. Noon, the twelfth hour of the day, was the apogee of light, when the sun, not the moon, shone at its brightest. Traditionally, ‘noon’ also correlated to the cardinal direction of ‘south’. To this day, the French word ‘midi’ meant ‘noon’ and ‘southern’. As in the Midi-Pyrénées, or southern Pyrenees, where Montségur was located.

What if the ‘moon’ referred to a specific mountain located south of Montségur?

Anxious to test the hypothesis, Cædmon quickly checked the online map feature on his BlackBerry.

‘Damn,’ he muttered a few moments later, not getting a single hit.

On a twenty-first-century map.

Undaunted, he next pulled up an Oxford University search engine for the map collection at the Bodleian Library. Just as he’d hoped, the Bod had a thirteenth-century map of the Languedoc archived online. Heart beating at a brisk tattoo, he clicked on it.

‘Christ.’

Shaking his head in disbelief, Cædmon double-checked the crudely rendered chart. He then lurched to his feet and turned about face, towards the granite peak that loomed on the southern horizon. Mont de la Lune.

‘Moon Mountain’ as it had been called eight hundred years ago.

He barely suppressed the urge to rear his head and shout a joyful hosanna. While the clue might not lead to the Grail, it was a signpost. A new direction in which to venture forth.

On a wing, and even a prayer, so goeth the intrepid Fool.

Anxious to be on his way, Cædmon hurriedly shoved the BlackBerry into his jacket pocket and returned the journal to his rucksack. He then rushed towards the stone steps that led from the ramparts to the courtyard below, an unshaven, khaki-clad wayfarer ready to embark on la quête du Graal.

God help him.

48

Grande Arche Belvedere, Paris

1059 hours

‘Hey, Katie. What’s the matter?’ Finn slid his Oakley sunglasses on to the top of his head. ‘And please don’t tell me that you’re scared of heights.’ Standing on the rooftop of the Grande Arche building, at the eastern side of the belvedere, they had a bird’s-eye-view of the Axe Historique, a.k.a. the Champs-Élysées, thirty-five storeys below. With all of the ultra-modern architecture in the near vicinity, the area resembled a cityscape from a sci-fi movie.

Although Finn didn’t consider it much of a tourist attraction, a crowd nonetheless shuffled along the barricaded perimeter of the rooftop. Bright-blue telescopes were set up every ten feet or so, tourists plopping coins into the slots so they could ooh and ahh over the wonders of Paris magnified umpteen times.

Kate seated herself on a nearby bench. ‘I’m concerned about this so-called “mission op”,’ she told him in a subdued tone of voice. ‘After everything that happened yesterday, is it prudent to go on the offensive?’

‘Grabbing the bull by the balls is the only way that I can get justice for Corporals Dixon and Kelleher. The Dark Angel will pay in a court of law for what she did to my two buddies.’ Homily delivered, Finn figured a little bolstering was in order as Kate was obviously suffering from a bad case of battlefield jitters. ‘Do you have any idea how much it costs to train a special ops soldier? I’ll tell ya – it costs three quarters of a million dollars.’ He paused, letting the fact soak in. ‘In other words, I know what I’m doing. Besides, they have no idea that we’re even here.’ ‘They’ being the Seven, who had their headquarters on the thirty-fifth floor of the Grande Arche. The penthouse suite directly below them.

According to Fabius Jutier’s calendar, an eleven o’clock board meeting of the Seven Research Foundation had been scheduled. With all of the principal players in attendance, it was Finn’s chance to storm the castle gate.

‘You’re right.’ Kate smiled sheepishly. ‘Sorry for being such a nervous Nellie.’

‘Hey, it’s understandable.’ Glad they’d got over the hump without incident, Finn sat down beside her.

Granted, it wasn’t the most comfortable seat in the house, but he’d seen one too many uniformed police prowling around below deck. Just as worrisome, with the exception of the rooftop, there were video cameras mounted everywhere. If his image was captured and matched to his military photo – enabling the authorities to close in on him – he’d have no choice but to abort the mission. And leave Dixie and Johnny K hanging in limbo. No way in hell was he going to let that happen.

In this man’s army, you don’t leave your comrades behind.

Leaning against the metal bench, Finn put an arm around Kate’s shoulders while he took in the view. While the Grande Arche came in at a respectable height, the marble-clad structure was dwarfed by the towering steel and mirrored glass buildings that surrounded it. The reflected light near blinding, Finn slipped his shades back on.

‘I’m curious, Finn … why did you join the army?’

An innocent enough question but, unbeknownst to Kate, it struck a deep chord.

Seventeen years may have come and gone, but Finn could still vividly recall his treeless South Boston neighbourhood with the ramshackle three-storey terraced houses and chain-link fences, the streets lined with dented aluminium trash cans. Oppressive as hell. It became even more oppressive after his brother Mickey joined the McMullen Gang. On more than one occasion, Finn was picked up by Boston’s finest, the bad-ass badges mistaking him for his twin brother. That’s when Finn decided to get out of South Boston before some rival gang member mistook him for Mickey and pulled the trigger. The US Army offered the perfect means of escape.

‘Since I’ve always been something of an adrenaline junkie, the military was a natural choice,’ he told Kate, that as good an answer as any. ‘In addition to all of the action, along the way I’ve picked up an interesting skills set.’

Kate folded her arms over her chest. A challenging tilt to her chin, she said, ‘Let me guess? All of these skills have to do with guns, ammo and chasing enemy combatants.’

‘Not true. Back in ’92 when I first got out of basic training, I was stationed at a refugee camp along the Iraq–Turkey border. That’s where I learned how to deliver a baby.’

Almost comically, Kate’s mouth fell open. ‘Are you kidding me? You, the rough, tough, macho commando, delivered a baby?’

‘No easy feat given that those camps were like the wild, wild west. Except instead of six-shooters, they carried Kalashnikovs. I was with the army battalion responsible for maintaining order in the camps. Because of the Islamic prohibitions, I wasn’t supposed to look this pregnant woman in the eye, let alone peer at her, um –’ Finn cleared his throat, no further explanation needed. ‘I’d already radioed HQ that I needed a female nurse, doctor, soldier, anyone female to come to my assistance.’

‘Did anyone arrive?’

‘Just as I’m standing there holding this itty-bitty bloody baby in my hands, tears of joy streaming down my face that the kid was even breathing, the nurse finally showed up.’ He chortled, able now, years later, to see the humour in it. ‘From South Boston to Kurdistan. Of course, I’ve been all over the world since then.’

‘Which no doubt explains why you’re so jaded about Paris,’ Kate retorted, good-naturedly elbowing him in the ribs.

‘If you think I’m unaffected by all this –’ he gestured to the Arc de Triomphe L’Étoile, visible in the hazy distance – ‘think again. The difference between us is that I refuse to let the romance of the place go to my head. The Seven know that we’re in Paris. Trust me, they’re just waiting for that split-second when I go all ga-ga because I’m standing in front of some famous Parisian landmark and I drop my guard.’

A dubious expression on her face, Kate shook her head. ‘I cannot imagine you going “ga-ga” over anything.’

Oh, you’d be surprised.

Last night, sacked out on a hard floor, he kept dreaming about Kate. Talk about going ga-ga. Hot dreams full of wild, writhing sex, he was finally forced to sneak off to the bathroom to get some relief.

Removing his arm from her shoulders, Finn unzipped his Go Bag and retrieved a bottle of water. ‘Here you go.’ Unscrewing the cap, he handed it to Kate.

‘Thanks.’

He watched as she took several sips, the muscles in her throat rhythmically working with each swallow. Thinking it was a sexy sight, Finn snorted caustically. Great. Another night of getting in touch with myself.

‘Do you think the Seven Research Foundation is actually going to give you the Dark Angel in exchange for the Montségur Medallion?’ Kate asked, returning the bottle to him.

‘I won’t know until I make the offer. If they accept, the exchange will occur at the place and time of my choosing. Probably as close to the American Embassy as can be arranged. Then, when I have the Dark Angel in my custody, I’ll alert Marine Security at the embassy that we’re on our way.’ And if they didn’t accept, he had a back-up plan.

‘You do know that if the Seven Research Foundation has the Montségur Medallion, they can use it to find the Grail?’

‘Like I care.’ He glanced at his watch. 1110. Time for Phase One of the mission op to kick off. ‘The scheduled meeting started ten minutes ago.’ He unclipped his cell phone from his waist. He then removed a small digital voice recorder and earbud microphone from his Go Bag. ‘We’re wheels up in fifteen seconds. You ready?’

Kate nodded weakly. While not as gung-ho as he would have liked, the tepid response was to be expected. Scrolling through his phonebook, he selected the number he’d earlier programmed for the Seven Research Foundation.

The call was answered on the first ring by a French-speaking female.

‘Hey, how ya doin’? This is Finn McGuire calling. I’m trying to get a-hold of the Seven Dwarfs. It’s real important that I speak with Dopey. Although if he’s not available, you can patch me through to the head dwarf, Ivo Uhlemann.’

‘Un moment, Monsieur McGuire.’

‘So far, so good,’ Finn said to Kate in a lowered voice as he inserted the small earbud into his left ear and connected the cable into the jack on the digital recorder. One of his newly purchased toys, the earbud mike would enable him to record both sides of the cell-phone conversation on the digital recorder. The digital recorder would, in turn, date and time stamp the conversation. Absolutely necessary for an evidentiary recording. He knew it wasn’t enough to capture the Dark Angel and turn her over to the authorities. He needed proof that the Seven Research Foundation had ordered the hits on Dixie and Johnny K.

As they’d earlier rehearsed, Kate took charge of the digital recorder. She rolled her free hand several times to let him know that she’d started the recording.

‘Ah, Sergeant McGuire. Guten tag. We were hoping that you would call,’ a male voice said in heavily accented English.

‘Are you Ivo Uhlemann?’

‘I am Doctor Ivo Uhlemann. And may I offer my condolences for the loss of your two comrades?’

‘No, you may not,’ Finn tersely informed the polite bastard. ‘In case you haven’t heard, you can’t take the pee out of the pool. That said, a few days ago I spoke to one of your compradres, a dude by the name of Fabius Jutier. Unfortunately, the conversation dead-ended on me.’

‘I trust this conversation will have a more satisfactory ending,’ Uhlemann replied, refusing to comment on Jutier’s suicide. ‘In exchange for the Montségur Medallion, we’ve put together an offer that I think you will find most interesting.’

Finn decided to play along. ‘Okay. What are you putting on the table?’

‘We are offering you a place at the table. Yesterday, we were greatly impressed with your skills … We believe that you would make an excellent addition to our organization.’

49

Seven Research Foundation Headquarters, Paris

1113 hours

‘And will you issue me a Nazi uniform?’ Finnegan McGuire taunted. ‘Or better yet, can I get one of those cool Black Sun tattoos on my left pec?’

Deeply offended, Ivo Uhlemann glared at the telephone console. Sitting at the head of the brushed-metal conference table, he involuntarily placed his right hand over his heart. In 1940, the head of the SS, Heinrich Himmler, had decreed that each member of the Seven must be tattooed with the Black Sun emblem. At first, all seven men were horrified. However, as the years passed, the tattoo came to symbolize their undying dedication to finding the Lapis Exillis. To honour that commitment, their progeny bore the same tattoo.

‘The Seven Research Foundation is a consortium of enlightened scholars and scientists,’ Ivo replied, curbing his annoyance. ‘Given your background, we would like to make you our Chief Security Officer. In addition to the yearly five-million-dollar salary, you will be provided with a furnished two-bedroom flat in the sixth arrondisement and a BMW E60.’

‘A Beemer. Nice.’

Taking the truncated reply as a positive sign, Ivo continued. ‘If you join our ranks, we will ensure that all murder charges against you are dropped. Your good name and reputation will be restored. Honour will be satisfied.’

‘Then you don’t know the meaning of that word,’ the American retorted snidely. ‘I can’t think of anything more dishonourable than allowing that bitch, the Dark Angel, to get away with two brutal murders.’

As Ivo considered his reply, he glanced at the other board members seated around the table. Originally comprised of nineteen members, disease, old age and, in the case of Fabius Jutier, an unfortunate suicide, had reduced their number to ten. As the Chairman, he was their designated spokesman.

‘We are well aware, Sergeant McGuire, that you expect us to turn over the Dark Angel in exchange for the Montségur Medallion. Unfortunately, that point is non-negotiable.’

‘Then there’s nothing for us to discuss. I mean, hell, why should I throw in my lot with the group who ordered the murders of Corporal Lamar Dixon and Corporal John Kelleher?’

‘Because, in addition to the generous compensation package, we are offering you an opportunity to join an elite foundation that is engaged in history-altering research.’

The sales pitch met with a lengthy silence.

Ivo saw the uneasy glances. They needed Sergeant McGuire’s cooperation. Das Groß Versuch could not be performed without the requisite component. Which they could not locate without the encoded map engraved on the Montségur Medallion. They’d just laid an enticing trap. To lure their quarry into the open, the American’s greed had to trump his distorted sense of honour.

‘Okay, Ivo, I gotta be honest … your offer is damn tempting,’ McGuire said at last. ‘I need to think on it a while.’

‘How much time do you require?’

‘You’ll have my answer no later than midnight tonight. In addition to the allotted time, a cease-fire will be in effect while I ponder my decision. If, during the cease-fire, I catch sight of Goldilocks or the bald-headed dude, I will destroy the Montségur Medallion. Unless I’m mistaken, gold melts at two thousand and twelve degrees Fahrenheit.’

‘Please give me a moment, Sergeant McGuire. I must confer with my colleagues.’ Ivo reached across the table and pushed the MUTE button on the console.

There was no mistaking the palpable tension around the conference table as the other nine members stared expectantly at him.

‘The matter is now open for discussion,’ he announced.

Matilda Zimmerman, former Director of the Linguistics Department at the University of Heidelberg, was the first to speak. ‘Would the American actually destroy the medallion?’

‘Sergeant McGuire does not strike me as a man who makes idle threats,’ Ivo replied. His assessment caused several in the group to nod vigorously. ‘However, the offer that we tendered to him is generous to an extreme.’

‘What if he doesn’t accept our offer?’ Otto Fassbinder enquired anxiously. A retired editor-in-chief of the Journal of the German Geological Society, his field of expertise was the effect of crystal geodes on telluric energy currents.

‘The Americans are the most avaricious people on the planet. As they themselves are fond of saying, “Every man has his price.” ’ Ivo opened the manila folder that he’d brought to the meeting. ‘We are also monitoring Cædmon Aisquith’s movements as a back-up contingency.’

‘Why don’t we just capture the Englishman?’ This from Wilhelm Koch, an American who owned a successful maths-based engineering firm in California’s Silicon Valley.

‘Because there’s a slim possibility that he might actually find the Lapis Exillis.’ Ivo stared contemplatively at the dossier that he’d received yesterday from his contact at the Ministry of Defence. A recently retired MI5 intelligence officer, Aisquith had an academic background in Egyptology and medieval studies. A unique skills set, to say the least, which was the reason why he’d sent one of his best men to the Languedoc to shadow the Englishman. According to the latest update, Aisquith had left Montségur an hour ago.

‘I will give you two minutes to further discuss the matter. Then we will put it to a vote.’

Slowly rising to his feet, Ivo suffered an intense burst of pain. He required more analgesic, the time span between injections becoming of increasingly short duration.

Having already decided how he would cast his vote, Ivo walked over to the plate-glass window on the other side of the conference room. From his vantage point, he could see the Grande Arche reflected in the gaudy mirrored office building directly opposite, the open cube being at the western terminus of the Axe Historique. And just as the Grande Arche owed its existence to the Seven Research Foundation, the Axe Historique owed its existence to the mighty Knights Templar.

At the onset of the fourteenth century, the Templars were poised to become the most technologically advanced force in medieval Europe. In addition to their expansive property holdings, their large fleet of ships and their battle-ready army of warrior-monks, the Templars were a financial powerhouse. For those reasons alone, they gave many European monarchs fitful sleep. But one monarch in particular, the French king Philippe le Bel, had more reason than most to fear the Templars. In the summer of 1306, Philippe had begged asylum at the Templars’ Paris headquarters during a bout of civil unrest. An impolite guest, Philippe spent his time snooping through the Templars’ extensive library. Which is how he discovered the Templars’ secret blueprint for the city of Paris. Although he couldn’t comprehend the science behind the design, Philippe astutely realized that the Knights Templar possessed ancient knowledge that could be used to conquer the monarchy. Perhaps the whole of Europe.

It left the French king with no choice but to destroy the mighty order of warrior-monks.

To the consternation of later monarchs, Philippe le Bel was not entirely successful. While the Knights Templar were destroyed, their blueprint survived intact, passed down from one secret society to the next. The Rosicrucians, the Freemasons, Cagliostro’s Egyptian Rite – just a few of the groups that endeavoured to complete the ley line in the hopes that they might be the ones to find the Lapis Exillis.

Acutely aware that time was running out, Ivo stared at the reflected cube. In two days’ time, Sirius would rise with the sun. Because the Vril force could only be generated during the heliacal rising of Sirius, when the astral energy of that star was at its peak, das Groß Versuch could only be performed on that one specific day.

According to his doctors, he didn’t have another year to wait until the next heliacal rising.

‘We’re ready to vote,’ Professor Zimmerman announced.

Returning to the conference table, Ivo said, ‘All those in favour of granting a temporary cease-fire, please raise your hand.’

Although there was obvious reluctance etched on to two or three faces, all of the board members, including Ivo, raised their right hand.

Decision reached, Ivo pressed the SPEAKER button on the telephone console. ‘We agree to your terms, Sergeant McGuire. A cease-fire is in effect until midnight.’

‘Smart chess move,’ McGuire said brusquely before disconnecting the call.

‘Now what?’

Ivo glanced at Professor Zimmerman. ‘As Finnegan McGuire adroitly remarked, it is a chess match. Our trap has been laid and I am confident that it will end in checkmate.’

At which point, Sergeant McGuire will lose the game, the Montségur Medallion and his life.

50

The Languedoc

1130 hours

Grunting, Cædmon finagled his way between the two rough-hewn embankments that formed a narrow V, the gneiss stone brightly glittering with embedded crystals.

The undiscovered country …

‘From whose bourn I intend to bloody well return. Grail in hand,’ he puckishly added, still riding euphoria’s high crest.

A few moments later he emerged from the rocky slit and entered a boulder-strewn ravine. Coming to a standstill, he beheld the wildflowers that bloomed in haphazard profusion, the vegetation a welcome sight in the otherwise barren landscape. Winded by his two-hour mountain trek, he gracelessly plunked down on a flat-topped boulder. Studying a topographical map, he could see that Mont de la Lune was located at the other end of the ravine. The next port of call, Moon Mountain, was where the hunt would begin in earnest.

Returning the map to his rucksack, he retrieved a water bottle. The tepid liquid did little to satisfy his true thirst, Cædmon entertaining a fantasy that involved big chunks of ice floating in gin with a splash of tonic and a squirt of lemon.

Of late, he frequently viewed the world through green-tinted glasses, green being the colour of a Tanqueray gin bottle.

Muscles tight, he slowly rolled his neck. First one direction. Then the other. Groaning from the ensuing pain, he found his decrepitude both lamentable and laughable.

Must remember to pull the dumb-bells out of the closet. Or take up jogging. Cycling, perhaps.

Unenthused by the thought of an exercise regime, Cædmon glanced around the ravine. For some inexplicable reason, the abundant stores of rock put him in mind of a cemetery laden with marble headstones.

That, in turn, conjured memories of the annual pilgrimage to his mother’s grave site. Where, white lilies in hand, he and his father would stand, heads respectfully bowed, Cædmon afraid to be caught looking anywhere but at that speckled grey stone.

• Helena May Aisquith •

• 3 May 1938 – 2 February 1967 •

• ‘The maid is not dead, but sleepeth.’ •

The fact that his mother died in childbirth meant that his birthday was always a glum affair. Rather than cake and presents, he was made to suffer his father’s piteous glare, wet February winds and thinly veiled accusations of matricide.

‘Did you know, boy, that she was named for Helen of Troy? Flamered hair and eyes of blue. Stole my heart, she did … and then she was stolen from me.’ As if Cædmon had plotted her murder from the womb. Mercifully, his deportation to Eton put an end to the yearly visit.

Disgusted that he’d let himself fall prey to those grim memories, he took another swig from the water bottle. You, Sir Prancelot, are a sorry excuse for a Grail knight.

But was any man truly up to the challenge?

Wolfram von Eschenbach, the author of the definitive Grail romance Parzival, set the bar for would-be knights exceedingly high. In von Eschenbach’s perfect medieval world, only those of chaste body and pure heart could seek the Grail. Inebriates and ne’er-do-wells need not apply.

Unwilling to dwell on his appalling lack of knightly credentials, Cædmon instead wondered how much validity there was to the epic tale. According to von Eschenbach, the Knights Templar had become the Grail Guardians. If that was true, it meant that the Templars had deciphered the Montségur Medallion and collected the prize. And, presumably, like the Cathars before them, they straightaway hid the damned thing to keep it from falling into the Inquisitors’ covetous hands.

Hopefully, that part of von Eschenbach’s account was pure fiction.

Slinging the rucksack over his shoulder, Cædmon rose to his feet and continued on his way. Since the ‘twelfth hour’ was significant, he didn’t want to be late to the tea party.

Twenty minutes into his trek, he caught his first glimpse of Mont de la Lune, a gleaming spire of granite punctuated with green scrub brush. Seen from below, the rugged peak soared heavenward, the pointed summit disappearing into the hazy clutches of a passing cloud. A starkly beautiful and remote juggernaut.

Anticipation mounting, Cædmon hurriedly removed a pair of binoculars from his rucksack.

‘Reddis lapis exillis cellis.’

‘The Stone of Exile has been returned to the niche.’

While no location had been given in the inscription, he assumed that the ‘niche’ in question was located on Mont de la Lune. More than likely on the northern façade of Moon Mountain, since that was the side of the mountain visible from Montségur.

Beginning his search through the binoculars at the base, he slowly, methodically, worked his way up the rocky face. Examining each nook, each cranny. To his surprise, the northern façade was riddled with small cave openings. At least a dozen of them. Three-quarters of the way up, he discovered a small fissure shaped like a crescent moon, brilliantly illuminated by the noonday sun.

‘In the glare of the twelfth hour, the moon shines true.’

‘Bloody hell … I think I’ve found it,’ he gasped in wonderment.

Lowering the binoculars, he studied the granite cliff. There appeared to be enough protruding rock ledges that he could ascend in a zigzag fashion, making for an arduous but not impossible climb. Since he’d done a bit of rock climbing in his younger days, he was fairly confident that he could reach the crescent-shaped niche.

As he shoved the binoculars into his rucksack, it occurred to him that in many of the medieval Grail poems, it wasn’t the treasure discovered in the mist that mattered, but the spiritual journey that led there.

‘Sod that.’

Let some other bloke be saved. He was determined to find the Grail.

51

The Seven Research Foundation Headquarters, Paris

1130 hours

‘Eine bloeder Affe! ’ Dolf Reinhardt muttered under his breath as he watched the sports video on his laptop computer, outraged that the Hertha Berliner football team had so many Africans in the squad. Disgraceful! They were stupid apes who couldn’t even speak proper German!

Disgusted, he slammed the computer closed.

Sitting outside the conference room in a high-backed chair, he sullenly glanced at his watch, wondering how much longer he would have to wait for Herr Doktor’s meeting to adjourn. He was hungry and wanted to take his lunch break. He also needed to return to the Oberkampf flat and check on his mother. While tempted to take his leave, he was a good soldier and would wait to be officially dismissed. After yesterday’s fuck-up, he wasn’t going to do anything that might jeopardize his position.

Well aware that he had failed miserably in his assignment, he feared that he might have lost Herr Doktor’s trust; a trust that he’d striven mightily to cultivate over the last eight years.

The fact that he’d not been promoted during those eight years rankled, his duties rarely extending beyond the washing and waxing of Herr Doktor’s sedan, running errands and walking that little furry scheisse Wolfgang. On those days when he felt overworked and underappreciated, he would remind himself that his maternal grandfather had also been a chauffeur.

To the greatest man who ever lived, Adolf Hitler.

A member of the Führer’s personal staff, his grandfather Josef Krueger not only drove the Führer to rallies, top-level meetings with his generals and front-line inspections, he was responsible for maintaining the Führer’s entire automotive fleet. A responsibility that his grandfather undertook with the utmost devotion. Indeed, he considered it a sacred honour to serve the Führer in this capacity.

When Dolf was a young boy, his mother had regaled him with stories about the Führer and how he’d treated her father with the greatest kindness, often bringing snacks for the two of them to share on long car trips. A man of the people, the Führer always insisted on sitting in the front passenger seat. While he refrained from discussing politics on those extended journeys, the Führer would speak at length about their shared interest in automotive mechanics as he plotted their course on a road map.

A trusted aide-de-camp, his grandfather had been in the Berlin bunker in late April 1945, when Adolf Hitler had taken his own life. It had been his grandfather’s grim task to secure the hundred and twenty gallons of petrol that was used to cremate the Führer and his new bride, Eva Braun. A dark and dreadful day for the Reich.

In idle moments, Dolf would sometimes fantasize about driving the Führer’s magnificent 770-K Mercedes Benz with the twelve chassis, armour plate and bullet-proof glass. Attired in a black SS jacket, jodhpurs, polished knee boots and peaked visor with silver braid and totenkampf emblem, he would cut a dashing figure. As would the Führer and the other dignitaries in the vehicle.

Smiling, Dolf closed his eyes, able to hear the roar of the crowds as they exuberantly chanted Sieg Heil! and the repetitive pound of soldiers marching in picture-perfect stechshritt, legs swinging in unison, right arms raised in a stiff salute.

‘Sleeping on the job, are you?’

Hearing that seductive purr of a voice, Dolf opened his eyes. A vision in a skintight white suit and stiletto high-heels stood over him, a mocking sneer on her painted red lips.

‘No doubt you’re exhausted from performing your important duties,’ Angelika Schwärz continued. Placing her hands on her hips, she glanced at his laptop computer. ‘Looking at a little Internet porn, were you?’

Dolf smoothed his sweaty palms against his trouser legs, uncertain what to say. If he denied the charge, it would make him appear unmanly.

‘I am waiting for Herr Doktor to issue my orders for the day,’ he muttered, purposefully changing the subject.

Angelika made a big to-do of peering around the deserted antechamber located just outside of the conference room. ‘Poor Dolfie. The great man seems to have forgotten all about you. Does anyone even know that you’re here, sitting all alone in a dark hallway on the most uncomfortable chair in the entire office suite?’ Licking her shiny red lips, she chortled nastily. ‘Or are you being punished?’

‘I’ve done nothing wrong.’

‘What do you call yesterday’s fiasco? A circus clown with a water pistol would have had greater success.’

He bit back a crude oath. For eight long years he’d made numerous sacrifices and put in long hours to prove his worth to the Herr Doktor, often forced to leave his mother unattended for extended lengths of time. He did this without complaint in the hope that he would move up the ranks and become a trusted aide. With the greatest fervency, he desired to have the same type of relationship with Herr Doktor Uhlemann that his grandfather had had with the Führer.

And though he had no proof, Dolf suspected that the blonde woman standing before him was the reason why he’d not been promoted.

Frowning, Angelika slowly tilted her head from side to side. ‘It doesn’t matter from which angle I gaze at you, with that unsightly nose you have a face that only a mother could love.’

‘Leave my mother out of this,’ he cautioned. Ire mounting, his right hand balled into a fist. Turning his head, he stared at the empty receptionist’s desk at the end of the hallway, grateful that no one was witnessing the humiliating exchange.

‘And does she love you, little Dolfie?’ Angelika jabbed him in the shin with the pointy toe of her high-heeled shoe. ‘Look at me when I speak to you, driver.’

Dolf swung his head in her direction. That he had to obey the bitch infuriated him.

‘Does your old mutti lavish you with attention, smother you with kisses and let you suckle at her breast?’ she taunted perversely. ‘I think that’s your problem, Dolfie. You’ve sucked at that withered tit for too many years.’ Red lips curved in a come-hither smile, Angelika undid the top button of her tailored jacket, exposing her bare breast. ‘If you’re a good boy, I might let you lick me. Would you like that, Dolfie? Hmm?’

Rabid with lust, he stared at the perfectly shaped white breast, torn between strangling Angelika with his bare hands and falling to his knees. Licking her from one end to the other. Submitting himself to the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

Dolf adjusted the computer on his lap, hiding the fact that he had a boner the size of a bratwurst.

Angelika shot him a pitying glance. ‘Poor Dolfie. You remind me of the eunuch standing guard at the pasha’s –’

Just then, Dolf’s stomach growled noisily.

Throwing back her head, Angelika laughed, her disdain causing his erection to instantly deflate.

‘You’re quite the ladies’ man, aren’t you? What will you do for an encore? Seduce me with a deafening fart?’

Bitch! Slut! Whore!

Mortified, Dolf glared impotently at the blonde seductress. If he put the arrogant cunt in her place, he’d lose his job. If he touched her breast, he’d lose his job. If he so much as uttered a rude word to the bitch, Herr Doktor Uhlemann would send him packing.

Herr Doktor thought the world of Angelika Schwärz. That’s because he didn’t know about his Dark Angel’s lurid predilections. But Dolf knew. He’d followed her one night when she went to one of the city’s Black Metal clubs. Standing in the shadows, he’d watched her have sex with two leather-clad, metal-studded men while bar patrons cheered her on. Herr Doktor had no idea; like every other man, he was under her spell, unable to see that she wasn’t a real woman dedicated to hearth and home. Instead, she was a promiscuous she-devil who revelled in emasculating every man she came into contact with. She possessed none of the virtues of her sex but all of the vices.

Angelika’s cell phone rang. With an exaggerated sigh, she re-buttoned her jacket before checking the caller ID.

‘I have to take this call.’ She blew Dolf a kiss. ‘Ciao, darling.’

Panting with suppressed rage, Dolf watched Angelika’s hips provocatively sway from side to side as she walked down the hallway.

That beautiful blonde bitch will be my undoing.

52

Mont de la Lune, The Languedoc

1242 hours

Mad dogs and Englishmen …

Although the dog, to his credit, knew better than to attempt a perilous mountain climb without a safety harness. Cædmon, to his regret, did not, the ascent proving a savage undertaking. Far more dangerous than he’d originally envisioned.

Or perhaps his vision had been clouded by the same obsessive desire that had led more than a few Grail knights to an untimely death.

Shoving that unpleasant thought aside, he hoisted himself upward. The trick was not to think about the fact that he was ‘balanced’ on a narrow protuberance of granite no more than fifteen inches wide, while his hands clung to a second, equally narrow, protuberance located a metre above his head. Unable to see the crescent-shaped niche from his current position, he reckoned that he had another twenty metres to traverse.

‘Shite,’ he muttered, unintentionally jabbing his index finger against a sharp-edged stone. Skin punctured, blood oozed down his hand.

He cautiously tiptoed across the granite shelf. Then, very slowly, he removed his rucksack and turned around. Leaning against the rough-hewn wall, he took a moment’s ease. In the far distance, he heard the merry tinkle of sheep bells. In the near distance, an eagle soared in graceful arabesques.

Rumour had it that Jean-Jacques Rousseau, the eighteenth-century philosopher and part-time daredevil, would spend hours perched on this very sort of sheer precipice, from which he’d gleefully toss stones as he imagined them being smashed to smithereens on the rocky gulch below.

Another mad man, Cædmon mused as he rubbed his bloody finger against his trouser leg. It was a warm day and his shirt was soaked through with perspiration. He was half tempted to disrobe and fling the drenched garment over the edge like one of Rousseau’s rocks.

Rested, he hefted the rucksack on to his shoulders. Turning towards the granite crag, he continued to climb. Extending. Then pulling. Occasionally clinging. A slow but steady ascent. The sun beat down mercilessly on his head. He ignored it as best he could. A small rock shifted beneath his feet. He scrambled. Found another foothold just as the rock broke free. A deadly projectile hurtling through space.

Cædmon chanced a downward glance.

A mistake.

Seized with an unexpected attack of vertigo, he leaned into the coarse rock, afraid to breathe, move or even blink for that matter. A bird on a wire, wings clipped.

Panic-stricken, he tightened his grip on the rocky knob. A drop of blood plopped on to his face from the punctured finger, rolling down his cheek to his chin. An instant later, it joined the rock at the bottom of the cliff. Ghoulish images flashed across his mind’s eye. Broken bones. Crushed spine. Smashed skull.

‘Any moment now I’m going to plunge to my –’

Stiffen your backbone, man. To quote the American commando, you seek ‘the Holy fucking Grail’.

Cædmon gulped a deep breath. Then another. A soft breeze wafted across his cheek. A gentle caress. The irrational fear subsided. Courage shored, he extended his arm. Securing a handhold, he navigated to the next ledge.

Upsy-daisy.

Long minutes later, he reached the crescent-shaped opening. Peering inside, he saw a shallow grotto about seven feet in height, strewn with rocks and boulders. An inauspicious vault for the most sacred relic in all of Christendom.

Undeterred, he heaved his torso into the breach, wiggling his lower body as he scrambled into the narrow cavity. Crouched on his haunches, he opened his rucksack and removed a torch. Flipping it on, he aimed the beam around the cave. Which is when he saw a set of skeletal remains.

I don’t believe it … it’s the bloody Grail Guardian!

Thrilled by the discovery, he rushed forward, stumbling on a loose stone in his haste.

Kneeling beside the bones, he shoved the torch under his arm as he examined several bits of metal that looked to be a crudely fashioned belt buckle. A dried, translucent snake skin was draped over the bloke’s clavicle bone; a fragile strip of boot leather clung to his bony foot; and several horn buttons were scattered about. Everything else had long since disintegrated.

Above the skeleton, a Latin phrase had been clumsily scrawled in what appeared to be a manganese pigment. Ad Augusta Per Angusta. ‘To holy places through narrow spaces.’ Beneath the text was a crudely rendered Cathar cross.

An evocative message scribed for the ages. And while it wasn’t proof positive, it strongly suggested that these were the mortal remains of one of the four Cathars who escaped the Montségur citadel.

Cædmon perused the area, wondering if a skeletal companion lurked in the near vicinity. As he peered through the crescent opening, the Pyrenees unfolded in the airy distance like a granite accordion. The last image imprinted on the Cathar’s dying brain. Although a lonely place to spend eternity, the view was splendid. To die for, an irreverent wag might say.

‘All right, old boy, where’s the blasted Grail?’ he demanded cheekily. He shone the torch into the far reaches of the stone sepulchre, surprised to see that the cave extended deeper into the mountain.

Hope springing, Cædmon ambled through a craggy chasm which, in turn, led to another grotto. The womb of the Mother.

At a glance, he could see that there were no bones, no inscriptions and no Grail.

Angered to think that the Knights Templar may have beaten him to the prize, he turned in a slow circle, searching for a stone depository where the relic could have been stashed. His attention was drawn to a massive slab that jutted out from the grotto wall. He walked towards it, the unusual rock formation meriting further investigation.

A Cathar cross adorned the thick block of stone. Intrigued, he peered behind the slab.

‘I’ll be damned,’ he murmured upon discovering that the slab hid a passageway approximately five and a half feet high and twenty inches wide. ‘To holy places through narrow spaces.’

Bending his head, Cædmon stepped into the passage.

53

Grande Arche Parking Garage, Paris

1247 hours

‘Aren’t you the least bit tempted?’ Kate asked, still stunned by the staggering amount of money that had been offered to Finn in exchange for the Montségur Medallion.

‘Oh, yeah. Like I want to work for the devil. Which, in case you don’t know, is called selling your soul.’ Leaning against the railing inside the garage stairwell, Finn unabashedly stared. ‘You know, the blonde hair is starting to grow on me.’

‘You’re absolutely certain that I won’t be recognized?’

Plucking one of the corkscrew curls, Finn pulled it straight before releasing it. The blonde curl bounced into place like a well-oiled spring. ‘Don’t worry. I’ve been living with you 24/7 and even I wouldn’t recognize you.’

As with all of the other equipment, the wig had been part of yesterday’s spending spree. Although she’d complained about donning it on a hot day, the disguise was absolutely necessary for Phase Two of the mission op. There were video surveillance cameras in the underground parking garage at Grande Arche and the blonde wig would ensure that she wasn’t identified. They’d both agreed that it was easier to alter her appearance than disguise a six-foot-four-inch male.

‘Time to get the mission underway.’ Unzipping his Go Bag, Finn removed a black metal object that resembled a hockey puck. ‘Let’s go over the instructions one more time. Once you locate Uhlemann’s Mercedes Benz, crouch beside the rear tyre well and, reaching underneath, place the tracking device so it can’t be seen.’ He pointed to the small flat disk. ‘This is the magnetized side of the device. In order for it to adhere, metal has to touch metal. Any questions?’

‘Just one … What happens if I get caught?’ Suffering from an acute case of the jitters, Kate gnawed on her bottom lip.

‘You’re not going to get caught,’ Finn assured her. ‘This operation is a two-second “stow and go”. I’m talking stupid simple.’

While the hyperbole was meant to buoy her confidence, Kate worried that she might not be up to the task. She hadn’t even left the stairwell and already her heart was pounding and her knees were shaking. A terrified blonde Mata Hari.

‘After I install the device, then what?’

‘As soon as you attach the device, return to the stairwell on the double-quick. Then we pray to Bob Almighty that Ivo follows the script and goes for a ride.’ Finn glanced at the concrete block walls that enclosed the stairwell. ‘This place is like a fortress. If I’m gonna abduct the bastard, I need him in the open, away from his stronghold.’

Since Ivo Uhlemann had rendered the Dark Angel ‘non-negotiable’, Finn intended to up the ante by abducting the head of the Seven Research Foundation. To secure Dr Uhlemann’s safe return, the Seven would have to give Finn custody of the Dark Angel. He’d demanded the cease-fire in order to lull Uhlemann into a false sense of security.

Steadfastly holding her gaze, Finn took hold of Kate’s left hand and gently squeezed it. ‘Hey, Katie, I know that you’re scared. If it wasn’t for the security cameras, I’d go out there and install the device. But I’m confident that you can pull this off.’

Faking a brave front, she mustered a smile. ‘Roger Wilco, Sergeant McGuire.’

‘Um, you’re not supposed to say “Roger” and “Wilco” at the same time,’ Finn corrected, a teasing glint in his brown eyes.

‘Are you sure about that? I’m certain that I’ve heard people in the movies say “Roger Wilco”.’

‘ “Roger” and “Wilco” mean the same thing. It’s one or the other.’

Conceding the point, Kate rolled her eyes. ‘I make a lousy commando, don’t I?’

‘Yeah, ’fraid so,’ Finn agreed. Then, one side of his mouth quirking upward, ‘But damned cute.’

Kate glanced at their two wedded hands, having long since got over the shock of Finn’s missing finger. The first time she’d set eyes on Master Sergeant Finnegan McGuire at the Pentagon, she’d dismissed him as a stereotypical warrior. A Rambo. Only recently had she begun to realize that the fierce façade masked a deeper complexity. Not only was Finn brave, considerate and loyal to a fault, he was sweetly demonstrative.

She kept envisioning a younger version of Finn, tears rolling down his face, holding a newborn infant in his hands. He probably didn’t realize it, but she’d found the story deeply moving. Four days ago, she didn’t want to know anything about this rough, tough Alpha male. But something had changed. The situation was different now. For some unfathomable reason, she felt emotionally attached. And not just because she was dependent on him to keep her alive.

Given that Finn wasn’t her type, she wondered if the heart didn’t contrarily follow its own rules.

Finn waved a hand in front of her face. ‘Earth to Kate. Let’s get this bad boy installed, okay?’ Stepping over to the door, he shoved the lock bar, swinging the door wide open. ‘Ready?’

‘Set, go,’ she said in a chipper tone as she stepped through the doorway. Hit with a blast of musty air laced with car oil, she wrinkled her nose.

Hoping she didn’t appear as nervous as she felt, Kate headed for the reserved section of the car park. Each car was in a designated spot with the name of a person or corporate entity printed on a placard attached to the concrete wall in front of the vehicle. From the dossier that Cædmon had given to them yesterday, Kate knew that Dr Uhlemann owned a Mercedes Benz S-class sedan with licence plate 610-NGH-75.

Reaching the section reserved for the Seven Research Foundation, Kate spared a quick glance around the deserted parking garage. Not only was the stairwell nearly a hundred feet away, she couldn’t even see it from her current position, elevating the fear factor several notches.

A few moments later, catching sight of a graphite-grey Mercedes parked next to the elevator door, Kate ducked behind a large concrete pier. Fingers trembling, she opened her new tote bag. Very carefully, she removed the magnetic-mount vehicle tracking device. Although heavy, it easily fitted into the palm of her very sweaty hand.

Stomach churning, she approached the big four-door Mercedes Benz.

Just then, the elevator bell pinged. One time. The signal that the doors would momentarily open. Kate gasped, her hand tightening around the tracking device.

Hurriedly going down on bended knee, she crouched next to the Mercedes’ rear tyre well. Placing her left hand on the concrete floor to keep from tipping over, she reached under the tyre well and –

– stuck the tracking device on to the metal underbelly of the vehicle, the powerful magnet holding it in place.

She lurched to her feet just as the elevator doors slid apart.

At least half a dozen people rushed forth. Frozen in place, Kate stood by the Mercedes and watched the mass exodus, the last person to exit the elevator a tall, bald-headed man in a dark suit. A Goliath with a hideously swollen nose.

The gunman from the Jardin du Carrousel!

Head cocked to one side, the brute glared at her as he approached the Mercedes.

Kate stood motionless. Uncertain what to do. She wasn’t a courageous Joan of Arc type or a glib-tongued Mata Hari. She was a scared ninny who –

‘Fifi! Yoo-hoo!’ Bending at the waist, she peered under the grey Mercedes sedan. Never a good actress, she hoped that she resembled a woman who’d just lost her dog. ‘Where are you, sweetie?’

A shadow fell over her, the brute standing directly behind her.

‘Qu’est-ce que vous faites?’ the monster rasped, demanding to know what she was doing.

Barely able to draw breath, Kate straightened her spine and slowly turned to face the man who, only the day before, had tried very hard to kill her. Up close, he was truly menacing, with a blotchy face disfigured by an engorged, off-kilter nose, thin lips and a deeply cleft square jaw.

For one horror-filled instant, Kate imagined him wearing a Nazi uniform.

‘I’m s-searching for my l-lost d-dog.’

‘Vat does it look like?’ he asked in a thick German accent.

‘It’s a little, um –’ Her mind went totally blank. ‘Oh, yes! A Yorkshire terrier! With long brown hair and a black –’ she inanely swished her hand in front of her mouth to indicate a muzzle, the word eluding her.

Eyes narrowing, the monster scrutinized her intently. ‘You are an American, aren’t you?’

Too late, Kate realized she’d spoken in English rather than French. Stupid, stupid mistake.

‘Actually, I’m a, um … Canadian,’ she stammered. ‘You know what? I’d better call my husband.’ Opening her tote bag, she grabbed the disposable cell phone that Finn had purchased for her.

Without warning, the monster snatched hold of her wrist, preventing her from opening the cell phone. ‘You can’t make that call.’

Terror-stricken, she glanced at his hand. It was huge. If he grabbed her by the neck, he could easily crush her windpipe with one mighty squeeze. Barely able to swallow, let alone scream, she frantically glanced from side-to-side; everyone who’d been in the elevator had dispersed, no one in sight. In the near distance, she heard the roar of several car engines.

‘W-why not?’ Kate warbled, certain that he intended to kill her on the spot.

‘Because of the concrete walls, there’s no reception in the garage.’

Relieved, she visibly sagged. ‘Right. Silly me.’

‘Hey, Bridget! Where are you?’

At hearing Finn’s loud holler, both she and the bald-headed monster turned their heads in the direction of the stairwell.

‘Are you Bridget?’ the monster enquired gruffly.

‘Oh, yes … yes, I am Bridget and that’s my husband calling me.’ Kate gestured towards the stairwell. ‘He’s on the, um, other side of the parking lot searching for Fifi.’

The monster let go of her wrist. ‘Go. Your husband has summoned you. A woman must always obey her man.’

54

Mont de la Lune, The Languedoc

1415 hours

Down the rabbit hole Sir Prancelot merrily traipsed.

‘Although the bastard should have been more wary than merry,’ Cædmon grumbled, accidentally bashing the crown of his head against the low-slung stone ceiling. Holding his rucksack in one hand and the torch in the other, he compressed his tall frame in an uncomfortable stoop-shouldered twist, the constrictive corridor designed for a knight of shorter stature.

He’d trekked approximately one hundred and fifty feet when the corridor abruptly switched directions, veering ninety degrees to the left. At which point the passageway gradually sloped downward. When he was a doctoral candidate at Oxford, he’d tramped through catacombs and medieval crypts, but he’d never navigated anything as strangely surreal as this. Whether by design or accident, the passageway put him in mind of a hewn birth canal.

Which, in turn, incited an existential unease, Cædmon’s heart beating noticeably faster.

He estimated that he’d traversed another hundred feet when the passageway unexpectedly ended. Bewildered, he awkwardly turned around, aiming his torch in the opposite direction. The golden beam struck an aperture, approximately two feet in diameter, near the ceiling.

Committed to following the trail to its terminus, he peered inside the hole which opened into a long tunnel. Satisfied that the shaft was wide enough for him to engineer through, he shoved his rucksack and torch into the hole. Hefting himself into the chute, he proceeded by slithering centipede-like, pushing with his feet as he dragged his body forward with his hands.

Nearly twenty minutes had lapsed at a maddeningly sluggish pace when Cædmon belatedly realized that there was no room to turn around. If the tunnel didn’t expand sufficiently further down the line, he’d have to make a backward egress. A tortuous prospect.

‘Although that might be a moot point,’ he muttered as the balls of his shoulders scraped against the rough stone, the tunnel suddenly tapering.

Unable to move – either forward or backward – he drew in a ragged breath.

I’m plugged tight as a cork in a bottle.

Biting back a yelp of pain, he pulled his elbows together, squeezing his shoulders towards his chest. Awkwardly contorted, he shimmied through the narrow orifice, relieved when it widened to its former diameter.

In dire need of a drink, he opened his rucksack and retrieved a water bottle. Having begun the day with three full bottles, he was down to his last litre. Gracelessly tipping his head – and banging it against the top of the shaft – he took a measured sip. As he returned the bottle to the rucksack, the beam on his torch flickered twice. The only warning he had before the light went out, plunging the tunnel into a stultifying darkness.

Unable to see anything, he swiped his hand from side to side, searching for the malfunctioning torch. Snatching hold of it, he pushed the ON switch. When that produced no result, he banged the torch against the palm of his hand.

‘Shite!’

Discouraged by the latest setback, he conceded that the venture was proving a mental and physical challenge; the thought of squirming backward, in the dark, was too daunting to contemplate at the moment.

Exhausted, he squirmed on to his back, pulling the rucksack under his head. A makeshift pillow. The phrase ‘silent as the grave’ took on a whole new meaning as Cædmon folded his arms across his chest and closed his eyes.

I’m interred in a damned stone coffin in a remote mountain. And no one knows that I am even here.

‘Not to worry. “The maid is not dead, but sleepeth”,’ he whispered, envisioning his red-haired mother eternally resting in a satin-lined casket. ‘ “Brightness falls from the air; Queens have died young and fair; Dust hath closed Helen’s eye.” ’

The same dust that closed Juliana Howe’s eyes two years ago.

Christ.

Because his mother died in childbirth, grief had never been part of that equation. Which might be why he was so ill-equipped to handle the emotional tumult that erupted in the wake of Juliana’s death. It was as though his chest cavity had been pried open, his heart flayed and the organ left to hang in long bloody strips.

In the months that followed, the raw grief mutated into a numbed apathy. An improvement, some might claim. Cædmon wasn’t so sure. At least with the former, you knew that you had a heart. Never quite certain with the latter.

So many milestones, so many mistakes, he thought, unable to shut off the memories that flashed in frantic succession: Holding a white lily at his mother’s grave. ‘Say a prayer, Cædmon. The poor woman martyred herself to bring you into the world.’ No prayers for Juliana. What was the point? And no lilies. Hate lilies. Long-stemmed white roses instead. Damn. Pricked my thumb. And now I’ve stained my shirt. Jules would be amused. She loved to laugh. Or was that sweet Kate? Such a lovely sight perched in an oriel window seat at Queen’s College. ‘There wasn’t anything quite as beautiful as when the setting sun tinted your centuries-old window a rich shade of tangerine.’ Yes, yes, quite true. The sun never sets on the British Empire. Or the Kingdom of Heaven, for that matter. Since ‘I cannot bend Heaven, I shall move Hell.’ Oh, sod Virgil. Time spent with the devil takes its toll. And now Lucifer wants his bloody stone back!

Chilled to the bone, Cædmon shivered. A heavy weight suddenly pressed against his chest, as though the granite shaft was cinching around him. In fact, his heart muscle was so painfully constricted, he wondered if he might be on the verge of a full-blown heart attack.

Suppose this is the close of business, eh?

For the last two years he’d heard the rapacious lion panting at his backside. Only a matter of time before the beast caught up with him.

‘You had it coming, old boy.’

Did I? Maybe so. In that case, now I lay me down to sleep …

… forever and a day.

55

Hotel des Saints-Pères, Paris

1936 hours

Horny as hell, Finn stared at the painting of naked nymphs cavorting in a woodland glen.

Although he’d seen similar works of art yesterday at the Louvre, the fact that this painting hung over the hotel bed seemed blatantly erotic. Like an ornately framed striptease. And an expensive one at that, the luxury accommodation costing a jaw-dropping five hundred euros. A far cry from the hundred and thirty euros he’d spent the previous night.

However, this hotel, located on Rue des Saints-Pères, was directly across the street from Ivo Uhlemann’s eighteenth-century apartment building. Not only that, he’d scored a room with a view; from the expansive window, he could peer right into Uhlemann’s study. Which was the reason why he was willing to overlook the price, the painting and the girly décor. As in, pink upholstered armchairs, floral curtains with silk tassels and a delicate antique bureau.

‘I’m starving. What’s on the menu?’ Kate enquired cheerfully as she stepped out of the bathroom. Dressed in a white terrycloth robe, wet hair combed back from her face, she glowed with a womanly sheen. A lot like the woodland nymphs.

Realizing that he still had two plastic shopping bags looped around his wrist, Finn deposited them on the bedside table. Trying his damnedest to ignore the fact that Kate looked good, smelled good and probably tasted good, he unloaded the groceries. ‘I bought a loaf of bread at the bakery, a wheel of Camembert at the cheese shop and smoked salmon at some little hole-in-the-wall market around the corner.’

Kate reached for a bottle of water. ‘Are those apples?’ she asked, pointing to the second shopping bag that was in the process of rolling off the table.

‘Apples and oranges,’ he said, making a grab for the runaway bag. ‘I didn’t know which you preferred, so I got a coupla each.’ Feast laid out, he unsnapped the small leather sheath hooked on the side of his waistband and removed his penknife. Extracting a blade, he sliced the cheese and smoked salmon.

Sidling next to him, Kate tore a hunk of bread from the loaf, the terrycloth robe gaping slightly. Transfixed, Finn stared at the upper curve of her breast.

Jaysus.

Aware that he was acting like a perv at a peep show, he averted his gaze. Uncomfortable as hell, he picked up a slice of salmon and popped into his mouth.

‘Delicious, isn’t it?’

‘Uh-huh,’ he grunted inanely around a mouthful of fish.

Loading her meal on to a piece of white butcher-block paper, Kate carried it over to the bed. ‘Bon appétit,’ she trilled as she sat cross-legged on the middle of the mattress. Right under the painting of naked nymphs.

Finn nearly choked on his salmon.

Given the close quarters, his attraction to Kate Bauer was to be expected. Hell, that was the reason why women weren’t allowed to fight alongside men in combat. Put a man and a woman together in a foxhole, they’re going to start thinking about getting it on. And even though he knew sex wasn’t a pill that you popped when you were having a bad day, he couldn’t stop thinking about the two of them engaged in a good old-fashioned life-affirming fuck.

Uncertain how to deal with his pent-up sexual tension, Finn strode over to the window. Grabbing the Bushnell binoculars off the bureau, he aimed them at the window directly opposite. A grey-haired woman, probably Uhlemann’s maid, lackadaisically pushed a vacuum cleaner across the oriental carpet.

‘I trust that the coast is clear.’

‘Uh-huh,’ he grunted again, setting the binoculars back on the bureau.

The foxhole getting smaller by the second, Finn ripped open the Velcro flap on his cargo pants and retrieved his new palm pilot. He’d purchased it yesterday because he needed to log on to a secure website in order to track Uhlemann’s vehicle. Using a stylus to navigate through the menus, he pulled up the real-time map and checked the vehicle location.

‘What’s the status report?’ Kate asked as she dabbed at her upper lip with a paper napkin.

‘The Benz is still parked at the Grande Arche.’

Hoping that Uhlemann would hurry up and leave his marble fortress, Finn set the palm pilot next to his binoculars. Jaw clamped tight, he leaned against the side of the bureau and moodily stared out of the window. The late-evening sun shone through the glass, casting a golden sheen on to the striped wallpaper.

How the hell am I going to get through the next couple of hours holed up in this damned hotel room?

It’d reached the point where he wanted Kate so badly, he was willing to forego the sex. Just spooning with her, feeling her ass snuggled against his groin, would be pleasure enough. About to implode, he was afraid to go anywhere near the bed. Push-ups might help. Although it’d probably take a couple of hundred of ’em to take the edge off.

Hearing Kate wiggle around on the mattress, he ground his teeth.

A few moments later, she appeared at his side. ‘I should have gone with Cædmon to the Languedoc,’ she said in a snippy tone as she disposed of her rubbish in the wastebasket next to the bureau. ‘At least he knows how to have a pleasant conversation.’

‘I don’t want to converse with you,’ Finn growled, hit with a gut-churning burst of jealousy. Grabbing Kate, he yanked her into his arms. ‘I want –’

Too revved up to be romantic, he kissed Kate with a bruising intensity. Roughly. Wildly. Sliding a hand down her back, he palmed the curve of her buttock. Fully aroused, he was on the verge of taking her right there against the bureau.

Clutching his shoulders, Kate moaned, whimpered, arched into him.

Jaysus.

Chest heaving, he dragged his mouth away from hers. ‘Okay, here’s the deal. I’m not real good at courtly love so I’ll just be blunt … I want you, Kate. All I need from you is a straight-up “yes” or “no” answer.’

Staring him directly in the eye, Kate pulled the tie on her robe. Then, gracefully rolling her shoulders, she let the garment fall to the floor. Completely naked, she took hold of his right hand and placed it on her bare breast.

‘Yes.’

56

Oberkampf Neighbourhood, Paris

1942 hours

Stepping out of the bathroom, Dolf Reinhardt glanced at his watch.

Scheisse! He was scheduled to go back on duty in forty-five minutes. Striding over to the wardrobe, he pulled a freshly laundered shirt off the hanger.

A few minutes later, dressed in his chauffeur’s uniform, Dolf grabbed the black cap and jammed it on his head. He despised the ridiculous hat, but Herr Doktor Uhlemann insisted that he wear it.

Ready to leave, he quickly strode down the dingy hallway to the second bedroom.

‘Hello, Mutter.’ He wrinkled his nose at the faint scent of dried urine and sour perspiration.

The grey-haired woman who sat at the window didn’t acknowledge the greeting. She never did. Diagnosed with advanced Alzheimer’s disease, his mother had withdrawn into a non-verbal state. Day in, day out, she sat beside the window staring at the Paris rooftops, a blank, slack-jawed expression on her face. Dolf didn’t have the money to put her in a nursing facility and the one time he’d hired a health-care worker, he’d come home and found the aide yelling at his mother. He nearly killed the bitch on the spot.

While he loved his mother with all his heart, a part of him deeply resented that she’d become such a burden. The daily monotony of cleaning her foul bed pans and soiled bed sheets was grinding him down. Of late, he kept wishing that she’d hurry up and die. If she could carry on a minimal conversation, the situation would be easier to withstand. But living with a silent, frail ghost was becoming unbearable. A strange type of hell in which they shared the same space and yet she was unaware of his existence.

In a hurry, he stepped over to the dresser and retrieved a green plastic prescription bottle from the top drawer.

‘Time for your medicine,’ he told his mother, gently inserting a capsule between her lips. Grabbing the water glass from the nearby table, he finagled the straw into her mouth. ‘Take a sip, Mother.’

Never taking her gaze from the window, his mother sucked a bit of water through the straw. Dolf returned the glass to the table then pried open his mother’s mouth to make certain that she’d swallowed the sleeping pill. He next checked the restraints on her wrists. To keep her from wandering off, he was forced to strap her into the chair whenever he left the flat.

Bending down, he kissed his mother on the cheek, making a mental note to give her a sponge bath in the morning. ‘I’ll be back later this evening.’

It was the same one-sided conversation that they had each and every night.

As he turned to leave, Dolf glanced at the framed picture hanging on the wall next to his mother’s chair. The faded photograph, published in a 1943 edition of the Völkische Beobachter newspaper, was of a six-year-old girl with long blonde braids attired in a traditional dirndl dress. Arms extended, she offered the Führer a slice of freshly baked black bread on an ornately carved wooden platter. Taken during Walpurgisnacht, the pagan spring festival when bonfires burned bright to lure witches from their covens, the photograph had captured the hearts and souls of the German people. Enthralled by the sight of their Führer with such a lovely child, households across the Reich framed the photograph and hung it alongside their cherished family portraits.

An overnight celebrity, his mother, Hedwig Krueger, became known to an entire generation as ‘the Führer’s Little Handmaid’.

Before she lapsed into a demented state of mind, his mother often spoke of that long ago May day, fondly recalling how the Führer, his piercing eyes as blue as the lake waters at Königsee, pinched her cheek and squeezed her shoulder, thanking her profusely for the slice of schwarzbrot.

Dolf stared at the photograph for a few more seconds before turning to leave.

When he was a young boy and his mother would tuck him in at night, she used to always tell him that good things come to those who wait.

At thirty-seven years of age, Dolf Reinhardt was tired of waiting.

57

Mont de la Lune, The Languedoc

2159 hours

Catching his first glimpse of the stacked mound of kindling and the dour-faced Dominican priest, Cædmon’s heart slammed against his breastbone.

‘There’s been a mistake!’ he fearfully exclaimed. ‘I’m not supposed to be here!’ ‘Here’ being an unlit funeral pyre at the foot of Montségur.

The priest smiled humourlessly. ‘This is penance for your sins.’

‘What sins?’ he demanded to know as two soldiers, each garbed in a bright blue surcoat emblazoned with a white fleur-de-lis, roughly grabbed him by the arms and dragged him to the pyre. Grinning, they bound him, hand and foot, to a stake in the middle of the wood stack. Horrified, he stared at the fleur-de-lis. The monarch’s royal lily.

‘Repent, sinner!’ the priest commanded in a booming voice.

‘But I did nothing wrong!’

‘You were born with the taint of original sin.’

‘At least I don’t bugger little boys on the sly!’ he shot back. ‘How many indulgences did that cost, you feckless bastard?’

The Dominican motioned for the fire to be lit. Then, wearing the sneer of the self-righteous, he said calmly, ‘ “Nulla salus extra ecclesium.” ’

Outside the Church there is no salvation.

Christ.

Almost immediately, the flames set his khaki trousers ablaze. Cædmon screamed, the pain of seared flesh more than he could bear.

‘For the love of God! Give me another chance!’

‘Am I dead?’

Grappling with the odd sensation of being tethered to his own corpse, Cædmon opened his eyes. To his dismay, he could perceive no difference in the tarry gloom. Even more worrisome, his chest cavity felt empty. Hollowed out. Ready for the Egyptian embalmers to begin the laborious task of mummification.

‘Ah … still among the living,’ he murmured a few seconds later, able to hear his own faint breath. Unwilling to take a chance with the grim reaper hovering so near, he inflated his lungs with a robust, life-affirming gulp.

It came as something of a surprise to realize that he wanted to live.

While there had been times over the course of the last two years when he thought death might be a welcome alternative, he now knew that was an illusion born of grief. The same dark illusion that usually induced a burst of frantic regret somewhere between the sixth and fifth floor.

He reached for his water bottle, the side of his hand bumping against the defective torch. A split-second later, the light came on, the narrow confines of the tunnel softly illuminated.

‘There is a God,’ he murmured.

Turning on to his belly, he took a swig of water before packing the bottle in his rucksack. In the golden beam, he could see that the tunnel took a sharp turn up ahead. Shoving the rucksack and flashlight in front of him, he doggedly squirmed forward. He’d come too far to back out of the venture.

A few minutes later, grunting, he navigated the tight turn, worming his way into a small vestibule. Although there wasn’t enough room to stand upright, he was able to squat comfortably. As he inspected the space, he noticed that one of the walls was constructed of densely packed rubble rock. A false wall! Lacking excavation tools, he clawed excitedly at the rocks with his bare hands.

Ten minutes of diligent digging exposed a small opening. Cædmon poked his head through the breach.

Un-bloody-believable!

Bowled over, he stared in wonderment at the hidden chamber. Scores of stalactites dripped like icicles while stockier stalagmites rose up from the rock floor. A few had conjoined, giving birth to lone columns, the unexpected juxtaposition of wobbly shapes breathtakingly surreal. Imbedded mica and crystallized rock created a shimmery effect. In a word, it was spectacular. A limestone cathedral hidden in the depths of Mont de la Lune.

The fact that the cavern had been deliberately hidden made him eager to explore. Wriggling his way through the opening, Cædmon stood upright, taking heed not to touch the fragile rock formations.

‘ “Take my counsel, happy man; act upon it if you can,” ’ he sang in a deep baritone, testing the acoustics with the silly Gilbert and Sullivan ditty. Enchanted, he listened to the sound of his own voice echoing back at him.

Torch in hand, he turned in a slow pirouette, shedding light on numerous nooks and niches. Any one of which could have concealed a treasure. Near the end of the rotation, his breath caught in his throat.

The cathedral had an altar!

Hurriedly wending his way between the limestone formations, he approached the simple altar comprised of a granite slab supported by two sturdy boulders. However, it wasn’t the altar that ensnared his attention; it was the stone ossuary prominently displayed in the middle of the slab. In ancient times, ossuaries were used to store the bones of the dead.

Excitement mounting, he shined the torch on the limestone box. As he did, he lightly grazed his fingers over the elaborately incised sides that depicted the sun, moon and a star. The same symbols that were on the Montségur Medallion. He tucked the torch under his arm. His mind racing wildly at the thought of whose bones might be nestled inside the box, he slowly raised the lid.

‘How utterly extraordinary!’ he marvelled, astonished to find not a set of desiccated bones, but a golden statuette.

Even more astounding, it was a figurine of the Egyptian goddess Isis. Nearly a foot in length, the idol clutched a small ankh, had a star on her headdress with cow horns and wore a sun orb menat necklace. Isis, who ruled the heavens and governed the depths of the earth. Isis, who could create and destroy with equal aplomb. Isis, who lovingly gathered the dismembered pieces of her mutilated husband Osiris so that she could conceive her divine son Horus.

Isis. Whom the ancient Egyptians revered as ‘the Mother’.

Cædmon adjusted the torch beam to better examine the figurine. Although the outer layer of gold leaf was remarkably well preserved, enough of it had flaked away for him to see that the idol was actually cast from bronze. Since Egypt was the only civilization in the ancient world to gild bronze, the idol’s provenance was indisputable. If he had to make an educated guess, he’d date the figurine to the Ramses Dynasty. Which meant that it was at least three thousand years old.

Un-bloody-believable.

‘This shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be here,’ he whispered to the figurine. Granted, in ancient Egypt the devotees of the Isis mystery cult worshipped in underground sanctuaries; a tribute to the goddess in her guise as the wife of Osiris, Lord of the Dead. But to find an Egyptian divinity in the Languedoc defied conventional history. While a seafaring people, the Egyptians had never ventured into this part of the world. Yet Isis, somehow, made the journey.

Which begged the question … Was Isis the beating heart of the Cathar heresy?

In the third century BC, in the wake of Alexander’s conquest of Egypt, the worship of Isis spread like wildfire throughout the Greco-Roman world. The last of the great Mother goddesses, a few centuries later, Isis worship competed with the burgeoning new religion of Christianity. When the Church Fathers embarked on a violent campaign to eradicate their competitors, the Isis cults simply re-branded themselves as Marian cults. A fluid transition given that Isis, often depicted suckling the infant Horus, was the original Madonna, sharing many traits with her Christian counterpart.

With that history in mind, it was conceivable that the underground network of goddess worship made its way to the Languedoc. As for the three symbols incised on the Montségur Medallion – the sun, moon and a star – Cædmon now realized that they represented Isis, her husband Osiris and their son Horus. The Egyptian Trinity.

No wonder the Church Fathers were so determined to wipe the peaceful Cathars off the face of the planet. According to the official history, always written by the victors, the Cathars believed in two separate gods. But perhaps there was more to their heretical dualism than the simplistic belief that the forces of good and evil, in the guise of the Light and Rex Mundi, were locked in eternal battle, mortal man caught in the crossfire. Perhaps the Cathars’ real crime was that they worshipped a female Egyptian deity.

Reaching into the ossuary, Cædmon removed the golden statuette.

Spellbound, he stared at the small, perfectly formed goddess. The Mother. Suddenly light-headed, he spread his feet wide to steady himself. The limestone sanctuary all but spun around him, stalagmites morphing into an unearthly coterie of female adherents.

‘The maiden phoenix, her ashes new create …’

To his surprise, tears rolled down his face. In that instant, he couldn’t distinguish between the sacred and the profane. Reason and desire. The inane and the arcane. What he knew about the Cathars and what he knew about the Egyptians was now jumbled together, separate strands of history that should not be tied together.

Yet here was the knotted proof cradled in his hands. A collision of two different cultures bound by the common worship of Isis. Woman primeval. Indeed, the Church Fathers in Rome had been horrified by the role that women played in Cathar society. In the Languedoc, women were not seen as the devil’s handmaidens, but as vibrant members of the community who participated equally with men in religious rites and political affairs.

His gaze fell on the miniature ankh that the figurine grasped in her right hand, so blatantly similar to the Cathar cross that had been carved at the cave entrance.

Bloody hell. The clues have been there all along. Staring me right in the face.

The Latin phrase incised on the back of the Montségur Medallion – Reddis lapis exillis cellis. The last two letters of each word spelled the phrase ‘Isis Isis’!

His curiosity running at full throttle, Cædmon wondered what other elements of the ancient Egyptian religion the Cathars might have incorporated into their religious practice. And what of the Lapis Exillis, the Holy Grail? Supposedly it had been ‘returned to the niche’. He knew that in the Middle Ages, the ‘aumbry’ was a niche, typically located to one side of the altar, specially designed to hold sacred vessels.

Replacing the figurine in the stone box, he anxiously shone the torch at the limestone wall behind the altar, which had been sanded smooth. In the angled beam of light, he saw a delicately carved image of a dove in flight. A Christian symbol for the Holy Spirit, the dove was also sacred to Isis. A bird of gentle disposition, it symbolized the ancient maternal instinct. Beneath the incised dove, a large rock had been wedged into a square recess.

Cædmon stepped towards the aumbry. Trembling with anticipation, he pulled the rock out of the recess.

As he caught his first glimpse of the Lapis Exillis, his breath hitched in his throat.

‘Un-bloody-believable.’

58

Hotel des Saints-Pères, Paris

2250 hours

Slipping on her robe, Kate tiptoed away from the bed.

Finn, sprawled on top of the tangled sheets, still dozed.

Achy all over, and discomfited about the reason for the sore muscles, she snatched an apple from a plastic shopping bag and limped over to the antique bureau. Seating herself in the upholstered Regency-style chair, she stared at the drawn curtains. Thoughts racing, she silently counted the pink peonies that patterned the heavy fabric.

In the last three hours, her relationship with Finn had undergone a major upheaval and she didn’t have a clue what would happen next. It was like driving down a winding mountain road, at night, with no headlights. While a collision might not ensue, there would be an aftermath. A repercussion. A consequence that neither had considered during the exuberant free-for-all. They’d shared something profoundly intimate; she couldn’t shrug it off and pretend that hadn’t happened.

Although, being a man, that might be exactly what Finn would try to do. So be it. She wasn’t going to make any demands. Didn’t even know what she would demand if she was so inclined, still grappling with her newfound feelings.

Given all that had transpired in the last four days, she wondered if her life would ever again be the same. At some point in time, would she be able to return to Washington and pick up where she’d left off? For the last two years, her few remaining friends had been urging her to make a change. Somehow she didn’t think this was what any of them had had in mind: being on the run in Paris.

Hearing a drawn breath, Kate turned her head. Finn, attired in a pair of low-slung cargo pants, stood next to the bureau.

‘I’m not sorry,’ he said without preamble. ‘And in the spirit of full disclosure, I’m thinking that was a couple of days overdue.’

Kate forced herself to meet his gaze, to get past the embarrassment of having writhed naked on the bed with him. ‘I’m not sorry either.’

‘Man, that’s a relief.’ Grabbing the twin to her chair, Finn pulled it over to the bureau and sat down.

‘Although … I owe you an apology,’ she said haltingly. ‘I didn’t mean to throw it in your face about Cædmon.’

To her surprise, Finn grinned good-naturedly. ‘Glad that you did, actually, seeing as how it got things kick-started between us. And I know you’re not the type to purposefully play the jealousy card. I just – um – overreacted. Talk about going ga-ga.’

Kate blushed, well aware that she was guilty of the same crime. On paper, they were an ‘odd couple’, hailing from different backgrounds, with little in common. But the paper trail wouldn’t show the deep-down, inexplicable sense of ‘rightness’ that she felt with him. Or the intense physical attraction.

Without asking, Finn took the apple out of her hand. Removing his penknife, he pulled out a blade and began to peel it for her.

The next few moments passed in companionable silence.

Extending a hand towards Finn’s chest, Kate lightly fingered the silver Celtic cross that he wore around his neck. ‘I’ve always thought that a Celtic cross on a treeless hillside was a hauntingly beautiful sight.’

‘The cheilteach belonged to my da.’ Finn stopped what he was doing, a red apple ribbon dangling from his knife blade. ‘Only keepsake I have. He died when I was fifteen years old. The Guinness finally got the better of him.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Finn sliced a wedge of peeled apple and offered it to her. ‘When we were at the houseboat in Washington, you mentioned that you were divorced.’

She dug her toes into the thick carpet pile, the conversation having just skidded off the runway.

Perturbed, Kate stared at the piece of fruit. She didn’t like to think, let alone talk, about her marriage to the soft-spoken, brilliant, boyishly handsome Jeffrey Zeller. A fellow cultural anthropologist, they’d met at a symposium at Johns Hopkins University. On the surface, they were the perfect couple. Behind closed doors, it was a different story entirely.

‘My marriage didn’t work out. I won’t bore you with the details,’ she intoned woodenly, head downcast, gaze still focused on the apple wedge.

‘Kate, don’t take this the wrong way, but …’ Finn’s brow furrowed slightly. ‘I noticed that you have a couple of stretch marks on your –’

‘That usually happens to a woman who’s given birth,’ she interjected, beating him to the punchline.

‘I know. That’s why I brought it up.’

A heaviness, like late-afternoon thunder, hung between them.

Finn gently nudged her forearm. ‘Hey, Katie, y’okay?’

Defensively crossing her arms under her breasts, Kate hitched her hips, twisting her upper body away from him. ‘No, I am not okay. My infant son died two years ago because his negligent father was busy screwing a twenty-four-year-old graduate student and he couldn’t be bothered with checking the baby monitor.’ The confession, unplanned and uncensored, slipped from her lips before she could slam on the brakes.

‘Christ, Kate. I had no idea.’

‘He died from SIDS … sudden infant death syndrome. Which means that no one could ever tell me the reason why he –’

Kate closed her eyes, the horrible night replaying in her mind’s eye. White crib. Blue-eyed baby boy. Heart pounding. Limbs shaking. She opened her mouth to scream. Oh, God! There is no God. If there is, I hate him.

Suddenly dizzy, she grabbed the edge of the bureau. In that same instant, a muscular arm slid around her waist, Finn lifting her out of her chair and on to his lap, protectively tucking her under his wing. His pity more than she could handle, Kate struggled. Finn simply wrapped his arms around her that much tighter.

‘Don’t let your thoughts go there,’ he whispered.

Flattening her hands against his chest, Kate rigidly permitted the embrace.

Surrender, a voice in her head chided. Just for a few moments. He can’t take your pain away. And, not having any children of his own, chances are Finn can’t comprehend the depth of your despair. It doesn’t matter. He’s offering you some much-needed comfort. Take it.

With a shuddering sigh, she sagged towards him, leaning her head on Finn’s shoulder.

In the days and months following her son’s death, she’d been like an airborne bird in a slow-motion death spiral. No one knew how to console her. Her parents tried, but Kate refused to accept that her suffering was due to her attachment to the ego, the tenets of Buddhism cold solace to a mother who had just lost her only child. Her husband, Jeffrey, was too busy excusing his complicity in the tragedy. Her friends, many of whom were new parents, began to shy away once they realized that she couldn’t bear to be around their children. Although wary, she attended a SIDS support group meeting. She lasted ten minutes. While they meant well, their heartbreaking stories only compounded her own grief.

Propping a curled hand under her chin, Finn coaxed her into looking at him. ‘I’m curious. What was your son’s name?’

Kate blinked, surprised; very few people ever thought to ask. ‘His name was Samuel,’ she replied in a strained voice, a husky whisper the best she could manage. ‘But from the day he was born, everyone called him Sammy. Had he lived, he’d now be two and a half years old.’

‘Samuel … that’s a nice name.’

‘The first year after he died, I’d sometimes wake up in the middle of the night and, for a brief infinitesimal second, I could smell baby powder. I thought I was losing my mind.’ Glancing at Finn, she grimaced self-consciously. ‘The jury’s still out on that one. What I did lose was my interest in just about everything, including my career at Johns Hopkins. Suddenly, I no longer cared about getting tenure. “Publish or perish” –’ she shrugged her shoulders – ‘it no longer mattered to me.’

‘Death has a way of rearranging our priorities.’

‘It’s true. Jeffrey’s adultery became inconsequential. Although it contributed to my leaving academia. Cultural anthropology is a close-knit clan.’ She snorted at the pun. ‘I certainly didn’t want to run into her. And I never again wanted to see him. That’s how I ended up as a subject-matter expert working at the Pentagon.’

‘Want me to pay the bastard a visit?’

‘Yes. No,’ she amended a split-second later. She’d long ago closed the book on Jeffrey Zeller.

‘I can’t imagine the heartache of losing a child. That said, over the years I’ve lost some really close friends and … it takes a long time before you can think about them and maintain any semblance of composure.’ As he spoke, Finn absently combed his fingers through her hair. ‘When I do remember them, I never think about that last day.’

‘The fact that Sammy only exists in the past tense is what hurts so much.’ She paused, letting the pain wash over her. ‘It’s why I have such a hard time envisioning the future.’

‘You just have to concentrate on the present. If you start living in the now, the future will eventually come into focus.’

She glanced at the Celtic cross. ‘I thought you were a Catholic, not a Buddhist.’

‘Honestly? I don’t know what the hell I am.’ Warm lips nuzzled the side of her neck, his left hand sliding from her waist to her hip. ‘Happy to be with you, Katie. That’s what I am.’

‘I’m happy, too, Finn.’

They’d spent the last four days together. Hardly the makings of a lifetime commitment.

But could it be the beginning of one?

To tell the truth, she didn’t know. But she was willing to find out, Finn having proved himself a far better man than her ex-husband.

A far better man that most, I’ll warrant.

Just then, Finn’s palm pilot began to vibrate loudly against the bureau.

‘I programmed it to alert me when the Benz left the garage.’ Finn picked up the device and scrolled through the menus. A few seconds later, he turned the display screen so that she could see the tracking map. ‘Uhlemann’s headed this way. Time to do the Hustle.’

59

Mont de la Lune, The Languedoc

2315 hours

I’ve just found the Lapis Exillis! The Stone in Exile.

The Grail!

Astounded, Cædmon stared at the gold pyramid-shaped object cached inside the limestone aumbry.

‘First an Isis idol and now this,’ he marvelled, flabbergasted that the Grail of legend was actually the Benben stone, one of ancient Egypt’s most sacred relics. To have unearthed the artefact in Egypt would have been noteworthy. To find it in the south of France was mind-boggling.

Bending at the waist, he peered more closely, able to see that there were hieroglyphs carved around the base of the stone.

‘ “I come from the Earth to meet the star,” ’ he translated, the ‘star’ in question undoubtedly Sirius, the celestial abode of Isis.

Bracing both hands around the pyramidal stone, Cædmon carefully removed it from the niche and placed it on the altar. Roughly the size of a kettle, it was surprisingly heavy, weighing at least seven pounds.

‘Yellow, glittering, precious gold.’

But unlike the gilded Isis figurine, the Grail wasn’t fashioned from thinly hammered gold applied to bronze. Instead, the pyramidal stone had actually been electroplated ! A technology that supposedly didn’t exist prior to the year 1800 when Alessandro Volta engineered the first electric cell battery.

And because it was gold-plated, he had no idea what comprised the core substance. Was it a stone? A crystal? A fallen meteorite? Whatever it was, the very fact that it had been electroplated proved that the Egyptians knew how to produce electricity.

What else did they know how to do? he wondered as he stared contemplatively at the Grail, still in a state of confused awe.

My God! It’s the bloody Benben stone!

Shrouded in mystery, Egyptologists were divided over the precise meaning of the Benben stone. Some claimed it symbolized the first lump of earth enlivened by the blessed rays of the sun. A few thought it was a perch for the Bennu bird, the mythological Phoenix that engendered the creative process. Then there were those who claimed the pyramidal stone symbolized a drop of semen that fell from the god Atum’s penis when he masturbated the world into existence. Indeed, the Coffin Texts intimated that the Benben stone had magical powers, although he suspected that the ancient object had more to do with technology than the occult.

A key to unlock scientific knowledge that had been lost eons ago.

Whatever it was, the Benben stone had supposedly been smuggled into Syria in the twelfth century BC during a popular uprising against the Pharaoh Merenptah. Where it promptly disappeared in the desert sands.

Could that be the reason why the Cathars referred to the pyramidal stone as the Lapis Exillis, the Stone in Exile? The same appellation used by Wolfram von Eschenbach to describe the Grail.

Overwhelmed with tantalizing questions for which he had few answers, Cædmon lifted the golden stone from the altar and deposited it in his rucksack. Unfortunately, he couldn’t take both the Isis idol and the Grail. It would be difficult enough worming his back through the tunnel with just the one relic. The Grail was the prize. He could retrieve the Isis figurine at a later date.

As he turned his back on the altar, Cædmon was guiltily put in mind of Prometheus forced to steal fire from the gods. An act for which the mighty Zeus had Prometheus tethered to a rock while an eagle dined on his liver. Day after agonizing day.

Penance for his sins.

60

Rue des Saint-Pères, Paris

0130 hours

‘Is the Taser really necessary?’

‘As soon as Uhlemann realizes that he’s been ambushed, chances are he’ll go ape shit,’ Finn replied bluntly. ‘So, yeah. Absolutely necessary.’ Taking Kate by the arm, he ushered her across Rue des Saints-Pères.

At that late hour, there were few motorists on the narrow street and even fewer pedestrians.

‘Maybe we should try to contact Cædmon,’ Kate suggested in a worried tone of voice. ‘What if he found the Grail? Uhlemann might be more amenable to turning over the Dark Angel if –’

‘I’m only gonna say this one time, Kate: I’m not going to jeopardize my mission because of a half-baked, half-ass theory concocted by your harebrained buddy.’ Finn shot her a meaningful glance, willing her compliance. Not altogether certain that he’d secured it, he checked the palm pilot. ‘Looks like the Benz is driving around the block. Which means that we have approximately forty seconds to insert.’

They dodged behind a tall topiary tree, one of a pair that framed the entrance to Ivo Uhlemann’s apartment building. Stowing the palm pilot in his Go Bag, Finn removed the Taser. Purchased under the table at a military supply store in Montparnasse, the stun gun was the most powerful weapon in his arsenal.

‘What if Doctor Uhlemann’s chauffeur is armed?’

‘Don’t worry,’ he said reassuringly, needing Kate to hang tight. ‘When Uhlemann’s chauffeur walks around the Mercedes to open the rear passenger door, I’ll neutralize the bastard before he can draw a weapon. Because of the dark tint on the Mercedes’ windows, Uhlemann will most likely be unaware of what’s happening.’ He reached into his Go Bag and removed a roll of duct tape and a pair of wire cutters. Handing both items to Kate, he said, ‘After I zap the driver, you’re to cut the wires on the Taser darts.’

Just then, a graphite grey Mercedes sedan pulled up to the kerb. Standing in the shadows, they stared at the faint puffs of diesel fumes emitted from the exhaust pipe of the idling vehicle.

The driver’s side door opened. A large man dressed in a black chauffeur’s suit got out of the Benz.

Kate gasped.

Well, what do ya know? It’s ol’ Cue Ball.

‘Stay on my six,’ Finn whispered as he stepped forward, the Taser tucked out of sight behind his leg.

‘Hey, Baldy. How’s it hanging?’

On hearing Finn’s voice, the chauffer stopped in mid-stride.

Having caught the big bastard off guard, Finn whipped his right arm into a firing position and pulled the trigger. Two darts, each connected to a metal wire, were ejected. A split-second later, the chauffeur began to convulsively twitch as 50,000 volts of electric current travelled from the stun gun to his chest. A crackling sound accompanied the graceless jive.

The instant that he released the trigger, the other man lurched forward. Like a felled tree in the forest.

Catching the heavy bastard in his arms, Finn propped him against the side of the Mercedes. Kate, wire cutters in hand, snipped the connection. Finn patted him down, smiling as he removed a Heckler & Koch Mark 23 from the other man’s waistband.

Shoving the Mark 23 into his Go Bag, he removed a second cartridge and quickly reloaded the Taser. ‘Okay, one more fish to fry.’

‘Funny,’ Kate muttered under her breath as she opened the rear passenger door.

A white-haired man stuck his head through the opening, clearly unaware that he was in any danger. Still holding the goon against the Benz with his left arm, Finn raised his right and pulled the trigger.

A frenetic pulse of electricity arced through the air.

A shocked expression on his face, Uhlemann writhed gracelessly. Completely incapacitated, he fell backward into the Mercedes.

Kate ran around to the other side of the vehicle, opened the rear door and dragged Uhlemann across the leather seat, giving Finn enough room to shove the chauffeur into the Benz.

‘Quick! Hand me the tape.’

Roll in hand, Finn ripped off a long piece with his teeth and strapped Uhlemann’s hands together. That done, he bound the older man’s ankles and finished by slapping a piece of tape over his mouth.

‘Time to boogie,’ he told Kate, relieved that the operation had gone down without a hitch.

‘Aren’t you going to truss his hands and feet?’ Kate asked, gesturing to the unconscious chauffeur.

‘Nope.’ Opening the front passenger door, Finn hopped into the Mercedes. ‘I plan on cutting the big bastard loose as soon as we get to the next stop.’

Kate, the designated driver, got behind the wheel. Noticing that he’d exchanged the Taser for the HK Mark 23, her eyes opened wide. ‘Finn, I don’t think you should be brandishing –’

‘I know what I’m doing,’ he interjected. ‘Now, let’s hit it.’

Looking none too pleased, Kate pulled away from the kerb and headed down the street, turning right at the corner and driving around the block to Boulevard St Germain. As per the mission op that Finn had earlier devised, they would cross the Seine at Pont de Sully then proceed to Place de la Bastille.

Finn popped the magazine from the pistol. Seeing twelve .45 bullets, a full mag, he smiled. Beautiful. He next pulled the slide a fraction, just far enough to glimpse the chambered bonus round. His smile widened. He always liked the heft and feel of a Mark 23, the sidearm carried by most of the Special Forces. It was a good, reliable piece. Of course, the last time he used one, it’d been blown out of his hand by a trigger-happy Syrian.

‘I think the chauffeur’s coming to,’ Kate announced anxiously a few moments later when a huge bald head suddenly appeared in the rear-view mirror.

Twisting at the waist, Finn peered over the back of his seat at the black-suited chauffeur. ‘ That is a wicked broken nose,’ he remarked smugly as he appraised his handiwork. Like any man, he took pride in a job well done.

Clearly disorientated, the chauffeur turned his head from side to side. At seeing his employer slumped against the seat, his face contorted into an ugly grimace. ‘Du verdammter arschficker! You killed Herr Doktor Uhlemann!’

‘The old dude’s not dead. Just down for the count.’ Ready for a confrontation, Finn aimed the Mark 23 at the goon’s forehead. ‘Take off your clothes.’

The other man vehemently shook his head. ‘Nein! I vill not!’

‘Shuck the monkey suit.’ He toggled the gun barrel. A silent threat.

Muttering under his breath, the chauffeur tugged at his garments, flinging each discarded piece into the footwell. Teeth clenched, he divested himself of his last bit of dignity, yanking off his tidy undies.

Finn glanced at the German’s chest, wondering if the big bastard sported a Black Sun tattoo. ‘Nice jugs,’ he snickered. ‘Since you don’t rate a tattoo, I’m guessing that makes you low man on the totem pole.’

‘We’ve just arrived at Place de la Bastille,’ Kate informed him. Both hands gripped on the steering wheel, she navigated the Mercedes to the inside lane of the traffic circle. Following the mission op, she continuously drove around the circle.

‘Listen up, Cue Ball. When you get back to the Seven Research Foundation, you’re to tell your pals that I want the Dark Angel,’ Finn said in a measured tone of voice, thrusting the gun barrel against his broken schnoz. ‘And if I don’t get her, Doctor Ivo Uhlemann will not be returning. Those are my demands. Here’s the number where I can be contacted.’ With his left hand, Finn slapped a strip of duct tape on to the naked man’s chest, his cell phone number scrawled on it. Knowing that a naked man was a vulnerable man – and that a vulnerable man would not carjack a vehicle and give chase – he jutted his chin at the passenger side door. ‘Okay. Time to head out into the wild blue yonder and let your freak flag fly.’

‘Fich dich, arschgesicht! ’ the chauffeur hissed, beady eyes narrowed.

‘Right back at ya. Now get out of the car, asshole!’

‘Nein!’

‘Hey, grow a pair, will ya? Or I vill put a bullet between your eyes.’

Slowing the vehicle to a snail’s pace, Kate released the door locks. Several annoyed drivers laid on their horns. All of ’em got an eyeful when, several seconds later, a stark naked man emerged from the back of the Mercedes.

Lowering the window, Finn shot the chauffeur a parting glance. The bastard stood beneath a huge marble pillar situated in the middle of the traffic circle, his hands cupped over his groin. Which was when Finn noticed that there was a statue of a naked man on top of the pillar.

A damned funny sight to behold.

61

Rue de la Roquette, Paris

0213 hours

Nerves frayed, Kate spared a quick glance in the rear-view mirror.

‘Don’t worry. Uhlemann’s still out cold.’ An implacable expression on his face, Finn stared straight ahead.

What in God’s name was he plotting? The episode at Place de la Bastille had come as a complete surprise to her.

As the Mercedes sped down Rue de la Roquette, Kate tightly grasped the steering wheel. ‘Finn … I think you should know that …’ She hesitated, afraid to broach what she knew would prove a touchy subject. ‘I’m starting to have second thoughts about all this. Surely you have enough incriminating, if not damning, evidence on the digital voice recorder?’ Taking her eyes off the road, she looked over at him. ‘Don’t you think that’s enough?’

Surprisingly calm, as though he’d been expecting the question, Finn said, ‘While the conversation that we recorded earlier today at the Grande Arche will probably clear me of the murder charges, it’s not enough for the police to arrest Angelika, a.k.a. the Dark Angel. The police are gonna need more than just a first name to make an arrest.’

Full of misgivings, Kate followed up with the obvious: ‘What if the Seven Research Foundation refuses to bargain with you? What then?’

‘You mean what am I planning to do with the old dude?’ When she nodded, Finn shrugged and said, ‘Since I’m not in the habit of making idle threats, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.’

Kate’s breath caught in her throat.

If the Seven Research Foundation failed to comply, she would do all in her power to stave off a deadly turn of events. Not just for Dr Uhlemann’s sake, but for Finn’s as well. She feared that, blinded by his need for vengeance, Finn couldn’t foresee the consequence of a violent reckoning. The night that Sammy died, the ambulance driver had had to physically restrain her from plunging a steak knife into her husband’s heart. Thank God that he did. While she was no longer a practising Buddhist, she still believed that purposefully taking a life would keep one chained to the wheel of Samsāra. Haunted by karmic fallout.

Her feelings for Finn McGuire were too strong to let that happen.

As they drove through a somnolent neighbourhood, neither spoke, each wrapped in their own thoughts. Approaching the terminus of a dead-end street, Kate applied the brakes, bringing the Mercedes to a full stop. Straight ahead was a bright green metal gate in the middle of a tall brick wall surmounted by barbed wire. The back entrance to Cimetière du Père Lachaise. The fabled cemetery, situated on the outskirts of the city, was the final resting place for some of France’s most prominent citizens: Molière, Proust, Delacroix, Sarah Bernhardt, Edith Piaf. The list went on and on.

‘Do you want me to turn off the engine?’

‘Leave it running,’ Finn told her. ‘Now get out of the car.’

‘What?’ Since this hadn’t been part of the plan, the unexpected request bewildered her.

‘You heard me, get out. I’ll let you know when you can get back in.’

Wondering if he intended to leave her stranded on the outskirts of Paris, Kate yielded without a fight, too stunned to protest. Arms folded over her chest, she stood on the pavement as Finn got behind the wheel of the Mercedes. Where he intended to go was a mystery. Since the cemetery was closed for the night, the entrance gate was locked.

Finn gunned the powerful V-12 engine.

Oh, no! Don’t tell me!

Realizing that he intended to drive right through the locked gate, Kate shoved a balled fist to her mouth, muffling a horrified shriek. Breaking into the historic cemetery had not been part of the mission op. But, then again, that business with the naked chauffeur had not been part of the original plan either.

Seconds later, engine roaring, Finn rammed the Mercedes Benz into the iron gate, nearly ripping it from the hinges. No match for German engineering and American resolve.

Opening his car door, Finn waved his arm, signalling for her to get back into the vehicle. Afraid that a local resident might sound the alarm, Kate sprinted towards the Mercedes. If the police showed up, they’d be arrested on the spot.

Fear mounting, she slid into the front seat. Finn offered no explanation and no apology. As he drove down a narrow cobbled lane, she detected a faint smile on his lips. She realized that he had thoroughly enjoyed using the now dented and dinged luxury sedan as a mobile wrecking ball. Boys and their toys, she mused disagreeably.

‘Now what?’ she enquired, dreading the reply.

‘Now we find a place to hunker down.’

She raised a dubious brow. ‘In a graveyard?’

‘You’re not scared of ghosts, are you?’

‘No. And that’s not why I asked,’ she muttered under her breath, only now beginning to understand that Finn was operating on a ‘need to know’ basis, revealing the mission op to her in piecemeal fashion.

Several twists and turns later, he stopped the car and cut the ignition.

Kate glanced at the still-unconscious Uhlemann. ‘What are you planning to do with our passenger?’

‘Take him with us.’

Getting out of the car, Finn opened the back door and hauled Uhlemann out of the Mercedes. He then hefted the unconscious man over his shoulders fireman-style and strode down the cobbled lane. Banked on both sides by stately mausoleums, it reminded Kate of the visit she’d once made to New Orleans’ famed St Louis cemetery.

‘ “We die only once and for such a long time,” ’ she read aloud as they passed an elaborately designed crypt, struck by the morbid phrase that had been carved over the doorway. Not exactly the sort of sentiment that one would ever see printed on a Hallmark condolence card. Unnerved, she shivered.

A trio of tabby cats eyed their approach warily, the cemetery home to a motley tribe of feral cats.

‘This’ll do,’ Finn muttered as he stopped in front of a large crypt, the name ‘Touzet-Guibert’ carved above the lintel. Without warning, he kicked in the metal door. ‘Wait out here until I get a couple of light sticks out of my Go Bag.’

Kate silently complied, in no hurry to enter the mausoleum.

A few moments later, Finn motioned her inside. Reluctantly entering, her gaze was drawn to the two light sticks wedged into wall crevices, the makeshift sconces illuminating the crypt with an eerie green glow. The unmoving Ivo Uhlemann was on the floor, propped against a marble wall.

‘Have a seat,’ Finn said, gesturing to an ornately carved sarcophagus.

Envisioning what was inside that stone coffin, Kate shook her head. ‘No, thanks. What’s next on the agenda?’ she asked, thinking it was time for Finn to divulge the rest of the mission op.

Turning his head, he glanced at Uhlemann. ‘Time to wake up Sleeping Beauty.’ None too gently, he ripped the piece of duct tape from the older man’s mouth. He then slapped Uhlemann once on each cheek.

Dr Uhlemann blinked his eyes. With his perfectly coifed white hair, neatly trimmed beard and expensive, tailored suit, he cut an elegant figure. Hardly Kate’s image of a villainous neo-Nazi.

‘Where are we?’ their captive enquired calmly, remarkably composed.

Removing his penknife from its sheath, Finn squatted in front of Uhlemann and cut the duct tape binding his wrists. ‘We’re in a mausoleum on the outskirts of town.’

‘What an ironic choice given that you intend to kill me.’ Dr Uhlemann glanced at the beautifully crafted marble walls. ‘My compliments, Sergeant McGuire. Such a lovely setting in which to spend the eternal quietus.’

‘Actually, I intend to trade you for the Dark Angel. Your chauffeur – nice fella, by the way – volunteered to deliver the ransom demand to your pals at the Seven Research Foundation.’

The older man slowly moved his hands in a circular motion to restore circulation. ‘A futile exercise since the Seven will never remand the Dark Angel to your custody,’ he replied. Then, smiling enigmatically, he said, ‘To save time, may I suggest that you put the gun to my head and pull the trigger?’

62

The Seven Research Foundation, Paris

0215 hours

‘Du bist ein dummkopf!’ Angelika Schwärz railed, furiously pounding on the driver’s chest with a balled fist. Standing in the middle of the front lobby, she didn’t care who witnessed the dressing down. The big oaf was lucky that she didn’t jab a letter opener into his heart and impale him to the wall. ‘How could you have bungled this so badly? You couldn’t take a piss in the dark without wetting both feet.’

A computer technician who worked down the hall scurried past. Although bug-eyed, and clearly shocked, he knew better than to intervene.

‘It’s not my fault,’ Dolf Reinhardt whined, brow-beaten and pussy-whipped. ‘McGuire ambushed us!’ Attired in a too-tight trench coat with no buttons and belted with plastic bags that had been twisted and knotted together, he looked like a woebegone tramp. Obviously, he’d scavenged the garment from a rubbish heap.

‘Of course he ambushed you. That’s because McGuire is a real man with a big swinging dick. Not like your shrivelled little schwanz.’ Angelika forcefully ripped the piece of grey duct tape off of Reinhardt’s chest, causing the driver to squeal like a little girl.

Eyes watering with tears, Reinhardt stared at the floor. Somewhere between losing the Mercedes and the clothes on his back, the big oaf had also lost his manly pride. If ever he had it.

Bunching the strip of tape into a tight ball, Angelika disgustedly tossed it into a nearby waste bin.

The driver wiped a meaty hand over his lip, swiping at a ribbon of snot. ‘Aren’t you going to call him?’

‘Who? McGuire? Only if I need a good fuck.’

‘But he said he would kill Herr Doktor Uhlemann if you didn’t remand yourself to his custody!’ Reinhardt doggedly insisted. ‘Do you not care what happens to –’

‘I care.’ More than you will ever know, pussy man.

Still in a murderous rage, Angelika strode over to the computer station at the reception desk and sat down. Like a lost puppy, Reinhardt followed after her.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m locating the Mercedes Benz,’ she informed him, quickly typing in a secure password.

‘But you have no idea where McGuire is hiding.’

‘I will soon know exactly where he is hiding. The vehicle is outfitted with a GPS tracking device.’

The buffoon’s mouth fell open in a slack-jawed ‘O’. ‘No one told me.’

Ignoring him, she pulled up the satellite data. Père Lachaise Cemetery. With its many monuments and hilly terrain, it was the perfect hideaway. Clever, McGuire. Very clever.

Angelika spared the driver a quick glance. ‘Of course there’s a tracking device on the vehicle. Do you think we would trust you with such an expensive automobile otherwise?’

‘Herr Doktor Uhlemann trusts me implicitly.’

‘He trusts you to change the oil and clean up after Wolfgang when he shits on the pavement. That is all.’

‘But I … I am … Herr Doktor’s aide-de-camp,’ the big oaf sputtered, a crestfallen expression on his face.

‘You are the village idiot.’ Grimacing, she put the back of her hand to her nose. ‘And what is that stench? Go and find some disinfectant.’ She dismissed the driver with a wave of the same hand.

Contemplating her next move, Angelika pulled up an aerial photograph of Père Lachaise. For several seconds, she stared at the computer screen. Luckily, she had the element of surprise in her favour. That, and a full moon.

She smiled, actually looking forward to the upcoming battle with the American commando.

Soon, McGuire. Very soon.

63

Père Lachaise Cemetery, Paris

0245 hours

Furious, Finn lowered the Mark 23 pistol, shoving it into his waistband. ‘You better hope to God that your cohorts at the Seven Research Foundation meet my demand and turn over the Dark Angel.’

‘God? That half-mad despot who demands constant ego-stroking?’ Uhlemann mocked.

‘Yeah, that God.’

‘Not only are you brash, Sergeant McGuire, but you clearly have no idea what’s at stake.’

‘So, why don’t you fill me in?’ he taunted, hoping to pry loose a few answers.

‘Very well.’ Even in the dim light, Finn could see the calculating gleam in the other man’s eyes. ‘I take it that you know about the Lapis Exillis?’

‘You mean the Grail?’ Finn sauntered over to the sarcophagus. ‘Yeah, big whup.’ Pronouncement made, he plunked his ass on the marble lid.

‘While Finn may not be interested, I’m admittedly curious,’ Kate remarked as she sat down beside him. ‘We know that your father was a member of the SS Ahnenerbe and, as I understand it, they were actively hunting for the Lapis Exillis.’

‘You are, if anything, well informed. Touché.’ The derision in the German’s voice countermanded the compliment. ‘In the 1930s, my father, Friedrich Uhlemann, was teaching theoretical physics at Göttingen University. Something of a rebel, particularly given the anti-Jewish climate of the day, he was using Einstein’s Theory of General Relativity to explore the effect of gravity and light on the space–time continuum.’

‘That’s an interesting research niche,’ Kate conceded in a polite tone.

‘Heinrich Himmler, the head of the SS, thought the same thing. Greatly impressed, he placed my father in an elite interdisciplinary think tank that came to be known as the Seven.’

‘You make it sound like your old man won the Nobel Prize,’ Finn harrumphed. ‘Hell, he was just a jackbooted SS thug.’

‘How dare you! My father was a brilliant scientist!’

‘No doubt he was,’ Kate readily agreed, quick to smooth the old rooster’s feathers. ‘I assume that Heinrich Himmler ordered the Seven to find the Lapis Exillis.’

Mollified, Uhlemann nodded curtly. ‘Although Reichsführer Himmler first ordered them to find out why the Egyptians built the Sacred Axis at Thebes. Determined to solve the ancient riddle, in 1938 the Seven set sail for Egypt.’

‘But your father was a theoretical physicist …’ Kate paused. ‘What could he possibly contribute to the project?’

‘Really, my dear, you must learn to think outside the box. When Jean-Claude Jutier, the Seven’s resident archaeologist, unearthed a hieroglyphic inscription regarding a sacred stone that emitted a “blue fire”, it was my father who astutely realized that the inscription described an exothermic reaction involving a massive energy transfer. Had it not been for my father, the Seven would never have uncovered the Lost Science of ancient Egypt.’

‘I take it that the blue fire mentioned in the inscription was the Vril force.’

Uhlemann clapped his hands mockingly. ‘My, my, aren’t you the clever puss?’

Having hit his bullshit quota, Finn rolled his eyes. ‘So where the hell are the mathematical calculations and scientific equations to back up this Lost Science? Did your old man find any of those carved on a temple wall? Wait! I think I know the answer …’ He paused. Snickered. Then said, ‘There aren’t any calculations or equations. Ergo, Ivo, there isn’t a “Lost Science”.’

The old German snorted disdainfully.

‘Actually, Finn does raise a valid point.’

‘Ah! Time for a history lesson.’ Lips twisted in an ugly smile, Uhlemann folded his arms over his chest. ‘Did you know that Albert Einstein first conceived his Theory of General Relativity in 1905?’

‘Are you sure about that?’ Kate’s brow wrinkled. ‘I could’ve sworn that Einstein came out with that theory in 1915.’

‘1915 is when he first published his Theory of General Relativity. But the idea for it was here –’ Uhlemann pointed to his white-haired noggin – ‘in his head ten years earlier in 1905. The problem was that in order to disseminate this revolutionary scientific theory to the world, Einstein had to first learn tensor calculus.’

‘Okay, I’ll bite,’ Finn said, jumping back into the fray. ‘What the hell is tensor calculus?’

When Uhlemann made no reply, Kate said, ‘Unlike the calculus that we learned in high school, which deals with change and motion in three-dimensional Euclidian space, tensor calculus deals with the same problems of change and motion, but in a curved space. In his Theory of General Relativity, Einstein stated that matter, or gravity, causes the space–time continuum to actually curve.’ As the daughter of an astrophysicist, Kate had a clear advantage in the science department. ‘The easiest way to think of it is to imagine a heavy bowling ball, which represents the Sun. If you put the bowling ball on a trampoline, which represents the space–time continuum, then –’

‘I get it,’ Finn interjected. ‘The bowling ball causes the trampoline to warp in the same way that matter creates a curve in the space–time continuum.’

Physics lesson concluded, the German continued the history lesson. ‘In order for Einstein to scientifically explain what he had already conceived and perfectly understood in his mind, he had to spend ten years learning the mathematics that would enable him to publish his theory. The ancient Egyptians were no different. They had the science here.’ Again, Uhlemann pointed to his head.

‘And even if they had wanted to write down the equations, higher mathematics didn’t exist in ancient Egypt,’ Kate pointed out. ‘Euclid didn’t invent geometry until the third century BC and it wasn’t until the tenth century that the Arab polymath Alhazan made the link between algebra and geometry. Which then enabled Newton to invent calculus in the seventeenth century.’

‘How ironic that you should mention the great mathematician Alhazan. Did you know that Abu Ali Alhazan was a member of the Dar ul-Hikmat, the Egyptian House of Knowledge?’

A bewildered look on her face, Kate shook her head. ‘Um, sorry, but I’m unfamiliar with that.’

‘Forcing me to retract what I earlier said about you being well informed,’ Uhlemann derided, proving, yet again, that he was a mean fuck. ‘A prestigious university, the Egyptian House of Knowledge was founded in the eleventh century by the Fatamid Caliphate as a centre for Arabic scholarship. More importantly, it housed a magnificent library with a vast collection of ancient texts. As fate would have it, a disreputable Cairo antiquarian hoping to curry favour with the Nazi high command gave the Seven one of the library’s most valuable manuscripts. Although scribed in the tenth century, it was based on ancient Egyptian texts that had been destroyed centuries before. To the Seven’s delight, the Ghayat al-Hakim proved to be the missing link that they so desperately sought.’

Kate’s eyes opened wide. ‘Do you mean that the Ghayat al-Hakim contained a blueprint for the Sacred Axis at Thebes?’

‘My dear, your powers of deduction are truly remarkable.’

‘Can the sarcasm and answer the damned question,’ Finn impatiently growled, ready to grab the old dude by his scrawny neck and hurl him across the mausoleum.

‘In response to Doctor Bauer’s very clever query, yes, the Ghayat al-Hakim, or “Goal of the Wise”, was an instruction manual that detailed how the ancient Egyptians built their Vril Generator at Thebes using the Lapis Exillis.’

‘Okay. Now how about fast-forwarding to the part where Himmler Meister tries to use the Vril force to build weapons of mass destruction.’

White brows drew together in an annoyed frown. ‘The Seven was never involved in weapons research.’

Finn didn’t buy that for one instant. ‘If your old man wasn’t interested in weaponizing the Vril force, what the hell was he planning to do with it, make a big blue campfire?’

‘If you must know, my father theorized that the blue light associated with the Vril force could be used to create a closed time-like curve.’

‘A CTC!’ Like a snapped rubber band, Kate’s head instantly whipped in Uhlemann’s direction. ‘Do you actually mean that the Seven wanted to generate the Vril force so they could time travel?’

64

Père Lachaise Cemetery, Paris

0321 hours

‘You needn’t look so shocked, Doctor Bauer. As you undoubtedly know, the existing laws of physics don’t preclude time travel.’

Nonetheless, Kate was shocked. Within the physics community, time travel, or a closed time-like curve as it was commonly called, was a hotly debated topic. While many scientists believed it theoretically possible, none of them had successfully created a CTC.

She opened her mouth to reply; Finn beat her to it.

‘Hey, Doctor Dufus! Get for real, will ya!’

Unperturbed, Ivo Uhlemann shrugged and said, ‘Even the great one, Albert Einstein, claimed that time can be altered.’

‘Yeah, I read H. G. Wells’ The Time Machine, too,’ Finn scoffed. ‘But unlike some of us in the room, I knew it was a work of fiction.’

‘Allow me to draw your attention to the mausoleum’s funerary plaque.’ Raising his arm, Dr Uhlemann pointed to the French inscription carved above the door. ‘ “For he who can wait, everything comes in time,” ’ he obligingly translated. ‘Rabelais mistakenly assumed that time is not only linear, but that it moves in only one direction. Anyone who accepts that is a victim of out-dated Newtonian physics.’

‘And you’re being damned disrespectful to the guy who invented calculus. Not to mention gravity.’

‘As a theoretical physicist, I have the greatest respect for Sir Isaac. But what was innovative thinking in the seventeenth century has subsequently been proved invalid. While possessed of a great mind, Newton wrongly believed that space and time were not only separate, but absolute, conceptualizing time as an imaginary universal clock set in the heavens. Tick-tock, tick-tock. Always fixed. Never changing.’ Dr Uhlemann paused before delivering the punchline. ‘And, then, along came Einstein.’

‘Who proved that gravity wasn’t a force, as Newton had described it, but was, instead, the movement of matter in a unified space–time continuum.’ The bowling ball on the trampoline from her earlier example. But what did that have to do with time?

‘Einstein conclusively demonstrated that just as we can move backwards and forwards in space –’ Dr Uhlemann moved his index finger, first one way, then the other – ‘we can move forwards and backwards in time.’

‘Well, Finnegan’s Law says that you can only move forwards or backwards in time if you reset the clock.’

‘Pish-posh!’ Dr Uhlemann snorted. ‘Do you know why Einstein considered the Theory of General Relativity his greatest achievement?’

‘No. And I would have thought that the Special Theory of Relativity and E=mc² would take top honours,’ Finn countered, proving that he knew more science than he let on.

‘A proud achievement, certainly. But Einstein understood the inherent possibilities that arise when matter curves space. That curving of space is what we call gravity. Since Einstein proved that space and time are a single unified continuum, one can also use gravity to curve time.’

‘While that’s a scientifically valid argument, you would need an enormous amount of matter,’ Kate pointed out. ‘Only an object as big as a planet can produce enough gravity to bend the space–time continuum.’

‘And you wrongly presume that only matter can create gravity. According to Einstein’s theory, light can also create gravity.’

Suddenly, Kate realized where his argument was headed. ‘And since gravity can bend time –’

‘– light can also bend time,’ Dr Uhlemann finished. His lips curved in a gloating smile. ‘Light is how we can move backwards and forwards on the space–time continuum. A beautiful and elegant theory that my father mathematically proved. Moreover, he was convinced that the light shed by the Vril’s “blue fire” would produce the necessary torque to bend time.’

‘It’s an intriguing theory, I’ll grant you that. But it can’t be tested without …’ Kate hesitated. Although loathe to broach the topic, she had to know. ‘Without some sort of time machine.’

‘Who said that we don’t have one?’ Dr Uhlemann replied smugly.

‘Shit! I don’t believe that I’m hearing this!’

‘Nor do I,’ Kate murmured, stunned.

My God! No wonder Ivo Uhlemann is so obsessed with generating the Vril force. If the Seven Research Foundation had a working mechanism, they could theoretically open a tunnel in the space–time continuum.

‘My candour is not without motive,’ Dr Uhlemann confessed with a shrewd smile. ‘My hope is that, intrigued by the theory, you will wish to participate in our great scientific experiment.’

Finn, hands on hips, sneered derisively. ‘So we give you the medallion; you find the Grail; and then what? You go back in time and the Nazis win the war? You guys couldn’t win the first time around. What makes you think the second time will be the charm?’

‘Because with hindsight, one has the gift of perfect vision,’ Dr Uhlemann replied, making no attempt to deny that he intended to change the course of a war that nearly destroyed the world. ‘The mistakes have been identified and corrections will be made. This time we will win.’

Hearing that, Kate’s jaw nearly came unhinged.

‘Wake up and smell the sauerkraut, Ivo Meister. Having spent half my life as a soldier, I can attest that it takes a whole lot of oil to run a war,’ Finn argued, refusing to back down. ‘Without oil, your tanks and planes are worthless. That’s the reason why Hitler invaded Russia, so he could seize the oil fields in the Caucasus. But the Nazis didn’t even get close to the Caucasus. Invading Russia is what doomed the Reich. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe that eighty per cent of all German casualties happened as a result of the Russian invasion. That’s a lot of dead soldiers. No way can you get around that catastrophe.’

‘Oh, but we can,’ Dr Uhlemann asserted quietly.

‘Okay, I’ll play your little time-travel game. Let’s suppose that you go back in time and stop the German army from invading Mother Russia. That same army still needs oil.’

Like the cat that swallowed the canary, the other man slyly grinned. ‘As I understand it, Sergeant McGuire, the largest oil fields in the world are located in Iraq, Iran and Saudi Arabia.’

‘Shit! You wily old bastard!’

‘I agree that it was a colossal blunder for the Führer to think he could conquer the Soviet Union. A poorly thought-out strategy, it was driven by an egomaniacal desire to enslave the Slavic race. Hitler thought the Germans had only to kick down the door and the whole Russian house would fall to pieces. A horrendous miscalculation. Instead, we will abide by the 1939 German–Soviet Non-aggression Pact.’ As though it were already a done deal, Dr Uhlemann then said blithely, ‘Peace with Stalin is a small price to pay for victory.’

‘And it’s a helluva long way from Berlin to Baghdad. Just how are you planning on getting there?’

‘Thanks to Italy’s dictator, Benito Mussolini, Greece was under German control. From the Greek Islands, we will invade Istanbul.’

‘The Turks are a tough bunch, but compared to the Ruskies, a soft target,’ Finn readily admitted. ‘Once Turkey falls, I assume that you’ll attack Iraq from the north.’

Uhlemann confirmed with a nod. ‘At the same time, we will reinforce Field Marshal Rommel’s forces in North Africa so that he can invade Saudi Arabia from Egypt.’ A triumphant gleam in his watery blue eyes, Dr Uhlemann shoved the figurative blade a little deeper. ‘By the end of 1941, we will have secured the entire Middle East. That done, we can turn our attention to India while Japan secures Southeast Asia.’

Noticeably subdued, Finn folded his arms over his chest. ‘I gotta admit, had you gone with that plan instead of invading Russia, the Axis of Evil would have conquered almost the entire non-English-speaking world.’

‘Before the Americans even entered the war, I might add.’

Horrified by Uhlemann’s evil plan, Kate rose to her feet. Wrapping her arms around her waist, she walked over to the porthole. On the other side of the thick glass, charcoal shadows lent an other-worldly air to the dimly lit cemetery, the marble statues like mother-of-pearl ghosts.

‘My colleagues and I believe that war is a purifying force for good,’ Dr Uhlemann intoned.

‘It can be,’ Finn conceded. ‘It can also inflict unimaginable pain and misery. Just like National Socialism imparted a shitload of pain and misery on the whole of Europe.’

‘You say that because you are sadly misinformed about the ideology behind National Socialism.’ Ivo held up a blue-veined hand, forestalling Finn’s objection. ‘The slaughter of the Jews was a heinous crime. And one that will not be repeated. On that, you have my word. We have a mandate bequeathed to us by our fathers. We are committed to carrying it out.’

Still peering through the porthole, Kate caught the bright flash of a headlight.

‘Someone just drove through the cemetery gate!’ she exclaimed, her heart forcefully slamming against her breastbone.

Finn rushed over to the window, shouldering her out of the way.

‘We’ve got movement,’ he hissed, reaching for the gun shoved into the small of his back. ‘About seventy-five yards northwest of the mausoleum.’

Dr Uhlemann cackled softly. ‘Oh, did I not mention that every vehicle in our fleet has a tracking device?’

‘You evil old fucker!’

‘If you want to leave here alive, you will give me the Montségur Medallion.’

A murderous gleam in his eyes, Finn pointed the Mark 23 at Ivo Uhlemann’s left temple.

‘The only thing I’m giving you is a bullet to the brain.’

65

Mont de la Lune, The Languedoc

0344 hours

Sheep bells jangled in the distance.

Normally a soothing sound, for some reason Cædmon found it jarring. In fact, he found the entire scenario unsettling. The pumpkin moon half hidden in the clouds. The night wind. The intermittent flashes of lightning that preceded the stentorian groans of thunder. And most disturbing of all, the brooding silhouette of Montségur on the northern horizon. Looming. Keeping silent vigil as it had for the last eight hundred years.

I feel like a castaway from a damned Brontë novel.

No sooner did that thought cross his mind than Cædmon tripped on a gnarled tree root that had burst free from the imprisoning terrain.

‘On second thoughts, maybe a screwball comedy,’ he muttered, managing to catch himself in mid-pratfall. Rather than hiking back to Montségur in the dead of night, he probably should have stayed in the mountaintop eyrie. But spurred by his staggering discovery, he was anxious to return to Paris post-haste.

Certain that he heard a branch snap, his ears pricked. Thinking he might not be alone, he dodged behind a pitted boulder.

Had he been followed to Mont de la Lune?

Or was he simply overreacting to the Gothic shadows?

Unnerved, Cædmon skimmed the torch beam across the ravine. Unable to detect any movement in the blotchy moonlight, he suspected the predator lurked only in his imagination and that what he’d heard had been nothing more than the wind bouncing off the granite crenellations.

He glanced at his wristwatch. Three hours until daybreak. Worried that if he continued the trek the tangled matrix of loose rock and uneven terrain might get the better of him, he scoured the vicinity. The prudent course would be to catch a few hours sleep and hike back to the village of Montségur at first light. He could then collect his hire car, drive to Marseille and catch the northbound train for Paris. No sense wandering the moors like the poor bedevilled Heathcliff.

Espying a cantilevered overhang, Cædmon trudged in that direction, sidestepping a thicket of hawthorn bushes. He tucked the torch into his jacket pocket, freeing his hands so he could climb on to the stone slab.

As good a bed as any, he decided. An alpine meadow would have been better but he didn’t relish sleeping with a mob of burly sheep. Slipping his rucksack off his shoulder, he carefully set it down, mindful of the precious cargo nestled in the bottom. Parched, he retrieved his water bottle. Down to my last quarter litre. When added to the hunk of stale bread and a wedge of warm cheese wrapped in a tea towel, it made for a meagre supper.

Cædmon raised the water bottle to his lips. As he did, he heard the crunch of dried underbrush. Before his brain could process the meaning of that telltale sound, a bullet struck the side of his skull.

He spun to the left. Hit with an excruciating burst of pain.

The next bullet slammed into his upper arm. Hurling him up and over the ledge.

He crash-landed in a hawthorn bush, the branches instantly clamping around him, like the sharp maw of a predatory beast.

A torrent of warm blood flowed across his face, blurring his vision. Cædmon could taste it. Ash in the mouth. Certain death.

‘Poor Siegfried,’ the gunman jeered, standing at the edge of the stone slab. ‘The Valkyries await you at the gates of Valhalla.’

With that, the bastard took his leave, the rucksack with the Lapis Exillis slung over his shoulder.

Horrified, Cædmon railed against the death sentence. He tried to move, but couldn’t, his body shocked into paralysis. Trapped in the void between heaven and hell, the moon and stars whirled overhead in an off-kilter precession. No sun. Only dark of night.

Lying in that thorny nest, his cheek slathered in his own blood, Cædmon could feel the life force leach from him. The branches of the hawthorn rustled violently, the wind squalling through the ravine; a requiem composed by the winged Zephyrus, accompanied by the harsh jangle of distant sheep bells.

Send not to know for whom the bell tolls …

66

Père Lachaise Cemetery, Paris

0408 hours

Kate placed a restraining hand on Finn’s arm. ‘If you kill Doctor Uhlemann, you’ll spend the rest of your life in prison. If that happens, you’ll never be able to apprehend the Dark Angel.’

Finn glared at the white-haired man huddled on the floor, the muscles in his arm piston tight.

‘Please, for my sake,’ she whispered. Desperately hoping to get through to him, she was afraid to break eye contact. Worried that if she did, he’d pull the trigger.

‘The old bastard knew they’d show up,’ Finn rasped. ‘He’s just been sitting there biding his time. Waiting for ’em to kick down the door.’

‘Actually, I’ve been trying to persuade you to come to your senses,’ Dr Uhlemann declared in a noticeably weakened voice. ‘Play your cards right and you can become a member of the most elite military force in history. I am offering you a chance to not only save your life, but to improve your lot in life. All you have to do is hand over the Montségur Medallion.’

‘Fuck you!’

‘If you insist on behaving like a fool, Sergeant McGuire, you will die an inglorious death. On that, you have my word.’

‘News flash: I plan on getting out of here alive.’ Finn took a menacing step in the older man’s direction. ‘But I’m gonna need a human shield.’

Kate spared their captive a quick glance. Face drawn, brow beaded with perspiration, Ivo Uhlemann was clearly in a great deal of pain. Although the man was a monster, he was an ailing one. ‘We can’t take him; he’s too frail. Just look at him. He’ll only slow us down,’ she added, hoping that would sway Finn.

‘You just cut a break, you damn Nazi bastard,’ Finn muttered under his breath as he unzipped his Go Bag. Retrieving the Taser, he unceremoniously shoved it in Kate’s direction. ‘If you have to fire it, make sure you’re within fifteen feet of the target. Slide the safety back and hold the trigger for at least three seconds. You’ll only have the one cartridge so make sure your aim is true. Got it?’

‘I understand.’ Kate wiped her sweaty hand on her trouser leg before taking the Taser from him. It was the first time in her life that she’d ever held a weapon. It felt like a foreign object. The fact that it looked like a child’s toy made her all the more nervous.

Still muttering angrily, Finn slapped a piece of grey duct tape over Dr Uhlemann’s mouth before restraining the older man’s wrists and ankles. That done, he rejoined Kate at the porthole window.

‘On the count of three, we’re going to bolt out of this mausoleum, hang a Louie and run like the wind.’ Instructions issued, Finn flung open the heavy iron door.

‘Three!’ arrived so suddenly that Kate’s legs and feet involuntarily moved of their own accord, her brain playing catch-up as they charged through the gloom. Because of the glut of burial crypts, monuments, tombstones and funerary statues, it was impossible to ‘run’. Instead, they managed a fast trot as they wended their way through the jumble.

‘Be careful,’ Finn whispered, cinching a hand around her elbow. ‘The cobbles are slippery.’

Knowing that an answer wasn’t necessary, or even desired, she nodded breathlessly.

They’d gone approximately a hundred yards when Kate started to lag, her shin muscles painfully protesting against the uphill trek. Lungs on fire, she strained to draw breath, her rucksack smacking against her spine with each plodding stride.

Still holding her by the elbow, Finn headed for an enormous marble statue of a seated woman garbed in classical robes. Morta. The Roman goddess of death.

Kate wedged herself into the protective crevice between Morta and the iron portcullis that marked the entrance to a Roman-style crypt. Legs wobbling, she gratefully slid to her haunches.

Finn dropped on bent knee beside her. ‘We’ll rest here for a few moments while I figure out how the hell we’re gonna elude the bad guys.’

‘Not only do we have to contend with the hilly terrain, but it’s like a big marble maze,’ she huffed.

‘That’s the least of our worries. The only way out of here is through the same gate we entered. All of the other gates are locked until nine o’clock when the cemetery opens to the public.’

‘Do you think our assailants are aware of that fact?’

Grim-faced, Finn nodded. ‘And I guarantee they’ve got at least one sentry posted at the open gate.’ He shoved his hand into his Go Bag and removed a pair of night-vision goggles. Pivoting on his heel, he raised the goggles to his eyes and peered in the direction of the mausoleum where they’d left Dr Uhlemann. ‘I count a total of four unfriendlies.’

Oh, God!

‘Damn it!’

‘What’s the matter?’ she asked anxiously.

‘One of the uglies is using a walkie-talkie. That means there’s more than four of ’em prowling about.’ He stuffed the NVGs into his bag.

‘Do you think we even have a remote chance of getting out of here alive?’

Several seconds slipped past, the question hanging between them. Unanswered.

Raising a hand to her face, Finn gently brushed aside a hank of flyaway hair that had snagged in the corner of her mouth. ‘Ready to move out?’

Kate gamely nodded. ‘I’m ready,’ she told him, scrambling to her feet. Heart thumping erratically, the brave front was all for show.

Finn set a brisk pace, holding on to her upper arm as they dodged between crypts and monuments. To her right, on the eastern horizon, dark clouds were plastered to the skyline like a well-worn suit.

Several minutes into the trek, Finn thrust a fist into the air, signalling Kate to a halt. He then motioned for her to get behind a chipped marble ledge.

‘On the double quick,’ he mouthed.

Biting back a fearful yelp, she ducked behind the low-slung wall. Finn squatted beside her. The iron gate that they’d earlier driven through was fifty yards away. A sentry paced back and forth in front of it.

Leaning close, Finn placed his mouth against her ear and whispered, ‘I’m going to soft-foot up to the guard and take him out.’

‘What do you want me to do?’ she whispered back at him.

‘Stay here while I take care of business. When you hear a high-pitched whistle, that’ll be your signal to haul ass through the open gate. There’s a subway station about a block to the northwest. Assuming we get out of here undetected, that’ll be our next rallying point.’

‘Be careful, Finn. And, please, no do-or-die theatrics.’

‘Roger that.’

Clutching the Taser to her chest, Kate watched as Finn dashed towards the gate in a crouched zigzag pattern. A few seconds later, he faded into the shadows.

A few seconds after that, a striped tabby cat nimbly jumped on to the ledge in front of her. About to shoo the kitty aside, Kate caught a blur of motion out of the corner of her eye. She automatically turned her head.

Even in the murky light, she instantly recognized the diaphanous blonde halo.

The Dark Angel!

No more than twenty-five feet away.

Hit with a burst of fear, she accidentally dropped the Taser.

Frantically swiping her hand across the dew-dampened grass, Kate grabbed hold of the plastic weapon. The cat, thinking it a game, batted at her hand with its paw. Bumbling, unable to see what she was doing on account of the frisky feline, she tried to locate the trigger.

Got it!

Wrist shaking, fingers trembling, she took aim and fired.

To her horror, nothing happened.

Realizing that she’d forgotten to deactivate the safety, Kate hurriedly slid the shield cover. A red laser light immediately appeared, frenetically bouncing off a nearby tombstone. She lurched upright. Committed, she re-aimed the Taser and pressed the trigger.

Two thin electric wires blasted through the air … before harmlessly dropping to the ground.

‘If you have to fire it, make sure you’re within fifteen feet of the target.’

‘Oh, God,’ Kate moaned. She’d just made a costly and, more than likely, deadly mistake.

Standing approximately twenty feet away, the blonde-haired woman raised her right arm in Kate’s direction. In her hand, she clutched a sinister-looking weapon.

‘Guten tag, little mouse.’

Kate dropped the Taser, this time on purpose, and raised both hands.

Casually sauntering towards her, the beautiful leather-clad Dark Angel smiled coldly as she aimed the gun directly at Kate’s heart.

67

Père Lachaise Cemetery, Paris

0421 hours

A ghost warrior, Finn wended his way through the dark necropolis, purposefully keeping to the charcoal shadows.

Fifty feet from the cemetery entrance, he ducked behind a granite plinth. Knowing that there were more than four enemy gunmen prowling about, he strained his ears, listening, unable to detect any sound save for the innocuous rustle of leaves.

Stuffing the Mark 23 into his waistband, he snatched the night-vision goggles out of his Go Bag.

Fuck. The sentry posted at the gate was packing a Heckler & Koch MP5-K sub-machine gun. German-made bang-bang that had thirty rounds of nine mil ammo. When set to ‘full automatic’, it could blow that many holes in a man in a matter of seconds. Urban warfare at its deadliest.

Stuffing the NVGs back into his Go Bag, Finn wrapped his hand around the grip on the Mark 23 and quietly made his approach, the sentry now forty feet away.

Thirty.

Twenty.

His actions honed from years of training, he flipped on the laser sight. Grateful that his weapon had a sound suppressor, he stilled his breath as he raised his right arm. A red dot instantly appeared on the other man’s forehead. Not about to second-guess the morality of the act, Finn squeezed the trigger.

The force of the shot hurled the sentry backward, knocking him off his feet.

In the split-second before he crash landed and his brain permanently shut down, the bastard reflexively pulled the trigger on the MP5-K, strafing the night sky with nine mil bullets, shattering the silence.

PaPaPaPaPaPaPaPaPaPop

Fuck!

Knowing that the burst of gunfire would draw unfriendlies like buzzards to road kill, Finn spun on his heel and took off running.

For God’s sake, Katie, stay put! I’m on my way!

Chest tight, heart thundering, he charged through the labyrinth, dodging statues and headstones.

In his peripheral vision, a dark blur suddenly materialized. Finn turned his head; verified that it was an unfriendly. Raising his right arm, he took aim and fired. The bullet entered the other man’s brain via his eye socket. Like a marionette jerked by a puppeteer, the gunman twitched viciously. Then, strings cut, he fell gracelessly to the ground.

No time to gloat, Finn kept running.

A few moments later, he vaulted over the marble ledge.

Where the hell was Kate?

‘Katie!’ he whispered urgently. ‘It’s me!’

The only sound he could hear was his own harsh breath. Hit with a hinky feeling, Finn turned full circle. Which is when he spied the black plastic Taser laying on the ground. Still connected to two metal wires. Obviously, Kate had fired it. And missed the target.

Fuck!

Acting purely on impulse, Finn leaped back over the ledge and headed towards the mausoleum where they’d left Ivo Uhlemann. He figured – hoped – that Kate was still alive. Had they killed her on the spot, they would have left her corpse behind. A gruesome message. He figured – again, hoped – that they’d abducted Kate to force his hand.

Hauling ass, Finn cannonballed down the hill. To hell with stealth. They already knew he was coming.

As he neared the mausoleum, Finn could see that someone had pulled the Mercedes sedan in front of the crypt. The engine idling, twin plumes of smoke wafted out of the tailpipes.

Thank God! There was still time to make the trade.

Needing to collect his thoughts, Finn quickly devised a game plan, well aware that he had to be proactive, not reactive. No question, he’d give Uhlemann what he wanted – the Montségur Medallion – but, in return, he needed an iron-clad guarantee that Kate would be given safe passage out of the cemetery. Like Kate said earlier, he had enough evidence on the digital voice recorder.

Fifteen yards from the mausoleum, Finn stopped in his tracks. Although he had the Mark 23 clutched in his right hand, he held it off to the side. Non-threatening, but still in plain sight. Just in case.

From where he stood, he watched as Ivo Uhlemann, supported by a big dude in a black chauffeur’s suit, exited the mausoleum. Given his shuffling gait, the old German looked to be in a lot of pain. Next, Kate and the Dark Angel emerged from the crypt.

Turning her head, Kate caught sight of Finn standing in the middle of the cobblestone lane.

‘Finn! It’s an am–’ Kate was silenced in mid-shout, the Dark Angel viciously shoving a gun muzzle to her head.

Decked out in skintight black leather, the blonde bitch smiled flirtatiously at Finn – just before two men, each armed with a MP5-K sub-machine gun, lunged from the shadows and opened fire.

Weapons set on full auto, they unleashed a torrent of nine mil bullets in Finn’s direction.

PaPaPaPaPaPaPaPaPaPop

Shit!

Finn dived behind a mortuary statue. Hitting the ground, he tucked and rolled. In his wake, marble chips flew through the air like wedding confetti, clumps of turf pelting the statue’s granite base. An instant later, a leafy tree branch crashed to the ground beside him, severed from its limb by the hail of bullets. The noise was deafening.

Hugging the granite plinth, he peered around the corner. Muzzle flashes flickered like a swarm of fireflies, spent shells arcing through the air. He pulled back. Mark 23 clutched to his chest, he waited. Although he couldn’t see, he heard the squeal of tyre rubber as the Mercedes floored it down the cobblestone lane towards the open gate.

Just as Finn hoped would happen, both gunmen ran out of ammo at the same time.

A three-second lull at the most, he seized his chance. In one smooth, well-practised move, he spun around the corner and dropped to his knee. Grasping his right wrist with his left hand, he sighted the first target and pulled the trigger. The gunman on the left barrelled through the air, a hole blown through his heart. A split-second later, he pivoted, aimed and fired again, taking out the gunman on the right.

Both targets neutralized, he lurched to his feet. The acrid smell of gun smoke permeated the air. In the near distance, he heard the distinctive two-tone bleat of French police sirens. At any moment, the cops would careen through the gate at the end of the cobblestone lane.

Time to beat a hasty retreat.

Galvanized into action, Finn shoved the Mark 23 into his Go Bag before taking off in the complete opposite direction to the cemetery gate. Nerves sizzling, brain synapses firing, adrenaline pumping, his brain and body chemistry quickly adapted to the new situation. Charging uphill, he didn’t venture a backward glance. Intent on escaping, he couldn’t spare the half-second to look over his shoulder.

He spied a mausoleum situated next to an oak tree, which in turn was rooted next to the eight-foot-high cemetery wall, and headed in that direction. Literally flying by the seat of his pants, Finn leaped on to a sturdy headstone. From there, he lunged on to the roof of the mausoleum. Waking the dead, he charged across the clay-tiled roof to the towering oak tree. An instant later, he was airborne. Grabbing hold of a limb with both hands, he catapulted over the barbed wire strung along the top of the brick wall … landing on the hood of a Renault hatchback parked on the other side of the wall.

Mercifully, he caught a break; the Renault wasn’t rigged with an anti-theft alarm.

Jumping off the bonnet, Finn sprinted across the street towards an apartment complex, managing to duck behind a large plastic rubbish container just as a police car sped past.

Not about to be caught red-handed with a damned smoking gun, he raised the lid on the rubbish bin and dumped the Mark 23. Disposing of some very incriminating evidence.

He then slipped into the shadows and made good his escape.

The easy part done, he now had to figure out how the hell he was going to rescue Kate.

68

Rue de Rivoli, Paris

0448 hours

Finn was dead.

Shell-shocked, Kate huddled against the Mercedes back seat, her cheek pressed to the tempered glass. No one could have survived that deadly barrage. So much sound. So much fury.

It’s my fault that Finn’s dead. He died trying to save me. Earlier, at the hotel, she’d been too afraid to reveal her true feelings. Now he’d never know.

The heartache more than she could bear, Kate jammed a balled fist to her mouth.

Don’t scream!

She could mourn later. Right now, she had to stay focused. It’s what Finn would want me to do. The two gunmen had undoubtedly retrieved the Montségur Medallion from Finn’s bullet-riddled body. Which meant that she was the only person who could stop the Seven Research Foundation from finding the Lapis Exillis and using it to perform an unthinkable scientific experiment. One that would literally turn back the hands of time.

Kate glanced at the white-haired man seated beside her, Dr Uhlemann in the process of removing a hypodermic needle from the crook of his arm. Withered lips curved in a dreamy smile, he handed the used needle to the blonde-haired woman in the front passenger seat. Angelika, in turn, placed the needle into a plastic case.

Rolling down his shirt sleeve, Dr Uhlemann nonchalantly returned Kate’s stare. ‘You look like a terrified mourning dove. It’s a drug. Nothing more, nothing less. Doctors administer it to patients all the time under the pharmaceutical name diamorphine.’ Buttoning the cuff at his wrist, he added, ‘I wonder how many of the sick and dying are aware that their doctors have turned them into heroin addicts?’

Angelika affected a horrified expression. ‘I’m shocked to learn that you’ve become a skag junkie.’

Chortling, Dr Uhlemann absently stroked a small salt-and-pepper Schnauzer that was curled on his lap. A moment later, his facial muscles reconfigured into an ill-tempered frown. ‘Why isn’t Dolf driving? I don’t like looking at the back of this man’s head.’

‘The view from the front isn’t much better,’ Angelika remarked cruelly. ‘As for Dolf, I dismissed him early. Not only did he smell like a shit pile, but he looked like one, too.’

Worried that she might be the only sane person in the vehicle, Kate took a deep, serrated breath. The gunfight, the dog, the needle, the J. S. Bach cello suite softly playing on the sedan’s sound system. It was all so surreal. As though she’d just landed in the middle of a Fellini movie with a cast of macabre characters.

Angelika peered over the back of her seat. A quizzical expression on her face, she said, ‘I’m curious, little mouse … did you love Finnegan McGuire?’

Refusing to share something so personal with a heartless killer, Kate bowed her head. Eyes welling with tears, she clasped both hands together and placed them squarely in her lap, Angelika’s mocking tone the proverbial dagger to the heart.

The little Schnauzer, sensing Kate’s distress, whimpered softly.

‘Alas, Sergeant McGuire has no one but himself to blame for his demise,’ Dr Uhlemann intoned, proving that his blade was just as sharp. ‘Like Thor, he arrogantly thought that he was invincible.’

‘Only to discover that a hammer is no match for a sub-machine gun,’ Angelika jeered. Removing a tube of lipstick from a storage compartment, she flipped down the sun visor and proceeded to apply a coat of crimson red lipstick.

Sickened by their callous remarks, Kate turned her head and stared out of the window. Although it was difficult to see through the tinted glass, she recognized the wrought-iron fence that bordered the Jardins des Tuileries.

The chauffeur slowed for a red light.

‘When I was a child, I visited my father while he was stationed in Paris.’ Raising his arm, Dr Uhlemann directed Kate’s attention to the esplanade on the other side of the fence. ‘The SS officers, attired in white shorts and tank tops, would perform their morning calisthenics on that grassy field to your left.’

‘Ooh-la-la! How I would have enjoyed seeing that,’ Angelika cooed before lifting a folded sheet of paper and blotting her lipstick.

‘Parisians, notoriously slothful by nature, would stand at the fence and gawk. What they didn’t grasp, and still don’t comprehend, is that communal exercise provides the foundation for a vigorous society.’

‘Don’t you mean a martial society?’ Kate counterpunched.

‘Any society,’ Dr Uhlemann retorted, a marked edge to his voice. ‘Indolent people are inherently weak. Of body and mind.’

Still preening in front of the visor’s mirror, Angelika said, ‘And since we have no souls, you need not enquire about that.’

The traffic light changed to green.

‘Driver, take us to the obelisk. Wolfgang needs to be walked,’ Dr Uhlemann ordered, an imperious monarch who couldn’t be bothered using a polite tone with one of his subjects.

Wordlessly nodding his head, the nameless chauffeur turned left at the corner. A few moments later, in typical Paris fashion, he pulled the vehicle on to the pavement at Place de la Concorde. At that hour of the day, there was no one lurking to protest the illegal manoeuvre.

The back-seat locks popped up with a loud click!

Clipping a leash on to Wolfgang’s collar, Dr Uhlemann glanced over at her. ‘I insist that you accompany us, Doctor Bauer.’

Intuiting that it was a royal command, Kate dutifully got out of the sedan. Angelika stood at the ready beside the open door. Red lips curled in a smirk, the blonde flipped open her leather jacket, letting Kate glimpse her holstered gun.

‘You can’t run fast enough, little mouse.’

‘As I am well aware,’ Kate muttered under her breath. Although the occasional car drove past, there was no cover, Place de la Concorde being an open plaza that encompassed nearly twenty acres. She’d be shot in the back before she could flag down a passing motorist.

Grabbing hold of Kate’s elbow, Angelika ushered her over to the wrought-iron fence that surrounded the base of the obelisk. She then took the leash from Dr Uhlemann and proceeded to walk the Schnauzer.

At a loss for words, Kate stared at the 75-foot-high monument. Illuminated by spotlights, the red granite appeared tawny hued. In a city dominated by neo-classical architecture, the ancient Egyptian obelisk was an exotic sight.

‘Given that it weighs over two hundred tons, it’s amazing to think that it’s carved from a single piece of granite,’ Dr Uhlemann remarked conversationally. ‘In order to transport it from Thebes, a special ship had to be built, an engineering feat. The details of that epic journey are illustrated on the pedestal.’ He pointed to the inlaid gold diagrams that decorated the base of the obelisk. ‘As you undoubtedly know, the monument is a key element on the Axe Historique.’

Hoping to establish a rapport with Dr Uhlemann – Captivity Tactics 101 – Kate asked the obvious: ‘How exactly does the obelisk fit into the Vril equation?’

‘At the heliacal rising of Sirius, a tremendous burst of astral energy is released. The obelisk acts as an antenna to transmit and direct that astral energy along the Axe Historique.’

Kate tipped her head back and peered at the gold cap on top of the monument. ‘So the obelisk acts like a radio tower?’

‘Precisely.’

Just then, Angelika walked towards them, Wolfgang obediently trotting at her heels. ‘I love this feeling,’ she purred. ‘It’s incredibly invigorating. Like the time I rode the waves at Big Sur.’

She was right; there was a palpable energy in the air.

‘What you’re feeling is the discharge of negative ions from the electromagnetically-charged telluric line. The water spewing from the fountains magnifies the effect.’ Dr Uhlemann jutted his chin at the two massive water fountains situated approximately fifty yards away.

‘I don’t care what causes it,’ Angelika replied as she flung her long blonde tresses over her shoulder. ‘It feels so wonderfully –’ A buzzing sound stopped her in midstream. Unclipping the cell phone at her waist, she glanced at the display screen. ‘I must take this call.’ She handed the dog lead to Dr Uhlemann before stepping away from them.

The call was brief, Angelika returning within moments. Approaching Dr Uhlemann, she placed a hand on his shoulder as she leaned close to whisper something in his ear.

Clearly stunned, he said, ‘Are you absolutely certain?’

Angelika nodded. ‘He has an eight-hour drive back to Paris. We’ll have it by one o’clock this afternoon.’

‘Just in time for tomorrow’s heliacal rising.’ Dr Uhlemann turned towards Kate. ‘Our mission in the Languedoc was successful. I’ve just learned that we retrieved the Lapis Exillis from your cohort, Cædmon Aisquith. Twenty-six hours from now we will be able to perform das Groß Versuch and generate the Vril force. “O brave new world!” ’

Hearing that jubilant exclamation, Kate’s heart painfully constricted. ‘Is Cædmon still alive?’ she asked, barely able to get the words out of her mouth.

‘I would certainly hope not,’ Dr Uhlemann snapped testily.

Oh, God … Finn and Cædmon, both dead.

Afraid that she might collapse, Kate grabbed hold of the wrought-iron fence. Unbidden, one of the Four Reminders that Buddhists chant daily popped into her head. Death comes without warning, this body will be a corpse.

‘What about me? Are you planning to kill me, as well?’

His blue eyes glazed from the narcotics in his bloodstream, Ivo Uhlemann tipped his head to one side, scrutinizing Kate as if she was some rare specimen.

A long silence ensued.

Then, shrugging carelessly, he said, ‘I’m still undecided.’

69

Saint Clotilde Basilica, Paris

0638 hours

Bending over the elaborately carved font, Finn scooped holy water into his cupped hands rather than politely dipping his fingers. Eyes closed, he splashed the cool water on to his face. A bracing wake-up tonic.

Out of habit, one engrained at Catholic school, he silently blessed himself. In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Then, for good measure, he murmured, ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.’

Water dripping off his chin, Finn snorted to himself. Like I’m telling the Big Kahuna something he doesn’t already know.

Not only had he earlier committed four mortal sins, but he’d committed a major screw-up. He should never have left Kate alone in the cemetery. Christ! What had he been thinking? He was supposed to have kept Kate safe from harm. To protect her from the big bad wolf. But, instead, he left her alone. Sweet, gentle little Katie. Who was too inexperienced to escape from danger. And too scared to hit the target. Hell, she probably didn’t see the Dark Angel approach until it was too late.

Yanking his T-shirt hem up to his face, Finn dried his wet cheeks before he stepped through the double doors that led inside the nave.

Again out of habit, this one engrained by the US military, he scanned the cavernous interior, checking for unfriendlies, and points of egress should he run into any. He could not, under any circumstances, fall into a police dragnet, for the simple reason that he couldn’t rescue Kate from a Paris jail cell.

Although the basilica was constructed in the nineteenth century, it had a distinctly Gothic feel to it. Intimidating in the way that only a Catholic church could be. On each flank, dour-faced martyrs were eternally trapped in the long line of stained-glass windows. Sunken-cheeked and hollow-eyed, they were the guardians of the Faith. Ahead of him, prominently displayed above the altar, was a big golden cross with a dying Jesus nailed to it.

Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.

Verifying that the only person inside the church was a humpbacked crone plying her fingers to a set of rosary beads, Finn walked towards the apse. He didn’t bother bending his head or displaying false piety. He wasn’t there to repent, ask for pastoral guidance, or seek absolution. He was there to reconnoitre. To take a much-needed rest and figure out his next move.

Because, so far, the situation had gone belly up and totally fubar. As in ‘fucked up beyond all repair’.

And had become more fucked up with each passing hour as he’d hit one dead-end after another. If he’d had a knotted cat-tail whip, he would have flogged the shit out of himself. Mortification of the flesh. A time-honoured Catholic tradition practised by those wracked with guilt.

Now, because of his mistake, Kate was at the mercy of –

Don’t go there, soldier! a voice inside his head boomed. In order to find and rescue Kate, he had to stay calm. That meant suppressing his emotions. Turning ’em off and shutting ’em down.

Determined to do just that, Finn ducked to the left, parking his ass on a rush-bottomed chair. Unlike the Catholic churches in Boston, there wasn’t a pew in sight. Exhausted, he stared at the suspended dust particles, tinted red and blue from the early-morning light that shone through the stained-glass windows. Refusing to give in to the urge to close his eyes and catch a quick catnap, he unclipped his cell phone from his waistband. He’d already called Ivo Uhlemann. Repeatedly. Twice at his apartment and three times at the Seven Research Foundation headquarters. Each time, he’d left the same message. ‘The Montségur Medallion is yours in return for Kate Bauer.’

None of his calls had been returned.

Why the hell wasn’t the evil bastard answering the phone?

Surely Uhlemann knew that he had him by the short and curlies. That’s why they’d abducted Kate rather than execute her, to force his hand.

Hand broken, Finn was willing to give them what they’d wanted all along, the damned medallion.

So, just answer the fucking phone! Or at least let me find your sorry ass so we can make the trade.

Since the subway had been closed, he’d earlier retrieved Cædmon Aisquith’s Vespa, using it to go to the Grande Arche. A wasted effort. The Seven Research Foundation office suite had been locked, all of the lights turned off. Not about to call retreat, he then headed to Rue des Saints-Pères, hoping to catch Uhlemann at home. Although he’d scared the hell out of the live-in maid, she claimed that she hadn’t seen or spoken to Herr Doktor Uhlemann in the last twenty-four hours.

Belly up and totally fubar.

For several long moments Finn stared at the cell phone; he had one option left.

Shoving his pride to the wayside, he dialled the number. The call immediately went to Aisquith’s voice mail.

‘Call me the instant you get this. It’s urgent!’

He hit the ‘disconnect’ button.

‘Shit! Why isn’t anyone answering their damned phone?’

On hearing the muttered expletive, the old bag on the other side of the aisle momentarily stopped reciting the rosary and glared at him. Finn mumbled an apology.

Where did they take Kate? I have to find her!

Gut churning, he took a deep breath, able to smell incense and candle wax. Along with the unmistakeable stench of his own fear. Out of options, Finn grabbed the chair in front of him and dropped to the stone floor.

On his knees, he clasped his hands to his chest … and prayed his ass off.

PART IV

‘There was a thing called the Grail, which surpasses all earthly perfection’ – Wolfram von Eschenbach, Parzival

70

Paris

1932 hours

Cædmon Aisquith slowly made his way down Rue de la Bûcherie. Jaw clamped. Teeth clenched. By dint of sheer will.

A battered warrior come home from the wars, he owed his life to a wizened old shepherd. Barely conscious, trapped in a hawthorn bush, Cædmon had used the torch in his pocket to flash a distress signal on to the granite cliffs of Mont de la Lune. Three short light beams. Three long. Three short. Over and over. My soul is beyond salvation, but for God’s sake, save our ship. Before it sinks into the oblivion of chill death. Tending to his flock in the nearby mountain meadow, Pascal Broussard had seen the SOS.

‘O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, alone and palely loitering?’

For starters, a hole in his upper right arm and a shallow furrow along his outer skull. Both courtesy of an unknown assassin who hit the target but missed the mark.

Utterly demoralized by what had happened in the Languedoc, Cædmon had no idea who had ambushed him on that dark stretch of rocky terrain. He presumed it was someone in the employ of the Seven Research Foundation. Without question, La belle dame sans merci was merrily laughing at his plight. He had actually found the Grail. But, like Parzival after his first visit to the Grail Castle, he’d been tossed on his arse, the castle having vanished into thin air.

Cædmon glanced at the wadded bandage under his shirtsleeve, relieved to see that there was no blood seepage. The sutures were holding. Forced to operate in primitive conditions, the shepherd had removed the bullet from his triceps brachii with a pair of needle-nosed pliers, the man actually annoyed that Cædmon ordered him to first sterilize the pliers in boiling water. As well as the needle used to suture his flesh together. For an old man with gnarled, arthritic hands, Pascal sewed a surprisingly neat stitch.

He was lucky to be alive. The first bullet had grazed his skull, leaving a superficial gully above his left ear. The second bullet had lodged in his arm muscle, missing the arteries and veins that siphoned blood to and from his heart. A blessing, Pascal claimed. More jaded, Cædmon knew better. After he’d tended to his wounds, the shepherd gave Cædmon the only painkiller he had – a half-full bottle of Pastis. Although he loathed aniseed, Cædmon gratefully accepted the gift. Polished it off, in fact, during the three-hour train ride to Paris.

A gruelling journey, made worse by the vile tasting liquor, he slept fitfully on the train. Twice he awoke, panic-stricken, frantically patting the seat, searching for his rucksack, worried that someone had pinched the Grail while he slept. And then he remembered that an assassin had stolen the Grail. Both times, in a Pastis-induced haze, Cædmon wondered if he’d actually found the blasted relic. Or had it all been a figment of his wild imagination?

On seeing the bookshop sign – emblazoned with the naive Fool about to embark on his grand adventure – Cædmon wearily sighed. Head throbbing, he gingerly touched the bandage wrapped around his skull. It felt like an iron band. One that tightened with each footfall.

Just a few more steps.

He pulled a key ring from his jacket pocket. A storm-damaged man-of-war about to sail into safe harbour.

Inserting the key in the lock, he opened the door. The hinges noisily squealed. He grunted, hit with an incendiary burst of pain that radiated from his arm to his skull. As he stepped across the threshold, Cædmon was greeted by a miasma of dust motes lazily floating in the slanted light. He waited a few seconds, giving his eyes a chance to adjust to the dimly lit shop before he walked over to the wall-mounted key pad. His shuffling gait was that of a much older man.

Squinting, he peered at the digital display.

Shite!

The security alarm had been deactivated, two loose wires protruding from the device!

Hackles instantly raised, he spun on his heel. He then proceeded to scrutinize each dark shadow.

Everything seemed in order.

On high alert, he cautiously made his way to the closed door at the rear of the shop that led to his flat. Holding his breath, he reached for the doorknob. Uncertain what he would find on the other side, he flung the door wide open.

‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?’ he bellowed crossly.

‘What does it look like I’m doing?’ Finnegan McGuire retorted. ‘I’m catching some Zs.’ Stretched out full-length on the tufted leather sofa, the commando propped his head on a beefy arm.

The tension left Cædmon’s body in one fell swoop, replaced with a jaw-grinding pain. He walked over to the sofa.

‘Nice place you got here,’ McGuire quipped as he rose to his feet. ‘I was almost tempted to pull out the feather duster and plug in the vacuum cleaner.’

‘Sod you.’ With bells on.

Glancing down, Cædmon noticed a plastic shopping bag on top of the cluttered coffee table. Although the flat was an untidy wreck, books stacked on the floor, newspapers lying about, the bag was unfamiliar to him. Eyes narrowed, he examined its contents. A bottle of bleach. Toilet paper. A bag of sugar. A ball of string. Loose wine corks. And a green metal box of Twinings tea. All-in-all, a strange assortment of sundry items.