James Acton 04 - The Templar's Relic (16 page)

They had torn off his left arm.

Fists rained down on him, kicks jolted him, but he couldn’t feel it anymore. The pain was too much. He felt himself beginning to slip, then the jolt of more pain as his right leg popped out of its socket. He could feel the skin, the sinew, the ligaments, the veins, pulling, tearing, and then the distinct sensation as the limb was torn free.

But this time he didn’t scream.

This time the pain was too great. This time He showed him mercy. This time He let him pass out.

This time He let him die.

Chapel of the Sacrament, Saint Peter’s Basilica, Vatican City

“Well?”

Hassan looked at Ziti, who stood at the edge of the crater, shaking his head. To Hassan, it looked like the explosives had done their job. A crater ten feet across, and at least five feet deep, lay before them. And he was sure after the rubble was cleared, it would be much deeper, perhaps ten feet, and Allah knew there were hundreds of willing hands on the other side of the wall to help clear it, even if they didn’t know why.

But Ziti remained silent.

Hassan felt his chest tighten. “Are you going to speak?”

Ziti frowned. “It’s not deep enough.”

“What do you mean?” Hassan pointed at the hole. “It must be ten feet deep!”

Ziti shrugged his shoulders, his nonchalant attitude aggravating to no end. “The necropolis is five to ten meters underground. We may have barely dented the surface.”

Hassan wasn’t going to be discouraged. He refused to be. They were closer than they were an hour ago, and they would be closer an hour from now. He dismissed Ziti and his negativity with a wave. He motioned Ali over. “Rahim, get a dozen men from out there”—he jabbed his finger toward the basilica—“and get them in here to start moving this rubble.”

Ali nodded and rushed out. Moments later puzzled men began to enter the room. Hassan put on his best smile, his arms extended in welcome, greeting each man with a hug and a kiss on each cheek. “Welcome! Welcome!” he said to each, and when the men were assembled, he pointed at the hole in the ground, a hole he noted all were staring at. “We need your assistance today. It is Allah’s will that we have been able to get this far, and with your help now, we will accomplish our task. We need to dig a hole here”—he pointed at the crater—“so we can reach our goal.” He raised his hand to cut off one of the men who was about to ask, he was sure, why. “Do not ask why. Know only that it is Allah’s work we do here, and once finished, we will have power over the infidel like we’ve never had before.” He slapped his hands together. “Now! To work!”

He jumped in the hole, grabbing the first stone, and handing it up to the first man, who leaned in and took it, passing it down the line that quickly formed, leading out of the room. After handing half a dozen stones up, he motioned for the first two men to join him, then handed off the work, climbing out of the hole.

He snapped his fingers at Ali. “Get another line going. There’s enough room for two crews.” This time there was no difficulty getting workers, as a large group had gathered outside the door and were already taking the stones, passing them back. When Ali approached, hands were held up in the air, eager to take part. Within moments a second line had formed, two more men in the crater.

Hassan smiled.

It would be long, hard work, but they had an unlimited workforce available to them, eager to help, despite not knowing what was going on. It might take hours, it might take days.

But once through, the infidel Catholic Church would bow at his feet.

Corpo della Gendarmeria Office

Palazzo del Governatorato, Vatican City

Acton winced more than Laura, as the medic treated what indeed had turned out to be a bullet graze on her left thigh. “Just a scratch” she called it.
I think it’s hurting me more than her.
He squeezed her hand as the medic wrapped the leg a little too tightly for his liking.

She pulled her hand away.

“What?” he asked, looking up at her.

“You’re hurting me more than he is,” she said, jutting her chin at the medic.

Acton could feel himself blush. “Sorry, I just hate seeing you in pain.”

“I’m not,” she said, flexing her fingers. “Now that I’ve got my hand back.” She smiled and kissed his hand. “You worry about me too much.”

“Hey, you’re going to be my wife. Of course I’m going to worry about you.”

The medic raised his head. “You two are getting married?”

Laura smiled and extended her hand, then gasped. “My ring!”

Everyone looked, including Acton. The hand was bare, the ring gone.

Laura’s eyes filled with tears as she looked at Acton, her right hand darting to her mouth. “I’m so sorry, it must have fallen off in the confusion.”

Acton took her left hand and rubbed his thumb over where the ring should be. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll get you another one.”

“But I want the one you gave me.”

He smiled up at her and kissed the bare finger. “Then we’ll find it.”

She smiled at him, taking his cheek in her hand. “Ever the optimist.” She sighed. “Something tells me that ring is long gone.”

Acton stood. “We’re archaeologists. If we can’t find it, no one can.” He struck a superhero pose and she giggled, the smile he loved returning to her face. Acton put a hand on her shoulder, his self-humiliation having worked, and squeezed. “Let’s get through the night, and worry about the ring tomorrow.” She nodded. He looked at the medic who snapped his kit shut.

“Done,” he announced, standing. “We’ll change the dressing in about eight hours if we’re not out of here by then.” He pointed at her. “But try to take it easy, no more heroics unless absolutely necessary.”

She smiled, the story of what had happened outside already taking on near epic proportions. “Heroics done for the night.”

Giasson walked up, his shoulder bandaged and arm in a sling, the bullet having been removed earlier, the damage apparently minimal.

“What’s the situation?” asked Acton.

“Not good. The city’s been lost.”

Laura gasped. “What about the evacuees?”

Giasson gave a slight smile. “All are safe. At least that worked out, but we lost three of my men in the process.”

Acton frowned. “But saved hundreds.”

Giasson nodded. “They’ll be remembered.” He motioned for them to follow him. “There’s something going on in the basilica I need you to look at.”

“What?”

Giasson shrugged, then winced, his free hand darting to his shoulder. “That was stupid,” he mumbled. Acton watched the man’s face turn pale and reached out to grab him just as he began to lose his balance. The medic rushed over with a wheelchair, and they both helped him into the seat.

“Sir, I told you to stay in the chair. You lost a lot of blood. You need to drink and eat as much as you can to rebuild your strength and the lost blood supply.”

Giasson, already recovering, tutt-tutted at him. “You’re like a mother hen. I’ll be fine.”

“You should be hooked up to an IV.”

Giasson shook his head. “Not going to happen. I need to be mobile.”

“Hold the damned thing in your lap. You need fluids!”

Giasson paused. “Fine. Stick it in my bad arm, and put the sack in the blasted sling.”

This seemed to placate the medic, who quickly complied. His handiwork done, he stood. “I’ll check on you in an hour, and we’ll keep switching out the bags.”

Giasson nodded then looked around. “Now who’s going to push me to my office?”

Several men stepped forward but Acton waved them off, grabbing the handles. “I’ll do it, you guys have more important things to do.”

He began to push Giasson toward the security offices, Laura beside him, along with Boileau, Giasson’s second-in-command.

“What was this you were mentioning about the basilica?” asked Laura.

“Something’s going on in there,” replied Giasson.

“Yes, we’ve got one functioning camera, and they appear to be digging.”

Acton’s eyebrows shot up. “Digging?”

Boileau nodded. “Any idea what for?”

Acton felt butterflies in his stomach as he exchanged glances with Laura. He knew exactly what they were digging for.

And it terrified him.

The Green and Gold Pub, Brick Lane, London

Kirby Weeks slammed his fist on top of the bar, causing the glasses around him to bounce. The bartender, Tom, a crusty old bastard Kirby had known for years, stepped over, cleaning a glass with a rag. He held it up to inspect it in the lights of the bar and, satisfied, flipped it upside down and slid it in the holder suspended overhead. He placed his elbows on the bar, leaning into Kirby’s personal space.

Kirby sat back, his eyes now on Tom instead of the television.

“What is it now, lad? What’s got ya so riled up?”

Kirby took a swig of his lager, pointing at the screen. “It’s what’s goin’ on in Rome. Can ya believe that shite?”

“What’s goin’ on in Rome?” asked Tom, twisting to look at the television.

“What’s goin’ on in Rome?” Kirby turned to the man sitting beside him. “What’s goin’ on in Rome, he says. Can ya believe that?” He turned back to Tom. “What are ya, daft? Have ya not been payin’ attention to the news?”

Tom shrugged his shoulders, turning back to Kirby. “Never pay much mind to it, it’s ne’er good.”

Kirby took another swig, wiping the foam mustache off his face with the back of his hand, his chest getting tight in anger. He turned to the man seated at the bar to his right. “He ’asn’t been payin’ attention to the news. The fawkin’ Muslims have taken over the Vatican, and this daft bastard hasn’t a fawkin’ clue!”

Kirby jumped out of his seat and addressed the packed bar in general. “How many of you bastards don’t have a clue what’s goin’ on?”

“Sit down, Kirby, you’ve had too much, lad!”

“No I haven’t. Look”—he pointed at the television—“at what those bastards are doin’. The Pope himself had to be carried out by helicopter today. The fawkin’ Muslims are tearing apart Saint Peter’s, they’re destroying the Vatican, and you fawkers are doin’ nothin’ about it.”

“What would ya have us do, Kirby?”

Kirby peered through the crowd, now all staring at him, their own conversations no longer as interesting as his rant, but couldn’t find his interrogator.

“What would I have ya do? Christ, man, the biggest fawkin’ mosque in London is just down the road on Whitechapel. Let’s go show them what the fawk we think of them.”

“Go home and sleep it off!”

“No! He’s right!”

Heads spun toward the new voice, near the rear of the bar. Kirby looked through the crowd and saw a man standing there, maybe thirty, with a shaved head, sporting a knock-off London Olympics jersey. “It’s time we stood up to these foreigners, and showed them that they can’t come to our country and push us around.” He walked toward Kirby, the crowd parting. “They come to our country, and try to make
us
change, rather than change themselves. Right now, almost three million Muslims live in our country, almost one million of the eight million people in this city are Muslim! And they are growing at a rate ten times our own.” The man pointed at the television screen. “And now, they destroy one of the most important symbols of Christianity while the world stands by and does nothing.”

He had reached Kirby now, and put his arm around Kirby’s shoulders. The man looked at Kirby, then the crowd. “This man”—he pointed at Kirby—“is the smartest of us all. He recognizes what is happening, and he recognizes that it is people like us who need to rise up and fight back. When people like us take action, then our government will notice. When we are joined by our fellow Christians around the world, their governments will take notice.” He squeezed Kirby against his side, his voice steadily rising. “Together, together we can send a message, not only to our government, not only to the Muslims, but to the world. Together we can send a message that England has had enough. That England is prepared to fight, to fight to defend our country from foreign invaders, to fight to defend our beliefs against those who would destroy them.”

He took Kirby by the hand, raising it in the air. “Now, who is with me, who is with this man? Who will join us and send a message?”

The crowd roared, glasses held in the air, including Kirby’s.

“Then let’s go and send a message!”

The man headed for the door, Kirby in tow, followed by most of the patrons who downed their drinks, slamming the empty glasses and bottles on the bar top as they filed by. Moments later Kirby found himself on the street, not quite sure what had happened, but definitely feeling the adrenaline build.

The man beside him, who he had never seen before tonight, turned to the crowd and yelled, “Britain for the British!”, his fist pumping the air, repeating it, over and over, until the crowd behind him echoed his call, and then the march resumed. As they traveled down Brick Lane, past more pubs, some of the crowd would rush into each of the establishments, and the crowd would grow. Cellphones were in full use, friends were being called, posts were going up on Twitter and Facebook, and word was spreading.

Whitechapel.

They crossed the street, and turned left, not bothering to clear the road, the crowd now in the hundreds, the chant, “Britain for the British” continuing. A police car pulled up and the two officers jumped out, rushing up to the crowd.

“You can’t block this road!” yelled the first at Kirby and his companion who still led the march.

“I suggest you let us pass,” said the man, who didn’t slow down, causing the officers to back up. “We have no quarrel with you. Join us in sending a message that what is happening in Rome is not acceptable.”

“Is that what this is about?” asked the second cop. He ran back to the squad car and grabbed the radio. Kirby could hear him requesting backup as they marched past it. The other officer returned to the car, and Kirby looked back as he saw the vehicle pull across the road and over the center divider, racing toward their destination, the mosque. Up ahead he watched the car cut across, blocking the street to prevent any more of the oncoming traffic from approaching them.