The Circle of Eight (30 page)

The taillights rounded another bend ahead and
disappeared. Mickey gave their SUV a little more gas, but not much as the
traction control kicked in, warning him his attempts to overcome physics
weren’t appreciated.

Niner was uncharacteristically quiet as they proceeded,
even he apparently sensing the need for Mickey to concentrate. He was jacked
into the comms as was Mickey in case any new info was to be broadcast. The last
bit was the successful departure of Professor Palmer’s plane. Assuming the rest
could get out of Geneva successfully, then they should be here in three, maybe
four hours.

By then hopefully they’d have some intel of their own to
share.

He was a little worried for the professors and that
Interpol agent. He understood why they were doing what they were doing, but
they weren’t trained for this, although he did have to admit they were a hell
of a lot better trained than pretty much any civilian he had encountered. He
just felt this mission they had taken upon themselves should wait until these
Rosicrucians were taken care of.

“A penny for your thoughts.”

“Huh?” Mickey glanced over at Niner who still had his
eyes on the road ahead. “Sorry, just thinking of the professors. I think they
should be waiting. They don’t know what they could be getting themselves into.”

Niner nodded. “True, but after what they’ve been
through, I think a little leeway might be in order.”

“Leeway usually gets people hurt, or worse.”

“True, but retrieving that artifact could be critical,
and we aren’t exactly swimming in resources here. Three extra sets of hands
shouldn’t go to waste.”

Mickey frowned at Niner’s comment as he regained sight
of the convoy.

“Agreed. I just hope they’re not walking into something
big.”

Niner shifted in his seat.

“Do you really think it would still be there after all
these years?”

“It doesn’t matter if it’s there. What matters is if the
Rosicrucians think it’s there. They have the photograph, so they know it’s out
there. There’s no way in hell they aren’t tracking it down and sending a team.”

Niner nodded, biting his lip.

“True.” He pointed ahead as brake lights and signal
lights flashed through the rapidly encroaching darkness. “Something’s up.”

“Anything on the GPS?”

“No roads indicated. Maybe that’s their destination?”

Mickey continued forward and soon they passed a large
gate, fresh tire tracks slicing through the several inches of snow, the taillights
visible farther up a long laneway, at the top of which stood what appeared to
be a large castle, older than anything back home probably by hundreds of years.
Its façade, bathed in electric lighting, indicated modern renovations. Mickey
kept on moving, barely slowing down as Niner held his phone up, holding the
button to take a rapid series of pictures at high resolution.

Soon they were around another bend, the castle lost in
the snow.

“There’s a village coming up in about half a mile,” said
Niner, eying the GPS as he transmitted the coordinates of the castle to the
rest of the team. “Let’s see if we can find somewhere to stay there.”

Mickey nodded, continuing to grip the wheel tightly as
the road wound along the mountainside, finally opening into a small valley, a
picturesque slice of history being revealed, a village that if it weren’t for
the electric lighting, would fit perfectly into another century. It was the
very picture of the perfect romantic getaway, and here he was, sharing it with
Niner, who was to his dismay already transitioning into his character.

As they drove deeper into the village, they encountered
a smattering of locals, all seeming to stop and stare at their vehicle as they
drove by.

“You’d think they’d never seen tourists before,”
commented Mickey.

“Maybe they’re just stunned we were stupid enough to
drive up here in this weather, at this time of the day.”

“Perhaps.” But as he watched in the rearview mirror, he
saw people going inside their businesses and homes, lights being turned off,
shutters closed, and the general appearance of a village from the Old West
closing up as a gunfight at high noon was about to begin. “Something’s not
right.”

“There’s a hotel,” Niner said, his intonation already
changed, Mickey shaking his head as he pulled in front of the building, it too
seemingly dark.

Mickey climbed out, pulling the collar up on his jacket
and shoving his hands in his pockets as he followed Niner up the few steps and
toward the double front doors. The wood steps creaked under their feet and the
shutters smacked against the timber framed sides of the three story building.

Niner pulled on the doorknob and to Mickey’s surprise it
actually opened. They stepped inside to find a welcoming fire roaring to their
left and what appeared to be a landlady standing behind a counter, her
expression of surprise mild to say the least.

In German, rather than French, she asked, “May I help
you?”

Mickey, fluent, responded.

“Do you have any rooms? Just for tonight, we’re passing
through and want to ride out the storm.”

“Storm? Bah, this is nothing,” replied the woman,
batting her hand at the wind outside. “Tomorrow is the real storm. You should
turn around and go back before you get stuck here.”

Mickey smiled, thankful Niner was playing his part
quietly right now, not sure how tolerant these people might be despite the
pleasant demeanor.

“All the same, I think we’d rather take our chances. Do
you have a room? Two if possible?”

The woman shook her head.

“Sorry, but we are sold out.”

Mickey’s eyebrows shot up his forehead.

“Sold out? But there are no cars outside? How can you be
sold out?”

“This is the annual fest, people come from all over the
valley, mostly hiking or skiing in. You won’t find a room anywhere.”

Mickey frowned, looking at Niner. If this village was
having some annual festival, there certainly was no evidence of it. The streets
had seemed fairly quiet, and there were no decorations or banners suggesting
any type of gathering.

They were being lied to.

If it weren’t for the reaction of the villagers who had
seen them arrive, he might have thought it was discrimination, but Niner had
played it quiet, beyond his loud colors there was no other evidence of the part
he was playing.

“Ya vol!” he heard a voice say, muffled through a
doorway, then the distinct sound of a receiver being slammed on an old style
phone. A door behind the desk suddenly opened and an older man, perhaps early
sixties, walked through with a distinctive limp. He whispered to the woman,
something Mickey couldn’t pick up, then she nodded as the man disappeared back
through the door.

“You are fortunate. We have a last minute cancellation.
We can give you a chalet if you don’t mind driving up the mountain a short way.”

“A chalet sounds perfect,” said Mickey, signing the
guest book as it was spun around. As he put his alias down, he noted the date
of the last arrival was two days ago, and they were signed out the next day.

Full?

Geneva Cointrin Airport, Geneva, Switzerland

Dawson, dressed in a black suit and tie, stood beside the coffin, his
head bowed in remembrance. Behind him Red did the same, his hand resting on the
coffin of his friend, the somber look of Dawson mirrored. The rest of the team
were already aboard the private plane, but moving dead bodies from Switzerland
to an international destination still involved some paperwork, even if not
flying commercial.

Paperwork that was taking longer than Dawson liked.

Two airport security personnel were talking in whispers
behind the special luggage counter, a lineup of at least a dozen waiting to
check their own special items from pets to corpses.

Finally one of them stepped out with a sheaf of papers
in their hands.

“I apologize for the delay, Mr. White. Per procedure, I
will need to see each of the deceased so I can compare it to the photo ID.”

Dawson nodded, knowing this was coming, but dreading it
nonetheless.

“Of course.”

He undid the screws holding the top half of the coffin,
then lifted the lid as Red did the same behind him. He looked down at the light
grey face of Jimmy, the makeup Jagger had applied garish, overdone to the
extreme as if he were a gag corpse at a Halloween party rather than the real
thing. The man held the passport up to the face then nodded, moving on to the
next casket. Dawson closed the lid and suddenly there was a stifled sneeze from
inside.

The security guard spun around as Dawson rubbed his
nose.

“Sorry, must be the dry air,” he said, sniffing.

The guard’s eyes remained narrowed, but Dawson stifled a
second forced sneeze, praying Jimmy would keep it together, this idea no longer
seeming like such a good one.

Thankfully Jagger had no involuntary spasms or twitches,
and they were on their way to the tarmac with their two caskets. Minutes later
the caskets were loaded into the underbelly of their plane, then they
themselves joined the rest of the team.

Dawson didn’t breathe easily until the plane’s landing
gear had cleared the runway.

“Okay, get them out of there,” he said as the team
jumped to their feet, removing floor panels and gaining access to the storage
compartments. Spock and Red climbed down into the small compartment, these
private jets never designed to move a lot of cargo, and quickly unscrewed the
lids.

Jimmy was the first to push himself up and out of the
casket, hands pulling him into the passenger compartment, his makeup smeared
under his nose where he had wiped it earlier.

“My God, remind me to update my paperwork so I’m
cremated if I die. There’s no way in hell I want to spend eternity in one of
those!”

Jagger joined him in his displeasure.

“That had to have been the most unpleasant experience
I’ve ever had, and I had to bunk with Niner and his fart jokes for two weeks in
Baghdad.”

“Well, in about twenty minutes you’re over the border,
hopefully thinking about how next time you won’t become wanted men in a
friendly country where we can’t go in guns-a-blazin’ to rescue you,” said Red.

“Yeah, yeah. It wasn’t all chocolate bars and yodeling
in there, you know. There was some really disturbing food served. They eat
sauerkraut with everything! My delicate stomach still hasn’t recovered.”

“Next McDonald’s we see, we’ll stop so you can soothe
your sophisticated palate,” said Spock.

“Thank you very much,” replied Jimmy with an exaggerated
bow. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to take my makeup off.” He made a show
of flicking non-existent hair off his shoulder, then super-modeled it toward
the bathroom, Jagger aping him all the way.

As the team roared in laughter, Wings cut through the
frivolity with a toss of a comm unit to Dawson.

“It’s Atlas, he has an update.”

Dawson fitted the earpiece in place.

“This is Bravo One, go ahead, over.”

“Bravo Seven here. I’ve got some updates for you. Niner
and Mickey are situated and have relayed their coordinates, along with our
target’s. Apparently the gathering is at some sort of castle. I’ve sent
satellite imagery to your accounts. Unfortunately there are no birds scheduled
to pass over that area until tomorrow so I won’t be able to give you numbers. I’ve
passed the advance team’s location on to our supplier. He says he can be there
before you arrive. Also, the professors and Special Agent Reading have landed
in Barcelona. ETA at their target ten minutes, over.”

“Okay, if we’re hitting a damned castle, make sure our
supplier has a lot of C4. The walls tend to be thick on those things.”

“Already done.”

“Any luck on that intel we gathered?”

“Not really. It’s like trying to put a puzzle together
where you haven’t got a clue what the end product looks like. So far everything
is World Bank related, but they’ve got their fingers into so much, there’s no
way to know if it’s something we should be paying attention to. We’re trying to
flag anything that might deal with population control, but I’m not confident at
this point.”

“Okay, keep at it. It might just be that these guys are
fanatics with a pipe dream, but I’m not willing to risk it. Out.”

Dawson looked up as Jimmy exited the bathroom, his old
self again.

“Looks like we’re hitting a castle, gentlemen.”

“Oh, goody,” said Jimmy as he took a seat, sounding
anything but thrilled at the prospect.

Sarrià, Barcelona, Spain

“That’s odd,” said Reading as they arrived at their destination.
“The gates are open.”

Acton shrugged. “Maybe they’re just welcoming people?”

“This isn’t Maryland,” said Laura. “This is Spain. With
the economy the way it is, there’s no way they’d leave their door basically
open.”

Reading pulled up to the intercom rather than just drive
in, his manners demanding it. He pressed the button to buzz those inside and
waited. And waited. He pressed again.

Nothing.

“Either no one is home, or we’re already too late,” he said.

Nobody said anything, all probably thinking the same
thing. Acton was already picturing a bloodbath, the only question in his mind
how large of one. As Reading navigated the winding drive to the front entrance,
Acton began to feel even more uneasy than he already had since the airport.

“I’m not sure this is a good idea,” he said as they
pulled to a stop.

“Now you finally come to my side,” said Reading,
throwing his hands up in the air. “Don’t you think it’s a little late for that
now?”

Acton nodded. “Oh, it’s too late all right,” he said,
pointing at the doorway.