The Norse Directive (17 page)

“But wouldn’t that be him?” Adriana asked, frowning.

“No,” Sean answered. “Because Francis Jackson wasn’t the one who started the journey. He began his own personal journey to unlock the mystery of Holger Danske, but he wasn’t the first to discover evidence of the mythical warrior’s existence.”

He could see that his companions were thinking hard but couldn’t completely see where he was going with his line of thought. “Jonathan Stuart was the one who began the journey after the first battle of Copenhagen in 1801. Jackson mentioned it in his diary. He said that Stuart and his men found some kind of burial mound and hid inside it until they felt it was safe to leave. It was Stuart who told Jackson the location of the mound.” Sean’s face took on an air of certainty. “It was Stuart who started the journey. Jackson just picked up where he left off.”

“Okay,” Adriana said, understanding Sean’s thinking now, “so we look for Stuart’s grave?”

Tommy shook his head. “We don’t even know if he’s buried here.”

“He should be,” Sean cut off his friend. “We have the right cemetery, just not the right person. Let’s spread out, but keep to the same section this time. From what I can tell, most of the burials here work their way around in a semicircle toward the front entrance. That means if Stuart died sometime in the early 1800s we should be able to find his grave in one of these four rows.” He motioned to the loosely organized headstones that looped around the field toward the dividing hedges in front of the chapel.

The three waded through the grass, only spreading out enough to check a few outlying headstones as they moved through the cemetery. Even with three people checking the monuments, their progress went at a snail’s pace as they inched their way along.

A crow cawed in a tree overhead, adding to the eerie feel of the place, and startling Tommy while he checked a gravestone.

After ten more minutes of searching, they reached an aged crypt, wedged between several stone crosses at the edge of a stand of oak trees. The crypt featured two smooth, cylindrical pillars on either side of the entrance, rising to a flat overhang at the base of a triangular roof. A recessed circle with a Templar-style cross was carved out of the triangle’s center. The arched wooden door in the middle hung from two rusty hinges. Both the hinges and the door had seen better days, the wood deteriorating in many places from centuries of rot. It was a wonder it hadn’t disintegrated. Engraved into the entrance’s awning was the name they’d been looking for.

Jonathan Stuart.

“How do we get inside? Should we go see if the sexton has the key?” Tommy asked, pointing at a rusty lock hanging in the middle of the door. The mechanism looked like it was two hundred years old.

Sean grinned mischievously at Adriana. “I’d rather not have to use a key if at all possible.”

She stepped toward the door and pulled something out of her pocket that looked like a small Swiss Army knife. Adriana knelt down in front of the mechanism and began working her magic, inserting a straight micro rod into the opening, followed by a flat metal hook.

“Wait,” Tommy tried to stop her. “You’re not just going to break in, are you? We’re not grave robbers.” She continued working, ignoring his protest.

“Relax,” Sean said, holding out a defensive hand. “We’re not going to take anything. Well, we’re not going to take anything of value that anyone knows about. And to be perfectly honest, if we don’t get it, those other guys might. Not to mention the fact that they could possibly show up at any second now, which means we don’t exactly have time to go find whoever is in charge of the cemetery and politely ask them to go find a key that may or may not exist.” He exhaled after finishing the spiel.

Tommy pursed his lower lip and shrugged. “Good point.”

“If you two are done bickering and have made a decision,” Adriana interrupted, “I’ve got it.”

The lock made a short creaking sound then clicked and dropped a little, hanging loosely from its housing.

Sean looked over at his friend and smiled. “Not too late to go find someone.”

Tommy shook his head. “No. I’m good. But let’s hurry. Last thing I need is to get arrested for grave robbing.”

Southampton, England

The rickety doors creaked open as Adriana fearlessly led the way inside. Sean and Tommy cautiously followed her into the shadowy sanctum of Jonathan Stuart’s crypt. They all turned on their cell phones’ flashlights that instantly bathed chunks of the room with bright LED light. Their nostrils filled with musty air and dust. A mouse scurried across the floor and disappeared through a crack in the far corner.

The crypt ran around ten feet in length and eight feet wide. In the center, a massive stone sarcophagus sat around four feet high. The sides and top were carved flat from heavy granite.

Sean leaned close to the stone box and inched toward the head. He shone his light on the surface and ran his free hand across it, scraping away years of dust and fallen cobwebs. Tommy waved his hand around in an attempt to dispel the debris Sean’s action had aroused.

Adriana angled in from the opposite side of Sean and stared at the engraving on the top.

It read,
Here lies His Majesty’s servant, Lieutenant Jonathan Stuart. May he rest in God’s peace forever and ever.

“That’s a pretty nice parting sentiment,” Tommy commented when he’d twisted his head and read the sarcophagus lid.

“Indeed,” Adriana said, pointing at the emblem below it. “The royal seal of King George himself. That was reserved for royalty or people extremely close to the monarch.”

Sean looked up at his friends, whose faces were only slightly illuminated by the white glow of their phone lights. “Based on Jackson’s story, it was Stuart who originally discovered the clue regarding Holger Danske. Stuart convinced Jackson that Holger Danske was a source of great power that could somehow solidify England’s empire. That surely must have won him a great deal of admiration from the king. Anyone who could find something of such importance would be honored highly.”

“Good point,” Tommy agreed. Then his shoulders drooped. “The question is how do we get the lid off this thing?”

“Perhaps you can use this?” A new and hauntingly familiar voice jumped into the conversation.

The three Americans’ heads snapped toward the door and found Nicholas Petrov standing just outside it. In one hand he held a black pistol; in the other, a crowbar. Just beyond him, two other muscular men in burgundy rain jackets stood waiting with weapons cautiously folded over their abdomen in case a casual passerby happened to wander near.

“I was beginning to wonder if you were going to show up,” Sean said, keeping his frustration level as low as possible.

“I’ll admit, Sean, leaving me there to be arrested in the city was a pretty good idea. Unfortunately for you, I’m more clever than you give me credit.”

“Oh, I give you plenty of credit, Nicholas,” Sean waited to see if his mention of the Russian’s name caused any kind of physical reaction. It didn’t, so Sean went on. “A man with your reputation doesn’t get caught easily. I had a feeling you’d get away from Southampton’s finest.”

The only change in demeanor was the slightest expression of curiosity. “Why leave me then?”

“You didn’t give us much choice. After all, you were the one doing all the shooting.”

The Russian cocked his head to the side with a shrug. “Either way, I’m here now.” He took a wary step forward, sure to keep the gun leveled at the trapped quarry. “If it’s not too much trouble, I would appreciate it if you would open the box.” He turned the gun and aimed it at Adriana. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, woman. Please, drop the blade.”

While Sean was talking to Petrov, Adriana had lowered her free hand to her hip and raised her boot. She always kept a dagger there, strapped to the inside of her right ankle. She thought her movement had been subtle enough for the Russian not to notice, but he had somehow.

The knife clanked to the hard floor, rattled a few times, then went silent.

“That’s better,” Petrov said. “Now, please, stop stalling, and remove the lid.”

“Don’t want to have your goons outside do it?” Sean slung one more jab.

Petrov’s reaction was simple enough. He raised the weapon at Adriana’s head. “By removing the lid, you buy her a few more moments of life in this world. Or I can make you watch me kill her, then execute the both of you before I bring my men in to remove the lid. It’s your choice, but I’m pulling the trigger in three seconds.”

Sean didn’t wait for Petrov to start counting. “Fine. I’ll remove it. Just lower your weapon. You don’t need to bring her into this.”

“I will point the gun where I find it to be most effective.” He jerked the barrel slightly.

“Okay. Okay. Take it easy.” He turned the crowbar around and shimmied the thin edge into the narrow opening until he felt it was deep enough. He pulled down on the top end of the bar and felt the lid lift slightly. “Tommy, I’m going to need you to push it that way. Addy,” Sean gazed over at her for a second, “you should probably step back.”

Petrov kept the gun trained on her but allowed her to shuffle back against the wall.

Sean leveraged the crowbar again, this time bringing it a few inches from its seat. As it came up, Tommy pushed hard on the outer edge. At first, it didn’t move much, but when Tommy leaned harder into it, the lid began to slide toward the other side of the room with a low, grinding rumble.

“Watch out,” Sean said, grunting as he helped Tommy continue the top’s momentum.

The weighty piece of stone teetered on the opposite edge of the sarcophagus for a second and then tipped over, crashing to the ground with a loud thud. Adriana jumped out of the way, barely avoiding getting her feet crushed.

A fresh plume of dust wafted into the air, catching the beam of light from Adriana’s phone in a wide, shiny beam. Tommy coughed a few times and covered his mouth with his forearm.

Petrov seemed content to let the dust settle in the crypt before making his next move. When the lid had fallen, he took a cautious half step back out of the chamber to stand clear of any danger. Now he was back in the threshold. Some of the light debris still lingered in the air.

“Miss Villa, please step outside. Move slowly, no funny business, or I will kill you right here.”

Adriana hesitated for a second, casting a questioning glance over at Sean, who only responded with an almost unnoticeable nod of the head.

She obeyed the order from the gunman and made her way by the fallen lid, inch by inch, until she’d reached the entryway. Petrov stepped to the side and allowed her to pass. She was immediately grabbed by one of the gunmen who pressed the end of his gun barrel to her temple.

Sean took a breath, suppressing his anger. “We did what you wanted, Petrov. Now let her go. She doesn’t need to be a part of this.”

The Russian shrugged. “She should have thought of that before she came with you.” He motioned to Tommy with the gun, waving him in the direction Adriana had gone. “Please, join her outside.”

“You can go to—”

“It’s okay, buddy,” Sean snuffed out his friend’s retort. “Everything’s going to be fine.” He didn’t know how. In fact, he wished he believed it himself. Everything wasn’t going to be fine. They’d been trapped like rats, and unless there was some kind of a miracle, Sean didn’t see any way out.

Tommy eased his way through the entrance and into the arms of the second gunman.

“Good,” Petrov said. He finally started to seem somewhat satisfied with the circumstances. “Shine your light into the box. I want to see what it is you came here for.” He moved a few feet closer to the sarcophagus, eyeing Sean suspiciously.

Sean did as he was told and pointed the broad LED beam into the coffin within the stone box.

Centuries of decomposing had stripped away all of Jonathan Stuart’s body, leaving nothing but an exposed skeleton. The skull still had some brittle hair attached. The man had been buried in full military dress. His torso was covered in a faded red jacket. The once bright-cherry color had deteriorated into a dingy version of its former self. The white breeches also displayed signs of aging and stains. Stuart’s arms were placed across his chest, one over the other. A black commander’s hat rested underneath bony fingers. Stuart’s ceremonial sword lay next to his leg, still in its scabbard and attached to the belt.

Sean’s light scanned the body, stopping momentarily on the medals pinned to the left breast of the jacket then continuing on to the neck where something glimmered oddly in the light.

He bent over to take a closer look, peering through the settling debris at a shiny yellow piece at the top of the skeletal ribcage.

“What is it?” Petrov said in an even tone, repressing any urge to sound excited.

Sean reached into the coffin and reverently lifted the golden coin. “Stuart must have asked that it be placed on his chest when he was buried,” he said, lifting the object to eye level to get a better look.

The same bearded face adorned the surface, though it was in much worse condition than the one Coop’s ancestors handed down. Despite the dirt and wear that the coin had been through, Sean could still make out the image of Holger Danske, and a few runic letters inscribed below.

“Give me the coin, Sean. And do it slowly,” Petrov ordered. “Set it on the edge of the box right here.” He tapped on the lip of the sarcophagus with a thick index finger. “If you try anything funny, well, you know what will happen.”

“You’re going to kill us anyway,” Sean resisted.

Petrov took in a deep breath and sighed. “Da.” The Russian word for
yes.
“I am going to kill you anyway. But isn’t it human nature to cling to every moment we have on this earth? Our survival instinct is hardwired into the fiber of our minds. So, knowing you want to hold onto every second, please, place the coin on the edge here. Then I will let you say goodbye to your friends before I shoot you in the face.”

Sean stared through Petrov’s cold, soulless eyes. A storm raged in his heart, but there was nothing he could do at the moment. If he tried anything, the man would pull the trigger. But that was going to happen anyway. He set the coin down on the ledge and took a step back. “You’re wrong about me,” he said defiantly.

“Oh?” Petrov cocked his head to the side as he picked up the piece of gold with the non-pistol hand.

“Sure, we all have that survival instinct built into us, but some of us are different. I don’t care if you kill me. Just leave those two out of it. Once I’m gone, they’ll be no threat to your little treasure hunt.”

The Russian’s stoic expression cracked, if only for the briefest of seconds. “You think this is just about money?” He shook his head, making a clicking sound with his tongue. “It is much more than that.”

Sean had been trying to stall, but now he was curious. He decided to see if he could egg the conversation on a little further. “I doubt that. People like you and whoever you’re working for only care about two things: money and power.”

“Exactly.”

The elongated muzzle on Petrov’s silencer puffed loudly, accompanied by a quick waft of smoke. Sean tried to turn but there was nothing he could do. The bullet struck him and knocked him back a few feet and onto the floor. A burning pain in his chest seared through his nerves.

At the entrance, Adriana started to scream, but the man holding her muffled the noise with a firm hand over her face.

“Nicholas,” the man watching Tommy got the Russian’s attention. “There are people coming.”

Petrov stepped out of the alcove and looked down the path. A funeral procession was slowly making its way in from the parking area just beyond the great stone arch. It would be only a matter of a minute or so before the procession reached the crypt.

“Put the others inside,” he ordered.

Immediately, the two henchmen shoved Adriana and Tommy into the chamber, one after the other. They grabbed the door pieces and yanked them together. The mercenary with the American accent grabbed the lock and forced it back into place, sealing the entrance shut.

Petrov shoved his weapon back into the holster inside his jacket. His men followed the cue. “Let’s go,” he said quietly and started walking casually toward the funeral march. As the three men passed the line of mourners and the coffin being carried along, they bowed their heads in faux reverence. The people wouldn’t know that the secondary reason for the strangers’ actions was to hide their faces.

Once they were around the corner of the stone arch, Petrov and his men picked up their pace until they reached their vehicle. A minute later, they were gone.