James Acton 04 - The Templar's Relic (29 page)

He raised his fist in the air.

“Allahu Akbar!”

The crowd roared it in return.

“Now return to the gates, and show them the power of Islam!”

The crowd turned, and with a roar, rushed the gates again.

So easily manipulated.

Hassan heard a yelp of surprise from inside, then the pounding of sandals on marble.

“Hassan!”

It was Ziti, and he was excited.

Hassan’s heart skipped a few beats as he realized there was only one thing that could have Ziti so excited. He turned with a smile, and was greeted with a grinning old man.

“Are we through?”

“We’re through!”

Hassan ran inside, leaving Ziti skipping behind him, the old man giddy with excitement. Skidding to a halt at the edge of the crater, he peered over the edge, and into the center, where two men stood, pickaxes at their side, looking down a small, dark hole, maybe six inches across.

“Are we through?”

The men looked up and nodded, smiles on their faces at having been the ones to accomplish a goal they knew nothing of.

“Why have you stopped? Keep going, we need a hole big enough for a man!”

The men stepped back and began to swing in earnest, their pick axes slamming noisily against the rock, over and over, the rhythm intoxicating.
Any minute now!
Hassan sat on the edge of the crater, eagerly staring at the ever growing hole. It appeared to be a foot across now. A mighty swing from one of the men slipped slightly, and the pick axe disappeared inside the hole.

But it must have been a lucky blow, catching the underneath just right, for the entire section suddenly crumbled, and both men fell into the newly enlarged hole, and out of sight, with desperate pleas. A cloud of dust rolled from the hole, and Hassan held his shirt over his mouth and nose for several minutes as they waited for the dust to clear.

“Are you okay?” he called into the crater.

There was no answer.

Not even the sound of someone crying out.

Which wasn’t right.

Unless.

Could they be dead?

He climbed gingerly deeper into the crater, and peered over the edge. Below, there was a pile of rubble, and the two men lay at the foot of it, unmoving, one, his head twisted at an unnatural angle, the other, his head out of sight.

He frowned.
Unfortunate, but they are in Jannah now, martyrs for the cause.
He wondered how he would earn his way into paradise. Would it be at the barrel of a gun, or by accident, like these two?

He prayed it was glorious, befitting a warrior of Allah.

“Rope!” he ordered, and a bundle was quickly tossed down. He wrapped it around his waist, then began to lower himself into the hole, several men holding the other end. Once his feet were clear and dangling underneath, he pushed himself away from the edge. “Keep going!” he called, and more slack was provided. Within seconds he was at the bottom, untying himself, and stepping down the rubble.

“Don’t bother tying off, just come down!” he called, and those that remained of his team lowered themselves. Once inside, he surveyed their surroundings, orientating himself with where they were. He pointed. “The stairs to the Necropolis are over here.”

Ziti looked at him. “I thought
this
was the Necropolis?” he said, pointing at the ground they stood on.

“No, these are the grottoes. The Necropolis is underneath.”

Hassan walked about ten paces, then turned a corner, finding the narrow, steep stairs exactly where he expected them. He hurried down the steps, and turned the corner, adrenaline fueling him as his plan, less than two days in the making, was about to succeed. He paused for the others to catch up, then was about to continue forward when he heard something.

They weren’t alone.

Castel Gandolfo, Papal Summer Residence

Outside Rome, Italy

Acton and Laura climbed out of the back of the police car as the second car occupied by Reading and Chaney pulled up behind them. Father Morris hurried down the steps to meet them.

“Come quickly, something is happening,” he said with a quick bow. They followed him up the stairs and through a series of hallways, then into a large conference room. At the head of the table was His Holiness himself, who nodded at them, acknowledging their arrival with a smile, then he turned his head, his attention returning to the other end of the table.

Acton looked and saw three camera views. One was of the security headquarters he had come to know so well, and the other two appeared to be night vision helmet cam feeds.

He took a seat, the case still in his hand, unable to tear his eyes away from the screen.

“Is that the Necropolis?”

“Yes,” whispered Father Morris, who sat to his left, Laura to his right.

One of the camera angles panned to the left, and Acton caught a glimpse of Dawson and Niner.

“Status?”

The voice wasn’t from the room. It must have been somebody at security HQ.

“Unknown number of hostiles descending stairs, maintain communications silence from this point forward,” whispered the voice. Acton could have sworn it was Dawson, and he gave Laura a quick look, who mouthed the same thought. He shrugged his shoulders, and turned back to the display.

The two views changed as the Swiss Guards providing it shifted, taking up positions behind the Bravo Team members lining both sides of the narrow passage, the only cover the openings leading to the various tombs located two levels below the massive basilica. There was a noise and Dawson’s head spun around as he glared at the camera, even the grainy green image unable to hide his annoyance.

The flash of gunfire, followed by the static-laden sound of bullets ricocheting off the ancient walls, caused the entire room to gasp. Acton bit on his knuckle, as he thought of the history that was being destroyed.

Then he thought of the men who had become his friends.

And realized he couldn’t see any of them.

Necropolis, Underneath Saint Peter’s Basilica

Vatican City

Dawson hugged the wall of the tiny area they were crammed into, no more than a few feet wide at places, with occasional openings for the dozen or so tombs preserved here, but little else.
Like fish in a barrel.
The unmistakable sound, at least to Dawson, of the butt of a weapon scraping against stone, caused him to whip around, and silently chastise the Swiss Guard who had broken their cover.

But it was too late.

Immediately the confined area filled with the sound of gunfire and bullets. He raised his weapon, and let off several controlled bursts, as did the rest of his team. Within seconds the opposing fire stopped, their muzzle flashes disappearing, and Dawson raised his fist.

“Cease fire,” he whispered.

Silence.

He heard a moan, then the scrape of a boot on stone. Footfalls on steps.

“Advance.”

Dawson and Niner led the way, Jimmy and Atlas behind, as they quickly pushed through the tight passageway, toward the stairs. They stepped over several bodies before finding the tight, steep stairs leading to the grottoes above.

This is a sardine can.

They could just hold this position, keeping anyone else from coming down. But without knowing how well armed they were, he also knew that a single grenade, tossed down the steps, could end it for them all.

Shit!

He took a step up, looking back at the others.

“Spread out, one explosive and you’re all gone.”

Niner and Jimmy pushed the others back, and Dawson continued to climb, one step at a time, as quietly as he could, his weapon poking around the corner at the top.

Shots rang out and he jerked his head back.

“Status?”

What part of radio silence don’t these guys understand?

He heard Niner’s muffled voice over the comm.

“Radio silence!”

Another burst of gunfire, and Dawson knew his good karma was quickly being eaten up as the ricochets continued to miss, and “Allahu Akbar” repeated itself over and over with each burst of the weapon.

Time to end this.

He waited for the next burst to finish, then thrust himself around the bend, firing his weapon at the first thing that moved. The sustained burst continued until he had emptied his clip. He ejected it and seconds later already had a fresh clip loaded and ready.

But there was no point.

Through the night vision haze he could see his target was down, gasping for air as a chest wound sapped his strength. Dawson rushed forward, kicking the man’s weapon away, then quickly scanned the area to make sure they were alone.

The man whispered, and Dawson leaned forward.

“What?”

“American?”

“Yes.”

“What are
you
doing here?”

“Keeping the faith.”

“What?”

Dawson’s humor was apparently lost.

“You’re dying. Is there anything you want me to tell your family?”

The man reached up and grabbed Dawson by the top of his body armor.

“Tell them I died a martyr. Tell them I died with honor. And tell them I will see them in Jannah.”

Dawson was about to tell him there was no honor in what he had done, but was cut off by the death rattle of the man as the last gasps of life left him.

Then there was silence.

Dawson sat back on his haunches, then activated his comm.

“All clear.”

Ataturk Airport

Istanbul, Turkey

“What the bloody hell are we waiting for?” boomed Reading. They had been sitting on the tarmac in Istanbul for over an hour. Fortunately Laura’s G-V was air conditioned, whether in the air or not, and the thickly cushioned leather seats were comfortable with an obscene amount of legroom. With the size of the Vatican delegation, much of it hastily put together security, they had decided to take their own plane, arriving within minutes of the Vatican’s, but according to the pilot, they didn’t have approval to approach the terminal yet.

Chaney, who appeared to be having some fun with his old partner, pointed at another private jet. “Isn’t that the Pope’s plane?”

“You know bloody well it is.”

“Well, it’s moving.”

“Huh?” Reading pressed his face against the window. “Brilliant! We’re stuck here, and they’re already leaving!”

Acton smiled at Laura, giving her hand a squeeze, and whispering, “If we don’t get off this plane soon, I think Hugh’s going to have a stroke.”

She giggled and Reading looked at her.

“Don’t make me arrest you, young lady.”

“Oooh, young lady. I like that.”

Reading blushed, and shook his head as he pushed himself deeper into the chair.

The overhead speakers crackled. “We’ve been cleared, folks. Just another couple of minutes.”

Sighs of relief filled the cabin as the plane began to at last move, and true to his promise, the pilot had them in front of the charter terminal with the stairs lowered minutes later. As Acton stepped into the morning sunlight, several army vehicles raced around a corner toward them.

Acton held his hand behind him, stopping Laura from descending.

“What is it, Dear?”

“Possible trouble.” He looked over his shoulder. “Hugh, want to bring that fancy ID of yours?”

“What is it?” his face replaced Laura’s. “What the devil?”

Three vehicles screeched to a halt in front of the steps, two soldiers jumping out of each, then lining up in front of the plane. One of them, more ornately decorated than the others, was clearly in charge. He stepped forward and delivered a crisp salute.

“Captain Edmon Aslan of the Turkish Armed Forces. I am here to escort you to the press conference.”

Acton let out a silent sigh of relief, and smiled broadly as he descended the few steps to the ground. He offered his hand and the man shook it firmly. Laura was next, and the man placed kisses on both her cheeks.

“Welcome to our country!” he said, clearly pleased with the situation. Apparently emboldened, he leaned in to give Reading a traditional kiss on each cheek, but Reading, long skilled in the art of avoiding this practice he found distasteful, extended both hands, his left hand planting itself firmly, but unobtrusively on the Captain’s shoulder, and the other grasping the man’s hand in a firm handshake. Kisses avoided, nobody offended.

“Thank you for providing us an escort, Captain,” said Reading. “I assume His Holiness and party are already on their way?”

“Yes, under as much security as we can provide.”

“Expecting trouble?”

The captain smiled. “I have been briefed, sir. And with what is being exchanged today, we would be foolish not to expect trouble.”

Reading nodded in agreement, exchanging a quick glance with Acton.

“Let’s just get there and get this over with,” said Acton.

“Agreed.”

Captain Aslan motioned to the rear of his vehicle, and Acton and Laura climbed in, while Reading and Chaney climbed in the rear of a second vehicle. Moments later they had left the airport, and were racing along a highway that had yet to see its morning rush hour begin, when a burst of smoke ahead of them caused their driver to slam on his brakes.

Dust and brake lights were all that could be seen. Acton’s heart slammed in his chest as he put a protective arm in front of Laura, suddenly feeling very exposed in these Jeep style vehicles, the open top clearly not meant for security.

I hope they didn’t put the Pope in one of these!

Captain Aslan jumped up and waved at the third vehicle to pull up beside them. He yelled something in Turkish and the vehicle sped ahead, into the now settling dust. A moment later a voice crackled over the radio, then what sounded like laughing. Aslan looked at his driver and burst out in laughter.

“What is it?”