The Bones Of Odin (Matt Drake 1) (16 page)

Kennedy groaned before walking away.

Dahl fixed him with narrowed eyes. “So. Where do we start?”

“We start with the Valkyries,” Drake said. “Once our friendly munchkin here tells us where and when they were discovered, we can try tracking them.”

“Detective work?” Dahl asked. “But you just sent our best detective away.”

“She needs physical distraction right now, not mental. She’s frayed enough.”

Ben spoke up. “Good guess, Matt. The Valkyries were discovered amongst other great riches in the grave of a
Viking Seeress,
a
Volva,
in 1945, in Sweden.”

“
Heidi’s
grave?” Drake ventured.

“Had to have been. Damn good way to hide one of the Pieces. Get your minions to bury it with you after you’re dead.”

“Fire that article across to the other PC.” Drake and Dahl sat down next to each other with an air of uneasiness.

The clock was still ticking, Drake knew. For Karin. For Parnevik. For their enemies, and for the entire world. He pecked furiously at the machine, running through the museum’s archives and trying to find out when the Valkyries disappeared from the inventory.

“You suspect an inside job?” Dahl immediately saw where he was going.

“Best guess – lowly-paid museum guard or entrapped curator . . . something like that. They’d have waited until the Valkyries were demoted to the vault perhaps, and then quietly shipped them out. No one realises for years, if at all.”

“Or a robbery,” Dahl shrugged. “Christ, man, we’ve got over sixty years to trawl through.” He fingered the wedding band he’d slipped back on since they entered the Library. Drake paused for a second. “Wife?”

“And kids.”

“Miss ‘em?”

“Every second.”

“Good. Maybe you’re not quite the prick I thought you were.”

“Fuck you, Drake.”

“More like it. No robberies that I can see. But look here - the
Valkyries
went
on tour
in 1991, as part of the Swedish Heritage Trust’s public relations campaign.
By 1992 they were missing from the Museum’s catalogue.
What does that tell you?”

Dahl pursed his lips. “That someone connected with the tour decided to steal them?”

“Or . . . someone who
viewed
them on tour decided to!”

“Okay, that’s more likely.” Dahl’s head was bobbing. “So where did the tour go?” His fingers tapped four times on the screen. “England. New York. Hawaii. Australia.”

“That really narrows it down,” Drake said sarcastically. “Damn.”

“No, wait,” Dahl exclaimed. “It does. The theft of the Valkyries had to be smooth, right? Well-planned, well-executed. Perfect. That still reeks of criminal involvement.”

“If you were any sharper you’d . . .”

“
Listen!
In the early ‘90’s the Serbian Mafia started to dig its claws into Sweden’s underbelly. In less than a decade extortion crimes doubled, and, as of now, there are dozens of organised gangs throughout the country. Some call themselves
Bandidos
. Others, like a chapter of the Hell’s Angels, are just biker gangs.”

“You’re saying the Serbian Mafia have the Valkyries?”

“No. I’m saying they engineered their theft and subsequent sale, for money. They’re the only ones with the connections to pull it off. These people are into
everything,
not just extortion. International smuggling wouldn’t be above them.”

“Okay. So how do we find out who they sold them to?”

Dahl unhooked his phone. “
We
don’t. But at least three of the older kingpins now sit behind bars near Oslo.” He moved off to make a call.

Drake rubbed his eyes and leaned back. He checked his watch and was shocked to see it was almost 6 A.M. When had they last slept? He looked around as Hayden returned.

The Defence Secretary’s pretty assistant looked downcast. “Sorry, you guys. No luck with the Germans.”

Ben’s head whipped around, the strain telling. “
None?”

“Not yet. I’m sorry.”

“But
how?
This guy
has
to be somewhere.” Tears filled his eyes and he locked them on Drake. “Doesn’t he?”

“Yes, mate, he does. Trust me, we will find him.” He grabbed his friend in a bear hug, his eyes pleading with Hayden to make the breakthrough. “We need to take a breather and get a proper breakfast,” he said, his Yorkshire twang shining through.

Hayden shook her head at him as if he’d just spoken Japanese.

TWENTY-FIVE

LAS VEGAS

Alicia Myles watched the multi-billionaire, Colby Taylor, as he sat on the expansive floor of one of the many apartments he owned, this particular one twenty-two flights above Las Vegas Boulevard. One entire wall was glass, giving a fantastic view of the Bellagio fountains and the golden lights of the Eiffel Tower.

Colby Taylor didn’t give it a second glance. He was enwrapped in his latest acquirement, Odin’s Wolves, which he’d spent two hours carefully piecing together. Alicia prowled over to him, stripped her clothes off one by one until she was naked, and then got down on all fours until her eyes were level with his, a foot off the ground.

Power and danger were the two things that got her off. The power of Colby Taylor - megalomaniac extraordinaire - and the danger from the delicious knowledge that her boyfriend, Milo, that big, powerful bruiser from Vegas, actually loved her.

“You going to take a break, boss?” she asked breathily. “Bareback me. No extra charge.”

Taylor looked her over. “Alicia,” he said, taking ten dollars out of his wallet. “We both know it’d turn you on more if I paid.” He forced the bill between her teeth before taking up position behind her.

Alicia flung her head high, almost slavering, taking in the glittering lights of the Strip as they spread out before her. “Take your time. If you can.”

“How’s it going with Parnevik?” Taylor enunciated his question with grunts.

“Soon as you are done,” Alicia answered in her clipped English tones. “I’m going to break him in two.”

“Information is power, Myles. We . . . need to know what they know. The . . . Spear. All the rest of it. We’re ahead, for now. But the Valkyries and the Eyes - they are the . . . real prizes.”

Alicia tuned it out. The droning. The grunting. The obsessing. She lived for two things - danger and money. She had the skills and the charm to take whatever she wanted, which she did every day, without thought or regret. Her days in the SAS had been mere preparation. Her missions in Afghanistan and Lebanon had been simple homework.

This was
her
play, her means to self-sufficiency. This time with Colby Taylor and his army was fun, but soon the Germans would offer the big pay day - Abel Frey represented real-world power, not Colby Taylor. Mix that with the heady danger of having the ever-loving Milo close-by, and she saw nothing but fabulous fireworks on
her
horizon.

She gazed over the Strip, recognising the ultimate power in those flashing lights and grand casinos, and took the small distractions Colby Taylor had to offer, all the while thinking about Matt Drake and the woman she’d seen him with.

*****

She entered the guest bedroom of the apartment to find Professor Roland Parnevik tied spread-eagled to the bed exactly as she’d left him. With Taylor’s heat still glowing between her thighs and a flush in her cheeks, she cried
Geronimo!
and jumped onto the mattress to land beside the old man.

She bounced on her knees and ripped the silver duct-tape off his lips. “You heard us, didn’t you, Prof? Course you did.” Her gaze strayed to his groin. “Still some life down there, old man? Need a hand?”

She laughed maniacally, and bounced off the bed. The Professor’s terrified eyes followed her every power-hungry move, firing her ego, spurring her to wilder displays. She danced, she twirled, she turned coy.

But, ultimately, she sat herself on the old man’s chest, causing his breathing to labour, and brandished a pair of rose-cutters.

“Finger-chopping time,” she said gaily. “I like my torture as I like my sex – one inch at a time. And the longer it lasts, the better. Seriously, pal, I’m just here for the blood and the mayhem.”

“What . . . what do you want to . . . know?” Parnevik’s Swedish accent was thick with fear.

“Tell me about Matt Drake, and the whore who helps him.”

“Drake? I . . . I don’t understand . . . do you not want - Odin?”

“I don’t give a dry fuck about all that Norse crap. I’m in this for the sheer violent excitement of it all.” She clacked the rose-cutters rapidly near the tip of his nose.

“Umm . . . Drake is – was - SAS, I heard. He became involved by . . . by accident.”

Alicia felt ice wash over her. She shuffled carefully up Parnevik’s body, positioned both blades around his nose, and squeezed until a trickle of blood appeared.

“I sense you stalling, old man.”

“No! No! Please!”
Now his accent was so thick and distorted by the pressure on his nose that she could barely understand the words. She giggled. “You sound like that chef from The Muppets. Blah, blah, bla-bla-bla, blah blah.”

“His wife – she left him. Blame SAS!” Parnevik blurted, and rolled his eyes in terror. “His friend has a sister who help us! The woman - she is Kennedy Moore, police, from New York. She set free serial killer!”

Alicia wiggled the blades nastily. “Better. Much better, Prof. What else?”

“She . . . she is on . . . umm . . . holiday. No.
Forced
holiday. You see, the serial killer – he killed again.”

“Jeez, Prof, you’re starting to turn me on.”

“Please. I can tell Drake is a good man!”

Alicia withdrew the rose-cutters. “Well, he certainly comes across that way. But
I
got bloody with him in the
SRT,
not you
.
I know what haunts that bastard.”

There was a shout and a bang, and then Colby Taylor thrust his head through the door. “Myles! I just got a call from our ally in the Swedish government. They’ve figured out where the Valkyries are. We need to hurry.
Now!”

Alicia took the rose cutters and snipped off the tip of the old man’s finger.

Just because she could.

And whilst he screamed and writhed, she straddled his back and stuck him with a jet-injector, a needle-free syringe, delivering a miniscule tracker just under his skin.

Plan B,
Alicia thought, her soldier training still running strong.

TWENTY-SIX

WASHINGTON DC

When Torsten Dahl’s mobile rang, Drake’s mouth was full of blueberry muffin. He gulped it down with fresh coffee, listening expectantly.

“Yes,
Statsminister.”
After that surprise, the rest of Dahl’s side of the conversation was bland, a series of ‘I sees’ and affirmations and respectful silences. At the end there was an ‘I will not let you down, sir,’ which sounded a little ominous to Drake.

“Well?”

“My government has had to promise one of these Serbian scumbags a reduction in prison time in exchange for help, but we do have confirmation.” Drake could tell that under Dahl’s conservative exterior there was a man wanting to rejoice.

“And?”

“Not yet. Let’s get everyone together.” In a few moments Ben had been dragged away from the laptop screen, Hayden was perched within an inch of his elbow, and Kennedy was standing expectantly beside Drake, long hair still unfettered.

Dahl took a breath. “Short version - the leader of Sweden’s Serbian Mafia in the nineties - a man currently in our custody -
gave
the Valkyries to his U.S counterpart as a gesture of goodwill. So, Davor Babic received the Valkyries in 1994. In 1999 Davor stepped down as leader of the Mafia and passed control over to his son, Blanka, retiring to the place he loved more than anywhere in the world - even his homeland.”

Dahl paused for a moment. “
Hawaii.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

NEW YORK, USA

Abel Frey stared from his top-floor apartment window down at the millions of tiny ants scurrying along the pavements below. Unlike ants though, these people were pointless, aimless, lacking the imagination to see beyond their miniscule lives. The term ‘headless chickens’, he imagined, had been coined by a man standing at this very height, whilst he surveyed the disenchanted cesspool that was humanity.

Frey had long since set his fantasies free. A much younger version of him had learned that being able to do anything made
everything
boring. You had to come up with new, more diverse and entertaining pursuits.

Hence the battle arena. Hence the fashion business - initially a way to own beautiful women, then a front for an International smuggling ring, now a way to conceal his interest in the Tomb of the Gods.

His life’s work.

The Shield was flawless, a work of art, and, in addition to the coded map carved into its convex surface, he’d recently discovered a cryptic sentence inscribed around its upper rim. His pet archaeologist was hard at work on it. And his pet scientist was trying to figure out another recent surprise - the Shield was formed of a curious material, not an obvious metal but something more substantial, yet startlingly light. Frey was both happy and frustrated to find that there was even more to the mystery of Odin than he had first imagined.

His frustration came from the lack of time to study it. Especially now he was part of this international race. How he would have loved to retire everyone back to La Verein, and, whilst the improper socialites partied, he and a few select others would analyse the mysteries of the Gods.

Then he grinned to the empty room. An analysis always had to be punctuated with a few precious moments of uncouth respite. Maybe set a couple of male models against each other in the arena, offer them a way out. Better still, pit a few of his
captives
against each other. Their ignorance and desperation always offered up a better spectacle.