The Bones Of Odin (Matt Drake 1) (3 page)

Ben’s eyes refocused and he nodded, still terrified but putting his life in Drake’s hands. He turned and stepped forward gingerly. Drake noticed blood dripping from his feet, draining into the gutter. They traversed the neighbour’s roof, stepped down onto his conservatory and slithered to the ground. Ben slipped and fell halfway, but Drake had gone first and broke most of his fall.

Then they were on solid ground. Lights were on next door but no one was around. They had probably heard the automatic fire. Hopefully the police were on their way.

Drake gripped Ben tightly around the shoulders and said: “Fantastic stuff. Keep it up and I’ll get you a new climbing frame. Now let’s go.”

It was a standing joke. Whenever their spirits needed lifting, Ben harangued Drake about his age and Drake made fun of Ben’s youth. Friendly rivalry.

Ben sniffed. “Who the hell’s up there?”

Drake was looking up at the loft and its secret door. No one had poked anything out of there yet.

“Germans.”

“
Eh?
Like World War Two
Bridge over the River Kwai
Germans?
”

“I think those were Japanese. And no, I don’t think these are anything like World War Two Germans.”

They were already at the rear of the neighbour’s garden. They ducked through the hedge and pushed out through a dummy section of fencing Drake had crafted during one of the Swift’s annual holidays.

Straight out onto a busy street.

Directly opposite a taxi rank.

Drake walked towards the waiting cars with murder in his mind. His soldier’s insight had resurfaced. Like Mickey Rourke, like Kylie, like Hawaii-Five-O . . . it had just been lying dormant, waiting for the right time to make its glorious comeback.

He was sure the only way to protect the two of them was to get the bad guy first.

THREE

PARIS, FRANCE

The flight into Charles De Gaulle touched down just after 9 AM that same morning. Drake and Ben landed with nothing but the rucksack and a few of its original contents. New clothes were on their backs, new mobiles prepped. The I-pad was charged. Most of the cash was gone - spent on transport. Weapons had been ditched as soon as Drake decided their destination.

During the flight, Drake had brought Ben up to date with all things German and Viking, and had asked him to help with the research. Ben’s sarcastic comment was: “Bang-bang goes
my
degree.”

Drake approved of the attitude. The family guy hadn’t cracked, thank God. 

They exited the airport into a cold Paris drizzle. Ben found a taxi and waved at it with a guide book he’d bought. Once they were inside he said: “Umm . . . Rue . . .
Croix?
Hotel opposite the Louvre?”

The taxi shot off, driven by a man whose face betrayed that he was driven by nothing. The hotel, when it appeared forty minutes later, was refreshingly atypical for Paris. There was a large lobby, lifts that could accommodate more than one person, and several corridors of rooms.

Before they booked in, Drake used the cash machine in the lobby to withdraw the rest of his money - about five hundred Euros. Ben frowned, but Drake reassured him with a wink. He knew what his smart friend was thinking about.

Electronic surveillance and money trails.

He paid for one room by credit card and then acquired the room opposite with cash. Once upstairs, they both entered the ‘cash’ room and Drake set up surveillance.

“Our chance to kill a few birds with one stone,” he said, watching Ben scout the room with a critical eye.

“Eh?”

“We see how good they are. If they come soon they’re good, and probably trouble. If they don’t, well, it’s important to know that too. And you get a chance to break out your new toy.”

Ben switched on the I-pad. “It’s definitely happening today, at six?”

“It’s an educated guess.” Drake sighed. “But it fits the few facts we know.”

“Hmm, well step aside, Crusty . . .” Ben made a show of cracking his fingers. His confidence shone now that he was assisting rather than being rescued, but then he’d never been an ‘action’ guy. More the type of person identified by his
first
name, or by a nickname - mostly Blakey - never dynamic enough to earn that last name moniker.

Drake fixed his eye to the peep-hole. “The longer they take,” he murmured. “The better our chances.”

It didn’t take long. Whilst Ben was tapping away on the I-pad, Drake saw half a dozen big guys gather outside the door opposite. The lock was picked and the room invaded. Thirty seconds later the team reappeared, looked around angrily and dispersed.

Drake set his jaw.

Ben said. “This is really interesting, Matt. It’s believed there are actually
nine pieces
of Odin scattered throughout the world. The Shield is one, the Horse another. I never knew that.”

Drake barely heard him. He wracked his brain. They were in trouble here.

Without a word he backed away from the door and tapped a number into his mobile. Almost immediately the call was answered.

“Yes?”

“This is Drake.”

“I’m shocked. Long time, pal.”

“I know.”

“Always knew you’d call.”

“Not what you think, Wells. I need something.”

“Of course you do. Tell me about Mai.”

Damn.
Wells was testing him with something only he would know. Problem was, Mai was an old flame from their down-time in Thailand before he was married to Alyson - and even Ben shouldn’t hear those sordid details.

“Second name - Shiranu. Location - Phuket. Type - umm. . .exotic . . .”

Ben’s ears were twitching. Drake read it in his body language as clearly as he could read a politician’s lie.
The open mouth was the clue . . .

Drake could almost hear the laughter in Wells’ voice. “Exotic? That the best you can do?”

“At the moment - yes.”

“Someone there?”

“Very much.”

“Gotcha. OK, pal, whatcha want?”

“I need the truth, Wells. I need the raw intel that the news and the internet
aren’t allowed
to broadcast. About Odin’s Shield being stolen. About the Germans who stole it. Especially the Germans. Real SAS intel. I need to know what’s actually happening, mate, not the public drip-feed.”

“You in trouble?”

“Immense.” You don’t lie to your Commander, former or not.

“Need a hand?”

“Not yet.”

“You earned a hand, Drake. Just say the word and the SAS are yours.”

“I will.”

“OK. Give me a few. And by the way - you still telling yourself you were plain old SAS?”

Drake hesitated. The term ‘
plain old SAS’
shouldn’t even exist. “It’s an acceptable term of explanation, that’s all.”

Drake disconnected. Asking his former Commander for help hadn’t been easy, but Ben’s safety overrode all sense of pride. He checked the peep-hole once more, got an eyeful of empty corridor, and then went to sit next to Ben.

“Nine Pieces of Odin, you say? What the hell does that mean?”

Ben clicked quickly away from his band’s Facebook page, muttering that they had two new friend requests, which now made
seventeen
.

He studied Drake for a moment. “So you’re an ex-SAS captain
and
a cassette tape fanatic. That’s odd, mate, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“Concentrate, Ben. What have you got?”

“Well . . . I’m following the trail of this
Nine Pieces of Odin.
It seems that nine is a special number in Norse mythology. Odin was self-crucified on something called the World Tree for nine days and nine nights, fasting, with a spear in his side just like Jesus Christ, and many years
before
Jesus. This is
real
stuff, Matt. Real scholars catalogued this. It might even be the story that inspired the tale of Jesus Christ. There are nine
Pieces
of Odin. The Spear is a third
Piece,
and is linked to the World Tree, though I can’t find any references as to its location. The
Tree’s
legendary location is in Sweden. A place called Upsalla.”

“Slow down, slow down. Does it say anything about Odin’s Shield or his Horse?”

Ben shrugged. “Just that the Shield was one of the greatest archaeological finds of all time. And that around its edge are the words:
Heaven and Hell are but a temporary ignorance. It is the Immortal Soul that sways towards Right or Wrong.
Apparently it’s Odin’s
curse,
but no-one in living memory has ever been able to figure out what it’s trying to get at.”

“Maybe it’s one of those curses where you just have to
be there,”
Drake smiled.

Ben ignored him. “Says here that the Horse is a sculpture. Another sculpture, ‘Odin’s Wolves’ is on show in New York right now.”

“His wolves? Now?” Drake’s brain was starting to fry.

“He rode two wolves into battle. Apparently.”

Drake frowned. “Are all the nine parts accounted for?”

Ben shook his head. “Several are missing, but . . .”

Drake paused. “What?”

“Well, it sounds daft, but there are bits of a legend building up here. Something about uniting all of Odin’s pieces and starting a chain reaction that will bring about the end of the world.”

“Standard stuff,” Drake said. “All these ancient Gods have some ‘end of the world’ fable attached to them.”

Ben nodded and looked at his watch. “True. Look. Us internet wizards require sustenance,” he thought for a second. “And I think I can feel some new band lyrics coming on. Croissants and Brie for brunch?”

“When in Paris . . .”

Drake cracked the door, checked around, then motioned Ben out. He saw the smile on his friend’s face but also read the terrible strain in his eyes. Ben was hiding it well, but was floundering badly.

Drake went back into the room and stowed all their belongings in the backpack. As he was securing the heavy strap he heard Ben say a subdued
hi
, and felt a heart stopping jolt of fear for only the second time in his life.

The first was when Alyson left him, citing that irreconcilable difference -
you’re more soldier than a friggin’ boot camp
.

That night. When the endless rain filled his eyes like tears, like never before.

He ran for the door, every muscle in his body coiled and ready, then saw the old couple toiling their way along the corridor.

And Ben noticed the stark terror that filled Drake’s eyes before the ex-soldier had a chance to mask it.
Stupid mistake
.

“Don’t worry.” Ben said with a pale smile. “I’m okay.”

Drake took a shuddering breath and led them down the staircase, constantly alert. He checked the lobby, saw no threat, and stepped out onto the street.

Where was the nearest restaurant? He took a guess and headed towards the Louvre.

****

The fat man from Munich with the brain-surgeon’s touch saw them straight away. He checked his photographic likeness and recognised the well-built, capable Yorkshireman and his long-haired dweeb of a friend in two heartbeats and fixed them in his cross-hairs.

He shifted his position, not liking the high vantage point or the white chippings that were digging into his fleshy extremities.

Into a shoulder-mic he whispered: “Got them on a hair trigger.”

The answer was surprisingly immediate. “Kill them now.”

FOUR

PARIS, FRANCE

Three bullets were fired in quick succession.

The first deflected off the metal door frame beside Drake’s head, then ricocheted down the street, striking an old woman in the arm. She twisted and fell, spraying a question mark pattern of blood through the air.

The second parted the hair on Ben’s head.

The third hit the concrete where he had been standing, a nano-second after Drake tackled him roughly around the waist. The bullet glanced off the pavement and smashed the hotel window behind them.

Drake was rolling and roughly crab-walking Ben behind a row of parked cars.
“I’ve got you.”
He whispered fiercely. “Just keep going.” Staying low, he risked a glance through a car window and saw movement on a roof top, just as the window shattered.

“Shite shooting!” His Yorkshire accent and army slang thickened his voice as the adrenalin pumped. He surveyed the area. Civilians were running, screaming, causing all sorts of distractions, but the problem was that the shooter knew exactly where
they
were.

And he wouldn’t be alone.

Even now, Drake recognised three guys he’d seen earlier on lock-picking duty step out of a dark-coloured Mondeo and start purposefully towards them.

“Time to move.”

Drake crab-walked them two cars down to where he’d already spied a young woman crying hysterically in her car. To her surprise, he cracked open her door and felt a quick rush of guilt at her terrified expression.

He kept a poker face. “Out.”

Still no shots. The woman crawled out, fear icing her muscles to dead slabs. Ben slithered inside, keeping his body mass as low as possible. Drake followed him in a hurry and then turned the key.

Taking a breath, he jammed the car into reverse, and then shot forward out of the parking space. Rubber smouldered across the road in their wake.

Ben cried:
“Rue de Richelieu!”

Drake swerved in anticipation of a bullet, heard the metallic twang as it bounced off the engine, then floored the accelerator. They passed the surprised lock-pickers on the pavement, saw them hurrying back to their car.

Drake flung the wheel into a right, then left, and left again.

“Rue Saint-Honore.”
Ben shouted, craning his neck to see the road name.

They entered a flow of traffic. Drake made haste as best he could, zipping the car - which to his delight was a Mini Cooper - in and out of the lanes and keeping a steady eye on the rear-view.