Templar 09 - Secret of the Templars (16 page)

Holliday and Lazarus were marched down the hill by the two guards, who poked them every once in a while to keep them moving. They passed through the gates of the compound and paused in front of the door. One of the guards stepped forward and gave a shave-and-a-haircut knock. Holliday smiled at the use of such an Americanism. A few seconds later the door opened and the two men were pushed inside. It was absolutely nothing like Holliday had expected.

Instead of the rough interior of an Afghan home, he saw absolutely nothing at all. The rough floors were made of wide planks, and there was no furniture anywhere. Out of the corner of his good eye Holliday saw a large explosive bundle connected to a switch midway down the door they had just come through. The doorway was booby-trapped. Their two guards led them through a
series of rooms, all empty except for the final one. In the last room there were piles of bags smelling strongly of diesel fuel. Holliday knew he was looking at a gigantic ammonium nitrate bomb. If detonated, it would destroy the entire compound and anything within a few hundred yards of it.

The first guard took a long hooklike device from the pocket of his jacket and thrust it into a broken knothole in the wood, revealing an almost perfectly concealed trapdoor. There was a metal ladder against one side of the man-sized hole confronting them. The guards gestured for Holliday and Lazarus to go downward. They complied, Holliday going first, followed by Lazarus. The trapdoor slammed shut overhead, leaving them in absolute darkness.

“Alice down the rabbit hole,” said Lazarus, speaking in the darkness.

“I've been in places like this before,” said Holliday. “The Vietcong had miles of tunnels and bolt-holes like this around strategic areas. They even had them approaching the outskirts of Saigon.”

Holliday reached the bottom of the tunnel and felt his feet hit a large wooden pad. Small low-power lightbulbs suddenly switched on in the tunnel to his left. Since going back up was not an option, he waited for Lazarus to reach the
bottom of the hole and then they followed the string of lights that went down the tunnel. It was no more than four feet wide; the walls and ceiling were made from hand-hewn stone. They crunched onward for what seemed an endless amount of time.

Counting strides in his head, Holliday figured they'd traveled almost two miles before reaching the end of the tunnel and another ladder leading upward into the darkness. Since there was no other place for them to go, they climbed upward. After two hundred feet, they reached the top of the hole and climbed out.

“Unbelievable,” said Lazarus.

The two men were standing in an immense cave, as wide as a football field and the ceiling a hundred feet above their heads. Stalactites hung like ancient swords above them, but the floor was clean and dry. It had been divided into a number of sections, steel poles hammered into the stone with large wool rugs dividing the areas into rooms.

There were perhaps fifty men moving around the cave. Some were piling crates of weapons and bags of food, while others were tending to some penned-up goats. Somewhere there was the sound of a generator. And there was a cable running like a snake along the floor, powering
several laptops set up on a metal table. From far back in the cave, they could smell food being cooked.

Yet another man with an AK-47 pointed Holliday and Lazarus to a large cubicle on their right. The two men walked to the cubicle and pulled back the two long curtains of wool cloth that acted as doors. Seated cross-legged on several bales of cloth was Mullah Omar, reading a copy of
Scientific American
. He looked up as Holliday and Lazarus entered his lair. Seeing Holliday, he burst out laughing.

“We are twins, you and I,” said the mullah. “We are each missing the same eye. It must certainly be the will of Allah that has brought us together.”

“I'd hardly call us twins,” replied Holliday.

“I was trying to be hospitable,” said the mullah. “If you want me to act otherwise, I assure you, it could be arranged.”

“Was it hospitable of you to send two men with AK-47s to kidnap us?”

“You were spying on me.”

“And we saw you murder two people at point-blank range. Was that Allah's doing? Is there some excuse for murder in the Koran?”

“There are several excuses for killing in the Koran, but I wouldn't invoke them on this occasion. Dhaliwal was a liar, a thief and a pedophile,
and Bapat was simply a filthy criminal whose only god was his own greed. These are people who have no purpose in this world or any other.”

Holliday sighed. “There must be a reason you kept us alive. Why don't we get to the point?”

“Have you ever heard the Arabic proverb ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend,' Holliday?”

“Certainly.”

“Well, that is the case here. I brought you to this place so we could discuss what to do with the Qumran scroll.”

*   *   *

The Blackhawk helicopter landed in a small canyon about ten miles from the Mullah Omar's compound. Foster, Harris, Black, Streeter, and Smart were the first out of the chopper, followed by five men from the group based at Camp Gecko. All the men were dressed as Afghan tribesmen and each carried an AK-47. The last man off the helicopter carried an Russian-made RPG rocket launcher on his back. He also was carrying the ubiquitous Kalashnikov.

“Hang on,” said Streeter. “I've forgotten my pack.”

The Ghost Squad member hauled himself back into the interior of the Blackhawk. As Streeter disappeared, Foster, Harris and Smart turned on
the men from Camp Gecko and unloaded the clips of their AK-47s into the small band of men. As the Gecko squad crumbled to the stony ground, Streeter reached the cockpit of the helicopter and pushed the muzzle of the gun against the base of the pilot's neck.

“Who are you fuckers?” the pilot asked.

“It doesn't really matter,” said Streeter.

“How the hell are you going to get anybody to fly you out of here?” asked the pilot.

“I did two tours in Iraq flying Apaches. I think I know how to fly this thing.”

And then, without any warning, he shot the man in the neck, angling the muzzle down so the bullet would pass through his body rather than his head, to avoid the splattering of blood, brains and other assorted bodily goop all over the windshield.

Gripping the pilot by the back of his jacket, he hauled him out of his seat and back through the cargo section, at which point he used his foot to roll the dead man onto the ground. Before climbing down out of the helicopter, he placed a small gray package on the floor and rammed a pencil-like device into it. He then joined the other members of the Ghost Squad.

“Helicopter all fixed?”

“If any of our Taliban friends try to use it,
they'll be dancing with their forty virgins a split second later,” said Streeter.

“And what happens if the helicopter is destroyed?” Smart asked. “How do we get out of here?”

“The hard way,” said Foster. “We lose the headdress, use rags for turbans and walk across the Pakistan border. What's the matter, Rusty? Not up for little hike?” Foster smiled.

Smart's expression darkened but he didn't say anything. The four men began walking north toward the far end of the canyon and into the hills beyond.

*   *   *

General William Taber and Lieutenant Alexander Mitchell stood in the DIA's ready room at the American embassy in Islamabad, Pakistan. The large room was deep in the bowels of the compound and contained a long table with one large screen occupying the far wall. Henry Kroninberg, the DIA station officer for Pakistan, stood to one side of the screen, manipulating the controls.

“Lights, please,” he called out.

One of his junior officers jumped up and killed the lights.

“This is the center of the whole problem,” said Kroninberg. An aerial film taken by a
high-altitude drone showed the Mullah Omar's compound. “This compound was once occupied by Osama bin Laden and is now being used by Mullah Omar. All our sources tell us that the buildings are a cover for a complex series of tunnels and caves in the mountain you see on the right-hand side of the image.”

Kroninberg flicked a switch and a bright blue overlay bisected the image.

“The compound is quite clearly in Afghan territory,” he continued, “but due to long-standing issues between the Afghan and Pakistan governments, the border takes a convoluted turn to the right. Depending on exactly where the caves are located, it could be on either Afghan or Pakistani territory. If the caves are in Afghanistan, the Pakistanis won't give a damn, but if they're in Pakistan and we try to mount an operation, we'll find ourselves in a shitstorm of political trouble.”

“So how do we solve the problem here?” Taber asked, looking around the table.

“I don't think it is possible,” said the junior officer who had doused the lights a few moments before. “Both operations would be illegal simply because they are both launched in Afghanistan.”

“You've hit the nail on the head,” said Taber. “We can't launch an operation of any kind; ergo, we don't launch one at all. Somebody else must.”

“Who?” Kroninberg asked, surprised.

“Does anybody around this table think that if the Afghans tried to blow up Mullah Omar, it would cause anybody any particular grief—even if it is Pakistani territory? I don't think so. The present government is worried about who's coming into power in Afghanistan, just as much as everybody else in the world is.”

“So what does that mean to us?” Kroninberg asked.

“It means Smart and his creepy little Ghost Squad from the CIA have to be stopped before it's too late. Our people have to get to Holliday and Omar first—which means we move our asses right now.”

*   *   *

Holliday, Lazarus and the Mullah Omar were sitting at the narrow entrance to the cave. The sun was setting. They were eating an aromatic goat stew out of clay bowls.

“I'm sure you are aware that I own or control more than half the opium in Afghanistan.”

“So I've been told,” said Holliday.

“Kota Raman told you this?”

“He told me about it, but it would appear to be general knowledge.”

“And my intentions?” asked the mullah.

“You will use your control of the opium crops to gain power in Kabul?”

“Nonsense,” said the mullah. “This country has been dependent on opium since the beginning of time. For my country to become anything in the world, all forms of crime, corruption and the opium trade must be done away with forever. My intention is to destroy as much of the opium crop as I can. The CIA will hate me for it, most of the people in power in Kabul will hate me for it and people like your friend Kota Raman will wither on the vine when I do it. Opium is like gangrene in my country. And like the offending limb, it must be amputated. There is no other way to bring peace to this place. When I have done this, I will vanish as though I was never here. I have no wish for personal power or personal riches. Before I left my home I was a scholar and my dearest hope is to be a scholar once more.”

A guard went up to the Mullah Omar and whispered into the bearded man's ear. Omar set his bowl of stew aside and got to his feet.

“We have a problem, gentlemen. I have protectors all throughout these hills. They tell me one of your country's Blackhawk helicopters has landed and that a squad of soldiers is coming to kill me. We must prepare ourselves.”

Cardinal Secretary of State Arturo Ruffino was wearing an exclusively cut suit made by one of Italy's best tailors. He was sitting on the couch in his suite at Claridge's in London enjoying a perfectly made cup of espresso along with a chocolate éclair. Across from him sat Sir Henry Maxim. Ruffino put down his coffee cup and dabbed the cream from his lips with a fine linen napkin.

“We are faced with a problem, Sir Henry.”

“And what would that be?” asked the MI6 operations director.

“The problem is twofold,” the cardinal began. “Number one, we have approximately forty thousand works of art in the Vatican vaults that we have been depending on to fund out expenses at the Vatican Bank for some time now. And two, we are not in possession of the missing Qumran scroll.”

“Why are you asking me for help?” Maxim asked. “I would have thought problems like these should be presented to the whole Leonardo group.”

“You are the only one who has a vested interest in seeing that the Huff train and its secrets are never revealed. The others will be like vultures around a dying animal.”

“What vested interests are you talking about?” Maxim asked.

“Don't be coy,” said the cardinal. “Before you got your knighthood, you were Professor Henry Maxim, one of the British contingent of the Monuments, Fine Arts, and Archives Program. You were also working for MI6, looking for any documents that might be of value to British intelligence.”

“What of it?”

“You and several other members of the British program as well as half a dozen more in the American section were all art experts of one kind or another. You decided to keep a number of paintings and other pieces of fine art for yourselves, shipping them to Switzerland or the United States, where you hoarded them and let them out onto the market every two or three years. Not only that, but you also ran into Rheinhard Huff in an internment camp in southern Italy
when he was trying to make his escape through the Vatican ratlines established by Pope Pius XII. How am I doing at this point?”

“There's been a lot of water under that particular bridge,” said Maxim. “I could just deny everything.”

“You could. But it wouldn't get you very far.” The cardinal leaned down and picked up the attaché case that had been resting on the floor beside him. He placed it on the coffee table beside the remains of his chocolate éclair and snapped it open. He withdrew a thick manila file folder with the words “Top Secret” stamped on it in large red letters. “Do you know what this is?”

“I don't have the faintest idea.” Maxim's eyes locked onto the folder.

“You know exactly what's in here,” Ruffino said, tapping the file with his long, bony index finger. “It's the interrogation file from the internment camp, the one that took place before you arrived and took over the conversation. It also includes your interrogation, because of course you didn't speak German and the whole thing had to be translated. Huff bribed you with the location of his own private stash and told you everything about the material on the train. You used that information to get even more looted art by blackmailing Pius XII until his death in 1958.”

“I had every copy of that file destroyed,” said Maxim.

“Not quite every copy,” said the cardinal. “The man who translated it saw the value in what he had discovered and kept one copy for himself. He knew who you were and he knew that you would kill him unless he could hold this over your head. Upon his death, his oldest daughter, a devout Catholic, sent the file to my predecessor.”

“What exactly is it that you want from me, Cardinal?”

“What you've always done and done so well, Sir Henry. I want you to help me dispose of the works in our vaults by using your connections with Customs and Excise. And I want you to tell us where we can find Holliday and the missing scroll, of which I am sure you've heard.”

Maxim stood. “I'll do what I can.”

“No, you'll do as I say. Your reputation and perhaps even your life depend on it.”

Without another word Maxim turned on his heel and left the suite. The cardinal took the last bite of his éclair and then sipped his espresso. He frowned. The coffee had gone cold.

*   *   *

Foster and the rest of his team reached the same ridge where Holliday and Lazarus had been
captured. It was almost fully dark now, and the men could just barely make out the compound.

“This is insane,” Black said, staring down at the shadowed buildings. “They could have a hundred men down there.”

“But they don't,” said Foster. “All the satellite intel shows this place as deserted. There were even a few drone flybys that showed no activity at all.”

“Then why the hell is it there and why is it on every intel file the Company has on the mullah?”

“Because it's all we've got,” said Foster. Foster turned to Streeter. “How many rounds do you have for that RPG on your back?”

“Three,” said Streeter. He unslung the missile launcher and pulled a single bulbous round from his ragged backpack. He slid the small missile into the front of the launching tube and twisted once. “What am I firing at?”

“Two places,” said Foster. “Do you see that small narrow dark spot in the mountain, rising up above the compound?”

“Yes,” said Streeter.

“The cave is target number two. The compound is target number one. I'm pretty sure the compound is a decoy, but there is no sense in taking chances.”

“You're the boss,” said Streeter. He armed the trigger mechanism and fired.

The detonation of the high explosives hidden in the middle of the compound's main building was so enormous that it lit up the sky like daylight for a brief moment, and then, because of the lack of oxygen, the massive explosion sucked in on itself and blew out in concentric shock waves so strong they sent all four men on the ridge tumbling backward. They crawled back up the ridge.

Streeter fired the rocket-propelled grenade a second time, aiming at the mouth of the mountain cave. Another explosion bloomed in the darkness and then faded.

“There's no way to climb up to that cave in the mountain, so there must be a tunnel leading from the compound. If we find the tunnel, we find Omar,” Foster said with a smile. “That is, if North's second shot hasn't blown him to Allah land.”

The five men ran down to the compound, Foster keeping his eyes on the mouth of the cave, where small fires were still burning.

The mouth of the tunnel was remarkably easy to find. Since the epicenter of the explosion had been in the room with the trapdoor, the hole in the ground was obvious. The four men pulled glow sticks out of their backpacks, snapped them to life and then dropped them down the hole. They went down the metal ladder one after the other, then marched through the long, narrow
tunnel that led to the cave. Foster called Streeter forward.

“Load your RPG and fire it straight upward.”

Streeter did as he was told and the round from the RPG traveled straight upward, trailing smoke and fire. A few seconds later there was a ripping explosion that made their ears ring. They waited a few moments and then, with Foster leading, climbed up into the cave. Each man reached into the other's pack and drew out a nine-inch rubberized Maglite. They switched on the LED beams and swept them around the entrance to the cave.

The whole front section of the cave had been completely destroyed. The cubicles were nothing more than smoldering piles of cloth and the entire small herd of goats had been blown to pieces. Entrails were splashed against the floor and walls of the cave.

“Did we get 'em? Is the mullah here?” Smart asked nervously.

“I don't think so,” said Foster.

“What about the scroll? We have to get the scroll,” said Smart.

An object slightly smaller than a football came sailing through the air and landed at Foster's feet.

“Mother . . .” was all Foster could manage before his body turned to atoms.

Rusty Smart and the others didn't have even that much time.

*   *   *

At the other end of the cave, Omar and others stood together for a brief instant and then made their way down the long tunnel that led to the end of the cave. Decades, perhaps even centuries ago a pathway had been carved down the side of the mountain to a steep canyon.

Staring out of the opening, Holliday could see an old Toyota, and behind it a string of donkeys and a small herd of goats. Standing at the entrance, Omar put his hand on Holliday's shoulder.

“We are both men of great patriotism, each in our own way. But of all the men I have met who desire the scroll, you are the only honest one.” He handed over the mailing tube containing the scroll and Holliday slung it over his shoulder.

“Thank you, Mullah Omar, for your trust in me.”

“You have a great deal of power now,” said the mullah. “Be sure you use it well.
As-salaam alaikum
.”

“Wa alaikum salaam,”
replied Holliday.

The mullah smiled. “Perhaps we shall meet
each other again under happier circumstances, my friend.”

“I hope so,” said Holliday.

They began the long trek down the side of the
mountain.