The Sacred Vault (43 page)

The projector rig at the top of the dome also shook, causing the images on the big screens to wobble. Khoil glanced round to find the cause of the disruption. 02:25 remaining on the countdown.

The framework had been designed to support the screens and the overhead rig, Eddie realised - nothing more. The extra weight of a grown man was straining it to its limit . . .

He swung his makeshift bat - not at Tandon, but at the exposed metal structure where the screen had fallen away. A vertical strut broke at the joint with a sharp snap of metal. A whole section of the framework jolted violently, screens flickering. The projector rig lurched. Khoil looked round again, this time in alarm as Eddie kept bashing at the weakened frame. Another screen broke from its mount, swinging on its power cord before shattering on the floor. ‘Chapal! Stop him!’

Tandon dived at the Englishman from above, deadly hands outstretched like claws—

Eddie whipped up the pole.

Fear flashed in Tandon’s eyes - but too late.

The broken end of the railing punched through his chest, spearing out through his back with a gout of blood. Even impaled, though, he still knocked Eddie down, dead weight slamming him to the floor.

Both Khoils stared at the length of metal jutting from their bodyguard’s back in disbelief. ‘Chapal!’ Vanita cried, for a moment the woman she was choking forgotten—

Nina drove the heel of her palm up against Vanita’s chin. The Indian woman’s open mouth snapped shut - catching the end of her tongue between her teeth. Vanita spat out blood, a half-inch of muscle hanging only by a few threads of mangled tissue.

‘Bite
your
tongue!’ Nina gasped, throwing a punch. It only caught Vanita a glancing blow on the cheek, but it was enough to make her stagger backwards and slip on the film of frost that had formed on the metal floor as the icy wind shrilled through the hole in the dome. She stumbled . . .

Landing beside the MP5K.

Vanita grabbed the gun and jumped up—

Nina dived at her, skidding on her stomach along the frost. She wrapped both arms round Vanita’s ankles and twisted. Already unbalanced by her missing shoe, Vanita staggered and fell . . .

Down the stairs.

She screamed - then the cry was cut off abruptly by an echoing bang as she hit hard metal. More thumps followed as she tumbled down the steps. The MP5K fired at each impact, bursts of bullets clanging off the machinery. A fierce eruption of sparks came from one transformer as a round shattered an insulator, the resulting short circuit causing an angry, sizzling hum to rise within it. Several screens in the dome above flickered. But Vanita didn’t hear the sound or see the flashes as she crashed to the floor, unconscious.

Nina heard and saw them, though. ‘Oh, crap,’ she gasped, crawling to the stairs and looking down. Vanita was sprawled at the bottom, the gun beside her . . . but the spraying sparks and ominous crackling noise changed Nina’s mind about going down to get it. The short circuit was causing the mineral oil used to cool and insulate the old transformer to boil - to ignition point. It could explode at any moment.

Eddie kicked away Tandon’s corpse and looked up at the platform. Khoil broke through his shock, whirling to check the still-trembling images on the main screens. The drone was closing on its target: 02:05 to impact. He made several rapid hand gestures; no longer controlling the flight of the stealth aircraft, but calling up a menu screen.

Nina realised what he was doing as commands flashed up on the giant video wall. The game was almost over - and the billionaire was trying to fix the result. ‘Eddie!’ she yelled, voice rasping in her bruised throat. ‘He’s locking the controls!’ Even without anyone guiding it, the drone would still carry out its preprogrammed mission.

Eddie sprang up, but knew that by the time he reached the upper platform Khoil would have completed his task. He needed a faster way to stop him.
Shoot him
- but the guard’s fallen gun was nowhere in sight.

Which left—

He stamped a foot down on Tandon’s ribs and grabbed the length of railing, yanking it out of the dead man’s chest. He spun to smash the metal pipe against the dented framework—

The aluminium strut he hit broke in two. The effect on the rest of the weakened structure was instantaneous; a chain reaction rippled upwards as the weight of the video screens caused the horizontal supports to collapse one after the other. Eddie ran as the larger screens above him fell, smashing on the floor and blowing out with gunfire cracks and sprays of sparks and smoke.

The breakdown reached the top of the dome. The images on the two big screens jolted crazily as the projector rig shook - then tipped sharply as one side broke free, swinging above Khoil with a shrill of tortured metal. He looked up—

The rig tore loose. It dropped the thirty feet to the platform before Khoil could manage more than a startled scream, pounding him to the floor like a piledriver.

Nina winced. ‘Guess you really
can
be crushed by the weight of information.’

Eddie went to her. ‘Jesus! You okay? Looks like you got bitten by a vampire!’

Nina was confused, until she put a hand to her neck and realised that Vanita had broken the skin with her sharp thumbnails. She wiped off the blood. ‘Yeah, but we need to—’

A loud bang cut her off. Smoke swirled up from the stairs. The crackling sizzle from the transformers below grew louder, more agitated. More of the screens flickered. ‘Not keen on that,’ Eddie muttered. He looked back up at the dome. With the projectors gone, the two largest screens were now blank - no way of knowing how close the drone was to its target. ‘Come on!’

He ran for the platform, Nina following. They reached the upper level to find that Khoil was still alive, groaning weakly under the projector rig. ‘How do we stop the plane?’ Nina demanded.

Despite his pain, Khoil somehow managed a twisted smirk. ‘You can’t,’ he gasped, blood on his teeth. ‘The autopilot is set. In less than two minutes, the Kali Yuga will end . . .’

A
large patch of dark blood was swelling across the chest of Khoil’s Nehru jacket. Eddie jammed his heel down on it, making the Indian scream. ‘Tell us how to unlock the controls!’

‘No,’ Khoil rasped as Eddie eased the pressure.

‘You’re not going to live much longer no matter what, but I can make every second of it really hurt.’

‘It . . . doesn’t matter. I will be reborn in a new golden age . . .’

‘As a dung beetle, if there’s any bloody justice.’ Realising that Khoil was utterly committed to his plan, he gave him one more jab before turning to Nina. ‘What the fuck do we do now?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said, scanning the active screens in desperation. Maybe Khoil had made a mistake, leaving some way they could divert the drone. But she saw nothing helpful . . .

Her gaze flashed back to one screen in particular. The display showing the live news feed from the presidential palace was still active. The British Prime Minister was shaking hands with his hosts. Only a few more world leaders still to appear, the last being the President of the United States, and everyone would be in place for the drone’s suicide strike—

‘Peter!’ she exclaimed, the sight of the British politician reminding her of one of the members of his entourage. ‘We can call Peter Alderley; he can warn them!’

‘Well, yeah, we could,’ Eddie said, ‘if we had his number. And a phone.’

‘We’ve
got
a phone. If I can remember how to work it . . .’ She thought back to the smaller infotarium in India, then raised one hand as if holding an invisible handset and brought it to her ear.

Nothing happened. The screens remained unchanged. ‘Damn it!’

Eddie gave her a look of disbelief. ‘This isn’t a good time to play charades!’

‘I saw him do it in Bangalore - like a virtual phone.’ She moved closer to the slender lectern housing the motion sensors and tried again, slowing and exaggerating the move . . .

The screens changed, a keypad overlaid on the images. ‘Yes!’ she cried. ‘What’s the number?’

‘How the hell would I know Alderley’s number?’

‘Not his number -
Mac’s
number!’ She raised her other hand, forefinger extended; a glowing circle appeared over the keypad as the sensors tracked her fingertip. ‘He’s with Peter, and you know
his
number, don’t you?’

Eddie quickly recited the digits, Nina tapping at thin air to enter them into the virtual keypad. ‘Just hope he remembered to charge his phone.’

The animated ‘Connecting . . .’ icon appeared, but nothing seemed to be happening. Nina and Eddie exchanged worried looks - then a hollow hiss came from speakers overhead. Another tense moment, and the ringing tone echoed round the dome. Twice, three times . . .

‘If the world ends because we got sent to voicemail, I’m gonna be very unhappy,’ Nina muttered. ‘Come on, Mac, pick up—’

A click, then a familiar Scottish voice, slight puzzlement evident at being called from an unfamiliar number. ‘Hello?’

‘Mac!’ Nina cried. ‘Thank God! It’s us, Nina and Eddie!’

The background noise suggested that he was in a large room, a hum of conversation audible. ‘What’s going on? I thought you were in Greenland?’

‘We are,’ said Eddie, ‘but the shit’s about to hit the fan in Delhi. Khoil’s got a stealth drone full of explosives about to do a kamikaze run on the G20 photocall
right now
- you’ve got to get them out of there!’

Silence for a second. Then an urgent shout of: ‘
Peter!
’

‘What is it?’ called Alderley.

‘We have a situation. Over here, now! Kit, you too.’

‘Where are you?’ Eddie asked.

‘At the Rashtrapati Bhavan - we’ve been dealing with the head of the Indian security service.’

‘Useful.’

‘Not really - he doesn’t believe the Khoils could be a threat.’ A new voice: Kit. ‘What’s happening?’

Mac quickly summarised the situation for his companions. ‘Chase,’ said Alderley, ‘is this intel good?’

‘Straight from the arsehole’s mouth,’ Eddie told him, with a quick look down at Khoil. ‘I don’t know how long until it hits ground zero, but it’s less than ninety seconds. You’ve got to evacuate everyone - or at least get them under cover.’

‘Eddie!’ said Nina urgently, indicating the news feed. On the screen, President Cole was emerging from the palace, striding along the red carpet to meet the Indian leaders. Now that all the G20 leaders had arrived, they would gather for their group photo . . . and become the highest-value target on the planet.

‘Shit!’ said Eddie. ‘Mac, get them out of there!
Now!
’

‘We’re on it,’ said Mac. A muted thump came from the speakers as he disconnected.

‘It’s too late,’ Khoil said from the floor. ‘You can’t stop it.’

All Nina and Eddie could do was watch the news feed as the world leaders began to congregate.

 

Mac and Alderley hurried across the crowded room, Kit following as quickly as he could on his crutch. The majority of the guests were high-ranking Indian politicians and civil servants, the remainder diplomats and officials from the other countries attending the summit.

There was only one person the trio were interested in, however. They spotted the portly, grey-bearded man near the doors leading to the expansive courtyard where the leaders had assembled. ‘Mr Verma!’ Alderley called, barging past a cluster of Russian delegates to reach him.

Arivali Verma, the head of India’s Intelligence Bureau, looked round in annoyance from his discussion with his Chinese opposite number. ‘Mr . . . Alderley, yes?’ He recognised the taller, older man with him. ‘Colonel McCrimmon? What is it?’

‘There’s about to be a terrorist attack,’ Alderley said urgently. ‘We have to get the delegates into cover.’

‘What?’ Verma looked to one of his subordinates standing nearby. The man’s bemused expression told him that he had heard nothing of the sort through his earpiece. ‘Where did you hear this?’

‘Does it matter?’ Mac snapped. ‘Just evacuate the courtyard!’

‘What kind of attack? I need more information! The entire world is watching - if I call an alert and nothing happens, we will look like fools!’

‘Better that than doing nothing until a plane crashes into them!’ said Kit, catching up.

Verma huffed. ‘If an unauthorised plane came within fifty kilometres, I would be told immediately.’

‘Not if it were a stealth plane,’ said Mac.

‘A stealth plane?’ Verma echoed in disbelief. ‘This is absurd!’

‘We don’t have time for this!’ Kit growled. He tried to push past Verma to the door, but his assistant moved to block him—

Mac suddenly planted both palms squarely on Verma’s chest and shoved him backwards. Arms flailing, he crashed against his subordinate. Both men fell to the floor in an ungainly heap.

Everyone nearby was shocked - then several of the Indian contingent rushed at Mac . . . including the men guarding the courtyard doors. The Scot winked at Kit, the slight flick of his eyes towards the exit giving the younger man a clear instruction. Alderley, hemmed in by the charge, realised what he was doing and swung a punch at one of the men trying to grab Mac before he too was swarmed.

Leaving the doorway clear.

Kit hopped over the outraged, flapping Verma and into the courtyard. Ignoring the resurgent pain in his injured leg, he hurried forward, pulling out his ID and holding it above his head. ‘Interpol!’ he cried. ‘Everyone inside - there’s a terrorist—’

A pair of black-suited US Secret Service agents dived at him, slamming him to the ground. The world leaders looked round in surprise at the commotion, some reacting with alarm at the last word.

The agents grappled with Kit, forcing him on to his chest and pulling his arms up painfully behind his back. He struggled, but couldn’t break free: the only thing that could escape was his voice. ‘They’re going to crash a plane!’ he cried. ‘A suicide flight -
9/11
! Get out of here! Get out!’

Those two numbers got everyone’s attention. One agent released Kit’s arm, putting a hand to his earpiece to listen to an incoming transmission over the hubbub - then jumped up and pulled Kit to his feet. The other American agents mobilised as one to surround Cole and clear a path for him to get indoors. To the Secret Service, any hint of a threat to the life of the President was treated as confirmed until proved otherwise; the potential consequences of under-reacting were infinitely worse than the opposite.

The security details of the other leaders took their cue from the Americans. The courtyard had several exits, all of which led inside the palace; the group split up to run for them.

The two agents bustled Kit back towards the door. Over the shouts and screams, he heard another noise - a high-pitched buzz, the rasp of an aircraft propeller.

Getting louder . . .

 

Nina and Eddie, watching the news feed, saw the camera pan sharply to catch Kit being tackled by a pair of agents. His mouth moved as he shouted, but the screen had no sound.

The picture jolted as the press corps panicked, someone bumping the camera. Its operator valiantly tried to cover the action, aiming it at the world leaders, but by now they were scattering in all directions. ‘Oh, shit,’ Nina whispered.

‘Any second,’ Khoil croaked. ‘Any second now . . .’

The image tipped downwards as the cameraman abandoned his post and fled, only flagstones and a section of red carpet visible. Running shadows flickered across the screen.

A flash—

The picture jolted, then broke up into stuttering pixellated squares for a moment before cutting out entirely. The screen went black.

Eddie looked frantically at the remaining screens in the hope that one would reveal more information, but nothing was forthcoming. ‘What happened?’ Nina asked. ‘Oh, God, what happened?’

Khoil managed a bubbling, coughing laugh. ‘The Kali Yuga has ended, Dr Wilde. That is what has happened. The global collapse is inevitable . . . Lord Shiva will destroy the old age to begin a new one.’

‘We can still tell everyone what you’ve done,’ Nina told him, helplessness turning to anger. ‘There won’t be any war if they know you were behind it - no matter what you’ve rigged Qexia to say.’

‘This is no longer a time for reason,’ the billionaire said. ‘Emotion will rule - anger, fear, vengeance.’ His gaze moved to a screen above her. ‘Look. There it is . . . the image that will change the world.’

The live news feed was back, displaying a view from a different camera - this one in the grounds of the Rashtrapati Bhavan, shaking as its operator was jostled by people around him. The enormous palace, lit by banks of floodlights, stood out sharply against the black sky - as did a rising column of smoke and dust, drifting across to obscure the huge dome that was the building’s centrepiece.

‘You see?’ rasped Khoil, with rising triumph. ‘They are dead. Qexia is already blaming Pakistan. I . . . I have won!’

‘The only thing you’ve won is a kick in the bollocks,’ Eddie snarled, drawing back one foot. Khoil flinched, but Nina grabbed her husband’s arm before he could deliver the strike.

She pointed up at the screen. ‘Eddie, look!’

The picture had changed again, to another hand-held camera. The image jerked as the cameraman ran down a corridor, glimpses of ornately decorated walls briefly visible through a pall of swirling smoke. The broadcast was coming from somewhere inside the palace . . . but how far from ground zero? People staggered past, half-seen ghosts with clothing and faces caked in dust.

Nina and Eddie stared up at the screen, barely daring to breathe. The camera entered a large room. A ragged hole in the far wall was briefly visible before the cameraman turned his attention to the people around him. Those nearest the broken wall were covered in rubble, clearly dead. Others were still moving, dark blotches of blood standing out through the pale dust.

But despite the carnage, the cameraman was following his journalistic instincts. The image steadied, fixing on individual groups of people. Searching for the surviving world leaders.

If there were any.

Black suits, turned grey by the covering of smashed stone and plaster. Secret Service agents. Clustered around someone. The camera shakily zoomed in.

An agent, blood on his neck and shoulder, slumped back - to reveal the dirtied face of President Leo Cole. But he was still, a pale statue. Nina gripped Eddie’s hand, unable to speak for fear. Was he alive or dead? She couldn’t tell . . .

He moved, mouth widening in a silent cough. Opening his eyes, he wiped his face and spoke to one of the agents.

‘
Yes!
’ Nina exclaimed, squeezing Eddie’s hand tightly. ‘Never thought I’d be so happy to see a politician talking!’

The image moved away from Cole, reacting to something offscreen. It hunted through the drifting smoke before settling on another leader: the Indian president, leaning against a wall as two men hurried to help him. ‘The bigwigs got out okay, then - some of ’em, anyway.’ Eddie watched the screen as the camera searched for more survivors. ‘What about Mac, though? And Kit?’

‘And Peter,’ Nina reminded him, getting a non-committal grunt in reply. The cameraman continued through the room, people rushing past to help the injured. More powerful faces appeared, the Indian prime minister and Russian president being guided towards clearer air. Behind them—

‘Mac!’ Eddie cried, catching a glimpse of the Scot limping towards an exit. His suit was torn, blood smeared over one arm, but he didn’t appear badly wounded. Following him was Kit, supported by a Secret Service agent. An overweight, bearded Indian man jostled through the crowd to speak to him, then the cameraman moved on.

Nina turned to Khoil, whose expression was slowly collapsing into dismay. ‘They survived. We managed to warn them in time. I guess Qexia
couldn’t
predict everything. So the question is: what now?’