The Sword of Moses (45 page)

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The Roman Ruins

Basilica di San Clemente

Via Labicana

Rione Monti

Rome

The Republic of Italy

Ava instinctively stamped down hard behind her, aiming to catch the ankle of whoever had just grabbed her.

But her foot passed harmlessly into thin air.

In response, the metal object being pressed into the back of her head was rammed against it harder.

On autopilot, she threw her head backwards to hit her captor in the face with the back of her skull. But whoever it was behind her swerved neatly out of the way, and she was rewarded with a hard blow to the back of her head with the butt of what she was now certain was a gun.

For a moment she saw a shower of purple and silver stars, then the grip around her arms and chest tightened.

“Well, well. Are the good fathers of the basilica among your privileged money-laundering clients, then?” The deep resonant voice was close by her ear, mocking.

She had known who it was before he spoke. She had sensed him the moment he touched her.

A wave of visceral loathing washed over her, before it was rapidly replaced by a hot bolt of intense anger.

She could not believe she had been captured.

Not now.

Not by him
.

“How’s your bodyguard’s leg?” she taunted, defiantly, gritting her teeth. She was not going to give him any satisfaction—no sense of the rage and cold fear she was feeling.

There was silence.

“I hope I didn’t ruin his fun,” she continued, forcing a breeziness into her voice. “I think he had something special in mind. But I doubt he would’ve been very good at it.”

She figured she had nothing to lose. If he had wanted her dead, he would already have pulled the trigger. It was much more likely he needed something from her first.

And she could guess what that was.

“What makes you think I’m remotely interested?” His tone was dismissive. “You’re all expendable.”

She felt him step closer. “But what I do care about,” his voice sounded suddenly more urgent, “is finding the Menorah.”

“Too complicated for you?” she mocked. “Need a hand?”

She thought she heard a low chuckle.

“Actually, I already have an expert assisting me.” There was a long pause. “You.”

Ava snorted.

“I don’t mind admitting, I was having difficulty with the medal,” he continued. “But after you went sightseeing in Oxford with Lord Drewitt, I realized the answer was right in front of me. You had obviously tried to recruit him, and he had no doubt accepted. So I left the medal for him to find. And the rest you know. I commend your dedication and motivation—especially once he was dead and you redoubled your efforts in his memory. All I had to do was follow you.” He paused. “So you see, I have a most expert helper. The very best. And she has led me right to the prize.”

Ava could feel the anger rising in her throat.

But not with him.

With herself.

How could she have been so naïve?

He had set up the hoops, and she had dutifully jumped through them all, like some keen competition dog.

“So, Dr Curzon,” his tone was no longer conversational, “give me what I came for.”

The words hit Ava like a slap in the face.

She was momentarily stunned, and could feel her colour rising.

He knew her name.

Wracking her brain, she could only assume he had finally identified the CCTV photograph he had taken of her at Stockbridge House.

To her surprise, as the sense of shock passed, it subsided into a gritty feeling of grim satisfaction.

Her cards were on the table. “That’s right,” she snarled. “So now you know.”

“How touching.” Malchus answered. “The avenging daughter.”

For a moment, time stood still.

Ava could not believe what she had just heard.

He was as good as admitting it
.

She could feel her anger turning white hot.

He had killed her father.

He was still speaking, oblivious. “Yet her first act of filial vengeance is to lead me straight to the Menorah.” His tone was jeering. “He would’ve been so proud of you.”

Ava’s mind was a blur. She was barely aware of her actions as she spun round, aiming her shoulder and raised arm directly at his face. But before she had made a quarter turn, he had pulled the gun away from the back of her head and rammed it hard up into the soft flesh under her jaw.

A firework show of exploding lights and searing pain erupted inside her head, stopping her dead in her tracks.

As her vision cleared a moment later, he flicked on her helmet lamp, and she found herself looking into the eerily lit fleshy-lipped hairless face she had come to despise.

“Just so there are no misunderstandings.” He was enunciating his words slowly and precisely. “People like you and your father may have your occasional uses, but you’re essentially irrelevant. Now. Where’s the Menorah?”

Struggling through the pain, Ava tried her best to speak slowly and clearly. “Maybe you should have a closer look at that Vatican medal,” she choked. “I understand there’s a code on it.”

Malchus’s dead eyes widened a fraction. “I assure you that you will not be laughing for long.” He twisted the muzzle of the gun into the bundles of nerve endings under her chin. “So, answer me.”

The pain was excruciating.

“Do you really think,” Ava grimaced through the tears of agony she could feel pricking the back of her eyeballs, “that I’d ever help you?”

“Of course,” He leant in closer, but was distracted by a sudden noise behind him.

Turning to look over his shoulder, he saw Ferguson framed in the archway behind him, illuminated by the glow from Ava’s helmet lamp.

With his gun aimed directly at Malchus’s head, he stepped carefully into the room, never taking his eyes off Malchus.

Ava could see a thin film of sweat on Ferguson’s face, but his eyes were clear and alert, and his voice rock solid. “I’m giving you three seconds to release her. I’ve got a clean shot to the top of your neck. You’ll be dead before you see my finger move.”

Malchus smirked smugly. “I don’t think so.”

“You want to try me?” The words may have been a question, but there was no doubt it was a threat.

As Ferguson finished speaking, three of Malchus’s men entered the room behind him. They filed in slowly, their machine-pistols trained on him.

“It doesn’t change anything.” Ferguson kept his gun on Malchus.

“If you pull the trigger,” Malchus sounded smug, “the very next thing to happen, before I hit the floor, is my men will execute Dr Curzon.” He paused, turning Ava round so she faced Ferguson head on. “Who knows? Maybe they’ll even let you live. Just so you can always remember your moment of glory.”

Ferguson did not blink. “It may have worked that way back with your Stasi cronies. But not here. Nobody’s going to obey your orders once you’re gone.”

Malchus laughed contemptuously. “These men don’t follow
me
. They belong to a tradition. My death would change nothing. They’ll go to the grave for the cause, as faithful as Jesuits. Blood, steel, honour, and a thousand year rule—these ideals transcend individuals or leaders.” He looked at his men, then back at Ferguson. “So, put your gun down.”

Ferguson did not move.

There was a blinding flash of light and a deafening discharge from behind Ferguson, and one of Malchus’s men dropped to the floor with a gurgling sound, clutching the jet of crimson blood pumping from his neck.

“Stop!” Malchus shouted to his men, who had swivelled round and were preparing to return the fire.

Malchus called through to the gasmen in the next room. “If you attempt another stunt like that, Dr Curzon is dead.”

Ava watched as Max and the three gasmen emerged slowly into the room, their weapons trained on Malchus’s men.

Ava could feel the tension in the room rising.

It was a Mexican stand-off.

All it took was one jumpy finger, and a lot of people would get very badly hurt.

“Decision time.” Malchus looked at Ferguson and the gasmen with a condescending smile. “Who wants to die first?”

Ava had heard enough.  Ferguson’s finger was rock steady on the trigger. She caught his eye. When she spoke, her voice came out strangled with pain, but still clear.  “Kill him.”

Malchus looked blankly at Ferguson. “Our fates are in your hands, Major Ferguson.  Who lives and who dies? Today, you get to be God.”

Ava could see Ferguson wrestling with the options.  From his expression, it was clear he wanted nothing more than to take out Malchus, then try his luck with the remainder of his men. But she could also see a part of him was unsure. She figured it was that part which was still back in Afghanistan, with the mutilated soldiers and the dead families.

“Do it,” she urged, choking as Malchus ground the gun deeper into the soft flesh under her chin.

She could see Ferguson’s jaw tighten as he stared unblinking at Malchus. Then, agonizingly slowly, he bent down and laid the Browning onto the gritty floor. “This isn’t over,” he growled quietly as he came back up, his eyes never leaving Malchus’s.

“Such loyalty!” Malchus gloated. “I’m touched.” He turned to Max and his men. “I believe that’s your cue.”

With a face like thunder, Max signaled almost imperceptibly to his team. One by one, they bent down and laid their weapons on the ground, as Malchus’s men moved to encircle them.

“Now,” Malchus continued, as if nothing had happened, “in all esoteric traditions, there must be balance and order. The universe requires stasis—as above, so below. Therefore,” he pointed to his dead man on the floor, “blood calls for blood.” He looked around the room expectantly. “Volunteers?”

Without waiting for an answer, he pulled his gun from under Ava’s chin and aimed it directly at the gasman nearest him.

Ava watched in horror as he squeezed the trigger.

She barely heard the explosion as she saw the gasman crumple. He dropped to the floor as if a puppeteer had cut his strings—a small entry wound on the front of his forehead, and a mushy mess where the back of his head had been a moment earlier.

She saw Max turn white, and Ferguson ball his hands into fists. 

Drawing in deep breaths, she realized Malchus was now shouting at her. “I’ll ask again, Dr Curzon, where is the Menorah?”

Ava clenched her teeth to block out the pain of the gun he had again jammed under her jaw. The muzzle was now searing hot from the summary execution.

She shook her head. “Go to Hell.”

“Find it!” Malchus bellowed to his men.

Three of them peeled off, the beams of their gun-mounted tactical lights cutting through the gloom as they spread into the neighbouring ruins.

It took only an instant before the men searching the front room spotted it, and yelled back to Malchus that they had it.

Still pinning Ava’s arms to her sides, and with the gun pressing hard up under her jaw, he walked her through into the next room.

As half a dozen torch beams hit the Menorah, Ava could sense Malchus’s excitement. It radiated from him—a dark lustful exhilaration.

He stepped away from Ava towards the Menorah, but the respite was short lived—one of his acolytes immediately moved in behind her, holding his machine-pistol to her head.

She watched as Malchus approached the Menorah reverentially, holding out a hand, brushing it lightly.

With his arms outstretched, he began to speak in a low voice. She could not hear any full sentences, but it seemed to be some kind of incantation. As she strained to make out what he was saying, she caught only the words, “
Ein Sof
.”

Nothing else.

She frowned, unsure if she had heard right.

The
Ein Sof
was the name of the all-powerful creator in the ancient occult Jewish mystical tradition of the Kabbalah. It was an intensely secretive discipline, passed down the centuries by rabbi masters to their worthy disciples. Bizarrely, in more recent times, diluted elements of it had been taken up by pop stars—who combined it with yoga and science-defying health drinks in some weird New Age feel-good cult.

“What I don’t get,” Ava’s voice shattered the silence, interrupting his awed incantation, “is your obsession with the ancient Hebrews. Aren’t they everything people like you despise?”

Malchus spun to face her, his eyes black and blazing. “Be silent!”

“Nazism and Hebrew rituals,” she continued, unabashed. “What am I missing?”

Malchus stepped towards her, real anger in his face. “It’s not their puny religion I seek.” He nodded to the gunman nearest her, who kicked her hard in the back of the leg.

She fell to her knees with the savagery of the blow, as the guard rammed the machine-pistol into her head again.

Malchus returned to the Menorah, and continued reciting.

He was speaking quietly, and she could pick out a few occasional words. She heard “
Phosphoros
”, the Greek version of the Latin name Lucifer or ‘light-bearer’. And “
Demiourgos
”—the Gnostics’ evil creator god, who made the world and humans, trapping immortal ‘light souls’ into lives of pain and decay on this earthly Hell.

Watching him, she was struck by his single-mindedness and total focus.

When coupled with his absolute disregard for anything that got in his way, it was chilling. She had long ago come to the conclusion he was clinically insane. But what she was only coming to appreciate now, in his presence, was the malevolence that physically radiated from him.

It was terrifying.

When he was done, he turned back to the room. “Box it up.” He pointed to Ava, Ferguson, and the gasmen. “Bring them.”

He stalked out, leaving his men to put the Menorah back into the flight case and shepherd Ava and the other prisoners out at gunpoint.

As she tramped back down the alley, she felt a crushing wave of despair. She could not believe she had solved the medal’s enigmatic clues, found the Menorah, and was now about to lose it.

To Malchus.