Seven Ancient Wonders (33 page)

Extra commando teams were sent into the Ministry complex and also into the Gare d’Austerlitz, the large train station that lay directly across the Charles de Gaulle Bridge, on the southern side of the Seine.

Every train that hadn’t yet departed from it was barred from leaving. As a precaution, trains from the Gare de Lyon—further away to the north, but still a possibility—were also grounded.

Indeed, the last train to depart the Gare de Lyon that day would be the 12:44 TGV express service from Paris to Geneva, first stop Dijon.

An hour later, and now dressed in dry clothes, West and his team disembarked from the train in Dijon, smiling, grinning, elated.

There they boarded a charter flight to Spain, where they would rendezvous with Sky Monster and the
Halicarnassus
and commence their journey back to Kenya.

But their smiles and grins said it all.

After two failed attempts—or three if you counted the Mausoleum Piece—they had finally obtained a Piece of the Capstone.

They were now in a position to bargain.

They were now well and truly in the game.

ST PETER’S BASILICA VATICAN CITY, ROME 18 MARCH, 2006, 12:45 P.M. 2 DAYS BEFORE THE ARRIVAL OF TARTARUS

At the same time, 2,000 kilometres away in Rome, a long-bearded man wearing the all-black robes of a Catholic priest strode across the wide square in front of St Peter’s Basilica, the magnificent domed cathedral designed by Michelangelo, the most holy place of worship in the Roman Catholic Church.

With his long grey beard and stooping walk, Max Epper looked very much the part: an old and wizened priest, perhaps even an Eastern Orthodox one, making a pilgrimage to the Vatican.

With him walked Zoe and Fuzzy, and as they crossed St Peter’s Square in the midst of hundreds of tourists, Zoe gazed up at the gigantic stone obelisk that stood proudly in the exact centre of the Square.

‘Cult of Amun-Ra,’ Wizard said flatly, striding past the towering stone needle.

Zoe turned as she walked, gazing up at this
Egyptian
structure taking pride of place in front of the biggest Catholic church in the world.

She shrugged. ‘The Cult of Amun-Ra. . . ’

They entered the Basilica.

Few man-made structures on earth can match St Peter’s Basilica
for sheer scale. It is shaped like a giant crucifix—just like the centre of Paris—and its famous dome soars 300 feet above a glistening marble floor. Brilliant shafts of sunlight penetrate its impossibly high windows, as if sent by God himself.

Michelangelo’s
Pieta
flanks one side of the main entrance. Giant statues of saints stand in alcoves lining the main hall—St Ignatius, St Francis of Assisi—looming over the faithful.

It is designed to inspire awe.

But the most spectacular section of the great cathedral is to be found at its most holy place, the junction of the cross.

Here you will find the altar of St Peter’s, covered by a colossal four-pillared awning made of sturdy iron laced with gold. At the top of each tree-trunk-like pillar, you will find angels leaning outward, blowing trumpets, praising the Lord.

And beneath this awning is the altar.

‘It looks so plain,’ Fuzzy said, gazing up at it.

He was right. The altar of St Peter’s is remarkably plain, just a large oblong block of marble mounted on a raised platform. At the moment, since it wasn’t being used, it was covered by a simple red-white-and-gold cloth and some candles. A thick rope suspended from brass poles prevented the public from surmounting it.

‘Yes,’ Wizard said. ‘Considering its importance, it is very plain.’

‘It’s only important if Zaeed was telling us the truth,’ Zoe commented.

Before they had all split up on their separate missions, Zaeed had explained that the Artemis Piece of the Golden Capstone lay
embedded
in the altar at St Peter’s Basilica. The trapezoid, he claimed, had been incorporated face-down in the otherwise solid marble altar— so that its base lay flush with the flat upper surface of the altar. To the uninitiated, it would just look like a square plate of gold on the flat surface, a square plate with a crystal in its centre.

To the initiated, however, it would mean much more.

Wizard stared at the altar. ‘I imagine that only a handful of cardinals have ever been allowed to gaze upon the naked surface of this altar. Fewer still would know the true nature of the golden trapezoid
embedded in it. All would be very senior, privileged initiates into the true history of the Church.’

‘So what do we do?’ Zoe asked. ‘We can’t just pull out a crowbar and prise the trapezoid from the altar in front of all these people.’

‘I only need to
look
at it,’ Wizard said. ‘To memorise the inscription if I can.’

They were surrounded by tourists and uniformed Swiss Guards—and, Wizard guessed, many plainclothed guards, ready to grab anyone who tried to step onto the altar.

Anyone except maybe a doddery old Orthodox priest.

‘Run me some interference,’ Wizard said. ‘Here I go.’

He moved quickly, gazing adoringly up at the awning above the altar, stepping close to the rope, seemingly rapt with wonder.

Then before anyone could stop him, Wizard stepped over the rope and up the steps. . . 

. . . and stood behind the altar of St Peter’s, running his hands across the flat surface of the big oblong block as if it were made of some holy substance itself.

Plainclothed Swiss Guards appeared at once, emerging from the crowds, converging on the altar.

Standing behind the great oblong block in the exact heart of the Basilica, Wizard swept aside the cloth that covered the altar and beheld its bare upper surface.

What he saw was dazzling.

The flat surface of the altar was made of exquisite white marble, except in its very middle. Here Wizard saw, flush with the flat marble surface, a square-shaped section made of gold.

It was medium-sized, perhaps three feet to each side. And you couldn’t tell it was a golden trapezoid, since only its base side was visible. But there in its exact centre was a small diamond-like crystal.

The Artemis Piece.

Wizard saw the inscriptions carved into the surface of the trapezoid:

His wide eyes flashed like camera lenses, attempting to memorise the inscriptions in the short window of time he had—

‘Excuse me, Father, but you cannot step up here.’ Wizard was yanked away from the altar.

Two Swiss Guards had grabbed him firmly by the arms and were moving him politely but forcibly away.

At the same time another guard redraped the cloth back over the altar-top, concealing the golden trapezoid—although he seemed to do it merely to restore the order of the altar, not out of any sense that a great secret had been unveiled.

‘I-I-I’m s-s-so sorry,’ Wizard stammered, feigning senility and offering no resistance. ‘I just wanted to f-f-feel the power of my Lord in all h-h-his glory. . . ’

The lead guard escorting him off the raised stage assessed him more closely, saw Wizard’s earnest eyes, his scraggly beard, his tattered robes, and he softened. ‘All right, old man. Get out of here. Just stay behind the rope next time.’

‘Th-th-thank you, my son.’

The guard escorted Wizard back to the main doors.

As he walked, Wizard tried to contain his excitement. He had the Artemis inscription burned into his brain—which was the next best thing to getting the Piece itself. Soon, he, Zoe and Fuzzy would be winging their way out of Rome’s Leonardo da Vinci International Airport and heading for home.

Flanked by the guards, he stifled the smile that was beginning to spread across his face.

At that very same moment, in a darkened room elsewhere in the Vatican, someone was watching Wizard on a small security monitor.

Francisco del Piero.

‘I knew you would come, Max, my old colleague,’ del Piero said to the image on the screen. ‘That’s why I did not remove the Piece from the altar. I knew it would bring you out into the open.’

Del Piero turned to the Vatican Security Chief next to him. ‘They’ll head for the airport. Follow them, but do not grab them yet. Monitor their radio transmissions. The old man will send a signal soon after he leaves St Peter’s to inform his team-mates that he has succeeded in his mission. Let him send his message.
Then
seize him and his accomplices at the airport and bring them to me.’

Minutes later, speeding through the streets of Rome in a rental car, heading for the airport, Wizard sent a short encrypted text-message to Doris in Kenya.

It said:

Mission accomplished.
On our way back now.
                   
Wizard
.

Shortly after, his car arrived at the airport and swung into the parking lot—

—just as the air all around it was pierced by sirens and police cars appeared from every side, swooping in on Wizard’s car, blocking it, surrounding it.

Wizard, Zoe and Fuzzy could do nothing.

VICTORIA STATION KENYA 18 MARCH, 2006, 9:45 P.M. 2 DAYS BEFORE THE ARRIVAL OF TARTARUS

In the basement radio room at the farm in Kenya, Doris Epper spoke into her mike: ‘That’s great news, Huntsman. Wizard is on his way, too. He just text-messaged me a few hours ago. The mission in Rome was a success. He’ll be here in the morning. See you in a couple of hours.’

With a spring in her stride, she hurried up the steps to the kitchen. She was relieved that everyone was okay and that their missions had succeeded and she wanted to prepare a nice dinner for when they got back.

She stepped up into the kitchen . . . to find that someone was already there.

‘That’s wonderful news, Mrs Epper.’

Doris froze.

There before her, sitting casually at her kitchen table, was Marshall Judah. Standing behind him were twelve heavily camouflaged, heavily armed US special forces troops.

Judah’s head was bent, his eyes low, his voice laced with menace. ‘Take a seat, Doris, and let’s wait for them together.’