The Cross of Sins (13 page)

"Now!" Will shouted.

Elliott hesitated, but Will didn't.

With Elliott's collar clenched firmly in his fist, and his towel fastened firmly around his waist, Will jumped off the ledge, taking Elliott with him.

The two flew through the air to the wail of Elliott's squeals.

With a thud, they landed in the aisle of the upper deck of the bus, much to the shock and surprise of the tourists on board. Precious Japanese newlyweds jumped up in their seats and screamed as though a mouse had just skittered under their feet. Overweight Americans gasped, clutching at their chests as though protecting their hearts from a coronary. Then in unison, as Will pulled Elliott to his feet, every camera on board the bus began firing away.

Will, with his gun tucked deep into his towel and out of sight, quickly pulled Elliott away. "Come on, downstairs. We gotta get outta here." He towed the dazed Elliott toward the stairs of the bus as quickly as he could.

Behind him, a large middle-aged American woman patted her chubby husband excitedly on the chest. "Herb, look, I told you we'd see someone in a kilt!" She snapped a photo, just as a gust of wind lifted the towel and revealed a glimpse of Will's butt cheek. The woman grinned excitedly. "That photo is a keeper!"

As the bus continued on its way, the black-robed assailants poured out onto the balcony of the Piccadilly Hotel.

Luca checked the book was securely tucked into his towel, and then jumped from the ledge, landing with a
thunk
onto the roof of a black London cab. He tucked his revolver into the back of his towel and threw one last glance back and saw the men in black robes leaning over the balcony railing, firing random shots into the traffic. Cars veered, horns blared. Luca rolled off the roof of the cab and flipped himself in through the open window of the back passenger door.

He landed recklessly on the backseat of the cab, his towel up around his stomach, the book sliding onto the floor.

Quickly, he snatched it up. Then, almost as an afterthought, he pulled down the towel to cover himself, glanced up, and saw the smile of the fifty-year-old woman in the back of the cab with him. Her hair was pink, her lipstick bright red, and her fake eyelashes fluttered frantically.

"Please keep driving," Luca told the confused cabbie, "as fast as you can. To the airport."

Luca looked at the woman in the back with him. "I'm sorry to take you out of your way. It's something of an emergency. I hope you don't mind."

The woman put both palms to her flushed cheeks and said, "I don't mind at all." Then, she whispered so that the cabbie couldn't hear, "So long as you lose the towel."

She gave Luca a big, fake-eyelashed wink.

He gave a nervous gulp.

IX

Ankara, Turkey

The streets of Ankara were loud and dusty and filled with cheap rusted cars tearing along at speeds that seemed impossible for their age. Eden and Shane found the Ankara Museum of National Treasures on a busy corner in the northern end of the city. The curator, a man named Ahmed Musa, was expecting them. He quickly led them through room after room filled with the ruins of statues and altars and pillars and tombs and into his office where he locked the door behind them. The office itself was like a miniature version of the museum. Ancient vases and small statues lined dozens of shelves; old rusted jewelry and wooden utensils, each with a tag attached, filled several glass cabinets; and in the corner behind the door, standing upright and looking very imposing, was an enormous black sarcophagus with its lid closed.

Shane took off his cowboy hat and stepped curiously over to the sarcophagus. He touched its smooth cold surface.

"Don't touch that!" Mr. Musa shouted.

"My apologies." Shane pulled his hand away.

"It's very old," the curator snapped.

"Mr. Musa, are you all right?" Eden asked.

The curator paused nervously a moment. "I'm afraid I've broken the law," he announced skittishly, speaking in a soft, hurried voice. "But I had to. Otherwise there would be no hope of finding Doctor Hadley's killers. The law enforcement agencies here can be easily bought."

"Slow down," Eden said calmly. "Tell us what you know."

Mr. Musa tried to pour himself a glass of water, but his hands were trembling. Shane took the pitcher and glass and poured it for him. The curator gulped it down.

"As soon as I found out about Doctor Hadley's death I got to the dig site as fast as I could. I arrived minutes before the authorities. I found the pit where Doctor Hadley was killed. You could still smell it. His flesh. I shined a flashlight into the well and there he was—or at least, that's where the body was—charred and smoldering. It was the most horrific thing I've ever seen in my life. He was my friend, my colleague."

Mr. Musa guzzled the rest of his water, panting after it was gone. For a moment, he looked as if he might cry, but then he took several deep breaths and opened a drawer to his desk.

"At first I didn't see it. All I could see were the burned remains. But then, through the smoke, I saw something glinting in the beam of my flashlight. Doctor Hadley was clutching something in his charred fist. Before anyone could stop me—before I could stop myself—I slid a ladder into the pit, climbed down and took the object from poor Doctor Hadley's dead hand."

Mr. Musa then pulled something out of the drawer. It was a tightly folded handkerchief. He unwrapped it to reveal a blackened silver chain.

"I managed to climb out of the pit just as the police arrived and rounded everybody up for questioning, at least those who were still left. Those who hadn't fled or been driven away. I didn't tell the police what I'd found. I know I'm tampering with evidence, but it would have ended up around the neck of some corrupt official's wife, a mere trinket. I couldn't let that happen. I knew it would be safe with Professor Fathom. I knew it would be safe with you."

Eden lifted the chain gently off the unfolded handkerchief and held it up. The chain itself was snapped, as if it had been ripped from someone's neck. At the end of it hung a small metal ring of thorns, dark red in color.

"The Crimson Crown," Shane said.

"You've heard of them?" Mr. Musa asked.

Eden nodded. "It appears they're on the same trail we are."

"The only question is," Shane added, "who'll reach the end of the trail first?"

"Do you mind if we take this with us?" Eden asked.

"Not at all. In fact, I'd be relieved." At that point, Mr. Musa leaned in and said in a hushed tone, "This is about
The Cross of Sins
, isn't it. I've heard the stories, but I never once believed any of them were true."

"At this stage, Mr. Musa, the less you know, the better," Eden advised the curator. "Tell nobody about the chain, and tell no one we were here—for your own safety."

With that, Eden and Shane bid Ahmed Musa farewell.

As soon as they were gone, Mr. Musa became more anxious and nervous than ever. He poured himself another glass of water and turned his back to the door. He took one frantic gulp, and then froze as he heard the ominous creak of something opening.

It wasn't the door.

Slowly he turned around, eyes wide with dread, to see the lid of the black sarcophagus swinging slowly open, revealing a hooded figure in a black robe and a white sash standing inside the ancient coffin.

The figure stepped out of the sarcophagus and stopped, staring at Mr. Musa.

"You should have left it for the police to find," the figure said in a stern voice. He had a distinctly American accent. "Now that mere trinket is going to cost you dearly."

Mr. Musa's voice trembled. "But I did what you wanted. I did what you told me to do."

"Yes," the black-robed figure whispered. "And now your job is done."

From beneath his robe, the figure pulled out a revolver with a silencer on the end. The curator gasped. He dropped his glass out of sheer terror. Water splashed and glass smashed across the floor.

He staggered backwards clumsily.

He heard a short, sharp muffled sound, like something just snipped at the air. It was the last sound he ever heard.

Ahmed Musa was dead before his body even hit the floor.

"There's just something about it that doesn't seem right," Shane said to Eden. They had walked three of the four blocks from the museum to their hotel, and were now pushing past shouting fruit merchants, feuding butchers and haggling shoppers in the middle of a large colorful bazaar.

"I agree," Eden said loudly over the noise all around them.

"So where to now? The dig site?"

"Yes, but I'm going alone."

Shane pulled Eden up. "What do you mean, you're going alone?"

"If I take you with me, the authorities will never let us on the scene. I'm a scientist, a doctor
and
an expert in forensics. With a little persuasion I can convince the Turkish police I have reason to be there. You have —"

Shane propped his hands on his hips. "I have what!"

"You have a cowboy hat. That's not going to get you anywhere."

"So what do you suggest I do? Sit by the pool and write postcards?"

Eden shrugged.

Shane threw his hat on the ground in frustration and stamped a boot heel into the dirt. "God dammit, Eden!"

The sun was high and scorching hot. Shane lay on a sun lounge by the hotel's glistening aqua rooftop pool, high above the chaos and commotion of the city below. He wore only his cowboy hat tipped back on his head, Ray-bans and a pair of black Speedos. His brown body was beaded with sweat. In his hands was a pack of cheap postcards. The photos on the front looked as though they had been taken back in the sixties, but with a city like Ankara it was hard to tell.

There was not a soul in sight, which, given his mood, was probably a good thing. Shane was pissed. Eden was on his way to the dig site to try to uncover more clues, Will and Luca were in London looking for the book, and here he was, sitting by a hotel pool staring at a bunch of old postcards.

He started flipping them into the pool, one by one.

They melted into the water and floated just below the surface, turning soft and soggy.

"Not a good look," said a voice from behind Shane.

The Texan dropped the remainder of the postcards, sat bolt upright in the lounge and glanced behind him.

A young man in his early twenties stood there smiling, with a small backpack draped over one shoulder, a towel draped over the other, sunglasses on and a red Speedo. The young man's swimwear was very tightly packed, which didn't go unnoticed by Shane.

He gestured to the postcards in the pool and said to Shane, "That limp, flaccid look is never very encouraging."

"Trust me; they weren't much to look at before they went for a swim either." Shane had noticed the accent. "You're American."

"Eric Landon. From Arizona." The young man took off his sunglasses and shook Shane's hand. His eyes were a rich soothing brown, the same color as his short spiky hair. He had smooth tan skin, a strong body, muscular for his age, and a young handsome face with blinding white teeth. "Pleased to meet someone who's not shouting abuse or driving like a maniac."

Shane smiled back. "Shane Houston. Texas. Likewise."

"I see we have the place all to ourselves. Not a bad pad."

"You're staying here at the hotel?"

"Hell no, I'm backpacking. College students can't afford places like this. We just cruise around looking for pools with no hotel attendants on duty." He looked around and also noticed there was nobody behind the small bar in the corner of the rooftop terrace. Eric's smile spread further across his handsome face. "Even better, nobody manning the bar!"

He rushed excitedly over, jumped the bar and helped himself to the bar's refrigerator. "You want a beer?"

Shane shrugged. "Hell, why not. It's not like I've got anything better to do. Just leave a note with my room number on it. It's—"

"Hell with that," Eric said with a grin. He uncapped two bottles behind the bar, and then jumped it again and pulled up the sun lounge next to Shane. He handed him his beer and they chinked bottles.

"I guess I'll let them know when I check out."

"Whatever." Eric took a good long drink, and then said, "So, what brings a big handsome Texan like you to a dustbowl like Ankara?"

Shane took a sip and smiled at Eric's comment. He didn't look down, but he could feel the bulge in his Speedo start to grow. "I'm gonna avoid that question by pointing out, where you and I come from, there's plenty of dustbowls. Hell, they're a specialty of the house."

"Yeah but our dustbowls come complete with diners and drive-in movies and hot half-naked mechanics in sweaty auto-shops on lost lonely highways. Don't you agree?"

Shane felt his cock swell even more, beginning to point vertically into the air. "I do," he said before taking another confident gulp of beer.

Eric glanced happily at Shane's ever-stiffening cock and put his own beer bottle to his lips once again. Then, he stood, proudly revealing his own bulging crotch, the outline of his cock's bulbous head so clear it was pointless for him even to wear his Speedo. It was enough to send Shane rock-hard, the head of his own dick straining against his Speedo and pushing itself toward the vast blue sky.