The Excalibur Codex (25 page)

Hurriedly, he slithered backwards into the mouth of the tunnel, where Hermann sat holding Charlotte’s hand. ‘There are more of them,’ he whispered. ‘I don’t know how many, but three at least, and they’re being methodical. They might find us, and they might not, but I don’t think we can take the chance. If Charlotte was
up to it, I’d try to slip past them, but we don’t have that option. You’re going to have to stay with her until she revives. I’ll lead them away. Try to get her to the other hotel. Okay?’ Hermann nodded, but his eyes were filled with fear. ‘You’ll be fine.’ Jamie squeezed the young German’s arm. ‘Your grandfather would be proud of you.’

He replaced the half-empty magazine of the MP40 with the full one from his jacket. Plenty of ammo to make a demonstration, but if he got into a firefight he was in trouble. He noticed Charlotte shivering and he took off his jacket and covered her with it.

Hermann shook his hand. ‘
Viel Glück,
my friend.’

Jamie licked his lips and crawled to the tunnel mouth.

From his viewpoint beneath the concrete slab, Jamie had a clear view of two men armed with assault rifles clambering over the rubble of another demolished bunker away to his right. As he watched, two more appeared, searching the adjacent woodland and checking anything that would hide a man.

He wanted to be seen, but couldn’t afford to be caught leaving the hiding place, so he leopard-crawled to his left until he was out of sight of the hunters, using his elbows and knees and cradling the MP40 across his arms. Regulating his breathing, he checked his surroundings. Thankfully the heavy woodland would conceal him as he crossed their rear to the far side of the clearing. When he was ready he jogged through the trees, keeping low for about a hundred yards, then straightening as he changed direction to leave the protection of the woods and cross the far corner of the clearing. He’d ensured the angle of his approach would make it appear he had
come from well to the west of the tunnel where he’d left Hermann and Charlotte. He was now on the left flank of the four gunmen. They would have spotted him in the end, but just to make certain he fired a sharp three-round burst in the general direction of the searchers.

With shouts of dismay and alarm the men dropped to the ground and someone had definitely seen him because a second later the air above his head buzzed with the sound of passing bullets. Crouching again, Jamie jogged in the opposite direction. He took his time, firing another short volley as he went in the hope that wariness of the MP40 would ensure there’d be no reckless charge in his wake. If they were combat-trained – and he had no doubt they were – they’d work a position where they could flank him. As he ran, he scanned the woods to left and right. There was no sign of immediate danger, but even now two of them would probably be in the trees sprinting in a wide arc to cut him off ready for the others to come up behind and drive him into the killing zone created by their comrades. Ahead, a large oak offered good cover and he stopped behind it to rest and listen for a few seconds. Nothing yet. The muzzle of the machine pistol came up as his mind registered a flash of russet in the middle distance. With relief he recognized a big old dog fox that trotted across his path, stopped, sniffed the air and looked back the way it had come, before continuing its progress.

That settled it. Breaking into a run, he changed direction, following the fox’s path on a diagonal route
that would take him hopefully beyond the radius of the killing ground ahead. It was a decent enough plan, but it didn’t take into account the third flank runner.

They saw each other in the same instant between the stately columns of a stand of beech trees. Jamie threw himself to his right just as a row of bullets kicked up the earth where he’d been standing. In this part of the woods the broad tree canopies allowed little light to reach the forest floor. It meant the undergrowth was low and stunted, providing only sparse cover. Hugging the earth, he loosed a hopeful burst in the general direction of the enemy and squirmed backwards and to his left as the reply scythed over his head, ripping chunks of bark and leaving naked white scars on the trees behind. As he moved, the dynamics of his dilemma flickered through his head like images on a computer screen. The enemy possessed more firepower and a seemingly unlimited supply of ammunition. All the other man had to do was keep him pinned down and allow his compatriots, out there somewhere among the trees, to close in for the kill. Jamie’s only advantages were the ancient
Schmeisser,
the relatively few rounds he had left, and the fact that his opponent couldn’t be certain of his position. A short length of branch caught his shirt. He pulled it free and tossed the stick low and to his right where it landed with a rustle that instantly attracted another burst of fire and confirmed his last thought. Still moving left he went through his options and realized he only had one. He stopped and waited, allowing the seconds to
pass and his mind to clear. Fire and manoeuvre, that was what they’d drummed into him at the Cambridge OTC. Keep your enemy guessing. If his hunter had any field sense he’d be on the move now, but either he was a very good woodsman or he’d decided his position was so dominant that all he had to do was sit tight. There was no way Jamie could be entirely certain, but he had to do something. He started crawling forward to where his enemy waited.

The gunman’s caution gave him hope. It meant he would have taken up a safe position, probably behind a tree. It would protect him from the
Schmeisser
bullets, but would also restrict his vision. Jamie chose an angle that would hopefully bring him in on his enemy’s flank and he took all the care of a man who knew that the sound of a breaking twig would be his death warrant. Working his way stealthily through the ferns and the leaf mould, he called on the skills he’d been taught during combat training at the university OTU. Don’t put your weight down until you’re certain what’s underneath you. Don’t look at your target: the chances are that if you can see him, he’ll see you. No matter how well you’re concealed, the subconscious is programmed to home in on faces and eyes. The soft rustle as he eased his way through the undergrowth sounded like hail on a window to his overstrained ears. The tree he’d chosen as his aiming point hadn’t seemed far away, but getting there took an age and every second of the journey his body tensed waiting for the agonizing punch of copper-
jacketed steel. When he reached the aged oak he had to use a low branch to help him to his feet and his legs shook as if he’d just run a marathon.

Jamie waited till his breathing subsided, then squatted so his head was lower than a watcher would naturally expect it to be. One glance to fix the tree his ambusher had chosen and he stood again with his back to the oak and his eyes closed as he went over the plan for the last time. There was no subtle way to do this. No second chances. If his enemy happened to look in the wrong direction at the wrong time Jamie Saintclair would be a sitting duck. He took a deep breath and launched into a headlong charge across the ground separating them.

Ten paces. The undergrowth snapped and hissed beneath his feet, but there was no helping that. Twenty. Almost there. The trees a blur as he sprinted hard and low towards his target, the
Schmeisser
cocked and ready in his hands. A shout away to his right, and another from behind, before the inevitable burst of fire shredded the leaves in front of him and confirmed that his other pursuers were closer than he thought. He waited for the muzzle flashes from the tree ahead that would be the last thing he would ever see. When they didn’t come he felt a flare of triumph even as his spine cringed in anticipation of the bullets striking. Of course, his target would be as surprised by the firing as he was. He rounded the tree at a run and a crouching figure looked up, the Uzi in his hands coming round to
meet the new threat. But Jamie was already on him and he swung the butt of the MP40 into the bearded face with all his weight behind it. It landed with a satisfying crunch, but he had no time to assess the damage. No time even to stoop and pick up the Uzi with its big magazine and greater firepower. Instead, he maintained his pace and his line, keeping the tree between him and the hunters. If he was lucky, they’d hesitate and help their friend. But even as the thought formed he knew it wouldn’t happen. These men exhibited a ruthless professionalism that didn’t include compassionate aid for stragglers. Which begged a question that had been niggling at his brain since the first bullets had flown … Before he could answer it another burst of fire churned the ground in front of him and he swerved right. Christ, how could he have forgotten the beater? He half turned on the run and fired a volley in the general direction of the gunman. More gunfire from his right and he winced as a splinter from a nearby tree sliced across his cheek. In the same heartbeat something smashed into his left knee and he was down, his leg momentarily useless. He wrestled the MP40 round and pulled the trigger as two men ran towards him. The gun bucked in his hands and one of them collapsed with a despairing cry before the bolt clicked on empty. Jamie threw the MP40 aside in disgust and checked his knee for damage, discovering to his relief that the impact had been a fallen branch and not a bullet. Not that it would matter in the end.

He sat for a moment with the dampness of the earth seeping through his clothing and waiting for the bullet that would finish it. A large figure loomed over him, his breath coming in short gasps, dark eyes glaring a mix of hatred and triumph from a swarthy, pockmarked face. Jamie ignored the man and focused on the gun muzzle that looked like a railway tunnel from his angle. The barrel twitched, ordering him to get to his feet, and he managed to struggle upright. He raised his arms in surrender, although he had a feeling it wouldn’t do him much good. From behind competent hands patted him down, checking for hidden weapons, and he remembered the question that had been eating at him from the start. If these people were so fucking professional why wasn’t he dead by now? He was still pondering the answer when his head exploded in a ball of agony and the lights went out.

He came to with his scalp on fire and someone hauling so hard on his hair that it felt as if his face was going to come off. His first instinct was to claw at the offending hand, but that wasn’t possible because his arms were behind his back and didn’t seem to want to move. It took a moment before he realized they were securely tied and his lower stomach turned to ice water at the possible implications. He opened his eyes to find that he was on his knees with a man standing in front of him holding a mobile phone at eye level. With a grunt of defiance, he heaved and lashed against his bonds until
something large and metallic slapped against the side of his head with enough force to make him forget the pain in his scalp.

‘It will be much easier on you if you do not fight it.’ The voice, in heavily accented English, had an almost seductive quality. ‘Soon it will be all over, but first Hassan here will film your confession.’

Confession?

Gradually the identity of his captors dawned on Jamie. The obvious questions flashed through his mind – the how and the why – but they were quickly consumed in the white hot flare of rage that erupted inside him. ‘If you’re going to kill me get on with it.’ He resumed his futile struggle with his bonds. ‘You filthy bastards killed Abbie and my child and four hundred other innocent people. I don’t have anything to confess except the fact that I wished I’d killed a few more of you.’

The phone dropped away from Hassan’s eye-line at the mention of the massacre and Jamie saw puzzlement on the dark face. ‘But you—’

‘Hassan!’

The other man obediently raised the phone and began filming again.

‘Of course, you would say that, a liar and a faithless infidel, and if we had time I’m sure we could have a long and fruitful discussion, but since we do not I must insist.’ Jamie winced as something stabbed into his palm. ‘I will ask you once and if you do not answer, I will cut off the fingers of your right hand one by one.
If that does not stir your memory, I will take out your eyes. Do you understand?’

‘I don’t know what you’re fucking—’ The soft sting of a razor edge froze the words in Jamie’s mouth. This couldn’t be happening, but now the knife – oh Christ, it was a big knife, a fucking cleaver – was at his throat.

‘This is your last chance.’ A burst of fire echoed in the distance, quickly answered by a second.

‘Rashid, we do not have time for this,’ Hassan insisted urgently.

‘You will confess that you are the infidel who has usurped the authority of the Lion of the Prophet, who has besmirched the name of the Chosen Ones and masqueraded as a Son of Islam …’

Jamie wriggled desperately to free himself, but the man Rashid held him in a grip of iron. ‘Christ, please, I don’t know what—’

‘Rashid!’ the cameraman pleaded.

Jamie felt his head pulled back to expose his throat still further. He could see the great blade in front of his eyes ready to sweep round and take out the big veins in his neck. ‘Very well.’ Rashid’s voice turned solemn. ‘I sentence you to death in the name of Abu Ayoub al-Iraqi.
Allahu Akbar
. God is Great.’ Jesus, they were going to cut his head off. Jamie opened his mouth to scream louder than he had ever screamed before.

The twin crack of the shots merged with the butcher’s block smack of metal against muscle, but the hand that held the blade retained its menace until the third bullet
struck. Suddenly the knife was gone and Jamie felt a great weight on his shoulders. As he fell forward under the bulk of his executioner he saw Hassan turn to run, only for part of his skull to detach itself and fly into the air. Simultaneously, the cameraman’s legs gave way beneath him and he fell without a sound.

Jamie lay trapped as footsteps rustled warily through the leaf mould. Someone removed the dead weight from his back, but he couldn’t find the strength to raise his head to bring the world into focus. A hand picked up the big knife and he shuddered at what might come next. Only when the blade began to work at whatever was tying his hands and arms did he realize he was safe.