The Sword of Moses (6 page)

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Bar Akmola

Saryarka District

Astana

The Republic of Kazakhstan

It was late when Uri’s taxi dropped him off at the
Bar Akmola
in Astana’s north-east Saryarka district. It was the industrial part of town, rough and dilapidated—cluttered with rundown Soviet-era buildings.

After paying the driver, he pushed through the bar’s battered door to reveal its shabby interior—a tawdry world where regulars blotted out the cold and the grinding monotony of life with cheap vodka.

Uri immediately saw the liaison officer across the long smoky room. His white logo-plastered
Lokomotiv Astana
football shirt was distinctive without drawing unwanted attention.

“Do you have the correct time?” Uri asked, approaching the table. “My watch has stopped.” He tapped it. “Freebie from a catalogue.”

The man looked up at Uri. “Sorry.” His tone was sarcastic. “I guess that’s why I missed my supper. Again.”

Uri glared at him. He didn’t have time for this.

Clearly sensing Uri’s irritation, the man adopted a more professional tone. “All right—yes, I set my watch from the television news every day.”

Uri pulled out a greasy chair from under the low wooden table and sat down facing him.

“So this is a fun country,” Uri smiled mechanically.

“I love it here,” the man replied, his voice heavy with irony. “I was bored of the sunshine and bikinis of Haifa anyway. I prefer the coldest capital on earth. The standard of living is great, too. I’m having a ball. My wife can’t understand why we didn’t come here before on holiday.”

Uri felt sorry for him. He looked genuinely fed up.

The man held out his hand. “Zvi. Zvi Ehrenwald. Diplomatic liaison.”

Uri shook the offered hand. “So, what can you tell me?”

Zvi did not seem surprised Uri had not reciprocated with his own name.

He took a swig of his beer. “When I heard you were coming, we got our friends in the
Militsiya
, the local police, to pull some guys off the street—middle-ranking hoods from the local crime families who are always happy to cooperate in return for certain accommodations.”

Uri was watching him closely.

“You’re looking for a group of Africans, right? Heavily armed?” Zvi looked at him expectantly.

Uri nodded.

“Try Omsk Street. You can’t miss it—a dark green warehouse, smaller than the others. Seems a bunch of Africans have been seen coming and going there recently. Word is they flew in on a private plane with some kind of merchandise.”

“Thanks.” Uri made a mental note not to have anything to do with the local families. “What about practicalities?”

Zvi reached down to his feet and passed Uri a tatty dark blue rucksack under the table. “There’s a .22 Beretta, twenty clips of ammunition, keys to a brown saloon car with a full tank parked across the street, and keys to a safe flat nearby. There’s a map with directions to the flat in there, as well as a number you can call twenty-four hours a day.”

Uri took the bag. “Thanks,
achi.
” He stood up to go. “Have a nice night.”

“Count on it,” Zvi answered. “I bet that redhead in the black lace miniskirt over there’s dying to party with an overweight married Jewish guy in a borrowed football shirt.”

Uri shook his head. “And I thought you diplomatic boys all led such dull lives.”

Zvi walked up to the bar and ordered another beer. “Maybe not the redhead,” he smiled at Uri, “but seeing as I’m working late tonight, a few more beers on the Institute won’t hurt.”

Uri slapped him on the shoulder before slinging the rucksack over his shoulder and making for the door.

Outside, he took a deep lungful of the cold night air.

He had work to do.

——————— ◆ ———————

Diamonds Nightclub

Yesil District

Astana

The Republic of Kazakhstan

Prince had seen it all unfold from her vantage point at the all-night refreshment kiosk.

When she realized DeVere's view of Ava and Ferguson was blocked by the bus, she punched his number furiously into her mobile phone, angry with herself for not having it on speed-dial. But too late. When DeVere answered, she could hear the engine noise of his car revving as his driver swung into the traffic to follow the Mercedes.

“Stop!” she yelled into the microphone, breaking into a run as she pursued Ava, Ferguson, and the militiamen along the pavement. “The red Mercedes is a decoy. They’re on foot. I’m following.”

Through the crowds, she saw them turn and enter a metal door under a flashing sign reading:
Diamonds Nightclub.

Once inside the hot windowless box, the noise of the throbbing music drowned out whatever DeVere was saying into her ear in reply.

Looking around, she instantly saw the bank of industrial elevators to her right. There were three of them. According to the colourful graffiti on the wall, each floor of the building offered a dance-floor playing a different style of techno music.

The dull doors of the middle elevator were already closing, and she just had time to see the militiamen, Ava, and Ferguson crammed inside its shabby metal interior before the doors clicked shut and the red LED number above the control console starting to increase.

“
Diamonds Nightclub.
They’re in the elevator,” she shouted into the microphone as she watched the number rise, then stop at four.

“They’re on the fourth floor,” she yelled, hoping DeVere could hear her over the thudding dance tracks.

Looking around, she figured the most likely way out of the building was the way they had all come in—through the front door. She assumed they had taken the elevator hoping anyone following them would be busy searching the ground floor, or knowing that if they had been seen getting into the elevator, anyone following would have taken the next one. Either way, after bouncing between a few floors, they would make straight for the ground floor again, and leave. It was a crude but effective way to throw off any tails.

Prince’s eyes remained locked on the middle elevator’s LED display. It was staying motionless at four.

Why wasn't it moving down again?

She could feel the sweat breaking out on her lower back.

What were they doing?

For the first time, she noticed that the other two elevators were now descending.

Had they switched elevator?

She kicked herself for not having seen which floors the other two had come from.

Not smart.

She could feel her heart starting to hammer.

Could they actually have got off at four? Was there a fire escape up there?

The left elevator stopped one floor above her.

She held her breath.

The right one came back down to the ground floor. She ran towards it, sweat beads now beginning to cluster on her forehead. The elevator doors opened, and a gang of drunk locals piled out.

This was not happening.

She ran over to the left elevator, which had moved slowly down to the ground floor and was now opening.

Please let them be in this one.

Its doors slid open, revealing an empty cabin.

She cursed as DeVere’s voice came over the phone. “I’m in the nightclub now. I’ll cover downstairs. You head on up.”

Without pausing, Prince ran for the door to the fire-stairs next to the elevator shaft.

Sprinting up the bare stone steps as fast as she could, she emerged onto the fourth floor, where she could hear thudding trance beats coming from a dance-floor beyond a bar off to her left. The middle elevator was still there, motionless. She headed towards it, and saw it was wedged open with a fire-extinguisher.

They had this planned. Right down to the last detail.

She began to feel panicky.

They could be anywhere.

DeVere was shouting in her ear for an update.

“I don’t know,” she yelled, sprinting into the bar. “I’m checking the fourth floor.” She ripped the earpiece from her ear—the music was so loud it was useless. She would not have been able to hear DeVere even if he had been standing next to her.

She ran to the end of the bar area again, and saw that it dropped down onto a dance-floor where groups of people were dancing in a firestorm of coloured lights and strobes. There was a DJ booth at the far end of the floor, but no other doors.

They were not here.

She looked around frantically before running back through the bar again, jamming the earpiece back into her ear. As she reached the elevator hall, DeVere came through loud and clear. “They’ve gone.” She could hear the anger and frustration in his voice.

“What do you mean, gone?” Prince yelled back into the microphone, fighting to keep the desperation from her voice.

“The basement. Come down to the basement.” He sounded dejected.

She punched open the door to the emergency fire-stairs and flung herself down the narrow grey steps, her long legs carrying her quickly down the five double flights.

At the bottom was a large set of metal fire-doors. She banged through them, and saw DeVere at the end of the corridor, standing beside an open external loading door.

She reached him quickly, pulling the mobile phone earpiece from her ear again. She could see through the door into a loading bay, but the area was deserted.

“An unmarked white van,” he said, looking through the doors. “It was just screeching out onto the road when I got here.”

“They must’ve gone up to the fourth floor, wedged the elevator open, then run down the stairs to the waiting van,” she panted, punching the wall behind her. “Damn!”

She wiped the sweat from her face and leaned up against the cool wall to catch her breath.

General Hunter was not going to be pleased.

——————— ◆ ———————

The Grand Assembly Hall

Castrum Lucis

Musandam Peninsula

The Sultanate of Oman

The Arabian Gulf

Olivier De Molay, one hundred and fourth Grand Master of the Poor Knights of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon, sat on the wide gothic marble throne that dominated the centre of the ancient assembly chamber’s east wall.

The atmosphere in the castle was electric.

The meeting had been called at short notice, and the knights had been flying in all day.

Although the Order of the Temple had been officially abolished, outlawed and destroyed by the pope in AD 1312, the knights who had been arriving at the castle’s private helipad knew better.

De Molay placed his hands on the medieval seat’s cold arms.

It was the same throne his ancestors had governed from in an unbroken line for seven centuries—first in Jerusalem, then Acre, Cyprus, and finally Oman. When King Philip the Fair of France had arrested all Templars in his kingdom on Friday the 13th of October 1307 for heresy and blasphemy, a select group of Templars in Cyprus had reacted rapidly. On the secret orders of their Grand Master, they had quickly and covertly moved the throne from the Order’s headquarters in Limassol to Oman.

De Molay valued the link the seat gave him to the past. It was a tangible connection to nine centuries of the Order’s uninterrupted existence.

Like all the knights in the room, he wore a white monk’s habit. His hooded cowl was raised, shrouding his head so observers could see only glimpses of his quick dark eyes, aquiline nose, and neatly trimmed black goatee beard.

Emblazoned on the crisp white wool of his left breast was a blood-red cross patty—its arms flaring at the ends in the universally recognized symbol of the Knights Templar. Over the habit, he wore a simple white cloak, with another large red cross patty embroidered prominently onto the left side, running from his upper arm to his knee.

He looked for all the world like the old European nobleman he was.

His instinct had been to consider the options for longer before calling the knights together in a Grand Chapter. He liked to mull things over thoroughly, examining all the angles. He had learned long ago that rashness was for younger men.

But his magisterial court had been rightly concerned that time was critical. Even the ageing Edmund Saxby, his usually reticent Seneschal and right-hand man, had spoken eloquently on the need to act swiftly in this particular case.

As the noise in the chamber died, Saxby turned slowly to him. “Grand Master,” he prompted in a quiet sonorous voice that advancing years had only made deeper and richer.

De Molay nodded.

Saxby had been by his side ever since he had first entered the Order aged twenty-one, when his father had been Grand Master. In those early years, as he prepared to inherit the throne, he had relied heavily on Saxby’s encyclopaedic knowledge of the Order’s rules and customs. But now, having been Grand Master for over thirty years, he knew the Order’s ways as intimately as anyone ever had, and Saxby fulfilled a different role for him—faithful confidant and adviser.

De Molay rose to his feet, clapping once.

The staccato sound reverberated around the stone chamber, bouncing off its midnight-blue vault, a replica of the night sky, brightly spangled with iridescent gold stars. Around him, hundreds of pairs of black and white candles flickered in niches cut into the honey-coloured walls. And above it all, a vast red enamel cross hung in the air, suspended from the ceiling on gold chains, its edges studded in precious stones, shimmering and glinting in the reflected candle light.

“Brothers,” he spoke with accustomed authority. “Assist me to open this Grand Chapter.” His voice was clear and strong, with a pronounced French accent.

The white-robed knights lining the north and south walls either side of him rose to their feet as one, their faces also hidden by raised cowls.

At the same time, two knights seated on smaller thrones along the empty west wall also rose. They were spaced widely apart, facing De Molay—their three thrones together forming an isosceles triangle.

The Grand Master turned to the knight standing by the chamber’s thick studded oak doors. He was white-robed and hooded like the others—but in addition he carried a loaded sleek black FAMAS assault rifle.

The Grand Master used the words set out in the ancient Rule. “Brother Sentinel, has the moon reached its meridian?” His voice echoed clearly around the silent room.

The Sentinel stepped forward and raised his weapon to the present-arms salute. “It has, Grand Master.” He spoke with the hint of a Spanish accent.

Still looking directly at him, De Molay continued. “Brother Sentinel, are any strangers present in the Chapter?”

The Sentinel remained at attention. “None, Grand Master.”

He continued with the age-old questions. “Brother Sentinel, as only professed brethren may attend this Grand Chapter, do you vouch that each of the brothers present has proved to you on entry that he is of the House of the Temple?”

The Sentinel nodded curtly. “I do, Grand Master.”

De Molay asked a final question. “Brother Sentinel, is a trusted Watcher posted on the roof, ever vigilant for intruders, according to ancient custom?”

“He is, Grand Master.” The Sentinel replied crisply, before stepping back towards the door, cradling the weapon in his arms again.

De Molay sat down, and Saxby rose to his feet, turning to the knight seated on the throne in the north-west corner of the grand chamber.

“Brother Marshal, what is our Order?”

The knight gave the traditional reply. “We are the
Ordo Antiquus.”

Saxby then addressed the other, in the south-west corner. “Brother Standard-Bearer, what is our banner.”

“The unerring
Bauçeant
,” he responded.

Saxby turned again to the knight in the north-west corner. “Brother Marshal, what does the
Bauçeant
symbolize?”

“The mystical duality of life,” he replied automatically.

It was hypnotic—an ancient ritual antiphon performed at the opening of all Grand Chapters.

Everyone present knew the words by heart.

As Saxby went through the time-honoured formulas, De Molay’s mind returned to the pressing issue.

He was in no doubt recent events constituted a crisis. The knights were the keepers of a unique and powerful tradition—a secret so closely guarded that no one outside the Order had ever suspected it.

The Order alone had the global resources necessary to deal with the unexpected turn of events, even down to the secluded headquarters from where they could control operations. They were sitting in it—the fourteenth-century
Castrum Lucis
, the Castle of Light.

It was a formidable fortress, tucked away in north-eastern Oman’s Musandam peninsula, invisible to all except the black and white hawks, vultures, eagles, and falcons circling in the white-hot sky.

The castle’s dark outer stones were weather-beaten and smooth, rising out of the sheer cliffs that fell away into the sea. Except to those who knew the narrow tortuous paths, access was all but impossible by land. That was why his ancestor had chosen it all those centuries ago.

It was nevertheless in a globally strategic spot. From its ancient battlements, he could look out over the turquoise waters of the Straits of Hormuz. With high-powered binoculars, he could see across the thirty-five miles of narrow ocean channel to ancient Persia, now the Islamic Republic of Iran.

The introductory ritual concluded, and Saxby sat down.

Only a few of the knights knew why the Grand Chapter had been called so suddenly.

The sense of taut anticipation in the ancient hall was tangible.

All eyes were on the Grand Master.

He leant forward.

His voice was deep and rich, needing no microphone to cut into the expectant silence. “Dear brother knights, we are grateful to you for answering our summons so promptly. This convocation has not been assembled lightly.”

The tension in the room rose palpably.

He continued. “We have news of the most grave kind, and we will need all our resources for what has to be done.”

For the next hour and a half, he explained to the stunned assembly what had happened, and what plan would be put into place.

When the closing ritual was over, De Molay rose from the ancient marble throne to leave.

As he passed out of the hall, he contemplated the diamond chequerboard pattern of the medieval black and white floor tiles. The slabs bore the patina of age, smoothed from centuries of use. Gazing down at them, he was reminded of their traditional meaning—light and dark, good and evil.

Experience and years had taught him that there was a fundamental truth in their design.

Good and evil were rarely far apart.