The Sword of Moses (8 page)

——————— ◆ ———————

Western Suburbs

Astana

The Republic of Kazakhstan

Eventually, Ava felt the van slowing down.

She had no idea how long she had been lying on its floor in the dark. They had stopped for a while at one stage, and she had a feeling the van had taken one particular road a number of times, judging by its uniquely noisy surface and the number of distinctive sharp bends. But she had no visual clues to where they had driven her.

It felt like they had been travelling for half a day. But realistically she suspected it had been no more than several hours.

The driver cut the engine, and in the welcome silence she could hear the sound of men outside.

Before she could work out what they were doing, the doors were wrenched open.

As the fresh air flooded in, she gulped it down hungrily, grateful for relief from the foetid smoky atmosphere in the back of the van.

But she was immediately conscious of the new danger, and with no warning she felt hands grab her, pulling her roughly into a crouching position.

A spasm of pain shot through her cramped shoulders, which had been forced into an unnatural position on the floor for too long. As she was dragged forward, she discovered the rope binding her wrists behind her back had dug in, and she could not feel her hands at all.

“
Allez, bougez
!” She recognized the heavy Congolese-French accent immediately.

Hands guided her out of the van, shoving her forwards.

The sweat was pouring down her face inside the hot hood.

There was gravel under her feet, but it suddenly gave way to a harder surface, then a step.

As she concentrated on finding her footing, with no warning the floor began to move impossibly, rolling towards her.

A wave of panic flooded through her as she sensed her balance failing. She tried to reach out and grab something to steady herself, but her wrists were still tied tightly behind her back.

With a sickening jolt, she realized she had no way of protecting herself from the fall.

Unable to stop herself tumbling face forward, she braced for the impact, twisting her body sideways in the hope her shoulder would hit the floor before her head.

But someone caught her, and she was shoved forward again, arms guiding her from behind.

Her heart hammering, she staggered and stumbled, before the floor suddenly disappeared from under her feet entirely.

Her brain spun uncontrollably, and she felt a hot surge of primal terror flush through every muscle of her body.

What had she fallen off?

Her mind filled with images, flashing through at breakneck speed—cliffs, tall buildings, and even the high ledges people were cast off in the ancient biblical execution of stoning, condemning them to a gory death on the stone-flagged floor far below.

But then she realized there were arms holding her from behind, and now there were more, grasping her from the front.

She could make no sense of what was happening. She was gulping in breaths. Trying not to shout or struggle.

She kicked out with her legs, but they sliced ineffectually through empty air.

Completely disorientated, and struggling to visualize where she was, the arms suddenly released her, and she was shoved down into what felt like a hard chair.

Gasping for breath, she tried to steady herself. But immediately, hands began groping at her neck.

For a moment, another spike of adrenaline coursed through her strung-out system, filling her with a fresh panic that she was about to be strangled.

But a moment later, there was a searing pain at the base of her neck, and the hood was gone.

——————— ◆ ———————

Omsk Street

Saryarka District

Astana

The Republic of Kazakhstan

On top of the warehouse, Uri narrowed his eyes against the cold morning wind.

He looked at his ops watch. Its tritium hands and markers showed 3:30 a.m.

He had specifically chosen this early hour so that if the militiamen in the warehouse were asleep, they would likely be in the deepest part of the cycle, and disorientated on waking. Their grogginess could prove invaluable, buying him a few precious extra seconds before they realized what was happening.

He looked around the crumbling district carefully. Everything was quiet, aside from the occasional purr of a car on the main road a hundred yards behind him.

Nobody was about.

He nodded to the three men on the roof with him. Moshe had delivered quickly, and the small team from the elite
Sayeret Mat'kal
division had arrived fast. They could not have come from Tel Aviv in that time, but Uri knew better than to ask.

He peered into the warehouse through the large middle skylight. The building was dark inside—he could see nothing.

Working quickly, the team silently forced the skylight’s rotting frame and lifted off the glass. Without speaking, they expertly anchored hooks and single kernmantel ropes to the roof, before running the ends into their quick-release harnesses.

They were dressed in full black tactical ops kit and vests over kevlar body armour. It was generic clothing that would not identify their country of origin. They carried no objects or papers. Even their weapons were non-traceable—standard NATO Heckler and Koch G3 assault rifles. If anything went wrong, they were on their own. They would be disowned by Israel. It was part of the deal.

On Uri’s silent signal, they pulled on their helmets and flicked the selector switches on their weapons to auto-fire. Each checked their night-vision was turned off, then waited.

With everyone ready, Uri held a pair of M-84 flash-bang stun grenades over the open skylight. He pulled the pins a second apart, before dropping them into the gloomy space below.

As the grenades tumbled through the darkness, he looked away, holding his hands over his ears. The men with him did likewise, as two searing bursts of blinding magnesium-white light split the darkness, and a pair of thunderously deep bangs ripped through the warehouse.

Uri did not need to give any additional signal. With a precision borne from years of intense repetitive training, the team flicked on their night vision and hurled themselves into the void, rappelling down the single ropes at breakneck speed.

They all knew they had only five seconds before the militiamen below would be able to see again, and perhaps a little longer until the sensory disorientation and sleepiness wore off.

All four of them hit the cracked concrete ground hard.

In one orchestrated motion, they brought their weapons up to the fire position and spread out, covering all corners of the hangar, ready to return any hostile fire.

There was none.

Uri quickly scanned the warehouse, but could immediately see it was completely empty.

There were no adjoining rooms—just a large bare space.

As the men fanned out, Uri studied the floor. It was littered with cigarette ends and take-away food wrappers, and fresh ash covered an area of burnt concrete where a fire had been lit for cooking and heating. He held his hand over the ashes—they were still warm.

The building had clearly been occupied until very recently.

But the militiamen were now gone. And so was the object they had brought with them.

Uri cursed quietly under his breath.

After swiftly checking the front door for booby-traps, he waved the men out into the morning air. Even though it would be a while before anyone turned up to investigate the explosions, they ran to the car—another habit instilled by years of disciplined training.

Speeding off into the Astana night, Uri pulled out his mobile to text Moshe the bad news.

——————— ◆ ———————

Western Suburbs

Astana

The Republic of Kazakhstan

Ava winced with pain.

As the hood was pulled off, the light tore directly into her dilated pupils, which began contracting immediately, but not fast enough to prevent a searing pain ripping through her head.

She looked around, blinking, and instantly understood why the floor had moved as she had been led there, and why it had then suddenly disappeared completely.

She was in the rusty hold of a grimy stripped-down tug boat. To get her there, the men must have walked her along the yawing deck, then lifted her through the open hatchway she could see off to her left.

It was bare and functional—just reddish-brown rusty bulkheads enclosing an empty section of the hold. Two naked bulbs lit the space—not well, but enough to force her to squint as her eyes adjusted to the unaccustomed light.

Through the portholes she could see it was still pitch black outside. A cracked clock on the wall showed the time as just gone 3:30 a.m.

Ferguson was sitting next to her, also on a cheap hard wooden chair. He was still hooded, with his hands bound behind his back.

The white holdall lay at his feet.

Directly ahead of her, a large African man was standing in front of a pallet. He was unusually tall, heavily muscled, and wore the regulation beret of the paramilitary. He had not been part of the snatch-squad in the Mercedes.

She assumed he was the leader, Kimbaba.

She took in all this information in a few seconds, before her eyes were magnetically drawn to what was behind Kimbaba, on the pallet.

It was an object the size of a large packing trunk, shrouded under a beige tarpaulin.

A cocktail of emotions flooded through her. She had been so preoccupied with what was happening around her that she had temporarily forgotten why she was there.

But now, looking at the object veiled under the thick material, she was completely focused—finding it hard to believe she was not dreaming, and that a few yards from her sat potentially the greatest archaeological find of all time.

Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined she might one day come face to face with the genuine Ark of the Covenant. Even though the voice of experience told her it was almost certainly a fake, she could not suppress her excitement at the thought it might be real.

It was almost too much for her to take in.

As she traced the outline of the object under the grimy canvas, she realized Kimbaba was speaking to her. “Let me apologize for the manner in which you have been brought here.” His English was good, although strongly accented.

“You must also forgive the change in plan.” Despite the apologetic words, his expression was as hard as flint.“Someone was taking an unhealthy interest in us.” His eyes were flicking around, restlessly. “But my country is rich. We have friends, and have been able to find this quiet place for you to examine the…merchandise.”

Ava winced at hearing the Ark described as ‘merchandise’—as if it was just another crate of whatever Kimbaba usually bought and sold. Contraband tin ore, she imagined, if he was plugged into the usual government-run black market circles in Kinshasa.

He continued, nodding at Ferguson’s hooded and bound figure. “Your friend will stay where he is while you carry out the inspection.”

Ava was barely listening to him. Her eyes were fixed on the tarpaulin.

“We will have to check you first,” he announced. “Stand up.”

Ava did as he asked, not taking her eyes off the object she had come to see.

Kimbaba nodded to his wiry deputy in the doorway.

Ava had not noticed the three militiamen standing off by the hatch. There had been more of them in the van. She assumed the others were guarding the rest of the boat.

Masolo stepped forward. Reaching Ava, he began patting her down. She remained motionless—her hands still tied behind her back.

He started with her upper body, then squatted down to rub her thighs, shins, and ankles. When he had finished, he stood again, and began patting her ribs once more—his hands lingering on her, his smug smile openly betraying his enjoyment at touching her.

As his eyes connected with hers, he gripped her hips firmly and fixed her with a suggestive leer.

Something inside Ava snapped.

An anger had been building since the kidnapping back at the nightclub. She felt misled, mistreated, and bruised. And the last thing she was in the mood for was being touched up by one of Kimbaba’s men.

Without warning, she kicked him viciously in the kneecap, and pulled away defiantly, her eyes blazing.

Masolo crumpled to the floor, his face a mask of pain. He spat out a word she did not understand, but the sense was unambiguous in any language.

Kimbaba seemed amused. He stepped towards her, and sliced through the rope binding her wrists,

She rubbed her hands, grateful to get the circulation flowing again.

Kimbaba smiled, took her by the arm, and walked her toward the tarpaulin. “This is a big day. One we will all remember for a long time.” He paused for effect. “Because you are going to tell the world what this is.”

As they approached the pallet, something vibrated quietly on Kimbaba’s belt.

He pulled the small rubberized phone off his beltclip, and answered it.

After listening briefly, he hung up, his features expressionless.

Walking across to Masolo, he said something to him in a low voice, before striding over to Ferguson, who was still tied to the chair.

Kimbaba ripped the duct tape from around Ferguson’s neck and pulled the hood away roughly. “I’m very disappointed,” he hissed, his eyes narrowing.

He stepped back, and made way as Masolo stalked over to Ferguson. In one swift movement, Masolo hooked his foot under one of the chair’s front legs, at the same time shoving Ferguson hard in the chest.

Ferguson and the chair toppled over sideways. Without pausing, Masolo aimed a savage kick at his midriff.

Ferguson grunted with the pain, bringing his knees up to his chest as Masolo kicked him again, this time in his kidney.

Without pausing to think, Ava launched herself at Masolo. She caught him off guard, ramming her shoulder hard into his solar plexus, winding him, and sending them both crashing to the hard rusty floor.

She had been quick and had the element of surprise, but he was stronger. He grabbed her right wrist with one of his large hands, and roughly spun her over onto her front. Ramming her face hard into the floor, he twisted her arm up behind her back with an animal brutality.

A bolt of white-hot pain seared through her shoulder. She tried to push him away, but felt her strength ebbing as she was overcome by an overpowering urge to vomit.

Masolo knelt on her to restrain her struggles. She was semi-paralyzed by the sheer agony of her shoulder, and could feel his breath on her neck and his knee grinding into the middle of her back. Twisting her head, she stared up at him defiantly, fuelled with adrenaline and rage, but unable to resist.

Masolo looked quizzically at his boss, who nodded for him to keep her pinned down.

Kimbaba stepped over to Ferguson and hunched over him. “Did you really think you could steal it from me?”

Ava fought to keep her expression neutral.

“You’ve made a serious error of judgement.” The militiaman’s voice was rising.

Ferguson said nothing.

Ava had no idea what Kimbaba was talking about.

“Who do you think you’re dealing with?” He was working himself up into a fury, but still speaking slowly and menacingly. His tone was chilling. “We left a lookout at the warehouse, who saw your whole operation.”

Ava still had no idea what he was talking about.

What operation?

She struggled to understand. Prince and DeVere had been with them until they were separated. They had not mentioned any attack on the warehouse. And there was nobody else involved as far as she knew.

Was General Hunter playing some other game?

Kimbaba was breathing heavily now. He moved round to the pallet and laid his hand on the rough canvas, stroking it thoughtfully.

Turning, he looked back directly at Ferguson. “Do you expect me to believe it’s a coincidence that four armed men just hit my warehouse?” His tone was coldly aggressive.

When Ferguson answered, his voice was clear and measured. “A lot of people are interested in your ‘merchandise’. It could’ve been anyone.”

Kimbaba’s eyes scanned the room rapidly. He pursed his lips, then looked at Ava—still on the floor with Masolo pinning her down.

He seemed to have made a decision.

Striding towards the three men by the door, he waved in the direction of the pallet. “Pack it away,” he ordered them

He stopped at the door and spun to face Ava and Ferguson. “You’ve just made a tactical error of great magnitude. Your governments will come to regret their decision.” He paused. “And so will you.” Despite the cold night air, his lined face was shining with sweat.

Twisting her head, Ava watched in horror as Masolo pulled a syringe out of his dirty combat jacket pocket.

Her eyes widening in fear, her body took over, kicking and writhing to get as far away from the needle as she could.

But Masolo was too strong.

As if in slow motion, she saw the needle puncture the skin of her exposed hip as he pushed it in hard.

Before she could struggle any more, she was filled with a sudden rush of warm nausea, then everything went black.