Read Revenge of the Assassin (Assassin Series 2) Online
Authors: Russell Blake
The intruder approached on catlike feet, another syringe at the ready.
A loose flagstone beneath a delicately-placed boot jarred the silence. The guard jolted awake with a start. The intruder lunged forward with the needle, but this guard was faster than the one by the well; he dodged the attempt at his neck and spun towards his assailant as he shook off the grogginess of sleep. He fumbled for his pistol, but the intruder snap-kicked his hand, audibly breaking the bones. The guard howled in pain and, not as adept in close-quarters combat as his attacker, he swung ineffectually with his good hand. The intruder dodged the awkward assault and delivered three successive blows to the tall man’s solar-plexus, trachea and jaw. It was the throat-blow that stopped the guard mid-stride, and he staggered back against the door with a thud before crumpling to the floor.
The sound of his exclamation and body slamming against the heavy door alerted the other guard, and the rattle of keys scrabbling at the lock echoed in the now-still Chamber, followed by the guard’s cries of alarm to the Abbey above.
So much for stealth
. The intruder grabbed the canister and hastily shoved it into a streamlined backpack, then reentered the ventilation shaft and wedged the stone grid back into place.
The Chamber door heaved, but the weight of the unconscious guard held it closed. Within moments, more men were struggling with the door, and it grudgingly slid open. A shocked silence accompanied the discovery that the container was missing. The unthinkable had happened after centuries of vigilance – a locked room, a downed guard, and the cylinder gone, but nobody else in the Chamber.
How was it possible
?
One of the friars spotted a small lump of dust in a corner near the rock ledge that had been home to the Scroll. His trembling finger followed the path of gravity up the wall, ultimately pointing at the stone ventilation port. A cry went up, and half of the men ran out into the adjoining passageway, while the other half rushed to remove the heavy stone grid that barred the coal-black shaft behind it.
The intruder slipped along the crawlspace at high speed on a thin sheet of fiberglass with small rubber wheels mounted on the four corners – a modified low-profile skateboard, its ball-bearing axles rolling soundlessly. A second rappelling cord affixed at the starting point had proved a good idea for the return trip; the intruder traversed the entire length of the eighty-foot tunnel in seconds by pulling the makeshift trolley along the rope. The nylon line had also prevented confusion over which route led back to the catacombs – the shaft split in three directions at a central junction, but following the cord left only one choice.
The clamor of the guards exiting the Chamber reverberated down the passage where the prowler had dropped to the floor from the duct at the far end. Engaging the night-vision goggles again, the intruder easily found the harness dangling from the well’s opening and, with a practiced motion, donned and secured it. The climb back to the top of the narrow shaft took several minutes of fiercely-determined exertion. At the end of the ascent the noise of pursuers fumbling through the hall below inspired a burst of stamina – the final twenty feet were conquered in a few seconds, just as the guards reached the bottom of the shaft, screaming in frustration. Shots echoed from the void, and bullets nicked the interior of the well’s rim, but it was too late.
The nearly-invisible figure ran three hundred yards through the brush until arriving at a clearing – an ancient cemetery, possibly for the Abbey’s service staff, or a long-departed farming family. The intruder glanced back at the Abbey, now glowing with illumination, every window streaming light into the gloom. The frantic roar of car engines starting shattered the still night over the foggy moor.
Perfect
. The din would cover the sound of the getaway vehicle – a blacked-out obsidian Moto-Guzzi Stelvio NTX motorcycle hidden, for a fast escape, behind one of the battered headstones.
A gloved finger stabbed the starter button and the big motor cranked to rumbling life. The rider checked the backpack, ensuring it was tightly closed and safely strapped in place. It wouldn’t do to have the canister lost on a trail somewhere in the English wilds.
No, the contents were far too precious to take foolish chances with. If the legends were true, the cylinder held the key to the most important secret ever known – a secret capable of changing the course of history.
Slamming the motorcycle into gear, the black-garbed rider sprayed gravel with the rear wheel and roared off into the night.
Present Day, The Road to Lucca, Italy
Dr. Steven Archer Cross was having a very bad day.
His cell phone, wedged in its dashboard holder, signaled an incoming call just as he narrowly missed ramming his 2009 Porsche Cabriolet into a Renault sedan that had come to a skidding halt in front of him, blocked by a stalled VW Wesfalia covered with faded bumper stickers. The cars behind him slammed on their brakes and then stood on their horns in frustrated anger, as though somehow he’d conspired with the Renault and broken-down van immediately ahead. Steven had the Porsche’s convertible top down, and he could feel angry eyes boring into the back of his head as he waited for an opportunity to pull around the immobile camper.
Eventually, one of the vehicles behind him took pity and waved him forward. He signaled and pulled past the log-jammed clump of vehicles to join the rubberneckers in witnessing another unlucky driver’s misfortune. A tall man with curly brown hair and a faded Grateful Dead T-shirt stood by the side of the road, agitatedly talking on his cell phone. The look on his face telegraphed this wasn’t the first time the Volkswagen had betrayed him.
Steven stepped on the gas as he drove away from the congestion, checking the digital dashboard clock as he accelerated through the gears. He caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror, the wind buffeting his shaggy, light brown hair; the beginnings of hairline wrinkles on his tanned face framed his hazel eyes. Not so bad for forty-five, he reasoned, especially considering the mileage.
The road ahead of him opened up and soon he was tearing along at eighty, traffic having thinned to nothing. The vehicular crisis circumvented, he turned his attention to the phone and the missed call.
He reached for the keypad and hit the send button. His office manager Gwen answered.
“Hullo,” she said in British-accented English, her Yorkshire heritage obvious even from the single word.
“Hey, sorry I couldn’t pick up. I was a little busy.”
“How busy can you be on a day like today?” Gwen asked.
“You’d be surprised at how much I have going on,” Steven protested. “What’s up?”
“A strange call came in a few minutes ago. The gentlemen said he needed to speak to you immediately,” Gwen said.
“Okay…did you get a name?”
“Winston Twain. Mean anything?” Gwen asked.
Steven mentally file-referenced Twain. It was familiar, almost on the periphery of ‘very important’, but after racking his brain for a few moments the sensation of familiarity flitted away. Which didn’t necessarily mean anything – he’d been scattered since…
No point dwelling on the unpleasant.
“Not really. What did he want?” Steven asked.
“Just said it was a matter of significant importance.”
“Significant? Fine. What’s his number?”
“He didn’t leave one. Said he’d call back. He sounded like another Yank. I think the call might have been international,” Gwen opined.
Steven considered Gwen’s words – most calls of actual ‘significant importance’ tended to leave call-back numbers. Especially ones from the States, assuming her instinct was correct. Which it usually was. Gwen had been his office manager and handler since the inception of his software business three and a half years ago. She had an uncanny knack of being able to read people and was rarely wrong.
An uncomfortable silence hovered over the line.
“You’re still going to jump today?” Gwen asked.
“Yes,” Steven said.
“Jump out of a perfectly good plane, right?”
“Right.”
“Dropping at thirty-six feet per second, at a speed of–”
“Stop it. I have to go,” Steven protested.
“Cheers, then, and remember: what goes up…” Gwen disconnected.
As he fought the morning traffic towards Lucca, a city roughly half an hour northwest of Florence, Steven suddenly remembered what the name Winston Twain meant.
“I’ll be damned,” Steven muttered to himself.
Winston Twain.
Arguably the most respected cryptologist in the world.
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Table of Contents
Excerpts from Russell Blake’s books
Introduction
Excerpt from THE VOYNICH CYPHER
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1