——————— ◆ ———————
Omsk Street
Saryarka District
Astana
The Republic of Kazakhstan
After dropping the rucksack off at the safe flat, Uri headed for the warehouse.
The four-door Lada which Zvi had sourced for him was perfect. He was grateful the local bureau followed standard operating procedures properly. Attention to the small details made all the difference between a smooth operation and a string of headaches.
He looked around the car’s monochrome cabin, noticing the tired fabric and the brown towel on the back seat. He could not have asked for better. The car would go unnoticed anywhere in the city, but its unseen retrofitted top-of-the-range engine was capable of getting him away from any trouble quickly.
It was late as he headed deeper into the north-east part of the warehouse district. The streets were shabby and deserted, populated only by the occasional drunk and roadside prostitute.
Zvi’s map was old but adequate, and Uri found Omsk Street without trouble.
It was a long road, lined with derelict buildings—many with smashed windows and open doorways.
He found the warehouse he was looking for quickly. It was exactly as Zvi had described it—set back from the road, clearly identifiable by its narrower width and lower roof. A small security light on the front confirmed its peeling paint was dull green.
He drove a few hundred yards past it, then did a U-turn, coming back to look again from the other direction. There was no one outside it, so he pulled the car over onto a piece of wasteland fifty yards further down the street.
Walking swiftly but quietly back to the warehouse, he could see it was cheaply built and hastily assembled—prefabricated from compressed steel sheets.
He walked around the building to get a feel for the surroundings. But there was nothing to see on the industrial wasteland except bits of broken crates, rusty metal, and a few empty bottles.
It had plainly been a while since any major commercial activity had happened in the area.
The warehouse itself had three large skylights, a row of small high windows down either side, a single set of hangar doors, and no other obvious entry or exit points.
It would have to be the front doors then.
Pulling out the Beretta which Zvi had given him, he inserted a clip, chambered a round, then bent down and picked up a small lump of broken brick.
He retired to fifty feet from the warehouse. Checking again there was no one around, he threw the brick hard at the large steel doors, then moved swiftly to take cover behind a mound of shipping crates.
He looked at his watch, and waited.
After a pause, a low access-port in the warehouse’s large hangar doors swung open.
He checked his watch again.
Forty-two seconds.
They weren't camped out near the main doors, then.
Ten seconds later, a man emerged. He looked about thoroughly, scanning the area immediately in front of the warehouse and to the sides.
Uri did not have photographs of his targets, but the man was not wearing a security guard’s uniform, was African, and was armed with an AK-47.
There could not be many answering that description in the warehouse district that evening.
The man continued looking about. He carefully walked the length of the warehouse in both directions again, staring intently into the night. Eventually seeming satisfied, he stopped again by the access door, lit a cigarette, smoked it quickly, then went back inside.
Uri had what he needed. There was one man on guard. No external security systems. No men on the outside.
This was going to be easy.
He waited ten more minutes to make sure all was quiet, then stepped out from behind the packing crates.
After inspecting the warehouse one more time to burn the building’s details into his mind, he headed to the car and drove back.
Once at the flat, he pulled the cap off a bottle of cold beer from the fridge, and opened the file he had hidden behind the radiator. Reading it again, he made sure he had memorized all its details.
When he was done, he walked over to the gas cooker, turned on a ring, and lit a corner of the file. Dropping the burning papers into the kitchen’s metal bin, he watched the leaves buckle and curl inside the tongues of flame, before crumbling to ash.
As the fire died, he finished his beer, lay down on the sofa, and took out his phone.
Logging onto a secure network, he texted Moshe an encrypted message for immediate action.
His work finished for now, he placed the phone onto the table beside him and flicked the television on. It was showing a documentary about Kazakhstan’s uranium mining industry—which the colourful charts seemed to claim was the world’s largest. He could not understand a word of the commentary, but was too wired to sleep.
In less than a minute, his phone buzzed with a reply.
——————— ◆ ———————
Western Suburbs
Astana
The Republic of Kazakhstan
It was hot in the back of the van.
From the warm acrid smell filling Ava’s nostrils, it was evident the militiamen had been living rough for a while.
She was lying on her side next to Ferguson on the grimy floor, her wrists bound behind her back. Two militiamen were sitting up front, the other four were lolling on wooden benches along the sides of the van’s interior, staring grimly at their prisoners.
No one spoke.
Ava’s heart was pounding. They had not hurt her or Ferguson so far. She kept telling herself that was a good sign.
Despite her joke earlier, she was in no danger of developing Stockholm syndrome. The last things she felt towards her captors were warmth, trust, or gratitude.
One of the men near her lit a match. With all her senses on overdrive, its hot sulphurous smell was overpowering, filling her nostrils, before being replaced by the cloying fumes of cheap tobacco.
Opposite her, another of the militiamen leant across and unzipped one of the grubby holdalls on the van’s floor, removing what looked like a black T-shirt.
He stared at her provocatively—the slow movement of his dilated pupils and yellowed eyes suggesting long-term drug use. Without taking his gaze off her, he separated the black material into two pieces, and laid them out on his knees.
As Ava took in the shapes, she realized with a start what they were.
Her body released a jolt of adrenaline and she fought to stave off a rising wave of nausea.
Hoods.
She glanced at Ferguson, who had also seen what the man was doing.
Looking on with dread, she watched as the man leant towards Ferguson and pulled the black bag over his head, before sealing the opening around his neck with strips from a roll of shiny black duct tape.
Ava clamped her jaw tightly shut as the man turned to her, bending forward, angling the second hood towards her.
As she smelled the gun oil and tobacco on his fingers, every fibre of her being screamed at her to resist.
But she knew it would be futile, and would only result in her getting unnecessarily hurt. She had no idea what lay in store when they reached their destination, and needed to avoid any injuries that could compromise her ability to react.
Sucking in deep breaths, she offered no resistance while the man hooded her.
As the darkness descended, she could feel strips of sticky duct tape being wound round the base of her neck, sealing the hood onto her head, shutting out the last slivers of light.
Enveloped in blackness, defenseless and vulnerable, she closed her eyes to try and fight the panic that was welling up inside her.
It was frightening enough being tied up, a prisoner, hurtling through the Kazakh night in the back of a vehicle with armed militiamen and no backup.
Being deprived of her primary senses only intensified the mounting fear.
——————— ◆ ———————
The Knights
’
Refectory
Castrum Lucis
Musandam Peninsula
The Sultanate of Oman
The Arabian Gulf
The Grand Chapter meeting was over. A plan had been devised, and was already being implemented.
The Templars were now in the Knights’ Refectory—a low stone-vaulted room set with three long wooden tables, each weighed down by an imposing array of silver candelabra, plates, goblets, and other vessels. The metalware glowed a pale orange colour, reflecting the warm stone lit softly by the guttering candles.
The knights ate in silence on benches, their white cowls hooding their heads and faces. In the timeless monastic tradition, they communicated only by occasional hand-signals, while one brother stood in a stone pulpit in the corner, reading extracts aloud from the Order’s medieval rule.
Two of the long tables ran the length of the room, the other joined them to form a U-shape. Each was dominated by a large ornamental jewelled metal centrepiece.
The imposing sculpture in the middle of the right-hand table was a silver ring, a foot high, off which radiated seven flames, seemingly frozen in time, wrought in silver and multicoloured precious stones. As the glow from the room’s candles bounced off its gems, the metal flames appeared to dance in the mellow light.
On the left-hand table, the centrepiece was an ornate silver triangle enclosing a large all-seeing Eye of Horus, gleaming in gold and blue lapis lazuli.
Grand Master Olivier De Molay sat on the high table, raised on a stone dais at right angles to the others. He was flanked by seven knights either side of him. The centrepiece on his table was a gold and ruby sculpture with the letters ‘XV’ enclosed in a fifteen-pointed star.
As the last of the food was cleared away, De Molay rose to his feet.
“Brothers.” His voice filled the low stone room, as his predecessors’ had for generations.
“This year is the eight hundred and ninety-third anniversary of the foundation of our Order by Master Hugh de Payns—a poor knight of Jerusalem with a humble vision for the defence of the Holy Land. Yet from these small beginnings, the mightiest of Orders grew.”
The knights were all listening carefully. The Grand Master rarely spoke unless he had to.
“This year is also the seven hundred and sixth anniversary of the relocation of the
Ordo Antiquus
, the Order within the Order, to our new headquarters here at
Castrum Lucis
—ordered by Grand Master Jacques de Molay himself in 1307 when he foresaw the imminent destruction of the wider Order.”
De Molay looked around solemnly. “Since then, the world around us has changed beyond recognition. But our loyalty to the cause and to each other has never faltered. We stand together now, stronger than we have ever been.”
There were nods of agreement from the knights.
“Lest we forget, we are still a fighting Order—and we have a mission, which has been our purpose for centuries.”
He surveyed the room.
Every eye was on him.
“Our founding of the elite French Foreign Legion in 1831 has enabled us to recruit the toughest and most disciplined special forces in the world—with full land, sea, and air capabilities.”
He looked at those on the right-hand table seated around the seven-flamed ring. “Brother Knights of the East and West, you are the world’s finest military forces. You have risen through the
Légion
’s elite Sword and Axe fraternity. You travel the globe. You live in inhospitable climes. You are the true inheritors of our desert fathers’ warrior legacy.”
He raised his heavy gold goblet in their direction. Each of them had been hand-picked by their superiors in the Foreign Legion as suitable for initiation into the Templars. “
Vos salutamus
,”
1
he toasted them earnestly, honouring them with the Grand Master’s ancient salute.
“And yet our strength goes wider and deeper,” he continued. “For we live in a world where civil society wields many powers. Through our founding of freemasonry in the early fourteenth-century, we have long drawn on the finest of the civilian world.”
He looked at the men on the left-hand table grouped around the Eye of Horus. “Freemasonry has ever brought us exceptional men from all walks of life—public and private, from every field of human endeavour. Any freemason selected for elevation into this Order has shown his deep commitment to our arts and mysteries, and has proved his skill in maintaining the utmost fidelity and secrecy.” He raised his goblet to them. “Brother Knights Kadosh,
vos salutamus
.”
He paused, replacing the goblet on the table.
“And finally, my brothers of The Elect of Fifteen.” He turned to survey those on the dais alongside him. “You are the family descendants of the fifteen knights who first escaped and journeyed here in 1307 at the command of my ancestor, Grand Master Jacques de Molay. You are the blood link to our forebears, who carried their heavy secrets here that we may preserve them. Your families belong to our Order as of right, in perpetuity. You are our beating heart.” He raised his goblet a third time. “To you also my brothers,
vos salutamus
.”
De Molay lowered the heavy goblet once more and surveyed the room slowly. “My brothers, these are dark times. And they may yet get darker. But we have always prevailed. And we shall again. It is our privilege, and our duty.”
He paused, and in a ritual gesture made a fist of his right hand, before thumping it hard onto the left side of his chest, where he held it. “Brothers of the House of the Temple of Solomon of Jerusalem,” he called in a raised voice. “
Si vis pacem
… .”
2
The hall filled with the sound of scraping as the benches were pushed back and every man in the room stood, likewise thumping their fists to their chests, and bellowing the ritual reply, the sound ringing around the stone walls of the room, as it had done for seven centuries, “ …
para bellum!
”
3