“I beg your apology, sir.”
Kranz cursed himself for mentioning such a stupid thing. He didn’t even know the identity of the Persian and here he was trying to use his superior as a messenger to curry favor with the Sun-runner, of all people. Was he insane? The Order had a strict hierarchy: Raven, Bride, Soldier, Lion, Persian, Sun-runner and then the Pater. He had to show he knew his place within it.
“You are to update me when we have the information from the ankh.”
“Yes, sir.”
After the Persian cut the call, Kranz sat for a long time and stared at the dead screen in silence. It felt good delivering such important news to him, but had he made a terrible mistake asking for his success to be taken to the Sun-runner? Lions never spoke with Sun-runners, and as for asking a Persian to do his bidding for him… he prayed he would not be a dead Lion for giving into his vanity and greed like this. They all knew what had happened to Morton Wade after his expulsion from the Order, and none of them wanted to be on the outside like that, in the cold… unprotected. Pushed away from the warm embrace of the Pater.
On his desk, a black plastic telephone rang. He licked his lips, took a deep breath and answered it.
“Mr Kranz?”
It was Matthias, his personal assistant.
“Yes?”
“The German Minister for Foreign Affairs is on the line, sir. He wants to discuss the up-coming trade summit.”
“He’ll have to wait,” Kranz said.
“But it’s the Minister himself, sir.”
“And I am the Minister of Foreign Affairs of the Netherlands and I am dealing with a more important matter at the moment.”
He cut the call. Matthias would deal with it. He was very good at that and he could trust him to keep Dieter happy. Kranz had more important things to consider than an international trade deal. That was child’s play compared with what the Persian was demanding of him.
He rose from his studded leather swivel-chair and stepped across the plush carpet of his office. Studying the skyline of The Hague beyond his tinted window, his mind began to dance around the joys — and fears — that a conversation with the Persian could bring. Insignificant men like Dieter Müller, the German foreign affairs minister, could not hope to understand the level on which men like the Persian moved around the world.
Kranz moved to his lavish drinks cabinet and poured himself a chunky Courvoisier. Downing the first in one, he breathed out hard as he poured number two. This second one he sipped more slowly as the brandy unleashed his mind from the fears that usually kept him in place. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was in the office — it was a ridiculous act of paranoia. He lowered his voice to a mumbled whisper in case someone in OM had bugged his office — not so paranoid this time — and started to mutter: “Raven, Bride, Soldier, Lion, Persian, Sun-runner…”
He reduced his voice now to almost nothing. “Pater… who are you, Father?”
He stopped.
This was dangerous territory.
He finished the brandy and opened the window of his office, allowing the warm summer air to blow over his face. He was being reckless. Talking to the Persian in that way, and now speculating about the identity of the Father… If he was not very careful indeed, he would surely be a dead Lion soon enough, and yet would that bring the peace he craved, or did the Father control the afterlife as well as the world around him?
He shook the thought from his mind. It was too dark to contemplate. It was time to bring his mind back to the hunt once again. Kiya had done well. She was solid, efficient and ruthless. She was a good Bride and would make a fine Soldier. That, at least, was one decision that as a Lion he was able to make for himself.
They had the ankh, and they had Starling, the one woman who could translate its ancient poetry. Now all he had to do was to persuade her to read the symbols and the ancient Egyptian ankh would lead them all the way to one of the greatest treasures imaginable. Surely then his efforts would be recognized by Amadeus and he would be nominated for elevation to Persian himself.
And anyone who got in the way of that would not be long for this world.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Mason searched the sky above the roof of the Sapphire but Katherine Addington was nowhere to be seen. He scanned the Istanbul skyline for any sign of her but drew a blank. “Where are you Kat?” he said into the mic.
“She’s on her way, Jed,” Milo said.
“Yeah, you just said that, and now I have three guys with knuckle dusters and swords heading my way.”
“She’s almost there!”
Mason sighed, and continued to step away from the men. “What the hell does that mean, Milo?”
And then he heard her voice. “It means I’m four minutes out.”
“Kat!”
It was good to hear the sound of her voice. He and Kat Addington were as close as couples got, and no one ever dared come between them. But it was turbulent. The good times were great, and in the bad times they fought like cat and dog, but they had come through so much together.
Mason glanced over his shoulder at the door. “How long now, Kat?”
“Three minutes. I’m just passing over Maslak.”
One of the men stayed at the door, while the other two came closer. He studied them for any signs of weakness as they moved toward him. He didn’t much like that they were tooled up with swords, but they still had to be faced down. He guessed they’d seen their buddies downstairs in the penthouse and didn’t want to make the same mistake. Two of them were holding antique Ottoman scimitars in their hands and one was pushing a brass knuckle duster on his right hand. With Kat still three minutes out he’d be lucky to get away with his life this time.
Jed Mason had nowhere to run.
The roof of the Istanbul Sapphire had become his prison now, and there were only three ways out — through the door now guarded by one of the sword-wielding men, over the side and a two hundred and sixty-one meter drop or on the rope ladder of Kat’s Robinson R22 chopper… but where the hell was she?
The two men moved toward him fast now. They were going to attack at the same time. As Mason confronted the man with the scimitar, Knuckle Duster ran around behind him and swung his armed fist at him.
He ducked and the fist sailed over his head, but at the same time Scimitar slashed his blade through the air and almost sliced an inch-deep gouge in his neck.
“I’m in deep shit, Kat!”
“Two minutes.”
Knuckles laughed and brought the brass rings down on Mason’s jaw, blasting him over on his back and nearly knocking him out. Mason’s world began to spin as he tried to recover from the impact of the knuckle duster. The skyline of Istanbul zipped around a few times but gradually the stars started to fade as he came around.
Both men approached him.
“I’m going to enjoy killing you, English man,” Scimitar said.
“Tell me if I’m overstepping my bounds, but have you ever considered seeing a psychiatrist?”
The man was stony-faced and slashed the sword through the air. Its curved blade reflected the sunlight and dazzled Mason’s eyes. Whoever this guy was, he knew how to handle a blade. To underline the point he threw it in the air and caught it in the other hand, and now he lunged forward, aiming the tip of the steel at Mason’s heart.
The canny Londoner knew the moves thanks to his army boxing, and quickly sidestepped the attack and allowed the man to fall past him. Seizing the moment he brought his fist around into his flank and hammered him hard. Scimitar staggered back but Knuckles charged into the fight.
“One minute, Jed. I hope the asset’s nice and safe.”
“Safe and sound, Kat — just… hurry up!”
Mason spun around and powered a fist into Knuckle Duster’s face. He fell on his knees and grunted in pain, but Mason wasn’t done with him yet. He brought his right leg up and powered a solid kick into his ribs. Never kick a man when he’s down, his instructor used to tell him.
Except when they’re trying to kill you, old son.
And then anything goes.
Mason judged the kick’s aim and power as if he was trying to launch a rugby ball over the crossbar from the halfway line. Ribs cracked and the man cried out as he rolled over on his back and clutched at his broken bones.
Mason padded forward and fired a no-nonsense right cross into his face. He belted him hard enough to knock him out. He turned on the other man who was swinging the scimitar in his face once again.
The blade slashed past his head with millimeters to spare, and his only play was to use the bag as a defense. He pulled it from his shoulder and held it up like a shield. The man slashed the blade a second time, slicing through one of the straps like a hot knife through butter. The bag fell out of his hands and tumbled over onto the floor.
His opponent lunged forward, but this time Mason was ready and side-stepped to the left before powering a punch into his face. His head cracked back and Mason smacked the sword out of his hand before unleashing a brutal volley of punches into the man’s stomach. He finished things off with a head butt and then the chopper finally arrived.
As it descended down toward the roof, he sprinted over to it, snatching up the canvas bag on his way. Back at the door, another man had joined the man with the sword and they were sprinting toward him.
“Throw the bag up!” Kat yelled.
Mason scrambled for the bag and tossed it through the chopper’s door. Kat grabbed it and put it in the co-pilot’s seat.
“You need to come lower!” Mason yelled, but his voice was drowned out by the roar of the engine and the tremendous downdraft of the rotor wash. He knew it was dangerous for her to come any lower because of the risk of the rotors hitting the many aerials. “Lower the rope!”
Now the men were pounding across the roof toward Mason.
Kat leaned out of the open window and called down to him. “Goodbye, Jed. It’s been nice knowing you, but it’s time we went our separate ways.”
Mason stared up at the chopper almost unable to believe what he had just heard. “What are you talking about? They’re going to kill me!”
“Say goodbye to the other Raiders for me, won’t you, darling?”
He felt the chopper power up and move away from the skyscraper’s roof. The rotors speeded up and increased the downdraft. It knocked him off his feet and blasted him back onto the roof. He watched helplessly as Kat Addington, the love of his life, lifted the Robinson high above the Sapphire and made a sharp turn to starboard, peeling away into the bright Turkish sunlight with the asset in his bag right next to her.
“What the hell’s going on?”
Milo’s voice.
“She’s gone,” Mason said, his voice weak and confused.
“Speak up, Jed.”
“I said she’s gone!”
“What are you talking about?”
“Kat… she just took my bag and flew away.”
“Jesus…”
“I’m in trouble, Milo. I need back-up.”
“On it.”
And he would be on it. They were asset extraction specialists after all, and now he needed extraction, but still, he could hardly believe what Kat had just done.
Had he imagined it?
He felt gutted. He felt hollowed out.
He felt two heavy hands grab him by the shoulders and heave him up to his feet, and then a savage punch in his stomach. He collapsed forward with all the air knocked out of him and began to cough wildly.
The other man tore the mic and earpiece from him and ground it to dust under his boot heel. “You won’t need this.”
“And now you come with us,” the other said. “Your girlfriend might not love you anymore, but now you have a date with a trash compactor.”