Baltasar picked up half a mug of cold coffee from a desk and strolled through as if he’d just started work. One older lady gave him a glance before looking away. The man by the water cooler never moved. Baltasar reached the middle clean room in a matter of seconds and faced his first obstacle.
The standard lock with no key.
Breaking it open would be easy, but noisy. To try the handle and find it locked would draw attention. There was only one course of action.
Kill them all first.
Pausing for a few seconds, Baltasar pulled down the top of his T-shirt and traced one of the old wounds there. Scar tissue, ridged and angry, it was pure white stitching now, but oddly comforting. It reminded him of past days when he’d still been fully unaware of the master’s true plan for him. Another scar ran across his stomach. Baltasar lifted his T-shirt now and traced that one, pressing hard. The pressure cleared any white noise that might be buzzing around his brain.
The man by the water cooler was staring at him.
Baltasar smiled, picked up a letter opener and leapt swiftly at the first worker. Head down, focused, they never even looked up before the shiny silver edge dug deep into their neck and ripped its way to the right. Then the blood was splashing, the life ebbing. Pain was a secondary sense to shock, at least at first. Baltasar was already leaping away, seeing the water cooler guy opening his mouth to scream. The letter opener flew truly, flung with incredible dexterity and strength, and lodged as far as it was able into the side of the man’s neck. Another expression of shock. The paper cup fell to the floor, splashing its contents across a pair of patented leather shoes. Then Baltasar was there, withdrawing the letter opener quickly then thrusting it back into place.
Again and again and again.
Eight seconds had passed.
Spinning, he saw the old lady regarding him with disbelief. The only other person left alive was rising fast, clearly about to make a break for the exit.
Baltasar allowed the water cooler guy to fall to the floor to continue bleeding out. Of course, he knew that even a trained operative such as he had no chance of stopping the rising man, so another alternative had to be sought. In an office space as cluttered as this, many items came to hand. A keyboard wasn’t heavy or accurate enough unless he achieved the perfect shot and in this environment it was unlikely. He almost went for the thick-rimmed trashcan, knowing its heavy impact would send the man sprawling, but then spotted a far better alternative.
A severed head.
Baltasar hefted it, moved it to his right hand and took aim. The old lady took a deep breath and almost screamed, more worried about the head than her life. Baltasar hadn’t thought of that. Still, he let loose the severed skull, wondering briefly if his action might have some classic meaning, and then watched as it smashed against the man’s right cheekbone. The effect was immediate, eliciting a squeal and diverting the run straight into a desk. He hit hard, knees striking wood, legs folding, chin coming down and bouncing off the surface. Baltasar didn’t stop for one second. A discreet vibration in his pocket had already told him that he had less than ten minutes.
The event was coming, and was now utterly unstoppable.
Baltasar struck the old lady dead center in the chest with both feet; caught himself on both hands and was back on his feet before she hit the floor. The other man was still groaning. Baltasar could leave them both in a stupor, but couldn’t take the slightest chance. Another weapon then appealed to him.
The sword was old, damaged. The point was useful, however, and quickly ended any lasting threat the two workers may have posed. Now, Baltasar had the lab to himself. He returned to the locked door, forced it open, and quickly entered. The object he sought was right there, next to a microscope and a discarded pair of white gloves. Unstrapping the small rucksack he pulled on gloves of his own and placed it gently inside the receptacle he’d been given. Then he sealed it.
Replacing the backpack, looking around one last time, he was ready to go. His head counted down the seconds. Four minutes. Barely enough time, but timing was of the essence. Crucial to almost every mission. Timing was often the key to a clear escape or ignominious capture. Baltasar didn’t have to, but made a good job of concealing the bodies and the blood, working fast. The alarm must not be raised — not here, in this room. He then exited the lab, passed through the detector and moved fast along the halls. Nobody gave him a second glance. Baltasar desperately wanted to change back into his robes, but knew they singled him out. The civilian costume would have to do, for now. Many innocents milled about the museum, lost in their own worlds, young and old. Foreign and local. Priceless works of art before their eyes. Baltasar passed a few moments reflecting over the fact that there were many ways to steal relics, objects of incredible significance, but there really was only one way to ensure that theft was never discovered.
His masters had done this before. Very loudly. Very publicly. In their wisdom, their infinite intelligence and depth of cunning, they knew what worked best.
The main doors were ahead. Baltasar felt another vibration inside his pocket and knew he had less than thirty seconds.
Athens was barely visible through freshly cleaned glass. The city would never be the same.
CHAPTER TWO
Baltasar jogged down the double set of steps, feeling the first vibration traveling through the concrete and up his legs. This wasn’t the warning pulse though, this was the real thing. It felt like a small earthquake, and those that felt it froze in place, eyes widening, body language suddenly hesitant. He saw them turning toward each other, looking for some kind of explanation, some solace perhaps, but not a single one of them had an answer.
Not the crowd heading straight toward him, eager to see the museum. Not the bus drivers collected down the road, smoking and drinking and talking about life. Not the school kids to the left, so close to the entrance that they were in danger already.
Another vibration, this one deeper, stronger. Baltasar kept walking, and then felt the earth move once more. It felt like an earthquake to be sure, and that was good. Mimicking the herd — because he knew a man walking away from this and not watching was considered unnatural and would be spotted later by the police — he stared back at the museum as he continued forward. He forced a look of concern onto his visage, maybe even fright.
The museum’s vast multi-columned façade lurched. Mortar crumbled away from the many joints and then a large piece of rubble sheared away from one of the walls. Windows shattered, compressed out of shape. Glass exploded in every direction, littering the swelling floors. A tidal wave almost seemed to pass through the building, raising its enormous bulk and then letting it resettle, and but then the mega damage was already done.
A column fell away from the front, looming over tourists and then crashing into their midst as they scattered. The ground shattered, the column burst apart. Debris shot far and wide. Another column began to sway. People streamed out of the front doors, screaming, waving arms and trying to pull loved ones along. Many fell in the panic, trampled. Others fought and punched and embraced their baser instincts. Baltasar knew this was normal; many would regret it later; a few would not.
The trees that fronted the museum were shaking, the earth turning. Incredibly, people were taking shelter beneath, turning Baltasar’s phony look of amazement into a genuine one.
“One of the greatest museums in the world,” his master had said, shaking his head slowly, regretfully. “A poor choice we have, but our path is greater. We are worthier. It all comes down to our greater good.”