Cædmon took a moment to consider his reply, Kate’s query no more easily answered than her cohort’s.
‘These shadow groups are the designated guardians of a body of sacred knowledge which includes the Lost Science of the ancient world,’ he said, admittedly sloshing in murky water. ‘Over the centuries, that knowledge has been transmitted from one group to the next. The agenda, simply put, was to safeguard this knowledge so that it wouldn’t fall into the hands of a despot who would use it for maniacal ends. And then, of course, one must always stay two steps ahead of the black-robed gents in the Inquisition, jolly fellows who wouldn’t hesitate to consign the whole of ancient knowledge to the bonfire.’
‘That’s rather damning, don’t you think?’
‘Is it? In the thirteenth century, the Church not only exterminated the Cathars, but they managed to destroy all of the Cathars’ written texts and documents. Only the legend remains.’
Sliding a black rucksack off her shoulder, Kate unzipped the front pocket and removed a pair of blue-tinted sunglasses. The eyewear did little to hide the fact that her cheeks had suddenly flushed a bright shade of crimson red.
Jaw locked tight, McGuire wordlessly took hold of the rucksack and swung it on to his own shoulder. Then, taking her by the arm, he escorted Kate into the shadows of a nearby tree.
Watching them, Cædmon grudgingly acknowledged that the man’s only saving grace was the care he took with Kate.
‘The design and construction of the Axe Historique is one of the great mysteries of Paris,’ he continued, joining the pair in the shady patch. ‘A massive building project, the construction of each monument required an enormous outlay of cash, funds the French government didn’t always have at its disposal. Just when a project seemed doomed to failure, an anonymous largesse would suddenly be made and – voila! – the project would miraculously be saved.’
‘Do you mean that all of this –’ McGuire swept his arm from the pyramid to the obelisk – ‘was created by a secret sugar daddy?’
‘Some would say that it’s a centuries-old conspiracy.’
‘And you wanna know what I say? All of this was built to give Parisians something pretty to look at as they trudge to and from work every day.’
‘Oh, ye of little faith,’ Kate chided playfully, nudging McGuire with her shoulder.
Feeling a vibrating pulse, Cædmon unclipped his mobile from his waistband and checked the display screen.
‘I’ve just been emailed the dossiers on Fabius Jutier and the Seven Research Foundation,’ he informed them. ‘If we head back to the bookstore, I can open the attachments on the computer.’
‘No need.’ Kate patted the side of the rucksack that was slung over McGuire’s shoulder. ‘We’ve got a laptop with a wireless Internet connection.’
Ah, perfect.
‘I see a vacant bench on the other side of the hedgerow. Shall we?’
35
Dolf Reinhardt glanced at the hand-held transmitter, squinting to better see the small map.
Unknown to Finnegan McGuire, the laptop computer that he had stolen from the French Embassy had a GPS tracking device embedded in the hardware. For the last two days, the Seven had been waiting for the commando to arrive at their lair – from where there would be no escape, the jaws of death very sharp.
While he didn’t know where precisely his quarry was located, Dolf knew that the pair was in the near vicinity. Because of the hundreds of milling tourists, he’d not yet caught sight of them. But since their position updated every five seconds on his transmitter, there was no chance of losing them. They were here. Somewhere.
As he studied the map screen, trying to orientate his position with the landmarks indicated, a gaggle of laughing, half-dressed teenage girls strolled past. Legs, midriffs and cleavages all on eye-popping display. One of them, a curly-haired hussy, glanced over at him and snickered.
‘Schlampe,’ he muttered under this breath, the little tramp a disgrace to her sex.
Hard as a rock, he watched their hips provocatively swing in shorts so tight he could see the cracks in their asses. He wanted to fuck them all. Make them go down on their knees and suck him dry. That would teach them a lesson. That’s all they were good for. He couldn’t respect a woman who didn’t behave like a lady.
Dolf swiped at a bead of sweat that trickled down the side of his face. Scheisse. He hated the summer, the heat and humidity an uncomfortable reminder of what didn’t happen the summer of ’92. That was when the Barcelona Olympics took place. The summer that he should have represented East Germany. Instead, he was on the dole. Twenty-one years of age. No job and no prospects. Since he couldn’t find steady work, he couldn’t afford to train at the boxing gym. Everything in the fucking West cost money. And without the regulated discipline of the Sports Dynamo, his life had fallen into a tailspin.
His mother, Hedwig, who lost her former job with the state-run utility, earned a pittance cleaning toilets at the Alexanderplatz train station. When she came home after working a double shift, haggard, barely able to put one swollen foot in front of the other, Dolf would slink off to his bedroom and put on his headphones. Losing himself in heavy metal music. Forgetting, at least temporarily, that he was a useless excuse for a man. Even more useless than his father who’d dropped dead from a heart attack at the age of thirty-seven.
Like so many former East Germans, Dolf felt lost after Reunification. From the brands of cigarettes and beer to the programming on television, nothing was as it had been. In the GDR, there had been full employment. Not only did every citizen have a job, they each had a sense of purpose that came from knowing their specific place in the regime.
Although he didn’t believe in God, Dolf would have cut a deal with the devil to keep the Berlin Wall in place.
The only good thing that came out of that miserable summer of ’92 was that he met Stefan and the Blut Brüder. Although his mother didn’t approve of his new acquaintances, claiming the Blood Brethren were all unemployed hooligans, Dolf liked hanging out with his tough-talking pals. Liked the fact that people gave the twelve ‘hooligans’ a wide berth. According to Stefan, their shitty lot in life was due to the influx of immigrants into Germany, the government allowing any dark-skinned foreigner into the country.
One night, drunk on schnapps, the Blut Brüder decided to torch a local hostel overrun with Turkish immigrants. Excited by the prospect of taking back their country, they tossed Molotov cocktails into the building then chained the exit doors. Soon the fun began, Stefan and Dolf laughing their asses off as they watched those filthy foreigners toss their screaming brats out of the windows. By night’s end, there were three less Turks to steal jobs from native Germans. Not bad for a night’s work.
Anxious, Dolf glanced up from the hand-held transmitting device and scanned the vicinity. Where the hell was McGuire? Like a never-ending plague of locusts, big buses kept dropping off tourists. He walked away from his position near a metal lamp post and headed towards a long line of neatly clipped hedgerow. The Mark 23 pistol, plastered against the small of his back, was an uncomfortable reminder that he’d not yet bagged his prey.
When he did find them, Herr Doktor Uhlemann had been adamant: the kills must be quick and quiet. No advance warning. Pull the trigger, grab the dead commando’s canvas bag and immediately leave the vicinity. The dense crowds of tourists would give him cover as he made his escape. No running. No furtive glances. Instead, walk calmly to the nearest Metro station and board a crowded car.