‘Before the Americans even entered the war, I might add.’
Horrified by Uhlemann’s evil plan, Kate rose to her feet. Wrapping her arms around her waist, she walked over to the porthole. On the other side of the thick glass, charcoal shadows lent an other-worldly air to the dimly lit cemetery, the marble statues like mother-of-pearl ghosts.
‘My colleagues and I believe that war is a purifying force for good,’ Dr Uhlemann intoned.
‘It can be,’ Finn conceded. ‘It can also inflict unimaginable pain and misery. Just like National Socialism imparted a shitload of pain and misery on the whole of Europe.’
‘You say that because you are sadly misinformed about the ideology behind National Socialism.’ Ivo held up a blue-veined hand, forestalling Finn’s objection. ‘The slaughter of the Jews was a heinous crime. And one that will not be repeated. On that, you have my word. We have a mandate bequeathed to us by our fathers. We are committed to carrying it out.’
Still peering through the porthole, Kate caught the bright flash of a headlight.
‘Someone just drove through the cemetery gate!’ she exclaimed, her heart forcefully slamming against her breastbone.
Finn rushed over to the window, shouldering her out of the way.
‘We’ve got movement,’ he hissed, reaching for the gun shoved into the small of his back. ‘About seventy-five yards northwest of the mausoleum.’
Dr Uhlemann cackled softly. ‘Oh, did I not mention that every vehicle in our fleet has a tracking device?’
‘You evil old fucker!’
‘If you want to leave here alive, you will give me the Montségur Medallion.’
A murderous gleam in his eyes, Finn pointed the Mark 23 at Ivo Uhlemann’s left temple.
‘The only thing I’m giving you is a bullet to the brain.’
65
Mont de la Lune, The Languedoc
0344 hours
Sheep bells jangled in the distance.
Normally a soothing sound, for some reason Cædmon found it jarring. In fact, he found the entire scenario unsettling. The pumpkin moon half hidden in the clouds. The night wind. The intermittent flashes of lightning that preceded the stentorian groans of thunder. And most disturbing of all, the brooding silhouette of Montségur on the northern horizon. Looming. Keeping silent vigil as it had for the last eight hundred years.
I feel like a castaway from a damned Brontë novel.
No sooner did that thought cross his mind than Cædmon tripped on a gnarled tree root that had burst free from the imprisoning terrain.
‘On second thoughts, maybe a screwball comedy,’ he muttered, managing to catch himself in mid-pratfall. Rather than hiking back to Montségur in the dead of night, he probably should have stayed in the mountaintop eyrie. But spurred by his staggering discovery, he was anxious to return to Paris post-haste.
Certain that he heard a branch snap, his ears pricked. Thinking he might not be alone, he dodged behind a pitted boulder.
Had he been followed to Mont de la Lune?
Or was he simply overreacting to the Gothic shadows?
Unnerved, Cædmon skimmed the torch beam across the ravine. Unable to detect any movement in the blotchy moonlight, he suspected the predator lurked only in his imagination and that what he’d heard had been nothing more than the wind bouncing off the granite crenellations.
He glanced at his wristwatch. Three hours until daybreak. Worried that if he continued the trek the tangled matrix of loose rock and uneven terrain might get the better of him, he scoured the vicinity. The prudent course would be to catch a few hours sleep and hike back to the village of Montségur at first light. He could then collect his hire car, drive to Marseille and catch the northbound train for Paris. No sense wandering the moors like the poor bedevilled Heathcliff.
Espying a cantilevered overhang, Cædmon trudged in that direction, sidestepping a thicket of hawthorn bushes. He tucked the torch into his jacket pocket, freeing his hands so he could climb on to the stone slab.
As good a bed as any, he decided. An alpine meadow would have been better but he didn’t relish sleeping with a mob of burly sheep. Slipping his rucksack off his shoulder, he carefully set it down, mindful of the precious cargo nestled in the bottom. Parched, he retrieved his water bottle. Down to my last quarter litre. When added to the hunk of stale bread and a wedge of warm cheese wrapped in a tea towel, it made for a meagre supper.
Cædmon raised the water bottle to his lips. As he did, he heard the crunch of dried underbrush. Before his brain could process the meaning of that telltale sound, a bullet struck the side of his skull.
He spun to the left. Hit with an excruciating burst of pain.
The next bullet slammed into his upper arm. Hurling him up and over the ledge.
He crash-landed in a hawthorn bush, the branches instantly clamping around him, like the sharp maw of a predatory beast.
A torrent of warm blood flowed across his face, blurring his vision. Cædmon could taste it. Ash in the mouth. Certain death.
‘Poor Siegfried,’ the gunman jeered, standing at the edge of the stone slab. ‘The Valkyries await you at the gates of Valhalla.’
With that, the bastard took his leave, the rucksack with the Lapis Exillis slung over his shoulder.
Horrified, Cædmon railed against the death sentence. He tried to move, but couldn’t, his body shocked into paralysis. Trapped in the void between heaven and hell, the moon and stars whirled overhead in an off-kilter precession. No sun. Only dark of night.
Lying in that thorny nest, his cheek slathered in his own blood, Cædmon could feel the life force leach from him. The branches of the hawthorn rustled violently, the wind squalling through the ravine; a requiem composed by the winged Zephyrus, accompanied by the harsh jangle of distant sheep bells.
Send not to know for whom the bell tolls …
66
Père Lachaise Cemetery, Paris
0408 hours
Kate placed a restraining hand on Finn’s arm. ‘If you kill Doctor Uhlemann, you’ll spend the rest of your life in prison. If that happens, you’ll never be able to apprehend the Dark Angel.’
Finn glared at the white-haired man huddled on the floor, the muscles in his arm piston tight.
‘Please, for my sake,’ she whispered. Desperately hoping to get through to him, she was afraid to break eye contact. Worried that if she did, he’d pull the trigger.
‘The old bastard knew they’d show up,’ Finn rasped. ‘He’s just been sitting there biding his time. Waiting for ’em to kick down the door.’
‘Actually, I’ve been trying to persuade you to come to your senses,’ Dr Uhlemann declared in a noticeably weakened voice. ‘Play your cards right and you can become a member of the most elite military force in history. I am offering you a chance to not only save your life, but to improve your lot in life. All you have to do is hand over the Montségur Medallion.’
‘Fuck you!’
‘If you insist on behaving like a fool, Sergeant McGuire, you will die an inglorious death. On that, you have my word.’
‘News flash: I plan on getting out of here alive.’ Finn took a menacing step in the older man’s direction. ‘But I’m gonna need a human shield.’
Kate spared their captive a quick glance. Face drawn, brow beaded with perspiration, Ivo Uhlemann was clearly in a great deal of pain. Although the man was a monster, he was an ailing one. ‘We can’t take him; he’s too frail. Just look at him. He’ll only slow us down,’ she added, hoping that would sway Finn.