“I think not, Dr Ricci. You overestimate yourself and you underestimate the Reich. If this is what you claim it is then you are no longer necessary. Whatever this leads to, we do not need you.”
Ricci realized his blood pressure was dropping. He felt suddenly cold and clammy in the hot dry air of the mine. Dizziness overtook him.
Suddenly now, Zaugg aimed the Mauser squarely at the elderly archaeologist’s head and offered one final, narcissistic smirk.
“Before you die,” Zaugg said coolly, “I want you to know that I will find this, and the Reich will rule the world — all thanks to your brilliant discovery, but now I must bid you farewell.”
He squeezed the trigger.
A roar of gunfire.
Ricci’s world went black.
CHAPTER ONE
Joe Hawke sprinted to the edge of the high-rise with all his might and leaped off the building with as much velocity as he could muster. He sailed into the air and started to wonder if he could make the gap and land on the roof of the adjacent building a few meters lower. Below was a ninety meter drop to a concrete staircase, but Hawke never looked down.
He landed smoothly, using the classic parachute landing fall he was trained to do by the Special Forces, and seconds later was on his feet and sprinting across the roof of the second building.
It was night, and the air was cold. Below in the streets he heard the sound of traffic and was aware of the faint orange glow of the streetlights. Above his head he heard the growl of a Boeing 747’s engines, lost somewhere above the thick clouds of London as it lumbered towards Heathrow Airport.
Hawke had gotten into parkour as a way of keeping fit after leaving the military, and it worked well, except he had learned the hard way to practice it at night when he couldn’t be seen. For some reason, the authorities didn't take too kindly to people leaping from public buildings and doing handstands on the edges of high-rises, but that didn't stop him from freerunning.
He would have preferred to keep fit by running on a beach, but for now he lived in the city and this was the only option. He wasn't about to run on a treadmill in a gym like a hamster on a wheel.
Sprinting forward to a low pebble-dashed wall which ran along the side of the second building, Hawke reached out, grabbed the ledge with his hands and performed a smooth two-handed vault, swinging his legs over the wall and landing like a cat on the far side.
He was now on a narrow path leading to the elevator shaft at the end of the car park. He made a fast speed-vault over a low wall just in front of the elevators, keeping his hips level and flying over it as if it weren’t even there. He landed with no loss of power or speed inside the covered elevator housing and sprinted forward to the doors.
Hawke stepped inside and looked at his watch: nearly midnight. The elevator doors opened and he was at street level. He ran through a grimy underpass, his breath visible in the flickering greasy yellow of a faulty strip light, and emerged into a courtyard at the bottom of the tower block.
He saw some teenagers huddling together in the gloom of a distant stairwell, probably a drug deal, he thought, or maybe guns. They looked at him for a second, judging the threat. Not his problem, lucky for them. Not tonight. Jogging out of the courtyard he was now on a main road. A night bus trundled lonely into a gathering mist as Hawke jogged home. With a simple wall-run he launched himself over the top of a three meter wall and cut ten minutes off his journey.
Almost home now, he jogged home through the dark. A light drizzle swept over the streets and his mind turned to thoughts of a warm shower and a cold beer. Tomorrow his brand new life began.
The doors of the British Museum burst open.
“Here they come.” Hawke stood against the far wall in the standard security guard pose — hands crossed in front of his body, sunglasses on and covert earpiece headset concealed in his right ear. His first day of work in Civvy Street had arrived at last. Time to settle down, he thought.
“Just keep your eye on everyone,” he said. He was talking to Farrell, one of his employees, hired just two days ago as part of his expanding new business.
Moments later the room filled with the best of London’s high society, or at least those who thought they were the best. Like a servant, a security officer was there to be seen and not heard, and Hawke understood what this meant better than anyone. Spending so many years as a Royal Marines Commando in the notoriously tough Mountain and Arctic Warfare Cadre and then serving in the elite Special Boat Service meant he knew how to take orders and blend into the background.
Now he was watching the room slowly fill up with honored guests. He was at a special exhibition, providing security for the museum because of a visit by the enigmatic Sir Richard Eden MP, here in his capacity as head of a new fundraising committee for the Council of British Archaeology.
Archaeology was Eden’s first and only love, but his day job was as a Member of Parliament who was particularly concerned with national security. There were rumors that he was soon to make an announcement concerning a discovery on a Greek Island that could change the world. Public interest in Eden was consequently running at an all-time high, so the museum had put on extra security in the form of Joe Hawke.
Hawke hadn’t decided how this new civilian life as a security guard measured up to his former existence, but he was making a go of it. For former Special Forces soldiers it wasn’t bad work — especially if you owned the company like he did. Many of the lads ended up doing door duty on pubs. Compared to them, Joe Hawke had it easy, even if it meant he had to stay in his old hometown London and put his dreams of escape on hold.
“They’re all here tonight, boss!” said Farrell’s voice in Hawke’s earpiece.
Hawke watched as the celebrity guests slowly trickled into the plush exhibition room of the museum. It was a different world to anything he knew. Growing up had been tough, and the military tougher. Hawke didn’t know much about Champagne cocktails and ancient artifacts, but he was willing to learn.
He was at heart a soldier who had loved his work. After leaving the SBS everything seemed like a let-down, except when his sister told his girlfriends they were dating a cross between James Bond and Indiana Jones. Hawke winced whenever she said it, but it didn’t do any harm.
“Is that Princess Eugenie?” said Farrell.
“Pack it in, Farrell,” Hawke said. “Focus on the job.”
“Yes, boss.”
Hawke monitored the large room for any anomalies. His job was to protect the museum and its guests. Sir Richard Eden had his own security detail headed up by a woman he had not been properly introduced to, who was now standing a few yards behind the MP, silently surveying the room.
She was startlingly good-looking, and he guessed in her mid-twenties. For some reason he was surprised that she looked so young, but everyone was starting to look young to Hawke these days.
He refocused his attention on the gathering. A far-cry from the muddy ditches of commando life, he was now surrounded by dukes, duchesses and a princess, as well as various charity CEOs, the King of Tonga, the Beckhams, and Sir Alan Sugar, who was laughing with Sir Richard’s eldest daughter Harriet. Hawke watched the high and mighty as they mingled and worked the crowd, sharing in-jokes and investor tips and sipping from cut-glass flutes twinkling in the chandelier light.
Carefully concealed behind his sunglasses, he rolled his eyes. And some people actually have to work for a living... He thought about his mates still serving in the commandos and the SBS on active duty. That was a different world, and now he had to adapt to this one. Maybe one day his company would be big enough for him to sell up, and then he could retire somewhere exotic, just like he always dreamed of, but until then, it was this. There were worse fates.