The venetian code, p.12
The Venetian Code, page 12
This time, Rabinovitch gave Novikov a sidelong glance even though he could not see him, but he knew that he was standing next to him.
“Perhaps I can save both the day and the lives of your team,” Novikov said. “Perhaps this man, Kimball Hayden, will be open to negotiations.”
“And perhaps he won’t.”
“Do you truly have faith in your team?”
“I wouldn’t be much of a leader if I didn’t.”
“And what about the big man? Vladimir?”
“He’s the best of the best. If there’s an advantage for our side, he’s it. Once he removes a few of the opposition, then the advantage belongs to us.”
“Then we should give your man, your team, time to clear the area,” Novikov told him evenly. “With Vladimir in the fold, then a winning outcome should be feasible, yes?”
Rabinovitch nodded. Despite the abilities of the Vatican Knights, Vladimir was an asset that could, like Kimball Hayden, move mountains when he had to.
* * *
Vladimir moved inside the shadows as though he was fully sighted. Like most elite soldiers, he resorted to instinct when the technology of night vision was not available. With his other senses heightened, he moved through the chamber with his suppressed weapon at eye level leading the way. His steps were catlike and silent, one silent footfall after another as he slowly progressed forward. With his hearing tuning in with the acuteness of radar, the Russian was on a frequency that was capable of hearing, and then pinpointing, a subject whose shallow breaths deep inside the shadows would be imperceptible to the lesser trained.
The big man continued to move forward, then stopped and listened. His radar detected nothing but silence—not even a controlled heartbeat. And then he thought: These guys are good.
As he pushed forward, he knew he was nearing the monolith, though he could not see it in such a blackened pitch.
Then he suddenly stopped and remained riveted to his spot. Something was close by and standing before him by the monolith, a living entity and something he could sense with the reach of his instinct. Reaching out, he could feel the surface of the monolith with the tips of his fingers, which was cool to the touch. Then he fell back because he knew something was on the other side of the monument, a predator in waiting. Then the skin on the back of Vladimir’s neck prickled. The threat was on the move, this Vladimir could sense, as it maneuvered masterfully through the shadows to get an advantage over its prey, over Vladimir. But the Russian was keen on awareness when it came to his surroundings. There was always a clue, he believed, always a sound no matter how small, that gave the opposition away.
So, he listened.
Nothing.
Yet his senses continued to rise due to a looming threat.
I know you’re there.
But there was no sound, nothing that gave away his enemy as something reached out from the shadows and struck the Russian hard from behind, a massively powerful blow. The impact drove Vladimir hard against the wall of the monolith, the man hitting his head against the stone and seeing internal stars a moment before he fully collected himself. Spinning around on the balls of his feet with his action smooth, Vladimir set off a volley of shots. Muzzle flashes lit up the area, but nothing appeared within these short bursts of light. Whatever had struck him from behind, this phantom, was nowhere to be seen.
Breathing heavily as he leaned against the monolith’s wall, Vladimir was beginning to lose his edge and reserve. He had been a Spetsnaz commando, an elite soldier in the Russian ranks who garnered respect from those who served with him. But here he was a toy, the rodent in a game of cat-and-mouse.
Vladimir realized that his aggressive breathing could potentially give away his position, so he calmed his rhythm with shallow breaths.
After regaining his wits and reminding himself of who he was, that of being the best of the best, he bent his knees and waited.
Come to me.
As though on cue, Vladimir got his wish as a pair of fists pummeled his face, the impacts rocking his head violently as a hand that was as large as a skillet knocked Vladimir’s weapon from his grip with the gun skating away along the floor. Vladimir quickly reached for his combat knife, which he grabbed with a deft move and held it before him. With blind strokes not knowing if anyone was in front of him, he lashed out with horizontal sweeps, striking nothing. The phantom, once again, had disappeared, like mist in a wind.
As frustration began to worm throughout his entire being, it was also something alien to Vladimir, like an itch that couldn’t be scratched. He had always been in control, even in the shadows where the advantage had always belonged to him. Yet he could feel his confidence waning to a greater foe.
Gripping his knife with a strong hold, Vladimir cocked his head from side to side, his hearing acting as a locating system to get a fix on his enemy. Yet the silence was uncannily strange to him, the sounds muted to the realm of impossibility. Everything, he considered, made noise no matter how delicate its range.
Then a phantom hand grabbed Vladimir’s wrist of his knife hand and wrenched it hard, the twin bones of his forearm snapping like dry kindling. As the Russian’s eyes flared as the pain in his arm suddenly became white-hot, he dropped the knife. Then in the second that followed, an unseen hand struck Vladimir in the face and chin area once, twice, three times in quick succession, causing his eyes to roll upward into his sockets, a telltale sign of losing consciousness. As the large man’s back arched and his muscles became rigid, he fell hard against the floor and impacted against a stone tile. With his added weight, the tile lowered three inches beneath the uniform surface.
But it was enough.
Within seconds, the monolith began to descend slowly beneath the tiles and disappeared. Seconds thereafter, there was a sound below the floor of stone grinding against stone as a hidden pully-and-weight system had been enabled by the lowering of the monument.
Then the world suddenly began to heave and pitch as the stones began to rise to create walls and obstacles, the Monolith Chamber turning into a true maze as the floor patterns—that of herringbone, windmill, and hopscotch designs—stones of different lengths and sizes, was configuring to create a freestanding network of corridors that had acute, right and obtuse angles to them. As the stone walls rose until the block and ceiling met, they had also separated the Vatican Knight from his Russian quarry.
With the stone walls now locked in place, the Monolith Chamber had now become the Templar’s final challenge that was similar to the challenges of the far arena, by pitting the modern-day gladiators of the Spetsnaz against those of the Vatican Knights.
Forced into a trial by combat, the spoils would go to the victor.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Job had been quick and efficient when taking out the large Russian by disabling him. The Russian was an easy victory, the man’s uncontrolled breathing pinpointing his exact location inside of pure darkness. With actions and movements perfected over time as a Vatican Knight, the big man from Germany easily defeated his opponent, a former Spetsnaz crusader. But when the Russian hit the floor, the room suddenly came alive. The floor started to rise as huge blocks of stone moved ceilingward until they met, creating countless corridors. Job, not realizing that the Russian’s fall had triggered the event, quickly found himself standing alone inside a dark hallway. The Russian he bested in combat who was lying on the floor beside him was gone as a wall rose to segregate them.
Turning on the light of his helmet lamp, he noted that the corridor before him appeared without end.
The Templars, he considered, had planned well to safeguard the treasure.
Unfortunately, he and his team of Vatican Knights had also been caught within this web. It was a final challenge to keep intruders from reaching the trove, this he was sure of since a Templar Knight would have avoided setting off the snare. This led him to believe that there might not be a way out at all, that the walls had surfaced to jail those who had trespassed for a lifetime sentence until their bones eventually turned to dust over time.
After praying to God to show him the way, Job began his journey through the labyrinth by taking channels that often led to dead-end walls.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Kimball Hayden, along with the other Vatican Knights and the monsignors, quickly found themselves walled in, as did the members of Ivan Novikov’s team, all becoming the players in a warped game of survival.
Kimball, with the aid of his helmet lamp, discovered that the corridors—given their angles, twists, and turns—often led to dead-end walls. As far as he could see, there were no Latin stanzas, rune-like designs, or symbols to clue him as to which direction to take. Everything was learn-as-you-go, which he did by scoring a directional arrow into the stones with his KA-BAR as he went along. But the tunnels appeared too numerous and without end.
As he was about to engrave another arrow into the stone wall, he heard the soft approach of footsteps. Turning toward the source of the sound, he could see a beam of light getting stronger as it approached the junction at the end of the corridor. Though whoever it was, they were still around the bend. Shutting off his helmet lamp, Kimball moved swiftly and silently to the point where the two corridors met at a right angle. When the beam became stronger as the operator approached, Kimball readied himself for combat by holding his knife at shoulder level. Whoever it was around the corner stopped, the light neither growing nor dimming as the operative stopped to get a feel for his surroundings before taking the turn, a cautious endeavor.
In the shadows, Kimball waited.
And then the light grew in intensity as the operator decided to continue with his approach.
Kimball readied his stance by grinding his feet for solid footing, his pose becoming that of a man gearing to lash out and kill.
As the brightness of the light grew, Kimball could tell that the soldier was close to the right-angle bend that connected the tunnels.
And then he saw it, the suppressed tip of an assault weapon that was not Vatican Knight hardware, as it led the way. With lightning-quick efficiency, Kimball reached for the weapon’s suppressor, grabbed it firmly, then pulled his opponent close. Within the strong beam of light, Kimball saw the surprised look of his opponent due to the way his mouth opened into a perfect O. In reflex reaction, the weapon went off due to an involuntary pull of the trigger, the errant rounds stitching across the opposite wall. But the opponent’s surprise was short-lived as the Spetsnaz mercenary brought his knee up to connect with Kimball’s midsection, which Kimball deflected by bringing his elbow down to block the strike. In the subsequent response, the Spetsnaz soldier, with one hand holding onto the weapon, brought the blade of his other hand across and caught Kimball with a chop to the side of his throat. The stung worked a mild grunt from Kimball as he countered by bringing his knife down in a diagonal sweep and slicing the operative’s hand that held the assault rifle. Scoring the flesh deeply, the mercenary released the weapon, cried out, then went for his knife. But Kimball was quicker on the draw as he used the operative’s weapon as a cudgel and struck the mercenary on the head once, twice, three times, blow after blow until the Russian went to a bended knee. As Kimball raised the weapon for the fourth time, the operative found the hilt of his knife and brought it across in a horizontal slash, the blade missing its intent to gut Kimball. As soon as the mercenary was back on his feet, Kimball brought the assault rifle across and missed his target. In a counter move, the Russian went in for a straight jab, hoping to drive his knife deep. But Kimball juked and tossed the weapon aside after finding it too heavy to maneuver since his KA-BAR was a better weapon in such a situation.
Slowly, cautiously, as the two studied each other for an opening, they circled one another, a Spetsnaz elite against a Vatican Knight. At this moment between these two men, there was no apparent concept of time but the perception of it, with neither knowing if seconds had passed or minutes.
Then, as the mercenary said something under his breath in Russian, he came at Kimball with a series of well-coordinated strikes that told Kimball that his opponent was no novice when it came to using double-edged weaponry. But Kimball was faster and more coordinated with swift moves and countermoves, defending and deflecting the Russian’s blows as sparks flew when metal impacted with metal. They moved in perfect choreography, the two dancing with graceful motion until Kimball saw his moment and opportunity. When the Russian lifted his hand for a downward strike, Kimball came across and drove the knife deep into the man’s armpit to perforate the lung. The Russian operative froze as though he knew that the dance was over, the damage too great, as he went to one knee first, and then the other.
Then as he looked upward at the victor, as blood bubbles formed at the corner of his lips and burst, he saw the white band of a Roman Catholic collar. Since he had been an Orthodox heathen, the Russian thought little of it as he fell hard to the surface.
Kimball, turning on his helmet light, scored a directional arrow into the stone and moved along in search of escape.
* * *
From where they stood at the mouth of the doorway that divided the Monolith Chamber from the Chamber of the Templar treasure, Ivan Novikov and Sergei Rabinovitch could hear, not see, the stones grinding against one another as they rose from the floor to create an elaborate configuration.
As soon as Rabinovitch took the initiative to turn on his lamp, he illuminated upon the fact that the once open space of the Monolith Chamber had been replaced by walls of stone, the room a labyrinth.
“Well,” Novikov commented, turning on his lamp, “the Templars were far more creative than what they’ve been credited for. Since Venice was a city that was pro-Templar at the time, I would assume that something like this took decades to craft. Clever people. In fact, they have my full admiration.”
“I’m glad you feel that way,” Rabinovitch stated sarcastically. “But this compounds the difficulty of removing the treasure from the chamber. In fact, we might even be sealed inside here. This place might be our tomb.”
“No,” Novikov countered. “This is a maze, something we have to unpuzzle our way through. If these were simply walls without a network of corridors, then I’d be inclined to believe that you’re right about this area becoming our tomb. But the Templars were a society of wise men, not sadists. I prefer to be optimistic about our chances.” Novikov looked at the Cup of Miracles in his hands. In the beam of his light, it appeared boring and nondescript except for its lateral hairline fracture. Then he looked at the newly formed corridor before him. “Get me out of here,” he stated softly to Rabinovitch.
“What about the treasure?”
Novikov wanted to say, I have what I came for. Instead, he answered, “We know where the trove is. We eliminate the opposition, then we can come back. We have the means to cut easily through these walls today that didn’t exist seven hundred years ago. But to get to point Z, then we have to start at point A, which happens to be the Vatican Knights.”
Rabinovitch, raising his weapon to eye level, led them out of the Templar Chamber with Ivan Novikov holding the Cup of Miracles close to him as though it was a precious infant.
* * *
When the walls started to rise to construct a warren, Isaiah found himself within a corridor that led to a four-way configuration—north, south, east, and west. In all directions, darkness so deep waited that not even the beam of his light could penetrate beyond thirty feet. The entire area had the spine-tingling feel of a catacomb.
“Now what?” Monsignor Calidonna whispered.
Isaiah, removing his knife, nicked the stone with a directional arrow. “We mark where we’ve been before,” he said, “until we come to—”
From the end of the southside tunnel, a dim light appeared and grew in intensity due to someone advancing on their position. Then the solid ray of light split into two independent beams, which told Isaiah that (a) they were not Vatican Knights since they were maneuvering through the chamber independently; and therefore (b), the pair of lights meant that it was a two-man team from Novikov’s mercenary unit. Isaiah, bringing a finger to his lips to inform the monsignors to remain quiet, switched off his lamp, the area suddenly consumed by total darkness.
The pair of independent moving lights were becoming more magnified and brightening, telling Isaiah that they were closing in on his position. The Vatican Knight held his weapon firmly and ground his feet against the floor to secure his stance.
The approach of the lights.
The silent waiting.
When the lights reached the four-way juncture, there was a pause before the double-click of the lights suddenly shut off.
The entire area was immersed in darkness the color of deep space.
* * *
Isaiah waited in the shadows and cocked his head. He could hear what amounted to breathing, slow and easy and measured, the telltale signs of trained personnel who were calming themselves before the storm.
They know I’m here, Isaiah thought.
Slowly, the Vatican Knight moved away from the monsignors and towards the four-way axis of the tunnel.
Silence and darkness, a perfect communion to take refuge. But Isaiah was a tactician when it came to maneuvering through the shadows. With an almost preternatural sense of feeling out his enemy and sensing their whereabouts, Isaiah lowered his assault weapon, removed his combat knife, and slowly made his way towards his opponents crouched at the waistline.
With his breathing stilled and his approach silent, the Vatican Knight came to the point of the juncture where his enemies waited. Turning his head slightly from left to right and then from right to left, he was able to detect breathing inside the shadows. Though one was evenly measured, the other sounded a bit elevated, either from uncontained excitement or the inability to control his enthusiasm. Isaiah, however, considering that they were Spetsnaz, assumed that it was the former like buck fever, that immediate moment before the kill.
