The venetian code, p.13
The Venetian Code, page 13
In the darkness, Isaiah got a fix on his opponents and could see them clearly in his mind’s eye as to where they were positioned. Gripping his knife firmly, he lashed out to his left with his hand moving in a horizontal sweep, stepping in, then swinging his knife to the right, the entire action taking less than a second, before stepping back and taking refuge behind the wall that led to the east juncture.
In the darkness, as though neither man had yet to register the attack, Isaiah, from his hidden position, could hear them begin to gag and choke on their fluids after they realized that clean sweeps from a knife’s blade had rendered deep slices across their throats. In a late response that was more of a mindless reaction, they set off their assault rifles, the tunnels lighting up with staccato bursts of light from the errant gunfire. When the tunnels went black and nothing sounded but the dry clicks from empty magazines, and then the subsequent noises of wet gurgles and dying gasps, Isaiah remained patient until he heard both quarries land against the stone.
Stepping into the tunnel, Isaiah turned on his helmet lamp. Both men, lying on their backs with their hands reaching skyward, their limbs locked in death, and with eyes that appeared wide with the astonishment of dying, sported the cuts across their throats from Isaiah’s perfect, but blinding, sweeps in the dark.
The Spetsnaz unit was quickly being whittled away.
Calling the monsignors forth, Isaiah, after retrieving his assault rifle, led the search for a way out of this remarkably twisted warren.
* * *
Roman, the warrior fledgling, had not fully honed his skills by using the shadows as his ally. When Kimball informed him through a series of gestures to search for a withdrawal route after scoring the stones with directional markers, the newest Vatican Knight had his difficulties. He had been trained to combat his enemies in the shadows, always intuiting the move of his enemy before they do. But this was a completely different arena that had a different feel to it. What he was sensing was that his skillset was not entirely in tune with these alien surroundings as a seasoned Vatican Knight would be. In fact, he felt alone, lost, and uneasy as he moved through the dark corridors in search of a passageway that would lead them to the trove. The world, in absolute darkness, seemed endless and hostile. Though he wanted to use the aid of his lamp, Kimball forbade him by saying that a ‘Vatican Knight becomes one with the shadows. Learn to work in Darkness to better serve the Light. Here, inside these subterranean tunnels beneath the canals of Venice, is there no better classroom to learn from?’
Roman, scoring the stones as he went, soon found himself within the vicinity of another. At the end of the corridor was a distant light, just one, possibly crossing paths with another Vatican Knight. But when he saw that the man was Spetsnaz, with the mercenary returning a gaze and just as surprised, they both became wide-eyed and stood as still as Roman statues. But when the mercenary galvanized into action and started to raise his weapon, Roman, who was also quick on the draw, raised his suppressed MP7 and fired off a single shot.
. . . Phffft . . .
Roman’s aim was true as a bullet hole magically appeared in the center of the mercenary’s forehead. Then the Spetsnaz fighter, after falling to his knees, fell forward against the stone tiles. As he lay there, blood pooled along the floor and fanned out around his head in an obscene halo.
Roman, in the mindset of unbelievability, let his jaw hang.
This was his first kill, the hunted besting the hunter, but it did little to alleviate his pang of conscience. As he stood watching the blood fan out into a perfect circle against the stones, he thought he was surely damned for his actions. I killed a man, he told himself over and over like a mantra as though he was trying to accept the killing as a true action.
. . . I . . . killed . . . a man . . .
Then he started to recall the messages of his teachers: As a Vatican Knight, you have the right to protect your life and the lives of those who cannot protect themselves. Remember, even God recognizes the fact to save yourself and others.
These were justifications that Roman could not currently accept as he stood motionless over the body.
Then he went to a knee, and a moment later to the other, where he clasped his hands together in an attitude of prayer and began to mouth words of prayer. As tears welled in his eyes, as guilt began to take root, Roman, getting to his feet, moved along while whispering to God for forgiveness.
* * *
Jeremiah, deciding not to use his helmet lamp, opted to use the darkness as his ally instead, the Vatican Knight moving as though he was gifted with the ability of nocturnal sight. Using the wall as a guide by tracing his fingertips along its surface, he would often stop and listen for anything anomalous like measured breathing or the soft treading of footfalls. After taking a series of right and obtuse angles, Jeremiah began to wonder if searching for an exit was a futile undertaking since every turn appeared to lead him to either dead-end walls or similarly shaped tunnels.
Then fifteen minutes into his journey after the walls suddenly appeared, the floor beneath his feet began to rumble and shake. The sounds of pulleys and weights could be heard beneath the stones as the surrounding walls began to descend into the floor whereas others began to rise, the labyrinth taking on a life of its own as it was reconfiguring itself into new patterns, new corridors.
As the stone walls rose to meet the aged ceiling, the mild impact caused a small fissure that appeared above Jeremiah. Turning on his lamp, he witnessed this crack travel with racing speed down the corridor’s ceiling. A moment later, canal water began to drip copiously from the breach that was no wider than the blade of a butter knife.
“Oh no,” he whispered.
The aged ceiling had been compromised. After centuries, it was finally giving way to the weight and pressure of the canal above.
This was no longer a game of cat and mouse, he told himself, this was now a venture of survival and self-preservation.
Leaving his helmet lamp on to guide him, Jeremiah took his chances and followed the light in hopes of seeking escape. He would simply take the gamble of running into whatever hostile elements that would be standing between here and there and deal with it.
As the water continued to drip copiously through the crack, Jeremiah moved quickly through the new labyrinth.
* * *
When the walls were moving, everything was briefly exposed as walls descended and others lifted. New shapes and configurations appeared from the floor; this new realignment was a result of hidden hourglasses beneath the floor filling to capacity that would reconfigure the stones every fifteen minutes. Scoring the stones had become a useless endeavor now that the realignment of the walls altered every quarter hour. Those that had been marked to show the way were now underneath them; therefore, a new slate had been born.
Ivan Novikov and Sergei Rabinovitch stood between the newly fashioned walls of the labyrinth, the corridor seemingly endless, even within the conical beams of their lamps.
Novikov, who held the Cup of Miracles with gingerly care, said to Rabinovitch, “At the moment between the stones repositioning themselves, it became obvious to me that the Templars designed this place for other Templars who knew how to bypass these entrapments without tripping them. The roving wall system is simply a safety feature to keep the trove safe from treasure seekers outside the Templar order. Clever.”
“Stop admiring the engineering of what’s about to become our tomb,” Rabinovitch fired back.
“There’s only one way out of here and that’s straight ahead.”
“Through the wall?”
“The walls are on a weight and pulley system that is activated once a vat-type container of some kind fills with either fluid or sand that overturns when it’s at capacity, apparently in fifteen-minute increments. When the old walls lower, there’s about a ten-second lapse before the new walls begin to rise. We run as far as we can to the gate beyond the monolith before the walls rise. When the labyrinth reconfigures fifteen minutes after that, we continue to run for the opening until we make it. That may take three, maybe four tries.”
“We could also be crushed by these stones,” said Rabinovitch. “Did you consider that?”
“Have you considered another alternative out of here outside of what I have just provided?”
After a moment, Rabinovitch shook his head, admitting that he saw no other option. And then he asked Novikov, “What about the treasure? These walls make it impossible to retrieve the trove. My people will not be happy.”
Novikov realized that Rabinovitch was right. Even if they were able to conquer the Vatican Knights, which was a big ‘if,’ the Vatican would simply plant their flag and call the territory theirs. And the use of explosives such as Semtex, C-4, or any other plastique would compromise the ceiling and bring the canal down on top of them. Though the pyramidal mounds of gold and the Shields of Solomon would now be impractical to recover, and since the Templars had the foresight to design the system wisely against trespassers, Ivan Novikov had his treasure. He had the Cup of Miracles, which he held close.
“I’ll tell you what,” said Novikov. “The treasure is lost, we both know that, yes? The Templars had planned too well to keep the treasure safe from those except for other Templar Knights who needed the wealth to rebuild their ranks. We never had a chance to retrieve it. Perhaps we were only to get a glimpsing tease of what we could have, only for the Templars to take it away by masterful engineering. Either way, it’s not recoverable.” Then he turned to Rabinovitch. “Therefore, I have another proposal for you and your team. Get me out of here with this,” he raised the Cup of Miracles, “and I will offer each member of your team twenty-five million dollars.”
Rabinovitch, who kept his weapon at eye level even as darkness reigned, gave Novikov a sidelong glance that Novikov could not see. “Twenty-five million per person,” he stated for a confirming answer.
“Guaranteed. It’s a small price to pay for the Cup . . . It’s enough money for each man to live three or four lifetimes. He’ll never be able to spend it all unless he foolishly gambles it away.”
Then again from Rabinovitch: “Twenty-five mil.”
“In American currency.”
In the dark shadows, Rabinovitch nodded in agreement. Then: “Agreed.”
Ten minutes later, like clockwork, the walls and floor began to reshape into newer tunnels and corridors with most leading to dead ends. But within those valuable seconds when one configuration was submerging and a new one was rising, when the floor was clear of all obstacles, Novikov and Rabinovitch moved forward using the location of the monolith as a compass point until the floor once again came alive with walls rising to meet the ceiling, entombing them.
Fifteen minutes later, they would get another opportunity.
But elsewhere, water was leaking heavily through a crack in the chamber’s ceiling.
Soon, the dam would break.
* * *
The Monolith Chamber was vast with a lot of dark pockets not penetrable by the lamps. Whenever the walls lowered and new ones rose to alter the design of the labyrinth, Kimball realized the dire situation they were in. The Templar Knights had used their wisdom to engineer a deathtrap for those who were not part of the order, even if their hearts were pure. The treasure was theirs to use to rebuild their military might. So, the mission was no longer paramount in trying to save the Cup of Miracles, but themselves.
It was here that Kimball Hayden reached out to seek a truce.
After the second time the walls reconfigured themselves into a completely different warren, the Vatican Knight cried out, “Ivan . . . Ivan Novikov!”
A moment later, Kimball received an answer.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
“Ivan . . . Ivan Novikov!”
Novikov and Rabinovitch were standing between the rock walls of a corridor waiting for the next shift of the stones when they heard a voice cry Novikov’s name. Novikov, with a one-sided grin, said, “It appears, given the current situation we’re in, that the Vatican Knights also wish to strike a deal, yes?”
Rabinovitch remained silent.
And then: “Vatican Knight, you wish to reason?”
“I represent the church—”
“I know who you are, Mr. Hayden. You are the supreme commander of the Vatican Knights, yes? And since you know my name, then I must assume that you have also read my biographical record and those who serve me. I see that Vatican Intelligence has done its due diligence. Bravo.”
“I ask for one thing. Just one. That you surrender the Cup of Miracles. The Templar treasure is yours. The Vatican has no interest in the trove.”
“It’s amazing how the Vatican believes they can simply plant their banner anywhere and call it their own. If you knew history, Mr. Hayden, you would know that the church under Pope Clement the Fifth, who was in league with Philip the Fair, disbanded the Templar order for political reasons based on the Templars’ accumulative wealth. Since Philip was in debt to the Templars and wanted to get out from underneath Jacques de Molay’s thumb, he pressured the pope to disband the organization, causing those who remained to go underground. So, here we are, at the Templar’s Chamber that was meant for those remaining Knights to use the wealth to rebuild their military might. Regrettably, that never came to fruition. But the Templars, as clever as they were, engineered the chamber and the warren so that no one except for a Templar could reach the trove. The Vatican gave up the right to the treasure the day Jacques de Molay was burned alive at the stake.”
“That’s why the treasure is yours. All of it except for the Cup of Miracles. That’s all we’re interested in. The treasure for the Cup.”
Novikov chortled at this. “That’s not much of a deal, Vatican Knight, since removing the treasure at this point is impossible on so many levels. How long before we leave here that the authorities will discover the breach inside the Tomb of St. Mark? How do you propose that we get around the masterful engineering of the living walls? How do we move the riches with all these obstacles?”
“That’s an issue you’re going to have to deal with. But the offer stands, the treasure for the Cup of Miracles. I’m sure the Vatican will allow you certain privileges since the church is under their domain.”
“And perhaps not. As I said before, the church has turned its back against its own once before in the case of Jacques de Molay and the Knights of the Templar. Who’s to say that the Vatican won’t make a similar declaration in regard to the treasure?”
“I give you my word. The treasure means nothing to the church, the pontiff has already noted this. But the Cup of Miracles does.”
“Unfortunately, we both cannot be winners in this game since the treasure I sought was also the Cup of Miracles and nothing else. Since the treasure means little to me, I’m afraid that your offer is denied.”
“No one else needs to be hurt in this transfer, Novikov.”
“Hurt? Mr. Hayden, you have no idea of the capabilities of the team I hired.”
“I think I do. Perhaps you should call out to them, take a roll call of those who are still standing.”
Novikov gave Rabinovitch an eye-pinning stare, one that told the team leader to do so.
Rabinovitch, complying, began to call out names starting with Vasnetsov and Kaverin, then on down the line with no one replying. Then to Novikov, he said, “If anyone was left, they would have responded.” A beat later, he added, “We’re alone.”
Novikov could feel the Cup of Miracles as he cradled it against his chest. Then he removed his suppressed sidearm from his holster with his free hand. “When the walls shift,” he stated softly, “move to the exit beyond the monolith. I will pave the way forward.” He could feel the gun in his hand. No matter the target, he thought, I never miss. Lowering the weapon by his side, his biological clock told him that it was almost time for the walls to reshape themselves into a new arrangement.
Less than a minute later, his clock proved him right.
* * *
The grating of stone against stone.
And somewhere beneath the floor, the cog-and-wheel noise of aged chains could be heard moving through a pulley-and-weight system, causing the stones to rise and lower to create new corridors and walls, the labyrinth taking on a life of its own.
In that short-down time as walls were descending, whereas others had yet to rise, an opportunity had surfaced for Novikov and Rabinovitch. In the illuminated cones that came from their shoulder lamps, they could see a distant archway, the exit, though the monolith was nowhere to be seen.
In unison, as Rabinovitch maintained his assault weapon at eye level, they ran for the archway in a straight line, the shortest distance between two points, striving forward as the surrounding shadows began to converge on their point.
“Keep going,” said Novikov. “The Vatican Knights won’t kill willingly, not even for the Cup. But they will if they’re threatened.”
Novikov held the Cup of Miracles close with one hand while gripping his sidearm tightly with the other.
Then the floor became animated as stone walls began to rise and join with others to create a new maze, a new alignment. Novikov was fast and nimble. Rabinovitch, a big man, though quick, was not as agile as the Russian oligarch. Novikov, sprinting and leaping over the final wall as though it was a hurdle, his motion athletically smooth, bounded a few steps before turning to see Rabinovitch struggling to get over the wall as it climbed higher. Rabinovitch, straddling the top of the wall like a bull rider, angled to drop free to the other side. But the wall rose swiftly and pinned him to the ceiling, the pressure snapping his bones, his ribs, the wall crushing him into paste, a poor mortar. Reaching out a hand to Novikov, who stood as though he was numbed by the process of watching a man die, gagged a moment before a gout of blood was forced from his mouth, a thick red vomit that sprayed to the floor below. As Rabinovitch’s eyes continued to appeal to Novikov for help, the spark in those eyes began to dim as he lowered his hand in harmonization with his life ebbing, until his eyes sparked no more. With an expression that was both critical and hate-filled, Rabinovitch appeared to be condemning Novikov for his failure to respond. But Novikov, who had always been a man with a skinny range of emotions, cared little of Rabinovitch’s criticism of him.
