'I don't know, I tell you,' de Villiers said.
Blam!
The second monk jolted backwards and smacked down against the floor, a puddle of red liquid fanning out from the jagged, fleshy hole in his head. For a few seconds, the body shuddered involuntarily—spasming violently— flopped against the floor like a fish that had fallen out of its bowl.
De Villiers shut his eyes, offered up a prayer.
“Where is the manuscript?' the German said.
'I don't—' Blam!
Another monk fell.
'Where is it?'
'I don't know!'
Blam!
All of a sudden, the Glock came around so that it was now pointed directly at de Villiers' face.
'This will be the last time I ask you this question, Brother de Villiers. Where is the Santiago Manuscript?'
De Villiers kept his eyes closed. 'Our Father, who art in hallowed be thy—'
The German squeezed the trigger.
'Wait!' someone said from the other end of the line.
The German assassin turned and saw an older monk step up and out from the line of kneeling Jesuit monks.
'Please! Please! No more, no more. I will tell you where the manuscript is, if you promise you will kill no more.'
'Where is it?' the assassin said.
'It is this way,' the old monk said, heading off into the library. The assassin followed him into the adjoining room.
Moments later both men returned, the assassin carrying in his left hand a large leather-bound book.
Although de Villiers couldn't see his face, it was clear that the German assassin was smiling broadly behind his black ski mask.
'Now, go. Leave us in peace,' the old Jesuit said. 'Leave us to bury our dead.'
The assassin seemed to ponder that for a moment. Then he turned and nodded to his cohorts.
In response the squad of armed assassins raised their G11s as one and opened fire on the line of kneeling Jesuit monks.
A devastating burst of supermachine-gun fire cut the remaining monks to ribbons. Heads exploded, jagged rags of flesh were ripped clear from the monks' bodies as they were assailed by a force of gunfire never before witnessed.
In seconds, all of the Jesuits were dead, save for one: the elderly monk who had brought the Germans the manuscript.
He now stood alone in a pool of his comrades' blood, facing his tormentors.
The lead assassin stepped forward and levelled his Glock at the old man's head.
'Who are you?' the old monk said defiantly.
'We are the Schutz Staffeln Totenkopfverbande,” the assassin said.
The old monk's eyes went wide. 'Good God…' he breathed.
The assassin smiled. 'Not even He can save you now.'
Blam!
The Glock went off one last time and the assassins swept out of the abbey and into the night.
A whole minute passed, then another.
The abbey lay silent.
The bodies of the eighteen Jesuit brothers lay sprawled on the floor, bathed in blood.
The assassins never saw it.
It was high above them, hidden within the ceiling of the enormous dining room. It was a loft of some sort, an attic in the ceiling that was separated from the dining room by a thin, wood-panelled wall. The individual panels of the wall were so old and shrivelled that the cracks between them were wide.
If they had looked closely enough, the assassins would have seen it—peering out through one of those cracks, blinking with fear.
A wide-open human eye.
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