Sign of the Cross

‘Jumped out?’ he demanded. ‘What are you talking about?’

Before the passenger could answer, one of the cops at the roadblock hoisted an M72 Light Antitank Weapon onto his shoulder and fired. The rocket launched with a mighty whoosh, propelled by gases that burned at over 1400°F, and slammed into the metallic grill of the bus.

Fire roared down the center aisle like a flood, burning everything in its wake: the seats, the luggage, and the people, literally melting the skin off their bodies in a horrific ball of flames. The unlucky few who survived the impact of the rocket scrambled blindly in the black smoke, searching for a way out. They flailed wildly at the broken windows, trying to squeeze through the holes that lined the frame even though the razorlike shards punctured their faces and torsos.

Finally, one of the men came to his senses and opened the emergency exit in the back.

‘If you can hear me,’ he screamed into the smoke, ‘come this way!’

Seconds later, he saw a petite woman fighting her way through the inferno, dragging a badly burnt man whose face looked like it had been removed with a blowtorch. The first man didn’t know where she’d found the strength, yet she’d somehow managed to drag him to the rear exit.

‘You’re almost out,’ he assured her as he helped them to the ground. ‘We’re almost free.’

She tried to thank him but could only manage a hacking cough. At least she was still breathing, he thought. At least she had made it through the flames and had managed to save one of the passengers in the process. Somehow, miraculously, they had survived this tragedy.

At least for the moment.

While staggering from the bus, he spotted the policemen in the distance and screamed to them for aid, not realizing that they had started the fire to begin with. The smallest of the cops rushed forward like he was going to help, like he was going to put out the fire with the long nozzle that he held in his hands. But instead of giving them assistance, he did just the opposite.

Stopping fifteen feet in front of them, the cop lowered the visor on his flame-retardant helmet and hit the switch on his flamethrower, sending a deadly stream of jellied fuel into the air. The chemicals ignited in a wicked flash, covering the victims like napalm and scorching them like marshmallows that had fallen into a campfire, their white skin bubbling and turning black as they slowly became a part of the burnt asphalt.

Smiling, the cop spoke into his headset. ‘The leak has been sealed.’

17

Tuesday, July 11

Dover, England

(eighty miles southeast of London)

Payne and Jones weren’t born yesterday. They had been involved in too many missions to ignore the obvious: there was something fishy about Manzak’s offer.

The CIA was a global organization, one that had agents and hidden connections all over the world. If they legitimately wanted to find Dr Charles Boyd, there was no way they would’ve turned to two outsiders for help. Yet for some reason Manzak came to Pamplona anyway. For some reason he wanted to go out of house (i.e., use non-CIA personnel) to track down Boyd and ultimately settled on two former MANIACs to do the job. Payne wasn’t sure why that was, but he had some theories. Perhaps Manzak was bucking for a promotion and felt the best way to get one was by catching a wanted man on his own? Or maybe Boyd had done something to Manzak long ago, and this was Manzak’s way of getting some personal revenge? Or maybe, just maybe, it was something more obvious. Maybe Manzak wanted to get his hands on Boyd so he could sell his stolen treasures and pocket the money for himself?

In the end Payne and Jones weren’t sure what Manzak’s motivation was. All they knew was he had the power to get them out of jail ASAP, and that’s all they wanted. Besides, they figured once they got back into circulation they’d have plenty of time to investigate Manzak, Boyd, and everything else that seemed shady to them. Which was just about everything.

After accepting Manzak’s offer, Payne and Jones collected their things before being herded into a helicopter and whisked away. During their flight Manzak briefed them on the mission and how to contact him once they had located Boyd. Instead of using a phone, they were to activate a high-tech beacon that looked similar to a garage door opener. Then they were to sit patiently and wait for the cavalry to arrive. Well, not the real cavalry. Their mission was supposed to be top secret, so the last thing they needed was for a bunch of horses to come galloping into town, shitting all over the place, while being led by a bugle-playing cowboy. Something like that might work during a gay pride parade but not on a CIA operation.

Anyway, their chopper touched down late Monday night in Bordeaux, France, where they were told to spend the night. Manzak gave them their travel itineraries for an early morning flight, then left with Buckner to save the world or something. Once alone, Payne and Jones started working the phones — first calling the Pentagon to check on Manzak and Buckner’s credentials, then calling Dover University to set up an appointment with Dr Boyd’s assistant.

England is smaller than the state of Alabama yet has three of the finest universities in Europe: Oxford, Cambridge, and Dover. The first two are the most well-known and for good reason. Oxford is the oldest English- speaking university in the world and boasts a roster of alumni that includes John Donne, William Penn, J. R. R. Tolkien, and Bill Clinton. Cambridge came into existence more than one hundred years later and was the school of choice for John Milton, Prince Albert, Isaac Newton, John Harvard, and Charles Darwin.

Yet in recent years many of the top students have shied away from the big two, partially because their admission policies seem to place more emphasis on a candidate’s lineage than his academic achievements. That, however, is not the case at Dover. Founded in 1569 by Elizabeth I, it had the guts to reject one of her ancestors because he failed to meet their scholastic standards. That episode, more than anything else, catapulted Dover’s status to the top of the academic heap, making it the school of choice among the elite families in Great Britain.

At least that’s what Jones read on the Internet while collecting intel for their trip.

The next morning they flew to London, took the express train to Victoria Station, then picked up a local line into Dover. From there it was a short walk to campus, where they had a late afternoon meeting with Dr Boyd’s assistant, Rupert Pencester, a chipper young bloke who was bound to offer them a cup of tea even though it was seventy-five degrees and sunny. To prepare for their meeting, Payne and Jones decided to show up early and conduct some research on their own.

The archaeology department was part of Kinsey College, one of thirty-three colleges that made up Dover University. It sat in the northwest corner of campus, fairly isolated from the sprawling lawn that connected all the schools. Boyd’s office was on the second floor of a building that was designed by England’s greatest architect, Sir Christopher Wren, one filled with arches, flying buttresses, and the biggest doors Payne had ever seen. Thankfully, the massive slabs of oak were outfitted with modern locks that Jones could crack in thirty seconds.

Pushing the door open, he said, ‘After you.’

There was no need to turn on any lights, since sunlight streamed through a series of recessed windows that ran the length of the wall. Boyd’s desk sat on the opposite side, next to three filing cabinets and a series of bookshelves. Payne hoped to find a computer filled with Boyd’s records and schedules, yet Boyd seemed to be a product of a different generation, for nothing in the room was modern. Even the clock looked like it was built by Galileo.

The filing cabinets were locked, so Payne let Jones work his magic while he dug through Boyd’s desk. Payne found the usual assortment of office supplies and knickknacks but nothing that helped their search. Next he turned his attention to the bookshelves. They were filled with books on the Roman Empire, archaeological digs in Italy, and early Latin.

‘The first one’s done,’ Jones bragged. ‘Feel free to take a look when you get a chance.’

‘That would be now. There’s nothing over here but books on Italy. Let’s see: we got Rome, Venice, Naples, and Milan.’

Jones focused his attention on the second lock. ‘Not exactly a shocker. I mean, his interview on the History Channel was on the Roman Empire. I’m guessing that was his specialty.’

‘It was,’ said a voice from the doorway. ‘That and privacy, which is the reason his chests are locked. Or should I say were locked.’