Christy's body had been found floating in the harbor, not far from where the Catalina had briefly docked. It was evident that he had been tortured before death. Jocasta had inquired of her sources, in this case, corrupt policemen in both France and England and had learned two things: Sir Reginald had been a high-ranking member of the Trevayne Society; and the police believed his death to be the work of an international mercenary group called the Fraternis Maltae, recognizable by their stylized swords and stilettos. Dodge had a pretty good idea why the man had been tortured; the Fraternis Maltae wanted to know the final destination of the Catalina's passengers.
At the time, it had been unclear whether the mercenaries were working with Schadel, but the knowledge that his friends were being pursued by such a brutal organization supplied further impetus to the search. More inquiries had been made and it soon became evident that the Catalina was on its way to India. Newcombe had studied photographs of the Himalaya and Hindu Kush mountains and identified them as being the same distinctive peaks in his borrowed memories. They had missed catching them in Delhi by mere minutes, but just before Dodge could ask after their final destination, he had caught a glimpse of a very familiar face — his own — boarding an airplane bound for the southern city of Bhilsa. Disguised with a little local color, the three survivors from the Outpost had blended in with the passengers and followed the phony Dodge all the way to the Udayagiri caves. The one thing they hadn't factored into their hasty plans was that possibility that the Fraternis Maltae might already have some of their agents in place.
Or that they might make their own play to seize the Staff.
Dodge caught Jocasta's eye as she was pulled out onto the long bridge. After the brilliant light show in the domed chamber, the lichen growing on the floor of the span provided only enough illumination to see vague outlines beyond a few feet, but Dodge could tell that the beautiful blond thief was preparing to make her own play. Her hand dropped down to her right thigh and her fingers drew something — an oblong metal rod only about eighteen inches long — from a concealed pocket.
Dodge shook his head, silently imploring her not to do anything that might get her killed, but he could see the determination in her eyes. Jocasta Palmer would not tolerate being drug around like chattel. Her fingers released a hidden catch on object and with a faint snick, a spring-loaded section telescoped out, nearly doubling the rod's length. Jocasta did not attempt to use the rod as a weapon against her captor, but instead let it fall noisily onto the stone path.
Savile reacted exactly as she expected, brandishing his sword in the direction of the sound. As soon as the blade came away from her throat, Jocasta did what only she could do. In an astonishing display of acrobatic ability, she sprang backward, pivoting on Savile's awkward grip on her hair and went up and over his shoulder. Though he still held her, he no longer had any control and as she landed lightly on her feet behind him, she caught his forearm and pulled it over his shoulder until, in a howl of agony, he released both her hair and the Staff.
But Savile wasn't beaten yet. He twisted around, easing the strain on his left arm, even as he slashed with the sword. Jocasta was forced to release her grip and retreat, which she did in equally dramatic fashion, doing three rapid handsprings backward until she was well beyond the reach of his blade.
Hurricane was right behind Dodge, his guns trained on the mercenary, but at such close range, his .50-caliber bullets would likely obliterate Savile and keep right on going, endangering Jocasta. Dodge didn't think Hurley was serious about not caring whether the jewel thief came to any harm, but he decided not to put it to the test. Instead, he leaped onto the discarded metal rod and then charged the flailing assassin-monk, swinging it like a bludgeon.
For just a moment, Savile was on the defensive. He managed to parry Dodge's strike, deflecting the impromptu club at the last instant in a ringing shower of sparks. But unlike Dodge, whose knowledge of the finer points of swordplay was limited to what he had picked up as young boy, watching Douglas Fairbanks dueling with legions of inept foes, Savile actually knew what he was doing. He parried another overhead attack from Dodge and then went on the offensive.
Dodge deflected one ringing blow after another, but the attack was wearing him down. His fingers were numb from the shock that traveled through the metal with each blow that was struck and it was all he could do to keep Savile's blade from sliding down the length of the rod and slicing off his fingers. It wasn't enough to parry Savile's attacks, he had to retreat each time to avoid a lethal riposte. Then, Savile's sword struck just right and the rod fell from Dodge's grasp.
Dodge took another step back, his empty hands raised. "Touché."
A triumphant smile crossed the mercenary's broad face as he drew back for a killing thrust, but then he saw that Dodge's gesture was not one of surrender. Instead, he was jerking a thumb over his shoulder, directing Savile's attention to….
The killer monk's eyes widened for just an instant as he stared into the barrels of Hurricane's pistols. Then the guns thundered and Savile was hurled backward, off the span and disappeared into the depths.
Dodge sagged in relief. "Took you long enough."
"I thought you might beat him," Hurricane answered with a grin.
"Not even a plug nickel, Brian? You certainly know how to make a girl feel loved." Jocasta, standing about twenty feet away, shook her head sadly, then knelt and picked up the Staff.
Dodge's relief at having survived the brutal battle with Savile evaporated in instant as he contemplated the possibilities of what she would do next. Jocasta seemed to be contemplating this as well; she glanced over her shoulder, to the T-shaped doorway leading back up out of the cave and then made up her mind. She strode forward and proffered the Staff.
Dodge made no attempt to hide his relief. "For just a second there, I thought you might—"
"Yes, well for just a second I thought I might, too. Then I saw them." She pointed back down the length of the span to where a crowd of figures was emerging from the gloom. Dodge only recognized one of them — the man he knew as Burton. Jocasta had probably recognized several more of her fellow passengers from Flight 19.
Molly got to her hands and knees and then rose unsteadily to her feet. Winterbourne had followed after Hurricane and Dodge in pursuit of the fleeing mercenary, leaving only the frizzy-haired scientists and of course, her father. The latter regarded the skull-faced man who continued to hug the metal column as if he had somehow become affixed to it. Molly however was drawn like a moth to a flame, toward nearest of the arch openings.
What she saw was the stuff of nightmares.
The basilica seemed to have been constructed atop a pinnacle looking out in every direction over a vast scorched landscape. At first, she saw nothing but dark patches, like islands, surrounded by frothing fountains of bright orange lava. But as her eyes adjusted to the contrast, she saw that the dark islands were moving — writhing. They were heaps of tortured souls and the hot wind carried their screams to her ears.
She tore her gaze away from the shocking tableau and instead found her eyes drawn to the inky blackness high above, where a mass of bestial shapes swirled about, their demonic eyes ablaze with the evil they were about to unleash upon the world.
A scream gathered in her throat.
"That's not right at all."
The words were so bland when held against the horror she was witnessing, that her fear melted into anger. She turned to face the man who had spoken them. Newton, no that's not it…Newcombe. "What?"