“Good try,” she said. “Now let’s go get him.”
“Forget it,” Crouch said. “Bastard will already have had an escape route planned. Three or four even. He’s a part of the landscape.”
“But he’s severely debilitated,” Caitlyn said, coming up now. “Alone. Badly wounded. He won’t last long.”
Crouch closed his eyes tightly. “You don’t understand. Riley has as many contacts as I do, only all his are bad. He’ll survive. And he’ll be back. Maybe alone, but even that’s a vicious prospect.”
Alicia squinted over at Healey. The young man was sitting up, listening. “Well,” she said. “What say we gather up our wounded and our motivation and get on a plane to London?”
“I say let’s just get the hell outta Paris,” Russo mumbled, still on his knees.
“Need a hand, Robby?”
“No I friggin’ don’t.”
“Haven’t seen you knocked over before.”
“Shut it.”
Crouch placed tentative hands on his face. “How do I look?”
“My first thought is pepperoni pizza,” Alicia said graciously. “But no. No. Seriously, it’s not that bad. The facial swelling will ease in an hour or two. The eye — a bit longer.”
“Think I’ll survive passport control?”
“Meh. Just bribe ‘em.”
“So what are we waiting for? London’s calling.”
TWENTY EIGHT
Crouch tried to force his mind away from Riley and their checkered past by concentrating on their unfolding treasure hunt. The Hercules Tarentum had evidently been designed alongside Lysippos’ Horses and had remained almost undivided throughout history. And once Napoleon had been defeated at Waterloo, clearing the way for the Horses to be returned to Venice, who would stand in the way of the victor claiming the spoils?
Admittedly, Crouch didn’t know an awful lot about the Duke of Wellington. The enormous arch that sat at the center of Hyde Park Corner was named after him and the house just across the road — Apsley House — had been his residence. With an address of Number One, London it was clear how high in esteem the British had held him. But, standing at the heart of London and a true British Heritage site, what did it have to do with Hercules and Napoleon? Maybe nothing… the arches were still their main focus. It would take much further delving but Crouch did know that the Wellington and Marble arches had been moved sometime in their history and that the foremost had been designed as some kind of grand entrance to London.
And of course, there was a quadriga on top — a four-horse chariot.
With the plane in the air, Crouch and his compatriots found themselves drifting. Exhausted through battle and city-hopping and mind-draining deliberations they fell into deep, dream-filled sleep. Crouch achieved no such release. After dozing for a few minutes he came wide awake, agitated by memories he had thought long dead and buried.
Following the bombing in India, Riley had once again dropped off the grid, leaving Crouch with nothing beyond infinite scenes of horror. Trying to reconcile that night with the man he had previously liked and worried over took years, and even then doubts remained. Not excusable, but had Riley acted under duress? Was a terrorist cell holding someone he loved, someone Riley had never disclosed? Crouch didn’t see Riley again for many years after that night but heard about his further exploits through the interdepartmental grapevine. Riley always remained high on the watch list but never again came to the in-field attention of the SAS.
Now Crouch doubted himself. What the hell had he been doing allowing this man to roam free all these years? Should I have pushed it? Certain terrorists needed making an example of — Riley was surely one of those.
Crouch tore his mind back to the present as their pilot announced the descent into London. Focusing again on the arches he thought that the links were good, the final resting place of the Hercules close at hand. If these treasures continually passed into the hands of conquering leaders — which history said they did — then the Hercules would still be somewhere in London. The Duke of Wellington’s descendants would never give up such a magnificent treasure. And to think of all the many thousands who passed through those arches every single day…
Crouch felt a tremor of excitement, pushed all thoughts of Riley and Kenzie aside, and watched the descent into London City Airport.
TWENTY NINE
Kenzie wondered silently as to the perils of folly. She had found it relatively easy tracking Crouch to France, but after the fiasco back in Vienna she’d had to quell a little revolt. The men of her inner circle helped, those who survived, and she put her survival down to the ruthlessness with which she had subdued the rebels.
Pacing a hotel room, she waited for news.
Windows looked out across the Seine to the Eiffel Tower, the view not even a small distraction for Kenzie. She lived to acquire wealth and desirable objects, not to stare at them. Since arriving in France she had recruited more men, and another to listen to the newcomers’ conversations, a little mole. It was her way. She kept order and she kept her life. Everything was good.
Except for Crouch and his little band of brothers.
In a normal world they might even elude her, but this was not normal, this was her world. Kenzie had kept it quiet even among her inner circle, but one of the men she employed was a previous Ninth Division operative. Battered, bruised and left for dead in the ruins of the old HQ he had risen disgruntled, resentful, and sought out some extreme alternative employment. After bumbling around for several months he had been brought to her attention. Kenzie recognized the potential and snapped him up in a minute — ex-government employees always came in useful.
Three men shared the hotel room with her, two of the three remaining members of her inner circle and the Ninth Division traitor — Jaden Sheppard. The latter was privy to several of Michael Crouch’s lines of contact and was monitoring them all.
“London,” Sheppard told her. “We couldn’t find them in France but I know where they will be in London.”
Kenzie stared sightlessly out of the window. “When? Are they already in the air?”
Sheppard nodded. “Even if we left right now we’d be two hours behind them.”
“Luckily,” she stared hard at him, “I have people in London. Ancient relics are big business among the city’s greedy bankers and businessmen. Crouch can’t have found his treasure yet…” she tailed off, her mind flicking back through the years and to the events that had led her to this. Once a loyal operative of Mossad she broke hard and went rogue when an op went wrong. The fallout had killed a man she loved and, later, her family. At twenty eight she had seen the faults inherent in government, officials on the take, and people who should be looking out for her, mentors, superiors, equals, reveling in all their squalid dishonesties. Breaking from her heart to her brain she made the decision to work only for herself and to never trust one single person ever again.
There was a knock at the door, an intrusion. One of her acolytes rose, checked through the peep-hole, and opened it. Her missing inner-circle member entered looking a bit red in the face.
“Everything okay?” Kenzie asked.
“Aye,” the rough-looking Scotsman growled. “Everything’s great. Just a wee problem to sort, that’s all.”
“More dissension among the ranks?”
“You got it, Kenzie. New boy by the name of Gilmore. Thinks he’s gonna be running the whole crew soon enough, he does.”
“Of course. There’s always one. Always. Did you make an example of him?”
“Not yet. Thought I’d check with you first. Don’t wanna run afoul of that blade ye always keep handy.”
Kenzie eyed the shining, curved blade close at hand. The weapon gave her power over all aspects of her life — it was a deterrent, a life-giver, a confidence restorer and a menacing threat. It was her backbone in life, her perversion in passion, her twisted child.