Elizabeth closed her office door and took the elevator down to the ground floor exit. A black, armored Lincoln waited for her. It had five inches of armor plate, bullet proof glass, steel sidewalls, run flat tires and a turbo-charged diesel engine. It wasn't good on mileage. Her driver held the rear door open for her.
"Good evening, Director."
"Good evening, Tom."
Tom closed the door after her. Her other bodyguard was a big man, a comforting presence. He got in the front passenger seat. A Remington 12 gauge pump stood upright in a rack next to him. Elizabeth began reviewing the latest satellite data from Russia as the car rolled out of the garage.
There was new activity at the Irtysh air base. She had battled with DIA over getting a satellite tasked full time to observe, with only partial success. There were windows of time when the satellite was out of range. But a picture was emerging.
The Russians had increased security. She estimated that a full company of soldiers was stationed at the base. Anyone approaching the pyramid had to pass through three checkpoints, each one more elaborate than the one before.
There was new fencing. A new road from the base to the pyramid. Guards patrolled. Dogs. Light towers were going up. Someone was putting a lot of effort into guarding something.
She glanced out through the tinted windows of the Lincoln. A yellow motorcycle with two riders in black leather sped by. Both riders wore full helmets with black visors that concealed their faces. As the bike pulled ahead, the passenger turned and threw a dark package behind him toward the car.
"Fuck!" Tom yelled and hit the brakes.
The heavy car shuddered and slowed. The armor underneath the engine took the blast. The explosion sounded like a thunderclap inside the car. The Lincoln lifted into the air and the windshield blew out. Bits of glass cut her face. Elizabeth was thrown hard against the door as the car came down on its side and slid along the pavement to a stop.
Her driver lay unmoving against his door. His partner hung sideways from his seatbelt, unconscious and bleeding. Dazed, she saw the motorcycle turn back. The passenger leaned out with another bomb in his hand.
Elizabeth never went anywhere without her gun. She drew the Glock and aimed with shaking hands through the opening where the windshield had been. She was seeing double through the smoke, two motorcycles coming toward her. She pulled the trigger as fast as she could, again and again. It felt as if she were underwater, everything in slow motion, the sound of the gunshots muffled and indistinct. Hot brass shells fell around her, a shiny, strange rain.
The motorcycle slammed down onto the pavement and the bomb meant for her exploded. The bike and riders were enveloped in flame.
Later, she couldn't remember how she'd gotten out of the car. What she remembered was the sound of sirens and the body of her driver, covered in blood.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The Library of Mafra Palace wasn't like any library Nick had seen before. The room was the length of a football field. Ceilings of white plaster molded with floral accents radiated in ribbed arches from a high, closed dome in the center. The library was a testament to the golden age of Baroque architecture.
The floor was paved with tiles in white, rose and gray. Under the central dome, the tiles formed a circle of geometric patterns bounded by a square. It looked like an expensive oriental rug woven of marble. Two tiers of wooden shelves stretched away on either side of the room. Thousands of books lined the shelves. Marble columns supported the second tier and a balcony bordered by a marble balustrade. Pale moonlight streamed through large windows. The library was eerily beautiful in the cold light.
Dark shapes swooped down on them and darted away as they moved into the room. Ronnie ducked and swore.
"Bats. They've got bats in here. Rats and bats. What the hell kind of a palace is this?"
Nick laughed. "Rats and Bats. Sounds like a good name for a rock band."
"The bats eat insects that would eat the books," Selena said. "The Portuguese let them live in here."
Lamont sighed. "How do you know stuff like that?" He looked at the leather bound volumes lining the shelves. "Lots of books. Where's the Codex?"
"The Codex isn't on display. Look for another room. There has to be a place where they keep damaged books for restoration or storage."
Five minutes later they found it, locked with an electronic key pad. Ronnie took a device from his pack and placed it against the lock. Digital numbers in green blurred and stopped one by one until a five number combination appeared. The door clicked open.
In the security station near the main entrance, a red warning light illuminated. The guard watching the monitors didn't see it. He was lying on the floor. The back of his skull was gone, where a bullet had exited and taken most of his brain with it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The restoration room was the size of a large garage. A workbench along one wall bore a neat array of glues, inks and odd tools no one but a book restorer would ever understand. A leather bound volume lay on the bench, open to a drawing of a medieval knight stepping off into an abyss.
Selena walked over to the table.
"This is incredible." Selena's voice was hushed, almost reverent. "This is a 14th Century illustrated edition of Le Morte D'Artur. The Death of Arthur."
"King Arthur?" Nick walked to her, looked down at the book.
"The same."
"Very nice," Nick said, "but not what we came for."
"Sorry." She scanned the room. "Try that cabinet with the keypad. It's temperature controlled."
The code they had used to enter the room opened the cabinet. Inside was an oblong wooden box about six inches deep and a foot long. Selena took it out and opened the lid.
"This is it," she said. She closed the lid and placed the box in a large, empty pocket in front of her jacket. It made the jacket bulge out in front. Nick thought of Afghanistan and suicide bombers. He shook off the memory.
His ear began itching.
"Something's not right," he said.
Nick's ear burned. He tugged on it. Ronnie and Lamont looked at each other. They all knew what that meant.
"Shit," Ronnie muttered.
"Kill the lights." Nick's voice was quiet, calm. He felt the old pre-combat surge.
He let the door open a crack. They heard muffled whispers, the scrape of a boot on marble. MP-5 up by his cheek, Nick pulled the door open.
Five men, dressed in black, wearing balaclavas and holding ugly, short barreled automatic weapons.
Nick opened fire. The gunfire lit the library in bright flashes with a disorienting, strobe-like effect. Everyone began yelling and shooting. Something slammed into his chest and spun him around. He saw Selena hit as he went down. It was a ballet of death, shadow men dancing in the moonlight and the light from the guns…
…and the bullets shattered the market stalls around him, ricocheting from the stone walls, the AKs a constant roar in his ears. He made it to a doorway. Across the dirt street a child ran toward him shouting about Allah. The child had a grenade…
…and he was back in Portugal. The flashback was over. The fight was over. He'd been gone for a minute. He broke out in a cold sweat. Five black shapes lay crumpled on the marble. The floor was littered with spent brass. The smell of the guns filled the air.
Lamont bent over him. "You all right?" He helped Nick to his feet.
"Yeah." His chest was bruised. His left arm was numb. Selena was doubled over, gasping for air.
"S'all right," she said. She struggled for breath. "Knocked the wind out of me."
Ronnie helped her up. She pulled the box with the Codex from her jacket. The round had punched through the book and been stopped by the armor underneath.
"Nick," Lamont said.
"I'm okay. Jesus, I love this armor."
Ronnie bent over one of the dead men. "Guess theirs wasn't as good as ours." He picked up one of their guns. "Russian. PP-19. Good weapon."
"Not good enough," Lamont said. "What are Russians doing here?"
"Same as us."
"This one is still alive." Ronnie knelt next to one of the prone figures. The man's eyes fluttered and opened. Blood ran from his mouth. Ronnie knew he wasn't getting up again. So did the man on the floor.
"Fuck your mother," he said in Russian. Then he was gone.
"Definitely Russians," Lamont said.