“Check out the woman over there,” Farrell said.
“I told you to focus, Farrell.”
“No, I mean watch what she’s doing — she looks like she’s high or something.”
“Can’t see her yet — where is she?” Hawke scanned the room and saw that Eden’s private security had also seen the woman. She stepped forward and whispered something in Sir Richard’s ear. He turned to look at the woman.
Farrell spoke next: “I’ve got her, boss. I think Victoria Beckham’s blocking your view.”
“No — got her now. Tall, pale with blonde hair.”
“You’ve got her right side, yeah?”
“Correct.”
“Well I’ve got her left side, boss. Her best side, I like to think.”
“Farrell…”
“She’s talking to herself, boss, and approaching Sir Richard.”
Hawke focused on the woman across the room. She was beautiful, but something wasn’t right — she was mumbling something to herself. The room was now full of dignitaries and those serving them drinks. Hawke watched the woman weave in and out of the crowd, almost falling over in places. Whoever she was, she had no place here. He stepped forward to apprehend her.
Suddenly everything changed.
Hawke saw the fear on the woman’s face two seconds before he saw the blood on her wrists. Sir Richard’s security officer moved forward to protect her boss.
“No!” said Sir Richard. “I know this woman. Let her through.”
The woman was clearly confused and staggered closer to Sir Richard before falling on her knees. She crawled towards him, terrorized by some unseen thing over her shoulder. She looked into Sir Richard’s face with bewildered, delirious eyes. Hawke knew immediately that she had been drugged — he recognized the symptoms easily enough. The crowd turned to see what was happening and fell silent.
“Richard, please! Help me!” Her words were slurred.
“What is it, professor?” said Sir Richard.
“How do you know this woman?” Hawke asked, surveying the room for other threats.
Eden said: “She’s…”
Then the first shot rang out and everyone dived for cover. The assassin’s bullet plowed through the woman’s shoulder and knocked her violently to the ground.
Hawke searched the mezzanine for a glimpse of the shooter but saw no one. Eden’s security officer turned herself into a human shield to protect the senior politician.
Despite the terrible wound to her body, the woman heaved herself back to her knees and turned to Sir Richard who was now staring at the unfolding situation in wild disbelief. The crowd broke into chaos and began to scatter.
“I made the trans… the translation, Sir Richard.” She coughed up blood and struggled to breathe. “Those who seek the ultimate power must look within his kingdom…” More coughing.
Eden crouched down and tried to help the woman. “Lucy, what’s happened? Who did this to you?”
“No time… He put them inside the amphorae! All this time and it’s been right in front of our faces… Poseidon and the Nereid, Richard — they are the keepers of the legend…”
“Someone call an ambulance!” Eden screamed, his hands shaking with adrenalin.
“You have to… stop them, Richard. They beat it out of me and now they’re going to New York. You have to stop them before…”
The final gunshot was lethal in its accuracy, blasting a high velocity round straight through the woman’s heart and spraying a jet of blood across Eden’s face and body. She collapsed in a lifeless heap on the polished parquet floor of the exhibition room.
Another series of shots from the mezzanine, and this time Hawke saw the shooter. Eden’s private security officer and Farrell saw him at the same time but it was a second too late for Farrell who was killed with the next shot.
Hawke had no time to think about the loss. Any doubt that the woman was the only target was removed when the assassin fired another series of shots at Sir Richard, his security officer and then finally Hawke himself. Chaos reigned.
A horrified Sir Richard Eden pointed at the assassin, who was now visible on the balcony at the top of the stairs and shouted at his security officer to get after him.
And so she did.
And so did Hawke.
CHAPTER TWO
Hawke and the security officer sprinted down the steps of the British Museum’s south exit and saw the sniper running towards a black BMW X5. It was parked on the sidewalk beyond the wrought-iron gates at the entrance to the museum.
The driver was waiting for the shooter with the rear door open and the engine revving hard. The man leaped into the back seats and with a squeal of burned rubber the X5 raced down Great Russell Street.
By the time they reached the gates, the X5 was already several hundred yards away, and Hawke had no time to think. A few yards to his right, a tour bus was idling in a parking bay waiting to collect a group of tourists who were ambling out of the museum.
Some of them had already got back on the bus and were sitting on the open top deck eating ice creams and taking pictures from their elevated position of the museum’s impressive façade. Hawke knew what he had to do.
“Get out,” he said to the driver.
“Who the hell are you?”
Hawke didn’t reply. He grabbed the man by the scruff of his neck, dragged him out of the driver’s seat and shoved him from the bus. “Don't worry,” Hawke shouted as he cranked the six cylinder engine up. “There’ll be another one along in a minute.”
“You’re a real charmer,” the security officer said. Irish. He placed her accent in the south — Dublin maybe.
“Nice to meet you,” he replied, offering her his hand. “Joe Hawke. I had a contract to work as security for the British Museum until about three minutes ago.”
“I’m Lea Donovan,” she said coolly. She refused his hand and instead used the moment to pull a Glock 17 casually from an inside pocket.
Hawke glanced at the gun. “You’re armed! That’s not exactly legal.”
“Hush now. I’m security for Sir Richard Eden and he’s the one who gave it to me.”
“Fair enough.” Hawke shrugged his shoulders. “Do you know how it works? The end with the little hole in it is the dangerous bit.”
He swerved the bus violently around a line of parked cars and screeched to a halt behind a black cab.
“And if you knew how to drive properly I could probably get a shot off and take out those bastards’ back tires, but as it is, it looks like we’ll have to wait until they pull up for a coffee.”
Hawke ignored this, and slammed his foot down on the throttle, steering out from behind the taxi. The tour bus jolted forward sluggishly at first, but then gathering speed as he went up through the gears. “Let’s see what this little baby can do.”
Up ahead, the X5 was already trapped in more of the London gridlock, trying to negotiate its way out by mounting the sidewalk. A cacophony of angry car-horns was raised in response, as well as lots of fist-waving from pedestrians and a few people even kicked the side of the assassin’s car. They dispersed in a hurry when the window came down and several warning shots were fired into the air.
“Those guys are insane!” Hawke said to himself as he drew closer to the gridlock.
Now the X5 was weaving through the traffic and turning right into another street. Hawke slammed his foot down and drove the bus down the middle of the road, furiously hammering on the bassy horn to make the cars pull away to the sides of the road.
Progress was slow, but thankfully the same went for the X5, which was once again stuck in even more gridlock around the corner. Not unusual for this part of town, Hawke considered.