PROLOGUE
May 2003, Paris, France
Jean-Pierre Carpentier lent back against the low stone wall and drew on the un-tipped cigarette hanging from his down-turned mouth. He glanced at his watch; 2 hours and 20 minutes to the end of his shift. He shivered in the cool morning air and pulled his collar up around his stout neck. Adjusting his grip on the automatic rifle he peered across the compound through the darkness for the thousandth time. He hated nights, but the time off in lieu was good and Marie would be waiting for him in their warm bed when he finally got home. He smiled at the thought of his young wife who was expecting their first child in the autumn. Removing the dog end from his lips he flicked it in an arc through the night and turned to look at the dark building he was guarding. It looked innocent enough but he knew the secrets shielded within, secrets held deep in the corridors of the French government.
Jean-Pierre had joined L’Armée de Terre, the French Land army, two years before with the hope of seeing some action in one of the conflicts around the world, but here he was guarding a secret weapons establishment on the outskirts of Paris. He jumped nervously as a scraping noise caused him to spin around. He pulled the weapon to his face and flicked the night sight on and the safety off. Scanning the compound he searched for the source of the distant sound but saw nothing. About to lower the rifle he heard another quiet noise to the left and slowly brought the weapon to bear.
‘Got you, you little bastard,’ he muttered as he focussed the cross hairs on the head of his target. The black and white feral cat turned to look at him before leaping up the high wall, seeming to defy gravity as it continued out of the complex on its endless search for scraps of food in the night. Jean-Pierre lowered the FAMAS F1 bullpup rifle and chuckled as he made the weapon safe. He peered at his watch again. 0600 – must be time for another cigarette he thought, knowing he was smoking far too much during these long lonely nights. Carefully laying the rifle on the wall he reached into his tunic pocket to locate the pack of Gitanes and a Zippo lighter. He was aware it was strictly against orders, but who would know? He tapped the end of the cigarette against the packet and placed it between his lips. With a well practised flick he opened the Zippo and lit the wick, the yellow flame flickering in the light breeze.
The orange aluminium shaft drove its full 6 inches into his throat as it entered through the Adam’s apple and continued into his spine. An eruption of dark blood frothed from the wound that had smashed his voice box to a useless pulp, but it was the four sided head that did the main damage as it neatly severed his spinal chord, killing him before any pain had registered in his brain. Jean-Pierre Carpentier slumped quietly to the floor, the only noise being the indistinct clatter of the Zippo lighter as it spun across the paving slabs.
Lowering the compound crossbow the marksman was pleased with his work and he smiled down at the four darkly dressed figures below.
‘All clear,’ he whispered.
‘What about cameras and alarms?’ called back a huge man that appeared to be the leader of the group.
‘As our research suggested,’ whispered an exasperated female voice, ‘this place is being kept ‘low key’; just the one guard and nothing else. The authorities don’t want to draw attention to the place.’
‘Okay,’ he replied, ‘we have just over 2 hours until the main work-force arrive and I want to co-ordinate the detonation to wreak the maximum of damage.’
‘What about PACT?’ asked another figure.
‘They’ll be here,’ answered the woman, ‘but let me deal with them when the time comes, as we discussed. I have a meeting set up with their leader at 0730 and we’ll go with the plan from there.’
‘Okay,’ said the leader checking his watch. ‘Set the timers for 0755 and we’ll RV back here at 0745. Everyone clear?’
Happy with the mumblings of agreement he led the way as the group climbed the wall and dropped silently into the courtyard to go about their clandestine business.
The dark figure leant back against the wall and looked at the small watch hanging from her slender wrist. Her hands were shaking and she felt beads of sweat run down her neck and between her modest breasts before soaking into the loose tee-shirt that covered her upper body. Two minutes she thought, here we go. She slowly lifted her pistol as she became aware of another dark figure moving cat-like along the wall; its progression masked by the dark shadows thrown as the rising sun started to shed its light across the compound.
‘Kurtis is that you?’ she whispered.
‘Ja, was ist passiert?’ replied a gruff voice.
‘Speak bloody English you fool.’
‘Yes it’s me, kurtis, what is happening?’
‘Right, listen up, I’m short of time. There are three of us including me. I’ve been sent ahead to recce the place before the others come over the wall. I’m sorry but the guard bought it – nothing I could do without blowing my cover.’ She checked her watch again. ‘They will be over the wall in exactly 3 minutes so take them then – I am the smallest by a good foot and I’d appreciate not being shot. How many of you are there?’
‘Six.’
‘Good. Leave two back here in cover and you and the other three intercept us,’ she ordered with assured authority before turning and scampering across the tarmac towards the wall.
Kurtis assembled his men in the shadows of the main building crouching low against the fortification next to the fallen French soldier. He carefully studied the wall above the girl and sure enough within moments two figures dressed in black scrambled over the barrier and joined his undercover agent in the courtyard. He was in two minds as to whether to just take the terrorists out without warning, or to try and take them alive. He knew the intelligence they might gain would be priceless, but he also knew he was dealing with dangerous extremists who wouldn’t worry themselves with the same indecision. He made up his mind. It would turn out to be a fatal choice.
‘Hold it right there,’ he shouted. The three figures froze and turned towards him. ‘Drop your weapons and put your hands on your heads.’
Kurtis and three of his men advanced towards the group across the open compound as the three terrorists lowered their guns to the ground.
‘Move forward – away from your weapons and lay on the floor.’
Suddenly a small figure burst from the group and ran towards Kurtis and his men.
‘Kurtis it’s a trap,’ yelled the girl as she bolted. Simultaneously the unmistakeable ‘phutt’ of a silenced gun sounded behind them and as one Kurtis and his men turned to see their two colleagues, left behind in the cover of the buildings, drop to the floor; each felled with a single well aimed shot to the head.
‘Engage!’ shouted Kurtis, but he already knew he was too late. As he turned back to the compound the bolt entered his brain through his left temple and exited through his right eye dragging the shattered orb with it. Surprisingly he didn’t die immediately but dropped to his knees aware that his comrades were falling around him. He saw the small figure of his agent running towards him.
‘Fucking bitch,’ shouted one of the terrorists and moments later a bullet slammed into the frail body, tumbling her across the hard tarmac where she lay in an untidy heap as the blood spilled into a pool around her from the ugly wound.
Seconds later all hell broke loose as the charges detonated against the walls of the secure building. Although an old well built structure, it didn’t stand a chance against the devastating quantities of C4 explosive that had been placed at strategic points determined by engineers within the terrorist cell who had studied the blue prints. As the walls collapsed inwards the blast waves soon found the secret stores within and a chain reaction was triggered causing increasingly large detonations to tear the armoury apart, scattering debris and bodies high into the early morning air.
The explosions were heard across the capital and as far away as Fontainebleau and the outlying villages. Buildings within 200 meters were structurally damaged and windows over half a kilometre away were reported broken. But it wasn’t the material damage that made the news. 39 workers and passersby were killed that May morning in Paris with over 125 injured; 16 critically. It was the worst terrorist attack suffered by the French people, and their Government swore to take revenge on Al Qaeda, committing over double the amount of troops they already had fighting the cause around the world.
~~~~~
January 2004, Cornwall, England
CHAPTER 1
The body on the bed stirred. Tony Harrison quietly drew himself from the divan, moving across the room to stand in front of the large sash window. Known as Harry to his friends and indeed even to his wife, he looked out onto the main street of Helston in Cornwall. The early morning fog restricted his vision but Harry sensed it was radiation fog and as such it would burn off as soon as the sun came up and started its gentle warming. He knew this from his training as an Observer in the Fleet Air Arm. Recently promoted to Lieutenant Commander at the age of 31 Harry now commanded 849 Naval Air Squadron; the eye in the sky Airborne Early Warning version of the Sea King helicopter. He was incidentally the youngest officer ever to hold this position. As the sun rose slowly above the horizon a grey light flooded into the room between the darkened silk curtains, bathing all it touched with a subtle glow. Turning to the right he caught his naked reflection in the free standing full length mirror. Sucking in his flat belly he appraised the figure looking back at him. Steel grey eyes were the focal points of his handsome face with its square, clean-shaven jaw line, framed atop with short dark hair already showing tell tale flecks of premature grey at the temples. His eyes travelled lower taking in the 6’2” frame. Relaxed muscles rested behind the soft flesh that did little to disguise the fitness that hours in the gym had toned to an edge.
‘Yep, you’ve still got it,’
The voice made him jump guiltily and he turned to look at his wife Laura as she pushed herself up onto one elbow and also took pleasure in following the form of his athletic body.
‘I …. Erm …….’
Laura laughed. ‘Come back to bed you hunk,’ she purred, with promise reflected in her eyes.
Harry looked at her long and hard. She was truly beautiful; even first thing in the morning without make up and with her hair tussled in a multi-coloured heap upon her head. His gaze travelled down her body leaving the deep brown eyes behind; she was wonderfully curved, not too thin as seemed the case with so many women these days. Her legs were long and slender though the knees and ankles were slightly thicker than one would call perfect, but they did not detract from the overall picture.
‘Well, are you coming in or not?’ she asked, pouting in jest. As they both had the day off, the last of the Christmas break, they were looking forward to a lay in and a lazy day so Harry didn’t need asking again. Climbing into the king-sized bed he fell into an embrace with his wife. Their relationship had started traumatically but the love had continued to grow and the past few years had been blissful.
They often talked about the episode so near the start of their relationship and at times wondered if it had all been real or some bizarre figment of their imaginations. And yet that couldn’t be the case as they had become good friends with Brad and Lucy; a now elderly couple they had met during their escapades in 1942. So how had Harry and Laura ended up in the Pacific war? Shortly after meeting Laura, Harry had been injured in a helicopter crash that left him in a coma, but his mind was still active and he’d played out the role of Brad, an American WWII fighter ace detached to the Pacific aboard an aircraft carrier. After waking he’d relayed the story to Laura only for both of them to be led back into the 1942 scenario, barely escaping with their lives. Shortly after their return they’d met Brad and Lucy, now some sixty years older, and they had confirmed that Harry and Laura had indeed participated in a battle with the Japanese on a remote Pacific island during the Second World War.
But that was all in the past, no pun intended, and although they had tried to recreate the experience using a ring that both thought was involved at all the crucial stages, they had pretty much laid the memories to rest. That said, Harry still wore the ring on a gold chain around his neck. During his research he had taken it to an antique jeweller who’d reported that as far as he knew the ring was completely unique and that he’d never seen anything like it. He was even unable to put an age on it as there was no hallmark or any other distinguishing features. Others had taken a guess at the age but none were certain, and none would put a price on it. Apparently the ring had been hand wound from very fine pure gold threads and somehow bonded together, and yet the inside of the ring appeared to be one solid circle of gold. Inside the words ‘Te amo madre RM’ were inscribed. The words were Spanish meaning ‘I love you Mother’, but as to who RM was, nobody knew. Brad had been given the ring by a nurse called Rita Morgan, but the ring was much, much older than her and she’d been discounted early in the search.
Harry and Laura gently made love and then basked in each others company as the time ticked away to mid morning. Having drifted in and out of sleep Harry finally threw himself out of bed and padded downstairs to the kitchen. As he prepared the coffee in a café tier he looked around the open plan living space and waited for the grinds to infuse their flavour into the hot water. He and Laura had both sold their individual properties and bought a modern two bedroomed town house on Coinagehall Street in Helston. They loved the hustle and bustle of town life and the triple glazing throughout the residence kept the traffic noise at bay whilst giving them panoramic views across the main street and onwards to the open countryside beyond the neo-gothic arch at the bottom of the street.
Satisfied that the coffee was ready he poured two mugs of the steaming brew, added milk to his and half a teaspoon of sugar to each and made his way back to the master bedroom.
‘There you go Sweetheart,’ he said placing Laura’s coffee on the bedside table.
‘So what are you up to today?’ she asked.
‘I thought while you are out with Bev I’ll research RM a little more on the Internet.’
‘Okay,’ she replied, and sat deep in thought drinking her coffee. ‘Don’t become obsessed with it though Harry, and don’t forget that you still have to prepare and pack for Monday.’
‘Don’t worry Sweetheart RM is just an interest, not an obsession.’ Harry’s active mind had already dropped the subject of the ring as he thought ahead to next Monday; he had been given the rare opportunity to do a Senior Officer’s Acquaint Course (SOAC) on the Tornado F3 at RAF Coningsby. What a way to start the new year he thought: probably being groomed for some joint service staff job for which he would need a greater understanding of the operating capabilities of all three services as well as familiarisation of their equipment and procedures. He hoped that this course at Coningsby might lead to a tour in the Air Defence world before being posted to any ground tour, but that remained to be seen. For the time being he was just excited about the chance to fly an operational fast jet at the peak of its active service.
He turned back to Laura and gave her one of his best disarming smiles and they both settled back to finish their coffee. Thereafter it was up, shower and breakfast before Laura gave him a lingering kiss and left to meet Bev for a coffee before some retail therapy in the local shops. Harry settled down in front of the computer and called up the Google search engine.
“RM jeweller” he typed.
He looked at results 1 – 10 of about 523,000 that the computer had taken 0.9 seconds to find. He let out a sigh and began sifting through the results as he had done many times before. Soon though he was bored and tried some other entries.
“RM ring” produced 3,050,000 results, “Gold weave ring” 930,000 and Harry correctly felt he was searching for a needle in a haystack.
He attempted combination after combination and each time he received tens of thousands of hits. He tried a different tack. “RM “20th century jewellery”” produced 317 results and he ploughed through them all but found nothing of interest. The 19th and 18th century gave 6 and 4 respectively, again none of interest and he was just about to give up when he reached “RM “17th century jewellery””. He saw the search engine produce only two results and opened the first page and carefully read the content. It was a site about London Neighbourhoods and again revealed nothing about the ring. Opening the second link he stopped breathing as there in front of him on the screen was a pencil drawing of the ring he wore around his neck. He sat bolt upright, almost in shock. His first step was to bookmark the page and then write down the World Wide Web address on a piece of paper and tuck it into his wallet. Satisfied that he wouldn’t close the page and never be able to retrieve it again, he began to read the text on the flat screen monitor before him.
The entry was a very short and bluntly factual account; Rodrigo Mendez was a little known Spanish jeweller from Zugarramurdi in the Navarre region of Northern Spain. Born in 1592 he studied under his father Benito, a goldsmith and owner of his own small business. His mother, deemed to be a witch, was burned in the city of Logrono by the inquisition on November 8th 1610. As she went to the stake she reportedly wore a woven gold ring fashioned and inscribed by her son. The ring was never found in the embers of the fire and was thought to have been destroyed. The records and drawing were from basic notes found in his living quarters.
Harry was starting to get excited and typed some new searches into Google only to be frustrated time after time with blank or erroneous entries, with the nearest being Rodrigo Mendes, a Portuguese rock fan registered to the gothic music site ‘In Dark Decorum’. Finally he went back to the original page to double check for links only to find that “This page no longer exists, report broken links to …” He retyped the address manually and received the same message. Harry thumped the desk in frustration causing the wireless keyboard to jump high in the air. He looked at the short page of notes he’d written. Had he imagined it? He frantically went through Internet explorer’s history but could not find the page he’d read. Why hadn’t he saved or printed the page? Next he searched for the inquisition, Zugarramurdi and the dates he’d jotted down, and found with some relief that there had indeed been some witch burnings at that time, in that area. He continued to search around the subject for a couple of hours but found no reference to Rodrigo Mendez or the woven ring, and finally gave up completely frustrated and bemused; at a loss as to where his bookmarks and the Internet history could have gone.
Shortly after, Laura returned from her shopping trip and showed him the new clothes she’d bought. As she tried items on, laughing at his reaction to this pair of tight jeans or that short skirt and high heeled boots, the ring was soon forgotten. Finally she placed a large sloppy kiss on his lips and thrust the last bag, from a men’s clothes shop, into his hands. He opened it feigning trepidation and pulled out a fashionable shirt in pink and grey stripes. He’d always said he’d never wear pink but Laura encouraged him, teasing that since meeting her he should be more secure with his sexuality. Surprisingly he found the colour actually suited him quite well, and as it was in fashion he went along with her.
‘It’s lovely Harry; you can wear that tomorrow when we go over to see Mike in Truro.’
~~~~~
