Solomon's Throne (3 page)

Working quickly, he pried up the loose stone. There was only a very small concavity beneath the stone, probably the result of water in some bygone age. Using his fingers and the knife, Father Eduardo quickly dug out enough earth to fit the pouch securely inside. He placed the papers and the journal in the leather pouch, cinched it, folded the top edge over to discourage dust, and put it carefully in the hole. He replaced the rock, and used his cloak to sweep the dirt that he could not scoop up into the corners. The rest he dumped outside the back door, wiping his hands clean on his cassock. His skin was damp with perspiration despite the cooling winter day, and he leaned against the wall, trying to dismiss his overactive imagination.

The next Sunday, the Jesuit noticed that the dark eyed man wasn’t in the congregation during mass. Feeling relieved, he performed the service with a much lighter heart. After greeting the parishioners and partaking of the Sunday mid-day meal with a local solicitor and his family, he returned to his room with no thoughts other than finishing his book. He opened the door and uttered one word. “
Bosto
.”

His room, with its few possessions and minimally adequate furniture, had been hit by a cyclone. A cyclone with knives. His only other cassock was shredded, the pieces of black wool scattered about the room. His small bed, with the hay stuffed mattress, was ripped down the center and emptied of all but a few scraggles of straw. His rough wool coverlet was in tatters. The wooden bedstead, stool and work table were kindling. The ashes from the fire had been thrown out and onto the rest of the mess, and water from the small clay pitcher had been poured on top, making a sodden, smelly mess. And his book for the monastery, his beautiful book, on which he’d spent countless hours… Each page had been torn into small pieces, and the tooled leather cover slashed and ruined.

The Jesuit stood, frozen. He was a priest, not a man of violence. He had been brought up by quiet parents on a farm near Doctor Balsemoa. He had been fortunate to escape the tentacles of the Inquisition unscathed. He had not yet been born when Portugal regained its independence from Spain, so his country had been at peace during his lifetime. He had early decided on a monastic life. He did not understand the anger expressed in the wholesale destruction of his room, nor the mind behind it. He just knew evil when he saw it, and he turned and ran.

Looking out over the harbor, lit up with the dawn, Eduardo clutched the leather pouch in his inner pocket. He didn’t know what it was about, but he knew that, unless he left Lisbon, the man with the dark eyes would find him, and would make him surrender what Sebastian de Gois had died protecting. He wasn’t sure why, but he wasn’t about to do that. He would protect the letter, yes, and the Church with it. But he would also find the man’s treasure. The Throne of King Solomon.

CHAPTER THREE

Lisbon

Present Day

T
he tree lined street near
Se’ Catedral de Lisboa was dark and quiet. Little traffic used the roads surrounding the ancient building once the few small bars and restaurants in the vicinity closed for the night. Residences were dark and still. The three men, clad in non-reflective black, slipped along under the trees, lost in shadow. They stopped at a small building on Rue das Pedras Negras, the leader making a downward swipe with his gloved hand and dropping to one knee.

From a small ground floor window, a blue light flickered once, twice, then died. The lead outside man returned the signal, and the three separated, two men disappearing around corners, and a third aiming a grapple hook at the tile rooftop of the house. Compressed air fired the hook with minimal sound, and, after ensuring the hook was secure, the man rappelled to the chimney pot on the roof. A small access door opened from the inside, and the man slipped in.

The two men silently descended the stairs, turning on head lamps. The building, built as the home of a moderately wealthy sea captain in 1562, had been transformed into to an ultra modern office space. Chic minimalist furniture lined the hallways, creating cozy meeting places. Bedrooms on the top two floors had been converted into generous offices, each with its own keypad for security. On the first floor, a gracious dark paneled room with elaborately carved doorway arches functioned as a reception area, while a large oak paneled dining room off the modern kitchen had been converted to a conference room.

The men bypassed all of this, including the valuable art showcased on every wall. Top of the line computers, stereo equipment, and expensive sculptures were equally ignored. The men approached a thick wooden door to the right of the modern Subzero refrigerator, and studied the keypad. The leader clicked a button on his smart phone and studied the screen for a moment. He looked at his partner, crossed himself, and put his finger to the pad. Carefully entering a 14 digit code, he pressed “Enter.” Green light, and
click
. The man gave his partner a quick thumbs up and opened the door.

The stairway was illuminated with blue lights, casting a hazy glow on the dark stonework. At the bottom of the stairs the room opened out into a single large square, separated by banks of climate controlled vaults. The floor was criss-crossed by moving red laser tracks. Over each vault was a single fish eye camera. The men stopped on the top step and looked at their watches. The shorter of the two held up three fingers. The leader nodded.

In less than a minute, there was the sound of equipment powering down, and the lasers disappeared. In another minute overhead fluorescent lights came on, and the blue lights dimmed. The green lights on the side of each fish eye lens switched to red. The men moved slowly into the room, cautiously testing out their inside information. If they’d missed just one system… After five quiet minutes, they went straight for a small vault set into the back wall.

Carefully the leader withdrew a black box from his coverall pocket. He opened it to reveal a man’s index finger. His partner made a face and the leader smiled and shook his head.
Not real.
The finger, made of a silicone polymer and kept warm on a battery powered bed of foam, was perfect in every respect: fingernail, hairs, knuckle wrinkles. And, most importantly, fingerprints.

The leader consulted his smart phone, and crossed himself again, to the amusement of his partner. He wiped his upper lip with his shoulder, steadied his stance, and raised his own index finger to the keypad. He began his series of punches. Fourteen numbers. Star. Fourteen more numbers. Enter. This time there was a yellow light, and another touch pad illuminated. Quickly taking the warm finger from its box, the tall man pressed the fingerprints against the screen. The screen flashed red; the man removed the finger, and glanced over at his partner. Both held their breath. Green light.
Click.
The vault opened.

Inside the lighted vault was a black velvet box. Carefully withdrawing the box, the smaller man pulled the tab and opened it. All that was inside was a leather pouch, tied with a drawstring, and a small leather bound book. The man gently removed the pouch and opened it. He gave his leader a thumbs up—
got it.
Picking up the book he raised his eyebrows at the taller man. The leader gave a shrug.
Bring it.

Handing the velvet box to his partner, the team leader took a thick plastic bag from his pocket. He slipped the two items inside, and carefully sealed the opening with the attached tape. A stainless steel box, the size of hardback book, came out of the cargo pocket on his leg, and the plastic bag with its precious contents was carefully stowed inside. With the unplanned addition of the book, the box barely closed. It had been specifically designed for the pouch, but the leader didn’t want to leave the book behind. Anything important enough to keep with his intended target was definitely important enough to steal.

The men replaced the velvet box in the vault, and shut the door. The leader turned the handle on the door, and a wild claxon began to sound. Shock widened their eyes, and they looked at each other in stunned disbelief. After a moment of frozen silence, the team leader yelled, “Go!” He shoved his partner through the room and up the stairs, frantically trying to stow the box of stolen artifacts back in his cargo pocket while racing up the stairs.

All pretense of stealth gone, the two men crashed out of the kitchen door into the landscaped back yard. The two sentries had come running from their posts on the front corners of the building, and the four men began running across the lawn, northeast and away from the water. And their boat. As they leapt over the small fence that separated the property from the small side street, one of the men caught his foot on a finial and fell, his leg breaking with an audible
snap
. The leader stopped briefly, made the sign of the cross with his forefinger on the man’s forehead, and hissed, “Go!” The three men resumed running, leaving the fallen man to his fate.

CHAPTER FOUR

London, England

Present Day

T
he London office of Xavier
International Ltd sat in Kensington, not far from Hyde Park. The streets for miles around were fronted with Perpendicular and Tudor style homes, many on the bustling main streets converted into offices and exclusive stores, with the occasional take away in between. Encompassing an entire renovated home on Gloucester Road, the normally restful rooms of Xavier International were currently a hotbed of chaos. Pacing up and down and yelling in a mixture of English and Portuguese, Luis Xavier had the office staff cornered while he rampaged.

“The system was
invencivel!
They told me, they swore that no
gatuno
could beat that system without cutting off my thumbs! Even if they did cut off my thumbs, they couldn’t use the system, because it reads the
calor corporal,
the body heat!” He turned to his cowering secretary. “You call those
bastardo
! You tell them to call me
instantaneamente!
NOW!” He slammed his office door.

Once inside his office, the calm quiet decor seemed to take the fiery edge off of his temper. Still livid and pacing, he stopped waving his hands in the air and stood in front of the large window facing Gloucester Road. Across the street little St. Stephens Church sat, exuding 150 years of serenity. He stared at it for several minutes, until his intercom came to life.

“Excuse me, sir? I have Mr. De Castro on the phone in Lisbon.” The secretary said hesitantly.

Xavier snatched up the handset. “Emil?
O que aconteceu
?” What happened over there?

“
As minhas desculpas, Luis
.” My apologies. “We don’t know yet what has happened. The system should have been unbeatable.”

“Yes, so I was told when I agreed to pay the outrageous sum you charged me.”

“Well, um, yes. It does appear that we have had an internal breach—on your end possibly, although there is a slim chance it was on ours—which allowed the thieves access to your codes, and to have knowledge of the system. You know that, of course. We have not yet determined how they breached the biometric component. And of course, they were unaware of the failsafe alarm upon the closing of the door. That last minute backup system did allow the
policia
to capture one of the thieves, as you also know.”

“Yes, I know all that! What I want to know is who these people are, who in your organization sold our codes—and yes, Emil, it was your organization. I am the only one in this company to know the codes, and I can assure you that I didn’t steal from myself! And I want to know where my artifacts have gone.”