The Templar Heresy Read online

  Khaled shook his head irritably. He hadn’t foreseen that particular practical difficulty.

  ‘But you told me that there is a satellite phone at the archaeological encampment,’ Farooq added. ‘I suppose that if the woman is there when we arrive, we can kill her immediately. If she runs for the border, we can use that phone to call the crew of the lorry and tell them to stop her before she gets there. That would work.’

  ‘Yes,’ Khaled replied slowly, ‘it would. That’s a good idea. Give my telephone to the crew and tell them what we want them to do.’

  ‘What about the other lorry?’

  ‘The men in the first lorry will cover the area to the east of the encampment, and if she does run, that will be the way I would expect her to go. But just in case she does something unexpected, I want you to send the second lorry along this other track to the west. I doubt if she would head that way, because there’s almost nothing out there but desert, but we should still take precautions.’

  ‘And where will you be?’

  ‘I want you to ride with me in the jeep, and we’ll go ahead of the second lorry on the westerly track. If she is in the camp, she will have found the mess we left and I’ve no doubt she’d be spooked by any vehicle approaching directly, but hopefully she would ignore a vehicle passing about a mile away. And that’s how I plan to approach her.’

  9

  Vicinity of Al Muthanna, Iraq

  Within about half an hour, Bronson had managed to cover all the bodies, and had weighed the material down with stones to stop it blowing off or being pulled away by the carrion birds.

  By the time he’d finished, Angela and Stephen were visibly traumatized, but Angela’s mood was now dominated by fury as much as by terror and sorrow.

  ‘This is such a senseless waste of human life,’ she said. ‘I worked with all of these people, and I liked every one of them. Why the hell would anybody want to kill a bunch of archaeologists? It makes no sense, whether or not it was a terrorist action.’

  Stephen had walked off to clear his head as soon as the last body had been covered, but about ten minutes later he came back, a puzzled expression on his face.

  ‘I’ve just found something else that’s rather peculiar,’ he said. ‘I went back and had a look at both the trenches, and then I climbed the ladder down into the temple.’ He paused for a moment, his gaze flicking between their faces. ‘I don’t know why it’s happened, but the inscription has gone.’

  ‘What do you mean it’s gone?’ Angela demanded. ‘It’s carved into the stone of the wall.’

  ‘I mean it’s not there any more. Somebody has chipped it away with a hammer and chisel, and all that’s left is a clean smooth wall.’

  The three of them immediately walked over to the second trench and climbed down the ladder and into the underground chamber, Bronson and Angela carrying torches that they’d picked up on the way.

  ‘See what I mean?’ Stephen said, shining his own torch at the wall in front of them, now entirely featureless.

  Bronson shone his torch down at the floor of the temple, and moved the beam around, as if searching for something.

  ‘What is it?’ Angela asked.

  ‘There’s nothing here at all,’ he said, puzzled. ‘That means that after they chipped it off the wall, they collected all the debris and took it away, and the only reason they could have for doing that is to make absolutely sure nobody could reassemble the carved text after they’d destroyed it and all evidence of it was gone. It makes me wonder if this – this obscure inscription – is the reason these killers appeared here in the first place. Apparently whatever that encrypted carving means was clearly worth killing for.’

  Although the air was stale and stuffy, and the temperature was if anything even higher than it had been on the surface, Bronson spent a couple of minutes looking around. He examined the carved human face above the altar as well as the altar itself, and also looked at the carved depression in the stone floor that Angela thought might have been something to do with a baptism ritual. Then he walked over to the ladder and climbed out of the temple to rejoin his two companions.

  ‘This makes no sense,’ Angela said again. ‘Even if it was important, why was it necessary not only to obliterate it but also to kill everybody who had seen it?’

  ‘Well, at least we know one thing now that we didn’t before,’ Bronson said, gesturing towards the shrouded bodies lying a few yards away. ‘We now know that this wasn’t just a random terrorist attack or a senseless massacre. This was a deliberate act and the crux of this matter was the inscription. That was their primary objective. That was why they obliterated it and took every camera and computer they could find from the camp that might have an image of the inscription on it.’

  Angela opened her mouth to speak, but before she could reply Bronson’s attention shifted and he fixed his eyes on the horizon over to the north.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I can see a dust cloud over there,’ he replied. ‘There’s a vehicle approaching.’

  Angela followed his gaze, but then shook her head.

  ‘There’s a track that runs out to the west of us. I think it links a couple of villages. It’s probably just some local going about his business.’

  ‘That’s a pity,’ Stephen said. ‘I was hoping it might have been the police already, because then we could give them our statements and get back to Kuwait.’

  ‘Not a chance,’ Bronson retorted. ‘We only made the call to the police in Baghdad about an hour ago and it’ll take a lot longer than that for them to get here. Even if they’re only coming here from Basra, which is the nearest big town, they’ll still be at least another hour or two. There’s no way they could have got out here so quickly.’

  Stephen studied the dust cloud for a few seconds, then turned back to Bronson.

  ‘You could be wrong,’ he said. ‘They could have used helicopters to get to Basra and then switched over to 4x4s for the last part of the journey.’

  Bronson shook his head.

  ‘If the police had access to helicopters, why wouldn’t they land right here? No, I don’t know who that is, but it isn’t the Iraqi police.’

  Bronson looked again towards the slowly moving cloud of dust and sand and shook his head. It was a shame it wasn’t the police; he was about ready to get out of this place.

  10

  Vicinity of Al Muthanna, Iraq

  Khaled was sitting in the passenger seat of the jeep staring through the windscreen at the collection of canvas tents that formed the archaeological camp, looking for any signs of movement.

  But that wasn’t all he was watching for. He was alternating his gaze between the camp and the road in front of the vehicle, waiting for a suitable location to initiate the next part of his plan.

  And then he saw a steadily rising line of dunes on his left-hand side, and gestured for the driver to slow down. As soon the vehicle moved below the crest of the highest dune, he ordered the vehicle to stop, and the moment it did so Farooq and the other armed man in the rear seat opened their doors and climbed out on to the dusty track, pushing the doors closed as silently as possible behind them. The moment they were clear of the jeep, the driver accelerated away, so that if their progress had been observed, it would not be apparent that the vehicle had even stopped.

  Farooq and his companion were still wearing sand-coloured camouflage clothing, which made them virtually invisible against the dunes, at least until they moved, so their approach to the encampment was slow and careful, taking advantage of every scrap of cover that they could find.

  They stopped behind the sparse shelter afforded by a stunted bush growing near the base of a dune, and for a few minutes just stared at the rows of tents about half a mile in front of them. Even through the low-power binoculars Farooq was carrying, the camp looked almost exactly the same as it had when they’d left a few hours earlier.

  But there was something different about the place that he couldn’t immediately identify. Something h
ad changed. Something that was niggling at his subconscious, either something that he’d noticed during the killings that morning or something that now seemed out of place.

  He squinted into the brightness of the sky above as a faint motion attracted his attention.

  And then he realized what that something was and a broad smile creased his swarthy face. He handed the binoculars to his companion and gestured towards the tents.

  ‘Someone is there,’ he said confidently. ‘Or at least somebody has been there.’

  ‘I don’t see anybody,’ the other man replied after a few moments, as he stared through the binoculars. ‘What did you spot that I didn’t?’

  ‘It’s not in the camp,’ Farooq said. ‘It’s above the camp. The vultures are circling and that could mean they’ve been driven away from the meals we kindly left them, but actually it doesn’t. It’s much simpler. They can’t feed on any of the carrion for the moment because somebody has covered up the bodies. It must be the woman. Either she was hiding somewhere when we arrived this morning or she’s arrived at the camp since we left. We’re too far out for anyone to have just stumbled across this by chance.’

  He took out his walkie-talkie, passed on what he had seen to Khaled, and then the two men continued their stealthy approach through the dunes, Kalashnikovs held ready in both hands, and their eyes scanning the camp in front of them, alert for the first sign of any movement.

  11

  Vicinity of Al Muthanna, Iraq

  When Mikhail Timofeyevich Kalashnikov designed the assault rifle that bears his name just after the end of the Second World War, he was in part prompted to do so by the poor quality of Russian military weapons at that time, and in particular by their notorious unreliability. From the start, he was determined that his assault rifle would work. At all times and under all conditions.

  And the reality is that the AK-47 will function even if the mechanism is choked with mud or sand, or is full of water, and it simply will not jam, overheat or break, and that’s why it’s the weapon of choice for the armed forces of over thirty countries worldwide, and the favoured arm of virtually every existing terrorist group. Roughly one hundred million of these rifles have been produced both legally and illegally as counterfeit versions since the design was finalized in 1948.

  What Kalashnikov was much less concerned about was accuracy. The purpose of an assault rifle is to produce a high rate of fire – a theoretical 600 rounds a minute in the case of the AK-47, though the normal maximum is 100 rounds a minute – and to spray the enemy with bullets. A modern sniper rifle like the American Barrett M82 can reach out and consistently hit targets at well over a mile, but even an expert with the Kalashnikov would have to fire around five shots from a bench-rest or lying prone to hit a static mansized target at less than half that distance. And if either the target or the shooter is moving, the effective range of the weapon drops dramatically.

  And that, Bronson knew immediately as he heard the staccato clamour of an assault rifle being fired on full auto, was the only reason they were still alive. He grabbed Angela by the arm and pulled her down to the ground.

  ‘What—’ Stephen spluttered when Bronson reached up and pulled him down as well.

  ‘They’ve come back,’ Bronson muttered urgently, looking out to the north from the illusory shelter of the tent behind them.

  He could see two figures perhaps four or five hundred yards back, both wearing camouflage clothing. What disturbed him in particular was that only one of them was moving, running towards the camp but keeping well out of the line of fire of the second man, who was pointing his Kalashnikov directly at the tents. These men clearly knew what they were doing: one getting close enough to guarantee killing shots, while the other covered the targets, keeping them pinned down.

  ‘We’ve got to run for it, right now,’ Bronson said, ‘before they get any closer. Jink from side to side to throw off their aim, and run like hell. Back to the Toyota.’

  Even before he’d finished speaking, Angela was on her feet, ducking and weaving as she sprinted away from the camp, still clutching the satellite phone. Bronson and Stephen jumped up and followed her, their feet pounding on the hard-packed sand and rock.

  12

  Vicinity of Al Muthanna, Iraq

  As soon as the three figures appeared on the far side of the deserted encampment, the terrorist who had been running towards the tents – Farooq’s companion – stopped. He braced himself, legs slightly apart, left hand holding the wooden fore-end of his Kalashnikov, his other hand wrapped around the pistol grip. He reached up and shifted the fire selector from full to semi-automatic, then took careful aim at the running figures.

  The people he was trying to kill were over a quarter of a mile away and appeared to be little more than distant blobs over the iron sights of the AK-47. It would have been a difficult shot to hit a paper target at such a distance even in the relatively calm surroundings of a range. The shooter was panting from his exertions. Running even a short distance in the punishing heat of the desert was debilitating, and his targets were moving in such an erratic fashion that holding even one of them within his sight picture for more than a second or so was almost impossible.

  But he tried.

  He took two deep breaths to try to control his breathing, aimed the weapon more or less at the middle of the three distant figures and squeezed the trigger gently. The Kalashnikov kicked against his shoulder as the gas-operated mechanism ejected the spent cartridge case from the breech and loaded another round. He altered his aim slightly and fired again.

  A few dozen yards behind him, Farooq mirrored his actions, firing single shots towards the fugitives.

  But within seconds it became clear that the distance was simply too great and the targets far too elusive for there to be any realistic chance of cutting them down.

  ‘Save your ammunition,’ Farooq instructed, running up to his companion. ‘Get after them and do not shoot again until you are certain of a kill.’

  The other man nodded and ran off towards their quarry. As he did so, Farooq pressed the transmit button on his walkie-talkie.

  He knew that the three fugitives had already made a bad mistake. He could see that they had just run past the vehicle park and had continued out into the open desert, presumably intending to escape that way or hide among the dunes, and Farooq knew that that was never going to work.

  They were unarmed and on foot, and the easiest way to run them down was simply to summon the 4x4 and the lorry that was waiting out to the west of the encampment. Because however far and however fast the three fugitives ran, they could neither out-distance the vehicles nor hide from Khaled and the rest of his men.

  ‘Yes?’ Khaled responded.

  ‘We see them, and Mahmoud is—’

  ‘What do you mean “them”?’

  ‘There are three of them. I think one is the woman.’

  ‘It had better be her,’ Khaled said. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Mahmoud is following them, but they’ve headed off into the desert, out to the east. If you bring the 4x4 over here we’ll be able to catch them in a few minutes.’

  Over the open mike of the walkie-talkie, Farooq heard Khaled instruct the driver to start the jeep and head towards the encampment.

  ‘You mean they ran out of the camp but didn’t take one of the vehicles?’ Khaled asked.

  ‘Exactly. They ran straight past the vehicle park. I think they probably panicked when we started shooting at them.’

  Khaled didn’t respond for a moment, but when he spoke again Farooq could hear the urgency in his voice.

  ‘How many jeeps are in the parking area?’

  Farooq scanned the flat ground to the south of the encampment. ‘I can see four.’

  ‘That’s why they’re run into the desert,’ Khaled snapped. ‘They have five jeeps. They must have one of them parked outside the camp. You have to stop them. Right now.’

  Farooq clicked the microphone button once in acknowledgement, but
he had already started running in the same direction as Mahmoud and the three fugitives.

  13

  Vicinity of Al Muthanna, Iraq

  Bronson would have been less worried if the men behind them had continued firing in their direction. The fact that they’d stopped meant that they were thinking. Instead of continuing to fire at them, the terrorists were clearly trying to close the distance as quickly as possible to get within range.

  Their feet pounded on the hard surface as they headed down to the dip in the valley floor where they’d left the Land Cruiser. As the ground fell away, Bronson knew that they would no longer be visible to the two men who were chasing them.

  ‘Just run straight,’ he yelled, as the welcome bulk of the Land Cruiser came into view.

  When they got about twenty yards away from the vehicle, Angela pressed the button on the remote to unlock the doors. The hazard warning lights flashed obediently. She reached out and grabbed Bronson’s arm and then pushed the key into his hand.

  ‘You drive,’ she gasped, her chest heaving as she sucked in air through her open mouth.

  Stephen wrenched open the rear door of the Toyota and clambered into the back seat, while Angela climbed into the front.

  Bronson pulled open the driver’s door, stuck the key in the ignition and turned it to start the engine even before he pulled the door closed. He engaged first gear, lifted his foot off the clutch pedal and simultaneously gave the engine full power, swinging the vehicle around to follow the faint tracks the Toyota had made when they’d arrived.

  ‘Keep low,’ he instructed as the vehicle surged forward.

  He picked the obvious route, following the track and keeping the Toyota running in a straight line, to cover the maximum distance as quickly as possible, but he was watching the rear-view mirror at the same time, preternaturally alert for the first sign of danger. For the first indication that the pursuing men had reached a point from which they could see – and more importantly shoot at – the vehicle.