God's Lions - The Dark Ruin (23 page)

“We can’t discuss what Mr. Zamir might or might not have said,” Alon replied in a low voice. “Where are we going?”

Eduardo Acerbi stepped from his place at the back of the group. “We’re going wherever this little train takes us, Mr. Lavi.” It was the first time the old man had spoken since he had left the confines of the British sub. “Time is of the essence, so I suggest we allow this young fellow to do his job.”

“Right then,” Childs said, grinning at Alon. “All aboard?”

Alon hopped into the first open car, his hulking mass causing it to tip sideways while the rest settled onto the bench-type wooden seats behind him. Starting the tiny engine, Childs slammed it into gear, and within seconds they were whizzing silently through a twisting tunnel that angled upward into the center of the massive limestone hump known as the Rock of Gibraltar.

As rows of yellow lights in the ceiling zipped by overhead, they saw other side tunnels branching off into unlit spaces. It was anyone’s guess as to where they led, making the trip seem even more mysterious as the tiny train swerved to the left around a bend and climbed once again in a final struggle with gravity until they entered a brightly lit space that resembled a miniature subway station and squealed to an abrupt halt alongside a concrete platform.

Jumping from the cab, Childs waited for everyone to exit the cars, and like a tour guide he motioned for the group to gather around. “In case any of you are wondering, we’re now standing in the exact center of the Rock. As I mentioned before, this is British territory, and we’ve been fortifying this massive piece of real estate since the 18
^th
century. This place is honeycombed with tunnels and natural caves, but the most extensive tunneling was done during World War II. The area we’re standing in now was actually constructed during the Cold War in the late 1950’s to be used as a bomb shelter in the event of a nuclear war. Unfortunately, limestone isn’t as strong as granite, which means that the monkeys who live on the surface wouldn’t be the only victims of a direct hit by a nuclear bomb. For that reason, this shelter has been taken off the list of places to go in the event of a first strike. Please, follow me. I’ll take you to your quarters.”

“Our quarters?” Lev looked back at the others. “I was under the impression that we were just here for a short meeting.”

“You are, sir. However many of the other participants are still making their way here, so the actual briefing won’t be taking place until later this afternoon, and we were told you would all probably be staying overnight. The accommodations are a little dated, but I think you’ll find them adequate for the brief time you’ll be staying here.”

Childs smiled as he stopped in front of a pair of tall steel doors. “I believe I overheard someone mention cold beer and prawns when we were in the van. I don’t know about the prawns, but I think I might know where I can find some cold beer. This way please.”

For several minutes, Evita Vargas stared into the mirror and brushed her hair before finally deciding to walk to her favorite café. Smoothing her silk blouse, she closed the door to her Madrid apartment and stepped out into a narrow cobblestoned street pulsing with foot traffic and the occasional motor scooter that wove between pedestrians in the well-rehearsed dance of Spanish urban harmony.

The small café sat just across the street from a tree-covered square where mothers played with their children while their husbands were either at work or looking for work in a country where the unemployment rate had reached a staggering twenty-six percent. These were hard times for Spain, as in other parts of the world, and the smoke-stained walls of the café bore witness to the fact that fewer customers now lingered over a steaming cup of
café con leche
as they read their papers or peered into the glowing blue screens of their laptops.

In fact, due to the global economic crunch, the leisurely pace that had once dominated Spanish life was rapidly evaporating in the push to abandon centuries-old traditions in favor of greater corporate productivity. Traditionally, most Spaniards had once taken a long afternoon break from work to enjoy
la comida
, the long midday meal followed by a siesta. The entire country had once closed up shop from 2pm to 5pm, but recently Evita had begun to see a change in the placid culture she had been born into.

Now, instead of walking or biking to work, many people spent over an hour commuting long distances to their jobs in cars, making leisurely lunch breaks impractical, and many shops now remained open during a time that was once considered sacrosanct in a society that had valued the balance between work and rest. Even the Spanish government had decided to institute a standard eight-hour work day with a one hour lunch break, all in the interest of greater efficiency.
But were the people really better off with all of these new changes?

As Evita sipped her milk-laced coffee and peered through the café’s windows, her large brown eyes mirrored the sadness inside. Her decision to take a break from her relationship with the cardinal had been intended to give her some distance from the intensity of the situation and allow her to sort through her true feelings, but instead, the separation had only filled her with loneliness and a longing to return to the emotional familiarity of the man who loved her.

Grabbing her purse, she left a few coins on the table and walked out into the sunshine for the short stroll to her office at the university. A tenured professor of epidemiology, she was allowed to come and go pretty much as she pleased—a convenient perk when one is also a member of Spain’s
Centro National de Inteligencia
, a counterpart to the American CIA or Britain’s MI6.

It was this same dual role that had brought her into contact with the cardinal to begin with, when they had chased a madman halfway around the world the year before in an effort to head off a global biological catastrophe. She hadn’t meant to fall in love. In fact, that was the last thing she had wanted to do, but fall in love she had, and now, for better or worse, she was destined to live with the consequences of that little four letter word.

Walking onto the campus, the curved outline of the modernistic science building loomed overhead as she entered through a row of glass doors. “Hold the elevator!” she called out, running toward the stainless-steel doors that were bouncing off the reluctant arm of a man inside who had heard her plea.

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure, Miss,” the man said. Wearing a striking blue coat and a tweed Scottish rain hat, he appeared to be in his early sixties. “Are you a student here?”

“No, actually I’m a professor. And you are?”

“I’m here to see you, Evita.”

Trying to maintain a neutral expression, Evita slowly reached her shaking right hand into her purse and gripped the butt of a small .22 caliber Beretta pistol. “How do you know my name?”

“I’m acquainted with the names of many who believe in the spirit of light, my dear.”

Evita’s eyes widened as she stared into a face that radiated serenity. “Who are you?”

“My name is Julian Wehling. I was born in France to English parents but I live in England now. I teach Medieval European history at Cambridge.”

“What do you want with me?”

“A few minutes of your time ... nothing else.” The doors to the elevator slid open and Evita quickly stepped out.

“Your office is on the next floor, Ms. Vargas, and you can release your grip on the gun in your purse. I mean you no harm.”

“I’ll keep my hand right where it is, especially when I’m talking to a complete stranger who seems to know so much about me when I know absolutely nothing about him.”

“A situation I am endeavoring to correct if you will give me a chance.”

Two giggling female students brushed past and stepped into the elevator. “Up or down?” one called out.

Evita studied the man for a moment. “One cup of coffee in a public place.”

The man smiled and extended a hand toward the open doorway of the elevator. “Down, please.”

After they left the small train platform, Leo and the others followed the young MI6 analyst through a pair of tall steel blast doors into a concrete labyrinth of passageways that snaked through an old Cold War bunker. Turning a corner, they entered a blue-carpeted and slightly musty-smelling reception room that still retained the aura of the period in which it had been built. Furniture from the 1960’s sprinkled the room with the colors of avocado, gold, and turquoise, and at the far end of the room a fully stocked bar sat beneath the reproduction of a large Jackson Pollack painting.

Lev’s senses reeled at the nostalgic ambiance of the setting. “I feel like I’ve just stepped back in time. This place looks exactly like the bar at the old country club my parents used to belong to.”

“If it was in Israel, it was probably decorated by the same British designers who did up this place,” Childs said. He picked up a copy of Life magazine and thumbed through the pages before laying it back down on a Swedish coffee table. “Like I said before, this place was constructed back in the late fifty’s and early sixty’s. Obviously they haven’t changed the furniture ... or much else for that matter.”

John walked to the bar and ran a hand along the carved mahogany edge. “I kinda like it ... very retro. If your government ever decides to sell off any of this stuff ...

Childs grinned. “I’m afraid the home office hasn’t authorized a garage sale just yet, old boy, but you’re welcome to check back next year. I hear they’re thinking of closing this facility down soon. Anyone up for a cocktail before lunch?”

The group shook their heads in unison, preferring instead to wait until after the meeting.

“No, I suppose not,” Childs said. “Old habit of mine, actually. Comes from the time when I was stationed with the officer corps at the old British embassy in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia. There really wasn’t much for us to do there except play cards, watch old movies, and drink. The bloody heat was miserable.”

Childs smiled at his captive audience and pointed toward a long hallway off to his right. “There are bedrooms down that hall there. They were built to hold members of parliament and high-ranking military officers in the event of a nuclear war ... people like fleet admirals and generals ... people like that, so despite the dated look of the place I believe you’ll find that the accommodations are quite plush even by today’s standards. I had the stewards change all the linens this morning and lunch is waiting for you in the dining hall downstairs. Shall we have a look at what the chefs have cooked up for you?”

Acerbi nodded in agreement. “That sounds wonderful, Mr. Childs.”

“OK then ... follow me.”

Alon turned to the four Israeli security men. “I want two of you to stand outside the entrance to this room. The other two will come with us. Anything happens ... and I mean anything at all, I want to hear about it right away.”

“Yes, sir,” the ranking man said. He checked his gun and nodded to the others before walking out into the hallway. With their escape route now covered, the group clomped down around a curved concrete stairway and entered a dining hall that looked as if it had been transplanted from the inside of a battleship. Long metal tables covered with green table cloths filled one side of the space, while on the opposite side of the long room, a cafeteria-style steam table sat in front of a pair of stainless steel doors that led back into the kitchen.

To those who had been on ships before, it was quickly becoming evident that this facility had been built to Royal Navy standards, and after filling their metal trays with hot food from the spotless steam table, all the myths about bad navy food rapidly began to disappear. The food was delicious.

Lifting a piece of plain white bread from a plate in the center of the table, Leo was busy mopping up some thick brown gravy around a large piece of pot roast when he heard voices behind them.

“Ah, they told us we would find you all down here. Mind if we join you?”

Seven heads swiveled in unison to see Danny Zamir standing at the bottom of the concrete stairwell next to a group of very serious-looking men and one woman.

Lev Wasserman took a swig of iced tea and raised his fork in salute. “I had a feeling you would be at this meeting, Danny. How did you get here?”

Zamir walked over and slapped his old friend on the shoulder. “An old DC-3 aircraft along the coast of North Africa, then a small speedboat across the Strait. Apparently, the older aircraft the charter outfits use to fly supplies around the third world are pretty much invisible because they haven’t been updated with the newest computer-based navigational equipment.”

“Well, it looks like we’re all here,” Lev said. “What’s going on, Danny?”

“That’s what we’re all here to find out. All we’ve been told is that it concerns the computer worm, and apparently the man with all the answers is sitting right next to you.” Danny pointed to Eduardo Acerbi, who continued eating as if he hadn’t had a decent meal in days.

“He hasn’t said a word to us yet,” Leo said, looking at Eduardo, “but I think it’s about high time someone put their cards out on the table.”

Eduardo took a final bite and winked at Pope Michael as he laid his napkin on the table. “Once again our friend the cardinal reminds us that he has the heart of a warrior and that his patience wears thin, so let’s get started. Are any of our new arrivals hungry?”

“I’m famished,” a petite, dark-haired woman answered. “We haven’t eaten since we left our hotel rooms in the middle of the night.”

“Then I suggest you grab some of that delicious food over there and join us.” Eduardo’s frail hands trembled as he poured some tea. “I would prefer to hold our briefing here in this mess hall rather than return to the plush reception room upstairs where all the high level security briefings usually take place. I have a feeling that room is filled with electronic bugs.”

Knowing glances shot around the room as the new arrivals plated their food and took their seats. From the lack of happy chatter, it was immediately obvious to Leo that he was sitting in the presence of people who did very little talking, especially around strangers. Two days earlier, this select group of intelligence specialists had been summoned to this meeting through intermediaries representing Eduardo Acerbi. They had all traveled openly to a NATO base outside Madrid under the guise of a hastily arranged summit meeting convened to address the escalating problems with Iran, and after spending a long day involved in tedious security briefings on the Middle East, they had retired to their hotel rooms to await individual calls. At three in the morning the calls came. Removing the batteries from their smart phones, they quietly slipped into the hallways outside their rooms and walked beneath security cameras that had been disabled.