The Norse Directive (14 page)

They stopped at the crosswalk and jogged across to a boutique that appeared to sell plates and knickknacks for the kitchen, then slowed their pace as they entered the throng of people hovering in the plaza.

“Okay,” Tommy said, “now what?”

Sean glanced over his shoulder. Through the busy mass of bodies, he saw the doors to the sedan open. The Russian and his assistant got out and hurried across the street. The question in Sean’s mind was where were the others? He knew better than to think this guy would only bring one person with him. There had been three others at his house in Atlanta. He turned around and narrowed his eyes, searching the faces for anyone that might look familiar. At the moment, he didn’t see anyone he recognized, but that hardly helped him relax.

“We’ll need to keep an eye out,” he said. “I doubt they’d be stupid enough to try anything with all these people around.” He motioned with a nod of the head to a few policemen standing by a guardrail nearby. “Plus, you’ve got a few cops here. Right now, we’re safe. We may as well start trying to find Jackson’s clue.”

“Right,” Tommy said. “Let’s move over to the gate and see what we can find.”

The three moved as one, through the throng of shoppers and sightseers to where the brick and asphalt changed to concrete in front of the massive stone gate. A cable boundary hung loosely from heavy steel posts surrounding the area, more to keep cars from parking there than to prevent people from getting close. In front of the pale wall, the foot traffic decreased significantly. Only travelers and history seekers loitered in the area.

The gate featured a single portcullis that stretched to a pointed arch, with a rectangular column on either side that reached up to the top of the barbican’s ramparts. Two arrow slits in the shape of crosses loomed over the entryway.

“Let’s look around,” Sean said. “But stay together. If we get split up, that might make it easier for those guys to get the upper hand.”

“Agreed,” Tommy said.

The three moved closer to the structure, examining every inch of the surface.

“What was the riddle again?” Sean asked the other two. “Something about paying the toll?”

Tommy answered, quoting the last line from the diary. “The southern gate opens for those who pay the toll.”

Adriana frowned. “But the gate is already open,” waving her hand at the gaping void.

Sean had noticed the same thing. “Right. I wonder if there’s another gate.”

They walked around the left side of the wall and to the back of the structure near the entrance to the shopping center’s entrance. The rear opened wide, featuring five entryways leading into the building. Above the openings, four windows faced out toward the sea. A sculpture of a regal-looking man in emperor's attire stood between the two inner windows.

“This would be the south side of the gate, I suppose,” Tommy said, looking back toward the wharf.

“Who is the guy between the two windows?” Sean wondered out loud.

Adriana had the answer, as she always seemed to for odd questions like that. “King George III. He wanted to be dressed in emperor’s clothing for the sculpture because he wanted to be compared to Hadrian, founder of the Roman colonies in Britain.”

“Read that online, didn’t you?” Sean winked at her.

She passed him a quick smile and a shrug. “I like to know things.”

Sean stayed alert, scanning the crowd constantly. “Let’s do the touristy thing and get a picture. Stand over here.” He took out his phone and pointed at a spot on the concrete that would allow him to get a view of the plaza and more of the faces in the crowd.

Tommy started to protest the silly idea, but a warning glare from Sean shut him up. He and Adriana huddled together and put on the typical staged smiles for the camera. Sean tapped the red button on the screen a few times for posterity. He gazed beyond the device and into the throng. A familiar face revealed itself for a second and then disappeared into the tangled mess of people.

Sean kept smiling, pretending nothing was wrong. He didn’t want to let on that they knew the men were there. “They’re in the crowd behind you.”

The information threw Tommy for a loop and instantly made him uncomfortable.

“Don’t worry,” Sean said, trying to ease his friend’s mind. “Remember, too many witnesses. They won’t be dumb enough to try anything here.”

“We hope,” Tommy threw in his two cents.

Sean took a deep breath and stared at the looming stone construction. “It still doesn’t help us with the part about the toll. Unless we’re thinking about the riddle in the wrong way.”

Tommy stood close by. “What do you mean?”

“Well, typically, we think of a toll as something you pay to get through, like on a road or a bridge. What if it isn’t that kind of toll at all?”

“I don’t follow.” Tommy shook his head, clearly lost.

“Think about it,” Sean said. “What other way can the word
toll
be used?”

Tommy thought about it for a moment then answered. “I don’t know. I guess this whole mystery is taking its toll on me?”

Sean snorted out a laugh but indicated his friend was wrong with a slow twist of the head.

“A bell tolls,” Adriana said after a few more seconds of reflection.

“Exactly.”

“What does that have to do with this riddle?” Tommy asked. He followed Sean’s gaze and realized the answer.

At the top of Bargate, wedged between the ramparts on the southwest side, an old iron bell hung silently.

Southampton, England

Sean led the way to a wooden door just inside the far right entrance. A sign hung next to the door that read, “
Keep out. Authorised personnel only.”

He reached out to grab the iron hoop attached to the door when Tommy stopped him. “Maybe we should get the proper authorities to give us access up there.”

Sean raised one eyebrow. “Seriously? Like who?”

“I dunno,” Tommy rolled his shoulders. “A park worker or something.”

Sean gave a quick look around and then pulled on the latch. “I don’t see anyone. If they ask how we got up there, I’ll tell them we tried to find someone.”

His friend sighed, but protested no longer.

The door came free fairly easily after a hard tug and a loud clank. “After you,” Sean said to Adriana, who cast Tommy an unworried grin as she crossed the threshold and bounded up a flight of stone steps, disappearing into the dark within.

“She doesn’t seem bothered by the sign,” Sean said with a smirk and followed after her.

Tommy lingered for a moment before letting out a long sigh. “I really don’t want to be arrested again,” he said to himself and stepped into the stairwell reluctantly.

The view from atop Bargate was less impressive than any of the three Americans would have imagined. The structure was higher than some of the surrounding buildings, but there were many others just as tall or taller. They weren’t there for the panorama though. Adriana moved quickly, careful to stay crouching low. The ramparts provided them enough cover so as not to be spotted from below. Sean and Tommy copied her technique. Moving along in that manner made the going slow, but it was worth it to keep out of sight from curious onlookers, or worse.

It was a short distance between the doorway and the bell, and they made it across without much difficulty. Adriana knelt down underneath the object and cocked her head sideways so she could see inside.

“Anything?” Tommy asked, nervously glancing back and forth along the walkway.

The British flag, high atop the flagpole, made a sudden whipping noise that almost caused him to jump out of his pants.

“Try and relax, man. You’ve definitely been in way worse spots,” Sean chided.

“True.” The statement seemed to calm him down somewhat.

Adriana pulled her phone out of her pocket and switched on the light. She stuck the device into the underside of the bell and took another look. “There’s something here. I’m going to take a picture of it. We can analyze it later.”

“Good call.”

She tapped the screen a few times, and a moment later, the light flashed inside the bell. She shot a quick glance down to the ground level to check if anyone had noticed. It didn’t seem like anyone was paying any attention. She put the phone back in her pocket and turned around. “Let’s get back to the car.”

Tommy twisted to go back the way they came, but a voice froze everyone in their place. “What are ya doin’ up here? Tourists are not permitted in this area.”

Their eyes converged across the top of the barbican to see a man in a police uniform. The guy had to be pushing sixty, probably resigned to security details like this one in the waning years of his career. Now he represented a huge problem.

“Stand up, all of ya,” he ordered in what Sean was certain was a Welsh accent.

Inch by inch, the three Americans stood up, careful to keep their hands away from their bodies.

“We just came up here to have a look around,” Sean explained in a calm tone. “We’re doing an archaeological study on this tower.” He wasn’t exactly lying, but he wasn’t telling the truth either. The less this guy knew, the better.

“Americans?” The man’s loose facial skin jiggled as he spoke.

“Yes, sir. We don’t have any authorization to be up here. We can get it if you need us to though.”

The policeman seemed to be considering the situation. “I’m going to need to see some identification. Don’t try any funny business.” He kept his hand firmly pressed against the radio on his shoulder, ready to call additional support if needed.

“That’s fine,” Sean tried to speak calmly. The last thing he wanted to do was startle the old man. “I have my passport in my jacket. May I take it out?”

The policeman nodded and took a few cautious steps in Sean’s direction. Sean ever so cautiously unzipped his jacket halfway down and reached inside. He took out his passport and held it out for the old man. Sean had the distinctly odd memory of going through the same kind of process when he was trying to feed a feral cat in his neighborhood as a child. If he moved too quickly, the beast would run off. In this case, they would probably end up in a Southampton jail cell.

A fleshy, wrinkled hand took the passport and retreated a step to keep a safe distance. The policeman, whose nametag read
Martin
, flipped open the little blue book and scanned the identification page. His eyes shifted from the book to Sean and back as he double checked to make sure it was really who the passport said it was.

After what seemed like five minutes of uncertainty, the policeman seemed to calm down and stepped forward again, handing the passport back to Sean. “The signs below clearly state that only authorized personnel are allowed up here, Mr. Wyatt. You do realize this means you’re trespassing?”

“Yes, sir. We realize that now.” Sean could see that Tommy and Adriana were happy to let him do the talking, which was also fine with him. Through the years, Sean had learned something about himself: he liked to be in control of tenuous situations like this one. Once too many mouths started yammering, things could spiral downhill quickly.

Sean stretched his hand out again to retrieve his identification when he noticed a sudden movement out of the corner of his eye on the other end of the barbican. It only took him a second to realize the policeman was squarely between him and the long barrel of a sound suppressor.

“Get down,” he ordered sharply.

Sean reached out and grabbed the cop by the shoulder boards, yanking him to the stone surface with a crash. He’d made the move just in time. A piece of the ramparts behind his back exploded into dusty fragments.

“You might want to use that radio now, Martin,” Sean spoke evenly.

The old man appeared overwhelmed and panicked. Another bullet found the middle of the wall behind them and ricocheted off with a spark.

“Are they American too?” the cop said as he dragged himself onto his hands and knees.

Sean shook his head. “No. And they are not friends of ours in case you were thinking of asking.” He pulled on Martin’s jacket to help him move faster, and tugged him around the interior corner of the barbican to temporary safety.

Tommy and Adriana looked to Sean for an answer. “Are they really shooting at us up here? In broad daylight?” Tommy asked in disbelief.

A million smart aleck answers flashed through Sean’s head, but none of them would help them escape this situation.

“Where is the other one?” Adriana asked.

Sean was already wondering the same thing. If he’d been the Russian, he would have gone up one flight of stairs and sent the other guy up the other, effectively blocking all exits. For the moment, there was no sign of the other guy. That probably wouldn’t last long though. They needed to move fast.

“This way,” he ordered, leading the way back down the walkway as fast as he could go.

Martin slowed their progress, but they still made the crossing back to the staircase in short order. As soon as they reached the upper door, it started to creak open. Sean held up his hand for the others to stop. He let the door ease out a little farther then barged hard into it with his shoulder. The heavy wood stopped against something semisolid with a thud. This was followed by the sound of a tumbling body accompanied by several grunts of pain.

The Russian was hurrying around the front of the barbican’s walkway. He saw what happened and slowed down to squeeze off another three shots. Sean ducked safely out of the way, the rounds pounding into the door’s oak planks. He didn’t hesitate, instinctively flying down the stairs two at a time. He reached the other man halfway down the spiral staircase. The guy was wedged up against the wall, moaning in agony. One hand covered his bleeding nose, his eyes half-closed. Sean noticed the man’s weapon lying on a step as he approached and scooped it up en route.

Sean shoved the gun into the back of his belt, and in the next motion, grabbed the hit man by his pants and heaved him downward. The immediate look on the henchman’s face was panic as he tumbled into the dark toward the exit below. Sean and the others followed behind, reaching the bottom where the Russian’s assistant lay in an unconscious heap against the wall.

As soon as the four cleared the doorway, Sean grabbed the unconscious man under the armpits and dragged him outside.

The policeman didn’t understand what Sean’s plan was. “What are you doing?”

Sean dropped the body and slammed the door shut, then rolled the hit man over and pressed him against the wooden entrance. “It’s the only way we can bar the door. But it won’t keep him long.”

Martin got on his radio and called for backup. When he’d finished his request, he turned to Sean with a serious look on his face. “What are you three up to, and why are these men trying to kill you?”

A bump on the door told them that the Russian had reached the ground floor.

“I wish I had time to explain, but you’re going to have to trust us, Martin. We’re the good guys.”

The officer searched Sean’s eyes for a few seconds. The door heaved under the weight of the Russian trying to force his way through.

Martin glanced back at it, then turned to Sean and the others. “Best be on your way. We’ll take care of these boys. No more trespassing in the future, eh, Mr. Wyatt?”

“I’ll do my best, sir,” Sean said and took off running across the plaza with Tommy and Adriana in tow.

They weaved their way through the mass of pedestrians like football players running through a defense, cutting left, juking right, trying not to run over anyone. Sean considered grabbing the phone from his pocket as they continued their sprint back to the car. Jim could probably use the heads-up. A sickening though occurred to Sean.
What if Jim had stepped out to grab a cup of tea or something?
He’d have to risk it and worry about that when the time came.

The three ran across the street, fortunate to not have any cars coming by at the moment. The distinctly British sound of sirens whined in the distance. Sean figured they had about sixty seconds until the police arrived. Even if the cops weren’t coming after them, they needed to put as much distance between themselves and the Russian as possible.

They reached the car and opened the doors in a rush. Jim was sitting in the driver’s seat, reading a book on his phone when they jumped in and slammed the doors shut.

“Time to go,” Tommy said in a nervous tone. “We should probably hurry.”

Jim didn’t ask why. He could see the urgency in his passengers’ faces. He started up the vehicle and backed out of the parking space, whipping the SUV around to face the street. Once they hit the asphalt, Jim floored it, pressing the gas pedal all the way to the bottom. The tires screeched for a half second before they sped away down the village street.

“Are those police sirens for you?” he asked.

Jim steered the car onto a residential street filled with quaint nineteenth century homes surrounded by lush gardens, low hanging trees, and green lawns.

“Technically?” Sean responded. “No. They’re here for someone else. But we may have had something to do with causing their arrival.”

Jim glanced into the rearview mirror and read Sean’s facial expression. He offered a nervous laugh to the driver, who still seemed perplexed. “What kind of archaeologists are you people?”

Tommy corrected him. “To be fair, she’s not actually an archaeologist. And Sean is retired, so…it’s complicated.”

“Right. Well, if we’re going to be having the police involved, I’d like to know just what it is you all are up to.”

He jerked the car to the right and slowed down. They could no longer hear the sound of the sirens and were clear of the danger, at least momentarily.

Tommy looked at Sean as if asking for permission.

“We didn’t lie to you, Jim. We don’t actually know what it is we’re looking for,” Sean said. Then he relayed the story of how they’d come to discover the golden coin, the diary, and the reason they were in Southampton.

“So you’re treasure hunters?” Jim tried to make the connection with what they were doing and how they went about things.

“I am,” Adriana confessed. “I hunt down expensive things that were stolen from people and get them back to the proper owners.”

“She specializes in priceless art the Nazis stole during the war,” Sean added.

“But we aren’t really treasure hunters,” Tommy explained. “Treasure hunters do it for the money. We’re in it for the historical value of the things we find.”

Jim was still trying to understand, but he decided to figure it out on his own. “You’re not treasure hunters, but you hunt for things that are valuable. And you don’t do it for the money, though considering how much it costs to rent me for the day, and the hotel you’re staying in, I’d say you aren’t exactly poor. That can only mean you must be drug dealers.”