The Norse Directive (19 page)

“By all means,” the Frenchman teased, “let’s begin. Seeing that I have to clean up the mess you’ve made, I would prefer to get this over with quickly.”

Arrogant prick
, the Russian thought. Enough talk. It was time to shut up the little rich boy for good. Petrov replied to the comment by lunging forward and striking out with a huge fist. Dufort easily sidestepped the punch and ducked behind the Russian. Petrov instinctively spun around, instantly switching his stance to prepare for a counter. Instead, Dufort merely stood with his hands at his side and a cocky smirk on his face.

Petrov jabbed with his left hand this time, again missing the target, but this time he followed the punch with a roundhouse kick. Dufort’s hands moved fast. He jerked his head to the side to avoid the punch, then spun and knocked down the heavy-booted foot.

The Russian took a step back and stared at his opponent with evident surprise. “I didn’t know they taught rich boys like you how to fight.”

Dufort only replied with a hands-out shrug.

“I guess your parents must have had to pay for you to do something with your time. Too bad it will be money wasted.”

He took a bold step forward and leaped through the air, his right foot out in front aimed at Dufort’s chest. The Frenchman took a step to the side and swung around with his elbow, bringing it hard into the Russian’s chest as he flew by.

The blow hurt, but hardly knocked Petrov down. He doubled over for half a second when he landed, then stood up and attacked again. “You’re an annoying little gnat.” This time, he went full force at Dufort, but he was aware of his opponent’s counters. Petrov faked a short kick, a jab, and then brought a right hook at the man’s jaw.

Dufort was clearly faster, parrying the kick, and the jab, but he was too slow to block the right hook, and the huge Russian's fist smacked into his cheek, just below the eye.

Pain seared through his face, but he recovered quickly enough to block the uppercut Petrov threw next. He deflected the punch, stepped to the side, and chopped hard into the Russian’s spine with his elbow.

Petrov grunted and took three steps forward, spinning around to face Dufort again. The Frenchman’s face throbbed, and a thin cut oozed thick blood down the side of his face.

“You have spirit,” Petrov said. “I’ll give you that.”

He lunged again with another jab. Dufort swiped the punch aside, twisting his body as he did. Petrov reached out to grab the smaller man, wrapping his hand around Dufort’s head. He knew if he could get the Frenchman within his grasp, the fight would soon be over. Petrov could crush him like a rodent.

His fingers locked in on Dufort’s hair, and he pulled him close. Dufort punched hard at Petrov’s ribs, but his scrawny fists did little damage. Petrov was a highly trained, highly fit killing machine. It would take much more than what Dufort could offer to bring him down.

The Russian’s other arm wrapped around his prey like a boa constrictor, bringing him in suddenly and squeezing him to his chest. There was no look of panic in Dufort’s eyes, despite the desperate situation.

Petrov tightened his grip, lifting Dufort off the ground by a few inches. He stared into his victim’s reddening face. The Frenchman struggled, wriggling around.

“It will all be over soon,” Petrov said in a sinister tone.

He felt the bones in Dufort’s back cracking. He wondered how long it would take until they broke.

The Frenchman stared with bulging eyes into Petrov’s cold, icy-blue orbs. There was no fear on Dufort’s face. Rather, it was the kind of smug expression someone wore when they knew something someone else didn’t.

Petrov’s grip tightened again as he tried to squeeze the last moments of life out of his former employer. He felt Dufort’s body begin to go limp, and the chest of his victim ceased its struggle to bring air into his lungs. It would only be a few more seconds now. Petrov grinned wickedly, ready to see his victim’s life come to an end.

Suddenly, Dufort's head cocked back and then snapped forward, bringing his forehead straight into Petrov’s nose. He repeated the move, thrashing his head into the Russian’s face over and over again like a heavy metal head banger.

Petrov’s grip loosened, and he stumbled backward, grabbing at his face. Blood poured freely from the nostrils, the bone inside likely broken in several places. The fresh pain ripped through his entire body, but he remained focused in spite of his vision being blurred by the involuntary tears brought on by the injury.

He staggered forward, fists in front to defend himself.

Dufort circled the Russian like a hawk soaring above an unsuspecting rabbit. He still said nothing, allowing Petrov to reel in the agony he’d just been dealt. Petrov wiped his nose and regained his bearings, now angrier than ever. He moved quickly at the Frenchman, but his attack carried less precision than before. His furious attack proved fruitless as Dufort blocked and parried punches and kicks, turning every one aside.

The effort was wearing down Petrov, and he knew it. He normally wouldn’t have been so exhausted, but the broken nose clogged with blood was making breathing a strenuous venture.

Dufort fended off the flurry, waiting patiently for the right moment. Finally, Petrov’s patience wore thin, and he overextended on a left hook, leaving his front open. Instead of taking the opening, Dufort grabbed the man’s arm and jerked it over his shoulder. He used momentum and leverage to snap the bone at a painfully awkward angle, rendering the appendage completely useless.

Petrov screamed, but his voice was muffled when Dufort’s shoe struck him in the cheek. A spray of blood and spit slung across the room. The Russian collapsed to the floor. He struggled to get up with the one good arm he had left. Dufort kicked the man’s wrist, and Petrov’s face smacked the floor again. His breathing became more labored. He spit more blood onto the floor, mingling it with the crimson dripping from his nose.

Dufort took a step away and walked over to Caron who held out a towel. Dufort took the towel and wiped his face and neck with it, then tossed it at Petrov. It landed on his back as the Russian dragged himself across the floor, inch by inch toward the chair in the middle of the room.

Caron motioned with a nod of the head to the defeated man, noting the direction he headed.

Dufort shook his head and laughed. “Nicholas? My dear friend, where are you going?”

The Russian grunted but said nothing. He continued dragging himself toward the chair, now only a few feet away. He glanced back through narrow, tear-filled eyes, then hurried his clumsy movements, desperately trying to reach the chair before someone stopped him.

Dufort stepped out into the middle of the room and watched as Petrov reached up to the seat and grabbed the Desert Eagle. He collapsed to the ground and leaned up as far as he could, holding the weapon in his good hand.

“Now, Nicholas. I thought we agreed we wouldn’t use weapons.” Dufort said with his hands out. He spoke to Petrov as if he were a child.

The big Russian’s hand trembled, but he kept the barrel trained on Dufort. “I will see you in hell.”

He pulled the trigger, but instead of the loud pop, the gun only clicked. A terrified confusion poured over Petrov’s bloody face. He squeezed the trigger again, only to be greeted by the exact same sound. Dufort took a deliberate step forward, followed by another and another until he reached Petrov’s feet.

The Russian continued to pull the trigger until he realized that no salvation lay within the empty magazine. He yelped and dropped the weapon to the floor, still barely propping himself up on one elbow.

“Did you really think I was going to fire that weapon in this room, Nicholas?” Dufort asked in a snide tone. “It would have made us all deaf.” He waved a hand around to the rest of the onlookers.

Petrov breathed hard, anger once again rising inside him. There was nothing he could do though. He was beaten, and he knew it, a fact that only served to enrage him further. To say losing was never an option would be an understatement. Now, he stared death in the face – a pale, thin, weak face. It was a face that represented everything he’d loathed in life, the people who grew up in a life of privilege, never having to work for what they needed. Just like so many millions of those born into a life of poverty throughout history, he was going to be crushed by the boot of the wealthy.

He dropped the gun to the floor. The clank echoed through the room for a few seconds before surrendering to the silence once more.

“You served me well, Nicholas,” Dufort said, standing over the strong man who’d been made so weak. “Because of that, I will spare your life.”

The Russian’s eyebrows lowered. He wondered what the Frenchman was up to.

“You will be useless to the world, now. That arm will never heal. No one will hire you to do their dirty work. And you will have to live in humiliation for the rest of your life.” Dufort reached into his pocket and removed a small, metal object. It was a single .50-caliber round.

He held it up, pinched between two fingers and his thumb. “I will not take your life, Nicholas. That is my reward for the years you’ve served me.” He spun around and walked toward the exit, stopping halfway. Dufort bent over and set the bullet on its flat end with the firing pin facing the floor. Then he straightened up and left the room. His bodyguards followed, save for Caron, who stared at the American Petrov had hired.

“You work for Monsieur Dufort now,” Caron said in a monotone voice.

The American stuck out his lower lip for a second, glancing at Petrov one last time. “Sounds good to me,” he said finally.

“Good.” Caron put his arm around the man’s shoulders and led him out of the room.

The door bolted behind them, leaving Petrov alone in the room.

Up on the main floor, Dufort was waiting for the rest of the men. When they had all gathered in the massive dining room, he stared at each one of them, then at Caron. “Find me those Americans. Take whatever they found in that crypt, and bring it to me at all costs.”

A bang echoed through the lower sections of the mansion, muffled by several feet of concrete. Everyone’s eyes darted around the room, save for Dufort. Only he stood unwavering. “That is the price of failure, gentlemen. Success, however, will be richly rewarded.”

Paris

Gerard Dufort stood in his plush study, surrounded by hundreds of volumes of first editions, cherry wood paneling, and lavish navy blue curtains with frayed gold edges. He took a sip from his glass of cognac as he stared out his window to the busy street below.

Pedestrians hurried down the sidewalks in both directions. Traffic seemed at a standstill on the road, though Dufort knew it was just that time of the day when things were backed up more than usual.

He placed one hand on his hip and took another sip, deep in thought about something. Finally he asked, “What would you do?”

Up until then, Caron had been sitting in one of the two guest chairs facing the massive oak desk with his head cocked to the side, awaiting orders.

“I would use her as leverage.”

Dufort turned around with an eyebrow raised. Clearly, his interest was piqued. “Go on.”

Caron tilted his head to the side and explained. “She’s an American agent. That much we know. What we do not know is who she is working for. We could use her to flush out who exactly is watching you, and why. Plus, we could possibly even work out a deal for her.”

Dufort balked at the last idea and gave a quick shake of the head. “No. The Americans never go for those sorts of things. They don’t make deals.”

“Well,” Caron shrugged, “I would say the next thing we do is make her part of your stable. It would send a message to the Americans to leave you alone.”

Dufort nodded, following that line of thought, but he pointed with one of the fingers holding his cognac. “It would send a message, but then they would come here looking for her.”

“Not if we sold her quickly. Then her blood would not be on our hands, and we would have plausible deniability. There would be no trace that we ever even knew she was here.”

To this, Dufort nodded slowly. It was a good idea. Actually, he’d thought of the same thing, but he wanted to consult his right hand before making the final decision. When it came to dealing with things of an international nature, it was always good to have a second opinion, even if he didn’t always go with it.

Caron and his men had found the female American agent trying to leave a nearby hotel. They followed her to a cafe where she met with another woman, a brunette, probably in her late thirties or early forties. She was dressed like a businesswoman, in black pants and a matching black jacket over a red blouse. When the blonde finished her coffee, she excused herself and quickly left, heading back toward the hotel.

Caron had two men in place, waiting for the American to return to her hotel room. When she entered, one of the men grabbed her from behind, while the other pointed a gun at her chest. The man holding her quickly placed a rag over her face, the ether doing its work in a matter of seconds.

When she’d come around, Caron and his men questioned her for a few hours, but she wouldn’t break. They hadn’t tortured her. At least not yet. He figured that his employer might not want such a pretty prize damaged.

Now, in Dufort’s office, the young blonde woman stared straight ahead. Her eyes were still somewhat glazed over, the aftereffects of the drug still lingering. In spite of the daze, she was still aware of what was being said. She tried to respond, but the gag in her mouth only allowed a few muffled words to escape. She tossed her head back and forth, trying to free herself of the rag wrapping around her face and into her teeth, but to no avail.

“Shhh,” Dufort said, turning around to face her full on. “You got yourself into this mess.”

He walked casually over to where she was sitting, bound at the ankles and wrists. One of Dufort’s bodyguards stood behind her, making sure she didn’t try any sudden movements or attempt to get up.

Dufort stopped and reached out a hand, taking a strand of her golden hair and letting it fall through his fingers. She snapped her head away from him. He smiled wickedly and grabbed her jaw between bony fingers. “You have been a very naughty girl.” His face was only inches from hers.

The woman’s nostrils filled with the scent of his expensive cologne, and she tried to pull away. Dufort held her firm, though, and took in her smell as well. He looked down at her neck, and let one of his fingers drag its way from her ear to the top of her chest. His finger found its way to the top button of her white blouse and plucked it free with a swift motion, loosening the shirt and revealing a matching white bra beneath. He stared at her undergarment for a moment, her breath causing her breasts to heave up and down.

Dufort lingered for a few seconds more, considering what to do next. Part of him wanted to take her for himself, but that wasn’t typically his style, especially not with other men in the room. Despite his criminal history and current mode of business, Dufort was no rapist.

Murderer? Certainly.

Seller of sex slaves? Absolutely.

But even he had his limits.

Dufort stood back up and let out a deep breath. “She will make a fine addition to this month’s stock. Put her in the group that will be presented in two weeks. I have a feeling some of our friends from Russia will be very interested in her.

The blonde struggled again, but the guard behind her kept her firmly planted in the chair.

“Put her with the others,” Dufort said. “Make sure she doesn’t hurt herself before the presentation in two weeks. The customers don’t like it when the girls look beat up.”

“Of course, monsieur,” the guard gave a single nod and yanked the girl up by her armpits.

Another guard, who’d been standing quietly in the corner, moved over and grabbed her by the ankles. The two men disappeared through the two large French doors and around the corner in the other room, leaving Caron and Dufort alone.

“You know the Americans are going to start asking questions as soon as that girl fails to report in,” Caron said, doing his best to inform Dufort without sounding condescending. His employer needed the warning though.

“Yes,” Dufort finished the last sip of cognac and set the empty glass on the edge of his desk where the leather writing section met the wood. “They will undoubtedly show up on my doorstep and demand to be shown the grounds.”

“Won’t they need some kind of warrant to do that?”

Dufort rolled his shoulders and eyebrows. “Usually. Although the Americans tend to find ways around red tape.”

“So what should we do?” Caron stared up from the chair, his eyes full of questions.

“We show them around. There is plenty to see in this mansion without showing them everything. Right now our stock is fairly low, is it not?”

“Yes. Including that one,” he motioned to where the American woman had been sitting. “We only have seven right now.”

“Good,” Dufort said. “We can easily hide seven. When the Americans come, put the girls in one of the holding bins until we get rid of the snoopers.”

Caron nodded.

Then the employer changed the subject. “Any word on the situation with Sean Wyatt?”

“They went back to the United States. One of our hackers was able to break through the firewall and access the IAA laboratory computers. As we speak, they are scanning pages of an old manuscript. It appears to be
Hamlet
.”

Dufort’s face expressed amusement at this last bit of information. “
Hamlet
? By Shakespeare?”

“Yes,” Caron nodded. “We are not certain, but that book could be the item Petrov missed in the cemetery.”

Dufort walked back over to the window and stared out at the bustling city below. “What would
Hamlet
have to do with any of this?”

“We aren’t sure. All we can see is the images they scanned into their computers. The reasons are still unknown.”

Dufort paced back and forth, walking to one end of his enormous study to the other. He paused when he got back to the desk and thought for a moment. “
Hamlet
took place in Denmark.”

Caron was confused.

“The story happened in a castle not far from Copenhagen. That castle must be a part of all this.”

Dufort’s assistant was still not connecting the dots. “I don’t understand. Even if this castle somehow plays a part, surely it is in ruins now.”

“Not at all,” Dufort corrected. “It is in pristine condition and is a tourist hot spot for that area. I have actually been there once myself.”

“Oh,” Caron processed the information for a few seconds. “So the Americans will be heading to this castle?”

“It certainly seems that way. And it makes perfect sense. It is the epicenter of the legend of the man.”

“What would you have me do?”

Dufort considered the question for a moment. He’d put his trust into someone else once before, now he wondered if he could manage things from afar or if he would need to personally oversee the operation from here on out.

“Go to Copenhagen and wait. Take a team with you. I want a unit watching that airport twenty-four hours a day. As soon as Wyatt or one of his companions walks through the doors, you let me know immediately. Understood?”

Caron nodded. “Of course. I’m on it.” The bodyguard stood up and exited through the double doors in the same direction the other two men had taken the American woman a few minutes before.

Dufort was left alone in his expansive study to ponder what would happen next. If things went according to plan, soon he would have one of the most coveted relics on the planet. His status in the collectors’ club would be of small importance once he possessed this item. Presidents would beg to see it, the pope himself would offer unimaginable sums of money for it, and greater than all of that, Dufort could prove his powerful lineage among the most powerful rulers in Earth’s history.