Matthew Reilly: Temple

All eighteen of them were on their knees, lined up in a row.

In front of de Villiers and a little to his left stood a man dressed in black combat fatigues and armed with a Glock-18 automatic pistol and a Heckler & Koch G-11 assault rifle, the most advanced assault rifle ever made. Right now the black-clad man’s Glock was resting against Maurice Dupont’s head.

A dozen other, similarly garbed, similarly armed men stood around the wide dining room. They all wore black ski masks and they were all waiting upon Philippe de Villiers’ response to a very important question.

‘I don’t know where it is,’ de Villiers said through clenched teeth.

“Philippe…’ Maurice Dupont said.

Without warning, the gun at Dupont’s temple went off, the shot ringing out in the silence of the near-deserted abbey. Dupont’s head exploded like a watermelon and a wash of blood splattered all over de Villiers’ face.

No-one outside the abbey would hear the gunshot.

The San Sebastian Abbey lay perched on a mountaintop nearly 6000 feet above sea level, hidden among the snowcapped peaks of the French Pyrenees. It was ‘as close to God as you could get’, as some of the older monks liked to say.

San Sebastian’s nearest neighbour, the famous telescope platform the Pic du Midi Observatory, was nearly twenty kilometres away.

The man with the Glock moved to the monk on de Villiers’ right and placed the barrel of the gun against his head.

‘Where is the manuscript?’ the man with the gun asked de Villiers a second time. His Bavarian accent was strong.

‘I don’t know, I tell you,’ de Villiers said.

Blam!

The second monk jolted backwards and smacked down against the floor, a puddle of red liquid fanning out from the jagged, fleshy hole in his head. For a few seconds, the body shuddered involuntarily—spasming violently—flopped against the floor like a fish that had fallen out of its bowl.

De Villiers shut his eyes, offered up a prayer.

“Where is the manuscript?’ the German said.

‘I don’t—’

Blam!

Another monk fell.

‘Where is it?’

‘I don’t know!’

Blam!

All of a sudden, the Glock came around so that it was now pointed directly at de Villiers’ face.

‘This will be the last time I ask you this question, Brother de Villiers. Where is the Santiago Manuscript?’

De Villiers kept his eyes closed. ‘Our Father, who art in hallowed be thy—’

The German squeezed the trigger.

‘Wait!’ someone said from the other end of the line.

The German assassin turned and saw an older monk step up and out from the line of kneeling Jesuit monks.

‘Please! Please! No more, no more. I will tell you where the manuscript is, if you promise you will kill no more.’

‘Where is it?’ the assassin said.

‘It is this way,’ the old monk said, heading off into the library. The assassin followed him into the adjoining room.

Moments later both men returned, the assassin carrying in his left hand a large leatherbound book.

Although de Villiers couldn’t see his face, it was clear that the German assassin was smiling broadly behind his black ski mask.

‘Now, go. Leave us in peace,’ the old Jesuit said. ‘Leave us to bury our dead.’

The assassin seemed to ponder that for a moment. Then he turned and nodded to his cohorts.

In response the squad of armed assassins raised their G11s as one and opened fire on the line of kneeling Jesuit monks.

A devastating burst of supermachine-gun fire cut the remaining monks to ribbons. Heads exploded, jagged rags of flesh were ripped clear from the monks’ bodies as they were assailed by a force of gunfire never before witnessed.

In seconds, all of the Jesuits were dead, save for one: the elderly monk who had brought the Germans the manuscript.

He now stood alone in a pool of his comrades’ blood, facing his tormentors.

The lead assassin stepped forward and levelled his Glock at the old man’s head.

‘Who are you?’ the old monk said defiantly.

‘We are the Schutz Staffeln Totenkopfverbande,” the assassin said.

The old monk’s eyes went wide. ‘Good God…’ he breathed.

The assassin smiled. ‘Not even He can save you now.’

Blare!

The Glock went off one last time and the assassins swept out of the abbey and into the night.

A whole minute passed, then another.

The abbey lay silent.

The bodies of the eighteen Jesuit brothers lay sprawled on the floor, bathed in blood.

The assassins never saw it.

It was high above them, hidden within the ceiling of the enormous dining room. It was a loft of some sort, an attic in the ceiling that was separated from the dining room by a thin, wood-panelled wall. The individual panels of the wall were so old and shrivelled that the cracks between them were wide.

If they had looked closely enough, the assassins would have seen it—peering out through one of those cracks, blinking with fear.

A wideopen human eye.

3701 North Fairfax Drive, Arlington, Virginia

Offices of the US Defense Advanced Research

Projects Agency

Monday, January 4 1999, 5:50 am

The thieves moved fast—they knew exactly where they were going.

They’d picked the perfect time for the raid. Ten minutes to six. Ten minutes before the night guards were due to clock off. Ten minutes before the day guards were due to clock on.

The night guards would be tired and looking at their watches, looking forward to going home. They would be at their most vulnerable.

3701 North Fairfax Drive was an eight-storey redbrick building just across the street from the Virginia Square Metro station in Arlington, Virginia. It housed the offices of the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency—DARPA—cutting-edge research and development arm of the United States Department of Defense.

The thieves ran down the white-lit corridors with their silenced MP-5SD submachine guns held high, SEAL-style— their folding stocks pressed firmly against their shoulders, their eyes looking straight down their barrels, searching for targets.

Thwatthwatthwatthwat!

A hailstorm of silent bullets ripped down yet another Navy guardsman, number seventeen. Without missing a beat, the thieves leapt over his body and headed for the vault room. One of them swiped the cardkey while another pushed open the huge hydraulic door.

They were on the third floor of the building, having already breached seven Grade-5 security checkpoints— checkpoints that had required four different cardkeys and six different alpha-numeric codes to open.

They had entered the building via its underground loading dock, inside a van that had been expected. The underground gate guards had been the first to die. They had been followed soon after by the van’s drivers.

Up on the third floor, the thieves hadn’t stopped moving.

In quick succession they entered the vault room—an enormous lab chamber bounded on every side by six-inch- thick porcelain walls.

Outside this porcelain cocoon was another, outer wall. It was leadlined and at least twelve inches thick. DARPA employees called this lab ‘the Vault’ and for good reason. Radio waves couldn’t breach it. Directional listening devices couldn’t touch it. It was the most secure facility in the building.

Was the most secure facility in the building.

The thieves fanned out quickly as they came into the lab chamber.

Silence.

Like the womb.

And then, suddenly, they stopped dead in their tracks.

Their prize stood before them, occupying pride of place in the centre of the lab.

It wasn’t very big, despite what it could do.

It was maybe six feet tall and it looked like a giant hour glass: two cones—the lower one pointing upwards, the upper one pointing downwards—separated by a small titanium chamber which held the core of the weapon.