Matthew Reilly: Temple

When he had first seen the message, Race hadn’t really paid much attention to it. He had just assumed it was a reference to himself William Race—and that it was he who should be contacted immediately. But what if it actually meant someone else the Army had to get in touch with. Some other Race. In which case it meant that contact should be made with., Marty. Race looked up from the computer in horror, just as his brother stepped out of the line of dead Navy and DARPA people and shook hands with Frank Nash.

‘How are you, Marty?’ Nash said familiarly.

‘I’m well, Frank. It’s good to finally catch up with you.’ Race’s mind was in a spin. His eyes flashed from Nash and Marty to the dead bodies on the muddy street, and from them to— the copy of the manuscript lying in the mud next to Ed Devereux’s body. And then suddenly it all made sense. Race saw the ornate calligraphy on the text, the stunning medieval artwork. It was identical to the Xeroxed copy of the Santiago Manuscript that he had translated for Nash on the way to Peru.

Oh, no… ‘Marty, you didn’t…’

‘I’m sorry you had to get caught up in all this, Will,’ Marty said.

‘We had to get a copy of the manuscript somehow,’ Nash said. ‘God, when those Nazis raided that monastery in France and stole the real manuscript, they set off a chase like you wouldn’t believe. Suddenly, everybody in the world who had a Supernova had the chance to get a live sample of thyrium. It was the opportunity of a lifetime. Then, when we intercepted a DARPA transmission saying that there was a second copy of the manuscript in existence, we simply arranged for someone at DARPA to get a Xerox of it for us—Marty.’ But how? Race thought. Marty was with DARPA, he wasn’t with the Army. Where was the link? How was Marty associated with Nash and Army Special Projects? At that moment, he saw Lauren go over to Marty and kiss him lightly on the cheek.

What the… ? It was then that Race saw the ring on Marty’s left hand. A wedding ring. He looked at Lauren and Marty again. No… Then he heard Lauren’s voice in his head: ‘My first marriage didn’t exactly work out. But I’ve recently remarried.’

‘I see you’ve met my wife, Will,’ Marty said, stepping forward holding Lauren by the hand. ‘I never told you I got married, did I?’

‘Marty—’

‘Do you remember when we were teenagers, Will? You were always the popular one and I was always the loner. The geek with the thick eyebrows and the hunched shoulders who stayed at home on Saturday nights while you went out with all the girls. But there was one girl you didn’t get, wasn’t there, Will?’

Race was silent.

‘And it looks like I got her,’ Marty said. Race was stunned. Was it possible that Marty had been so bitter about his childhood that he had pursued Lauren just to get even with Race? No. Not possible. Such a theory failed to give Lauren any credit. She wouldn’t have married anybody she didn’t want to marry—which really meant she wouldn’t have married anyone who didn’t advance her own career. It was then that another image leapt into Race’s mind. The image of Lauren and Troy Copeland standing in the Huey two nights ago, kissing like a pair of teenagers before Race had stumbled onto them. Lauren had been having an affair with Copeland.

‘Marty,’ he said quickly. ‘Listen, she’s going to betray you—’

‘Shut up, Will.’

‘But Marty—’

‘I said, shut up!“ Race fell silent. After a moment, he said in a low voice, ‘What did the Army give you to sell out DARPA, Marty?’

‘They didn’t have to give me much,’ Marty said. ‘My wife simply asked me to do her a favour. And her boss, Colonel Nash here, offered me an executive posting in the Army’s Supernova project. Will, I’m a design engineer. I design the computer systems that control these devices. But at DARPA that makes me nothing. All my life, Will—all my life—all I’ve ever wanted was recognition. At home, at school, at work. Recognition of my ability. Now, finally, I’m going to get some.’

‘Marty, please, listen to me. Two nights ago, I saw Lauren with—’

‘Drop it, Will. Show’s over. I’m really sorry it had to happen like this, but it has and I can’t help that. Goodbye.’ And with that Frank Nash stepped in front of Race—cutting off his view of Marty— replacing it with a view down the barrel of Nash’s SIGSauer.

‘It’s been a pleasure, Professor, really it has,’ Nash said, squeezing the trigger.

‘No,’ Van Lewen said suddenly, stepping forward—in between Race and Nash’s pistol.

‘Colonel, I cannot allow you do this.’

‘Get out of the way, Sergeant.’

‘No, sir, I will not.’

‘Get out of the fucking way!’ Van Lewen straightened as he stood before the barrel of Nash’s pistol. “Sir, my orders are clear. They came from you, yourself. I am to protect Professor Race at any cost.’

‘Your orders just changed, Sergeant.’

‘No, sir. They did not. If you want to kill Professor Race, then you’re going to have to kill me first.’

Nash pursed his lips for a moment. Then—with shocking suddenness—the SIG in his hand discharged and Van Lewen’s head exploded, showering Race all over with blood. The Green Beret’s body fell to the ground in a heap, like a marionette that had just had its strings cut. Race stared down at Van Lewen’s fallen frame. The tall, kind sergeant had sacrificed his own life for his—had stared down the barrel of a gun for him. And now, now he was dead.

Race felt like he was going to be sick.

‘You son of a bitch,’ he said to Nash. Nash reaimed his gun at Race’s face. ‘This mission is bigger than any one man, Professor. Bigger than him, bigger than me, and definitely bigger than you.’

And with that, Nash pulled the trigger. Race saw the flash of brown shoot across in front of his face before he even heard the whistling sound. Then, just as Nash pulled the trigger on his pistol, a miniature explosion of blood flared out from the Army colonel’s forearm as it was penetrated by a primitive wooden arrow. Nash’s gun hand was knocked sideways and the SIG discharged wildly to Race’s left. Nash roared with pain and dropped the pistol just as a volley of about twenty more arrows rained down all around them, killing two of the Army crewmen instantly. The wave of arrows was quickly followed by a blood curdling battlecry that ripped through the early morning air like a knife. Race spun at the sound and his jaw dropped at the sight that met him. He saw all of the natives from the upper village all the adults, fifty of them at least— charging out from the trees to the west of Vilcafor. They were shrieking wildly as they rushed forward, brandishing whatever weapons they could muster— bows, arrows, axes, clubs—and they wore on their faces some of the angriest expressions Race had ever seen in his life. The charge of the natives was nothing short of terrifying. Their fury was intense, their anger almost tangible. Frank Nash had stolen their idol and now they wanted it back. Abruptly the crack of M16 gunfire rang out from somewhere close behind Race. A couple of the helicopter crewmen had opened fire on the Indians. Almost instantly, four of the natives at the front of the rushing horde were hit. They stumbled and fell, crashing face first in the mud. But the others just kept on coming. Nash—now with an arrow lodged in his right forearm, complete with a ragged piece of his own flesh dangling from its point—turned instantly and, with his people behind him, abandoned the village and made for the two Army choppers.

Race hadn’t even moved. He just stood there in the centre of the street, rooted to the spot, staring dumbstruck at the horde of charging natives. Then suddenly someone grabbed him roughly by the shoulder. It was Renée. ‘Professor, come on!’ she yelled as she dragged him toward the empty Super Stallion on the other side of the village.