sentence. ‘Rising star of the British Museum and intimate friend of Nicholas De Vere. Your association was splashed across the Sun and News of the World , if I recollect.’
‘Look, Lawrence,’ Nick muttered. ‘I don’t expect sympathy.’ He sat down heavily on the bed, his hands trembling. ‘If it makes it easier – Klaus and I were long over.’
‘Don’t waste your sentiment, Nicholas, dear boy.’ St Cartier’s voice was unusually soft. ‘You can’t bring Von Hausen back.’ He grasped Nick’s shoulder gently.
‘I . . . I saw him two days ago,’ Nick said. ‘In London. We met for drinks . . . I hadn’t seen him for months. He’d been seconded to a classified dig in the Middle East.’ He looked up at St Cartier.
‘He was exhilarated,’ he murmured. ‘It was classified “Eyes Only”. He said MI6 and Interpol were swarming over the British Museum. Klaus knew the way they work – it would remain undisclosed to him until his arrival.’
St Cartier took the paper from Nick, put on his glasses and studied the article thoroughly.
‘Hmmm. The papers only report it was an ancient Temple relic,’ St Cartier said. ‘All the marks of a massive mop-up job. Seven archaeologists mown down with sub-machine guns execution style. Special Forces. Trained killers . . . ’
He scanned a smaller paragraph halfway down the page. ‘ . . . and one Vatican priest beheaded.’ his voice trailed off.
Nick studied the professor through narrowed eyes. St Cartier was ashen, his right hand trembling uncontrollably.
‘Beheaded, Nicholas.’ St Cartier said, swiftly regaining his composure. He folded the paper. ‘ Most barbaric.’
St Cartier’s eyes glittered with an uncharacteristic hardness.
‘Islamic terrorists?’ Nick asked.
‘No.’ St Cartier walked to the far window and gazed out beyond the rows of cypress trees to the vast expanse of sand. ‘Not terrorists, Nicholas. This has the mark of something far more sinister. Someone would like the entire Western world to think it was terrorists.’
St Cartier fell silent, engrossed in his own reflections.
Nick stared blankly at his hollow cheeks in the mirror. ‘If not terrorists then who? And what do they want?’
The bell in the tower chimed six o’clock just as the dinner gong sounded.
‘Time runs down, Nicholas. Daniel’s week is almost upon us.’
He looked grimly into Nick’s face.
‘I fear the End of Days has begun.’
The nib of Gabriel’s quill scratched the heavy linen paper embossed with his Prince Regent crest. Gabriel’s exquisite italic lettering filled the page.
My tormented brother, Lucifer,
I saw you in my dreamings this very dawn, a lone figure overlooking Golgotha.
So assured of your victory at Armageddon.
The White Rider, your Son of Perdition – coming forth to rule the Race of Men.
Heralding the tribulation of the Apocalypse of the Revelation of Saint John.
Gabriel sighed. He pushed his long platinum locks back from his flawless features, then continued.
And I remembered another dawn when you came to me in my dreamings.
The dawn when your iniquitous plan was conceived.
The dawn when you stood sleepless on the Portico of the North Winds.
. . . The dawn of the Wizard Riders . . .
FORTY YEARS EARLIER
1981
Almost two thousand years after Golgotha
Chapter Eight
Diabolical Schemings
Lucifer stood, a lone figure, on the Portico of the North Winds under the great silver battlements of the Citadel of Gehenna.
He stared out grimly at the seven comets of Thuban, their flaming hoar-frost tails blazing indigo as they rose over the barren ice-plains of Gehenna. Then he raised his head to the freezing arctic blizzards approaching from the White Dwarf Pinnacles of the North, venting their fury against the monstrous forbidding fortress.
His Winter Palace.
It had been almost two thousand years since Golgotha.
Since his humiliation at the hands of the Nazarene.
He scowled. He could taste his defeat on the
‘Look, Lawrence,’ Nick muttered. ‘I don’t expect sympathy.’ He sat down heavily on the bed, his hands trembling. ‘If it makes it easier – Klaus and I were long over.’
‘Don’t waste your sentiment, Nicholas, dear boy.’ St Cartier’s voice was unusually soft. ‘You can’t bring Von Hausen back.’ He grasped Nick’s shoulder gently.
‘I . . . I saw him two days ago,’ Nick said. ‘In London. We met for drinks . . . I hadn’t seen him for months. He’d been seconded to a classified dig in the Middle East.’ He looked up at St Cartier.
‘He was exhilarated,’ he murmured. ‘It was classified “Eyes Only”. He said MI6 and Interpol were swarming over the British Museum. Klaus knew the way they work – it would remain undisclosed to him until his arrival.’
St Cartier took the paper from Nick, put on his glasses and studied the article thoroughly.
‘Hmmm. The papers only report it was an ancient Temple relic,’ St Cartier said. ‘All the marks of a massive mop-up job. Seven archaeologists mown down with sub-machine guns execution style. Special Forces. Trained killers . . . ’
He scanned a smaller paragraph halfway down the page. ‘ . . . and one Vatican priest beheaded.’ his voice trailed off.
Nick studied the professor through narrowed eyes. St Cartier was ashen, his right hand trembling uncontrollably.
‘Beheaded, Nicholas.’ St Cartier said, swiftly regaining his composure. He folded the paper. ‘ Most barbaric.’
St Cartier’s eyes glittered with an uncharacteristic hardness.
‘Islamic terrorists?’ Nick asked.
‘No.’ St Cartier walked to the far window and gazed out beyond the rows of cypress trees to the vast expanse of sand. ‘Not terrorists, Nicholas. This has the mark of something far more sinister. Someone would like the entire Western world to think it was terrorists.’
St Cartier fell silent, engrossed in his own reflections.
Nick stared blankly at his hollow cheeks in the mirror. ‘If not terrorists then who? And what do they want?’
The bell in the tower chimed six o’clock just as the dinner gong sounded.
‘Time runs down, Nicholas. Daniel’s week is almost upon us.’
He looked grimly into Nick’s face.
‘I fear the End of Days has begun.’
The nib of Gabriel’s quill scratched the heavy linen paper embossed with his Prince Regent crest. Gabriel’s exquisite italic lettering filled the page.
My tormented brother, Lucifer,
I saw you in my dreamings this very dawn, a lone figure overlooking Golgotha.
So assured of your victory at Armageddon.
The White Rider, your Son of Perdition – coming forth to rule the Race of Men.
Heralding the tribulation of the Apocalypse of the Revelation of Saint John.
Gabriel sighed. He pushed his long platinum locks back from his flawless features, then continued.
And I remembered another dawn when you came to me in my dreamings.
The dawn when your iniquitous plan was conceived.
The dawn when you stood sleepless on the Portico of the North Winds.
. . . The dawn of the Wizard Riders . . .
FORTY YEARS EARLIER
1981
Almost two thousand years after Golgotha
Chapter Eight
Diabolical Schemings
Lucifer stood, a lone figure, on the Portico of the North Winds under the great silver battlements of the Citadel of Gehenna.
He stared out grimly at the seven comets of Thuban, their flaming hoar-frost tails blazing indigo as they rose over the barren ice-plains of Gehenna. Then he raised his head to the freezing arctic blizzards approaching from the White Dwarf Pinnacles of the North, venting their fury against the monstrous forbidding fortress.
His Winter Palace.
It had been almost two thousand years since Golgotha.
Since his humiliation at the hands of the Nazarene.
He scowled. He could taste his defeat on the
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