The Vault of Poseidon (Joe Hawke Book 1) Read online

  “Check out the woman over there,” Farrell said.

  “I told you to focus, Farrell.”

  “No, I mean watch what she’s doing – she looks like she’s high or something.”

  “Can’t see her yet – where is she?” Hawke scanned the room and saw that Eden’s private security had also seen the woman. She stepped forward and whispered something in Sir Richard’s ear. He turned to look at the woman.

  Farrell spoke next: “I’ve got her, boss. I think Victoria Beckham’s blocking your view.”

  “No – got her now. Tall, pale with blonde hair.”

  “You’ve got her right side, yeah?”

  “Correct.”

  “Well I’ve got her left side, boss. Her best side, I like to think.”

  “Farrell...”

  “She’s talking to herself, boss, and approaching Sir Richard.”

  Hawke focused on the woman across the room. She was beautiful, but something wasn’t right – she was mumbling something to herself. The room was now full of dignitaries and those serving them drinks. Hawke watched the woman weave in and out of the crowd, almost falling over in places. Whoever she was, she had no place here. He stepped forward to apprehend her.

  Suddenly everything changed.

  Hawke saw the fear on the woman’s face two seconds before he saw the blood on her wrists. Sir Richard’s security officer moved forward to protect her boss.

  “No!” said Sir Richard. “I know this woman. Let her through.”

  The woman was clearly confused and staggered closer to Sir Richard before falling on her knees. She crawled towards him, terrorized by some unseen thing over her shoulder. She looked into Sir Richard’s face with bewildered, delirious eyes. Hawke knew immediately that she had been drugged – he recognized the symptoms easily enough. The crowd turned to see what was happening and fell silent.

  “Richard, please! Help me!” Her words were slurred.

  “What is it, professor?” said Sir Richard.

  “How do you know this woman?” Hawke asked, surveying the room for other threats.

  Eden said: “She’s...”

  Then the first shot rang out and everyone dived for cover. The assassin’s bullet plowed through the woman’s shoulder and knocked her violently to the ground.

  Hawke searched the mezzanine for a glimpse of the shooter but saw no one. Eden’s security officer turned herself into a human shield to protect the senior politician.

  Despite the terrible wound to her body, the woman heaved herself back to her knees and turned to Sir Richard who was now staring at the unfolding situation in wild disbelief. The crowd broke into chaos and began to scatter.

  “I made the trans... the translation, Sir Richard.” She coughed up blood and struggled to breathe. “Those who seek the ultimate power must look within his kingdom...” More coughing.

  Eden crouched down and tried to help the woman. “Lucy, what’s happened? Who did this to you?”

  “No time... He put them inside the amphorae! All this time and it’s been right in front of our faces... Poseidon and the Nereid, Richard – they are the keepers of the legend...”

  “Someone call an ambulance!” Eden screamed, his hands shaking with adrenalin.

  “You have to... stop them, Richard. They beat it out of me and now they’re going to New York. You have to stop them before...”

  The final gunshot was lethal in its accuracy, blasting a high velocity round straight through the woman’s heart and spraying a jet of blood across Eden’s face and body. She collapsed in a lifeless heap on the polished parquet floor of the exhibition room.

  Another series of shots from the mezzanine, and this time Hawke saw the shooter. Eden’s private security officer and Farrell saw him at the same time but it was a second too late for Farrell who was killed with the next shot.

  Hawke had no time to think about the loss. Any doubt that the woman was the only target was removed when the assassin fired another series of shots at Sir Richard, his security officer and then finally Hawke himself. Chaos reigned.

  A horrified Sir Richard Eden pointed at the assassin, who was now visible on the balcony at the top of the stairs and shouted at his security officer to get after him.

  And so she did.

  And so did Hawke.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Hawke and the security officer sprinted down the steps of the British Museum’s south exit and saw the sniper running towards a black BMW X5. It was parked on the sidewalk beyond the wrought-iron gates at the entrance to the museum.

  The driver was waiting for the shooter with the rear door open and the engine revving hard. The man leaped into the back seats and with a squeal of burned rubber the X5 raced down Great Russell Street.

  By the time they reached the gates, the X5 was already several hundred yards away, and Hawke had no time to think. A few yards to his right, a tour bus was idling in a parking bay waiting to collect a group of tourists who were ambling out of the museum.

  Some of them had already gotten back on the bus and were sitting on the open top deck eating ice creams and taking pictures from their elevated position of the museum’s impressive façade. Hawke knew what he had to do.

  “Get out,” he said to the driver.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  Hawke didn’t reply. He grabbed the man by the scruff of his neck, dragged him out of the driver’s seat and shoved him from the bus. “Don't worry,” Hawke shouted as he cranked the six cylinder engine up. “There’ll be another one along in a minute.”

  “You’re a real charmer,” the security officer said. Irish. He placed her accent in the south – Dublin maybe.

  “Nice to meet you,” he replied, offering her his hand. “Joe Hawke. I had a contract to work as security for the British Museum until about three minutes ago.”

  “I’m Lea Donovan,” she said coolly. She refused his hand and instead used the moment to pull a Glock 17 casually from an inside pocket.

  Hawke glanced at the gun. “You’re armed! That’s not exactly legal.”

  “Hush now. I’m security for Sir Richard Eden and he’s the one who gave it to me.”

  “Fair enough.” Hawke shrugged his shoulders. “Do you know how it works? The end with the little hole in it is the dangerous bit.”

  He swerved the bus violently around a line of parked cars and screeched to a halt behind a black cab.

  “And if you knew how to drive properly I could probably get a shot off and take out those bastards’ back tires, but as it is, it looks like we’ll have to wait until they pull up for a coffee.”

  Hawke ignored this, and slammed his foot down on the throttle, steering out from behind the taxi. The tour bus jolted forward sluggishly at first, but then gathering speed as he went up through the gears. “Let’s see what this little baby can do.”

  Up ahead, the X5 was already trapped in more of the London gridlock, trying to negotiate its way out by mounting the sidewalk. A cacophony of angry car-horns was raised in response, as well as lots of fist-waving from pedestrians and a few people even kicked the side of the assassin’s car. They dispersed in a hurry when the window came down and several warning shots were fired into the air.

  “Those guys are insane!” Hawke said to himself as he drew closer to the gridlock.

  Now the X5 was weaving through the traffic and turning right into another street. Hawke slammed his foot down and drove the bus down the middle of the road, furiously hammering on the bassy horn to make the cars pull away to the sides of the road.

  Progress was slow, but thankfully the same went for the X5, which was once again stuck in even more gridlock around the corner. Not unusual for this part of town, Hawke considered.

  He swung the bus around into the next street so fast it almost went up onto two wheels. The sound of the tires squealing on the ludicrously tight turn was rivalled only by the noise of the terrified passengers screaming for their lives on the top deck.

  “Hold on, folks!” Hawke shou
ted as he pounded the throttle and raced towards the next block of traffic.

  Moments later the sound of sirens filled the air somewhere behind him – police. The inevitable consequence, Hawke considered, of stealing a tour bus full of foreign tourists and driving it like a maniac in pursuit of an assassin in a BMW X5. At any rate, he considered, it would certainly brighten up the police’s morning, if nothing else.

  Now, the X5 was through the gridlock and racing against the traffic outside the museum’s archive on Bloomsbury Square Gardens. The way they turned the next corner and deftly weaved in between a couple of Routemaster buses made Hawke realize this was no rushed getaway but a planned escape route.

  As he watched them slip away from him, bright sunlight reflected off the rear windows of the cars in front and made him squint for a few seconds, almost losing sight of the X5.

  They jumped the lights and swung right, smoke billowing out from the rear tire arches as the powerful German SUV accelerated away from the bus.

  Moments later another wave of traffic had ensured Hawke caught them up by the time they hit Kingsway. By now there were at least three police cars behind the tour bus, and somewhere above him Hawke heard what he presumed was a police helicopter.

  Lea reached for her mobile and made a call.

  “Richard, it’s me, Lea. Slight problem – there seems to be a growing interest in our activities by the local constabulary.”

  Hawke weaved the bus neatly in between a Vespa and an ice cream van.

  There was a pause while Lea listened to Eden’s reply before responding to him. “At least three cars and a chopper. I’d be grateful if you could let them know they’re chasing the guys in front and not us.”

  They were now rapidly closing on the end of Kingsway where the road turned into a horseshoe shape leading to the east and west before both joined up with the Strand. The X5 was running out of options.

  Lea put the phone in her pocket and turned to Hawke.

  “He says he’ll make a call.”

  The X5 mounted the sidewalk before swinging left and burning past the Australian High Commission. Hawke pursued as best he could in the Arriva, only to see the men abandon the X5 in Temple Place and vault over the steel railing near the Underground Station.

  Hawke dumped the bus and sprinted after them, reliving his parkour training from the night before. Behind him the sound of sirens closing in on them filled the air, and the chopper was now circling ahead of him and hovering over the Thames.

  “You twats aren’t getting away from me!” he shouted.

  Lea was sprinting behind him, and almost keeping up. Impressive, he thought.

  Hawke saw the two men jump into a red motorboat moored on the north bank of the Thames. A second later it was speeding away across the river.

  He ran up to a boat moored behind the one they had just taken. Inside a man was whistling and polishing the windshield. He wore a jaunty sailing cap and yachting daps.

  Hawke stepped up to him. “Get out.”

  Lea rolled her eyes. “Oh God, not again.”

  “I’m sorry?” said the man.

  “Seriously, it’s step out of the boat or go for a swim in that.” Hawke pointed at the cold, brown water that not even the bright sunshine could make the least welcoming.

  “Now, look here, I’m a member of the Rotary Club!”

  Hawke raised his fist, and the man reversed course and stepped backwards out of the boat.

  “Good man,” Hawke said. “We’ll bring her back unharmed. Probably.”

  Hawke revved the engine and the boat shot forward into the river faster than he expected. Back on the riverbank an indignant amateur sailor pulled out his phone.

  “What’s he doing?” Hawke asked Lea as he navigated the boat into the busy river.

  “Looks like he’s furiously dialling every emergency services number he can think of.”

  Hawke laughed. “And maybe even the Rotary Club.”

  They looked ahead and saw the motorboat getting away at a serious rate of knots.

  “Floor it!” Lea shouted, while taking aim at them. She fired two shots and the sound of them crackled incongruously on both sides of the Thames in the otherwise normal morning. Both shots were slightly high of the target.

  “Excellent work, Donovan, but if I were you I’d ask the Girl Guides for my money back.”

  “Zip it, Mr Hawke, and try and keep this damned thing steady while I take a shot.”

  “It’s a motorboat, Lea, it doesn’t do steady. Next time we chase someone I’ll make sure to steal us a pedalo.”

  “Oh, you are so not as funny as you think you are.”

  Hawke looked ahead and saw the red motorboat weaving with ease in between various tourist boats and even a few industrial vessels. They passed beneath London Bridge and zoomed alongside HMS Belfast spraying the cold, brown wash up its sides.

  “Can’t you get us any closer?” Lea said, annoyed.

  A short volley of machine-gun fire crackled from the back of the red motorboat, instantaneously matched by the shattering of their windshield into a dozen spider web fractures. “Shit!” Hawke shouted, ducking as much as he could while retaining visibility of the river.

  “Not fair!” Lea shook her head. “They have Uzis.”

  Now they were passing under Tower Bridge, and Hawke saw something that made his heart sink. “Look!”

  One of the men was shouldering a rocket-propelled grenade launcher.

  Lea looked at him. “That is so not good.”

  Seconds later, he fired it. Hawke and Lea ducked instinctively and Hawke swung the boat hard to the left. He watched the missile climb into the air above their heads.

  “They’re aiming at the police helicopter!” he shouted.

  The missile struck the chopper dead-center and it exploded in the air in a giant fireball, showering the Thames with pieces of twisted airframe and burning aviation fuel. What was left of the wrecked cabin plummeted like a rock into the murky water.

  “Lea, shoot the man with the RPG please, and quickly.”

  The man was reloading and now aiming the RPG at their boat.

  Lea raised her Glock and squinted carefully through the sights.

  Pop. A puff of smoke from the chamber.

  Hawke watched the man fly backwards with the RPG launcher still in his hands and crash dead into the Thames.

  “Not too shabby,” he said, smiling. “And now we’re gaining on them!”

  The motorboat sliced through the icy water, the gutteral roar of its engine ricocheting off the buildings on either side of the river. People peered over the walls and bridges to see what was happening.

  In fast pursuit of the red speedboat, they were now steering a hard right to follow the river as it twisted south into the Docklands, the glittering skyscrapers of Canary Wharf looming to their left.

  “Just where the hell do these absolute tools think they’re going?” Lea asked, shaking her head.

  “Quicker to escape on the river in this town.”

  They raced onwards, slowly gaining on the boat in front, now swinging north around the Isle of Dogs and passing the O2 Center. Another volley of machine-gun fire ripped great chunks out of the fibre-glass nose of their boat and showered them with the tiny fragments.

  Hawke finished rounding the next bend in the river and violently rammed the throttles forward, making the boat zoom up almost above the surface of the water, a thick white wake spilled out for hundreds of yards behind them.

  Lea was thrown back into the rear of the boat and landed in a puddle of the Thames that had collected there during the last sharp turn in the river. “Oh, now that is just disgusting.”

  “Sorry! At least you won’t need a bath tonight though – look at it that way.”

  Lea gave him the bird as she climbed back up and this time grabbed on to the rail at the front.

  “So what rank were you?” Hawke asked casually.

  “Lieutenant, in intelligence.”

  “Oh no
, not a bloody officer.”

  “Afraid so. What about you?”

  “Sergeant.”

  “I think you should call me ma’am in that case,” she said with a smirk.

  “Yeah, I don’t think so. You should know I can’t stand officers.”

  “That’s not very nice. They’re not all bad.”

  Hawke scoffed. “They’re a bunch of incompetent idiots, and I’ll tell you something else as well, I... uh-oh.”

  “What?”

  “I have some bad news,” Hawke shouted to her, changing the subject.

  “You are bad news, Joe Hawke.”

  “Seriously – look.”

  Hawke pointed to the boat in front which was pulling away to the north bank. The men inside clambered out and after emptying their magazines into Hawke’s motorboat they ran through the Royal Wharf.

  “Where are they going?” Lea asked.

  Hawke frowned. “I have a pretty good idea.”

  They pulled the boat up just ahead of the Thames Barrier and followed the path the men had taken, only to see them entering London City Airport.

  “Come on – maybe we can still catch them.”

  Inside they saw the men enter a private departure lounge. Through the smoked glass they watched them present passports and then they were taken immediately to a smart blue Eurocopter.

  Airport security stopped Hawke and Lea in their tracks.

  “No one goes airside without passports and a security check.”

  They watched helplessly as the chopper lifted into the air moments later, heading eastwards out over the water.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Sion

  The snows of winter were early in Switzerland this year, and roared through the valley below. Hugo Zaugg wondered pensively back and forth on the thick white carpet of his study. Ever since he was alerted to this latest discovery his mind had touched upon nothing else. It was amazing what tracking keywords on certain email accounts could yield.