The Prophecy

65

Located near the Belgian coast in the Flemish province of West Flanders, the Ostend-Bruges International Airport is a small facility that mostly handles charter and cargo flights. Because of a scarcity of passengers, the terminal’s security was typically a rubber-stamp procedure. Customs officials checked passports and cargo manifests, but if everything appeared to be in order, people and crates were cleared without much hassle.

Payne and Jones weren’t worried about their identification. They had fake passports with fake names made by the Pentagon. However, they were concerned with the cargo they were bringing into the country. Before Ulster’s security staff picked up Megan and Ulster and took them to the Archives, they filled a wooden crate with guns and supplies and loaded it onto the plane. The guards covered the crate in stickers that said: FRAGILE: ARTEFACTS. They also printed a fake manifest, listing a number of items that were supposedly on their way to a private collector in Bruges. Of course, none of them were actually in the crate, but because of their alleged fragility, they made it through customs without a thorough inspection.

Custom officers were afraid of breaking a priceless relic.

A cargo van and additional supplies, arranged by Ulster, were waiting for Payne and Jones when they arrived. They loaded the crate into the back, then pulled through the main gate of the terminal. It was early afternoon, and Bruges was less than thirty minutes away.

They had plenty of time to prepare for their mission.

Belgian days are quite short in mid-December. The sun doesn’t rise until after 8.30 a.m., and it sets well before 5 p.m. That gave Payne and Jones more than two hours of darkness to play with. Two hours to survey Château Dubois and search for guards before Keller would be called at 7 p.m. After that, they would use the element of surprise to gain the upper hand.

For two ex-MANIACs, home-field advantage made little difference.

While flying to Bruges, the duo had studied photographs of Dubois, blueprints of his house, and a topographical map of the terrain — all provided by Randy Raskin. He had even been willing to give them access to a live aerial feed from one of the military’s reconnaissance satellites, but they had politely refused, not wanting to bring any unnecessary attention to their operation.

Wearing dark clothes, Payne and Jones parked the van in the nearby woods and hiked a half mile to the edge of Dubois’s property. His fourteenth-century castle sat in the middle of several acres of land, most of which was overgrown with trees and bushes. In the summertime when everything was in bloom, passage would have been difficult without a machete. But in the wintry cold, the trees were bare and vegetation was at a minimum. The only thing slowing them down was the snow on the ground and their desire for stealth.

Built from red brick that had faded over the years, Château Dubois was an impressive medieval structure. Standing four storeys tall with spires that climbed even higher, the peaked roof was covered with grey tiles that appeared pale green in a certain light. Under the cover of darkness, the roof couldn’t be seen from the ground. The castle seemed to stretch from the snow-covered lawn up into the clouds, like something out of a fairytale.

It was unlike any building they had scouted before.

The château’s security system had not been activated and wouldn’t be until after ten at night. There were too many people (Dubois’s personal chef, his butler, and his cleaning staff) working inside for alarms or motion sensors. A few armed guards patrolled the outer perimeter and another was stationed at the front gate; otherwise, Dubois had very little protection. His reputation as a cold-blooded killer was what kept rivals at bay.

Fear was a far more effective deterrent than a barbed-wire fence.

Payne and Jones crept around the castle’s periphery, searching for cameras or dogs or anything that might be a threat, but the only thing they saw was the bastard who had tried to kill them. Dubois was sitting in his library, reading a book near a roaring fire. He was smaller and more civilized than Payne had imagined. For some reason, he had pictured the devil incarnate — blood dripping from his fangs, horns thrusting out of his skull. Instead, he saw a well-dressed man who resembled half the men at his charity function at the Cathedral of Learning.

Dubois looked more like a CEO than a crime lord.

However, years of training had taught Payne never to be fooled by appearances. During his time in the MANIACs, he had seen baby carriages filled with bombs and kids carrying automatic weapons. He had witnessed terrorists dressed as holy men and monks strapped with homemade explosives. He had even read a story about a war criminal getting arrested in Miami while wearing a bathing suit and flip-flops. The guy had slaughtered thousands of Jews in a Nazi concentration camp and had never been caught. Ironically, he got busted stealing a corned beef sandwich at a local delicatessen. Not surprisingly, the Jewish owner showed no sympathy and decided to press charges.

Simply put, there was no way in hell Dubois’s fancy clothes and upper-crust ways were going to conceal the type of man he was. Nor would it prevent Payne and Jones from doing what they needed to do. The truth was they weren’t there to kill Dubois in cold blood. If they had been, they could have shot him through the bay window and scurried away before they were even spotted. Instead, they were there to negotiate with Dubois. To talk some sense into him. To help him understand the error of his ways. But if he objected, and they were certain he would, they were more than willing to fight for their lives.

By 6:55 p.m. Payne was back at the van checking his equipment and going over last-minute details with Jones via a flesh-coloured earpiece concealed in his ear. Each of them knew what they needed to do, and both men were confident they would survive. Otherwise, they would have come up with a better plan.

Like Colin Farrell’s movie, neither man wanted to die in Bruges.

The call came at precisely 7:00 p.m. Payne let it ring a few times before he answered Keller’s phone. When he did, there was no pretending. He didn’t disguise his voice or claim to be someone else. For their plan to work, Dubois needed to know who he was dealing with and what they were capable of doing.

‘Hello,’ Payne said.

Dubois paused for a moment. ‘To whom am I speaking?’

‘The man you’ve been trying to kill.’

‘You’ll have to be more specific.’

Payne pressed on. ‘I take it this is Frankie Death.’

‘Please, call me François.’

‘Sure thing, Frankie.’

‘Ah, one of the Americans,’ he said smugly. ‘As crass as I had expected.’

‘Crass, yet well-informed. How’s that book you’ve been reading? You seemed pretty en grossed when I was watching you in your library. That fire looked mighty toasty.’

Dubois cleared his throat, slightly unnerved. ‘Are you watching me now? How many fingers am I holding up?’

‘I’ll answer your question if you can guess which finger I’m holding up.’

‘The vulgarity continues.’

‘What can I say? When a man tries to kill me, I get slightly pissed.’

‘Touché.’

‘So,’ Payne said, ‘what do you want? Remember, you called me.’

‘Actually, I rang Monsieur Keller, not you. But why quibble over details? Since you have his phone, I will assume you also possess his artefacts.’

‘Wow. That’s pretty impressive. Are you psychic or something?’

Dubois ignored the sarcasm. ‘If you have the items in your possession, I would love to view them. Can I interest you in a meeting?’

‘We didn’t come to Bruges for Brussels sprouts.’

‘Shall we say, my château in twenty minutes?’

‘Sorry, Frankie, my snipers are getting cold. Let’s make it your château in twenty seconds. In fact, I’m pulling up to your gate as we speak.’