The Devil's Path (An Alexander Scott Novel Book 1) Page 20

  A young red-coated Marine drummer boy beat out a steady staccato. Men ran from every corner of the ship to get her ready for battle, but Wright feared they would be too late.

  “Mister Wright, what the devil is going on?” demanded the ship’s Captain, a white-haired Scotsman still pulling on his heavy woolen dark-blue jacket.

  Wright only had time to point at the dark gray shape just visible beneath the surface of the sea as a long metal projectile shot out from the front of the submarine and raced towards the ship’s vulnerable decks below the water line. Men stood transfixed, watching the torpedo as it closed in on the ship. Barely a moment later, the deadly projectile struck home. A tall plume of water shot into the sky as a massive explosion ripped open a crippling hole deep into the hull. Flames instantly rushed through the crowded decks. The torpedo had done more than damage the ship…it had killed it. Seconds after the Scimitar was struck its powder magazine exploded. The ship seemed to vanish in the blink of an eye, completely consumed in a brilliant orange explosion that was heard for miles inland.

  The first British ship lost to enemy action in decades was a mystery and would remain so. Not a single survivor was ever pulled from the sea alive.

  Chapter 23

  Constantinople, Turkey

  With a loud shudder and protesting screech from the brakes, the long train came to a halt in the busy station.

  Quickly grabbing their few possessions, Scott, Kate, Gray, and Thomas made sure they were among the last passengers off the train. Stepping off, they joined the stream of people making their way from the train. The rich smell of exotic spices and the loud hustle and bustle of people filled the air. The station was packed with excited travelers coming into the capital to sell their wares or to visit family. Soon they saw a wall of merchants enthusiastically waiting outside trying to sell them their goods, all of which made it easy for them to move with the tide of people leaving the station and disappear from view.

  Once away from the platform, Scott and Kate were almost mobbed by several merchants who stepped out from a side street desperate to make a sale. Everything from gold to rugs, to ornate hand-carved African ivory was enthusiastically thrust into their faces. Trying his best to ignore them, Scott looked for the cheapest and most-unremarkable carriage he could hire. Pushing his way past the vendors, Scott saw an open carriage that looked like it was in need of repair. The driver wore a red fez. His jacket looked like it had been a uniform at one time, but now barely fit the man’s bulging stomach. With a wide smile displaying his tobacco-stained teeth, the driver - in broken English - offered to take them wherever they wanted to go, ‘for a reasonable rate.’

  Scott asked the man to take them to the Greek part of the city.

  With a nod of his fez, everyone piled aboard. The driver cracked his whip. The carriage creaked and moaned under the weight as it pulled away from the station and then headed down into the narrow streets of Constantinople.

  Kate sat beside Scott, her eyes moving from one ornate mosque to the next. The city seemed filled with mosques. Some new, many as old as the medieval churches she had seen in Europe. The streets were crowded with people, more so than in London or Paris. The driver, named Sarik, was busy yelling at anyone who got in his way. It all seemed like an act to Scott, but he didn’t care as long as they made it to where they were going without any hassle.

  An hour later, the driver turned and looked over at Scott and said they were there.

  The suburb they found themselves in looked very much like Rhodes; several newer mosques with their towering minarets had been built up in areas that had once been predominately European. Scott could make out Greek and Turkish voices filling the air.

  After their recent encounters, Scott had decided that they would take a more cautious approach to finding Father Vasilliou. With every possible connection to Kate’s father covered by enemy agents, it would be smarter and safer if they tried something different this time.

  Sarik stopped in front of a French-looking café. The sign hanging above the door read Le Soliel d’Austerlitz, the sun of Austerlitz, a passing reference to one of Napoleon’s greatest battles.

  “The owner is a friend. He can give you rooms, very cheap,” said Sarik, puffing on a dark, noxious-smelling cigar.

  Scott told everyone to stay with the carriage while he took a quick look inside. Pushing the door open, Scott stepped inside, the smell of coarse tobacco and body odor assaulting his nose.

  An obese, black-haired man with a salt-and-pepper goatee strode towards Scott. “Good day, sir,” said the man. “My name is Joseph Soult, is there anything, in particular, that you are looking for?”

  Scott looked carefully at Soult. Something about him seemed off. He looked like a business proprietor, but his gut told him to be careful.

  “I would like three rooms if you have them available,” said Scott in French.

  “Monsieur, of course, I have three rooms and may I say that your French is impeccable. I thought you were a simple traveler,” said Soult, eyeing Scott.

  “For a few more gold sovereign when we depart, I would like you to continue to think that way,” said Scott with a look that made it clear that he wanted to be left alone.

  “But of course monsieur, discretion is key in my business,” said Soult with a shrug of his large shoulders.

  A few minutes later—after tipping their driver and arranging to meet him again tomorrow—Scott, Kate, Gray, and Thomas met in Scott’s room upstairs. Shaw outlined his plan to find Father Vasilliou. In the morning, he would meet Sarik and then together on foot they would make their way to the Church of Saint Constantine and try to meet with the father while Kate remained in the café under the watchful guard of Gray and Thomas. Kate tried to object, but Scott cut her off. He was certain that the church would be watched. If he failed, then only he was lost. After that, it would be up to Kate to decide what to do next.

  After their meeting had ended, Scott walked Kate to her room, adjacent to the men’s rooms.

  “I don’t want you to go on your own tomorrow,” protested Kate. “Take Thomas with you at least.”

  “No,” Scott replied firmly. “I need them both here to make sure nothing happens to you. Don’t forget, it’s you they want not me.”

  “I just don’t like this. We haven’t been apart since you saved my life onboard the steamship.”

  Scott took Kate’s hands. “Don’t worry, I won’t be gone long. Besides, I’m counting on you to get me out of any trouble, should I stir any up.”

  “And what do you think the chances are that you will stir any up?”

  “I’d say pretty good,” replied Scott, a roguish grin on his face.

  Early next morning, after a hearty breakfast of coffee, breads, jams and smoked meats in a private room, Scott gave strict orders to Gray and Thomas to keep an eye on Kate until he returned. With a quick kiss on her hand, Shaw left Kate inside the café and stepped outside. On time, Sarik was standing there, a smirk on his unshaven face. He had changed out of his ill-fitting uniform and into more loose-fitting traditional Turkish clothing. He had a shirt and vest for Scott to wear as well.

  Scott handed Sarik a small coin purse. “Half now…half once we safely return to the café,” said Scott.

  Taking the heavy bag in his hand, a smile emerged, showing Sarik’s yellowed teeth. “Sir, I am offended. I will treat you like my own brother. Nothing will happen to you when you are with me,” said Sarik, feigning at being hurt.

  “And how is your brother?” asked Scott.

  “Dead,” Sarik replied with a wink.

  Scott shook his head and followed Sarik down a side alley filled with street merchants noisily hocking their wares. After a half hour ducking in and out of side streets, Sarik turned to Scott and pointed to an old stone church at the end of the street. “The Church of Saint Constantine,” said Sarik, staring warily at the medieval style church.

  Scott saw the look in Sarik’s eyes, and wondered if something was amiss. Stepping
out from behind a cart, Scott looked down the narrow cobblestone street towards the church. The hair on the back of his neck was standing up. He could not see anything out of the ordinary, but his instincts told him otherwise.

  Sarik slid in beside Scott; his breath smelt like raw onions and garlic. “Do you see, sir?” said Sarik.

  “No, what is it?”

  “Down there at the end of the street beside the church,” Sarik said, pointing at two men in dark-blue uniforms wearing red fezzes on their heads. “Those are Turkish Army Regulars. Why are soldiers guarding a Christian church?”

  Scott smiled; Sarik had noticed something he doubted he would have. “So what do you suggest?”

  “We go around and come in the back door, if it is not being watched,” said Sarik as he tugged on Scott’s arm, pulling him back out of sight.

  After several minutes negotiating the maze of back alleys, Sarik stopped and silently pointed to the back of the church; the door was ajar.

  Scott was about to tell him to stay where he was, when Sarik pulled out a revolver and then cautiously made his way towards the open door.

  With his pistol in his hand, Scott followed in behind Sarik.

  Voices in Greek rose from inside the Church.

  Sarik turned and looked at Scott. “Someone in there is interrogating the father. They don’t seem to be very happy with him,” Sarik said barely above a whisper.

  “Ok then, you stay here,” said Scott. “I’m going inside to see what’s going on. I need Father Vasilliou alive.”

  “Whatever you say, sir,” said Sarik with a mock salute.

  With that, Scott hunched over and then made his way inside the open door. Inside, the church was lit by sunlight streaming in from the stained-glass windows all along the side of the building.

  The sound of the voices rose. Scott heard the distinct sound of a pistol’s hammer pulling back.

  His stomach tied in a knot…he had to do something to help the Father. Standing up, Scott advanced, his pistol held out in front of him. Turning a corner, Scott saw three men. One held a priest, while another taunted him with a pistol jammed into his face. Another stood off to the side watching. Without hesitating, Scott first shot the man with the pistol aimed at the priest. Blood from the man’s shattered skull flew onto his compatriot. Scott fired once more, his bullet striking the man holding the priest square in the middle of his skull. His body fell to the stone floor of the church. The stunned priest stood there shaking in fright. Dropping to one knee, Scott turned his pistol on the third man, who had barely gotten his hand into his jacket to pull out his pistol, when Scott fired. His body jerked backwards as his lifeless form fell over a pew, sprawling down onto the floor. Scott took a deep breath. He was about to move towards the priest when he heard the hammer of a pistol being cocked inches away from the back of his head.

  “Drop your pistol, Mister Scott, or I will kill you,” said a voice with an American accent.

  Scott cursed himself for missing a fourth assailant. Shaking his head, he did as he was told.

  “Now turn about slowly,” said the man behind Scott.

  Scott turned and looked into the face of a man he did not recognize. He had short brown hair, and a dark patch that covered his left eye.

  “They said you were good,” said the man waving his pistol at Scott’s chest. “Next time though check behind you when you enter a building.”

  “I’ll do that,” said Scott. “Since you seem to know who I am would you mind telling me who you are and what is going on here?”

  “Me, I’m just someone that certain folks thought could be useful,” said the man. “You should really give a thought to joining us. I could put in a good word for you. They could use a resourceful man like you.”

  “It’ll be a cold day in hell before I team up with murderous scum like you, and just who the hell are you talking about anyway?”

  “That my friend is something that you’re not going to learn about today,” said the man, taking aim at Scott’s heart. “Now where is the girl?”

  “Go to hell,” snarled Scott.

  “Tell me and I’ll kill you quickly. If not, I’ll make you beg me to kill you,” said the man coldly.

  “You heard my answer,” Scott said defiantly, expecting to die at any second.

  “Be an ass. Time to die painfully,” the killer said, lowering his aim at Scott’s crotch. A crooked smile on his face.

  A shot split the air, echoing loudly inside the church.

  Scott instinctively flinched, expecting death. Instead, the thug stood there for a brief second with his eyes wide, and his mouth slack. With a loud smack, his body fell face first onto the dusty stone floor.

  Sarik stepped out of the shadows, his pistol clenched in his hands. “I still need to get paid,” said Sarik with a smile as he walked over to the dead man. A smile broke on his wide face when he pulled out a wallet stuffed with bills from the dead man’s jacket. Kissing the wallet, he pocketed it away for safekeeping.

  A loud crash from the front of the church made Scott and Sarik turn. In rushed the two men dressed as Turkish soldiers, rifles in their hands.

  Turning, Scott fired off two shots, killing the closest man. The second never had a chance. Sarik fired once, hitting the man square in his chest. Scott shook his head wondering who Sarik really was and whom he worked for. He wasn’t a simple coach driver; that much was certain.

  Placing his pistol in his belt, Scott walked over beside Father Vasilliou. The man looked to be in his seventies. A long white beard flowed down his chin onto his black vestments. His face was bruised. They had arrived just in time. Scott had no doubt that the priest’s attackers would have beaten him mercilessly until they got whatever they were after and then killed him anyway.

  “Come with us, Father, it’s not safe here,” said Scott in English, not thinking.

  The priest shook his head. Sarik quickly translated into Greek.

  Scott led the way to the back door. Peering out, he saw that the alleyway was empty. Sarik barged past Scott, let out a piercing whistle and then waited. A moment later, a man in his early twenties with short black curly hair stepped out from behind an abandoned cart. With a smile, the man walked towards Sarik. Scott could see the family resemblance; the man was undoubtedly Sarik’s son. After hugging his father, the young man rattled off some news in Turkish, which Scott could not follow.

  Sarik turned and saw the look on Scott’s face. “He is my son. His name is Sarik as well,” said Sarik, beaming proudly. “He says that the way is safe back here. There was a man who followed us, but he has been dealt with.”

  Scott simply nodded his head with Father Vasilliou tucked in behind Sarik and his son. The route back to the cafe was even more convoluted than before. Scott was sure that if he ever became separated from Sarik, he would be lost in the seemingly endless maze of backstreets for the rest of his life.

  After an hour of walking, they came out of a side street right next to the café. Scott was relieved to see the entrance to the cafe. He was not surprised to see the owner, Soult, emerge from the café, walk over and shake Sarik’s hand, nor was he taken aback when Soult gave Sarik a large coin purse.

  “Don’t be alarmed, Mister Scott,” said Soult, seeing the distrusting look in Scott’s eyes. “Nothing is as it seems in Constantinople. Sarik is one of my most-trusted employees. You don’t think it was a coincidence that he brought you here to my establishment, do you?”

  “I am not sure what to think,” replied Scott. “Where are Kate and the others?”

  “Safe and sound just as you left them,” said Soult. “It would not be good for business if my customers disappeared.”

  “And what business would that be?”

  “Please come inside and we can talk in private,” said Soult, looking around suspiciously. “My men will look after the Father until he is needed.”

  With that, Scott followed Soult inside. Together they sat down at a small corner table. Two glasses of brandy were quic
kly brought over. It was then that Scott noticed that all of Soult’s employees looked to be in their mid-twenties, and even though they hid it well, they were all armed.

  Scott placed his hand on his pistol and slowly drew it under the table. He was beginning to wonder if they had escaped the proverbial frying pan only to land in the fire.

  “There is no need for that,” said Soult bluntly.

  “For what?”

  “For your pistol, you do not need it. I mean you no harm.”

  “You saw that?” said Scott, thinking he had the drop on the man.

  “I have learned to stay alive over the years, and your eyes betrayed you. For a split second, you looked down.”

  “How do I know that I can trust you?” said Scott, not sure what to believe.

  Soult smiled and offered his hand. “Captain Joseph Soult formerly of the French Imperial Guard now just a humble employee of the French Government. Your battle at sea is the talk of the town. Word travels fast in this part of the world Mister Scott. I hired Sarik to hang out at the main train station and look for people who looked out of place and voila…here you are.”

  “If you hadn’t, I suspect that we would all be dead by now, I thank you for that,” said Scott, shaking Soult’s hand.

  “Mister Scott, your country currently has no interest in this part of the world, but France does. We keep a close eye in the crumbling Ottoman Empire and an even closer eye on the Russians, who love to acquire territory at the Ottoman’s expense.”

  Leaving out the Grail, Scott decided to tell Soult everything that had happened to them from the time he met Kate until today.

  Soult sat there quietly listening to Scott. He seemed nonplussed by the encounters Scott and his party had had during their search for Kate’s father.

  “That would explain your little foray to the Church of Saint Constantine and your interest in Father Vasilliou,” said Soult. “Mister Scott, I must admit that I have not been fully open with you.”

  “How so?”