The Illuminati Sanctum (The Relic Hunters 6) by David Leadbeater (best mobile ebook reader .txt) 📕

Might as well be Giselle Van Santen.

CHAPTER TWO

The next afternoon, Giselle straightened at her desk and rolled her shoulders to work out the kinks. “I have completed the first passport for each of you,” she told them. “I will now start work on the second. Tonight, I will deposit your monies into accessible accounts and organize bank cards to be sent to the safehouse we’ve organized in Europe. After your initial... exposure... it will all be up to you.”

Bodie walked over to her, peering at the computer screen. “This is the identity I’m using to get seen.”

Giselle nodded. “Once you’re identified you won’t have long.”

They had decided to create an initial smoke-screen, a few days of sightings in different countries. Hence, two new identities for each of them, and trips to Amsterdam, Moscow, Rome and Montenegro to name but a few. Hopefully, the authorities would be too busy chasing their ghosts in those first few days to track them to the country in which they would ultimately evaporate.

Forever.

“The false flags are a good idea,” Giselle said. “But extremely risky. If just one of you gets caught...”

She didn’t have to finish. Bodie knew the risks. “We won’t,” he said. “They won’t see us coming, providing you’re as good as you say you are, and they won’t see us leave.”

“You’re that good?”

“Hey,” Cassidy drawled. “You got the relic hunters right in front of you. Born searching for treasure: We never eat and never stop until the job is done.”

“I was born in London,” Bodie said, his face glum, “and I know half the underworld around here. The hard part for me will be getting out of the UK unseen.”

“You mentioned you still keep in contact with a few people?” Jemma asked.

“Yeah, I keep it quiet,” Bodie said, a little embarrassed. “It’s sentimental. You know me. Always wanting to reconnect with the best times of my past.” He didn’t elaborate and no one took it any further.

“You should be okay to leave by tomorrow afternoon,” Giselle said. “But you can stay as long as you wish to make your departure less obvious. I suggest the ferry.”

Bodie knew it was time to divide up their upcoming false-flag missions. They gathered around the kitchen table and found themselves staring at each other with some trepidation.

“This is it then,” Bodie said. “We get seen in these places, we make sure we’re chased, and then we get away. After that, we’re free. It’s one last mission.”

Cassidy gave him a melancholy stare. “To one last mission.”

“And me.” Jemma raised a bottle of mineral water. All five of them copied, clicking the plastic together. It was an odd and poignant moment. But it was definitive. The place they were ultimately headed to offered no chance of living the relic hunter lifestyle. This was the end of an era, the start of a new chapter.

“To tomorrow,” Bodie said.

“To tomorrow,” they answered.

The weight of everything they were leaving behind, everything they’d accomplished, hung heavy over their heads. But there was no turning back. Not unless they wanted to live a life of servitude for the CIA.

“A new life with old friends,” Cassidy said. “And may our futures be as bright as some of the loot we’ve found.”

Bodie caught Yasmine’s eye. “How’s Miki doing?”

“All done. The ghostlines are in place.”

“And so is the ranch,” he said. “Fortune willing, we’ll reunite in a few days there, ready for the rest of our lives.” The simple fact that their plans relied on them risking everything and that he might never see these people again after tomorrow weighed heavily on him.

Judging by their own moods the rest of the night, they all felt the same way.

*

Bodie strode across a bridge, along Stationsplein, heading toward the heart of Amsterdam. There was no ingenious strategy to this trip, no perfect blueprint devised by Jemma, but in his backpack he carried several items that should—hopefully—allow him to melt into the crowds that flocked to the canal-heavy, capital city of the Netherlands.

Crowds are key, he thought. To make the false-flags work, they had to be seen and they had to subsequently escape.

Turning on to the Martelaarsgracht, he stopped for a coffee and a muffin at the Café Karpershoek before moving on. It was relatively early in the day for crowds—only 11:00 a.m., and the January wind outside was sharper than a sickle, scything its way across the North Sea. The café was richly lit, rows of lightbulbs stretched above the counter and a pastry case of local delicacies, all topped with cream and strawberries. As he sat draining his tall glass of coffee Bodie saw several groups drifting in and asking for pints of beer. The day’s revelry was already starting.

Outside again, he tugged up the collar of his jacket to protect his neck from a cold squall and kept his head down. The streets were filling, but not nearly enough for his plan. Not yet.

Midday passed and he crossed over another canal. Bicycles flew left and right along the roads, more likely to hurt and maim than the heavier cars because their riders didn’t appear to care about near-misses or collisions. Bodie saw more than one pedestrian knocked off his feet in the short time that he strolled.

Two hours later, he crossed a tree-lined street and approached another arched bridge, this one lined by bicycles locked to the railings. The skies were dark enough for the streetlights to light up, and golden glows emanated across the rippling waters to either side. Bodie saw a police car parked to one side of the road; two officers standing beside it, smoking. Wanting this to be over, he passed right by them, letting them see his face. They didn’t react. Bodie altered his tactics, and stood in full view of