heard the words, “Forgive me,” but too late registered that the monk’s bony hand was no longer tied to the rack. It had slipped free from the wet ropes, and in a movement quicker than Kimbaba thought possible, the monk had grabbed the heavy silver cross from the floor beside him.
The metal glinted as the cross arced through the air.
Grunting with surprise, Kimbaba tried to kick it out of the guardian’s hand. But the old man was too fast. Kimbaba’s foot failed to connect, and before he could aim another kick, the guardian had punched himself hard in his dripping emaciated chest.
The bony body arched and went rigid as the cross’s sharpened metal point slammed through the weak thoracic muscles and embedded itself deep into his heart. Before Kimbaba could react, the monk had slumped back onto the floor, his eyes still and lifeless, a pool of crimson blood flowing over his punctured chest and down onto the warm tiles.
Kimbaba cursed loudly, kicking the rack with the dead man still lashed to it, sending it skidding across the wet floor.
Aged six, he had seen his first murdered body in the nameless slum where he grew up. Aged eight, he had gunned down his first man in the foetid backstreets of Kinshasa. Since then, he had killed so many and so often he did not even dream about their faces any more.
He cared nothing for the monk’s early death—but the old man’s inability to talk any more was a complication he had not planned on.
“Find it!” he bellowed with rage at the sweat-sheened men standing around staring at the dead monk.
They spread out immediately, and began expertly ransacking the room.
Masolo stripped the altar. Another turned over the monk’s mattress and blankets, scattering his few simple effects.
It was soon clear there was nothing there.
The room was largely empty.
“Rip it all down,” Kimbaba shouted, indicating the heavily embroidered curtains and gilded hangings adorning the walls, his frustration boiling over. “It’s here.”
As the men began tearing the heavy dusty materials off the walls, Masolo grabbed a silk hanging behind the altar. The fabric’s once glistening colours had faded, leaving it dulled with dust and grime, but it was still an impressive cloth, depicting rows of stylized figures in lavish Ethiopian church clothing.
As the heavy silk crumpled to the floor, it revealed a large niche it had been covering in the wall. Eyeing it carefully, Masolo quickly spotted a small latch in the shadows. Pressing it, an almost invisible narrow door clicked open.
“Here!” he shouted, pushing the door wide open to reveal a small staircase lit by the glow of candles.
Kimbaba elbowed impatiently past him, leaving Masolo and the others to follow down the age-smoothed stone stairs.
At the bottom, Kimbaba finally saw what they had come for.
It stood in the centre of the windowless stone crypt.
Around it, the guardian had banked up hundreds of guttering white candles and dozens of varied antique oil lamps. The flickering lights danced in thousands of reflections on its uneven gold surface, throwing eerie patterns onto the gold-threaded hangings covering every inch of the walls.
As Kimbaba took in the sight, his eyes began to sting. The air was cloudy, thick with the bitter-sweet fumes of burning frankincense and oud from four ornate braziers, one on each side of the object.
Kimbaba turned and nodded to his men.
They knew what to do.
Working clumsily, they quickly set about clearing a path to their prize. With no method, they haphazardly shunted the candles and lamps out of the way, spilling hot wax and warm oil onto the patchwork of threadbare carpets. Almost immediately, the air became thicker and more pungent as the acrid wisps of smoke from the greasy snuffed candles mixed with the heady incense.
Once the object was exposed, Kimbaba could see it had carrying poles at the base on both sides. He gestured for the four men to take a pole each and follow him.
Striding for the stairs, he had no idea who may have been alerted by the C-4 explosions. Now he had what he came for, he wanted to get out as quickly as possible.
The strain showed on the men’s faces as they lifted the object. It was made of thick wood, with hammered gold covering every inch of its surface. Two gold statues on the lid only added to the dead weight.
With a supreme effort, they carried their prize up the stairs and out into the breaking daylight, their bodies gleaming with fresh sweat, straining under the load.
Kimbaba bolted the building’s heavy wooden doors shut, as the men carefully loaded their new possession into the lead Land Cruiser, covering it with a grimy tarpaulin to shield it from view.
Kimbaba slammed the tailgate shut, and the men climbed quickly into the two vehicles, before speeding out of town to the rendezvous at the airfield.
Inside the crypt, a knocked-over candle connected with a gathering slick of oil from an upturned lamp. The flames rapidly took hold, dancing their way across the floor, licking up a cocktail of oil and dry carpet.
Chapter 2