Temple of the Gods

  Copyright © 2012 Andy McDermott

  The right of Andy McDermott to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2012

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  eISBN: 9780755385935

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Author

  Reviews

  Also by Andy McDermott

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1: Zimbabwe

  Chapter 2: New York City

  Chapter 3: Mozambique

  Chapter 4: New York City

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6: Tokyo

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11: Rome

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13: Maryland, USA

  Chapter 14: New York City

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18: Nevada

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21: Washington, DC

  Chapter 22: The Gulf of Cadiz

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27: New York City

  Chapter 28: Switzerland

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32: Ethiopia

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Andy McDermott was born in Halifax, West Yorkshire and now lives in Bournemouth. As a journalist and magazine editor, amongst other titles he edited DVD Review and the iconoclastic film publication Hotdog. Andy is now a full-time writer. His debut novel, The Hunt for Atlantis, has been sold in twenty-two languages to date. Temple of the Gods is Andy’s eighth novel.

  Praise for Andy McDermott:

  ‘Adventure stories don't get much more epic than this’ Daily Mirror

  ‘An all-action cracker from one of Britain’s most talented adventure writers’ Lancashire Evening Post

  ‘If Wilbur Smith and Clive Cussler collaborated, they might have come up with a thundering big adventure blockbuster like this . . . a widescreen, thrill-a-minute ride’ Peterborough Evening Telegraph

  ‘True Indiana Jones stuff with terrific pace’ Bookseller

  ‘A true blockbuster rollercoaster ride from start to finish . . . Popcorn escapism at its very best’ Crime and Publishing

  ‘A rip-roaring read and one which looks set to cement McDermott’s place in the bestsellers list for years to come’ Bolton Evening News

  ‘Fast-moving, this is a pulse-racing adventure with action right down the line’ Northern Echo

  ‘A writer of rare, almost cinematic talent. Where others’s action scenes limp along unconvincingly, his explode off the page in Technicolor’ Daily Express, Scotland

  ‘McDermott writes like Clive Cussler on speed. The action is non-stop’ Huddersfield Daily Examiner

  By Andy McDermott and available from Headline

  The Hunt for Atlantis

  The Tomb of Hercules

  The Secret of Excalibur

  The Covenant of Genesis

  The Cult of Osiris

  The Sacred Vault

  Empire of Gold

  Temple of the Gods

  For my family and friends

  Prologue

  The ocean had no name, nor did the gnarled land rising from it. There was no one to name them. In time there would be, after the scarred primordial world had completed another four billion orbits of its sun, but for now it was utterly barren. The planet could not even truly be said to be dead; it had never seen life.

  Yet.

  Had a person from that far future somehow been able to stand on the nameless obsidian sands, they would have seen a world very different from the one they knew, countless volcanoes spewing smoke and ash into the sky. This was a landscape in flux, growing literally by the day as the planet’s molten core forced itself outwards through the cracks in its crust.

  The hypothetical observer would have found their glimpses of the heavens through the black clouds just as unfamiliar as the world beneath them. Above was an almost constant fireworks display of bright lines searing across the sky. Meteors: lumps of rock and rubble too small to survive the transition from the vacuum of space, atmospheric friction incinerating the building blocks of the still youthful solar system miles above the ground.

  But the larger an incoming meteor, the greater its chance of surviving the fall.

  Among the fleeting streaks of fire was something brighter. Not a line, but a shimmering point of light, seemingly unmoving. In fact, it was travelling at over ten miles per second. Its stillness was an optical illusion – it was heading straight for the black beach like a bullet fired from the stars.

  The light flared. The rock was surrounded by a searing shockwave of plasma as it ploughed deeper into the atmosphere, its outer layers fragmenting and shedding in its wake. But it was large enough to guarantee that no matter how much mass was burned away, it would hit the ground. An impact and explosion powerful enough to obliterate everything within a radius of tens of miles should have been inevitable.

  Until something extraordinary happened.

  The meteor flared again, only this time the flash was an electric blue, not a fiery red. More flashes followed, but not from the plunging rock. They came from the sky around it, great bolts of lightning lancing to the ground. The observer, had he or she existed, would have noticed a distinct pattern to them, as if they were being channelled along lines of some natural force.

  And the rock began to slow.

  This was more than the braking effect of the atmosphere. The meteor was losing speed in almost direct proportion to the growing intensity of the lightning flashes. It was as though the world below was trying to cushion its fall . . . or push it away.

  But it was too late for that. Even as the electrical blizzard raged around it, the meteor continued its descent. Slowing, still slowing, but not enough—

  It hit the beach at several times the speed of sound, unleashing the same energy as a small nuclear bomb. A blinding flash lit the volcanic landscape, an expanding wall of fire racing out from the point of impact. Tens of thousands of tons of pulverised bedrock were blasted skywards. But even though it was now only a small fraction of the size it had been minutes earlier, the new arrival from the infinite depths of space, glowing red-hot at the bottom of the newly created crater, was still over a hundred feet across.

  Then the ocean found it.

  Water gushed over the crater’s lip, the sea greedily surging in to claim the new space. The churning wavefront crashed against the meteorite – and another explosion shook the beach, outer layers of burning rock shattering in a swelling cloud of steam as they were suddenly cooled.
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  Gradually, stillness returned. The lightning died down, dark clouds rolling in to repair the tear in their blanket. Before long, the only movement was the eternal slosh of the waves.

  What remained of the meteorite at the bottom of the new lagoon was now even smaller, only the heart of the traveller remaining intact. But for the first time in unknown ages, that core of strange, purple stone was exposed to something other than compressed rock or the harsh emptiness of space. Water, working its way into every exposed crack to find whatever was within.

  It took time, six whole days, before anything happened. Even then, the time-travelling observer would have needed a microscope to see it, and still been profoundly unimpressed. A tiny bubble, the product of chemical processes at work within the ragged rock, broke free and rose to the water’s surface, to be instantly lost amongst the foaming waves. It was not the most inspiring beginning.

  But it was a beginning.

  Life had arrived on planet Earth.

  Zimbabwe:

  Four Billion Years Later

  The heat and stench were as inescapable as the cell itself. The thick stone and clay walls of the former pioneer fort trapped warmth like a kiln, and the small, stoutly barred window providing the only ventilation opened out almost directly on to the row of latrines at one side of the prison’s central courtyard.

  Fort Helena. Hell on earth for those unfortunates imprisoned within by the country’s despotic regime.

  A bearded man sat statue-like in one dirty corner of the gloomy cell; his stillness partly because of the cloying heat, and partly because each movement brought pain. He had been delivered to the prison a day earlier, and as a welcoming gift given a beating by a group of guards before being taken to a dark room where a grinning man had provided him with a hands-on demonstration of some of the numerous instruments of torture at his disposal. Just a sample, he had been promised. A full show would soon follow.

  Someone else was in the torture chamber now, screams echoing through the passages. The guards had made a point of dragging the victim past the man’s cell so that he would hear his desperate pleas for mercy. Another sample, a demonstration. You’re next.

  A new sound, this from outside. A rising mechanical thrum – an approaching helicopter.

  The man stirred, painfully levering himself upright and going to the little window. He ignored the foul smell from the latrines, narrowing his eyes against the harsh daylight as he watched uniformed men hurry into the courtyard to form an honour guard. Behind them came the prison’s governor, a squat, toad-faced man in small gold-rimmed glasses. From his look of apprehension it was clear that the new arrival was important.

  The prisoner tensed. He knew who was aboard the helicopter.

  Someone with very good reasons to hate him.

  Dust and grit swirled as the helicopter descended. It was an elderly aircraft, a French-built Alouette III light utility chopper converted to what was known as ‘G-car’ specification by the addition of a pair of machine guns. A veteran of the civil war that led to Rhodesia’s becoming Zimbabwe in 1980 . . . now being used as VIP transport for a man who fought in that war as a youth, gaining a nickname that he retained with pride to this day.

  Gamba Boodu. ‘The Butcher.’

  A guard opened the cabin door and Boodu stepped out, head high as if daring the still whirling rotor blades above him to strike. Despite the baking temperatures, he wore a long black greatcoat over an immaculately fitted suit, the coat’s hem flapping in the downdraught as he strode across the courtyard to the governor. Sunlight glinted off gold: a large ring on the middle finger of his right hand, inset with a sparkling emerald. That same hand held an object that he swung like a walking stick, its end stabbing into the ground with each step.

  A machete, its handle decorated with lines of gold.

  The bearded man remembered the weapon well. Some years earlier, he had wrested it from the militia leader and used it against him. The result was a deep, V-shaped line of pink against the Zimbabwean’s dark skin, the scar the aftermath of a blow that had hacked clean through flesh to leave a bloody hole in his cheek like a second mouth.

  He smiled, very faintly. The injury was only a fraction of what a murderer and sadist like Boodu deserved, but among his many unpleasant characteristics was vanity: every look in the mirror would provide some punishment.

  The smile disappeared as, formalities quickly over, Boodu and the governor marched into the prison buildings. They would soon come to the cell. The man returned to his filthy corner.

  Footsteps over the screams. The wooden cover of the peephole slid back, then came the clatter and rasp of a key in the lock. The heavy door swung open. A guard entered first, pistol aimed at the still figure, who responded with nothing more than a fractional raising of his eyes. Next came the governor, broad mouth curled into a smirk, and finally Boodu himself. The machete’s tip clinked down on the stone floor.

  ‘What a pleasant surprise,’ said Boodu, his deep voice filled with gloating satisfaction. ‘Eddie Chase.’

  The balding Englishman lifted his head. ‘Ay up,’ he said in a broad Yorkshire accent. ‘How’s the face?’

  The line of the scar shifted as Boodu’s expression tightened. ‘It has healed.’

  ‘So who’d you use as your plastic surgeon? Dr Frankenstein?’

  The governor angrily clicked his fingers, and the guard booted Eddie hard in the side. He was about to deliver another blow when Boodu stopped him. ‘Leave him for me,’ the Zimbabwean rumbled. He ground the machete’s point over the floor, the sound as unpleasant as nails on a blackboard. ‘I’m going to have some fun with him.’

  Eddie clutched his aching ribs. ‘You’re throwing us a big party with cakes and jelly?’

  ‘The only thing that will be thrown is your corpse, into a pit,’ said Boodu. He rasped the blade over the flagstones again. ‘You caused me a lot of pain, Chase – professional and personal. Getting those criminals across the border made me look very bad in front of the president. It took me a long time to get back into his favour.’

  ‘Leaving the country ’cause you don’t want to have your family raped and murdered doesn’t make you a criminal.’

  Boodu snorted sarcastically. ‘If you oppose the president, you are a criminal. And my country has far too many of these criminals – this prison is full of them. They must be dealt with. Firmly.’ He paused to listen to a shriek from the torture chamber. ‘Like your friend Strutter. A dog of war, spreading sedition, arranging for mercenaries to work for criminals. Mercenaries like you, Chase.’

  ‘Not any more, mate. I had a career change.’

  ‘Yes, I heard. We do still get the international news here in Zimbabwe, even if it is filled with lies about our country. You married an American, no? I’m very sorry.’ He laughed. ‘But I also heard that you got into some trouble, hey? You are wanted for murdering an Interpol officer! I was almost tempted to turn you over to them. But then –’ he turned his face to display his mangled cheek to the prisoner – ‘I remembered that you gave me this.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ Eddie said with a sardonic grin.

  ‘It will soon be my pleasure.’ Boodu advanced, tapping the machete on the floor. He nodded to the guard. ‘Hold him.’

  Eddie was kicked again, harder than before. While the Yorkshireman gasped for breath, the guard hauled him up and shoved him against the wall.

  ‘Here,’ said Boodu, mouth somewhere between a smile and a snarl. He brought up the blade and sliced through one of Eddie’s dirty, ragged sleeves – and the skin beneath. Dark blood blossomed on the fabric.

  Eddie choked back a growl of pain. ‘You fucking cockwipe!’

  ‘When I was told you had been arrested, I had it sharpened. Just for you.’

  ‘Hope you had it sterilised too,’ said Eddie as the guard released him. ‘Wouldn’t want to catch anything.’ He examined the cut. Boodu had been right about the machete’s sharpness; the African’s sweep had only been light, but still enough to ope
n up a stinging gash in his arm.

  Boodu laughed again. ‘I’m disappointed in you, Chase. You knew you were a dead man if you ever came back to Zimbabwe – so I congratulate you on your bravery, at least – but you were a fool to be so open about it. We were watching all of Strutter’s contacts. Did you really think we had forgotten you?’ He gestured at Eddie’s face. ‘A beard! That was your disguise? Very stupid. You must have spent too long in America, with all the comforts of marriage – you forgot how the world really works.’

  ‘I didn’t forget,’ said Eddie. Boodu was about to say something else when a prison official appeared at the door and indicated that he wished to speak to the governor. The two men exchanged muttered words, eyeing Eddie suspiciously, before the militia leader went over to join in the sotto voce discussion.

  Before long, Boodu let out a sharp ‘Ha!’ and, swinging the machete almost nonchalantly, turned back to Eddie. ‘Where is it, Chase?’

  ‘Where’s what?’ Eddie replied, face a portrait of innocence.

  ‘You have a radio transmitter. My pilot picked it up, and then used the prison’s own receiver to triangulate its position. This cell.’

  The governor was already defensive. ‘We searched him when he was brought here.’

  ‘Not well enough,’ said Boodu, his look suggesting there would be repercussions for the oversight. ‘So that’s why you were so open about coming here to rescue Strutter. You thought a homing beacon would help your friends rescue you if you got into trouble.’ He shook his head. ‘Not from here, Chase. Not from Fort Helena. Now, where is it? Or will I have to cut you apart to find it?’ He raised the machete again.

  With a defeated look, Eddie unfastened his trousers. ‘Don’t get all excited, lads,’ he said as he reached into the back of his underwear and, straining in discomfort, extracted a small tubular object from where the sun didn’t shine. ‘Ow! Christ, you’ve no idea how uncomfy that was. Made my eyes water.’