The Logos Code: The Dark Horizon Trilogy, #3

By Duncan Simpson

In the beginning was the Logos …

When a respected Freemason is executed in a mysterious Templar cave, the police turn to antiquities investigator Vincent Blake for assistance. What was the Freemason protecting? And who would kill him for it?

After a second Freemason is murdered, Blake discovers a coded letter written by London's genius architect Christopher Wren that sets him on a collision course with a sinister enemy who will stop at nothing to achieve their diabolical goal.

In a frantic battle against time, can Blake and an unlikely ally crack Wren's "Logos" code before his ruthless adversary unleashes hell on earth?

In this final instalment of the Dark Horizon Trilogy, Blake's greatest discovery becomes the world's greatest threat, as the future of all things hangs in the balance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Whitefort Publishing
• Release date: Sep 17, 2018
• ISBN: 9780993206382

Book preview

Prologue

Nasiriyah, 215 miles south-east of Baghdad, Iraq

Fifteen Years Ago

Enoch Hart narrowed his eyes against the sun and followed the black smoke as it mushroomed up into the sky. Smoking shreds of blackened paper drifted across his vision like confetti. The air was as hot as a furnace, and the clawing stench of war filled his nostrils. He rubbed his mouth and felt his lips crack in the dry, unrelenting heat.

The three surviving members of the SAS team were huddled behind a burned-out Toyota pickup truck in the middle of a heavily shelled road on the outskirts of Nasiriyah. On both sides of the road lay ruined buildings. Shop fronts had been reduced to crumbling shells of exposed brickwork and shattered masonry.

The mission had been simple but not easy: take out an insurgent-held communications centre and then get to the extraction point before the enemy knew what hit them. Taking out the target had gone like clockwork. However, due to faulty intelligence concerning the strength of enemy numbers, their escape was now spinning out of control. The hornet’s nest had been truly kicked, and all hell was breaking loose around them.

Disguised in Arab dress, the elite soldiers of 22 SAS Regiment reloaded their weapons and assessed their dwindling options under the blazing Iraqi sun. Less than forty-eight hours ago, they had been training in the famous ‘Killing House’ facility at SAS headquarters in leafy Herefordshire, England. Now, they were breathing in the choking dust of an Iraqi war zone.

‘Got to get off this bloody road!’ shouted Hart to the two other men as he racked the cocking bolt of his weapon.

On the opposite side of the street, the barrel of a machine gun edged out and right-angled itself around the corner of a wall. It let off a ragged burst of gunfire. A flurry of bullets zipped overhead and thudded into a wall on the other side of the road.

‘Any ideas?’ cried the squad leader as he adjusted his dark wraparound sunglasses.

Hart rubbed his dripping neck and motioned to a large building fifty feet down the road. ‘Over there. We might be able to bust out the back.’

Resting the barrel of his weapon against the truck, the third SAS man in the group followed Hart’s line of vision down the optical sight of his machine gun. With the side of his bearded face still snug against the weapon, he concurred with Hart’s proposal. ‘Looks like it’s our only play.’

It was a crapshoot, but if they didn’t move soon, they would be all out of options.

‘Okay,’ called out the squad leader while risking a glance over the roof of the truck. Through the shimmering reflection of the asphalt road ahead, he could make out movement. ‘Hostiles, maybe a dozen, at least one heavy machine—’ His voice was drowned out by the ripping blast of a sniper rifle fired from high on the building opposite.

Hart felt something splatter against his cheek. He whirled around to see his comrade crumple to the ground. Blood bubbled up from behind a smoking bullet hole in the squad leader’s sunglasses. It quickly pooled around his head in a crimson halo. Hart was immediately on his knees assessing the injury, but it was hopeless. The sniper round had torn through the soldier’s head.

Hart and the other SAS man locked eyes, and a steely determination grew in their faces. Together, they mouthed a hurried countdown and then bolted in the direction of the building. A fraction of a second later, the place erupted in gunfire. Bullets tore effortlessly through the side of the truck, punching lines of holes into the metal panelling. Searing rounds whizzed and zipped around them as bursts of gunfire cut through the air.

The two SAS men returned fire as they ran, the rat-a-tat of their weapons deafening in their ears. Out of the corner of his eye, Hart glimpsed shapes closing in on the pickup truck behind them. He gritted his teeth and willed himself forwards. They were now only twenty feet away. His chest burned as his feet scrambled over the loose terrain towards the building.

Fifteen feet.

Raking gunfire churned up the dust all around their feet as they ran.

Ten.

They vaulted over the low wall surrounding the building.

Five.

Almost there.

Skidding to a stop, the two men simultaneously grabbed for the door handle.

Then, a muzzle flashed from the opposite side of the road. A boom echoed off the surrounding buildings, and Hart heard the sickening sound of shattering bone feet away from him. An instant later blood misted the door. Hart’s comrade collapsed to the ground. His legs kicked out with a violent spasm before his body went slack. Another loud shot and a bullet whizzed past Hart’s cheek. It drilled a hole through the wooden doorframe in an explosion of splinters.

Hart turned and aimed his weapon wildly at the invisible enemy. Before he could get a round off, he felt the searing punch of a bullet cut across the top of his left arm. He was a sitting duck. Pain spiked through him as he tore open the door. Almost falling through, he slammed it shut and locked the bolt behind him. With dread spilling through him, Hart scrambled away from the door.

For an instant there was silence, and then came an explosion of sound. Bullet holes riddled the door, sending pencils of light in random directions. As Hart fell to the ground for cover, pain lashed along his left side. Desperately, he felt the shredded material of his jacket. His fingertips came away stained red. Cursing, he raised himself onto his elbow and craned his head to the roof. In the gloom, his eyes slowly adjusted to his new surroundings. He was momentarily puzzled. Unlike its bare exterior, the inside of the building was elaborately adorned with gold and blue paint. A striking fresco of a man’s face stared down from the roof. It looked like the face of a religious icon. Was this a church?

The sound of raking gunfire tearing into the fabric of the building snapped him back to his senses. There was no back door or rear window. He was trapped. He shook the pain from his head and quickly reloaded his weapon.

Moving closer to one of the simple windows at the front, Hart snatched a glance outside, trying to evaluate the positions of the enemy. Almost instantly he shrank away from the window at what met his eyes. Close to the pickup truck, an insurgent heaved a rocket-propelled grenade launcher onto his shoulder. Panic raced through Hart’s body as he clocked the weapon and frantically scrambled over to the opposite wall.

His eyes darted around the room and landed on a small piece of carpet in the centre of the floor. One of its corners was folded over to reveal the edge of a brass grille set flush into the floor tiles. Hart dashed over and tore back the mat to reveal the grille underneath. He could see steps leading down into a basement. Using his weapon as a lever, he worked it open and slid it to one side.

As he lowered himself through the hole, his world erupted in a storm of flying brick. A rolling shockwave of rubble, smoke and flame threw Hart forward down the steps. He tumbled downwards, his vision exploding in white light as his body slammed against the hard edge of the steps. He came to rest face up in a cloud of floating dust, his arm unnaturally twisted up under his back.

Slowly he blinked his eyes open. For a moment, everything skewed in his vision, with shapes blurring in and out of view. He heard the echo of a disembodied voice and saw a swirling confusion of forms around him. Then a hazy silhouette materialised from the mist. It was a man. Hart felt himself drifting away, as he strained to focus on the outline of the figure bearing down on him. The man wore a white robe, like a monk.

Part One

Mark 11:27-30 New International Version (NIV)

They arrived again in Jerusalem, and while Jesus was walking in the temple courts, the chief priests, the teachers of the law and the elders came to him. By what authority are you doing these things? they asked. And who gave you authority to do this? Jesus replied, I will ask you one question. Answer me, and I will tell you by what authority I am doing these things. John’s baptism - was it from heaven, or of human origin? Tell me!

One

London England

Present Day

---

A full moon hung heavy in the sky, casting a ghostly pale light across the front facade of St Anne’s Church, Limehouse. Designed by Christopher Wren’s troubled apprentice, Nicholas Hawksmoor, in 1727, St Anne’s stood like a brooding white fortress. Striking in profile, the church projected a strange almost threatening aura that penetrated the thick, humid night air hanging over the East End of London.

Five figures hurried silently across the graveyard, weaving a path through the pallid gravestones to the strange stone pyramid standing at its centre. The Apprentice looked up at the fifteen-foot curiosity and felt its powerful presence dominate his senses. Each face of the pyramid was divided into five carved panels, onto which was chiselled a series of arcane symbols and letters. The Teacher ushered the Apprentice closer to the bizarre object.

‘Your initiation is almost complete,’ said the shadowy figure. ‘Now it is time for you to understand your true purpose. The pyramid was left to us by Nicholas Hawksmoor, an earthly ambassador of the Dark King,’ he said reverently. ‘The writings carved into the stone are the true telling of the books of Genesis and Revelation; how the Heavens and the Earth were created and how the End of Days will come to pass. Come closer. The inscriptions become easier to see in the moonlight.’

The Teacher pointed up to the lettering on the pyramid side closest to them. The top panel was inscribed with ‘The Logos.’ Carved into the panels beneath were lines of Hebrew lettering and a myriad of occult symbols.

‘This side tells of the Creation. It is written in their Bible, that God spoke the spell of the Logos and brought all of creation into being. From the very beginning, God wanted total control, to imprison existence in a cage of His own will. First he commanded Heaven into being; a place of perfect conformity, His rigid symmetry cancelling out all inconsistency. Then He created the Cosmos and the Earth to His exact design.

‘Then from the void, the Dark King compelled himself into existence; a glorious aberration in the fabric of Heaven. The Dark King’s power grew rapidly, sending out a wave of instability throughout God’s creation, threatening to shatter its very structure. Angered by the opposition to His will, God expelled the Dark King from Heaven, throwing him to the Earth in a lightning bolt.’

The gaze of the Apprentice zigzagged down the lightning symbol carved faintly into the stone.

‘We are all children of that expulsion,’ said the Teacher earnestly while laying a heavy hand on the Apprentice’s shoulder. ‘But before the Dark King was cast out, he created a backdoor in the foundations of Heaven that would allow for his return. Once back on his rightful throne, the Dark King will demolish God’s order and bring Heaven and the world under his dominion.’

The Apprentice felt his breathing quicken. ‘But how?’

‘Through the Logos Stone and the Rod of Aaron,’ instructed the Teacher.

The Apprentice’s expression tightened with concentration.

‘The Logos Stone contains the key to the backdoor, and the Rod creates a connection between the Heaven and Earth that will allow the Dark King to return from exile. Once we have found these two relics, the Dark King will take his throne and we will sit at his right hand.’

‘Where are the relics?’ the Apprentice asked eagerly.

‘They are here in London,’ answered the Teacher slowly.

‘How do you know?’

‘Because the Dark King has returned to claim them.’

Two

‘You’re going to be late,’ shouted Vincent Blake as he rolled his eyes to the ceiling. Sarah, Blake’s thirteen-year-old daughter, rumbled down the stairs, dragging a rucksack behind her. She skidded to a halt next to her dad by the open front door.

‘Got everything?’ he asked.

Her nose crinkled as she remembered. ‘Noorjehan’s makeup mirror.’

‘It’s in my pocket,’ he said reassuringly. ‘You left it on the kitchen table.’

‘Thanks.’

‘So, there are boys at this camp, right?’

‘Dad!’ Sarah protested, her large almond eyes displaying a pained expression.

‘Ready?’

‘Ready.’ Sarah picked up the car keys from the soap dish by the door and tossed them to her father.

Blake grabbed them out of the air and ushered Sarah outside. After locking the front door, they hurried towards the red Alfa Romeo 155 parked on the other side of the road. He patted his newly repaired car like an old family pet. The roof panel gleamed in the morning sunlight. It looked as good as new. Blake unlocked the car and threw the rucksack into the back before settling into the driver’s seat.

‘Don’t forget the sun cream. It looks like it’s going to be a hot week.’

‘Dad, stop fretting,’ said Sarah as she fastened her seatbelt. ‘Can we please go? The coach leaves in fifteen minutes.’

Blake shot his daughter a faint smile. ‘Yes, madam, your driver awaits.’ He twisted the key. There was a grinding noise, but the engine didn’t catch. He tried it again, this time applying more pressure to the accelerator. The same laboured noise hacked back from beneath the hood. Sarah threw her dad a long sideways glance. Blake gripped his hand tightly around the steering wheel and straightened up in his seat. ‘Come on,’ he said, turning the key for a third time. The engine coughed a couple of times and finally shuddered into life. Blake pumped the gas pedal and the engine roared.

‘Classic cars can be a bit temperamental,’ he said over the throaty sound of the exhaust. A smile lifted the corners of Sarah’s mouth as sheer relief unstiffened her muscles. Blake dumped the clutch and they sped off down the street.

The traffic in central London was always unpredictable, but a broken-down delivery van on Clerkenwell Road slowed their progress to the school drop-off. Sarah’s face tightened again as an anxious text message arrived on her phone. It was from her friend Noorjehan, who was reserving the seat next to her on the coach. By the tone of her latest message, Noorjehan was now concerned by the growing possibility of the bus leaving for the week-long summer camp without her friend.

‘Dad, we’re going to miss it.’

Blake restlessly tapped his hands on the steering wheel, as his eyes flicked to the wing mirror. The traffic was rammed. ‘Not if I can help it,’ he said through gritted teeth. Drawing the horns of several cars, Blake edged the Alfa out of the lumbering line of vehicles and into the central reservation. He threaded the car through the gap and forced his way into a side alley. Soon the Alfa was on its way again, moving quickly through the back streets.

Ten minutes later than the scheduled departure time, Blake swung the Alfa into the school entrance. A private hire coach was in the middle of the car park, its front pointing towards the exit and the hatch of its cavernous baggage compartment still open. Blake found the only available parking space and turned off the ignition key.

The car’s engine died with a judder. It wasn’t long before he noticed the irritated faces of the other parents standing next to their cars. A worried-looking lady, who Blake recognised as Sarah’s Geography teacher, was standing by the door of the coach and holding a clipboard between her crossed arms and her chest. She fixed Blake with a stare as he pushed the car door open.

‘Now for the walk of shame.’ He felt eyes on him as he retrieved the rucksack from the back of the Alfa. Hurrying over to the coach, Blake raised his hand as if admitting a foul on the soccer pitch. ‘So sorry we’re late,’ he said contritely.

‘Nice of you to join us,’ replied the geography teacher as Sarah gave her dad a hurried hug and clambered onto the bus.

Blake quickly loaded Sarah’s rucksack onto the coach and followed her progress down the central aisle to the free seat next to her friend. Noorjehan’s pretty face beamed with relief. The Geography teacher drew an exaggerated tick next to Sarah’s name on her clipboard and, after throwing a nod to the driver, jumped back onto the bus and started counting heads.

Blake stood next to Sarah’s window. While grinning mischievously, he shaped a love heart symbol with his fingertip in the dirty glass. He winked at his daughter on the other side of the window. Embarrassed, Sarah returned the wink self-consciously. The coach’s diesel engine came alive and, with a hiss of pneumatics, its door shut tight. ‘Have a great time. See you in a week,’ shouted Blake over the engine noise.

Out of the blue, Blake remembered the mirror. ‘I’ve got the mirror,’ he shouted. He tugged it from his pocket and gestured to the narrow ventilation slat at the top of the window. ‘I’ll pass it through.’ Standing on tiptoes, Blake strained to guide the small circular mirror over the lip of the slat. Without warning, the coach jerked forwards and he lost his grip. The mirror fell from his fumbling fingertips and bounced off the ground, its front breaking into a spider web of cracks. He dusted it off, the silver Indian lettering on its back glinting in the sun.

Cursing to himself, Blake stepped away from the moving coach and shrugged back at the girls. Sarah waved and said something, but her words were muffled under the rasping cough of the coach’s exhaust. Blake cupped his ear, signalling that he couldn’t hear what she was saying.

‘Enjoy the peace and quiet,’ she mouthed back with a smile.

Three

A white marble plinth stood at the centre of the Masonic Temple. Resting upon its top was a black shrivelled object the size of a small melon. Three tall mahogany chairs were arranged around the plinth in a wide circle. Only two of the seats were occupied; one by Henry Ross, the other by Marcus Sabatini.

Ross’s expression narrowed. ‘Are you sure?’

Sabatini nodded. ‘I’ve seen them again tonight. I’m being followed,’ he said, balling his hand into a tight fist in his lap.

Ross tried to collect his thoughts. ‘We must pass the test, Marcus,’ he implored. ‘We can’t fail now.’ Ross’s attention fell upon the unoccupied seat next to him. ‘It’s down to us. No one else can protect the secret.’

‘But they know who I am,’ said Sabatini desperately, a darkness passing over his face. ‘It’s only a matter of time.’

Ross fixed him with his flinty eyes. ‘Marcus, we must stay strong.’

Sabatini shifted restlessly in his chair and looked up to the giant five-pointed star set into the blue domed ceiling of the temple. ‘The Rod is lost, and the Reckoning is nearly upon us. How can we fight on?’

‘We will do what Guardians have done for millennia. We will call upon Him for strength and protection.’

Sabatini nodded, and his face slowly recovered its composure.

The two men rose from their seats and raised their hands towards the object resting on the plinth. It was the shrivelled remains of a human head.

Four

Captain Sam Lambton, the newly elected Mayor of London, flicked through the pages of his personal journal. He had kept a diary throughout his election campaign, and reading it gave him solace through the difficult work of public office. As his gaze flitted over the handwritten entries, they reminded him of his extraordinary rise from injured soldier to one of the highest-ranking positions in the capital. He allowed himself a smile as he eyed the entry for the day of his acceptance speech, which had been an extraordinary evening of celebration in the grounds of the flagship Minories Hospital. But now the honeymoon was over, and the real work of his four-year term had begun. Reluctantly, he closed the black leather journal and returned it to his desk drawer.

With his landslide election victory, the Mayor had wasted no time shaking things up in City Hall. Within days of taking office, he had reallocated department budgets, pruned old wood from the bloated central bureaucracy, and installed a new chief of police, Commissioner Peter Lewis.

Despite his reputation as a man of the people, Lambton couldn’t immediately ease the unrest that had broken out in London’s East End. The abnormally high summer temperatures hadn’t helped the situation. With riots flaring up again overnight, Lambton was under pressure to bring emergency measures to contain the disorder. Members of City Hall had urged him to impose curfews or involve the army, both of which he had refused, at least for the time being. Instead, Lambton had called an emergency meeting with the police and with business, community and religious leaders.

There was a firm rap at the door, and Lambton’s personal assistant stepped into the office.

‘They’re all ready for you in the boardroom,’ she announced with a professional smile.

---

A decorated war hero, Lambton had spent much of his army career with the British Army’s Explosive Ordnance Disposal Regiment, the specialist unit responsible for bomb disposal. During his final tour of duty in Afghanistan, he sustained catastrophic injuries whilst attempting to defuse a roadside bomb. Even though his rehabilitation was considered extraordinary, he needed a walking stick and his once handsome face was deeply scarred.

Pivoting on his stick, Lambton began to shuffle along the corridor, a brown leather briefcase in his free hand. A minute later, he was standing in front of polished doors, behind which he could hear muted voices. He paused, straightened himself, and pushed the doors open.

A circle of faces looked up at him from the large round table. Lambton limped forward on his walking stick to the vacant chair and slapped his briefcase onto the table. After taking his seat, he raised his face towards the occupants of the room.

‘Thank you all for your attendance at such short notice,’ said Lambton, pinning his briefcase in place with his damaged right fist and flipping it open with the other. ‘We have important business to attend to.’ He dragged out several sheets of plain notepaper and squared them up on the table. ‘I’ve asked Commissioner Lewis to brief us on last night’s disturbances.’ Lewis acknowledged the Mayor with his eyes, opened the file in front of him and began his short briefing.

Lewis was tall and sinewy, with an angular clean jawline that was as neat as his police uniform. To his supporters, he was the embodiment of a new breed of policeman: sure-footed, highly intelligent, and not wedded to old ways of policing. To his detractors, however, he was shrewd, political and ruthless.

‘Last night we saw disorder on the streets on an unprecedented scale. This violence and vandalism is wilful criminal behaviour and will not be tolerated. Tonight you will see a coordinated police response to restore calm. There is clear criminality at play, with the instigators using social media to organise themselves. We need to make sure the rioters are brought to justice so they can see there are consequences to their actions. We cannot have looters on the streets.’ Lewis leaned forward in his chair and steepled his fingers. ‘But the police can’t do everything; I am calling on the leaders of local communities to work together to bring this violence to an end. We must appeal to the public to name the troublemakers involved.’

Jay Ahmed, the representative of the London Muslim Council, had stayed silent for long enough and rose abruptly from his chair, wagging a finger at the Commissioner. ‘We have told the police over and over again that this would happen. Our mosques and places of learning have been set alight. You talk of working together, but our communities are facing an uncertain future. Our young men are frightened to go out. They are being stopped and searched by your officers for just having a backpack and a beard. I talked to a young man yesterday who said that the police called him son of Bin Laden. They are subject to random searches, which are anything but. They are picked out because of the way they look. No wonder there is rioting. The police use verbal intimidation to wind the youth up, so they have an excuse to arrest them.’

‘I can assure you, Mr Ahmed, that there is no place for this type of behaviour in the Metropolitan police force. If you have specific details of anything like this, I will follow it up immediately.’

‘Christian churches were also targeted last night,’ cut in Reverend Edmund Gibson, from the Synod of the Church of England. He was a big man