The Twelfth Tablet - Ebook Read Online Free

log.
    A pair of feet appeared on the library stairs. Then a torso, cradling what looked like some sort of assault rifle.
    Switzerland’s one of the most heavily armed countries in the world , Paul remembered. You do your military service, and then you keep your gun .
    The butler descended. Or perhaps the word was bodyguard . He saw Paul at the end of the corridor and pointed the rifle at him – unsteadily. The hand that gripped the barrel trembled; the muzzle wavered. Paul couldn’t take his eyes off it.
    Because he couldn’t think of anything better to do, Paul raised his hands. Even that movement made the gun jab up aggressively. Paul almost fainted.
    ‘What have you done?’ the butler shouted, a hysterical voice verging on a scream. ‘What have you done?’
    Not a bodyguard , Paul decided. He hadn’t expected to use the rifle – certainly not to kill. He was improvising.
    That didn’t reassure him.
    The butler stopped about three feet away. Way too close for comfort, but too far for Paul to even think about trying to grab the gun. His senses had parted company again: his eyes saw everything with a hyper-real clarity, while his ears couldn’t make out a thing. The butler’s shouts came through like a tape being played at double speed. All he caught was ‘ mörder ’ – murderer, repeated over and over – and also ‘ polizei ’.
    And then the voice stopped – drowned out by a torrent of noise that came instantly and from nowhere. An explosion; a roar like a jet engine; a klaxon shriek that ripped through his bones. Something hit him in the chest. He threw himself to the floor. Had he been shot?
    His face was wet – soaked. Not with blood but with water, still spraying down on him from a sprinkler head in the ceiling. The butler had had it worse – the high-pressure spray must have caught him right in the eyes. He reeled back, clutching his face with one hand while the other swung the rifle wildly.
    Perhaps it was instinct – or the release of something that had been building ever since Vincent pulled out his gun. All Paul wanted was the rifle to point away from him. He got off the floor and lunged for it.
    The butler glimpsed him coming, but Paul already had his hands on the rifle. Water made it slick; he was surprised how heavy it was. For a moment they wrestled it between them like children. Then – whether his hand slipped, or whether desperation made Paul strong – the butler let go. Paul tore the rifle out of his grip.
    Almost before he had it, he felt the gun hit something hard. It shuddered. The butler suddenly stopped fighting and dropped to the floor.
    The rifle . Paul looked at the thin line of blood dribbling down the butler’s temple, then at the gun in his hands.
    Did I do that? The stock must have clubbed the side of his head.
    The fire alarm was still going: smoke from the gunshots must have triggered it. Paul couldn’t think: he just wanted to get out. Dazed, he reached out for the door handle again. It opened. It must have unlocked automatically with the alarm.
    He stumbled out. For a moment, the cool quiet was a blessing; then he started shivering uncontrollably. The sprinkler had soaked through his suit. He staggered to the car and hauled open the door. Valerie was still sitting in the back, her knees drawn up to her chest on the vast seat.
    Valerie gasped as she saw the assault rifle in his arms. ‘What happened?’ she mouthed.
    The ringing alarm and the ringing in his ears left him deaf. He started to say something, gave up.
    He opened the driver’s door and slid the rifle across onto the passenger seat. The keys were in the ignition, thank God. He couldn’t hear sirens – couldn’t hear much of anything – but he knew they must be coming. If the butler hadn’t called the police, the fire alarm would have tipped them off.
    Valerie leaned forward between the seats. She had to shout in his ear. ‘What are you doing?’
    ‘The police.’ Paul had already started the