The Schliemann Legacy by D.A. Graystone Read Free Book Online

right to rule their own destiny. But he knew the common people could not achieve this goal without help. Oppression kept them weak, too consumed with daily survival to fight. They needed the strength only he could provide. He would seed the way to victory.
    The Turk had dedicated his life to the struggle for universal freedom - his every action designed to rid the world of its oppressors. In small nations like Haiti and Jamaica, he supplied the political gangs with weapons and expertise. In the streets of the so-called superpowers, his hidden armies spread hatred and bitterness, massing for the final revolt. The battle would be long and required violence and shock. Terror ! Someday, Duman knew, he would be a hero of the people, just like François Ravaillac. He possessed the drive, the skill and the patience.
    Reluctantly, he continued down the street. Although this area north of Ravaillac's home was unfamiliar to him, Duman enjoyed the peaceful quiet of the pedestrian only streets. He didn't really mind running this errand for Chanda. He knew she was busy with school right now, her studies proceeding faster than even she had hoped. Duman enjoyed doing little things for her. He was proud of his young beauty and she gave him the pleasure he could not easily find.
    Not that Duman ever allowed himself the luxury of falling in love. What he felt for Chanda fell far short of love. Love required too much trust. Chanda was a convenience. He provided her with an apartment and lived with her whenever he was in Paris. He considered the relationship a worthwhile and acceptable risk.
    Duman skirted the crowds at the main entrance of the Square des Innocents. His dislike of crowds and persistent caution sent him around to one of the smaller alleys. He stopped himself as he started to step into the crowded square. A sudden unease crept along his spine and his hand sought the reassuring bulk of the Mauser under his coat.
    Church bells tolled the hour. Duman jumped. Every nerve in his body screamed in warning. Duman remembered his unfamiliarity with the streets - the unfamiliar pedestrian streets. He edged into the shadows of the alley and scanned the square.
    Chanda had sent him here, he reminded himself. He had come willingly, as a favor to her. But now, he could see the men who did not belong to the street, neither tourists nor locals. Like him, they wore coats on this warm summer day. Beneath those coats, Duman was certain they carried Model D MAB pistols, the preferred gun of the DST, the group responsible for antiterrorist activity within France. He spotted five agents.
    Duman cursed himself for not suspecting Chanda or this location. Had the conspirators sent him to a deserted area, he would have fled immediately. Instead, the DST had risked many innocent lives to capture him. Was the French government that desperate to quell the anger of a panicking public? The plan was frightening in its audacity. Only Alain, the director of the DST, would have the nerve to order such a move.
    They had played him expertly and he had almost stepped into their trap.
    He started to edge back down the alley. Suddenly, a DST agent stepped out of the bright sunshine of the square into the alley. He noticed Duman's movement and squinted into the shadows. Duman yanked the Mauser from its holster and fired twice. The noise was deafening. The first bullet shattered the man's skull, killing him instantly. The second bullet hit his right shoulder and sent him twirling back into the square.
    Women began to scream. In seconds, panic spread through the square. People scattered, trying to escape. The screaming masses blocked the DST men. Their urgently shouted commands and brandished guns only added to the frenzy. By the time they reached their fallen comrade, Duman was emerging onto Boulevard de Sebastopol.
    Sprinting to the edge of the busy street, the terrorist looked for a car to steal. He knew the DST men were close behind, but the bumper-to-bumper traffic left