“Were there any complications?”
“No, we got away clean.”
“Very well. Report to me when you arrive.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Heil Hitler.”
“Heil Hitler!”
The call ended and he dropped back into his seat, not realizing he was sitting upright, as close to being at attention as one could be in the back of a car. His heart pounded in his chest as he replayed the conversation in his head.
He wants to see me. Me!
It was more than he could have ever hoped for, and would be the greatest honor of his life. He imagined it would be much like when his grandfather had met the Führer himself when he was younger, when the Congress had been established.
Sturmbannführer Bernard Heidrich.
He didn’t share his name. None of them did. Everyone in the Congress had new identities, and their offspring shared them. As far as history was concerned, his grandfather had been executed in 1945 for failing to retrieve the very portrait that now sat beside him, not dead from a heart attack twenty years ago.
He would be so proud at how close we are to accomplishing Operation Raven’s Claw.
He picked up his drink, taking another sip, closing his eyes. The carnage in the world today was heartbreaking, especially when the solutions were so simple. The problem was a complete lack of political will. When leaders are obsessed with reelection, they too often fail to do the right thing. Sometimes the right thing was bloody, sometimes it was unpopular, sometimes it was dirty.
Like Mengele’s solution to the Middle East.
Eliminate it.
It was an elegant, clean solution. Conventional weapons could wipe out the population without having to go nuclear. If necessary, chemical or biological weapons could be used to ensure complete victory.
It would probably be cheaper too.
The world was crying out for order, order only a Führer could provide. The world needed a man who was answerable to no one, who wasn’t concerned with voters or polls, who wasn’t concerned with what the press thought of him.
Russian aggression, Chinese expansion, Japanese pacifism, Islamic fundamentalism, a black in the White House, Jews controlling the banks. The world needed order, and the Congress was the solution. Once they were successful in fulfilling the dream, the work would begin to reestablish what had been lost, and in time, the world would demand a leader capable of protecting them from themselves.
The Führer himself.
Leaving Rome, Italy
Acton rushed into the hotel room, pointing at his laptop computer sitting on the table. “Login, now!”
Laura nodded, immediately grabbing it and sitting down, flipping open the lid, the screen flashing to life. Acton and Reading quickly swept the two-bedroom suite, making sure they were alone. They had all given statements at the police station, and they all had told the complete truth, except for the mention of the Führer. Even Father Rinaldi had omitted that point apparently, Reading getting him aside and out of earshot of Chief Inspector Riva before they had been taken to the police station.
They hadn’t been alone for hours, this the first opportunity the three of them had to talk since the arrival of the police.
Reading grabbed three bottles of water and handed them out, Laura passing the laptop over to Acton as he sat beside her. “What’s going on?” asked Reading.
Acton quickly logged into the tracking website. “I dropped my phone in the crate. We should be able to track where they went.”
Reading’s eyebrows popped as he took a seat. “Are you kidding me?”
Acton shook his head. “No.”
“You’ve got a pair, that’s for sure.”
Acton grunted. “I acted on instinct. It was stupid. Dangerous.”
Reading took a long swig from his bottle before responding. “Correct on all accounts. If you had been caught, they might have killed you.”
Acton twisted the cap off his bottle as the map drew itself on the screen, a red dot finally appearing as he took a sip. “There! They’re heading north!”
Reading climbed from his seat and rounded the table, examining the path the phone had taken over the past several hours. “Good. Now who do we tell?”
Acton frowned, leaning back on the couch, putting his arm around his exhausted wife. “We can’t trust the police.”
“No,” said Reading, shaking his head emphatically as he returned to his seat. “Before they took Mario away he said to trust no one. Clearly he had concerns about Chief Inspector Riva.”
“That much was pretty obvious,” agreed Laura, holding her bottle to her cheek.
Acton watched the map update, the dot moving a little bit farther north on the highway. He looked at Reading. “If we can’t trust the police, can we trust Mario’s men?”
Reading shrugged. “Maybe it wasn’t the police at all.”
“But we saw them—”
Reading held up a finger. “No, we saw two men in uniform. We don’t know if they were actually police.”
Acton blasted a breath out his nose.
“So what you’re saying is we can’t trust anybody.”
Giasson Residence, Via Nicolò III, Rome, Italy
Mario Giasson closed his eyes, enjoying the sound of his children pounding through the house, the aromas of last night’s leftovers being reheated in the kitchen reaching the bedroom in which he now rested. He had missed the special dinner last night, four people dying on the sovereign territory where you were responsible for security sometimes a reasonable excuse.
Marie-Claude didn’t mind. She was more concerned about what had happened and whether or not he and their friends were safe. He had an amazing job. He was responsible for security in a state that had less than 500 citizens, where the most common crimes were pickpocketing and purse snatching.
And that was never done by his citizens.
Tens of thousands of people visited every day.
Including criminals.
His job was predictable, in that he would rarely not be home on schedule unless it was known well ahead of time. The Pope was an important man, with millions who wanted him dead for the mere fact he was Christian. They were constantly vigilant, and when there were special events, he would quite often work late hours.
But on what were supposed to be normal days like yesterday and today? His arrival home was usually like clockwork.
His shoulder throbbed then a shot of pain pierced his body.
He gasped, it quickly receding.
It was just a flesh wound, tearing away part of his arm. It would need to be packed for a few weeks until the skin grew back in. That meant no stitches, no heavy bleeding, and hopefully, no scar.
And it also meant he wasn’t about to be cooped up in a hospital room when there was a perfectly comfortable bed at home with his name on it.
One of the advantages of his senior position at the Vatican was that he had access to all the city-state had to offer, including its medical staff. He had already had his second-in-command, Gerard Boileau, arrange for a visit every two hours to assuage the concerns of the doctors at the hospital, and he had been officially transferred to their care.
Two of his men were stationed outside his home, and the State Police had a car on the street out front. He didn’t know who he could trust, so at the moment, having both parties guarding his house he felt was the most prudent move.
They would keep a wary eye on each other.
The doorbell rang and the race was on as his daughters rushed to see who could answer it first. His wife yelled, halting them in their tracks as she ordered them back to their bedroom. He heard the alarm chime as the front door opened and he checked himself to make sure he was decent, as the real reason he had insisted on being taken home, arrived. He could hear the mumbled voices out front as pleasantries were exchanged, two of his guests having met his wife once before during even more unpleasant circumstances.
“Sweetheart, your guests are here!” Footsteps
on the hardwood floors foretold their approach and moments later his wife entered the bedroom, the Actons and Reading entering.
“How are you doing?” asked Laura, stepping forward and taking his hand. “Shouldn’t you be in the hospital?”
“That’s what I said.” Marie-Claude raised her hands, palms upward. “But will he listen to me? No!”
Acton and Reading shook his hand then he motioned for them to sit in the three chairs his wife had brought in earlier. “There was no way I was going to sit in a hospital when there’s work to be done.”
“You’ve got over one hundred people working for you. You should learn to delegate.”
“I delegate you to get our guests something to drink.”
Everyone shook their heads, not wanting to get in the middle of it. He smiled.
“I’ll bring some iced tea.”
“That would be lovely,” said Laura. “Can I help?”
Marie-Claude waved her off. “No, no, you relax. You’re our guests.” She winked at her husband. “Besides, I think you’ll need all your energy dealing with that one.”
“Love you too, dear.”
She winked at him then turned to leave.
“Close the door, would you, hon?”
“Anything for my wounded warrior.”
She closed the door and he rolled his eyes.
“Laura, if he rolled his eyes after me you give him a slap!”
Everyone laughed, Giasson wincing and grabbing for his shoulder.
“Consider it done!” said Laura loud enough to be heard through the door. She looked at Giasson. “She clearly loves you.”
“Thank God. If she didn’t, I’m afraid what she’d do to me.” He shifted slightly then looked at his guests. “First, thank you for coming. You are the only three people I trust in this matter.” He patted the wound. “This is far less bad than it looks, or that anyone knows. I’m on some painkillers and antibiotics, but that’s it. You’re the only people who know this besides the doctor at the hospital, and I told him that little tidbit isn’t to be shared. Assuming he honors doctor-patient confidentiality, we should be good.”
“I assume you have plans?” asked Reading, a man Giasson knew would do exactly the same if the roles were reversed.
“We need to catch those responsible, but we’ve got a problem.”
Reading pursed his lips. “We don’t know who we can trust.”
“Exactly. We need to figure out who talked. I’ve narrowed down the possibilities from my end. Did any of you tell anyone where you were going or why?”
Acton shook his head but Laura leaned forward. “I told my service where we were going, but not why. I had to arrange the flight.”
“And I had to tell work I was taking a couple of personal days,” said Reading. “No mention of the portrait of course.”
Giasson nodded, pleased. “Good, I figured that would be the case. Which means the leak came at this end. We have Father Rinaldi, who identified the portrait and arranged the lab time at the university. He was supposed to tell no one, but could have. You know how scientists are.”
Reading grunted, jerking a thumb at his friends. “Do I!”
Acton chuckled, elbowing his friend in the shoulder.
“There’s Professor Salvay at the university who Father Rinaldi called. He too would have been told to keep it quiet.”
“He wasn’t there, was he?” observed Laura. “Isn’t that a little strange?”
Giasson shook his head. “He had told Father Rinaldi he wouldn’t be. He’s apparently in Florence visiting family.”
“Who else?” asked Acton, leaning forward.
“My second-in-command, Gerard Boileau, of course knew and I gave him explicit instructions to tell no one. And then there’s Chief Inspector Riva.”
“I get the distinct impression you think he’s our man.”
Giasson pushed his lips out as he nodded at Reading. “He was supposed to be there, wasn’t. Arrived just after the shooting, which means he was in the area, and it was men dressed in State Police uniforms that did the shooting. If they weren’t police, their uniforms had to come from somewhere.”
Reading nodded. “He’s definitely the most likely suspect, but I don’t think we can rule anyone out. And all that being said, someone could have let something slip completely innocently. And if that’s the case, the suspect pool could grow exponentially very quickly.”
Laura leaned forward. “Let’s see if we can eliminate anyone. If Professor Salvay is out of town, I can’t see him being able to organize something like this on such short notice. As well, we have to assume this is linked to the shooting yesterday, which would mean he would have had to be involved in that. Do you think that’s possible?”
Giasson shook his head, impressed at her reasoning. “No, I don’t see it at all.”
“Neither do I,” agreed Acton. “I’ve worked with him before. He’s a good man.”
“And then there’s Father Rinaldi,” continued Laura. “We’ve both worked with him in the past. If he wanted to steal the portrait, why would he identify it and bring us in? He would have had many opportunities over the past twenty-four hours to switch it out with something else.”
Giasson jabbed the air with a finger. “This is true. He’s the one who identified it then figured out who to call in.”
Reading rose, pacing in front of the door. “And if either of them mentioned it casually to anyone, it wouldn’t matter. We know it has to be someone that was involved prior to the shooting yesterday.”
“So that leaves two possibilities.”
Giasson looked at Laura. “Chief Inspector Riva.”
“Or your man.”
Giasson nodded at Laura’s conclusion. “I’m afraid you’re right.”
“How do you plan to figure it out?” asked Acton.
“Good old fashioned police work.” He turned to Reading. “Care to help?”
Reading grinned. “Bloody right I would!”
Rocca d'Angera Castle, Angera, Italy
Hofmeister caught a glimpse of himself in a tall mirror to his right, his jet black SS uniform freshly pressed, not a thread loose, not a piece of lint in sight. He was perfect in every sense of the word. A fine specimen of humanity’s future. Through selective breeding, the Congress was managing to turn out better stock with each generation, and soon, with the scientific advances being made here and around the world, they’d be able to manipulate the genome, changing the species for the better.
He kept abreast of the latest developments in genetics, and the recent announcement by the Chinese that they had successfully—and illegally—modified the germ line, had sent chills through the entire scientific community and the public who could understand it.
Here it had been a moment to rejoice.
It meant their work had made a major leap forward.
For they had two tasks here that needed completion before they could bring order.
Create the Master Race.
And perfect human cloning.
The latter task had a dual purpose, and with he being young and healthy, he fully expected to see all of their tasks accomplished within his lifetime.
Two soldiers snapped to attention at the end of the corridor, opening the large doors to the conference room. He entered, his chin held high, his chest thrust out, his shoulders back, and snapped a smart salute.
“Heil Hitler!”
The table of the executive returned his hail, though a little more subdued than he would have expected.
They’re mostly old men. Maybe it’s time for fresh blood.
He caught his breath as Dr. Josef Mengele Jr. himself entered the room. Everyone leapt to their feet.
“Heil Hitler! Heil Mengele!”
The salute was returned in typical Führer style as the head of the table was vacated, one side shifting down as their leader took his place. He looked at Hofmeister.
“You have something for us?”
“Yes, sir!” Hofmeister sn
apped his fingers and one of his men rushed in, carrying the crate containing the da Vinci portrait. He took it and placed it on the table, keeping his expression neutral though he felt a tremendous amount of excitement to be in the great man’s presence. “We have the portrait.”
“Excellent work. Show us.”
Hofmeister held out his open hand and a small hammer was slapped into it with the crisp precision of a nurse handing a surgeon his scalpel. He pried off the top and placed it to the side, tipping the crate up slightly so the portrait would slide out. His fingers felt the edge of the portrait and he gently squeezed, pulling it free.
Something clattered onto the tabletop.
His eyes widened in shock, his stoic exterior broken.
“What is that?”
His wide eyes stared up at Mengele. “A cellphone!”
If rage could kill, he’d be dead already, Mengele’s eyes conveying the anger and hatred his and his father’s reputation were notorious for. “How did it get there?”
“It must be that damned professor. He asked to package it properly so it wouldn’t be damaged.”
“And you agreed?”
“At the time I didn’t see the harm.” His shoulders slumped, his chest deflated. “He tricked me.”
“A clever man. Too clever for you, apparently.” Mengele glanced at the others. “Perhaps we should recruit him instead.”
Nervous laughter from those gathered suggested a history of doubt as to when their leader was joking.
Hofmeister drew a quick breath, forcing himself back into the pose of a proud German. “Sir, I will take care of this.”
“How?”
Hofmeister picked up the phone. “With this. He slipped it in during a moment of bravado. It will still contain all of the contact information for his friends and family. I already know from our contact that an American and a British professor were being brought in. I’m guessing he’s the American, so he’ll be easy to find. And with a bookworm like that, we simply need to apply the right pressure. He won’t be a problem.”
“He better not be,” said Mengele, raising a boney finger and jabbing the air with it. “Or you will become mine.”
Saint Peter's Soldiers (A James Acton Thriller, Book #14) Page 9