by Steve Berry
Stephanie wanted this year’s money transfer witnessed, as that had never been possible before. American intelligence had learned its location—Venice—so she told him to leave the cruise ship and head inland.
He’d wondered about the coincidence.
How did that money transfer just happen to occur while he was already in Venice?
The answer to that question had not become overly important until the shooting started. Now the cash was ashes and all of the participants to the payoff dead. So he’d like to know.
His mind searched for everything he knew about his current location.
Isola di San Michele was once two islands, but a canal between them had been filled long ago. Napoleon created the cemetery in 1807, when he ordered Venetians to stop burying their dead within the town. A Renaissance church and a former monastery remained from that time. A high brick wall guarded its shores, the dark outline of tall cypresses rising above it. He recalled one other anomaly. The burials were squeezed tight, the dead guaranteed only a few years’ rest. After a decade the remains were exhumed and stored in ossuaries, making room for more bodies. One of the notice boards that listed the timetable for exhumations stood to his right.
He popped the magazine from his Beretta and replaced it with a spare from his pocket. Then he started walking toward the church, making no pretense of silence. A series of gardens studded with cypress trees and more monuments lined the stone-paved walkways. Some of the graves were gaudy with domes and sculptures and wrought iron. Some were stacked in terraces like filing cabinets. Amazing how audacious people could be with death.
The kink in his leg began to work itself out. He was too damn old to be dropping from helicopters. He was supposed to be retired—after a career in the navy, law school, then a dozen years at the Justice Department working for Stephanie Nelle’s Magellan Billet. He quit three years ago and now owned an old-book shop in Copenhagen. But that hadn’t stopped trouble from finding him. This time, though, he’d found it, as he’d willingly accepted Stephanie’s offer to freelance. The past few weeks had been anything but pleasant. He’d heard not a word from Cassiopeia Vitt. They’d dated for the past year, but parted ways a month ago when trouble had once again found them both in Utah. He’d thought maybe after she cooled down they could work it through. He’d even called her once, but she did not answer. He did receive an email, though. Short and sweet.
Leave me alone.
Obviously, her bitterness still retained fire.
So he did as she asked, and a chance to roam the Adriatic and Mediterranean for ten days on the U.S. government’s dime had seemed like a good respite. All he had to do was keep an eye on a former Treasury official, Paul Larks, who might lead him to a man named Anan Wayne Howell, an American fugitive. The Justice Department wanted Howell. So he’d stayed close. Larks was pushing seventy, walked with a slight stoop that reminded him of his old friend Henrik Thorvaldsen, and had kept to himself during the cruise, which had made him think that whatever was supposed to happen would happen in Venice. Then the dispatch from Stephanie, sending him to the Italian mainland, arrived.
And disaster followed.
He approached the lighted church, its white marble façade overlooking the lagoon. Everything was closed up tight. He rounded one side and spotted a boathouse. A dim light burned inside, illuminating one of the sleek, low-riding runabouts that had made Venice famous.
“Stop right there,” a male voice said in Italian.
He turned to see a heavyset man in uniform bobble up in the dark. He still held his Beretta, which he quickly shielded behind his thigh.
“Are you stationed here?” he asked the man in Italian.
Languages were easy for him, the advantage of both living in Europe and having an eidetic memory. He was fluent in several.
“Were you in that crash?”
“Si. And I have to leave the island.”
The man came close. “Are you hurt?”
He nodded and lied, “I need a doctor.”
“My boat is there. Can you make it to the dock?”
He’d heard enough and revealed the gun, aiming it straight at the man.
Hands went into the air. “Please, signor. That is not necessary. Not at all.”
“The keys to the boat.”
“They are on board. In the ignition.”
“I need you to go back to wherever you stay and call for help. Tell them about the crash. Right now, do it.”
The unarmed guard did not need to be told twice. As the man hustled off, Malone made his way down to the dock and onto the boat.
The keys were indeed in the ignition.
He powered up the engines.
KIM REMOVED THE NEEDLE FROM LARKS’ ARM. THE OLD FOOL HAD proven to be nothing but trouble. They’d spoken on the phone and communicated by email many times. He’d listened with patience to all the rants. Larks was angry with his government for a multitude of lies. Eventually Kim had revealed to Larks that he was Korean, not realizing that might be a problem. After all, Howell had bought them together, all of them supposedly kindred souls bound by the same interest. Larks himself was a widower who’d alienated his bosses—forced to retire after thirty-plus years of government service. He had no children and little other family. He was, for all intents and purposes, forgotten. Now he was dead. But two vital things had first been learned. Larks had passed his cache of documents on to a woman named Jelena and Howell would be in Venice tomorrow.
His cell phone vibrated again.
“We watched with night-vision glasses,” the voice reported in North Korean. “A man definitely jumped onto the chopper and hung from its strut. The pilot tried to lose him, but couldn’t. He dropped off, onto a small island, then we heard shots, and an explosion. That same man, still holding a gun, just left the island in a boat.”
With the chopper down, its occupants killed, and all of the men at the cash transfer, he assumed, dead too, the loose ends were certainly tied—except for whoever was in that boat.
True, the idea had been to steal the money.
But with it gone—
“I recommend you kill him,” he said.
“I agree.”
FIVE
ATLANTA
STEPHANIE SIZED UP HER ASSAILANT. HE WAS GOVERNMENT, OF that she was sure. Career man. Nearing retirement. And confident. Too much so, actually, since they were now sitting in a mall food court.
“I love Chick-fil-A’s,” he said, gesturing with the sandwich he held. “When I was a kid my mother would buy them as a treat for me and my brothers.”
He seemed pleased by the memory. The other man—the one with the gun—sat at a nearby table. Though it was dinnertime, the tables were nearly empty.
“Is there a reason you’ve assaulted the head of an American intelligence unit? Your man over there threatened me and one of my people.”
He kept eating his sandwich. “The two pickles are the key. Just the right amount of dill flavor to spice up the chicken.”
She realized he was trying to get under her skin, so she asked, “What are you? DEA? FBI?”
“That hurts.”
But she knew. “Treasury?”
He quit chewing. “I was told you’re a smart lady.”
Any other time she’d tell this moron to go to hell. But that was the thing about fishing. If you dangled the right bait at the right time, what you were after just might swim by and sneak a nibble. And this fish had done just that. “Why does Treasury think it can threaten a fellow federal agent and hold her against her will?”
He shrugged. “You can leave whenever you want.”
“You must have friends in high places.”
He grinned. “Best kind of job security.”
That meant the secretary of Treasury. “All this sounds like a conspiracy to me.”
“Only in the best of terms. Done to get your attention. And see how well it worked? Here we are, sharing dinner.”
“You’re the only one eating.”
<
br /> “I offered and you said no, so don’t blame me that you aren’t having any of this good ol’ American food.”
He sucked a swallow of Coke through a straw, then returned to his sandwich. His cockiness was weighing on her, as if she and the Magellan Billet were insignificant. But she’d encountered the attitude before. Of late that arrogance had all but disappeared since, for the past two years the Billet had been at the forefront of nearly every major intelligence success. It helped that the White House had total confidence in her unit, a fact that had not gone unnoticed by her colleagues.
“Who wants to get my attention?” she asked.
“Now, we just met, and I have a rule about kissing and telling, so why don’t we just say that they’re all good people and leave it at that.” He laid down his sandwich. “We figured you and your employee Ms. Lucent were not here for the sales on women’s wear.”
“So you listened in on our conversation?”
“Something like that. She seems like a loyal worker, coming to you and confessing like that.”
“She’ll be an ex-worker soon.”
“I figured. That’s why I decided it was time for us to chat.”
“About what?”
“Why is Cotton Malone in Venice?”
Finally, the heart of the matter. “We just met and I have a rule about kissing and telling, so why don’t we just say that Cotton’s good people and leave it at that.”
He smiled at her mocking. “We have a comedienne here. A real Carol Burnett.”
She dug in and readied herself for the fight she’d been hoping for.
“People wonder about you, Stephanie. Where you stand. What’s important. My boss—one of those good people I mentioned—defended you. He said Stephanie Nelle serves her country with honor. She’s a good American.”
He popped the last bite of sandwich into his mouth and she hoped he wouldn’t lick his fingers. But he did, then dried the tips with his napkin.
“I know a lot about you,” he said. “You’ve got a law degree and twenty-eight years at Justice. Before that you were with the State Department. You’ve been around, that’s one reason you were tagged to start the Magellan Billet. Experience and know-how, and you’ve done a heck of a job. Your agents are some of the best America has on the payroll. That kind of thing gets noticed.”
“Even by important people like you?”
He caught her sarcasm. “Even by me. You know, I love Chick-fil-A ice cream. Want some?”
She shook her head. “Trying to quit.”
He motioned to the other man. “Get me a cone and some more napkins.” The man headed off for the serving counter.
“Your minions always do your errands?” she asked.
“They do whatever I say.”
He seemed proud.
“You still haven’t said what you want with me.”
“And you haven’t answered my question. What’s Malone doing on that cruise?”
“I sent him.”
“Stay away from Paul Larks.”
Now it was her turn to play dumb. “Who’s that?”
He chuckled. “Do I look stupid?”
Actually, he did.
The man returned with the ice cream and Chick-fil-A Man started licking the sides. “Wow, that’s good stuff.”
As the other man withdrew, she asked, “What’s Treasury’s interest in Larks? He was forced out three months ago.”
The man’s tongue continued to attack the cone. “He copied some documents. We want them back. We’re also looking for a guy named Anan Wayne Howell. I think you know the name?”
That she did.
“We think Larks will lead us to him, but not with your guard dog on duty.”
“Tell the secretary of Treasury he needs to take all this up with the attorney general.”
He found the cone and bit into it. “I’m not an errand boy.”
No, he wasn’t. He was a fool, which made him even lower on the pole. He finished the cone and again licked his fingers.
She averted her eyes until he finished.
He stuffed the balled napkins, the Styrofoam cup, and the foil-lined jacket for the chicken sandwich into a paper bag. Then he stood, bag in hand, and threw her a glare that was devoid of all whimsical humor. “Remember what I said. Stay away from Larks and call Malone off. We won’t warn you again.”
“We?”
“People who can cause you problems.”
She kept her cool. “I need my phone back.”
He found the unit in his pocket, dropped it to the floor, and shattered it with the heel of his shoe. With his trash in hand, he and his companion strutted away.
She watched as they left the mall.
Pleased the fish had not only nibbled the bait, but swallowed it hook, line, sinker—even the whole damn boat.
SIX
VENICE
MALONE FIRED UP THE INBOARD MOTORS, WHICH SPUTTERED THEN, as he readjusted the throttle, roared to life. He backed the launch out of the boathouse. The V-hull looked to be a fifteen-footer, all wood, and he could feel the engines’ powerful hum. He knew little about the lagoon except that its navigable routes were defined by lighted pilings, bicoles, there to help boats avoid the mudflats, tidal islands, and salt marshes. Merchants and men-of-war had plodded these waters for centuries, the currents fed by the ebb and flow of the sea, so treacherous that no enemy had ever taken Venice by force.
He decided to follow the lighted route and head back toward town, then round the main island for the cruise ship dock that sat on its west end. When he’d left the ship earlier, water taxis and private launches were ferrying people to and from that dock. Another one would not be noticed.
He found the lagoon and shifted the throttle from reverse to forward. Boats were no strangers to him. His late father was career navy, achieving the rank of commander. He’d matched that rise, spending nine years on active duty before being reassigned to the Magellan Billet. Back in Copenhagen he occasionally rented a sloop and enjoyed an afternoon on the choppy Øresund.
He swung the bow around.
Another boat appeared from the darkness, its profile rushing straight at him at high speed. In the dim light he saw two men, one aiming a gun his way. He dove down as pops rang out and bullets thudded into the windshield.
Where the hell had they come from?
He yanked the wheel hard right and headed away from Venice, toward the island of Murano and its glass factories, which lay just northeast of Isla de San Michele. A channel about half a mile wide separated the two locales, marked with more bicoles, their lights signaling a path north in the darkness toward Burano and Torcello. He pushed the throttle forward, and the diesels’ even roar knifed the bow across the calm water.
His assailants were behind him, but gaining, both boats scudding across the surface in clouds of noisy spray. He found the channel and stayed between the lights on either side, the path about fifty yards wide and illuminated like a fairground. He could take the two men behind him, but he needed room to maneuver—and some privacy would be good. That helicopter crash had certainly attracted attention, and the guard on San Michele had surely called the authorities by now. Police boats could come from anywhere at any time.
He turned east, then back north, heading away from Murano. The boat behind was gaining. He still toted his gun with a full magazine, but hitting anything from a pitching deck in the dark, while trying to stay in the channel, seemed unlikely. Apparently his pursuers had come to the same conclusion, as no more shots had been fired.
The second boat swept in close.
One of the men leaped across, slamming his body into Malone. He lost his grip on the wheel. They tumbled to the deck. The boat veered left. He catapulted the man off him and tried to regain control, but his assailant lunged. In the darkness he noticed Asian features, the compact frame hard as steel. He swung around, pivoting off the wheel, and kicked the man in the face, sending him reeling toward the stern. He stuffed a hand into his back pocket,
found his Beretta, and shot the problem in the chest. The bullet’s recoil propelled the body over the side and into the water.
The second boat remained on him, pounding into the starboard side, trying to maneuver him out of the channel. They were racing along, still within the lights that defined out of bounds. He needed this over. Who these people were was anybody’s guess. Were they on the side of the folks who’d come to receive the $20 million? Or part of the team that stole it? Apparently somebody had worked a lot of planning for tonight. The only thing they hadn’t anticipated was a retired freelance agent screwing everything up.
He veered right, kissed the second boat, and grabbed his bearings. He was past Burano, near Torcello, in a quiet, darkened part of the lagoon. The lights of Venice burned miles to the south. He held the wheel tight and readied himself.
The hull was slammed again and recoiled.
Then another crash.
He worked the wheel and pressed his boat tight against the other, both craft racing ahead toward the right side of the channel. He kept close and did not allow the other boat any room to maneuver. The other driver’s attention seemed focused on him.
Big mistake.
He forced them more right, closer and closer to the edge. The next bicole was less than half a mile ahead and he intended to give his assailant a choice. Crash into it or go farther right, out of the channel. Left was not an option. The other man was all shadow, shaped similarly to the first one.
He continued to force the other craft over.
The piling approached.
A hundred yards.
Fifty.
Time for his attacker to choose.