by Rene Fomby
With the south exit now a battlefield, Gavin sprinted left toward the north exit. As he passed the Virgin Mary, the head of the toddler Jesus exploded, throwing off shards he could feel embedding themselves in the back of his scalp and shoulders. More shots erupted behind him, and he debated finding cover and laying down suppressive fire of his own, but then he remembered his gun, now lying somewhere on the floor of the choir behind him, lost in the smothering darkness that surrounded him.
Somehow he made it to the north exit. It was locked from the inside, and he quickly toggled it open, expecting at any moment to run into Ramon, trying to force his way inside. Throwing the door open and clinging desperately to the wall for cover, he was surprised—no sign of Ramon! The street looked deserted!
Gavin darted outside, remembering that this entrance fronted a narrow road with no offshoots for another block in either direction. He ran soundlessly down the street to his left. Behind him, the unmistakable sounds of an armed struggle continued, but without any weapon other than the flashlight in his hand, he knew that the prudent course was to find someplace safe to hide out until all the commotion settled down. He came to an intersection. Left or right? Left led back to the cathedral, probably a bad life choice at this point. He went right. At the next intersection he took a left, which he calculated would take him further down the hill and out of the center of the city, away from all the shooting around the church.
Three blocks later he felt he had lost them, so he stopped for a quick rest beside a candy shop, considering whether to loop back and join the fray, when he heard a slug whizz past his left ear, shattering the window behind him. Gavin leapt into an adjoining alley, then zigzagged left and right, still heading downhill and dodging narrow misses from his attacker. A glance back told him his lead was getting shorter, but he saw something else that gave him hope.
Another zig and zag later, he ducked into the entryway of a sword shop, one of many scattered around the city, all selling cheap Chinese knockoffs of the finely honed Toledo blades that had once been famous around the world. He checked his phone, but it had been smashed during the struggle in the cathedral, so now he was left practically defenseless, armed with nothing more than his tiny metal flashlight.
But it would have to do. Wrapping his left hand inside the sleeve of his jacket for protection, he swung the flashlight at the glass display case to his right. The glass shattered immediately, and sections of the window crashed to the ground as he jumped back out of the way. With the display case now wide open before him, he snatched up a particularly nasty looking sword. Just in time, because when he spun back toward the street, his attacker suddenly appeared, framed by the squared-off arch of the entryway, a dangerous-looking pistol pointed directly at Gavin’s chest.
“Ha! You stupid man! You bring a sword to a gunfight? Who are you, Indiana Jones?”
Gavin rewarded him with a shit-eating grin and slashed the sword back and forth in front of him, just as he had seen in countless swashbuckling movies growing up. It wasn’t very convincing.
“You want my sword, you can come and take it!”
The attacker smiled back, and raised the gun slowly, sighting down the barrel at Gavin’s head. But then, just as he was about to pull the trigger, another gun barrel slid into place right behind the gunman’s left ear.
“Now who’s the stupid man?” Dez asked, reaching around to grab the gun. “By the way, Gavin, I loved the sword show. Very nice. Your distraction played out brilliantly.”
Gavin was about to answer when, without any warning, the shooter dropped to the ground, rolling over onto his right side and bringing his gun up to bear on Dez, who put three rounds straight into the middle of his chest before he could get off a single shot.
“Whoa. Didn’t see that coming,” Dez gasped as Gavin dropped to his knees, checking the gunman’s throat for a pulse.
“He’s still alive!” Gavin leaned over him close as Dez kicked his gun off to the side. “Listen up! If you want to live, tell us where they’ve taken the girl.”
The gunman moaned, and Gavin shoved a finger into one of the bullet holes in his chest. His eyes snapped open with the pain, an airless scream emerging from his throat.
“Just tell me, dammit, and we’ll get you to the hospital. Where is she? Where is Andy Patterson?”
The gunman’s lips moved, and Gavin leaned in close, his ear just inches from the gunman’s mouth.
“La femme. The girl. She is …” Suddenly the wounded man stiffened, then slumped, his eyes staring straight up at the ceiling of the entryway, unfocused.
“He’s dead, Gavin,” Dez pointed out. “And we better clear out of here before the local cops show up.”
“Yeah. You’re right.”
Gavin stood up and brushed the remaining glass shards off his jacket. Dez poked her head out of the entryway, then signaled for him to follow her as she took off left, heading further down the hill away from the cathedral. After several blocks, she turned right, and realized she’d somehow led them back into the Plaza de Zocodover, now completely devoid of any signs of life. They slumped down onto a short stone wall in front of a McDonalds to regroup.
“Where the hell is Mendez?” Gavin asked. “He was supposed to be covering me at the north exit, but I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him.”
Dez nodded as she reloaded her gun, her eyes still flicking all around them, wary of another attack. “Oui. You would have thought he would have at least helped me out a bit with those four shooters in the cathedral. Or beat me to that Custer’s last stand at the sword shop.”
“Have you tried him on your phone?”
“Just did, before I started reloading, but no answer. You think they got him?”
Gavin considered that. “Possible. But not likely. That crack in the wall he’d positioned himself in across the street from the north exit—there’s no way anyone could have snuck up on him.”
“So that leaves just one possible alternative,” Dez suggested, one eyebrow raised.
“Uh-huh,” Gavin murmured. “He was the only one in Marseille who came out unscathed from the firefight. And now he disappears without a trace in the middle of another attack.”
“Right. And remember, it was Mendez himself who set up this little ambush, based upon some sketchy information he supposedly got from a Coptic priest no one else has ever heard of back in Cairo.”
Gavin screwed up his mouth, not liking this answer but not able to come up with anything better that fit the facts. Ramon Mendez was a traitor. “You know, Dez, in retrospect we should have suspected him all along. He never would come clean about the details of this mission. And he made sure everything happened so fast, we wouldn’t have time to check out his story.”
“You even think the man you met back in the choir was a priest?”
“I’m pretty sure he wasn’t. No cross hanging from his neck. And then there was the big red flag I noticed when he slugged me with a left cross.”
“Oh? What was that?” Dez asked, standing up and indicating they should move on. Alarms were sounding all up and down the hill behind them, the Toledo police finally showing up on the scene, minutes after everything had already been wrapped up.
“A ring,” Gavin answered. “On his left ring finger.” He looked over at her meaningfully. “A wedding ring.”
※
They hung out along the river bank near the train station until the sun finally rose, letting them make their way toward the station without drawing any unneeded and undue attention. Gavin’s clothes had been scuffed up a bit during the fight in the cathedral, and Dez had used the river water to wash the blood off the back of his head where pieces of the exploding baby Jesus had left their mark, but overall they had made it out of the ambush in pretty good shape. He felt bad about having to leave his gun behind, though—it was the first gun he had been given when he joined the FBI, and losing it was kind of like losing an old friend. But, then, maybe it was a sign. Maybe it was just God’s way of telling him it w
as time to move on.
Dez grabbed them both a beer from the bar in the cafeteria car and they settled into their first class seats, bound for Madrid.
“Little early, don’t you think?” Gavin suggested, accepting the bottle with a wry smile.
“Not after the night we had. Brutta merda, Sherlock.” Dez took a long swig out of hers before sitting down at the small club table across from him.
“True that. Bad shit, indeed.” He took a swig himself. “Say, one thing has been bugging me, and I haven’t really had a chance to ask you about it.”
“About Mendez?” she asked.
“No, about the shooter. When I asked him about where they were keeping Andy, he said something to me with his last feeble breath, and I’m not sure I caught it right. It just doesn’t make any sense.”
“Yes? What did he say?”
“I thought his last word was ‘grim.’ As in ‘the girl is grim.’ But, that—I don’t know. She’s grim? How is she grim? Do you think maybe he was speaking French?”
“Well, he certainly looked like one of those wharf rats from Marseille, and his first two words were French, but no, it doesn’t really make sense in my language, either.”
“Hmph.” Gavin rested his head against the window of the train and took another swallow of beer. It was a cheap local brand, and tasted mildly skunky, but at least it was cold. “Another day wasted, another opportunity lost, and all we have to show for it all is a word that might somehow mean something. Or, most likely, not. It could have just been some kind of grunt from a dying man for all I know.”
“So what’s next on the agenda for you, Gavin? After Madrid? I assume I’ll be heading back to my day job in Marseille.”
“I’ll need to dig further into Mendez’s background, see if I can scare up a lead somewhere, somehow. And I better, because that’s pretty much all I’ve got going at the moment.”
“Well, good luck with that.” She laughed, staring out the window of the train. “You know, Agent Larson, we’ve worked together a total of, what, just a little over twenty-four hours now, between our two outings? And in that one day, we’ve both been shot, then ambushed by a minimum of six gunmen, and we’ve sent seven of those thugs to their maker. That’s more action than I’ve seen in my entire career.”
“Welcome to my world,” Gavin snorted. “I spent the last ten years at the Agency chasing down corrupt cops and judges, and never once fired a shot outside of a firing range. Now, this past year, ever since I got hooked up with this Tulley thing, I’ve had two of my best friends killed in the line of duty, a woman I was supposed to be protecting seriously injured in two separate incidents, a partner kidnapped right out from under my nose, and now those two little outings with you. It’s been exciting, all right, but I think I’m way overdue for a vacation right about now.”
Dez reached across the table and grabbed his hand. “But—not yet. Not until you get her back.”
He squeezed her hand back, staring out the window himself at the Spanish countryside flying by. “Right. Not just yet. Not until I know Andy is safe. Not until she’s back by my side again. Then I’m going to take her on the vacation of a lifetime, and kiss all this cloak-and-dagger shit goodbye.”
69
Venice - Wednesday
The previous night’s huddle with the Italian prime minister had lasted well into the night, and by the time Sam finally crawled home she didn’t have any energy left for diving into the files Harry had sent over. Even now she tried to pull a pillow over her face to shut out the morning sun leaking into her bedroom from the side window, but after ten minutes of this she finally gave up and crawled out of bed.
Thankfully a pot of coffee was waiting for her in the kitchen—her staff hadn’t yet arrived, but the coffee had been set on a timer the night before. She poured a cup and headed for her computer.
The files Harry had sent over were pretty straight-forward. Sam pulled up a browser window and checked on the details of the bombing. There didn’t seem to be any doubt about it—this Nabil guy was caught dead to rights. But Harry had texted her that he had his own doubts, nonetheless, and a later email from him suggested that there was something fishy about the security footage that showed Nabil planting the bomb.
She checked her watch and noted that it was way past midnight back in Texas, so she decided to get herself cleaned up and give him a call later. At least somebody could get their beauty sleep tonight.
※
The results of the late-night confab between Sam, Rossi and the Italian prime minister—and the results of the previous night’s North Atlantic Council session—had triggered this last-minute emergency meeting of the Italian Cabinet, held deep within the storied walls of the Doge’s Palace, now serving as the capitol of the Italian Republic.
“Mr. Prime Minister, this is unheard of! The army simply won’t do it, we refuse to take armed action against fellow Italians. We are not China!” The head of the Italian Defense Ministry was visibly irate, pounding on the table with his fist, a blow that knocked over a glass of water set directly in front of him.
prime minister leaned back and regarded him calmly. “Luigi, no one is asking you to take up arms against Italian citizens. But the situation in the south is becoming intolerable. Lives are being lost even as we sit here, doing nothing. Surely you can understand the need to bring order to the region.”
“Order? You mean the kind of order that comes at the end of a gun?” The defense minister looked ready to explode at any moment, so Carlo Rossi thought this might be the perfect time to step into the fray.
“General Moretti, Mr. Prime Minister. I think we’re all on the same page, here. We’re not disagreeing about what needs to be done, just on how exactly to bring that about.”
“But our real problem right now isn’t within our own borders,” the general argued. “We’ve been attacked, and now NATO refuses to do anything about it!”
“Calm down, Luigi, calm down,” the prime minister cautioned in a soothing voice. “First of all, I agree with NATO. We all need to take a step back from the ragged edge of war and regain our senses. Regain some perspective on what’s at stake here. A war with Turkey right now, that could very easily spiral out of control into another world war. And then what? We’ve only recently recovered from the last one.”
But Moretti wasn’t backing down. “But NATO’s Article Five says—”
Foreign Minister Giordano weighed in, cutting him off. “The Turkish attack was on the Vatican, not Italy, and Vatican City has specifically refrained from joining NATO, insisting that it is a nation of peace, not war. So Article Five doesn’t apply.”
“And that still leaves us with the question of what to do about the Wall,” Rossi pointed out. “We still can’t figure out where the resources for building the damned thing are coming from, but unless we do something, and do it quickly, by the end of week they will probably have cut the entire city of Rome off from the northern half of the country.”
“Moretti, why can’t we just run some tanks in there and push the whole thing down?” the prime minister asked.
“You think we haven’t tried? I sent a whole brigade down the road from Florence to Rome just after sundown last night, and when my men got there, the rebels brought up a volunteer army of their own to stand in front of the wall, just daring us to move forward and crush them like Tiananmen Square in Beijing.”
“So there’s nothing we can do?” the prime minister said in a defeated tone. A statement, not a question.
Rossi spoke up. “One thing we have done is move forward as expeditiously as possible to transfer the seat of power from Rome up to Venice and Florence. The prime minister and I both met late last night with the American woman, Samantha Tulley, who currently heads up the Ricciardelli business empire. As you know, she’s made several of her holdings in Italy available for our use, including the new Presidential Palace, and has put her fleet of commercial trucks at our disposal for the evacuation of our offices in Rome.”
Rossi shook his head. “Exactly what we proposed to her last night, but she assured us that she would be the last person the new pope would listen to at this point. She didn’t offer up any details, but apparently she has now risen to the very top of his enemies list.”
“A shame,” Giordano noted. “Another promising opportunity lost to somehow slap a lid on all this craziness.”
As if on cue, an aide slipped into the room and handed the prime minister a note.
“Oh my God,” he said, scanning the first page quickly and flipping to the second.
“What is it?” Rossi asked.
“It says here the heads of all of the major Islamic nations have gathered together in Mecca, apparently in response to the pope’s calls for war.” He passed the papers to his foreign minister. “Apparently they’ve taken all this talk about a religious war quite seriously and are considering the establishment of a global caliphate to direct all of their energies to Islam’s defense.”
“A caliphate?” one of the minor ministers asked.
“Yes. A religiously-oriented government that supersedes all of their own national governments. One nation under God.”