Secret of the Thorns: Political Thriller (Donavan Chronicles Book 1)

by Tom Haase

  “We have to unravel where all these numbers will actually lead us.” Bridget paused a few moments before she continued. “I may have discovered the translation using the information found on the Internet about the Spanish commercial tricks, but I haven’t discovered what they mean in this case.”

  “Now we have some time, tell me what your best guesstimate is?”

  “I think the numbers are for an angle and for an azimuth,” Bridget said.

  BANG.

  The car shook with a resounding thud on the rear left side. Scott glanced at the speedometer: 65 mph. He glanced at the rearview mirror as the car swerved toward the ditch on the side of the road.

  Bridget screamed.

  Scott fought to control the car and kept it from plowing off the road.

  Glancing out the side window, he saw a green car driven by what looked like two dark skinned occupants and decreased in speed to come even with them.

  BANG.

  Another thunderous impact racked the car.

  “What the hell was that?” Bridget shouted. She turned to look over her shoulder.

  The attackers were in a green car. They were closing at an alarming rate.

  We’re doomed, he thought as he continued to struggle with the steering wheel, trying to keep his car under control.

  Heart thumping, Scott floored the accelerator. The car shot forward but the green car kept pace and again came even with his window. The green car moved over to the left. He guessed they were going to ram him, trying to force him into the roadside gulley. He took the initiative and swerved toward the green car.

  More than one could play at this game.

  The other car moved expertly with him and he abandoned his idea of ramming them. They, however, didn’t quit and unexpectedly swerved back toward Scott’s Honda. He tensed his muscles and concentrated on driving to stay on the road. The attacking car had the speed and the angle to plunge them into the roadside ditch at 90 miles per hour. They might not survive such an event. He slammed on the brakes. The other car matched his maneuver and bore down on his exposed rear fender.

  BANG.

  As the car slowed under the maximum breaking pressure of his foot, Scott heard an explosion. The car beside him swerved and dropped back. As it receded in his rearview mirror, he accelerated away.

  “Did you see the men in that car?” Scott shouted.

  “It’s those Iranians,” Bridget yelled. She grabbed her seat belt tighter. “I only got a glimpse. They looked like the bastards in Granada. By the way, little brother, you did a great job under pressure. Really great.” She seemed to relax some. “What the hell was that last sound?”

  “I don’t know,” Scott declared. His sister’s praise surprised him as much as the attack. He felt proud while experiencing a surge of confidence. He kept his eyes fixed on the road and every few seconds he scanned the rearview mirror, the Iranian car no longer there. Back a few hundred yards he saw a silver colored car and way back a tractor trailer. In vain he searched for the green Ford.

  “The general did warn us,” Bridget said. “Damn, we are the hunted again. I wonder what caused that explosion. Could it have been a gunshot?”

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Outside The Air National Guard Field, Cape Canaveral, Florida

  Jonathan had no idea why the Donavans stopped at the airfield. He watched the Iranians pass the gate and come to a stop well beyond the turn into the base. He decided if the Donavans went into the Air Guard area, they would likely be there for at least half an hour. He went past the Ford and found a gas station, relieved himself and bought an orange drink, then went back to the airport gate. He stopped a few hundred yards from the gate and pulled in behind several parked cars. He found the Ford, parked close to the gate, shut off the engine with the windows open, and waited.

  The Honda Pilot exited the military base and swung toward the interstate. Jonathan started his engine and slid in behind the Ford. Out on the interstate, he noted the traffic was light compared with the M-25 ring road around London. He kept a half-mile back. Then the Ford’s driver started to close the gap on the Donavans Honda. Jonathan wondered what they were doing with such a rash action. Crazy Iranians.

  In a few seconds it became obvious. The green Ford careened into the black Honda Pilot’s side and attempt to run it off the road. Their actions didn’t make sense if they wanted the Donavans to lead them to the Koran. Now they appeared to want to kill or capture them. He accelerated to catch up.

  The Ford tried once again to plunge the Donavans car into a ditch. He checked the rearview mirror; the area behind him was clear for a good distance back, only a semi trailer in the distance. He reached into the small case on the seat beside him and pulled out one of the handguns Father Hodges had provided, a Glock.

  Now he closed to within twenty yards back from the two embattled cars, which appeared totally engrossed in the chase. They didn’t react to his position so they obviously failed to notice him. He continued to accelerate, drew up on the rear of the Ford, and rolled down his window. One good thing about being left handed, he thought. He maneuvered his car, rapidly accelerated, and closed the gap to a few yards behind the Ford. He swung the Glock out of the side window and waited a second. He pictured where he wanted the round to go. In a controlled exhale he slowly applied pressure to the trigger.

  He fired at the rear tire of the Ford. The bullet ricocheted off the pavement and slashed the tire. The swerving Ford decelerated, but was rapidly brought under control by the driver, who swerved for an exit ramp a hundred yards away. Jonathan fell back and then accelerated. He drove past the Ford as it exited and he continued on the interstate, keeping the Donavans car in his sight.

  * * * *

  “What happened?” screamed Abdul from his place in the passenger seat in the green Ford.

  “I heard a gunshot. Then the tire exploded. The car behind us shot it out. Did you see it?” replied Tewfik his companion. He struggled to control the car as he careened for the exit now fifty yards ahead. The car slowed and he drove it up the ramp.

  “I saw an old silver car, but I don’t know the make. We have to report this incident to control. Someone else is after the Holy Koran. But who?”

  “If we report the fact we lost the trail of the Donavans, we may be the ones in trouble,” Abdul reminded him.

  “Do you have any idea how to catch them now?”

  “It was your idea to run them off the road and capture them. I told you it was too dangerous to attempt on a foreign roadway.”

  “Shut up. I’m in command here. Let me think,” shouted Tewfik.

  “You had better think quickly if we want to catch up with them.”

  At the top of the exit ramp a gas station appeared as they turned and hobbled in.

  “Pull in behind that SUV getting fuel at the pump,” Tewfik ordered. “See it. The red one.”

  Abdul parked behind the red SUV on the last row of pumps. He cut the engine. “Now what? How do we get the tire fixed?”

  “Get out and get our things out of the trunk. Put them in that SUV ahead of us. Now move.”

  Tewfik got out the passenger door and went in front of the car and up to the old man pumping gas into the SUV.

  “Hello, I’m not from around here.” Tewfik glanced inside the SUV and saw no suitcases or indication of anyone else accompanying the man. “Could you tell me where I can find a good motel nearby?”

  The old man took off his NYFD black baseball cap and gave him a smile, then turned to point in a direction opposite where he stood. Tewfik quickly pulled out his pistol and crammed it down onto the man’s head. He caught him as he slumped and dragged him back to the Ford. He opened the door and pushed him into the backseat. He took the keys from the man’s pocket.

  He noticed Abdul putting their suitcases into the rear of the red SUV. The refueling completed, he replaced the gas cap, hung up the hose, and then got into the driver’s seat. Abdul closed the door on the Ford and ran to get into the passenger side
of the Cadillac SUV.

  “That’s how you do it,” declared Tewfik.

  Once again in pursuit of the Holy Koran, Tewfik gunned the engine and they sped away, heading north on I-95 toward St. Augustine.

  Chapter Sixty

  Pastoral Center, Diocese of Savannah,

  Liberty Street, Savannah, Georgia

  Cardinal Puglisi dialed Father Jonathan McGregor from the desk of the Bishop of Savannah, in whose office he currently sat.

  “Have you found the Americans?” Cardinal Puglisi demanded. He had awaited a reply from McGregor for two days.

  “Yes, Eminence, I have them in sight as we speak. They are approaching St. Augustine in the state of Florida. The trouble has already begun. I think some Iranians tried to take them out. Not sure if it is the same group or some other in association with the Iranians. I had to intervene to thwart their attempt to either kill or kidnap the Donavans.”

  “You mean to tell me the Iranians are back on their trail?”

  Jonathan’s hand tightened around the receiver and he could feel his neck muscles grow taught. The cardinal had that effect.

  “I believe so, and now I have no idea how many of them are here.”

  “Keep me informed every few hours from now on. I want you to keep me advised. Understood?” He empathized the last word. He had to keep calm. The treasure would soon be in his hands. Trust McGregor to do what you ordered, he’s a member of the society.

  “I will. Right now I believe they’ll go to a hotel or motel and rest after their long day of driving and narrow escape. I’ll stay with them and report in the morning.”

  “Excellent.” Puglisi closed his cell. He now knew the destination of the two Americans and he was only a two and a half hour drive from there or a forty-minute helicopter ride.

  Everything continued according to his plan. The Donavans would find the manuscripts and the relics. He felt his confidence rising. Jonathan would not be the only one with them.

  * * * *

  In Florida, Jonathan closed his cell phone. He had the Donavans in sight when they approached the exit for St. Augustine. He made the call and a minute later the Honda Pilot turned off the road onto a secondary road and journeyed along for a good ten minutes. Unexpectedly, the Donavans car pulled into a small gas station. He continued and stopped beyond the entrance and waited.

  He watched Scott go into the old dilapidated store while Bridget pumped the gas. The building desperately needed paint and a window air-conditioner tethered with old rope rested on top of a broomstick for support. Maybe this was their way of taking some precautions, stopping for gas way off the main road. Perhaps they were really starting to think about security.

  Bridget finished with the refueling and went into the store. They were inside for more than fifteen minutes. Jonathan wondered what could be taking so long. Maybe they were taking a break from the drive and the harrowing experience on the Interstate, but in this out of the way place, hardly.

  In a few minutes, the screen door opened and the Donavans emerged and Jonathan saw that Scott now carried a pistol in a belt holster. They got back in their car and continued toward St. Augustine.

  Jonathan made a U-turn and followed them. In a half hour, they were in the downtown area of the city and pulled into The Old City House B&B. He spotted the Casa Monica Hotel at the end of the same street.

  When they unloaded their backpacks from the car and went into the B&B, Jonathan decided that was all for today. The sun hung low in the west and he could do nothing until they went somewhere to locate the objects of their quest.

  Feeling confident they would not be going again, Jonathan registered at a nearby hotel. He’d be up before first light and watching to make sure they didn’t go anywhere he didn’t know about.

  First, he needed to check out his electronics.

  Chapter Sixty-One

  St. Augustine, Florida

  Scott looked round the B&B’s dining area and noticed the usual bar with a myriad of alcoholic beverages arrayed on a mirrored wall, the wood tables with lacquered tops and the soft elevator music. He sat down at the table at the back of the room where his sister waited for him.

  “Those phone calls you made on the highway. Are you going to tell me now what that was about?”

  Scott didn’t answer the question.

  “I checked out the Honda,” he said. “It looks okay. Only a few dents on the left side. I hope you took the insurance with the rental.”

  “Come on. We’re driving along after they attempted to kill us and you made a phone call. We take a back road, stop at a Mayberry type location called Uncle Jim’s Gas and Cigar Store, and you waltz into the place. When I came in you were talking to the old man like a lifetime friend and he takes you into a back room and minutes later you emerge with a gun and ammo. Doesn’t say a word to me and wished you good luck when escorting us out the door. What the hell was that all about?”

  “I told you I’d tell you later and now is later. We’re safe here and the guys chasing us on the Interstate are in a ditch or at least way behind us now.”

  The waiter came over and he ordered two Coors light beers.

  “You’re stalling,” Bridget said.

  “After they attacked us, I decided we might need more protection than your martial arts training. I am an expert shot after all and thought we might need a little augmentation.”

  The waiter delivered the drink and Scott took a big gulp. “What you didn’t know and I didn’t even think about until turning off toward St. Augustine was my old college roommate Jim hailed from St. Augustine area. He came from a poor country family. I met his father at graduation and spent the evening with their family. Jim was the first person from his family ever to graduate from college. He went on to medical school on a scholarship. Great mind and his family couldn’t have afforded the tuition without the scholarship.

  “During the evening we talked about the guns our college team used. He told me about the ones he used here in Florida to hunt with. We got along like lifetime friends. You know, one marksman to another. As we approached St. Augustine, I phoned Jim, got his father’s location, and he gave me directions to their gas station. He called ahead to tell him we would arrive soon. Now you know. Not bad thinking wouldn’t you say?”

  “I’m not sure about the weapon but I’m glad we have it. But we haven’t solved the problem in de Leon’s letter,” Bridget added. “Let me handle it just to get the feel.” She took it and examined it.

  “Hell, I solved the security problem. You haven’t broken the code yet?” Scott chided.

  “Let’s go get dinner and we can again start on that problem with a full stomach.”

  Scott led the way and after dinner they returned to Bridget’s room to discuss the code. Scott went to his room and retrieved his laptop so they both had computers on the Internet over the free Wi-Fi network. They realized it wasn’t a secure net but they had sophisticated firewall on their laptops.

  “My first problem centered on the weird lettering of the code. Once I figured out the old merchant code and how to read it, I was able to translate the old style Spanish into English. The problem is that after breaking the code it doesn’t make sense. There are two sets of numbers. The first set is three digits, and the second is two digits. The last is easy. It gives the date of August 21, 1521. Any guesses?” Bridget asked.

  “We figured out it’s not longitude or latitude since they came into use much later,” Scott added. “A sextant would do the trick but it wasn’t invented then. So what other secrets did the merchants have or the Spanish sea captains have to work with? They certainly couldn’t use landmarks in a flat sandbar like Florida. Anything they described, like trees or rivers, would change drastically in a few years.”

  Scott cranked up his computer and started to do research on how someone in the fifteenth century would give a location that someone else could follow to arrive at the same spot. He saw Bridget pounding her keyboard, presumably pursuing the same goal.
/>   * * * *

  Tewfik watched as the sun set as they headed north on the interstate. He had to act fast to catch up with the Americans. One avenue of help rested in his controller; he called on his cell and reported the situation. He informed his control unit that he had suffered a flat tire in their pursuit and had lost the targets. He requested support in locating where the American couple stopped for the night.

  While he waited, he directed Abdul to steal a license plate from another car. He went into the truck stop, keeping the cell to this ear, until he heard the voice give him the hotel name and the address in St. Augustine. He again marveled at the efficacy of the Islamic network worldwide. They could penetrate anything. Now he would not make any mistakes. He planned to wait until they had the Holy Koran and then kill them for what they had done to his fellow guardsmen. Here in America he wasn’t afraid to use the cell. The infamous NSA couldn’t possibly monitor all calls in the states.

  “Allah akbar,” he said aloud, smiling at his good luck.

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  St. Augustine, Florida

  The downtown area is quite small consisting of only about six blocks in each direction. It only took a few minutes to locate their vehicle. Jonathan approached the Donavans Honda Pilot in the B&B parking lot. He attached the tracking device under the rear bumper and went back to his room. The mechanism worked when he activated the seeker. Now he had to wait and follow without fear of losing them in city traffic or out in the countryside on back roads where visibility was limited.

  Jonathan set up an observation post from his window. He waited, wondering what the Donavans were up to now.

  * * * *

  Tewfik sat in the SUV down the street from the B&B on Cordova Street. He watched an old car approach. “Abdul, isn’t that the car that was behind us yesterday? Looked just like that old car to me. Not many of them around.”

  Abdul waited as the old Buick approached. He glimpsed the driver in a cleric’s outfit. “No, it’s a Catholic priest. He couldn’t be the one who shot out our tire. Priests don’t do those things. But they do drive old cars.”