Filling two cups from the espresso pot on the stove, Mako turned off the gas, and brought the cups to the table. Hoping the caffeine would clear some of the cobwebs, he drank half the cup, sans cream and sugar, before starting the conversation. Any additives to coffee, even to make café Cubano, would send his father on a rant.
“What do you know?” Mako asked.
“What makes you think this isn’t a social call?”
“Just happened to be in Rome the day after my contract fell apart?”
“Okay. I do have friends here, though. I saw most of it—“
“What the hell?”
John cut him off. “It’s not the way you think. I was working on something different and happened to see what happened, though it appears our contracts are related.”
“You’re still working?”
“I’ve developed some special relationships over the years.”
“What does that mean?”
John studied the street. “Why don’t you call your boss? Make sure my cooperation won’t void your contract.”
Mako looked down at his cup. Picking it up, he finished the remaining espresso. “It’s already done. As you probably already know, the journal is gone.”
“There’s more than one way to skin a cat without getting scratched.”
Mako nodded to John’s cup. It was merely a courtesy; his father drank coffee like a hipster. It was the quantity of their consumption, not the “latte” this or that which was probably the only similarity between the generations. He felt like he needed another few cups himself. Moving back to the stove, he refilled the pot with water. After topping off the filter with grounds, he scraped the excess off, screwed on the top, then turned on the burner. While the coffee brewed Mako stepped to the side and called Alicia from the house phone.
Out of habit he spoke in generalities, only clarifying something when she insisted. It was a safe house, and he was fairly certain the phone was clear as well, but someone outside of Alicia, TJ, and their contact had known the meet was set. Mako knew the leak could have come from the CIA, but not the timing. Working on contract, the means to the end were entirely up to the contractor. Plausible deniability had become a catch-phrase outside of the Oval Office
Thankfully, Alicia didn’t dwell on the loss of the journal. It was one of the things he liked about her—she moved on. Now, her focus was on retrieving it. When the conversation turned to the future, Mako brought up John’s involvement.
Motioning to his ear, John signaled to Mako to turn on the phone’s speaker. After clearing it with Alicia, the three were soon connected. This was not the first time they had worked together; in fact, somehow it happened more often than not.
“Why are you there, John?” Alicia asked.
Mako could tell by her voice she was on the defensive, and studied her tone for the deception he expected. He interceded, not wanting the conversation to head in that direction. “John knows someone.” They’d worked together enough that Mako had quit using the “father” or “dad” title long ago.
“Bishop Maldonado, actually,” John said.
Alicia was quiet for a long second, probably doing a quick Google search. “Really. That’s impressive, but what bearing does it have on our contract?”
“Back in the day, when he was still a monsignor, Maldonado engineered the replacement of several paintings with forgeries.”
“Caravaggio’s?” An optimistic tone came through the line.
“And others.”
“Your monsignor friend would probably not be interested in helping us prove the painting is a forgery. It would be more likely he would want the journal himself to protect the Church.”
“Exactly, but he knows where the bones are buried.”
“There are rumors the Nativity has surfaced.”
It felt strange, talking about multi-million dollar works with his father. Despite a rather detailed orientation of the art world, Mako didn’t really understand how the paintings fetched the prices they did. The last Caravaggio sold at auction had gone for almost two hundred million dollars. With those kinds of price tags, there was little wonder the CIA, Interpol, and the Vatican were involved. Silence fell over the apartment as they thought through the implications. Mako took the opportunity to turn off the coffee pot and pour them each a cup.
“Give me a little time, and I’ll run it up the flagpole. And, Mako. Get a burner.” The line fell dead.
“It was easier before all this crap. Smartphones, burners, even the internet.” John shook his head and drank.
Mako placed the cup to his lips, but didn’t drink. He used the movement more to think. Waiting on an answer from Alicia, he was faced with a father and son activity. Bringing your father along to buy a burner phone didn’t sound like a whole lot of fun.
The sound of a motorcycle speeding down the street interrupted his thoughts. When the brakes squealed, both Storms instinctively dropped to the floor. Bullets flew through the open doors, ricocheting off the masonry walls. Mako moved to the far side of the room to cut down on the shooter’s angle, but his father did the opposite. Drawing a Colt 1911 from his shoulder holster, John crept toward the open doors. Using the thick walls for protection, he returned fire. Backing away when a stray bullet shattered a pane of glass, he kicked the door shut and waited.
9
Key Largo, Florida
Alicia was past being upset when Mako called with his new number. Key Largo was in its busy season. Charters were booked solid and after losing the journal—and the contract—she and TJ needed to work all they could. Their custom-blend dive charters were unique and allowed them to charge a premium for their trips, but the added science came with an additional labor cost—unless they did the fill work themselves. TJ as captain already had a full plate, leaving the divemasters to fill tanks. With standard gas mixes it was relatively simple, but their unique combinations were not. Blended specifically for the dive profiles, their fills covered a broad spectrum, and a mistake in the filling process could prove deadly. The dive geeks loved it for the nerdiness and science of the whole thing; spearfishermen got more time on the less-frequented sections of the reef; and the adventurous divers and photographers found it more appealing than the typical charter. Both were willing to pay a premium for the additional bottom time.
Typically, Nitrox, a breathing gas with a higher oxygen content than air, was blended to either thirty-two or thirty-six percent oxygen, as compared to the atmosphere, at just under twenty-one percent The added oxygen allowed divers longer bottom times. It did come at a cost, though: oxygen toxicity. Standard-air fills were safe at any depth, though recreational divers generally called 130 feet their limit. The downside was that bottom time was short and decompression stops, long. Nitrox fills capped the dive depth at 112 feet at the thirty-two percent blend and ninety-five feet at thirty-six percent but by mitigating nitrogen buildup allowed for considerably longer dives, with shorter decompression stops.
The Keys were famous for their reefs. Running from Biscayne National Park in Miami to beyond Key West, and marked by a string of iconic steel lighthouses set at intervals down the chain, standing sentinel over the shallower sections. Fish life was abundant in the sanctuaries by the lighthouses, but experienced divers craved depth and solitude. Diving was like a drug, and in some cases, with nitrogen narcosis, it was. Nitrox allowed the adventurous longer bottom times with shorter surface intervals. Typical charter operations included two dives. The first one deep, followed by a surface interval of about an hour, then a shallow dive. TJ and Alicia’s charters, using their custom blends, allowed three deep-water dives in the same timeframe.
In a highly competitive market, their business plan was solid and had differentiated them from the companies running twice-a-day cattle-cars out to the reef. Missing the two charters today to babysit Mako was going to cost the couple hundreds of dollars which, with the theft of the journal, they badly needed. Hurricane Irma had put a damper on last season’s tourist business
as well as their resources. Although Key Largo had been sixty miles away from the eye and suffered only minor damage, the perception was that the Keys got slammed—all of them.
She and TJ had talked late into the night about the loss of the journal and if her being on the charter had contributed to the bad outcome. To some degree it probably had, but they agreed that Mako had been set up by someone who knew the effect women had on him. Alicia’s voice in his ear would probably have had little effect on Mako’s decision-making.
It was three a.m., and she had been awake for what she guessed was an hour. With their charter at eight, she got up to try to see if she could get Mako back on track before going to her day job. Easing herself out of bed, trying not to wake TJ, she slid across the room, and closed the door.
In the kitchen, she brewed a pot of coffee and took the decanter into the war room. Behind what looked like double doors leading to a closet was a living-room-sized computer paradise. TJ, a skilled gamer, had his own work area highlighted by a captain’s chair that could have come from the deck of the Starship Enterprise. Alicia’s area was more modest, with a standard chair and desk. The centerpiece of the room was not the workstations, but the twenty-five-foot-long wall entirely covered in monitors.
Setting the coffee decanter down on her desk, she poured herself a cup, adjusted her chair, and pressed the space bar on her keyboard. Nothing happened for two long seconds, then the entire wall lit up. Acting as one display, the forty-odd monitors showed a replica of her desktop. TJ had configured the monitors to act independently, or together, or in any grouping the user desired. Blinded by the harsh light, Alicia scaled it back to a grouping of four monitors.
The first thing she saw was a motorcycle stopping in front of the safe house. Her training kicked in, and she picked up the headset on her desk, but then realized there would be no one on the other end.
10
Monti District, Rome
Mako crawled to the bedroom, where he removed his backup weapon, a Sig Sauer P320, from the safe in the closet and moved toward the door. His favorite, a Glock 43, was another casualty from last night. He got John’s attention, and put his index and middle finger to his eyes. John nodded, then squeezed off two more rounds from his trusty Colt 1911. Swinging the gun in the direction of the front door, he covered Mako, who slowly opened it and peered into the hallway.
Finding it empty, Mako started down the stairs, pausing at each landing to listen for anyone coming up. On the second floor he froze, and focused on the apartment’s door. It appeared closed, but Mako had heard something inside. With his body pressed against the adjacent wall, he slid closer. The door cracked an inch, and he instinctively moved, placing his back to the wall adjacent to the door. This was no time for safety and his finger slid toward the trigger. His gun hand was almost fully extended when he realized it was only the resident, whose curiosity had almost gotten him killed. Mako waved the gun at the man, and he disappeared back inside.
With John behind him, Mako dropped down to the main floor. They walked out the propped-open entry door and, looking in opposite directions, surveyed the street. To the left Mako saw one of the thousand arches de something. With no threat there he looked at John who shook his head. The gunman had fled. Or at least that’s what Mako thought. The only sign of the attack was the pockmarked stucco and the sound of sirens coming towards them.
“We’re good. He split.”
“Guess it’s not much of a safe house.” John stated the obvious, but his head was on a swivel, still very aware of his surroundings.
The last thing Mako wanted to do was bunk with his father, but he couldn’t stay here. “Where are you staying?”
“Got a flat near Vatican City.”
“Company house?”
John ignored the question and walked toward a small wine bar occupying the ground floor of the building next door. He took a table just inside the open roll-up door and watched the street while Mako grabbed his things from upstairs. Just as Mako appeared with a backpack and a small bag, several police cars with their sirens blaring made a high-speed turn into the street, then slowed. Mako motioned to John to meet him on the next block and, with the police cars slowly cruising past, he started walking toward the Via Cavour. In the few minutes it took to reach the main boulevard, the sirens had faded into the distance, probably chasing an anonymous tip called in by one of the assassins.
Once on the main avenue, Mako relaxed slightly, as they blended in with the hundreds of other tourists. The street, the most direct route to the ruins of the Colosseum and Forum, was crowded. Vendors broke the flow of traffic hawking roses, blankets, and selfie sticks, while the maître d's and waiters of the street-side cafes accosted pedestrians in a mostly futile attempt to seduce them to dine in their restaurants. Mako, with his duffle bag and backpack, fit right in with the couples and groups of people carrying, pulling, and pushing luggage.
Stepping past groups of tourists, John appeared anxious as he worked his way through the crowd. Mako tried to slow him, to no avail. For the old man to be nervous meant he expected the threat was not over.
“We’re good, right?” Mako asked, struggling with the extra weight and bulk of his bags to catch up.
“Like hell we are.” John jerked his head up the street.
Mako followed his father’s gaze to the next intersection, where he saw not one, but three, crotch-rockets. The high-speed motorcycles revved their engines, waiting for the light to turn. Seeing that John’s instincts were still right-on, Mako followed his lead.
The light changed, releasing the pent-up energy in the bikes. As they screamed down the avenue, John pulled Mako into a doorway.
“In here,” John yelled over the roar of the motorcycles. “Get a phone and get Alicia on the line.” Mako knew right away that John’s choice of refuge was not a random move. It couldn’t have been chance that he had pulled him into an electronics store, a rarity between the restaurants and souvenir stores.
“How do you know it’s them? There’re a dozen of those things on any street here.”
“Zero - eight - six - zero - nine.”
“You got the plate number.”
John didn’t bother answering. With one eye on the shelf stocked with phones behind the counter, and the other on the street, he guided Mako to the counter.
“Get two, and an extra couple of prepaid SIM cards.”
Mako didn’t question his reason, though he was surprised that his father knew what a SIM card was. John moved back to the door to watch the road while Mako purchased two identical phones and the cards. With the purchase complete, he opened one of the boxes.
“Dude says they’re usually at least half-charged.” Mako handed a phone to John.
“I don’t need one,” John said.
“They’re both for me?” Again, Mako wasn’t about to question his father’s motives. With one phone in his pocket, he stuffed the boxes in his backpack and slung it over his shoulder.
“Get Alicia on the line. We need her help to get us out of here.”
Mako slid the phone out and punched in the emergency number. Doing some quick math, he thought he’d be waking her up, but the phone barely rang before she picked up.
“What’s going on? I saw the motorcycle.”
“I’ve got a tag number, but we need to get out of here. There’s three of them, and they just cruised by.”
“Right. Getting your location from the phone. Hold.”
Mako often wondered if she had a human side, but right now he was happy if she didn’t. He waited while she worked, and was again thankful when he heard her yell for TJ.
“All right, we’ve got your location: 841 Via Cavour.”
“Right. We need to get to Vatican City. John says he has a place there.”
Mako was surprised that Alicia didn’t comment about their destination, but when the motorcycles screamed by, making another pass, the thought was gone in the flash—the flash of a bullet leaving the barrel of a gun.
The storefront window exploded.
John pulled his pistol from the holster, grabbed the duffle bag from Mako. Using it to conceal the weapon, he held the pistol pointed at the ground. From that position, in an instant it would be ready to discharge.
“Was that a gunshot?” Alicia asked.
“Yes, ma’am. We’ll be needing a route.” Mako looked out the window. Two of the bikes were pulled up on the sidewalk. He couldn’t tell if they were men or women from their bulky leathers and helmets, but from what he could see of their bodies, he suspected one of each. The third rider was nowhere in sight.
John worked his way to the side of the door and, between a gap in the stream of pedestrians who hadn’t quite figured out what was going on, fired a shot.
“It’s no use. There’re too many people out there. We need another exit. Now!”
“The metro would be the best place to ditch them,” Alicia said. “Checking stations.”
Squeezing the phone with his shoulder in order to keep his hands free, Mako only caught every other word, but it was enough. “Where’s the closest metro?” They both looked at the clerk.
He pointed toward the ruins at the end of the street running perpendicular to the Via Cavour. “We’re going to head to the Colosseum. See if we can get onto the metro.”
“I’ve got several traffic cameras streaming.”
Mako recognized TJ’s voice, and imagined him sitting in the captain’s chair manipulating the wall of monitors lighting up with information.
“We don’t have time for this, Mako,” John said.
Mako looked up and saw the two bikers, guns drawn, approaching the door. The few pedestrians that the broken window hadn’t scared away now ran, and the sirens that had faded into the distance became clearer.
The clerk rose from the protection of the counter, shrugged, and ran to the back of the shop. Mako and John followed, hoping for a back door. A minute later they found themselves in an alley, and turned toward the Colosseum.
Storm Surge: A Fast Paced International Adventure Thriller (Storm Thriller Series Book 3) Page 4