To Mako, his father was a bellwether of what he had to look forward to. In many ways it wasn’t bad. Mako didn’t expect many seventy-five-year-olds could have managed the last few hours like his father had. Aside from the glasses, which he had always worn, and the recent addition of a hearing aid, the older Storm was doing pretty well.
Approaching the entrance, John punched a four-digit code into the security panel. The lock buzzed and he opened the door. Remembering the wad of paper jammed into the door jamb of his safe house, Mako was relieved that the security lock actually worked. Once the smoke cleared, he would have to talk to Alicia about their un-safe house.
John’s, or likely his benefactor’s, apartment was on the second floor, well-placed for both observation and escape. Mako walked through the one-bedroom apartment, finding it much like the safe house where he had been staying.
13
Key Largo, Florida
When the door opened and the Storms walked into the safe house, Alicia leaned back and took a deep breath. Turning her attention back to the face on the screen, she studied Carlota Burga. On another screen, she could see her facial recognition algorithm continue to plow through the faces in the databases she had tapped into, still searching for a match. While it worked, she got up, grabbed her empty coffee carafe, and went to the kitchen thinking about the Mafia boss.
The woman in the picture on the monitors looked more like an attractive business woman than who she really was. In a male-dominated organization, it took a very special woman to rise as she had. Part of her success was her background in art. The other was her inborn meanness. Her temper and sadistic tendencies were well known, and incurring her wrath was to be avoided. Carlota Burga was no gun moll.
“You sure you’re okay if I go?” TJ asked.
Alicia looked up. “They’re in the Vatican City safe house now. Hopefully they’ll stay put for a while. Did you get Jen to give you a hand?”
“She’s good. If you need me just call in with a fake thunderstorm or something.” TJ grabbed the cooler from the counter, kissed Alicia on the cheek, and headed down to the boat.
Alicia looked out the window at the clouds, thinking she might not have to manufacture a fake storm. She felt guilty about staying back, but though the charter business provided day-to-day income, the contracts were their future. While she waited for the coffee to brew, she checked both the forecast and radar apps on her phone. TJ might have been joking about the thunderstorm, but this time of year in the Keys, they could be deadly. Every resident had their own go-to websites or apps to divine the weather here. Living on the thin strand of islands in the middle of the ocean instilled an awareness of the weather that to the residents became instinct.
Looking out the window, she watched TJ check the tanks. At least they’d had the forethought to fill them last night while the action across the pond was at a minimum. Sometimes the time change worked in their favor; mostly it didn’t. Alicia leaned back, realizing how tired she was.
The divers started to trickle in, and TJ was ready to greet them. Alicia always found the meet-and greet-interesting, later comparing her first impressions of how people talked about themselves and their experience against what actually happened. Most times she was able to tell the pretenders from the real deals, a trait that separated the good divemasters from those who just went through the motions.
Alicia heard a ding from the war room. Taking the fresh pot of coffee with her, she entered the sanctuary for round two. Juggling the two Storms when they were separate was problematic; when they were together, impossible. Sooner rather than later, if they hadn’t already figured it out, she’d have to tell them she was working with both of them. It had been a necessary evil to enlist the stable John to counteract the mercurial Mako. This was not the first time Alicia had used them both for the same contract. Having John around was an additional expense, but good insurance wasn’t cheap.
Two previously dark monitors had come to life while she had stepped away. Each showed the face of one of the other assailants and their records. It was a small victory, and Alicia allowed herself a smile. With rare exceptions, she worked as an analyst. Field agents got the glory; the backroom agents, who the agency couldn’t do without, had to take their accolades in smaller doses.
Alicia had always been a star. Driven hard by her mother, she matriculated Stanford in just three years on a full-ride scholarship. Even before she graduated, she had several offers, including grad school. In the post-9/11 atmosphere of her graduation, wanting to do something for her country made the decision easy for her. At least at that point in her career, the excitement of top-secret work and international intrigue appealed to her more than the six-figure salaries the private companies were tossing around. It was a good thing that Langley, Virginia, was thousands of miles from her mother, who thought turning down the big payday was a bad move. Alicia stayed the course. She always knew the money would come.
She had risen quickly through the ranks, garnering notice from many supervisors. One in particular adopted her, but he turned out to be a rogue agent. To clear her name, she had gone into the field. Thinking about it, she smiled. Alicia and TJ had met on that case, through fishing guide/diver Mac Travis and his wayward deckhand, Trufante. Alicia wasn’t charged or even disciplined, but the association with the man was enough to derail her career. Instead of slugging it out in the trenches trying to reestablish herself, she chose the island life and the occasional contract.
Even during the hard times, most notably post-Irma, she had never regretted her decision. Through her childhood and early adult life she had been buried in books, both by her mother’s insistence and her own inclination. After getting a taste of the field and becoming an accomplished diver, she relished her time away from the wall of monitors.
She put aside thoughts of TJ and the reef and focused on the bios of the three faces on the screen. All morning she’d been searching for an explanation of how they knew about the safe house. It was a CIA property, and she laid the blame at its feet. She would deal with that later, and turned her attention to the half-dozen screens on the upper-right section of the wall showing the Vatican City property. The video was in real time, all taken from public or easily accessible private feeds. Between the advent of facial recognition software and the proliferation of surveillance cameras, there was a distinct possibility that someone was sitting in a room just like this—sans Captain Kirk’s chair—looking at the same information, but with different intent. The parallel spy universe.
Situational awareness was an attribute that separated the good analysts from the great ones. Alicia redirected her attention to what was important. If she was going down a rabbit hole, it would be one that directly affected their case, not just because she could. Sipping her coffee, she read the bios of the men. There was no question they were Mafia.
Beside both being headquartered in Italy, she wondered about the connection between the Church and La Cosa Nostra. Five minutes later, she had just scratched the surface of the two entities’ involvement. Shocked, she sat back and tried to digest the scope of the conspiracies that linked them together. Seeing Burga and the men on one screen and the Vatican in the background put an idea in Alicia’s head.
14
Outside Vatican City
With the burner phone laying on the table between them, Mako and John sat by the window, watching the street and debating what their next move should be. Alicia had passed on the information about their assailants; now the question was what to do about it.
“With two groups after us, it would make sense to split up,” John said.
Mako had no problem with that. The fact that they had gotten through the morning without a fight was not lost on him.
“John should stay here and work the Vatican angle. I’ll head to Sicily,” he spoke into the phone.
“We’ve got to find the journal first. My suggestion would be for you both to stay put and work together.”
“Looks like the boss has spok
en,” John said quietly. “You’re right.”
Mako nodded.
“Mako?”
At least she didn’t have cameras in here. “Yes, I’m good with that. The burner phones are fine for general communication, but I lost the earbud.”
“John, can you handle that? Once you have it, I’ll sync it up.”
They disconnected and John headed to the bedroom. He returned a minute later with an old-school phone book, leafed through the worn pages, and dialed a number on the house phone. A brief conversation ensued, from which a meet was set.
“You think James Bond’s got cool shit. Wait till you meet my guy.”
“A regular father-son outing to the arms dealer, very nice,” Mako said, without a trace of sarcasm.
Castel Sant’Angelo, Rome
As they walked up to the entrance of the Castel Sant’Angelo, Mako looked up at the cylindrical building. “A museum? Looks more like a castle to me.”
“It’s been everything from Hadrian’s family tomb to a prison. The curator here is an old friend.” John led the way through a side door marked as an employee entrance.
They climbed a circular stairway that rose into the heart of the old fortress. Near what Mako assumed was the top, John pulled a door open and they entered a room with a display of armaments. Tourists crowded the fronts of the glass-lined cases, but Mako was able to see some old, yet pretty impressive weaponry. They passed through the room and stopped at an unmarked door. This time John knocked.
Several minutes later, the door cracked open and they entered. Mako had expected an “old friend” of his father’s to be, well, old. That was not the case at all; the woman hugging his father was closer to Mako’s age—and very attractive.
“Juliet, this is Mako.”
While they exchanged pleasantries Mako studied the woman. She was indeed his contemporary. Standing about his father’s height, six inches shorter than he himself stood, she was a stunning woman with wavy auburn hair and classic Italian features. Her sleeveless blouse showed her toned arms. They, at least, were bare of tattoos, something he really liked about Italian women.
“Come, let me see if I can help you.” She led them into a small room.
James Bond had been one of Mako’s heroes, and now he was standing in what looked like Q’s lab, but Juliet looked a whole lot different than the bookish scientist.
“Here.” Juliet held out two earbuds.
Mako reached for one and placed it in his ear, half expecting Alicia to know it was there and to start talking. Not surprisingly, John declined one.
“What other goodies have you got?” John asked. “We had to ditch our weapons.”
“Most are above your pay grade, but I can give you a quick tour.”
Mako followed John and Juliet into a dark room. The flick of a switch turned on a bank of overhead lights illuminating another weapons collection. Laid out on tables was an assortment of modern-day weaponry. There were no glass cases protecting the weapons, and Mako reached for a Glock 43, a very familiar weapon.
“Ghost Rocket Connector for a 3.5lb trigger pull and fiberoptic sights,” she said, leading them past the tables to another door.
“Take what you need. I know where to send the bill,” Juliet said.
“You might want something with a little more power,” John said.
Mako lifted his shirt tail and stuck the weapon in his waistband. After replacing his shirt, the pistol was barely noticeable.
John picked up a .45, similar to the Colt 1911 he usually carried. “This’ll do the trick.”
“That’s got an 8-pound trigger pull. Might be a little heavy,” Juliet said.
“It’ll work,” John said.
Mako turned back to the display. “We should at least both get something chambered for 9-millimeter,” Mako said. Sooner or later having weapons with different ammunition would get them into trouble.
Juliet raised her eyebrows in agreement, but John shook his head.
Agreeing to disagree, they each reached for a box of bullets and two spare magazines.
“You Americans are so boring,” Juliet said, lifting a miniature version of a submachine gun.
“Trust what you know,” John said, removing his gun and sliding the pistol into his shoulder holster, checking that it fit neatly underneath his jacket. He turned and hugged Juliet.
Thanking Juliet, Mako could only hope to find an excuse and come back alone.
Piazza Novona, Rome
With phones in hand, Carlota Burga and her two henchmen sat within view of each other, but at separate cafés. Using a proven tactic to communicate without attracting suspicion, they texted each other. With security cameras now mounted everywhere and tied into facial recognition software, Burga was constantly vigilant about who she was seen with. Rather than risk being overheard on their phones, they used SnapChat, knowing in twenty-four hours their conversation would be deleted.
There was no finger-pointing. It wasn’t particularly their fault the two Americans had escaped. They were working on limited intelligence; their targets being handed to them from an anonymous source just last night. Considering the circumstances, they had come close to their goal.
Even in failure, Carlota now knew the journal existed. Working from a tip that the journal was about to be brought to light, Burga and her associates had worked nonstop, tracking down the man she now knew as Mako Storm.
Her search led her to believe the men were CIA. It wasn’t from any particular piece of evidence, but rather the amount of subterfuge involved. Clandestine agencies liked to hide behind shills and paperwork. Burga was very good at tearing down their fronts. Banking and laziness often provided the clues. The tip that the journal was about to change hands had been accurate, although it failed to bear fruit. In the past twenty-four hours, she had dug into Mako Storm’s background. Once she knew who he was, the rest had been easy. Knowing what bank the CIA checks were drawn on, she had discovered a monthly payment to an apartment in the Monti district. Her prey had proven elusive so far, but she knew persistence paid off, and had every expectation of recovering the journal.
15
Vatican City
Albert Maldonado had been waiting in the shadows of the complex when the drop was supposed to take place. He knew firsthand something had gone wrong, and now he had no choice but to wait by his phone for John Storm or the CIA to make it right. He was grateful, at least to this point, that no one knew the drop had gone awry. If word had gotten out, one of his many enemies in the Vatican would be relishing his loss.
Maldonado knew the playing field—he had been the one to set the pieces in place. Waiting on the CIA, he had called Interpol, which also had an investigator looking for the journal. He knew who she was. If there was anyone who knew what had happened to the CIA operative last night it was Saba, though that wasn’t particularly good news. He knew the woman could hold a grudge.
Offering a visit to the warehouses of the Vatican as a lure, he called Saba and invited her to come by his office. She accepted, and surprised the bishop when she said it would take her less than an hour to reach his office. After alerting the guards at the Piazza del Sant’Uffizio, one of the Vatican entrances accessible by vehicle, he waited, trying not to let his paranoia get the best of him.
Behind the Institute of Works for Religion was a small parking lot where she would have been directed to park. Maldonado glanced at the six-foot-tall tube leaning innocently in the corner of his office. Leaving it, he exited the room and walked to the parking lot. He was standing by the entrance to greet her when she arrived. These visits required all the pomp and circumstance he could gather.
Saba parked her car, got out, and looked around. Maldonado could tell from the direction of her gaze that she was looking at the dome over St. Peter’s just behind the office building. He enjoyed her apparent awe for a moment before moving toward her. As he approached, she came back to earth, and accepted a kiss on each cheek. Arm in arm, like a father and daughter, they walked a
cross the parking lot to the entrance to the Institute of Works for Religion.
His office was a shrine of sorts as well, built to impress visitors. Doctors, lawyers, and businessmen all had their wall of achievements. There were no diplomas on Maldonado’s, only multiple pictures of the bishop alongside the two popes he had worked for. Each was taken in a different location and there were enough to let the visitor know that he and the popes were more than casual acquaintances.
“Saba, my dear, how are you?”
“I’m fine, Bishop Maldonado. What can I do for you?”
He liked the woman sitting across from him. It wasn’t sexual, although he did have an eye for beauty. With a reputation for employing the hottest secretaries in Vatican City, there were many who sought to find the scandal that would oust him from power, but Albert Maldonado was a careful man.
“As well as can be expected,” he said, giving her an inquiring look. Maldonado had found his collar was often more intimidating than his size. “Come, let’s talk where we have more privacy.” Few outsiders had been allowed to visit the vault under the Sistine Chapel. Considering the circumstances, and her position with Interpol, he found it appropriate to show her exactly how much power the Church had. Although the contents were concealed, the countless boxes and tubes stacked on the shelves in the vault were awe-inspiring—and worth more than the pieces displayed in the museum.
Leaving the offices of the Institute of Works for Religion, commonly known as the Vatican Bank, Maldonado gave Saba a quick insider’s tour as they skirted St. Peter’s and walked up to an unmarked door on the side of the Sistine Chapel, stopping by the two colorfully attired Swiss Guards. The bishop was immediately recognized and, without a word, one of the armed men opened the door.
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