Storm Surge: A Fast Paced International Adventure Thriller (Storm Thriller Series Book 3)

by Steven Becker

  They walked down the short hallway to an elevator, where Maldonado slid his access card into a slot. A whooshing sound came from the shaft as the car climbed to the main floor. The doors opened, Maldonado waved a gracious hand allowing Saba to board first, stepped in, then pressed the button marked “2.”

  He looked over at Saba, and got the expected surprise when the cab went down instead of up. A few seconds later they left the elevator, where they were greeted by another guard, who unlocked a steel cage. This was the end of the physical security, although he knew there were cameras hidden everywhere. The temperature-controlled room was lined with shelves as far as the eye could see. They were full of crates, boxes, and tubes, each with a handwritten tag on it.

  There was no computer inventory of the world’s largest collection of stolen art.

  Walking toward the rear of the vault, the bishop found the row of shelves he was looking for and stepped into the close quarters. There was no need to check if Saba was behind him. He could sense she was tripping over her dropped jaw—the expected reaction.

  Stopping by an area labeled “Caravaggio,” he looked at her sternly. “I understand the journal was lost,” Maldonado said, templing his fingers into a church steeple. The gesture was crafted to provide a level of solemnness, but he often thought about inverting his hands and “showing the people.”

  “Unfortunate, but I have every reason to believe we will recover it.”

  “Any leads?”

  “You know that is classified.”

  He knew she was trying to maintain eye contact, but her attention was diverted to the contents of the vault. Even the most sophisticated people were intimidated here.

  “Of course, but you will let me know the minute you have anything you can release,” he said.

  “Of course,” she said. “Do you mind?” she asked, moving closer to study the contents of the shelves.

  Maldonado ignored the request. Using his body, he started to guide her away from the racks. Being here was enough; even a casual examination of the tags and labels would reveal more than he had intended her—or anyone—to see.

  “Ouch,” Saba exclaimed, dropping to one knee.

  Maldonado turned.

  “Sorry, just stubbed my toe. I should have worn sturdier shoes.”

  He turned back toward the main aisle. Noticing Saba lagging behind, he stopped, and turned to see what was wrong.

  “I’m okay. These sandals … “ She shrugged, and rose to her full height.

  Leading her back through to the elevator, he hoped the visit would serve its purpose to show his control over the wealth and power of the church. He signaled the guard, who opened the gate. The elevator was waiting for them, and they stepped in together.

  “I have every confidence we will recover the journal,” she said.

  Maldonado wasn’t sure it would be coming from her, but he would get it. He had other irons in the fire. With all the scandals surrounding the Vatican—and more specifically the IOR, the Institute for Works of Religion, where he was positioned at the right hand of the bank’s president—it was important to do a little politicking with Interpol and the CIA. He’d already talked to John Storm, his connection there. Meeting with Saba was just checking another box.

  Until the most recent pope took office, the IOR was one of the most secretive—and wealthy—institutions in the world. Formed in 1942 by Pope Pius XII, the bank had slipped through every fiducial, political, and moral loophole in turning the Vatican away from the doorstep of bankruptcy to being one of the wealthiest corporations on the planet. They accomplished this by faceless control. As a sovereign nation, the Vatican Bank avoided the restrictions placed on private institutions. With no paper trail, investigators had been stymied in proving what they knew to be true: The Vatican Bank excelled at transferring wealth, otherwise known as money laundering.

  The elevator reached the main floor, where they exited and crossed the small foyer to the exit.

  “If that’s everything, I’d like to get back to work,” Saba said.

  Maldonado was relieved, and he walked her to her car, then watched her drive away.

  16

  Piazza Navona, Rome

  With the reassuring bulk of their new weapons—Mako’s in the small of his back, and John’s in a shoulder holster under his jacket—the two men walked confidently across the Ponte’ Umberto. Leaving Castel Sant’Angelo behind, John and Mako had no immediate destination. Juliet had synced the earbud before they left and Mako had Alicia back in his head.

  “She’s got a hit on the woman who had taken the journal through a camera at the Vatican.” Mako relayed the conversation to John, explained her name was Saba Dragovich, and an Interpol agent. He was still processing that last bit when John interrupted.

  “Woman scares me,” John said, meaning Alicia. He was curious how the analyst had found Saba, but didn’t want to bog down the discussion. Thinking about how much computer power it would take to run facial recognition software on every surveillance camera in Rome, he realized that nerds really did rule the earth.

  “Is she still there?” He stopped; Vatican City was behind them now.

  Mako relayed the question. “No, Alicia caught her on the way out. Found the car she’s driving on a traffic camera. She’s headed out of town, toward A90.”

  The beltway around Rome could be taking her anywhere, but John had an idea where she was going. If his assumption was correct, she would head south until reaching A90 which would intersect with A91, and take her to the airport. Even if they left immediately, they were too far behind to catch her.

  “No point wasting energy chasing our tails. You hungry? We can grab a bite and wait till she gets where she’s going.” John had learned long ago that time, even during critical stages of an operation, fell into a different continuum. They would lose nothing by getting a bite and recharging. “You might want to have Alicia book us flights to Sicily—Palermo and Catania, near Syracuse.”

  “Right on. The extra tickets’ll put her over the edge.” With a smile on his face, Mako paused. “There’s a plaza up there with a couple of fountains and some cafes.”

  John didn’t care about the financial arrangements. He was sure Saba was headed to Sicily. Buying tickets to the two cities was well worth the cancellation fee for one. He let Mako take the lead until they reached the Piazza Navona. Stopping by the Egyptian obelisk the Romans had been so fond of collecting, he studied the square. Location was just as important to John as the menu or food. He sought out a position with clear sight lines and an easy exit. His experience had taught him that there seemed to be a universal pull between adversaries, often bringing them together when they least expected it. There was also the fact that Burga had found them before—she could do it again.

  Something unusual caught his eye. At first, he wasn’t sure what it was. Even someone with clandestine skills in their blood, like John Storm, would have had trouble identifying as suspect any of the people sitting in the café across the piazza. To most, they just looked like customers—some drinking coffee, others not, with their faces buried in their phones. Anomalies were what he was trained to notice. Instinctively, his eyes tracked back and forth, comparing the customers. He was not sure what was bothering him. It wasn’t unusual for someone to be alone, enjoying drinks in the afternoon.

  Most of the patrons were enjoying Aperol spritzes or wine, but what John had noticed was an attractive woman and two men all sitting alone, drinking coffee. He had no reason to hide his suspicions from Mako.

  “Those two men over there, and that woman …” He was curious to see if Mako picked up on anything. “Did you get a good look at them earlier?” His son looked up from his own phone.

  “That’s them.”

  While Mako relayed the information to Alicia, John continued his observation. It took a few minutes to realize what had eluded him, but after Mako had confirmed their identities, he picked up a pattern. The three were clearly texting each other. If they had bee
n sitting together, John would have noticed it immediately. Very clever, John thought, as he revised his estimate of his adversaries’ capabilities. He knew their escape in the Colosseum had been as much luck as skill. If they hadn’t found the old drainage pipe they would have been discovered.

  Without any acknowledgment to the other two, the woman got up and left the café. John thought for a second about splitting up and following her, while Mako watched the men. He decided against it.

  “What about that other woman, Saba?” John asked.

  Mako asked Alicia. “Still in transit. What do you want to do? Split up?”

  John Storm preferred to work alone, but he knew in this case it wasn’t a good idea. “We watch these guys until Alicia has a location for your girlfriend.” Mako’s face reddened at the barb. John hadn’t meant to get under his skin. He knew his presence was enough to do that on its own. Moving to an open area, he sat on the lip of the fountain, where the flow of water from a stallion’s mouth concealed them from the assailants.

  The woman ran to a black Ford Focus, which John suspected to be an Uber. Cursing the service and their endless stream of anonymous vehicles, they made the old “follow that cab” routine obsolete. The car pulled into traffic. As one of the most popular models in Rome, it instantly blended in with a half-dozen similar vehicles. Straining his eyes, it was soon too far away for him to see the license plate.

  “Get the plate on that car,” John said, pointing out the vehicle to Mako, who had been talking to Alicia and missed the woman’s exit.

  Mako started to rise. John grabbed him, pulling him back. A quick glance confirmed the two men were still sitting in the cafe. At six feet, Mako stood out in a crowd.

  “Too far,” Mako said.

  “Give her the description of the Uber to pass along in case she gets lucky with the traffic cameras.”

  Mako relayed the information. “She’s on it. We’ve also got the plane tickets.”

  John never doubted Alicia’s efficiency. He glanced at his old analogue watch. “Just under an hour until the first flight.” Having seen Alicia and TJ’s war room in Key Largo firsthand, he was well aware she had both the mind and the tools to multitask.

  “Let’s keep an eye on our friends here for a bit until we know her destination.” As they sat watching, John was starting to feel like the gears around them were all turning, but the cog that represented him and Mako was missing.

  It was disheartening, but he knew he needed to be patient. Feeling his stomach grumble, he scanned the outdoor cafés. Lag times needed to be utilized and food was important. “Let’s grab a bite over there.” He pointed at a café across the plaza with another fountain between them.

  Mako rose, but John grabbed his arm. Again. “The other two are leaving.”

  The Storms watched as the men left the café and started across the plaza, moving directly toward them. They again spaced themselves far enough apart that they wouldn’t appear together, but their direction was clear. Just before they reached the fountain, John let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. The men separated. One walked toward the plaza’s far end, but the other man was still coming directly toward them. John reached into his jacket, securing a grip on the 1911 and waiting for the inevitable.

  17

  Outside Rome

  Saba tried to relax her foot on the gas pedal. Focusing on her goal, she slowed for a red light and started to breath deeply. Inhaling for four seconds, she held her breath for four seconds, exhaled for four seconds, and held again. It took several cycles for the rhythm to relax her. With her “monkey mind” on hold, her thoughts clarified. Maldonado’s charisma had almost sucked her in; fortunately, she’d had nothing to give him at the time, and her feigned stumble had actually revealed something that might be useful.

  In hindsight, taking the meeting had been a mistake, but she felt she had to see what cards the bishop held. Now that she knew, as she followed the signs toward A12 and the airport, she relaxed. In a few days she would produce the journal and expose the Vatican’s charade. It would be the tip of a very large iceberg and, once dislodged, she hoped the house of cards would fall and expose the Church for what it was. She couldn’t wait for Maldonado’s press conference to explain his way out of this. She expected the statement was already written, explaining to the art world how the Church’s motive was to protect the artwork, not enrich themselves.

  As she closed on the airport, she accelerated. Timing was crucial. One of the hindrances to being with Interpol was being accountable to her superiors, and she couldn’t travel under an assumed name—unless she wanted to cover her own expenses. There was a trade-off, the benefit being that she was allowed to travel with her firearm. In this case, knowing what was involved, she chose protection over anonymity.

  Saba had been ruthless in her pursuit of art thefts and forgeries. So much so that she had cultivated an image of being a lone wolf. Allowed to work without a partner, she had freedom. Though she could do what and go where she wanted—as long as results followed—she lacked the resources having a partner provided. In this case it would have been to keep an eye on Mako Storm. He might have been an easy mark last night, but he was sure to be after her now—with the resources of the CIA and Alicia Phon behind him.

  She hadn’t checked in with her office since last night, and it was past time for an update. To her superiors this trip had to look like the natural progression of a case and not a witch hunt. As she started to think about a plausible reason for her trip to Syracuse, the bumper of the car in front of her came up quickly—almost too quickly. The flash of brake lights barely gave warning of the accident ahead. Grabbing the wheel, she pulled onto the shoulder to avoid the entangled vehicles, and coasted to a stop behind the collision.

  Several bystanders pulled over near the accident, many with the intention of being good Samaritans. Trying to merge back into traffic, she noticed a black Ford Focus pull in behind her. There was no reason to expect the driver was doing anything except trying to help, until she saw the Uber sign stuck to the windshield, and the barrel of a gun emerge from the rear window.

  Saba was conflicted, but there was no time to sort through the impressions racing through her mind. Her instincts as a criminal investigator screamed “shooter.” Then, as the gun swung in her direction, she realized it wasn’t a random occurrence. Accelerating into an opening between the rubberneckers, she was able to dodge the first bullet, but the driver compensated for her action. Leaning out the window the passenger fired again. Caught in the traffic gridlock, there was no way for Saba to avoid the next shot. The back windshield shattered, spraying glass into the front seat. Something warm and sticky started running down the back of her neck.

  With her head on a swivel, Saba sought for an escape from the stopped traffic. Sirens could be heard in the background. They weren’t for her situation, though. A glance in her mirror told her the shooter, a woman, had exited the Uber. As the shooter approached the car she locked the doors and reached for her purse. Dragging the bag from the passenger side toward her, she rummaged through it, looking for her pistol. Traffic was now moving at a snail’s pace, allowing the woman to easily overtake the vehicle. She grabbed the grip of the pistol, but before she could aim it, the glass from the passenger window shattered and the barrel of the gun encroached on her space. The woman used the weapon to clear away the broken glass and pointed it directly at her.

  “You will remove your hand from the bag, move it out of reach, and place both hands on the wheel,” the woman said as she entered the vehicle.

  “What do you want? I am an officer with Interpol. This will not end well for you.” Saba sat back, startled when she realized it was Carlotta Burga holding the gun on her.

  “I am fully aware of who you are— and what you took from the American agent.”

  Saba’s mind raced. The sirens were close now. Traffic was still at a standstill. In her rearview mirror she could see the lights of a fire truck and an ambulance trying to penetra
te the logjam to reach the accident. Looking over at the Mafia boss pointing a gun at her head, Saba desperately tried to figure out how to play the traffic jam to her advantage. Her first instinct was to get out, but her weapon was in her bag set behind her, just out of reach. There was little doubt Burga would shoot her in the back. Saba held her breath.

  Dying was not going to bring down the Church. If the journal was lost, the Church would win, and that was not acceptable. Thinking through her options, she glanced at her cellphone in the cup holder. As if reading her mind, Burga reached for it and tossed it out the shattered window. There was nothing she could do now except drive—and think.

  “Where are we going?” she asked. Saba’s training had taught her to engage her captor. She’d long known her strength was in research, and was one of the reasons she had ended up in the art world, where the investigations tended to be detail oriented. Taking the journal was a first for her. She’d worked on her own before, but never with her own agenda overriding the mission. Though her captor didn’t know it, this mess was Saba’s own fault. She cursed herself for tipping off the woman across from her. She was well aware that using her good looks plus a little charm—never mind having a prearranged escape route—had made Mako Storm an easy target. Calling in the anonymous tip to a Mafia connection to flush him out had been her choice, though a necessary means to flush out Mako before he could complete the contract.

  She’d never been in this situation before. The woman who had overtaken the passenger’s seat would not be fazed by looks or wit. The best Saba could do was to keep her talking in the hope it would humanize her if it came to a life or death choice.

  Burga didn’t respond to her question, only motioned with the barrel of the gun for her to continue. Saba considered her actions, knowing she was in the hands of a sociopath.