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

by Steven Becker

  It was hard to plan not knowing their destination. A91 ran to the coast, as well as to Leonardo da Vinci Airport, where Saba had been headed. If their destination was still the airport, she had no idea how Burga was going to get her on a plane. As an Interpol agent, Saba had to identify herself prior to security. Another option was to take her by boat. The third, and least preferable, was to an unmarked grave somewhere in the scenic countryside. That thought alone made her even more vigilant for any opportunity for escape.

  They had been driving for about fifteen minutes when Burga finally spoke. Since abducting Saba, Burga had searched her bag and the front-seat area of the vehicle, then had spoken in hushed tones with someone over the phone. Burga was clearly frustrated, and Saba wondered how long it would take her to figure out the journal was hidden in her apartment back in the city. Saba had painstakingly photographed each aged page, some several times under different light. To a buyer, the authenticity of the journal was critical; Saba already knew it was the real thing. Her goal was to use Caravaggio’s own words to crack the window of doubt. As paranoid as art collectors were, that would be enough. Then, she would show the art world how they had been duped.

  “Take the next exit.”

  They were still twenty minutes from the airport. There was little point speculating where Burga was taking her. Saba had learned early in her career that it was useless to waste energy on things beyond your control, especially trying to anticipate the criminal mind. Even after a dozen years she still had trouble understanding their actions.

  Precious little space separated the vehicles as the traffic speed finally climbed to the 131 kilometer per hour speed limit. The woman, still on the phone, motioned with the gun at the exit sign, a not-so-subtle reminder of what she had previously ordered.

  With the exit approaching, Saba could see Burga glancing frequently toward it. Saba started to panic, as the blinker seemed to have no effect on the drivers to her right. She glanced over her shoulder, making eye contact with the driver beside her. Fortunately, it was a man, who graciously waved her across. Glancing back at the road, she found herself in the same predicament with two more lanes to cross. The turn signal was again ignored and, wanting to use the same ploy, Saba took one more look ahead to confirm the spacing of the cars in front of and beside her. A brake light two cars up kept her attention forward for a few seconds—long enough to catch the eye of a man in the passenger seat of an adjacent car. She thought she recognized the man, but before she could get another look, the cars were separated.

  The driver ahead released the brakes, and the contact was quickly forgotten, as Saba noticed that Burga seemed more nervous as the exit approached. Becoming more aggressive, Saba willed the car across the two lanes of traffic separating her from the exit. With less than a hundred feet to spare, she pulled into the exit lane and prepared for the inevitable. With her phone lost miles back and probably shattered, she feared for her life.

  18

  Old Rome

  For no apparent reason, the man coming directly toward them veered away at the last second. Neither Mako nor John had expected it, and each eased their grip on their weapon as he passed without a glance. It was a strange encounter, to say the least. Maybe it was because his head was down, looking at his phone screen, but the man should have recognized them. Just another sign of sloppy tradecraft.

  “We need to split up,” John said. “You take the airport, I’ll follow our friend here.” John was more familiar with Rome, and felt he had a better chance of tailing the man.

  “Sounds good.” Mako pulled out his phone.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Uber, Pops. Ever try it? Works for the good guys, too.”

  John regarded the rideshare service as just another technological complication. “Whatever. Keep in touch.”

  “Sure thing.” Mako took off for an adjacent street.

  John didn’t wait to see what kind of ride Mako had arranged for himself. His eyes hadn’t left the man from the café since he had moved past them. In the moment, he studied his adversary. From a hundred feet away, the guy towered over the other tourists, who parted to allow him to pass. If he’d had “THUG” tattooed on his forehead it couldn’t be any more apparent what he was. His lips were tightly pursed as he studied the street as if he didn’t have a plan. John took that as a blessing and, glancing each way to evaluate his surroundings, he took off after the man.

  The man headed toward Old Rome, which worked to the elder Storm’s benefit. With each block, pedestrian and vehicular traffic increased until both were near a standstill at the traffic circle in front of the Victor Emanuel II monument. From John’s experience, it held the standard afternoon fair: pedestrians, bicycles, scooters, street vendors, horns, sirens, and drivers flipping each other off. The only things that had changed over the years were the goods the vendors shoved in front of the pedestrians.

  John eased sideways through the crowd, thankful for the height of the man he followed. It worked in his favor, and he felt the reassuring bulk of the 1911 in its holster. Knowing, if it came to a face-off, he would likely need it.

  Taking up the entire horizon, the massive monument loomed large behind the gridlocked traffic creeping around the Piazza Venezia. Just before crossing the street to the green space in the center of the oval, the man instead turned right onto Via Plebiscito. John followed, allowing a little more space between them to compensate for the thinning foot traffic. After one long block, taken up by the National Museum, and several shorter ones, John found himself looking down at another set of ruins. The Largo di Torre Argentina encompassed an entire city block. It was one of a few sites where visitors were allowed to descend to the level of the ancient city and walk through the ancient columns surrounding a decayed circular foundation.

  The site of Julius Caesar’s murder was one of the “undiscovered” ruins of Rome, frequented more by the local cat population, which were protected inside its boundaries, than by tourists. John became suspicious, as the man descended a set of stone stairs from the street to the ruins. With the amount of tourist traffic at the old sites, they were perfect for clandestine meetings and dead drops, though John wondered why the man had chosen this less-frequented place.

  Moving to the metal railing outlining the perimeter of the excavation, John looked down at the ruins of the Curia de Pompey, where Caesar had been stabbed to death over two thousand years ago. From this perspective, there was no sign of the man, but there were many blind spots scattered throughout the old site, leaving John no choice but to climb down the staircase.

  John hurried down the stairs, knowing he was exposed and vulnerable as he descended ten feet to the level of the ancient city. Reaching the old paving stones, he glanced around, drawing a deep breath when he saw no sign of the man. Staying tight to the crumbling walls, he started moving around the perimeter searching for the man. From his position he had been able to observe the other three staircases. They remained vacant. The man was still down here.

  He felt something, gasped and jumped forward, then realizing it was only one of the feral cats brushing against his legs, tried to calm down. John had felt his age in the last few years. It had been all good through his fifties and sixties, but the next decade had started to take its toll. From his early years, starting as an intelligence officer in charge of a reconnaissance team in Vietnam, John had believed that over everything else, including luck, it was discipline and attention to detail that had kept him alive. It was not lost on him that the Roman Empire was built on the same trait, and though a fierce patriot, there was something in this city’s Stoic roots that drew him like a magnet.

  Staying in the shadows as much as possible, he passed the old foundation of the theater, trying to look into the dark arches ahead. He was certain the man was not behind him—he had to be inside one of the openings. A brief inspection told him that these were newer, built as a retaining wall to hold the street above. The arches were shallow, mere decoration, but a clandes
tine conversation or exchange could easily occur in the three-foot-deep recess.

  The first opening was bricked up. Sliding along the wall, John approached the next opening, listening as he moved. Stepping past the archway was a bit like walking off a cliff, but the recess was empty, as was the next. John took a second to scan the rest of the ruins. There was no sign of the man. He had to be in one of the three openings ahead.

  Knowing he was close, John reached into his jacket for his pistol, removed it from the holster and, with his right hand shielded from view by the brick wall, dropped the weapon to his side. His hand remained on the stock and his finger on the trigger guard as he approached the second-to-last archway.

  Something flashed past him just as he stepped into the opening, but after the last encounter he was ready and stepped aside as two cats bolted from the cover of the archway and ran across the ruins. He was prepared for them, but in the split second that they had drawn his attention, a hand reached around his neck, grabbing his nose and mouth. Before he could react, he could feel the man’s forearm and bicep squeezing his carotid artery.

  Everything went black.

  When his eyes fluttered open, squinting at the bright light, he had no idea how long he had been out, and it took a few seconds for his memory to reboot and come fully back to consciousness. Seated on the old stone floor of the archway, the man hovered over him. There was no need to check his pocket for his pistol—the man had it pointed at him.

  19

  Outside Rome

  Mako knew using Uber was a crapshoot, and the driver of the compact didn’t disappoint. As he snatched the twenty-euro note from Mako’s fingertips, he simultaneously slammed his foot on the accelerator. With a smile on his face, he wove in and out of traffic, navigating the busy streets. Several times, even before reaching the highway, the G-forces had pulled Mako back into the small seat. Having to jam his body into the the tiny car had seemed like getting into a clown car, but as the driver skillfully fit the ultra-compact into spaces even a small sedan couldn’t enter, he appreciated the vehicle.

  Reaching A91, the driver took the entry ramp marked for the airport and accelerated onto the highway, the gravitational pull as he accelerated strong enough to shove Mako against the door. Traffic was still heavy, causing Mako to calculate the time he had until the first flight. Sitting back, he felt a tingling in his legs. Trying to find a comfortable position, finally, his body and the car reached a compromise and he relaxed. With the driver’s propensity for speed, they should reach the airport in plenty of time.

  That was true until they crested a small rise and looked down on a long line of brake lights ahead. In the distance Mako could see the flashing lights of several emergency vehicles working an accident. Before he could come up with a plan “B,” the car was wedged between a truck on one side, and even larger vehicles on the other three. With the small space of the car closing in on him, Mako had to make a decision.

  According to the last sign they had passed, they were still forty kilometers from the airport. His flight left in ninety minutes. There was no way, even if the accident were cleared in the next few minutes—and with the ambulance still on site, it didn’t seem likely—that he would make the flight.

  Trying not to feel like he was reporting to, but rather simply checking in with his partner, he pressed John’s number in the short contact list he had entered in the burner phone. The call went to voicemail. Mako left a brief but innocuous message, in case anyone was listening, that he was stuck in traffic, and disconnected.

  “Any idea how long?” Mako peered across at the driver’s phone, set into a holder attached to the windshield. The estimated time to their destination now read over an hour. If that was correct, he would miss the second flight as well. The driver shrugged in response. There had been no indication that he spoke English.

  “It looks bad,” Alicia’s voice penetrated his skull.

  Mako had forgotten about the earbud. Instead of responding immediately, which would surely have elicited a response from the driver, he raised the phone to his ear.

  “Hello,” he started, trying to make it sound like an ordinary phone call.

  “What are you doing?” Alicia asked.

  The proximity of the smartphone to the earpiece shot a screaming feedback noise through his head. Alicia must have heard it as well.

  “Oh, got it. Good idea. I see you’re stopped. What’s going on?”

  Mako gave her an update on the traffic and waited for a response. The logical move would be to take the next exit and work the surface streets, something Alicia was more than competent enough to guide them through. Unfortunately, they had just passed an exit, and had not even reached a sign for the next.

  “No way we can exit anytime soon,” Mako said, anticipating her next question.

  Stuck in the passenger seat with his knees jammed in his chest, Mako was in no mood to spar. Instead of responding, he turned his head, watching the traffic speeding by in the other direction. Suddenly a pair of green eyes met his. Moving at the speed limit in the next lane, she was gone in a flash, but Mako was sure.

  “Black Ford Focus, couldn’t get the plate,” he told Alicia.

  “We’ve got to spin this around,” he pleaded with the driver, making a swirling motion with his hand, and pulling a hundred euros from his pocket. From the way the driver grabbed the bills, Mako suspected the man did speak some English. Certain he had seen the green-eyed woman in the car, he didn’t care either way.

  Outside Rome

  The exit ramp ended abruptly at a stop signal, forcing Saba to look at her captor for directions. The respite gave her a chance to study Carlota Burga for the first time. Her face was well known, at least to those in international law enforcement, but seeing her in person cast her in a different light than the mug shots plastered around the internet. She looked like a glamorous woman, though from only a foot away Saba could see the careful use of foundation hid several scars. Still, Burga was someone—though probably closing on fifty—might at one time have been a model. There was nothing about her look, including her toned, slim build that said “Mafia boss.” Rock climbing, Krav Maga, and countless kettlebell swings had given Saba’s muscles the same tone. Saba had learned long ago not to make assumptions based on looks, not that it mattered here: Burga looked fit and able. Saba might have an advantage with her martial arts training, which had her looking for any opening. Still, the weapon in Burga’s hand precluded any opportunity.

  For a brief second, Burga seemed unsure of herself. Her inspection of the car and Saba’s purse had failed to produce the journal. She had to be wondering what to do. Sensing this, a thought occurred to Saba that might help gain her freedom.

  “The journal. I gave it to Maldonado earlier.” She wasn’t sure how long Burga had been following her. A touch of the truth never hurt, and if Burga knew Saba’s mission, she might accept it had been completed.

  “Then you’ll have to get it back, won’t you?” Burga said.

  Saba started to turn toward her, but the sight of the weapon trained on her stopped her. Burga appeared to have bought the lie, though there was no way to really know. Ending Saba’s speculation, Burga signaled her to make a left turn and re-enter the freeway going the other direction—back to Rome.

  The car fell silent as they retraced their path, allowing Saba to think about her next step. The Vatican would be a natural place to lose Burga, and Maldonado would likely cooperate if Saba hinted that turning over the journal to him would be the result. It might be worth a try, although there was little chance Burga would follow her into the Vatican, even to retrieve the journal.

  “We’ll need to go to Vatican City, then,” Saba said. Cooperation at this point would keep her alive. The gun overrode any physical advantage Saba might have over the woman. If she had any hope of escape she had to crawl into Burga’s mind, and knowing her opponent, that was not going to be easy.

  Burga had made no comment on her proposed destination, allowing her w
hat seemed to be the freedom to plan her next move. Maldonado would have to cooperate—he had no reason not to if he thought the prize was in reach. Pitting the two villains against each other might allow her to find a crack to extricate herself.

  “You’ll need to draw him out,” Burga said.

  Her poorly conceived plot to lose Burga in Vatican City fell apart. “What if he won’t? He already has what he wants. Maldonado has no reason to endanger the journal.”

  “You’re a smart woman,” she said.

  “And he’s a smart man. I’d bet that journal is buried deep in the vault below the Sistine Chapel.”

  Saba’s stomach dropped when Burga’s finger moved from the guard to the trigger. “Maybe you should call him?”

  “You tossed my phone on the highway.”

  Burga pulled an old-style flip phone from an interior pocket of the leather jacket she wore. From the corner of her eye, Saba watched as Burga did a quick search on her smartphone, found a number, and entered it into the flip phone.

  Placing the phone in speaker mode, she laid it on the console between them.

  The best-case scenario was that the call didn’t get picked up or went to voicemail, but God’s minions always answered the phone, and after four rings, a man answered.

  The pistol moving back toward Saba’s head ended the pause.

  “Bishop Maldonado, please,” she said,

  “Who may I ask is calling?”

  “Inspector Saba Dragovich. We are acquainted.”

  “Please hold the line.”

  A piped-in choir filled the dead air while the call was transferred.

  “Miss Dragovich?”

  “Yes.” It wasn’t the bishop, but she recognized the voice.

  “Bishop Maldonado is out of the office right now. Can I take a message?”