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

by Steven Becker

  First, he needed a quiet moment to consult with Alicia. At this point, calm heads needed to prevail. Burga had enough of a head start that running aimlessly through the crowded streets of Syracuse was not going to find Saba. Mako had told Alicia of their plan to use the journal to authenticate the painting. At the time there had been no need for the constant communication. He dug in his pocket for the device and, placing it in his ear, tried to connect to her.

  There was no answer. He tried again.

  “What are you doing?” John asked.

  Standing by the side door of the church, they were out of the flow of traffic in the plaza. Faith was trying to clean up her face, while John stared at Mako with a pained look.

  “I need to reach Alicia. Burga and Saba are gone. She’s our best chance of locating them. Then we need to get you to a doctor.”

  “What we need to do is find the journal before that bitch makes her talk. You know her reputation. Once she gets what she wants, Saba’s dead.”

  Mako started in the direction of the hotel, leaving his companions behind. Deciding to leave the journal safely ensconced in the stone wall in the nave was the logical decision, though he wasn’t sure what he was going to find on reaching it. Despite its maze of side streets, Syracuse, because of its small size, seemed easy to navigate. The old city center was essentially an island, cut off from the mainland by a V-shaped canal. Access to the city was by a single one-way bridge or by boat. Strategic geographically, and with protected anchorages on all sides, the island had been the key portal to Sicily, and then the mainland via the Straits of Messina, for millennium. The list of invaders who had tried to take the city was long, covering the entire history of the Mediterranean.

  Syracuse was a city better navigated by bicycle or on foot than with a car. Mako was more concerned with direction than using a particular street. He took off toward the north and the hotel. Initially he made good time, but the maze of dead-end side streets soon had him confused.

  Standing with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath, he heard his phone ring.

  “Stay there. We’re just down the block,” Faith said.

  Disgruntled that he had apparently gone in a big circle, Mako circled back to Faith and John.

  “You’re lost.” She studied her phone.

  “Shit,” John said, finding yet another deficiency in his son.

  “What’s the name of the hotel?”

  Mako struggled to remember. He knew what it looked like, but the Italian names were so confusing, and having relied on Saba earlier, he had forgotten. He shrugged, resulting in a deeper scowl on John’s face.

  “Do you have a key card?” Faith asked.

  “Fucking brilliant,” John muttered.

  Mako pulled the plastic card from his pocket and handed it to her. She quickly punched the name of the hotel into the app. “Come on. We’re actually close.”

  That soothed Mako’s ego slightly and the Storm men set out after Faith.

  Syracuse, Sicily

  John Storm might have been his contemporary, but Bishop Maldonado was not about to run through the streets of Syracuse chasing him. His status provided its own set of unique tools, as well as a different set of priorities. He had the Vatican’s interests to protect. Turning back to the church, he noticed a score of tourists who had gathered around the front doors, waiting for the church to reopen.

  Involving the police would make the church a crime scene, and he couldn't open the doors to the public, either, so he ignored them as he entered the side door. Stopping briefly to say a prayer over the dead priest’s body, he carefully stepped over it, and moved to the priest’s office. Just then, he heard the front doors open and the buzz of the tourists as they entered the church.

  Trying to recall the details of the scene by the altar, he didn’t think there was anything amiss there. He hadn’t thought about a secretary or other member of the church staff having a key, and he scrambled to the door leading to the altar, fabricating excuses as he went to keep whoever had opened the front doors from seeing the body.

  He ran into a middle-aged woman in the doorway.

  “I’m in the middle of a meeting in the office. I would appreciate some privacy.” He stepped back to allow her to see who he was. Even if she didn’t recognize his face, she would respect his authority.

  “Bishop? Oh, of course. Can I get you anything?” she asked.

  He almost asked for tea, though it was more of a whiskey kind of afternoon. Realizing that would give her an invitation to enter the office, he declined her offer. “This might take quite a while. If you wanted to take the day off, I’m sure Father would understand.” He cursed himself for not knowing the priest’s name.

  “Well, if you say it’s all right, who’s to judge?” She looked up at the ceiling.

  “Thank you. I’ll explain to Father.”

  Maldonado watched her as she walked out. A few of the tourists noticed him, and nodded their respects. He smiled back, and returned to the hallway, making sure the door was locked behind him.

  The first matter was to take care of the body. The Church had people for everything—including cleaners for crime scenes. Constantly riddled with scandal, the Vatican employed a network of the faithful to clean up its messes. Once the body was handled, he would call the Curia and request a temporary replacement for the priest who had suddenly taken ill.

  He sat at the deceased priest’s desk, moving papers around aimlessly. He’d called his secretary in Vatican City. Killing time while he waited for her to complete the list of tasks he had rattled off, he shuffled through the papers, thinking of it as putting the deceased’s work in order, rather than snooping.

  An invitation caught his eye. One just like it lay in a stack of similar requests in his own office. Having Bishop Maldonado present at an affair was a status symbol. Though this one had interested him, he ordinarily didn’t travel for parties—or unveilings, or whatever this was, preferring to remain in the background. Considering the circumstances, he thought it might be wise to attend.

  33

  Syracuse, Sicily

  Mako inserted the key card in the reader and stepped back, not sure what to expect when he opened the door. A small green light flashed, followed by the release of the electromagnetic lock. Slowly, he turned the knob and pushed the door open. Relief swept over him when he saw there were no bodies on the floor. Wading his way across the ransacked room, he checked the bathroom and closet just to be sure.

  Behind him, John and Faith stood in the doorway. A knowing look crossed his father’s face. Faith seemed startled. Mako had revised his opinion of her after her attack on Burga. Now, though, he dialed back his expectations for her usefulness. She might have been skilled in the martial arts, but she stood in the doorway with her jaw dropped, looking like she was ready to throw up. John quickly pulled her into the room and shut the door. He silenced her questions with a bottle of water taken from the mini-bar.

  Taking the water, Faith escorted John to the bathroom for some first aid.

  “He’s going to need a new pair of pants,” she called back. “I’ll have a look to see if he needs a doctor as well.”

  Mako looked at his clothes strewn across the floor, picked up a pair of the least skinny jeans he had, and tossed them into the bathroom. The condition of the room was no surprise. It was the most obvious place for Burga to look, and she had probably searched it before she went to the church—or had her thug helpers do it. That thought put Mako on the alert.

  As Burga had checked the room off her list of possible hiding places, Mako realized they might be two steps behind instead of one. Burga could easily have reentered the church and forced Saba to reveal the location of the journal.

  “That priest guy. You knew him, right?” Mako asked John. He moved to the bathroom door and leaned against the jamb. John’s bloody pants were in a pile on the floor. Faith leaned over his leg, cleaning the wound with a towel. Once more, he revised his opinion of her a little higher
.

  “Bishop Maldonado and I have some history.” John paused. “Why do you ask?” He winced as she prodded deeper, searching for an exit wound.

  Mako wasn’t sure if he should tell his father where the journal was. Right now, there was no way, with Faith hovering near, to speak privately. Mako turned to her.

  “What’s your stake in this?”

  “I work for the State Department. They have an interest in art as well.”

  “What’s your capacity?” It was an obtuse way for Mako to discover if she had a security clearance.

  John cleared his throat. “I can speak for her. Don’t know if you remember Frank Robertson? Faith is his daughter.”

  “I’d prefer to sink or swim on my own,” Faith said.

  Mako liked her response. He had noticed how attractive she was earlier—it was hard not to—and after watching her fight, he had felt a stirring of interest. Now add a little sass, and he had to stop himself from looking at her as a potential bedmate—that activity had already gotten him in trouble on this case.

  “I’m going to try Alicia again.” Mako turned and walked to the windows overlooking the harbor. While he waited for the call to connect he studied the marina. Docks lined a nearby seawall, where brightly colored boats awaited the next round of tourists. Several small fishing boats motored in and out of the marina entrance. In order to do so, they had to pass a behemoth of a ship, one of the sleekest motor yachts Mako had seen.

  The call again went to voicemail. His message asking her to call back might have sounded generic, but his phrasing would let Alicia know that he was sitting in a dumpster fire. He disconnected and returned to John and Faith.

  Mako knew Saba would not be harmed until the journal was recovered. It was also concealed in a place where either one of them would have to go personally to retrieve it and, considering the priest’s dead body was laying in the church, it would have to be after dark when the church was closed. The circumstances may have bought them some time.

  “Maldonado. How much does he know?” he asked his dad.

  A look only a son would know crossed John’s face. Mako saw it. “How much, Dad?”

  John looked at Faith, trying to use her for an excuse to leave his cards face-down.

  Before he could say anything, Mako shut him down. “Not so fast. You said she could be trusted.”

  Defeated, John pulled on the loaner pants, looking disgusted with the cut of the jeans as opposed to his dad pants. He looked at the carpet for help. Seeing that the berber was not coming to his aid, he told the story of how he had seen Maldonado swap the paintings.

  “It was fifty years ago. There’s no telling if anything’s changed since then,” John ended.

  “Except it hasn’t. We just verified it as a forgery. Do you think the bishop still has the original?” Mako asked.

  “There’s only one way to find out. I’d expect he could use our help with the priest, as well.”

  “Make the call, Dad.”

  John pulled his phone out of his pocket, found the number he wanted, and waited for the call to connect. “Bishop, John Storm here.”

  Mako gestured for him to put the call on speaker. The phone lay face up on the bed between Faith and John. Mako stepped closer when the bishop answered.

  “Hope your group is all right. Any word from Saba?”

  Mako had forgotten that the bishop and the green-eyed woman knew each other.

  “Not yet. Her room was tossed, but that was probably before the incident,” John told him.

  “What can I do for you, John? Seems we’ve inherited quite the mess here.”

  “That’s why I was calling. Thought you might need some help cleaning up the site. I was thinking you wouldn’t want the police involved.”

  “Right. Church business, not theirs. I’m a little out of sorts here and would gratefully accept your help,” Maldonado replied.

  “We’ll be there in twenty minutes,” John said, disconnecting the call.

  “Perfect,” Mako said. “I saw plenty of bleach and trash bags in the janitor’s closet.”

  “Better get to it, then,” his dad replied.

  Syracuse, Sicily

  Burga hadn’t said a word since they’d left the church. She walked half-a-step behind and just to the left of Saba. Assuming Burga was right-handed, that made sense, as the pistol in her pocket would be in her shooting hand, pointed directly at Saba’s left kidney.

  Breaking the silence with a whisper, Burga directed Saba down several side streets, and through another odd-shaped plaza. Ahead was the water. Arriving at a small marina, Burga directed Saba to board a tender that was waiting for them. Without a word to the pilot, Burga untied the bow line from the cleat, tossed it to the deck, and climbed aboard.

  The stunning view of the historic city was lost on Saba as she contemplated her fate. Passing a dozen or so sailboats either anchored or attached to mooring balls, they headed toward the mouth of the harbor. Nearing open water, there was only one ship left, an impossibly large motor cruiser. The gun-metal gray yacht loomed above the small tender as the pilot pulled alongside a platform that had extended from the hull. Two men waited to escort the women off the boat and through a large bay holding several kinds of craft—and a submarine.

  An elevator was centered in an open area amidship, with a solid door to one side that Saba guessed were stairs. The four of them entered the cab. One guard pushed a button, and the doors closed with a swoosh. As it climbed through the multi-story structure of the ship, Saba started to grasp a thread of hope. Going up was a good thing. If they’d wanted her dead, the anchorage, or lower levels, of the ship would have been her more likely destination.

  She tried to formulate an escape plan, but every idea had weaknesses and had to be discarded. When the elevator doors opened, she still had nothing. One of the men prodded her out of the cab with what felt like the barrel of a gun. She might not be dead, but it was a reminder that she was in grave danger. Only the knowledge of where the journal was hidden and how she played it could save her.

  All she could hope for was that Mako and John Storm would make an attempt to save her, or at least call Interpol. Hoping for the former, she needed to clean up this mess before she informed her superiors what had happened. Saba had started to like the father and son team, especially Mako. He had shown backbone in the church, a trait she was surprised to see. The problem was that time was against them.

  Seated at a table was a man wearing an off-white linen suit. A straw hat similar to a classic fedora sat on a full head of almost-black hair, with just a hint of gray mixed in. Sitting there, reading a newspaper and sipping what looked like a cocktail, she knew his disinterest was feigned. But he held all the cards.

  “Saba Dragovich. A pleasure, my dear.”

  The accent and endearment were fake as well.

  “Please, sit down and join me. We have much to discuss.”

  He didn’t introduce himself, nor did she need him to. The object of the past several years of her professional life, Leonardo Longino, sat in front of her.

  Before the gun could find her, Saba moved to the chair directly across the table from him. It was a small strategic move to at least allow her to observe him. Burga sat between them.

  “Food, drink?” he asked.

  Saba realized she hadn’t had anything to eat or drink since breakfast. There was no point in being stubborn. Whatever lay in store for her, sustenance would be required. “Yes, please.”

  The man snapped his fingers, and three uniformed servers appeared. Plates of smoked fish, cheese, fruit, and bread were placed on the table. Another man poured what she guessed was white wine in her glass.

  “Water, too, please, if you don’t mind,”she asked.

  With a flourish of his hands, Leonardo dismissed the staff, and started loading his plate. Saba followed suit, noticing that Burga ate only sparingly, and drank no wine. The food was excellent and she ate her fill. Finally, Longino snapped his fingers again. The staff c
ame forward and the plates disappeared.

  “You are wondering why the first-class treatment.” He paused, making sure she took in her surroundings. “In truth, I need you as an ally.”

  She couldn’t hide the surprised look on her face.

  “You see, I want to expose the forgery as much as you do. I think, though you might not want to admit it, that we have a common enemy. You know the old saying,” he laughed at his joke. “It seems the party that wants the journal to go away is the same one that has the original painting.”

  Before any words came out of her mouth, she knew. Her brain buzzed, trying to process the information he had just revealed. She knew all about Maldonado and the Church’s scam to replace the art in their control with forgeries. They’d been doing it for years. Maldonado thought he was impressing her, but she had just seen the originals in the vault in the basement of the Sistine Chapel—or at least the tubes and crates containing them.

  “I want the journal to prove the painting is a forgery. The bishop wants to destroy it and perpetuate their fraud.”

  In one sentence her world turned upside down.

  She swallowed. “How can I trust you?”

  Burga snickered.

  “It seems my associate doesn’t seem to care how the journal is obtained. But you have a choice. There is a party tonight. An unveiling, if you will. You can be my guest, or … “ He glanced at Burga, who was still smiling.

  34

  Noto, Sicily

  Several G-forces pinned Mako against the passenger door as Maldonado sped around another turn. Gravity released him as the car straightened, but he remained vigilant. Looking ahead, he saw the road continuing to wind around the hills of the Sicilian countryside. With a firm grip on the door handle, he watched the olive groves and pastures fly by.