“Think the crates’ll hold up?” Mako asked the bishop. Maldonado had produced the old wooden boxes that Saint Lucia’s stolen relics had been previously been stored in. The bishop had vetoed the garbage bags Mako had produced for the task. It had been a gruesome task to dismember and pack the priest’s remains, certainly not the respectful burial the priest probably deserved, but the only way to remove the body from the church in daylight without attracting unwanted attention.
Maldonado eased his foot off the accelerator—slightly.
As the religious authority, Maldonado had ultimately ended the discussion of how to deal with the priest’s remains. It was left to John and Mako to do the dirty work while Faith cleaned the blood from the old stone floors. When they were done, the church reeked of the bleach that erased all signs of the struggle.
Thankfully, Maldonado kept the speed down, which helped keep Mako’s still queasy stomach in place.
They had showered and changed, then met back up, first to dispose of the body, and next to attend the unveiling.
“Exactly where are we going first?” Mako asked. He had been following their route on his phone. Their ultimate destination was a castle on the outskirts of Noto. The E45 highway that followed the coast had been an easy ride, allowing them time to decompress after the gruesome work of cleaning up the church. Now, climbing into the foothills, the road and scenery had changed.
Before they entered the city, Maldonado turned to Mako. “Can you get me directions to the Noto Cathedral?”
Mako did as he was asked, anxious to be rid of the body in the trunk. As the virtual woman’s voice rattled off the turns, he wondered what had happened to Saba. He had expected some word, either from Burga, if she was still captive, or from Saba directly, if she had managed to escape. There had been no sign of them at the church or in the plaza.
Maldonado made a last turn and stopped near the cathedral. Its architectural styling was Baroque, with the same features evidenced everywhere they turned. Maldonado had mentioned the conformity had something to do with most of the country being rebuilt after an earthquake—or eruption of Mount Etna. Mako couldn’t remember.
The bishop passed the entrance, made a quick call, and turned right onto a side street. A priest met them at a gate, which he opened to let them in.
“Let me do the talking. The priest is trustworthy.”
“Like he won’t ask questions when we bring in the crates and deposit them with him?” Mako asked.
“There are many ways to ascend in the church. Being a good priest is only one of them,” the bishop replied.
Faith exited the backseat and walked around to the other door to help John. With her assistance, he climbed out using the cane he had taken from the church in Syracuse. He seemed to enjoy the attention Faith was giving him. Mako got the distinct impression that his father thought she was a better daughter than he was a son.
The priest waited for them by a side door. Faith helped John while Maldonado talked to the clergyman. That left Mako alone by the trunk to deal with the two boxes. A small wheelbarrow helped, but it still took two loads. Maldonado and the priest were on bent knees praying while Mako set the remains in an underground crypt. The crates were placed with as much decorum as possible and, the clergy appeased, Mako slid the stone back in place, making sure it sat properly.
“I could use a drink after that,” John said.
Mako glared at him, but kept his tongue. Having a gunshot wound to his leg begged a little sympathy. The inevitable fight could wait until they were alone.
“On to the party, then?” Mako checked over the area, using a broom the priest offered to clean the floor. Having done as much janitorial work as he cared to do in several years, Mako walked outside and waited by the car.
Faith emerged first. “He was shot, you know.”
“Dear old Dad. Yes, I know.”
“Well?”
“You expect me to fawn over him. You’re doing a good enough job for the both of us.”
She inched closer, hands on her hips. “What’s your problem?”
Thankfully, just then John, Maldonado, and the priest appeared. The priest walked past them and opened the gate. A few minutes later they left the city and headed back into the foothills.
35
Mediterranean Sea
The sound of metal against metal startled Saba. After concluding their meal and conversation earlier, she had been “assigned” a cabin one deck lower than the deck where they had eaten. A rumble accompanied the sound, which she identified as the anchor being raised. Longino had said something about a special gathering later, but she hadn’t expected a boat ride to get there.
From the bed she could see the old fortifications of the city that had repelled many invaders. Saba moved closer to the window for a better look, being careful not to disturb the dress that had been left for this evening. She was still undecided on whether to wear it or not. Doing so would surely please Longino, and maybe that was what she needed to do. He had not answered her last question about the importance of the gathering. Maybe complying would be one more step in a relationship they both knew was based on deceit.
It was a way of life Europeans had become accustomed to since Caesar had conquered Gaul: the strategic partnership of enemies toward a common goal. Saba could easily dress up for him—for a purpose.
The old stone walls built on the rocky shoreline to protect the city passed from view. Her cabin was starboard side, so with land visible, they had to be moving south. Not surprisingly, she had been searched and the burner phone Mako had given her taken.
As they moved away from Syracuse into the open Mediterranean, Saba started to worry. No one knew where she was and the next landfall—if the party was a ruse—was Africa, a place where little good happened to Interpol agents. Malta was also a possibility. Recalling her art history, the island had been another stop on Caravaggio’s trail of paintings—and bodies.
Studying the coast as they motored south, she tried to memorize any distinctive landmarks, thinking they might be important. Towns passed by, some merely fishing villages, others, with long beaches, were tourist destinations. After a while it all started to look the same and she gave up. Soon after that, a knock on the door informed her that she should be ready to disembark in an hour.
Possibly the highlight of a very bad day was the luxurious tub in the bathroom. Working the timeline backwards, she decided a twenty-minute soak would fit and started to run the water. A few minutes later, settled into the foamy bubbles, she closed her eyes and tried to relax. Whatever was on the agenda for the evening, she needed her wits about her.
It was an odd feeling, sitting in a tub of water inside a ship floating on the sea. Whenever the bow of the ship plowed through a wave, the water in the tub reacted accordingly. She started to wonder about the physics of the reaction and if it was something she could use to escape. The clock was ticking and if the movement of the water in the tub was the best she could come up with, Saba decided she had better check the fit of the dress.
After a quick cold shower to rinse off, she was dressed, and ready with ten minutes to spare. Exiting the bathroom, she was startled to find an ice bucket with a bottle of Cristal and a single flute sitting on the nightstand.
Checking outside through the window, all she could see was water and Saba started to wonder again where they were. Before she could assess the situation further, right on time there was a knock on the door. With nothing to be gained by delaying and her curiosity piqued, she downed the last sip in the flute, the single glass she had allowed herself. The door was locked from the outside, a not-so-subtle reminder of her status, and she had to wait for the guard to open it.
Dressed in a chauffeur’s uniform, he nodded to her, and led her down the passageway to the elevator. They exited on the same level she had come in on. Expecting the tender to be waiting to take them to the mainland, she was surprised to see a black SUV. It was pulled toward the retractable ramp where the tender had drop
ped her off from earlier. A peek at the opening showed the ramp was resting on a large dock.
Longino entered, distracting her from looking further. He nodded in the direction of the passenger seat. The chauffeur moved to the door, opened it, and she slid in. The door was closed and, once Longino was seated next to her, the driver started over the ramp. Saba checked the interior of the spacious SUV, wondering where Burga was. Longino with his chauffeur was far from benign, but without his lead henchwoman, maybe she had a chance.
“Where is this castle?” Saba asked. She was dying to know where they were. Not far, was all she received by way of an answer. With each intersection the SUV continued to climb the hill leading out of the harbor. Glancing back, Saba could see the reflection of the sun setting on the water. It was a beautiful view, but that didn’t help with the location.
The SUV left the city behind, and started along a winding road. It was a narrow, two-lane street with no shoulder. Along either side, the locals were using the early evening reprieve from the heat to harvest the olive trees. With nothing else to do except observe, she watched as they used an ingenious method to collect the ripe fruit. Instead of picking them, they spread large blankets and tarps on the ground and beat the branches with long rakes. Scores of ripe olives fell onto the blankets, which were then gathered up and dumped into bins.
Saba had started counting turns and trying to judge time. She had a good idea how fast they were going, but soon lost count as the SUV rounded a final turn and stopped in front of a tall, wrought-iron gate.
The driver pressed a button and spoke into the intercom. With a loud buzz the gate opened and they entered the grounds of a large estate. She’d thought Longino had been exaggerating, but there was still enough daylight for Saba to see the well-groomed lawns leading up to a substantial building that could only be described as a castle.
The driver dropped them at the entrance, and swung the SUV into a larger cobblestoned parking area. At least a dozen other vehicles were already there, their drivers standing to the side smoking cigarettes and talking. If there was a way out, it might be here, she thought.
Before she could plan any further, Longino led her through a high, rectangular entrance. Looking up, she noticed a gate hung above them, originally installed to drop down, entrapping the barbarian hordes and allowing the archers stationed on the battlements to decimate their ranks.
They entered a courtyard, which was actually a classic killing zone with high towers on all three sides, with crenellations left and right. She couldn’t stop herself from looking up to see if there were archers waiting.
Finally, they reached a pair of doors. The right was ajar, and Longino led her into what looked like a great hall. Instead of armored warriors ready to protect the keep, small groups of well-dressed people sipped from crystal flutes and picked at the trays offered by uniformed waiters.
Some of the faces looked familiar and she started putting names to the wealthy and powerful art collectors, at the same time wondering why so many were assembled here. A waitress, seeing them without drinks, scurried over with a tray of flutes, offering one to each. Saba took it, more out of courtesy and for something to do with her hands. She was intent on escape, not drinking.
Feeling like a puppy on an invisible leash, she followed Longino around the room as he shook hands with the men and pecked the women on the cheek. Saba continued to match names with faces, noting that if the paparazzi had been present they would have had a field day with the diverse attendees, most of whom would never be seen in each other’s company. She had met several of the collectors before. Some cast furtive glances at her, while others looked away. Saba knew it was her companion who stopped them from approaching. These were the rich and powerful, and she knew she was a beautiful woman. There could be no other reason why none had approached her.
Working their way through the room, she noticed another group enter. A buzz started, as if the guest were someone even more powerful than they.
To her surprise it was Bishop Maldonado, followed by the Storms and Faith.
Castel Noto, Sicily
Their eyes locked together. Mako couldn’t keep his gaze from drifting down to her dress, and for a long second, he almost forgot the circumstances that had brought them here. When he was finally able to break the magnetic force that held them together, Mako stood back, observing the scene. She was with another man. A quick scan of the room showed no sign of Burga, which he took as a good sign. That bit of luck gave him the courage to approach.
Reviewing his inventory of opening lines, he had just selected one when the ringing sound of an object striking a crystal glass silenced the room. Mako had been so focused on Saba that he didn’t realize it had come from the man at her side until he was just feet away. He clinked the glass again. The guests formed into an uneven semicircle around him. This gave Mako the chance to slink away and blend into the crowd. Once he had situated himself, he glanced over at Saba, who was waiting to catch his eye.
From her expression, he garnered that she was all right—at least for the moment. Relaxing slightly, he scanned the room for John and Faith. They were across from him. Rather than join them, he decided it would be better to remain apart.
An expectant silence hung over the room. It was broken by several people shifting toward the middle of the group. A solemn-looking Bishop Maldonado crossed the polished stone. He approached the man with Saba. A speculative murmur started through the room as they spoke in hushed tones for a minute. Even before the bishop made his entrance there had been a palpable tension running through the crowd; now, as their conversation ended, it had built to a crescendo. Maldonado stepped away. There was no handshake, only what looked like an uneasy truce.
“Thank you for coming. It is my honor to welcome Bishop Maldonado,” the man said.
There was a light spattering of applause. The glass clinked again, and Mako noticed movement in a hallway adjacent to the reception. Four men pushed a large cart with a drop cloth covering it. The shape soon registered in Mako’s mind, and he realized it was an easel with a painting underneath the tarp. The men wheeled it next to the man, then moved into a formation where each took a quarter of the room. They stood at-ease, with their hands crossed in front of them. The “relaxed” pose fooled no one. The weapons secreted under their jackets were clearly apparent.
“It is my pleasure to bring back to the world a long-lost painting.” He waited for the murmurs to die out. “Some had speculated it no longer existed. I am here to tell you otherwise.” He paused, letting the room speculate as to what was under the tarp.
He waited until the crowd quieted then, with a flourish, pulled back the tarp. The fabric fell to the ground and a prearranged spotlight illuminated the painting. Mako recognized that the style was very similar to the painting on display in the church in Syracuse. He guessed it was a Caravaggio, and from the reaction of those gathered, he knew it was an important one.
The crowd inched closer in shocked silence.
“Caravaggio’s Nativity with Saint Francis and Saint Lawrence.”
The man allowed the crowd to speculate quietly for a few minutes. Mako eavesdropped on several conversations, picking up the man’s name: Longino. Instinctively he tapped his ear, but there was no earbud in place, reminding him that Alicia was AWOL. Some of the others were staring at their phones, wanting to communicate the revelation to their bankers or patrons. There was little doubt this was a prelude to a sale. Mako pulled his phone out, immediately noticing the “no service” icon at the top of the screen. Longino had chosen the location for more than the dramatic effect.
Longino called for silence. “A little history lesson for those unaware of the circumstances of the Nativity.
“Nothing about Caravaggio’s life was pedestrian. It is most fitting that the painting we see before us was stolen exactly fifty years ago from a church in Palermo.”
Mako connected the dots: Stolen art. Sicily. Burga. Longino. And Maldonado. Clearly, Maldonado was trying t
o hide the connection between the Church and the Mafia. The journal added another level to the intrigue and the first question that popped into Mako’s mind was if the painting was a forgery. Only the journal could authenticate it.
Mako half-listened as Longino filled the vacuum caused by the unveiling by sharing a snapshot of the artist’s life.
“Had Caravaggio been born today in L.A., instead of Milan in the sixteenth century, he’d be king of the rappers.”
The group spoke in hushed tones after that statement. Mako’s attention moved to Maldonado. He wanted to gauge the bishop’s reaction.
Longino continued, “You think I jest, but not really. Every move Caravaggio made in his life was because of his tendencies toward violence. From Rome to Naples to Malta to Sicily, Caravaggio left a trail of paintings, and blood in his wake.
“He rarely had any money, having to barter paintings in exchange for protection. This extended as far as the Knights of Malta, where the Grand Master allowed him to provide an altarpiece in exchange for his knighthood.”
Mako knew a sales pitch when he heard one, confirming his theory that the painting was for sale.
“Caravaggio never worked from sketches, he just painted—a part of his brilliance.”
“Can you authenticate it? Do you have his journal?” a voice asked from the crowd, interrupting him.
“I have a letter of authentication.”
Mako wondered how Longino had authenticated the painting without the journal—unless … He looked over at Saba, but there were no clues in her expression.
Movement across the room caught his attention. Bishop Maldonado was moving through the crowd. Mako had noticed his look of surprise after the painting was revealed. That look was gone, replaced by what could only be called fury.
As the bishop approached Longino and the painting, the group collectively took a step back. The room fell silent.
Storm Surge: A Fast Paced International Adventure Thriller (Storm Thriller Series Book 3) Page 16