“I’m so happy to hear you’re okay. I-I thought you were…” He couldn’t bring himself to say it, her ordeal not yet over, and there no guarantee she would be returned to him. “I love you and—”
“That’s enough.” The man with the German accent replaced Laura’s breathing and he felt the pit return to his stomach for a moment. “You will find us the genuine Spear of Destiny. Understood?”
“Yes, but what if it can’t be found?”
“Then, Professor Acton, your wife dies.”
The call ended and Acton placed his phone on the table, his mind a flurry of mixed emotions, terror at the prospect of his wife being killed should he fail, but elation in knowing she was alive and not dying from the gunshot wound.
“Well?”
He looked at an expectant Reading, still holding his own phone to his ear.
“She’s alive.”
“Thank God!”
“But they’re going to kill her if I can’t find the Spear of Destiny.”
Reading’s eyes narrowed. “Wasn’t that one of the items they already stole?”
“Three of them, actually. And none were genuine.”
“Do you know where it is?”
Acton shook his head. “Haven’t a clue, but their suggestion—and I have to say it’s a good one—is to find the body of Saint Longinus, the man who the spear belonged to.”
“You mean the bloke who stabbed Jesus and got his eyesight back?”
“Yes.”
“Any idea where he is?”
“I have an idea where he was about five hundred years ago.”
“Well, that’s a start.” Reading’s words dripped with sarcasm.
“I’m going to need help in finding this.”
Reading nodded. “I’ll do whatever I can.”
Acton shook his head. “No, I want you concentrating on finding Laura. Find her and I don’t need to find the spear.”
“Did they give you a deadline?”
“No, but if they’re going to all this trouble I’m assuming whoever they want to heal doesn’t have much time.”
Reading motioned toward the pad. “What’s that?”
“What I was hearing. While I was waiting for him to bring the phone to Laura I heard about sixty footsteps in what I thought was a large room but I think must have been a large hallway, then a door open and more steps in another large room.”
“So some sort of warehouse maybe?”
“Maybe. Laura though gave me some critical info that I don’t know if the guy picked up on.”
“What?”
“She said the doctor who treated her was named Heinrich and that she was in a well-equipped lab.”
“Interesting. I’ll run the name, see what we come up with.”
“Good.” Acton eyed his food, suddenly starving. “I’m going to eat then contact Mai. I need some research done.” Acton grabbed his fork and tucked into his breakfast, now cold.
He didn’t care.
His wife was alive.
And he was determined to save her.
Trinh Residence, St. Paul, Maryland
Mai Lien Trinh ended the phone call to her father, tears in her eyes. It was exactly twelve hours later in her homeland of Vietnam, which meant many of her phone calls were made in the middle of the night. If she waited until she got home from the university, either her friends were still asleep, getting ready for work, or at work. Then by the time they were done their work day, it was time for her to sleep or get ready for work.
The only way she could keep in touch was to make her calls in the very early morning, when her friends were getting home from work, or on the weekends.
She couldn’t wait that long between calls.
In her culture families were extremely close, often several generations living within one home, her family no different except for her troubled brother who had left the family home as quickly as he could.
He had chosen a path of petty crime, a very dangerous vocation in Communist Vietnam, though it was that very lifestyle that had probably saved her life during the Hanoi incident where she first met Professors Acton and Palmer. She found now that she couldn’t see him she was missing him more than she ever had before, despite seeing him rarely back home.
Home.
She wasn’t sure if she would ever be able to call the United States home. She hadn’t come here willingly, she was more of a political refugee, though she was grateful for being allowed to stay. The professors had taken her in, given her a home and a job, and she had to admit, with the exception of the loneliness, life was good.
She was working hard to improve her English by trying to only watch American TV and only surf English websites, though sometimes she yearned to hear her native tongue.
That was what the phone calls were partly for.
She could read and write English quite well, her challenge understanding rapid conversations and getting rid of her accent, though Tommy, someone she had met in the computer lab at the university, had said she sounded cute.
She flushed with the thought.
Cute!
She never thought of herself as cute. She didn’t think she was ugly, just plain, though in America apparently there was something called Yellow Fever where a lot of American guys liked Asian girls.
Even the bookworms like her.
She didn’t like the attention, which forced her to be even more bookish.
Her clothes were baggier, she wore her hair so that when she walked she could just lower her chin and her long black locks would act as blinders to the world around her.
She’d just have to get used to it.
Her phone vibrated with an email. She bolted upright in bed when she saw who it was from.
Professor Acton!
She had heard the horrible news yesterday, Dean Milton having called her to his office, plus it had made the late news reports. Professor Palmer had been shot and kidnapped, the news almost causing her to throw up in Milton’s office, memories of the horrors they went through in Hanoi almost overwhelming her.
Milton had told her to go home and take a few days off.
She simply couldn’t imagine being cooped up in her tiny apartment alone, worrying.
She needed to be doing something.
She opened the email, quickly reading it, exhilaration and fear filling her as she realized that Professor Palmer was alive but perhaps not for long unless they could find the body of this Christian Saint named Longinus.
And he needed her help.
She immediately replied, letting him know she was heading for the university now and would begin the research he needed.
She hit send then the shower, her stomach in knots with the uncertainty of the task ahead.
How can we possibly find a man who died two thousand years ago?
Chris Leroux & Sherrie White Residence, Fairfax Towers, Falls Church, Virginia
Chris Leroux stretched with a satisfied groan, his arms above his shoulders, one leg stretching far out followed by the other. He rolled over to hug his girlfriend but found the bed empty.
He frowned then heard the shower running.
He jumped out of bed, sporting a morning wood that had to be put down. He heard the faucet squeaking as Sherrie finished her shower. Opening the door, he peered through the cloud of steam, his girlfriend loving super-hot showers.
He preferred them to not leave first degree burns on his back.
The steam poured out the door and into the hallway, quickly revealing the most gorgeous girl he had ever set eyes on.
And she’s all yours!
It was still rather remarkable to him that this woman loved him, but he was slowly realizing that she actually did. His recent revelation to her that he finally felt he deserved her had gone over like gangbusters, and though his self-consciousness and shyness were still well-entrenched personality traits, he at least wasn’t constantly worrying that this girl he had always felt was way out of his league was preparing to leave him an
ytime soon.
“Is that for me?” she asked, nodding toward Mr. Happy.
He grinned.
“Get your laptop, you’ll have to rub that out yourself. I’m leaving in ten minutes. Apparently I’ve got an op.”
He sighed. Sherrie White was CIA, as was he, but she was on the operational side, an actual Agent. He was an Analyst. Senior Analyst now, with a team of eight reporting to him, something he was still getting used to. “How long will you be gone?”
“Don’t know yet but I was told to bring my go bag.”
“So at least overnight.”
“Probably.”
She tossed the towel at him then grabbed him down below, giving him a squeeze. “I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you too.”
“I wasn’t talking to you.” She winked and laughed, swatting his flag pole, leaving him wagging and frustrated. “Your phone’s vibrating!”
He rushed to the bedroom, Sherrie handing him the already answered phone. “Hello?”
“Hey buddy, it’s me.”
Leroux grinned as he immediately recognized the voice of his best friend, probably his only real friend, Dylan Kane. They were old high school buddies that had went their separate ways but found themselves later in life working at the CIA in very different capacities. “Hey, how are you?”
He wasn’t sure how secure the line was so he avoided using his friend’s name or asking any specifics whenever he called. More often than not Kane had a habit of just appearing in their apartment.
He never minded.
“I feel like shit. Some sort of food poisoning I think.”
“Let’s hope that’s all it is.”
“Well, I have pissed off the Russians a few times, so polonium is a definite possibility!” Kane laughed then groaned. “Quick call, I’m going to be hitting the head in sixty seconds to test the plumbing here again. I sent you an encrypted email that I need you to read right away. See what you can do, okay?”
“Sure,” replied Leroux, flipping open his laptop and logging in with the facial recognition software. “Just give me two seconds.” He opened up his secure email, entering another password and a thumb scan. He clicked on the email from Kane, quickly reading it. “Them again?” He had been involved before in helping these two professors, he usually Kane’s go-to-guy when there was off-the-books trouble.
Kane laughed. “Yeah, those two were doomed to find each other. I’ve got a buddy who’s going to provide support on the ground, details are in the email. I need a data guy. Can you help?”
“Should be able to.” He didn’t mind helping, it was just that his boss, Director Leif Morrison, seemed to always know exactly what he was up to. Which he supposed wasn’t a surprise considering he was the Chief of Clandestine Operations. “Can I get it cleared?”
Kane moaned in what sounded like excruciating pain. “If you have to.” The words sounded forced, the pain clearly getting worse.
“You should see a doctor.”
“It’ll pass. Literally and figuratively.”
“Still…”
“Gotta go. Keep me posted on what happens, I’m just not going to be able to get hands-on with this one.” He grunted. “Oh shit, gotta go.”
The call ended and Leroux tossed his phone on the bed beside his laptop, concern for his friend apparently etched on his face.
“What’s wrong?”
He looked up at Sherrie who was fully dressed, standing at the foot of the bed. “Dylan’s sick. Food poisoning. He wants me to help out with those two professors.”
“Acton and Palmer?”
He nodded. “Yeah, apparently Palmer was shot in Paris and kidnapped.”
“Holy crap! Do they know who did it?”
Leroux shook his head. “Doesn’t look like it. I’ll know more once I start digging.”
Sherrie leaned in and gave him a peck on the lips that turned into a lingering kiss. “Mmm, I’m going to miss you,” she finally said, her eyes closed, her forehead pressed against his. “Love you.”
“Love you too. Be careful.”
“Always am.” She looked at her watch. “I’m going to be late. Gotta go!”
She hurried from the bedroom and he heard the alarm system chime as the door to their apartment opened then closed. Turning his attention back to his laptop he began firing off data requests to the Langley databases, the results of which would be waiting for him when he got back to work.
On a whim, he pulled up the morning intel briefing and as he read bullet after bullet that seemed to involve the two professors, his eyebrows slowly migrated up his forehead.
What have they gotten themselves into?
Hotel Astor Saint Honore, Paris, France
Acton looked up from his laptop as Reading entered from one of the suite’s two bedrooms, freshly showered. He motioned toward Acton’s computer.
“Any news?”
Acton nodded. “I’ve got the first chunk of research from Mai.”
“Let me guess, there’s no map with an arrow pointing to a spot marked X?”
Acton chuckled as he leaned back in his chair, stretching with a groan. “Nope. If we believe the legends, he fled Jerusalem a few days after the crucifixion, got himself baptized along with a few other soldiers that fled with him, then went north to modern day Turkey where he lived for fifteen years before finally being found and beheaded.”
Reading pushed the sheers aside, looking at the Paris skyline. “So, I suppose we’re not looking for his head. Where’d his body go then?”
“Well, the head went to Jerusalem where the Roman Prefect Pilate had it sent to the senior rabbi who had demanded these men be killed. The rabbi then tossed it on a dung heap where it was retrieved by an old lady who claimed to have seen a vision of Longinus telling her he would take care of her recently deceased son and told her where the head was. It was then reunited with his body in Cappadocia.”
“Modern day Turkey.”
“Yes.”
“I sense a ‘but’.”
“I’ll make an archeologist out of you yet.”
“Not bloody likely.” Reading sat down at the table, across from Acton.
Acton smiled, happy to have his mind occupied with something other than worry. He had a mission, a task that needed to be completed with the most precious of rewards at the end.
And the most heinous punishment should he fail.
Despite the scant evidence of where the man might be buried, he had to keep a positive attitude. He had discovered unbelievable things in his years as an archeologist and this would just be one more to add to his list of achievements.
There was no way he could accept failure.
He pointed at the notes he had made on his screen. “There’re numerous reports that his body was moved after his death which makes perfect sense. The Romans and the Jewish leadership in Jerusalem were persecuting the new Christians vigorously so Longinus’ followers would most likely have hid his body, and with most soldiers being from Italia—”
“Modern day Italy?”
“Very good.”
“Who needs a doctorate and twenty years of experience?”
“Apparently not you. As I was saying, with most soldiers being from Italia, it’s very plausible that he was moved there by his companions since Christianity had barely reached the homeland. In Italia they most likely wouldn’t be actively hunted.”
“So he’s not in Turkey.”
“Unlikely.”
“Good. I doubt we’d get the necessary clearances to go gallivanting around there especially with what’s going on in Syria.”
“True. So if we assume he was moved from there, the question is where.”
“Italy’s a big place.”
“Indeed. But there’re clues. The oldest stories have him being taken to Mantua, an ancient island city in Italia—Italy—and buried there. Why, we’re not sure, but a Christian following did develop in the area ahead of much of the rest of Italia, which suggests followers o
f the new religion travelled there for a specific purpose. That there was an early Christian presence there has been proven, just not why. The stories that Longinus was moved there would certainly provide a reason for this early toehold.”
“But…”
“But history, legend, folklore, whatever you want to call it, suggests he was moved yet again.”
“Of course he was. Where?”
“Anywhere from Rome to Sardinia to Greece.”
“Lovely.”
“But!”
“Ooh, a good but?”
“Possibly. He apparently turned up in the Basilica of Sant’Agostino in the fourteenth or fifteenth century, but the records of him actually being there have been lost.”
“But could possibly be found?”
Acton threw his hands up with a sigh. “I’ve started with less.”
“Where’s this basilica?”
“Rome.”
There was a knock on the door, startling Acton, his nerves still keeping him on edge.
Reading rose. “I’ll go.” He strode to the door quietly, evidently feeling an abundance of caution was necessary, making Acton feel a little better about his own anxiety. Reading peered through the peephole and stepped back, smiling. “Help’s arrived.”
He pulled open the door and Acton jumped up in excitement as Command Sergeant Major Burt “Big Dog” Dawson and Sergeant Carl “Niner” Sung entered the room, dropping heavy duffel bags in the entrance as Reading closed the door behind them.
“Am I ever glad to see you guys!”
Acton pumped their hands, ushering them toward the comfortable chairs the two-bedroom suite offered. “Good to see you too, Professor, I just wish it was under better circumstances,” replied Dawson as the two men, obviously tired, dropped into the well-padded seats.
“Thirsty?”
They both nodded and Acton headed for the fully stocked fridge in the kitchenette, pitching them each an ice cold bottle of water.
“Thanks, Doc,” said Niner as he twisted the cap off. “And thanks for those first class tickets. You’ve spoiled me. I’m never flying coach again.”
Dawson grunted. “I’ll never hear the end of it the next time we’re in a Herc.”
Blood Relics (A James Acton Thriller, #12) Page 13