The Stolen Da Vinci Manuscripts

by Joshua Elliot James

  My smart phone tells me that I can expect a twenty hour plus flight from Sydney to Rome so the space and luxury of first class will be a necessity and I’ll buy a tablet or notebook to help pass the time – it will amuse me to see how far I can reprogram one of them.

  The wait for the Rome flight is three hours, but Sydney airport has plenty to occupy passengers in the way of shopping and entertainment. It’s a relief not having to worry about the precious cargo I am toting and I find a stunning pair of red high heels made from kangaroo skin and a couple of dresses I like.

  Chapter 6: Being Chased In Rome

  I won’t bore you with the twenty hour and forty two minute flight to Rome, even the episode where a middle age drunk tried to proposition me and was reassigned to the smaller confines of coach accommodation. We land at La Roma airport and to the amusement of passengers, a flight crew member announces “If you get the insane urge to hurtle through the air in a metal tube again, please consider Alitalia Airlines.”

  When in the arrivals building, I get an uneasy feeling that raises the hairs on my nape, so I hop into a photo kiosk to take a look around the terminal from behind the curtains.

  Nothing looks out of place, but when I step out an elderly woman dressed like a grandmother approaches and places a phone in my hand. “Listen.” She instructs and walks away.

  The voice says “We have Gavin – you have the ‘item’ – we suggest a trade.”

  “Who is this? Where are you?” I ask and look around again.

  “We are here, we’ve been waiting for you.”

  “I don’t care about Gavin – ask him to show you the bruises.”

  “The bruises are nothing compared to what we did to him.” Voice says. “But he’ll recover pretty normally if you do as we say.

  “I can’t trade the ‘item’ - it does not belong to me.”

  “No, it belongs to my boss.” Voice states.

  “No it does not – the money will be returned to him.”

  “He does not want the money back – perhaps you don’t comprehend clearly. I have been charged with the safe recovery of the item, at any cost – do you understand?”

  “I understand completely.”

  “Good, then I suggest we do this in a civil manner and you hand over that roll on bag to the woman who gave you the phone and she will take you to your precious Gavin.”

  I look around and see the same woman hovering a short distance away. She smiles and nods knowingly.

  “There are others…” Voice says. “Watching you.”

  I walk slowly, the woman shadows and I am aware of other people moving in the same direction. “So I see.” I respond.

  My direction takes me towards the escalator and when close, I jump on and lug the case up the steps. I see a man standing at the top and assume he is one of the ‘watchers’. When he reaches out I let go the case, put the phone in my pocket and pull on his wrist as hard as I can. Caught off balance he lands on the stainless cover between escalators and slides down, yelling when his body bounces off each of the joints. Gate A1 – A17 is across from me and I charge down until reaching a plane about to board. I mingle with the passengers and make my way to the desk.

  “I need a standby ticket.” I gasp, out of breath.

  Chapter 7: Murder In Spain

  The rep scans the computer and says that there are plenty of seats and issues a ticket. We board and I see no signs of followers but remember the phone.

  “Not smart.” Voice scolds. “You really don’t like Gavin, do you?”

  “You won’t kill him – he’s the only hold you have over me.” I disarm.

  “Don’t be so sure - he may soon outlive his usefulness. We will find you eventually; there are only so many places to hide.”

  “Good luck.” I challenge.

  I turn the phone off and put it back in my pocket. A flight attendant comes down the aisle. “Excuse me.” I ask. “Where are we flying to?”

  He looks at me like I am joking and waits for the punchline.

  “No, I’m serious.” I remark.

  “We will be landing in Madrid in six and a half hours miss.”

  “Madrid!” I echo; well at least I don’t need cold weather clothes so far.

  He walks away with a quizzical expression.

  I attach the phone to my notebook and download its operating system – I should be able to set up a triangulation application using my home laptop, to pinpoint from where the incoming calls originate. I see that my programming is successful when the phone rings again and shows that ‘Voice’ hasn’t relocated.

  “I see you took to the skies again, Arcadia.”

  “I see you are still at the airport.” I respond.

  There is a gap. “Good guess.”

  “What do you want?” I ask.

  “It’s simple - the books. Let’s stop playing games before you get hurt – there will be a welcoming group at Madrid to take them from you.”

  “Go right ahead – I’m not heading to Madrid.” I bluff.

  “Ah, but I think you are.” Voice disagrees. “That was the only flight that departed from any ‘A’ gate before we got there – we searched thoroughly.”

  “Did you search the ladies room next to gate 19?” I taunt.

  More silence. “I’ll check into that.”

  “There is no ladies room next to A19, but good try.” Voice rejoins. “See you in Spain.”

  “Not if I see you first.” I hang up.

  I can’t keep playing hide and seek in airports so I have to plan a different strategy, but at least this time I won’t be blindsided. There are no clothes in my bag that don’t demand attention so I need others. There is a woman in aisle seat F17 who is about my dress size and wearing brown slacks and a wool kaftan – perfect! Retrieving a new silk dress from my luggage I fold it into a small package and get a hundred dollar bill from my purse, which I slip under the belt.

  The woman in F17 eyes the dress appreciatively before she knows I am going to see her.

  “Would you trade for what you’re wearing?” I whisper in her ear, making sure that she sees the cash.

  She looks shocked; I show the ‘Vera Wang’ dress tag - she beams and nods. Nobody pays much attention as we move to the bathroom, but those who see us enter together smile. Those who see us emerge wearing each other’s clothes positively gasp and look away.

  Now, a hair redo of some kind and I’m in business. Its obvious that I cannot return these ‘items’, as everyone is wont to call the books, to Roberto and the apparent solution is to marry them with the others in my father’s care. So - a trip to London is called for and the decision to be made is whether I can slip past my ‘welcome group’ to take another flight – which is risky given that they know I am arriving on this flight – or rent a car and drive all the way or to a different airport.

  ‘Voice’ will expect me to take a flight out of Tenerife and most surely will have people watching for that, so I believe my surest bet is to rent a car – I am less likely to be observed in my new outfit going to an ‘Enterprise’ desk than buying a plane ticket, but I’ll have to play it by ear.

  I buy a Real Madrid soccer cap from a passenger who’s part of a group returning from an international match for twenty bucks and pile my hair in a knot under it. Anyone familiar with me wouldn’t look twice at this persona and even I have to look twice at my reflection when passing a mirror. After landing and disembarkation I make sure to blend in with the soccer group and do my best to whoop it up with them as they head to the exit, but peel off and wave good bye like they are good friends before going to the rental car area. To a careful observer I’m just getting a car to get home or whatever.

  There are people trying to be invisible who could be connected with voice, one pretending to read a newspaper but looking over the top of it, one sitting on a stool at the coffee shop, another leaning on the railing on the upper level and maybe a couple of others, but they pay me no heed.

  The rental woman greet
s me.

  “I need a car – one way to London.” I declare.

  “Is not possible.” She denies with an accent. “Our vehicles no leave Spain.”

  “Very well – to another airport then.”

  “Si that is possible. You no like this airport?” she asks.

  “It’s complicated…”

  “Is okay – I no like some places too.” She confides. “You have license?”

  I reach into my purse and hand it over.

  “Ooh, so pretty! Such beautiful red hair - but it no look like you.”

  “It is me.”

  “But you look very different – maybe if you take the hat off.”

  “I would prefer not to.”

  “Please understand – I need to be sure or I can no rent car.”

  “I have other identification…”

  “Our rules say physical identification – I am so sorry…”

  I look around but see no-one paying me attention and so whip my hat off and back on as soon as she smiles.

  “Si – it is you!”

  “I told you so – now can I get a car please?” I urge.

  “Oh, Si senora – of course. Economy model – small?”

  “Absolutely not! Something fast – luxurious.”

  “We have a Jaguar… but it is expensive.”

  “I’ll take it – will you have Bilbao airport programmed in the GPS please.”

  “But of course. I will have our shuttle pick you up and take you to the rental lot. It should only be about ten minutes.”

  “As soon as possible please.”

  I check my phone and see that I have a four hour drive to Bilbao and book a flight on British Airways to London accordingly.

  The man leaning on the upper level railings has disappeared and the newspaper guy is trying not to make it obvious that he has me in view.

  Damn! I’m sure they’ve made me.

  I walk to the coffee shop and stand next to ‘stool’ guy while ordering an expresso - he doesn’t even look at me, – a sure give away. Okay that confirms it.

  I’ll have to outdrive them.

  The shuttle is waiting for me and drops me at the rental lot pick up area where a gleaming Seafoam XJS awaits with engine purring in readiness to growl. There are two vehicles parked obtrusively outside the security gates facing opposite directions – they are letting me know I’m expected.

  “Is there another exit?” I ask the attendant.

  “No – only that one.” He points.

  I slide behind the wheel and immediately feel at home. The array of gauges are business like and remind me of my Cessna back home, the seat grabs me firmly and the gear selector dares me to hit ‘Sport’ mode. The gas tanks are full and will definitely out-range the cars waiting for me outside and the GPS merely waits for the command ‘GO’. The seat belt clicks reassuringly, I select a radio station playing songs that I tango to and turn the volume loud before touching ‘Go’. I pause at the gate, lower the windows and cruise slowly past the two vehicles, waving. The upper level guy is in the driver’s seat of the BMW facing the same direction that I take and smiles with a two finger salute to his forehead.

  The Jag expresses gratitude in being let loose and positively snarls at the lesser vehicle as we burn rubber in a black cloud around it. The Beemer fights its way out of the fog and makes a valiant effort to chase but falls back with every kilometer until I no longer see it in the rear view mirror. My cat digs in its claws and tears down the road in ever increasing speed, bends are insignificant for the tuned suspension and the speedometer shows we are touching a hundred miles an hour.

  This is fun!

  I am forced to slow as I enter a mountainous region and the GPS is invaluable in alerting me to upcoming curves, what it didn’t alert me to was the roadblock set up around the next corner. The Jag’s brakes more than meet expectations as I stamp on the pedal and the ABS kicks in to bring me to an unwavering stop.

  There are three guns aimed at me from behind the barrier formed by two vehicles and a man raises a white flag and steps forward. The road is too narrow to turn around so I select reverse gear and hurtle backwards until I can swing around to face the opposite direction using a ‘scenic overlook’ area. I will be meeting the Beemer coming at me soon, so I need a place to hide and luckily see an offshoot track on the right hand side, made by road repair crews. The XJS responds to my sudden jerk on the wheel without complaint and slides into the gap scattering gravel as the wheels grab for purchase.

  I’m sure they will see me as they pass by but I should have enough time to back out and be heading down before they can take action. I’m aware of a man’s voice saying ‘recalculating’ repeatedly, from the dash board and telling me to ‘drive eight point nine miles and turn right on Rio Del Sera road.’

  It is the second chase car that catches me - the one that was facing the opposite way at the rental lot.

  It is broadside to the road and empty.

  As soon as I come to a halt a man appears at my window with a Beretta pointed squarely at my head. He beckons me to get out and I have no choice but to obey.

  One thing I learned from watching old Roy Rogers’ westerns was that if a person puts a gun in your back with a quick spin and arm swing you can knock the weapon aside before a finger can squeeze the trigger. But I have to feel the gun in my back first.

  He tells me to get the ‘item’.

  “It’s in the boot.” I reply and he gestures me back there.

  I hesitate and wait for him to push me with the Beretta, but instead he shoves my shoulder with his free hand. This man must have seen the same movie for I cannot get him to put his gun where he should.

  There is no latch to open the compartment and I shrug my shoulders.

  “I don’t know how to open it.”

  “From inside – get the key remote.” He instructs.

  I open the driver’s door and lean in; he stands about four feet behind me still aiming the gun at my head. I need him closer.

  I fumble with the keys and he steps forward. “Hurry up.”

  “Okay.” From my kneeling position on the seat it is easy to give him a mule kick to the groin and drop him.

  “Was that quick enough?” I ask sarcastically.

  His face is beet red and about twice the size as normal and his mouth gasps for air like a fish out of water.

  He won’t be able to function for a while so I throw the gun on the passenger’s seat and leave him beside the road. It’s a shame to push a Saab over a cliff, but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. By the time the crashing noises stop, I am driving the eight point nine miles and he GPS informs me that I will add thirty eight miles by driving around the mountains - darn that’s cutting it fine to get to Bilbao in time for the flight.

  I push the car as fast as I dare before having to refuel and pray that the chasers haven’t guessed my destination, but they know I’m heading north, so it won’t take a rocket scientist to figure that I’m on this road.

  A faint dust cloud in the distance betrays a fast moving vehicle and supports my theory. I squeeze the last drop of gas into the tanks and get going.

  A Policia speed trap decides that I am making too good a time and wants a chat.

  “Officer, I am American and am being chased.” I make my excuse for speeding.

  “Why are you being chased?” Officer asks.

  “I have something they want.”

  “What?”

  “Just some old books.”

  “You need a gun to keep them away?” He asks, eying the weapon.

  Damn, I forgot. “That is not my gun.”

  “It fell out of the sky?” He looks up.

  “It belongs to one of them…” I point down the road. “Please – take it.”

  “I have my own. This is a serious offense Senora, one that could see you in jail for many years.”

  “Officer, I have a plane to catch in Bilbao – I am leaving the country as soon as I can, please�
� take the gun and let me leave.”

  “You say it belongs to someone following you?”

  “Yes, that’s correct.”

  “Well, we’ll wait here and speak to them – what car is he driving?”

  “Not ‘he’ – they, and they are very dangerous – they probably all have guns and will shoot first. Just let me go.”

  “Senora, I cannot do that.”

  By now I can see vehicles approaching and the officer takes ‘my’ gun and pulls a shotgun from the police car. He positions himself at the corner of his vehicle and waits. When the cars near, he holds up both arms to stop them and they pull over in front of him.

  “That’s them.” I confirm.

  He walks towards the BMW in the lead and a shot rings out. He drops face down to the ground and lies still.

  I bend low and run to the Jag, there are more shots but none hit their target, which I assume is me. The engine accelerates me to seventy miles an hour in seconds and the chase is on again.

  The GPS shows only minor bends ahead and I find that the Jag handles a hundred and twenty with ease but the chase cars aren’t too far behind. I wish I could push buttons and drop an oil slick like James Bond could.

  The screen shows a town four miles ahead, maybe I can pull something off there.

  The cell phone rings.

  “Gavin wants you to stop at Aronde del Duero.” Voice says.

  “Sorry – can’t do that.” I decline.

  “He’s very insistent.” Voice reports; I hear a scream in the background.

  “So you can shoot me, like the cop?”

  “That was unfortunate.” Voice laments. “But necessary.”

  “It wasn’t necessary.” I refute.

  “Gavin’s next, if you don’t stop.”

  “Oh… he’s still alive?” I try to sound nonchalant.

  “Only just - that was him screaming.”

  “Pulling fingernails?” I ask.

  “How did you guess?”

  I shudder involuntarily.

  “I see you’re still in Rome.” I remark.

  “I was told you were a computer genius. Bravo. By the way, it wasn’t nice – what you did to my man in the mountains. I’ll dedicate another fingernail to him.”