by K. J. Howe
“An education is never wasted. Be patient, son.”
“Let me learn from you—there’s no better teacher.” Flattery often seemed to soften his father’s hard edges, so he worked it, but cautiously—Stefano could smell bullshit from a hundred meters.
“You really want this to be your life? Once you’re in, there’s no going back. I worked hard so you would have choices. You could become a doctor, a lawyer—”
A knock sounded at the door. “Come in.”
His father’s protégé, Karl Wagner, entered with Marco Spruilli, a round-faced, doughy man with sandy hair. Prospero was surprised to see Marco; rumor had it he had suddenly left the country, taking his fat wife and sniveling son, Enzo, with him. No one knew where they had gone, but it had been at least six months since Prospero had seen Enzo at school.
“You have a minute?” Karl asked.
“Sit.” Stefano waved them into the leather chairs in front of his carved desk.
Karl looked a little uncomfortable. “Maybe Prospero could bring us some coffee?”
His father stared at Prospero for a long moment, then turned back to Karl.
“No,” Stefano said, “he can stay.”
“The matter is a delicate one.” Karl smiled at Prospero. They were good friends—Karl was only four years older—but of course they never talked about the business. Instead, they discussed books, philosophy, horses. Karl never spoke out of turn, which made him a shining star in Stefano’s books.
“Go ahead.”
“Marco was blown.” Karl didn’t mince words.
Blown?
Spruilli stared at the floor, his face reddening.
“Dietrich’s son, Gernot, became suspicious and started following him—he’ll never be able to infiltrate the Freedom Guardians now.”
Infiltration? Freedom Guardians? Prospero wanted to ask a million questions, but he forced himself to remain silent.
Stefano placed his hands on the desk and looked thoughtfully at Marco. “These things happen. Though with your fair complexion, I thought you’d blend in well.”
“Perhaps Marco is better suited to other jobs?” Karl, who had a compassionate side, was acting as a buffer for Marco, but Prospero was surprised his father was taking this failure so well. He’d seen his temper flare over much less.
“Marco, you’re good with numbers. How about you move back and work the ledgers?” Stefano grabbed a cigar from the humidor, lit it, and sucked in a lungful of smoke.
“I’d like that.” Spruilli’s eyes were still downcast.
“Bring your family home. And ask your wife to make me some of that cannellini.”
Spruilli stood, knowing he was being dismissed, probably wanting to get out before the capo changed his mind. “Of course.”
After the man had slunk out, Prospero’s father leaned forward in his chair, gaze focused on Karl. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but I need you to move to Salzburg—permanently.”
Prospero guessed that whatever they were, the Freedom Guardians were in Austria. A sustained silence followed the request.
“Of course,” Karl said, finally.
And that day Prospero lost his best friend.
“You understand about Spruilli?” Stefano asked.
“I do.” Karl didn’t look pleased, but he was a loyal soldier.
“The Gladio thank you.”
At the time, Prospero had had no idea what his father was talking about, but he was inducted into the Gladio the following year. They struck a deal: Prospero could learn the business as long as he continued his studies. But he sensed that his father was disappointed in him for choosing “the life,” given that he could have pursued any career he chose.
Marco’s son, Enzo, returned to school shortly after that meeting, but one night two months later, his father walked out on the family, leaving some bullshit note about falling in love with another woman. And just like that, Marco Spruilli was gone forever.
That day in his father’s office had been a pivotal moment in Prospero’s life.
Three men sat in three chairs while their fates were written: Marco had failed and would pay the price; Karl would forfeit his friends and family to infiltrate the enemy; and Stefano strengthened his grip on his empire.
Prospero knew which chair he wanted to be in when he became a man.
A knock on the front door interrupted his thoughts. Aslan stood at the threshold, his lean face a welcome sight.
“You don’t need to knock on your own door, my friend,” Prospero said.
“It has been too long,” Aslan said as the two men embraced. “I’m sorry we meet in such complicated circumstances, but I’m always pleased to help a brother. No one will bother you here.”
This was an ideal location to house the hostages. The villa was situated on a hundred acres of private land—perfect if you wanted to avoid any questions about the sudden appearance of a group of strangers. And its position on the crest of a steep mountain ridge allowed for early detection of any visitors.
“Your hospitality’s appreciated. Come visit us in Italy soon.” Their fathers had both been in Operation Gladio, and now both sons took great pride in upholding the cause.
“I’ll bring the whole family.”
Prospero’s face darkened. “Speaking of family, we lost our source inside the Freedom Guardians. Karl must be dead. He made a personal sacrifice to embed himself with the enemy all these years.”
“He knew the risks, Prospero. You mustn’t be sad—we’ll take good care of his sister.”
“What I’d like to know is how he was suddenly discovered after so many years. He was an exceptionally cautious man.” Prospero inhaled a deep breath.
Before Aslan could answer, Luciano strode into the room, and the conversation shifted to the upkeep of the passengers. A housemaid served tea and Turkish shortbreads as the men spoke. The young woman wore a loose shift and apron, but Luciano’s greedy eyes followed her every movement. Prospero glared at his nephew until he caught his attention. Their gazes connected long enough for Luciano to understand: none of that while they were on a job, and never while in the home of a friend and ally. Only a faint tinge of pink in his nephew’s cheeks belied his resentment.
“You set up the hidden cameras?” Prospero sipped the tea. It was as good as he remembered.
“Absolutely. They have n-no idea we’ll be watching.” Luciano opened a laptop and activated the live feed. Bassam’s men would keep a close eye on the outbuilding and patrol the perimeter of the property, but nothing worked better than having eyes and ears on the hostages themselves. The stakes were too high to leave anything to chance.
The screen came to life, offering a view of the outbuilding’s interior. Reality TV at its finest. The passengers were taking turns showering in the single bathroom, squirming with discomfort at the chilly water.
Most of the hostages were gathered around two weathered picnic tables, where the blankets and pillows were piled. The concrete floor offered little comfort, but Bassam’s men would bring in hay from the barn to create makeshift beds. One of the servants would deliver bread and cheese to the guards and hostages at regular intervals.
Prospero stared at the screen, eager to see more. He watched Ocean help the boys dress after their shower, talking quietly to them, as if she were their mother. Michael Dillman coordinated the distribution of blankets and pillows, smiling and trying to cheer everyone up. Prospero couldn’t understand anyone wanting to sport a handlebar mustache—way too much work. But maybe that’s the way things were done in Texas. He’d never been.
The passenger named Matthias slipped a cell phone out of his bag. “I always carry a backup in case my batteries die.”
“Any service?” Karlsson asked, his hands trembling.
“Nothing. And no Wi-Fi, either.”
Actually, there was Wi-Fi, but it was password protected. Prospero would have Bassam conduct a search of all the passengers’ belongings shortly, see if there was any contraband. He was sti
ll mulling over what he’d discovered inside Thea’s large carry-on. Lots of medical supplies, mainly.
“Let’s call for help,” Karlsson said.
“Talk sense, man. We’ve got no service, and we don’t even know where we are,” Dillman said.
Jabari Kuria rubbed his eyes. “Thea will come for us.”
“I’m sure she’ll try to negotiate our release, but these men are hardened criminals. The boss looks like a mobster,” Matthias said.
And here I thought I blended in as a businessman.
Ayan joined his brother. “She’s going to kick those guys’ asses. You wait and see.”
“Watch your language, young man,” Karlsson said, his tone imperious.
Jabari crossed his arms on his chest. “Don’t boss my brother around. Thea will make those motherfuckers pay.”
Prospero smiled. Liberata had definitely won the hearts and mouths of these two kids.
“Calm down, everyone,” Dillman said. “Let’s figure out where we’ll all sleep. We need to establish routines. And be careful around Luciano. He has a crazy l-l-look in his eyes.”
Several of the hostages laughed. Prospero glanced at Luciano, his nephew’s jaw rippling with tension. Michael Dillman had just made a dangerous enemy.
Chapter 40
Johann shifted in his chair, bored, the math teacher’s monotone a soft background buzz. Even if the lecture had been more compelling, he didn’t think it would be possible to concentrate on school today.
Fatima sat near the front, always the keen student. Every time she turned her head, he stared at her soft, clear skin and her full lips. Omar Kaleb’s horrific death, Uncle Karl’s brutal murder, his father’s vengeance—Johann needed an oasis, a safe place, and Fatima offered that escape.
At the same time, he worried about putting her at risk.
The bell rang. His free period, at last. He packed up his books quickly, avoiding eye contact with Fatima. Leaving the classroom, he hurried downstairs, passing the library where Fatima often lingered, and headed to the basement and another favorite hideaway, a mostly unused storage room with dingy lighting and a couple of battered desks.
He rubbed his temples, then sank his head into his hands. The information Leopold had shared with him, coupled with his own research, left him cold inside. What should he do? He could report the situation to the police, but Father often invited high-ranking police officers to his parties. For all Johann knew, the police were also Freiheitswächter. And did he really want his father to go to jail? Johann still loved him, and what would happen to him if Father was gone? He had no one else now that Uncle Karl was dead.
His eyes burned, and his body ached. Between the lack of sleep and the stress, he worried he wasn’t thinking clearly.
A soft knock made him leap to his feet. “What?”
The door opened. Fatima stepped over the threshold. “Can we talk?”
He wanted to tell her to leave, to save herself, but longing made his resolve weaken. “No one can see us together.”
She looked around the windowless room and laughed. “I think we’re safe here.”
A soft pink hijab covered her hair. He wanted to unwrap it, unveil what lay beneath. “Is that man still following you?”
“Yes. I did what you said—pretended he wasn’t there.”
“In another few days he’ll give up.”
“What would happen if he caught us together?”
He frowned. “Let’s not find out.”
“I thought Austria would be different, offering freedom, and here we are, sneaking around.”
“My father . . . It’s hard to explain.”
“Life in my country is pretty restrictive, but at least everyone knows where they stand. I thought life in Europe would be different, freer, and—I don’t know—safer.”
“I know. I’m sorry. You should be nurtured, encouraged, not followed around like a common criminal.”
She gave him a sad smile. “I know you know. That’s why I shared my dream of being a surgeon with you.”
“You’ll be a great surgeon. I’d let you operate on me.” He felt foolish as soon as he’d said it, but her smile told him she liked his response.
“Let’s hope you never need that kind of help. It doesn’t make sense to me that your father, a European, is going to stop you from doing what you want because of a stereotype, because of ignorance.” She stepped closer. “I won’t accept that, Johann.”
Her words hung in the air, a challenge. They were only a foot apart. He felt his Adam’s apple bob up and down. He stared at her beautiful face, hesitating. She didn’t move away. He leaned down, then brushed his lips against hers. He tried to maintain contact without becoming a fumbling fool, caressing her soft cheek with his thumb. Finally, he lost himself in the kiss.
Even though he didn’t want it to end, he forced himself to pull away. What they were doing was dangerous.
“That was nice.” She smiled.
Better than nice. “Yes, but we shouldn’t do it again.”
“I thought we were past that now.”
“My father . . .”
“I’m sure in time he’ll come around. Maybe if he gets to know me.”
“I don’t know. With the recent bouts of terrorism, he’s very guarded about foreigners. He’s lost all perspective.” Johann took a deep breath. “You’ll be in danger if he finds out we’re still seeing each other.”
“Then we’ll be careful. I’m not losing the one person in this school who makes me feel special, just because of someone else’s ignorance.”
He squeezed both her hands. “I don’t want to lose you either.” But he knew he was putting Fatima in danger, and that knowledge sickened him.
Chapter 41
Thea sat on a couch in her room at the Corinthia Hotel Budapest, studying for the thousandth time the note Prospero had given her in the hangar’s kitchen. The deadline to call was fast approaching, but she would wait until the last minute. Prospero was used to people asking how high when he told them to jump. To maintain his respect, she had to not acquiesce to his every demand—yet still allow him to feel he had control. It was a fine line to walk.
Why the hell does Prospero want that truck?
A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. After a quick look through the peephole, she undid the locks. An eighty-four-pound bundle of muscle and joy bounded straight for her, almost knocking her over with the enthusiasm of a child.
“Aegis!”
She stroked his wheaten hair, the Rhodesian ridgeback leaning his full weight against her legs. He whined, wagging his tail as if he was trying to shake it free from his body. She hadn’t seen him in two weeks, and he clearly wanted to make up for lost time. He lived full-time with her father, but Thea thought of him as her dog.
Unlike Aegis, Papa hesitated at the threshold, his dark eyes glistening. Tears. Unusual for him.
“I’m relieved you’re okay.” He finally stepped forward, still awkward on his prosthetic leg, and reached for her with open arms.
She returned his hug, her emotions jumbled. She loved her father. He’d been a pillar in Thea’s life since she was five, when her mother had died. When he’d been kidnapped last year, she’d moved heaven and earth to bring him back home, but the incident had unearthed a host of ugly secrets that Papa had been hiding. In the aftermath, her brother, Nikos, was gone, his body carried off by the Zambezi River, and her father had lost a leg. And now Thea wasn’t sure if she could ever really trust Papa again.
She invited him inside. “Espresso?”
“Do you need to ask?” he asked.
She half smiled. They shared a passion for coffee, the elixir that brought light to even the darkest hour.
Packing espresso grounds into the filter, she soon had the heady scent of brewing java filling the air. A dash of cinnamon, and the espresso was ready.
“Please, sit.” She invited him into the suite’s living room, placing their espressos on the antique mirrored table. A
egis plopped down on top of her feet. She stroked his head.
“Any news on the boys?” Christos had befriended Ayan and Jabari during one of his trips to Kanzi, and he had funded the adoption program. The boys’ new family, the Wavertons, were acquaintances of his.
Thea shook her head. “I’ll be calling Prospero Salvatore soon for instructions about this truck he wants us to hijack.”
Papa tilted his head. “What’s so special about it?”
“That’s the sixty-four-million-euro question. The analysts at Quantum are working every angle, but nobody has a clue.”
“Well, if you need any support, financial or otherwise, I’m here for you.” Papa sipped his espresso.
“We should have it covered, but thanks for the offer.”
“I mean it. Anything I can do to get Ayan and Jabari back safely.”
“We’re on it. Don’t worry.”
Christos stared into his espresso cup. “Not much fun being a hostage.”
Papa would know. “I can’t help feeling I let everyone down.”
“From what I heard, you held off Prospero’s men as long as you could.”
She thought of the fight in the hangar, all the people she’d killed. So much loss of life. More blood on the Italian’s hands. “Prospero always had the advantage.”
Papa was quiet for a long moment, his intelligent eyes assessing her. “Once you get the boys safely home, why not leave all this behind, come work with me at Paris Industries?”
There had been a time when she might have considered joining the family business. But knowing the secrets and lies her father had kept and told, and the lives it had cost, she could never work with him. His expression was so hopeful, and she didn’t want to hurt him, but she couldn’t give him false hope either.
“Listen, Papa, I know you’re profoundly sorry about Nikos. I miss him every day, despite what he had become by the end. And I know you worry about me—”
“If I could turn back time, I’d do things differently.” Papa’s gaze was somber.