Chase Baker and the Da Vinci Divinity (A Chase Baker Thriller Series Book 6)

by Vincent Zandri

  “I only just started yesterday.” Frowning. “Sadly, you didn’t come in.”

  I shook my head.

  “I had a tour group,” I said. “The thirty-minute walking tour of Florence highlights turned into far too many hours when my two French clients insisted on stopping for a quick apperitivo at Harry’s.”

  “Female…clients?”

  The blood rushed to my cheeks. “That would be tour guide/client privilege.”

  “Your reputation precedes you, Chase Baker,” she said with a slow wink of her eye. “But tell me something, what is such a successful author doing running tours?”

  A shot of ice water shot up and down my spine. I’m blowing a cover I had no part in creating.

  “Let’s just say that a writer needs something to write about. Guiding the occasional tour group gives me plenty of material to work with.” Along with the much needed casheshe. But, I decided not to let on about that. Why diminish her rather divine vision of me?

  Folding her arms over her beautiful chest. “Like two French girls, I suppose.”

  In my head, recollections of too much grappa at Harry’s, then accompanying the French girls back to the Hotel Opera in Piazza Santa Maria Novella, the invitation for a night cap in their suite, another couple of grappas, some Motown spinning on the stereo, some dirty dancing going on in the sitting room while I watched from the couch…

  I’d woken up early that next morning just after sunrise, slipped out of the king-sized bed from between the two sleeping beauties, put on my pants and boots, collected the rest of my clothes and finished getting dressed out in the hall, ceiling-mounted CCTV cameras be damned. It didn’t dawn on me until I got back home that I’d never collected my fee for the tour.

  At least I got out before they could pilfer my wallet.

  My eyes peeled on the beautiful woman and her purple beret, I drank down the rest of my beer and decided I’d better leave before I spilled too much Chase Baker reality to her. A rather unglamorous reality. Slipping off my stool, I placed a five euro note on the bar top.

  “I’ll be seeing you, kid.”

  “Oh, wait,” she said, reaching under the bar. She pulled out a copy of my first novel, The Shroud Key. Something else that took me by surprise. “One of my favorite books,” she added. “You write so much better than that Mr. Brown character, because you actually live your adventures. Will you give me the pleasure of signing it for me?”

  The ice in my spine replaced with pure warmth. “It would be my pleasure, believe me.”

  That’s how I got to ask her for a name, and that’s when she told me she was just getting off work. And that’s when she asked me to have a drink with her.

  “You still got it, Baker,” I whispered to myself, praying I wasn’t dreaming. “You still got skills.”

  But then, I’m not sure I actually believed it. It was, however, nice to think it, even for a little while.

  That was four of the most beautiful hours of my life ago.

  Now, as I lie beside Andrea, pressed against her warm, smooth body, I feel the blood returning to the proper places. My hands begin their inevitable searching, petting, touching. Like we’ve only just shed our clothing seconds, not hours, ago.

  “I think I’m falling for you, baby,” I whisper. “You could be the one I’ve been waiting for all my life.”

  “Such pretty words coming from a writer,” she says before moving closer into me, kissing me softly, passionately.

  The front door opens downstairs. I don’t give it a whole lot of thought, considering my present company, and the adult activities we’re engaged in. The door slams shut. I attribute the late hour rudeness to some college kids who’ve rented the downstairs apartment for the week off Airbnb. But then, I hear footsteps. Hard lug soles slapping the stone treads. More than one set of footsteps. Three men, I’m judging. Maybe four.

  My built-in shit detector kick-starts. Tells me to wake up. I sit up straight.

  “Chase, what is it?”

  I press an extended index finger to my lips, like I’m asking her to be quiet.

  The footsteps stop. Right outside my door.

  Christ, my gun is hanging on the hat rack outside the door. One doesn’t consider one’s self-protection when in the midst of making love to one of the most beautiful women he’s ever had the good fortune to meet in his entire adult life. Because, after all, he’s already died and gone to heaven.

  Whispers outside the wood door, then the sound of something metal jimmying the lock.

  “Security breech,” I bark, bounding out of bed, just as the door flies open.

  2

  There’s only two of them, but they’re both as big as a house.

  Tall, thick, bearded. Like the giant white marble statue of Poseidon that stands guard right outside the Palazzo Vecchio has come to life … times two. Maybe they’re brothers. They thrust me back on the bed while shoving Andrea off of it.

  She screams, runs to the opposite end of the room to grab her clothing.

  “Who the hell are you?” I shout.

  But the two men say nothing. Not as if they don’t understand English. More like they’ve been ordered not to say a word. Muscle is their job and that’s what they’re concentrating on entirely.

  Poseidon One takes the left side of the bed near the bedroom door while Poseidon Two man’s the right side by the windows. My right hand comes suddenly free and I manage to coldcock Poseidon One. He doesn’t so much as flinch. Meanwhile, I feel like I’ve shattered my hand.

  I feel the comforter being wrapped around me, like I’m a helpless pig in a blanket. They’re stuffing it in my face. In my mouth.

  Still, I manage to shout, “Andrea, are you all right? Have they hurt you?”

  Poseidon Two slaps me across the forehead, his thick hand like a sledgehammer. Stars spin around my head while I manage to catch sight of my new love as she pulls the turtleneck over her shoulders and places the beret on her head, making sure the angle is perfect.

  “Please don’t hit him.” She pulls a lipstick from her leather bag, runs it over luscious lips. “He’s not dangerous and we don’t have the authority to inflict extreme measures.” Shaking her head in disgust. “Where the hell did you two come from anyway?”

  Poseidon One turns to her. “He’s not cooperating. We can get rough, he don’t cooperate.” His accent is British. But not the King’s English by any means. More like a common soldier’s, Cockney English.

  “He will,” she says, heading out of the room, closing the apartment door. “Give him time.”

  “We don’t have time, Miss,” the goon says. “We were supposed to have him there two hours ago.” He stares at her for a long beat while she returns the glare, unafraid. “We didn’t count on your little get together with the acquisition.”

  She exhales.

  “I lost track of time,” she says in her defense. “Let’s just get him there already. Now. Do you understand?”

  Her words … their words … hit me harder than Poseidon One’s bitch slap. She set me up. The whole thing was a setup from start to finish. How could I have not seen through the haze earlier? “Chase Baker, the famous bestselling novelist, I presume?” Who the hell talks like that? It’s my own fault. I fell for the oldest trick in the book, and left the thinking up to my other head.

  “I knew you were too good to be true,” I say.

  She smiles at me while she pulls a small roll of duct tape from her purse. Tearing off a piece, she slaps it over my mouth.

  “I had fun, Chase,” she says, her accent now decidedly as English as the rest of them, but far more educated. It’s also devoid of anything resembling Italian. “You’re pretty sexy for an old guy. Sorry for the tape, but it’s a precaution I must take.”

  “Who you calling old, bitch?” I say through the tape. But it comes out sounding like a whole lot of mumbo-jumbo.

  While the Poseidons continue to immobilize me by pressing me into the mattress, she tapes my ankles together and t
hen does the same to my wrists. She steps back from the bed.

  “He’s good to go,” she says. Then, looking down at me, smiling. “Don’t worry, tough guy, I’ll grab your clothes.”

  Gee, thanks, I say in my head. But what I want to say is: I don’t care how beautiful you are, when I get free of this, I’m gonna shove that purple beret up your tight little ass. At the same time, I’m now regretting having sent my trusty pit bull, Lulu, across the big pond to spend time with my pre-teen daughter in New York. He would have stopped the big Poseidon Brothers at the door and carved up their fuzzy faces while he was at it.

  Andrea opens the door and the Poseidon Brothers proceed to lift me off the bed, one at the head, the other at my feet. They carry me down the stairs with surprising efficiency and agility. I’m five feet nine, one hundred eighty-five pounds. But to these monsters, I might as well be weightless.

  We head out the front door onto a deserted Via Guelfa. They carry me to the back of a van, the doors to which are already open, and they shove me inside like I’m a cadaver on its way to the morgue. Let’s hope I’m not prophesying. As Poseidon One comes around the front of the van and jumps into the driver’s seat, Andrea opens the passenger side door, settles herself into the shotgun seat. That leaves Poseidon Two to close the van doors. He’s just about to accomplish the task when, peaking out of the blanket, I catch sight of a man. A man standing maybe ten feet away from the van. He’s wearing sandals and a long hooded robe, like a monk or a friar would wear. His face is entirely hidden by the robe’s hood. Hidden in total blackness within the dark night.

  “Hey, you,” Poseidon Two barks in Cockney English. “What do ya think you’re lookin’ at?”

  The monk turns then, walks away in the opposite direction.

  Poseidon Two climbs in, slams the doors closed from the inside.

  “Fuckin’ step on it,” he says. “I wanna catch some sleep tonight.”

  Poseidon One shoves the floor-mounted stick into first, presses his booted foot on the gas. We pull away from the corner and begin tearing down the cobbled road toward who knows where.

  Chase Baker, the famous bestselling author, I presume?

  What a bunch of horse shit.

  3

  The Poseidon Brothers carry me down a concrete staircase and into a windowless four-walled basement room. This is maybe fifteen or twenty minutes after they’ve kidnapped me, which tells me I can’t be more than ten or fifteen miles outside of Florence. Which direction they’ve driven me in, however, I haven’t got a clue. I could be in Prato to the north, or just outside of Fiesole on the way to wine country to the east. It’s a toss-up, not that it matters much.

  The brothers lay me out on a carpeted floor, cut away the tape that binds my ankles and wrists. When they pull the tape from my mouth, it sends a wave of pain shooting through my face.

  “You motherfuckers,” I whisper.

  “‘Scuse me, mate?” spits Poseidon One. “You say somethin’?”

  Sitting up, I take a good look up at him. I’m naked as the day I was born, with a few scars and bruises to add a little flavor to the package. But at this point, my bare ass is beyond embarrassment.

  “I said, lucky my mother doesn’t see me right now. She’d think I’d fallen on hard times.”

  Poseidon Two tosses my clothing at me. Including my lace up Chippewas which smack me square on the chest.

  “Get dressed,” he says. Then, smiling. “I were you, I wouldn’t be showing off a teeny tiny joint like that.”

  “Glad you noticed,” I say. Sensing he might have a little something like a crush for Andrea, I add, “Your colleague didn’t seem to mind giving it a ride all night long. Tell me the truth, beefcakes, she wasn’t supposed to rock n’ roll me all night long like that, was she? Or was she just instructed to make it look like she wanted to do the wild thing with me as hard, and as long, and as wonderfully as she did?”

  Even under all that facial hair, I can see his jaws going taught, his teeth grinding.

  “Let it go, Bear,” Poseidon One says. “He’s just trying to get under your knickers.”

  “He’ll get his he will, Jackie,” Poseidon Bear spits, staring into my eyes while rudely referring to me in the third person.

  The two goons leave, slamming the door closed behind them. That’s when I get my first good look at the place. I’m inside a room that measures about ten feet by ten feet. The overhead ceiling-mounted lighting are bright LEDS. The four walls are translucent and, if my gut serves me right, I can see out but no one can see in. But, that doesn’t really matter because there’s an audio-video camera system set up in each of the four upper corners.

  Knowing I’m being watched, I stand and start to get dressed as casually as I would if I were in my own bedroom at home in either Florence or New York on Prince Street above the pizza joint. I even look directly into the camera when sliding into my beer mug boxers one pale leg at a time, and paint a big shit-eating grin on my face. What the hell, sometimes you gotta lighten things up. Chase the optimist.

  When I’m dressed, I take a seat at the long table that fills the center of the room … and I wait. At this point, I’m mostly waiting for a cup of coffee since it’s going on five o’clock and I haven’t enjoyed a wink of sleep all night. Maybe I should be yelling, screaming, and carrying on over having been kidnapped, post coitus. I should be kicking at the glass walls, hoisting my middle finger at the closed circuit cameras. Hell, taking an arcing piss on the rug.

  But two things come to mind.

  First, if these people wanted me dead, I’d already be sleeping with the anchovies at the bottom of the mud-colored Arno. And second, why give them the satisfaction of knowing how truly upset I am? Best to give them calm, cold, and collected. Like James Bond, maybe. Or Steve McQueen in The Great Escape.

  A few more beats pass until the door opens again and four people enter the room. Rather, two people, and the Poseidon Brothers following close behind. What’s their names? Bear and Jackie?

  Andrea is included in the group. She’s still dressed in the same cute outfit she wore last night when I met her pretending to tend bar at The Goose. The other is a man who, by all outward appearances, is about my own age. He’s a black man. Dignified looking. Tall, well built, with black hair trimmed close to the scalp. Highly educated, no doubt. His dark blue suit has been tailored to fit him. Perhaps at Giovanni’s down on Via della Scala near the river in the Florence center. He’s holding a manila folder which he sets down on the desk before seating himself.

  “Mr. Baker,” he says, his expression serious and concerned, “you’ll have to excuse the methods by which we brought you here.”

  Andrea takes a seat beside him. I catch her eyes catching my eyes, and I smile. She offers me just the slightest grin.

  “You might have simply called me,” I say. “But then, that wouldn’t have been dramatic.”

  He just looks at me like he doesn’t understand what I’m saying or why I’m saying it.

  “Please accept my apologies for upsetting your night like this.”

  “Don’t apologize to me,” I say, nodding at Andrea, who is still looking fresh and beautiful in her purple beret and cotton turtleneck with no bra. “Apologize to the dame.”

  He turns to her, gazes at her for a beat or two, then refocuses on me.

  “My associates sometimes get carried away with their methods, and this was one of those cases.”

  I look beyond Andrea at the Poseidon Brothers. Both of them smile at me in unison. I’m guessing these guys enjoy their work.

  “Tough to find good help these days, isn’t it?” Then, “And what did you say your name was?”

  “I’m Deputy Inspector Eric Millen,” he says. “You’re already familiar with my associate, Andrea Gallo.”

  I smile. “Extremely familiar. Isn’t that right, Andrea?”

  Poseidon Brother Bear shoots me the evil eye.

  “Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Baker,” Millen says. “Now you kno
w why we brought you here the way we did. We couldn’t take a chance on your saying ‘no.’ Not when the sit rep is as desperate as it is.”

  “Sit rep?” I say. “Meaning.”

  “The state of the world is rapidly deteriorating.”

  “Terrorism? ISIS? Al Qaeda? Boko Haram? Pick a terrorist group … any terrorist group.”

  Andrea leans in, places both her palms flat on the table.

  Shaking her head, she says, “Soon, those evil organizations will be dismantled, crushed, and destroyed. Given enough time, enough firepower, enough resolve on the part of the free world leaders, radical Islam will be effectively neutralized. Of that, we have no doubt. But what Deputy Inspector Millen and I are concerned with involves a force with far more staying power, far more fire power, and far more resources than those murderous Islamic bastards in Syria and North Africa.”

  I sit back in my chair. “Who the hell are you people?”

  Andrea looks at Millen. He looks back at her.

  “Ever heard of MI16?” he says.

  I feel the short hairs on the back of my neck rise up.

  “James Bond,” I whisper.

  “Bond is MI-6,” Andrea points out. “But close enough.”

  “And who are these bad guys you’re talking about?”

  “The Russians,” she says with a smile. “Naturally.”

  4

  “Before we go on,” I say, “is it possible for me to grab a cup of coffee? Shaken, not stirred?”

  Millen nods emphatically.

  “My apologies again,” he says. “Of course, you can have some coffee. I’ll have my men gather coffee all around and something to eat with it.”

  He turns, issues the orders to the Poseidon Brothers. Both of them don’t look too happy about being gophers. Especially on my behalf. Hope they don’t spit in my Maxwell House.