Suddenly James grabbed her arm and yanked her inside, slamming the door shut. Her hand jumped to her chest in an attempt to calm her suddenly racing heart.
“What’s wrong?” she cried.
“We’re not alone.”
The Holy See, Rome
September 9th, 1296 AD
One week after Bartholomew delivered his message to Marco Polo
Marco Polo sat in his carriage outside the gates of the Holy See, his meeting with Pope Boniface VIII cancelled, and not to be rescheduled. It was made quite clear to him that any letter delivered almost fifteen years ago to Pope Martin IV was either disposed of or lost, there having been five Popes in that span of time. He had argued, pled, even threatened, but it had been no use. He was shown the door and sent on his way, his half of the scroll never to be married with the other half, the secret his beloved Giuseppe died protecting never to be revealed.
He ordered the coachman to proceed, and with a flick of the reins they began to roll forward, the cobblestones shaking the carriage slightly, their rhythmic clacking lost on Marco as he settled into a deep depression. He stared out the window at the masses, then closed his eyes, his head resting against the padded side, tears pouring down his cheeks as he pictured his beloved brother, Giuseppe, and how heartbroken he must have been failing in his mission, a mission that he had sent him on.
If it wasn’t for you, he’d be alive.
He shook his head, gripping the cross that hung around his neck.
No, if it weren’t for that blasphemous crystal idol, he’d be alive!
And at that moment, he swore to God that if he ever laid hands on it, he’d destroy it himself, it already having taken so much from him. Death followed the skull, of that he was sure. Father Salvatore, Brother Vincenzo, Angelo, Bartholomew, and of course Giuseppe. All dead before their time due to the evil that was the skull.
Marco swore that no more lives of his loved ones would be lost to the cursed idol. He looked at the scroll, still gripped in his hand. He was tempted to destroy it right then and there, but it was the last thing that Giuseppe had written, and he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Instead, when he reached home, he would hide the scroll with his private papers so no one else might be tempted by its contents.
He opened his eyes and looked out the window to the heavens, praying that no one else should ever seek the crystal idol, lest they too suffer the fate of so many good men.
And resolved there, once and for all, to undertake one final journey.
Teufel Residence, Munich, Germany
Present day, two days after the kidnapping
Acton peered out the window at the new arrivals. Three SUVs with at least four men in each were emptying out front. His mind raced as he evaluated their situation. Outnumbered four to one. Soon to be surrounded. And no weapons. How the hell they knew they were here was a completely different question that could be worried about later. He turned to Teufel.
“Is there another way out of here?”
Teufel shook his head. “No, but the lab is a safe room.”
“Then let’s go!” urged Reading, herding the other three toward the basement stairs. The doorbell rang, which Acton thought was quite civilized of their besiegers. It was quickly followed by hammering on the door as they all bottlenecked at the basement door, Teufel taking the steps one at a time.
Acton heard something toward the back of the house and looked down the hallway to see two faces peering through a rear window then the smashing of glass. The last Acton saw was a boot crossing the window sill. He closed the door to the basement behind them as Teufel finally reached the bottom step, shuffling toward the safe room.
“They’re inside!” yelled Acton as he looked for a lock, finding none. The door opened to the outside so there was no point in trying to block it or brace it; they would simply pull open the door. He looked for something to give him a better hold than a slippery metal doorknob.
Nothing.
As he gripped the knob he looked down and saw Teufel finally get into the decontamination chamber, shaking his head that the old man hadn’t let Laura go first.
Chivalry dies in the face of death?
Acton frowned.
And he seems to be moving a lot slower than when we first arrived.
Again the thought of how they were found reared, but he pushed it aside, an idea suddenly occurring to him. He undid his belt buckle and pulled his belt off as he heard heavy steps coming down the hall. He looped the belt back through the buckle then hooked it over the door knob, pulling it tight. He then wrapped the other end of the belt around his wrist, leaning back and using his body weight rather than just muscle power to hold the door.
Looking down he saw Laura enter the chamber, Reading still at the foot of the steps. He turned to Acton. “Why don’t you let me take that?” he asked, ever the peace officer.
“Because I’m faster and stronger than you?” said Acton with a wink as he felt the door jerk, the first attempt made. Acton saw Laura step out of the decontamination chamber. “Your turn!” said Acton before Reading could defend himself.
Reading frowned then after a split second of indecision jumped into the decontamination room as the door continued to rattle, but never opening more than an inch. Acton split his attention between the door and Reading’s progress, his wrist in agony as the belt tightened further. Suddenly the door jerked open and a large knife appeared, slicing into the belt.
Acton spun his arm, releasing the grip his belt had on him, sending those pulling at the other side tumbling backward. He jumped down the steps then into the decontamination room just as Reading exited to the other side. As he was blasted with air he saw a man rush down the steps, gun extended, followed by several more. There was a beep as the cycle completed and he stepped into the room.
“How do we lock it?” he yelled, looking at Teufel.
“The red button,” he said as the first man ran toward the decontamination entrance.
Acton looked and saw a large red button to the right. He pushed it and an alarm sounded, the clicking of several locks being heard. The man grabbed on the door entrance and pulled, but couldn’t get it to open. He raised his weapon and pointed it at the glass. Acton stepped back as a shot, muffled by their enclosure, was fired.
Nothing.
The glass, or whatever it was, held, barely a mark on it.
“What is this place?” asked Reading.
“It’s a panic room,” answered Teufel. “Bullet proof, bomb proof—at least small bombs—with its own power supply, air filters, water and food. We can stay here for days if necessary. They will eventually tire of their failures and leave.”
Several more shots rang out, the bullets slamming into the transparent walls, loud thuds echoing through the chamber. A grim looking man, a determined expression on his face, his jawline so fierce it looked like it might have more success cutting through the wall than the bullets, circled the chamber they were in, firing at each of the four walls. Acton hoped a ricochet might take him out, teaching the man Einstein’s definition of insanity the hard way—doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.
Acton turned to Teufel, who had sat himself in a swivel chair off to the side, but several feet from the glass. He slowly spun in the chair, watching the ineffective progress of the shooter.
“Is there a way to talk to them?”
Teufel nodded, pointing to a panel by the wall. “Press the top button to activate the speaker so we can hear them but they can’t hear us. Press the middle button to activate two way communications, or just press and hold the bottom button to talk like on a walkie talkie. Letting it go turns off our microphone.”
Acton nodded, walking over to the panel and pressing the top button. Over hidden speakers he could hear the sounds of half a dozen men shuffling and muttering, one set of boots slowly clicking around the chamber as their owner gave up shooting.
Acton pressed the bottom button. “What do you want?” h
e asked, then let go of the button just in case he and his compatriots needed to communicate in private.
A man stepped forward, clearly the leader. He smiled, a smile that must have been so practiced, it seemed genuine.
“Professor Acton. It is a pleasure to finally meet you in person. I’ve heard so much about you and your lovely fiancée”—he nodded toward Laura—“that I feel like I already know you.”
Acton pressed the button, deciding the longer they played along, the longer Reading, who stood huddled with Laura in the rear corner, might be able to make contact with the outside world, he having caught a glimpse of a phone in Reading’s hand. “How can I help you—what did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t,” said the man, his smile widening. “I like you Professor. And I don’t want to hurt you or your friends. In fact, I can guarantee that no harm will come to you. Perhaps a sign of trust.” He bowed slightly. “My name is Mitch Reynolds. My card,” he said, stepping forward and pushing his watch down, exposing the inside of his left wrist.
“Triarii,” observed Acton, his lips pursed. “But not the real Triarii.”
Mitch smiled. “We’re all real Triarii, just some of us have a different view on things.”
“So you’re the ones who kidnapped President Jackson’s son?”
Mitch laughed, motioning to one of his men who ran up the steps to the main floor. “Kidnapped is such a strong word, with so many negative connotations.” Two sets of feet appeared at the top of the steps, the first set descending tentatively into the basement, the face hidden by a bulkhead. When they finally came into view Acton gasped, causing the others in the room to look.
Before them stood Grant Jackson, apparent kidnap victim, looking none the worse for wear, and an awkward smile on his face as he stood facing Acton.
“As you can see, Professor Acton, Mr. Jackson is with us. He is not our captive, and is free to go at any time. Mr. Jackson has decided to see his father’s work through, voluntarily.”
“If you leave, I promise to tell the authorities that so they’ll stop chasing you,” said Acton, the sarcasm dripping through the speaker. He heard Laura giggle behind him.
Mitch tossed his head back, laughing, soon joined by the others, Grant as well, but if Acton didn’t know better, more for show than anything else.
That guy looks far too uncomfortable to be here voluntarily.
“I love a good sense of humor, Professor Acton, but unfortunately don’t have time for it.” Mitch stepped closer to the glass. “You have found the location of the thirteenth skull. I want it.”
Acton’s eyes narrowed. “How did you find out we were here?”
Mitch waved his hand. “As much as I would like to discuss this situation further, I only have time for what we came for. You have the second half of the scroll?”
Acton removed his finger from the button and turned to look at Teufel, as had the others. He seemed uncomfortable in his chair, suddenly finding his fingernails very interesting. “Check his wrist!”
Reading stepped over and grabbed Teufel’s left arm, shoving his watch out of the way. Reading grunted and turned the wrist so Acton could see.
“Triarii!”
Teufel tore his arm loose, giving Reading an annoyed look, then resumed his pleasant demeanor. “I’m sorry, Professors, but yes, I am Triarii. Always have been, in fact.”
“And you’re part of this breakaway group?” asked Laura.
Teufel nodded. “I truly am sorry for having deceived you. I must confess it wasn’t always the case, but I was recently persuaded that the time has come to test our faith. If the skulls truly have powers, then the only way to prove so is to unite them. If nothing happens, then they are mere trinkets to be forgotten. But if something does happen, even if it is another cataclysmic event as our history tells us happened eight hundred years ago, then it will prove our faith hasn’t been misguided, and will unite the Triarii once again in purpose!”
“You’re all barmy!” exclaimed Reading, his phone to his ear. He suddenly spun away, talking into his phone, low enough that Acton couldn’t hear him from the other side of the room.
“Regardless of your opinion of us,” continued Teufel, “you are under our control.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out what looked like a small remote. He pressed a button and the dim red light that had surrounded the chamber suddenly went green. Acton grabbed a chair as Mitch stepped toward the decontamination chamber. Acton shoved it between the inner doors, preventing them from closing, which in turn prevented the outer doors from opening.
“Nice try,” said Acton, making sure the chair wasn’t at risk of rolling away as the doors tried again to close on it. He walked toward Teufel, his hand outstretched. “How about you hand that over.”
Teufel reached in his other pocket and drew a gun. Acton raised his hands and stopped. Suddenly Reading’s hand whipped out, his back still to Acton, but his side open enough for him to have a clear view of what was going on. The back of his hand made contact with Teufel’s, the jarring impact causing the old man’s hand to reflexively open, sending the gun clattering into the corner.
Acton pounced on it, immediately checking the safety then ejecting the magazine to see if it was indeed loaded. It was. He pointed the weapon at the floor as he faced Teufel. “Now how about you hand over that remote control?”
Teufel, his face flushed with anger and embarrassment at the frailty old age brings, handed the remote to Acton who immediately reactivated the lockdown. He turned back to Mitch, whose smile was gone. Reading stepped up beside him and pushed the button on the panel to talk.
“I just got off the phone with my friends at INTERPOL. German police have already been dispatched. I figure you have three minutes.”
Mitch motioned for everyone to leave, but not before taking a step forward.
“This isn’t over, Professor Acton. And next time I may not be so friendly.”
Acton bowed slightly, as did Mitch, who then followed the rest of his men up the stairs. Acton turned to Reading.
“Why did you tell them? We could have just waited and they’d have been arrested.”
Reading shook his head. “It could have turned into a firefight and that kid could have been killed. You could see just by looking at him that he’s terrified. He has no clue what he’s gotten himself into.”
Acton bit his cheek, looking at the now vacant basement, remembering the look on the young Jackson’s face, agreeing with Reading.
“He’s going to have to get himself out of it on his own, otherwise he’s not going to survive.”
CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
Present day, two days after the kidnapping
CIA analyst Chris Leroux jabbed at the screen, a smile on his face, spinning in his empty office cubicle on instinct, hoping to share his success with someone. As usual he was disappointed. He turned back to his keyboard, his fingers flying furiously as he packaged up the footage he had accessed by hacking the airport security feeds. Tracking the second plane to its destination outside of Munich, Germany had been easy—they had filed a flight plan and followed it. He had to admit the decoy aircraft was genius and fooled everyone, even if it had made no sense.
But now everyone was tasked with trying to find out where the passengers had gone. His boss, Director Morrison, had decided to bypass regular channels and have him hack the security system to save time, the red tape of getting it from the Germans would have probably taken at least a day.
Now Leroux had footage showing four men exiting the plane along with Grant Jackson, who was unrestrained and by outward appearances happy, or at a minimum, unafraid.
Something’s not right.
He forwarded the footage to Morrison then began what he did best. Finding connections between apparently disparate things. The footage at the airport had shown them clear customs with incredible ease, especially since they had an apparent hostage with them. Grant Jackson could have at any point said something to security to ask
for help, but he didn’t. And he didn’t even show a passport, merely being waved through with the others.
He sent a message to Morrison advising the security guard be investigated for collusion.
The cameras outside showed them being met by two men, handshakes exchanged, but not before young Mr. Jackson—easily five years older than Leroux—was put in the back of an idling SUV with blacked out windows. The new arrivals then split between two vehicles and what turned out to be a three vehicle convoy left the airport.
Leroux captured the license plates and sent off a request for traffic cameras feeds to be tapped to see if they could be traced, and for the local authorities to be on the outlook for the vehicles. As he leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers on both armrests, he closed his eyes.
Why Munich?
If the aim were to hold on to Jackson, it made sense to keep him within the country and mobile. Placing him on a plane, even with the decoy, was very risky, then moving him to Europe with its larger population and confined spaces didn’t make sense.
Unless their purpose was to deliver Jackson to a destination.
He knew from his briefing that the Triarii were based in London but were spread throughout every corner of the planet. Their wealth and numbers meant they most likely had contacts and safe houses pretty much everywhere, as was demonstrated with the Potomac farmhouse. A records search showed it belonged to the same family for generations, and they just happened to be away on vacation for a few days.
Leroux had no doubt they were Triarii, the tunnel proving it in his mind though they claimed to have known nothing about it.
But if the Triarii had taken Jackson to Europe, there had to be a purpose. The Triarii didn’t need money, and the storage locker they had raided and the maid’s testimony suggested they already had what they were looking for—a crystal skull. And that Jackson had gone willingly with them.
The Venice Code (A James Acton Thriller, Book #8) (James Acton Thrillers) Page 16