"What am I doing here?"
"Don't kid yourself, you work for him, not with him. So when he tells you to make a deal happen, you make it happen."
The man drank some of the clear liquid from his glass, he raised it at Talbot and asked if he would like some. Talbot shook his head.
"As I said, you are a lucky man, I mean that."
"What are you talking about?" asked Talbot.
"I'm talking about your failure to make the sale for my boss—"
"The painting was fake."
The man gave him a Savage look suddenly, his intense blue eyes even looked fake. He spun his glass and walked around the table.
"You were required to just make the sale, that's all."
"The buyer knew it was fake."
"So now, you and this buyer, are indebted to my boss, do you see your predicament?"
Talbot glanced at the cameras. If they wanted him dead, they'd have done it in the city. And this guy with the smooth ways of a TV broadcaster wasn't armed. They need me, he thought.
"I'm a businessman, you tell your boss that."
"He's asked me to give you a proposal," the man stopped pacing.
Talbot poured himself a drink and said he was listening.
"Now, pay close attention…"
—
The men who took Andrew Gilmore were not making efforts to conceal the location of the hideout.
When morning came, a hatch located at the bottom of the door scratched open, a plate of fries, chicken, and a pack of milk was slipped in.
Gilmore stared at the food for minutes before reaching for it. He smelled the fries and chicken. He closed his eyes turned his head, "Road Mama Roma? Kill Joy?"
One of those two Ristorantes made fries and sprinkled cinnamon on their chicken. Andrew nodded. He was being held in a place located in the heart of Rome.
I'm still home.
And milk? He checked it for punctures. Then he checked it for fine punctures. There seem to be none.
He crawled across the concrete on all fours into the corner by the one bed in the room. A regiment of brown ants had marched past the feet of the iron frame last night; they dragged the limbs of a cockroach.
The number had now reduced to maybe a battalion. The ants will do for the test Andrew sought to conduct.
Andrew opened the pack of milk. On the paper pack, Norco Fresh milk was written. The tab broke as he turned the cap, but a killer could get past that if they wanted to slip past detection.
He made a few drops on the pant of the ants.
The brown soldiers broke formation. They went into a frenzy around the drops, seemingly avoiding it at first. Then one ant gave the drop a tentative kiss. Two more ants with bigger and browner heads took a sip.
He listened again for the sounds of traffic, or of inside streets, there was none. It was as though he had been stuffed in a bottle, with a stone and thrown in the sea. He concluded that he must be in some basement, surrounded by concrete.
He crawled off the bed and did push-ups. He was sweating on his third rep. He ate some of the fries and half the chicken.
The drops of milk on the floor was almost gone when he went back to inspect it. There were no dead ants around it either.
He sipped milk.
When the hatch opened again, Gilmore dove into the floor. A hand stretched a bottle of distilled water. It took less than five seconds for the hand to come through the hatch and retract.
It was the same hand that brought the food. It was attached to a body wearing dark clothing. Something caught the light, it was attached to the body. Andrew surmised that it had to be the muzzle of a gun.
As the hand disappeared, Gilmore reached out to the hatch. It clicked into place sharply, as if propelled by a spring.
He smiled.
He started planning his escape.
—
Church of San Lorenzo.
Across the city, in a secret chamber surrounded by green, stone walls starved of sunlight. The chamber wasn't always the chamber it was now. Hundreds of years ago, it was part of a stretch of secret passages used by a select group of soldiers that only answered to the pope of the time.
But that was a time too ancient to recall, with rules too strict.
The church under which this chamber was dug had a tomb on the altar, and this tomb was no ordinary one. It as for this reason that a powerful cardinal made the short, breathless journey from the Vatican to meet a certain man named Louis Piero.
Piero was a small man with short white hair, wise eyes, and a cheeky smile. He wore a fading red cassock, the same one he has worn for fifty years.
Cardinal Emilio Batolini was waiting in the corner of the chamber underneath the church when Piero arrived in his shuffling gait. The old priest was not smiling today. The Cardinal always came through the entrance of the church. He has never asked for his audience in this chamber.
This was the chamber of secrets, of soldiers seeking protection from evil.
"Peace on to you, cardinal."
"Peace, Piero?"
Piero searched the face of the Cardinal for the fear in his voice. He could not find it.
"I'm afraid you have to tell me what disturbs you, cardinal."
"I have come to tell you that once again, marauders are coming, Piero," the Cardinal looked like a big rat at that moment, "they are in Rome as I speak, I have this from birds."
"The birds?"
The Cardinal nodded. Piero looked back the way he came and sighed. The priest was a discreet man, both with his ecclesiastical job and with his relations with others. He was not one to judge others. Yet, he'd heard of the reputation of cardinal Emilio. It was a wonder that the Cardinal still maintained his seat in the Vatican after his last involvement with the situation concerning the Holy Grail. Piero had seen most of it on TV.
"They are coming after the treasure?"
"Yes, exactly."
"But the treasure is lost, surely you know this."
The Cardinal gave Piero a flat look that chilled the priest. Piero had just given the standard explanation he has been presenting to inquiries for as long as he remembered. No one knew the real state of the treasure except the keepers of the secret, and Piero hadn't heard of any keeper for ages. Indeed, the Cardinal's tone suggested that he had more information than he was giving.
"Father, I have come to tell you we have to move it, the treasure."
"But we can not possibly move something that does not exist."
"Piero, the people who are coming after the treasure do not believe in the legend. If at all, the stories have only fueled curiosity. Wake up, the time has come to move it."
Piero was agitated. In a stringer tone, he said, "but I do not know of what you talk about, all I thought was you have come to give your donations for the church, which I might add, we sorely need—"
"What then do you guard?" Emilio gestured at the moldy ceiling.
"I watch over God's property."
"You do," Cardinal Emilio snapped, "I have come to offer my help, but you reject it."
The Cardinal once again dropped into a pious mood. He nodded slowly, his eyes glued to the father's own. When it was apparent the old man would not step off the line he'd made, Emilio pulled his big garb together and prepared to leave.
"You will find my donations in the vestry."
And he was gone.
—
Billionaire Frank Miller was receiving a call from the unlikely person of former CIA chief Paul Talbot. Coincidentally, the crooked cardinal Emilio Batolini was speaking with father Piero under the church of San Lorenzo, too, at that time.
"I might have a proposal for you," he said.
Frank Miller drove himself to that meeting; with him was Olivia Newton. A guy with a pitted face and agency written all over him was waiting in the parking lot of the Kalimba Club.
Frank and Olivia followed him through the back of the dance club and up a step, dimmed blue lights illuminated the place, electric music boome
d. Olivia caught sight of two pretty Italian girls on their knees, working on a man, his trousers around his feet.
They came out on an airy terrace. City lights spread all around like stars.
Talbot was sitting amid half-dressed girls, drinking from tall glasses with little umbrellas in them. The girls looked drunk, but Talbot looked okay. He eyed his two visitors suspiciously, his gaze stayed on Olivia's face.
He bared his teeth in a smile.
"Olivia Newton," he announced, "the woman who's slowly becoming a force to reckon with."
She nodded, "Talbot."
"Come on, sit, drink something, on the house."
Giggling and drunk girls jumped around, making space for the guests. The pitted faced man who brought Miller and Olivia up stood aside.
The guests sat. Olivia declined what Talbot was drinking.
"What'd you have for us, Talbot?"
"Yeah, straight to business."
Talbot put his glass away. He dismissed the last of the girls. When they were alone, his demeanor switched. He sat forward, his palms together, deliberatively.
"There is a way to clear your debt with the boss—"
"I do not owe your boss, Talbot, he owes me a painting."
"Whatever—," Talbot looked at Olivia, "I understand you have the original, yes?"
"How'd you know about it?" Olivia asked.
"I know what I'm supposed to know, that's how you survive in this business. Now the boss is willing to write off the debt if you'd lead him to the treasure. He takes the treasure, and your debts are paid. Simple, yes?"
"Fuck you, Talbot."
Frank Miller got up to leave.
"He'll provide everything you need, transportation, protection, the works. You can't say he's not generous enough, considering—"
Miller glared at the man, "you can tell him to shove it, Talbot. We can manage by ourselves."
"No, you can't, Miller. And you know it."
"Watch us."
Olivia rose to her feet, too, "we have done it before."
Talbot looked at her and laughed, "this is different, the forces you are up against are more formidable than you can imagine. A dozen sharks are gonna come for you, Miller. Everybody wants the treasure. Hell, I want it too. But cave robbing ain't my thing. But where would you start? He's offering a truce. Would you rather he hunted you down, make it hard for you?"
Olivia considered.
"We choose our team," she said.
Talbot shrugged.
"Olivia, are you sure?" Miller asked.
She nodded.
"Be sensible, Miller. You know this is a good deal," Talbot said as the guests left.
—
As they drove back to the hotel, Miller said, "he entrapped me."
"Yes."
"That son of a bitch!"
A black Audi followed them from the club. Another took the lead, but neither Miller nor Olivia noticed.
—
The next day, around dusk, three men arrived in Rome that attracted the interest of the Vatican, the polizei and the Financier. Of the three, the polizei and the Financier were less covert about their efforts at surveillance.
Liam Murphy was the first of the team member to arrive. A taxi was waiting to take him as he came down the Airfrance plane. A black Audi followed the taxi all the way. It tailed the taxi downtown to a hotel that had been booked for him.
Two hours after, Victor Borodin flew in on a Lufthansa airline. The loading bay of the Leonardo da Vinci international airport. The Russian took his luggage off the treadmill and made straight for the restroom.
He checked the stalls, they were all empty in the men's room. He waited some seconds before locking himself behind the door. He switched his clothes, from a blue business suit and trousers to black leather jackets, denim trousers and a baseball cap that he pulled low over his face.
When he stepped out ten minutes later, he was barely recognizable. A man with Borodin's name on a white cardboard paper was waiting in the crowded parking lot by a taxi. Borodin slipped past him and boarded an empty cab.
Across the three-lane road, there was the black Audi, the driver sat watching the taxi guy with the cardboard. He would wait twenty more minutes before calling it quits.
But almost two hours after, the black Audi was back in that spot across the road. The third quarry did not show up until late at night.
—
Anabia Nassif did not arrive until late because Lawrence Diggs had made a discovery earlier in the afternoon. He had seen the black Audi twice. Once when Miller and Olivia drove back to the hotel from meeting Talbot. The second time was when Liam Murphy went into the Hotel Condotti. The same one on Via Mario de Fiori, three blocks from Miller's hotel.
"I believe we are being watched," he said to Miller on his cellphone.
"Find out who."
"Well, there's Roman detectives, and another I'm not sure of."
"Stay with him."
"Sure."
Diggs watched the road through sophisticated lenses, from the top of a building nearby. Roman detectives weren't so different from their other counterparts in other countries.
Two men dashed down into the airport. "Oh, oh."
Diggs saw Liam Murphy walk, gaily, as he had been told to do by Diggs, into the detectives.
The black Audi stopped by the entrance of the airport, the driver took a look in there and drove off.
Liam was escorted into an unmarked car and taken away.
—
Liam was put in a room shaped like a box. The room was bare, grey paint on the wall. A mirror that spanned the length of one wall. Two cops joined him, one held a cup of coffee, smiling, the other twirled a baton, sour-faced.
Liam tapped the table playfully.
"Seriously? The good cop bad cop routine is still a thing?"
"What is the nature of your visit to Rome?"
"Nature."
"Huh?"
"The nature of my visit to Rome is Nature." Liam openly gestured at his brown travel bag. "I study polar life regions and ice shelves, and I am a physician."
The guy with the baton rummaged through his bag. The other cop's cellphone rang. Meanwhile, he spoke Italian briefly on the phone.
Twenty minutes later, Liam was let out of the station.
Diggs pulled up beside him as he hailed a taxi.
"Get in, Liam."
"Hey, how are ya, did you see that? I just got the good cop bad cop treatment in there, I always thought that happened only in the movies—"
"Shut up, Liam."
—
Five hours later, in a dusty, abandoned warehouse that Frank Miller bought off an old Jew a month before, the group gathered around a makeshift map that Olivia had put together.
Liam asked the billionaire, "what is this place, Frank?"
"It was supposed to be for my art collection.
"Liam looked around, "so what happened?"
"That ship never sailed," Miller glanced at Olivia, who was getting impatient.
"Can we focus guys?" she said.
"You look good, Olivia," Anabia Nassif said.
"Thanks."
Liam gave the biologist a weary look. "Olivia's been taking karate classes. She'll kick your ass now, Anabia. Forget it, you can't date her."
Borodin snickered.
Diggs watched the men without much emotion.
"We are going to London from here tomorrow morning," she touched a spot on the map, "we'll make our first stop herein, then we ride out to the Haywood in Staffordshire."
"Someone would be waiting at Clapham town, there is a private airfield there, we'll take a plane to Staffordshire from here," Miller added.
"Why do we have to make these stops," asked Liam, "why can't we just go straight to this place and grab the gold?"
Olivia sighed, she looked at Miller for help. Miller, in turn, glanced at Lawrence Diggs, who was cleaning oil from his hands.
"We expect trouble."
Th
e men —except Miller and Diggs— looked at each other.
"What kind of trouble are we talking about?" Nassif asked.
Borodin asked if it was the type from the last adventure.
Diggs said, "this could be worse. As you all know, Liam was picked up by the police yesterday. We are on several people's radar. By traveling short distances at a time, we monitor who's following."
"Who exactly are we talking about? Other than the police?" Liam asked again.
Frank Miller answered that one.
"There's the man who's the reason why this place is empty, they call him the Financier, and we think some renegade Cardinal also got his eyes on the treasure. We expect opposition at the treasure site too."
"On a scale of one to ten, who's deadliest of them all?" Liam asked.
Miller shrugged and looked at Olivia.
Diggs stepped forward, "we don't worry about that. We go in fully powered, get the gold and split."
"Oh yeah," Liam smiled, "I love the sound of that, split, how much money per person are we talking about?"
Anabia pushed his glasses up, open-mouthed, "what is wrong with you, man?"
"Alright, we'll talk about splitting the treasure when we find the treasure," said Olivia.
Miller, "if we find the treasure."
Anabia Nassif took off his glasses, he touched Olivia's shoulder, "we're gonna get your brother back, okay."
Olivia smiled.
"Yeah."
—
4
Clapham, London
An omnibus stopped at the local station in the charming town of Clapham. It vomited its passengers, five of whom clustered together as the bus went on its way down the road.
They stood together and waited for the blue car that was coming down the road. The car shimmered in the heat as it swerved past the red omnibus.
It pulled up beside them on the dirt shoulder of the road. The man behind the wheels looked like a big sunflower, yellow hair, intense blue eyes, more yellow hair on his face, and a small pink mouth in the middle of the mass of tattered yellow. He wore green fatigues, long-sleeved, the US army logo was on the shoulder.
"Hey, fellas, how was your trip?"
The group stared momentarily at him.
"Well, come on, get in the car, we can't wait for the grass to grow."
He was cockney, Olivia thought. The man called himself Balthazar.
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