Tomb of the First Priest: A Lost Origins Novel

by A D Davies

  The mining of public records revealed that L’Esploratore Bello was owned privately, the space rented out by the hotel to one Giovani Trussot although his wife appeared on the books as the assistant manager. While their local tax affairs seemed to be without fault, Giovani himself owned three all-but impenetrable numbered accounts: one in Switzerland, one in the Caymans, and one in Russia, indicating he was likely a go-between for the gang who stole the manuscript and the buyer; a classic double-blind sale.

  Dan and Harpal, now changed into suitable business attire, entered the Vatican View Hotel, Dan in possession of the briefcase full of cash.

  Jules and Bridget left money for the drinks and a generous tip and followed. Again, they utilized the tiny Bluetooth bone-conducting earpieces linked through their cell phones. Toby held back in a parking spot by the river, monitoring police bands. From Greenwich, Charlie concentrated on footage from a drone, a purchase the men made en route from the airport, making Bridget’s accomplishment in beating them to the hotel less remarkable.

  Jules said nothing on the subject.

  As with the setup in Prague, a jerry-rigged cell phone, which served as both camera and secondary controller, was cloned to Charlie’s computer in London. While it may have made more sense for Toby to pilot it, he claimed to have the dexterity of an arthritic ape, so they were reliant on the phone signal staying strong.

  “Is it necessary?” Jules asked in the lobby. “The drone, I mean.”

  “Charlie can hack traffic cams and CCTVs, but only if they’re connected to the internet,” Bridget replied. “We don’t always need this, but Toby’s worried about others showing up.”

  “Others. Meaning the other buyers.”

  “But with Alfonse’s influence, I doubt anyone would double-cross him.”

  Jules wasn’t so sure, but he and Bridget took the elevator to the fifth floor anyway, and stepped out to the rooftop bar, where the Vatican was indeed visible, hazy in the middle distance. An awning hung over the bar itself, a kind of long hut, and extended a quarter of the way over the rooftop seating area, the remainder exposed to the cool spring sunlight. A sign hung over the bar featuring a handsome explorer that was obviously supposed to be Indiana Jones but was painted just badly enough to avoid copyright infringement. The only patrons consisted of an elderly couple sharing cocktails and a single young man sipping a beer and reading a book. The bartender was a leathery-skinned man with a shock of white hair, the top four buttons of his shirt open to reveal a crucifix amid his stringy chest hair.

  He matched the photo they had of Giovani Trussot.

  Jules and Bridget perched on tall stools at the bar in the shade where Jules again ordered water while Bridget chose an espresso. Giovani lingered longer than necessary after delivering their drinks. Jules held his eye.

  The time was right, and they were strangers in a bar where he likely got to know regular guests. Plus Bridget’s stiff demeanor since emerging onto the rooftop would give her away to any experienced operator.

  “Money’ll be here in a minute,” Jules said.

  “Great.” Bridget gave him a hard look to which Jules shrugged.

  Over comms, Toby said, “It’s not as if he wasn’t expecting you. Dan. Are you ready?”

  “Affirmative,” came Dan’s reply. “Charlie?”

  “All good,” Charlie said.

  Dan and Harpal sauntered out onto the rooftop, sharing a silent joke. They’d checked in as guests under fake names, so they came across as any pair of businessmen on a trip. They leaned on the bar and ordered beers. Dan held the briefcase low.

  Giovani served them and in a strong Italian accent said, “On the house.” Then he stood, waiting.

  Harpal looked around. Jules did too.

  The elderly couple and the younger guy were well out of earshot, and none appeared interested in the group.

  “Food?” Giovani offered. “I can have traditional pasta dishes brought up or American hamburger or proper pizza. The thin variety. Not your silly inch-thick base.”

  Jules frowned. “Is the depth of the base important in making decisions about pizza?”

  “Of course!” The serious expression left Giovani, talk of food clearly exciting him more than international antiquity theft. “The thinner base allows you to taste the sauce, the cheese, the toppings. It is about flavor. I hear American companies fill the crust with cheese, and even meat.” He pulled a sour expression. “Sacrilege.”

  Jules took note.

  “We have the money,” Dan said. “Let’s see the package.”

  Giovani frowned. “But we were having such a fine conversation. Perhaps I should offer a sample, no?”

  Harpal sipped his beer, adjusted his sitting position, tilting to one side. Casual, but Jules could tell Harpal was loosening his clothing, allowing him to more easily snatch the Glock that was still hidden from view.

  Giovani continued, “A phone call, yes? The kitchen will send up their finest pizza—”

  “We came here for business,” Dan said.

  Jules slipped off his stool and positioned himself behind Bridget. Giovani traced his movement, then his eyes darted back to Dan.

  Jules took his drink and beckoned for Bridget to join him. She complied, and he slipped his arm around her waist, his back to Giovani. Color flushed into her cheeks, her gaze toward the floor.

  Jules pointed with his drink hand to the Vatican. Out of Giovani’s earshot, he said, “I got a quick assessment for everyone listening. Guy behind the bar is real experienced in selling artwork, but he wants to talk food more than money.”

  “He’s Italian,” Toby said.

  “He also frowned when Dan brought up the subject of business. And he don’t just like food chat. He leaped on the opportunity. But his conversation was designed to probe, draw an argument from patriotic Americans who prefer thicker-based pizzas.”

  Charlie butted in. “Deception indicators, Toby.”

  “Then he focused on me instead of the real threat, which is Harpal, who clearly has a gun. But he’s relaxed on the surface. Desperately relaxed.”

  Jules glanced at Dan, who was now seated, sipping his beer alongside Harpal, both reading a one-page menu the size of a trade paperback.

  Eyes on the menu, Dan replied low enough to avoid Giovani’s ear. “Jules is right. I picked up the same.”

  “Agreed,” Harpal murmured.

  Jules said, “Charlie, you sure none of this Valerio dude’s people’re in town?”

  “Nothing arrived in the past twenty-four hours,” Charlie said. “No known aliases, nothing from his shell companies.”

  Bridget held Jules tighter. She asked, “What about leaving?”

  “Leaving?” Toby said.

  “We were in France for a whole day after Prague, then England for another. What if he was already here? Came in by road from Prague?”

  Jules kept his tone even, despite the urge to abort. “He’ll want a quick getaway.” He located the drone, a dot too high to be audible, and you’d only see it if you knew what you were looking for. “Flight manifests leaving in the next twelve hours.”

  “On it.” Charlie presumably engaged autopilot or handed control over to her husband because the drone did not move.

  Jules and Bridget sashayed back to the barstool and offered smiles to Giovani. The barman replied with, “Beautiful, no?”

  “Gorgeous,” Bridget said. “Always breathtaking.”

  “I did not mean the Eternal City. I meant you two. Beautiful people. Beautiful babies, yes? And such a mix. The African and the... Irish? With that shining hair, you must have Irish somewhere.”

  “Scottish, actually.” Again, Bridget was blushing. Pulling strands of copper hair over her face, she added, “I’m fifth generation, though, so the genes are pretty old.”

  “And very strong.”

  Charlie came back on the air. “You’re right. Omni Fuel Corporation has a private jet scheduled to leave Pope Francis Airfield in two hours. No destination logged, bu
t that isn’t required. Omni Fuel is one of Valerio’s legit operations. Renewable energy research.”

  Jules took in the setup, curious about his suspicions. This was set up by mafia connections, and no one screws with them; the promised money was on the table; yet here he was, stalling. Now Jules was more interested in what was missing. “Giovani, this is a great place. But where’s your wife?”

  The tan bartender’s skin appeared loose on his face before it snapped back into that effusive, beaming vigor he’d almost maintained throughout. “My wife? It is... her day off.”

  “Did they take her?”

  Harpal and Dan stood. Bridget sat up straighter.

  Jules said, “It’s okay. You can tell us.”

  Giovani’s mouth turned down, and his eyes glistened with tears. He must have been debating internally, coming up with excuses for his shock, but Jules had caught him off guard. Denials were pointless.

  He said, “Two days ago. They took her two days ago.”

  “Uh-oh,” Charlie said.

  “What does that mean?” Dan asked.

  “I had to keep you talking,” Giovani said.

  “Not you.” Dan turned from the bar, focused on the drone. “Charlie, talk to us. What’s ‘uh-oh’ mean?”

  The drone started to descend.

  Charlie said, “The 4G cell phone coverage just died. I’m down to 3G, which is much slower, so—”

  Dead air returned. Back in Windsor, Dan had explained their earpieces and throat mics fed through the mobile networks in their individual phones, which were conferenced in via a central satellite phone, so even when underground, they usually had some comms. The air never died. Not completely.

  Bridget lunged at Giovani over the counter, stopping halfway across to touch his hand. “Do you still have the book?”

  “Yes,” Giovani answered. “They said they were sending someone, but other interested people might arrive first. I had to keep you talking until—”

  “Get ready,” Dan said. “This is gonna be tough.”

  And then a small explosion announced the presence of Valerio’s people.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The drone, already dropping from the sky, took a shot to its body and careered to the floor of L’Esploratore Bello, shattering into shards of plastic and metal. Dan would have preferred more warning, but at least he’d had a chance to prepare mentally. That Jules worked out the setup just seconds before he’d processed the scene jabbed at him and made him dislike the kid slightly more, but he was also glad he wasn’t the only one with decent situational awareness. With Jules covering Bridget, Dan could cut loose with what he did best.

  He and Harpal drew the Glocks, unsure where the next attack would come from, but a glint of light three streets over provided the answer.

  “Sniper, four o’clock.”

  Dan swept his open hand toward the best position of cover. Jules slammed Bridget aside, the second time this week Dan’s miscalculations had endangered her. He’d have to trust Jules would keep her safe now.

  As Dan chased after Harpal to share their wall, the first bullets fried the air. The glass around the wall’s edge shattered. The elderly couple and lone traveler ducked under their tables, hands on their heads. Other tables pocked and splintered. Floor tiles cracked. Debris and dust plumed into the air.

  High-caliber rounds. Armor piercing probably. If he’d reacted half a second later, his head would have been vaporized. But that was one of the skills Dan was proudest of—his ability to snap straight from civilian to soldier in a nanosecond—and it had saved him and others more than once. In more than one country.

  Unless the assailants were particularly sadistic or random, the bystanders were far enough away to be safe from any crossfire, but LORI was pinned. The barrage came in from two angles and showed no sign of letting up.

  Bridget held on tightly to Jules, her fingers straining on his torso as if trying to burrow inside him, tears streaming. She constantly harangued the team to give her more fieldwork, but she’d never come under fire comparable to this. Even someone as experienced as Dan struggled to keep his head. There was something primordial about this, about having nowhere to run, no way to return fire.

  “This is tactical,” he said to the bunched group. “There’ll be a second wave. They want what Giovani has.”

  Speaking of the bartender, he’d hit the floor as soon as the shooting started. He wasn’t wounded in the initial strike, but that hutlike bar was made of wood. It wasn’t exactly a block of swiss cheese matching the tables near LORI’s foxhole, but it had taken a few hits.

  “It’s behind the bar,” Jules said. “If they couldn’t collect before now, it’ll be close.”

  “Don’t even think about it,” Dan said.

  “What?” Bridget snapped her head back and forth between the bar and Jules. “What shouldn’t he be thinking about?”

  “He’s going for the book,” Harpal said.

  “Gimme some covering fire.” Jules pried Bridget from him, but she clawed at his back as he rose half a foot into a sprinter’s stance, head still below the outer wall, hidden from the snipers. “You saw one already. Located the other yet?”

  Dan had pinpointed the approximate position from the angle: the second shooter was forty-five degrees north from the first, which was less favorable since it had to come from the side of Giovani’s serving hut. “Yeah, I got it. But Glocks are short-range weapons. Densely populated area. Even if the gunners are in range, no one’s that good.”

  “I only need three seconds. Just point your barrels that way.”

  Dan popped his head up, timed half a second, then ducked back down as a grouping of three slugs skimmed off the wall. “They’re good.”

  “Human instinct. Gun pointed at ’em, even through a scope, they’ll hesitate or even move.” Jules placed one hand on Dan’s gun, another on Harpal’s. “Aim high. Fire. Count one second. Fire. Fall back. Okay?”

  “One second?” Bridget said frantically. “You said three. You need three seconds, not one.”

  “First second to set off. They’ll need at least that to draw a bead. Dan and Harpal distract ’em—that’s another second while they hesitate. They’ll need a third to reset and a fourth to loose off another round. That’s like twenty-five to thirty percent more time than I need.”

  Bridget was trembling. The only one of the four who had never experienced this. Jules clearly had.

  “On three,” Dan said. “One.”

  Harpal nodded.

  “Two.” Dan readied his crouch, waiting for Harpal to do the same. When Jules nodded, Dan said, “Three.”

  Jules launched himself forward. Legs pumping. Head down.

  Dan and Harpal popped up, shoulder to shoulder, aiming in the approximate directions of the snipers. Both fired way over the snipers’ nests to avoid collateral damage.

  But then, at the end of second number two, the doors leading from the hotel burst open.

  Dan and Harpal dropped back behind cover, and Jules initiated his leap from the damaged tiles. Bridget screamed, “Look out!” but the eight-strong team, with Horse taking the lead, streamed into the scene. All armed. Spreading out.

  Dan didn’t wait for them to get in position. He fired on the one who looked the most ready, dropping him with a head shot. Then he squeezed the trigger twice more, the slugs impacting a lanky gunman raising an AK-47. Harpal dropped a third guy, leaving four plus Horse and two snipers.

  After that burst of frenetic gunfire, Dan and Harpal dashed sideways, Bridget in tow.

  Dan guessed she’d be angry with herself for playing the damsel in distress, but it was nothing to do with her gender; she was a civilian with zero experience in gunfights. And gunfights are scary.

  Understatement.

  The three made it behind the end of Giovani’s bar just as the remaining attackers got their acts together, and their coordinated fire battered the thick wooden structure and the wall beyond.

  Dan worried about ricochets, b
ut once the tiles were penetrated, the sandstone beyond absorbed most of the bullets’ energy. At least their angle from the snipers was safer.

  Quit the ballistics analysis and fight.

  During a lull, Dan whipped his head out and pinpointed the attackers: two left, two right. Their barrage resumed as soon as he showed himself. But one thing bothered him.

  “Horse is missing,” he said to Harpal. “Watch our six.”

  “Okay,” Bridget replied. “I’ll try.”

  “Not you.” Dan hadn’t realized when he spoke, but Harpal was gone.

  Dan skittered to the back of the bar hut, which was flush to the wall. No way through. He returned to the edge and held his gun around the side. Fired once. Checked visually, then fired again. Another head shot.

  Back behind his post, Dan said, “He went upward?”

  Bridget nodded.

  Where is Horse?

  A succession of reports from up above boomed. Dan counted five or six.

  Harpal wasn’t as good as he thought he was. He’d undergone some training in his previous occupation, which they all assumed was MI5 or MI6 but he’d never confirmed, and he’d also watched too many movies growing up. He thought squeezing off several quick shots at once kept an enemy pinned better, but really, it just gave away your position. One well-placed bullet was enough to make them think twice, to make them nervous. They’d had this discussion so many times Dan was bored of it.

  But Horse was tricky as well as big. And when Dan jumped to the lip of the bar hut’s awning and pulled himself up, sure enough, Harpal was hunkered behind a fake chimney that didn’t look especially bulletproof. And although they couldn’t necessarily see either Harpal or Dan at this angle, the snipers were still out there.

  Horse popped up, likely the reason the long-range shooters hadn’t engaged yet. On his belly, legs dangling, Dan fired on Valerio’s main man. Horse ducked away again.

  Still hidden from the snipers, Harpal belly crawled along the peak while Dan switched his view to the front section.