The Vatican Conspiracy: A completely gripping action thriller (A Marco Venetti Thriller Book 1)

by Hogenkamp, Peter

  “Did you tell my father this?”

  Lucci nodded. “I did, but it will only mean something when you tell him yourself.”

  “When will I see him?”

  “Very soon. But don’t tell him about our agreement until after you return from Austria.”

  Pietro didn’t respond, staring sightlessly into the glass.

  “Did you hear me?”

  “What will I do?”

  “I am sure I can find you something, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

  Lucci looked his godson in the eye.

  “Before we proceed any further, I want your word that you will never join the family business again.”

  Pietro said nothing; Lucci watched the slow bobbing of his Adam’s apple.

  “Do I have your word?”

  A nod.

  “I need to hear you say it, Pietro.”

  Silence.

  “You have my word.”

  Twenty-Three

  Abayd and Jibril sat behind the stainless-steel desk in the prince’s massive office and waited for him to appear. The office was on the top floor of Haus Adler, where it shared the space with the prince’s equally massive bedroom. It was very fitting, Abayd thought, as he waited for his boss to show up: the prince’s two favorite pursuits—making money and making his concubines earn theirs—all on one floor. At least it made for easier security.

  The door leading from the bedroom opened, and KiKi stepped into the room, a mug of coffee in his hand. He was a tall, wiry man with a neatly trimmed beard covering a lean face the color of the desert sand at dusk. He sat behind his desk and rubbed his eyes, deepening the dark circles underneath, then glanced at his diamond-encrusted Rolex.

  “This had better be good, Abayd.”

  “It isn’t good at all, KiKi.”

  El-Rayad eyed his chief bodyguard suspiciously. “All right, old friend, let’s hear the bad news.”

  Abayd nodded at Jibril, and his cousin started speaking. El-Rayad listened quietly, without expression, as he drank his coffee, which he took strong and scalding hot. When Jibril had finished delivering the bad news, the prince walked over to the window, swept aside the curtain, and stared out into the morning sunshine.

  “Where is my phone now?”

  “On Jibril’s desk.”

  “I assume you left the battery out.”

  “I put it back in, actually.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’d wager my pension there is a CIA hit team poised and ready, just sitting around with their fingers on their triggers, waiting for the word to come up here and slaughter all of us. They will get suspicious if the battery remains out for too long.”

  “What do you propose?”

  “We leave immediately. The faster we get back to Riyadh, the better. The CIA can’t touch us there; here, we are sitting ducks. The Americans stomp around Europe like it’s their own fucking country. They wouldn’t think twice about killing every last one of us.”

  “Leaving right now is not an option. What other actions do you suggest?”

  Abayd nodded to Jibril, who beat a path to the door.

  “The Gulfstream is at the airport. I’ve taken the liberty of putting the crew on standby. The helicopter is also ready. We could be gone by noon.”

  “I’m not going anywhere. I am not afraid of the Americans.”

  “You should be, no matter how many senators you have in your back pocket.”

  “You think they are here already?”

  Abayd got up, walked over to where KiKi was standing, and looked out. Salzburg stretched in front of them like the web of a gigantic spider. He could see the main runway of the airport, tantalizingly close, and the racing shadow of a passenger jet as it made its approach.

  “The insertion of that program on your phone is the culmination of years of work and planning, which means the Americans have dedicated a team to bringing you down. I am sure they suspected you were funding terrorism and hoped the listening device in your phone would provide evidence of your involvement. Even the CIA would need approval from higher up, and they aren’t going to get it without some kind of proof. So my question is, did you give it to them?”

  “I have that phone with me at all times, Abayd. If it has been recording my conversations, we have to assume the CIA knows the Vatican was our doing.”

  “Then we should be leaving.”

  “We can’t leave right now. We are due to receive a delivery in a few weeks. I am not going anywhere until I have my hands on the package.”

  Abayd assumed the prince had taken leave of his senses; surely he couldn’t have heard him say he planned on going through with the purchase of the nuclear weapons. It wasn’t possible for anyone—not even KiKi—to be dumb enough to stay here with the Americans right on top of him. It just wasn’t possible.

  “Surely you’re not intending to continue with this fool’s errand?”

  “You disappoint me, Abayd. I didn’t think you would quit so easily.”

  “It’s not my game. It’s never been my game.”

  “You’re wrong, old friend. If it is my game, that makes it your game as well.”

  “You do realize the Americans aren’t going to just watch you walk away with—”

  “No, they aren’t. That’s why you’re going to get rid of them for me.”

  Abayd sighed with resignation, but not surprise; he had known this was coming. “I will need to move as soon as possible, to make sure we strike before they do. You understand what this means?”

  The prince nodded, his dark eyes resolute. “We will need to pick up the packages immediately after we dispose of the Americans.”

  “Very good. Inform the supplier.”

  “He will not be happy.”

  “He’s a greedy bastard. Throw in another fifty million. That will cheer him up.”

  “Fifty million?”

  Abayd shrugged; it wasn’t his money.

  “When?”

  Abayd had already been considering this question. He needed to find the Americans, survey their position, create an attack plan, and then execute it. The task was formidable, but not impossible, and he had several things in his favor. He had plenty of men already in place and enough firepower to engage a battalion. In addition, he had a good idea as to how he could locate his adversaries. All he required was a bit of luck.

  “Seven days. We pick up the package in seven days.”

  Kamal el-Rayad opened the balcony door of his bedroom and stepped out under the steep eaves of Haus Adler, which slanted down sharply above him. It was early, and the morning air had a chill to it despite the calendar’s claims that it was August. The barometric pressure was high, the sky clear, and the conditions for viewing were excellent; even without the Zeiss binoculars that hung from a peg on the railing, he could make out the Festung Hohensalzburg looming ominously above the skyline of the old city. He stared at the scene until every aspect of it was ingrained in his mind, until he could close his eyes and see the Gaisberg—the low, rounded mountain on the other side of the city—as well with his eyes shut as with them open. Inhaling the floral aroma of the red geraniums that grew in the flower boxes hooked to the railing, he memorized the smell as well, burning it deep into the storage spaces of his brain.

  The reason he loved Salzburg was that it was the antithesis of Riyadh, where he lived the other eleven months of the year. Riyadh was flat, Austria as curvaceous as the most well-endowed of his concubines; Riyadh was modern and sterile, Austria was ancient and vibrant; Riyadh glowed brown in the light of the Arabian sun, Austria flushed green and verdant against the Alpine sky.

  And he was never going to see it again.

  After a time, and with great effort, he disengaged from the railing and went back inside, sitting down at his desk. He turned his iMac on, verified his identity with both a facial scan and thumbprint, and activated the Skype application. A drop-down box appeared, and he typed in a series of passwords. As soon as the last of them wa
s accepted, the screen came to life, featuring the face of a middle-aged Caucasian male with a large bald head, unencouraging expression, and unsmiling eyes.

  “Hello, KiKi.”

  El-Rayad nodded.

  “I trust everything is well in Austria?”

  “No, Anatoly, everything in Austria is not well.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Me too.”

  El-Rayad repeated what Abayd had told him. The man on the screen listened, his expression becoming more and more dour with every word out of the prince’s mouth.

  “This is bad news, my friend. How did you handle it?”

  “Abayd wants to leave immediately; I told him that wouldn’t be possible. He is concerned that the Americans intend to attack imminently; I ordered him to find and kill them before they can strike. In fact, I plan to leave as soon as I can, certainly by the end of the day. Both the Gulfstream and my personal helicopter are already on standby. I should be back in Riyadh in time for evening prayers.”

  “I am afraid you are going to have to cancel that plan.”

  El-Rayad stared at the screen, thinking he hadn’t heard properly. A headache germinated in his forehead.

  “I’m sorry? I don’t think I understood you.”

  “You understood me just fine. I said you are going to have to cancel your plans. You and your entourage are staying right there.”

  “You dare speak to me like that?”

  “I will speak to you any way I want.”

  El-Rayad slammed his palm against the massive oak desk, which caused the photograph of his harem standing beneath the imposing peak of the Untersberg to fall off and clatter against the tile floor.

  “It seems His Royal Highness is forgetting about what happened with his cousins from the House of Saud, isn’t he?”

  “That has nothing to do with this.”

  “That has everything to do with this. You see, if it hadn’t been for me and my friends, the Saudis would have taken everything you have, including your precious oil-soaked sands and your beloved title. But we intervened, didn’t we?”

  El-Rayad’s headache tripled in intensity, threatening to blow his head apart. He grabbed his water bottle and drank greedily, but the throbbing in his temples only worsened.

  “Yes, and I appreciate your help, but I lived up to my part of the deal.”

  “Oh really? How is that exactly?”

  “The pope—”

  “Is still alive, isn’t he? How is that living up to your part of the deal?”

  El-Rayad tried to object, but all he could do was stammer something about doing his best. Reaching inside his desk, he extracted his flask of Johnnie Walker Blue Label, drinking it straight from the container.

  “When you asked us to intervene on your behalf with the House of Saud, we didn’t say we would do our best, we said we would take care of it for you. Didn’t we?”

  El-Rayad nodded and drank from the flask again. The Scotch burned like fire in his esophagus.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Nothing. Abayd is a competent man. Let him deal with the Americans or whoever is gunning for you.”

  “You don’t think it is the Americans? But the computer virus … Abayd is certain it’s NSA.”

  “It may be, but that doesn’t mean anything. I would worry more about the person you just tried to kill.”

  “What’s the pope going to do about it?”

  Anatoly closed his eyes for a minute, looking very much like a teacher trying to keep his patience as his student blurted out one incorrect answer after another.

  “The pope isn’t going to do anything about it, but he isn’t alone in Vatican City. There are many others there, including several hard-liners who would like nothing better than to bring back the Crusades.”

  Anatoly stopped speaking, and el-Rayad used the pause to drink more Scotch and light a cigarette.

  “The supplier? Did he agree to move up the delivery?”

  “Yes, of course. One week from now.”

  “Good. I will come to Salzburg personally to supervise.”

  The throbbing in the prince’s temples returned; he finished the last of the Scotch.

  “There is no need for you to do that. I can handle it.”

  “The mountain air will do me good. I’ll be there in a few days. In the meantime, keep Dr. al-Sharim busy and out of the way.”

  “I was going to throw him off the cliff.”

  “That’s because you are a fool. Keep him busy until I get there.”

  “And what will happen if I am not here when you arrive?”

  “You don’t want to entertain such an idea.”

  “I already am.”

  “Then you should also entertain the idea of losing your title, your ancestral lands, and, quite possibly, your freedom. How does that sound?”

  El-Rayad didn’t reply. The flask quivered in his right hand, but he made no move to refill it—at least not yet, with Anatoly watching.

  “That’s what I thought. Stick to the plan. I will be there in three days.”

  Twenty-Four

  The gun was a Beretta 92, chambered with 9mm Parabellum, the same semi-automatic Marco had used in the navy; he lunged for it as the target closed in on him with frightening speed. Grabbing it, he slipped off the safety and found the trigger with his finger. He leveled the gun, aiming for center mass, but he couldn’t see the target clearly in the low light of the shooting range. His finger whitened on the trigger, but didn’t apply the requisite three pounds of pressure. The target barreled forward, quietly propelled by the hydraulic apparatus underneath. At the last second, Marco could see it distinctly; it was Mohammed, or rather, a credible likeness of him before Marco had shot most of his face off. It reached the end of the rail; a buzzer sounded, creating obnoxious echoes in the closed space that masked the report of the Beretta as it fired twice.

  The reverberations of the gunshots faded, absorbed into the soundproofing that lined the cellar. Marco switched on the safety and scrambled to his feet. Inspecting the silhouette target, he noted the two holes in the middle of the chest, grouped together nicely.

  “Don’t be too smug, Marco. You were late with your shots.”

  Pietro stepped from behind the control panel; his pale face betrayed no expression.

  “I couldn’t ID the target; I shot as soon as I confirmed it was Mohammed.”

  Marco’s trainer shook his head. He had short dark hair with a slight curl, and expressive dark eyes; at the moment, they were expressing frustration and impatience. Even after spending nearly the whole day with him, Marco knew little about him other than his name and that he had been a paratrooper with an Italian army regiment in Afghanistan. “No. You had a split second of opportunity. You hesitated.”

  Marco thought about arguing, but he held his tongue. There was no point; Pietro would make him do it again and again until he was satisfied. It had certainly been that way all morning, on the rifle range in the shadow of a nearby hill. Before Marco had even been allowed to shoot, Pietro had insisted he field-strip and reassemble the M4 assault rifle again and again until he could do it without hesitating. The shooting drills had been even more exacting: he hadn’t let Marco move on until he had grouped three consecutive bullets inside the standard sixty-centimeter target at three hundred meters. At least the weather had cooperated, with sunny conditions and no sign of the Chinook winds that often gusted, hot and dry, down the leeward slopes of the Anti-Appeninni.

  “Let’s do it again.”

  Pietro’s speech was like everything else about him: efficient and straight to the point. He moved in a similar fashion, propelling himself with a compact, effortless gait. He didn’t expend energy on anything he didn’t have to—superfluous words, gesticulations, or even facial expressions.

  “Get in position.”

  Marco set the gun on the ground and took two paces back.

  “Now.”

  Pietro activated the hydraulics, this ti
me sending several targets down the course on their way toward Marco, who had grabbed the gun and assumed a supine shooting position with his elbows propped on the ground, holding the Beretta in front of him with both hands as Pietro had instructed him. The targets bobbed in and out of cover, moving too fast to identify much less fire upon.

  “Breathe.”

  Marco let his breath in and out, trying to control the pace of his respirations. A target popped out from behind a wall; it was Elena. She hung in space for an exaggerated amount of time; his finger eased off the trigger. Another target appeared, moving laterally across an alley. By the time he recognized one of the men from Boko Haram, the target was safely behind a car. He squeezed the trigger anyway; the bullets thudded into the heavy plywood mock-up, sending splinters flying.

  “You just gave your position away. Don’t pull the trigger unless you have a clean shot.”

  A target reversed, flying backwards. He thought he glimpsed a familiar face, but it was moving too fast. It emerged from behind a dumpster, giving him a clear shot. He pulled the trigger twice, wounding Pope John Paul III in the shoulder.

  “Don’t fire until you have identified the target.”

  The whir of the hydraulics increased; sweat moistened his palms. A terrorist cut-out popped up out of nowhere; Marco’s finger was late to the trigger. Both shots went wide, deflecting off a wall into the deceleration trap, where they rotated at high speed until they lost kinetic energy and fell to the floor.

  “Focus.”

  A target popped up from below ground. Marco recognized the man who had killed three of the Swiss Guardsmen. He fired; the first bullet punctured the target’s face, the second clipped his ear.

  “Center mass only. No head shots.”

  And so it went. Time marched on, marked only by the whine of ricocheting bullets, Pietro’s clipped shouts, and the growl of Marco’s stomach—Pietro had not allowed him to eat. They took a short break to load more fifteen-round magazines, but not to use the bathroom.

  “Simulate battlefield conditions at all times. How often is your enemy going to give you a break to eat and relieve yourself?”