by Trevor Scott
18
By the time Zendo and his men got to Siracusa early in the morning after their 125 kilometer drive from Messina, he was in no mood to hear what he was hearing from the Italian Mafia men. There were just two of them, since one was shot and killed the night before. He didn’t know the names of these two men, and he knew not to ask. Regardless, Petros Caras would not be happy. If he found out. Since the American professor had not been injured in the shooting, perhaps he wouldn’t have to tell Petros Caras anything. Even though none of this was Zendo’s fault, he had seen far too many simple messengers feel the wrath of that crazy billionaire. Worse yet, perhaps, was the fact that these Sicilians had a long memory and wanted nothing more than to find the bitch who shot their partner.
They sat now at an outside park a few blocks from the waterfront. Two of his men, Niko and that other one, leaned against their car nearby and Kyros sat behind the wheel smoking a cigarette. Standing a few feet away from the park bench was Demetri. The other Italian stood back by a tree, his right hand behind his back.
“Are you sure the woman shot your man?” Zendo asked the Mafia man in Italian, their only common language.
“Si. But it wasn’t for a lack of trying on the part of that man you speak of. Jake Adams.” The Italian drew in a long puff on his cigarette, bringing the tip to a bright orange. Then his eyes narrowed as he let out a stream of smoke.
“Did you not understand that you were only supposed to observe until we arrived?” Zendo asked, his jaw tight, but trying not to anger the Italian. After all, Zendo was on their turf.
He hunched his broad shoulders. “We took the initiative.” He flicked his ashes in the grass.
Part of that was admirable, Zendo thought. But orders were orders. He saw Demetri shake his head slightly. “Well, from now on we need to play by my rules. You understand?”
“Si.”
“We need the woman safe.”
“The one who shot my man?” the Italian asked, confused.
“No. The other woman. You have a picture of her?”
The Italian checked his phone and found the image he had been sent. He dropped his cigarette into the grass and didn’t bother to rub it out. “This one?”
“That’s her. Our employer needs her. Don’t ask me why. Because even I don’t know that for sure.” Not entirely true. “Do you have any idea where they might have gone?”
“Not far,” he said.
“How do you know that?”
“The Polizia and Carabinieri set up road blocks all around the city almost immediately.”
“People have been known to get through those.”
“Sure, we can. But not outsiders. Once the Polizia showed up last night, my man came around and gave a good description of the three people involved with the shooting. He said they took off on foot.”
“Is that right?” Zendo asked.
“Si. Then the Polizia gave us a tip a few hours ago. A man had his car stolen from that bar across the park.” He pointed off to a nondescript building that could have been a small food market, a coffee shop or a night club.
“How do you know this Jake Adams stole the car?”
“Two reasons. First, nobody steals a car in Sicily unless we know about it.”
“And second?”
“I showed the picture of Jake Adams to the man an hour ago. Even though he was still smelling of alcohol, he said that man spilled beer on his pants in the bar last night and he must have pulled his keys at the same time.”
Great. The legend of Jake Adams continues. “Do your men have any idea how to find them now?”
“We know exactly where they are,” the Italian said with a smile. “GPS. They’re parked outside a restricted set of catacombs. Two of my men are waiting for us there.”
“Call them right now and tell them to wait for us,” Zendo demanded.
The Italian hesitated, obviously not used to taking orders from outsiders. Then perhaps, calculating the amount of money they would make from these Greeks, he pulled out his phone and called his people. When he was done he said, “We’re good. Still there.”
“All right. Let’s go. We’ll follow you.”
●
Sigonella Naval Air Station, Sicily
The Gulfstream G650 banked around Mount Etna, which showed a little life with smoke drifting from its caldera, and then drifted down to a direct approach to the runway at the Navy base.
Toni Contardo was nudged by a young man with a scruffy beard, one of six men who had shared the private flight from DC to Sicily. She opened her eyes and yawned. Somehow she had managed to sleep most of the way.
“We’re getting ready to land, ma’am,” the man said to her with a thick Texas accent. The men never said who they were or what they were doing flying a government aircraft across the Atlantic, but they didn’t need to tell Toni they were a SEAL team. She knew special forces when she saw them, and especially SEALs.
“Thank you. I won’t ask you where you’re going, but thank you for your service.”
“I’m guessing we’re on the same team, ma’am.” He smiled and took his seat.
They landed and taxied toward the operations building at the base of the air traffic control tower. The SEAL team hung back and let her gather her bag and walk toward operations. Maybe they were simply dropping her off, refueling and heading to their final destination. Probably somewhere in the Middle East.
A man came out and met her on the tarmac wearing a flight suit, introducing himself as Lieutenant Max Stevens. “Welcome to Italy.”
Toni smiled but didn’t give him her name. “Thanks. I understand you met an old friend of mine the other day.”
“Sure did. Jake Adams. He’s quite the stud.”
“You got a man crush?”
“Maybe a little. But that woman he was with was quite the looker.” He shook his hand as if he’d just learned the universal Italian salute to hot women.
Toni had read a briefing on Elisa Murici, the officer with the Italian External Intelligence and Security Agency. Based on her file photo, he guessed the lieutenant was right. “I understand you might have some more transportation for me.”
“Yes, ma’am. Got that Seahawk over there.” He pointed across the tarmac to an SH-60 helicopter painted Navy gray with subdued U.S. insignia. Two sailors were prepping it for flight.
Just then the six men from her Gulfstream flight walked past them carrying huge deployment bags. The one who had woken her said, “You have a good one, ma’am.”
She smiled and said, “You guys take care.”
He nodded and they headed inside the operations building.
“Friends of yours?” Lieutenant Stevens asked.
“No, just a Navy volleyball team.”
“Right.”
“You got a location on our destination?”
“We’re tracking it now. Last had it heading southwest at twenty knots, twenty miles off the coast of Sicily.”
That made sense. “Any idea where they’re heading?”
He shook his head. “No ma’am.”
“Could you just call me Toni? And I’ll call you Max. It’ll make things a lot easier.”
“Sure thing, Toni.” He cleared his throat and continued, “As I’m sure you know, private yachts are not required to file an official cruising plan, although many do for safety purposes. From what I’ve heard of this yacht, it’s quite the specimen. It’s supposed to be one of the fastest yachts ever built.”
“Faster than that Seahawk?” She finally found a smile for him.
“Not quite. I can push 150 knots with that beast.”
She nodded her head. “Are you my driver?”
“Sure am, Toni. Anytime you’re ready.”
“No time better than the present, Max.”
With that the two of them wandered toward the helo.
19
The catacombs of Siracusa were a maze of underground limestone caves first used by the Greeks to move their water underground to
keep it from evaporating. The Romans improved on this system and eventually converted most of them into a nifty place to perform religious burials, entombing their loved ones for all posterity—or at least until grave robbers stripped them clean of anything valuable. Yet, according to Professor Sara Halsey Jones, much of what remained was an elaborate story of the past, engraved in stone.
Jake Adams wasn’t entirely sure the professor was correct, but he wasn’t inclined to completely squash someone else’s belief unless it got in his way to keep her safe.
They had been wandering through the damp catacombs for a couple of hours now, the scattered lights barely letting them see far enough to walk without hitting a wall or low arch into another room or passage. The professor would keep looking at her tablet computer for guidance, the light from which gave her expressive face a little more illumination. Jake wasn’t sure what she was seeking with her research.
“How are we doing?” Jake asked Sara.
“This area ahead is supposed to contain the oldest artifacts,” Sara said.
“What exactly are you trying to find?” Elisa said, moving closer and looking over the shorter woman’s shoulder at the computer screen.
“It’s complicated.”
“Remember who got you into this structure,” Elisa said, referring to the call she had made that morning to the Vatican. Only a representative from the Holy See could approve of this visit, and the request usually required two week’s notice, along with a compelling reason to be there. Elisa had obviously called in a favor.
“And I really appreciate that, Elisa.” Sara switched from the computer to her hand-drawn map from the translation of the Doric Greek tomb in Taormina. “Here we go. Should be just ahead.” She wandered off by herself.
Elisa grabbed Jake by the arm and whispered, “This would be a great place to make love.” Then she followed the professor through a small passage that each had to duck to get through.
Wow. He couldn’t argue with Elisa. What had he gotten himself into this time? He ducked and followed the two women.
The lights in this area did not exist. Jake was carrying a small kerosene lantern, which hissed as he made his way toward the women ahead. Sara had a small head lamp on and Elisa carried a pen light. The professor was on her knees examining a non-descript tomb with what appeared to be Greek writing, much like the one they had photographed in Taormina. Suddenly she started digging away at the damp alluvial sand in front of the tomb. Moments later and another stone was exposed, and Sara worked feverishly to removed the sand from the surface. Jake came over and helped her, and once the writing on this stone materialized, he removed a water bottle from his small backpack and poured enough moisture on the stone to make the letters and symbols stand out clearly.
Sara stood up in awe. The stone seemed to take her breath away. Then she took a number of photos with her digital camera, the flash blinding them temporarily each time.
“This is amazing,” Sara finally said as she viewed the images on the LCD screen on the back of her camera.
“What is it?” Jake asked.
“To the casual observer it’s just Greek writing, although in the ancient Doric or Dorian dialect.” She looked up to Jake now and smiled, as if she’d gotten exactly what she wanted for Christmas. “But this is more.”
Elisa stooped down for a better look. “How so?”
“My God,” Sara said, and then placed her hand over her mouth. When she recovered somewhat, she continued taking photos as she said, “This is not a tomb at all. It’s the work of Archimedes himself.”
“Are you sure?” Jake asked.
“It has to be,” Sara said. “Look, this here is not writing. It’s not some homage to the dead. This is mathematics. More precisely it’s calculus.”
“Okay, I’m just a layman here,” Jake said, “but why is this important?”
Sara looked like she might faint. Finally she whispered, “Because calculus, according to everything we know, was first developed around the year 1700 by Sir Isaac Newton. Now it looks like Archimedes beat Newton by almost two thousand years. To a mathematician this is like porn. This could be the most important discovery on Archimedes since. . .ever. Very few documents can last over two thousand years. Archimedes was known to cut his principles into stone and engrave them on various mediums he hoped would last through time.”
“How can you be absolutely sure?” Elisa asked.
“Because the only actual writing on this tomb in rough translation says, ‘Rise above oneself and grasp the world.’ This quote is quite famous and attributed to Archimedes. This must have been like his signature. Carbon dating will confirm what I believe. I’m certain. This stone should be in a museum.”
“All right,” Jake said. “Let’s get out of here and find a way to report it without having every math geek in the world turning this place into a shrine.”
Sara looked wistfully at the stone and agreed with a nod. “Right,” Sara said. “But first we must make it look like it did before we came. The sediment here could be thousands of years old. It was either buried here on purpose, or flooding of the catacombs layered the sand here over time.”
As she shifted the damp sand smoothly over the top of the stone, Jake added a little more water to make it look like they had never been there.
They started to head out when Jake stopped them. “Sara, have you made any marks on your digital or physical map of these catacombs indicating this location?”
“No.”
“Good. Don’t do so. We’ll have to go from our memory.”
Sara agreed with a nod and they continued out through the low passageway. Eventually, after a number of wrong turns they got closer to the entrance, where the lights were more frequent, yet it was still not the best visibility.
Then the lights went out completely and the three of them stopped in their tracks.
“What now?” Elisa asked.
“The Vatican forgot to pay its bill,” Sara provided, followed by a nervous laugh.
Jake, on the other hand, slipped his gun out of the holster on his left hip and placed it alongside his right leg.
Suddenly there was yelling from multiple locations in front and on both sides of them. Jake threw the kerosene lantern and the light went out. Then in the relative darkness, he backed up slightly against the limestone wall. Only the headlamp from Sara and the hand-held penlight from Elisa gave him any indication of his surroundings.
The Greek yelling, which Jake didn’t understand, was followed by additional screaming in Italian. He aimed his gun toward the screams, but he couldn’t fire not knowing for sure his target of if one of the women might be in the line of fire.
The Italian said to put down their guns. Greek was probably the same, but Jake couldn’t be certain.
When the headlamp started moving forward, Jake yelled, “No, stay put.”
“They’ll kill us all.” It was Sara.
Then the pen light went out and Jake could hear shuffling feet coming closer to him.
More yelling and Jake’s head was filled with uncertainty.
“Jake?” Elisa whispered.
“Here,” he said quietly.
By now the head lamp was closer toward the entrance and then a scuffle and the light went out.
“Sara,” Jake yelled, his voice echoing through the catacombs.
Nothing.
When he yelled for the professor again, all that came back was the sound of gunfire, sending him toward the ground. He quickly returned fire, shooting high into the ceiling so as not to hit Sara.
“You will not leave here alive,” said a man’s voice in English with a heavy accent.
Jake reached out and felt the leg of Elisa. He moved his hand up her body until the two of them lay side by side. “Are you all right?” he whispered.
“Yes. What do we do?”
“Come with me.” He pulled her to his feet and back the way they had come. In about ten feet they reached the entrance to another corridor, which they
slid into. At least now they would have some cover.
The Italian continued to yell at them, taunting and trying to draw their fire. Jake wished like hell he had his night vision goggles, but he had none of his usual toys on this trip.
“What now?” Elisa asked him.
“I’m not catching everything they’re saying,” Jake said. “Is it slang?”
“It’s Sicilian slathered with Mafia slang,” she said. “He says he will kill us both. But not until he’s filled me with his. . .”
“I got that. He needs to be taught a lesson in civility.” Jake listened carefully and said, “There’s more than one of them. Probably the gunman that got away, along with the driver. Maybe a couple of reinforcements considering the amount of shuffling out there and whispers.” He had to believe the Greeks had Sara and were whisking her away at this moment. Probably already out the catacomb entrance. That was good and bad. Bad because they now had Sara. Good because that meant anything that moved would be a potential target. He aimed around the corner and waited to hear anything at all. Any noise.
There. Jake shot twice and went back behind the edge just as a number of guns rang back toward him, bullets glancing off the stone walls.
“Are you all right?” Elisa asked, her hands touching him.
“Shh.”
This time Jake got down to his knees, put his gun up over his head, and shot once, waiting for return fire. When the flashes came, he aimed for the flash on his left and fired twice. He could hear the distinct sound of bullets penetrating flesh with a thud, and then a body hitting the dirt and stone floor.
More whispers from the Italians as they reach out for their friend.
Jake nudged up to Elisa and whispered into her ear, “Get down on the ground and when I tell you to shoot, send two bullets flying.”
“All right.”
She did as she was told. Jake moved out into the main corridor slightly into a narrow stance and aimed toward the center so he could move his gun to either side quickly.
“Now,” Jake whispered.
Elisa shot twice.
Flashes came from two positions, so Jake had to choose one and fire three times, his only indication of his target coming with his own muzzle flashes. Just as he saw a man drop, he dove to his right. The two of them lay next to each other, their heavy breathing in synch.
