Storm Surge: A Fast Paced International Adventure Thriller (Storm Thriller Series Book 3)

by Steven Becker

  Storm Surge

  Steven Becker

  The White Marlin Press, Inc.

  Copyright © 2019 by Steven Becker

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  Prologue

  Syracuse, Sicily, 1969

  John Storm stayed to the shadows at the back of the balcony of the church of Santa Lucia. There was no need to check his watch. The slant of the sunlight across the stained-glass windows was now opposite of where it had shone this morning.

  Tourists had been streaming in all day to see the church’s famous Caravaggio, and most left disappointed. Drop cloths draped over the scaffolding surrounding the painting of the Burial of Santa Lucia concealed the master’s work from the public eye. The old baroque church was under renovation. The crew’s progress was clear as they cleaned the old stone and windows, and they were currently working behind the high altar where the famous painting hung.

  From his perch above the altar, John could clearly see the workers on their scaffold. Watching as two men started to remove the painting from its masonry surround, he raised his Minox camera and took several pictures. Checking the advance mechanism, he saw he had a half-dozen shots left. That should be plenty to document the exchange.

  Stealing art from a church or a museum was challenging, although in different ways. Both had elaborate security measures in place when the facilities were closed, but they differed during the day. The church offered free admission, collecting what it could from donations. Unlike a museum, there was no daytime security. People roamed in and out at will.

  Hidden behind the drop cloth, the men removed the painting from its stretcher, rolling it up and placing it in a tube from which they’d already removed an equally sized canvas. The tube with the priceless original was set aside, as if nothing had happened, while the men installed the forgery as if it were part of their normal workflow.

  John Storm had seen enough. As a junior CIA field agent, it was his job to document and report, not police. That was for Interpol, although his superiors had no intention of informing them of the swap. The men working behind the drop cloths were merely the low-hanging fruit. John’s picture alone could indict them.

  He waited.

  An hour later, the workers quit for the day, leaving the protective structure — and the tube — in place. John checked his watch. Four o’clock, and with the church closing to the public in an hour, he expected to soon see who he was really here for: the next link in the chain.

  Two priests appeared from a side door. Storm knew both men: Monsignor Albert Maldonado, an American cleric living in Rome, and the resident Sicilian priest. It was the monsignor that he was interested in.

  The two men approached the scaffolding and Storm watched as Maldonado graciously swept back the drop cloth to allow the older priest entry to the work area. John now had to make a choice. Remaining in the balcony would allow him to see what the men were doing, but the time it would take to get back downstairs would cripple his ability to tail Maldonado. Since he already knew what was going to happen behind the cloth, having watched the same scene play out in two other churches in the last week, he turned and raced down the stairs.

  John ran across the church to the exit, using a group of tourists gawking in the entrance for cover. Seconds later he was across the street, standing by one of the many vendors crowding the sidewalk, browsing through a selection of tourist goods, keeping his eyes on the church door.

  With the long tube under his arm, Maldonado exited the church alone, lit a cigarette, and stood by the curb.

  John wasn’t sure if the monsignor would be recognized as an American by everyone, or if it was just him. From the way Maldonado held his six-foot frame to the Marlboros he smoked, there was no doubt to a sharp-eyed observer.

  John snapped two pictures of the cleric and ran for his car, wondering where the monsignor would lead him next.

  1

  Old Rome

  Present Day

  Mako slammed his fists against the two large doors blocking access to the courtyard, a common feature of the buildings here. As he glanced behind him something small and hard struck his head, and then his shoulder. His first thought was the rain had turned to hail, but a warm trickle of blood running down his face told him otherwise. The skinny sidewalks bordering the narrow street allowed little room for overhangs, forcing him to hug close to the building for protection.

  A pair of drones circled overhead, the source of his misery. With his back pressed against the massive, twelve-foot-high wooden doors, he kicked against one. The sound reverberated, although he wasn’t sure if it penetrated through the thick wood.

  “Hello—“ Mako moved his lips, quietly mouthing the word into the bone microphone by his jaw.

  “Sorry about that. Had to get some divers out of the water.”

  The connection was full of static and noise, probably from the boat engines, but there was no mistaking Alicia Phon’s nasal voice. She called herself Mako’s handler, though they were really partners. Both were cast-offs of the CIA — Alicia due to the greener pastures offered by contract work, Mako when given a shove out the door when another complaint was added to his too-thick personnel file.

  “What the hell. Can’t you pay someone to do that while I’m out here dying?” Mako muttered.

  “Pardon? Who changed the timetable without asking permission?”

  He knew she was right. A brilliant analyst, Alicia and her boyfriend, TJ, owned a SCUBA dive shop in Key Largo. It was good cover and paid the bills when the agency's contract work slowed down.

  “There are two drones overhead.”

  “Oh my. Give me a minute.”

  “Just get the doors open.” Another round of pellets flung his way caused several more lacerations to his exposed skin. Mako knew the drones were capable of deadlier firepower, and wondered why they were spraying just buckshot at him. Panicked, he looked around. Alicia had warned him about coming to the compound drop-off site blind. She had sent detailed maps and instructions to help him scout the area. But Mako had found the women of Italy more interesting, making this only the second time he had seen the doors—the first being an hour ago.

  “Come on, Alicia. I’m bleeding here.” Mako kicked the door again out of frustration, then spied a small cafe across the street and bolted for its door. The sanctuary of the courtyard would have been preferable, but at this point, anything with a roof would stop the incessant pellets from striking him.

  “Just a minute,” Alicia’s voice was in his ear. “I’ve got, like, zero reception out here.”

  Mako didn’t want to know where they were. He was at least partly responsible for TJ and Alicia’s reliance on their dive business to generate additional income—at least in their opinion. Placing the blame for the failure of their last two contracts squarely on his own shoulders, he’d had no choice but to soldier on. Now his life
was threatened by his string of bad decisions.

  “Hurry.”

  A stream of static was the only indication they were still connected. Knowing Alicia’s distinctive voice would alert him when she was back, he focused on his predicament. He’d accomplished his goal and retrieved the five-hundred-year-old journal penned by Michelangelo Merisi, better known as Caravaggio. The baroque painter had apparently been quite a rogue, always living on the edge, often of his own sword. Constantly broke and on the run from the law, he often created duplicates of his paintings to raise money.

  It was common practice at the time for the Master’s apprentices to do some if not most of their own work. Caravaggio, because of his nature, did not have the ability to mass produce art.

  The journal detailed which ones were original and how to authenticate them. They were all valuable; the difference, though, was substantial, in the tens of millions.

  Pulling open the cafe’s glass door, it swung back on its hinges. Mako muttered an apology in Italian, grabbing the handle just before a gust of wind took it. He closed the door with a little more finesse and looked around the cafe. Thankfully, it was empty except for a woman behind the counter, allowing him to turn back to the action. Feeling the journal’s bulge in his jacket pocket and avoiding the glare of the woman, Mako studied the sky and the street, looking for any sign of the drones or their operator.

  Mako felt the eyes of the matron bore into him. Nothing was free in Rome. With no public restrooms, using a private one required a purchase. Digging into his pocket, he pulled out a wad of euros and handed her a five.

  “Espresso.”

  Snapping up the bill from the countertop, and with his presence now justified, she turned to the machine. While she was occupied, he moved toward the small alcove where he assumed the bathrooms were. Stepping into the men’s room, he locked the door behind him. The lights snapped on, revealing a well-appointed bathroom—more lavish than the shop itself.

  Looking at his face in the decorative mirror, he angled his tall, lithe frame towards the overhead light and studied his wounds. There was a little blood, but not enough to be worried about. The pellets were more annoyance than dangerous, probably used to decrease the possibility of collateral damage in the small space. Dabbing at the small specks with a damp paper towel, Mako cleaned himself up and, when he deemed he was presentable, slicked back his hair, unlocked the door, and walked out.

  His espresso and change were on the counter. Taking the cup to a small table on the back wall, he left the change. The woman said nothing, but as soon as he turned he sensed her swoop in and scoop it up.

  The narrow lane was quiet, likely because it didn’t go anywhere. The winding maze of side streets was difficult for pedestrians to navigate, and even more so if you were crazy enough to drive here. Most tourists chose to utilize the main avenues.

  Raindrops splattered the street and dripped from the shallow awning in front of the shop, another reason for the lack of traffic. The cafe appeared to be the only business. The rest of the street was lined with older buildings, most having the same arrangement of large doors at street level, which were wide enough for a car to enter. Mako knew expansive courtyards lay beyond, but the vertical facades and closed doors gave the street a claustrophobic feel.

  The buildings shot straight up. Stone carvings, wood shutters, and several small balconies were the only architectural features. Looking up to see if the drones remained vigilant, from his angle the five-story structures appeared to close off the sky. In order to see if the drones were still overhead, Mako needed to exit the store. And once he did, he knew if he needed refuge it would cost him. If only the woman was younger he could have charmed her for a little leniency, but she was easily old enough to be his mother.

  Mako endured the woman’s stare, even though it bore into his skin more deeply than the pellets the drones had shot. There was no point leaving the cover of the structure until Alicia was back online. Sitting with his back against the far wall, which allowed him the best, though limited, view of the street, he sipped the strong coffee and waited.

  All that was left was to deliver the journal to the client, who was likely the CIA’s Rome station chief. It was a fairly transparent arrangement, but only Alicia knew all the details. Taking another sip of the scalding coffee, he asked himself again what the government wanted with an artist’s journal, and why they were willing to authorize a mid-six-figure contract for it. If the government was willing to spend that kind of money for the lump in his pocket there was no wonder why the deficit was out of control.

  The woman must have sensed the small cup was empty and raised her eyebrows at him. Mako shook his head and rose, heading for the door. Whatever the drones shot at him was better than the daggers the woman threw.

  As he stepped out, two black sedans converged from each side of the small street. Passenger and driver doors opened simultaneously, encroaching on the narrow sidewalks.

  As the four men approached he could see the barrels of their pistols pointed at him. This was not his first rodeo and Mako knew escape often came from unlikely avenues, but the street was now blocked, and the solid facades of the buildings offered no refuge.

  Men approaching from both ends of the street made Mako feel he was in a vice, the gap closing fast. “Alicia!” he yelled into the mic, though it had no effect. Static prevailed as he searched for any means of escape. The massive doors he’d kicked earlier offered sanctuary if only they would open.

  The only other option was—again—the cafe.

  Dashing toward the door, Mako threw it open and ran past the woman. Recalling a third door by the bathrooms, he ignored her disapproving look and crossed the small room, heading for the alcove. Unmarked, it could have been a closet, but was wider and looked more substantial, either an exterior door or to a back room.

  Just as he heard the gunmen enter the cafe, he yanked on the door handle. It resisted his efforts, but didn’t feel locked. Hearing the woman talking to the men, he pulled again with the same result.

  There was no doubt in his mind she would give him up.

  They were halfway across the room when the door finally opened. Instead of finding an avenue of escape, he ran into a woman. Her green eyes met his and an electric charge shot through his body. Wishing the circumstances were different, he pushed her out of the way, knocking over a trash can in the process, and took off down the street.

  Behind him everyone was yelling. The confusion increased his safety buffer and he was able to round the corner, removing himself from the gunmen’s field of view. Instead of another side street, he found himself in a large plaza. Umbrellas protected the cafe tables on the sidewalks and booths selling tourist trinkets filled the center. With enough cover to avoid the rain, business continued unabated.

  Mako ran toward the center of the plaza and looked back. The gunmen had just emerged from the side street and stood together, scanning the scene. Seconds later they split up, each moving in a different direction to enlarge the search area. Thinking that if it worked once, it could work again, and with no apparent hiding places, Mako headed for a bar on the opposite side of the plaza, using the vendor stalls to help obscure him.

  He slowed to open the bar door, glancing over his shoulder to see if the men had seen him. For now, the coast looked clear, and he walked through the busy bar, finding a spot near the back with an unobstructed view of the door.

  There was nothing to do except wait. With four men in pursuit, any move he made would be noticed. Figuring the best thing he could do was act the part: when in Rome, you know. Catching the bartender’s eye, he started to order an Aperol spritz, then changed it to a Glenlivet neat, preferring the taste and power of the aged scotch to the orange spritzes the tourists enjoyed. There was also a rumor that The Glenlivet would render him impervious to bullets. Mako cradled the glass, sipping the single-malt scotch and watching the door.

  At one point one of the men poked his head in and glanced around, but Mako saw him first an
d ducked down, using the bar for cover. He was on his second drink and had struck up a halting conversation with an Italian woman working on her English when Alicia Phon was back in his ear.

  “Excuse me for a minute,” Mako said to the woman.

  “Excuse what?” Alicia asked.

  “Not you, but it’s about time.”

  “From your barstool, it looks like you’re a few minutes away from the compound. What the hell, Mako. We’re so close to closing out this deal.”

  The emphasis on barstool was clear. If she could talk to him, she also knew where he was.

  “I was waiting for you, my dear,” he answered. Mako knew he’d get no sympathy for being pelted by drones or chased by gunmen. The single word that described Alicia was “efficient;” everything else was secondary. He was also aware that the compound was under observation and didn’t want her to open the doors too soon.

  “We’re going to need another way in,” Mako said, telling her about the last hour, leaving out his encounters with the two women, judging some things to be irrelevant.

  “Head toward the compound. I’ll figure it out before you get there.”

  From anyone other than Alicia, hearing that would have scared the hell out of him, but Mako knew if he had her attention, there was no one better to get him through this.

  2

  Key Largo, Florida

  Alicia grabbed the diver’s tank valve. Standing on the bottom rung of the welded ladder that swung down into the water behind the transom, she helped him remove his gear and guided him into TJ’s outstretched arms. One other diver was in the water waiting while they secured the first diver’s gear and moved him to the starboard bench.