There was no point belaboring his foolishness in trusting Saba. What he needed to do was to find her, and to do that, he needed Alicia. Crossing the room to the phone, he lifted the handset, and punched in a six-digit code. There were several messages—all from her. Deleting them, Mako dialed her number, sat down, and prepared himself for the browbeating he knew was coming.
5
Vatican City
After all the time he had spent abroad, the espresso cup still felt like a child’s tea set to John Storm. He didn’t know what to do with it, and finally just drained it and set it on the small metal table. Coffee had supplanted scotch years ago as his drink of choice, and he reveled in the brew; it was the demitasse cups he couldn’t deal with.
“The journal was not delivered.” The man sitting with him paused. “But you already know that.”
John studied the bishop across the table, thinking how things had changed over the years. Dressed in plain black clerical clothing, Bishop Maldonado’s eyes locked onto his. It was a game of chicken now, and John pursed his lips to hold back the smile.
Finally, a well-dressed woman walked past, giving both the men, priest and spy, an excuse to end the contest.
“We’ll get it back.” John tried to instill a confidence he didn’t feel in the words. Unknown to Mako, he had been watching the street yesterday. He’d seen Mako try to gain access to the compound, fail, then take harbor in the cafe when the gunmen blocked the street. From his perch in the choir of the church across the back street, he had lost sight of him after that and was forced to leave his observation spot to call Alicia.
At first, she had been angry and it took a few minutes of venting for her to clarify she was not mad at him. This was not the first time he had tailed his son, nor probably the last. It had been a proud day when Mako entered the agency, but his hopes for his son had been shattered by the boy’s reckless behavior. Now, forced into retirement, John’s purpose was to keep his son alive. It wasn’t hard to follow him; his tradecraft was as sloppy as his personal relationships.
John’s agency contacts kept him apprised of the contracts Mako worked on. And in this case, for John it was just a matter of connecting the dots. It wasn’t hard to figure out the buyer, and he had called Maldonado. With the journal now missing, he needed the bishop to extend the time limit on the contract.
“If it were you, my friend, I would believe it, but the contract is with your son’s group.”
“I’ll take care of it,” John said, harshly. He wasn’t sure if it was the coffee or Maldonado’s smug attitude that was gnawing at his gut.
“Twenty-four hours, my old friend. And that is only because you’re involved. The authentication is scheduled for Saturday evening in Sicily. Without the journal.…“
John didn’t need him to complete the sentence. After fifty years, there were rumors that Caravaggio’s Nativity with Saint Francis and Saint Lawrence had resurfaced—if it was the original. The timing was no surprise, after another of the painter’s long-lost works had just sold for almost two hundred million dollars. Most thought the Church had been the hero in recovering the painting; John knew otherwise—it was involved in the theft.
“The journal will be delivered before then.” John accepted the reprieve, adding a degree of vagueness at the same time.
“See that it is.” The bishop rose, and extended his hand.
John half-rose and reluctantly took Maldonado’s hand. He sat back down, and waited until the bishop was out of sight before signaling the waitress for his check. Dropping a twenty-euro note on the bill, John thought about his predicament while he waited for his change.
He didn’t need to be told the Church wanted the journal, though he did wonder what they held over the CIA to force the agency to authorize the contract. The tactics weren’t unusual, though. J. Edgar Hoover wouldn’t have made it past choir-boy status in the Church’s clandestine and brutish web. You didn’t stay as powerful as it had for two millennium without brokering secrets.
Rome was familiar to John. His area of expertise with the agency had been the Roman Catholic Church. He knew Vatican politics, knew the players, and most of all understood how Vatican, Inc., worked. He also knew how the holy veneer of the Church hid the evil inside many of the men behind its trappings; John could easily see through it. Once John discovered the contract was antiquity related, the involvement of the Church was his first guess. The Vatican had the largest collection of stolen art on the planet, and most of it was hidden below the Sistine Chapel.
With the deadline extended, it was time to talk to Alicia. Across the small plaza from where he sat was one of Rome’s many fountains. John cared little about the provenance of the horse spitting out water; what he liked was the privacy the sound of the cascading flow gave him.
“Sorry to bother you so early,” John said, after a sleepy voice came over the phone.
“Do you know where he is?” Alicia asked.
Their relationship was stilted; neither John nor Alicia was able to bridge the generation gap, or in this case, the technological chasm that separated the old school from the new.
“I lost sight of him last night. I do have some good news for you. Bishop Maldonado has extended your contract.”
“How do you know?” she asked.
John sensed that she was going on the defensive. “I’ve been at this game since you and my boy were in diapers. I know a few things.” He tried for a little self-deprecation to ease the tension. “Listen. You know I’m looking out for you guys.”
“Fair enough. What do you plan on doing?”
“Find the boy and get the journal back.” Though their methods were opposite, their goal was the same.
“He’s back in the safe house. I just got a notification that he picked up his messages. Do you need the address?”
“Your safe house was pretty easy to find.” John decided this was not the time for a lesson in tradecraft. “That’ll be my next stop, then.”
John put the odds at fifty-fifty that if Mako knew his father was on the way, he would bolt to avoid him. John was also one-hundred percent certain that Mako wouldn’t answer Alicia’s call. He wouldn’t suspect John was coming until he walked in the door.
6
Vatican City
Albert Maldonado was a different kind of bishop. For starters, he was American, which put him in an exclusive group. For years, the dioceses in the U.S. were treated like red-headed stepchildren—until the money they contributed to the Vatican could no longer be ignored. Still, even after pouring millions into the Vatican coffers, Americans were not well represented in the Holy See. Maldonado had broken the mold—he had power, as well as a unique position.
Maldonado’s mentor was another unique American: Archbishop Paul Marcinkus, president of the Vatican bank from 1971-89. Maldonado had acted as the right-hand to the man who answered to the pope alone. But several financial scandals had brought down Marcinkus and temporarily dimmed Maldonado’s hopes to eventually fill his shoes.
Growing up on the South Side of Chicago in the sixties, and surrounded by gangs and violence, Maldonado had learned to protect himself both physically and mentally. Survival on the streets or in the boardroom was a skill and even now, with his esteemed position, he still worked at it.
For a man in his seventies, Maldonado’s lithe and muscular frame was incongruous with the stereotypical clergyman, and to keep it that way his workout was demanding. Counting in his head, he reached ten and set the barbell on the rack. Trembling, he lay back on the bench to recover. Over the years, he’d watched his strength slowly decline, but he was still a powerful man. His mind was sharp as ever, but it was his physical prowess that separated him from his peers and had endeared him to two popes.
It had been a surprise to many when a much younger Albert Maldonado had chosen the seminary over a football scholarship, but to those who knew him best, it was his natural course. Putting aside the talk about his potential on the gridiron was hard and several times he
had wavered in his decision. But the Church had always been something special for him; a refuge from a drunken father and a mother who did whatever she could to rationalize her husband’s behavior. There were many reasons that other young men stayed clear of the Church. Some left after being exposed to the deviant nature of some clergy. Albert had heard stories, but no priest had ever touched him, probably out of fear.
Maldonado sat up and checked his phone before moving to the squat rack. There he added two thirty-five-pound plates to the forty-five-pound bar, each of which he suspected held only his fingerprints. The meek might inherit the earth, but it was the strong who would rule it. Maldonado had learned early on that he could achieve his goals by subtle intimidation. His superiors recognized it as well, and were happy to distance themselves from him. There was no question he was too restless to pastor a parish, and on graduation, Albert, who was fluent in a half-dozen languages, was assigned as an interpreter to the Vatican.
Larger than life, he quickly made both friends and enemies.
His phone had rung after the first rep. Sneaking a glance, he saw it wasn’t the pontiff’s secretary, the only person he would have stopped his workout for. Five reps later, the bar was back on the rack and Maldonado grabbed a towel and his phone. The call had been from a local number, one he didn’t recognize. A notification for a voicemail came through and, listening to it recognized the voice of John Storm.
“Well?” he asked, after returning the call.
“We need to meet,” Storm said.
He forgave the brusqueness. Few men could dictate terms to him; John Storm was one of those men. Because of Storm, he was still here. The two men had first met longer ago than either would admit, and each had quickly realized the worth of the other. Maldonado had been knee-deep in the security fraud scandal that brought down his mentor. He knew it was John Storm who had concealed evidence linking him to the crimes. In doing so, John had made a powerful friend.
They agreed on a time and place. Maldonado already knew what the meeting was about. He had personally authorized the contract to retrieve the journal, and had been waiting inside the compound to receive it last night. The key to authenticating Caravaggio’s works could not fall into his enemies’ hands. He was well aware that Storm could bring good news as well as bad. His paranoia had kept him in power through several scandals, so he assumed the worst.
Making a quick calculation, he decided to complete his workout, and eased himself under the bar for another set.
7
Rome
Pulling on a pair of nitrile gloves, Saba studied the cover of the journal, and with a tinge of guilt, gently flipped through the pages. Written in Latin in hard-to-decipher handwriting, it would take a specialist to decode the clues Caravaggio had left, but as an artist, he had clarified his words with line drawings.
Known as an arrogant brawler, Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio was an anomaly. Had he been born in the present day, he would likely have been an L.A. rapper. Known and licensed to carry a sword, he was not afraid to use it, and several bodies lay in his wake as he moved from Rome to Malta to Sicily to Naples, each time to escape his deeds. His renown as a painter afforded him second, third, and even fourth chances. Living a life on the run had its pitfalls and Caravaggio, unlike his contemporaries with their “art factories,” rarely profited from his work.
As a painter he was a unique talent. Known to paint directly on the canvas without layout or sketches, his work was difficult to authenticate. In only one case was his signature apparent. The Beheading of Saint John the Baptist had been painted to garner the favor of the Grandmaster of the Knights of Malta. Caravaggio had sought refuge on the island in an attempt to be knighted, which would allow him to return to Rome, which he had been forced to flee after being accused of murder. Yet another body, this time in Malta, had foiled that plan, forcing Caravaggio to escape to Sicily. The Beheading remains unique as the only work that he admitted to signing outright. Known to have produced several “duplicates” opened the door for forgeries.
These were the clues that the journal held.
After two years of nonstop effort, the journal sat in front of her. Saba knew that if she turned it over to her superiors at Interpol it would be the pinnacle of her career. However, her conscience would not allow it. Over the course of her investigation she had discovered many things, chief among them the Vatican’s stolen art collection. Maldonado had lobbied hard that the journal, when it was found, should revert to the Church. As an additional measure that showed just how important Caravaggio’s clues were, Maldonado had included the CIA, along with Interpol, in his effort to retrieve the journal. To outsiders the redundant contracts looked much like Caravaggio’s own paranoia, but Saba knew the bishop must have a reason.
Should the journal go public, the Vatican would be faced with another scandal. With Pope Francis trying to clean up the financial mess he had inherited, the revelation that the Holy See was also involved in an art forgery scam would rock the foundation of the Church.
Saba respected the new pontiff’s goals, but she didn’t trust the Church. Her childhood in Croatia had been filled with stories of the atrocities perpetuated during World War II by the Nazis’ puppet government—all financed and run by the Church. The Church had played both sides of the fence during the war. She understood their greater enemy was communism, not the Nazis, but what they had allowed was unforgivable.
The journal sucked her in. Though she couldn’t make out every word, it was all here, not that it was a total secret—excerpts had been circulating for years. But without the original, the excerpts were discounted as forgers’ attempts to authenticate more forgery.
Saba had been tracking Mako Storm for weeks, in some cases even providing him clues. It had taken all her patience to allow the CIA operatives to retrieve the journal, but now they had lost it, and only one man, left with a limited memory after the injection she had given him last night, knew she had it.
Recovering it herself would have endangered her plans. Leading Mako Storm to it had been her only play. This bothered her, but the end had justified the means. He was unharmed and she had the journal. What played on her conscience was the “leak” she’d made to the Mafia that Mako had the journal—and where to find him.
La Cosa Nostra had as much to lose as did the Church if the journal turned up. The Church and the Mafia had been partners in crime for years, but the new pope’s willingness to unravel the tangled web of Vatican, Inc., and expose the players placed their relationship in jeopardy.
But here it was, lying on the table in front of her. The key to taking down the Church, and with it, she hoped, retribution for all who had suffered by its decision to support the Nazis.
8
Monti District, Rome
Mako knew his instincts had been dulled by the drug. A brief examination of his body while the water heated for the shower showed a small bump on his neck, standing out from the multiple pellet wounds from the drones. A more thorough examination in the mirror after showed not only the bump but a red circle where the drug had been administered. He’d likely never know exactly what it was. It didn’t matter. The journal was gone.
Memories weren’t exactly flooding back, either. As much as he didn’t want it to be true, Saba was the only suspect. Spreading antibiotic ointment on the pellet wounds, he wondered if she was responsible for them as well. She had clearly set him up. He now had a fair recollection of the few hours they had spent together. The details were sketchy—all except her green eyes. The orbs were embedded in his brain.
Finished doctoring his wounds, he heard a soft knock on the door. At first he ignored it and started to dress, but the cordial knock turned into a pounding.
“Mako.” John stood in the doorway.
“What do you want, an invitation to come in?” Mako asked, trying to hide his surprise. He stood with a towel wrapped around his waist.
“It was locked, if it makes you feel any better.”
“You alw
ays know the right thing to say. Don’t just freaking stand there.”
John Storm’s unexpected appearance was not a coincidence. Mako had to admit his father, even in his mid-seventies, was one crafty dude. Closing on thirty-five himself, half his parent’s age, Mako suspected he had less than half of John’s skillset. But what had made his father a legend, to the few who had security clearances high enough to know of his exploits, had also made him obsolete. What John Storm had once used his body and mind for, Mako now accomplished with technology—or rather, as the human conduit for Alicia’s work.
John stepped awkwardly into the room, clearly not comfortable with his son’s state of undress, or being here at all. “How about I make some coffee while you finish?”
“Great, Dad. Coffee fixes everything.”
“Better than women and booze.”
With the niceties out of the way, Mako walked back to the bathroom, purposefully dropping the towel to the floor before he entered. He closed the door and stared in the mirror, scolding himself for his attack on his father. The elder Storm’s appearance had been unexpected, but if Mako was honest with himself, a blessing. After spending more of Mako’s childhood in Rome than at home, few knew the inner workings of the city better than his father.
Dressing in skinny jeans and a button-down shirt, Mako decided to leave the shirt untucked. He knew the latest style would solicit a reaction from his father, but this wasn’t the time. After losing his connection with Alicia he needed John’s help.
John had opened the French doors in the kitchen, allowing the activity from the waking street to enter the apartment. There were no windows here; the kitchen, living room, and bedroom each had a set of doors, making the process of getting fresh air an all-or-nothing affair. Unique to the area, the apartment had a ductless air-conditioning system, but he doubted John knew it was there. John sat at the small, round café table, which he had moved for a better view of the street.
Storm Surge: A Fast Paced International Adventure Thriller (Storm Thriller Series Book 3) Page 3
