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

by Steven Becker

  TJ’s attention had never left the screens. Wearing a long sleeved dry-fit shirt and boardshorts, he sat in his captain’s chair, totally engaged in the action in front of him. “Divers said they had a good trip. Got some tip money, and they all said they’d be back.”

  “Awesome.”

  Alicia realized that TJ probably hadn’t had anything to eat or drink. Hydration in the Florida heat was a big issue. After spending less than a half-hour outside with their charter guests, her own throat was dry. She knew TJ’s level of dedication and decided to grab some drinks and food before digging in to figure out what had happened to John.

  With two Diet Cokes for each of them and a bag of chips for TJ, she sat back down at her station, thinking TJ must have been ravenous by the way he dug into the chips. Diving had that effect on her as well. It didn’t appear to be a whole lot of work, but it sucked your energy. Some of it was the ordeal of gearing up in the sun and heat. Once you were in the water, though, movement was effortless, unless there was a strong current. What sapped your strength, even in these warmer waters, was maintaining body temperature. Although lately the tropical waters had been hovering in the low eighties, that was a big difference from the ninety-eight point six degrees of a human body. The energy required to maintain warmth burned more calories than running.

  “Thanks, babe. The lead car just stopped. Mako’s in an Uber, the woman appears to be driving her own car. Got time to crack their database and see what you can get on the passenger?”

  Finding the woman’s identity trumped getting John out of jail. “On it.”

  23

  Rome

  Saba felt a wave of relief as they crossed the Tiber and entered the old city. Burga had made it clear the journal was more important than Saba’s life, an attitude that worried Saba. The knowledge that she was the only one who knew the location should make her indispensable. The problem lay in the lie she’d told her captor that Maldonado had the journal. Maldonado had agreed to meet her, but he was expecting the journal as well. Implicating Maldonado could go either way. She’d had no choice, figuring the only way to decrease the odds of her death was to add another party.

  Burga was becoming frustrated as Saba cruised the streets. Parking was always an issue here, and Burga’s frustration was quickly becoming hers. She stubbornly drove the side streets surrounding Capitoline Hill looking for a space. The only options open were the half-spaces that Smart cars could fit into by parking perpendicular to the street—about the only thing justifying their existence. Glancing at her watch, she started to worry that they would be late.

  “We’re going to miss him. I’ll use a garage.” She hadn’t wanted to push Burga, but Maldonado was not likely to wait. Saba was counting on help from Alicia, a woman she’d never talked to, to figure out her own identity and put the pieces together. Finally, Saba found a couple preparing to exit a space and pulled behind them. On the single-lane cobblestoned streets this in itself caused a bit of a spectacle, as traffic was forced to wait behind them.

  Once they parked, Saba led the way to the Cordonata Capitolina. Saba had no time to pause and admire Michelangelo’s architectural feat. The famous stairway was more of a ramp with steps every dozen or so feet, allowing horses, donkeys, and carts the ability to climb to the Piazza del Campidoglio, where the museum was located. Passing the twin statues of a man leading a horse at the top of the stairway, Saba turned to the right. Tourists milled around, studying a statue of Marcus Aurelius in the center, and the design of the stone paving. Laid out by the master, the elliptical pattern gave the illusion that the trapezoidal layout of the buildings were square.

  Through the crowd, Saba saw Maldonado standing in the entrance. She was thankful he appeared without his usual entourage. Saba knew the appearance was a deception. He wouldn’t come alone, and she quickly scanned the plaza for at least the bodyguard or driver she suspected was nearby.

  Burga had agreed to linger behind, allowing her to “retrieve” the journal without raising an alarm. Greeting the bishop at the entrance, he followed her inside toward the alcove containing Caravaggio’s Fortune Teller. Graciously he extended his arm for her and together they walked the corridors of the famed museum looking like a father and daughter.

  Her mind was spinning as the renowned art collection slipped past her, as did Maldonado’s running commentary. As they approached the room where the Fortune Teller hung, she still had no answers. They reached the alcove dedicated to the painting. Maldonado had a smile on his face, and stood quiet for a minute as he gazed at the painting.

  Finally, he turned to her. “The journal, my dear.”

  Piazza del Campidoglio, Rome

  “Mako? Are you there?” Alicia’s voice came through the earbud. “I know who she is.”

  That got his attention. “Right on.”

  “Saba Dragovich. Get this, she’s an Interpol agent specializing in art. I got a hit on a still from the traffic cameras and used facial recognition software to identify her.”

  Mako didn’t know what to think. “She drugged me and stole the journal. What the hell? Interpol, really?”

  “I’m certain. So, now the question is what to do with the information.”

  “Call her boss for starters. She drugged me and stole the journal.” Mako stopped, realizing that repeating himself made it appear that he was whining.

  “If we do that, she’ll likely be recalled. We need to figure out what her game is. Is she working on or off the books, for starters.”

  “She looked like she was in trouble.” The black Focus was still ahead. A change in tactics would be needed as they reached the inner city. As the traffic steadily built, the chances of them continuing their surveillance without being seen were getting slimmer.

  “They park. There.” Lucia pointed to a black car blocking the street.

  “I need to follow them. You can drop me at the corner.”

  “And miss the action?” The driver pulled a pad from the console and wrote down his name and phone number. “You follow on foot. I’ll see if I can track them from the road.”

  Mako wasn’t about to turn down the help. Without being in the car himself, the driver would be able to follow much closer. “Thanks, man,” Mako said, pulling a couple of wadded-up twenty-euro notes from his pocket. With the road blocked, there was no need for the driver to pull over. Mako exited the car in the middle of the street and slid into the alcove of a building close by. He turned to face the wall when he saw Saba and a woman approach. They passed without incident, and he followed.

  “You there, Alicia?” He updated her on his situation, not that she hadn’t heard most of it anyway.

  “We’re tracking you.”

  Until a few years ago, anyone walking down the street seeming to talk to themselves would have drawn stares and hushed whispers. Now, with the advent of smartphones and earbuds, there was nothing unusual about it, allowing Mako to keep a running dialogue with Alicia as he followed.

  Ahead was a steep ramp leading up to a plaza. Mako stayed a good hundred feet behind Saba and the woman. His gut was telling him that she would be glad to see him; the other woman, not so much. As he reached the last landing, he saw a tall priest wave to Saba from the entry to one of the buildings, which Mako guessed was another museum. Plazas, statues, museums, and churches—these summed up Rome.

  The trio entered the museum with the woman a few paces behind. Mako waited a minute and followed. Focused on finding Saba and not on the art lining the walls, he quickly caught up to them. Ducking into an alcove, he studied the crowd, looking for the other woman. Mako caught sight of her a minute later as she tried to blend in with a tour group. She was clearly not looking at what the guide was talking about; rather, her focus was on Saba and the priest.

  They stood in front of a painting set off by itself, its position telling Mako it was valuable. It was an oil painting of a person who he would describe as a dandy, complete with a feather in his hat, who was having his palm read—and his ring st
olen—by a smiling woman. Mako was far from an art aficionado, but even he could recognize something special about the piece.

  His silent critique was interrupted by the raised voice and exaggerated hand gestures of the man talking to Saba. Understanding the conversation was impossible, as they were speaking in Italian. His own grasp of the language was barely enough to order dinner.

  “Get closer,” Alicia’s voice came through the ear piece.

  Mako wondered how she knew what was going on, then saw a surveillance camera discreetly hidden in a corner and could imagine the scene being cast on the screens in the war room. Stepping to the side of the painting to appear to look at another work, the conversation became louder.

  “Can you hear me now?” Mako joked.

  “Shhh. I’m getting it. Running through a translation program.”

  The voices had died down, the conversation ending with Saba extending both hands and shrugging.

  “You’ve got to help her,” Alicia said in his ear. “I couldn’t get the whole gist of it, but she apparently promised the man, who facial recognition tells me is Bishop Albert Maldonado, the journal. He was expecting it.”

  “But she has it.” Saba and the bishop were talking again, lower this time, and Mako moved a few feet closer hoping Alicia could pick up on the conversation.

  “You have the pictures on your phone?” Alicia asked.

  It took Mako a second to realize she was asking about the pictures he had taken of the journal before the transfer. “Yeah, but she took it, remember?”

  “Shit. Hold on. I’ve got them in the cloud. Downloading to your new phone now.”

  The phone vibrated in Mako’s hand, telling him that an attachment had been received. He glanced down, waiting for the small clock symbol to tell him it was downloaded. When it finished, he tapped the icon and saw the ancient pages in front of him.

  Stepping into the open, he walked toward Saba and the bishop. “Maybe this will help. We wouldn’t want to expose the journal to any risk before authenticating it.” Mako handed Saba his phone.

  “And you are?” the man asked.

  “Mako Storm, at your service.” He loved the James Bond inference.

  “John Storm’s son?” the bishop asked.

  “Yes, you know him?”

  Instead of answering, the bishop took the phone from Saba’s hand and started scrolling through the photographed pages. While his head was down, Mako and Saba made eye contact. Mako was surprised as their eyes locked. Knowing the power she had lorded over him before, he was wary. His only response was a flush to his face.

  “It seems this is an accurate copy,” the bishop said, handing the phone to Saba. “Can you find the passages about the Fortune Teller? That should tell us if this is the real deal.”

  Saba scrolled through the document on Mako’s phone, pausing every few seconds to glance at Mako. Every time she did, his eyes were fixed on her. While she had expected a hostile response, what she saw instead was caring. Trying not to let her emotions conflict with her work, she pulled her eyes back to the screen. It took a long minute until she found the passage, and handed the phone back to Maldonado.

  “I suspect your Italian is better than mine,” she said.

  The bishop’s head was buried in the text. Satisfied that he had found what he was looking for, he moved closer to the painting, looking at the phone, then the canvas. He did this several times before handing the phone back to Saba.

  “It appears to be authentic. Now, let’s make arrangements for the real journal.”

  Saba had reached the point of no return. She had to tell someone the truth.

  “I felt I had to keep it safe until I knew whether it was real or not,” she said.

  “Now we know,” Maldonado said. “When can we expect the original?”

  “We have a small problem there. She glanced toward a nearby tour group. Mako followed her eyes. If her face hadn’t been etched into his memory from the chase earlier, he would never have recognized Burga in the low, ambient light. He wondered if Maldonado would be able to identify her too.

  “Jesus Christ. They are relentless,” Mako muttered.

  “I think it would be better if you disappeared now,” Saba told Maldonado. “As soon we can shake her, I’ll call you.

  Capitoline Museum, Rome

  Carlota Burga stood at the fringe of a nearby tour group watching Saba and the bishop. It was as good a cover as she could ask for, and allowed her to place others in the group in front of her when they passed the surveillance cameras.

  She almost blew her cover when Mako Storm appeared. Fortunately, she was dragged along with the group when they moved to the next painting. From her current position she could still see the Fortune Teller, and she could tell that something was wrong.

  The priest was holding a phone, not the journal, comparing what she guessed was a copy of Caravaggio’s notes to the painting instead of the real thing. With tens of millions at stake, she knew the journal itself had to be authenticated, and she studied the man’s frame, looking for any bulges in his jacket that might alert her of the real journal’s location.

  Maldonado handed the phone back to Saba, who in turn passed it to Mako. Someone backed into Burga, forcing her to take her eyes off the trio around the Fortune Teller. The tour group started to push her forward again. This time she resisted, as she would lose her line of sight, and made a comment about finding a restroom. After the camouflage the group had provided, she felt like she was on an island now. Seeking any cover she could find, she left the group and darted into a hallway from where she could barely see the painting.

  Something was wrong. She couldn’t hear the words, but she could read body language. From the way Saba opened her arms to the bishop, it looked certain that the woman had misled her. The bishop didn’t have the journal. It almost looked like he was expecting it from her. Burga thought back to Saba’s conversation with Maldonado, and had to scold herself for being preoccupied and not having the call on speaker. Saba was no rookie, and had used Burga’s momentary lapse of tradecraft to her own advantage. Now, Burga would seek revenge.

  It was clear the bishop didn’t have the journal. Saba or Mako or the pair together were playing some kind of game—that was about to end. Reaching into her jacket pocket, her hand felt the comforting grip of the Glock. With the pistol ready, she took several long strides across the polished stone floor, planning how to reach them discreetly to avoid the cameras which would alert security if she tried a full frontal assault. She had to be careful, knowing that with the value of the collection housed there every security guard on duty—and that might be quite a few—would converge on the scene in seconds if she showed her intent.

  As she crossed the room, she circled around the group standing in front of the painting. Each move brought her one step closer to the trio. Finally, Burga had moved into position behind Saba and played the best card she had—she stuck the barrel of the gun in her back.

  “Enough of your games. One sound, one move, and you’re dead.”

  24

  Old Rome

  Mako instantly knew something was wrong. He glanced around and saw Burga behind Saba. He scolded himself for allowing the woman to reach them without his noticing.

  He tried to decipher the words spoken in Italian. It wasn’t necessary when he saw the bulge in the assailant’s pocket pressed against Saba’s back. Saba’s eyes met his again, this time with an altogether different look—fear. Mako wasn’t sure what Saba’s game was, but it was clear she had overplayed her hand.

  “Let’s all walk out of here nice and calm.” The woman used the barrel of the gun to push Saba away from the Fortune Teller, and toward the exit. “You too.” Her cold eyes bore into Mako, letting him know if he ran Saba would pay for it.

  Fate is a strange animal. Whether an individualistic theory, such as karma, or a religious belief, where God or the gods issued decrees for disciples to follow, it doesn’t matter. Most people will tell you it exists in on
e form or another. Mako was in the karma camp. He was probably the only one in the room who knew that Saba had the journal. Karma had nudged them together the other night; now fate had given him a push forward. He realized he had no choice but to ally himself with a woman who had seduced him, drugged him, then stolen from him less than twenty-four hours ago. He felt Saba’s eyes on him as she walked toward the exit, and nodded in acceptance of his fate, saying a quick prayer to the goddess Fortuna.

  They reached the exit doors without incident. Mako scanned the courtyard. Not sure what he was looking for, he didn’t see anything that might help free Saba and lead to the eventual recovery of the journal.

  The earbud he wore was a standard wireless device. Without the more sensitive bone mic, Alicia was more or less worthless. If he talked, the woman with the gun pressed against Saba’s back would hear it.

  Once they reached the plaza, Mako tried to separate himself enough to talk to Alicia, but the woman would have none of it, warning him off with a vicous stare at him while jamming the gun into Saba’s back.

  The pistol tucked into the small of his back reminded Mako that he had options. The courtyard of the plaza was too crowded to take the woman out without collateral damage, but if he was patient, he would likely get an opportunity. As they approached the bronze statue of Marcus Aurelius, Mako realized there was another way to play this, one that should have been his first priority. Both Saba and the woman were his enemy. Forget about the alluring green eyes and smooth curves. An idea occurred to him that if he sided with the other woman, forcing Saba to retrieve the journal, he might be able to take it from her.

  The idea intrigued him, but setting Saba up to take the fall or worse, especially now that he knew she was an Interpol agent, didn’t sit right with him. There was good and bad, and though she had taken advantage of him last night, she hadn’t killed him. If Saba was Interpol, she was most certainly one of the good guys. That knowledge placed the woman with the gun on the other side of the spectrum.