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

by Steven Becker

  “Art.”

  That wasn’t what he expected. “I didn’t know the State Department was into art?”

  “Not per se. But with the amount of money being paid out for it, its become a currency of sorts. Art has become a primary source of funding for ISIS. The market is flooded with artifacts from Syria and other countries they’ve invaded. We are working to cut off the money, and with it, the head of the snake.”

  “Money was how Reagan took down the Soviets.” He stopped short, realizing he was dating himself. The chapter in history that he’d been personally involved in had probably been a question on exams now.

  “So. Mr. Storm. I do need some answers.”

  John took another sip. “Hungry?” He asked Faith at the same time as he signaled a server.

  “I guess you’re starved from prison and all. I’ll make a deal with you. Tell me why you were there and I’ll keep you company.”

  Smart, too. John estimated her age to be a few years younger than Mako. He looked at her as if daughter-in-law was written on her forehead. John knew better, though. Mako leaned toward women who lived more on the edge. An art investigator would be of little interest to his son.

  He had to remember this was work for her, and her superiors would be expecting answers. The first question was harmless enough and might actually interest her. The second question of how Alicia had inserted his name on the watch list needed to be avoided.

  “Deal.” The server was already at the table. John ordered a plate of linguini and a pork chop. It took all his willpower to avoid ordering an appetizer as well. The Italians liked their courses. Faith ordered a salad and gnocchi.

  “Okay. Let’s have it and I’ll give you some more dirt on Dad.” She leaned back, knowing she had set the hook.

  “You’re familiar with Caravaggio?” John asked. Her look told him to continue. “You know then that there are rumors the Nativity has been recovered.”

  “Of course, and there is questioning of the authenticity of his other works. The masters were far from saints, and Caravaggio was a down-and-out sinner. Are you familiar with the Fortune Teller, Mr. Storm?”

  “John, please.” He had heard something about it, and even if he knew the story, he was enjoying the lesson. It was as if while she spoke, the daughter-in-law sign on her forehead became neon red.

  “Most of the masters had sponsors, and Caravaggio was no different, except he couldn’t stay out of trouble. It appears he had few scruples as well, because when a new sponsor showed interest in his original Fortune Teller, which he had already sold, he painted another. Back in the day there were no cameras, and comparing a painting in Italy against another in France was somewhat of a challenge. Caravaggio hedged his bets, though, and made some minor adjustments to the new painting. These were well-known at the time, but there were others, which he recorded in a journal.”

  John laid some of his cards on the table. “It was that same journal that got me arrested. My son and I were chased by men I suspect were with the Mafia, who thought we had it. I disarmed one. The police saw me and thought I was the aggressor.” He decided to leave Carlotta Burga’s name out of it.

  “What happened to the other man?”

  “He escaped.”

  She frowned, the look of distaste on her face telling John that she was not comfortable with arms or aggression. Fortunately, their first courses appeared, pausing the conversation and giving John time to think.

  Faith finished first and changed the subject back to more familiar ground. “You know, stealing art to finance nefarious activity has been going on since there have been collectors willing to pay for it without questioning the source. Art is a unique commodity, especially the old masters’ works. Each piece is unique, making them worth fortunes. The Nazis probably financed half of their war efforts from selling ‘confiscated’ art. And a good deal of that was purchased by the Vatican.”

  “If it is authentic.”

  “Yes.”

  John observed a trace of bitterness in her voice. He had studied the relationship between the Nazis and the Vatican prior to and during World War II. Most of their dealings have been whitewashed by history, but Nazi Germany and the Church had had a friendly relationship. With Hitler agreeing to collect the ten-percent tithe on Catholics living in Germany and its occupied countries, and the Vatican being in Italy, an Axis ally, the Holy See, sat on the fence, working the war to their own advantage. Pope Pius’s defense of his actions was that the Communists were the larger threat.

  “So, Mr. —” she paused, “John. Do you know who has the journal now?” She tried an alluring look that would have most men his age fighting for her, but John knew it was a ploy to get information out of him.

  The CIA was willing to pay big money for the journal; now it appeared the State Department was interested as well. His dealings with government bureaucracies told him it would be far from the first time American agencies were bidding against each other, often having no idea they were competing.

  “No idea.” He finished his pasta and took a sip of wine.

  “You seem to know a good deal about this stuff.”

  The wine glass was empty, and he signaled the server. Without the prop, he was forced to answer. “I’ve spent a bit of time here.” He was at a crossroads with her. She might have knowledge and resources unavailable to him. There was also a fatherly urge to take her under his wing—and to introduce her to his son.

  Thinking about Mako, he realized between his release from jail and dinner with Faith, he hadn’t checked in.

  “Excuse me for a minute.” She nodded her assent. He rose, placing his napkin on his chair. He got up and searched for the restrooms.

  Stepping into one of the palatial stalls in the men’s room, John took out his phone and dialed Alicia.

  “We were wondering if it worked.”

  “Like a charm. I owe you for that one.” It was not a phrase John Storm used often. Get-out-of-jail-free cards were an exception. He quickly filled her in on his current situation and waited for an update.

  Alicia told him about Mako and Saba’s escape.

  John digested the information. “Mako and the woman who stole the journal?” That was an interesting twist. “Sicily?”

  “I think your assistance there might be needed. Facial recognition shows the woman who chased you and Mako to be Carlotta Burga. You know who she is?”

  “Pretty high skill-set on the thug side of things.” John had thought about asking Faith to accompany him. With the confirmation that it was the Mafia after them, he decided against it. If he needed Faith, he knew where to find her. “Okay. Book it.”

  Before he reached the table, John’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He stopped and ducked behind a cabinet stacked high with glasses and bread-baskets. A text from Alicia flashed across the screen. She had booked the flight, and it left in two hours.

  Back at the table, John’s main course had arrived, and his wine glass had been filled. With the clock in his head telling him he needed to eat and run, he dug in. After finishing most of the plate, he noticed Faith pushing her gnocchi around her plate. He knew what she wanted.

  “I’ve got a flight to Syracuse in just less than two hours. I’m happy to keep you up to date on what happens there.”

  She popped one of the dumplings in her mouth and smiled. “If I let you off the hook on my other question will you take me with you?”

  John pushed his plate forward, knowing he’d been played. Sipping his wine he did a quick cost/benefit analysis, finally deciding that the risk of her tagging along was better than telling her how his name had appeared on the State Department list, and that she might be helpful.

  “Agreed. But that card’s been played now.”

  She nodded and popped another gnocchi in her mouth, her smile genuine.

  Rome

  After they stepped off the bus at the next stop, Saba hailed a cab and gave the driver an address. It meant nothing to Mako, who looked aimlessly out the window. Sh
e wondered about that. He seemed so engaged sometimes, then, like a switch was flipped, he turned off. Although many deep thinkers had that trait, but Mako didn’t seem like one of them. Still—there was something about him.

  As the streets passed by she saw a look of recognition on his face. Saba had spent several days following Mako before the night she had taken the journal, and knew they were heading back towards his old safe house in the Monti district. The cab stopped several blocks from the bullet-ridden apartment, and Saba asked the driver to wait.

  The street was packed with cars, with no spaces to even temporarily pull over. There weren’t even loading zones. Deliveries in this neighborhood were done in the early hours of the morning. The cabbie said he would have to circle the block.

  Mako started to open his door.

  “I’ll just be a minute.” She didn’t want to sound rude. She might be ready to let Mako into her private life, but not as far as her apartment. He nodded his acceptance and sat back. She waited just long enough for the driver to turn the corner, then ran across the street, past several buildings, and scurried by two cars and a scooter to reach her building on the other side of the intersection. Sprinting up the four flights of stairs to her apartment, she reached the door and punched the code into the digital lock.

  The minute the door opened she knew something was wrong. She’d been in such a rush to conceal her building from Mako that she had failed to check her telltales. Stepping into the apartment, she was glad she had Mako’s pistol concealed in the small of her back.

  The apartment had been ransacked. Moving quickly, she cleared the space, though that did nothing to cure her anxiety. Ignoring her personal effects scattered over the floor, she went directly to the kitchen. Pulling open the freezer, she saw that, though whoever tossed the place had emptied the cabinets, they had ignored the freezer. Unless they were in the mood for an ice cream sandwich, there was no reason to check the box of treat, from which she pulled out a large Ziploc bag that held the journal.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, she quickly grabbed a backpack, tossed in the journal and enough clothes for a few days, and ran down the stairs. At the entrance, she checked the street and, not seeing the cab, ran back to the building where the driver had left her out. Seconds later, before she could catch her breath, the cab rounded the corner and pulled to a stop.

  “All good?” Mako asked.

  She nodded, afraid her quick breathing would alert him that something was wrong. Swallowing several times, she breathed in and out. Four counts on the inhale to eight counts on the exhale. After several repetitions, she asked the driver to head for the airport.

  She knew what question was on Mako’s mind, and had already decided on a tactic if he asked. Brushing off a bead of sweat from her forehead, she saw him turn to her. Before the question was out of his mouth, she planted her lips on his.

  30

  Syracuse, Sicily

  The outline of the motor yacht glowed. Illuminated by scores of high-power LED lights, it appeared to Burga that the sleek shape floated above the water. In a world where appearances were critical, the yacht was Leonardo Longino’s calling card.

  Carlota Burga wondered what her reception would be like; she was about to face the head of the crime family. She could see from the look on the face of the man at the helm of the small craft that he was aware of her discomfort. Clenching her fists, a sudden rage came over. It was generally beneficial that her looks disguised a ruthless killer, though in some cases like this, she would like to put the pilot in his place.

  Putting things in perspective did little good as she scanned the ink-black water for the telling dorsal fins that she expected. It was more than a rumor that Longino dealt with the failure of his subordinates by chumming the waters and tossing them to the sharks. There was no way to hide her apprehension for the coming meeting—she had failed.

  In fact, the yacht Squalo, meaning shark, resembled one of the beasts. In contrast to most hull designs, the profile of the bow sloped toward the water, instead of away from it. The foredeck tapered uninterrupted to a five-deck-high structure that seemed as large as a stadium. Painted the same light gray as a Stealth Bomber, and without any adornment, the sleek lines defined the ship. As the Squalo lay at anchor, her bow was pointed toward the open waters of the Mediterranean should a fast exit be required.

  As the tender approached its destination, Burga saw none of the telling fins in the water, and took it as a good omen. A hatch soundlessly lifted near the ship’s stern, swinging open on a previously invisible hinge at the top. The interior of the ship was revealed, and a platform extended outboard of the ship. A subtle course correction by the pilot had the tender alongside the dock, where two men stood ready to receive her.

  Burga knew many of Longino’s guards, and nodded to the men as they reached over to grab hold of the tender’s gunwales. A half-round rub-rail protected the hull and platform from damage as they held the boat and nodded to Burga to disembark. One of the men handed the pilot a small roll of euro notes. With a relieved look on his face, the man departed, quickly accelerating toward the lights of Syracuse.

  Burga was dying, literally, to know what kind of mood her benefactor was in. She knew better than to ask the guards. She was scared, but knew any crack in the veneer of her stone-face facade would signal weakness.

  “He’s in the salon on the bridge level,” one of the men said. He approached Burga who, knowing the drill, handed her weapon to him and spread her legs and arms to facilitate the body search, which was standard procedure. Still, she felt naked and alone without the gun.

  Turning toward the interior of the ship, she found herself on an open deck containing a variety of vessels. On one side was a pair of jet skis, and a twenty-plus-foot center console. They took half of the space. The other half was devoted to a cradle holding a small submarine. She felt, rather than heard, the door close, sealing her in the ship. With no choice, she followed the guards past a steel door that opened to an elevator. From the bowels of the ship they ascended four levels before reaching daylight, then another four to reach the bridge deck. The elevator continued one more level to a sundeck. Holding a glass door open for her, the guards left without a word of encouragement or even a goodbye.

  Burga considered herself an irreplaceable asset to the family. Her contrasting skillsets of art and death was probably why she was still alive. As she approached her boss, she hoped she hadn’t overestimated her worth.

  “Carlota.” Longino waved toward her. “Come have some refreshment.”

  If she could judge the tenor of their meeting by the greeting, she was on solid footing. Burga knew better, though. She approached Longino, holding her breath that she had read the mood correctly. The brief hug and kiss on each cheek were also standard procedure and no indication of what lay in store.

  “I understand we’ve had setbacks.”

  It was a statement. Burga had briefed Longino regularly. She couldn’t help but notice that he had used “we” instead of “you.” For a man who chose his words carefully, it was a good sign.

  “I believe the journal is here, in Syracuse. The unveiling of the Nativity is in two days.”

  Longino waved Burga to an adjacent chair.

  Burga sat. The silver bucket holding an open bottle of Cristal caught her eye, and she looked at Longino, who nodded. Before speaking, she poured them each a glass and sat back, trying to remember the words she had been rehearsing since stepping onto the plane in Rome.

  “Unfortunately, we only have one day. I plan to reveal the painting at a private affair, and will need the journal to authenticate it.”

  Carlota sat back, using the champagne flute to disguise the look of surprise on her face. The painting had been stolen well before her time in the organization, and she had no knowledge whether the rumors that the Longino family was behind the theft were true or not. But, based on the recent sale of another Caravaggio, the Nativity was now worth close to two hundred million dollars. Trying to hide h
er displeasure at her position in the family’s intel loop, she sat back and folded her arms across her chest.

  It was out of character for her to ask for help, but the woman and her boyfriend in Key Largo needed to be removed. At this point, her closest resources were in Miami. Though only a few hours away, it was a different world there than the Florida Keys; a place where discretion was less important than making a statement. If asked to handle the couple, she knew her assets would likely make a high-profile mess of it. Biting the bullet, she turned toward Longino, “Mako Storm’s associates in Key Largo …”

  With a smirk, he looked at her. “I’ve got people already on that. Those two will never know what hit them.”

  Exhaling quietly, Carlota regained her composure. She was safe, for now.

  31

  Piazza Duomo, Syracuse

  Sitting in the back behind rows of tourists, one of the inescapable daily trials of life in Italy, Mako and Saba looked up at the Burial of Santa Lucia. Ensconced on the white stone walls behind the altar, concealed lighting illuminated the Caravaggio.

  “Two hundred million? Not seeing anything special about it,” Mako whispered. He could feel eyes shifting from the altarpiece to him as if he were a magnet.

  “Shhhh.”

  Mako looked around the church. He was already impatient. Saba, sitting next to him with her legs crossed and arms folded across her body, looked like she was settled in. Recalling a bar he’d seen kitty-cornered to the church in the Piazza Duomo, he started to get up.

  “You should appreciate it,” Saba whispered.

  “It’s old. What’d she do?”

  Saba’s eyes rolled. “Stood her ground. And was murdered for it. Right here.”

  “And that’ll get you a church named after you. I suppose her relics are here, too.”

  “Actually, they were stolen during the Middle Ages.”