“Hell no. You don’t think I’d be that stupid, do you? If something happens to me, an email will be sent to your daughter.”
Virgil pointed the gun at Priest’s foot and fired.
The man roared and bent forward at the waist, screaming curses.
Virgil spoke very slowly. “I said put your hands through this or it will be your knee next time.”
Priest straightened. He put his hands through the loop, and Virgil zipped it tight. He grabbed the flashlight out of his hand.
“Now go sit next to her.”
The man did as he was told.
As Virgil tied Priest’s uninjured foot to the chain, he said, “I saw the photo you sent her already.” He stood and stomped down hard on the man’s bleeding foot.
Priest howled.
Then Virgil retreated out of reach of either of them and took off his backpack. From inside, he took out a block of C-4 and a cellular-activated detonator. He took out his own phone and checked for a signal. Nothing. He moved out of the room and into the tunnel. He waited. After about a minute, his phone found a signal.
When Priest recognized what Virgil was doing, he lunged and jerked against the chain. The woman watched him through narrowed eyes, but said nothing. Ballsy bitch.
When Virgil had finished, he reached into one of the pockets of his cargo pants and drew out a knife. He stepped over to the woman and slit the plastic tie on her ankle, then stood back.
“Stand up. You’re coming with me.”
She was shaky on her feet, but she apparently knew enough to distance herself from Priest. The man’s eyes were wild, yet he had grown silent.
Virgil handed her the flashlight. “You go first, but don’t try to run.” He tilted his head toward Priest. “You’ve seen what can happen.”
The woman looked at Priest. Virgil was surprised to see not an ounce of sympathy in her eyes.
“You want me to beg?” Priest asked.
“No,” Virgil said. “I want you dead.”
Priest turned his head so that only the scarred half of his face was visible. He spread his lips in a false smile that showed more gum than teeth. Then he said, “She beat you to it.”
When they reached the Bugatti, he opened the passenger’s door, tossed the bag into the footwell, and told her to get in.
She stopped and looked up and down the car.
“You’ve undoubtedly never ridden in a car worth more than a million dollars.” Virgil might have conceded that he’d never driven one before working for the Order, either. “Maybe this car will help you comprehend the power of the Order. And the special relationship we enjoy with the police here. We have diplomatic immunity. There is very little I would hesitate to do. Keep that in mind when you think about running from me.”
She climbed into the car and he shut the door.
He walked around and climbed into the driver’s seat. He set the gun on the seat by his outside leg and took out his cell phone.
He slid the key into the ignition, but paused before starting the car. “So you’re the one responsible for his scars?”
She faced forward, refusing to look at him. “I’d say he’s responsible, but he doesn’t see it that way.”
He extended the phone toward her. “Would you like to do the honors?”
She turned away and did not say anything. He waited. At last, she turned back to face him. “I’m not a murderer,” she said.
“But you’re not going to risk your life to stop me.”
“Would it work if I tried?” she said.
To answer her question, he tapped the screen.
At first nothing happened.
She smiled. “No signal?”
He knew how long it took sometimes. He waited, and finally he felt the car bounce. A second later, he heard the satisfying whomp.
Piazza dei Cavalieri di Malta
The Aventine Hill, Rome
April 25, 2014
Cole stood in the long line of tourists waiting to peep through the keyhole in the big wooden doors. In their room the night before, he and Riley had used their phones to research the two large properties owned by the Sovereign Military Order of Malta. They knew about the Magistral Palace from their talks with Dr. Günay, but they had found out online that the Order also owned this villa and church up on the Aventine Hill. It was a popular tourist spot, mentioned in the guidebooks and lots of travel blogs, because of the mysterious aura of the Knights of Malta and because of the view through the keyhole in the villa’s great door.
Down at the palace, Cole had had a feeling in his gut that whoever took Riley wouldn’t have kept her there. Even during the time he had been watching the place, he’d seen several cars come and go. She could have been inside any one of them. They’d have had no trouble moving her.
He looked around the Piazza dei Cavalieri. He had taken a cab to the bottom of the hill and walked up. The wide piazza was actually a dead end to the Via di Santa Sabina. The piazza was surrounded on three sides by garden walls, churches, a monastery, and the high stone wall decorated with obelisks and military trophies that marked the entrance to the villa. The large black double doors in the center stood at least fifteen feet high. A carabinieri van was parked at the entrance to the piazza. Cole had no doubt the military police had great respect for the Order, and he would not find a sympathetic ear there. This was a much more secure place to hold someone against her will.
When Cole arrived at the front of the line, he turned his baseball cap around backward and put his eye to the keyhole. It was startling how the seventeenth-century architect had aligned it. The view looked straight down a garden walk rimmed by neatly trimmed hedges. The long green corridor perfectly framed the dome of Saint Peter’s at the Vatican in the distance. As it was late afternoon and there was a bit of mist in the air, the sight bore a golden, gauzy look, more like a Renaissance painting than reality. It was difficult to believe that Riley might be in danger in such a fairy-tale garden.
Cole moved his head from side to side, trying to see more. He saw no people. No movement. The Japanese tourists in line behind him began growing restless and chattered among themselves. There was nothing more to be learned, so he moved aside and let the next person take a peep inside the walls of the Villa del Priorato di Malta.
When Cole turned around, he saw a limo with security cars on either end drive across the piazza to a gate at the very back. He took out his phone and pretended to be taking pictures like a tourist, but he also snapped the diplomatic plates on the car.
Next, a large truck arrived and parked close by the entrance the limo had driven through. On the side of the truck were a painting of a chef’s hat and the words La Mela D’Oro. Two people got out, a man and a woman all dressed in white chefs’ outfits. They headed by foot to the same gate as the earlier vehicles. Cole pulled his baseball cap down very low over his eyes and walked closer.
A Japanese couple held up a camera in an attempt to take a selfie with the villa as a backdrop. Cole used sign language to indicate he could take the photo for them. As he lined them up and motioned for them to smile, he watched the couple from the catering truck approach the gate.
A security guard, wearing a tight black T-shirt that strained to contain his biceps, appeared at the gate. The man held a clipboard up in front of his enormous nose to check some list. As Cole approached, he could tell they were speaking English.
“I can’t let you in to park now. They don’t have you down until seven because our dinner guests have to get their cars in first, but they told me you were coming.”
“It is okay, we just need to ask Signora Ricasoli a question about this dessert.” The man carried a cardboard box.
Cole smiled, nodded, and handed the young Japanese man his camera. He waved to them as they walked off, then pulled out his own phone again and pretended to take a photo of the monastery gates while he watched the villa entrance out of the corner of his eye.
The big man spoke into a walkie-talkie. Cole couldn’t hear
the reply, but the guard waved them through.
Given that it was a few days before the double canonization ceremony, Cole surmised that the villa must be full of invited guests. Perhaps he was wrong in his guess that they would have brought her here. He refused to believe they would hurt her. What they wanted was information, and they believed that whatever he and his friends had found on the Upholder was the key to something. And they didn’t have Riley’s bag with the false sea atlas. That was now in his backpack. Chances were they didn’t even know about that.
He walked over to examine the caterers’ van. He was standing next to their truck when he heard the deep rumble of a powerful engine. When he turned to look, one of the new Bugattis rolled slowly across the square. The sleek black car looked like a modern version of the Batmobile. The windows of the car were tinted dark, but as it passed in front of him, the driver rolled down his window. The license plate held simply the letters SMOM.
Cole stepped behind the back of the catering van. He had recognized the blond-haired driver from the boatyard video capture Riley had shown him. He moved around to the front of the van and peeked around the hood. He watched as the man leaned out the window to talk to the security guard.
Cole had to force down his impulse to run to the vehicle and drag the man out through the window. There, sitting in the passenger’s seat, was a very pissed-off-looking Riley.
The car pulled in through the gate and disappeared.
Cole looked at the size of the guard on the gate, then ducked down and half crawled to the back of the van. He leaned against the doors. If that was an indication of the security inside, how in the world was he going to get in there? There was no way he could pass as a guest. He looked at the wall with the keyhole door. No way he could climb over that. And he had seen when he walked up here that the villa backed onto a sheer hillside.
He stood up, and, on a whim, he tried the latch to the double doors at the back of the catering truck. He pulled the handle down and the door opened. Cole peered inside. There was no access between the cab and the back of the truck. He looked around the piazza. The line of tourists at the keyhole had disappeared, and no one that he could see seemed to be looking his way. He didn’t see anyone over by the carabinieri van.
He slipped inside the truck and pulled the door closed behind him.
Aboard the Ruse
Off Chart along the Coast of Turkey
June 29, 1798
The morning was hot and the wind was light. Alonso told Arzella she should stay in the cabin and rest. They had been at sea for eleven days, and they were nearly out of food and water.
For the last two days they had been carefully rationing their water. When he tried to measure their speed with the log line, they had been sailing so slowly, the chip of wood had barely moved when the hourglass ran out. His calculations told him they should have arrived at the coast by now. They had sighted the tip of the island of Rhodes four days earlier and decided against putting in there. They had less than one hundred miles to go, and the wind had been fair. And every time they encountered people here amongst the Turks, they ran the risk that one would decide to rob them. A man and a woman alone on a ship this size presented an easy target. Alonso could not risk losing everything now. Not after they’d made it this far.
He heard the cabin door close and soon saw Arzella climbing the steps up to the aft deck. Due to the heat, she wore only a thin cotton shift. He could see her body through the transparent fabric. The child she was carrying had started to change her shape. Her breasts were more full, her belly slightly rounded. Her hair was piled atop her head and held by a hairpin. He thought she had never looked more beautiful.
“You should be resting, my love.”
“The air doesn’t move in that cabin. I’d rather find a bit of shade and lounge on deck. May I take a small drink of water?”
He knew he should ask her to wait, but he could not refuse her. “Of course,” he said.
She had been stronger of spirit than he had ever imagined possible on this trip. They had seen their share of foul weather, miserable heat, and rotten food. She had never once complained. He’d known men who had attempted mutiny over more tolerable conditions.
She walked over to the water barrel on the starboard side. She scooped a ladle out, drank, and watched the sea passing the hull.
“I feel a bit more wind,” she said. “It looks as though we’re moving.”
Alonso looked up at the sails. She was right. The cloth no longer hung like wash on a line. He had not felt the wind because it had come up from behind. They were now moving through the water at nearly the same speed as the wind. He checked the compass and made a slight correction. There, now he felt it—and their speed increased.
“Looks like you’ve brought me luck again, Arzella.”
She laughed and retrieved his great-grandfather’s shield, which she had been engraving with new, flowery designs. “Find me land and then talk to me about luck, mon chevalier.”
Two hours later, he did indeed sight what looked like a gray smudge on the horizon. Arzella was napping on a blanket in the shade of the sail. By the time she awoke, it was early afternoon, and he had already turned south to run parallel to the coast. When she sat up, she was facing away from the coast.
“I’d hoped to wake up and see land.”
“Turn around, then, my love.”
She got to her feet and ran to the port-side rail. “I’ve never seen anything so welcome and lovely. But why aren’t we going in? How do you know this is the way you must go?”
“I intentionally took us to the north so I would know which way to turn when we arrived.” He lifted his brass telescope to his eye and scanned the coast. “We’ve now sailed off our sea maps, and I have no idea what the character of the shoreline should look like. I am only searching for our castle.”
“Couldn’t we simply go ashore and show some local villagers the drawing? Surely they will recognize it and point us in the right direction.”
“Even when we stopped in Crete, I saw the calculus in some of the fishermen’s eyes. Such a large ship as the Ruse with only one man and one woman aboard? Fortunately for us, the people of that village were not murderous scoundrels. We cannot count on that reception everywhere here on the Ottoman Coast. Every encounter we have with strangers is potentially dangerous.”
“You have your pistol,” she said.
“But so do they have firearms. I am sorry.”
“Two days with only that horrid biscuit and water are not the best nourishment for a growing child.”
“I worry, too.”
“Let me take a turn at the helm. You’ve been steering all day. You need some rest.”
“Yes,” he said. “A bit of rest would be nice.”
Alonso did not know how long he’d been asleep when he heard Arzella calling his name. He sat up and saw her pointing off to port. He hoped to see the castle atop a hill. Instead, he saw the sails of a small fishing boat maintaining a course to intercept them.
“How long has he been there?”
“I just saw him and called to you.”
“I’ll get my pistol,” he said, and then, after looking at her standing at the wheel in her transparent shift, he added, “and some clothes for you.”
When he came back topsides, the fishing boat was closer, but not yet close enough to make out the people on deck. Alonso took the wheel, set his pistol next to the compass, and handed Arzella a suit of his own clothes. “I know they will be quite large for you, but let’s give it a try. I brought a scarf for your hair as well. If you tie it in a pigtail, that might help.”
When she’d changed, he thought she looked like a girl dressed as a man, but perhaps from a distance they would be fooled.
The Ruse was moving through the water at four to five knots when the fishermen hailed them. The captain was an older man with a white beard. His crew was a boy of no more than fourteen. The captain called to them in a language Alonso did not understand. He shook
his head and held up his hands to show he did not comprehend. Then the captain held his hand in the air and made motions like he was smoking a pipe.
Alonso nodded and made motions as though he were eating. The captain held up a large fish. Alonso nodded again, then said to Arzella, “Go check Nikola’s berth below. In a bag hanging on the bulkhead, you will find some tobacco. Bring it to me.”
Alonso dropped the larger mainsail. The smaller forward lateen sail was barely large enough to move his ship in the light winds. The fishing boat also reduced sail.
Arzella appeared with the bag of tobacco.
“Take the wheel,” he said. “Just hold a steady course so they can come alongside.” He picked up the pistol and placed it in the belt that held up his trousers.
As they approached, Alonso saw the fishing-boat captain pick up a net at the end of a long pole. The captain appeared to be accustomed to these exchanges at sea. When he passed the net within reach of the xebec, Alonso placed the pouch of tobacco in the net.
The captain of the fishing boat retrieved the net and passed the tobacco under his nose. Then he nodded to the boy. The young man placed the fish and another parcel in the net. The captain lifted the pole and extended the net back toward the Ruse. When it came within reach, Alonso lifted out the large fish and the parcel.
Behind him, Alonso heard Arzella’s voice. “Do you know this castle?”
He turned around, and she was leaning over the ship’s rails, holding up the book of sea maps open to the drawing.
The fishing-boat captain was still carrying the net, but he narrowed his eyes and motioned for the boy to steer them closer. As the gap between them narrowed, Alonso feared the two boats would collide.
The old fisherman leaned over, then his face broke into a gap-toothed smile. “Kekova,” he called out.
Alonso held his hands up in the air to indicate he didn’t understand.
The white-bearded captain pointed to the land to their left and said again, “Kekova.” Then he moved his other hand in an up-and-over motion. He said “Kekova” again, then pointed his hand straight ahead and then swung it around to the left.
Knight's Cross (The Shipwreck Adventures Book 3) Page 30
