by John Sneeden
Pauling had realized he was being followed shortly after leaving the conference a half hour earlier. Once he realized someone was on his tail, he’d made a snap decision to walk to St. Mark’s Square. It was always crowded, and crowds increased his chances of slipping away.
Pauling leaned to the right, which allowed him to see through the maze of heads. The tall Mediterranean-looking man with a black unibrow was still there, smoking a filter-less cigarette while pretending to read a map. As he took another draw, he glanced briefly in Pauling’s direction.
What now? Should he flee or remain in place? Both had their advantages and disadvantages.
The bald man’s lips moved, and Pauling saw something he hadn’t noticed before—a thin wire running out of the man’s ear and into his coat. Pauling’s pulse quickened. If the man was talking through a hidden mic, that meant other watchers were likely hidden throughout the square.
As he pondered his next move, another tour group arrived at the basilica. A middle-aged woman marched in front, holding a sign with the name of her tour company printed on both sides. Once everyone had gathered around her, she spoke with a decidedly British accent. “Welcome to the heart and soul of Venice, St. Mark’s Basilica!”
While she gave the group a brief history of the famous cathedral, a plan surfaced in Pauling’s thoughts. It would involve some risk, but at this point, what didn’t?
“Any questions?” Receiving none, the woman gestured toward the steps. “Fantastic. Everyone, please follow me inside, and please stick together. Remember, I have your tickets and will present them at the door on your behalf.”
Pauling’s heart thumped faster. He looked back. Unibrow still stared at his map, waiting for Pauling’s next move.
“Hurry on now,” the Brit guide implored.
It was now or never. Crouching slightly, Pauling turned and pushed his way into the group.
“Watch yourself, mate!” a man growled.
Two more gave him a gentle bump to convey their displeasure.
“Sorry, passing through,” Pauling said.
Only he wasn’t. Once he arrived in the middle, he turned and walked with them. Fortunately, most gazed up at the arched entrance and failed to notice their new companion.
The group came to a halt at the top of the steps as the guide talked to one of the attendants. Pauling stole a glance behind him. The plan seemed to have worked, at least for the moment. Unibrow was in full panic mode. His eyes swept the square, clearly alarmed his target was no longer in sight. He reached up and touched his ear, then his lips moved, alerting the other spotters.
A moment later, Unibrow looked suspiciously toward the British tour group. Fearing he’d be spotted, Pauling stooped and pretended to tie his shoes. Had he been seen? He hoped not but couldn’t be sure. Thankfully, the group began walking again. Pauling straightened and moved with them. As they passed through the arched entrance, he stole another glance back. Unibrow was gone. Pauling shifted his gaze back and forth but couldn’t find him. Was that good or bad? He didn’t know.
Now in the narthex, Pauling broke from the group and hurried to the right. An attendant guarded the doorway to the stairs. Pauling pulled out his wallet and fished out five euros, the fee to ascend to the Horses of St. Mark—also known as the Triumphal Quadriga—on the second-floor balcony.
After receiving his ticket, Pauling entered and raced up the steps. He had a plan now, and it was predicated on reaching his destination before his pursuers caught up.
Pauling’s lungs burned when he exited onto the second floor. He was an archaeologist, not an athlete, and the short climb left him gasping for air. Most of the tourists were turning right toward the Triumphal Quadriga, but Pauling turned left. Two minutes later, he reached his destination: the restrooms at the rear. Brushing past a man who was leaving, he made his way to the last of three stalls. After entering, he locked the door behind him, sat on the toilet, and prayed he hadn’t been seen.
Several seconds later, the outer door opened slowly. Too slowly. No one entered that way. After several long seconds of silence, the person stepped inside. Pauling froze in place, straining to hear. For now, the person seemed to be standing in one place. Maybe they were listening too.
Seconds later, footsteps approached the stalls. Pauling’s heart beat wildly as he weighed his options. The flimsy metal door offered no protection whatsoever. A teenager could probably kick it in. The more he thought about it, the more he realized there was only one way he could get out of this alive. He would have to preemptively attack—use the element of surprise to his advantage.
His plan settled, Pauling reached out and quietly undid the latch.
The footsteps drew closer. It was obvious the man was going to start on the last one and work his way down. Legs appeared in the gap below the door. Fingers grabbed the handle. Pauling crouched, ready to charge.
Suddenly, the outer door to the restroom opened, and someone called out. “Tyler?” The accent was American.
“What?” said the person standing outside the stall.
Pauling put his face in his hands. The boy standing outside was in his teens.
“Get out here now,” barked the man.
“I have to take a leak.”
“Do you think I was born yesterday? You just went.” Hearing no response, the man continued. “I didn’t pay all of this money for you to sneak off and play video games.”
“Can’t I just—”
“Now!”
The boy let out a sigh of disapproval, then moved toward the door.
***
Pauling remained in the stall until the basilica was set to close. It was probably overkill, but he had to make sure his pursuers had given up the chase. People had come in and out during that time, but all seemed to be there for legitimate reasons.
He stood and carefully opened the stall door. As he suspected, the room was empty. After splashing some water on his face at the sink, he exited into the corridor. A security guard turned and walked briskly toward him, clearly surprised someone was still there. He frowned and tapped his watch. “We’re closed.”
“Sorry. I’m leaving now.”
Rather than moving off, the officer remained at his side. It was clear the man was going to escort him all the way out. Pauling thought about asking if there was a back exit, then realized that might raise a red flag. Besides, if the spotters knew he was there, they would be watching the building from all sides.
A minute later, Pauling exited onto the basilica steps. Night had fallen, and St. Mark’s Square was a hive of activity. Tourists moved in and out of the shops and cafes. Locals crisscrossed the plaza, while others just milled around, talking and taking in the sights.
He scanned the crowd. There were a few tall men, but none looked like Unibrow. Nor did he see anyone else looking in his direction. Most seemed to be caught up in their own worlds. Thankfully, it looked like he was in the clear.
Pauling didn’t like lingering in such a prominent place, so he took the steps down and turned toward Calle Canonica, a narrow street at the northeast corner of the square. While hidden in the stall, he’d plotted a circuitous route to his house, one that would eventually take him to the Rio de San Zulan, one of Venice’s largest canals. From there, he’d walk several blocks to a water taxi stand he’d used several times in the past. If all went well, he’d be home in just under an hour. His home had been purchased in the name of a trust, so very few even knew of its existence. The key was to get back without being followed.
Forty minutes later, he rounded a corner and saw the Rio de Sand Zulan a block away. A feeling of relief washed over him. The taxi stand was minutes away. Not only that, but as best he could tell, there was no one on his tail. An aficionado of spy novels, Pauling had doubled back a few times and entered several stores, and at no point had he seen anyone who looked even remotely suspicious. In fact, he was now beginning to wonder if the whole thing had been a figment of his imagination.
Zipping up his co
at, Pauling strode briskly toward the canal. It was mostly quiet, save for a television blaring through an open window. The smell of garlic drifted out of another. On any other evening, he might have actually enjoyed the walk.
About halfway down, Pauling heard footsteps behind him. He turned his head slightly but decided against turning all the way around. No need for panic. It was probably a local out for a walk. Just breathe deeply and keep walking. Look like you’re supposed to be here.
As Pauling neared the canal, he picked up his pace. So did the person behind him. Pauling’s adrenaline surged. That was too much to be a coincidence. Whoever it was, they were trying to keep up with him.
Unable to resist looking back, Pauling finally swung around. The area behind him was shrouded in deep shadows, concealing whoever was there. Finally, a dark figure emerged. The hairs on Pauling’s neck stood on end. Unibrow. The soft expression of a fake tourist had been replaced with the steely look of a killer. Needing no further encouragement, Pauling turned and sprinted off. Strangely, the man didn’t run in pursuit.
Upon reaching the end of the street, Pauling turned left along a walkway that ran along the canal. He couldn’t see it from here, but he knew the taxi stand was only two blocks away. He would sprint the entire distance if he had to. He would do whatever it took to survive.
As he looked ahead, Pauling saw a second man striding toward him, the twin of the man behind him, absent the unibrow—tall, muscular, and menacing. Pauling pivoted back. Unibrow rounded the turn and was closing in fast. Aside from diving into the canal, there was no way out. He was trapped inside a closing vise.
At this point, protecting the map had to take priority. Pauling knew he’d probably die, but he would do so without giving them what they came for. He shuddered to think what would happen if it got into the wrong hands, assuming it was authentic. Thankfully, he’d put together a plan to ensure only one person ever found it—someone he could trust, one of the few people who would understand the clues Pauling had left behind.
With the men closing in from either side, Pauling removed his phone and typed out a text. He wasn’t a spiritual man, but he prayed it would work. It had to. If it didn’t…
The two attackers were less than ten yards away. Pauling’s fingers moved quickly over the keys. He entered all the information the recipient would need and nothing more.
Unibrow lifted a gun.
Done. Pauling hit Send. When he received confirmation it had gone through, he flung the phone out into the canal. As it sank into the dark waters, he felt a hard object impact the base of his skull.
He thought about Emily. Then his world melted to darkness.
CHAPTER TWO
Delphi Headquarters
Arlington, Virginia
ZANE WATSON FROWNED deeply as he plucked the object from the desk. “You’re telling me this is an explosive device?”
“You have the power of three grenades in your hand right now,” Brett Foster replied.
Zane examined it from all angles. Approximately six inches long, it had the appearance of a small flashlight. Somehow, it didn’t seem possible an object so small could house so much destructive power. He looked at Brett. “Is she ready for the field?”
“Ross is supposed to sign off on everything tomorrow.”
“I’m guessing he’ll keep one of these babies in his glove compartment.”
Both men worked for the Delphi Group, a private intelligence organization with a very simple mission: to assist the United States government by conducting investigations the government couldn’t or wouldn’t associate itself with. That included, but was not limited to, operations related to the bizarre and the supernatural.
Delphi was founded and led by Dr. Alexander Ross, sometimes known as the Oracle. A former Director of National Intelligence and CIA case officer, Ross was regarded as one of the most respected figures in the history of United States intelligence, a man known for his razor-sharp mind and an uncanny ability to assess and combat threats. He was also a connoisseur of cigars and cognac.
Delphi headquarters was housed on the top floor of a modern office building in Arlington, Virginia, a location conducive to its symbiotic relationship with the CIA, the FBI, and other select agencies. None of the other tenants in the building were aware of the organization’s purpose, although a stubborn rumor had persisted it was an import-and-export business with a controversial clientele.
Delphi’s investigative work was conducted by a team of operatives who were ready to deploy around the globe at a moment’s notice. The most crucial operations were led by senior operative, Zane Watson, the organization’s second-in-command, and junior operative Carmen Petrosino. While not technically an operative, Brett Foster was Delphi’s resident computer geek whose official title was Chief Technology Specialist.
Zane knew Brett had been working on a secret project for six months, but his work in the field had kept him away from the details. Zane had brought it up several times with the Oracle, but the chief had been strangely coy, only letting on that it was a revolutionary weapon.
“Assuming it actually works, that’s pretty impressive.” Zane scooted his chair closer to the desk and placed the device under a halogen lamp.
“Not only does it work, it works consistently. Keiko and I field tested thirty of them last week, and we only had one malfunction.”
“Let me guess; Keiko was the one doing the actual testing, and you were several hundred yards away, holding a beer.”
Keiko was the world’s most advanced humanoid. Having the appearance of an Asian woman in her thirties, she could move, speak, and think in a way that blurred the lines between humans and machines. She had previously been an instrument of a criminal enterprise, but due to ethics programming by her maker, she’d eventually changed sides and offered her services to Delphi.
“We can get Keiko a new arm or a leg. Last I checked, we can’t do that for me.”
“Why not be Delphi’s first Cyborg?” Zane sat back in his chair. “Speaking of getting limbs blown off, tell me how this baby works. How long does it take to detonate?”
“You have five or six seconds from the time you trigger until detonation. We felt that was ample time to launch it toward your target. But at the same time, you need to use it with extreme caution. If you try to toss it through a tiny window and it bounces back, you have a big problem.”
“That’s reassuring.”
“That’s the danger of working with any explosive device.” He patted Zane’s shoulder. “I’m not concerned about you, though. Men with wedding bells in their future don’t take unnecessary chances.”
Zane shook his head. “Keep that up, and I’m going to field test this thing right now.”
Zane knew Brett referred to Katiya Mills. Recognized as one of the leading anthropologists in the United States, she had joined the Delphi team on a recent operation to the Amazon rainforest. Even though Zane had tried to suppress the feelings that arose at the beginning of the mission, he couldn’t deny the immediate attraction the two had for one another. As the team traveled deep into the jungle, flirtation ensued. Then, in a moment Zane would regret at the time, the budding romance boiled over in a dark tunnel. Feigning the need for assistance, Katiya called Zane back to help her squeeze through a narrow crevice, only to pull him in for a kiss when he arrived. Zane remembered it as the most passionate encounter of his life, something he didn’t say lightly.
As the operation came to an end, Zane did what he often did: he attempted to suppress his feelings. But any thought that the brief physical encounter was a one-time event was put to rest when the team returned to the States. Zane and Katiya joined Brett and Amanda Higgs for a time of rest in Key Largo, Florida, and rather than fading, their relationship sizzled. The tropical locale became a catalyst for deep romance.
After the trip, Zane returned to his work at Delphi, and Katiya returned to her work as an anthropologist at NYU. They spoke every day, with both expressing their genuine desire to follow
their hearts and not let past tendencies cloud what was becoming something serious.
Unfortunately, things unraveled when the two planned a weeklong vacation to Charleston, South Carolina. Zane knew Charleston’s delights personally—the history and the fine Southern cuisine—but the true reason he’d suggested it was because he wanted a quiet place to map out their future. More specifically, he’d wanted the most special woman in the world to know he desired something more permanent.
A week before they were to depart, Delphi was asked to conduct an operation overseas. The stated goal was crucial to U.S. interests. In fact, those interests were so crucial the Oracle insisted Zane take the lead. At first, Zane had vigorously resisted, reminding him Carmen Petrosino was fully capable of handling anything he could. While the Oracle might ordinarily have relented, the clincher came with a call from the president. The operation was of such vital importance he wouldn’t accept anyone else at the helm. Zane knew he had no choice.
As he’d expected, Katiya had been devastated at the news. While she understood the national security concerns, she was also heartbroken their plans had been short-circuited at such a critical time. In the days that followed, Zane did the unthinkable. He ended the relationship. He told his closest friends it wasn’t because he’d lost his love for Katiya—in fact, he loved her more than ever—but it was because of his love for her. Rightly or wrongly, he knew his work at Delphi would always have to come first, and a woman like Katiya deserved a man who could always make her his first priority.
The conversation had been heartbreaking, with Zane holding Katiya in his arms as she wept. She tried to talk him out of it, saying she should have the right to choose who she wanted and how much she’d be willing to accept. But he stood steadfast, doing what he believed was in the best interest of the woman he loved. In the end, she’d said she understood, but he saw in her eyes that she still questioned all that was happening.
After the operation was over, Zane became deeply troubled with the decision. Insomnia became his new friend. Over time, he even found himself taking Katiya’s position. Shouldn’t she be able to make her own choices? If she was fine with the constraints of his work, did he have the right to deny that? Having come to a new conclusion, he reached out to her on several occasions. At first, she didn’t return his calls, so he took the additional step of calling her office at NYU. When he finally got in touch with her, she said she had moved on. She loved him more than she’d loved anyone else, but she didn’t think she could take any more damage to her heart.
