Father Albano looked relieved. “I’m glad you feel that way. I would hate to see someone hurt in what I believe to be a fool’s errand.”
“You don’t believe in the spear?” asked Terrence.
Father Albano held up his hands, waving them and shaking his head. “No! No! No! Don’t misunderstand me. I believe in it, absolutely, after all it’s in the Gospels. I simply don’t believe that Saint Longinus is buried here. I know there are rumors that his body was taken here in the fourteenth or fifteenth century, but a search of church records conducted in the early twentieth century failed to find any reference to this.”
Acton pursed his lips as he thought of the reference material Mai had sent him. A Vatican historian had conducted a thorough search of the archives and found nothing to suggest Longinus had ever been moved to the basilica, and the body was considered officially lost, if it had ever existed, though the church would never admit to that part since there was a prominent sculpture of the saint in St. Peter’s Basilica.
To them he was real.
Just lost.
And for Laura’s sake, Acton had to assume he was real.
And findable.
“Can we assume since your records were gone through less than a century ago that they’ve been organized in some way?”
Father Albano shook his head. “They were, but during the Nazi occupation everything was seized. Hitler was obsessed with finding any and all religious artifacts including the Spear of Destiny which meant his archeologists came here and seized all of our records.”
Acton grabbed his forehead, massaging his temples. “Please tell me they’ve been returned.”
“Oh, absolutely. After the war the Americans found crates filled with our documents and relics and they were returned. To be honest, other than removing the artifacts and returning them to their rightful places, the documents have been left pretty much untouched, the Nazi’s actually having done a better job at preserving them than we could.”
This piqued Acton’s interest. There might actually be manifests associated with them if the crates were returned complete, the Nazi’s fanatical with their paperwork. Hitler’s obsession just might help them. He stood.
“It’s getting late and we better get started.”
And Laura is running out of time.
Renner Security, Stuttgart, Germany
“Our men weren’t able to find them, sir. They’ll keep looking, but…”
Renner wasn’t surprised by Kessler’s report. These men were good, most operators were, no matter what country they were from. He was good too, and so were his men, but he had been foolish.
Over confident.
He had wanted to show that he wasn’t concerned about meeting the FBI—or CIA—about anything. He had known full-well what this was about, it was the top news story across the world. It shouldn’t have been, but things had gone off the rails with the killing of a priest in Spain, then the massacre—for lack of a better word—in Paris, especially coming on the heels of the cowardly Charlie Hebdo attacks.
He had been at home when news broke of the Islamic attacks, arguing on the phone with his ex-wife over alimony of all things. He had told her to shut up and turn on the news. After an initial outburst she had turned on her television and they had both watched it together, over the phone, as the events unfolded live, it the longest, most civil conversation they had had in years.
It hadn’t lasted.
The payday he had received for allowing his men to be used on this relic hunt was massive. He hadn’t even needed to negotiate, the number offered upfront so large he couldn’t be bothered trying to get more. The offer had been sent to him anonymously with instructions on how many men were needed, what they would be needed for, and where they should show up. His men were all receiving huge paydays themselves with the understanding they would all be disappearing permanently after the job was done.
He had selected single men with no wives, ex-wives, children or surviving parents or siblings. It was a disturbingly large pool of candidates.
The pool became much smaller when they were interviewed by him for the job and told they would have to disappear when it was done.
It was one thing to live alone, it was another thing to actually be alone, to start over, under the radar, not only giving up everything you had built over a lifetime, but the work you loved as well.
It hadn’t taken long though to find enough men motivated by the money, and he sent them to the rendezvous with the understanding he would never see or hear from them again.
He hadn’t expected to see their faces on security footage leaked to the press.
He had immediately phoned Kessler to make sure everything was in order with their internal records. There was no point in purging the records, that would simply raise suspicions, he just wanted to make sure there were no typos in the termination dates and that all the proper paperwork had already been sent in the event court orders were to arrive.
Everything had been done properly and on time, well ahead of their faces hitting the news services.
Renner Security was good at its job.
Including its paperwork.
And it had given him a false sense of security. It had never occurred to him they would actually try and hack their system, and even if they had, their data retention protocols weren’t supposed to reveal anything worth stealing.
But it had been confirmed that one of those on assignment had used their Swiss bank account for their regular paychecks. And Renner had no doubt that any payment for this job had been made to the same account, which meant the payment might be traced back to its source.
And that same source had paid him.
He looked at Kessler, still waiting in the doorway. “I’m screwed.”
Kessler stepped inside, closing the door behind him. “How so?”
“They’re going to be able to follow the money all the way back to me.”
“Perhaps we need to clean up the mess?”
Renner’s eyes narrowed. “How?”
“Eliminate our former employees and their new employer.”
Renner had always known Kessler was cold; it was what made him so good at his job. But to actually hear him talk about killing their own in such a calm fashion sent a chill down his spine.
He shook his head. “No. The problem is electronic, not soft. You could kill them all, the banking records would still lead back to me.”
Kessler nodded. “Then what will you do?”
Renner frowned. “I’m not sure.” He waved Kessler away. “I need to think.”
“Of course, sir.”
Kessler left the room and Renner turned toward the wall adorned with the memories of better times.
It’s over.
Hotel Astor Saint Honore, Paris, France
Reading massaged the bridge of his nose, squeezing between his tired eyes, his phone on the hotel room table, the speaker doing a disservice to the man he was talking to. “A wound like that, how long could she last without treatment?” he asked.
“That depends, do you mean how long until she would die if not treated at all, or how long she would have before treatment would need to be started in order to save her?”
“The latter.”
“Well, that depends.”
“You’re not being much help, Arthur.”
Dr. Arthur Goodman laughed. “No, but I’m trying to be precise.” Goodman was an old friend of Reading’s from his Scotland Yard days, a coroner from London he had dealt with on far too many occasions.
“I’m not the Crown Prosecutor preparing the case, I’m a copper trying to narrow down a search radius.”
“Okay, okay. From what you’ve told me of the wound, I’d say she’d have as little as fifteen minutes and as much as an hour, perhaps even more if your characterization of it is completely wrong.”
“There was a fair amount of blood.”
Goodman grunted. “To your untrained eye, perhaps, but looks can be deceiving.”
“I’ve seen my fair share. It looked bad.”
“Too bad Chaney wasn’t with you, he’d have been able to tell.”
Reading felt a dark cloud settle over him at the mention of his former partner, Detective Inspector Martin Chaney. He had disappeared after the events in Venice, never to be seen again, at least by him. He was still officially on medical leave, but no one knew where he had disappeared to. Reading was certain it had everything to do with the Triarii, an ancient cult Chaney was part of that had caused Reading and his friends a lot of grief over the years, and with the number of bodies that had piled up due to their beliefs, he feared the worst for his friend.
But he had another friend that needed him right now, and thinking of Chaney would just be a distraction.
“Well, he’s not here, so you’re going to have to deal with my amateur assessment.”
Goodman chuckled. “Glad to see you’re as pleasant as ever.” He became serious. “From what you’ve told me, I’d cap your radius at no more than one hour from the moment of the shooting. If it was really bad, she never would have survived that helicopter ride. How long was it again?”
“Fifteen minutes.”
“Right. If she were bleeding out, she’d have been too far gone to be saved. But the fact she was means she was bleeding slowly, so an hour is reasonable.”
“But it could be more.”
Reading could almost hear him shrug. “Could be, but from what you described, I doubt it.” There was a pause. “You’re sure they didn’t just transfer to another helicopter?”
Reading’s head dropped. “I hadn’t even thought of that.” He rapped his knuckles on the table top. “No, that’s right, there were two sets of tire tracks, four-by-fours, and no evidence of any other vehicles. Another helicopter would have left evidence behind.”
“You sound tired, my friend.”
Reading sighed. “You have no idea. I’m getting too old for this shit.”
“You and me both!” laughed Goodman. “Now I’m going to let you go, my wife tells me I can’t afford to lose any beauty sleep. You call if you need me for anything.”
“I will. Thanks, Arthur.”
He ended the call and looked at the map laid out before him showing concentric circles radiating out from the helicopter landing site. He looked at the circle for the 45 minutes of driving time they would have had.
It’s hopelessly huge.
About the only good thing was it was mostly countryside and small villages.
But it was still huge.
There was a knock at the door.
He looked at his watch and frowned. Who the hell would be calling at this hour? He checked the peephole and smiled, opening the door. “Gentlemen.”
“I’m guessing you don’t associate with a very good crowd if you’re calling us that,” said Niner as he and Dawson entered the room.
“Success?” he asked as Dawson closed the door behind them.
Dawson nodded. “We planted the transmitter and got the data, but they’re onto us.”
Reading dropped into a large, plush chair, his sore buttocks and back thanking him. “How so?”
“They objected quite strenuously to us leaving,” replied Niner, pointing at the fridge. Reading nodded and Niner grabbed several bottles of water, firing one at Dawson who caught it handily, the other bouncing off Reading’s chest and onto the floor, his arms not having moved an inch. “Sorry.”
Reading shook his head slightly. “I’m dead.”
“You catch like it,” said Niner, picking up the bottle and placing it on the table in front of Reading. “Good thing I wasn’t throwing beer bottles.”
Reading grunted, his head lolling over to the side in Dawson’s direction. “So what do they know?”
“Only that someone is looking into things. They probably also know what data we stole by now.”
“Which means if they’re involved they’re going to be disappearing into the woodwork.”
Dawson took a long swig of his water. “I would. But if someone’s actually dying from some incurable disease as we’ve surmised, then it might not be that easy for them to just up and leave.”
Reading frowned. “But not impossible.”
Niner flipped his already empty water bottle in the air. “Which means we don’t have a lot of time.”
Reading’s eyes drooped as he began to fade fast.
He heard the two much younger men rise and his eyes opened, Dawson waving off his attempt to get out of his chair. “We’ll leave you to get some rest. We’re going to do a quick debrief then get some rack time. Hopefully Langley will come up with something by the morning.”
Reading gave a tired wave of the hand without removing it from the arm of his chair, his eyes already closed as he drifted off to sleep.
Kruger Residence, Outside Paris, France
Dietrich’s phone vibrated in his pocket as he paced in front of his father’s bed. He fished it out and frowned, looking at his mother, his father having passed out from medicine administered earlier by Dr. Heinrich.
“I have to take this.”
She nodded, her slumped shoulders and the dark circles under her eyes indicating just how exhausted she was. He had urged her to get some sleep while his father was resting but she refused to leave his side.
She knows he’s going to die soon.
A lump formed in his throat and tears welled in his eyes as he looked at his father, his breathing labored, his fluid filled lungs causing a heavy rasp with each intake of breath.
He swiped his thumb and held the phone to his ear as he stepped out into the hallway.
“How did you get this number?”
“I have my connections.”
Dietrich scowled at himself in a large gold framed mirror. “You were never supposed to call me.”
“It’s become necessary.”
He had never spoken to Karl Renner, all contact done through an intermediary, but obviously someone had spoken.
Probably one of his men told him how to reach me.
His blood began to boil at the thought of the breach in protocol.
“You have sixty seconds.”
“The CIA was here asking questions.”
This piqued Dietrich’s interest, his chest tightening slightly. He looked around. “What do they know?”
“It’s hard to say, but it’s clear they’ve tied my firm to your actions.”
‘Your’ actions?
“So? You’ve been compensated very well for just that possibility.”
“It’s not enough.”
“It was before.”
“Well, not now. Not after you started killing people. Before my firm was simply involved in providing former personnel who would have been accused in involvement with several robberies. Now there are multiple murders. That means a very powerful microscope is going to be focused on me and my firm. I have to disappear.”
“Then disappear. I paid you millions. I’m hanging up now.”
“Wait! I need another ten million euros.”
“That’s ridiculous. Good bye.”
“I’ll have to go to the authorities and tell them everything I know, otherwise I’m going to go to prison.”
Dietrich’s free hand curled into a ball, his nails digging painfully into his palm. “I’ll call you tomorrow. Be at your house at nine a.m.”
He ended the call, pacing in front of the mirror several times as he tried to control his rage. He had never been extorted before.
And he didn’t like it.
But there was another takeaway from the phone call.
The CIA was getting close.
If Renner was panicking—and his background research into the man suggested he never panicked—there was more going on than he was letting on. The CIA paying Renner Security a visit shouldn’t have been unexpected to the man, after all it was his men being used and there always was the possibility they’d be caught on camera. That was why their paydays were so huge—they wo
uld need to disappear for a long time.
Which meant the CIA must have said something that panicked Renner. And if Renner was panicked, it must be significant, and the only thing he could think of was that they had somehow tracked him down.
But that didn’t make sense. If they knew who he was, then why weren’t they here, now, breaking down his door? No, they didn’t know who he was.
But maybe they’re on the right track.
His face on camera hadn’t been ID’d yet, which wasn’t a surprise. His family was very reclusive. They never entertained, and when they went anywhere it was under assumed names. His father’s name would appear in the business section of the newspaper from time to time, but photos were never made available.
The only way the CIA could trace him would be some sort of paper trail, which meant a money trail. Everything had been done through wire transfers from secret bank accounts to what were supposed to be equally secret accounts. Nothing would lead back to him.
But it could lead back to Renner.
He smiled. That’s what it was. Renner was worried that the money paid to his men would be traced back to a single source which also sent him money. Court orders could unseal those accounts, no matter what assurances the Swiss might have provided when opening them, and it would all tie back to Renner.
Herr Renner and the CIA will be quite surprised to find out who’s financing the entire operation.
Dietrich speed dialed a number on his phone, it immediately answered.
“Yes, sir?”
“I have a job for you.”
Basilica of Sant’Agostino, Rome, Italy
Terrence Mitchell stretched and yawned. He was tired, but every time he closed his eyes the image of the red dot on his wife’s stomach appeared, forcing him to keep going. He felt terribly guilty not telling Professor Acton the complete truth, but he had no choice. He couldn’t risk the life of his wife and unborn child, and besides, what difference did it really make? His instructions were to tell their abductors if the professor discovered anything, or strayed from his own instructions.
Blood Relics (A James Acton Thriller, #12) Page 19
