River Road, Potomac, Maryland
Present day
Grant Jackson’s head vibrated against the glass of the large Cadillac, his legs stretched out in the backseat, his eyes closed as his left hand cradled a glass of eighteen year old Macallan, the ice clinking against the edges of the crystal. His throat was a bit sore and a glass of water would probably do him better, but until they invented water that helped numb the entire body while quenching your thirst, he’d stick to the scotch.
He took a sip blindly, the smooth liquid setting fire to his mouth as he rolled it around, enjoying the flavor. Finally he swallowed the smoky brew and sighed in satisfaction, returning the glass to its perch on his knee. He had never had a drop of scotch until his dad had died, and in a fit of anger and sorrow, he had grabbed a bottle of his father’s favorite and drank it until he learned to like it.
It was definitely an acquired taste with him.
He had thrown up that night, and he thanked the malt masters that had created the golden liquid for their skill in brewing excuses, for he wasn’t certain it was the alcohol that had made him vomit. The fact that his father, the President of the United States, was dead was shock enough, but to find out he had been murdered, in the White House, by a man Grant had known since he was a baby was even more shocking.
His mother had nearly become a recluse, retreating from society and refusing to speak of it, and whenever he asked questions about what had happened, he was stonewalled at every turn. He considered himself an intelligent man, and he knew something wasn’t right. There was no way Lesley Darbinger, his father’s closest friend and most trusted advisor, would just kill his father for no reason. There had to be a reason. The marines had killed him moments after they heard the shots, but they had been too late to save his father, and too effective in their response to gain any intelligence from the shooter.
The investigation after the fact indicated that Darbinger had a brain tumor and most likely wasn’t in control of his actions, which would explain his ordering US Special Forces troops to assassinate a group of students in Peru under the guise they were a terrorist cell, and to pursue the survivors to London, England to eliminate them, all under the supposed orders of his father.
To Grant it sounded like bullshit, but what was the alternative? If Darbinger wasn’t guilty, then did that mean his father was? He wanted to know the answers, he was desperate to know, and he knew there was only one way he was going to find out, and that was from the inside.
Which was why he was now running for Congress. He’d ride his father’s coattails into the inner sanctum and try from within to get answers, and if he couldn’t get them, he’d run for President if he had to. He had the looks, the education and the pedigree to win, and he was determined to do so.
The car jerked to a halt sending Grant flying forward, his glass slipping from his hand. His head smacked the B pillar, stunning him momentarily as he heard shouts from the front of the car, then another slam, this one sending him backward as they were hit from behind. He pushed himself back into the seat, rubbing his head with his hand as the sounds of the front doors opening seemed far too distant.
“This is Sierra One, we’ve got a situation, send backup immediately, over!”
It was Mike, one of the Secret Service agents assigned to him whose voice brought Grant back to reality.
What the hell is going on?
Several shots rang out and Grant’s heart leapt into his throat as his pulse began to race. His shaking hands reached for the door but it was suddenly torn open, Mike’s free hand reaching in and grabbing him by the shirt. He was hauled out onto the pavement and into a puddle, the light rain from earlier in the evening still making its presence known.
Several shots were fired over his head and he looked at where the gun was aimed. A large black SUV was jammed against their bumper, a man using the passenger side door as cover. He looked behind them to see another SUV blocking the street, perpendicular to the Caddy. He was about to open his mouth to warn Mike when one of their attackers raised a weapon and shot. Mike’s shoulder blades jerked together, his chest bursting forward in pain and confusion as he dropped to his knees. His eyes met Grant’s as he collapsed.
“Run!” he gasped before his face hit the pavement. Grant jumped to his feet and sprinted toward a nearby alley. As he reached the entrance he felt something slam into his back and he flew forward, smacking the pavement hard. The sound of footfalls rushing toward him was all he could make out as a sudden warmth spread through his body, his muscles relaxing as he slowly blacked out.
And as his eyes flickered shut, he saw a man’s hand reach down to grab him, his watchband slipping slightly, revealing a small tattoo made of three parallel lines, the third slightly thicker and rounded up toward the other two.
Approaching Karakorum, Mongol Empire
March 24th, 1275 AD
About the only good thing that Giuseppe could say about the past day was that their attackers hadn’t returned. And that was all. What had started as light snow flurries had turned into a squall that had lasted all night. It was unlike anything Giuseppe had experienced before, Venice not known for its snowstorms. His master, Marco, seemed thrilled with it, volunteering to take the first watch and letting his father sleep through his turn.
Giuseppe merely shivered in his furs, sitting at Marco’s side through four hours of the storm, huddled at the entrance to a cave they had discovered, a substantial fire continually fed by Giuseppe merely taking the edge off the icy wind.
“I’ve never seen such snow!”
It was at least the third time Marco had uttered these words, the excitement suggesting he was unable to contain himself, each outburst a release that would slowly build again over time, to be relieved temporarily by the next outburst.
“Neither have I, Master.”
It was the third identical reply, then nothing else would be said until the next utterance from his master.
“I guess you’re wondering why we left our planned route.”
Giuseppe’s eyebrows shot up in surprise at the unexpected statement. “It is not my place to wonder why.”
“Come now, Giuseppe, we have known each other long enough to be honest with one another,” said Marco with a smile and a wink.
“I have always been honest with you, Master!”
As if sensing his shock at the accusation, Marco leaned forward and grabbed Giuseppe’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze.
“Relax, Giuseppe, I’m only joking with you!” he said, laughing then letting him go. “We have known each other since we were children. We have played together, drank together and fought together. There can be no greater bond between men!”
“I serve at the master’s pleasure.”
“Hmm,” was the reply, Giuseppe’s heart immediately racing as he could detect the displeasure in Marco’s tone.
“I’m sorry if I offended you, Master.”
Marco shook his head. “No, you didn’t offend me. I sometimes forget your station, that is all. It is not my choice, you understand. If it were up to me, you would be a freeman, and we would be equals on this journey. But my father says that cannot be. Only family and servants will be permitted at the palace in Khanbalig, all others will be denied entry.” Marco grinned at him, a gleam in his eye. “And you know I wouldn’t survive without my trusted Giuseppe by my side in the great city!”
“Your words honor and humble me, Master.”
“I wish you would call me ‘Marco’.”
“I could never.”
Marco batted the words away with his hand. “I know, I know.” He looked at the entrance and the wind howling to gain entry. “I will tell you why we are here.”
Giuseppe said nothing, instead leaning forward.
“Kublai Khan has asked us to undertake a mission for him of the utmost importance.”
Giuseppe’s jaw dropped. There was no hiding his shock at the news, or the renewed awe he felt for his master. If the Khan himself had asked t
he Polo family for this favor, it surely indicated the esteem in which the great leader held them.
And yet he still remained silent, daring not ask the questions that filled his head.
“As you know, my father and uncle returned from their journey with a message from the Khan for the Pope. We currently carry the reply to that message along with many gifts from the new Pope Tedaldo for the Khan. This makes our journey important as we have an opportunity to spread Christianity throughout the Khan’s territory.” Marco lowered his voice. “You remember the envoy? The one that met us before we changed our route?”
“Of course, Master.”
“He had a message from the Khan. Apparently there is a problem in the former capital of Karakorum which is where we are heading now. What you might not know is that Karakorum was built by Genghis Khan to be his capital after he defeated the Khwarezm Empire. His successors built it into a great walled city with a large palace that made it a center for politics that spanned the entire Mongol Empire.
“But something went wrong, and when Kublai Khan claimed the throne he abandoned the city, relocating the capital several times, finally settling on Dadu which we now know as Khanbalig. What wasn’t known before was why he abandoned the former capital. The messenger provided the answer, an answer I can hardly believe.”
Giuseppe had been given the benefit of an education thanks to his masters, but only in the basics. He could read and write in several languages, he understood mathematics but not to any great degree—he could handle himself in a market—and knew the Bible and the history of the Church. But world geography, that beyond Europe, and history outside of his own continent? He had almost no knowledge. He had made every attempt to overhear the stories told by his master’s father and uncle upon their return, and when he had been informed he would be accompanying them on their second journey along the Silk Road, he had been thrilled.
And this little tidbit into history and world politics had him enthralled.
“What is it, Master? What was the reason?”
“It appears that the locals, pagans and Saracens alike, had turned to idol worship.”
Giuseppe’s head jerked back, the very thought of it abhorrent, the worship of an idol heresy, a sin and violation of one of the Ten Commandments.
“What kind of idol?”
“Some crystal carving. The Khan isn’t certain what it is, except that it was brought in by a trader who claimed it had great powers. The city administrator purchased it and later claimed it spoke to him. At first it was his inner circle that began to worship the idol, then word spread through the servants of its power, and soon much of the great city had devoted themselves to this false idol. When Kublai Khan returned from an expedition to the north, he found the mosques and temples abandoned, the famous Silver Tree missing from the city square, and instead a temple in its place with a crystal form at its center. Troops once loyal to him held him back and he was forced to retreat from the city.”
“The Khan was defeated?”
Giuseppe’s heart slammed in his chest. If the Khan was defeated by the followers of this pagan idol, what hope did this tiny expedition have?
“No, but he was forced to retreat. He returned in force, sacking the leadership, but not before the skull was hidden away somewhere. It wasn’t until recently that the Khan learned where it has been hidden, but everyone he sends to retrieve it is met with suspicion, and the idol is never found.”
“What can we, I mean you, with all respect, Master, hope to do that the Khan couldn’t?”
“As Europeans, we will be met as scholars. It is hoped that we will be able to gain access to it through the local priest. Apparently he knows where it is located from time-to-time, it moved regularly to keep ahead of the Khan’s soldiers.”
“What does he want with it?”
“He wants it removed then transported to the Holy See in Rome. Apparently the city’s economy is now failing, worshippers looking for answers from the idol rather than from themselves, leaving their duties and businesses to decline in favor of seeking blessings from this crystal figure in the hopes of instant gratification.”
“Does it work?”
Marco recoiled at the question. “Of course not! What kind of Christian are you?”
Giuseppe’s chest tightened, his face slackening at the thought of insulting his master. He opened his mouth to apologize when a grin spread across Marco’s face.
“You should see your face, my brother.” Marco reached forward and slapped Giuseppe’s shoulder. “I asked the same question of the messenger. All he would say is that enough rumors of it working have spread that the truth no longer matters.”
“You said he wants it sent to the Holy See. Why?”
“I personally think he’s too superstitious to destroy it himself. If I had to guess, he hopes the Church will deal with it for him.”
“Will they?”
“I’m certain they will. I can’t see the Pope being scared of some crystal carving. I could see him saying some prayers over it though, just in case!”
Marco made the sign of the cross, silently apologizing for the subtle insult to the Holy Roman Church’s leader. Giuseppe did the same, rewarded with a smile from Marco.
“In all seriousness, this is a dangerous journey as we’ve already seen, and that had nothing to do with our ultimate purpose. First we must reach the city, infiltrate it, meet with the priest, find the idol, overwhelm its guards, exit the city with the idol, and escape its worshipers’ pursuit.”
“It sounds impossible.”
“Nothing is impossible, my brother, as my father and uncle proved with their first journey. Nearly impossible? Absolutely. I suspect we may not survive the attempt.”
“Then why do it? Why not let the Khan take care of his own problems?”
Marco smiled, shaking his head. “Giuseppe, we must. A great trust has been placed in our family by a greater man. For us to deny his request would be to dishonor our family name forever. If we fail, we die with honor, and that I can live with. But if we succeed, we shall go down in history. And in time, no one will forget the name Polo.”
A strong gust of winter wind howled through the cave opening, the fire almost forced out, only small blue flames able to resist the wind battling it. Giuseppe covered his mouth with his hand so he could breathe, then suddenly the wind stilled inside, the fire springing back to life, and he found himself sitting alone, his master having risen.
“Let us sleep, brother, for tomorrow we have a difficult journey.”
Giuseppe leapt to his feet and walked deeper into the cave, his master shaking the shoulder of his uncle, waking him to take the next watch. Giuseppe prepared Marco’s bedding then retired himself, visions of crystal demons haunting his dreams, the repeated image of a laughing crystal skull waking him throughout the night.
Wellington Hospital, London, England
Present day, one day after the kidnapping
Professor James Acton held his fiancée’s hand as they walked down the hall of Wellington Hospital. His hands were clammy, which was uncharacteristic of him, but he hated being here, not because of a fear of hospitals, but because he felt it was his fault the man they were visiting had been a long term guest of the facility.
Professor Laura Palmer squeezed his hand. “Are you okay?”
She knew him so well she could sense his unease. He squeezed back and glanced at her, her auburn hair loose today and hanging over her shoulders, her alabaster skin brilliantly white and flawless, at least in his eyes. He knew she was showing the odd line around the eyes, the signs of aging unavoidable as she lived the life of an archeologist, her skin baking in the dry heat of desert dig sites, her body exposed to the rigors of running for her life on far too many occasions, bullets, rockets, bombs and plain old knives and spears trying to end her time on this world.
And his too. Their introduction and romance had been a whirlwind, but over the past few years he had finally found true love for the first time in his
life, and he had never been happier, despite the innumerable attempts on their lives. The pair of them seemed to be a magnet for danger, but through it they had met each other and made some dear friends despite their ordeals.
And one of those lay in a hospital bed at the end of this hall. Detective Inspector Martin Chaney of Scotland Yard. He had been shot several months ago at Laura’s dig site in Egypt trying to protect them and had slipped into a coma due to the massive loss of blood. His former partner, who was also at the dig site, INTERPOL Special Agent Hugh Reading, had held a vigil at Chaney’s bedside every spare moment he had, talking to him, yelling at him, bargaining with him, all to no effect.
Until recently.
Three days ago Chaney had awoken, much to the shock and delight of Reading who had been insulting Chaney’s choice of football clubs when, according to Reading’s phone call Acton had received two days ago, the “most glorious grunt you had ever heard” erupted from their friend and soon after he was talking and moving all his limbs.
Acton had immediately boarded a plane to join Laura who was lecturing at her university in London. She had waited to see Chaney, wanting to give him some time to recover and also to share the excitement with her fiancé.
“I wonder how he’s doing?” asked Acton as they neared the door.
“I talked to Hugh last night and he said that other than the memory loss, he seems to be fine, just very weak.”
Acton frowned as he knocked on the door. “Hopefully his memory will return.”
“The doctors say it’s fifty-fifty.”
“He’s a tough cookie, I’m betting on the odds being better than that.”
The door opened and Acton found himself bear hugged by an ecstatic Reading, who then exchanged a more gentle one with Laura.
“’Bout time you two got here!” he cried, waving them into the room. “Look who’s here!” he said, turning to his old partner. Chaney was sitting up in his bed, propped up on pillows and the bed adjusted to a near seated position. He had a food tray in front of him with various pale looking offerings, and a huge smile on his face as he saw them enter.
The Venice Code (A James Acton Thriller, Book #8) (James Acton Thrillers) Page 2
