The Venice Code (A James Acton Thriller, Book #8) (James Acton Thrillers)

by Kennedy, J. Robert

  Outside the Jackson Residence, Potomac, Maryland

  Present day, one day after the kidnapping

  Command Sergeant Major Burt “Big Dog” Dawson sat behind the wheel of a standard issue government SUV—big, gas guzzling, with souped-up engine, tires, suspension, the works—and tinted windows. Beside him sat Carl “Niner” Sung, the funniest man he knew—a Korean American who could be relentless in teasing his comrades-in-arms and himself, his own nickname a variation on a racial slur delivered in a bar by someone whose nose was never the same afterward.

  Niner was a good friend and a fantastic soldier and a lot of fun on a stakeout. Eight of them had survived the London incident, four good men lost—Smitty, Spaz, Clint and Marco all having lost their lives for nothing—a madman’s quest for a damned piece of carved crystal. Not to mention the dozens of innocents they had killed believing they were attacking a terrorist cell.

  Not a day went by where Dawson didn’t regret his actions, but with terrorists coming so young and from every part of the world including home, they couldn’t go by their feelings anymore when seeing white college students and assuming they were innocent. Their intel said it was a terrorist cell of white college kids, and that’s what they found. Their orders were to interrogate and eliminate, the names on the President’s Termination List. They had eliminated countless terrorists this way before, and just because they were Middle Eastern Muslims, did it make it any more right or less wrong?

  That day it had, these kids merely students unfortunate enough to have been there when some stupid sculpture had been found, a sculpture his handler had told him was a stolen top secret experiment belonging to DARPA, the military’s research wing.

  It had all been bullshit, and it was now something he and the others had to live with. His vow at the end of the mission to kill President Jackson had turned out to be unnecessary, one of the Triarii doing it for him. And now they found themselves back in the thick of those memories, the son of the very President responsible for it all now kidnapped by those his father had tried to kill.

  It had him seeing red every time he thought of it.

  “Penny for your thoughts.”

  Dawson grunted, glancing at Niner. “Huh?”

  “You seem deep in thought. If you don’t share, my feelings might get hurt.”

  Dawson grabbed his water bottle from a cup holder and took a swig. “London.”

  “Keep that to yourself. I don’t want to be reminded.” He sighed. “Okay, remind me.”

  Dawson returned his water bottle. “It makes no sense. Why would they go after Jackson’s son?”

  “That’s what doesn’t make sense to you? What doesn’t make sense to me is why these guys don’t use bullets! Did you know nobody in that truck in London that we hit had a bullet on them?”

  Dawson frowned, his chest tightening slightly. “Not at the time.” He shuffled in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable. “You’re right, maybe we shouldn’t talk about the past. I still have trouble sleeping at night sometimes.”

  Niner, more subdued than usual, nodded. “Me too. When I think of those kids…” His voice drifted off and he turned his head to look out the window.

  Dawson nodded, understanding the pain his friend was feeling. Many a tear had escaped, many a beer had been drunk not for pleasure but to dull the pain over those events, and he knew he wasn’t alone.

  Niner shook his head, sighing. “So, what do you think we’ll find out by sitting here?” he finally asked, thankfully changing the subject.

  “Probably nothing. I’m just waiting for the next move by somebody. But something’s not right. The Triarii kidnapped Jackson’s son. Why? There’ve been no demands, no claims of responsibility, and they used non-lethal force, losing two of their people because of it. They wanted to make sure nothing happened to the son.”

  “Which means he’s more valuable to them alive than dead.”

  “Exactly. Since we know the Triarii are loaded with more cash than Fort Knox, it can’t be ransom, so they’re after either something he has or something he knows.”

  “So if it’s something he knows, knowing them they’ll interrogate him then let him go but—”

  “If it’s something he has, then it’s most likely in that very house that’s swarming with every agency you can name, and surrounded by every news outlet in the world.”

  “There’s no way he or they are getting in there, so why are we really here?”

  “Because I read the file.”

  “So did I.”

  “And what did you read in there?”

  Niner shrugged. “The usual. Name, address, phone number, standard biography. Nothing really.”

  “He moved out when he was eighteen to go to college and never came back home, instead getting a place of his own in Atlanta, becoming a criminal lawyer. Became decent at it then gave it all up to move back in with his mother after his father died.”

  “Loyal son?”

  “Absolutely. But did you read the will?”

  “The will?” Niner shrugged. “I skimmed it.”

  “Well, if you read the will, you would notice that the son was left a letter by his father.”

  “So he left a letter. Lots of people do that.”

  “Yes. Even I’ve got letters to be delivered in my will—”

  “One for me I hope.”

  “Top of the list, Sergeant, top of the list,” said Dawson, chuckling. “What’s odd here though is that there was no letter left to the wife. Just the son.”

  Niner frowned. “That is odd. What do you think it means?”

  “I think old dad was telling his son something important that had nothing to do with sentiment, and everything to do with the family’s dirty little secret.”

  “That Dad was Triarii.”

  “Exactly. And the only reason you’d tell your son that is if there was some unfinished business he needed his son to complete.”

  Niner turned slightly toward Dawson. “But since the Triarii killed his father, then maybe it’s not Triarii business. And since the Triarii killed his father, there was obviously a rift there. Maybe he wasn’t acting alone, and there is actually a split in the Triarii.”

  Dawson pursed his lips, thinking. “Interesting idea. So that would mean that these kidnappers might not necessarily be playing for the home team. They might have their own agenda.”

  “And didn’t the professor say once that the entire purpose of the Triarii was to keep the skulls apart because in the past three had been put together and blew the shit out of London?”

  Dawson nodded. “So?”

  “So, maybe this splinter group wants to do that again. Join the skulls together and create some sort of weapon.”

  “You’re assuming it works.”

  “I’m assuming nothing. They’re the ones who have to believe it’s going to work.”

  Dawson nodded slowly as he looked out the front window. “So a splinter group of the Triarii are trying to get their hands on as many skulls as they can so they can create a weapon. That’s so thin it’s science fiction thin.”

  “No shit. But we are dealing with wackos who believe in magical crystal skulls.”

  Dawson let out a deep breath. “So, if President Jackson was Triarii, he obviously left them since he sent us in to wipe them out, but the Triarii had the presence of mind to have Darbinger, one of their own, remain with him all those years, then Jackson must have been part of the splinter group. And if we assume the splinter group’s goal was to unite the skulls, and the Triarii had a plant with him the entire time, and now the splinter group is after something the son either has or knows, there can be only one thing they’re after.”

  “A crystal skull.”

  Dawson nodded, his heart picking up its pace slightly. “President Jackson must have stolen a skull from the Triarii, and now either they or the splinter group want it.”

  “Super thin,” muttered Niner. “Do you think the son has it?”

  “Christ, it could
be sitting on his bookshelf for all we know.”

  “Maybe we should go inside, take a wander.”

  Dawson shook his head. “No, if it was that easy the Triarii would have taken it back years ago. I think we can be certain that if there is a stolen skull, it’s hidden away somewhere other than here.”

  “But where?”

  “Well, there’s no way the Triarii didn’t have the son under constant surveillance if his father had stolen a crystal skull.”

  “Splinter cell or regulars?”

  Dawson scratched his neck. “Probably both. And if we assume that both groups had him under surveillance, then both would know if he had tried to retrieve the skull, and would have intercepted it then.”

  “So we can assume that the son hasn’t retrieved the skull.”

  “Exactly!” Dawson turned toward Niner, resting his left arm on the steering wheel. “If we assume that the father’s instructions would have been to retrieve the skull and hand it over to the splinter group, or perhaps just pass the information on where to find it to the splinter group, and we assume it’s the splinter group that kidnapped him today, then we have to assume the son either never read the letter, or didn’t follow through on his father’s instructions.”

  Niner’s head bobbed with enthusiasm. “And if I were to have hidden away the skull from one of the most ingrained secret societies I’ve ever heard of, the instructions on retrieving it probably wouldn’t be something easily remembered, and would most likely at a minimum involve some sort of key.”

  Dawson pointed at the upper floor of the house. “A key placed inside an envelope with a letter from dear old Dad that his son probably never opened, too pissed off his father was dead, blaming him for his own pain.”

  Niner whistled long and low. “Wow, that’s thin, but with the shit I’ve seen over the years, it’s a lot more solid than some of the intel we go off of.”

  Dawson pointed at the driveway. “And now we have what we’ve been waiting for.”

  Niner’s eyes narrowed as he watched an old but well-maintained Honda Civic inch through the reporters, the poor old Hispanic woman driving it holding up one of her hands to try and shield her eyes from the glaring camera lights and the flashes from dozens of smart phones. Finally clear, she turned away from where Dawson and Niner were parked.

  Dawson started up the engine and pulled out into the street, following the car at a reasonable distance. A quick check of his rearview mirror showed him no one else in law enforcement had had the presence of mind to put a tail on her.

  “Do you really think the maid has it?”

  Dawson pointed at the car. “Right signal light.”

  “So?”

  “She lives to the left.”

  “Man, you really read that file,” said Niner. “But for all we know she could be picking up dry cleaning.”

  Dawson nodded as he made the turn. “Or she could be delivering that envelope to Junior.”

  Approaching Khanbalig, Mongol Empire

  July 14th, 1291 AD

  Ten years after Giuseppe’s death

  Bartholomew felt even weaker than the skin and bones he had been reduced to suggested to those staring at him. His clothes were threadbare, if there at all, his feet unclad, hard callouses his soles. But the sight of the city walls that towered above him, mere steps away now, had fueled him these last few hours. The knowledge that his promise, his pledge to his friend Giuseppe was about to be fulfilled lifted his spirits to heights they hadn’t seen for ten long years.

  Ten years!

  His journey at first had been uneventful. It had been long, monotonous and tiring, but that was expected. But when he reached India after over a year of travel, the caravan he had settled in with was ambushed and anyone who survived taken as slaves. He managed to hide his message from Giuseppe in the bedroll he was allowed to keep, and over the years of his captivity he had broken the seal and memorized the seemingly random letters that composed the coded message to Giuseppe’s master.

  It had taken him almost two years of effort but he could now rewrite the message from memory should the precious scroll be lost. But it hadn’t been. Through good fortune and a meticulous routine surrounding the safeguarding of the scroll, he had managed to keep it hidden during the nearly five years of his captivity. It wasn’t until, by chance, they encountered a large group of Christian missionaries that he had managed to tell one that he was a Christian monk being held against his will.

  Swords had immediately been drawn and his outnumbered captors forced to flee. He had been nursed back to health by his rescuers as they travelled south, deeper into India, and within weeks he felt well enough to resume his trip.

  Six weeks ago he had been robbed of all he had except his clothes and the scroll, tucked up his sleeve where no one would notice it. His food became scraps discarded by others, his water rain or the occasional stream he managed to cross.

  As he neared the gates he extended an emaciated arm toward a guard.

  “I have a message for Marco Polo,” he whispered, then collapsed in the man’s arms, his mission nearly over.

  Mario Giasson’s Office, Corpo della Gendarmeria

  Palazzo del Governatorato, Vatican City

  Present day, one day after the kidnapping

  INTERPOL Special Agent Hugh Reading examined the copy of the scroll Acton and Laura had found. He shook his head, handing it back to Laura then tugging on his shirt, all of them uncomfortable, the HVAC apparently malfunctioning and forcing heat into the security offices instead of air conditioning.

  “What the bloody hell does it mean? Looks like gibberish to me.”

  “It’s obviously some kind of code,” replied Acton, using his own copy as a fan. “And without both pieces, we have no hope of deciphering its complete message.”

  “But you’re certain this is what you’ve been looking for?” asked Giasson, wiping his completely bald head with a handkerchief.

  “Pretty certain,” replied Laura who appeared as cool as a cucumber. “Completely certain? No. But I have seen the other half of this document, so it’s worth a try. Deciphering it will be the difficult part.”

  “You’ve seen the other half?” asked Reading, wiping his forehead. “Where?”

  “About ten years ago I was contacted by a private collector in Munich who said he had something that might interest me. I flew down and he showed me an ancient scroll he claimed belonged to Marco Polo.”

  “Why did he think it would interest you?” asked Giasson, redirecting a fan slightly.

  Laura held up the copy, pointing at the partial drawing of a skull. “Because of this. He knew I was considered an expert on the skulls, and he felt that the drawing looked like a crystal skull rather than something human.”

  “And what did you think?”

  “I thought it was rather curious, and the lines shooting out from the skull”—she pointed to several of them—“seem to suggest light, so it was possible.”

  Reading leaned forward to look at the drawing closer. “Did you have any luck deciphering it?”

  “No, the collector wouldn’t let me even take a copy. It was quite disappointing in the end.” She sighed. “To tell you the truth, I had put it out of my mind until now. But there is one thing he did say.”

  “Which was?” asked Giasson, shoving his face into his desk fan.

  “He said he had figured out the code, and if I were to bring him the second half, should it ever be found, he would translate the entire text and share it with me.”

  Acton slapped both his knees as he looked at the others. “Sounds like we’re heading to Munich.”

  Reading shook his head, exchanging knowing looks with Giasson. “And if I know you two, after Munich we’ll end up somewhere I really don’t want to be.”

  Khanbalig, Mongol Empire

  July 17th, 1291 AD

  Ten years after Giuseppe’s death

  Bartholomew heard whispered voices around him speaking in a language he didn’t unders
tand. His skin pressed against soft bedding under him, a silk sheet caressed his skin above. A soft pillow cradled his head and the aroma of fresh incense filled his nostrils. He opened his eyes and blinked several times as he tried to bring the sights before him into focus.

  Almost instantly he felt hands on him, helping him sit up, adjusting his bed covers, and before he could ask, a glass with cool water was pressed against his lips. He drank rapidly but the glass was soon taken away as a man approached. His skin was dark, not as dark as those he had seen from the African continent, but close to a deep tan he was used to seeing amongst his Christian brethren. His eyes were pinched, his mustache thin and long, and his beard merely at the chin, the hair long and shaped into a point.

  It suddenly struck him that he was looking at someone from the Far East. He had never seen someone from so far away, and he couldn’t help but stare as the man began pressing various parts of his body with his fingers, finally ending with several taps on his chest then a long look into his eyes.

  He stepped back and nodded with apparent satisfaction, motioning for one of the women standing to the side to bring water. This time Bartholomew made certain he took the glass and held it to his own lips rather than let the nurse, otherwise it might be taken away.

  He drained it, motioning for more.

  The nurse looked at what was apparently the doctor and she brought him more. It took at least half a dozen glasses before he found himself begin to be quenched.

  He felt a twinge in his stomach.

  “My name is Chan. Can you understand me?” asked the man.

  Bartholomew nodded.

  “You speak Italian?”

  The man nodded. “I was taught it by a young man, though not so young now. His name was Marco Polo.”

  Bartholomew shoved up on his elbows, his heart slamming against his chest in excitement.

  “That is who I seek! Do you know where I can find him?”

  The man frowned, shaking his head. “I am sorry to hear that. It would appear you have had a long, arduous journey.”

  “Ten years.”