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

by Kennedy, J. Robert

  As Grant stepped inside the neatly organized storage unit, shelves with bankers boxes full of documents lining all three walls, there was one box at the back that appeared different. Shabbier than all the rest, stuck in a corner with two other boxes stacked on top. Mitch pointed.

  “If I know your father, that would be it. He’d want to make it unappealing to any thieves.”

  Mitch motioned for the others to retrieve the box as he pulled out his phone. Chuck and Chip opened the box, moving some packing material aside then exchanged grins, giving Mitch the thumbs up.

  “We’ve got it…okay, two minutes.” He ended the call and put the phone in his pocket. “Transport is here in two. Transfer it to the case.”

  As Chip opened a metal sided case with what appeared to be a custom formed interior, Chuck carefully removed a felt wrapped object from the box and, removing the covering, placed it inside the case—a perfect fit.

  Grant gasped.

  “It’s beautiful!” he gushed as he approached it. Chip held the box out, still open, so Grant could enjoy his first ever exposure to a genuine crystal skull.

  “Yes it is,” agreed Mitch. “This one hasn’t been seen in almost a decade. Feel it.”

  Grant’s hand advanced tentatively, almost afraid to touch it. Chip gave him a reassuring nod, and Grant finally made contact, running his fingers over the skull and down the brow.

  “It’s so smooth!”

  “No detectable tool marks, one piece of crystal, cut across the grain. Impossible even with today’s technology.”

  Grant continued to run his hands over the skull, captivated, and as he stared into the eyes, he felt a strange sensation come over him. Every hair on his body seemed to stand on end, a tingling sensation rolling through him as he found himself holding his breath. Staring into the eyes, the world around him lost focus, then suddenly Chip stepped back, snapping the case closed and Grant back to reality.

  Outside the sound of a helicopter approaching could be heard.

  Mitch extended his hand to Grant as they walked outside.

  “Thank you for your cooperation. Your father would have been extremely proud in how you handled yourself.”

  Grant shook the man’s hand. “What now?”

  “Now we leave you. The keys are in the ignition,” Mitch said, nodding toward the vehicle they had arrived in. He handed Grant the letter. “This is yours. Treasure it. It came from a great man. And if you ever want to talk about your father, call that number.”

  “You’re just leaving us here?”

  Mitch nodded as the chopper began to land about thirty yards away. “Yes, our job here is done.”

  “But what about the plan? To unite three skulls and see what happens?”

  “That’s next.”

  “We’ve got company!” yelled Chuck. He pointed to the end of the row of containers as two SUV’s pulled up, blocking the lane. Grant spun his head to the other end and found a third SUV come to a stop, men, all in black, stepping out.

  Mitch and his team ran to the chopper and Grant found himself chasing after them. Mitch climbed in and looked down at Grant.

  “I’m coming with you!” yelled Grant, trying to be heard over the rotors.

  “What?”

  “I’m coming with you!” he repeated. “I want to see my father’s work through!”

  Mitch smiled, almost as if he were proud of his own son for stepping up and doing the right thing. He extended his hand and pulled Grant inside, sliding shut the door, leaving Louisa standing by the entrance of the storage unit, her hands on her cheeks, her mouth agape, stunned at the turn of events.

  Grant waved at her and smiled.

  Leesburg Executive Airport, Leesburg, Virginia

  Present day, one day after the kidnapping

  “I got the distinct impression that our hostage was playing for the other side,” said Niner as Dawson hurtled their SUV toward a private airstrip the helicopter had been tracked to.

  “I noticed that.”

  “Stockholm Syndrome?”

  Dawson shook his head. “I’ve never heard of it happening that fast.”

  “Me neither, but I’m just an exceptionally handsome warrior, not a psychiatrist.”

  “You’re something,” muttered Dawson as they careened around a corner.

  “There it is,” said Niner, pointing to an airstrip just ahead and to the left, a private jet taking off as they watched. “Do you think that’s them?”

  “Could be,” said Dawson as he tried to shove the gas pedal through the floor. “What I’d give to have my ’Stang right now!”

  Niner gave him a look. “Are you kidding me? You’d be babying that thing so much we’d still be sitting out front of the Jackson residence while you buffed out an imagined handprint.”

  Dawson chuckled as he turned into the airport, rounding the terminal and racing onto the tarmac, the rest of the team following close behind him. He rolled down his window and using hand signals directed the others to split off in two directions to cover the entire field. Dawson aimed them directly at the helicopter that sat halfway down the field with the same tail number as the one that had carried out the escape.

  He hammered on the brakes, the ABS kicking in, shuddering them to a stop as Niner jumped out then Dawson, weapons drawn, advancing on what Dawson knew would be an empty helicopter. But if they were lucky, perhaps the pilot might still be nearby.

  “Clear!” announced Niner, the first to look inside.

  “Shit!” cursed Dawson, spinning around, quickly surveying the airport. “Check your six!” he ordered as he focused his weapon on the driver of a car approaching at high speed. Niner stepped forward, doing the same.

  The car screeched to a halt almost immediately, the two men inside raising their hands. Dawson flicked his weapon, motioning for them to get out as he and Niner advanced.

  The two men, clearly terrified, climbed out of their car and stood, hands in the air.

  “Federal Agents! Identify yourselves!” barked Dawson.

  “I-I’m Victor Keith, Airport Manager,” said the passenger.

  Dawson lowered his weapon as did Niner.

  “You can lower your hands,” said Dawson. The driver lowered his, but Keith kept his up for a moment, then looked at them as if he had forgotten they were there. He lowered them.

  “Are you here about what just happened?”

  Dawson’s eyes narrowed. “What just happened?”

  “We had a private jet take off without a flight plan. They just taxied out and took off. Almost hit a Cessna that was on final approach!” Keith was getting himself into a frenzy, his adrenaline still pumping through his system and making him jumpy.

  “Calm down Vic, you’re going to have another heart attack,” whispered the driver.

  Keith, his entire body shaking, turned to the driver. “Y-you don’t th-think I know that! I-I can’t stop shaking.”

  Dawson pointed at Keith’s eyes then his own. “Focus on me. You’re not in danger, you’ve done nothing wrong. I need you to take slow, deep, steady breaths, okay? With me.” Dawson took several deep breaths, Keith soon matching him, the shaking slowly stopping. “Better?”

  Keith nodded. “Much. Sorry, I’ve just never had a gun pointed at me. In fact, I don’t know if I’ve ever seen one out of its holster.”

  “Consider yourself lucky,” said Niner as he turned to brief Red and the others who had returned from opposite ends of the airfield.

  “You said a plane left without a flight plan. Was that the one we just saw leave?”

  Keith shook his head. “No, that one was fine. It was about five minutes ago.”

  “I’m going to need everything you can get me on that plane,” said Dawson, pointing at the car and climbing in the back seat. As the others climbed in he found himself questioning the entire situation.

  How stupid can they be? They have to know we’ll be able to track them.

  Most Serene Republic of Venice

  September 2
nd, 1296 AD

  Five years after Bartholomew arrived in Khanbalig

  Chan hammered on the outer door of the large home in the richest quarter of Venice. His knock echoed in the courtyard beyond, and footsteps could be heard scurrying across cobbled stone. Bartholomew sat in a carriage, paid for by Kublai Khan’s purse, still weak. He had never recovered from his trip, and knew his days were numbered. His jaundiced eyes and dark urine apparently marked the failure of his organs according to Chan. It was his determination to see this through that was keeping him alive now. He was quite certain that he would never return to his monastery to die surrounded by his brothers, but if he fulfilled this last promise, he knew he would die in peace, his soul otherwise fated to eternal unrest should he fail.

  A small opening was revealed and a servant, a shriveled old man who appeared barely able to see, poked his head forward, the look of shock on his face obvious as he took in the features of the Oriental standing in front of him.

  “Who are you?” he asked curtly, apparently not impressed by the finery Chan was sporting, or the carriage that had brought him.

  “Is this the Polo residence?”

  “Yes it is. Who are you? What do you want?”

  “I am a friend of your master, Marco Polo. I have an important message for him, and an important guest.” Chan motioned toward the carriage.

  “Your name?”

  “Chan Wei. He will know who I am.”

  “One moment.”

  The small window slammed shut and the man could be heard hobbling across the courtyard, and several minutes later far more youthful legs covering the distance between the house and gate in seconds. The gate swung open and before them stood a man in his early to mid-forties, slim, distinguished, but with a smile so genuine it buoyed Bartholomew’s heart.

  “Wei my friend!” he cried as he extended his arms and the two men embraced. “It is so good to see you!” They held each other for what seemed to Bartholomew to be an eternity, finally placing some distance between themselves but still holding hands. “What brings you to Venice?”

  Chan motioned toward the carriage. “I bring an important message.” He beckoned with his hand for the carriage door to be opened. Bartholomew stepped down carefully, forcing a smile on his face as he painfully stepped toward the two friends.

  “This is Bartholomew, a monk from the Monastery of St. Gerasimos. He has an important message for you, but is very ill.”

  “I can see that,” said Marco, his eyes filled with concern for this new arrival. “St. Gerasimos. That is in the Holy Land, is it not?”

  Bartholomew nodded, his head feeling heavier than it ever had, his body spilling its strength as the end of his journey, the end of his duty, neared. He reached into his robes and pulled out the scroll, its seal long broken out of the necessity to memorize its contents.

  “A message for you from your faithful servant, Giuseppe,” whispered Bartholomew as he held out the scroll.

  Marco’s eyes instantly filled with tears and his jaw dropped. He took the scroll and opened it, staring at the jumble of letters, puzzled.

  “Why is there only half?”

  “The other half, God willing, was delivered to the Vatican for safekeeping ten years ago, by my brother Angelo. Giuseppe said you would recognize the code, and with the two pieces, would be able to determine where the crystal idol had been hidden. He died entrusting his final task you asked of him to us, his friends. His journey after leaving you was hard and when we found him he was nearly dead. We nursed him back to some health, but he remained weak, dying several years later.”

  “Did he die in peace?” asked Marco, his voice cracking. “Did he say anything?”

  Bartholomew nodded. “I was there when he passed. He said, ‘When you see my brother, tell him I loved him, and that my deepest regret was failing him.’ Those were his last words before he passed, surrounded by friends who cared about him, and who were determined to carry out his final wishes.”

  Marco dropped to his knees, the scroll tumbling from his hands and onto the street as he covered his face with his palms, sobs erupting from within, his shoulders shaking in agony as the news of the loss of the man he called brother sank in. Chan and Bartholomew watched quietly, Bartholomew continuing to weaken. He tried desperately to hang on, but soon the world began to spin and he felt the sensation of falling, but had passed out before he could feel the impact with the ground.

  Montpellier Airport, France

  Present day, two days after the kidnapping

  Captain Pierre Lapointe of the Sûreté Nationale watched as the Bombardier Challenger 605 taxied toward the far end of the tarmac. The four Mirage 2000 fighter jets that had escorted the plane in from the Atlantic seaboard still circled overhead, their massive engines filling the air with a throbbing roar that made it hard to hear.

  At least one hundred law enforcement officers from various agencies including several American representatives that had just arrived were swarming the area. There was no way Lapointe was going to risk this operation going south, so he had called in everyone he could think of to help.

  As he eyed the near chaos, he began to question the wisdom.

  If this turns into a gunfight, over one hundred weapons will be firing back.

  He activated his radio.

  “This is Lapointe. No one is to fire under any circumstances, even if fired upon!” He received some looks, but didn’t care. He couldn’t risk the plane being blown up by a stray bullet, or worse, the cameras lining the outside of the airfield capturing the shooting of an American President’s son by French police.

  The plane came to a stop about fifty yards away and the engines began to power down, the ground vehicles escorting it peeling away. Security immediately blocked the wheels then fell back as the mass of forces began to advance, surrounding the plane.

  “This is Lapointe. Everyone fall back fifty meters. Primary team advance with me.”

  The sea of men fell back as if a pebble had been dropped in the middle of them, the ripple pushing them back. Lapointe and his team of six heavily armed and armored men advanced toward the nose of the plane. He had a clear view of the pilot who had his hands raised, his expression clearly one of fear. Lapointe pointed at the door and the man nodded, unstrapping himself from his seat then getting up and disappearing from view.

  This isn’t right.

  None of it was right. Lapointe knew from the moment he had received the call that it wasn’t right. Who in their right mind would kidnap a former President’s son, then get on a private jet and think they’d get away by going to Western Europe, let alone France? If they had stuck to the roads they might have been able to continue to evade the authorities in the United States, perhaps even escaping to Canada or Mexico. But to get on a large plane that has limited landing options, then point it toward Europe?

  This doesn’t make sense!

  Then the pilot, when intercepted, cooperated completely, pleading ignorance and a bad comm. Now here he was, apparently terrified, about to open the door.

  Suicide by cop?

  Could that be their idea? They didn’t care if they were captured because they were willing to die. Perhaps dying was their plan all along? It would definitely fit the terrorist profile, so many of these pathetic men ready to commit suicide to further prove their cause was worldwide insanity. Was young Mr. Jackson about to become the latest innocent victim?

  As the door opened, he patted himself mentally for pushing the bulk of the security back, his own team now deployed to cover the door. The small metal stairs dropped and the pilot appeared in the doorway.

  “Come down slowly, with your hands up!” ordered Lapointe.

  The man, his face as white as his dress shirt, nodded, carefully taking the few steps to the ground, his hands raised high, fresh sweat stains rapidly expanding.

  “Lie down on the ground with your legs spread, your hands on top of your head!”

  The pilot complied, and once in position, two of Lapoint
e’s men rushed forward, one cuffing the man’s hands behind his back, the other searching him. Finding nothing, they hauled him to his feet, bringing him to Lapointe.

  “Your name?”

  “Frank. Frank Carey. Is my family okay? Have you found them?”

  “I’m asking the questions!” snapped Lapointe, the man’s question giving him a sinking feeling. “How many are onboard?”

  “Nobody! But what about my family? Are they okay?”

  Lapointe’s blood pressure went up. “I have no time for games. How many men are onboard? Is the hostage okay?”

  Carey blanched and his knees nearly gave out. “Hostage? What are you talking about? There’s nobody onboard, I swear to God!”

  Lapointe motioned for his men to advance. Two took up positions at either side of the door from the ground, the other four rushing up the steps and into the fuselage, shouting orders for everyone onboard to freeze.

  Moments later one of his men appeared in the doorway, shaking his head.

  “There’s nobody here.”

  Lapointe grabbed the man by his shirt. “What the hell is going on here?”

  Carey tried to back away but was blocked by one of Lapointe’s men who had no plans to budge. “Listen, I don’t know what you think is going on here, but all I know is I was told to take off without a flight plan and head for France or they’d kill my family. Are they okay? I refuse to answer any more questions until I know my family is okay!”

  Lapointe stared directly into the man’s glistening eyes, searching for the truth, and after a minute stepped back, convinced he was telling it. He raised his mike to his mouth. “Search the plane, check the onboard computer, and tell the Americans their missing person is not aboard, and never was.”

  He pointed at the pilot. “Take him in for questioning.”

  “What about my family?” cried Carey.