Grant nodded, not too sure he could ever agree with his father’s actions, but deciding now wasn’t the time to voice those concerns. He shook Mitch’s hand, nodding to the others, Chip tossing him a wave, then walked over to the group of American soldiers, wondering what their mission actually was.
Dawson turned to Grant Jackson as he approached. “Mr. Jackson, are you okay?”
The young man nodded, looking back at his captors. “What will happen to them?”
“They’ll be extradited to the United States and face charges.”
Grant chewed on his cheek then looked at the ground. “There’s something you should know.”
“And what’s that?”
“They kidnapped me, but I chose to stay with them.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
“I was at the storage place. I saw you get on the helicopter.”
“So what happens now?”
Dawson smiled and motioned for the men to head to the helicopters for evac. “When you’re kidnapped, sometimes you do crazy things. Stockholm Syndrome usually takes longer, but you already had a connection with these people, and they were probably able to manipulate you without you even realizing, because they knew your father.”
“So you know about him?”
“Of course,” said Dawson, choosing his words carefully. “Your father is the one who gave us orders that we followed, trusting in our handlers. Unfortunately things weren’t as they seemed.”
“You mean the students in Peru and the Triarii Headquarters.”
“They told you about that?” asked Dawson, slightly surprised.
“Yes.” Grant sucked in a deep breath and slowly let it out. “I’m sorry about that.”
Dawson nodded. “So are we.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Shoot.”
“Why are you here? Honestly?”
Dawson smiled and stopped, pointing a finger at the helicopter with the Professors as it was about to lift off, the tiny old Abbot running toward the Black Hawk, waving his hand in the air.
“We’re here for them. They were caught up in your father’s affairs, and I nearly killed them because I was lied to. Now I spend my life living it as best I can, doing my job to the best of my ability, and whenever possible, making amends for my actions that week. And the best way I know how is to play guardian angel to those two professors whenever I can.”
Grant nodded and extended his hand.
“You’re a good man, Sir. And I think perhaps it might be time for the Jackson family to begin to make up for the actions of one of their own.”
Dawson smiled, shaking the man’s hand.
“That sounds like a good choice to me.”
Laura held James’ hand tightly, the tears that streaked her face settling, the medics having assured her that he was going to live. He was out, something having been injected for the pain, but the bleeding had been stopped, or at least slowed significantly, and they were only ten minutes away from a trauma hospital that would take care of everything.
She heard a shout from outside. Turning, she saw the elderly Abbot shuffling as fast as he could toward the helicopter, waving a small piece of paper in his hand. He reached the helicopter, out of breath, and grabbed Laura’s hand.
“For when he wakes up,” he said, stuffing the paper into the palm of her hand.
“What’s this?”
“The location of what you seek!”
The old man stepped back and the Black Hawk climbed into the air, the monastery quickly falling out of sight. She looked at the paper and found an address in Bethlehem.
She looked down at her beloved James as she pushed the paper into her pocket, at the moment not giving a damn about crystal skulls or the Triarii. All she cared about was James, and how close she had come to losing him. She ran her fingers through his hair, her eyes glassing over again as she squeezed his hand three times.
Hadassah Medical Center, Jerusalem, Israel
Present day, six days after the kidnapping
Professor James Acton lay in a hospital bed, the head of it in a sitting position, watching the television reports on the aftermath of their little escapade into the West Bank. Laura sat in a chair beside him, her head resting on the bed and his leg, her hand absentmindedly stroking his shin. Their good friend and protector Hugh Reading lay on the empty bed beside him thoroughly enjoying the lunch that Acton couldn’t force himself to eat, hospital food quality apparently universal.
His wound had been bad compared to anything he had previously suffered, but not as traumatic as what was first thought. Nothing vital had been hit, and he had merely gone into shock when he was hit, his body shutting down to protect itself. Once the trauma unit had removed the bullet, shoved a few pints of blood into him and stitched him up, he felt fine. Now all he had to do was let the wound heal and rebuild his stamina, the ordeal having taken quite a bit of his strength away. Each day was better—a lot better—and he was hoping to be back to his regular routine within a few more days—less restrictions imposed on him by a still healing shoulder.
He could only imagine what his students were going to say when they saw him teaching again.
Reading suddenly pointed at the screen. “Hah!”
Laura’s head popped up and Acton began to laugh. On the screen was a barricade built by the Palestinians outside of Jericho, black smoke billowing from oil drums alongside a stack of crushed and semi-crushed cars piled across the road, with a nearly immaculate Jaguar XK8 on top, its engine burned out, but otherwise in perfect condition.
Acton turned to Reading. “Do you think that’s Dick Van Dyke’s?” he asked, roaring in laughter as he remembered Dyke’s brand new Jaguar catching fire on him on the highway, nearly killing the old actor.
“Dick Van who?” replied Reading.
“Dyke. You know, Marry Poppins, Diagnosis Murder?”
“Never heard of him,” replied Reading, turning his attention to the Jell-O.
“You need to get out more,” said Acton, gently rotating his shoulder.
“How does it feel,” asked Laura, now sitting upright in her chair and facing him, her hand still on his leg as if she had made a vow to never be out of physical contact again.
“Good, actually. I can’t wait to get out of here tomorrow. I’m sick of hospitals.”
“Me too,” came Reading’s muffled reply, his mouth full of Jell-O. “I assume we’re going to Bethlehem.”
“Damned skippy!”
Laura frowned and Acton patted her hand.
“Hey, it’s the only way we’re going to get closure on this entire Triarii business.”
She nodded, letting out a sigh.
“I just hope there’s no more bullets.”
Manger Street, Bethlehem, Israel
Present day, seven days after the kidnapping
Reading pulled the rental car to the curb, all of them looking out the driver side windows at the incredibly old stone structure across from them. Acton’s trained eye knew that by outward appearances to the amateur eye it could be easily mistaken as being from biblical times, perhaps even a former inn that turned away Mary and Joseph, but he knew better. This old building had been built and rebuilt over the centuries, probably over a millennia, the wall in front that hid what was no doubt a courtyard beyond, clearly having undergone significant repairs and rebuilds many times.
“Is this it?” asked Reading, turning off the engine.
“I think so,” said Laura, double-checking the piece of paper given her by the monk. “The address is correct.”
“Doesn’t look like much,” observed Reading, removing the keys and climbing out of the car.
“What were you expecting?” asked Acton as Reading helped him from the car, his shoulder still sore, his body still a little weak from his ordeal.
Reading shrugged. “I dunno. Something fancier anyway.”
“It’s a nunnery. They’re not known for being spectacular,” said L
aura as she held her hand out to block an approaching car as the three of them crossed the road a little more slowly than Acton would have liked. He could feel the beads of sweat forming on his forehead as he overexerted himself, but he refused to give in. They were so close to ending this nightmare that had hung over them for the past few years, there was no way he was going to let some bullet wound hold him back.
Laura waved her thanks to the driver who had stopped as they climbed the curb and stepped up to the humble wood door to the courtyard, a cross proudly displayed over it, nailed to the stone wall.
Reading knocked, three quick raps, then one, then three.
Acton looked at him. “Oh, very funny.”
Reading grinned then his look turned to concern as he motioned toward Acton’s sweating forehead. “Are you sure you’re up for this?”
“Try to stop me,” he said, pulling a bottle of water from the satchel Laura was wearing. He drained half it before the gate finally swung open a few inches and a sliver of a nun’s face appeared.
Acton stepped forward. “Hello, my name is—”
“Professor Acton!” exclaimed the nun, pulling the gate all the way open and ushering them in. “Come in! Come in! The abbot told us to expect you should you survive, and thank the good Lord you did!” She closed the gate behind her, locking it, then excitedly led them across the small courtyard toward the main building. “I’m Sister Josephine. I understand you wanted a private tour!”
The woman was clearly excited, and Acton wasn’t sure why. Perhaps the Abbot’s almost fanboy appreciation had rubbed off on her, or she was just excited to have visitors, there being no indication from the outside that any type of tour was offered to the public.
As they crossed the courtyard, Sister Josephine spoke non-stop. “On your left are the living quarters, on the right are offices, workshops, storage and other things. In front of us is our humble church. We just finished prayers so your timing is perfect.” She ushered them through a large set of wooden doors, lovingly maintained over time, the wood still a healthy sheen though pitted and scarred from years of service.
They stepped inside and found a small church with an altar at the head of it, a humble crucifix looking down on the congregation, with wood benches able to hold perhaps fifty worshippers. Carved into the walls were alcoves where different treasures were displayed—crucifixes, chalices, carvings of Mary with baby Jesus. Nothing of much monetary value beyond their historically intrinsic value.
“As you can see our church is simple but functional. We are a poor order, supported by visitors to the monastery. We pray, we help throughout the city where we can volunteering with the orphans, free clinics—anything we can to help the Lord’s children.”
She guided them to a side room, the tour whirlwind compared to others, almost reminding Acton of the White House tour.
“We’re walking, we’re walking!”
“Here we have gifts given by visitors over the years, some as much as a thousand years old.”
Acton’s expert eyes examined every piece, perhaps sixty or seventy in all, many crests from cities around Europe, music boxes, various crucifixes of varying value, an ornate mask, carvings of religious scenes and old bibles that Acton thought were of enough value to warrant much better preservation techniques than having them lying on a table, exposed to air, pollutants and worse, humidity.
Maybe I’ll suggest to Laura we make a donation to preserve these items properly.
Acton could feel himself weakening and leaned on Laura a little more heavily. She noticed immediately.
“Do you have a crypt of any sorts?” she asked. “It was our understanding a body was moved here about seven hundred years ago.”
Sister Josephine stopped in her tracks, turning to face her visitors. “No, no we don’t. But…” She tapped her fingers on her chin, her eyes looking up as if trying to recall something. A finger pointed up, the memory apparently retrieved as an “Ah!” burst from her mouth. “Yes, I remember now. There is a story told among the nuns, obviously handed down from generation to generation, that during the crusades a body was moved here from the monastery to protect it from the Saracens.”
“Is it still here?” asked Laura.
“No, I don’t think so. At least if it is, nobody here knows where it would be, and as you can see”—she spread her arms out—“there’s not a lot of places to hide a body.”
“Perhaps underground?”
“Again, I don’t think so. But then again I don’t believe the stories myself. Neither do most of the sisters. I mean, why would the brothers only move one body? And why would a visitor not even from the Holy Land come and retrieve that body?”
“Excuse me?” interupted Acton. “A visitor?”
“Oh, didn’t I mention him?”
“No.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I guess I’m just so caught up in the excitement of having visitors. I must apologize, I’m not much of a tour guide. In fact I think you’re the first visitors we’ve had in years that weren’t children. I always thought that if I hadn’t given myself to the Lord I might have become a tour guide.” She smiled wistfully, looking up at the sky. “Or an airline stewardess!”
“The visitor?” prompted Acton.
“Oh yes, my Lord, please forgive me! Yes, the visitor. The story, or myth if you will—as I said, I don’t really believe it—is that this one body was moved here, and years later a man arrived and claimed the body as belonging to his family. He left with the remains, and that was the last he was heard of.” She waved her hand in the air, as if dismissing everything she had just said. “Like I said, just a story, probably made up from bits and pieces of true stories. Bored nuns making their own entertainment, if you ask me.”
It was at that moment that Acton realized their hopes of finding the body of Giuseppe at the nunnery was futile. Their search here was over, and Acton had a pretty good idea of where it just might need to take them next.
“Thank you very much for the tour, it was enlightening,” said Acton. “I’m afraid I’m getting pretty weak, so we’ll have to call it a day, I’m afraid.”
Sister Josephine beamed at the praise, but also showed her concern for his health, pressing her palms together in prayer. “You are welcome any time, Professor Acton, should you be feeling better.”
She began to lead them to the front gate, Laura and Reading helping him on either side. Sweat drenched his entire body and his shoulder was beginning to throb. He shook Sister Josephine’s hand at the gate, thanking her again, then was nearly carried to the car by Reading. They helped him in the backseat and he collapsed, his arms sagging at his sides, his head lolled against the back of the seat.
“Are you okay?” asked Laura, climbing in the other side and immediately beginning to wipe his face dry with a handkerchief from her purse.
“Yeah, I just need to catch my breath,” he said, taking a sip of water from a bottle Laura held to his lips. “Getting shot sucks.”
“No shite,” commented Reading who had the car running, looking back at his friend. “Do you want to go back to the hospital?”
Acton shook his head. “No, I’m already starting to feel better. I think I just need to get some rest, then I’ll be okay.” He turned to Laura. “And then I think I know exactly where we need to go.”
She smiled at him, nodding. “Venice.”
Reading’s eyebrows shot up. “Venice? What has you thinking that?”
“The mask,” echoed Acton and Laura, Acton holding out his hand, deferring to her.
Laura turned to Reading. “Do you remember in the small room where they had things that visitors had left?”
Reading nodded. “And you got Venice from that? I didn’t see any bloody Gondolas.”
Acton laughed then winced.
“Do you remember the mask?”
Reading’s eyes shot up as he tried to recall. “Yes, actually. The very ornate thing that covers the eyes only, with a stick to hold it up with?”
�
��Good memory. It’s a Venetian mask, usually worn at the Carnival of Venice which precedes Lent.”
“I think I’ve seen them in movies,” said Reading.
“Probably, it’s quite famous. It caught on throughout Europe—the masks I mean—but Venice started it, and that mask was of a design popular at the end of the thirteenth century, exactly at the time of Marco Polo’s return to Venice from China.”
“You mean—?”
Acton cut him off. “That the visitor to the nunnery was Marco Polo himself, here to claim the body of his slave.”
“Lot of trouble for a slave.”
Laura shook her head. “No, remember that the translation called him his brother, and it was signed Giuseppe Polo. Only a freeman would do that.”
Reading’s eyebrows narrowed. “Sorry?”
“Giuseppe must have been offered his freedom before he died by the Polo family. This was extremely rare, and usually only granted to slaves who had proven their loyalty. And in a few cases, they were granted not only their freedom, but citizenship. And in even fewer cases, they were invited to join the family they once served as equals. I think that Marco Polo thought of this man as his brother. They most likely grew up together, played together, learned together, and in every sense of the word became brothers, to the point where Giuseppe being a servant simply became intolerable, thus the granting of his freedom.”
“So what would he do with the body?” asked Reading.
“What would you do with the body of your brother?”
“Bury it at home.”
“And if he had no wife or other family, where?”
Reading nodded. “I’d probably have him buried where I planned to be buried.”
“Exactly,” said Acton, his strength rapidly returning. “Tomorrow we fly to Venice.”
Reading shook his head, turning around and putting the car in gear. “Yet another bloody city,” he muttered. “At least this time there shouldn’t be any guns.”
The car started to roll forward and Acton turned his attention to the street.
And could have sworn he saw a man staring directly at him as he talked on his phone.
The Venice Code (A James Acton Thriller, Book #8) (James Acton Thrillers) Page 24
