[Brainrush 01.0] Brainrush

by Richard Bard

  Today was the first day of Carnevale. Although it was still early in the day, there was already a scattering of elaborately costumed couples making their way from their homes toward the Piazza San Marco to take part in the opening festivities.

  Guided by the walking map on Marshall’s iPhone, the trio crossed over the canal and made their way through a maze of winding alleys and arched bridges toward Francesca’s address in the San Polo district. With her business card in hand, it had been a simple matter for Marshall to hack into the institute’s employment records to retrieve her home address.

  After a ten-minute walk, they stopped at the entrance to a cobblestone alley. “It’s down there,” Marshall said, pointing to an arched wooden doorway embedded in a fifteen-foot stone wall at the dead end of the narrow street.

  Tony pulled them back around the corner. He wrapped a small wireless earbud and mini boom microphone around one ear. Marshall wore a similar device. Tony speed-dialed Marshall’s number. “How’s the reception?”

  “Perfect.”

  Tony scanned the piazza behind them. The crowds were thinner here. A couple of kids bounced a soccer ball off the walls of a church. A group of old men played cards in the shade of a Cinzano umbrella outside a small café.

  “Listen up,” Tony said. “It looks like there’s a small courtyard on the other side of that door. I need about fifteen minutes to check the perimeter and get into position. I’ll call you when I’m set. At that point, keep the line open so I can monitor what’s going on when you ring the bell. Remember, if anything goes wrong, clear out fast and we’ll meet back at the hotel.” He gave Lacey a long look. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

  She answered without hesitation. “Absolutely!”

  Tony admired her confidence. “You guys grab a table at the café and wait for my call.” He took off over a small footbridge to the right of the alley and disappeared around the corner.

  Fifteen minutes later, Tony crouched behind the waist-high brick wall between the small open-air workshop of the water garage and the inner courtyard of Francesca’s residence. A tied-off gondola bobbed in the water behind him. He was dripping wet, a small puddle of water forming beneath him. The backpack was open on the ground at his feet. It was the only thing he had been able to keep dry during his brief, one-armed swim through the cloudy green waters of the canal. It hadn’t been a pleasant experience. The water here would never pass a sanitation check.

  He breathed more easily now that the silenced Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun was assembled. It felt like an old friend, his weapon of choice back in the day.

  The small courtyard was enclosed by rust-colored brick-and-plaster walls that stretched three stories high. Aromatic jasmine vines crept up the walls to wrap around the upper-floor windows, most of them open, their forest-green wooden shutters lying flat on either side. Flower boxes under several of the windows spilled tangles of color. Clothes strung on a pulley line between two of the windows fluttered in the gentle breeze.

  If everything went as planned, no one would ever know Tony had been here. Marshall and Lacey would make their approach, talk to that woman, Francesca, and find out what she knew. After Marshall and Lacey left, Tony would watch the place to see how Francesca reacted. Hopefully, with a little luck, she’d lead them to Jake. There were a thousand things that could go wrong, but it was their best option without involving the authorities and spoiling any chance they had of catching the woman and her team off guard.

  Tony speed-dialed Marshall’s phone.

  Marshall answered on the second ring. “Tony?”

  “I’m in position. Go for it,” Tony said. “And leave your phone on.”

  “Got it. On our way.”

  Tony could hear the echo of their footsteps through the phone as they walked up the alley. The signal started to break up as they neared the gate. Marshall whispered in Tony’s earbud, “We’re—. Standb—.” Tony checked the screen of his phone. The only remaining signal bar was flickering.

  “Marsh, hold on,” Tony whispered. “Can you hear me?”

  No response.

  Tony heard a bell ring upstairs. Marshall and Lacey must have been outside the gate.

  A door opened on the landing at the top of a narrow stone staircase that hugged the building. Tony looked up from the shadows of the workshop to see a stocky old man step out and peer over the wall to see who had buzzed. His face was tan and weathered from years in the sun. The laugh lines around his mouth and eyes belied the suspicion that Tony saw on his face. The old man cradled a vintage double-barreled shotgun over his forearm.

  Tony tensed. He shook the cell phone and whispered urgently into his boom mike, “Marsh, abort!”

  Nothing.

  The bell sounded again.

  Muttering something into a walkie-talkie, the old man leaned the shotgun behind a balustrade, keeping it hidden but within easy reach.

  Another door opened, this one beneath the landing directly across from Tony’s position.

  Tony backed into the shadows and flicked off the safety on his MP5.

  Two men hurried out and took cover positions within the courtyard. One of them—he was barely drinking age—crouched down behind an oversized Roman vase only ten feet in front of Tony’s hiding space. He was dressed in the striped shirt of a gondolier, with a red scarf looped around his neck. He held a small 9mm Beretta in an unsteady grip.

  His partner was a much older man. His bushy hair matched the gray of his wide mustache. His light-blue eyes were alert. He held a German Schmeiser machine pistol. The guy resembled an aging but determined World War II resistance fighter. He stayed in the doorway, out of view of the courtyard entrance.

  Like the old man at the top of the stairs, these two had the look of men who worked outside. But these guys definitely weren’t pros. That meant unpredictable trigger fingers.

  The bell rang a third time, but this time the unlocked door to the courtyard swung open, and Marshall and Lacey walked in holding hands. Tony prayed that they looked as harmless to the three armed men as they did to him.

  This situation could blow up in a heartbeat. Tony prioritized the threats. He’d need to take out the nervous kid first.

  Tony heard Marshall speak to Lacey. “Remember, I’ll do the talking.”

  Lacey had an exasperated look on her face. “Yes, dear. Whatever you say.”

  They both jumped when the old man on the landing yelled something down at them in angry Italian. Tony had no idea what he said, but the tone of his voice and the sharp gestures of his hands left no doubt that he wanted them to leave.

  Instead, Marshall took a step forward.

  The nervous gondolier in front of Tony lunged forward, his pistol extended. “Fermati!”

  Marshall and Lacey jerked their heads toward the newcomer.

  Tony’s shifted his aim.

  The older man jumped out of the shadows. He shouted in Italian, as if scolding his young friend.

  The young gondolier lowered his weapon.

  It saved his life.

  Tony released the pressure from the trigger of his MP5 but held the weapon tight to his shoulder, his right eye over the sight as he swept into the courtyard behind the men. His deep-throated growl was threatening. “Freeze!”

  All heads jerked in his direction. Tony shifted the barrel of the MP5 in a quick triangular pattern between the two armed men and the old man up the stairs, leaving little doubt that he was fully capable of dropping all three of them if necessary.

  Tony didn’t know if any of the men spoke English, but he was pretty sure they’d get the point when he said, “Very slowly, drop your weapons.”

  The older man to his left dropped the machine pistol immediately. But his young friend was still thinking about it.

  Tony’s MP5 spit a muffled three-round burst in a neat pattern to the right of the kid’s feet. Cement chips peppered the gondolier’s pant legs, anchoring him dead in his tracks. His pistol clattered to the ground, and his shaking
hands flew up above his head.

  The old man upstairs shouted something in Italian, his eyes on fire. He lifted the shotgun into view.

  Lacey stepped forward, her palms patting the air. “Per favore, signore, aspettate!”

  A brief flash of doubt crossed the old man’s visage. He studied her. She continued in rapid-fire Italian. Marshall looked at Lacey as if seeing her for the first time. Tony didn’t understand what she was saying any better than Marshall did, but he heard her mention Jake and Francesca.

  The shotgun shifted downward slightly, and the old man said in English, “I have heard this name Jake.”

  Lacey switched to English. She explained why they were there. The old man’s features softened, and the tension melted from his shoulders. He lowered the shotgun the rest of the way and motioned to a darkened window above his shoulder. A man stuck his head out from the shadows, lifting the barrel of an M1 carbine from the ledge.

  It had been pointing directly at the back of Tony’s head.

  Damn. That had been way too close.

  “Please,” the old man said. “Your formidable weapon is not necessary here. You are among friends. Your friend, Jake, is not here, but I am fairly certain I know where he must be. I am afraid that both he and Francesca are in grave danger. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Mario Fellini, Francesca’s father.”

  ***

  There was a simple charm to the small home. The terrazzo floors, large fireplace, walls the color of a French baguette, and heavy-beamed ceiling all combined to give it an inviting warmth. The small living area was uncluttered but for a number of colorful costumes and masks draped over a couch.

  The seven of them gathered around the dining table. Mario made the introductions, insisting that they all use first names as guests in his home. The blue-eyed older man from the courtyard was Vincenzo, Mario’s only brother. There was a calm fierceness about him that Tony liked. They exchanged a firm handshake. The younger man was Vincenzo’s son, Alberto. He smiled a lot and couldn’t take his eyes off Lacey. The dark-haired man with the carbine was Lorenzo, a longtime family friend. They were all gondoliers.

  Mario explained that Francesca had mentioned the unusual American she met in California. Though her meeting with Jake had gone sour, Mario had sensed his daughter’s interest when she talked about him on the morning after she returned from her trip. She also described how intent her boss, Signor Battista, was to meet him.

  The mention of Battista brought a fire to Mario’s green eyes. He spit the man’s name out. “It must have been Battista’s men who kidnapped your friend.”

  Something still didn’t quite add up for Tony. “But why the weapons? Who were you expecting? And why does your daughter choose to work for a man that you so obviously loathe?”

  The old man hesitated, his eyes misting over. He stood up from the table, walked into the kitchen, and returned with a full bottle of Swedish single-malt whiskey. He placed the bottle on the table and waited with slumped shoulders while Vincenzo grabbed seven short tumblers from a credenza behind him. Mario poured two fingers of the dark liquor into each glass.

  Marshall, Lacey, and Tony exchanged somber glances as they waited in silence for the old man to continue.

  Raising his glass, Mario motioned for the others to do the same. He looked at them through eyes filled with pain, downing the contents of his glass in one gulp. Everyone at the table followed suit, including Lacey, though her face was pinched from the strong double shot.

  Setting his empty glass firmly on the table, Mario proceeded to tell the gruesome story of his encounter four weeks earlier with Battista and his men in this very room.

  Lacey gasped. Her face went pale as Mario described the brutal murder. Marshall gripped her hand to steady her.

  Mario added, “I’m sure that these are the same men who have taken your friend Jake.”

  Furious, Tony felt the blood rush to his face. He wanted to get his hands on this Battista character soon. He said, “Where can I find him?”

  Mario placed a firm hand on Tony’s shoulder. “Patience, my friend. We shall go together. Tonight.” He gave Tony the once-over. “But first, we must make sure you are properly dressed for the part. Tonight you must become a part of Venice.”

  The old man picked up the bottle and poured another generous shot into each of their glasses. Then he explained what he and his team of gondoliers had planned.

  Chapter 20

  Venice, Italy

  JAKE OPENED HIS EYES to an angel looking down at him, two pink barrettes keeping her curly, dark hair from tumbling forward. Sarafina’s big brown eyes were creased with worry as she searched his face for a sign that he was going to be all right.

  The last thing Jake remembered was rushing headlong toward the gray canal. Three stories was a long drop, even into water. The impact could separate joints—even break bones—if you didn’t slice through the water right. He’d done his best to angle in feetfirst, ready to plane and curl in the water to keep from going too deep. But the impact had twisted him around and he hit his head on something hard. Battista’s men must have fished him out of the water.

  But why bring him back to the dorm room with the children? Battista had said they got what they needed from their exam of his brain, so why not just kill him and be done with it?

  Jake struggled to sit up and was rewarded with a thudding jolt of pain to the side of his head. A wave of dizziness made him feel as if the room spun a quarter turn with every blink, bringing with it a gurgling nausea that threatened to overwhelm him. He reached up and felt his head, choking back a cry of fear when he realized that most of his skull was encased under a thick bandage.

  What have they done to me this time?

  Sarafina placed her hand on his arm, the concern on her face anchoring him. Steadying himself, he gave her a thin smile. “Hi, sweetie.”

  She grinned, threw her little arms around him, and squeezed him tighter than her teddy bear. Her compassion washed over him like cool spring water on a hot summer day. She averted her eyes; it was still difficult for her to make eye contact. She worried her lower lip with her front teeth. In accented English, she said, “Jake…please be all right.”

  Jake couldn’t hide his surprise. “Sarafina! You’re speaking English.”

  Her face swelled with pride. “Si—yes. Ahmed teach. Is good?”

  “It’s wonderful, little one.” He patted the foot of the bed, and she crawled up and sat beside him.

  “Honey, I don’t want you to worry. Everything is going to be all right. Do you understand?”

  She shook her head, and Jake saw the uncertainty in her expression. He took her hands in his, focusing his thoughts. I know that you’re scared, but I’m going to protect you. I promise.

  Her smile beamed in acknowledgment. Jake felt her relief. As if she was now certain that everything was as it should be, she squeezed his hands, bounced off the bed, and ran to the piano in the adjoining room. The soothing melody that followed reflected the purity of her spirit; the instrument was an obvious source of joy and peace in her life.

  The boxers he wore were still damp. The wet clothes he’d taken from the guard sat in a soggy pile on the floor by his bed. The blue jumpsuit they had originally dressed him in at his home was dangling by one leg from the crystal sconce beside his bed. One of the guards must have thrown it there. They were probably pretty pissed off at him. He’d killed one of them and made them look bad in front of their boss. He grabbed the jumpsuit and slipped it on, pacing his movements as his equilibrium steadied.

  Ahmed stood patiently in the corner of the room, spinning a small rainbow-colored top on the dresser. When Jake finally noticed him, the young boy said, “They want to know how you did it.”

  “Did what, Ahmed?”

  “Turned out the lights and made Carlo’s head hurt.”

  Jake listened intently, recalling his escape from the exam room.

  “I heard them say it,” Ahmed added. “They didn’t think I was payin
g attention, but I was. Anyway, that’s why you’re here. So they can figure out how you did it.”

  Touching the scar on the back of his own head, Ahmed lowered his voice as if he were recounting a macabre scene from a horror film. “They want to look at your brain while you are still awake!”

  A week ago Jake would have laughed at such a comment. Not now.

  “But they have to wait,” Ahmed said, “because you hurt your head falling into the water. And besides, they’re too busy now getting ready for the masquerade party tonight.”

  Jake remembered Francesca’s description of the elaborate Carnevale celebration that took place every year throughout the city. The grand masquerade ball was a hallmark event in the large enclosed atrium of the institute’s ancient palazzo.

  “Did you really turn off the lights with your mind?” Ahmed asked. “Can you teach me how?”

  Patting Ahmed’s shoulder, Jake said, “Sure, buddy. Later.” Ahmed shifted uneasily under the physical contact.

  So, Jake thought, that explains why I’m still alive. They must have reviewed the tapes from the surveillance cameras and watched how he had overcome the two guards. Tomorrow it would be back to the interrogation room, with a lot more security than last time. That would be the end of him. And the children. And Francesca.

  But until then, he was an important resource to be kept alive. That was something he could use to his advantage. As he remembered the room full of costumes he had stumbled across during his run through the halls the day before, the outline of a plan started to take shape.

  Battista would have replaced the smashed surveillance monitors by now. Jake had to assume that his every move was being watched.

  He walked into the next room with Ahmed at his side. “Ahmed, let’s get back to my Dari lessons.”

  ***

  After several long hours of speed reading and verbal repetition, Jake had captured the structure and words of Ahmed’s native tongue and was now working on fine-tuning his intonation and accent. In spite of the trouble he was in, he was amazed at the remarkable changes that were going on inside his head. Learning a new language in a couple days?