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

  Over one hundred million British Pounds rich. And that was just the slice he had seen and he had no doubt there was more. Her brother had been an Internet tycoon, selling his company for massive amounts of money, then dying at one of her dig sites several years before Acton had met her. Her brother had left her everything.

  She hadn’t asked to be wealthy, nor did she flaunt it, but she did use it to fund her own digs when necessary, to pay for students who couldn’t afford to go—always as an anonymous benefactor—and to make their lives a little easier.

  Like today, on a private Gulf V jet, that had them to Rome within hours in exquisite comfort. And a few quick phone calls while in the air had them now sitting before the main man himself, His Holiness the Pope. Acton had to admit it was nice having a girlfriend with mountains of cash, but he also felt weird about it, he a bit of a traditionalist when it came to money, thinking he should be the breadwinner. Laura was slowly bringing him over to her way of thinking in that it shouldn’t matter who made the money, it only mattered that they were both able to enjoy it by making their lives a little easier.

  Neither could see themselves living in some mansion, but why not have air conditioners at desert dig sites. Why not fly first class or private? Why not jet across the Atlantic twice a month to see each other? He knew eventually a decision would probably have to be made as to where they would live. Either she would have to move to his home and join him at St. Paul’s University, or he’d have to leave home and join her in London. Neither really struck him as a great option. They’d figure it out eventually, he just knew that getting their hands dirty at dig sites was their true love, and whatever decision would ultimately be made would have to guarantee that for both of them.

  We should just go independent!

  Permits however were hard to come by when you were private. Attach yourself to a university or museum and you were gold. Attach yourself to something with “Inc.” at the end, and you were almost guaranteed to be shutout unless you were willing to grease a lot of palms, which was something he hated doing beyond the odd small denominations designed to smooth a checkpoint or traffic “infraction”. Bribing big government? Never.

  His life before meeting Laura had been fantastic, but lonely. He had a few friends, one good friend—his Dean and friend since college, Gregory Milton—but other than that his life was his parents and his students, and he loved it. After the events in Peru then London, his life had changed forever. Laura entered it, removing any loneliness he might have felt, but it also had become much more violent. They just seemed to be a magnet for trouble, but they managed to survive their encounters with the help of friends and acquaintances made along the way.

  And today they sat in front of one of those acquaintances—how can you call the Pope a friend?—along with an actual friend, Mario Giasson, the Inspector General for the Corps of the Gendarmerie of Vatican City State—essentially the head of security—and someone who Acton knew he could trust, their bond forged under fire during a terrorist attack on the Vatican.

  A knock at the door interrupted the casual talk of the weather and the idea of having winter Olympics at essentially the same latitude as Rome. Giasson rose and opened the doors. Two priests entered carrying an old wooden chest Acton knew to be almost two thousand years old. Engraved with a Saint Peter’s Cross with a prostrated pope in front, the only words on the entire chest were Unos Veritas, or One Truth in Latin. The two priests placed the nearly fifty pound chest on a nearby table, then left.

  “This is my cue I guess,” said Giasson. “Come see me when you’re ready. I’m sure Hugh is going mad by this point.” He nodded to the room, bowed to His Holiness, then exited, closing the doors behind him.

  “It is unfortunate he and your friend Special Agent Reading must be excluded, but even letting you two see the contents of the Unos Veritas Chest is a breach of protocol. It was necessary before, and unfortunately, it is necessary once again. And should you find what we all hope you will, I shall never see that abomination again.”

  Acton watched the old man shiver, it truly affecting him to his core. Acton sometimes found it hard to reconcile the fact that someone could be Triarii, but also believe in a mainstream religion. In this case, the Pope was Triarii, groomed for decades to rise in the Roman Catholic Church so he could one day become Pope to gain access to the rumored Vault, a secret chamber under the Vatican that stored its greatest secrets. It was known to almost no one, knowledge of it passed down from Pope to Pope in a secret ceremony the first night of their inauguration that according to His Holiness, changed most men.

  For the Vault of Secrets didn’t hide tawdry gossip of who slept with who—those types of documents would be in the Vatican Secret Archives, open to the public with the proper credentials—the Vault contained secrets that the Vatican wanted to protect the world from. Blasphemous texts and objects. Unexplainable artifacts, preserved mutations, accounts of evil and horrors beyond imagine.

  The Vault of Secrets, a massive underground complex, was filled with the very things that would shake the faith of the most devout Christian.

  He and Laura had read the catalog of what it contained, and it was horrifying. They had never spoken of it since, and neither cherished the thought of reviewing it again. It had tested their own faith, given them both nightmares, especially once they had started to search the Vault and confirmed that what was catalogued in the Unos Veritas Chest was actually real.

  The Pope’s words repeated themselves in Acton’s head. I shall never see that abomination again. He turned back to His Holiness. “What do you mean?”

  “It means, my son, that once you have retrieved the Thirteenth Skull, I will step down. Though I am a true Christian, a true Roman Catholic, and I cherish the role I was blessed to be chosen for, every day I pray to God for forgiveness, for abusing this station, and using it for ulterior motives. Though I believe I have performed my duties humbly, and ably, the mere fact that you are here, for the second time, under false pretenses, tells me I am not worthy of this position.

  “Man’s conduit to God on Earth should not be sneaking around, attempting to find false idols for an organization that worships blasphemous icons.”

  His voice had slowly risen. Not to what anyone would consider loud, the man very soft spoken, but almost to a normal level, and the passion in what he said was clear, his cheeks flushed, his eyes wide and glistening in their pain. Acton couldn’t help but feel for him, and a glance at Laura, whose hand was gripping his hard, showed a tear rolling down her cheek unnoticed.

  “I don’t know what to say,” began Acton, “except that we shall try to finish this business as quickly as possible so that you can find the peace you so desperately crave.”

  His words were carefully chosen, far more eloquent than his normal speech, but the moment felt like it needed sophistication rather than a casual reply. He felt Laura’s fingers squeeze his own three times, their secret “I love you” code.

  At least she’s pleased.

  The Pope nodded, a sliver of a smile creeping into the ends of his mouth. “I appreciate your words, and pray to God you shall be successful.” He glanced at the chest. “And now I must take my leave of you. Merely being in the presence of the Unos Veritas Chest I find disturbing.” He rose, as did Acton and Laura, both bowing slightly as the old man rounded his desk. The doors opened, the Pope’s private secretary, Father Morris, standing there as if he had been listening, holding the doors.

  How does he do that?

  The Pope removed his ring.

  “You will of course need this.”

  He handed it to Acton, who took it and bowed again as the Pope left his office. Acton looked at the hardwood floors as the doors closed behind the elderly Pontiff, then retraced the steps, hearing a creak as he approached the door.

  “What are you doing?” asked Laura, already setting up her laptop beside the chest.

  “Trying to figure out how Father Morris knows to open the doors.”

  �
��He can hear the floor creak from outside,” replied Laura, not bothering to look at her fiancée bouncing up and down on the floor.

  Acton stopped, flushing as he realized his fiancée was far ahead of him, his fantastic discovery apparently not so much so. He joined her at the table with the chest, sitting down. He looked at her and she nodded, all joy in their souls shoved aside by the evil they were now about to immerse themselves in.

  He pressed the Papal ring against the lock, and turned.

  Near Jericho, Kingdom of Jerusalem

  June 4th, 1277 AD

  Two years since leaving Marco Polo

  To be tired would be a blessing. Giuseppe was instead exhausted. Almost from the first day of his journey back home he had been hunted. It was as if the Karakorum Pass had belched an endless number of soldiers searching for their stolen idol the next day. Giuseppe assumed it had taken that long to organize themselves, or that God had somehow given them all a head start, one just long enough to stay alive should they keep their faith.

  And Giuseppe had kept his faith. He had been determined to fulfill his master’s wishes, and to reunite with him someday, as a brother. But it appeared that God had other plans for him. It had been over two years and he was now near death. Constant hiding, constant vigilance. The journey had taken its toll, the searchers having spread out across the empire and beyond, searching for a lone man of European descent, something rare for most of his journey.

  And he was still nowhere near home. He had been forced south, toward the Holy Land, instead of his desired northern route. It had bought him a slight reprieve in that his hunters had spread north, thinking his final destination was most likely Venice.

  It was clear they had been watched. Closely. He had heard no news of the caravan or of the Polo’s. There was no way for a message to be exchanged, but he held out hope that should something have happened to such a noble family, word would have spread of it.

  Then again they wouldn’t be the first explorers to have disappeared without a trace.

  The fact the pursuit seemed to have targeted him all along suggested someone had witnessed his departure with the idol in the night, which he hoped meant the caravan had been left alone. And the longer it was left alone, the deeper into the Khan’s territory they would find themselves, and the safer they would be.

  As he journeyed, mostly at night, he found his thoughts often drifting to Marco and the others, to the stories, the laughter, the hearty meals around the campfire.

  His stomach rumbled.

  He was weak, starving, and worse, thirsty.

  He lay on the rock covered ground in the shade of a large boulder, his horse nearby, it nearly as gaunt as he. He didn’t have the heart to kill it, to put it out of their shared misery, but he knew it was only a matter of time when the poor beast would collapse and he’d be forced to end its existence. And if he didn’t have his mission to fulfill, he would gladly lay at its side, and die together, master and beast.

  But he had his mission and he must go on, but he wasn’t sure how he could possibly manage. The gems his master had given him had long run out, much of it stolen when he was accosted in Persia. He had been relying on scraps, begging his way from town to town since then, and it was remarkable how far he had actually come, surviving on will alone and the charity of strangers for the most part.

  As he drifted in and out of sleep, his thirst overwhelming, he thought he heard voices, but as he struggled to stay awake, to listen for what the wind had carried him by chance, he was finally overcome by his exhaustion, the world finally going black.

  Unknown Location

  Present day, one day after the kidnapping

  Grant Jackson finished his soda, then shook it, there still a fair amount of ice in the cup. The sandwich had hit the spot, though he missed the onions and cucumbers. And Diet Coke was definitely the right choice. Chip had done well. And if it weren’t for the meal he knew there was no way he would be able to keep himself together enough to respond to Mitch, the revelations about his father and his past, this insanity about magic skulls, all too much to take in at once.

  “I can assure you I have no clue where this skull of yours is.”

  Mitch smiled, batting away the words with his hand. “Of course you do, you just don’t know it.”

  “Huh?”

  “Your father never told you he was in the Triarii.”

  “Correct.”

  “So why would he tell you where his greatest possession was? Eventually he had planned to tell you the truth and let you decide whether or not you wanted to join him.”

  “He did?”

  “Yes.” Mitch leaned forward. “Grant, your father and I were friends. I’d known him almost twenty years before he was killed. We spoke often, met often. I was with him when we stole the Mitchell-Hedges skull from the Smithsonian. But it was useless without two others, so he had it hidden away so that someday his dream of uniting them could be fulfilled. It was his intention, Grant, that should he become too old, that you would take over for him, that you would fulfill his destiny.”

  Grant felt his chest tighten. He loved his father, but with him always being so busy, a distance had grown between them over the years. And the discovery of this secret life had made that distance seem to grow into a chasm so deep, there was really no connection between them at all.

  But Mitch’s words seemed to fill that void, the chasm gone in the knowledge that his father had believed in him, and was just waiting for the right time to bring him into the fold, to trust him with his greatest secret, and his ultimate goal in life.

  “How can I help?” he asked, not quite yet ready to believe the stories he had been told of the power of the crystal skulls, but with the realization of how important this was to his father, he was ready to help complete the mission of the most important person in his life.

  Mitch beamed a smile around the room, sitting back in his chair. “When your father died, did you receive anything in the will?”

  Grant’s eyes popped slightly, reaching for his drink then stopping, remembering it was empty. “I received a letter.”

  “And what did it say?”

  Grant shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t read it.”

  “You didn’t read it?” The surprise in Mitch’s voice was plain. “Why not?”

  Grant shook his head. “When I received it I hated the world. I hated my father for never being there and for getting himself killed. I hated my mother for refusing to grieve with me, instead locking herself in her room. I hated everyone who tried to console me who I barely knew. A letter from my father with some platitudes was the last thing I wanted to read. I wallowed in my own self-pity and bile for the better part of two years. By then the letter became something I said I would open only when I had no more negative feelings about my father. If it were truly heartfelt, then I wanted to be in the right frame of mind to read it.” Grant shrugged. “I guess I haven’t been yet.”

  “And how about now?”

  Grant shrugged again. “After all that I’ve heard in the past few minutes, perhaps it’s time.”

  “Great,” grinned Mitch, slapping his hands together in anticipation. “Where is it?”

  “In my nightstand at home.”

  “You moved back in with your mother after your father’s death, didn’t you?”

  Grant frowned. “I didn’t think she should be alone. Hell of a lot of good that did anyone.”

  Mitch threw his hands up, looking at his compatriots. “Which means it’s surrounded by police by now.”

  Grant agreed. “You guys are wanted for murder, and you’ve kidnapped the former President’s son. I would expect the place is swarming.”

  “Murder?”

  “You killed my detail.”

  Mitch waved his hand. “No, we didn’t kill anyone. We used tranquilizers. The Triarii doesn’t kill unless it absolutely has to.”

  “Even you guys?”

  “We’re still bound by the same principals, just different
end goals.”

  “Well, if you’re not willing to kill, you’re never getting in there,” said Grant. “But I do have an idea.”

  Monastery of St. Gerasimos, Kingdom of Jerusalem

  April 17th, 1281 AD

  Six years since leaving Marco Polo’s caravan

  Giuseppe stared at the parchment in front of him. He had been working on it for the better part of two years, dozens of drafts had been made, and in the past several days what he had settled upon had completely changed again, for he knew he was near death.

  The voices he had heard four years ago had belonged to a pair of monks returning to their monastery. A desperate whinny from his horse had drawn their attention and he had been rescued, along with his faithful beast. Days of recovery turned into weeks then months. His strength had returned gradually, but never did he recover to be his old self. The damage to his body was too great internally. Something to do with his body failing, his urine over the years getting darker and darker, he now knocking at the gates of Heaven he was sure.

  These men of the monastery had taken care of him, provided for him, asking nothing in return. He had been nothing but a burden to them, but they had become his friends. About the only contribution he had been able to make was to tell them of his brief adventures on his journey with his master, and how he had finally arrived thanks to God delivering him into the hands of Angelo and Bartholomew, now two of the best friends he had ever known.

  “Is it ready?”

  Giuseppe looked up from the simple wood table at Angelo as he approached, Bartholomew immediately behind him.

  “Not quite,” replied Giuseppe. He picked up a small knife then carefully sliced the parchment in two, almost down the center, careful to cut around the letters rather than through them, then directly through the drawing of the skull he had put in the center. He carefully rolled the first half, tying it with string, and then the other, applying hot wax from a candle to seal each. He handed the left half to Angelo. “This is for his Holiness in Rome.” He then handed him the scroll his master had given him containing the message for his Holiness. “This will get you an audience with the Pope. Tell him what went wrong and where the second half of this scroll is. He can send a force to retrieve it and my master, and then the idol.” He handed the second scroll to Bartholomew. “This is for my master, my brother, Marco Polo, who I believe still resides in Khanbalig. I fear you have the hardest part to fulfill. It will be a long, difficult journey, but when you reach your destination, my master will take good care of you, and you will see wonders that will never cease to amaze you. Tell him where the second half of the scroll is, and that I am sorry.”