The Venice Code (A James Acton Thriller, Book #8) (James Acton Thrillers) Page 11

  “Why not tell us where you have hidden the idol?” asked Angelo. “Why the need for all this secrecy?”

  Giuseppe smiled weakly.

  “I have intentionally not told you where it is to protect you. Death follows this secret, and the less you know, the better. With half the scroll safely in the Holy See, my master will be able to retrieve it to get the entire message and locate the idol with Church forces to protect him. Should either of you be captured, the half scroll is useless, in a code that is hopefully gibberish, but should it be decoded, of no value since you need both parts to find the location. This will protect both of you, and protect the idol from falling into the wrong hands.”

  “Will Marco know how to decipher it?” asked Angelo.

  Giuseppe nodded, a smile spreading across his face as his eyes gazed into the past. “It is a simple code we used when we were younger. He will recognize it immediately, and decipher it readily, of that I am certain. And with the drawing of the idol on the document, he will absolutely do so with haste.”

  A sudden jabbing pain up the side of his back had him grabbing at it with his hand, his body breaking out in a sweat and his strength, what little of it he had, immediately draining from him. He collapsed on the table and the two brothers immediately rushed to his aid, carrying him to his small bed in the corner of the room and lying him down.

  Water was brought, broth as well, but Giuseppe was too weak to drink much of it, the pain continuing to rack his body. Finally too weak to even react to that, he felt himself beginning to slip away. As the world grew dark around him, he reached out for the hands of his friends. Angelo took his left, Bartholomew his right.

  “Fulfill my wishes,” he managed, and he felt his friends squeeze his hands, their assurances before God that they would, filling his ears. His head lolled to the side and his eyes met Bartholomew’s. “When you see my brother, tell him I loved him, and that my deepest regret was failing him.”

  The reply wasn’t heard, a mere distant echo of a world he was no longer part of. And as the darkness of the sweet relief of death enveloped him, he swore he heard the singing of angels, and a light in the distance, beckoning him toward it, whispering a promise that he would see his brother again.

  The Vault of Secrets Entrance, Apostolic Palace, The Vatican

  Present day, one day after the kidnapping

  Acton stepped inside the large, plain wardrobe that occupied much of the wall of the small sleeping quarters off an unfrequented hall of the Apostolic Palace. They had been here before, and it hadn’t ended well. With the knowledge however that the unknown entrance that had allowed the Keepers of the One Truth to ambush them the last time was now sealed permanently, they were confident they were now alone.

  But secrecy must be maintained.

  They had slipped down the hallway successfully, it usually kept vacant due to its distance and lack of renovation, and entered the room unseen. Acton flicked on his flashlight as Laura climbed in, closing the wardrobe doors behind them. He pushed up on the second hook from the left and he heard a click. Pushing on the back panel of the wardrobe, it swung open, revealing a long stone corridor. He stepped out of the wardrobe and down onto the floor, then helped Laura down.

  “I hate this place,” whispered Laura, her low voice still echoing, the walls unforgivingly solid.

  “You and me both,” replied Acton, the hair on his arms already standing on end. “Let’s just find this damned thing and get the hell out of here.”

  “And never come back.”

  “I can live without ever seeing the Vatican again,” said Acton as they reached a set of spiraling stairs that led down to the vault.

  “I’m thinking Rome.”

  “Whatever you say, dear.”

  Acton quickly descended the tight staircase, Laura close behind him. When they reached the bottom they stepped out into a massive chamber they already knew extended for hundreds of meters. To their left was a pulley system used to transport large objects, and as he played his flashlight about, he could see their footprints in the dust from their last visit here.

  “Let’s hurry,” urged Laura. “This place is freaking me out.”

  Acton grinned at her in the dark, wondering if she noticed she was speaking more ‘American’ all the time. Occasionally he caught himself using some of her British idioms, especially when he was visiting her and was surrounded by it. It didn’t bother him, it was natural. It wasn’t like Madge faking a British accent.

  “It was the sixteenth row, wasn’t it?”

  Acton nodded in the near pitch black, the only light their flashlights. “Yeah. A little farther than we got last time. Hopefully the damned thing is in plain sight.”

  The catalog of items contained in the Vault had been converted electronically during Pope John Paul II’s reign, and since they had already gone through it the last time they had been asked to help the Triarii, they had known what they were looking for. In the partially reconstructed texts, some of them almost two thousand years old, they had found an obscure reference that read, translated from Latin, “…referencing crystal icon in form of human skull…”, the rest of the description apparently unsalvageable.

  Laura marched ahead, her flashlight flipping from one row of shelves to the next, the Roman numerals engraved at the end of each counting up the deeper they went. Acton hurried to catch up, his fiancée’s eagerness to finish the job evident.

  “Here it is, sixteen!”

  Her voice echoed throughout the chamber and Acton found himself playing his flashlight around, looking for any evidence of unwanted company.

  Finding none, he breathed a sigh of relief and joined Laura who was already scanning the shelf with her flashlight. Acton strode to the other end to save time, and after several minutes, they found themselves both in the middle, empty handed.

  “Could we be wrong?” asked Laura.

  “In the description? No. Maybe somebody found it first?”

  “Considering almost nobody knows of this place, and the only people who would want it would be the Triarii, who sent us here, I doubt it.”

  Acton bit his cheek. “I wonder…” His voice trailed off in thought as he went through the Latin translation again.

  “What?”

  He shone the flashlight up at his face so Laura could see him. She did the same. “Well, it did say ‘referencing’.”

  “So?”

  “So maybe we’re not looking for a skull.”

  Laura pursed her lips, nodding. “What ‘references’ something?”

  “It has to be a document.”

  “I definitely saw some of those,” said Laura, excitement in her voice. “Let’s start from the beginning and gather any documents we find.” She immediately began scanning the shelves, reaching up and carefully lifting a scroll off a high shelf. “These things are pretty old, so be careful.”

  Acton nodded, picking up a sheaf of papers from the bottom shelf, then continuing on. Within minutes he had about a dozen scrolls, and reaching the end of the line, he rejoined Laura to find she had about the same.

  She looked about. “Barmy idea, but how about we look at these upstairs?”

  Acton nodded. “You don’t have to ask me twice.” Laura led the way to the staircase and they quickly wound their way up and into the corridor leading to the wardrobe entrance. Once through, they placed all of what they had found on the bed, keeping them in the order they had been found so they could be returned to their proper places.

  “Leave anything too fragile to the end. We may have to have them analyzed in a lab.”

  “His Holiness isn’t going to like that,” said Acton with a grin, examining his first document. It turned out to be an account, in Latin, of a demon birth. Next!

  “Oh my God!”

  “What?” asked Acton, looking over to see his question answered as he stared at the scroll Laura had opened before her. At first he had thought she had torn it in half, but instead realized it was already like that before she
opened it.

  “This has to be it!” she exclaimed, barely able to contain her excitement.

  It was a document that appeared to be gibberish, with a small drawing at the center showing half a skull. Acton lay his document aside, shuffling over to get a closer look.

  “What the hell does it mean?” he asked, the Latin lettering appearing random.

  “I have no idea. But I can tell you one thing.”

  “What?”

  “I know where the second half is!”

  Jackson Residence, Potomac, Maryland

  One day after the kidnapping

  Louisa had kept herself busy upstairs most of the day, the men with guns and questions downstairs scaring her, reminding her too much of her native Columbia. Never trust anyone with a badge or a gun. Most of the men and women downstairs had both and she found herself shaking so much that her boss, Katherine Jackson, had sent her away, thankfully recognizing her discomfort.

  She is a good woman. A very good woman. Louisa had cried for days when Señora’s husband was killed. And to be killed by a friend like Señor Darbinger! It had crushed them all, but mostly Señora. She had locked herself in her bedroom for weeks, only letting Louisa in after she begged her to open the door so she could eat. Then it was only once a day that the door would be unlocked. Louisa would clean the room, bring in food, and urge Señora to get out of bed and walk around.

  After almost three weeks Louisa was stunned to find her downstairs sipping coffee, acting as if nothing had happened. She had refused to mention her husband again. Her son Grant moved back into the house several weeks later which seemed to buoy her spirits, but she still refused to talk of her husband, despite how much Grant was clearly grieving.

  And Louisa had cried.

  She tried to provide comfort to Grant, a young man she had helped raise since he was a newborn, Louisa having served the Jackson family for almost thirty-five years. Grant had eventually moved on, and during the years since the murder, Louisa had never once heard her or her son speak of Señor again.

  And now he had been kidnapped.

  How much can one family take?

  Señora was beside herself, but under the eyes of so many downstairs, she was keeping herself together better than Louisa was. If it weren’t for her work, being done again for the umpteenth time today, she knew she’d collapse and sob as if her own child were missing.

  Her phone vibrated in her apron pocket and she grabbed her chest, the unexpected not what she needed today. She looked at the call display but the number was blocked. She answered.

  “Hola.”

  “Hi Louisa, it’s me, Grant. Don’t say anything! Nobody can know I’m calling.”

  Louisa wanted to shout out, to let everyone know that Grant was okay, and she almost did, his words almost lost on her, but before she did, her brain caught up with the moment and kept her silent. She instead sat on the edge of Señora’s bed.

  “Are you alone?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I need you to do me big favor.”

  “Are you okay, Señor Grant? Have they hurt you?”

  “I’m okay, they haven’t touched me. In fact, they’re not bad people, they are—rather were—friends of my father.”

  Louisa’s chest collapsed in relief as a long sigh escaped her. He sounded fine, excited even, and to her it didn’t sound like anyone was forcing him to say what they wanted him to.

  Which had her confused even more.

  Friends of his father?

  “Are you sure, Señor Grant? The police are downstairs, I can tell them and maybe they can trace the call and rescue you.”

  “No, don’t do that, Louisa. I’m okay, believe me. No one must know that I called you.”

  Louisa shook her head, not sure what to do. “If you say so Señor Grant.”

  “Good. Now I need you to go to my bedroom.”

  Louisa stood, her legs shaking. She looked into the hall and found it thankfully empty—she was certain she wouldn’t be able to keep things together should she encounter someone. She quickly walked to the other side of the large house and opened Grant’s bedroom door, stepping inside and closing it behind her.

  “I am in your room, Señor Grant.”

  “Good, now in my left nightstand, top drawer, there is a letter from my father. Get it for me.”

  She walked over to the nightstand and pulled open the drawer. She frowned at some of its contents, blushed at others, but soon found the envelope in question, the envelope with “Grant” in the center in his father’s handwriting.

  “I have it.”

  “Okay, now here’s what I need you to do.”

  When Louisa heard what Señor Grant wanted her to do, she nearly fainted.

  The Holy See, Rome

  September 23rd, 1282 AD

  Over one year after Giuseppe’s death

  Angelo sat on the steps in front of the Lateran Palace, pilgrims and the faithful streaming around him, desperate to receive the blessings of the church to free their dead loved ones from Purgatory and into the dominion of Heaven.

  But freedom and eternal bliss were only available to the faithful with money. That was the corruption of the Roman Catholic Church, an institution bastardized from its founder’s vision, and instead now merely another kingdom with a ruler who demanded to be obeyed through adherence to a faith whose creator would have probably damned what it had become.

  But Angelo was blind to all the desperation and suffering around him. He had received his audience with the Pope, which was a miracle unto itself, only the name of Marco Polo and the scroll provided him by Giuseppe left to him by his master, getting him through the door. But it was a new pope who now ruled, and Pope Martin IV had no interest in forging ties with Kublai Khan, and owed no favors to the Polo’s, it being his predecessor who had been interested in pushing Catholicism to the Far East.

  “I have enough problems in Europe to deal with. The Far East is of no interest to me now.”

  The words had shaken Angelo, and he had wondered how he could possibly complete the mission he had undertaken at Giuseppe’s request. But the letters had been taken, and his Holiness had taken the carefully wrapped and sealed half-letter, written in code, and promised should any Polo return to the Vatican someday to claim it, it would be delivered.

  Then he had been ushered out.

  The meeting had been less than ten minutes. A journey of over a year for ten minutes with a man who could care less.

  He had dropped onto the steps, his mind awash in grief and self-doubt, only moments after leaving. It had been over an hour of sitting, his emotions overwhelming him, tears pouring down his cheeks, then rage gripping him. He was angry at the Pope for his indifference, at himself for leaving the document with the man, at Giuseppe for dying and not fulfilling his own duty.

  It was this thought that had him racked with guilt.

  And this thought that had him determined to reach Marco Polo in the Far East, and ensure he knew what had happened.

  He just wished Giuseppe had let him in on where the crystal idol was actually hidden so he could tell Marco himself, but only the head of their order knew Giuseppe’s wishes, and he would die with the secret never crossing his lips.

  Angelo rose from the steps, wiped his cheeks, and strode forward, determined to deliver his message, when a scream rose above the din of the crowd behind him. He spun toward the sound, as did those around him, to find a man, blade held high, striking the neck of a guard. The blade sunk deep into the guard’s neck, nearly cleaving his head clean off.

  Screams of terror erupted from almost everyone as they turned to run away. Angelo stood frozen, uncertain of what to do as the man roared his anger into the air, his head held back, his sword raised high, shaking in defiance.

  “I demand to be heard!” he screamed. “I demand forgiveness for my wife’s sins!”

  He lowered his head and sword, looking about him, the steps now empty save Angelo. Their eyes met, then the man’s
gaze took in Angelo’s attire, the robes of a monk. His eyes then fixated on the plain wood cross around Angelo’s neck.

  “You!” challenged the man, his sword pointing at Angelo as he stormed down the steps. “I demand you bless my wife so she may rest in peace!”

  Angelo’s jaw dropped, uncertain of what to say.

  “I-I can’t,” he murmured. “It’s not my place. I’m only a monk!”

  “Then you are no good to me.”

  Without missing a beat, the man continued down the steps and buried his blade deep into Angelo’s stomach, twisting it before pulling it free. Angelo collapsed onto the steps, blood pouring out onto the stone, his hands gripping his stomach as he felt the life drain from him as soldiers rushed down the steps. In the faint distance he heard yells and a cry, his assailant felled, too late to help Angelo, but at least providing him a small comfort in knowing no one else would be hurt.

  As he felt himself weaken, he felt hands on him and he was flipped over on his back, and as the world faded to nothing, he heard the distant echo of the last rites being recited, and he passed with the comfort of knowing he would be going to Heaven, and the distress of knowing he would soon face Giuseppe without having satisfactorily fulfilled his promise.