The Venice Code (A James Acton Thriller, Book #8) (James Acton Thrillers) Page 4

  “I wonder if we’ll be called in.” Leroux continued to watch the screen as the kisses reached his chest, then suddenly he felt his shirt get ripped open. His head spun to see a mischievous look on Sherrie’s face as she moved down his chest to his stomach, suddenly grabbing his belt buckle with her teeth.

  “Probably,” she whispered.

  “Probably what?” gasped Leroux as the realization of what was about to happen had the news report forgotten.

  “We’ll probably get called in,” she said as she opened his belt then unbuttoned his pants.

  “Probably. Especially since the entire story surrounding his assassination was bullshit.”

  Sherrie stopped, her eyes narrowing.

  “What do you mean?”

  Leroux looked at her in dismay. “Nothing, I was just joking. Just a theory I have.” She continued to stare at him. “For the love of God, don’t stop!” She continued to stare at him then suddenly unzipped his pants, yanking them and his underwear down in one motion that left him breathless.

  She grabbed him and squeezed.

  He groaned.

  And both their phones vibrated with urgent messages from Langley.

  East Gates, Karakorum, Mongol Empire

  March 29th, 1275 AD

  Giuseppe didn’t need to fake appearing cold and haggard from a long journey. He was. His master, Marco, did have to slouch a little and let his face sag, the man a veritable bundle of energy that seemed without end. As they shuffled toward the eastern gates of Karakorum, the guard towers looming on either side, the torches flickering in the wind, Giuseppe gently led their horse, packs filled with several fine silks from back home for trade.

  Two guards stepped out to challenge them, their breath freezing in the frigid air, their noses red and swollen, their eyelashes and brows thick with ice. These were cold, tired men, just as his master had predicted. The howling wind prevented him from hearing much of what Marco said, but the odd word did make it through the gusts suggesting his master was receiving a grilling more detailed than expected. After several minutes Marco waved him forward and he advanced with their horse.

  “Get two of the silks,” said Marco, his expression one of frustration, no trace of his usual jovial mood remaining. Giuseppe opened one of the side pouches and removed two of the swaths, handing them to his master who took them, turning as a less than genuine smile spread across his face.

  “For you and your friend,” he said, handing one to the guard he had been talking to, the other to the second who stepped forward eagerly to receive his. “Sell them for a handsome profit, or give them to your special lady friend and she’ll be yours to do with as you please!”

  The two men grinned at each other, their rotting teeth suggesting any woman would have to think long and hard about giving up anything to these men for mere silk. The first waved at them to proceed as the other called for the gate to be opened. Marco bowed and Giuseppe mimicked him, following his master through the opening gates and into the ether beyond, tomorrow’s market empty, the sparse houses at this end of the city mostly dark for the night.

  Giuseppe didn’t relax until he heard the gates close behind them and didn’t dare look back until he saw his master do so. Marco smiled at him, clearly aware of how nervous his slave was. He slowed so Giuseppe could catch up, then they walked side-by-side through the lonely street.

  “That wasn’t as easy as I had hoped. They all appear on edge, as if they’re expecting something. If I had to guess, they’re expecting the Khan to send infiltrators before an attack. It’s good we went through the East Gates. North or south along the main roads would have been nearly impossible.”

  Giuseppe merely nodded, his mind wandering to what might happen to them should they be captured as spies for the Khan. It would be one thing to be captured now, before they had caused any mischief, but if they succeeded in stealing the crystal idol, they would be tortured and executed for certain.

  He shuddered.

  “Are you cold, my brother?”

  Giuseppe nodded, not wanting his master to know how terrified he felt at this very moment. He could hide his fear well, it never good to show others when you were weak, but his master knew him so well, he could tell from the expression that Marco was being polite, not wanting to point out the man’s true reasons for shivering.

  But it was cold.

  “Where is the church, Master?”

  Marco motioned with his chin ahead. “Just up on the left. There’s a path between the buildings that leads to a field where the church lies. There’s nothing near it, so we’ll be exposed as we approach. Hopefully the dark and the late hour will mean no one will notice.” He glanced behind them. “No one appears to be following us, but I can’t be sure.” He looked again. “I feel like we’re being watched. Can you sense it?”

  Giuseppe hadn’t sensed anything seconds ago, but now that his master’s words had sunk in, he felt every hair on his body tingle and his heart began to pump faster. He too began to glance over his shoulder, but he too could see nothing but darkened houses and an equally dark street.

  The moon suddenly sliced through an opening in the clouds overhead, bathing the entire area in a dull blue light and Giuseppe caught his breath, a shadow in the dark suddenly revealed then lost quickly as it darted between two houses.

  “Did you see that?” he hissed, but instead of replying, he felt Marco’s hand around his arm, urging him forward, Giuseppe almost coming to a stop.

  “Keep moving, we mustn’t let him know we’ve spotted him.”

  They continued forward, their pace leisurely, that of weary travelers, and Giuseppe tried to relax his constantly tensing muscles, the urge to look back almost irresistible.

  Marco turned to the left, a path between two houses barely visible. Giuseppe led their horse into it, but not before his eyes darted down the road as he made the turn, and now that he knew they were being followed, he saw their pursuer plainly, his features indistinguishable, but his movement obvious against the dimly lit stone.

  Their pursuer disappeared upon Giuseppe’s entry into the gap between the two houses. He looked ahead and could see the walled compound containing the only Christian enclave of the city. It too appeared asleep, the expected glow of a torch or fire somewhere inside not to be seen. The entire situation had Giuseppe wondering if the priest’s offer to help them secure the idol had been discovered, and if he had been put to death along with the few Christians the church served.

  “Keep walking toward the church. I’ll remain behind to deal with our uninvited guest.”

  Giuseppe was about to open his mouth in protest but was silenced with a glance from Marco, it clear he was determined to be the one to find out what was going on.

  Giuseppe nodded and continued forward with the horse, leaving the protection of the two walls on either side, exposing himself to the open fields bordering the path. He turned his head slightly, pushing the fur lining that protected his ears aside, straining to hear against the howling wind.

  It was of no use.

  His master, the man who called him ‘brother’, was now alone behind him, waiting for an unknown pursuer in the darkness of a town known to have fallen to the spell of a false idol, and if there was one thing Giuseppe knew, it was how fanatical people could be when it came to their beliefs, especially those not grounded in reality like his own.

  A yelp carried by the wind had Giuseppe spinning toward the sound. He could see nothing through the darkness and light snow, but whatever the source of the sound had been, it was silent now. Giuseppe was torn between his duty to obey his master, and his desire to make certain his master was safe.

  If he’s dead, then you don’t need to worry about obeying his orders.

  Giuseppe turned, determined to find his master, when a shadow emerged from between the houses, quickly approaching him, but there was something wrong.

  The shadow was too big.

  Which meant his master was most likely dead, and this behemoth was t
he reason.

  Giuseppe drew his sword, gripping it with both hands as he readied himself for the attack, the massive man continuing forward, straight for him and his beast. He raised his sword high, preparing to defend himself, when the man spoke.

  “Put your sword away, my brother, and help me!”

  Marco!

  Giuseppe sheathed his sword, his racing heart and tensed muscles relaxing as he realized the massive man was actually his master helping another man, supporting him with an arm over the shoulders. Giuseppe rushed forward and took the man’s other arm, draping it over his own shoulders, then together they rushed toward the gates of the church, Giuseppe grabbing the reins of their horse as they walked by it.

  Within minutes they were at the gates, Giuseppe’s untold questions unanswered as they struggled forward in silence. Marco knocked on the doors, quietly as he apparently didn’t want the sound to carry.

  Nothing.

  He knocked a little louder this time, but again nothing could be heard over the howling winds. Marco raised his hand to knock a third time, but as he was about to the sound of the bar behind the gate being removed stopped him. Moments later the left side of the gate swung open and a young man, poorly dressed for the weather, waved them inside. They half carried, half dragged their charge through, the large gate shoved closed behind them as soon as their horse was clear, the wooden bar put back in place.

  They were led across the courtyard in silence, the young man who had opened the gate continually looking back at the man they were now almost carrying. As they neared the entrance of the church itself another form emerged from the darkness and took the reins from Giuseppe, leading the horse away and toward a stable to the right. Marco made no mention of it so Giuseppe remained silent.

  The doors were pushed open to the church, Marco and Giuseppe carrying the man inside, the young man closing the doors behind him. He led them deeper inside and around the altar to the rectory where they found a roaring fire and wonderful, radiant heat pulsating from the hearth. They lay the man on a bed in a side room, it too having its own fire, then stepped back, the young man going to work, quickly stripping the man of his winter clothing so the fire’s warmth could reach him.

  As he did so another young man entered with a pitcher of wine and several glasses. Marco took a glass, downing it quickly, Giuseppe doing the same, then they both began to remove their heavy clothing, the fire causing a steady trickle of sweat to run down Giuseppe’s back. Within moments they were in regular clothes, sitting out in the rectory office while the young men attended to their pursuer.

  In the entire time, Marco and Giuseppe had said nothing. Giuseppe was assuming the man was the priest, the fire light revealing he was quite elderly—far too old to be out in these frigid temperatures.

  A thought struck Giuseppe that had him tossing a look of concern over at Marco.

  If he should die, how can we possibly find the crystal idol?

  Marco poured two more glasses of wine, the bitter brew almost unfit for consumption, Giuseppe used to the fine wines enjoyed in Venice by the Polo family. But it was better than nothing.

  Giuseppe grimaced as he took a drink.

  “Not up to your standards?” asked Marco with a wink.

  Giuseppe shook his head, placing the glass on the table where bread and cheese had been put out for them. He took a chunk of bread and carved himself a thick slice of cheese, folding them together then taking a bite, his hunger ravenous.

  “I guess I’ve been spoiled by your good taste,” replied Giuseppe between chews, his hand covering his mouth, table manners at the Polo household lax when on the expedition, but not too much so.

  Marco smiled, tearing off his own chunk of bread, dipping a corner into the wine. Biting off the now purple portion of bread, he chewed and shrugged.

  “It could be worse.”

  “It could always be worse. Like that camel piss we had in Persia.”

  Marco began to chuckle then stopped himself with a glance at the bedroom where their hosts were busy with the old man. He lowered his voice.

  “That was truly disgusting. I was too nervous to ask what it was made from, but I didn’t see any grapes in the area.”

  “I’m telling you, it was camel piss. I’m willing to bet they only served it to us then laughed about it after we left.”

  Marco laughed aloud this time, jabbing the air with his bread. “I would not be one bit surprised if that were so!”

  He leaned in, immediately lowering his voice again. “I fear I may have scared the old man to death when I jumped him in the alley.”

  Giuseppe moved closer, his own voice lowering. “Is he our contact?”

  Marco nodded, his eyes shifting between the door and his slave. “Keep that quiet. I don’t know how much these others know, if anything.”

  Giuseppe nodded. “What will we do if he dies?”

  Marco shook his head. “Pray he doesn’t, or this errand for the Khan could turn into a fool’s one.”

  One of the young men emerged from the bedroom with a smile. “Father Salvatore will see you now,” he said, the relief on his face clear.

  Marco rose, as did Giuseppe who followed his master into the small room, two chairs having been placed near the bed where they found the old man propped up on pillows, blankets pulled up to his neck, his arms out and at his sides. Several lanterns had been lit, heavy curtains covering the windows, which Giuseppe thought might explain why there had been no evidence of life from outside. He wondered if it were a function of the cold, or if a Christian church in a Muslim dominated area might need to keep a low profile.

  He had heard that within the Mongol Empire infighting amongst the varying religions was not tolerated, and that Christians, Muslims and Jews were free to practice their own religions without fear of reprisals. But with the Khan’s influence apparently waning within these city walls, that enforced tolerance may no longer be practiced.

  Marco sat nearest the old man, Giuseppe near the foot of the bed, to the side. A nightstand beside the old man’s bed held wine and a nearly empty bowl of soup, and judging by the rosy cheeks he was now sporting, it appeared that life had been forced back into him by his dedicated servants.

  He smiled at them, the cheeks still betraying his weakened state, but thankfully he appeared no closer to death than any man of his age should.

  “Father, I must first begin by apologizing to you. If I had known it was you following us, I never would have jumped you like I did.”

  The old man shook his head and his hand, waving off the apology. “There is no need to apologize. Like the foolish old man I am, I ignored the pleadings of my altar boys and went out in the darkness like a man twenty years my junior in the hopes of making sure when you did arrive, you weren’t followed.”

  “We weren’t, so your mission was accomplished,” smiled Marco. He paused, looked at Giuseppe then back at the priest. “Forgive me, Father, but I believe introductions are in order. I am Marco Polo of Venice, and this is my trusted man Giuseppe. Anything you need to say can be said in front of him.”

  The old man looked at Giuseppe, nodding slightly. “For a master to put so much trust in his slave speaks well of the slave,” replied the old man. “Remember that the lower the station, the more God loves him, and for your master to have such faith in you, I think an honored place in Heaven is in your future.”

  Giuseppe felt his cheeks flush as the praise was heaped upon him by both his master and the priest. His eyes dropped to the floor.

  Marco slapped Giuseppe’s knee twice, giving it a squeeze then turning to the priest. “I have come to think of Giuseppe as my brother, as opposed to my slave. It is merely a twist of fate that I was born to a rich household, and he to a poor. A man’s station shouldn’t influence how he is treated and whether or not he be trusted. I trust Giuseppe with my life, and I hope he does mine.”

  “Absolutely, Master!” exclaimed Giuseppe, his eyes opening wide as he looked at the man who would call him brother.
He immediately returned his gaze to the floor, embarrassed by his outburst.

  Marco squeezed the back of Giuseppe’s neck then returned to the elderly priest. “You know of course why we are here.”

  “Absolutely,” replied the old man.

  “Can we speak freely?” whispered Marco, the room currently devoid of helpers.

  The priest nodded. “I trust my people.”

  “Very well. We are prepared tonight to retrieve the idol should you know where it is.”

  “I do indeed, but I fear it is now out of reach by anything less than an army.”

  Giuseppe looked at Marco, his concern matching that of his master.

  “What do you mean?” asked Marco.

  “I mean it now lies at the topmost level of the Red Mosque.”

  “And where is that?”

  “Look out my window, and you will see it.”

  Marco rose, Giuseppe following, both moving aside the heavy curtain and stepping behind it to maintain the shield against the firelight escaping. When Giuseppe’s eyes adjusted he gasped and looked at Marco, whose jaw was set tight, his head shaking slightly at what they were looking at.

  A tower, at least ten stories high, it appearing to be a spiral structure ending in a peak that provided a view of the entire city.

  And anyone who would dare approach.

  1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta HQ, Fort Bragg, North Carolina

  A.k.a. “The Unit”

  Present day, one day after the kidnapping

  Command Sergeant Major Burt “Big Dog” Dawson, BD to his close friends, was in his traditional role of Grill Master Sergeant, manning the grills behind The Unit, his home away from home, or more accurately for him, his home. As the leader of Delta Team Bravo, the toughest sons of bitches ever gathered into one group, he had the distinction of leading, in his opinion, the best squad of operators the US Military had ever put forward. The one dozen men, part of 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment - Delta, were deployed en masse or in smaller teams around the world to put out fires or start them—whatever was needed.