The Venice Code (A James Acton Thriller, Book #8) (James Acton Thrillers) Page 9

  He mentally kicked himself for insulting his father. He knew Darbinger wasn’t himself, the brain tumor having affected him to the point he didn’t even know who was who, the doctors saying he most likely was suffering from extreme paranoia, in the end thinking everyone around him was an enemy. He had cried tears of sorrow and anger when they concluded that Darbinger most likely had acted in what he thought was self-defense, Grant’s father his final victim.

  The state funeral had been impressive, the outpouring of emotion from the country moving to say the least, but none of it was any comfort to him. He had lost his father in a most violent and unexpected way, decades before he expected it to happen, and it had crushed him. He had hated Lesley Darbinger with every fiber of his being, even shunning Nora, Darbinger’s wife, when she had tried to see him to apologize for her husband’s actions.

  He felt guilty about that now, but had never made amends. Perhaps if he made it out of this nightmare he now found himself in, he’d do so. It was obvious Darbinger wasn’t in control. There was nothing he could have done since he had no clue about the tumor and the effect it was having on him.

  It wasn’t his fault.

  But if it wasn’t his fault, then his father died for nothing.

  The thought of a useless death for the greatest man he had ever known pissed him off even more.

  “Hey! What the hell do you want with me?” he screamed in fury, in frustration, in desperation. He wasn’t sure if it was what his father would have done, but he was certain the man wouldn’t have lain there feeling sorry for himself. He would have confronted his captors, even if it meant his death.

  But probably would have done it more eloquently.

  He heard chairs scrape and footsteps, then a door creaked open at the top of the stairs. A light switch was flipped and several bulbs began to burn brilliantly, no moronic mercury-laden overpriced compact fluorescents here. He sometimes wondered whether or not the powers that be who banned the incandescent light bulb realized that millions of CFLs would end up in landfills and in the future contaminate our water supplies with mercury leading to birth defects and mental handicaps. But of course that was the worst case scenario—which never happens.

  Two men descended the stairs, their faces uncovered, and to his surprise, both smiling—not sneers, but genuine smiles.

  And they appeared unarmed.

  The first approached him with a key in hand.

  “Here, let me get those off you,” he said as he bent over and unlocked the cuffs. Grant’s mind immediately began to run through his options, all involving him miraculously incapacitating the two unarmed men, when a third man walked down the steps, an occupied holster evident on his hip.

  His options suddenly boiled down to one.

  Do nothing.

  The cuffs were removed and he swung his legs off the cot, sitting upright.

  “There, that must be better,” said the man. “It was necessary so you didn’t hurt yourself when you woke up.” He motioned toward the stairs. “Now how about we all go upstairs and have a little chat. Get to know each other, so to speak.”

  To say Grant was confused would be an understatement. None of it made any sense. These men had killed his escort, shot him with something, obviously not a bullet, kidnapped him against his will, handcuffed him in a basement, and now wanted to be friends?

  The third man climbed the stairs, the man who had done the talking motioning for Grant to follow. He warily complied, certain something sinister awaited him at the top—perhaps a bullet or a beating. He cleared the steps and entered a kitchen with a small dining area. A fourth man was sitting eating a Subway foot long. He smiled, waving at him with one hand as he took a sip from his large fountain drink. Grant waved back, half-heartedly, his confusion growing.

  The third man led them into a living area and he pointed at what appeared to be the most comfortable chair available, some sort of La-Z-Boy. He sat, sinking into the soft cushions as the diner emerged from the kitchen with a large drink and a still bagged Subway sandwich and handed it to him.

  “Eat up, I’m sure you’re starving,” he said. “I got you a ham with just lettuce, tomatoes and mayo, just to be safe since I wasn’t sure what you’d like. And a Diet Coke.”

  Grant took the drink and sandwich, still uncertain as to what was going on. He put the drink on an end table to his left, the sandwich on his lap.

  “What the hell is going on here?” he finally asked. “Who are you?”

  The first man smiled. “We’re friends of your father.”

  Grant’s jaw dropped as almost every muscle in his body slackened. He reached for the drink blindly, sipping the ice cold liquid as his eyes darted about the faces in the room.

  “Bullshit.”

  The first man laughed. “You’re a lot like your father, you know that?” He pointed at his chest. “My name’s Mitch Reynolds.” He pointed at the second man. “That’s Chuck Holder”—he nodded toward the third man with the gun—“that cheery fellow is Ben Cowan and finally, your waiter is Chip Schneller.”

  “Pleased to meet ya!” said Chip with a wave. “Don’t be afraid of that sandwich, it won’t bite.”

  Grant nodded, looking down at the still bagged meal. His stomach grumbled.

  To hell with it. If they poisoned it, then they mean to kill me anyway.

  He pulled the sandwich out, unwrapped it and tore the two halves apart. He took a bite and chewed as the others looked on, his eyes still wandering the room. He noted the curtains were all closed, the furniture mostly dated if not worthy of an antique shop, the walls plaster with deep cove molding usually only seen in older homes.

  Definitely very old.

  His stomach growled again in appreciation as he swallowed his first bite, and after a few more, he began to feel his old self.

  “How do you know my father?” he asked between chews.

  “Tell me,” said Mitch, “did your father ever mention the Triarii?”

  “Tree what?”

  “Triarii. It’s Latin.”

  Grant took a drag on his drink, shaking his head. “Never heard of it.”

  “That’s too bad. It would have made this a lot easier,” replied Mitch. “What I’m about to tell you will probably sound like BS to you, but I assure you, it’s all true, and your father believed in it deeply.”

  “Okay.”

  “Have you ever heard of the crystal skulls?”

  “Sure, who hasn’t? Indiana Jones, Stargate SG-1 before that. They’ve got some in museums, don’t they? But they’re all fake. Carved in the nineteenth century.”

  “That’s what the Triarii want you to believe.”

  “Huh?”

  “Almost two thousand years ago a crystal skull was found near the site of the crucifixion in ancient Judea.”

  “You mean where Jesus was nailed to the cross?”

  “Exactly. It was shortly after his death that it was found. It was brought to the Roman Emperor Nero as a gift. Nero became obsessed with the skull and convinced it was speaking to him, filling his nights with torment and his days with whispered warnings of doom to the empire. To rid himself of the torture, he ordered his finest legion, the Thirteenth, to take the crystal skull as far from Rome as possible.

  “The legion made their way north, to Britannia, the farthest outpost of the empire. Along the way they encountered several bands of barbarians and the first and second lines of the Thirteenth were mostly wiped out. By the time they reached Britain, all that remained was the third line, their most experienced troops, the Triarii. They settled in Britain, keeping the skull hidden, and over the next thousand years integrated into their adopted country, but never forgetting their duty, a duty handed down generation to generation.

  “In time a second skull was found in ancient Greece. Word of it reached the Triarii, who at this point had spread out around the known world, and it was immediately taken back to Britain where it too was protected. Then in 1212 a third skull arrived in Britain. When it was plac
ed with the other two, it began to hum, then after a few hours a massive explosion wiped out most of London, burning over half of it to the ground, killing thousands.”

  “I call bullshit on that.”

  “It’s well documented. It’s the original Great Fire of London. Look it up if you want to—it’s part of history. Once we realized the danger of having these skulls together, we made it our mission to keep any two skulls apart.”

  “What does any of this crap have to do with my father?”

  “Your father was a member of our organization, and some time ago he stole the Mitchell-Hedges skull that was at the Smithsonian.”

  “I’ve heard of it. Didn’t know it was stolen.”

  “Nobody at the Smithsonian knows it was. What they have is a fake.”

  Grant swallowed his last bite. “So my Dad was a thief. Wonderful.”

  “No, your Dad was a patriot. He believed, like we do, that our technology is advanced enough now to harness the power of the skulls. He wanted to join three of them together, and if able to do so safely, harness the power of all the skulls.”

  “How many are there?”

  “Twelve, possibly thirteen.”

  “Lucky thirteen.”

  Mitch smiled, nodding. “Yes indeed. The twelfth skull was discovered in Peru a few of years ago while your father was president. He ordered its capture and sent in the Delta Force. Unfortunately things didn’t go as planned, and the international incident blamed on Lesley Darbinger was actually your father’s doing.”

  “You’re hardly winning me over to your side,” muttered Grant, sucking on his drink.

  “Perhaps this will. Lesley Darbinger did not have a brain tumor. He was perfectly healthy, perfectly sane when he shot your father in cold blood, under orders from the Triarii.”

  Grant stopped sucking on his drink. “Come again? I thought you were Triarii.”

  “We are, but we’re what you might call an offshoot. A breakaway group. The Triarii like to call us the Deniers, but we prefer to call ourselves the True Believers. We believe in the power of the skulls, and we believe it is time that this power was harnessed.”

  Grant shook his head in disbelief.

  I’ve been kidnapped by a bunch of wackos!

  Crystal skulls with magic powers? It was complete and utter nonsense. And there was no way his father was part of this bullshit organization either.

  “I can tell you don’t believe me,” observed Mitch as he removed his watch. He held up his bare wrist, revealing a small tattoo. Grant gasped, immediately recognizing it. He had seen the exact same tattoo years ago on his father. He had asked him about it and his father had brushed it off as a stupid fraternity dare during Rush Week. Mitch smiled. “I see you recognize it.”

  Grant nodded.

  “Where have you seen it before?”

  Grant didn’t want to admit to it, but he had to, the sudden realization his father was indeed associated with these nuts a truly shocking, disappointing discovery.

  Maybe my father was the crazy one, not Lesley?

  “My father had the same tattoo.”

  Mitch nodded in satisfaction, putting his watch back on. “And there are thousands of us spread across the globe, at every level of society, even as high as the President of the United States a few short years ago.”

  “So my dad was a nut.”

  Mitch laughed, exchanging smiles with the others. “No, he was just a believer. If you read our history, the detailed accounts of our organization, you would realize the devotion is not misplaced. But regardless of whether or not you believe, your father did. And that’s why we are here today.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we believe you know where the Mitchell-Hedges skull is.”

  Exiting the Karakorum Pass, Mongol Empire

  April 13th, 1275 AD

  “At last!”

  It was his master’s cry of joy that snapped Giuseppe from his reverie. He looked up at the sight before him and smiled, exchanging grins with all those around him in the Polo caravan. It had been a long, hard journey through the pass, with half his time spent looking over his shoulder, certain more would be pursuing them. But none had come. The occasional messenger on horseback, their load light, had sent their hearts racing but other than a wave and a shout of greeting, they had all continued on their way.

  Emerging from the mountains and to the lush greens and golds of the plains he breathed a sigh of relief. Stretched out in front of him, as far as the eye could see, were infinite escape routes, unlike their journey through the pass where they could only retreat one way.

  “We’ll set up camp by the river and rest,” said Marco’s father. “I think we’ve all had enough travelling for the day. In the morning we’ll continue our journey east.”

  Giuseppe followed the caravan down to the river that cut a swath along the south of the mountains, the land on either side nourished by its waters, providing the thick vegetation they now found themselves surrounded by. As they reached the river’s edge Giuseppe dismounted and immediately began to strip down his horse.

  “Brother.”

  The voice was a whisper, barely audible. Giuseppe turned to see his master standing behind him, his own horse blocking the rest of their group from sight.

  “Yes, Master?”

  “I need to ask a great favor of you, one only you can be trusted with.”

  “Anything, Master.”

  Marco stepped closer, lowering his voice further.

  “I need you to take the idol to Rome.”

  Giuseppe’s chest tightened and his heart raced as the muscles in his face slackened. The thought of travelling for so long with the idol that still haunted his dreams was overwhelming. So overwhelming he found himself shaking his head, something that shocked him to his core.

  You’re refusing your master!

  “I’m sorry, Master,” he finally managed, forcing his head to stop shaking. “I of course will do whatever you require.”

  Marco smiled, his face one of understanding and compassion. “I knew you would.” He sighed. “I fear this may be the last time we see each other. Our journeys are long and in opposite directions. When you reach the Holy See, this letter”—he handed him a scroll with a wax seal—“will give you an audience with the Holiness himself. It is from the Khan explaining the idol, and his wishes concerning it.”

  “I will guard it with my life, Master,” said Giuseppe, looking briefly at the seal then back at his master.

  He fetched another scroll from his bag, handing it to Giuseppe, but before letting go, he looked deeply into his eyes. “This is the most important thing you carry.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “These are the papers granting you your freedom, and your Venetian citizenship as a freeman and member of the Polo family.”

  Giuseppe’s heart nearly stopped. “I don’t understand.”

  “Undertake this mission for your family, brother, and you will be free, an equal to all those you once served. And should you choose to—for you are free to make your own choice—I would be honored if you would take Polo as your name, and join me in China as my brother.”

  Marco’s eyes were glass, as were Giuseppe’s. The gesture was overwhelming, and rare. He had met several freemen in his life, but had never considered it for himself, his life with the Polo’s far better than what many slaves endured. He was confused, emotions conflicting with each other, excitement and sorrow amongst them. Freedom, but without his master, his friend, his brother.

  He looked up at him. “Should God will it, I will do everything I can to return to your side as I was always meant to be.” His voice cracked and he looked away.

  Marco’s hand found his shoulder, providing comfort. “And I shall wait for you as long as it takes, for should you fail in your mission, then clearly what Roberto said is correct and we are not safe without the Khan’s protection.”

  “Should I fail, you will remain? What of your life and family in Venice?”


  “My remaining may very well protect that life and family,” replied Marco. “But not to worry. You will succeed, you will journey back to join me should you wish—”

  “I demand it!”

  “—and we will enjoy the Khan’s hospitality, side-by-side, for as long as it is ours to enjoy and desire. Then we will return to Venice, brothers, and richer than the Doge himself!”

  “I think I would like that,” managed Giuseppe. The mood changed almost instantly when Marco handed him the bag containing the crystal idol.

  “You will take this now, and mention it to no one. After all have gone to bed, I will wake you on my watch as usual. You will pack your horse and leave. I will say we had a fight and that I sent you back to Venice as punishment. Only my father and uncle will know the truth. We will pretend we still have the idol and that we are bringing it to the Khan. This should hopefully buy you time to escape those who might pursue us.”

  “I understand, Master.”

  They stood in silence for a moment, Giuseppe fearing to say anything that might put him over the edge. What his master had offered him was incredible, but to claim it he must give up that which he loved most for years, and perhaps forever—his master.

  Marco suddenly embraced him, Giuseppe standing in shock for a moment, then returning the embrace as it was given.

  As a brother.

  Papal Office, Apostolic Palace, The Vatican

  Present day, one day after the kidnapping

  Professor James Acton had always accepted that his would be a plain life from a materialistic point of view—you didn’t become an archeology professor if you wanted to be rich. The riches you might find would go to the university or whoever might be funding the expedition, and with funding rare, much of his own hard earned money would be spent supplying some of the essentials that others felt weren’t.

  Like mosquito netting or finer brushes.

  But Professor Laura Palmer, his fiancée, who he was certain had similar ambitions to his own—the glamorous life of globetrotting after trinkets—was rich. Filthy stinking rich some might describe her as. When she had been kidnapped he had become privy to just how rich when they were looking at paying her ransom.