The Golden Vendetta (14 page)

T
he devil will pay. The devil will pay.
The devil will pay!

The words pounded in Galina's ears over and over as she struggled to kick open the door of the sinking Mercedes. The window cracked. Water filled the cabin; such an odd sight, water inside the windows, sloshing over the dashboard. Hair floated around her face like black tendrils; blood seeped across her eyes; rage battled despair fighting confusion.

Ugo Drangheta will die. His thief will die! I will have the
ocularia!

Stars erupted in her eyes, knife blades in her forehead. She was screaming—
Not like this! Not like this!
—when
the wrenching and ripping of steel focused her.

After slicing through the harness and snapping the steering post, three divers pulled her out. She would not die like this. She would not die today.

A half hour later Galina was aboard her speeding yacht, motoring away from the Monaco harbor at full speed. The police motor launch had been sent away, its occupants each a thousand euros richer.

“To the airport,” she said, barely controlling her rage. Her heart was thrumming like a turbine. The scar on her neck burned with white-hot pain.

“To the airport and wherever Ugo Drangheta has taken my
ocularia
!”

A
fter dropping the damaged Fiat at an Ackroyd-friendly garage, Julian joined the others in the Citroën. On the screaming drive to the Côte d'Azur airport, Darrell found himself pounding things—his car seat, the side panels, the ceiling over his head, his legs, Wade.

“Cut it out,” Wade snapped. “I can punch myself if I want to. And no, I don't want to.”

“We have to up our game.”

“We know, Darrell, we know,” Lily groaned. “No sports metaphors.”

They had emerged from near-death chaos with nothing, thought Darrell. Nothing! They were empty-handed.
They should have done better.

“We need to go on the offensive,” he continued. “Which is maybe a sports thing, but it's also a military thing, which is what we need to be now. Soldiers.”

“You will be,” said Julian. Sara parked in a short-term lot and they made their way into the noisy terminal together. “Listen,” he went on, “according to my dad, Ugo Drangheta is a ruthless character. A businessman, but as arrogant as he is wealthy. His place in Morocco is his closest villa, and I'm willing to bet that's where he's flying right now. The place is a fortress, guarded by a private police force. And by that I mean a small army.”

“We hope it's small,” said Lily.

“Granted, yes, we don't know troop strength for absolute sure,” said Julian. “But speaking of soldiers, my dad knows people in Morocco. Ex–special forces. Very private. Very good. They'll be able to help.” He headed toward the Royal Air Maroc ticket counter. “This way.”

“Africa?” said Becca. “We're going to Africa?”

“Morocco's a short trip by plane,” Julian said. He tugged out his wallet. “No need for visas, or shots, if you're staying in the north.” They got into line.

“Besides being ruthless, this guy Drangheta is reckless,” said Wade. “He was so public about stealing the
ocularia.
He's taunting Galina. He wants her to go after
him. And she will. She absolutely will.”

“I just hope he doesn't do something like destroy the spectacles,” said Becca. “What happens if a relic never gets discovered? If Drangheta is mad at Galina, he might do something disastrous.”

“I don't think he will,” said Darrell. “Not until she gets there.”

Sara breathed in and out slowly. “We'll find out. We're going after him. Julian, we're ready to go. Are you?”

“Unfortunately”—Julian looked from one to another of them, a half grin on his face—“I won't be able to share in the fun.”

“You're not going?” Lily asked.

“I . . . can't. There was a little . . . incident. Last February. Technically, Dad and I are not friends of the Moroccan state, so they put us on the no-fly list. We'd be arrested. So they tell me.”

“What did you do?” asked Wade.

Julian ran his fingers through his long hair. “I sort of accidentally on purpose helped a human rights activist out of the country. He seemed like a nice guy, so I couldn't let him go to jail. He
is
a nice guy. But he had a price on his head. Dad didn't know I was doing it and was crazy mad at me, but come on, he would have done
the same thing. He shared the rap, and they gave us both the boot. Don't worry, though; someone will meet you at the airport. I'm not sure who just yet, but he'll be first-rate and up to speed and have a bunch of well-armed friends. I'll give him a code to identify himself with—”

“Have him say, ‘The red condor has landed,'” Darrell said. “That's a good one. And we'll answer, ‘Barracudas like spaghetti—'”

“No, tortellini,” Wade amended. “Less obvious.”

Julian looked at them both. “Something like that.”

He and Sara stepped up to the Royal Air Maroc ticket agents and booked five seats for the next flight to Casablanca, under the names of Theresa McKay, her two sons, and two wards.

After they were done, Becca turned to Sara. “I don't know that we have much choice, but I guess we'd better tell Uncle Roald what we're doing.”

“I was waiting to tell him where we were going.” Sara made the call, and told Roald to put them on speaker. “Where are you now?” she asked.

“Central Italy,” he said, “not far from Gran Sasso. We were hoping to wait for Paul Ferrere to join us before we go in, but I received another urgent call from Dr. Petrescu, so we may not be able to wait.”

“Roald and I will still arrive before most of the others,” Terence piped in. “Which will give us a chance to case the place before we go under the mountain.”

“It sounds a little too
Lord of the Rings
to me,” said Sara. “Be careful.”

“You, too,” said Roald. “What's happening there?”

“We're off on the road to Morocco,” she sang.

“What?”

“Well, on the jet to Morocco, actually.”

“You're kidding.”

They explained briefly what had happened that evening. He listened patiently. “Oh, man. Okay, I get it, but kids, listen. Promise me that you will
not
be doing anything dumb or dangerous that will make Sara freak.”

“We won't,” said Wade. “Promise.”

“And Sara, I know you know this, but I have to hear myself say it.”

“Go.”

“It's just that I remember my mother saying that she always felt slightly crazy worrying about my brother and me. She told me that if she didn't feel crazy, an alarm would go off in her head.”

“I have the same alarm,” Sara said. “And I promise to be crazy at all times.”

“Then good luck. I love you all. Call me every ten minutes.”

“Half hour,” said Wade. “Good luck, Dad.”

The call ended, Julian waved, and they moved together into the security line. An hour and a half later they were in the air.

Casablanca, Morocco

June 6

1:23 a.m.

T
he sleek cream-colored Bentley convertible, an exact twin to the one sitting outside a private hangar in Nice, powered swiftly under the stars away from the Mohammed V airport in Casablanca.

It was headed east.

Ugo Drangheta's beautiful driving companion, named simply Mistral, sat in the passenger seat, clutching a seven-million-euro pair of glasses that she did not own. Removing her scarf, she let the wind sweep through her hair.

“Do you ever intend to use these glasses, Ugo? Or did I climb up the side of the Hôtel de Paris merely as bait to lure that woman here? Your contacts in Monte Carlo reported her yacht leaving the harbor, which it would not have done unless she was onboard. She survived her crash. She has nine lives. Nine times nine.”

Drangheta laughed. It was a deep, angry sound, and unpleasant. He seldom laughed in his life, and when he did, it was an aggressive noise, even to his own ears. He didn't bother to hit his directional signal as he took a sharp right up a sweeping driveway.

He turned his face to her. “Galina Krause will regret every moment of her short life when she sets foot on this property. The murder of my sister, my gentle sister, was unforgiveable. It took my investigators over two months to prove it was not an accident, so well had she covered her tracks. Now that I know, I will end Galina Krause.”

The road to the main property on Drangheta's estate was long, an S-shaped mile of crushed shell, lined the entire way with cypress trees jutting like rockets at the sky. What one couldn't see, unless he knew to look, were cameras and remotely controlled guns stationed every few feet along the road.

Drangheta slowed the Bentley in the wide forecourt
and stopped. His vast Moorish villa sprawled over several acres. It featured marble floors, indoor fountains, high, tiled walls, and an ostentatious gold dome from whose observatory one could view not only the sky but also the dazzling purple Atlas Mountains zigzagging north to the sea.

He walked Mistral into the entry hall. “Place the
ocularia
in the vault,” he said. “If the night is quiet, I'll inspect them in the morning.”

“The night will not be quiet,” she said, tossing her black headscarf onto a sofa. “The woman will not be able to resist.”

“I do hope you're right. It would be much more delightful to study the glasses knowing that Galina Krause has died at my hands.”

Drangheta felt rage edge up his throat as he snapped his stubby fingers.
Do not anger a powerful man,
he thought.
You just might die from it.
Four men in riot gear emerged from a hallway obscured behind a barrier of columns.

“Sir Ugo?” said one.

“The villa will be attacked tonight. Put all necessary precautions in place immediately.”

“Sir,” the soldier responded. The men disappeared silently behind the columns. Soon the sound of the
villa's fortifications engaging began. Gates slid over every window and door. Inch by inch, the walled-in gardens grew tall iron spikes that rose up to various heights. What had been a stone walk receded into its retaining wall, revealing a deep artificial moat around the villa. Searchlights blinked along the entire perimeter. Miles of fencing hummed with electrification. The gate across the driveway was reinforced with a titanium barrier. Finally, seven military transports in the stables roared to life, each carrying a dozen heavily armed mercenaries. They began their patrol of the perimeter roads.

“If she tries tonight,” he said, “she will be killed.”

“There are others who may want the
ocularia,
too,” said Mistral. “Let's not discount them, my dear. What about the others in the hotel suite? The American family. They have an interest in Galina's plans.”

Drangheta's lips grew into a tight smile as he ascended the wide stairs toward the second floor, then paused on the landing. On the wall hung a portrait of his brilliant sister, Uliana, eight years his junior, an excellent pilot, killed before she'd had a chance to live.
I will squeeze Galina Krause until there is nothing left.

“This is war, Mistral. The Americans will be mere collateral damage.”

He paused on the landing and found he could not move from it. Staring into the eyes of his sister, he felt his chest shudder.

“I love . . .
loved . . .
my sister beyond all life.”

Mistral joined him on the landing. “What if you could bring her back?”

Not taking his eyes from the portrait, he half turned. “What?”

“A time machine. This is what your investigators said Galina Krause may be assembling. Many deaths have been attributed to it. Many more. For a machine? Think about it, Ugo.”

He faced her now. “Do not mock me with a fantasy.”

“Galina Krause is not a fool. If she believes in this machine and murdered your sister for it, is there not reason to believe in it? Should we find out more, Ugo?”

Tears began to flood his eyes, spill onto his cheeks. “Perhaps. For now, please take the glasses to the vault. I will be in the dome, awaiting the battle to come.”

He turned from the landing and walked up the dark stairs, deep in thought.