The Venice Code (16 page)

Mario Giasson’s Office, Corpo della Gendarmeria

Palazzo del Governatorato, Vatican City

Present day, one day after the kidnapping

INTERPOL Special Agent Hugh Reading examined the copy of the scroll Acton and Laura had found. He shook his head, handing it back to Laura then tugging on his shirt, all of them uncomfortable, the HVAC apparently malfunctioning and forcing heat into the security offices instead of air conditioning.

“What the bloody hell does it mean? Looks like gibberish to me.”

“It’s obviously some kind of code,” replied Acton, using his own copy as a fan. “And without both pieces, we have no hope of deciphering its complete message.”

“But you’re certain this is what you’ve been looking for?” asked Giasson, wiping his completely bald head with a handkerchief.

“Pretty certain,” replied Laura who appeared as cool as a cucumber. “Completely certain? No. But I
have
seen the other half of this document, so it’s worth a try. Deciphering it will be the difficult part.”

“You’ve seen the other half?” asked Reading, wiping his forehead. “Where?”

“About ten years ago I was contacted by a private collector in Munich who said he had something that might interest me. I flew down and he showed me an ancient scroll he claimed belonged to Marco Polo.”

“Why did he think it would interest you?” asked Giasson, redirecting a fan slightly.

Laura held up the copy, pointing at the partial drawing of a skull. “Because of this. He knew I was considered an expert on the skulls, and he felt that the drawing looked like a crystal skull rather than something human.”

“And what did you think?”

“I thought it was rather curious, and the lines shooting out from the skull”—she pointed to several of them—“seem to suggest light, so it was possible.”

Reading leaned forward to look at the drawing closer. “Did you have any luck deciphering it?”

“No, the collector wouldn’t let me even take a copy. It was quite disappointing in the end.” She sighed. “To tell you the truth, I had put it out of my mind until now. But there is one thing he did say.”

“Which was?” asked Giasson, shoving his face into his desk fan.

“He said he had figured out the code, and if I were to bring him the second half, should it ever be found, he would translate the entire text and share it with me.”

Acton slapped both his knees as he looked at the others. “Sounds like we’re heading to Munich.”

Reading shook his head, exchanging knowing looks with Giasson. “And if I know you two, after Munich we’ll end up somewhere I
really
don’t want to be.”

Khanbalig, Mongol Empire

July 17th, 1291 AD

Ten years after Giuseppe’s death

Bartholomew heard whispered voices around him speaking in a language he didn’t understand. His skin pressed against soft bedding under him, a silk sheet caressed his skin above. A soft pillow cradled his head and the aroma of fresh incense filled his nostrils. He opened his eyes and blinked several times as he tried to bring the sights before him into focus.

Almost instantly he felt hands on him, helping him sit up, adjusting his bed covers, and before he could ask, a glass with cool water was pressed against his lips. He drank rapidly but the glass was soon taken away as a man approached. His skin was dark, not as dark as those he had seen from the African continent, but close to a deep tan he was used to seeing amongst his Christian brethren. His eyes were pinched, his mustache thin and long, and his beard merely at the chin, the hair long and shaped into a point.

It suddenly struck him that he was looking at someone from the Far East. He had never seen someone from so far away, and he couldn’t help but stare as the man began pressing various parts of his body with his fingers, finally ending with several taps on his chest then a long look into his eyes.

He stepped back and nodded with apparent satisfaction, motioning for one of the women standing to the side to bring water. This time Bartholomew made certain he took the glass and held it to his own lips rather than let the nurse, otherwise it might be taken away.

He drained it, motioning for more.

The nurse looked at what was apparently the doctor and she brought him more. It took at least half a dozen glasses before he found himself begin to be quenched.

He felt a twinge in his stomach.

“My name is Chan. Can you understand me?” asked the man.

Bartholomew nodded.

“You speak Italian?”

The man nodded. “I was taught it by a young man, though not so young now. His name was Marco Polo.”

Bartholomew shoved up on his elbows, his heart slamming against his chest in excitement.

“That is who I seek! Do you know where I can find him?”

The man frowned, shaking his head. “I am sorry to hear that. It would appear you have had a long, arduous journey.”

“Ten years.”

“So long, so close, and yet so far.”

“What do you mean?” Bartholomew could feel a knot in his stomach begin to form as he sensed bad news was about to be delivered.
Could Marco be dead?

“Marco Polo, his father and his uncle, left several months ago to escort a princess to her wedding in Persia, then they are to return home to Venice.”

Bartholomew collapsed into his pillows, all strength leaving him. Ten years of hardship. Ten years of pain. And if he had just travelled with Angelo, stopped in Venice and waited, he would have had more success.

Ten years wasted!

Tears welled in his eyes as self-pity swept over him, his mind cursing Giuseppe for this promise, Angelo for getting the easier part of the journey, and Marco Polo for having forced his slave to deliver the crystal idol to the Pope in the first place.

The thought of the Pope had him awash in shame just as quickly as he realized his self-pity had twisted everything. Giuseppe loved his master, and his master apparently loved him, even having given him papers granting his freedom. Giuseppe had become too ill to fulfill his final mission and had entrusted that responsibility to his two best friends.

I’m sorry Giuseppe!

Tears rolled down his cheeks as he realized he had failed. He turned his head in shame, burying the side of his face in his pillow as his chest and shoulders heaved in sobs.

“What is it that troubles you?”

Bartholomew sucked in a breath and held it, fighting off the sobs through sheer willpower, finally exhaling then wiping his cheeks dry with the sheet covering him. He turned back to the doctor, his eyes burning from the tears.

“I have failed.”

“Failed? How?”

“I have a message for Marco Polo from his former slave. It was essential that he receive it.”

“You mean that?” asked the man, pointing at a nearby table. Bartholomew looked and saw his carefully preserved scroll sitting on it. It was everything he could do to not leap from the bed and take it.

“Yes.”

“And it was from Giuseppe?”

“You know of him!”

“Of course. Marco and I became very close friends over the seventeen years he spent with us. He spoke very often of Giuseppe with great fondness. He was deeply saddened when he never heard back from him, and eventually he came to accept that Giuseppe must have failed in his mission and died. He held a memorial for the man he called his brother and wept in his honor.” The man wiped a tear from his own eye. “It was very moving.”

Bartholomew motioned for some water and it was immediately brought to him. He quickly gulped it down as both men composed themselves. Before he could speak, the doctor continued.

“It occurs to me that you have not failed in your mission.”

“I fail to see how.”

“Your mission is to deliver the message to Marco. Just because Marco is no longer here does not mean you have failed.”

Bartholomew sank back in his pillows slowly as he realized what the man said was true. Even if he had to travel all the way back to Venice to deliver the message, as long as it was eventually delivered, he would have succeeded. A smile spread across his face.

“Do you have any suggestions as to how I might accomplish this feat?”

The man nodded, his own smile stretching across his face.

“Kublai Khan himself has asked to meet with you. I am certain if we asked him, he would fund an expedition to return you safely to Venice.”

“We?”

The smile broadened even further. “Yes,
we.
I have every intention of coming with you so I can see my friend once again.”

Horseshoe Lane, Potomac, Maryland

Present day, one day after the kidnapping

“This must be it,” said Niner as the car they had been following for the past fifteen minutes pulled off the road and into the drive of what appeared to be an old farmhouse. Dawson continued to drive without slowing down as Niner punched a button on his phone, marking the GPS location.

A large stand of trees at the corner of the next neighbor’s property provided good cover and Dawson stopped. Niner already had his binoculars trained on the house when Dawson retrieved his from the backseat.

“She’s getting out now,” said Niner.

Dawson followed the driveway to the house and saw the Hispanic woman standing uncertainly, her purse clutched tight to her chest. A door opened and a man stepped out.

“Gun.”

Dawson nodded. “This is it. Call it in.”

Niner tapped his comm. “Control, Bravo Eleven. Possible location on target at GPS coordinates I am transmitting now.” He pressed a button on his phone. “Requesting immediate backup—”

“And eyes in the sky,” said Dawson.

“—and aerial surveillance, over.”

“Bravo Eleven, Control. Request confirmed, standby, over.”

“There he is,” said Dawson as he saw Grant Jackson step out onto the porch, urging a reluctant servant inside. As soon as the woman saw him she ran to him, hugging him hard as they were ushered inside by the armed man.

“He’s alive,” said Niner, activating his comm again. “Control, Bravo Eleven. Confirmed sighting of target and at least one armed hostile, over.”

“Bravo Eleven, Control. Units are rolling your way now, ETA fifteen minutes. Drone has been retasked, will be on your location in five, over.”

“Roger that, Control, out.”

Niner swung their tactical computer, mounted to the dash and punched up the feed from the UAV. Within moments they had an overhead shot rapidly speeding by as the UAV acquired the target.

“Fifteen minutes,” repeated Niner. “This could be all over by then.”

“Agreed,” said Dawson. “But that place could be crawling with HT’s and there’s only two of us.”

Niner nodded. “If only there was two of
me
, then we could go in.”

Dawson laughed then stopped as he saw a curtain move and a set of eyes looking directly at them.

“We’ve been made.”

Horseshoe Lane, Potomac, Maryland

Present day, one day after the kidnapping

“We’ve got company!” called Chuck Holder as he stepped back from the window. Grant’s heart leapt, not sure of how he felt. He was after all a hostage to these men and was quite certain, though he had decided to cooperate for the moment, they had no intention of letting him go, even if he asked. He eyed the front door. All he had to do was cross the room, open it, then run outside. He knew they wouldn’t shoot him, that much was already obvious to him. And if Louisa had brought the letter, they wouldn’t need him regardless.

You’d be free!

“Are you sure?” asked Mitch, immediately stepping to the window and peeking outside. “Where?”

“Stand of trees, just down the road.”

“Shit! I see them.” He turned to the room. “Let’s go, now!”

Grant’s grand plans of escape had one flaw. Louisa. She was still hugging him hard, gripping him like a vice, as if he were the one piece of dry land in a sea of insanity, and if she were to let go she’d drown.

Grant could barely move.

Mitch grabbed him by the shoulder. “Let’s go, now!”

Grant removed his arms from Louisa. “We have to go,” he whispered. She released her grip from around his waist and instead grabbed his arm as he followed his captors, or partners—he wasn’t sure which—to the basement, which to him seemed an odd choice.

Once down the narrow stairs, Mitch stepped over to a wall and pushed against a shelf that to Grant’s surprise swung inward. Mitch motioned everyone to hurry and as Grant entered this hidden room, he gasped. Inside were two full-size SUVs at the head of what looked like a fairly long tunnel. Mitch opened the rear door of one of the vehicles, motioning Grant and Louisa inside.

“You’ve got the letter, right?” he asked Louisa.

Louisa nodded, pulling it out of her purse and handing it to Grant. He knew exactly why Mitch had asked again—Louisa was in such a panic, she might have left it in her car, or worse, back at the house. Grant looked at the envelope, confirming it was indeed the one he had received from the lawyer when the will was read.

“This is it,” he said. Mitch slammed the door shut in acknowledgement, then jumped in the passenger seat, Chuck already at the wheel. The SUV surged forward and into the tunnel. Grant glanced back and saw the headlights of the second SUV bouncing behind them.

He wasn’t sure how long it was before they suddenly angled up then skid to a halt, but it felt like a significant distance to him, easily hundreds of yards. Chuck reached up and pressed a button and a garage door opener kicked in, opening the doors blocking them. As soon as the doors stopped Chuck hammered on the gas, sending them hurtling toward the entrance.

“Easy,” soothed Mitch. “Remember, we want to look like we’re out for a Sunday drive.”

Chuck eased off on the gas as they emerged from the tunnel. Grant looked back to see the other SUV right behind them, the garage door of a small farmhouse closing behind it. He turned back to face the front as they pulled onto a road, their escape made.