The Venice Code (2 page)

That was when Giuseppe’s captor collapsed to the ground, finally forcing his eyes from his master. The man was now at his feet, an arrow protruding from his chest. Giuseppe looked at his master, then the leader of the ruffians, and saw another arrow protruding from the man’s back.

It had all happened in seconds, and now several more thuds were heard, more of their attackers collapsing, including the two holding his master, who immediately dropped to the ground, grabbing a blade and rushing toward one of the few remaining targets. Giuseppe grabbed the blade from his own attacker’s scabbard and rushed forward to join his master as the surviving ruffians looked about in confusion.

A confusion that only lasted seconds, decisions quickly made.

They fled into the dusk, the ever thickening snowfall obscuring their escape.

Giuseppe rushed to his master’s side, warily eying the lengthening shadows and wondering who had come to their rescue. A shape moved and Giuseppe instinctively placed himself between it and his master. He felt a gentle hand on his shoulder then heard his master’s voice.

“Do you not think that those shadows might be friends?”

The thought had occurred to Giuseppe, but he was unwilling to put his master’s life at risk again.

“They might very well be friends, Master, but they may also be the same scoundrels who just fled, returning in greater numbers.”

The hand patted Giuseppe on the shoulder, then he saw his master step forward, his sword drawn, even with Giuseppe as the number of shadows approaching increased.

“Then we shall fight them side by side as brothers.”

Giuseppe’s eyes almost glistened at the words, and he couldn’t honestly say that a tear hadn’t escaped, the snow melting against his flushed cheeks perhaps mixing with a salty bead. He was just happy his master hadn’t seen his moment of emotional weakness. But the pride he felt at that moment was unrivaled in his lifetime of service. To be called a brother of his master? He could imagine no greater honor. He knew any words he said at that moment would trivialize what had just been said, so instead he merely nodded, squaring himself for any possible attack.

“Are you okay?” came a voice from the darkness that Giuseppe immediately recognized as his master’s father.

Giuseppe’s shoulders sagged as the tension of the past ten minutes was wiped away with those three simple words. He turned to look at his master who grinned at him as he tossed his commandeered weapon and retrieved his own, Giuseppe doing the same.

“We’re fine, Father,” replied his master as the shadows cleared with the approach of the rest of the travelling party he had thought left behind. The master’s father and uncle emerged from the darkness along with their servants, all armed, all still on their guard.

Hugs were exchanged amongst the family, Giuseppe standing respectfully aside, instead turning his attention to the leader of the ruffians who lay on his side, moaning nearby. He kicked him onto his back, the arrow pushing farther into his body with a gasp.

The three kinsmen circled the man, gazing down at his agonized form.

“Wh-who are you?” he gasped, looking from man to man.

The master’s father took a knee, prying the gold tablet from the man’s hand.

“I am the rightful owner of this, not you,” he said, rising and handing it back to his son.

“I think it’s perhaps best if you held on to this, Father.”

He shook his head. “No, I think you have earned it. Your suspicions were correct and you were indeed ambushed. If it were not for your foresight, we would have all been captured and murdered. Instead, your idea of having us follow you proved genius. When you meet the Khan, I have no doubt he will honor you with one of your own.”

Giuseppe’s master smiled, taking the tablet and returning it once again to the security of an inner pocket.

“Who—?”

“Who am I?” interrupted his master, taking a knee beside the dying man. “Who am I, the architect of your destruction?” He leaned forward, his mouth almost at the man’s ear. “I am Marco Polo, and you are no more.”

And with those words, Giuseppe’s master slid a knife between the man’s ribs, ending his suffering.

River Road, Potomac, Maryland

Present day

Grant Jackson’s head vibrated against the glass of the large Cadillac, his legs stretched out in the backseat, his eyes closed as his left hand cradled a glass of eighteen year old Macallan, the ice clinking against the edges of the crystal. His throat was a bit sore and a glass of water would probably do him better, but until they invented water that helped numb the entire body while quenching your thirst, he’d stick to the scotch.

He took a sip blindly, the smooth liquid setting fire to his mouth as he rolled it around, enjoying the flavor. Finally he swallowed the smoky brew and sighed in satisfaction, returning the glass to its perch on his knee. He had never had a drop of scotch until his dad had died, and in a fit of anger and sorrow, he had grabbed a bottle of his father’s favorite and drank it until he learned to like it.

It was definitely an acquired taste with him.

He had thrown up that night, and he thanked the malt masters that had created the golden liquid for their skill in brewing excuses, for he wasn’t certain it was the alcohol that had made him vomit. The fact that his father, the President of the United States, was dead was shock enough, but to find out he had been murdered, in the White House, by a man Grant had known since he was a baby was even more shocking.

His mother had nearly become a recluse, retreating from society and refusing to speak of it, and whenever he asked questions about what had happened, he was stonewalled at every turn. He considered himself an intelligent man, and he knew something wasn’t right. There was no way Lesley Darbinger, his father’s closest friend and most trusted advisor, would just kill his father for no reason. There had to be a reason. The marines had killed him moments after they heard the shots, but they had been too late to save his father, and too effective in their response to gain any intelligence from the shooter.

The investigation after the fact indicated that Darbinger had a brain tumor and most likely wasn’t in control of his actions, which would explain his ordering US Special Forces troops to assassinate a group of students in Peru under the guise they were a terrorist cell, and to pursue the survivors to London, England to eliminate them, all under the supposed orders of his father.

To Grant it sounded like bullshit, but what was the alternative? If Darbinger wasn’t guilty, then did that mean his father was? He wanted to know the answers, he was desperate to know, and he knew there was only one way he was going to find out, and that was from the inside.

Which was why he was now running for Congress. He’d ride his father’s coattails into the inner sanctum and try from within to get answers, and if he couldn’t get them, he’d run for President if he had to. He had the looks, the education and the pedigree to win, and he was determined to do so.

The car jerked to a halt sending Grant flying forward, his glass slipping from his hand. His head smacked the B pillar, stunning him momentarily as he heard shouts from the front of the car, then another slam, this one sending him backward as they were hit from behind. He pushed himself back into the seat, rubbing his head with his hand as the sounds of the front doors opening seemed far too distant.

“This is Sierra One, we’ve got a situation, send backup immediately, over!”

It was Mike, one of the Secret Service agents assigned to him whose voice brought Grant back to reality.

What the hell is going on?

Several shots rang out and Grant’s heart leapt into his throat as his pulse began to race. His shaking hands reached for the door but it was suddenly torn open, Mike’s free hand reaching in and grabbing him by the shirt. He was hauled out onto the pavement and into a puddle, the light rain from earlier in the evening still making its presence known.

Several shots were fired over his head and he looked at where the gun was aimed. A large black SUV was jammed against their bumper, a man using the passenger side door as cover. He looked behind them to see another SUV blocking the street, perpendicular to the Caddy. He was about to open his mouth to warn Mike when one of their attackers raised a weapon and shot. Mike’s shoulder blades jerked together, his chest bursting forward in pain and confusion as he dropped to his knees. His eyes met Grant’s as he collapsed.

“Run!” he gasped before his face hit the pavement. Grant jumped to his feet and sprinted toward a nearby alley. As he reached the entrance he felt something slam into his back and he flew forward, smacking the pavement hard. The sound of footfalls rushing toward him was all he could make out as a sudden warmth spread through his body, his muscles relaxing as he slowly blacked out.

And as his eyes flickered shut, he saw a man’s hand reach down to grab him, his watchband slipping slightly, revealing a small tattoo made of three parallel lines, the third slightly thicker and rounded up toward the other two.

Approaching Karakorum, Mongol Empire

March 24
^th
, 1275 AD

About the only good thing that Giuseppe could say about the past day was that their attackers hadn’t returned. And that was all. What had started as light snow flurries had turned into a squall that had lasted all night. It was unlike anything Giuseppe had experienced before, Venice not known for its snowstorms. His master, Marco, seemed thrilled with it, volunteering to take the first watch and letting his father sleep through his turn.

Giuseppe merely shivered in his furs, sitting at Marco’s side through four hours of the storm, huddled at the entrance to a cave they had discovered, a substantial fire continually fed by Giuseppe merely taking the edge off the icy wind.

“I’ve never seen such snow!”

It was at least the third time Marco had uttered these words, the excitement suggesting he was unable to contain himself, each outburst a release that would slowly build again over time, to be relieved temporarily by the next outburst.

“Neither have I, Master.”

It was the third identical reply, then nothing else would be said until the next utterance from his master.

“I guess you’re wondering why we left our planned route.”

Giuseppe’s eyebrows shot up in surprise at the unexpected statement. “It is not my place to wonder why.”

“Come now, Giuseppe, we have known each other long enough to be honest with one another,” said Marco with a smile and a wink.

“I have always been honest with you, Master!”

As if sensing his shock at the accusation, Marco leaned forward and grabbed Giuseppe’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze.

“Relax, Giuseppe, I’m only joking with you!” he said, laughing then letting him go. “We have known each other since we were children. We have played together, drank together and fought together. There can be no greater bond between men!”

“I serve at the master’s pleasure.”

“Hmm,” was the reply, Giuseppe’s heart immediately racing as he could detect the displeasure in Marco’s tone.

“I’m sorry if I offended you, Master.”

Marco shook his head. “No, you didn’t offend me. I sometimes forget your station, that is all. It is not my choice, you understand. If it were up to me, you would be a freeman, and we would be equals on this journey. But my father says that cannot be. Only family and servants will be permitted at the palace in Khanbalig, all others will be denied entry.” Marco grinned at him, a gleam in his eye. “And you know I wouldn’t survive without my trusted Giuseppe by my side in the great city!”

“Your words honor and humble me, Master.”

“I wish you would call me ‘Marco’.”

“I could never.”

Marco batted the words away with his hand. “I know, I know.” He looked at the entrance and the wind howling to gain entry. “I will tell you why we are here.”

Giuseppe said nothing, instead leaning forward.

“Kublai Khan has asked us to undertake a mission for him of the utmost importance.”

Giuseppe’s jaw dropped. There was no hiding his shock at the news, or the renewed awe he felt for his master. If the Khan himself had asked the Polo family for this favor, it surely indicated the esteem in which the great leader held them.

And yet he still remained silent, daring not ask the questions that filled his head.

“As you know, my father and uncle returned from their journey with a message from the Khan for the Pope. We currently carry the reply to that message along with many gifts from the new Pope Tedaldo for the Khan. This makes our journey important as we have an opportunity to spread Christianity throughout the Khan’s territory.” Marco lowered his voice. “You remember the envoy? The one that met us before we changed our route?”

“Of course, Master.”

“He had a message from the Khan. Apparently there is a problem in the former capital of Karakorum which is where we are heading now. What you might not know is that Karakorum was built by Genghis Khan to be his capital after he defeated the Khwarezm Empire. His successors built it into a great walled city with a large palace that made it a center for politics that spanned the entire Mongol Empire.

“But something went wrong, and when Kublai Khan claimed the throne he abandoned the city, relocating the capital several times, finally settling on Dadu which we now know as Khanbalig. What wasn’t known before was why he abandoned the former capital. The messenger provided the answer, an answer I can hardly believe.”

Giuseppe had been given the benefit of an education thanks to his masters, but only in the basics. He could read and write in several languages, he understood mathematics but not to any great degree—he could handle himself in a market—and knew the Bible and the history of the Church. But world geography, that beyond Europe, and history outside of his own continent? He had almost no knowledge. He had made every attempt to overhear the stories told by his master’s father and uncle upon their return, and when he had been informed he would be accompanying them on their second journey along the Silk Road, he had been thrilled.