The Venice Code (21 page)

Teufel nodded. “I truly am sorry for having deceived you. I must confess it wasn’t always the case, but I was recently persuaded that the time has come to test our faith. If the skulls truly have powers, then the only way to prove so is to unite them. If nothing happens, then they are mere trinkets to be forgotten. But if something does happen, even if it is another cataclysmic event as our history tells us happened eight hundred years ago, then it will prove our faith hasn’t been misguided, and will unite the Triarii once again in purpose!”

“You’re all barmy!” exclaimed Reading, his phone to his ear. He suddenly spun away, talking into his phone, low enough that Acton couldn’t hear him from the other side of the room.

“Regardless of your opinion of us,” continued Teufel, “you are under our control.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out what looked like a small remote. He pressed a button and the dim red light that had surrounded the chamber suddenly went green. Acton grabbed a chair as Mitch stepped toward the decontamination chamber. Acton shoved it between the inner doors, preventing them from closing, which in turn prevented the outer doors from opening.

“Nice try,” said Acton, making sure the chair wasn’t at risk of rolling away as the doors tried again to close on it. He walked toward Teufel, his hand outstretched. “How about you hand that over.”

Teufel reached in his other pocket and drew a gun. Acton raised his hands and stopped. Suddenly Reading’s hand whipped out, his back still to Acton, but his side open enough for him to have a clear view of what was going on. The back of his hand made contact with Teufel’s, the jarring impact causing the old man’s hand to reflexively open, sending the gun clattering into the corner.

Acton pounced on it, immediately checking the safety then ejecting the magazine to see if it was indeed loaded. It was. He pointed the weapon at the floor as he faced Teufel. “Now how about you hand over that remote control?”

Teufel, his face flushed with anger and embarrassment at the frailty old age brings, handed the remote to Acton who immediately reactivated the lockdown. He turned back to Mitch, whose smile was gone. Reading stepped up beside him and pushed the button on the panel to talk.

“I just got off the phone with my friends at INTERPOL. German police have already been dispatched. I figure you have three minutes.”

Mitch motioned for everyone to leave, but not before taking a step forward.

“This isn’t over, Professor Acton. And next time I may not be so friendly.”

Acton bowed slightly, as did Mitch, who then followed the rest of his men up the stairs. Acton turned to Reading.

“Why did you tell them? We could have just waited and they’d have been arrested.”

Reading shook his head. “It could have turned into a firefight and that kid could have been killed. You could see just by looking at him that he’s terrified. He has no clue what he’s gotten himself into.”

Acton bit his cheek, looking at the now vacant basement, remembering the look on the young Jackson’s face, agreeing with Reading.

“He’s going to have to get himself out of it on his own, otherwise he’s not going to survive.”

CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

Present day, two days after the kidnapping

CIA analyst Chris Leroux jabbed at the screen, a smile on his face, spinning in his empty office cubicle on instinct, hoping to share his success with someone. As usual he was disappointed. He turned back to his keyboard, his fingers flying furiously as he packaged up the footage he had accessed by hacking the airport security feeds. Tracking the second plane to its destination outside of Munich, Germany had been easy—they had filed a flight plan and followed it. He had to admit the decoy aircraft was genius and fooled everyone, even if it had made no sense.

But now everyone was tasked with trying to find out where the passengers had gone. His boss, Director Morrison, had decided to bypass regular channels and have him hack the security system to save time, the red tape of getting it from the Germans would have probably taken at least a day.

Now Leroux had footage showing four men exiting the plane along with Grant Jackson, who was unrestrained and by outward appearances happy, or at a minimum, unafraid.

Something’s not right.

He forwarded the footage to Morrison then began what he did best. Finding connections between apparently disparate things. The footage at the airport had shown them clear customs with incredible ease, especially since they had an apparent hostage with them. Grant Jackson could have at any point said something to security to ask for help, but he didn’t. And he didn’t even show a passport, merely being waved through with the others.

He sent a message to Morrison advising the security guard be investigated for collusion.

The cameras outside showed them being met by two men, handshakes exchanged, but not before young Mr. Jackson—easily five years older than Leroux—was put in the back of an idling SUV with blacked out windows. The new arrivals then split between two vehicles and what turned out to be a three vehicle convoy left the airport.

Leroux captured the license plates and sent off a request for traffic cameras feeds to be tapped to see if they could be traced, and for the local authorities to be on the outlook for the vehicles. As he leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers on both armrests, he closed his eyes.

Why Munich?

If the aim were to hold on to Jackson, it made sense to keep him within the country and mobile. Placing him on a plane, even with the decoy, was very risky, then moving him to Europe with its larger population and confined spaces didn’t make sense.

Unless their purpose was to deliver Jackson to a destination.

He knew from his briefing that the Triarii were based in London but were spread throughout every corner of the planet. Their wealth and numbers meant they most likely had contacts and safe houses pretty much everywhere, as was demonstrated with the Potomac farmhouse. A records search showed it belonged to the same family for generations, and they just happened to be away on vacation for a few days.

Leroux had no doubt they were Triarii, the tunnel proving it in his mind though they claimed to have known nothing about it.

But if the Triarii had taken Jackson to Europe, there had to be a purpose. The Triarii didn’t need money, and the storage locker they had raided and the maid’s testimony suggested they already had what they were looking for—a crystal skull. And that Jackson had gone willingly with them.

The maid’s testimony had been corroborated by the footage with respect to the willingness of Jackson to remain with his captors, which meant he was probably intending to follow in his father’s footsteps.

But what was the plan?

He knew from his briefing that apparently President Jackson’s intent was to try and unite several skulls to unleash their supposed power. So if that were still the plan, then they must be on their way to retrieve other skulls.

And who are the skull experts?

He could think of only two, and quickly punched in the two professors so closely associated with the events in London. He smiled when he saw they had just landed in Munich the night before.

Coincidence? I think not!

Further checking showed the flight originating from Rome with INTERPOL Special Agent Hugh Reading also aboard.

Family reunion?

He launched several searches and within minutes had his answer. An emergency call had been made by Special Agent Reading that very morning local time. Leroux pulled up the police report. Neighbors had reported seeing three SUVs arrive and at least a dozen men exit with weapons. When police arrived they were all gone and only the home owner, a Mr. Teufel, remained, locked in a panic room. He claimed he had been alone when the men broke in and tried to gain access to his collection. They left when he had called the police.

At this point there appeared to be no explanation as to why the call had come from Reading. It was clear to Leroux that the professors and Reading had been there when the Triarii arrived and had left before the police arrived. The question now was whether they left with the Triarii, or on their own. And if they left
with
the Triarii, was it willingly?

One of his searches popped up on his screen and he smiled as he saw a flight plan for Professor Palmer’s plane filed earlier in the day. He now knew where the Professors were, and most likely where the Triarii and Grant Jackson were now heading.

Aboard Laura Palmer’s Private Jet, En route to Israel

Present day, two days after the kidnapping

“Doesn’t this thing cost you a fortune?” asked Reading as he leaned back in the sumptuous leather seating of the Gulf V. “Aren’t they twenty or thirty million pounds?”

Laura laughed as she returned from the bathroom. “I don’t own it, silly. I’m part of a leasing network. I have a share in the ownership of a fleet of planes positioned around the world. When I need one, I just call and it is arranged.
Much
cheaper.”

“Still probably more than I make in a lifetime,” said Reading with a sigh. “I need to start buying lottery tickets.”

“It does help improve the odds of winning,” said Acton as he took Laura’s hand and gave it a triple-squeeze. “I still can’t believe how quickly you were able to arrange the flight.”

“Neither can I,” replied Laura. “Last time I went to Israel I’m sure it took a few days. That was some time ago so perhaps things have improved.”

Reading shook his head. “Don’t count on it. I called Martin and he had his friends grease the wheels.”

Acton blew a blast of air between his lips. “The Triarii are everywhere,” he murmured, his mind drifting to his best friend Greg Milton and how he had been shot in the back and left for dead. Only recently had he begun to walk again, and still with effort.

“How is Martin doing?” asked Laura.

“Like he’d tell me,” laughed Reading. “But I will say he sounded good. Lots of energy, spirits seemed to be up. I think us finishing this little mission of his will have him feeling fantastic.”

Acton had to smile. Reading and Chaney were close, and he knew Reading thought of Chaney almost as a son, there being a significant age gap. Reading and his own son were estranged, only recently had he managed to even get the boy, now a young man, to talk to him, so Chaney, his younger partner for years, became his surrogate.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so enthused to come with us on one of our projects,” observed Laura. “Perhaps we’ll make an archeologist out of you yet!”

Reading’s lips fluttered. “Phht! I don’t think so. And this isn’t archeology, this is a security job. You should have some of your SAS friends with you.”

“They’re too busy protecting the dig sites in Egypt and Peru,” replied Laura. “I guess you’ll have to do!”

“Bloody hell,” muttered Reading.

Acton’s phone buzzed, causing him to nearly jump in his seat. He pulled it from his pocket and looked at the message. It was a number with only two words accompanying it.
Call now!

“It’s him,” said Acton, unable to hide the excitement in his voice. CIA Special Agent Dylan Kane was a former student of his. He had been in Acton’s first year archeology course on a full ride football scholarship when 9/11 had happened. Within months the young man had sought Acton’s counsel, wanting his opinion on Kane’s thoughts of leaving college and joining the military.

Acton, himself a former reservist who had served in Gulf War I, was never one to discourage military service, and had merely acted as a sounding board. Kane had left and joined the army, excelling and quickly reaching the rank of Sergeant. As soon as he attained the rank he had applied for and won a spot in the Delta Force. Within a couple of years of that he had been recruited by the CIA. None of his latter career had been known to Acton until Kane had shown up at his class one day about a year ago, a different man, a damaged man, a secret from his past haunting him.

Acton had seen or spoken to him several times since, and was given an email address that was monitored either by him or on his behalf should he need his help.

Getting into the West Bank was something Acton thought Kane might indeed be able to help them with, so when they had left Teufel’s house before the police arrived, he had sent a simple message.
Need your help.

He dialed the number, Laura and Reading now silent.

“Hello, Doc!”

Acton smiled at the energy in the young man’s voice. “Hello Dylan, how are you?”

“Not too shabby, Doc. How’s the future Mrs. Acton?”

Acton glanced at Laura, winking. “She’s fine and sitting here with Special Agent Hugh Reading. Can I put you on speaker?”

“Go ahead, you’ll tell them everything I say regardless.”

Acton laughed and pressed the button to go hands free. “Okay, you’re on speaker.”

“Hello Laura, Special Agent Reading. I understand you need my help. Are you guys about to cause another international incident?”

 Laura laughed with Acton, Reading merely grunted in agreement. “With these two it’s always something like that,” he said.

“Yes, I’ve read their files,” laughed Kane. His voice became serious. “What can I do for you?”

Acton quickly gave him a rundown of what had happened, being careful to include his thoughts on Grant Jackson’s involvement and how willingly he may actually be participating. “So the bottom line is we need to get into Israel, specifically the West Bank near the city of Jericho, St. Gerasimos Monastery.”

“Christ, Doc, when you ask a favor they’re big!” laughed Kane. There was a pause then Kane’s voice came through, serious again. “When you get there you’ll be met. Follow their instructions to the letter. Understood?”

“Yes,” said Acton. “Met by who?”

“I’ll worry about that. And Doc?”

“Yes.”

“Be careful. What you’re asking for is big, and it’s dangerous. These people will kill you as soon as help you. Do what they say, don’t ask questions, and try not to look around too much.”