The Venice Code (8 page)

Triple?

“I’m sure you’re dying to know why you’re both here.”

They nodded in unison.

“President Jackson’s son was kidnapped today.”

“We saw the news flash,” said Sherrie, exchanging a look with Leroux as he knew damned well she was remembering what had happened after that, just as he was.

“You’re going to be read-in on a file that is above Top Secret. Once you know what’s really going on, Mr. Leroux, you’ll be our lead analyst on this. I’ll want you to hunt for anything that will lead to the recovery of Grant Jackson. Agent White, you’ll be our liaison with the Special Forces team that has been assigned should they be needed since you’ve worked with them before.”

“Delta Team Bravo?”

Morrison nodded.

“Now you are all aware that President Jackson was murdered by his Chief of Staff, Lesley Darbinger. Here’s what you didn’t know.”

Fifteen minutes later Leroux knew exactly why he could never quit this job, even for triple his salary.

Inside the Red Mosque, Karakorum, Mongol Empire

March 29
^th
, 1275 AD

Giuseppe, surrounded with enemy guards ahead of him and reinforcements arriving from below, decided it was best to attack up and perhaps save his master, rather than try to save himself with the easier downward attack. He thrust forward with his sword, embedding it in the back of the unsuspecting soldier ahead of him, swiftly withdrawing the blade. Pulling the body with his left hand down the stairs, he plunged forward with his blade at the next guard, then the next, their bodies collapsing, the final one with a surprised cry that had his compatriots farther up the stairway turn, finally realizing they were under attack from behind.

As they turned, Giuseppe, blade soaked in blood, thrust again, but this time was parried by the now prepared guards, guards who had the advantage of being higher on the stairs. Giuseppe could hear the swords continue to clash above him, though they seemed to have slowed, his master obviously tiring. He could only imagine Marco’s exhaustion, his own tremendous, though the total time of his own engagements far shorter.

His master’s persistence only inspired him more. He rapidly ceded several steps, and as his closest opponent rushed down after him, Giuseppe suddenly stopped and shoved forward, catching the man off guard, the sword sinking several inches into his stomach. The guard grabbed for the wound with his free hand, his sword slashing down onto Giuseppe’s blade before he could remove it from the man’s flesh.

The man cried out in pain as his stomach opened from his own mistake. He collapsed forward, causing Giuseppe to cede several more steps then spin as he heard the footfalls of the reinforcements reach him.

An arrow flew past him, embedding itself in the approaching guard’s neck, another swiftly following, slicing into a man’s shoulder causing him to drop his sword. Giuseppe smiled, his relief palpable, as it was the two altar boys, Roberto and Vincenzo, who had been rushing toward him, disobeying their orders.

Thank God!

Words weren’t exchanged, Giuseppe instead raising his sword over his head, his energy renewed at least momentarily, dropping it rapidly, cleaving the man’s other shoulder. He collapsed with a cry and Giuseppe pressed their advantage. As the next guard rushed forward to attack, Giuseppe ducked and one of the two new arrivals fired an arrow into the man’s chest. They continued forward, this method working as the staircase was so tight, the guards behind couldn’t see how their compatriots were being felled.

Within minutes they were near the top, the clash of swords continuing ahead, but the shouts and grunts of their enemy far fewer than earlier. Thirteen had been the estimate, but Giuseppe was certain it was closer to thirty.

Suddenly he heard his master cry out in pain, his voice unmistakable above the fray. Giuseppe charged forward, thrusting his sword into the back of the next soldier, all having turned to press their apparent renewed advantage above. The man cried out as Giuseppe ran him through, reminding the others of the continued threat, but as Giuseppe rounded the corner he found only two men opposing him, one swinging his sword toward Giuseppe, the other about to plunge a sword into Marco.

“No!” screamed Giuseppe, sidestepping his attacker and ducking under the blow, the thump-thump of two arrows taking the man out ignored as Giuseppe rushed forward, his sword extended in front of him as the final guard’s blade swiftly swung toward Marco’s prone body. Marco looked over at his servant, his expression one of shock at seeing him, then rolled away from the stairs, the upper level of the tower a floor containing nothing but a pedestal in the center of the room.

The guard’s blade smacked hard into Giuseppe’s, sending it clashing to the stone floor, his hands shaking from the blow. The man’s hands were skilled, his own recovery almost instantaneous as Giuseppe stumbled forward, hitting the floor along with his loose sword. He looked over at Marco as the man raised his weapon high above his head. Marco slid his sword across the floor toward Giuseppe who rolled, grabbing the weapon and swinging it across his body, batting the rapidly descending death blow aside.

The man suddenly groaned, his eyes bulging as he dropped to his knees, then flat on his face, an arrow embedded in his back, Roberto rushing onto the topmost level along with Vincenzo. Giuseppe scrambled across the floor to his master.

“Are you okay?” he asked, searching for a wound, but finding none.

“Yes, I’m fine.”

“But you screamed. I thought you were wounded!”

“The behemoth stepped on my foot and nearly broke my toe,” replied Marco, getting up. “I fell backward and they almost got the best of me before you arrived. It’s good to know you can’t follow orders.”

It was said with a smile and Giuseppe took it for what it was. “Would you rather I wait for you down in the courtyard?”

Marco put his arm around his servant, then pointed to the center of the floor and the pedestal. “This is what it is all about.”

Giuseppe turned and gasped, a feeling of terror and uncertainty gripping him at what he saw.

In the center of the pedestal, surrounded by candles whose light seemed to pool together in the idol’s eyes, sat a crystal skull, exactly as he had imagined it in his dreams.

Colonel Thomas Clancy’s Office, The Unit, Fort Bragg, North Carolina

Present day, one day after the kidnapping

With Maggie at the barbecue, Colonel Thomas Clancy’s outer office was empty. Command Sergeant Major Burt Dawson rapped on the closed inner office door, still dressed in his Bermuda shorts and gaudy Hawaiian shirt with genuine bamboo buttons. He glanced down and quickly buttoned it up, covering his rock hard abs and chest—exposed to impress Maggie, but he figured the effect would be wasted on the Colonel.

“Enter!”

The Colonel didn’t sound happy. Dawson opened the door and stepped inside, closing it behind him.

“Good afternoon, Colonel,” he said, sitting in one of the two chairs in front of Clancy’s desk, the orders of the day always casual within the Colonel’s office unless brass or Washington were present.

“What the hell’s good about it?” muttered Clancy, jabbing his finger at a file on his desk. “Do you realize I’m supposed to be fishing right now? Fishing! Just me, a boat, a hat, a damned fishing rod and a cooler of beer. And some damned fine cigars my wife doesn’t want me smoking!” Both their eyes darted to the empty space on his desk that used to be occupied by his humidor.

“Sorry to hear that, Colonel,” replied Dawson, knowing the man too well to be worried that he was actually upset at him. Clancy was a soldier’s soldier. Dawson knew he always had his back, regardless of what politics might make him say publicly. He believed in “no man left behind”, he believed that The Unit was a family, and that to lose a member of the family was unacceptable.

“You heard about the kidnapping?”

“Just did.”

Clancy pushed the folder toward Dawson. “Take a look.”

Dawson took the file and flipped it open.

“Skip to the photos,” said Clancy, grabbing a pencil and sticking it in his mouth, the placebo a poor substitute for the real thing.

Dawson flipped through the file and found several crime scene photos. A Caddy with a dented front end and crushed rear end. An SUV that had rammed it. Two bodies and then something that had him stop, his chest pounding.

“Are we sure about this?” he asked Clancy, still staring at the enlarged photo of a man’s wrist, the symbol tattooed on it far too familiar for his liking.

“Absolutely. Both bodies have the tattoo on the inner left wrist. It’s identical to London. And their MO is the same. Non-lethal force, using tranquilizer darts instead of bullets.”

Dawson pursed his lips, flipping back to the two men. “Should have used bullets by the looks of it.”

“Agreed.”

Dawson flipped the folder closed. “So why am I here?”

“Because you’re one of the few in the Special Ops community who knows what really happened. The powers that be think this is going to get ugly, and our type of expertise might be needed, so they want people who already know the truth, rather than have to read-in more that don’t.”

“My team?”

“Take only those who were there from the beginning.”

Dawson nodded. “And where are we going?”

“Get your asses to Langley, you’ll liaise with one of their people and deploy as necessary.”

“Posse Comitatus?”

Clancy pushed another folder toward Dawson. “By order of the President of these United States, suspended. You are free to operate on American soil so long as it relates to the recovery of former President Jackson’s son.”

“Understood.”

Clancy waved his hand toward the door. “Now get out of here. I just might be able to squeeze a few hours of fishing in.”

“Yes, sir,” said Dawson, standing. “Good hunting.”

“You too, Sergeant Major,” replied Clancy as Dawson opened the door. “Oh, and Sergeant Major?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Try not to blow up half of London this time.”

Dawson snapped his sandaled heels together and gave the Colonel a Sergeant Bilko salute.

“Yes, my Colonel!”

“Piss off!”

Dawson stepped out and closed the door as a roar of laughter erupted from the other side. The smile on his own face quickly faded however as he recalled the events that had ended with dozens dead, all innocent, due to the manipulations and obsessions of one crazed man.

The President of the United States.

Stewart Alfred Jackson.

And he couldn’t help but wonder if his son was another innocent, caught up in his father’s affairs, or a willing participant.

All he could say for sure was that this time they wouldn’t be manipulated into doing anything.

Outside the Red Mosque, Karakorum, Mongol Empire

March 29
^th
, 1275 AD

Giuseppe’s arms pumped, his chest heaving from exhaustion. Never would he have thought he’d long for the simple hand-to-hand combat they had just experienced. At least it involved little running. But now the four of them were sprinting across the city in the darkness, hoping to not be spotted and praying the massacre at the mosque wouldn’t be discovered until they were long gone.

Marco led the way, his level of energy remarkable. Giuseppe was gasping, sucking in lungsful of air and near collapse. The two young men appeared none the worse for wear.

Who would have thought the life of a slave would leave you weak?

He couldn’t remember the last time he had run so hard for so long. Thankfully Marco suddenly came to a stop at the side of a building. Giuseppe dropped to the ground, lying on his back, gasping for air as the others gathered around, all taking a knee.

“Try to slow your breathing, my brother,” said Marco calmly, placing his hand gently on Giuseppe’s chest.

It didn’t help.

Marco turned to their companions. “This is the end for you two. We will continue through the nomad’s camp to the southern wall, then once over, will make haste to the south, and eventually safety.” Vincenzo opened his mouth to protest, but Marco cut him off with the raising of his hand. “Your duty now is to Father Salvatore. All I ask is that you remain here until we are out of sight to cover our escape, then return with caution to the church. I suggest you leave your weapons here then burn your clothes once you return as they are soiled in blood.” Marco looked from man to man. “There must be no evidence you were involved. If you are questioned, and someone says they saw us enter the church, confirm this. Don’t deny it. Simply tell them that we sought sanctuary then left shortly after, claiming we would be back, but never returned. Remember our horse is there. When things have calmed down, you may sell it and our belongings and donate it to the church.”

Roberto and Vincenzo reluctantly agreed, stripping themselves of their weapons as Marco rose, holding out a hand to Giuseppe, his gasps shallower, but exhaustion still his master. Giuseppe reluctantly took the hand and let himself be hauled to his feet.

Marco smacked him on the back. “Do not fear, my brother. We will walk most of the way. Two people running past tents won’t go unnoticed. Two men strolling toward the south gate shouldn’t attract any attention.”

Giuseppe smiled in relief as Marco turned to their companions, shaking their hands. Giuseppe did the same, still thankful for their ignoring orders and following him inside the tower. If it weren’t for them, he and his master would surely be dead now.

With one final expression of gratitude, Marco stepped onto the road and set a brisk but reasonable pace, Giuseppe casting a final wave over his shoulder and following. To their right were the large round tents of the nomads, the Bedouins, occupying the entire south-western quarter of the city. As he continued to catch his breath from their ordeal, the southern gates slowly increasing in size as they neared, he wondered if those in the tents were permanent residents or merely travelers. And if travelers, what was their purpose here? Was it the crystal skull now slung over Marco’s shoulder, or were they merely traders? All he was sure of was if they were at cross-purposes with them, he and his master would surely die, for the Bedouin’s penchant for and ability to fight was legendary.