Blood Relics (A James Acton Thriller, #12) (26 page)

“That’s
my wife,” said Terrence. “She’s pregnant so take it easy!”

Jenny’s
hands appeared then her foot and finally her entire body as she stepped out.
Two officers rushed her, grabbing her arms but thankfully not throwing her to
the ground as they had him. She was patted down and handcuffed.

“Is
there anyone else in the vehicle?” asked the officer who appeared to be in
charge.

“There’s
one dead man who held us at gunpoint. The driver ran away. I don’t know if
there was anyone else in the front with him.”

“What
happened?

“We were
kidnapped. We thought we were being picked up by the Vatican, but instead it
turned out to be the same people who shot and kidnapped my professor in Paris.”

“Paris?”
The man’s eyes narrowed and words were exchanged in Italian, one of the
officers getting on his radio.

“Who
were you supposed to meet?”

“The
name is on my phone. Mario something.”

“Giasson,”
said Jenny. “He’s the head of Vatican security.”

“Inspector
General Giasson?” It didn’t sound like he believed them. “Why would you be
meeting with him?”

Terrence
pulled at his handcuffs. “We’re here to help with the recovery of a Blood
Relic.”

“Blood
Relic?”

“You
know, like the artifacts that have been stolen over the past few days that have
the blood of Christ on them.”

Excited
utterances erupted from the crowd, it clear this was a hot topic at the water
cooler in Rome.

An
officer approached with a phone, giving it to the man in charge. Words were
quickly exchanged then he motioned toward Terrence, an order given. The
handcuffs were removed and the phone put in his hand.

“For
you.”

“Hello?”

“Terrence
Mitchell?”

“Yes.”

“This is
Inspector General Giasson. I have someone here who will confirm your identity.
One moment.”

Muffled
noises then a familiar voice answered.

“Terrence?
This is Professor Acton.”

Tears of
relief filled his eyes as his face lit up at the sound of Acton’s voice.

It’s
almost over.

“Hello
Professor. We seem to be in a spot of trouble.”

“So I’ve
heard. Are you two okay?”

“A
little rattled, but we’re uninjured.” He lowered his voice. “Jenny shot one of
them.”

“I know.
Listen, sit tight, we’re coming to get you. We should be there within twenty
minutes.”

“Thank
you, Professor.”

“You’re
welcome. Now hand the phone back to the police officer.”

“Okay,
bye.”

He
handed the phone to the cop and more words were exchanged in Italian, Terrence
assumed with Giasson. A few minutes later the call was ended and the handcuffs
were removed from Jenny’s wrists.

A phone
rang, the distinctive ringtone immediately drawing Terrence’s eyes as he
recognized his own phone ringing. His eyes focused on a pile of personal
effects sitting on the sidewalk.

“May I?”
he asked, and one of the officers picked up the phone, handing it to him. He
looked to see the blocked number message then swiped his thumb. “Hello?”

“If you
tell them anything about your instructions, your wife dies.”

“Listen—”

“Look at
your wife’s stomach.”

Terrence
turned and nearly vomited, a red dot bouncing on Jenny’s stomach for a moment,
then disappearing. He could feel all the blood drain from his face.

“Do we
understand one another?”

“Y-yes.”

“Then
say, ‘I can’t talk now, mom, I’ll call you later’.”

“I-I
can’t talk now, mum, I’ll call you later.”

The call
ended and Terrence put the phone in his pocket, turning to Jenny.

“What’s
wrong?” she asked as he reached out and gripped the side of the police car she
was resting against.

“It was
them,” he whispered. “They said not to tell anyone about the instructions they
gave us.”

“I
hardly think they’re in any posi—”

The red
dot reappeared and he held up a finger, motioning with his eyes toward her
stomach. Jenny stopped and looked down. She gasped as her hands covered her
stomach protectively, the light dancing across her hands then disappearing.

How
could they have possibly known what we were saying?

Renner Security, Stuttgart, Germany

“Is all this really necessary?”

Dawson
held his arms out as a man in a crisp gray uniform wanded him. They had already
had to sign in, get their photos taken and have their ID’s scanned. Mr. White
and Mr. Green, both FBI agents stationed at the American Embassy in Paris, were
being thoroughly documented.

It’s
an intimidation tactic.

“Standard
procedure,” said a man observing the proceedings that had introduced himself
upon their arrival as Michael Kellner. His English was perfect and Dawson had
no doubt he was ex-military, probably KSK.

The wand
whistled at Dawson’s crotch.

“Ooh,
man of steel,” grinned Niner.

“Ha ha.”
Dawson tapped his belt buckle. “Buckle.”

The man
continued on and waved him through, repeating the procedure with Niner who
cleared with the same whistle at the belt buckle.

“Very
good, gentlemen, I’ll show you to Herr Renner’s office. If you’ll follow me?”

Kellner
swiped his pass and a glass door leading deeper into the building slid open.
Dawson stepped through, noting that it appeared to be some sort of ballistic
glass at least three inches thick. The door immediately slid closed behind
them. They walked along a hallway with an impressive view of the city from a
bank of windows, all the offices wisely on the interior of the building so
prying eyes couldn’t see any computer screens or read any lips.

It was
suggestive of a company keen to keep its secrets.

And a
tad bit paranoid.

“Master
race?” whispered Niner as yet another gorgeous well-built blonde passed them
with a smile. Everyone they had seen so far was a physical specimen worthy of the
cover of any romance novel, even Kellner’s v-shaped physique was obvious
despite his Hugo Boss suit.

I
wonder how many people know of Hugo Boss’ ties to the Nazi party.

He
didn’t for a second think that these people were Nazi’s, not in the slightest.
Intelligence files suggested many of them were former German Special Forces
which would have thoroughly screened these men before ever admitting them to
their ranks, and with many being ex-military, they being in terrific shape was
to be expected.

And as
to the women, eye-candy was quite often employed by macho-companies like this
to titillate the mostly male clientele.

And
if we were in any other country, the thought wouldn’t have even crossed your
mind.

He
always found it fascinating how preconceptions would sometimes enter the
subconscious simply by knowing someone’s cultural background or nationality,
especially how one’s opinion of someone could immediately change the moment you
found out that little tidbit that your subconscious told you was important not
because of anything the person in front of you had done, but because of what
people like them had done, sometimes decades or centuries in the past.

Will
whites always feel nervous when a young black man approaches them on a lonely
street? Will black men always feel fear when a police car pulls in behind them?

He never
felt much sympathy when a criminal died, and even less when that criminal was
held up as a poster boy to justify rioting and looting. But when somebody
innocent was killed because of preconceived notions, his heart went out to the
victims and his heart grew a little colder toward the perpetrators.

In his
business unfortunately he dealt with preconceived notions daily. He naturally
didn’t trust Russians, even though he knew many that were perfectly fine people
that he did trust, and he always kept a wary eye on anyone who ‘looked’ Muslim
merely because people of the same faith had tried to kill him on too many occasions
to count. He had Muslim friends, though he had to admit they were few and all
what he would consider moderates, most privately admitting Islam needed its own
Reformation before peace could truly be had.

Only
they were too terrified to say it publicly.

I
wonder if Luther felt the same way when he went up against the Catholic church.

Kellner
rapped on a door and Dawson slipped the transmitter from his belt, palming it.
A muffled shout from the other side and Kellner opened the door. They entered
and another perfect specimen, this one with salt and pepper hair, rose from
behind a glass and chrome desk, a broad smile on his face.

“Herr
Renner, may I present Special Agent White and Agent Green of the FBI.”

Dawson
extended his hand, Renner’s handshake firm and dry. “Sir.” They were shown to
two sleek chairs in front of Renner’s desk, Dawson noting there wasn’t a hint
of wood in the entire room.

Or an
earth tone.

Grays,
blacks and stark whites dominated along with brushed chrome and graphite.

Ultra-modern.

The only
personal touches were a series of frames on one wall with medals and
photographs, several showing Renner with various dignitaries he vaguely
recognized and others with him in fatigues, arms around other soldiers.

Rather
than sit, Dawson stepped over to the wall as Kellner left the room. “Kosovo?”

Renner
stood to his right, Niner to the left. He opened his left hand, palm up and
felt Niner’s fingers take the transmitter. “Bosnia, actually.”

“Nasty
business from what I’ve been told.”

“It was.
Nothing like Iraq or Afghanistan, though.”

“No, I
suppose not.” Dawson decided to use the psych profile he had read on Renner.
“Funny how we don’t get any credit for trying to save Muslims from the Serbs.”

Renner
grunted. “No, we’re apparently all anti-Muslim at war with their religion.” He
sighed, pointing at two of the men in a photograph with him, all smiles, all
young. “These two died in Kabul. Suicide bomber.”

“So
killed by the same people he was trying to save.”

Renner
turned and looked at him. “Exactly. For an FBI agent, you have a curiously
refreshing way of looking at things.”

Dawson
smiled slightly. “We’re a long way from Washington.”

“Indeed
you are.” He motioned to the chairs and Dawson went to take his seat, but
before he did he paused, turning back to the wall as Niner sat.

“Is that
an Iron Cross?”

He
immediately stepped over to the wall, admiring the rare medal, noting the
Swastika in the center.

“My
grandfather’s. Awarded to him personally by Rommel.”

“So
serving the military runs in the family.”

“It skipped
a generation, my father instead focusing on business.” Renner waved his hand as
he started to turn, Dawson spotting Niner sitting back down in his chair,
adjusting himself to disguise the fact he had been standing. “In fact, he
helped me start this company when I left the army.”

“I read
the profile before coming here. Quite impressive.”

“Thank
you.” Renner sat behind his desk, leaning back in his chair, steepling his
fingers in front of him as Dawson sat. “Now, how can I help you?”

Dawson
pulled an envelope from his inside pocket and slid it toward Renner. “The men
on this list are all wanted in connection to recent thefts of archeological
artifacts in Spain, Italy, Austria and France.”

Renner
took the envelope and pulled out the papers. “And what does that have to do
with us?” he asked as he unfolded the pages. “Ahh, I see.” He flipped through
them. “I recognize the names. We terminated them recently.”

“May I
ask why?”

Renner
folded the pages back up, returning them to the envelope. “I’m afraid that’s an
internal matter.” He slid the envelope back toward Dawson with a single finger.
“I can assure you however it was nothing serious, mostly salary disputes.”

Dawson
took the envelope, returning it to his pocket. “Salary disputes. None showed a
desire to go private, perhaps take contracts outside of Renner Security?”

Renner
shrugged. “Not while here, though I’m sure they’re in need of an income, so I
wouldn’t be surprised if they took a contract.”

“True.
Do you know where we can find them?”

Renner
smiled. “About the only thing I can tell you is that they are
not
at the
addresses we have on file for them, otherwise you would have already found
them.”

Dawson
smiled. “True.”

Renner pressed
a button on his desk then stood, ending the meeting, the song and dance merely
a pretense for them to plant their transmitter, and for Renner to officially
push the company line that these were
former
employees.