The Venice Code (4 page)

“Is that what I think it is?” asked Reading.

Acton nodded. The tattoo was clearly Triarii.

“Why would
they
kidnap him?” asked Laura.

“Until a few minutes ago, I would have said they wouldn’t,” replied Reading.

“Something’s wrong,” said Acton. “Very wrong.”

And he had a strange feeling that whatever secret message was locked in Chaney’s scrambled brain had everything to do with what had just happened back home.

Fleet Street, London, England

Present day, one day after the kidnapping

Proconsul Derrick Kennedy of the Triarii sat at the head of the long conference table, sucking back hard on his favorite vice, a Cuban La Corona cigar, its aromas intoxicating and apparently annoying to some of the younger generation of leaders lining the table. Which was why a special “smoke eater” had been installed during the rebuild after the Delta Force attack on their headquarters. He assumed it worked since he was no longer glared at by some of the more vocal complainers.

On the wall at the far end were a series of large plasma displays, several showing various news feeds from around the world, the panel embedded in the table allowing him full control, the BBC feed of the world’s top story currently being listened to.

Behind him, carved in the slate wall was the very symbol he had frozen on one of the screens, though many orders of magnitude bigger. It was the ancient symbol of their organization founded from the surviving members of the third and most experienced line, the Triarii, of the famous Roman Thirteenth Legion, dispatched from Rome by Emperor Nero himself with orders to take a crystal skull found in Judea and exile it to the farthest reaches of the empire, at that time Britannia.

For two thousand years they had kept the crystal skull away from Rome, and when additional skulls had been discovered around the world, they had taken them under their protection. But after a devastating explosion nearly flattened London in 1212 AD when three skulls were placed together, they realized that the skulls could be dangerous and enacted protocols to prevent it from ever happening again.

But today they had been betrayed, as they were once before. There was a split within the Triarii over a decade ago, a small sect at one time agitating from within that the skulls should be brought together to unleash their full potential, the sect’s thinking that technology today would allow them to safely do so. The sect was led at one time by a very wealthy and well-connected American named Stewart Jackson. To further his plans of uniting three skulls, he stole the Smithsonian’s Mitchell-Hedges skull—the very skull he was assigned to protect—before leaving the Triarii, hiding it away in an unknown location, replacing the genuine article with a fake, unbeknownst to the museum. His power and influence eventually led him to the highest office in his homeland, President of the United States.

Which made him untouchable.

Until he went too far, ordering his elite Delta Force to capture a recently discovered skull under the guise of eliminating a terrorist cell.

He had forced the Triarii’s hand and was eliminated by their own man on the inside, a longtime member of the Triarii who had pretended to agree with President Jackson’s actions, but in reality was still loyal to the Triarii, staying by his side in hopes of one day retrieving the Smithsonian skull.

After Jackson’s theft and departure from the organization, the dissenters had receded into the background, nothing heard again, those who had agitated for unification of the skulls falling silent, denying involvement and disavowing their previous beliefs after such traitorous deeds.

But with today’s kidnapping, and the fact Triarii members were clearly involved, it appeared the sect was active again, and there could be only one reason for their actions.

“Clearly they’re after the Mitchell-Hedges skull,” said one of the twelve others around the table, one for each of the skulls under the protection of the Triarii.

“Clearly,” agreed the Proconsul. “The question now is whether or not the son knows where it is, then what we do about it.”

“Should we enact The Protocol?” asked the member responsible for the British Museum skull, Maria Thatcher, the very skull under the real-world care of Professor Laura Palmer, who due to Jackson’s actions had been drawn into the world of the Triarii, and now knew who and what they were.

“No, I don’t think that’s necessary at this time,” replied the Proconsul. “Be on standby however, as we may need to. At this time there is only one skull I am concerned with.”

“We must act on that immediately.”

“I had hoped Mr. Chaney would be able to ask for their involvement, but it would appear his injuries are worse than we thought. Though he is out of his coma, his memory is suspect. It appears he has no clue he is a member of the Triarii.”

“Then we must act now,” said Thatcher, heads around the table nodding in assent as they turned to the Proconsul.

He puffed on his cigar for a moment, eyeing the frozen image of the Triarii tattoo on the wrist of one of the dead kidnappers.

“Agreed. Reach out to the professors immediately. We need their help.”

Outskirts of Karakorum, Mongol Empire

March 28
^th
, 1275 AD

Giuseppe lay flat on his stomach, the hard ground cold, his fur coat only protecting him for the first few minutes. It had been over half an hour since they first crawled into position. The others had returned to make temporary camp until nightfall, but his master, Marco, had insisted on staying to observe the city below.

And where Marco went, Giuseppe went.

The city walls were massive, encircling the entire former capital with guard towers at regular intervals, manned each with two men and torches to light the area, some of them already lit and flickering in the winter wind, illuminating little, but the occasional guard could be seen warming his hands near the flame.

“How will we enter, Master?”

“I was thinking through the gates.”

Giuseppe hid his surprise, unsure of whether or not his master was once again joking with him, his humor one of his most endearing if not puzzling qualities. He searched his master’s face for a hint of the truth, but nothing was revealed to suggest he wasn’t serious.

“Then why are we waiting?”

“The guards will be cold and tired near the end of their shift. I would guess they will change near midnight. If we wait until about an hour before then, we shall find our guards eager to let us pass so they can return to their fires. We shall go through the East Gates; they are closest to the Church where our contact is.”

“If we are going through the gates, Master, why are you observing the walls for so long?”

Giuseppe shivered as if to emphasize his subtle point.

“I said we’d
enter
by the gates. I didn’t say how we’d exit.”

Giuseppe nodded, his interest suddenly renewed in the walls. The sun had set behind the mountains now, the entire valley bathed in darkness, the light from fires, lanterns and torches, as well as a quarter moon mostly hidden behind clouds stabbing feebly at the night.

“And now we see their weakness,” said Marco, pointing to the guard towers. “What do we know about torches at night?”

Giuseppe shrugged. “I don’t know what you mean? They provide light?”

“Yes, but only to the immediate area,” said Marco. “If you hold a torch high and peer into the darkness, what do you see?”

And then it dawned on Giuseppe, a smile spreading across his face. “You see nothing! All your eyes can see is the light of the torch!”

“Exactly, my brother. You see better in the dark, when it is dark. Your eyes adjust. But these fools have bright torches on either side of their guard towers meaning they won’t be able to see more than ten or twenty paces in either direction. One would be able to scale the wall at the midpoint of two guard towers completely unseen.” His master stood, no longer concerned with being spotted. “Let us return to the camp and tell the others of our plan.”

“Your plan, Master.”

Marco put his arm across Giuseppe’s shoulders and squeezed. “You were there when the plan was crafted. We shall call it
our
plan.”

Giuseppe was about to protest when a particularly harsh gust of wind had them both gasping for air, their Venetian blood not accustomed to these temperatures. Though Giuseppe was certain he wasn’t Venetian, he
was
certain he was of a warm clime, his reaction to the cold seeming to suggest it was completely unnatural to him.

They walked in silence to the camp and dropped near a large fire, sheltered by several large stones and a rock face. Though definitely warmer, it was still ridiculously cold, though Giuseppe kept his complaints to himself.

“We have a plan,” announced his master.

“Out with it,” said his master’s father, Niccolo. “What have you two cooked up?”

Giuseppe felt a surge of pride at the words, along with a few butterflies in the pit of his stomach at the suggestion he had indeed contributed.

“Giuseppe and I will enter through the eastern gates in about two hours with one of our horses, posing as traders for tomorrow’s market. There’s no reason they should stop us, and we will then make our way to the church which is nearby.

“Once we make contact with the priest, we’ll attempt to retrieve the idol, and if successful, we’ll escape over the southern wall and join you here.”

“And what if you cannot accomplish this tonight?”

“I will shoot an arrow with a message—I will show you the spot where it will land when we leave shortly—and it will tell you when I am expected to return. We should send our party with as many of our supplies as you can back, for I think we shall be pursued. Keep four swift horses and enough provisions for the journey back in case we need to abandon the supply horses.”

Marco’s father Niccolo nodded, looking at his brother, Matteo. “What do you think?”

“I think your son has thought of everything except what to do should he be captured.”

“I did,” replied Marco.

“And what is the plan in such an eventuality?”

“To not get captured.”

Leroux Residence, Fairfax Towers, Falls Church, Virginia

Present day, one day after the kidnapping

Chris Leroux was pinned to the floor, his girlfriend Sherrie White on top of him. He struggled against her, but not very hard, this a fight he was more than willing to lose. And she knew it, grinding her hips in to his with every move he made.

She was playing to win.

And he was playing to lose.

They both knew what was going on. It had begun as a tickle war on the couch in which he had almost made her sick from laughing, then in a last ditch effort to save herself, she had used one of her CIA Special Operator moves on him that immediately had him on the floor and at her mercy.

He hated being tickled and had quickly stopped his own assault when she began hers, instead focusing on grabbing her hands to prevent any more of the torturous nerve games. He yanked her hands away from her body, pulling her torso toward his so that she now lay on top of him, her hips still straddling his.

“Kiss me,” he said, still out of breath.

“No.”

He raised his head and tried to find her lips but she jerked back. His head moved to the side, seeking her soft full lips capable of giving so much pleasure, but she continued to resist. Twisting to the right he saw the television, tuned to CNN, display a breaking news graphic.

Assassinated President’s Son Kidnapped.

Suddenly he felt Sherrie biting his neck, her tongue flicking out as she starting to suck, the hickey she was about to leave going unnoticed by Leroux as he stopped resisting, his arms dropping to his side.

Sherrie stopped, looking over at the screen.

“What?”

“President Jackson’s son was just kidnapped.”

“Really? That’s too bad.”

She turned back and began to kiss his cheek, her pecks travelling over to his ear then down his neck.

“I wonder if we’ll be called in.” Leroux continued to watch the screen as the kisses reached his chest, then suddenly he felt his shirt get ripped open. His head spun to see a mischievous look on Sherrie’s face as she moved down his chest to his stomach, suddenly grabbing his belt buckle with her teeth.

“Probably,” she whispered.

“Probably what?” gasped Leroux as the realization of what was about to happen had the news report forgotten.

“We’ll probably get called in,” she said as she opened his belt then unbuttoned his pants.

“Probably. Especially since the entire story surrounding his assassination was bullshit.”

Sherrie stopped, her eyes narrowing.

“What do you mean?”

Leroux looked at her in dismay. “Nothing, I was just joking. Just a theory I have.” She continued to stare at him. “For the love of God, don’t stop!” She continued to stare at him then suddenly unzipped his pants, yanking them and his underwear down in one motion that left him breathless.

She grabbed him and squeezed.

He groaned.

And both their phones vibrated with urgent messages from Langley.

East Gates, Karakorum, Mongol Empire

March 29
^th
, 1275 AD

Giuseppe didn’t need to fake appearing cold and haggard from a long journey. He was. His master, Marco, did have to slouch a little and let his face sag, the man a veritable bundle of energy that seemed without end. As they shuffled toward the eastern gates of Karakorum, the guard towers looming on either side, the torches flickering in the wind, Giuseppe gently led their horse, packs filled with several fine silks from back home for trade.

Two guards stepped out to challenge them, their breath freezing in the frigid air, their noses red and swollen, their eyelashes and brows thick with ice. These were cold, tired men, just as his master had predicted. The howling wind prevented him from hearing much of what Marco said, but the odd word did make it through the gusts suggesting his master was receiving a grilling more detailed than expected. After several minutes Marco waved him forward and he advanced with their horse.