The Venice Code (6 page)

“Absolutely,” replied the old man.

“Can we speak freely?” whispered Marco, the room currently devoid of helpers.

The priest nodded. “I trust my people.”

“Very well. We are prepared tonight to retrieve the idol should you know where it is.”

“I do indeed, but I fear it is now out of reach by anything less than an army.”

Giuseppe looked at Marco, his concern matching that of his master.

“What do you mean?” asked Marco.

“I mean it now lies at the topmost level of the Red Mosque.”

“And where is that?”

“Look out my window, and you will see it.”

Marco rose, Giuseppe following, both moving aside the heavy curtain and stepping behind it to maintain the shield against the firelight escaping. When Giuseppe’s eyes adjusted he gasped and looked at Marco, whose jaw was set tight, his head shaking slightly at what they were looking at.

A tower, at least ten stories high, it appearing to be a spiral structure ending in a peak that provided a view of the entire city.

And anyone who would dare approach.

1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta HQ, Fort Bragg, North Carolina

A.k.a. “The Unit”

Present day, one day after the kidnapping

Command Sergeant Major Burt “Big Dog” Dawson, BD to his close friends, was in his traditional role of Grill Master Sergeant, manning the grills behind The Unit, his home away from home, or more accurately for him, his home. As the leader of Delta Team Bravo, the toughest sons of bitches ever gathered into one group, he had the distinction of leading, in his opinion, the best squad of operators the US Military had ever put forward. The one dozen men, part of 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment - Delta, were deployed en masse or in smaller teams around the world to put out fires or start them—whatever was needed.

Today the fire was contained in his two charcoal grills, burgers, hot dogs and one veggie burger for an experimental pre-teen were all on the go, buns on the top grill to toast up slightly, a stack of American processed cheese slices ready to be peeled off one-by-one and melted on what he hoped would be perfectly cooked quarter pounders.

It was his favorite job that didn’t involve a weapon.

A softball game was underway with the rest of his team and their families, the laughter intoxicating. He normally did this job alone, sometimes pining for the old days when he was just one of the guys, and his old boss would be grilling away.

Command structure was loose in Delta, all of them some type of sergeant. There were no officers here, they were in the building, cooking up and responding to mission requests. But in the field? It was all NCO’s—Non-Coms—that did the grunt work.

And he loved it.

There was nothing like being in-theatre, on a mission, living on the edge of life and death, then accomplishing their task and coming back home, all alive, all well. It didn’t always work out that way, and just recently they had mourned the loss of one of their own, but they usually made it out with just a few scrapes and the occasional bullet wound, their training and equipment exceptional.

Today however, instead of tending the grill by himself, he had Maggie at his side, chatting him up. She was a hot little number, sporting a t-shirt exposing her flat midriff and shorts that were just a little too short showcasing long, tanned legs. It had taken Dawson a little while to figure out she was sweet on him, and he still hadn’t decided what to do about it. He had always thought of himself as a life-long committed bachelor. He’d have the occasional dalliance just to let off some steam, but had never found “the one”.

He sometimes envied the family men like his best friend Mike “Red” Belme, his second-in-command, who had a wife and kids. Dawson had a sister with a fantastic daughter who he adored, and he was godfather to Red’s son Bryson who was a joy except when he neared Dawson’s prized 1964½ Ford Mustang convertible in original Poppy Red with his hands covered in dripping ice cream or worse.

When he was all cleaned up he and Red would take Bryson out for drives, usually ending up somewhere necessitating a cleanup before the drive home.

Red would always admonish him with some variation of “Get a mini-van then you won’t care!” Dawson would just give him the evil eye as he supervised the wipe-down.

Cheers mixed with groans came from the game and Maggie motioned toward the group. “Looks like game over.”

Dawson nodded, noting her hand resting on his shoulder and the low level of her third bottle of brewed courage. She was a great looking woman, very friendly and intelligent.

But she’s the Colonel’s secretary!

If it didn’t work out, every time he’d have to see the Colonel she’d be there. The level of discomfort would be insane. And if she were to quit because of it? The Colonel would probably tear him a new asshole for losing him a perfectly good secretary.

“Oh, here comes the chaperone.”

Chaperone? Are we on a date?

Red trotted over, young Bryson racing behind him, his legs a little too uncoordinated for Dawson’s liking.

He eyeballed the boy’s hands.

Clean.

“Hey, you two. How’re the burgers coming? I think you’ve got a hungry bunch about to get cranky.”

“Almost ready.”

“What? You’re usually bang on with these things.”

Maggie giggled, putting both her hands on Dawson’s shoulder and laying her head against him. “Sorry, I guess I’ve been distracting him.”

“I guess so,” replied Red, scratching at a few days of stubble, its harsh orange color revealing the source of his nickname.

Dawson motioned toward his nearly bare scalp, a little growth showing there as well.

“Thinking of growing it back?”

Red ran his hand over his head several times. “Nope. Just can’t find my shaving knife.”

“Huh?” It was Maggie who was surprised by the statement, not Dawson. He knew his friend shaved his head with a Bowie knife. Dawson had asked him once why a knife and not a razor and his response had been typical Red.

“Because I can.”

Dawson’s car radio, tuned to some generic Top 40 station at the request of the others suddenly went silent, then an announcer cut in.

“We interrupt this broadcast for an important news bulletin. Former President Jackson’s son has been kidnapped at gunpoint. Two of his assailants are dead, and his Secret Service escort have been taken to hospital with non-life threatening injuries. At this point in time the identity and motives of the kidnappers is unknown. Grant Jackson, the thirty-three year old son of the murdered President had just given a speech to a partisan crowd announcing his bid for Congress when his car was rammed and he was taken captive. We will update you with further information as it comes in.”

The radio flipped back to some pre-meltdown Justin Bieber tune that would normally have Dawson gagging if it weren’t for what they had just heard.

“Do you think we’ll get called in?” asked Red, holding his son against his side.

“All things considered, probably, since we’ve already been read-in on the details from before.”

“What details?” asked Maggie.

Dawson’s head darted to his new appendage and he had to catch himself from saying something that might hurt her feelings. He smiled.

“Sorry, need to know.”

She nodded, backing off slightly and patting his shoulder as she took the spatula from him and attended to the forgotten hamburgers. “I’ve worked long enough for Colonel Clancy to know when to shut my ears.”

Dawson gave her shoulder a squeeze which he had the sense melted that half of her body into a puddle of nerves and hormones. “Thanks.” He turned to Red just as his phone vibrated, a phone that almost never was called. He answered.

“Speak.”

“Mr. Jones, I need you at the flower shop for a delivery.”

He frowned. “Five minutes.”

He snapped the phone back on his hip then nodded toward the throng now at the picnic tables.

“Tell the boys to lay off the beer. I’ll let
you
know what’s going on as soon as
I
know.”

“These are ready,” announced Maggie as she handed the spatula to Red and turned to face Dawson. “It’s been fun,” she said, then quickly popped up on her toes and gave him a kiss on the side of his mouth. It was so quick Dawson didn’t even have time to respond. Instead he stood there awkwardly for a moment then turned crimson when a chorus of “ooohs” erupted from the tables.

He shook his head, a smile creeping up half his face as he turned and headed for his car. As he climbed in Maggie gave him a little wave, a smile on her face that told Dawson everything he needed to know.

She’s in deep. And you’re in trouble.

Outside the Red Mosque, Karakorum, Mongol Empire

March 29
^th
, 1275 AD

Giuseppe was huddled in the snow, shaking once again, the warmth of the church a quickly fading memory. To his right was his master Marco, his bow in hand, and to his left were the two altar boys from the church. Father Salvatore had been insistent that they be taken along and Marco had reluctantly agreed when his reasoning became clear.

Should they be successful in stealing the crystal icon, the Christians would most likely be blamed.

And slaughtered.

Father Salvatore had sent everyone away weeks ago to seek safety in the south, only his two most loyal altar boys had remained with him, refusing to leave. Fortunately, in the Mongol Empire, even those of the cloth learned to defend themselves or perish, and these two young men apparently were skilled in the use of the bow and adept at swordplay as well.

“
They weren’t always altar boys
.”

Marco had smiled at the priest’s words, nodding knowingly, and expressed his gratefulness at the two additions to their group. The two men, Roberto, who had opened the gate, and Vincenzo, who had taken their horse, were reluctant to join them at first. Giuseppe had no doubt it was not of fear of the mission, but of not wanting to leave their ailing Father alone.

Giuseppe knew how they felt. Leaving Marco alone, especially if ailing, was something he couldn’t fathom. In fact he had been at Marco’s side for so long now, he couldn’t remember the last time they had been apart for more than a few hours.

Marco pointed at the tower that loomed above them, the exposed stairs inside glowing from torchlight, the howling wind whipping up and down the stairway, lashing at the flames causing them to flicker in the dark. The compound was walled, but not high, perhaps six feet, and from what Giuseppe could see, there were a few guards at the gate but little else.

“I thought he said we would need an army?”

Marco shook his head, pointing at the tower. “They’re all inside. Probably trying to keep warm.”

“Do we know how many there are?”

“No, but I think I’ve counted at least six, but there could be dozens.”

“Vincenzo and I have been watching for several days now. We believe there are thirteen guarding the idol at all times,” offered Roberto.

“Thirteen?” asked Marco.

“Yes,” replied Vincenzo. “Father Salvatore believes the number of guards has been chosen intentionally. He says the superstition connected with the number thirteen feeds into their delusion of the idol being something that must be worshipped, and that can easily be offended.”

“Hogwash,” spat Roberto. “To think these blasphemers would give up the word of God in favor of a crystal idol and some unproven stories of good fortune! It’s enough to make one wonder why God hasn’t struck them down!”

“Perhaps God has other plans for them. Perhaps tonight is the night His wrath is brought upon them,” said Vincenzo, lowering his voice to calm his partner. “Mysterious are the ways of the Lord. Mere mortals shouldn’t try to understand His methods.”

Roberto’s head bobbed, his chin falling to his chest. “I apologize. I just know what this entire situation has done to poor Father Salvatore and it drives me mad. I find I have to pray more and more to control my anger and frustration.” He sighed. “I shame myself every time.”

Vincenzo put a comforting hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Let us put an end to all of this tonight. If we successfully remove this curse from our city, all will return to normal. And should it cost us our lives, we at least die absolved of our sins, and in the service of our Lord.”

“Amen,” whispered Roberto, making the sign of the cross. Giuseppe did the same, returning his attention to the tower, now seeing the men inside the stairway, mostly through their shadows cast by the torches.

“What do you propose, Master?”

Marco removed the eyepiece he had been looking through and put it in his pocket, turning his head to face his three companions. “I count two at the gate, and they seem to switch frequently to keep warm. We are all skilled with the bow. On the next exchange, we will eliminate all four when they are outside of the mosque. Once you have loosed your arrow, replace it immediately with one from your quiver in case others come out. My hope is the four dead will not be noticed by the others until it is too late. However, should they be noticed, the more we kill from a distance with arrows, the less we need to kill up close with swords. And remember, at that point it could be nine against four.” He pointed to the west side of the walled compound then looked at Roberto and Vincenzo. “You two will position on that side and take out the two new arrivals. Giuseppe and I will remain here and eliminate the current guard. As soon as the four are eliminated, we’ll climb the southern wall and enter the compound, taking up position at the side of the tower. You should be able to see us. One of you will then return here to help cover our escape. Under no circumstances should you enter the compound. Use your arrows to eliminate anybody you can, but I want you to retreat when you can do no more. Retreat to the west, then make your way back to the church. We don’t want anyone discovering Christians were involved. Understood?”

Roberto nodded, as did Vincenzo, though both appeared to do so reluctantly.