Pompeii's Ghosts (A James Acton Thriller, #9) (27 page)

Laura
clenched her fists in frustration. “But where can they land a plane that big
without anyone noticing?”

“It’s
North Africa. There are hundreds of abandoned airstrips left over from the war
that they could land at.”

Laura
held her breath for a moment, her mind reeling in a desperate attempt to prove
James was still alive. “
Then
where would they go?” she finally said in
triumph.

“What?”

“They
would have to land somewhere where they could offload the gold, then transport
it to another location. That means they would need to have been able to get
transportation to the abandoned airfield, including equipment to offload those
pallets of gold. They can’t be too far from civilization.”

Wangari’s
head was bobbing, Laura pretty certain she had convinced those in the vehicle
with her that there was still hope for their colleagues. But the silence on the
other end was what needed to be swayed.

“I agree
there’s a chance the plane landed,” replied Lee at last, “but I have to point
out one thing. If it did land as planned, there would be no reason to keep the
hostages alive. They would have landed probably hours ago, offloaded the gold,
killed the hostages, then left.” There was a pause. “I’m sorry Professor
Palmer, but at this point in time, we must treat this as a recovery operation,
and keep our eyes open for unusual gold trades. Wangari, I have to go to a
briefing. I’ll call you when I have more.”

The call
ended and Wangari returned the phone to his pocket, looking at Laura. “I’m
sorry,” he said.

Laura
looked at him, anger filling her with a warmth she desperately needed right
now.

“The UN
may have given up on them, but I haven’t.”

Reading Residence, London, England

INTERPOL Special Agent Hugh Reading sipped his warm milk, easing
under the covers of his bed, his love of which had been recently renewed by his
son’s thoughtful gift of new bed linens for his birthday. Microfiber sheets
with an equivalent thread count of 1400. They were so incredibly soft, smooth
and cool compared to the harsh burlap he had apparently been using for decades
that he wondered how he had ever been able to sleep before.

And they
were made all the more comfortable because they came from his son.

Spencer
was twenty-three years old now—a young man setting out on his own to establish
a life Reading prayed would be a happy and fulfilling one. He no longer hoped
that his son would have a better, more prosperous life than his—the job market
was just too tough for those types of dreams anymore. Perhaps in time, but not now.
All he wanted was for his son to be able to do something he enjoyed doing, and
make enough at it to pay the bills and put a little aside to one day start a
family of his own.

Grandchildren!

The
thought made him feel old.

Very
old.

But it
would make him happy, especially now that he felt he’d have a chance to see
them. Spencer had been slowly letting his father back into his life, their
relationship strained over the years since Reading had divorced his wife when Spencer
was young, and it had been selfishly easier to simply pull back, which Spencer
seemed eager to let him do, eventually wanting nothing to do with him beyond a
forced five minute conversation at holidays. But something had changed inside
Reading, perhaps when he realized he was getting too old to be a cop and left
Scotland Yard. Time was getting short, and he realized his son was quickly
approaching the age he was at when his own father had passed away, and there
wasn’t a day that went by where Reading didn’t regret spending more time with
his father.

You take
for granted that your loved ones will always be there tomorrow to see them, so
you put off today’s plans. Then suddenly tomorrow arrives, and there’s another
excuse, then one day you get the call.

“Your
dad has cancer.”

Those
four words devastated him. Especially when he was diagnosed with at most a few
months to live. Reading had spent almost all of what turned out to be only five
weeks with his father, and they had become closer than ever in that time, and
he wouldn’t have traded it for another decade of the distant relationship they
once had.

It was
almost thirty years since his death and he still missed him, and he didn’t want
his own son going through the same or worse. At least Reading and his dad had
been on good speaking terms, they just didn’t take advantage of it. Reading and
his own son were cordial at best until recently, and he hoped things would
continue to improve so his son wouldn’t have the same regrets. Old age was
creeping up on him, and with his choice of friends of late, the old Reaper
seemed to be stalking him at times.

He
flicked the light switch off, resting his head on the small memory foam pillow
with built in cooling gel he had received from his son at the same time. In a
confession, his son had told him he had bought it six months before for
Christmas, but when it arrived from China, it stank so bad he had to wash it
several times and air it out for months before it became giftable.

His
phone vibrated on the nightstand, its display lighting up, casting a faint glow
on the ceiling his now open eyes stared at, curses muttered under his breath.

There’s
just no way a man can go to bed early!

Sure it
was only nine in the evening, but when did the rule of etiquette of not calling
after that hour get struck from the books? He didn’t get the memo, and if it
weren’t for his job, he would set his phone up so that after nine in the
evening it would go directly to voicemail.

His
eyebrows narrowed.

You
did
do that.

He
frowned, rolling over and grabbing the phone, the call display showing “Palmer,
Laura”. As he hit the Accept button on the display, he realized he had
programmed in a series of contacts that would be put through at any time.

Speaking
of friends who have brought the Grim Reaper into my life.

“Hello?”

“Hi
Hugh, it’s me, Laura. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

Reading
sat up in bed, flicking on the lamp on the nightstand. “Don’t be silly, it’s
only nine o’clock. Where are you?”

“Rome.”

“Not
another job for ‘you know who’?”

“No, I
don’t expect any more now that he’s retired.”

There
was no hint of her usual jovial self, and Reading could tell this conversation
was about to go south. He grabbed his pad and pen from the nightstand, readying
it should it become necessary.

“What’s
wrong?”

“James…”
Her voice drifted off and he heard a squelched cry as she snapped off a sob.

His
voice lowered, more tender than his usual brusque self. “What is it, love?
What’s happened?”

“We were
in Eritrea, retrieving a large hoard of gold from Ancient Rome under the
auspices of the UN and IMF.”

“I never
heard anything about that.”

“It was
hush-hush. There was an attack, some people died, but we got away. I took a
flight out with the artifacts from the dig site and James went on another
flight with the gold, along with some unarmed UN observers, including two
friends of ours.”

“I see.”
Reading knew exactly what type of friends those were, though he didn’t bother
asking which two. “And what happened?”

“When we
arrived we were told the other plane had crashed. I checked my voicemail and
there was a message from James. He said the plane had been hijacked, that one
of our friends had been shot, and they had depressurized. They were in a steep
dive when he got cut off.”

“And
what’s the UN doing about it?”

“Nothing!”
she cried. “Nothing! They say the Sudanese government isn’t cooperating. They
think they’re going after the gold themselves.”

“How
much gold?”

“Over a
billion dollars on the open market.”

Jesus
Christ! That’ll attract every nutter on the planet!

“Do they
think the plane crashed?”

“Yes,
but they came to that conclusion before they knew about James’ message! I think
they landed safely. They were on one of those monster Russian planes—”

“An
Antonov?”

“Yeah, I
think that’s it. That’s a military transport, isn’t it?”

“Yes,
and not likely to be taken out by a shot or two,” said Reading. “What can I do
to help?”

“I don’t
know. I’m at a loss.”

Reading
sucked in a deep, slow breath through his nose, replaying the conversation in
his head, looking for some angle they could use.

He
smiled.

“You
said two of our friends were on that plane?”

“Yes, as
UN observers.”

“I
suggest you contact them. Something tells me those guys won’t rest until they
know what actually happened to their mates.”

Reading
could almost hear the smile through the phone. “That’s a great idea! I’ll make
a call right now!”

“And I’m
going to catch a plane to Rome at once. What hotel are you staying at?”

“The
Westin Excelsior.”

“Sounds
expensive. Can I sleep on your sofa?”

Laura
laughed, the first hint of her usual self he had heard so far. “I’ll get you a
room, don’t worry about it.”

“It’s
good to be the Queen,” he replied with a smile, shaking his head.
If I had
her money, I’d burn mine.
“I’ll contact you as soon as I have my itinerary.
Let me know how you make out with our friends.”

“Okay,
Hugh, we’ll see you soon,” she replied. “And Hugh?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks.”

Reading
felt his chest tighten slightly. “No need to thank me. You’d do the same. Now
make that call and get the ball rolling.”

“Yes,
sir!”

He ended
the call, launching the Expedia app on his phone, a ticket booked within
minutes for a flight leaving in a couple of hours. It was expensive, but he
never worried about it. Somehow, miraculously, small deposits always ended up
in his account within a few days that covered these surprise excursions to help
Laura and Jim. He had told her the first several times it wasn’t necessary, but
she had denied doing it with a slightly sly grin.

He gave
up complaining, instead finally accepting that this was what it was like to
have a ridiculously rich friend.

And if
the unexpected trips weren’t always accompanied by gunfire and kidnappings,
he’d be even more grateful.

Yet here
he was heading off to Rome then most likely Sudan, one of the most violent
countries in the world.

I
must be bloody daft!

1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta HQ, Fort Bragg,
North Carolina
A.k.a. “The Unit”

Master Sergeant Mike “Red” Belme nodded to Maggie, Colonel Thomas
Clancy’s secretary. She looked tired—worried.
Has she been crying?
His
eyes narrowed as he was about to ask her what was wrong when he heard the
Colonel’s bark beckoning him.

“If
that’s Sergeant Belme then get in here!”

“Yes,
sir!” replied Red as he continued through the outer office and into Colonel
Clancy’s sanctuary. He closed the door behind him and took a seat, the Colonel
never one for ceremony. The Colonel was a soldier’s soldier, his rank more of a
burden than an achievement, he always having preferred to be on the front lines
whenever possible. Though he had never been Delta—that reserved for
Sergeants—he had seen combat during his career, the walls covered in various
forms of recognition evidence of that.

Burt
“Big Dog” Dawson, Red’s best friend and pseudo-commander—command structure
loose within Delta—respected Clancy, trusted him even, and that was enough for
Red to feel the same way. The Colonel had never let them down, had never
abandoned them, and had stuck his neck out for them on more than one occasion.