The Venice Code (26 page)

“Where are we?”

“I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you, and I haven’t had lunch yet.”

“I’m sorry to hear that’s all that’s holding you back,” said Sherrie.

David tossed his head back, laughing. “You are the first female CIA agent I have met. In Israel we have let our women participate in all areas of the military for a long time—after all, there weren’t many of us to defend against a sea of Arabs who wanted to kill us just because of our religion. Telling our women to stay at home and tie a yellow ribbon on the old oak tree wasn’t an option.” He extended his hand, apparently now thinking she was worthy of hearing his alias. “David.”

“Agent Black.”

“Of course it is!”

She grinned then stopped as a man approached.

“Your chopper is ready,” said the man to David who nodded then turned to Dawson. “It’s time. We will insert you near the monastery and out of sight of any patrols or locals. Two vehicles have been pre-positioned for you. The monastery is north of your position on the right—you can’t miss it.”

Dawson looked over the UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter that was starting to power up. “Extraction?”

David handed him a radio. “It’s already tuned to the frequency. You are Sheep Dog, we are Goliath. Extraction code is Lightning and should you need assistance as in some firepower, the code is Thunder. Got it?”

Dawson raised his eyebrows. “Sheep Dog?”

David shrugged his shoulders. “My choice. I kind of like it.”

“Sure you do,” replied Dawson as he climbed aboard the now roaring Black Hawk. David stayed outside. “Not coming with us?”

David shook his head. “No need. I’ll see you when you get back. Good luck, Mr. White.”

Dawson gave him a casual salute then held out a hand, pulling Sherrie into the chopper. As the rest boarded, he wondered how far off mission they really were. Their job was to retrieve Grant Jackson, not save Professor Acton from another one of his “situations”. Then again he usually didn’t intentionally get himself into trouble, trouble just seemed to follow him. But from all outward appearances he and the good doctor Palmer, along with their friend Reading, had willingly entered the West Bank. Mossad thought they were kidnapped, but he knew that was just a ploy set up by Kane. This very helicopter they were on was Israeli cooperation in retrieving a citizen of an ally, and if they knew what was really going on, they’d probably toss them all out of the country.

But Dawson had a hunch that everything was somehow connected. There was no way that Acton would be in Munich then Israel, with the Triarii only hours behind them, if that. It appeared that Jackson’s kidnappers were following Acton for some reason, and he could think of only one, a crystal skull, which meant once again his men’s lives were at risk over a chunk of rock.

It pissed him off, especially after what had happened in Peru and London. Manipulated by a madman, and now, once again, they were being manipulated. Not by one man, but by events beyond their control.

But if we can get there first, we might be able to put an end to it.

The Black Hawk rose off the ground, its nose dipping forward as it picked up speed.

“ETA five minutes,” said the pilot over the comm.

“Equipment check!” ordered Dawson, his men immediately pulling out their body armor and weapons from their bags. They were travelling light so if they ended up in a heavy firefight, he just might need that Thunder code. And if they were only five minutes away, it just might arrive fast enough to save their skins.

Fatah. Hamas. Israeli patrols. Good Triarii. Bad Triarii.

Dawson shook his head.

Hopefully the monks are friendly.

Unknown Location, West Bank, Israel

Present day, three days after the kidnapping

Grant Jackson crept forward in the dark, longing for the dangling bulbs far behind them. He could hear Mitch’s footsteps ahead of him, as well as the rest of their group behind him, the occasional grumble erupting when someone would step on someone else’s heel. When he had given his speech a few nights ago he would never have expected three days later to be in a terrorist tunnel entering the West Bank with a cult of what he was afraid were nuts after a piece of carved crystal, apparently willingly.

He could guarantee to everyone including his God that there was no place he rather wouldn’t be than here. If he could drill a hole through the planet and push up somewhere near home, he’d do it. If he could pinch himself out of this nightmare, he’d do it.

God I wish I could turn back time and not get on that helicopter.

He should have stayed with Louisa, should have made sure she was safe, and ended his involvement with these people when he had the chance. His obsession with that moment in time was becoming all-consuming and he could think of little else. Brief bouts of hating his father for being involved with these people provided little relief from the moment in time he seemed now trapped in.

“We’re here,” said Mitch in front of him and Grant stopped. “Give me a minute.”

Grant heard Mitch begin to climb the stupidly steep stairs—why not just make it a ladder?—and a few minutes later the coded knock at the top. There was an answering knock and a light appeared above as the opening was revealed. Grant began to climb the steps and when he reached the top he felt two strong arms on him, yanking him the rest of the way. He looked about, blinking in the bright light and was shocked to find at least half a dozen weapons pointed at him, ushering him to the far wall where Mitch stood with his arms held up. Grant stood beside him, turning to face the room, his own arms high.

“What’s going on?” he whispered.

“Don’t know, but they’re pissed about something.”

The rest of the surprised group were hauled out one by one, each stripped of their weapons, nobody bothering to warn the others. If they were pissed at this end of the tunnel, they were sure to be pissed at the other end, so retreat wasn’t possible. In fact retreat would probably get them all killed.

As the final member of their team was pulled out, the hole was quickly covered and one of the terrorists, his face covered with a balaclava, stepped forward. “Who is in charge here?”

Mitch stepped forward slightly. “Clearly
you,
sir, are in charge
here
. I am in charge of my men only.”

The man paused as he probably replayed the words in his head, trying to determine if he had just been insulted. There was a grunt that seemed to suggest he was satisfied with Mitch’s reply.

“There has been a problem. You will come with us.”

Mitch nodded. “Of course we will, but first, we must have our weapons back.”

The man looked at the pile of weaponry far nicer than anything they were sporting. He nodded, barking something in Arabic. Mitch and his crew rearmed as Grant continued to stand against the wall, hands up.

Mitch walked over and handed Grant a Glock 22. “Do you know how to use this?”

Grant nodded. “My Dad taught me.”

“Good. Try not to shoot any of us,” said Mitch with a grin, handing him two extra magazines. “You’re one of us now.”

Grant’s chest tightened to the point where he was certain a panic attack or a heart attack was setting in. He secretly prayed for a heart attack to strike him down dead, right then and there, so this nightmare would be over.

But instead he felt Mitch’s hand on his back, urging him forward. As they stepped from the room, they were each handed a black sack to put over their heads once again.

Lovely.

“Get in the truck then cover your heads,” ordered the man in charge. “We will leave immediately.”

Grant looked about curiously. Four trucks were roaring to life, the Triarii being loaded into two, the other two filling up with armed militants. Something was definitely going on, and Grant was certain he wanted no part of it. These men looked like they were going to war. He turned to Mitch.

“What do you think is going on?” he whispered.

Mitch shook his head, preparing his head cover. “I don’t know, but I don’t like it. First opportunity we get we’re out of here.”

“And just how do you propose that?”

Mitch patted his gun. “Only one way I can think of.” He grinned then pulled the sack over his head. Grant covered his head, once again leaning his head on the glass, an overwhelming sense of self-pity rolling over him.

I’m going to die.

Monastery of St. Gerasimos, West Bank, Israel

Present day, three days after the kidnapping

“When was the last time anybody was in here?” asked Acton as they walked deeper and deeper into the manmade cave. The caves were remarkably well preserved though there had been some collapses over the past fifteen hundred years. This particular cave had survived, and was part of a large network painstakingly carved out of the side of a cliff about a mile from the actual monastery.

Known as a lavra, these caves were begun by St. Gerasimos himself around the year 450 AD. He lived in these caves as a hermit with others, eventually expanding the hermitage by building a monastery for the faithful. The story of him helping an ailing mountain lion, pulling a thorn from its paw then taming the wild creature, is a legend well known by Christians.

Acton found himself examining everything, Reading continually having to urge him on as he would stop to point out something to Laura who was as equally enthralled.

God I love archeology!

The Abbot was more than accommodating, giving them an ongoing travel guide explanation of everything as they passed. The woman who had greeted them at the monastery, Rita, wasn’t kidding when she had said the Abbot was a big fan. He had insisted on both Acton and Laura autographing his copies of National Geographic and had as a courtesy begrudgingly offered up a pen to Reading who had politely refused, amused by the entire thing until it started to drag past sixty seconds.

Now they were heading for the ancient burial chambers of the monks from the crusade period, hidden deep inside the rock to protect them from Saracens seeking revenge. When the Kingdom of Jerusalem had fallen, many Christians had fled the Holy Land, but others formed clusters, moving into towns and cities such as Bethlehem and Jerusalem with the thought that there was safety in numbers. After things calmed down with the defeat of the crusaders, most Christians lived in peace with their Muslim neighbors, returning to their previous homes, or choosing to remain in their newly created communities.

In the monastery’s case, it was still occupied to this day by monks devoted to their founder, and to their God, apparently sharing their surroundings with thousands of tourists as they went about their daily business.

But what they were about to be shown today had been seen by no tourists in the history of the monastery unless they had gone well off the guided tour. At the end of a long twisting passage they stepped into a larger chamber, this appearing to not be manmade, but carved out by water millennia ago.

Dozens of holes carved into the walls contained the carefully wrapped bodies of what appeared to be scores of monks.

“Amazing,” whispered Laura as she stepped into the center of the cavern, slowly spinning to take it all in. Even Reading’s jaw had dropped as flashlights played around the room. The flick of a lighter from a nearby wall suddenly had the Abbot bathed in light as a torch was lit. He took the torch then walked around the cavern, lighting a series of others. Soon the flashlights were of no use, Acton switching his off.

He turned to the Abbot. “We’re specifically looking for the tomb of somebody named Giuseppe—”

The Abbot gasped, his hand darting to his mouth before Acton could finish his sentence, tears welling in the elderly man’s eyes.

“It is you!” he whispered, his hand reaching out to touch Acton’s arm as if in reverence.

“What? What’s wrong?” asked Acton. “Are you okay?”

Laura stepped over, putting a hand on the old man’s shoulder as he began to shake. Reading spotted an old wooden chair nearby and brought it over. They all helped the old man to sit, Laura retrieving a bottle of water from her bag. The Abbot waved his hand, refusing it.

“Forgive an old man who is apparently shocked quite easily,” he said, his voice weak but regaining some of its strength. He looked up at Acton. “Tell me, have you been to the Holy See recently?”

Acton nodded. “Two days ago.”

“Do…do you have…” The Abbot stopped, almost as if he were afraid to ask the question. He looked up at Acton, his eyes filled with almost childlike wonder. “Do you have the scroll?”

Acton stood up straight, shocked at the question, his jaw dropping as he looked at Laura then Reading, both equally as stunned as he was. Acton nodded to Laura who removed the two halves from her bag—they having liberated the other half from Teufel—holding them together so the Abbot could see.

She was rewarded with a burst of tears and heaving shoulders as the old man sobbed, a smile on his face as he stared at the two pieces of ancient parchment preserved between Plexiglas.

“I can’t—” He had to stop, choking on his words. He took a deep breath, holding it for a moment, then wiped his face dry with the sleeves of his robes. “I’m so sorry, forgive my emotions, but this is a great day. A glorious day.” He sniffed several times, then stood up, looking sheepishly about. “It has been foretold for almost a millennia that you would arrive.”

“Me?”

“A man from a faraway land on a mission for the Holy See, will return to Jericho and reclaim that which was never meant to be ours.”

Acton had to admit it sort of fit their situation, but it was so generic it could have been a dude from Rome picking up his phone from the monastery’s lost and found.

He decided to play along.

“Can we see him?”

The old man nodded. “Of course, but he is not here. Follow me.”

They exited the cavern, retracing their steps for about thirty paces, then turned down a previously passed corridor. Moments later they were in a manmade chamber. The Abbot lit several torches leaving Acton stunned as he stared at a wall of letters that had him feeling like he was in an Indiana Jones movie.