The Venice Code (30 page)

And Professor James Acton, ten paces away, fighting for his life.

Grant Jackson sat huddled in a corner of the wall, hugging his knees for several minutes before he realized the gunfire had stopped. He slowly lifted his head, looking around. Mitch and the Triarii were on the other side of the entrance, still lining the wall, several old tourists guarding them. To his right, twenty feet away lay the man who had saved his life. A man he had never met before, and whose name he had never spoken.

Professor James Acton.

Uniformed soldiers were now here, the previous group of Americans wearing casual clothes under their body armor and weaponry. He assumed the new arrivals were Israeli, two of them now working with one of the Americans on the wounded professor. As he watched, the professor was placed on a stretcher, a woman who clearly cared about him and another man who looked almost as worried followed the medics as they carried him out of the monastery and out of sight.

Grant pushed himself to his feet and slowly walked toward the Triarii men lined against the wall. He nodded to the men guarding them, they obviously having been informed as to who he was. Stepping over to Mitch, he had a hard time keeping eye contact.

“I’m sorry about this,” he said, not really sure why.

“Don’t worry about it, kid, we’ve been in worse situations.”

Grant’s eyebrows jumped, wondering how much worse it could get. Dozens were dead, innocent blood spilled, all over a stupid piece of rock. “Listen, I need to say something.”

“Anything.”

“I-I made a mistake.”

“What do you mean?”

Grant sucked in a deep breath. “I shouldn’t have come. I should have stayed with Louisa. This is all my fault. If it weren’t for me these soldiers wouldn’t have come looking for me, these people wouldn’t be dead.” His voice cracked. “Today would have been a peaceful day,” he whispered, his bottom lip trembling.

Mitch stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder. “Let me tell you why you’re wrong about everything you just said.” Grant looked up at him then back at his feet. “These soldiers that are here now, the Americans, they’re the same ones that killed those students and attacked the Triarii headquarters. Whether you were here or not, they would have been, because a skull was involved.”

Grant’s chest tightened as his jaw dropped slightly. He looked at Grant then around at the soldiers nearby. “You mean—”

“They’re not here for you, they’re here for the skull.”

“But it isn’t here.”

“Nobody knew that until a few minutes ago. Mark my words, they were here to steal it, not save you. The fact you were here is just a coincidence. A fantastic one for them since now they have an excuse for being here, but a coincidence nonetheless.”

Grant’s mind was reeling with this new piece of information, but as the turmoil settled, he asked himself the important question—does it matter? Why these soldiers were here made no difference to the ultimate reason he had come to talk to Mitch. The real reason the soldiers were here was just further evidence that he needed out of this life, out of this world.

He clenched his teeth and straightened himself, looking Mitch in the eye.

“I want out of the Triarii.”

Mitch laughed. “Is that what this is about?”

Grant nodded.

“Son, you were never
in
the Triarii. You can’t just join up after a conversation in a farmhouse. There’s indoctrination, training, oaths. It takes years.”

“So I can leave and nobody will come after me?”

“Of course,” laughed Mitch. “Like I said, we’re friends of your father. I could never do anything to harm you.”

Grant sighed and he could feel the color coming back to his cheeks as his entire body, nearly on the verge of fainting, relaxed. “You don’t know how happy I am to hear that.”

Mitch patted Grant’s shoulder, still smiling. He reached into an upper pocket and removed a business card. On one side it had the Triarii symbol, the other side a phone number and a series of numbers.

“If you ever need anything, just call me,” he said, handing the card to Grant.

Grant nodded, placing the card in his wallet. “Thank you for telling me about my father.”

“Don’t judge him on
your
beliefs,” said Grant. “Remember what
he
believed, and use those beliefs to judge his actions. I hope in the end you will find them justified.”

Grant nodded, not too sure he could ever agree with his father’s actions, but deciding now wasn’t the time to voice those concerns. He shook Mitch’s hand, nodding to the others, Chip tossing him a wave, then walked over to the group of American soldiers, wondering what their mission actually was.

Dawson turned to Grant Jackson as he approached. “Mr. Jackson, are you okay?”

The young man nodded, looking back at his captors. “What will happen to them?”

“They’ll be extradited to the United States and face charges.”

Grant chewed on his cheek then looked at the ground. “There’s something you should know.”

“And what’s that?”

“They kidnapped me, but I chose to stay with them.”

“I know.”

“You do?”

“I was at the storage place. I saw you get on the helicopter.”

“So what happens now?”

Dawson smiled and motioned for the men to head to the helicopters for evac. “When you’re kidnapped, sometimes you do crazy things. Stockholm Syndrome usually takes longer, but you already had a connection with these people, and they were probably able to manipulate you without you even realizing, because they knew your father.”

“So you know about him?”

“Of course,” said Dawson, choosing his words carefully. “Your father is the one who gave us orders that we followed, trusting in our handlers. Unfortunately things weren’t as they seemed.”

“You mean the students in Peru and the Triarii Headquarters.”

“They told you about that?” asked Dawson, slightly surprised.

“Yes.” Grant sucked in a deep breath and slowly let it out. “I’m sorry about that.”

Dawson nodded. “So are we.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Shoot.”

“Why are you here? Honestly?”

Dawson smiled and stopped, pointing a finger at the helicopter with the Professors as it was about to lift off, the tiny old Abbot running toward the Black Hawk, waving his hand in the air.

“We’re here for them. They were caught up in your father’s affairs, and I nearly killed them because I was lied to. Now I spend my life living it as best I can, doing my job to the best of my ability, and whenever possible, making amends for my actions that week. And the best way I know how is to play guardian angel to those two professors whenever I can.”

Grant nodded and extended his hand.

“You’re a good man, Sir. And I think perhaps it might be time for the Jackson family to begin to make up for the actions of one of their own.”

Dawson smiled, shaking the man’s hand.

“That sounds like a good choice to me.”

Laura held James’ hand tightly, the tears that streaked her face settling, the medics having assured her that he was going to live. He was out, something having been injected for the pain, but the bleeding had been stopped, or at least slowed significantly, and they were only ten minutes away from a trauma hospital that would take care of everything.

She heard a shout from outside. Turning, she saw the elderly Abbot shuffling as fast as he could toward the helicopter, waving a small piece of paper in his hand. He reached the helicopter, out of breath, and grabbed Laura’s hand.

“For when he wakes up,” he said, stuffing the paper into the palm of her hand.

“What’s this?”

“The location of what you seek!”

The old man stepped back and the Black Hawk climbed into the air, the monastery quickly falling out of sight. She looked at the paper and found an address in Bethlehem.

She looked down at her beloved James as she pushed the paper into her pocket, at the moment not giving a damn about crystal skulls or the Triarii. All she cared about was James, and how close she had come to losing him. She ran her fingers through his hair, her eyes glassing over again as she squeezed his hand three times.

Hadassah Medical Center, Jerusalem, Israel

Present day, six days after the kidnapping

Professor James Acton lay in a hospital bed, the head of it in a sitting position, watching the television reports on the aftermath of their little escapade into the West Bank. Laura sat in a chair beside him, her head resting on the bed and his leg, her hand absentmindedly stroking his shin. Their good friend and protector Hugh Reading lay on the empty bed beside him thoroughly enjoying the lunch that Acton couldn’t force himself to eat, hospital food quality apparently universal.

His wound had been bad compared to anything he had previously suffered, but not as traumatic as what was first thought. Nothing vital had been hit, and he had merely gone into shock when he was hit, his body shutting down to protect itself. Once the trauma unit had removed the bullet, shoved a few pints of blood into him and stitched him up, he felt fine. Now all he had to do was let the wound heal and rebuild his stamina, the ordeal having taken quite a bit of his strength away. Each day was better—a lot better—and he was hoping to be back to his regular routine within a few more days—less restrictions imposed on him by a still healing shoulder.

He could only imagine what his students were going to say when they saw him teaching again.

Reading suddenly pointed at the screen. “Hah!”

Laura’s head popped up and Acton began to laugh. On the screen was a barricade built by the Palestinians outside of Jericho, black smoke billowing from oil drums alongside a stack of crushed and semi-crushed cars piled across the road, with a nearly immaculate Jaguar XK8 on top, its engine burned out, but otherwise in perfect condition.

Acton turned to Reading. “Do you think that’s Dick Van Dyke’s?” he asked, roaring in laughter as he remembered Dyke’s brand new Jaguar catching fire on him on the highway, nearly killing the old actor.

“Dick Van who?” replied Reading.

“Dyke. You know, Marry Poppins, Diagnosis Murder?”

“Never heard of him,” replied Reading, turning his attention to the Jell-O.

“You need to get out more,” said Acton, gently rotating his shoulder.

“How does it feel,” asked Laura, now sitting upright in her chair and facing him, her hand still on his leg as if she had made a vow to never be out of physical contact again.

“Good, actually. I can’t wait to get out of here tomorrow. I’m sick of hospitals.”

“Me too,” came Reading’s muffled reply, his mouth full of Jell-O. “I assume we’re going to Bethlehem.”

“Damned skippy!”

Laura frowned and Acton patted her hand.

“Hey, it’s the only way we’re going to get closure on this entire Triarii business.”

She nodded, letting out a sigh.

“I just hope there’s no more bullets.”

Manger Street, Bethlehem, Israel

Present day, seven days after the kidnapping

Reading pulled the rental car to the curb, all of them looking out the driver side windows at the incredibly old stone structure across from them. Acton’s trained eye knew that by outward appearances to the amateur eye it could be easily mistaken as being from biblical times, perhaps even a former inn that turned away Mary and Joseph, but he knew better. This old building had been built and rebuilt over the centuries, probably over a millennia, the wall in front that hid what was no doubt a courtyard beyond, clearly having undergone significant repairs and rebuilds many times.

“Is this it?” asked Reading, turning off the engine.

“I think so,” said Laura, double-checking the piece of paper given her by the monk. “The address is correct.”

“Doesn’t look like much,” observed Reading, removing the keys and climbing out of the car.

“What were you expecting?” asked Acton as Reading helped him from the car, his shoulder still sore, his body still a little weak from his ordeal.

Reading shrugged. “I dunno. Something fancier anyway.”

“It’s a nunnery. They’re not known for being spectacular,” said Laura as she held her hand out to block an approaching car as the three of them crossed the road a little more slowly than Acton would have liked. He could feel the beads of sweat forming on his forehead as he overexerted himself, but he refused to give in. They were so close to ending this nightmare that had hung over them for the past few years, there was no way he was going to let some bullet wound hold him back.

Laura waved her thanks to the driver who had stopped as they climbed the curb and stepped up to the humble wood door to the courtyard, a cross proudly displayed over it, nailed to the stone wall.

Reading knocked, three quick raps, then one, then three.

Acton looked at him. “Oh, very funny.”

Reading grinned then his look turned to concern as he motioned toward Acton’s sweating forehead. “Are you sure you’re up for this?”

“Try to stop me,” he said, pulling a bottle of water from the satchel Laura was wearing. He drained half it before the gate finally swung open a few inches and a sliver of a nun’s face appeared.

Acton stepped forward. “Hello, my name is—”

“Professor Acton!” exclaimed the nun, pulling the gate all the way open and ushering them in. “Come in! Come in! The abbot told us to expect you should you survive, and thank the good Lord you did!” She closed the gate behind her, locking it, then excitedly led them across the small courtyard toward the main building. “I’m Sister Josephine. I understand you wanted a private tour!”

The woman was clearly excited, and Acton wasn’t sure why. Perhaps the Abbot’s almost fanboy appreciation had rubbed off on her, or she was just excited to have visitors, there being no indication from the outside that any type of tour was offered to the public.

As they crossed the courtyard, Sister Josephine spoke non-stop. “On your left are the living quarters, on the right are offices, workshops, storage and other things. In front of us is our humble church. We just finished prayers so your timing is perfect.” She ushered them through a large set of wooden doors, lovingly maintained over time, the wood still a healthy sheen though pitted and scarred from years of service.