Target seven, p.5
Target Seven, page 5
And there she was now, coming into the chapel. Dressed in a designer outfit, she looked like a successful businesswoman in her early forties, although she was far more interesting than that. She stopped at the basin next to the door, touched her finger to the water, then bent her knee and crossed herself. Jacob took a seat in one of the pews. Jana had gone out of sight. Good.
He spotted a sharp-eyed Italian man in a nice suit shadowing Francesca. A bodyguard, and a skilled one by the looks of him. Fair enough. Francesca always had a bodyguard with her, although come to think of it Jacob had never seen the same bodyguard twice.
Did she have a whole host of bodyguards, or did they just keep getting killed? Jacob couldn't say. What Jacob knew about Francesca Miceli was far outweighed by what he didn't know.
The important thing was that her intel was always reliable. He did know that. Every time he’d come to her for information, he got what he wanted.
And they had always met here. He had to hand it to Italian criminals. They may do horrible things, but they always did them in the most beautiful places.
Francesca moved to the pew he sat at and took a place an arm’s length from him. No other worshippers were nearby, although a steady trickle of tourists walked past. The informant crossed herself again, clasped her hands in prayer, and bowed her head.
Jacob kept quiet. This was not an act.
Once she was done praying for forgiveness for what must have been an epic list of sins, she spoke quietly, not looking away from the image of Christ above the altar.
“How can I help you, Mr. Briggs?”
John Briggs. Another of his aliases and the one that Francesca Miceli knew him by.
“Any big shipments come through in the past couple of days?”
He set his jacket down on the seat between them, with a pile of cash beneath it. The informant didn’t reach for it at once. Subtlety kept her alive.
“A couple. Anything in particular you’re looking for?”
“Antiquities or armaments.”
“No. Nothing like that. With the situation in North Africa, shipments have all but dried up.”
Jacob nodded. A lot of warships in the Mediterranean these days. It had put a crimp into all sorts of smuggling operations.
“Any news of a shipment coming in?”
“None.”
Her hand eased down beneath his jacket and withdrew so quickly that if he hadn’t been expecting the movement, Jacob would have never seen it. Even looking, he didn’t see her palm the wad of bills he’d put beneath the jacket and didn’t see where she secreted it.
I wonder if she got her start as a pickpocket?
“I do have some news, though,” she said.
“What’s that?”
“It’s big news. Very hush hush. It has to do with a major auction of an artifact. It came from the region you’re interested in, but the auction isn’t happening in Sicily.”
An auction? That didn’t fit. But how many major artifacts could suddenly go on sale right now?
“Tell me more.”
“Gladly.”
Silence.
Francesca stared at the image of Christ, not saying anything.
Jacob suppressed his irritation and slipped another wad of bills beneath his jacket. This time, he didn't even see her remove it, although he had no doubt that she did. The only thing more reliable than Francesca Miceli's accuracy was her greed.
“It’s happening in three days’ time. In Gibraltar. It’s being run by George Dawson.”
“Who?”
“He’s the major player in the sale of Nazi memorabilia. Such items are illegal in many nations, and so they can fetch a high price.”
“I’m not looking for Nazi artifacts.”
“This isn’t, although there’s a Nazi connection. Have you heard of Rommel’s treasure?”
“Erwin Rommel, the Afrika Korps general?”
“Yes. When he conquered most of North Africa during World War Two, he closed in on Egypt, and came very close to taking it.”
“I know that. I don’t know about any treasure.”
“As he moved across North Africa, members of the Gestapo attached to his army looted valuables from any Jewish families they came across. North Africa had many Jews back then.”
Jacob nodded. In Tangier and Asilah, he had been to beautiful synagogues built centuries ago, testament to once-thriving communities. Many Jews had moved to Israel after it was founded in 1948, and many more left in the 50s and 60s as one by one, Morocco, Tunisia, Libya, and Algeria gained their independence. That soon after World War Two, the Jews rightly worried about new pogroms. They feared these newly independent nations might turn on their native Jewish populations.
The informant went on.
“That wasn’t the only thing they collected. As you probably know, many high-ranking Nazi officials were fascinated by the occult, especially the forgotten powers and knowledge of ancient civilizations. They were eagerly anticipating the conquest of British Egypt, not only to control the Suez Canal, but also to find ancient artifacts there. Rumor has it, they found some important ancient Egyptian artifact at an isolated oasis on the Libyan-Egyptian border.”
Jacob shifted in his seat, confused. That sounded like a dead ringer for what they were looking for, right down to the location, but if it was dug up in the early 1940s, what did the terrorists just dig up a couple of days ago?
Or did they dig and find nothing?
“What kind of artifact is it?”
“It’s Egyptian, but the description is vague. Dawson put out an announcement that he was taking bidders, and only said that it was for a ‘withering power.’ I have no idea what that means. It must be code for people in the know.”
Jacob tensed. The ‘withering power of Ra’ was what the ancients called the Staff of Ra, capable of firing a beam of radiation at the enemy with fearful results. Dr. Farag and the rest of The Sword of the Righteous knew this.
Did anyone else?
So it hadn’t been their old nemesis who dug up the site in Libya. This guy in Gibraltar beat them to it, or maybe Rommel beat them both to it.
And he obviously wasn’t in The Sword of the Righteous if he was putting the staff up for auction. He knew they wanted it, though, and apparently he knew of others who wanted it too.
Great. More people in the mix. That just made their lives a whole lot harder.
“So can anyone go to this auction?”
“Yes. It takes place at Dawson’s house this Wednesday evening. You have access to the Dark Web?”
“Yes.”
You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve dug into in that online cesspool. Then again, maybe you would.
“Look for a site called Third Reich Mementoes. That’s Dawson’s. It will give you the exact time and address. You’ll need to apply to go, though. It’s not an open house.”
“Apply to go?”
“Like any other private auction for high-ticket items. You need to prove you’re both interested and have the funds to cover your bid.”
Jacob nodded, an idea forming in his mind.
“Anything else I can help you with?” Francesca Miceli asked.
“What kind of man is this George Dawson character?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never dealt with him. I hope this information proves useful to you.”
She stood, crossed herself as she gazed up at the mosaic of Jesus, then turned and left the chapel. Her bodyguard followed her out, as close and quiet as a shadow.
Jacob lingered for a minute, then got up too. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Jana moving toward him. Without looking at her, he left the building, crossed the plaza out front, and started walking down a side street.
Jana moved in beside him.
“Find out anything useful?” she asked.
“I found out that dinner you planned for us is going to be our only one in Italy. We need to go to Greece.”
“Greece? Why?”
“Two reasons. First, there’s a contact I have in Athens who is going to prove useful for the next phase of this operation, and also we need a place to hide. I don’t trust our passports to stay clean for long. Someone's watching us, and they're watching us closely.”
“If they’re compromised, the terrorists will know if we fly to Athens.”
“Yes, but they won’t know where we’re staying. We won’t check into a hotel. We’ll go to my house. No one knows where my house is except a few people in the CIA.”
“I don’t understand how they could have found out the names and numbers of those CIA passports.”
“I’m trying to figure that out myself.”
It did seem unlikely that a terrorist organization that was in hiding and on the run would be able to find out about some passports the CIA had only given them a few weeks ago. That made him worried.
Worried that it hadn’t been the terrorists who discovered their new aliases.
Because a few weeks before, Aaron Peters, Jana’s father, had taken him aside and spoken to him alone.
Spoken to him about The Order, an ultrasecret organization that pulled the strings behind many corporations, governments and terror groups, and who might even be pulling the strings behind The Sword of the Righteous.
Aaron had warned him that The Order had spread its tentacles into all the major intelligence organizations. His mentor thought that even the CIA itself was compromised.
At first, Jacob hadn't wanted to believe it. Now, it was looking like that was possible.
CHAPTER SIX
When Jacob heard “collector of Nazi memorabilia”, he could think of only one person.
Vasiliki Castellanos.
Based in Athens, this multi-millionaire owned numerous freighters that plied the Mediterranean and Atlantic on short to mid-length runs. Much of his traffic was between the North and West African coasts and Europe. This gave Castellanos the perfect opportunity to dabble in smuggling—of drugs and of people—to pad out his profits. He then sold his imports to dealers in Europe. He didn’t do the dirty work of selling the goods himself.
No, Vasiliki Castellanos was a respectable businessman. Everyone said so, from the politicians he bribed to the museums in Athens that he generously donated to and the common people in the little village he was born in who he helped get through Greece’s grinding economic crisis.
“Open-handed Vasiliki.” That’s what the press called him.
Jacob knew better.
The reason Jacob had thought of him was for two reasons.
One, he wasn’t above taking bribes from the CIA to provide useful information.
And two, he was well-known to have one of the largest collections of World War Two memorabilia in Europe. The man’s house was literally a museum. Every now and then, he opened it up to journalists and gave them a tour. Jacob had watched one of these tours on Greek TV and wondered what drove a man to have an entire parking garage full of old tanks, trucks, and armored cars.
I guess everyone needs a hobby, he thought as he drove his Camaro up to the gated community in the hills overlooking Athens.
Jana was not with him. He had left her at his house, delving into the Dark Web to find out what she could about George Dawson and his auction in Gibraltar.
The guard at the gate took his name—another false one—and waved him through. Jacob had had dealings with Vasiliki Castellanos before, and when he got in touch, the multimillionaire had told him to come right over.
Jacob drove slowly along the narrow residential roads past gaudy mansions that showed more money than taste. Greece had never fully recovered from the financial crisis of 2009, and many people lived hand to mouth in squalid apartments. To see such ostentatious wealth so close to all that suffering irritated him. It reminded him too much of the Third World.
At the very top of the slope, he came to another gate, this one operated electronically. To either side stood sentry boxes with mannequins standing in them. One was of an American GI from World War Two. Another was a soldier from the Greek army from that same conflict. Both were dressed in what he assumed were vintage uniforms with all the equipment, right down to the rifles.
Jacob pushed the intercom button, identified himself, and the gate clicked open.
He drove up a sweeping driveway toward the gleaming white mansion on top of the hill, noting the security cameras and advanced alarm system.
The garage was shut, so he parked in front of the steps leading up to the front door.
Vasiliki Castellanos emerged, a stout Greek man in his late middle age with thick arms and a thicker middle. He gripped two large German Shepherds at the end of a pair of chains.
Jacob remembered infiltrating the home of a Spanish collector and getting chased by a pair of enormous Dobermans.
What is it with rich collectors and vicious dogs? I hope I don’t get my ass bitten like last time.
“Mr. Thompson,” Castellanos greeted him. “How nice to see you again.”
“Thank you for meeting me at your home.”
“I wanted you to see it. We’ve done enough business that it’s about time I showed you around my sanctum sanctorum.”
Jacob didn’t know what that meant. Maybe he should have brought along Jana after all.
“I’d be interested in seeing it.”
Military museums were the only kind of museums he actually liked visiting. Not that he would tell Jana that.
He eyed the German Shepherds. They stared back at him, licking their chops.
Castellanos noticed him looking. “Oh, don’t worry about Adolf and Benito. They’re a pair of big babies.”
Big babies that could rip my throat out if you ordered them to. I know a four-legged bodyguard when I see one, buddy.
Unfortunately, I’m seeing two.
“I have a few questions about an upcoming auction,” Jacob said. “The usual deal for information.”
The multimillionaire smiled. “The usual deal” was a wad of cash, always welcome but essentially symbolic for someone like him, and also a get-out-of-jail-free card. The CIA would use its influence to keep him safe. While Castellanos trafficked in drugs and migrants, he did not traffic in arms despite his obsession with military history. And he was a good source of intel on who was trafficking arms. The CIA had decided that he was more useful as a free man than in the jail cell he so richly deserved. It was one of those little compromises for the greater good that had never sat well with Jacob, even though he understood the logic behind it.
“We’ll sit and have some wine and discuss it,” the millionaire said. “But first, let me show you my collection. I think a man like you would appreciate it.”
That offhand comment unsettled Jacob a bit. Vasiliki Castellanos should have no idea what kind of man he was. He didn’t even know Jacob’s real name.
But lately, a lot of people knew a lot more about him than he felt comfortable with.
The Greek descended the steps, his two German Shepherds following obediently, and led Jacob around to a large garage with a higher roof than was normal.
Castellanos clicked a remote, and all five bay doors rose in tandem to reveal an array of tanks.
“Panzer IV, Tiger, Sherman, Challenger, Char B1,” Jacob recited, going from left to right.
“They are indeed,” Castellanos said, giving him a nod of approval.
“I’m surprised you have a Char B1,” Jacob said, pointing to the French tank. It had a large chassis and an undersized, globular turret with a short gun.
“They were never numerous,” the collector said. “A pity. With their heavy armor and firepower, they outmatched everything the Germans fielded in the invasion of France. If the French had more of them, the war might have gone differently.”
“That and better communication.”
The Germans had equipped every tank with its own radio to coordinate maneuvers while the French still relied on waving pennants in order to signal each other, an ineffective and dangerous system.
“Yes, knowledge is power,” Castellanos said.
You’re telling me.
Vasiliki Castellanos led him into the garage, and Jacob saw it went back a lot further than he had thought. Beyond he saw halftracks, trucks, motorcycles, and armored cars from every European power. Along the wall were display cases containing everything from pistols to machine guns to grenades.
They walked slowly around the exhibition space, discussing the various items. Castellanos turned out to be an amiable and knowledgeable host, and Jacob had to remind himself that the Greek made as much of a living importing hash, MDMA, and illegal immigrants as he did the legal cargo in his freighters.
“You sure have an impressive collection,” Jacob said in all truth. Then he decided to probe. “I notice that while you have some German gear, you don’t have any SS stuff or swastika flags, just material from the Wehrmacht.”
Castellanos clicked his tongue. “I don’t want such things. I’m an historian and collector, not a Nazi lover.”
“Good to hear. I’ve seen collections that were almost all Nazi paraphernalia.”
“The Nazis were evil. They did terrible things to Greece because we stood up to them. Our partisan groups were some of the best in the war, and the Nazis made us suffer for it.”
“People starved.”
“My own grandparents starved. I had a great uncle I never met because he died of rickets during those days. A trip to the hospital could have cured him. Even a trip to a well-stocked grocery store could have cured him. But there were no hospitals and no well-stocked grocery stores for Greeks during the occupation. Come, let’s have some of that wine. I have a nice Assyrtiko from 1984. Do you know it?”
“Santorini produces some of the best wine in Greece.”
“That it does, my friend, that it does.”
Castellanos brought him into a spacious living room where a young Chinese man with a shaved head was setting out wine glasses and a bowl of olives on a small table between two antique leather armchairs. While the servant’s loose white clothing hid his muscles, his grace and economy of movement told Jacob that he was a trained martial artist.
