The Valiant Page 10

  "It's not supposed to relate to her death," he says simply. "It's supposed to do with something that starts with Montrovia and ends the world as we know it."

  I throw my hands up in the air. This is fruitless. "Well then, someone is going to bring a Trojan Horse to Montrovia. Montrovia will fall, and the world will soon follow, but a few of the survivors will sail away--in this case, probably on their yachts--until the women they are with force them to land somewhere and create a great new civilization."

  Intrepid doesn't say anything in response, just nods toward our tour guide, who is making her way toward us, offering up a picnic basket, blanket, and bottle of Prosecco that must come with our tour.

  He obviously read the guide's expression when I said he was my uncle because the second she sets the basket down, he wraps an arm around my waist, pulls me close, and gives me a charming smile. "Perfect timing. I'm ready to have you all to myself. Let's go find somewhere private, shall we?"

  I try not to giggle, but it slips out anyway. Even though, when studying the great spy, I admit to having a few fantasies about him, that idea seems ridiculous now. He's too real. Too much of a father figure. And too endearing to consider anything of a sexual nature with him. I realize the giggle probably fits the role I'm playing though and decide to go with it. I playfully slap his arm, nuzzle myself into his neck, and whisper something unintelligible, which will ensure the tour guide will remember our slightly scandalous behavior rather than our interest in a particular sculpture.

  He quickly leads me down a path and to an idyllic spot under a shade tree where he spreads out the blanket, going through the motions of pretending to care about it all.

  "Last night, I went out on my own. To a restaurant where my mother and I had been when we were in Rome. She left me to dine there alone one evening while she sat at a nearby fountain and watched something. She left a coded message at the restaurant where it was pinned to the wall in the kitchen ever since."

  "What did it say?" he asks, pouring us each a glass of bubbly.

  "Seemingly random words. Arcadia, Lorenzo the Magnificent, Giuliano Medici, The Society, Trojan Horse, Harrison McClellan, and John F. Hillford Sr."

  "Any idea how they are related?"

  "Not really other than the former president is the one who ordered the hit on her, so he was probably deeply involved in whatever she discovered. And McClellan owns--"

  "The world's largest biotech firm and started the conspiracy-theory-ridden World Seed Vault."

  "Correct."

  "While this is all really fascinating," he says, "we have a crisis that I need your help with. I have no idea if it relates to Montrovia, but we have to deal with it regardless."

  "Are you talking about the missing nuclear backpacks?"

  His eyes get huge. "How do you know?"

  "It helps, being friends with the president's son."

  "Your brother tells me the two of you have planned a quick trip to Florence today but that you will head to London first thing tomorrow morning."

  "That's correct. So, you have all these people holed up in a Montrovian safe house, trying to break the case; have they discovered anything useful?"

  "We have to deal with the current threat first," he says seriously.

  "And how are we going to do that?"

  "We're going to a birthday party, and I need you to get us an invite."

  "Whose birthday is it?" I ask.

  "Your old pal Wesley Windsor."

  "And what does he have to do with a nuclear bomb?"

  "Nothing, but the party room next door to his just happens to be holding an event for someone who might have something to do with it." He takes a sip of wine. "Bring something very sexy to wear. With this man, you will need it."

  I have barely agreed before he has the picnic thrown into the trash and is dragging me across the lawn.

  When he drops me off at my hotel, he reiterates, "It's imperative that we get an invitation."

  "We?" I ask.

  "Yes, your brother and I will be there with you. See you in London," he says and then ditches me.

  When I arrive back at my hotel suite, I find Malcolm and Aleksandr in the living room instead of my brother.

  "We'd like to speak with you, Huntley," Malcolm says. "Please sit down."

  I give them a defiant stare, cross my arms in front of my chest, and remain standing, trying my best to emulate how I think my father would have reacted.

  "Look, we're sorry about last night. It was rude of us to ask you to leave in the middle of dinner," Malcolm says, "but you must understand our predicament. We're bound by certain rules."

  "Which you have already broken by telling me about the group and how it related to my father," I reply.

  "Yes, and we hope it is a conversation you will keep to yourself," Aleksandr adds.

  I nod, indicating that I will, which is a complete lie. If I find out the organization had anything to do with my mother's death, I will not rest until it is destroyed regardless of their affiliation.

  "We do have some news to share that does not breach that confidence. I told you that I would find out who was responsible for the death of our late president."

  "And you have discovered that?" I ask, interested to know if he found out the truth.

  "Yes, it was the work of an assassin known as The Priest. What I'm about to tell you is classified, but I want you to understand the kind of man the government is up against here."

  "Okay," I reply, taking a seat and listening.

  "Six years ago, the assassin killed a female CIA agent and her husband. The man was killed in a car bombing, and the woman was shot point-blank in her home," Malcolm says, causing my throat to go dry and making me wonder if they know the truth about me.

  I keep my eyes trained on them, as I should during a conversation of this nature, but my mind is running through different scenarios of how I'll escape and if I will have to kill my father's friends to do so.

  "She had a young daughter whose body was never recovered," Aleksandr says, his voice cracking with compassion.

  "That's horrible," I manage to get out.

  "Yes, it is," Malcolm agrees. "But the CIA covered it up, and if you ever looked their names up in the newspapers, you would think they were just a normal family who died in a tragic motor vehicle accident. A hit-and-run, presumably caused by a drunk driver."

  "Needless to say," Aleksandr says, "the American government took this hard. John F. Hillford Senior was president at the time and ordered a Special Forces team to take out the assassin once and for all."

  "They determined where he lived and bombed his house. He was presumed dead for the past six years," Malcolm continues. "Until the former president's son, Jack, was assassinated. It turns out, the assassin survived the assault and was looking for revenge."

  I want to tell them that they have it all wrong. That Hillford ordered the hit because of what my mother knew. But I can't.

  "I'm glad they figured out who did it. The story in the papers didn't make a lot of sense. And attacking another country for one man's sins maybe doesn't make sense either."

  "Know that our government will not rest until this man is dead," Malcolm says. "But what I wanted you to be aware of is, they believe this assassin is also behind the kidnapping of Lorenzo as well as the death of Clarice Vallenta."

  "And the car bomb?"

  "Probably him as well," Aleksandr states.

  "And do you think he's still trying to kill Lorenzo?" I ask, trying to make myself look scared.

  "They assume, after the failed attempt, he went into hiding," Malcolm says. "I think, for the time being, you are safe."

  I let out a sigh. "That's a relief."

  "Yes, it is. We are thrilled to have a piece of Ares back in our life, so to speak. And we would have hated it if you had gotten blown up."

  "I think I would have hated that, too," I say solemnly.

  Although their information is incorrect, probably given to them from Mike Burnes hims
elf, their frankness is touching.

  "What is it?" Aleksandr asks when he notices the tears forming in my eyes.

  "I'm just really grateful that you both have been so kind to me. You've made me feel ... almost like I have a family. I'm sorry for the way I behaved at dinner last night, too. You offered to petition The Society for me, and I told you not to."

  "To spite your father?" Aleksandr wonders.

  "Yeah, pretty much."

  "Have you changed your mind?" Malcolm asks. "We will meet again here in Rome, as usual, in early August. Maybe, if we work our magic, you can attend that meeting with us."

  "Can I ask you a serious question first?"

  "Of course."

  "You've piqued my interest in the group by the fact that my father was intrigued by it and that it has roots based in a deep history. And I will admit, I might have read a few conspiracy theories about such groups."

  "Like the Illuminati, the Rosicrucians, or the Freemasons?" Malcolm asks. "I would be willing to bet you found no conspiracy theories about The Society in particular."

  "You're right; I didn't."

  "That should be an indication of the level of secrecy the group has maintained throughout its history," Malcolm states, raising an eyebrow at me and leaning back into his chair.

  I glance nervously back and forth between the two men, pretending to be trying to figure it all out. Well, actually, I am I trying to figure it all out. Just not in the way they suspect.

  "We're messing with you, Huntley," Aleksandr says a few moments later, a broad smile playing across his face. "No conspiracy theories because there are no conspiracies. Just a desire to gently guide our world for the greater good."

  "I appreciate your offer to petition the group, but I think, for now, I'll let my brother work on guiding the world. I'm afraid I would have no idea where to take it."

  "Not many people do," he says. "You're still young. You'll get there."

  "Thank you. One more question. This assassin guy. Like, it's awesome our government is looking for him and all, but an assassin by definition kills for money. So, instead of looking for the guy who pulled the trigger, shouldn't they be looking for the guy who paid him?"

  "I would assume it is their top priority." Malcolm studies my unusually casual attire. "You are very shrewd, Huntley, much like your father. Something makeup and designer clothing can't disguise."

  They both get up, give me endearing hugs, and then leave.

  A moment later, Ari walks through the door.

  "Let's go," he says. "We have a chopper waiting for us."

  "But that means we won't get to talk," I tell him.

  "There will be plenty of time for that later."

  The assassin known as The Priest is being kept in a safe house with a group of people, and it doesn't bode well with him. It's not that the people here aren't all extremely talented at what they do, but he worries, the second he is of no use, they will attempt to kill him. He knows no one in the assembled group is to be underestimated.

  The admiral is formidable in stance, and it's evident that he didn't get to the top of the Montrovian military just because of his friendship with their late king. The young assassin, Josh, who trained with Huntley looks relatively harmless, but based on her skills alone, one should assume that he is not. The tech nerd, Terrance, has a brilliant mind and a surprisingly well-toned physique, but he is clearly in love with the hacker, Olivia, which could be used against him. The British spy has come and gone, but considering he's completed at least twenty high-profile assassinations on British soil, he doesn't expect they will ever be best friends. His own friend, The Bartender, loves being part of the group, of feeling like he's back in the action. While it excites him, it wears on The Priest. He just wants to get his son and go back to his life as a simple real estate agent, who only works on occasion.

  The man he fears the most is the Mossad agent, for they are trained to be ruthless. He's been trying to remember if he has ever killed someone important to Israel. He's hoping for his own sake that he has not.

  The group is all in a tizzy, working on something to do with stolen nuclear weapons, and that really is the cause of his irritation. He needs to help Huntley figure out why he was paid to kill her mother, save the world if need be, and find a new home for himself and his son.

  He's contemplating where that might be when The Bartender yells out, "We just got something. An instant message for you, Henri."

  He drags himself off the couch and stands behind The Bartender's chair, reading the screen.

  What the hell were you thinking, setting off a car bomb in the middle of London? We hired you for a single hit. Not only have you failed, but you also failed for all the world to see. But, fortunately for you, this plays into our hand. We will seek no retribution if you answer one question truthfully.

  He gently pushes his friend off the chair, so he can sit in front of the computer and type.

  As he places his hands on the keyboard, Olivia and Terrance yell out, "Wait!"

  "Wait for what?" he asks.

  "What are you going to say?"

  "I will reply as I should. You do your job to trace them."

  Olivia cracks her knuckles, flicks some switches, and says, "Ready, go!"

  So, he types his reply. And what question is that?

  Did you assist the former president in his demise?

  Yes.

  Then you saved us the trouble. Thirty million is being wired to your account as we speak. It is a pleasure doing business with you. The invoice number on the wire transfer is the receipt number for the baggage storage facility in Heathrow, Terminal 5. The luggage inside contains random clothing so as to pass inspection, but under a false bottom is what appears to be a burner cell phone. Please take it with you wherever you go. Things in the world will be changing soon, and we'd like you to be a part of it. That phone is the key to you--and your son's--survival.

  You know about my son?

  Of course we know about him, just as we knew of his mother. Although we do not know where you have hidden him away. Yet. So, for that, be grateful.

  "What does that mean?" Gabriel asks the assassin.

  Before he can reply, the admiral chimes in, "I'm afraid it means that there's a plan to detonate a nuclear bomb in our beloved country."

  I grab my handbag, and we make our way downstairs where a black car is idling in front of the hotel. We get in and are transported to a helipad, and then we make the short trip to Florence.

  "What are you wearing?" Ari asks me when we arrive.

  "I call it American Tourist," I tease, but then my expression turns serious. "I don't want to deal with people recognizing us right now. So, turn off the spoiled-rich-boy act for today."

  "Okay," he says. "But it's a little hard to do when you're being ferried by chopper."

  The wind from the helicopter whips my hair around, so I quickly braid my ponytail to keep it in place.

  We arrive at the Basilica di San Lorenzo after a quick cab ride and are met by a private guide, who takes us in a side entry, allowing us to avoid the long line.

  "I understand you are doing your thesis on Giuliano de' Medici," the tour guide says to me after we exchange pleasantries.

  I'm not sure what Ari said when he set up the tour, but I go with it. "Yes, specifically the symbolism surrounding his life."

  "Why, that's quite the interesting topic," he states, closely studying me. "What inspired that choice, if I may ask?"

  I decide to reply with the real reason I am here. "Years ago, my mother brought me here while on vacation. She was thoroughly enthralled with the history."

  "Do you remember me?" he asks. "You look much like your mother. And you are even wearing your hair in a braid like you did that day."

  I squint my eyes at him, suddenly remembering a dark, damp tunnel. "You took us somewhere, a place off-limits to most."

  "Very good," he says.

  "I was only twelve at the time," I say with a sigh, lowering my head
. "You have no idea how much it means to me that I ended up in your care today. My mother passed right after our trip. I think that's what drove me to become so obsessed."

  "And this is your brother?" he asks, carefully eyeing Ari.

  I string my arm through his in a show of solidarity. "We're twins actually. While my mother and I toured museums and churches across Italy, he and my father were off hunting, fishing, or camping." I bite my lip in supposed nervousness. "It would mean the world to us if you could take us on the same tour as you did back then."

  "Very well," he says. "We will start with the tomb of Giuliano de' Medici."

  "Wait," Ari says. "Lorenzo the Magnificent was from the Medici family. Does that mean they were related?"

  "Very good," I say to him and then turn to the guide. "We were in Montrovia recently and toured all the relevant historical sites in their capitol."

  The guide smiles at Ari. "Lorenzo and Giuliano weren't simply related. They were brothers. Lorenzo was given land by his father and named the Duke of Vallenta while his brother ruled Florence."

  "And, sadly, died here," I add.

  "Yes," the guide says, "it was quite tragic. Giuliano was assassinated during mass at the Duomo in Florence. Apparently, there was a plot, later called the Pazzi conspiracy, where a bank manager with the last name of Pazzi plotted to assassinate Giuliano in order to oust the Medici family from power. Although the assassination succeeded, the attempted coup failed, and most of conspirators were caught and subsequently hanged. The entire Pazzi family was banished from Florence, their names were erased from public record, and all of their property and land were confiscated."

  He leads us to the ornate nave where Giuliano's remains are today.

  "I read that Michelangelo was commissioned to make his tomb as well as his brother's in Montrovia."

  "That's correct, but what you see here isn't the original crypt. Years later, one of the Medici popes wanted to combine the tombs of his family members into this nave. This is the result of that."

  "It's incredible," Ari says, taking it all in.

  "The sculpture is made up of numerous types of men, each portraying a different role--the reflective man, the active man. There is Day and Night as well as Dusk and Dawn--" the guide says, continuing to ramble on.