“You’re an amazing person.”
“So are you.”
He kissed her again. “Next time I’m down this way I might just look you up and take you out on a date.”
“I look forward to it.”
Epilogue
Steve Cachia sat in the corner of the tiny bar in the small town of Port Stephens in West Falkland Island. His second glass of locally brewed beer stood untouched; a book on the rare birdlife of the small island on the South Atlantic archipelago laid on the table next to it. He’d left the book open with such frequency he was almost certain he’d begun to know what was inside. Three guys took turns playing rounds of pool at the other end of the room. The barman, an entirely bald man with heavily wrinkled skin poured himself a shot of strong liquor. He drank it and then continued drying recently washed glasses with a hand towel.
It was hard to maintain a certain level of anonymity under the circumstances. Steve grinned. It had been two months and whoever he was waiting for still hadn’t showed. He slumped his heavyset shoulders forward. His eyes were vacant, casually watching some gameshow on an antiquated television in the background. At his prime he used to be two hundred and thirty pounds of solid muscle. Once a top detective with New York’s finest, he’d been given a pension after twenty years of exceptional service. Now fifty, he was still two hundred and thirty pounds, but the ratio of fat to muscle had changed places. Even so, he could move quickly if he needed to and there was a lot more strength in his arms than anyone would have given him credit for.
Like many before him, he’d found the pension less than what he was used to living on and the life of early retirement unfulfilling. Consequently, he’d started his own private detective agency. That’s how he came to find himself exceedingly bored on this small island in the middle of nowhere. His current case was as boring as it was ridiculous. If it wasn’t for the money some fool was throwing at him he would have never taken it, let alone stayed this long.
Oh well, beggars can’t be choosers.
In a world of digital espionage, smart computers, drones, and cameras no larger than your thumbnail it was hard to believe it was still important to put men on the ground for such surveillance. But technology was only so useful without having the people to act on it.
His phone vibrated. Steve pulled it out of his trouser pocket, opened it and looked at the single message.
Active movement inside the tunnel.
Someone had returned. He had set up a series of hidden cameras and motion detectors inside the tunnel at the end of the blowhole, along the surrounding areas of the island, and at the airport. He downed the second glass of beer, nodded his head politely at the barman, and walked outside.
In the next twenty-four hours he would earn the cost of his exorbitant fees. He could abduct the man within the hour, but that wasn’t what he’d been paid to do. Instead, he was to follow the person. See where he goes and report. No mistakes. If the man thinks he or she is being followed, the entire game would be over and there would be no chance of a retake.
Steve settled into his hired Range Rover and casually headed north. Steve followed the man he’d been waiting for who drove north toward Port Howard. There was no rush. He kept a good five miles behind the man. He kept him on constant visual via satellite. Not that he even needed that. It was clear where the man was going. He’d come in by aircraft and he would need to leave via one, too. From West Falkland Island he would need to catch the ferry from Port Howard to New Haven that was due to leave at three p.m. and once there he had the option of flying out of Mount Pleasant Airport or Port Stanley Airport. Both flew international.
Steve made a quick call to both of them. He paid thousands of dollars in bribes over the past two months to tin pushers who worked at both control towers. Neither had any commercial jets flying out today, but Mount Pleasant had a privately owned Gulfstream G650 that was booked to fly out today.
“Where’s it headed?” he asked.
“They’ve filed for a direct flight to Rome, Italy.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yes, absolutely.”
It was impossible for Steve to get a flight for another forty-eight hours. The man who’d hired him was going to be pissed off, but what could he do about it? There weren’t any flights arriving, let alone leaving before then.
He quickly made a call to some agents in New York. They were booked on the next flight to Rome and would be there with plenty of time to prepare for their guest. Steve wished he was able to be there in person. The last thing he needed was for his team to lose the guy. It was all over if they stuffed it up.
Steve looked at his phone — do I make the call now? He decided not to. His job was to get the information. Find out who the guy was and where he came from and then pass it on. The person who’d taken out the contract told him under no uncertain terms that once the man from the hidden tunnel had been located he would deal with it on his own.
It would take him nearly two days using the necessary stop overs of commercial flights to reach Rome from the Falkland Islands. It took the man he’d been paid to locate just nine hours by private jet.
Ten hours after he watched the Gulfstream G650 take off, Steve received a phone call from his second in command in Rome. “Tell me you have him!”
“Relax. We’ve got him, but I’m not sure you’re gonna like where he went.”
Steve listened to the whole story. His mouth was incredibly dry, and his mind blank. At the end of the story he hung up and swore several times. The sort of curses that’d make a hooker blush. Now what the hell am I supposed to do? Steve didn’t have a clue. So he dialed the number.
The man on the other end of the line answered before the second ring. “Tell me you have something for me?”
Steve took a deep breath and began his report, keeping to the facts and specifics only. “Mr. Reilly. I have video footage of the man who entered the ancient tunnel inside the blow hole in Port Stephens. He took a direct flight to Rome by private jet. The jet was leased by a company that specializes in corporate and elite air transport. Once there, he was picked up by a private taxi and taken to the Vatican. He was immediately greeted by the Swiss guards, who all recognized him on sight. From there he approached the private chambers, where the Pope came out to greet him individually. A moment later he disappeared into the vault. My team has set up a surveillance surrounding the Vatican. When he leaves, we’ll know where he’s going.”
“Thank you, Steve.” Mr. Reilly said. His voice, cold and unemotional. “Do you know his name?”
“He flew under a passport issued by the Vatican, but it doesn’t sound like a real name.”
“What is it?”
“Testimonium Architectus.”
“Witness to the Builders,” Sam translated the Latin words. “Forget about the surveillance. I will deal with it from here. Send your completed invoice, including additional expenses for your team’s travel to Rome. You’ll be paid in full. I’ve been very happy with your services, but they are now no longer required.”
Sam ended the cell call. His eyes no longer drifting out of the bridge of the Maria Helena towards the open ocean. “Elise, get me the live video feed from inside the blow hole.”
Elise tapped on her keyboard and the dark image of the secret room became displayed. “There you go.”
“I want lighting so I can see it!” he demanded, urgently.
“Coming up.”
The background light made the secret alcove come alive. It was empty except for the book, which had been left open two months earlier, when he and Tom had found the place. Hidden inside a secret obsidian chamber at the end of an ancient blowhole on West Falkland Island, was a book which documented the major events in a history that spanned more than two thousand years of history. There was no way Sam could read what had been recently added to the book.