The devils triangle, p.1
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       The Devil's Triangle, p.1

         Part #4 of A Brit in the FBI series by Catherine Coulter
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The Devil's Triangle


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  To all my wonderful writer comrades who get together at my house for lunch, laughter (lots of laughter), life/writing updates, and Dom Pérignon:

  Nyree Belleville, Allison Brennan, Josie Brown, Deborah Coonts, Carol Culver, J.T. Ellison, Barbara Freethy, Tracy Grant, Anne Hearn, Brenda Novak, Veronica Wolff, Jami Worthington CATHERINE

  For Catherine, and this amazing journey we’re on And, as always, Randy J.T.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To our village, many thanks for putting it all together!

  We are indebted to the fine folks at Gallery Books, especially Louise Burke, Jennifer Bergstrom, Lauren McKenna, Elana Cohen, Kristin Dwyer, and all the rest of the team, who are not only doing so much to get these books into the hands of so many, but do it with grace and good humor. And adult beverages. That always helps.

  Robert Gottlieb and Scott Miller are verifiably the two best agents in the business. Thank you for always having our backs.

  The following were a huge help in the daily creation of this story: Karen Evans, Laura Benedict, Amy Kerr, Ariel Lawhon, Sherrie Saint, Jeff Abbott, Joan and Jerome Tussey, and J.T.’s heart, Randy Ellison, who kindly obliged me with a research trip to Venice, and spent hours upon hours in the Piazza San Marco, shooting bad guys from behind columns and on balconies. Fun, and so helpful!

  Also, a special shout-out to Alicia McNeil, who caught the typo of all typos. Trust us when we say you’re glad she did. And deepest thanks to Lee Mossel, Bob Buente, and Koray Süren for all their help bringing Topkapi alive.

  Lastly, many thanks to the wonderful librarians and booksellers who share these books with their patrons, and our amazing online communities on Facebook and Twitter and Goodreads. We couldn’t do it without you!

  PART ONE

  He who controls the weather, will control the world. He who controls gravity, will control the universe. He who controls time, will never be around.

  —THOMAS FREY, FUTURIST

  PROLOGUE

  Clos Lucé

  Amboise, France

  April 30, 1519

  The light was dying, and so was Da Vinci.

  Francesco Melzi stood in the window staring out at the gray spires of the Château Amboise. Saying goodbye to his friend, his mentor, his lover, was impossible. But there was no escaping the reality they were facing. Da Vinci had days left to live, and his copious papers were not yet completely sorted.

  Melzi’s lover lay on the bloodred velvet coverlet, pillows stacked behind him. He was asleep now; there was a peace about him, a gauzy aura that made Melzi realize Da Vinci truly was not long for the world.

  Melzi lit more candles against the falling light and stepped to the table. They were down to the last three crates, so old the wood was cracked and stained. He would sort some more before he took a light dinner in the kitchen. Da Vinci was too weak to make the trek himself anymore. A tray would be brought later, and the old master wouldn’t eat from it.

  Melzi studied the pages, admiring the ingenuity, the genius, not understanding everything he was reading and seeing. A man ahead of his time, was Leonardo.

  A voice, weak but warm, came from behind him. “Oh, to be young in the face of death.”

  Melzi jumped to his feet and went to the bed. “You’re awake.”

  Da Vinci smiled weakly. “Not for long, I am afraid. Are we nearly finished?”

  “I’m down to the last few crates. How are you feeling?”

  A small twisted smile. “Like I am dying. I am sorry to leave you, my friend.”

  “Stop, please. I do not wish to hear it. In my mind, you will live forever.”

  “These are good words for an old man to hear. Now, where were we?”

  Melzi went to the table and picked up the folio he’d just opened. The image drawn on the front was easily understood; a monstrous lightning bolt took up the entire page.

  Da Vinci whispered, “Ah, my thunderbolt. Bring it to me.”

  Da Vinci’s hands were too weak to hold the folio, so Melzi placed it in his lap and opened it.

  Inside were numerals and drawings and more depictions of lightning.

  Melzi asked, “What is this?”

  There was new urgency in Da Vinci’s tone and a sudden fire in his eyes. “Listen to me carefully. This must be destroyed.”

  “Destroyed? We can’t destroy any of your work. Surely you must be joking.”

  “I am not. These plans, these ideas, they are not of this world. If the wrong person were to see them and try to build this machine, it could be the end of all our days.”

  “Whatever is it meant to be?”

  Da Vinci began to cough, clutching the folio to his chest. The parchment became flecked with small droplets of blood. Melzi rushed to the pitcher, poured doctored wine into a goblet, and brought it to his mentor’s side.

  “Drink this. It will help.”

  “I do not want drugs.” Da Vinci heaved. “You must swear to me, Francesco, that these pages will be burned. Do it now while I watch.”

  “Drink some wine, and I promise I will do as you say.”

  Melzi helped Da Vinci drink, then set the glass back on the table.

  “Now, before I consign it to the ashes, what is this?”

  Da Vinci’s eyes were still bright. “La macchina di fulmine.”

  “A lightning machine?”

  “Sì.”

  The lightning bolt on the cover made more sense now. Melzi looked at the pages in awe.

  “You are telling me you have designed a machine that can control the weather?”

  “No, no. It was only an idea, born of an ancient myth. A painting I was commissioned for, of Zeus and his thunderbolt. I turned down the commission, but the idea of the power he supposedly held fascinated me. All things are brought forth by nature. Why could one not control nature in return?”

  “So you found a way to bring it to life? A way to harness the power of a storm?”

  The drugs in the wine had worked quickly, but Da Vinci fought against them, shaking his weary head to clear it. “It is too dangerous to discuss the details of how it could work, even with you, my friend. If someone were ever able to control the weather, they could control the whole world. Fire the pages, now. I insist.”

  Melzi had no choice. He went to the grate and began feeding the folio into the flames, one page at a time. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Da Vinci had fallen asleep. Sadness overcame him again. He reached for another page, caught himself staring at the sketch. It was beautiful, like so many of Da Vinci’s works.

  Da Vinci began coughing again, the blood coming to his lips. Melzi set the folio down on the table, went to his friend, his master, wiped his face and held him. There would be time to burn the papers later. For now, he needed to hold the man he loved.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Venice, Italy

  Mid-June

  One Week Ago

  Kitsune stood on the Rialto Bridge and watched the sun flash against the waves of the lagoon. She enjoyed the early mornings in Venice, before the summer crowds flooded into the city. She watched pigeons peck the ground for yesterday’s crumbs, watched a row of tethered gondolas bob in the heavy sea swell. There would be a storm soon—she tasted it in the air. She looked at her watch. It was time to go. Her client had instructed her to take a water taxi to the San Zaccaria dock, then walk to the house.

  She should have been on her w
ay before now, but she’d waited there on the bridge to see who was following her. Even though she hadn’t seen anyone yet, she’d felt eyes on her, felt them since her plane had landed an hour earlier. At the airport’s dock she’d caught a glimpse of one of them: a man—dark sunglasses, a slouchy work jacket. There were probably others, but where were they? She hated being in the open like this—a target—and the large tube in her hand a target as well. She still didn’t see anyone.

  She bent down to adjust the strap of her sandal. From the corner of her eye she saw him. She was sure it was the same man she’d seen at the Marco Polo airport, still wearing sunglasses and a jacket. He wasn’t very good at his job, since she’d spotted him, standing in the alley to the left of the Hotel Danieli, chewing on a toothpick like he didn’t have a care in the world. But where were the others? She knew she hadn’t been followed to Venice, she was sure of that, so why now? For some reason, her client didn’t trust her. She felt a lick of anger. It was an insult to her reputation. Or perhaps someone knew what was inside the large tube and wanted it?

  Ah, there he was, the second man, hovering near the dock, a cap pulled low on his head, wearing wrinkled jeans and scuffed boots. Both men were in their thirties, muscled, garbed in everyday working clothes. Thugs. One was tall, the other short. Mutt and Jeff. She saw no one else. Only two of them? Another insult. She took note of the small sign above Mr. Short’s head—Calle de la Rasse.

  Kitsune had learned the complicated layout of the Venetian streets, an integral part of her preparation, since she could run much faster than she could swim.

  She checked the men out again. Both cocky, sure of themselves, but she could take them. Easily.

  Not yet, though. The time wasn’t right.

  Their presence bothered her. Why the sudden distrust from her client? Her reputation was built on absolute discretion, always delivering what was commissioned and never asking questions. She had no false modesty. She could steal anything, anywhere—even the Koh-i-Noor diamond, that magnificent bloody stone that had nearly gotten her killed. A pity she’d had to give it up.

  This client was paying her a small fortune, and half of it, five million euros, was already deposited in four different accounts in four different banks, as was her custom. She would receive the other five million upon delivery. All of it was straightforward, so why the two thugs following her?

  Kitsune had been a thief for too long to ignore the prickle of unease that went down her neck. The tube was heavy, and she hugged it closer.

  The breeze picked up between the Venetian buildings, blowing gently down the narrow canal. She continued forward, over the small bridge, up the walkway, past the arriving gondoliers, who watched her and wondered. Grant told her she moved differently, with singular grace and arrogance, and she looked like what she was—strong and dangerous—and then he’d held her close, stroked her long hair, and whispered against her temple that only the very stupid, or the very desperate, would mess with her. She felt a warm punch to her heart thinking of her husband of ten months, how the green of his eyes turned nearly black when he was kissing her. Soon, she would be with him again. She would give the prize to the client, and be gone.

  She’d fulfilled the first part of the job three days earlier, when she’d pulled off one of the most fun heists of her career. She’d dyed her hair the deepest black, worn brown contacts, and used a semipermanent stain to make her skin appear two shades deeper, a process she didn’t relish, but it helped her blend in beautifully with the population of Istanbul. With her forged credentials, which included a signature from Turkish military leader Hulusi Akar, the palace authorities had followed orders and assigned her to work security at the Topkapi Palace. It had taken her more than three months to work her way out of the harem complex and into special security in the Holy Relics exhibit, where Moses’s staff was displayed.

  Her arms had gotten tired carrying the H&K MP5 machine gun all day. Even with the strap around her neck and shoulder, the carbine got heavy, and being on alert for twelve hours at a time was exhausting. Despite the heat and grit and the hordes of tourists trooping in and out of the treasure-filled rooms in the palace, her assigned areas gave her a lovely view of the Bosphorus. The sun shined on the water, sprinkling diamonds, the sea breezes cooled her, and the tourists gathered nearby to take photos. She was careful, very careful, never to get in the shots. It wouldn’t do to have someone post a photo of her on Facebook accidentally, have some government drone monitoring the Internet run the photos through facial recognition, and blow her cover.

  She wondered again: did her unknown client really believe that what she carried in her hands was the very embodiment of power? That what she carried wasn’t simply an ancient knob of wood but the actual staff of Moses? Or, as some called it, Aaron’s rod? No matter what it was called, this staff was one of the most sought-after and priceless artifacts in the world, and she’d managed to break into the Holy Relics exhibit after hours and take the staff out of its lighted case after cutting the wires to the security alarm, and disappeared. And that brought a smile of satisfaction.

  No more inky-black hair, no more dark brown eyes, the stain washed away. She was back to her blue eyes, her white skin, and her own dark hair.

  Yes, it had been a clean, perfectly executed job. One of her best, and she, the Fox, had a string of risky, daring jobs behind her.

  The international news channels were still leading with the theft. No way was she going to take a chance of being caught in the crosshairs. She’d make the delivery, get her other five million, go home to Capri, and talk Grant into visiting Australia or America, anywhere away from Europe. He was due for a vacation, having spent the last three months in Afghanistan guarding a high-ranking British officer.

  The house she was going to was only a drop site. She’d used this protocol many times—empty house, the owners probably on vacation. Clients rarely wanted the Fox to know where they lived. She wondered who would be there to receive the stolen staff.

  A winding alleyway took her deeper into the neighborhoods, along the canals. And there it was, a simple, classic Venetian home—red brick, the second and third floors balconied, set between a narrow street and a small canal.

  She went up the steps, knocked on the dark green door. Waited a moment before the thick, old wood swung open. An older man in a dark suit and silver tie told her to come in.

  Inside, all was silent. She followed him through a small courtyard, a marble fountain at its center. He showed her into a parlor, to the right of the fountain. The door closed behind her.

  The room was empty, the silence heavy. She heard voices, a man and a woman, somewhere nearby—above her, probably—speaking rapid Italian. The clients? Although she understood exactly what they were saying, it still made no sense to her.

  The woman said clearly, excitement in her voice, “I wish I could see it, the Gobi sands—a tsunami sweeping over Beijing.”

  “We will see it on video,” came a man’s matter-of-fact voice. “All the sand, do you think? Could Grandfather be that good?”

  “You know he is. And we will see the aftermath for ourselves. We will leave in three days, after things have calmed down.”

  The man said, marveling, “Can you imagine, we are the ones to drain the Gobi?”

  Kitsune stood silently, listening. She shook her head. Drain the Gobi Desert dry? All that sand covering Beijing? By their grandfather? What she’d heard, it was nuts, made no sense. An image of Moses raising his staff, parting the Red Sea so the Israelites could escape the Egyptian army flashed through her mind. It was a famous image, given all the paintings and movies, and there were many who believed that was exactly what happened. But not her.

  Kitsune held by her side a gnarly old piece of wood the Turks had stolen when they’d plundered Egypt in 1517, audacious enough or credulous enough to proclaim it to be Moses’s staff. She didn’t care if it was real or not, it didn’t matter. Ten million euros would keep her in bikinis for a long time. She pictur
ed Moses again, only this time she saw him waving his staff to send the sands flying out of the Gobi Desert. Such a strange image.

  The voices faded away.

  Moments later, the door to the parlor opened and a man came in. He was short, with dark hair and flat black eyes. This one, in spite of his well-cut dark suit, his perfectly polished boots, couldn’t be the client. He looked coarse, crude, a lieutenant playing dress-up. Another thug, only this one with a bit of power, probably running the other who’d followed her. So the man and woman she’d heard talking wanted him to handle the transaction, then bring them the staff. Fine by her. All she wanted was her money.

  He crossed the room to the small desk, picked up a silver lighter, and touched it to the end of a cigarette. He blew out a stream of gray smoke and said, in passable English, “I am Antonio Pazzi, and you are the Fox. You have the package?”

  “Of course.” Kitsune set the tube on the desk and stepped back. Pazzi pulled a stiletto from his coat pocket, slit open the top of the cylinder, and upended it. The well-wrapped staff slid out into his waiting hand. He reverently laid it atop the desk and peeled off the packing. He looked at the staff, motionless, staring, but not touching it. Finally, he looked up at her, smiled widely, showing yellow tobacco-stained teeth. “I did not believe you would be able to steal this precious rod from the Topkapi. Your reputation is deserved. My masters will be pleased.”

  She saw him press a small button on the desk, and in the next instant she heard a door close, a boat’s engine fire to life. So he’d signaled the client that she’d brought the staff? And they’d left. Pazzi handed her a long white envelope. “Five million euros. You will leave now.”

  As if she wanted to stay, maybe have a drink with this oily cretin with his yellow teeth. She wanted to open the envelope, but he kept smiling, herding her toward the door, and she felt that familiar shiver down her neck and went on red alert, her body flexed and ready to spring. Were the two men outside the door, waiting for her? Pazzi gave her a small salute, and at the last moment, he slipped past her and slammed the door behind him. She heard the key turn in the lock. In the next moment, another door opened, this time behind her. Mutt and Jeff stepped through, and both held guns in their hands.

 
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