CHAPTER 13

 

13a

Somewhere in the desert, one hundred miles south of Baghdad, 2005

“Sanchez, you ready? Corporal?”

Two affirmatives rattled her earpiece. “On my mark.”

O’Mara scanned the warehouses; there was nothing remarkable about them other than the five bodies in the alley where al-Jamil had left them. Two insurgents stood at each visible corner, she was sure the others had found strategic and defensive locations.

I don’t like being fucked twice, either. She was beginning to understand this guy, a thug, nothing more or less. Calling him a warlord or some other crap gave him more distinction than he deserved. He was a mob boss and a butcher. Probably thinks he’s al-Don Corleone or something. She’d put an end to that. As much as he was a charmer, he was also a snake.

“Now,” she whispered into her headset. “Fucking now.”

From high over her head, she heard the snap of the sniper’s rifle. “One,” Levi said. Then a steady stream of snaps, each no more than ten seconds apart. She no longer heard Levi.

Automatic fire echoed through the narrow metal canyons, flashes from explosions were absorbed into the night. She pushed her men forward.

They reached the first warehouse; Levi’s man had done a lot of damage.

“Sanchez?”

“We’re pinned down, one injured, a bit of shrapnel. We could use your assistance,”

“Coming. Levi?”

“You’re clear for now,” Levi said, then a pause. “Shit, Lieutenant, those assholes behind us are back with more men; I count at least ten. They are moving fast toward the warehouses, I’m not sure who’s in the fucking middle of this fucking sandwich.”

“Roger that, can you slow’em down?”

“Will try, sure as hell,” Levi said, tapping the helmet of the sniper. He also pulled another thirty rounds from his bag. The kid swiveled the rifle away from the warehouses. In ten more seconds, they acquired another target, the rifle snapped.

“Sanchez, we need to push through these buildings, you ready?”

“Fucking A,” Sergeant Sanchez said.

Swinging her team to the left, she pushed al-Jamil’s men toward Sanchez. There was little defensive cover; their goggles lit these guys up like green ghosts. Her team took down two more as they joined with Sanchez.

“Good fucking morning to you, Sarg,” O’Mara said as she covered the ass-end of her team.

“And to your horse, too,” Sanchez said.

“Corporal?” O’Mara said.

“Opposite side of the first warehouse, when we opened up, some of these guys started crossing the road, heading back into the palms across the road. Maybe twenty left on our side.”

“Hold there, Corporal.” O’Mara said she turned to Sanchez. “I just don’t get it, in and out and then this new press, I just don’t get it.”

“Put a light on that man,” Sanchez said to the private standing next to him.

O’Mara studied the man’s face in the beam from the flashlight. Clean, scrubbed, crisp beard, even though his clothes looked old, they were too clean, at least cleaner than the average Iraqi. “Shit,” she muttered. “Does that man look Iraqi to you?”

Sanchez had looked at a lot of dead Iraqi faces during his tours, too many for his taste. He studied the man’s features, pushed the face to one side with his boot. “Iranian, this man’s a Iranian. Jamil’s got the Iranian’s behind him. That explains a lot, the warehouses…”

“Are not full of weapons, perhaps contraband and other shit,” O’Mara said interrupting her Sergeant. “That’s why there were so few guards, my guess is that some major or colonel in the Iraqi army took control of Jamil’s booty and now that asshole wants it back.”

“Or Jamil caught wind of it and want’s it all for himself,” Sanchez said. “We’re still screwed, Lieutenant, if we don’t get our asses out of here.”

They both turned toward another snap of Levi’s sniper. “Levi?”

“Still coming, suggest that you get our men out of there, I’m taking a few rounds in the structure above me, we’re okay for now, but when it’s light, we’re targets, dead targets. I need to be down in twenty minutes, no more.”

“Got it Levi, down in twenty. Sargent, corporal, you listening?” She heard affirmatives. We can defend ourselves better at the Humvees. Work your way back to them; the Major will be here in three minutes. Then we can counter all this shit.”

“Roger,” she heard over her earpiece.

“Move ‘em out, Sarg.”

The corporal’s team met them halfway, there was sporadic automatic fire from AK-47s but Jamil’s men were blind. As the eastern sky seemed to brighten, the sniper rifle continued to speak its staccato one note song, for each of the enemy, it was a death song.

O’Mara heard the heavy whoomp-whoomp of the helicopters before she could see them. She knew that this was where things got dicey fast. If these were real soldiers, trained Iranians or even mercenaries, they would disappear. They died for money, not Allah or virgins. If they were insurgents or al-Qaeda, anything might happen, then again Jamil might send his men to cover the retreat of the regulars, no one knew what the hell was happening.

The roar of the Gatling guns from the Black Hawks welcomed the sun as it broke the horizon.

“Three birds, Lieutenant, never seen a better sight,” Levi said from his perch.

“Get the fuck down here, it’s getting too light,” O’Mara ordered.

“Roger that,” Levi said.

O’Mara heard the whoosh of the RPG before she saw its explosion.

“Levi, jump, you son-of-a-bitch,” she yelled.

The RPG hit the tank above the two men before they could move; metal and wood shrapnel exploded from the tower, two bodies flew through the air and crumpled into the sand.

“Sanchez, find those sons-of-bitches,” O’Mara ordered as she watched in abject fascination as the first Black Hawk chewed up the ground near where the rocket was fired. Secondary explosions from the area of the shooter followed as grenades and rockets were pulverized by the gunship. “Hold that, wait until they’re done. Then send three men in to find out what happened.”

The medic was attending to Levi and the rifleman. Both were moving. She ran to her men, “How are they?”

“Bad, a lot of shrapnel and steel splinters when those metal frames exploded, pieces cut them bad, get the choppers here fast.”

“Major I have two badly wounded,” she said into her headset. “Roger that,” she said after his reply. “They’ll be here in two, what do you want me to do, private?”

“Hold these compresses here and here on Levi, gave each got a shot of morphine, they’re calming, but shit, Levi’s arm and shoulder are fucked up and Jimmy’s leg is bent wrong. But both are lucky, at least for now. Shit, Lieutenant, if the RPG didn’t get them, then the fall should have. Two lucky SOBs, that’s all I can say.”

“Amen. Do what you can, get them out of here fast. The Major doesn’t want his birds sitting here as targets, use whoever is available.” O’Mara could read the Arabic signs on the buildings now; the horizon was an orange ball promising another day in hell. She watched two of the Black Hawks roar overhead, not more than fifty feet off the ground, the dust churned like a tornado ripping through the space between the buildings. When they cleared the two warehouses, they opened up with rockets and more Gatling fire. Whoever was trying to escape, would be dead soon.

Fuck’em, was all she could think of. Fuck’em and that old motherfucker too.

The Black Hawk settled about one hundred feet from her platoon, a tall grey-haired black man dismounted and passed by the men carrying Levi and Jimmy to the helicopter. He stopped and talked to each soldier as they were being placed inside. The medic jumped in after the men were set on the chopper’s deck. The Major turned toward his ride and rotated his hand high over his head. The Black Hawk leaped from the ground as only an experienced pilot could do. It headed north.

“Major, welcome to my personal piece of hell,” Lieutenant O’Mara said to Major Simpson.

“Thanks for the invite, those two the only one’s hit?” he asked.

“Some nicks and scrapes, lucky,” O’Mara answered. “This whole thing was orchestrated by al-Jamil, everything for those weapons in those warehouses. Using us to take out the Iraqi army so they could move in to clean up. Need to show you something.”

They headed toward the warehouses; her teams flanked Simpson and O’Mara. They arrived beside the dead man she’d looked at earlier. “He’s Iranian, I’m goddam sure about that and there are three more, there and over there. Al-Jamil was using them or they were using him, not sure which. But they wanted whatever was in these buildings.”

She motioned to one of her men, the steel rolling door was secured with a large padlock; his Browning made short work of it. He slid the door open; in the early morning light it was black inside. The soldier panned his flashlight over the crates that lined the walls, past two large orange shipping containers sitting in the middle of the room. The boxes said Microsoft Xbox on the sides; others said Panasonic, Sony, and Apple. The whole warehouse was full of consumer electronics.

“All of this for junk,” O’Mara said. “Now I am personally going to kill that asshole.”

“Stand in line, Lieutenant, he’s mine first,” Major Simpson said. “This stuff is worth more than medical supplies in this country. My guess, somebody, probably government, brought it in through Kuwait; Jamil caught wind of it and decided to liberate it, with our help. He’d have sold the stuff for a hundred times what it’s worth; my guess is that the Iranians were part of a buyer’s group. They were here to help move the stuff to Iran. The electronics are worth even more across the border.”

A soldier stood in the early sunlight waiting for O’Mara, she saw him. “Report.”

“We found twelve dead north of here from the first attack, most were taken out by Levi and Jimmy; we found six more around the warehouses. There were at least five blood trails. I don’t know what the Black Hawks are doing but I sure as hell would not want to be out there in the desert.”

“Thank you,” O’Mara said. “What do you want to do with this crap, Major?”

“Well, I’m a firm believer that television will rot your brain and turn you into a pervert. So I would suggest that a judicious application of force and power will help save young Iraqi minds for the tough job of governing this pest hole. How much C-4 do you have?”

 

 

13b

The girls glided down the stairs toward the two men; Joanne and Max stood off to one side.

“You wipe that grin off your face, Fidor Balanca,” Gina said, looking sternly at the Russian.

“We have nothing like you in my country,” Fidor said taking Gina’s hand.

“And you remember this: No matter where Italians go, we rule.”

There was an annoyed cough behind Gina, “And yes, sometimes the French can be included as well and,” she added, looking at Sharon, “the Irish.”

“If this keeps up, I’m sure the Scots will be in for a drubbing,” Joanne said.

“You look, how do I say it, my English is so weak when it comes to this. Vous avez l’air absolument merveilleux!” Jean-François said with a smile. “Absolument!”

“He’s right, it does sound better in French,” Gina said taking Fidor’s arm.

Sharon leaned over to Joanne and whispered the first line of I Feel Pretty into her ear.

“Every girl should, at some time in their lives. Now go have a good time, don’t stay out too late and be careful,” Joanne said draping a wonderful silk wrap over her shoulders; Fidor placed another over Gina’s. She took a small bundle of fabric from Max’s hand. “Now put these on, no one goes to a ball in Venice without a mask; these are over one hundred years old.” She handed them out to everyone, then watched the four walk through the large beveled glass paneled doors and take three steps to the dock of the palazzo. Vitorio stood at the side of the launch, the line was wrapped around a Venetian barber pole painted in a red and white spiral pattern, capped with a gold finial. He couldn’t contain his Venetian heritage as he let out a soft whistle.

“Thank you, Vitorio,” Sharon said with a big smile, “I appreciate that very much.”

The two bodyguards were the last of the party to climb aboard.

Vitorio released the line, jumped into the launch, throttled up the engine and backed away from the palazzo. “Please be seated, I don’t want to get you wet or the slightest bit uncomfortable. Signorina O’Mara, please sit here, Signorina Cavelli, here. The boys can stand.” With a slight objection from one of the bodyguards, Vitorio reminded him that he is the captain as he throttled up the speed a notch, causing the big man to lose his balance.

The ride lasted less than ten minutes at the slow idling pace Vitorio set; Sharon enjoyed every building, dock and gondola they passed. The evening light was magical and with her mask she felt hidden from all the pain she’d felt recently, mostly the loss of Alain Dumont. But there was much more to hide from and the mask helped. Sometimes she wished she wasn’t as good as she was, life would be so much simpler.

The launch slid between the mooring poles in front of the ornate stone quay of the Peggy Guggenheim palazzo. The structure is unlike any other on the Grand Canal, it is painted white, not an old worn out white but a fresh modern color that reflects the modern collection of art that it contains. Flat faux columns, five to each side, flank the central entrance guarded by two huge clipped shrubs. A low hedge along the edge of the rooftop terrace finishes the view from the canal. For all its appearances, it looks like a truncated Venetian castle but with its hidden sculpture garden and rooftop terrace view of the canal, it is one of the best locations in Venice for a ball. Flanking the quay, making docking intentionally difficult, were two of the AC45s, their tall wind sails dwarfing the structure. An Oracle boat was moored to the right and one of the Luna Rossa’s, with its Prada signature wing sail, was tied to the left.

Vitorio idled in the roiled canal waters while others disembarked ahead of them; valets, dressed like harlequins, assisted the passengers. Sharon watched the mix of guests; they came in all sizes and styles. But there was one thing that was unmistakable, the look of money. Two young boys nimbly leaped aboard and grabbed lines at the bow and stern, they held the boat to the poles until the six passengers stood on the quay.

“Vitorio,” JF said. “I will call you when we need you so have some dinner and relax.”

“Grazie, Signore Voss, I will wait for your call.” As Vitorio moved into the canal, another launch replaced it.

Standing in the quay’s center, surrounded by her entourage, Bobo, Karg, and three others, Ellis Turner waved at JF and Fidor. She reminded Sharon of a huge chiffon cake, layers of foamy yellow fabric danced in the soft breeze blowing in from the Adriatic. Sharon wasn’t sure about the hat or whatever someone might call it. It was a stacked confection also, type unknown. Her mask was a striking disk of modern art, two holes were punched out for the eyes; she held the mask on a stick, as was once the fashion.

“Blimey, if it’s not the girls from Cali, my, my, don’t you two look delicious,” Turner said, her eyes masked. “You two boys are lucky. Be very good to them or I’ll have to spank you.”

“Spank me?” Fidor said to Turner; then he turned toward Gina.

“Later,” Gina said. “Thank you, Ms. Turner, sometimes a girl just has to get dressed up.”

“Isn’t that just the case?” Turner said. Then she seriously upped the ante. “Do you like my dress?”

There are loaded questions in this world like... Does this make me look fat? What do you think of the European Union? Who are you going to vote for? But for one woman to ask another about her gown, especially coming from a billionaire, it requires the greatest verbal gymnastics. Bartenders are known for their eloquence and tact.

“Ms. Turner,” Gina began, “Your gown is, without a doubt, one a kind and it reflects the wonderful collection of art that we will find in this palazzo; it, like you, is unique.”

Turner smiled at Gina, then kissed her on the cheek, “Thank you, my dear, you make this heart flutter in more ways than one.” Then the Turner entourage climbed the steps to the museum.

Gina turned to Sharon, “Did she just make a pass at me?”

“Yes, she did,” Sharon said. “Be careful, Fidor might have to use his guards to defend you as well as him.”

JF and Fidor took the arms of their dates and followed the parade, led by the voluminous yellow meringue, into the palazzo. A string quartet played a violin piece by Venice’s patron musical saint, Antonio Vivaldi, it was from The Four Seasons. The magic of the evening continued, even though it was being interrupted by a lemon meringue pie.

After a casual tour of the museum and its sculpture garden, Fidor surprised Sharon by saying that he had a Henry Moore in the garden at his dacha outside of Moscow. He acquired it from an Englishman who was in need of some quick cash, Fidor said he paid the man what he wanted and moved it the next day. He added that it portrayed a large woman with huge breasts; it reminded him of a peasant woman he once knew in the Ukraine.

“He is a man of strange tastes,” Gina said to Sharon as they climbed the steps to the rooftop terrace.

“He’s Russian,” Sharon said. “They are all complex and misunderstood.”

“Maybe, but he’s quite a man. Reminds me a bit of Putin, don’t you think?”

“A little but he has a great head of hair and Putin hasn’t any to speak of.”

“I don’t care, I’m going to have a night to remember and before I forget, thanks for inviting me.”

“You’ve already thanked me several times,” Sharon answered.

“Still not enough,” Gina said as they reached the terrace.

The setting sun was behind them; its last light lit the facades and towers across the Grand Canal like a golden floodlight. Windows twinkled and sparkled with reflected sunlight. The campanile in San Marcos stood like a golden sentinel over Venice. Even the most jaded billionaire on the terrace stopped and watched the sun set over the city.

“Magical, isn’t it,” a hard voice said from behind Sharon as she looked over the island’s towers. “It would be a shame to spoil it.”

Sharon turned toward Eva Karg; she stood implacably in a dark red gown, the color of spilled blood. She was alone.

“What can I do for you, Ms. Karg?” Sharon asked.

“You can make all these troubles go away. To be blunt, I know you have it and I want it. If it’s money you want, no problem, tell me your price. If it’s something else, we can work it out.”

“I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about,” Sharon said truthfully. “What is it you want?”

Karg studied Sharon, then said, “I don’t know what your game is but I want it tonight.”

Sharon took a step toward Karg as they stood eye to eye. She could tell Karg was fit and athletic; the gown removed any doubts about her sex. What her appetites were was another matter.

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Sharon said. “I’m having a delightful evening with my friends, so, as the Brits say, bugger off.”

“My, my, and testy too,” Karg said. “As I said, I want it tonight. I know you are leaving tomorrow so I want it tonight. If you have it with you now, I’ll take it, if not, I’ll contact you at midnight. I have your cell number, it’s your choice. Now or later, I will get it. And by the way, that man you’re with is one hell of a fuck.”

With that grenade, Karg turned and headed back to the small gang surrounding Bobo and some of his team. Sharon shook off the bitchy crack from Karg and looked through the crowd, she hadn’t seen Mike Stroud.

“Looking for someone?” Jean-François asked, handing Sharon a flute of champagne.

“Mike Stroud,” she answered still a little pissed over Karg’s remark. “He said he would be here but I don’t see him.”

“You know what Mike says about parties, they bore him and they are waste of time,” JF said.

“Yes, he told me but he also said he would be here.”

“With the races beginning tomorrow, he’s just running late, he’ll be here.”

Gina and Fidor joined both of them.

“Who was that woman you were talking with?” Gina asked.

“Eva Karg, she is an assistant to Turner, or something, not sure what exactly,” Sharon said. “Wanted something, I’m not sure what. Got testy about it.”

“Well, don’t let it spoil your evening. Fidor, dance with me.” Gina said as she took the Russian’s hand and led him to the small dance floor in the corner; the band was playing another Vivaldi piece.

“You can’t dance to that,” Sharon said as the two walked away.

“Who cares,” Gina said as they disappeared into the pack of masked revelers.

“Are you having a good time?” JF asked.

“Wonderful, but Karg’s question is bugging me.”

“Don’t let it,” and with that, he kissed her softly on the mouth. “I’ve invited you before.”

“And I’ve declined, before.”

“That was before, this is now.”

A siren blared from the canal; everyone turned and looked over the hedge of boxwoods. A police cruiser raced its way around the southern corner of the island and headed directly toward the museum. It pulled up short and expertly slid into the vacant landing at the quay. Three uniformed Carabinieri leaped from the boat and headed into the palazzo, their white shoulder strap and red striped pants struck an imposing look even amongst the coated and gowned crowd. Seconds later, they appeared on the terrace. One of the managers walked toward the obvious police captain. After a brief conversation, the man pointed to Ellis Turner. The Carabinieri tipped his fingers to his cap in salute and walked toward Turner. Even he was stunned by the dress; it was difficult for him to get close. She hooked some of the fabric over her arm and leaned toward the officer. After a brief conversation, a stunned look appeared on her face as she frantically looked about, spotted JF and waved for him to come over to her. The officer stood to one side.

“Jean-François,” Turner said, the rest of conversation was lost in the noise of the band and the crush of people.

JF waved to Sharon to come quickly to his side, “Mike Stroud’s been found dead.”

“Where?” Sharon asked.

“Racing team tents,” JF answered.

“I only saw him a few hours ago, he seemed fine.”

“This is Capitano Brescia of the Carabinieri. Capitano, this is Sharon O’Mara, a friend.” Turner said. “They think it’s foul play; he was shot.”

Sharon acknowledge the Capitano, then thought for a second as she scanned the room looking for Karg, she couldn’t find her in the crowd. “Is he still at the race tents?” she asked Capitano Brescia.

“Si, Signorina, we are waiting for the coroner,” the officer said.

“Your English is exceptionally good, Capitano,” Sharon said.

“America, you have to love their police training schools.”

“I work with Ms. Turner and Mr. Voss,” Sharon half-lied. “May I see the body? It is critical to the race and the events.”

Not wishing to have the wrath of the politicians on his head, he agreed.

“JF, call Vitorio, have him pick us up. I need to see Mike’s body, it’s critical.”

Gina walked up behind Sharon, “Everything okay?”

“No, Mike Stroud has been killed. There is something I need to find.”

“You’re not going alone,” Gina said. “Fidor?”

“Vitorio will be here in three minutes, he was just across the canal,” JF said. “We’re all going.”

“Dah,” the Russian echoed, “We will all go.” With that, he signaled to his men and headed toward the stairs. The tops of the dark caps of the Carabinieri were just disappearing down the stairs.

“Ellis, I’m sorry I told the officer I worked for you but it’s important that he understands that I need the authority when I get there.”

“No worries, lass. Find out who killed him,” Ellis Turner said.

“I’ll do my best,” Sharon said, then looked over balcony. “JF, I see Vitorio, we need to go - now.”

Sharon turned quickly; she felt the steel of the Beretta rub the inner skin of her thigh. For some strange reason, it comforted her.

 

 

13c

Vitorio pushed the throttle forward hard, trying to keep up with the Carabinieri cruiser. They passed Santa Maria della Salute and then swung into the main channel, the Lido de Venezia. The race compound was set up near the huge cruise ship that dominated the islands during its stay. As they entered the terminal area, Sharon could see the white tents that had been erected to house the international team of Cup racers, a number of the AC45 catamarans were tied to the pier, three police boats and one that said CORONER on its gunnel were also tied to the huge concrete pier. Vitorio slid the launch into an opening between the boats. Sharon was the first one out of the boat, Gina quickly followed.

“You need to be my ears, try and remember everything you hear. We’re lucky the captain speaks English. I’m not sure about the rest, so please listen and tell me what they say. Okay?”

“Never seen you this way,” Gina said, putting her hand on her friend’s arm. “You’re like a different person, between us, a very cool person. Anything you need, just ask.”

They headed directly to the captain, he cracked a smile; without a doubt, his crime scene just got a helluva lot prettier.

“Where is he?” Sharon asked. “I know this is your crime scene, Capitano Brescia but, with all due respect, I must see the body, may I have your permission?”

He had never been asked this question under these conditions, not to mention by a beautiful redhead in a spectacular green dress.

“Yes, yes, the body is this way,” Brescia said as he went through the door of the second tent. The logo for Turner’s contending yacht club hung over the doorway, with its scowling face, bug eyes, and tongue hanging out, all caught in a stylized Polynesian image of war, watched as Sharon and Gina followed the officer. The rest of their group remained near the launch.

Inside was utter antiseptic organization, Sharon saw at least five techs in white jumpsuits and more police hanging about the edges; three cameras strobed incessantly and spotlights had been setup; they illuminated the yellow sheet on the floor in the middle of this investigative maelstrom. She thought that Mike would have been embarrassed by all the attention.

Capitano Brescia was talking to a man in one of the white jumpsuits and then the two walked toward Sharon. The man in the white suit puffed up a bit and pulled in his ample belly. He had never been in the presence of two women as striking as Sharon and Gina at a crime scene.

“Are all Italian men on the prowl, even at a crime scene?” Sharon asked Gina in a soft voice.

“Always, till the day they’re dead,” Gina said. “You should have met my grandfather.”

“Ms. O’Mara, Coroner Vincenzi, I have explained the situation. You will have to dress in the whites and put on, how you say…?”

“Booties,” Sharon replied.

“Si, si booties,” the captain answered.

“I don’t think they have an outfit that will fit over that dress,” Gina said.

Even the coroner realized that; he said something to the Capitano. Gina translated.

“I have my rules,” Gina said. “Sorry, I don’t want anything at or near the crime scene contaminated, even for someone as scrumptious as her.”

The captain looked at Gina, then said something to the coroner.

Gina smiled, “They just found out I speak Italian.

“Good, now we can move forward, Capitano?”

“Maybe he can answer your questions, Signorina O’Mara. Maybe we can start with that?”

“For a start, that may work,” Sharon answered. “Where was he shot, was it at close range?”

The captain translated, then replied, “Yes close, through the heart. He’d also had his hands crushed by a heavy boot or something similar. He also has a bruised face and, from appearances, a broken nose.”

“Holy shit,” Gina said looking at the yellow tarp. “You mean he was tortured, then murdered?”

“Si,” the coroner answered.

Gina was turning green as she continued to stare at the tarp.

“Gina, go outside,” Sharon said. “I’m sure you’ll be more comfortable out there, go to Fidor.” Gina did as she was told.

“Senor Vincenzi, can you check to see if he has anything around his neck? Like a necklace or a leather cord?”

The coroner walked over to the body and asked one of the techs to lower the sheet; he bent down and unbuttoned the white dress shirt, now stained crimson.

Damn it, he was going to the ball, he was wearing a formal shirt. Goddamn it, he didn’t deserve this.

The coroner returned to Sharon and Brescia, “Niente, no collana.”

“Nothing, no necklace or cord, what were you looking for?”

“This afternoon, Mr. Stroud showed me a memory stick on a lanyard that he had around his neck, it contained some important software for one of Mr. Voss’s projects, now it’s gone. My guess is they killed him for the stick. Now it’s gone. All this for a piece of code to sail a boat; it’s all wrong, something else is going on.”

 

Ten minutes later, she joined the group on the quay, “You are looking better,” she said to Gina.

“Thanks, it’s not every day you get to attend a murder scene in a dress like this, can we go?”

“In a minute, JF, we need to talk,” Sharon said while removing her cigarettes from the jeweled clutch. She offered one to JF. He accepted.

They walked down the pier as a thousand lights from the cruise ship sparkled above them. Passengers leaned over their balcony rails; there was no better seat in the house.

“Mike had a copy of the software; it was the original from the boat. Whoever killed your sister thought it was on the boat when they boarded the Cheetah.”

“The computer terminal for the stick was hidden under the seat but the stick and the program were never left plugged into the computer.” JF said. “The computer was not really hidden, it was there to keep it dry. Only those who worked on the boat would have known. She didn’t tell them and it got her killed.”

“They would have killed her anyway, JF,” Sharon said. “But something else is annoying me. An hour ago, Karg confronted me, you saw her. She wanted something; she said she knew I had it. Then I didn’t have any idea what she was talking about, now I do. She thought I had the memory stick; she didn’t get it from Stroud so she believes I have it. She wants it by midnight; she’s involved with Mike’s murder.”

JF looked like he’d been struck by a boom from one of his boats. “And she may have killed my sister?”

“Very likely, my guess is she also high-jacked the boat and now she wants the software. I don’t know why yet but I’m going to find out. Let’s get back to the palazzo, I need a drink and I need to think this out a bit.” She paused and gave JF a kiss. “JF, I do have to admit, you are a lot of fun to be around… murders, stolen high tech yachts, galas, bombs and who knows what else. The evening is still young.”

The launch returned to the channel and headed toward the campanile at San Marcos. The three-quarter waxing moon cast a brilliant light over the calm lagoon. The wind caught Sharon’s hair, piled high, held tight with a jeweled clasp, and tugged a few strands loose. JF wrapped his arm around her waist, his warmth felt wonderful against her body.

Fidor sat next to Gina, the bodyguards held on tight to the stainless rail that extended along the length of the open cabin. The powerful engine pushed the boat toward the Grand Canal; its roar covered all conversation.

Suddenly, the boat carved hard to starboard, Sharon grabbed the rail and looked a Vitorio, he was grabbing his right bicep, the windscreen was shattered and blood ran between his fingers. She looked behind them, another boat, modern, low and wide, was gaining on them quickly.

“JF, I don’t think she wants to wait until midnight. Everyone, get down on the deck. Fidor, get your men down.”

She was a half-second too late, the larger of the two spun around, taking a round in the shoulder. His partner had already pulled his Gloch but he had to catch the man at the same time as he tumbled to the deck.

“Shit,” Sharon said as she grabbed the wheel from Vitorio, she saw that the wound was a lucky nick, an inch closer and the bone in his arm would have shattered. “Vitorio, sit up. JF, help me get him down.” As if to emphasize the point, a chunk of the windscreen frame exploded. She spun the wheel and turned hard up the Grand Canal. The trailing speedboat followed. More shots rang out; to her ear, it was the uncomfortable and recognizable barking of an AK-47. “Shit,” was all she could add.

They raced past the Guggenheim; Sharon caught a flash of yellow confection, illuminated by a camera flash on the quay. Still a silly dress, flashed through her head. Another slug from the AK-47 slammed into the console, Vitorio’s repair bill continued to climb. They flew past JF’s rented palazzo, the Rialto Bridge, brightly lit with floodlights, crossed the canal a quarter mile dead straight ahead, its half arc bocca waited. Flashes, like silent gunfire from tourist’s cameras along the stone docks, illuminated the way. The hostile boat inched closer; even in the confining canal, they both increased their speed. Sharon flashed on a sign stuck to a barber pole, 15km and the international symbol for NO WAKE, in bold letters, she looked at the speedometer as it bounced off thirty, the needle would stop at forty-five. Gondolas spread before them like targets at a shooting range; all she could say was, “Fuck!”

The Rialto Bridge swallowed them whole, their wakes washed over the quay and soaked tourists’ Reeboks and Nikes up to their knees. One gondola, waiting to enter, came within two degrees of rolling over, thankfully the ballast of the huge German woman’s butt helped keep it upright.

They roared by the empty market with its barges tied side by side, an old man standing in the bow of one was almost knocked down by the surge; he raised his arm in an Italian salute. He hit the deck when the next burst of automatic fire came from the pursuer; another boat chunk, this one inches from Sharon’s right hand, disappeared. She felt the pistol under her dress, “A lot of good this will do. What I could use is an RPG and someone to steer this damn boat,” she said.

“What?” JF yelled again.

“Nothing, I’m just asking for a goddamn miracle.”

It arrived out of the corner of her eye. She spotted a familiar boat slowly cruising along the wharf, one hundred yards ahead of her; it was the launch from the Santa Maria della Salute, the one she saw earlier in the day. She studied the powerboat as they zoomed past it and gave a sigh of relief. As she hoped, it almost leapt from the water in pursuit of them.

“What are you smiling about,” JF screamed.

“The cavalry has arrived,” she answered, tilting her head over her shoulder. To the right, she also spotted the secondary canal opening they had gone through yesterday. She spun the wheel hard to starboard and aimed the bow at the dark slit between the buildings; she also prayed that there wasn’t a gondola or garbage barge trying to enter the Grand Canal on the other side. As the boat dug into the water with its turn, she heard the unmistakable voice of an M4 arguing with the AK-47. From the sound of it, it was a two or three to one conversation and the Colt M4 was winning. She also saw the hostile turn to follow her.

“God damn it, give it up!” she shouted. The response was a splinter of mahogany from a bit of the rail as it exploded. She caught Gina staring at her, the look was one of fear and amazement, Sharon smiled and saluted her with two fingers from the top of her forehead. They rushed into the narrow canal; she thought she could feel both walls at the same time, they echoed like a diesel truck was racing through an alley at sixty-miles an hour. In two seconds, they flew under the Strada Nuova Bridge.

“Turn left, next canal, slow down,” she heard in her left ear. Vitorio’s luscious accent made it sound like a divine order from Rome. She cut left and throttled down, all she saw were boats, barges and gondolas.

“What the hell?”

“It’s okay, it’s my street, just you wait,” he said as he waved his cell phone.

Magically, as they slid further into the canal, the other boats started to move. As the hostiles turned into the canal, all they could do was slow down, hard. First their launch slammed into a barge, bounced off its gunnel and then rammed into the wall of the canal, jamming its bow between a small skiff and the stone. Instantly, a man leaped out and started to run along the narrow quay, heading straight for Sharon. They were stuck; a barge blocked the whole canal ahead of them.

“Shit, it’s the man from last night,” she yelled at JF, seeing the man start toward them.

“What man?”

“The man I dumped in the canal,” she answered. By this time, the Iranian was only a hundred feet away, he held a pistol in his right hand; it glinted in the overhead lamps.

“Which canal?”

“I don’t know its damn name. JF, that son-of-a-bitch is going to kill us, so who the hell cares.” Still fuming at JF, she reached down between her legs, pulled up the elegant gown, extracted the pistol, slid a round into the chamber and clicked off the safety. While holding up the hem of her dress, she leaped onto the quay. The man was fifty feet away; he started to raise the pistol.

Sharon dropped to one knee, swung the pistol up with two hands and fired three times. The first and second shots caught the man in each thigh, the third busted his right shoulder; his pistol flew in a high tumbling arc into the canal. He collapsed on his face.

She looked toward the end of the canal where the third boat in their parade had stopped. One of the rescue crew had just thrown a line around one of the tall striped barber poles; she watched another man jump from the boat to the quay and start toward her. He carried his M4 as only an experienced soldier would but he was still too far away. She couldn’t identify him. The remaining Russian bodyguard jumped onto the quay and raised his pistol.

“No,” she yelled at the man. “Nyet, he’s a friend, I hope.”

 

 

13d

Sharon remembered her last day in Iraq, her “Released from hell party,” she called it. She’d thought that she would never leave Iraq alive, standing in the security mess in the Green Zone with more than a hundred of her comrades; she realized she could be wrong now and then.

“Sharon, we’ll all miss you,” Major Simpson had said, holding up a glass of Jim Beam, “and so will this man’s army. In two days, you’ll kiss American soil; give it a big smack for all of us.”

A cheer rose from the men and women. She took a slug from the bottle of Johnny Walker Red, it t hadn’t left her hand for the last two hours. She raised the bottle in the air, acknowledging their recognition.

“I can’t believe that I’m leaving and all of you have to stay,” she started. “But as we all know in this man’s army, our lives aren’t our own and, with your permission, I’ll correct you Major because, as you’ve found out, we gals can kick al-Qaeda’s ass as well as the next man.” She heard a few affirmatives from the twenty female soldiers and she smiled. A lot had changed during the three years she had been in and out of Iraq. But the one grounding reality was her people; they were stronger and better. “Thanks for all this and Major, thank you for your leadership and support. Without it, a lot of us wouldn’t be here. Here’s to Major Simpson.” She raised the bottle, another cheer rose from the ranks.

“I’m not good at goodbyes, been too many in my life. You are all a great bunch of soldiers and my friends. Someone asked me what I was going to do after the army. I haven’t a fucking clue. Let me ask you, who’d hire a thirty-something broad whose skills run from rounding up drunks to policing exploded cars?”

“I would,” a male voice said from the middle of the crowd.

“Thanks for that, leave your number at the door. We’ll talk,” laughter rolled around the room. “Seriously, I am going to miss you all, my friends are stuck here in this God forsaken land. This is the life we’ve chosen but it comes to an end for all of us one day. Unlike many, I’m lucky, I get to choose when. To all of us I say, HOOAH!”

 

**********

The cry sounded three times from the men and women; now, seven years later, it still echoed in her head as she stood on the stone pavement watching the man march toward her. Sharon couldn’t mistake the grey hair, more silver than the last time she had seen him, but she couldn’t mistake the walk and the swagger; his black skin contrasted with the white polo he wore. She heard the cheer from her team each time Major Simpson took a step closer. She looked past the Major to his boat and the hostiles. Three men in civilian clothes, all obviously military by their actions and bearing, stood over the three people in the boat. Sirens could be heard from all directions, the building canyons and canals made it almost impossible to tell where they were coming from. The man on the ground moaned.

“Lie still, you asshole, or you’ll bleed to death. Not that I care. I asked you before, now I’m asking you again, who sent you? In about thirty seconds, a man will arrive who will make sure you never see Iran again.” Hearing that, his eyes flared. “I was right, Iranian. Well I’m going to guess there are a few of your countrymen in Gitmo, so you won’t be lonely. Now, who sent you? Was it Karg?” Again his eyes gave him away. “Shit, all this over some stupid code.”

The man spit at her, blood continued to ooze from the flesh wounds she had intentionally inflicted. He was much better alive than dead. “You Americans think you own everything, you don’t, not anymore. You’ll see. We will show you our power and that of Allah.” With his good hand, he reached inside his jacket, and pulled out a small black ball, “Allahu Akbar,” the man screamed.

The man tried to pull the pin to arm the grenade but it was almost impossible one handed and then he tried to pull it out with his mouth. Instinctively, Sharon kicked his hand with her right satin shoe, sending the grenade into the canal. Unfortunately, the ring had caught on the man’s little finger, the armed grenade sank to about five feet before exploding; water covered everyone, soaking the boat, JF, Fidor and Gina, Vitorio, the bodyguards, Sharon and her wonderful dress. Joanne would be very pissed.

The Major stood over the Iranian and looked at Sharon. “Nice kick, Lieutenant, three points.”

“No field goal, too low,” Sharon answered staring at the man. “What the hell are you doing here? I thought that boat was something more than just some white guys touring Venice, so why are you here?”

“No time,” the Major answered. “You get your people out of here right now or you’ll be spending a lot more time in Venice and you won’t be strolling the canals. The Italians aren’t partial to American interference, that’s what you’ve gotten yourself into, a hornet’s nest. Get out now, Vitorio will hide the boat; it will be repaired as if nothing ever happened. You have no more than two minutes at best, Go, go now!”

She knew a direct order when she heard it and leaped into the boat. She looked at Vitorio, who had a huge smile on his still pained face. The barge ahead magically slid out of their way, he hit the throttle and moved the boat forward. She started to take in the condition of the occupants: Vitorio would be okay, really just a scratch, the injured bodyguard was being attended to by his partner, JF and Fidor were talking or at least it looked like the Russian was doing most of the talking, Gina had a big smile on her face, even though her makeup was dripping all over her ample chest and her dress. She stood and walked unsteadily toward Sharon, holding onto the busted railing.

“Wow, so this is what you do for a living,” Gina said, wrapping her arm around her friend, forcibly lowering Sharon’s right hand, the one that held the Beretta. “Don’t think you’ll need that for now, besides, the police might take a dim view of a formally dressed broad in classy jewelry absentmindedly pointing a gun at them.”

The adrenalin rush was easing; Sharon sat the pistol on the console and took a deep breath. She turned to Vitorio, “We need to talk.”

“Scusate la mia mancanza, io non parlo inglese.”

“Vitorio, I know damn well that you speak English so cut it out. Who the hell are you?”

Vitorio continued to weave the launch in and out of moored boats and tied up gondolas. As they made a turn, a small police cruiser flew by, its lights flashing. Vitorio waved as if nothing was amiss.

“I’m waiting.”

When they made another turn, suddenly finding themselves in the Grand Canal, he said, “Sergeant Vitorio Ambrosia at your service, I work for the big man.”

“Special Forces?”

Gina looked at Vitorio, “No accent, none.”

“My grandparents are from here; they survived the war, went to LA and raised a family. My folks made sure all the kids went back and forth to Venice almost every year. So I’m sort of your tour guide and your protector. Kind of like Special Forces Chauffer Services, but different. Mr. Voss and the others don’t know, so let’s keep it that way. Okay?”

“What’s going on?”

“Can’t say ma’am, you know the drill. But my job is to get you back to the palazzo and keep an eye on the four of you, and that’s not an unpleasant duty,” Vitorio said looking at the very damp Gina Cavelli. She blushed; the damp dress put her in the running for the grand prize at a wet tee shirt contest, assuming five thousand dollar dresses were required.

Max and Joanne were running down the dock as they pulled up, towels in hand as the six climbed onto the mooring. Joanne wrapped a towel over Sharon and Gina. “You gentlemen will have to fend for yourselves. Max, see what you can do help Mr. Balanca’s assistants. I must get these dresses to the cleaners before they are ruined.” She hurried the girls up the steps and out of sight. Sharon turned and watched Vitorio ease the boat from the dock and accelerate. He waved at her as he slid behind a large ferry.

“How did you know?” Sharon asked when they settled in her room and stripped off their wet gowns.

“I heard gunfire; I ran to the window and saw you race by driving the boat, even in the dark that dress stood out; that was not a good sign, especially with gunfire erupting from the launch following you. How did you get away?”

Sharon looked at Gina. Gina said, “Luck. Sharon turned into a canal and weaved around some boats .The chaser got stuck behind a barge or something; it was too dark for them to find us. When we found the main canal, a police boat roared by, it was so close it threw spay over all of us. It’s crazy out there.”

Whether or not Joanne believed her didn’t matter, she dropped the questioning and while the girls took showers, she laid out comfortable clothes for the late evening. Max knocked and asked if everything was okay, Joanne said yes, they would be down in a few minutes.

“While you were in the bathroom, I took the liberty of attending to the Beretta,” Joanne said. “It seems to be missing three bullets. Might I inquire as to where you lost them?”

Sharon thought for a long moment then said, “We were chased by some bad guys; let’s just say they won’t be chasing us anymore.”

“Well done. I pegged you for a fighter, not a lover. Lovers get killed.”

“So do fighters,” Gina said walking into the room.

“That’s true my dear but at least they put up a fight,” Joanne said as she collected the gowns and jewelry. Ten minutes later, Sharon and Gina joined the men in the library. They were drinking brandy.

“Is there anything stronger, Max?”

“I have some wonderful single malts; some are thirty or forty years old,” Max answered.

“I’m going to put it on ice.”

“Then I have a full bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label, hot or cold makes no difference to that malt.”

“Perfect, make mine a triple.”

“Stoli on the rocks, I don’t believe that ice will hurt that,” Gina said.

“Nothing can destroy that stuff, that’s why it’s the king of frou-frou drinks,” Max said dropping ice in a crystal tumbler.

“I heard that Max,” Fidor said. “There are other vodkas that are far better but I know I can get a glass of this anywhere.”

The girls sat in the huge leather chairs that flanked the oriental carpet; they both wore full slacks and crisp blouses that Joanne had scrounged. Even Sharon had to admit they looked pretty good for a couple of girls fresh from a gun fight at the Venetian corral. Max quietly slipped from the room.

“You look wonderful, no worse for wear,” JF said as he slipped into the narrow space left in Sharon’s chair. “Who were those men? Were they after the software?”

“Yes, I’m sure that’s what they were after. Karg came up to me at the ball and demanded something; I didn’t know what she was talking about. Now I do, they didn’t get it from Stroud because he no longer had it. Whoever has it now is anybody’s guess.”

“Who were the men in the second boat? They looked like professionals. From where I was standing on the boat, you acted like you knew the black fellow,” JF said.

“I do, he and I fought in Iraq. I don’t know why he’s here, I really don’t. But I’ll tell you, if I’m ever in trouble he would be the first person I’d call.”

“I can understand that, he looked like the type who’s always in control,” JF said. “How’s that cut on your arm?”

“It’s fine; Joanne put a Band-Aid on it, the bleeding stopped long ago.”

Jean-François took her arm, gently inspected her wound, then kissed softly. “Better?”

“Much.”

“If you don’t mind,” Gina said looking at Sharon. “You have tuckered out this Italian lass, I’m off to bed. We have a busy day tomorrow.”

“The plane for Paris leaves at 1:00 PM, Claudette will pick us up when we land. Be packed,” Sharon said.

“Yes, Lieutenant,” Gina said mockingly, she saluted. “I’m taking the bottle, good night all.”

For the next five minutes, Fidor acted like the proverbial fifth wheel, till he finally excused himself, he grabbed the ice bucket as he walked past the bar.

“You should take something to drink if you take the ice bucket, Fidor, my friend. It’s tastes so much better that way,” JF said, needling the man.

Sharon was a little surprised when Fidor blushed; his white Russian cheeks flushed pink. Mumbling something, he slipped out the door as well.

“Thought they would never leave,” Sharon said. “Fidor is single, isn’t he?”

“Yes, I heard what you said last night; he will be kind and gentle.”

“It’s not Gina I’m concerned about, it’s Fidor. She may be a little more than he can handle.”

“That is something for him to find out, he’s a big boy,” JF said.

“What does he do?”

“He is an investment manager. He is connected to a dozen very successful businessmen, he handles much of their investments and he has their absolute confidence.”

“Hard to find that in Russia,” Sharon said.

“Very true but he also realizes that if he screws any one of them, he’s dead, such is life as an investment manager in Russia.”

“It’s a hard world.”

“Too hard but it’s the life he’s chosen. We all choose our lives to live. Some are handed a kick start, others fight for it. My sister and I were fortunate but all my money won’t bring back Catherine. I still miss her; she would have liked you a lot. She was a lot like you, someone who takes charge and pushes through the problem. Like tonight at the canal, no discussion, no debate, no hesitation. He would have killed us if you didn’t stop him.”

“Maybe, but I wasn’t going to let him have the chance. That’s why I wounded him, I needed answers.”

“Did you get them?”

“Some but not enough and now I have more questions and I don’t know who has the answers. I’ll find them; they’ve pissed me off. And I’m getting closer to the reason why your sister was killed, much closer.”

“Did that black fellow have anything to do with some of the answers?”

“Yes, I think so. He was always in the thick of things. In Iraq, we spent a lot of time together; he was and still is one hell of a soldier.”

“Together, as in romantically?”

Sharon looked at JF, there was a touch of jealousy in the question; she was flattered.

“No, one soldier to another, major to lieutenant, friend to friend.”

JF stood, took Sharon by the hand and pulled her up to him. He placed his hands on each side of her face and slowly kissed her. As much as she wanted to fight him, she felt herself melting; his gentleness washed away the adrenaline, the blood, the smell of cordite. All that was left was a soul that needed filling. They climbed the ornate stairs hand in hand. At his door, she felt that she wanted to turn, to leave, to run. He kissed her again; her thoughts of escape fled.

“Don’t be gentle, it’s been a very long time,’ Sharon whispered in his ear. He closed the door to his room and slowly unbuttoned her blouse.