The Insider Threat (20 page)

W
alking across the famous Bridge of Sighs leading to the draconian prison at the Doge’s Palace museum, Jacob finally saw a glimmer of hope. Watching the pious church leader pause at the far end, looking right and left through the crowds of tourists, Jacob saw a buxom woman appear and plant a sloppy kiss on his lips.

Jacob knew his target was married. Knew he was in Venice with his Catholic student group, ostensibly as a chaperone. His purpose was solely to ensure the safety of his charges. But clearly he had other things in mind, including a secret rendezvous with a mistress he’d probably flown in from the swamps of Florida while his wife stayed at home baking cookies.

Jacob gazed at the woman’s breasts wiggling back and forth, covered in a low-cut top, with a modest scarf failing to hide their size.

Par for the course. Christian hypocrisy at its best.

The woman was the first indication that Jacob might have a lever to accomplish his mission. Something he had been having extreme doubts about since they’d landed at the Venice airport yesterday morning.

After the Lost Boys’ experience in Syria, flying to Italy out of Istanbul had been surreal. Living on the ragged edge, their instincts trained to look for peril at every turn, trying to act like they were nothing more than tourists had been very, very hard. Every question directed their way was met with suspicion, and every action of the passengers viewed with a predisposition that they were attempting to obtain information.

At one point, Jacob had had to stop Carlos from getting into a fight over an overhead bin, the obese person bewildered at the rage Carlos held. When the flight attendant noticed the scuffle and began moving their way, Jacob had stood, squeezing his fist around Carlos’s upper arm and saying, “Sit down. You are done.”

The passengers around him had noticed the exchange, and he realized the risk of discovery was beyond some omnipotent intelligence agency finding out their mission.

It was held in themselves.

They had lost whatever civility had once coursed through their veins, and that had been slight to begin with. Before Syria, all they had known was the white house. Now, after having their humanity further eroded in actions supporting the nascent Islamic State, Jacob was leading a pack of wild dogs in a land of groomed Chihuahuas. If they wanted to succeed, they needed to be another Chihuahua. And Jacob wanted very much to succeed.

Maybe.

After the meeting in the hotel bar with Omar, Jacob had gone to sleep thinking about his future. Unlike his fellow Lost Boys, he hadn’t fallen headfirst into the spell of the Islamic State. It was strange, even to him, given what he’d done in its name, but he didn’t feel the fervor. Didn’t yearn to slaughter people simply because they smoked a cigarette or were Christian. He only wanted to prove something to himself. To succeed just once, eradicating the failure that was his life.

He wanted to show the world that he wasn’t just a bit of trash blowing on the side of the road. But, until the meeting in Istanbul, he’d never really believed it. He knew he was different from Carlos and Devon, in both capability and views, but hadn’t realized how much different until fate had brought him to Omar.

That man was a creator. He was a force of nature that carved out what he wanted through willpower, intellect, and brutal skill. And he’d seen something in Jacob. Had recognized that Jacob wasn’t like the other cattle flocking to the fight. It caused a conflict in Jacob’s mind.

It brought questions. Things he couldn’t answer now. The fact remained that Omar had entrusted him with success. Had bestowed on him the responsibility to win, because he believed in Jacob, and Jacob wouldn’t forget it. Couldn’t let him down.

That confidence had wilted once they’d arrived in Venice. Exiting the terminal, Jacob had had his first shock of the mission. Expecting to take a cab to Venice from the airport, he’d found that the only thing available was a water taxi. After thirty minutes of wasted effort, stumbling from one dock to another, they’d managed to make it to the small historic city-state, riding a boat that had no sympathy for their lack of knowledge.

He’d intended to check into the hotel room booked by Omar—a Best Western, which, by name alone, had given him an American image—and then spend the rest of the day hunting his prey. What had happened instead was he and his crew had dragged their luggage through a myriad of small alleys, walking on foot to find a hotel that apparently wanted to remain hidden.

The town itself was a labyrinth. An ancient city constructed out of the sea by brute force, whose locals had little sympathy for the influx of tourists.

They’d stomped around for forty-five minutes, crossing one canal after another without getting any closer to their hotel. They’d walked down an alley and ended up at a small dock next to the water, and nothing else. A dead end. Jacob had about lost it until a man had pulled up in a johnboat.

Jacob had asked a couple of questions, and the man was more than helpful, taking them in his boat and driving them to the closest point to their hotel, talking about his job and life as they passed multiple small docks, all with skiffs and johnboats. Jacob had realized two things: One, the quickest way around this place was on the water. And two, he could steal a boat.

Listening to the man describe life in Venice, Jacob began to understand how difficult the mission would be, even as Carlos and Devon marveled at the tourist attractions. The city was nothing more than footpaths, cut across in a chaotic way with canals, and separated from the mainland by a healthy bit of water.

Murdering four people here will be damn near out of the question.

Well, that wasn’t exactly true. It would be easy to kill someone in Venice. There wasn’t much police presence. Some outstations with
cabrini
, and some roving patrols, but all in all, if he wanted to take someone’s life, then stake the body to a cross for all to see, he could do it, and he stood a fair chance of getting away.

His problem was much, much greater. He had to kill without anyone knowing. In Syria, such a thing would have been easy, leaving the carcass to rot next to the others in the desert. Even in his old world, he could make a single man disappear by burying him in the Everglades, letting the alligators have some lunch. Here, the terrain itself was formidable. There was no desert or swamp to transport the victims to, letting the sun and carrion eaters destroy the carcass before it was found.

On top of that, they had to kill
four
men. The chaperone and his three charges. They had only four nights to do it, and they had to accomplish the mission
here
, before the group traveled to Rome. Which brought up the final obstacle.

They had to do the murders in such a manner that nobody knew the victims were gone, because they intended to assume their identities.

Following the church leader, Jacob had begun to believe the mission was impossible. Right up until he saw the chaperone kiss the woman.

J
acob followed the couple through the remainder of the palace museum, stalking them through the myriad of palatial rooms and ignoring the history dripping from every corner. If asked later, he couldn’t have described a single thing from the inside of the palace. Not one painting, one throne, or one sculpture. But he could have told you in minute detail what the man and woman did, because he photographed most of it, waiting on the money shot.

It didn’t come. They never kissed again inside the museum. Jacob snapped plenty of shots of them close together, some where they were even rubbing against each other, but none that were inherently incriminating. Which was something Jacob needed to make his nascent plan work.

From the beginning, Jacob knew his target set was split in two: the chaperone and the kids. He instinctively understood that he had to divide in order to conquer. He simply had no idea how to do that. Outside of pure chance, there was no way to predict when the chaperone would be separated from the boys, and reacting to those occurrences—as he had today—was not a recipe for success. There needed to be some control. Some method to predict when the man would leave his charges or, better still, predict when and where he would be.

And now Jacob had it. If he could get the money shot.

The couple exited the marble courtyard of the palace, walking through the revolving gate into the Piazza San Marco, an expansive square flooded with visitors from all over the globe. Jacob gave the couple a second, then followed, temporarily losing them in the crowds.

He skipped past children playing with pigeons in the square, the filthy birds perched on shoulders and heads, parents taking photos and patently ignoring the prohibitions against engaging in such behavior.

He walked rapidly past the clock tower, swiveling his head toward the ornate San Marco Basilica. All he saw were lines of people waiting to enter both places. He went deeper, scanning for the purple scarf the woman wore. He caught it on the edge of the square, disappearing into an alley.

He sprinted to catch up.

He entered the alley, a small hallway carved out of stone, leading away from the square. He saw the couple ahead of him exiting, going left in front of a bridge across one of the ubiquitous canals. He began jogging, jostling people out of the way to catch up. He slowed at the bridge and turned the corner, now moving with the rhythm of the tourists.

He saw the chaperone and his busty date talking to a gondola coxswain. Debating a price.

One of the many small ports threaded throughout the city, it held multiple gondolas waiting for passengers, similar to a taxi stand in New York, only much, much more expensive. If the target was hiring a gondola, he had no destination in mind other than peeling the clothes off of the person he was riding with.

Looking like oversize canoes, the boats plied the canals all over Venice, some gondoliers singing, and some offering other amenities. Jacob remained where he was, knowing he was about to lose the chase. He raised his point-and-shoot camera and zoomed to the fullest extent of its cheap capability.

And got the money shot.

The man leaned over to the woman, surreptitiously cupped her breast, and kissed her full on the mouth. In eight-megapixel color.

*   *   *

He returned to the Best Western, finding Devon and Carlos sitting in the room going through the television channels as if repeated clicking would make one change over to English.

They glanced up at him, earnest faces surrounded by chocolate wrappers and potato chip bags from the minibar, the room a mess.

“Jesus Christ. What the hell have you guys been doing? Do you know how much this shit costs?”

Carlos said, “It don’t cost nothing. It was all on top of the fridge. It came with the room.”

Jacob shook his head, muttering under his breath. He kicked towels out of the way, stepping over the makeshift sleeping pallet on the floor that the other two men used. He noticed a prayer rug next to the pallet, an Islamic State–sanctioned prayer schedule next to it. He picked it up and said, “What the hell is this?”

As if Omar were in the room, Carlos said, “We can act like the infidel, but we will not become the infidel. We have to maintain our strength.”

Livid, Jacob smacked him in the back of the head, shouting, “Are you fucking insane? You need to become Catholic.
Catholic!
What will happen if the maids see this? What the hell are you guys thinking?”

He stood, tearing the schedule in two. He turned in a circle, looking at the mess in the room, the two simpletons in it, and his own reflection in the mirror. He felt a clawing pressure. He saw the shock on Carlos’s face from his outburst, and Devon cowering in a chair. He instinctively knew he was failing. Knew that leadership was needed here. Leadership such as Omar would have provided. The religion was nothing. He needed to rise above that and provide the leadership these men craved. As he had in the white house.

He sat on the bed and said, “Okay, okay. Tell me you knuckleheads did something today.”

Like a light switch, Carlos turned from Islam and became the common criminal he had always been. He said, “I’ve walked all over the area here, and I’ve got four johnboats that I think I can steal. Two are on the Grand Canal, and two are on smaller feeder canals. If we need a boat, I’ll get one. They don’t pay a lot of attention to security. A rope and maybe a chain, and we’re in.”

Jacob didn’t bother to ask any questions about operating the vessels. Coming from Florida, all three could operate a skiff and motor. Instead, he focused on the specifics. “How long before someone knows it’s missing? Can we take it and get it back, or once we take it, the clock’s ticking?”

“During the day, we’re fucked. After about six, I think we’re good. They won’t notice the boat missing until the following morning.”

Thinking, Jacob said, “And you can navigate the canals? If I gave you a spot?”

“Yeah. It’s actually not that hard. I got a map. A water taxi map. I can figure it out.”

Jacob nodded. “Good. Devon? Any luck?”

Devon was tasked with befriending the boys after the chaperone left.

“I followed them for a while, and they did what any tourist would do. Wandered around to all the attractions. When they reached the Rialto Market over on the other side of the canal they stopped for lunch. I approached them then. We struck up a conversation, and I asked if they wanted to party. They said no.”

Jacob waited, then said, “And that’s it? What, did you offer them cocaine or something? They’re high school kids.”

Devon smiled and said, “They said not today, but asked me if I was hanging around for a few days. They said they could maybe party later. Actually looked at one other as if they were breaking the law. I don’t think they realize the drinking age here is, like, sixteen or something.”

“So?”

“So they said their chaperone runs the show, but he’s apparently here partially on business. They’ve got a sightseeing trip planned for tomorrow during the day, but tomorrow night they’re free. The chaperone’s going to be busy doing something, and the following day he’ll be in business meetings. They’re on their own. They asked if I knew of a place to go to after he left. I found a pub called the Devil’s Forest. I told them to meet me there tomorrow night at nine.”

Jacob smiled.
Business meetings. Right.
This might work after all.

“That’s perfect. Devon, you meet them and get them liquored up. So drunk that they’ll let you in their rooms. Figure out the lay of the land of their hotel. Get control of one of their keys. We only need one. Put them to bed but leave with a key.”

He tapped his finger against his lip, thinking. He continued, “Do we know the specific room the chaperone is using?”

“Yeah. His is a floor above the kids. After you started following him, I found the room, but that hotel isn’t good for a hit. It’s a mess, with hallways and rooms spread out like a crazy aunt built it. I can follow the kids back and tuck them in, maybe even get a key, but we can’t kill anyone there.”

“I’m not going to. Carlos, I’m going to need that boat tomorrow around ten at night.”

Carlos said, “For what? We can’t kill them when they’re out drunk with Devon.”

“I’m not talking about the kids. We need the chaperone first. I’m taking him tomorrow night.”

“How? All we know is that he won’t be with the kids. You can’t kill someone in this city like that.”

“He’ll be where I say, when I say. Does this hotel have a printer? A business center?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

Jacob raised his camera. “I have to print some pictures.”