Reggie sat back, slowly shaking her head, “Holy crap.”
Dimitri looked at Reggie and said, “That’s an understatement if ever I heard one. This Prefect guy said we are the ones that are tasked with stopping this world domination plot?”
“Well, we are the ones that can stop the bad guys from getting the additional resources they need to implement their plan, so I guess you could say it’s up to us,” Doc said.
We sat there in silence for what seemed like hours, but only minutes had passed.
“We need to let Uncle Harold know about these Vatican mercs,” Dimitri said, “plus, now that we know we are going up against trained heavy hitters, I need to talk to him.”
“About what?” I asked.
“Heavy hitter stuff, that’s all, no worries, Colt.”
I chalked his comment up to “Dimitri stuff” and let it go.
It was a good idea to let Uncle Harold know about the Vatican mercenaries, as Dimitri said. Not knowing anything about them other than what the Prefect had just told us, we needed to make sure that anyone connected with us, overtly or covertly, knew about the potential danger they could be facing because of our association.
Our meeting went well. Uncle Harold let us know that the drug smuggler situation had resolved itself in Columbia, with our group of baddies no longer a problem. As far as he could tell, no one was looking for the money, so we didn’t have to worry about that, and all our local funding requests were moving along without a hitch. He was concerned with our news of the Vatican mercs on our tail, however. And he wanted to know if we thought we needed more manpower. I considered his offer but said not at this time, but we would stay in touch just in case. The meeting broke up, and we headed out. Dimitri hung back, and I saw him talking to Uncle Harold alone. Uncle Harold was frowning at first as Dimitri spoke, then shook his head, laughed, and shook Dimitri’s hand. We were getting into the Beast when Dimitri caught up, and I asked, “What was that all about?”
“Just some business, as I said, heavy hitter business; we’re cool,” he said as he got in the driver’s seat, and we headed back to the hotel.
Chapter Eight
Monday was filled with final preparations for our mountain trek and planning for our dinner meeting with Mendez later that evening. Our strategy was simple; be general in all discussions of our activities and let him fish. We should be able to tell what information he’s looking for. We’ll follow his lead on discussions and see how much of his hand he will reveal. We would mention our Vatican “friends” in terms of European bad guys tracking American treasure hunters and feign concern as to their intentions, leaving it as a hanging question, letting him wonder about their intentions. Anything else, we would have to play by ear.
The appointed time arrived, and a black Mercedes limo picked us up at our hotel. It was a 30-minute drive to Mendez’s estate just at the outskirts of the city. We passed through a gated entry with security guards and drove up to an impressive old colonial-style mansion. The house and grounds were immaculate, and the circle driveway in front could have accommodated at least 20 or more vehicles. As we approached the ornate front doors, we could tell this was an old estate that had been well maintained over the years. The doors opened as we got near, and I looked up to see at least two surveillance cameras mounted discreetly above it—old-world style with modern upgrades.
We entered and were met by a butler who led us into a large room. Suits of armor were positioned around it, with the centerpiece being a massive fireplace that could hold a small tree for firewood. On the walls were portraits and tapestries, all heirlooms, I thought. Mendez was standing in front of the fireplace with his back to us as we entered. The butler announced us, “Senor Mendez, Dr. Burnett, and company.” At that, Mendez turned around, and a huge smile spread across his face.
“Dr. Burnett, I am so pleased you were able to accept my invitation,” he said as he moved across the room, bypassing me and heading straight for O’Reilly.
“It is our pleasure,” I said to his back as he passed. “Thank you for the invitation.”
“Not at all, not at all,” he replied over his shoulder as he approached O’Reilly. “Senorita O’Reilly, as stunning as ever,” he said as he took her hand, made a slight bow, and kissed it.
Please, O’Reilly, don’t punch him, I thought.
“Why, Senor Mendez, you are too kind,” she said as he took her arm in his and escorted her to a settee near the fireplace.
“Please, gentlemen, do come and have a seat,” he said as he motioned to chairs set in a semi-circle in front of the fireplace. It was a cool evening, and there was a small fire warming the room. He formally shook hands with all of us as we settled in. His seat, of course, was next to O’Reilly. His butler came in with a tray of glasses and a bottle of wine. He filled the glasses, passed them around, placed the bottle on the table, and withdrew.
“Gentlemen and lady, to your health,” Mendez said as he raised his glass in salute. We responded likewise and sipped our wine, which was very good.
“I hope you like this wine; it is one of my favorites from my family vineyards—a 1979 Rose’.”
“Very nice,” Doc replied. “Light, refreshing, with a wonderful bouquet that compares favorably to a 1951 Bodegas Toro Albala Amontillado.”
We all nodded in agreement.
“Ah, a wine connoisseur,” Mendez replied.
“I wouldn’t say that,” Doc replied, “but I do
