The Malice Code (A Remi Laurent FBI Suspense Thriller—Book 3)

By Ava Strong

THE MALICE CODE (A Remi Laurent FBI Suspense Thriller) is book #3 in a new series by mystery and suspense author Ava Strong, which begins with THE DEATH CODE (Book #1).

FBI Special Agent Daniel Walker, 40, known for his ability to hunt killers, his street-smarts, and his disobedience, is singled out from the Behavioral Analysis Unit and assigned to the FBI’s new Antiquities unit. The unit, formed to hunt down priceless relics in the global world of antiquities, has no idea how to enter the mind of a murderer.

Remi Laurent, 34, brilliant history professor at Georgetown, is the world’s leading expert in obscure historic artifacts. Shocked when the FBI asks for her help to find a killer, she finds herself reluctantly partnered with this rude American FBI agent. Special Agent Walker and Remi Laurent are an unlikely duo, with his ability to enter killers’ minds and her unparalleled scholarship, the only thing they have in common, their determination to decode the clues and stop a killer.

When an American is found murdered in Italy, the victim of a potential serial killer obsessed with ancient church relics, the FBI’s Antiquities unit is summoned to help. Special Agent Walker knows he needs Remi’s scholarship to decode the undecipherable puzzle that leads them in a wild race across Italy, from the secrets of the Vatican to forgotten churches in Tuscany.

Together, they must follow the clues, peel back the layers of history, and solve the riddle before the killer strikes again.

But will they be too late?

An unputdownable crime thriller featuring an unlikely partnership between a jaded FBI agent and a brilliant historian, the REMI LAURENT series is a riveting mystery, grounded in history, and packed with suspense and revelations that will leave you continuously in shock, and flipping pages late into the night.

Books #4-#6 in the series—THE VENGEANCE CODE, THE DECEPTION CODE, and THE SEDUCTION CODE—are also available.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ava Strong
• Release date: Dec 6, 2021
• ISBN: 9781094373485

Book preview

cover.jpg

t h e   m a l i c e   c o d e

(a remi laurent fbi suspense thriller—book 3)

a v a   s t r o n g

Ava Strong

Debut author Ava Strong is author of the REMI LAURENT mystery series, comprising six books (and counting); of the ILSE BECK mystery series, comprising seven books (and counting); and of the STELLA FALL psychological suspense thriller series, comprising six books (and counting).

An avid reader and lifelong fan of the mystery and thriller genres, Ava loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit www.avastrongauthor.com to learn more and stay in touch.

Copyright © 2021 by Ava Strong. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Jacket image Copyright Zipi Trin, used under license from Shutterstock.com.

BOOKS BY AVA STRONG

REMI LAURENT FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

THE DEATH CODE (Book #1)

THE MURDER CODE (Book #2)

THE MALICE CODE (Book #3)

THE VENGEANCE CODE (Book #4)

THE DECEPTION CODE (Book #5)

THE SEDUCTION CODE (Book #6)

ILSE BECK FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

NOT LIKE US (Book #1)

NOT LIKE HE SEEMED (Book #2)

NOT LIKE YESTERDAY (Book #3)

NOT LIKE THIS (Book #4)

NOT LIKE SHE THOUGHT (Book #5)

NOT LIKE BEFORE (Book #6)

NOT LIKE NORMAL (Book #7)

STELLA FALL PSYCHOLOGICAL SUSPENSE THRILLER

HIS OTHER WIFE (Book #1)

HIS OTHER LIE (Book #2)

HIS OTHER SECRET (Book #3)

HIS OTHER MISTRESS (Book #4)

HIS OTHER LIFE (Book #5)

HIS OTHER TRUTH (Book #6)

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

PROLOGUE

The Church of Saint Augustine, Rome

7:45 P.M.

Gareth Jaxx considered himself a hunter.

While many younger men would chuckle to hear the portly, bespectacled man of fifty call himself such, especially since he had never stalked game or even held a gun, Gareth felt the comparison was more than appropriate.

For he didn’t hunt animals; he hunted knowledge. He was one of the best in the business and he only went after big game.

Gareth had been all over the world, delving into old books and hidden byways of knowledge. From the medieval Coptic monasteries of Egypt to the great universities of Europe, from the Library of Congress to the family manuscript collections of Timbuktu, Gareth Jaxx had made a study of some of the most obscure and difficult works to uncover the rarest of knowledge.

But at the moment, he had to admit he was stumped.

The church library had some of the rarest works of early medieval theology anywhere. Because the Church of Saint Augustine dated back to the 8th century, making it one of Rome’s oldest, and was run by the Benedictine order, it had kept its ancient library separate from that of the Vatican. There were books here that could be found nowhere else.

So far, that hadn’t made any difference.

Gareth had been sitting in the vaulted reading room at one end of the basement chapel for two weeks now, straining his eyes as he read the tiny, faded Latin handwriting of long-dead scribes, hoping to come across what he sought.

He hadn’t.

For fourteen days, while above him tourists in their tens of thousands wandered the streets of Rome taking pictures and eating gelato, he had sat alone in the cold stone vaulted cellar, searching. At first, he had been thrilled, reading through 6th and 7th century sermons preached against the heresies of a Catholic Church still forming its ideology and trying to find its way.

He had worked patiently, steadily, hunting down obscure references and cryptic hints, hoping to find a reference to what he sought.

He had found nothing. At least not anything direct. Some mentioned the book, but since it had already been declared a heresy, no writings said anything about its contents, or if any copies had been preserved.

On the contrary, a couple of scribes wrote about how caches of the book were found and used as kindling when their owners were burned at the stake.

As one writer declared in a manuscript from 681 AD, Thank Almighty God every one of the copies of the accursed text have been consigned to the pyre. No copy has been found in the hands of heretics for a generation or more.

Gareth did not believe that. He did not believe that such an important, potentially Earth-shattering book could be lost for all time. He had found far too many so-called lost texts to ever give up once he had started a hunt.

He would have bet his entire personal fortune that a copy existed in the secret Vatican library, where the Church kept its most controversial documents, but it might as well have been used to burn a medieval heretic. That collection was as far out of reach for someone like him as the Moon. Even most cardinals and archbishops were refused entry.

Given his background and associations, Gareth Jaxx couldn’t even get into the public tourist areas of the Vatican without a fake ID. The Church wouldn’t let someone with his knowledge past the gates of Vatican City. At least the Benedictines were understanding enough to let him use their library. The Opus Dei and some of the other conservative factions wouldn’t even answer his emails.

Gareth absentmindedly pushed up the sleeve of his left arm and scratched the inside of his wrist, where the letter P. was tattooed in the Gothic style. It was a habit of his when deep in thought. But he only did it when he was alone.

A soft step echoing through the cellar’s chill interior made him quickly pull down his sleeve and turn. Brother Lucco was lighting candles in front of the icons of the Virgin Mary, Saint Benedict, and Saint Augustine at the far end of the room. His dark blue robes matched the somber tones the painter had used for the icons.

It is late, Signore Jaxx, the monk said in Italian when he saw him looking.

Gareth rubbed his tired eyes.

Yes, he sighed. Suddenly he realized he was hungry. And his back hurt. And his neck. Twelve hours hunched over medieval manuscripts took a toll on the body. Especially the eyes.

A nice pasta dish and a carafe of wine would take care of that. Then relaxing in his hotel room with Beethoven playing through his phone before an early night. First thing tomorrow morning, he’d be fresh and ready for the chase.

Gareth rose, stretched, and packed up his notes in his leather briefcase. He did not take notes on a computer. Computers could be hacked. At the other end of the room, Brother Lucco stood saying a prayer in front of the icons.

As the researcher passed him, the monk asked, Did you find what you are looking for, Signore Jaxx?

I’ve found much of interest, Brother Lucco, he said pleasantly, then turned to leave. The Benedictines were a good group of people, and Brother Lucco was friendly enough, but it paid to be careful.

The Church had eyes and ears everywhere.

Gareth passed through a small portal that took him to a narrow staircase under a low, vaulted ceiling.

Ascending its worn stone steps, he came out into the church. Only a few candles shone. Their light barely reached the vaulted ceiling, despite the Church of Saint Augustine being so much smaller than most of the later houses of worship in this city. Gareth passed by the icons and side altars without a glance, even though they would be of great interest to students of the Early Middle Ages. They did not offer what he was looking for. No church would be so bold.

He could hear Brother Lucco following him so that he could lock up. No one else was here. Gareth did not turn around. He did not want to make conversation.

Good night, Brother Lucco, he said once he reached the main portal, a heavy thing of wood banded with metal which he had to strain to open.

Good night, Signore Jaxx.

Gareth stepped out into the warm springtime evening. The western sky was still the deep blue of final dusk. A few stars shone overhead, competing with the infrequent streetlights on this neglected back street.

The researcher paused in front of the church to remove his sweater. It was a good fifteen degrees warmer out here than in that vault. Tucking it under his arm, he took a deep breath, smiled, and walked along the street. He knew a good little place not far from here where he could eat. If he turned left, he would soon get to a main street that would lead him to it in five minutes.

But he took a different way, through the winding narrow lanes the crowds avoided. At this time in the evening, the tourists and the locals out for a fun evening would be on the main streets with their lights and their bars and their restaurants. Too much noise. Too many people. Gareth liked silence and solitude. The back streets, lined with buildings dating to the nineteenth or eighteenth centuries but mirroring the routes taken by roads dating back to the foundation of the Church of Saint Augustine, would lead him there with only a little extra time and a lot more peace and quiet.

He strolled along, the frustrations of the day easing now that he was out in the fresh air and moving again. For a time, he was alone; but then a footfall behind him made him turn.

He saw no one in the darkened lane.

Gareth shrugged. Some local going home or heading out for a bit of supper like him.

A minute later, he passed an older man out walking his dog. The man’s footsteps receded. Gareth turned a corner. Suddenly the dog started barking. Its owner hushed it in irritated Italian.

Gareth kept walking. A young woman came his way, walking quickly, clinging her purse tight to her side, high heels clacking on the cobblestones.

Gareth looked away. He had always been uncomfortable around women, especially in a situation like this. She was obviously nervous about being out alone at night. Should he cross to the other side of the street to make her feel better? No, that might seem strange to her and make her even more nervous. But staying on her side of the street would mean she would have to pass right by him.

He tensed, looking further away from her as he walked right in her direction. Perhaps he should pull one of his papers out of his bag and read it? No thug would do that. But if he opened his case, she might think he was going for a weapon.

Oh, it was all so complicated. Give him medieval Latin any day!

Before Gareth had come to a decision, the woman passed in a waft of perfume. Gareth inhaled the delicate scent, thinking how nice it would be to have someone to share his work. Perhaps a specialist in ancient Greek to balance out his focus on Latin. And pretty, of course. Social. Someone who knew how to go to parties. Someone who could help him be a bit more in the world.

Gareth smiled sadly. That would never happen.

The woman’s footsteps increased in pace. Had he scared her?

They receded and all grew silent again. He could see the last turn he needed to take, the intersection faintly glowing from the bigger street he knew lay about a hundred yards beyond the corner. A nice dish of pasta and a carafe of wine would improve his mood.

It was then that Gareth heard the quick approach of footsteps behind him.

He whirled around, suddenly afraid, but the man was on him so quickly he didn’t get to see his features.

An arm of incredible strength threw him into a recessed doorway, his head smacking against the heavy wooden portal, momentarily stunning him.

Before he knew it, a cord was around his neck, tightening, cutting off his breath. A knee in the small of his back stretched his spine painfully and increased the pressure on his throat. Gareth dropped his briefcase and sweater and scrabbled at the cord that strangled him.

The garrote eased back a little. Gareth sucked in breath.

My wallet is in my—

Never mind your money. Where is your tattoo? a harsh voice demanded.

My … Oh no. Not after all this time.

His unseen assailant tugged at the garrote, jerking Gareth’s head back.

Where is it?

My wallet is in my—

The attacker gave another tug. You know what I mean. Where is it?

My left wrist.

Show me.

With a trembling hand, Gareth pulled back his sleeve to show the Gothic letter P followed by a period.

Please, I—

Those were the last words Gareth got to say. The knee pressed against his back again and the garotte dug into his neck, choking off air and drawing blood. Gareth fought, elbowing the man and stomping on his feet, but he knew he was already dead.

When they came for you, they always got you.

As consciousness faded into eternal darkness, Gareth Jaxx did not think of the many books he had written, or the many hidden secrets he had teased out of medieval manuscripts. He did not even think of the awards he had won from his peers.

He only thought of the smell of that perfume from a couple of minutes before.

After Gareth slumped dead in the doorway, his killer put away the garotte. He glanced both directions to make sure no one was in sight and pulled out a straight razor. Rolling up his victim’s sleeve, he began to cut.

CHAPTER ONE

Georgetown University, the next day

Remi Laurent, visiting history professor at Georgetown University, had a hard conversation ahead of her. She had to ask her department head to cover for her afternoon classes. She needed to have a meeting with the FBI.

Again.

So far, the university had been very accommodating in giving her time off to work with the FBI. The dean loved the idea and had finagled several free lectures from FBI agents for the Criminal Justice Department. He also liked the positive outreach and bridging the gap between academia and the federal government. Translated into English, that meant he hoped for more federal funding next semester.

The head of the History Department was less enthusiastic.

Cyril Mullen was not only her direct supervisor; he was her lover.

And he was not happy with her new sideline.

She knocked on Cyril’s office door, her heart starting to beat faster. Their relationship had just gone through a rocky patch and had not entirely healed. And here she was about to cause trouble again.

Come in, Cyril said in that brusque manner he used when he was busy.

When she opened the door and he saw who it was, that manner disappeared immediately.

Remi, he said, smiling and half rising. Come on in.

At fifty years old, Cyril was twelve years older than Remi but looked only in his early forties. He had an erect, muscular figure toned by hours on the racquetball court. Only his salt-and-pepper hair swept back over a broad forehead, and the worry lines stamped on his face from the troubles of running an academic department, told his real age.

His smile faltered when she did not close the door like she usually did. This was, he could tell, going to be a business meeting, not a few snatched kisses between classes.

What’s on your mind? he said in a more official tone as he sat. Only his eyes remained soft, lingering on hers before straying over her body. Despite her apprehension, Remi smiled back. For a middle-aged academic, Cyril was a remarkably virile lover.

Remi paused, glancing around at the shelves of books on nineteenth-century American diplomacy, many by him, before deciding to rip off the bandage with one quick jerk.

The FBI asked me if I could go to a meeting at their office this afternoon.

Cyril’s face darkened. Nice of them to give you plenty of notice.

I’m going to the national office here in D.C. I don’t have to go down to Quantico like last time. They were down at the Quantico office because the head of the new division was teaching there. Now that the Antiquities Division has moved from the experimental phase, it has its offices in the main headquarters here in Washington.

How wonderful for them, Cyril grumbled.

I’ll only miss my two p.m. class. And perhaps my four p.m.

As well as several days of other classes while you go running around God-knows-where chasing dangerous criminals.

We don’t know that. I might just have to look at some photos of stolen artifacts, like last week. That job took me all of about three hours.

And was very disappointing. I was hoping to rush off to another adventure. Instead, I was back to my lectures and grading papers by the early afternoon.

If it was something like that, they would have emailed you, Cyril said.

Good point. I’m sorry, Cyril, but the way the assistant director put it, it sounded important.

So no three-hour job looking at photos then, her lover said with a resigned shrug.

Remi paused, trying to control a mounting irritation. She understood Cyril’s point of view. With the puritanical rules of American universities, they had a hard enough job trying to spend time together. Her absences made it worse.

But still, this was her life, not his.

Of course, he wanted it to be their life. Getting married would stop the objections and solve the problem of her work visa ending at the end of the academic year.

All that made for a