Target Ten (The Spy Game—Book #10)

T A R G E T   T E N

(THE SPY GAME—BOOK 10)

J A C K   M A R S

Jack Mars

Jack Mars is the USA Today bestselling author of the LUKE STONE thriller series, which includes seven books. He is also the author of the new FORGING OF LUKE STONE prequel series, comprising six books; of the AGENT ZERO spy thriller series, comprising twelve books; of the TROY STARK thriller series, comprising eight books; of the SPY GAME thriller series, comprising ten books; of the JAKE MERCER thriller series, comprising seven books (and counting); of the TYLER WOLF thriller series, comprising seven books (and counting); and of the new LARA KING thriller series, comprising seven books (and counting).

Jack loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit www.Jackmarsauthor.com to join the email list, receive a free book, receive free giveaways, connect on Facebook and Twitter, and stay in touch!

Copyright © 2024 by Jack Mars. 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 kavalenkava, used under license from Shutterstock.com.

BOOKS BY JACK MARS

LARA KING THRILLER SERIES

ASSET ONE (Book #1)

ASSET TWO (Book #2)

ASSET THREE (Book #3)

ASSET FOUR (Book #4)

ASSET FIVE (Book #5)

ASSET SIX (Book #6)

ASSET SEVEN (Book #7)

TYLER WOLF THRILLER SERIES

DOUBLE AGENT (Book #1)

DOUBLE CROSS (Book #2)

DOUBLE ASSET (Book #3)

DOUBLE DOCTRINE (Book #4)

DOUBLE JEOPARDY (Book #5)

DOUBLE THREAT (Book #6)

DOUBLE TARGET (Book #7)

JAKE MERCER THRILLER SERIES

ABSOLUTE THREAT (Book #1)

ABSOLUTE DAMAGE (Book #2)

ABSOLUTE FORCE (Book #3)

ABSOLUTE PERIL (Book #4)

ABSOLUTE TREASON (Book #5)

ABSOLUTE VENGEANCE (Book #6)

ABSOLUTE TARGET (Book #7)

THE SPY GAME

TARGET ONE (Book #1)

TARGET TWO (Book #2)

TARGET THREE (Book #3)

TARGET FOUR (Book #4)

TARGET FIVE (Book #5)

TARGET SIX (Book #6)

TARGET SEVEN (Book #7)

TARGET EIGHT (Book #8)

TARGET NINE (Book #9)

TARGET TEN (Book #10)

TROY STARK THRILLER SERIES

ROGUE FORCE (Book #1)

ROGUE COMMAND (Book #2)

ROGUE TARGET (Book #3)

ROGUE MISSION (Book #4)

ROGUE SHOT (Book #5)

ROGUE STRIKE (Book #6)

ROGUE ORDER (Book #7)

ROGUE ATTACK (Book #8)

LUKE STONE THRILLER SERIES

ANY MEANS NECESSARY (Book #1)

OATH OF OFFICE (Book #2)

SITUATION ROOM (Book #3)

OPPOSE ANY FOE (Book #4)

PRESIDENT ELECT (Book #5)

OUR SACRED HONOR (Book #6)

HOUSE DIVIDED (Book #7)

FORGING OF LUKE STONE PREQUEL SERIES

PRIMARY TARGET (Book #1)

PRIMARY COMMAND (Book #2)

PRIMARY THREAT (Book #3)

PRIMARY GLORY (Book #4)

PRIMARY VALOR (Book #5)

PRIMARY DUTY (Book #6)

AN AGENT ZERO SPY THRILLER SERIES

AGENT ZERO (Book #1)

TARGET ZERO (Book #2)

HUNTING ZERO (Book #3)

TRAPPING ZERO (Book #4)

FILE ZERO (Book #5)

RECALL ZERO (Book #6)

ASSASSIN ZERO (Book #7)

DECOY ZERO (Book #8)

CHASING ZERO (Book #9)

VENGEANCE ZERO (Book #10)

ZERO ZERO (Book #11)

ABSOLUTE ZERO (Book #12)

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

PROLOGUE

An island near Trabzon, Turkey

A mile off the southern coast of the Black Sea

It was genuine. He knew it the moment he saw it, and the realization took his breath away and made his heart pound so fast he thought it would burst from his chest.

The scepter lay packed in straw in a wooden crate marked as containing Georgian wine. The crate was identical to a hundred other crates of wine in this cool cellar, hewn out of stone countless centuries ago.

It sat on a rough wooden table between the two men. The man who gazed with awe at the scepter was in his middle age, well-built but with an academic air thanks to his wire-rimmed spectacles and the book in ancient Greek tucked into the pocket of his blazer. The man opposite him was shorter, wiry and with a pair of dark eyes that glittered with greed. The shorter man was obviously a Turk. The taller man was European of uncertain heritage, with an accent when he spoke Turkish that the Turk could not place.

Being a smuggler, the Turk thought he knew all the accents of Europe and the Middle East. He had certainly done underhanded business with nearly every nationality he could name.

Are you satisfied? the Turk asked, trying to hide his tension. This deal could mean everything.

It appears to be of some artistic value, if genuine.

The European tried to contain his enthusiasm. An old trick when haggling in the markets of the Middle East was to not show one’s interest.

I’d like to examine it, he said in as casual a voice as he could muster. Do you mind if I pick this thing up?

The Turk wasn’t fooled. He could see the awe in his eyes, the false dismissal of calling the scepter a mere thing.

He knew he had a sale, and he knew he would be able to fleece this European for enough money to buy that mansion on the coast he had been dreaming of.

Be my guest, the Turk said with a slight bow and a gesture toward the scepter.

With infinite care, the European lifted it up with both hands, the gold gleaming in the candlelight. There was no electricity here. None was needed.

He turned it slowly around, examining the elaborate filigree decoration showing three rows of four figures each. The twelve apostles. At the base of the scepter was a crystal of the purest white, carved in the likeness of the Virgin Mary. The head was a giant ruby, its flat face carved with a portrait of Jesus Christ.

A pure crystal for a pure woman. A red ruby for the blood of Christ, who took on all our sins.

Isa was a great prophet, the Turk said, using the Arabic term for Jesus. Being a Muslim, he did not believe Mary was a virgin, or that Jesus was the son of God. He also did not believe this scepter was anything other than a one-of-a-kind artifact from the Middle Ages.

The Europeans didn't believe any of those things either. He knew them to be true, just as he knew that the scepter was far, far more important than as a simple object d’art.

The Turk cocked his head as the European closed his eyes and seemed to fall into a trance. His face took on a serene air and he began to hum a single, low note that he sustained without apparently taking a breath.

The Turk had seen this before with religious people. This scepter with its Christian symbols was obviously from some old bishop or pope, and now the buyer was communing with his god.

Well, let him commune. That would only make it easier to raise the price.

But how in the world was he keeping that note without breathing?

What the Turk didn’t know, and wouldn’t believe if he did, was that the buyer wasn’t communing with the Christian God, but with the scepter itself. Trained in a rare and special form of musical meditation, the buyer was able to tune into the resonant frequency of the crystals in the scepter by sustaining a particular note. After a minute or so, the crystals would begin to vibrate. He had learned to hold the note indefinitely by learning circular breathing, the method Australian Aborigines used to play the digeridoo for hours on end. You breathed in through your nose and exhaled through your mouth in a constant loop as your lungs took up enough air to sustain you.

As soon as the European felt the crystals begin to vibrate, he confirmed what he already knew, that the scepter was the genuine article, discovered at last after nearly six hundred years. 

He stopped humming, and the crystals grew still. He didn't want to continue. The results would be disastrous.

The European opened his eyes and looked at the Turk, who was trying and failing to keep a poker face.

Are you satisfied? the Turk asked.

Yes. How much do you want?

Eight million dollars. In cash.

Make it six million.

Oh no, my friend. It was very difficult to get, and it is a one-of-a-kind item. I couldn't let it go for less than $7,500,000.

All right.

The Turk blinked. While he had expected this fellow to be an easy mark, he had thought he’d have a little more trouble than this.

It looked like that house on the Black Sea would finally be his.

The European placed the scepter back in the box and put the lid back on. Then he picked up a small hammer from the table and carefully tapped the little nails all around the rim of the crate to secure the sides. After he was finished, he picked up a briefcase by his feet, opened it, and started counting out packets of hundred-dollar bills. The Turk gazed at the money with a thrill bordering on the erotic. While he had made many good sales over the years and had a fine house and Ferrari, this was the biggest single sale he had ever made.

Once the stack of money was sitting on the table next to the crate and the Turk had flipped through the bills to make sure they were all genuine, the pair shook hands.

A pleasure doing business with you, the European said, picking up the crate.

And with you. Would you like a crate of wine with my compliments?

No, thank you. I don't drink.

Suit yourself.

The pair began to ascend a narrow flight of stairs hewn in the stone, the steps worn and bowed in the middle from the passage of centuries of feet. Both men had to duck their heads so as not to strike the vaulted ceiling. The European had to hold the crate ahead of him like a lance in order to fit.

People sure were smaller back then, the Turk said and laughed. He felt giddy with the money in the bag he carried.

Just as the stairs turned and the wine cellar went out of sight, the European swore. I forgot my briefcase. Could you get it?

The passage was so tight that the European couldn’t squeeze past and go get it himself. Carrying the large crate, he couldn’t even turn around.

No problem, my friend.

The Turk turned and hurried back down the steps, clutching his bag of money. He did not hear the European running up the rest of the steps and hurrying away through the roofless rooms of the old monastery.

Just as the Turk got to the briefcase sitting beneath the table, the C4 inside it detonated.

The ensuing explosion blasted the dealer apart, crumpled the crates and shattered the bottles within. Having nowhere to go, the force of the explosion shot up the staircase like a geyser of blood, wine, broken glass, wood splinters, and burning hundred-dollar bills.

The European, clutching the crate like a mother clutches her baby, got away just in time. He raced through the old commons room of the monastery, through the chapel, which still retained traces of its altar, and out onto the rocky hill.

He slowed and looked behind him. Only a thin plume of smoke rose above the crumbling walls of the monastery, to be quickly dispersed by the Black Sea breeze.

After a quick check to make sure the wine crate holding the scepter was intact, he looked out over the sea. The island on which he stood measured barely one square mile. No people lived here, and it was too far off the coast for shepherds to leave their flocks to graze on the clumps of sparse grass that managed to cling to these rocks. The monastery itself was in too ruinous a state to attract tourists. The monks had chosen a remote place to worship God, and that place had never stopped being remote.

He began to walk down a flight of stairs cut into the stone that led to a little cove where two motorboats were moored side by side, his and his now dead antiquities dealer.

As he walked, the burnt end of a hundred-dollar bill fluttered down to his feet, only to be whisked away a moment later by the sea breeze and carried off over the water.

He stopped and smiled.

A pity about the money, he said to himself. But it’s a small price to pay for Rome’s final legacy.

CHAPTER ONE

Jana Peters felt a long way from the battles she’d been fighting for the last couple of years.

She sat with her fellow agent Jacob Snow in the back garden of an English cottage just outside St. Albans, a small city in Hertfordshire not far from London.

It certainly felt far from the heaving, polluted capital city. The house dated to the seventeenth century with a thatched roof and the locally popular puddingstone walls made of flint cobbles. The garden, like the garden of any self-respecting English person, was well tended and they sat on lawn chairs on lush grass surrounded by a kaleidoscopic spray of late-summer flowers.

Their host was Nigel Chantry, a retired MI6 agent whose specialty was the Middle East. A smiling, pleasant-faced man with salt and pepper hair, a red bulbous nose, and quick, intelligent eyes, he wore faded slacks, an old shirt that needed ironing, and a glass of single malt Scotch that never left his hand.

Jana and Jacob were similarly provisioned. It had been a boozy day, starting with Chantry meeting them at the train station, then giving them a tour of the town’s Roman remains, including a portion of the old Roman city wall, then the early medieval cathedral, then a stop at no fewer than three local pubs, including one that claimed to be the oldest pub in the United Kingdom.

It is one of many oldest pubs in the United Kingdom, he told them when they took a corner booth. It’s impossible to tell who’s right, but they serve a good pint and that’s all that matters.

Several good pints later, Chantry took them on a terrifying high-speed ride in his Jaguar through winding country lanes to his cottage. There they met his civilian wife, who greeted them quietly and then retired to the reading room so they could talk shop.

Talking shop required drinks, however. Jana felt like she was about to tip over and decided not to move from her chair. Jacob had gone from upbeat to sleepy. The muggy weather didn’t help.

I’m glad you could come up, Chantry told Jana. He sounded like he was finally getting to the point. Your father was a good man. I see a lot of you in him.

There was a time, not long ago, when she would have taken that as an insult. With all his absences, his secrets, they had grown distant and she had grown resentful.

And then he had been killed in action, at least everyone thought so. Even Jacob thought so, and he had been there.

When Dad returned from the dead, it had been a hell of an