The Sacred Weapon: A Tom Wagner Adventure

by Roberts, M. C.

  “My name’s Tom, Tom Wagner. I’m with the Austrian antiterror unit, Cobra. And yes, in fact, there is something you can do for me.” Tom glanced cautiously at the Mother Superior. The nuns had pricked up their ears at the sound of “antiterror.”

  “Should we take you to a hospital? There’s a good one nearby where the nuns will take good care of you. With God’s blessing, you will soon be well again.”

  Sister Lucrezia gazed at Tom with concern, examining his countless wounds.

  “That’s very kind of you, Sister, and I certainly appreciate it, but I have to get to Lake Como as quickly as I can.”

  The Mother Superior narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

  “Why do you have to get to Como so urgently, Signore Wagner?”

  Sister Lucrezia’s eyes pierced Tom. He could not help himself: he had to tell her the truth.

  “A good friend of mine has been kidnapped, probably by the same criminals who have been stealing the relics—the ones who set fire to Notre Dame,” he said, the words pouring out in a burst.

  The four nuns looked at him shock.

  “You mean the bones of the Magi,” said Sister Renata.

  “And the Crown of Thorns,” said Sister Bartolomea.

  “And the Shroud,” said Sister Alfonsina.

  The three younger sisters looked to their Mother Superior expectantly. The diminutive Sister Bartolomea was the first to speak: “It would just be a small detour, Mother Superior. We’ll still get to Barcelona on time.”

  “We are on our way to Barcelona for the sanctification of the Sagrada Familia,” Sister Alfonsina added happily. “It’s just been completed, you know, and the Holy Father is celebrating a mass there. We’re all terribly excited. We’ve been looking forward to the trip for months.”

  “We could even pay a visit to Father Carlo in Como,” added Sister Renata chattily.

  Sister Lucrezia raised her hand, silencing the younger nuns. “You will have to explain everything to us along the way, Signore Wagner. But do get in. We will take you to Como. God sent you to us in our moment of need, and because I trust in God, I believe you and we will help you.” She paused and squared her shoulders. “Sister Alfonsina, fetch the first aid kit from the luggage compartment. Our first priority is to treat Signore Wagner’s wounds. Sister Renata, you unpack the food. Signore Wagner must regain his strength. And you, Sister Bartolomea, find blankets and pillows to make Signore Wagner comfortable. He needs to rest during the journey.”

  Even before the Mother Superior had finished speaking, the three nuns jumped to do her bidding.

  Tom barely had a chance to thank them. “Get in, Signore Wagner. We’ll be on our way in a minute.”

  Tom sat down on the middle row of seats and Sister Lucrezia swung behind the wheel of the vintage bus. She started the engine and floored the accelerator, pressing Tom back into the beige plastic seat. The three nuns behind him giggled. Sister Bartolomea leaned forward to Tom and whispered in his ear, “Sister Lucrezia went to high school with Michele Alboreto. Before she took her vows, he used to drive her around Milan in his Ferrari. They say he even kissed her once!”

  “Enough of that nonsense, Sister Bartolomea!”

  The Mother Superior’s voice cut through the interior of the bus like a circular saw. Sister Bartolomea sat back meekly and held her tongue.

  “So, Signore Wagner. Now tell us what’s happened. And don’t leave out a thing.”

  44

  Spinaceto, Carabinieri Comando Stazione Roma Tor De Cenci

  Cloutard woke with a jolt from his nap when the key clanked noisily in the lock and the cell door was jerked open, creaking loudly.

  “You are free to go, Signore,” said the officer stiffly. With his left hand, he ushered Cloutard out. Cloutard smiled—that had certainly been quick. He was glad to be out of the stinking cell. At the same time, however, he was overcome by a sense of uneasiness, even fear. He tried to shake it off. He was a grown man, in his fifties . . . it was completely ridiculous to be afraid of what he knew was coming. And yet, he couldn’t rid himself of a queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He was about to get a severe dressing-down, and there was no getting around it.

  The officer led him to the room where he had been relieved of the wooden cognac box and been handed his prison clothes. Someone had apparently assumed that he would be staying longer. Fortune, however, had smiled upon him. With a wry smile, the police officer handed over Cloutard’s pajamas and slippers. Cloutard put them on, and the officer led him outside.

  Cloutard had to blink when he stepped out into the open. The sun was blinding and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, yet a chill ran through him. He couldn’t believe it. He was actually still afraid of her. He, Cloutard, who had built an international smuggling empire and had cut deals with the most villainous crooks in the world.

  In his pajamas and slippers, he left the building and saw her in the parking lot. She had driven there in his own car, a 1959 Renault Caravelle convertible, and climbed out when he appeared at the station door. At her age, she was still as fit as when she had raised him. She gazed at him across the parking lot and was already shaking her head in disappointment. He walked over to her and kissed her on the forehead. “Thank you, Giuseppina. I am eternally grateful to you.”

  “You should be, for all the pain and trouble I’ve suffered for your sake. But you disappoint me, time and time again. I tried so hard to raise you well, and look what’s become of you: a man I have to spring from prison.”

  “Your late husband ran the Mafia for all of northern Italy. You should be used to this kind of thing.” Cloutard knew he’d made a mistake the instant he finished speaking. The look in Giuseppina’s eyes could have frozen the Dead Sea.

  “Innocento—God rest his soul—was never caught. He never brought shame on our family. He would be bitterly disappointed to that see his foster son is apparently stupid enough to get himself caught. Now stop arguing with me and get in the car. Being around so many carabinieri is making me sick.”

  Cloutard refrained from any more objections. She handed him the car keys, pulled on her headscarf and sat in the passenger seat looking at him expectantly. “Andiamo, Francesco!”

  45

  Teatro Titano, San Marino

  After their brief detour to Pescara, the three men still arrived in San Marino ahead of time. The truck had made it much faster than the three men had expected from the old rattletrap. But the mountain road that led to the small republic of San Marino tested it to its limits.

  San Marino is, in all likelihood, the oldest existing republic in the world, with a history that supposedly goes back to the year of its foundation by Saint Marinus in 301. It is located a few miles from the Adriatic coast, near Rimini, and is the fifth smallest country in the world, covering less than twenty-five square miles. The rocky peaks of Monte Titano—a UNESCO World Heritage Site, after which the national theater is also named—are crowned by three ancient fortresses: Guaita, Cesta and Montale. The landscape the men were driving through was a feast for the eyes.

  The leader steered the truck through the narrow streets of the old town, the hairpin turns occasioning heated disputes with oncoming traffic, accompanied by the appropriate gestures, and these continued until shortly before they reached their destination. The truck turned into an avenue leading to the back of the Teatro Titano. Their orders were to deliver their package to theater director Jacopo Merelli. The rear dock of the theater, where various backdrops and other scenery were stored, often served as a kind of dead-letter office for all kinds of “deliveries.”

  They stopped the truck in the middle of a bend at one end of Contrada di Portanova, an old footpath that led through two early baroque arches to the Piazza Sant’Agata, in front of the Teatro. The plaza offered a breathtaking view across San Marino and the surrounding countryside. The Sammarinese were especially fond of the intermissions and the time before and after a visit to the theater, when they could pursue their favorite pastime in the piaz
za: carrying on loud, animated conversations with one another.

  There was little traffic at that time of day, so chaos didn’t immediately erupt when the truck stopped, blocking the road completely. The men climbed out and two of them went to the back to collect the package from its hiding place. Their leader, the driver, went to a small wrought-iron gate, which, as agreed, had been left unlocked. He went down a few steps to the theater’s small back entrance, which was surrounded by an old fortress wall. Although the Teatro had been built only in the 18th century, the back looked like a medieval fortress. The man knocked three times on the dark-brown door.

  A few moments passed before the door opened and a small man with a bald head and an enormous belly appeared. He wore a green suit over a dark-red waistcoat; a matching tie was attached to the starched shirt he wore underneath with a pearl tiepin. He looked like a theater impresario from the days of Giuseppe Verdi. From the waistcoat hung a gold chain, on the end of which, no doubt, was an antique pocket watch. To all appearances, time in the Teatro Titano had stood still ever since it had been built.

  “Sì?” The man’s voice was croaky and typically Italian.

  “We’re here to drop off a package.”

  “You’re earlier than expected,” Merelli said, but he beckoned the man inside. “Who’s going to collect it and when?”

  The man shrugged. “When? No idea. All I know is, it’s supposed to be picked up by a black woman.”

  Merelli showed the men the way. “Straight down the hall, then left. The sign on the door says ‘scenery storage’. Turn right there and leave it by the wall.”

  In silence, the men carried the box onto the dock, left it as instructed, then left. Their leader raised his right hand in a departing wave, without looking back. They climbed the steps and hoisted themselves back into the truck, behind which a small traffic jam had formed. Drivers were honking furiously.

  Jacopo Merelli was a little surprised: he knew all the messengers who delivered François’s goods, but he had never seen these men before.

  “Jacopo, the rehearsal is about to begin. We need you on stage.” Merelli recognized the voice of his conductor for the evening and he turned his mind to other matters. He might call François about the box tonight, just to be sure.

  46

  Train Station San Giovanni, Lake Como

  The nuns’ bus stopped just outside Milan, where the Mother Superior used Tom’s fake ID and credit card to buy him a new cellphone. Now he could contact Noah again. She also surprised Tom with a fresh shirt and a hoodie—his T-shirt had suffered badly in the last few hours.

  “The way you look, even the laziest carabiniere would pick you up,” the nun only said drily when Tom tried to protest. He thanked her from the bottom of his heart.

  “You only have to bring our holy relics back to where they belong, Tom. That will be thanks enough,” Sister Lucrezia said and smiled at him.

  Tom called Noah right away. In the meantime, he had worked out a plan for Tom to gain access to the villa where Hellen was held prisoner. He’d also given some thought to how Tom could execute a rescue. When they were finished the call, Tom turned to the nuns again.

  “Well, now all we need are some explosives,” he joked.

  The three younger nuns looked at Tom in shock.

  “Non fare così. These are criminals who have stolen our most sacred relics!” their Mother Superior scolded. “Tom is doing his duty, that’s all. He is on a mission from God!”

  The three nuns nodded diligently, and Sister Lucrezia started the van and drove on. Tom told them the address where he was to meet Noah’s contact.

  Como is located in the foothills of the Italian Alps, at the southwestern end of Lake Como, which splits at Menaggio into two arms, forming an inverted ‘Y’: the western arm is Lago di Como, and the eastern is known as Lago di Lecco. To the north, the lake is surrounded by mountains up to 10,000 feet high. On the western arm, stretching northeast from Como itself, numerous splendid villas bear witness to the wealth of Lombardy in the 18th and 19th centuries. But Lake Como attracts not only old money; it is a favored destination of Hollywood stars like George Clooney, Oprah Winfrey, Ben Stiller and Penelope Cruz. A wealthy corner of the world, Tom thought as they drove through the town. And a strange place to hoard stolen artifacts. The road along the eastern shore of the lake led them to the base of the funicular railway that led up to the mountain village of Brunate.

  “This is where we part company,” said Tom a little sadly. He had grown fond of his four traveling companions in their short time together. He bowed before the four nuns and shook hands with each of them, but was amazed when Sister Lucrezia embraced him and kissed him on the forehead.

  “God be with you. May He protect you on your dangerous mission,” she said.

  Was it Tom’s imagination, or were her eyes a little misty?

  “I wish you a safe and pleasant drive to Barcelona. You still have a long way to go, so take care. And give my regards to your boss!”

  Tom walked a few steps to the funicular station, bought a ticket, and a few minutes later was on his way to the sleepy village of Brunate. If he had had the time he would have enjoyed taking in the breathtaking panorama of Lake Como—but he didn’t have the time. He had to get to Signore Pedersoli’s house as soon as possible. Brunate was a small village, so it did not take him long to find out where Pedersoli lived. A few paces uphill brought him to the church, at which he turned right into a small lane. Down at the end, he could see a little man in his late sixties already waving to Tom; it looked like Noah had informed Pedersoli of his arrival. The little man greeted Tom warmly and led him down to the cellar of his house.

  “I was very happy to hear from Noah again. I knew him in his Mossad days, you know. And I was on some pretty exotic missions with his father during the Cold War. There used to be a lot more going on in the intelligence world, but it’s gotten pretty dull.”

  A few days earlier, Tom would have agreed with him. “Right now, I’m not bored at all,” he said.

  “So I’ve heard.”

  Pedersoli fished a heavy bunch of keys out of his overalls and unlocked the ancient cellar door. Behind the wooden door was a brand-new steel vault door, complete with a retina scanner and a coded lock. Pedersoli deactivated the security systems and slowly pulled the heavy door open. When he turned on the light, Tom could hardly believe his eyes: Cobra headquarters’ armory was nothing compared to what Pedersoli had in there. Nothing but the finest. Tom’s gaze swung from assault rifles to sniper rifles, machine pistols, shotguns, automatic pistols and revolvers, bulletproof vests, tactical clothing, blocks of C4, remote detonators, night-vision goggles, and much more. All the well-known manufacturers were represented, especially Glock, Heckler & Koch, and Italy’s pride and joy: Beretta. There was even a classic Kalashnikov. Tom was in seventh heaven: his face shone like that of a kid in a toy store.

  “Guns. Lots of guns,” Tom whispered to himself, grinning.

  “In the old days, my buddies used to call me ‘Q’, like James Bond’s quartermaster.” Pedersoli smiled proudly. “Life around Como ain’t cheap these days. I got two granddaughters who are always after a handout, and of course I can’t say no. I got to supplement my little pension somehow.”

  He pulled a piece of paper out of his other pocket and unfolded it carefully.

  “Let’s take a look at what Noah’s written down.”

  Tom shook his head. He couldn’t wipe the grin off his face. Here he was, in a small mountain village in deepest Italy, being showered with equipment that his SAS and Delta Force counterparts would be salivating over.

  Thirty minutes later, they had everything together. Pedersoli chuckled with satisfaction. “So, that’s you properly set up. There’s even a satellite phone so you can reach Noah anytime, anywhere.”

  Pedersoli handed Tom a car key. “There’s a little Fiat Cinquecento down in the funicular parking lot. Take it and drive up the eastern shore to the village of Casate. It’s
almost exactly across the lake from the villa you’re headed for. When you get to Casate, you go to the Hotel Villa Aurora and ask for Sergio.”

  “Sergio? From Rio? Darkish-lightish hair?” Tom said with a laugh.

  Pedersoli just looked at him, clearly missing the reference. Tom waved it off. “Never mind. Dumb joke. So, Sergio,” he said, growing serious again.

  “Yeah. Sergio’ll give you a room where you can rest a little, and also the keys to a motorboat tied up near the hotel’s wakeboarding dock. From there, you can cross to the western shore at night to get into the villa. Noah’s already sent you the details. Just leave the Fiat at the hotel.”

  Tom nodded, thanked Pedersoli, and left. When he found the Fiat, he stowed the two big black bags with all the gear in the trunk, putted up the eastern shore to the hotel, and allowed himself a few hours’ sleep.

  At two in the morning he left the room, retrieved everything from the Fiat, boarded the boat, and motored across to the opposite shore. Along the way, he slipped on the tactical vest with its bulletproof inserts, strapped on the thigh holster, and checked his magazines, the Glock and the rest of the equipment.

  This ought to be fun, he thought.

  In the dark, Tom wasn’t able to make out the villa until he was fairly close to the western side. Still a few hundred yards offshore, he angled to the north, not wanting to head directly toward the villa, which lay on a peninsula on the opposite shore. Instead, he pointed the nose of the motorboat toward the woodlands on the eastern side of the peninsula. He cut the engine so that it would not be heard and drifted slowly in to the steep, rocky shore. Except for the soft lapping of the water against the hull of the boat, it was absolutely quiet.

  Noah had outdone himself this time. He had hacked into a CIA satellite and streamed the satellite images directly to Tom’s new satellite smartphone. The infrared gave Tom a definite strategic advantage. He could see everyone on the property and in the surrounding area. The only thing he couldn’t tell with certainty from the satellite imagery was where Hellen was being kept. According to Noah’s research, the former owner of the villa had been buried in a crypt on the eastern side of the property, away from the main building. From the crypt, a connecting passage led to the wine cellar of the main building. That would be his way in. But before he could free Hellen, Tom had to make a few preparations around the villa grounds.