by Izak Botha
Simon would have loved to praise John that day; he had taken a stand for what he believed in, and that was admirable. But he could not be allowed to go through with his plan to break into this Penitentiary place.
Just as he had years earlier, John was storming off and, in his haste, had forgotten his Bible. Simon tossed several bills on the table and went after him, but when he reached the bazaar’s main thoroughfare, John was gone.
As when John first left for Rome, Simon tried his phone repeatedly for days, but his calls went unanswered. Simon refused to let another eight years pass without speaking to John. He tried to contact him at the Vatican, tried to leave messages, and when that wound up fruitless, Simon also flew to Rome. That was a week ago. He had finally tracked John down one day as the priest exited the Porta Sant’ Anna. To Simon’s surprise, John had greeted him as if nothing had happened. With their failed meeting still etched in his memory, Simon had expected another hostile response. But just the opposite occurred. John had called a taxi, and they had driven to the Trevi district and had coffee at a café not far from the famed Fountain. This time, Simon gave John time to explain how he felt. It was then that Simon decided to help.
Over the next two days they had worked out a strategy to get into the Penitentiary. Simon would access the Vatican as a tourist, then once inside, he would change into one of John’s cassocks. John would then slip Simon into the Penitentiary before Father Franco arrived. Locating the cardinals’ hiding place would take nearly half an hour, they estimated, and getting inside, another twenty minutes. In the end, Simon had accidentally leaned against the hearth and discovered it moved slightly under pressure. It took a while to figure out the mechanism. Then they had descended into the darkened vault. ...
*****
Simon sat up. He could not go there again. Every time he thought of John’s death adrenalin flooded his body, nauseating him. His eyes rested on Jennifer to see if she was still all right. She was speaking with Giorgio and seemed relaxed. Her expression appeared more composed now. She returned his gaze with a smile, and he smiled back. Taking the Vatican on like that was audacious. But clearly, she had been acting impulsively, and had not had a clue what to do after she had broken into a restricted area. He had needed to get her to safety. Her crime was trivial compared to his; simple coincidence—and, therefore, association—had landed her in far worse trouble than she could guess.
Chapter 28
Inspector Verretti knew he should not be too cocky. He reminded himself that the Swiss Guard had been around for five hundred years and that getting rid of Schreider and his men would not be easy by anyone’s measure. But Schreider’s arrogance in racing past him on the station platform even now sent stomach acid surging up his throat. He shook two antacid tablets from the bottle he kept in his desk drawer and flicked them into his mouth. He chewed them a few times before washing the powdery mush down with gulps of water. He despised the colonel more than anyone.
Resting his palms on the desk, he stared down at the enlarged photographs. The sight of his quarry escaping turned his stomach again. How had they gotten away so easily? He shuffled the photographs in with his notes and, before leaving, scanned the desk one last time; he could not afford to forget anything. Turning to the door, he switched off the lights and marched to the conference room.
Lioni shot up first. Standing to attention, he ordered the taskforce to their feet.
‘At ease, gentlemen,’ Verretti ordered. Dropping the file on a nearby lectern, he waved the men to their seats. ‘The Vatican’s had a serious breach. At zero-seven-fifty-five a priest was killed at the Penitentiary—lights.’
The IT technician dimmed the fluorescent bulbs and called up an image on his iPad so it appeared on the screen behind Verretti.
‘Father John Yilmaz,’ Verretti said, turning towards the screen. ‘The deceased worked as a filing clerk in the library.’
The men fell silent. They were hardened beat cops, but they were also avowed Catholics. A naked and mutilated priest on a mortuary table seemed too gruesome to contemplate, let alone look at.
Verretti paused until the next image appeared on the screen. It showed another priest, this one fleeing from the Penitentiary. ‘Our suspect, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘His name is Simon. He circumvented our security checkpoints, broke into the Penitentiary and forced his way into a highly restricted vault. Once inside, he killed Father Yilmaz. He then stole an artefact of great age and value to the Church, overpowered one of our officers and, after causing a great deal of property damage during our ensuing pursuit of him, escaped using a Roman Metro rail grinder stolen twelve hours earlier—next.’
A close-up of their suspect’s face appeared on the screen.
‘Memorize this face, gentleman. It is the face of a suspected terrorist and murderer. A former special-forces, the man served in the Palestinian wars in the early two-thousands before studying genetics at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem and subsequently returning to his native Turkey. He currently works for the Turkish government on a top-secret project related to biblical era Antioch. The Vatican has been aware of his work for some time now.’
Verretti scanned the faces before him.
‘His resume speaks for itself, gentlemen. Do not underestimate him. He is to be considered highly dangerous, so the next time you see him you have standing orders to engage.’
The next image appeared on the screen, this time a surveillance-camera of the same man now wearing a gendarme uniform.
‘This is our suspect after he overpowered one of our men,’ Verretti said.
‘We heard he had an accomplice,’ said one of the officers.
‘Yes, American journalist, Miss Jennifer Jaine.’ Verretti waited until the next slide appeared. ‘Her appointment with His Eminence Cardoni this morning allowed us to trace her identity and origin; what we’re unsure of is how she’s involved in the aforementioned crimes. Her entry into the archival bunker occurred immediately after the murder and theft, so we believe she served as a decoy. Despite all we know, no information available on Miss Jaine as yet indicates any previous contact, direct or indirect, with our primary suspect.’
‘Che fiage,’ one of the men said.
Verretti’s eyes locked on him. ‘What was that, Officer?’
‘I said she’s sexy, Inspector.’
Verretti let the jest pass without remark and waited for the men’s howling to subside before he continued: ‘Born in Miami, she is the only child of an architect from Tampa and a psychologist from Santa Monica. Her father specialized in the renovation of historic buildings, while her mother cared for the mental wellbeing of the rich and famous of Hollywood. Soon after her sixteenth birthday, the mother was diagnosed with cancer. Despite surgery and chemotherapy, she succumbed. Struggling to accept the loss of his wife, Miss Jaine’s father relocated to Key West.
‘In the years that followed, Miss Jaine travelled and worked intermittently to support a carefree lifestyle before settling in Cape Town, South Africa. Living in Tamboerskloof below Table Mountain, she had visited nearby townships and gangland hotspots, becoming involved in social work. Witnessing the addictions, murder and rape which permeates South Africa’s worst slums gave her insight into her true purpose in life.’
Verretti hesitated.
‘Imagine that,’ he said, scanning the ardent faces before him. ‘Doing nothing makes you realize your calling.’
‘Perhaps she was looking for a husband, Inspector,’ one of the men called out.
He waited for the men to stop laughing, before he said, ‘Jokes aside, gentlemen. She is no slouch. She had returned to the States to study religion at Miami University. From the outset, she had distinguished herself amongst her peers, winning scholarships and graduating cum laude. And, having completed her master’s degree two years earlier, she had started working on her PhD.’
Verretti closed the file and looked up.
‘I’ve given you what we know,’ he said, scanning the faces before him. ‘It
’s what we don’t know that makes these two dangerous. Take our male suspect. As a current employee of one of our allies, he has no history of violent extremism nor any past associations with radical Muslim groups. While it is true that Antioch is near enough to Turkey’s Syrian border to make it a major gateway for ISIS and Al Qaeda operatives seeking access to the West, nothing about the man would indicate he has anything but personal hatred for these groups. We therefore have no clue about his motives and are equally baffled as to how he knew about and gained access to the area where the stolen artefact was stored. Furthermore, we don’t know how he and Miss Jaine coordinated before executing their plan or how the tools required for their successful escape were made available to them. Amongst the College of Cardinals, some have speculated that this level of planning and secrecy indicates their activities were an act of international espionage perpetrated by the American and Turkish governments, but again, no evidence of this has yet become available. What we do know is that he arrived in Rome on a flight from Antakya, Turkey, a week ago. That’s biblical Antioch for those of you who haven’t yet made the connection. Both suspects are currently returning to Turkey on the same plane, which brings me to my next point—the jet they’re traveling on belongs to one Giorgio Castignani.’
One of the men raised his hand. ‘Isn’t that one of the Sicilian Mafiosi we arrested a while back?’
‘Almost,’ Verretti said. ‘We arrested Giorgio Castignani Sr. along with almost four hundred others. This is that man’s son.’
The officers suddenly became restless. The Mafioso’s connections complicated things, as they were a handful even on good days. Not that any of the gendarmes were scared, per se, but they did prefer not to take on the Mafia.
Verretti returned his notes to their folder. ‘So this is the situation, gentlemen,’ he said, making eye contact with each officer in turn. ‘We’re about to go undercover in a Muslim country and national ally without prior clearance from that nation’s government. In other words, we’re going to be pursuing two foreign nationals in a place we shouldn’t be setting foot in. Our entry could spark a major international incident if uncovered. Moreover, we will be surrounded by people who hate, not only our guts, but our faith as well. It’s also a time when the Turkish population has been infiltrated by extremists who would give anything to see our bloodied heads roll down a dusty road. Under no circumstances will we draw attention to ourselves, capite?’
‘Is this why we’re going and not the Swiss?’ one officer asked.
‘Enough! Our mission is top priority. There’ll be no goofing around. Is that clear?’
Another man put up his hand. ‘Dead or alive, Inspector?’
Verretti reflected beneath knitted brows. ‘Our mission is to retrieve the artefact,’ he said at last. ‘Secondary to that, we are to bring back the perpetrators alive, but frankly, gentlemen, I don’t care if you bring them in as lola in an ice chest. They killed a priest. They also embarrassed the hell out of me and they beat the crap out of one of your officers. One way or other, we’ll make sure they pay—dismissed.’
The lights came on again, and Lioni stood up first to call the men to attention. Then the officers filed out of the meeting room, evincing a sense of purpose but no less boyish and slovenly in their behavior despite that.
When the last had left Lioni followed, and Verretti met him at the door. ‘Weapons will be supplied on the other side,’ the inspector said. ‘And one last thing—make sure they all bring their passports.’
*****
Verretti removed his shirt and lifted his arm. The pungent smell of hormone-charged sweat wafted into his nose. Dealing with this much peril had made him discharge vast quantities of adrenaline and testosterone. He loathed the smell. It reminded him of kelp drying in the sun.
He stepped under the shower, standing still awhile to let the water cool his body. Ambition was a crucial part of who he was. He had gotten that from his father. ‘Before leaving,’ he thought, ‘I should give the old man a call.’ He would tell his father about his important mission; get his input. His dad’s opinion meant a lot to them both. For his father, it was a way of connecting with his son. For himself, it was a way of gaining perspective on his work.
Moreover, victory would bring yet another laurel—and respect—for the Verretti clan. And it would also help him move one step closer to creating and leading a unified police force. A successful mission would give him the power to approach the Italian and Vatican authorities. He could not wait to see Schreider’s face when he returned with both suspects shackled and the artefact recovered and intact.
He closed the tap and stepped out of the shower. Wiping himself with a clean towel he walked to his dressing room, where posing naked before a full-length mirror, he patted aftershave on his face. This done, he ran his fingers over the shoulders of his jackets. He had at least twenty, all tailored just for him, hanging equally spaced and aligned like a row of cadets at attention. ‘Quality maketh the man,’ he thought proudly. Color combinations, balanced designs and expensive shoes were all as essential as the impeccable presence they helped to create. But the shoes were especially important. More so than his clothes, they expressed who he was. Cheap shoes spoiled an entire outfit. They also drove women away. He had overheard countless conversations between women nit-picking men for their tacky shoes. He would rather buy less and focus on quality. He was fond of Etro when it came to shirts, jackets and coats, and he liked Armani for his suits; the elegance of their designs was, after all, unrivalled.
That afternoon, though, he based his decision on practicality. They would certainly be operating in the mountains and at night, making a turtleneck essential. And they would need to blend in as civilians, so he chose a leather-shearling jacket. Methodically and deliberately, he donned the clothes, inhaling the fresh scents of dry-cleaning fluid and saddle soap. Then still without trousers or pants, he stepped back and examined himself in the mirror. Both were a perfect fit.
*****
Verretti had Lioni pick him up outside the barracks. On their way to the helipad, he kept the Lamborghini’s window down. Rays of sunlight intermittently burst through the trees. On hearing the helicopter’s engines warming up, Verretti recognized the Puma. Like sports cars, helicopters had distinctive sounds. He could identify any sports car driving past the barracks at night from the sound of its engine. The Puma, though, was one helicopter he did not like. In wars, they typically served as frontline-troop carriers and ambulances. If you were in a Puma, then, you were either headed into the meat grinder or headed out mangled. Not that he was superstitious or anything, but he hoped it was not an omen of things to come.
From a distance and in gaps between passing trees, Verretti noticed the logo on the side of the Puma. Surprisingly it was that of the Order of Saint John. Earlier he had wondered who had volunteered to fly them to the airport. He had already ordered a Vito minibus, when a call had informed him of a helicopter, which was on its way to pick them up. With no time to ponder the Order of Malta’s involvement, he pointed Lioni to the edge of the helipad.
The team arrived just as Verretti was passing beneath the Puma’s rotating blades. Lioni waited for the men to collect their backpacks from their BMW X5s. As the last two locked up, he ordered them to fall in before him. Now dressed in civilian garb, the men stepped into two perfect lines of four.
The adjutant gave last-minute instructions before concluding that the final briefing would take place on route. Any questions from there on out had better relate to the mission ahead.
‘Now stop acting like a military unit,’ he shouted over the hissing engines and swooping rotor blades. ‘From now on you are civilians.’
Two of the men sprang in the back of the Puma. After stacking the backpacks in the tail, the men all hopped in and took up positions in the fuselage.
Verretti waited for Lioni to give a ‘thumbs up’ before instructing the pilot to take off.
‘Use the helmet, Inspector,’ the pilot called out.
Verretti flipped the helmet on his head and secured the chinstrap, before positioning the mic in front of his mouth. He glanced over to the pilot. ‘How long to Ciampino?’
The pilot synchronized the controls for lift-off. ‘I have orders to get you there ASAP, Inspector. So, give or take a minute, we’ll be there in ten.’
Chapter 29
Giorgio watched Jennifer gulp down her water. When she had finished the first bottle, he had Martina fetch her another. After refilling her glass, he pushed the snacks towards her, insisting she should help herself.
Jennifer knew she should eat something. In her haste to reach the Vatican Library that morning she had skipped breakfast. She spread butter on a cracker and stacked two slices of cheese on top. Seconds after her first bite, she realized just how ravenous she was. She layered her next cracker with slices of salmon and chevre.
Giorgio watched her gobble down one snack after another. ‘You are safe now,’ he said in a gentle tone.
Jennifer wanted to agree with him—she truly did—but the fact was she was trusting him merely out of necessity.
‘You drive well,’ she said, before licking caviar from the tips of her fingers.
Like a child remembering his favorite theme-park ride, Giorgio lit up: ‘I’m an expert driver. I’ve done the Dakar Rally, twice.’
‘You’re not really a cab driver then,’ Jennifer said wryly, indicating the luxurious interior around them.
Giorgio plucked an olive from the crystal bowl, flicked it into his mouth and chewed a few times. ‘Ah,’ he said, extricating the pit and placing it neatly to one side of the plate. ‘So you’re wondering how a humble cabby can afford a Maserati, I see.’
‘And a Lear.’
‘And a Lear, yes.’
He snatched up two more olives as if they were captured chess pieces and flicked them one at a time into his mouth. Then, he picked up a third and held it between his fingertips. ‘These olives are my own little cherubs,’ he said. ‘Many people think olives come from Greece, but we Italians, we have the best olives in the world. There are over two-hundred-and-forty-thousand olive farms and about fifty million trees just in Puglia alone. These are my Sicilian olives. They are for eating rather than for oil. In Italian, we call it “da tavola”. We pick them when they are young and green and cure them until they are nice and dark violet or black, like these. After that, we preserve them in brine. That’s how they survive the long voyage to America and appear on your pizzas.’