“Point well taken, Father,” I admit. “If Rickman is still beholden to the Hitler code, he will stop at nothing to acquire exactly what he wants, or no one will acquire it. Not even God.” Glancing out the window as the skyline of Rome approaches, including the dome of St. Peter’s Basilica. “So then, how do you propose we protect the Pope without alerting the proper authorities?”
Andrea turns to me.
“We don’t,” she says.
Chapter 7
We exit the highway, enter the city with its crazy, narrow, automobile and motorbike congested streets.
“You two are losing me,” I say. “How is it possible we stand back and allow the Pope to enter into a trap that might not only cost him his life, but could result in the spear tip going to the bad guys?”
Father O’Brien leans forward so that his balding head is poking through the narrow space between the bucket seatbacks.
“Andrea wasn’t entirely clear with you, Chase,” he says. “What she’s saying is, we do our best to protect the Pope ourselves.”
“Us against the new, twenty-first-century version of the Nazi army,” I say. “Those are even odds.” Chase the sarcastic.
“Listen, Chase,” Andrea jumps in. “For all we know, we’re dealing with a handful of thugs who can be easily subdued since we will have the element of surprise on our side.”
“Surprise,” I say. “Gee, I never thought of that.” Chase the doubly sarcastic.
“Hear me out, Chase,” the Vatican relic’s scholar goes on. Rather, the very attractive relic’s scholar goes on. “My plan is a simple one. I use my Vatican influence to get each of us as close to the Pope as possible at the early afternoon outdoors mass. We’ll have the proper passes and credentials. When we see Rickman and his men make a play for the Papal Father, we not only interrupt their plan, we steal one or more of them, make them lead us to the spear.”
I have to admit, her plan is simple enough it just might work.
“I get it I think,” I say. “We disrupt the abduction attempt enough so that the Vatican Swiss Guard and polizia pounce on the Pope, protecting him.”
“Their first and foremost priority,” Father O’Brien says while pulling yet another cigarette from his pack, “is the protection of the Papal Father. Everything else is secondary.”
“But you’re forgetting one thing,” I say. “The Swiss Guard and the police are also going to want to apprehend the kidnappers. They see us doing it for them, they will arrest us too.”
Andrea smiles, reaches out, pats my leg.
“Not if the police think we’re one of them,” she says.
***
We drive into the heart of the city and pull up to a small apartment building situated across the street from the Tiber River and within sight of the Vatican complex in the distance. The old building is five-stories high, made of brick covered in stucco painted Chianti red with wide French windows, and old wood shutters. The road outside the doors is lined on both sides with tall, barkless trees that are so old and thick, they look as if they are made of iron instead of wood. Andrea leads us to the big front wooden door where she types a five-digit code into the wall-mounted security keypad. The heavy bolt inside the locking mechanism retracts.
The door opens automatically, and we step inside. Like most apartment complexes in Rome that were built before the war . . . World War Two that is . . . the interior vestibule is constructed of stone, cool even in the warmest weather, and filled with the pleasant odor of roasting garlic and olive oil. In Italy, someone is always cooking, or so it seems.
With Andrea taking the lead, we walk up three flights of stone stairs until we come to her door. She unlocks it, and we enter behind her. The place is spacious and well put together with antiques and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. There’s a couch positioned near two French windows that were left open so the breeze blowing off the Tiber billows through the long drapes like the sea air that fills the sails on a schooner.
I also can’t help but notice the numerous small relics she’s got stored under glass in some cases, or displayed on the book shelf. I peruse them while she heads into the kitchen to make coffee. There’s an old Bible, and by old, I mean centuries old, probably from the Renaissance era, set on the shelf. The book is thick, and its leather-bound cover is trimmed with gold leaf. The book is also secured with two leather straps that connect to two locks.
Not far down on the shelf from the Bible is something that takes me by surprise and that, at the same time, raises the little hairs on the back of my neck. It’s a finger. A long, bone thin, leathery skin-covered digit topped with a fingernail that has blackened over the decades, or even centuries, since it was amputated from the hand it belonged to.
Father O’Brien takes notice of me studying the relics and artifacts.
“The Vatican archives are interesting, Chase,” he says. “But Andrea’s personal collection is simply fascinating.”
She enters the room with a metal stove-top model espresso maker and three demi cups. I turn to her.
“So, what’s the name of the poor soul who lost the finger?” I ask.
“You really wanna know, Chase?”
“It’s me, Chase Baker. I’m all about ancient treasure.”
“It belonged to Galileo.”
The name takes me by surprise.
“But that can’t be,” I say. “My apartment in Florence is only a ten-minute walk from the Galileo museum, and his finger is already housed there. A couple of teeth too. It’s one of the city’s most popular attractions, especially with the kids.”
She pours the coffees. We had taken an early flight from Morocco, and I desperately need a coffee right about now. Andrea holds up her hand.
She says, “Galileo had more than just one finger, Chase Baker.”
I smile, pick up the demi cup, steal a careful sip of the hot, strong coffee.
“Now that you put it that way, Andrea,” I say. “So, what else you have stored in this apartment? John F. Kennedy’s brain?”
She drinks, sets her cup down on the marble-topped coffee table.
“No,” she says. “But I know who does.”
“This is all very interesting,” Father O’Brien interjects, “but can we make a plan. The mass is scheduled for one in the afternoon, and it’s already ten in the morning. That leaves us little time to prepare.”
“I’m on it, Father,” she says. “After coffee, I’m going to head to the Vatican where I’ll retrieve the necessary passes, plus the uniforms.” She sizes me up and down with her eyes. “I’m guessing you’re a forty-six in the shoulders. Maybe a thirty-five waist.”
“These are thirty fours,” I say, tugging at the leather belt around my Levis. “And they’re loose.”
She rolls her eyes, then turns to the priest.
“You’re on the smaller side, Father,” she says. “But I think I can scrounge something up for you.” She drinks down her coffee like a shot and gets up. “I’m off. Grab anything you want from the fridge. But please, please, please, do not go outside. We’ve already taken a chance on being photographed by the apartment owner’s CCTV.”
“Roger that,” I say. Turning to O’Brien. “In the meantime, Father, we’re going to dig a little deeper into what this Rickman Nazi asshole is all about.”
Father O’Brien gives me the evil eye.
“Errr, sorry about the language, Padre,” I add.
Andrea says, “You can use my laptop. The password is Vaticancity, one word, capital V, small c.” She goes for the door. “Oh, and Chase, don’t worry so much about Father O’Brien’s Catholic sensibilities,” she adds. “He curses like a truck driver. Don’t you, Father?”
“It’s all in the name of divine providence and righteousness sake,” he offers.
“Damn straight,” I say.
Andrea leaves.
Chapter 8
I set Andrea’s laptop onto the coffee table top, open the lid, type Vaticancity into the security box. A Google search engin
e appears.
“Let’s just go right for the gold,” I say, typing in the name Adolf Rickman.
His face appears along with a Wikipedia entry. The black and white face is a little frightening because he’s wearing his Nazi SS cap that contains the familiar but no less disturbing skull and cross bones. He’s young. Very young. According to the Wikipedia entry, he’s listed as one of the youngest SS officers ever to be promoted to Field Marshal in 1944.
Father O’Brien locks his gaze on Rickman’s face for a long few beats, until he sits himself back on the couch, and exhales a profound and bitter breath.
“You can fill me in on what I need to know, Baker,” he says. “Just looking at the son of a bitch’s face makes me sick to my stomach.”
. . . Son of a bitch . . .
Strong words for a man of faith. But can you blame him?
The entry tells me he was assigned to the Nazi relics recovery unit. He worked in Egypt on digs in search of everything from the lost Ark of the Covenant to pieces of the true cross. He also conducted a study of the swastika which is still revered in India and went in search of lost Arian tribes in the Arctic. Almost all of his missions were, more or less, a bust until he stumbled upon the Spear of Longinus in April of 1945 locked in a case in his own backyard. Or, in this case, the basement of the Nuremberg Cathedral. The lance which he immediately presented to Hitler.
That’s where I stop reading.
“There’s no mention of Hitler dying within hours of touching the lance, Father,” I say. “No mention of Goebbels going crazy and murdering his family before murdering himself.”
“It’s still the stuff of legend,” he says, the back of his left hand pressed against his forehead like his head is suddenly aching. “But you and I know it to be true.”
“I have faith in the story if that’s what you mean.”
“Yes, my son,” he says sighing. “It’s all about faith.”
I return to the original Google search and look for more info on Rickman. His face appears again, but this time not as a young man. Instead what I witness is the withdrawn, almost skeletal thin face of an old and bitter man. In the photo, he’s wearing his old, long black leather SS coat and he’s standing beside a band of young, skin-headed men, all of whom are smiling while issuing the fully extended arm and five-fingered Nazi salute.
The site is written in German, and although I’m not the least bit proficient with the language, I can pick up words like, “dedicated to the return of National Socialism and a Fourth Reich.” There’s wording about the destruction of modern day Israel and a return to Arian principles. There’s even a warning about an underground army amassing in the thousands along with a boast that one day soon, a new high-tech war machine will be sprung on all the nations of the world.
Nazi propaganda at its finest. One can only wonder if Goebbels somehow survived the bunker. Chase the cynical.
“Learn anything else about Rickman?” Father O’Brien asks.
I turn to him.
“Only that he’s a ninety-something-year-old bitter version of his younger self, and that he’s dedicated to creating a Fourth Reich. And I imagine that, this time, he wants it to last more than a few years.”
“Which is precisely why he wants that spear,” he adds.
“The entire spear, Father?”
“Exactly, Baker.”
I close the laptop lid. I feel a little sick to my stomach, not like I’m conducting research on the man we plan on stopping this afternoon. More like I’ve been looking at pornography. Or something even worse. It’s always amazed me how people who are genuinely kind and loving in this world often die young, while those whose hearts are filled pure hatred seem to live forever. People like Rickman. But then, that’s silly. Good people live long lives too, and bad people get snuffed out early.
I decided to focus more on the plan than on the men about to perpetrate an ambush on the Pope. I type in St. Peter’s Basilica. A photo set beside a real-time Google map appears. I click on the map. Father O’Brien sees what I’m doing, and he sits up straight and leans into me.
“St. Peter’s,” he correctly states, his eyes refocused on the screen.
I zoom in on the ovular piazza and switch to Google Earth mode. Located in the center of the piazza is the tall marble obelisk while the right and left perimeter of the round plaza is made up of half-moon shaped marble-pillared walkways. Positioned atop the walkway roofs are stone statues of the saints and former popes. To the right-hand side of the screen are the Libreria Ancora and the Vatican Visitor Center. To the left of the visitor center is St. Peter’s Basilica. Located behind the visitor center is the Pope’s quarters which are referred to as the Prefettura Della Casa Pontificia, along with other Vatican offices.
“There,” O’Brien points with his extended index finger. “That’s where the Papal Father will emerge from his quarters.”
He draws an imaginary line from the top of the piazza, beginning at the Prefettura Della Casa Pontificia, and runs it diagonally all the way to the piazza center at the obelisk where the mass is to be held.
He says, “I know from experience that security will escort the Pontiff from the casa directly to the makeshift altar. Standard operating procedure dictates that he be transported via special golf cart which is protected on all four sides with bullet-proof glass and from the bottom with explosive-proof metal plating.” He lights another cigarette, releases the steady stream of blue smoke. “But as you may already know, this Pope is different from the others. Like our Andrea, he is South American, and he is very independent minded. He takes pride in being one of the people. He doesn’t even live in the papal suite but instead in a servant’s quarters further inside. He will almost certainly insist on walking through the crowd to get to the altar.”
I feel myself biting down on my bottom lip. I point to the curved perimeter walkway closest to the Casa Pontificia.
I say, “Even if this area is guarded, which I’m sure it will be, anyone can gain access to the piazza from the narrow parking lot that’s behind the walkway. They can also make a quick getaway from the road that runs perpendicular to it.”
“That seems to me the most vulnerable spot,” O’Brien surmises. “It’s where the Vatican Post Office is located, and trucks are always coming and going from the area.”
I close the lid on the laptop.
“That’s where we’re going to be at one o’clock today,” I say. “Standing right there, in between the Pope’s residence and the walkway. When Rickman’s Nazi’s make their move, we’ll make our move and get to them before they can get to the Pope.”
“Sounds like a reasonable plan,” he says.
“Let me ask you something, Father. Can you provide us with a car that we can have ready to go in the lot behind the walkway?”
He smokes, nods.
“That would be more of a question for Andrea.”
Just then, as if on cue, I make out a key being inserted in the deadbolt lock on front door. I stand, draw my .45.
“Be careful, Chase,” Father O’Brien nervously states.
“Please be quiet, Padre,” I insist, pressing the index finger on my free hand against my lips. “She hasn’t been gone all that long.”
The door opens. It’s Andrea. We breathe a sigh of profound relief. At least, I do. Returning the piece to my pocket, I say, “That was quick.”
“I work fast,” she says, setting two separate duffel bags down onto an easy chair placed beside the coffee table. “Why so nervous?”
“Oh, no reason,” I say. “Just something about preventing the Pope from being kidnapped by a gang of crazy relic hungry Neo-Nazis.”
“Okay,” she says, smiling. “Stupid question.” Then, glaring at Father O’Brien. “Father, what did I tell you about smoking inside my casa?”
He stares at the cigarette like it’s his child.
“I hate to let them go to waste,” he says, turning, tossing the still burning butt out the open French window.
Chapter 9
While I get dressed, I inquire to Andrea about a car. Can she get something that’s fast, with a full tank of gas, and ready to travel? Can she make sure it’s parked in the lot near the Casa Pontificia and Vatican Post Office? She tells me she’s a step ahead of me. That a car and a driver will be waiting. She also tells me she’s taken care of something else too. Something very important. Reaching into the second bag, she pulls out a short-barreled automatic rifle, hands it to me. She pulls out another one which she hangs onto.
“Father,” she says, “I know how you feel about guns.”
A wave of relief paints the priest’s face.
“Thank you, child,” he says. “I will do my best to protect the Holy Father without the use of deadly firearms.”
Then, reaching into the bag again, Andrea pulls out two sound suppressors. She tosses me one. I snatch it out of the air before it flies out the open window like the padre’s cigarette.
“You know how to use one of these?” she asks.
But I’m already screwing the suppressor onto the barrel while she’s asking the question.
Chase Baker and the Spear of Destiny Page 5