Roberto drives like a pro.
Or like the late Steve McQueen’s stunt double anyway, taking the tight, sharp turns at top speed, not worrying about pedestrians who could be run down. Just moving us from point A to point Z as fast and efficiently as possible. And with all the police in Rome converging on the Vatican, there are no worries about getting pulled over.
We drive another half mile before Roberto stops the car in front of Andrea’s apartment building. Andrea and Father O’Brien throw open their doors.
“Wait,” I say. Opening my door, I aim the sound-suppressed automatic rifle at the security CCTV camera mounted above the door. I fire and knock it out.
“There any more cameras you know about, Andrea?” I ask.
She shakes her head. But I’m not sure how confident she is.
“Move quickly, everyone,” I say. “We might have gotten away with breaking every traffic law in Rome. But if we’re spotted in this clothing, we’ll have the cops and the army on us like rats on spoiled formaggio.”
We move fast, with Andrea out in front, entering the code into the wall-mounted keypad as rapidly as her index finger will allow. The door lock trips and we’re in.
We head up the three flights of stairs and enter Andrea’s apartment.
“First things first,” I say. “Ditch the clothing. We get any unwanted visitors we wanna be dressed in our everyday clothing. Understand?”
Father O’Brien and Andrea take the bedrooms while I use the living room to change back into my jeans, work shirt, and bush jacket. When the two re-emerge from the bedrooms, they’re both holding their tactical gear in their arms.
“Andrea,” I say. “You got a place we can hide this stuff? Including the heavy weapons?”
“Come with me,” she says.
We follow her into the kitchen, and then into a pantry that’s filled with boxes and cans of food. Lowering herself onto her knees, she feels along the floor for a latch. She pulls the nearly invisible latch up and twists it. Pulling up the two-foot by two-foot section of floorboard, she reveals an open space.
“Onion cellar,” she says. “For apartment dwellers.”
“It will have to do,” I say.
We all drop our gear into the hole, then set the automatic rifles on top. Our easily concealable side-arms are to remain in our possession. Andrea closes the floorboard and stands.
“What now?” she says.
“We figure out where the hell Rickman flew off to,” I say. “Then we go after him, rescue the Pope, the spear, the spear tip, and bring it all back here.”
“How do we go about accomplishing the next to impossible, Chase?” Father O’Brien poses.
“I haven’t gotten that far yet,” I say. “But I’m working on it.”
“Work fast,” Andrea says. “Just like heart beats, every minute counts.”
Chapter 12
“Andrea,” I say. “Can we use your computer once more?”
“Of course, Chase.”
We head back into the living room, and she opens her laptop, boots it back up. When the Google search engine appears, she shifts herself further down the couch to make room for me.
“Are we going to Germany, Chase?” Father O’Brien says.
“Not so fast, Padre. Rickman wants to initiate a Fourth Reich with his new Spear of Destiny. But he’s not going to just drop into Germany and declare the new world order.”
“I’m not following you, Chase,” Andrea says.
“Listen,” I say, holding up my hand, pointing at my ear. “You hear that?”
“Hear what?” O’Brien says. “All I can make out are sirens and more sirens. There’s an emergency going on.”
“Yes, but what else do you hear?” I push.
We sit and listen for a moment.
“Helicopters,” Andrea interjects. “Lots of them. In the sky.”
“They’re looking for the chopper that Rickman’s Neo-Nazis used to extract the Pope. But you know what? I think they could look for a thousand years and never find it.”
“Why’s that?” O’Brien says, stealing a cigarette from the pack in his shirt pocket.
“Because they’ve already ditched it. In fact, I wouldn’t doubt if they’ve already made the switch, transferring the Pope onto a train or a truck.”
Andrea nods.
“Makes total sense to me,” she says. “But they’re going to risk making the run to Germany via land route? That doesn’t make sense.”
I type the word Florence into the Google search. It comes up with a Google map, which I switch to Google Earth, then expand. Using my index finger, I point to a large building situated between the Florence Cathedral and the American University.
“Andrea,” I say. “You of all people should recognize this building.”
“That’s the university lab. The place where the lance is to be tested for authenticity.”
O’Brien pulls out his lighter, thumbs a flame.
Andrea turns quick.
“Don’t you dare, Father,” she says, her voice stern, eyes wide.
“Forgive me, daughter,” he says. “I know not what I do.”
I stand.
“In my opinion,” I say, “Rickman and his henchmen will want to head directly to Florence. Don’t stop at go for two hundred bucks, don’t stop for anything.”
Andrea snickers.
She says, “You really think they’re just going to drive into downtown Florence with the Pope on their back and gain access to the University?”
“Good point,” I say, scratching an itch on the bottom of my chin like it helps me to think. And it does. “Maybe they know of a secret entrance into the university lab, or maybe they have people on the inside who are working with them, or hell, I don’t know, maybe they plan on taking the entire joint over with an army of armed Neo-Nazis. Whatever the hell there are planning, I think we have only one choice in the matter.”
The place goes quiet. That is, a quiet that’s filled with the muted sound of sirens, shouting men and women, and helicopter blades chopping through the air.
“What choice is that, my son?” Father O’Brien says.
“We get to the lab before Rickman does.”
Chapter 13
We load back into the Mercedes. Me back in the shotgun seat, while Andrea and O’Brien occupy the back seat.
“How fast can you get us to Florence, Steve McQueen?” I say to Roberto.
He smiles. It’s a devilish smile.
“Bullet,” he says. “I will get you there as fast as a speeding bullet.”
“Superman,” I say. “Do it, Superman Steve.”
He guns the Mercedes engine, pulls away from the curb.
The northern route Roberto drives takes us through Orvieto, Montepulciano, Arezzo, and finally Florence. By then it’s after seven, and getting dark. I direct him to my apartment on Via Guelfa near the Forte, and he pulls up outside on the one-way street.
“This is where you live?” Andrea asks.
“Part time,” I say. “I also keep a small apartment in New York.”
“You must be a rich man, Chase,” Father O’Brien says.
“You must be joking,” I say, getting out. Then, leaning into the open door. “Roberto, would you like to come up? We can have a coffee, and something to eat.” I peer up at the sky, the gold cupola on the Duomo visible from the street. “When it’s full dark, we’ll head to the university lab.”
He shakes his head.
“I’ll wait for you here,” he says.
“Suit yourself, Steve McQueen.”
I close the door, pull the keys from the carabineer connected to the belt loop on my jeans, and unlock the building’s front entry door.
Andrea and Father O’Brien follow me up the single flight of narrow stone stairs to the wood door on my apartment. I open it, step inside. The place is cool, dark, and a bit lonely without my black Pitbull Lulu hanging around. She’s back in New York in the care of my little girl, Ava, who begged to watch
her while I was away. Correction, Ava would slap me upside the head if she knew I referred to her as a little girl. Young lady, I should say. She’s eleven after all. A woman of the world already, thanks to the internet.
“Make yourselves at home,” I say. “We have a few minutes until we can operate under the cover of darkness. Then we’ll head to the lab.”
O’Brien looks around. “Chase, may I use your bathroom?”
“Sure, father,” I say. Pointing to the door, on the opposite side of the living area and the connecting dining room that I use primarily for a writing and research office. “It’s over there.”
Meanwhile, Andrea is gazing at the books on the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Also, the small artifacts I’ve collected over the years of sand hogging and treasure hunting.
She picks up a half-moon shaped dagger dating back to the Ottoman Empire, pulls the blade from the sheath, but not all the way. She glances at me.
“You have quite the impressive collection yourself, Chase,” she says.
Her eyes are dark, but in the dim overhead light, they take on a special sparkle, or should I say radiance. She’s wearing her black jeans, leather boots, button-down blouse with the tails hanging out, and over that a thin brown leather jacket. Her black hair is long and thick, and the way it falls against the nape of her neck makes me want to wrap my arms around her and never let go. Chase, the always in love.
“Let me show you something,” I say, taking hold of her hand, leading her back across the wood floor, through the vestibule to the bedroom which contains two big French windows that look out onto Via Guelfa and beyond.
We step around the bed and go to the window on the right-hand side. I open the window, allow the air to enter the old room. The good smell of olive oil, tomato sauce, and garlic permeates the air from the trattoria located a couple of doors down. You can hear someone singing a pleasant old song in Italian. A deep, booming voice. A motor scooter passes and some American kids doing a semester abroad walk past, giggling and goofing around with one another.
I pull Andrea closer. Reaching out the window with my extended right arm, I point toward the most dominant object in the background. The Duomo. Atop it, the golden cupola that during a clear dusk, like the kind we have this evening, reflects the brilliant golden sun in the very final seconds before it disappears for another night.
“You see that?” I say. “That is Brunelleschi’s masterpiece. The way the sunlight shines upon it is God’s masterpiece.”
She exhales.
“It’s beautiful,” she says. “I never get tired of looking at the Duomo. It’s one of those pieces of architecture that stays the same forever, but that also changes as you change. Do you know what I mean?”
She turns to me, the skin on her smooth face looking rich and lovely.
I place both hands gently on her shoulders.
“A good lover is like that,” I say. “You stay the same, just the way I found you. But then, you change as I change.”
Her eyes go wide for just a split second. It’s enough to make me want to pull her down onto the bed, ravish her. Sure, today has been filled with its fair share of tragedy and more spilled blood than I’ve witnessed since the war in Kuwait. But it’s best not to focus on that. Better to focus on the here and now.
I pull Andrea closer.
“You have a way with words, Chase Baker,” she says. She wraps her arms around me, pulls me closer. So close, I’m sure she can feel my heart beating against hers. She can, no doubt, feel something else pressing against her as well.
Raising my hand slowly, I run it through her hair, lean into her, focus on her thick lips, touch them with mine. When we kiss, it’s like the entire world begins to spin faster than nature or God intended. She grabs hold of the back of my neck, pulls me in tighter. So tight, I feel like I might enter into her, wrap myself around her throbbing heart.
We fall onto the bed, but fall isn’t the right word for it. More like, we drift down onto the bed like two autumn leaves that drop from a tree branch together, landing gently on the surface of a glassy pond. Our lips never separate but only become more connected, our blood flows fast and hot as if we’re sharing one another’s veins, our bodies entirely connected. Andrea is my love, and I am hers.
Then, a cough. A loud, deep, guttural cough.
I raise my head.
“Excuse me for interrupting,” says Father O’Brien. “But I believe darkness has fallen.”
He’s standing in the open bedroom doorway, his arms crossed over his chest.
I separate myself from Andrea.
“Work beckons, my sweet,” I say.
She runs her hands through her hair, sits up.
“We were just getting to know one another a little better, Father,” she offers.
“Is that what you call it?” he says. “Looked like the prelude to heavy petting to me. Not that I would know.”
I slip off the bed, walk around the bed frame to the door.
“What are you, my mother?” I whisper as I pass by the priest.
“No, Chase,” he says. “Just a man of God who wishes to save humanity from an evil worse than Hitler.”
Andrea steps into the vestibule.
“What’s the plan?” she asks.
I pull the .45 from my shoulder holster, pull back the slide to allow a round to enter the chamber. Engaging the safety, I reholster the piece.
“Andrea,” I say like a question.
Lifting the tail on her shirt, she pulls out her short-barreled 9mm, thumbs the magazine release so that it drops into the palm of her hand. She checks the mag load, then slaps it back home, cocking a round into the chamber. She slips the pistol back into its hip holster.
“Locked and fucking loaded,” she says. Then, “Excuse me, Father, for I have used the F bomb.”
“It’s not easy being a priest, you know,” he says. “Especially when you’re surrounded by such witty and brilliant senses of humor. Hormonally charged senses of humor.”
“Roberto will be waiting for us,” Andrea says. “Will we go directly to the lab?”
“If Rickman and his Nazis are already there,” I say, “then we’ll catch them with their pants down.”
Chapter 14
In some ways, it makes more sense to walk our way across town since the Florence streets are narrow and all too often congested with traffic and people who don’t like to use sidewalks. But in our case, we will need a quick getaway once we have the Pope and the spear in our grasp. Despite the congestion, that means a car.
There doesn’t seem to be any hope of sneaking our way into the university lab, so I instruct Roberto to pull up outside. He does it. It’s after normal student hours, but the lights are still on in the big building, and people, some young, some middle-aged, are going in and out of the front entry doors.
“Doesn’t look like a building under siege by Neo-Nazis to me,” Father O’Brien points out.
“The padre’s got a point,” I whisper to myself. “One hell of a point, in fact.”
“Wait here, Steve McQueen,” I say. “Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em.”
“Capice,” he says, smiling, grabbing hold of the cigarette pack he stores in the center console cup holder beside his smartphone.
I glance into the backseat.
“Coming?”
“Why do I feel like I got all worked up for nothing?” O’Brien says.
“Stay vigilant, Padre,” I say. “You never know what’s right around the corner.”
We pile out of the Mercedes.
I feel the solid two-pound weight of the shoulder-holstered .45 pressing against my rib cage, but I’m not sure I’m going to need it at this point. Opening the door to the lab, I step into the front vestibule which is manned by a uniformed security guard.
He looks up at me.
“Bueno sera,” he says.
“Parla l'inglese?” I ask.
“Better than you, pal,” he says.
“My associates and I need t
o examine the lab, if we could.”
“But do you have an appointment?”
Andrea raises her hand, unbuttons her blouse a couple of buttons so that her cleavage takes center stage. She steps forward, finds her wallet, opens it to reveal her Vatican identification.
“Hello,” she says, setting her hand on the security guard’s hand. She casually raises her left leg, sets her thigh on top of the long table. She leans down into the security guard so that he can’t help but view two of her most attractive attributes. She also places her wallet, ID side up onto the table.
“We’re from the Vatican archives collection,” she explains. “And as you may or may not know, we are planning on having a very important relic tested here today.”
The guard smiles, his face turning a bright shade of red.
“The spear,” he says. “The one that pierced Christ’s side. So they say.”
“You are one smart man,” Andrea says. “And very handsome too. Does your wife ever tell you that?”
The guard looks up at her with puppy dog eyes. Eyes clearly caught up in her spell.
“My wife thinks I’m invisible,” he says sadly.
Andrea gently brushes the tips of her fingers over his cheek.
“Such a shame,” she says. “Your wife doesn’t know what she’s missing.”
The guard’s pallor goes from tan to blood red. It tells me she’s sealed the deal. I have to admit, seeing Andrea perform like this makes me a little jealous. But then, it’s all in the name of saving humanity.
She slowly raises herself up and slides off the table.
“So then,” she says, taking her ID back, slipping it into the interior pocket on her leather jacket, “are we good to go?”
The security guard blinks his eyes rapidly and presses a red button on the electronic console set out on the table. A door located on the opposite side of the vestibule mechanically unlatches.
“Be my guest,” he says.
We don’t waste any more time with our act.
We head for the open door.
Chase Baker and the Spear of Destiny Page 7