Chase Baker and the Spear of Destiny

by Vincent Zandri

  “I didn’t think you have to pay for seminary school,” he says as I pass him by.

  “Tuition payments are required,” I say. “Belief in God is optional.”

  Chapter 17

  From what I’m told the owner of the Goose also owns the restaurant next door. Plus a few other eateries in town. Which means we’ll be able to head down a narrow alley that accesses the kitchen door. Entering the narrow doorway, Matt takes the lead, heads directly to the guy I take for the cook since he’s standing over a stove with a ladle in his hand, using it to stir whatever he’s cooking in a big metal pot. He’s also dressed in white chef overalls and wearing one of those goofy, tall, stovepipe chef hats.

  The two converse in Italian for maybe half a minute, until the chef puts down his ladle, turns to give us a cursory glance, then makes his way to the door that separates the dining room with the kitchen. He opens the door slowly, if not extra carefully, and looks out into the dining room. Turning back to us he nods, as if to say, the men you seek are still in the dining room.

  Matt pats the chef’s back and makes his way back across the kitchen to us.

  “Wait,” I say, placing my hand on his shoulder. “How can you be absolutely sure they’re Rickman’s Nazi’s?”

  “Trust me, Baker,” Matt insists. “My grandparents survived the Blitz. I’ve got a nose for these things. If it looks like a Nazi, smells like a Nazi, sounds like a Nazi, and farts like a Nazi. It’s a fucking Nazi.”

  “I’ll go on faith.” I remove my hand.

  “Here’s the deal,” Matt goes on. “Those three bastards are still eating. They’ve finished their meal but have ordered a dolce of three tiramisus and three café macchiatos.” Glancing over his shoulder at a second kitchen worker who is presently putting the three desert orders together. “Here’s what I propose. Baker, you, and me head into the toilet. Cal and Al, you hang back here until the shit hits the fan. When it does, join us in the toilet.”

  “What shit?” I ask.

  Matt smiles.

  “Observe,” he says.

  He heads to the desert chef’s station. Reaching up into the cupboard, he produces what looks to be a container filled with red pepper. Hot red pepper. He pours a generous amount of pepper onto the top creamy Tiramisu layer and mixes it in with a spoon. Then, he steps over to the espresso machine and pours hot pepper into each of the three cups that are set out for the three Neo-Nazis.

  I’m beginning to see what’s happening here.

  “Careful or you’ll kill them both, Matty,” Cal says, not without a laugh. “We need at least one of them alive so we can extract vital information from him.”

  “No guarantees,” Matt offers. “But it’s going to be a lot of fun watching them enjoy their just deserts.” He grins. “Get it?”

  The waiter comes for the tiramisus and the macchiatos. He sets them all on a tray, which he then carries back out of the kitchen and into the dining room. That’s when Matt gives me the nod and we casually make our way out the kitchen door and swiftly make our way to the toilet which is located on the opposite end of the dining room.

  On the way, I can’t help but glance at the three skinheads, as the desserts are placed before them along with the cafes. The fine hairs on the back of my neck rise. These are in fact, Rickman’s men. I recognize the one in the middle as the man who wore the Fedora and the long coat in Saint Peter’s Square. The man who accompanied a woman in a long skirt and who appeared to be wheeling an infirmed old man around in a wheelchair. An old man who turned out to be an old Nazi. Adolf Rickman. The fact that he’s sitting inside this trattoria tells me they didn’t put the helicopter down very far from the Vatican after they abducted the Pope. It also tells me they are arrogant SOBs. Arrogant, murdering SOBs.

  Judging by the three empty Chianti bottles plus a now empty bottle of grappa, the Neo-Nazis must be loaded. Just before we arrive at the toilet, the three of them dig into their deserts, devouring them like rabid dogs on raw meat. The three then take generous sips of their cafés.

  I’m not sure which one grabs his throat first. But within seconds of downing the sweets and drinking the café, they are both grasping at their throats like they’re choking. That’s when Cal and Alistair come running out of the kitchen.

  “Are you okay, mate?” Cal begs. “Is something wrong with your food?”

  The three skinheads are in so much pain, neither of them can utter a sound, other than something that sounds like choking. By now, the entire dining room of patrons has put their forks and spoons down to watch in horror as the three men begin to sputter and froth at the mouths.

  Cal takes one of the skinheads by the collar of his jacket, begins pulling him toward the toilets. The bigger Alistair also grabs the other two by their coat collars and starts dragging them in the same direction. When they arrive at the toilets, Cal turns to his partners.

  “We can’t just toss them into the toilets,” he says. “Change of plans. We gotta get them outta here.”

  “The restaurant is in a tizzy,” Matt says. “We ain’t got no choice but to get them out of here. Let’s bring them to the Goose. In through the back kitchen door.”

  Alistair nods. “What about getting them out of here with all these eyes on us?”

  “Just take them out the front door like it’s perfectly normal,” Cal says. “Who’s gonna question us? They’re in pain. Everyone will think we’re helping out. Let’s go now.”

  He begins dragging the skinhead across the dining room floor. Cal wears a big smile while the diners all lock eyes on him.

  “Too much to drink,” he announces with a disgusted shake of the head. “And now they can’t pay their bill. Can you believe it?”

  Alistair begins dragging the other two directly behind Cal while Matt and I follow.

  “Enjoy your meals,” Matt says, as we make our way out the front door onto the cobbled street. “I can bet we’re gonna have to pick up these asshole’s tab.”

  “You mean Chase is gonna have to pick it up,” Cal says.

  He drags the skinhead he’s holding into another connecting alley and then through a back door that leads directly into the cramped kitchen of the Goose. Alistair follows. So do Matt and me.

  They toss the three men onto the floor.

  By now, all three look like they’re turning blue. They’re still holding their throats.

  “Wasser,” one of them mutters, the German word sounding like Vassa. It’s the one who wore the fedora and the long coat. I can still see him mowing down innocent people with his automatic rifle while he clung to the cable as it pulled him back up to the chopper. “Wasser.”

  “He wants water,” Cal says. He reaches for the long hose attached to a slop sink filled with plates and cups. He aims the hose spout for the skinhead and lets her rip. The cold water sprays in the Neo-Nazi’s face. It’s enough to bring him back to life. His eyes go wide as he reaches into his jacket, pulls out a gun.

  “Cal!” Matt shouts, drawing his 9mm, triggering off a burst that catches the skinhead square in the face.

  The skinhead on Alistair’s right-hand side pulls out his gun. He shoots Alistair in the chest before Cal and Matt are able to blast him away.

  That leaves the third skinhead. The last Neo-Nazi standing. His hands are trembling. He holds them up. Surrender

  The kitchen door bursts open.

  “What the hell is happening?” Andrea shouts.

  Father O’Brien is behind her.

  “Kick everyone out and lock the front door,” Calum insists. “The Goose is closed for business.”

  “What the hell do we tell the customers?” O’Brien asks. “They’ll think a battle is waging in here.”

  “Tell them someone tossed in some firecrackers. Damn Chinese kids. Always goofing around. Now we gotta clean the joint up.”

  “Roger that,” O’Brien says, about-facing, heading back through the swinging door.

  “I’ll help the old priest,” Matt says, heading out of the kitche
n on O’Brien’s tail.

  Andrea steps over the dead skinheads, goes to the ailing, bleeding Alistair. The big man is still standing, but he’s clearly out of balance, not to mention his pallor which has turned chalk pale. She pulls a chair out from the small expediting desk that’s pressed against the wall.

  “Sit,” she says. Gently, she pulls off his leather vest but then rips off his shirt. “Bullet bounced off his ribs and passed through his side. Broke a couple of them on the way, no doubt. He’s lucky it didn’t poke a hole in his liver.” Then, her eyes on me and Cal. “He needs a hospital.”

  “We can’t do hospitals right now, Andrea,” I state. “You know that. We take him to a hospital, every cop in town will know something is up.”

  She stares at the wounds.

  “I can do my best to patch him up,” she says. “But it will be temporary.”

  “All we need is enough time to find out precisely where Rickman is and then we can draw him, the spear, and the Pope out.”

  “How are we going to do that?” she asks. “We’re no closer to finding Rickman than we were when we arrived hours ago.”

  I look at Cal, and he looks at me. Then, as if on cue, we both lock eyes on the sole remaining skinhead.

  “I believe we’ll find out where Rickman is sooner than later,” Cal says.

  He goes to the skinhead, grabs hold of his collar, drags him over to the gas stove. He twists the knob that activates one of the gas-powered burners, produces a tall, red/orange flame.

  “Okay, skinhead son of a bitch,” he says, pushing the man’s face to within inches of the flame. “Where’s Rickman? Is he already at the lab? Does he have the spear? The Pope?”

  The skinhead is struggling, but Cal is too big, too strong.

  “Answer me or burn,” Cal pushes.

  Andrea turns away.

  “Oh my God,” she mutters.

  Calum pushes the head closer to the flame. The flame touches. The skin sears. Burns. Smokes. Skinhead screams. Grabbing a filthy dishrag from off the counter, Cal shoves it into Skinhead’s mouth, pulls him back away from the flame.

  “Now, Nazi,” he says, staring into Skinhead’s wide, tearing eyes. “I’m gonna take away this gag, and you’re gonna tell me where Rickman is.”

  Cal pulls out the rag.

  “Fuck . . . you,” Skinhead spits.

  Cal shoves the head back against the flame.

  “Okay, okay,” he says, bursting into tears. “I will tell you.”

  Cal pulls him back.

  “Where?” he says. “Is he in the lab? Does he have the Pope? Does he have the spear?”

  Skinhead’s face is now swelled. The burns have already formed blisters the size of lemons.

  “The Pope is not here,” he mutters, his words filled with pain. “But Rickman is. So is the spear.”

  Cal grabs his collar, shakes him.

  “Where?” he demands. “Where is Rickman?”

  “He is at the Pitti Palace. The basement. They are already testing the spear.” Skinhead smiles, despite the pain. “You are too late.”

  Calum drops him to the floor like he’s just another bag of trash.

  The Pitti Palace . . .

  “I should have known,” I say. “It never occurred to me they would attempt to test the spear at a separate location.”

  Andrea turns back around.

  “The Pitti Palace,” she says. “I’m not following.”

  “There are archives and an attached lab that rival the Vatican in the depths of the palace. There are even rumors of a vault that still holds all of the Medici gold. If it’s true, then the piece of real estate that five-hundred-year-old Palace sits on is priceless.”

  “Okay,” Cal breaks in, “So, we know where the old Nazi is. Let’s go there and snag his ass.”

  I bite down on my bottom lip.

  “We can’t just walk in the front door of the place. We need to find a way into the underground chambers without being detected.”

  “We could tunnel our way in,” Cal laughs.

  It comes to me then. A tunnel . . . a tunnel that already exists.

  “The Vasari Corridor, Cal.”

  “Vasari Corridor,” he says. “I’ve heard of that. But you gotta be at least a king to gain access to it or a tourist with mega bucks.”

  “Not necessarily,” I say. “It was built back in the late 1500s so the king could, in fact, sneak his way from the palace to the Uffizi where he hid his mistress. The Nazis used it during the war for the runners who would exchange messages in as real-time as possible between the Uffizi and the Pitti Palace, both of which had been taken over as Wehrmacht barracks and command centers. The Nazis also used it to rob the Uffizi of its precious artworks, much of which they stored in the basement depths of Pitti Palace.”

  “So, the tunnel connects directly to the basement of the palace?”

  “It wasn’t designed that way,” I say. “And although I’ve never seen it, legend has it there is a secondary corridor or tunnel that runs under the main corridor, underground and directly into the Pitti Palace basement which was entirely renovated by the Germans in order to store all those precious works of art. It was apparently constructed by the Germans when they seized Florence but then closed as the New Zealanders began their liberation of the city in 1945. The Nazi General who was in command of Florence was ordered to blow all the bridges by Hitler himself, but he couldn’t get himself to blow the Ponte Vecchio since that’s where he and his wife had purchased her engagement ring ten years earlier while on holiday. He blew every bridge but the Ponte Vecchio. However, it’s rumored he either blew the secondary tunnel or, at the very least, closed it up so no one could gain access ever again. But the bridge . . . the bridge he left standing.” I can’t help but smile. “You see Cal, even some Nazis have a sentimental side.”

  “Not the Neo bastards we’re dealing with right now,” he points out.

  “You got that right,” I say, still hearing the blast from those automatic rifles as the bullets slammed into the innocent bystanders inside Saint Peter’s Square.

  “So, what we need to do is access the Vasari Corridor at the Uffizi, then follow it over the Arno onto the Ponte Vecchio, and once we make our way to the opposite riverbank, try and locate the secondary tunnel that runs underground. That is, it exists at all.”

  I cock my head over my shoulder.

  “Easy peasy,” I say, my eyes shifting back on the skinhead, seated on the floor, his burnt head in his hands.

  “Ha-ha,” Cal, says, with a straight face. “Very funny. Seems to me, we’re gonna need dynamite to blow that second tunnel open which, in my Scotsman’s mind anyway, will not only wake the dead of Florence but will tip the cops off to what we’re doing.”

  Me, biting down on my bottom lip.

  “Okay, so we can’t blast our way in. But we can dig.”

  “You mean, like with shovels?” Cal asks.

  “And with cordless drills,” I confirm. “But we’ll need manpower more than anything else.”

  Cal looks at his watch.

  “It’s almost nine at night,” he says. “Gonna be difficult to round up a bunch of willing and able men to perform some serious manual labor, even if we do pay them.”

  “Not all that difficult,” I say. “Where else does a working man spend his time after working hours?”

  Cal smiles. “A bar, of course, lad.”

  “Let’s hit up every Irish pub we can in Florence until we have who we need.”

  “What about equipment, Chase?” Cal asks.

  “You personally know of any construction outfits operating in or around the city?”

  Cal nods. “Yeah, I know a few. One, in particular, who works on the roads. He’s always got crews digging up the streets.”

  “Call him,” I say. “He’ll have everything we need.”

  On the floor, the skinhead is moaning.

  “What about him?” Cal says.

  “You got duct tape?”

&n
bsp; “How’s this?” Cal says, stepping over the skinhead to his expediting desk. He pulls out a side drawer, digs his hand inside, comes back out with a roll of black electrical tape.

  “Even better. Hurts more when you rip it off.”

  Cal doesn’t bother with carefully tearing precisely measured sections of tape. He merely peels off the end, sticks it to the skinhead’s burnt cheek, and winds the tape roll around his face and head maybe a dozen times. When he’s done, the mouth and eyes are covered, leaving only the nostrils exposed.

  Cal cuts the tape with his teeth.

  “Now for the ankles and wrists,” he says while tossing the skinhead onto his belly. He uses the same rapid taping method for hog-tying the skinhead.

  When Cal is done, he stands tall, smoothing out his red beard with his fingers while admiring his handy work.

  “Aayyy,” he says, “that should do ‘er for now.”

  “That Nazi is going nowhere fast,” I point out. “Let’s just hope you don’t get a visit from the Florence restaurant kitchen inspector anytime soon.”

  “It’s standard operating procedure to bribe those bastards anyway,” he quips. “Let’s go gather some workers and some equipment. Get this job done right.”

  Chapter 18

  Exiting the kitchen, I give Andrea and Father O’Brien the quick overview of the new plan to infiltrate the Pitti Palace bottoms via the Vasari Corridor and in particular, a secondary shaft that is said to run underground. But first, we need to recruit a team of workers and some construction equipment to complete the job without the Florence police being the wiser.

  “I can help with this,” Andrea says.

  Her smartphone in hand, she thumbs in “Florence Irish pubs.” How do I know this? She’s whispering the words aloud as she types.

  “Wow,” she says, eyes wide. “I didn’t know so many English-speaking pubs can possibly exist in such a famous Italian city like Florence.”

  “Are you kidding, Andrea?” I say. “There are more people who speak English in Florence than Italian. And in the town of Prato right down the road, more people speak Chinese than English or Italian. Welcome to European Union open borders.”