Saint Peter's Soldiers (A James Acton Thriller, Book #14)

by J. Robert Kennedy

  And if they decided to invest the time, he was done for regardless.

  “Pull over there.” The guard pointed to the side where several vehicles were parked, the guards ripping them apart, clearly searching for something.

  Probably the portrait.

  He couldn’t believe this one drawing could be worth so much trouble, but the Nazis were insane, and if they thought what he had hidden in one of his exhaust pipes could win them the war, they’d stop at nothing to possess it.

  And here he was, a single man on a motorcycle.

  An engine revved behind him and he glanced back, another man on a motorcycle pulling up.

  Okay, maybe I don’t stand out that much.

  Motorcycles were a popular form of transport now that gas was being rationed. They got extremely good mileage, were easy to maintain, and easy to fix. Those that had them usually had them before the war, motorcycles not cheap anymore, and few people had the money to spare.

  He was fortunate his moped had been a gift on his fourteenth birthday, just before Germany invaded Poland.

  “I’ll take this one,” said one of the soldiers, striding over from his perch against a wall, flicking a cigarette at the concrete. The guard that had pulled him over handed the ID to the new arrival. He inspected them then handed them back to Nicola. “Please step away from the bike.”

  Nicola nodded, climbing off and stepping back as the man looked it over. He knelt down and began to search the saddlebags.

  “Nice machine. Where’d you get it?”

  “My uncle leant it to me for the trip.”

  Finished with one of the bags, he knocked on the gas tank, it ringing slightly hollow, it about half full. He touched the exhaust on the right side and winced, yanking his finger away and sticking it in his mouth. He searched the other saddlebag then touched the other pipe, his facial expression revealing nothing.

  Nicola held his breath, wondering if the soldier would make the connection. The man rose, turning toward him, scratching at his chest, moving his shirt slightly to the side. Nicola’s eyes flared momentarily and the man gave him a slight glare, as if warning him to control himself.

  For there was little doubt, the partially revealed tattoo matched that of the man who had arrived in their small museum two days ago.

  “You’re good to go.”

  Nicola’s head bobbed rapidly and he tried to calm himself as he climbed back on his bike, kick-starting the engine and slowly easing around the barriers. As he passed the German car, he felt sweat trickle down his back as the driver seemed to take an interest in him, his gaze following him the entire way through until Nicola was far enough along for the man to be out of his field of vision. Clear, he gently accelerated and didn’t breathe easily until he had put a good distance behind him, the mighty city of Rome clearly visible ahead.

  As he opened up the engine, gaining more speed, his mind reeled with what had just happened. This man had clearly been waiting for him, was clearly part of the group supposed to protect the portrait. If they knew who he was, then that suggested the other man had escaped as well. Or Donati had finally given up his name and they had somehow found out.

  He shook his head, immediately dismissing that possibility.

  You’ll have to outrun a radio.

  If Donati had talked, all of Italy would know his name by now.

  He smiled slightly as he realized the implications.

  You’ve got a guardian angel.

  It didn’t take long for him to reach his destination, and he was soon making his way down Via Dello Statuto, it thick with traffic and pedestrians, bicycles weaving in and out, he content to stay with the cars as he eyed the names of the businesses as he rode by. The paper he had grabbed from Donati’s hand had the name of a bakery on this street with an odd phrase written on it he had memorized. It made no sense, and he had a feeling it was a mistake.

  I would like exactly seven casareccio loaves like you advertised yesterday.

  Now that he was here, the bustling market so crowded his small-town upbringing had him feeling almost claustrophobic, to the point he drove past the bakery without registering it. His mind caught up with his eyes and he glanced back.

  Regoli’s.

  He smiled, his heart picking up a few beats as he realized his journey was almost over. He turned down an alleyway and parked his motorcycle away from the hustle and bustle, pretending to tie his shoe. Clear, he quickly undid the nuts underneath the modified exhaust pipe and removed the drawing, shoving it into his jacket, then reattaching the bolts. He stood and turned, nearly bumping into a man walking toward him.

  “Excuse me,” he said, stepping to the side to avoid the man. The man tipped his hat, saying something in German. Nicola felt the blood drain from his face but the man continued on, deeper into the alley, Nicola left shaking against the wall. He forced himself off the perceived safety of the stone and walked as calmly as he could manage out into the street, immediately caught up in the flow of pedestrian traffic, his shaking legs carrying him by instinct with the mass of humanity.

  He could smell the bakery and it was divine, the fresh baked bread reminding him of home, his mother baking her own fresh almost every day. Gloom washed over him as he thought of them, praying nothing would happen to them for what he had done. His cousin Leo had reassured him they at most would be brought in for questioning, and Leo had already promised to coach them in what to say, a promise Nicola assumed had already been fulfilled.

  Please, Lord, take care of them.

  He stepped inside, his hand absentmindedly pressed against his jacket, pushing the portrait against his chest, it almost a source of comfort to him. He wasn’t sure what to expect, and he definitely wasn’t sure what to do now that he was here. There were two people behind the counter and several customers in line. Was he supposed to just go up and tell them who he was? That would be ridiculous.

  He listened as the orders were placed. One of this, a dozen of that. Never anything between. And he flashed to the phrase.

  “What can I get you today?”

  He froze, his eyes wide as he stared at the man.

  “Come on, there’s people waiting.”

  “Umm…”

  Then it hit him.

  “I would like exactly seven casareccio loaves like you advertised yesterday.”

  The man shook his head. “No way. Talk to my wife, if she’s in a generous mood, she might give it to you at that price.” He pointed to a door in the back of the store. “Through there.” He raised his voice. “Greta, a customer for you!”

  A woman’s voice shouted from the back in acknowledgement and Nicola tentatively walked toward the door. He pushed aside a wall of hanging beads and stepped into a dimly lit room, his eyes taking a moment to adjust.

  And he gasped.

  Two police officers were standing on either side of a woman. He turned to bolt but was blocked by another man who raised a finger to his lips then opened the top of his shirt.

  Revealing the same tattoo that had followed him for the past two days.

  “Who are you?” asked Nicola, his voice trembling as he in no way felt safe. He had no idea who these people were, and for all he knew, he was about to be betrayed and handed over to the two police officers standing behind him.

  “Who we are is of no importance to you, the fact that we are here to help you is.”

  “It was your man at the roadblock.”

  “Yes.”

  “And at the museum.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is he okay? Did he get away?”

  The man nodded.

  Nicola’s eyes narrowed. “How did your man know about the bike, I mean the modification.”

  The man smiled. “We have sources among the partisans.” His face became serious. “Do you have something for us?”

  Nicola nodded and unzipped his jacket, pulling out the portrait. The man’s eyes flared slightly and he carefully took it from him. He unrolled it gently, frowning at the creases.r />
  “I’m sorry, but there was no time. I had to take it out of the frame.”

  The man shook his head, dismissing the apology with a wave of his hand. “You had no choice, you did the right thing. We will fix it.”

  “You can?”

  “We’ve been dealing with priceless art for longer than you can imagine. It will be safe, I can assure you.”

  “What now?”

  “Now you go to your aunt’s. You will be contacted with new identity papers.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  The man looked at him, sympathy in his eyes. “My son, you can never go home. At least not until the Nazi scourge is condemned to Hell.”

  Carabinieri Comando Stazione, Rivoli, Italy

  July 7th, 1941

  “No! Please, no more!”

  The man directing the unending pain held up his hand, the police officer delivering the blows immediately stopping. Donati’s head slumped to his chest, his breathing labored, his eyes swollen to the point he could barely see. His nose throbbed and bled into his mouth, his fingers and toes screamed in pain, every bone broken.

  He had held out for over two days.

  Two long, excruciating days.

  But he could take no more.

  His body was finished.

  His mind was broken.

  He just wanted it to end.

  He wanted it all to end.

  Please, God, why won’t you let me die?

  “You have something to tell us? A name perhaps?”

  “Nicola,” sputtered Donati, a wave of shame flooding through the bloody pulp that was his body. “Nicola Santini.”

  “This is the boy who took the portrait?”

  He tried to nod but didn’t have the strength to raise his head from his chest. “Yes.”

  Tears burned in his eyes, rolling down his cheeks, the split skin crying out at the salty intrusion as the realization set in that he had betrayed a boy, a young man who had yet to know love, had yet to experience what true joy was, all to save himself further pain.

  God, forgive me!

  “And where does he live?”

  “I know his family,” said the man who had been delivering the blows, a man Donati had once thought of as a friend until he had given himself over to Mussolini’s fascists. “I’ll take you there.”

  “Please, kill me.”

  He was ready to die, wanted to die, had to die. He couldn’t live with the shame of what he had just done, and if Nicola hadn’t been caught yet, then there was every chance he had reached his destination where the men who had contacted him, presenting him with an offer he had at first refused, might be able to help him.

  His only fear now was that should he die, the secret he held might die with him.

  For Nicola had just been a pawn.

  Yet another thing of which he was ashamed.

  Hugh Reading Residence, Whitehall, London, England

  Present Day

  One day before theft

  “Everything smells wonderful, Hugh.”

  “Agreed.” Archeology Professor James Acton put his wine down before pulling out a chair for his wife. She sat, giving him a smile and he dropped into a chair opposite her, their host putting the last bowl of food onto the dining table.

  Interpol Agent Hugh Reading sat at the head of the table, admiring his handiwork. “It does smell brilliant.”

  Acton leaned over in his chair, motioning toward the overflowing garbage can, Styrofoam takeout boxes poking out the top. “Cooked all day, I see?”

  “Hey, if you wanted a home cooked meal, you should have stayed home.”

  Acton laughed and began to dig in, piling his plate with the various offerings of Westernized Chinese delicacies. “We’re here to see you, not your cooking skills.”

  “Or lack thereof,” interjected Acton’s wife, Professor Laura Palmer. Their friend was a committed bachelor, the only romantic dalliance after the man’s divorce years ago that Acton was aware of taking place over several days in the depths of the Amazon rainforest. It had been a tragic end that Reading had taken a long time to recover from, if he ever had. Acton and Laura both feared he would never risk putting his heart out there again.

  It was sad to see.

  The lack of a life lived was all around them. The apartment was sparse, few personal belongings, there only three photos in evidence. One of Reading with his son, only recently back in his life, one of the three of them together in Italy, and one of Reading with his former partner at Scotland Yard, Martin Chaney—a man none of them had heard from in well over a year.

  A sore subject to be sure.

  Which was why they tried to visit the man whenever they could. Laura was rich, very rich. Her late brother had left her a windfall after his death, he having sold his Internet company before the bubble had burst. When they had married, he had been shown the books and it was in the hundreds of millions.

  They would never hurt for money.

  They lived a modest lifestyle, neither of them into fancy cars or big houses, rather using her wealth to fund their first love—archeology. It was that love that had brought them all together several years ago. Acton had made an accidental discovery that had led to him being chased by the elite Delta Force across the globe, the Special Forces unit provided with false intel that he was the head of a domestic terrorist cell. He had fled to London, to the one expert who might tell him why what he had discovered might be so important.

  And that expert was archeology professor Laura Palmer.

  It hadn’t been love at first sight, though she had taken his breath away, and it had turned out she was a fan of his for years. Yet that spark, forged under a hail of gunfire, had started something that had never faltered, never wavered, and had changed his life forever.

  Despite Hugh Reading arresting her the first time he had met her.

  Reading had been the Scotland Yard detective assigned to the case, and after the events of that week had sorted themselves out, they had all become friends.

  Good friends.

  And there was nothing like a meal, takeout or otherwise, with good friends.

  He took his first bite and moaned. “This is good. Reminds me of that place you ordered from the first night we met.”

  Laura smiled, reaching across the table and giving his hand a squeeze. “You remember that?”

  His eyes widened. “Of course I do! It was the most important night of my life.”

  She grinned. “Mine too. I meant the take out.” She turned and glanced at the garbage can in the kitchen.

  “Yes, yes, it’s the same place,” said Reading. “Every time I’d visit you for dinner when you were still living in London you’d order from them, so I took one of their menus. It’s a bit of a drive but it’s worth it.”

  “Definitely,” agreed Acton as he filled a wrap with his favorite, moo shu pork. He poured a thick black bean sauce over it then rolled it up, savoring the first bite. “Soo good.”

  “But raw cow would taste good right now?”

  Acton’s eyes narrowed at Laura’s comment then his eyebrows rose as he covered his mouth, remembering what he had thought that first night, it having been days since he had eaten a decent meal. “Ha! I forgot I told you about that!”

  “And you say that was the most important night of your life.”

  He swallowed, taking a sip of his chardonnay. “Hey, considering how many attempts had been made on my life up to that point, I’d say my remembering anything beyond how gorgeous you were is a miracle.”

  “Good save.”

  Acton grinned at Reading. “Thanks, I thought so too.”

  Laura giggled. “Don’t encourage him, Hugh.”

  Reading smiled, a slightly forlorn look on his face as he seemed to stare off into the distance for a moment, and it wasn’t until Acton realized how much Laura’s laugh had sounded like Kinti’s that he knew why.

  He exchanged a knowing glance with Laura, neither saying anything as Acton searched for a way
to continue the conversation without letting their friend know he had been caught. Acton knew how he had felt the few times he thought Laura had been lost to him, and he had been devastated. To actually have the woman you loved, even if it had only lasted a few days, die in your arms was something he couldn’t imagine having to live with.

  Reading’s phone vibrated next to his wine glass, saving Acton from having to come up with a clever witticism to break the melancholy. “Work?”

  Reading shook his head as he picked up his phone. “No, it’s Mario.”

  Acton and Laura glanced at each other, surprised. “Does he call you often?”

  “More often than not when something’s wrong. But you two are here, so what possible trouble could there be in the world that would warrant a call from the head of Vatican security?”

  Acton gave him a look. “Hey, we don’t cause the trouble, we just end up in the middle of it somehow.”

  “Yes, every—single—time.” Reading swiped his thumb, putting the call on speaker. “Mario, how are you?”

  “I’m well, my friend, and you?”

  “I’m having dinner with Jim and Laura.”

  “Hi Mario!” called Laura, waving at the phone, one of the many cute things Acton loved about her.

  “Hey Mario,” he said, giving the phone a double thumb-shot à la Fonzie. Laura shook her head at him, half a smile betraying her true feelings.

  “Thank God! I’ve been trying to reach you two. I’ve called your cellphones, your home, the University, the Smithsonian. I got nothing but voicemails.”

  Acton felt the outline of his phone in his pants pocket. “Sorry about that, I turned my phone off for dinner.”

  “I left mine in the hotel room by accident,” said Laura. “What’s the problem?”

  “We’ve got a situation.”

  Acton put his fork down, leaning back as they all exchanged looks. When Giasson called, it was rarely good news. He was a great man, competent, loyal, and Acton trusted him with his life, even considering him a friend—though he’d never make a special visit to see the man at his home like they would Reading. They were comrades in arms, having been under fire together, saving each other’s lives, but outside of that context, they had never socialized.