When he was released three and a half years later, Michael had become the epitome of a reformed man. He started his own legitimate business, paid his taxes, and reestablished his marriage. And perhaps most surprisingly, he became best friends with an officer of the law. Paul Busch’s wife and Mary were old friends and Busch had actually asked for the assignment. Paul was never just a parole officer to Michael; he had become and would always be a friend. An unspoken bond developed on the day Michael was released, and its strength had grown tenfold since.
Betrayal weighed heavy on Michael now as he stood in his study and the memories coursed through his mind. The words of the parole board rang in his ears: “Do not so much as contemplate a felony, particularly burglary, for if you do, never again will you see the outside of these prison walls.” His betrayal of Mary was only the beginning; while the guilt would never wash away, he could only hope that, someday, she would understand the actions he contemplated now. But Busch…Michael knew that accepting Finster’s proposition would not only destroy their friendship but would turn them against each other for life. Busch’s commitment to the law would blind him to the dilemma that Michael and Mary faced.
It was now clear—in that karma kind of way—that Michael’s current circumstances were his true sentence for his transgressions. He had desperately racked his brain for another option, for some miracle solution, for some simple alternative that had eluded him.
Michael slipped his parole papers back in the envelope, dropped it into the desk drawer and, leaving the drawer open, walked over to the bookshelves. Novels of every genre crammed the top shelves: Dickens to Dickey, Conrad to Cussler. The bottom shelves held his old research books: texts on alarm systems and jewelry collecting, art history and magic, European museums and photography. The middle shelves were reserved for their mementos: seashells, stuffed animals, postcards. Things that kindled memories; things that sparked love. Reflections of their lives collected in their travels. Some of the tchotchkes dated back to their courtship days: goofy photo-booth pictures, handmade plaster cats, a caricature of the two of them dancing in the surf. And while some of the items had grown embarrassing with time, he and Mary always agreed that they would never put them away. For they were reflections of moments, the things that they had held near and dear throughout their life together. Taking them down would be like rejecting their past, his and Mary’s denying themselves.
Among their most treasured possessions on the wall was a crucifix given to them on the occasion of their wedding. A simple cross, nothing fancy; in fact, Michael didn’t even remember who gave it to them. Made of plain simple wood with a plastic Jesus stapled to it, it was like something you’d find by the thousands at any flea market. He and Mary had joked that whoever had given it to them must have stolen it off the rearview mirror of a New York City taxicab. Now, with the events of the last few days, the sight of it had become unbearable. While Michael knew he was betraying Mary and Busch, he also felt that he, too, had been betrayed. All his years of devotion, all his years of prayer had led him here to this moment, alone, with no alternative.
And with that final thought, Michael reached out and removed the plastic crucifix, the symbol of his now former faith. He walked back to his desk, placed it with his parole papers, and closed the drawer tight.
Chapter 7
Michael sat at Mary’s bedside all night, leaving before she awoke. The pain medication was only allowing her a few hours of lucidity a day, and while it hurt him not to hear her voice, he knew it was best, for the powerful medicines coursing through her veins helped her avoid the increasing pain of her illness. Studying her face, ghostly pale under the blue lights of the monitor, only strengthened his resolve. If she didn’t undergo surgery immediately he would lose her. And to be trapped in a world without her would be a prison far worse than any he had ever faced.
All this raced through his mind as Finster fixed him a drink from a polished maple bar. The two men were alone in one of the finest hotel suites in the city. Crystal carafes and aged liquors lined the mirrored wall. Rich leather sofas bordered a seating area whose centerpiece was an enormous fireplace. A Bosendorfer grand piano sat in one corner while a grand Louis XIV desk sat in the other.
Finster handed Michael a crystal glass. “Chivas, it’s always been my favorite.” He picked up his own drink and raised it. “May our next drink be to success.”
Michael ignored the toast. He was not a man for formalities or fancy Scotch. He had always worked alone. He had never pulled a job for anyone else: and he knew that, for this one, for the first time in his life, he wouldn’t be making the rules.
“But enough civilities. Please sit,” Finster requested in his slightly accented voice. “I will of course provide anything you require—money, personnel, equipment.”
Michael took a seat on the couch, placed his glass on the coffee table, and leaned forward. “For?”
“Two keys.”
“Keys,” Michael repeated, confused. “What do they open?”
“They are antiques, one gold, one silver, dating back two thousand years.” There was a shadow of excitement in Finster’s voice as he sat down.
Michael remained stock-still, appearing emotionless. But inside it had begun, his heart was pounding, his pulse racing; he couldn’t help it, that sense of excitement was back, the beginnings of an adrenaline rush. He knew, however, that he had to keep his emotions in check; this job was not for him, it was for Mary. “Where?” he asked.
“Italy. Rome. It should not be difficult for a man of your talents.”
“How do you know of my talents? I was always low-profile.”
“Reliable sources.”
“Who?” Michael knew the devil was in the details.
Finster smiled. “You’ll have to trust me on that, Michael.”
“No offense, but trust is something that doesn’t exist in this business.”
“As a show of good faith, I will wire one hundred thousand dollars into your account within the hour so your wife may begin immediate treatment.”
“You could have me killed upon completion of the job, renege on payment.”
Finster rose from the couch like a noble knight to his king. “Michael St. Pierre, I give you my word, no harm shall come to you and the final payment will be made upon delivery. I am a man of honor.”
Michael was unimpressed. “Honor among thieves is an oxymoron.”
“I have never broken a promise or backed out on a deal. Ever. If I did, I couldn’t do business.”
“You never mentioned your business.” The way Finster answered the question would be just as telling as the response itself. Michael already knew the answer from his preliminary research on his new associate. With his record, Michael couldn’t afford being set up by some overzealous cop. He had verified Finster’s identity and business before coming here.
“I’m in various industries. Retail sales, that kind of thing, all on a worldwide basis.” Finster looked Michael straight in the eyes. “You have my word, sir.”
Michael wasn’t sure just how good that word was. He decided he would test it later, but right now his curiosity was piqued. “So, which church in Rome?”
“A church per se.” Finster paused. “The keys are in the Vatican.”
Michael took a deep breath, absorbing this. “The Vatican. You want me to steal from the Vatican? That’s a bit of information that you should have made me aware of up front.”
“I’m sure you can now appreciate my need for utter secrecy. Are you backing out on me?”
“No. It’s just pretty bold. If”—Michael emphasized the if—“it can be done, this will take considerable planning. Such a high-profile trick would be extremely dangerous. It leaves no room for error. That’s not a low-security building; it’s one of the highest-security principalities in the world. And the guards? Don’t let those foofy blue outfits fool you. The Swiss Guard are one of the most efficient, highly trained military outfits in Europe. But more important, they posse
ss something you can’t train into a soldier: they are one of the most loyal forces on the planet.”
In all the years he practiced his trade, there was one emotion that never entered Michael’s mind, but it did today. Fear. It was nipping at his heart, causing it to skip a beat. He had bargained himself into a very dangerous position, a road he could not turn back from. This had just turned into a job that could leave both Mary and himself dead at the end if he should fail.
The art of this deal was what he was not being told and, in his estimate, that was a lot. This wasn’t about keys or antiques. There was something more. But whether it was some quirky collector’s obsession or a means to an end for Finster, Michael didn’t care. He never involved himself in the politics of others and he knew that if he busied his mind with trying to judge this man’s motives, he would not be able to focus on the job at hand. To him this was a theft, the only job that would save his wife. Finster’s interest in these keys was not his concern. All he knew—all he cared about—was that by stealing them, he would be stealing life for his wife. That is what he would focus on, that is what would drive him to success, despite the mounting odds against it.
Finster handed Michael an overflowing black leather briefcase. “This contains information on the keys, their exact location, and the layout and details of where they are kept.” He walked back to the window and looked out at the city. “You understand that I am putting my trust in you as you are putting your trust in me.” It was a moment before he turned back to Michael. “We have only just met but I believe we have come to an understanding, have we not?”
Michael nodded his head slightly.
“But there is one thing above all else that I need you to understand.” Finster walked toward Michael, speaking slowly for emphasis. “Do not betray me. Do not try to take these artifacts elsewhere to a higher bidder. Do not try to switch them. I will know if they are not the true keys, Michael.” The white-haired man stood only a foot from Michael, looking down at him. “I will know,” he repeated.
Michael slowly rose from the couch with the briefcase in his hand, never breaking eye contact. “You didn’t answer my question. What do these keys open? A chest? Some kind of safe?”
“No. Nothing of the sort, probably just some old doors long gone.”
The following morning, one week after her doctor’s appointment, Mary was in surgery. The tumor was bigger than Dr. Rhineheart expected, but after eight hours in the operating room he thought they got it all. It had wrapped itself around her left ovary and fallopian tube and was beginning to invade the right. Rhineheart was the premier cancer specialist in New York. He had graduated top of his class and was one of the few doctors who hadn’t become an automaton. He still cared. It was a personal loss every time a patient was consumed by this disease. He had lost his mother to breast cancer when he was fifteen and he fought for each patient with every resource in his power. Each fight was a renewed battle in a war that he was determined to win. Each patient was someone’s sister or wife, father or brother. Each patient was his mother again and again.
The combination of chemotherapy and radiation treatment he prescribed was to eradicate any remaining cancer from Mary’s body. It was a heavy regime that would require all her strength. Rhineheart explained to them that he always found it to be a paradox: he needed to poison his patient in order to rid her body of an even deadlier poison. It was a delicate balancing act, he said, but it had proven successful so many times before that he had the confidence of Mercury in the hundred-yard dash.
Michael sat at Mary’s side in the recovery room, her hand clasped in his. The color was drained from her face, and while this was to be expected, her pallor still shocked him. He couldn’t shake the feeling that she was dead. She needed him now more than ever, he reminded himself. She would rely on his strength to carry her through this ordeal, the way her strength had carried him through his imprisonment. Mary had saved him and by God, he was going to save her.
Paul and Jeannie Busch left the hospital; not a word was said the whole ride home. They had waited with Michael the entire time Mary was in surgery. The eight hours seemed like twenty. It took everything they had to keep the conversation upbeat and encouraging. Busch found it difficult to be so positive on the outside while his heart was filled with dread. He and Jeannie were closer to the St. Pierres than anyone in their lives and this cruel twist of fate was tearing him apart. What bothered Busch the most, however, was that a terrible question kept cropping up in his mind.
He and Michael had become more than friends. A trust had developed between them that Busch didn’t share with anyone but his wife. Michael had been there for him when Busch had difficulty in his marriage. He had become distant from Jeannie, mostly due to his job; it wasn’t something that was heading for divorce, it was more like one of those blips in a relationship, the peaks and valleys of love. But Michael had listened and that was what Busch had needed. Busch had always found it hard to open his heart, he had been taught since childhood that emotion was a feminine trait and woe to the man who displayed soft feelings. As Busch poured out his heart, Michael never once made the conversation uncomfortable and spoke only when Busch needed it. The situation had resolved itself, but it was Michael’s friendship that had helped him through.
And Michael had trusted him. He was always forthright in their discussions of his criminal past; how he had found burglary to be an art, something practiced by craftsmen, how he found prison to be a punishment worse than Hell. Michael had always included Busch in his plans for reforming his life, looking for a respectable job, starting his security business. Busch was the first person Michael turned to when Mary’s illness was revealed. Though stoic, Busch could see the helplessness in his friend’s eyes, his inability to raise the money necessary for her treatment. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
Again the question posed itself, a question Busch had pondered all day: Where had Michael gotten the money?
Michael sat at his dining room table, the contents of the black briefcase strewn out before him. Maps and books, charts and documents. Michael was doing his homework.
The Vatican was vast, a country unto itself. A sovereign state within one hundred and nine acres. Her main protection was provided by the Swiss Guard. They were a small army entrusted with guarding the Pope and protecting the Apostolic Palace. The Swiss Guard wasn’t an army in the traditional sense: they wore no fatigues, carried no M16s draped over their shoulders. It was more like an ancient security force. Their brightly colored uniforms were contemporary—if you lived in 1589. A puffed tunic with brilliant blue and gold striping, matching pantaloons, spats, and black slippers: an outfit more befitting a Shakespearean actor than a military officer. Their three-point peaked hats reminded Michael of salt-and-pepper shakers with red feathers stuck on top. Carrying eight-foot staffs called halberds, these soldiers were more equipped for slaying dragons than defending a country. In principle, their function was more like that of an ancient honor guard, the laymen thinking, Who would ever lay siege to the Holy See? But the Church knew better; the Vatican had been under attack for centuries from many corners, known and unknown. Some attacks were by direct physical assault; some were the intellectual assaults of science attempting to explain away a higher order, while some came from unexplained spiritual forces. And that is why, under their fanciful outfits, these men possessed the requisite skills of a superbly trained military unit. Their function may have been traditional; but their ability was ultramodern. Each was skilled in weaponry, hand-to-hand combat, and counterterrorism. Each knew that an attack on the Church could come at any time, and from any source, and each man was prepared. And while the halberd appeared ceremonial, it was, in fact, a razor-sharp scythe expertly used by the Swiss Guard since they were brought to the Vatican by the Warrior Pope Julius II, on January 22, 1506.
II Corpo di Vigilanza was a squat stone building on the northeast corner of St. Peter’s Square. It was not an especially remarkable structure. Underneath it, h
owever, was a different story. The situation room beneath II Corpo di Vigilanza was similar to something you would find within the bowels of the Pentagon. Here two worlds collided: high tech and high art. High-speed Cray computers next to Bernini sculptures, electronic maps above Raphael paintings. It was a time machine gone wrong. This room was the home of the Papal Gendarmes, the Vatican Police. Working in conjunction with the Swiss Guard, they were in charge of the security of the palace and the gardens. While the Swiss Guard was drawn exclusively from the Swiss army, the Vatican Police were all former Italian army. The combined force of the Swiss Guard and the Vatican Police was ready twenty-four hours a day to meet any assault and, unlike the security forces of other governments, theirs was a loyalty not just to their nation but to God. Any fanatic willing to die for his beliefs in an assault on Vatican City would be met by an army equally willing to give up their collective lives for a more powerful belief. No more allegiant force could be found in the world. No power on earth could deter them.
Of course, the Vatican was home to the Pontiff, the Pope, the leader of the Catholic Church. And since the attempt on Pope John Paul II’s life in 1981, the security around the Pope and the Papal home had tripled.
Michael’s objective lay within one of the world’s largest museums. And while the Vatican Museums contained many religious treasures, on the face of it, the museums’ security seemed almost carelessly minimal: cameras, alarms, and the occasional guard. The real security, however, was tenfold. All manner of entrance and egress contained expertly concealed metal detectors; radioactive isotope scanners; olfactory filters capable of detecting the chemical signatures of accelerants, combustibles, and toxins; instruments capable of identifying everything from nuclear devices and plastic explosives to the common gunpowder of a firecracker. Cameras were hidden everywhere, their monitors in the situation room attended constantly by keen eyes. Undercover security roamed the grounds, providing an up-close human observation of all activity.
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