by Cindy Dees
He sounded like this whole fiasco was just another walk in the park for him! How did he do it?
He instructed quietly, “When I tell you to, put your hand over the light and turn it on. Then I’ll want you to let out a tiny amount of light pointed at the lock. The last little bit of this lock will require me seeing it. And I left my night-vision goggles at home.”
I didn’t know whether he was kidding or not. At the moment I didn’t care. I just wanted desperately to get out of here without getting caught. While he picked the first part of the lock by feel, I put the map in my rucksack. I didn’t exactly stuff it in my bag as he’d suggested. I’m too much of an art historian for that. But I did roll it up carefully and ease it diagonally across the back of my pack so as to cause it a minimum of crumpling. A pang of guilt that felt like a hot knife straight to the gut stabbed me. I am such a wimp.
I started hearing excited voices faintly behind us. Oh, God. “They’re coming,” I breathed, trying to sound calm but failing miserably. The remnants of my breakfast threatened to join us in the hallway any moment.
“The light. Now.”
I opened my fingers slightly to let a thin beam of white light illuminate his work. Four thin metal rods stuck out of the lock like pins torturing a voodoo doll. They might as well be stuck in me, I was in such an agony of horror.
“Almost got it,” he mumbled, peering into the lock. He stuck another pick in the lock and rattled a couple of the ones already there. “Okay, light off.”
I felt him stand up beside me. The agitated voices behind us were getting close, and the bright beams of flashlights slashed the darkness not far behind us. My bladder threatened to empty itself. And the potential humiliation of that was about the only thing that could distract me from my panic. I all but jumped up and down in my agitation.
Robert opened the door, and thankfully, darkness met us on the other side, as well. No spill of light gave away our escape. We slipped through the opening into the Vatican Museum. Robert locked the door behind us, and we made our way through what turned out to be an exhibit of life-sized statues in front of a room full of gorgeous tapestries.
A voice in front of us called out in English, “Ladies and gentleman, please proceed to the nearest illuminated exit sign.” The instruction was repeated in several other languages.
We joined in with the crowd. My relief was such that I felt light-headed. It wasn’t the best cover ever, but it was better than nothing. As we filed outside, I heard a couple of the docents murmuring that there was some kind of general power failure Vatican-wide. Another power outage? Were these things following me from France to Italy? Actually, the idle thought gave me pause. Was this power outage part of the same series of failures that had swept across France? What if more countries than just France were experiencing these? It wasn’t impossible to believe that the various European governments were quietly suppressing the occurrences in the name of economic stability.
We stepped outside into bright sunlight, squinting along with all the other tourists. I started as someone approached me quickly from the left, and with purpose. Crud. Blind as a baby mouse, I turned to the silhouetted figure, defensive words rising to my lips.
“Ana!” a female voice exclaimed. “I thought that was you!”
My eyes adjusted to the light just enough to be nearly blinded again by a head of shockingly red hair that Mother Nature never dreamed of producing. “Scarlet? Scarlet Rubashka?” I responded, “What are you doing here?”
I’d met her last month at the Black Madonna exhibit. She was a photographer and one of those infectiously bubbly people whom it was impossible to dislike.
“I’m in town for a party—” she leaned in, smiling conspiratorially “—actually for the man who invited me to the party.” She straightened back up. “To pay my way, I’m doing a photo spread on the treasures of the Vatican Museum for Le Monde.”
I nodded, appropriately impressed. Le Monde was Paris’s largest daily newspaper.
Scarlet replied with the predictable and crashingly awkward question, “And what brings you to Rome?”
“Research,” I said evasively. As seemingly bubbleheaded as she might be, Scarlet was still a journalist.
“And who’s this yummy specimen hovering protectively over you?”
I glanced over at Robert in surprise. Hovering, was he? Protectively? “This is my colleague, Robert Fraser. He’s an art history professor at Edinburgh University, and we’re collaborating on our research.”
Collaboration. Now there was a nice word for theft of Vatican documents, possession of stolen art and smuggling. Robert’s gray eyes twinkled at me.
“So, where are you staying?” Scarlet linked her arm casually in mine, European-style.
“We only came in for the day. We’re heading back to Paris later this afternoon.”
She rolled her eyes. “I wouldn’t count on that. These power outages have been lasting for hours. And once the electricity’s back on, Rome takes forever to unsnarl. All that Italian machismo means no one’s willing to let anyone else go first.”
“How widespread is the failure?” I asked, surprised.
“I dunno about this one. The one that happened last week wiped out all of Rome and lasted nearly twenty-four hours.”
“Wow. That stinks.” Robert and I really didn’t need to get stuck in Italy with both the statue and the ley line map. “How many blackouts have there been?”
“The way I hear it, they’ve had about five major ones over the summer. That last one was really bad. Nearly collapsed the whole country’s grid before they got it fixed.”
I stared at her. “How come that never made the news?”
She shrugged. “Politics. I heard about it from an inside source in the Italian government who wouldn’t let me quote him on it.”
“Too bad,” I commented. “It would make a heck of a story.”
Scarlet grinned and shrugged. “I don’t do real news. I specialize in shallow, but pretty, thank you very much. Fluff pieces.”
I couldn’t help grinning back. “And you do both shallow and pretty very well, I might add.”
She pretended to punch my upper arm. “Ha ha. Very funny. Hey, if you do get stranded in town, you should come to the party tonight. It’s a private art exhibition of medieval pieces like the one in Paris last month where we met. More Black Madonnas.”
That snagged my undivided attention. “Who’s sponsoring it?”
“The same family who did the one at the Cluny, remember? The Adrianos. They’re an old Italian family and really rich. Black Madonnas are a hobby of theirs. Have been for generations, apparently.”
A hobby, huh? The kind that involved stealing the Black Madonnas their millions couldn’t buy? Had we, perhaps, stumbled across the rich Italian client René said was behind Elise’s theft? “Where is this exhibition?” I asked.
“It’s at the Palazzo del Furiano. Eight o’clock.”
“You’re sure the Adrianos won’t mind if we crash it?”
Scarlet laughed gaily. “They won’t mind a bit. Caleb Adriano himself invited me. I’m sure he won’t mind putting a couple more names on the guest list. Frankly, I don’t think he’ll even notice you. At least not if I have anything to say about it!”
Her good cheer was contagious. We strolled past a pair of Swiss Guards, and it occurred to me that Robert was acting as if he didn’t know us. Of course. The guards would be looking for a man and a woman together. Right now, Scarlet and I were a pair and Robert was solo.
Fortunately, with the power out, the Swiss Guards were plenty busy emptying museums and directing the tour buses through intersections now devoid of traffic signals. We were able to walk out through the same gate we came in without anyone attempting to stop us. And then we were clear of Vatican City. I breathed a huge sigh of relief. I turned around to congratulate Robert…
…and he was gone.
I looked around frantically. He wasn’t anywhere in sight outside St. Anne’s Gate.
Which could only mean one thing. He was still inside the Vatican. Someone must have spotted him and stopped him on the way out. Oh, God. Not good.
I had to do something. Fast. Before he got hauled away and tossed into the erratic Italian justice system. Unfortunately, it wasn’t like I had a lot of options at the moment. What the heck. I shoved my rucksack into Scarlet’s arms. “Hang on to this for a sec, will you? Robert’s gone and gotten himself lost again. I swear, that man couldn’t find his way out of a paper bag by himself.”
Scarlet blinked in surprise but took the backpack. “I bet he refuses to look at maps, too, doesn’t he?” she called at my retreating back.
Little did she know.
Going back into the Vatican was an exercise in swimming upstream like a dying salmon against the crowds of people flowing out. I shoved and dodged and flat out elbowed my way back inside. I headed left for the Swiss Guard’s Court. And sure enough, I spotted Robert right away. A guard was in his face, pulling a drill sergeant routine on Robert and screaming his head off, demanding to know who Robert was and what mischief he was up to in the Vatican.
To his credit, Robert’s face was completely impassive, and he wasn’t flinching, wasn’t moving a single muscle under the withering attack. Prison probably taught a man how to do that. He might be able to set aside his emotions in the face of such fury, to bottle them up and control them completely, but I, on the other hand, could not. Rage at the way the guard was tearing into Robert roared through me. It was white-hot and burned me clean through, consuming every cell of my being. I rode the wave forward.
Reaching into my jacket pocket for my badge, I strode forward, beyond irate. “What is the meaning of this?” I demanded in a furious tone of voice that would have given even my German grandfather pause.
The Swiss Guard and his two buddies rounded on me. “Who the hell are you?” one of them snarled back at me.
I noticed then that they had Robert’s hands yanked behind his back and wired together with narrow, plastic handcuffs. My anger escalated even more. “Release this man immediately. This is an outrage! Professor Fraser, I am so sorry.”
I shoved my Interpol badge in the face of the guard who’d been chewing out Robert. “This man is an internationally known art expert, and he’s helping Interpol on a high-profile investigation for President Dupont of France. Personally.”
The guards eyed my badge with a modicum of alarm. Ruthlessly, I pressed my advantage. I pulled out my cell phone and began to dial. “I am calling Carl Montrose right now. He’s the personal assistant to President Pierre Dupont. And in about three minutes, President Dupont is going to be on the phone to the pope.” I finished punching in the number and slammed the phone to my ear.
A female secretary answered the other end of the call.
I growled, “I need to speak to Carl Montrose. And if he’s not available, I want Pierre Dupont. Now. Tell them this is Agent Ana Reisner of Interpol and this is a matter a national security. They will know who I am.”
That shot up not only the Swiss Guards’ eyebrows, but Robert’s, too. I was going to have some explaining to do to him later. The secretary stuttered that both Montrose and the president were in a press conference and couldn’t be reached for another half hour, even if it was an emergency.
“Then do me a favor. Tell the Vatican policeman I’m about to put on the phone who you are.”
“Uh, all right.”
I shoved my phone into one of the guards’ hands. The guy spoke to Montrose’s secretary for a little under a minute. I have no idea what she told him, but she convinced him she was for real, because when he hung up, he looked noticeably rattled. I glared at him and his companions, and looked down pointedly at the handcuffs. The guy with my phone barked at the yelling guard in Italian, and the latter leaped forward to cut the cuffs off Robert’s wrists.
“I want your names, ranks and serial numbers,” I demanded. “And the names of your commanding officers.”
That put some starch in their spines. “Uh, yes, ma’am,” Phone Guy said. “If you would come with me, I’m sure my superiors will make time to speak with you.”
I glared down my nose at him. “The professor’s and my research is of a time-sensitive nature and I do not have time to fool around with listening to apologies from your boss. If you will kindly write down the information I asked for, President Dupont’s office and Interpol officials will contact them later.”
Better to let these poor schmucks sweat for a few days than take the time to stage a tantrum for their bosses’ benefit now.
The head guard wrote down the information on a note pad he pulled out of a pocket. He tore off the piece of paper and passed it to me along with my cell phone. The yelling guard mumbled a not particularly sincere apology to Robert—who had the good sense to put on a silent, fuming act throughout my tirade. And then we actually got escorted to St. Anne’s gate by two of the guards, whose pikes and clown suits did a marvelous job of clearing the way for us.
The whole incident must have taken under two minutes. But as we stepped through the gate and safely into Italy once more, my heart pounded as if I’d just finished a marathon. A niggling little voice in the back of my head wondered why they’d let us go so easily. But I wasn’t about to look that gift horse in the mouth.
Scarlet rushed up to us and thrust my rucksack back into my arms. I have to admit my legs went a little weak at the knees at having the two treasures tucked inside the bag safely back in my possession.
“There you two are! I was beginning to wonder if you’d been arrested or something!”
Robert and I both forced laughs at her quip, and for her part, she didn’t seem to pick up on the shaky quality to our laughter or the relieved glances we traded. But you never knew with Scarlet. While she was irrepressibly Scarlet, she was also no dummy. It was hard to tell what she was observing and taking note of underneath that carefree, happy-go-lucky exterior.
We walked with her for several blocks, entertained by the horn-honking, fist-shaking mess the Rome streets had become in a matter of minutes. No wonder Scarlet said it would take hours to unravel this mess.
We stopped at a café and sipped espressos, and Scarlet repeated her invitation to the exhibition that evening. We promised to try to make it if we were still stuck in Rome. Finally, Scarlet got up to head for an appointment with a hairdresser to “brighten up” her hair color. It was hard to imagine the brilliant red hue getting any redder, but apparently, she was going to give it a go.
And then we were alone.
Robert took a long, careful look around us in every direction, and then he leaned across the suddenly tiny bistro table toward me, the expression in his eyes thunderous. “What in the bloody hell was that phone call to Dupont’s office all about? What aren’t you telling me?”
Chapter 14
R obert’s gaze pinned me to my wrought iron seat. Crud. Carl Montrose had been clear. I was to tell no one about the power problem and its possible relations to the ley lines. But I couldn’t very well lie to Robert. He could smell my being dishonest from a mile away. Maybe I could distract him with a piece of the truth.
“The owner of the lady in my bag is named Elise Villecourt. She’s an old friend of Pierre Dupont’s. They go all the way back to World War Two. She’s also an old friend of my grandmother’s. When her statue was stolen, she called Dupont and asked him to arrange for Interpol to put me on the case.”
“What about the bit where you told Dupont’s secretary that it was a matter of national security?”
I shrugged. “I…exaggerated…a bit. But when I saw that guard screaming at you, I was pretty furious.”
His mouth quirked up into a grin. “I noticed. You came roaring in there like a mother bear.” He reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “It was quite a sight to see, I must say.”
Heat began to climb my face, and Robert laughed quietly. “I already told you, Ana, there’s no need to blush—yet. I’ll let you know when it’s time.”
And all of a sudden it was back. Every last electron of that incredible sexual electricity snapping and crackling between us. The noises of cars and horns and frustrated drivers faded away, leaving behind only silence and the North Sea–gray of his eyes burning like a beacon, calling me to him.
The waitress came over to ask if we wanted more coffee, temporarily breaking the spell. The real world took shape around me once more. Robert paid the tab, and while we waited for change, something disturbing occurred to me. “You do realize, of course, that you’ve put me in an incredibly awkward position by swiping that map from the archives. Whatever possessed you to take it like that?”
Robert stopped in the act of putting the returned euros in his wallet. “You told me to take it.”
I blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
He blinked back at me. “You told me to take it.”
“I did not.”
He half laughed incredulously. “You most certainly did. You said, ‘Take the map, Robert.’ You murmured it just after that priest disappeared down the stairs. It startled the hell of me when you said it.”
I looked him square in the eye. “I swear, Robert. I said no such thing. I didn’t even think it. There’s no way those words came out of my mouth.”
He frowned sharply. “I’m telling you. I know what I heard. I’m not crazy.”
And as soon as he said that, I knew exactly what had happened. Or more precisely, who.
Jane.
“It was the ghost,” I announced.
Now he did stare at me like I was crazy. But after a few seconds, he nodded slowly. “It could have been. The voice was too quiet for me to be certain it was yours. I just know it was a female voice. That makes sense.”
I laughed shortly. “Well, maybe in your world it makes sense. In mine, it’s nuts. But I’d lay odds she’s the one who spoke to you. It’s definitely her style.” And before he could say anything in response to that, I added, “And I can’t believe I just said that. I’m actually talking like this Jane person exists.”