Simon saluted the dead agent soberly.
A series of texts from Martin confirmed Simon’s guess. They headed for JFK, and the Vatican Gulfstream that was waiting for them.
Chapter 92
NYPD 107th Precinct
Queens, New York
Something was going on at the Kessler Building, but Vandenberg hadn’t been able to find out what.
There had been a couple calls—shots fired, apparently—but responding units had been turned away. Private security insisted everything was under control and the charity ball was in full swing. But the veteran cop knew damn well whatever was happening probably had something to do with the redoubtable Simon Pound. And his charming companion, Caterina, who’d given him chills—the good kind—whenever she had smiled at him.
Those two were something. Connected up the wazoo, as his old boss and mentor Dan Carbone would have said. Which didn’t make a lot of sense, but never mind. Carbone was a legend and his protégé had picked up most of his abilities as well as his sayings.
Vandenberg was tuned in to the radio calls and had a Manhattan source that was keeping him updated, but he figured some crazy story was playing out atop that ugly-ass building. He wasn’t sure how much of it he believed, but there had been plenty of whispers about Kessler in the NYPD for the last few years and he wouldn’t have been surprised to learn the weirdo mogul or whatever he was had been plying underaged women with designer drugs and kinky sex…
He walked out of the precinct intending to drive on over to Manhattan to see if he could learn something. The place was a ghost town. The anti-terror taskforce had sucked up a lot of the uniforms from the other boroughs tonight and placed them around mid-town, just in case. The two bombings, and then the drone dropping out of the sky and zapping that SUV, had everybody on edge.
Heading to his car, he became aware that two suits had picked him up a half block from the precinct door. One of them looked familiar—a older meaty detective who’d moved up (or down) to Internal Affairs. His crew-cut partner was younger, solid-looking, and completely IA’s style.
“A word, Lieutenant Vandenberg?” The older guy. Martindale?
“I’m kind of in a hurry,” he said as he walked. He did not like being braced right here almost in front of his home shop.
“Yeah, we won’t take long.” The younger one, hard-ass.
He stopped walking. “Look, what’s this about? You can make an appointment. I think I got a slot next month.”
“That’s funny,” said maybe-Martindale. “Lieutenant, about those warrants you keep requesting?”
Vandenberg barked a laugh. “Kessler? He got this kind of reach? IA’s checking on why I want a warrant on the big man himself? What did he do, make a couple calls downtown and they dispatched you slugs over to dissuade me?”
“Dissuade?” the young one repeated, as if he’d never heard the word. “It’s just the judge wants a word, a kind of personal warning. We’re just helping out a friend with a ride to the courthouse.”
“Well, tell him to get in line.” Vandenberg started walking again. “Or I’ll meet him at One PP in the commissioner’s office.”
“We really insist, Jerry,” said maybe-Martindale. His hand went under his jacket and came out with a loosely held small Glock. “You’re not trying to resist, are you?”
“Fuck’s sake, resist what? You don’t have to get all squirrelly. All right, where’s your car?”
Jesus, what the hell? His alarm bells were shrieking,
“Right here.” The bleep-bleep of a key-fob alarm startled him. He’d expected to be able to make a move while they walked. No cops around anywhere.
Before he could take a step away from the nondescript Buick parked right next to them, the hard-ass was pushing him toward it.
“Hey, is this an arrest?”
“It is if you want it to be.”
“I want a union representative,” Vandenberg said, his voice slipping to desperate.
“We’ll get you one as soon as we take you to the judge.”
This was not looking good at all. If IA wanted to talk to him, given his rank, they’d have done so at his office. Or they would have summoned him to their lair. Was this off the books?
“This isn’t how it’s done,” he said. He was being shoved hard toward the door, opened by the large maybe-Martindale.
“Tell that to the judge. You know how they are, law unto themselves.”
“All right,” he said, finally climbing into the back seat on his own. They hadn’t taken his gun. He was either overreacting, or he could get himself out of this easily.
Don’t overreact. Play this smart.
Likely it was a message, a warning. Leave the rich guy alone.
It was possible they were moonlighting, working a little security for Kessler on the side. Wouldn’t have been the first time NYPD cops had taken on some odd jobs for the wealthy class, and many of them thought there’d be pro security work in it for them after retirement.
Maybe-Martindale took the driver’s seat. Hard-ass, the passenger seat. All silence. The car started up and eased away about three blocks, but instead of heading for the nearest tunnel or bridge, the driver turned into an alley between two warehouses and slowed to a stop facing away from the sidewalk.
Shit, shit, shit.
Vandenberg reached for his Glock, fighting the snag in his Giants jacket.
Maybe-Martindale had the silenced pistol on his lap, so it only took him a few seconds to scoop it up and shoot Vandenberg twice in the head. The hot brass plunked into the back seat and rattled around before settling into the spreading stain.
“Fuck, it’s like that stupid weird movie.” Hard-ass was looking over his shoulder. “Makes a hell of a mess.”
“Not my car.” Maybe-Martindale shrugged. He headed for the garage where he had been told they could leave the Buick. Not his problem anymore.
Chapter 93
The catacombs beneath the Edificio Nuovo, Comitato per Interventi
Vatican City, Rome
It was the beginning of his night shift.
The voices spoke clearly in his mind now, carefully enunciating their words so he would understand, avoiding the confusion of the whispering multitudes. One voice was that of his father, whom he had loved and feared in equal measure, and who had died in the arms of a whore while young Emanuele played on her marble floor in a Geneva tenement.
The voices had prepared him well, and he was ready now to accept their instructions as the destiny he had been promised.
Never could his crazy ladies at home have guessed how important he, the captain Emanuele Spada, was to become.
Right now he was sitting at his desk and nervously lining up pens, waiting for a text, listening intently as the voices giving him his instructions miraculously again became the voice of his father.
His phone pinged and he looked at its screen.
“Adesso.” Now.
He stood, donned his black beret, turned toward the board and pressed one of its old toggle switches. Several of the green lights began blinking in preparation for their eventual turn to red.
An alarm, soft at first, then rising in volume and insistence, started to blare from hidden speakers. He reached over and turned it off. He had the authority, and the key, with which to do it.
Spada took out one of his pistols and shot the two Swiss Guards whose cubicles connected to his. They’d looked up when the alarm first sounded. Now they were hunched over their desks, bleeding.
Then he unlimbered his H&K MP5A3 and went for a walk.
He was smiling.
Chapter 94
Gulfstream G550
JFK International Airport
Queens, New York
They had taken their seats after Simon stashed the Alfa in a corner of the unmarked hangar used exclusively by the Vatican. The crew were in place in the cockpit and the two Rolls-Royce turbofans were warming up with their distinctive whine.
Simon was on his phone. “Y
es, that’s right. We’re wheels up anytime now.” He covered up the phone, whispered to Cat, “I’ve always wanted to say that.” Then back to the phone. “You’re sure about this? You saw it clearly?”
He made a few more comments then clicked off.
“Nice kid. I think he’s Martin’s new protégé, named Giustino Ferro. He’s been our guardian angel drone driver. Definitely helped you out, didn’t he?”
Cat fastened her seat belt on the maroon leather captain’s chair across from his. “Yes, we were trapped on that FDR. Nowhere to go. We would have been killed.” She shuddered.
“According to Father Ferro, the drone followed Kessler’s chopper all the way to the airport. Who knew we had a groovy little drone program, eh? Nice surprise sprung on us by good old M, eh, Moneypenny?”
She smiled. He was coming down from the adrenaline of the gunplay at the Kessler building. It was like a drug-induced high, all the action and, she supposed, all the killing. She wasn’t quite as used to it as he had become. Judas had had much longer, and even if he was Simon now, all those centuries hadn’t disappeared from his memory.
Simon went on. “The camera wasn’t able to get much of what was going on inside, so we don’t really know if Bella’s all right, but they all definitely got into two Kessler Industries jets and took off pretty damn quick. M is trying to get the flight plans, not that they’d file accurate ones. But most pilots would comply, especially when there’s a long leg over water. So we may or may not learn their destination officially, but I’m betting you’ll be able to do your thing and tell us. Right?”
Cat inclined her head. Yes, she could probably home in on them and get a good sense of where they were headed. It was no different from the way Kessler’s adept had likely tracked Straker and Bella and their statue in the first place. And now that Cat knew more than she had before the ball, she was certain she could pinpoint their location accurately.
“In any case,” Simon went on, ignoring Cat’s demure silence, “that’s not the biggest deal. Our friend Ferro wants us to know that not long after the two Kessler Dassaults taxied out of here and took off into the wild blue yonder, somebody fitting our friend Straker’s description got out of a car and entered the hangar…and guess what?”
“Another jet?”
Simon whistled, “Beautiful and perceptive! What a package!”
Cat chuckled. Simon became cheekier post-danger, a sort of involuntary reaction. Part of her wanted to cuddle up in his chair with him right now. Her features said nothing.
“Yes, another Dassault, a smaller one, this time presumably bearing our soldier friend—and his damned statue. I mean that literally.”
“So they kidnapped Bella after killing Walton, left him instructions and he’s doing the only thing he can. Going after them, giving up the statue.”
“Right-o. M is working on that flight plan, too, but frankly we all know it’ll be the same as the other planes. Ferro’s drone couldn’t have told us much more, but this is enough. All we’re doing is waiting on what M might have for us. Any minute now.”
Cat was distracted. But she didn’t want him to notice. He might put it together.
Pre-emptively, she asked him, “How do you think they found them? At the motel?”
“They were either not all that careful, or they had assholes following Walton’s car right from their initial contact, or they used the ways of magick. Or maybe all three.” He shook his head. “Walton never stood a chance. Probably expected Straker to come right back.”
His phone buzzed and he squinted at it. “Ah, looks like we’re headed home.”
He went to confer with the pilots, then returned to the cabin and belted himself in.
“What about the fifth statue?” Cat asked.
“I’m betting they’re on their way to get it. I’ll explain my thoughts later on during this flight.”
The plane jerked gently as it taxied out of the hangar and headed for the runway. The pilots obtained their instructions from the tower.
“We may as well relax,” Simon said. “Did I ever tell you I introduced Bill Lear to James Coburn? That’s how Bill ended up doing a cameo for In Like Flint, flying the plane.”
Cat nodded, distracted.
Simon pouted.
Shortly, after an uneventful take-off, the flight attendant came out of the galley with a tray.
“I took the liberty, if you don’t mind,” Simon said.
The attendant was a trim model type wearing khakis and a maroon jacket. On his tray was a bottle of wine and two glasses. He smiled as he poured. Cat ogled him a little. She couldn’t help it, he was so pretty and yet muscular, and so classically attractive.
“It’s a Biondi Santi brunello,” Simon said. “The wine, I mean. Five hundred bucks a bottle, so enjoy it.” His eyes twinkled, now amused at Cat’s gawking. “We may be going to our deaths and-or eternal damnation. Maybe both. I figure we may as well go out on a good wine.”
“Salute,” he added, and they clinked glasses. She was staring at the attendant. He smiled back widely. Simon winked.
Cat knew she was blushing.
Chapter 95
The catacombs beneath the Edificio Nuovo, Comitato per Interventi
Vatican City, Rome
This secret sector of the catacombs was off-limits to tourists. The special Swiss Guard platoon assigned to guarding it knew what they were doing and why. They were ordered to wear ear plugs to keep out the voices. Occasionally, someone chose to ignore that directive, and eventually required a psychiatric evaluation and usually a transfer to some other duty. Or an asylum.
But Captain Spada had discarded the ear plugs early on, embracing the voices, and today had dawned as the one for which he had been prepared by the voices. That morning, when he laid out his blue routine wear uniform he’d paid special attention to the creases.
Today was the glorious day.
After shooting down the first half-dozen guardsmen near his command hub, Captain Spada used his retina to open the thick metal doors originally installed in the Sixties. The new scanning technology had only recently been retrofitted, when the concrete door frames and jambs had been reinforced. He hadn’t bothered with a suppressor. As well as keeping things in, the doors kept things out—such as sound, so his shots had been contained. When the first door slid open, Spada sprayed his H&K submachine gun, killing the guardsmen clustered around the cubicle hub. A couple who tried to duck down he shot through the thin partitions. He continued on his way deeper into the narrowing tunnel, sealing the doors behind him. At the next set of doors, Spada repeated the process. It was almost routine at this point, product of many visualizations in the past few months.
At every hub, he made sure the board that represented the bound chambers continued to show only green. And that the alarm continued to remain silent.
No one saw him coming until it was too late. No one managed to make a call to the Swiss Guard’s headquarters building. The secret catacomb prison wing was essentially cut off.
He is coming.
The voices were giddy with excitement, especially the one that was his father’s. Spada laughed as he shot down the last few guardsmen of the elite detail, catching all of them unawares. He knew what to do, and when to do it. Now was the time.
He found the correct tunnel. He flicked a switch, turning on a narrow line of dim lights. He had done the wiring himself, not well but adequately. He ducked his head, for it was lower than most tunnels and had been previously untouched perhaps a half century. The bones and skulls were all around him above and below, on shelves and in cubbyholes, and hung from the ceiling like grotesque chandeliers. The tunnel not only narrowed at the sides but also in height, until he was nearly bent double and scuttling sideways. Skeletal fingers and jagged femurs reached out to snag his uniform folds. Cracked skulls with huge, empty eye sockets stared at him as he inhaled the dust of centuries. The tunnel finally ended in a small cul-de-sac, a pyramid of skulls fused together disappearing into the morta
r of petrified remains.
He’d been here before, and now he picked up the trowel he had shoved out of sight amongst a small wall of seemingly interwoven tibiae and fibulae, starting to dig and remove the skulls, many of which crumbled into dust. At the center of the pyramid of crania, he found a bundle of rotted cloth and parchment. He worked it out from among the anatomical shards.
It was heavy.
Finally he took a long breath in the close quarters of the tunnel’s end and snatched up the satchel. Tucking it into his lower belly, he backed his way out of the tunnel until he reached the more normal height. He flicked off the lights and headed back with his treasure.
Then he made himself comfortable. It wasn’t going to be a long wait.
Ghostly hands caressed his brain.
Chapter 96
The catacombs beneath the Edificio Nuovo, Comitato per Interventi
Vatican City, Rome
They have arrived.
Time has come for you to lead the way.
You will now fulfill your destiny and take your place in my new world.
The voices caressed his ears. Captain Spada nodded, barely realizing he was drooling on his uniform. He’d been surrounded by the corpses of his mates for hours now, all of them splayed out in bloody death, but he didn’t care. Now that he’d heard his master’s voice, he knew the hour was nigh. He was in the only place with cell service.
He was filled with joy when the text he expected finally arrived.
I am here, master.
First he went to the reinforced doors that led to the catacombs’ public areas. The door was disguised on the outside, an updated remnant of ancient hidden doors and passages used to confound enemies bent on exterminating the proto-Christians who huddled there in fear. Spada opened it following the usual protocols. He had already defeated the built-in alarms and safeguards. As the Captain of the special detail, he had been the perfect mole. Now he threw open the metal-lined doors and saw a small knot of people standing there, waiting.
THE JUDAS HIT Page 28