The Vatican Rip l-5

by Jonathan Gash

  There was no other visible difference. I was supremely confident of my veneer. I'd sold worse to experts.

  Lying down on a shelf is harder than it sounds. Why I'd chosen the middle shelf when the lowest one was so much more logical I don't know. I was mad with myself.

  Probably some daft idea of peering through the lock to see the security guards pass.

  Even that was lunatic, because I'd have needed an eye in my bellybutton. Stupid, stupid. I was in a hell of a state by the time I'd slotted myself along the shelf, breathless and tired. The toolbag fitted in the crook of my knees. I lifted the pedestal up and shoved my feet down inside it. A blue cotton thread from my pocket, wetted and threaded through the keyhole, enabled me to pull the door gently to.

  And there I was, safely shelved among the precious early Christian figurines. The important thing now was not to nod off and start snoring. I'd never felt so knackered in my life, but it was going perfectly.

  Which raised the important question of why it felt so frigging wrong.

  * * *

  The security guards came an hour later.

  I'd dozed fitfully, jerking awake and imagining a million noises. The cupboard was unbearably stuffy. I'd allowed for a mere fifteen minutes on the shelf. The temptation recurred to open the door briefly for air but I never change a winning team. And by all possible estimates I was undoubtedly winning. I'd made my replica. I'd smuggled it into the Vatican. I'd fiddled myself in. I'd left no traces. Not a fingerprint, not a mark. All I needed now was for the security guards to hurtle past, leaving me five precious uninterrupted minutes to somehow lower the true antique down to the Stradone. Heavy as it was, from there I would simply carry it across to the loading bay steps and conceal it in the store room among the cafeteria tables. I hadn't quite worked this bit out, trusting to Patrizio to pull a switch with the ambulance again, but you can't think of everything. And the security blokes knew their cafeteria table was due to be returned once it was proved contamination-free.

  There were two of them, talking in undertones about the big match. Two-one, apparently. A last-minute decider after untold agonies, the opposition as unsportsmanlike as ever. The usual crap.

  Luckily they were disagreeing about the team choice, a famous Milan striker having been dropped—unaccountable stupidity or the wisdom of ages, depending on your viewpoint. They passed, muttering arguments. I was worried because their shoes hardly made a sound on the luscious antique flooring, which proves how basically unpleasant these security people actually are. There's no cause for suspicion that bad.

  I listened them out of earshot. Anna maintained they went one way first, then retraced the route at the next circuit. We'd argued time and time again over this. I kept telling her it was too good to be true. She called me a cretin. Twice I'd done the entire circuit myself, among tourists. Pausing a full minute at the position of each time-clock and walking at security guard pace, the whole route took forty-six minutes dead. I waited at least that long in the confined space, horizontal and running sweat. Inevitably their meal would come between circuits.

  It took longer to climb out of the cupboard than it had getting in. My legs were stiff as hell. Grunting at the effort I had to re-educate my muscles before I could even put my foot down. I practically whined with pain as pins-and-needles tingled up my legs. The feeling had never got that high before.

  I lifted my pedestal out, having the wit to recover my blue cotton thread and leaving the cupboard door unlocked in case I suddenly needed to hide. No sign of lurking guards. I was about to start across the gallery to assemble my phoney 'antique' when I froze. I knew what was wrong. In fact, I'd known all along. Only my abject terror had prevented me from appreciating the unpleasant truth.

  I slipped across the gallery and reached underneath to touch the wood of the precious piece of Chippendale. Not a single chime of ecstasy. I tried again. And again.

  Arcellano's genuine antique table now wasn't.

  * * *

  Being a divvie's not as easy as it sounds. It's hard work. Okay, so you know without understanding how it is you know. You're absolutely certain that Grandad's old clock is a genuine Jerome, and not a modern copy. You know you are one hundred per cent right, that the rough old timepiece is actually made by that great Yank whose shelf-clocks popularized brass (instead of wooden) movements and whose clocks are now worth a fortune. (Tip: look for Jeromes in East Anglia. It's where genuine examples are commonest found. God knows why.) But all this inner certainty only helps as long as you let it. You can stay an ignoramus, if you're determined. It takes hard work to learn who's making today's best Jerome forgeries, and how many genuine pieces Jerome himself exported from Bristol, Connecticut, to England between 1821 and 1860, and memorize information on his contemporary rivals. You can be an ignorant divvie, and I should know. In that terrible moment nobody was more of an ignoramus than me. I'd been fooled. I'd been sent to nick a bloody dud.

  * * *

  I felt my face drain of blood. I stood there like a fool, holding my useless bag of tools and licking my lips, looking about for a trillion Vatican Guards to spring out of the shadows and nail me. A frame. A set-up. Hunted. I was hunted. In an instant I was transformed from a clever supercool burglar about to pull off the greatest rip of all time to a nerk who'd been had.

  In a sudden panic I began slipping down the gallery towards the marble staircase. And just as abruptly paused. A good steady listen into the dark silence. Nothing. A quick kneel to press an ear to the flooring. Nothing. I sat back on my heels, thinking quickly.

  Whether the Museum's 'antique' was valuable or not, I hadn't been rumbled. At least, not yet—and not by the guards. There might still be a score of police waiting outside to nab me, but the fact remained I was still in the Vatican without a single clamouring alarm bell. A memory came—of a day, among crowds of sprinting tourist groups, I'd stood in this very gallery before that 'antique' and been stunned by the clamour and radiance emitted by the loveliest pristine genuine Chippendale I'd ever seen in my life.

  Which meant someone else had already done what I'd intended, nicked the genuine item and substituted a dud. In the antiques game we call it 'doing a lady', after the cardgame of dummying queens. For maybe another minute I remained fhere, trying to flog my poor old tired cortex into action.

  How long had I got? Say an hour for their break, plus five minutes for starting the reverse circuit. Sixty-five minutes. Take away twenty minutes for shifting the phoney table. Say forty, forty-five at the outside. I managed a swallow. I'd need luck, and every ounce of skill I possessed. I flitted silently back towards those gruesome doves, undoing the toolbag as I went, with cold murder in my heart.

  CHAPTER 25

  I woke with a muffled squeal of terror, instantly stifled by the even greater fright which swamped me as I realized where I was. I'd fallen off the lavatory, knocking my head against the wall. The clatter of trays and the sound of vacuum-cleaners close by was almost deafening. How long had they been on the go, for heaven's sake? A trace of blood from my chin worried me for a second. Then I remembered. I was in the Vatican Museum cafeteria's loo, for the moment safely ensconced in a cubicle, sealed. I'd pulled off the rip, but the Museum's Chippendale was a fraud.

  Blearily I remembered I had shaved in the early hours according to plan by means of the disposable mini-razor. Blisters wept painfully on my right palm where I'd gouged and slaved to dismember Arcellano's supposedly precious antique Chippendale in the long gallery. Sitting on the loo I smiled at the memory, weak with relief. I'd never been so vicious with any piece of furniture before, modern or otherwise. With a complete disregard for the ridiculous copy that his supposed Chippendale was, I'd unscrewed what could be unscrewed and sawed what couldn't, using a fine-gauge metal saw for stealth. Three times—actually at the pedestal joins—I'd levered off the supporting brackets using my work-cloth to dampen the creaking as the modern toothplates lifted away, and then gathered the sawdust under the pedestal. My entire concern had be
en speed. Arcellano's 'antique' was a piece of crap, and I treated it accordingly. I'd gone to all this trouble to nick it, so I swore it would get duly nicked. But as for respecting it any longer… As far as I'm concerned, a bad forgery's the ultimate insult.

  Leaving my own—much superior—mock-up proudly looking every inch a thoroughbred, I did two journeys with the disarticulated pieces of Arcellano's table. The top surface was heavy as hell, almost uncontrollable, waggling from side to side on my bowed back, and once I accidentally clouted it on the bannister with a loud echoing thump that made me freeze, despairing that I'd finally blown it. Nobody came and, in a state of collapse, I finally tottered into Signora Faranada's corridor almost unbelievingly. It took me almost half an hour to recover enough to get the pieces down into the store room.

  For the rest of the night, way into the early hours, I slogged quietly in that airless room inhaling its stale cloying aroma and steadily whittling Arcellano's phoney but solid pieces into sections. I settled after a lot of sluggish thought to use two of the modern cafeteria tables, and simply sawed the 'Chippendale' into sections for screwing underneath one of the cafeteria jobs. That left the drawers and pedestal and a few angled pieces from the surface. These I arranged like bits of a child's jigsaw beneath a second table. I used the spare sheet of formica, which I'd earlier left in the room against the wall, to hold the pieces against the underside in a kind of concealed sandwich. The only odd thing was that the two tables both had formica surfaces top and bottom. I covered both by my one plastic sheet and reeled back to the safe haven of the loo.

  * * *

  I listened to the cafeteria kitchen preparing for the ten o'clock rush, gathering my resources for the last act. At ten past ten, as Signora Faranada's staff coped with the influx, I would make my way out of the cafeteria under cover of the queue. The two sedentary guards permanently stationed at the staircase leading to the Gallery of the Candelabras would be questioned at ten-fifteen by Dr Valentine in his grotesque American-accented Italian. He would be professional as ever—clean collar, new tie, smart briefcase—but would have missed his way while taking the cafeteria manageress a good report. Could the guard please phone ahead to announce his arrival…?

  Signora Faranada would of course be delighted. In the flush of victory, she'd be only too happy to arrange that Captain Russomanno issue a transit permit for her own table to be returned from the health laboratories. I could ask to use her phone to summon Valerio from my 'department'. Anything to get shut of me and the suggestion of contamination, to wind up the whole problem. And I would promise the fullest report to the tiny Vatican emergency clinic.

  Wearily muttering my plans to myself for the last time, I smiled. I would promise her a special certificate, a clean bill of health, if not more. She had a lovely mouth.

  At eleven-thirty that morning I walked wearily out of the Vatican Museum into the Viale Vaticano. It was straight ahead, across the road, down the street shops towards the market. My face felt white. My nape prickled and my hands were tingling. I could hardly move my legs for shaking.

  There was a public phone in a store entrance on the Via Candia. I dialled, but not the number Arcellano had given me. I kept missing the hole from nerves. I cupped the mouthpiece and asked the Vatican City switchboard—nuns run it—for the boss priest in Security. They kept trying to give me a captain and I kept refusing, telling the switchboard it was a matter of life and death. I've always wanted to say that, but not in these circumstances. It took three feeds of the coin box. I had to trust somebody, for God's sake.

  'Very well. I'll put you through.'

  As the clicks went I wondered what the hell you call them. Monsignor? Sir?

  'Hello?' a distinguished voice intoned gravely.

  'Er, hello, ah, Reverend. I want to speak to the, er, bishop in charge of the Vatican City security.'

  'Cardinal Arcellano speaking.'

  I closed my eyes and put my forehead against the cool wall for a moment before asking him could he please repeat that.

  Five minutes later, my mind numb from the shock, I made it across the Via Candia, turned right among the barrow stalls displaying shoes and leather goods. Immediately on the left is the best bar in Rome. I reeled in, went through to the back and sat.

  The girl brought me a glass of white wine and a cappuccino.

  'And one for that old lady,' I told her, nodding towards the far corner.

  'Grazie, signor,' old Anna wheezed.

  'Prego, signora,' I said back. It was our signal we'd pulled the rip.

  I'd never seen tears in Anna's eyes before. Women always surprise me. But then so does everyone else.

  * * *

  That afternoon I did two things, bushed as I was. Anna and I became lovers, and I phoned Adriana. I realized at the time one thing was stupid and the other profoundly wise. To this day I don't know which was which.

  CHAPTER 26

  Piero came on the line. There was no time left for mucking about, so I owned it was Lovejoy wanting to speak to Adriana.

  'Where are you? If you're still in Rome—'

  'Sod off, lackey,' I said, bone weary. 'Get her.'

  'Lovejoy?' Adriana sounded breathless, not as furious as I'd expected.

  'It's me, love. Listen. I've been held up.'

  'Darling. Are you all right? Do you need—?'

  'Nothing. I'll contact you tomorrow. I have to see you.'

  'Darling. Just tell me where and I'll come…' There was more of this. In a daze I broke off and floated home to Anna's. Adriana was lovely in that spectacular Roman way I was coming to worship. And when she rose up so fragrantly to meet me swathed in the opulent creamy linen of her bedroom—

  'You fucking swine!' Anna went at me, spitting and scratching.

  'Eh?' I ducked among the furniture. 'What are you on about—?'

  'You poisoned Carlo! Cretino! Assassin!' Poisoned? I moaned. Don't say I'd got the dose wrong, not after all this. She raged after me. 'He's in hospital again!'

  'Put that knife down, you old lunatic!'

  I had to belt her before she would stop. She sobbed un-controllably on the couch. I was so utterly tired, but credible lies were called for. My strong suit.

  'It wasn't me, love,' I said. 'He'd had a whole pint of Scotch and threw up. I merely turned it to my advantage.'

  'Is that true, Lovejoy?' she sniffed. With her aged make-up running uncontrollably she looked horrible.

  'Honest,' I lied. 'Cross my heart and hope to—er, honest.'

  'Poor Carlo.'

  Well, quite. I argued persuasively, 'You know what he's like, Anna. By tomorrow he'll believe he pulled off the whole rip single-handed.'

  'That's true.' She dabbed her face, making things twice as bad. 'Only… Lovejoy. If you didn't dose Carlo with that stuff, what was it for?'

  'Last-minute varnish,' I lied. There was no answer to that. 'It's my secret,' I said as coldly as possible, to freeze her off. 'We're allies, Anna, but if I let on to you exactly how…'

  The dear bird jumped to a woman's favourite conclusion in the pause and breathed,

  'You are afraid that would be the end of our partnership?'

  'Not really afraid,' I said nobly. In fact my greatest craving was to get shut of this maddening old crone and her goonish brother.

  'I see,' she said, looking at me in a new way.

  I cleared my throat after a year's uncomfortable silence. 'I'd, er, better have a lie down,' I said eventually. 'I've more night work ahead.'

  She rose then and crossed to the dressing-table. 'Shower while I make up your bed.'

  When I came tottering blearily back her alcove curtains were pulled aside. My couch wasn't made up at all. Uncaring, I reeled towards it, clutching my towel round my middle.

  'Here, Lovejoy.' I felt her guiding touch on my arm and collapsed on her bed. She looked down at me, her make-up gone and only her lovely young face hovering. 'You'll sleep better here than on that old couch. Are you very tired?'

  'Done in
.' My vision blacked. 'What are you doing?' My towel had gone and a smooth lissom body was moving alongside my exhausted hairy neck.

  'You need keeping warm, Lovejoy.'

  Actually I didn't, but when your hostess offers you tea it's rude to refuse. And as it turned out I wasn't as tired as all that.

  * * *

  'That you, Arcellano?'

  'Where the hell have you been, Lovejoy?'

  It was my old friend all right. 'Pulling the rip.'

  That shut him up, for about ten seconds. 'You what?'

  'You heard.'

  Another pause, then much quieter: 'Lovejoy. Are you serious or drunk?'

  'Serious.'

  'But it's impossible.'

  'Was.' We both listened to heavy breathing.

  'So you'll deliver—' But he was uncertain.

  I cut in. 'No, Arcellano. No nice long trips to Bonn. I deliver here, in Rome.'

  'You're off your head.'

  'In the Colosseum. Exactly at sunrise. No sooner, no later.'

  'Lovejoy.' His sibilant voice made my skin crawl. 'Lovejoy. If you're planning to work a fixer, I'll have you crisped. You do understand?'

  'Perfectly,' I told him. 'And if I find you skulking in ambush when I arrive at the Colosseum, Arcellano, I'll take to the hills.' I put a whine of anxiety into my voice. 'I want no trouble.'

  'Very well, Lovejoy,' that voice purred. 'I'll be there.'

  'Alone, Arcellano. Agreed?'

  'Agreed.'

  I walked the half mile to Patrizio's garage. I had remembered to bring the keys to Adriana's workshop so Valerio and I could nick the winch and bring it over in his van. I walked quickly. It was already dark, and I still had work to do.

  CHAPTER 27

  As the first sun ray touched the high rim a cool breeze wafted through the Colosseum's gaunt stone honeycomb. Fawns and dark browns started stuffing the blackness out of sight among the pits and arches. A pale midnight blue appeared above the jagged edge of the great interior. All around me the huge crescents were thrown into relief.