Suddenly Bruno sprang towards the gun and knocked it out of Luciano’s hands, grappling him to the ground and punching him repeatedly as the Glock went spinning to the other side of the room.
“Run, Nicola,” he cried, but she cowered in fear behind a display case that glittered in the now flickering overhead lights, seemingly unable to move. Finally she pulled herself together, smashed the glass with a well-aimed kick, and removed a large twisted ram’s horn, brandishing it tightly in her hand as she ran towards Bruno and Luciano.
The two men thrashed around the floor, barely distinguishable from each other in their black clothing, knocking over tables and glass-encased exhibits, which crashed to the ground, disgorging their precious contents everywhere.
Bruno broke free momentarily and dashed towards the doorway to the hypogeum where the ghoulish Nazi cadavers were displayed. Shouting a string of obscenities, Luciano sprinted after him and disappeared through the arch, with Nicola following at a slight distance. Amid muffled sounds of grunts and punches, the two men crashed over and over again against the coffin-like cases, ripping and dislodging the wiring from the generator that had kept the cryonic system working for more than half a century. The reinforced glass began to crack and then shattered, releasing the coolant, which now leaked and sloshed onto the broad stone floor, flooding the chamber in a rush of vile-smelling effluvia.
Slipping on the thick, viscous liquid, Bruno and Luciano skidded and rolled towards an open doorway that led to yet another wide stone staircase, and the lights suddenly went out. Nicola could hear a series of loud thuds and thumps as the two men fell down the stairwell and, turning on her flashlight, she waded cautiously through the slimy fluid towards the steps.
Heart pounding in her throat, she heard some muted cries followed by labored footsteps and the harsh sounds of heavy breathing. She tucked the small flashlight into her waistband and raised the heavy shofar, poised to use it as a weapon as she backed into the adjoining gallery.
She held her breath and stood silently, praying that she wouldn’t faint from terror, wondering if it was Bruno or Luciano. The footfalls stopped for a moment and then continued, coming towards her, step by step, slowly but relentlessly. The tension was nearly unbearable.
Was it Bruno? Or Rostoni’s thug? She tightened her grasp on the weapon.
Suddenly she gasped in fear as a figure emerged from the shadows. The shofar fell out of her hand, shattering on the stone floor. It was Bruno.
“Thank God,” she whispered over and over again, trembling uncontrollably as he limped towards her and pulled her to him wordlessly in a tight embrace. “Are you all right?” she asked over and over again as she held him close, afraid to let go. Tears of relief filled her eyes and slid down her cheeks unheeded.
His black jersey was torn at the shoulder and soaked in the foul-smelling coolant, and she saw that his left cheek was bruised a dark purple, his face covered with a multitude of scratches and contusions.
“I think he’s dead,” Bruno said, ignoring her question as he took a deep gulp of air. “I hit him with this.”
He held up the massive Cup of Elijah, which he had placed on one of the tables a short while ago, instead of returning it to the display case. Remembering that it was there, he had managed to grab it in a desperate maneuver as he wrestled with Luciano. The enormous goblet was bent out of shape at the stem and covered with gouts of blood. He dropped it on a nearby table, exhausted.
“We have to get out of here, Nicola,” he urged, holding onto her shoulder for support as he stretched, trying to limber up his arms and legs. “We have to save ourselves, but we also need to expose this. It’s our only chance of staying alive—if others know. We have to get to the newspapers. To a news agency.”
As quickly as they could manage—this time with Nicola leading the way, flashlight in hand—they retraced their steps through the dark tunnel that led back to the Vigna Randanini, following the luminous yellow twine that marked the way. The oxy lamps still shone brightly through the opening in the wall, their flickering tongues of light enabling Nicola to reposition the stool that Luciano had knocked over when he followed them into the tunnel. She climbed onto it and hoisted herself through the aperture. Stretching out her hand through the gap in the wall, she helped Bruno climb through to the other side.
Now on familiar ground, they ran down the long corridor leading away from the hypogeum and exited the catacombs, no longer caring if the heavy metal door was securely closed or not. They sprinted towards the gated entrance of the estate and in their haste only narrowly avoided some scattered rocks and piles of fallen leaves. Suddenly Nicola tripped over something in the dark.
“What’s this, Bruno?” she whispered as she picked up a small metal canister and examined its label. “Halothane,” she said softly, in puzzlement. “Manufactured in Switzerland. It sounds familiar. Hey, wait. Isn’t that an anesthetic of some sort? Some sort of pulmonary or cardiac depressant? Luciano must have used it to knock out the carabinieri,” she said, looking in the direction of the policemen who were supposed to be protecting the catacombs, but who had clearly collapsed onto the dashboard of their vehicle.
She pocketed the canister and they started walking towards their small black car. All at once, Bruno noticed that there were two motorcycles parked alongside the high brick walls encircling the Marchesa’s property. “Oh, no,” he groaned, looking quickly around him, but seeing no one else nearby. “I think there must have been two of them. I wonder what happened to the other one.
“But look, they’ve left their keys in the ignition,” he said, quickly hopping onto one of the motorbikes and looking around him once more. “I think it’ll be safer if we split up and go separately—I’ll take one of the Vespas and you take the car. I’ll go to the Reuters office in town and tell them about our discovery. I think the only way we can protect ourselves from Rostoni’s henchmen is by exposing this immediately. If we bring reporters, he won’t be able to silence this. The press can come out here to take photographs and print an exclusive story in the morning.
“You head back to my apartment and lock yourself inside. Try to reach Father Benedetto.”
“No, Bruno,” she said decisively, as he turned on the ignition. “I’m going straight to the Vatican. I’ll try to call Father Benedetto on his cell phone, from the car. I’ll tell him everything that’s happened and see if he can meet me there. I’m going to try to break into Rostoni’s office with the picklocks. There must be some evidence there of his collusion in this horrible Museum. Some incriminating files. Some sort of paper trail. I’ll take the halothane with me for protection.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be perfectly safe. And besides, you know I have a black belt in karate,” she said as they stood by the rented Smart Car.
The look of quiet determination on her face left no room for argument, so Bruno leaned over, gave her a quick peck on the cheek, and after making sure that she had the car key in hand, poised to unlock the door, he sped off on the Vespa, leaving a trail of dust in its wake that floated up in the air behind him.
Suddenly a heavyset figure dressed black emerged from behind some nearby bushes.
“Not so fast, Frau Professor,” he said in a clipped German accent, aiming a small Beretta at her. “You’re not going anywhere just yet. Drop the keys.”
Acting on sheer reflex, she kicked the gun out of his hand, and it went flying into some thorny shrubbery. As he scrambled to pick up the weapon, she ran towards the adjacent field, dashing away from the rented car towards the lost catacomb of the Via Appia Pignatelli, hoping to hide in the shadows of its wild vegetation. Leaping over a low stone wall, she darted into the meadow, weaving in and out of clusters of overgrown weeds, nearly twisting her ankle as she jumped over the scattered rocks that littered the area.
Josef, meantime, hopped on the remaining Vespa and roared through an opening in the wall. He revved the engine over and over again, zooming in and out, zigzagging as he tried to run her over or crush her
against one of the crumbling walls that surrounded the field.
“Scheisse,” he yelled over and over in a frenzied rage as she raced ahead of the Vespa, sidestepping him again and again, propelled equally by firm resolve and cold, nearly overwhelming fear. “Weibsstück!” he screamed at her. “Drecke Juden Liebhaberin!”
Panting for breath as she tried to elude him, she now raced into the middle of the field, a desperate plan beginning to form in her head as she led him, deliberately, towards the section that she and Bruno had narrowed down as the probable location of the entrance to the lost catacomb when they had scouted the area a day earlier.
As she had hoped, Josef came after her, gunning the engine viciously, nearly overtaking her, and the heavy Vespa careened over a weakened section of the catacomb ceiling that had been damaged by repeated earth tremors over the centuries. It began to shake and shift violently, and Josef soared off the motorbike as it hit a large rock. The Vespa went flying to the side, and he crashed onto the ground with a tremendous thud, disappearing through a gaping hole that collapsed into the crypt below.
As he fell, Nicola heard a terrible scream, followed by the sound of shattering glass, agonized cries of “Hilfe, hilfe,” and then an eerie silence, punctuated by a few strange gurgling noises. She waited for several minutes, her heart thudding in her chest, and then nervously inched her way over to the pit on her stomach.
Testing the stability of the surface of the field, she slithered forward warily, hoping that her weight was distributed evenly and that the surface would hold her without further collapse. Finally she was lying down near the edge of the huge hole, terrified that the ground might cave in further, but anxious to see what had become of her pursuer.
Guardedly, she peered into the dark chasm and shone her flashlight into its inky depths. To her horror she saw that the German was impaled on the large Portuguese Menorah that had so fascinated Bruno. Its razor-sharp spikes protruded from his throat, chest, and lower torso, and blood gushed freely from the gaping wounds. He twitched again and moaned weakly. Finally his body convulsed and stopped moving.
“My God,” she shuddered in revulsion, trying to avert her face and nearly choking on her words. “Oh, my God.” And gagging at the gruesome sight, she retched uncontrollably into the pit, onto the bloodied corpse below. Her head began to spin, and she imagined that she saw the phantoms of thousands of Greek Jews swirling around her, crowding her vision, pale and gaunt, spectrally thin, their deaths finally avenged.
Trembling and shaken, she shimmied away from the pit on her stomach, backing away with a sliding motion, inch by inch, until she reached firm ground. She got up, wiped her mouth on her sleeve, and walked slowly back to the car, still in shock, her mind racing feverishly, hoping that no one else was lying in wait for her in the bushes and that the carabinieri were still knocked out.
She struggled to pull herself together, taking deep cleansing breaths and trying to focus. Forcing herself to concentrate, she pushed the hideous image of Josef’s skewered body from her mind by sheer willpower and let her anger flow through her unimpeded. Anger at being chased by the two murderous henchmen. Anger at Rostoni, the apparent mastermind behind the Museum. And anger at a world in which people conspired to kill others simply because they worshipped differently or had different ethnic origins.
A surge of adrenaline began to flood her body, warming her, energizing her with renewed determination and resolve. She could do it. She was strong. No one was going to intimidate her or stand in her way, not after she had come this far. She would get to the Vatican and search Rostoni’s office. She would pick the locks and find any incriminating paperwork that could possibly prove his connection to the terrible Museum. She would try to reach Father Benedetto from the car and beg for his assistance.
But if necessary, she would do it on her own. No one would stop her. She had the halothane for protection, and her tessera, if needed, to prove that she belonged on the premises of the Apostolic Palace.
And she was armed with the ghostly presence of all those victims of Nazi greed and inhuman hatred—men, women, and children—entire communities of whom nothing remained but the silent artifacts buried for decades in Rostoni’s Museum of Dead Nations. They would empower her. They would sustain her. Their sacrifice would give her the strength and courage to do what must be done.
And Matt, she reminded herself fiercely. Also Matt, her dear friend. He too would be avenged. Like the Furies of ancient Greek legend, she would not rest until she had exposed those responsible for his death and seen them brought to justice.
After a careful search in the immediate vicinity of the car, she found her set of keys. No longer caring whether or not the carabinieri would be awakened by the noise, she gunned the engine and sped off in the direction of the Vatican.
Chapter Fifteen
Nicola left the small black car on a dark side street off the Via della Conciliazione, opposite the Vatican, heedless of whether it might be towed when the Eternal City—oblivious to the drama of the previous hours—finally shook off its languorous cloak of somnolent indifference and woke up to greet the prospect of a bright new day.
Moonlight streamed through the nighttime clouds in pale shafts of almond and pearl gray, gleaming on the massive Bernini columns as Nicola slipped between the shadows, moving stealthily from pillar to pillar, towards the edge of the large square fronting the Apostolic Palace.
Raising her pair of small binoculars, she saw two Swiss Guards in the distance, hovering around the main door, and wondered how she would go about sneaking into the building unseen. Should she try to pick the locks of some side entrance? No, that might set off an alarm. Her best bet, she quickly decided—her only chance—was simply to brazen it out. She would march over to the Swiss Guards and tell them that she had left something important in the workroom assigned to her in the Palace. There was no way for them to verify whether or not she was telling the truth, not in the middle of the night, anyway, and she would show them her tessera as proof of her identity.
She removed her black ski cap, tucking it into her pouch belt for the time being, and shook out her long hair, which flamed around her face and shoulders like a rich halo. She moistened her lips with her tongue and pinched her cheeks to give them a bit of color. Tucking the canister of halothane into the waistband of her black spandex leggings, she sauntered over to the bored Guards with a confident stride, swinging her hips and tossing her mane of hair seductively as she approached them.
“I’m so sorry,” she said softly, in deliberately accented Italian, “but I’ve forgotten my cell phone inside my office. I’m a visiting scholar from the United States, and I need to contact a colleague in California, urgently. There’s a nine-hour difference, and this is the only time I can reach her. Here, you can see my tessera, so you’ll know this is legitimate.”
The two Guards exchanged some words in Swiss-German as they examined her pass, apparently considering her request. Suddenly she panicked. To her surprise she found herself holding her breath as she whipped out the halothane and sprayed it directly into their unsuspecting faces. She backed away as they collapsed against the wall, took another deep breath, and then, as the vapor began to dissipate, she propped them up against the doorway, in a sitting position, hoping that any unforeseen passersby would think they had simply dozed off. She squirted some more anesthetic on them again, for good measure, and removed their pagers, stuffing them into her pouch belt.
Rifling the pockets of one of the men, she found some mace and took it with her. She wasn’t sure how much of the halothane was left in the canister, and her recent brush with death had steeled her to the likelihood that she would need as much protection as possible, at least until Father Benedetto arrived or Bruno met her with some reporters at the Palace.
Now inside the building, her dark ski cap back in place, she climbed the wide staircase leading to Rostoni’s suite of offices, which had been remodeled from several rooms in the Palace many years ago to suit the parti
cular needs and taste of the Cardinal when he became director of the Museums. Moving cautiously down the corridor, fearful that she would encounter more Swiss Guards, she reached Rostoni’s office and pulled out her picklocks.
Just as the cylinder finally began to turn, the heavy wooden door opened from within, and Rostoni himself towered over her menacingly as she crouched near the lock. He glared at her, his eyes glowing almost preternaturally, as she blurted out in disbelief, “What are you doing here in the middle of the night?”
“I might ask you the same question, Professoressa,” he replied with cold emphasis. “You seem to be working overtime this evening. I had no idea that you were so devoted to your job. How commendable.
“But tell me,” he said with narrowed eyes, “where is your distinguished colleague, Professore Recanati? Could it be that he’s been somehow detained? A little accident perhaps? Or has he left you to your own devices?”
“I beg your pardon,” Nicola rejoined icily, her hand resting on the canister at her waist, “but have I heard you correctly? You know very well what happened to us in the catacombs tonight. I’m sure you had a hand in it. As a matter of fact, now that I think of it, I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve been up all night, in your office, waiting to hear from your hit men.”
He glowered at her silently, fingering the chain of his pectoral cross as she continued to goad him.
“I’m afraid that we’ve discovered your pet hobby. Your secret little museum in the catacombs. Or should I call it your own personal Museum of Dead Nations. And your cute little collection of frozen cadavers, too,” she added nastily. “I'm sure you were involved in that as well.
“We know all about your activities during and after the war—your Fascist sympathies and your connection to an organization that fenced artwork stolen by the Nazis. Catholic Charities International,” she said angrily. “Does it ring a bell?”
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