by Joseph Nagle
Michael was shocked. The old man knew about King Sebastian; he knew about the documents.
The conservator sensed Michael’s shock. “You seem surprised, Dr. Sterling.”
“But if the church knows, why not make things right; why allow all of this to have happened?”
“Who is to say what is right, Doctor? What are we to do—hmm?”
Michael didn’t have an answer.
The old man repeated his question, “Tell me, then, what of Sebastian’s documents?”
“They are still there,” Michael replied. “I didn’t need them.”
The conservator nodded and leaned in even closer. “And what else, Dr. Sterling, what else did you come across?”
Michael wasn’t going to answer; he didn’t need to. The old man’s question was apparently meant to be rhetorical, and he said, “I’m sure that you are fully aware that demotic is still a quite challenged language; many still argue vociferously to its true translation. Be careful, Dr. Sterling, be very careful with what you think you may have come across.”
A sudden still filled the air as all of the men in the room stopped moving. The mood shifted to one that was somber. On the far end, two men were carrying a stretcher. On it was a body covered by a red and white blanket.
It was the colonel.
The conservator’s lips formed a weak smile that couldn’t hide his emotion. He laid his hand atop Michael’s. “I’m sorry about the colonel. He was one of my oldest and dearest friends.”
Turning, the conservator shuffled away, not wanting the American to see the small tear in the corner of his eye.
In the old man’s place, the head of the Swiss Guard returned. A medic was at his side, along with three more Swiss Guard. “These men will accompany you to our visitor’s quarters. There, you will be looked after by one of our medical professionals. You can shower and rest. Clean clothes and food will be provided to you.” The head of the Swiss Guard dug into his pocket and handed Michael a phone. It was the one that he had given to Sonia before pushing her and York out of the door to the Tower of Winds.
“The rest of your party has already been provided for and attended to; Staff Sergeant York is receiving medical attention as we speak, and your wife is handling the procedure.” Then the towering head of the Swiss Guard leaned down to Michael. His eyes no longer carried the look of a drowsy man. They were open and pulsating. “Dr. Sterling, once you are fed, cleaned, bandaged, and in comfortable clothing, you will be escorted to the airport along with your wife and Staff Sergeant York. You will be taken to your destination of choice. Consider it our way of saying thank you. However, please allow me to be quite clear: once you have left this nation, you will never again return.”
Standing upright, the man gestured to his underlings to take Michael away.
“Ever?” asked Michael.
“Ever,” repeated the head of the Swiss Guard with finality.
Michael slipped the phone into his front pants pocket and thought, Sonia and York? I guess they never made it to the safe house.
As the head of the Swiss Guard walked away, Michael shouted, “And the crown and the shroud; what of them?”
The man stopped in his tracks. He looked uneasily from left to right; and then turned to Michael as he replied, “Dr. Sterling, the Crown of Thorns and the Shroud of Turin were never out of our sight or control. We’ve known where they have been throughout this entire ordeal. Efforts are already under way to retrieve them.” With another snap of his fingers, he silently commanded his men to follow his orders.
It was then that Michael noticed the golden pendant hanging around the man’s neck. His coat had hidden it, but when he had motioned to the other guards, the neckline of his coat had creased enough for Michael to see it. It was a golden bee, the same necklace the colonel wore on a chain around his neck; it was the symbol of the Watchmen.
Michael moved his eyes from Swiss Guard to Swiss Guard. It didn’t take long, especially when he knew what he was looking for; of the dozen men in the room, each had a gold chain around his neck. Their coats covered most of the chains, so he couldn’t see if they carried the same pendant, but one of the Swiss Guard had knelt over the colonel’s body; it looked as if he were kissing the colonel’s hand.
Standing, the man had tucked his gold pendant back into his shirt.
A golden bee.
Michael bolted toward the head of the Swiss Guard and grabbed him by the elbow, spinning him around. “You are all Watchmen!”
The man didn’t smile nor did he frown; the creases of his face said nothing. He shook Michael’s grasp from his elbow and barked out more orders in Italian. The assigned guards and medic quickly surrounded Michael; gently but firmly, they escorted him away.
Before getting too far, Michael said, “By the way, one of your men was in this room ten minutes ago—you might want to have a chat with him; he’s with the Order.”
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN
A MOMENT ALONE
THE VATICAN
“I can give you some Percocet for the pain,” said the Vatican doctor dryly, “the wound is too deep for any local anesthetic to have much effect.”
Michael was standing near a small, round table, atop which were a few bottles of spirits of reasonable quality. He picked up the bottle of Grey Goose and pulled its corked top from the neck. Pouring two fingers into a glass, he threw his head back and the alcohol slid down his throat.
“No worries,” Michael responded, “this’ll do just fine.”
“As you wish; please, come and sit,” said the doctor as he gestured at a chair that sat alongside the room’s bed.
Michael poured another two fingers and turned on the television as he walked toward the chair, but once the doctor began working on his shoulder wound, the only thing he could stare at was the white-brushed ceiling while holding firmly onto the hard-cushioned bottom of the chair’s seat.
The room was plain, and the ceiling even plainer. Considering that Vatican City was a menagerie of brilliance, artistic masterpieces, and architectural marvels, the room to which he had been taken was in stark contrast.
The apartment was in a building on the opposite side of the Vatican City from the Tower of Winds and about as close to being outside of the Vatican walls as one could be; Michael knew that he had been taken here for a purpose. The Swiss Guard would make sure that he would came close to the Apostolic Palace and her archives again.
“Never” and “ever,” the head of the Swiss Guard had said.
The apartment was a symbol of monastic simplicity: the Domus Sanctae Marthae apartments were intended for use by the cardinals of the papal conclave as a temporary residence—it was a symbol of their need to be simple and pious, without the need for opulence or comfort as they pondered their choice—and vote—for the next pope. In the past, cardinals were separated during their sleep by hanging a sheet between cots. These apartments had brought a bit more civility to their monasticism.
And without comfort Michael certainly was, as he bit down hard while the doctor worked the sutures through his flesh.
Michael let out a muffled grunt as the doctor tugged each new stitch; Michael reached over and quickly downed the second glass of vodka he had poured. The doctor peered over the rims of his glasses, shooting a judgmental look toward Michael, but said nothing as he continued to work.
“Finished.” The doctor’s reply was as pithy as he was dry. Standing, he set the Percocet dramatically on the night table. “I’ll leave these with you—just in case—but I wouldn’t take them with alcohol.”
“Thanks,” replied Michael.
The doctor nodded and moved toward the door, but before he left, he said with a surprisingly genuine tone, “By the way, your wife, I had a chance to observe her work—she’s a fine surgeon.”
Michael smiled at the complement, and the doctor left. Alone for the first time in some time, Michael was left with his own thoughts. There was still much to do. What he had found in the Vatican’s Secret Arch
ives had startled him as much as it had angered him. His wife had been kidnapped and secreted across the ocean, and, as it turned out, the same madman that had been stalking York and him had held Sonia in his basement.
Together, Michael and York had been successful in finding the History Thief and Michael’s wife; the vellum the two had recovered from Queen Isabelle’s final resting place had pointed them in the direction of King Sebastian’s missing body, but the crown and shroud were still missing. To add more confusion to a growing pile of unanswered questions, a senator and head-of-state had been assassinated by her one-time opponent, and there was a cargo plane on its way to Afghanistan carrying the necessary components to build a nuclear weapon, which would be delivered to an al-Qaeda thug.
The connections were coming all too slowly; Michael struggled to put the pieces together.
Sitting silently, Michael calculated his next moves, but he was unsure about what the first step to take would be. Regardless, he knew he wasn’t going anywhere without Sonia and York.
The television caught his eye. On it, an attractive brunette was anchoring the day’s broadcast. Over her left shoulder was a photo of Senator Matthew Faust.
Michael sat instantly upright and turned up the volume.
Following the fast-speaking Italian woman as best he could, Michael smiled when it became clear what she was reporting. Senator Matthew Faust was resting well in a local Parisian hospital after having had surgery on the hole Michael had shot through his hand.
The senator’s arrival to the hospital had been just as dramatic as his abduction: he had been pushed out of a speeding Porsche at the hospital’s doors.
Danielle always had a flair for the dramatic, Michael thought.
The anchorwoman went on to say that the senator would be released in the morning; his running mate was en route by private plane to personally escort the senator—the newly favored president-to-be of the United States—back to America.
Michael closed his eyes for a moment to think. The moment that his lids were tightly shut, he was awash with a wave of fatigue.
Stretching to try and overcome the effects from the alcohol and fatigue, Michael was in a losing battle. He lay back on the bed and stretched his long body down the length of the thin mattress; within moments, he was asleep.
On her way to the apartments, Sonia was tired, too. A pair of Swiss Guard escorted her as she walked. The surgery she had conducted on York was complete. Another pair of Swiss Guard had wheeled him to his own apartment to recover from the anesthesia. Once the trio arrived at the front of the apartment door, one of the Swiss Guard put a key into the door’s lock and opened the door for her, motioning—or ordering—her inside.
Sonia nodded her thanks and quietly walked into the room.
The guard followed her but only for a few feet. He said nothing as he eyed a sleeping Michael on the bed.
Sonia raised her finger to her lips, gesturing for the guard to allow Michael to continue sleeping. Turning, satisfied that the CIA officer was still in the room, he left.
Behind the closed door, Sonia was sure the two men would be standing guard.
Sonia quietly kicked off her shoes; the cold marble floor felt wonderful under her tired and cramped feet. Creeping on her toes toward the bed, Sonia reached out to touch Michael’s shoulder but stopped short when she saw the empty glass on the nightstand. Bringing it to her nose, she let the remains of the drying alcohol drift into her nostrils.
Frowning, she set the glass down with a bit of firmness; the sound of glass slapping on wood caused Michael to stir.
Opening his eyes, Michael’s eyes were immediately drawn to the green surgical gown and the bits of blood smeared on them.
Sitting up, Michael asked with worry in his voice, “The kid; he’s alright?”
“He’s fine, Michael. They let me work on him personally. His wounds were mostly superficial; there was no damage to any nerves, ligaments, or tendons. He’ll be a bit sore, but back in no time to doing whatever it is you all do. His vest mostly stopped the bullet’s velocity; there was a small tear in his lung, not from the bullet, but from the impact. I was able to fix it with a laparoscopic procedure—quite an easy fix, really; he’s resting in his room and should be up in an hour or so.”
Sonia picked up the bottle of medicine from the nightstand and looked at its label. “Percocet and alcohol don’t mix well, Michael,” she said as she threw the narcotics into the trash.
“I didn’t take them.”
“Good, don’t,” Sonia ordered. “Now, make us some coffee. I’m going to take a shower.”
Sonia walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower. At the same moment, there was a knock on the door. Michael walked over and answered it. On the other side of the door, a small, young woman—who was far too pretty for Vatican life—stood. In her hands was a medium-size, long white box.
“For Dr. Sterling—your wife,” she explained as she handed forward the box.
Behind the woman and to her left was another woman—this one was a bit more fit in appearance for the chaste life: stout, homely, and with an icy glare. She was holding a similar box. She put her box on top of the one Michael was now holding.
“And this one is for you, Dr. Sterling.”
The prettier woman smiled politely while the other just turned from the door; both left without saying another word.
Michael acknowledged the two Swiss Guard posted on either side of the door, but didn’t say anything to them.
Placing the boxes on the bed, Michael opened them. Inside the first one was a dark blue Loro Piana suit along with a crisp white shirt, socks, undergarments, and black leather Ferragamo shoes—size twelve. In the other box was a simple white and blue Vera Wang summer dress made of satin and a thin cashmere sweater along with a pair of open-toed and matching blue sandals.
Michael pulled out the dress and sweater and laid them out on the bed. He smoothed the dress’s creases and put the shoes alongside it. Sonia would look good in the outfit; Michael hoped that it would fit her petite frame. Underneath the dress, still in the box, was a smaller box. Michael opened it and was surprised to find a pair of blue lapis lazuli earrings. Each hung on a short sterling silver chain.
Michael next pulled the Loro Piana suit from the other box and put it on the bed, too. This time he wasn’t surprised to find a similar box under the suit. Opening it, he pulled out its contents: a pair of blue lapis lazuli cufflinks set into polished silver that matched perfectly with Sonia’s earrings.
Nice touch, thought Michael.
From inside the bathroom, a cloud of steam rolled through the small open space between the door and its frame and into the bedroom.
Michael walked into the bathroom and watched through the glass shower door for a moment as his wife let the falling spray of water cleanse the last two days from her skin. Her body was a blur through the steam-covered door, but it was enough to make him stare longer.
Sonia let the heat from the water splash over her face and down her torso; she was unaware that Michael was watching. He smiled. Sonia still had a shape that any woman would envy. Michael gingerly removed his clothing, careful not to move his shoulder too much.
Walking to the shower, he opened the glass door and asked with a smile, “Mind if I join you?”
Sonia responded quietly with her own smile.
In the shower, the two of them—husband and wife—washed one another. Michael lathered Sonia’s back with the lavender soap and gently massaged the aches from her muscles. He moved to her hair next and was careful to ensure that each strand received the right measure of attention as he combed the shampoo through it with his fingers.
Sonia closed her eyes as she enjoyed the touch of her husband.
Occasionally his body would touch hers; his taut skin would rub against her own and remind them both how much they loved one another. She turned to him and stared into his eyes, one of which was slightly blackened from when Michael had ran a commandeered car into a tree.
Even so, Sonia fell deeply, as she always did, into the icy-blue abyss of them.
Slowly, she moved her stare from his face to his body. Her eyes drifted to the clean line of the small suture on his shoulder. A bit of redness encircled the slightly swollen edge of the stitched wound. As she followed the contours of his chest, she nearly gasped at the large purple bruise in the middle of it. She gently touched the small hole in its center, but didn’t ask how he got the wound.
Down his torso her eyes and hands traveled; at the moment, she was both beloved wife and concerned doctor. Two ghastly bruises and a small burn mark were on the outside of his thigh.
Saying nothing, and knowing full well that she didn’t want to know how Michael had received these wounds, she, instead, wrapped her arms around his waist and pulled herself as close to his body as she could; Michael reciprocated and put his arms around her shoulders as she pressed her cheek against his muscled chest.
Sonia whispered, “Will life always be like this, Michael?”
Michael didn’t answer; he couldn’t answer, but, instead, squeezed her more firmly.
Sonia used the tips of her nails to caress Michael’s arms. Instantly, a series of little bumps tingled atop Michael’s skin.
And then they kissed. It was deep and passionate. It was Michael’s way of answering his wife’s question. Life has no sure path, but love does. No matter what would happen next, he would make sure that Sonia always knew how much he adored her, how much he loved her.
Sonia and Michael spent the next half hour alone in the shower, ridding themselves from the noise of the world outside and absorbed only by one another. It was a rare moment where husband and wife could explore their intimacy without the worry of life’s mandated, daily interruptions.
Their shower was finished, and both felt a semblance of youth again. For a short period, it had been only them. While Sonia toweled herself dry, Michael put on the shirt that had been delivered along with the suit.
It fit perfectly, as if it had been tailored just for his broad-shouldered frame. He finished putting on the suit and had slipped on the black Ferragamo shoes when Sonia walked into the room.