Saint Peter's Soldiers (A James Acton Thriller, Book #14) (2 page)

“Some
Italians might think that a good thing.”

Nicola’s
jaw dropped as he stared at the older man in shock. Then he smiled. “You’re
toying with me.”

Donati smiled,
leaning back in his chair. “It is sometimes too easy.”

Nicola
pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. “I’m tired.”

“Then
get your rest and be here at sunrise tomorrow morning. And bring your moped.”

“Why?”

“Because
tomorrow morning the portrait will forever be placed out of Hitler’s reach. By
you.”

Casa del Conte Verde, Rivoli, Italy
July 5
^th
, 1941

Nicola leaned his moped against the side of the museum, stepping out
of the alleyway and walking toward the front entrance. The streets were still
mostly empty, the roosters trumpeting their wakeup call only minutes ago. He
knocked three times and within moments he heard footsteps then the door
unlocking. It creaked open and Donati smiled at him.

“Come
in, quickly!” hissed Donati, stepping aside and ushering him across the
threshold. The door was immediately closed and bolted, the normal pleasantries
ignored as Donati rushed toward the backroom. He pointed to a worktable, a
small handcrafted wooden crate sitting on it, it the proper size to hold the
small framed portrait. “The portrait is ready to go.”

“How the
hell am I supposed to get that out of here without anyone noticing?”

“Language!”

Nicola flushed.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean any disrespect.

“You
disrespected the Lord, not me. Remember it at confession.”

Nicola’s
head dropped to his chest. “I will. Sorry.”

Donati stopped
what he was doing and stepped over, squeezing the young man’s shoulder. “I
forgive you, as will He.” He let go and glanced at his watch. “But plans have
changed. My colleague in Rome is sending someone to retrieve the portrait. He
should be here any moment.”

Nicola
frowned, a feeling of betrayal filling his stomach and gripping his chest. “But
I thought
I
was going to take it?”

Donati shook
his head. “No, it’s too risky. Apparently these people have experience. They’ll
take it—”

A knock
at the front door had Nicola’s heart leaping into his throat, Donati’s head
darting toward the sound.

“Who
could that be?” asked Nicola as his heart raced in his chest.

Donati
looked at his watch. “It’s them. Right on time.”

Donati rushed
toward the entrance, Nicola following. Donati peered through the small Judas hole
then unlocked the door, pulling it open. A man stepped inside and the door was
immediately closed.

“A-are
you the one I’m expecting?”

Donati sounded
terrified.

The man
nodded.

“P-please
pr-prove it.”

The man
undid the top several buttons of his shirt, revealing an intricate tattoo of a
cross, two crossed keys intertwined with it.

“Th-thank
you.” Donati rushed to the back of the room and the man followed, Nicola letting
them both pass, eyeballing the man, the new arrival doing the same.

He
didn’t trust him.

Whoever
he was.

Donati pointed
at the table. “This is it.”

The man
nodded. “That shouldn’t be a problem.” He pulled a piece of paper out of his
pocket and handed it to Donati. “Should there be any questions, any problems,
this is how to reach us. Memorize it then destroy it.”

Donati’s
head jerked nervously up and down as he read the paper, his lips moving repeatedly.

Nicola assessed
the man with a critical eye. He seemed to be in his late twenties or early
thirties, an impressive moustache and slightly longish hair, his skin dark and
healthy. If it weren’t for the hair, he’d look smart and not out of place wearing
a military uniform.

As
would I. What makes him any more qualified than me to protect the portrait?

“How are
you going to get that out of here without anyone noticing?”

The man glanced
over at him, his eyes assessing him then appearing to dismiss what they saw.
“That is none of your concern.” He turned back to Donati. “Any special
instructions?”

“No, but
y-you said you had experience in these things.”

“We do.”

“Then do
whatever it is you would normally do.”

The man
nodded.

“Wouldn’t
it be easier to just take it out of the frame and roll it up?”

Donati
gasped at Nicola’s suggestion. “Are you insane? Have I taught you nothing? It
must be protected!”

“What’s
more important, it getting wrinkled or Hitler ruling the world?”

“I’m not
willing to allow an extremely rare portrait by one of the greatest masters the
world has ever known to be destroyed because of a ridiculous legend.”

“It’s a
legend you obviously believe in, otherwise why are we doing this?”

Donati glared
at him then his expression softened. “You’re right, my son, you’re right. When
I think of what could be, I tremble with fear. And if there is something about
this portrait that is special, then it must be kept out of the hands of that
man. My belief is that if
he
believes, then he might think himself
invincible and commit even more horrors upon God’s creation. You are right, my
boy. Hitler is evil, a scourge upon this Earth that if there is even the
slightest chance that this portrait might further his goals, it must be hidden,
which is why we are doing what we are doing today.” He paused, stepping closer
and placing a hand on Nicola’s arm. “But I am still not willing to see it
damaged, or worse, destroyed. You understand that, don’t you?”

Nicola nodded,
not entirely convinced the risk of it being found outweighed the risk of it
being damaged.

Tires
squealed on the cobblestone outside and Nicola rushed for the front, pushing
aside the curtain slightly. He nearly pissed his pants. A German car had just
pulled up, four men climbing out, one clearly SS, the uniform unmistakable.

God
help us!

He
sprinted to the backroom and past the tattooed man. “They’re here!” He hissed.

“Who?”
asked Donati, the question rendered redundant as the pounding on the front door
began.

“The
Nazis!”

Nicola grabbed
the crate and tore off the top, tipping the drawing out and onto the worktable.
He snapped the frame at the corner, yanking the four sides off.

“What
are you doing?” cried Donati as he rushed toward him, the distraction from the
shouts and heavy pounding at the door momentarily forgotten.

Nicola yanked
the portrait off the mat, quickly rolling it up, much to Donati’s horror, his
eyes widening, his jaw dropping.

“Somebody
has to save you from yourself!”

He
snatched the piece of paper the tattooed man had given Donati out of his hand
then bolted for the rear entrance and yanked open the door, stepping out into
the morning light. He peered around the corner, finding it clear, his moped
only feet away. Stuffing the portrait inside his jacket, he pulled his moped
away from the wall and began to walk it out of the alleyway as casually as he
could, turning away from the Germans.

He
started the moped and climbed on.

Someone
shouted.

He gunned
the engine as bullets tore into the façade of Innocenti’s bakery. He squeezed
his brake and leaned hard, his rear tire skidding out on the damp cobblestone,
the morning sun not yet having burned off the overnight moisture. Regaining his
balance, he twisted the throttle, the bike leaping forward as the Germans
quickly closed the gap. Racing through the market, the shopkeepers just
starting to set up their stands leapt back, some shaking their fists at him
then diving for cover as the Germans opened fire.

I
have to get off the roads or someone is going to be killed.

It never
occurred to him that that someone might be him. He was running on adrenaline
now, the portrait, tucked into his zipped-up jacket seeming impossibly heavy. It
was all in his head, the portrait barely a foot square, yet it was the weight
of responsibility he was now painfully aware of. The Nazi’s clearly wanted this
drawing and didn’t care who died to get it. That meant their experts believed
the legend could be true, and wanted it for Hitler himself.

I’ll
destroy it before I let them have it.

He could
almost hear Donati’s voice screaming in his head at the very notion. It was a
priceless, irreplaceable piece of history. To destroy it was unthinkable. But
history would be meaningless if the world was lost to the likes of Adolf
Hitler. Though his country was an ally in the war, he had never supported the
fascists. Mussolini was a thug that ruled through fear and lies. Nicola was
convinced the masses followed him because they were brainwashed after years of
propaganda.

At
least the trains always run on time.

Though
that was bullshit propaganda too. They didn’t actually run on time. His dad
told him they were better than before, but only due to work done before
Mussolini came to power.

And if Mussolini’s
claim to fame was a lie, how much more was?

Yet you
didn’t dare question.

Otherwise
the OVRA secret police might show up on your doorstep one day and you’d never
be seen again.

He
careened into a tight alleyway, kicking out with his foot and pushing off the
wall as his rear tire fishtailed its way deeper into the long passage. A quick
glance over his shoulder had him breathing a sigh of relief.

The
Germans were stopped at the end, unable to fit their car in the narrow gap.

He eased
off the throttle slightly, finally having a moment to think.

Where
am I going?

He
couldn’t stay in town; the Germans would have it sealed off within minutes with
the help of the local authorities. He couldn’t go to his house, he’d be putting
his parents at risk.

Leo!

Yes,
he’d go to his cousin’s. He had a farm outside of the city and he’d know what
to do. He was also anti-Mussolini, despising the man, especially after he had
aligned the country with Nazi Germany.

He’ll
know what to do.

He
emerged from the alley, crossing the road and cutting through another gap
between the houses, thanking God for giving man the intellect to design the
moped now saving his life.

In the distance,
he heard the whistle of the morning train and chuckled.

It’s
on time today.

He
slowed as he emerged from the alley, turning right and continuing down the hill
that the town was built upon, heading toward the valley where his cousin’s farm
lay. The streets were filling now, the day underway, and his hammering heart
was finally settling down. He ventured a wave at the butcher’s daughter, Maria.
She waved back with a smile, his hand easing off the throttle for a moment as
he forgot what he was doing.

Tires
screeching behind him smacked his libido back down and he gunned the engine,
not bothering to look back as the gunfire confirmed who it was. He heard a girl
scream and his heart leapt into his throat. He stole a glance and felt bile
fill his mouth as he spotted Maria lying on the ground, her father rushing from
the shop, crying out in horror.

You
killed her.

His eyes
filled with tears, the street ahead suddenly a blur. He wiped them clear with
the back of his hands, the train whistle louder now. He could see the tracks
ahead where they crossed the road he was on, heading toward the station in the
center of town. Looking to his right as he rapidly approached them, he spotted
the trail of steam puffing from the engine and made a decision.

A
decision that would save him, or doom him.

He hit
his brakes, skidding to a near halt then turned, gunning it down the railroad
tracks, this part filled with cobblestones, keeping the ride relatively smooth,
as he raced toward the bridge. He heard the Germans’ brakes behind him as he
cleared the edge of the town, his tires bouncing on the railroad ties, every
bone in his body nearly jarred loose from the pounding. He could see the train
coming around the bend, the whistle announcing its arrival, loud.

He
leaned forward, urging his moped ahead as the engine raced toward him. Brakes
squealed, the engineer apparently spotting him. Gunfire from behind him was
barely heard over the screeching metal on metal, but something bit him hard in
the arm and he cried out, nearly losing control of the bike as he grabbed for his
shoulder. Both hands back on the bars, he twisted the throttle, the bike
leaping forward, a game of chicken underway he had to win, his opponent having
no way to turn. He was almost across, the massive black of the engine looming
large in front of him, though not yet at the bridge.

I’m
not going to make it!