Saint Peter's Soldiers (A James Acton Thriller, Book #14) (3 page)

He said
a silent prayer as he glanced back, the Germans now stopped at the other end of
the bridge, apparently content to let him die at the hands of Mussolini’s
efficient rail system, there now nowhere for him to go.

He was
almost there, only feet left, the train just coming onto the bridge. He steered
to the right slightly, pulling up on the handlebars to lift his front wheel off
the ties and cleared the rail, racing on the edge of the ties, the river below appearing
more vicious than he remembered.

The
train was upon him.

And he
steered hard to the side.

Sailing
through the air, he hit the ground beside the track, the wind from the train whipping
around him, its brakes still screaming in protest, nearly knocking him off the
bike. He locked up his brakes, coming to a halt as he looked back and smiled.

At the
Germans trapped on the other side as the train slowly came to a halt, blocking
them from crossing.

He gave
them a wave that was returned by a shaking first, then accelerated down the
hill toward the road that would carry him to his cousin’s farm.

Thanking
God for answering his prayer.

Entrance to St. Peter’s Square, Rome, Italy
Present Day
One day before the theft

Diego resisted the urge to check his watch. It would merely show it
was one minute later than the last time he had looked. He scanned the crowds
from his vantage point, a bench along the outer wall of Vatican City. The entrance
to St. Peter’s Square was to his right and hundreds if not thousands of
tourists were pouring in and out constantly. He had been there countless times
himself, of course, his order literally worshipping at the altar of the man
himself.

St.
Peter.

The
founder of the Church, the man Jesus himself had tasked to continue his
ministry after he was gone.

And I
say also unto thee, That thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my
church; and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.

St.
Peter had been a faithful disciple of the Lord, spreading his teachings until
his death at the hands of the Romans, and in the end he had insisted he be
crucified upside down, feeling himself unworthy to be put to death on an
upright cross as the Lord had.

And from
that moment forward, his symbol was the inverted cross.

It
annoyed Diego to no end that ignorance among today’s youth meant the holy
symbol had been coopted by idiots who thought it was satanic, some sort of
symbol representing evil, anti-church activists tattooing it on their flesh as
a monument to their obliviousness. He felt like grabbing every one of them and
smacking them up the side of their head and giving them a history lesson.

He
sighed, absentmindedly rubbing the tattoo on his chest. It was impressive, an
ornate inverted cross, paired with the keys to Heaven, given to him upon his
admission into the Keepers of the One Truth. He bore it proudly, though it did
at times limit him in today’s liberal society. He could never take his shirt
off in public, though that merely forced him to live modestly. Casual relations
with a woman were precluded, the need to explain the tattoo to just any carnal
desire not acceptable.

It
forced him to lead a better life.

A moral
life.

He had
married eventually, explaining the tattoo to his wife as a youthful
indiscretion. Only the first of many lies he had told her, she unable to know
what he did with his life. She thought he had a government job that he couldn’t
talk about, with a workplace she wasn’t allowed to know the location of.

And she
was fine with that.

She
loved him.

She
trusted him.

And it
tore him apart at first, until he realized that all of the men in the Keepers of
the One Truth had the same problem and had learned to live with it, as had his
own father. Only the sons of Keepers were invited to join, and in modern times,
many refused, too often turning their back on the Church in exchange for
instant gratification, instead of a life of service dedicated to protecting the
Church in exchange for an eternity in Heaven.

He had
embraced the group wholeheartedly, recognizing the evils of modern life that
threatened to overwhelm those around him, and instead devoted himself to a life
of servitude.

And lies
to his loved ones.

It was a
necessary evil that helped keep true evil at bay.

For the
world was filled with evil, filled with enemies of the Church. It always had
been, and it always would be.

And St.
Peter had foreseen this.

And
created an army.

The
Keepers of the One Truth.

Their
mission was to protect the Church from its enemies. All enemies. Of this earth
and not. The evils of man were easy enough to protect against. They were
predictable. It was those of Satan himself that were the challenge.

Thus the
establishment of The Vault.

The
Vault was a secret archive located under the grounds of the Vatican, its
existence known to very few outside of the Keepers. Over two millennia the
leaders of the Church had hidden away anything that challenged or threatened
the faith, eventually establishing the Vault to secure these abominations so
they could never be unleashed upon mankind.

Yet their
mandate went beyond ensuring the integrity of the Vault and ensuring the
current Pope performed his duty as handed down to him by St. Peter himself, it
extended to protecting the Church and the Christian faith in general from
outside threats, not the least of which had been the Nazis.

One of
the few loose ends of that era tied up by the man he was meeting today.

He checked
his watch.

Where
is he?

In 1941,
the Keepers had received word that the Nazis were attempting to acquire
religious artifacts from around the world. And the Keepers had acted. They had
immediately made contact with anyone who possessed something the Nazis may be
interested in, and offered to take it into safekeeping. Few accepted the offer,
the Keepers mere strangers, though once the threat became real, contact began
to be made, including a small museum in the town of Rivoli.

With
regard to a self-portrait of Leonardo da Vinci, drawn in red chalk.

He had
never seen it beyond the photos. It had been preserved in one of the Keeper’s
archives, and once the world had been deemed safe again, it had been returned.

News of
the return had spread like wildfire, the compelling story of how it had been
returned anonymously after having been secreted away from the Nazis, quickly
gaining attention.

He had
been there the night it was returned, the very man he was waiting for the one
who had placed it on the doorstep of the modest museum. Diego had been but an
apprentice then, Saverio his master, but now he was a full-fledged Keeper,
tasked with duties he could only have dreamed of in 1998 when the portrait had
been returned.

And when
he had received the call to meet Saverio here, at this hour, his heart had
raced in anticipation and curiosity.

As it
did now at the sight of the older man making his way toward him, a rather large
satchel slung over his shoulder. Diego was about to rise when Saverio held out
a hand, stopping him. He dropped onto the bench beside him and shook his hand.
“How are you, my boy? It has been a long time.”

“Over
fifteen years.” The years hadn’t been kind to Saverio. He looked older than he
should. In fact, he appeared unwell.

Saverio seemed
to notice the concern. “Your eyes do not deceive you, my young friend. I am
dying.”

Diego felt
his chest tighten as his eyes widened and his jaw dropped. “How? Why? I mean—” He
stopped himself, casting his eyes at the ground. “I’m sorry.”

Saverio patted
Diego’s shoulder. “I appreciate your concern, young one. It is cancer and I
have little time left, which means I need to settle my affairs.” He patted the
large leather satchel beside him. “You remember the last time we met?”

“Of
course.”

“We
returned a portrait to a small museum in Rivoli.”

“Of
course, I remember it as if it were yesterday.”

“What if
I told you it was all a lie?”

What Saverio
told him next shocked him to his very core. Everything he remembered of that
night, the pride he had felt in reading the news reports and knowing his small
part, were shattered in the several minutes it took to impart the truth.

“But
why?”

“It was
necessary. After the war, we knew there would be many Nazis left remaining and
it wouldn’t be safe to return any of the artifacts put into our safekeeping.
With the new millennium approaching, it was decided that enough time had passed
that any Nazis still alive would be too old to be of any threat, and with the
fascist dream dead, little chance they might actually bother trying anything.
After all, the artifacts were hidden away because of rumors surrounding them.”
He flicked his wrist. “Like our portrait.”

“You
mean the legend that if you stared into da Vinci’s eyes—”

“You’d
get great power. Exactly. Nonsense, of course, but these were valuable
artifacts that we didn’t want to see stolen or destroyed due to dogma. But by
the end of the millennium, with over fifty years past, it was decided it was time
to start returning these items. It was a decision I didn’t agree with.”

“Why?”

“Because
I had been hearing rumors.”

“What
rumors?”

“That
the Nazis were still alive and well. I couldn’t prove it, so I was forced to go
along with the decision.” He smiled. “But if you knew me like your father did,
you would know I don’t always play well with others.”

Diego turned
away slightly, not sure what to say.

Saverio patted
the satchel. “Inside is the legacy of my decision. I hand it down to you, to do
with as you see fit. Should you not share my concerns, then you know what you
must do, but equally, if do you, then you must fulfill your duty as a Keeper.”
He turned slightly on the bench, facing Diego. “What I ask of you is a duty
that cannot be taken lightly. You will be going against the leadership, though
they are unaware of what truly happened all those years ago. Their lack of
awareness will protect you.” He peered into Diego’s eyes. “Are you up to the
task?”

Diego
bit the inside of his cheek, looking from the man he had idolized after their
single encounter so many years ago, then at the satchel that contained the
shattered truth.

He
nodded. “Yes.”

Saverio smiled
broadly, squeezing his shoulder. “Good boy, good boy! I knew I could count on
you. You know I’ve been following your career since the moment you became an
initiate. Your father and I were recruited at the same time, went through our
training together. We kept in touch over the years. I was deeply saddened to
hear of his passing.”

Diego frowned,
looking away, not trusting his emotions. His father had been killed several
years ago in a car accident. A useless death, a meaningless death. Killed by a
teenager who was texting. The only satisfaction he was able to get was from the
knowledge the teen had died a horribly agonizing death.

And
though he was a man of God, he felt no guilt in taking pleasure in that
knowledge.

Saverio motioned
toward the gates to the Vatican. “I never pass up an opportunity to pray when I
am in the area. Would you care to join me? Together we’ll say a prayer for your
father?”

Diego smiled
slightly, nodding. “It would be an honor.”

Saverio rose
and nodded toward the satchel. “This is yours, now.”

Diego lifted
the bag, slightly heavier than he was expecting, and slung it over his shoulder.
They began to walk toward the gates, slowly, Diego now realizing why the man
had been late. The crowds surged around them as the traffic whipped by on Largo
del Collonato Street. They continued in silence and had arrived at the gates
when the sound of squealing tires and screams behind them had Diego spinning to
see what was the matter.

He
gasped, a large SUV careening toward them, pedestrians bouncing off the large heavy-duty
grill guard bumper, the driver giving no indication of slowing down.

Diego shoved
Saverio out of the way, the frail man crying out as he hit the ground, staring
back in horror as the SUV slammed into Diego. He could feel his bones break
with the impact, but grabbed the grill guard as the vehicle continued forward,
trying desperately to hang on while the agony of his crushed chest threatened
to sap him of his remaining strength.

He was
about to let go, to fall under the wheels, when the vehicle suddenly came to a
screeching, immediate halt, sending him sailing through the air. He slammed
into the ground, his head smacking hard on the stone, and his world began to
fade. Saverio was limping toward him, his arm outstretched, when the doors of
the SUV were thrown open and two men leapt out, guns firing. The crowds
scattered in panic, Saverio crying out in pain as round after round embedded
itself in his back. Diego struggled to stay conscious, to see his mentor’s
final moments, when he heard heavy boots hammering on the ground behind him,
shots erupting from the new arrivals.