Saint Peter's Soldiers (A James Acton Thriller, Book #14) (6 page)

He
listened as the orders were placed. One of this, a dozen of that. Never
anything between. And he flashed to the phrase.

“What
can I get you today?”

He
froze, his eyes wide as he stared at the man.

“Come
on, there’s people waiting.”

“Umm…”

Then it
hit him.

“I would
like exactly seven casareccio loaves
like you advertised yesterday.”

The man
shook his head. “No way. Talk to my wife, if she’s in a generous mood, she
might give it to you at that price.” He pointed to a door in the back of the
store. “Through there.” He raised his voice. “Greta, a customer for you!”

A
woman’s voice shouted from the back in acknowledgement and Nicola tentatively
walked toward the door. He pushed aside a wall of hanging beads and stepped
into a dimly lit room, his eyes taking a moment to adjust.

And he
gasped.

Two
police officers were standing on either side of a woman. He turned to bolt but
was blocked by another man who raised a finger to his lips then opened the top
of his shirt.

Revealing
the same tattoo that had followed him for the past two days.

“Who are
you?” asked Nicola, his voice trembling as he in no way felt safe. He had no
idea who these people were, and for all he knew, he was about to be betrayed
and handed over to the two police officers standing behind him.

“Who we
are is of no importance to you, the fact that we are here to help you is.”

“It was
your man at the roadblock.”

“Yes.”

“And at
the museum.”

“Yes.”

“Is he
okay? Did he get away?”

The man
nodded.

Nicola’s
eyes narrowed. “How did your man know about the bike, I mean the modification.”

The man
smiled. “We have sources among the partisans.” His face became serious. “Do you
have something for us?”

Nicola nodded
and unzipped his jacket, pulling out the portrait. The man’s eyes flared
slightly and he carefully took it from him. He unrolled it gently, frowning at
the creases.

“I’m
sorry, but there was no time. I had to take it out of the frame.”

The man
shook his head, dismissing the apology with a wave of his hand. “You had no
choice, you did the right thing. We will fix it.”

“You
can?”

“We’ve
been dealing with priceless art for longer than you can imagine. It will be
safe, I can assure you.”

“What
now?”

“Now you
go to your aunt’s. You will be contacted with new identity papers.”

“I don’t
understand.”

The man
looked at him, sympathy in his eyes. “My son, you can never go home. At least
not until the Nazi scourge is condemned to Hell.”

Carabinieri Comando Stazione, Rivoli, Italy
July 7
^th
, 1941

“No! Please, no more!”

The man
directing the unending pain held up his hand, the police officer delivering the
blows immediately stopping. Donati’s head slumped to his chest, his breathing
labored, his eyes swollen to the point he could barely see. His nose throbbed
and bled into his mouth, his fingers and toes screamed in pain, every bone
broken.

He had
held out for over two days.

Two
long, excruciating days.

But he
could take no more.

His body
was finished.

His mind
was broken.

He just
wanted it to end.

He
wanted it all to end.

Please,
God, why won’t you let me die?

“You
have something to tell us? A name perhaps?”

“Nicola,”
sputtered Donati, a wave of shame flooding through the bloody pulp that was his
body. “Nicola Santini.”

“This is
the boy who took the portrait?”

He tried
to nod but didn’t have the strength to raise his head from his chest. “Yes.”

Tears
burned in his eyes, rolling down his cheeks, the split skin crying out at the
salty intrusion as the realization set in that he had betrayed a boy, a young
man who had yet to know love, had yet to experience what true joy was, all to
save himself further pain.

God,
forgive me!

“And
where does he live?”

“I know
his family,” said the man who had been delivering the blows, a man Donati had
once thought of as a friend until he had given himself over to Mussolini’s
fascists. “I’ll take you there.”

“Please,
kill me.”

He was
ready to die, wanted to die, had to die. He couldn’t live with the shame of
what he had just done, and if Nicola hadn’t been caught yet, then there was
every chance he had reached his destination where the men who had contacted him,
presenting him with an offer he had at first refused, might be able to help
him.

His only
fear now was that should he die, the secret he held might die with him.

For Nicola
had just been a pawn.

Yet
another thing of which he was ashamed.

Hugh Reading Residence, Whitehall, London, England
Present Day
One day before theft

“Everything smells wonderful, Hugh.”

“Agreed.”
Archeology Professor James Acton put his wine down before pulling out a chair
for his wife. She sat, giving him a smile and he dropped into a chair opposite
her, their host putting the last bowl of food onto the dining table.

Interpol
Agent Hugh Reading sat at the head of the table, admiring his handiwork. “It
does smell brilliant.”

Acton
leaned over in his chair, motioning toward the overflowing garbage can,
Styrofoam takeout boxes poking out the top. “Cooked all day, I see?”

“Hey, if
you wanted a home cooked meal, you should have stayed home.”

Acton
laughed and began to dig in, piling his plate with the various offerings of
Westernized Chinese delicacies. “We’re here to see you, not your cooking
skills.”

“Or lack
thereof,” interjected Acton’s wife, Professor Laura Palmer. Their friend was a
committed bachelor, the only romantic dalliance after the man’s divorce years
ago that Acton was aware of taking place over several days in the depths of the
Amazon rainforest. It had been a tragic end that Reading had taken a long time
to recover from, if he ever had. Acton and Laura both feared he would never
risk putting his heart out there again.

It was
sad to see.

The lack
of a life lived was all around them. The apartment was sparse, few personal
belongings, there only three photos in evidence. One of Reading with his son,
only recently back in his life, one of the three of them together in Italy, and
one of Reading with his former partner at Scotland Yard, Martin Chaney—a man
none of them had heard from in well over a year.

A sore
subject to be sure.

Which
was why they tried to visit the man whenever they could. Laura was rich, very
rich. Her late brother had left her a windfall after his death, he having sold
his Internet company before the bubble had burst. When they had married, he had
been shown the books and it was in the hundreds of millions.

They
would never hurt for money.

They
lived a modest lifestyle, neither of them into fancy cars or big houses, rather
using her wealth to fund their first love—archeology. It was that love that had
brought them all together several years ago. Acton had made an accidental
discovery that had led to him being chased by the elite Delta Force across the
globe, the Special Forces unit provided with false intel that he was the head
of a domestic terrorist cell. He had fled to London, to the one expert who
might tell him why what he had discovered might be so important.

And that
expert was archeology professor Laura Palmer.

It
hadn’t been love at first sight, though she had taken his breath away, and it
had turned out she was a fan of his for years. Yet that spark, forged under a
hail of gunfire, had started something that had never faltered, never wavered,
and had changed his life forever.

Despite
Hugh Reading arresting her the first time he had met her.

Reading
had been the Scotland Yard detective assigned to the case, and after the events
of that week had sorted themselves out, they had all become friends.

Good
friends.

And
there was nothing like a meal, takeout or otherwise, with good friends.

He took
his first bite and moaned. “This is good. Reminds me of that place you ordered
from the first night we met.”

Laura
smiled, reaching across the table and giving his hand a squeeze. “You remember
that?”

His eyes
widened. “Of course I do! It was the most important night of my life.”

She
grinned. “Mine too. I meant the take out.” She turned and glanced at the
garbage can in the kitchen.

“Yes,
yes, it’s the same place,” said Reading. “Every time I’d visit you for dinner
when you were still living in London you’d order from them, so I took one of
their menus. It’s a bit of a drive but it’s worth it.”

“Definitely,”
agreed Acton as he filled a wrap with his favorite, moo shu pork. He poured a
thick black bean sauce over it then rolled it up, savoring the first bite. “Soo
good.”

“But raw
cow would taste good right now?”

Acton’s
eyes narrowed at Laura’s comment then his eyebrows rose as he covered his
mouth, remembering what he had thought that first night, it having been days
since he had eaten a decent meal. “Ha! I forgot I told you about that!”

“And you
say that was the most important night of your life.”

He
swallowed, taking a sip of his chardonnay. “Hey, considering how many attempts
had been made on my life up to that point, I’d say my remembering anything
beyond how gorgeous you were is a miracle.”

“Good
save.”

Acton
grinned at Reading. “Thanks, I thought so too.”

Laura
giggled. “Don’t encourage him, Hugh.”

Reading
smiled, a slightly forlorn look on his face as he seemed to stare off into the
distance for a moment, and it wasn’t until Acton realized how much Laura’s
laugh had sounded like Kinti’s that he knew why.

He
exchanged a knowing glance with Laura, neither saying anything as Acton
searched for a way to continue the conversation without letting their friend
know he had been caught. Acton knew how he had felt the few times he thought
Laura had been lost to him, and he had been devastated. To actually have the
woman you loved, even if it had only lasted a few days, die in your arms was
something he couldn’t imagine having to live with.

Reading’s
phone vibrated next to his wine glass, saving Acton from having to come up with
a clever witticism to break the melancholy. “Work?”

Reading
shook his head as he picked up his phone. “No, it’s Mario.”

Acton
and Laura glanced at each other, surprised. “Does he call you often?”

“More
often than not when something’s wrong. But you two are here, so what possible
trouble could there be in the world that would warrant a call from the head of
Vatican security?”

Acton
gave him a look. “Hey, we don’t
cause
the trouble, we just end up in the
middle of it somehow.”

“Yes,
every—single—time.” Reading swiped his thumb, putting the call on speaker.
“Mario, how are you?”

“I’m
well, my friend, and you?”

“I’m
having dinner with Jim and Laura.”

“Hi
Mario!” called Laura, waving at the phone, one of the many cute things Acton
loved about her.

“Hey
Mario,” he said, giving the phone a double thumb-shot à la Fonzie. Laura shook
her head at him, half a smile betraying her true feelings.

“Thank
God! I’ve been trying to reach you two. I’ve called your cellphones, your home,
the University, the Smithsonian. I got nothing but voicemails.”

Acton
felt the outline of his phone in his pants pocket. “Sorry about that, I turned
my phone off for dinner.”