Saint Peter's Soldiers (A James Acton Thriller, Book #14) (7 page)

“I left
mine in the hotel room by accident,” said Laura. “What’s the problem?”

“We’ve
got a situation.”

Acton
put his fork down, leaning back as they all exchanged looks. When Giasson
called, it was rarely good news. He was a great man, competent, loyal, and
Acton trusted him with his life, even considering him a friend—though he’d
never make a special visit to see the man at his home like they would Reading.
They were comrades in arms, having been under fire together, saving each
other’s lives, but outside of that context, they had never socialized.

And he
just knew they were about to get into the thick of it again.

Situation.

Not a
project, a discovery, or anything benign sounding that still usually turned to
pot, but a
situation.

That
never sounded good.

“Situation?”
he asked, dreading the answer.

“There
was a shooting today at the Vatican.”

“Really?
I haven’t turned on the news all day and I’ve been out of the office,” said
Reading, Acton knew mentally cursing himself for being unaware. “What
happened?”

“It
looks like it was targeted. Two men ran down a civilian just outside the gates,
then shot the man and his companion. Our guards shot the perpetrators—”

“On
Vatican soil?”

“
Yes!
I’m glad to know I’m not the only one who was concerned about that.”

“Shitload
of paperwork if it wasn’t.”

“Agreed,
though my men would have shot them either way, I’m sure. I’ve already told the Commandant
that the instructions are to protect civilian life, even if off our territory.”

“Of
course.”

Acton
decided to steer the conversation back to how they might be about to become
involved. “Why are you calling
us
?”

“Well,
I’m actually calling you at the behest of Father Rinaldi. Do you know him?”

“Yes, of
course,” replied Laura. “We worked with him a couple of times in the past. He’s
the curator of the Vatican Secret Archives.”

“Exactly.
We made a curious discovery.”

Acton
leaned forward.

“The man
who was hit by the vehicle had a satchel, and inside was a small crate.”

“What
was it?”

“A
drawing. A drawing he shouldn’t have had.”

Laura’s
forehead furled. “Why shouldn’t he have it? Was it stolen?”

“No,
that’s what we thought at first, but Father Rinaldi made some phone calls and
confirmed that it hasn’t been stolen.”

“A
forgery?”

“That’s
just it. It must be, but the Father’s preliminary examination suggests it
isn’t.”

“Why
call us?” asked Acton. “Surely there’re experts there who can confirm its
authenticity.”

“Two
reasons.” Giasson hesitated. “Do you remember what happened when his holiness
was kidnapped?”

“Of
course,” they all echoed.

“The two
men that were assassinated—for lack of a better word—both had the same tattoo we
found on the bodies of his holiness’ kidnappers.”

Acton
felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as a shiver rushed through his
body. The Keepers of the One Truth had kidnapped him and the Pope, and by some miracle,
they had managed to survive. And it had been his sincere hope he’d never hear
from or see them again.

It
appeared as if his luck, as usual, had run out.

“And the
second reason?”

“Because,
Professor Palmer, you were on the team that authenticated the original.”

Testaccio, Rome, Italy
July 7
^th
, 1941

“Oh, Zia, this is incredible!”

“Don’t
talk with your mouth full!” scolded his aunt with a wagged finger.

Nicola covered
his mouth, mumbling an apology as he swallowed his mouthful of homemade spaghetti
with olive oil. “I’ve missed your cooking.”

“It
looks like you’ve been missing eating! You’re all skin and bones! Is your
mother not feeding you?”

Nicola immediately
leapt to his mother’s defense. “Yes she is, lots, but I’m always out working so
I burn it off. Besides, I have to look good for the ladies.”

His aunt
grunted from the other end of the table. “Do you have a special girl?”

He shook
his head, flushing slightly as he twirled his fork against his spoon. “No, I,
umm, like to keep my options open.”

“Uh huh.
I think your father needs to sit you down and explain what is what.”

Nicola felt
his ears burn, shoving a ball of spaghetti into his mouth, providing an excuse
to not reply.

“You
kids nowadays, always trying to have fun instead of thinking of your future. In
my day, you’d have been married by now, already working on your second child.
But today? No! You all want to run around kissing different girls and dancing
and riding around on your bicycles.” She jabbed the air with a slice of the
loaf given to him at the bakery before he left. One, not seven. “You need to
settle down, get married and have babies before I die.”

“You’re
not dying, Zia.”

“Not
today, but I won’t be around forever.”

“With
this war, none of us might be.”

“Oh,
don’t get me started on this war. We should have left for America, your father
and I, when we had the chance. But he loved this country too much to leave it.”
She harrumphed. “I bet he’s regretting that decision now.”

Nicola shrugged.
“If he had left he wouldn’t have met Mom, and then I wouldn’t have been born.”

His aunt
reached across the table, patting his hand. “I guess there are always good
things to come from bad decisions.”

He
wasn’t sure how to take that.

Someone
hammered at the door.

And he
nearly threw up his pasta, he immediately flashing back to the museum.

They
found me!

He rose
from his chair as his aunt threw her napkin on the table, anger on her face.
“Who would dare knock in such a way, especially at dinner time!”

He
placed himself between the door and his aunt, not sure what to do, wishing he
hadn’t handed the gun over when he had refueled. Suddenly the door burst off
its hinges, two men in leather trench coats stepping inside, an SS officer
behind them along with two Italian police officers.

“Are you
Nicola Santini?”

He
stood, frozen, not saying anything.

“How
dare you break into my home!” shouted his aunt, pushing him aside as she rushed
toward them, waving her fork at them. “You’re going to fix that if I have
anything to say about it!”

One of
the men backhanded her in the face, hard, sending her spinning into the wall. Nicola
cried out as he rushed to her side, cradling the now sobbing woman as blood
trickled from her nose.

He turned
toward them to find a gun pointed at his face.

“Don’t
make me ask again.”

He
hugged his aunt as he glared at the man, his shoulders finally slumping.

“Yes.”

OVRA Headquarters, Rome, Italy
July 7
^th
, 1941

Nicola hadn’t lasted long. In fact, if it had been an hour he’d be
surprised. He had never experienced pain before, not real pain. But it was when
they threatened to do the same to his parents that he had given in. He couldn’t
imagine his mother or father being punched repeatedly, shouted at, smacked,
threatened and insulted for hours on end.

And as
the words poured from his mouth, he wondered if his confession would actually
condemn those he was trying to protect. Would admitting his involvement condemn
his family, or save them?

But it
was too late, he had already sobbed out the admission.

“I took
the portrait.”

“Why?”

“I-I
wasn’t thinking. I heard you pounding on the door and I panicked. I took the
drawing and ran.”

“Why
that
drawing?”

“It was
the only one I could carry. Everything else was framed.”

He was
impressed with how well he was lying, and he hoped that his interrogators would
be as well. After all, even if what he was saying was a lie, it ultimately, at
its most basic level, was the truth. He
had
panicked. He
had
taken the drawing. Denying it was of no use.

“You
removed it from a packing crate and then removed it from its frame.”

It was
another voice this time, from the shadows behind him. He had known someone was
standing there all along, though he hadn’t seen a face. Whoever he was, he was
a chain smoker, the only evidence he had been standing there the flare of
matches and the scuffs of the toe of his shoe as he stamped out a spent
cigarette.

Yet now
he had revealed himself.

And his
voice was chilling, his Italian excellent though thick with a German accent.
Two clicks of leather boots on the stone floor and he was in sight, his crisp
black uniform immediately sending a shiver up Nicola’s spine.

SS!

He only
knew them by reputation, and that reputation left little doubt they were the
most vicious of soldiers. According to his friends—and how they would know was
beyond him, everyone seeming to preface their statements with “I heard
that…”—the SS hated everyone who wasn’t SS themselves. And those who weren’t SS
gave them a wide berth lest they incur their wrath. He had never seen one this
close, and never wanted to see one again.

He had a
feeling that wasn’t going to be a problem.

He
nodded. “L-like I said, it was the smallest thing I thought I could save.”

“Save
from who? Aren’t you a loyal Italian?”

“Of
course.”

“And
isn’t Italy an ally of Germany and the Führer?”

He
nodded, not trusting his brain to deliver a firm enough answer.

“Then
why would you try to save it from your ally?”

His mind
raced for a reasonable reply, but came up with only one thing that he regretted
before he had finished saying it.

“It
belongs to Italy. If Germany wants it, she should ask politely.”

He was
rewarded with the back of a gloved hand, his left cheek stinging, his ears
ringing as his mouth filled with a metallic taste.

“Insolence
will not be tolerated.”

He said
nothing.

“Your
motivation for taking it is no longer of any concern. Your employer, Mr. Donati,
has given us a full confession.”

Nicola’s
shoulders sagged as he thought of the man who had given him a job outside of
the fields his allergies tortured him in. It wasn’t much of a job, simply
manual labor in and around the small museum, but it was work that paid enough
to hire a hand at the farm with a little left over.

It was
enough that he felt he was contributing.

Until he
would be forced into the army.

“All I
need to know from you is where you took the portrait.”

Nicola
looked up at the man, deciding whether or not to reassert his manhood, to
reclaim his soul from his cowardly act of admission.

The man
smiled at him. A smile devoid of any sense of pleasure or joy or friendliness.
It was the opposite of what a smile should be. It was evil. “I sense defiance
in you, boy.” He pointed at the door. “Let me remind you, we have your aunt in the
next room, and your parents back home, and your cousin, and his friend. All
their lives depend on your next words. Do you understand me?”

Nicola
nodded, closing his eyes.

“Where
did you take the portrait?”

Tears
burned his cheeks as he revealed the truth, condemning even more lives.