The Thieves of Heaven (19 page)

At ten a.m., Attilio Vitelli peered out from underneath the Alfa Romeo and chose not to run. The four cop cars pulling into his driveway were nothing new to him. The Italian autos in his possession were—for the most part—legal. And the ones that weren’t had already been stripped, refurbished, and had ownership titles, leaving nothing to tie them to their former owners. Nine gendarme diligently surrounded Vitelli, waiting for him to speak first. But the old man didn’t even look at them until the heavy, bald man in charge poked his head under the red auto’s hood.

“It’s not about the cars this time, Attilio,” the officer said.

And that got Vitelli’s attention. “Social visit, Gianni?” he asked.

Investigator Gianni Francone never had anything solid on Vitelli; it was always innuendo and assumptions. He knew about Vitelli’s underground business, he just couldn’t make anything stick. So when he received the anonymous call about someone planning an assault on a Roman landmark today before noon, someone operating out of Vitelli’s garage, Francone couldn’t pass up the opportunity to search the place.

Three policemen fanned out around the yard while six entered the three-bay auto garage.

Francone sat on a Fiat Spider, his weight severely testing the suspension. “So, my friend, any visitors lately?”

“In fifteen forty-six, Michelangelo Buonaroti took over as chief architect of St. Peter’s Basilica, redesigning many of its elements including the grand dome above us, but sadly, he did not live to see its completion.” Michael and the group remained tightly bunched around Brother Joseph so as not to miss a word. “The artwork here was obtained from many sources. Some was donated or purchased, some created specifically for the Vatican, and some was found underneath where we now stand,” Brother Joseph explained in his thick Italian accent. He stopped in front of a forty-foot-tall marble statue of a man holding a spear. “You will note that the four magnificent statues of saints within the dome support columns surrounding the Papal altar. This is called the Loggias of the Relics. This figure of Longinus”—he pointed to the spear-holding statue—“was created by Bernini, while the three others were crafted by his students. Each of these statues was built to contain relics. St. Longinus was the centurion who pierced the side of Christ upon the cross to prove He was dead. The statue was designed to hold the tip of what some refer to as the Spear of Destiny.” Brother Joseph turned. He led his group over to the statue of a woman holding an enormous cross. “The statue of St. Helena, the mother of the Emperor Constantine, who discovered the actual cross of Christ, at one point contained nails and sections of the True Cross of our Lord.” He turned to a statue depicting a woman holding a wind-blown veil. “St. Veronica, who offered her veil to Christ to mop His brow as He carried His cross to Calvary, commemorates the actual veil which our Lord returned to her imprinted with His features. You will note her pose: in bullfighting, the most classic movement is called the Veronica. It is when the toreador swings his red cape slowly before the face of the bull, like Veronica wiping Christ’s face. It’s so named for this statue.”

Brother Joseph led them to the fourth and final statue. “St. Andrew was the brother of St. Peter and he, like his brother, was crucified. He was tied to an X-shaped cross and died in Greece. His head was in the possession of the Vatican until 1966, when it was returned to the Greek city of Patras—where he had died almost two thousand years earlier—as a gesture toward improving relations with the Greek Orthodox Church. But for the head of St. Andrew, each of the relics I have referred to is here. All are kept in the chapel above St. Veronica.”

They began walking down elaborate marble steps adjacent to the statue of St. Longinus. Michael had successfully passed himself off as Professor Michael McMahon from the University of St. Albans. His forged letterhead introduced him and asked for assistance on matters regarding the origin of the original Vatican. When the Office of Scholarly Advancement called for verification, they were told by the university that Professor McMahon was on sabbatical conducting research around the world for a textbook he was writing. If they would like to get in touch with him they could leave a message, as the professor checked his voice mail at least twice a month. The university administrator explained that due to the school’s limited funds, McMahon’s sabbatical was for only one semester; any help that could be extended to the professor would be appreciated and returned in kind by St. Albans.

There really was a Professor Michael McMahon at St. Albans. Michael’s simple Google search revealed those vainglorious ones who not only announced in print their paid leaves of absence from school but foolishly laid out their itineraries. McMahon was writing a book and traveling the world; only he wasn’t in Rome at the moment, he was in a remote section of Tibet communing with some Buddhist monks.

Michael’s group stood in an area directly under the Basilica, an area rarely seen, off-limits to most of the outside world, reserved by appointment only for scholars and archaeologists: The Sacred Grottoes. It was a dark and ominous place, befitting its name. The soft glow of hundreds of candles danced off golden wall sconces and polished marble walls. The group walked past ornate sarcophagi that seemed to stretch on forever, the final resting places, Brother Joseph revealed, of not only most of the Popes since 1549 but also emperors and queens, VIPs, and dignitaries.

“One hundred and fifty-three Popes are buried here,” the brother’s voice echoed off the marble tombs. “And there is room for hundreds more, of course with the hope that their service in Christ only comes to an end after a long and productive tenure in His service.”

“Speaking of tenure, care to comment on those whose tenure was abbreviated by murder?” Professor Higgins cut in.

Brother Joseph hated being interrupted, it was written all over his face. But he acquiesced cautiously. “Pope John VIII was murdered in his sleep in eight eighty-two. Then there was Pope John XII, who was eighteen when elected Pope. He was murdered in December nine sixty-three—”

“I was referring to more recent events.” Higgins’s condescending smile was as sharp as an accusation.

Brother Joseph stared at Higgins for what seemed like an eternity, clearly doing everything to contain his anger. An uncomfortable hush fell over the group. “Yes, well, we have had our share of intrigue. In nineteen eighty-one, when Pope John Paul II was shot, Colonel Alois Estermann was the first person to our Holy Father. The colonel shielded the Pope with his body from further harm. Through the years, the Pope maintained a very close relationship with Estermann and in nineteen ninety-eight, Colonel Estermann was nominated by our Holy Father to be the commander of the Swiss Guard. Tragically, less than two hours after Estermann’s nomination, he and his wife were murdered in their apartment—”

Higgins interrupted. “When it was found he had been a spy for the East German secret police, the Stasi—”

“Incorrect.” Brother Joseph cut him off. “While you are a guest of the Vatican, Professor, I must ask that you please refrain from repeating innuendo. The Estermanns were shot by a disgruntled member of the Swiss Guard who then turned the gun on himself. So, yes, there was a murder at the Vatican in ninety-eight—”

“Actually,” Higgins again interrupted, “I was really referring to the murder in nineteen seventy-eight.” Higgins looked pointedly at the tomb of Pope John Paul I.

“You are out of line, sir.”

“I’m not saying anything that hasn’t been published.” The group watched with mounting interest as the challenge was thrown down. “My understanding is that he was poisoned. The Pope’s housekeeper found him dead sitting up in bed. He had only been Pope for what? Two weeks?”

“Myocardial infarction,” Brother Joseph said through clenched teeth. “Our Holy Father had a heart attack.”

“But there was no autopsy—”

“Professor Higgins, if you wish to be escorted back to your hotel, I could gladly arrange it. Otherwise, this discussion is at an end. We are not in the habit of being insulted by our guests.”

Higgins opened his mouth to speak again but thought better of it. Nevertheless, his dark eyes sparkled a bit brighter over his victory of getting under the brother’s skin.

The police team was talking in earnest inside Vitelli’s auto shop. Before them, on a workbench, lay a pile of metal and plastic shavings; three smoothed-out, formerly wrinkled pieces of blank paper; and an empty air cylinder. A thin detective, who looked no more than twelve, handled the blank pieces of paper with surgical gloves. He took a long piece of graphite and ran it lightly over the paper. “We can see here the outlines of the writing on the paper that had laid atop this piece.”

“And…?” Investigator Francone prompted him.

“Schematics of some kind.”

“Yours?” Francone turned to Vitelli, who was calmly smoking a cigarette.

“No. I don’t need drawings. Everything I need is up here.” Vitelli tapped his forehead.

“Then whose drawings are they?”

Vitelli knew he should have charged that American more money for the use of his tools. “He was an American. Said he needed to borrow my tools for a bit.”

“You let anyone use your garage, huh? A law-abiding guy like yourself. You surprise me, Attilio.”

“I surprise myself sometimes. The guy seemed harmless. And he paid in cash.”

Investigator Francone had initially doubted the anonymous call placed to the station but now, as he looked at the rubbing, he was glad he hadn’t ignored it. He was unsure of what the schematics were for but his gut was telling him people don’t build innocent things in chop-shop garages. “Well, it looks like your American friend is up to something. And if he is up to something, and we don’t stop him before he pulls this something off…After all these years, Attilio, of being such an
honest
businessman, you may end up in jail as an accessory.”

“Accessory to what?”

“That’s what you are going to help us figure out.” Francone looked at his watch. It was 10:32. “And you better start thinking fast or you just may have
fixed
your last car.”