The Thieves of Heaven (23 page)

Enjordin came to an abrupt halt, speaking in quick bursts of Italian; Reiner mechanically nodded his head at the furious volley. Then both men turned their attention to Michael.

Three black Suburbans, sirens flashing, screeched to a halt in front of the hotel. The concierge came running out but was nearly trampled by a swarm of Vatican and Roman police. They charged up the stairs leaving behind a contingent to block all exits. The concierge ran behind calling for them to stop. He waved his pass-key to no avail.

The security force, weapons drawn, charged onto the third-floor landing and without a moment’s hesitation broke down the door to room 306. The winded concierge stumbled through the doorway still clutching his pass-key.

The guards’ weapons weren’t necessary; there was no one inside. But more importantly, they didn’t need to tear the room apart. It was all there on the table: maps and charts of the Vatican, pictures of the museum, a recipe for smoke bombs.

Moments later Investigator Francone strode in with two of his men and Attilio Vitelli in tow. Francone had heard the dispatch and rushed to the site. While en route, he explained what he and his men had uncovered at the garage to Colonel Enjordin of the Vatican.

“Anything look familiar?” Francone asked Vitelli.

Vitelli looked at the items on the table; the silent TV with images of the smoking Vatican; the packed suitcases. His eyes finally fell on the Yankees hat hanging from the bathroom door handle. He thought,
Only an amateur American would wear something so…American.

The concierge finally caught his breath and, with his eyes wide and arms askew, turned to one of the policemen. “What has the professor done?” he pleaded.

Michael pressed each finger into the designated sections of the paper, rolling them as instructed. Reiner gave him a paper towel to wipe his hands of the excess ink while a guard photographed Michael from all sides. He stood in his underclothes in a small antechamber off the Piazza San Pietro that contained only a table and two lamps. The door was closed and had been locked from the outside. The contents of Michael’s bag—his notebooks, his sunglasses, his books on the Vatican—were spread out on the table. Next to them lay his clothes and the contents of his pockets—his wallet, money, passport, key ring, PalmPilot, and the iridium cell phone.

“And you’re staying at the Hotel Bella Coccinni?” Reiner asked in clipped English as he concentrated on the nearly completed form.

“That is correct.” Michael crumpled up the paper towel and threw it in the trash can, careful to keep his smile in place.

An investigator in a Vatican Police uniform stood over Michael’s effects with an electronic security-wand, passing it back and forth. It rang as it passed over the keys, PalmPilot, and phone. He picked up each article scrutinizing them in detail. Then he removed everything from Michael’s wallet—from credit cards to little scraps of paper—reading each with a careful eye. He turned on the PalmPilot, scrolling through the programs, verifying its functionality, and placed it back on the table. He picked up the phone, surprised at its size and weight, and looked at Michael with a question in his eyes. Turning the phone over in his hand, he opened the back and removed the large black battery. “An iridium phone,” he said in a thick accent.

Michael smiled. “Amazing reception.”

The investigator examined the phone in detail as if it was a fine piece of jewelry; Michael knew that it wasn’t out of admiration but suspicion. The technician put the battery back in and turned the phone on. He gestured to Michael. “Do you mind?”

“Please, feel free.”

The investigator dialed the phone and after a moment the cell phone in his pocket rang. Satisfied, he put it back on the table. He turned to Michael and ran the wand over Michael’s entire body. He gave no indication of a pass or fail and put the wand away. He turned to Reiner and gave him an unspoken look.

Reiner handed Michael his clothes and pushed his possessions across the table. Michael remained silent as he began dressing.

“You understand, Professor McMahon,” Reiner began as he studied Michael’s passport, “with a breach such as this, we must pay attention to even the most insignificant of details.” Reiner placed his pen down on the table and spun the paper around, indicating the line for Michael’s signature. “No one is a more thorough investigator than Colonel Enjordin. The colonel may need to reach you if any further irregularities should arise.”

“Of course.” Michael finished dressing and quickly signed the release.

The door opened abruptly and Enjordin stepped inside. The door slammed shut behind him and the lock fell back into place. Ignoring Michael, he turned to Reiner and the Vatican policeman. “We have been to his hotel.”

Michael’s face was a mask although his heart felt like it would burst in his chest.

“Everything was there—maps, pictures. This
professore
was not smart.”

Enjordin looked Michael up and down, assessing him. Without turning his eye, he snatched Michael’s passport from Reiner and stared at the travel document as if memorizing it. Switching to Italian, he spoke in rapid bursts to Reiner who remained silent—though his eyes kept darting Michael’s way.

A moment of silence hung over the room and then…

Enjordin handed the passport back to Michael. He thumped the door three times. The latch was released.

As they emerged into the light, an ambulance rolled in, coming to a halt next to several fire trucks. A host of Swiss Guards checked the exiting crowds, frisking and questioning them. The guards looked at Michael but turned their attention to the next group once they saw he was being escorted by Corporal Reiner.

“That was scary,” Michael commented.

“Sorry for the inconvenience,” Reiner replied. “Are you sure you are not injured?”

“Just a little shaken.”

“Do you wish a doctor?”

“No, really, I’m fine. I just need a drink.”

“Please do not let this discourage you from visiting us again.” Reiner nodded, then hurried back into the museum.

The crowds had not yet begun to disperse; the confusion would last a bit longer. Michael turned and headed for his hotel, thankful that no one was hurt and the only thing people would be walking away with today was a good story. As he crossed the Piazza San Pietro, passing the towering obelisk and the enormous colonnade, he looked back at the Basilica. While its grandeur hadn’t diminished, he no longer felt the intimidation he had felt when he first looked upon the ancient city.

Michael reached in his pocket and turned on his phone; he needed to hear Mary’s voice. He needed to tell her that he loved her and that he was coming home. Michael walked out of Vatican City at exactly 1:00 and smiled, knowing that Mary’s chances of survival had just risen.

He had the keys.

Chapter 11

M
ichael was packing. The room at the Roman
Traveler’s Inn he had paid for in advance barely had enough space in it for the bed but comfort was not a factor, never had been; he had booked this room for its view. From it he could see the Vatican perfectly. And more important, he could see the myriad intersecting streets below and would know which one to take if escape was in order. While he had checked into the Hotel Bella Coccinni, it was merely for cover; this small hotel was his true base of operation.

On the TV screen was a shot from earlier in the day of smoke billowing out of the Vatican Museum, the tourists scattered about, coughing. The announcer from the CNN Italian bureau spoke over the footage,
“evacuated with only minor injuries sustained.”

Michael sat down at the small corner desk and plugged a memory stick into his notebook computer. Suddenly, numbers started flashing by on the screen. In thirty seconds, the computer was thoroughly wiped of all memory.

The computer had acted as the perfect partner, performing timely and without error. At ten a.m. it auto-dialed the police station through the untraceable cell phone Michael had attached. Recognizing a live human voice, the computer activated the preprogrammed twenty-two-second message leaving the tip about Attilio Vitelli’s garage. The computer had modified Michael’s prerecorded voice and his rapid speech didn’t leave room for a response before the line was disconnected.

At precisely 11 a.m., the computer had dialed the Vatican Police. Michael’s voice, now modified to a feminine timbre, warned of the impending protest. It was all a screen, a matter of misdirection, leading investigators on a trail that bore certain truths but not the whole truth, while at the same time creating chaos.

Michael flipped over the computer and removed the hard drive, running a magnet over it repeatedly. Though an auto virus had infected the computer at 11:17, destroying any evidence, and he had just deleted all of the computer’s memory, Michael didn’t think it was possible to be too cautious. He preferred the belt, suspenders, and parachute approach. You could never be too sure.

Michael was glad nobody was hurt—except maybe Professor Higgins’s ego and his head, partly from kissing the statue of St. Thomas Aquinas and partly from the sodium amytal that prolonged his slumber. The anti-Catholic leaflets Michael had placed in his bag blinded the guards with rage, fogging their minds to rational thought as they raced off to Higgins’s hotel. The hotel was only three blocks from the Hotel Bella Coccinni. As it only had a single concierge on duty, it had been absurdly easy for Michael to slip in and out of Higgins’s room that morning on his way to the Vatican, leaving just enough evidence to further support the Swiss Guard and Vatican Police’s theories and suppositions.

It wasn’t one piece of evidence that helped to seal the Vatican Police’s conclusion, it was the collective: the items in his bag, his blind hatred of the Church, the items in his hotel. The fact that nothing appeared stolen kept their focus on an anarchist vandal, not an opportunistic thief. The truth only emerged as the sodium amytal wore off. But nobody would want the truth; they had already made up their minds about Professor Higgins.