The Library of the Kings (A Tom Wagner Adventure Book 2)

by M. C. Roberts

  “Fuck!” Tom swore. That had been his best chance to catch Hagen, and he’d blown it. The crazy Englishman had really gone for the zigzag course, and Tom’s shortcut had done him no good.

  Things were harder now that they had left the old town. The streets were wider, and there were fewer pedestrians and more opportunities to accelerate. That’s where Hagen’s powerful MV Agusta had the edge, as Tom had already noticed at the start of the chase. He had to hold on and hope that Hagen got lost again. Suddenly, he heard police sirens. About damn time, he thought.

  Hagen roared north and Tom knew he would soon reach the Salzach River, where the traffic would be heavier again. Hagen made another wrong decision. Instead of turning left at the river and heading out of the city, he turned right and rode along Kaipromenade, the riverside esplanade. But Tom rejoiced too soon: Hagen had the pistol in his hand again. He turned and squeezed off another shot at Tom, and Tom was again forced to slow down and take evasive action. He swerved onto the grassy embankment, running the risk of going straight down it into the river. At the same time, he was doing his best not to run down the pedestrians strolling in along the promenade. Hagen had fired his last bullet. He threw the pistol away and reached into his jacket again and, although he could not see exactly what Hagen was up to, Tom was already reckoning with a second weapon. Hagen made another risky move, swinging left onto the Müllner Steg, a pedestrian bridge over the Salzach River, where a few pedestrians had to jump the rail into the river to avoid getting run down. In front of them now lay the Mirabell Palace, its park full of visitors. Hagen plowed straight across the gardens, and Tom, who had made up some ground, followed, though not without a guilty conscience. The artfully designed flower beds, hedges trimmed to the millimeter and lawns as neat as an English golf course were transformed into something like a turnip field as they tore through.

  Police sirens were wailing from all sides now; it was only a matter of time before they would intercept Hagen. He had no escape. Tom saw that a roadblock had already been set up on Franz-Josef-Kai, the boulevard along the far bank of the Salzach. All Tom had to do was force Hagen back over Salzburg’s second pedestrian bridge, the Makartsteg, to the other side. Tom dug in, squeezing every last ounce of horsepower out of his machine, and cut Hagen off at Herbert von Karajan’s birthplace, driving him onto the bridge. Hagen was trapped. With a squeal of smoking tires, Hagen skidded to a halt in the middle of the bridge. Tom, thinking that Hagen might have another gun, pulled to a stop on his end of the bridge. But Hagen calmly put down the kickstand of the MV Agusta and dismounted. He stepped over to the side, and Tom—too late—realized what was happening. Hagen was over the railing in a second and jumped into the river, just as a boat passed by beneath. In seconds, Hagen was pulled on board. Police cars now sealed both ends of the bridge, but it wasn’t Hagen who was trapped. It was Tom.

  By the time he explained everything to the cops, Hagen was long gone.

  48

  Sister Simonetta’s chamber, Nonnberg Abbey

  Hellen could see at once that the room had not been touched. No one had been there, and it clearly hadn’t been ransacked. Hellen quickly found what she was looking for in the modestly furnished room: a large pile of diaries in the bedside cabinet. She flipped through them as quickly as she could, but it took some time before she found the date the dying nun had whispered in her ear.

  May 24th, 1942

  I have been in the Holy City for one month and I am getting used to everything now. At the moment, I mostly help in the kitchen. The big city still scares me, but with God’s help I will pass this test. I miss my Val Gardena, my mountains and all the animals. Of course, I am eternally grateful to Reverend Matteo in Santa Cristina for giving me the opportunity to serve in Rome and to dedicate my life to the Savior here.

  Today after Holy Mass, there was an accident in the kitchen. Sister Angelica cut her hand with a knife and had to be treated, but it happened right when it was time for the prefect to take his tea. The prefect is a strict man and we are all scared to death of him, even Sister Angelica, who takes him his tea every day. Because of her injury, I offered to take the tea to him in her place, and I picked up the tray and carried it upstairs to the prefect. Outside his office, I put the tray on a low cupboard next to the door. I knocked, waited a few seconds and then opened the door.

  The prefect recognized me and waved me in to serve the tea. There were two other men in the room, and they all looked a little alike. I think the other two were probably the prefect’s brothers. The three men kept on talking, but they changed from Italian to Latin because they thought I would not understand a word of it. As children back at home, however, Father Matteo had taught us a little Latin every week in Sunday school. He wanted us to understand what the priests said at Mass, so I understood some of what the men were talking about. There is one thing especially that I recall. The prefect instructed the other two men to bring their stones to safety. Where the one man was to take his stone, I forget. He used a strange word that was unknown to me. But with the second man, I am certain there was talk of a large museum in America, something with “Smith.” One man said he knew the director of the museum from his student days in Florence and that the stone would be safe there. I have no idea what they were talking about, but I could tell it was something very important, because they all three watched me so suspiciously.

  Hellen skimmed over the rest of the diary entry but found nothing else of interest. So the stone had been broken into three pieces. It made sense, of course. And she knew now where they had to go from here. A second later she caught herself worrying about Tom. She wondered if he was all right, if he had caught Hagen. When she left the nuns’ quarters and returned to the convent garden, she saw Tom climbing out of a police car. The look on his face spoke volumes. Hagen had gotten away again.

  49

  W.A. Mozart Airport, Salzburg

  “I’m sick to death of that guy. Who does he think he is, Valentino Rossi?”

  Tom was beside himself as he climbed the few steps up into the luxurious cabin of the private jet. Noah and Cloutard, engrossed in a game of chess, only looked up as he entered. They had heard him coming long before he actually boarded the plane.

  “Let me guess: someone gave him the slip,” Noah said, regretting it the moment he saw Hellen appear behind Tom, shaking her head and waving her hands.

  “What happened? Tell us,” Noah said.

  “We were almost too late,” Hellen explained because Tom was too worked up to talk sensibly. “Isaac Hagen got there before us and we caught him strangling Sister Simonetta. Tom went after Hagen. We did what we could for the sister, but it wasn’t enough. Her heart gave out. But with her dying breath the poor woman gave me a clue. We’re headed for Washington D.C.”

  “Hagen? Mon Dieu,” said Cloutard. Tom prowled back and forth through the cabin. He was furious.

  “Yes, Hagen! How did AF even know about the nun? Is there a leak in the Vatican? Is that it? Maybe the Camerlengo? He looked like he was pissed off the whole time we were there, right? Or maybe the old archivist?”

  Tom looked around but saw only surprised, incredulous faces. Had he really just charged the upper echelons of the Catholic Church with having connections to AF?

  “I would not go so far,” Cloutard said.

  “Anything’s possible,” said Noah.

  “Tom, please, calm down,” Hellen soothed. “Let me have a look at you first.”

  She wanted to check him over, see if he needed patching up—he’d taken a fall with the motorcycle, after all, and he would at least have some scrapes and bruises. Tom pushed her away.

  “I’m fine. Thanks.”

  Hellen lifted her hands and turned away. “Okay, okay, okay! But I’m wouldn’t accuse the Camerlengo of being an AF sleeper agent,” she said, shaking her head.

  “Come and sit, mon ami. Have a drink.” Cloutard quickly filled a glass handed it to Tom. Cognac was Cloutard’s panacea, and he had just taken a dose to dull
his own concerns, at least for a little while.

  Tom sat, picked up the glass without thinking and lifted it to his lips. He paused only when he sniffed the contents.

  “Not now, François. I need a clear head,” he said, and put the glass down again.

  “I for one could certainly believe it,” said Noah. “About the Camerlengo, I mean.” He moved one of his chess pieces. “At Mossad we saw plenty of evidence that the Vatican had leaks, pointing in every direction.”

  Tom was back on his feet. He stalked over to the bar and poured whiskey into a tumbler, then drained it in one gulp. He put the glass aside and went back to his restless pacing.

  “Very consistent,” Cloutard murmured with a smirk.

  “But it’s weird, right?” Tom said. “We show up at the Vatican and Sister Lucrezia, in the presence of the Pope and the Camerlengo, tells us about an old nun. And a day later Hagen shows up right here. That’s strange, isn’t it?”

  The others nodded thoughtfully.

  “There is much that I would believe of the Catholics, Tom, but even I would not go that far,” said Cloutard, deep in thought, gazing at the chessboard. His queen was in danger.

  “But if the leak isn’t in the Vatican, then they’ve bugged us,” said Noah, looking around.

  Tom took out his iPhone. He held it up with two fingers and spoke in its general direction. “Calling Ossana. Come in, Ossana,” he said, and everyone laughed.

  “It’s not the phones,” Noah said. “That was the first thing I did when we flew to Rome. Your phones are all bug-proof.”

  “I know, I know,” Tom said, and he clapped Noah on the shoulder as he returned to the bar. A silence settled over the small assembly. Cloutard sipped his cognac and looked out the window, lost in thought. Noah glanced at him with a look of slight distrust. Hellen, sitting in one of the large leather chairs, pulled her legs up and clasped both arms around them, her head resting on her knees. Tom had refilled his whiskey. For a minute or two, no one said a word. Abruptly, Hellen, Cloutard and Tom all looked at each other, then all three turned to Noah—all had had the same alarming thought.

  “Checkmate!” Noah cried, happy to beat Cloutard for once. He looked up from the chessboard, only to see three deadly serious faces looking back at him. “What?”

  All three went to Noah at the same time. Hellen knelt in front of the wheelchair and checked the footrests. Tom reached beneath the seat. Cloutard checked the back.

  “What the hell?” Noah complained. A moment later, Tom came up with the bug.

  “Fuck, I’m getting rusty,” Tom said angrily. “I should have thought of this as soon as we got you back.”

  “Blame me for this one,” said Noah. “I’m supposed to be the tech guy. I should have thought of it.”

  “You’re the least to blame,” Hellen said. “I know what it’s like to be kidnapped. When you rescued me that time . . .” Hellen looked first to Tom, then Noah, “. . . you wouldn’t believe the things that were going through my head. It makes sense that you wouldn’t think of something like that.”

  Cloutard had fallen silent. Noah looked at him and was about to say something, but changed his mind and stayed silent.

  “The fact is that, because of this, AF accessed crucial information.” Tom slumped into an armchair with his whiskey. “And an old nun paid the price. We can’t make a mistake like this again.“

  The others all nodded.

  50

  A few hours later, Washington D.C.

  Leg jiggling nervously up and down, Tom sat in the lobby of FBI headquarters in the J. Edgar Hoover Building in Washington, waiting for Special Agent Jennifer Baker. The conversation he was about to have definitely did not count among his favorite activities. Walking out without a word while your partner is in the shower after a night of torrid lovemaking leaves you with a lot of explaining to do. And that was exactly what Tom would have to do.

  He jumped up when he saw Jennifer storm out of the elevator and walked quickly in her direction. She just shook her head, grabbed his arm and dragged him outside.

  “You’ve got a nerve,” she hissed at him. “Showing your face around here. It’s a little late for breakfast, buddy. Now here you are, days later, asking for my help! After the stunt you pulled!”

  “You’ve got every reason to be pissed at me, I know, but give me five minutes and I’ll explain everything that’s happened since that morning.”

  “Why should I do that?” she said and turned away.

  “Please, Jennifer. Maybe I can even help you find the people behind the Smithsonian raid.”

  Jennifer thought it over for a moment and finally agreed to listen.

  Tom started with Noah’s phone message and how it had led him to Egypt. He told her about the break-in at the museum, Arno’s death, the clue in Belgium, the audience with the Pope, the mission he’d given them, the old nun and the chase in Salzburg, and the bug they found in Noah’s wheelchair.

  “The bitch actually bugged him, and we didn’t even spot it,” Tom said, bringing his story to a close.

  “Are you kidding me?” Jennifer asked. “You just confessed a museum break-in and probably a murder to an FBI agent?”

  “It was self-defense. Besides, isn’t Egypt a little outside your jurisdiction?” Tom said, and gave her his best wide-eyed, innocent look. “And we have to get into the Smithsonian archive again,” he went on, once again serious. “I’m one hundred percent certain the break-in here is tied in with everything else that’s happened. We have to know if they found anything, or took anything with them.”

  Jennifer paced back and forth in front of Tom, thinking it all through. “Damn it, Tom. My job’s on the line here.”

  He looked at her pleadingly.

  “All right. Give me one hour. We’ll meet at the Castle, the main entrance.” She was still a little hesitant. Tom thanked her and crossed the street quickly to where his friends were waiting. “One hour,” she called after him.

  As agreed, one hour later, Hellen, Noah, Cloutard and Tom found themselves standing in front of the destroyed glass vault in the underground archive of the Smithsonian Institute.

  “I see you were hard at work again,” said Noah, swinging his wheelchair full circle and admiring the havoc that Tom and his uncle had wreaked. Forensics and FBI agents were still busy with the crime scene. Hundreds of numbered yellow cones marked spent bullets, bloodstains and ruined artifacts, each meticulously photographed and recorded.

  Hellen was thrilled. She did not see the chaos at all. She saw the treasures hidden from the outside world, tucked away there in the archive. Cloutard was also starting to realize where he was, and what this could mean for him.

  “Don’t touch anything, please,” said a passing FBI agent, and Cloutard flinched. The agent had noticed Hellen and Cloutard’s unusual curiosity.

  “All right. What do you hope to find?” Jennifer asked.

  “A clue. Something that will tell us if Hagen found what he was looking for,” Tom said without thinking. “Do you know yet if anything is missing?”

  “Hagen? Who’s Hagen?” Jennifer narrowed her eyes and planted herself in front of Tom, her arms crossed over her chest.

  My God, she’s sexy in her FBI gear, Tom thought, and cleared his throat. He’d opened a can of worms now. “Isaac Hagen was the eighth man,” he admitted, looking her in the eye.

  “What ‘eighth man’ is this? I thought we had everyone involved in the break-in, either in custody or in the morgue, thanks to you and the admiral.”

  Tom smiled apologetically. Noah, Hellen and Tom retreated a little, extracting themselves from Jennifer’s and Tom’s firing line.

  “Tom never misses a chance, does he? What do you think he sees in Scully here?” Hellen shook her head and turned away.

  “You really think so?” Noah asked.

  “Oui, bien sûr,” said Cloutard. “A blind man could see there is something between them.”

  “I remember perfectly well,” Jennifer said.
She kept her voice low, not wanting to attract undue attention. “There were seven. Both you and your uncle assured us that was all of them.” She paced furiously back and forth. “Anything else I ought to know?” She had her hands pressed into her hips now and shook her head in disbelief. “Not only have you confessed to murder and burglary, you stone-cold lied to my face when we questioned you,” she growled. “And that, buddy, is well within my jurisdiction. It’s called making a false statement to a federal agent, and in this country it can cost you five years of your life.”

  “Are you finished?” Tom asked. He took her by the shoulders and peered at her intently. “Look, Hagen is a dangerous man who works for an even more dangerous organization, with its fingers in more pies than I like to think about. Maybe even inside the FBI. Hagen has already slipped through my fingers more than once. I wanted to get him myself, and I’m sorry for that. But I’ll tell you everything I know about AF and Hagen. Promise.”

  “Maybe I can add a little something of my own,” a familiar voice suddenly said.

  Admiral Scott Wagner appeared from behind a rack of shelves and joined Tom, Jennifer and the others. Tom looked at him in astonishment.

  “Uncle Scott,” Hellen said, greeting Tom’s uncle with a kiss on the cheek. “It’s good to see you again.”

  “Ravi de vous rencontrer,” said Cloutard, shaking Scott’s hand.