We enter a brightly lit corridor that leads to a set of elevators. I hit the down button and wait for the elevator to arrive. When it does we step inside, press the button for the basement laboratory.
“You were pretty convincing back there,” I say, my eyes going from her cleavage to her dark eyes and back again. “You should have been an actor.”
“What exactly makes you assume I was acting?”
“Maybe you were acting up inside my bedroom also,” I say.
“Chase Baker,” she says, not without a laugh. “I believe you are jealous.”
“Not a chance,” I say, smirking. Chase, the snagged.
“Guys,” Father O’Brien says. “Can we please stay focused? For all we know this elevator door is going to open and Rickman and his henchmen will be staring us right in the puss.”
“Padre’s right on as usual.” Reaching into my bush jacket, I draw my .45 from the shoulder holster. “From this point out, we think only of getting our hands on the spear and the pope.”
The elevator comes to a stop. The doors open. Andrea pulls out her sidearm, thumbs the safety off.
We make our way slowly along the empty, brightly lit corridor, past solid metal doors marked only with numbers, no names.
“It’s very quiet,” Father O’Brien says, a little under his breath.
“Maybe too quiet,” I add.
When we come to set of doors made of opaque glass that contain the word Laboratory stenciled on it in big white letting, I know we’ve come to the right place.
I try the door latch.
“Locked,” I say.
There’s a keycard access mounted to the painted concrete block wall beside me. A lot of good it’s going to do us.
“Oh well,” I say, raising my fist, wrapping my knuckles on the glass.
“Subtle, Chase,” Andrea says, shaking her head.
“What else you want me to do?” I say. “Shoot the glass out?”
“That’s what they would do in the movies,” O’Brien says.
“Well, this ain’t Hollywood, case you folks hadn’t noticed.”
Then, footsteps along the hard-tiled floor. Footsteps coming toward the door.
“Keep your gun as concealed as you can, Andrea,” I insist. “We don’t need any uninvited trouble.”
She lowers her semi-automatic so that it’s slightly hidden behind her thigh. I do the same thing.
The door opens.
The man holding the broom is small. Smaller than small. If he were a woman, I would refer to him as petite.
“Can I help you?” he says in Italian accented English. Judging by his appearance . . . the overalls he’s wearing, and the broom handle gripped in his hands . . . he must be the maintenance man.
I look at Andrea. She rolls her eyes, holsters her gun. I do the same.
“Are you the poliza?” the man asks. “I have done nothing wrong. I swear.”
“I’m sure you haven’t,” I say. “We’re here looking for someone. We’re also looking for an object. A relic that was supposed to be tested here today. Did you notice anyone unusual inside the lab this afternoon? An old man maybe, and some younger men by his side? Did you see an old spear come in? Rather, the head of a spear?”
“A spear? An old man?” Shaking his head once more. “No, sir. I’ve been here most of the day, and it was very quiet today.” Raising his hand off the broom handle. “’Scuzi, that is not entirely true. When news of the Pope’s abduction right out of Piazza San Pedro came in, it was of course, very shocking. Some of the scientists left early to go home and watch the television. Terrible thing, the Pope being taken away like that.”
“Yes, sir,” Father O’Brien says, “it is indeed a terrible thing.”
“We’re sorry to have wasted your time,” I say.
“No problem,” he says. “It gets very boring down here in the evening. I welcome the distraction.”
I turn to the others.
“Let’s regroup.”
“And maybe get a drink,” Andrea says.
If this were a cartoon, a lightbulb would flash on over my head.
“You just gave me an idea, Andrea. Let’s head back to the car.”
Chapter 15
I instruct Roberto to take us to a street that’s located a couple of blocks beyond the Piazza del Duomo and to a bar called The Goose.
“You were not kidding,” Father O’Brien states, as we take Via Guelfa all the way to the end, then make a 165° turn onto Via Faenza which will lead us all the way down to the piazza. “You wish for us to go to a bar at a time like this.” A question.
“Friends of mine work here,” I point out. “They can help us with our mission.”
“We can have a whiskey while we’re at it,” Andrea says. I turn around just enough to see her smiling face. Just looking at her makes my stomach tight.
“I’ll allow you a quick shot of Jameson, maybe,” I say.
“Who died and left you boss?” she asks.
“Hopefully nobody.”
I don’t have Roberto pull directly up beside the Goose, but instead stop a block away at a pizzeria.
“Stay here, Steve McQueen.” I get out. “Be ready for anything.”
The three of us walk the block along the narrow, slightly winding cobble covered road until we come to small, two-story, stone and plaster building. There’s a wood and glass entry door which has been left open with a doorstop.
We enter the dark bar.
To my right is a series of small café tables and chairs. Beyond that is a very tall bar. Taller than the bars you will find in the U.S. anyway. There are two burly men seated at the bar. The first one is bearded and wearing a black leather vest, like a biker. The second is also bearded and dressed in a plaid button-down shirt over loose blue jeans, both items looking like they haven’t been washed in days. Scratch that . . . weeks.
“Why if it isn’t Chase Baker back from the dead!” Plaid Shirt barks in a heavy Scottish brogue. He slides off the stool, makes his way to me. When he’s within a couple of inches, he takes me into his arms and bear hugs me. If we weren’t good friends, I’d say he was trying to break my ribs.
When he releases me, I catch my breath and say, “Andrea, Father O’Brien, this is my good friend and card shark, Calum Candlish. He also runs this joint.”
“Aayyy,” the Scottish born and bred Calum says as if he were a pirate. “Quite the crew you’re traveling with these days, Baker.” He takes Andrea’s hand in his. “And what a pleasure it is meeting such a lovely young woman like yourself. Are you in Florence for long?”
I pull his hand away.
“Not long enough to make friends, lover boy,” I say.
“Chuffed,” Cal says, not without a smile on his face. “I see the Sheila’s been taken. Lucky you, Chase.”
“No one has taken me yet,” Andrea says. “Too much testosterone in this joint. And don’t call me Sheila.”
“Excuse me,” Father O’Brien breaks in. “But we have a job to do. Must I keep reminding?”
“Sorry, Padre,” Calum says. “Can I get you a drink?”
He looks at Andrea.
“An Irish whiskey would be nice,” she says. “If you don’t mind.”
Cal says, “’Course I don’t mind. Come on, and belly up to the bar.”
He issues us a John Wayne wave, and we head for the bar. While he pours three whiskeys, I nod to motorcycle vest.
“How’s it hangin’, Alistair?”
He nods, holds out a hand that’s the size of a small car. I take it and squeeze.
“Here for drinks or business?” he asks, his English accented with his native Italian.
“Little of both, I’m afraid.”
Just then, a man emerges from out of the back. He’s a small man of middle age, with a stained white apron wrapped around his waist.
“Chase, lad!” he barks in a formal British accent. “How are you, you son of a bitch?”
He gives me a hug that’s not nea
rly as rib crunching as Cal’s. But then, he’s half Cal’s size.
“Hanging in, Matt,” I say. “You cooking up a storm for the Goose?”
“Your crew hungry?” he asks. “I have wonderful boar tonight in a thick wine-infused gravy. Served up with mashed.”
“No time for food just now, Matt,” I confess. Then, while everyone picks up their shot glasses. “To the Pope. May he live a long life.”
“Here, here,” salutes Cal.
“Amen,” says Father O’Brien.
We drink.
Slapping the shot glass back down, I look Cal in the eye from across the tall bar.
“Can we talk? In private?”
His face takes on a patina of seriousness.
“Step into my office, laddy,” he says.
Together, we head for the toilet.
_ _ _
It takes all of five minutes, but I manage to explain everything that’s going on with the spear, the missing tip, and of course, the Pope’s abduction, which he knows all about since it’s both the major and ongoing fluid news of the day. I finish with our disappointment in not finding any evidence of Rickman having attempted to break into the university lab to test the spear.
“You were there in St. Peter’s when the Pope was abducted?” Cal says. “Holy fuck, Chase.”
He pulls a cigarette from the pack he stores in the breast pocket on his plaid shirt, just like Father O’Brien does. He pops it in his mouth, lights it with a Bic lighter. The maneuver is not a series of steps but instead, one quick fluid motion.
“I was twenty feet away from him. The others were close by too.”
“And you believe this Rickman character . . . this ex-Nazi—”
“—Once a Nazi, always a Nazi.”
He smokes, exhales.
“Okay, Nazi present-tense-real-time,” he says. “You believe he’s going to want to test the spear at the university lab, and that he’s going to be bringing the Pope along with him.” It’s a question.
“Something like that, Cal. He will want to make sure that the spear he has in his possession, when put back together with the tip that’s in the Pope’s possession, is the one true spear. The Spear of Destiny, as Father O’Brien calls it.” I exhale. “But like I said, if he did come here to have it tested, he hasn’t been to the lab yet. In fact, he’s nowhere to be found at present.”
“Question,” he says. “I’m no religious scholar, but if the entire spear entered Christ’s chest cavity, then why would it need to be reunited with its tip to manifest the power of God?”
It’s a good question and one I’m not sure how to answer, or if there is an answer. An earthly answer anyway.
“Try this on for size, Cal,” I offer. “God works in mysterious ways.”
“Works for me, lad.” Then, “So, what does the famous Chase Baker require from us today?”
“I still think there’s a good chance Rickman will want to get the complete spear tested which means he’ll break into the lab and bring an army along with him. Once he’s in there, I won’t get another chance of nailing him in a confined space like that. Maybe I can grab up the Pope and the spear at the same time.”
He smokes, thinks.
“Sounds sketchy. Like you’re going entirely on assumptions here. Maybe we should call in the police. In fact, maybe we’ll get ourselves arrested if we don’t call in the police, and they somehow find out we know the Pope’s abductors are in town, and we didn’t inform them. The cops drink at the Goose sometimes.”
“Can’t take that risk. Rickman is a killer. The first sign of sirens and could be he’ll destroy the relic and cut the Pope’s neck while he’s at it. It’s that simple, and that dangerous, Cal.”
Someone knocks on the bathroom door.
“Later!” Cal barks at the locked wooden door. Then, back at me. “What if I were to tell you we ran into some Germans late this afternoon?”
“What do you mean ran into them?”
“I mean three German men . . . young men . . . came into the bar, drank three or four pints a piece of the one dark lagers we carry, and then left for the restaurant next door.”
“This is Florence, Cal Lots of German’s coming and going. Tourists and business people.”
He holds up the hand that holds the lit cigarette and shakes his head.
“Aayyy, Chase. But these lads were different.”
“Tell me.”
“For one, their heads were shaved. Or not completely shaved, but definitely skinhead types.”
“And second?”
“They kept watching the TV . . . the one mounted over the bar back. It was tuned into the news like it is now. They kept laughing. Not out loud, because it wasn’t a laughing situation. The papal father was stolen right in front of the world’s eyes. People were being shot. People dying all around him.” He shakes his head, smokes. “It was a sad sight to see, lad.”
Another knock on the door.
“I told ya to give me a minute!” Cal barks once more. Then, looking at me. “Fuckin’ tourists. Drink all day, all night. Can’t hold their fuckin’ water, you know?”
“So, if the Germans were laughing, Cal,” I go on, “they had to be drunk”
“They were pissed drunk to high heaven, which is why I could only assume they were taking the chance on showing themselves to the public.”
“Or they’re just arrogant or stupid or both.”
“Exactly,” he says. “So, these German’s are talkin’ among themselves, snickering. Eyes on the TV, then on one another. More like they was watching the highlights of a football match they was playin’ in. A match they won.”
A cold wave washes over me. Maybe my gut was right after all. Maybe Rickman and his Neo-Nazis did come to Florence. And if they dressed in civvies like tourists, why shouldn’t they show themselves in public?
I glance at my watch.
“You think those three German’s could still be next door?”
“They were here less than an hour ago. Usually takes a couple hours to eat dinner in Italy. You know that better than anyone, Chase. I’m guessing if what you told me is correct, and those guys are working for Herr Rickman, they plan on breaking into the lab tonight when everything is shut down.”
“We don’t know that for sure, Cal.”
“So, what do you plan on doing about it?”
“I want more than just when and how they want to get into the lab. I want the whole plan. From A to Z. I want to know what they plan on doing with the spear once they discover it’s the real deal. I also want to know where they’re holding the Pope right this minute.”
“How are you going to do that?”
“We’re going next door, Cal. And if the three German’s do indeed turn out to be from Rickman’s army, we’re going to steal us one of them.”
Chapter 16
Back outside the bathroom, a young man of college age is turning blue in the face.
“Took ya long enough,” he says, barreling through the open bathroom door.
Cal laughs.
“Hope he makes it to the porcelain throne without messing himself.”
I go to Andrea and Father O’Brien who are still standing at the bar, nursing another shot a piece.
“Change of plans,” I say. “We’re holding up here for a bit.”
Andrea looks at O’Brien like they have no problem communicating without words. They’ve been working together long enough that it just might be true.
“We’re not going after the Spear of Destiny?” Father O’Brien states. “We’re not going to get the Pope back? I’m thinking they must have skipped Florence and gone straight to Germany.”
On the flat-screened TV mounted to the brick wall behind the bar, the bloody aftermath of the Pope’s abduction is still playing out, with Johnny-on-the-spot reporters covering every fluid moment. Right now, a middle-aged man with black hair is holding a mic up to his mouth while in the background, the spotlight lit St. Peter’s Square is scattered with the d
ead, all of them covered in black rubber sheets. Standing over the bodies are uniformed and plainclothes police.
There’s a third shot set up on the bar. I reach for it, place the glass to my lips, drink the shot down in one quick pull. Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I proceed to relay what Calum told me about the three Germans who were in the bar not long before we arrived, and how they’re having dinner in the restaurant located directly next door.
“So, you were right, after all, Chase,” O’Brien says. “It’s possible if not probable, the Nazis are in our midst. And you’re going to extract one of them?” He smiles. “Maybe waterboard them for more info?”
“First of all,” I say, “it won’t be me doing the extracting. It will be our friends here at the Goose. And second of all, waterboarding might be child’s play for these guys.”
Andrea drinks her shot down swiftly, the liquor not seeming to have any effect.
“We’re not in Kansas anymore,” she offers.
“That would be an accurate assessment.”
Just then, Calum, Alistair, and Matt exit the kitchen. All three have changed into leather coats. When Calum tucks his shirt tails in, he exposes the 9mm semi-automatic he’s packing in a hip holster. No doubt the other two are packing pieces of their own choosing.
“You wish to join us?” Calum asks.
“I would,” I confirm.
“You two stay here,” I say to Andrea and O’Brien. “This won’t take long.”
Father O’Brien goes around the bar into the bar-back.
“I wasn’t always a priest,” he says. “How do you think I paid my way through seminary school?”
Calum laughs.
“Aayyy,” he utters, “now I don’t have to close the joint down for an hour.”
We start for the door.
“Chase,” Andrea calls out.
I stop.
“Be careful,” she says, kissing me gently on the mouth.
“Don’t worry about me,” I say. “Just make sure Father O’Brien doesn’t get drunk working the bar.”
I turn back to the door. Cal opens it for me. As I step on through, he blows me a kiss.
Chase Baker and the Spear of Destiny Page 8
