Chase Baker and the Spear of Destiny

by Vincent Zandri

  The car lights up in a series of rapid fire explosions. The multiple rounds exit the thick air-cooled barrel, and the entire front seat of the Ranger Rover disappears into a haze of blood red, shattered plastic, and punctured metal. Now that the driver no longer has a head, the vehicle hooks a sharp right and motors straight into the old stone Forte wall where it comes to a final, violent stop.

  “Aayyy,” Cal says, “that’s some fucking gun you got there, Baker.”

  “It’s the machine gun that won World War Two for the allies. Now I know why.”

  I set the gun down, and slip back into the front passenger seat.

  “You wanna stop and find out precisely who those assholes were?” Cal asks.

  “We know who they were,” I say, feeling the cool evening breeze against my face. “Let’s just get ourselves back to the Goose and then down inside that tunnel as soon as we can.” I stop talking for a moment to listen. “You hear that, Cal?”

  “Sirens,” he says. “Lots of them. My ears are ringing from all those bullets, but I can make them out clearly enough.”

  “Within a couple of minutes, the cops will be all over that smashed up Range Rover. I’m sure we were captured on the Forte’s surveillance cameras also. We’re running out of time.”

  Driving now away from the Forte, Cal turns onto Via Faenza and begins making his way back to the Goose. People are looking at us funny now that we don’t have a front or back windshield. But so long as a cop doesn’t see us, we’ll be okay.

  It takes a few minutes of stop-and-start-again driving through some dark, narrow back alleys, but eventually, we make it back to the Goose without being detained by the Firenze cops.

  “You got a place you can ditch this thing?” I ask. “After we unload the ordinance that is.

  “Matt will give it a bath in the river. He’ll also provide us with a new ride. Something even faster than the Mercedes.”

  “Damn shame,” I say, getting out, and heading for the Goose front door. “Steve McQueen would have loved an upgrade.”

  Chapter 21

  O’Brien and Andrea are standing by the bar waiting for us. So is Matt.

  Cal tosses the keys to the cook.

  “The car’s gotta go,” he says. “You okay with taking care of it?”

  “You know I am,” Matt says. Then, focusing his gaze on the priest and Andrea. “Father O’Brien, Andrea, it’s been a pleasure. Good luck with the rest of your mission.”

  Andrea hugs Matt tightly. When she releases him, O’Brien holds out his hand.

  “Thanks for feeding us,” he says, shaking the cook’s hand.

  “Come back when things are more peaceful,” Matt says, not without a smile. “I’ll prepare you a feast.”

  “Amen to that,” O’Brien says.

  I approach Andrea.

  “Roberto,” I say with a slight shake of the head. “I’m sorry.”

  She goes pale while Father O’Brien makes the sign of the cross.

  “Listen,” I say. “We don’t have time to mourn. We need to empty out the car, get another car or truck loaded, and make our way to the Uffizi.”

  As if I scripted it this way, another vehicle pulls up behind the now battered Mercedes. I can’t be entirely sure that the vehicle is being driven by Matt, so I tell everyone to lay low. I go to the door, look out through the glass pane. It’s a four door Toyota 4X4. White. Matt is behind the wheel.

  Exhaling a relieved breath, I wave everyone on, open the door.

  “Let’s be fast about this, Cal,” I insist.

  “Agreed,” Cal says. “Everybody grab something and store it in back of the Toyota.”

  The big Scot opens the Mercedes trunk and grabs hold of the RPG which he carries around to the Toyota tailgate. I reach into the Mercedes back seat, grab the 30 cal. and the ammo can. Meanwhile, Father O’Brien and Andrea grab hold of the rest of the armaments, carry them to the Toyota.

  “Are we declaring war on the Nazis again?” Andrea asks under her breath. “Or are we going to actually dig our way through a tunnel to the basement depths of the Pitti Palace?”

  “Probably both,” I say, cocking my head in the direction of the Mercedes. “Rickman’s Nazis are all about starting a war. That Mercedes and the dead driver who owned it are the proof. So was the incident at St. Peter’s Square.”

  She nods, her face reflecting her anxiety.

  Matt gets out of the Toyota, hands Cal the keys. He gets behind the wheel of the Mercedes, fires it back up, pulls away. Next stop, the bottom of the River Arno.

  I head back around to the Toyota, hand Cal an M16 and several magazines to go with it. I do the same for Andrea. I take hold of a third weapon and three more mags.

  “Father O’Brien,” I say, locking eyes on the old priest. “Under normal circumstances, I might refrain from asking you to do this. But these are most definitely not normal circumstances. Therefore, I’m going to ask that you arm yourself as soon as we make it to the Uffizi. Understood?”

  “The Nazis won’t give up the spear or the Pope easily,” Andrea says.

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Cal says. “Let’s load in, people.”

  The priest nods, reluctantly takes hold of the weapon.

  “You know how to use that, Father?” I say.

  He slaps the magazine in, pulls back on the bolt, thumbs the safety on.

  “I did two years in the Army, Chase,” he says. “Early seventies. Viet Nam. Why do you think I became a priest?”

  Everyone goes quiet for a brief moment as if the priest’s revelation carries with it some sort of special significance. And maybe it does.

  “Come on everyone,” I say. “Load in. Gonna be a long night. Let’s get it going.”

  Cal gets behind the wheel, while Andrea and O’Brien slip into the back seat along with their weapons. I hop into the shotgun seat.

  Turning to Cal. “This guy you know at the Uffizi. You’re sure he can be trusted?”

  Cal rubs his beard, reaches into his chest pocket, pulls out his bag of chewing tobacco, pulls out a small sticky wad, sticks it under his tongue. Taking the time to chew for a second or two, he then spits some of the black juice out the open window.

  He turns to me.

  “We’ll just have to find out, won’t we, Chase, lad.”

  I nod. “Guess that’s why they call this adventure.”

  “Aayyy,” he says, throwing the Toyota in gear, then slapping my thigh, hard. “Now ‘yer cookin’ with gas.”

  He pulls away from the curb on our way to the most famous art museum in the world.

  Chapter 22

  It’s impossible for us to pull into the long, narrow, piazza that makes up the front entrance to the Uffizi gallery. The stone plaza that’s adjacent to the Piazza della Signoria and surrounded by more than a dozen full-sized statues of the Renaissance masters, the likenesses of Galileo, Da Vinci, Machiavelli, and Donatello among them.

  The piazza will be monitored not only with digital closed-circuit television cameras mounted to every piece of wall and marble column, but with police who will be guarding the facility from inside a blue, white, and red squad car. The Uffizi has been the site of several terrorist attacks over the years. Since it houses some of the most precious works of art known to mankind, it is also one of the most heavily guarded institutions on the planet.

  But if we go around to the back of the gallery where visitors exit the facility, we have a shot at gaining entry without the police being the wiser. There’s still the issue of the CCTV cameras, but Cal apparently has a plan for those.

  We pull up to a café that’s closed at this late hour, but that is located directly beside the Uffizi Gallery exit. Cal opens the glove box, pulls out several black cloth objects.

  “Put these on,” he says, handing one of them to me, then passing two more into the back seat.

  I take a good look at the item.

  “It’s a ski mask,” I say. “What are we, cat burglars?”

  “Damn straigh
t,” Cal states in his heavy brogue. “We want entrance into that facility without our faces being broadcast all over the world, we gotta wear these masks.”

  I glance into the back. Both Andrea and Father O’Brien give me a look.

  “We can trust, Cal,” I say. Then, my eyes shifting to the big bearded man. “Can’t we, Cal?”

  “You know you can,” he says, slipping the mask over his face.

  Taking his cue, I pull my mask over my head. Andrea and O’Brien do the same.

  “Now what?” I say, both my hands gripping the mini-M16.

  “Those cops in the plaza will still be a problem, even with my connection on the inside of the Uffizi.”

  “So, what’s your plan?” I say.

  He throws his left hand over the seat back.

  “Father,” he says, “if you would be so kind as to hand me one of those grenades.”

  Even through the narrow slits on the priest’s mask, I can tell that his eyes have gone wide. Still, he reaches for one of the grenades stored on the seat in between him and Andrea, sets it onto Cal’s palm. Cal then pulls out his cell phone and thumb taps the speed dial. Placing the phone to his ear, we all wait in anticipation.

  “Mario,” he says, after a few weighted beats. “We ready to go?” Cal pauses. When he smiles, I feel myself smiling. “See in two minutes, lad.”

  Cal pockets the phone, then glances at us.

  He says, “You all stay here. I’ll be back for you.”

  Before any of us can protest, he opens the Toyota door and exits the vehicle, grenade in hand. In silence, we watch as he jogs along a cobbled street that runs perpendicular to the river-side road. When he comes to the building that houses the Museo Galileo, he hooks a sharp right and disappears around the corner.

  The realization hits me then, and I feel myself smiling.

  “Cal is becoming a terrorist,” I say, more to myself than anyone else.

  “A what?” Father O’Brien says.

  I turn to him, peer at him over my shoulder.

  “Cal is about to become a terrorist,” I add raising my voice. “Correction . . . A friendly terrorist . . . Sort of.”

  The quiet atmosphere is shattered by an explosion and a flash of brilliant light. It startles us. But it also makes sense.

  “There it is,” I say. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

  Andrea leans forward at the precise moment an alarm goes off.

  “Cal created the diversion we need,” she says.

  Then, coming at us from out of the dark mist. Cal, sprinting in our direction. He opens the door, tosses himself in.

  “No one saw me,” he utters in between gasps of breath. “No one saw me, and now’s our chance. Everybody grabs hold of something, and let’s go.”

  We exit the Toyota and make our way through the darkness around the café to the concrete ramp that makes a gradual incline up to the exit door on the Uffizi. The door opens before we even get there.

  A man is standing inside the open door. He’s wearing the blue uniform of a security guard. When Cal greets him, he wraps his arms around him, kisses both bearded cheeks.

  “It is good to see you, my brother,” the guard says. “You do not have much time. Soon the poliza will realize the explosion came from a grenade that you tossed into the piazza and not an IED. They will begin scouring the gallery inside and out.”

  “The security cameras, Mario?” Cal presses.

  “Out for ten minutes,” Mario informs. “Later, we will have no choice but to blame the explosion for the outage. But you only have the ten minutes to get from here to the corridor.”

  “Thank you, Mario,” Cal says. “The corridor is unlocked, just like we planned?”

  “Yes, Cal,” he says. “As soon as you enter, I will once again lock it behind you. You will have no choice but to find your way out on the other side.”

  I’m holding the RPG on my shoulder. It’s our ticket down into a sub-cellar that no one has laid eyes upon in over seventy years.

  “And my sister?” Cal says. “She’s fine?”

  “Tending to the children as always, Cal,” Mario informs. “You should visit more often.”

  Cal nods, purses his lips together.

  “Yes,” he says. “I am a terrible uncle. But I promise when things calm down, I will come over for a nice long dinner.”

  “And some drinks,” Mario laughs. “But you can leave your ski mask at home.”

  “Yes,” Cal agrees. “Many, many drinks. As for the masks, they are the price of doing business. That is, we wanna save the Pope and the spear of St. Longinus.”

  Outside the Uffizi, the alarms are blaring. Even from where we’re standing, we can make out the flashing colored lights on the police cruisers descending upon the place.

  “Cal,” I say. “We’re down to eight and a half minutes before those cameras come back on. We’ve got to move.”

  “You know where you’re going?” Mario asks.

  “I know it,” I say. Then, “Everyone, follow me.”

  I turn away from the Mario and head into the gallery, on my way to a staircase made of marble.

  _ _ _

  When we come to the top of the stairs, I turn to the right, in the direction of the Ponte Vecchio. There’s a small door located beside the big, rectangular picture window that provides an almost panoramic scene of the famous old stone bridge that up until the sixteenth century was one big butcher shop. But because of the constant rank smell of rotting meat, the bridge was transformed into a kind of ancient strip mall for selling diamonds and other jewels. Five hundred years later, the bridge is still being used for that very purpose.

  “Andrea,” I say. “You first.”

  Without objecting, Andrea crouches while at the same time, shifting herself sideways to accommodate her tall body and the automatic rifle she’s carrying, through the opening.

  “Father,” I say. “You’re up.”

  He too crouches, but he’s got to suck in his gut as he squeezes through not only with his rifle but with two RPG rounds strapped to his back. Cal goes next. He’s also hefting two RPG rounds on his back along with the rifle in his hands. That leaves me.

  As I squeeze myself through the door, I hear voices. Manly voices. Then, footsteps, quickly ascending the marbles staircase.

  I close the door behind me, pull out my Maglite, turn to the others.

  “Go,” I whisper as forcefully as possible. “Go now!”

  We make our way inside the Vasari Corridor, on our way to a subterranean shaft that for now anyway, exists only in theory.

  Chapter 23

  The ceiling is on the higher side along this stretch of corridor. But as soon as we make the 90° turn that will lead us to the Ponte Vecchio, the ceiling becomes noticeably lower.

  Much lower.

  The walls are covered with the art that didn’t quite make the cut for the Uffizi’s main gallery. On occasion, I can’t help but shine the Maglite onto it. The many portraits of Renaissance era Florentine dignitaries and politicos stare back at me with what seems like disapproving eyes. Eyes that move as I move, their gaze always focused on me. On us.

  I refocus the beam of white LED light so that it illuminates the ever-narrowing corridor that’s situated directly over the bridge. Looking out the small windows embedded in the walls, I can see the river and the white electric light that reflects on the water from the many lamps installed on the bridges that run parallel to this one.

  When we come to the opposite riverbank, I tell everyone to stop.

  “This is it,” I say, removing my mask, feeling the very sudden and very welcome onrush of cool air against hot skin. “This is the place where the second, subterranean tunnel must begin.”

  Taking my cue, the other three remove their own masks.

  “Thank God,” Father O’Brien says. “Thought I was going to burn up in that thing.”

  Cal tosses his mask to the side, then looks around. He gazes at both walls and down at his feet. The f
loor is thick wood planking while lath and plaster cover the walls.

  “There’s no door, Chase,” he says.

  “Perhaps it’s hidden,” Father O’Brien comments.

  “It must be hidden,” Andrea agrees

  I drop down to my hands and knees. Using the M16’s butt stock, I begin to tap the floor, searching for any difference in sound and feel from one spot to another. At first, the sound of the butt stock striking the wood is muffled and tight. But suddenly, as I strike the planks just a few feet from where we’re standing, the sound becomes more hollow. As though what lies beneath it, is not solid subfloor, but instead, an opening.

  I look up at the other three.

  “This is it,” I say. “Below this bit of flooring is the entry to the tunnel.”

  “How can you be sure, Chase?” Andrea says, running her fingers through her sweat dampened black hair.

  “Only one way to find out,” I say.

  Raising the M16, I bring the butt stock down hard onto the floor. The old center plank cracks. Raising the rifle up, I bring it down again, harder this time. The center plank breaks, revealing a black hole.

  Back down on hands and knees, I set the rifle down beside me, and begin pulling away chunks of old, dry plank, making a hole that’s big enough to fit my head through. I aim the Maglite beam inside the hole and take a look. What I see gives me goose bumps.

  “Chase,” Cal says, “what do you see, man?”

  “Please don’t keep us in suspense,” Father O’Brien insists.

  I pull my head out and straighten myself up.

  “Gentlemen and lady,” I say. “We’ve got ourselves a staircase.”

  Chapter 24

  We pull away as much of the wood floor as we require to squeeze our bodies and equipment down inside. There’s a narrow landing which all of us can occupy, that is, if we stand uncomfortably close together.

  Shining the Maglite in the direction of the riverbank, I reveal an old narrow staircase made of poured concrete that leads to a metal door that’s padlocked. The door is built into the Arno riverbank’s old stone wall.