Chase Baker and the Spear of Destiny

by Vincent Zandri

  Chapter 42

  We sprint the length of the platform and enter the train station. Like all the train stations in Italy’s capital, the place is hopping with people coming and going. Without having to say a word about it, Cal and I attempt to blend into the crowd while our collective gazes search desperately for an exit.

  “Halt!” shouts a police officer. “Stop! Stop!”

  A shot rings out.

  People scream, hit the deck. Instinctively, I duck my head, scrunch my shoulders. But I also keep running. Keep moving.

  Glancing over my shoulder, I can see that the lead officer is holding his service sidearm with the barrel aimed at the bright sky over the train platform. At least he has the good sense not to shoot into a crowd of innocents.

  Then, up ahead, another wide-open area two-sided by tall walls that contain lockers. Beyond them, the sliding glass exit doors.

  “There, Cal!” I bark. “The doors!”

  We sprint for the doors. When they open, we shoot outside. Parked along the sidewalk are the many white taxis awaiting commuting passengers. I don’t think about it, I just head directly for the first cab. The driver isn’t sitting behind the wheel but is instead enjoying a cigarette with a few of his taxi driver friends, a few feet away on the grassy turn-around center.

  The short, paunchy, balding man locks eyes on me as I approach the cab. Looking beyond him, I spot a set of keys inserted in the steering column.

  “You want a cab?” he asks. “Give me a moment.”

  “No problem,” I say, opening the driver’s side doors, while Cal opens the passenger. “Take your time, my friend.”

  “Hey!” Cab Driver screams while tossing his cigarette, making a beeline for the taxi. “Hey, you . . . That’s my cab.”

  I slam the door closed, turn the engine over.

  “Not anymore, pal,” I say, throwing the Mercedes five-speed hatchback in gear. Hang on, Cal. It’s gonna be a rough ride.”

  “Ain’t it always?” he smiles, as he grabs hold of the Jeeze bar mounted above the passenger door window. Jeeze, as in “Jesus, slow down already!”

  I engage the door locks only a half second before Cab Driver grabs hold of the opener. My eyes focused on the rearview mirror, I spot the team of cops as they exit the station, their weapons drawn and poised to blow off the backs of our skulls.

  “Head down, Cal!” I shout.

  Shots fired. Multiple shots. The rear glass blows out. Rounds ricochet off the metal frame.

  Cal thrusts his head and torso forward, face between his knees. My right foot pressing the gas pedal to the floor, I take the turn-around as the tires grip the pavement and burn rubber, then transition onto the straightaway that will connect us with the main road.

  “You hit, Cal?”

  He looks up at me.

  “I don’t think so,” he says.

  Strange thing about bullets. You can be hit and not know it for a while.

  Coming to the main road, I toe-tap the brakes.

  “Which way should I go?” I say.

  “How should I know?” Cal says. “I hardly ever get out of Florence these days.”

  Extending my index finger, I hold it up like a pretend metronome. Waving it, I recite, “Eenie, Meenie, Miney, Moe, catch an asshole by the toe. If it hollers, let it go. Eenie, Meenie, Miney, Moe.” I run out of road at the same time I’m uttering the last “Moe.”

  The index finger directs me to the right.

  I turn the wheel sharply and we fish-tail out into the middle of traffic, barely missing a small truck that has no choice but to pull up onto a curb.

  In the rearview I make out the team of cops as they get smaller and smaller in the distance, their guns totally useless.

  “We’re good,” I say, as we enter the suburb and the streets bookended by hundreds of identical five and six-story apartment buildings.

  “For now,” Cal correctly asserts.

  I reach into my pocket, pull out the now deceased Mr. Vinti’s semi-automatic and his wallet. Pulling the Mercedes up to a street corner that contains a trash can, I toss the stuff into it, then pull back out into traffic.

  “Pull out your smartphone, Cal. Go to Google Maps and directions.”

  “What do I type back in?” he says, producing his phone.

  “Castel Sant’Angelo,” I say. “Rome, Italy.”

  Chapter 43

  I’m driving with one eye on the road before me, and another on the rearview. It’s only a matter of time until we’re spotted by the cops and pulled over. We’re in a white taxi cab after all. It’s like driving Moby Dick down the middle of a busy suburban street.

  Up ahead, a series of petrol stations.

  I pull into the first one that’s got several vehicles busy at the pumps. It’s a gas station that also houses a café and a convenience store.

  “What are you doing, Baker?” Cal asks. “Why we stopping now?”

  “We gotta ditch this ride.”

  “That your passive aggressive way of telling me you want me to steal us another car?”

  “What me, passive aggressive?” I say. “Never.”

  I shut down the taxi and observe the cars parked at the pump. A middle-aged man has just completed his fill-up and is now returning the nozzle to the gas pump. He’s driving a four door Jeep Wrangler. Color black. Jeeps are fairly rare in Italy, so finding one is definitely a sign that God is on our side.

  “There’s our pigeon,” I say. “Let’s hope he flies away from the nest and into the station for a quick coffee.”

  The Jeep owner checks his watch, then turns for the gas station. As soon as begins making his way across the lot to the station’s front glass doors, I open my door, get out. Cal follows, his smartphone gripped in his hand.

  Opening the driver’s side door, I slip behind the wheel, turn the engine over. Cal slips into the passenger side. The woman gassing up her Toyota hatchback at the pump beside us is staring at us. Her face is painted with an expression best described as a combination of disbelief and confusion. I offer her my best Chase Baker smile, throw the Jeep into drive, and pull away from the pump. Chase, the ever gracious.

  Pulling out of the lot back onto the main road, I peer into the rearview and spot the Jeep owner barreling out of the station’s front doors. He’s throwing his hands up in the air, shouting out obscenities. I can’t hear him of course, but I’m sure whatever he’s saying isn’t very pleasant.

  “You get the map?” I ask Cal.

  “The highway that leads into Rome is just up ahead,” he says. “It’s a straight shot into the city.”

  Up ahead, a big green sign indicates the turn-off for Rome. I turn onto it and pull onto the highway.

  “Castel Sant’Angelo,” I say after a beat. “If you were Rickman’s men, where would you attempt to hide the Pope without the general public being the wiser?”

  “It’s a big damned castle,” Cal says. “There’s a thousand places you could hide the Pope, and no one would ever know.”

  He’s right of course. The circular stone monstrosity houses five or six stories and contains hundreds of rooms, winding corridors, cells, terraces, courtyards, old ammunition stores, and even a draw bridge. It also contains a living quarters for the Pope that was utilized during war time. But somehow, I don’t think that’s where Rickman’s Neo-Nazis would have hidden the world leader of the Roman Catholic Church.

  “The basement,” I say.

  “Come again?” Cal begs, his eyes peeled on the flat fields flying past us on both sides of the highway.

  “The castle basement. I’ve been down there several times with some archaeologists. It’s where the Crusaders kept their prisoners. It’s a regular dungeon down there. It’s also dark, dank, very empty, and most of it is off limits to the tourists. It’s the perfect place to hide a pope.”

  “How do we access the dungeon?” Cal asks. “You can’t just walk in through the front door and take the elevator down to the basement level. If Rickman hid the Pope down
there, he had to have some insider help.”

  “I agree. And you’re right, we can’t just walk into the joint through the front door. But we can access the place by a tunnel.”

  “Great, more tunnels,” Cal grouses. “What tunnel?”

  “The one that joins Saint Peter’s Basilica to the castle.”

  “Are you crazy, Baker? Saint Peter’s is crawling with cops and military types right now after what happened with the Nazis. We won’t get anywhere near the basilica.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Cal,” I say. But then, “Correction. You’re right and wrong.”

  “Don’t play with me, Baker. Stop talking in riddles.”

  “You’re right in that you and I won’t get anywhere near the old Basilica,” I point out. “But it won’t be you and me requesting access.”

  “Then who will be?”

  “It will be two very special priests.”

  Chapter 44

  Minutes later we enter Rome’s frantic downtown. The old city is filled with tourists and natives walking the narrow sidewalks, shopping in the many high-end stores, eating in the outdoor cafes, drinking at the many bars with the red Cinzano umbrellas protecting the tables from the relentless Mediterranean sun.

  Pulling onto a narrow side street, I pull over in front of an unassuming brick shop to which a wood sign is bolted. The sign reads Terenzo’s Fly Fishing Shop.

  “We’re going fishing?” Cal poses, not without a smile. “I used to fancy myself quite the salmon fisherman back in the Highlands.”

  “The owner of this shop can help us with our new clothes,” I say. “And our new identities.”

  “Let me guess,” Cal says. “You need more money.”

  I offer him a grin.

  “And lots of it,” I say, opening the door and slipping on out.

  The shop interior is filled with all sorts of fly fishing equipment including racks of rods, counters housing expensive reels, and wall-mounted displays that contain all varieties of fly lines. There are also trays of handmade flies. From little spiders to mayflies, it seems as though every terrestrial insect on the planet is on display for the fly fisherman who know where to locate hungry trout within Italy’s many cold mountain streams.

  A man is seated behind the counter at a small desk that supports a small vice, spools of thread, piles of feathers, and a couple dozen barbed hooks. He’s of average height and build with thick salt and pepper hair and a round, sunburned face that sports a trimmed mustache. He’s also wearing bi-focal reading glasses so that he can view with full clarity the fly he’s presently tying.

  When he finally gets around to peeling his eyes away from the new fly he’s birthing, he turns to us and smiles. But that’s also when he reaches into his vest pocket, pulls out a short-barreled semi-automatic. Aiming the barrel for my stomach, he slowly stands and steps away from the fly-tying vise.

  “You got a lot of nerve coming in here, Baker,” he says. His voice is American through and through.

  “Come on, Terry,” I say, my hands raised in surrender. “How was I to know she was your ex-wife?”

  “The fact that she lives in my old apartment, drives my old Mini, and is constantly spewing verbal diarrhea about me, might have been your first clue or clues. But then, you never were the sharpest nail in the box, Baker.”

  Cal leans to me, whispers, “You sure it was a good idea coming here, Chase lad?”

  Cocking my head toward him.

  “No worries,” I say. “I got this totally under control.”

  Terry cocks back the hammer on his pistol.

  “What are you two yapping about?”

  “I was just telling my partner, Cal, what good friends you and me are, Terry,” I lie. “How we went to college together, shared a dorm room, and a whole lotta laughs.”

  “Get over yourself, Baker,” Terry grumbles. “Yeah, we shared a dorm room back at Providence College, but we didn’t hang together. You couldn’t stand the sight of me.” He grins, but it’s not a happy grin. “I believe it was you who thought it would be funny to toss my bed out the window and down into the quad. I was the laughing stock of the campus. No wonder I ended up moving here where nobody knows me.”

  Cal leans into me again. “You tossed his bed out the window? That’s just plain wrong.”

  I clear my throat.

  “It was a long time ago, Ter,” I say. “But maybe I can make it up to you now, in the form of cold hard casheshe.”

  The place goes quiet for a beat or two, until Terry waves the pistol, as if to say Keep talking.

  “What do you have up that sleeve of yours, Baker?” he asks.

  I give him the quick Cliff Notes version, ending with our going after the Pope in the basement dungeon at the Castel Sant’Angelo.

  “You gotta be kidding me,” Terry says, that gun still pointed at us. “You really think you can just walk into the castle, rescue the Pope, and save the world?”

  “We can’t just walk in,” I say. “But two high-level priests assigned to the Vatican can. That’s where you come in, Terry. I was hoping you could help us out a little. Put those talents to work.”

  “Last time I put those talents to work it cost me a seven to ten stretch back home in Sing Sing,” Terry wryly explains.

  “But this is for a good cause,” I say. “And once we’ve accomplished the rescue you’ll go down as a hero in the eyes of the entire Western world.”

  I’ve painted an ear to ear smile on my face as a convincer.

  “How about I go down as a very rich hero?” Terry asks.

  I nod in the direction of Cal. “We can arrange a substantial down payment for you right now.”

  “I’m not your bank, Chase,” Cal says.

  “You know I’m good for it, Cal. You’ll be paid back in full, plus interest, plus a bonus.”

  “That is the Pope is sitting inside the castle in the first place,” Cal says.

  I’m still smiling, still holding my hands up in the air.

  “You guys just have to have a little faith in me,” I say. “It’s all about trust.”

  “Just tell that to my ex-wife,” Terry says. Then, lowering the semi-automatic. “Now tell me what you want from me before I kick your ass back out onto the street.”

  Chapter 45

  Having explained about the priest uniforms and the proper credentials, Terry demands we hand over our respective driver’s licenses. He then leaves us alone in the shop to await his return. In the meantime, Cal and I commandeer Terry’s computer and make a Google search of the Passetto di Borgo.

  A website devoted to the historical Vatican appears.

  The header on the landing page reads, “The Pope’s personal castle.” There’s also a detailed illustration of the nine-hundred-year-old, mile long tunnel that runs from the Pope’s Vatican living quarters to his living quarters inside the castle.

  Cal looks me in the eye.

  “I thought you said this tunnel runs underground and starts from inside the basilica?” he inquires.

  “I did say that, and I meant it, Cal.” Pointing to the corridor with an extended index finger. “The corridor you see here, which is very much in view of the people of Rome, is actually the very last place Vatican security would plan on transporting the Pope in a time of crisis. They might use it for everyday workers and staffers, but not for the Papal Father. He requires something far more secure and secret, which of course, translates into an underground tunnel.”

  Cal squints his eyes. “And you know this how?”

  “Cal,” I say, sitting up, crossing my arms over my chest, “it’s me you’re talking to here. Chase Baker, the seeker of rare antiquities. I hang around a lot of archaeologists and scholars who know Saint Peter’s upside down. Besides, I’ve been down in the lower depths of the basilica, and I’ve seen the door that leads to the secret underground passetto with my own two eyes.”

  “Okay, I believe you,” he says. “I can’t help you with opening this door though. I don’t
know anyone in Rome who can help.”

  “We’ll have to figure that one out on our own,” I admit.

  Just then, the sound of the front shop door being unlocked. The door opens, and Terry steps back inside. He’s carrying three plastic shopping bags which he sets on the counter.

  “Hope the clothes fit,” he says. “You can get changed in the back.” He reaches into one of the bags, comes back out with laminated IDs which are attached to lanyards we can pull over our heads and hang around our necks. He also hands us back our driver’s licenses.

  “Can’t thank you enough, Terry,” I say.

  “Don’t thank me, Chase,” he says. “You’re gonna pay me, and you’re gonna pay me well.”

  “Man of principle,” Cal states. It’s supposed to be funny, but no one laughs. Then, “On that note, think I’ll get dressed.”

  “Me too, Cal,” I say, following him into the back.

  Minutes later, Cal and I are dressed in the black trousers and matching jackets of the Roman Catholic priest. We’ve also got our new laminated IDs wrapped around our necks.

  “I don’t suppose I can trust you to dispose of our car outside,” I say to Terry. “And provide transport to the Vatican?”

  “Hot car?” Terry says.

  “Roasting,” Cal says.

  “We’ll make sure she gets a good long cool down in the Tiber,” he says. “For now, we’ll head out the back door of the shop. That’s where we’ll find my ride.”

  Chapter 46

  Terry drops us off not at the entrance to Saint Peter’s Square, but instead at the bottom of the road that leads up to it. The Castel Sant’Angelo is on our right, and so close it almost makes more sense to head directly there, instead of making the trek to the basilica and then down into the tunnel that connects to it. But that tunnel is the only chance we have of gaining direct access to the structure’s bottoms and therefore, direct access to the Pope.

  The spear case once more safely gripped in my hand, Cal and I start walking toward the square. The entire street is mobbed with news and media people, many of them with microphones in hand, their faces lit up with bright white spots while they deliver live reports from the site of the Pope’s kidnapping. The shops and cafes are filled with priests, clergy, and an assortment of stunned tourists. The police are speeding up and down the street, flashers flashing and sirens blaring. Military units prowl the area in big armored personnel carriers. It’s like a war zone only without the bombs detonating.