Saint Peter's Soldiers (A James Acton Thriller, Book #14)

by J. Robert Kennedy

  He was about to let go, to fall under the wheels, when the vehicle suddenly came to a screeching, immediate halt, sending him sailing through the air. He slammed into the ground, his head smacking hard on the stone, and his world began to fade. Saverio was limping toward him, his arm outstretched, when the doors of the SUV were thrown open and two men leapt out, guns firing. The crowds scattered in panic, Saverio crying out in pain as round after round embedded itself in his back. Diego struggled to stay conscious, to see his mentor’s final moments, when he heard heavy boots hammering on the ground behind him, shots erupting from the new arrivals.

  His head dropped to the cold stone, his eyes slowly closing as he gripped the satchel over his chest.

  And prayed the Vatican Gendarmerie would protect its contents.

  South of Turin, Italy

  July 5th, 1941

  “Keep quiet, there’s a road block!”

  Nicola’s cousin Leo’s hissed warning had him holding his breath until he thought better of it. Better to have steady, regular breaths than gasps. He had arrived at his cousin’s farm without incident and told him what had happened.

  What had happened next had shocked him.

  His moped had been immediately taken and put into the root cellar under the barn then piled with hay, his cousin saying little except that they had to move fast. Leo had ordered the kids to prep the horse and wagon while his wife patched up Nicola’s arm, the bullet just having grazed him. When she finished, he was left to run after Leo, begging for an explanation for the whirlwind of activity.

  Leo had finally stopped for a moment and jabbed a finger in his chest.

  “As long as you are here, you are a danger to my family.”

  Nicola had felt crestfallen. “I-I know. And I’m sorry. But I didn’t know what else to do.”

  Leo took him by the shoulder. “You did the right thing, but we must move quickly.” He pointed at the cart. “Get in the back and lift that panel.”

  Nicola jumped in the back, not sure to what panel Leo might be referring. His eyebrows popped as he spotted several boards in the center that seemed to be separate from the rest. He reached down and pried it up, revealing a small area underneath the floor that could barely fit a man.

  “What’s this?”

  “We use it to smuggle people and supplies.”

  “We?”

  “Not your concern. Just get in and stay quiet. I’m going to get you to a safe place.”

  Nicola crawled into the cramped space, his arms with barely an inch on either side to move, his head and toes pressed against the ends.

  He wished he wasn’t so tall.

  Then thanked God he wasn’t fat when the cover was placed back over him, it so close he was forced to turn his head to the side.

  “You okay?”

  He nodded then realized Leo couldn’t see him. “Yes.”

  “Okay, watch yourself.”

  He felt the cart rock as his cousin jumped down, then the sound of hay being loaded into the back. He squeezed his eyes shut and struggled to get a hand up over his mouth and nose as the dust slowly covered him.

  He sneezed.

  And it wouldn’t be the last.

  He could hear his cousin urging the horse to slow as they approached the roadblock. They came to a halt and he heard the brake applied as his nose started to itch. He reached up and squeezed the bridge of it, trying to resist the urge, it meaning certain death if they were to be caught.

  Though not before agonizing torture.

  “Hey, Leo, you’re early.”

  “Yeah, I lost a bet last night so now I have to deliver this load to Angelo. That bastard is too lucky. I think he cheats.”

  Whoever Leo was talking to roared with laughter. “I learned when we were kids to never play with him. I always lost my lunch to him.”

  “So what you’re saying is I’ll never learn.”

  More laughter. It was clear they knew each other, which was a tremendous relief, though even that wouldn’t save them should he sneeze. This guard or soldier or whatever, might be a friend, but he was probably loyal, so he would follow orders. Nicola considered himself a loyal Italian, though not loyal to the government. As far as he was concerned, they were two distinct things. He’d never betray his country so that harm may come to it, but he also couldn’t support a government that would take part in such a brutal war that threatened to consume the world.

  His exposure to the Germans had been minimal, their town spared for the most part, but the stories were horrendous, and whenever they had made an appearance, it was never good, people usually hauled away, some never seen again, those that were, never the same.

  The Nazi’s were murderous barbarians that would sack his country in a heartbeat if they felt there was a need.

  Which was when he would truly show his loyalty.

  By fighting back.

  As probably would this guard just doing his job.

  Somebody else spoke up from a distance, but Nicola couldn’t hear what had been said.

  “I know him, he’s harmless.”

  He could hear footsteps approaching. “Nobody goes through without being searched. Orders of the Regional Commander.”

  “Okay, okay.” The owner of the friendly voice stepped away and Nicola heard the distinctive sounds of pitchfork tines scraping on stone. “Sorry about this, Leo. It’ll just take a minute.”

  The sound of the metal passing through the hay near the rear of the cart had Nicola finally holding his breath, his heart slamming hard, his ears pounding in a panic as the probing neared him. The sound of the pitchfork directly overhead had his bladder letting go slightly, his eyes squeezed tightly along with every other muscle in his body.

  “Okay, you’re clear. You can go.”

  “Thanks, Thomas, let’s get together for a drink this weekend.”

  “Count on it! You’re buying.”

  Nicola heard the brake release and the reigns flick as they jerked forward. “I might not be able to afford it!”

  Laughter from the guard had Nicola breathe a sigh of relief.

  Then he sneezed.

  “Halt!”

  It was the other voice that had his cousin pulling up on the reins.

  Another sneeze erupted, this one from Leo. “What?” asked his cousin.

  “Oh, sorry. Umm, nothing. Get moving.”

  The reins flicked again and they were moving, Nicola pinching his nose shut, his other hand clasped over his mouth as he struggled to keep control. As they gained a little speed, he heard his cousin hiss. “That was close!”

  “Sorry.”

  “That almost got us killed, little man, but don’t worry. It should be clear sailing now.”

  South of Turin, Italy

  July 6th, 1941

  Nicola pushed the plate away as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Thank you, Mrs. Feraldo. That was fantastic.”

  “You’re welcome, Nicola. You have a big journey ahead of you. We can’t have you leaving on an empty stomach.”

  Nicola grinned as he rose, patting the little ones on the head as they still worked on their breakfasts before heading for school. He had spent the night at Angelo Feraldo’s farm, his cousin having delivered him just before noon the day before. The swiftness with which it had been done, and the lack of questions, had him thinking Angelo was not only a gambling buddy, but also part of whatever underground movement his cousin was involved with.

  He just prayed his cousin got back home without incident.

  The sound of a motorcycle pulling up out front had him grabbing the portrait and heading outside, eager to see what had been arranged. His moped was still at his cousins, though he had a feeling it would be moved in case the area was searched, and with the efficiency he had seen displayed so far, it may have already been done.

  He smiled as he caught his first glimpse of the motorcycle that would carry him to Rome. A BMW R6. It was beautiful, at least compared to his simple moped. It was beat up, hardly a
ny of the original paint left, so it wouldn’t attract any attention. But it was bigger and more powerful than he was used to, and it would get him to his destination that much more quickly.

  Angelo was already examining the motorcycle when he glanced up at Nicola. “All fed?”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  “Good. She’s got a full tank of gas. You remember that address in Bologna I gave you?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’ll have gas for you and you can overnight there. That should be enough to get you into Rome.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “All I ask is that if they catch you, you tell them that you forced us to help you.”

  “I will. You have nothing to worry about.”

  Angelo frowned. “I’d agree if it weren’t the Nazi’s after you. If it was just the locals, I wouldn’t care. I grew up with most of them and I know most just think of it as a job. There’s a few zealots, but they’ve mostly moved to the big cities where there’s problems. They leave us alone out here.” He turned to the man who had delivered the motorcycle. “Which one?”

  “Left.”

  Angelo motioned for Nicola to join him as he took a knee at the rear of the bike. “As we discussed.” He unscrewed two bolts on the underside of the left exhaust then swung the outer half away. “They won’t check this. At least they never have. We’ve used it to smuggle documents and other things too many times to count.”

  “Won’t it get hot? Mr. Donati will kill me if anything happens to this,” said Nicola, eyeing the opened exhaust as he held the rolled up drawing.

  The other man shook his head. “No, the exhaust has been all routed to the right side. It cuts down on your horsepower, but you shouldn’t notice it unless you get in a high-speed chase. And if you do, you’re screwed anyway.”

  “I got away from them yesterday.”

  “That’s only because there was one vehicle. Once you get near Rome, you’ll have to outrun a radio, and that’s not going to happen.” The man stabbed the air with a finger. “Don’t get cocky.”

  Nicola flushed then nodded. “Yes, sir.” He handed over the drawing and Angelo gently placed it inside, securing the bolts. Nicola looked at the man. “Have you heard anything about Mr. Donati?”

  The man nodded. “Yes, he’s been arrested. Apparently he hasn’t talked yet, but I don’t know how long he’ll last. The Nazi’s are very good at torture. Does he know the plan?”

  Nicola nodded. “Yeah, it’s his plan, or at least I think it is.”

  “Then there isn’t much time. He’ll eventually tell them you took it, which will lead them to your cousin, and someone will remember he delivered a load of hay here yesterday.” He reached behind his back and pulled out a gun, handing it to Nicola. “You had this all along, given to you by Donati. You used it to force your cousin to take you here, then used it to force me to give you my bike when I arrived here to visit my friend. Understood?”

  Nicola trembled out an acknowledgement as he took the gun. He had never handled one before and the very feel of it terrified him. He looked at the two men, it clear they held no such fears.

  Angelo took the gun from him. “I think I better show you how to use it.”

  Corpo della Gendarmeria Office

  Palazzo del Governatorato, Vatican City

  Present Day

  One day before the theft

  “Quiet day, today. I should be home on time. What’s for dinner?”

  “I thought I’d cook you something from your old country.”

  Mario Giasson smiled as his stomach rumbled in appreciation. His wife Marie-Claude was a fabulous cook, but she was Italian, though with a French father—hence the name—which meant mostly delicious traditional Mediterranean cuisine and pasta, mixed in with some rich French delicacies.

  He was Swiss.

  And he missed the food he had grown up on. Whenever he visited his home country he loaded up, usually leaving with his belt a notch looser—or was that tighter?—than when he arrived, and his wife had taken notice, secretly getting the recipes of some of his favorite dishes from his mother.

  He had been thrilled the first time he had arrived home to the mouthwatering aromas of veal schnitzel and rösti. And been stunned that his mother had shared the family recipes. It had made him realize that Marie-Claude had been accepted into the family.

  And it had warmed his heart to the point of tears when he had heard the news.

  She was an amazing cook, and food of any culture she could master.

  So tonight would be a treat.

  “I can’t wait!”

  “Do you still want to know what we’re having?”

  “Umm, no. Surprise me.”

  “Thought you might say that. I wasn’t going to tell you even if you begged me.”

  He chuckled then frowned as he saw a bustle of activity outside the windows of his office, the entire security room exploding with activity.

  An alarm sounded.

  “I’ve gotta go, sorry. Love you!”

  He hung up and jumped from his chair, rushing out into the security office, his job as head of Vatican security taking over from that of husband and father. “Report!”

  “Shots fired in St. Peter’s Square!”

  “Secure his holiness and the other senior staff, lock us down!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  His second-in-command, Gerard Boileau, ran into the room, a radio pressed to his ear. He handed it to Giasson. “Eastern guard post.”

  “Status report!” He pointed at Boileau and two others as he rushed out the front entrance to the security office and through the corridors of the massive complex, toward St. Peter’s Square.

  “A vehicle hit a pedestrian, it looks like intentionally. Two men then exited the vehicle and shot two civilians. My men responded and eliminated the two gunmen.”

  “Whose soil were they on?” He charged through the doors and into the huge square that had stood for over three hundred years and seen too much blood shed for a place so holy.

  “Sir?”

  “Were they on Italian soil or ours?”

  “One civilian was on Italian soil, the other was thrown past the border by the impact.”

  “I don’t care about the civilians. The gunmen! Did you shoot across the border?”

  He was sprinting across the cobblestone, the thousands that would usually be filling it gone, many ringing the edges, warily looking at the crowd of guards near the entrance, a security perimeter of flesh blocking his view of the scene.

  “They were on our soil when they were shot.”

  Thank God!

  The last thing the Vatican needed was the negative press that shooting people on Italian soil would bring, and the paperwork would have been insane, especially if any innocents were harmed. He’d have to trust for the moment that any stray bullets hadn’t hit anyone else.

  Surely, someone would have mentioned it by now.

  “Make a hole!” shouted Boileau, the guards parting to let them through. A man was lying on the ground, gripping a satchel, one of the Swiss Guard pressing down on a nasty wound, but the man looked done for. Another man was closer to the gates, a jacket already over his face, and two suspects, guns kicked out of reach, were dead just inside the bollards. He stared past into the street and saw nothing but curious onlookers.

  And no other casualties.

  Thank God for excellent training.

  “Sir, he’s trying to say something!”

  Giasson turned then knelt down by the man as he struggled to reach up to him. Giasson took the man by the hand and leaned over to hear the barely whispered words.

  “Save the—”

  A gasped last breath, then a slow sigh as the final spark of life left his body, cutting off his dying wish. Giasson looked at the satchel, tightly clasped to the man’s chest. If something needed saving, it had to be inside. He moved the arm and gently opened the clasp, peering inside.

  What could that be?

&n
bsp; It was a wooden crate. Small, like any other he had seen dozens if not hundreds of times over his career at the Vatican, used to ship artwork.

  But if it was just a piece of art, how could it be worth four lives?

  Outside of Orte, Italy

  July 7th, 1941

  “Halt!”

  Nicola eased off on the throttle, slowly applying his brake as he rolled up to the second checkpoint of the day, and according to the contact in Bologna who had refueled him and put him up for the night, the final one. Once past this last hurdle, he’d be in Rome and hopefully it would be clear sailing to his contact point.

  But this checkpoint was different from the rest.

  A German Volkswagen command car sat parked to the side, a driver leaning against the door, smoking a cigarette, bored with the proceedings. Inside the guardhouse, a temporary affair reinforced with sandbags and cinderblock machinegun nests, was a German officer, the crisp black uniform of the SS obvious even from where Nicola sat.

  The sight sent his pulse racing.

  “Papers.”

  He produced his identification and prayed his name hadn’t been discovered. When refueling, his contact had indicated his name had yet to make it onto the watch lists, which suggested poor Donati had yet to divulge it.

  What a brave man!

  He fought the lump that formed in his throat at the thought.

  “What is your business in Rome?”

  “My aunt is sick. My father sent me to look in on her.” He sighed. “I’m to decide if he should leave the farm to pay his respects before she dies.”

  The guard’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Is there some doubt?”

  Nicola forced a chuckle. “Let’s just say this isn’t the first time she’s claimed she’s dying.”

  The best covers were always the ones closest to the truth, at least that’s what his cousin Leo had explained to him. He did indeed have an aunt in Rome, and she did have a propensity to declare every illness her final one. He had her address with directions written down and because she had no phone, the story would be difficult to check.