They continued in silence, following the main line and passing by lesser tunnels that branched off into other directions. She turned a corner and three branch lines came into view. Veronica stopped. “This is it.”
“You sure?” Simon stood beside her, the beam from his light steady against the wall.
“Yes,” she replied, relieved her memory had proved accurate. She pointed toward the smaller tunnel on the left. Five feet in height, it was cramped, but doable. “We go that way.”
Leading the way, she hunched down and began walking down the long passage, her duffel scraping the ceiling when she wasn’t careful. With her legs bent at the knee, walking was almost a waddle. She wondered how Simon was faring behind her. She was tall, but he was over six foot. He must almost be crawling.
She swung her flashlight side to side, watching the floor. Five minutes into their walk, a metal plate embossed with Italian words bounced back a reflection. “That’s it.” She stood on the far side and waited for Simon.
Within seconds, he stood on the opposite side of the metal plate. Light bouncing off the walls created deep shadows across Simon’s face, giving him an almost sinister expression. He raised a single, dark eyebrow and the ominous expression disappeared with the arrival of a familiar one. “Do you think I’ll fit?”
Veronica tried to visually compare the size of the metal plate against Simon’s broad shoulders. The plate was, perhaps, two feet by two feet. It was going to be tight. Very tight. She grimaced. “There’s not a lot of choice unless you plan on staying behind.”
“Not a chance.”
“Good.” She was glad he wasn’t the kind of person who backed away from a problem—no matter how challenging it seemed. She’d known men like that. The slightest bit of difficulty and they bolted, leaving someone else to take the blame or clean up their mess. And not just Michael. Budding archaeologists who discovered recovering artifacts wasn’t like in a movie. There weren’t walking mummies, pharaohs’ gold or a telephone line to God. Fieldwork was about dirt, sweat and determination.
Going after the Midas Stone was the exception, not the rule.
The crowbar still in his hand, Simon handed it to Veronica with a get-even grin. “Enjoy.”
She rolled her eyes, but took it and wedged the curved end under the lip. Using the side of the wall as leverage, she lifted the heavy iron plate.
Simon grabbed it as it came free and put it on the floor of the tunnel.
If she remembered right, this opened into the ceiling of the catacomb with a drop of roughly six feet to the floor. Veronica took a deep breath and shone her flashlight in the hole. Black water covered the floor like a lake. The catacombs had been damp those years back when Sylvia gave her a tour, not like this, and until she dropped into it, there was no way to judge how deep the water was.
“Damn.”
“What?”
She felt, rather than saw, Simon tense next to her. She rocked back on her heels, letting the duffel slide from her shoulders. “There’s water. A lot of water.”
“Is it still passable?”
She rubbed the back of her neck. “Yeah. It doesn’t come up to the ceiling.” She nodded toward the duffel. “I’ll go first, then you can hand me the pack and follow.”
Assessing her with his cool, dark eyes, Simon seemed steady and unmoved. “Be careful of the rats.”
“Don’t say that,” Veronica responded. She knew she must have stared at him like he was out of his mind because a smug grin broke his composure.
Taking a deep breath, Veronica lowered herself through the hole, landing with a splash.
The water came up to her hips. She sniffed. The ancient air smelled musty. Like damp mummy dust and granite. She shone her lights on the walls. Mummies hung on the wall in various poses. In the past, higher-ups in the Vatican were given their final rest in these unknown catacombs. Their bodies were dressed as they were in life, hung on the wall and placed in various quasi-natural poses.
A bishop from the early 1700s, with nothing left but clothes and bone, had his hand raised as if giving a blessing. Across from him were the remains of a priest, an open Bible tied to his hands, and what was left of his feet floating on top of the water.
She hadn’t warned Simon about the mummies. It wasn’t something you could describe, and in case he did turn out to be a good guy, she didn’t want to spoil the surprise.
“Heads up,” Simon said.
She grabbed the duffel as Simon lowered it down. A minute later, he followed. Angling downward, he managed to get one shoulder through and then the next. He also knocked his skull against the edge of the opening with a distinct thunk. Veronica cringed, but despite the slight mishap, he slid into the water like a seal and causing not a ripple.
“You okay?” she whispered.
He rubbed his head. “Fine. It was a tight squeeze.”
He shone his flashlight on the walls, the beam glancing off white bone and what was left of robes woven with gold threads. For a moment, Simon simply stared in awe. “This is amazing,” he finally said, his hushed voice holding a reverence that Veronica recognized. It was the tone that all true archaeologists took when confronted with history. “Any idea who they are?”
“Sylvia did some research but there wasn’t much information. Mainly men who were high up in the Vatican or had done something special for one of the popes. And it gets better.” Veronica started wading down the narrow corridor, the duffel perched on her shoulder. Interspersed between the bodies were carvings of battles, saints and sacrifices.
“How did she find this place?” Simon asked.
“She found an old map and, being curious, she investigated. But she’s also smart and, with the exception of showing me the tunnels, I don’t think she told anyone else. Honestly, I think this place was forgotten ages ago.”
Behind her, Simon oohed and ahhed.
She slogged forward, enjoying herself despite their reasons for being here. The catacombs were a slice of history. To view the contents was like sneaking downstairs on Christmas Eve and catching Santa.
Under any other circumstance, she’d spend months, even years, down here, digging into the past—mummies and all.
The catacombs began to slant upward, and in another twenty feet, they left the water behind.
“Any thoughts as to why this is kept secret?” Simon asked as they passed an intricate carving depicting the martyrdom of Pope St. Sixtus II—his severed head at his feet.
“Other than the fact they were forgotten?”
“Yes.”
“I have my thoughts. These are holy men, and holy men are generally buried with expensive relics. My best guess is that they didn’t want to take the chance that the graves would be robbed.”
They turned a corner, and the catacombs ended at a thick wooden door.
Veronica’s heart rate bumped up and she jogged the last few steps. Almost dropping the duffel, she laid a palm against the wood. It was smooth and damp to the touch. The hinge and lock were almost rust free—someone was keeping it up but not on a regular basis. Good. And if her memory served her right, it opened up behind a tapestry in one of the smaller sanctuaries.
She turned to Simon. Once they crossed the threshold, they were legally felons and there would be no turning back. They would be partners until the end of this journey—whatever happened. “This is it.” Her voice quivered in excitement.
He gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Any second thoughts?”
She shook her head. After all the planning, trepidation and anticipation, they were here and taking the first step toward proving her hypothesis and reclaiming her place in the archaeology community. She took a deep breath. “None. You?”
He didn’t hesitate. “No. Let’s do it.”
Her eyes slid to the duffel on the ground. Should she take Lily?
“Well?” Simon asked, as if reading her mind.
As much as she hated to leave her, it was too risky to take her. Besides, stealing from the Vatican wa
s bad enough. There was no way she was going to add armed and dangerous, and possibly murderer, to her impending rap sheet.
No career was worth an innocent life.
Veronica zipped open the bag, pulled out the shotgun and set her and the crowbar into one of the niches.
For a brief moment, she and Simon stared at each other, keenly aware that if there was a chance to walk away, it was now.
There was no way she would back off, but what about Simon?
The corner of his mouth quirked in a half smile, and with a flourish, he motioned toward the ancient door that was their entry into crime. “Ladies first.”
She returned the smile, took a deep breath and thumbed the ancient, hammered brass handle.
It was locked.
Chapter 6
“Son of a—” Veronica yanked at the handle. It didn’t budge. She braced herself and tried again. Still nothing. How could she not have realized the damned door would be locked? Alyssa always said she never thought ahead. That she focused so hard on the big picture that she missed important details.
She’d be laughing her ass off over this.
But then, Alyssa would have researched ancient locks and brought a skeleton key.
Frustration burning, she strode over to Lily, wishing she could shoot the lock off. The sheer weight of the gun in her hand was, sometimes, enough to take the edge off her anger. But the last thing they needed was to announce their presence. Instead, she grabbed the crowbar, strode back to the door and wedged it under the handle. “Lock me out? I don’t think so.”
Simon’s hand, muscled from years of working with a trowel and shovel, gripped her arm, stopping her. “Don’t.”
Her eyes burned with anger. She twisted around. “What do you suggest?” The question came out sharper than she intended, and she reminded herself that the locked door was not Simon’s fault. She was angry with herself for not knowing this would happen.
“I can pick the lock.”
Veronica’s jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”
He looked at her as if she were simple. “I said that I could pick the lock.” Reaching into his front pocket, he pulled a small case from the side pocket. Unzipping it, he took out two slender tools that were about five inches long. He held out his flashlight. “Hold this.”
Incredulous, she set the crowbar down and took the light. Squatting, he worked at the lock with a calm reserved only for the most mundane of tasks.
Veronica watched over his shoulder. She hated to admit it, but this skill intrigued her on one level and worried her on another. Normal people didn’t pick locks. Thieves picked locks. People who could not be trusted picked locks.
What had he been for those missing twelve years? She wanted to ask but knew that any indication she knew about them would only make him suspicious.
But to not ask about this would be suspicious. “Simon?”
“Yes?”
“I have to ask—”
“Where did I learn to do this?” He finished the sentence for her.
“Yeah.”
He gave an I-know-something-you-don’t-know smirk at her over his shoulder. “A guy has to have a hobby.”
She knew her expression betrayed her disbelief and was glad he was busy. “Uh-huh. Picking locks is yours?”
“Yes,” he replied, nimble fingers still working. “One of them.”
She looked down at him, interested more than she wanted to be. “What’re the others? Ninja fighting? Car racing?”
He chuckled. A deep sound that she realized she hadn’t heard until this moment.
“How did you know to bring it with you?” she asked as she watched him manipulate the ancient piece of equipment. He didn’t swear or hurry. Just maintained that calm persona that both intrigued and annoyed her. He and Alyssa would get along splendidly.
“We’re breaking in to the Vatican—the main part being ‘breaking in.’ It seemed appropriate.”
He sounded sincere. She ran a hand over her braid. And it made sense. She only wished she’d thought of it.
The only sounds were the metallic clicking and scraping as Simon worked to open the lock and his slow, steady breathing. From what she understood, picking locks was both a skill and an art. He might joke about this particular skill being a hobby, but she was willing to bet that, at one time, it was much more than that.
She moved to the side. His brows were drawn together in concentration as he worked, totally absorbed by the job. Like she was when she was excavating a particularly interesting artifact.
There was a click. “That’s it.” Simon straightened and took a step back while she handed him back his flashlight.
Veronica breathed deeply. After they got the codex and escaped, she’d talk to him about his “hobby” and find out if he had any more “hobbies” she needed to know about. With his past being such a mystery, they might give her some idea as to what he did during the missing years.
Now it was time to concentrate. Adrenaline pumped through her body, her skin tingled, and her muscles twitched with the need for action.
The beam from her flashlight remained steady despite the fact that she was ready to jump out of her skin. Her mouth curved upward, pleased with her control.
Running her hands over her skintight outfit, she squeezed out as much water as she could. “Shoes,” she said, and slipped hers off. Running around barefoot wasn’t appealing, but neither was leaving a trail of wet footprints.
Simon did the same, his cotton pants still dripping. She’d envied them on the street, now they were a liability. “What are you wearing under there?” she asked.
His eyebrow shot upward. “Why? Interested?”
Hands on her hips, she glared at him. “Very funny. But unless you thought to pack a blow-dryer in your other pocket, you’re going to leave a trail that damn near anyone can follow.”
The eyebrow relaxed, and he kicked off his shoes as he unzipped his pants and slid the damp material over his hips and down his thighs.
Veronica gawked, unable to drag her eyes away. At first, she thought he wore black boxer-briefs since the material hugged his skin and left little to the imagination. In the beam of light, every well-developed muscle stood out.
She felt herself flush.
When he stepped out of the pants, she realized they weren’t underwear but black biking shorts. Lycra—like her top.
“What were you? A Boy Scout?” she asked, exasperated that he seemed to be prepared for every contingent.
He chuckled in reply.
She turned back to the door. “That’s twice now. Be careful, you might actually break into a laugh.” And she opened the door before he could retort.
It swung inward, squeaking and rasping on the hinges. She cringed, hesitating. Silence. No voices. No shouts of alarm. Nothing.
Carefully, she opened the door the rest of the way. Covering the opening was the backside of a tapestry. On silent feet, she slid along the wall behind the cloth and poked her head out.
They were at the front of one of the small private chapels that Sylvia had said were in the pope’s private quarters. Chandeliers gave off a dim light. There were, perhaps, twenty pews and a single confessional in the back of the room. In the far right corner was a statue of the Virgin Mary. In the left, a detailed sculpture of the crucifixion.
The chapel wasn’t occupied, but a rack of lit votive candles indicated that people were recently here, perhaps this evening.
Crooking her finger, she motioned Simon to follow. She heard him shut the door behind them and skim the tapestry as he came to join her, carrying the duffel bag. Veronica pointed toward the door at the opposite end of the room and they moved in unison. The chapel was warm and dry and smelled of incense, a sharp contrast to the catacombs. He reached the entrance first and thrust his hand out, motioning her to wait. Veronica reached the door and stopped. Ears pressed against the wood, they both listened. Beyond the door was only silence.
He turned the doorknob and stepped through with he
r on his heels. Her feet hit the cold marble of the hallway and another surge of adrenaline rushed. By the time this was over, she was going to be so pumped up she’d be able to run a marathon.
Dim with whitewashed walls, it seemed that Vatican City was asleep for the night—which was just how she wanted it.
“Prima dobbiamo spegnere le candele?” A man’s voice, raspy with age, caught her attention.
Simon turned to her and pushed her back into the doorway. “Uno momento.” A second voice as ancient and shaky as the first, replied.
“Hide,” Veronica whispered, seeing a shadow round the corner even as she shut the door after Simon. There was no time to run down the aisle and back into the catacombs. The confessional caught her eye. As if reading her mind, Simon sprinted the five feet to it with her following. Simon tossed the duffel in, and they jammed themselves into the small space, shutting the door behind them. Simon’s chest pressed against her back. She shut her eyes and listened to herself breathe. Deep inhale. She held it. Quiet, slow exhale.
The door to the chapel creaked open. She thought she felt Simon’s heart beating, each pump pressing into her back and then relaxing again.
The booth was small for two and tight with a man as big as Simon behind her. He twitched and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her tight against him. His breath was warm and even against her neck.
She leaned into him. It was a childish fear, but a part of her was terrified that if she opened her eyes and saw the men, they would see her. The other, more mature and curious half of her psyche wondered who the men were and why they were awake, wandering about the Vatican when everyone else was asleep.
She opened her eyes.
Through the wicker window of the confessional, Veronica made out the figures of two men as they entered the room. Both wore robes—one in white and the other in cream—and were hunched over with age. They genuflected, then shuffled past the confessional on slippered feet to the front of the small chapel, passing the confessional.
They were so close Veronica could touch them. She willed her breathing to slow even further, her body to relax and for the men to do their job and get the hell out.
The Midas Trap Page 9
