Vitelli studied him for almost a minute, wiping his greasy hands on an old rag. Michael feared that maybe the old Italian’s English was not as fluent as he had bragged.
“You know how to work a lathe?” Vitelli said.
“Yes. So, you think I could use some of your tools?”
Vitelli looked at Michael again, then climbed back under the hood, resuming his work without replying.
“I’ll pay you five hundred euros. It shouldn’t take me more than five hours,” Michael added. He wasn’t about to offer an outrageous amount, as it would raise even more suspicion than the crafty Italian already had.
Without looking up from his task, Vitelli replied, “My mechanic rate is one twenty an hour.”
“Fine.”
“You only work while I am here. And if I need to use any of my tools you defer to me.” He popped his head out from under the hood. “Camera equipment?”
Michael pursed his lips as he nodded. “I promise, I won’t get in your way.”
On the worktable in Vitelli’s garage sat Michael’s notebook computer. On its screen a digital grid overlay various images of the two keys, their display case, and the room in which it stood. Next to the computer were Michael’s creations from the day. He had worked the metal and plastic upon the lathe to perfection. Each piece honed and polished. Each device flawlessly constructed. His talent had developed considerably since his youth. Using metal and plastics, he was capable of fashioning almost anything, from fake jewels to intricate mechanical devices. Mary always bragged to her friends, Michael is so good with his hands.
Vitelli had only stepped into the garage twice, both times to silently get tools. He’d ignored Michael as if the American was an employee and let him go about his work undisturbed. In all, Michael fashioned five items, each ordinary in appearance. But their function went far beyond their appearance.
“Professor Higgins?” Michael rose from the couch, extending his hand. The man he’d greeted slowed and stared at Michael, ignoring both his hand and his greeting. He finally continued on and away from Michael without a word.
“My name is Michael McMahon. I left a message for you earlier?” Michael hurried to catch up to him.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Higgins said curtly, not bothering to look at Michael. He kept walking across the elegant marble lobby to the elevator and hit the button.
“The Vatican Office of Scholarly Advancement gave me your name—”
“I’m sorry, Mr. McMah—”
“It’s Professor. Actually Doctor,” Michael said, feigning modesty. “But I don’t really brag about it—”
“You just did. Please excuse me.” Higgins tried to turn away, growing jittery, nervously tapping his right foot as he waited for the elevator.
“I just thought as a fellow American, and seeing we will be together on the Vatican tour tomorrow…”
“Who sent you?” There was a paranoia in Higgins’s eyes.
Michael looked at him, confused.
“If you are trying to dissuade me…” Higgins’s foot-tapping was growing louder, echoing off the marble walls. “If you are here to challenge my theories, go write your own book.”
“Sir, you must have me mistaken for someone else. I actually don’t disagree with your theories. In fact, if you have time for a drink, I’d like to tell you how I concur with several of your ideas.” Michael stood there, a smile on his face, hoping that the bait would be snatched up.
Higgins looked around the hotel lobby before finally turning back to Michael. It was a moment. And then he stopped tapping his foot.
Michael never finalized details of any job until he arrived at his location. He needed to mold his plan to fit the environment. With Higgins as part of that environment, the last piece fell into place. Two days earlier when Michael had shifted his research from escape routes to the mysteries of the Vatican, he had identified the members of the various scholastic tour groups through the Vatican Office of Scholarly Advancement. All it took was a simple phone call explaining his desire to touch base with other visiting academics who would be touring the Vatican and its museums. As Michael used his various resources to review each academic’s background, he zeroed in on Professor Albert Higgins. Higgins was almost the same height and build as Michael and his hair color was close enough, but that wasn’t what excited Michael. For Michael, Higgins’s open disdain for the Catholic Church was nothing short of a windfall.
The professor had traveled from New England to do some final research on a book he was writing about the history of the Vatican and the influence it had exerted on shaping society. Michael picked him up and had tailed him earlier in the day during his museum rounds. He had taken an immediate dislike to the man, particularly the condescending way he spoke to people and his generally superior air. Higgins was a WASP in every sense of the word, looking disparagingly down his aquiline nose at all other races, creeds, and religions as he constantly flicked back his greasy brown hair over his swollen head. Here was a man with perpetual blinders on, finding fault with all theories but his own. For years he’d clung to his hypothesis—one he was certain he would prove soon—that the Catholic Church had been the downfall of all societies and was responsible for the Holocaust, Communism, AIDS and—worst of all—the withered condition of the British Empire, home of his ancestors.
The more Michael learned of Higgins, the less conflicted he felt about what tomorrow’s tour would bring the unsuspecting professor.
Busch was sitting at his desk, wondering where the hell Michael was. Somewhere abroad, which could be anywhere, and anywhere non-USA was a direct violation of his parole. Busch had kept it quiet for the last four days. He didn’t dare mention it even to his wife. Jeannie would have said something to Mary and that was the last thing anyone needed.
Busch had visited Mary again this morning and was increasingly disturbed by her appearance. She put up a good front but he could see she was in terrible pain. He had asked her about Michael, when he would be back, small talk really. She’d told him that Michael’s job was going smoothly and that he’d said he should be home in a few days. She had gone on to express her gratitude for the generosity of a Mr. Rosenfield—a man she had never met—who had paid for her treatment.
Michael had lied to Mary and to him. Busch had been down this road before. The lies floated on the surface, always masking something more disturbing, something deeper, some graver dishonest fact. Michael had fallen. He had gone back to the other side. It was the only explanation. And yet, for the first time in his thirty-nine years, Busch was torn.
Michael had been reformed, cured of his illegal desires, yet he’d been hit with a devastating dilemma. Whatever he was up to, he was doing it for Mary. Busch couldn’t help but believe that Michael was a victim; he’d done nothing to deserve this. He’d been forced to cross the line because of his love for his wife and Busch supposed that if faced with the same situation he would do the same. Love has driven many a man to many a desperate, foolish act.
Nevertheless, Busch was a man of the law. Upon Michael’s return, he would have no choice: he would arrest him.
Chapter 9
The dome of St. Peter’s Basilica soared 390 feet into the air, designed by Michelangelo. It had taken forty-four years to complete the Italian master’s staggering vision. This was the literal golden crown of the Church. As the tour group of six academics rounded the cathedral’s altar, Michael glanced upward, amazed at the 415-year-old craftsmanship. Michael was dressed in loose-fitting clothing, a tan vest over a white oxford shirt, a pen-filled pocket protector in his breast pocket. He carried a small leather satchel that held, among other things, two notebooks, a camera, another collection of pens, several books on the Vatican, and two boxes of candy, which he pulled out and placed in his pocket. The round gold-rimmed glasses he wore gave him the distinct air of an academic.
After a one-hour lecture on the detailed history of what they were about to see, their tour started at precisely 9:15. The tour was desig
ned as an overview and precursor to the more detailed lectures they would partake of in the afternoon. It was scheduled to take three hours and would conclude in the Sacristy and Treasury Museum at 12:15. Michael had no intention of sitting through the afternoon lectures. At the time his group would be sitting down in the lecture hall, Michael would be sitting on a plane flying out of Rome. He looked at his watch and hit the timer. He had lined everything up. Barring any unforeseen event, his mission would be complete before noon. He had three hours.
The group Michael was with was more scholarly in nature than the tourists he had grown accustomed to seeing in the past four days. Sisters Katherine and Teresa had pooled their meager savings and escaped from the Cenacle Convent in Ireland, where they helped to instruct future nuns in Catholic history. The two nuns traveled under the guise of education but were actually looking forward to tomorrow’s Mass celebrated by the Pope in St. Peter’s Square. The two women were like Dead Heads: groupies following their favorite rock star. They had attended three of the Pope’s Masses and were so touched by his presence that they would pack up in a VW bus, don potato sacks, and sell T-shirts just to hear one of his sermons. There were two rabbis in the group: Abramowitz and Lohiem from Brooklyn. The two older men were more than pleasant, finding joy in every breath of life, their youthful spirits belying the twilight of their lives. Many of the tourists found it strange to see Jewish men of the cloth. They did not realize that though the Jewish people did not believe Jesus Christ to be the messiah and savior, he was a teacher and Hebrew, living his life as a model Jew and rabbi. And Peter, in whose name this great city was built, was considered the apostle to the Jews.
Finally, there was Professor Albert Higgins. He and Michael had shared a bottle of wine the evening before, while Michael listened to him espouse his nouveau riche divinity theories. Michael was sure the man could talk about himself for weeks on end. Michael had excused himself after an hour, stating that he needed to have all of his energy for the following day’s tour. That morning, when the tour group greeted one another outside the Vatican offices, it was as if Higgins had never met Michael before. The professor barely acknowledged him. The man was only aware of what he wanted to be aware of.
The tour was led by Brother Joseph, a member of the Vatican staff and a student of its history. What little hair he possessed had gone to gray early but his cherubic face still held a hint of boyishness. He wore the traditional brown pants and white-collared shirt of his order, having left his stylish designer clothes in the past. Joseph Mariano, a professor of Vatican history at the University of Rome, had lost his wife three years earlier in a car accident. Losing all sense of direction and the will to live, he’d immersed himself in his work and received the calling. Not sure whether to commit to the priesthood, he found a compromise in the brotherhood; he would give it three years and if he still felt the pull he would commit the rest of his life to God. Brother Joseph was assigned VIP tours as a result of his knowledge and ready smile, which combined to make him the ideal ambassador. He took his job very seriously, and even though he possessed that sweet smile, he had no need for those who didn’t follow the Vatican rules.
Michael’s face was curious and responsive to Brother Joseph’s walking dissertation. But it was all a mask. Michael’s mind was two hours into his plan. When he awoke at dawn, he had reviewed every detail of the heist again. He had contemplated each unforeseen obstacle and its resulting contingencies. He had found a greater focus than he had ever experienced in all of his years. In the past stealing was always selfish, it was always for himself. But not today. This was for Mary. Every detail was contemplated, constructed, set up, and in motion. Everything was on schedule.
At ten a.m., Attilio Vitelli peered out from underneath the Alfa Romeo and chose not to run. The four cop cars pulling into his driveway were nothing new to him. The Italian autos in his possession were—for the most part—legal. And the ones that weren’t had already been stripped, refurbished, and had ownership titles, leaving nothing to tie them to their former owners. Nine gendarme diligently surrounded Vitelli, waiting for him to speak first. But the old man didn’t even look at them until the heavy, bald man in charge poked his head under the red auto’s hood.
“It’s not about the cars this time, Attilio,” the officer said.
And that got Vitelli’s attention. “Social visit, Gianni?” he asked.
Investigator Gianni Francone never had anything solid on Vitelli; it was always innuendo and assumptions. He knew about Vitelli’s underground business, he just couldn’t make anything stick. So when he received the anonymous call about someone planning an assault on a Roman landmark today before noon, someone operating out of Vitelli’s garage, Francone couldn’t pass up the opportunity to search the place.
Three policemen fanned out around the yard while six entered the three-bay auto garage.
Francone sat on a Fiat Spider, his weight severely testing the suspension. “So, my friend, any visitors lately?”
“In fifteen forty-six, Michelangelo Buonaroti took over as chief architect of St. Peter’s Basilica, redesigning many of its elements including the grand dome above us, but sadly, he did not live to see its completion.” Michael and the group remained tightly bunched around Brother Joseph so as not to miss a word. “The artwork here was obtained from many sources. Some was donated or purchased, some created specifically for the Vatican, and some was found underneath where we now stand,” Brother Joseph explained in his thick Italian accent. He stopped in front of a forty-foot-tall marble statue of a man holding a spear. “You will note that the four magnificent statues of saints within the dome support columns surrounding the Papal altar. This is called the Loggias of the Relics. This figure of Longinus”—he pointed to the spear-holding statue—“was created by Bernini, while the three others were crafted by his students. Each of these statues was built to contain relics. St. Longinus was the centurion who pierced the side of Christ upon the cross to prove He was dead. The statue was designed to hold the tip of what some refer to as the Spear of Destiny.” Brother Joseph turned. He led his group over to the statue of a woman holding an enormous cross. “The statue of St. Helena, the mother of the Emperor Constantine, who discovered the actual cross of Christ, at one point contained nails and sections of the True Cross of our Lord.” He turned to a statue depicting a woman holding a wind-blown veil. “St. Veronica, who offered her veil to Christ to mop His brow as He carried His cross to Calvary, commemorates the actual veil which our Lord returned to her imprinted with His features. You will note her pose: in bullfighting, the most classic movement is called the Veronica. It is when the toreador swings his red cape slowly before the face of the bull, like Veronica wiping Christ’s face. It’s so named for this statue.”
Brother Joseph led them to the fourth and final statue. “St. Andrew was the brother of St. Peter and he, like his brother, was crucified. He was tied to an X-shaped cross and died in Greece. His head was in the possession of the Vatican until 1966, when it was returned to the Greek city of Patras—where he had died almost two thousand years earlier—as a gesture toward improving relations with the Greek Orthodox Church. But for the head of St. Andrew, each of the relics I have referred to is here. All are kept in the chapel above St. Veronica.”
They began walking down elaborate marble steps adjacent to the statue of St. Longinus. Michael had successfully passed himself off as Professor Michael McMahon from the University of St. Albans. His forged letterhead introduced him and asked for assistance on matters regarding the origin of the original Vatican. When the Office of Scholarly Advancement called for verification, they were told by the university that Professor McMahon was on sabbatical conducting research around the world for a textbook he was writing. If they would like to get in touch with him they could leave a message, as the professor checked his voice mail at least twice a month. The university administrator explained that due to the school’s limited funds, McMahon’s sabbatical was for only one semester; any help that co
uld be extended to the professor would be appreciated and returned in kind by St. Albans.
There really was a Professor Michael McMahon at St. Albans. Michael’s simple Google search revealed those vainglorious ones who not only announced in print their paid leaves of absence from school but foolishly laid out their itineraries. McMahon was writing a book and traveling the world; only he wasn’t in Rome at the moment, he was in a remote section of Tibet communing with some Buddhist monks.
Michael’s group stood in an area directly under the Basilica, an area rarely seen, off-limits to most of the outside world, reserved by appointment only for scholars and archaeologists: The Sacred Grottoes. It was a dark and ominous place, befitting its name. The soft glow of hundreds of candles danced off golden wall sconces and polished marble walls. The group walked past ornate sarcophagi that seemed to stretch on forever, the final resting places, Brother Joseph revealed, of not only most of the Popes since 1549 but also emperors and queens, VIPs, and dignitaries.
“One hundred and fifty-three Popes are buried here,” the brother’s voice echoed off the marble tombs. “And there is room for hundreds more, of course with the hope that their service in Christ only comes to an end after a long and productive tenure in His service.”
The Thieves of Heaven Page 11
