The Thieves of Heaven

by Richard Doetsch

  Michael checked his watch: 11:59. He leaned over the last display case—palmed something from a pocket—and placed it underneath the case. A small brown object with a pink confection stuck in the middle, affixed out of sight.

  He caught up with the group again as they continued to a wall case where a set of old rusted chains was displayed. The brass placard read: We gratefully acknowledge the generosity of San Pietro in Vincoli for the honor of displaying The Chains of St. Peter.

  “Before his death, Peter made a pilgrimage back to the Holy Land to the Mount of Kephas. There he prayed a fortnight asking his Holy Father for guidance. Some scholars speculate that he returned to the Holy Land to pay homage, but a select few believe Peter had a premonition of things to come, including his death, and was returning something to the land of his God for fear of it falling into the hands of the evil emperor of the Roman Empire, Nero. During his journey, a great fire consumed over two-thirds of Rome, killing thousands and laying ruin to many sections of the great city.

  “Upon his return to the city, Peter found his fellow Christians mercilessly persecuted at the hands of Nero, who had laid the blame for the city’s devastation upon them. Peter was bound in chains”—Brother Joseph indicated the chains upon the wall—“and tortured for his beliefs. After being held nine months in the Mamertine dungeon in the dark with St. Paul, Nero ordered Peter’s execution. Believing the Apostle to be nothing more than a usurper of his power, the emperor commanded Peter to be crucified, deliberately mocking the crucifixion of Jesus. Peter, not wishing to draw comparison to his Savior, asked and was permitted to be crucified upside down.”

  As everyone listened intently, Michael drifted toward the glass case in the corner. Lit by the single beam of light, the case was set on the onyx pedestal that stood three and one-half feet tall. A velvet rope barrier supported by three stanchions cordoned off onlookers. Michael didn’t bother looking in the case; he had inspected it three times in the last two days. Inside it, the two ancient keys rested on the plush purple cushion.

  Brother Joseph continued his story about the upside-down crucifixion of the saint at the hands of the emperor. “Nero was the wicked ruler of Rome, made famous by his notorious circus, where he would loose lions on criminals and peasants for the sheer enjoyment of seeing them torn apart. His drunken orgies were world-renowned in their day and his decadence has yet to see its equal in the two thousand years since his demise. He was as depraved as they come, rivaling Hitler, Pol Pot, and Genghis Khan for the worst in history.” In his years of teaching, Brother Joseph had developed a talent for keeping his students’ attention. No one ever nodded off in his classes at the university. His current group clustered closely around him so as not to miss a word.

  And it was this level of concentration that had caused each of them to jump in fear at the muffled sound of an explosion somewhere down the hall.

  There were three hundred and sixteen cameras, handled by thirty-six monitors; the six images per monitor cycled by in four-second intervals and could be locked at the flick of a switch. Each grouping of monitors, tucked between rose-colored marble columns, was individually manned by three shifts of guards. Fifteen-minute breaks were required hourly in order to keep the eyes of these guards fresh. There had not been a major incident in the Vatican in over three years. The last had been a lunatic brandishing a gun and demanding to see God at once or he would start shooting up the Sistine Chapel. The incident barely received mention in the news. The apprehension of Juan Medenez was credited to one man. That man was promoted for his fast action to the rank of colonel and was appointed personally by Pope John Paul II to head the Central Order of Vigilance. Stephan Enjordin, at thirty-one, had become the youngest director in the history of Vatican security. Respected by his underlings yet equally feared, Enjordin did not hesitate to mete out punishment in his quiet baritone voice for indiscretions, incompetence, or insubordination. When he had first arrived at the Vatican, he’d become one of the most well liked of the Swiss Guard for his broad smile and sense of humor, but as his responsibilities increased, he shed his charm as he felt it an impediment to the chain of command. He walked about the situation room below II Corpo di Vigilanza overseeing the forty-three men crammed in the high tech, Renaissance-decor space. Like each of the Swiss Guard, he was unmarried—there would be time for that later in life—and had a focus unmarred by outside interests. He was a soldier whose direction was always clear, always on the side of good, unhampered by changing politics or administrations. Enjordin’s mission was unambiguous: protect God, the Pope, and this one-hundred-and-nine-acre country.

  He prided himself on being a techie, always up on the latest technology, and he had a knack for assimilating it into Vatican security. The chemical and bomb “sniffers” were tuned to the high-tech devices used by military, terrorists, fanatics, and pranksters. The body scanners recessed in the doorway arches were far superior to anything found in an airport, embassy, or even the White House. Countless guns had been confiscated from tourists who, while innocent and more than willing to cooperate, were stunned at the unobtrusive detection of Enjordin’s team.

  Colonel Enjordin had taken the surprise factor out of his enemy’s hand, for without the element of surprise, you always saw your enemy coming. That was why his eyes were glued to monitors six and seven, every muscle in his lean body flexed. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

  Woomph. A low rumble emanated from the display case in the center of the Treasury. The underside of the case started to billow smoke. Thick dense smoke, the kind that could disorient in seconds. A huge cloud rose and spread through the Treasury Museum.

  And then the other display cases rattled in succession, a series of similar low woomphs occurring underneath each. What initially seemed to be a minor incident was swiftly escalating into a danger-filled situation. The explosions started at the far end of the long hall and worked their way forward like a series of dominoes falling. As the room filled with smoke, confusion reigned. Everyone dissolved in panic. Tourists screamed, mothers grabbed their children, a fire alarm blared. Over its deafening clang, no one could hear the instructions to stay calm or how to get to safety. The terrified public, easily numbering two hundred in the Treasury alone, charged the exits. The smoke was now thicker than molasses. People pushed and slammed into each other blindly as total mayhem took over.

  Almost simultaneously, in the Gregorian Museum, the same muffled explosions were occurring. Thick smoke filled the halls and rooms as the panicked tourists charged for the exits. Four more cases began to bubble up smoke, sending the masses into utter confusion.

  Without warning, steel plates crashed down in front of the wall-mounted artwork throughout the entire museum complex, sealing each masterpiece from destruction. The books, manuscripts, and artifacts were vacuum-sealed in their display cases under one-inch alarmed glass, protected from any intrusion of the outside world. These frescoes and oil paintings, books and artifacts were cherished works created in the name of God. All were irreplaceable, so the modern world moved swiftly to protect the precious past.

  Brother Joseph was the calm within the storm, telling each of the members of his group to hold hands and he would lead them out. His eyes stung, tears ran down his cheeks, but nothing could wash away the determination in his eyes. The nuns and the rabbis found the moment rather exciting and figured it a bonus to their day. And though they had a burning in their eyes and a hacking cough in their throats, never once did fear replace the excitement they felt.

  That wasn’t the case for Professor Higgins. He hadn’t come here to die, and God be damned if he was to die in this house of worship. What would the papers say, what would his colleagues and detractors say? He wouldn’t be remembered for his great work, he would be remembered for the irony of his death: another death at the hands of the evil Catholic Church, they finally got him, too. And then someone grabbed his neck. He felt a pinprick just below his ear and he became suddenly dizzy. He panicked, picturing his own death, an
d pulled away from his assailant. Then he started to run, charging into what he was sure was the exit. He didn’t have time to realize how wrong he was. He was out cold before he hit the floor, having crashed into a marble statue of St. Thomas Aquinas, patron saint of academics.

  The crowds poured from every exit, quickly filling the Piazza San Pietro. People cried, someone started the rumor that this great institution was going up in flames. Brother Joseph led his group calmly to a remote corner before collapsing with relief. They were all too busy talking to notice that they had lost Michael and Professor Higgins.

  Within the museum, the oily smoke had thickened, wafting upward and then curling back down on itself. Never mind seeing your hand in front of your face, you were lucky if you saw your nose. The sounds of panic diminished, most of the crowd having fled the building. All that remained in the hall was Michael St. Pierre and the unconscious figure of Professor Higgins.

  Michael had less than thirty seconds. It wouldn’t take long for the Vatican Police and fire department to arrive. Michael had planned everything out; his timing was precise. The smoke bombs he had concocted at the car shop out of sugar, mothballs and Epsom salt had worked like a charm. The pink and white fuses were the key: once stuck into the brown concoction, the coating dissolved and when the contents of the two items mixed, the chemical reaction was swift. The white confection was two centimeters thicker than the pink and acted as a fuse lasting forty-five minutes. The pink confection was a fast-acting five minutes. There had never been any risk of fire. Michael wasn’t in the business of killing people.

  He grabbed Higgins by the feet and dragged him across the floor toward the key display. Sometimes fortune smiled. The smoke was at its thickest. Michael looked around, listened. Satisfied he was alone.

  He reached in his bag, pulled out the objects he had crafted in Vitelli’s garage, and quickly assembled a hammer. Raising it high above his head, he slammed it with all his strength into the two-by-two-foot case. The glass didn’t break, not even a spiderweb crack. But the diamond needle-nose hammer, its point thinner than a lock of hair, pierced the one-inch glass. As the case was punctured, compressed air rushed from the handle through the needle and exploded the glass case’s seams from within. Another alarm sounded. It blended with the fire alarm and created even greater confusion.

  Colonel Stephan Enjordin and two Swiss Guards raced through the Basilica as the remaining stragglers rushed by to safety. Enjordin had dispatched the fire department and they were less than a minute behind him. Security ratcheted up to def-con one; thirty-six guards converged on the exits to supplement the forty already in place.

  Enjordin and the two guards worked their way into the Treasury Museum through the blinding haze calling as they went, wary that something might be occurring that had nothing at all to do with the fire.

  Michael stood at the shattered case. He reached in and removed the keys. Fourteen seconds to go. As he could barely see the end of his arm, he was certain that no one would be able to see him. He quickly dismantled the hammer—the handle of which held eight liters of compressed air—back into its three components and placed them in Higgins’s bag. The diamond-tipped needle tucked nicely back into a pen, the head of the five-pound hammer was disguised as a camera body, and the handle looked like the spine of a textbook—all of which fit nicely in Higgins’s satchel. Michael looked carefully at his fingertips. The painted-on latex skin was indistinguishable from his real skin but for the lack of fingerprints. Without hesitation, he peeled the clear latex off his fingers, rolled the pieces up into a small ball, popped it into his mouth, and swallowed it.

  With the doors open and the air vents at full blast, the smoke was slowly beginning to dissipate. Enjordin led his men at a sprint through the Treasury Museum, coughing, waving in vain at the smoke, trying desperately to see. They were well trained and knew the difference between the two alarm sounds: a robbery was in progress. Never had there been a theft from the Vatican and it wasn’t going to happen on their watch.

  All at once they were upon the key case; they saw the broken glass but couldn’t see inside due to the lingering smoke. Enjordin turned and was shocked to see a man standing there. In Italian, he demanded to know what the man was doing. Michael had limited knowledge of the language, but he knew what he was being asked.

  “What are you doing?” Enjordin demanded, this time switching to English.

  “I…I—” Michael sputtered.

  “What are you doing? How break the glass?” one of the guards cut in. Vernea was the largest of the three, bursting through his blue and gold uniform, he would get answers, no matter what method required. He wasn’t about to let his superior down.

  Michael’s breathing quickened as he mutely stared up at the guard.

  Vernea’s powerful hand clamped down on Michael’s shoulder, dragging him toward the case. “Where are the keys?” This was an assault against God, a blasphemous act for which no punishment could be too brutal. But then…

  The smoke around the case started to clear. Just a bit at first. Vernea looked closer as Colonel Enjordin leaned in. He reluctantly released Michael’s throbbing shoulder.

  There, on their purple velvet cushion, lay the two keys.

  “Pardon, I’m sorry, sir. I did not think—” the large guard began.

  Michael waved him off. “No, please, please, I’m sorry. I couldn’t see through the smoke. This man…” He pointed at Professor Higgins facedown before him. “I didn’t see him, we ran into each other, but the case…The case was already broken.”

  Enjordin ignored the American’s explanation, assessing the situation. He studied the damaged case as if it would tell him what really happened and then, stepping back, took in the other nearby display cases and artifacts. He was digesting everything—the damage, the smoke, these two suspects, committing it all to memory. After a moment, he crouched over Higgins, rolling him over. Enjordin patted down the unconscious professor, finding only his wallet and hotel keys. He rifled the brown book bag at Higgins’s side, pulling out two books; he passed these to his subordinate. He dug deeper finding three pens and an assortment of anti-Church flyers. Grimly, he continued his search, his hand falling on something that took a bit of effort to pull from the leather satchel. The camera was heavier than any camera he had ever held. He turned it over in his hand, amazed at its weight—at least five pounds. He glanced through the anti-Catholic leaflets, his face reddening. He looked to Vernea and then turned his contemptuous smile on Higgins. He had noticed the man earlier in his monitor; he’d been easy to spot, that arrogant air, the obvious disdain and contempt on his face as he argued with Brother Joseph. This tourist had no respect for the Church. It took every bit of his enormous strength to restrain himself from beating this man so badly he would never wake from his unconscious state.

  “Are you hurt?” Enjordin asked Michael, but his question was perfunctory. He never turned to Michael, his eyes remained glued to the man still lying at his feet.

  “Just shaken up. The fire—”

  “We’ll show you out.” Enjordin cut him off, turning to the guard. “Reiner?”

  Corporal Reiner took Michael by the arm and led him through the clearing smoke. The sound of their lone footsteps was loud in the eerily deserted museum. Like ghosts materializing from the walls, the Swiss Guard and the Vatican Police had taken up silent position around every case, artifact, and exit; their halberds had been traded for rifles and sidearms. As Michael looked back at the crime scene, he was amazed at how swiftly and efficiently they had responded to the threat. Enjordin controlled the room and his people as if they were extensions of his own body. Higgins was slowly waking up, his head bobbing, his eyes unfocused and lost as Vernea yanked him to his feet. Michael ached for the chance to be a fly on the wall at Higgins’s interrogation; how the arrogant bastard would explain the items in his bag would be priceless. There was nowhere he could hide, Higgins’s hatred for the Catholic Church was well-known and published; it would be an easy l
eap of faith to ascribe the blame for this incident to him. It was a quirk of fate. His life had been spent in an attempt to tear down the Church and now, because of simple bad timing, it would be the Church that would burn him down.

  “Un momento! Wait!” The voice was loud, booming off the museum walls.

  Michael turned to see Colonel Enjordin charging down the hall toward them; his heart froze. He looked back at Reiner, whose cheerful demeanor instantly dissolved as the guard assumed his military stature at his commander’s approach. Michael glanced over Reiner’s shoulder: at the distant doorway, three Swiss Guard had snapped to attention, blocking the way. No matter how hard he ran, he was trapped.

  Enjordin came to an abrupt halt, speaking in quick bursts of Italian; Reiner mechanically nodded his head at the furious volley. Then both men turned their attention to Michael.

  Three black Suburbans, sirens flashing, screeched to a halt in front of the hotel. The concierge came running out but was nearly trampled by a swarm of Vatican and Roman police. They charged up the stairs leaving behind a contingent to block all exits. The concierge ran behind calling for them to stop. He waved his pass-key to no avail.

  The security force, weapons drawn, charged onto the third-floor landing and without a moment’s hesitation broke down the door to room 306. The winded concierge stumbled through the doorway still clutching his pass-key.

  The guards’ weapons weren’t necessary; there was no one inside. But more importantly, they didn’t need to tear the room apart. It was all there on the table: maps and charts of the Vatican, pictures of the museum, a recipe for smoke bombs.