The Thieves of Heaven

by Richard Doetsch

  Moments later Investigator Francone strode in with two of his men and Attilio Vitelli in tow. Francone had heard the dispatch and rushed to the site. While en route, he explained what he and his men had uncovered at the garage to Colonel Enjordin of the Vatican.

  “Anything look familiar?” Francone asked Vitelli.

  Vitelli looked at the items on the table; the silent TV with images of the smoking Vatican; the packed suitcases. His eyes finally fell on the Yankees hat hanging from the bathroom door handle. He thought, Only an amateur American would wear something so…American.

  The concierge finally caught his breath and, with his eyes wide and arms askew, turned to one of the policemen. “What has the professor done?” he pleaded.

  Michael pressed each finger into the designated sections of the paper, rolling them as instructed. Reiner gave him a paper towel to wipe his hands of the excess ink while a guard photographed Michael from all sides. He stood in his underclothes in a small antechamber off the Piazza San Pietro that contained only a table and two lamps. The door was closed and had been locked from the outside. The contents of Michael’s bag—his notebooks, his sunglasses, his books on the Vatican—were spread out on the table. Next to them lay his clothes and the contents of his pockets—his wallet, money, passport, key ring, PalmPilot, and the iridium cell phone.

  “And you’re staying at the Hotel Bella Coccinni?” Reiner asked in clipped English as he concentrated on the nearly completed form.

  “That is correct.” Michael crumpled up the paper towel and threw it in the trash can, careful to keep his smile in place.

  An investigator in a Vatican Police uniform stood over Michael’s effects with an electronic security-wand, passing it back and forth. It rang as it passed over the keys, PalmPilot, and phone. He picked up each article scrutinizing them in detail. Then he removed everything from Michael’s wallet—from credit cards to little scraps of paper—reading each with a careful eye. He turned on the PalmPilot, scrolling through the programs, verifying its functionality, and placed it back on the table. He picked up the phone, surprised at its size and weight, and looked at Michael with a question in his eyes. Turning the phone over in his hand, he opened the back and removed the large black battery. “An iridium phone,” he said in a thick accent.

  Michael smiled. “Amazing reception.”

  The investigator examined the phone in detail as if it was a fine piece of jewelry; Michael knew that it wasn’t out of admiration but suspicion. The technician put the battery back in and turned the phone on. He gestured to Michael. “Do you mind?”

  “Please, feel free.”

  The investigator dialed the phone and after a moment the cell phone in his pocket rang. Satisfied, he put it back on the table. He turned to Michael and ran the wand over Michael’s entire body. He gave no indication of a pass or fail and put the wand away. He turned to Reiner and gave him an unspoken look.

  Reiner handed Michael his clothes and pushed his possessions across the table. Michael remained silent as he began dressing.

  “You understand, Professor McMahon,” Reiner began as he studied Michael’s passport, “with a breach such as this, we must pay attention to even the most insignificant of details.” Reiner placed his pen down on the table and spun the paper around, indicating the line for Michael’s signature. “No one is a more thorough investigator than Colonel Enjordin. The colonel may need to reach you if any further irregularities should arise.”

  “Of course.” Michael finished dressing and quickly signed the release.

  The door opened abruptly and Enjordin stepped inside. The door slammed shut behind him and the lock fell back into place. Ignoring Michael, he turned to Reiner and the Vatican policeman. “We have been to his hotel.”

  Michael’s face was a mask although his heart felt like it would burst in his chest.

  “Everything was there—maps, pictures. This professore was not smart.”

  Enjordin looked Michael up and down, assessing him. Without turning his eye, he snatched Michael’s passport from Reiner and stared at the travel document as if memorizing it. Switching to Italian, he spoke in rapid bursts to Reiner who remained silent—though his eyes kept darting Michael’s way.

  A moment of silence hung over the room and then…

  Enjordin handed the passport back to Michael. He thumped the door three times. The latch was released.

  As they emerged into the light, an ambulance rolled in, coming to a halt next to several fire trucks. A host of Swiss Guards checked the exiting crowds, frisking and questioning them. The guards looked at Michael but turned their attention to the next group once they saw he was being escorted by Corporal Reiner.

  “That was scary,” Michael commented.

  “Sorry for the inconvenience,” Reiner replied. “Are you sure you are not injured?”

  “Just a little shaken.”

  “Do you wish a doctor?”

  “No, really, I’m fine. I just need a drink.”

  “Please do not let this discourage you from visiting us again.” Reiner nodded, then hurried back into the museum.

  The crowds had not yet begun to disperse; the confusion would last a bit longer. Michael turned and headed for his hotel, thankful that no one was hurt and the only thing people would be walking away with today was a good story. As he crossed the Piazza San Pietro, passing the towering obelisk and the enormous colonnade, he looked back at the Basilica. While its grandeur hadn’t diminished, he no longer felt the intimidation he had felt when he first looked upon the ancient city.

  Michael reached in his pocket and turned on his phone; he needed to hear Mary’s voice. He needed to tell her that he loved her and that he was coming home. Michael walked out of Vatican City at exactly 1:00 and smiled, knowing that Mary’s chances of survival had just risen.

  He had the keys.

  Chapter 11

  Michael was packing. The room at the Roman Traveler’s Inn he had paid for in advance barely had enough space in it for the bed but comfort was not a factor, never had been; he had booked this room for its view. From it he could see the Vatican perfectly. And more important, he could see the myriad intersecting streets below and would know which one to take if escape was in order. While he had checked into the Hotel Bella Coccinni, it was merely for cover; this small hotel was his true base of operation.

  On the TV screen was a shot from earlier in the day of smoke billowing out of the Vatican Museum, the tourists scattered about, coughing. The announcer from the CNN Italian bureau spoke over the footage, “evacuated with only minor injuries sustained.”

  Michael sat down at the small corner desk and plugged a memory stick into his notebook computer. Suddenly, numbers started flashing by on the screen. In thirty seconds, the computer was thoroughly wiped of all memory.

  The computer had acted as the perfect partner, performing timely and without error. At ten a.m. it auto-dialed the police station through the untraceable cell phone Michael had attached. Recognizing a live human voice, the computer activated the preprogrammed twenty-two-second message leaving the tip about Attilio Vitelli’s garage. The computer had modified Michael’s prerecorded voice and his rapid speech didn’t leave room for a response before the line was disconnected.

  At precisely 11 a.m., the computer had dialed the Vatican Police. Michael’s voice, now modified to a feminine timbre, warned of the impending protest. It was all a screen, a matter of misdirection, leading investigators on a trail that bore certain truths but not the whole truth, while at the same time creating chaos.

  Michael flipped over the computer and removed the hard drive, running a magnet over it repeatedly. Though an auto virus had infected the computer at 11:17, destroying any evidence, and he had just deleted all of the computer’s memory, Michael didn’t think it was possible to be too cautious. He preferred the belt, suspenders, and parachute approach. You could never be too sure.

  Michael was glad nobody was hurt—except maybe Professor Higgins’s ego and his hea
d, partly from kissing the statue of St. Thomas Aquinas and partly from the sodium amytal that prolonged his slumber. The anti-Catholic leaflets Michael had placed in his bag blinded the guards with rage, fogging their minds to rational thought as they raced off to Higgins’s hotel. The hotel was only three blocks from the Hotel Bella Coccinni. As it only had a single concierge on duty, it had been absurdly easy for Michael to slip in and out of Higgins’s room that morning on his way to the Vatican, leaving just enough evidence to further support the Swiss Guard and Vatican Police’s theories and suppositions.

  It wasn’t one piece of evidence that helped to seal the Vatican Police’s conclusion, it was the collective: the items in his bag, his blind hatred of the Church, the items in his hotel. The fact that nothing appeared stolen kept their focus on an anarchist vandal, not an opportunistic thief. The truth only emerged as the sodium amytal wore off. But nobody would want the truth; they had already made up their minds about Professor Higgins.

  Michael pulled out his iridium phone, opened up the back, removed the battery, and replaced it with the fresh spare.

  “The cause still remains a mystery,” the CNN reporter continued. “And the museums remain closed for the first time in forty-five years.”

  Michael peeled up the label on the top of the battery, revealing the battery’s seam. With his knife, he sliced along the seam and opened the battery. The battery’s insides looked like pitch; Michael dug into the black putty-like material and there sat the two keys, buried in the tar. On the north edge, where the contacts were, sat a small battery within the battery. The power source was fully operational; the phone worked just fine, it simply had a life expectancy one-tenth that of a regular battery. It was Michael’s Trojan cell phone.

  It was the first opportunity Michael had to examine his prize up close. He pulled out each key, placing both on the bed. They were covered in the black gunk of the battery, but as he wiped them off, the precious metal began to shine through. He picked up the silver key and, with a towel, he wiped off the remaining tar and buffed it to a high sheen. He picked up the gold key and began to clean it. And then something caught his eye. His heart froze.

  Michael hurried into the bathroom. He held up the keys.

  “A rumor persists that several smoke bombs detonated in the Sacristy and Treasury Museum and the Gregorian Museum of Etruscan Art but no one was hurt.” The TV reporter could be heard from the next room.

  He looked at the key closer, then turned on the tap and ran the key under the hot water, dissolving the remaining tar-like substance.

  “Fortunately, it has been confirmed, nothing was stolen.” The TV voice echoed off the tile walls.

  The sink turned to black—and the key turned to gold.

  Michael examined it closely. In tiny lettering, almost imperceptible to the eye, was an engraving. Michael strained to see but he wasn’t mistaken. Etched on the side was 585.

  Michael looked up from the key, placed it on the edge of the sink, stared into the mirror, and ran his hands over his face. “Shit,” he groaned.

  The satellite phone rang. Michael ignored it. His heart was thundering in his ears.

  He closed his eyes.

  The phone rang again. And Michael exploded, sweeping his arm along the medicine shelf, sending toiletries and water glasses crashing against the wall.

  Michael ran out of the bathroom, picking up the phone on its third ring. “Hello.”

  “I’m watching the news,” the voice said. “Great thing, this worldwide television, I wonder if CNN is for sale.”

  Silently, Michael watched the television coverage of the Vatican. Finster’s warning the week before echoed in his brain. “I will know if they are not the true keys, Michael. I will know.”

  “Well?” Finster asked.

  “Well, the Vatican isn’t stupid.” Michael tried to restrain his anger. The inscription, 585—14K in the U.S.—was the European designation for 58.5 percent pure gold, a designation that did not appear on gold two thousand years ago.

  “And…?”

  “And…” Michael was at a loss, his head was spinning, he couldn’t afford failure. He had to succeed. Mary’s life depended on it.

  “What do you mean, Michael? Do you have them?”

  No response. Michael was lost in thought, staring at something on his bed.

  “And what, Michael? What’s going on?” Finster’s voice sharpened.

  On the bed was Michael’s stack of research books. One in particular caught his eye: THE VATICAN—Its Politics and Territories. On the cover was the simple picture of an old stone church. The simplicity and logic were suddenly obvious to Michael, but then the past is always clearer than the future. Misdirection. Michael’s specialty. Like a magician: have the audience stare at your right hand while your left hand deceives them. You look here, so I can accomplish the impossible over there. And people tend not to question fact, particularly when they confirm it with their own eyes. Everyone, look at my empty hand while I pull a coin from my pocket; everyone, look at Higgins, the enemy of the Church, while I just borrow these keys; everyone, look at these genuine keys in their case while we hide the true keys somewhere else.

  “Michael, what’s going on?”

  “Things aren’t always what they seem,” Michael said more to himself than to Finster. “Plain sight. It’s so simple. Why didn’t I see it before?”

  “What are you talking about?” Finster’s voice was brittle.

  “I should have started at the beginning.” Michael was suddenly intensely focused. “I’ll see you in a couple of days.”

  Finster’s protest was cut off as Michael absentmindedly hung up the phone.

  The walls were covered in Crayola masterpieces. Bright pictures of clouds and dogs, stick figures and flowers. Jeannie Busch had picked them up from school. The children worked so hard when they heard that Mary “had a bit of a cold” and wouldn’t be back before summer vacation. Many of the children cried. The classroom seemed to have lost its sense of balance. Mary had been their center, their surrogate parent, and she was gone. Mary had plastered the pale walls hoping to cover up not only the sterile atmosphere of the room but the sterile feeling in her heart.

  She sat in a chair, dressed, pretending to read. She had been tested so many times before, but never like this. The treatment was not only draining her strength, it was draining her will. She longed for Michael’s return, knowing that he would be the catalyst to spark her recovery.

  “Hey, Mare,” came the whisper. Mary didn’t react at first, lost in thought behind her book. He stepped in closer. “Hi.”

  Mary jumped, startled at the voice, but all that washed away when she saw his face. “Paul.” Her smile was genuine.

  “You look terrific.” He had actually expected her to look worse. “How are you?”

  “Fine. They’re making a big deal out of nothing.”

  Busch leaned in to give her a kiss. He had come straight from work and his suit was wrinkled, his tie askew, but at least he’d taken the time to comb his tangle of blond hair. “You’ve got to hurry home, Jeannie is driving me crazy. I need you to keep her in check, make her laugh once in a while.”

  “You do a good enough job at that yourself.”

  “Yeah, but she’s laughing at me, not with me. I brought you some cookies and magazines.” Paul placed a package on the end table. The stacks were growing, the end tables overflowing; it would take her a year to read through everything.

  “Thank you. How is Jeannie?”

  “Insane,” he said with not much humor. He looked around the room at the crayon drawings. “Got a lot of fans.”

  “Yeah, my flock.”

  A long, uncomfortable silence followed. Busch busied himself, pretending to look at each picture one by one.

  Mary closed her book, gathered her thoughts, and smiled. “Thanks again for helping Michael out, letting him go down South and all.”

  Busch turned to her. “Hey, you know, sometimes you’ve got to bend the rule
s.” It killed Busch that Michael had lied to Mary. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that her husband had left the country.

  “I don’t know how we can ever make it up to you.”

  “Just get better.”

  “Promise me when Michael gets back, we can all go out to dinner. OK?”

  Busch reached out and gently touched her hand; it took all his effort to smile. He hoped against hope that she would take his tender smile and touch as a sign and let the question slide. He couldn’t answer her question; he couldn’t lie to her, too.

  Mary settled into bed. She could barely keep her eyes open during Busch’s visit. He had always watched out for her, particularly during Michael’s incarceration. Paul had never made it difficult, never made her feel uncomfortable. When he’d quietly volunteered to be Michael’s parole officer, it was a surprise to both Mary and Jeannie. He had helped Michael get back on his feet and the fact that they became such close friends seemed more than Mary could ever ask for. She was thankful that Paul was such a big part of Michael’s life.

  Chapter 12

  An open field in the middle of nowhere. Scrub grass for as far as the eye could see. In the distance was a small range of mountains. Michael crested the hill and threw down his canvas satchel, taking in his surroundings. He had been walking for hours. No road had been laid here, only a few scattered cart paths cut through the vegetation. It was hard going, but he reminded himself that it was only a fraction of what Mary was going through. He pressed on.

  The foothills of Mount Kephas were an uncontested barren place, bearing no political or religious significance. On the other hand, if you were to travel three miles south to Jebel et-Tur, also known as the Mount of Olives, the significance was dramatic. The stories of the Mount of Olives had been chronicled and passed down through the ages, the location taken as gospel: it was where Jesus rose to Heaven. But the Mount of Olives is in fact a range of twenty-five hundred-foot hills.