The Julian secret lr-2

by Gregg Loomis

  In other circumstances, she might have felt some modicum of guilt for the victim whose pocket she had deftly picked, but she desperately needed to get to Rome. And she could never have lifted the wallet had he not groped her. Perhaps the experience would prevent him from doing the same thing to another woman.

  She doubted it. A Froggie who can keep his eyes and hands off an attractive woman is a dead Froggie.

  Antonio launched into a new anecdote. Her mind was whirring with images blurred by the speed at which they appeared, somewhat like a film on fast-forward. The helicopter, hovering like a mechanical dragonfly, before exploding in a brilliant flash, the ensuing blackness. A brief moment of consciousness, being unable to-move under huge weight that seemed to crush the breath from her. A silence so intense it had a sound of its own.

  The facts had come back to her, but in no particular sequence. Until she sorted them out, it seemed equally likely site had gone to Montsegur before, not after, leaving Atlanta or being in Seville. She did know what she had found in the pocket of the man who had intended to kill her, and she knew she must tell Lang.

  But how?

  She had lost her encoding communication device along with everything else but the clothes on her back. Some of the clothes on her back, she corrected, remembering the shredded blouse. Besides, she had no idea exactly where she could reach him, although she was certain she knew where to find him sooner or later. She could call his office and ask Sara to have Lang contact her. But if what she suspected was true, anything said over any phone connected to Lang was being monitored. She only hoped he recognized the possibility his conversations were not private.

  She would simply have to follow the theory she had put together. She only hoped she got there in time.

  She also hoped he would figure out he was on the wrong path. Or, as the Americans said, barking up the wrong tree. Why would anyone want to bark up a tree, right or wrong?

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Rome

  The Vatican

  April 28, 1944

  At the same time Pius XlI was conducting a meeting of the Pontifical Commission for the Vatican City State, Waffen SS Sturinbahnfilhrer Otto Skorzeny was pretending to be just one more German taking pictures of St. Peter's Square. Even had it not been for blue eyes the color of glacial ice and the dueling scar that circled his right cheek, the ordinary Wehrmacht troops along the border of the Holy City would have shown him even more deference than the black SS uniform merited.

  The rugged good looks, the soft Austrian accent did nothing to conceal an air of one who commands as though he were born to lead men into desperate ventures. One of those ventures, the rescue of Il Duce, had resulted in a notoriety that made him uncomfortable. A soldier's place was on the front lines, not the headlines.

  Having his name in the papers was even more disquieting. At least he had successfully declined to allow photographs. Anonymity was like virginity: once lost, never regained.

  He had had no choice in the matter. His Fuhrer had ordered him to make himself available to Herr Goebbels's press corps, and he had followed those orders as would any good soldier. Fortunately, fame was indeed fleeting and the civilian public's brief attention quickly focused elsewhere. Even now, though, months later, a number of the troops called him by name as they saluted.

  With invasion of France by the Allies imminent, he had requested a command similar to the one he had had on the Eastern Front until he had been wounded in 1942. Instead, he had been summoned to Hitler's home atop the mountains of Berchtesgaden, where the Fuhrer himself had explained the present mission and its importance. Although Skorzeny would have preferred a return to combat, the Fuhrer had been very persuasive.

  Today Skorzeny was reconnoitering another raid.

  Through the viewfinder of the Zeiss camera, he watched the Swiss Guards. Although their medieval pikes and uniforms provided more show than protection, he knew the men were trained in the use of modern weapons and prepared to die defending their employer, the Pope.

  He hoped that would not be necessary, although he could not imagine them standing by as the Pope was taken prisoner.

  He trained the camera on the area surrounding the obelisk. A souvenir of Rome's conquest of Egypt, it had been brought to Rome in the first century, A.D., although it had been moved to its current location only when the present St. Peter's Basilica was under construction in the sixteenth century. Its previous location and the significance of that spot was, Skorzeny understood, marked by an inset in the paving of what was now a fairly busy roadway between the southern edge of the basilica proper and the beginning of the Bernini colonnades. Two costumed guards were stationed here to prevent the unauthorized from entering the Vatican grounds.

  If Skorzeny's information was correct, the subject of his interest was Just beyond that entrance.

  If it existed. He was uncertain exactly what the enigmatic inscription on the wall at Montsegur had meant. Even when translated by the head of the Classics Department at the University of Berlin, it made little sense and had even less significance. Who cared what crimes had been alleged against the son of a Jewish carpenter two thousand years ago? Non-Jewish, he mentally corrected himself. The Nazi party had done extensive research and produced conclusive evidence that Christ was not a Jew-conclusive for any German who valued his life or liberty, anyway.

  Still, who cared?

  Der Fuhrer, that's who. Anything dealing with religion or the occult fascinated Hitler. That, of course, was why Skorzeny was here instead of fighting the British and Americans as they battled their way up the Italian boot or helping fortify the French coast. Kidnapping the Pope was another matter. The Christian world would shriek its protest just as all of Europe had when the Fuhrer had marched into the Rhineland, Austria, the Sudeten, and then all of Czechoslovakia. And with about as much effect. In the meantime, His Holiness could be ransomed off for the greatest treasure in the world, the priceless objects of art in the Vatican. After nearly five years of war, Germany's treasury could use the infusion of cash such riches would bring.

  And Hitler would have a surfeit of religious artifacts, including whatever that emperor… Julian, the Emperor Julian, had hidden.

  He let the camera fall loose to hang on the strap around his neck. The information. Intelligence provided by trained military observers was frequently misleading or downright wrong. Here, he was relying on the observations not of a soldier, not even a partisan civilian, but of Ludwig Kaas, the financial secretary to the Reverenda Fabbrica, a mere clerical bureaucrat.

  Of course, Kaas had more incentive than most to get his facts straight. The families of his two siblings and his aged mother, all in Germany, to be exact. No one had actually threatened them, not in so many words. But when Hitler and his inner circle had heard the rumors of excavation below the basilica, they searched the voluminous records of the Third Reich until they found someone in the Vatican, someone who might be, shall we say, subject to patriotic persuasion.

  Kaas had produced the information sought: entrances, number of guards on duty at any given time, and the location of the object of German interest. The priest had not even asked why the data was requested. Perhaps he knew. More likely, he wanted to make sure he did not. Well, the good father's self-delusion of innocence wasn't going to last much longer. The priest was scheduled to give Skorzeny a tour of the area beneath the basilica tomorrow morning.

  After that, there would be no reason to delay the operation.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Rome

  Hotel Hassler

  The present

  When Lang awoke the next morning, he sat up in bed, reviewing what, if anything, he had learned the night before. The inscription on the wall had been obliterated, but by whom? Historical revisionism and political correctness were at least as old as the Caesars. An emperor's name, Julian's inscription, either could have been removed. Unless Lang could manage to read. a carving intentionally destroyed, he would never know what, if anything, Skorzeny had
found or the motive for whoever had killed Don and Gurt and now had him in their homicidal sights.

  But how do you read…?

  Inspiration is like a broadcast: free, but you just have to be tuned to the right station.

  Hurriedly, he showered and dressed. Checking the charged status of both his own cell phone and the BlackBerry Reavers had given him, he slipped both in his pocket, counted his cash, and decided he needed more and left the room. A few minutes later, he was walking briskly toward the rail station. One of the many things Lang loved about Rome was its mix of history. A block from the station was the massive Baths of Diocletian, emperor at the end of the third century and author of the Roman equivalent of Boston's Big Dig. Except the emperor's huge public bathhouse had actually been completed in a single lifetime. Straddling both modern and ancient, a seventeenth-century building housed Rome's archaeological museum, its location forming a triangle with the baths and rail station.

  Lang pulled open the museum's glass doors, entering a small lobby, and approached the ticket booth.

  "Curator?" he asked.

  "Five euro," the woman behind the glass said, pointing to a price list in five languages prominently displayed behind her. Lang shook his head. "No, no. I'd like to see the curator, not the museum."

  "If you no want see museum," she challenged, "why you here?"

  Once again, Lang became aware of how efficient the barrier of language could be. He spoke little more than memorized phrases of Italian, and her English was little better. "It's too much money,"

  "May I have red wine," or "Where is the men's room?" wasn't going to be of much use.

  "Can I help you, sir?"

  A young man in a white shirt, tie, and neatly pressed pants had appeared like a genie at Lang's elbow.

  ''You can if you speak English," Lang said hopefully.

  "Of course. What is it you wish?"

  Lang grinned. "Your English is very good. Where did you learn it?"

  The young man smiled back, a dazzle of white teeth. "P.S. 41 in the Bronx, where I live. I'm visiting my grandparents here, working at the museum, hoping to improve my Italian." He extended his hand. "Enrico Savelli."

  Lang shook, almost blurting out a name that wasn't going to match his passport. "Joel Couch. I wanted to see the curator."

  Savelli's face screwed up into a question. "He's in the field for the next few days. Might I ask why you want to see him?"

  Lang thought fast. "I'm writing an article for the newspaper I work for, an article on forensics in archaeology. Stuff like being able to read old and nearly obliterated inscriptions, ancient manuscripts, stuff like that. Maybe as a fellow American you could arrange…"

  Lang had long ago observed that Americans who had nothing in common in their native country took it as a debt of honor to help their fellow citizens abroad. Read a menu you can't decipher? No problem. Give you directions to the embassy? Why don't you let me walk you there? Had your wallet lifted? Here's a few euro to get you to the American Express office. It was a positive facet of the us-against-them syndrome.

  Savelli stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Wish you had called or written-",

  "Actually, I'm here on vacation, just thought of finding out how one of the world's primo archaeological outfits does it. But if you can't, you can't." Lang turned as though to head for the door.

  "Tell you what," Savelli said. "Curator's at Herculaneum, supervising a new dig along what was the waterfront… You are familiar with the city?"

  "Destroyed in the same eruption of Vesuvius as Pompeii, about A.D. seventy-nine."

  Savelli gave that flash of a smile again, glad to be talking to a reasonably knowledgeable countryman, not one of those American tourists who view Italy as a combination Olive Garden Restaurant and Armani outlet store. "I can call. It's about a three-hour train ride to Naples and a fifty-euro cab trip to the site, if you bargain well. Ask for Dr. Rossi."

  Lang did a quick calculation: It would take at least an hour to get to either of Rome's airports, and how long would he have to wait for the next flight to Naples? As is so often the case in Europe, the train was preferable to air travel.

  He reached in his pocket and peeled off several bills. "For your trouble."

  The mistake became instantly apparent as Savelli frowned and shook his head. "I am not the concierge at your hotel, Mr. Couch."

  Lang feigned surprise. "Not for you, of course. A contribution to this museum in payment for your efforts." It was as if the sun had come out from behind storm clouds. "Grazie. A moment and I will write you a receipt."

  Lang left considering a common conundrum: Where was the line between a favor and a service for which a gratuity was expected? Like most Americans, he tended to err toward the latter rather than the former.

  Whatever the art of tipping, there was something not quite right about the young man leaning against the adjacent building as he talked on a cell phone and smoked.

  There was nothing unusual about anything. Italians are perhaps the most accomplished loungers in the world.

  Generally, they prop themselves against brick, stucco, or stone with equal insouciance, seeming perfectly comfortable in contorted poses that would send the average American to a chiropractor. Smoking also is common, fear of cancer, heart or respiratory ailments apparently viewed as less than manly. The preferred method being to let the cigarette dangle from the lower lip or be used in the hand as a short pointer to emphasize the gesticulation for which the nationality is famous. Even more ubiquitous than cigarettes are cell phones. An Italian, or at least a Roman, is somehow not complete unless his phone is held to one ear while he manually expresses himself to his unseeing correspondent with gestures. Sometimes this takes place while driving an automobile or motor scooter, frequently with very exciting results.

  All of this being true, there was still something about the way the fellow detached himself from the wall, his eyes following Lang, something Lang would have described as not quite passing the smell test. He stopped, ostensibly pantomiming some point while Lang slipped Mr. Couch's credit card into a teller machine. The man had positioned himself where he would not be obvious in watching.

  Lang could almost feel his antennae rise and quiver. It had been years since the course in surveillance detection, but its lessons were unforgotten.

  Lang dawdled at a news kiosk and his companion actually walked half a block ahead, constantly turning as he continued his animated conversation. The man was following, but not so obviously as to remove all doubt. Lang took a quick survey of his surroundings. There was no handy alley to draw in his tail where Lang might turn on him. Besides, the area was heavily patrolled by the Polizia, a measure to discourage the pickpockets preying on arrivals at the train station. Assaulting someone who had actually done nothing would certainly draw their attention.

  Lang took his time at the newsstand. Was he being followed by more than one? Didn't look like it. He could lose the man, simply duck into a store and head for a rear entrance. But if he failed, his shadow would know he had been spotted. Better to keep the follower obvious.

  At the station, Lang was certain the man could see the rail ticket he bought was to Naples. The stalker did not board the train.

  Lang was confident he was going to meet someone else in three hours or so. He only hoped he could spot him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Herculaneum

  Four hours later

  Like any tourist who had ever been subjected to the legal thievery of Italian cabdrivers, Lang had haggled over the fare before getting into the shiny Mercedes. Now the meter showed an extra seventeen euros. The driver, who had spoken good if broken English at the Naples depot, was suddenly unable to remember a word of the language and was reduced to violent head-shaking and Italian invective as Lang tendered the amount agreed upon. The stopped cab was blocking half the narrow street, and the cars behind were expressing displeasure at the delay.

  None of this was a first-time experience for Lang. He us
ed the time to survey the surroundings. On the way from the train, Naples's traffic had been far too dense to discern if he had been followed. As a suburb of the city, his destination consisted largely of mid-rise apartments, small shops, and crowded sidewalks. The few strollers who had gathered to watch the altercation would provide perfect cover for anyone who was now following.

  Conceding defeat, Lang parted with the euro notes. This time there was no question as to the appropriateness of a tip. Unless he could have handed over a live hand grenade.

  The spectators dispersed, but at least one lingered long enough to watch Lang enter through stone portals that led to a path.

  The trail ran along a ridge. On the left side was dense vegetation, on the other a yawning hole that grew in size as he descended. Suddenly, he was looking down at a small town, one in which, other than roofs, the buildings, streets, and public spaces were perfectly preserved. He could make out one, two villas whose timeless Mediterranean features are seen today wherever warm sun meets cerulean sea.

  Herculaneum had been a seaside resort, the site of vacation homes for wealthy Romans. Unlike Pompeii, Herculaneum had not been smothered in a cloud of fiery volcanic ash. Instead, a single blast of superheated, possibly toxic gas had extinguished every form of life within seconds but, other than charring exposed wooden fittings, had done little damage to the actual buildings, leaving them to be preserved by successive coats of mud that slid with millennia of rain from the surrounding hills. Many of the frescoed walls and elaborate mosaic tiled floors had survived, the colors of their designs as vibrant as the year in which they were last used. For years, archaeologists had marveled at the lack of loss of life, assuming the inhabitants had fled in private ships.

  Only in mid-twentieth century had the former waterfront been excavated, now several hundred yards inland.

  The boathouses, evidently used as a refuge pending embarkation, had held enough skeletons to satisfy the most gruesome imagination.