The Vatican Rip l-5

by Jonathan Gash

I swallowed carefully. There wasn't another vehicle in the place. 'That?'

  'Sure!' Carlo thrust out his lower lip. 'Me and Patrizio done a deal. She'll do a hundred, boss.' Carlo screwed the words out the corner of his mouth in a crude American accent.

  Stricken, I walked around the van. Patrizio came, exclaiming and extolling with enthusiam. It had obviously done service in the Western Desert, World War II graffiti and all. Now, the old banger was having a hard time standing upright. 'Fine, eh?'

  'No, Patrizio. Carlo must have misunderstood.'

  Patrizio's thought winged instantly to money. 'Cheap, Lovejoy.'

  I sighed. He knew my name. Carlo had probably given him my address as well.

  'Carlo,' I said. 'Keep watch outside.'

  'Sure, boss.' The duckegg hunched his jacket collar up and sidled out, tripping over an immense air hose as he did so. He slammed the door so a plank fell out, and stood outside pretending to chew gum.

  'Now,' I said carefully, giving Patrizio one of my special looks. 'I need a professional driver, and a pro van.'

  Patrizio was no fool. He glanced at the garage door and shrugged. 'Apologies, signor. I thought—'

  '— I'd be a fool, too?' I smiled, quite liking him. 'Be frank and there's no harm done.'

  'Tomorrow, no?'

  'Tomorrow, yes.'

  He nodded, gauging me. 'You need my boy Valerio.'

  'What's he like?'

  Another mile-high shrug. 'I'm his father, signor.'

  'You'll need uniforms, Patrizio. Possible?'

  'Certain. But if it's tomorrow the van'll have to be… obtained, not fabricated.'

  'Do it. One thing.' I shrugged, at least an inch. The best I've ever been able to manage.

  'It'll have to be a flat fee.'

  Patrizio looked at me as if into the teeth of a gale. 'Never heard of a straight-price rip, Lovejoy.'

  'You have now.'

  'And Carlo? Anna will be furious if he's left out.'

  'I'll deal with Anna.'

  He grinned and slapped my hand. 'Good luck, Lovejoy. You get your van. Where and when?'

  I'd met a pro at last. Smiling with relief, I told him.

  Back home Anna was incredulous. 'Carlo dropped? He can't be!'

  'You want him so badly?'

  She nodded. She was wearing a young print dress and was all ready for me when I returned a few minutes after four. I'd sent Carlo to count the traffic at the traffic lights on the Leone IV, telling him it was our getaway route, the burke.

  'Please, Lovejoy. I know what he is, a child still. But he is all I have.' She was ashamed.

  I recognized the symptoms from my own career, and relented. 'I've got him a part, love.'

  Her face lit, like sunrise. 'You have?' She flung her arms round me wildly. 'Oh, thank you, Lovejoy! Thank you!'

  'A vital one,' I said into her hair. 'I'll see he's useful.'

  I was thinking, by the time she realized exactly how vital, I'd be a thousand miles away from Rome and in the clear. Like I say, sometimes I'm just too thick for words, but you can't be right all the time.

  * * *

  On the way to the Emporium for my late stint I popped into the church on the Borgo San Spirito. It's one of the churches still burning honest-to-God candles instead of those gruesome candle-shaped electric sticks they have in Rome nowadays which for a hundred lire give you a few minutes of electron-powered devotional flicker.

  Feeling vaguely embarrassed by the novelty I lit five candles, stuck them in the holders and knelt down. I won't tell you everything I said, but I promised God I'd take Arcellano alive. Then, mumbo-jumbo done with, I emerged blinking at the sun—and saw Anna across the road and waved. To my relief, she was smiling and nodding, so I knew the clever girl had got it, that dark old-fashioned brownish bottle from the chemist's shop by the Via del Mascherino. All systems go.

  That evening Adriana and I stayed at the Emporium. It was the oddest sensation, climbing the forbidden stairs and seeing Adriana move about the bedroom as if we'd been together there all our lives. Adriana tried to act casual but I saw her hand tremble as she hung up her stole and I realized that bringing me here was a big thing for her.

  Another worry.

  She insisted on making us both coffee and bringing it over to me. She'd taken my jacket and sat me on the couch, promising to show me around once I'd become accustomed to the idea of being alone with a rapacious woman. I smiled to show I too was solemnly concentrating on lightness of heart.

  'New locks,' I observed.

  'The stair door? Yes. There are so many thefts nowadays, darling.' She swept her hair from her face. 'I thought it was wiser.'

  Which meant that Piero's key was now obsolete.

  'Adriana. Will you get in trouble?'

  She concentrated on not spilling the cream. 'With Emilio? Hardly. You saw, Lovejoy.

  Him and that creature Fabio. It's beyond a woman's control.'

  'Piero, then? He's the sort to play hell.'

  She only had one lamp lit, that lovely minareted Garian case which dappled gold about the room. Her face was silhouetted in a deep bronze fire. She was sitting beside my chair, looking away. I'd never seen anything so wondrous in all my life as that miracle of line and form. Sorrow enveloped me. What a mess it all was, the whole fucking rip.

  She said rather sadly, 'He can be got rid of.' The words were so matter-of-fact I hardly took them in at the time, especially as she continued talking with her head on my knee and her breast against me. 'Are you married, Lovejoy?'

  That took me by surprise. 'Rescued.'

  Her eyes deflected, all casual. 'A dragon?'

  I thought a bit. 'A pretty laser.'

  'So sometimes you too plan badly.' She continued, 'How could I have known about you, Lovejoy? You weren't here.' I suppressed exasperation at the bitterness in her voice. I hadn't known about her, either. Nor that Marcello would be murdered. 'A woman needs a man.' She turned quickly to loan me a half-smile, an on-account sort of expression.

  'Not as badly as a man needs a woman. You've taught me that, Lovejoy. With you it's one hundred per cent yourself. The rest is incidental.' She indicated the apartment vaguely. 'This. The money, the firm. With Piero it was a percentage. And the others were the same.'

  I returned her defiant look trying to smile. It was a hell of an effort. She was so lovely.

  'People make allowances for men.' Bravely she explained, 'A woman taking a lover is a hedonistic bitch. A rich gentleman is merely a roué, a gay old dog. And it's women do the damage—at least, in Rome it is. They're on to you like wolves.'

  'What now?' I asked after a pause.

  'Now?' She raised her lovely head and smiled. 'You've come at last, Lovejoy.' She smiled gently and reached back to ruffle my neck. 'I don't care what you've done in the past, darling. I take you as you are. And you'll please forgive the measures I've taken while enduring the long, terrible waiting.'

  Until then I'd been absolutely determined to go back to Anna's divan. Honestly, I really had. The trouble is, women can be very assertive. I'd be well-balanced and even-tempered all of the time if it weren't for them. So I stayed. I swear it wasn't anything in the way of a deal between Adriana and me. Honestly it wasn't. Adriana in her mind had simply given Piero the push, that was all there was to it. I knew divorce from Emilio was out of the question for Adriana. I sighed inwardly. I'd have to give Anna the excuse that I was working on the rip. Anyway, this couldn't last.

  What a mess it all seemed. I'd have stopped to work it all out, but now there was no time left anywhere. The rip was upon us. Here. Now.

  CHAPTER 22

  Teaching Carlo the rip was like talking to a frigging wall.

  'Repeat it,' I said wearily for the umpteenth time.

  'Lissern, you guys,' Carlo ground out, flicking ash into his own coffee by mistake. 'This is the plan, see?' He did a Cagney hunch-up and chewed gum. 'We cruise into the saloon—'

  'We walk casually into the cafeteria,' I corrected.r />
  '— Get a shot of bourbon—'

  'Wine and cream cake.'

  '—And wait for the Big Wheel's signal—'

  'And read a newspaper until I say.'

  'All rightee!' he said grimly, grinding out his cheroot—cheroot, for God's sake. I ask you.

  'Get your holster on, boss, and let's go!'

  'Not till two o'clock this afternoon. And leave your knife here.' So help me, he'd got a knife long as a sword especially for the occasion.

  'Right, boss. High noon.'

  He burned his thumb trying a one-handed strike for another cheroot. The goon was actually wearing a white tie with a black shirt and a black suit with shoulders a mile wide. In the cold light of early morning he was utterly unreal. I could have throttled him.

  'You've warned Valerio and Patrizio, Anna?'

  Anna patiently passed him some butter for his burn and lit his cheroot at the gas-ring.

  'Yes, Lovejoy.'

  'You got me the phone number?'

  'Here.' She'd printed it carefully on the face of a postage stamp, a good touch. I smiled approval at her. 'They'll be waiting from one o'clock. If the rip aborts they'll go on stand-by until seven.'

  'You've done well, Anna.' I shoved Carlo's elbows off the table and checked once again.

  'Bottle.' The brown bottle Anna had stolen from the chemist's stood among the Colosseum photographs I had neatly arranged in rows. 'Photographs. Measurements written out. Suit. Shirt and tie. Case. New shoes. Towel. Gloves. Hygienic sealing tape.'

  We went over the entire contents, krypton lamp, coat hook, tubes of adhesive, the lot.

  My own toolbag felt heavy as lead. 'Thanks, love.'

  The measurements were for the winch. We'd tried the dark sober suit an hour before and it fitted me pretty well. I hadn't worn a suit since my missus left home. It felt decidedly odd. Anna had lifted it from that elegant gentlemen's outfitters on the Viale Giulio Cesare. The new shoes pinched a bit, but on the whole she had stolen with uncanny accuracy. I thought uneasily, maybe she watches me as closely as I watch her.

  I waited while she packed everything neatly into the black rectangular briefcase.

  'Now—breakfast.'

  Anna brought out a cloth and began to lay the table. A dozen mental re-runs later I scented the fragrant aroma of frying bacon. I looked across questioningly but she did not meet my eye as she cracked some eggs on the side of the pan. Breakfast was usually a roll in a paper bag, and mostly Carlo got to it first. I was looking at the floor when she served it up with a mound of bread and butter.

  'What's all this?' Carlo demanded, for once shaken out of his acting career.

  'You'll both need a big breakfast inside you!' Anna rasped. 'The rip starts today—or hadn't you heard? Cretino!'

  She slammed an immense meal in front of each of us, and even made tea specially.

  Hearing somebody else called that instead of me made it a breakfast to remember.

  Carlo went out in a sulk, so I had his as well.

  * * *

  Piero spotted my little case the instant I stepped in the Emporium that morning and grinned all over his face. I tried to look defeated.

  'Going anywhere, Lovejoy?'

  'I have to visit somebody. I only came in to clear up loose ends, Piero. I don't want any trouble.'

  'Okay.' Nonchalantly he threw me the keys to the workshop. 'Finish what you can, then piss off for good.'

  I've never really been able to whine, not really convincingly, but I did my best. 'Look, Piero. About that passport…'

  'You'll have it tonight.'

  Thank Christ. I pulled a face. 'Er, the signora hasn't paid me…'

  He sneered, his lip curling. No, honestly. It really did curl. I'd never seen a lip curl with scorn before in my whole life. I stared admiringly and only remembered in the nick of time that I was supposed to be a hopeless scrounger. 'You'll get your fare,' Piero promised scathingly. 'And enough to get drunk on the way home. Now work.'

  'Please don't say anything to the signora—'

  He grinned again. 'I can handle her.' I could have hit him.

  By the time Fabio swept in I was working like a mad thing, quietly and efficiently testing the strength of my plywood mock-up. The base of a rent table's essentially a modified cylinder, with tangential walls showing lovely wood patterns. Now, a table top's always easiest to falsify, so don't trust it when you're buying antiques. Also, remember that a table is a flat surface or it's nothing, which means its top is always the first to suffer should drinks be spilled or serving maids have catastrophes with smoothing irons.

  Luckily, I was in the enviable position of forging a table whose major surface would be covered by a Presidential cage of synthetic sprawling birds.

  But the pedestal base would be in clear view the entire length of that gallery. It had to look genuine, solid and old.

  Tip: polyurethane varnishes are superb and polyurethane hardglazes look superb, but only true beeswaxes feel absolutely correct. Antique dealers dress a falsely veneered surface by varnish, then by beeswax which is given a microscopic craquelure by rapid drying.

  This is done effectively only in two ways: in front of a fan or by a chemical desiccant such as sodium hydroxide in a sealed container. I'd applied both, placing the workshop's fan heater on 'cold' during the day and stuffing the folding veneered plywood into a plastic bag with the crystals overnight. There's always plenty of these crystals in an antique shop—even honest dealers (should there be any left) use it for putting that golden gleam on oak. Like I say, it's getting so you can't trust anybody these days.

  With my heart in my mouth on that day I checked Piero was fully occupied, and extracted the veneered plywood. It was beautiful, its gleaming surface now dulled by drying. Microscopic examination would reveal minute cracks in the waxed surface, such as are normally associated with ageing. The corners and intersections were more obviously peeling than the rest, but I helped this artefact along with a little crushed carbon from a piece of drawing charcoal (use Winsor and Newton if you can get it) blown on to a piece of chamois leather and rubbed gently along the edges.

  I still had the thin top sections and hinged edges to slot under the cafeteria table, but when Adriana sent to tell me I was to stop for coffee the collapsible pedestal was folded out of the way under the work bench. I was well into machining the metal support rods which would give it strength. Two hours to go.

  I was on time. My heart was banging.

  Dead at one o'clock Patrizio came for the cafeteria table in his wheezy World War II van. He arrived with the characteristic boredom of the vannie, smoking laconically and humping the steel and formica job on his shoulder without a word. Piero came to see I wasn't flogging a Regency piece.

  'Get a receipt, Lovejoy,' he orderd.

  'You,' I shot back, getting on with my job.

  Patrizio gave Piero a don't-interrupt-me look and drove off leaving Piero looking foolish, to my delight. That was my last smile for a long, long time.

  We closed at quarter to two, me strolling unbelievably casual into St Peter's Square exactly at two.

  Valerio was a chip off Patrizio's block all right. He was a square thickset young bloke. I'd told his dad no drinks, no smokes. Valerio was obediently sitting picking his teeth and reading the Osservatore Romano on the end of the lines of chairs set out between the fountains.

  'You want a seat?' He made to rise. Daft, really. There were four hundred empty places.

  'No,' I said, mouth dry and voice no more than a croak. 'I have an urgent appointment.'

  He eyed me curiously. I eyed him. It was the first time we'd met. Anna had suggested this ludicrous interchange because security forces everywhere had these directional microphones. He nodded imperceptibly. My words meant the rip was on.

  'Then go well,' Valerio said.

  'Ta.' I walked past him on legs suddenly made of uncontrollable rubber and headed for the loo to the left of St Peter's facade. The Vatican post office was doing a r
oaring trade. Old Anna was being bothersome among a crowd of amused Americans near the great basilica steps. From the corner of my eye I glimpsed her sudden querulous departure. Judging by the burst of laughter she had made some crack. Her job now was to find Carlo and hurtle him in to the loos after me.

  The two usual women attendants were sitting at a little white table by the door. They ignored me. As long as I remembered to throw a hundred-lire coin into their plate as I left I'd remain an invisible passing tourist. Once in a cubicle I frantically started stripping off my clothes, hands shaking. I was sweating like a pig. My shirt and jacket were drenched, the sleeves clinging to me from damp. I cursed and wrestled in the confined space, a couple of times blundering against the door so noisily I forced myself to slow down. Hurry slowly. Good advice for anyone, as long as they're not frightened out of their skulls.

  I dressed in my new sober gear. Make sure the handkerchief's showing from your top pocket, Lovejoy, Anna had said. It's a man's equivalent of white gloves in a woman, she'd said, trying to smile brightly, and I'd promised. Shoes cleaned, and in a plastic bag so as not to soil the clothes. Money—what there was—shifted into the new navy suit. Shirt. Sober tie, monogrammed imaginatively but with careful ambiguity. Cuff-links. Surprisingly, as I flopped on the lavatory pan to lace my shoes, a note on a stolen card. It read, 'Good luck, darling cretino,' and was signed with three cross-kisses. The card was for a silver wedding. I had to smile, even the shaky state I was in. Obviously she'd had difficulty finding a card with an appropriate good-luck-nicking-the-Pontiff's-antique motto.

  I stood with the customary stiffness of a man in a strange new suit, and checked over the discards. Items into the briefcase, one by one. A moment's stillness. A quick listen.

  Deep breaths for control. Hundred-lire coin in my right jacket pocket for the women attendants, a tug on the handle to flush the loo—I'd tried to squeeze out a drop but every sphincter I possessed was on the gripe—and out, walking with purpose.

  One old man leaving, tapping his stick. Two German youths combing hair and talking loudly, about to depart. And Carlo, nodding and winking and chewing gum and rolling a cowboy's cigarette one-handed, doing it all wrong. Sweating worse than ever, I ignored him and went to wash my hands.