The Library of the Kings: A Tom Wagner Adventure

by Roberts, M. C.

  “Another thing,” Tom said. “Just to make sure I’ve understood everything correctly. How exactly can this Sister Simonetta help us?”

  “Sister Simonetta worked for the archivists of the Vatican for decades,” Sister Lucrezia said. “She had, I think, just turned eighteen when she began her service there. Among us women of the cloth, she is known for one thing: she always knew every little thing that went on in the Holy City.”

  “To put it another way, she’s an incurable gossip,” Renata said, saying aloud what the others were thinking.

  “She used to tell us all about all kinds of things—about the treasures down in the secret archives, stuff like that. It was always a mystery to us how she knew so much. She must have been very close to the archivists,” said Alfonsina, her face a study in innocence.

  Tom grinned crookedly and raised his eyebrows. “How close, exactly?” he asked, earning himself an irate glare from Sister Lucrezia, while Hellen elbowed him in the ribs. A nun approached their group, interrupting the conversation. After exchanging a few pleasantries, the newcomer led the way to the abbess. The door to Sister Agnes’s small office opened and the abbess’s welcoming smile froze to ice when she saw Lucrezia.

  “We are here in the service of the Holy Father,” said Sister Lucrezia. She stepped forward to the abbess and handed her the Pope’s letter.

  Sister Agnes crossed herself when she saw the seal of the Holy See. She began to read, but kept looking up at Lucrezia with disapproval.

  “This is highly unorthodox,” she said dourly. “Our abbey is not open to the public. One cannot simply walk in and start interrogating our nuns, especially not someone as special as Sister Simonetta. She is about to celebrate her 99th birthday and it is our duty to protect her from any kind of excitement. Her heart is very weak. Besides, someone from the Vatican is already here to visit her.”

  Tom’s eyes narrowed. Hellen and the nuns shared a look of surprise.

  “Who?” Tom asked.

  “We received a call came this morning from the Vatican to say that we were to expect a certain Tom Wagner, coming on behalf of the Pope. When he arrived, we took him to see Sister Simonetta right away.”

  “I’m Tom Wagner,” said Tom. The nuns nodded diligently behind him.

  The abbess looked at Tom in confusion. “Then who is in St. John’s Chapel with Sister Simonetta?”

  42

  W.A. Mozart Airport, Salzburg, Germany

  “Très bien.”

  Cloutard swirled the fine glass he held and gazed at the amber liquid inside.

  “It’s not Louis XIII, but it’s not bad. These church leaders know how to live.” He recalled his old life, when he was still travelling the world aboard his luxury private jet. The leather armchair he sat in was as big as a couch, and the mini-bar—hardly mini at all—was stocked with top-shelf liquor. He took another sip and turned to Noah.

  “You are such a snob!” Noah said and smiled at him.

  “I really can’t pour you a glass?”

  “No thank you. I need to keep my head clear.”

  “Come on, Noah. Loosen up a little. You just survived a kidnapping and have now discovered that ancient, absurd myths, things that no one in their right mind would believe, are actually true. Tom and Hellen will be gone for a few hours, and while I am sure they have no time for sightseeing in Salzburg, they will certainly find enough to relax just a little.”

  Cloutard refilled his own glass and then poured some more cognac into a second, which he handed to Noah. “Here. No arguments.” Noah tentatively took the glass. “To us! And to the success of our holy mission.” Cloutard raised his glass, prompting Noah to do the same.

  “So what is it actually like to lose all your power overnight?” Noah asked, a touch too directly.

  Puzzled by the tone of the question, Cloutard replied, “I admit it hasn’t been easy, but I get by. I still have my father’s estate in Tuscany, and my foster mother still lives there. And it is true, I don’t have my millions anymore and even less power, but I am much more relaxed than I used to be. I sleep much better,” he lied. He flashed a smile and took another sip of cognac. “How have things been for you since the last time we met?”

  “When Tom left the Cobras I went back to Mossad, but I didn’t exactly get the warm welcome I’d hoped for. In my situation”—he indicated the wheelchair, and for a brief moment his bitterness shone through—“things were not as easy in Israel as they had been in Vienna. A few months later, I got an offer I couldn’t refuse. I was contacted by—” Noah stopped speaking when Cloutard’s cell phone rang.

  Cloutard’s face clouded over as he looked at the display. “Excuse me for a moment,” he said. He stood up and stepped out of the plane, waiting till he was outside to accept the call. Noah looked out the window of the luxury jet and saw him pacing back and forth out on the tarmac. Something was wrong.

  “What do you want now? I thought I had 48 hours,” Cloutard hissed into his phone.

  “You do. I just wanted to remind you how serious I am about this, so I’ve come up with another incentive for you. It should not be only my daughter’s life at stake. I will call you again.” The line went dead. Cloutard stared at his phone in confusion.

  Noah, watching through a window of the plane, wondered: What’s going on with Cloutard?

  43

  Nonnberg Abbey, Salzburg

  Tom raced outside. The moment he charged into St. John’s Chapel, he saw him: Hagen had his hands wrapped around the old nun’s throat, but he released her when he saw Tom. A second later, he had pulled his gun and was firing at Tom, who threw himself behind a pew for cover. Hagen took advantage of the moment and ran, sprinting out of the chapel to the west exit of the courtyard.

  Tom did not hesitate for a second, but took off in pursuit. Hagen took a left and ran down a narrow alley. Tom could already see where he was going, and saw instantly that if he didn’t come up with something fast, Hagen would slip through his fingers: he was racing for a motorcycle parked in the alley near the monastery wall.

  Hagen swung himself onto the seat of the black MV Agusta Brutale 800 and Tom pulled out all the stops, hoping to reach him before he got the motorcycle started. But Hagen pressed the start button, and the engine sprang to life. He kicked it into gear and accelerated away, Tom no more than a step behind, but not close enough to grab him. The rear tire smoked as Hagen opened the throttle and roared down Nonnberggasse, on the south side of the monastery—but Tom wasn’t about to give up. He kept after him. A car was driving up the hill just then, and the roadway was so narrow that even Hagen had to brake and squeeze the motorcycle past the car. Tom was catching up. His lungs and thighs were burning and he realized that he was a little out of shape. Damn, all that grunt work with Cobra had a point after all, he thought, as he gained ground on Hagen. Then Hagen was past the car and speeding away again.

  Suddenly, farther down, another vehicle appeared, and Tom smiled: now he had a real chance. Hagen was just riding past another motorcycle coming up the hill. He’d practiced the move a hundred times with Cobra: how to get a man off a motorcycle without harming either yourself or the rider. Tom stepped into the path of the rider, who braked hard. Tom jumped to the side, grabbed the handlebars and used his momentum to shove the surprised rider off the saddle. The man fell to the ground, swearing but unhurt. Tom swung himself onto the bike and opened the throttle. With the rear wheel spinning and the front brake clenched, he spun the machine 180 degrees. When he let go of the brake, the tire found its grip, and the bike took off with the front wheel rising. Tom was back in the game. He took up the chase, remembering all too clearly that he’d been on this guy’s heels once before, in Amsterdam. This time around, he had to do better.

  44

  Office of the Prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, Vatican

  For many years, he had known that the arms of the CIA reached very far indeed. With each mission he’d been assigned over the decades, it had become inc
reasingly clear to him. But he was still amazed to discover that their influence reached deep inside the Vatican, and that several CIA agents were embedded there. Cardinal Edmondo Baresi, the militant Jesuit and Cardinal Prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith was one of them. When the American discovered this, he had to laugh: as an organization, the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith had succeeded the Holy Inquisition. It was the same Catholic organization that had ordered witches, heretics and traitors to the faith to be burned at the stake—and today it was headed by a CIA agent.

  Divine providence, the American thought to himself as he waited in the cardinal’s anteroom.

  “The cardinal will see you now,” said the nun in a timid whisper. Baresi was already waiting at the threshold and hastily closed the door behind him.

  “What on earth has happened to make you contact me directly?” Cardinal Baresi sounded almost frantic. “I’ve been with the Agency for almost forty years, and no one’s ever contacted me so—”

  “It’s about the stone,” the American said, cutting the cardinal off harshly.

  Baresi looked at him in amazement. “The stone?”

  “Yes, the stone. It is in danger. A terrorist organization largely unknown to us is after it, and they seem to be making headway.”

  “What kind of terrorist organization? I thought you had ISIS and company under control.”

  “It’s not the Islamists. They call themselves Absolute Freedom. We don’t know much, but we do know that whoever’s behind them is from the West. Remember last year? The stolen Crown of Thorns? The Holy Lance? The burning of Notre Dame? That was them. But let’s not waste time. The president himself has ordered me to get the stone to safety.”

  “It’s in the secret archives. There isn’t a safer place in the world. It is out of the question that we would let the stone be taken from here. His Holiness would never allow it.”

  “His Holiness doesn’t need to know anything about it. This is how it’s going to work: you get me into the archive as quickly as possible. I take the stone for safekeeping and get it back to the States. We have places to keep such things, as you know. It wouldn’t be the first time.” The American looked the cardinal in the eye, leaving no doubt about how serious he was. The gaunt cardinal paled, looking even sicklier and more emaciated than usual.

  “That is absolutely impossible. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.” His voice trembled with indignation.

  The American brought the flat of his hand down hard on the table, and the cardinal, startled, sprang to his feet.

  “Then I suggest you figure out where to begin, fast!” the American snarled. “I don’t think I need to point out to Your Eminence what the agency has on you. The two affairs and the children you have from them are the least of your problems.”

  Baresi snorted, his nostrils twitching. No one had dared to talk to him like that, not for decades. But he knew he was beaten.

  “All right,” he said. “We’ll pay a visit to the archivist. He owes me a favor, but I can’t promise it will be enough.”

  The American smiled. “If it isn’t, we have a file on him, too. I’m always happy to help.”

  The two men were about to leave the cardinal’s office and go to the Vatican Apostolic Archive when the door swung open. Two Swiss guardsmen rushed in.

  “Your Eminence, we are here for your protection. Terrorists just broke into the archive. We don’t yet know how many there were, how they managed to get in, or what they were after. For your own safety, we must insist that you do not leave your office until we have the situation under control.”

  The American glared at the cardinal. “So there isn’t a safer place in the world than the secret archive?”

  45

  Old Salzburg

  Tom pursued Hagen at a hellish pace down the narrow Festungsgasse, the ancient cobblestones rattling the motorcycles. On Tom’s left were the houses on the northern slope of the Hohensalzburg Fortress, on the right the wall from which one could look down into the winding streets of the old city. Right now, thankfully, only a few people were walking, and they jumped clear as the two men roared down the narrow, twisting street. Hagen steered toward the historic city center.

  Tom knew Salzburg well, and knew that every season hordes of tourists thronged the city. He imagined the worst and tried to go faster, but the machine was already at its limit, the throttle wide open. Hagen crossed the spacious Kapitelplatz diagonally, flying past the famous golden ball at the center of the courtyard, and headed for the narrow street known as Kapitelgasse. Tom was able to cut the corner, and gained some ground. Hagen turned back for a moment, pulling a pistol from his jacket pocket, and fired two shots back at Tom as they raced toward the busy Mozartplatz. Tom swung his motorcycle to the right, onto the sidewalk. He swerved around a sidewalk café with parasols, managing to dodge the waiter just then serving sweet Salzburger Nockerl souffleés to a curious group of Japanese tourists.

  “Guten Appetit!” Tom called in passing, waving an apology for the disturbance.

  Hagen was facing front again. The crowds filling the Residenzplatz demanded his full attention. People scattered in all directions as he roared through. So far, no one had come to harm: the center of Salzburg was a pedestrian zone, and the howl of their engines could be heard from several streets away—which also meant that the Salzburg police were soon alerted. Tom raced past a patrolman in the direction of Salzburg’s city hall. They had entered the luxury quarter now, where high-end jewelers vied with designer stores and expensive restaurants to draw the attention of moneyed tourists.

  “I need backup!” Tom shouted at the cop as he sped past the legendary Café Tomaselli, his slipstream knocking over the umbrellas in front of the door. “I’m a Cobra officer!”

  That was no longer true, of course, but it would definitely get the cop’s attention. In the meantime, Hagen had turned off into the narrow Getreidegasse, and had to slow again. The pedestrian zone was packed with tourists heading for the house where Mozart had been born. Hagen took out his pistol again and fired twice in the air. Tom was keeping count—he had to know how many shots Hagen still had.

  The crowds scattered in fear as Hagen sped through the tight passageway heading for Wiener-Philharmoniker-Gasse. In the narrow alley, they had to cut their speed considerably. Tom had caught up and they now rode side by side, inches apart. Without warning, Hagen nudged his motorcycle a fraction to the left and sent Tom scraping along the wall, forcing him to brake to avoid hitting anything attached to the wall—that could prove fatal. But try as he might, Tom was unable to hold his course. The motorcycle slewed and slipped from under him. He skidded along the ground with it, and was lucky to stop before he crashed into the crowd at the end of the alley.

  He jumped to his feet, hauled the bike upright and looked ahead at the disappearing Hagen. He smiled. Hagen had clearly never spent much time in Salzburg, because he had no idea where he was going. In that direction he would never be able to pick up speed: the streets were too narrow, there were too many people and there was no room to accelerate properly. This was Tom’s chance. He turned right in front of the Collegiate Church and shot across University Square. He would catch up with Hagen again at the next intersection. Hagen was headed for the Great Festival Hall, and from there he could only go one way: toward Sigmundstor, the tunnel that cut through the Mönchsberg, one of Salzburg’s five mountains. Tom’s route was shorter. He would be able to intercept Hagen when he turned toward Herbert-von-Karajan-Platz.

  46

  St. John’s Chapel, Nonnberg Abbey

  Hellen held the dying woman in her arms and called desperately for help. Seconds later, the first nuns appeared in the chapel. They threw their hands up in mortification, but two tended immediately to Sister Simonetta while the others went for help.

  “My . . . my . . .” whispered the old woman. Her voice was no more than a breath. Hellen leaned close to hear her final words.

  “. . . diary . . . May twenty
-fourth, 1942.”

  The abbess entered the chapel, and two nuns with medical training knelt by Sister Simonetta to administer first aid. After a few moments, though, one of them shook her head and crossed herself. They were too late. A deathly silence suddenly filled the chapel, and the nuns gazed at their deceased sister. Almost in unison, each of them took her rosary, crossed herself and began to pray. “Hail Mary, full of grace . . .”

  Hellen knew there was nothing more she could do. If Sister Simonetta’s diary contained important information, she at least had to make sure it was safe. What if Hagen had not come alone? She had to find the diary. It was her only chance to learn where the stone had been taken. Sister Simonetta must have revealed something important to Hagen, or he would have had no reason to kill her. Hellen hoped she would find the same clue in Sister Simonetta’s diary. She jumped up, laid her hand on the praying abbess’s shoulder and softly asked where she could find Sister Simonetta’s room. Seconds later, Hellen was running to the nuns’ quarters. Sister Simonetta’s chamber was on the ground floor near the entrance, so she did not have far to go. Hellen found the room and opened the door.

  47

  Old Salzburg

  Hagen shot past the Felsenreitschule theater. He had lost sight of Tom, and briefly slowed down to get his bearings. There was only one way out. He gunned the motor again and headed for the intersection, but at the last moment he saw Tom racing at him from the right. He braked hard, swinging the bike around, and opened the throttle, plunging back into the line of traffic passing through Sigmundstor tunnel. It was a two-way tunnel, but its ends were barely wide enough for two cars to pass each other, so oncoming traffic was constantly forced to stop. Hagen had to risk it: he slalomed between the cars on his side of the road and the oncoming traffic. Tom did not hesitate at all, but stayed hard on Hagen’s tail. They scraped car doors and clipped side mirrors, but were out of the tunnel again seconds later.