by Sam Clarke
I cursed his poor judgement and watched her face silently fall. Oblivious to our unhappiness, he cautioned us to stay within the perimeter of the church and sauntered off. ‘Shall we check the chapels along the right nave?’ I asked, my voice polite, but devoid of emotions.
‘Yes,’ she said, equally unenthusiastically. ‘The moment we find that bloody ring, I’ll demand to be taken shopping. This outfit is in breach of my human rights.’
I had a feeling Amnesty International would reject her case. We crossed the main nave. The right side of the cathedral was guarded by a row of columns and flanked by four chapels: Battistero, Santa Lucia, Sacramento and Santissimo Crocifisso. Wrought iron gates and smooth wooden fences separated them from the incessant flow of tourists. We tried our best to explore the explorable, but the endless number of visitors made it virtually impossible.
Two hours later we got an outside table at a posh café right across from the cathedral. A large, white parasol sheltered us from the Sicilian sun. A young, dark-haired waiter came to take our order. Judging by the amount of pomade he had used on his hair, enough to style a whole gorilla, he wasn’t the parsimonious type. He fiddled with his retractable pen. ‘What can I get you, signori?’
I casually ordered my first-ever espresso. Mum never let me drink coffee – apparently, it was the first step towards substance abuse – but my father didn’t object. He joined me on the road to perdition and asked for a cappuccino.
‘I knew the ring’s hiding place wouldn’t be obvious,’ he said, while we waited for our drinks, ‘but I was hoping for an epiphany or two.’
‘What if Godefroi never made it here?’ asked Viggo, checking out a tourist in a very short skirt. ‘We cannot fully discount that possibility.’
‘We’d be back at square one,’ replied my father, glumly.
The oily waiter returned with our order. Viggo attacked his overflowing chalice of ice-cream; Ariel downed his espresso in one go. I couldn’t fight like my tutor, but maybe I could drink like him. I took a deep breath and gulped the contents of my cup. The bitter flavour hit my taste buds almost immediately – I couldn’t tell if I liked it or not. Maybe it was one of those acquired tastes that adults often talk about. Oblivious to my coffee degustation exercise, my father was racking his brains about the ring. ‘Every single item related to Athena’s original temple was a dead-end. We must have missed something.’
‘Maybe we’re getting distracted by this whole Athena thing,’ I blurted, fresh on the wave of my caffeine shot. ‘The Athena clues were supposed to lead us to the cathedral, but maybe Godefroi hid the ring somewhere which has nothing to do with her.’
‘Keep going,’ said my father, inadvertently dunking his beard in his cappuccino.
‘Templars were big on symbols, weren’t they?’
‘They were,’ he conceded, drying his beard with a napkin.
‘Is there anything in the church that is obviously Templar?’
He thought for a moment and stuck his bottom lip out. ‘Nothing obvious.’
‘I didn’t pick up on anything either,’ said Viggo, between noisy slurps. His table manners didn’t elicit a single vitriolic comment from Isabelle.
‘No vermillion crosses, no two men on a horse, no Holy Grail?’ she asked apathetically, looking in the direction of the waiter. He blew her a kiss and she smiled demurely.
‘Nope,’ replied my father. ‘The only chalice I have seen today is on this very table and Viggo is eating ice-cream out of it.’
We all laughed, Isabelle too, or maybe she was giggling at her greasy suitor. He wasn’t her type, but her oversized ego was basking in the attention. I studied Viggo’s chalice with a feeling of déjà-vu. All in all, it was quite plain: short base, wide cup and two semi-circular handles measuring a third of the cup’s height. ‘Dad, does the Holy Grail look like Viggo’s chalice?’
‘It’s never been found. Nobody knows for sure.’
‘But it could?’
‘I guess. Where are you going with this?’
‘There is a huge chalice in the cathedral. A Templar could view it as a Holy Grail symbol and deem it as the perfect hiding place.’
My father stared at me as if I had just come out of a lamp. ‘Where?’ he asked urgently. ‘Where did you see this chalice?’
‘In the Baptismal Chapel. It’s not a chalice per se, but the baptismal font is shaped just like one.’
He was on his feet before I could finish the sentence. ‘Stay here, I’m going to have a look.’
He dashed across the square. Ariel planted a light smack at the back of Isabelle’s head. ‘Stop encouraging the waiter.’
A crimson tide washed over her face. Viggo homed in on the waiter, me and, finally, her. ‘Unbelievable!’ he muttered. ‘Flirting with the waiter right in front of Noah!’
‘What do you mean by right in front of Noah?’ probed Ariel.
Great, my love life hadn’t properly begun and it was already a mess. My father rushed back and chucked some money on the table. ‘Let’s go back to the hotel. We must do some digging on this baptismal font.’
Two tables away from us, a man in sunglasses and a baseball cap lowered his camera and asked for the bill. I bumped Viggo’s elbow. ‘That guy took a picture of us.’
He scanned the myriads of camera-toting tourists jamming the square. ‘Which guy?’
‘He’s… gone.’ I pointed at an empty table. ‘He was sitting right there.’
‘Don’t be paranoid, dude. We’re standing in front of the cathedral. Everyone’s snapping away.’
I should have listened to my gut feeling.
CHAPTER 36
My father had photographed the baptismal font from every possible angle and was busy uploading the images to the smart board. The font was nothing special: a huge marble chalice, resting on a round stone pedestal. Surrounding its base were seven identical bronze lions. Their right paws were lifted in the air, talons pointing downwards, as if they were about to shake someone’s hand. Their mouths were closed in a smile as enigmatic as the Mona Lisa’s – my theory that she may have been toothless had got me an F in Art History. ‘The font and the pedestal are made of one solid piece of marble,’ I said, studying the images. ‘I can’t see any obvious cracks or crannies that could conceal the ring.’
‘Nothing beats a hands-on examination,’ said my father. ‘We need to go back to the church when it’s quiet and check the font inch by inch.’
‘You’ll have to break in at night time, the cathedral is permanently teeming with tourists!’
My sarcasm was met with an ominous smile. ‘Great idea,’ he said. ‘Check what time the cathedral closes. We’ll need darkness and suitable clothing.’ Before I could recover, he turned to Viggo. ‘Make some calls. Get me the blueprints of the building adjacent to the cathedral. We need a way in.’
#
We parked in front of a large sport store in mainland Syracuse and headed for the running section. Isabelle filled her basket with anything she could lay her hands on, including a kettlebell that she could barely lift. Viggo handed me a pair of black Lycra leggings. ‘There you go, try them on,’ he said.
‘B-b-but… these are t-tights!’ I stammered, horrified.
‘Running tights,’ he corrected. ‘They’re for dudes too.’
I reluctantly followed him to the fitting rooms where my father had already changed into his black running tights and long sleeved shirt. The Lycra garments stuck to him like a second skin, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. He was a fit man, but the look was way too revealing for my British roots. I grudgingly changed into similar clothes and checked my image in the floor to ceiling mirror. On the plus side, the Krav Maga was paying off, I was getting more muscular and my chest finally had some definition; on the downside, despite being fully dressed, I had never felt more naked. My father and Viggo seemed more worried about our bulging hips – boxers and leggings didn’t mix well. After a surreal discussion on burglar-friendly underwear, we reluct
antly agreed that we should wear Y-fronts for the raid. I took one last look at my figure hugging ensemble and exhaled. This was going to be an interesting evening.
Ariel and Isabelle were waiting by the tills. She was cradling her overflowing mesh basket. ‘I got her what she needs for church,’ barked my tutor, ‘but she demanded a lot more. Including a kettlebell that she managed to dump on my foot.’
She held the basket tighter. ‘I need a new outfit. Or at least a pair of shorts that won’t fall down as I walk.’
My father briefly considered his options. ‘Isabelle, I need you fully-compliant this evening. If you do exactly as I say for the next eight hours, the basket’s yours. Do we have a deal?’
‘I love being bribed,’ she gushed, shaking his hand.
Back at the hotel, Ariel was in a terrible mood. It had nothing to do with the kettlebell and, for once, it wasn’t my fault either. He was still bugged by twenty-five across, the first wife of Ramesses II remained nameless and he refused to google her. As we walked through the lobby, the receptionist rushed towards us waving a cardboard tube, the word “urgent” stamped across it in bright red letters. ‘Mr Larsson, this just came by courier.’
My father took the tube. ‘Thanks, I was expecting it.’
The receptionist didn’t move.
‘Is that all?’ asked my father.
She stared at him with a smitten expression. ‘What? Oh yes, that’s it. Have a nice day, Mr Larsson.’
Unlike Viggo, my father could immediately tell if someone was besotted with him. He rewarded the receptionist with one of his best smiles, read her badge and thanked her by first name. Alessandra fluttered back to the reception desk with the grace of a butterfly. Viggo gave him a mischievous look. ‘If the raid goes well, you should invite her for a drink.’
‘She’s too young for me,’ replied my father. ‘I bet she’s never seen a rotary dial phone.’
‘Maybe not,’ said Viggo, ‘but if she likes you in your tights, she’s a keeper.’
His teasing earned him a playful smack on the back of the head. ‘Cut it,’ said my father, unlocking our bedroom door, ‘we have work to do. These are the plans we were waiting for.’
Inside, he stretched the tube’s contents across the desk. The blueprints of the three-storey palace located next to the cathedral came into view. Aside from the episcopal offices, the palace housed a seminary and a library. ‘Excluding the main doors, the cathedral is accessible via two passages,’ said my father, peering at the plans. ‘The first connects the priest’s house to the Santissimo Sacramento chapel. The second links the episcopal offices to the Baptismal chapel. The priest is likely to be in, so the offices are our best bet.’
‘We could access the episcopal offices via the seminar or the library,’ suggested Viggo.
‘The seminar has a very strict visitor policy,’ said my father. ‘The library can be viewed by appointment only and there is a long waiting list.’
‘Don’t you have any friends who could pull some strings?’ I asked. After all, he had just got the palace’s blueprints out of thin air.
My father scratched his temple. ‘I do, but we may need to inspect the font beyond standard methods. I don’t want my name attached to it.’
‘Beyond standard methods?’ I gasped. ‘As in damaging the font?’
‘I hope it won’t come to that, but I can’t discount it, there is too much at stake.’ He refocused on the blueprints. ‘Entering the episcopal palace from the front is not an option, too much exposure. Any usable windows at the back?’
‘Yes,’ replied Viggo, ‘but they’re probably alarmed.’
‘Wouldn’t it be easier to get locked inside the cathedral at closing time and come out when we’re ready?’ I asked. My plan was neither fearless nor epic, but at least it didn’t involve storming through unknown buildings decked in figure-hugging outfits.
My father thought about it and nodded. ‘Basic, but effective. We should definitely get you espresso more often!’
CHAPTER 37
We wanted to be in position before the church got too empty, so we got to the cathedral an hour before closing time. Our running gear was neatly packed into a pair of inconspicuous backpacks, Ariel was carrying one, Viggo the other. One by one, we sneaked into our designated hiding places: two medieval pulpits at the back of the main nave. My father, Viggo and I would share the first, Isabelle and Ariel the second. I made my way up – stomach tied into a quadruple knot – and joined my partners in crime on the pulpit floor. Their composure was reassuring and disturbing at the same time – I couldn’t believe that they had actually brought books along. And I couldn’t believe their titles either: “Amputation for dummies” and “Unicorns: legend meets science.” At 7:30pm the priest urged the few remaining tourists to leave. Minutes later, the front doors creaked on their hinges and locks slid into familiar places. There was some movement over the next few hours, then everything went quiet. Viggo stuck his head above the pulpit’s parapet and rotated three hundred and sixty degrees. The coast was clear. He unzipped the backpack and removed our tragic outfits. The pulpit was a tight squeeze, it was never meant for a crowd, so we had to change one at a time. A few contortions later, we all got into costume – for lack of a better word – and descended into the main nave. Nobody spoke. My father, Viggo and Ariel were completely at ease in their second skins, but Isabelle and I didn’t know where to look. I had seen her in a bikini before, so her toned shape was no big news, but she had never seen me this bare. There was no escaping the feeling of awkwardness, just like my clothes it was mercilessly attached to my skin. ‘Damn it!’ whispered Viggo. ‘I forgot the Y-fronts.’
‘At least you remembered the boxers,’ I said.
Isabelle instinctively glanced at his bulging hips. Realising that she was staring at his buttocks, she hurriedly averted her eyes. Viggo misjudged her reaction. ‘Does it look that bad?’
‘N-no, I mean, I don’t know, I… d-didn’t look,’ she stuttered.
‘But you did,’ he insisted. ‘I saw you.’
‘You’re wrong. I was looking at Noah.’
‘Uh,’ grunted Viggo with tangible contempt. ‘You should have looked at him earlier, when he was sitting right in front of you, but you were too busy flirting with Mr Cappuccino.’
My father threw us a curious look and I wished I could sink to the bottom of the Mariana Trench. Thankfully the Battistero chapel came into view and priorities changed. The baptismal font sat on a raised platform, flanked by two golden mosaics. A large glass panel surmounted by three stars dominated the back wall. The wooden doors leading to the episcopal palace were visible on the right. We climbed over the low gate that separated the chapel from the nave. My father switched on a small torch and visually inspected the font. He then stuck the torch in his mouth and ran his hands all over it, including the pedestal. ‘Solid marble,’ he concluded. ‘Let’s check the lions.’
We crouched down. The bronze lions were also subjected to a visual inspection. ‘Are they hollow on the inside?’ I asked.
Viggo banged his torch against the closest lion, a loud clang reverberated across the empty church. ‘Yes.’
My father smacked him on the head and shot him a reproachful stare.
‘I’m surprised his head didn’t make the same sound’ scoffed Isabelle.
Viggo took both hits without complaining. My father grabbed each lion by the head and jiggled them around. None of them budged. ‘We need to detach them,’ he said.
While he selected his first victim, I noticed a dent in the marble surface. Given the font’s illustrious age, some wear and tear was to be expected, but the dent was a bit too round, a bit too perfect to be accidental. I pushed my finger inside it, secretly hoping for a concealed mechanism that, amidst strobe lights and confetti, would reveal the hiding place of the ring. All I got was a condescending stare from Isabelle. Yet, the dent intrigued me. It sat above the head of one of the lions, like a halo carved in stone. I pointed it out to my f
ather. He put his safari on hold and examined the recess. ‘It is a bit too smooth,’ he agreed. ‘What the hell, let’s take it as a sign and start from this lion. Scalpel!’
Viggo unrolled a leather pouch packed with various implements, selected a sharp tool and passed it over. My father began vandalising the font as delicately as he could. An hour later, he was brandishing a lion figurine. He shone his torch inside the bronze cast. Nothing. He shook it, still nothing. He grabbed a long, thin screwdriver and pushed it all the way inside the statuette. And that’s when a loud noise, as if something had been knocked over, resonated throughout the church. It had come from the altar’s end. We froze. We weren’t alone. Isabelle was so scared that she found the courage to snuggle up to Ariel. My father brought a finger to his lips and urged us to be quiet. We didn’t move a muscle, nerves on edge, ears ready to pick up the slightest noise, but the church was as silent as a grave.
‘Ariel, with me,’ whispered my father. My tutor nodded and removed the Glock’s safety catch. My father pushed the lion into Isabelle’s arms and reached for the other gun. He handed it to Viggo and dragged him to one side. ‘Don’t let Noah and Isabelle out of your sight. We talked about this, you know what to do. Keep your head screwed on and stick to your orders. We’ll be back before you know it.’
The main nave was flanked by two rows of large columns. Using them as cover, my father and Ariel began to make their way towards the altar. Viggo selected the correct tools from the leather pouch and started picking the lock of the doors leading to the episcopal offices. If we made it out of here in one piece, I was going to ask him to teach me. Isabelle, a tight bundle of nerves, was standing next to him, lion clutched to her heaving chest. ‘How are they doing?’ asked Viggo, without turning.
I cautiously leaned over. My father and Ariel were level with the Sacramento chapel, from which the priest’s house could be accessed.
‘Hands in the air,’ shouted an unfamiliar voice, in a Russian accent. Beads of sweat ran down my back like an avalanche down a mountain, my throat felt drier than the Sahara Desert on a hot day and I thought I was about to be sick. Viggo threw a worried glance over his shoulder, but kept working on the lock with measured movements. I inched forward. My father’s and Ariel’s hands were raised, the Glock nowhere in sight. Ariel had somehow managed to tuck it at the back of his tights. I couldn’t see their opponent, all I got was the sound. Listening to an action movie isn’t much fun.
