The Swagger Sword

by David S. Brody

  “Touché,” Marcotte replied.

  “So when do we leave?” Cam asked.

  “Five minutes. We need to get you and Brian into uniforms and teach you how to use the gear. It’ll just be you two, plus the owner.”

  Cam pictured them in the vault room, Brian picking the lock while Cam fished the clay tube from the heating vent. “Wouldn’t it be better to have more men? We don’t want the bank manager, or whoever it is, looking over our shoulders.”

  The monsignor nodded. “Good point. I’ll make a call.” He began to leave, but turned. “Oh. One more thing you should know. I just got word that a delegation from Rome landed in Boston this morning. Vatican hardliners, here unofficially. Limos are taking them to Providence as we speak.”

  It was the opening Cam was looking for. At some point he needed an explanation for why the safe deposit box would be empty. “Sounds like they’re on to us. Hopefully they won’t get to the bank before we do.”

  Marcotte nodded again “It’s a risk. And I agree, the arrival of a delegation indicates things are escalating.”

  “Delegation?” Amanda asked. “Is that some kind of euphemism?”

  Marcotte pursed his lips. “Fair point. Perhaps a better term would be team of operatives. We will need to be careful.”

  Gabriella sat at her kitchen table with a cup of tea and an uneaten biscuit. She had been replaying the past eighteen hours in her mind, beginning when Cameron Thorne and his family had arrived with a key to box 2173. If Thorne had left the bank with the box contents, as it now appeared, why had his wife and daughter remained behind? It didn’t make any sense. Yet the box was empty, its mysterious and presumably invaluable contents gone. She shifted in her seat, the corner of a hard object in her slacks pushing against her thigh. The cell phone. She pulled it from her pocket and tried to turn it on. Password protected. Damn. Another dead end.

  Her phone rang, an old rotary attached to the wall. She really needed to update the place—it had barely changed since her own mother grew up here after World War II. Now that she was no longer needed at the bank, perhaps she’d finally have time for a hobby or even some travel. Or perhaps the bishop would have another assignment for her…

  She lifted the receiver. “Hello.”

  “Ms. Difonzo, I hope you are well.” The bishop himself calling. She stood taller. “Things have taken an urgent turn. Can you come down to the Diocese offices?”

  She was out the door in five minutes, stopping halfway down the front stairs to retrieve the cell phone, which she sensed might be an important clue. The diocese offices were located in a drab, three-story, brick building made even more bland due to being adjacent to the soaring, Victorian-era, Cathedral of Saints Peter and Paul. Gabriella glanced over her shoulder for another look: Her mother had once told her that the cathedral was so majestic that naming it after a single apostle—either Peter or Paul—simply would not have sufficed. The receptionist brought her to an empty conference room overlooking the highway. Just on the other side of the highway, looming large in the distant, stood Citizens Bank. Somewhere deep inside, box 2173 sat empty. “Please wait,” the receptionist said. “The bishop will be with you shortly.”

  Five minutes later the rotund bishop, attired in his black robe and cape with red piping, approached. Behind him followed a parade of three men, all of them wearing clerical garb, skull caps and large crosses. The fourth, a strikingly handsome man with light blue eyes and jet-black hair, wore a dark suit with a maroon tie. All the clerics, including the bishop, seemed to defer to the square-shouldered man in the suit.

  “These gentlemen are from Vatican City,” the bishop said by way of introductions. She noticed he didn’t say they were from the Vatican itself. “They are here regarding your assignment.” For a moment she thought she might be in trouble. But the bishop smiled kindly, even as he breathed heavily from the exertion of the walk down the hallway. “Please tell them about Mr. Thorne’s visit.”

  Gabriella summarized as best she could. She wanted to look at the blue-eyed man, his eyes like magnets to hers, but she found she could not make her mouth form coherent sentences when she did so. Instead she focused on a spot on the wall above his head, promising herself she could have a long stare when she finished speaking. “When we drilled the box this morning,” she concluded, “it was empty.” She pulled the phone from her purse. “But I did find this just outside the rear door.”

  The bishop took it. “You have done well.” He nodded to a subordinate. “Try to get into this phone. Top priority.” He turned to the blue-eyed man in the suit, giving her an excuse to do the same. “Major Pfyffer. All is not lost. We believe we have located Thorne. Which means, God willing, the scroll will soon be ours. I will pray.”

  He spoke, his accent cultured and smooth. “Pray if you must, Your Excellency. But I believe God prefers it when men serve him by taking action, rather than waiting for the Almighty to intercede on our behalf.” He stood, the simple movement displaying both grace and power. “With Thorne located, I expect that soon we will put an end, finally, to this nonsense.”

  Brian and Cam had been dropped off at single family Colonial not far from Brown University in downtown Providence. A large white work van sat in the driveway, the words ‘Abad Brothers Pest Control’ emblazoned on the side in royal blue. A tall, thin man with olive skin wearing dark blue coveralls stood in the van, arranging equipment.

  “Come on, Thorne,” Brian said. “Time for our training.”

  Brian didn’t completely trust his childhood friend, and he didn’t trust the Monsignor either. For that matter, he didn’t trust Roberto and Emanuela. They, like the rats he had stuffed into the bank’s heating vents last night, would do what was best for themselves. Just as he would do what was best for himself.

  Abad stepped out of the van to greet them. Brian guessed he wasn’t happy about this assignment, about potentially jeopardizing a lucrative account. But the Grand Master had asked for a favor, so he, unlike everyone else in this adventure, was not doing what was best for himself. Poor sap.

  The van interior was immaculate, equipment stacked neatly and canisters of chemicals clearly marked. Abad pointed to a couple of pairs of coveralls, which Cam and Brian, slipped into. “You’ll also need to wear these respirator masks,” he said in what sounded to Brian like a Turkish accent. Brian was glad for that—he’d rather not have his face on any bank security camera footage. “Gloves also, of course. Rodents carry all sorts of viruses dangerous to humans.” He then lifted a box of plastic bags. “When you find a dead animal, slip it into the bag, seal it, and then double-bag it.”

  “How do we find the dead rodents if we’re wearing respirators?” Cam asked. “Don’t we need to, you know, sniff them out?”

  Abad shook his head. “I will tell you where to look. I know the rats like I know my wife’s face.”

  Brian swallowed a guffaw. No doubt Abad’s wife would appreciate the comparison. In any event, he planned to ignore Abad’s instructions once they got inside the bank. He had had his fill of rats last night. He was there to get into the safe deposit box, grab the damn scroll, and get the hell out. If Cam wanted to make things look good by digging around for dead rodents, well, that was his business.

  Cam and Brian rode silently in the second row of Abad’s van, coveralls on and respirators in their laps. Another couple of workers were apparently meeting them at the bank. Cam had no interest in sharing a laugh with his old friend, reflecting on how far they’d come in thirty years. Mostly because he no longer considered his old friend a friend. But also because, in many way, they had not come very far at all. Already by the end of middle school Brian was known as an expert shoplifter. That he was on his way to pick the lock in a bank vault should not have been so surprising.

  A few inches of snow had accumulated on the streets. Traffic was light in the city due to the snow and the holiday weekend as they descended the hill past Brown University and crossed the river. Workers were busy readying the river for th
e WaterFire New Year’s display, in which floating braziers illuminated the city’s rivers, drawing revelers to enjoy music amid the flickering firelight. He glanced at his watch. Not yet noon. The extermination should take less than an hour. If all went well, maybe they could even check out the festivities before returning tonight to Westford. Not that anything had seemed to go well lately.

  Cam broke the silence. “Just so you know, I’m not leaving you alone in the vault room. I’m going to be there when you pick that lock.” He knew the box was empty, but needed to play it as if he treasured its contents.

  Brian answered after a long stare. “We both know you can’t beat me. Not at shit like this.”

  They pulled into the bank parking lot, reconnoitered with the other workers, grabbed supplies, put on their masks, and were let into the bank by a frowning, bookish bank manager standing by the back door. “Thank goodness you’re here,” he said, a handkerchief over his nose. “The smell is getting worse.”

  “Wait here,” Abad said to his team. To the manager, he said, “Give me a quick tour of the bank, especially the ground floor. Take me to the rooms where the smell is the strongest.”

  Cam eyed the parking lot through the same door Amanda and Astarte had used to escape. He was surprised not to see signs of surveillance by the Vatican hardliners. Was it possible they were so far behind in following the clues and/or following Cam that they hadn’t made it to the bank yet? Doubtful. Perhaps they had already come and gone, having found the scroll. Or perhaps they were just good at hiding. Cam exhaled. Not that it mattered. He had one chance to retrieve the scroll; he’d worry about the Vatican extremists later.

  Abad returned ten minutes later. “Work in pairs, room by room. Each room has a name.” He nodded toward Cam and Brian. “Start in New Hampshire, then go to Maine. Focus on the heating vents by the windows.” He touched his nose. “That is where they are.”

  The manager had opened all the vault room doors. As instructed, Cam and Brian began in the New Hampshire room. Cam dropped to a knee and removed a heating vent cover. “What are you doing?” Brian asked, his respirator giving him a Darth Vader-like rasp.

  “Looking for dead rats,” Cam replied.

  Brian eye’s narrowed behind his mask. “You do know that we’re not real exterminators, right?”

  “Yeah, but I still want to make it look good. This is how Abad makes a living. We can’t just leave the rats in the ducts.”

  Brian dropped into a wooden chair. “What a fucking Boy Scout.”

  Cam bit back a retort. He reached deeper, cringing as pain shot through his neck. Pushing the pain away, he felt around. His gloved hand rubbed against a carcass. He instantly recoiled before forcing his arm back into the vent. Grabbing the rodent by the tail, he extracted it and double-bagged it as instructed. In a second vent, he found and bagged a second rat. “Okay. Let’s go to the next room.”

  Brian stood. “Halleluiah.”

  Franz Pfyffer von Altishofen sat straight-backed in the passenger seat of the Land Rover the bishop had secured for them. He stared through a pair of high-powered binoculars toward the rear entrance of the Citizen’s Bank building. His paternal grandfather, after whom he had been named, had been the eleventh member of the Pfyffer line to serve as Commander of the Pontifical Swiss Guard, the bodyguards of the Pope. Franz hoped, and expected, to be the twelfth. But that would require a change in leadership at the Holy See, a pope willing to turn the Church back to its traditional roots. Back to the orthodoxy of the Middle Ages, when men such as Franz pledged fidelity to monastic orders like the Knights Templar and defended the Church with their lives. The Swiss Guardsmen shared the Templar cross with their forebears, as well as their willingness to die for their religion. But today’s Vatican leaders, soft and undisciplined and even in some cases heretical, were not worthy of that loyalty. Franz longed to wear the scalloped cross on his chest, to continue the family legacy of service. But only when the Vatican ship had righted itself.

  Known as Major Pfyffer to his men, and originally trained in his native Switzerland, he did not formally serve in any nation’s military. Yet he had fought alongside Americans, Germans, Israelis and even Russians. He was a soldier for hire, willing to fight for any cause so long as Jesus was on his side. Sometimes the battle lines were blurry and he had to make a judgment call as to whether the battle was a just one. Not this time.

  Unfortunately, they had waiting too long to call him in. Yes, he was expensive. But only because being fully equipped, prepared and trained required a large outlay of resources. He himself did not profit from his services, at least not in the pecuniary sense—one could not do the Lord’s work with greed in one’s heart. At least not do it well. He shook his head. An old woman was dead, and the map still not recovered. Amateurs. In this case, dead amateurs. Like the dead rodents in the bank.

  Lowering the binoculars, he sniffed. The whole dead rodent thing, well, smelled bad to him. The bank clerk, Difonzo, had said there were no foul aromas at closing time last night. European rats, at least, did not decompose so quickly. Especially at the same time that a priceless, ancient scroll had gone missing.

  Cam and Brian, clad in exterminator’s suits, entered the bank vault’s Maine room. This time, while Cam again went for the heating vent at the far end of the room, Brian searched for box 2173. “Fuck me,” Brian cursed from only a few feet away. Cam looked up. “I think it’s been drilled.” He slammed his hand against the wall of boxes.

  “How can you tell?” Cam asked, dropping to his knees, trying to appear nonchalant.

  “Because of the goddamn hole where the lock used to be.” He tugged at the box. “The other lock, the master lock, is still holding.”

  “Can you pick it?”

  Brian tossed his mask aside. “Why bother?”

  “I don’t know.” He needed Brian to be distracted. “Maybe that’s an old drill hole. Maybe they left stuff in there.”

  “And maybe there’s a fucking Tooth Fairy.”

  But Cam knew Brian couldn’t walk away, no matter how unlikely it was that the scroll remained in box. Using a toothpick-like tool, Brian wiggled and prodded. Meanwhile, Cam reached into the heating vent and felt for the clay tube. Instead his hand bounced against another rat. Shit. Quickly he bagged it and set it onto the floor next to the two dead rats from the other room. Reaching back in, his fingers found … nothing. Had the Vatican hardliners retrieved the canister before him? Or had the rat pushed the tube deeper into the ductwork, the cylinder- shaped vessel perhaps rolling away? He stretched, his mask flush against the opening of the heating vent as his entire arm probed the void. There. His fingertip felt something. Straining another inch, ignoring the pain in his neck, he flicked at the object, hoping to spin it back toward him. A rolling noise echoed in the metallic cavity, the sound like a lullaby to Cam’s ears. He closed his fingers around the tube.

  Brian called out. “I’m in.” Cam, his arm still in the vent, turned his head. Brian yanked the safe deposit box out and dropped it on a table, making a loud clang. “You said you want to watch? Then get your ass over here. Watch me open a fucking empty box.”

  Cam extracted the tube, shielding it with his body. He could feel Brian’s eyes on his back. “Be right there. Found another rat.” Not wanting to risk Brian seeing him put something into his pocket, Cam reopened the storage bag closest to him and dropped the tube in with the dead rat—the ten-inch cylinder, turned diagonal, barely fit. Standing, Cam stacked the three bags on the floor, placing the bag with the clay tube on the bottom. He removed his mask and joined Brian at the table.

  Unceremoniously, Brian yanked open the lid. An empty box stared back at them. Cam bit back a smile, glad to have the mask shielding his face. Brian threw the box against the wall beneath the window, the impact gashing into the drywall. Following his throw, he kicked the box, sending it careening into a chair, toppling it. He then reached down, grabbed a bagged rat, and flung it, Frisbee-like, across the room. It hit the far wall with a thud
. He began to stretch for the second bag.

  Cam stepped in front of him. “What are you, three years old? You going to punch a wall also?”

  “Fuck off, Thorne.”

  Brian reached around Cam for the second bag. Cam had no choice. He couldn’t risk Brian lifting the second bag and noticing the tube in the bag beneath it. He swatted Brian’s hand away and dropped his hands to his side, guessing how Brian would react but also knowing the blow would be worth it. He braced for the assault. Not that it helped much. From one knee, Brian threw a vicious uppercut, burying his fist into Cam’s gut. Cam collapsed, his last willful movement aiming his body so that he landed in a way to shield the dead rat and scroll. Writhing, he fought for air as his world darkened. He had almost drowned once, the panic at not being able to breathe the worst feeling he had ever had. This wasn’t far behind. His body screamed for oxygen.

  Brian stood over him. Vaguely Cam heard the words. “No, not a wall.”

  Brian stormed out, kicking the door to the Maine room as he left, his curses echoing back into the vault from the hallway even through Cam’s haze. After a few seconds, Cam pulled himself to his feet, staggered across the room and closed the door, latching it. Still gasping, but working as quickly as he could, he removed the clay tube from the bag alongside the rat. With an unsteady hand he unzipped his coveralls and slid the canister into the deep side pocket of the cargo pants he wore underneath.

  Hunched over, he exhaled and patted the tube. It was hardly a fitting location for an ancient scroll that would be considered a priceless relic by both Christians and Jews. But it was better than being stuck in a bag with a dead rat.

  Brian didn’t even wait for Abad and his team to finish in the bank. The last Cam saw of him was his green leg disappearing into the back of a taxi. Good riddance.

  Abad asked Cam about it as they exited the bank parking lot in the van. “So you did not find what you were looking for?”