It was the most rational, clear, productive thinking he had done in many years. Looking around him with eyes not blocked by the haze of alcohol and hate, he realized what a dump he was living in. All that would change today. He was excited
For the first time in memory, his uniform was clean and pressed. He left early. Now that he would have debts gone and a nicer place, plus a significant 'raise' from then on, and better 'retirement', he didn't want to screw it up. Suddenly, it wasn't such a bad job.
As soon as he was able, he made sure he was assigned to complete the task from the day before. On arrival, the first thing he did was to run over with a flashlight and check behind the wall.
It was still there!
But of course it was. Where would it have gone? His new life, just sitting there behind the crumbling wall, surrounded by the mildew of hundreds of years. He wheeled his cart all the way back to the room containing the chest. Opening the tool chest, he pulled out a chisel and hammer. He could have used a sledge and been through the wall in minutes, but there was no reason for him to be seen with a sledge hammer, and he didn't want to raise any suspicions. Instead, he took his time, loosening just a few, select bricks.
It took less than a half hour. Moving the loose bricks, he now, finally, had access. He carefully slid the box through the opening he'd made. He was surprised at how heavy it was. Then he remembered some little piece of trivia from school. Something about meteorites primarily being composed of iron. That and the lockbox, also of iron. And those locks. Each one was heavy in its own right. He was surprised that he could just barely lift it himself. Not something he'd even considered. But manageable.
He put the chest on the cart, under the trash bags, covering it in burlap. Now, he just had to wait. He then rolled his bin slowly up the hall, turning the lights out as he went, picking up where he left off yesterday. Today, though, he was whistling.
* * *
Shortly after lunch, according to the schedule with his new friends, his trash bin was full, or close enough. Normal procedure was to roll the bins, usually two of them, out to the side security entrance generally used by the staff. Most of the public came in one of the main entrances, which were a long ways off. At the entrance, security would check the bins, and he would roll them outside, around the corner, to the dumpsters.
This routine had been followed every morning and every afternoon for years. Rain or shine, every work day, like clockwork, before lunch, and before the end of the day, the trash went out. By the same guy. Using the same bins. Through the same entrance. Past the same guards. Who didn't want any smelly garbage on their uniforms.
Needless to say, inspections had long since become very lax - normally, he was waved through. Occasionally, a guard would peak into the top, or poke at it with a stick, but that was it. Even if the corporal of the guard was around, inspecting the garbage was more of a show. The only way it would ever actually be inspected, which would not be a good thing, would be if the Commander of the Guard was coming around on an inspection tour, or if the plain clothes inspector, whom everyone knew, was checking up. Both were sticklers, and would make sure the inspection was complete. If caught, he couldn't imagine what would happen. Not only would he not get paid and be in some deep shit with his two visitors, but at the very least, he'd lose his job and pension.
Still, that wasn't likely. Neither the commander nor the inspector ever came by this entrance. He couldn't remember the last time either had. He wasn't concerned.
He pushed the door open with his bin. The door latched behind him, and he headed across the lot toward the gate. He saw the regular guards, the same ones there this morning. The same ones there every morning. One standing outside by the chain link gate, the other inside the guardhouse. As he approached, he noticed he couldn't hear the football game, normally loud enough for both guards to hear. That was a little odd. Then he saw why.
The Commander was inside the guardhouse.
He was never at this gate.
But the Commander was in the guardhouse.
He was too far from the building to return with the trash. That would have really looked suspicious. Plus they had already seen him come out. No one takes trash from the outside back into the building.
He couldn't go back. And he didn't want to go forward. But he had no choice. There was no option. He would have to take his chances. Again, not that he had any choice. He heard the door open behind him, and a man stepped out, closing it behind him.
The Inspector!
And then it hit him. A cold shiver went down his spine, and his knees became rubbery. He could hardly push the bin. Damn it, somehow they knew. They knew!
But how? Clearly, he had been followed. Somehow, someone must have heard what was going on. He was now stuck between the two men who could and would happily have him arrested. Both guards were making a show of how securely they did their jobs, as if the Pope himself was walking through in a few minutes. The guard checked another employee a ways ahead. He went through everything, the Commander looking over his shoulder. He could see the man being checked, patted down, briefcase opened.
Bad. Very bad.
He looked at the Commander. The Commander wasn't looking at him. Not directly, anyway. Probably didn't want to raise suspicions. He glanced back at the Inspector, who, catching up to him, took a wide berth around him, apparently trying to get to the gate ahead of Frankie, but trying not to make it too obvious.
The inspector never looked at him.
Damn them, they were playing it so cool. He knew they were just waiting, just waiting to catch him red handed. Just waiting to pounce on him and get all their glory. They made him sick. They were really enjoying this. And he would lose everything. Everything.
He slowed his walk. He was dead. There was no way he was getting through that gate. And no way to turn around. All that money, gone. Job, gone. Probably jail. He felt sick. He kept walking. Dead man walking. One foot in front of the other. Step. Step. Left foot. Right foot. The inspector walked past him with a curt nod and "Buongiorno''. Frank nodded. He was feeling worse. And this time, maybe for the first time, not related to his drinking.
He was next. Both the Commander and Inspector were standing at the doorway, along with the guards. He felt really sick now. His stomach was turning.
"Good morning, Frank." It was the guard at the gate. They knew. Damn it, somehow, they knew.
It was too much. The stress, his history of drinking, the stress of getting caught - his stomach launched everything he had onto the bin, the guard, the inspector, and ground around them. His stomach tried again, but nothing was left, so he wretched nothing but some drops of bile. He was greener than the fluid he tossed.
Both the inspector and guard tried to jump out of the way when he launched his first assault. Neither made it. Putrid, acidic remainders of breakfast, and few items from last night were now additional decorations on the guard, and formed a streak running across the coat, shirt, and tie of the inspector.
Both quickly tried to brush it off, immediately regretting it, trying to wipe their hands on their pants and jackets. The Commander ran out of the guard house, fawning over the inspector.
"Dammit, Frank, what a mess. We're supposed to meet a group coming in a few minutes through this gate, and now this."
The inspector was already running off to change. The Commander quickly called for a replacement guard, and would cover until then. The sprayed guard even now was headed to the barracks for a change before returning.
"Move it, Frank, hurry up. Get rid of that stuff. Get out of here! We have to clean up here. Don't just stand there. If you're gonna get sick again, do it outside the gate. Hurry up!"
He fairly ran out the gate with his bins.
Saved! Unbelievable! He was safe! He'd made it! His new life was just around the corner, literally.
Cool waves of relief washed over him as he turned the corner with his bin. He wiped his face with his sleeve. He began to grin. He'd made it. He'd actually gotten
past them all. This was it - he was going to be rich!
He pushed his cart down the sidewalk, just around the corner. He saw a group of kids, making their way up the sidewalk towards him, but he had time to dump the load before they got there. He approached the dumpster gate, undid the latch, and pulled the gates open, blocking the sidewalk, gaining access to the dumpsters. His grin became larger.
* * *
As the students, instructor in front, approached the waste area, a man pushing a cart of trash came around the corner, stopping under the sign marked Waste Area #4. The man unlocked the gates, pulling them open. The gates were so wide that to go around them, the students would have to walk in the street. With the way the cars were zipping around, that wasn't a good idea. The instructor hoped the man would be quick.
Hoping to time their arrival as the gate again closed, the group slowed their pace. The instructor held the kids back, behind the gate. "Relax guys, there's no rush. Let that guy finish up. You think there's something interesting in there for you to see?"
* * *
Interesting, indeed.
* * *
Both gates now open, Frankie pushed the cart inside, up to one of the dumpsters. As he did, a car pulled up, passenger side facing Frankie. The car contained the two men from last night. And his retirement money.
Right on schedule.
Everything was working out perfectly. With the gates open, no one could see him pull the chest from the bottom of the bin. Frankie was still grinning like a schoolboy as he placed the chest in the trunk that had popped open. He was grinning as he slammed the trunk lid down. He was grinning even more as the window rolled down.
He was even grinning as he was shot three times in the chest with a silenced automatic.
Three silenced shots.
Frank looked down in disbelief, backed up two steps, and sat down hard on the concrete, holding his stomach. The crimson stain just below his chest grew rapidly. He looked at his hands, covered in blood, and wondered why he didn't feel anything. He looked up at the window, already closing.
ABut my moneyB," he whispered. It was hard to speak, with his chest gurgling like that. He fell back, still holding his stomach. He couldn't get his breath. Opening his eyes, the blue sky seemed far away, as if he were seeing it through the lens of a camera, the sky surrounded by a growing black edge. As it rapidly grew darker around him, and the sky shrunk, he was still thinking about how well it had gone, wondering what happened.
Then, all went dark for Frankie.
"Okay, he's done, let's go. What an idiot. Like we were seriously going to hand him ninety five thousand Euros cash for that box. Jeez." Manny just shook his head as his partner drove them away.
A red stain was growing, but more slowly now, on the concrete.
* * *
Odd that this would be the only mark that Mr. Frank Notini would leave on this world.
* * *
As the car drove off, the kids peeked out from the other side of the opened gate. The car was gone. They all looked carefully up and down the streets. Clear. It appeared safe. The instructor pushed the gate partway shut to make room and waved the kids quickly past, towards the side entrance. Hurrying past, each kid and adult slowed almost to a stop, staring at Frank as they went by. It was a face and story they would remember. It would be difficult for anything at the Vatican to beat this.
As they turned the corner toward the entrance, the Commander and remaining guard were still cleaning up Frank's mess at the gate, oblivious to the entire event outside.
* * *
There would be a lot more cleanup to do.
Chapter 29
Depardieu
Depardieu pushed himself away from the table, pulled the napkin from where it was tucked into his shirt, and walked to the door back in the kitchen, still chewing his food. He glanced at his watch, at the clock on the stove, and back at his watch. He held it to his ear as he unlocked the back door.
"Piece of shit," mumbled through a mouthful of food. "Where you guys been? Got it?"
They stepped inside, setting the chest on the center island. "Not there, you idiot. I eat off'a that. Haven't you got any class? Put it over there, and cover it with that box. Carefully." He grabbed a cloth from the sink and wiped off the island. "Morons. Hey, where'd you get this piece of shit watch? Wasn't this supposed to be off that guy, what's his name, who owed me from that last job? Last Wednesday? Piece of crap watch."
He looked back up at Manny. "Any problems? Find my money?"
"See," piped up the big guy, "I told ya we shoulda got it."
"There wasn't any time," Manny explained. "You said to get in quick, deal with him, and only get the money if we could do it quick."
"Okay, okay. Just making sure you didn't collect a little extra on the side."
"Hey, no, like, we'd never cross you, would we, Manny? Right, Manny?"
Manny just shook his head no. Depardieu knew better. You didn't cross him. He pulled an envelope from his pocket. "Alright, here you go. Nobody saw nothin', right?"
"Of course not. And if they did, you know we wouldn't of brought them back this way."
Depardieu just grunted. He opened the envelope, and pulled out a single hundred Euro bill. "This is for that watch." He closed the envelope and handed it to Manny. "I'll call you when I get something. Don't let anybody see you leave."
He closed the door behind them. Looked one more time at his watch, and the clock. He took off the watch, and dropped it in the trash.
He reached for his phone. He was about to make a great deal of money. Unlike Frank, though, Depardieu knew what he was doing.
"I've got it," he said softly into the phone. "Where do you want to meet?"
* * *
Father Alonso Sartini hung up the phone. He looked out the large window of his expansive office in a remodeled country estate a few miles outside of Rome. His vow of poverty did not extend, in his mind, to his use of the organization's facilities. Nor did it apply to the account he held in Switzerland under a different name. Nor did his other vows seem to have an effect on his activities during his ever more frequent trips to Thailand.
Of course, his activities while there were certainly not reported on nor would they have ever been condoned by the Church.
He certainly wasn't the priest the others thought he was.
Which was exactly why he was there.
His position had allowed him for many years to keep tabs on the search for the Chosen One. He and his people had meticulously gone through, over the course of many years, every item on record at the Vatican.
And that was no easy task.
Several hundreds of thousands of items were cataloged, with thousands more added yearly. This gargantuan task, which appeared to be in the best interest of the Vatican, was in reality part of the search. The fact that the Vatican benefitted from the task was strictly coincidental, though it certainly protected their cover. Father Sartini also had the ability, due to his extremely senior position, to pretty much do and go where ever he chose, with no oversight. This not only helped his organizational pursuits, but allowed him the freedom to pursue his less than spiritual appetites, which he satisfied during his frequent trips to the Far East.
He sat down in the plush leather wingback chair near the window, gazing out over the vineyards, now filling with plumped grapes. He tried to imagine how, after all those years of searching, a common maintenance man, a janitor that was on the edge of being fired for numerous reasons, had been able to recover the chest they all had been searching for all those years.
It didn't make sense. Add to that the call from his man in America, and those reports about Richter. And now, he'd heard there was a meeting in Tehran.
He looked over at his desk where the chest sat, illuminated by the desk lamp. What was so special about it? Anything? Or was it all just a myth.
He walked over, examining it yet again. Finally, decision made, he went to his closet and rummaged through several boxes and cabinet
s before finding what he was looking for.
Handy with tools, he was able to quickly pick the ancient locks. No challenge there except for all the corrosion, which caused the mechanisms to stick. It had taken a while, but he'd been able to pop each of the locks open without damaging them. When he began to slowly open the chest, he wasn't sure what to expect.
Glowing gold tablets? Pent up spirits flying out, as in an Indiana Jones movie? Jewels? Ancient texts? He held his breath and tipped the lid back.
Rocks. Rocks?
Metallic, iron rocks. Just basic meteorites.
He took them out, looking at each. He looked under them, behind the crumbling crimson liner. Nothing but rocks.
Clearly, this was the chest. It had the markings. He had some very old drawings, drawings made on papyrus rolls that weren't on any Vatican inventory. He knew he was right. Still, rocks? What made them so special?
He went back to his chair, gazing back outside. He had to report it. He couldn't wait any longer. Maybe it was nothing, but it wasn't his decision. He'd been put in this position many years ago for the sole purpose of finding this chest, and any related artifacts. No one had really expected him to find it, but he was told to look. As had his predecessor. And the ones before him.
He stood up once again, returning to the desk. After one final look, he replaced the meteorites, carefully, before closing the lid and relocking it.
If he was right, this was the key. He would be the one that had provided the final link. He would no longer have to maintain this farce of being a priest. He would be able to get rid of that collar for good, returning to the pagan practices he'd been taught when younger. How would it be used in Tehran? How could it be used by Tehran? And finally, and most importantly, for a man that had served himself before all others, how could this benefit him?
SUMMATION Page 17
