by Ken Hansen
A couple kilometers away, Huxley sat near the large arch of the Osteria dell Commari, eating his “scrumble eggs” and bacon and sipping his caffè Americano. He liked to eat like the locals when he traveled, but toast, juice and a couple of sweet cakes just didn’t suit him this morning. So he went for the tourist package and enjoyed a little taste of saturated fat and cholesterol while he awaited his morning meeting. He was staring out the front window of the restaurant near the Vatican, watching the rain come down in a steady stream while he rehashed the facts in his case.
Was Tocelli a lead or a dead end? Perhaps the kid just wanted to impress his bone-digging friends with his knowledge of astronomy. Maybe Tocelli had used his telescope simply to look at the comet rather than to spy on Ramat David; nevertheless, its placement on the site had been perfect. Tocelli’s roommate had barely known his fellow Sapienza student and could not identify any of his friends. Huxley would have to track Tocelli’s family and friends down in his native Florence. The roommate had given up one interesting fact—Tocelli seemed to have tried to hide some kind of employment with the Vatican. An electronic fob seemed to confirm that. It wasn’t much, but what else did he have? Nothing, except the perplexing contacts list from Najwa.
The white card left at the grotto proved this case was personal. He had believed his name appearing in Najwa’s contacts was just a little sign to draw him into the case, something Najwa had used to make a connection to an investigator who would find his killer. The Israeli Air Force had not killed Najwa, not really; his death had been preordained the moment he tunneled into the camp, and Najwa must have known it or he would not have brought his phone with him. But then why did he not just run away and contact the CIA or Homeland Security before the attack? The thing didn’t quite make sense.
Then again, Najwa had always been an enigma. He had never actually been caught committing any terrorist activities. He was suspected only because of the activities of a few close associates, and he had always steadfastly maintained his innocence. The CIA released him, so they might have believed he was not involved. Or were they using him the same way the Israelis had tried to use Huxley? Was Najwa a little bunny released simply to lead them back to the rabbit hole?
What about the white card from St. Mary’s grotto? It had hurled him back onto an emotional roller coaster Huxley thought he had managed to exit. The quoted material was right out of Matthew’s gospel: “Who is my mother, who are my brothers… For whoever does the will of my Heavenly Father is my brother, and sister, and mother.” He had found that pretty easily with a Google search. It was apparently Jesus’s way of telling his true followers that they were his family. The last two lines could be found nowhere in the bible or anywhere else, yet they were the lines that had ripped him apart. The mother told the son not to abandon her for Jewish harlots. The note might as well have mentioned Hanna by name. He knew the words were intended not only to intrigue but also to unnerve. And they had succeeded.
Though the calligraphic card had weakened him, it had also awakened him. Najwa could not have known enough about Huxley to write those words, so either Najwa had the help of someone in the CIA or Homeland Security or Najwa was himself a stooge. Who else with a stake in this would know about Huxley’s mother? Only those who had seen Huxley fall at the CIA, but even that seemed far-fetched.
Though the card had set him off, it had provided no discernible pattern when matched with other entries in the contacts list. Could the next clue be hidden in something else at the Church of the Annunciation? His handwritten notes clarified nothing. Could the white card have been written by a different hand than the contacts list? Maybe someone else feared he would understand something at the church and knew how to distract him.
What about Aman? They might know much more about him than he had thought. They had their own contacts in the CIA and had good reason to ask about his mother, but then why the white card? Was Anwari their operative, just a harmless hero turned tourist, or does he play yet another role? Maybe Huxley had read too much into Anwari’s expressions, yet Anwari had slipped and called Huxley “Christian” at the Church of the Annunciation. He might have guessed that was Huxley’s given name, but why not Christopher? And why not just say “Chris?” No, Anwari must have had a dossier on Huxley before they even met. He was involved somehow.
Huxley opened the Najwa contacts list and looked at the remaining clues from the two Huxley entries. There was the quote from Shakespeare’s Measure for Measure: “No? a dozen times at least.” It had to be a clue, but to what? He really needed to re-read that play. He recalled from his class that some had argued the play was a religious allegory, but most experts thought of it simply as Shakespeare’s criticism of hypocrites who judge others harshly in the name of God, patriotism or whatever else pumped up their fervor. Even the name of the play harkened back to the Sermon on the Mount in Matthew’s gospel: “Stop judging, that you may not be judged. For as you judge, so will you be judged, and the measure with which you measure will be measured out to you.” But how did the play fit into this terrorist plot? The path was far too murky.
“Mr. Huxley, so good to see you again.” A woman stood next to his table with a soft, alluring smile. Her dark eyes and even darker hair complemented her slender nose and even slenderer body. She wore a designer suit with a skirt line just above her knees and held a black portfolio in her left hand.
Huxley stood up quickly and straightened his shirt. “Sonatina D’Amare, I did not think you would remember me. Thank you for coming.” Huxley shook her hand and moved around the table to the opposite side, pulling the chair out for his guest.
“Of course, how would I forget the famous Savior of the Sistine Chapel?”
He blushed, bowed slightly, and returned to his chair, still smiling from the faint hint of a rose scent that had tantalized his nose from the back of her neck. He had certainly remembered her from that investigation many months ago, though he had only met her once. She had such a lovely way about her that the image had never quite evaporated from his mind. “Would you like some breakfast?”
“No. Grazie. Just a little caffè.” Huxley motioned to the waiter, and he brought her espresso.
“You make me feel like the piggish American that I am,” Huxley said, motioning to the meager remains scattered on two of his plates.
She smiled. “Actually, I already ate a few bites at my flat this morning. You are hardly piggish, Mr. Huxley, except maybe for that little piece of egg on your lip.”
Huxley snatched the napkin from his lap and wiped his mouth. He looked at the napkin, but it was clean.
She chuckled. “I’m sorry, I just couldn’t resist. You are the quintessenza of manners, Mr. Huxley.”
“Well, I always give it my best shot for such a…” Don’t push it, Hux. She might think you shallow. “…for such an accomplished woman.”
“Grazie. I hardly think the Deputy Director of an art museum should be so highly praised, but thank you, nonetheless.”
Huxley beamed. “Come now, just an art museum? Next to the Louvre, the Vatican Museums can boast perhaps the greatest collection of art in the world.”
She bowed her head a touch. “We do our part.”
“You do, indeed. Now tell me, Signora D’Amare—”
“Signorina.” She tilted her head slightly and smiled softly.
“I see, Signorina D’Amare then, have you found anything on Dante Tocelli?”
“I am afraid not. We have no record of him in our employ, he is not among the interns we have used in the past year, and we do not have any record of any Dante Tocelli having been given any special research privileges in the past year. Is it possible your informant was mistaken?”
“Would you know if he were employed by another part of the Vatican? Perhaps the library or archives?”
“I have not checked, but I will see what I can do. Just how serious is this matter?”
Huxley sat back and rested his chin on his left finger and thumb. “I’m not sure, y
et. Clearly some terrorists have died for some greater plan, but we do not yet know what that is. It could be minor, but I don’t think so.”
“Well, I am happy to help you if I can. The director of the Museums is still grateful to you for preventing those terrorists from destroying Michelangelo’s masterpiece and has instructed me to provide you with any assistance that I can.”
“And I thought it was just my charming personality.”
“Well, that doesn’t hurt matters any.”
Huxley leaned over the table. “You might be able to help me out on something. Are you familiar with security devices in the Vatican?”
“Just those I have to pass every day.”
“Do you need electronic security fobs to get through some doors?”
“Sure, a few of them. Why?”
“Can I see your fob?” he asked.
She handed it to him. It was attached to a lanyard along with her keys. No reference to the Vatican and no symbol appeared on it, just “Honeywell.”
“Damn,” Huxley said. “Oh, excuse my French. Dante Tocelli apparently had a fob with ‘Vaticano’ written on one side. The reverse depicted a symbol. It was described to me as a white cross inside of a square, with a circle in the middle and different coats of arms in two corners. The other corners had stripes in yellow and blue and possibly red. Does that ring a bell?”
Sonatina pulled out her cell phone and punched a few things into it. “Did it look like this?” She handed him the phone. The screen depicted a flag that matched the description. The title at the bottom read “Banner of the Pontifical Swiss Guard.”
“The Swiss Guard?” he asked.
“Yes. It must be a security pass issued to Swiss Guard members or perhaps to some place restricted to the Swiss Guard.”
“But he is Italian. They don’t let Italians into the pope’s personal Swiss protectorate these days, do they?”
“Not that I have heard,” she said. “Maybe he was their guest or was helping them out with something.”
“You think you could get me in to see the director of the guards?”
She laughed. “He is not a director. He is a colonel. The Swiss Guard is an army of sorts, you know.”
Huxley sat back in his chair. “Ah, yes, I forgot about this last vestige of an imperial past. I guess I could use an education on everything Vatican.”
“Is that how you see us, Mr. Huxley, as vestiges of the past? Do you think the pope is no longer relevant despite over a billion Catholics around the globe?”
“Sorry, I meant no disrespect. I was referring to the army and territory being left over from the vast Papal States back when popes served as pseudo emperors, not just religious leaders. I come from a Catholic upbringing, so I certainly appreciate the relevance of the pope.”
“Come from? Are you non-practicing? Not even a holiday worshiper?”
“Let’s just say a little too much holy water has flowed under my personal bridge over the years and kind of undermined the structure. But let’s not discuss me. You seem to be a very intelligent woman. You didn’t become the Deputy Director of the Vatican Museums without a fair amount of education. Do you have an art degree?”
“Si. From Accademia di Bella Arti in Florence. But then I needed to actually earn a living, so I studied at Sapienza in marketing and administration. The combined degrees made me irresistible to art museums.”
“I can see that.” Huxley smiled, maybe a little too long. “You said you would help me any way you could, right?”
After Sonatina clasped her hands and tilted her head for a two count, she leaned forward and whispered, “Well, yes, within bounds of propriety, of course.”
Huxley grinned. It was a small risk, but he was stuck and needed a little push. He couldn’t see how they would matter to her, and if they did because of a Vatican connection to the plot, well, maybe this would jar a little truth out of her that he would otherwise never see. “Nothing strange, I assure you. Are you good at pattern recognition? I was just wondering if you would lend me your brain.”
“Mi scusi?”
Huxley tilted his phone toward her. “Here, take a look at these phone entries. They aren’t mine. They are some kind of clue, I think. Now, the parts that I have highlighted I have already used, so I think we can ignore those. But we have these numbers and these notes. Do you see the reference to ‘No? A dozen times at least?’ That is a reference to a Shakespearean play. Can you think of anything that can help connect the dots for me?”
Huxley watched Sonatina’s expression closely. She seemed neither surprised nor bothered by the entries.
She pointed at the phone display. “This is an entry for your madre?”
“No, that part is bogus. You ever try a scavenger hunt in college?” he asked.
“No, we studied art, not scavengers, though my professors often thought artists left tiny clues about palace intrigues in their works. The professors probably had too much time on their hands. You can see a pattern in almost anything if you look hard enough, no? Maybe that is what is happening here?”
“You might be right. Any ideas?”
“I see Arden,” Sonatina said. “Is that not a forest in one of Shakespeare’s plays?”
“Could be.” Huxley did a quick search of “Arden Forest.” It was the forest in “As You Like It.” The more interesting find came from a side note: Shakespeare may have named the forest for his mother, whose maiden name was Arden. Once again it revolved around a mother. This started feeling right. Shakespeare somehow was a clue. He showed the result to Sonatina.
She shook her head and shrugged her shoulders.
Huxley replaced the phone in his pocket. “See, that was helpful. Maybe we should put you on this case. Anything more you can help me with?”
“I’ll see what I can find out about Mr. Tocelli and the Swiss Guard and maybe get you an interview.”
“Can we meet for a luncheon follow-up?” he said excitedly. “My treat and you name the place.”
“That would be nice, but I am not free today.”
“Tomorrow, then?”
“Certainly, if I have anything to add by then.”
“You’ll add plenty just by showing up, Signorina D’Amare. How about at noon? I’ll stop by the Museum and we’ll walk to your favorite spot.”
“Sì. See you then.” After she walked out of the restaurant, he noticed the rain had stopped and the sun now glistened off of her cheeks as she walked by the window. He smiled softly.
Chapter 11
Dante Tocelli certainly was a boring one. Other than his alleged contacts with the Vatican, Huxley could dig up nothing useful on the man. He’d been to Sapienza and discovered from a few professors that Tocelli was a good student who kept pretty much to himself. Nobody at Sapienza had seen him for over six months. The only interesting tidbit was that Tocelli had never majored or minored in astronomy. So why the telescope? He had to keep pressing.
After a wasted afternoon, Huxley found himself in St. Peter’s Basilica in the Vatican. He wished he could explain why, but he always seemed drawn to this magnificent building when travelling to Rome. You could stand at the entrance and look down the enormous nave, its ornate columns and barreled ceiling leading the eye to the beautiful dome at the center of the transept and finally to the apse with the altar at the far end, yet somehow believe you were in a cathedral of more normal dimensions. Then your eyes would notice the movement of the little ants as they scurried through the transept and realize those were people and you were in an exceedingly large building—over two football fields long. It was not just the size that drew Huxley, though. Nor was it the basilica’s sheer beauty and magnificence. There was something more, something deeper, but he couldn’t place it.
As he filtered through the crowds, he came upon his favorite statue waiting behind bulletproof glass—the Pietà by Michelangelo. There Jesus’s body lay in his mother Mary’s lap, his face turned up. Mary cradled his head in her right arm and looked down at him with a
surprising expression. It was somewhat sad, yes, but not overly sorrowful or tearful, not in agony over his death. It was more resigned, almost a look of expectation, of yearning to see him alive again. Michelangelo had chosen to depict Mary in her younger years, perhaps as she might have looked when Jesus was born, demonstrating the inner beauty she had always signified for the church. Unusual, too, were the relative dimensions of the two figures. Jesus’s body seemed slight and undersized compared to the full breadth of Mary in her robes, reminding us of how she might have held him as a baby. Was it a deliberate allusion to Jesus’s birth and death in a single statue?
Huxley could not help but think again about his own mother. She would have held him like that once. He could see her looking down at him with that same expression of expectation. But then he remembered holding her the same way, knowing she would soon die. It was too much, so he closed his eyes for a second, shook his head and turned around. There, through the thick crowds, he thought he saw his new friend. The man had quickly turned away and become lost in the crowd, but Huxley had recognized the slight folds in the eyes of his Afghan shadow. So now he’s in Rome. Huxley smiled and walked toward the exit.
When Huxley’s cell vibrated in his pocket, he walked out the basilica’s doors and answered, “Hey, Kira, whaddya got?”
“That’s it? Not even a stupid joke at my expense today?”
“Sorry, I’ve been a bit distracted.”
“What, with that Vatican beauty, Ms. D’Amare?”
Huxley grimaced. Am I that transparent? “No. You get anything more on her?”
