The Thieves of Heaven (14 page)

II Corpo di Vigilanza was a squat stone building on the northeast corner of St. Peter’s Square. It was not an especially remarkable structure. Underneath it, however, was a different story. The situation room beneath II Corpo di Vigilanza was similar to something you would find within the bowels of the Pentagon. Here two worlds collided: high tech and high art. High-speed Cray computers next to Bernini sculptures, electronic maps above Raphael paintings. It was a time machine gone wrong. This room was the home of the Papal Gendarmes, the Vatican Police. Working in conjunction with the Swiss Guard, they were in charge of the security of the palace and the gardens. While the Swiss Guard was drawn exclusively from the Swiss army, the Vatican Police were all former Italian army. The combined force of the Swiss Guard and the Vatican Police was ready twenty-four hours a day to meet any assault and, unlike the security forces of other governments, theirs was a loyalty not just to their nation but to God. Any fanatic willing to die for his beliefs in an assault on Vatican City would be met by an army equally willing to give up their collective lives for a more powerful belief. No more allegiant force could be found in the world. No power on earth could deter them.

Of course, the Vatican was home to the Pontiff, the Pope, the leader of the Catholic Church. And since the attempt on Pope John Paul II’s life in 1981, the security around the Pope and the Papal home had tripled.

Michael’s objective lay within one of the world’s largest museums. And while the Vatican Museums contained many religious treasures, on the face of it, the museums’ security seemed almost carelessly minimal: cameras, alarms, and the occasional guard. The real security, however, was tenfold. All manner of entrance and egress contained expertly concealed metal detectors; radioactive isotope scanners; olfactory filters capable of detecting the chemical signatures of accelerants, combustibles, and toxins; instruments capable of identifying everything from nuclear devices and plastic explosives to the common gunpowder of a firecracker. Cameras were hidden everywhere, their monitors in the situation room attended constantly by keen eyes. Undercover security roamed the grounds, providing an up-close human observation of all activity.

Finster had provided the exact location of the two keys, allowing Michael to concentrate on his method for procuring them. But Michael had been in this business long enough to know that you trust no one but yourself. While he had already committed to the job, it didn’t mean he trusted Finster for one moment.

Before agreeing to the heist, one of the first things Michael did was look into the German’s background. What he found would impress most. Finster was a billionaire who’d come out of East Germany a decade earlier, a Midas-touch industrialist who dabbled successfully in several fields. Michael used his sources to confirm Finster had no legal affiliations nor altercations in his past. Finster, it turned out, was your typical overly successful European who wanted what he couldn’t attain. The ultrarich always seemed to crave that which was just out of reach and would go to any length to get what they thought they deserved, believing they were above not only the common man but the law.

And while Finster checked out, that didn’t raise Michael’s level of trust. He would check and recheck all of Finster’s Vatican information, relying on none of it. Research was one of the keys to success, and he would be thorough in confirming every detail that his employer provided. But all the books and all the maps in the world wouldn’t tell him the routine of the museum, the ebb and flow of the tourists, of the priests, of the guards. If he was to prevail, he had not only to overcome the Vatican police and Swiss Guard security measures, he would have to become one with their routine.

Michael reached for a large accordion envelope. It had arrived that morning, hand-delivered from Finster’s hotel. From it, he pulled a small box and, opening it, found an iridium satellite phone inside. The phone was larger than a regular cell phone: eight inches by two and a half wide and an inch thick. Michael opened the back and pulled out the battery. It was heavier than he expected; its size was the obvious reason for the phone’s bulk. The phone may have been oversized but it had its unique advantages: it was capable of calling anywhere in the world from anywhere in the world. The attached note read:
It is secure; you may contact me at your leisure in order to keep me apprised of your progress. But more importantly, you may use it to speak to your wife because, after all, that’s what this is all about.

In the envelope, Finster included ten thousand dollars in U.S. currency, twenty-five thousand euros, and three platinum credit cards, each matching a different alias. If something were to go wrong, Michael would have more than enough money and resources to purchase his way home.

There were three passports with the three different aliases. Michael’s real passport had been revoked in accordance with his probation. He had posed for the new passport pictures before leaving Finster’s hotel one week ago, allowing Finster to take care of the rest. Michael didn’t want to get picked up for the simple crime of passport falsification. That would end his journey before it began.

He spilled the remaining contents of the envelope into his hands: a plane ticket to Rome, another from Rome to Finster’s home in Germany, and a third for the return flight to New York. An itinerary was attached. He would be staying at the Hotel Bella Coccinni overlooking the Tiber in Rome.

He had seven days.

Mary, dressed in a pair of khakis and a floral blouse, lay in her hospital bed. The standard hospital wear had grown tired and embarrassing after a week, and it felt good to be back in something resembling healthy normality. Although still in considerable pain, she was relieved the surgery was behind her. She didn’t tell Michael but she was terrified of being put to sleep; she feared she would never wake up. Between the cancer and her nightmares, it had been weeks since she had felt well-rested.

Over a month ago, she’d awakened, her belly just a fraction distended from its usual taut appearance, her period six weeks late. She’d been filled with an almost overwhelming sense of joy as she drove to the pharmacy to get one of those early pregnancy tests. For years, she and Michael had wanted children. They had tried and tried. After Michael’s release from prison, they had both undergone multiple tests; they were both found to be fertile as rabbits. But nothing. The world told them to be patient, it would happen. Two months, then two years, had gone by. No specialist, herbalist, or prayer had cracked the problem.

But now, she was certain, things would be different. Everyone was right, it had happened. Mary felt life growing in her womb. All the way home from the pharmacy she planned how she would surprise Michael. Over a quiet dinner, maybe giving him a gift-wrapped baby rattle, or doing the traditional knitting-a-baby-sock routine while relaxing in a rocking chair. A special present was called for, one that was meaningful for both of them.

She finally settled on Dr. Seuss. She bought
Green Eggs and Ham
and had it wrapped in bright paper decorated with baby elephants. She would give the book to him that night in bed. She was bursting to tell him, to surprise him at work, but she wanted this to be memorable. Michael loved children. Together, they were going to raise a healthy brood. It had been a long road, but now they were on their way. This child would be the first of many.

Mary got home, opened the pregnancy test, and headed to the bathroom. It was a messy process, one she had done countless times before, but this time it would be different.

She waited the requisite five minutes. Nothing. She thought she had made a mistake, and reread the directions. There was a second test included in the box; she would wait an hour and take it, making sure she followed the directions to a tee.

It was negative. She felt like sobbing. Why had she allowed herself to be so hopeful? Michael would understand, but deep down, she knew, he would be disappointed. She threw the Dr. Seuss book in the garbage. She decided not to tell him. Why burden him? One broken heart per day was enough.

Now she sat in her hospital bed staring at the things Michael had brought her on his visits before the surgery. There among the cookies and flowers was a gift Michael had bought for her, thinking it would cheer her up. The tears welled in her eyes; it was
Green Eggs and Ham
.

The television was on mute; Jerry Springer’s flailing arms didn’t have their usual impact without his raging voice to back them up. Michael bent down, kissing Mary’s lips. “I’ve got to go away for a few days.”

“Where?” she asked, with a smile. She masked her disappointment well.

“Down South. I’ve got to sign some papers and do some work for Rosenfield, the guy who helped me cover these expenses.”

The lies were coming too easy and that worried Michael. Rosenfield may have liked Michael, but people didn’t invest in personalities. While the old guy had sympathy for Michael and Mary, he didn’t have enough. Rosenfield had said he was sorry, he couldn’t lend Michael so much money, he couldn’t take the risk.

“Did he just give you the money?”

“I told you before. It’s a loan, against the business and future work.”

“I still can’t get over that. I didn’t think there was anyone left with charity in their heart.” Mary scratched absently at the bandage that covered the shunt in her arm. “I don’t know how I could ever thank him.”

“I thanked him.” Michael took her hand in his. She had no idea that the security shop was just getting by. All she knew was that Michael was bringing home a paycheck every week and for that she was proud of him. For her, he had built something from nothing. “I’ve got to leave tonight.”

“Do you have to?” Her chemo was scheduled to start this afternoon and from what she had learned, severe side effects were ahead: she dreaded facing them alone.

“There is no place I would rather be than here with you.”

“Can I go, too?” It was more of a joke than a plea.

“I wish,” Michael said.

“I wish, too.”

“You have to start treatment.”

“I know.” She nodded, a shadow of disappointment in her eyes. “Just looking for an out, I guess. How long will you be gone?”

“About a week.”

“Hurry back,” Mary whispered as he held her in his arms. They were each facing the challenge of their lives, yet neither showed fear. Each concerned more about the other than themself.

Dennis Thal entered the locker room. The young cop had soaked through his sweats as if he had jumped into a pool and was looking forward to the ice-cold shower. His one-on-one game of basketball with John Ferguson, a rookie detective, had ended in victory for Thal despite a crippled pinky and ring finger on his left hand; he never lost. Thal hated losing.

Busch stood at Thal’s locker, waiting impatiently.

Thal was in good shape, his body lean and cut. Busch was envious but knew it was the blessing of youth. In time, the younger man would succumb to the effects of french fries and gravity like everyone else. Thal seemed like a clean, straight-as-an-arrow kid raised with a silver spoon in his mouth. The word around the station was that he was wealthy, had a substantial trust fund, and was doing the law-enforcement thing for kicks. Busch was doing some checking of his own, and if this was true he’d request that the kid be transferred. Law was something that wasn’t enforced for fun or an adrenaline high. If Thal wanted to get his blood flowing, he could do it on someone else’s dime. Extreme law enforcement wasn’t a sport, it was Busch’s job. He wasn’t about to end up dead because some dude was looking to get his rocks off.