The Thieves of Heaven (17 page)

It was estimated that within these walls, there was in excess of forty billion dollars in art, antiquities, gold, and jewels, along with titles to the Catholic Church’s vast holdings throughout the world. No other country concentrated their assets in such a small area. And because of it, there were security measures with no equal in the world.

Every doorway was monitored personally and electronically. The modern-day architects of the Vatican rivaled the fabled masters in their creativity. Their security designs—while cutting-edge—were, for the most part, out of sight so as not to diminish in any way the grandeur of the structures they protected. Metal detectors were concealed, so were radioactive sensors and electronic bomb sniffers. Hidden or not, all were in constant search of the next threat: knives, guns, explosives, even nuclear material. The precautions taken were proactive.

The Swiss Guard were stationed at every entrance and checkpoint, but they were not the ones who gave Michael pause. It was the contingent of Vatican Police wandering and intermingling within the crowds—the guards without uniforms. Their haircuts, the way they walked and positioned their bodies evident only to the practiced observer. These men floated in and out of the crowds seemingly at random, but upon closer scrutiny, a pattern was revealed. Each museum was always covered by at least two Vatican policemen. As one left, another arrived. Their timing was synchronized down to the second. And they were all watching. They were all waiting for any conceivable threat to the security of this unique kingdom.

Within the Sacristy and Treasury Museum were nine stationary cameras, their observation span covering every angle around the gold and silver keys and the entire range where Michael planned to operate. The cameras were superbly concealed within the walls so as not to interfere with the art and ambiance, but as Michael committed the room not only to memory but to film—never taking more pictures than the average tourist—he knew the hidden video cameras monitored his every move. And he realized this job would require more than experience and creativity. It would require ingenuity and a resourcefulness unlike any he had ever possessed if he was to overcome the impossible and save his wife.

“Hello.” Mary’s voice was as clear as if she were next door, her greeting sweet to Michael’s ear. The satellite phone Finster had given him was amazing; bulkier than a cell phone and quite noticeable when in his pocket, but the reception was perfect as he walked the streets of Rome.

“How is it going?”

“You first. Are you OK?”

“I’m fine.”

“How’s the treatment?” She’d started chemotherapy the day he left. But for the past four days she had been too weak to do more than whisper into the phone. Today, for the first time, she sounded like herself.

“It turns out it’s not really that bad.” Her tone was upbeat and filled with energy. “Now, tell me—are you OK?”

“Fine, things are going great, I’m actually ahead of schedule. I should be able to get home a day or two early.” Michael was relieved not to be lying for once.

“I was hoping, when you get back, maybe we could get out of town for a few days, maybe just be alone.”

“I would love that. Are you getting everything you need?”

“Jeannie comes every day. She brought all your favorite junk food and a collection of literary smut. And Paul stopped by today. He brought some pictures that his kids made and was nice enough to drop off some of my schoolwork.”

“How was Busch?”

“Fine. Why?”

“I think I pissed him off.”

“Michael…” She sounded like a disappointed mother.

“He offered to come with me and I turned him down.”

“Why?” There was a tinge of sadness in her voice. “He was just being nice.”

“I think he was having second thoughts about what I was doing and wanted to keep an eye on me.”

“You’re paranoid, he seemed fine. He said he couldn’t wait for you to get back, said your team took a beating—twenty-one to six—due to the lack of their star quarterback and that he was going to take his anger and frustration out on you.”

“I’ll bet,” Michael said.

“Michael, Paul is your best friend, he trusts you.”

While Mary, the eternal optimist, was fighting for her life, she had actually begun to think of death as an escape from the devastating feeling that wracked her body. She would never admit to Michael what she was going through. The pain from the chemotherapy was more than she ever imagined. But each time she thought about dying, she quickly said a prayer and asked for God’s forgiveness. There was nothing she wanted more than to live. To live and enjoy life, experience the world, appreciating all those things she took for granted when she’d so carelessly thought herself immortal. Michael was fighting for her life as much as she was and she viewed her terrible thoughts as a betrayal. She was determined to make it through this wretched journey; she wouldn’t let Michael down.

The garage smelled of grease and oil. It had not only stained the air but the concrete floor as well. Two dismantled Fiats were in the corner; their engines hung from chains in the ceiling. Michael was in the back near an open window; it helped to carry away the fumes as he cooked over a Bunsen burner. The fumes weren’t toxic but their sweet smell was in stark contrast to the odors emanating from the car repair shop and he couldn’t afford the attention. He had picked up his supplies at the supermarket, an art supply shop, and nearby drugstore. Mothballs, Epsom salts, paint, sugar: everyday items with everyday purposes. Michael combined and heated the mixture to 137° Fahrenheit. He formed the thick paste into malleable balls, and painted each brown. He poured them into an empty Milk Duds box and placed it next to a box of Good & Plentys.

He’d located the garage before he even left the States. It specialized in Fiats and Alfa Romeos, and its sixty-five-year-old proprietor was of the highest reputation—particularly when it came to erasing the ownership history of a vehicle. Michael had gone straight there after landing. He found the owner, an old-style grease monkey, working on a transmission in the driveway. Attilio Vitelli stood there silently in his blue coveralls as Michael explained his desperate need for a metal lathe and some tools. He had some very expensive video equipment that had been damaged by the careless luggage handlers at Rome’s airport. The parts he needed would take a month to arrive from Japan and if he missed his fast-approaching deadline he would lose his job. Michael wore a green windbreaker and a New York Yankees cap. His small gold-rimmed glasses gave him an intelligent, inoffensive appearance.

Vitelli studied him for almost a minute, wiping his greasy hands on an old rag. Michael feared that maybe the old Italian’s English was not as fluent as he had bragged.

“You know how to work a lathe?” Vitelli said.

“Yes. So, you think I could use some of your tools?”

Vitelli looked at Michael again, then climbed back under the hood, resuming his work without replying.

“I’ll pay you five hundred euros. It shouldn’t take me more than five hours,” Michael added. He wasn’t about to offer an outrageous amount, as it would raise even more suspicion than the crafty Italian already had.

Without looking up from his task, Vitelli replied, “My mechanic rate is one twenty an hour.”

“Fine.”

“You only work while I am here. And if I need to use any of my tools you defer to me.” He popped his head out from under the hood. “Camera equipment?”

Michael pursed his lips as he nodded. “I promise, I won’t get in your way.”

On the worktable in Vitelli’s garage sat Michael’s notebook computer. On its screen a digital grid overlay various images of the two keys, their display case, and the room in which it stood. Next to the computer were Michael’s creations from the day. He had worked the metal and plastic upon the lathe to perfection. Each piece honed and polished. Each device flawlessly constructed. His talent had developed considerably since his youth. Using metal and plastics, he was capable of fashioning almost anything, from fake jewels to intricate mechanical devices. Mary always bragged to her friends,
Michael is so good with his hands.

Vitelli had only stepped into the garage twice, both times to silently get tools. He’d ignored Michael as if the American was an employee and let him go about his work undisturbed. In all, Michael fashioned five items, each ordinary in appearance. But their function went far beyond their appearance.