Wayward Son (58 page)

“What was he doing there?”

“He told me that Silvio sent him in case Walker couldn’t open the doors. I was relieved to see that he had already cleared away most of the soil covering the top of the dome. By the time I arrived, there was only a thin layer to scrape off. Imagine that—the height of the observatory was just about equal to the avalanche Vesuvius put out two thousand years ago!”

Lost in reflection about how little the scene outside the observatory resembled the devil’s fantastic picture show on the dome, Amanda simply smiled in acknowledgment.

Juan Carlos continued, “Carmelo had a pry bar and was pushing as hard as he could on the ridge of one of the interlocking plates that formed the oculus, but they barely budged. I looked around and found a service hole that directly accessed the gears for the mechanism. We leaned into the pry bar, slamming it back and forth until finally the whole oculus just spiraled open on its own. Whoever built that observatory must have been some engineer!”

If only he knew, Amanda thought. The magnificently designed repository and its contents were the product of one of the greatest artists and engineers of all time.

Then she chimed in. “From down below it was the scariest thing. In the dim candlelight, it looked as if the corpse were coming to life and turning the wheel that opened the oculus!”

“Amazing how the mind plays tricks on you,” Juan Carlos offered, hoping to quell Amanda’s obvious concern.

Nodding her head and taking a deep breath, she asked, “What do you think will happen now with the observatory?”

“Well, I spoke with Silvio earlier before we left this evening. He was still with the
Polizia di Stato
having to justify the excavation beneath private property. He thinks the whole thing will turn into a huge fight between Renard Enterprises and the local property owner. Apparently, the owner became aware of the discovery and is trying to stop escrow from closing. Either way, whoever wins that round is still going to have to deal with Cardinal Ravatti and the Pontifical Commission. Silvio thinks it could be years before anyone is allowed to excavate.”

“That would be terrible,” blurted Amanda. She had not counted on that news.

Just then, as the sun dipped below the horizon, the sea breeze picked up. Amanda, who was wearing only a light dress, caught the eye of Farzad and motioned to the attentive waiter. She politely requested that he bring one of the hotel’s propane heaters over to their table, and he left quickly to comply.

Juan Carlos looked at her with furrowed eyebrows. “What did you just say to the waiter?”

“Didn’t you hear me? I’m getting a little chilled, so I asked him to wheel over a heater.” She took a tiny puff on her cigar as she finished her explanation.

“In
Persian?”

Amanda caught her breath and almost gagged on the smoke she’d accidentally inhaled. Stifling the urge to cough, she realized she had just spoken fluently in a foreign language she’d never studied—at least until that morning! At a loss to explain, she hoped her momentary discomfort would divert Johnny’s attention.

Perplexed, but ever the gentleman, Juan Carlos rose from his chair and removed his jacket, placing it gently over her shoulders. Amanda stood up, and as they embraced she melted into his chest. Gradually, she regained her composure.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “but I’m not exactly myself. It’s been a long day.”

“It’s okay, chica mia. You were alone in the dark for a long time. Anyone would be shaken up.”

She squeezed Juan Carlos even harder, longing to share with him all she had been through. What he had just said echoed in her mind:
“Alone in the dark.”
Regardless of what her future held, Amanda knew one thing.

There was no way she was going to face it by herself.

Drawing back slightly from her rescuer, Amanda offered him her lips. Juan Carlos’s response told her everything she needed to know. After a passionate kiss, she took both of his hands in hers and looked deeply into his eyes.

“Johnny, I’m still puzzled about what happened to me this morning. But I know one thing for sure: I must get back into that chamber!”

***

Meanwhile, in Rome, two men were climbing up a dark stairwell.

“Five stories and no elevator!” grumbled Luc Renard, as he and his bodyguard began the final flight of stairs in the dank, decaying apartment building. It was located just off of the Via della Conciliazione, the main artery leading from the Tiber River to St. Peter’s Square.

“May I offer some assistance, sir?” the bodyguard inquired as he saw Renard clutch his side in pain. Both men were perspiring profusely, even though sunset was imminent.

“Don’t worry, Enzo. I’ll make it on my own. This isn’t my first visit here, you know.”

Gaining the top floor, the two men approached a lone door halfway down the hall. At Luc’s tap on the brass knocker, there was no initial response except for the slight whirring sound of a security camera, which focused on the dark-suited visitors from a niche in the ceiling. Then, with a slight click, the door opened of its own accord.

Luc checked his watch. “Wait for me here, Enzo. No other visitors—and make sure the jet is ready to depart for Mumbai at 9 p.m. sharp.”

“Will do, sir.”

“By the way, tell them to be certain we have enough rupees on board so we’re not delayed by Indian customs.”

As Enzo nodded and stood guard beside the doorway, Luc stepped forward into the foyer of Giovanni Genoa’s studio.

Peeling off his gold-skinned sunglasses, he paused briefly to admire the Renaissance period paintings in the foyer. They could have been originals, he knew, but Genoa’s uncanny skills did not rule out the possibility that the works were ingenious forgeries. Shrugging his shoulders, Luc entered the main studio.

As he recalled, this was an enormous space—in fact, the artist’s workplace occupied most of the building’s top floor. True to Renaissance practice, a number of Genoa’s acolytes were hard at work on a dozen or so easels, putting the finishing touches on the master’s latest works. The young men and women were all in their twenties and early thirties.

“What an unexpected pleasure, Luc!” exclaimed the white-haired artist. With a clap of his hands, he dismissed his apprentices, who bowed respectfully in farewell. In short order, Renard and Genoa were alone.

“And what occupies you today, Giovanni?” inquired Luc as he approached the muralist’s own easel. The devil was midway through a romantic scene of a young man and woman kissing on a terrace overlooking the sea. Luc noticed that the painter had adopted an unusual perspective: the point of view of a barn owl, perched high on a tree branch and eyeing the young lovers. Had more details been painted in, Luc might have recognized the couple as Amanda and Juan Carlos and the seashore as the Amalfi Coast.

“You are in need of refreshment, Luc?” the host grinned as he gestured toward a decanter on a nearby marble-topped table.

“No, I don’t care for wine this evening,” Luc replied, wiping a silk handkerchief over his sweating brows. He was still catching his breath from the climb up the stairs. “Tell me, Giovanni, with all the modern buildings in Rome at your disposal, why did you choose one without an elevator?”

The painter, swirling away with his brush on the canvas, absentmindedly replied, “Well, I never use the stairs, you know.”

Rolling his eyes, Renard glanced out the window down at the street. In the gathering dusk, he could make out a steady procession of people walking purposefully down the Via della Conciliazione toward St. Peter’s Square.

“That’s quite a crowd gathering at the Vatican,” he remarked. “Is there some special occasion tonight?”

“Nothing special in my opinion,” Genoa’s tone turned sour. “But for the followers of ‘His Holiness,’ a real treat. They are gathering for a candlelight vigil, at which the ‘Supreme Pontiff’ will address the hordes of faithful on the theme of wars and famine in Africa. His speech will follow up on his papal encyclical letter, another of those boring manifestos that the ‘Vicar of Christ’ feels compelled to issue from time to time.”

He spat out the pope’s traditional titles with venomous sarcasm.

“He will blame the work of the devil for these evils,” the rant continued. “He will appeal to his followers for…”

Having heard several such tirades before from the painter, Luc interrupted him midsentence.

“I have to leave shortly for India,” he declared, oblivious of the devil’s look of astonishment at the interruption. “Listen, we both know I have you to thank for helping me build my business empire.”

Genoa slowly twirled his mustache, knowing full well that Renard had not climbed five flights of stairs to talk about gratitude.

Luc continued, “In return, I’ve done all you asked, complied with everything since we first met in Chicago. Now, I want something that money can’t buy. I want you to keep your promise.”

“My promise?” the artist repeated the word with an air of surprise.

“Exactly. You gave me your word you would heal my scars. That orphanage fire was nearly thirty years ago, but the scars remain. The best medical care in the world cannot heal them. Skin grafts, stem cell regeneration, cosmetic surgery—all have failed. Even the experts I visited in Tokyo can’t help me.”

“What are a few scars? At least you’re alive,” the devil replied flippantly.

“The scar tissue restricts my mobility, and sometimes the wounds crack open and bleed when I exert myself. See for yourself.”

Luc removed his blazer and unbuttoned his slightly bloodstained shirt to reveal a grotesquely lacerated stomach. Despite his general appearance of fitness, he was hardly the picture of health for a man just turning forty.

“I suppose clothes really do make the man,” chuckled Genoa, who then feigned concern. “I had no idea of such lasting effects. You must be in considerable pain.”

“Yes, but I don’t have to be. You have often held out the prospect of a complete cure. I have done everything in my power to safeguard your interests in Ercolano. Now, I ask that you keep your side of the bargain. Please, heal these scars!” Luc’s voice thinned perceptibly. His tone was no longer that of a chief executive, but of a supplicant.

“Pace, pace, caro Luciano,”
murmured the devil. “I will help you when the time is right. But things did not go so well in Ercolano, did they, my friend? All the items in the buried chamber were not, in fact, secured. I was compelled to pay a personal visit to that young woman from the Getty, Amanda James, and reveal my true identity—a revelation that I care to make only in the most extreme circumstances.”

“Keeping your identity a secret is not my concern,” replied Luc dismissively. “Perhaps you’re simply stalling because you don’t really have the power to heal me.”

Giovanni Genoa reddened with rage. His mouth twitched and his arms whipped the air.

“You insolent urchin!
E tu, ragazzo damnato,
Luc Renard. Perhaps you need a little reminder of the basis for our relationship!”

In an instant, the artist transformed himself. He was no longer the elderly painter, but a tall, athletic man in his early thirties. Luc was looking once more at the fireman who had carried him from the burning orphanage.

“You must never forget,” his antagonist continued, as the fireman’s physical form slowly morphed back into the stooped figure of the artist, “that you not only owe me your life, but your livelihood and freedom as well. What would become of Renard Enterprises and its founder if I revealed your little secret?”

Luc turned aside momentarily, recalling how the events of that day had changed the course of his life so drastically. He’d never intended to start the fire that burned down the orphanage. He’d been spray-painting graffiti in the basement when the water heater ignited the fumes from the can. It wasn’t his fault the janitor had left his oily cleaning rags nearby. Then, weeks later, the hospital visit from his rescuer, who turned out to be no fireman at all. Indeed, the devil was very forthcoming that day, revealing his role in causing the horrifying consequences of Luc’s prank. Thus, a twelve-year-old was blackmailed into a bargain that would ultimately enrich and yet enslave him.

“No, I have not forgotten,” he replied softly.

“Fine. Now that your memory is refreshed, may I share with you my generosity?” Genoa’s voice sweetened as quickly as a chameleon changes color. “You will be cured in short order, but first you must retrieve for me what Amanda James stole from the observatory.”

“Did she take the diamonds?”

“Oh, no,” said Giovanni with a smile. “Those are for you to keep! In fact, you will have no problem retaining any of the chamber’s contents. I will ensure that the Italian judges and attorneys will cooperate, as a result of some compromising circumstances that will befall them. And don’t worry about Cardinal Ravatti or Dr. Sforza. I will deal with them personally.”

“So what did Amanda take from the chamber?”

“She pilfered a small, ancient pendant, which I will describe to you very specifically. She may not admit to having it in her possession, but she does. You will either have to steal it from her or charm her out of it, but find a way. When you bring the pendant to me, I will cure your scars permanently.”

Luc looked puzzled. “Do you really need me for this? If you appeared to her in the chamber, why didn’t you take it from her then?”

The devil broke eye contact with his protégé and gazed out of the westernmost window of his studio, where the apex of the Egyptian obelisk in St. Peter’s Square was just visible in the dusk. Clearing his throat, he discharged some opaque mucus into a spittoon. At length, he replied to Luc’s question.

“I think it is only fitting that the patient himself should procure the instrument of his healing.”

Luc’s eyebrows rose as the devil continued.

“I fashioned the pendant long ago. It is a small ceramic tile bearing the image of a serpent. A trace of my own dried blood is smeared onto it, imbuing it with wondrous powers. The tile can fully heal any human malady.”

“So I’ll be cured the moment I touch this tile?” Luc asked eagerly.