Midnight Angels (19 page)

“And where is it that you feel the Society has failed you?”

“I never did get to work on that master’s degree,” Rita said. “I could never manage to get enough of a break in the travel schedule to squeeze in a normal class load. No one’s fault, really. Just the way the job assignments happened to fall.”

“So, then, there are no regrets?” he asked.

“Not to this point, no,” she said.

“Does that mean you won’t be taking that job with the French company that has been actively recruiting you?” Edwards asked.

The question caused her to redden and go on the defensive. “The public face of the Society is well-known and respected,” she said. “So it’s not unusual for employees of such a company to get job offers. I’m certain I haven’t been the first member of the group to be approached by an outside firm.”

“And what position were you offered?” he asked.

“It’s a moot point,” Rita said, comfortably regaining her composure, though still a bit unsure how the professor seemed to know so much about her off-hour activities. “I turned down the offer.”

“Why?” Edwards asked. “It’s a younger and, many would argue, much savvier group, with the potential for growth that we may not ever see. At least as far as the public image is concerned. They stand to offer you considerably more money and a great deal more challenges and responsibilities. And I would imagine you crave both.”

“I’m happy with where I am and with what I have,” Rita said.

Edwards sat back and stared out at the batch of clouds floating past him thick as throw pillows. “How much do you know?” he asked, not bothering to look her way.

“About what?” Rita asked, fully grasping the import of the question.

“About who we are and what we really do?” he asked, turning slowly to glance in her direction. “About that side of the Society the public
doesn’t
see?”

She drew a long and slow breath, giving weight to her choice of words. “There are a lot of stories,” she said, “but nothing that can be
pointed to with any assurance. And I don’t put much belief in what I hear, only in what I can prove, and so far I’ve found no proof.”

“And how would you feel if those stories you heard about the group’s other activities turned out to be true?” Edwards asked. “Would it bother you enough to leave the Society and jump at the first job offer?”

“No, not at all,” Rita said. “The only thing it would do was make me wish I were a part of it. If the stories are indeed accurate—and I can only suppose there must be some level of truth to them—then not only would I be doing important work, but there would be a lot more excitement to my life.”

“And we can always use a fresh dose of that,” Edwards said. He turned away from her and slid a folder from under a pile of papers spread across the counter toward her. “Read this and study it. We have less than four hours until we land. That should give you plenty of time to familiarize yourself with all the details. I’ve already notified your field officer that you will be staying on in Florence, working as my assistant. Assuming, of course, that’s agreeable to you.”

“Yes, sir,” Rita said, clutching the folder and beaming a smile across to the professor. “It is totally agreeable to me.”

“That’s the answer I was expecting to hear,” he said. “And you might finally get a taste of that excitement you’ve been craving all these years.”

“May I ask, sir,” Rita said, “why it is you decided on me?”

Edwards shook his head. “Your work and your abilities, including those we believe have yet to be tapped, caught the eye of many within the organization,” he said. “Now it’s time to see if we can put your talents to greater use.”

Her upper body stiffened and she rested the folder on her lap. “Am I being promoted because of my father?” she asked.

Edwards stared back and shook his head. “You’re being promoted
despite
your father,” he said. “He has no bearing on the current situation.”

“I didn’t know until after I joined the Society that the two of you were close friends for many years,” Rita said. “He never mentioned it to me, not once, not even after he found out I was recruited for the organization.”

“Given the dual nature of the work we do, it is usually a good idea to keep certain matters as private as possible,” Edwards said.

“Even from your own daughter?”

“Especially from family members,” he said. “Such a disclosure can often lead down only one of two paths—betrayal or disappointment.”

“Neither of those will ever sum up how I feel about him,” Rita said. “The truth is, I’m very proud of my father and of the work he has done.”

“I hope you never allow those feelings to change,” Edwards said.

“I won’t,” she said, “no matter what happens.”

“It sounds to me like we’re set to go, then,” he said.

“I’m assuming we’ll be in Florence for a bit of time,” Rita said.

“As long as it takes to complete the task,” Edwards said. “Is that a problem?”

“I’m wearing the only clothes I have with me,” she said with a sheepish smile.

“You’ll have plenty of time to go shopping,” Edwards said. “Buy what you need as you need it. When it comes to clothes, if it can’t be found in Florence, well, then, it can’t be found.”

“I should get to work,” Rita said, standing. “I’d like to be as ready as I can be before we touch down.”

“Just one more piece of business before you head off,” Edwards said. He leaned down and pulled up a leather duffel bag that had been resting against his left leg. He undid the straps, flipped it open, reached in and drew out a thick brown package. From where she stood, Rita could see her name neatly stenciled across the front. Edwards stood and handed her the package. “This now belongs to you,” he told her.

“What is it?” she asked, taking the package, conscious of its heft.

“It’s your father’s gun,” Edwards said.

CHAPTER
23

M
ARCO LEANED AWAY FROM THE WINDOW AND SLOWLY CRAWLED
back to the open hole in the center of the room. “They’re gone,” he whispered down to Kate, “at least for the time being. So, if we’re going to move these Angels out of here tonight, I suggest we start to do it now.”

Kate peered up at him, her hands, arms, and face covered in white soot and dust, the two remaining Angels surrounding her in the misty darkness. “Is the van still in place?” she asked.

“I haven’t checked on it in a while,” Marco said. “But there would be no reason for the driver to have moved. He was nowhere near where the disturbance occurred.”

“Let’s get them up and out, then,” she said, slowly regaining her confidence and composure that had briefly abandoned her during those long and agonizing moments while she waited for Marco to return. “If we do this right, we can be out of here with time to spare before the next shift makes its way in.”

They worked together in silence, gently easing each Angel through the opening in the floor, careful not to scrape the sculptures against the floorboards. Once all the Angels were in place, neatly lined next to one another in the small office, Marco leaned down and helped Kate up through the hole. She peered into the darkness of what had for far too long been home to the Midnight Angels and slapped the soot off her hands and arms. “Let’s put the boards back in place,” she said, “and then make our way to the van.”

“How do you know the driver?” Marco asked, reaching for a wooden plank at his back.

“I don’t know anything about him,” she said. “Not even his name.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

Kate checked the time and peered out the small window down into the darkened street below. “I can’t see the van from here,” she said. “But he shouldn’t be more than a quarter of a kilometer from the building.”

“Or he could have driven off the second he heard the commotion out front,” Marco said, as angry as he was nervous. “I can’t believe you put all your trust in someone you don’t even know.”

“I trust the one who sent him to us,” Kate said. “And we can discuss the merits of that once we’re in the van, but for now, let’s move the Angels out of here.”

They carried them out one at a time—Kate holding the top half of the sculptures, Marco the bottom—using the rear staircase, careful to take each step, conscious of not brushing the marble up against the concrete walls. They eased their way down the narrow steps and came out through the wooden double doors at the back of the small office building situated just above the sealed-off portion of the Vasari Corridor. There, they stood under the soft glow of an overhead light, the streets around them quiet, evening shadows blanketing the city.

“Which way?” Marco asked.

Kate nudged her head forward. “Down the street behind you,” she said. “The van should be parked next to a pastry shop and across from a leather goods store.”

They walked the first Angel along the cobblestone steps, making sure their grips were firm and their footing solid, conscious of any sounds they heard. Neither one spoke, but each would occasionally cast a glance down at the Angel they carried, and even in the still of night and through shafts of light, they could see what a magnificent piece of work they held in their hands.

“It’s perfect,” Marco whispered. “I’ve never been this close to something this perfect.”

“And now you’re close to something even better,” Kate said.

“What?” he asked, keeping his focus on the Angel and on taking each step with care.

“The van,” Kate said.

She rested her end of the Angel on the ground with gentle movements,
leaned over, grabbed the handle of the back door and swung it open. Inside, the van was equipped to transport nuclear waste—side and door panels and overhead space wrapped in cloth and covered in strips of bubble wrap, all resting under thick white sheets to place the Angels on, to protect them from any potential damage from the trip through the bumpy side streets. The overhead light inside the cabin was not on, and the driver didn’t move from his post behind the wheel. He glanced in the rearview mirror and watched as the two students lifted the first of the three Angels into the van and then shut the doors. He leaned his head out the driver’s side window and nodded to them, holding a thick white cloth in his left hand.

“Take this with you,” he said. “And before you leave with the last Angel, wipe down any area in that office you may have touched, from doorknobs to furniture, anything that can leave behind a fingerprint.”

Kate ran toward the driver, grabbed the cloth from his hand, then rushed back to Marco’s side. “See,” she said. “I told you he would be here waiting.”

“I wasn’t worried about whether he would be here,” Marco said as they made their way back to get the second Angel. “I wondered whether we could trust him, and for the record, I still wonder.”

“Wonder all you want,” Kate said. “Just do it while we walk. We still have two more Angels to go.”

They rushed back to the unlocked front door of the small office building and took the stairs up as quickly and as quietly as possible.

As they carried the second Angel around a corner of the stairwell, Marco scraped the base of the sculpture against a wall, sending a flurry of dust particles to the ground, his sweaty hands starting to lose their grip. “Do you need me to lay down my end?” Kate asked. “Wait for you to get a better grip?”

“No,” Marco said. “I think I’m okay now.”

“Don’t think you’re okay,” she told him, the words coming out harsher than she’d intended. “Make sure.”

Marco looked at her for several silent seconds, reaffirmed his grip on the statue, then nodded. “I’m sure,” he said, taking a move down the next step.

Kate shook the hair away from her eyes and continued her march toward the waiting van.

…

MARCO CLOSED THE REAR
door of the van, the three Midnight Angels safely tucked away inside. He brushed away some of the white dust covering his arms and shirt as he moved toward the side panel entrance. The street was as quiet as it was deserted, the evening mist embracing him.

“Did you clear away the prints?” the driver asked, not moving his head, his voice startling Marco as it echoed down the narrow confines.

“Yes,” Kate said. “As much as we could.”

“Get in then,” the driver said, “and let’s get out of here.”

Marco reached for the door handle, to slide it open. The blow to the head, coming at him from out of the darkness, stunned him and sent him buckling to his knees. His vision blurred, his eyes tearing and twitching.

Kate turned to face the assailant, her right forearm catching a glancing shot off the pipe the man swung at her. He was thin and tall, decked out in black slacks, black zippered windbreaker, and black running shoes. With a wool cap jammed down on his forehead and the lack of light, his facial features remained hidden. He neither spoke nor even grunted.

Kate swung away from the van and brought the attacker closer toward her, standing now in the center of the street. He held the pipe above his head as if it were a large sword, his steady steps inching closer toward her. She lowered her head, avoided a hard swing of the pipe and landed a well-placed kick to the side of the man’s rib cage. That stole some of his breath but quelled none of his determination.

She was the one who spied the driver, out of the van now, moving toward them like a ghost, gently stepping over Marco’s prone and moaning body. She didn’t see the long thin blade clutched in his right hand, not until it caught a glimmer of light and was well on its way toward the center of the attacker’s back. The driver never touched the man, letting the blade do all his work, moving it steadily through bone and skin and nerve endings, until it slashed and burned past any artery that carried life. Then he eased the knife out and stood silent as he watched the man drop like a fallen tree, facedown, to the hard cobblestones.

Kate had not moved or dared even to take a breath as the deadly action unfolded. She stood in place, arms hanging loose at her side, shaking with fear and repulsion. Marco was off to her right, still groaning and groggy,
his head throbbing from the heavy hit he’d taken, his legs too weak to stand.