Saint Peter's Soldiers (A James Acton Thriller, Book #14) (5 page)

“Quiet day, today. I should be home on time. What’s for dinner?”

“I
thought I’d cook you something from your old country.”

Mario
Giasson smiled as his stomach rumbled in appreciation. His wife Marie-Claude was
a fabulous cook, but she was Italian, though with a French father—hence the
name—which meant mostly delicious traditional Mediterranean cuisine and pasta,
mixed in with some rich French delicacies.

He was
Swiss.

And he
missed the food he had grown up on. Whenever he visited his home country he
loaded up, usually leaving with his belt a notch looser—or was that
tighter?—than when he arrived, and his wife had taken notice, secretly getting
the recipes of some of his favorite dishes from his mother.

He had
been thrilled the first time he had arrived home to the mouthwatering aromas of
veal schnitzel and rösti. And been stunned that his mother had shared the
family recipes. It had made him realize that Marie-Claude had been accepted
into the family.

And it
had warmed his heart to the point of tears when he had heard the news.

She was
an amazing cook, and food of any culture she could master.

So
tonight would be a treat.

“I can’t
wait!”

“Do you
still want to know what we’re having?”

“Umm,
no. Surprise me.”

“Thought
you might say that. I wasn’t going to tell you even if you begged me.”

He
chuckled then frowned as he saw a bustle of activity outside the windows of his
office, the entire security room exploding with activity.

An alarm
sounded.

“I’ve
gotta go, sorry. Love you!”

He hung
up and jumped from his chair, rushing out into the security office, his job as head
of Vatican security taking over from that of husband and father. “Report!”

“Shots
fired in St. Peter’s Square!”

“Secure
his holiness and the other senior staff, lock us down!”

“Yes,
sir!”

His
second-in-command, Gerard Boileau, ran into the room, a radio pressed to his
ear. He handed it to Giasson. “Eastern guard post.”

“Status
report!” He pointed at Boileau and two others as he rushed out the front
entrance to the security office and through the corridors of the massive
complex, toward St. Peter’s Square.

“A
vehicle hit a pedestrian, it looks like intentionally. Two men then exited the
vehicle and shot two civilians. My men responded and eliminated the two
gunmen.”

“Whose
soil were they on?” He charged through the doors and into the huge square that
had stood for over three hundred years and seen too much blood shed for a place
so holy.

“Sir?”

“Were
they on Italian soil or ours?”

“One
civilian was on Italian soil, the other was thrown past the border by the
impact.”

“I don’t
care about the civilians. The gunmen! Did you shoot across the border?”

He was
sprinting across the cobblestone, the thousands that would usually be filling
it gone, many ringing the edges, warily looking at the crowd of guards near the
entrance, a security perimeter of flesh blocking his view of the scene.

“They
were on our soil when they were shot.”

Thank
God!

The last
thing the Vatican needed was the negative press that shooting people on Italian
soil would bring, and the paperwork would have been insane, especially if any
innocents were harmed. He’d have to trust for the moment that any stray bullets
hadn’t hit anyone else.

Surely,
someone would have mentioned it by now.

“Make a
hole!” shouted Boileau, the guards parting to let them through. A man was lying
on the ground, gripping a satchel, one of the Swiss Guard pressing down on a
nasty wound, but the man looked done for. Another man was closer to the gates,
a jacket already over his face, and two suspects, guns kicked out of reach,
were dead just inside the bollards. He stared past into the street and saw
nothing but curious onlookers.

And no
other casualties.

Thank
God for excellent training.

“Sir,
he’s trying to say something!”

Giasson
turned then knelt down by the man as he struggled to reach up to him. Giasson
took the man by the hand and leaned over to hear the barely whispered words.

“Save
the—”

A gasped
last breath, then a slow sigh as the final spark of life left his body, cutting
off his dying wish. Giasson looked at the satchel, tightly clasped to the man’s
chest. If something needed saving, it had to be inside. He moved the arm and
gently opened the clasp, peering inside.

What
could that be?

It was a
wooden crate. Small, like any other he had seen dozens if not hundreds of times
over his career at the Vatican, used to ship artwork.

But if
it was just a piece of art, how could it be worth four lives?

Outside of Orte, Italy
July 7
^th
, 1941

“Halt!”

Nicola eased
off on the throttle, slowly applying his brake as he rolled up to the second
checkpoint of the day, and according to the contact in Bologna who had refueled
him and put him up for the night, the final one. Once past this last hurdle,
he’d be in Rome and hopefully it would be clear sailing to his contact point.

But this
checkpoint was different from the rest.

A German
Volkswagen command car sat parked to the side, a driver leaning against the door,
smoking a cigarette, bored with the proceedings. Inside the guardhouse, a
temporary affair reinforced with sandbags and cinderblock machinegun nests, was
a German officer, the crisp black uniform of the SS obvious even from where Nicola
sat.

The
sight sent his pulse racing.

“Papers.”

He
produced his identification and prayed his name hadn’t been discovered. When
refueling, his contact had indicated his name had yet to make it onto the watch
lists, which suggested poor Donati had yet to divulge it.

What
a brave man!

He
fought the lump that formed in his throat at the thought.

“What is
your business in Rome?”

“My aunt
is sick. My father sent me to look in on her.” He sighed. “I’m to decide if he
should leave the farm to pay his respects before she dies.”

The
guard’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Is there some doubt?”

Nicola forced
a chuckle. “Let’s just say this isn’t the first time she’s claimed she’s
dying.”

The best
covers were always the ones closest to the truth, at least that’s what his
cousin Leo had explained to him. He did indeed have an aunt in Rome, and she
did have a propensity to declare every illness her final one. He had her
address with directions written down and because she had no phone, the story
would be difficult to check.

And if
they decided to invest the time, he was done for regardless.

“Pull
over there.” The guard pointed to the side where several vehicles were parked,
the guards ripping them apart, clearly searching for something.

Probably
the portrait.

He
couldn’t believe this one drawing could be worth so much trouble, but the Nazis
were insane, and if they thought what he had hidden in one of his exhaust pipes
could win them the war, they’d stop at nothing to possess it.

And here
he was, a single man on a motorcycle.

An
engine revved behind him and he glanced back, another man on a motorcycle
pulling up.

Okay,
maybe I don’t stand out that much.

Motorcycles
were a popular form of transport now that gas was being rationed. They got
extremely good mileage, were easy to maintain, and easy to fix. Those that had
them usually had them before the war, motorcycles not cheap anymore, and few
people had the money to spare.

He was
fortunate his moped had been a gift on his fourteenth birthday, just before
Germany invaded Poland.

“I’ll
take this one,” said one of the soldiers, striding over from his perch against
a wall, flicking a cigarette at the concrete. The guard that had pulled him
over handed the ID to the new arrival. He inspected them then handed them back
to Nicola. “Please step away from the bike.”

Nicola nodded,
climbing off and stepping back as the man looked it over. He knelt down and
began to search the saddlebags.

 “Nice
machine. Where’d you get it?”

“My
uncle leant it to me for the trip.”

Finished
with one of the bags, he knocked on the gas tank, it ringing slightly hollow,
it about half full. He touched the exhaust on the right side and winced,
yanking his finger away and sticking it in his mouth. He searched the other
saddlebag then touched the other pipe, his facial expression revealing nothing.

Nicola held
his breath, wondering if the soldier would make the connection. The man rose,
turning toward him, scratching at his chest, moving his shirt slightly to the
side. Nicola’s eyes flared momentarily and the man gave him a slight glare, as
if warning him to control himself.

For
there was little doubt, the partially revealed tattoo matched that of the man
who had arrived in their small museum two days ago.

“You’re
good to go.”

Nicola’s
head bobbed rapidly and he tried to calm himself as he climbed back on his
bike, kick-starting the engine and slowly easing around the barriers. As he
passed the German car, he felt sweat trickle down his back as the driver seemed
to take an interest in him, his gaze following him the entire way through until
Nicola was far enough along for the man to be out of his field of vision.
Clear, he gently accelerated and didn’t breathe easily until he had put a good
distance behind him, the mighty city of Rome clearly visible ahead.

As he
opened up the engine, gaining more speed, his mind reeled with what had just
happened. This man had clearly been waiting for him, was clearly part of the
group supposed to protect the portrait. If they knew who he was, then that
suggested the other man had escaped as well. Or Donati had finally given up his
name and they had somehow found out.

He shook
his head, immediately dismissing that possibility.

You’ll
have to outrun a radio.

If Donati
had talked, all of Italy would know his name by now.

He
smiled slightly as he realized the implications.

You’ve
got a guardian angel.

It
didn’t take long for him to reach his destination, and he was soon making his
way down Via Dello Statuto, it thick with traffic and pedestrians, bicycles
weaving in and out, he content to stay with the cars as he eyed the names of
the businesses as he rode by. The paper he had grabbed from Donati’s hand had
the name of a bakery on this street with an odd phrase written on it he had
memorized. It made no sense, and he had a feeling it was a mistake.

I
would like exactly seven casareccio loaves like you advertised yesterday.

Now that
he was here, the bustling market so crowded his small-town upbringing had him
feeling almost claustrophobic, to the point he drove past the bakery without
registering it. His mind caught up with his eyes and he glanced back.

Regoli’s.

He
smiled, his heart picking up a few beats as he realized his journey was almost
over. He turned down an alleyway and parked his motorcycle away from the hustle
and bustle, pretending to tie his shoe. Clear, he quickly undid the nuts
underneath the modified exhaust pipe and removed the drawing, shoving it into
his jacket, then reattaching the bolts. He stood and turned, nearly bumping
into a man walking toward him.

“Excuse
me,” he said, stepping to the side to avoid the man. The man tipped his hat,
saying something in German. Nicola felt the blood drain from his face but the
man continued on, deeper into the alley, Nicola left shaking against the wall.
He forced himself off the perceived safety of the stone and walked as calmly as
he could manage out into the street, immediately caught up in the flow of
pedestrian traffic, his shaking legs carrying him by instinct with the mass of
humanity.

He could
smell the bakery and it was divine, the fresh baked bread reminding him of
home, his mother baking her own fresh almost every day. Gloom washed over him
as he thought of them, praying nothing would happen to them for what he had
done. His cousin Leo had reassured him they at most would be brought in for
questioning, and Leo had already promised to coach them in what to say, a
promise Nicola assumed had already been fulfilled.

Please,
Lord, take care of them.

He
stepped inside, his hand absentmindedly pressed against his jacket, pushing the
portrait against his chest, it almost a source of comfort to him. He wasn’t
sure what to expect, and he definitely wasn’t sure what to do now that he was
here. There were two people behind the counter and several customers in line.
Was he supposed to just go up and tell them who he was? That would be
ridiculous.