Authors: Daniel Syverson
The inspector was already running off to change.
The Commander quickly called for a replacement guard, and would cover until
then. The sprayed guard even now was headed to the barracks for a change before
returning.
"Move it, Frank, hurry up. Get rid of that
stuff. Get out of here! We have to clean up here. Don't just stand there. If
you're gonna get sick again, do it outside the gate. Hurry up!"
He fairly ran out the gate with his bins.
Saved! Unbelievable! He was safe! He'd made it!
His new life was just around the corner, literally.
Cool waves of relief washed over him as he
turned the corner with his bin. He wiped his face with his sleeve. He began to
grin. He'd made it. He'd actually gotten past them all. This was it - he was
going to be rich!
He pushed his cart down the sidewalk, just
around the corner. He saw a group of kids, making their way up the sidewalk
towards him, but he had time to dump the load before they got there. He
approached the dumpster gate, undid the latch, and pulled the gates open,
blocking the sidewalk, gaining access to the dumpsters. His grin became larger.
* * *
As the students, instructor in front, approached
the waste area, a man pushing a cart of trash came around the corner, stopping
under the sign marked Waste Area #4. The man unlocked the gates, pulling them
open. The gates were so wide that to go around them, the students would have to
walk in the street. With the way the cars were zipping around, that wasn't a
good idea. The instructor hoped the man would be quick.
Hoping to time their arrival as the gate again closed,
the group slowed their pace. The instructor held the kids back, behind the
gate. "Relax guys, there's no rush. Let that guy finish up. You think
there's something interesting in there for you to see?"
* * *
Interesting, indeed.
* * *
Both gates now open, Frankie pushed the cart
inside, up to one of the dumpsters. As he did, a car pulled up, passenger side
facing Frankie. The car contained the two men from last night. And his
retirement money.
Right on schedule.
Everything was working out perfectly. With the
gates open, no one could see him pull the chest from the bottom of the bin. Frankie
was still grinning like a schoolboy as he placed the chest in the trunk that
had popped open. He was grinning as he slammed the trunk lid down. He was
grinning even more as the window rolled down.
He was even grinning as he was shot three times
in the chest with a silenced automatic.
Three silenced shots.
Frank looked down in disbelief, backed up two
steps, and sat down hard on the concrete, holding his stomach. The crimson
stain just below his chest grew rapidly. He looked at his hands, covered in
blood, and wondered why he didn't feel anything. He looked up at the window,
already closing.
A
But my money
B
," he whispered. It was hard to speak, with his chest
gurgling like that. He fell back, still holding his stomach. He couldn't get
his breath. Opening his eyes, the blue sky seemed far away, as if he were
seeing it through the lens of a camera, the sky surrounded by a growing black edge.
As it rapidly grew darker around him, and the sky shrunk, he was still thinking
about how well it had gone, wondering what happened.
Then, all went dark for Frankie.
"Okay, he's done, let's go. What an idiot.
Like we were seriously going to hand him ninety five thousand Euros cash for
that box. Jeez." Manny just shook his head as his partner drove them
away.
A red stain was growing, but more slowly now, on
the concrete.
* * *
Odd that this would be the only mark that Mr.
Frank Notini would leave on this world.
* * *
As the car drove off, the kids peeked out from
the other side of the opened gate. The car was gone. They all looked carefully
up and down the streets. Clear. It appeared safe. The instructor pushed the
gate partway shut to make room and waved the kids quickly past, towards the
side entrance. Hurrying past, each kid and adult slowed almost to a stop,
staring at Frank as they went by. It was a face and story they would remember. It
would be difficult for anything at the Vatican to beat this.
As they turned the corner toward the entrance,
the Commander and remaining guard were still cleaning up Frank's mess at the
gate, oblivious to the entire event outside.
* * *
There would be a lot more cleanup to do.
D
epardieu
pushed himself away from the table, pulled the napkin from where it was tucked
into his shirt, and walked to the door back in the kitchen, still chewing his
food. He glanced at his watch, at the clock on the stove, and back at his
watch. He held it to his ear as he unlocked the back door.
"Piece of shit," mumbled through a
mouthful of food. "Where you guys been? Got it?"
They stepped inside, setting the chest on the
center island. "Not there, you idiot. I eat off'a that. Haven't you got
any class? Put it over there, and cover it with that box. Carefully." He
grabbed a cloth from the sink and wiped off the island. "Morons. Hey,
where'd you get this piece of shit watch? Wasn't this supposed to be off that
guy, what's his name, who owed me from that last job? Last Wednesday? Piece of
crap watch."
He looked back up at Manny. "Any problems?
Find my money?"
"See," piped up the big guy, "I
told ya we shoulda got it."
"There wasn't any time," Manny
explained. "You said to get in quick, deal with him, and only get the
money if we could do it quick."
"Okay, okay. Just making sure you didn't
collect a little extra on the side."
"Hey, no, like, we'd never cross you, would
we, Manny? Right, Manny?"
Manny just shook his head no. Depardieu knew
better. You didn't cross him. He pulled an envelope from his pocket. "Alright,
here you go. Nobody saw nothin', right?"
"Of course not. And if they did, you know
we wouldn't of brought them back this way."
Depardieu just grunted. He opened the envelope,
and pulled out a single hundred Euro bill. "This is for that watch." He
closed the envelope and handed it to Manny. "I'll call you when I get
something. Don't let anybody see you leave."
He closed the door behind them. Looked one more
time at his watch, and the clock. He took off the watch, and dropped it in the
trash.
He reached for his phone. He was about to make a
great deal of money. Unlike Frank, though, Depardieu knew what he was doing.
"I've got it," he said softly into the
phone. "Where do you want to meet?"
* * *
Father Alonso Sartini hung up the phone. He
looked out the large window of his expansive office in a remodeled country
estate a few miles outside of Rome. His vow of poverty did not extend, in his
mind, to his use of the organization's facilities. Nor did it apply to the
account he held in Switzerland under a different name. Nor did his other vows
seem to have an effect on his activities during his ever more frequent trips to
Thailand.
Of course, his activities while there were
certainly not reported on nor would they have ever been condoned by the Church.
He certainly wasn't the priest the others
thought he was.
Which was exactly why he was there.
His position had allowed him for many years to
keep tabs on the search for the Chosen One. He and his people had meticulously
gone through, over the course of many years, every item on record at the
Vatican.
And that was no easy task.
Several hundreds of thousands of items were
cataloged, with thousands more added yearly. This gargantuan task, which
appeared to be in the best interest of the Vatican, was in reality part of the
search. The fact that the Vatican benefitted from the task was strictly
coincidental, though it certainly protected their cover. Father Sartini also
had the ability, due to his extremely senior position, to pretty much do and go
where ever he chose, with no oversight. This not only helped his organizational
pursuits, but allowed him the freedom to pursue his less than spiritual appetites,
which he satisfied during his frequent trips to the Far East.
He sat down in the plush leather wingback chair
near the window, gazing out over the vineyards, now filling with plumped
grapes. He tried to imagine how, after all those years of searching, a common
maintenance man, a janitor that was on the edge of being fired for numerous
reasons, had been able to recover the chest they all had been searching for all
those years.
It didn't make sense. Add to that the call from
his man in America, and those reports about Richter. And now, he'd heard there
was a meeting in Tehran.
He looked over at his desk where the chest sat,
illuminated by the desk lamp. What was so special about it? Anything? Or was it
all just a myth.
He walked over, examining it yet again. Finally,
decision made, he went to his closet and rummaged through several boxes and
cabinets before finding what he was looking for.
Handy with tools, he was able to quickly pick
the ancient locks. No challenge there except for all the corrosion, which caused
the mechanisms to stick. It had taken a while, but he'd been able to pop each
of the locks open without damaging them. When he began to slowly open the
chest, he wasn't sure what to expect.
Glowing gold tablets? Pent up spirits flying
out, as in an Indiana Jones movie? Jewels? Ancient texts? He held his breath
and tipped the lid back.
Rocks. Rocks?
Metallic, iron rocks. Just basic meteorites.
He took them out, looking at each. He looked
under them, behind the crumbling crimson liner. Nothing but rocks.
Clearly, this was the chest. It had the
markings. He had some very old drawings, drawings made on papyrus rolls that
weren't on any Vatican inventory. He knew he was right. Still, rocks? What made
them so special?
He went back to his chair, gazing back outside. He
had to report it. He couldn't wait any longer. Maybe it was nothing, but it
wasn't his decision. He'd been put in this position many years ago for the sole
purpose of finding this chest, and any related artifacts. No one had really
expected him to find it, but he was told to look. As had his predecessor. And
the ones before him.
He stood up once again, returning to the desk. After
one final look, he replaced the meteorites, carefully, before closing the lid
and relocking it.
If he was right, this was the key. He would be
the one that had provided the final link. He would no longer have to maintain
this farce of being a priest. He would be able to get rid of that collar for
good, returning to the pagan practices he'd been taught when younger. How would
it be used in Tehran? How
could
it be used by Tehran? And finally, and
most importantly, for a man that had served himself before all others, how
could this benefit
him
?
He sat down to consider this, finishing his
glass of wine. He'd often watched the afternoon sky and graded the changes in
color as one of his wines. He did so now as he gazed at nothing through the
window where the light, still a bright, light gold reflected off the fields, reminding
him of one of his bottles of
Chenin Blanc
, slowly turning to the deeper
gold of a
Chardonnay
.
He ignored the ringing phone as he refilled his
drink, contemplating options that would have ramifications far beyond those
even he could imagine. He sat motionless, savoring every aroma as it arose
from the glass. Each swallow was as his last. He held the empty stemless glass
cupped between his hands in front of him, not seeing it, elbows resting on the
arms of the great leather chair, allowing the final aromas, now warmed from his
cupped hands and still lingering on the glass, to make their way up through his
delicate and precise olfactory senses.
The sky outside the window slowly deepened
through the rose shades of his
Cabernet Sauvignon
before finally
succumbing to the deep violet of one of his numerous vintage ports. The
considerations were important, and life changing for him. He had to consider
this carefully. If he played this right, his position would be elevated beyond
imagination. He would answer only to the man who would one day rule the world,
with all the advantages that entailed.
If he was wrong, well, it was best not to
consider it.
But he wasn't wrong. He knew it. He'd be
recognized and remembered forever as the one who had provided the chest to the
Chosen One. For whatever good it was. How best to maximize this? Could he,
should he, try to negotiate this on his own? He knew some of those with whom he
was dealing. They were not men to fool with. Worse were the men and risks he
didn't yet know. The risks were becoming greater. Was the reward?
The stars were out when he finally rose,
decision made.
He carefully set the glass on the leather
coaster at the edge of his desk, then picked up the phone, dialing a direct
number he'd memorized long ago, but had never used. He heard a series of clicks
as the call was being routed through various exchanges, and finally he heard it
ring. It sounded a long ways off.
He paused as the voice at the other end
answered.
"I have the chest. Where shall I bring it?"
He listened for a moment. "I will wait at this line for your instructions."
He slowly replaced the receiver.
The man who had answered the phone was Gerhard
Richter.