The Templar Concordat (14 page)

The Master nodded and stared at the fire. “Well, we can be sure they were behind the bombings. The Israelis say the bomber was one of the Hashashin disabled veterans.” He paused and looked up. “And from a purely professional perspective, it was a masterful job. I can’t deny a certain admiration for a job well done.”

“You’re a cold, old bastard.”

“Goes with the job. Me and all those cold bastards who went before me. Nine hundred years of cold bastards. That’s why we’re still here.”

“Never underestimate the enemy, especially the Hashashin.”

“True. True. Have the Watchers found anyone special among the three Hashashin?”

“One guy who is probably being groomed for higher things. Ahmed Al Mishari. Saudi. We think he might be some relation to the Old Man back in Bekka. Might be worth some special handling.”

“Hmph. And you think you can take out thirteen at one time? The Hashashin won’t be easy. Three Hashashin and their ten wanna-bes?”

“For God’s sake, you think we’re going to challenge them to a fair fight at dawn? Pistols at ten paces?” The Marshall made a pistol with his fingers and fired at the fire. “The Watchers have been on these guys for months. We know where they eat, sleep, screw, and drink. We know their favorite restaurants, bars, women, men, cars, and motor scooters. We know where they live, where they park their cars, and what time their landladies go to bed at night. We even know what landladies sneak into their beds after lights out.” He laughed. “We own one of them. We have them cold. The Watchers tell us where and when to get them, and we send in our guys to do the job and get out. Standard stuff. Just more than usual.”

“If we get that many in Rome,” the Master added, “the Hashashin we have been watching in other cities will surely scatter.”

The Marshall ran his fingers through his white hair. “Sure they will. That’s why we should take as many of them as possible. Wherever our Watchers have located Hashashin, we should act. Good God. They just bombed St. Peter’s, and they want to kill thousands more.  I don’t want to get reckless, but the Watchers have enough info to get a lot of them. I don’t care that much about the clowns hanging on to them. I want the Hashashin. That’s the brains of all this.”

 “Yeah, and you call me a cold bastard.” He slapped the cane into his other hand. “Alright, when we see the white smoke from the Sistine Chapel, there’s a new Pope, and we will depart the Vatican under the Concordat. But before we go, we will dispatch a few of our Hashashin friends so they can’t do any more damage. Wouldn’t you say that was a pretty good gesture of goodwill toward the new Pope?”

“I would, unless the new Pope is Agretti. Then we’re just apostates and heretics again. And he’s the favorite.”

“True, true,” the Master nodded. “We’re going to have to pour a lot of our people in there until there’s a new Pope. I want all vested Templars going after the Hashashin and the other ten jerks. Just our people. Vested Templars only. No contract help.”

“A lot of our people are in place in Rome. I started moving them down there right after the bomb went off yesterday. Has to be done, so let’s do it.”

“And I want you down there to run the show.”

“Yeah, I was planning on that. They have contingency plans for all these guys, so we just execute what has been drawn up already.”

“And let’s have Mancini hang on at the Vatican until we can make the approach to the new Pope. Let’s not run at the first whiff of white smoke. No point in unwinding things if we don’t have to. I’ll get a Council vote by phone on hitting all the Hashashin and all the Al Qaeda we can get. I don’t think anyone will object.”

The Marshall stood up and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “You know, we still don’t know what’s going on with that Treaty of Tuscany. Remember that bit about exploiting it?”

“Yes. I’ve been wondering about that. I hope it’s not something sitting right under our noses. I don’t like that word ‘exploit.’ I don’t know. All we can do is keep our eyes open.”

“Ok. I’m moving on those jerks in Rome. Consider the operation in progress.” The Marshall stopped just short of the door and made a gun with his finger. “Death in Battle.” He went laughing down the corridor.

Vatican - Tuesday, March 24

Mancini looked up from his desk and shook his head. “They told me you were still alive. I guess they were right. You look like crap. Sit down before you fall down.” He looked at Callahan again. “What did you do? Brake with your face?”

Callahan had a huge blue and green bruise down the left side of his face, a bandage on the right temple, and raw scrape marks from his forehead to chin.

“No big deal. Everything works fine. They said this,” he pointed to his face, “will probably get even more colorful before it gets better. I hit something flying out of the Basilica and down the steps. Not sure what, but it must have been hard.”

Mancini frowned. “Yeah, you did come shooting by pretty fast.”

“Don’t worry about it. Nothing broken, just hurts like a bitch when I smile.”

“Anything else?”

“Lost my gun in the blast. And it was a good gun. Had it for a long time. Smith & Wesson. Good American gun.”

 Mancini picked up the phone. “Bring me one of those new Glock Nines, two extra magazines, and two boxes of hollow points.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I don’t give a crap. It’s for whoever I want to give it to. Bring whatever you want and I’ll sign in triplicate. Twice.”

Mancini leaned back. “What about the concussion?”

“What concussion?”

“The one the folks at…” Mancini flipped through a stack of paper on a table behind him. “Here it is. Santa Helena Hospital. Those folks said you had a ‘concussion, laceration right temple, and significant facial friction abrasions.’”

“How’d you find that?”

“Zurich tracked you down. They must have called all the hospitals in Rome.”

“Oh, hell. I have a headache, but that’s all. Got my bell rung, but it’s been rung worse before and I lived.”

Mancini put the paper back and peered over his glasses. “Why are you here? What do you think you’re going to do here? Take some time. Go to the beach. Watch the girls. Come back when you’re in one piece again and don’t look a garbage truck backed over your head.”

Callahan laughed. “Yeah. I probably do look like hell. But I am in one piece. It’s just a big bruise.” He looked around, leaned in, and lowered his voice. “There’s only two Templars here, you and me, and we can’t have half our forces at the beach.”

“That’s changing. Zurich wants payback. They’ve been arriving ever since Sunday night. All vested Templars.”

“What about the Concordat? You and me are already in violation.”

“The last Pope refused an alliance with the Templars, you’re right, so we were in violation by being in the Vatican. But, now he’s dead, and his papacy is ended. And there is no Pope, so the Concordat is in a gray area. We can bring Templars in and we’re really not in violation since there is no Pope. If the next guy makes an alliance with us, fine. If he doesn’t want to work with us, then we just pack up and let him fight his own battles. Next time they come calling with a bomb, he can tell them all about the fellowship of men, the dignity of human life, open borders, and God’s plan for mankind.”

“I want in on this.”

“There’s a spot for you. Don’t worry.”

A uniformed guard came in and piled a Glock Nine box, holster, two magazines, and two boxes of shells on Mancini’s desk. Mancini signed three forms, then pushed the pile to Callahan. “Here. A good Austrian gun.”

Mancini rubbed his chin and pushed back in his chair. “It’s on for tomorrow. The plan has been complete for a few weeks. Zurich wants to move now, before these guys disperse.”

“Deal. Well, what do I do today?”

“Take a rest.”

“Take a rest? No way. There has to be something I can do. This place is a madhouse, half the Vatican is dead, Italian cops are still around, and I just heard you’re acting Chief of Vatican Security. That shows how screwed up things are.”

“Yes, yes, and yes.” Mancini looked around. “You want something to do today, big shot? Want to kick some ass? Alright. I’ll give you something to do today. Remember, you asked.” He grinned and took a clipboard from the wall. “Here. After the bomb, they found some bishop handcuffed in the Vatican Library and babbling about a frog.”

“Are you nuts?” Callahan scanned the clipboard. “We’re mounting an operation, and you want me to chase down the library bandit? Is it an overdue book? Chewing gum? Is that what the Glock is for?”

“What are you bitching about? There’s nothing to do until tomorrow night.” Mancini pointed to the door. “Go to the library or go to the beach. Your choice.”

Callahan took the Glock and the holster and headed out the door.

*     *     *

Santani’s office was a surprise. Callahan had expected a dusty clutter of books, papers, and filing boxes balanced on top of each other, but instead he found ultramodern furniture and a bank of three computer monitors. Not an oak panel, index card, cobweb, or mahogany desk in sight.

The library had not reopened and was eerily quiet. Nobody sat in the vast reading room poring over old books, no shuffling of paper, no rustling tweed, no carts of books being wheeled around. Creepy.

Callahan accepted coffee from the Bishop and listened politely as he gave a brief history of the library. It had been founded by Pope Nicholas V in 1451 to bring the various Vatican holdings into a single recognized collection. Since then, it had grown from one thousand books to more than two million. It also had a hundred thousand manuscripts in Latin, Greek, Persian, Arabic, and Hebrew. It housed maps, letters, drawings, artwork, coins, engravings, and medals. The records of the Catholic Church were part of the collection, detailing the reign of each Pope, councils, encyclicals, synods, conclaves, and consistories. Santini’s pride in the library and his place in it was obvious.

Callahan patiently listened to Santini’s story of the theft at the library, nodded the whole time, and faked some notes on a small pad he carried.

“Anything I can do to help, I will do, Mr. Callahan. Anything.” Bishop Santini fiddled with a paper clip, caught himself, and placed it aside. “Anything at all.” He picked up a pen, pried the top off, snapped it back, pried it off… and shoved it in a drawer.

“Well, maybe you can tell me why the thief took so little. As you said, the Vatican library is one of the premier collections in the world. The collection is huge. Why stop with a few medallions? And why those in particular?”

“You must understand those medallions are priceless, very special, and have great historical value.”

“Yes, I know. And each one weighs, what? About two or three ounces? He only took, what? A hundred medallions? So we have less than twenty pounds? You said he was a husky man. Doesn’t that seem odd? I’ll agree it’s a lot of gold, but if twenty pounds is priceless, wouldn’t fifty pounds be even more priceless?”

“Fifty pounds is not easy to carry.”

”Oh, I don’t know. Fifty pounds is a bag of fertilizer or a heavy suitcase. And after all the work he went to? And that’s not even counting the tattooed nun.” Callahan waited for a reaction.

Santini winced at the mention of the tattooed nun. The tattooed frog would follow him for the rest of his career. He never should have said a word.

“All I can tell you, Mr. Callahan, is what the thief said.” He looked down at his hands.  “He said the medallions had great value to Chinese collectors. Let’s see, he said there was so much priceless Chinese art in the West, wasn’t it time for some priceless Western art to be in China?” Santini thought that was very good detail.

Callahan looked up from the folder on his lap. “Well, Bishop, is it?”

“Is it what?”

“Is it time for priceless Western art to be in China? Has there been a movement in that direction? Are there calls for the return of Chinese art?”

“Repatriate art? Everybody is calling for that.” Santini looked across the room where his safe was concealed.

“But why these medallions? Isn’t there something more valuable here? Any Faberge Eggs? Jeweled tiaras? Jewels are easier to fence than these medallions. Like you said, the medallions are listed in the Vatican collection in numismatic catalogs. They could always melt the gold, I suppose.”

Santini winced again at the thought. “Oh, they could, and it would be horribly destructive.” Go with this guy, he thought. Don’t fight him. “Funny thing is, in a legitimate sale, each medallion would bring ten times its own weight in gold.”

Santini cracked a knuckle. Why had he chosen those stupid medallions? This American was right. A thief could find many more valuable things in the library.

He held a silver letter opener between his index fingers and examined it. “I can’t say what they thought, or why they did it. How do I know? It was horrible.  All those people dead, the Holy Father, the Cardinal Librarian. Why ask me what the thieves thought? I don’t know. I’m a scholar, not a thief. I’m a librarian. I have a duty to this collection. I have a duty to the Church.”

Callahan pursed his lips and nodded. “I’m sorry if I have upset you, Bishop. But you must remember that I, too, have a duty. Sometimes people observe things that can be very helpful. Sometimes they don’t even realize they hold a key to an investigation. Something in the mannerisms of the thieves, a few words between them, or an off-hand comment. You’re all we have, Bishop.”