The Guardian (26 page)

Jonathan let out a big sigh. “Of course I know that, you idiot! Do you think I would keep important documents and the like here if I didn’t?”

The man was now sweating profusely. He pulled a handkerchief from his waistcoat and mopped his brow.

Jonathan knew he had him now. He moved in for the kill. “Listen to me, you imbecile. In exactly ten seconds I’m walking out that door. When I leave, I will be making a phone call. I’m sure the man who will be here to replace you in an hour will be more than happy to let me into
my
private box.” He put the emphasis on
my
to show his annoyance. And it worked.

“That won’t be necessary, monsieur. Please wait here one moment.” The little man quickly walked back down the corridor and stepped into the office he had originally came out of. Ten seconds later, he reemerged with a gigantic key ring and almost ran back to where Jonathan stood. “If you’ll follow me …” He extended his arm out to show the way then started walking.

Jonathan now let a controlled smile appear on his face. This was the most fun he’d had in a year. He followed the little man down the hall and into a secure room. Inside the room there were little cubicles, each having its own door with a dead bolt on the inside. The little man walked over to one of the larger boxes and pulled the key ring from his pocket.

“I believe this is the box you were referring to, monsieur.” He tapped a finger on the face of the box.

“It is. Thank you.” Jonathan kept his serious demeanor.

The man unlocked the main lock with the giant key ring then took a single key out from his pants pocket. He inserted it into the other lock and turned it. There was a
click
as the tumblers gave way. He pulled down on the lever, and a hiss of air escaped as the seal gave way. The door to the safe opened and inside sat the large box. He pulled it out, walked into a private cubicle, and set it down on the table. “Just let me know when you are finished, monsieur. I will be happy to put it back for you. Let me know if I can get anything for you. Would you care for an espresso, latte, or a tea?”

“That will be all. Thank you,” Jonathan said. He waited until the man left and then locked the dead bolt on the door. He lifted the lid on the box and held his breath. Could Remy really have taken all of his money? Surely she would know that he would come for her.

He pulled up the lid and was surprised. There were two bundles of cash and a note from Remy. He picked it up and read.

He folded the paper and stuck it in his pocket. Now he had a dilemma. On one hand, he’d lost nearly six million dollars. Contrary to what Remy thought, it wasn’t his life’s earnings. He had at least ten other safe-deposit boxes in other cities with as much, or more, cash in them. But it was the principle of the thing. Could he just let someone walk away with his cash?

On the other hand, he did still have a thing for her. It would be fun chasing her down. And who knew? Maybe she was being honest in her letter. Maybe she still did have a thing for him, too.

He would find her, but not until he dealt with this scroll business. He was sure she wouldn’t really be where she had said. He’d known that all along. No matter. He would find her. And for her sake, she’d better hope she still had a thing for him.

W
ickham strolled through the courtyards and the people on his way to the papal apartment. He wore a smart smile on his face—not too jovial, but reassuring and polite. Soon he would be the one everybody relied on to get them through the crisis of a recently deceased pope. He needed to appear strong. But inside he was as happy as a schoolchild enjoying his first day of summer vacation.

He nodded as he passed a young couple, probably on their way to the Sistine Chapel. He could see the brochure in the young man’s hand. They smiled, holding hands, and brushed past him as if he wasn’t even there. That would soon change. He would have one of the most recognizable faces in the world. The death of the pope was going to be a spectacle. And he would be in the center of it.

He took his time walking, contrary to what he’d told the young lady on the phone he would do. He couldn’t care less about giving the old man his last rites. He slowly made his way through the maze of the buildings until he finally arrived at the apartment. He nodded to the Swiss guard standing outside the door, turned the knob, and let himself in.

The room smelled of death. It lingered throughout, reminding him of a nursing home. He’d been to enough of them to know. Early on in his career as a priest, it was his duty, as with all young priests, to visit the elderly. He could recall the smell just by thinking about it. And now here it was again, stinging his nostrils.

Paul lay in his bed like a statue. The color had already drained out of him so that his face resembled that of a wax figure at some museum. His eyes were closed, and a sheet was tucked under his chin. Wickham touched his forehead. It was cool.

No one had said anything yet. There were at least ten people in the room, counting medical staff, and clergy.

“He’s gone, Cardinal Wickham,” a young nurse sobbed. She tried to control her tears, but they just streamed down her face.

No one acknowledged that she had even said anything. Everyone stood there with their heads down, eyes at the floor. He assumed they were all saying some kind of prayer for the old man. He knew now was the time to take charge. Any faltering, and it could cause him problems later. He needed to assert himself quickly. The only thing he could think of, spur of the moment, was to ask a simple question. “Who gave the last rites?”

The voice he heard was not the one he expected. Actually, he hadn’t even seen him when he had walked in. But from behind him, he heard the unmistakable voice of Cardinal Joseph McCoy.

“I did.”

He turned to see the cardinal stepping out from behind a doctor. Joseph walked over and put his hand on Wickham’s shoulder. “Louis, I wasn’t sure if you would make it in time.”

“No, that’s fine, Joseph. I’m glad you did.” He was still trying to figure out what in the world Joseph was doing here in the first place. As if reading his mind, the younger cardinal filled him in.

“One of the nurses alerted me. She had heard that Paul and I were very close.” He raised an eyebrow. “I rushed in here to find him barely able to breathe. I just finished giving the last rites when you walked in.”

Wickham readied a suitably somber expression and addressed the rest of the room. “Let’s all remember Paul in our prayers, as well as the church around the world who will mourn his loss. I’ll need to prepare a statement for the press. Don’t discuss his passing until after we’ve released that official statement. There is much to do.” He started for the door. “Joseph, would you come with me? I could use your help.”

Cardinal McCoy fell into step right behind Wickham. Outside, the chill of the cool February air stung their faces. Joseph pulled his jacket up over his collar. He reached out and grabbed Wickham by the shoulder. “Louis, I’m nervous about this.”

Wickham looked around to make sure no one was within earshot of them. “What’s to be nervous about? It’s done. He’s gone.”

“What if there’s an autopsy? What are they going to find?” “Nothing.”

“What do you mean, nothing?”

“Just what I said, Joseph, nothing. There’s not going to be an autopsy. There’s never been an autopsy on a pope. And we’re not about to start now.”

A
nna kept trying to spot one of her guards. She figured that they were as good as they said, because she’d been trying for the last two hours and still hadn’t even caught a glimpse of one. She had spent a good hour studying the faces in the photographs. It almost made her wonder if they were really there. Finally, while stopping for coffee at a café in Piccadilly Circus, a lady in a waitress outfit set a small piece of paper in front of her. She unfolded the note and stared at the five little words written in very neat handwriting:
Don’t worry, we’re here, Anna!

She showed the note to Jason who laughed heartily at her reddened face.

They finished their coffees and headed back out into the craziness that was London shopping. Every street was lined with store after store carrying clothing from designer one-of-a-kinds to straight-off-the-rack-we-got-ten-more-just-like-it-in-the-back. Shops with elaborate window scenes donned every corner. A person could easily find anything here, from beach sandals to formal evening wear.

Suddenly, Jason stopped at the corner of the street.

Anna backtracked to rejoin him. “What’s up?”

“Pay phone. Over there.” He pointed to the other side of the street, opposite the way Anna had started.

“What for? Use your cell.”

“Pay phone’s untraceable. Never know who’s listening. And we need to find out when we can go to the embassy.”

“So you’re just going to call? And say what? ‘Hi. This is Jason. We want to come over and see some guy named Benjamin. Can you tell him we’re coming?’“

“Ha, ha! Smart aleck.” He headed for the phone, Anna trotting after him. “No, but we need to know hours of operation. And …”

“And what?”

“And I don’t know. We’ll see what comes up.”

“Well, I guess it’s better than nothing.”

They crossed the street, and Jason stepped inside the tiny phone booth. Anna waited outside. There was barely enough room for Jason to get in.

He dialed a number, nodded a few times, said something, and then hung up. He extricated himself from the booth. “Guess we need some formal clothes. I need a suit, and you need a dress, or a gown, or whatever you call it.” He shrugged.

“A gown? What are you talking about? To go to the Israeli embassy? Man, are they strict!”

“I thought you women loved getting dressed up.”

“For a formal ball, maybe. Not just to go see some guy at a foreign embassy.”

“Well, that’s exactly where we’re going. To a formal ball.”

Anna just looked at him blankly.

“It seems,” he continued, “the embassy is closed today. Tonight is some annual ball that they have. It is, from what I understood, quite a big deal. Invitation only. That’s what the lady said.”

“And how do you suppose we get into this ball?”

“My guess is, if your grandpa was planning to go to the embassy today, he must have been on the guest list. We just need to hope that whoever’s working the door doesn’t know what he looks like.”

“Well then, we’d better hurry.”

They passed in front of a men’s shop that had a mannequin standing in the window wearing a charcoal-gray suit. The suit was shiny and looked expensive. It was a four-button and was accented by a crisp white shirt and a deep red tie. The sign in the window said: C
ERTAIN
M
ERCHANDISE
60 P
ERCENT
O
FF.

Anna snagged Jason by the elbow and led him inside. “I think that would look awesome on you.” She pointed to the window. Jason said nothing. He just looked back as Anna dragged him inside the store.

A little bell hanging above the door chimed as they stepped inside. A man in a suit similar to the one in the window stepped out from behind the counter. He was tall and skinny. He had a pointy nose that had little rectangular glasses trying to fall off the end of it. He pushed them up with the tip of his fingers and tilted his head back to see who had come to visit him in his little boutique.

“Good day. How may I help you?”

“How ya doin’?” Anna greeted the little man. “My friend here needs a new suit.”

“Ah, Yanks, I see!” The man moved forward and stuck out his hand. “My name is Chester Winfield, the Third.” He rolled his
when he said Third
. “I don’t get many Americans in here, even though it does seem that the lot of you love to shop here in Piccadilly Circus. No, I guess the little shop and rather bland sign out front don’t usually appeal to the tourists.” He had turned around and started walking back to his station. He evidently realized he was rambling on when he turned back around. “Oh! I’m sorry! Do forgive my rudeness. Now, where were we? Ah, right! Your man here needs a suit of clothes. Right! Let’s see, then. Shall we?”

The old man extended his arm in front of him. They followed him toward the rear of the store where Chester Winfield III busied himself getting a tape measure and a piece of chalk.

“Step up here, please.” He motioned Jason onto a wooden block sitting in front of a set of three mirrors. The two outside ones angled in to give the onlooker an almost 360-degree view.

Anna, meanwhile, sifted through some different fabrics and looked at already tailored suits. She folded a few pieces of the fabric over her arm, grabbed two suit coats, and walked back to where the men were. The old man was jabbering away. Jason looked as though he was being held captive. His arms were stretched out to his sides, and his head was facing straight ahead. His feet were together and his legs were ramrod straight.

“Excuse me,” Anna said.

The shopkeeper stopped dead in his tracks. He was bent at the waist, stretching a tape measure along the outside of Jason’s leg. He tilted his head upward to face Anna. His rectangular spectacles were barely hanging on. Anna suppressed a laugh and moved a hand to cover her smirk.

“Yes, young lady. I am here at your service.” He outstretched his arm, a servantlike gesture, and watched as the pieces of fabric and the tape measure fell to the floor.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Winfield.” Anna giggled. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you.