The Psalter (42 page)

“Would you shoot a tired, old Muslim?”

“Imam!” Rashid ran to the cleric, taking him in his arms as tears moistened his eyes. “I thought you were lost forever.”

The imam patted him on the back. “I knew where I was. What, no kiss for a beloved mentor?”

Rashid kissed him on both cheeks, then wiped tears from his own eyes. “What did they do to you? Were you tortured? How did you escape?”

“Calm yourself,” the imam said. “I’m well and no harm has come to me. I may move slowly, but the old fox can still outwit the hounds.”

“Did the police arrest you?”

“Of course. First the French, then the Italians, but they can prove nothing. They produced no evidence and had to let me go because they’re looking in the wrong place. They’re thinking about their precious ferries and reactors in Normandy. Their infidel minds can’t conceive of a mission such as ours.” The imam patted Rashid paternally on the back. “I see you met your contact. Did you deliver the Psalter?”

“As instructed,” Rashid puffed out his chest. “But how did you find me?”

“Do I not own this warehouse? Rome is our destiny, my boy.”

“That’s what Sayyid said. All has been planned and I’m nearly ready.”

“What are you saying? Who is Sayyid?”

“Your colleague, the one I gave the book to.”

“He doesn’t know our mission, and he’s not one of us. He’s not even a Muslim. What did he tell you?”

“He said the days of justice were at hand and I had to attack the library in the Vatican.”

“What nonsense! Attack the library, for what purpose?”

“To destroy their infidel books.”

A look of horror passed over the imam’s face. He leaned on the table for support.

“Are you alright? Sit down here.” Rashid pulled up a chair and helped the cleric into it. “What’s wrong?”

“He would multiply the sins of our forefather. I should have told the fool nothing. A little information can be dangerous.”

“What do you mean
our sin
? Is it not time for me to know what this great sin is?”

“Rashid, we’re not here to destroy the writings of the Prophet Jesus. We must protect them. We’re the
Children of the Book
.”

“I’ve studied these books and their languages, and I had hoped some day I would understand their meaning. But, the knowledge hasn’t come to me.”

“The truth is not in the books, although they’re the words of a prophet. We’re the descendants of the greatest Emir of Ifriqiya. I’ve taught you these dead languages not for understanding, but so you could identify them. Our task is to keep the writings in their hiding place, to guard them to cleanse the sin of our ancestor.”

“What sin is this?”

“Our ancestor stole the scriptures of the Prophet Jesus and they were destroyed in a storm, taken back by God in his wisdom. The Prince paid for his crime by protecting those that were left for the rest of his life. Now we, his descendants, must spend our lives defending the ancient writings that are hidden in their secret place.”

“You mean we protect Christian scriptures?”

“Not wholly Christian. They’re different, but it matters little whose they are. They are words spoken by Allah to a prophet, but the Christians don’t listen. So they must remain hidden until the time is right, until the return of the Mahdi.”

“Where are they?”

“One escaped, and that’s the one we found and returned. Most are in the bowels of Saint Peter’s, a hiding place known only to me. Now the location will be known to you as well.”

“If Sayyid is not one of us, why do we return the books to him?”

“I thought he believed as we do and wished to return the scriptures to their rightful place. That was not his aim, and I’ve been used,” the imam grumbled.

“Then what are we to do?”

“What did you plan to do with these chemicals?”

“Destroy the Library and burn everything inside,” Rashid said.

“Is all prepared?”

“Yes.”

“We must not touch the Library, for God’s word is God’s word. However, we need to make sure once and for all that the old books stay hidden. We will finish what the Emir, Ahmad ibn Muhammad, started.”

The GIS lieutenant charged through Del Carlo’s door without knocking. “Not now, Moretti. I’m leaving for a meeting.”

“
Scùsi Colonelo
, I know who the Swiss bank account belongs to. You’re not going to believe it.”

“The imam?”

“They refuse to give me a name, but the money is going to a Vatican account.”

“A priest?”

“Yes. So I pulled phone records from the Vatican exchange.”

“That’s not legal, Moretti.”

“Calls have been going from the Vatican to the imam in France. We’re trying to find out where in Vatican City they came from.”

“Damn! The imam was released this morning.”

“So I heard. I took the liberty of having him followed,” Moretti said.

“Good work. Do you know where he is?”

“Near Termini Station, and he’s not alone. A man is with him who matches the description of the one who got away in Normandy.”

“Well done, Moretti. Assemble an operational section, thirty men, and put two sniper teams on the roof. I think we will pay the imam another visit.”

Colonel Del Carlo’s secretary called after him as he rushed by, his lieutenant in tow. “Your meeting
Colonelo
. You have a full day.”

The GIS colonel called over his shoulder, “Cancel everything and notify the other teams. I want them on alert.”

The narrow street was blocked at both intersections by the
Carabinieri
vans that had transported the thirty-man operational section and snipers. The elite commandos, all volunteers from the First Carabinieri Airborne Regiment,
Tuscania
, were among the world’s best counter-terrorist forces, and
Colonelo
Del Carlo drove them hard to be better than the best. Teams followed pre-planned procedures and surrounded the tiny warehouse on the ground floor of tall apartment buildings. Several four man units ringed the entrance while others evacuated residents, sending them scurrying down the street past the vans.

The two sniper teams found positions on roofs aiming Mauser rifles, equipped with Syncrofire that made the weapons fire simultaneously.

“Everyone’s in position,
Colonelo
,” Lieutenant Moretti reported.

“Is there a back door?”

“No. The warehouse backs to an apartment.”

“Good.”

“Do you want the bull horn?”

“No,” Del Carlo said. “We need surprise on our side. Bring the battering ram and break down the door.”

Two commandos inched along the wall holding the handles of the ram until they came to the entrance. They waited for a signal from Del Carlo. He nodded his head and they sprang into action. Securing themselves on either side of the door, they grabbed the handles of the ram, hoisted it backward, then swung the heavy tube. The ringing of metal on metal echoed off apartment walls, and the door groaned but held. The soldiers swung the ram back again and thrust with all their might. The hinges snapped and the door burst, crashing to the ground.

“Go, go,” the lieutenant shouted, and the teams converged on the doorway. A sudden blast shook the building, resounding off the walls as fire and sparks spewed out of the warehouse in a brilliant ball. Soldiers were flung to the pavement. Parts of their uniforms and bulletproof vests ignited with a white, sparkling blaze. Men screamed and moaned as their comrades rushed to douse burning coveralls.

Del Carlo took the force of the blast point blank. He was hurled backward against the opposite wall and crumpled in a heap.

39
Home of the Forgeries

The GIS colonel’s eyelids fluttered open, then shut for a few moments and opened again. He tried to focus on the figure above him. “Where am I?”

“You’re in the hospital.” Romano leaned forward in his chair. “Would you like some water?”

“Yes,” the colonel rasped. “How did you find me, Father?”

The priest held a plastic cup with a straw for him to sip. “You must be joking. You’re all over the radio and television.” Romano waved his open hand across an imaginary newspaper headline, “
Decorated Colonel Hospitalized in Blast
.”

“Oh, the explosion, stupid of me. I should’ve anticipated a booby trap.” Del Carlo settled back on his pillow and tried to adjust his position, which made him wince.

The door opened and Lieutenant Moretti poked in his head. “You’re back with us.” His face was riddled with cuts and contusions and blistered on one side. Del Carlo’s eyes went to the sling supporting Moretti’s arm.

“Are your injuries serious, Lieutenant?”

“It’s nothing,
Colonelo
, a slight shoulder separation and a suntan.”

But the colonel didn’t laugh. “Give me a report.”

“You’ll have plenty of time…”

Del Carlo exhaled a heavy breath. “Lieutenant.”

“Yes sir. One dead and four wounded. Two serious. Burns, mostly.”

“It’s my fault. I didn’t see it coming.” Del Carlo was downcast.

“None of us did. You couldn’t know.”

“I’m paid to. And what about the suspects?”

“I’m afraid they’ve escaped,” Moretti said.

“How?”

“A tunnel through the floor to the apartment at the rear. They were probably inside when we arrived, but must have armed the bombs and flown the coop.”

“What did they use?”

“Please,
Colonelo
,” Father Romano said. “You should be resting.”

“Later.” Del Carlo’s body ached, his head throbbed, and heavy eyelids tried to drag themselves shut, but his mind raced. “Explosives, Lieutenant, what were they?”

“TATP and thermite.”

“Why would they need thermite?”

Lieutenant Moretti thought for a moment. “They wanted to burn something. Maybe they didn’t want us to examine what was inside.”

“Possibly,” Del Carlo raised his eyebrows. “Where did you say the calls to the imam came from?”

“The Vatican, but I don’t know exactly where.”

“Do you recall the number?”

“I wrote it down.” Moretti pulled a note card from his pocket and showed it to the colonel.

“The number sounds familiar, but my brain’s a fog. Do you recognize it Father?”

The lieutenant passed Romano the card, and he stared in shock.

“Well?”

“It’s mine,” Romano said. “At the Library.”

“The Vatican Library?”

“Yes.”

“Oh my God.” The pieces began to fall into place. Del Carlo threw the covers aside and pulled the IV from the back of his hand.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Get me out of here.” Del Carlo tried to raise himself off the bed, grimacing.

“
Per favore, Colonelo
,” the lieutenant said. “You have broken ribs and a concussion. Tell me what you want done.”

“Find something to wrap these damn ribs and get me out of here.”

“What can you be thinking?” Romano asked, unbelieving.

“That if we don’t get to the Library in a hurry, it’s going to look like the warehouse.”

“Neither of you brought a car?” Urgency made Del Carlo impatient. Lieutenant Moretti had arrived at the hospital by cab, and Romano had taken the subway.

“Sorry,” the lieutenant apologized.

“Hail that taxi.” Romano pointed at the cab pulling up to the curb in front of
Admittance
.

An elderly woman had just paid the driver as Lieutenant Moretti trotted up. “We need to get to the Vatican.”

“Sorry,
signore
, but I have another fare. They phoned in.”

The lieutenant pulled his identification from his jacket pocket and shoved it in front of the cabbie’s nose. “Official business.”

“
Si, si
. Get in,
signores
.”

Del Carlo eased into the seat. “Get us to Saint Peter’s.”

“In the square?”

“No,” Romano said, “the side gate on the
via della Stazione Vaticana
.”

“I’m not allowed in,” the cabbie turned to Del Carlo.

“Just get us to the gate.
Andiamo
, let’s go!”

The plain white delivery truck crawled up the
via della Stazione Vaticana
past the Mercedes-Benz service center and lines of parked cars, toward the open steel gate in the Leonine wall. This was the private entrance for Vatican employees, priests and cardinals of the Curia and for His Holiness, the Pope. The entrance was surrounded by blue Carabinieri Alpha-Romeos, yellow stripes emblazoned on their sides and lights mounted on the roofs. Uniformed and plainclothes officers milled around, wires dangling from earbuds in one ear. Every eye turned to follow the truck approaching the gate.

“Two of you today?” the Carabiniere guard commented as he looked at Rashid’s identification card.

“We have a lot to deliver. I needed some help.”

“So you brought your grandfather?” The guard laughed and gave back Rashid’s ID. He kneeled to inspect the bearded passenger. “ID,
signore
.” The imam pulled an Italian national identity card and employee ID from his coveralls and handed them to the guard.

“Your first time here?”

“Yes, officer,” the imam said, smiling.

“I can usually handle the load myself,” Rashid said, “but the company told me to be quick today. Something big is going on.”

“That’s right. The Pope is saying a special mass for Ash Wednesday in the basilica, so avoid Saint Peter’s.”

“I’m just making a delivery to the cafeteria in the Museum as usual.”

“Drive on.”

Rashid pulled forward to the guard shack manned by Vatican City Police. The guard entered the license plate number into a computer. Then he motioned for Rashid to get out. “Open up the back.”

Rashid hopped out, walked to the rear of the truck, and opened the double doors with his key. “I’ve only got sodas in canisters and cans.”

The guard eyed the large aluminum cylinders and the boxes of soft drinks. “Don’t forget to sign out when you leave.”

The gray taxi sped past the
Villa Borghese
heading south toward the
Trevi Fountain
and the
corso Vittorio Emanuele
. “Faster,” Del Carlo urged as they turned onto the
corso
. The driver held the steering wheel tight and pressed the accelerator. The little minivan shot forward. Sweat beaded on the driver’s bald head. Flying across the
Prince Amadeo
Bridge, the taxi lurched onto the narrow
via della Stazione Vaticana
.