The Thieves of Heaven (18 page)

“Professor Higgins?” Michael rose from the couch, extending his hand. The man he’d greeted slowed and stared at Michael, ignoring both his hand and his greeting. He finally continued on and away from Michael without a word.

“My name is Michael McMahon. I left a message for you earlier?” Michael hurried to catch up to him.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Higgins said curtly, not bothering to look at Michael. He kept walking across the elegant marble lobby to the elevator and hit the button.

“The Vatican Office of Scholarly Advancement gave me your name—”

“I’m sorry, Mr. McMah—”

“It’s Professor. Actually Doctor,” Michael said, feigning modesty. “But I don’t really brag about it—”

“You just did. Please excuse me.” Higgins tried to turn away, growing jittery, nervously tapping his right foot as he waited for the elevator.

“I just thought as a fellow American, and seeing we will be together on the Vatican tour tomorrow…”

“Who sent you?” There was a paranoia in Higgins’s eyes.

Michael looked at him, confused.

“If you are trying to dissuade me…” Higgins’s foot-tapping was growing louder, echoing off the marble walls. “If you are here to challenge my theories, go write your own book.”

“Sir, you must have me mistaken for someone else. I actually don’t disagree with your theories. In fact, if you have time for a drink, I’d like to tell you how I concur with several of your ideas.” Michael stood there, a smile on his face, hoping that the bait would be snatched up.

Higgins looked around the hotel lobby before finally turning back to Michael. It was a moment. And then he stopped tapping his foot.

Michael never finalized details of any job until he arrived at his location. He needed to mold his plan to fit the environment. With Higgins as part of that environment, the last piece fell into place. Two days earlier when Michael had shifted his research from escape routes to the mysteries of the Vatican, he had identified the members of the various scholastic tour groups through the Vatican Office of Scholarly Advancement. All it took was a simple phone call explaining his desire to touch base with other visiting academics who would be touring the Vatican and its museums. As Michael used his various resources to review each academic’s background, he zeroed in on Professor Albert Higgins. Higgins was almost the same height and build as Michael and his hair color was close enough, but that wasn’t what excited Michael. For Michael, Higgins’s open disdain for the Catholic Church was nothing short of a windfall.

The professor had traveled from New England to do some final research on a book he was writing about the history of the Vatican and the influence it had exerted on shaping society. Michael picked him up and had tailed him earlier in the day during his museum rounds. He had taken an immediate dislike to the man, particularly the condescending way he spoke to people and his generally superior air. Higgins was a WASP in every sense of the word, looking disparagingly down his aquiline nose at all other races, creeds, and religions as he constantly flicked back his greasy brown hair over his swollen head. Here was a man with perpetual blinders on, finding fault with all theories but his own. For years he’d clung to his hypothesis—one he was certain he would prove soon—that the Catholic Church had been the downfall of all societies and was responsible for the Holocaust, Communism, AIDS and—worst of all—the withered condition of the British Empire, home of his ancestors.

The more Michael learned of Higgins, the less conflicted he felt about what tomorrow’s tour would bring the unsuspecting professor.

Busch was sitting at his desk, wondering where the hell Michael was. Somewhere abroad, which could be anywhere, and anywhere non-USA was a direct violation of his parole. Busch had kept it quiet for the last four days. He didn’t dare mention it even to his wife. Jeannie would have said something to Mary and that was the last thing anyone needed.

Busch had visited Mary again this morning and was increasingly disturbed by her appearance. She put up a good front but he could see she was in terrible pain. He had asked her about Michael, when he would be back, small talk really. She’d told him that Michael’s job was going smoothly and that he’d said he should be home in a few days. She had gone on to express her gratitude for the generosity of a Mr. Rosenfield—a man she had never met—who had paid for her treatment.

Michael had lied to Mary and to him. Busch had been down this road before. The lies floated on the surface, always masking something more disturbing, something deeper, some graver dishonest fact. Michael had fallen. He had gone back to the other side. It was the only explanation. And yet, for the first time in his thirty-nine years, Busch was torn.

Michael had been reformed, cured of his illegal desires, yet he’d been hit with a devastating dilemma. Whatever he was up to, he was doing it for Mary. Busch couldn’t help but believe that Michael was a victim; he’d done nothing to deserve this. He’d been forced to cross the line because of his love for his wife and Busch supposed that if faced with the same situation he would do the same. Love has driven many a man to many a desperate, foolish act.

Nevertheless, Busch was a man of the law. Upon Michael’s return, he would have no choice: he would arrest him.

Chapter 9

T
he dome of St. Peter’s Basilica soared 390
feet into the air, designed by Michelangelo. It had taken forty-four years to complete the Italian master’s staggering vision. This was the literal golden crown of the Church. As the tour group of six academics rounded the cathedral’s altar, Michael glanced upward, amazed at the 415-year-old craftsmanship. Michael was dressed in loose-fitting clothing, a tan vest over a white oxford shirt, a pen-filled pocket protector in his breast pocket. He carried a small leather satchel that held, among other things, two notebooks, a camera, another collection of pens, several books on the Vatican, and two boxes of candy, which he pulled out and placed in his pocket. The round gold-rimmed glasses he wore gave him the distinct air of an academic.

After a one-hour lecture on the detailed history of what they were about to see, their tour started at precisely 9:15. The tour was designed as an overview and precursor to the more detailed lectures they would partake of in the afternoon. It was scheduled to take three hours and would conclude in the Sacristy and Treasury Museum at 12:15. Michael had no intention of sitting through the afternoon lectures. At the time his group would be sitting down in the lecture hall, Michael would be sitting on a plane flying out of Rome. He looked at his watch and hit the timer. He had lined everything up. Barring any unforeseen event, his mission would be complete before noon. He had three hours.

The group Michael was with was more scholarly in nature than the tourists he had grown accustomed to seeing in the past four days. Sisters Katherine and Teresa had pooled their meager savings and escaped from the Cenacle Convent in Ireland, where they helped to instruct future nuns in Catholic history. The two nuns traveled under the guise of education but were actually looking forward to tomorrow’s Mass celebrated by the Pope in St. Peter’s Square. The two women were like Dead Heads: groupies following their favorite rock star. They had attended three of the Pope’s Masses and were so touched by his presence that they would pack up in a VW bus, don potato sacks, and sell T-shirts just to hear one of his sermons. There were two rabbis in the group: Abramowitz and Lohiem from Brooklyn. The two older men were more than pleasant, finding joy in every breath of life, their youthful spirits belying the twilight of their lives. Many of the tourists found it strange to see Jewish men of the cloth. They did not realize that though the Jewish people did not believe Jesus Christ to be the messiah and savior, he was a teacher and Hebrew, living his life as a model Jew and rabbi. And Peter, in whose name this great city was built, was considered the apostle to the Jews.

Finally, there was Professor Albert Higgins. He and Michael had shared a bottle of wine the evening before, while Michael listened to him espouse his nouveau riche divinity theories. Michael was sure the man could talk about himself for weeks on end. Michael had excused himself after an hour, stating that he needed to have all of his energy for the following day’s tour. That morning, when the tour group greeted one another outside the Vatican offices, it was as if Higgins had never met Michael before. The professor barely acknowledged him. The man was only aware of what he wanted to be aware of.

The tour was led by Brother Joseph, a member of the Vatican staff and a student of its history. What little hair he possessed had gone to gray early but his cherubic face still held a hint of boyishness. He wore the traditional brown pants and white-collared shirt of his order, having left his stylish designer clothes in the past. Joseph Mariano, a professor of Vatican history at the University of Rome, had lost his wife three years earlier in a car accident. Losing all sense of direction and the will to live, he’d immersed himself in his work and received the calling. Not sure whether to commit to the priesthood, he found a compromise in the brotherhood; he would give it three years and if he still felt the pull he would commit the rest of his life to God. Brother Joseph was assigned VIP tours as a result of his knowledge and ready smile, which combined to make him the ideal ambassador. He took his job very seriously, and even though he possessed that sweet smile, he had no need for those who didn’t follow the Vatican rules.

Michael’s face was curious and responsive to Brother Joseph’s walking dissertation. But it was all a mask. Michael’s mind was two hours into his plan. When he awoke at dawn, he had reviewed every detail of the heist again. He had contemplated each unforeseen obstacle and its resulting contingencies. He had found a greater focus than he had ever experienced in all of his years. In the past stealing was always selfish, it was always for himself. But not today. This was for Mary. Every detail was contemplated, constructed, set up, and in motion. Everything was on schedule.