The Thieves of Heaven (21 page)

This was not a work of art but rather a work of warning: those who sought to betray God would face His unquestionable wrath.

On the lower right side of the painting, a figure could be glimpsed, his body being dragged to Hell by an unholy creature. Ultimate horror twisted the face of this damned soul as he approached his doom. It was the only figure among the three hundred to look outward from the fresco. This lost soul knew it was beyond redemption, its eyes seemed to plead with Michael for understanding.

The entire image cried out to Michael that his actions would reap only grave consequences, consequences that couldn’t be reversed. His mind was suddenly fogged as to his purpose and goal. But he quickly suppressed this confusion, His welfare was of no consequence, only Mary’s. And the next few minutes would determine her future. He had already gone too far. Like the lost souls before him, he was beyond redemption.

Chapter 10

B
rother Joseph led the group through the
throngs of St. Peter’s Basilica to the Sacristy and Treasury Museum. This was the final museum of their private tour. Fifteen minutes to go before they would retire to a lecture hall for questions.

The Treasury contained paintings primarily concerned with St. Peter, the Apostles, and their influence throughout the ages. Cases containing Bibles, books, and manuscripts occupied the center of the hall, just a smattering of the Church’s enormous library. Most of the volumes were contained in the Vatican Archives, which was off-limits except when a special papal grant was given for access. Several of the cases contained artifacts dating back to the time of Constantine, while others reached back to the time of Christ Himself: chalices, pottery, coins, scraps of clothing, and tools from an age long since vanished. Significant artifacts required and received their own cases and in many instances were mounted in separate areas. Most were unimportant to Michael.

Michael reached into his bag and pulled out two notebooks. Holding them in his right hand, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, holding it in his left.

“Albert,” Michael said to Higgins. “Could you help me out here? Could you hold this?”

Higgins’s breath of exasperation was audible. He looked at Michael with disdain as he took the notebooks from his outstretched hand. Michael dug deep into his bag and pulled out a red pen and slid it in his breast pocket. He took his items back from Higgins, who stormed off in the direction of their group. “Thanks,” Michael called after him.

Michael checked his watch: 11:59. He leaned over the last display case—palmed something from a pocket—and placed it underneath the case. A small brown object with a pink confection stuck in the middle, affixed out of sight.

He caught up with the group again as they continued to a wall case where a set of old rusted chains was displayed. The brass placard read:
We gratefully acknowledge the generosity of San Pietro in Vincoli for the honor of displaying The Chains of St. Peter.

“Before his death, Peter made a pilgrimage back to the Holy Land to the Mount of Kephas. There he prayed a fortnight asking his Holy Father for guidance. Some scholars speculate that he returned to the Holy Land to pay homage, but a select few believe Peter had a premonition of things to come, including his death, and was returning something to the land of his God for fear of it falling into the hands of the evil emperor of the Roman Empire, Nero. During his journey, a great fire consumed over two-thirds of Rome, killing thousands and laying ruin to many sections of the great city.

“Upon his return to the city, Peter found his fellow Christians mercilessly persecuted at the hands of Nero, who had laid the blame for the city’s devastation upon them. Peter was bound in chains”—Brother Joseph indicated the chains upon the wall—“and tortured for his beliefs. After being held nine months in the Mamertine dungeon in the dark with St. Paul, Nero ordered Peter’s execution. Believing the Apostle to be nothing more than a usurper of his power, the emperor commanded Peter to be crucified, deliberately mocking the crucifixion of Jesus. Peter, not wishing to draw comparison to his Savior, asked and was permitted to be crucified upside down.”

As everyone listened intently, Michael drifted toward the glass case in the corner. Lit by the single beam of light, the case was set on the onyx pedestal that stood three and one-half feet tall. A velvet rope barrier supported by three stanchions cordoned off onlookers. Michael didn’t bother looking in the case; he had inspected it three times in the last two days. Inside it, the two ancient keys rested on the plush purple cushion.

Brother Joseph continued his story about the upside-down crucifixion of the saint at the hands of the emperor. “Nero was the wicked ruler of Rome, made famous by his notorious circus, where he would loose lions on criminals and peasants for the sheer enjoyment of seeing them torn apart. His drunken orgies were world-renowned in their day and his decadence has yet to see its equal in the two thousand years since his demise. He was as depraved as they come, rivaling Hitler, Pol Pot, and Genghis Khan for the worst in history.” In his years of teaching, Brother Joseph had developed a talent for keeping his students’ attention. No one ever nodded off in his classes at the university. His current group clustered closely around him so as not to miss a word.

And it was this level of concentration that had caused each of them to jump in fear at the muffled sound of an explosion somewhere down the hall.

There were three hundred and sixteen cameras, handled by thirty-six monitors; the six images per monitor cycled by in four-second intervals and could be locked at the flick of a switch. Each grouping of monitors, tucked between rose-colored marble columns, was individually manned by three shifts of guards. Fifteen-minute breaks were required hourly in order to keep the eyes of these guards fresh. There had not been a major incident in the Vatican in over three years. The last had been a lunatic brandishing a gun and demanding to see God at once or he would start shooting up the Sistine Chapel. The incident barely received mention in the news. The apprehension of Juan Medenez was credited to one man. That man was promoted for his fast action to the rank of colonel and was appointed personally by Pope John Paul II to head the Central Order of Vigilance. Stephan Enjordin, at thirty-one, had become the youngest director in the history of Vatican security. Respected by his underlings yet equally feared, Enjordin did not hesitate to mete out punishment in his quiet baritone voice for indiscretions, incompetence, or insubordination. When he had first arrived at the Vatican, he’d become one of the most well liked of the Swiss Guard for his broad smile and sense of humor, but as his responsibilities increased, he shed his charm as he felt it an impediment to the chain of command. He walked about the situation room below II Corpo di Vigilanza overseeing the forty-three men crammed in the high tech, Renaissance-decor space. Like each of the Swiss Guard, he was unmarried—there would be time for that later in life—and had a focus unmarred by outside interests. He was a soldier whose direction was always clear, always on the side of good, unhampered by changing politics or administrations. Enjordin’s mission was unambiguous: protect God, the Pope, and this one-hundred-and-nine-acre country.

He prided himself on being a techie, always up on the latest technology, and he had a knack for assimilating it into Vatican security. The chemical and bomb “sniffers” were tuned to the high-tech devices used by military, terrorists, fanatics, and pranksters. The body scanners recessed in the doorway arches were far superior to anything found in an airport, embassy, or even the White House. Countless guns had been confiscated from tourists who, while innocent and more than willing to cooperate, were stunned at the unobtrusive detection of Enjordin’s team.

Colonel Enjordin had taken the surprise factor out of his enemy’s hand, for without the element of surprise, you always saw your enemy coming. That was why his eyes were glued to monitors six and seven, every muscle in his lean body flexed. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

Woomph
. A low rumble emanated from the display case in the center of the Treasury. The underside of the case started to billow smoke. Thick dense smoke, the kind that could disorient in seconds. A huge cloud rose and spread through the Treasury Museum.

And then the other display cases rattled in succession, a series of similar low
woomph
s occurring underneath each. What initially seemed to be a minor incident was swiftly escalating into a danger-filled situation. The explosions started at the far end of the long hall and worked their way forward like a series of dominoes falling. As the room filled with smoke, confusion reigned. Everyone dissolved in panic. Tourists screamed, mothers grabbed their children, a fire alarm blared. Over its deafening clang, no one could hear the instructions to stay calm or how to get to safety. The terrified public, easily numbering two hundred in the Treasury alone, charged the exits. The smoke was now thicker than molasses. People pushed and slammed into each other blindly as total mayhem took over.

Almost simultaneously, in the Gregorian Museum, the same muffled explosions were occurring. Thick smoke filled the halls and rooms as the panicked tourists charged for the exits. Four more cases began to bubble up smoke, sending the masses into utter confusion.

Without warning, steel plates crashed down in front of the wall-mounted artwork throughout the entire museum complex, sealing each masterpiece from destruction. The books, manuscripts, and artifacts were vacuum-sealed in their display cases under one-inch alarmed glass, protected from any intrusion of the outside world. These frescoes and oil paintings, books and artifacts were cherished works created in the name of God. All were irreplaceable, so the modern world moved swiftly to protect the precious past.

Brother Joseph was the calm within the storm, telling each of the members of his group to hold hands and he would lead them out. His eyes stung, tears ran down his cheeks, but nothing could wash away the determination in his eyes. The nuns and the rabbis found the moment rather exciting and figured it a bonus to their day. And though they had a burning in their eyes and a hacking cough in their throats, never once did fear replace the excitement they felt.