The Thieves of Heaven (22 page)

That wasn’t the case for Professor Higgins. He hadn’t come here to die, and God be damned if he was to die in this house of worship. What would the papers say, what would his colleagues and detractors say? He wouldn’t be remembered for his great work, he would be remembered for the irony of his death:
another death at the hands of the evil Catholic Church, they finally got him, too.
And then someone grabbed his neck. He felt a pinprick just below his ear and he became suddenly dizzy. He panicked, picturing his own death, and pulled away from his assailant. Then he started to run, charging into what he was sure was the exit. He didn’t have time to realize how wrong he was. He was out cold before he hit the floor, having crashed into a marble statue of St. Thomas Aquinas, patron saint of academics.

The crowds poured from every exit, quickly filling the Piazza San Pietro. People cried, someone started the rumor that this great institution was going up in flames. Brother Joseph led his group calmly to a remote corner before collapsing with relief. They were all too busy talking to notice that they had lost Michael and Professor Higgins.

Within the museum, the oily smoke had thickened, wafting upward and then curling back down on itself. Never mind seeing your hand in front of your face, you were lucky if you saw your nose. The sounds of panic diminished, most of the crowd having fled the building. All that remained in the hall was Michael St. Pierre and the unconscious figure of Professor Higgins.

Michael had less than thirty seconds. It wouldn’t take long for the Vatican Police and fire department to arrive. Michael had planned everything out; his timing was precise. The smoke bombs he had concocted at the car shop out of sugar, mothballs and Epsom salt had worked like a charm. The pink and white fuses were the key: once stuck into the brown concoction, the coating dissolved and when the contents of the two items mixed, the chemical reaction was swift. The white confection was two centimeters thicker than the pink and acted as a fuse lasting forty-five minutes. The pink confection was a fast-acting five minutes. There had never been any risk of fire. Michael wasn’t in the business of killing people.

He grabbed Higgins by the feet and dragged him across the floor toward the key display. Sometimes fortune smiled. The smoke was at its thickest. Michael looked around, listened. Satisfied he was alone.

He reached in his bag, pulled out the objects he had crafted in Vitelli’s garage, and quickly assembled a hammer. Raising it high above his head, he slammed it with all his strength into the two-by-two-foot case. The glass didn’t break, not even a spiderweb crack. But the diamond needle-nose hammer, its point thinner than a lock of hair, pierced the one-inch glass. As the case was punctured, compressed air rushed from the handle through the needle and exploded the glass case’s seams from within. Another alarm sounded. It blended with the fire alarm and created even greater confusion.

Colonel Stephan Enjordin and two Swiss Guards raced through the Basilica as the remaining stragglers rushed by to safety. Enjordin had dispatched the fire department and they were less than a minute behind him. Security ratcheted up to def-con one; thirty-six guards converged on the exits to supplement the forty already in place.

Enjordin and the two guards worked their way into the Treasury Museum through the blinding haze calling as they went, wary that something might be occurring that had nothing at all to do with the fire.

Michael stood at the shattered case. He reached in and removed the keys. Fourteen seconds to go. As he could barely see the end of his arm, he was certain that no one would be able to see him. He quickly dismantled the hammer—the handle of which held eight liters of compressed air—back into its three components and placed them in Higgins’s bag. The diamond-tipped needle tucked nicely back into a pen, the head of the five-pound hammer was disguised as a camera body, and the handle looked like the spine of a textbook—all of which fit nicely in Higgins’s satchel. Michael looked carefully at his fingertips. The painted-on latex skin was indistinguishable from his real skin but for the lack of fingerprints. Without hesitation, he peeled the clear latex off his fingers, rolled the pieces up into a small ball, popped it into his mouth, and swallowed it.

With the doors open and the air vents at full blast, the smoke was slowly beginning to dissipate. Enjordin led his men at a sprint through the Treasury Museum, coughing, waving in vain at the smoke, trying desperately to see. They were well trained and knew the difference between the two alarm sounds: a robbery was in progress. Never had there been a theft from the Vatican and it wasn’t going to happen on their watch.

All at once they were upon the key case; they saw the broken glass but couldn’t see inside due to the lingering smoke. Enjordin turned and was shocked to see a man standing there. In Italian, he demanded to know what the man was doing. Michael had limited knowledge of the language, but he knew what he was being asked.

“What are you doing?” Enjordin demanded, this time switching to English.

“I…I—” Michael sputtered.

“What are you doing? How break the glass?” one of the guards cut in. Vernea was the largest of the three, bursting through his blue and gold uniform, he would get answers, no matter what method required. He wasn’t about to let his superior down.

Michael’s breathing quickened as he mutely stared up at the guard.

Vernea’s powerful hand clamped down on Michael’s shoulder, dragging him toward the case. “Where are the keys?” This was an assault against God, a blasphemous act for which no punishment could be too brutal. But then…

The smoke around the case started to clear. Just a bit at first. Vernea looked closer as Colonel Enjordin leaned in. He reluctantly released Michael’s throbbing shoulder.

There, on their purple velvet cushion, lay the two keys.

“Pardon, I’m sorry, sir. I did not think—” the large guard began.

Michael waved him off. “No, please, please, I’m sorry. I couldn’t see through the smoke. This man…” He pointed at Professor Higgins facedown before him. “I didn’t see him, we ran into each other, but the case…The case was already broken.”

Enjordin ignored the American’s explanation, assessing the situation. He studied the damaged case as if it would tell him what really happened and then, stepping back, took in the other nearby display cases and artifacts. He was digesting everything—the damage, the smoke, these two suspects, committing it all to memory. After a moment, he crouched over Higgins, rolling him over. Enjordin patted down the unconscious professor, finding only his wallet and hotel keys. He rifled the brown book bag at Higgins’s side, pulling out two books; he passed these to his subordinate. He dug deeper finding three pens and an assortment of anti-Church flyers. Grimly, he continued his search, his hand falling on something that took a bit of effort to pull from the leather satchel. The camera was heavier than any camera he had ever held. He turned it over in his hand, amazed at its weight—at least five pounds. He glanced through the anti-Catholic leaflets, his face reddening. He looked to Vernea and then turned his contemptuous smile on Higgins. He had noticed the man earlier in his monitor; he’d been easy to spot, that arrogant air, the obvious disdain and contempt on his face as he argued with Brother Joseph. This tourist had no respect for the Church. It took every bit of his enormous strength to restrain himself from beating this man so badly he would never wake from his unconscious state.

“Are you hurt?” Enjordin asked Michael, but his question was perfunctory. He never turned to Michael, his eyes remained glued to the man still lying at his feet.

“Just shaken up. The fire—”

“We’ll show you out.” Enjordin cut him off, turning to the guard. “Reiner?”

Corporal Reiner took Michael by the arm and led him through the clearing smoke. The sound of their lone footsteps was loud in the eerily deserted museum. Like ghosts materializing from the walls, the Swiss Guard and the Vatican Police had taken up silent position around every case, artifact, and exit; their halberds had been traded for rifles and sidearms. As Michael looked back at the crime scene, he was amazed at how swiftly and efficiently they had responded to the threat. Enjordin controlled the room and his people as if they were extensions of his own body. Higgins was slowly waking up, his head bobbing, his eyes unfocused and lost as Vernea yanked him to his feet. Michael ached for the chance to be a fly on the wall at Higgins’s interrogation; how the arrogant bastard would explain the items in his bag would be priceless. There was nowhere he could hide, Higgins’s hatred for the Catholic Church was well-known and published; it would be an easy leap of faith to ascribe the blame for this incident to him. It was a quirk of fate. His life had been spent in an attempt to tear down the Church and now, because of simple bad timing, it would be the Church that would burn him down.

“
Un momento!
Wait!” The voice was loud, booming off the museum walls.

Michael turned to see Colonel Enjordin charging down the hall toward them; his heart froze. He looked back at Reiner, whose cheerful demeanor instantly dissolved as the guard assumed his military stature at his commander’s approach. Michael glanced over Reiner’s shoulder: at the distant doorway, three Swiss Guard had snapped to attention, blocking the way. No matter how hard he ran, he was trapped.