The Thieves of Heaven (24 page)

Michael pulled out his iridium phone, opened up the back, removed the battery, and replaced it with the fresh spare.

“The cause still remains a mystery,”
the CNN reporter continued.
“And the museums remain closed for the first time in forty-five years.”

Michael peeled up the label on the top of the battery, revealing the battery’s seam. With his knife, he sliced along the seam and opened the battery. The battery’s insides looked like pitch; Michael dug into the black putty-like material and there sat the two keys, buried in the tar. On the north edge, where the contacts were, sat a small battery within the battery. The power source was fully operational; the phone worked just fine, it simply had a life expectancy one-tenth that of a regular battery. It was Michael’s Trojan cell phone.

It was the first opportunity Michael had to examine his prize up close. He pulled out each key, placing both on the bed. They were covered in the black gunk of the battery, but as he wiped them off, the precious metal began to shine through. He picked up the silver key and, with a towel, he wiped off the remaining tar and buffed it to a high sheen. He picked up the gold key and began to clean it. And then something caught his eye. His heart froze.

Michael hurried into the bathroom. He held up the keys.

“A rumor persists that several smoke bombs detonated in the Sacristy and Treasury Museum and the Gregorian Museum of Etruscan Art but no one was hurt.”
The TV reporter could be heard from the next room.

He looked at the key closer, then turned on the tap and ran the key under the hot water, dissolving the remaining tar-like substance.

“Fortunately, it has been confirmed, nothing was stolen.”
The TV voice echoed off the tile walls.

The sink turned to black—and the key turned to gold.

Michael examined it closely. In tiny lettering, almost imperceptible to the eye, was an engraving. Michael strained to see but he wasn’t mistaken. Etched on the side was
585.

Michael looked up from the key, placed it on the edge of the sink, stared into the mirror, and ran his hands over his face. “Shit,” he groaned.

The satellite phone rang. Michael ignored it. His heart was thundering in his ears.

He closed his eyes.

The phone rang again. And Michael exploded, sweeping his arm along the medicine shelf, sending toiletries and water glasses crashing against the wall.

Michael ran out of the bathroom, picking up the phone on its third ring. “Hello.”

“I’m watching the news,” the voice said. “Great thing, this worldwide television, I wonder if CNN is for sale.”

Silently, Michael watched the television coverage of the Vatican. Finster’s warning the week before echoed in his brain.
“I will know if they are not the true keys, Michael. I will know.”

“Well?” Finster asked.

“Well, the Vatican isn’t stupid.” Michael tried to restrain his anger. The inscription, 585—14K in the U.S.—was the European designation for 58.5 percent pure gold, a designation that did not appear on gold two thousand years ago.

“And…?”

“And…” Michael was at a loss, his head was spinning, he couldn’t afford failure. He had to succeed. Mary’s life depended on it.

“What do you mean, Michael? Do you have them?”

No response. Michael was lost in thought, staring at something on his bed.

“And what, Michael? What’s going on?” Finster’s voice sharpened.

On the bed was Michael’s stack of research books. One in particular caught his eye:
THE VATICAN—Its Politics and Territories.
On the cover was the simple picture of an old stone church. The simplicity and logic were suddenly obvious to Michael, but then the past is always clearer than the future. Misdirection. Michael’s specialty. Like a magician: have the audience stare at your right hand while your left hand deceives them. You look here, so I can accomplish the impossible over there. And people tend not to question fact, particularly when they confirm it with their own eyes. Everyone, look at my empty hand while I pull a coin from my pocket; everyone, look at Higgins, the enemy of the Church, while I just borrow these keys; everyone, look at these genuine keys in their case while we hide the true keys somewhere else.

“Michael, what’s going on?”

“Things aren’t always what they seem,” Michael said more to himself than to Finster. “Plain sight. It’s so simple. Why didn’t I see it before?”

“What are you talking about?” Finster’s voice was brittle.

“I should have started at the beginning.” Michael was suddenly intensely focused. “I’ll see you in a couple of days.”

Finster’s protest was cut off as Michael absentmindedly hung up the phone.

The walls were covered in Crayola masterpieces. Bright pictures of clouds and dogs, stick figures and flowers. Jeannie Busch had picked them up from school. The children worked so hard when they heard that Mary “had a bit of a cold” and wouldn’t be back before summer vacation. Many of the children cried. The classroom seemed to have lost its sense of balance. Mary had been their center, their surrogate parent, and she was gone. Mary had plastered the pale walls hoping to cover up not only the sterile atmosphere of the room but the sterile feeling in her heart.

She sat in a chair, dressed, pretending to read. She had been tested so many times before, but never like this. The treatment was not only draining her strength, it was draining her will. She longed for Michael’s return, knowing that he would be the catalyst to spark her recovery.

“Hey, Mare,” came the whisper. Mary didn’t react at first, lost in thought behind her book. He stepped in closer. “Hi.”

Mary jumped, startled at the voice, but all that washed away when she saw his face. “Paul.” Her smile was genuine.

“You look terrific.” He had actually expected her to look worse. “How are you?”

“Fine. They’re making a big deal out of nothing.”

Busch leaned in to give her a kiss. He had come straight from work and his suit was wrinkled, his tie askew, but at least he’d taken the time to comb his tangle of blond hair. “You’ve got to hurry home, Jeannie is driving me crazy. I need you to keep her in check, make her laugh once in a while.”

“You do a good enough job at that yourself.”

“Yeah, but she’s laughing
at
me, not with me. I brought you some cookies and magazines.” Paul placed a package on the end table. The stacks were growing, the end tables overflowing; it would take her a year to read through everything.

“Thank you. How is Jeannie?”

“Insane,” he said with not much humor. He looked around the room at the crayon drawings. “Got a lot of fans.”

“Yeah, my flock.”

A long, uncomfortable silence followed. Busch busied himself, pretending to look at each picture one by one.

Mary closed her book, gathered her thoughts, and smiled. “Thanks again for helping Michael out, letting him go down South and all.”

Busch turned to her. “Hey, you know, sometimes you’ve got to bend the rules.” It killed Busch that Michael had lied to Mary. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that her husband had left the country.

“I don’t know how we can ever make it up to you.”

“Just get better.”

“Promise me when Michael gets back, we can all go out to dinner. OK?”

Busch reached out and gently touched her hand; it took all his effort to smile. He hoped against hope that she would take his tender smile and touch as a sign and let the question slide. He couldn’t answer her question; he couldn’t lie to her, too.

Mary settled into bed. She could barely keep her eyes open during Busch’s visit. He had always watched out for her, particularly during Michael’s incarceration. Paul had never made it difficult, never made her feel uncomfortable. When he’d quietly volunteered to be Michael’s parole officer, it was a surprise to both Mary and Jeannie. He had helped Michael get back on his feet and the fact that they became such close friends seemed more than Mary could ever ask for. She was thankful that Paul was such a big part of Michael’s life.

Chapter 12

A
n open field in the middle of nowhere.
Scrub grass for as far as the eye could see. In the distance was a small range of mountains. Michael crested the hill and threw down his canvas satchel, taking in his surroundings. He had been walking for hours. No road had been laid here, only a few scattered cart paths cut through the vegetation. It was hard going, but he reminded himself that it was only a fraction of what Mary was going through. He pressed on.

The foothills of Mount Kephas were an uncontested barren place, bearing no political or religious significance. On the other hand, if you were to travel three miles south to Jebel et-Tur, also known as the Mount of Olives, the significance was dramatic. The stories of the Mount of Olives had been chronicled and passed down through the ages, the location taken as gospel: it was where Jesus rose to Heaven. But the Mount of Olives is in fact a range of twenty-five hundred-foot hills.

Among the research books Michael acquired was one on the vast holdings of the Catholic Church. He had read that within the confines of the Vatican, among its great treasures, was a file of deeds, a file room containing all of the real-estate ownership documents for all of the Catholic churches spanning the globe. The book had listed tens of thousands of churches under the leadership of the Pope and he had taken special note of one in particular. Throughout the world there were thousands of sanctuaries called the Church of the Ascension—in fact, the one of greatest renown was only three miles away on the Mount of Olives—just as there were many St. Patricks, St. Augustines, and St. Michaels. But there was only one Church of the Ascension on Mount Kephas in Israel. It was a gamble, but too many of the facts pointed in this direction. Brother Joseph had said, “
Before his death, Peter made a pilgrimage…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 back to the land of his God…
” Peter had nothing of value, having forsaken possessions. The one thing that he valued was the Word of his Savior and
that
he had sworn to protect with his life. The only true physical connection that Peter had was the keys, and he would protect them at all costs from the Emperor Nero, who sought to destroy anything to do with the hated Christians. And so, Michael reasoned that Peter, whose name derives from the Greek word
petros,
or rock, made a pilgrimage to the true mountain where Christ rose to Heaven, a mountain named Petros or, in the Aramaic tongue, Kephas. The Vatican, by displaying St. Peter’s keys in the Vatican Museums under tight security, was confirming to the world their validity. As a result, the true keys could be kept where Peter intended, with little fear of theft. For who would go looking for Christ’s keys in a non-Christian part of the world, when the keys were already on display for all the world to see?