SUMMARY
Not a credible threat to domestic security.
No further action planned at this time.
PART IV
Palazzo Della Rovere
Rome
Blake Carver set the tablet computer aside and stood. The sun had set hours ago. He had finished Drucker’s manuscript, as well as the associated classified documents Speers had sent him, in one long sitting. His feet were tingly. His eyes hurt. He was famished.
He went to the window, forcing himself to look at distant objects so as to retrain his vision. He focused his gaze on the dome of St Peter’s Basilica, and then on the lights of the Royal Palace. At night, the palace was an arresting vision of power and majesty.
He tried to imagine how it would have looked in January 1943, when Sebastian Wolf had been imprisoned there. So much was unchanged. The architecture. The uniforms of the clergy and the Swiss Guard. But he would have also seen Italian police on horseback and plumes of steam rising from the animals’ mouths. And although the official occupation of Rome would not begin until later that year, he would have seen plenty of German patrols in the streets. The Nazis must have thought it only a matter of time before the long red and black swastika banners hung from the palace facade. Given, how quickly every prior nation had bent to their will, how could they not have imagined coming and going from the Vatican gates as they pleased? How could they not have imagined decorating their homes with art looted from the Vatican museums?
A true monarchy operating for nearly two thousand uninterrupted years, with borderless influence over one billion followers worldwide. There had never been another earthly reign like it. And after reading a few chapters of Drucker’s manuscript, Carver was convinced that Preston’s killers meant to ensure it would endure for another two millennia.
He went to Nico’s room, where his sidekick had fallen asleep with the lights on. “Wake up,” he said twice, but Nico didn’t stir. He picked up a glass of water on the nightstand and splashed it across Nico’s face.
He shot up. “Dude, what is your problem?”
“We have new information,” he said. “We need to regroup.”
Nico flopped back down and pulled the covers over his head. “I need to sleep.”
“The guy we got the information from died trying to give it to us.”
Nico sat up. “Died? As in, he was murdered?”
“Yes.” Carver didn’t want to get into Nathan Drucker’s life story, or how Ellis and Speers had managed to get their hands on his manuscript. There was no time for that.
“Fine. Consider me up.”
Carver retreated to his room at the far end of the suite and sat on the edge of the bed to reflect further on what he had learned. While digesting Drucker’s manuscript, he had grown increasingly suspicious of Father Thomas Callahan. It was now obvious that the priest’s contact in Vatican Intelligence, and the one who had asked him to find Sebastian Wolf, was none other than Wolf’s childhood frenemy, Heinz Lang.
In a professional sense, Lang’s career arc was practically unrivaled. Like Pope Benedict himself, Lang had risen from the Hitler Youth and the ashes of a failed Thousand Year Reich to lead the Jesuits, one of the world’s most influential and long-running religious orders, before stepping down to run Vatican Intelligence.
But just because Lang had headed up “God’s Marines” didn’t necessarily mean he was involved with a modern-day incarnation of the Black Order. But one thing was for sure. If he had asked Callahan to find Wolf, he was somehow connected.
The question was, was Lang’s mission to seek and destroy, or to assist?
As important as finding the answer to that question was, Carver knew that he had to be careful in handling Callahan. It was too early to reveal that he knew about Wolf and Lang’s association, and certainly premature to reveal anything further about Preston, Gish, Borst and the others.
But there was one burning question that had to be answered before all others. He picked up his phone and dialed Father Callahan.
The priest answered on the first ring. He heard the faint pitch of a teakettle simmering in the background.
“I was hoping you’d get in touch,” Callahan began. “How’s our fair city treating you?”
“Fine, thank you. But this isn’t a personal call. I wanted to update you on that name you gave me. Sebastian Wolf?”
“Ah, yes. What’d you find out?”
“We checked out that address,” Carver continued, knowing he had to give the priest something. “I can see why you’re having trouble tracking the fellow down. The estate is completely deserted.”
He heard the disappointment in Callahan’s voice. “Surely you’re not giving up, though. Anyone moving out of a place that big is sure to leave a few breadcrumbs.”
“Don’t worry. You know how tenacious I am. But in the meantime, I’ve got a question for you, Father. Was anything stolen from the Vatican recently?”
“Stolen?” the priest repeated. “You mean from the Vatican Museums?”
“No. Something from the red zones,” Carver said, meaning non-public areas of Vatican City.
“Come to think of it, yes.”
The kettle whistle grew louder. “Would you mind moving that off the burner?” Carver asked.
“Sorry.” The racket faded before Callahan spoke again. “As to your question, as a matter of fact, a painting was stolen from the Royal Palace.”
“What sort of painting?”
“An obscure work by…hold on a minute…” It sounded as if he was shuffling through newspapers. “Ah yes. Benvenuto Tisi.”
“When?”
“September 21st. As it was explained to me, the pope was away for his last gasp of vacation at Castel Gandolfo, and of course most of the Swiss Guard was away with him, so security was relatively light at the palace. The working theory is that the thieves came and went through a laundry truck, but word is that they’re not entirely sure. Obviously, security in the palace has been heightened massively ever since. Never seen it so high, as a matter of fact.”
“I’ll bet. I take it the investigators were not Italian police?”
“Indeed. Internal Vatican investigation. The Swiss Guard apartments are within the city walls, and the Rome police have no jurisdiction here.”
Carver let forth a grunt of skepticism.
The priest sipped his tea audibly. “Something not sitting right with you?”
Even at face value, the story was implausible. Tisi, also known as Il Garofalo, had been among the most prolific Renaissance painters. According to historians, he had worked constantly, and had lived to be very old. During his lifetime, just about every church in Italy was said to have possessed at least one of his paintings.
But unlike the elite artists such as Rafael, Garofalo was without a signature piece. His work was often criticized for being frigid, both in expression and color. If the thieves had wanted a Garofalo, or several, they could have gotten them in hundreds of places where security was relatively light. Even with the pope away on summer retreat, the palace remained one of the most heavily fortified places in the world.
Carver did not doubt that there had been a robbery that had triggered such a massive increase in security. But he was willing to bet that what had been taken was far more valuable than a painting by a second-tier Renaissance artist. If his theory was right, Sebastian Wolf had finally completed the mission Heinrich Himmler had sent him on in 1943. He had found the ossuary.
Haborview Trauma Center
Seattle
This time, Ellis woke. Really woke. She had been in and out of sleep for the past 36 hours. The back of her head was impossibly heavy and sore. She sat up, reached around and probed her skull gingerly. Based on the size of her headache, she expected to feel an appendage the size of a grapefruit. But her fingertips found only a cushioned bandage that was sore to the touch.