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Truth be told, the relative quiet and calm of the night was a welcome change now and then. And it was much easier to be vigilant without all the distractions of thousands of tourists crowding through, any one of whom might be a terrorist. Giovanni really was vigilant, too. He took that part of the job very seriously. He was not a very good Catholic, but even so, protecting the Holy Father was a serious and important matter. So Giovanni kept his eyes open as he patrolled, looking from side to side, up and down, scanning for anything out of the ordinary.
A little after midnight, he found it.
He had just come across the Via Sant’Anna toward the Cortile del Belvedere when something caught his eye—some shadow flicking among the great row of Doric columns in front of the Apostolic Palace. So close to the Pope’s apartments—nothing should be there at this time of night. Especially not moving with such quick and shadowy stealth.
Perhaps it was only some trick of the eye. And the Pope was not in residence at the moment, but even so, Giovanni could not permit someone to be so near to the apartments—if he had really seen something.
One way to be certain. Giovanni moved closer. He saw nothing else, no repeat of the rapid shadowy flicker he had seen—or thought he had. Perhaps he should alert the other gendarmes? But if it was nothing—no. Better to be sure before he raised the alarm.
He stepped carefully into the great stone forest of the double row of Doric columns. The breezeway was dimly lit and he paused, letting his eyes adjust. He looked out into the open area beyond and—there; something moved. Beyond the second row of columns, at the base of the Apostolic Palace. Definitely something, some shadowy, man-sized something. But it moved so quickly, so silently—it couldn’t possibly be a man, could it?
Giovanni felt the hair go up on the back of his neck. There were stories, going back hundreds of years. Various ghosts, apparitions, hauntings. And there were even photographs, of what was clearly a spirit, up in the bell tower. He was no more superstitious than he was religious, but still . . . It was after midnight, dark, and even in the bright sunlight one could feel unseen powers here. What if—
No; Giovanni was a reasonable man, and he did not believe in such things. And he was a policeman, charged with protecting the Holy See. Ghost or not, it was his duty to investigate.
He hurried forward, his hand going to the Glock in the holster on his hip, moving through the breezeway, and for a moment he could not see into the greater darkness beyond the columns. Then he was through, out onto the pavement on the far side. He hesitated, his eyes readjusting to the darker area beyond the breezeway—and for a moment he thought he saw—
But no. There was nothing here. Nothing at all. What could have been here? Unless whatever it was had gone straight up the side of the palace and onto the roof, in less time than it takes to say “Ave Maria.” And that was not possible. Unless it was a spirit, which it was not, certainly not.
Still, Giovanni was diligent. He ran the beam of his flashlight up the side of the palace, walked the entire square looking carefully for any sign that someone had been here. There was nothing. Of course not. Human beings don’t walk up walls. And Giovanni did not believe in ghosts. Although, to be truthful, he would certainly not want to go down into the catacombs at this hour. But up here? No, he had seen nothing. It had all been his imagination, some trick of light and shadow on a warm summer’s eve.
But if it had been a spirit of some kind? Eh bene, it was gone now. Let the priests deal with it,
the exorcists.
Giovanni Romanelli put away his flashlight, checked that the strap on his Glock was secure, and moved on through his patrol route, toward the basilica and then back again.
* * *
—
Monique had not really intended to wait up. She knew very well that when Riley went to look things over, he might be hours, or all night, or even longer. He was ridiculously thorough and prone to follow any relevant side trails that came up. She wouldn’t worry even if he wasn’t back in the morning.
So her plan had been to have a nightcap, read a little, and then go to bed. At the small stocked bar she found a bottle of grappa. Monique had heard of it but never sampled it before. She examined the label, but it told her almost nothing except that it was old and Italian. With a shrug and a wry smile, she thought, When in Rome, and poured some in a tumbler. And then, turning to the bookshelves in their suite, she scanned the titles, hoping for something that would hold her interest and lull her to sleep at the same time.
She didn’t find anything of the kind. What she found instead was a wonderful old book, bound in leather, that she had heard about but never before seen: Gunther von Goetz’s nineteenth-century tome Stolen Treasures—Heretic Art in the Vatican Archives. She riffled the pages; the book was chock-full of gorgeous illustrations. With a thrill of excited pleasure, she took the book to a comfortable chair by the window, lifted the tumbler of grappa, and sat. In just a few moments she was completely engrossed.
Time must have passed, but Monique wasn’t aware of it. In fact, she was aware of almost nothing except the beautiful illustrations, the descriptions of the artworks, in German and English—her German was good—and her glass of grappa, which she refilled twice. And then suddenly there was nothing at all.
Monique awoke with a startled jerk. She was still in the comfortable chair with von Goetz’s book on her lap. The tumbler had fallen onto the carpet beside her when she fell asleep. There was light coming in the window now, dawn breaking over Rome, and the door to the suite was swinging open.
Before Monique could even register all these varied impressions, Riley came in. He was still dressed all in black, but the cloth had torn over one knee, and there were patches of grime across his face and chest. He looked tired and deflated. He saw her looking and just shook his head, closing the door behind him.
“What?” Monique said, her voice raspy from sleep. She cleared her throat. “What did you find?”
Riley took the grappa bottle from the table beside Monique, pulled out the cork, and took a long pull, straight from the bottle. “Nothing,” he said, sinking onto the divan opposite Monique. “There’s nothing to find. The security is even tighter than I thought, and the whole place is— It’s all just . . . Nothing,” he repeated. “I found nothing.” He took another swig of grappa. “Not that I expected to see any kind of— Ah, fuck it . . .” He stared at the carpet for a long moment, then looked up again and caught her eye. “Let’s go home, Monique,” he said.
17
Time flies when you’re having fun, right? I wasn’t, so the three days after we got back to New York seemed like three months. Forget jet lag; we had hope lag. Both of us. I mean, it had been great to see all that wonderful stuff, and we’d had some really good meals, and Rome is wonderful, and blah blah blah. As far as the real purpose of the trip was concerned—finding some small, tiny reason to think I could pull this off—forget it.
I hadn’t ever worked closely with another person at the planning stage, and I really hoped that Monique might help me see a way through to something workable. No such luck. I mean, she tried, but her brain just doesn’t work that way. That’s kind of a good thing? It means she’s not all dark and twisted on the inside. Like I am. But in this case, it wasn’t that good. Because I was coming up empty, and she wasn’t even humming along in the same key.
So I spent three whole days sitting around with Monique and beating my brains out for nothing. Even if she couldn’t pitch in, I would’ve thought that hanging with her would get my brain working. Just on the off chance that I’d think of something and she’d be so impressed that we would move on to the thing.
No such luck. Nothing. Three days of nothing, every day making it all seem darker and more pointless, until I was ready to just cut to the chase and jump out the window, get it all over with and save everybody a lot of trouble.
Am I making this sound like it’s way too big a deal? Like, oh poor Riley, he just can’t get it done?
