Midnight Angels (37 page)

Edwards stood between two large walls, gazing up at unfamiliar names long deceased, framed photos the only reminder that they once walked the same soil. Andrew MacNamera stood to his left, one hand in a pocket, the other cupping a lit unfiltered cigarette.

“I’m sorry I had to call you into this,” Edwards said, “given your condition. It was something I sought to avoid.”

“Dying is not a condition, Richard,” MacNamera said, “it’s a fact. Besides, I’ve never been one to sit idle by the sidelines.”

“You’ll have all the action you crave in a matter of hours,” Edwards said. “The Raven has called in as many of his group as he could spare, even pulled some off operations he had working in other parts of the world. He is making his stand on the fight for the Angels.”

“He has also put out heavy offers to a number of freelancers who were floating through the city or close enough to get here,” MacNamera said.
“But he could call in the 101st Airborne and it wouldn’t matter to the outcome.”

“How do you figure that?” Edwards asked.

“This will come down to three people—you, Kate, and the Raven. The rest of us are merely collateral.”

“Do you think he has figured out by now that Kate no longer has the Angels?” Edwards asked.

“I would imagine he suspected that for some time,” MacNamera said. “My guess is he only put her in jeopardy to get your attention and force you to turn your focus toward protecting her instead of the Angels. Meanwhile, his people have been turning the city upside down looking for where they might be hidden. Given all that, I have to admit, I’m surprised he has yet to find them.”

Edwards gazed over at his old friend and smiled. “You want to stay alive in this business, always think as your adversary thinks,” he said. “I was told that many years ago by a man much brighter than me, remember?”

MacNamera returned the smile, followed by a harsh cough, and nodded. “And I see you’ve heeded the lesson,” he said. “At least well enough to have the Raven and his bunch running in circles.”

“You want to hide something,” Edwards said, “the best way to do that is put it in a place where everyone can see it. If you’re up for a short walk, I can give you an example to illustrate my point.”

“Lead the way,” MacNamera said, dabbing the corners of his mouth with an embroidered handkerchief.

They walked in silence down the stone path leading to the mausoleums stretched out around the sloping hills. The cemetery was serene at this hour, a light mist covering the tips of the grass and small trees that dotted the landscape.

“If you’re going to die,” MacNamera said, “you could do a helluva lot worse than end up in such a beautiful place.”

“I never took you for the sentimental type,” Edwards said.

“What can I say? You start leaning in that direction,” MacNamera said, “when you start getting close to the finish line.”

They stopped in front of an ornate white stone mausoleum, a black, locked iron gate with
ANGELA AND FRANCO BUONARROTI
chiseled above the entryway, below a design of two young angels on bended knee. Edwards reached inside his jacket and pulled out a small string of keys.
Standing on the top step of the mausoleum, he took a quick look around and caught a glimpse of MacNamera’s approving smile.

“Any relation to Michelangelo?” MacNamera asked him.

“I didn’t take the trouble to find out,” Edwards said, jamming a thin key into the lock. “It was a fairly common name for quite a few centuries, so the chances are there wasn’t any connection. But, like it or not, they’re in his company now.”

He swung the gate open and stepped in, followed closely by MacNamera, who closed it as soon as he entered the frigid room. There were headstones carved into all four walls, each with the names of deceased members of this particular branch of the Buonarroti family dating back to the eighteenth century.

In the center of the room, one large white cement coffin was the final resting place of the family patriarch. “Give me a hand here,” Edwards said. “We need to tilt the coffin on its side.”

“Then you should have brought a crane and a construction crew,” MacNamera said.

“You’re a lot stronger than you think,” Edwards said, grabbing one end of the coffin. “Now just grab the other end and push it up.”

The two men lifted the coffin and placed it on its side, resting it on the stone ground.

“It’s pure Sheetrock with a hard layered coat,” Edwards said. “Even if, on the odd chance the Raven did send any of his men in here to take a look, they would see nothing more than a family at eternal rest.”

A thick white shroud covered the opening. Edwards got down on both knees and gripped one end with a hand, gazing up at MacNamera with a look of sheer joy. “All men should witness at least one rare work of beauty before they leave this earth,” he said. “Set their eyes on a gift few others have seen. I’m sure you would agree.”

“With all my heart,” MacNamera said.

“Then here is yours, my friend,” Edwards said, casting the white shroud aside. “Be witness to the Midnight Angels.”

The two men stared down into the squared-off center of the opening. There, deep inside the well, positioned gently next to each other, were the three uncovered Angels, the rarest works of Michelangelo ever found.

“I always thought the David was the most perfect work I would ever see,” MacNamera finally said. “But these far surpass that.”

“If the information we have about them is true, he was not yet thirty when he began work on the project,” Edwards said. “That would have made him nearly four years older than when he finished the David. He would have been that much more experienced, that much more a polished sculptor.”

“There’s more to it than that,” MacNamera said. “These were sculpted with a passion and a fervor missing in the others. Work of genius though it may be, the David was chiseled on defective marble and under the dual duress of time and money. These, however, were worked on with care, patience, and love. I’ve never seen anything like them.”

“No one has,” Edwards said, “and it’s quite likely no one ever will.”

“I can see why the Raven is so desperate to get his hands on them. These would fetch a hefty price if they were ever put on the private market.”

“If you believe the talk among the art hunters,” Edwards said. “Not a penny less than 400 million euros.”

“To quite a few of those hunters, roughly 430 million in cash is worth dying for,” MacNamera said.

“Four hundred million euros
each,”
Edwards said.

“Do you plan on leaving them here?” MacNamera asked.

“For now,” Edwards said, “at least while the battle with the Raven still rages.”

“And then?”

“Then it will be up to Kate,” Edwards said. “The decision is hers. If she follows the dictates of the Society—and there is little reason to believe she won’t—she will need to determine who the Angels rightfully belong to, where it was that Michelangelo wanted them to reside.”

“She’ll make the right decision,” MacNamera said.

“We can’t fail her, Andrew. And we can’t fail the Society. We need to rid her path of the Raven once and for all.”

Andrew MacNamera wiped at his neck and brow, his eyes still on the Midnight Angels. “Let’s get at it, then,” he said. “I’m not getting any younger.”

Edwards glanced at MacNamera and watched him make a vain attempt to stifle a blood-soaked cough. “Are you sure you’re up to this?” he asked.

The older man smirked. “As of today, Richard, if my doctors are to be believed, I have less than two months to live. That makes me the most lethal weapon you possess. Now, I suggest we let the Angels rest in peace and go out to ensure their enemies will do the same.”

CHAPTER
14

T
HE SMART CAR ROARED PAST THE ANCIENT WALLS, BOUNDING
across the cobblestone streets, dodging pedestrians and stands, small engine running at peak power, Rita, still dressed as a nun, was behind the wheel, shifting gears as adeptly as a Formula One driver. Kate sat on bended knees in the small passenger seat, a gun in each hand, gazing through the small rear window at the two men on Vespas in fast pursuit.

“That must have been one very special convent you went to,” Kate said to Rita, “teaching you how to shoot
and
hot-wire a car.”

“We didn’t spend
all
of our time in prayer,” Rita said, hugging the corner and making a sharp right around a leather goods store.

Kate crossed her arms over the back of the front seat, the guns still in her hands. “You would think they would have taken a shot at us by now,” she said.

Rita turned left and caught a glimpse of a Fiat racing down from an adjoining side street. Farther up the tight street, she saw the brake lights on a parked taxi flash. “They’re looking to box us in,” she said. “We have another car in the mix just behind us and a cab up ahead that will act as the lead car. The Vespas will probably swing over and follow us on parallel streets, coming in and out as necessary.”

They ran a stop sign and nearly collided with two bikers, Rita veering the car close enough to a café to send two tables hurtling. “I can’t get a clear shot,” Kate said, “and I don’t want to risk hitting a bystander.”

“That will stop us,” Rita said, “but it won’t stop them, if they decide to fire. For now, though, it looks like they’d like to take us down alive, or at least you, anyway.”

A yellow taxi came roaring down a narrow street and slammed into the driver’s side of the Smart, sending it smashing against the stone entrance of a law office. Though dazed from the collision, Rita managed to downshift and slam her foot on the pedal, smoke coming off the rear tires as she kept the car rolling forward. “There is one negative to using this small a car in a speed chase,” she said, “and you just witnessed it. It can’t take a hit.”

Kate jumped into the small opening that passed for a backseat and slammed out the rear window with the butt ends of her guns, the hood of the taxi only inches from the fragile bumper of the Smart car. She could see the driver and the man sitting next to him, his right hand hanging out the passenger side window, a cocked revolver gripped tight between his fingers.

“They’re going to try to get us from both ends,” Rita said. “Three streets ahead, there’s another yellow taxi coming toward us, and he’s moving at collision speed.”

“Can you turn down a side street?” Kate asked without looking away from the taxi now bumping against the rear of their car.

“I don’t have much control of the wheel,” Rita said. “I might make it, but not fast enough to clear us from the two cabs.”

Kate made eye contact with the man on the passenger side of the taxi, then lifted her gun and fired two shots into the center of the windshield, hoping the driver would swerve the vehicle and reduce its speed. She achieved neither result and took a deep breath, bracing her back against the passenger seat of the Smart car, her feet against the rear board. She raised her guns, poised to take out the driver.

A black unmarked sedan came out of a side street then and slammed into the Smart car, shoving it into a narrow driveway, the front end of the small car crushed, two of its tires blown, the air smelling of burnt rubber.

The driver of the taxi in pursuit quickly shifted gears, but to no avail, as he ran smack into the side of the black unmarked sedan. The second pursuing cab, which Rita had spotted earlier, came at the cars from the opposite end of the street, screeching to a halt inches from the unmarked black sedan. Smoke filled the air and approaching sirens wailed from all directions as people leaned out of tiny windows, wooden shutters pushed aside, to get a better glimpse of the action.

Antonio Rumore stepped out of the unmarked sedan and fired into
the smoldering taxi. He took out the driver as several bullets aimed his way missed their mark. He pulled a second gun from a shoulder holster and, spreading his arms out, fired at the damaged cabs on either side. After emptying his clips and letting them drop to the ground, he whirled in a 180-degree circle, reloaded his weapons and resumed firing. Shots dented the sides of the unmarked sedan and blew out a tire, but Rumore stood his ground. He emptied his second and final clips, then lowered his arms, bowed his head and waited for the silence to take hold.

Within seconds he was surrounded by heavily armed police officers fresh on the scene. He looked up, scanned the street, then turned to a uniformed cop holding a semiautomatic weapon. “What’s the damage?” he asked.

“Four dead,” the cop said, “two in each of the taxis. And you’re wounded. From here it looks like a flesh wound that just pierced the shoulder, but you might feel better having a doctor tell you that. A second ambulance will be here in about a minute, maybe less.”

“What about the women in the Smart car?” Rumore asked.

“The nun is pretty banged up, has a head wound that’s going to need stitches, and maybe a broken leg,” the officer said. “The girl in the backseat just seemed shook up, but they’re taking her in for observation to be sure.”

Rumore holstered his guns and walked toward the ambulance now parked halfway up the street, back doors open, siren lights twirling. The nun was already in the back, ministered to by two young EMS technicians. Kate was on a gurney, a sheet covering her up to her chest. She smiled when she saw him.

“You’re bleeding and I’m not,” she said. “So why am I the one on the gurney?”

“Italians love to pamper their women,” Rumore said.

“I always thought that meant music and food,” she said. “I didn’t know about the shootouts.”

“It was a risky move, and it could have turned out to be a very bad one,” he said. He was standing at her side now, his right hand gently brushing the hair away from her eyes. “It was my only choice to keep you alive, and I just could not let anything happen to you.”

Kate gazed up at him and smiled. “Is it because you still think I know where the Angels are?”

Rumore shook his head. “I would have done it even if you had never found the Angels,” he said. “And I would do it again, just to see that smile.”