Shrouded in Silence (11 page)

The absence of moonlight deepened the blackness of night, enveloping the ramshackle buildings standing up and down Via Vittorio Veneto. Santa Maria Church had locked its doors much earlier and the towering church had taken on an imposing appearance. Klaus Burchel stood across the street inside a narrow alley and watched the empty street for more than an hour. His relationship with Stein crossed his mind. As long as he remained the obedient servant, Stein humored him. Returning to the "yes, sirs," and "no, sirs," hadn't been easy, but in a couple of days Stein's more pleasant reactions signaled it was working. Stein paid on time, and the money was excellent. Klaus periodically craved a hit and thought about seeking out a snort or two. Of course, Stein could have someone watching him so he shelved the idea, although the desire still switched within him.

Black sweats and an old stocking cap made it impossible for him to be seen. Periodically, a taxi or small car rambled down the street, but by 3:00 a.m., no one was strolling down the sidewalk. The empty street proved that he could cross without observation.

Pulling his black coat collar up around his neck, Klaus darted across the pavement and into the shadows alongside of the church. For several minutes, he stood against the stone block wall and listened. The sounds of his running faded, and he heard nothing. No one seemed to be out at this late hour of the night. He waited another five minutes before pulling the black face mask out of his backpack. With a couple of quick jerks, he tugged the covering over his head. Klaus scooted silently along the side of the church until he reached the front door of the house behind the large edifice.

He had learned to pick a lock long ago and figured the advancing age of the house should make it easy to break in. As anticipated, he found the front door secured with a warded lock. The L-shaped warded intrusion tool he carried in his pocket made quick work of the security lock.

Stein had warned him that once he was inside the house, his work had to be done fast. Get in; get out; open and shut. Even though it was the middle of the night, there were no guarantees that a surprise visit couldn't happen. Quickly pulling the old MicroPower WM-1 transmitter from his backpack, he straightened the red and green wires before sliding under the closest desk and beginning to install the device into the telephone line. Once the transmitter had been hooked in, he took out the test receiver from the backpack to make sure the connections were secure. The tone and volume of sound were excellent.

Pulling the desk drawer out, he fastened the MicroPower unit against the inside of the back of the desk behind the last drawer where no one could see it. At that moment a cracking noise echoed from the adjacent dark room.

Klaus froze. The scraping sound came again. Crawling back out from under the desk, Klaus stood perfectly still and listened to make sure no night watchman was creeping around in the dark. Another faint sound reverberated from the same room. Klaus's heart pounded. Could he have stepped into a trap? It sounded like someone was waiting to ambush him from just a few feet away. Ducking beneath the desk, he pulled a small flashlight from his pocket. Taking the Smith & Wesson 459 pistol Stein had given him from his side pocket, he flipped off the safety and turned on the small narrow beam, aiming it at the black hole in front of him. A rat the size of a kitten stared back with its red eyes reflecting the light.

Behind the ugly creature, Klaus could see a long table in a conference room. Klaus cursed under his breath and started to throw the flashlight but thought better of the idea. The rodent blinked and scurried away. Satisfied that he was still secure, Klaus went back to work. After surveying the other desks, he concluded only one telephone line came in and went out of the office. With the bugging device in position, he could leave but knew the sending range of the device might be an issue. If the reception proved too limited, Stein would have to station him down the street with a recording device to pick up talking.

Carefully closing the front door and making sure it was locked, Burchel inched his way back down the cement walkway until he reached the edge of the shadows beyond which the street lights glowed. Once confident no one was watching, he pulled off the black mask and started his trek out of the neighborhood.

11

R
ome's street traffic remained at the usual feverish pitch and pace. Cars honked incessantly, and buses plowed ahead regardless of who got in the way. Wiggling through the jam-ups meant taking your life in your hands. Jack Townsend often darted in and out through the lanes of cars but knew the risks. Jaywalking had turned into an art that remained on the iffy side even during late September when the tourist numbers started to dwindle.

Michelle believed he was going to the Vatican Library and that wasn't untrue, but he had taken the subway exit that brought him up at a different point. The Tiber River and Amadeo bridge that allowed him to walk to Borgo Santo Spirito and end up at the Vatican wasn't far away, but his actual destination lay directly in front of him. The Dar Poeta sidewalk café with the artichokes he dearly loved stood just a few feet ahead. Jack hadn't told Michelle about this little detour because she might worry, having the terminal bombing still weighing on her mind. That was the excuse he gave himself before entering the subway station near their offices and being whisked away. When he walked into the sidewalk café, the bushy-haired waiter immediately recognized him and came rushing forward with his large silver pot held above his head.

"Ah, Signor Townsend, I have your favorite blend today that I know will send a thrill through your heart." Luichi filled the porcelain cup sitting in front of Jack. "Drink and may the gods bless you with joy!" Luichi hurried on to the next table.

Jack found the coffee to be a tad stale and hardly a heartwarming treat, but it was OK. Luichi always overstated the menu like an enthusiastic salesman closing in on the finish of a sale, but after all didn't most Italians? After a second sip, Jack began watching the multitudes drifting by. A young woman in a form-fitting red jersey came twisting down the sidewalk with large circular earrings swinging back and forth. He pretended not to look but followed her until she disappeared into a store up the street. A stylish looking man in a brown tweed sport coat wearing high dollar Giorgio Brutini shoes hung on to a metal chain for dear life while an excited furry pup pulled him forward. The sights of strange people walking determinedly forward in pursuit of who knows what gripped his imagination.

"A little something to eat, Signor?" Luichi asked.

"I was just thinking about the artichokes
alla giudia
cooked in a Roman-Jewish style. Yes?"

"Ah, you always know what is best," Luichi said. "The most excellent selection of all." The waiter patted Jack on the shoulder and hurried away. No matter what he would have ordered, Luichi would have declared it to be the most elegant possibility.

A heavy-set man wearing a plaid English vest came leisurely strolling by with a huge Great Dane at his side. With his outlandishly oversized dog, he looked more like a character in a movie than the average Roman citizen. The unusual sight kept Jack's eyes glued to the street. A Lamborghini sports car swirled through the thick traffic and came to an abrupt stop in front of the restaurant. The driver's dark complexion and his long black hair swirling in the wind gave him an appearance of a movie actor roaring through the city.

Movies seemed to be on Jack's mind. The scene felt like a clip from some classic movie made on Rome's streets. In the far distance, he could still see the spires of St. Peter's Basilica. So much history had unfolded in this small area that any portion of the scenery grabbed the imagination and inspired fantasies of all shapes and sizes.

"
Il mio amico!"
some voice called out. "Friend!"

Jack looked around. Walking up the street with his arm waving in the air, overweight Tony Mattei hustled along like a tourist rushing to get on a bus before it left him on the street.

"Ah, my friend!" Tony Mattei hurried in and plopped down across the small table from Jack. As usual, Tony's black hair hung over his forehead, making him look like he had just been in a wrestling match. With a brilliant red handkerchief sticking out from his black silk coat pocket, Mattei consistently showed up with the countenance of a walking billboard. On each hand he had two sparkling diamond rings Jack had never seen on his hands before. Tony Mattei looked like a Mardi Gras parade marching through town.

"My friend, Tony," Jack said. "We always seem to run into each other at the Dar Poeta.

"It is because the gods smile on me everyday that I am in this neighborhood. They bring my dear friend from America across my path so that my dreams and hopes may be encouraged."

Jack chuckled. "You been drinking wine already this morning?"

"Oh, no!" Tony shook his head. "I speak the truth from a humble and sincere heart."

"Would you drink a cup of coffee with me instead, Tony?"

"Of course! Yes! I would be delighted."

Jack raised his hand in the air and snapped his finger. "Luichi! A cup of coffee for my friend." The Italian immediately picked up an empty white cup and started toward them.

"The last time we were here the terrible bombing had just occurred," Tony said. "Then in the next moment I pick up the newspaper and read this amazing story about you and your writing. I said to myself, 'These Americans are everywhere!' Is that not so?"

"That story was nice, but it didn't change anything in the world. Just a few lines about our research. That's all."

"But I can see how prominent you have become now. To be featured in
Il Messaggero
says that the entire nation of Italy knows that you are a person of great esteem and fame."

"Come on, Tony. The reporter simply found our work to be interesting and thought it would make a story. Really. The bottom line is that our approach to an archaeological problem fascinated the reporter. That's all."

"Hmm." Tony tilted his head and pursed his lips. "I think there is more here."

"Your coffee, my friend." Luichi set the cup and saucer on the table and hurried away.

"The diamond business is going well this morning?" Jack asked. "No?"

Mattei shrugged. "Well, we are into the fall now and there are not as many tourists. Business slows under these circumstances."

"Rome is always filled with visitors," Jack said. "My hunch is that you are doing well on this nice warm autumn day. I bet your stores are doing fine."

"We try," Tony said defensively. "That is all we can do. Let me shift the subject." He squinted and shook his head. "If memory serves me correctly, at sometime or the other, you mentioned that your wife was frightened by explosions. Did the subway bombing bother her?"

"Michelle struggles with any incident of that order," Jack said. "She tries not to mention the explosion, but I know it is upsetting."

"Yes, yes. And you, Jack? How are you feeling about this terrorist act today?" He shifted nervously and crossed his arms over his broad chest.

"All forms of violence are repugnant to me. In addition, it was a cowardly deed done in the darkness. No, I don't like any aspect of such a gruesome and panic-mongering attack. Don't most Italians feel the same way?"

"I hope so." Tony raised one eyebrow.

"Now, I have a question for you. Why do you think this group of terrorists set off the bomb?"

Tony rolled his eyes. "How would I know? The newspapers don't seem to link this action with any international terrorist organization. Possibly, the terrorist made a mistake by not being clearer about his reasons for setting off the explosion."

"That's putting it mildly. The terrorists made a huge mistake doing
anything."

"Yes. Yes. Of course." Tony smiled. "Perhaps, we should move on to a more comfortable topic. Is the American economy doing any better?"

The shift in the conversations seemed strained as if Tony wanted something out of him that wasn't yet clear. Possibly the man was only on the flustered side, but he sounded nervous and was jumping around like a toad on hot cement. Instead of coffee, maybe he should have stayed with those large volumes of wine he was reported to drink all the time.

Tony kept expounding his ideas about why the Italian economy suffered due to the intemperate unregulated actions of the British and American importers. Jack listened and said little. When Tony got started, the man rolled on and on like a runaway freight train, and this morning the engine kept going down the track.