The Angel of Milan (2 page)

             
There are many events to record, and as you will see, it is not necessary to place them in chronological order. Therefore, I think I will begin with a name—Victorio Del Cielo. For those not versed in Italian, the name may be translated to “Victory of Heaven.” Somewhat presumptuous, or so I thought the first time I heard it.

107

1
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
I was in Ethiopia, another hellhole of the world, tracking down a rare book that had been stolen from the Coptic Church. I quickly located the thieves in an abandoned communist housing project. Nothing gains information more quickly in Ethiopia than a fist full of Birr currency. The housing projects were dismal structures, made only of concrete and tin, a monument to the failure of communism. As with all Marxist social orders, the vision did not match the reality for the Ethiopian people it was suppose to serve. Once the country freed itself from the communist yoke, these houses were quickly abandoned. However, tonight there were occupants whom I would visit unannounced.

             
I walked quietly down the darkened alley with only flickers of moonlight peaking trough the fast-moving clouds above, revealing tattered, concrete walls framing the way. For some unknown reason, I remember being aware of the grayish dust covering my brown leather jacket, and being annoyed that it would require significant cleaning. There is no accounting what the mind will focus on at any given time.

             
The smell of decay rose on the breeze, lifting it into my face, causing my nostrils to flare in response.
Shit hole
, I thought,
why does it always have to be a shit hole?
A rat scurried across the gutter right in front of the doorway I was seeking. The door itself was a washed-out green with peeling paint, the kind that flakes at the touch. Rotten no doubt, just like the rest of the place. I cautiously turned the doorknob, finding it locked as expected, but not particularly sturdy. Gripping the knob tightly while bending my knees, I placed a shoulder and hip against the door. A powerful, slow extension of my body caused the doorframe to splinter as expected. The splintering broke the silence of the alley momentarily, but not another sound was heard; I had not given myself away.

             
Inside, I could make out the cement steps and iron railing lit by a light shining beneath a doorway a flight above. I was pleased; cement steps do not creek. I could feel the curvature in the center of each tread where the substandard mixture had warn away in only a few years of use. Reaching the landing, I quietly listened at the single door for activity within. There was normal conversation inside; they had not heard the splintering when the street door had been forced. The muffled voices within were speaking a Tigrinya dialect; they were Jeberti, converts to Islam if I were any judge. They had taken something that didn’t belong to them, the faithless bastards, and I would be retrieving it. Ironically, it would not be returned to its rightful owners. No, others would take it into their care once and for all.

             
Listening at the door, three, no, four voices could be heard. I tried to visualize the men inside by the sound of each voice, and found myself frowning. It was never what you expected. Voices so rarely fit the caricatures of the bearer. Preparing myself mentally for what would follow, I stood back to kick the door in. However, hearing footsteps approach from the other side of the door, I quickly stepped to the side, deep into the darkness. A latch slapped on the other side and the door opened to reveal the silhouette of a rather large, unshaven man talking over his shoulder in Tigrinya to those within.

             
“It is nothing, I tell you. There is no one here,” he said.

     “You are wrong, my friend,” I whispered back in Tigrinya with a mocking voice. The man’s head turned in surprise just as the heel of my hand slammed into his chest at the bottom tip of the sternum with a crushing force that lifted him off his feet and back into the room. The man landed backwards with a thunderous crash as his head hit a table, sending it to the other side of the room. The remaining three men froze in place, open mouthed.

             
“Give me the book,” I said slowly, in a threatening tone. “I will have it without delay. Where is it?” In unison, the three men looked to the desk at the far end of the room, giving away the location of the book just as I had intended.

             
“Thank you, gentlemen. Step to the side, if you please.”

             
Even as I said it I knew that their heart rates would be slowing down now, allowing them to regain cognitive thought. The face of the youngest of the four twisted up in anger as his speech returned to him.

             
“What the fuck— You are taking nothing from here, not even your life, you piece of shit! We are going to gut you like a pig and piss on you while we watch you die.”

             
The man on the floor groaned loudly and was rolling to his hands and knees now. Glancing back to the other three, I saw that very large knives had appeared in their hands as they separated to approach me from different sides.

             
“Very well,” I said, loud enough for them to hear. “I must confess that your description of my death clears my conscious of what I must do. You see, I have been instructed not to leave any of you alive anyway, ” I said, smiling.

             
I could see their disbelief by the frown lines that appeared on their foreheads. I recall thinking that the next moment would provide a pleasure I had come to know very well: the power of life and death. The thrill ran up my spine, rushing into my brain like an opiate. I was about to feed my addiction—an addiction that, if not soon
checked, would corrupt my spirit.

             
In order to distract and confuse my assailants, I kicked the man who was on his hands and knees from behind. My boot landed flush on the man’s genitals with a sickening thud. He let out a terrified yell while rolling away and into the feet of one of my attackers. Since I was quite fast for a man my size, the young one found me in front of him before he could react. Grabbing the hand that held the knife, I forced it in and up, breaking the wrist. A quick shove of his arm to his throat, and the Carotid Artery was severed. I pushed him away to die and turned back to the others.

     There was no reason to risk being cut, so without hesitation I drew the HK and placed two 45 caliber rounds into the center of each man’s chest, killing each of them instantly. The one on the floor that I had kicked in the groin was still moaning, holding his crotch in pain. My smile broadened.  

             
“Here, let me fix that for you,” I said, firing a single shot in the top of man’s head. As an arc of blood pumped from the hole, I turned to the desk.

             
The book was where the men had indicated. Opening the center drawer, I found a cloth-wrapped package. Undoing the tapestry revealed a jewel-encrusted Templar Cross on the binding cover of the codex; this was the volume I had been sent for. The temptation to open and read the contents was great, but I had been instructed not to do so. Knowing that I was familiar with all Templar materials and literature, I could not imagine why my superiors had instructed me not to read the codex. I could only suspect that there was something in this particular volume not generally known in the circle of scholars.

             
Inspection of the volume indicated that it was a parchment codex, extremely old, and therefore the jeweled cover would not have been the only reason I was sent on the quest. Templar were long known to have been in Ethiopia; their Croix Pattée crosses were incorporated into much of the land’s churches and ruins. Their purpose in Ethiopia, of course, was the Holy Grail—the Ark of the Covenant. However, this codex had nothing to do with that, I was sure.

     There was more to it this time—secrets, always secrets within secrets. I was privy to many of these, but it was not my secret to know this time. The conclave believed my obedience was without question, so the restriction had been enforced on me to not read the book.
Very well
, I thought.
I will not read it—not now, anyway.
I knew I would come across it at a later time when it was all but forgotten. I would read it then.

             
I placed the codex in the diplomatic pouch bearing the familiar keys of the Vatican Seal. In forty-eight hours the contents would be locked away in the private vaults.
A secret within a secret
, I thought.
At least for the time being.

2
             
             
             
             
             
             
My arrival at the Vatican two days later produced the same feelings of awe and wonder as it had the very first time all those years ago when I was summoned for the first time. The majesty of the place is uncompromising no matter how many times you enter the complex. It was only the echoing sound of my own heels striking the marble floors that make the surroundings a reality for me.

             
“Father Adama,” said a familiar voice from behind.

     I turned abruptly to find the young, priestly face of Father O’Malley rushing towards me.
Oh crap. Not him, not now
, I thought. The only thing worse than an old Irish priest, is a young Irish priest. The young ones haven’t turned to the bottle yet, and are just too full of pious ambition for my liking. Their enthusiasm causes my ass to hurt.

             
The young man’s smile preceded his reaching hands to embrace my own hand.

             
“I am so glad to see you again, Father. I was told only yesterday that you would be absent from the Vatican for an indeterminate time.”

             
“Ah yes, Father, I concluded my business sooner than expected.”