The Cross of Sins (11 page)

"Professor?" Elsa appeared behind him, her face filled with sorrow for him, her hand resting tenderly on his shoulder. "Let me take you to your room."

"No thank you, Elsa. I'll be fine. I need to get to the bottom of this."

"But Professor," Eden said. "You need time to—"

"Time is a luxury we cannot afford!" the Professor interrupted. "Time is something Joseph no longer has. And it's something we too may run out of very soon."

Just then, he staggered backward a little. Elsa was there to steady him. The men hurried forward, and Elsa and Eden helped him back into his chair. "I'm all right, I'm all right," he told them all. "I didn't mean to raise my voice. But this is no time for an old man to be fussed over. I'll be fine. All that matters is we find the book before the murderers who killed Joseph find us."

"But what about the other half of the tablet?" asked Will.

"Have faith."

Professor Fathom had many strengths, the greatest of which was clarity of mind and his ability to form a sound plan, even in the face of adversity or, as the case might be, the terrible grip of grief. Over the next few hours, Jake fell into a deep drug-induced slumber on the sofa, the food on the table was slowly eaten, even if it did go cold and was picked at randomly, and the Professor devised a strategy that would give them all the best chance of finding
The Naked Christ
.

By sunrise, the plan was underway. In three days time, they all agreed to rendezvous at the Royal Hotel in Vienna. In the meantime, Will left his Ducati at the Chalet and departed with Luca in his Alfa Romeo. They reached Vienna's airport several hours later and bought two tickets to London.

Eden and Shane left in Shane's Jeep, and the two of them also headed for the airport. By midday they were on a flight to Ankara.

Eden left behind medical supplies and instructions with Elsa so that she could adequately care for Jake in his absence. "He's as strong as they get. Just keep up the morphine and his body will heal itself."

"Don't worry," said the Professor. "We won't let anything happen to him. We need him."

Eden smiled before he left. "You do have a plan, don't you? Why doesn't that surprise me?"

The Professor kissed him on the cheek before he left. "Take care. We'll all be together soon. And we will find
The Cross of Sins
. In this, I really do have faith."

VII

Naples, Italy

Vesuvius loomed large over the sprawling chaos of Naples, a city steeped in poverty and crime, with mountains of garbage alight on every street corner and guileless tourists having their wristwatches snatched by men on Vespas in every alley.

The handsome, dark-haired German walked along one such alley, his stride confident, his face cool and calm. He wore sunglasses, a perfectly-fitting black suit, white shirt unbuttoned down to mid-chest. Italian shoes clapping against the cobblestones.

Suddenly, from the other end of the alley he heard the wasp-like buzz of a motor scooter approaching, its unserviced engine straining, its wheels bouncing on the cobblestones as it raced up from behind. The German didn't turn his head to look. He simply smiled and kept walking, leaving his left arm exposed, Rolex on view, while his right hand reached inside his jacket pocket.

As the scooter droned up behind him, the driver reached wide, arm outstretched ready for the snatch, the watch an easy target.

But as he sped within two feet of his prize, the man in the suit spun about quickly.

Somehow the driver of the scooter managed to snare the watch.

At the same time he felt a thump against his ribcage.

The man in the suit had punched him. Punched him hard.

The bike teetered, wobbled precariously, and then turned completely on its side as the winded driver fell. Momentum sent both driver and scooter crashing into the wall on the opposite side of the alley.

Engine still running, the dented bike spluttered smoke.

At the same time, the fallen driver spluttered blood.

He felt it splash and trickle down his chin. Confused he wiped his mouth. That's when he felt the searing pain in his ribs.

He glanced down at his side quickly and saw the pool of blood spreading out from under him. He put his hand of his side and felt the hot rush of blood. Suddenly, he panicked. "
Aiuto
!
Auito
!"

With a calm smile, the man in the suit crouched beside the fatally-wounded man and wiped the blood from his switchblade knife onto the driver's shirt, before retracting the blade and replacing the knife in his jacket pocket. "Sorry, I'd like to help," he said in his thick German accent, snatching his Rolex out of the dying man's clutches and checking the time. "But you've already made me late for an appointment."

With that he made his way to the end of the alley and turned a corner, leaving the watch-thief to gasp and splutter and slowly die, alone on the cobblestones, sticky and black with blood.

The door to the rendezvous point was red.

The German knocked twice.

An old woman in an apron answered. She said nothing and simply pointed the visitor up a set of stairs in the decrepit street-front apartment.

Upstairs was a room, its curtains drawn, a table and two chairs inside.

A man sat in one of the chairs, his face concealed beneath a crimson hood. "You have the money?"

"Do you have his location?" the German asked in return.

The man in the hood gestured to the chair opposite. "Hans, please. Sit."

The legs of the chair scraped along the dusty floorboards and the German sat. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket once more, but instead of pulling out his knife, he produced a thickly-packed envelope. As he slid it across the table, he said, "I thought your people were already rich?"

The hooded man put his hand on the envelope and slid it under his robe. Faintly the German could make out a smile beneath that hood. "In a world of give and take, you can never have enough money."

"So you've taken. Now give me his location."

"No," was the hooded man's calm response.

The German stood angrily and leaned across the table, the scraping chair slamming backward onto the floor. Now the knife was in his hand, blade drawn. "Tell me where I can find the son of Valentino!"

"I will," came another calm response. "But not yet. I need him."

Anger mixed with suspicion on the German's face. "
You
need him? For what?"

This time he saw the smile for certain. It was a wicked smile, lingering like a snarl beneath that crimson hood. "To find something that was never meant to be found."

VIII

Piccadilly, London

Red open-top double-decker buses and black taxis roared past a London policeman wearing a black bobby's hat and white gloves as he blew into a whistle and directed traffic. At the same time, Will and Luca walked down the crowded pavements of Piccadilly, arguing.

"You think a Ducati gives you style?"

"I think—correction, I know—a Ducati gives me speed!"

Luca shook his head. "You may be fast. You may be young and handsome and full of stupid tricks. But none of it makes you invincible."

"You're beginning to sound like the Professor," Will smirked.

Luca pulled him aside as a large group of fat German tourists waddled by with their cameras and maps.

"If I sound like the Professor, it's because I care. We all care. You're our little brother. You can't blame us for wanting to look out for you."

"I'm touched, really," Will grinned. "But I can look out for myself."

He took a step backward—a little too close to the street—and slipped on the curb. He began to fall backward, just as a bus packed with sightseers blasted its horn and careened straight toward him.

Suddenly, Luca's hand was there, clutching Will by the shirt and hauling him back onto the pavement, a mere second before the bus roared past.

Will stumbled against Luca, and then quickly straightened himself, eyes wide. "That was close. Thanks."

Luca flashed a gleaming I-told-you-so smile. "Don't mention it."

He looked up and saw the entrance to the Burlington Arcade, a beautiful and ornate shopping strip filled with dozens of expensive and tightly-packed boutique shops. "This is the place," Luca said.

They found Elliott Ebus' antique shop in the middle of the arcade. It was a curious little place, dark and maze-like, crowded with cases and cabinets filled with old toys, dusty sewing machines and prehistoric gramophones. When Will and Luca found the owner of the shop, Elliott Ebus, he himself looked like a curio.

"Can I help you gentlemen?" said the little man in a crisp British accent. He was short and bald, with thick round spectacles on his little rodent's nose.

"Are you Elliott Ebus?" Luca asked.

The little man nodded proudly. "Indeed, and this is my store. Are you shopping for a gift? Something for yourself perhaps?"

"We're looking for a particular book, a very old book."

"Well then," buzzed Elliott excitedly, "you've come to the right place."

Straightening his little knit vest and checking his bow tie was tied nice and tight, Elliott led Will and Luca to an aisle filled with towers and towers of ancient books. "Do you know the title?" Elliott's nimble little fingers began to dance along the spines of books, ready to knowingly seek out the treasure these gentlemen sought.

"No," Luca said, "but we know who the author was. An artist by the name of Videlle."

Elliott Ebus suddenly froze. His fingers stopped dancing. He seemed to stop breathing for a moment, and his right eye developed a rather obvious twitch.

"You okay there, dude?" Will asked.

"Yes," Elliott snapped nervously. "But I'm afraid I can't help you. I've never heard that name before in my life. I know all my books. I know every item in my store. But that one doesn't ring a bell at all, I'm afraid. You'll have to look elsewhere."

"I had it on very good advice that this was the place to come," said Luca, "and you were the person to talk to."

"Whoever told you that was wrong? Now if you'll excuse me, gentlemen, I have an errand to run."

Elliott Ebus scurried quickly back behind the safety of his counter, pulled on a tweed jacket and plucked a
Back in 15 Minutes
sign out of a drawer.

"I think we get the hint," Will said. "Come on; let's get the hell out of here."

Luca handed Elliott a piece of paper with
Room 212
scribbled on it. "We're staying at the Piccadilly, in case you think of anything that
might
ring a bell. Sorry to have bothered you."

Elliott Ebus mumbled something about it being quite all right—although clearly it wasn't—before shooing Will and Luca out of his store.

Steam rose from the open door to the hotel bathroom, forming sparkling plumes that collected near the ceiling. Will kicked off his shoes, fetched a beer out of the mini-bar and made his way to the bathroom door. He leaned against the doorframe, watching as rivulets of water made gleaming patterns down the length of the glass shower screen; watching as Luca stood under the hot stream of water, running the soap up and down his torso and arms. The small silver crucifix around his neck glistened.

"You still believe in Him?" Will asked. "Your cross, I mean."

"I believe one day I'll find the person who gave it to me. Then, I'll finally know who I am."

"I hope you're not disappointed when you do."

"Why do you say that?"

Will shrugged. "I dunno. I guess sometimes knowledge doesn't necessarily bring you happiness." The thought of his own father flashed through his head, but he pushed it away instantly and thumbed the cap off his bottle of beer, changing the subject. "So how long?"

"How long what?" Luca replied.

"How long do we give Lord Fuddy-Duddy before we pay him another visit?"

"We don't."

"Are you crazy? He's obviously our guy. Did you see how nervous he got?"

Luca nodded. "That's why we don't pay him another visit. We let him come to us."

"Like that's gonna happen!" Will scoffed. "The dude was petrified, you saw him. If he's got that book, he sure as hell ain't giving it to us." Will took a swig of his beer. "I tell ya, someone's got him spooked real good."