The Lost Catacomb (47 page)

“
And guess
what?
”
Nicola
interrupted him, her voice filled with hate.
 
“
I
’
m part Jewish myself.
 
My grandmother would never have given you a second glance, you monster,
even if you hadn
’
t been a priest.
 
Her Jewish boyfriend was my grandfather, and I
’
m proud to
be part Jewish.
”

“
‘
Proud to be part Jewish?
’
”
he asked,
his voice low and menacing.
 
“
You have
no idea what you
’
re talking about.
 
That perfidious race!
 
Those
vermin!
 
The Jews killed our
Savior.
 
For centuries they have
stubbornly refused to recognize Holy Mother Church and the truth of her
teachings.
 
They have deserved every
misfortune that has been visited upon their miserable heads.
 
And I am glad to have had a part in it,
”
he
boasted.
 
“
Proud to
have been given the opportunity to help punish them.
”

Nicola recoiled in horror at his last words.
 
“
What do you mean,
‘
glad to have had a part in it
’
?
 
What part could you have possibly played
in the historical tragedies of the Jews, apart from murdering my family?
”

His eyes glittered maniacally and he stood more erect,
watching her carefully.
 
“
Why do you
think the Pope refrained from condemning the deportation of the Jews of Rome
during the war, my dear Professoressa Page?
 
Who do you think counseled him to remain
silent?
”
he
asked, tapping himself on the chest repeatedly, for emphasis.

“
Yes, it
was me.
 
And he never knew why,
”
he
gloated, his eyes burning with fierce pride.
“
He was too
unworldly to realize that I was the real architect of the Church
’
s foreign
policy during the war, not him.
 
How
na
ï
ve and
weak he was!
”

Nicola listened in revulsion, understanding that she was
hearing things no one else could possibly know, dangerous things that would now
compromise her personal safety with complete and utter finality.
 
She was no longer sure that Father
Benedetto or Bruno would arrive soon enough to help her, so she forced herself
to remain silent, hoping to stall for time.

Rostoni now seemed nearly oblivious to her presence, caught
up in a delirium of memories of the past and his boasts of power over the aging
Pope.
 
“
Hah!
”
he said
triumphantly.
 
“
Those
Germans thought they could blackmail the Church, but I was more clever than
they were.
 
They thought they could
force us to surrender the Temple artifacts.
 
But I made a bargain with them
—
a
deal they couldn
’
t refuse.

“
I
convinced the Pope to remain silent when the Jews were rounded up in their
homes and deported to extermination camps
—
as they deserved to be, those treacherous
Christ-killers.
 
And I made sure the
Temple treasures were safe from greedy German hands.

“
Two birds
—
no
three!
—
killed with one stone!
”
he
exclaimed, counting, with a nearly theatrical gesture, on his fingers.
 
“
We kept our protected status, we retained control over the
Jewish treasures, and we got rid of a significant portion of the Jews of Rome,
with very little effort.
”
 
He snapped
his fingers.
 
“
Just like
that!
”

“
So where
are the Temple treasures, then?
”
she
asked quickly, fearful that he would lose his train of thought.
 
“
Where have you hidden them?
”

“
What an
amusing question, my dear Professoressa Page, especially coming from you.
”
 
He turned slightly and pointed at the enormous hand-woven
tapestry that she had admired on her first visit to the Apostolic Palace.
 
“
Behind that tapestry, my very clever Professoressa Page, is
a doorway.
 
It leads to an
underground chamber that's been there for centuries.

“
It
’
s
climate-controlled and monitored by the most powerful sensors and advanced
technology in the world.
 
And in
fact, should anyone attempt to tamper with its protective devices, it will
self-destruct, explode
—
poof!
 
Nothing
left!
  
I
’
m the only
person who has the code and can disarm it.
 
Not even the engineers who installed the finishing touches can safely
access the room and its contents.

“
But come,
”
he now
said, motioning with a broad sweep of his arm.
 
“
You expressed a desire to see the private collections of
the Vatican Museums the very first time you came here.
 
Well, I
’
m about to
gratify that wish.
”
 
He paused,
adding with a sly smile that frightened her,
“
Not out of
any special liking for you personally, you realize, but for your dear
grandmother
’
s sake, whom I still think of with fond recollection from
time to time.
 
A pity we have not
seen each other in so many years.
”

Nicola was repulsed beyond words by everything she had
heard, but his mention of her grandmother and his fond memories of her were
nearly beyond belief.
 
Hiding her
loathing as best she could, she followed him over to the tapestry, cautiously
keeping at a distance from him, her hand now clenching the halothane.
 
Strangely, she felt no immediate
physical threat from Rostoni, though she knew he'd been responsible for the two
assassins who had tried to silence her and Bruno only a few short hours ago.

Despite the fact that he appeared younger than his age,
more vigorous than he had any right to be after a lifetime of evil, she felt
confident that she could hold her own against him, that he would be unable to
succeed if he tried to attack her.
 
And even if he had more
squadisti
at his disposal, he wouldn't be
able to avail himself of their services immediately.
 
Not now.
 
Not in the middle of the night, when she
had arrived at his office so unexpectedly.

The tapestry resembling Poussin
’
s painting
of the Temple had been hung on a heavy bronze rod, which Rostoni now shifted
away from the wall, revealing a locked door with a flat coded keypad near
it.
 
Opening the door, he led her
through a dimly lit, sometimes serpentine corridor and then down a series of
wide steps that had apparently been quarried out of the bedrock beneath the
very foundations of the Apostolic Palace.
 
They continued towards a subterranean vault that she guessed was
probably somewhere under the Vatican gardens.

There was a small vestibule outside the chamber, and
Rostoni now stopped there and turned towards her.
  
“
Here we
are,
”
he
said, looking at her with a strange gleam in his eyes.
 
“
But I
’
ve changed my mind about showing it to you.
 
I really would have, you know, for your
dear grandmother Elena
’
s sake.
 
But
since you
’
re also the grandchild of that Jewish scum, whom she
preferred over me,
”
he
added maliciously,
“
I think not.
”

He twisted his pectoral cross as he spoke, and suddenly
detached it from its heavy chain, holding it out towards her as she backed
away, more in puzzlement than in shock.

“
You know
too much,
”
he
said.
 
“
Too much
about my activities during the war.
 
Too much about my private hobbies.
 
And too much about what this room contains.
 
You know that the Museum of Dead Nations
is still remarkably alive and flourishing, and I
’
m afraid
that that
’
s an untenable situation.
”

“
I think
you
’
ve forgotten one small, but important little detail,
”
she
countered, moving slowly backwards towards the stairs.
“
Both Bruno
and Father Benedetto know precisely where I am and with whom.
 
And by now Bruno has reported this night
’
s events
to a news agency.
 
He
’
ll be here
quite soon.
 
And with enough
reporters and photographers, I might add, to spread the word of your crimes
everywhere
—
in print, on radio, on the web, and on TV.

“
I
’
m afraid
that your long tenure as Director of the Vatican Museums
—
and
of the Museum of Dead Nations,
”
she
added with contempt,
“
is about to end.
”

“
You
’
re
bluffing,
”
he
replied, grasping his pectoral cross more closely.

“
No, I
assure you I
’
m not, Your most dubious Eminence.
 
I
’
m sure the newspapers will be thrilled to print an expos
é
.
 
I can just see it now,
”
she
taunted him recklessly,
“
a banner headline
—‘
Director of Vatican Museums Implicated in Fencing Stolen
Art during the War.
’
 
Or perhaps
you prefer some other options
—‘
Cardinal Trades Jews of Rome for Temple Treasures during
World War II
’—
or
 
maybe
‘
Cardinal
Preserves Nazi Cadavers in a Bid to Re-establish the Third Reich.
’
 
Any of those would make an interesting possibility.
”

“
True, but
you
’
ll never live to see those headlines, Professoressa Page.
”
 
He pushed against the side of the large cabochon ruby at
the center of his pectoral cross, and a sharp stiletto sprang out with an
audible click from the end of its vertical post.
 
Grasping the crossbeam of the crucifix
in his hand, he held it like the deadly knife that it was.

“
Don
’
t
underestimate me, Professoressa.
 
I
may be well over eighty years old, but I
’
ve taken very good care of myself over the years.
 
Very good care indeed.
 
You
’
d be surprised if you knew how I
’
ve managed
to do it,
”
he
sneered.

Suddenly he lunged at her.
 
She sidestepped him and pivoted,
grasping his arm in an upward thrust, inadvertently dropping the halothane as
she struggled.
 
The antechamber was
small, with little room to maneuver.
 
He was much stronger than she had imagined and tried to break her hold
with his other hand.