The Vatican Rip (25 page)

For the rest of the night, way into the early hours, I slogged quietly in that airless room inhaling its stale cloying aroma and steadily whittling Arcellano’s phoney but solid pieces into sections. I settled after a lot of sluggish thought to use two of the modern cafeteria tables, and simply sawed the ‘Chippendale’ into sections for screwing underneath one of the cafeteria jobs. That left the drawers and pedestal and a few angled pieces from the surface. These I arranged like bits of a child’s jigsaw beneath a second table. I used the spare sheet of formica, which I’d earlier left in the room against the wall, to hold the pieces against the underside in a kind of concealed sandwich. The only odd thing was that the two tables both had formica surfaces top and bottom. I covered both with my one plastic sheet and reeled back to the safe haven of the loo.

I listened to the cafeteria kitchen preparing for the ten o’clock rush, gathering my resources for the last act. At ten past ten, as Signora Faranada’s staff coped with the influx, I would make my way out of the cafeteria under cover of the queue. The two sedentary guards permanently stationed at the staircase leading to the Gallery of the Candelabras would be questioned at ten-fifteen by Dr Valentine in his grotesque American-accented Italian. He would be professional as ever – clean collar, new tie, smart briefcase – but would have missed his way while taking the cafeteria manageress a good report. Could the guard please phone ahead to announce his arrival . . . ?

Signora Faranada would of course be delighted. In the flush of victory, she’d be only too happy to arrange that Captain Russomanno issue a transit permit for her own table to be returned from the health laboratories. I could ask to use her phone to summon Valerio from my ‘department’. Anything to get shut of me and the suggestion of contamination, to wind up the whole problem. And I would promise the fullest report to the tiny Vatican emergency clinic.

Wearily muttering my plans to myself for the last time, I smiled. I would promise her a special certificate, a clean bill of health, if not more. She had a lovely mouth.

At eleven-thirty that morning I walked wearily out of the Vatican Museum into the Viale Vaticano. It was straight ahead, across the road, down the street shops towards the market. My face felt white. My nape prickled and my hands were tingling. I could hardly move my legs for shaking.

There was a public phone in a store entrance on the Via Candia. I dialled, but not the number Arcellano had given rne. I kept missing the hole from nerves. I cupped the mouthpiece and asked the Vatican City switchboard – nuns run it – for the boss priest in Security. They kept trying to give me a captain and I kept refusing, telling the switchboard it was a matter of life and death. I’ve always wanted to say that, but not in these circumstances. It took three feeds of the coin box. I had to trust somebody, for God’s sake.

‘Very well. I’ll put you through.’

As the clicks went I wondered what the hell you call them. Monsignor? Sir?

‘Hello?’ a distinguished voice intoned gravely.

‘Er, hello, ah, Reverend; I want to speak to the, er, bishop in charge of the Vatican City security.’

‘Cardinal Arcellano speaking.’

I closed my eyes and put my forehead against the cool wall for a moment before asking him could he please repeat that.

Five minutes later, my mind numb from the shock, I made it across the Via Candia, turned right among the barrow stalls displaying shoes and leather goods. Immediately on the left is the best bar in Rome. I reeled in, went through to the back and sat.

The girl brought me a glass of white wine and a
cappuccino
.

‘And one for that old lady,’ I told her, nodding towards the far corner.

‘
Grazie
, Signor,’ old Anna wheezed.

‘
Prego
, Signora,’ I said back. It was our signal we’d pulled the rip.

I’d never seen tears in Anna’s eyes before. Women always surprise me. But then so does everyone else.

That afternoon I did two things, bushed as I was. Anna and I became lovers, and I phoned Adriana. I realized at the time one thing was stupid and the other profoundly wise. To this day I don’t know which was which.

Piero came on the line. There was no time left for mucking about, so I owned it was Lovejoy wanting to speak to Adriana.

‘Where are you? If you’re still in Rome—’

‘Sod off, lackey,’ I said, bone weary. ‘Get her.’

‘Lovejoy?’ Adriana sounded breathless, not as furious as I’d expected.

‘It’s me, love. Listen. I’ve been held up.’

‘Darling. Are you all right? Do you need—?’

‘Nothing. I’ll contact you tomorrow. I have to see you.’

‘Darling. Just tell me where and I’ll come . . .’

There was more of this. In a daze I broke off and floated home to Anna’s. Adriana was lovely in that spectacular Roman way I was coming to worship. And when she rose up so fragrantly to meet me swathed in the opulent creamy linen of her bedroom—

‘You fucking swine!’ Anna went at me, spitting and scratching.

‘Eh?’ I ducked among the furniture. ‘What are you on about—?’

‘You poisoned Carlo!
Cretino
! Assassin!’

Poisoned? I moaned. Don’t say I’d got the dose wrong, not after all this. She raged after me. ‘He’s in hospital again!’

‘Put that knife down, you old lunatic!’

I had to belt her before she would stop. She sobbed uncontrollably on the couch. I was so utterly tired, but credible lies were called for. My strong suit.

‘It wasn’t me, love,’ I said. ‘He’d had a whole pint of Scotch and threw up. I merely turned it to my advantage.’

‘Is that true, Lovejoy?’ she sniffed. With her aged make-up running uncontrollably she looked horrible.

‘Honest,’ I lied. ‘Cross my heart and hope to – er, honest.’

‘Poor Carlo.’

Well, quite. I argued persuasively, ‘You know what he’s like, Anna. By tomorrow he’ll believe he pulled off the whole rip single-handed.’

‘That’s true.’ She dabbed her face, making things twice as bad. ‘Only . . . Lovejoy. If you didn’t dose Carlo with that stuff, what was it for?’

‘Last-minute varnish,’ I lied. There was no answer to that. ‘It’s my secret,’ I said as coldly as possible, to freeze her off. ‘We’re allies, Anna, but if I let on to you exactly how . . .’

The dear bird jumped to a woman’s favourite conclusion in the pause and breathed, ‘You are afraid that would be the end of our partnership?’

‘Not really
afraid
,’ I said nobly. In fact my greatest craving was to get shut of this maddening old crone and her goonish brother.

‘I see,’ she said, looking at me in a new way.

I cleared my throat after a year’s uncomfortable silence. ‘I’d, er, better have a lie down,’ I said eventually. ‘I’ve more night work ahead.’

She rose then and crossed to the dressing-table. ‘Shower while I make up your bed.’

When I came tottering blearily back her alcove curtains were pulled aside. My couch wasn’t made up at all. Uncaring, I reeled towards it, clutching my towel round my middle.

‘Here, Lovejoy.’ I felt her guiding touch on my arm and collapsed on her bed. She looked down at me, her make-up gone and only her lovely young face hovering. ‘You’ll sleep better here than on that old couch. Are you very tired?’

‘Done in.’ My vision blacked. ‘What are you doing?’ My towel had gone and a smooth lissom body was moving alongside my exhausted hairy neck.

‘You need keeping warm, Lovejoy.’

Actually I didn’t, but when your hostess offers you tea it’s rude to refuse. And as it turned out I wasn’t as tired as all that.

‘That you, Arcellano?’

‘Where the hell have you been, Lovejoy?’

It was my old friend all right. ‘Pulling the rip.’

That shut him up, for about ten seconds. ‘You what?’

‘You heard.’

Another pause, then much quieter: ‘Lovejoy. Are you serious or drunk?’

‘Serious.’

‘But it’s impossible.’

‘
Was
.’ We both listened to heavy breathing.

‘So you’ll deliver—’
But he was uncertain!

I cut in. ‘No, Arcellano. No nice long trips to Bonn. I deliver here, in Rome.’

‘You’re off your head.’

‘In the Colosseum. Exactly at sunrise. No sooner, no later.’

‘Lovejoy.’ His sibilant voice made my skin crawl. ‘Lovejoy. If you’re planning to work a fixer, I’ll have you crisped. You do understand?’

‘Perfectly,’ I told him. ‘And if I find you skulking in ambush when I arrive at the Colosseum, Arcellano, I’ll take to the hills.’ I put a whine of anxiety into my voice. ‘I want no trouble.’

‘Very well, Lovejoy,’ that voice purred. ‘I’ll be there.’

Alone, Arcellano. Agreed?’

‘Agreed.’

I walked the half mile to Patrizio’s garage. I had remembered to bring the keys to Adriana’s workshop so Valerio and I could nick the winch and bring it over in his van. I walked quickly. It was already dark, and I still had work to do.

As the first sun ray touched the high rim a cool breeze wafted through the Colosseum’s gaunt stone honey-comb. Fawns and dark browns started stuffing the blackness out of sight among the pits and arches. A pale midnight blue appeared above the jagged edge of the great interior. All around me the huge crescents were thrown into relief.

I sat there like a nerk, daintily at breakfast on top of one of the great masonry teeth which protruded from the floor of the vast arena. Even the most suspicious-minded crook could see I was alone, unaided and completely vulnerable.

I had been there an hour, perched on my stone block. Anna’s white tablecloth fluttered indolently in the stirring air. My elbows on the coffee table and the coffee almost gone. What dregs were left in the cup were now stone cold. I was only saving them for effect.

Getting the table up had almost proved too much for me and Valerio. Patrizio and Anna had sussed out the entire Colosseum at four a.m., reporting all clear in whispers. Apart from one sleeping old drunk and the inevitable prowling cats, the place was empty. I made Patrizio and Anna promise to leave once I was in position. Anna was all for staying and taking on the universe with me. I refused to explain, saying it was all part of the rip. I felt utterly alone.

The sky lightened. Rectangles of pastel blue began to appear, stencilled out of the enormous brown stone rim above me. I shivered, half wanting the sun to reach down into the enormous bowl and warm me but too frightened to wish really hard. When it rose, Arcellano would come. Some murderers come alone. Others come with a band of assassins. I knew which sort Arcellano was.

A distant bus revved up and chugged out into the streets. First sound of the day. A few moments later a car came close, changed gear, droned away to silence. Nearby a cat stretched, scaring me to death by suddenly being there. I calmed myself as best I could by rehearsing my movements. Arcellano would send his goons to go over the Colosseum inch by inch. I’m not that dim. With a little luck – and the speed which my terror would lend me – I’d be off out of the whole frigging mess with the speed of light. I looked down and along the sandy ground across to my left. There, half the arena’s width away, was the spot where Marcello’s broken body had lain. My eyes lifted, as casually as if I were idly waiting, to where my pulley and beam overhung the stonemason’s area. The massive stone block which hung suspended there did not even stir in the cool shifting air. I swallowed. It represented safety, but the bloody thing looked miles away. I’d have to run that far, dodging among the vast blocks.

I was becoming worried. Time was getting on. I let my gaze move inch by inch round the scagged interior. No sign. No movement. Only one of the cats coughing gently in the gloom directly ahead. The place was dappling swiftly. And the sky blueing, and gold touching the stonework. Soon, visitors would be waking to start the day and there was no way I could cajole Arcellano into a rerun of this meeting . . .

That cat coughed again. And I remembered the sound. Too late.

Against the weakening shadows a pale shape was emerging. About as tall as a man, a big man, with a fawn overcoat draped elegantly over his shoulders. And he was laughing. The laugh was short and dry, unvoiced barks like a coughing cat. I glanced involuntarily towards the long sandy run towards my recess. The pale shape saw my glance and began to drift that way. I thought, Oh Gawd.

I took a sip of coffee dregs to wet my throat and called, ‘Is that you, Arcellano?’ The cup rattled in it saucer.

‘Charming tableau, Lovejoy.’

‘Coffee, or have you had breakfast?’ It was the best I could do. Everything I possessed had got the wobbles.

‘You’re allowed one cigarette, Lovejoy. Before execution.’

‘Don’t be daft, Arcellano. You owe me. I pulled the rip.’

‘Wrong, Lovejoy. My men checked. The Chippendale’s still there.’

I lifted the edge of the tablecloth to show the pedestal and the rent table’s unmistakable edge. ‘It’s here, friend. Your antique from the Vatican. The one now in the Museum gallery is a forgery. I made it.’

He thought about that before speaking. ‘Then why no alarms yesterday?’

‘Because I made a
good
forgery. Go and check. I’ll wait here.’

That cat cough laugh really sounded then, maybe a whole minute. He wiped his eyes, but all the time he was drifting to my left along the terracing. I had to look upwards at a slight angle to see him.

‘You bastard, Lovejoy,’ he called down. ‘How?’

I explained the outline. All the time he was drifting, drifting in the direction I had glanced earlier. The swine suspected that was where I’d try to make my escape. He paused, leaning on the iron tourist rail. I could see him clearly now. With every second the day was rushing into brightness.

‘You clever bastard,’ He honestly sounded full of admiration. ‘The old fiddle switch to rip the Vatican. I might have known. A bluff on a bluff.’

‘It was nothing,’ I said, all modest.

‘They said you were really something, Lovejoy.’ He was chuckling. ‘Robbery without alarms. The only way it can be done. Congratulations.’