Chase Baker and the Spear of Destiny Page 12

  “Is this where the RPG comes in handy,” Cal says.

  “We don’t need anything going boom this close to the Ponte Vecchio, Cal,” I say. “Besides, that padlock is seventy-plus years old. I’m guessing it isn’t going to be all that difficult to compromise.”

  “Nice word,” Father O’Brien says. “Compromise. Sounds very civil.”

  Focusing the round beam of LED light on the solid metal door, I make my way down the staircase. My first step nearly sends me onto my back.

  “Jesus,” I grouse. “Be careful everyone. The stairs are covered in black mold.”

  “So, that explains the stench,” Andrea says.

  “Well, we are essentially in the river,” Cal reminds us. “A very polluted river at that.”

  “Just be careful,” I repeat.

  Taking the remainder of the steps down to the door, I shine the light onto the old padlock. It’s an old padlock that unlocks with a skeleton key.

  “Anyone got a skeleton key on them?” I ask. It’s a joke. But no one laughs.

  I could shoot the lock out. But we’re standing inside a space that’s maybe sixteen square feet if that. More like nine or twelve square feet. If I were to shoot the lock, the shrapnel that would result would slice through flesh and bone, just like a detonated grenade.

  No choice but to pound the lock out in the hope that the constant exposure to the moist river air and the mold that goes with it, will have weakened the metals. Judging by the rust that covers the lock, it has indeed been weakened.

  “Okay,” I say, raising the butt stock on the rifle. “Back up.”

  There’s not much room for anyone to back up, but they manage to make some room by leaning their individual torsos in the opposite direction.

  I bring the butt stock down onto the lock. Although I hear and even feel a distinct crack in the lock’s housing, it doesn’t break.

  “One more will do the trick, Chase man,” Cal offers.

  “Let’s hope I’m not fucking up my weapon,” I say.

  “No worries. Those M16s are battle ready.”

  Raising the stock, I once more bring it down on the lock. This time, it shatters into four of five pieces. Thank God for old metal and for moldy environments. Reaching with my free hand, I remove what’s left of the lock from the door opener. Then, twisting the opener counter-clock wise, I open the door.

  It’s not the rank smell that takes me by surprise. It’s what I see when I shine the Maglite inside that causes the adrenalin inside my brain to boil over.

  A face.

  The face of a dead man.

  Chapter 25

  It’s not just one face, but no less than six faces belonging to skeletal-thin bodies that must have been left behind when this door was locked and sealed. The bodies aren’t static, like mannequins. Instead, they fall out the door as I open it as if they died trying with all their strength to push the door open after it was closed and padlocked.

  Andrea shrieks and presses her hand over her mouth. Her eyes immediately fill with tears.

  Father O’Brien makes the sign of the cross, softly begins reciting a prayer. “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil . . . ”

  Cal steps back, just enough to allow the first body to fall without hitting him.

  “Jews,” he says, his eyes going from the bodies to me and back again. “The Nazis forced them into slave labor. Made them dig the tunnel. Then the filthy fascist bastards locked them in.”

  “Buried them alive,” I whisper more to myself than the others.

  “Why don’t they become bones?” Cal presses. “I mean, there’s nothing left to them, but they still got their skin.”

  “The sealed environment inside the tunnel must have preserved the skin,” I say. “Now that it’s exposed to the damp outside air, it will disintegrate . . . Disintegrate quickly.”

  Father O’Brien shakes his head, sadly.

  “It’s taking them a century to die,” he says, reflectively, sadly.

  “What do we do with them?” Andrea asks. “We can’t leave them here like that.”

  “We can’t take them with us either,” I say. “They’ve been down here over seventy years. A few more hours won’t kill them.” Then, realizing what I just said. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be insensitive.”

  “Be careful stepping over them,” Father O’Brien says. “May they rest in God’s peace.”

  “Amen,” Andrea says.

  We move on, careful not to wake the dead.

  The tunnel is cramped. It’s made entirely of concrete that’s cracked and pitted over the years. Long runs of rusted metal conduit are mounted to the wall. The metal piping must run the entire length of the tunnel. No doubt the conduit housed electrical wires that provided the power to the ceiling-mounted lamps that no longer work.

  The farther down we descend into the tunnel, the damper and cooler it gets. Coming from up ahead, beyond the beam of my Maglite, is the sound of dripping water. It dawns on me then that what we might face is a tunnel that’s entirely submerged in river water. A situation for which we are entirely ill-prepared. Best not to even mention the possibility to the others.

  “I’d say we’re under the water level right about now,” Cal mentions, his voice echoing in the empty concrete structure.

  “Feels like it,” Andrea says.

  “Soon we’ll come to an obstruction,” I say. “Once we blow it away, we’ll move beyond the river and start the journey underground to the palace.”

  “Aayyy,” Cal barks. “Or it could be that we blow the obstruction and half the Arno rushes in and drowns us all. You thought of that scenario, Baker?”

  “Great minds, Cal,” I say. Then, glancing at the others. “Anyone wants to back out of this operation, now’s the time.”

  The three look at one another like What the hell choice at this point do we have?

  Not thirty seconds later the bright white Maglite shines on something that’s most definitely not empty space. It’s a wall. A wall of stone and concrete rubble.

  “Here it is,” I say. “This is what we expected all along. The place where the Germans blocked the tunnel.”

  “You mean where they forced the slave labor to block the tunnel.”

  “Precisely,” I say.

  We stand our ground maybe twenty feet away from the enclosure. I pull the RPG from my back, set it vertically on the concrete floor.

  “Give me a round, Cal,” I say.

  Cal doesn’t hand me one of the rounds he’s carrying on his back but instead takes one off the priest’s back. He hands it to me, and I shove it into the RPG launcher, then heave the bazooka-like device onto my shoulder while taking a knee.

  “You guys step back and out of the way,” I insist. “You don’t want to be in the way of the rocket blowback. It’ll burn a hole in you the size of a grapefruit.”

  I listen to them backing up, pressing their backs against the wall.

  “You really think this is gonna work, Chase?” Cal says.

  “Only one way to find out,” I say. “Everyone turn away to protect your eyes and cover your ears. It’s gonna be one loud mofo.”

  “Wait a minute, son,” Father O’Brien says. He pulls two cigarettes from out of his pack, breaks off the filters on each of them. Gently, he places one filter in my left ear and the other in my right. “Once you lose your hearing,” he adds, “it is most difficult to get it back.”

  He takes his place off to the side with the others.

  Pulling the cap off the projectile, I aim the launcher for the very center of the rubble wall, inhale a half breath, and fire.

  The rocket screams out of the launcher and strikes the wall, exploding on contact. The tunnel trembles. Stone fragments shoot out in all directions. I feel a piece of the hot shrapnel connect with my thigh. Peering down at it, I can see that it only grazed me. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting like a son of a bitch.

  I stand.

  “Everyone okay?
” I bark. “Anyone hurt?”

  The three sort of look at one another dumbfounded.

  “I think we’re good,” Cal says, wiping the dust from his clothing with his open hands. “And we’re not swimming in the Arno. That’s a fucking good sign, mate.”

  Setting the RPG launcher back over my shoulder, I shine the Maglite on the gaping hole that now exists in the wall. I approach the hole, the other three following right on my heels. When I come to the hole, I stop, crouch, and take a look inside.

  “One thing’s for sure,” I say, my voice reverberating inside the now open concrete chamber, “nothing is going to stop us from making it into the Pitti Palace basement.”

  “What’s there?” Cal says.

  “What do you see?” Andrea presses.

  “See for yourself,” I say, taking a step back while holding the light on the opening.

  Cal bends over, sticks his head into the hole.

  “It’s just a tunnel,” he says.

  “What were you expecting?” Father O’Brien says. “Gold and treasure beyond your wildest imagination?”

  Cal cocks his head over his shoulder.

  “Aayyy,” he says. “Now wouldn’t that have been nice, Father?”

  “Let’s move, people,” I say. “It’s possible that whoever we find down inside the Palace basement heard the explosion and are now on their way to investigate. Keep on your toes.”

  I shove myself through the opening and into the tunnel. Turning, I help Andrea, and the priest. But when I hold out my hand for Cal, he makes an annoyed grunting noise.

  “Since when do I need your help, Baker,” he says under his breath. “I’m a whole lot younger than you, old man.”

  “Far be it from me to insult your manhood or your youth, Cal.” Then, taking a few steps forward, the beam of Maglite puncturing the absolute darkness, “Stay close behind. And be careful, the tunnel could be booby trapped.”

  We walk for maybe twenty feet before I discover that the tunnel isn’t exactly empty. To my right, I find a stack of framed, dust-covered paintings leaning against the wall.

  “What’s that?” Cal asks.

  “Only one way to find out,” I say, heading for the stack.

  Shining the light onto the paintings, I pull the first one out. It’s a painting that depicts Jesus nailed to the cross. The image of Jesus is gruesome, his skin green, the wounds from the scourging and the nails blood red, the crown of thorns digging into his scalp, his overly large dark eyes looking upwards to heaven, as though not asking but begging God to put him out of his physical misery.

  The background is very dark, the sun having been blocked out by thick black clouds. There are two women down on their knees praying for him. His mother Mary and his confidant and perhaps lover, Mary Magdalene. A crew of Roman soldiers are tossing dice to determine who will take home the condemned man’s few possessions. Planted on both flanks of the crucified Jesus, are the two thieves. They don’t gaze up at God, but instead, look to Jesus to save them. I know the story well. Who doesn’t?

  Andrea steps up beside me.

  “That, my friend,” she says, “is a Michelangelo. A lost Michelangelo that is now found.”

  “How do you know, lassie?” Cal says.

  “Trust her,” Father O’Brien breaks in. “She’s a master of antiquities and relics. If Andrea says a painting is a Michelangelo, then it’s a Michelangelo.”

  I flip the second painting and the one after that and the one after that. All the paintings, it turns out, depict the crucifixion in one form or another, and all of them appear on the surface at least, to be the lost works of Renaissance masters like Raphael, Titian, Masaccio, and even Da Vinci.

  “Holy crap,” Cal says, “there’s a fortune in paintings down here. Just one of these could keep us all in riches for the rest of our days.”

  “If only they didn’t belong to the state,” Andrea reminds us. Sadly reminds us, I should point out.

  “Andrea’s right,” I say. “As tempting as it would be to swipe a painting or two, and sell them off on the black market, they don’t belong to us.”

  “Oh, come on, Chase,” Cal says, his brogue getting heavier in direct proportion to his frustration. “After all the help I’ve given you. I nearly got my head blown off. Can’t I have just one?” His eyes light up in the Maglite. “I’ll take the Titian. That’s the least of the lot.”

  “Not a one, Cal,” I say. “Sorry. Besides, you can’t just carry it with you right now. Where we’re heading, you’ll need both hands and both feet.”

  Shifting the aim of the Maglite onto the wall, I make out some old rusted World War Two era German army helmets, a rack of Mauser rifles, also rusted, some of the wood stocks having disintegrated in the damp air. And something else too. A big red swastika painted onto the concrete wall. It’s the only item down inside this subterranean tunnel that looks fresh and alive, like it was created not seventy years ago, but only yesterday.

  It twists my stomach into knots.

  “Chase is right,” a very serious Father O’Brien says taking a step toward the swastika. “Where we’re going, you will need all your limbs and all your faculties about you, Cal. We’re headed into a place that is evil, where the Pope is being held against his will. You might say we’re headed into the lowest level of the Inferno.”

  “Hell,” I whisper. “Hell on earth.”

  Chapter 26

  Moving on, the tunnel shifts to the left by about thirty degrees. Even though we’re still descending, the air is definitely getting less humid and damp. Less bone chilling. It tells me the river is now behind us and we’re coming close to the basement chambers of the Pitti Palace.

  “Stay alert,” everyone. “We’re almost there.”

  I pull back the bolt on my M16, thumb the safety selector switch to semi-automatic. The Maglite beam still lighting the way, I come to an abrupt stop when we reach another solid metal door. Pressing my ear against the cool metal surface, I listen for any sounds I might pick up. Voice, movements, mechanical equipment operating. Anything.

  But I get nothing.

  “You make anything out?” Cal asks, voice low, tense.

  I shake my head, give the door another good look.

  “There’s no opener,” I say. “No access from this end of the tunnel.”

  “RPG?” Cal suggests.

  “We might as well enter with a bang,” I say. Then, to Father O’Brien and Andrea. “You two get ready to shoot anything that comes at you from the other side of this door. Do you understand me?” My eyes shifting to O’Brien alone. “That goes for you too, Father. If you have trouble with shooting one of these bastards, just remember what they did to those innocent people inside St. Peter’s Square.”

  The old priest pulls back the bolt on his M16, thumbs the selector switch.

  “I’m going to full automatic on this one, Chase,” he states, his eyes focused and sure.

  “That goes for me too, Chase,” Andrea says, gripping her automatic rifle in her two hands.

  “Cal,” I say, shouldering the RPG. “Will you please do me the honor of loading me up?”

  Cal pulls one of the two rounds strapped to his back and loads the RPG. Bending down on one knee, I pull off the safety cap, take aim not for the center of the door, but just to the left where the hinges are mounted.

  “If this doesn’t blow her wide open, Cal,” I say, “be ready to reload right away.”

  “Aayyy, laddie,” he says. “I’ve already considered that possibility. I fought in two wars don’t forget. I know my way around a battlefield.”

  “Thank God for that,” I say. Then, “Okay everyone, here we go.”

  I pull the trigger. The rocket ignites, shoots out of the barrel. The grenade hits the door, explodes. The thunderous concussion rocks the tunnel, the shockwave passing through skin, flesh, and bone.

  The door blows wide open.

  Three men dressed in black tactical gear, red swastikas emblazoned on the sides of their blac
k Bell helmets, turn to face us.

  Rickman’s Neo-Nazis.

  They pull automatic weapons off their backs, take aim. Dropping the RPG launcher, I grab hold of my M16, fire a burst into the room. One of the Nazis drops. The other two return the fire, the bullets ricocheting off the concrete floor and the walls.

  “Cover me, Cal!” I order. I stand, charge the door, emptying the rest of the rifle magazine. But the surviving Nazi’s are too quick, and they are able to take cover behind a pair of concrete beams.

  Cal bursts into the room behind me.

  To my right, I see a man wearing a lab coat thrusting himself over a brightly illuminated table. It’s like he’s protecting a small child. To the left, an old man occupies a wheelchair. It’s Rickman. The two surviving Nazis emerge from their cover, assume protective positions beside him. They’re armed, but they’re not shooting back at us.

  “Hands up motherfuckers!” I bark.

  “Hands up, Nazi assholes!” Cal adds, his M16 shouldered, his finger on the trigger.

  “May the dear Lord forgive me for saying this,” Father O’Brien says from his position behind me. “But I believe it’s you who should be putting your hands up.”

  A shockwave of icy water pours over me.

  The two Nazis aim their guns at Cal and I. Slowly, I turn to see the priest’s rifle pointed at me. The barrel on a second M16 stares Cal and me down also.

  The M16 belongs to Andrea.

  Chapter 27

  The laboratory inside the Pitti Palace basement grows silent. But the silence isn’t really silent. My heart pounds and my pulse throbs inside my temples like two timpani.

  “You have got to be kidding me,” I say to Andrea and Father O’Brien.

  “Nice work, Chase,” Cal says. “So, where did you manage to find these friends of your anyway?”

  “The local sewer,” I say.

  “Why did they hire you in the first place if they were just gonna turn on ya?” Cal presses.