The Vatican Rip Page 11

  That word again. ‘I’ve heard,’ I said drily.

  Curtly she told me to get on with my work and left me to it, not quite slamming the door.

  My failure was my phone call to the Pinnacle Peak Language Academy in East Anglia. Adriana took some persuading to let me use the blower and even had Fabio, full of sly satisfaction, to sit and time my call. Even the few browsers bulldozing their way through our porcelains could hear as Jingo Hardy came on the other end.

  ‘Maria Peck?’ he bawled. ‘No, Lovejoy, old fruit. She left the day you did.’

  I felt sick. ‘Why? Where did she go?’

  ‘Dunno, old boy. I’ll try and find out if you like.’

  ‘Please.’ I gave him the emporium’s number and explained it was in Rome. He fell about.

  ‘Got the language bug, eh?’ he chortled. Only people like Jingo chortle. I’d never heard anyone chortle before. ‘Er, sure. Listen Jingo. Could you find out the address of the bloke who paid my fees? It’s rather imp—’

  ‘Impossible, old thing. Maria did her own tuition-fee acceptances.’

  That sickened me even more.

  ‘Hey!’ he exclaimed. ‘Would you count Albanian loan-words in the Brindisi dialect for us, seeing you’re there—?’

  I cut off. I was in enough trouble without linguistics ballsing things up.

  Back in the workshop I set about the candle screens again, but started thinking. Until now I’d been like a leaf in a gale, at everybody’s whim. And my dithering had helped – all right, all right: had caused – Marcello to die. And made my friends hostages to Arcellano. It was time to mend my ways and set my sights on the rip. And on killing Arcellano. The kindly affable old Lovejoy image would have to go.

  ‘Lovejoy! Will you stop that riot?’ from Fabio in his mini-office up in the showroom. ‘My head!’

  ‘Sorry, Fabio.’

  I’d been whistling cheerfully. First time for days.

  Watching Anna take off her make-up was one of the worst experiences I’d ever had. I mean to say. I’m normally attracted by women who wear a lot of cosmetics. The more the merrier, as far as I’m concerned, even if the headshrinkers these days are always on about how it shows you’re full of primitive urges and all that. In fact I wish women would wear a lot more mascara and lipstick and jewellery. But seeing Old Anna become young again was unnerving. Fascinating, but weird.

  ‘What’s the matter with you, Lovejoy? Don’t nudge.’

  I must have got too near. ‘Only looking.’

  She started to peel some crinkled plasticky stuff off her forehead with little ripping movements. It came like chewing-gum. Lovely smooth skin began to appear. I felt ill.

  ‘Tell me about the Vatican, Anna.’

  ‘Right. Sit and listen.’ She started to tell me in an excited rush. ‘Nine-tenths of Rome’s tourists don’t know what the Vatican actually is. That’s a proven fact. Like you, dunce. It is a private city. It has a helicopter pad, railway station, twenty-four galleries and museums, radio studios, a supermarket, bank, barracks, garages for ninety-eight cars, newspaper printers, motor workshop, a fire station, a population – everything.’ Calmly she dissected an eyebrow. I hate things to do with eyes and was dreading seeing her start on those stubby eyelashes but couldn’t look away.

  ‘You’re lucky, Lovejoy, in one way. Ten years ago the Vatican also had its own gendarmerie, Noble and Palatine Guards. They were disbanded. Now there’s only the Swiss Guard, but there’s a hundred of them and they’re good.’

  ‘Don’t people just go in to the bank or the shop? Or get the train?’

  Anna laughed then, really fell about. ‘Cretino! Listen: the bank – called the “Institute for Pious Works” – is guarded inside and out. The railway station accepts no passenger trains, only goods. And as for the Anona supermarket, you have to be SCV.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘One of the 450 citizens of the Stato della Città del Vaticano. All except sixty are in Holy Orders – and you obviously are not, Lovejoy. There are nearly fifteen hundred Vatican employees, and nearly two thousand functionaries and diplomatic hangers-on. They can go in to shop at the Anona supermarket and the liquor store – as long as they remember to bring their ration cards and special personal passes. There was once a black market, you see!’ She pulled small slivers from her mouth. Immediately her face filled out. Years dropped off her. It was miraculous. ‘We Romans joke that SCV means “Se Cristo Vedesse”!’ If Christ were to see . . .

  This catalogue of security was getting me down. A bigger shock was seeing her catch at her temple and simply sweep off her wispy hair, shaking out dark lustrous waves almost to her shoulders. I hand it to her: she was a real artist. The pads and teeth caps she placed in a coloured solution. The wig was instantly brushed and hung on a wicker stand. Her eyes caught mine mischievously.

  ‘There are four ways in, Lovejoy. The main Museum entrance, from the street. Museum guards. Then the Cancello di Sant’ Anna, St Anne’s gate where we met – leading into the walled-in courtyards for the barracks, the Osservatore Romano offices, the whole service area. Swiss Guards, there. Then the two entrances near the front of St Peter’s itself, the Portone di Bronzo for papal audiences, also Swiss Guard. And last the Arco delle Campane.’

  I knew the giant bronze door. The Arch of Bells has two flamboyantly dressed Guards with halberds. Anna caught me drawing breath.

  ‘No, Lovejoy. There are two more Swiss Guards just inside. Marksmen with guns.’ She started creaming her face, a mask of slithery white. Jesus, but Max Factor has a lot to answer for. ‘You look put down.’ Only her eyes and mouth were showing as she turned on me. ‘Look, Lovejoy. I saw you case the Vatican. I’ve seen it done by experts – real experts, not a bum like you, wet behind the ears. And they all missed out.’

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  She swung on me then, youthful eyes shining. ‘It’s never been done – that’s what it is to me, Lovejoy! Never. Oh, an army or two have pillaged Rome now and then. But no one living man.’

  Light dawned. I stared at her. ‘And you . . . ?’

  ‘Why do you think I’ve worked the Vatican geese for two years?’ Her blazing eyes softened into rapture and she gave me a blasphemous blessing. ‘I dream of the rip, Lovejoy,’ she purred, looking past me into some paradise of her own creation. ‘I’ve schemed and waited. And now you’ve come, Lovejoy. A man with the same dream. We can do it. I know we can.’

  ‘Me . . .’ wishing I didn’t have to say it ‘. . . and you?’

  ‘Don’t make me sound like a penance, cretino!’ She began smoothing cream off with tissues. ‘You need me. Together we succeed. Alone, you sleep in the Castel Sant’ Angelo garden.’

  So she knew about that, too. She rose abruptly and flung a leg on to the chair, peeling a stretch stocking. Varicosities were clearly painted on the inside. I’d already seen her black buttonstrap shoes and their crafted supports, real works of art. She donned a shabby dressing-gown. ‘Don’t overestimate me, Lovejoy. I’ve no private army. Fine, I make a living, though the Mafia don’t lose any sleep. But I’m good. You’ve seen me. We’re ideal.’

  She went to shower while I lay back and looked at the ceiling. I now had a job which provided sufficient cover, and an ally whose only fault was that she happened to be the best con artist on the streets. And a place to stay, providing I accepted her as a partner. And a workshop where I could make the Chippendale replica, which I desperately needed for the rip.

  As a lurk it wasn’t so bad. Maybe it was as good as any I could hope for. And the rip was my one sure way of getting to Arcellano. I should have been quite content, but I don’t like coincidences. And for the only two people in the world planning separate Vatican rips to finish up living in the same room was too much of a coincidence for me. By a mile.

  Chapter 15

  The next three days I worked like a dog, had a terrible row with Fabio and a worse one with Anna, and nearly killed the bloke who was following me. At least, I think I nea
rly killed him. I may have done worse, but I’m not going back to find out.

  I explained the barest essentials.

  ‘Just a single table?’ she had asked incredulously.

  I’d told her yes, then lied like a trooper. ‘I go for systems, not singles.’

  ‘Explain, Lovejoy,’ she demanded.

  A gleam in Anna’s eye told me she’d developed that basic mistrust so natural to all womankind. I tried to speak with a sneer. ‘Tell me this.’ I strode about the room belligerently, Marlborough on campaign. ‘What is the perfect rip, eh? Ever thought?’

  ‘Where you get clean away.’ She was fascinated, but doubtful.

  I was emphatic. ‘No, love. The perfect rip’s the undetected rip. And why?’ I paused to poke a finger towards her. She was all gleaming from the shower and sat mesmerized by my act. ‘Because you can do it again. And again. And—’

  ‘– And again!’ she breathed.

  ‘Right! You have a system. See?’

  ‘System, not singles!’ She was radiant. ‘Lovejoy,’ she murmured, ‘that’s beautiful.’

  We shook on it. I saw from her manner that she had taken a deep decision.

  ‘Now we’re partners, Lovejoy,’ she said, primly sitting opposite me, ‘who’s the man following you?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘He’s outside now. To and from the emporium. He watches from the pizzeria rustica opposite Albanese’s.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll look into it,’ I said airily. ‘I know of him. Spotted him within the hour.’

  I hadn’t and was badly shook up, but I didn’t dare let Anna think her new partner was a complete imbecile. She gave me a look, said nothing.

  That was our deal. Me to run the rip, Anna to suss plans and teach me all she knew about the Vatican, the tourist trade, the guides and couriers and hawkers that abounded in its vicinity.

  At the emporium Adriana and I did the tray dodge a couple of times. Rested and fed as I was – and blissfully back in my natural element at last – I was on top form. Not only that, but on the way there I’d spotted a genuine Jacobean hanging bread-hutch in the side window of a small antique shop called Gallinari’s, did a promising deal for a song and raced the last few hundred yards to catch Fabio just reopening. Twenty minutes later I had it safe in Adriana’s.

  I crowed like a mad thing as I wiped the lovely thing down with a dry cloth. ‘Look, folks! We’re in the presence of a genuine Jacobean period refrigerator!’ Untrue really, but it was the nearest they had to it. The whole thing was a cunning wooden bread-airing device, and positively mouse-proof. It was pierced everywhere, cornices and straights. Lovely. ‘And,’ I sailed on, ‘it’s not a modern mock-up.’ No nasty pale edges to show where the staining’s worn off and exposed for the horrible trick it always is. They make them from old church pews. My babbling left them unaffected. There were tears in my eyes from trying to get them to understand the immensity of the find, but there’s no telling some people.

  ‘About money, Lovejoy,’ Adriana said.

  ‘Oh, no!’ I shook my head vigorously. This kind of crappy talk gets me.

  ‘No what?’

  ‘Look. Signor Gallinari made a deal. It’s his expertise against mine. Don’t dare suggest giving him a higher price. That’d insult this antique.’

  I don’t go for this rubbish about sharing profit, or owning up before you buy. Remember the antique has feelings too. That’s what caveat emptor means.

  A few times, as I prepared the lovely thing for sale, I caught Adriana’s quizzical gaze on me. She never would meet my eye, glancing away whenever I looked up. And Fabio was sulking, earning himself a rebuke from Adriana for rudeness to customers. And Piero was in on it, pursing his lips and doing his silent-screen act. All we needed was a set of eyebrows and we’d have been music-hall naturals. Their attitudes were beyond me. As if I cared.

  The row with Fabio erupted just before we closed. Adriana had this ritual which required each of us to come before her, report we’d locked up, and list our completed jobs. I went last.

  ‘There’s one point,’ I said pointedly to her. ‘If anybody damages that Jacobean bread-hutch like they did that early American candle screen—’

  ‘Damaged?’ she asked quickly.

  I held the candle screen up to show the circular fruitwood base was scored in several places. The scratches were new.

  ‘– I’ll break their hands.’ I smiled at Fabio. ‘Off. Okay, Fabio?’

  His eyes were bright with venom. ‘Thinking to take over here, Lovejoy?’

  ‘Stop it!’ Adriana pointed. ‘Did you do that, Fabio?’

  ‘Maybe Lovejoy was careless.’

  ‘I see.’ Adriana appraised him. ‘You resent our new assistant.’ That was a step up. I’d always been called a handy-man before.

  He said sweetly, ‘Of course I’m aware Lovejoy can do no wrong, Adriana—’

  ‘Good night,’ I put in, and left them to sort it out. Through it all Piero had said nothing, just watched. But I knew I’d made an enemy of Fabio, and that Piero always went about armed from the way he stood and positioned himself when stormclouds threatened. As I left I wondered if Piero was the follower Anna had spotted. There was only one way to find out.

  That night on Adriana’s instructions I was seated at the restaurant by twenty to nine. The staff fawned over the Albaneses the minute they arrived. I was stuck on a corner table near the kitchen entrance but by now I was so hungry I was past caring. I hadn’t spotted my tail on the way, which only proved how valuable Anna might actually turn out to be.

  I only had half a bottle of wine, and ate carefully but well, keeping one vigilant eye on the exits and the other on the lovely Adriana. I’ll remember her all my life, if I live that long. Her clothes were different again, I noticed, which was a real feat. She’d had less than an hour. She wore pearls – a short chain of baroques, which shows taste, restraint, and something called style because each one is deformed and relatively inexpensive. And her dress was an improbable combination of bodiced looseknit and bishop sleeves. The obsessional slob opposite her might have been a trillionaire for all I know, but he was too thick even to notice her loveliness, the bum. Most of the time he dabbled with his food and referred to his paper. Adriana again ate like a sparrow, hardly a mouthful.

  The bill was collected from me and taken to Signor Albanese who was too busy reading and picking his teeth even to notice it had numbers on. I left like a stray, without even a friendly serf to hold the door handle.

  Dusk was settling swiftly on the streets as I sauntered out to be followed. Last night Anna, tonight one of Arcellano’s creeps.

  The Via Arenula leads down to the River Tiber at one end of the Tiberina, a small island. Over nosh I’d worked it all out. I took my time because I knew exactly where I was going and I didn’t want the tail to get lost.

  This ship-shaped island’s supposed to be where Aesculapius the God of Medicine landed when introducing doctors to the civilized world. He has a lot to answer for. There’s a small sloping square on the island and a lovely old church at the downward side where the old Aesculapius temple used to be. I’d already been inside to see the woodwork on its confessional. The island has a few cramped buildings, including a pizzeria and a shop.

  By the time I ambled on to the central bridge it was all very quiet. Over in the city cars were flowing in relentless streams. Buses were making their last runs. Here on the dark island an occasional car bounced over the bridge, lights on now. The Fatebene-fratelli Hospital windows were shining, and a light mist was beginning to envelope the island. Three cars remained parked on the piazza’s slope. Nobody walking, and the tourists all gone home.

  Still slowly, stopping every so often to look idly at the water, I wandered across the top of the square and picked up one of those polythene bags that blow about streets everywhere these days. Then I waited for him to come into view. My heart was belting along in spite of my outward calm, and my blasted hands were damp and cold. He was there, being
at least as casual as I was, strolling over towards me.

  My cue. I drifted down to the San Bartolomeo with its Romanesque tower, glancing in the artificial light into two of the cars. One was a French thing with a gear lever like a cistern’s ballcock, the other a Fiat. I ignored the vintage Talbot over by the wall. I was in enough trouble.

  At first I’d had some lunatic notion of hiding behind one of the ancient columns in the church’s candlelit gloom. There’s a veritable avenue of them leading to the great tomb at the high altar. The trouble is he might be armed and what could I do then? He knew I knew he was following me, and even had the bloody gall to light a fag on the bridge. That’s nerve. The worrying thing was, he looked vaguely familiar.

  Finally I could stand it no longer and strolled in. The second I was inside the doors I slid along the left side of the nave towards the north transept. There were steps up at the chancel, which baffled me for a horrible second. Luckily there was the priest’s door on my left, leading outside as I had guessed into that crummy little priest’s garden you can see from across the river, with the world’s worst statue of Christ looking utterly lost. Emerging, I felt exposed, really prominent. The lights of all Rome were visible, the Palatine and the Capitolino looming over there in the gloom and the great floodlit avenue of the Marcello Theatre sweeping down to the water. Rome was about its busy nocturnal business – and I was about mine.

  Doubling back sounds easy. On the side of an ancient church, with inhabited multistoreyed dwellings stuck on the side, it’s not so easy as all that. I guessed the bastard would wait outside in the Piazza. Short of swimming in the river there was no way out. I clambered over the wall to the church stonework and groped upwards. There was some guttering, but I’d never wanted Protestant Gothic so badly in my life – the easiest churches to rob by a mile, incidentally. I swung on the crumbling stuff for five interminable yards before managing to clutch hold of a luscious slab of stonework and pull myself onto the ledges. After that it was less of a problem, but you can’t help blaspheming a bit at the thoughtlessness of some ancient architects.