The Vatican Rip

CHAPTER 25

I woke with a muffled squeal of terror, instantly stifled by the even greater fright which swamped me as I realized where I was. I'd fallen off the lavatory, knocking my head against the wall. The clatter of trays and the sound of vacuum-cleaners close by was almost deafening. How long had they been on the go, for heaven's sake? A trace of blood from my chin worried me for a second. Then I remembered. I was in the Vatican Museum cafeteria's loo, for the moment safely ensconced in a cubicle, sealed. I'd pulled off the rip, but the Museum's Chippendale was a fraud.

Blearily I remembered I had shaved in the early hours according to plan by means of the disposable mini-razor. Blisters wept painfully on my right palm where I'd gouged and slaved to dismember Arcellano's supposedly precious antique Chippendale in the long gallery. Sitting on the loo I smiled at the memory, weak with relief. I'd never been so vicious with any piece of furniture before, modern or otherwise. With a complete disregard for the ridiculous copy that his supposed Chippendale was, I'd unscrewed what could be unscrewed and sawed what couldn't, using a fine-gauge metal saw for stealth. Three times—actually at the pedestal joins—I'd levered off the supporting brackets using my work-cloth to dampen the creaking as the modern toothplates lifted away, and then gathered the sawdust under the pedestal. My entire concern had been speed. Arcellano's 'antique' was a piece of crap, and I treated it accordingly. I'd gone to all this trouble to nick it, so I swore it would get duly nicked. But as for respecting it any longer… As far as I'm concerned, a bad forgery's the ultimate insult.

Leaving my own—much superior—mock-up proudly looking every inch a thoroughbred, I did two journeys with the disarticulated pieces of Arcellano's table. The top surface was heavy as hell, almost uncontrollable, waggling from side to side on my bowed back, and once I accidentally clouted it on the bannister with a loud echoing thump that made me freeze, despairing that I'd finally blown it. Nobody came and, in a state of collapse, I finally tottered into Signora Faranada's corridor almost unbelievingly. It took me almost half an hour to recover enough to get the pieces down into the store room.

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 by 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 me. 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.