They crossed the small piazza lined with palm trees in terracotta planters. Arturo glanced at the bell tower that was Romanesque, and the front of the church that was medieval. He walked between two lions guarding the entrance, dipped his fingers in the holy water font, and made the sign of the cross. The interior was narrow and not very deep from front to back, maybe fifty meters, a series of columns left and right, extending the length of the nave, forming a semi-circle where it met the altar. It was a well-preserved gem, with mustard-color walls that had a marble pattern, trimmed in dark green and brown.
He looked down the main floor for Signor Tallenger. It was dark and difficult to see. There were a few tourists moving around, but no one carrying a white soccer bag. He was looking up at the engaged columns with jutting pilasters. Words remembered from an art history class taken at the university thirty years before. It was difficult to admit it had been that long. But, it was true. Arturo was going to be fifty-one in March. Fifty-one! Remembering his father, a laborer at that age, used up and on the decline, his life almost over.
He moved along the transept to the right, glancing through the columns, trying to find Signor Tallenger. Luciano went to the left and they would meet near the main altar.
Arturo had gone almost as far as the altar before he saw him, the man standing in the shadow of a column as Arturo came up behind him, the shape of the soccer bag unmistakable. Signor Tallenger seemed to be waiting for a tourist group that was huddled together, looking up at the ceiling of the nave. When they finally moved away, continuing their tour, Signor Tallenger approached the altar and placed the white bag somewhere on the floor next to it, and walked down the main aisle toward the front of the church.
Arturo looked up over the altar at the shafts of light angling in from the clerestory windows, and he had a feeling that something was wrong. That the money had already exchanged hands. In his mind, he saw Tallenger meeting a kidnapper on the 23 bus and discreetly transferring the money into another identical bag. The notion actually seeming intelligent and likely to be true.
Arturo stood inside the transept, using a column for cover. He saw a monk appear behind the altar, hands in prayer, genuflecting before the crucifix. He had seen monks in their simple brown tunics outside the church and knew there was a monastery next door. The monk made the sign of the cross. He lighted candles on the altar, a dozen of them, taking his time. He did not seem to notice the soccer bag that was clearly out of place in the house of God.
The monk lighted a few more candles and came back to the altar. Now he seemed to focus on the soccer bag, bending his legs, genuflecting, and disappearing from view. Arturo hesitated for a minute, thinking the monk was still on his knees, praying, but then he saw him reappear with the bag, moving behind the altar. The monk moved to the rear wall and disappeared again. Arturo radioed Luciano, "Did you see him, the monk? Let's go."
They were sitting outside at a cafe in Campo di Fiori, the market bustling with activity, women hassling vendors over the price of parsley and basil and tomatoes, everyone wanting a bargain.
"You don't look like a priest," Angela said, looking at his hair pulled back in a rakish ponytail. "Priests don't have hair like that. You'll call too much attention to yourself. We should have Sisto do it. He looks desperate enough."
Mazara said, "You think priests look desperate?" He drank espresso, thinking he needed some extra energy for what he was about to do.
"The ones who know they do not have the calling," Angela said.
Mazara said, "How do you know about priests?" He lighted a cigarette.
"I have a cousin who was ordained and lives there at the monastery," Angela said. "He tells me what they talk about." She picked up her cup, sipped cappuccino.
"I will use the hood," Mazara said. "Do you feel better now?" He brought the cigarette to his mouth, inhaled and blew out the smoke. "Did your cousin tell you how to get into the monastery?"
"I used to visit him," Angela said. "He is a Passionist."
"What is that?"
"A Catholic religious order founded by St Paul of the Cross. Its real name is the Congregation of Discalced Clerks of the Most Holy Cross and Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ."
Mazara gave her a broad smile. "Did you make this up?"
"No," Angela said. "It happens to be true. Only they are not a full order, but a congregation. Founded to teach people how to pray. I think you could use some help in that area."
"What is there to teach? You want to pray, you pray."
"What do you know about it?"
"Praying? Not very much any more," Mazara said.
Angela lit a cigarette.
"You said women are allowed in the monastery?"
"If you are related," Angela said.
"Or if you are a prostitute," Mazara said.
"Why are you so negative about priests?" She pulled her sunglasses down and looked at him.
"You would understand if one tried to molest you."
Angela said, "This really happened?"
"The priest from our village invited me to his office in the rectory," Mazara said. "It was a great honor. He told me to sit on his lap and I felt something hard poking into me. He said, 'Do you know what that is?'"
Angela said, "How old were you?"
"Eleven," Mazara said. "Old enough to know better."
"What did you say?"
He gave her a questioning look. "What do you think?"
Angela said, "What did the priest say?"
"It was the staff of God, and he wanted me to hold it."
"What did you do?"
"I ran," Mazara said.
"I'm sure it was shocking," Angela said, "but I have to ask you — can you do this? Because if you are not sure, I will dress like a nun and pick up the money."
He said, "I like to see that. You would be a sexy nun."
She said, "Let's go over it again."
"You sound like your father. You have to be in control."
She had to be careful what she said or he felt threatened. "I'm being cautious," Angela said. "Are you sure you know what to do?"
He gave her a hard look. "That's enough."
She dropped him off on Clivo di Scauro, and he walked up the hill to the monastery next to the church. He felt like a fool wearing the coarse brown robe with the hood pulled over his head and a rope belt — like he was going to a costume party. The robe was made out of wool and it was hot and itched.
They had discussed the plan a dozen times. He would enter the monastery and walk through to the rectory and enter the church from the altar side. Angela told him if he saw anyone to press his hands together in prayer, close his eyes and pretend he was praying. She also told him some monks took the vow of silence. At that moment he wished she had taken a vow of silence — just close her mouth, stop talking and let him do it.
He walked through to the sacristy, entering the church behind the main altar. He turned and genuflected, making the sign of the cross the way he had been taught as a schoolboy — so long ago he barely remembered the words to the prayers and the ritual of the mass.
He looked down the main aisle into the darkness of the church, past the chairs set up for evening service. He expected to see a brigade of carabinieri, but instead he saw tourists scattered around the front of church, staring up at the ceiling the way he once had, studying the murals depicting the lives of apostles and saints, what else? He approached the altar from behind. The soccer bag was on the tile floor where Signor Tallenger had placed it. He pretended not to notice, taking care of his pre-mass duties, lighting candles and trying to stay calm, relaxed.
Now he pressed his hands together in prayer, picked up the bag and moved to the back wall of the nave. There was a door. He opened it and walked down a staircase leading to the passages under the church. It was cool and dark. He turned on the flashlight and saw ancient rooms of the house of worship the church was built on.
Mazara put the bag down and pulled the robe over his head, happy to remove it, the coarse fabric itching him like crazy. Above him he heard voices and the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs. He picked up the bag, fit the strap over his shoulder and started running down a narrow passageway that was cut through the soft tufa rock. He imagined the graves of martyrs filling the walls. It was cool and smelled like the woods on a wet day, like soil, the air musty and heavy, difficult to breathe. He heard voices behind him but he did not stop to look.
Arturo and Luciano followed the monk down the stairs into the darkness under the church, Arturo using his silver Zippo for illumination. He felt foolish. What was he going to do — chase the kidnapper through the scavi with a lighter? He stepped on something and almost tripped. He held the lighter down and saw the monk's robe on the brick floor. He tried to radio his backup units, but could not make contact through the thick stone foundation of the church.
He went back up and moved through the church, running outside. There was an old man sweeping debris near the entrance to the church. Arturo identified himself and asked if the man knew where the tunnels under the church led.
The man pointed at a green gate that resembled a stable door.
"Come this way, I will show you."
Arturo and Luciano followed him. The man unlocked the gate to reveal ancient ruins, large Roman-style arches that wrapped around the ceiling and extended down fifteen feet under the foundation of the church. There were underground columns, and two bricked passageways that appeared to continue for some distance. There were also crushed pieces of statues against the underground wall. The scene reminded Arturo of an architectural dig. He fixed his attention on the man and said, "How far do the tunnels go?"
"Two hundred meters," the man said.
"Two hundred meters?" Arturo scratched his head. "What is on the other side?" he said, pointing in the direction of the Colosseum.
The man said. "Ruins, I think, but I do not know for sure."
Arturo thanked him and ran to the car for his laptop, breathing hard as he sat in the front passenger seat. Luciano was standing at the edge of the square talking to Signor Tallenger. He opened the laptop and put his cursor on the map and clicked. The red icon did not appear. He clicked again and nothing happened, and it occurred to him that GPS probably could not pick up the sensor underground. The kidnappers, who Arturo assumed were a ragtag "'Ndrangheta gang, had surprised him. They were more organized and better prepared than he had imagined. It was almost as if they knew where the police were, and knew a sensor was in the bag.
Luciano opened the door and sat in the front passenger seat.
"Where is Signor Tallenger?"
"I told him to go back to his hotel and we would contact him when it was over." He paused. "Do you see the kidnapper?'
Arturo was going to tell him, no. But he glanced down at his computer screen and saw the red icon appear, moving toward the Colosseum. Then they were too, Luciano taking charge, speeding down Clivo di Scauro under the five arches that had once been part of an aqueduct that brought water to the ancient Romans. He turned right on Viale del Parco del Celio, the Colosseum looming in front of them now. Arturo glanced over his shoulder and saw the backup units with heavily armed GIS behind them. The red icon stopped. Arturo's eyes were fixed on the computer screen. Then it was moving again, and moving fast along Foro Romano.
Siesta was over, traffic was heavy. Arturo called headquarters for patrol units, giving their co-ordinates, and then felt foolish when the dispatcher asked the make and color of the vehicle they were chasing, and Arturo realized it would be difficult to find them in the city.
Ten minutes later they were following the red icon on the autostrada heading for Fiumicino, the airport. The thief was probably catching a plane, leaving the country. But then the icon turned, going north now toward Civitavecchia. Luciano was passing cars, and they came up behind a stake truck. The icon was flashing. Arturo radioed the backup units. He told one unit to get ahead of the truck and slow it down. He told the other to position itself in the lane to the left of the truck and they would have it surrounded on three sides. The only escape was going off-road into a field.
When the backup units were in position, Luciano turned on the flashers and siren. The truck pulled over on the side of the road. Eight GIS surrounding the truck, aiming HK MP5 machine guns at the driver, an old man with dark wrinkled skin.
Arturo saw cars slowing down, people curious, wondering what was happening — all the police — all this firepower. He found the white soccer bag in a wooden crate in the open bed of the truck, the inside of the crate stained red from the fruit it had carried. He reached in and brought the bag out. It was empty. Luciano told the old man to get out of the truck and he did and started to run. Eight guns pointed at him and he tried to get away. Luciano caught him and the GIS teams came closer, aiming their automatic weapons, forming a tight circle around him. Arturo held up the soccer bag. "Is this yours?" he said.
The old man shook his head. "I have not seen it before."
Arturo believed him. The man was afraid. Who wouldn't be? All these guns aimed at him as if he were a wanted criminal, a fugitive. He thought they were overdoing it a little, and told the men to lower their weapons and disperse. He did not consider this bent, wrinkled old prune much of a threat. Arturo said, "Where are you coming from?"
"Campo di Fiori, the market," the old man said. "I am a farmer. I grow vegetables and fruit."
He had the hands of a laborer, fingers permanently stained from the soil, fingernails caked with dirt. Arturo said, "Why did you try to get away?"
"I have no driving license," the man said.
"You lost it?"
"Never had it."
"How long have you been driving?"
"Since I was thirteen years old."
Arturo took out his pipe and tobacco and filled the bowl and lighted it, blowing out smoke that had a spicy aroma. "You can go," he said to the old man.
Luciano said, "Captain, can I talk to you?"
They stepped a few feet away from the truck.
Luciano said, "You are not going to bring him in?"
Arturo said, "For what reason?"
Luciano said, "Maybe he knows something."
Arturo said, "Did you look at him?"
The old man drove away. Arturo and Luciano went to their car and got in.
Arturo could now see how the kidnappers were able to escape. He imagined the monk emerging from the tunnel, walking down to Viale del Parco del Celio where an automobile picked him up. They emptied the money and threw the soccer bag on the truck. The only question: if the farmer was at Campo di Fiore, where did the kidnappers cross paths with the truck? It had to be on Corso Vittorio Emanuel as the farmer was leaving the market. He could see the truck stopped at a traffic light and one of the kidnappers throwing the soccer bag on the back of it.
Luciano said, "Captain, what do we do now?"
"Hope they release the American, and hope he saw something, or knows something." Arturo said, although based on statistics, the odds were not good.
It was dark. The streets of Rome were deserted. She heard the bang. It sounded like a pistol firing. Psuz came around the side of the van with the Beretta in his hand. She saw the American lying on the sidewalk, Victor Emmanuel rising up behind him. She put the Lancia in gear and pulled away from the curb, sorry for him, but relieved it was over.