The babylon revelation, p.22
The Babylon Revelation, page 22
“Mazzini,” Gregory had got to his feet and held the young priest’s elbow. “Why is the Vatican so obsessed with Del Piero? If he’s such a crank, why spend so much energy trying to keep people from his evidence?”
“The Vatican is obsessed with no one, Mister Gregory, we have just one glorious obsession and perhaps you should try to understand that rather than waste your energy on people like Del Piero. Good day.”
“Well, I thought that went well,” said Gregory, his attempt at humour failing to bring a smile to Claudia.
“How do they know about our visit to Volterra?”
“You mean, do they know about the cylinder?”
“Sam, they know about the cylinder, I’m sure of that. They know too much. If they had people following us in Volterra, they could have been following us in London. I’m worried about the cylinder – and how safe Simon is. We should warn him.”
“They’re both safe, for now anyway, as long as they’re both in the British Museum.”
They were outside the entrance to the Archive on the Via di Porta Angelica. Tourists filled the narrow street, moving to and from the Piazza San Pietro, a relentless tide of humanity that had been tramping those streets for hundreds of years. There was a small newsstand to the left. “Water?” Gregory asked. Claudia nodded and he wandered over to buy two bottles.
He was looking in his pockets for spare Euros to pay the vendor when he was jolted by a screech of brakes. Turning his head he saw a black S-Class Mercedes pull to the kerb. The rear door was thrown open before the car stopped and a man jumped out. It took Gregory a few seconds to register what was happening.
Claudia had her back to the car and didn’t see the man as he dashed out. Within a beat he was dragging her into the car, his arms pulled tightly across her chest, lifting her feet off the ground. It happened so quickly, Claudia had no time to resist. By the time Gregory screamed out “Hey!” she had been thrown into the back of the car.
He dashed towards the car. The kidnapper was about to slide into the car, when Gregory threw himself on to him, wrapping his arms around the shoulders and neck, and started to pull him out of the car door. Gregory felt the enormous muscles bulging through the man’s jacket. The man pushed himself and Gregory back, out of the car door, rising now to his full height. Taller than Gregory, he lifted up his elbow and crushed it into the side of the Englishman’s face. The blow was strong, its power knocking Gregory to the ground, his arms relaxing to release the kidnapper. Before he could collect himself, the man aimed a kick at him, it missed the ribs by a fraction, but struck Gregory straight in his belly, winding him. A second kick, aimed at the head, was powerful enough to throw him a metre or so along the pavement and into the feet of a confused group of tourists. Without looking back, the man jumped into the car. Gregory was still on the ground when the car roared off and with it, Claudia.
Forty-One
Disorientated, dazed from the blow to the side of his head, bleeding from his mouth, Gregory lay sprawled on the ground. His senses were further confused by the screeching of more brakes. A white Fiat pulled up, the window wound down, the driver screaming at him in English: “If you want your girlfriend back, get in now!”
Without thinking, Gregory pulled himself up, opened the rear passenger door and threw himself in; the car had started moving again before he had closed the door.
The Mercedes was driving at speed through the cramped streets, but the driver of the Fiat was closing the gap. Gregory was still disorientated – everything had happen in the space of less than two minutes – so at first he did not recognise the driver. Then it came to him: the man who had approached Casillas in Volterra: Bruno Finch.
“You, you’re that guy-"
“From Volterra, yup, Bruno Finch. I’ll explain more later, but this ain’t the time as I’m sure you’ll appreciate. All you need to know is, I’m one of the good guys. And we’re going to get her back. I promise you that. Out the way!”
Finch’s curse was aimed at an elderly couple trying to cross the road. They were on the Borgo Angelico, the Fiat had caught up with Mercedes.
As the road passed into the Via Giovanni Vitelleschi, the Mercedes avoided the oncoming traffic by veering towards a row of parked cars, narrowly missing one or two. Finch followed, skilfully weaving through the oncoming traffic, turning left and mounting the kerb, before pulling back into the centre and right behind the Mercedes. This was a chase now, a proper chase down a narrow one way street, with the Mercedes attempting to dart in and out of the traffic, dashing across pedestrian crossings and junctions, skimming the edge of pavements and cars, Finch doing his best to stay as close as possible.
They passed across a final intersection that gave way to the on rush of traffic of the Piazza Adriana and with it the late afternoon rush hour. The road was wider, cramped with traffic, but flowing. The Mercedes mounted the edge of the kerb to overtake a small van. The van driver instinctively pulled to the left and braked hard. As he did so, Finch’s Fiat hit its right hand front corner. The Fiat ploughed through the van, sending the hapless vehicle into a spin to the right. Out of control, it hit a small bollard and went tumbling over, smashing into the windows of a florist. As other cars braked in shock, several piled into the back of each other. Tourists crossing the road to reach the Castel Sant’Angelo scattered like birds in the wind, screams, shouts and curses followed the convoy down the road.
Finch was unaware of the chaos behind him. His pulse was racing, but he remained impassively fixated on the Mercedes.
They were heading down the main artery north of the Tiber, usually a slow moving trail of traffic, the Lungotevere in Sassia was now transformed into a frenetic speedway, as cars broke urgently or accelerated swiftly to allow the chasing pair to pass them. In the distance, Gregory heard the distinct sound of Roman police sirens.
Coming onto the start of a bridge crossing the Tiber, the Mercedes driver suddenly changed direction. He was heading away from the banks of the river, when he turned forty-five degrees and pointed the car towards the bridge and the heart of Rome itself. The momentum he had built up, combined with the sudden change of direction, saw the car skid ten metres or so, piling into a red Alfa Romero, before the driver regained total control and directed the Mercedes across the bridge.
Finch had anticipated the manoeuvre.
He used the few seconds created by the other driver’s skid and bang into the Alfa, to close the gap. They were now alongside the other car. Gregory could see both the driver and the kidnapper, there was no sign of Claudia, he presumed she had been stuffed into the foot well. The passenger drew down his window and the unmistakable shadow of a small hand gun appeared at the top of the window. He was about to take aim, but Finch had spotted the danger.
Throwing his wheel to the right, he rammed the side of the Mercedes. The force of the impact pushed back the gunman and threw the body of the Mercedes towards the edge of the bridge. Sparks of masonry threw up into the air, before the other driver retaliated, spun his wheel to the left and responded by ramming the Fiat.
The Mercedes was more powerful.
The Fiat was shunted way to the left. Finch could not control the car and it piled into the rear end of a green Vectra. He expertly yanked it clear and re-joined the chase as they left the bridge, and entered the Campo Marzio.
“If you can reach across and open the glove compartment, you’ll find a small pistol in there. It’s loaded. You might need it.”
Gregory reached over the front passenger seat and slipped open the compartment. A Walther PK47 was nestled inside. He pulled it out, slipped off the safety catch and sat back in his seat.
The street was wide as it morphed into the Corso Vittorio Emanuelle II, but the weight of traffic made it difficult for the Mercedes to get away from the pursuing Fiat. Finch was able to accelerate towards the Mercedes and hit it from behind. He repeated the manoeuvre several times. “That’ll be uncomfortable!” he shouted as he did it the third time and the Mercedes in turn rear shunted another Fiat.
The second Fiat stopped. The Mercedes was now trapped between both cars. The driver of the Fiat, a portly man in an open necked shirt, was already out of the car and walking towards the Mercedes, gesticulating angrily in the familiar Roman manner. Before he was able to get close, a shot rang out from the Mercedes, above the Italian’s head. He scampered back towards his car, as the driver of the Mercedes rammed it from the front, pushing it forward to create a gap large enough for him to pull clear.
Free of the Fiat, he pulled out into the road at speed, but he had no time to avoid the tourist coach that hit the Mercedes on its right flank. The force of the impact was so great that the driver lost control of the car, spinning crazily; it hit one then another car, each of which sent it spinning still further. Frantically the driver tried to regain control, but it was too late, he looked up to see a fountain on the right hand side. He could do nothing. The front of the Mercedes ploughed straight into it, decapitating the top of the fountain as the front of the car wedged itself in the grey waters.
Finch pulled the Fiat to a halt, “Come with me and take the pistol.”
The doors to the Mercedes opened, and two men jumped out. One was dragging Claudia, his hand gripping the top of her head, pulling her by her hair. She was screaming, screaming in pain and anger. As she got out of the car, she started kicking out, aiming at the man’s groin. He responded by hitting her in the face with the side of the revolver he was carrying. Her head threw back and her body went limp.
The first man scrambled clear of the fountain, tripping over the edge as he did so. Turning towards the pursuing Finch and Gregory, he took aim and fired off three rounds, none accurate. Finch dropped to one knee, took aim and needed only one shot to hit the man in the chest, who fell back into the water of the fountain.
The other man was still struggling with Claudia’s limp body. Managing to cross to the pavement, he stopped behind a parked car and, propping her body up, held his revolver to Claudia’s temple. Gregory, who was ahead of Finch, stopped as the assailant did so. They stared at each other. Gregory was unsure what to do. The man said nothing but, even at distance, his heavy breathing was clearly audible. Both men faced each other, neither sure what to do next.
Finch walked up alongside Gregory.
But he did not stop.
He walked past him with supreme confidence. Moving towards Claudia and the kidnapper, he held his gun straight ahead and simply fired a single shot at the man, who was thrown instantly to the ground releasing Claudia. Finch walked past her and stood over the man. The shot had struck him clean in the forehead. Finch fired another shot into his body. He then reached down and rummaged through the pockets of the man’s jacket.
Gregory picked Claudia up from the ground and held her in her arms. She was still out cold.
Finch walked past them, back towards the car. He briskly searched the other man who was still alive, but in great pain, clutching a serious wound to his neck, which was spouting an enormous amount of blood, his body jerking in spasm. Finch left him in the fountain, ruby red blood mixing with the dirty grey of the water and walked to the Mercedes. Opening the driver’s door, he pulled down the glove compartment and picked out any documents. Looking back towards Claudia and Gregory, he simply said, “Gregory, we really can’t wait around. Come on. Let’s get the hell out of here before the police arrive,” and walked back towards the white Fiat.
Forty-Two
“This cylinder, well, you probably have some idea now, but believe me, there is nothing in the world as much in demand as that baby is today.”
Finch had driven them to the Hotel Russie close to the Spanish Steps, where he had taken a suite. Claudia had returned to consciousness in the car, but was in shock. The physical impact was obvious. The blow to her head had left her right eye swollen, there were red and purple imprint marks on her neck, her ribs were sore, in fact her entire body felt bruised and oddly numb, and she had a pulsating headache, caused by the pull to her hair of which the final visible sign was a tuft of missing hair from her crown. It made Gregory’s cut to his lip and slight bruising to the stomach pathetic. He knew Claudia as one of the strongest willed people he had ever met, they had been through much together, some of which would have destroyed lesser people, but this time it seemed to have been too much for her. Impassively quiet in the car, a whispered “I’m OK” the only sound she made. Gregory had wrapped her in his arms, holding her as tightly as he had ever held any one in his life, gently stroking and kissing her torn head. He was expecting a torrent of tears, but nothing had come. She was almost lifeless in his arms. The thought, the very thought terrified him, of Claudia as a broken woman.
As soon as they had reached Finch’s room, she had simply said, “I’m taking a bath” and had walked straight in and locked the door behind her. The only sound running water, then when that ended, the sound of her body entering the water, but after that, nothing.
In his time in the armed forces, even afterwards, as a journalist, Gregory had been party to some appalling incidents. He had stood alongside close friends when they had been killed, he had witnessed at first hand the after effects of torture, stood amongst the ruins of shopping centres after car bombings, the oily stench of destruction, the horror of splintered limbs hanging from street lights, blood and guts littering pavements, but none had such an immediate impact as the last hour or so in Rome.
As soon as Claudia had locked herself in the bathroom, his hands had started to tremble, uncontrollably. He had faced out of the hotel window, looking down on to the Piazza di Spagna, his eyes glazed, talking to himself, “Breathe deeply, relax, breathe deeply, relax.” Finch noted the signs and poured Gregory a scotch from the minibar.
Gregory was embarrassed by his shaking. His old training was that you never showed any weakness. To anyone. But this was not a weakness he could hide as he clumsily took the glass and threw the scotch down his throat, wincing slightly from the electrical pinch it gave off as it touched his wounded mouth.
“Another?” Finch asked.
Gregory nodded and tried to calm his hands again. By the time Finch approached with a second scotch, the Englishman was beginning to regain control. Starting to focus not on his physical weakness, but the events that had led them to Bruno Finch’s hotel room.
“Who were they, those men?”
“No idea. Thought you might know. You get many people attacking you?”
“It seems to be becoming something of a habit of late.”
“There are lots of people looking for this cylinder. The Israelis, they’ll want it; Doni, the trader who lost it when it disappeared in Vienna, he’ll have some men after it, crackpot evangelicals like the Brotherhood of Padre Pio, the Iraqis who owned it, other Muslim groups. You name them, they’re all coming out of the woodwork for this one.”
“The Vatican?”
“Oh yes, the Vatican, they like anything like this. You were being followed in Volterra by one of their men, Mazzini.”
“Mazzini, who works for the Secret Vatican Archive, early thirties?”
“That’s the one.”
“We’ve just been with him, we had a meeting with Cardinal Rafallo.”
“Ah, that old fox, that’s his boss.”
“Yes. They seemed to know a lot about our trip to Volterra.”
“You talk about the cylinder?”
“No, we were discussing the apocrypha of Ezekiel.”
“Ah, Del Piero’s pet subject.”
“Does it even exist?”
Finch shrugged. “No idea. Probably not. That said, Del Piero didn’t strike me as much of a charlatan, misguided, naive, idiotic in some of his theories perhaps, but I don’t think he was a liar. Almost certainly there’s an ancient text which could be read as a draft of the Book of Ezekiel; Del Piero probably just mistranslated it. If you read any of his work, attention to detail was not his greatest strength. Great flights of imagination yes, attention to detail, never passed the grade.”
“So I’ve noticed. Why doesn’t the Vatican put an end to it and simply put this version in the public domain? Put an end to this nonsense.”
“Because it would open the floodgates. This document may be a red herring, but there’s plenty of other material in there others would like to see.”
“The Nazi archives.”
“That and other stuff, believe me.”
“And where do you fit into this?”
“Well, my job is pretty simple, Sam. I’m tasked with restoring stolen antiquities to their rightful owners. It’s like I told you in Volterra, I’m a public servant employed by UNESCO.”
“Public servants don’t usually go round shooting people dead in the middle of the afternoon in Rome?”
“Well, they might if they witness a kidnapping in broad daylight of someone who can help them find a particularly valuable artefact. Besides which, I wouldn’t have killed them if they hadn’t opened fire on us first. Once they started shooting, I really didn’t see much point in spending time debating the ethics of the situation with them. As I suspect you didn’t spend too long weighing up the pros and cons of the moral issues when you and your partner fled Volterra after Casillas fell to his death.”
Gregory winced; he still felt guilty for leaving Casillas’ body on the ground in Volterra.
“Where did you learn to shoot like that?”
“Training. You know how it is. Men like us, we don’t like to give much away, do we? Not about the past anyway.”
“Men like us?”
“Men with a past. I’ve done my background work on you. First Gulf War, special ops, behind the lines work-”
“I know plenty about me, it’s you I’m interested in.”
“Thought you would be. Gulf War one veteran like you. Special ops, behind the lines, just like you. Except I never blew the whistle on my boys.”
