He dug into a pocket and dropped a handful of change into her bowl. She was watching him, not the money. A dead giveaway.
"Grazie, signor, " she said.
Bending over so he could not be heard by other pedestrians, Lang replied in English. "Spend it on nail polish remover."
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Rome
Hotel Hassler
That evening
Lang had spent a good part of the afternoon acquainting himself with the contents of the package. He had learned the fluoroscope could make badly worn numbers and letters on old coins spring into legible relief. The infrared brought alive old floral patterns of painted over wallpaper perhaps best left forgotten.
The camera was digital. It had the advantage of being able to call up the pictures he had taken instantly and the disadvantage of his lack of knowledge of how to make it do that. After thirty or so frustrated minutes, he left his room in search of a photography store, finding one within a few blocks. With far more patience than Lang would have exhibited under similar circumstances, the English-speaking store clerk used the same type and model to demonstrate the simplicity of bringing up pictures for review.
The problem was that, for Lang, nothing digital was simple. Under Sara's tutelage, he had mastered the use of his office computer for composing letters and legal documents. It was when it came time to send them off into cyberspace that his worst fears became realities. A brief that had required a week to compose was devoured by malign electronics in a nanosecond. His machine mocked him with reminders of his own ineptness with messages like "Unable to send due to incomplete address" or "Account number incorrect" the few times he had tried to pay bills or buy an airline ticket online. Instruction manuals were useless. Written with the clear assumption the reader understood bytes, hard drives, and other arcana, the printed material served only to reinforce Lang's sense of being very alone in a cyber-shrunken world.
He viewed with sad nostalgia the days when you simply put whatever you were going to send into a real envelope, licked a stamp, and sent it on its way without fear of incomplete addresses, balky if not downright malevolent electronics, and temperamental delivery systems. He never understood how anyone could master the esoteric series of keystrokes (or, in the case of the camera, buttons pushed) necessary to achieve one task rather than another.
It was, then, with the closest attention, that he watched the clerk demonstrate the use of the camera, limiting the lecture to turning it on and off, and displaying pictures.
He was reasonably confident he could figure out how to plug the charging mechanism in.
Back in his room, he waited for sunset, in Rome a distinct event that turns the cold marble monuments to gold and gives buildings' ocher a glow as though lighted from within. Tonight, he was less interested in colors than the job ahead. Donning the cassock, he filled an old-fashioned leather briefcase with equipment he had both purchased a few days earlier and had received from Reavers.
A few minutes later, he was just one more priest scurrying along the streets and alleys of Rome in a hurry to keep an appointment at the Vatican. He was, though, the only one that night who was actually rushing to make sure he could find a group with whom he could blend in. He was also the only one whose business was with a pagan emperor dead nearly two thousand years.
Before reaching the Tiber, his cell phone buzzed twice and went dead, the signal prearranged with Sara.
Distrustful of the security of his own, it took Lang only minutes to find a bank of pay phones. He was all too aware of RAPTOR, the satellite system shared by the United States, Great Britain, Canada, Australia, and New Zealand that intercepted any telephonic communication the world over. The idea had been brilliant in its conception if faulty in its execution. The English speaking nations had the ability to listen in but no means of ascertaining which conversations were of interest. The solution had been to program the system to flag conversations including certain key words.
Although Lang was certain any transatlantic chat with his secretary would be buried under thousands of other dialogues, he knew no system was immune to hacking or interception. Whoever had tried to kill him could, possibly, somehow sort through the surfeit of information and retrieve his words. Using a pay phone simply ensured that his anonymous enemy could not rely on a simple interception device. Unless, of course, his office line had also been invaded.
He punched in the code for the United States, area code, and the office number. After a series of the squeals and squeaks frequently accompanying international calls, Sara answered.
"Lang," she said, her voice quavering. "Charlie Clough is dead."
It took an instant to sink in. "Charlie? How?"
"I only know what I saw in the paper this morning, but he was in a place up north…" Pause as she reached for the newspaper. "Red Cloud Lake, Minnesota. Says he was there on business, killed by a hit-and-run eighteen wheeler. Lang, he was such a nice man…"
He wasn't, but Lang murmured the usual meaningless words of comfort before hanging up.
One final time, it seemed Charlie had found what he was looking for. Unfortunately, Lang had only the vaguest idea what.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Rome
St. Peter's Square
Twenty minutes later
This time Lang merged with an Italian boys choir he gathered were to perform at evensong at one of the Vatican's numerous chapels, perhaps for the Holy Father himself. Shepherded by two dour nuns and several priests, the noisy group passed by the Swiss Guard with little more than a cheery buona sera and a wave of credentials. Once again, Lang's Georgia driver's license passed muster. The shadows that were devouring the square by now provided ample cover for Lang to fall to the rear of the boisterous procession and, finally, drop off just before the door guarded by the television camera.
For a full five minutes he observed, making certain nothing had been altered. A change in timing of the camera, of the combination lock, anything, could mean his previous visit had been discovered and additional security measures taken, precautions of which he would be unaware.
Cars whizzed by, the sensation of speed increased by the narrow confines of the road between basilica and the colonnades, but fast enough to be dangerous to the unwary crossing the road. He stepped deeper into the shadows to avoid headlights. The timing of the surveillance cameras was identical. Minimizing exposure to both the light provided by streetlights and by passing motorists, he stepped in front of the door, risking playing the beam of his flashlight over the locking mechanism. It seemed the same. The doorframe bore no indications of the work necessary to install alarms.
He took a deep breath, as though about to dive into bottomless water, and punched in the series of numbers.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Rome
St. Peter's Square
April 30, 1944
Sturmbahnfuhrer Otto Skorzeny crossed St. Peter's Square with purposeful strides. Behind him eight SS troops, Schmiesser machine guns slung across their chests, marched as though on parade. At the rear of the small procession, two Wehrmacht privates carried a wooden box larger than even a coffin. Skorzeny watched the Swiss Guard as they watched him. Hopefully, the young men in medieval costume would not be foolhardy. The SS man had seen more than enough slaughter of young men.