As the black-clad detachment reached the point where the colonnade joined the basilica, two Swiss Guards crossed halberds, barring the path.
Thankful most Swiss spoke at least a form of German, Skorzeny snapped to attention and saluted. "Am Morgen, meinen Herren! We have business inside. Please be good fellows and let us pass without trouble."
One of the young men – Skorzeny would have bet he was under twenty – spoke. ''You have the proper authorization?"
The German officer sighed. "My authorization, lad, is in those machine guns you see. Now, please let us pass."
There was no fear, no indecision in the boy's eyes, only hatred. It was the same look Skorzeny had seen in Russian partisans as they stood in front of open graves waiting to be shot.
Skorzeny sighed and gave the order. As one, eight machine guns were unslung. With a single click, eight bolts were cocked. He both admired and was saddened by the complete lack of reaction by the Swiss Guards. Bravery transcends nationality. It is a commodity to be treasured, not wasted.
An older Swiss Guard, perhaps twenty-five, stepped out of the shadows and conducted a conversation in Swisse Deutsch, the dialect of the German-speaking Swiss cantons. Skorzeny only got about half of it. The two younger guards lowered their weapons and took two steps backward, resentment twisting the corners of their mouths.
"That's good fellows," Skorzeny said, motioning to two of his men. "Now, if you'll just stack those axes and come along, all will be fine."
Leaving a single man to watch over the disarmed and unhappy Swiss Guards, the Germans entered through an unmarked side door of the basilica. Skorzeny produced a flashlight from his uniform, as did each of the SS men.
Now came the tricky part, the SS commander thought. He had to remember exactly the tour the priest Kaas had given him yesterday. Opening an unmarked door, Skorzeny was greeted by darkness, an absence of light so complete as to suggest light did not exist. A breeze of cool air drifted over the men, bringing the dusty smell of crushed rock and damp earth.
Ignoring the reluctance he sensed in the men, Skorzeny stepped into the night.
At first, the beam of his flashlight revealed little but clouds of dust motes, swirling like miniature cosmos in some dark universe of their own. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom even his light could not entirely dispel, he saw what resembled a narrow street edged with the dim forms of houses. The way sloped gently upward.
"Careful," he warned his men. "The way is littered with rubble, so step carefully."
For a few minutes the small troupe walked up the slight incline, edging around mounds of clay, rock, and soil. Out of the gloom appeared empty doors and windows, some with just the hint of inscriptions. Others showed dirt-clouded paintings of animals and humans. Between many of the structures were mounds of unexcavated earth. At last they stopped in front of a large circular area ringed with mounds of loose dirt. Picks and shovels were neatly stacked. A rope with buckets attached stretched off into the darkness, a means of removing rubble. They had reached the site of present excavations.
Skorzeny directed the beam of his flashlight upward to a point where it reflected from dull stone overhead, the floor of the Vatican's basement or grotto. Part of the hill they had been climbing actually touched the stone overhead. A small hole had been dug into otherwise undisturbed earth.
That was the place the priest had pointed out to him yesterday. Motioning to the two men carrying the box to follow, he started up the side of the hill, surprised at how firm the surface was. But then, why shouldn't it be? This part of the hill hadn't been touched since the present papal palace was completed over three hundred years ago.
He turned to make sure the men with the box were close at hand before he turned the light into the shallow hole in front of him. At first, all he saw was stone, part of the foundation of the massive building overhead. He played the light back and forth, discerning regularly placed vertical stone piers, each about four feet wide and caked with the soil in which they had been embedded. Closer inspection revealed a slight discoloration at the base of one. Skorzeny stooped to bring the full power of his light to bear. Sure enough, the part of this one column was a slightly different color than the rest of the pillar.
Reaching into a pocket, he produced a whisk brush and began to remove the obscuring dirt. Within minutes, he could see an almost invisible line forming a rectangle where a section of the base of the support had been replaced. There were traces of lettering on the new part, letters that had been chiseled away.
He had no real interest in the characters. He had seen enough at Montsegur to have a good idea what they said.
Using his light to motion to the two Wehrmacht soldiers, he ordered them to open the box and bring him the tools in it. In moments, he was supervising two men rocking crowbars back and forth in an effort to wedge them between the original and newer stone. He noticed several of his SS detachment nervously glancing at the floor above, as if anticipating the collapse of the entire Vatican upon their heads. That might have been a problem with the old basilica. Although Pope Julius II had planned to preserve Constantine's papal palace when he began rebuilding the Vatican in 1506, he and more than a century of successors had been forced to abandon the idea. The only part of the original St. Peter's was down here, support columns that no longer were weight-bearing.
In ten minutes, both bars were firmly inserted into the tight space between old and replacement stone. Another few minutes of heaving and prying were rewarded by the sound of stone grinding upon stone.
Squatting, Skorzeny futilely tugged at the smooth surface as if his hands alone could move it. Finally, there was enough space for him to insert the hand with the flashlight and squint down its beam in much the same manner he would have sighted along the sights of a rifle.
At first, he thought he was looking at some sort of wall made of clay. Then he noted the reddish material was round. He pulled back, allowing himself a more comprehensive view. He was almost touching a large vessel of some sort, a jug or vase.
Stepping farther back, he stood. "I want that rock pried fully open," he commanded. "The sooner we can get to whatever is in there, the sooner we can get out of here."
The encouragement may have been the reason that, five minutes later, two men were removing a large, vase like object. Skorzeny recognized it as an amphora, a large container, usually of Greek origin, with two handles, one on either side of its slender neck. This one was the size of a man, at least of a man in Julian's time.
Skorzeny waited until the two men had removed as much dust and grime as possible before he inspected their find. A seal was still in place, and he thought he could make out an inscription in the-centuries-hardened wax. Walking slowly around the huge vessel, hands behind his back, he tried to make a decision. Should he open it here and now?
Probably not, he concluded. There was some small chance the thing was filled only with its normal contents, olive oil or wine, but-he considered that unlikely. There would be little point in storing the mundane in this very special place. More likely, the jug held something else, something that needed to be sealed off from air and light. Like some sort of documents. And it was, of course, documents that the Montsegur inscription had seemed to indicate had been removed to the… What was the wording the Latin professor had used? Palace of the One God?
Whatever the contents, there was no point in risking them here. Let the container be opened in a place where others would take the blame if damage was done. Der Fahrer would be delighted if Skorzeny's assumption were correct, if…
"Herr Sturmbahnfuhrer?" One of the men was bending over, peering into the space from which the amphora had been removed. "There appears to be another."