CHAPTER VIII
Il Divino
As the Boeing resumed its flight towards Athens, Joe and Frank rode with Jones and the high ranking prelate in the motorcade, whom they were introduced to as Cardinal Geraci.
In the vehicle transporting Callie and Iola and Biff, they met an affable Swiss Guard named Denys Randazzo, who answered the many questions the group had about how someone became a guard.
Tony, Phil and Chet were in the third car driven by a stern, silent member of the Italian Carabinieri and his oily supervisor called Tomasone. Every so often, Tomasone would speak into a lapel microphone in rapid, gruff Italian. The men had banked on the ignorance of the American teenagers in the back seat. They hadn't counted on the bilingual talents of Tony Prito. He made a mental note of what was being discussed.
The motorcade snaked through Rome, the stunning sights decorated with creative holiday decorations. When they crossed the Tiber River, Frank and Joe gazed up at the imposing fortress, Castel Sant'Angelo, recalling from their freshmen history classes the secret tunnel that ran from the fortress to the Vatican.
"Tiberim desilire," Jones murmured as he followed their gaze.
"What's that mean? Joe asked.
"An old phrase from the time of the Empire. It means 'to throw someone into the Tiber'."
Shivers passed through Frank and Joe.
Bypassing Via della Conciliazone, the ostentatious road built by Mussolini leading up to St. Peter's Square, the motorcade wound around the Vatican walls until it reached St. Anne's Gate, a back entrance to the Vatican and the official border between Italy and Vatican City.
Cardinal Geraci, exiting the sedan, surveyed the small cohort gathered at the gate. "Are we all here?" he asked. "Bene," he said. "Follow me."
As they proceeded inside, Tony Prito looked over his shoulder. He watched with concern the oily Tomasone speak sotto voce to an unhappy-looking man in a black cassock.
"Say, Tony," Phil whispered. "What was going on in the ride over?"
"He was talking about someone named Drollinger, whoever that is. I think we have a mole. Let's keep our eyes on him until we have time to update Frank and Joe."
"Roger!" Phil answered.
Cardinal Geraci and an escort of Swiss Guards including Denys Randazzo led the entourage to the Sistine Chapel.
"The break in happened about 2:30 this morning," the cardinal informed the group. "Whoever it was knew their way around in low light conditions."
They reached the two imposing wooden doors leading into the Sistine itself. Guards stood motionless around it. The doors had been damaged nearly beyond repair.
"The doors!" Callie bemoaned. "How could they ruin something so beautiful?"
Chet, who had been awfully quiet, finally managed to speak. "Eminence," he said slowly. "N-none of the art was destroyed, was it?"
Before the cardinal could answer the concerned Chet, Tomasone stepped forward. "Is that all you care about, kid?" he demanded in broken English. "We're lucky nobody was killed!"
"Hey, he didn't mean anything cruel by it!" Biff Hooper spoke up, staring down the middle-aged carabinieri supervisor.
The cardinal's calm voice eased tensions. "That's the first thing I asked myself, young Morton." Chet grinned. "That's what's so puzzling," Geraci continued. "Have a look."
Cardinal Geraci led the group into the surprisingly small but no less stunning Sistine Chapel.
"I don't see any damage," Iola mentioned. The others murmured in agreement.
"Are you positive SPECTRE's involved, Eminence?" Frank asked.
"Yes," Tomasone again interjected. "We found one set of prints. Belongs to a Polish goon named Maslov, an associate of SPECTRE."
"The question remains," Jones sighed. "What were they doing here?"
The group looked around, collectively stumped. Finally, Joe asked, "Why is there a ladder in the corner?"
"Can't imagine that being a permanent fixture in here," Frank quipped.
"That was where the print was discovered," Geraci explained.
The group stared up at the ladder. In the silence, all heard a humming coming from Chet. They turned their heads. "Hmmm," Chet was saying over and over.
"Is there something you'd like to share with the group, Morton?" Jones snarled.
"Quite possibly, Dr. Jones," Morton muttered absently.
Suddenly, Chet climbed the ladder to the balcony halfway up the chapel wall. He gazed across the chapel intently to the other wall where Michelangelo's Last Judgment majestically was displayed. Then he removed from his backup a charcoal reprint of his Last Judgment replica he had been working on in the Morton farm and studied it closely.
"What do you see Chet?" Iola asked excitedly.
Chet then called out breathlessly, "I need a picture of the Shroud, fast!"
Cardinal Geraci turned to a Swiss Guard and barked in Italian, "Get over to the archives and get a copy of the Holy Shroud here pronto!"
Within moments, the Guards had met Chet's request, ushering in a thick hardcover book of art and relics. They flung the glossy pages open to a full-page image of the Shroud. Denys Randazzo hoisted the book up to Chet.
"Eureka!" Chet shouted triumphantly, his voice reverberating across the five hundred year old chapel. "It's the Shroud!" he exclaimed.
Moments later, the others clambered up the ladder and gazed incredulously at the whole of Michelangelo's masterpiece. "I see it quite clearly," Chet explained. "The whole wall is a full-scale recreation of the face on the Shroud! Look in the left corner, isn't that a left eye? Look to the right corner, the gap there, where the angels are? And the nose, the central part of the fresco, the resurrected Christ."
"A bit of a stretch?" Phil Cohen asked dubiously.
Chet answered confidently, "As an art expert, Phil, I'd say it's a clue, don't you see?"
"Eminence," Frank said suddenly, "Who's that figure in the middle holding his own skin?"
"It's the apostle Bartholomew. He was flayed. Michelangelo painted his own face as Bartholomew's. It's one of the most iconic parts of the Shroud."
"There's a reason Michelangelo put his own face on that particular figure," Jones uttered. "What is Il Divino trying to tell us?"
"Where was he flayed?" Joe nearly shouted.
"Why, Armenia. There's a monastery now commemorating his death."
Immediately upon hearing "Armenia," Tomasone and the man in the black cassock made a mad dash out of the chapel.
"Stop them!" Jones shouted.
The Swiss Guards took off after the two as the Bayporters and Jones followed suit. They raced outside the chapel and towards St. Anne's Gate where Tomasone jumped into a sedan and the cassock man disappeared around a corner. At that moment, a group of thugs posing as Carabinieri appeared from the gate's shadows and dismantled the approaching guards.
A chaotic fistfight ensued. In the disorder, Jones was rendered unconscious and hoisted into the same sedan as Tomasone. The silent, stern driver immediately drove away.
"Doctor Jones!" Frank shouted amid the rumble. "Joe, we can't let the car get away!"
The two ran out to the main street with some of the Guards. To each of the Hardys' dismay, the car had disappeared into the Roman traffic. More despairing, two armed men bore down on speeding motor bikes headed directly towards the group, prepared it seemed to plow into them. The one leading gave an evil grin.
He wore a black cassock.
Frank and Joe braced themselves as the motorcyclists closed in on them. "Get out of the way, Joe!" Frank shouted just as he felt the gush of wind and the smell of gasoline envelope him.
Frank had darted out of the path of the first motorcycle while simultaneously tugging at anything he could get his hands on. He managed to grab hold of a fistful of the pursuer's black cassock, but his attempt to pull him down or disrupt him in any way failed. He was going too fast.
With a yell, Frank let go, spinning around. The cyclist continued down the alley, but stopped, reversing.
"Behind you!" Joe shouted, ducking out of harm's way and moving the others to safety. The Swiss Guards had ultimately overpowered the thugs, who scattered.
Frank sprinted down the street, hoping to distract the assailants from the others. While he was no match on foot to outrun the two, Frank reasoned he could have more leverage somewhere more crowded.
He was right. No sooner did he sprint, arms flailing into the intersection, did a number of vehicles instantly slam on their breaks. Among them was the motor scooter of Giuseppe Salvatore, a delivery boy for a nearby meat market.
Salvatore attempted to steer around the crazed looking American, but Frank was ready for him. Frank gently nudged him but enough to send the boy flying off the scooter landing onto Via Sistina on his backside. Frank hopped on the bike and quickly tossed the meat packages from the basket attached to the handlebars to the boy before himself darting away from the stopped traffic.
The small traffic jam momentarily separated himself from his hunters. It was all the time Frank needed to gain some headway as he coasted along on Via di Porta Pinciana. But no sooner did he allow himself to get comfortable than he heard two accelerating motors behind him. He quickly glanced back and groaned. His pursuers suddenly opened fire at the 18-year-old!
Frank hunkered down further on his bike as he saw an opening ahead. It was a small alley that took him directly into the popular Piazza del Popolo.
The crowd should play to my advantage, Frank told himself.
Instead, no sooner did Frank go blazing through the crowded piazza did he hear the wailing of sirens directly behind him. He glanced back. Now the police in addition to the stalking motorcyclists were chasing him!
If I manage to get any more attention, he said to himself, I might be putting even more people in jeopardy.
Nevertheless, Frank continued speeding along on Giuseppe Salvatore's motor scooter, crossing the River Tiber on Ponte Regina Margherita. After he passed the Supreme Court building, the second assailant cut off Frank from another direction. The surprise moved distracted him, and with the second goon only inches next to him, attempting to hit his back wheel, and the other goon in the black cassock trailing behind, Frank was trapped.
As he slammed into the rail alongside Piazza Adriana, everything went black. But only for a moment. Frank found he had been thrown from Salvatore's bike over the barrier and had landed in Adrian Park. Shaking off the pain, he noticed that both of his pursuers were climbing the fence, leaving their bikes on the sidewalk.
Frank quickly scrambled to his feet and turned to run in the opposite direction. There he gazed up at the circular, towering Castel Sant'Angelo. His pursuers nipped at his heels. Frank broke through a cordoned off gate in the rear, quickly ascending the ancient stone steps.
Frank flew open another gate at the top of the steps, finding himself on the roof. His attackers wasted no time in jumping him. For the next few moments, Frank took on the two mysterious men who sought to kill him and his friends. He could tell by their agility they were only a little older than himself. But they were not as equipped in one-on-one fighting. The boxing lessons Frank and Joe took in the converted gym in their garage paid off.
Frank was able to subdue one after a punch knocked the man unconscious. But the man in the black cassock would not let up. He grabbed Frank by the throat, at the same time as he produced a knife. As the cassock man went to plunge his knife between Frank's ribs, Frank elbowed him. Momentarily stunned, Frank seized on the moment, landing two powerful punches to the man's face. Frank studied the actor: blue eyes, dark hair, and a three-day old beard. There seemed nothing priestly about him.
Gripping the man with both hands, he glared at him. The man glared back.
"Are you going to tell me anything?"
"Not on your life."
The cassock man kicked Frank in the thigh. Suddenly Frank was against the ancient wall. Gunfire then opened up from the man who was hitherto unconscious. It seemed to make no difference that he was firing in the same area as his colleague.
"What are you doing, Visconti?!" the cassock man shouted.
Frank took the moment, flipped the cassock man off him and rolled out of the way. Visconti, attempting to gun Frank down, instead struck the cassock man in the heart. He slumped to the ground.
Frank seized on Visconti, grabbing the small weapon, flinging it away. The two, locked in a tussle, neared the ledge before Frank twisted Visconti around. With a punch, Visconti went wheeling over the ledge and into the Tiber River below!
Frank peered over the wall. "Tiberim desilire," he said to himself, panting.