CHAPTER XI
Through the Italian Pines
Three nondescript white trucks weaved their way out of the monastic grounds just as the hulking Alfa Romeo 800 arrived on its premises. SPECTRE agents, quickly realizing what was unfolding, hastened back into the vehicle to give chase. Their leader was none other than the Carabinieri mole, Tomasone.
Frank drove the first truck, with Joe and Chet. Phil Cohen, Tony Prito, and Iola rode in the second. Biff and Callie rounded out the trio of trucks. No one, except Joe and Frank, knew which truck contained the casket that held the authentic Shroud. They soon found themselves on Viale S. Ignazio di Loyola, flanked by a sprawling, mountainous forest on one side. On the other, a sloping and unkind-looking ravine.
In the SPECTRE truck, agents Visconti and Muldoon, the hapless goons who tried to procure Frank for collateral, rode with Tomasone. Having escaped Barmet Bay a couple days earlier, they both struggled to stay awake. Tomasone shook his head in disgust. Tomasone's eyes narrowed as he sharply round a bend. He got on his radio, a short-wave transmitter, and spoke rapidly in Italian.
"Manfredonia, do you copy?"
After a cackle of a pause, a reply from a toneless, lifeless voice. "Go ahead."
"What's your current location?"
"Still where you told me," the voice of Manfredonia replied. "The overpass."
"They're three kilometers away."
"Something feels wrong, Frank," Joe found himself saying in the first truck, to Chet's dismay. "Maybe I shouldn't have suggested this."
"It's not you," Frank assured his brother. "It's almost as if SPECTRE has been on our heels this whole time, waiting for us to lead them to the prize. We just have to stay one pace ahead of them."
Frank noted an approaching overpass in the distance, the only one of its kind he had seen. His hands gripped the steering wheel. Here they were, the Hardys from Bayport. Three trucks, two decoys, and the Shroud of Turin. He was wondering how impressed Callie was at the moment.
Such foolhardy thoughts lasted only a moment when he heard the first rifle shot, then the second. Quickly glancing up at the overpass, he could see a figure taking aim and firing directly at their small convoy. Frank instinctively swerved out of the way as he passed underneath.
"Look out!" Tony yelled in the second truck. Somehow, the bullet shattered the windshield but bypassed any of the passengers. From the Alfa Romeo, Tomasone saw the middle truck violently swerve to the left, nearly out of control. Glass had shattered, stabbing Tony in the arm.
"We have to bail!" Phil yelled as the truck caromed off the road. The three youths tumbled out of the truck before it rumbled off the ledge and into the ravine below. A fireball erupted.
Tomasone slammed on his brakes of the Alfa Romeo and pulled off to the side. Manfredonia quickly grabbed his rifle case and sprinted away from position. Biff and Callie quickly collected the stranded friends from the second truck and proceeded driving. Tony was bleeding profusely.
Tomasone helplessly watched the fire and resultant smoke. It was not what he wanted to happen. The vehicle was destroyed, and with it, whatever was inside. Including, possibly, the Shroud of Turin. How would Tomasone explain that to his superiors, including Blofeld? Tomasone radioed Manfredonia. "Current location?" he asked gruffly.
Tomasone could hear the wind whipping around Manfredonia when he replied. "I'm getting out of here, Lieutenant. I think I might have destroyed the relic!"
"That wasn't the truck," Tomasone calmly replied. "It has to be with the Hardys. But no more accidents. We just want the Shroud, no undue attention."
"Roger," Manfredonia replied, breathing easier now. "Where do we rendezvous?"
"I'll radio you tonight. But we need another form of surveillance. My cover is far too conspicuous. Over and out."
Tomasone noted they had sped past a hotel a few kilometers back. He reversed his vehicle and proceeded back towards Naples, hoping neither of the Hardys would notice.
Callie Shaw saw the last of Tomasone's Alfa Romeo truck's taillights disappear behind the bend. Their truck met up with the Hardys. "Tony is hurt!" Iola shouted.
"Just follow us," Frank advised. Phil had ripped off his sweater and wrapped it as a tourniquet on Biff's arm. They, too, reversed the trucks and proceeded back in the direction they came, towards Naples.
Tomasone hastily parked his pickup outside the Aston Hotel, just off the road, and bounded inside. "Wait there!" he pointed to his henchmen, who happily continued napping.
Inside, the pleasant porter smiled at the disheveled lieutenant. "Checking out, I presume?"
"No," Tomasone panted, "I need to make an urgent phone call."
"Private matter?"
"Yes!" Tomasone shouted, surprising guests enjoying their buffet dinner. "It's an urgent matter directly concerning King Umberto!"
The porter nodded. "I see. I only ask because we have two distinct phone booth units, one for public calls, one for priv—…"
"Where?" Tomasone decried. "I said this was urgent!"
Finally shown the private booth, Tomasone hastily turned the rotary dial. "Come on, come on," he muttered to himself.
"Pronto?" an uncertain, low voice answered.
"It's Tomasone."
There was silence on the other end. Finally, "The master is meditating."
Tomasone rolled his eyes. "A message then."
"Proceed. With caution."
Tomasone took a deep breath. "Package discovered. Air assistance requested."
"10-20?"
Tomasone related the coordinates. "Subjects are headed north to Aversa."
A pause. Then, the line disconnected.
Chagrined and not a little nervous, Tomasone exited the booth, passed the porter who frowned at Tomasone's sudden passive demeanor, and walked out into the approaching darkness. No sooner did he step out than he froze. Two white trucks rumbled by on their way back to Naples. Callie Shaw, spotting Tomasone's Alfa Romeo as the one that had been observing them, waved at the lieutenant and his luckless cronies as the vehicles disappeared.
Grimacing, Tomasone ran back into the hotel.
In the first Alfa Romeo truck, Joe did not allow himself to feel superior at Tomasone's misfortune. The transporting of the Shroud had been a disaster to this point. "Well," Chet finally asked, "What do we do?"
"I completely forgot about Dr. Jones's book on the Shroud," Joe said through grit teeth.
"So did I," Frank nodded knowingly.
"We'll have to get to a hospital for Tony's arm," Chet interjected.
"We're not going to the hospital," the Hardys said in unison.
"What do you mean?"
"In the book, Dr. Jones talks about a monastery, unaffiliated with the Roman church," Frank explained. "There, Tony can get help. And you can get supper. And they've been a big help to Jones in the past, I understand. So they should help us."
"Who?" Chet asked.
"The Brotherhood of the Cruciform Sword."