*
TV Roma
Evening
MARCO SARTINI had decided to dress informally for his part in the studio audience at TV Roma, but made his clerical collar and gray shirt a little more prominent. His was one of the special tickets that had been allocated to the clergy who were to fill the front rows -- probably to impress the viewers with the serious intent of the program. He was now hoping that he'd done the right thing in leaving his clerical black suit in the apartment.
The studios of TV Roma occupied a large glass-fronted building in the center of Rome. As he waited to cross the street, his attention was drawn to two men standing in the shelter of the trees in a small park opposite. There was something furtive about the way they were standing, and he stopped to watch them.
A heavily built skinhead looked as though he was holding a handgun, but before Marco could see it clearly the youth pushed the object into his pocket and pulled something black from his belt. The older man, with blond or gray hair, handed the skinhead a piece of paper which the youth folded carelessly and stuffed into his pocket.
Marco was intrigued. He'd arrived too early to go inside, so he crossed the street intending to get closer, while remaining unseen.
"I DON'T THINK you're taking this seriously enough," said Kessel abruptly. "The studio is on the fourth floor. Just act confidently and show the staff pass." He sighed. "Our futures are on the line here, Karl. If we get this right we're going to be famous."
"You fuss too much, Herr Kessel. You brought me down here from Düsseldorf because I'm good at this sort of thing. If I have to kill..."
"There's to be no killing tonight, Karl."
Karl began to twist his balaclava in his hands. Suddenly he poked his fingers out through the eye holes and waved it in Kessel's face. Kessel pushed it away angrily.
Karl grinned. "I'm going in, Herr Kessel." He waved the balaclava again. "I don't understand why I have to wear this thing. How can I be famous if nobody knows who I am?"
Kessel tipped back his head and roared with laughter.
Karl ended the laughter by catching hold of Kessel's arm. "See that priest over there? He's watching us."
"Stay back, Karl," warned Kessel. "We don't want to attract attention. At least, not yet."
But Karl was already marching forward. "Das geht Sie nichts au?" he demanded.
The man in his late twenties, wearing jeans and a light gray shirt with a small clerical collar showing at the front, stood his ground. Rather fearlessly, Kessel thought.
"It sounds like you have a problem," said the priest quietly.
"Mach die Fliege, Priester!" Karl shouted in response.
Before Kessel could intervene, Karl turned abruptly and stormed towards the studios of TV Roma, leaving the priest watching him go.
KARL BRETZ HESITATED for a moment outside the large glass doors. Total Training had taught him it was essential to have absolute control over people and events. Herr Kessel had told him to use the rear entrance, but for an important job like this the main entrance was suitable for someone who would surely soon be a senior member of Achtzehn Deutschland Reinigung.
The sun had not even set, but already the vast glass paneled front of the studios was a blaze of electric light. He could see Herr Kessel across the street, frightened to come near, but watching from the shadows like some white-headed hawk. Karl wished he had his ADR friends from Düsseldorf to help him do this job, but he had been ordered by Herr Kessel not to breathe a word of the plan. The old fool seemed to be behaving like a lunatic in his obsession for status in the ADR. Karl shrugged his broad shoulders and felt for his balaclava.
He could feel an unexpected tension inside as he checked that his Makarov handgun was out of sight in his pocket, then he began to push his way through the glass doors. A quick ciao, and a casual wave of Kessel's fake staff pass at the security guard. The guard merely nodded. One word of Italian and he was in. Karl began to relax.
The man in dark green uniform seemed to be taking no more notice. Herr Kessel had said that the elevator was round the corner, and for once it seemed that the old Narr knew what he was talking about. The indicator showed the elevator was on the second floor. Karl pressed the button and waited.
The security man might not be as sleepy as he looked. He stood up and came from behind his desk to stand by the elevator, saying something in Italian. Karl pointed up at the indicator. Herr Kessel had impressed the Italian word for four on him, the number of the floor, so he muttered, "Quattro," and hoped he sounded like an Italian.
The elevator came. The guard entered and stood with him. Karl pressed the button for the fourth floor. The man in uniform was watching. Total Training told Karl things were going wrong.
He stayed facing the doors, waiting for the elevator to stop on the fourth floor. Herr Kessel had explained exactly which way to go. The elevator slowed. The guard said something. Karl just replied, "Si," and continued facing the door. As the elevator stopped he felt a hand tug at his shoulder.
He'd been found out.
With lightning reaction he spun round, Göring dagger at the ready, but the guard was too close for him to ram the knife through his heart. Karl clutched the ivory handle, forcing the blade upwards into the soft stomach, before smashing the hard edge of his hand across the back of the guard's neck. The man grunted, sagged and subsided to the floor, his eyes wide in fear as he pressed his hands against the large patch of blood spreading across the front of his white shirt.
The elevator doors were fully open now, but not the doors through which they'd entered. In an instant Karl realized the guard had been trying to explain that the elevator doors were on the opposite side for the fourth floor.
A woman with a trolley of papers screamed at the sight of the guard writhing on the floor of the elevator. Karl pointed his gun in her face and she dropped to the ground in fear. He kicked her head and turned to the right. The Current Affairs studio should be at the end of the corridor. The alarm would be raised any minute. If Herr Kessel could be believed, there was an escape route down the back stairs. All he had to do now was get into the studio with his 9-millimeter Makarov at the ready, snatch the bronze head, and be outside -- before these sleepy Italians even knew what time of day it was.
FROM THE SHELTER of the small park opposite the studio, Manfred Kessel heard the alarm. He knew he'd been a fool to let the half-witted youngster barge in alone. Only a fool would believe that Total Training could benefit a moron like Karl Bretz. Without doubt the boy was making a complete mess of the operation.
Kessel was about to withdraw quietly, to disappear into one of the narrow side streets, when a car slid to a halt outside the studio. Several armed men leapt out and ran to the shelter of the bushes. Still there was no sign of Karl. Kessel guessed that two more vehicles now arriving with sirens blaring held members of the Groupe Interventional Speciale -- the crack anti-terrorist force of the Italian carabinieri.
Spotlights blazed across the glass front of the building, blasting the warm glow of evening sunshine with flashes of intense blue light. A man in combat gear shouted through a loudhailer, ordering everyone to keep back. Staff leaning from windows were told to stay inside until the "small problem" had been resolved. There was sudden activity in the entrance lobby.
Kessel's stomach turned to a knot as he saw the skinhead Karl Bretz, the ski mask hiding his face, standing just inside the door with the relic clutched to his chest. He seemed to be frozen by the bright lights. As a product of Total Training, he was showing scant regard for the time and energy that had been expended on him. Hadn't the cretin taken in what he'd been told about the rear escape route?
Karl had taken no human hostage -- another mistake. The GIS would not be kept waiting. They must know that the longer they delayed, the more chance there was of their target using his gun on them. A shout from the captain brought men darting from the shadows. In spite of the huge glass front to the entrance area, Karl either did not see, or could not cope with, such a sud
den attack. From the safety of his viewpoint Kessel flinched as a stun grenade shattered the glass doors, sending the large youth reeling backwards.
Karl seemed to recover, but the GIS hurled two more grenades through the broken door. Karl raised the relic and pitched it forward.
A stun grenade and the bronze head crashed together in an explosive bombshell that shook the street. Manfred Kessel watched in disbelief as the bronze shattered. The head had disintegrated like pottery.
The crowd stood in horrified silence as the echo died away. The Groupe Interventional Speciale, in their black outfits with ballistic helmets and face shields, burst into the foyer without waiting for the smoke to clear. Bronze fragments lay over the green carpet tiles, but Karl had already gone.
The local carabinieri urged the crowd to move further back. Persuasion was not needed. The explosions from the grenades had frightened the onlookers. They had only gathered for the entertainment, and certainly did not intend putting themselves in danger. Kessel stayed for nearly an hour while the security forces searched the building. Suddenly he felt an arm go round his shoulder. Instinctively he tore himself free.
"Don't be so jumpy, Herr Kessel!" The voice spoke perfect German.
Kessel turned, unable to disguise the admiration in his voice. "So, you managed to get away, Karl!"
"The rear fire escape. I told you I'd do it, Herr Kessel."
Kessel slapped Karl hard across the face. "You stupid idiot! For nearly twenty years I've planned to get that relic back, and now you've destroyed it."
He hit Karl again, harder this time.
Karl whipped out his knife, but his eyes were fixed on the building. "Look, Herr Kessel, it's that dumb priest again. He's seen us." He pointed his knife towards the building.
"Then you know what to do, Karl."
But as Karl went forward, a young woman appeared from a side door of TV Roma and ran towards the priest. She was dressed in a thin red jumper and long black skirt.
"Do you want me to go after him?" asked Karl.
Kessel hit him again. "Later. The press will have taken pictures of you holding the relic in the foyer, Karl. You'll have to change out of that ridiculous black T-shirt before anyone sees you. We'll go back to our hotel and watch the television. The TV Roma news will let us know what's going on."
"I doubt if pictures of me would be any good," muttered Karl, touching his face where Kessel had hit him. "I was wearing this." He indicated the balaclava in his hand. "At least I got one thing right, Herr Kessel," he continued smugly. "I left the note."
Kessel felt as though Karl had stuck the Göring dagger into him. "You did what?"
"MARCO SARTINI! What are you doing here?"
Marco turned in surprise to see a young woman running towards him. He smiled as he recognized an old friend from school -- his first serious girlfriend.
"Natalia!"
"Ciao, Marco." She hesitated for a moment and looked slightly embarrassed. "Do I call you Marco, or Father Marco, now that you're a priest?"
Marco laughed. "I think we knew each other well enough for you to go on calling me Marco."
Natalia pointed a finger at him, but she still managed to keep smiling. "Not that I've seen you since you dumped me for that blonde from Campo de' Fiori."
"Oh, yes, her." Marco tried to make it sound unimportant. "I'd forgotten all about her. It must have been ten years ago. A two week nightmare. I seemed to have a succession of blondes after that, until I met Anna." Marco noticed that Natalia's left hand, the one pointing the accusing finger, had no engagement or wedding ring. She didn't sound as though the memory of being dumped for a flashy blonde was too distressing.
"A friend told me you'd been ordained," she continued. "I wasn't sure she'd got it right."
"I've changed."
"I heard that as well. So were you here to be part of the studio audience?"
"I wanted to see the relic." Marco pointed to the pieces still on the ground. "Is that it?" Suddenly he realized that a camera team was converging on him. He looked at Natalia and wondered if she had some connection with the News Room.
"Is this man an eyewitness?" asked the man holding a microphone. Marco recognized him as one of TV Roma's news reporters.
Natalia raised her eyebrows and smiled sweetly. "Care to say a few words to the camera, Father Marco?"
Marco felt trapped. He laughed. "I don't think my bishop would want his new priest to be a television star."
Natalia smiled pleadingly. "For me?"
BY THE BUSHES across the street a small movement disturbed the branches. A man with a Nikon F4 twisted the telephoto lens into place and raised the camera to his eye. The focus locked onto the subject's head.
"Well, well, look who it is." He fired off a burst of exposures on the motor drive. "What are you doing here in Rome, you bastard?"
He fired the shutter again. What a stroke of luck. Bruno Bastiani lowered the camera and placed it carefully in the large camera bag at his feet. His half-brother, Enzo, wasn't in Rome for sightseeing, that was for sure. Somehow he was mixed up with the raid on TV Roma. But why?
Bruno picked up his cell phone and dialed a local number. "Riccardo? Listen, I'm outside TV Roma. There's one hell of an incident going on, and my brother, Enzo, seems to be mixed up in it."
He put the phone down and reached for his Nikon to take another burst of exposures. He picked up the phone again to speak to Riccardo Fermi.
"My bastard brother -- Enzo. He's calling himself Manfred Kessel now. He's here at TV Roma with some young thug in a black shirt."
He dropped the phone and took a final picture of the two men hurrying away. Throwing his camera case into the back of his battered Lancia he followed on foot. Enzo and the skinhead went as far as a cheap hotel off the Via Nazionale. He waited while they went inside. Five minutes later he called the hotel on his phone and checked that Enzo was one of the guests. Tomorrow he would come back with a plausible reason for going in. Ten minutes in Enzo's room would be enough. If he couldn't bug the phone and bedroom in ten minutes, he had no right to call himself an investigative journalist.
"Welcome to our spider's web, Enzo. If you're still up to your neck with the neo-Nazis, I'm going to kill you."
Bruno Bastiani could feel only hatred for the half-brother. How long was it since he'd last seen Enzo? Ten years? Maybe twelve. Enzo was older now and had come to look exactly like his father in the war. Bruno was suddenly overwhelmed with a horrifying childhood memory at the age of four of watching his mother, naked, rolling around on the bed with the German SS officer and crying.