Page 5 of The Medici Return

A secret proffer of information had occurred to prosecutors, and the Swiss Guard had been quietly ordered to confirm its veracity. The trial itself had been recessed on the pretense of the court performing a partial review of the evidence so as to be able to rule on motions filed by the defendants. A totally plausible scenario, as similar recesses had also occurred. So sensitive was the situation that outside help had been requested through the United States attorney general, who involved the Magellan Billet, which had led to Stephanie calling Copenhagen.

“We need a sneak and peek. There are too many eyes and ears at the Vatican. No way to keep something like this secret. So they want us to quietly check it out. How tough could it be? He’s a cardinal, not a mafia boss. Just see what’s there.”

Right. How hard could it be?

The actual entry into the house had been simple. The locks were easy to pick, and the old building came with no cameras or alarms. But why would it? It was more a getaway than a residence, kept by the diocese as a perk for its resident cardinal. A place to enjoy on the weekends or in summer. No one lived there full-time, but the information they’d been given stated that Cardinal Richter used the house as a repository for, if the informant was to be believed, about four hundred thousand euros in cash. Far more money than any prelate could have ever legitimately accumulated.

He stood at the top of the stairs on the third-floor landing. The stale air carried a musty smell. The walls were heavy plaster, painted a soft cream, broken by arches, the ceilings coffered wood, the mullioned window in the alcove at the end of the hall leaden and in need of cleaning. He assumed this place harbored lots ofnooks and crannies. One in particular was of interest. A unique anomaly. The fifteenth-century equivalent of a safe room.

When the Protestant armies rolled through Germany during the Thirty Years’ War, Catholic priests were a favorite target. They liked to hang them. To avoid that priests took to hiding, many inside homes where concealed compartments just big enough to squeeze into were secretly constructed. They were artfully contrived not only to hold a priest, but also as a place where vestments and sacred vessels could be hidden away. Those secret compartments had been built into fireplaces, attics, and staircases, concealed in walls, under floors, and behind wainscoting, designed to blend in with the architecture and escape detection.

They even had a name.

Priest holes.

This olden house had its own. His task was to open it, take a look, and photograph what he found.

A classic sneak and peek.

He stepped down the hall, his steps cushioned by a soft carpet runner, and entered one of the guest bedrooms. Fluted columns jutting from the walls filled the corners. All part of the décor to go along with more moldings that adorned the room, everything glazed with a thick coat of paint. He’d been told that what he sought would be to the right of the door.

He studied the column and caressed the slick surface, the wood painted to a high sheen. The mechanism to release the panel was at the bottom. Not olden. Instead it had supposedly been updated a while back by Cardinal Richter to be more reliable. He crouched, found the hole beneath the base, and pushed on the metal inside.

He heard a soft click.

The front part of the fluted column separated from the rest.

Okay. Step one done.

And though he was no longer a first-stringer in the intelligence business, he still knew how to come off the bench and play the game. Ben Franklin said it best.Distrust and caution are the parents of security.And if nothing else, he was cautious.

Which told him not to open the panel any further.

A dark crack about half an inch wide had formed from where the wood had separated. Interestingly, it had not swung out any farther. Was that significant? Only one way to know.

He found his phone—Magellan Billet issued, a gift from Stephanie—and activated the light. He aimed the beam into the crack and started examining the opening, slowly moving upward toward the top.

About halfway he stopped and felt a familiar surge in his pulse.

“Gotcha,” he muttered.

CHAPTER 2

PIAZZA DISANTACROCE

FLORENCE, ITALY

12:55P.M.

STEFANOGIUMENTA STIFF-ARMED THE MAN IN FRONT OF HIM, THENlowered his shoulder and prepared to force his way through the sea of sweaty bodies converging onto him. He spotted a teammate who indicated that he should pass the ball. No way. This was his play.

His day.

He loved Calcio Storico.

Henry III had been right.Too small to be a real war, too cruel to be a game.

The first match was held in 1530, during a time when Florence was besieged by the armies of Charles V and Pope Clement VII. Instead of celebrating the annual carnival, the Florentines played a match of Calcio Storico to mock the attackers. They did not even keep score, the whole idea was to show their enemies that they were not afraid. That legendary game had made it into history books as thepartita dell’assedi.

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