The Medici Dagger

“Roughly five hours. In the interest of prudence, I’ll make some preliminary demands in Rome. Isn’t power intoxicating? I wonder what progress Krell’s people are making.”

I laid my head back on the soft leather seat and began to fade. “No one outpaces the mighty traveler.”

“Yes, well, we will see, won’t we?”

I dreamt I was a slice of Wonder bread lying on a tile counter. A beautiful girl in sunglasses appeared with two jars and placed them next to me, the glass of the jars clinking against the ceramic glaze of the tile. I listened with interest to the familiar sound of lids unscrewing. The girl took a whiff of each, a grin crossing her full lips. She picked up a silver knife.

From the jar on the left she scooped out a slab of peanut butter and spread it all over me, sweeping the knife neatly back and forth the way they do on Jif commercials. The peanut butter felt cool and soothing.

Then she dipped the knife into the second jar, digging out a glob of marshmallow which she spread on top of my peanut-butter blanket like a skier carving fresh sweet snow.

As the girl looked down at me, her waiting “fluffer nutter,” a slice of pumpernickel bread—shaped just like me only dark as a crow—flew into the room. My anger made me hot and my peanut-butter-and-marshmallow spread began to melt. Suddenly the slice of bread landed on me, suffocating me.

I struggled against its force, heard its perverse laugh. I couldn’t speak or scream because I was bread. Then it occurred to me that I wasn’t ordinary bread, I was Wonder bread.

The evil slice laughed again and pressed harder, squishing my peanut-sugary coating till it spilled over my crust and onto the white tile. I peeked around the enemy and glimpsed the horrified girl. Not to worry. I’ll save you. I began to spin myself, clockwise then counterclockwise, the thick spread a welcomed emollient.

My anger and confidence swelled with each gooey turn, generating more and more heat. Giving myself a final clockwise spin, I roared to life like a propeller, rotating with such speed that centrifugal force flung my wicked attacker off me, across the room, and into a dog dish. I heard the four-legged clicking of a hound’s nails on linoleum as I hovered in front of the astounded girl. “Soar with me,” I said.

Then I awoke, panicked, desperately wanting to stay in the dream state, to follow where my unconscious might lead. I knew Ginny was the fluffer-nutter girl. We were about to soar.Where?Above the tangle, came the response.What tangle?Of the sleeping carver’s whorl, of course.

Then I was lost.The sleeping carver. Carver of what? Wood? Marble? Could it be marble? Leonardo used to say that sculptors covered in their marble dust looked like bakers covered in flour.Oh my God.I remembered Ginny’s translation:“He is gone now, back to dust.” I’d thought it was Francesco Melzi, going to dust the furniture—just a simple note about a common task. It wasn’t. In a blast I knew who the sleeping carver and the bearded man were. They were one and the same.

My eyes popped open. “The sleeping carver, the bearded man. It’s Michelangelo!” I shouted.

Beckett was back in his seat. Mobright stood behind him.

“Oh my . . . how in the blazes did you arrive at that?” Beckett asked.

I told him.

“Fantastic!” he exclaimed, practically dancing in his seat. “Now go on. The exact location is above the tangle of the mighty whorl, Reb. Whereisthe mighty whorl? Where did Michelangelo go back to his marble dust from?”

A prickly second, then another blast. “The Sistine Chapel. The tangle-of the mighty whorl is the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. I know it.”

Beckett gasped. I continued.

“Michelangelo interrupted his work on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel to do the statue of Moses for Julius’s tomb.”

“Reb, you’ve brought us to the brink of discovery,” Beckett exalted. “Now where is it in the Sistine Chapel? Don’t dally. We have less than two hours till touchdown.”

I began massaging my temples.

“What are you doing?” Beckett asked.

“It helped me think once before when somebody did this.”

“Here,” he said, quickly stepping behind me. “Allow me.”

His gesture surprised me. So did his gentle touch. I imagined his fingertips were those of the silver-haired Mona. Instantly I envisioned her, urging me to clear my mind of both the past and the future. “You are now with Leonardo da Vinci,” her voice echoed in me. “You are now with Leonardo . . .”

Sandals on the Sistine Chapel floor, eyes lifted to the ceiling. I scanned the frescoed sea of color and serpents and ancient people, twisting and fleeing, perching and hovering.

“Where are you, languid man?” I demanded, my mind wide open, scrutinizing Michelangelo’s tumultuous whorl. “Who are you?” Then the enormous ceiling went blank, with the exception of one spectacular scene—the apogee of Michelangelo’s masterpiece—God reaching his awesome hand out to touch the extended fingers of . . . a languid man.

“It’s Adam!” I shouted. “Adam is the languid man!”

“TheCreation of Adam,” Beckett uttered. “That’s it!”

“Yessss!” I replied with steely certainty. “The Dagger is between the outstretched fingers of God and Adam. Just above it. In the ceiling. I’m positive.”

“My Lord,” Mobright gasped. “The ceiling of the Sistine Chapel!”

Beckett pulled out his hanky again, dabbed his brow. “I’m awestruck,” he whispered.

I grinned and winked at him, giving my earlobe a little tug.