“None whatsoever. The area you wish to expose is right next to a floor joist.” He pointed to a dot where the fingers of God and Adam met. “There is approximately a two-foot space above the arc of the ceiling, which is itself rather thin. We won’t touch the ceiling though. As you see, I did some minor preparatory work in the interest of saving time, but Cardinal Lorro refused to allow me to drill until your arrival.”
“Hah!” Beckett laughed. “No drilling till the inspector’s arrival. I like that. Most excellent. Let’s proceed.”
Elverson fired up the drill. Mobright and the cardinal stepped back as Beckett and I inched closer.
Angular morning sunlight cut through the galaxy of mortar dust that instantly surrounded us as Elverson carefully drilled down.
I waited impatiently, totally focused on the bottom end of the bit as it disappeared into the antiquated floor. I prayed to God—a last-chance prayer.
Then, with the sudden loss of opposing force, the drill poked through. Beckett said, “Be a good man, Elverson, and step aside.”
I knelt down and peered into the hole. Total blackness.
I carefully reached into the opening, almost elbow-deep, until my fingers brushed the ceiling. My saliva evaporated.
Mobright and the cardinal moved in.
“He’s telling you to be careful for God’s sake,” Beckett translated, hovering over me.
I tried to moisten my lips with a dry tongue.
The ceiling felt cool and rough against my fingertips as they lightly brushed the surface, moving right then left, then a little farther left, and right again. Then my pinky made contact with something metallic. I crept my other fingers over and touched hammered metal. Then a corner. A box.
“Anything?” Beckett whispered.
I could smell his Old Spice, could feel his breath on my ear, but I couldn’t speak. My fingers ran along the side of the box. A clasp. I walked them over the top. Irregular surface. I grasped the box and lifted it. It was surprisingly light. I pulled it up through the hole and laid it on the floor.
A beat-up, hammered-tin box.
I opened the latch. Inside was something wrapped in a piece of finely woven red cloth. Lifting it by its thicker end, I was shocked at its near weightlessness. I felt cool sleek metal through the delicate fabric. With the thumb and forefinger of my bandaged hand, I pinched the cloth at the narrow end and in one quick move disrobed the artifact like a magician.
I was holding the Medici Dagger.
Though faintly aware of the utterances emanating from the small crowd huddled tightly around me, I was not with them. I was with Leonardo, somewhere in a velvety fold in time where we two had kept our strange, preordained appointment. I had found him. He had called to me and I had found him, to repay some inexplicable debt—to the world, to him, to my mother and my father.
I slowly rotated Leonardo’s creation in the dust-sprinkled light, noticing how quickly the intricately molded handle warmed in my hand, how the faultlessly symmetrical double-edged blade rose to a miraculously sharp point eight inches from the shaft.
I turned it till it glinted in the sunlight that spilled in through the square openings in the brick walls, walls by which smartly dressed guards in steel helmets had dutifully marched so long ago, to protect Pope Leo and all his treasures—none more valuable than the man he ignored in the Belvedere Palace.
I gently touched the metal tip; a tiny drop of blood instantly appeared, as though I’d been pricked by a Red Cross lancet. I marveled at the incredible precision of the almost weightless object.
“Reb,” Beckett said from somewhere very close by. “Reb,” he said again, this time touching my shoulder.
It was a touch through time, a ripple in the universe, nudging a solitary star out of its tiny galaxy. I felt myself pulled slowly toward the sound of his voice, felt the slight sting in my finger, the gauze on my hand, my knees on the tile, the stretching of burned skin at the back ofmy right calf. I heard my breathing, and faint voices, and shoe leather pivoting on dusty tile as the others in the room shifted positions. I slowly turned my face to Beckett.
“You have indeed done it,” he beamed.
A door clicked shut across the room behind us and a familiar voice said, “Yes you have, Flame Boy.”Everyone spun around to the sound; I crash-landed back in the present. Nolo Tecci stood just inside the door wearing his kidskin coat, black gloves, and a vicious grin. In his hand was a Glock 17—leveled at us. He was flanked by Lon and Jocko, who also had guns with silencers drawn and pointed in our direction. Jocko’s wrist was in a cast. Everyone froze.
“Nolo,” Mobright uttered. “You’re early.”
“What exactly do you mean, he’s early?” Beckett asked.
Mobright cleared his skinny throat. “I meant . . . that . . . I just didn’t expect him so . . . soon.” He flashed me a worried glance before returning his gaze to Beckett’s.
“Do you have something you’d like to share with us?” Beckett said coldly.
“No, sir. I was merely saying—”
Tecci sang, “That’s liffffe, that’s what all the people sa-ay,” snapping his fingers like Sinatra, taking two casual steps into the room. He pointed his gun at Beckett. “Those are nice words, don’t you think? Here come four other nice words: Hi honey, I’m Rome.”
Beckett stood, dusting off his hands. Tecci strolled over to him.
