The Medici Dagger

“Arlen . . .” Tecci said dispassionately. “No kiss?” He ran the barrel of his gun down Beckett’s cheek.

There was a moment of taut silence; then Nolo jutted his chin at me. “Ah, Flame Boy . . . you are the fucking ace. I thought you died.”

“I rose,” I replied, starting to get up.

“Ah, ah, ah. Stay where you are.”

I put my knee down.

“I see you kept my autograph,” Tecci said.

“I’ve been meaning to thank you for that,” I said, glancing down at the Dagger. Cool steel in my hand. A quick toss . . .

“Easy there, Ace,” Tecci cautioned, “don’t go getting magnificent on us.” He jerked his head at Jocko. “Get the knife from him and whatever else he’s got. Lon, relieve these other citizens of their guns.”

Lon passed by Beckett and collected Elverson’s handgun. Cardinal Lorro wasn’t carrying. Jocko stepped over to me and frisked me quickly, then held out his hand.

I gripped the Dagger tightly, muscles tensed. Jocko and I exchanged a long fierce look. He reached for the Dagger.

“I know you two have a little thing going between you,” Tecci said offhandedly.“You annoy everyone, Flame Boy. Be brave, don’t be brave, it’s all the same to me.”

I broke away from Jocko’s gaze, looked over at Tecci. “Where is she?” I said between clenched teeth.

“She’s tart, that one,” Tecci chuckled. “Very smart, too. Tart and smart. She was busy as a bee unscrambling da Vinci’s poetry when we got the call. You should have seen her.”

Mobright must have called him from the plane. He dies. Then a thought snagged me: Tecci had said, “Sheistart.”Is.Present tense. Ginny was alive. Sounds of tourists drifted up from the streets below.

I slowly opened my hand and let the Dagger rest freely in my palm. Jocko picked it up by the shank and presented it to Tecci.

Tecci pointed the Dagger at Beckett’s breast, a half inch from his suit coat, then patted him down in a strangely sensual way. Tension bristled through the room. Beckett didn’t flinch when Tecci slid his hands down his thighs. Nolo didn’t reach his ankle holster. I wondered when Beckett would make a move for it.

“This is a very nice suit,Arlen,”Tecci said.“Just as nice as your sheets. I like nice sheets, don’t you Flame Boy? You know, I wonder what happensto freshly pressed sheets when their owner doesn’t come home? Do they get lonely or do they just lie there like cats who don’t care?”

Tecci flicked the Dagger, catching the inspector’s monogrammed pocket handkerchief with the tip. “AB, now that is dashing,” he laughed, wrapping the blade in the fine silk.

He stashed it in his coat pocket, his eyes never leaving Beckett’s. Then he grabbed the knot in the inspector’s tie, leaned in, sniffed him, and kissed him gently on the lips like a lover.

“There,” he said, then stepped back toward the door.

Beckett stood perfectly still, arms at his sides, with a slightly bemused expression. I figured he must be calculating the right moment to make his all-important move. We were dangerously close to now-or-never. If he went for the gun, I’d follow his lead, make the most of it . . . somehow. Seconds ticked to the throbbing pulse in my ears.

To Lon, Tecci said,“Lei ragazzi ammazzare tutti.”

I recognized the words“ammazzare”and“tutti.”Massacre everybody.

“We meet on the rolling palace as planned,” Nolo said. “Then everybody gets their cash. Now if you’ll excuse us, we’ve got a helicopter to catch—at the papal helipad, no less. Any last words, Arlen?”

Beckett turned to me slowly.

“Reb,” he said sadly. “You were indeed a mighty traveler.”

Then he casually smoothed his lapels and stepped over to Tecci. “And a devilishly handsome one, too,” he added with a smile as he walked past Nolo and out the door.

I felt as though a switch was flipped, the light blazing me blind. I was stunned, from my aching knees on the tile to the sweat-soaked brow on my hollow skull.Beckett and Tecci? How did I miss that?

Nolo winked at me, turned, and strolled out of the room singing to the melody of Streisand’s hit “People”: “Papal . . . papal who need papal . . .” I heard him cackle as his voice faded down the stairs.

Cardinal Lorro’s knees quivered, shaking the folds of his elegant robes. His lips moved in silent prayer, racing for salvation after a life spent in service of Christ, or art, or both.

Jocko looked comfortable. Lon chuckled. Mobright gaped at me, shaking his head, and I knelt, the heat from the core of the earth on a one-way trip through the floor beneath my knees, to power my thighs, my balls, my belly.

Jocko grinned at me through crooked teeth. Then he stuffed his gun into the front of his pants. He reached into his back pocket to pull out a switchblade, flicked it open, and approached me, rubber Wal-Mart soles squeaking on the cold tile. I watched his movement, preparing for either a stab or a kick.

Jocko leaned forward, low, for a punt. Too close for the face. I tensed my abdominals. He kicked me. I faked like it knocked the wind out of me and fell forward clutching my stomach.

I rolled to my right and grabbed the loose tile Elverson had pried up, came out of the roll, and flung it at Lon’s face. It caught him high on the cheekbone, leaving a gash, and he stumbled backward against the wall. Cardinal