And there I was, safely shelved among the precious early Christian figurines. The important thing now was not to nod off and start snoring. I'd never felt so knackered in my life, but it was going perfectly.
Which raised the important question of why it felt so frigging wrong.
* * *
The security guards came an hour later.
I'd dozed fitfully, jerking awake and imagining a million noises. The cupboard was unbearably stuffy. I'd allowed for a mere fifteen minutes on the shelf. The temptation recurred to open the door briefly for air but I never change a winning team. And by all possible estimates I was undoubtedly winning. I'd made my replica. I'd smuggled it into the Vatican. I'd fiddled myself in. I'd left no traces. Not a fingerprint, not a mark. All I needed now was for the security guards to hurtle past, leaving me five precious uninterrupted minutes to somehow lower the true antique down to the Stradone. Heavy as it was, from there I would simply carry it across to the loading bay steps and conceal it in the store room among the cafeteria tables. I hadn't quite worked this bit out, trusting to Patrizio to pull a switch with the ambulance again, but you can't think of everything. And the security blokes knew their cafeteria table was due to be returned once it was proved contamination-free.
There were two of them, talking in undertones about the big match. Two-one, apparently. A last-minute decider after untold agonies, the opposition as unsportsmanlike as ever. The usual crap.
Luckily they were disagreeing about the team choice, a famous Milan striker having been dropped— unaccountable stupidity or the wisdom of ages, depending on your viewpoint. They passed, muttering arguments. I was worried because their shoes hardly made a sound on the luscious antique flooring, which proves how basically unpleasant these security people actually are. There's no cause for suspicion that bad.
I listened them out of earshot. Anna maintained they went one way first, then retraced the route at the next circuit. We'd argued time and time again over this. I kept telling her it was too good to be true. She called me a cretin. Twice I'd done the entire circuit myself, among tourists. Pausing a full minute at the position of each time- clock and walking at security guard pace, the whole route took forty-six minutes dead. I waited at least that long in the confined space, horizontal and running sweat. Inevitably their meal would come between circuits.
It took longer to climb out of the cupboard than it had getting in. My legs were stiff as hell. Grunting at the effort I had to re-educate my muscles before I could even put my foot down. I practically whined with pain as pins- and-needles tingled up my legs. The feeling had never got that high before.
I lifted my pedestal out, having the wit to recover my blue cotton thread and leaving the cupboard door unlocked in case I suddenly needed to hide. No sign of lurking guards. I was about to start across the gallery to assemble my phoney 'antique' when I froze. I knew what was wrong. In fact, I'd known all along. Only my abject terror had prevented me from appreciating the unpleasant truth.
I slipped across the gallery and reached underneath to touch the wood of the precious piece of Chippendale. Not a single chime of ecstasy. I tried again. And again.
Arcellano's genuine antique table now wasn't.
* * *
Being a divvie's not as easy as it sounds. It's hard work. Okay, so you know without understanding how it is you know. You're absolutely certain that Grandad's old clock is a genuine Jerome, and not a modern copy. You know you are one hundred per cent right, that the rough old timepiece is actually made by that great Yank whose shelf- clocks popularized brass (instead of wooden) movements and whose clocks are now worth a fortune. (Tip: look for Jeromes in East Anglia. It's where genuine examples are commonest found. God knows why.) But all this inner certainty only helps as long as you let it. You can stay an ignoramus, if you're determined. It takes hard work to learn who's making today's best Jerome forgeries, and how many genuine pieces Jerome himself exported from Bristol, Connecticut, to England between 1821 and 1860, and memorize information on his contemporary rivals. You can be an ignorant divvie, and I should know. In that terrible moment nobody was more of an ignoramus than me. I'd been fooled. I'd been sent to nick a bloody dud.
* * *
I felt my face drain of blood. I stood there like a fool, holding my useless bag of tools and licking my lips, looking about for a trillion Vatican Guards to spring out of the shadows and nail me. A frame. A set-up. Hunted. I was hunted. In an instant I was transformed from a clever supercool burglar about to pull off the greatest rip of all time to a nerk who'd been had.
In a sudden panic I began slipping down the gallery towards the marble staircase. And just as abruptly paused. A good steady listen into the dark silence. Nothing. A quick kneel to press an ear to the flooring. Nothing. I sat back on my heels, thinking quickly.
Whether the Museum's 'antique' was valuable or not, I hadn't been rumbled. At least, not yet—and not by the guards. There might still be a score of police waiting outside to nab me, but the fact remained I was still in the Vatican without a single clamouring alarm bell. A memory came—of a day, among crowds of sprinting tourist groups, I'd stood in this very gallery before that 'antique' and been stunned by the clamour and radiance emitted by the loveliest pristine genuine Chippendale I'd ever seen in my life.
Which meant someone else had already done what I'd intended, nicked the genuine item and substituted a dud. In the antiques game we call it 'doing a lady', after the cardgame of dummying queens. For maybe another minute I remained fhere, trying to flog my poor old tired cortex into action.
How long had I got? Say an hour for their break, plus five minutes for starting the reverse circuit. Sixty-five minutes. Take away twenty minutes for shifting the phoney table. Say forty, forty-five at the outside. I managed a swallow. I'd need luck, and every ounce of skill I possessed. I flitted silently back towards those gruesome doves, undoing the toolbag as I went, with cold murder in my heart.
CHAPTER 25
I woke with a muffled squeal of terror, instantly stifled by the even greater fright which swamped me as I realized where I was. I'd fallen off the lavatory, knocking my head against the wall. The clatter of trays and the sound of vacuum-cleaners close by was almost deafening. How long had they been on the go, for heaven's sake? A trace of blood from my chin worried me for a second. Then I remembered. I was in the Vatican Museum cafeteria's loo, for the moment safely ensconced in a cubicle, sealed. I'd pulled off the rip, but the Museum's Chippendale was a fraud.
Blearily I remembered I had shaved in the early hours according to plan by means of the disposable mini-razor. Blisters wept painfully on my right palm where I'd gouged and slaved to dismember Arcellano's supposedly precious antique Chippendale in the long gallery. Sitting on the loo I smiled at the memory, weak with relief. I'd never been
