A thrilling chase through Europe as the Vatican and a neo-
Sturmbannführer Kessel killed to get his hands on the relic in wartime Rome. An elderly Jew risked his life to return it to a religion that was not his own. And today, Kessel’s son wants it back – to destroy the Catholic Church and change the face of Europe. Someone is needed to probe the darkened web of evil.
Into this explosive situation steps young priest Marco Sartini, once married, and still suffering the trauma of bereavement. The Vatican Security Services have found the perfect bait…
SHOUT IN THE DARK—the perfect antidote to The Davinci Code. The Vatican are the good guys for once—well most of them!
ISBN-
296 pages
READ THE OPENING PAGES
Prologue
“My Führer, we are unable to display our loyalty and affection to you through words. Our people, our whole nation, feel strong and happy because in you there has risen up not only the Führer of the Nation, but also the Savior of the Nation.”
Hermann Göring, Reichstag President, Nuremburg 1935
“The Führer appealed to the good instincts of the masses, not to the bad. His speech was like a magnet, drawing the blood and iron that still existed in the people.”
Josef Goebbels, Reichsminister for Propaganda, 1936
“Untold millions throughout the world know deep down that there is an intriguing
and compelling personality behind the face of Adolf Hitler. Germans and non-
Josef Goebbels, Reichsminister for Propaganda, 1936
The soldiers twisted together a crown of thorns and put it on his head. They clothed him in a purple robe and went up to him again and again, saying, “Hail, O king of the Jews!” And they struck him in the face.
St John’s Gospel, chapter 19, verses 2-
“I believe there is a plan for revenge that will ensnare the innocent as well as the guilty. A darkened web of evil. I beg you, Holiness, pray for the innocent.”
Josef Reinhardt, Vatican Security Services
Chapter One
Rome
THE DARKNESS SEEMED heavy, oppressive in the summer heat that filled the city that night. Marco held Anna tightly, as though afraid of losing her.
“Marco Sartini,” she scolded with a giggle, “it’s late and we have to get to the Metro.”
Three men had been following them in the dark as they walked along the Via Sistina, towards the long flight of stone steps down to the Piazza di Spagna at the foot of the hill. Anna jumped in fright as one of the men threw a beer can noisily across the street. The group began to jeer at the embrace. Their language sounded like German.
“Ignore them,” Marco said. “We’re nearly at the station.”
One of the men came closer and called out something that Marco did not understand. Then, “Sprechen Sie Deutsch?”
Marco pretended not to hear.
The man raised his voice. “Lauter sprechen! Do...you...speak... English?” he demanded.
“A little,” Marco volunteered warily.
“This woman is Italian?”
“Yes.”
“That is good. Italian women all want one thing.” He laughed loudly as he lurched forward and grabbed hold of Anna’s arm, smirking. “How would you fancy the three of us tonight, pretty woman?”
As Marco tried to wrench the man off, the two men watching hurried forward and pinned him by the arms, holding him back. Suddenly Anna kicked out, taking her captor by surprise. She ran quickly across the street, reaching the top of the Spanish Steps and the long descent to the piazza far below.
Marco heard her fall, the sudden stop of clattering shoes on the stone steps, the yell of enjoyment from her pursuer. He twisted violently in the hands of the two men holding him and they threw him to the ground. He lay there stunned, slowly becoming aware of the sound of a vehicle coming along the Via Sistina. It was a late night
police patrol, but the vehicle drove past before Marco could stand up or even call out.
He dragged himself painfully to the top of the steps beneath the tall church of the Trinità dei Monti. The men had gone. He slid down one step at a time to where Anna lay sprawled, her long black dress pulled up to her waist. The men must have reached her as she lay defenseless. A small crowd was already running up from the Piazza di Spagna—to watch, if not to help.
As he crouched helplessly beside the bright red pool forming in the dust around Anna’s head, it seemed that a great stillness had fallen over Rome. He screamed a silent scream, pressing her hand to his lips. The smell of Anna’s perfume would stay with him for ever.
The three men had returned to shout more abuse, more taunts from the stone balustrade where the Via Sistina overlooked the steps.
Then they were gone.
“Bastards!” Marco shouted. “You’ve killed my wife!” He laid his head on Anna’s stomach. “O, God, and our baby.”
A gust of wind caught one of the empty beer cans and sent it rolling across the broad sidewalk of the Via Sistina, towards the top of the steps. It tumbled over the edge, hitting each step in turn as it fell. It stopped where Marco knelt. He jumped to his feet and hurled it back to where the men had been standing.
“Bastards like you deserve to die,” he yelled into the blackness.
Chapter Two
SIX YEARS LATER
The Present Rome, Piazza Venezia
Morning
“TELL ME, FATHER MARCO, do you believe in the Devil?”
Marco Sartini put his arm round Old Savio’s shoulder. The unexpected question from the old man disturbed him. Asked the same thing yesterday, during the thunderstorm, Marco guessed he might have felt a shiver of fear at the probability—the certainty. Today, wearing casual clothes with his new clerical collar, he smiled and tried to make a joke of it.
“What do you want, Savio: a full theological answer?” They often exchanged greetings by the roadside, but never had the questions been as deep as this.
“The Devil used to live in Europe, Father.”
Marco looked at the man in surprise. Old Savio was sleeping rough somewhere near the remains of the Foro Romano. As usual he felt in his pocket for a few coins, aware of the deadness in Savio’s eyes. “You mean Hitler?”
“Hitler, Mussolini.” The old man coughed vigorously. “The devil Mussolini used to preach to us from the window over there.” He cleared his throat and drew a soiled sleeve across his mouth. Then the unwashed hand waved towards the drab brown building of the Palazzo Venezia, with the single balcony extending over the sidewalk. Bony fingers caught hold of Marco’s arm.
“I believed him, Father.” The old man coughed again, his eyes streaming. “I was a Koch Fascist. You can’t understand it today. I had a friend. There, that surprises you—an old man like me with a friend.” He continued to cough as he tried to laugh at his own humor. “We raided churches in the war. Stole the gold and silver. My friend wanted forgiveness. He even went to work for Canon Levi. That sort of thing wasn’t for me. Not then. But now? Yes, I want forgiveness now.”
Marco wondered why Old Savio was wearing a coat on a day as hot as this. Perhaps filthy coats were almost part of a uniform for beggars, winter or summer. He remained silent as the sun blasted down on the busy piazza, overlooked by the glaring marble Vittoriano, the gigantic white wedding cake. Ruins and opulence, this was Rome, his home. Yes, long ago Germans had occupied the city—until the Allies arrived with their tanks. Over sixty years ago. A different century. A different millennium. School history had touched on it; his grandfather occasionally had some story to tell.
It was strange to think there were so many people still living who had been involved in the wartime cruelty. Families, married couples like his grandparents, caught up as innocent victims. Men like Old Savio here, willingly taking part. There had been no neutrality. A few experts in European history said it could happen again, as immigrant workers took the jobs of those who could claim a national identity going back for generations.
“You’re right, Savio, there were many devils in the war.”
Old Savio’s grimy hand pinched more tightly. “But do you believe in the Devil, Father?”
The only cloud in the sky started to pass across the sun as the old man spoke, and Marco fought back the feeling that this could be some sort of ill omen. Having lived through the Nazi occupation, Savio should know the answer to his own question from personal experience. Marco nodded. “Yes, I believe in the Devil. I believe in Satan.”
But Old Savio was becoming agitated. “It wasn’t only gold and silver we stole. We took holy relics. Important relics.” “How important, Savio?” Marco noticed the deep veins showing through the ingrained dirt on the man’s scarred face. “Important to the faith, Father.”
Marco laughed. “Faith is more important than any relic.”
It was a clever answer. No, it was stupid. Even as he spoke he felt angry with himself. It might have been a good answer on an exam paper at the seminary, but it was a pathetic response to a confused inquirer in the street. He reached out and touched the old man; held him for a brief moment. The people passing by turned their eyes away, deliberately, in embarrassment.
Marco looked up, and in black outline against the bright sky he could see the balcony on the side of the Palazzo Venezia. He could imagine Mussolini standing, arm raised in salute while the crowd in the piazza yelled and clapped and shouted in hysteria. Television sometimes showed film clips. Old Savio must have stood here with the crowds. Other priests had lived in those times of shame.
“The relic they’re showing on television tonight, Father.” Old Savio pulled at his coat as though Marco had untidied it with his touch. “They say it could shatter the Church.”
Marco shrugged. “I doubt it. The Vatican only found it recently—on a dusty shelf.” Then he grinned in an attempt to lighten the situation. “I hope it isn’t one you stole. I’ve been invited to join the studio audience at TV Roma!”
Old Savio gripped him again anxiously. “No, not that one. But I stole a lot of things.
Can I have forgiveness, Father Marco?” Marco ignored the plea. “I wish I could have
found that relic. Imagine presenting the Vatican with a discovery like that.” “It
used to belong to Canon Levi—years ago, before the neo-
Marco shook his head, but returned the smile briefly. Canon Levi was now just a name from the past.
Old Savio coughed loudly as he tried to laugh. “The affair cost Canon Levi his job in the parish. That’s why they pushed him into Archives. Had to get him out of public view to save a scandal.” The car appeared from nowhere, its tires screaming on the polished road surface. It was coming too fast for the bend into the Piazza Venezia, and the driver was clearly in trouble. In a moment of panic Marco Sartini could see exactly what was going to happen. He put his hand out to grab hold of the old man, to pull him to safety. Old Savio glanced up but ignored the approaching Alfa. “Help me find forgiveness,” he whispered urgently.
Marco tugged at Savio’s jacket, gripping the filthy threads between his fingers as the car mounted the sidewalk. The sleeve was torn from his fingers with the impact.
As a crowd gathered, Marco bent over the lifeless form. He must pray for peace for Savio’s soul. He felt a rush of tenderness and lowered his head to Savio’s chest. A stench of urine and unwashed clothing rose from the hot ground, making him want to turn away, but he rested his head on the body. Rejected in life, Savio would not be rejected in death. Something had been on the vagrant’s conscience from the war.
Marco Sartini spoke into the blood-
The driver of the rusting Alfa, scarcely more than a boy, stayed in the car and stared out at the bloodstained corpse. For a moment it wasn’t Old Savio on the ground, it was Anna, and he was crouching helplessly by her side in the darkness on the Spanish Steps. A terrible reminder of Anna’s death had returned to haunt him.
Marco jumped up and strode towards the driver, his tears quickly forgotten. “You stupid fool!” He wrenched open the door and grabbed the kid by the shoulders. As he dragged him from the seat he began to shake him furiously. “You’ve killed that old man.”
As he spoke, he realized that this must be the most useless start in the priesthood anyone had made. Perhaps his jeans and casual clothes were an attempt to conceal his new role in life. Why else had he used it as a disguise for his clerical collar? Until this moment he’d not realized just how much grief and anger there was still inside. Bitterness even now that burned towards the drunken gang who had killed his wife.
“Leave him, Father. The old fool’s dead,” a woman shouted from the small crowd. “We’ve phoned the police.”
Marco turned to the terrified kid from the Alfa who was being sick in the gutter. “I’m sorry...sorry I shouted at you. Here, wipe your mouth with this.”
He passed over his handkerchief and recalled Savio’s unanswered plea. Help me find forgiveness. Seminary never prepared you for real life. Today should have been a time of meditation, of preparation for the coming years of service in the Church. Three years of theological training, of hard work, and what answer had he been able to give an old man?
The war was long over, but evil lived on. Evil was a great survivor. He stared down at Savio.........
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© 2008 Chris Wright
