Read The Stolen Da Vinci Manuscripts for Free Online
Authors: Joshua Elliot James
come – a few more
clicks and a ticket is reserved. It’s a good job I love a
challenge, but first I need to check the alleyway before I leave
Rome.
Chapter 11: Retrieving Valuable
Manuscripts
Now I know that I am an unwelcome visitor I
am forearmed. I travel along Bath Street using store windows as
mirrors but see nothing out of the ordinary as I approach the
alley. Keeping my back to the wall, I reach the doorway and peer
through again and this time, see a small overgrown courtyard and
patio beyond the door. Three men sit at a rusty white table
drinking beer and playing chess – there is a fourth empty chair
which makes me instinctively look behind me, but I am alone. This
doesn’t look like a place where one would deal an ancient artifact
of this magnitude.
I really need to get a look inside. The door
with the cobwebs is locked and I’ll be seen if I climb the fence –
a diversion is called for. A well aimed rock clattering on the
verandah above them does the trick and I’m over the fence in a
heartbeat. It is an easy matter to scale the wrought iron support
up to the neighboring balcony before they spot me and I can see
that the room here is bare. A screened divider separates me from
the next house but I circumvent it without mishap and land lightly
above them after the men regain their seats.
“Mama mia – gatti darn.” I hear one of them
mutter. Good – they blame cats for the ruckus.
Shutters block my view into this room and I
ease them open with a groan of un-oiled hinges which bring another
curse and sound of a stick being banged against the balcony from
below. The room is full of boxes and crates piled almost to the
ceiling and with scant space to traverse across to the door. Most
crates are nailed shut but some lids are open to reveal their
contents. Statues, paintings being carefully packed for shipping. I
am confused what I am seeing, but this is obviously a big scale
black market operation. Only a few crates have shipping labels and
various art objects are in process of attached and I photograph
them with my i-phone - noticing that two of them are headed to the
British Museum in London, so I’ll text my father to be on the
lookout for them.
A smaller crate than the others receives my
attention. It’s placed on another just inside the door with no
label assigned and looks at hand for pick up perhaps. It has the
weight I’d expect for the books that went missing from Marconi’s
room but it is nailed and sealed shut with old fashioned red wax
and personal imprint. I’m willing to bet that the books are inside,
but that’s a hell of a gamble – if I take the box and I’m wrong it
makes me no better than a common thief and I cannot forward it to
the intended recipient.
I am separated from my thoughts by the raspy
sound of a vehicle’s horn outside and take the crate and hide in
the corner of the room. Good decision as it turns out because I
hear loud footsteps climbing the stairs.
The door swings open and I hear someone
clunking around and moving crates before yelling “Merda! It’s
gone!”
“What’s gone?” A voice responded from
below.
“The box – that box.”
“It can’t have gone.” More footsteps
hurry upstairs.
“I tell you it is. I searched.”
“Toni – did you move the box?” One of them
shouted down.”
“No… didn’t touch it.”
“It has to be here. No-one else has been
here. Look again – look everywhere.”
More clattering and swearing convinces me
that I do have the books, but getting out of here will be a
challenge, but, as you know – I love a challenge.
The crate moving gets closer to my hiding
place and I’m sure to be discovered within minutes. I brace against
the wall and when the crate concealing me moves I shove it with all
my strength and hear a gasp and gush of expelled air as the chest
hits the man’s ribs and propels him backwards. It takes a few
moments until the other man understands what happened but then he
comes at me with
clicks and a ticket is reserved. It’s a good job I love a
challenge, but first I need to check the alleyway before I leave
Rome.
Chapter 11: Retrieving Valuable
Manuscripts
Now I know that I am an unwelcome visitor I
am forearmed. I travel along Bath Street using store windows as
mirrors but see nothing out of the ordinary as I approach the
alley. Keeping my back to the wall, I reach the doorway and peer
through again and this time, see a small overgrown courtyard and
patio beyond the door. Three men sit at a rusty white table
drinking beer and playing chess – there is a fourth empty chair
which makes me instinctively look behind me, but I am alone. This
doesn’t look like a place where one would deal an ancient artifact
of this magnitude.
I really need to get a look inside. The door
with the cobwebs is locked and I’ll be seen if I climb the fence –
a diversion is called for. A well aimed rock clattering on the
verandah above them does the trick and I’m over the fence in a
heartbeat. It is an easy matter to scale the wrought iron support
up to the neighboring balcony before they spot me and I can see
that the room here is bare. A screened divider separates me from
the next house but I circumvent it without mishap and land lightly
above them after the men regain their seats.
“Mama mia – gatti darn.” I hear one of them
mutter. Good – they blame cats for the ruckus.
Shutters block my view into this room and I
ease them open with a groan of un-oiled hinges which bring another
curse and sound of a stick being banged against the balcony from
below. The room is full of boxes and crates piled almost to the
ceiling and with scant space to traverse across to the door. Most
crates are nailed shut but some lids are open to reveal their
contents. Statues, paintings being carefully packed for shipping. I
am confused what I am seeing, but this is obviously a big scale
black market operation. Only a few crates have shipping labels and
various art objects are in process of attached and I photograph
them with my i-phone - noticing that two of them are headed to the
British Museum in London, so I’ll text my father to be on the
lookout for them.
A smaller crate than the others receives my
attention. It’s placed on another just inside the door with no
label assigned and looks at hand for pick up perhaps. It has the
weight I’d expect for the books that went missing from Marconi’s
room but it is nailed and sealed shut with old fashioned red wax
and personal imprint. I’m willing to bet that the books are inside,
but that’s a hell of a gamble – if I take the box and I’m wrong it
makes me no better than a common thief and I cannot forward it to
the intended recipient.
I am separated from my thoughts by the raspy
sound of a vehicle’s horn outside and take the crate and hide in
the corner of the room. Good decision as it turns out because I
hear loud footsteps climbing the stairs.
The door swings open and I hear someone
clunking around and moving crates before yelling “Merda! It’s
gone!”
“What’s gone?” A voice responded from
below.
“The box – that box.”
“It can’t have gone.” More footsteps
hurry upstairs.
“I tell you it is. I searched.”
“Toni – did you move the box?” One of them
shouted down.”
“No… didn’t touch it.”
“It has to be here. No-one else has been
here. Look again – look everywhere.”
More clattering and swearing convinces me
that I do have the books, but getting out of here will be a
challenge, but, as you know – I love a challenge.
The crate moving gets closer to my hiding
place and I’m sure to be discovered within minutes. I brace against
the wall and when the crate concealing me moves I shove it with all
my strength and hear a gasp and gush of expelled air as the chest
hits the man’s ribs and propels him backwards. It takes a few
moments until the other man understands what happened but then he
comes at me with