Paul Christopher - The Lucifer Gospel

The Hotel Caravaggio occupied a corner of such a block in the Brera district of the city, once known as the Montmartre of Milan but long since abandoned by the avante-garde artists, designers, and musicians who had once made it famous. The Caravaggio’s particular block was bounded by the via Marangoni to the north, the via Locatelli to the south, and was backed by the via Vittor Pisani.

The core of this irregularly shaped block was mostly made up of inaccessible airshafts, with the exception of a restaurant in an office building on the via Vittor Pisani, which used what had once been an old stable for outdoor seating in the summer months, and the Caravaggio, with its newly renovated courtyard cafй and private garden. Almost without exception the buildings making up the single square of masonry along the street shared a common wall, separated by nothing more than a two-foot-high course of bricks or stone to divide one roof from another.

Finn and Hilts moved across the flat, tar-papered roof, heading to the right. Reaching the end of the hotel they boosted themselves over the low barrier and stepped onto the roof of the next building. This one had a cinder-block extension for an elevator mechanical room and a few simple pipe vents, but the only trapdoor was firmly locked from the inside.

“We’re going to be sitting ducks in a minute,” said Hilts. “We have to find a way down. He grabbed Finn’s hand and together they raced across the second roof, hopped the retaining wall to the third, and ran across it as well. Hilts guided them to an interior airshaft, but it was useless. This was Europe, and fire escapes were the exception, not the rule.

The airshaft was a black hole, picked out with squares of light from windows looking into it. Finn could just make out the litter-filled base of the shaft. Even if there had been a way down, there didn’t appear to be any way out. They turned away and pelted across to the next building. This one was a full story lower than the roof they were standing on. “We’ll have to jump,” said Hilts. Finn just nodded.

Without pausing she dropped down to the edge of the wall, let herself over, and then let go, dropping six or seven feet to the roof of the next building. Hilts followed her, and they moved quickly across to the next low wall between the buildings. They drew up short. There was a three-foot space between the buildings. Finn looked down. For some reason the space between the buildings had been left open, and she thought she knew why. In days gone by the building’s wastewater had probably run from the back of the building to the street, finally joining with whatever passed for a storm sewer in those days. The need for an open trough had gone, and the building’s owners who had come after now used the space to run all manner of wiring and pipes up and down the walls, some of it modern, like the thick rubber electrical wires and the narrow phone and cable TV lines, some of it old and worn, like the lead eaves, troughs, and old-fashioned downspouts.

“We can make it,” said Hilts, looking across the gap.

“Why not go down?” Finn suggested. “They’re going to spot us any second.”

“Maybe we can find an open hatch on the next roof,” Hilts answered, looking down the narrow breach between the buildings. “And what exactly are you suggesting? It’s not like there’s a ladder.”

“Chimney descent,” said Finn. “No problem.”

“What’s a chimney descent?”

“Back against one wall, feet on the opposite wall, about knee-high. Put your palms on the opposite wall, thumbs down for support. Drop alternating feet, one, two, then shift your back to follow. You sort of walk down the walls, bracing yourself to keep from falling.”

“You sound like you’ve done this kind of thing once or twice.”

“Lots of times. Rock climbing was one of my hobbies at school. Climbed indoors at Lifetime and Vertical Adventure in Columbus during the winter and the real thing during the summer. It’s fun.”

“Sure it is,” said Hilts skeptically, staring down into the cut between the buildings.

“I don’t think we’ve got a lot of choice.”

“Tell me again.”

“I’ll show you.”

Finn sat on the edge of the gap, then slid her back slowly down, her feet braced tight against the other wall. When she was completely down she reached forward and laid her palms flat on the other wall. There was nothing holding her up now except the tension in her back and knees. She shifted her back slightly and went down a foot or two.

“This is crazy,” Hilts muttered, sitting down on the wall. He dropped into the same position as Finn, holding his breath. He inched down below the level of the roofline just as the arc of a searching flashlight beam swept over the roof. “Oh godohgodohgod,” he whispered, slipping down into the yawning chasm, his body held tight as a spring, sweat popping out on his forehead. He arched his back into the wall behind him and pressed his feet against the wall in front, suspended over nothingness, held up only by the strength of his desperation. Then, inch by frightening inch and foot by frightening foot, he moved himself slowly down.

It took less than three minutes to reach the bottom of the gap. High above they could hear shouts and running feet. Hilts dropped down into the litter in the narrow alley beside Finn and dusted himself off.

“Crazy. It worked.”

“Of course it worked,” Finn scoffed. “Let’s get out of here before they spot us.” Together they headed toward the end of the alley and the outlet to the via Locatelli.

“We’ve got maybe another five minutes before they close off the whole area,” said Hilts, his voice low.

“Then we’d better run for it,” said Finn.

“I’ve got a better idea.” Hilts pointed toward a battered old Vespa Sprint parked a few feet away, a chain looped around the steering column and a lead pipe that ran up the side of the building beside it. He looked left and right. The narrow street was empty. More shouting came from the roof above them. He walked over to the scooter, gripped the pipe, and pulled hard. It tore away from the wall and snapped in two. He unwrapped the chain and tossed it into the alley. He checked out the scooter. “Where’s the ignition?” he asked, irritated.

Finn pushed him aside and climbed onto the motorbike. There isn’t one, they only have ignition keys on the export models. I drove one of these around Florence for a whole year. Hop on.”

Hilts frowned but climbed onto the rear of the narrow pommel seat. Finn took a couple of swipes at the kick-starter and the engine coughed into squeaky life. She adjusted the choke pull-down at knee level, hit the kickstand with her heel, twisted the right hand throttle and they were off.

She turned left, away from the via Fabio Filzi and all the police cars, then left again onto via Vittor Pisani, ignoring the lights. They swept across three lanes of traffic and the central tram lane, finally turning left up the boulevard. They swung back and forth between enraged drivers, heading north toward the white grimy bulk of the Stazione Centrale, lit up like a Christmas tree half a mile ahead.

Finn turned her head slightly.

“What do I do now?” she asked.

“Head for the station.”

“And then?”

“It’ll take them a while to figure out we’ve given them the slip.”

“Won’t they be watching the station?”

“Probably. We’ll just have to give them the slip.”

“How?”

“I’ll think of something, just drive.”

Finn guided the Vespa north along the wide, modern boulevard, office buildings rising on either side. Hilts leaned forward in his seat and raised his voice over the racket of the old rattle-trap engine.