“Besides,” said Patton. “It’s not really Renaissance art. You said yourself it was practically destroyed by moisture. This is really a mediocre fresco from the 1940s.”

“You still can’t destroy it,” said Jean.

“Your objection is noted,” said Nemo.

“What if it were a Michelangelo or a Raphael?” said Jean.

“But it’s not,” said Patton.

“But if it were. Would you still be so intent in peeling it off the wall?”

“Look,” said Nemo, “there are two ways this plays out. Either we chip away at that fresco to see what’s behind it or Ingrid Weiss and her gang do it. If there really is a cache of gold back there, is having this painting survive another couple of hours worth the price of putting all that money into the hands of a bunch of Aryan supremacists?”

“I cannot be a part of this,” said Jean, slumping down into the front pew.

“Fine,” said Patton. “You’re not a part of it. If anyone catches us, we’ll say you did everything you could to stop us.”

Jean thought of all the times she had made donations to projects to save or preserve or restore Italian frescoes. She knew she could do nothing physically to stop Nemo and any attempt she made to keep him from the fresco would probably end up with her injured or worse and would do nothing to save this artwork. To her, it did not matter that it was of no great significance. An artist, actually two artists in two different centuries, had poured their souls into this fresco. And now she would have to watch its destruction. Jean leaned back in the pew and wept.

Nemo and Patton left Ruthie with Jean while they returned to the van to fetch the tire iron—the only thing any of them could think of that might be helpful in chipping plaster off the wall.

“You’re right,” said Ruthie, sitting next to Jean and putting an arm around her shoulders, “Pegronini wasn’t a very good artist. Even I can see the perspective is all wrong. And besides, who would come all the way up here to see a not-very-good painting?”

“That’s not the point,” said Jean, her sobs subsiding. “You just don’t destroy art.”

“I understand how you feel,” said Ruthie, “but this is bigger than all of us. And it’s certainly bigger than a forgotten old painting.”

“You don’t think there’s any way to stop them?” said Jean.

“I don’t think so,” said Ruthie, squeezing Jean’s shoulders. “Now you sit here and enjoy that painting and I’m going to see if there is anything else useful in that closet.”

“Sacristy,” corrected Jean.

“Right.”