by Declan Finn
By the time Catherine got to the bottom of the staircase, she heard shouts of “Help, she’s trying to kill me!” in flawless Italian.
Not what I needed, she though as she bounded up the stairs two at a time.
She saw the exit was wide open and leapt off the top step out into the altar area. She landed on her hands and flipped onto her feet. She spun round to look out onto the glorious artwork of the Sistine Chapel, which seemed mysteriously empty except for one man being hustled away from the painting of the Last Judgment behind the altar. She instantly noted the man’s white vestments and dismissed the pope in one glance. Catherine quickly dropped her gun on the floor before the Pope’s Secret Service mistakenly fell under the impression she was there to kill him.
To her left, the bomber scrambled down the stairs as fast as he dared before anyone could imagine him as moving too fast for a hunchback.
“Stop!” Catherine demanded, already rushing toward him. “You have nowhere to go.”
The bomber turned, amazed no one had shot her by now. She rushed him even as he raised the crutch to fire. With one final leap, she sailed through the air in a somersault. She landed three feet behind the bomb. The killer turned to face her, crutch perpendicular to her body. She grabbed the weapon by its barrel and spun. She wrenched the crutch out of his hand and slammed it into his stomach. He fell backward and held onto the shoulder pad as he fell. He rolled up into a ball with the pain.
Catherine let out a breath of relief. Maybe we can take one alive for once.
She looked up into multiple guns.
Chapter 38
Wayne stopped in front of the Sistine Chapel and looked around at the high level of security. Not that the security was overt to the normal human eye, but Wayne wasn’t exactly what one would call normal. The security guards were out in force, one at each entrance to the chapel. Men in various forms of dress hung around the building, making casual conversation while they wore ankle holsters and everyone wore a jacket just large enough to conceal an automatic weapon. They were all properly Mediterranean, and they blended in so well with the scenery.
Translation: someone important is seeing the artwork today. And how many important people on Vatican Hill merit protection and happen to be a well-known art fanatic? Answer: Pope Pius XIII. Now what? Do I just walk up to the door and ask to see him?
Williams thought a moment and shrugged. Why not?
Wayne walked to the guard at the door with fluid movements denoting a ballet dancer, a danseur. The guard had a round face like Mussolini, but without the Mister Clean-like frown. Wayne made certain to keep his hands in plain view at all times. He then introduced himself in Italian.
The guard nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said in accented English meant to deal with tour groups. “Figlia radioed ahead. Could I have your gun for the time being?”
Wayne’s eyes widened with brief shock. The commando seemed far more prepared than he had suspected. He numbly handed over the gun and walked in.
* * * *
Catherine slowly raised her hands, even though she wanted to scream bloody murder at the Secret Service agents for the Pope, five of whom held guns on her. She knew it was a reasonable reaction and would have been disappointed at anything less, which is why she kept her mouth clamped tightly shut. Instead, she eyed her surroundings.
Twenty guards lined two of the church walls. The guards weren’t actually guards, just the Pope’s Swiss Guard, dressed in the outdated carnival garb that had been designed by achromatic Renaissance tailors. They carried halberds—weapons with an ax on one side, a hook on the back, mounted on a pole that looked about ten or fifteen feet tall. They had been totally ceremonial for at least a hundred years.
But if they’re ceremonial, then where’s the ceremony?
The assassin looked about her and wanted to smack herself on the head—an action that would’ve certainly prompted the secret servicemen to blow it off. Where was obvious: the chapel itself.
The better question is probably “when.”
“Will you idiots put those guns away?” a thick African accented voice bellowed. “Don’t you listen to your own radios?”
Catherine glanced toward the voice. She watched a heavily built man shrug off his bodyguards. The assassin let her eyes wander over the physique of Pope Pius XIII, which was impressive for a man of twenty-four, never mind a man his age. She recalled the vital statistics from his file: six-five, two-hundred and fifty pounds, bald. It was rumored awhile back during the last Papal conclave that he had once taken on a man who had threatened a parishioner with his bare hands.
But with his build, I could believe it, Catherine thought, watching him approach. He looked like a body builder in white.
The Pope walked over to Catherine after his guards lowered their weapons. “You can lower your hands now. I believe you are here with a certain Wayne Williams, correct?”
She nodded. “Yes, Your Holiness.”
He raised an eyebrow and gave her a suspicious look. “You’re not Catholic, are you?”
Catherine shook her head no.
The Pope nodded, pleasantly surprised. “Good, that means you won’t have to kiss my ring. I’m starting to think that’s how it stays shiny without polish.” He smiled. “And call me Joshua, everyone used to. Now, I heard over the radios of my fine commandos here the two of you were here on vacation and wound up walking into something over at the Basilica, correct?”
Catherine smiled. “Yes. How did you—?”
Joshua grinned. “I’m the Pope, I know everything. Actually, your partner had one of my people call ahead saying there was half a chance that you might wind up here, chasing someone with a bomb on his back.”
Joshua’s eyes flicked to the spot where the hunchback had been only a moment before. The bomber was gone, now standing on the other side of the altar with Catherine’s gun leveled on the Pope.
“No one moves or His Holiness gets it.”
This guy watches too many movies. Catherine raised her hands again and looked up at the bomber. How does he move so fast with that damn backpack?
The bomber kept his eyes on the Pope at all times, not letting his hand waver one bit. “You with the fish hooks, get over onto the other side of the Pope. In fact, everyone gather on my right. Stay where you are, Joshua. Leave the weapons on the floor. Now!”
Catherine moved in front of the Pope, both hands up. She was half-tempted to tackle Joshua and cover him with her own body. But she knew the strength of her own gun: the bullet would go through her and him if she tried anything that stupid. Once all of them were against the wall and all the weapons on the floor, the bomber ordered the Pope to follow them.
Wayne stood at the back of the church, watching all of it. He felt fortunate the hunchback never let his eyes wander from the Pope, his peripheral vision only wide enough to cover the entourage. He pressed the tip of his right shoe to the heel of the left. He slowly pried off that shoe, then the other, lest his footfalls echo down the chapel.
The hunchback took his time walking down the altar steps, always facing the Pope. “Now, I’m back out of here. I’m going to walk into the street and disappear. If anyone tries to move on me while I’m still here, the Pope will die.”
Catherine smiled. Like you’d let me live after the merry chase we just went through.
Out of the corner of her eye, she would have sworn she had seen a motion behind the bomber: a motion with gold hair and blue eyes.
Wayne ran along the floor en point, on his toes, as though he were a danseur about to make a flying jete. He stayed close the wall as the bomber walked with his back towards him.
Why did the damn guard have to take my gun? he thought as he wondered what he would do. If he grabbed the gun, it would fire—most likely into the Pope or Catherine.
His eyes flickered to a metallic glint from the floor.
An instant later, Catherine’s gun jerked up and a shot went off into a five-hundred-year-old stained glass window. Wayne pulled at
the bomber’s arm again with the hooked end of a halberd. The pull jerked the bomber off his feet, and Wayne used the hook to herd the bomber into the wall.
“Move and I’ll cut your arm off—the ax is real enough to do that much. Drop the gun or lose the hand.”
The gun fell to the floor. Wayne glanced over his shoulder and smiled at Strongbow. “We got one.”
“Guess again.”
Wayne turned at the sound of the bomber’s voice, and just barely noticed the quick biting motion. Wayne didn’t even bother to hold the bomber to the wall anymore. The cyanide capsule had finished him off before he even made it to the floor.
Wayne sighed. This is getting ridiculous.
He dropped the weapon on the floor and scooped up the gun by the barrel. He turned around, and Catherine was already standing there, smiling, hand out for her weapon. He handed it over.
She nodded. “Thank you,” Catherine said softly, with far too much gratitude for just handing over a gun.
“What for?” he whispered.
Strongbow grinned. “Well, I count that you saved me twice between that shoot-out in the Basilica and now.”
He nodded in acknowledgment. “Like I said, I couldn’t leave a partner behind. Besides, I had to keep up the tag team. You’re it. Now let’s get out of here before we wear out our welcome.”
“Too late.”
* * * *
Jonathan Koenig sighed and gave up on the computer hacker from the FBI. Blaine Lansing was as close to obsessive as he had ever seen. The giant walked out of the den and into the living room. He looked at his watch and figured he had about five minutes before the kettle boiled.
He sat back in his easy chair and said, “CNN. Low volume.”
The TV reacted to his vocal commands. There was a special report on. Something about the Vatican. Hadn’t Rome been on the President’s agenda for next year?
A minute later he was back in the den. “Blaine, come here a moment.”
Lansing dragged himself to the living room. Jonathan Koenig had the film clip on playback—an automatic feature programmed into the television to replay the last thirty seconds in slow motion at the push of a button.
Lansing blinked his eyes clear, straining to get a good look at a picture of a man in white being hustled out of the Sistine Chapel. There was something familiar about that guy. Oh, yeah, the Pope. And on the screen next to him…
Holy mother of God!
There was a golden-haired blur at the Pope’s side.
Blaine shook his head firmly. No. It couldn’t be. Could it?
“Is that Williams?” asked Koenig behind him.
“I don’t know. I don’t see how it could be. Do you have a phone I could use?”
“Be my guest.”
Blaine hurried to a cordless phone and tapped in Wayne’s cellular number. It took about five rings for Wayne to pick up—unusually long for a cell phone carried on one’s person.
“Blaine?”
“Hi, um, Williams, might you be in Rome by any chance?”
There was a pause, followed by, “How did you know?”
Shit! “You’re on CNN. You’re a blur, but you’re the only one there with blonde hair. If anyone who knows you should see this…”
“Damn. But, hey, what are the odds of that happening?”
* * * *
FBI Director Winston Scofield opened his eyes, ready to tear somebody’s throat out. He rolled over in bed, reaching out for the phone at his bedside. He wrenched it out of its cradle and pulled the cradle off his nightstand with it.
“Yes!” he growled. “What the fuck do you want!”
“Turn on CNN, you’ll see.”
Scofield recognized the voice and sat up in bed.
“TV on,” he told the television. “Find CNN.”
The image of the Sistine Chapel blinked on, showing him the front gates as perhaps three dozen security personnel in street clothes hustled Pope Pius XIII into the bulletproof glass bubble of his Pope-mobile. It was nothing spectacular to those who didn’t know the special significance of the location.
Scofield, however, didn’t care about the President’s itinerary. He didn’t care about the bombs planted along his trail, Rome being one of the stops. He only cared about one head sticking out among the rest of the crowd. That head was right at the Pope’s side. That head just happened to be blonde, just like Wayne Williams.
Scofield raised the phone to his mouth and said, “Will no one rid me of this insufferable bastard?”
At the other end of the line, a deep voice rumbled, “Understood.”
Winston slammed the phone onto the nightstand where the cradle had been, not caring that it was now on the floor. He knew what Williams was doing. He was trying to work his way back into the District, back into Washington.
He’s hoping this little crisis will be his way back into the administration’s good graces. That’s why he kept up after Secretary Stevens was shot! If he saves the President’s life by collecting all of those bombs, he’ll come back to DC a hero. And then he’ll come after me.
Scofield started chuckling at a low, soft volume, then raised it into full out laughter. Murderously joyous laughter.
I’ll kill him first!
* * * *
Catherine watched Wayne pace their hotel room as he talked to Blaine Lansing over the cell phone.
How in God’s name did we wind up on CNN? she wondered.
“Listen, Blaine,” Williams told him, “our last contact died before we could talk with him. I need you to look over Israeli news links for anything strange recently near Jerusalem. Say about fifty miles around it, maybe a hundred.”
Wayne winced the instant the range came out of his mouth. Israel wasn’t even a hundred miles around.
If Blaine had noticed the blunder, the agent didn’t point it out. “Okay, sure, I’ll get right on it. By the way, did you say ‘we’ before?”
Wayne stopped and said, “Huh?”
“Well, I would’ve sworn you had just said ‘our last contact died before we could talk with him.’ Are you working with someone?”
Williams cast a nervous glance at Catherine. “Um, yeah, I picked up some help along the way. I’m not without friends, you know.”
“Right. Okay. I’ll see what I can dig up. By the way, you have email?”
“Yes. Why?”
“I want you to read everything I’ve dug up on DeValera.”
“Great. If I can find an Internet hookup, I’ll see if I can read it.”
“In that case, I hope you have a strong constitution. Later.”
“Later,” said Wayne, wondering what the hell that meant. He flipped the phone closed and sighed.
“What’s that for?” Catherine asked.
Wayne glanced over at her and said, “I slipped. I almost gave you away just using ‘we’ in my report. Our dear computer hacker isn’t as slow as he looks.” He tucked the phone into his jacket pocket. “You almost done packing?”
Catherine nodded. “Almost.”
“Okay. In that case I’ll start the checkout. See you in a few minutes.”
A minute after Wayne closed the door, the phone rang. Catherine stuffed her sweat suit into her case and snapped it shut with one hand while she reached over with the other.
“Forget something?” she asked.
“Ja, Frauline Catherine,” Moniak told her, now using a German accent. “You forgot to look for the camera crews before walking out of the Sistine Chapel.”
“I know. I’m still trying to figure out why they were there. It’s not like they’re big into art anyway.”
“They’re interested in this Pope. After all, this is the first one who led an army in centuries. Now could you remind me how you found out about St. Peter’s?”
“That number I found in St. Patrick’s in Dublin. It was a phone call to an automated machine reciting the Mass times.”
Moniak barked a laugh. “I like it,” he said in his Russian accent.
“Has anyone ever told you that you have far too much fun with these accents?”
There was a brief pause as he thought about it. “Yes. Your point?”
Click.
TO BE CONCLUDED IN PART 3
DUE OUT OCTOBER 8, 2019
UNTIL THEN, PLEASE REMEMBER TO REVIEW
PARTS 1 AND 2