The Vatican Conspiracy: A completely gripping action thriller (A Marco Venetti Thriller Book 1)

by Hogenkamp, Peter

  He closed his eyes and prayed for forgiveness: for the smugness he had always thought was contentment, and for the self-righteousness he had mistaken for belief. He would never confuse these things again. His hour had come in the cabin of Elena’s boat that stank of sweat and blood—blood that he had spilled. On his knees, head lowered in supplication, he begged for absolution: for the four murders he had committed and for the lust that burned in his heart.

  An hour later, he was still praying for forgiveness when the familiar smell of lavender greeted his nostrils. He glanced over without looking up. It was as he had feared: Elena was kneeling next to him, with her head bowed and her hands folded in prayer.

  “What are you doing here, Elena?”

  “It’s good to see you too, Marco.”

  “I told Lucci to send someone else.”

  “There was no one else.”

  Marco craned his neck to look around, making a note of the people sitting in the pews behind him. Other than a middle-aged man wearing a dark wool suit in August, no one attracted his attention.

  “What do you have against me?”

  “I have nothing against you, Elena, which is why I risked my life to save you. I just don’t want to have to do it again, that’s all.”

  Mass ended in the side chapel, and the organ struck up, a thunderous version of Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy.”

  “It is good to see you, Marco.”

  Marco replied in kind, and he meant it, too. Although he would have preferred Lucci to have sent someone else so that Elena could be with her daughter, there was no denying that her presence made him feel better, like a tonic for a nagging ache.

  “Where did you go when you left Rome?”

  “Cortina. We’re all there: Francesca, Gianna, and my father, staying with Cardinal Scarletti at his villa in the hills above town.”

  Marco had met Cardinal Scarletti on several occasions and had heard him speak on several others. A particular conference in Venice came to mind: Scarletti had delivered a brilliant oratory on the Avignon Captivity, the period in medieval history in which the Roman Catholic Church had been held hostage in France.

  “How are they?”

  Elena started to say good but left the lie unsaid. Her head dropped, and Marco saw a tear fall from the corner of a dark eye.

  “You should be in Cortina with them.”

  She used the sleeve of her black blouse to wipe her face. “I had to come. A man like Lucci … he can do a lot for my family.”

  She hadn’t come for Marco; she’d come because Lucci had made her an offer she couldn’t refuse. He wasn’t sure if he was happy about this or disappointed.

  “I’ve made a lot of bad decisions … put my family at risk. Not anymore.”

  She told him about the apartment in Trastevere, the medical license for her father, the well-paid job for Francesca, and the private school for Gianna.

  “What about you?”

  “I’m working for him. That’s why I’m here. Lucci wanted me to come, to see if I could give you a hand.”

  She avoided his gaze, finding a spot on the floor to stare at. Marco knew she wasn’t telling him everything; he had seen this same maneuver during a hundred confessions in his career, the penitent holding back from confessing all her sins for one reason or another—usually embarrassment or guilt—unable to look at him as she left the critical part out.

  “How much do you know?”

  Elena leaned in close to whisper in his ear. He could feel the warm dampness of her breath on his neck. “Enough.”

  He nodded and waited for the “Ode to Joy” to reach a crescendo. “It’s on for tonight. The pitons are all in, and the team is climbing the cliff face as soon as it gets dark. The prince is going to the opera and then a late-night dinner at the Peterskeller.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Keep tabs on the prince.” Marco reached into his pocket and handed her a piece of paper with his cell number on it. “Text me updates. I need to know when he leaves Salzburg.”

  “What opera?”

  “Don Giovanni.”

  A group of American tourists clomped past, discussing the beauty of the basilica in loud tones. The man with the dark wool suit was still in the same spot, listening to one of the tapes on the history of the Dom that were available at the back of the church for a small fortune.

  “What about you?”

  “Didn’t Lucci tell you?”

  “He didn’t. You’re not going with them, I hope.” There was concern in her big brown eyes and worry tattooed into the olive skin of her face.

  “No. I am going to be up top, acting as a spotter for the sniper. We’re three hundred meters away from the target.”

  Her mouth pursed into a thin line of coral lipstick. “Just promise me you’ll be careful.”

  He promised her, but it was an empty promise, like that of a teenager assuring his mother he would be home early from a night on the town. Lucci’s final comment to him reverberated in his head: By whatever means necessary.

  The organ music faded and then quit; his time had run out. He crossed himself as he stood up and exited the church, careful not to look back in her direction.

  Marco woke, roused from sleep by the heavy scent of jasmine and the chill settling over his chest. The windows were shuttered, the room was dark, and the only noise he could hear was the drone of the air conditioner, laboring to achieve arctic temperatures. He reached for the covers, but the thick down comforter was pushed to the foot of the bed, where it bound his feet in its twisted length. The linens were gone as well, and he felt around in the dark to retrieve them. His finger brushed against something soft, and he grabbed the corner and tugged. The sheet unraveled, and he rolled over, wrapping it around him as he turned.

  But the sheet had not been empty, and its contents spilled out as he pulled, falling over him like a warm blanket. It had been a long time since Marco had shared a bed with a woman, but not so long that he didn’t remember the prickly feeling of his skin as it lay against hers, or the brush of soft hair against his face. He assumed he was having an unpleasant dream—if the gentle pressure of heavy breasts against his chest could be interpreted as unpleasant—and focused on letting his mind drift somewhere less perilous. But the dream persisted, and the growing heat in his chest made him question his assumption.

  It was the quiet rhythm of her breathing and the warm push of her heaving chest that worried him. Could a dream really be this soft? Could a delusion smell as good as she smelled, as if he were ensconced in a thicket of honeysuckle? He didn’t think so, but how else could he explain his predicament? He had taken a vow of celibacy—a vow he didn’t want to break again—and any celibate man in his right mind would never be lying here wrapped in a silky cocoon with her smell thick in the air like a shroud.

  But he remained unconvinced, and he longed either to wake up or to return to his previous nightmares, filled with the satiny sheen of blood and the noxious odor of lacerated bowel. It was true that these visions woke him nightly with his underclothes soaked in sweat and his heart racing, but they were at least familiar, and he had become practiced at ignoring them, like an ogre ignores his hideous reflection or a butcher his bad smell.

  But there was no ignoring this, the stirring feeling in his chest and the voice in his head whispering to him that he was on a path he could tread in one direction only—down, in a direct line to Gehenna. He tried to push her away, but when his hands thought they had found her shoulder—which, according to the diocese, was the only appropriate place to touch a woman—his fingers brushed against the warm softness of her breasts and recoiled, as if he had stuck them straight into an electric socket.

  His last hope that he was dreaming lost, he decided to change tactics, extending his arms in search of better luck near her midsection. The first expedition was nearly disastrous. His hand touched down on something smooth and firm, and his fingers played over the new surface, trying to read it like Braille. When the me
ntal image of her rounded backside finally entered his head—he was, after all, greatly out of practice—his fingers had been examining the surface for much too long, and he felt her stir in response, exorcising any remaining thoughts that he might still be dreaming. Terror overcame him, and he pulled his hand back. He held his breath for fear of waking her and willed his heart to stop thudding inside his torso like a bass drum. Slowly, inexorably, she fell into a deeper slumber, and he allowed himself to inhale, sucking in a mouthful of warm air, ripe with her scent.

  He got out of bed without waking her and waited in the bathroom until his heart rate and breathing had normalized and the stirring in his loins had subsided, then grabbed his phone off the nightstand and went out to the porch. It was just after 9 p.m.; night had fallen in Salzburg, and the lamps were burning, illuminating the thick crowds filling the streets. Dialing the number Lucci had given him, he waited for Pietro to pick up.

  “Hello?”

  “Pietro?”

  “Sì. How are you, Marco?”

  Marco wasn’t even tempted to answer him truthfully; he didn’t think Pietro wanted to hear about his fear, his anxiety, or his second thoughts. “I’m good.”

  “We’re leaving for the cliff face soon. Are you ready?”

  “Yes.” He peered into the room in time to see Sarah getting out of bed. She slipped into the bathroom wearing only a thin shirt that fell to her thighs. “We’re preparing now.”

  “Good. You should leave soon. I want you on that hill above Haus Adler before we get there so you can spot for us. There isn’t any cell reception on the face, so I won’t be able to contact you until we have reached the top.”

  “Sounds good. Anything else?”

  “One more thing.”

  Marco waited, watching a group of festivalgoers parade down the street in black tuxedos and ball gowns, speaking loudly in a collage of different languages.

  “Do you remember what I told you about bleeding, Marco?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happens? I want to hear you say it.”

  “All bleeding stops.”

  Thirty-Seven

  The moon dipped behind a lonely cloud, throwing a curtain over the landscape. Abayd checked his watch: it was 9.30, exactly the time he had hoped to begin the assault. Waving two fingers, he watched a band of dark figures creep forward, bent low to the ground. They paused at the edge of the forest, melting behind the last row of thick pines. The large farmhouse loomed ahead, lit up like a lighthouse. Abayd whispered a few words into his collar microphone, and the men began to fan out along the hedgerow that surrounded the house. He waited, watching the windows for any signs of activity as they got into position. When the last of them had checked in, he crawled over to his second-in-command.

  “The men are all in position, Abdul. It’s your show now, my friend.”

  Abayd would have loved to lead the attack on their enemies, but Abdul—and all the other bodyguards save Jibril—had served in the Royal Guard regiment. Abayd had not.

  “Wait until you hear word the sentry is down, then go.”

  Abdul nodded and slipped the safety on his Heckler & Koch MP5 into the off position. With its compact design and rapid rate of fire, the fully automatic assault weapon, with built-in noise and flash suppressor, was deadly in urban war situations, which this pastoral scene was about to become.

  “And remember, Abdul, we don’t want any prisoners. If someone surrenders, shoot him in the head.”

  Abdul didn’t respond, but then again, he didn’t need to; he had already been told three times, and Abdul was the sort you only needed to tell once. Abayd had reminded him anyway, because anything was better than the waiting. Although everything had gone smoothly to this point, he was anxious that his luck was going to run out. He was a superstitious man by nature, and he understood that all streaks came to an end. For forty-eight hours, everything had gone according to plan: he had located the Americans without difficulty—although he doubted his real estate agent would be of the same opinion—surveyed the enemy without detection, and moved into position without seeing anyone. Another half-hour or so, and they would be in the clear.

  To the best of his knowledge, there were eleven enemy combatants. In normal circumstances, he would have confirmed and re-confirmed the number and bearing of his foes, but these circumstances were anything but normal; the nuclear weapons would be arriving in five hours, and the Americans—or whoever they were—had to be disposed of prior to their arrival.

  He did have several things going in his favor, however. The first was the farmhouse; from a defensive standpoint, it left much to be desired. There were four entrances—one to the cellar, two on the first floor, and one on the second at the top of an old wooden staircase that led up from the back of the house—and very few outside lights. There were no cameras or sensors, and no security system of any kind.

  The second item in his favor was the plan. What Abayd liked about it was its simplicity. Simple plans meant fewer things to get screwed up; simple plans worked. As soon as the sentry was taken out, four teams of four men would cross the lawn and blow the doors, throw flash grenades inside, and storm the house. There would be no hostages to take, no innocent bystanders to avoid, and no priority targets. Everyone would be cut down; no one would be spared. There was a brutal efficiency about it that stirred him on a base level, and a symmetry that assuaged his guilt. It was exactly what the men in the house planned to do to him; he just happened to be striking first.

  All they needed now was word from the man assigned to take out the sentry, and they could move. As if on cue, his earpiece crackled, and the word clear spilled into his brain. Abdul turned his head and nodded at him, indicating that he had heard it too. They looked up to the sky in unison, searching for the next cloud. It appeared thirty seconds later, blowing out the moonlight like a candle. The cloud wasn’t very big, but it didn’t need to be; they didn’t have far to go, and Abayd was tired of waiting anyway.

  He tapped Abdul on the shoulder and gave him the thumbs-up. He heard Abdul mutter go into his microphone and watched four shapes separate from the trees and scurry across the lawn. He pulled his Glock out of its chest harness, hoped to hell he wouldn’t need to use it, and knelt down on the grass, waiting for the fireworks to begin.

  Pietro circled the cellar one last time, looking for any items his men might have missed in their search. After his second circuit, he was confident there was nothing, and he turned back toward the stairs to the kitchen to check the first floor again. He was restless and slightly agitated—the way he always felt before a mission—and he needed to keep moving. He detoured under the stairs for a minute to check the area where they had stored the weapons and found exactly what he had hoped: nothing. The space was as bare as a pauper’s cupboard—they had already moved all the guns to the vans—and he turned to mount the steps.

  It was a mouse that saved his life. His foot had just touched down on the first step when he saw a blur along the baseboard to his left. Instinctively he followed, catching up with the little creature in the far corner behind a massive oak bookshelf. Relieved that it had only been a mouse, he wheeled around, ready to head back upstairs. He was still behind the bookshelf when the door leading to the outside world exploded off its hinges and hurtled at him as if whipped by a gale. It smacked into the bookshelf, sending a flurry of paperbacks skyward, and toppled it. Pietro dove out of the way of the falling oak with just a glancing blow to his left thigh, his Beretta already in hand. Loosed from his pocket by the contact, his cell phone skittered away and settled among a pile of romances, memoirs, and thrillers.

  He rolled behind a half-wall, shut his eyes tight, and covered his ears. Having practiced and led many such an assault when he’d commanded a platoon in the 4th Alpini Paratroopers, he knew what was coming. The flash-bang detonated, and he started counting: one, two, three … He pivoted around and leveled his gun at the intruders running down the stairs from the outside. He was certain they would be wear
ing body armor and helmets, so he aimed for their necks. His Beretta recoiled in his hand, firing rapidly in bursts of two, and the bodies tumbled down the stairs, forming a macabre pile at the foot.

  He glanced over at the pile of books, decided he didn’t have time to look for his cell phone, and ran over to his victims, risking a quick examination with his flashlight. As he had feared, the dead men were Saudis; he recognized all four from the surveillance photos he had pinned to the wall of the living room. Somehow the prince had gotten wind of their assault and attacked first.

  He switched off the flashlight and scavenged an assault rifle and four spare clips from the dead men, as the sound of slaughter filtered down from above. The stairs in front of him led to the outside, and he ran up, turning left along the north side of the house. He crouched low under the windows and raced toward the large front porch. The dark outline of the forest beckoned to him as he moved. His mind flirted with thoughts of escape, which he didn’t entertain. He was inclined neither by training nor make-up to run out on his teammates; he would try to save them and perish in the attempt if need be. For a millisecond, his thoughts strayed to his confrontation with Alessandro. The man had had a bad feeling about the mission; perhaps, as the others claimed, he did have second sight. Pietro hoped so; he was going to need it to survive.

  Brushing these thoughts aside, he vaulted onto the porch and angled for the empty frame where the front door used to hang. He would have loved to stop and look inside before he burst in, but time was not a commodity he had to spare. If his guess was correct, his enemy had employed one of his favorite tactics, something he called the Blitzkrieg, attacking on multiple fronts at the same time using overwhelming force. It meant he had to go in now, blind, if he was going to have any chance at all of saving his men.