“Your Grace,” Troisi ventured, hoping that he hadn’t stalled too long, “I don’t know what to say.”
“Imagine how I feel,” Marcellus replied. “We’ve traveled all this way together, risked and built so much, only to find... But never mind. Perhaps it’s all a figment of my own imagination, eh?”
How far could Troisi press the matter, seeking information to protect himself?
“If I knew what you meant, Your Grace, it’s possible I could advise you.”
Marcellus frowned, considering how much to share. “We’ve both been so immersed in our crusade, our duties,” he replied. “It’s only natural that we should feel a certain...separation. Don’t you think so?”
Troisi nodded, hoping that he didn’t seem too eager to agree. “Even predictable, Your Grace. When all this is behind you, and the victory attained, I dare say the reunion of your spirits will be all the sweeter.” He thought even as he spoke, of lying nude beside Mania Justina in her bed.
“I hope so,” Marcellus said. “If I believed that anyone had tried to steal her from me, much less someone I had trusted as a brother in the covenant, you can imagine my reaction.”
Yes, I can, Troisi thought. Keeping in mind a certain member of the inner circle who’d been caught embezzling funds. He’d lingered on the brink of death, praying for mercy, over three full days and nights.
“Your Grace,” Troisi said, “if such a Judas did exist, I’d strike him down on your behalf.”
Now Marcellus smiled. “Thank you, my son,” he said. “I’ll keep your offer foremost in my mind.”
Villa San Giovanni
HALLORAN INSISTED HE was good to drive another lap after the ferry ride, so Bolan took the Giulietta’s shotgun seat again. He didn’t need to navigate, leaving the docks, as even a myopic driver could have seen the large blue sign directing them to Napoli via the A3 Motorway. He translated kilometers to miles and settled back to watch the countryside unfold, no end of cities, towns and villages to pass before they reached mainland Italy’s third-largest city.
“You think your friend can help us?” Halloran inquired. “Distract the Mafia, I mean?”
“Could be,” Bolan replied. “But if I had to guess, I’d say they’ve lost enough already on a babysitting job. If they’re inclined toward payback, I’d expect them to go after the Camorra.”
“I admit, it’s not my area of expertise,” Halloran said.
“Real experts on the Mob will tell you that they’re unpredictable, to some extent. All that talk about their honor and the rest of it is mostly nineteenth century,” Bolan explained. “They trot it out to justify their actions or enhance their own mystique, but when the chips are down, they’re just like any other weasels in a corner. They’ll bite you if they can, or cut and run for cover if you give them half a chance.”
“And the Camorra?”
“Older, deeper roots,” Bolan replied, “but it’s the same game with another name.”
“You know them well?”
“Too well.”
“And understand the feud mentality,” Halloran said.
“Old stories for another time,” Bolan allowed. “Assuming that there is one.”
The A3’s posted speed was 130 kilometers per hour, translating to 81 mph. Six hours on a straight shot up to Rome, but there’d be at least two stops for fuel, with the Giulietta guzzling gas en route, and they’d be forced to slow down through various settlements along the way, keeping a sharp eye out for the highway patrol if Halloran tried making up time on the open stretches. Traffic enforcement didn’t seem to be a high priority in Italy, but any close encounter with police could end their game before the final hand was dealt.
And if they overtook the convoy carrying the Ark...then what?
It would depend upon the circumstances, Bolan knew. He wouldn’t start a firefight in the middle of a populated area unless the Keepers left him no alternative. A lonely rural highway suited him the best, but crazy zealots might desire an audience, at least, if they were intercepted short of Rome. In that case, Bolan was prepared to do whatever might be necessary to resolve the issue, minimizing collateral damage, while keeping the action out of downtown Rome.
In fact, there might be no desirable alternatives. But one thing was already settled in his mind. No matter how the game played out, there’d be more blood.
And if he went down in the fight, he wouldn’t be alone.
Gioia Tauro, Italy
AFTER MOUNTAIN ROADS and ferry rides, driving on the A3 almost felt like flying. It ran beside the Tyrrhenian Sea, with Gioia Tauro the latest town in line on Claudio Branca’s race up the coast toward Naples. He knew the community was an important seaport, with docks extending some five thousand yards out to sea, and that ’Ndrangheta mobsters controlled local shipping, importing eighty percent of Europe’s cocaine through Gioia Tauro, together with thousands of illegal arms. None of that concerned Branca in the least.
After he had unveiled the Ark in Rome and triggered the Apocalypse, all such corruption would be swept away forever.
In the interim, however, he was watching for police, gangsters and any other obstacle that might prevent him from delivering his holy payload to the Vatican. Their speed wasn’t a problem, holding to a steady eighty-five miles per hour on the Autostrada’s open stretches, slowing as required to pass through towns and villages without incident. Branca supposed a van trailing a lone sedan was easier to overlook than three vehicles, much less six.
He saw the folly now of their Sicilian convoy and soliciting assistance from the Mafia. What seemed to be a good idea had very nearly killed them all, and might have put a vengeful camorristi hunting party on their trail. They likely could have passed as tourists on a holiday or bound for some convention, shrugged off by the peasants on their route, but he had listened to Ugo Troisi, self-styled expert in such things, and made the arrangement without consulting Janus Marcellus.
Ugo Troisi.
He was Sicilian himself, Branca knew—and what, if anything, did that suggest? Could he be a Mafia plant inside Custodes Foederis? If so, to what end? Mafiosi were nominal Catholics, and yet...
A sudden thought struck Branca like a rabbit punch. It sickened and revolted him, but he couldn’t escape it. What if Troisi was a secret servant of the Scarlet Whore, who’d used his Mafia connections in an ultimately vain attempt to keep the Ark from reaching Rome? His “help” had almost doomed their mission, and in hindsight, that could hardly be coincidence.
Or could it?
Branca had the sat phone in his hand, and sat there clutching it, watching the port of Gioia Tauro slip away while he considered what to do. Someone had to be alerted if there was a traitor in the church’s inner circle, but his normal contact was the very traitor he suspected. Neither could he speak directly to the Pontifex. One reason: Marcellus had an iron-clad rule that comments and complaints had to pass through channels, following the chain of command, with only the most serious reserved for his ears. And the second: Troisi was a longtime friend and confidant of Marcellus, who might well persuade the Pontifex that Branca was insane.
What then?
The only person he could think of who might help him was the sect’s chief of security. Branca had spoken to him only once or twice—barely knew him, really—but if he could reach the man, explain his fear coherently, and press the urgent need for an investigation...
Would it help at all? Or had the stress of his assignment finally unhinged his mind?
No, there was something out of place, and Branca knew the problem didn’t stem entirely from his own imagination. Scowling at the sat phone in his hand, he pressed the speed-dial button to connect with headquarters in Rome—almost a local call, this day—and waited for the switchboard operator to respond. When he’d identified himself, she said, “I’ll put you through to the Dextera Dei,
sir.”
“Not this time,” Branca said, stopping her short. “I need to speak with Marco Gianotti, please.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Castellammare di Stabia, Italy
Mack Bolan was encouraged by their progress so far. Already within the Province of Naples, closing rapidly on that teeming metropolis of three million souls, he hoped they might overtake the Ark well short of Rome. The latest sat phone bulletin from Stony Man confirmed their target still remained ahead of them, but they had closed the gap, their Giulietta’s speed eclipsing that of a larger, slower cargo van.
How close? According to Kurtzman, about fifty miles and change.
Good news, when they had started out so far behind, but it wasn’t a guarantee of victory by any means. That came only after the last shots had been fired.
And history was written by the designated winners.
This close to their quarry, it was time to eyeball every van they passed along the A3 Motorway, particularly those that seemed to have an escort standing watch and running interference. There would be no further warnings from Virginia if the Keepers managed to refrain from talking on the sat phone Stony Man had marked and registered. It would come down to instinct and experience, maybe something as simple as a passing glance before battle was joined.
Within a few short seconds, between recognition and engagement, it would all come down to life or death.
Bolan had done all that he could to be prepared. His guns were locked and loaded, each one with a live round in the chamber and a full fresh magazine. He had removed the sound suppressors from his Uzi and Beretta, since stealth was superfluous in a running firefight, while suppressors reduced muzzle velocity along with noise. If shooting at vehicles in motion, Bolan wanted all the penetration he could get.
“You have a plan for stopping them?” Halloran asked, as if in tune with Bolan’s thoughts.
“Identify, engage, eradicate,” he replied. “The usual.”
“You make it sound so...simple.”
“Hardly. Figure on at least one escort vehicle, and maybe two. They’ll try to block us, run or gun us off the road, whatever. I don’t see us getting through it without taking hits.”
“Of course. We must hold nothing back.”
“You’re good to keep the wheel?” Bolan asked.
“Certainly. If only one of us can shoot, it should be you.”
“Take any shot you can when the time comes. But whatever else you do, we need to keep the rubber on the road.”
Halloran nodded. “Yes. We can’t afford to let them get away.”
“Don’t think defeat,” Bolan advised. “Focus on winning, but be ready if we have to improvise.”
“In what way, improvise?”
“I’m giving that some thought,” he replied.
Worst-case scenario, aside from being killed outright, would be losing the Giulietta while their quarry pulled away. He knew that it could happen in a heartbeat, with a single well-placed bullet to the engine or a tire—and then what would they do? Flag down the first civilian who drove past and steal the car? Maybe. But if they didn’t snag one soon enough, or if the new car was a clunker, they were bound to lose the race.
Unless...
Turning to Halloran, Bolan inquired, “Do you know anyone in Naples?”
Custodes Foederis Headquarters, Rome
MARCO GIANOTTI FELT as if his head was spinning as he paced an agitated circuit from his desk to his office door and back again. The call he’d just received from Naples had taken him off guard and left him feeling lost amid the intrigue that pervaded the Sedem Illustratio.
His dalliance with Mania Justina had been risky, but a calculated risk. The threat to Gianotti had increased exponentially when Janus Marcellus ordered surveillance on Ugo Troisi and his fellow Concilium members. Now, he had Claudio Branca interrupting transport of the Holy Ark to Rome with a warning that Troisi might be a traitor. A servant of the Scarlet Whore, no less.
Based on what? A suggestion that Branca’s team hire mafiosi as their escorts for the run through Sicily. A plan that had backfired with nearly disastrous results for Branca and the church’s master plan. Except that Branca now believed the scheme—Troisi’s plan—was meant to backfire from the moment it had been conceived. An act of sabotage, no less, which could have doomed the mission and the church itself.
Was Branca right? Or had the pressures of his critical assignment sewn the seeds of paranoia, blooming now into delusion? Was there some correlation between Marcellus’s suspicion of Troisi and ambushes in Sicily? And if so, was Troisi somehow linked to the other attacks that had wiped out Custodes Foederis temples in Africa, Turkey and Greece?
It seemed impossible, but Gianotti was accustomed to thinking in conspiratorial terms. His mortal enemy, the Scarlet Whore of Babylon, circled the globe with grasping tentacles of greed, corruption and unpardonable sin. Was anything beyond the realm of possibility, where agents of the Holy See applied themselves?
The question now, if he accepted Branca’s theory, was what he ought to do about it. His surveillance of Troisi, brief as it had been—and limited, to spare Mania—had revealed no contact with the Mafia or the Camorra. That wasn’t surprising, in itself, but without proof he couldn’t lay a case before the Pontifex for Troisi being taken into custody. Without some kind of evidence, his hands were tied.
Of course, proof could be fabricated. He could rig the phone logs to reflect a conversation between Troisi and some unknown party in Palermo, maybe Corleone. A written transcript could be ready in an hour, though he’d have no audio recording to support it. Mocking up a tape that would convince the Pontifex might well take days, and Gianotti didn’t have that kind of time to spare.
Not with the Ark swiftly approaching Rome.
Mania could have helped him, vouching for a conversation with Troisi that exposed his plans, but acting out that part meant she would have to sacrifice herself, baring the details of her sexual exploits with Troisi. Fear of punishment by Marcellus could explain her tardiness in warning him about Troisi’s perfidy, but even if she sold the story, it would leave her own neck on the chopping block.
And facing death, she might as well take Gianotti down, for prompting her to lie in the first place.
No good.
One final option came to mind, but it was also perilous. If Gianotti swallowed Branca’s story—still an if—he could eliminate Troisi personally, stage the scene and claim that the man had attacked him in a rage upon discovering his movements had been shadowed. It was thin, but Gianotti’s voice would be the only one remaining to be heard, Troisi in no position to defend himself. If he was dead, with certain evidence concocted in advance, the story just might fly.
But if he planned to take that leap, then Gianotti had no time to lose.
Torre del Greco, Italy
CLAUDIO BRANCA HEARD and felt the tire blow, ducking for the Spectre M-4 submachine gun in its bag between his feet before he recognized the blowout as a highway mishap, rather than the onset of another ambush. Franco Arieti, at the wheel, let out a growl in lieu of cursing and steered the tilting, rumbling van toward the motorway’s shoulder.
“Do we have a jack and spare?” someone inquired hesitantly from the rear compartment.
“Look and see,” Branca commanded. “And be careful with the Ark.”
He shouldn’t have to warn them at this point. Excessive caution should be second nature.
“Spare’s bolted underneath on vans like this,” another of his soldiers said. “Next to the axle.”
And they’d still require a jack to change it, if the spare was in its proper place, hadn’t been damaged or allowed to simply lose air over time. And time was Branca’s problem. They were losing too much of it with this damned delay. Perhaps the hand of Satan reaching out to ruin everything?
Don’t think that way! he admonished himself.
How many tires blew out each day, around the world? A million? More? Branca couldn’t match strength or wits with Lucifer. He had to deal with earthly problems as they came, remain true to his mission and press on.
“I found the jack!” one of his men called out, to brief applause.
The van was parked now, with the escort car behind it on the berm, more traffic flowing past. The vehicles together were conspicuous, Branca decided. Coupled with his hard-faced soldiers, they might draw attention from police if any passed. He stepped out of the van and walked back to the idling four-door. Elio Fontana saw him coming, powered down the driver’s window and sat waiting for instructions.
“We’ll need some time here,” Branca said. “Ten minutes, minimum, and likely more. Instead of sitting here, drive on to Napoli. It’s only nine kilometers. Before the A1 junction, turn around and come back here to join us, eh? We should be done by then.”
“You’re sure?” Fontana asked.
“Better to break this up and keep the police away,” Branca replied.
“Okay. See you soon,” Fontana said, putting the car in gear. Branca stepped back and watched it leave before returning to the van.
“How long?” he asked Michele Sansovino, who was just assembling the complicated jack.
“Not long.”
“I asked how long?”
“Fifteen or twenty minutes, I suppose.”
“Make it fifteen,” Branca commanded, feeling slightly foolish even as he spoke the words. And feeling troubled, too, as if his time was running out. Sand through an hourglass.
He eyed his other soldiers, standing idly on the sidelines, watching Sansovino and Gian Verdone doing the work. “Don’t be conspicuous,” he told them. “Go and sit behind the van, eh? Out of sight until we’re ready.”
Apocalypse Ark Page 24