Exodus

by Tom Fox

  He passed the other man’s gaze over the cart’s contents again and again. The betrayer couldn’t fail to recognize the objects —if not yet, then when his rational faculties eventually returned.

  Finally he released his victim’s head and stepped around him, crouching beside him.

  “And remember this, when the haze is over, when the leftovers of our world are only dust and ashes and the remnants of my brethren have at last moved on. You brought this upon yourself.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  5:55 a.m.

  The explosion shook the ancient colossus of a building as though it were a child’s toy. The incessant peals of thunder from the freak lightning storm were all at once overwhelmed and outgunned. Even though the explosion did not originate in the Sistine Chapel, where Alexander, Molinaro and the investigators were gathered, its force was enough to shake men off balance and rattle the supports of the ancient walls.

  “What the hell was that?” one of the officers cried out.

  “Bomb!” another shouted, his word echoed in the melee of others. The sound of the blast was overwhelming, reverberating in the great space, though there were no visible signs of the explosion within the walls that surrounded them.

  Nevertheless the armed squad had their weapons out and raised in seconds, scouting the vast space with frenzied sweeps of night-sighted firearms.

  The smell of sulfur, smoke and burning plastic began to waft into the chapel.

  “Sounds like it came from beyond, from upstairs,” Molinaro said, his face betraying a new panic as he regained his footing and stood upright. The old man was visibly shaken in more ways than one.

  “Anyone hurt?” the Swiss Guard officer who had questioned Alexander only a few seconds earlier shouted into the sudden maelstrom. He seemed to be, if not in charge, at least one of the more senior figures in the room.

  “All okay here,” came the response, in various forms, from all those in the chapel. As soon as it was confirmed that the blast hadn’t injured anyone in their group, men and women began to run toward the exits, in search of the site of the explosion. Only the forensic team was left behind, to watch over the bloody scene.

  Alexander stared into Carlo Molinaro’s eyes, the two men sharing a silent moment of communal recognition. The horror of their circumstances was expanding. The desecration of the museums’ most cherished shrine had been accompanied by such grotesquerie. The blood and the severed hand—these did not bode well for the potential survival of whomever they had previously belonged to.

  And now the explosion. Wherever it had happened in the museum wings—and it couldn’t have been far—it would have damaged or destroyed incomparable legacies of history.

  Yet what frightened Alexander most was that he knew, somehow, in the depths of his being, exactly where the bomb had gone off. It was not just upstairs. It was in one specific hall. A gallery.

  He knew that if he articulated it, the suspicion leveled against him would grow. But sometimes choices had to be made that went beyond the self. He knew he had to speak.

  “It’s the Gallery of Maps,” he said suddenly. A gasp emerged from Carlo Molinaro’s lips, but Alexander couldn’t bear to face him.

  The tall guardsman spun around. This time his face was entirely free of questioning and bore only the stern gaze of accusation.

  “There is no way you could know that, son, unless—”

  “It’s the gallery immediately above the Vatican Library, which connects just beyond that door.” Alexander motioned toward the eastern corner of the chapel, beyond the altar. “You can feel the heat from the explosion coming from that direction.”

  It was more than heat. Dust from the blast was flowing into the chapel now, confirming Alexander’s claim. The officers who had been with them seconds ago were gathering in the area, seeking to move beyond and examine the blast. It was hours before the museums would open, so the chances of injuries to human life were slight—potentially only night workers, but most of those had already been cleared out after the hand had been found in the chapel.

  “That still doesn’t explain how you knew the blast was coming,” the guardsman said, stepping closer to Alexander.

  “No, it doesn’t. I knew about it from—”

  “I know, from your dream.” The officer spat out the words. His face broadcast a clear message: he had lost patience with the incomprehensible mysticism of the man before him, whatever past experiences they might have in common.

  Alexander knew what the other man was going to say next even before the words came. This time it was not by premonition but simply observation. The guardsman extended a hand and a nearby officer placed a set of handcuffs into it.

  “Alexander Trecchio, as pro tempore colonel of the Swiss Guard, I am arresting you on suspicion of terrorist activities against Vatican City and the inflicting of grievous bodily harm on a victim as yet unidentified. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you say may be given in evidence.”

  “Officer, is that really necessary?” Carlo Molinaro stepped forward, visibly unhappy at the turn of events. “Alexander’s not the sort of person who—”

  “This man has demonstrated knowledge of a crime scene that I suspect could only be known to one involved in the crime,” the guardsman interrupted, fastening the cuffs on to Alexander’s wrists.

  “But Captain Deubel,” Molinaro continued, clearly well aware of the identity of the imposing officer though still referring to him by his old rank. “Despite the oddity of his comments, it’s impossible for me to believe that Alexan—”

  “His knowledge of the bomb was demonstrated before the explosion,” Remo Deubel interrupted. As recently named acting commandant of the Guard, he wore his new authority well. He spun Alexander toward himself. “Which means you knew it was coming, which again suggests some sort of involvement in this criminal act.” He glowered into Alexander’s wide eyes. “And if you think I’m going to buy your ‘it came to me in a dream’ story, you’ve got another thing coming. No matter what you’ve done for the Vatican in the past.”

  “You can’t do this,” Alexander said urgently. His eyes implored the arresting officer.

  “You can make your explanations later. I would recommend you do so in the presence of your lawyer.”

  “No, you can’t do this,” Alexander said again, more urgently. His eyes grew wild. His stomach rolled. The tension of right and wrong, real and unreal, churned within him. Sweat spilled down his temples.

  “You can’t do this, because that wasn’t the last bomb.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  6:09 a.m.

  “You’re telling me you’ve planted another bomb in this building?” asked Deubel. Without waiting for a reply, he clicked the radio at his shoulder and called through to his operator. “Code ten. We have an active multiple bomb threat in the museums. One device already detonated. Suspect in custody has announced he’s planted a second. Identity: Alexander Trecchio, with a history of past intrusion. Case records will be on file.”

  “Not intrusion,” Molinaro shouted. “Assistance! You were there, Remo. You know how Alexander helped the Vatican. The Pope!”

  But Alexander’s mind was not on self-justification. History was history, even his own. He responded only to Deubel’s charge. “It’s not true,” he protested. “I haven’t planted anything.”

  “Don’t give me that shit, son. You’d better hope the first bomb didn’t kill anyone, but I wouldn’t count on being so lucky twice.”

  Alexander shook his head. “This isn’t my doing.” He glanced toward Molinaro, who eyed him uncomprehendingly. Alexander pleaded with him silently: You have to believe me!

  He turned back to Deubel. “If you feel you have to arrest me, fine. But I’m telling you, however I know it, I’m absolutely certain there is another bomb in this building. At least let me help you find it. Do what you want with me after that.”
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  Remo Deubel eyed him carefully. It was clear he had no faith in Alexander’s honesty and thought him entirely culpable for everything that had happened thus far. But the offer of being led toward a second bomb—even if by the man he believed to have planted it—was not one to be thrown away lightly.

  “Where is it?” he asked flatly.

  “I’m not certain.”

  The commandant guffawed. “Don’t waste my time. You said you wanted to help.”

  “I’m not … I need to think. To remember.” Alexander stared vacantly around him. He had seen the altar, the hand, the paper, all in his dream. The sights had triggered the memory of a bomb.

  The sights.

  “Take me into the Gallery of Maps,” he said. “I need to see the site of the explosion.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  5 hours 26 minutes ago

  Dragging the betrayer by the chair, rather than by hands tucked into armpits, proved a far more manageable approach. The attacker—though he didn’t like to think of himself like that; he preferred something more noble, perhaps “deliverer,” perhaps “redeemer”—would have to carry the betrayer again later, when the time came to remove him from these hallowed walls and prepare for his return. The little paper trail that would ensure he was contacted had already been left, and the attacker knew that once his victim was called, he’d come—that meant getting him into position when everything was ready, which was going to be a heft. He wasn’t against a bit of relief until then.

  He had allowed his captive to gaze a long while at the objects of wrath. He was certain the images had seeped far enough into his mind that they would break through when the time came. Afterward, he’d covered his eyes with a blindfold. The visions should be concrete, substantial, without the intervening monotony of transportation through the elaborate surroundings.

  Each scene should burst into his mind as a fresh image he could not escape.

  He’d slid the betrayer’s chair along the smooth floor to the lift next to the granite stairs, down again to the main floor. Walking through the long corridor of the library was like stepping through another world. Its frescoed ceilings were almost impossibly ornate. The glass cases on either side housed works that had changed the course of history. It was majestic and glorious—the man with the slender fingers had always been a lover of history, after all—but it couldn’t attract his attention now. This hall was not his final destination.

  He dragged the betrayer around a corner. Suddenly they were where he wanted them to be.

  He positioned his captive directly beneath the appropriate visage and set the chair upright. Close, very close.

  Almost body to body. Though hers towered so mightily over his.

  For a moment he hesitated before the figure. In his heart it felt wrong to employ such pagan means to accomplish righteous ends. But the time had come to move on. The Fraternitas Christi Salvatoris, the brotherhood that had sustained him for so many years, had been crippled beyond repair. But maybe that had been preordained. They had ruled like princes in a foreign land for too long. Sooner or later their authority was bound to crumble.

  Even the greatest prophet, Moses himself, had once been a prince—but there came a moment when that edifice fell, when his people had to be liberated. When the Egyptian king turned from friend to enemy and with all his rage sent them on their journey. The journey that ultimately set them free.

  The deliverer—yes, he liked that title—peered up, his eyes wide. Suddenly the figure towering over him didn’t seem inappropriate at all.

  He had already prepared the environment, disarming the alarm systems in the large alcove, then positioning one of the objects he’d fashioned on that mighty pedestal. Just where it needed to be. And there was another life nearby. The woman was to prove essential, even if her life could not afford to be as long as the man’s.

  He lifted away the blindfold, gently slapping the betrayer back to such alertness as the drug allowed.

  “Look closely once again,” he instructed softly, right into the bound man’s ear.

  The betrayer stared wide-eyed, his head propped upward, as the woman with the white eyes stared down on him.

  Chapter Sixteen

  6:18 a.m.

  The south end of the Gallery of Maps—one of the most stunning spaces within the Vatican Museums after the Sistine Chapel itself—was almost unrecognizable. The 120-meter-long expanse had been decorated by the famed friar cartographer Ignazio Danti, a favorite of Pope Gregory XIII, in the late sixteenth century, and its forty massive panels depicting the topography of Italy remained, even in the twenty-first century, the largest pictorial study of geography in the world. The gold-inlay ceilings that ran down the corridor, itself extending the full length of the great Belvedere Courtyard, was a marvel of the extravagance of Renaissance interior design. There was no other space like it on the planet.

  And this morning, its southern end was reduced to cinders.

  The entire floor was fragmented, with the site of the bomb—at the southwestern corner of the gallery, not far from its shared wall with the Sistine Chapel—now a small crater.

  “My God,” gasped Molinaro as he followed Alexander and Commandant Deubel into the space. His eyes were immediately wet with tears. Most of his life had been spent studying and preserving the treasures in these rooms. In a split second, hundreds of years of irreplaceable history had been erased from the earth. It was clearly too much for the old man.

  “We’re here,” Deubel announced gruffly. “So tell me what this helps you to remember.” He pushed Alexander, none too gently, into the center of the debris.

  Alexander gaped at the sheer destruction around him. He had never been at the site of a bomb explosion before. In an instant he became aware that, for all the tragedy he had experienced, there was still so much horror that was foreign to him.

  And yet something about this was unsettlingly connected. Not only to the visions in his dreams, but to far more than that. To his past. To the events of the summer. That word, inscribed on the paper clutched in the severed hand: Revenge. Revenge was a response. Alexander somehow felt that whatever this was a response to, it was something that involved him.

  Only he didn’t have the faintest idea what. Or how. And yet for all his ignorance, there was his strange and unexplained knowledge.

  How do I know what I know?

  The question repeated and repeated as he stood amidst the debris. But as he stared at the crater, still smoldering, where the bomb had vented its wrath, one question tore at him even more deeply.

  What else do I know?

  Chapter Seventeen

  Sleep

  There is a clapping in the heavens, a stomping, as if whoever dwells above is rough-footing their displeasure on all of us beneath.

  A sharp pain at my cheek. My eyes are open, and the world spins and swirls around me. So many colors, but all in the darkness. I cannot focus. I am lost in a world of changing shapes, in which everything is moving. Except me. I am stone, like a mountain. My fingers and toes are rocks that cannot be unearthed.

  “Look!”

  A voice. It speaks to me from the darkness. I try to obey, but my head will not turn.

  “Look!” It beckons again, and I will my eyes to comply. The ethereal voice is strange. Powerful. Angry. It comes at me from every side. “See what you have brought us to.”

  There is the thunder again. The inhabitants of Heaven are roaring their approval at their mouthpiece’s words.

  I cannot focus. Something is before me. It is one, then it is two. Two. The two somethings, cylindrical and mystifying, start to come into clarity.

  I am suddenly closer.

  The voice prods me to attention.

  “Look at the wires …”

  Chapter Eighteen

  6:24 a.m.

  The vacant cavity where the bomb had lain before the explosion no longer appeared empty to Alexander. He could see a shape, a presence that lingered in his memory. A shadow that required
no light.

  “It was here,” he said, pointing at the cavity.

  “That much we could have got without Dr. Clairvoyance,” Deubel snorted. His sarcasm was outweighed by his impatience.

  Alexander waved aside the interruption. The image in his mind was faint and he didn’t want to let it pass.

  “Three wires on the left faceplate,” he continued, staring at the empty space in the floor. “Not cauterized—fixed with clamps. Matched by another set on the right plate.”

  The officer of the Swiss Guard was suddenly at full attention. The degree of detail with which Alexander was speaking appeared to surprise and further anger him in equal measure, so far as Alexander allowed himself to take note of the man’s expression at the edge of his vision.

  “Two separate quantities of C4.” He tried to focus his thoughts. It was almost as if he could hear the device’s details being narrated to him, somewhere in the back of his mind. His head throbbed. He massaged the soreness in his neck.

  “A keypad timer, linked to dual redundancy, linear circuits off singly insulated wires, interwoven. Home-built.”

  He blinked, and the vision was gone. The hole in the floor was empty. The faint voice of his dreams was silent.

  He turned toward the other men. Carlo Molinaro’s expression was unreadable, but Deubel’s was pure suspicion.

  “I’m not going to ask you the source of all this information,” he said, drawing closer to Alexander and speaking slowly. “I only want to know one detail in particular.”

  Alexander recoiled at the officer’s advance, but Deubel grabbed him by the shoulders. Alexander’s cuffed hands prevented any resistance. Deubel pulled his face so close they were almost nose to porous nose.