by Tom Fox
The captive priest smiled, his eyes hard, content.
“You made me observe all those … those terrible things. Made it feel like a dream. You wanted me to take the blame.”
Abbate laughed. “Well, I can’t have everything I wanted. It would have been a fitting end, I thought. Let your death be marked out by fear, let you implicate yourself in everything.” His voice was an angry, impassioned roar. “Let everyone think you guilty, let the whole world believe you were evil! Just like you did to us!”
Revenge.
The single word on the paper in Beatrice Pinard’s hand flashed like a banner into Alexander’s vision.
Abbate leaned toward him.
“You can’t have a good exodus without people believing Pharaoh is the Devil.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Two months earlier
The world was collapsing around Monsignor Taylor Abbate. Everything was ending. Everything was over.
It had not been ordained to happen like this.
He had given his whole life to the Fraternitas Christi Salvatoris. The entirety of it, though he still had his best years ahead of him. He’d given far more than most members of their ranks. Others talked and plotted, but he had been willing to act. He had done what needed to be done. He’d wetted his fingers with blood.
It was he, when action was necessary, who had taken on the humiliating, menial role of assistant to a cardinal so that he could gain access to discussions at the highest levels of the curia. And it was he, when the season had demanded it, who had slipped poison into the tea of the prince of the Church, who’d stood outside the door and listened as Cardinal Trecchio wheezed his constricting final breaths and fell to the floor.
And he’d done it without hesitation. All great men had been willing to kill when necessity demanded it. Abraham was ready to slaughter his own son. David took to the sword. Joshua led his people into battle.
Taylor Abbate had acted with such fervency because he knew that the ranks he had joined were ranks that sought power, and that power came to those who were prepared to grasp it. The fact that he was a priest was neither here nor there. Even God needed willing helpers.
But Abbate had always known he wasn’t helping God. He was helping himself. There was a ladder to climb, and he knew the route to the top. It meant sacrifice, loyalty and determination—but all those things would pay their rewards in turn. In the name of the old ways, he would rise to a power he’d never before known. All he had to do was play the game, then wait for his due.
And then he’d been forced to watch as his world ended. One foolhardy plot, dreamt up by their leader and then gone awry, was all it had taken to destroy everything. When Cardinal Donato Viteri was killed, the Fraternity had fallen apart. The few members who hadn’t been exposed and arrested had gone into hiding. Most had ignored Abbate when he had tried to call meetings, choosing instead simply to slip back into their normal ecclesiastical roles, as though the Fraternity had never existed and they’d never been a part of it.
Cowards.
But hope was never truly lost for men who were determined to thrive. All it took was resolve, and even the worst situations could be turned to good.
Abbate had opened up his well-worn copy of the Bible one afternoon, and one book, one story had called out to him.
When all hope was lost in Egypt, Moses had risen up and led his people out of darkness into a land of peace and power. The exodus had cost him much. It had meant leaving everything behind. The only world he’d ever known, the world he’d been committed to fighting for, had to be laid waste. Those who had held his people captive had to be crushed, destroyed, defeated.
Only then would the sea part and the fires of heaven lead him to the Promised Land.
Taylor Abbate had read the familiar story, and it had spoken to him in a new way. It was no longer a chapter of history. It was an invitation. A guide.
If the Fraternity was to survive, it would have to be transformed. The few members who remained committed would have to reinvent it, give it new purpose and a new face. They’d spoken together, and they were ready to change. But first their brotherhood had to be led out of its captivity. It needed its own exodus, and its own Moses.
Taylor Abbate was willing to provide it with both.
Chapter Thirty-Five
7:55 a.m.
Remo Deubel stepped between Alexander Trecchio and Taylor Abbate.
“I know there’s a lot more to understand in all this,” he said, the pace of his words quick, “but the timer on this bomb has just turned over five minutes.” He glanced around the room. The bomb squad still hadn’t arrived. It was now impossible that they would be here in time.
The gaze of the goddess Ceres remained immobile, dispassionate, high above them.
“Everyone out of here. Clear the area. There will be just enough time to make it out the front entrance.” Deubel’s face bore an unmistakable expression. Time’s up.
“Wait!” The command came from Taylor Abbate, leaning forward in Bruno Nencini’s clutches. All eyes were suddenly on him. “It was me! I admit it!” Few had harbored any question as to his guilt since his exchange with Alexander had begun, but his sudden intervention startled the room all the same. His next words shocked it into silence.
“I’ll tell the betrayer how to disarm the device.”
Deubel stared into the captive’s face. For the first time, the senior guardsman’s expression bordered on frantic.
“Why should I trust you? You have no reason to help him or us.”
“But I confess!” Abbate pleaded, his tone all at once dramatically different. “I confess to it all! I wanted my revenge, I wanted Alexander Trecchio condemned for everything he’d done to us. To me.” His face, which up till then had been a picture of rage, looked as desperate as the commandant’s.
“I never thought it would come this far,” he continued, clipping his words. “It’s got out of hand. I’m sorry!” His eyes bored into those of the head of the Swiss Guard. “Please, let me help make this right. I’m a priest—let me find redemption before it’s too late.” He held up his cuffed hands, imploring.
Deubel seemed to consider the offer, then turned back to his men. “I have no reason to accept this man’s sudden change of heart as anything but a ploy. Everyone get out of here as instructed. There’s no way in hell I’m releasing him to toy with this device.”
“You don’t have to!” Abbate shouted back. “Leave me cuffed! I don’t need my hands to tell him what to do.” He wagged his head toward Alexander. “Just uncuff him. You’re right, all of you. I did this, and I made him do more than just watch. He’s had his hands on the bomb before. I can tell him how to disarm it.”
The crew was already in motion, but Deubel had stopped his own retreat. There were only minutes left. It was worth a shot. Only just, but …
He turned toward the officer standing closest to Alexander.
“Release Trecchio’s hands.” He turned back to Abbate. “Tell him what to do, now. But I warn you, you give him one instruction I think is suspect, and I’ll kill you myself before I let you make this situation worse.” He withdrew his sidearm from its holster, making his point without subtlety.
The captive priest nodded, and Bruno carefully brought him a few steps closer to the heart of the room.
Alexander rubbed at his wrists as the cuffs were removed, then stepped forward and knelt down before the bomb.
“Behind the black plastic panel you’ll find all the control wires,” Abbate said, leaning to his side to get a better view. “Once it’s open, you’ll need to disconnect the wires in precisely the right sequence.”
“Everyone back away,” Deubel commanded. “All non-essentials, keep clearing the room. Get out of the building.”
“No!” Abbate shouted. “Nobody moves! Everyone stays, or this doesn’t happen.” His voice was a fire of rage, fierce again after its unexpected pleas of repentance, but after a breath he added, more softly, “Once we start ma
nipulating the wires, even the slightest vibration of the floor could set this all off.”
Everyone froze in their places. Deubel’s gaze was iron, his gun clenched in his grip and only inches away from Abbate’s head.
Alexander peered up at the vengeful man. The face was now familiar. He had seen it from this position before: Alexander himself kneeling, Abbate above him. In his dream it had spoken angry words. I want you to remember … it was you who did all this.
The dream and reality were impossible to distinguish.
“As I was saying,” Abbate continued, returning his attention to Alexander, retreating from his fury and his pleas to a state of almost preternatural calm, “you’ll snap off the plastic cover, and then you’ll have to pull the wires in precisely the right order.”
“Okay,” Alexander answered.
He turned back to the device. The timer on the front now read less than ninety seconds.
“Get me started,” he said, anxiously. His hands were covered in sweat and he rubbed them against his shirt. “We don’t have any more time.”
He closed his eyes, trying to calm his nerves, as he listened to Abbate’s instructions. The angry man spoke slowly.
“You’ll need to start with the green wire, on the left. Then the blue, on the right. Next you’ll take the red wire, also from the right.”
Alexander repeated the instructions in his mind. Green, left. Blue, right. Red, right.
“Finally, the yellow wires at the bottom,” Abbate added, keeping his words measured and slow. “Left side first, then right.”
Alexander visualized the process behind his closed eyelids, calming his breathing and trying to steady the shaking he could already feel in his hands.
The time had come. He had to act now.
He opened his eyes, then reached forward and placed his fingers at the edges of the black plastic cover to the control panel. He heard the faint snap of its holds releasing as he pulled it gently toward him.
He lifted the cover away.
And his heart stopped.
Chapter Thirty-Six
7:58 a.m.
Alexander couldn’t move. After all that had happened, after all he had just heard from the mouth of his attacker, the man behind this whole horrifying affair, the sight before him made no sense. He simply couldn’t understand what he was seeing.
And then, in an instant, he could.
The control panel was open, and he’d been given the order for disconnecting the wires. But the color sequence he was still reciting in his mind was now entirely out of place. Impossible, for one simple reason.
All the wires were red.
He turned toward Abbate.
“What is this? These wires, they’re all the same. There aren’t any other colors!”
Abbate’s face was a horrible smile, widening as Alexander spoke.
“I thought you wanted redemption!” Alexander protested, understanding dawning. “Why have you—”
“Because,” Abbate spat, leaning down and thrusting his face directly into Alexander’s, “because fuck you and your redemption!”
Alexander lunged toward the other man, bringing their faces directly together.
“It can’t happen like this. Not for you.” There were only seconds left. His words raced, but he tried to plead. It was his last option. “You can’t set your people free, you can’t lead them into some new life, if you’re dead.”
Abbate’s eyes were cold. “Others will take care of what comes next.” And then, as if it summed up his life, “Even Moses didn’t make it to the Promised Land.”
For an instant both men remained frozen, their gazes interlocked, before Abbate finally burst into wild laughter. Someone pulled him away, and around him Alexander could vaguely hear the shouts of officers demanding that everyone clear the hall as fast as they could. At the edge of his vision he saw Molinaro turning toward the door as men on all sides scrambled for the exits. At this point, their only option was to make it far enough away to survive.
But with a certainty that sank solidly into his heart, Alexander knew that for him, it was futile even to try.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
7:59 a.m.
The culmination of a life rarely comes with a countdown. Life surges. It ebbs and flows, and at some point—spontaneous, unforeseen—it snaps to its end. Will that end be heroic, stalwart and inspiring, pointing the way to other things? Will it be couched in cowardice? Or will it simply be silent, meaningless and unremarkable, fading into a darkness from which there is no retreat or return?
In an instant, Alexander knew his own life’s culmination was to be different. It would not come as a mystery, sneaking up on him unawares.
It would happen—it was happening—now.
So much doubt and despair had filled the forty-four years of his life. So much despondency. So much loss. Yet there had also been joy. There had been times of peace. He had experienced happiness. And though he’d lost it, he’d once known faith. And love. Perhaps the greatest tragedy, here in this instant, was the awareness that he was only beginning to know both of those again. Two impossibilities, becoming possible.
But there would be no more. His life was to end here. His memories would be firmly locked, and then they would disappear. All the potential for the future would vanish. His life would be frozen, forever after the sum of the choices he’d made. Of the deeds he’d done, and those he’d left undone.
Including what he chose to do right now.
He turned back toward the device, which suddenly looked strangely peaceful beneath Beatrice Pinard’s cold hand. Its timer was still counting down.
00:00:09
Father Taylor Abbate, the deluded new prophet of his illegitimate, backward group, would have his revenge after all. His hatred would triumph. Whether he was pulled to safety or died in the blast, whether the other surviving members of the Fraternity led it to a new life or not, the remainder of Abbate’s life would be lived satisfied, content that he had justly repaid the man who had betrayed him.
00:00:08
Alexander reached forward, drawing the wires into his fingers. They seemed so ordinary. So fragile. He knew that if he pulled out the wrong one, the bomb was almost certain to go off.
00:00:07
But he also knew that if the countdown was allowed to reach zero, it would go off all the same. The colossal goddess towering over him would shatter in a blast that would tear apart the ancient buildings, killing untold scores of staff, onlookers, officers.
00:00:06
There was no way he could clear the site in time to avoid the blast. Escape, however enticing, simply wasn’t an option.
00:00:05
Suddenly Alexander’s mind was filled with more memories than his consciousness could bear. But unlike those of his dream, these were crystal clear, and his heart knew why he was experiencing them.
Into his vision burst the face of a woman. Not the drained face of Pinard. Not the stony visage of the goddess. It was the face of Gabriella Fierro, with her every precious, wonderful feature. Her porcelain skin. Her elegant cheekbones. Her dark eyes.
00:00:04
He saw the smile she had given him as those eyes had opened when he’d thought they would never open again. He’d believed her dead, but he’d been proven wrong. He saw her lips quiver as they took in breath. He felt the strongest urge to pull them to his own.
00:00:03
He saw the laughter in her face as they’d had dinner together a few nights before. A romantic interlude in his troubled evenings. She had sparkled.
00:00:02
He saw her seated in her favorite pew in the shimmering light of Santa Maria in Trastevere. He saw her love. He saw her faith. He saw the certainty she bore, somewhere deep within, that good is a greater power than evil. That light ultimately wins out over darkness.
00:00:01
Alexander looked down at the bomb, his fingers still clutched around the clump of wires. He fixed the face of his love in his
mind. He said a prayer.
And he pulled.
00:00:00
Acknowledgments
For a writer of thrillers, the biggest thrill I’ve received lately is the wonderful response to Dominus that has come in since it was published last summer. I’m profoundly grateful for the reaction readers have had, and to so many of you for sharing them with me—and providing me with the impetus to compose this follow-up, to carry on with the tension and the fun. The joy of a novella, rather than a full-length novel, is the ability to play with just that much more mystery and cloudiness, popping into a scene at full bore and bounding our way through it—a story that flashes in and out of life like a bright match. I hope you’ve enjoyed this small “aside” with Alexander Trecchio in the aftermath of the events that he and Gabriella Fierro got up to in Genesis and Dominus, and that for a few moments I was able to get your heart rate up again.
My thanks as always to Luigi Bonomi, agent extraordinaire, and for a lovely lunch we had with Thomas Stofer over cold wine on a hot London afternoon a while back, where a few of the thoughts of this story (and almost the whole vision of Dominus) were born. Everyone at LBA Books (especially Alison Bonomi and Danielle Zigner) are on my perennial thank-you list, and each for good reason. Gratitude also to Miles Orchard for editorial comments and notes on the earliest, and roughest, of drafts; and to Darcy Nicholson, now Assistant Editor at Transworld, for her fantastic editing on this text, carrying on in the superb tradition she laid out with its two predecessors.
The team at Headline is a joy to work with. I’ve rarely known such enthusiasm and talent paired together as I encounter on a regular basis in the person of Emily Griffin, Commissioning Editor, whose shepherding of these stories from concept to design to distribution (not to mention being a gifted editor in her own right) is simply remarkable. She and the whole Headline family—I cannot fail to mention my excellent copy editor, Jane Selley, who always knows what I meant to say, in just the way I meant to say it; and Sara Adams, Editorial Assistant, who keeps all the gears moving in the elaborate publishing machine I don’t even pretend to fathom—are what make Headline the kind of publisher authors consider it a treat to work with.