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  ‘Stop hurting me,’ she pleaded.

  ‘Then stop resisting me,’ he said. ‘I’m helping you.’

  Without offering more, he continued up the Stradone del Giardini towards the back of Saint Peter’s Basilica.

  The stranger’s behavior made no sense. Every time Jennifer expected him to do one thing, he did the opposite. In addition to hiding from the two gendarmes at the library, several other actions told her he was not a police officer. For one thing, he did not have backup, and any trained officer would have already called for help under the present circumstances. Also, instead of continuing to the command center behind Porta Sant’ Anna, he had brought her to the gardens. This was the least of it. After exiting the library, his other behaviors had been just as strange. Even accepting he was no gendarme, rather than cutting across the Belvedere Courtyard towards the Via Sant’ Anna, he had chosen Stradone del Giardini, which ran directly behind the museums. But he did not make his strangest move until, in Stradone del Giardini, he turned left, pulling her away from Viale Vaticano on the north wall. Having avoided the Porta Sant’ Anna, the Via Vaticano gate was their next nearest escape route. And having ignored both exits, his prospects as a fugitive—and hers, by extension—was looking undeniably bleak.

  Clearly, he was also running from the city’s police and was lost. Either that, or he knew of an exit not shown on any map of the Vatican. She was uncomfortably aware that their flight could result in severe consequences if they were captured. From what she knew, her own country’s FBI used extraordinary methods to extract information. And given the Vatican’s history, the Roman Church was no stranger to that. The stranger could be taking her to the Governatorato behind Saint Peter’s; there was, she knew, a small police station somewhere behind the basilica.

  They were approaching a three-story building with an archway leading towards the rear of Saint Peter’s Basilica. Encircling the back were two roads, the vias del Governatorato and della Fondamento. Both exited at the Vatican’s main gate, which stood near the south tower where she had heard the campani’s peal the previous day. She did not imagine they were going there though; the route was twice the distance of the Viale Vaticano gate, which option they had already abandoned.

  She was thinking his behavior could not get any more bizarre when he hustled her into a building across the Via del Governatorato and up a stairway. The exit opened onto a parking lot. Beyond that, the vivid green of the gardens bounded gently over a succession of hillocks. Tears filled her eyes. If only she had thought to enjoy the gardens’ splendor instead of offending the most powerful city state on the planet! She had been hoping to see the gardens since receiving permission to visit the Vatican. As she gazed at the acres of trees, lawns and flowers, her mind ticked over feverishly.

  ‘I’m not going. Not until I know who you are.’

  The stranger paused momentarily. Then, as if flicking a flea, he said, ‘I’m Simon.’

  Without offering more, he continued forwards, this time keeping to the left of the Fontana del Sacramento.

  At six or seven years, her senior, this stranger, this ‘Simon’, seemed older than the average non-commissioned officer. Nor did he wear a cap so that his longish hair fluttered in the breeze like that of a boy half his age. It was time, she decided, to press this Simon for answers.

  ‘Why are you arresting me?’ she asked. ‘I haven’t done anything but glance at some musty, old parchment.’

  ‘I’m not arresting you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said I’m not arresting you. I’m rescuing you.’

  ‘I want to go to my hotel.’

  ‘It’s the first place they’ll look for you.’

  Jennifer clucked her tongue sarcastically. ‘How in the world would they know where I’m staying?’

  The stranger stopped by an electric cart at the side of the road, shoved her into the passenger seat and slid behind the wheel. ‘Who do you think you’re dealing with here?’ he asked switching on the battery-powered motor. ‘These people are connected. They will find you wherever you are.’

  The driver had been lazing on a bench beneath a nearby tree. On seeing them pulling out, he leapt up and began waving his arms like a man possessed.

  ‘Nonono, signore, you cannot take my cart—it’s not allowed!’

  Jennifer screamed in panic for behind the driver, gendarmes were swarming from the building’s exit. She turned and stared at the road ahead. What had she just done? By warning the stranger about the approaching gendarmes, she was now complicit in whatever he had done. He had abducted her for goodness’s sake! How could she trust him—especially considering he was not a gendarme?

  The stranger sped along the narrow road cutting through the center of the gardens. The blood drained from Jennifer’s knuckles as she clutched the dashboard handlebar. She prayed repeatedly they would not crash. A hundred feet further at the Fontana dell’ Aquilone the stranger cut left. The road circuited Saint Peter’s statue. He sped over a crest, swerving several times to avoid pedestrians. On the downward slope, three gardeners were loading containers with branches. It was too late to swerve. To avoid rolling the cart, the stranger steered directly towards them. He slammed his hand on the horn, and Jennifer closed her eyes. She opened them in time to see the one gardener shove his colleague aside before diving for cover himself.

  Simon sped into the next bend. Farther down, he turned into the Via Dell’ Osservatorio. ‘Your interview must have touched a nerve,’ he said. ‘What did you do?’

  Jennifer knew he was trying to extract information from her. Why else would he ask such a thing? She remained silent. She was not sure if the Vatican had anything like the Fifth Amendment, but she would not say one word more without a lawyer. She was in enough trouble as it was.

  ‘Oh, so maybe you did something worse. How about it then? You denounced the pope, didn’t you?’

  Damn! The man did not stop! He must be security. Why else would he ask all these questions? Suppose, despite all outward appearances, the stranger was a gendarme. Suppose this whole flight of theirs was merely some elaborate means of gaslighting her.

  ‘No,’ she huffed. ‘Of course I didn’t—what good would that do anyhow?’

  ‘Well then, what did you do?’

  ‘Okay, okay. I broke into an underground bunker. I found a key card and used it to access the secret archives. But all I got was a two-second glance at some old scroll before they caught me. And when the gendarmes arrived, I was trying to get from them. But then you caught me.’

  The moment the flurry of words left her mouth, she was aghast she had said them. She had admitted to everything and had no idea why. Perhaps telling the truth for a change would help get her out of trouble. True, she felt guilty for lying to Cardoni earlier, and every other time she had been untruthful before, it had resulted in more trouble. This was a legal issue, though, which meant she had to be careful not to incriminate herself more with stupid confessions. If the stranger, this so-called Simon, was a crack Vatican interrogator, the truth was her worst option. Then again, if he were a fugitive like herself, he might very well lose faith in her and leave her behind. Whatever he had done, after all, might be less criminal than her own infractions.

  Jennifer did not know what to think until, finally, she found herself so befuddled that she broke down. Rivulets of tears streamed down her cheeks. The stranger had dismantled her defenses. He had forced her to accept something she had avoided admitting for so long. Her visit to the library, her meeting with Cardoni and now her escape—she had done all of it for one reason alone.

  She brushed the tears away. ‘I did it to confirm my faith. …’

  Chapter 16

  Verretti was enraged. By the way Schreider had acted you would have sworn the Vatican had promoted him to Général d’Armée. Not only had Schreider left without briefing Verretti on the Penitentiary incident, but the colonel had barked orders at every man in the control center without even consulting the inspector. The Swi
ss were just there for show; even the tourists knew it. And really, on a day-to-day basis, their only purpose was to pose for photographs. You might as well have Mickey Mouse protecting the Pentagon! It was Verretti and the gendarmes, not Schreider and his costumed clowns, who took care of the city’s real business.

  What was more, Cardinal Santori’s lapse in judgment in placing Schreider in charge had humiliated Verretti. His Eminence’s oversight now reinforced Verretti’s view that the Vatican needed a single police force. As a thoroughbred Italian, the inspector thought himself just the man for such a task. Surely, he and his men should oversee neutralizing the bomb threat at the Basilica. His anti-sabotage and rapid-intervention units were on twenty-four-hour standby. In situations like this, his force was ten times more prepared than the Swiss. To be sure, the colonel did have more men than Verretti, but the inspector had the entire Corpo dei Carabinieri at his disposal if necessary.

  Descended from a proud line of carabineers, the inspector had followed his father and his grandfather into Rome’s elite force. His two brothers currently served in the carabinieri in Florence, but they were hardly as accomplished. As inspector of the Vatican’s gendarmerie, Verretti had reached the highest rank of anyone in his family. He was the pride of his entire clan. At thirty-eight, he had come a long way. And, with his pedigree and experience, he could easily direct both the gendarmerie and Swiss. In fact, without the Swiss, there would be no overlap, no fuss and no damn conflict.

  The corporal at the surveillance desk reclined in his chair, but he was still intently focused on the sixty-inch LED screen in front of him, and suddenly he cried out, ‘Inspector! You need to see this.’

  Verretti studied the monitor and smiled. The gendarme entering the gardens had the journalist with him on the cart and was heading for the Governatorato. He must be taking her to the station at the government building for interrogation.

  Verretti set off for his office. ‘Have you found the priest yet?’

  ‘No, Inspector.’

  ‘Well, find him. He must be in the Vatican somewhere. He didn’t just sublimate.’

  ‘That’s why I called you, Inspector. It’s the same guy.’

  Verretti returned to the surveillance room as quickly as he had left. ‘Are you sure?’ he demanded.

  The corporal moved the mouse rapidly, feverishly clicking and rolling its wheel with his index finger. Within seconds, he had loaded clips onto several screens. Selecting two portraits, one of the Penitentiary priest and the other of the gendarme holding Miss Jaine, the corporal superimposed their faces on the central LED. They matched perfectly.

  ‘No!’ Verretti howled, throwing up his hands. ‘Where are they going? There’s no exit that way. They’re in the gardens for goodness sake. They’re surrounded by fucking walls!’

  ‘They could be lost, Inspector.’

  Verretti was still studying the image when Adjutant Lioni entered the room. He had just returned from the Penitentiary and was breathing heavily. He also carried a priest’s cassock.

  ‘Where did you get that?’ Verretti called from across the room.

  ‘I found one of our men near the Cortile della Bibliotheca, Inspector. He was unconscious and naked—this lying on top of him.’

  ‘Che cazzo!’ Verretti spat. ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘I called an ambulance for him. He needed stitches.’

  ‘Fuckfuckfuck!’

  Standing in the doorway, Verretti scanned the operations room looking for Weber. When he saw the Swiss officer at the operations desk, he called out, ‘Captain! Where is your Colonel now?’

  ‘He just arrived at the Basilica, Inspector.’

  Verretti swore under his breath. The cardinals were right: the two incidents were somehow connected. Now even the bombing incident seemed to be part of it.

  The inspector turned to Lioni. ‘Get six men to the garden,’ he commanded. ‘Make sure they’re armed. We’re going after them.’

  Verretti slid into his office and pulled his pistol from a desk drawer. Drawing the slide back halfway, he made sure there was a round in the chamber. Satisfied with his inspection, he flipped the safety on before holstering the weapon. Finally, he scanned his desk for anything he might have forgotten and returned to the operations desk.

  ‘Who do you have in the area, Captain?’

  Weber checked his roster. ‘Two men are at the helicopter pad; two are at the Governatorato. And there’s a patrol at Radio Vaticano.’

  ‘Are any of them armed?’

  Weber studied Verretti’s face, unsure if the inspector was serious. In his eagerness to take an active role the inspector had obviously become confused. The Swiss were perfectly capable of handling the situation, no weapons necessary.

  ‘Inspector, these people are unarmed.’

  ‘Just answer me, Captain!’

  ‘Only the corporal at the helipad is.’

  ‘Get him down there ASAP.’

  Weber was now glaring at the police officer. The man had lost his mind. ‘I think you should reconsider that, Sir,’ he said.

  Verretti started for the door. ‘You take charge,’ he barked at Weber. ‘I’m going after them.’

  Weber’s eyes followed Verretti as he approached the exit. ‘You cannot send armed men after them,’ he called out after the inspector. ‘They have nowhere to go.’

  Verretti pushed on, pretending he did not hear the captain.

  Weber watched incredulously as the inspector left Command. ‘That’s murder, for God’s sake!’

  Chapter 17

  When Schreider marched through the main entrance to Saint Peter’s Basilica, his three snipers were waiting in the atrium. He gave last-minute orders before sending them to their positions around the bomber.

  Armed with an SG-550 NATO assault rifle, the first sniper climbed into one of the reliquary balconies. Lying on his stomach, he drew his weapon into his shoulder and adjusted its telescopic sight. The second sniper aimed around the corner of one of the basilica’s monolithic piers. The third sniper kneeled beside a column in the portico of Maderno’s nave.

  Schreider entered the north aisle through the Holy Door. Twenty meters away, a man stood facing Michelangelo’s La Pietà. As if deep in worship, he had his arms lifted in a vee.

  Schreider needed to get closer, but any dumb moves and he, his men and the basilica—not to mention those he served in the adjoining Apostolic Palace—were dog meat. As he stepped forward his leather soles crunched on grains of sand, and the sound reverberated off the sheer marble surfaces around him. He might as well have bulldozed his way in.

  The bomber swung around as expected, but preparedness could not prevent the blood from draining from Schreider’s face. The bomber was a boy, no more than nineteen years old. Schreider quickly assessed the young man’s condition. His bony build indicated extreme stress; his greasy hair and stubble evinced days of neglect; and his sunken eyes, encircled with dark rings, betrayed a lack of sleep. Neurotic and lethal, that was the colonel’s interpretation of the suspect’s appearance. It brought back memories of suicide bombers he had once had to shoot half a world away. Wrapped around the youngster’s torso were eight bars of plastique, each with a detonator and cable, which linked to a receiver on the boy’s chest. In the young man’s right hand was a Bible and, in his left, a cell phone. Forget about the Plexiglas protecting La Pietà; the entire basilica did not stand a chance.

  ‘It’s a lie! A lie!’ the bomber cried out. ‘You all lied to me.’

  Schreider stood in full view of the young man. When he spoke, he kept his voice low: ‘Hey, there. I see you need help.’

  ‘What? Who are you?’

  ‘Ludwig Engel. And you?’ Schreider did not wait for the young man to respond. Instead, he continued to move forward. ‘I hear what you say. I feel the same.’

  The bomber’s eyes shifted from side to side nervously. ‘Don’t come any closer or I’ll do it. I’ll blow it all up.’

  A flashback from Afghanistan shot throu
gh Schreider’s mind. His platoon had just readied itself for night watch at their compound, and the sergeant had set off to station troops at various high points, but had scarcely placed four men, when the sergeant had shouted the words for ‘halt’ and ‘lie down’ in Arab. The approaching antagonist had either not listened or had not understood, for he had continued advancing. Then the sergeant had instructed one of the men to move in on the stranger. At that instant, Schreider had realized something was wrong. The Arab was approaching with too much confidence. Schreider had not seen the explosives around his waist until the sergeant and two troops were already within blast range. Rather than negotiate, the two soldiers began backing away, but the bomber followed. Schreider saw the Arab’s grin, and his heart turned to lead. Any closer, and the bomb would take out the entire platoon. Schreider had no option but to shoot the bomber, yet therein lay the colonel’s conundrum: he would have to choose between sacrificing the three soldiers nearest the bomber now or the rest of his men being killed soon enough. One way or another the sergeant and the two troops were already—they were lost before Schreider had time to squeeze the trigger.

  A week later, NATO had returned three black body bags to Switzerland. And yet, in some sense, the rest of Schreider’s men had been the unlucky ones. They would wear their unseen scars until their deaths. Some would eventually lose limbs; others ended up in wheelchairs. Schreider had been one of only a handful of those in the Swiss platoon whom God had protected from the physical butchery of those early years in Afghanistan. And God did not save any of the men from the deeper scars inflicted by the war; the three-inch, pink slash that snaked over Schreider’s left eye was the least of the burdens he still carried. And yet, if there could be anything positive about that awful day, it was that it taught the colonel that death by bombing was instant and therefore painless.