Page 13 of The Medici Return

So he was hesitant. For a variety of reasons.

“I understand this is unusual,” Bartolomé said. “I question that too. But the situation itself is unusual and requires definitive action.”

“I have never killed a prelate before.”

“Do you accept the job?”

He looked deep into the eyes, shrewd and watchful. Their benefactor paid generously, which Bartolomé shared in. But it was also always his choice. “I do.”

“Here’s some additional information you may need.” And Bartolomé handed him a sealed white envelope. “There is also one special condition that is critical. It must be easily determined to be a suicide. No questions. And the original assignment remains. Keep proceeding there.”

His envoy walked off.

Their business concluded.

All communication came through Bartolomé, then money appeared in a Swiss account. The arrangement suited him. He had little curiosity to know more, since people with questions often wound up dead. So he did what was asked, went where sent, and left it to others to ponder its meaning.

But this was different.

He stood among the stones and gathered his thoughts, paradingthem in mental order as if unruly soldiers. A lot was apparently happening. Serious enough that the killing of a cardinal was required.Our Lord Jesus Christ will require the blood of the evil government of shepherds who are negligent and forgetful of their office.

Okay.

He would deliver.

CHAPTER 6

DILLENBURG, GERMANY

COTTON STARED THROUGH THE CRACK MADE BY THE PARTIALLY OPENdoor into the priest hole and spotted a thin metal wire running from the panel back into the hidden compartment.

A trip wire?

Possibly.

He’d expected something. There had to be more security here than simply a remote location that no one would suspect as a secret repository. But cardinals could not be too overt with security since, after all, why would they need such measures? They supposedly lived a life of chastity and poverty as princes of the church. Most of them were bishops and archbishops, leading dioceses around the world. Some were merely titular bishops, officials within the Roman Curia. A small number were priests, recognized for their extraordinary service. The duties of a cardinal werein additionto those other responsibilities. Their selection came solely from the pope at his discretion, and their most solemn obligation was to elect a papal successor.

He’d done his homework and knew that Jason Richter was a German who’d first studied in Paris, then obtained a doctorate in theology from the University of Mainz. A learned man for sure but unskilled in economics or finance, which had made observerswonder why he was appointed to the commission that oversaw the Vatican Bank. Perhaps it was his connections? He’d served as a member of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith and as president of the Council of the Bishops’ Conferences of Europe. He entered the Curia upon his appointment as vice president of the Pontifical Council for the Laity, then as president of Pontifical Council Cor Unum. He’d also served as a papal envoy to hot spots around the world. The current pope counted Richter as a friend, which, more than anything else, explained his selection. The pope had once publicly called Richtera clever theologian. A comment that would surely come back to haunt, if a scandal ever broke. He knew that Richter had no idea he was under suspicion. Which should allow for an uneventful sneak and peek. So he focused on the trip wire and saw that it led downward into a leather satchel. The wire was attached to the door panel by a screw. Gently, he moved the hinged door inward just enough to create slack then reached in and unwound the wire from the screw, freeing it. That was probably the way Richter would gain access too, knowing the trap existed. With the phone’s light he further examined the gap and saw no more wires.

Okay. Here goes.

He opened the panel.

The space beyond was a rectangle about two feet deep and six feet high. Hell of a place for a person to hide. Like a vertical coffin. Just looking at it brought on a wave of anxiety. Tight spaces were not his favorite. He hated them. But he assumed hiding here was definitely better than the alternative, which would have been torture and death for those medieval priests.

He gently opened the top of the leather satchel and saw that the bag was full of neatly bound euros. Lots of them. The wire ran into one of the bundles on top. He knew what that was. A dye bomb. Normally used in bank robberies. Camouflaged as money and rigged to explode once a robber left the building, staining the bills, making them useless.

He carefully removed the bundle that accommodated the dyepack, laying it on the compartment floor. The wire was connected to a metal pin that, once withdrawn by opening the door, would have activated the booby trap. He was now able to further examine the money and saw it was all in crisp hundred-euro notes.

The intel had been correct.

He found his phone, snapped a few pictures, and sent them off to Stephanie Nelle.

Okay. Mission accomplished.

He replaced the satchel and re-inserted the dye pack. He re-attached the wire and closed the panel door, which clicked back into place. He was about to leave when he heard the growl of an engine, then the screech of brakes as tires grabbed pavement. He stepped over to the window and gazed down at the semicircular drive.

A police cruiser had arrived.

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