Page 26 of The Medici Return

Instead, he simply pointed to the right.

Time to head for Munich.

COTTON RETREATED TO THE SHOP, WHICH ALLOWED HIM AN ANGLEDview up to the second level. The woman stepped off the escalator and turned left, walking for a bit before the upper railing, then disappearing into the upper terminal. He hurried up the escalator and came off, catching sight of his target. He stayed back, using the bustle all around him for protection. She was fifty feet ahead, headed for the Munich train. He found his phone and sent a text to Stephanie, which expressed the gravity of the situation.

This has become a lot more complicated.

CHAPTER 15

JASON WAS IN A PANIC.

His religious life was spartan, his tastes simple save for well-prepared food and some good wine. True, he could be at times pedantic, a little cynical, and he disdained illogical tradition. He’d told himself more than once to mind his tongue. But for him the great new sin of modern times was the unwillingness of people to become involved. The sin of omission. He loved the glory of the church. The sunlight slanting through stained glass laying down fields of fractured color. An organ and chorus together echoing off the vaulted ceilings. And the triumphant hallelujahs.

It all made sense to him.

He’d waited in the evening warmth, watching as Ascolani waddled his way out of the Vatican Gardens, not sure what to do next. He knew the petty humiliation was designed to sting, to slowly sap away all courage and strength, replaced with a helplessness that hopefully led to capitulation. But he also knew the enemy here was more than Ascolani. The Curia was like a malignant serpent that slithered in darkness and drew strength from the confusion of its opponents. That hydra had many heads, and when one was severed, two more grew back. The only way to slay themonster was to face it squarely, resist the paralyzing dread, and aim straight for its heart. Nothing else would work.

So he needed to get moving.

To do something.

He fled the gardens and kept his pace slow and steady, showing not a hint of the apprehension that coursed through him. He knew cameras were everywhere. Not often was he scared. He could recall only one time before in his life. When he knelt before the bishop to take Holy Orders and become a priest. His calling came in his early teens, when he heard the Lord say,Give me your life and trust me as to what I am going to do with it.He’d not hesitated, offering himself completely, but telling no one. His father’s sudden death when he was seventeen made him frustrated with God. Why was that good man taken? What was the point? There’d been catechism in school, but not much. Never was he an altar boy or privy to any of the church’s inner workings. He was twenty and in college when, out of nowhere, he heard a voice say,Be a priest.

So he applied for and was accepted to the seminary at Sankt Georgen School. There he was exposed to different cultures and ideas, all of which opened his eyes to view the church as a universal entity. He also learned that religious service could take many forms, and his seemed to be in administration. From the day he lay before the bishop and accepted Holy Orders he started a steady rise up the ladder to now being a cardinal, part of the select committee that oversaw the Vatican Bank.

Or at least that was the case until a few minutes ago.

Now he was suspended and exiled.

He kept walking, leaving the confines of the secured areas behind the basilica and heading for St. Peter’s Square.

In its simplest form the Catholic Church was a global community of believers founded by Jesus Christ over two thousand years ago. There were more than one billion Catholics, from countless diverse cultural backgrounds, all united by the same central religious creed. They sprang from the first group of Christians that ever existed, from which all other Christian groups emerged. Butat its heart the Catholic Church had always been an institution with a unique leadership structure. Servant-leaders. Priests. Following the example of Jesus. At the service of those whom they led. Men, like himself, who’d answered the call and undergone Holy Orders. Becoming a priest was then, and remained, a special privilege. Christ picked his twelve apostles. So the church selected its own servants. But sadly, it was not exempt from having bad apples. They came in all forms. Some incompetent. Others arrogant and vain. Some downright evil. He was not any of those. He’d been a good priest and cardinal.

Why was this happening?

Was it his outspokenness?

He’d been warned to tone down the rhetoric. But he’d thought himself immune to retribution thanks to his friendship with the pope, who’d privately encouraged him to speak out. He supposed now, thinking on it, a comment made a few weeks back may have placed him on Ascolani’s radar. “The church should be as brave and outspoken about women as it has been about so many other subjects.” He’d been talking to the Curia, who were expert at thwarting change. But for him, reality was clear. The church could no longer operate without women actively being a part. They were the future. But men like Sergio Ascolani were not interested in change. They liked the status quo.

The only way to slay the monster is to face it squarely, resist the paralyzing dread, and aim straight for its heart.

So he had no choice.

Go straight for the heart.

CHAPTER 16

STEFANO FINISHED HIS DINNER, A TENDER FILET OFSPANISH BEEFwith some pasta. He was careful about what he ate and worked hard to maintain a lean physique. He stood tall but not overly so, with square shoulders, sinewy arms and hands, and a face sharp-featured, the eyes capable of being both piercingly astute and as naïve as those of an innocent, depending on the situation. He was nearing forty and considered himself in his prime. For the past few months he’d been training hard for the Calcio with daily workouts. Those fifty-minute games, running on a soft carpet of sand, took a toll on the body. But he was in terrific shape, no ordinary priest. Not at all. He was a working intelligence officer who’d been dispatched to hot spots across the globe. Now he was entangled with something that struck close to the heart of the Holy See. The ongoing fraud trial had tested everyone’s nerves. Sure, there’d been scandals before. Plenty. But never had the Vatican publicly charged and tried the offenders for the world to see. Every member of the Curia was following the unfolding events. Especially Cardinal Ascolani, who’d taken a personal interest in the entire manner.

He knew all about the crusty Italian.

Ascolani was old school. Born south of Turin in the Piedmont to a rural family. His father had been both a tailor and a ChristianDemocrat in parliament, his mother a respected schoolteacher. He’d studied in Rome, obtaining a doctorate in theology, then trained as a diplomat at the Pontifical Ecclesiastical Academy. He had a special talent. Languages were easy for him. Ascolani spoke eight fluently. Which made him ideal for the diplomatic service. He finished his pastoral work in Italy before being moved overseas, serving in South America, Asia, and Africa. The current pope elevated him to secretary of state the day after the last conclave ended. Why? Pundits said it was payback for his help. Not unusual. Especially considering that Ascolani had been in the running for the papal tiara himself. But nonetheless odd since the new pope and Ascolani had never been considered friends. In fact, the new pontiff passed over several close associates to give the coveted second-in-command position to Ascolani.

Stefano paid his bill and left the restaurant, walking back to Vatican City. Ascolani had told him to stay close, and he’d followed that order. He crossed the narrow streets, squeezing between parked cars and finally entering St. Peter’s Square. A car passed by, its windows tinted dark, bearing the distinctive license plate of the Vatican state. Not many people out tonight enjoying the fountains and obelisks. He passed through the security checkpoint and reentered the restricted areas. Ascolani had sent another secure text telling him to come immediately to his official residence, which had necessitated the skipping of dessert. Which he’d not liked. Sweets were a soft spot and that restaurant made some terrific gelato.

Ascolani’s residence sat atop the Palazzina della Zecca, near the center of the Vatican. The building itself served as a hotel for visitors, along with accommodating several cardinals in residence. Stefano had visited before. The apartment seemed more something that a Forbes-list billionaire would enjoy than a home for a prelate pledged to austerity. Ascolani assumed control of the space right after his appointment, merging two flats into one, and had been steadily renovating ever since. About five hundred square meters, three times larger than the pope’s residence and a hundredtimes more opulent. The furniture was all imported pale wood—sleek, elegant, and modern. Ascolani’s spin on the project, and its expense, was that the apartment would henceforth serve as the official secretary of state’s residence. A place where holders of that office could impress and persuade emissaries. A stretch? Without a doubt. But no one had questioned the move. Not even the pope. Three nuns took care of all of the domestic work, and the interior was also furnished with an impressive array of antiques and other collectibles from the Vatican Museums’ extensive collection.

A Swiss Guardsman allowed him onto the private elevator, which took him straight to the top of the building. The car opened into a marble foyer that led to the front door, which Ascolani opened, inviting him inside and offering a seat. His boss was out of uniform. No black cassock or red robes. Just pants and an untucked shirt, slippers on his feet. The casualness reflected the level of trust being placed in him.

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