Page 101 of Skotos
I pulled out my credentials, the same ones that had gotten us inside before. “American intelligence,” I said. “I’m working with Monsignor Rinaldi.”
The guard glanced at my papers, his expression unchanging. He handed them back with a shake of his head. “Mi dispiace. Nessuno entra.”
“Look, you don’t understand.”
Two of the machine-gun-wielding guards stepped up. Each was a head taller than me and bore a linebacker’s build. I took a reflexive step back.
“Thomas!”
My head whipped toward the voice. Monsignor Rinaldi hurried down the inner hall, his cassock billowing behind him like black wings. His face was pale and drawn, aged by what looked like years in the space of hours.
“Lasciatelo passare,” he barked at the guards. “Subito!”
The guards hesitated for a moment, exchanging questioning glances, then stepped aside with obvious reluctance. Rinaldi grabbed my arm and pulled me through the gates, his grip surprisingly strong for such a scholarly man.
“Thank God you’re alive,” he muttered as we walked quickly across the courtyard. “We are still trying to understand what happened.”
“Where’s the Pope?” I interrupted. “Is he safe?”
“Yes, yes, the Holy Father is safe. He is shaken but safe.” Rinaldi stopped walking and turned to lean toward me, his voice dropping to a whisper. “It was Cardinal Severan who was shot. Severan was one of our most senior officers, a close ally and longtime friend to Pope Pius. He has since disappeared from the medical facility. You will want to see what he dropped when the bullet struck.”
We moved through corridors and ascended stairs. The usual quiet dignity of the Vatican had been replaced by an electric tension in which priests and officials hurried past with grim expressions and whispered conversations.
“Your partner?” Rinaldi asked suddenly.
“They arrested him,” I said. “I saw them take him away.”
Rinaldi nodded grimly. “His Holiness is aware. That’s partly why—” He stopped mid-sentence as we turned a corner.
Ahead of us, the corridor was lined with Swiss Guards. They were not the ceremonial guards with their halberds and renaissance uniforms, but modern soldiers in tactical gear and modern weapons. The sight was jarring, almost obscene, like seeing angels armed for war.
“Dolce Madre,” Rinaldi breathed.
Two of the guards flanked a simple wooden door, their weapons held at the ready. One of themrecognized Rinaldi and gave a curt nod, stepping aside to allow us entry. Neither guard said a word, though both eyed me with heightened suspicion.
“His Holiness is inside,” Rinaldi whispered. “He asked to see you when you arrived.”
The room beyond was small and sparsely furnished, a sharp contrast to the opulent chambers we’d met in before. A single wooden table sat in the center, surrounded by three plain chairs. Maps and documents were spread across the table’s surface. A telephone sat silent in one corner.
Pope Pius XII stood with his back to us, staring out a narrow window at the chaos still visible in the piazza. He’d shed his formal vestments for a simple white cassock. For the first time since I’d met him, he looked every one of his seventy-four years.
“Your Holiness,” Rinaldi said softly.
The Pope turned, and I was struck by the change in his face. Gone was the calculated serenity, replaced by something far more raw: grief and what looked like barely contained fury.
“Mr. Snead,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I am told your partner has been detained.”
“Yes, Your Holiness, the Italian police arrested him during the shooting.”
The Pope nodded slowly. “That will be remedied shortly, though there are matters we must discuss first.”
Rinaldi moved to close the door behind us, then took a position near the window.
“What happened up there?” I asked. “On the balcony?”
The Pope moved to the table and sank into one of the chairs with a weariness that seemed to settle into his bones. “Two of my cardinals were shot. One lies dead. Cardinal Severan would have died, if not for the body armor he was wearing.”
“Body armor?” I blinked. “A cardinal was wearing armor?”
