Page 43 of Skotos
“Remind me not to serve it,” she replied with a wink.
A soft bell chimed somewhere down the corridor. The Baroness stood, smoothing her gown with regal precision. “Your driver is here. Otto, naturally. He is likely outside polishing the bumper and muttering about the best s'mores he’s ever eaten.”
I groaned. “If he tries to sell us Idaho farmland again—”
“Just nod and pretend you are considering it,” she advised. “His prattling ends far more quickly that way.”
We strode outside to find our luggage loaded and the morning sun painting the valley. Otto beamed as we approached, already opening the car door like he’d been waiting years for this moment.
“You will keep in touch?” she asked.
“We will,” I said.
“And try not to scandalize the Swiss Guard,” she told Thomas.
“Have you seen their uniforms? I make no promises.”
She giggled like a schoolgirl, then kissed us both on the cheek, lingering just long enough to remind us who ran the show. “Go save the world, boys, then come back and tell me all about it.”
21
Thomas
On any other occasion, I would’ve been thrilled to see the ancient architecture that shaped the known world, but given our mission, my stomach thrashed like a feckless swimmer about to drown.
Ours was a direct flight thanks to the Baroness. She insisted on booking the travel herself. Otto waved us off like a proud uncle, promising to till a field in our honor someday. I fully expected a sack of potatoes to show up unannounced on our doorstep in Rome.
As we emerged from the tangle of arrivals at Ciampino Airport, I scanned the crowd for a sign or familiar face. Instead, a short man in a crisp tan suit stood beside a black Fiat holding a placard with block letters: SNEAD.
We crossed over, introduced ourselves, and were quickly ushered into the back seat. The driver, whointroduced himself as Carlo, offered a rapid-fire itinerary.
“You will stay at Hotel Eden,” he said, glancing at us through the rearview mirror. “The Agency contacted the ambassador, who personally made arrangements for your meetings. Tomorrow, you meet Monsignor Rinaldi at ten, then a private audience, possibly with the Pope himself, though no guarantees.”
Will and I exchanged a long look.
“Let me guess,” I said. “We’re not allowed to ask questions about the itinerary.”
“Of course you are.” Carlo grinned. “You just won’t get any answers.”
“And why is that?” Will asked, his arms crossing before he finished.
Carlo smiled through the rearview mirror again. “Because I am only a driver. I know nothing of the workings in the Vatican and even less about the goings-on at the embassy.”
I rolled my eyes so hard I worried they might pop out and smack Carlo in the back of his head. Neither of us believed the man was a simple anything. More likely, he was one of the resident spies who worked for the Rome station chief and was more informed about what occurred in his city than the local papers or radio stations.
But such was the game we played.
Spies ferried spies to not-so-secret meetings in which they hoped to learn less-secret information. Had everything not been so serious, I would’ve found it all terribly funny.
The car moved through ancient streets that shimmered under the late afternoon sun, bouncing and jarring as it bounded over cobbles and fought through potholes. Domes and crosses crowned the skyline like stone watchmen.
I felt an old unease creeping in—Rome had never been my favorite place. There was too much ceremony, too many secrets dressed up in gold leaf and marble—and habits.
Will leaned in. “You think the Pope will actually meet with us?”
I shook my head. “Doubt it, not unless someone is really spooked.”
“I don’t think the stairs here go any higher than His Holiness, andheshould be spooked,” Will said. “Three Western leaders dead? If someone’s trying to frame the Church—or worse, act in its name—he can’t afford silence. Besides, who’s to say he’s not on the target list?”
