Page 46 of Skotos
Rinaldi’s hands twitched as he ignored the subtle implication of Thomas’s statement. “And you think the Pope could be next?”
“It as a possibility we cannot ignore,” Thomas said.
The Monsignor rose and began to pace, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Dear God . . . If there’s even a chance—”
“We’re not saying anything definitive,” I cut in, “but we are pursuing every lead we find.”
He stilled and turned to us, panic blooming in his voice, his hand now clutching the silver crucifix dangling about his neck. “Tell me plainly. Is there a threat to the Pope’s life?”
“We aren’t sure. There has been no direct threat, but there was none with the others who were killed. Every leader in Europe is tightening their security in the wake of these murders,” Thomas said calmly. “This is why we need your help . . . to understand what we’re up against.”
“My help?” the Monsignor asked, his eyes widening. “How could I possibly help with something like this?”
I pulled the folded photograph from my jacket and laid it on his desk. “Do you recognize this symbol?”
He leaned in, adjusted his glasses, and stared at the image of the scorched casing and the etched spear. “I’m afraid I do not. This is not Church iconography, though we have many orders in every corner of the world. I suppose it is possible one ofthem may have adopted new symbols without our knowledge, though this is unlike any I have seen.”
“Nothing even similar?” I asked.
Rinaldi shook his head, visibly agitated. “Please, gentlemen, if someone is targeting spiritual leaders—or sees the Holy Father as a symbol of Western power—then I need to alert the Swiss Guard. Why are you here speaking with me instead of them?”
Before we could respond, the doors swung open with sudden force, and a gust of fresh airwhooshedin from the foyer. Every muscle in my body tensed, as two robed attendants entered—but it was the third who stole the breath from the room.
“Holy Father,” the Monsignor said as he bowed deeply.
Tall, composed, and exuding a calm authority that silenced even my whirring brain, Pius XII offered a faint smile. “Gentlemen,” he said, his voice warm and strong, his English carrying the pleasant taste of basil, as any Italian’s voice should. At seventy-four, the man appeared to have lost none of his youthful vigor. “A . . .little birdietweeted that I had visitors from across the great sea.”
Manakin.
Of course, he would have a direct connection to the Pope. He likely had spies or allies in every presidential or ministerial office on the planet. Still, how did the Pope know about our bird monikers? Or was he simply turning a phrase? I’d been in thebusiness too long to believe in coincidences, and the keenness in the Pope’s eyes told me he knew more than anyone suspected—and likely always would.
Thomas and I stood, offering bows of our own.
My throat went dry.
I had no idea how to greet a Pope, but luckily, he spared us the awkwardness with a gentle gesture.
“No need for ceremony,” he said, stepping forward. “Please, sit. Monsignor, gentlemen, would you give us the room, please? I would like to speak with our guests alone.”
23
Thomas
The doors clicked shut, and for a moment the air in the room felt too still, like the silence inside a tomb. The Pope moved slowly, deliberately, to the chair behind the Monsignor’s desk and lowered himself into it as though the weight of centuries now rested on his shoulders, which, I supposed, it did.
Pius was a lean man, his frame cloaked in snowy robes that billowed and shimmered with every motion, a stark contrast against the dark, heavy furniture casting him in ghostly relief. His face, pale as parchment, bore sharp angles and lines carved by age and deep intellect. He studied us with eyes so dark they seemed to draw in the lamplight.
Once we were again seated, the Holy Father steepled his fingers and said, “I understand you requested to speak with Monsignor Rinaldi, but it appears your concerns may reach beyond his authority.”
“We never intended to trouble Your Holiness,” I said, inclining my head with what I hoped passed for proper deference.
Will leaned forward, his eyes fixed on the Pope’s. “Three world leaders have been murdered. Each was pro-Western. The only clue we have is a symbol carved into a bullet casing—a spear, possibly referencing Christian or some other mythology.”
The Pope’s brow quirked upward at Will’s use of the word “mythology,” but he said nothing.
When Will slid the photo across the desk, Pius didn’t touch it, but he studied it carefully.
“Curious. This appears to be Roman, from the first century or the years that followed,” he murmured. “I do not believe this to be a symbol used by the Church, though I am no expert on symbology. I . . . am sorry, gentlemen, I do not recognize this.”
