Page 73 of Skotos
Will’s eyes locked onto something in the corner behind me. I glanced back, not sure what I was supposed to look for.
“What?”
He stepped past me, moving as though his feet didn’t want to take him to his destination. When he reached the far end of the chamber, his flashlight cast an eerie glow against the rough stone of the walls, and my heart stilled.
“This may be the answer to who’s doing the targeting,” he said, grabbing something off the wall and turning to face me.
In Will’s hands was a hanger on which hung the black cassock of a priest—with the red trim of a cardinal. On the same hanger was azucchetto, the crimson skullcap worn by Catholic clerics of the highest rank.
“How many cardinals are there in the Church?” Will asked.
“Seventy, give or take. Pope Pius hasn’t ordained many over the years. I read about it back in Paris. Some Church leaders worry the lack of fresh blood among the cardinals is leaving the Church unmanageable or vulnerable.”
“How many of those live in Rome?”
I thought a moment. “I would guess half, maybe more. They’re the senior leadership, and many work out of the Vatican like executives in a corporate headquarters.”
“So, which of those cardinals is involved in a plot to kill world leaders?” Will asked, draping the garment over the back of one of the chairs.
“Hang on,” I said, raising a palm. “All we know is that a cardinal’s outfit was found in the basement of a Catholic chapel.”
“A long-ago abandoned chapel with a dungeon filled with clippings about murdered world leaders.”
I shrugged. He wasn’t wrong. “Okay, fine. The setting is . . . suspicious. Still, this doesn’t prove anything. What if the Soviets—or some other actor—got their hands on this cassock to frame the Church? I doubt they’re that hard to find—or to make.”
Will looked unconvinced but didn’t argue. He turned away and resumed scanning the newspaper clippings, his flashlight barely settling on one before moving to the next.
“Why have a secret chamber? If this isn’t—”
“I believe this is where they met. It might even be their home base,” I conceded.
“And we stumbled in here like drunk freshmen tripping through the Yard?”
“Something like that.” I smirked, recalling Will doing exactly that in our days at Harvard, though he wasn’t a freshman at the time. “And that’s why we need to finish looking around and get out of here. If that priest gets back into Rome and makes a phone call before we’re out of here, we could be in serious trouble.”
Will nodded absently, his focus fixed on the articles.
“What was on that note?” I asked, suddenly remembering the message in Will’s pocket.
Will turned, shaking his head. “What note?”
“The one you took from Marini.”
His palm flew to his face. “How could I forget something I pried out of a dead man’s hand?”
“It’s not like we were interrupted by a knife-wielding monk or anything,” I quipped.
Will rolled his eyes and dug into his pocket. Unfolding the paper, he held up his flashlight and froze.
“What?” I asked. “What’s it say?”
“It looks like this was torn from a larger page. There are only two complete names. The rest are fragments torn away.” Will looked up.
“Well? Who are the two you can read?”
“George VI and Pius XII.”
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