Page 104 of Skotos
The door slammed shut with a finality that echoed off the concrete walls. I sank back ontothe cot and tried to ignore the icy fear spreading through my chest. They thought Thomas was a fugitive now, which meant every cop in Rome would be looking for him. If they found him, they might offer him the civility of an arrest as they had me.
Then again, they had me in custody for answers; they didn’t really need him alive.
That thought sent a fresh chill down my spine, but before I could dive into a pit of my own malaise, voices in the corridor outside jolted me upright. There were multiple speakers, a few of the officers I recognized and another I couldn’t quite place. There was something different about the way the officers spoke then. They sounded less aggressive and more . . . deferential?
I moved to the cell door and pressed my ear against the cold metal, trying to make out what was happening.
“. . .Sua Santità è qui . . .”
“. . .non è possibile. . .”
“. . .ordini diretti dal Vaticano. . .dalla sua stessa santità.”
Santità? The Pope? His Holiness was here?
Orders direct from the Vatican. From the Pope himself.
What the hell?
Footsteps approached, not the heavy boots of the police, but softer steps, accompanied by the whisper of fabric and the faint clink of metal. Thevoices grew clearer as they approached my cell, and I caught fragments of conversation that made my heart race.
“. . .rilasciatelo immediatamente. . .”
“. . .ma, Santità, è accusato di. . .”
“. . .le accuse sono ritirate. . .”
Release him immediately.
But Your Holiness, he is accused of—
The charges are dropped.
A key turned in the lock, and the cell door swung open to reveal a sight that would have been surreal even in the strangest fever dream. Pope Pius XII stood in the doorway of my cell, flanked by two Swiss Guards in their traditional uniforms.
The Pope himself.
In a police station.
Coming to collect me like I was some wayward altar boy who’d been caught smoking behind the church.
“Mr. Barker,” the Pope said, his voice carrying the same quiet authority I remembered from our previous meetings. “I apologize for the delay. There were certain . . . diplomatic protocols that needed to be observed.”
Behind them, looking rumpled and worried but very much alive, stood Thomas.
I stared at him, my mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. “Your Holiness, I . . . what are you . . . how didyou—”
“All in good time,” he said gently. “For now, let us say that your credentials have been verified to the satisfaction of the Italian authorities. Call it . . . a matter of faith.”
The Pope’s mouth curled into a tight smile.
Behind him, the police sergeant who’d been so eager to insult American arrogance now stood with his cap in his hands looking like he wanted to disappear into the floor. His face had gone from red to white, and he was making small, nervous bowing motions every few seconds.
“Santità,” he stammered, “mi dispiace tanto—I am so sorry—if I had known—”
The Pope raised a hand, silencing him with a gesture that probably dated back to the Apostles. “No harm was done, Sergeant. You were simply doing your duty. Thank you for protecting me with such . . . ferocity.”
The sergeant bowed his head but still tried to defend his actions. “Holy Father, the charges against this man—”
