Page 108 of Skotos
“He is wounded and on the run, but still dangerous.” The Pope’s voice hardened. “He knows our security procedures, our protocols, our weaknesses. We will change our routines, alter our schedules, and conduct a thorough review of all security protocols, but until he is captured or killed, I remain a target, as do many presidents and prime ministers.”
I exchanged a glance with Will. The hunt for the Order of Saint Longinus had just become intensely personal.
“Your Holiness,” I said, “we will need access to Severan’s records, his travel itineraries, anything that might give us a lead on where he’s gone.”
“You will have whatever you need,” the Pope replied. “But be warned, if the Order was willing to sacrifice a cardinal to get close to me, there is no telling what they will do to protect their secrets.”
And somewhere in the shadows of Rome, the Order and a wounded cardinal were planning their next move.
51
Will
Aweek had passed since Cardinal Severan vanished from the Vatican infirmary. We had nothing to show for our investigation but frustration and dead ends. Nothing. Not a goddamn thing.
I sat across from Thomas in the sterile briefing room of the US Embassy, watching him flip through yet another stack of reports that all said the same thing:
“Subject not located. Cold trail. Investigation ongoing.”
Fluorescent lights hummed overhead with the kind of persistent drone that made my teeth ache. The windowless basement room smelled of stale cigarettes and bureaucratic defeat. Coffee rings stained the table between us, evidence of too many long nights spent chasing ghosts through the labyrinth of Roman intelligence networks.
Thomas reached for his coffee cup. There was no wince, no favoring of his injured shoulder, nosubtle pause before lifting his arm. Either the man had healed with supernatural speed—which was impossible—or he was doing what Thomas always did: gritting his teeth and pretending he wasn’t hurt.
I grabbed the telephone and dragged it to my side of the table, then dialed the number I would take to my grave.
A voice growled after two rings, “Manakin.”
“Condor and Emu.”
“Anything?” he asked without greeting or preamble. There was a time when small talk was his purview, but juggling one international crisis after another had worn down his social skills—or maybe his desire for human interaction altogether. Either way, I couldn’t really blame him. The world sucked.
I held out the phone for Thomas. He grasped it and let his shoulders settle into a slump of exhaustion. “Same as yesterday.” He tossed the papers in his other hand down. “The chapel’s underground chamber has been cleaned out completely. There’s not so much as a scrap of paper left behind. Somebody was thorough—professional-level thorough.”
I rubbed my eyes, feeling the grit of too little sleep and too much coffee.
Manakin asked, “What about Severan’s quarters? His family estate? Other private apartments no one knows about?”
“Empty—and I don’t mean empty like someone packed in a hurry. I mean empty likethe room was sanitized by a hazmat team.” Thomas leaned back in his chair. “There were no personal effects, no correspondence, no books, no prayer journals, nothing that might give us a clue about where he’s gone or who he’s been working with.”
“The Vatican’s own people searched?” Manakin asked.
“Swiss Guard conducted the initial sweep within hours of Severan’s disappearance. Vatican Security brought in specialists the next day, the kind of people who know how to find hidden compartments and secret panels. They even had Italian forensics experts examine the walls for traces of removed materials or biological contaminants.”
“Eww,” I said, unable to keep my mouth shut.
Thomas chuckled and then shook his head. “It’s like Cardinal Niccolo Severan never existed. Whoever cleaned up after him knewexactlywhat they were doing. They likely cleaned everything out in the days before the assassination attempt.”
I stood and began pacing, my shoes squeaking against the polished linoleum. Seven days of searching, seven days of pulling every string we had, seven days of coordinating with Vatican resources that should have been able to track down a wounded cardinal in a city where the Church had eyes on every corner.
Manakin pressed, “What about his contacts? Other cardinals he was close to?”
“Like the Pope?” Thomas said, his words dripping with sarcasm. “We interviewed twelve members of the College of Cardinals who had regular contact with Severan. All claimed they knew nothing about his unauthorized travels or any suspicious activities.” Thomas sifted through his stack of folders until he found the one he sought. “Monsignor Rinaldi personally vouched for most of them. He said they were genuinely shocked by the revelation of Severan’s involvement.”
“And you trust Rinaldi? Believe him?” Manakin asked.
Well, shit.
That was a question neither of us had asked. We’d worked so closely with the man from the day we’d arrived in Rome that his betrayal had never fully crossed our minds. Thomas and I exchanged a look, then he said, “Yeah, we trust him. So does the Pope.”
