Inside the Sagrada Familia
Hellen was also trying to fight her way through the crowd to the altar, but it was like swimming against the tide. She could see that Palffy was already standing next to the Pope and saying something to him. The Pope was surrounded by security guards, Guerra among them. For the first time, Hellen noticed the unassuming priest who had been sitting next to Palffy. He, too, was standing with the Pope. Now, flanked by security men and Palffy, Hellen saw the Pope move away from the altar and out of her line of sight, one of the many massive pillars of the Sagrada Familia briefly blocking her view.
“I’ve lost sight of them. Palffy and the Pope are on their way out,” Hellen shouted into her headset. She was still more than ten yards away and struggling to make headway through the fleeing masses. “Okay, I can see them again now. Palffy’s with the Pope. They’re heading toward the side exit.”
Cloutard heard Hellen’s announcement and was confused. “Hellen, can you repeat that? The side exit? I just saw Guerra with the Pope going down to the crypt.”
Tom broke in. “But that makes no sense. There’s no other way out of the crypt. Maybe they went to the back of the sacristy?”
“But I can clearly see Palffy going to the exit with the Pope. I’m going to stay on him. Tom, you take Guerra,” Hellen said.
But Cloutard was insistent. “Something isn’t right. I swear I saw Guerra with the Pope. They were on their way down into the crypt.”
Tom, meanwhile, had reached Cloutard.
“What’s going on, François? Have we got two popes now? One in the crypt and one on his way outside? Can you take care of Ossana and Noah? Hellen’s going after Palffy. I just hope you’re right and the Pope is still here.”
“We also saw the Pope being led down to the crypt. And frankly, he did not look very pleased about it.” Sister Lucrezia had overheard Tom’s last words. She, Sister Alfonsina, and Sister Bartolomea had spotted Tom and had followed him to the altar.
“I don’t know what Guerra’s up to down in the crypt, but it can’t be anything good,” Tom said. “If he really has the Pope, they might be planning to kill him in the crypt. The only question is: who is Hellen after?”
Cloutard shrugged. “I think I’ll go and have a little talk with Ossana.”
Tom nodded. “I’m on Guerra!”
He raced down the steps to one side of the altar, heading toward the crypt. What he didn’t notice, however, was that the three nuns were following him.
Hellen had now made it outside, just in time to see Palffy climb into a limousine with the Pope and two security men. More security guards had cleared a path for them through the crush of people, but had not managed to clear the road completely for the car. The scene in front of the Sagrada Familia was one of indescribable chaos, everyone pushing and shoving to get outside and away from the church as fast as possible. News of the bomb threat had spread like wildfire, even outside.
“Palffy’s just got the Pope into a car. They’re leaving. I’ll stay on them,” Hellen shouted into her headset, unsure if anyone could even hear her.
The security detail had ushered Palffy and the Pope into the second of three armored Mercedes limousines. More bodyguards and the Pope’s camerlengo climbed into the other two. The convoy started to move, though it could do no better than a walking pace for the moment. The police tried frantically to clear the streets, but with little success. The driver of the Mercedes carrying Palffy and the Pope laid on the horn, but could hardly move. Hellen ran after the car, but knew she would not be able to keep it up for long; a nun’s habit wasn’t built for a sprint. In a few hundred yards the car would reach the edge of the exclusion zone, and they would have open streets ahead of them. She had to think of something.
People were running to her left and right. The chaos was complete. Hellen reached the corner of Carrer de Lepant and saw the Pope’s car diminishing in the distance. She turned and saw a motorbike approaching. Without hesitation she ran into the street in her nun’s outfit and blocked its path, her arms outstretched. The driver hit the brakes hard, skidding and dropping the motorbike onto its side. It slid along the road for a several yards, coming to rest at Hellen’s feet. The rider looked to be uninjured, and Hellen picked up the motorbike, climbed on, and sped away.
“I’ll bring it back, I promise!” she called back over her shoulder.
The car with Palffy and the Pope stopped at the intersection of Carrer de Valencia. This was her chance. She could still catch up. She cranked the throttle and the machine accelerated. She hadn’t ridden a motorcycle for years, but now was no time to think about that. Only one thing mattered: she had to stop Palffy and save the Pope.
66
Crypt beneath the altar, Sagrada Familia
“Do we have enough light?” Guerra checked the cell phone that one of his men had set up on a tripod. On the display, he saw the Pope on his knees, framed in front of the altar in the crypt.
The crypt itself was an impressive piece of architecture, larger than the nave of many churches. From the gilded keystone of the dome, twelve struts curved to every side, coming to rest atop mighty columns. Behind the columns, a colonnade circled the entire crypt, and several small chapels were also arranged around the almost-circular structure. At the base of each column was a stand supporting a bowl about twenty inches in diameter, and in each bowl, the eternal flame flickered. The dark-brown wooden pews, facing the simple altar, were arranged in two rows, leaving a narrow central aisle.
Guerra nodded benevolently and strode toward the altar. As he passed the Pope, he leaned down to him and said, “These pictures will go around the world. The Pope, beheaded in the name of Allah with the Sword of Peter, at the altar of one of the most famous churches in the world. We’re going to break YouTube.”
Slowly, he lifted the ancient sword from its chest, which lay on the altar. He flourished it skillfully over the Pope’s head a few times.
“Don’t worry, it’s still extremely sharp,” he said to the Pope.
The Pope looked up at Guerra, but with no fear in his eyes.
“What do you think you will achieve? The Catholic Church has survived worse crises. It will not make Islam stronger,” Holy Father said calmly.
“Silence!” Guerra snapped. “You have no idea what this is about. Do you really think we’re putting on this circus for something as banal as religion? For belief in a God? You are an old and deeply naive man.”
Tom had stopped at the top of the final section of the stairs leading down and had overheard the entire exchange. Below him, on the floor of the crypt, he saw the charred husks of the smoke bombs that had caused all the chaos a few minutes earlier. He had to intervene, and there was no time to waste, but before he could move, he heard a noise behind him. He turned and saw Sister Lucrezia, Sister Alfonsina and Sister Bartolomea.
“Jesus, what are you doing here?” he whispered. “This is damned dangerous. You’re just in the way.”
Sister Lucrezia glared at Tom and whispered back, “You will stop cursing in this house of worship, Thomas. The Lord will look after us. We have no intention of standing idly by while the Holy Father is kidnapped, not if we might be able to do something about it.”
Tom decided not to get into a debate just then. Instead, he shook his head, checked his Glock, and crept down the last twenty steps. Although the stairway was clearly visible from the altar, Guerra and his men were so focused on getting their setup right that they didn’t notice Tom as he slipped down along the wall on the right side of the stairway.
Guerra continued to prowl around the kneeling pontiff, who was now deep in prayer. Tom, meanwhile, had arrived at the bottom of the stairs, which came down to the right of the altar. The stairway opened into the colonnade, and he concealed himself inside the first small chapel. On the chapel floor, right by his feet, he read “Antoni Gaudí i Cornet.” The word “Cornet” was what caught Tom’s eye. He was standing in the tomb of the world-famous architect. Ah, Cornet, he thought.
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br /> “Are you two idiots finally ready?” Guerra looked at his two assistants. “We have to make this quick. The bomb squad will get here any minute. They’ll search the entire Sagrada Familia for a bomb that doesn’t exist, and they’ll probably start down here. Masks on, and let the games begin.”
That’s my cue, thought Tom. He had surprise on his side. With his pistol raised, he stepped out of his hiding place. Two well-placed shots and Guerra’s two companions went down, one with a hole in his head, the other with a bullet in the chest. Tom completed his swing to the left and took aim at Guerra, but hesitated. He was facing the man who killed his parents—he had him in his sights. Tom’s hesitation gave Guerra a momentary advantage: a quick turn and Guerra was behind the Pope, the Sword of Peter pressed to the pontiff’s throat. But even with a sword at his neck, the Pope remained absolutely calm.
“You’re tenacious, Wagner, I’ll give you that. I must have been too nice to you so far, but that ends today. I’m going to finish you off myself. First I’ll take care of him”—Guerra had knocked off the Pope’s zucchetto and now grabbed him by his grey hair and pulled his head back; he pressed the sword harder against his neck—“and then you.”
Guerra and Tom stared each other in the eye. Neither moved.
Suddenly, a voice rang out. “Holy Mary preserve us!” The three nuns were standing beside Tom.
Guerra laughed. He pointed with the sword at the nuns. “What’s this, Wagner? Your backup?”
At that moment, Sister Lucrezia cried, “Conquiniscere!”
Guerra didn’t understand the word, but he found out what it meant when the Holy Father, without warning, ducked forward.
Tom saw his opportunity and seized it. He fired twice, two bullets slamming into Guerra’s shoulder. The mercenary stumbled backward, releasing the Pope. A heartbeat later, Tom rushed at Guerra and knocked him to the floor of the crypt. The sword slipped from Guerra’s grasp. The nuns rushed over and helped the Pope to his feet. Quickly, they led him away to the stairs. Tom picked up the sword and moved around the prone and bleeding Guerra, the blade tip pointed at his throat.
“Don’t do it!” the Pope, behind Tom, called out. The pontiff’s voice resounded through the crypt. The authority in the leader of the Catholic church’s voice took Tom’s breath away, and not just his: Guerra, too, seemed paralyzed. Tom looked around. The Holy Father was standing at the base of the stairs, his arms raised as if to prevent Tom from killing Guerra. “All they that take the sword shall perish with the sword. What was true for Simon Peter on the Mount of Olives is also true for you, my son.”
A deathly quiet settled over the crypt. No one stirred. Even Guerra was momentarily overwhelmed by the Pope’s words. Tom looked down at the sword in his hand. He tossed it aside, into the center aisle, but immediately drew his Glock. Sister Lucrezia plucked at the Holy Father’s robe.
“We have to leave, Your Holiness,” she whispered.
At the same moment, Tom heard a female voice through his earpiece. “You haven’t got a prayer, Wagner. More importantly, you have no idea who you’re up against. You simply cannot win.” Tom knew the voice. Ossana. “Might as well say goodbye to your friend in the wheelchair.”
Tom heard the crackle of static and a high-pitched whistling noise; Ossana had broken the connection.
A violent blow swept Tom’s legs from under him and he hit the marble floor hard. Guerra had taken advantage of Tom’s inattention and knocked him off his feet with a twisting kick. Tom’s Glock was knocked from his hand as he fell; it skittered away underneath the pews.
Guerra leapt to his feet and threw himself on top of Tom. But this time Tom was faster. He wasn’t going to drop his guard a second time. Lying on his back, Tom was able to turn Guerra’s momentum to his advantage. He grabbed Guerra’s arms and, using his legs, catapulted the mercenary away. Guerra landed painfully on one of the pews closer to the exit, knocking it over with a crash. Tom rolled onto his side, trying to get to his Glock, but from where he lay it was out of reach.
Despite the bullets in his shoulder and the hard landing, Guerra was back on his feet fast. If he was in pain, he didn’t show it. Tom, too, was on his feet again. He saw that Guerra had pulled a knife. Tom slid the telescopic baton from his belt, flicked it out to its full length with a jerk, and went on the offensive. He attacked Guerra from the front, darting forward quickly like a fencer, and knocked the knife from his hand.
Driven back to the side of the crypt, Guerra grabbed one of the flaming bowls on its stand and pushed it over toward Tom. The burning oil flooded the floor, setting fire to the nearest wooden pews. Tom retreated in alarm, but jumped to the other side of the column and drove Guerra farther back. At the next column Guerra pushed over another bowl, then another.
Tom could go no further. Guerra moved through the center aisle, heading for the altar and the two dead men. He grabbed one of their pistols and immediately fired at Tom, who ducked for cover behind a column.
“Do you still remember?” Guerra called out.
Guerra took out his phone, and a few seconds later music began to play. Music that went straight to Tom’s core, the saddest piece of music he had ever heard. His memory came back then, with none of the gaps. The music was the start of his mother’s favorite piece, “Brockes Passion” by Georg Philipp Telemann. The pain that seared through him was beyond his ability to describe. Tom had been injured many times on missions, but none of his old wounds came even close to the torment he experienced in that moment. Once again, he was a little boy confronted by a wall of fire, staring at the burning car in which his parents had perished. The minor strains of the overture did the rest: Tom was unable to move a muscle. Guerra had him in his control, like a marionette on strings.
“You should have listened to my advice,” Guerra shouted through the blazing flames, and he fired in Tom’s direction once more.
Tom could not reply. He slid down to the base of the column, while the music in his head grew louder and louder, dragging up the pain of years, cleaving him like a scalpel. The fire only made things worse; Tom felt he was on the verge of losing his mind completely. The crypt was slowly becoming oppressively hot and the air began to burn his lungs, but Tom was helpless to overcome the pain of his memories. He could only stand there, seven years old, crying his eyes out, in front of him only burning debris. And from one moment to the next, he was completely alone in the world.
“Remember what I told you twenty years ago,” Guerra bellowed, grinning like a demon. “Don’t stick your nose into things that are none of your business.”
The heartbreaking minor theme had now given way to an almost merry-sounding oboe. Guerra briefly closed his eyes. He felt safe. He could enjoy this moment. Eyes shut, he kept on talking. “Your mother loved Telemann, didn’t she? Just before that bomb tore her to pieces, she was listening to this very piece.” He pointed to his cell phone. An aria began, and the words they both heard were like a kick to Tom’s gut when he was already down:
“Break, my heart, flow forth in tears.”
Tom was finished. The man he suspected of murdering his parents had not only just admitted it, but seemed to have known all along who he was. And he was taking diabolical pleasure in pouring salt onto Tom’s wounds.
And then, suddenly, the world for Tom stood still. A moment of clarity jolted through him like an electric shock. He had to confront his pain and fear, not bury them deep inside himself. He had to unshackle himself. His life would never again be what it once was. But to free himself, he first had to overcome himself: he had to choose to live. After that, dealing with Guerra would be a piece of cake.
In the aria, the Daughter of Zion sang, “Hear his sniveling, sighing, yearning, look how full of fear he is,” and something shifted inside Tom.
Summoning all the strength and willpower he could muster, Tom made his choice. He could see where his Glock lay beneath a pew. Bracing against the column, he pushed himself to his feet and glanced around the corner. Guerra, his eyes cl
osed, was still savoring the sounds of the music: this was Tom’s chance. He launched himself from behind the column, threw himself flat on his stomach, slid across the smooth marble and grabbed the gun. He fired immediately in Guerra’s direction, but the bullet went wide. The shot tore Guerra out of his trance and brought him back to the moment. Taken by surprise by the sudden change in Tom, he ducked for cover and returned fire. Both men ran, bent low and shooting at each other, Guerra down the center aisle and Tom around the encircling colonnade. Separated by burning pews, both weary, they took cover again.
“What are you up to, Wagner?” Guerra said, still goading Tom. “You can’t win. We’ll always be one step ahead of you. And if you think killing me will change anything, think again. We are everywhere.”
67
Atlas Mobile Command Center, a park behind the Sagrada Familia, Barcelona
Ossana gazed at Noah, a triumphant smile on her face. In a few moments, Tom would be dead, and she and Guerra could celebrate their success.
“It’s been nice, but I’ve got something more important to take care of.”
She stepped swiftly over the bodies of Noah’s colleagues, lying on the floor of the mobile Command Center. Without warning or provocation, and with complete indifference, she fired twice into the head of Michelle, still crouched on the floor. Michelle rolled backward, lifeless as a doll, and lay still. Noah inhaled sharply. Ossana paused at the door and withdrew a rectangular block from her backpack. Noah knew what it was: C-4 plastic explosive. Ossana fixed the block to the door handle and looked back over the corpse-strewn floor at Noah. In his wheelchair, he could not possibly get through.
“You have a small chance to escape. But frankly, I don’t think you’ll make it,” Ossana said.
“Why not just shoot me?” Noah barked at her.
“I don’t shoot cripples,” Ossana replied with a sneer.
The Sacred Weapon: A Tom Wagner Adventure Page 24
