by Izak Botha
‘Thank God,’ Schreider thought, he had no wish to suffer.
The sniper in the balcony above Schreider had placed his laser sight on the suspect’s forehead. ‘I have a shot, Oberst,’ he whispered into his microphone.
The sniper in the north aisle now had his own laser point on the suspect’s neck. ‘Guillotine’s drawn, Oberst.’
The third sniper’s dot was now steadied on the young man’s heart. ‘All clear, Oberst.’
Schreider could not falter. He flipped his open palm behind his back, signaling the snipers hold their fire. Then, retrieving his hands again, he asked, ‘What is a lie?’
The bomber gaped: ‘Don’t fucking patronize me!’
‘I’ve not heard anyone say that before. What do you mean?’
When the suspect pointed towards the figure of Jesus draped over the Virgin’s lap, Schreider caught sight of the phone clamped in his fist. It was an old-fashioned flip phone, probably a burner. The suspect’s thumb was buried into the one key, indicating it was a release mechanism. The device would trigger if the phone fell from the kid’s grasp. Schreider’s heart sank. If only he could push the proverbial reset button on bringing the snipers. Fire now and they could all kiss Mother Mary goodbye.
‘Look at His face!’ the bomber cried.
Schreider genuinely did not understand what the young man was trying to say. ‘This is the most heavenly expression known to art, our Holy Mother cradling her beloved Son after the crucifixion.’
‘That’s not true!’
‘I agree, but what’s your reason?’
The bomber dropped his arms to his sides. ‘Jesus was marred, disfigured beyond recognition.’ He lifted his trigger fist towards the Pietà. ‘Does that look marred to you?’
A dedicated Catholic all his life, Schreider had, of course, never viewed the Pietà as any more than a beautiful depiction—an artist’s rendering—of a moment in the Savior’s Passion. He had certainly never associated it with lies, and if he had had his own personal doubts at times, they had nothing to do with a statue’s facial expression. This was absurd! One plus one was equaling elephant for this kid, who was assuredly, absolutely crazy.
The bomber threw the Bible at Schreider’s feet. ‘God’s Word ...,’ he shouted sardonically, his now empty hand pointing to the mangled book.
Schreider felt stupid. Was this boy giving him a scripture lesson now? Who in the Vatican had not read the New Testament numerous times? At least, for his part Schreider certainly had, and he had not come across a single passage suggesting the Pietà was untruthful. If Michelangelo had deviated slightly from biblical events, he had simply taken artistic license; it could not possibly warrant bombing a sculpture considered a major world treasure. Then, Schreider reminded himself of Laszlo Toth, the thirty-three-year-old, Hungarian-born Australian who, back in the seventies, had leapt to his death from one of the basilica’s guardrails, crying. ‘I’m Jesus Christ!’ That lunatic’s hammer attack had destroyed parts of Mary’s left arm, her nose, left eye and veil, and since then, the Vatican had kept the statue behind bulletproof Plexiglas. The number of explosives the young man had strapped to his torso now rendered that protection useless, and if he released his grip on the phone it would blow the entire nave to Hell. But what was it with this statue and nuts like Toth—and now this kid?
‘How come you don’t know?’ the bomber cried out. ‘How come nobody knows? Don’t fuck with me!’
With that, Schreider realized he could not stall any longer. He had to act. ‘I can’t remember seeing anything like that in the Gospels,’ he said.
‘Prophesy,’ the bomber said. ‘Isaiah 52, verse 14. Jesus came off the cross beaten and bloodied; disfigured beyond human recognition. What else is a fucking lie?’
Schreider shifted his weight and took a small step forward, hoping the young man would not notice.
‘These are all idols,’ the bomber said, sweeping his empty hand across the entire basilica. ‘Look. Idols everywhere.’ He stared back at Schreider with tortured, lightless eyes. ‘La Pietà. What does it say, man? Worship Jesus, or worship his mother? No, it says worship an idol. What about Jesus on the cross? That’s another idol. So are all these statues, hundreds of them, this whole damned basilica. So, all these people aren’t here to worship God. They’re tourists! They’re here to worship Michelangelo, Raphael and Bramante—to worship buildings, art, architects and artists. It’s idol worship, all of it. And what about all the people buried in this place? What about Saint Peter? The man to whom this place is dedicated. His grave and remains are yet more idols. And what about his statue outside, all five and a half meters of it? That’s an idol too, man. What about the obelisk? It’s a motherfucking obelisk for God’s sake—a pagan Egyptian symbol! And everyone thinks I’m nuts. How crazy is it to fill a city dedicated to a religion that bans idolatry with idols at every turn?’
Again, Schreider edged forwards. He always knew the day might come when he would have to sacrifice himself for his faith. He focused his mind. He had to find a way to keep the suspect from taking his finger off that phone key.
‘What about the pope—holy and all?’ the bomber almost pleaded. ‘What about all the popes buried here. Idol worship, that’s what it is. Come on man, open your fucking eyes!’
Schreider could have understood even a little if this kid had stumbled on some proof that all of Christianity had been a brazen lie, but the ridiculousness of what he was saying was like something out of a Franz Kafka story. So, idolatry was bad. Great. Go become a Protestant or Muslim or Jew. And so, you don’t like the unrealistic realism of Renaissance sculpture. Go visit the Abstract Expressionism collection at MoMA. Then Schreider remembered what Weber had said about the bomber’s requesting the area be cleared. At least that was one point in the kid’s favor: he did not want to harm anyone. Obviously, he was seeking something else though, but if the statue itself was not hurting him, how could its mere existence do so? Just because the faithful visited the Vatican did not mean they worshipped its statuary. It was certainly possible to appreciate this sculpture or any other as an expression of the artist’s faith or as an example of a mastery of craft without believing, like some medieval peasant, that God lived inside it. The biblical ban on idolatry was also no great secret; hell, it was right there, repeatedly, in every copy of the Bible, in every language. The Church was not hiding anything.
Of course, whatever the reason for the bomber’s confusion, no amount of empathy or reasoning was going to make disarming him any easier. At what point, exactly, would this tormented mind snap? Schreider saw the frustration in the kid’s eyes. Nineteen years of obedience had made him believe things even the Church did not ascribe to, and Schreider could relate to that to some extent. He had had his own crisis of faith on the battlefields of Afghanistan, but he had later found his way back to belief. All this kid saw now was chaos. To him, the Pietà’s misrepresentation was a betrayal. He was equating cheating God to treason, and he was demanding the truth. The problem was knowing what truth the kid wanted to hear—indeed, knowing what was truth beyond any doubt—was something perhaps only one man in human history had been capable of, and that man had died on a cross two thousand years before.
Chapter 18
Verretti got into his specially built Lamborghini patrol car. Lioni had followed him outside, and the inspector now ordered the adjutant into a second cruiser nearby. Verretti turned the ignition of his vehicle and cursed Lioni’s slowness. The last thing he wanted was to be dragged down by some juvenile who could not keep up. The gendarmerie, he felt, should consist exclusively of officers with years of experience behind them. As he waited impatiently while four more gendarmes crammed themselves into Lioni’s vehicle, another officer slid into the passenger seat beside Verretti. The man hardly had time to shut his door before Verretti sped away.
From their location behind the Porta Sant’ Anna, the shortest route to the gardens cut beneath the Apostolic Palace. One hand on the steering wheel, the other clutching his two-way
, Verretti raced for the tunnel ahead.
‘I need an update on the escapees.’
‘Suspects approaching the back of the Governatorato. Heading south towards the station.’
Verretti dropped the handset, pulled the handbrake and spun the steering wheel, performing an on-a-dime one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn, a maneuver which forced Lioni to a screeching halt behind him.
‘Porta Sant’ Anna!’ Verretti called out through his window. ‘We’re going around the front!’
The gardens on the western side of the Vatican comprised half the city. The most prominent building was the Governatorato Palace, a majestic five-story structure situated just behind Saint Peter’s Basilica. Several roads linked it to other important buildings, including the Roman metro’s Vatican Station. Dating from the early nineteen-thirties, the white marble structure lay just south of the Governatorato. Passing between it and the Governatorato, the suspects were travelling towards the city’s southern gate, so circling Saint Peter’s Square would allow Verretti to cut them off.
Vatican personnel in front of the Porta Sant’ Anna’s closed portcullis were surrounded with a crowd of tourists thirty deep. Verretti hollered for the two Swiss guards to let him through. He waited as they pushed back the crowd, then, turning up the Via di Porta Angelica, he sped off.
Accelerating towards the Via del Saint Uffizio, the inspector radioed the command center: ‘I’m going around Saint Peter’s Square.’
Realizing the need to keep ahead of the fugitives, Weber had already ordered the surveillance tech to pull feeds of the streets surrounding Saint Peter’s Basilica up on his central screen: ‘Careful, Inspector. There’s a large crowd of pedestrians in the square.’
The Via del Saint Uffizio encircled the oval Largo del Colonnato. The double-banded colonnade encircled Saint Peter’s Square like two arms holding a bowl and, with the Basilica, formed the shape of a key—symbolically that of the gates of Heaven—which was only apparent from overhead. At the intersection separating Pio XII Square from Saint Peter’s, Verretti honked at the slow-moving pedestrians. The beginning of Lent had seen an increase in the number of the city’s visitors, and with the gates currently locked, many of those visitors were congregated in and around the Pio XII square, making the inspector’s speeding even more dangerous.
Verretti accelerated into the second colonnade bend. The road ended at the Main Gate, next-door to the Palace of the Holy Office. But, halfway there, a tour bus slowed the inspector’s progress.
‘For goodness sake!’ he howled, leaning half his body out the window to see if he could pass.
Lioni, meanwhile, had a clearer view of oncoming traffic. He waited for a break in the traffic before radioing an all-clear to Verretti. No sooner had Verretti crossed into the oncoming lane than the adjutant slipped in behind the inspector. Verretti’s Lamborghini spat flames as he sped away. The powerful sports motor passed with ease, but left the adjutant facing oncoming traffic. Lioni was damned if he did not keep up, so he rammed the accelerator to the floor. The adjutant’s vehicle shot forward, passing the bus with inches to spare before hitting a taxi head-on.
Verretti’s Lamborghini screeched across the Piazza del Saint Uffizio and stopped at the Main Gate.
‘Open!’ he called to the Helvetians.
He waited as the two guards, perhaps out of habit, ceremoniously drew the gate open. At the same time, four gendarmes shoved onlookers back behind a barricade allowing the two vehicles to pass.
When he took off again, his two-way was pressed to his lips. ‘Where are they?’
‘Between the Governatorato and ...’ The surveillance tech paused. ‘They’re heading for the railway tracks in front of the metro station.’
‘Merda!’
Verretti pictured the area around the station. The Vatican’s section of the railway line covered only a mile. It entered from the east wall as a subway, passed the station building, then exited the south wall above ground. Both entrances had steel gates, making it impossible for anyone to pass without permission from command.
He pressed the talk switch: ‘Who do we have in the area?’
‘No staff today. No trains in or out for two days.’
‘What the hell?!’
‘Maintenance, inspector. The council requested maintenance. They’re skimming the tracks.’
‘Porca miseria!’ Verretti suddenly felt dizzy as a pang shot down his left arm. ‘Did you check it out?’
‘That’s your department, Inspector.’
‘Culo!’ That was their escape route, Verretti was now sure of that. ‘Get all the guards in the area there immediately. Do we have a sniper on the dome?’
‘In place, Inspector,’ a voice cut into the channel. ‘Target moving south behind the Governatorato now. Have partial sight.’
Verretti recognized the burly voice as that of his own sniper. ‘Thank God!’ he spat. ‘Do you have a shot?’
‘Negative, Inspector. No clear shot. Target moving fast. Too many trees; civilians.’
‘Puttana merda!’ Verretti checked his rear-view, then spoke into the two-way again. ‘Adjutant Lioni, cover my sides. If I miss them, you’d better do your damn job.’
Chapter 19
Schreider took another step towards the young man.
‘What are you doing? Stay away, or I’ll blow you up as well.’
‘I’m here to help.’
‘You? You can’t do anything.’
Schreider edged forwards. ‘Tell me what you’ve found out.’
‘I’ve already told you. Now get the fuck back!’
Schreider recognized the quiver in the kid’s voice. ‘You haven’t told me everything. First, tell me what else is bothering you.’
‘It’ll take too long. There’s so much. It’s too fucking late anyhow.’
‘We have time.’
The bomber’s emotions suddenly got the better of him. Months of pent-up frustration burst forth. He shook uncontrollably.
Schreider inched within feet of the kid. ‘Don’t let go now. You’re not ready to let this happen. I can see that.’
The bomber could not believe someone was prepared to die with him. ‘Do you want to die?’ he sobbed.
Just then the look in the kid’s eyes told Schreider he was ready to go; that bleak stare said he was willing to blow them both to the other side of Purgatory at any moment. Death had never been this close for the bomber, that was obvious. But Schreider had not felt so alive in nearly a decade.
‘Put the safety on. I’m not ready to die today,’ the colonel said.
‘It doesn’t have a safety.’
‘It’s right there, the two-key next to your thumb.’
Schreider lifted his hand and closed it around the young man’s fist. He pressed down on the bomber’s thumb. He was taking a chance as the safety switch programmed into the phone could be any of the keys. Still, the most popular program, the one any paranoid loon could find online, made the default safety the two key. As their hands met, Schreider pressed the second key on the dial pad and, taking a deep breath, ripped the phone from the kid’s grasp. It shattered as it smashed against the Plexiglas glass protecting the Pietà.
‘Now, let’s have a talk about what’s bothering you.’
Chapter 20
Verretti could smell success. He was racing up the Via Tunica, which lay just south of Saint Peter’s Basilica. In mere seconds, he himself—practically single-handedly—would make an arrest. He could already see Schreider’s face as the colonel realized the commander of the gendarmerie, not the Swiss, had returned to Command victorious.
He passed beneath the skywalk linking the Sacristy and the Basilica and raced across the Piazza Santa Marta. With the, Palazzo di Giustizia, up ahead, he glimpsed the helipad corporal scrambling down the grass embankment on the opposite side of the railway line.
‘Move, Corporal! Move!’
‘What should I do, Inspector?’ the corporal replied between panting breaths.
&n
bsp; ‘Is the gate closed?’
The sniper on the dome replied first: ‘Affirmative, gate’s closed. Suspects in sight. Heading for the station now. Can I take the shot?’
The fugitives had to be out of their minds. What were they thinking? Verretti was tempted to give the sniper the okay. They had killed a priest after all. The male suspect had also knocked one of his men unconscious and left him for dead. Finally, though, after a moment’s reflection, Verretti barked, ‘Don’t shoot! They have nowhere to go.’
At the rate Verretti was going, the gendarmes would reach the fugitives before him. The thought of his men getting there first caused a reflex action, making Verretti flatten the accelerator to the floor. His Lamborghini shot forwards like a shark lunging after its prey.
‘Problem, Inspector,’ the two-way squawked. ‘Suspects’ headed for the rail grinder.’
Suddenly Verretti panicked. The realization that the suspects could get away caused his chest muscles to spasm. ‘Can you take a shot, sniper?’
‘Negative, Inspector. No current visuals.’
‘Where’s the rail grinder?’
‘On the track in front of the ...’
The sniper’s voice fell silent.
Verretti checked his radio to see if it had accidentally switched off. No, no, no, no! He pulled the mic back to his lips: ‘And, sniper, and?’
‘Smoke, Inspector. They’ve started the engine.’
The blood vessels in Verretti’s neck bulged: ‘You’re not fucking serious!’
The corporal at the track held his aim. ‘What should we do, Inspector?’
Verretti refused to give up. He raced up the Via del Mosaic, catching a glimpse of the station from the terrace separating it from the plaza above. Then, skidding sideways into the last bend, he saw the yellow rail grinder. His heart sank as the locomotive began to gain speed. Enraged, the inspector sped past the front of the Vatican Station. Halting on the platform, he jumped out, just in time to see the thirty-ton rail grinder power towards the Vatican perimeter wall.
