“Give me the codes,” the man said.
Giampaolo reached inside his blazer and extracted his Beretta. It was a lovely gun, a pearl-handled model 92 that had been given to him by Cardinal Lucci, the Vatican’s Secretary of State, on the occasion of Giampaolo’s tenth anniversary as the Inspector General of the Vatican Security Office. It had been intended for decorative use—he had displayed it above his desk in a glass frame—but that did not mean it didn’t fire. He had made sure of that several nights ago, in the pistol range in the basement of the office’s headquarters on the Via del Pellegrino.
He waited for the man to get about ten steps away—not to be sporting, but to avoid blood spatter on his suit—and shot him twice in the back. The man fell against one of the lockers; his head came to rest on top of a pair of boots. Giampaolo realized it was unnecessary—and probably a mistake—to kill the man, but he had been fantasizing about doing it for so long, he couldn’t help himself. And anyway, the guy was a terrorist, wasn’t he? Killing him was doing the world a favor, worth the trouble of having to drag him out of sight before the others turned up.
He picked up the fallen envelope and walked into the warehouse, which was empty save for five vans parked in single file. He strode over the floor, his leather soles loud against the concrete, and pulled up in front of the lead van. It was a Mercedes Sprinter, painted all white, with tinted windows and the iconic blue shield symbol of the Prima Security firm.
He went around to the passenger door and climbed inside the van. Taking out one of the keycards, he used a Sharpie to write a six-digit code on the label, before depositing the card and a signed permit in an envelope and placing it in the glove box. He did the same for the van behind and continued down the line. When all the vans were prepped and authorized to enter the Vatican, he retraced his steps and went back to the office. Grabbing the man by his feet, he dragged him into the next room, depositing him in a closet, which was empty other than several boxes of blank paper that were already spattered with enough blood to look like some kind of modern art exhibit. He closed the door, pushed an empty desk against it, and went to the break room, where a pile of old towels had been dumped on the floor. He used them to wipe up the blood, then exited the warehouse, throwing the bloody towels in a rusty dumpster on the edge of the property, where they would be found eventually, but only long after he was gone.
Six
The Umbrian sun had just cleared the horizon as Elena pulled off the E35 west of Orvieto. In the distance, the multiple spires of the Duomo ascended into an azure sky atop the volcanic bluff upon which it—and the entire city—had been built. Marco had been to the cathedral many times and would have loved nothing more than to ride the funicular up to the top of the hill, attend mass, and have lunch afterward at the Ristorante Maurizio across the street, which served a lovely vintage of Orvieto produced from the grapes that grew on the western flank of the bluff. But Elena turned away from the city center, in the direction of the low hills that stretched to the south of the town, breaking the momentary spell under which he had been lingering.
She turned again, onto a rutted track that went southeast, and drove past lemon groves and wheat fields waving in the morning breeze. At a T intersection, she went right, following a secondary road flanked by Italian cypresses. She slowed down as they crested a small hill, pointing ahead and to the left.
“This is the place.”
Their destination was a low-slung warehouse that looked like it hadn’t seen a new coat of paint—much less a renovation—in years. The terracotta roof was missing as many tiles as it had retained, and graffiti marred the walls. Elena pulled into the driveway and stopped in front of the lone garage bay, which was closed by an automatic door. Marco grabbed the handguns from the glove box and handed one to Elena, who placed it on her lap, then activated the remote opener.
The door lifted at a crawl. As it rose, his curiosity about who would be waiting for them sank, replaced by a growing sense of dread. By the time it was midway open, he had no further inclination to find out what was going on and who was behind the door; instead, he wished he was back at St. John the Baptist, kneeling in the first pew, looking out the window at the Ligurian Sea as it lifted out of the dawn. If Elena felt the same, there was no way to tell by reading her face, which remained impassive and relaxed, without tension. Her brown eyes stared forward; her brow did not furrow with concern. The Lord had put her together well, he couldn’t help but think, even as the door lifted to reveal his uncertain future; she was as hard on the inside as she was soft on the outside.
The door finished its ascent, revealing a line of white vans parked fender to fender along the long axis of the otherwise empty building. Elena put the van in park, stuffed her gun into her waistband, and pulled her blouse out to cover it.
“Are you ready?” she asked.
Marco was not ready, but there was no putting it off. Fate fell heavily upon him, as if he were wearing a yoke attached to a large load. Elena got out of the car, and he followed, his own gun jammed into his belt in the small of his back. No one was there to greet them as they walked into the bay. Marco opened the door to the lead van, and it too was empty.
They searched the interior for the next ten minutes; save for the five vans, there was nothing there. The warehouse looked like it hadn’t been used for some time. The only signs of life were the rodent droppings scattered over the cement floor like confetti in the wake of a parade.
Elena was gazing at the lead van, which, like all the rest, was a white Mercedes Sprinter. Emblazoned on its side was the blue shield of Prima Security. Having lived in Vatican City for two years, Marco was familiar with the company, which was the only one ever called upon to assist the Gendarmerie inside Vatican City.
“Prima Security?” Elena said. “I’ve never heard of them.”
“They’re based in Rome. I used to see them around when I was in the seminary at the Pontifical Gregorian University in Vatican City. They come in to help with crowd control for large events.”
“What are the vans doing here?”
“I have no idea.”
Marco walked around the van and hopped into the passenger seat. The console between him and the driver’s seat was empty, and there was nothing on the dashboard. He tried the glove box, but it was locked. Elena came up next to him as he tried to force the latch on the compartment.
“Try the keys.”
She pointed to the keys dangling from the ignition. He reached over, grabbed them, and opened the glove box. Inside, on top of the usual items, was an envelope marked with the emblem of the crossed silver and gold keys, the official insignia of the Holy See. He slit it open with his finger, revealing a single sheet of paper and a keycard with a magnetic stripe on one side; on the other side, six numbers had been written on a white label.
He unfolded the sheet of paper. It was a permit allowing access to St. Peter’s Square, signed by the Inspector General of the Vatican Security Office.
“Is it dated?”
He searched the document, finding what he was looking for in small print just above the signature.
“It’s dated today.”
“Today? What’s going on today?”
Marco looked at his diving watch. “This morning at nine a.m., Pope John Paul III is saying mass outside in St. Peter’s Square. The entire Catholic Bishops Conference of Nigeria is co-celebrating with him.”
“How do you know this?”
“I was selected to be part of the congregation, but the Gendarmerie scaled the number of invitees back because of security concerns.”
“I heard Mohammed speak about some kind of protest.”
Marco nodded. “Boko Haram is organizing it.”
“Who is Boko Haram?”
“It’s an Islamic jihadist group based in Nigeria.”
“What do they have against the pope?”
“When John Paul III was a cardinal in Nigeria, he was an outspoken critic of sharia law, which Boko Haram was trying t
o inflict on the country. They have been making death threats against him ever since he was elected.”
He stared at Elena as if trying to find the key to the puzzle in the depths of her dark chocolate eyes and the curve of her caramel skin as it stretched over her cheekbones. But the answer wasn’t there—only more questions—and he left the van for another look in the warehouse.
“Where are you going?”
“There must an office of some kind. Maybe there’s something in there.”
He jogged over to the far wall, into which a number of doors had been cut at irregular intervals. The first one led to a small storeroom, which was filled with piles of broken pots and smelled of urine. The next door opened into a bathroom, which Marco, having not used one in quite some time, put to good use. Elena was waiting for him when he returned to the bay, gesturing for him to follow her.
“Come and look. I found something.”
She ran to the end of the bay, her footfalls echoing against the opposite wall of the garage. She passed several doors and turned in to the second to last, leaving it open wide for Marco. A long rectangular room lay in front of them, in which twenty lockers had been constructed, ten against either wall.
“Take a look at this.”
She was standing in front of a locker, holding up a long shield. It was painted blue and bore the shield insignia on the front.
“It’s a riot control shield.”
“I know that.” She stepped toward him, holding it out. “Take it. Feel how heavy it is.”
Marco grabbed the shield. He had expected it to be heavy—it needed to be to deflect hurled stones and swung clubs—but it was far heavier than it needed to be, even for that. He set it down on the ground and flipped it over to reveal the back. A thin cover made of hard plastic had been fitted, creating a hidden compartment. Using the tip of his diving knife, he pried the cover off. An assault rifle, several extra clips of ammunition, and a block of what looked like putty were clipped in place.
Elena pointed to the putty, which had been wrapped in cellophane. “What is that stuff?”
“It’s Semtex, a plastic explosive.”
“How do you know that?”
“I used it all the time when I was in the navy. It has a lot of applications for marine salvage.”
He used his knife to pry open several of the other shields. All were the same as the first. He put the knife away and sat down on the bench in front of the lockers.
“How do you put all this together, Elena?”
She counted the lockers, pointing at each one with her index finger as she added them up. Walking over to the nearest, she took out a black leather combat boot, turning it over in her hands. She set it down and grabbed a riot helmet, donning it and lowering the dark glass visor, obscuring her face.
“I picked up twenty men between the two trips. We have to assume that those men were meant to fill these uniforms.”
Marco nodded. “Yes, but for what purpose?”
She lifted the assault rifle from its cradle inside the shield, holding it deftly in her arms. “There’s only one purpose for a gun like this.” She lifted the gun into shooting position and placed her eye behind the telescopic sight. “To kill people. This Boko Haram hates the pope, you say. Maybe they want to do more than protest against him.”
“Do you think we just stopped an attack against the pope?”
She set the gun down against the locker and picked up the brick of Semtex, inspecting it carefully. “Not only against the pope, but against the basilica as well.”
Marco nodded, but a shroud of disquiet remained over him. He looked at the permit and keycard again, staring at them with unseeing eyes.
“Clever really. They organize a protest, knowing that Prima will be asked to help with crowd control, and substitute their men—all armed to the teeth—for the real security officers. Once the pope and the Nigerian bishops process into the square, they whip off the covers, and it’s all over.”
“How do the vans gain entry into St. Peter’s Square?”
Marco held up the keycard. “There’s an unmanned gate on the Via Paolo VI. The keycard has to be swiped, and the passcode entered after that.”
“Why the permit, then?”
“There’s a second checkpoint manned with officers from the Vatican Security Office. All vehicles are inspected before they are allowed to enter the square.”
Elena leaned over and grabbed the shield from the next locker. Inspecting the back for a moment, she found a latch underneath the carrying handle, which released the cover easily. It dropped to the ground, clanging against the cement floor. “These shields won’t pass inspection. Do you know what that means?”
Marco didn’t reply, instead getting up to walk up and down the line of lockers. Finding what he was looking for in the last locker on the far side, he sat down and started taking off his shoes.
“Did you hear me? I asked if you knew what this means.”
He tried on one of the boots from the locker. It fit. “It means that the officers at that checkpoint are in on the job, and that there might be others as well.”
He checked his watch. It was just after 7 a.m.
“Rome is ninety minutes away; if we get going straight away, we could be there in time.”
“In time to do what?”
He took off his shirt and donned the black jersey and padded vest hanging on the hook. “That’s the part I haven’t figured out yet.”
Seven
Andreas Bruckentaler stood tall and straight, his halberd pointing skyward, his gaze centered out and over the congregation seated in front of him. He guessed that any stray glances falling upon him would see the picture he was trying to project: a calm lieutenant of the Swiss Guard protecting the pope as members of his order had done for over five hundred years. But it was a lie; outward appearances aside, he was nervous.
Standing with his back against the podium upon which mass would be celebrated in less than thirty minutes’ time, looking east toward the Piazza Pius XI, he could see the growing unrest among the Gendarmerie forming a boundary between the Vatican and the protesters. The line was several hundred meters away, but even from that distance he could make out the tense posture of the defenders and the anxious pacing of captains waiting impatiently for reinforcements to arrive.
He could also hear the fear; although he had the veneer of a medieval warrior, he was very much a modern soldier underneath. In addition to his Kevlar armor, he had a miniature earpiece fitted inside his ear canal, which was crackling with nervous chatter. In past papacies, he would also have carried a SIG Sauer P220 semi-automatic pistol, but Pope John Paul III had issued a papal decree forbidding the Swiss Guard from being armed in the absence of ‘credible and clear danger to the pope.’
Despite what had been hailed as solid intelligence from the Security Office, the protest was not a medium-sized affair. The report had predicted several hundred in attendance, mostly bored and disaffected youth. But several thousand had turned out, including dozens of known troublemakers. Worse still, only half of the Prima riot-control officers requested by the Security Office had shown up. The Inspector General of the Security Office was supposedly working furiously on it, but there was no sign of the badly needed men.
Oberst Jaecks, the commander of the Swiss Guard, had begged the pontiff to divert the mass to the basilica, but the Holy Father wouldn’t hear of it. Ongoing renovations had closed much of the seating, meaning that more than half the guests would need to be turned away, and the congregation had already been reduced because of the demonstration. ‘There have been protests for two thousand years,’ the pope had responded. ‘We will have mass as scheduled.’
Bruckentaler peered sideways, checking his men. There were eight guardsmen in full regalia positioned around the massive wooden structure upon which the temporary altar had been positioned. In the event of an emergency, he had the responsibility of bringing the pope to safety, by whatever means. In this case, the escape route lay t
o the north. On that side of the square, very close to Maderno’s fountain, there was a well-hidden set of trapdoors that led down into the catacombs, guarded by an armed officer from the Security Office. Bruckentaler needed only to cover the hundred meters to the entrance and get the pope below. The trapdoors were made from a titanium alloy capable of deflecting a tank shell. Once underneath, the pope would be safe.
All he had to do was get there.
Giampaolo parked the Opel sedan at the base of the hill and looked at a map of the neighborhood. Above him, perched on a peak of the Alban Hills, the Palazzo Apostolico loomed like an eyrie in the sky. He oriented himself to the map, which depicted Castel Gandolfo from the west, the opposite side from where he normally ascended to the castle. Lago Albano and all the tourists there to see its shimmering waters lay to the east. He fixed the directions in his head, shifted the car into gear, and drove on up the slope.
Halfway up the hill, he reached a private villa. As he inched forward, the massive gate guarding the villa opened in front of him, then closed after him, sealing him from the view of anyone outside. There was no one inside the grounds to witness his presence either. He grabbed his attaché case from the passenger seat and took a last look around. Hedges of laurel and cypress arced away from his position, date palms speared into the sky, and the sweet scent of roses drifted on a soft breeze.
The door next to the massive garage bay was open; he turned the handle and passed inside. Ignoring the collection of expensive sedans parked there—never something he was inclined to do—he proceeded to the back, where another door led to a passageway bored into the rock. His footfalls echoed as he made his way down the tunnel, the beam of his flashlight bobbing up and down with his strides. The air smelled of mildew and pine pitch, with which the passage had been lit for years.
The passageway ended at a T, and he turned left, mounting a steep stairway hewn from the rock. He paused to breathe at the midway point, taking advantage of a stone bench to rest his legs and consult the map again. When his breathing had normalized, he resumed his assault on the staircase, his rested legs taking the steps two at a time.
The Vatican Conspiracy: A completely gripping action thriller (A Marco Venetti Thriller Book 1) Page 5
