"Shit," Daniel said, more to himself than the others in the car.
The driver leaned on the horn, but there was no reaction. Daniel gestured to the men in the back to go see what was going on. They got out immediately, but were unable to speak to anyone. The drivers of the SUVs jumped out and abandoned the vehicles, slammed the doors, and ran in opposite directions.
The GPS in the Mercedes indicated it was starting forward again.
"What the hell?" This was not normal. "Take the sidewalk," Daniel yelled. "Take the sidewalk now."
The driver swung to the left onto the sidewalk. The pedestrians were forced to scatter, and one of them was even grazed by the taillight and ended up falling to the pavement.
"Keep going. Keep going," Daniel shouted urgently.
The GPS indicated the Mercedes was still moving forward. It turned left on Labicana, moving very fast.
"Attention," Daniel called over the radio. "No order was given to proceed, Adrian," he alerted the agent in the Mercedes. "Attention, Adrian. Report your position."
There was no reply.
The agents who'd left the first Volvo got into the second one, since Daniel didn't want to lose time.
Staring at the screen, he noticed that the Mercedes was traveling in the direction of the Colosseum.
"Get this piece of shit moving," he shouted when they entered Lab icana with tires squealing.
There were no traffic rules at the moment. The cardinal secretary of state was in danger.
"Attention," he repeated on the radio."Report your position imme diately, Adrian."
There was still no reply.
"Fuck it," he swore. "Faster, faster!" he shouted as he drummed his fingers on the dashboard.
The street was long, and the Volvo was already going too fast. Some vehicles had to pull over as far as possible or even go onto the sidewalk to avoid being hit. The agent drove skillfully. He'd been trained in eva sive driving—defensive, and in pursuit—and was more than prepared for a situation like this . . . in theory.
The GPS indicated that the Mercedes had turned to the right to go up Via Nicola Salvi. Daniel had to make a decision. He needed to cut them off.
"Flavian," he called over the radio to the driver of the second Volvo. "Straight ahead. Go up Nicola Salvi."
"Understood," the radio responded.
"Turn around," he said to his own driver.
"What?"
"Turn around, now." As Daniel said this, he grabbed the wheel and turned it toward the left, to the clamor of horns and squealing brakes.
The Volvo accelerated again to the intersection with Merulana and turned left toward the Piazza di Santa Maria Maggiore. It was a suicidal high-speed drive at over sixty miles an hour with traffi c and blowing horns.
"Straight to Cavour," Daniel ordered, and grabbed the radio. "Straight to Cavour, Flavian."
"Understood," came over the radio.
They finally came out on Cavour and careened left with no concern for the bus coming from Termini, which had to slam on its brakes to let them pass.
"Idiot," the bus driver shouted, among other insults.
The GPS indicated that the Mercedes had stopped a few hundred feet from them near the juncture with Via Giovanni Lanza, and they could see it, badly parked, with a wheel on the sidewalk and all the doors open.
Daniel feared the worst. His chest tightened with anxiety, and sweat broke out on his face. The tires squealed when the Volvos stopped abruptly near the Mercedes, one on each side. Before leaving the car, Daniel could see that no one was inside the Mercedes. Shit! He should never have permitted this. Shit!
There was no sign of the secretary, Cardinal William, Father Schmidt, or the other two agents. As the commander, Daniel could not show weak ness or desperation, but that's what he felt, complete disorientation and, despite feeling cold as ice, an immensely destructive volcano within.
"What the hell happened?"
64
Tarcisio couldn't believe what his eyes had seen. He would have preferred a knife to the heart, bleeding away the life God gave him. No one should have to suffer such an enormous betrayal.
A man had appeared in the middle of the street, pointing a gun at them. The driver's first action was to accelerate; since he was shielded, a pointed gun didn't pose any threat, but then something seemingly impossible happened. Schmidt and the guard next to the driver stuck guns into the driver's head.
"Stop the car immediately," Schmidt ordered.
"Wha . . . what are you doing, Hans?" Tarcisio asked uneasily.
"Shut up," Schmidt said coldly. His look was glacial, cavernous. Tarcisio had never seen it before, and he shivered.
William was likewise stupefi ed.
"Drop the gun, Hugo," Tarcisio ordered the agent who was point ing his gun at his colleague.
Schmidt slapped him in the face. "I told you not to talk unless spo ken to."
They could hear Daniel's voice on the radio. Attention, Adrian. Pull over and wait for us. We're stuck behind the bus.
Schmidt pressed the gun tighter into the back of the driver's neck. "Got it? Even your boss is ordering you to stop. You don't want the secretary to see your brains splattered all over the windshield, do you?"
The driver didn't give in. He was trained to die for the pope or in his name. That was God's will.
"Stop the car, my son," Tarcisio ordered. "It's not worth risking your life for me."
Adrian obeyed the cardinal's order and put on the brakes. He was shocked to see his colleague pointing a gun at him, but said nothing. No one truly knows anyone.
"Good boy," Schmidt said scornfully.
The man outside the car came up beside the driver, opened the door, and plunged a syringe into his neck. It took the driver about fi ve seconds to lose consciousness, and then he was thrown in the trunk of the Mercedes, and the stranger took over the driving.
"It's good to see you, Nicolas," Schmidt greeted him.
"Good evening, Professor Aloysius," Nicolas welcomed him and hit the accelerator.
Aloysius? He calls himself Aloysius? Was it he who had misled him to negotiate with Adolph? Tarcisio asked himself. He was, in fact, a com plete unknown, this Schmidt who turned a gun on the two prelates with a forced smile.
"They're everywhere," Tarcisio whispered hesitantly to William, who continued watching all this without a word or a reaction.
Schmidt had a cynical smile on his face. "Did you think you could deceive the society?"
"How can you do something like this?" Tarcisio asked in consterna tion. He remembered Ursino and . . . Trevor. God, he'd been so blind. "Were you the one who killed Ursino and Trevor?" His cracking voice indicated defeat.
"I'm responsible for Trevor. Ursino liked younger men, like Nico las." Schmidt was enjoying himself. "Isn't that so, Jonas?" he joked with the driver.
"How could you? After all you defend . . ." Tarcisio interrupted.
"Explanations, explanations. Let's not talk about the past. It's use less. It can't be changed. You know I'm a man of the present, and pres ently you have the parchments that we want."
"And you think that kidnapping the secretary of state and the pre fect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith is going to get them for you?" William interrupted, recovering his self-control.
"We do."
At that moment Daniel's voice was heard over the radio again. Atten tion. No order was given to proceed, Adrian. Attention, Adrian. Report your position.
"Turn off that shit," Schmidt, also known as Aloysius, ordered.
"Even if you kidnap His Holiness, you won't get them," William argued, enervated.
"I doubt that."
The Mercedes squealed to a stop so hard that William and Tarcisio were almost thrown into the front.
"We're here," Nicolas said.
Tarcisio tried to see where "here" was, but the street seemed the same as so many others.
They opened the car doors and pushed the elderly prelates inside a cl
osed van that had stopped next to them.
"Get in," Schmidt ordered. "Get inside."
They continued on their way without rush. A few hundred feet fur ther they saw one of the Volvos from the Holy See burst into the Piazza dell'Esquilino, almost colliding with a bus coming from Termini, and head for the Mercedes at full speed.
Nicolas and Schmidt smiled. "They're stupid," Schmidt gloated.
"Where are we going? Where are you taking us?" Tarcisio asked uncomfortably, seated on the floor in the back of the van.
Schmidt showed the same cynical smile with which he had mocked them at the beginning of the trip. "We're going to take a walk, boys. Behave yourselves." He turned to look at Nicolas and assumed a strict expression. "It's time to ask for the ransom."
65
The plane began its descent into Fiumicino Airport while flying over Livorno. They'd experienced some turbulence, especially over the peninsula. The stopover at Orly had been quick. Gavache said good-bye to them in his typical way with an "Au revoir, but I hope not" to the men, and a smile for Sarah. He insisted on lightly touch ing her hair, as if caressing a daughter. He made her promise a future visit to the City of Lights and then left with the faithful Jean-Paul at his back.
Twenty minutes later they took off for Fiumicino. Sarah and Rafael, who had been accompanied on the flight to Paris by Gavache and Jean-Paul, were now alone, each absorbed in their own lives and thoughts. Rafael thought about speaking to her. It would be a good opportunity to find out everything that had happened, but ever since that one-sided conversation in Walker's Wine and Ale Bar, their rela tionship had cooled to the point where it could no longer be called a relationship. A relationship was what she had with Francesco, the Italian journalist. Yes, he knew about the Italian journalist. He tried to keep himself informed about her life through surveillance. He enjoyed thinking that she knew, although she couldn't have. After Francesco came into her life, Rafael felt he shouldn't interfere. He did, however, investigate Francesco's criminal record. He wouldn't have forgiven himself if he hadn't. After finding a clean record, except for a few traf fic tickets, he decided that she was in good company. Until Jacopo had burst into his classroom at the Gregorian to inform him about Zafer's death . . .
He should go to her. Should he? He should. Should he? Nervous, he sighed deeply. No woman should leave him feeling like this. He had a relationship with God . . . not only with God, but with the church, and he owed them fidelity and loyalty. But he had to talk to Sarah. Did he? Yes, he had to. At least to ask her forgiveness for his silence . . .
"May I?" he heard her ask. She had sat down before he could say yes.
"Of course," he stammered. Sarah already had her seat belt fastened.
She looked out the window and sighed. It was dark and there was nothing to see.
For a few minutes they just listened to the noise of the engine mov ing the plane over Lazio Province. Then they got used to the noise and didn't hear it anymore.
Rafael noticed her swollen, red eyes. She'd been crying. "Are you all right, Sarah?"
"Yes. Fine," she replied immediately, more an automatic response than a sincere one. "And how are you?"
"As you see," he said with a half smile, "I still don't understand what happened."
"That's not normal for you," she observed. "You're always ahead of things, not behind."
Rafael said nothing. It was true, and he felt uncomfortable with the situation. How could he protect her if she knew more than he?
"Unless you have a trick up your sleeve?" she teased.
Rafael rolled up his sleeves to show he wasn't hiding anything.
"JC again, huh?" he asked.
"Always JC," she replied evasively. Bringing us together and separat ing us, she thought without saying it, even though she wanted to.
"Was it the Holy See that asked you to recover the parchments?" Rafael was embarrassed to have to ask.
"Yes. I feel strange telling you these things."
And I feel strange asking, the priest thought.
He'd never felt so defenseless in front of her, so normal, so like a man.
"Cardinal William came for me at the hotel last night," she contin ued. Last night? It felt so much longer, like weeks. Fatigue was taking over. It was almost nice, after so many hours on edge, of being constantly alert, suspicious, upset. "He explained JC's plan while it was in action. Kidnapping Ben Isaac's son to make him release the parchments."
The death of the "Gentlemen" didn't matter to the pope's assassin, or to the church, only the parchments mattered.
"Have they discovered yet who was behind the murders?" Sarah asked.
Rafael nodded. At least one thing Sarah didn't know. "The Society of Jesus."
Sarah was surprised. "The Jesuits? Aren't they supposed to take a vow of chastity and poverty? How can they go around killing people indiscriminately?"
"It's complicated," Rafael confi ded.
"Everything's been very complicated. We are carrying around parchments written by Jesus Christ more than ten years after the Cru cifixion," Sarah declared, implying that nothing could be more com plicated than that.
"Allegedly," Rafael cautioned.
"Everything is alleged when dealing with the Holy See and Jesus. Even with JC. When I call him a murderer, he says the same thing." She paused, hoping Rafael would go on.
"Everything indicates that the society, contrary to what is thought, is a fanatical religious organization that hasn't hesitated to use any and all means to eliminate threats to the church for four hundred years."
"My God!"
"They are the faithful guardians of some important secrets of the Catholic Church with unimaginable power," Rafael added.
"Like P2?"
"Worse than P2. P2 was motivated by money. The society is moti vated by religion, and they are practically everywhere. There's no comparison. Getting JC involved seems like a good decision," Rafael concluded.
Sarah looked shocked. She couldn't consider herself an expert on the affairs of the Society of Jesus, but she admired their work in help ing the unfortunate and in teaching. The Pontifical Gregorian Univer sity was the heir to the Collegio Romano, a prestigious organization founded in 1551 by the Jesuits and supported in 1584 by Gregory XIII, to whom they paid homage by adopting his name. And there were countless colleges and universities they founded and ran. It was hard to believe the Jesuits could be fanatics, much less terrorists.
"Aren't the society and the church on the same side?" Sarah really wanted to understand this.
"They were," Rafael replied."For three centuries. But things changed in the twentieth century," he declared.
From the beginning, the society acted like a marketing team for the Vatican. They had an easy way of explaining things that laypeo ple could understand, and they started various rituals that the church ended up adopting. One of these was confession, which, until then, didn't exist.
"Seriously?" Sarah found it curious. There were so many things people just assumed always existed without taking the trouble to real ize that everything was the work of men.
Rafael nodded. Even today, with rare exceptions, a Jesuit priest heard confession from the pope every seven days.
"Impressive," Sarah exclaimed. History only reveals one side, the winner's.
"Where does Gavache come into all this?" Rafael inquired, return ing to a subject he disliked, but couldn't avoid.
"I presume that JC must have joined the useful with the pleasant. The crimes were related. He's one of the best inspectors in the French police, and probably a connection the old man has in France." She closed her eyes with a touch of regret. She shouldn't have referred to JC like that in front of Rafael.
He smiled. Silence settled in between them again, but not as awk wardly. Good conversations have their moments of propitious silence, and these should be respected.
The engines slowed, and the plane began its descent. An attendant came to inform them of this. Only Sarah and Rafael were awake.
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They were silent, feeling inhibited by each other. The technical details were exhausted, only the personal questions remained.
"I'd like to apologize for my reaction in London that time," Sarah said.
He said nothing.
"I didn't have the right to ask you those questions," she continued. The white light in the cabin hid the blush on her face.
The Pope's Assassin Page 31
