Brotherhood of the Tomb

Eventually Fazzini stood up and shook hands with Fischer.

‘Thank you for all you’ve done, John. I’ll see someone comes to take that thing away tonight. I think we’d best not see one another again before the Conclave. But if there’s any serious delay, be sure to call. After tomorrow, it won’t matter so much.’

‘You’re certain everything will go as planned at the Conclave? If they don’t elect Migliau, we’ll have all this to do again.’

Fazzini shook his head.

‘Even if the present Pope died of natural causes, Migliau would still succeed him. After tomorrow, there will be no doubt. Trust me. When he found the tomb again after it had been lost to us for so long, it was a sign. Be sure of it. He will be a great pope. The first of our kind. The first of a new line.’

The Secretary of State turned to go.

‘Father Makonnen,’ he said, ‘I think you are my responsibility. Cardinal Fischer has enough mess to clear up here. I think perhaps you should come with me. You are expected at the ceremony tomorrow morning. You’ll need to be dressed rather more appropriately than that.’

Numbly, not comprehending, Assefa stood. Fazzini led him to the door. Outside, a priest was standing, armed with a small Uzi. Like a refrain from a song, O’Malley’s words came back to him: Over one hundred of the Dead have been brought to Italy from Egypt.

They walked from the Governor’s Palace along the Via delle Fondamenta, heading for the Apostolic Palace, where the Secretariat of State was situated. The old cardinal went side by side with Assefa, the priest following several paces behind. Assefa wondered if the man would actually fire if he made a break for it. He had noticed a silencer on the gun.

‘I’m sorry you’ve been dragged into all this through no fault of your own, Father,’ said Fazzini. ‘You had such a promising career ahead of you. I’ve looked through your file, you see. For a ... black man ... you’ve done very well.

‘I’ve managed to get things tidied up in Dublin. You left a bit of a mess there, I’m afraid. A pity about Diotavelli. That caused a certain amount of embarrassment. It’s all been put down to the IRA, of course. Such a convenience to have an active terrorist group available to take the blame.

‘Now, of course, there’s no question of your going back there. Or anywhere else, for that matter. You know too much. You’ve become a liability. Until now, we’ve been able to give no satisfactory explanation as to your whereabouts. The assumption has been that you were abducted by the IRA, but that story’s beginning to wear a little thin. If your body could be found in Ireland, it would lend confirmation to that assumption, but getting you there could prove bothersome after tomorrow. You can probably guess what airline and border security will be like a week today.’

He paused as they entered the Sentinal Courtyard.

‘So,’ he went on, ‘the easiest thing seems to be for you to appear at the audience tomorrow. I’ll explain that you were involved in some confidential last-minute negotiations relating to the conference and that I preferred to keep your presence in Rome a secret. Naturally, you won’t have either the time or the opportunity to make a fuss. In all the uproar there’s going to be tomorrow, it will be a simple matter to dispose of you.

‘Cardinal Fischer tells me you came within a whisker of working out what’s going to happen. You have my congratulations.’

Assefa turned to him.

‘And exactly what is going to happen? You mean to kill the Holy Father. And the children with him. You’re a cardinal, you have taken sacred vows. I don’t understand.’

Fazzini spread his hands.

‘Why should you? You have no foundation on which to build any understanding of my actions. There are few that have. I do none of this for your sake; quite the contrary. A black priest is, in my opinion, almost a contradiction in terms. Well, not wholly, perhaps. Men like you have your place. Christ died for all men. But that place is not here in the Vatican. Your role is to serve, not to rule.’

He stopped walking. His voice rose in the stillness.

‘There are black bishops, even black cardinals. How long before a man like you is elected pope? And now people are saying that women should be ordained to the priesthood. What next? Black women?

Whores? Hermaphrodites? And then they say priests must marry. Where will that end? Will they marry one another, husbands and wives together at the altar? Their children acolytes? In America, homosexuals go through a form of marriage. Will men marry other men and serve as priests together, one to hold the cup and one the host?

‘Now they tell us Mahomet was a religious genius and Islam a God-given creed. What will they tell us next? That the gods of the Hindus are brothers of God? That witchcraft and the black arts are also part of God’s plan, sharers in God’s mysteries? Will they erect statues of Baal and Astarte in our churches? Tell me. Where will this end?’

Assefa did not answer. Several steps behind, the priest with the gun waited patiently for them to move again. Assefa began walking.

‘I asked you what will happen tomorrow. I’ve come this far, I have a right to know.’

‘What right? The right of a priest? You think because I do wrong in your eyes, I am less than you. You don’t have to tell me, I know that’s what you think. It is as I told you, you have no foundation for understanding. You were raised in the wilderness; all you know we have taught you. You know nothing of yourself, understand nothing through your own merit.

‘You think our brotherhood is an aberration, a distortion of the true faith, a bastard thing.’ He spoke loudly again, his voice nervous, hard, insistent. ‘But by what standard do you judge it? Who is a Christian, who is not? Is it for you to judge? For Rome? Are the Copts Christians? The Greeks? The native churches of Africa? Mormons? Jehovah’s Witnesses? We are older than any of them - older than Rome, older than the oldest. We have rights. A right to judge. A right to condemn. A right to punish.’

Assefa trembled. The night air was cold.

‘Is that what you will do tomorrow?’ he asked. ‘Punish?’

Fazzini paused.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘if you like. It is a punishment. What the Fathers of the Church called an exemplum. We shall make an example of the ungodly before men.’

‘What example? What will happen?’

‘Very well, if it will make you happy.’ He hesitated briefly, then began. ‘After the Holy Father - you will notice I observe the formalities even now - after the Holy Father has greeted the heads of state they will bring in the children. He will get down from his throne for this part, to mix with the orphans, pat them on the cheek, give them candies.

‘And then it will be time. Our people will come in from the Piazza and make their way up the stairs to the Sala Clementina. There will be fifty of them, dressed as Islamic freedom-fighters. They all speak Arabic, of course. There won’t be any misunderstanding. Everyone will take them for Muslim extremists. They will be heavily armed, and they will shoot to kill.’

‘They’ll never get through,’ said Assefa, though he hardly believed it himself. ‘The Swiss Guards will cut them down.’ Fazzini shook his head. ‘Tomorrow, the Guards on duty at the Apostolic

Palace will discover that they have been issued, not with live bullets, but with blanks. Incidentally, you and your friend Father O’Malley did us something of a favour by bringing Colonel Meyer into this. He’ll make an excellent scapegoat.’ They walked a little further in silence. From the San Damaso courtyard, they took a lift to the third floor of the Apostolic Palace.

“You’ll be spending the night in a room not far from here, Father. Bernardo will give you something to help you sleep. Please try not to make things difficult for him. I’m sure you’ll perform excellently in the morning.’

Assefa turned to go. All resistance had been sucked from him. There was no point in fighting odds like these. Before leaving, he turned to Fazzini.

Why? What’s it all for? What will you achieve by any of it?’

The cardinal eyed him. There was a look almost of pity in his gaze. Pity mingled with contempt.

“We will achieve God’s purpose. Not as you conceive it, of course. Not as the Pope conceives it. Not as the Hindus and Muslims and Buddhists and all the mixers and appeasers and ecumenicists conceive it. ‘Almost two thousand years ago, God gave power to Rome. He let it happen. Let them tear down His Temple, let them scatter His people. And then He took power from them again. This time He gave it to the Arabs. And then the Turks.

‘That was His nightmare, you see, God’s nightmare. All the prophets dreaming of a new Zion, and He gave them blood and ashes. For their sins. Because they gave Him the blood of doves and kept their children for themselves. And even when the nightmare seemed to have ended, when they thought they had woken up, He tricked them again. He let them think they had the truth, when all He had given them was lies and approximations. Half-truths are worse than falsehoods. Now they gave Him bread and wine instead of blood.

‘He let them rule in the name of Christ, when all the time Christ was with us, bleeding them empty. Wars, inquisitions, plagues - they had to pay, you see, they had to match his sacrifice.’

He stopped and strode across to the wall. Above the fireplace hung a wooden crucifix. He lifted it from the hook and held it folded in his hands. He stood looking intently at it for half a minute, then tossed it on the flames.

‘But now all that will change. They’ve had their chance. Now it’s our turn. We will offer Him the sacrifice he wants.’

He turned and looked hard at Assefa.

‘Cardinal Migliau has been chosen by God to be His new High Priest. There will be a temple again. And an altar. And worthy sacrifice. In a matter of days, there will be a Conclave. In a matter of hours, they will burn white smoke. Migliau will be our new pope.’

‘Not if God wills otherwise.’

‘God does not will otherwise. Listen. After tomorrow, there will be such an outcry in the world. There will be calls for a new crusade. Forget Russia and China. Islam will be revealed as the real enemy. And our new pope will be the first to call for war.

‘The day after tomorrow, it will be announced that he is being held hostage by the same terrorists who carried out the massacre in the Vatican. His life will be threatened. Prayers will be said for him in every church and every cathedral. There will be special masses. And during the Conclave, the idea will be put forward that he should be elected pope. In partibus infidelium. The Vicar of Christ among the heathen. He will be chosen, have no doubt of that. And a few days later, there will be a dramatic rescue. He will return to Rome in triumph. And instead of forgiveness, he will proclaim the Tenth Crusade. Exactly seven hundred years since the last Christian stronghold in the Holy Land fell to the Saracen.’

In the fireplace, bright flames started to devour the crucifix.

FIFTY-THREE

It was the smell that brought Patrick round. That or the heat. His head felt as though someone had filled it with cement and closed the lid with a bang. His first thought was that he was still in the crypt on San Vitale, then he remembered Francesca and Rome and the attack on the apartment.

He groaned and tried to open his eyes. They felt sticky. He reached up a hand and touched them gingerly. His fingers came away wet. The next moment, he was coughing violently and trying to sit up. His lungs were full of smoke, and however hard he tried, he could not find air. He managed to open his eyes a fraction. Light hit him like a tank meeting plate glass. He blinked rapidly. The smoke was thick and acrid, and it stung.

The room was full of it, heavy black smoke shot with flashes of orange and purple flame. The smell was kerosene. Kerosene and smoke. All round him, the flames were catching hold with alarming rapidity. His legs felt like jelly-rolls, and he was certain he was going to die. He fought to keep his eyes open long enough to sort out where he was. Bizarrely, a standard lamp in the corner was still lit, glowing smugly to itself as though all around it were normal. The smoke and flames had disorientated him.

Francesca! Where was Francesca? It came to him vividly that he had last seen her on the other side of the room, where she had rolled out of the second gunman’s line of fire. How long had passed since the attack?

He tried to call her name, but the second he opened his mouth he started choking. He groaned and began to crawl forward in what he prayed was the right direction, keeping his mouth as near to the floor as possible. There was just enough air at floor level to keep him alive. Behind him, he could hear the sound of flames licking steadily at fabric and woodwork. His head felt detached from his body, slamming round the room as though held on a length of elastic.

The area between him and the door was a mass of spreading flame. To his right, the only window to the street was fitted with iron bars half an inch thick. The apartment had become a death-trap.

There was no way out through the kitchen: its only window was ten feet off the floor and just big enough to spit through. There was no way out.

His fingers touched something soft. He pressed harder and the softness moved.

‘Fran.. .cesca ... Is ... that... you?’ he coughed.

There was silence, then a hoarse voice out of the darkness.

‘Si... Patrick ... What happened?’

‘Stun grenade ... Then kerosene ... They ... want it to ... look like an accident ... Don’t ... talk ... Got to ... make a ... run ... for it’

He took her arm and helped her to a kneeling position. They got what air they could into their lungs, then stumbled forward. The flames were in perfect mastery now, rising, falling, spiralling in a terrible ballet of light and darkness.

Francesca felt her breath sucked away, felt the heat wrap itself about her, seeking her flesh. Her head was throbbing, her heart pounded in her chest like a nightmare trying to break free of sleep.

It seemed madness to go further, but there was no choice. They had to go into the heart of the fire if they were to escape from it. ‘Run!’ cried Patrick, taking her arm. They staggered forward, heading in a straight line for where the door ought to be.

Something caught Francesca’s foot. She pitched forward, pulling Patrick with her, rolling as she fell. She had fallen across the body of the man she had shot.

Patrick felt his lungs fill with smoke. His skin felt as though it were about to catch fire. He pulled Francesca to her knees, urging her forward to the door. A wave of smoke billowed into his mouth and eyes, choking and blinding him. Where in Christ’s name was the door?!

With an effort they moved forward again, keeping as low as possible to find what little air lay trapped beneath the roiling smoke. Patrick knew they could have no more than seconds before they succumbed. Seconds, and the door as good as miles away, out of sight, out of reach in the blinding darkness.

Suddenly, they were there. Whoever had set the room on fire had closed the door behind him. It was a mass of flame. Patrick raised his foot and kicked hard, splintering the frame. The door caved in and fell outwards into the passage.

Behind them, the room erupted with incredible ferocity as the glass in the windows exploded, letting a rush of oxygen inside.

The passage was an inferno. Its walls were wood panelling, not plaster, and all down its length flames tore like beasts at one another, leaping and snarling.

No time to hesitate. No choice. Just the flames and a last dash for life. ‘Run!’ he gasped. They staggered out into hell. Their clothing caught fire, they were ablaze, blind fish swimming in agony through a sea of flame.

The front door had been left open. That was the source of the oxygen feeding the flames. They staggered through, out to the landing, their arms flailing wildly to extinguish the flames. Patrick fell to the floor, coughing, sucking air into his lungs. Francesca dropped beside him, retching, gasping for breath.

Patrick rolled towards the banister. They had to get away from the apartment before the flames spread further. With an effort, he pulled himself to his knees. He opened his eyes. Less than a yard away, a man was standing, feet apart, staring straight down at him.

FIFTY-FOUR

At first he thought he was in the hospital in Venice again. The same sounds, the same colours, a face bending over him. And then he saw the bandages. The fire had been neither a dream nor an hallucination.

‘Where am I?’ he pleaded.

‘San Giovanni,’ a voice said. A woman’s voice. ‘L’Ospedale San Giovanni. Next to San Giovanni in Laterano. You’re in the emergency department. You were brought here several hours ago after a fire. Please don’t worry, you aren’t badly hurt. Just some burns. They say it’s a miracle you escaped.’

‘Francesca ...’ He tried to get up, but a firm hand pressed him back onto the bed.

‘It’s all right. A woman was brought in with you. She’ll be fine. Don’t worry about a thing. Try to get some sleep.’

‘What time is it?’

‘Don’t you worry about the time. Sleep, that’s what you need.’

‘No, you don’t understand. It’s important. Please, what time is it?’

‘It’s half-past seven.’

‘Morning? Is it morning?’

‘Of course. I told you you were brought here only a few hours ago.’

Where is she? Francesca ... the woman they brought in with me?’

‘You’ll see her later. Lunchtime. You can see her at lunchtime.’

‘No, that’ll be too late!’ He pushed himself up again. He could see clearly now. He was in a curtained cubicle on a bed surrounded by drip stands and other pieces of emergency equipment. The nurse was on his left, a woman of about forty. She reached out and forced him down again.

‘Try not to excite yourself. Your wife is in the next cubicle. You’ll both be transferred to a ward later this morning, when the day porters come on duty.’

He lay back exhausted. Above him, bright lights stabbed his eyes. Two and a half hours. He had to know what was happening.

‘Please,’ he said. ‘I have to make a telephone call. It’s extremely important’

The nurse hesitated then nodded.

‘All right. I’ll have someone bring a wheelchair.’

‘My legs ... ?’

‘There’s nothing wrong with your legs. I just don’t want you on your feet tiring yourself. Wait here.’

He had to speak with O’Malley. The priest had planned to stay at the Vatican until he was sure everything was safe. He would have tried ringing again last night, but without an answer. Why hadn’t he gone to the apartment? Surely someone there would have sent him on to the hospital. And what about Roberto? He had not even reported back. Patrick felt fear grip him like a cold hand.

An orderly came with a wheelchair and helped Patrick into it.

‘Can you take me into the next cubicle, please. My ... wife is there. I need to speak to her.’

‘I’m sorry, I was told to take you to the telephone.’

‘Dammit, I can’t make this call without a number. She knows it. I’ve got to speak to her.’

‘Only if she’s awake.’

The orderly pulled the curtain of Francesca’s cubicle back a few inches. She was propped up in bed, her eyes open.

‘All right, you can go in. But only a moment, mind, or I’ll be in trouble.’

‘Patrick!’ She pulled herself up.

He took her hand and squeezed it, making her flinch.

‘I’m sorry, Patrick, it got burned a little. Still hurts.’

‘Sorry.’

‘What are you doing in a wheelchair? You aren’t... ?’

‘No, I could walk if I wanted. Hospital regulations. Listen, Francesca, it’s half past seven. If Dermot hasn’t succeeded in persuading this cardinal about the plot, it’ll be too late to stop it.’

‘I’ve been thinking about that too. I only woke up half an hour ago. They told me you were still sleeping, that you shouldn’t be disturbed. Dermot should have been sent here. Or Roberto. I’m worried, Patrick. I think something’s happened.’

‘I want to telephone the Vatican, speak to the man they went to see. The cardinal. What was his name?’

She thought for a moment.

‘He’s an American. That’s why Dermot trusts him. His name is Fischer, Cardinal Fischer.’

‘Does he spell that the English way or...’ Patrick gripped the edge of the chair.

What’s wrong, Patrick? Is there ... ?’

‘O Jesus. We didn’t tell O’Malley. The Fisherman. Assefa won’t have realized, English isn’t his native language.’

She took his hand, disregarding the pain.

“What is it, Patrick? What’s the matter?’

He told her. She shut her eyes, closing out the pain.

We can’t be sure. Perhaps it’s a coincidence.’

He shook his head.

‘We can’t take that risk. What about Roberto?

If O’Malley hasn’t rung, they’ll be opening those letters now. Can we reach Roberto? His apartment? His office? Do you have the numbers?’

She recited them from memory.

He called the orderly and had him wheel him into the corridor, where the public telephones were situated. The orderly found him a handful of gettoni and left him alone while he called.

There was no reply from Roberto’s apartment. He tried his office number. Just as he was about to give up there as well, a man’s voice answered.

‘Pronto.’

‘Pronto. I’d like to speak to Roberto Quadri, please.’

‘Who is this?’

‘A friend. It’s urgent I speak to him. Do you know where he is?’

‘I’m sorry, Signor Quadri was killed last night. A car crash on the Via del Corso. I’m very sorry. He was taken to the San Giovanni hospital. I’m sure they can give you more details there.’

Patrick put the phone down. He sat staring at the receiver for a moment, then stood up. The orderly rushed over.

‘Signore, I don’t think ...’

Patrick pushed him out of the way. He ran back to the cubicle where Francesca was waiting for him.

‘Hurry up,’ he said. ‘Find some clothes. We’ve got to get out of here. We’ve got to stop this thing ourselves.’

The nurse who had been with Patrick earlier came running up, followed by a man dressed in a white coat.

‘What’s the meaning of this? I told you to stay in bed! What do you mean ... ?’

Patrick shoved her aside and walked up to the doctor. He was young, probably just qualified, and looked as though he had had a busy night.

‘Please don’t argue,’ Patrick said. ‘This woman and I are checking out of here. I’m taking complete responsibility, do you understand?’

‘But, you can’t...’

‘It’s an emergency, do you understand? I don’t have time to argue.’

He ran into his own cubicle and opened the bedside cupboard. His clothes were there, looking very much the worse for wear. They had been burned and soaked and covered in a variety of unpleasant-looking stains. He ripped off the gown he had been wearing and pulled on his shirt and trousers.

‘Please, signore, you’re in no condition to leave!’ The nurse was determined to assert her authority.

‘Vaffanculo!’ snapped Patrick.

He pulled his shoes on and hurried back to Francesca’s cubicle. She looked as bad as he did. He wondered how far they would get before the police hauled them in.

‘Before we go,’ he said, ‘I have something to tell you.’

‘About Roberto?’

He nodded.

‘You’d better sit down,’ he said.

They found a cab at the hospital entrance, at the top of the Via dei Quattro Coronati. The driver did a double-take when he saw them, but shrugged his shoulders. Some strange sights walk down the steps of hospitals. Francesca told him to go straight to the Via della Rotonda near the Pantheon, where Roberto’s apartment was located. She had taken the news of his death curiously well. Perhaps an abrupt exit had seemed better to her than the lingering death he had been facing for so long. Any tears she might shed could wait for later.

She had a key that let them into the building and another to the apartment itself.

Someone had got there before them. The place had been ripped apart. In Quadri’s study, papers lay strewn over everything. Filing cabinets lay open, their contents gutted. Empty box files had been heaped up in one corner. The Brotherhood was making certain no loose ends remained untied.

Francesca dashed out of the study to the kitchen. Patrick followed her. Broken plates and empty jars littered the floor. She picked her way through them to the sink and put her hand inside the cupboard underneath. Taped to the roof of the cupboard, as in her own apartment, were two Berettas. Without a word, she handed one to Patrick.

‘What now? he asked.

She looked at him, then down at herself.

‘We can’t stay in these clothes,’ she said. ‘We have to get into the Vatican, and I hardly think the Swiss Guards will let in anybody looking like us.’

There were some of her own clothes still hanging at the back of Roberto’s wardrobe. While she changed into them, Patrick took a shirt and suit to the bathroom. By the time they had finished, they still looked distinctly odd, but they might just make it past a suspicious sentry.

‘What about transport?’

‘The van is still parked in the Via Grotta Pinta. It’s just a short walk from here.’

‘And when we get there?’

‘We find Fischer. Or Fazzini. And we put a gun at their heads. What have you got to suggest?’

He shrugged.

‘Nothing, I guess. If we had time ...’

‘Yes?’

‘I’d look for Migliau. You say he’s the head of the Brotherhood. That means he must be behind this whole operation today. And that means he must be in Rome. It wouldn’t make sense for him to be in Venice.’

‘He has a lot of subordinates.’

‘In that case, why disappear at all?’

She frowned.

‘Yes. You’ve got a point. But, as you say, we don’t have time.’

In his mind’s eye he saw the television screen and the faces of dead children.

‘No,’ he said. ‘We don’t have time. But if you knew he was in Rome, where would you look?’

She shrugged.

‘Anywhere. No special place. The Seven live in Jerusalem now. The Dead are in Egypt.’

‘Dermot said they had brought in one hundred of the Dead. Where would they stay?’

‘In different houses, hotels even.’

‘But they’d have to come together at some point for briefings. There’d have to be a central point.’

She thought.

‘It’s just possible that...’

‘Yes?’

‘Centuries ago, very early in their history, the Brotherhood had members in Rome. Not many, a few hundred at the most. But they had separate catacombs from the other Christians, where they buried their own dead. During the Decian persecutions, they met down there.’

“What were they called? Did they have a name?’

‘I don’t think so. No, I’m wrong, they did have a name. I remember now. I was taken there once as a child. I must have been ten or eleven. They frightened me and I wouldn’t stay inside. My father called them the Catacombe di Pasqua. The Easter Catacombs.’

Patrick stared at her.

‘Are you sure?’

She nodded.

‘Then that’s it,’ he said. There was a note of triumph in his voice. For the first time he thought he was one step ahead of his enemy. ‘That’s where Migliau is. Not the Easter Catacombs, Francesca. The Passover Catacombs.’

FIFTY-FIVE

They fought through a growing crush of early morning traffic, forcing the van between cars and buses, breaking every rule of driving, even the Italian variety. Francesca drove south, past the Colosseum and down onto the Viale delle Terme di Caracalla. The catacombs, like so many others, were situated on the Via Appia Antica, the old Appian Way that had once taken Roman armies as far as Brindisi.

After the Porta San Sebastiano, where the Appian Way began, most of the traffic was heading into the city, and they were able to make some headway. The narrow road led them through open country, flanked on either side by the ruined tombs of the Roman upper classes.

Patrick felt a wave of desolation pass through him. The old tombs, for all their pomposity, were as broken and pitiful as the bones that lay in them. He thought of Brother Antonio dreading the resurrection lest a legless man dispossess him of part of himself. A joke, perhaps, yet one rooted in our longing for completeness. But crack open the tombs and what do you find? Pulvis cinis et nihil. He looked at Francesca. She had been buried and had returned - in body, he thought, not in spirit. Her old self had been left mouldering in the tomb.

They turned off just after the Catacombs of Praetextatus, onto the Via Appia Pignatelli.

‘The old Jewish catacombs are just over there on the right,’ she said, pointing. ‘The Brotherhood built theirs near them. If anyone stumbled across them, they were meant to think they were just more Jewish tombs and leave them alone.’

They stopped about half a mile along, near a small farmhouse.

‘The catacombs are beneath that farm,’ she said. ‘The people who own it are members of the Brotherhood. We may have to force our way in.’

They knocked at the door of the main building, a ramshackle affair that might have looked deserted but for the plume of smoke curling from the chimney. A tall man of about thirty-five dressed in a check shirt and muddy cords appeared in the doorway. He scowled at them and made ready to slam the door in their faces.

‘Che cacchio desidera? What the shit do you want?’

‘My name’s Maria Contarini. I have an urgent message for Cardinal Migliau from the Seven.’

He frowned and looked from her to Patrick.

‘Cardinal Migliau? The Seven? What are you talking about?’

For a moment, Patrick’s heart sank. They had guessed wrong. Then another man stepped out of the shadows behind the first. He was younger and dressed in tight-fitting black clothes.

‘What do they want, Carlo?’

‘Says her name’s Contarini. Says she’s got a message from the Seven. For Cardinal Migliau.’

The younger man stepped into the light. He was suntanned and muscular looking.

‘Who are you?’ he asked. He seemed edgy.

‘I told your friend. Maria Contarini. With a message for the Cardinal. A personal message. You’re to take me to see him.’

‘Contarini? From Venice?’

‘Yes. Listen, I don’t have much time ...’

We’ve been looking for someone of your name. Francesca? Is that it? Francesca Contarini. You look..,’

He froze as she took the Beretta from inside her coat and aimed it at his forehead. Patrick took her lead, drawing his own gun before Carlo could make a move.

‘Easy now,’ Francesca said. ‘Come out here and put your hands on the wall, high as you can reach. You too, come on.’

They got the two men outside and spread them against the wall. Patrick frisked the younger man and found a Browning Hi-Power in a shoulder holster. Carlo was unarmed.

‘How many inside?’ Francesca asked.

‘Go to hell,’ said the young man.

‘Who are you?’ she asked. ‘How long have you been dead?’

‘Not as long as you’ll be.’

‘Don’t count on it.’ She turned to Patrick. ‘Let’s get them inside and tied up. Keep them covered while I check the house.’

She slipped round the door, crouching low, her gun at the ready. The house was silent. No one challenged her. The place was little more than a one-storey wooden shack with half a dozen rooms. It took Francesca less than a minute to confirm that the coast was clear.

‘It’s okay,’ she shouted. ‘Bring them in.’

While she took her turn watching their prisoners, Patrick found rope in an outhouse. They tied the two men back to back on the floor in what looked like an extraordinarily uncomfortable position.

‘They teach you to tie like that in Egypt?’ Patrick asked.

Francesca nodded.

‘Along with the knitting,’ she answered.

The entrance to the catacombs was in the outhouse. Francesca remembered it clearly from her previous visit. A small trapdoor opened onto a flight of wooden steps. Beside it, half a dozen kerosene lamps hung on hooks. There was a box of matches to hand. They each took a lamp and lit it.

Francesca hung back at the top of the steps.

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Patrick.

She shivered.

‘I told you, I couldn’t face this place when I was a child. The bodies are still down there, you know. Or what’s left of them. Thousands of loculi, a mile or more of passages. And only what light you can carry with you.’

‘Sounds like a nice place to take little girls for a day out. Would you like me to go first?’

She nodded.

‘Funny though, isn’t it?’ she smiled. ‘Here I am, the ghost, frightened of a few musty old tombs, while you slip in without a care.’

‘What makes you think I’m not scared shitless?’

‘Are you?’

‘No. Of course not. I do this sort of thing every weekend for kicks.’

‘That’s all right, then.’

Holding the lamp in one hand, he swung his legs over the edge onto the ladder and began to climb down. Francesca waited until his head was clear, then followed him gingerly.

The ladder ended about forty feet down. Patrick stepped off, turning the knob on the side of the lamp to increase the illumination. He found himself in a broad paved area that led to a low, monumental doorway. The walls and edges of the doorway itself were painted with rows of symbolic motifs: vines, bowls of wine, lotus and acanthus leaves, peacocks, doves, and angels with gentle, faded wings.

Francesca joined him, adding her light to his.

‘Do you have any idea of the layout of this place?’ he asked.

She shook her head.

‘Not a very clear one. It’s on several levels. They’re divided into passages with niches for the dead. I remember some larger tombs as well, and some side chapels. My father told me the large tombs contained the sarcophagi of martyrs or members of the Seven and the Pillars who’d died in Rome.’

Patrick took his gun out.

‘I’ll leave the ghosts to you,’ he said.

She did not smile in reply.

They met their first ghosts moments later, as they passed through the doorway. The narrow passage swelled to form a small antechamber where mourners had held the funeral agape. Its stucco walls were covered from floor to ceiling with paintings, small portraits, each about ten inches square. The style was that of Roman Egypt, the faces replicas of those painted on mummy cases of the period - honest, lifelike representations of men and women who had lived and breathed some eighteen centuries ago.

Everywhere Patrick and Francesca looked, their eyes met the steady gaze of the dead. There were family groups marked out by a border of lilies or laurel, couples side by side, fathers, mothers, lovers - all serious and composed in death. Francesca shuddered and took hold of Patrick’s arm.

‘I’d forgotten this,’ she whispered. ‘They’re so alive, they seem to be accusing us. Or waiting for us to join them.’

‘If we don’t find Migliau soon, they won’t have long to wait. Come on, through here.’

Cobwebs hung at intervals like tattered flags in a dark cathedral. Patrick felt them brush his face as he moved along the first narrow passages, hemmed in by row upon row of marble slabs. Some of the slabs had fallen away, revealing pathetic heaps of cloth and bone.

At its end, the passage opened out again, becoming a mortuary chapel. A simple altar stood by one wall, flanked by twin sarcophagi. Above it, angels hovered, wingless in God. The face of Christ looked down, bearded, large-eyed, a man on the verge of Godhood, his hands outstretched to receive his sacrifice. Patrick shuddered.

There was a sound of feet climbing steps a few yards away. A light appeared, then a voice called out.

‘Paolo? Che cosa stai facendo?’

Patrick put down his lamp and pulled Francesca back against the wall of the chapel. The light wavered, then started in their direction. A man came into view, carrying a lamp like theirs. Patrick grabbed for him, taking him off balance and completely by surprise. He tried to cry out, but Patrick had already thrust an arm hard against his mouth, choking off his scream. The man’s lamp dropped to the ground, splintering and bursting into flames. Francesca hurried forward and stamped them out.

With an easy movement, Patrick brought the gun to the stranger’s head and hissed in his ear.

‘One sound out of you and you really are dead. Capisce?’

The man grunted and made what seemed like a nodding motion. Francesca frisked him, taking his gun.

‘Okay, listen,’ Patrick whispered. ‘We’ve come for Migliau. I want you to take us to him. Understand?’

The man struggled, trying to break free. Patrick tightened his grip.

“Which way? Down the stairs?’

The man jerked his head. Patrick turned him and pushed him towards the opening out of which he had come. At the top of the stairs, he released his grip and took his lamp from Francesca.

‘Go down one step at a time,’ he told the man. ‘I’ll be right behind you.’

The prisoner seemed about to protest, then thought better of it. One by one, he descended the flight of stone steps. Patrick followed him closely.

Ten steps from the bottom, the man jumped. He landed awkwardly, stumbled, and got to his feet.

‘Aiuto!’ he shouted in a loud voice. ‘Astolfo! Alberto! Correte qui presto!’

Patrick shot him as he started to run, pitching him back against a funerary slab. Followed closely by Francesca, he rushed to the bottom of the stairs. They had no choice. They had to go on. Migliau must be here. Patrick glanced at his watch. It was nearly nine o’clock. Just over an hour to go.

‘Patrick, quickly - change into his clothes! They don’t know who fired. The acoustics are bad, they may not be able to distinguish one voice from another. Hurry!’

Patrick shouted, ‘It’s all right! I’ve got him,’ then hurried to do as Francesca had suggested. He ripped off Roberto’s suit and pulled on the trousers of the dead man. He heard footsteps running further along the passage, then voices.

‘Nico? Che succede? Was that you? Who were you firing at?’

‘An intruder. It’s okay, I got him.’ Patrick’s voice was muffled and distorted among the tombs.

Lights appeared, still some distance from them.

‘Hurry, Patrick! Don’t bother with the shoes.’

Just in time, Patrick pulled the man’s sweater over his head. He moved behind Francesca, holding his gun at her head.

There were three men, all holding lamps and guns.

What’s up, Nico? The cardinal’s frightened. Who’s this woman?’

‘Now,’ Patrick whispered.

They moved apart, Francesca to the left, Patrick to the right, opening fire as they did so, round after round. Their opponents did not stand a chance.

Running now, they raced along the passage, Francesca in front, Patrick trailing, hampered without shoes. Suddenly, they turned a bend in the corridor. There was a blaze of light. Lamps flickered. A fire burned brightly in a metal brazier. Flames twinkled on mosaics of gold and silver. In a high dome, their reflections coruscated like exotic fish in a sea of bronze.

At the centre of the room, dressed in black edged with red, an old man sat in a high-backed chair. His clothes were soaked with blood and his hands were crimson. In his right hand, he held a long, thin-bladed knife.

FIFTY-SIX

Migliau gave up the knife without a struggle. He was thin and wasted, a shadow, tattered and torn. Twenty years ago, in another tomb, in a different darkness, he had taken life as easily as a cook breaks eggs. It had been nothing to him, beside the enormity of what he had found. Now, he seemed drugged, witless, a thing of straw.

He was still tall, but all the vigour had been sucked from him relentlessly. His cheeks were hollow, his neck thin. Only his eyes retained the old anger, the tensions of a man close to divinity or madness. Behind him, on a stone altar, the gutted body of a naked child lay on a film of fresh blood.

Francesca found a sheet on a low bed close by, on which the cardinal had evidently been sleeping. She covered the child and took him down from the altar. He was still warm, like something sleeping, a dream away from his lost years.

‘I loved him,’ whispered the cardinal. Patrick bent to hear him. The cracked lips parted, whispering. ‘He was my son. They said it was necessary, that I should have a son. For today, to be my sacrifice. He was to be the balance. The payment for Christ’s Vicar.’

He looked down at the white-swathed bundle Francesca laid on the ground.

‘They brought a woman for me,’ he said. ‘Seven years ago. She was white, so very white, and frightened of me. She should not have been frightened, I would not have harmed her. Her flesh was pale, not like the dreams of women I used to have. No more dreams now, no more. She stayed with me until a child was certain, then they took her away. I had started to desire her by then. But I do not dream of her.

‘I called the boy Giovanni, after John the Zealot. They kept him in a house near the patriarchal palace, where I could visit him every month. They never let me see his mother. What happened to her? Is she still alive?’

He paused, contemplating a memory.

‘All the time I knew his destiny, but I still loved him. That was part of the reckoning, they said, part of the balance. Without love, there could be no sacrifice, none that had any meaning.’

He looked at them, one after the other.

‘I shall soon be Pope,’ he said, his voice still a whisper. ‘He is my guarantee, because I loved him. But I shall have no love. No love for God, no love for mankind. There will be nothing now but sacrifice. There will be balance upon balance until every drop is bought and paid for.’

Patrick took the old man by the arm and raised him to his feet.

‘It’s time to go,’ he said. He felt nothing, not even contempt.

‘But there hasn’t been time for a Conclave yet.’

‘There will be no Conclave.’ Was that true? If they didn’t make it in time, the Church would need to find a new pope.

What about the child?’ Francesca asked.

‘You take Migliau,’ he said. ‘I’ll carry the boy.’

It was a race against time, now. The worst of the rush-hour traffic had cleared, giving them half a chance. Cars and pedestrians cleared out of their path. Once in the city, Francesca took a circuitous route through side streets, avoiding the main thoroughfares that she knew would still be heavily jammed. It was almost ten when they reached the Vittorio Emanuele bridge and eased themselves into the line crossing the river.

They drove straight across St Peter’s square, stopping at the Bronze Doors that formed the main entrance to the Vatican. Within seconds, they were surrounded by Swiss Guards posted there as extra security for the ceremony inside. They formed a ring round the van, pointing their Uzis at its doors.

Francesca had already wound down her window.

‘Quickly,’ she said. ‘I have Cardinal Migliau in the back. There’s no time to explain. We have to take him to the audience.’

A thickset sergeant strode across.

‘Out!’ he ordered, waving his gun at her.

‘For God’s sake,’ she said. ‘Look in the back. It’s Migliau, I tell you. He has people planning an attack on the Pope.’

‘Cover her,’ the sergeant commanded two of his men. ‘You, you, come with me.’

They went round to the back. A guard turned the handle and pulled the door open. Inside, Patrick sat beside Migliau. On the floor, the dead boy lay wrapped in his sheet.

Was zum Teufel...?’

Patrick raised his hands in the air and slid out. Two guards grabbed him and threw him against the side of the van. One frisked him, taking his gun.

The sergeant looked carefully at Migliau.

‘Are you able to move?’ he said. He thought the blood was the cardinal’s own, that he had been wounded.

Migliau moved like a man in a dream. Slowly, he crawled to the door, where he was helped down by a guard. The sergeant scrutinized him more carefully.

‘Mein Gott,’ the man whispered. There had been photographs of Migliau all over their barracks during the past week.

‘He isn’t hurt,’ said Patrick. ‘That isn’t his blood. If you look beneath that sheet, you’ll see where the blood came from.’

A guard stepped into the van and drew back part of the sheet. A moment later, he was outside, throwing up.

What the hell’s all this about?’ demanded the sergeant, grabbing Patrick roughly. He was still dressed in the trousers and sweater he had put on in the catacombs.

‘Listen to me very carefully,’ said Patrick. ‘There won’t be time to repeat this. Cardinal Migliau is responsible for... what your man saw inside. There’s no time for explanations. You’ll just have to take my word. People working for him plan to launch an attack during this morning’s audience. They intend to kill the Pope and the children who will be with him.’

He could see the confusion in the sergeant’s eyes.

‘If you don’t believe me,’ Patrick insisted, ‘the Pope will be dead. And a lot of innocent children. Do you want that on your conscience?’

What do you want us to do?’

‘Take us to the reception. It’s the only way. Please believe me, we’re talking in terms of minutes. I don’t know exactly when the attack will start or where it will come from. You’d better call up reinforcements. Bring in the Italian security services. But for God’s sake hurry.’

The sergeant was an intelligent man. He had already been disturbed that morning when Colonel Meyer’s disappearance had been reported. If this man and woman were involved in some attack, it was implausible that they would turn up like this, giving advance warning. Unless this was some sort of decoy. He pulled a handset from his pocket and flicked a button.

‘Captain Luft? This is Sergeant Genscher at the doors. We have an emergency. I’d like you here at once.’

A curt voice replied. Genscher replaced his handset. Turning to Migliau, he took him by the shoulders.

‘Your Eminence, is this true? What this man is telling me - is it the truth?’

Migliau stared at him as though unable to understand. Finally, he began to speak in a slurred voice.

‘The truth? I am the truth. That is my destiny. They are about to proclaim me Pope. There will be white smoke, and then it will be time for blood. I loved him - that is what I find hard to understand. I had not planned for love.’

Genscher shook his head. For the first time in his career, he felt genuinely frightened.

Seconds later, a man wearing a captain’s uniform came running through the doors. He paused briefly to take in the scene. Genscher ran up to him. They talked briefly, then Captain Luft came across to where Patrick and Francesca were standing together at the back of the van.

‘Is this true? You ask me to believe there is some sort of plot against the Pope. What evidence do you have?’

‘For God’s sake,’ Francesca retorted, ‘we don’t have time for evidence. Just tell your men to be ready and get reinforcements quickly. You can have all the investigations you want afterwards.’

Luft did not argue. He turned to Genscher.

‘Do as she says. Tell Hofmann and Wegener to bring their men here straight away. Contact

Carabinieri HQ and tell Colonel Sahi I need help right away.’

Genscher saluted and left.

“You two,’ the captain said, addressing Patrick and Francesca. ‘Come with me.’

‘Captain,’ Francesca implored, ‘there isn’t time. The audience must be halted. The Pope and everyone else have to be evacuated.’

‘I can’t do that. The audience has already started. I don’t have the authority to stop it.’

‘Who has authority?’

‘Colonel Meyer, but he’s missing. And even he would need authorization from Cardinal Fischer.’

Francesca closed her eyes.

‘Cardinal Fischer’s mixed up in this. We have to take Migliau to the Holy Father. We have to shock them into evacuating the Sala Clementina. Please, Captain. There are lives at stake.’

Luft looked from them to Migliau and back again. Genscher had told him he thought Migliau was mad. Mad and evil? Or maddened by being taken hostage?

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I’ll take responsibility. God help you if you’re lying.’ He turned to the guards still waiting by the van. ‘You men come with me. We’re going to interrupt a papal audience.’

FIFTY-SEVEN

Patrick carried the child while Luft escorted Cardinal Migliau. In the Corridore del Bernini they caught a brief glimpse of the imposing Regia staircase, before turning right onto the Scala Pia. Guards lined the staircase, saluting as the captain passed, yet betraying bewilderment on their faces.

At the top of the staircase, Luft hesitated before the doors of the Sala Clementina.

‘This is your last chance,’ he said. ‘Once I open this door, there’s no going back.’

‘If we don’t go in,’ pleaded Patrick, holding the child out to the captain, ‘this will only be the first of many. We have no choice.’ He drew the sheet away, exposing the naked child.

Luft straightened himself and opened the door.

Red and black painted pillars rose majestically to a curved, frescoed ceiling on which the figures of Justice and Religion upheld a universe of order and love. In a painted sky, angels and cherubim circled in a cosmic dance. Light and harmony, the world unchanging, archetypes in a heaven of incorruptible delight.

On the floor, a different harmony, vanity seeking grace, jewels and precious cloths conferring an unworldly dignity on the merely mortal. Cardinals in red silk, bishops in robes of magenta, priests in black, and above them all, at the end of the room, seated on a chair of gold, the Pope in white.

Cardinal Migliau took a faltering step into the room. No one noticed him at first. Then a diplomat near the doors caught sight of him. Patrick followed, carrying the dead child in his arms. A deathly hush began at the back of the room where they passed and conveyed itself to the very end. Men and women parted to let the mad procession pass. No one tried to stop them, no one spoke a word.

Migliau held himself erect now, as though entry to this room had granted him new strength. He walked unaided past rows of staring faces, never looking either to right or left until at last he came to the foot of the papal chair, raised on a low dais above the crowd.

‘Come down,’ Migliau said, in a voice that was scarcely more than a whisper. Those that had hung back to let him pass now crowded forward to hear him speak.

‘Come down,’ he repeated. ‘That is my throne. Those are my robes. I depose you in the name of Christ.’

The Pope did not respond at first. He could not understand what was happening. Migliau he recognized, but who were these others with him? And what was the meaning of the dead child being carried behind the cardinal?

Captain Luft stepped forward.

‘Your Holiness, I must apologize for this interruption. There’s no time to explain. We must evacuate the chamber. There is reason to believe that some sort of attack is planned.’

The Pope stood, horror on his face.

‘I do not understand. You come here in this fashion, you interrupt a most important audience. I demand to speak to Colonel Meyer. Where is he? Where is Cardinal Fischer? Have they been told about this?’

‘There is no time, Your Holiness. We have to clear the room. I have ordered the Bronze Doors closed. We need to get everyone as far away from the Sala Clementina as possible, into the Appartamento behind. I believe lives may be in danger. Please help me, Your Holiness. I beg you.’

The Pope saw the concern on the man’s face. He hesitated only a moment longer, then raised his hand.

‘Please,’ he called. He spoke simply and directly in Italian, in a calm voice. There is no need for panic. I have just been told that, for our safety, the Swiss Guard wishes us to move to the apartments behind this room. I want you to follow their advice as quietly and speedily as possible.’

At that moment, there was a movement in the crowd. A figure detached itself from the group of cardinals standing near the Pope. Cardinal Fazzini ran forward and threw himself in front of Migliau, taking his hand and raising it to his lips. Then a second cardinal and a third stepped forward and knelt in front of Migliau. They were followed by an archbishop and four bishops.

Patrick laid down the child’s body. Looking round, he caught sight of the group of orphans who had been waiting to meet the Pope. They were wide-eyed, many of them openly weeping, while a handful of visibly distressed nuns bustled round them trying to restore order.

On the other side, a collection of priests stood in shocked silence. Patrick glanced at them. At the front stood Assefa.

‘Assefa!’ Patrick ran forward.

The Ethiopian did not respond. Patrick noticed that the priests on either side of him were holding him by the elbows, as though to prevent him falling. As he came up to his friend, one of them pushed him roughly away.

Patrick hit the man hard, knocking him back. He staggered, then rallied and came for Patrick. Dodging the priest’s first blow, Patrick threw himself on him. There were shouts and screams as people struggled to get out of their path.

‘Patrick!’ Francesca’s voice cut through the din. ‘He’s got a gun! The other one.’

Patrick twisted round to see the second priest aiming at him. There was nothing he could do. As he watched, Assefa swung his arm down, striking the priest’s hand. Two more priests rushed forward and grabbed the first man as he too pulled a pistol.

At that moment, there was the sound of an explosion from below. Less than a second later, another followed it, then a third. They were breaching the Bronze Doors. Someone screamed. There was a burst of frightened voices.

Patrick ran to Assefa. The Ethiopian had collapsed. Patrick saw at once that he had been heavily drugged.

‘Assefa, are you all right? What about O’Malley? What happened to him?’

Assefa struggled to form words.

‘O’.. .Malley ... dead ... Fischer ...Il Pescatore ... Patrick, listen ... The Guards ... all bullets ... blanks ... No good ...’

Patrick stood.

‘Francesca, get the pistol from that other priest. I’ll take this one. I’ve got to warn the captain that his men are armed with blanks.’

Suddenly, there was a sound of shooting. Burst after burst of machine-gun fire echoed faintly from below. There were shouts from outside as Swiss Guards ran to defend the stairs.

‘Captain,’ Patrick cried, running to where Luft stood by the doors into the Appartamento. He grabbed the captain’s arm. ‘Your men have been armed with blank bullets.’

What?!’

‘I don’t know how. Can you try your gun?’

Luft said nothing. He walked across the room, unslinging his Uzi, and aimed it at the wall. He fired a short burst. The gun rattled, but the wall remained unharmed. When he turned to face the room again, his cheeks had lost all colour.

‘I have a pistol,’ said Patrick. ‘So has Francesca. One of your men has the guns Sergeant Genscher took from us at the doors. That gives us four.’

‘Four handguns against how many assault rifles? There’ll be a massacre out there.’

‘Get your men to organize a barricade at the main doors!’ said Patrick. The captain nodded and gave the orders. In spite of everything, he was successfully keeping his head. A group of priests ran to give his men a hand.

A handful of prelates had gathered about the Pope and the group was making its way towards the rear doors, leading into the suite of rooms behind. Others were helping the orphans through. In the space in front of the papal dais, another ring of clerics had formed, taking turns to kiss Migliau’s hand.

Suddenly, a figure separated itself from the original group of cardinals which had been broken up by Fazzini. He made his way towards the circle of dignitaries around the Pope. Captain Luft caught sight of him and stepped forward.

‘Cardinal Fischer! I’ve been trying to find you all morning. Colonel Meyer has disappeared. We need...’

Fischer turned. As he did so, Patrick caught a glimpse of him and thought he recognized his face as one of those in the folder Assefa had found in Dublin. The look in the cardinal’s eyes was complex: triumph mixed with doubt, confidence with fear. As the Swiss Guard captain took a second step in his direction, he turned and reached inside his robes. His hand came out holding a small gun. He raised it, shaking his head, a sort of pity in his expression, then fired twice. The reality of the bullets seemed to take Luft by surprise. His eyes widened, he reached out a hand as though in supplication, tottered, blinked, and fell.

A moment later, the cardinal had returned the gun to his robes and was pressing into the bustle of red and purple figures escorting the Pope. Patrick came seconds after, losing him in the confusion. Dressed as he was and armed, he seemed more of a threat than Fischer. The tight ranks closed even tighter.

‘Please,’ he cried, ‘you’ve got to let me through!’

None of those immediately near the Pope had seen what had happened to the captain. They recognized Fischer, knew he was the head of Vatican security, and moved to let him pass. The Pope was only yards away.

Patrick pushed into the crowd. The bodies were so tightly packed, he did not dare open fire. He jabbed and butted his way through. He could not understand why Fischer and the other prelates he had seen had risked everything by coming into the open now. But he did know that, if Fischer got to the Pope, it would lead to open panic. They might never get the children out.

Suddenly, there was a gap and he could see Fischer. The Pope was turning at the American’s voice. Patrick tried to break through the last ring, but a pair of young priests held him back. Fischer was in the open now, only feet from his target. Patrick saw him smile, saw the Pope return his greeting, saw Fischer’s hand move inside his vestments.

‘Stop him! He’s got a gun!’ shouted Patrick.

The Pope glanced round, then back at Fischer, just as he pulled the gun free and pointed it in his direction.

At that moment, Patrick understood. Fischer and the others did not care. They intended to kill everyone. There were to be no survivors but themselves. He punched hard against the man trying to hold him, then twisted and broke free.

Fischer fired three times in quick succession. His first bullet caught an elderly bishop who had thrown himself in front of the Pope. The second hit a cardinal on the Pope’s left. And the third hit its target.

A fourth shot followed, louder. Fischer staggered, his neck spurting blood. Hardly anyone noticed him. All eyes were on the Pope, on the red blood spraying across his white vestments.

Someone hit Patrick from behind, knocking the gun from his hand, sending him flying to the floor.

FIFTY-EIGHT

Sounds of renewed shooting came from outside. They were growing closer. Francesca had managed to force her way through to where Patrick lay. By now it had become apparent that he had been trying to rescue, not kill, the Pope. She helped him to his feet. Nearby, Fischer lay dead, his eyes fixed blindly on the figure of Justice on the ceiling high above him. Patrick stooped and picked up the pistol he had dropped. It would still have a couple of rounds. ‘The Pope,’ he said. ‘Fischer hit him.’ There was still a group milling about the spot where Patrick had last seen the Pontiff. A bishop came across to them.

‘He’s alive, but badly hurt. We have to get him to a hospital.’

‘Hurry,’ said Patrick. ‘We’ll do what we can to hold off the attack. We can give you a few minutes, no more.’

At the main door, heavy shooting had already started. Patrick turned to Francesca. ‘Help me,’ he said.

They ran to where Migliau stood surrounded by his followers. Patrick dashed into the middle of the circle and grabbed the old man. A cardinal tried to pull him off, but Patrick knocked him down. Francesca covered Patrick while he dragged Migliau out of the ring amidst a hail of protests. At the far end of the room, the doors were riddled with bursts of heavy gunfire. Two Swiss Guards and a handful of priests were trying to hold the barricade.

Patrick dragged Migliau into the centre of the room, now deserted by fleeing diplomats and Vatican officials. The door buckled, then blew inwards. The men holding it were thrown back.

Through the opening, black-garbed figures burst into the room. They were bearded and round their foreheads wore bands inscribed with Arabic slogans. Al-nasr aw al-mawt, Victory or Death, read one. As they entered the room, the men spread out, firing indiscriminately.

Patrick bent and fired at the first attacker, taking him in the chest. He died with a look of horrified surprise on his face. Francesca shot the man behind him. The others turned, preparing to open fire.

Patrick stood with a gun at Migliau’s head.

‘Don’t come any closer!’ he shouted.

The attackers hesitated. They recognized the cardinal. Without him, neither victory nor death would hold any meaning for them. Madness has claims that sanity can never match.

For the first time, Migliau smiled.

‘What are you frightened of?’ he asked, his soft voice almost inaudible in the uproar. ‘Why do you hesitate? My death is nothing. Let today be a day of sacrifice. This is the Day of Passover. Pharaoh is dead. Babylon is fallen. My son is dead. There will be a world of blood to pay. God demands a sacrifice from you. Make me your sacrifice. This is my cross, here in this room.’

He raised his hand and blessed them. Patrick began to drag him back, slowly, the gun pressed against his temple, back towards the rear of the room. More attackers joined the first group, all dressed the same, all wearing headbands proclaiming love of martyrdom. As they crossed the threshold, they too paused, uncertain what to do next. This had not been planned for.

Francesca appeared beside Patrick. She had gone for Fazzini, and now she held him as a second hostage.

‘You don’t have to be afraid,’ wheezed Migliau, smiling at the gunmen in front of him. ‘Think how his disciples put him in the tomb. Think how they listened to his cries, for two days and two nights until he fell silent. They were not afraid to make that sacrifice. You should not be afraid. You are doing God’s will.’

The leader of the attack force seemed to make up his mind. He had been trained to obedience. He raised his rifle and fired a single shot, crisp, perfect, like a sacrificial knife cutting through flesh. A fountain of blood rose from Migliau’s head, bright as gold. The sacrifice was done. The veil of the Temple had been torn from top to bottom. The saints would rise up out of their graves.

The next second, the man who had shot Migliau was thrown backwards by a hail of bullets. Patrick looked round. By one of the side doors, a marksman wearing Carabinieri combat uniform stood taking aim. Sergeant Genscher had not wasted time. A second man stood by the next doorway. Near him a third.

Patrick glanced at the other side of the room. Each of the doors had filled with dark figures. There was no shadow, no ripple of agate wings; but the angel of death was moving in the room.

For a moment as thin as air, the attackers hesitated, seeing themselves inexplicably surrounded. The next instant, round after round of rifle fire rang out in the silence, precise, implacable, sustained. Those at the front fell first. Their companions in the rear crouched down, firing wildly. Again and again the marksmen fired. From below, the sound of fresh shooting echoed among marble pillars. On cold floors, on white and pink and red marble, on the faces of saints and angels, blood trickled in warm streams, like the blood of doves on a vast altar of coloured stone. The sacrifice was complete.

FIFTY-NINE

He watched as Brother Antonio scraped the last cement from his trowel. The tablet was in place as it had been before. Francesca’s name, her date of birth, her date of death. The old man rose painfully to his feet.

‘It’s done,’ he said.

Patrick nodded. It was done. Her ghost had been laid to rest at last. A ray of sunlight rested on her name. There were no flowers, no photograph.

He stepped out of the tomb into the March sunshine. It would be Easter before long. There would be white flowers in the churches. Priests would preach of death and resurrection. ‘I am the Resurrection and the Life,’ they would proclaim. In Rome, the Pope from his sickbed would issue an appeal for peace. And the nations would turn deaf ears as always.

He walked away from the tomb, through a long avenue of cypresses, past the long dead and the newly dead, in a straight line, down towards the sea. Across a swell of sun-salted water, Venice shone in the distance, lovely, pinnacled, redeemed out of sea and mud.

She was waiting for him, watching a small boat drift with the tide. She was not as he remembered her. There was grey in her hair and her eyes had seen things he could not imagine. He took her hand, and they stood for a long time without speaking, watching the waves. He had buried the past. Let them think she was dead.

‘It’s over,’ he said. ‘You’re free.’

She nodded. The shore seemed to stretch away forever.

‘There will still be ghosts,’ she said.

He looked into her eyes, then brought her face close to his own and kissed her gently. She was not a ghost, he thought. He would not let her return to shadows.

She smiled and returned his kiss. But as she did so, she caught sight, far behind him, of the tomb where she had been reburied.

She remembered dim lights in a modern theatre, actors in ancient Irish dress, magical words she could scarcely understand. And Deirdre speaking to her lover before their death:

I know nothing but this body, nothing But that old vehement, bewildering kiss.

She had known then that they would become lovers. But not how it would end. Now that night was nothing but a memory, Deirdre’s words nothing but a half-remembered sound. She glanced at the tomb, at the weeds choking its stone.

He was wrong. It was not over. When the time came, she would explain. They would have a little time together: a year, two years perhaps. She took his hand and turned to look at the sea again. For all its loveliness, Venice was sinking beneath relentless waves. She held his hand more tightly. A year, two years. What did it matter? Nobody has forever, after all.