Private Rome

Chapter 40

The priest moved surprisingly fast, leading me behind the altar as the masked men yelled at us in Italian. The first shot chipped the stone as we sprinted past it.

Father Carlos nodded and urged me on. We sprinted across the floor toward an open door as gunfire chewed the surrounding timber.

The priest slammed the door shut behind us and pulled a bookshelf in front of it, sending prayer books and bibles scattering as it fell on its side.

“This way,” he said, as the door shook under the assault of our pursuers, who were trying to barge it down.

Father Carlos led me toward a line of robes hanging on hooks set in a wood-paneled wall. For a moment I thought he had made a mistake, but he grabbed one of the robes, felt for the hook beneath and pulled it down. There was a click and a section of paneling snapped open to reveal a dark tunnel beyond.

“Hurry!” Father Carlos said, illuminating the tunnel with the torch built into his phone.

Gray stone surrounded us and stretched ahead into the distance.

I went first and the priest followed, pausing to shut the secret panel, sealing us in.

“Rome is full of old tunnels from times of persecution and high politics,” he explained. He was breathless and afraid but calmed slightly now we were hidden. “Come on. This will take us to the twin church across the street.”

We moved further into the tunnel and the jittery priest jumped at the crash and splinter of the door being broken down behind us.

“Will they know about the secret passage?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Who can say?”

He picked up pace, his formal black shoes clip-clopping against the flagstones. The floor was worn in places, bowed by centuries of footsteps. I wondered when the tunnel had last been used because it was relatively clean and free from spider webs and dust.

“Are you sure you weren’t followed?” the priest asked.

“As sure as I can be,” I replied. “You?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Why would anyone suspect me?”

“How do you know about Antonelli? Is he behind all this?” I asked.

“Shush,” said the priest, slowing as we reached the end of the tunnel. He moved toward the panel that concealed the tunnel mouth and put his ear against it. I held my breath and was almost certain he held his as he listened carefully.

“Nothing,” he whispered at last.

He reached for a catch located in a tiny cubby carved into the stone wall. When he pulled it there was a click and the paneling covering the tunnel mouth swung open. He pushed it wider and led me into a much smaller robing room. So small, in fact, we had to dance around each other awkwardly so he had space to close the secret panel.

“Carefully,” he said, as I opened a heavy door that took us into a church that was an almost exact replica of the one we had just fled.

A couple safety lights were on, but most of the interior was shrouded in shadow, and I couldn’t help feeling we were being watched from the darkness as we moved between the pews toward the exit. But there was only the silence and stillness of an empty building.

We hurried across the black and white tiles and soon reached the main entrance, where Father Carlos unlocked the door. It was huge: four inches thick, triple-height and width, studded with iron. It swung open ponderously on elaborate hinges.

“I know a place we will be safe,” said the priest, stepping outside.

At that moment I heard the terrible and familiar crack of pistol fire and saw Father Carlos lurch back as a bullet hit him in the chest. He clutched at his black shirt as a stain began to spread across it. I grabbed him and pulled him inside just in time to avoid a volley of bullets.

We’d walked straight into an ambush.