when they first told him he had AIDS, as though they’d taken him to a door and pushed him through, never to let him back again.’
She paused. Her eyes were focused elsewhere, not on him, not on the room.
‘That’s why we have to destroy Migliau and the Brotherhood if we can. They stand for death, they believe sacrifice is essential to survival, they think there’s nothing wrong in shedding innocent blood in search of salvation. Migliau is willing to put any number to death for the sake of the few. It’s like the medical profession. They don’t want people to die. And yet they’ll let thousands succumb to AIDS sooner than admit they’re wrong. See, they say, without us you’re helpless. Believe in us, give us power, and we’ll grant you salvation.
‘Priests are the same. A woman’s life is in danger, she needs an abortion - what do they tell her? Your child’s life is more important than yours, you have to be sacrificed so it can live. People are starving, they need contraceptives; but the priests tell them God will be angry if they use them.
‘That’s why Migliau is so dangerous. The world makes a special place for people like him. He’ll find scapegoats everywhere: AIDS victims, Muslims, homosexuals, the poor, anyone who doesn’t fit in to his new order. They’ll all become sacrifices, and people will stand around and applaud. It’s a hygienic measure, he’ll say. Wipe out the viruses and health will be yours. Destroy the cancer cells and you’ll live for ever. It wouldn’t be so bad if it was just a metaphor. But it isn’t: he wants real blood on his altar. Tomorrow will be just the beginning if we don’t stop him.’
She stopped.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘This isn’t what you wanted to talk about. We ...’
‘Shhhhh.’
He raised a hand.
‘What is it?’
‘I thought I heard something. Is there another way into this apartment?’
She looked round, startled.
‘You think ... ?’ She hesitated. ‘There are just two entrances: the main door from the stairs and the side door to the fire escape.’
‘Which way is that?’ He spoke in a low whisper, drawing her away from the door.
She pointed.
‘Along the passage to the left.’
‘Okay. Go out to the terrace and wait for me there.’
She shook her head.
‘Thanks, but I’d prefer to stay.’
He took her by the shoulders.
‘Please, Francesca, don’t argue. I know how to handle myself. You haven’t been trained.’
She raised an eyebrow.
‘Oh? And what do you suppose they taught us out there in the desert? How to knit?’
There was a definite sound outside.
‘Quickly,’ she hissed. ‘Through here!’
She took his hand and pulled him to the kitchen. Hurriedly, she opened the cupboard beneath the sink and drew out a roll of sacking.
‘Here!’ she said, thrusting it into Patrick’s hands. He unrolled it to find a Beretta 92SBF pistol.
‘It’s loaded,’ she whispered. ‘Fifteen rounds.’ She had already unpacked a second gun for herself.
There was a loud crash as the door of the living-room was kicked open. Through the frosted glass door of the kitchen, Patrick could see a human figure move into the room. Patrick reached for the door handle. He was about to turn it when the glass exploded in his face, blown to pieces by a round of machine-gun fire just above his head. He fell back, dropping his gun. The gunfire from the living-room continued, raking the kitchen, smashing plates and glasses, tearing the cupboards to shreds.
Francesca threw herself to the floor on top of Patrick, lifting her gun in two hands. The gunman’s head was visible through the hole where the glass had been. She fired quickly, before he changed his angle of fire. Her bullet sliced his cheek.
She rolled for the door, crashing hard against it, twisting sideways behind the wall. A blast of fire raked the floor behind Patrick’s legs. Francesca reached behind her, pulling Patrick out of the line of fire into the shelter of the wall. A third burst from the machine gun smashed the door apart and ploughed up the floor immediately behind it, where she and Patrick had been seconds before.
There was a pause. Francesca heard the sound of a magazine being withdrawn. She leapt to her feet, aimed through the hole in the door, and fired a succession of shots at the point from which the shooting had come. There was a cry followed by a heavy crash.
Someone shouted from one of the bedrooms.
‘Paolo! Che succede?!’
‘Quickly!’ Francesca helped Patrick to his feet. Blood was streaming down his face. ‘Are you all right? Can you see?’
He nodded. ‘I’m okay. Not... badly hurt. Just cut.’
‘Let’s get out of here,’ she said. His gun was on the floor where he had dropped it. She picked it up and handed it to him.
They were half-way across the living-room when a second man appeared in the doorway. He wore a black hood over his face and carried a Steyr AUG assault rifle in a gloved hand. He took in the scene with a single glance and ducked back behind the door-jamb.
Francesca moved to the left behind an armchair, Patrick to the right, throwing a coffee table over for a barricade. The gunman opened fire on Francesca. Heavy-duty 5.56mm bullets tore the top of the chair away in a matter of seconds. She fired back round the side of the chair, but her shots went high, splintering the top of the door frame.
Patrick caught sight of a third man entering the passage from the bedroom beside the fire escape. He fired on him half a second too late. The first man fired a second burst into the chair, forcing Francesca to roll out from behind it, towards the wall. The gunman saw her move and swung his weapon, trying to follow the same arc, but as he did so Patrick fired twice through the thin partition wall. There was a cry and the man toppled into the room.
‘Be careful, Francesca! There’s a third one in the passage!’
The third man had disappeared. But they knew that, if he was going to fire, he would have to come to the door. They made a run for the wall on either side of the door, flattening themselves against it.
Patrick saw a hand reach round the jamb, caught sight of something flying through the air. Seconds later, there was a blinding flash accompanied by a loud explosion. Patrick staggered back, clutching his hands to his ears, dropping his gun to the floor. Francesca cried out, firing wildly. A second stun grenade followed, knocking her flat against the wall.
Patrick fought against the dizziness, trying to get to his knees. He could not tell which way was up and which down. The room seemed to be pulsating, fluttering, rippling in long, swirling waves. He could not see or hear. He reached out for something to grab hold of. There was a hand, someone had hold of him. And then the hand was gone and he was tumbling like a brick down a well that had no bottom and no top and sides of the darkest night.
FIFTY-TWO
No one came for Dermot O’Malley’s body. Neither Fischer nor Fazzini seemed to care. They sat and talked of personal matters: a niece’s first communion, a mutual friend’s illness, the difficulty of obtaining good French wine through the Anonna, the Vatican commissary. From time to time, one or the other would cast glances at Assefa, only to return to the discussion a moment later, indifferent to his presence. He sat immobile, dreaming of Abyssinia, where they built churches beneath the earth and dressed in robes of purest white. Sometimes he thought he wanted to be sick.
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
