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
