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.
