'Trusting an American.'
FORTY-FOUR
MALONE GRABBED CHRISTL AND FLED ST. MICHAEL'S CHAPEL, rushing back into the outer polygon. He turned for the porch and the main entrance.
More pops came from St. Michael's.
He found the main exit doors, which he hoped opened from the inside, and heard a noise. Somebody was forcing the outer latches. Apparently Hatchet Face didn't work alone.
'What's happening?' Christl asked.
'Our friends from last night found us. They've been following all day.'
'And you're just now mentioning it?'
He fled the entranceway and reentered the octagon. His eyes searched the dim interior. 'I figured you didn't want to be bothered with details.'
'Details?'
He heard the door within St. Michael's give way. Behind him, the squeak of ancient hinges confirmed that the main doors had been flung open. He spied the stairway and they raced up the circular risers, all caution abandoned for speed.
He heard voices from below and motioned for quiet.
He needed Christl somewhere safe, so they sure as hell couldn't be parading around the upper gallery. The imperial throne sat before him. Beneath the crude marble chair was a dark opening where pilgrims once passed, he recalled the guide explaining-a hollow space beneath the bier and six stone steps. Below the altar that jutted from the rear was another opening, this one shielded by a wooden door with iron clasps. He motioned for her to crawl under the throne. She responded with a quizzical look. He wasn't in the mood to argue, so he jerked her toward the iron chain and pointed for her to crawl underneath.
Stay quiet, he mouthed.
Footsteps sounded from the winding staircase. They'd only have a few more seconds. She seemed to realize their predicament and relented, disappearing beneath the throne.
He needed to draw them away. Earlier, when he'd surveyed the upper gallery, he'd noticed a narrow ledge with a profile that ran above the lower arches, marking the dividing line between the floors, wide enough to stand on.
He crept past the throne, rounded the bier, and hopped the waist-high bronze grille. He balanced himself on the cornice, spine rigid against the upper pillars that supported the eight arches of the inner octagon. Thankfully, the pillars were two joined together, a couple of feet wide, which meant he had four feet of marble shielding him.
He heard rubber soles sweep onto the upper gallery's floor.
He began to rethink what he was doing, standing on a ledge ten inches wide, holding a gun with only five rounds, a good twenty-foot drop below. He risked one peek and saw two forms on the far side of the throne. One of the armed men advanced behind the bier, the other assumed a position on the far side-one probing, the other covering. The smart tactic showed training.
He pressed his head back against the marble and stared out across the octagon. Light from the windows behind the throne cast a glow on the shiny pillars of the far side, and the fuzzy shadow of the imperial chair was clearly visible. He watched as another shadow circled behind the throne, now on the side closest to where he stood.
He needed to draw the attacker closer.
Carefully, his left hand searched his jacket pocket and found a euro coin from the restaurant. He removed it, dropped his hand to one side, then gently tossed the coin in front of the bronze grille, finding the ledge ten feet away, where the next set of pillars rose. The coin tinkled, then dropped to the marble floor below, a ding echoing through the silence. He was hoping that the gunmen would realize he was the source and come forward, looking left, while he struck from the right.
But that didn't take into account what the other armed man would do.
The shadow on his side of the throne grew in size.
He'd have to time the move perfectly. He switched the gun from his right hand to his left.
The shadow approached the grille.
A gun appeared.
Malone pivoted, grabbed the man's coat, and yanked him out over the rail.
The body flew into the octagon.
Malone rolled over the railing as a shot popped and a bullet from the other gunman smacked off the marble. He heard the body slam into the floor twenty feet below, chairs clattering away. He fired one shot across the throne then used the momentum he'd generated to hustle to his feet and find refuge behind the marble pillar, only this time in the gallery as opposed to the ledge.
But his right foot slipped and his knee banged the floor. His spine vibrated with pain. He shook it off and tried to regain his balance, but he'd lost any advantage.
'Nein, Herr Malone,' a man said.
He was on all fours, holding the gun.
'Stand,' the man ordered.
He slowly came to his feet.
Hatchet Face had rounded the throne and now stood on the side closest to Malone.
'Drop the weapon,' the man ordered.
He wasn't going to surrender that easily. 'Who do you work for?'
'Drop the weapon.'
He needed to stall but doubted this man was going to allow too many more questions. Behind Hatchet Face, near the floor, something moved. He spotted two soles, toes pointed upward, in the darkness beneath the throne. Christl's legs sprang from her hiding place and slammed into Hatchet Face's knees.
The gunman, caught by surprise, crumpled backward.
Malone used the moment to fire, a bullet thudding into the man's chest. Hatchet Face cried in pain, but seemed to immediately regain his senses, raising his gun. Malone fired again and the man sank to the floor, not moving.
Christl wiggled out from under the bier.
'You're a gutsy lady,' he said.
'You needed help.'
His knee ached. 'Actually, I did.'
He checked for a pulse but found none. Then he walked to the railing and glanced down. The other gunman's body lay contorted among a rubble of chairs, blood oozing onto the marble floor.
Christl came close. For a woman who hadn't wanted to see the corpse in the monastery, she seemed to have no problem with these.
'What now?' she asked.
He pointed below. 'Like I asked you before we were interrupted, I need you to translate that Latin inscription.'
FORTY-FIVE
