House of Acerbi

pocket. To Sarah, the object resembled the silvery glass liner of a thermos bottle, and as the man clutched the shiny cylinder tightly to his chest, he appeared to be mumbling something to himself as he looked down the track before fixing his eyes on the approaching train.

Against the sound of screeching brakes, the train entered the station in a blur of speed and light, but before the front of the train passed the spot where the man was standing, he reached out and tossed the cylinder onto the tracks. The faint pop of glass breaking under pressure preceded a white, dust-filled cloud that swirled off the tracks just as the push of air from the arriving train blew it over the platform and through the tunnel ahead.

Sarah was jolted by the sight. Why did he do that?

With the threat of terrorism still deeply fixed in the minds of every New Yorker, Sarah looked on in horror as the hazy, vapor-like cloud of dust descended over the mass of people now crowding the platform. Due in part to the usual dirt and debris stirred up by arriving trains, no one except for Sarah seemed to notice the drifting, talcum-like powder that now entered the eyes, noses, and mouths of everyone around her, and as the tiny white particles floated down their throats and descended into the sponge-like cavities of their lungs, the fine powder triggered a brief cough reflex among those standing on the platform.

The substance fell like a dry rain, swirling under the glare of the florescent lights overhead until it came to rest on every surface-including the fibers of the clothing worn by the commuters as they stepped into the waiting subway car for their ride to the next station.

Sarah looked down at her coat in horror and began to frantically brush away the dust. That only stirred it up more! She glanced back up to see what had become of the man who had thrown the object. He was gone! Like a ghost, he had disappeared into the crowd, and like the lingering aroma of a strong perfume, the strange powder-like residue was all that remained of his visit.

Instinctively, Sarah knew she was in trouble-that everyone around her was in trouble. But how would she tell them? She couldn’t just go running through the crowd like a crazy woman, yelling and screaming that she thought they were all going to die from a cloud of white powder that came from a mysterious bearded man. Or could she? Maybe that’s exactly what she should do.

Sarah stood frozen on the platform, not knowing what to do next as people flooded into the waiting train. With a sudden hiss of air, the doors closed and the train moved away from the platform, leaving a shaken and bewildered Sarah Adams alone and shivering in the now empty station as the mysterious white powder was sucked along with the train into the subway system below the streets of New York City. By all appearances, it seemed that Penn Station was about to undergo its second great catastrophe.

CHAPTER 4

From his vantage point beneath the rust-colored umbrella that shaded his outdoor table, Cardinal Leopold Amodeo sipped coffee from a small porcelain cup and gazed across Rome’s Piazza Navona. Something about the scene wasn’t quite right. This area of town, usually filled to capacity at this time of day, was strangely void of the camera-encrusted tourists trying to capture the beauty of Bernini’s fountain in a digital image that did little to convey the noise and sights and smells of one of Rome’s most famous piazzas.

The cardinal’s intelligent green eyes squinted in the early morning sunlight as he clicked through a mental checklist of the day’s appointments and finished a hot cornetto, the Italian version of a croissant. Placing his napkin on the white linen tablecloth, he looked around at all the vacant tables nearby. Was today some kind of holiday he had forgotten about?

Cardinal Leopold-or Leo, the name his friends used-had just returned from a week of much needed solitude at Bishop Anthony Morelli’s country estate south of Rome. The two men were close friends and had known each other since they had studied together at Georgetown University back in the 1970’s. Following graduation, both men had been accepted to the same Jesuit seminary in Maryland, at a time when becoming a priest made every mother proud and people looked upon the man behind the Roman collar with deference and respect.

Although all Jesuit priests took vows of poverty, Leo, along with almost everyone else at the Vatican, was privy to the fact that Morelli had made a small fortune in the stock market. In view of this fact, most of the bishop’s money went to charity, but the pope had allowed Morelli to keep two luxuries for himself-a beautiful palazzo in the country and his beloved, bright red BMW two-seat sports car. This rare papal dispensation was due in part because of Morelli’s generous donations to the Church and his vital role as the Vatican’s Chief of Archaeology, but others knew that the pope also believed in rewarding those who served him well.

After months of watching Leo go about his new duties as a cardinal without stopping to take a day off, Morelli had insisted that his good friend spend a week alone at his country estate. The offer came with the caveat that the Cardinal would receive no communication from the outside world. At first, Leo balked at the idea of a vacation, but after a month of continual pestering from Morelli that resulted in a papal command, he finally accepted the fact that a short sabbatical might be in order.

After the decision had been made for him, Leo had begun to look forward to some time away from his tedious administrative duties, and that time had arrived the week before on a bright Sunday morning. After presiding over an early mass in one of the basilica’s side chapels, Leo had returned to his small Vatican apartment and changed into a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt before making his way downstairs to his tiny white Fiat. Within minutes, the dome of Saint Peter’s had faded in his rear-view mirror as he sped through the maze of heavy traffic on Rome’s narrow side streets. An hour later, he had found himself all alone, motoring along a quiet, twisting road in the valley below the ancient hilltop town of Sermoneta.

Turning into the shaded tree-lined driveway that led to Morelli’s seventeenth-century house, Leo gazed up at an immense reddish-colored structure that was the size of a small palazzo. Fronted by a gravel driveway that circled a four-hundred-year-old fountain topped with a weathered statue of an angel, the house had been built among the ruins of the medieval village of Ninfa during the Renaissance. The family who had once owned the property had converted the entire area into lush gardens fed by clear streams that ran throughout grounds surrounded by crumbling ruins.

Stepping from his small car, Leo spotted the burned remains of a medieval tower to his left. The sight brought back memories of events that had transpired here the year before. He paused, staring at the tower and breathing in the fresh country air before grabbing his backpack from the trunk and making his way inside.

For the next week, Leo had swum in the pool, read, and walked alone in the lush gardens. He had sat among the flowers next to the bank of a wide and shallow stream, thinking of nothing in particular while he watched the crystalline mountain water flowing over green, moss-covered rocks.

This luxurious time spent alone was a precious reminder of how little time he had to himself now that he had inherited the title of Cardinal. A year earlier, he had been quite satisfied with his role as a Jesuit priest who taught history at Boston College, and he had begun to miss his students and the intellectual give and take of the wine-lubricated philosophical discussions that ran late into the night at a local pub.

In the twelve short months since the pope had made him a cardinal and transferred him to Rome, Leo’s life had changed dramatically. His workload had increased ten-fold, but it was not the sort of academic work he preferred. Instead, his new position as a Prince of the Church consisted of endless meetings and bureaucratic details, not to mention the constant demand for him to attend various ceremonies and church functions.

Now that he was away, he had come to realize that this break from the politics at the Vatican had been good for him. He felt refreshed, both physically and spiritually, but the time had passed too quickly and he wished that he could spend a few more days alone, just reading next to the rushing water of the stream while the birds chirped mindlessly in the trees overhead.

He spent the final night of his short vacation sitting up late and writing in his journal before waking at three in the morning. Dressing quickly in a black polo shirt and tan slacks, he closed the front door of the palazzo and stared back at the house wistfully before jumping into his little car for the short trip back to Rome in the early morning darkness.

Arriving at the Vatican just before dawn, Leo showered in his small apartment and dressed in a black, floor