How she’d gotten here was a mystery. She only recalled Ambrosi choking her and the world going black. She’d been awake maybe two hours, and had yet to hear anything besides an occasional voice from the street. It appeared she was on an upper story, perhaps in one of the baroque buildings that lined Bamberg’s ancient streets, near St. Gangolf’s since Ambrosi couldn’t have carried her far. The cold air was drying her nostrils and she was glad he hadn’t removed her coat.
For an instant in the church she’d thought her life was over. Apparently she was deemed more valuable alive—surely the bargaining chip Ambrosi would use to coerce what he wanted from Michener.
Tom Kealy had been right about Valendrea, but he was wrong about her being able to hold her own. The passions of these men were way beyond anything she’d ever known. Valendrea had told Kealy at the tribunal that he was clearly with the devil. If that were true, then Kealy and Valendrea kept the same company.
She heard a door open, then close. Footsteps approached. The door to the room opened and Ambrosi stepped inside, yanking off a pair of gloves. “Comfortable?” he asked.
Her eyes followed his movements. Ambrosi tossed his coat across a chair, then sat on the bed. “I would imagine you thought yourself dead in the church. Life is such a great gift, is it not? Of course you can’t answer, but that’s okay. I like answering my own questions.”
He seemed pleased with himself.
“Life is indeed a gift, and I bestowed that gift on you. I could have killed you and been done with the problem you pose.”
She lay perfectly still. His gaze raked her body.
“Michener has enjoyed you, hasn’t he? Such a pleasure, I’m sure. What was it you told me in Rome. You pee sitting down, so I would not be interested. You think I don’t lust for a woman? You think I wouldn’t know what to do? Because I’m a priest? Or because I am queer?”
She wondered if this show was for her benefit or his.
“Your lover said he couldn’t care less what happens to you.” Amusement laced his words. “He called you my spy. Said you were my problem, not his. Perhaps he’s right. After all, I recruited you.”
She tried to keep her eyes calm.
“You think His Holiness enlisted your aid? No, I’m the one who learned about you and Michener. I’m the one who considered the possibility. Peter would know nothing, but for me.”
He suddenly wrenched her up and yanked the tape from her mouth. Before she could utter a sound he pulled her toward him and locked his lips on hers. The thrust of his tongue was revolting and she tried to recoil, but he maintained the embrace. He bent her head sideways and gripped her hair, sucking the breath from her lungs. His mouth tasted of beer. Finally, she clamped her teeth on his tongue. He pulled back and she lunged forward, snapping at his lower lip and drawing blood.
“You fucking bitch,” he cried as he slammed her to the bed.
She spat his saliva from her mouth, as if exorcising evil. He leaped forward and swiped the back of his hand across her face. The blow stung and she tasted blood. He lashed out one more time, the force driving her head into the wall at the edge of the bed.
The room started to spin.
“I should kill you,” he muttered.
“Fuck you,” she managed to say as she rolled onto her back, but the dizziness was still there.
He dabbed his bleeding lip with his shirtsleeve.
A trickle of blood seeped from the side of her mouth. She bobbed her face on the quilt. Red splotches stained the cloth. “You better kill me. Because if you don’t, given the chance I will kill you.”
“You’ll never have the chance.”
She realized she was safe until he got what he wanted. Colin had done the right thing making the idiot think she was unimportant.
He came back close to the bed and dabbed his lip. “I only hope your lover ignores what I told him. I’m going to enjoy watching you both die.”
“Big words, little man.”
He lunged forward, rolled her flat, and straddled her. She knew he would not kill her. Not yet, anyway.
“What’s the matter, Ambrosi, don’t know what to do next?”
He quivered with anger. She was pushing him, but what the hell.
“I told Peter, after Romania, to leave you alone.”
“So that’s why I’m being beaten by his lapdog.”
“You’re lucky that’s all I’m doing to you.”
“Maybe Valendrea would be jealous. Perhaps we ought to keep this between us?”
The taunt brought pressure to her throat. Not enough to block her breathing, but enough to let her know to shut up.
“You’re a tough man to a woman with her hands and feet bound. Untie me and let’s see how brave you are.”
Ambrosi rolled off her. “You’re not worth the effort. We only have a couple of hours left. I’m going to get some dinner before I finish this.” His gaze bore into her. “For good.”
SIXTY-SEVEN
VATICAN CITY, 6:30 P.M.
Valendrea strolled through the gardens and enjoyed an unusually mild December evening. This first Saturday of his papacy had been busy. He’d celebrated Mass in the morning, then met with a procession of people who’d traveled to Rome to offer him their best wishes. The afternoon had started with a gathering of cardinals. About eighty were lingering in town, and he’d met with them for three hours to outline some of what he intended. There’d been the usual questions, only this time he’d taken the opportunity to announce that all appointments of Clement XV would remain in place until the following week. The only exception was the cardinal-archivist, who, he’d said, had tendered his resignation for health reasons. The new archivist would be a Belgian cardinal who’d already returned home, but was on his way back to Rome. Beyond that, he’d made no decisions and would not until after the weekend. He’d noticed the look on many in the chamber, waiting for him to make good on preconclave assurances, but no one questioned his declarations. And he liked that.
Ahead of him stood Cardinal Bartolo, waiting where they’d arranged earlier after the cardinals’ gathering. The prefect from Turin had been insistent they talk today. He knew Bartolo had been promised the position as secretary of state and now, apparently, the cardinal wanted that promise kept. Ambrosi was the one who’d made the promise, but Paolo also had advised him to delay that particular selection for as long as possible. After all, Bartolo had not been the only man assured the job. For the losers, excuses would have to be found to eliminate them as contenders—sufficient reasons to quell bitterness and prevent retaliation. Certainly alternative posts could be offered to some, but he well knew that secretary of state was something more than one senior cardinal coveted.
Bartolo stood near the Pasetto di Borgo. The medieval passageway extended through the Vatican wall into the nearby Castel Sant’Angelo, a fortification that had once protected popes from invaders.
“Eminence,” Valendrea greeted as he approached.
Bartolo bowed his bearded face. “Holy Father.” The older man smiled. “You like the sound of that, don’t you, Alberto?”
“It does have a resonance.”
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
He waved off the observation. “Never.”
“I know you too well. I’m not the only one the secretary of state position has been offered to.”
“Votes are hard to come by. We must do what we must.” He was trying to keep the tone light, but realized Bartolo was not naIve.
“I was directly responsible for at least a dozen of your votes.”
“Which turned out not to be needed.”
The muscles in Bartolo’s face tightened. “Only because Ngovi withdrew. I imagine those twelve votes would
