infection. You should be paying me triple for this. It’s only right,” he’d insisted in a slurred growl. That was right before Conte coldcocked him and pushed him over the deck rail into the Adriatic. Shark bait.
Yes, after all that nonsense, Conte wasn’t about to risk having some pimply faced station porter dropping the damn cargo now.
Wheeling the crate off the curb and to the rear of the Fiat, Conte motioned for Donovan to help him lift it into the van. Stowed securely inside, Conte slammed the doors and returned the hand truck to the porter. No tip.
In the meantime, Donovan had made his way into the driver’s seat and started the engine, but Conte was having none of it. Sighing, he paced over to the driver’s side window and motioned Donovan out of the van.
Confused, the cleric hopped out onto the roadway.
“When I’m here, you’re over there,” the Italian said gruffly, pointing to the passenger seat. “Get moving.”
Weaving through Rome and heading south on Lungot Marzio, the van hugged along the riverbank of the sparkling Tiber. Donovan gazed out the window trying to calm himself, his thoughts tortured by the box in the rear compartment, hoping, praying that its contents were indeed genuine. Only the scientists whose services he had convinced the Holy See to commission could inevitably make that determination.
For the past three days, the priest had been closely monitoring news reports flooding out from Jerusalem. Every time he heard the death toll, a wave of nausea swept over him and he prayed to God for forgiveness in allowing such a thing to happen. But having lobbied for a more diplomatic way to extract the relic, he was once again swept aside. The political maneuvering he had witnessed in his twelve-year tenure at Vatican City would have made even Machiavelli gasp.
Fifteen minutes from Termini and Conte had yet to make small talk. Certainly not a man concerned about first impressions, Donovan thought, glancing over at the brooding mercenary. He directed his attention back outside.
Rising like a mountain on the Tiber’s western bank, Donovan’s eyes reached out to the brilliant white cupola of St. Peter’s Basilica—the heart of Vatican City—a beacon that could be seen from all over Rome. In 1929, the Vatican’s governing body, The Holy See, had been granted full property rights and exclusive sovereignty by Italy’s fascist dictator Benito Mussolini, thus making this place the world’s smallest independent nation—a country within a country. Amazing, Donovan thought. Here the supreme Catholic monarch, the Pope, and his trusted advisors, the College of Cardinals, managed worldwide operations for over one billion Catholics and diplomatic relations with almost two hundred countries around the globe.
Crossing Ponte Umberto I, Conte angled his way around the massive ramparts of the Castel Sant’ Angelo riverfront citadel.
Heading down Borgo Pio, the Fiat approached the Sant’ Anna Gate— one of only two secure vehicle entrances through the continuous fifteenmeter high wall that formed a tight three-kilometer perimeter around the Vatican City’s 109-acre complex. The van stopped behind a short queue of cars awaiting clearance from the Swiss Guards.
“Look at those guys,” Conte scoffed. “They’re dressed like clowns for fucks sake.”
Though the routine garb of the Vatican City’s 100-man Swiss Guard battalion was blue coveralls and black berets, it was their official uniform that had earned them the status of “the world’s most colorful army”—a sixteenth-century purple-and-yellow-striped tunic and matching pantaloons with red arm cuffs and white gloves, all topped off with a red felt beret.
Explaining to Conte that the tradition meant something would be fruitless so Donovan remained silent. Up ahead, he watched the guards shuffle in and out of their barracks just inside the gate. There was nothing to fear, but as the van was waved to the gate his heartbeat quickened irrationally.
Conte gently accelerated to cross the threshold into Vatican City. A guard motioned for him to stop, checked the license plates, then paced around to Conte’s open window. “Your business here?” he rigidly inquired in Italian.
Conte smirked. “You don’t really want to know that,” he answered coyly. “Why don’t you ask him?” He leaned back and pointed over at the priest.
The guard immediately noticed Father Donovan.
“It’s okay, he’s with me.” Donovan nodded.
“Of course, Father,” the young guard replied, suspiciously eyeing Conte again. “Have a good day.” Stepping back from the van, he waved them along.
Conte sighed. “What a bunch of buffoons. That kid’s not even shaving yet. Even more pathetic than the Israelis.”
Donovan cringed at the man’s callousness, deeply regretting that Cardinal Antonio Carlo Santelli—the Segretaria di Stato, or Vatican secretary of state—had commissioned the ruthless mercenary for such a momentous task. It was whispered that Cardinal Santelli was the reckoning force behind numerous Vatican scandals. But no one in the Curia, including Santelli, seemed to know much about Salvatore Conte, even if that was his real name. Some speculated that he was a retired Italian Secret Service operative.
According to Santelli, the only sure things about Salvatore Conte were his reliability and his mission-specific twenty-four-digit Cayman Islands bank account number. Lord only knew how many of those accounts a man like Conte had, Donovan wondered. Having seen the generous financial enticements that secured the scientist’s services, it was obvious that Santelli had spared no expense—in money or lives—to ensure this project’s success.
The Fiat lurched forward down the paved roadway that ran behind the Apostolic Palace and through a village of low buildings that included a post office, emissary, and television broadcast studio. Following Donovan’s directions, Conte continued through a short tunnel that led out onto a narrow driveway that snaked around the towering edifice of the Vatican Museum complex.
Near the service entrance, Conte parked the van, then unloaded the secret cargo onto a compact dolly. The priest escorted him inside to the elevator and down one flight.
Entering the lab, Conte parked the dolly to one side. Father Donovan trailed in as the two scientists made their way over.
“Thanks so much for waiting,” Father Donovan said in English. “Dr. Giovanni Bersei, Dr. Charlotte Hennesey”—he motioned to them, then over to the mercenary—“this is Salvatore Conte.” Anything beyond a name for this killer would be too much, so the priest chose not to elaborate.
Keeping his distance, Conte straightened, hands on hips. His eyes immediately glued to Charlotte, roving up
