What if it was Conte?
Now that she’d seen the empty closet and lab, the laptop she was carrying—the only remaining proof of the Vatican’s secret project—felt like raw meat in the lion’s den. Her whole body stiffened, praying that she’d hear a different door open, or that the steps would retreat back down the corridor.
The footsteps stopped and she could see a shadow moving into the light penetrating in from beneath the door.
Lunging back into the darkened lab, she silently felt her way along the first workstation and crouched low to the floor just as the door lock turned.
The hair on the back of her neck prickled as the door creaked open, light from the corridor spilling into the room. She was certain that whoever it was couldn’t see her below the table. The intruder paused. Listening?
Charlotte held her breath and steadied the laptop bag with both hands, remaining perfectly still. A very long moment went by. Then there was the flicking sound of switches and the overhead lighting instantly stripped away the darkness.
No movement.
Her legs were starting to cramp up.
Pulling the door closed, the intruder moved slowly into the room, snaked between the workstations and back toward the break room.
Though she couldn’t see what was happening, the second she sensed that the intruder had gone into the break room, she sprang up and lunged for the door. Just as her hand turned the handle, she glimpsed Conte as he returned into the lab...and his face twisted into a snarl.
59
******
Charlotte sprinted down the corridor, the rubber soles of her shoes squeaking urgently as they pushed off the polished vinyl tiles. Without looking back, she could hear Conte in pursuit.
Up ahead, the elevator was closed. Knowing she couldn’t risk any delay, she headed directly for the fire exit, shoving the door back hard on its hinges. She practically flew up the stairwell, taking the steps three at a time, clutching the laptop tightly to her side. Halfway up the second flight of stairs, the sound of Conte slamming against the basement door blasted up at her. Climbing higher, she glimpsed his silhouette spiraling upward.
At the top of the landing, Charlotte knew she’d have two choices: the service door leading outside, or the staff entrance accessing the museum gallery. Once she got there, she immediately pushed open the service door so that it swung wide. But instead of going outside, she wheeled toward the staff entrance door and entered the museum as quietly as possible, easing the door closed behind her.
Rounding the last set of switchback steps, Conte heard the lock on the service door snap into place as it closed. Charging up the last few treads, he flung the door open and ran outside.
The geneticist was nowhere in sight—not running down the garden walkways, not scampering around the corner of the building. And there was no worthy hiding place anywhere close by. He spun round, making his way back into the building.
Moving quickly through the Pio Christian gallery, Charlotte was determined to get out of Vatican City. That meant heading straight for the Sant’ Anna Gate. With her money belt containing her cash, credit cards, and passport secured tightly around her waist, everything in her dorm room could be sacrificed.
Feeling light-headed—not from the run, but from the Melphalan swirling through her system—she took a few deep breaths to get her head together. A quick pang of nausea came and went.
Knowing Conte would only be temporarily thrown off, she struggled with how to proceed. Should she lose herself in the museum’s massive galleries? There was plenty of floor space here, no doubt. But with surveillance cameras mounted all throughout the exhibits, she didn’t want to chance him calling museum security. Plus in the long hallways that ran the length of the building’s mammoth footprint, she’d be easy to spot—the curly chestnut- haired lone tourist with a bright pink blouse and computer bag who wasn’t stopping for exhibits.
Luckily, the Pio Christian gallery was in close proximity to the building’s main entrance. After scanning the area beyond the glass doors, she slipped outside.
Threading through the crowds loitering in the courtyard, she rounded the corner of the building, hurrying along the walkway that ran along the museum’s eastern wall. Conte was still nowhere in sight. But that didn’t ease her concern, because she knew firsthand that he wasn’t the type to give up.
Through a short tunnel that passed beneath the city’s old ramparts, she emerged into the small village that clustered in the shadow of the Apostolic Palace’s rear edifice. For a moment, she wondered if Father Donovan was still in there consorting with his puppet master, Santelli. How could such a nice man be involved in all this?
Turning onto Borgo Pio, her eyes reached for the open gate and the Swiss Guards who diligently manned it. She wondered if Conte had called ahead to alert them. Would they try to detain her? She pushed forward, knowing she had to take that chance.
Then, only twenty meters from the gate, she saw him. Though she hadn’t noticed it before, she could swear that there was some kind of wound on the side of his head.
Hands on his hips and breathing heavily, Conte had positioned himself between her and the gate, daring her to take another step.
But she did just that. Determined that there was no going back, her only hope was to stay the course and push forward. This was a public place. The guards were close. Surely they wouldn’t tolerate an altercation here, even if they were on his side.
Then she broke into a sprint, eyes focused on the gate.
Conte reacted instantly, shooting out onto the roadway, just missing a delivery van that was heading into the city. A horn blared, but he ignored it—sights set on his quarry.
She managed another ten meters before Conte drew perilously close. There was no way she’d get around him.
***
Conte lunged in front of Charlotte, stopping her dead in her tracks. “You’re not going anywhere with that,” he growled, eyeing the laptop bag. For some reason, the geneticist didn’t look scared. He noticed that she kept glancing at the huge purple lump on his temple, then over his shoulder toward the gate.
Then she did something he hadn’t expected. She screamed.
For a moment, Conte was paralyzed.
“Help!” Charlotte screamed again, louder this time.
The guards at the gate heard her. Two of them, dressed in blue coveralls and black berets, were running toward her, drawing their holstered Berettas and pushing through the crowd of startled tourists.
Conte considered grabbing the bag. But where would he go? He punished himself for not having a weapon.
