The Sacred Blood

flanked by Roman columns, she watched him approach a Swiss Guard wearing a blue jumpsuit, a sidearm, and a black beret. Over the busy commotion—cars and visitors queued in separate lines—she could barely hear the exchange. Though it didn’t matter, since Donovan seemed to be conversing with the man in Italian. He presented their passports and the guard looked over at her. Next, Donovan produced a badge that was no doubt his outdated Vatican ID. Satisfied, the guard went behind the gate and waved for him to follow. Donovan confidently glanced over at her, smiled, and held up an index finger. Universal for So far so good. I won’t be long.

When the first five minutes had gone by, crazy thoughts came to Charlotte—outlandish suppositions of why Donovan thought it best to come here, of all places. Could this be his elaborate plan to get her back into Vatican City—a trap? Maybe Conte was really alive, waiting behind the gate for Donovan’s instructions to nab her.

But the laptop was more important than she—that’s where the incriminating information really was. That’s when it hit her: My laptop. Christ, what if those men got hold of the files? She took some comfort in knowing that the data was encrypted. Still . . .

Should it be surprising that she hadn’t heard news reports concerning Conte’s death? After all, Donovan had indicated that Conte wasn’t even the mercenary’s real name. And it was just another unsolved murder in Italy. Not prime pickings for CNN. But Santelli’s death? Would that have made news in the U.S.? It’s not like he’d been the Holy Father himself, but he was the Holy See’s equivalent of vice president. Now she was wishing she’d had time to verify Donovan’s story.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she mumbled.

A kind-looking priest was just exiting the gate and walked past Charlotte. Seeing her troubled expression and puffy eyelids, he smiled politely, glanced quickly at her bag, and greeted her with a warm “Hello.” Lucky guess, she thought.

“Hello,” she said, smiling. Then she realized that her duffel bag, a complimentary joiner’s gift from her local YMCA, had the facility’s Phoenix address on it. The window of opportunity hadn’t closed. “Excuse me, Father?”

The man stopped and turned to her.

She took two steps to close the gap. “I know this may sound like an odd question . . .” She rolled her eyes.

“I’m a priest. I get many odd questions, my dear.”

The kind, aged face reminded her of her dad. “It’s quite embarrassing that I don’t know this,” she said, spreading her hands, “but is Cardinal Antonio Santelli still with the Vatican secretariat’s office?”

The man drew his lips tight and somberly shook his head. “Sorry if you haven’t heard. His Eminence passed away some months back.” “Oh.” She feigned distress. “That’s terrible. What happened?” “His heart gave out, I’m afraid. God rest his soul.”

She thanked the priest, and when she turned, Donovan was standing outside the gate waving her over. That’s when she realized it was a beautiful day in Rome—clear skies and mild. And rising up all around her, the Renaissance architecture helped calm her spirit. A big improvement over her last visit. She strode over to him.

“What was that all about?” Donovan asked, curious.

“Oh, nothing,” she said. “Just chatting.”

“You’ll need this,” he said, handing her a laminated badge encoded with numbers, her name, and a high- resolution scan of her passport photo set beneath the flickering hologram of a papal crest. “They’ll hold our passports till we leave. Things have a gotten a bit more strict, I’m afraid.”

She shrugged and clipped the badge to the lapel of her rumpled blazer. “As long as they still have showers in there, I won’t complain.”

Passing through the gate, Donovan led her through the Vatican’s tiny commercial district. As they passed Via dei Pellegrini she looked left, up at the rear face of the Apostolic Palace. W hen her eyes came down again, they were nearing the spot where she’d had a final showdown with Conte. The killer’s final words echoed in her thoughts: “Remember your confidentiality agreement, Dr. Hennesey. Or I’ ll have to come and find you.”

And it was virtually on that very spot that Charlotte noticed a familiarlooking priest awaiting them.

“Patrick! So good to see you!” the priest said.

Donovan embraced the man. “It’s been a while.”

“Too long.”

Donovan turned to Charlotte. “How rude of me. Charlotte, you remember Father James Martin? He was Cardinal Santelli’s assistant?”

The poor man chained to a reception desk outside the cardinal’s office. What she remembered most was the dark circles under his eyes and his pallid complexion, which seemed even worse in daylight. He looked like a creature of the night. “Of course. Good to see you again, Father,” she said, offering a handshake.

He took her hand in his. “Charlotte,” he said, cocking his head sideways as if trying to place her face. But really, hers was not a face to forget. He distinctly remembered—May God forgive my impure thoughts, he prayed— admiring her as she signed confidentiality agreements for Santelli’s secret project; the project that now put his sister and her beautiful family in jeopardy. “Yes, Dr. Charlotte . . . Henry, was it?” He purposely botched the last name to alleviate suspicion. He’d remembered her name yesterday, when he’d immediately called the mobile number his abductors had provided. And only minutes ago, he’d placed a second call to Orlando on a new number, alerting him to the duo’s unexpected arrival.

Her last name was printed in bold, twenty-point Times New Roman on her badge. Maybe he didn’t want to be rude and look down since it was hanging over her left breast? Charlotte wondered. “Close. Hennesey.”

“Sorry, I’m so terrible with names,” he said, some rosy color marbling his pale cheeks.

He finally let her hand free, leaving a damp, cold feeling behind.

“It’s such a pleasure to have you staying with us again. Anything you need during your visit, you just give the word.”