He led her down the escalator to the main level, in the direction opposite where they’d come into the station.
This was all happening way too fast for Jules and she was getting frustrated. “Slow down,” she said, tugging his thick arm. “We parked back
there,” she said, pointing behind her.
“Forget my truck. I’m sure that’s being watched too. We’ll take a taxi
from here.”
42
******
Vat ic a n Ci t y
Donovan was in full sprint as he flew out the rear exit of St. Peter’s Basilica onto Via del Fondamento. He had no cell phone to call ahead to Charlotte’s room—to warn her that Martin had snared them in his trap. And there was no time to double back to the Swiss Guard barracks to arrange a rescue team.
Worst of all, Donovan was unarmed.
He only hoped that the dormitory’s deskman had stopped the men from entering the building, or at least called ahead to security if anything seemed suspect.
As he rounded Piazza di Santa Marta, a group of nuns scattered from the sidewalk to make way for him, gasping as he tore past. A searing burn was radiating up his leg muscles as he pushed harder.
Breathless, he slid to a stop at the dormitory entrance, yanked open the door, and darted into the vestibule. “Call secur— !” he began to yell to the curved front desk. But no one was there. He quickly hurled himself halfway onto the counter to try to see if the deskman was in the rear office through the open doors on the left and right.
But then his eyes caught reflections glinting off the pool of red spreading over the tiled floor beneath the desk. The deskman was sprawled out on his back, lifeless eyes frozen in terror, a clean hole pierced through his forehead.
Donovan recoiled, his chest heaving up and down.
The bank of security monitors was still live, and on the closed circuit for the second floor, he spotted a large man pushing a bulging laundry bin toward the elevator. This time the man wasn’t wearing a lab coat. Father Piotr Kwiatkowski, or whatever his name was, had donned the gray uniform of a maintenance worker.
Donovan feared he might already be too late. The Petrine Gate was very close by, as was the Arch of Bells. If Martin had gotten them into the city legally, they would easily make their exit past the Swiss Guards posted there. Then a couple of quick turns onto Via Gregorio VII and they’d surely disappear.
If, however, Donovan could immediately warn the Swiss Guard, they might respond in time to stop the intruders prior to their leaving the city. He reached across to the desk phone and snatched up its receiver. The line had been cut.
On the monitor, the elevator doors had just closed. He could hear the machinery come to life behind him.
Did deskmen carry guns? His frenzied eyes went back to the body, the navy blazer that had flapped open when it hit the floor. No gun belt or underarm holster.
His eyes scanned furiously for anything resembling a weapon. The far wall—a red fire extinguisher, and a formidable ax encased in safety glass beside it.
43
******
The instant the elevator doors parted, Donovan sprang out with the extinguisher’s hose aimed straight. With Kwiatkowski in clear view, Donovan pulled on the cylinder’s unpinned lever and sprayed a blast of ammonium phosphate directly at his face.
The stunned assassin’s reaction was a split second off—his hands came up only after the searing chemicals jetted into his eyes. He went down screaming and simultaneously thrust the linen bin out at Donovan, knocking him back onto the floor.
Donovan relinquished the extinguisher and scrambled for the fire ax. Jumping back to his feet, he jigged around the bin, hooked his free arm inside the elevator, and jabbed blindly at buttons on its control panel. Kwiatkowski was already getting to his feet, struggling to see.
When he lunged for the closing doors, Donovan swung down at his outstretched arm; the ax blade split open his thick forearm with a wet
Trembling all over, Donovan pulled back the sheet covering what was inside the laundry bin. Charlotte was there, curled into a ball, unconscious . . . but still breathing.
“Thank God!” Donovan cried.
Next he went for the fire alarm near the stairwell. But as he made to pull down on the handle, he heard a commotion on the stairs. He only glimpsed the man storming down at him and knew immediately that it was Kwiatkowski’s partner.
Donovan yanked on the handle and ran past the bin. There wasn’t time to get Charlotte to safety, but at least security would respond. The fire alarm immediately began squelching in fast intervals—the sound was so ear- splitting that Donovan didn’t even hear the shot.
But he certainly felt the force of its impact as the round punched through his left shoulder and tore out of his chest. His body pitched violently forward and spun, then smashed down against the marble floor.
Seconds later, Father Donovan went still. An ice-cold sensation crawled over his skin as the piercing alarm faded to silence.
44
******
