Alexander moved through the ornate entryway of the Vatican Museums slowly, his eyes more than normally observant. The subway-like turnstiles had been locked open and he passed through them deftly. He was taken, as always, by the fairly modern entrance into museum wings that housed some of the most astonishing treasures of antiquity. He had been here a hundred times before, coming frequently to visit the collections. Even as a man of no faith—or perhaps more accurately, of a faith that had been lost—he still found the history inspiring.
But he’d never seen the entrance filled with so much law enforcement. He’d never approached the great spiral staircase of Giuseppe Momo, itself a treasure of modern architecture, with one of the institute’s most senior curators walking a step ahead, ashen and mumbling to no one but himself.
As he moved forward beneath the inset ceiling, Alexander could hear the rain pelting down on the stone rooftop high above them. The windows set into the walls rattled in the harshness of the storm, and occasionally the reds, oranges and golds of the painted interior flashed blue and white with the lightning of a different brush.
“To the left, over here.” Molinaro muttered the instruction as if Alexander didn’t know the way perfectly well. The Sistine Chapel was the most famous treasure in a museum filled with famous treasures. Whether one came for the Borgia Apartments, the paintings by Caravaggio and Raphael, the statue halls or the famous galleries of maps that Molinaro himself curated, everyone—everyone—stopped to see the chapel. When they could avoid the scrutiny of the guards, they lay on the floor and took pictures of its ceiling, awestruck beneath images that were amongst the most famous in the world. They saw Adam’s finger reaching out to touch the finger of God. They mused at how much smaller, how much further away it was than they’d expected. The chapel affected everyone. It was one of those rare treasures that, no matter how much it was hyped, always lived up to—and exceeded—expectations.
“Just beyond them,” Molinaro muttered again, motioning toward a wall of men standing in the square narthex that preceded entry into the Sistine Chapel itself. The doors that were famously bound and locked during papal conclaves were open, the way blocked instead by the huddled officials. They all had their backs to Alexander and Carlo as they approached.
“Let us through, let us through!” Molinaro commanded loudly, his voice old and stern and accustomed to authority. He approached the center of the line of men and pushed them aside. Their reaction was unpleasant, but they recognized Molinaro and accommodated the demand.
Alexander stepped forward. The equipment-stocked vests of the Polizia di Stato at his sides bulged, flexing with the accoutrements of the authority they bore.
And there were guns.
He paused at the sight of the only-too-familiar weapons he so despised. He’d grown to loathe them more over the experiences of the past months. He could still feel the trigger beneath his finger, the coldness of the metal in his palm …
But he hadn’t been expecting an armed force here, of all places. Why in God’s name would there be firearms officers in a chapel? In the chapel?
Just what was going on here?
“Alexander!” Molinaro called him back to attention and beckoned him forward. taking a step aside.
And then Alexander froze.
Before him, by means his mind could not comprehend, was a scene he felt certain he had seen before.