The papal apartments, Vatican City: 6:43 p.m.
Two Swiss Guards in full ceremonial dress stood outside the door to the Pope’s private study, halberds angled slightly inward and eyes forward. They stood at post as the Pope’s innermost guards had done for centuries, though in reality they were only the visible face of a much larger team that surrounded him. A team that Christoph Raber had already augmented. There were men stationed on the other side of the door who held MP5s instead of halberds. Every quadrant of the interior had a guard posted, leaving no section of the study, office or apartments without immediate manned line-of-sight protection.
As Raber approached the embossed wooden doors, Alexander and Gabriella behind him, together with a small group of his core team, the two uniformed guardsmen drew their halberds straight. Raber followed the protocol and knocked three times, solemnly. Then he broke with that protocol by opening the door without waiting to be summoned.
As they entered, the pontiff was already standing. He looked at Raber, his face reddened and not its usual picture of serenity.
“Christoph, I know you are concerned for my safety, but is all this really necess—”
“Your Holiness, your life is now in immediate danger,” Raber cut him off.
“So you’ve already said.” The Pope’s response was tinged with a faint annoyance. “And I’ve told you that threats against the papal office are not uncommon and will not stifle us with fear. You of all men should be aware of this.”
Raber took another step forward. His stance was forceful but his face belied this with a more sympathetic expression. He seemed to know that his next words would wound the Pope.
“Cardinal Rinaldo is dead.” He stood his ground, peering into the pontiff’s eyes. Gregory was stunned.
“You’re . . . you’re sure?” he finally asked. There was genuine pain in his voice.
“He was discovered in his office less than an hour ago, by his nephew.” Raber motioned to Alexander, who took a step forward. The pontiff didn’t turn to face him.
“Rinaldo was,” the Pope stuttered, his eyes glassy, “he was my friend. Of many years.” Suddenly he lifted his hands to his face, covered his eyes and wept. Gentle tears, then one great mournful sob. Then he drew in a long, controlling breath. He lowered his hands slowly and his reddened eyes stared forward hard.
“Who did this?”
“We don’t know,” Raber answered. “It took place in his office. Poison.”
Suddenly the pontiff’s eyes were on Alexander and Gabriella. They were neither warm nor tender.
“How did these two get in here?” he demanded. “I ordered the Vatican sealed.”
“We broke in, Your Holiness,” Alexander answered honestly. “It was the only way to get to you.”
“We were hoping to speak to the cardinal,” Gabriella added. “We have information for you, but it’s not as if others were lining up to help us get it to you.”
“So I understand!” the Pope retorted. He reached down to a black remote on his desk and aimed it at a small television on the far side of the room. They had barely noticed its muted images since they’d entered, but suddenly the sound made its presence a focal point.
“We repeat,” a newsreader announced over a backdrop of the northwestern wall of the city, “two individuals—one a former priest and recently sacked newspaper columnist, Alexander Trecchio, and the other a suspended Roman police inspector, Gabriella Fierro—are reported to have broken into Vatican City within the past hour. Nearby residents report hearing a volley of gunfire before order was restored.”
“My God,” Gabriella gasped.
The Pope motioned for her to be silent. “Just wait.”
The report continued, flashing old head-shot images of Alexander and Gabriella on the screen. “Trecchio and Fierro have different reasons for acting so violently against the Church. Trecchio, embittered by ecclesiastical scandal, is reported to have long been on the attack against his former employers. Fierro, pious to a fault and known by her colleagues as a woman possessing religious belief, is believed to have been bribed by Trecchio into collaboration.”
“This is outrageous!” Gabriella exclaimed.
“To push that relationship beyond any doubt,” the newsreader continued, “a sum of over ten thousand euros was transferred from Trecchio’s personal bank account to Fierro’s only two days ago, in what appears to be clear evidence of securing her cooperation.”
“Ten thousand!” Alexander erupted. “There’s never been that much in my account to begin with!”
The Pope muted the display. His face betrayed his mistrust as he turned to Raber. “I may indeed be in danger, Christoph, but it seems you’ve brought the people responsible for it right through my door.”
Raber considered this a moment, but shook his head. “Your Holiness, I’ve personally checked into the backgrounds of both Alexander Trecchio and Gabriella Fierro. As of twenty-four hours ago, their bank accounts were clean. What you’ve just heard could only be true if those accounts have been manipulated since. And manipulation of funds is precisely what we’ve been investigating. You’ll recall the firms I discussed with you before.”
The Pope reflected on the information, hesitant to accept it.
“Gregory,” Raber said, softer and more personally, “they’re being framed.”
Gabriella took a tentative step forward. “Your Holiness, neither I nor Alexander have anything against you. I’m a devoted child of the Church, and Alex is too, though perhaps he has a few scars from that childhood.”
At this, the Pope’s features softened slightly. He appeared able to relate to the scabs and scars sometimes borne by those who held the Church dear.
Gabriella continued. “We have nothing but respect for you. But we’ve made our way here as we have because we do have something against—”
She was cut off. A door at the side of the room opened with a click. The whole space fell into an immediate, captivated silence.
The stranger entered, looking directly into Gabriella’s eyes.
“Against me.”