I pushed my foot down on the accelerator and adjusted my hands on the wheel: they were slipping from the sweat pouring off them, as I realized what we were up against. No wonder Severn and Zimotti had been so anxious to find out what Barchetti had told me. This was on a far greater scale than the attacks in Milan, or the attempt to kill me in the middle of St Paul’s.
The assassination of the Pope would, of course, shock Italy, and shock the world. No doubt they had already prepared a way to pin the blame on Arte come Terrore, or some other Communist-linked group, as outlined in the dossier. Moscow could deny it as much as they wanted but nobody would ever believe that Italian intelligence had been behind such a thing. I could scarcely believe it myself. The foot-soldiers would not be aware of it, of course. Did anyone in the Vatican know about it? They had certainly made some shaky alliances in the past – but to assassinate the Pope in this day and age? Even if they were brutal enough to sanction such a thing, Zimotti would never have trusted them with the information: one slip of someone’s conscience and the whole operation would fall apart.
So there was a chance, if I reached the Vatican in time and warned them. I looked at the clock by the speedometer: it read ten o’clock. We had two hours. That would normally be plenty of time to get to the Vatican, but of course we were being pursued, and heading straight through the centre of the city.
I cursed the car. It was a racing model, or close enough, but that wasn’t much help in this situation: we were being chased on very short stretches in a built-up area by cars that were not that much slower anyway. Even if I could have increased my speed, it wouldn’t have been a good idea, because I didn’t want the carabinieri on our tail as well. But the Lancias, perhaps because they were being driven by the two Italians, were snaking expertly through the traffic. The one in front, driven by Zimotti, was now less than a hundred yards behind us, and the traffic was, if anything, slowing.
We crossed the Tiber, the Castel Sant’Angelo to our right, and came into Via della Conciliazone. And there was the dome, reaching up into a cloudless blue sky. It was tantalizingly close, but traffic in the street was at a complete standstill and in my rear-view mirror I could see the Lancia gaining ground. I decided drastic action was needed, and veered right into the nearest side street, Via della Traspontina.
A three-wheeled scooter loaded with flowers in the back cart squealed around the corner, and I swerved to avoid it, then took the next left down Borgo Sant’Angelo. I just needed to find a left turning somewhere down here to get ahead of the traffic in Via della Conciliazone and come into the square. The entrance to Via della’Erba was blocked by an idiotically parked van, and the tip of the dome had now vanished behind one of the buildings ahead, making it harder for me to judge the distance. But the next turning or the one after that should do…
I glanced in the mirror again and saw that one of the Lancias was now just three cars behind us. I took a sharp right. It was taking us away from St Peter’s, but I had to lose them and if I could take a few quick turns I might be able to. The street was narrow, leaving barely enough room for us to squeeze by, so I put my foot down and tooted the horn like a born Roman. Pedestrians jumped out of the way, a few of them shouting or waving their fists at us.
I turned left onto Borgo Pio. It was slightly wider, but had an outdoor caffè in it. I swerved to avoid it, but just as I did the sun broke over a building, blinding me for a moment, and Sarah gasped as one of our rear wheels crunched against a metal chair.
To the left was Vicolo del Farinone. A sign read ‘SENSO UNICO’, but it was the wrong way. No matter. I turned in. Vespas and motorcycles lined the left-hand side, while in the centre of the street a party of pigeons was flapping about a crust of bread. They scattered at the sound of the engine, and I hugged the car to the right wall. There was an archway at the end of the street, but as we approached it I saw the nose of a car just coming into view. It was one of the Lancias. How the hell had they got there? I glanced in the mirror: the other was now right behind us. And there were no turnings in the street.
I put my foot down, hoping that I might scare the Lancia ahead into reversing. But it kept nosing further into the archway. The walls on either side of us seemed to be closing in, and even the sky above was obscured by laundry hanging from windows: underwear and shirts. The sun was blazing – they wouldn’t take long to dry. I saw that the street widened a little before the archway, and as I looked over to the right I saw why – there was some sort of gate there. Something sparked in my mind and I reached for the button for the car doors. The hinges clunked and began moving out and then upward, just avoiding the walls of the passing houses, until they were almost touching each other above the front windscreen.
Wind was rushing into the car, and I started slowing down. We were a couple of seconds from the end of the street now, but we had to get there before the Lancia could block us off completely. I slowed the car some more, and we hit a cobble or something and landed a little off course: a corner of my door sheared against a drainpipe and got caught for a moment, metal screeching against metal. I righted us, then unbuckled myself from my seat. Now we were coming up to the end of the street, and the gate. A sign above it read ‘Proprieta Privata’, but I could see that it was slightly ajar.
We were now travelling at just a few miles an hour, and the Lancia behind us thumped into the rear of the car. Someone – Zimotti? – took a shot, but it hit the metalwork. Even at this speed, we were a moving target. There was an awful whistling noise emanating from the engine, and one of our back tyres had gone, a victim to speeding over the cobbles.
I turned to Sarah and gestured at the documents in her hand. She nodded dully and thrust them into the pouch of her overalls.
‘Now!’ I shouted, and she bundled herself out of the door, pushing the gate open as she did. The Lancia ahead of us was now in the archway, but it was stuck – they had no room to open their doors. I let go of the wheel and dived after Sarah through the open gate. There was a crunch as the Lancia bulldozed into the front of the Alfa Romeo, but I was already racing up stairs and down a small alleyway, passing the backs of houses. A few feet ahead there was another gate, and it was closed. Was it locked?
No. Sarah reached it and opened it, and a few moments later I joined her. As I stepped into the street I was nearly run over by a horse-drawn carriage coming the other way. The horse whinnied and lifted its legs and the tourists in the carriage shouted abuse at me. I took a moment to catch my breath, then looked up at the street sign on the archway. Via del Mascherino. I had momentarily lost my sense of direction, so I took a few more steps into the street and glanced to my left – the Lancia was reversing out of the archway a few feet away. But to my right was a curving colonnade, and just visible above it was the ball and cross of St Peter’s.
I took Sarah by the hand and we started running towards it.
*
I’d forgotten how vast the square was, and how crowded it could become. The first part of it was reasonably easy to cross, but by the time we reached the Obelisk we had been absorbed into a heaving mass of people, chattering, jostling and fanning themselves in the heat of the morning. Believers of every age, nationality and colour were here, wearing paper hats and sporting binoculars so they’d be able to get a better look at the action. I pushed past a group of African nuns and squinted up at one of the clocks on the Basilica: it was coming up to half past ten. There was just over an hour and a half left before the Pope was due to address the crowd.
The great church stood in front of us, the dome now just visible, framed by a cloudless blue sky. It looked even more impressive than St Paul’s – but was it any more invulnerable? Sarah and I elbowed our way through the crowd, muttering ‘Scusi – emergenza!’ People let us pass, reluctant to show anger in such a place and perhaps sensing our urgency.
Sarah pointed towards a flight of stairs on the right-hand side of the colonnade, and we headed that way. Several Swiss Guards were posted as sentries around the entrance, their absurd costumes offset by the short rapiers holstered in them and the long halberds they held in their hands. I pulled away a low wooden barrier and we ran up the stairs. The nearest of the Guards turned to us, alarmed.
‘We need to speak to someone on the Pope’s staff immediately,’ I said, still panting. ‘It’s an emergency.’
He gave us a frozen look, and I became conscious that we were bruised, battered and wearing Ralph Balfour-Laing’s paint-flecked clothes.
‘Do you have any identification, please?’ said the Guard, a pug-faced man sweating beneath his ridiculous plumed helmet.
‘We’re from the British embassy,’ said Sarah. ‘Ambassador Mazzerelli will be able to vouch for us.’
He wasn’t impressed. ‘Ambassador Mazzerelli is not here, signora. Do you have any identification from your embassy?’
Sarah touched my arm, and I turned to see Severn and Zimotti making their way through the crowd, followed by Barnes and the beak-faced soldier. They were now just a few dozen feet away, and heading straight for us, holding up wallets as they made their way past: they had identification, of course.
I faced the Guard again. ‘Please,’ I said. ‘We are representatives of the British government and we need to speak to someone on the Pope’s staff at once. You must stop the address at noon.’
‘Signore, I do not care who you are. We cannot allow anyone through simply because they claim to have an urgent matter. Please wait here.’
He made to leave and I leaned forward and grabbed his tunic by the sleeve. He swivelled round sharply, and I turned to Sarah.
‘How are those documents keeping?’ I said. She looked at me blankly, and for a terrifying moment I thought we might have lost them on the way, but then she reached into her overalls and removed the sheaf of papers. At my prompting she turned to the page she had been reading from in the car and thrust it into the hands of the Guard.
‘Just look at this,’ she said. ‘It’s a proposal by foreign governments to commit terrorist attacks in Italy and blame them on Communists. Here’ – she pointed to the relevant paragraph – ‘it mentions that ideal targets are religious events. May the fourth is circled in the margin—’
‘And that’s today,’ I broke in. ‘There may be a bomb in the church.’
The Guard’s momentary anger seemed to have calmed: perhaps he was used to such claims and was now certain he was dealing with a couple of cranks. I glanced back into the crowd. Severn and the others had already reached the first flight of steps.
‘This is not possible,’ the Guard was saying, and he handed the documents back to Sarah. ‘We have very good security measures here, and I myself was involved in the search of the Basilica this morning. But if you would care to wait here— ’
‘You don’t understand! The life of the Pope and everyone in this crowd may be at risk.’
He wasn’t budging, so I took Sarah by the arm and made to leave, then at the last moment turned with her.
‘Come on!’ We ran through the gap between the Guards, through the massive arched doorway behind them. They let out a shout and began running after us.
*
We were in some sort of a hallway, with a thick red carpet and glittering chandeliers. A tall man in flowing robes with a red sash was already bustling towards us, the slapping of his slippers echoing against the marble floor.
‘What is this, please?’ he said. He had a narrow, ascetic face: a thin mouth, high cheekbones and deep-set eyes. The Guards were now stationed behind us, their halberds drawn.
‘These people just broke in—’ our Guard started to explain, but I cut him off.
‘We are from British intelligence. We have information suggesting that there may be a bomb in the Basilica.’ I nodded at Sarah again, and she withdrew the papers and handed them over, pointing to the paragraph in question. The man took a pair of spectacles from his robe and began reading, but after a few seconds he handed the wad back officiously.
‘I have no way of knowing if these are genuine or not. Do you have any identification?’
‘That is what we asked, Cardinal—’ the Guard broke in, but the cardinal silenced him with a glare.
‘No,’ I said, ‘but there really isn’t time for that. You need to tell His Holiness to cancel his address.’
The cardinal started. ‘Impossible! Look at the crowd outside, signore. Many people have come a very long way to see His Holiness, and they will be very upset if he does not appear.’
‘They’ll be even more upset if he’s killed. Send these Guards out to explain that he’s not feeling well. The people will be disappointed, of course, but they will understand. What do you have to lose? If you find we have tricked you in some way, you can make a formal complaint to the British government and I assure you we will make a full public apology. But please – this is a very serious threat.’
He was quiet for a moment, then put out a skeletal hand to Sarah again. She returned the papers, and he looked down at them once more.
‘Impossible,’ he muttered.
I looked at him in despair, and started wondering if we could perhaps risk running past him. But then I remembered something. ‘Last month,’ I said. ‘There was a warning about a bomb here.’
He looked up at me, surprised. ‘Yes – but nothing was found.’
‘Because they didn’t know where to look. Someone planted it then, and it’s due to go off today.’
His eyes widened. He looked back down at the document, and then he seemed to reach a decision.
‘Do you know where they have placed it?’
I nodded.
He gestured to the lead Swiss Guard. ‘Take this man wherever he wants to go – and quickly!’
‘The dome,’ I told him. He glared at me for a moment, then bowed to the cardinal and showed us to a door at the side.
‘Follow me, please.’
*
The Guard took us quickly up a flight of stairs, then down a long carpeted corridor. We passed a magnificent statue of a horse and then pushed through a doorway into a small courtyard. There was a long queue of people waiting to take the lift up to the top. I had thought that the Pope’s address would have thinned the crowd inside the church, but by the looks of things it hadn’t made much difference. We rushed to the front of the line, and the Swiss Guard pulled aside the rope and asked the clerk in the ticket booth how long it would be until the next lift arrived. The clerk shrugged expansively.
‘Five minutes?’
Too long. I nodded to the Swiss Guard, and the three of us raced ahead to the staircase. I reached it first and started climbing the narrow steps, turning past walls scratched with names and dates: tourists who wanted to leave their mark for posterity, I supposed. There were several other people making their way up the stairs, and I weaved my way around them, wondering how far behind Severn and Zimotti were.
I came out onto another courtyard, and there was the dome directly ahead, the cross and ball lit by the morning sun. To the left, beyond some pieces of scaffolding and canvas, the statues of the Apostles gazed out over the city. Could the bomb be here somewhere? I didn’t think so – not enough impact. In the dome, Barchetti had said. Keep going.
I could hear a low burring noise behind me and realized it was the lift descending – Severn and Zimotti might soon be coming up in it. I crossed the courtyard to the next flight of stairs, which was surrounded by white railings. A short flight up and I reached a narrow balcony that gave spectacular views both down into the church and up into the dome. Tourists were pressed along the balcony deciding which to photograph first, and I squeezed past them to the next archway. The stairs led down, confusing me for a moment, but then I saw the archway on the right. The sign above it read ‘INGRESSO ALLA CVPPOLA’, and I leapt through it and saw the next flight leading up.
Christ, it was narrow. There was barely room to move, and as my leg muscles started to pulse with pain I regretted not taking the lift for the first part of the journey – I’d be lucky if I had any energy left by the time I reached the top. Then again, if we had waited for the lift Severn and Zimotti might already have caught up with us. I had to climb at a slower pace now because I was stuck behind an Australian woman complaining to her husband that she hadn’t had any breakfast and couldn’t climb on an empty stomach. I heard shallow breathing behind me, and turned to see Sarah, the palm of one hand resting against the wall for support as she climbed.
The staircase began spiralling, and through narrow slits in the walls I caught glimpses of pink tiles, white statues, green trees. The stairs straightened again, and then started angling to one side as we squeezed between the inner and outer drums of the dome. It was getting warm, and a surge of dizziness flooded through me – I blinked and shook it away.
There was another spiralling stairwell, now with a rope instead of banisters, but it was mercifully short and we came out onto another balcony, this one in the open air. A mass of tourists stood by the low railings, and beyond them the city stretched out in the sunshine. I turned to see both Sarah and the Swiss Guard and raised my chin. The Guard pointed ahead, and I saw an iron ladder a few feet away, hanging almost vertically. I pushed through the crowd of people and grabbed hold of it, my heart racing. How long did we have until the bomb went off? I climbed hand over hand, until finally I was right in the copper-plated ball. I took a few seconds to recover my breath, then looked around.
There was nobody here, just a wooden bench, smooth from a billion tourists’ arses, and tiny slats looking down at the city. And somewhere, I was sure, a bomb. But where? Had I guessed wrong? Perhaps they had placed it in the church itself, or on the balcony the Pope would be standing on shortly… No. Barchetti had specifically mentioned the attack in the dome.
There was a clanging at the ladder and the Swiss Guard climbed into the space. Sweat was pouring down his face, and I felt a pang of sympathy – I hadn’t made the climb in that outfit. He glanced at me and immediately registered my confusion.
‘I told you, signore,’ he said. ‘We checked thoroughly this morning.’
My sympathy vanished. Triumphant little shit. But he was wrong. It had to be here.
There was another clang, and Sarah emerged, very out of breath.
‘What’s the programme now?’ I asked the Guard. ‘The Pope’s address is at noon, and then what? Mass?’ Perhaps they hadn’t planted the bomb yet, but would do shortly.
The Guard shook his head.
‘It is a much shorter Mass today, because at one o’clock there is a special service for the feast day of Santa Sindone.’
‘How much shorter?’ I asked. ‘Will the Pope be…’ I stopped. ‘What was that? The feast day of what?’
‘Santa Sindone.’ I stared at him blankly. ‘The Holy Shroud of Turin – the cloth Christ was buried in.’
May the fourth was the feast day of the Shroud. That was an iconic religious event, all right – even more so than the Pope’s regular Sunday address.
‘The Shroud. Where is it?’
‘In Turin,’ said the Guard, exasperated at my ignorance.
‘In the cathedral?’
He nodded. ‘The chapel attached to it. Every May the fourth, they remove the Shroud from the altar and—’
He stopped. There had been a loud noise below us. I glanced down the ladder and saw Zimotti emerging onto the gallery, holding up his identification wallet and shouting as he made his way through the crowd. The Guard turned to descend, but I grabbed him by the lapel and gestured for Sarah to stay where she was, too.
‘Does it have a dome?’ I asked. He looked at me uncomprehendingly, and I shook him. ‘The chapel housing the Shroud! Does it have a dome?’
He nodded, and tried to move a hand towards his rapier. I pushed it aside.
‘What time?’ I shouted at him. ‘What time is the service?’
There was more noise, and I could hear Zimotti’s voice below us. The Guard stared back at me blankly.
‘They begin at eight o’clock…’
The world slowed to silence, and I knew I had made a terrible mistake. I brushed past the Guard and reached for Sarah’s hand.
We were in the wrong place – the wrong bloody city. The attack wasn’t planned for here. It was planned for Turin, in less than nine hours’ time.