The six pompieri firemen who responded to the fire at the Church of Santa Maria Della Vittoria extinguished the bonfire with blasts of Halon gas. Water was cheaper, but the steam it created would have ruined the frescoes in the chapel, and the Vatican paid Roman pompieri a healthy stipend for swift and prudent service in all Vatican-owned buildings.
Pompieri, by the nature of their work, witnessed tragedy almost daily, but the execution in this church was something none of them would ever forget. Part crucifixion, part hanging, part burning at the stake, the scene was something dredged from a Gothic nightmare.
Unfortunately, the press, as usual, had arrived before the fire department. They’d shot plenty of video before the pompieri cleared the church. When the firemen finally cut the victim down and lay him on the floor, there was no doubt who the man was.
“Cardinale Guidera,” one whispered. “Di Barcellona.”
The victim was nude. The lower half of his body was crimson-black, blood oozing through gaping cracks in his thighs. His shinbones were exposed. One fireman vomited. Another went outside to breathe.
The true horror, though, was the symbol seared on the cardinal’s chest. The squad chief circled the corpse in awestruck dread. Lavoro del diavolo, he said to himself. Satan himself did this. He crossed himself for the first time since childhood.
“Un’ altro corpo!” someone yelled. One of the firemen had found another body.
The second victim was a man the chief recognized immediately. The austere commander of the Swiss Guard was a man for whom few public law enforcement officials had any affection. The chief called the Vatican, but all the circuits were busy. He knew it didn’t matter. The Swiss Guard would hear about this on television in a matter of minutes.
As the chief surveyed the damage, trying to recreate what possibly could have gone on here, he saw a niche riddled with bullet holes. A coffin had been rolled off its supports and fallen upside down in an apparent struggle. It was a mess. That’s for the police and Holy See to deal with, the chief thought, turning away.
As he turned, though, he stopped. Coming from the coffin he heard a sound. It was not a sound any fireman ever liked to hear.
“Bomba!” he cried out. “Tutti fuori!”
When the bomb squad rolled the coffin over, they discovered the source of the electronic beeping. They stared, confused.
“Mèdico!” one finally screamed. “Mèdico!”
Any word from Olivetti?” the camerlegno asked, looking drained as Rocher escorted him back from the Sistine Chapel to the Pope’s office.
“No, signore. I am fearing the worst.”
When they reached the Pope’s office, the camerlegno’s voice was heavy. “Captain, there is nothing more I can do here tonight. I fear I have done too much already. I am going into this office to pray. I do not wish to be disturbed. The rest is in God’s hands.”
“Yes, signore.”
“The hour is late, Captain. Find that canister.”
“Our search continues.” Rocher hesitated. “The weapon proves to be too well hidden.”
The camerlegno winced, as if he could not think of it. “Yes. At exactly 11:15 P.M., if the church is still in peril, I want you to evacuate the cardinals. I am putting their safety in your hands. I ask only one thing. Let these men proceed from this place with dignity. Let them exit into St. Peter’s Square and stand side by side with the rest of the world. I do not want the last image of this church to be frightened old men sneaking out a back door.”
“Very good, signore. And you? Shall I come for you at 11:15 as well?”
“There will be no need.”
“Signore?”
“I will leave when the spirit moves me.”
Rocher wondered if the camerlegno intended to go down with the ship.
The camerlegno opened the door to the Pope’s office and entered. “Actually . . .” he said, turning. “There is one thing.”
“Signore?”
“There seems to be a chill in this office tonight. I am trembling.”
“The electric heat is out. Let me lay you a fire.”
The camerlegno smiled tiredly. “Thank you. Thank you, very much.”
Rocher exited the Pope’s office where he had left the camerlegno praying by firelight in front of a small statue of the Blessed Mother Mary. It was an eerie sight. A black shadow kneeling in the flickering glow. As Rocher headed down the hall, a guard appeared, running toward him. Even by candlelight Rocher recognized Lieutenant Chartrand. Young, green, and eager.
“Captain,” Chartrand called, holding out a cellular phone. “I think the camerlegno’s address may have worked. We’ve got a caller here who says he has information that can help us. He phoned on one of the Vatican’s private extensions. I have no idea how he got the number.”
Rocher stopped. “What?”
“He will only speak to the ranking officer.”
“Any word from Olivetti?”
“No, sir.”
He took the receiver. “This is Captain Rocher. I am ranking officer here.”
“Rocher,” the voice said. “I will explain to you who I am. Then I will tell you what you are going to do next.”
When the caller stopped talking and hung up, Rocher stood stunned. He now knew from whom he was taking orders.
Back at CERN, Sylvie Baudeloque was frantically trying to keep track of all the licensing inquiries coming in on Kohler’s voice mail. When the private line on the director’s desk began to ring, Sylvie jumped. Nobody had that number. She answered.
“Yes?”
“Ms. Baudeloque? This is Director Kohler. Contact my pilot. My jet is to be ready in five minutes.”