Quickly and unnoticed.
The crowd out in St. Peter’s Square would provide more than enough cover. Becoming lost within tens of thousands of people would be easy. But getting to them not so much. Every gate out would be manned. Surely soon the word would be passed by radio to be on the lookout for a wayward cardinal. He kept going, walking through a series of galleries with familiar names. Pauline. Alexandrine. Clementine. Beyond them he came to the entrance for the Vestibule of the Four Gates and a stairway that led down.
He started to descend.
On the landing he turned, but quickly halted.
At ground level he spotted a uniformed security guard manning the doors that led out. He assessed the situation and decided on his next move. Steeling himself, he continued down the wide marble staircase, his hands tucked into the roomy sleeves of his cassock. The guard had his back to him, staring out the glass doors, which made it easy to approach.
The man turned.
“Eminence—”
No hesitation. Move. Fast.
He removed his hands and grabbed the guard, wrapping his right arm around the man’s neck. He clamped his left hand to his right wrist and tightened the vise into a choke hold, cutting off the man’s breathing. The guard was younger but thirty pounds heavier and never anticipated a cardinal attacking him. Apparently, no arrest or detain order had yet been issued.
The man went limp.
He allowed the body to slump to the floor.
Immediately he removed his mozzetta and rochet, then unbuttoned the cassock. Beneath he wore an undershirt and trousers. They were dark, like the guard’s. Blue, not black, but they would do. It was the shirt and cap he needed, along with the radio and gun. He slipped on the shirt, a little big, but a tuck of the tail into his pants handled the excess. He clipped the radio to his belt and popped in the ear fob. The microphone he stuffed into a pocket. He doubted he’d be making any transmissions. He buckled the holster to his waist. Grabbing hold of both arms he dragged the guard out of the vestibule and through an open doorway, leaving him stretched prone behind a statue that filled one corner of the nearest gallery. He rushed back and retrieved his robes, which he tossed over the guard’s body.
He stepped back to the exit doors and smoothed his clothes.
Then he left the palace.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
Cotton stood in the Room of Biga considering his options. The word meant “chariot” in Italian, pretty much the only name for this space considering the huge one that dominated it.
He took no comfort from the sacred, the prodigious, and the miraculous that engulfed him. He had a job to do.
And it wasn’t going all that well.
He walked over to a large, twenty-paned window and gazed out at the sunny afternoon. Beyond was the dome of St. Peter’s, the Vatican Gardens, and an assortment of other buildings set among the trees. Below stretched a street with little to no activity. Understandable given the conclave. A couple of vehicles moved about and a few people walked the concrete. The Vatican wasn’t shut down. Far from it. Business went on. On the other side of the palace tens of thousands of people filled St. Peter’s Square waiting for a new pope. Media outlets from around the world had also set up shop.
But here? No one was around.
It was odd standing in one of the largest, most visited museums in the world alone.
Something caught his eye below.
A man.
Moving away from the building.
One of the armed uniformed guards, like back in St. Peter’s.
The guy stopped for a moment, looked around, then donned a cap.
He caught the face.
Gallo.
* * *
Pollux paralleled the back side of the palace and marched toward the basilica. He wasn’t sure where he was headed, but at least he was free of the building and his vestments. One was a prison, the other like a flashing sign. Until the body of the guard was found, the uniform he now wore should open a lot of doors.
But he had to move fast.
He passed beneath the Arch of Gregory and rounded an outbuilding that projected from the backside of the palace. He found himself in a piazza with another fountain—Santa Marta, if he recalled—and followed the street. The hulk of the basilica lay ahead. The day seemed wonderful, partly cloudy with lots of sunshine. Warm too. Malone suddenly appearing inside the Sistine signaled that things had not gone well in Malta. Kevin Hahn must have failed. He should have shot the idiot before leaving the island, but the bodies had to be buried. The last thing he needed was for those corpses to be found. So he’d had no choice but to keep Hahn alive. Also, having a friend as operational head of the Entity would have proven beneficial.
But none of that mattered now.
He’d been found out.
Which meant Malone knew about Kastor, too.
He had to disappear.
But first he had to flee the Vatican.
* * *
Cotton hustled down the stairs and stopped at the glass doors. Stamm had said all of the exits were manned. This one wasn’t, and Gallo was wearing a uniform. He stepped over to the entrance of the first gallery and immediately saw a pile of red and white garments piled on a body lying in the corner. He rushed over and checked for a pulse on the shirtless man.
There. But weak.
Decision time.
Gallo was out of his robes and into a uniform that would provide a great freedom of movement. A definite problem. But Stamm had said the guards all carried radios, and there was no radio. That meant Gallo had ears, too. No gun was at the guard’s waist. So Gallo was armed. The man lying before him needed medical attention but there was no time. He could not allow Gallo to dissolve into the woodwork, which was becoming easier by the second. Putting out an alert would require not only an explanation but a photo and description as well. He doubted any of the guards would recognize Kastor Gallo on sight. An open alert would also spook Gallo, who would hear.
That meant he was the only one who could get this done.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered to the unconscious man.
He stood and headed for the exit doors. Beyond the glass, fifty yards away, he caught sight of Gallo as he rounded the end of a building and vanished from sight.
He ran out into the sun.
* * *
Pollux was on the back side of the basilica, the Governor’s Palace off to his right. In order to get to St. Peter’s Square he’d have to keep circling the basilica, but the closer he came to an exit gate the more people he’d encounter. No question that every inch of these surroundings was under video surveillance. But so far, there had been nothing to alert anyone. Only after the guard’s body was found would things change.
But he’d be long gone by then.
* * *
Cotton ran toward where he’d last seen Gallo, the palace on one side, grass and trees on the other.
His footsteps slapped the pavement.
Pigeons, shaken from their perch, squawked into the bright sky.
He made it to the building edge and stopped, glancing around and seeing his target past a piazza—
Just as Gallo vanished around the basilica’s apse.
* * *
Pollux kept walking.
Cool and calm.
A guard heading to his duty station.
Unfortunately, towering bastions surrounded the Vatican on all sides. No way out over those. He came to another square, this one more open than the others. Now he could see a whole array of 20th-century buildings. The Domus Sanctae Marthae and papal audience hall were both in view.