“Sorry to bother you on your way home,” he said, planting himself at arm’s length.
A laminated Vatican ID badge was prominently displayed on the lapel of his raincoat, just below his white priest collar. The unfamiliar face was forgettable. Italian? Lebanese? Maybe thirtysomething, or perhaps a youthful fifty, Martin guessed. “Have we met?”
The man shook his head. “Not yet.”
“What can I do for you, Father . . . ?”
“Fabrizio Orlando.” He extended his right hand.
Italian. When Martin reciprocated, he noticed that the priest’s skin was rough. Unusual for a cleric. Perhaps the man had spent time as a missionary? The Lord’s call doesn’t place everyone behind a desk, Martin reminded himself.
“I’ve just been appointed to the secretariat’s office.”
Why hadn’t he been notified? “I see. Welcome to Vatican City.”
“Grazie. Mind if I walk with you for a minute?”
Suspicion showed in Martin’s eyes. “Not at all.”
The two men proceeded down the sidewalk past the cafés and souvenir shops.
“I was told you’d been Cardinal Antonio Santelli’s secretary?”
“That’s right.” Martin’s gait quickened and the man kept pace be- side him.
“Very unfortunate, His Eminence’s death. A deep loss for the Holy See.” He tightened his lips in a show of solemnity. “He was a visionary.” As they approached Piazza Pia’s busy thoroughfare, his pitch rose to compete with the bus and scooter traffic. “Many had said he would be the Holy Father’s successor.”
“Yes, well . . .” Attempting to echo the priest’s fond words, Martin stalled, knowing that his own remembrances wouldn’t be nearly as complimentary. The fact remained that regardless of Santelli’s unsullied public image as having been a last great defender of Catholic dogma, the late cardinal had been merciless to his subordinates—a bulldog. Martin chose to bow his head in prayer.
“May God rest his soul,” Orlando said loudly as a whining Vespa sped past.
At the busy intersection, they remained silent to negotiate the crosswalk.
Martin resumed the conversation as he led the way down the cobbled walkway in front of Castel Sant’Angelo’s outer rampart. “So how can I assist you, Father?”
The priest’s chin tipped up. “Yes, about business then.” A momentary stare down at the roiling Tiber helped him collect his thoughts. “The secretariat has retained my services to assist in ongoing inquiries concerning the death of Dr. Giovanni Bersei.”
Martin stiffened. “I see.”
They angled onto Ponte Sant’Angelo.
The man went on to convey what his fact-finding mission had yielded thus far. Back in June, Italian anthropologist Giovanni Bersei had been commissioned by Cardinal Santelli to assist in a highly secretive project inside the Vatican. Only days later, Bersei had been found dead in the catacombs beneath Villa Torlonia. An elderly docent was also found dead on the premises and a routine autopsy showed he had been injected with heart-arresting toxins. Roman authorities had investigated the foul play. Santelli, too, Orlando conspiratorially reminded him, had succumbed to heart failure only a day later, though the Holy See had refused an autopsy.
By the time the Italian had finished, he’d trailed Martin to within a block of his apartment building.
There was no doubt Orlando was well informed. But Martin wasn’t looking to rehash the exhaustive questioning he’d endured in the weeks that followed the cardinal’s death. “I trust you have been informed that the carabinieri have completed their investigations?”
The man’s lips pulled tight. “Mine is an internal investigation,” he repeated.
Approaching the narrow alley that was the shortcut to his apartment building, Martin stopped. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I think it would be best for us to speak about this during business hours. After I’ve obtained permission from the secretariat’s office.”
Orlando forced a placated smile. “I understand.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Father Orlando.” Martin nodded.
“Likewise.”
Martin stuffed his hands into his pockets and turned down the alley. As he was about to pass a stocky deliveryman unloading produce boxes from an idling van, he heard the priest calling after him again, quick footsteps tapping along the ancient cobblestones.
“Father.”
Stopping in his tracks, Martin’s shoulders slumped. Before he could turn to address Orlando, the anxious priest had circled in front of him.
“If I could just have another moment.”
“What is it?”
Later, Martin would recall no answer. Just the priest’s eyes turning cold, slipping back to the sidewalk, then up to the windows overlooking the alleyway, and finally over Martin’s shoulder to the deliveryman.
Without warning, two strong hands grabbed at Martin’s coat, yanking hard, forcing his body into an uncontrolled spin, directly toward the van’s open cargo hold.
What in God’s name?!
A sharp blow to the knees forced him down onto the cold metal floor. “Aiut o ! ” he screamed out to anyone who might hear. “Aiu —”
2
******
The deliveryman responded instantly, crowding into the van and clamping his enormous hand over Martin’s mouth and nose. Orlando jumped in right behind him and slid shut the side door. Martin barely glimpsed the bald scalp and jagged profile of a third accomplice slumped low in the driver’s seat.
The transmission ground into gear. The van lurched forward, thumping its way over the cobblestones.
Martin’s terrified eyes met the deliveryman’s disturbingly calm gaze. As he struggled for breath, the smell of leeks and basil invaded his nostrils. The deliveryman straddled him and grabbed him in a powerful hold that demanded complete submission.
“I let go, we talk. You fight or scream, he shoots you.” His free hand pointed toward the man crouched near the windowless rear doors gripping a black handgun trained on Martin’s head.
Desperation flooded Martin’s gaze as he moved his head up and down. The deliveryman eased off and sat across from him with his thick arms crossed over a propped-up knee.
Martin almost retched as he gasped for air.
“Sit up, Father,” Orlando instructed him, motioning with the gun.
After a few steady breaths, Martin eased himself up against the metal sidewall and threw down his hands as the van slowed abruptly and made a right turn. The thumping cobblestones gave way to smooth pavement. “What do you want?”
“We have questions for you. Details concerning Bersei’s death.”
“I told you ...I’ve answered all the carabinieri’s questions. I—” “Only hours before he went into the catacomb,” the Italian said, overriding him, “Bersei had contacted the carabinieri . . .”