Peggy, armed with her brand-new Nikon and a long lens, stood with Brennan and Holliday on the domed roof of the PalaLottomatica, the sports complex that stood on the little garden island between the two enclosing arms of the Via Cristoforo Colombo. In their estimation, the PalaLottomatica roof was the most likely place for the assassin to strike from, but when the Vigilanza and the local Rome police had checked, there was no sign of the man, past or present.
On the off chance that Brennan and his friends were right, the Italian police, in cooperation with the Vatican authorities, had established their own lookout point on the roof. After being woken out of a dead sleep Pat Philpot had cleared the way with his people in Rome and expressed his fears of a tangible threat to the Secret Service, although he hadn't mentioned Tritt's name or his onetime affiliation with the Company.
While Peggy took a few shots of the observation post with her Nikon, Holliday paced around the very summit of the clamshell roof and Brennan listened to his police scanner. At ten past ten he looked up and spoke.
"The American motorcade just pulled off airbase property. They'll be here in less than fifteen minutes."
"This is a waste of time," said Peggy. "We should be doing something, not standing around waiting for the sky to fall."
"We've still got the car," said Holliday. "Philpot's team is on the ground, keeping their eyes open for an Audi A8 with Swiss plates. There can't be too many of them in town."
"We still haven't managed to trace all this back to the old witch, Sinclair," said Peggy, swinging her camera and its huge telephoto lens around. So far she'd noticed nothing even mildly suspicious.
"First we stop her plan; then we stop her organization."
"I'm still not sure about what she's doing," said Brennan, monitoring the scanner. "It all seems insane to me."
"Kill the president, who's a little too liberal for her tastes, which installs our esteemed hard-hat vice president. A real 'whites of their eyes' type. When the Indian ambassador came over to arrange a state visit the VP asked the man if he was in the Cherokee caste or the Apache. He becomes president and appoints the young Senator Sinclair as his VP. Two terms later he backs our boy for the presidential nomination. She gets what she wants with a bullet, not an election." Holliday shook his head. "It is insane, but if you get enough insane people together who're still fighting the Civil War, it changes from insanity to political conspiracy."
There was a burst of crackling Italian from the scanner.
"What is it?" Holliday asked.
"Masterpiece is eight miles out."
"Masterpiece?"
"The president's code name. The First Lady is da Vinci."
"Where did that come from?" Holliday asked.
"They must have liked the book. The secretary of state is called Symbol."
"How long is eight miles, timewise?"
"Five minutes, maybe six." The priest shrugged. "Motorcades can be pretty ponderous even under the best circumstances."
Presidential motorcades are often made up of up to thirty vehicles, including two identical Cadillac limousines, both armored and with bulletproof glass. These are inevitably followed by several Secret Service Escalades, a communication vehicle and a number of other cars for the press and invited guests. Since the twin presidential limousines are identical, there is no sure way to know which one is occupied by the president at various times. The limousines and the Secret Service vans are known as the secure package and can separate from the rest of the motorcade within seconds.
The radio crackled again. "Vigilanza Twenty-nine." One of Brennan's.
"Vigilanza Twenty-nine, andare."
"Confermato Automobile nero, Audi A8, Targa Svizerri SZ193."
"He's got the car!" Brennan hissed.
"Where?" Holliday asked.
"Dove?"
"Viale Europa. Davanti Gioielliere Brusco."
"Got it," said Peggy, the big Nikon in her hands. "One block up, one block over, once you get over the bridge. No action on the roof so far."
"Give me your gun," demanded Holliday.
Brennan hesitated for a moment, then handed it over. "I've never seen that gun in my life," said the priest. In other words Holliday was on his own if he was caught with it. "I'll stay with the radio."
Holliday took the small transmitter-receiver out of his pocket, looping it over his ear like a Bluetooth device. Peggy had slipped the telephoto off and was snapping on a standard lens.
"I'm going with you," she said. There was no room for argument in her voice and Holliday didn't even try.
"Come on, then," he said.
They scrambled around the roof to the maintenance stairwell, went to the shipping elevator and rode down to the main floor of the gigantic, empty arena.
"Masterpiece now five miles out. Four minutes," said Brennan's voice in Holliday's ear. Holliday found their rental car and climbed in, Peggy hard on his heels. He cranked up the little Fiat and, tires spinning, zoomed across the empty parking lot to the exit ramp. Barely slowing, he threw the car into traffic. They tore across the bridge, over the artificial reflecting pool, then hurtled down the Viale America ramp and went into the brief darkness of the underpass. They popped out into the sunlight and headed west.
"Masterpiece at two miles. Ninety seconds, maybe less."
"Shit," said Holliday. Dead ahead in the far distance was the dome of the enormous Peter and Paul Basilica.
"There!" Peggy yelled. She'd spotted the jewelry store.
They went through the yellow light and through the striped crosswalk, Holliday blessing his good luck at renting one of those ridiculous smart cars. He slipped into an empty spot across from the jewelry store on the corner and jumped out of the car without bothering to lock it. He ran across the wide street, setting up a symphony of horns and shouts as he dodged through the oncoming traffic, Peggy right beside him.
They reached the sidewalk. To the left of a pair of graffiti-covered recycling bins there were two doors, one leading into Brusco's watch and jewelry store, the other into a miniature lobby with nothing in it but an elevator door. The outer door was locked. Directly in front of the jeweler's was a sleek black Audi A8.
Holliday didn't stop to think about it. He pulled out Brennan's automatic and used the butt as a hammer on the glass next to the lock mechanism. Nothing happened. He hit the glass even harder, aware that someone was screaming for the police. This time the entire bottom half of the glass door disintegrated into thousands of little hexagons. Holliday freed the broken glass with the pistol butt, reached in and turned the latch. The door opened. A woman's shrill voice kept calling for the police. In a few more seconds people would start paying attention.
"We have movement on the roof! Dark-haired man carrying a sports bag, black. Motorcade is in sight. It looks like a big black snake. Mother of Christ, Holliday, hurry!"
Holliday jammed his palm against the single button and thankfully the door slid open immediately. He and Peggy crowded into the little cage and a few seconds later the door hissed shut and the elevator began its long, slow grind upward. It stopped automatically at every floor, and by the time they reached the top floor Holliday's nerves were wire taut.
He racked the slide on the little automatic. "You stay back, Peg. I'm not kidding. I've got a peashooter. This son of a bitch has a guided missile. Remember that."
"Yes, Uncle John, Doc, sir," she mocked, grinning broadly and hefting the camera.
"Rafi would string me up in the Negev if anything happened to you," said Holliday.
"Yeah, he would, wouldn't he?" Peggy laughed. "Such a romantic." The elevator door hissed open onto the top floor. Holliday stepped out into the corridor with Brennan's gun extended. Empty. Three doors on the left, three doors on the right and an exit light at either end beaming out USCIRE. Holliday headed along the corridor toward the exit, the gun steady in his hand.