He panted hard and stared up at the blackened form, wondering what was next. Something came from the man’s pocket. A black rectangle, about six inches long, with shiny metal prongs protruding from one end like pincers. A flash of light suddenly sparked between the prongs.
A stun gun.
The Swiss guard carried them as a means to protect the pope without bullets. He and Clement had been shown the weapons and told how a nine-volt battery charge could be transformed into two hundred thousand volts that could quickly immobilize. He watched as blue-white current leaped from one electrode to another, cracking the air in between.
A smile came to the thin man’s lips. “We have some fun now,” he said in Italian.
Michener summoned his strength and pivoted upward, swinging his leg and kicking the man’s outstretched arm. The stun gun flew away, toward the open doorway.
The act seemed to genuinely surprise his attacker, but the man recovered and backhanded Michener’s face, propelling him flat onto the bed.
The man’s hand plunged into another pocket. A click and a knife appeared. With the blade clenched tight in his raised hand, the man lunged forward. Michener braced himself, wondering what it was going to feel like to be stabbed.
But he never felt a thing.
Instead there was a pop of electricity and the man winced. His eyes rolled skyward, his arms went limp, and the body started to convulse in deep spasms. The knife fell away as muscles went limp and he collapsed to the floor.
Michener sat up.
Standing behind his assailant was Katerina. She tossed the stun gun aside and rushed to him. “Are you all right?”
He was holding his stomach, fighting for air.
“Colin, are you okay?”
“Who the hell was . . . that?”
“No time. There’s two more downstairs.”
“What do you . . . know that I don’t?”
“I’ll explain later. We need to go.”
His mind started working again. “Grab my travel bag. Over . . . there. I haven’t emptied it from Bosnia.”
“You going somewhere?”
He didn’t want to answer her, and she seemed to understand his silence.
“You’re not going to tell me,” she said.
“Why are you . . . here?”
“I came to talk to you. To try to explain. But this man and two more drove up.”
He tried to rise from the bed, but a sharp pain forced him down.
“You’re hurt,” she said.
He coughed up the air in his lungs. “Did you know that guy was coming here?”
“I can’t believe you’re asking me that.”
“Answer me.”
“I came to talk to you and heard the stun gun. I saw you kick it away and then I saw the knife. So I grabbed the thing off the floor and did what I could. I’d think you’d be grateful.”
“I am. Tell me what you know.”
“Ambrosi attacked me the night we met with Father Tibor in Bucharest. He made it clear that if I didn’t cooperate, there’d be hell to pay.” She motioned to the form on the floor. “I assume this man is connected to him in some way. But I don’t know why he came after you.”
“I assume Valendrea was unhappy with our discussion today and decided to force the issue. He told me I wouldn’t like the next messenger.”
“We need to leave,” she said again.
He moved toward the travel bag and slipped on a pair of running shoes. The pain in his gut brought tears to his eyes.
“I love you, Colin. What I did was wrong, but I did it for the right reason.” The words came fast. She needed to say them.
He stared at her. “Hard to argue with somebody who just saved my life.”
“I don’t want to argue.”
Neither did he. Maybe he shouldn’t be so righteous. He hadn’t been totally honest with her, either. He bent down and checked the pulse on his attacker. “Probably going to be pretty ticked off when he wakes up. I don’t want to be around.”
He headed toward the apartment door and spied the letters and envelopes scattered on the floor. They needed to be destroyed. He moved toward the scattered mess.
“Colin, we have to get out here before the other two decide to come up.”
“I need to take these—” He heard feet pounding the stairs three floors below.
“Colin, we’re out of time.”
He grabbed a few handfuls of letters and stuffed what he could into the travel bag, but managed to retrieve only about half of what was there. He pulled himself to his feet and they slipped out the door. He pointed up, and they tiptoed toward the next floor as footsteps from below grew louder. The pain in his side made the going difficult, but adrenaline forced him ahead.
“How are we going to get out of here?” she whispered.
“There’s another staircase in the rear of the building. It leads to a courtyard. Follow me.”
They carefully made their way down the corridor, past closed apartment doors, away from the street side of the building. He found the rear staircase just as two men appeared fifty feet behind them.
He took three steps at a time, electric pain searing his abdomen. The travel bag banging against his rib cage, full of letters, only added to his agony. They turned at the landing, found the ground floor, then darted out of the building.
The courtyard beyond was filled with cars and they zigzagged a path around them. He led the way through an arched entrance to the busy boulevard. Cars whizzed past and people filled the sidewalks. Thank God Romans were late eaters.
He spotted a taxi hugging the curb fifty feet ahead.
He grabbed Katerina and hustled straight for the sooty vehicle. A glance back over his shoulder and he saw two men emerge from the courtyard.
They spotted him and bolted his way.
He made it to the taxi and yanked open the rear door. They jumped inside. “Go, now,” he screamed in Italian.
The car lurched forward. Through the rear window he watched the men halt their pursuit.
“Where are we going?” Katerina asked.
“Do you have your passport?”
“In my purse.”
“To the airport,” he told the driver.
SIXTY
11:40 P.M.
Valendrea knelt before the altar in a chapel that his beloved Paul VI had personally commissioned. Clement had shied away from its use, preferring a smaller room down the hall, but he intended to utilize the richly decorated space for a daily morning Mass, a time when forty or so special guests could share a celebration with their pontiff. Afterward, a few minutes of his time and a photograph would cement their loyalty. Clement had never used the trappings of office—another of his many fallacies—but Valendrea meant to make the most of what popes had slaved for centuries to achieve.
The staff had gone for the night and Ambrosi was tending to Colin Michener. He was grateful for the time alone since he needed to pray to a God he knew was listening.
He wondered if he should offer the traditional Our Father or some other sanctioned plea, but finally decided a frank conversation would be more appropriate. Besides, he was the supreme pontiff of God’s apostolic church. If he didn’t possess the right to talk openly with the Lord, who did?
He perceived what happened earlier with Michener—his ability to read the tenth secret of Medjugorje—to be a sign from heaven. He’d been allowed to know both the Medjugorje and Fatima messages for a reason. Clearly, Father Tibor’s murder had been justified. Though one of the commandments forbade killing, popes had for centuries slaughtered millions in the name of the Lord. And now was no exception. The threat to the Roman Catholic Church was real. Though Clement XV was gone, his protégé lived and Clement’s legacy was out there. He could not allow the risks to escalate beyond their already dangerous proportions. The matter required a definitive resolution. Just as with Father Tibor, Colin Michener would have to be dealt with, too.