Steven Savile - Silver

The bastard started laughing manically, as though it were the funniest thing he had ever heard.

Noah heard others coming up the stairs behind him.

He stopped running and turned to face Noah. “You’ll never take me alive, you do know that, don’t you?” he said, sounding hideously reasonable as he spoke, and barely out of breath, which was just insulting. Noah was surprised he spoke English.

“Give it up,” Noah said, walking toward him. He aimed the gun at the center of the man’s gray tee-shirt.

“Or what? You’ll shoot me? In here?” His accent was curious, not Italian, but definitely not English, and not quite American, like he had learned it from watching MTV maybe.

“I’ll shoot you anywhere, pal, I really don’t give a damn. This isn’t my church, and me and God are a long way from being pally.”

“You can’t stop us,” he said. “It’s too late for that. It’s too late for all of you.” He looked at his watch. It was a curious gesture, but seeing the time, he nodded as though the hours and minutes had proved him right, and that it really was too late.

“I already did,” Noah said. “Look around you, where can you go? It’s over.”

The terrorist shook his head. “No, you’ve turned me into a martyr, the first saint of the new Messiah, the first angel of Judas. That’s all you have done. You’ve lost. You’ve lost everything. And you’ve done it here, of all places. For that, I thank you.” He turned on his heel, seemed almost to bounce, buoyed by new found purpose, took two steps and then launched himself up over the railing and into the nothing but air. For a heartbeat he seemed to hang there, suspended by the air itself, but without wings. And he fell.

Noah lurched forward, reaching out with the gun still in his hand.

It was a hopeless gesture.

The sound of impact, flesh on stone, echoed sickeningly throughout the entire inside of St. Peter’s.

Noah leaned over the walkway railing and looked down, knowing exactly what he was going to see down there.

Blood puddled around the dead man, staining the consecrated ground.

The blood of the martyr was like a halo around his ruined head.

Noah had no other names left to call him.

He leaned on the railing, breathing hard, huge gulping breaths. His chest heaved. All he could hear in the silence was the ragged sound of his own breathing.

Priests and soldiers had begun to gather around the body. His arms and legs bent and broken into a whorish sprawl, but his head stared straight up at the vault of the ceiling, straight up at Noah. The dead man didn’t look much like an angel or a saint. He looked like a dead terrorist.

Noah turned his back on the blind eyes and the blood.

He wanted answers, but everywhere he turned he found more questions.

All he had left was the look that had passed between the dead man and the priest. He looked up at the ceiling and said, “Give me this one, eh?”

Pushing through the rats that had swarmed up onto the gallery behind him, he went in search of Abandonato, and the truth.

He only found one of them.

Jude Lethe watched the world unravel in glorious Technicolor over and over again. The German television cameras had captured the assassination from three different angles. It didn’t look good for Koni from any of them. Lethe froze the frame as the first glint of silver caught the low sun. It was too difficult to call where the knife had originated from. He wasn’t a body language expert. He knew where it had come from-the Swiss Guard closest to the Holy Father had been concealing it within the folds of his clownish armor-but proving it was a different thing all together.

Suddenly they were two men down, and there was nothing the old man could do. His hands were tied by the very deniability that allowed them the freedom of movement their mandate granted them. He couldn’t go to the Foreign Secretary and appeal, he couldn’t contact the British ambassador in Germany. Ogmios didn’t exist on any official charter. They had no right of recall. The embassy wasn’t going to order an extradition for Konstantin, and for the same reason they weren’t going to mount an assault to recover Orla. They were deniable. They screwed up for Queen and Country, but that didn’t matter in the slightest. They screwed up. That was what it boiled down to.

Konstantin was on camera, prime suspect in the assassination of the Pope. The BKA would want a quick result, justice seen to be served. They wouldn’t want an international incident. They wouldn’t want him being extradited to the UK to stand trial. It had happened on German soil; it would be dealt with on German soil, with Germanic efficiency. In the eyes of the world Konstantin was already guilty-they’d seen it happen. Lethe needed to find proof that they hadn’t, that their brains had connected the dots and filled in the blanks but got it all horribly wrong. And the damned cameras weren’t helping.

Neither was the fact that when they started running their background checks the first thing they’d find out about Konstantin Khavin was that he was a defector from the old Soviet Republic. Two and two would make four, or an approximation of it, and they’d leap to the only logical conclusion: that you could take Konstantin Khavin out of Mother Russia, but you couldn’t take Mother Russia and her black heart out of Konstantin Khavin. He was a spy-a deep plant-still at the beck and call of Moscow. Because no matter how enlightened everyone was now that the Wall had come down, it didn’t take a lot to reignite all of the old fears and that deep-seated distrust. It was easier for people to believe that the old enemies were still enemies than it was to turn the blame around and point the finger at people like Miles Devere, capitalists driven by plain, simple, ugly greed.

When the first gunshots sounded the crane camera, the one that would otherwise have had the perfect angle to capture the entire thing, roved wildly away from the stage toward the explosion of black feathers as the birds burst out of the trees. By the time its lens was back on the stage the murder had already unfolded and the last moments of it were playing out. Konstantin knelt over the fallen Pope, blood on his hands and a sort of madness in his face. The silver dagger lay on the red carpet.

The second and third cameras were not much better. The right side of the stage stayed focused on the main players, but Konstantin’s momentum as he came into the shot and the way he twisted his body, trying to get between the white-robed Pope and the assassin, only served to obscure the actual moment of murder. The initial angle wasn’t wide enough to show the Swiss Guard drawing the Judas dagger moments before. The view from the left side was worse, focused as it was on the backs of the Pope and the guard and the light of anger-desperation-madness in Konstantin’s face as he threw himself at the pair.

No matter how many times he studied the images, he couldn’t find a single frame of the dagger before it was punched into the Pontiff’s neck.

But of course these weren’t the only cameras trained on the stage. Someone down there in that crowd had caught the truth on a cell phone or digital camera. Unfortunately there was no way of knowing who. If there were three thousand people packed into the square, perhaps three percent of them didn’t turn and follow the sound of the gunshot or the resulting flurry of movement from the trees for whatever reason. Three percent meant ninety people. Of those ninety, it was safe to assume fifty percent were too far back or had partially obscured views of the stage for one reason or another, which meant forty-five people were not looking the wrong way and had a clear view of the stage. Of those forty-five, there would be a split between left and right side of the stage. It was statistically unlikely to be a fifty percent split. It just didn’t work that way, but even if it was, then twenty-three and a half people were on the right side to see the dagger drawn.