Steven Savile - Silver

“I hear that’s what happens when God gets involved,” Noah said. “But there’s a time for paperwork, Neri, and there’s a time for a swift kick in the ass. We’re well past filling in requisitions. I’ll let you in on a little secret: sometimes it is a lot easier to beg forgiveness that it was to ask permission to do it in the first place.”

Neri looked at him with that world-weary face that seemed to say, Are you serious? And when he realized he was, he went very quiet.

Noah could almost read his mind: You get to go home tomorrow, I don’t. All the crap we cause today is mine to swim in for the rest of my natural life. That’s what Noah would have been thinking if he was in his place.

Gianni Abandonato was desperate. He almost ran every third step he was hurrying so quickly. Traffic was not in his favor. There wasn’t a cab to be found on the streets. He ended up running the entire length of Via Del Circo Massimo with his cassock lifted to his knees. There was nothing gracious or glorious about his race. He stared straight ahead, sweat streaming down his face as he ran. His breathing was out of control. He wasn’t a fit man. He lived in the stacks. His exercise was lifting a book down, turning a page. By the time he hit the Ponte Palatino he was on his knees, gasping and panting and struggling to push himself back to his feet and keep running.

Fear drove him.

He could have phoned the Corpo della Gendarmeria offices, but what was he going to say? I have poisoned the entire College of Cardinals? You have to stop the conclave? You have to get them out of the chapel? They wouldn’t believe him, and he wouldn’t have been able to convince them over the phone. He needed to be there. He needed them to see his face. Then they would unerstand.

But they still wouldn’t interrupt the conclave.

He was on a fool’s mission.

He knew that, but knowing it didn’t stop him from trying.

He had to. If not to save them, to save himself.

“Confiteor Deo omnipotenti et vobis,” he mumbled, the prayer comfortable on his lips. “Fratres, quia peccavi nimis, cogitatione, verbo, opere, et omissione: mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Ideo precor beatam Mariam semper Virginem, omnes Angelos et Sanctos, et vos, fratres, orare pro me ad Dominum Deum nostrum.”I confess to almighty God, and to you, my brothers and sisters, that I have sinned through my own fault, in my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done, and in what I have failed to do; and ask blessed Mary, ever virgin, all the angels and saints, and you, my brothers and sisters, to pray for me to the Lord our God.

No confession would ever be enough if he couldn’t stop them lighting the fire.

He couldn’t think. Keeping his legs moving, staying on his feet, took all of his strength. By the time he reached Della Farnesina he was spent. Every new step came on trembling legs. His muscles burned. His lungs were on fire. He reached out to steady himself, stumbling against the walls of the houses set back off the street, and pushed himself on. And he was still so far from Bernini’s piazza. He regretted running, but he couldn’t stop. He knew what he must have looked like to passersby. He wasn’t a hero running to save the day.

He stumbled on.

Dominico Neri walked up to the Swiss Guard’s station and held out the badge that identified his as Carabinieri as though it would mysteriously lift the barrier for him. It didn’t. The guard barely looked at it and shrugged as though to say, So what? That doesn’t impress me.

There were four guards at the tation.

None of them seemed particularly enamored with the combination of hot weather and their heavy uniforms.

It wasn’t one of the main entrances. There was no point trying to get anywhere near the front of St. Peter’s with the crowd. It would be a fight they wouldn’t win. Neri wasn’t big on fights he couldn’t win. He led Noah to a side entrance. There was a sentry box, stern-faced boy-guards and a road beyond the barrier that opened up into a forecourt and beyond that splintered into a dozen paths between the cramped buildings.

“Get me the Inspector General,” Neri demanded, staring straight at the youngest guard. It was simple bully-boy tactics and he knew it. But Noah was right; there was plenty of time to apologize later. Right now it was enough that the young guard snapped to attention.

“Your identification,” one of the guards beside him demanded, a little older, a little less willing to be intimidated. He didn’t just want a little flash of the badge, he held out his hand. Neri handed over his ID. The guard looked pointedly at Noah.

“I don’t have any,” he said. “I’m still going inside though, so why don’t you just open up the barrier and save us all a lot of wasted time and energy.”

His almost flippant attitude didn’t amuse the soldier.

The guard who had taken Neri’s ID disappeared into the guardhouse. No doubt he was going to call the Carabinieri offices to confirm he was who he said he was, then call his superiors and ask for a reason to turn them away. A few minutes later he emerged with a wireless phone in his hand and an expression on his face that said, You lose. He handed the phone across to Neri and moved to block his way.

They weren’t getting in, Neri knew, even as he raised the phone to his ear.

Before he could begin to argue their case with the policeman on the other end of the line, Noah ducked under the barrier and sprinted off across the forecourt.

One of the guards drew his pistol and started to aim it at Noah’s back as though he intended to shoot him dead in his tracks.

“Don’t you dare, soldier!” Neri barked, slapping the man’s arm aside. “That man’s with the British Secret Service!” He had no idea what effect his words would have.

What he didn’t expect was for the youngest soldier to look at him and say, “Like James Bond 007 Licensed to Kill?” all in one rushed breath, as he took off after Noah Larkin as though someone had just lit a fire under his ass.

For a moment Neri thought he was trying to stop him, and then he realized the young soldier intended to help any way he could. He shook his head. Sometimes there was no accounting for the stupidity of youth.

Noah didn’t know where he was going.

He just ran.

The place was a warren of little paths, overhung alleys and twisting side streets that wove a labyrinthine course through the chapels and apartments in this oddest of cities. He needed to get inside, which meant finding a door. As far as he was concerned any door would do. He knew it wasn’t true, but he didn’t know what else to do.

He tried to see over the rooftops to get a fix on the chimney above the Sistine Chapel and orientate himself. It was pointless.

He heard the heavy slap of running feet behind him and glanced over his shoulder. The young guard from the barrier was running with his Beretta held out in front of him as though it might bite. For a moment Noah thought he was going to try and stop him, and he started to turn back, figuring the soldier’s training wouldn’t be enough to stay his hand if it came down to shooting him in the back or letting him get away. Then the young soldier surprised him and shouted in terrible fractured English, “I help you, James Bond!”

It took Noah a moment to realize what the hell he meant, and that he wasn’t about to get himself shot in the back. “The Sistine Chapel? Where is it?”

“I help you, James Bond!” the guard repeated. “Follow me!”

He didn’t exactly have a lot of choice. He could have r around like a blind mouse in the maze for a month of Sundays without getting any closer to the chapel if he was left to his own devices.

Abandonato closed his eyes. His entire face was flushed, his hair was plastered down across his scalp. He was shaking. He was walking awkwardly, favoring his right side because a stitch burned there. He was panting.