Andy Mcdermott - Temple of the Gods

A man called out ahead. From his authoritative tone he was clearly a member of the Vatican’s staff, trying to restore order. A woman shouted behind her; Nina’s Italian was limited, but she knew enough to pick out capelli rossi — red hair. Two attendants in dark uniforms swung in her direction, yelling ‘ Scostare, scostare !’ as they pushed people out of their way.

Nina ducked lower, angling away from the guards into the milling mass. She could no longer afford to be polite — if she were caught, by the time she explained the situation Agnelli would have escaped.

A broad set of steps ahead. She jumped them, almost slipping on the marble as she landed and careering against a burly man. The gun was snagged from her grasp by his camera strap and clattered to the floor. Shit!

No time to stop and pick it up. All she could do was keep running. Another glimpse of Agnelli. He was heading along the right side of the new room, passing the tombs set into the alcoves along it.

He rushed into one of them. Nina glanced back. One of the guards had tripped on the steps, bowling over a tourist as he fell. His comrade was lost to sight behind a knot of panicking people.

She reached the alcove, home to a stone sarcophagus, and charged through the doorway behind it. Ahead was a museum, archaeological discoveries from beneath the Vatican on display behind glass. No time for sightseeing; she continued to chase Agnelli through the rooms. He now had something in his hand — a phone , she realised.

Who was he calling? And was he trying to get help — or backup?

The panting Agnelli ran up a flight of stairs, thumb clumsily swiping over his phone’s screen. Once he got outside into the Piazzetta Braschi, he would finally have cell reception and be able to call the number his contact had given him for emergencies.

Until now, his idea of what might constitute an emergency had been the Brotherhood becoming suspicious that he had secretly passed on information from the archives — not a madwoman chasing after him with a gun. The Brotherhood had killed her parents, and tried to kill her; after the ferocity with which she had attacked him in the catacombs, he had no doubts that she wanted to return the favour.

The thought sent a resurgent wave of fear through him, blowing away his fatigue. He glanced back. She was gaining. Oh, God help me!

Even in this holiest of places, God couldn’t assist him directly — but there was someone who could. He reached the top of the stairs and threw open a heavy door, tapping furiously at the screen as the phone finally got a signal. ‘Come on !’ he gasped as he ran into the square, turning to head for an archway that would take him out of Vatican territory back into Rome—

He stopped abruptly. Beyond the arch, two men in brightly coloured uniforms and black berets were sprinting towards him: Swiss Guards. Their elaborate, old-fashioned clothing might have looked ridiculous, but anyone who took the soldiers themselves lightly would quickly regret their mistake.

That escape route blocked, he ran for another. Nearby was an entrance to the basilica itself. He could get away through St Peter’s Square—

A voice from the phone. ‘Yes?’

‘Copel!’ Agnelli cried in relief. ‘It’s Paolo, Paolo Agnelli! I’m in trouble — I need your help, now!’ Another look back as he reached the doorway. The redhead had just burst from the grotto entrance, the Swiss Guards veering to follow her as they passed through the archway.

‘Where are you? What’s happening?’

‘I’m in the Vatican,’ he said as he raced down a narrow connecting corridor. ‘The Brotherhood know what I did for you — and Nina Wilde’s chasing me!’

Another voice in the background, a woman’s, said something in English with a tone of aggrieved disbelief. ‘Paolo,’ said Copel after a moment, ‘get to the Piazza del Sant’uffizio. We can meet you there in three minutes.’

Even through his panic, Agnelli was surprised. ‘You’re that close?’

‘Just get there.’ The line went silent.

He had no further time to think about the oddness of the situation. Instead, he hauled open another door, and entered the great basilica of St Peter.

Nina pounded down the corridor. She was gaining on Agnelli — but the two Swiss Guards were closing on her much more rapidly. She had to slow them down…

A fire extinguisher was mounted near the door into the basilica itself. She plucked it from the wall as she ran past, tugging out the safety pin, then spun to wedge it in the door jamb as she pulled the heavy door shut.

Its weight forced down the lever — and a choking gush of carbon dioxide gas spewed from the nozzle. The Swiss Guards retreated from the freezing cloud, coughing and hacking.

Nina didn’t wait to see if her improvised smokescreen had worked. Instead she pursued Agnelli through the basilica. Even in her flight, the building’s sheer scale and magnificence were awe-inspiring, the ceiling so high and the supporting pillars so huge that people seemed nothing more than toy figures beneath them. Glorious statues and paintings flashed past, altars and monuments to saints and popes, but she couldn’t afford to give the antiquities more than the briefest glance as she fixed her gaze on the Italian ahead. The two running figures were drawing attention, but the commotion from the grottoes hadn’t yet reached the vast church, the worshippers bewildered rather than scared.

Agnelli reached the doors, swatting aside an attendant who tried to block his path. He ran out into the open. Nina hurdled the fallen man and followed, finding herself looking out across the huge expanse of St Peter’s Square. The name was something of a misnomer; the western end in front of the basilica was a trapezoid, beyond it a great elliptical plaza, at the centre of which was a towering Egyptian obelisk. The nearer part of the square was hemmed in by the walls of long galleries, but the plaza was in the embrace of towering colonnades to the north and south — through which could be reached the streets of Rome.

Agnelli was running for the southern colonnade, having knocked down a barrier to cut diagonally across the square instead of being channelled around its edge. She raced after him, startled tourists watching her. Some had cameras and phones raised. Great , she thought, I’m going to be in the news again …

That was something to worry about later, after catching Agnelli. He was about thirty yards ahead, gaining a second wind now that escape was in sight. The Italian ran for another section of barrier. Much to Nina’s astonishment, the overweight youth successfully hurdled it with barely a break in his stride. Reaching it a few seconds later, she was forced to halt and scramble over the metal obstacle, losing precious time. By the time she cleared it, Agnelli had reached the colonnade and ducked between its great stone pillars.

She followed. When she regained sight of him, he was on a wide street, the Piazza del Sant’uffizio — outside Vatican territory, a gate to her right marking the boundary of the Holy See. The Italian looked about frantically, apparently expecting to see someone in particular. The person he had phoned must have arranged to rescue him.

‘Agnelli!’ she tried to shout, but it came out as a strangled croak. In her adrenalised state she hadn’t realised how tired she was becoming, but her muscles were now rebelling against their endocrinal manipulation. ‘Stop!’

If he heard her, he showed no sign. Instead the Italian kept running, himself showing growing fatigue that not even fear could overcome. He was still searching the street with increasing desperation—

Tyres screeched. Nina leapt for the sidewalk as a glossy black Range Rover with darkened windows skidded round the corner behind her and swept down the street, engine roaring. Agnelli turned to face it, face filled with relief.