Allan Folsom - Day Of Confession

'What?'

'I don't know where, he went off on his own.'

'Where were you when he did?'

'Near Vatican Radio. We're passing the Ethiopian College now… Elena, Hercules is going to need you.'

Elena leaned into the phone. 'I'll meet you, Harry. Just be careful…'

'Danny – Roscani's here, so is Thomas Kind. I'm sure he knows about the train. Watch it.'

'Don't move!' Roscani commanded, his Beretta held military style in both hands and pointed at the moaning black suit.

As he drew closer, Roscani could see the man on his back. One leg was twisted under him, and his eyes were closed. Now he could see a bloodied hand limp across his chest; the other was out of sight beneath him. The man was going nowhere. In the distance came the sound of the train whistle. It was the second blast within seconds. Roscani turned quickly, looking through the smoke in its direction. Harry and Hercules had to be going toward it. Maybe Marsciano, too, and Father Daniel and Elena Voso. That meant there was every chance Thomas Kind was going there as well.

Instinct made Roscani turn back. The black suit was raised up on an elbow, an automatic in his hand. Both men fired at the same time. Roscani felt a jolt. His right leg collapsed under him, and he went down. Rolling over, he came up on his stomach firing. There was no need, the black suit was dead, the top of his skull blown away. Grimacing, Roscani struggled to his feet, then, crying out, slumped back down. A patch of red spread across the beige material of his upper pant leg. He'd been shot in his right thigh.

There was a deafening roar, and the whole building shook.

'Va bene,' - Okay – crackled through Farel's radio.

Farel nodded and two jumpsuited Swiss Guards carrying automatic rifles pushed open the rooftop door. And they went out into smoky daylight, the guards first and then Farel, holding firmly onto the Holy Father's arm, guiding the white-clad old man out.

A dozen more heavily armed Swiss Guards were on the ancient rooftop as they crossed it, moving hastily toward the Italian Army helicopter balanced on the edge of the terrace wall, its rotors slowly turning. Two army officers waited in its open doorway, two of Farel's black suits with them.

'Where is Palestrina?' the pope asked Farel, looking around, fully expecting his secretariat of state to be waiting to leave with him.

'He said to tell you he would join you later, Holiness,' Farel lied. He had no idea where Palestrina was. Had not communicated with him in the last half hour at all.

'No.' The Holy Father suddenly stopped at the helicopter's open door, his eyes fixed on Farel's.

'No,' he said again. 'He will not join me. I know it, and he knows it.'

With that, Giacomo Pecci, Pope Leo XIV, turned away from Farel and let the black-suited Vigilanza help him into the helicopter. Then they and the Italian Army officers followed him onboard. The door closed, and Farel moved back, waving to the pilot.

A thundering roar was followed by an immense blast of wind, and Farel and the Swiss Guards ducked away as the machine lifted skyward. Five seconds, ten. And then it was gone.

Marsciano had seen the towering figure through the smoke at the same moment Hercules had thrown his crutch at the black suit. Seen him come up the hill on the far side of the Vatican Radio tower, moving steadily toward it. In that instant Marsciano knew he would not be on the train when it left. Father Daniel or not, Harry Addison and the curious, miraculous dwarf or not, there were other things here. Things that he, and he alone, had to deal with.

Palestrina no longer wore the simple black suit with its humble clerical collar; instead, he was dressed in the vestments of a cardinal of the Church. A black cassock with red piping and red buttons, a red sash at his waist, a red zucchetto on his head. A gold pectoral cross that hung from a gold chain around his neck.

He had paused at the Fountain of the Eagle on his way there, finding it easily, even in the dense smoke. But for the first time ever, the aura of the great heraldic symbol of the Borgheses, which had always touched him so deeply and so personally, from which he had drawn strength and courage and certitude, failed him. What he gazed upon was not magic, did not feed the secret warrior-king in him, as it always had. What he gazed upon was the ancient statue of an eagle. A sculpture. An adornment atop a fountain. Nothing.

A great breath was expelled from within him, and, hand over nose and mouth against the horrid, acrid smoke, he moved on toward the only refuge he knew.

He could feel the thrust of his giant body as he moved up the hill. Feel it even more as he threw open the door and started up the steep, narrow marble stairway toward Vatican Radio's upper floors. More still as he pushed, heart pounding, lungs bursting, to kneel finally on the black marble floor before the altar of Christ in the tiny chapel just off the empty and vacant broadcast rooms.

Empty. Vacant.

Like the eagle.

Vatican Radio was his spire. Self-chosen. The place from which to command the defenses of the kingdom. The place from which to broadcast to the world the greatness of the Holy See. A Holy See more exalted than ever – one that controlled the appointment of bishops, rules for the behaviour of priests, the sacraments, including marriage, the establishment of new churches, seminaries, universities. One that over the next century would be joined, little by little – hamlet to town to city – by a new flock representing one-quarter of the world's population, making Rome again the centerpiece of the most powerful religious denomination on earth. To say nothing of the enormous financial leverage to be garnered through control of that country's water and power, which in turn would govern when and where and what could be built or grown, and by whom. In a very short time a chilling old concept would become the new and lasting one – and all because Palestrina had had the keenness to foresee and create it. Roma locuta est; causa finita est. 'Rome has spoken,' it translated; 'the matter is settled.'

Except that it was not. The Vaticano was under siege, part of it burning. The Holy Father had seen the darkness. The Eagle of the Borgheses had given him nothing. He had been right about Father Daniel and his brother the first time. They had been sent by the spirits of the nether world; the smoke they had created was filled with darkness and disease, the same that had killed Alexander before. So it was Palestrina and not the Holy Father who was mistaken: the thing perched on his shoulder was not the emotional and spiritual infirmities of an old and fearful man but indeed the shadow of death.

Suddenly Palestrina raised his head. He'd thought he was alone. He was not. There was no need to turn. He knew who it was.

'Pray with me, Eminence,' he said softly.

Marsciano stood behind him.

'Pray for what?'

Slowly Palestrina rose up and turned. Looking at Marsciano, he smiled gently. 'Salvation.'

Marsciano stared.

'God has intervened. The poisoner has been caught and killed. There will be no third lake.'

'I know.'

Palestrina smiled once more and then slowly turned back to kneel again in front of the altar and make the sign of the cross. 'Now that you know, pray with me.'

Palestrina felt Marsciano step behind him. Suddenly he grunted. And there was a piercing light brighter than any he had ever seen. He could feel the blade pierce the center of his neck. Between his shoulder blades. Feel the strength and rage in Marsciano's hands as he pressed it down.

'There is no third lake,' Palestrina cried. His chest heaved, his massive hands and arms clawing, flailing behind him to reach Marsciano. But unable to.