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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 protege 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.
He clasped his hands and stared up at the tortured face of Christ on the crucifix. He reverently beseeched the son of God for guidance. He'd obviously been chosen pope for a reason. He'd also been motivated to choose the name Peter. Before this afternoon he'd thought both just the product of his own ambition. Now he knew better. He was the conduit. Peter II. To h
im, there was only one course of action, and he thanked the Almighty that he possessed the strength to do what had to be done.
"Holy Father."
He crossed himself and stood from the prie-dieu. Ambrosi filled the doorway at the back of the dimly lit chapel. Concern filled his assistant's face. "What about Michener?"
"Gone. With Ms. Lew. But we found something."
Valendrea scanned the cache of letters and marveled at this latest surprise. Clement XV had possessed a lover. Though nothing admitted to any mortal sin--and for a priest, a violation of Holy Orders would be a grave mortal sin--the meaning was indisputable.
"I continue to be amazed," he said to Ambrosi, glancing up.
They sat in the library. The same room where he'd confronted Michener earlier. He thought back to something Clement had said to him a month ago when the pope learned that Father Kealy had presented the tribunal with few options. Perhaps we should simply listen to an opposing point of view. Now he understood why Volkner had been so willing. Celibacy, apparently, was not a concept the German had taken seriously. He stared over at Ambrosi. "This is as far reaching as the suicide. I never realized how complex Clement was."
"And apparently resourceful," Ambrosi said. "He removed Father Tibor's writing from the Riserva, confident in what you would subsequently do."
He didn't particularly care for Ambrosi's reminder of his predictability, but he said nothing. Instead he commanded, "Destroy these letters."
"Should we not hold on to them?"
"We can never use them, as much as I'd like to. Clement's memory must be preserved. Discrediting him would only discredit this office, and that I cannot afford. We'd hurt ourselves, while tarnishing a dead man. Shred them." He asked what he really wanted to know. "Where did Michener and Ms. Lew go?"
"Our friends are checking with the taxi company. We should know soon."
He'd thought earlier that Clement's personal chest may have been his hiding place. But given what he now knew about his former enemy's personality, the German had apparently been far more clever. He lifted one of the envelopes and read the return address. IRMA RAHN, HINTERHOLZ 19, BAMBERG, DEUTSCHLAND.
