Читать книгу The Errant Child - Ozzie Logozzo - Страница 20

Rome, central Italy Vatican City

Emilio is approaching the Swiss guards. He touches his chest to feel his necklace, the entry ticket to the Vatican’s inner stronghold. He walks past the police Lamborghini as the hinged doors swing open and twists his head to assess the police barricade and the commotions in the square. The moment has arrived. He estimates he needs twenty minutes to do his job.

The Pontifical Swiss guards and the military band, in their ceremonial dress, have entered Saint Peter’s Square. Colored pomp of centuries’ old ceremonies is about to start. Onlookers begin to applaud.

Percussion instruments spike the air with

notes circling about the countless halberds, axe- like blades and steel pikes mounted on the end of long shafts. Swords and saxophones, drums and trumpets combined with strict military training dazzle the growing stream of smiling visitors. There are cloudbursts of applause and cheers. No doubt, strollers like Michelangelo and Mona Lisa swapped pleasantries during similar past processions. The police have barricaded the washrooms, but some officers appear more enthralled by the festivities than their own investigation.

Emilio has a reflective, grave look. He watches the two relatively young men who stand guard at the Arch of the Bells, southeast entrance to Vatican City. This gateway is far away from the other main entry, Porta Sant’ Anna, next to the barracks of the Swiss Guards located on the other side of St. Peter’s Square.

The guardsmen, looking like court jesters, appear abandoned and bored. The short tunnel behind them leads to the Square of the First Christian Martyrs and, more importantly, to the Treasury building that encloses the courtyard. Farther away, there is Paul VI Audience Hall and even further is the Government Palace. It is customary for the Secretary of State to leave his office in the Government Palace and visit the Treasury Department before stepping into St. Peter’s Basilica. The Cardinal is an exacting creatureof habit that surprises neither the professore nor Emilio. Cardinal Pio is kinfolk.

The professore laid out clear routes and instructions. After only one previous visitation, Emilio now knows the inner sanctum of the Vatican

community as well as any priest within the papal state. The professore has gone to great lengths to school his avid student.

The sound in the square amplifies. Foreign ministers, ambassadors and heads of governments, with their entourages, are jostling for position. Lines of cardinals swathed in red and bishops in purple begin to cluster. Parade and pageantry mold into view. Some faithful kneel. Many women kiss their rosaries.

Youngsters sporting t-shirts stenciled with interlocking V’s, shorthand for viva (life), flurry about. Expectancy fills the air. Soon, the elite of the Vatican dignitaries, followed by the Pontiff, will appear. Group prayers will climax the birthday celebration.

Emilio snubs the hullabaloo. He proceeds as planned. As he approaches the two Swiss guards, one of them snaps from at ease to a pronounced ready stance. Admittance demands a previously booked appointment, validating credentials and a duly signed pass. Emilio, without subtlety or charm, reaches inside his open-collared shirt to pull out his necklace. He flashes a two inch square medallion pinched between his fingers, rocking it side to side like a hypnotist’s pocket watch. It is a bronzed representation of two winged horses, the insignia of the Stregheria society. Only a handful of influential people hold this treasure. The young guards, surprised and alarmed, step aside.

Emilio walks steadily through the passageway, across the square into the Audience Hall. He advances to its kitchen quarters. Albertine

Sisters, Servants of God, are busy with their many tasks. Emilio stands waiting and regards them with the offering of a serene smile. A Sister, in a black habit with a crucifix necklace, makes contact. She approaches and slips him a key. Snuggling next to Emilio, she says, with scorn adorning her own words, “Deo est Gloria’’ (God is glorious).

Emilio pinches the nun’s butt. She reacts with a giggled delight before she leaves quickly and approaches a side door of the Sacristy and Treasury building. The key works.

In less than two minutes, he walks the hallway and ends up standing outside the open door of the office of the Secretary of State.

The room is richly clad with frescoes. It is an executive sanctuary masterminded by a history of plundering and the commissioning of talented artisans.

Cardinal Pio is just rising from his majestic desk to go and join the heated celebration in St. Peter’s Square.

Emilio steps forward without any greeting. He frowns at the environment and shakes his head at the Cardinal. His face grimaces into unbridled condemnation. Cardinal Pio looks up. It is judgment day.

“Emilio, my brother. Why are…”

Cardinal Pio’s voice falls. His moment of jovial surprise switches to trembling terror. He senses Emilio’s ordered assignment and moans.

“Forgive me.”

He closes his eyes and begins making the sign of the cross. Before Pio’s hand reaches his

chest, a bullet ruptures his skull as if a watermelon that has detonated from inside its core.