The Devil Will Come

THIRTY-ONE

IT HAD BEEN a false alarm.

The man apprehended by the Vatican Gendarmes at the metal detector was an off-duty Rome policeman with an unloaded service weapon in his backpack. He’d come to St Peter’s Square to join in the Conclave vigil and had forgotten he’d brought his gun. He was chagrined and apologetic. His identity checked out. The man with him was his cousin.

Hackel waited outside the incident van where the men were being held. He shifted his weight from foot to foot and finally said to Oberst Sonnenberg, ‘I should be getting back to my post at the Chapel.’

‘Yes, go ahead, Oberstleutnant,’ Sonnenberg said. ‘I’ll check in with you soon. I don’t think we’ll be lucky enough to have white smoke tonight, but you never know.’

Hackel saluted and peeled away. When he was out of Sonnenberg’s sight he reversed direction and made for his flat.

*

Micaela briefly considered digging at the rubble to see if the fat corpse had a mobile phone but the task seemed too formidable. She put her ear to the door and listened. The falling crate had made a terribly loud sound. If someone were nearby they would surely have noticed it.

Hearing nothing at the door she opened it a crack, then wide enough to poke her head through. The cellar hall was mostly dark; there was a naked bulb ten meters away. There was no one about. She began to walk toward the light.

Elisabetta stood over Krek’s prone, lifeless body. The tail which only moments ago had seemed so terrifyingly menacing now struck her as nothing but an anomalous piece of meat.

She felt her heart thumping wildly and tried to think. She had to sound the alarm. Krek’s telephone beckoned. She reached for it, then froze. What if the line was monitored? Would placing a call alert Krek’s people that she was running free and put Micaela’s life in danger? She had to save her sister first.

The great room had four doors and all of them, she found, were locked from the inside. Krek seemed to have liked his privacy.

Two of the doors along one wall led to different sides of the entrance hall. This was the way she had entered. Elisabetta visualized the route from the basement: up a set of stairs, into a hall off a small study, through a paneled library to the entrance hall and then into the great room. She was about to go into the hall when she heard heavy footsteps approaching. She retreated, closed the door and examined the other two.

The third door led directly to a stairway that went upstairs. The fourth one led to a dim, undecorated hallway – a servant’s passageway, perhaps. The coast seemed clear and she took the passageway.

Micaela shucked off her shoes to enable her to tread more silently and kicked them against the wall. The basement hall stretched a considerable distance without any sign of stairs and she wondered if she should have gone in the other direction. She tried several door latches along the way. Some were locked, others led to dark storage rooms.

Finally a poorly lit flight of stone stairs beckoned. Micaela climbed them gingerly, praying that she didn’t meet anyone along the way.

Elisabetta crept into a dining room with a banqueting table long enough to seat thirty comfortably. Through its leaded windows she could see a young man with a slung rifle patrolling the grounds. She ducked and frog-walked below the window line. At the opposite end of the dining room she stopped to put her ear to a set of double doors. Through the wood she heard the noise of a clattering of pots.

*

Micaela’s stairs took her to a rabbit warren of pantry rooms stocked with canned and dried goods. She found herself looking hungrily at labels and briefly searching in vain for a can opener to get at a tin of peaches.

She heard a gasp behind her and turned to see a huge woman wearing a chef’s apron looking as shocked as she herself must have looked. The woman let out a short shriek and began to flee but Micaela pursued her with the peach tin, laying her low with a single heavy blow to the back of her head. The woman went smashing into a shelf, taking a month’s worth of provisions to the floor with her.

Elisabetta heard a sharp cry and loud noises coming from the kitchen area. She crouched behind a large oriental vase in case someone came flying into the dining room but after several minutes all remained quiet. Cautiously, she entered the kitchen. Seeing nothing, she went through to the pantry where she found a hefty female chef lying unconscious, her chest heaving with grunts and snores. To one side was a flight of stairs to the basement. Elisabetta uttered a quick prayer and made a dash for them, wondering what had befallen the woman.

Micaela left the kitchen and found herself in the entrance hall, a vast expanse of marble and oversized ornamental furnishings. She stole across the hall, trying first one door, which was locked, then another. The second door was unlocked. She eased it open a centimeter at a time, trying to avoid any creaking.

Through the gap she took in a great room with an enormous fireplace before she spotted a half-naked body on the floor.

Micaela slinked inside and quietly locked the door behind her. The body lay still, with a cashmere sweater bunched up around its chest and slacks rolled down around its ankles. She approached it slowly and swore at what she saw.

A long, lifeless tail.

Elisabetta scurried down the basement hall, her habit sweeping the concrete floor. Suddenly something made her stop short. Micaela’s shoes! She cringed in fear but carried on to the room with the crates where she leapt inside, calling for her sister.

The room was in a shambles with planks from a burst crate, tufo earth and ancient bones scattered everywhere.

The sight under the mess of a hand that still had flesh on it almost made her scream but she gasped with relief when she saw a chunky man’s ring on one finger.

Micaela, she thought, where are you and what have you done?

Micaela armed herself with a fireplace poker and made doubly sure that all the doors were locked.

She stared at the phone, wishing that she knew the Slovene number for emergency services. Just then the phone rang and she backed away from it as if it were a coiled viper.

One of the doorknobs squeaked.

She inhaled deeply, unlocked the door, gripped the poker like an ax and raised it high above her head.

The knob turned and the door opened.

At that instant Micaela began her downward swing but at the last second was just able to check it when she glimpsed a nun’s black sleeve.

Zazo started to jog. The traffic was bad at this time of day and he thought he’d do better on foot than taking the bus. He started to form a plan. He’d get his car, head north and drive like hell to Slovenia. With luck he’d get to Bled before midnight. He’d demand to speak with Krek. They’d probably call the authorities and have him arrested but what else could he do? He was a policeman and this was his only lead.

His mobile phone chirped.

He plucked it from his pocket as he ran but came to a dead halt at the sight of the number.

929295.

Krek’s number!

‘Yes?’ he answered cautiously, panting from his running.

The whispering voice he heard was distraught and frantic. ‘Zazo! It’s me!’

His mind disconnected from his body at the sound of Elisabetta’s voice. It seemed to take him an eternity to answer.

‘My God! You’re in Slovenia! You’re with Krek!’

‘How did you know?’

‘Forget about that. Are you okay?’

‘Yes! No! He’s dead. I killed him, Zazo!’

‘Jesus! Is Micaela okay?’

‘Yes, we’re together. I’m sorry I’ve got to whisper but we’re hiding. Krek’s men are everywhere but they don’t know he’s dead.’

‘Okay, listen. If you’re safe where you are, stay put. I’ll call the Slovenian State Police.’

‘No, Zazo. I’ll call them. You’ve got to go to the Vatican.’

‘Why?’

‘There’s a bomb in the Sistine Chapel, I’m sure of it. You’ve got to go there! You’ve got to stop the Conclave!’

Zazo was on Via Garibaldi. Cars and motorbikes were whizzing past. He stared at his phone for a moment to gather his wits and then speed-dialed Lorenzo. He got his voicemail.

He tried Inspector Loreti.

Voicemail there, too.

He was three or four kilometers away from the Vatican – too far to run.

On impulse Zazo stepped into the street, stretched his arms wide and blocked an approaching red Honda 1000. The rider almost lost control and stopped a half-meter before hitting him. The young man ripped off his helmet and began swearing.

Zazo pulled his badge from his back pocket. ‘Police! This is an emergency! I’m taking your bike!’

‘The hell you are!’ the man shouted.

Zazo instinctively reached for his gun but it was back at his flat. Instead he pointed a finger and menaced the Honda’s rider: ‘Do you want to go to jail for obstructing a police operation?’ When the fellow didn’t respond, Zazo pushed him hard with both hands. The bike tipped over and the young man fell to the ground. Zazo righted the Honda, mounted it and put it in gear. All the rider could do was scream at him and toss his helmet uselessly at his back.

Hackel locked the door of his flat and opened one of his west-facing windows to let in some fresh air. His building was too low for him to see the Sistine Chapel but the spire atop St Peter’s was visible against a hazy late-afternoon sky.

He turned on his television. The crowd in the Square was placid, expectant.

He went into the bedroom and slid open the top drawer of his dresser. Behind the folded stacks of black socks was a black and green box, the size of three packs of playing cards.

Hackel sat on his bed and tested the on-off switch of the Combifire detonator. He knew the batteries were fresh but just in case he was wrong he had spares.

A small bulb glowed green.

He put the detonator down and sighed.

He was troubled by the call that had been made to Krek’s residence by someone claiming to be him. The number texted to him was from a Rome exchange. Someone was onto him. Who? How? The notion of riding out the investigation was now absurd. He’d have to disappear immediately.

Hackel went to his closet and retrieved an empty suitcase.

Zazo gunned the Honda like a madman, weaving in and out of traffic, passing through gaps between cars so tight that he scraped their doors with the handlebars. The combination of rush-hour traffic and the extraordinary congestion around Vatican City made for total gridlock.

On the Via Domenico Silveri the traffic came to a complete stop. He looked up at the Dome of the Basilica, turned the handlebars and jumped the motorbike over the curb and onto the sidewalk.

Pedestrians yelled at him and he yelled back, making it clear that he wasn’t going to stop. Dodging and zigzagging, he made it to the Via della Stazione Vaticana where the sidewalks too became impassable.

Zazo ditched the Honda and ran.

He fought through the crowds and arrived, chest heaving, at the Petriano Entrance on the south side of St Peter’s where three of his own men were guarding a checkpoint.

He came barreling up to them. From the look in their eyes he could tell that they knew he was on suspension.

A corporal said, ‘Major Celestino, I thought—’

Zazo interrupted him. ‘It’s okay. I’ve been reinstated. Inspector Loreti called me back in.’

They saluted and let him pass.

It was pointless trying to cut through the Square. He’d never seen it so packed. Instead he ran through the non-public zones by the Domus Sanctae Marthae and the back of the Basilica to a rear entrance of the Palace off the Square of the Furnace.

The smokeless Conclave chimney was overhead.

He made it into the Sala Regia unchallenged. Even the Swiss Guards saluted him curiously.

The hall was bright and ornate, filled with archbishops, bishops, monsignors and lay officials awaiting the conclusion of the first day.

Lorenzo was at the Palace end of the hall with Major Capozzoli. He spotted Zazo, called out in surprise and intercepted him.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he asked. Zazo looked at him with wild eyes. ‘I need your gun.’

‘Are you crazy? What’s the matter with you?’

‘There’s a bomb!’ An archbishop overheard him and began whispering to one of his colleagues.

Lorenzo eyed him with alarm. ‘Be quiet! How do you know?’

‘Elisabetta found out! I think Hackel placed it.’

‘Why hasn’t Loreti or anyone notified me?’

‘No one knows yet. For God’s sake, Lorenzo! Give me your gun. Cappy, clear the hall. Lorenzo, find Hackel and stop him before it’s too late!’

Hackel zipped his suitcase and put it by the front door.

There was a drawer in his study desk that contained an accordion folder of private papers and false passports. He took it out and stuffed it into an outer flap of his case.

He’d be traveling. He wanted to be as anonymous as a man of his size could be. His black suit wouldn’t do. He took it off and folded it carefully, peeked at the television, then looked in his closet for something more comfortable. He’d be taking his car as far as a taxi stand, getting a ride to a rental-car facility, then calling Krek. An escape plan would quickly fall into place. He wasn’t all that worried.

Glauser saw Zazo and stiffened.

‘Celestino! You’re suspended. Who let you in here?’

The costumed Swiss Guards at the Sistine Chapel door clutched their ceremonial pikes tightly and looked to Glauser for instructions.

Zazo tried to control his tone lest he should sound deranged. ‘Glauser, listen to me carefully. We have to evacuate the Chapel. There’s a bomb.’

‘You’re out of your mind!’ The small man began to lift his arm to speak into his cuff microphone but Zazo stopped him by pulling Lorenzo’s SIG from his waistband, breeching a round and pointing it at Glauser’s head. There was a commotion in the Sala Regia as people murmured and backed away.

‘Glauser, keep your hands folded in front of you,’ Zazo ordered. ‘I’ll shoot you if I have to.’ He spoke to the Swiss Guards. ‘Men, there’s a traitor in your midst. Your duty is to protect the Pope. One of the cardinals inside the Sistine Chapel will soon be that man. Help me clear the area.’

Glauser seethed at him. ‘The only traitor is you, Celestino. I’ve always had my suspicions about you. You’re going to rot in jail for this.’

Glauser reached inside his suit jacket for his weapon and Zazo reacted. He fired a bullet into Glauser’s right knee and when the man fell screaming Zazo reached inside the jacket and ripped out Glauser’s Heckler & Koch MP5A3. He clicked the safety off and pointed the weapon at the stunned Guards. He barked at one of them: ‘You, put a tourniquet on him or he’ll die. And you other men – for God’s sake clear the Sala Regia!’

At the other end of the hall Capozzoli was at the Pauline Door, yelling for everyone to get out. Clergy and laity streamed urgently toward him.

Zazo kept the sub-machine gun aimed at the Guards and kicked at the door of the Sistine Chapel with his heel. ‘It’s an emergency!’ he shouted. ‘It’s Major Celestino of the Gendarmerie! Let me in!’

It seemed to take an eternity but eventually he heard the bolt slide back.

Cardinal Franconi was at the door with an expression of equal parts apprehension and confusion on his face. The sight of a non-uniformed man holding a sub-machine gun sent him into a state of panic.

Zazo rushed past him into the Chapel. A hundred elderly men wearing red hats stared at him in stunned silence and put down the pens they were using to mark their ballot papers.

Zazo had been inside the Chapel hundreds of times, perhaps thousands, and he hardly noticed its majesty anymore. But he’d never seen it like this, steeped in the gravitas of all the Cardinal Electors fulfilling their ancient duty. The magical ceiling was softly illuminated by afternoon light pouring through the high windows. Zazo stopped in the center of the Chapel. Directly above his head the hand of God reached to the outstretched hand of Adam, bestowing life.

Cardinal Diaz rose from his desk and straightened his spine. He recognized Zazo. ‘Major, why have you come to this holy place with a weapon and interrupted our sacred rites?’

Zazo’s voice reverberated in the chamber and sounded, to him, other-worldly. ‘I’m sorry, Your Excellency. But everyone must leave immediately.’

‘We are in the midst of a ballot. We cannot leave.’

‘There’s no time to explain but I believe there’s a bomb inside the Chapel.’

Diaz scanned the faces of his fellow cardinals.

Cardinal Aspromonte rose. ‘Why do you believe this? Who has told you?’

‘A nun. A nun named Elisabetta.’

Some of the cardinals tittered nervously.

‘You’ve committed this great sacrilege because of the word of a nun?’ Diaz roared. ‘Leave us! Leave at once!’

Zazo looked at Diaz and placed the tip of the gun under his own chin. He curled his thumb around the trigger. ‘I’m sorry. I won’t leave. This nun, she’s my sister, and I believe in what she says with all my heart. If I can’t save you, I’ll die trying.’

Hackel sat in his favorite chair. The vantage point gave him a simultaneous view of the television and, through his window, the Dome of St Peter’s. That way he’d see the flash twice. He’d hear the explosion twice. He’d feel the percussion ripple through his body once.

The night of the Pope’s death, in the basement of the Sistine Chapel, he had placed his utility bag on one of the simple wooden tables, unzipped it and removed a continuous roll of rubberized sheeting which resembled some kind of building material. Primasheet 2000. An RDX-based plastic explosive, two millimeters thick and with a sticky backing. Military-grade and lethal, particularly within a vaulted space.

The width of the Primasheet had been perfect but it had needed to be cut to the right length and then stuck to the underside of the table. Hackel had plucked a component from a plastic bag and firmly pressed a thumbnail-sized RF microchip into the sheet, firmly anchoring it. He had turned the table back on its feet and inspected the job.

Each of the chips was set to discharge at the same frequency. One switch on a remote detonator would do the job. Over the next hour he had repeated the process 108 times, one for each Cardinal Elector in the Papal Conclave.

They had a man inside the security-contractor company. The Alsatian dog he used for the explosive sweeps wouldn’t have detected Primasheet if it had been crammed up its rear.

Hackel extended the antenna on the Combifire detonator to its full extent.

This is what we do, he thought. This is who we are.

He flipped the on switch and pushed the red detonate button.

The high windows of the Sistine Chapel were the first to go.

They blew out in an orange flash, the old glass fragmenting into millions of shards.

Then the shock wave took the ceiling.

The brightly painted frescoes which had taken Michelangelo four years to paint, vaporized in an instant into a fine, colorful mist.

The vault of the Chapel came down in great chunks, burying everything beneath under tons of ugly grey rubble. A vast cloud of smoke rose over St Peter’s Square, blotting out what was left of the sun and turning day into night.