“That is our cover, anyway,” Uncle Vigor said.
“Cover?”
Cardinal Spera frowned, a warning tone entering his voice. “Vigor…”
Her uncle turned to the secretary of state. “She has a right to know. I thought that had already been decided.”
“You decided.”
The two men stared each other down. Finally, Cardinal Spera sighed with a wave of an arm, relenting.
Uncle Vigor turned back to Rachel. “The nuncio assignation is just a smoke screen.”
“Then what are we—?”
He told her.
3:35 P.M.
STILL STUNNED, Rachel waited for her uncle to finish a few private words with Cardinal Spera outside the doorway. Off to the side, Father Torres busied himself with shelving various volumes that had been piled on his desk.
Finally, her uncle returned. “I had hoped to grab a brioche with you, but with the timetable accelerated, we must both get ready. You should grab an overnight bag, your passport, and whatever else you might need for a day or two abroad.”
Rachel stood her ground. “Vatican spies? We’re going in as Vatican spies?”
Uncle Vigor lifted his brows. “Are you really that surprised? The Vatican, a sovereign country, has always had an intelligence service, with full-time employees and operatives. They’ve been used to infiltrate hate groups, secret societies, hostile countries, wherever the concerns of the Vatican are threatened. Walter Ciszek, a priest operating under the alias Vladimir Lipinski, played a cat-and-mouse game with the KGB for years, before being captured and spending over two decades in a Soviet prison.”
“And we’ve just been recruited into this service?”
“You’ve been recruited. I’ve worked with the intelligence service for over fifteen years.”
“What?” Rachel almost choked on the word.
“What better cover for an operative than as a well-respected and knowledgeable archaeologist in humble service to the Vatican?” Her uncle waved her out the door. “Come. Let’s see about getting everything in order.”
Rachel stumbled after her uncle, trying to see him with new eyes.
“We’ll be meeting up with a party of American scientists. Like us, they’ll be investigating the attack in secret, concentrating more on the deaths, leaving us to handle the theft of the relics.”
“I don’t understand.” That was a vast understatement. “Why all this subterfuge?”
Her uncle stopped and pulled her into a small side chapel. It was no larger than a closet, the air stagnant with old incense.
“Only a handful of people know this,” he said. “But there was a survivor to the attack. A boy. He is still in shock, but slowly recovering. He is at a hospital in Cologne, under guard.”
“He witnessed the attack?”
A nod answered her. “What he described sounded like madness, but it could not be ignored. All the deaths—or rather those that succumbed to the electrocution—occurred in a single moment. The dying collapsed where they sat or knelt. The boy had no explanation for how it occurred, but he was adamant about the who.”
“Who killed the parishioners?”
“No, who succumbed, which members of the congregation died so horribly.”
Rachel waited for an answer.
“The ones who were electrocuted, for lack of a better word, were only those who took the Holy Eucharist during the Communion service.”
“What?”
“It was the Communion host that killed them.”
A chill passed through her. If word spread that the Communion wafers were somehow to blame, it could have repercussions around the world. The entire holy sacrament could be in jeopardy. “Were the wafers poisoned, tainted somehow?”
“That’s still unknown. But the Vatican wants answers immediately. And the Holy See wants them first. And without the resources necessary for this level of clandestine investigation, especially on foreign soil, I’ve called in a chit owed to me by a friend deep within U.S. military intelligence, someone I trust fully. He will have a team on site by tonight.”
Rachel could only nod, struck dumb by the last hour’s revelations.
“I think you were right, Rachel,” Uncle Vigor said. “The murders in Cologne were a direct attack against the Church. But I believe this is just an opening gambit in a much larger game. But what game is being played?”
Rachel nodded. “And what do the bones of the Magi have to do with any of this?”
“Exactly. While you collect your things, I’m going off to the libraries and archives. I already have a team of scholars sifting through all references to the Three Kings. By the time the helicopter lifts off, I’ll have a full dossier on the Magi.” Uncle Vigor reached to her, hugged her tight, and whispered in her ear. “You can still refuse. I would think no less of you.”
Rachel shook her head, pulling back. “As the saying goes, fortes fortuna adiuvat.”
“Fortune does indeed favor the brave.” He kissed her gently on her cheek. “If I had a daughter like you—”
“You’d be excommunicated.” She kissed his other cheek. “Now let’s go.”
Her uncle led her out of the Apostolic Palace, then they parted ways, he toward the Libraries, she toward St. Anne’s Gate.
Before long and with barely any note of the passage of time, Rachel reached her parked car and climbed into the Mini Cooper. She sped out of the underground car park and squealed around a tight corner into traffic. She ticked off all she would need, while trying to keep any speculation to a minimum.
She raced over the Tiber River and headed toward the center of town. With her mind on autopilot, she failed to note when she had regained her tail. Only that it was back there again.
Her heartbeat quickened.
The black BMW kept five car lengths behind her, matching her every move around slower cars and even-slower pedestrians. She made a couple of fast turns, not enough to alert her tail that he had been spotted, just her usual controlled recklessness. She needed to know for sure.
The BMW kept pace.
Now she knew.
Damn.
She fought her way into the narrower byways and alleys. The roads were congested. It became a slow-motion car chase.
She pulled up on a sidewalk to squeeze past a stall of traffic. Edging to the next cross street, a pedestrian alley, she turned into it. Startled strollers leaped out of her way. Shopping carts spilled. Obscenities flew. A loaf of bread hit her back window, thrown by a particularly irate matron.