“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he promised Rachel.
3
October 10, 7:28 P.M.
Rome, Italy
As Lieutenant Rachel Verona stepped out of the hospital and into the dusky twilight of central Rome, she took a deep breath of the crisp autumn air, her anxiety easing a little. The sting of disinfectant had barely masked the odor of bodies languishing in beds. Hospitals always smelled like dread.
For the first time in years, she wished for a cigarette, anything to smoke out the sense of apprehension that had built inside her with every passing hour as her uncle remained in a coma. He was hooked to IV lines; electrodes led to machines that monitored his vital signs; a respirator moved his chest up and down. He looked a decade older, his eyes blackened and bruised, his head shaved and wrapped. The doctors had explained: subdural hemorrhage along with a small skull fracture. They were closely monitoring his intracranial pressure. MRI showed no brain damage, but he remained unconscious, which worried the doctors. According to the medical and police report, Vigor had arrived at the hospital in a semidelirious state. Before he slipped into a coma, he kept repeating one word in a frantic manner.
Morte.
Death.
But what did that mean? Had Vigor known what had happened to the other priest? Or was it just delirium?
No one could ask him. He remained unresponsive.
Still, it bothered her. She had held his hand most of the day, squeezing it occasionally, praying for some sign of recovery. But his fingers remained lax, his skin cold, as if something vital had escaped his body, leaving only this shell behind.
What especially tortured Rachel was that she couldn’t help her uncle. Vigor had practically raised her, and he was the only real family she had left. So she had sat with him all day, only leaving her vigil to make the call to the United States.
Gray would be here by morning.
It was the only bit of good news in the past twenty-four hours. Though she couldn’t help Vigor medically, she could use her resources to discover the truth behind the attack.
At the moment, the investigation into the explosion at Saint Peter’s had turned into a multiagency quagmire, involving everyone from Italian intelligence services to Interpol and Europol. Everyone seemed to have come to the consensus that it was a terrorist attack. This assessment rose mainly from the postmortem mutilation of the dead priest’s body. A strange mark had been burned into his forehead.
Someone had definitely left a message. But what was that message and who had sent it? As of yet, no group had claimed responsibility.
Rachel knew the quickest way to discover the truth was to instigate her own investigation, something with a narrower focus, more surgical than the current chaos generated by the various agencies.
So she had called Gray. Though such a plea for help was awkward on a personal level, she recognized she would need Sigma’s global resources if she hoped to discover the truth. She also recognized that she couldn’t do this alone. She needed someone she could fully trust. She needed Gray.
But was the call to him more than just professional?
She pushed that last thought aside as she crossed the hospital parking garage. Reaching her small blue Mini Cooper, she climbed inside and set off across Rome. She left the top down, and the freshening breeze helped clear her head, until a trundling tour bus swooped ahead of her, belching fumes.
Rachel swung off the main thoroughfare and wound through smaller streets framed by shops, cafés, and restaurants. She had been planning to head over to her apartment, to rest and collect her thoughts before tomorrow, but instead her path wound on its own toward the Tiber River. After a few turns, the shining dome of Saint Peter’s rose into view on the far bank.
She continued to let traffic funnel her toward her goal. All of Vatican City had been closed to the public since the explosion. Even the pope had been shifted for security reasons to his summer residence at Castel Gandolfo. But all that failed to halt the flow of tourists and onlookers. If anything, curiosity had thickened the throngs.
Due to the congestion, it took Rachel an extra half hour to find a parking spot. By the time she reached the police barricade that cordoned off the famous square, full night had set in. Saint Peter’s Square was usually crowded with the pious and the raucous, but at the moment, it was nearly deserted. Only a few uniformed men patrolled among the columns and in the open piazza. One stood post at the foot of the Egyptian obelisk that rose in the center of the square. They all bore rifles on their shoulders.
Rachel showed her credentials at the barricade.
The policeman frowned. He was middle-aged, thick around the belly, and stood slightly bowlegged. The city police and the militarized carabinieri were not always on the best of terms.
“Why are you here?” he asked brusquely. “Why does this attack concern the Carabinieri Tutela del Patrimonio Culturale?”
It was a fair question. Her agency oversaw the theft of art and the black market trade in antiquities. It had nothing to do with domestic terrorism. She had not been authorized to be here. In fact, due to her connection with one of the victims, she had been specifically warned to keep her distance.
But she had to see the crime scene for herself.
Rachel cleared her throat and pointed forward. “I’m here to catalog and document the site of the explosion, to verify that no art was stolen following the bombing.”
“So, secretarial work.” His voice rippled with disdain. He added under his breath, “No wonder they sent a woman.”
Rachel refused to rise to the bait. She retrieved her credentials. “If you’re done, it’s late and I have much work to do.”
He shrugged and stepped aside, but just barely. She had to brush against him to pass. He leaned into her, pressing, trying to intimidate her with his bulk and size. Rachel knew this game. In an organization that was mostly a male fraternity, she was treated as either a threat or something to be conquered.
Anger flared, momentarily burning through her anxiety and worry. She pushed past the brute, but not before making sure her heel found the man’s instep. She ground down hard as she stepped past him.
He barked in surprise and hopped back.
“Scusi,” she apologized coldly and continued into the square without looking back.
“Zoccola!” he swore at her.
She ignored him as she crossed the empty piazza. To either side, the encircling arms of Bernini’s colonnades embraced her. She found her pace growing quicker as she passed the obelisk and fountains and continued toward the main doors to the basilica. Overhead, the breadth of Michelangelo’s dome glowed against the night sky.