But now things were moving in the right direction.
Vigor passed the monument to Pius VII and entered the nave near the middle of the church. The basilica was shaped like a giant cross, covering twenty-five thousand square meters, so cavernous two soccer teams could play a game within the confines of the nave alone.
And presently it was full. Every pew was crowded, from nave through transept. The space glowed with thousands of candles and the illumination of eight hundred chandeliers. The Pontifical Choir was in mid-song, Exaudi Deus, fitting for a memorial, but amplified and echoing as loud as any rock concert.
Vigor hurried, but forced himself not to run. Panic would kill. There were only a limited number of exits. He waved the two Swiss Guards to sweep right and left and alert their brothers-in-arms. Vigor had to get the pope clear first and alert the presiding clerical staff to slowly evacuate the parishioners.
Stepping into the nave, he had a clear view to the papal altar.
On the far side of the altar, Cardinal Spera was seated with the pope. The pair sat under Bernini’s bronze baldacchino, a canopy of gilded bronze that covered the center altar. It rose eight stories, supported by four massive twisted bronze columns, decorated with gilded gold olive and laurel branches. The canopy itself was topped by a golden sphere surmounted by a cross.
Vigor worked his way surreptitiously forward. He had no time to change into proper vestments and was still shoddily attired. A few wealthy parishioners glanced at him, frowning, then noted his Roman collar. Still their glances were disdainful. A poor parish priest, they must think, awed by the spectacle.
Reaching the front, Vigor edged to the left. He would circle toward the rear of the altar, where he could speak to Cardinal Spera in private.
As he pushed past the statue of Saint Longinus, a hand reached out from a shadowed doorway. He glanced over as his elbow was gripped. It was a lanky man his own age, silver-haired, someone he knew and respected, Preffetto Alberto, the head prefect of the Archives.
“Vigor?” the prefect said. “I heard…”
His words were lost to an especially loud refrain from the chorus.
Vigor leaned closer, stepping into the alcove that sheltered the doorway. It led down to the Sacred Grottoes. “I’m sorry, Alberto. What—?”
The grip tightened. A pistol shoved hard into his ribs. It had a silencer.
“Not another word, Vigor,” Alberto warned.
9:52 P.M.
HIDDEN INSIDE the crypt, Gray lay on his belly, out of view of the opening. His pistol rested beside the open laptop. He had its display turned to dark mode, glowing in UV. Two images split the screen—one feed from the camera facing Saint Peter’s tomb, the other from the camera facing the main necropolis.
The assault team had divided into two groups. While one set patroled the necropolis in darkness, the other had broken out flashlights to expedite their work by the tomb. They worked quickly and efficiently, each man knowing his job. They had already opened the gate that blocked access to Saint Peter’s tomb. Two men flanked the famous crypt, bent to a knee. They were fixing two large plates to either side.
The third man was immediately recognizable by his size.
Raoul.
He carried a steel case. He opened it and removed a clear plastic cylinder, full of a familiar grayish powder. The amalgam. They must have pulverized the bone down to its powdery form. Raoul slid the cylinder through the low opening into Saint Peter’s tomb.
Plugging in the battery…
With everything in place, Gray could wait no longer. The apparatus was set. It was their one chance to catch the Court off guard, perhaps to drive them off, abandoning their gear behind.
“Ready to go blackout,” Gray whispered. His hand moved to the transmitter that controlled the sonic and flash bombs. “Take out as many as you can while they’re stunned, but don’t take any needless chances. Keep moving. Stay out of sight.”
Affirmatives answered him. Monk was holed up near the door. Kat and Rachel had found another crypt to hide themselves inside. The assault team remained unaware of their presence.
Gray watched the trio of men exit the tomb area, trailing wires that led to the device. Raoul closed the gate, shielding himself from any danger. Atop the metal platform, he pressed one hand against his ear, plainly communicating the okay to proceed.
“Blackout on the count of five,” Gray whispered. “Earplugs in place, goggles blinkered closed. Here we go.”
Gray counted down in his head. Five, four, three… Blind, he rested one hand on his pistol and the other on the laptop. Two, one, zero.
He hit the button on the laptop.
Though deafened by his earplugs, he could feel the deep whump of the sonic charges behind his sternum. He waited a three-count for the strobing flash grenades to expire. He blinkered open his goggles, then yanked out the earplugs. Shots echoed across the necropolis. Gray rolled to the entrance to the crypt.
Directly ahead, the metal platform was empty.
No one was in sight.
Raoul and his two men were gone.
Where?
The sound of gunfire intensified. A firefight waged in the dark necropolis. Gray remembered Raoul had received some communiqué just before he had ignited the sonic and flash charges. Had it been a warning? From whom?
Gray searched the vicinity. The world had receded to shades of green. He climbed the steps to the platform. He had to take the risk to secure the apparatus and the amalgam.
As he reached the top, he kept low, edging on his toes, one hand on the platform for support, his pistol swiveling to cover all directions.
Light suddenly blazed through the window ahead. It revealed Raoul standing on the far side, a few steps from the tomb. Upon the attack, the man must have dodged back through the gate. He met Gray’s eyes and lifted his arms. In his hands, he held the control device to ignite the amalgam.
Too late.
Futilely, Gray aimed and fired.
But the bulletproof glass repelled the slug.
Raoul smiled and twisted the handle on the control device.
10
TOMB RAIDER
JULY 25, 9:54 P.M.
VATICAN CITY
THE FIRST quake threw Vigor into the air. Or maybe it was the ground that had dropped below his feet. Either way, he went airborne.
Cries rose across the basilica.
As he fell back down, he took advantage of the moment to plant an elbow square into the nose of the traitor Alberto, who had tumbled back with the first tremor. He swung next and punched Alberto a solid blow to the Adam’s apple.
The man fell heavily. The pistol tumbled from his fingers. Vigor grabbed it just as the next tremor followed the first. He was knocked to his knees. By now, screams and yells erupted all around. But beneath it all, a deep, hollow thrum vibrated, as if a bell as large as the basilica had been struck and they were all trapped inside.
Vigor remembered the description given by the witness to the Cologne survivor. A pressure as if the walls squeezed in on themselves. It was the same here. All noises—cries, pleas, prayers—were perfectly discernible but muted nevertheless.
While he climbed to his feet, the floor continued trembling. The polished marble surface seemed to ripple and shiver, appearing watery. Vigor shoved the pistol under his belt.
He turned to go to the aid of the pope and Cardinal Spera.
As he stepped forward, he felt it before he saw it. A sudden increase in pressure, deafening, squeezing inward. Then it let loose. Up from the base of the four bronze columns of Bernini’s baldacchino, fiery cascades of electrical energy spiraled upward, spitting and crackling.
They rushed up the columns, across the canopy’s roof, and met at the gold globe. A crack of thunder erupted. The ground jolted again, shattering fissures in the marble floor. From the canopy’s globe, a brilliant fork of lightning erupted. It blasted upward, striking the underside of Michelangelo’s dome and dancing across it. The ground bumped aga
in, more violently.
Cracks skittered across the dome. Plates of plaster rained.
It was all coming down.
9:57 P.M.
MONK PICKED himself up off the floor. Blood ran into one eye. He had landed face-first into the corner of a crypt, cracking his goggles, slicing his eyebrow.
Blind now, he crouched and fished for his weapon. The shotgun’s built-in night scope would help him see.
As he searched, the ground continued to vibrate under his fingertips. All gunfire had stopped after the first quake.
Monk reached forward, sweeping the ground near the crypt. His shotgun couldn’t have gone far.
He felt something hard at his fingertips.
Thank God.
He reached forward and realized his mistake. It was not the butt of his weapon. It was the toe of a boot.
Behind him, he felt the hot barrel of a rifle press against the base of his skull.
Shit.
9:58 P.M.
GRAY HEARD the crack of a rifle blast across the necropolis. It was the first shot since the quakes began. He had been thrown off the metal platform and had landed near the mausoleum where he’d hid his laptop. He had rolled into a ball, taking a blow to his shoulder, keeping his goggles and pistol in place. But he had lost his radio.
Shattered shards of glass littered the stone street, blown out of the platform window with the first violent quake.
He searched around him. Up the few steps to the metal platform, the wash of light still radiated from the tomb area. He had to know what was going on in there. But he couldn’t assault the gate by himself. At least not without knowing the lay of the land.
Making certain no eyes were upon him, he dove back into the mausoleum. The planted cameras should still be transmitting.
As he lay flat on his belly, one arm covering the entrance with the pistol, he engaged the laptop. The split-screen image bloomed. The camera pointing into the main necropolis revealed nothing but darkness. No further shots were heard. The necropolis had gone deathly silent again.
What had happened to the others?
With no answers, he focused on the opposite side of the screen. Nothing seemed to have changed. Gray spotted two men with rifles pointed back toward the gate, Raoul’s guards. But there was no sign of the big man. The tomb seemed unchanged. But the image, the entire image on the screen, pulsed slightly, in tune with the vibration in the stone floor. It was as if the cameras were picking up some emanation given off by the charged device, a field of energy radiating out.
But where was Raoul?
Gray reached out and rewound the digital recorder back a full minute, stopping at the spot where Raoul stood near the tomb and twisted the control handle to his device.
On the screen, Raoul turned to watch the result. Green lights flared on the two plates fixed to either side of the tomb. Movement caught his attention. Gray used a toggle to zoom in on the tomb’s small opening. The cylinder of amalgam powder vibrated—then rose off the floor.
Levitating.
Gray began to understand. He remembered Kat’s description of how the m-state powders demonstrated an ability to levitate in a strong magnetic field, acting as superconductors. He recalled Monk’s discovery of a magnetized cross back in Cologne. The plates with the green lights. They must be electromagnets. The Court’s device apparently did nothing more than create a strong electromagnetic field around the amalgam, activating the m-state superconductor.
He now understood the energy pulsing outward.
He knew what had killed the parishioners.
Oh God…
Suddenly the image jolted with the first quake. The view fritzed completely for a second, then settled, the perspective slightly askew now as the camera shifted. On the screen, Raoul backed away from the tomb.
Gray didn’t understand why. Nothing seemed to be happening.
Then he spotted it, half hidden in the glare of the flashlights. At the base of the tomb, a section of the stone floor slowly tilted downward, forming a narrow ramp that led beneath the tomb. From below, a cobalt light flickered. Raoul stepped in front of the camera, blocking the view. He headed down the ramp, leaving only the two guards.
That’s where he had disappeared.
Gray sped up the video back to the present. He now watched a few brilliant flashes erupt from below, blinding bursts of white light. Camera flashes. Raoul was recording whatever he found down there.
A few seconds later, Raoul climbed back up the ramp.
The bastard wore a grimace of satisfaction.
He had won.
9:59 P.M.
LYING FLAT atop the mausoleum roof, Kat had managed to get one shot off, taking out the gunman holding a rifle to Monk’s head. But another quake threw off her next shot. The remaining opponent did not hesitate. From the direction his comrade’s body had fallen, he must have guessed where she hid.
He dove down and clubbed Monk with the metal hilt of a hunting knife, then pulled him up as a shield. He pressed the blade to Monk’s neck.
“Come out!” the man called in heavily accented English, sounding Germanic. “Or I will remove this one’s head.”
Kat closed her eyes. It was Kabul all over again. She and Captain Marshall had gone in to save two captured soldiers, teammates. Decapitation had been threatened. But they had no choice. Though the odds were stacked against them three-to-one, they had made an assault, going in quiet, with knives and bayonets. But she had missed one guard, hidden in an alcove. A crack of a rifle, and Marshall went down. She had dispatched the last guard with a fling of a dagger, but it was too late for the captain. She had held his body as he gasped his last breath, thrashing in pain, eyes on her, pleading, knowing, disbelieving…then nothing. Eyes gone to glass. A vital man, a tender man, gone like smoke.
“Come out now!” the man yelled across the necropolis.
“Kat?” Rachel subvocalized to her, touching her elbow. The Carabinieri lieutenant lay flat next to her on the roof.
“Stay hidden,” Kat said. “Try to make it to one of the ropes that lead out of here.” That had been their original plan, to leap from rooftop to rooftop, to gain one of the scaling ropes that still hung down from the level above, to raise the alarm and gather reinforcements. That plan must not fail.
Rachel knew this, too.
Kat had her own duty. She rolled off the mausoleum roof and landed lithely on her toes. She glided over two rows to hide her former position, leaving some room for Rachel to escape, then stepped out into the open, ten yards from the man who held Monk. Kat lifted her hands and tossed her pistol aside. She laced her fingers and put them atop her head.
“I surrender,” she said coldly.
Dazed and blind, Monk struggled, but the man restraining him had enough training to keep him subdued, on his knees, knife point digging into his neck. Kat studied Monk’s eyes as she strode forward.
Three steps.
The combatant relaxed. Kat noted his knife point shift away.
Good enough.
She dove forward, pulling the dagger from her wrist sheath. She used her momentum to fling the blade. It sailed and struck the man in the eye. He fell backward, carrying Monk with him.
Kat twisted, yanking a blade from her boot. She flipped it in the direction Monk had indicated, catching the barest flicker of shadow. A third combatant. A short cry followed. A man fell out of the shadows, pierced through the neck.
Monk struggled to his feet, fingers scrabbling and finding the other’s knife. But he had lost his goggles, and Kat didn’t have a spare pair. She would have to guide him.
She helped Monk up and placed his hand on her shoulder.
“Stay with me,” she whispered.
She turned as a flashlight flared ahead of her. Amplified by her night-vision scopes, the sudden brightness seared into the back of her head, blinding, painful.
A fourth combatant.
Someone she missed.
Again.
10:02 P.M.
&
nbsp; GRAY HAD noted the bloom of light on his computer screen, deep in the necropolis. That couldn’t be good. It proved not to be. On one side of the split-screen image, he watched Raoul press his radio to his ear, his smile broadening. On the other side, he watched Kat and Monk being marched out at gunpoint, arms secured behind their backs with yellow plastic fast-ties.
They were shoved up the steps to the top of the platform.
Raoul remained by the tomb. The ground continued to tremble. One of his bodyguards stood beside him; the other had gone down the ramp.
Raoul raised his voice. “Commander Pierce! Lieutenant Verona! Show yourselves now or these two die!”
Gray remained where he was. He didn’t have the force to overpower this situation. Rescue was hopeless. And if he gave in to the demands, he would just be handing his own life over. Raoul would kill them all. He closed his eyes, knowing he was dooming his teammates.
A new voice drew his eyes back open.
“I’m coming!” Rachel stepped into view on the second camera. She had her hands in the air.
Gray watched Kat shake her head. She, too, knew the foolishness of the lieutenant’s act.
Two armed gunmen collected Rachel and drove her to join the others.
Raoul stepped forward and pointed a meaty pistol into Rachel’s shoulder. He bellowed at her ear, “This is a horse pistol, Commander Pierce! Fifty-six caliber! It will rip her arm right off! Show yourself or I’ll start removing limbs! On the count of five!”
Gray saw the flash of terror in Rachel’s eyes.
Could he watch his friends brutally torn apart? And if he did, what would he gain? As he hid, Raoul and his men would surely take or destroy whatever clue had been hidden here. The others’ deaths would be for nothing.
“Five…”