Ambrosi thought about that, then said, “How many times, however, do you suppose good guys have underestimated bad guys, their cunning, their resourcefulness, their capacity to commit evil?”
All the time, Brady thought. And he knew the reason: it is human nature to assume others are like us. Intellectually. Morally. Give or take small degrees. But the criminal mind, the mind that can conceive and commit murder, treads in dark territories the modern, civilized mind has long abandoned. Or has pretended to abandon by turning slightly away. Instead of believing killers have advanced intellects that enable them to commit crimes and escape capture, we tend to think killers are as intellectually faulty as they are morally faulty. Hence, we underestimate them.
Not that all killers are geniuses—not by a long shot—but Brady knew wise investigators remembered that genius is an intellectual phenomenon, not a moral one. As easily as it could create, it could destroy.
63
Ambrosi patted his shirt pocket. “Ah, I brought only one cigarette with me.”
“Here,” said Alicia, opening her purse, starting to fish through it.
“No, thank you, my dear. If it’s not my beloved blend from Lecce, my lungs will rebel and explode. Tell me more of your story.”
She told of going to the hotel, being attacked, subduing Malik. Here, she hesitated.
Ambrosi waited, wheels turning behind his bright eyes. Finally, he asked, “Did you kill him?”
“No,” she snapped. Then, more gently: “Not directly.”
“You did something . . . unorthodox?”
Brady understood her reluctance to admit bringing in Apollo. At the point at which she turned from calling the Bureau or the local cops after knocking Malik out cold, she had become a criminal herself. Kidnapping. Police brutality. Whatever law was violated by drugging someone against his will. And it had led to two deaths. Criminally negligent homicide, at least. He thought a case could be made for their actions, given the attacks and the apparent complicity of someone inside their own agency. But a lot depended on the evidence they could find to support their claims and on the outcome of their current pursuit.
And here they were, about to confess their crimes to a stranger. They had no reciprocal felonies to hold over his head. Unless smoking on Vatican grounds was a felony, which it very well could be. Despite his assurances to Alicia, they really had no way of knowing if the old man was friend or foe. He knew the principal players, Malik and Randall—was even Randall’s boss. Still, he seemed genuinely concerned. More than that, they needed a friend who could give them more facts about the situation they were in.
Sure that Alicia wanted to think through this part of the story with Brady, he started to stand.
She put her hand on his arm. “It’s okay, Brady. I’m all right with this.”
Slowly at first, then with increasing urgency, she told him about Apollo, the nightmarish sodium amobarbital interview, Malik’s assault on Apollo, and the tumble through the window: three went out, one came back in. Withholding Gilbreath’s name, she conveyed that episode and their decision to come to Italy.
Sometime during the telling, Ambrosi had closed his eyes. He remained that way, perfectly still, for several minutes.
Finally, Alicia said, “Cardinal Ambrosi? Roberto?”
He raised his index finger: one moment.
Shortly, his eyes opened, and they appeared tired.
“I can’t see that you had any other choice but to come here,” he said, as if that concluded the matter. “Tell me, what can I say that will send you home, back to your lives in America?”
“What lives?” Alicia said. “Everything has been turned on its head. It’s dangerous for us there.”
“It’s dangerous for you here. And it will become even more so if you continue your pursuit of the man responsible for the serial murders and attacks on you.”
“What else can we do?” Brady said, shaking his head. “By hunting him down, we have a chance at survival, at living normally after this.”
“You may be only hastening your deaths.”
“So be it,” Brady said, firm.
“So be it,” Alicia agreed.
Ambrosi took in their countenances, their resolution. He shifted on the pew back, took in a deep breath, let it out slowly.
“What will you do if you find the man responsible? Will you kill him?”
“Yes,” Brady answered without hesitation.
“Unless,” Alicia said, giving her partner a quick glance, “in the course of tracking him down, we gather enough evidence to bring him down legitimately. We would need enough evidence to show that our behavior was justified and to hand over to the authorities so they can arrest him, wherever he is.” She returned her gaze to Brady for agreement.
Brady considered her proposal, then gave a single nod. “The opportunity to kill him or enough evidence to exonerate us and bring him to justice—whichever comes first.”
How strange that they had not articulated their intentions before. They had opted to act based on the assumption that pursuing the strongest leads was their only viable strategy. Under normal conditions, they would arrest or attempt to arrest the person they found at the end of the trail. Without the power to arrest, what were their options? Brady was comfortable with what they had laid on the table and secretly hoped for the chance to put a bullet through the guy’s head. He only had to remember Zach’s face looking up at him from the hidey-hole: tears rimming his eyes, lower lip quivering, terrified not of his own death, but of losing his dad.
As far as Brady knew, Ambrosi had never been in law enforcement, and he certainly wasn’t an investigator or division chief, but he could have been one. He was adept at getting a person thinking.
“What did you learn from Malik?” Ambrosi asked.
“He was into”—Alicia skewed her face into an expression of distaste—“some sort of human sacrifice. He mentioned children, their blood on his hands. I think he was a Satanist.”
“That does not surprise me,” Ambrosi said.
“What do you mean?” Brady asked. “Did you know him?”
“Only by reputation. You see, I believe I know the man you seek.”
Alicia nearly jumped out of the pew. “What? Who? Father Randall?”
“Not Father Randall. But finish your tale. Did Malik say more?”
In unison, they lowered their heads, trying to recall everything.
Quietly, Alicia said, “Something about a horror movie.”
“What’s that?” Ambrosi asked, leaning forward.
“A scary movie,” corrected Brady. “He said that several times. ‘Scary movie.’”
Ambrosi’s lips stretched into a wide grin. The papery skin of his cheeks looked ready to split.
“What?” Alicia said.
“You already know the name of your nemesis.”
“An actor in a movie?” Alicia said skeptically.
“Not ‘scary movie,’ my dear. Scaramuzzi. Luco Scaramuzzi.”
Brady repeated it. Yes, with the accent and the drugs, that’s what he was saying. Scaramuzzi. He was sure of it.
He said, “Who is he? I’ve never heard of him.”
“No reason you would have . . . yet. A rising star in world politics. Charming, bright, full of ideas. But America is so big and self-interested, a foreign politician has to be higher up the ladder before Americans take note. He is the Italian ambassador to Israel. However . . .” He picked a piece of tobacco off his tongue, examined it, rubbed his fingers together to get rid of it. “For your purposes, it is what else Luco Scaramuzzi is—or thinks he is—that is threatening your lives: the Antichrist.”
Alicia slapped her thigh. “I knew it was something like that . . . all the clues . . .”
“But the Antichrist?” Brady said, in the same tone he would have used if the old man had said Scaramuzzi was Santa Claus. “From Revelation?”
“See, you do know him. Do you know his story?”
“Uh . . . he’s suppose
d to come from the people who destroyed Jerusalem, the Roman Empire. A political leader, ruling over nations. Very deceitful: he’ll make people think he’s good, when all along he’s planning their destruction.”
“He’d have to have a very charming personality to pull that off, don’t you think?”
“I know something about him,” said Alicia, surprising Brady. “‘Out of the sea he rises, creating armies on either shore . . .’”
Ambrosi brushed his hand at her. “That’s from The Omen,” he said. “The author made it up. But those verses do a fair job of summing up Antichrist’s goal on earth. Do you remember the rest?”
“‘Turning man against his brother, till man exists no more.’”
“Yes.”
“But how can anyone make any legitimate claim to the title of Antichrist until he starts fulfilling biblical prophecies about him?” Brady asked.
“Because Scripture is not the only place to find prophecies. True prophecy is God’s revelation of things to come. Some of the most respected theologians in Christendom, like Augustine and Origen, believed that God continued to reveal the future to individuals, usually in dreams. Extrabiblical prophets do not refute the Bible as the whole and inerrant Word of God. Rather, they attest to our Lord’s ongoing interest and involvement in our lives. Theologians often look to these extrabiblical documents for clues to God’s will and what is to come.”
The old man levered one foot off the pew, lowering it to the floor, then the other. He slid off the pew back and rubbed his rear end. “Come walk with me,” he said. He shuffled around the first pew and went behind the stone altar.
When they joined him, Brady saw that the altar was hollow, with no back side. Directly under it, the floor had been removed, leaving a rectangular hole as black as a pool of oil. Ambrosi produced a flashlight and clicked it on. He shone the light into the hole, revealing stone steps.
“Come,” he said. He ducked under the altar and awkwardly shifted and turned to fit in the narrow space. Situated sideways to the stairs, he moved down, one step at a time.
Brady was bigger than Ambrosi, so he took longer to wiggle into a position that allowed descent.
“This must have been designed for children,” he said.
“It was made for anyone trying to escape capture should the chapel be discovered.” Ambrosi’s voice echoed from below.
Brady could see only the reflection of light dancing on gray stone walls. He took another step down, then reached up to help Alicia navigate onto the first step.
“Remember,” came the old man’s voice, “when this chapel was built, capture meant being fed to lions in the Coliseum while the rest of Rome cheered.”
64
Ambrosi held the light on the steps until Brady and Alicia came off them. Then the flashlight swung around, revealing a passageway that extended beyond the reach of the light. It was so narrow, they had to walk single file, Ambrosi leading, Brady bringing up the rear. The air was humid and smelled faintly of wet earth. Their footfalls and scuffs echoed against the stone walls. When Ambrosi resumed speaking, his voice, too, came back at them, like a microphone’s feedback in a large auditorium.
“The original tunnel led to a cave,” he explained. “Since then, more passageways and rooms have been added. Escape routes, hiding places, archaeological digs. There’s quite a labyrinth down here now.”
They passed another corridor on their left. Brady could feel a slight breeze coming out of it. They kept moving straight. If Brady gauged it correctly, they were below the courtyard they had crossed to reach the archive stairs.
“Those extrabiblical prophecies I mentioned?” said Ambrosi, sounding a little winded. “There are some who look to them not for any virtuous reasons, but for clues to the identity of Antichrist.”
“The prophets had visions of Antichrist?” Brady asked. He said Antichrist the way Ambrosi did, as a name without an article.
“Oh, yes. Some of them had visions of nothing else, poor souls. The Franciscan friar Roger Bacon, for example. He was tormented by dreams of the end times. His writings have provided some intriguing glimpses of this ‘man of perdition.’ He will be left-handed, bear a scar from a childhood accident, and have ‘eyes the color of ash.’ Bacon supposedly invented gunpowder—or at least improved upon the Chinese formula for it—in an effort to reconstruct Adamic science, which he said humankind lost during the Fall in the Garden of Eden. He said it was the only way to defeat Antichrist.”
“Does Scaramuzzi have those physical traits?” asked Alicia.
“He does,” Ambrosi said, nodding. “But even if he did not, he would find a way to turn the prophecies to his favor or discredit them.”
Brady asked, “Is the Bible itself as specific in identifying Antichrist?”
“Specific, yes. But Scripture is more difficult to interpret because of its language. It sometimes sounds vague because God wrote it to last millennia, regardless of the culture pressing on the mind of the person reading it. It transcends time, geography, society.”
“God wrote it?” Alicia questioned.
“God breathed His word into the men who did write it. That’s the way He often works. Through us. Or through what we would call nature.”
He stopped at an intersection of passageways and turned. The light bounced off the floor to fill his eye sockets with shadows. He smiled past Brady to Alicia.
“Scientists now say the parting of the Red Sea, which allowed six hundred thousand Jews to escape Egypt, was entirely possible because of a reef that extends from one shore to the other. Four miles of reef. They say if the wind had blown sixty-seven miles per hour, it would have cleared the reef of water for travel on foot. Imagine that. This way.”
He took off down a different corridor.
After about ten yards, Brady said, “Who are these people watching for Antichrist?”
“They are the God-fearing souls who want to brace themselves for the troubled times the appearance of Antichrist promises. They are well intended, but I wish I could say to them, ‘Just live for God and you will always be braced.’ Then there are the intellectually curious, who will delight in seeing prophecy unfold, even if they have not cast their spiritual lots with one side or the other.”
He stepped into a square room the size of a single-car garage. Corridors branched off into three walls. An opening in the fourth wall showed stairs bending and climbing out of sight. Ambrosi started up.
It was a wide, circular stairway, wrapping around a pillar of stacked stones. Up they went, around and around, until the cardinal stopped on a small landing. Beside him was a wooden door, whose deep grain conjured in Brady’s mind a castle’s drawbridge, heavy and old.
“We will continue up, but I thought you would like to see where you are.”
He pulled back an iron bolt, and the door swung outward. A great rush of fresh air swooped in on them, carrying the fragrance of wood and pulp. Electric light filled the space. Leaning out with the door, Ambrosi made room for Brady and Alicia.
They were looking into a room that was identical to the rooms they could see from the desk of the archive secretary. In fact, through an open door opposite them were those very rooms. This room, however, was furnished as an office. Bookcases. Filing cabinets. And from behind a big desk, Monsignor Vretenar stared at them, his jaw unhinged.
Ambrosi said, “Buona sera, Monsignor Vretenar.”
Vretenar dipped his head. “Your Eminence.”
Alicia waggled her fingers at him like a schoolgirl.
Ambrosi pulled the door closed. He headed up the stairs.
In the gloom, Brady could barely make out Alicia’s grin.
They followed the stairs up and around. Shortly, long slits in the outer wall admitted the sun, and Ambrosi switched off the flashlight. They reached another landing and another door. Brady noted, however, that the stairs did not continue. This was their highest point, their destination. Ambrosi unlocked the door with a key and pushed it open. They stepped into a larg
e, round chamber. The only light came from slits in the wall, identical to the ones in the stairwell. It had a plank floor. The ceiling was high above them, beyond cobwebbed rafters. Metal hooks were affixed to the wall at head height; a gas Coleman lantern hung from each.
Ambrosi swung the door shut. Dust motes puffed into the air and swirled in the shafts of light like miniature galaxies.
“My tower,” he said. “Would you mind?” He held out his lighter to Brady and indicated the lanterns.
Brady walked around the room, lighting each lantern. Five of them.
Two crescent-shaped tables sat on opposite sides of the room. Each was stacked high with books and loose papers. Under them were wooden crates packed with documents. Bookcases lined the walls where there wasn’t a table, a window, or a lantern. In the center of the room was a peculiar table, the likes of which Brady had never seen before. It was large, stout, and shaped like a doughnut. In the open space at its center sat a high-backed chair, scuffed and old. Papers of all sorts filled the table’s surface—maps, photographs, drawings, handwritten manuscripts, pages torn from magazines and newspapers; some were white and crisp, freshly printed, others were yellowing and crumbling with age. Only a two-foot section of the table was bare, where the work surface hinged up, allowing access to the chair.
Ambrosi noticed Brady’s scrutiny. “I’m told this was St. Francis of Assisi’s writing desk,” he said. “It allows messy researchers like me a chance to spread our work out without being too far from any of it.”
“What do you research?” Alicia asked, leaning over an ancient-looking document resting on the table. The florid script was foreign. In each of its corners was a highly detailed drawing of an execution: a person being burned by fire at a stake, a beheading on a tree stump, a body whose arms and legs were tied to horses running in opposite directions, and a person being hurled off a cliff by a hooded figure.
“Antichrist, of course,” he said plainly.