2006 - Eye of the Banker

[Calder]

EYE OF THE BANKER
By STUART SLADE

Pizza Zarathustra, Via Delle Fornaci 11, Rome.

"Pizza!" Angel dived at her freshly-delivered pie and grabbed a slice. Her enthusiasm was apparent and brought satisfied smiles to the staff of Pizza Zarathusa. Meanwhile the waiters were unloading dishes for the other members of the party. It was one of the oddities of living with Angel around that in places like Pizza restaurants, she always had her own meal while others took slices, family-style, from shared plates. Angel was very territorial where food was concerned, something that Achillea had warned Lagertha about. Do not, under any circumstances, try and sneak food from Angel's plate if you want to keep your fingers intact. She does not understand that doing so is a prank.

"What kind did you order, Angel?" Conrad was smiling beatifically. He had gone to a lot of trouble to find the best pizza restaurant in Rome and had settled on Pizza Zarathustra after hours of research. The sight of Angel's obvious delight at the results made him feel warm and fulfilled. He guessed, of course, that Achillea had also tipped Angel off on his efforts and told her that a display of excitement and happiness would be a proper response. It was not something that Angel could possibly have known by herself. On the other hand, the fact that she had gone to the trouble of finding out what the correct response was and simulating it was a response all of its own.

"Goats cheese and mozzarella/provolone blend with garlic, olives, green peppers and basil. Here, try a slice. You too, Lagertha."

“That makes you an official member of the club.” Achillea informed Lagertha.

"Thank you." Lagertha gave Angel a dazzling smile and took one of the corner slices. "This is good; I'd never thought of using goat's cheese on a pizza before. Are you a vegetarian?"

Angel snorted. "No, it's just I know who goes into processed meat like salami and pepperoni. I try not to eat people I've done business with."

“Is that a moral scruple I hear?” Conrad took one of the smaller slices of Angel’s pizza and tried a bite. It was indeed extremely good. Angel actually had very good taste where pizza was concerned.

“No. It’s just mostly they were very bad people and I don’t want to get food poisoning.” That caused a round of laughter and the party was off to a great start.

The group of three women and one man around the table was quickly becoming popular with the wait staff. They were the sort of party every restaurant dreams of, obviously happy and thoroughly enjoying themselves yet not doing so noisily enough to disturb other diners. They were already beginning to bring in additional trade as people glanced through the windows, saw them having a good time and decided the restaurant was worth trying out. The staff were also playing the traditional waiter’s game of giving the party appropriate nicknames. The man was easy. He was obviously a priest despite being dressed in secular clothes. Nobody could run a restaurant a few hundred yards from the Vatican without recognizing a priest although what a priest was doing in a party with three ladies was the subject of amused speculation. He was, of course, Il Prete, the Priest. The blonde Scandinavian woman was equally easy, she was La Bella, the beautiful one. That left the other two women and there, things got difficult. They were both very hard to classify. Neither was classically beautiful and both had a menacing aura around them. The Chinese woman in particular might be laughing and cheerful but the laugh and smiles never touched her eyes and those cold, murderous eyes never stopped scanning the room. She was also carrying two guns in shoulder holsters, something unusual in Italy. Eventually it was the look in her eyes that decided the staff. She was La Rabbiosa, the rabid one.

The fourth woman, obviously Italian, was similar yet also subtly and strangely different. Her eyes were equally dead but they were also oddly calm. Eventually, after some discussion, the waitress servicing their table had come up with La Guerra, the warrior and it was adopted.

Eventually, despite the offer of a free carafe of house wine to stay a little longer, the group left. The staff regretted their departure, not least because La Bella had picked up the tab and the tip she had left was exceedingly generous. They didn’t know that was because the Sacred Congregation for Extraordinary Ecclesiastical Affairs was really paying the check and Lagertha sincerely believed the Pontificate could afford it. However, they consoled themselves with the thought that the group would be back tomorrow. Once people tried Pizza Zarathustra’s products, they always came back for more.

"It's only two miles, Conrad and we've got an hour. We can walk that." Achillea had her map and the tickets for the evening tour of the Flavian Amphitheater. Conrad and Lagertha were in Rome on business and Angel was along to make sure Conrad stayed safe. Achillea had originally come to Rome for one purpose only and that was to see the newly excavated layer of the hypogeum under the Flavian Amphitheater. She had very personal connections with the complex underneath the arena, ones that had made her ignore the advice never to go back to somewhere she had loved.

"After all that pizza?" Conrad made the protest weakly. He had long learned the problems inherent in being in the company of a group of extremely fit, and apparently young, women. "Can't we get a taxi?"

"We won't all fit, you know that. We promise we won’t run." Achillea and Angel were entirely capable of sprinting the two miles just for the exercise and, despite the sultry heat, probably wouldn’t even break into a sweat doing so. Lagertha's Scandinavian ancestry meant she felt the heat more than them but she was perfectly able to keep up. "We'll just take a nice leisurely walk. It's a beautiful evening."

"Will you be meeting up with Professore Castricone when we get there?" Conrad was trying to distract the conversation from the subject of running all the way to the Flavian. All three of his companions were highly competitive and regarded losing at anything as a personal humiliation. It wouldn’t require much to see them taking off like greyhounds.

"Frediano? No. He's still in Naples." Achillea had been working with Professor Frediano Castricone for almost a year on the archeological dig in the Flavian. He was one of the small but steadily-increasing number of people who knew the secret of the long-lived and he'd found Achillea's help invaluable. After all, piecing together fragmentary historical records was one thing, speaking to somebody who had actually been there was another.

“You have to be careful about that you know.” Lagertha was looking at him carefully. “It’s something we’re going to have to get used to, telling the short-lifers about what we have seen and heard. We have to remember that when we do that, there are really three people present, the person we are talking to, the person we are now and the person we were then. Look at 'Lea here. Back then, a solid mass of muscle. Now, running to fat."

That did it. Lagertha and Achillea took off, sprinting down the pavement that was, fortunately, clear since this was the time when all good Italians were eating. Angel watched them departing and chuckled. "I was wondering how long that would take."

"I was expecting you to follow them." Conrad looked around and hailed a taxi.

"They can look after themselves. You can't. So I stay with you." It never occurred to Angel that the comment could be considered insulting and normally she wouldn’t care if it was. Conrad, on the other hand, knew that there was no malice in her statement and that it was true. Compared with his three companions, two of whom had just vanished around a corner at full sprint, he was incapable of defending himself. On the other hand, with Angel around, he knew he would never have to.

The taxi pulled up and he slid into the back seat. Angel slid in after him, having carefully but unobtrusively checked out the driver and the vehicle. That check included having a close look at the doors to make sure that the handles were in place and they could be opened easily. It was something she did without needing to think about it. "What is it with those two anyway? 'Lea and I don’t have this constant one-upping."

Conrad smiled at that. "A part of it is that Lagertha and 'Lea are too much alike. Both are primarily warriors and their skills are directly competitive. You and 'Lea aren't. Your skills are complementary so you work together in harmony. There’s more to it than that though. You’ve heard, I assume, that there’s a feud between The Seer and Loki? Well, Lagertha does for Loki what you do for Suriyothai and Achillea does for the Seer. In the case of Lagertha and Achillea that often puts them on opposite sides even though they manage to keep it peaceful. Since Suriyothai and The Seer are on the same page most of the time, that’s another thing that doesn’t worry you two."

"Sometimes I’m glad my brain doesn’t work that way. We’re getting backed up. With this traffic, they could beat us there. There they are, look. 'Lea's winning."

Conrad watched the two women wending their way through the foot traffic. "She's already worked out how to do it. She's in jeans and a blouse, Lagertha, a business suit. And 'Lea's taken the shade and is making Lagertha run in the sun. Combine more suitable attire, greater tolerance for heat and humidity plus taking possession of the shade and 'Lea's got a winning edge. She always has of course."

"Mi scusi signore, but you know the two ladies running a race? In this weather, they must be quite mad." The taxi-driver shook his head sadly. In his eyes, the runners were courting heatstroke by moving anywhere at anything other than a slow walk.

"Oh yes." Angel watched them and shook her head. "Quite mad."

The Flavian Amphitheater, Rome

Achillea was lounging against a wall when the taxi finally pulled up. A few feet away, Lagertha was flushed red and was bending over with her hands resting on her knees and gasping for breath. Conrad looked at the scene and shook his head. "I saw how you did that 'Lea."

Achillea laughed. "Lagertha has always had a problem; she's hot-headed and rushes into things. Then she has to spend a lot of time and effort working her way out of them. She never understands that planning and preparation prevents piss-poor performance."

Lagertha looked up and said something, primarily in Old Norse but with several other languages mixed in. The tirade sounded quite impressive but the only recognizable words were 'you bitch'. In the background, Conrad and Angel exchanged glances; the genuine hostility from Lagertha towards Achillea had been quickly hidden but they had both caught it.

Achillea shook her head sadly. “Obviously you do not know me very well, since there are so many other faults you could have mentioned".

“Epicetus?” Conrad thought he recognized the quotation but couldn’t pin it down.

“Got it. From the Enchiridion via Dottore of course.” Achillea went over to a roadside stand to buy a dozen half-liter bottles of water. She handed one each out "We'll need this. Drying out is pretty easy in a Roman summer. You two took your time getting here."

"I'll carry the spares." Conrad made the offer, knowing that Angel always kept her hands free unless she was feeling very secure and that was rare. Achillea wasn't quite so dogmatic about the issue but she felt the same way. "Traffic was bad and we got held up on the bridge. I think you got way ahead of us there."

"I think so. That's our guide over there. This should be fun." Achillea paused. “You’d better drink another bottle, Lagertha, you’re not looking too good. All that sitting behind a desk has left you out of condition.”

There were a total of twelve people in the party visiting the recent excavations, all of whom had paid very large fees for the private access to the area. They had gathered inside the Flavian Amphitheater, close to a set of stairs that led downwards towards the hypogeum. Professor Castricone had published a theory in a learned archeology journal that there was a walled up staircase leading down to a sub-hypogeum level and made a good enough case for the authorities to bring in a ground-penetrating radar. It had shown that his theory was perfectly correct. Quite apart from anything else, that had resulted in Professor Castricone having absolute confidence in the information he was getting from Achillea. Everything was exactly where she said it had been. In doing so, a lot of established theories had been overturned. A lot more were about to be; there was a third layer underneath the recently-excavated one that would be ‘discovered’ in a few months’ time.

“Everybody, be very careful going down the stairs. Please use the ropes to hold on to and try not to steady yourself by putting your hands on the walls. Also, please do not take flash photographs of the sub-hypogeum. The level was deliberately filled and walled off during one of the periodic reconstructions of the Colosseum and the relics down here are in perfect condition. So, we keep the light levels as low as is safe to prevent fading and discoloration.” The guide paused melodramatically. “And so we are stepping two thousand years back into the past.”

At the foot of the stairs, the guide counted her party and ticked off the number at the appropriate point of the tour. “I am Doctor Camelia Manna and I study medieval art at the Sapienza Università di Roma, a collegiate research university. Now, the first thing we can see around us are these small rooms. We believe these are storage rooms used for the props, food for the animals here and everything else needed to run the Colosseum.”

In the background, Achillea caught Conrad’s eye and shook her head. She had a list of her own and Camelia Manna was already accumulating crosses, not ticks. Validating the tours being given to potential donors was one objective for her visit although only Professor Castricone knew how well-qualified she was to do that. Meanwhile, one of the tour party had raised a hand. “What are the stone slabs in those rooms? The ones by the wall.”

“Oh, they’re just work benches.” Achillea’s sigh was audible.

Dr Manna was still speaking. “A particularly interesting thing is the square on the floor here. In a gladiatorial match, the two contestants would stand in a box like this with referees on either side. Those referees would be responsible for ensuring that all the blows struck were legal and that they were only inflicted on the allowed parts of the body. Also, if the contestants put a foot out of the box they were disqualified.”

Achillea couldn’t stand it anymore. “How did a retiarus fight a secutor then?”

Dr. Manna stopped. “I am sorry?”

“A retiarus, the gladiator with a net and trident. How would he fight a secutor armed with a shield and sword if he couldn’t move? Given the size of this box, he couldn’t even swing his net and the secutor is already inside the points of the trident.”

The audience got Achillea’s point instantly and it was glaringly obvious she was right. Dr. Manna was looking around trying to find an explanation but couldn’t. As a result, she was scowling at Achillea, something that Achillea found greatly amusing. That was when light dawned on Achillea. “Ahh, I know what’s wrong with what you are trying to tell us. In Roman times boxers, didn’t move around the way they do now. They just stood still and swung punches at each other. There’s a statue in the Roman History Museum up by Via Nazionale that shows the results beautifully. It’s worth going there just for that. Wrestlers too. They didn’t move around, just grabbed hold and tried to throw their opponent. Today it’s called Greco-Roman wrestling. You’re confusing boxers and wrestlers with gladiators. They’re very different things.”

“No, they aren’t.” Dr. Manna was furious. “They’re all the same. I don’t want to talk about this. I’m not going to expose people to a culture of violence.”

Achillea shook her head. Dr. Manna wasn’t making any kind of sense. “You’re in the wrong place to do that. The Flavian Amphitheater is built on violence; it oozes out of the stones and comes bubbling out of the sand. We’re surrounded by it and breathing it in.”

“Who are you? Have you ever been down here before?”

“I’m Professor Castricone’s associate. And yes, I’ve been down here a lot.” Achillea carefully didn’t say that had been two thousand years ago. “This isn’t a training box, not in the way you think. Big thing about being a gladiator, no matter whether one was a Secutor, a Murmilles, a Retiarus or a Thracis, was avoiding getting hit. So the Gladiator would stand in that box and everybody would try to hit him with sticks. He – or she, there really were women gladiators - would have to evade the blows.”

“I would have thought that, for the money we paid, we’d get a guide who knew what she was talking about.” One of the tour members looked around noting the support he was getting. “Ma’am, you seem to know what’s what down here. Could I implore you to take over?”

Achillea was reluctant, in all her long life acting as a tour guide was something she hadn’t really done before. On the other hand, she had never worked on an exhibition stand until a year or so earlier. “All right, fortunately, I’ve been doing a lot of work on this although I've never taken a tour party around before. So, please, be gentle with me. It’s my first time.”

The laughter echoed around the stone walls, suddenly seeming to bring the Hypogeum to life. For a moment, Achillea saw it the way it had been, its walls brightly colored, the corridors filled with people all working hard to make sure the crowd had a good time. They had been laughing and swapping lewd jokes, cheering the famous gladiators, encouraging the newcomers, passing the latest news from the arena above. Despite the atmosphere of violence and death, this had been a happy place for the staff and the professionals. For the prisoners who had been sent to die here, not so much. Then, the sights faded away and the hypogeum was, once more, shadowed, colorless and silent.

“All right, let’s start with those small rooms. They’re not storage rooms. You all know that most gladiators were slaves? Well, they used to be brought here the night before the show and they’d stay in these rooms until their match. They’d have food brought to them, wine as well, and anything else they wanted, within reason of course. They could have a girl if they wanted one and most of the men did. Some of the women too. But, look at the opening for the door, see it can be locked from the outside? They’re slaves remember, they get locked in. Now look at these door openings. See, no lock. Why?”

Achillea looked around. The man who had co-opted her had a triumphant expression on his face. “Because these gladiators weren’t slaves!”

“Right! Well done, Sir. Not all gladiators were slaves. Some, called Liberi, were free men, and occasionally free women, who voluntarily took up the life of a gladiator. It was called following the laws of blood and sand. Sometimes they volunteered to pay off debts or for the thrills. Sometimes just to make money. A good gladiator could make a healthy living as long as they didn’t get killed. Before you ask, the odds were fairly good they would survive. We think these small but unlocked rooms were for the Liberi. Then there were the Rudiarii. These were gladiators who had won their freedom in the Arena but had elected to stay on there. After all, if one has spent one’s life learning how to fight and kill, what else can one do?” I’ve been asking myself that question for two thousand years. “They were the superstars of the day with their own fan-clubs and admirers. According to their status, they got the larger rooms, unlocked of course. Those stone slabs you asked about? Actually, they are beds. If one knows how to sleep on one, they are comfortable enough. Watch.”

Achillea went into one of the rooms, one reserved for the Rudiarii, and swung on to the slab. Even after all the centuries that had passed, her body remembered how to fit the subtle dips and hollows that had been made in the surface. “There you are. Spread a thick rug or fur over the stone, fold up your clothes to rest your head on and good for the night. Split into threes and then come in. I’ll show you something that isn't on the official tours yet. Think of yourself waiting in this room, knowing tomorrow you’ll have to fight for your life. What do you do? Well, everybody wants to be remembered, somehow, so most of the gladiators scratched their names on the walls. In the small rooms, for the slaves and the Liberi, the names are all on top of each other and mostly illegible but in the rooms set aside for the Rudiarii, there are many fewer and most of them are still clear. Come in, three by three, and you can see the marks the Rudiarii who used this room made. They’ve been perfectly preserved. There’s graffiti and wall-art as well. Some quite naughty. After all, boys will be boys.”

The visitors came in and solemnly inspected the names and graffiti, the pictures causing the women there to flush and giggle. The last group of three to enter the Rudiarius room was Angel, Lagertha and Conrad. Achillea said nothing but pointed up at one corner of the wall, over the stone bed. There, scratched in the stone using crude block capitals, looking old but still very clear, was the single word “Akilia.”

[Calder]

Chapter Two
Sacred Congregation for Extraordinary Ecclesiastical Affairs, Vatican City.

"You know, that used to be the most beautiful painting I have ever seen." Conrad pointed at the fresco tucked away under the main stairs. It was a simple picture of a woman looking down on her baby with love streaming from her eyes and her husband looking proudly down on her. "The Adoration of the Madonna by Rafael. I could stand here and look down on it for hours."

"Why?" Angel looked at the painting. To her it seemed flat and lifeless. In her opinion, she'd seen better wall-paintings on the derelict buildings flanking Mott Street.

"It was once an exquisite example of Rafael's art. Experts call Rafael the master of light and color and it is true. This painting was his masterpiece, even he regarded it as such. The way the light shines on the Madonna's face, and that of Joseph, the way the face of the Holy Infant is illuminated without appearing to be so. Every time I would stare at it, I would see new details, new examples of the mastery that was Rafael's great gift."

"What happened?" Angel had dropped her voice, aware that Conrad was speaking in terms that revealed just how long he had been alive.

"A German SS Commando fired an assault rifle at it until it was completely gone. Not even fragments left. One of tens of thousands of works of art destroyed in the War. It was repainted from photographs after the War but without the genius of Rafael to mastermind it, well this is a poor imitation."

"Better a poor imitation than nothing at all." The voice from behind them sounded unconvinced.

"Holiness, it has been too long." Conrad looked at Conti di Segni, once known as Pope Innocent III, and who was now head of the Orders Committee of the Sacred Congregation for Extraordinary Ecclesiastical Affairs.

"It has indeed. Welcome back to Vatican City, Achillea." Conti di Segni looked at Angel. "And you must be Angel. Welcome to Vatican City."

"Thank you . . . . Holiness?"

Conrad nodded quickly and explained who Conti di Segni was. That made Angel raise an eyebrow. The fact that Conrad was a member of the Orders Committee, effectively making him part of the Vatican's secret service had never occurred to her. "This must be important if you bring us all the way from Bangkok to here."

"It is. Very. Come with me and we'll tell you what is happening. You are carrying your guns, Angel?"

"Of course."

"I'll tell the Swiss Guards they should be allowed through. Your weapons too, Achillea. Normally, armed visitors must leave their weapons behind. You are different, of course. Conrad, we have two battalions of Swiss Guards now. What happened here once must never happen again."

"What happened to Julian Hüber?"

"He passed away, aged 94 and surrounded by his children, grandchildren and great grandchildren. Leaving an honored name and a reputation those who follow after him strive to equal. We have new offices here, Conrad. The old Borgia apartments got to be too cramped."

"Borgias?" Angel sounded surprised. "I thought they were characters in a TV show?"

Conti di Segni couldn't help laughing. "They were very real. Conrad and I both knew Cesare and Lucretia. Achillea and Lillith too. Cesare was a much-wronged character, Lucretia, not so much."

"Naamah's pupil." Conrad explained and watched Angel give an ‘Oh’ expression. “Cesare was a true man of the Cinquecento, for good and for bad. He could have accomplished so much more than he did. He could have achieved almost anything but in the end succeeded in nothing and died in a pointless skirmish.”

Conti di Segni was taking them up the great spiral staircase. Angel looked at the pits in the wall and the long scars, recognizing them instantly as bullet holes and the slashes of fragments. “There was a hell of a firefight in here once. Who won?”

“We did.” Conti di Segni was abrupt. “Conrad and I were both here at the time.”

“And I wish that you’d been here with me Angel. We desperately needed a good gunfighter that night.” Conti di Segni, remembering the highly skilled commandos with automatic weapons, raised his eyebrow at Conrad’s comment so he enlarged upon it. “Angel is the best there is. If she’d got into this room when Bauer and his men were here, not one of them would have survived. I’ve seen her do very much the same thing, most recently a few months ago. And saving my life and that of some others in the process.”

Achillea’s nod of agreement struck Conti di Segni silent. This was the first time he had met Angel and knew her only from her fearful reputation. Achillea, he knew well and trusted her judgment. When she said Angel could clear a roomful of armed men, he took it seriously. When he resumed, it was in a different and quieter tone. “These are our new offices. You probably remember this area as the library of proscribed books, Conrad.”

Once they had taken their seats, Conti di Segni picked up the telephone and made a brief three-word report. “They are here.” Then, he looked at his guests. “His Holiness will be coming right down. He will explain the problems we face.”

Pope John XXIV reminded Angel very much of Conrad. Not so much from his physical appearance but from the aura that seemed to surround him. Conti de Segni, Lillith, Achillea and Conrad kissed his ring. He stretched out his hand to Angel but she gave him a wai instead.

“Angel has a very strongly phobia about touching people or being touched.” Conrad explained.

“I understand.” His Holiness smiled at her. “Do you and Conrad know why I have asked you all here?”

Angel shook her head. “Being who you are, I would think you are sending us on a search for the Holy Grail.”

There was an explosion of laughter at that, one that confused Angel greatly. His Holiness wiped his eyes and shook his head. “Not really, firstly there are several Holy Grails and secondly we know where the survivors are. The Chief Rabbi has one. Every time there is a new Pope, he brings it to me. There’s an old document inside. The tradition is that I take it out, read it, shake my head and hand it back. When I took office, we decided to have it translated so we could see what the old tradition was all about.”

“What was it?” Angel was wary, well aware she was being fed a line.

“The bill for the Last Supper.”

There was another peal of laughter around the room. Angel obeyed her own rules and joined in. “That’s terrible.”

Conrad looked soulfully at Angel. "Angel, please don't shoot the Pope. Not even for that joke."

Entering into the spirit of the situation, Angel put on her best 'I'm confused' look. "Why not?"

"Because this is the Holy Church and it is a bureaucracy that you would never believe until you see it at work. If you did, I would be filling out paperwork for at least four years. I've only just finished the last lot and I still get writer's cramp, every night." Conti di Segni had a vested interest in dissuading Angel from homicide. Having had one Pope dying a highly suspicious death in recent years was quite enough.

"Excuse me, but I really would prefer not to get shot." Pope John XXIV spoke mildly. His pontificate was already well-known for its friendly, good-humored informality, a stark contrast with his predecessor. Pope John XXIV was not known as "the peacemaker" for nothing. "Do I get a say in this?"

"Not really." Angel was still deadpan. "Very few people do."

"I'd vote no as well." Conti di Segni shook his head. "Losing one Pope is unfortunate, losing two might be regarded as careless."

"Was Urban IX really murdered?" Lillith had arrived in Rome early that morning, after a three-hour flight from Washington. She'd spent the flight reading documentation on The Institute for the Works of Religion and its unhealthy relationship with the Banco Ambrosiano and come to the conclusion that there was a distinct odor of The Trust about the Banco Ambrosiano.
"We are reasonably certain His Eminence was poisoned." Conti di Segni took a deep breath before carrying on. "He had started a major review and reorganization of Vatican finances. He was coming to the conclusion that the Banco Ambrosiano was heavily involved in organized crime . . ."

"I don't think so." Angel was very firm on that point. "I'll check it for you but it would really surprise me if they did. Not from the organized crime side of things anyway. The Triads have our own banking system and it'll have nothing to do with anybody who isn't Chinese. The Bratya have their own banks as well and they don't trust anybody outside their own ranks either. That's part of their Thieves’ Law. The Mafia and its equivalents use Cuba of course and the banking network centered there. If the Banco Ambrosiano was involved in something, we were nothing to do with it."

The 'we' caused a moment's silence. It was easy to forget just how important Angel had become in her world. In addition to her position as the 14K Triad Vanguard, responsible for planning and directing the operations of the 14K as a whole, she was also on very good terms with the Russian Mafiya and the government of Cuba. It was also easy to forget that only ten years before, she had been a semi-literate street thug whose sole claims to fame were great skill at killing people and a complete lack of reluctance to do so. Her rapid rise through the Triad ranks had started when she had teamed up with Conrad. Despite her lack of any formal education she had always been an astute tactical planner, and now she was getting lessons from Suriyothai and the Seer in thinking strategically. She was proving to be an adept pupil. Yet, despite her terrifying reputation for ruthless homicide, she was slowly steering the organizations she worked with away from violent crime and into more peaceful, if no less criminal, rackets,

"Poison. We need Naamah here." Lillith moved to fill the awkward gap. "I'll send a comail to get her over. The fact that organized crime groups aren't involved makes it all the more likely that The Trust are. It also explains why, of course. After we smacked them around three or four times, they're scared stiff of facing off against the Triads in particular. So, they're trying to find new areas and modes of operation that don't have that risk."

"The Trust?" The Pope was being moved into areas of which his knowledge was almost non-existent. At times, when meditating, he had reflected that there was so much that people just didn't know. Like the existence of the long-lived for example. When Conti di Segni had explained that there were a tiny number of people who didn't die of 'natural causes', and that the Church had amiable and cooperative relations with them, he had had a crisis of belief over the revelation.

"The Trust is descended from a group of third-tier businessmen in America who were caught unprepared by the introduction of anti-trust regulations and went underground in an effort to preserve their operations. That made them an organized crime operation in a way, although I suspect that both they and Angel would resent the description." Lillith had intimate knowledge of the Trust's finances and had spent the last few years analyzing the information available on them. "Essentially, they are the modern equivalent of bandit gangs who would sack and pillage entire towns and cities in the middle ages."

"It seems hard to believe that such things can happen in the modern age." Pope John had the weakness of all good men who sought only the benefit of his fellow men. He could not comprehend how anybody would have objectives that differed from that. He was acutely conscious of the number of different routes that could lead to the desired goal of improving the lot of humanity but those who did not share that aim, or actively opposed it, were beyond his comprehension.
"New York, a decade ago now. Glasgow a couple of years back." Lillith looked over at the Pontiff. "Achillea and Igrat sorted the first out, Achillea and Angel the second. Then there was the Paradigm Oil affair. Angel and Conrad put a stop to that one."

"To be fair, Lillith was the one who punished them." Angel was still in awe as to how much financial damage could be wreaked on an enemy by the use of telephones and banking maneuvers. Watching Lillith destroy a company had been one of the factors that had led her to understand that the old days of street crime, and by extension her own part in that environment, were over. "$16 billion in less than 24 hours."

"If what we suspect about the Banco Ambrosiano is true, then we could be looking at a similar level of fiscal irregularity." The Pontiff was deeply concerned about the financial losses but even more so about the damage that could be done to the reputation of the Holy Church. That reputation was already under siege and much of his time was being taken by the need for damage control. “The problem is the association that exists between the Institute for the Works of Religion, the IOR, but commonly known as the Vatican Bank and the Banco Ambrosiano. The IOR is a private bank founded by papal decree of Pope Pius XII in June 1942. It is situated inside Vatican City and run by a Board of Superintendence which reports to a Supervisory Commission of Cardinals and thus to the Pontificate. The IOR is regulated by the Vatican's financial supervisory body but its assets are not the property of the Holy See, and therefore it is outside the jurisdiction of the Prefecture for the Economic Affairs of the Holy See.”

Lillith was taking notes; now she looked up questioningly. “That’s a highly anomalous position and one that entails a lot of risk. If I was auditing your books, there would be a huge red cross against that.”

“I know. I am trying to reform the whole financial organization right now. My predecessor, Urban IX, tried to do the same and was poisoned for his trouble. At the beginning of this year, our financial authorities renegotiated the monetary agreement between ourselves and Italy. This transposed Italian legislation on counterfeiting and money laundering as the only legislation affecting such activities. It will be the first of a series of changes that will make the activities of the IOR much more transparent. I expect an assassination attempt at any time.”

“If they rely on poison again, that will be very hard to stop. Naamah always says that its impossible to stop a first-class poisoner.” Lillith shook her head. “Let me guess, you want me to do a forensic examination of the books of the Vatican Bank and try and get a handle on what is going on over there?”

“That is correct. Lagertha here will also look into the legal side of this, Conrad will use his skills to work out what is really going on while Achillea and Angel, and Naamah when she gets here of course, try and keep us all alive.”

Angel was looking at Lagertha when His Holiness said that and she caught the quick flash of anger in her ice-blue eyes. Conrad had caught it as well and he exchanged glances with Angel.

“I need to have a look at the books of Banco Ambrosiano as well. As far as I have been able to work out, over the last five years, the Banco Ambrosiano has expanded its interests to include a number of off-shore companies in the Bahamas and South America, acquired a controlling interest in the Banca Cattolica del Veneto and transferred funds for the publishing house Rizzoli to finance the Corriere della Sera newspaper. The latter transaction also appears to have involved the Vatican Bank. Ambrosiano has also provided funds for political parties in Italy and was involved in the Falklands War between Argentina and Great Britain back in ’82. Yet, details on recent transactions and cash movements are really sparse.”

“1982.” Angel sounded very thoughtful.

“The date has some significance?” Conti di Segni had been aware of the slowly-developing war against The Trust but its specifics hadn’t been obvious to him.

“It keeps coming up when we run into a situation where The Trust is involved. The problems in New York and Glasgow both started about that time.” Angel was thoughtful for a second. “I wonder if their leadership changed about then and the new leaders started the current wreck and loot policy?”

“That’s a good thought, Angel. I’ll check to see who in the financial world died then. Anyway, back to Banco Ambrosiano. They have been using their complex network of overseas banks and companies to move money out of Italy, to inflate share prices, and to obtain massive unsecured loans. Anybody who tries to investigate those movements gets something very unpleasant happening to them. For example, the Bank of Italy produced a report on Ambrosiano that led to criminal investigations. However, soon afterward the investigating Milanese magistrate, Alessandrini, was killed, allegedly by a terrorist group, while the Bank of Italy official who superintended the inspection, Mario Sarcinelli, found himself imprisoned on charges that were later dismissed.”

“I’m glad you said ‘allegedly’.” Angel looked around. “Alessandrini and Sarcinelli were both contract hits although the latter didn’t work out that way. I was offered both of them, at five times my usual rate and turned them down. I didn’t know why, in fact only now do I realize what was going on, but they smelled bad to me. My agent agreed and advised me to refuse the job as well. Come to think of it, I was arrested not long afterwards. I wonder if the two were connected?”

“Thank the Gods for your instincts.” Lillith raised her eyes reverently. “The thought of you, Angel, working for The Trust even inadvertently, is terrifying. As for a connection, I think that is very probable. The Trust valued its secrecy very highly and they might have seen you turning down their contract as a sign you knew more about them than you should. So, they tried to get rid of you. Now they are aware you are still alive, you can expect them to try again.”

“Bring it on.” Angel murmured the words quietly to herself.

[Calder]

Chapter Three
Hotel Saturnalia, Via Nazionale, Rome

John Mason had collected the package waiting for him at the hotel reception and, having opened it cautiously, settled down to read the contents. The first word of the file in front of him put a chill of apprehension through him. It read, quite simply, ANGEL. Underneath, in lower case type, was a more informative paragraph.

Freelance assassin and member of the 14K Triad but acts as an independent operator for a wide variety of organizations. Original area of operations was in the Far East but has now expanded to operate on a worldwide basis. Has close associations with the Thai GKSN, the British MI.5 and police, and the U.S. OSS. Is widely feared and admired throughout the criminal world and large sections of national security agencies. Probably because of her law enforcement relationships, appears to have complete freedom of movement. Has become something of an underworld legend and is known as Hēilóng Shāshǒu or Kokuryū Tokkō both of which mean Black Dragon Slayer. Her preferred weapons are long-slide Beretta 98 pistols chambered for 9x21mm Skoda firing 147-grain full metal jacket bullets.

‘DESCRIPTION: Age about 38 but appears significantly younger. Height 5 ft. 7 in. Slim and extremely fit. Eyes, dark brown or black. Hair blood red kept in a ponytail. Long bangs framing face. Appearance is Chinese with strong European influences including fair skin, expressionless almond-shaped eyes and thin lips. Ears very flat to the head. Completely ambidextrous. Is apparently asexual and has acute phobia over being touched. Self-educated. Has been a professional killer since the age of 12 with some estimates suggesting she has killed over a thousand people. An attempt was made to recruit her at the age of 17, but advances were refused, and it was deemed advisable to silence her over the attempt. Was arrested by the NYPD but attempt to kill her in the police station failed. Put on trial, sentenced to death but legal disputes over death penalty in New York prevented execution. Several attempts to kill her in prison failed, largely due to protection from the Chinese prison community. Disappeared in penal system and was believed dead until resurfaced in Thailand after escape from prison and being forced to flee from States. Travelled extensively in the Far East usually in the company of a renegade priest. These investigations led to the failure of our operation in South East Asia and the destruction of our front company there. Subsequently, she has inflicted severe damage to other operations.

PASSPORTS: As many as she needs including ones conferring Thai diplomatic status.

DISGUISES: None. They are counterproductive in that the myths surrounding her and her association with intelligence and law enforcement organizations give her complete freedom of movement and indemnity from interference. She appears to have groups of admirers (many of whom have inflicted crippling damage on our organization in their own right) and commands the loyalty of powerful pressure groups who give her protection and succor when called upon to do so.

RESOURCES: Considerable but of unknown extent. Travels on various credit cards. Has a numbered account with the Bank de Commerce et Industrie, Geneva, and appears to have no difficulty in obtaining foreign currency when she needs it.

MOTIVATION: It is not common to be confronted with a professional assassin whose identity is so widely known yet is demonstrably successful in this difficult and dangerous career. It is essential to note that the average ‘life’ of a professional assassin is three years yet she has survived in this profession for more than quarter of a century. She owes her survival to an unflinching readiness to kill, in cold blood, victims against whom she has no personal animosity. She is the ultimate example of ‘nothing personal, just business.’

The root of this behavior is believed to be her rape, at the age of twelve, by her father. This particularly brutal act resulted in her developing a cold-blooded desire to avenge herself on all humanity. Her preference for using guns also comes from their ability to strike home from long range. For her, possession of a gun and the skill to use it enormously augments her personal power and extends the radius of her influence and effect a thousand times beyond arm’s length. Since strength resides in the gun, her ability to wield it allows her to engage others without being disadvantaged. Also, given her phobia against being touched that is also undoubtedly a result of her rape, the distance she can place between her and her victims is all the more welcome.

Medical records obtained from the New York State Prison System, state that she is an extreme diagnosed psychopath and this explains her ability to kill those in her way without hesitation. This mental condition also confers other qualities which are self-evident from her career. It is apparent that she has realized who was behind her arrest in New York and is determined to take revenge upon us.

In conclusion, and having regard to the damage she has already wrought upon the profits and personnel of our organization, it has been decided that she should be terminated with the utmost dispatch.

John Mason sat back and carefully considered the document he had just read, noting the offered fee of $250,000. Then he signed it with the note, ‘Contract accepted.”

At that point he found himself wondering if he had just made the worst mistake of his life.

Via Ottaviano Conte di Palombara, Castelmonastero, Outside Rome

“Signora Angel, it is an honor that you have come to see us.” Crescenzo Lucchese had organized some fine red wine and a selection of Italian delicacies for his guest. He and his wife had carefully gone over the provisions made for their guest to ensure that nothing was missing and that Angel would feel she had been given the proper level of respect. “Is the wine to your taste?”

“Very much so, Signor Lucchese. You have been most kind. Please thank your lady for the great care she has so obviously taken on my behalf. So that we may not have any misunderstandings, may I reassure you that my visit to your beautiful city has nothing to do with either of our respective associations. I am here to protect some friends of mine who are assisting his Holiness the Pope in a financial matter. That is all.”

“The relations between the Vatican Bank and the Banco Ambrosiano?” Lucchese sipped at his wine and his smile betrayed happiness. His wife had chosen well. “This indeed needs much investigation. I am pleased your friends have you to look after them. The Banco Ambrosiano has some very unpleasant friends. One might even say uncivilized. When we heard you were coming, we hoped we might ask you for some advice.”

“We, Signor Lucchese?”

“Please, call me Chris. I would very much like us to be friends. ‘We’ are representatives of the Mafia, the 'Ndrangheta and, of course, ourselves of the Camorra. Once we were enemies but when we saw that the key to all our prosperity lay in cooperation, we followed the example of your own associations. We have formed a joint commission and disputes that were once solved by violence are now settled by arbitration. More wine, Signora?”

Angel dipped her head in acknowledgment. “Angel, please. This sounds like you have organized rather well. How may I be of assistance to you?”

“Angel, have you heard of the Banda Della Magliana?”

Angel shook her head. “That is a new one on me.”

“When the Mafia, Camorra and 'Ndrangheta decided to form a cooperative a division of responsibility was negotiated. The Mafia operates in urban areas, the 'Ndrangheta in rural parts of the country and we in the Camorra dealt with international affairs. That is why you are here as my guest of course. We also decided to disengage from street crime and excessive violence on grounds that the risks were too high and the profits too low. We even agreed a scheme to share our profits on an equitable basis. Many of the lowest levels of the original operations were left in the cold by this. Primarily, they were small groups called batterie, each independent and usually containing three or four people, dealing mostly in illegal drugs, street crimes and violent robberies. They deeply resented the change of policy, regarding white collar rackets as 'unmanly' despite their demonstrably greater scope for income."

"We had the same problem." Angel looked back on those days with nostalgia. "We found that if there is an honest and competent police force, a few well-placed telephone calls work wonders without a shot being fired."

"That we should be so lucky . . . . “Suddenly Lucchese's face lit up with realization. "So that is why your associates work with police forces instead of against them! By doing their work of law enforcement with skill and efficiency, they also keep order for you as well and all you and your associates have to do is keep out of their way. Brilliant, masterful! I salute you!"

Lucchese lifted up his glass in a toast and Angel touched her own to it. "It works rather well. Also, it serves to protect our people from ill-treatment should they have the misfortune to be arrested while on business so to speak. When dealing with competent and efficient police, our people are instructed not to resist arrest and surrender any weapons they may have. They do not get assaulted in their cells, they are not fitted up for crimes they did not commit and their cooperation is noted at trial with consequent favorable consideration when sentenced.

"Remarkable! Now, the Banda Della Magliana. Most of the batteries refused to join the new arrangements and went their own way. Some quickly expired, the survivors merging with one of the three main organizations. Some tried to fight in order to protect their turf and made a last stand somewhere. This transitional period was called the Anni di Piombo, the years of lead. By its end, most of the batteries that had refused to be absorbed or retire had been eliminated. Unfortunately, those based in the Magliana district of Rome were not amongst their number. Instead of folding up and fading away, all the batteries in that part of the merged to form a new group. They proved to be extremely violent and showed no hesitation in using bombs or mass shootings to enforce their will."

"Bologna?"

"That was one, yes. The Bologna city police arrested one of their members for selling heroin on the street. Two days later, the Banda Della Magliana planted a bomb in the main railway station, killed 85 people and wounded more than 200. This pattern has been repeated. One journalist wrote a story linking the activities of the Banda Della Magliana to various such terrorist incidents. His 15 year old daughter was kidnapped and tortured for two days before being cut up, while still alive, with a chain saw. The parts of her body were dumped on his doorstep. This was infamous!"

Angel nodded in agreement. "This group sound more like terrorists than criminals. Their actions appear to be aimed more at guaranteeing they can operate with a free hand and establishing a state of terror than making money."

"In their early years, their resources were limited to the sort of income one can expect from low-level street crime. Even the income from their drug dealing was not particularly lucrative. Too low level; the real money as I am sure you know, comes from importing and supplying the street dealers."

"You might very well think so, I could not possibly comment." Angel quoted Sir Humphrey Appleday with secret delight and noted with pleasure how Lucchese had appreciated the reference.

"In the last three or four years, this has changed. Now, the Banda Della Magliana is very well financed indeed and their members are prosperous. They drive Ferraris and wear Rolexes. When I said that the Banco Ambrosiano had uncivilized friends, it was the Banda Della Magliana that I had in mind. The group has always worked on an equal shares for all basis. The income from each batterie is divided equally between the members after they have paid a proportion to the organization as a whole. The members still get their share, or their families do, even when the member is in prison. As such, many low-grade street criminals find this attractive and the Banda is slowly growing in power. As the traditional families have moved up and out of such criminal actions, the Banda Della Magliana is moving in to take our place. With an unprecedented level of violence and terror."

"I don't think we should allow that to continue do you?" Angel smiled politely. "I will think on this problem and see if I can find a solution. If, of course, your cooperative has no objections to me doing so?"

"No objections Signora! When we heard you were going to visit Rome, we were praying that you would volunteer your services as a consultant. We abhor the thought that our beautiful city should be reduced to the state of New York and Glasgow by these people. We would be greatly indebted to the 14K for your assistance in this matter."

"What are friends for?" Angel gave another polite smile, one as carefully faked as all the rest. "Perhaps, when this mess is cleared up, we may sit down in good fellowship and discuss some areas where we might be of mutual assistance?"

Lucchese gave a great sigh of relief. "That would be an excellent idea."

Sacred Congregation for Extraordinary Ecclesiastical Affairs, Vatican City.

"Could you tell me the symptoms, please?" One of the advantages of supersonic air travel was that people could arrive in a country thousands of miles from their homes and be ready to get down to work. Naamah was exploiting that as she started to try and work out what had happened to Pope Urban IX.

"There's not much to tell really." Conti di Segni was distressed as memoires of that night came flooding back. "Thirty three days into the current millennia, Urban IX was found dead in his bed, with a book opened beside him, and the reading light on. According to a Vatican doctor, he probably died around 11 pm of a heart attack. He had gone to bed in a very distressed condition after hearing that several young gangsters had fired upon a group of young people reading L’Unità, the Communist newspaper, outside one of the party’s offices in Rome. One boy was killed while another was seriously wounded. His last words were, "Even the young are killing each other."

"That doesn’t help." Naamah was acerbic.

"Sorry." Conti di Segni was aware he was speaking to somebody who had once been a High Priestess herself as well as being an expert herbalist. "Urban IX did complain of chest pains hours before his death, and the evening before, but paid no attention to it and ordered that his doctor not be called. Then, he suffered a severe pain in his chest for about five minutes around 7:30pm while sitting reciting the vespers in the chapel."

"And still nobody got the doctors in?" Naamah was incredulous. "That's a classic heart attack, a preliminary seizure and then the death blow three or four hours later. You haven't told me anything that even slightly relates to poison."

"Our suspicions were first aroused by his nails. They were very dark with white lines across them."

"Mees' lines. All right, we're getting somewhere. That's indicative of arsenic. The darkness though sounds like congestive heart failure. Those two could be related. A symptom of acute arsenic poisoning is cardiac distress. If he was already suffering from heart trouble, a good dose of arsenic could push him over the edge. It's unusual for arsenic to kill that quickly so a pre-existing heart condition might do it."

"The Vatican doctors agree with your comments but they do add that thallium also has symptoms very similar to arsenic. They point out the previous history of symptoms do conform to thallium."

"Unfortunately, thallium poisoning can also be confused with a wide-range of other illnesses and conditions. The big difference between arsenic and thallium is that the latter is colorless, odorless and tasteless; arsenic smells strongly of garlic and its odor is pervasive. It comes out through the skin and on the breath. Did the doctors note anything like that?"

Conti di Segni shook his head slowly. "We don’t know. His Holiness had fettucine with a garlic alfredo sauce and fried fish for his dinner that evening. The sauce was strongly flavored with garlic since His Holiness preferred it that way. So, although garlic odor was detected, there was a rational explanation for the fact."

"If the skilled poisoner was involved, there would be. The first line of defense against being caught poisoning somebody is to do so in ways that mimic health problems the subject already suffers from. That's why arsenic was such a favorite; its symptoms mimic cholera which was endemic in the old days. I had a rule, if somebody dies from cholera, look at who nursed them very suspiciously. In this case, I'm still inclined to arsenic with thallium as a strong second. As to how, my guess is that it was in the fettucine. That means the kitchens here are infiltrated."

Conti di Segni went white. "That means His Holiness could be assassinated at any time."

"It might mean that he is being assassinated now. Those Mees' lines mean that Urban IX was being fed arsenic in small doses for some time prior to the final blow. That would simulate heart trouble and set the scene for the fatal 'heart attack'. It's quite possible the same preparatory steps are being taken now."

"His Holiness has been feeling unwell in recent weeks. Ever since the plan to reorganize our finances became public in fact. We have redoubled supervision of the kitchens of course and paid extra attention to the activities there but, as you are well aware . . ."

"Nobody can stop a first-class poisoner." Naamah finished off the phrase. "But it is possible to evade them. I hope His Holiness likes Pot-noodles and McDonalds hamburgers because he is going to be living on them."

"Oh dear." Conti di Segni sounded stricken. "Is that really necessary?"

"Thank Angel. She realized that buying pre-packaged or fast food from a different outlet every day does a very good job of evading the dietary poisoning risk. How she stays as slim as she does on a fast-food diet is beyond me but. . . We won’t stop the kitchens here from cooking food though. We'll just slide it out and have it analyzed."

[Calder]

Chapter Four
Sacred Congregation for Extraordinary Ecclesiastical Affairs, Vatican City.

Lillith settled back in her seat and rubbed her eyes. The accounts of the Vatican Bank were spread out before her and she had read through them in painstaking detail. For most people that would have been an unwelcome and tedious task but to Lillith, even the thought of the exercise gave her an all-encompassing glow of positive pleasure. She loved working with accounts; to her numbers were clear and absolute entities that told a specific story. The trick was to spot what that story was. After hours of work, she knew that she had at least a part of the current tale. The words that had exposed it to her were numbers she had circled in red ink in the ledgers. Each represented an irregular transfer from the Vatican Bank to the Banco Ambrosiano. Some had been blindingly obvious, others much more subtle, but no matter how it had been done, the amounts involved were stupendous.

“How bad is it?” Conti di Segni almost wished he didn’t have to hear the answer.

“So far, and there could be much more involved that I haven’t found yet, a total of 4.296 billion dollars has gone walkies in the last twelve months alone. That’s billion with a ‘b’. All of that was transferred from the Vatican Bank to the Banco Ambrosiano in Rome, and from there to Banco Ambrosiano Holding in Luxembourg. From there, it appears to have disappeared. How much is the Roman Catholic Church worth in hard cash?”

Conti di Segni took a deep breath, a very shaky one as the scale of the disaster sank in. The number Lillith had asked for was one of the Church’s most deeply held secrets. “That’s almost impossible to calculate. A lot of the assets are tied up in art and other historical relics that will never, ever be sold. Then there is property here within Vatican City itself and worldwide. We’re the biggest landowner in New York city for example. Or were before the insurrection a few years back.”

“If it’s any help, last year your direct income in traceable cash was 308 million dollars while expenditures were 326.4 million dollars. Yet you showed a surplus of income over expenditure of 27 million dollars.” Lillith smiled happily. “In other words, your accounts don’t make any kind of sense. It also tells me your accountants are excellent at hiding money. Unfortunately for them, they forgot to hide the income from that money. I’ve been cracking company accounts a lot longer than they have and I see things that people usually miss. Also, they haven’t been doing you any favors. The same degree of obscurity has allowed these people to rip you off with near-impunity. I’ve done a ball-park estimate and I believe your convertible wealth, that is the money you could actually raise if you converted all your assets to cash, is around 45 billion dollars.”

The implications of those numbers struck deep into Conti di Segni’s heart. “That means in ten years . . . ”
“The Church will be bankrupt. You’re being systematically cleaned out. This is a typical operation of The Trust. There’s one corrupt organization, the Vatican Bank, that is sucking the life out of a given target, in this case, you. Then, there is a second tier of corruption that sucks that money out of the first and then transfer it deeper into the group. We’ve never been able to find out much about those second-tier groups, not as much as we would like anyway, but it certainly appears that the Banco Ambrosiano is one of them. The good news from your point of view is that so far the cleaning-out operation seems to have only been going on for three or four years. Given your reserves and the fact that the nominal value of your assets far exceeds their convertible value, you can absorb the loss so far.”

“Four years at 4.3 billion per . . .” Conti di Segni looked as if he was about to be very sick. “That’s sixteen billion dollars. There’s no way we can absorb that.”

“They won’t have taken the same amount every year. First year would have been kept low just to make sure the systems work. Then they would have built up the take slowly to avoid attracting too much attention. As far as I can see, you’ve only lost about seven billion to date. And change of course. The bad news is that the rate of loss is accelerating quickly.”

“Only seven billion.”

“Don’t sweat the small stuff. We can get that back. Looking at the dates, they do seem to fit together. We really smacked The Trust around in 1998. Took them for sixteen billion in less than 24 hours and left them without any reasonable level of operating funds. I would say they took a couple of years to work out how badly they’d been hit, reorganize and locate a target for looting to replace the lost funds. They picked on you. You’re a classic Trust target; huge sums of money but poorly documented, inadequately managed and with no real oversight. Who makes the decisions at the Vatican Bank?”

“Archbishop Paul Casimir Marcinkus.”

“What do we know about him?

“He’s a Priest, Lillith. Everything.”

“I very much doubt that. Can you tell me what we do know?”

Conti di Segni had an idea this would be raised and he had brought the file with him. “Born in Cicero, Illinois, January 15, 1922 as the son of an immigrant window cleaner who arrived in Cicero in 1914. After attending Archbishop Quigley Preparatory Seminary and St. Mary of the Lake Seminary, he was ordained to the priesthood for the Archdiocese of Chicago on May 3, 1947, and served parish assignments with both St. Christina's and Holy Cross Church on the city's south side. Arrived in Rome in 1950 to study canon law at Gregorian University, and began to accept special assignments from the Vatican. Upon earning his degree in 1953, he was asked to stay with the Vatican on a full-time basis, and became friends with Giovanni Battista Montini, who would become Pope Paul VI in 1963. He was Pope Paul’s prime English translator, also helping handle the arrangements for the pontiff's overseas trips. In addition, his height and muscular build enabled him to serve as a bodyguard for Paul VI.

“Pope Paul VI died in 1978 and there was a major reorganization of the Vatican administration. Marcinkus was appointed by Pope Gregory XVII as the president of the Institute for the Works of Religion in 1979. He still holds that position of course."
"And that's all?" Lillith sounded incredulous.

"It's a good overview of his career." Conti di Segni was becoming defensive. This was when Lillith missed having Conrad around. His interrogative skills would have been very useful just then.

"That is as may be." Lillith shook her head. "But it misses all the important stuff. Just for starters, he was born in Cicero. That was, and remains, a gangster-run township, a suburb of Chicago. Al Capone had his base there. Marcinkus is a Lithuanian name, how significant that is I can’t tell. He's moved in Italian circles in a gangster-run suburb for decades. That means he knows the people there even if he isn’t formally linked with them."

"That doesn't mean that he is linked with them in looting us."

"No, it doesn’t. But, when Cuba was taken over by its present rulers in 1959, all the top-rank La Cosa Nostra people moved there. After a couple of years getting things set up, they have been making so much money that even they can't spend it all. Then, when legitimate business started getting involved in the mid-1980s, the Mob were left with getting only a small proportion of the increased income, but business boomed to the extent that the share they do get is more than they took in when they got the lot. Cuba is probably the richest country on Earth right now and the Mob made sure that they spread the money around. To misquote George Orwell, everybody is rich but some are richer than others. See, crime does pay.

"However, when the top tiers of LCN left the States for Cuba, they left behind the small guys and the third- and fourth-tier Mob outfits. They've been left struggling with what amounts to petty crime and living on the margin while looking from afar at the stupendous wealth they could have been part of. Only, they know they were tried in the balance and found wanting. That sounds a bit like the Trust but its pushing the similarity too far. Marcinkus would have known the people left behind well and their views probably influenced his. More significantly, Marcinkus would have been looking at these people and realizing they had been left behind by the tide of events. Wouldn't the reaction of an intelligent, ambitious man been to desert them and link up with somebody who did represent that tide?"

"So, what do we do now?" Conti di Segni was too appalled by the scale of the disaster to do any thinking for himself.

"Freeze the accounts of the Vatican Bank now. As in right now." Lillith pointed at the telephone on her desk. "Start giving the orders. Nothing goes out at all. Not even the most routine of payments. Especially not salaries. Money can come in but once it's in, it stays in. And every penny of it needs to be accounted for. Likewise, we need any money that tries to go out stopped, identified and impounded. We can try a recall on anything that left in the last day or two. Stop any staff members who try and leave their offices and search them for wads of banknotes stuffed down their pants. And don’t forget the Victoria's Secret safe."

“You have to be joking!”

“No, I’m not. And cut their cyber web links right now. Right now, Conte. I’ll show you how to do it remotely.”

Lillith worked on the keyboard for a couple of minutes. “Right, enter your password and hit enter. Thank the Gods for that, done.”

Conti di Segni shook his head. "We're going to have a scandal."

"You've already got a scandal; now you're going to have a public scandal."

Passenger Arrivals Lounge, Leonardo da Vinci Airport, Rome. Italy.

"Passengers arriving from Washington will be entering through immigration gates one to six. I passeggeri che arrivano da Washington entreranno attraverso le porte dell'immigrazione dall'una alle sei." The announcement was clear and very easy to understand, a tribute to the advances in electronics over the last twenty years.

"They'll have to collect their bags from the luggage lockers on the lower deck, carry them out, clear customs and immigration and then come through to here." Conrad had spent most of his time travelling on supersonic airliners and was familiar only with the unloading protocols for those. Miserly and penny-pinching to the end, Angel spent most of her time flying on people-haulers. That made her much more suited to predicting the passenger arrivals when the US Government was paying for the tickets.

"Won't she have a diplomatic passport?" Conrad was hoping the stay wouldn't take too long; he was desperately anxious to see his old friend again.

"Being law enforcement buys a little. Not much though and less now that before the present mess hit." Angel was looking around, aware that her twin pistols, their ‘print’ clearly visible under the thin jacket she wore, were attracting some curious looks from the security personnel. They had been alerted that Vatican State security officers would be meeting a passenger but it was still an unusual sight.

"Angel, it wouldn’t be tactful to mention that right now. Let Miriam bring it up if she wants to, otherwise let it lie." Angel nodded, grateful for the advice on tact and discretion. It was not something she could easily work out for herself.

One of the problems caused by the advances in the cosmetics industry over the last couple of decades was that it was becoming progressively more difficult to guess a woman's age from her appearance. Skin treatments, hair dyes and new formulations were slowing down the rate at which people aged quite significantly. It was one of the parts of the plans to bring the long-lived out of the shadows by blurring the definition of 'old'. In one of the magazines Conrad had read on the aircraft in, there had been an article entitled "sixty is the new forty" explaining how people who were reaching retirement age were now as fit and active as earlier generations had been twenty or thirty years before. Conrad knew, with absolute certainty, that Miriam Margolis-Jacobs was in her mid-50s. She looked twenty years younger.

"Miriam! It's good to see you again! How are you keeping?"

Miriam's face glowed with pleasure. "Conrad, we don’t meet often enough. We're all fine at home, although my fathers passed away a couple of years back. Kelly went first; he got a chill and it went to his chest. Turned to pneumonia and that was it. Ed only outlasted him by a few months; once Kelly had gone, I think he just gave up.”

“Often happens like that. People who have spent a lifetime together, very often pass on within a few weeks or months of each other. I’m deeply saddened to hear that, Miriam. I always looked on your fathers as exceptional people and it was a privilege to know them. Anyway, welcome to Rome.”

“Believe me, it’s good to get away from Washington right now. Virtually everybody in the Secret Service was fighting in the corridors to get this assignment. I had to sleep with the Deputy Director of Financial Crime Investigations to snag it. Mike was ever so pleased.”

“I take it Mike is that Deputy Director now?” Conrad was laughing at the way Miriam had phrased it.

“That’s right. We had our own shake-up a few months back. Not as bad as the FBI mess, ours was mostly just ‘boys will be boys’ and a crackdown accompanied by a lot of premature retirements sorted it out. New Director and all our Deputy Directors were replaced, on the basis if they didn’t know what had been going on, they damned well should have done. All their replacements are pretty erudite people. Anyway, let’s get out of here and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Conrad led the way to the doors leading out of the airport buildings. Off in the VIP parking area, a Vatican limousine was waiting for them. It was a short walk away, not least because the designers of the airport had assumed that VIP visitors would arrive by supersonic passenger aircraft. Miriam and Conrad were chattering away, catching up on family news while Conrad also mulled over the significance of the whole management structure of the US Secret Service now being drawn from those who were aware of the long-lifer secret. Angel was following behind, as usual scanning the crowds for any sign of hostiles. So, she was the only one who noticed they were being watched.

Conrad’s Room, Domus Sanctae Marthae, Vatican City

‘All right, Angel, I know you’re dying to ask.” Miriam looked up from her seat to see Angel trying to look innocent. “The law enforcement scandal in Washington has screwed everything up. The FBI is in utter chaos, their entire leadership is discredited and the problems are spreading by the day. We’re trying to cover as many of the gaps as we can and the State investigation authorities are doing their best. There are calls right now for the entire Bureau to be defunded and I’d say the issue is in doubt there.”

Angel was trying her best not to look happy. “Just what happened, Miriam? From our point of view, this seemed to come out of nowhere.”

Miriam thought very carefully, wondering just how much to tell Angel bearing in mind her position meant that the details would be common knowledge in the Triads within a few hours. “All right, I’ll tell you what is open source knowledge, if you know where to look. There is a private charitable foundation in the US, don’t ask which one but you can find that out from the headlines, that was founded with the aim of distributing aid to worthy causes. Now that isn’t unusual, there are a lot of foundations like that back home, some large, some small. Mostly they were founded by the very rich who didn’t see why they should fund the lifestyle of their idle, shiftless descendants and between them, they do a lot of good work. The Carnegie Trust is a good example and there are many others as well. There are also some that are basically tax evasion schemes. The one that’s causing all the trouble was mostly concerned with educational issues in underdeveloped countries. Or so it said. It collected a lot of donations, got a lot more from speaking at conferences etc. A lot of money was going in, and the Treasury began to realize not much was going out. Not legally at any rate.”

Angel winced perceptibly. That made Miriam lift her eyebrows. “You’re not developing a conscience are you Angel?”

She shook her head. “Of course not. Medically impossible. Anyway, we do much the same sort of thing. What shocks me is that it’s stupid. When we got into this sort of thing, the first thing we learned was you never pull this kind of con over issues people care about. People get really mad if they donate to sick or deprived children and the money gets stolen. Last time we did pulled something like this, anybody who read the prospectus carefully enough found they were donating to a fund for providing luxury single-malt whiskies to destitute lawyers and impoverished used-car salesmen. A lot of people still sent money and we stole the lot. Out of your jurisdiction of course but the point is, when the racket was rumbled, nobody really cared and most had a really good laugh at the people who got taken in. Do the same to kids and they’ll care all right. Lynch-mob type care.”

Mirioam shook her head. She had no intention of telling Angel that the victims of that particular con had included two secretaries at the Treasury Department who had never lived it down. “Well, this particular foundation attracted the attention of the IRS and that meant Treasury was involved and we’re the enforcement arm of the Treasury. We started investigating and almost the first thing we found was that the wife of the Director of the FBI had received a huge donation from this foundation to fund her election campaign south of the Mason-Dixon Line. The donation arrived just before the FBI investigation into that foundation mysteriously stopped. Said wife’s rival in said election found out, went public with the story and it all went downhill from there. As is always the way, once the bright lights started shining, we spotted cockroaches everywhere. Fifty years plus of public trust and confidence flushed away in a month and to make matters worse, they tried to cover it up. They should have known that cover-ups don't solve a problem, they just spread it around. The Inspector-General is issuing a report on the scandal and the institutional culture within the FBI and it doesn’t make happy reading.”

Angel caught Conrad’s eye. “Doesn’t that sound very much like what’s happening here?”

[Calder]

Chapter Five
Consilium in Lege Doctissimos, Sacred Congregation for Extraordinary Ecclesiastical Affairs, Vatican City

"I am Special Agent Miriam Margolis-Jacobs of the United States Secret Service, Your Holiness." Miriam looked around her with a degree of trepidation. She had an uneasy feeling about being in the very heart of the Roman Catholic Church, quarter-expecting to burst into flames at any moment. She knew it was utterly illogical that the old superstitions and legends should worry her but their force was not offset by mere logic. She looked around her, noting that Lagertha was an open follower of the Aesir and worshipped Odin. Naamah had once been a high priestess of Astarte. Lillith of course worshipped Arguriologus, the Greek God of double-entry accounting. She had no idea what gods Achillea venerated, although she suspected it was Pluto the God of the Dead if any at all, and also knew that Angel regarded her pistols as her gods. Miriam comforted herself that if anybody was going to spontaneously burst into flames, it would probably be one of them.

"Welcome to Vatican City." Pope John XXIV gave her a friendly, gentle smile. "Thank you for coming here, although I suspect you were more than happy to get out of Washington right now. I regret that you've stepped into this disastrous situation. Perhaps, you could stay on a little and see the sights of our city? As my personal guest?"

"That is very kind of you, Holiness. There is so much to see here." Miriam glanced around again, trying not to stare at the tall man in the formal dress of an Archbishop flanked by two Swiss Guards in ceremonial dress. This might be an investigation, not be a trial, in name but it gave every appearance of being a trial in fact. "I did arrange for an extra day or two to see everything."

"I think you'd probably need a year or two to see everything. This is Rome, the Eternal City, after all. But, we can get you started. Speaking about getting started. . . . ." The Pope's words changed the atmosphere from friendliness to business in an instant. Miriam reflected that he might really be the kindly peacemaker he was depicted as, but he also had absolute power and knew how to use it.

"I have the files on financial irregularities associated with the Banco Ambrosiano over the last twenty years. The investigation was started by federal prosecutors William Aronwald and Bill Lynch, head of the Organized Crime and Racketeering Section of the United States Department of Justice. They were investigating the delivery of $14.5 million U.S. worth of counterfeit bonds to the Vatican Bank in July 1987. These were to have been the first installment of a total purchase of bonds valued at US$950 million. The requirement for these bonds was stated in a letter on Vatican notepaper signed by Archbishop Marcinkus.

"Holiness, it is a perfectly normal transaction for a bank, any bank, to purchase US bonds as part of their reserves. In fact, they are regarded as being just about the soundest investment any bank could make. Nobody can run the Church on Hail Mary’s." Marcinkus stepped forward slightly, causing the Swiss Guards either side of him to tense.

In the background, Conrad and Angel exchanged glances. Eight years before they had been involved in the investigation of what had finally turned out to be a petty forgery operation in Bangkok and had both been slightly surprised by the degree of interest shown by the Secret Service. Especially by the way that interest had subsided when the minor scale of the operation had been exposed. Miriam caught the glance and nodded slightly.

"US Treasury bonds are indeed the gold standard of investments. Forged US Treasury bonds are not." Lillith stated the obvious with heavy gravity that was only a hair removed from sarcasm. "Miriam, how did the Secret Service get into this?"

"Simple enough. Treasury bonds, forgeries and counterfeiting are all ours. We took this investigation over from the FBI more than 15 years ago. The Archbishop's name on the official letter authorizing the purchase was one of the first things we discovered when we busted Michele Sindona for forgery and fraudulent misrepresentation. He went down for 12 years in prison and got out four years ago. Two of our agents interviewed Marcinkus who claimed that the charges against him were not serious enough nor enough based on fact to justify him violating the Vatican Bank's confidentiality to defend himself. The big problem, of course, was that it was impossible to tell whether Marcinkus was a victim or a co-conspirator. Eventually, back in the States, it was agreed on the highest levels that the case against Marcinkus was not strongly founded enough to warrant it being pursued any further." Miriam grimaced without being consciously aware of doing so. It had obviously been a decision she did not approve of.

"You are challenging whether the required mens rea was present whilst conceding of course that the requisite actus rea was present. Something not to be tried without courage and good evidence." Lagertha looked up from her notes. "The standard common law test of criminal liability is expressed in the Latin phrase 'actus reus non facit reum nisi mens sit rea'. In English, 'the act is not culpable unless the mind is guilty'. Any court would have to determine whether Marcinkus had committed a crime (actus reus), and whether he intended to commit a crime (mens rea). The first is obvious, the second far from that. Sorry, Miriam, but in your leader's place I'd have made the same decision."

"There is another point as well." Conti di Segni was going to be treading on dangerous ground and knew it. "The pontiff then was Evaristus II. He selected that regnal name because he wanted to get the Church back to its roots as a purely religious organization divorced from the complexities of the secular world. I think all of us can see his point but it was a fundamentally unrealistic position to hold. As long as the Holy Church has any contact with the secular world, the issues of that world must necessarily concern us. I think Evaristus was a good man but not a wise one."

"Or a good man who put his faith in the wrong people. Which comes to the same thing of course." His Holiness seemed infinitely sad. In his eyes, all too often at the bottom of great troubles was somebody who did all the wrong things for all the right reasons.

"Indeed so, Holiness. Special Agent Margolis-Jacobs. Has the Secret Service discovered any other areas of irregularity in Archbishop Marcinkus's stewardship of the Instituto per le Opere di Religione?"

In the background, Achillea rolled her eyes, not at the question but at the way Conti di Segni had mangled the Latin. His Holiness caught the gesture and smiled quietly. "Conti di Segni, perhaps we ought to stick to the name 'Vatican Bank' out of courtesy to our guests."

That caused a ripple of laughter amongst those who knew of Achillea's objection to mispronounced Latin. It went right over Marcinkus's head since he had never been made privy to the long-life secret. Nor had Evaristus II, the first Pope in a long time to be kept in ignorance of the long-lifer's existence. Pope John coughed gently and the interruption was quickly stilled.

"We have a series of unsecured and largely unmonitored loans made to two organizations in Latin America. There may be more, but these two came to our attention for two reasons. One is that the money was routed through a US Bank and we monitor all money movements above a certain size. The moment we found that the money had been transferred by way of the Banco Ambrosiano, we checked further. We found two payments, one of $33.5 million to the Instituto de Saúde da Mulher and the other of $8.78 million to Investigação Produção Farmacêutica. Despite their names, they are both industrial companies."

"What were the dates of those transactions?" Lillith had her portable computer open and was scanning the long lines of data."

Miriam referred to the file. "The first was the 12th of May 1989 and the second the 15th of June the same year."

"Got them. Searching for the Instituto de Saúde da Mulher, there are a steady stream of transactions starting then and heading up to the present day. The last one was in May 2005. Total transfers are $536 million to ISM and $122.9 million to IPF. Total $658 million." Lillith frowned. "Only, the amounts are wrong. I have $41.5 million for ISM in 1989 and $12.5 million for IPF in the same year."

"Do you have an explanation for that, Archbishop?" Conti di Segni's voice was silk-smooth.

"You forget banks charge for the transit of money like that." Marcinkus's voice was loaded with contempt.
"Bank charges for transiting $33.5 million should be $670 thousand at most - and that would be a very stiff charge. My bank would charge you a tenth of that." Lagertha's blue eyes were very cold.

"I see." Conti di Segni shook his head. "And why did these organizations receive these sums, Archbishop?"

"It is part of the duty of the Instituto per le Opere di Religione . . . "

"The Vatican Bank", Lillith said in a stage whisper that made His Holiness chuckle.

". . . . to support organizations that represent our policies and social programs."

"That is a little hard to understand." Lagertha looked blank at Lillith’s words, causing Lillith to explain. "I know of both these organizations. The Instituto de Saúde da Mulher is the largest provider of pregnancy terminations in South America while Investigação Produção Farmacêutica is the largest producer of family planning equipment and pharmaceuticals in the same area. They are both suspected of being subsidiaries of, or at least associated with, The Trust."

"That's what struck us as odd." Miriam looked at the gorgeously-painted ceiling. "Why, we asked ourselves, is the Vatican funding abortion clinics and contraceptive suppliers?"

"Is this true? This is infamous." Pope John's voice was its usual quiet and gentle self but his anger was palpable.

“Holiness, we were provided by our authorities in Argentina and Brazil with a list of companies and institutions that were worthy recipients of our support. Saúde da Mulher and Investigação Produção Farmacêutica were on those lists. They were represented as being what their names suggested, a group that looks after the health of mothers and a pharmaceutical research group.”

“You never did a due diligence on them before sending the cash?” Lillith’s voice was incredulous.

“Culpable negligence at least.” Lagertha shook her head. “I wish I was defending you, Archbishop. I’d make a fortune on billable hours. Not that it would do you any good.”

“I cannot be held responsible for the actions of others.” Marcinkus was glaring at the tribunal.

“Unfortunately, you can.” His Holiness sounded infinitely sad. “So can I. I and my predecessors here are culpable of the same grievous faults as you. Just as you allowed yourself to be misled, so were those who were supposed to rule over you. My predecessor in this chair did try to investigate what was happening and doing so cost him his life.”

Conrad caught the Pontiff’s eye and he stood to ask a question. He was slightly aware of the fact that Angel had risen too so she would still be in a position to defend him if all hell broke loose. He was suddenly guilty over how he had come to take her constant protection for granted and vowed to remedy the matter as soon as the hearing was over.

“Archbishop Marcinkus, have you any experience in managing financial affairs prior to taking over administration at the Vatican Bank?”
Marcinkus might have been many things but he was not stupid and recognized a life-line when it was being thrown to him. “No, I did not. I was appointed as Titular Archbishop of Horta and Secretary of the Roman Curia after serving as interpreter and secretary for foreign travel arrangements. The Roman Curia is the administrative apparatus of the Holy See and the central body through which the Roman Pontiff conducts the affairs of the universal Catholic Church. It acts in his name and with his authority for the good and for the service of the particular Churches and provides the necessary central organization for the correct functioning of the Church and the achievement of its goals. But, it is quite separate from the financial side of the Church.”

“You must have found the financial world bewildering after the clean simplicities of the Church?” Conrad still spoke gently. “How did you learn what was necessary for this position?”

“I needed help, that is true. My old friend, Roberto Calvi who was the Chairman of the Banco Ambrosiano undertook to have me taught the essentials of running a bank and made me a director of Ambrosiano Overseas, based in Nassau, Bahamas. That way I could learn on the job as it were. I had some of his staff supporting me and showing me what the necessary operations were and how they should be performed.”

“And one of them was Michele Sindona?”

“He was. That was why, when he came to me with the plan for the sale of US Treasury Bonds, I trusted him. Now, of course, I know I should not have done so. But then? He was just one of the men at the Banco Ambrosiano who helped me when I needed it.”

Conrad sat down, aware that Angel had scanned the room before doing the same. Lagertha looked over her notes to date. “We are back to mens rea and actus rea again.”

“And that raises an awful question. Did Evaristus know what he was opening the gates for, or was he really the naïve innocent he pretended to be?” He didn’t need to add that the same question applied to Archbishop Marcinkus. “Conrad, you are the most experienced and successful investigator the Holy Church has. What is your opinion?”

“At this point, Holiness, we have no means of knowing. There is, however, one question that does puzzle me. The Archbishop was attending Archbishop Quigley Preparatory Seminary and St. Mary of the Lake Seminary between 1942 and 1947. During those years, the United States was conscripting every able-bodied man into the Army and Navy. And the Air Force when that was separated from the Army. By 1945, casualties had become so heavy that there were no exceptions made. Even students in seminaries were inducted into the Army and placed in the Chaplain’s Corps. Holiness, they even tried to conscript me once! So why was Paul Casimir Marcinkus not conscripted? Even now, many years later, he is still a strong and healthy man. Just the sort of healthy young recruit who would swiftly find a home in the infantry or artillery. This does not make sense. Miriam, could you use the Secret Service’s authority to find out why this man was not conscripted?”

“Yes, Special Agent Margolis-Jacobs, please add the request of the Holy Church to that inquiry. It is an interesting point we should have questioned earlier.” Conti di Segni sighed slightly, beginning to realize that Conrad’s keen eye for discrepancies and inconsistencies could cause no end of problems. Far away in London, Sir Humphrey Appleday found himself mysteriously impelled to nod in agreement.

“Very well, Archbishop, It is time for you to retire from running our bank. The Pontiff spoke heavily, his words laden with sorrow at what he was saying. “You will retreat to the Mater Ecclesiae Monastery where you will look into your soul and decide whether your faults as the head of our bank were those or omission or commission. Lillith will you please act as his replacement until a regular appointment can be made. As for the rest of you, on behalf of our Mother Church, I thank you for your work so far.”

Conrad’s Room, Domus Sanctae Marthae, Vatican City

“What do you think, Angel?”

“We need to start off with whether this Evaristus II guy is an innocent fool or something more sinister. One card for each possibility.” Conrad got the pack of index cards out but visibly hesitated before starting to write. Angel picked up on the hesitation instantly and continued. "A problem, Conrad?

"There's a religious issue here. It is a dogma of the Catholic Church that states that, in virtue of the promise of Jesus to Peter, the Pope is preserved from the possibility of error when, in the exercise of his office as shepherd and teacher of all Christians, in virtue of his supreme apostolic authority. Pope Evaristus II wanted to return the Church to its roots as a religious organization and believed that its involvement with the secular world had led to its moral authority being corrupted. That could easily be defined as him acting as a shepherd and teacher to all Christians. In doing so, he cannot have been in error. Either of these possibilities would suggest that he was."

"Nobody is infallible Conrad, not even me. I've made some pretty big mistakes in my life. You know of a few of them of course."

Conrad reflected on the kind of mistakes Angel was likely to have made before retiring as a hired gun and decided he would rather not know the details. "Getting caught in New York was the main one I guess? That's a bit different though. Nobody denies that a Pope, for example, eating some shrimps that smelled bad was making a mistake. If he makes a judgement on the Church's beliefs and philosophy, though, he is supposed to have been inspired by the Holy Spirit and thus cannot be wrong. Most Popes evade the issue by not making categorical statements like that or issuing them via an intermediary."

"There's your answer then." Angel picked up the cards and wrote out two cards. One read 'Evaristus II Dumbass?' and the other, 'Evaristus II Evil Mastermind?' She then pinned them on the board. "There, I'm your intermediary. Problem solved."

Conrad wasn't actually sure that it was but he did notice that Angel's child-like scrawl had improved to reasonably legible and stylish handwriting. The lessons from her tutors were obviously bearing fruit. "We need the same cards for Marcinkus of course, only two pairs. One for each of yours."

"Does this infallibility thing apply to Marcinkus as well?" Conrad could detect a bubble of laughter in Angel's voice and was quite sure she was trying to stop herself laughing at the idea anybody could be considered infallible.

"No, only to the Pope."

"OK, so you can write Marcinkus's cards out then."

With all six cards in place, Conrad and Angel stepped back to look at them. Conrad took the lead in linking them. "If Evaristus II was the evil mastermind and Marcinkus was a fool, then it's reasonable to assume that Marcinkus was appointed because he knew nothing about banking and wouldn't spot what was going on. On the other hand, if they were both evil masterminds, they were probably in the scheme together."

"Two evil masterminds in the same conspiracy isn't really stable, Conrad. Usually one gets rid of the other so they can take all the loot. But, if this Evaristus guy is a dumbass and saw Marcinkus was a dumbass as well, he might well have thought that somebody so obviously divorced from what was really happening in the world would be ideal for the process of eliminating outside contacts with the evil secular world. On the other hand, an evil mastermind Marcinkus would have seen a dumbass Evaristus as just the opening he and his friends needed."

Angel paused while Conrad pinned two more cards up. "Ahh, the deadly duo. Roberto Calvi and Michele Sindona. If we have the two dumbasses scenario they saw a gaping hole that led directly to the Vatican Bank's vaults. If Marcinkus was the evil mastermind exploiting Evaristus, then they were his accomplices."

"Which would also apply if Evaristus and Marcinkus were conspiring to empty the Vatican Bank. On the other hand if Evaristus was the evil mastermind, then Calvi and Sindona were working for him and Marcinkus was just a stooge. Given his Cicero background, I'd say the most likely is that Marcinkus was the mastermind, working with Calvi and Sindona and Pope Evaristus was the unwitting stooge." Conrad seemed very uneasy.

Angel thought that over and decided she had to keep in mind the possibility that Conrad's long-ingrained respect for the Papacy could easily lead him into overlooking vital evidence. That thought made her apprehensive.

[Calder]

Chapter Six
Sacred Congregation for Extraordinary Ecclesiastical Affairs, Vatican City.

Naamah held out her hand and snapped her fingers. With great reluctance, Conti di Segni peeled a 50,000 lira note from his wallet and gave it to her. The evening before, the kitchens had sent up the meal for the Pope and his investigating team; it had included shrimp tagliatelle in garlic Alfredo sauce. The group had tucked into Burger King fast food brought in by Lagertha while the supplies from the kitchen had gone to the police Italian forensic laboratories for analysis. The report had just arrived. If anybody had been disturbed by the waste of extremely good food, the contents of that report had silenced them.

"Loaded with arsenic. Enough to kill the proverbial herd of horses." Naamah sounded self-satisfied. Conti di Segni had put his faith in the thallium theory and had lost 50,000 lira as soon as he had opened his copy of the report. “The old traditional ways are still good.”

"Cantarella?" Conti di Segni couldn't resist the jibe. As far as he knew, Naamah was the only person who was still familiar with the composition of the Borgia's famous poison. Also, he was buying time to absorb the knowledge that an assassination attempt on another Pope had just been thwarted.

"That'll do." Naamah was dismissive. "There are much better options though. Cantarella is the blunt object of the poisons world."

"Just keep going to fast food places, preferably the ones where the food is cooked in front of us, and we'll be all right as long as we never go to the same place twice. Or we can buy pre-packed convenience foods from stores. Again, never the same place twice." Angel finished her hamburger, wiped her fingers on a tissue and started fishing French fries out of a cardboard package. "You know we are being watched of course."

"Of course." Achillea and Lagertha had both tried to get the agreement out first and they had dead-heated in a near-perfect chorus. Achillea managed to get the initiative with the follow-up. "Have we spotted who yet?"

Angel shook her head. "Whoever they are, they're good. That's what worries me about this attempt; it's clumsy and the people watching us don’t do clumsy. Lagertha?"

Lagertha nodded in agreement. "Right. This is a diversion that's intended to focus our attention on one area while the real threat builds up in another."

"Just like the attack back in 1944." Conrad shook his head as he remembered that night. I was neatly misled into making a totally wrong assessment of the threat. Only the bravery of the Swiss Guards had rescued the situation.

"Another armed attack?" Conti di Segni was also remembering the night when SS commandos had tried to storm the Palace. His take though was very different. If Conrad hadn't spotted the real attack in the nick of time, we would have been completely defenseless and the damage here would have been appalling. I do not think he realizes how much the authorities here regard themselves as being in his debt. "His Holiness will be giving his weekly mass in St Peter's Square in two days time. He always tours the audience before that takes place. If there is to be an armed attack on him, that's when it is most likely. In the short term at least."

"Suppose the Swiss Guard was to have a parade then, to celebrate some famous event in their history." Lagertha was thinking fast. "There must be one, if not, we'll make one up. That way we can have armed men close to the Pope if something begins to brew. Achillea can be in the crowd. She'll blend in there."

"Well, I really am a Roman. But, we can both be in there." Achillea looked around. "That mass is full of tourists. You'll blend in as well."

"Angel?" Lagertha asked.

Achillea shook her head. "Angel's a gunslinger. In the middle of a tightly-packed crowd like that, she's too vulnerable. The best place for her would be beside the Pope where she has a safety zone to work with. That would be noticed though."

Lagertha had been expecting an angry outburst from Angel but instead, she was nodding in agreement. It's true, it is good to be working with somebody whose emotions cannot influence their decisions. If I'd been the same, it would have saved me a lot of trouble over the years. "If there was an armed attack on the Pope though and it ended up with a firefight in a packed St Peter's Square, the liability would be horrendous when it came out we knew about and were expecting the attack."
"Who would know that?" Angel was obviously thinking the situation over carefully.

"It'll get out, Angel. It always does. Anyway, what is happening to the kitchen shift working when the poisoned pasta was prepared."

"They're all under arrest right now. The Swiss Guard picked them all up and took them to the Castello di Sant'Angelo." Conti di Segni was pleased at being able to get back into the discussion again.

"I thought the Castello was a museum now?" Lillith had the material from the Vatican Bank in front of her and included a list of assets. She'd been erotically stirred by calculating how much she could make by selling the lot and redeveloping the sites. Realistically, she knew it would never happen of course.

"It is, or some of it is. Other parts still have their uses." Conti di Segni reflected that a lot of deeply-held secrets were coming out of the woodwork. This was something he found worrying.

"We're going to need to question them." Naamah sounded unhealthily interested. Conrad realized that the judgmental side of her character, the one that never failed to anger him deeply, was emerging again. Although he didn’t realize it, the antagonism showed in his face and eyes.

"We can do better than that." Angel had spotted Conrad's reaction but in contrast to his ire, she was icily cold and that seemed to chill the air throughout the room. "Conrad can get the truth out of them faster than you can. I know what you mean and I won't let it happen."

There was a long silence in the room. ‘I won’t let it happen’ from Angel meant only one thing. Eventually, Lagertha broke it. She spoke very carefully when she did so. "I thought you were a psychopath Angel?"

"I am and I'm proud of it. I’ve got a very good doctor and she explained it to me. My brain is different from yours. It’s chopped in two halves that don’t communicate well. My emotions are in one part and they just don't get to the bit that makes decisions. That means I don’t have a conscience, my decisions aren't corrupted by emotion and I can't feel love or remorse. It makes me cold and analytical. It also makes me ruthless, manipulative and self-serving. It doesn’t make me a sadist. Quite apart from anything else, torturing people is stupid and a waste of time. They don’t tell you the truth, they tell you what you want to hear so you'll stop. Conrad’s way is much better for getting to the truth and Nammie, don’t ever forget that.” The menace in Angel’s voice when she said that was made all the more frightening by the lack of rancor in it. Without realizing it she had just given a perfect demonstration of how any emotions she might have never had any bearing on the decisions she made.

"That's Angel's cold and utilitarian side coming out." Conrad's voice rang around the room. "Well said, Angel, you are absolutely right and I hope everybody takes what you said to heart. Especially you Nammie. If we do what you wanted, we'll be no better than the people we're trying to stop. We know one of the people we picked up has the information we need. We can find them and get the information we need without betraying ourselves and what we stand for."

Naamah looked as if she wanted to say something to Conrad, took one look at Angel and kept quiet. Conrad and Angel stood looking at each other with their eyes shining, their pride in each other palpable. Lagertha snorted slightly and said very quietly to Achillea, her voice pitched so nobody else could hear. "You mean those two still haven't worked it out?"
Achillea shook her head and replied equally quietly. "No, and we are all placing bets on how long it will take them to finally realize they're in love. I don't think they ever will. Something else, Lagertha, take a well-meant word of warning. One thing Conrad and Angel have in common is that they both despise the 'blame the victim' mentality that's common these days. In particular, never tell Angel people are even partly responsible for them becoming the victim of a crime. Even if it is true, it is quite possible she will kill you and if you are more than ten feet from her, there is nothing you can do to stop her."

“You can stop her. I’ve seen you taking a gun or a knife out of somebody’s hand starting at that distance.”

“Soon after we first met, we tried it. I took the gun out of her hand all right but she would have gut-shot me with the other one. We're both fully ambidextrous but she uses both hands simultaneously and independently. That's a hard act to beat.”

Lagertha thought a long time about that. She was beginning to realize just how different Angel's thought processes were from her own and the contrasts between her gregariousness and Angel's cold isolation left her confused and deeply uneasy.

Sala Paolina, Museo Nazionale di Castel Sant'Angelo, Vatican City.

The selection of the lavish Sala Paolina for the interrogation of the detained kitchen staff would have enraged The Seer. Not because it was unsuitable for the purpose but because it was decorated by frescoes depicting episodes from the life of Alexander the Great. Conrad felt a certain degree of guilt at the knowledge he had chosen the room partly because its decorations would have annoyed the usually imperturbable Seer. However, that paled into insignificance beside the main reason he had chosen it. He knew that the overwhelming ambiance of power and wealth that saturated the chamber would overawe the people he was interviewing. Even the desk which he was sitting at was old, almost as ancient as the one in Suriyothai's private office but far more ornate. It was right in the middle of the otherwise empty room and his voice echoed off the walls around him.

"Have you ever been here before?" The question was polite and friendly.

In front of him, Ambrogino Milani was obviously startled by the question. When the entire shift in the Vatican kitchens had been taken into custody by the Swiss Guard, he had realized something awful must have happened. Then rumors had started to spread that there had been an attempt to poison the Pope. The more astute had quickly linked that to the death of Urban IX a few years earlier. The knowledge had left Milani in a blind panic, not knowing what to expect other than it could not possibly be good. "Just the usual tourist visit. There is so much more here than I had expected."

Lounging against an elaborately decorated wall a few yards away, Angel felt a surge of triumph at the answer. Conrad had taught her that the first step was to get the person being interviewed, he very rarely used the term interrogated, to answer a question, any question. It was the start of the process by which the interviewee would become accustomed to answering more complex and possibly incriminating questions. By the time they realized what they were doing, it was too late to go back.

"You are Ambrogino Milani, Sous-Chef in the Vatican kitchens?" Again, the question was calculated to draw an answer out of the interviewee. The only way to escape the kind of questioning of which that Conrad was the master was to resolutely say nothing. A few weeks earlier, Thomas Barnstable had used that technique to avoid confessing to a series of murders in Britain.

Milani had obviously never heard of the principle. "That is me, yes. Although I am a Sous-Chef, not the Sous-Chef. There are others and I am not the most senior."

"Thank you, that is most helpful. I'll correct your personnel file as soon as we are finished. Might I ask what your specialty is?"

Milani's face glowed. Like any true artist, his greatest delight was discussing his art with an appreciative audience. "I am the saucier, responsible for the sauces and dressings. Perhaps you remember my ranch dressing on the French green salad we prepared a couple of nights ago? That was my own recipe."

In fact, the sauce had gone uneaten. It had been shipped out for analysis while the recipients had, to Angel's great delight, dined off pizza from one of the few Pizza Dacha take-outs in Rome. Conrad wasn't going to admit that. "Ah yes, that was indeed remarkable. I think there must be a secret ingredient there?"

The degree to which Milani had relaxed was revealed by the simple fact that he laughed at the question. "When we were detained, I never expected the Cooking Inquisition!"

"Nobody," Conrad replied "expects the Cooking Inquisition."

"In which case, I will confess to the secret! It's including just a touch of freshly-minced ginger. The amount is absolutely critical; too little and it won't have the needed effect, too much and it becomes a ginger sauce. But, just the right amount and it enhances the other ingredients without overwhelming them."

"I see, thank you. And I suppose all the sauces must be freshly made?"

"Not necessarily, sometimes that is best but more usually the completed sauce should be put to one side for an hour or more so that it can mature and all the components blend properly. Some sauces, especially dressings, benefit most from being made one day and used the next."

"How about His Holiness's favorite garlic alfredo?"

"A good example. An Alfredo is an easy sauce to make, but very hard to make well. It must be cooked very gently and never, ever allowed to boil. If it does, it will be ruined and we must start again. Then, when it is blended properly, it must be left to mature before being reheated, again very carefully, to serving temperature. The worst mistake of all is for it to boil in that last step. What a disaster! Again, we must go back and start again. A wise saucier will make more than is needed so that if disaster strikes, there is a backup portion that can be readied."

"And you taste the sauce before it is served?"

"Of course. No self-respecting chef would do otherwise."

Private Office. Museo Nazionale di Castel Sant'Angelo, Vatican City.

"He didn’t do it. But I think I know how it was done." Conrad ran over the interview in his mind. "He made the sauce the previous day as he described, matured it overnight and then took half of the amount he had made, prepared it for serving and tasted it. Somebody else took the rest, poisoned it and switched it for the tasted portion."

"I agree." Naamah sounded reluctant to admit that but she was still smarting over the tongue-lashing she had received from Angel the previous day. Nevertheless, her basic commitment to justice forced her to make the admission no matter how much it hurt to do so. "Milani would never have poisoned somebody's food. His wine, I could see, poisoning by injection or another means of administration possibly but he would never poison their food."

"That's what I thought. But, there's more to it than that. Milani is in the center of the kitchen, everybody is around him and he can be seen by everybody all of the time. I would wager they watch him carefully so they can sneak tastes of his sauces. He simply didn’t have the chance to poison the sauce."

"We are sure it was the sauce?" Angel was watching Naamah carefully. She was under no illusions about how much Naamah had resented being read the riot act in public. She recognized the olive branch she had extended to Conrad but wasn't certain that it covered her. In the absence of certainty, Angel's motto was to take no chances. In fact, the same applied in the presence of certainty.

"We are, yes. The lab report put the highest concentration of arsenic in the sauce, lesser amounts in the shrimps and none at all in the pasta. So it had to be the sauce. Conrad's right; I think his suggestion is the most plausible." Naamah was treating the poisoning as a puzzle and her main thought process was how would I have done this? That led her to the next question, an obvious one as was the one that followed. “It leaves us with the question of who and when. Does anybody remember how the dish was presented when it arrived?”

“The way it always is. All mixed up.” Angel looked around. “It’s always done like that isn’t it? The shrimps put in the sauce and mixed with the pasta?”

Naamah shook her head. “The way it should be done is that the pasta is placed in the bowl, the sauce poured over it and then the shrimps placed on top. The thing is to keep the flavors separated so they don’t combine until the guest starts to eat. Milani would never have mixed all the components up; he’s a classical chef, he’d have done it right and flayed alive anybody who didn’t.”

“So, somebody took the reserve portion of sauce and used it to make the poisoned dish that was then switched for the one made in the kitchen. The switch had to happen outside the kitchen otherwise somebody would have spotted the change. We’re looking at the people who brought the food up, not the ones who prepared it.” Conrad felt intensely sad. Once again, the point was being driven home that protecting the innocent meant finding the guilty. “Do we know who they were?”

“This is the Vatican, Conrad. We have records of everything. Not only who they were but what color socks they wore that night.” Conti di Segni was feeling overwhelmed by the expertise the people around him were displaying.

“Not everything and too much trivia makes it hard to find the important bits.” Lillith tried, and failed, to keep the self-satisfied conceit out of her voice.

“Well, we have the names of the two heralds, waiters, who brought the food from the kitchens. Silvano Panicucci and Osvaldo Cattaneo.”

“Osvaldo Cattaneo?” Angel’s head had snapped around to look directly at Conti di Segni.

“Do you know the name?” Conti di Segni was filled with a terrible unease.

“He was one of a list some friends of mine gave me. Of people associated with the Banda Della Magliana. They’re a group of low-level gangsters who, amongst other things, act as muscle for the Banco Ambrosiano. Sort of people who give honest villains a bad name.”

“Would these friends of yours be the Mafia, the Camorra or the 'Ndrangheta?” Lagertha was still trying to get her head around how far Angel’s influence had spread over the years. It was slowly dawning on her that Angel was as much a warlord in her world as Lagertha had once been in hers.

Angel smiled at her, an easy, friendly smile she had copied from Achillea. “Actually, all three.”

[Calder]

Chapter Seven
Sala Paolina, Museo Nazionale di Castel Sant'Angelo, Vatican City.

“Your name is Osvaldo Cattaneo?”

Conrad asked the question with his usually soft courtesy but it was not rewarded by any degree of politeness. Instead Cattaneo snarled back "I want a lawyer."

"A lawyer? Just one?" Angel feigned amazement. "With the amount we have on you, you need the entire firm."

Conrad's face remained impassive at Angel's display of 'bad cop'. "Please, Inspector, Signore Cattaneo here has enough problems without the prospect of being bankrupted by legal costs. Signore, you are Signore Cattaneo are you not? We don’t want to charge you with the offenses committed by other people."

Cattaneo paused for a second at that, obviously thinking that there could be no harm in admitting his name since it was obviously already known to the Vatican City Police. He'd never heard of the Vatican City Police or of them having a female inspector, neither of which was surprising. Angel's rank was actually a courtesy resulting from her role as a firearms instructor in the British Police but Cattaneo had never asked which police force she was an inspector of. Also, there was, technically, no such force as the Vatican City Police; it was the Corpo della Gendarmeria della Stato Citta del Vaticano and its officers were, equally technically, gendarmes, not policemen. There was a subtle distinction between the two, one that would be lost on most people, but it was there. The real point was that this was the Vatican and the final word on the law as that of His Holiness Pope John XXIV who had just been informed that his favorite dinner had contained a spadesful of arsenic powder. It hadn't taken him more than a few fractions of a second to realize the perpetrator was either the man who had poisoned his predecessor or a close associate of him. That knowledge had displeased him so much that he had prayed for forgiveness for the poisoner.

So it was that in this case Conrad believed he and Angel could literally get away with murder, something that he found disturbing. In contrast, Angel had spent her life getting away with murder and the concept disturbed her not in the least. This meant that Conrad was mightily relieved when Cattaneo confirmed that he was indeed the man in question. "And you have served as a Herald in the establishment here for five years?"

"I have." Like so much else in the Vatican, the position and title of Herald dated back to the Renaissance and had changed its meaning completely over the years. Now, it simply described a member of the army of servants who carried items from one part of the complex to another. It wasn't precisely an unskilled job; the Vatican was an interconnected maze, most of which was not accurately mapped. Getting from one part to another quickly and efficiently was a matter of acquired knowledge. Conrad suspected that Cattaneo had been placed in the Corps de Fecialium specifically so he could learn the secrets of the buildings. He had also noted that Cattaneo had joined the Corps de Fecialium just about the time when Michele Sindona had been released from prison and rejoined Roberto Calvi. That was also a few weeks before Pope Urban IX had been poisoned.

To Conrad, the coincidences were piling up. A quick glance at the personnel file added another to the list. Cattaneo had been part of the shift on duty when Urban IX had been poisoned. Angel caught his eye and nodded slightly; she'd read the notation and immediately realized its significance. Quite apart from anything else, it suggested that Conrad's first impression that the inquiry into the death of Urban IX had been sloppy and unprofessional was justified. There was no record that Cattaneo had ever been questioned about that night. It was time to remedy the situation. Slowly, patiently, he started the process of weaving a net of words around Cattaneo while behind him Angel watched and tried to learn how it was done.

As was usually the case, by the time Conrad had finished the questioning process, the truth was much more complex than he had anticipated. Cattaneo was a member of the Batterie Della Testaccio, a group that made up part of the Banda Della Magliana. The unusual factor was that Testaccio was one of Rome’s traditional working class neighborhoods and the rackets run by the Batterie Della Testaccio reflected that background. It was rumored that the prevalence of butchers in Testaccio meant that the gangsters based there specialized in getting rid of inconvenient bodies. Angel had pricked up her ears at that and filed the information away for future reference.

The thing was, a Batterie that specialized in crude, brutal crimes seemed hardly likely to be a candidate for a subtle infiltration-based operation that would end with a poisoning. Cattaneo himself seemed a poor candidate for such works. In Conrad's eyes, he had a degree of natural cunning and deceitfulness but he lacked the astuteness needed to be a successful criminal. On the other hand, he had poisoned one Pope and made a good try at assassinating a second. The inevitable conclusion was that he was a pawn and there was somebody much more capable behind the attempts. That person would have to have day-to-day contact with him in order to direct his actions.

Conrad switched to Thai before speaking. "What do you think, Angel?"

She used the same language, aware that the chance of Cattaneo speaking Thai was remote yet watching her words anyway. "He's a street thug. A bit like me before we met. Dumb muscle. He needs somebody else's brains to make him tick. I think I know who that is."

Conrad agreed with her verdict on Cattaneo but gave no sign of it. What he did disagree with was Angel's poor image of herself. He knew where it came from and why but he still disliked the power that self-image had always had over her. "You do yourself a grave injustice. I've never met one of your Sai-Los who was so lacking in intelligence as this man. I don’t think he'd ever have made it into a Triad let alone work his way up through the ranks the way you have. Now, let's go talk to his brains."

Conference Room. Museo Nazionale di Castel Sant'Angelo, Vatican City.

It wasn't just the loss of his previous ornate robes that diminished Paul Marcinkus or their replacement by a simple monk's habit. It was the routine of a monastery, the machine-like regularity of the services, one set every three hours, day and night. That routine took the individuality out of days and even the individual hours within those days, deprived them of their identity and ground them down to the same level. It did the same to the people who lived under that rule. That was, of course, the whole point. Just as armies used drill to transform groups of individuals into a cohesive whole, so the monastic orders used the succession of services to wear down everybody to the same level. In his time, Conrad had lived under the monastic rule and, just like soldiers who looked back on the camaraderie of the armed forces with nostalgia, so he looked back on his days as a monk with quiet contentment. He glanced over at Angel who was staring at Marcinkus with undisguised contempt and found himself wondering how she would get on in a nunnery. He had an odd suspicion that she'd have quickly ended up in charge of the place. Probably after the existing Abbess had mysteriously disappeared one night. He rebuked himself sternly for thinking that wouldn't have been an entirely abnormal sequence of events.

The monastic rule had another effect as well. It stripped away people's pretensions and the layers of screens they erected to hide their true selves. That also could be seen in the way Marcinkus regarded the rest of the room. He was slumped in his seat at the end of the table, his head swinging from side to side as beady, suspicious eyes scanned those present. They reminded Conrad of a venomous snake facing his enemies, trying to decide who to attack first. Knowing that a strike against one would expose him to destruction from the rest. The man's venomous character was revealed quite clearly for those with the eyes to see it.

That hate-filled glare returned most often to Lillith who was presenting her analysis of the affairs of the Vatican Bank. It was a sorry catalog indeed, of monies misappropriated and payments illegally made to unqualified recipients. It was also apparent that as the Church's funds had been diverted to unauthorized destinations using the Banco Ambrosiano as a conduit, large sums had been skimmed off and diverted to other recipients. Lillith's final analysis was devastating. "The Vatican Bank is corrupted to the core. Unsalvageable. You'll have to wind it up and start again. The good news is we've managed some successful defensive actions. We've frozen all its funds, stopped any further payments and managed to recover some others that were in transit. Now, we have to go over to the offensive and recover the rest of the monies fraudulently transferred from the Church to the Banco Ambrosiano.”

“Why do I think that will be easier to say than to achieve.” Conti di Segni was deeply shocked that corruption had found its way into the heart of the Church that he had served and loved for centuries. It seemed to him that the damage was so extensive in scale and so devastating in its depth that there could be no way back. “The money, the wealth of the Church are gone. How can we possibly get them back?”

“We start with the Banco Ambrosiano and we follow the money from there.” Lillith had spent much of the previous night working out a campaign to recover the funds. To her own great surprise, her primary assistant had been Angel. It had quickly become apparent to Lillith that the primary value of the Banco Ambrosiano to the Trust was that it formed a conduit by which the funds being stolen from the Vatican Bank were transferred deeper within the multiple layers of the organization. The primary defense of the Banco Ambrosiano in doing so was its control of the Banda Della Magliana who provided the muscle needed to deter assaults on the Bank. Lillith guessed that her massive assault on Paradigm Oil and Angel’s obliteration of the Paradigm Oil Far East management had come as a colossal shock to the Trust and they had reacted by hiring criminals of their own to guard them. The Banda Della Magliana’s reputation for extreme and unrelenting brutality had blunted the legal assault on their structure and the bank they protected. Angel knew very little about international finance but she did have a very deep understanding of street warfare. It was that knowledge that Lillith had tapped into. In doing so, she learned why the Seer and Angel got along so well. They were both, in their different ways, skilled strategists.

As her discussions with Angel had continued, Lillith had also been surprised to learn that Angel had a deep distaste for gang warfare in general. There was nothing moral about it; she simply regarded it as a wasteful and inefficient use of resources. Since becoming Vanguard of the 14K Triad, Angel had spent most of her time constructing a web of agreements and understandings that minimized the need for outright warfare and replaced it with arbitration and mediation. Ironically, it was that web and its growing authority that had shut the Trust out of any useful contact with the major players of the criminal world and forced them to deal with small-fry like the Banda Della Magliana. Lillith found that a splendid example of unintended consequences.

It was the reign of terror conducted by the Banda Della Magliana that was the problem. The Banda had to go before any progress could be made in recovering the lost funds. Its grip of terror had to be broken before any legal action and that meant a gang war. Eventually, Angel had agreed to commit 14K Triad resources to the task. For a price of course and that was when Lillith had found out where Angel's reputation as a negotiator had come from. The price they had finally agreed on was much steeper than Lillith had expected. The 14K would receive ten percent of any monies recovered from the Banco Ambrosiano and other destinations with a minimum of a hundred million sovereigns. That price, heavy though it was, had been agreed and she had already started making preparations.

“The problem is that the Banco Ambrosiano is itself nearly bankrupt with its resources almost completely drained. It is billions of dollars in debt and only keeping itself afloat by some very imaginative uses of their different ledgers. If it hadn't been for the Banda Della Magliana terrorizing the authorities, a financial investigation would have collapsed the place by now. The problem is, that missing money has gone deeper into The Trust. Marcinkus, you were also a director of the Banco Ambrosiano. We will need to know the details of every transaction made under your authority. Not just the Vatican Bank ones, all of them.”

Marcinkus stared at her with undiluted, venomous hatred. “Over my dead body.”

“Fine.” The single-word chorus from Achillea, Angel and Lagertha was followed by the scrape of chairs as they got up and closed in on Marcinkus. Then they stopped, not having worked out who would have the privilege of killing him.

“How do you to settle this sort of thing?” Lagertha had never worked with Angel and only rarely with Achillea.

“Usually we play rock-paper-scissors. Achillea usually wins.” Angel explained.

“She always does.” The bitterness in Lagertha’s voice was quickly masked but was still noticeable.

Angel filed it away for future investigation. “Look, for you two, a day when you can whack a dumbass louse like this lowlife is memorable. For me it's Tuesday. Why don’t you sort it out between you?”

Lagertha gave her one of her most dazzling smiles. “Why Angel, that’s so nice of you. Really considerate. Rock-paper-scissors you said?”

They struck their fists three times in the air and then made their choice. Achillea had selected ‘rock’, Lagertha, ‘paper’. Achillea cursed in Latin, making Lagertha smile. “Good game for lawyers this.”

She turned to one of the Swiss Guards. “Could I borrow that axe thing of yours? I have to remember how to make a blood eagle.”

Conti di Segni went white at the good-humored menace in Lagertha's words. "Do I want to know what a blood eagle is?"

"Odin's main companion is a great black raven. Back then, ravens and eagles were the same thing, a small eagle was a raven and a large raven was an eagle. So to sacrifice somebody in a way that made him look like an eagle was to honor Odin. The way it was done was to use an axe to chop down either side of his spine, separating his ribs from his backbone. Then, the executioner takes hold of the severed rib ends and drags them sideways to open his chest cavity and expose the lungs. Pull the lungs out, put them onto the sacrifice's shoulders and there you are. Looks just like an eagle sitting on a perch. If he doesn't scream and is otherwise worthy, he goes to Valhalla. That doesn't apply to you Marcinkus, you are not worthy."

Lagertha beamed in satisfaction as Marcinkus, Conti di Segni and one of the Swiss Guardsmen vomited. Angel just shrugged. "I really don't approve of that sort of thing."

"It upsets Conrad." Achillea explained to Lagertha who was inspecting a halberd with a dubious expression on her face.

"I'd gathered that. Not a good idea so I am told."

"You can say that again. It makes Angel angry, you wouldn’t like her when she's angry. The halberd isn't the proper tool for a blood eagle. We can get you a proper chopping axe from the kitchens. Oh, gods look, he's blubbering." Achillea shook her head in disgust. "In the names of all the Gods, one of whom might be yours, man-up. 'That man lives badly who does not know how to die well.'

"Seneca." Angel said helpfully.

Marcinkus did not seem consoled by the quotation. "Please, I'll tell you what I know."

"Is there a stenographer in the house?"

Marcinkus was taken out of the room by the Swiss Guards with Achillea and Lagertha in attendance. Conti di Segni went off to report to the Pope. That left Conrad and Angel alone together. "Was I really being considerate, Conrad?"

Conrad thought about that. "I suppose it depends on why you did it. Normally you do things for two reasons, one because it benefits you or secondly because you're bored and amuse yourself by playing with people. If neither of those apply then, yes, you were being considerate."

"That's a 'no' then. Conrad, this constant back-biting between Lagertha and Achillea worries me. It's not good for teamwork and this business could get very ugly very quickly. When that happens, when not if, all three of us will have to work as a team and this kind of discord isn't good. I was trying to smooth things down but I don’t think it worked."

"Why don't you talk to Lagertha about it? She might open up to you. A bit anyway."

Lagertha's Room, Domus Sanctae Marthae, Vatican City

Lagertha was reading one of the legal documents she was submitting to the Italian courts that had jurisdiction over the Banco Ambrosiano. It was a writ seeking restitution of funds transferred illegally from the Vatican bank to the Banco Ambrosiano. She was very well aware that there were no such funds left to confiscate but she regarded it as vital to record the judgement so that when funds did surface, her clients would have a high priority for them.

Her thoughts were interrupted by an imperious hammering on the door. Lagertha's instincts, still those of a Queen, a warlord and a shield-maiden were outraged by the peremptory demand for entry. A quick checked showed it was Angel outside so she forced down her resentment at the arrogant demand for entry and opened the door. "Hello, Angel. Come on in."

"Hi, Lagertha. I want us to have a talk for a few minutes." Angel was brusque and to-the-point. It occurred to Lagertha this was how Angel behaved when Conrad wasn't there to give her leads on social interactions. It suited her business environment perfectly but was a liability in normal social relations. That told Lagertha this was a business meeting.

"Sure, no problem. I was just going through the writs we are filing against the Ambrosiano. Take a seat and tell me what I can do for you."

"What's up with you and Achillea?" Angel didn’t waste any time with small-talk. That kind of social lubricant was something else she depended on Conrad's examples for.

"What do you mean?"

"Since the three of us met up, you and Achillea have been sniping at each other. All the time and most of it starts with you. I want to know why."

Lagertha raised an eyebrow. "You don’t waste time do you? All right. A very long time ago, when I lived in Scandinavia, I was a queen. And I was also a famous shield-maiden. Songs were sung about me and tales of my great deeds were told around the campfires and in long-houses on cold nights. After a while, I realized I wasn't getting older. My son, Bjorn Ironside, was in his late thirties yet I looked the same as I had when he was a baby and that all added to the legend of Lagertha. When I met Loki, I found out why and I was able to watch my legend growing until I was seen as almost one of the Gods. Then Parmenio and his group turned up. Loki made him very angry and Parmenio shredded everything Loki had achieved.

"One of Parmenio's lieutenants was Achillea. Soon, word about Achillea started to spread amongst the long-lived. It was Achillea this and Achillea that. Achillea, the great swordswoman, the great philosopher-warrior, who could pick up any weapon and use it to perfection. Achillea the unbeatable gladiator. The stories about her drowned out mine. Her legend outshone mine. In the world outside, I was forgotten but legends about Achillea, under a variety of names, took my place. The place I had fought and bled to win. Inside the long-lived community, I was always number two. When discussions started on weapons and fighting with them, it was always Achillea that they quoted, never me. My deeds are forgotten, hers celebrated. Now you're here and now I'm number three. Everybody talks about the great Angel and her abilities with her guns." Lagertha was flushed bright red and she stopped speaking, panting slightly. When she resumed, she had regained control of herself. "How can you not resent Achillea? How would you feel if a better gunslinger turned up and took your place?"

Angel didn’t have a clue what Lagertha was talking about. "I wouldn’t feel anything. I can't, I'm a psychopath and anyway, I'd probably be dead. As for 'Lea, with most things she's better than me. A lot better; when we're sparring I always lose. Only on a pistol range do I routinely beat her. So I simply add that into my calculations when working out how to handle something. If it's going to be close quarters stuff, or long-range sniping, she takes the lead. If it's going to be a gunfight, she takes mine. It is what it is. Resenting it is foolish and it would harm our effectiveness as a team which would mean both of us stood a greater chance of being killed."

"So I'm foolish am I?"

"You're acting foolishly right now, yes. Just accept what is. And if you're upset that nobody knows the story of Queen Lagertha, then tell it. By the sound of it, your story would make a good television show. Just don't let your feelings mess up our work here."

"Easy for you to say. You don't have feelings."

"Oh I do, it's empathy, emotional relationships between people, I don’t understand and can't share in. That's why I can't understand the way you feel about 'Lea. What I do understand is that your anger towards her directly impacts upon me and harms my interests. Just accept what is, all right? And if it really bothers you that much to accept how good at her job 'Lea is, then improve yourself. I'll tell you what I tell other gangsters when they get hung up on demanding revenge for a, usually imagined, slight. Nobody ever got ahead by trying to get even."

[Calder]

Chapter Eight
Contrasa Restaurant. Conte di Palombara, Castelmonastero, Outside Rome

The staff at the Contrasa understood well that they should keep away from the group of three men and one woman who had occupied a secluded table and were conversing quietly amongst themselves. They knew that the three men were very senior gangsters but the status of the woman was confusing. She was Chinese and the Chinese crime networks had no appreciable presence in Rome. Yet, all three men were paying attention to her words and taking them very seriously.

"On my previous visit, Signor Lucchese was kind enough to explain the situation surrounding the Banda Della Magliana and the problems that group are posing. From your point of view, the problem is that they are squeezing your ability to secure adequate returns on your investments in areas where they operate. From our point of view they are protecting people who have inflicted grave financial damage on the Roman Catholic Church through their exploitation of the Vatican Bank and the Banco Ambrosiano. We cannot deal with that problem until we eliminate the Banda Della Magliana. Since that is in all our interests, I would like to ask your permission, for ourselves and our allies, to carry out some operations on your territory."

"May I ask what sort of operations you and your allies have in mind?" Alfredino Schiavone, the business manager of the 'Ndrangheta took a sip of the excellent wine Angel had ordered. He gave a slight nod of appreciation, both for the wine and for the respect she was showing. "And who are you and your allies?"

"We are the 14K Triad of course. Our allies in this are the Solntsevskaya Bratva. The operation we have planned will be a coordinated assault on the various Batterie that form the Banda Della Magliana. When I was last here, I promised I would think on this problem and see if I could find a solution. At first I thought that we could simply decapitate the group and the rest would fall apart but as I studied the group I saw that this would not be an appropriate solution. Due to their basic structure, if we decapitate the group, another Batterie would rise to the top and take over."

"As we have discovered. And the new leaders strike back with great fury." Mariano Siciliani, Consiglieri to the Mafia Commission in Italy sounded chastened by the experience. His position amongst the various Mafia families in Italy was much the same as Angel's in the Triads and he knew how badly the various families had been hit by those attacks.

"I had suspected as much and rejected the decapitation strategy unless it was supported by parallel operations. If there was an honest and competent police force, a few well-placed telephone calls would work wonders without a shot being fired but that option is not open to us. The Banda Della Magliana have terrorized the police here into inertia and I don’t blame the cops for that. We need to take out as many of the Batteries as possible in a single coordinated blow. That is why I want to bring in the Bratva; most of their street combat teams are veterans of the Spetsnaz and Paratroopers. They are easily the best-trained and best-equipped street combat force out there. Once that objective is achieved, we can mop up the medium- and low-level associates."

"And how much will the Solntsevskaya Bratva charge us for this service? And the 14K?" Schiavone sounded neutral.

Angel raised an eyebrow. "Actually, we were thinking we would pay you by way of compensation for the disruption this campaign will cause. When the Batteries start dropping like flies, the National police will become involved and this will be a hard time for everybody. So, in exchange for your permission to launch this operation, the Bratva are prepared to offer each of you rights to export your product to five of the major cities in Russia, cities of your choice of course, and to supply the dealers in those cities. For this business opportunity, and for protective services while you exploit it, they will charge you 15 percent of your profits from those dealings. Gross, not net."

"That would apply to each of us?" Lucchese was obviously interested.

"It would; although I would suggest that you pool all the income from the fifteen cities and share it equally between you. That way, nobody would feel they had been short-changed."

"And the 14K?" Siciliani was calculating the profits from the new enterprise on offer. He found the bottom line very attractive and realized that combining the Mafia's well-established system for obtaining, processing and distributing drugs with the Bratva's protection and influence, not to mention raw firepower, could be the start of a very profitable business enterprise for both parties. In effect, the Bratva removing the Banda Della Magliana and the Commission enabling that operation were mutual demonstrations of good faith.

"We would offer you our friendship, an established amicable relationship aimed at our mutual benefit. I have learned from my own life that an offer of friendship can be more valuable than material things. As a gesture of good faith, we will teach you how to run computer crimes. Phishing our experts call it. The gullibility of people using computers is hard to believe sometimes and they give away deeply personal information with a free hand. That makes it a major earner for us and can be for you. It has the added merit that the legal systems haven't caught up with computer crime yet and what we do isn't even illegal."

"And the Solntsevskaya Bratva have agreed to this?" Siciliani sounded convinced.

"They have." Angel didn’t add that the Bratva would have been happy with ten percent. Nobody had asked.

"Then so have we. As you say, Angel, an offer of friendship can be more important than material things. Do you have all the intelligence you and your allies need?"

"I wish I could say yes but we don’t. However, that's always the case, we always need more intelligence and we'll be grateful for any extra you can provide however small. We've started muddying the waters as well, by spreading cybernet rumors that the Italian police have formed a new counter-terror unit that has selected the Banda Della Magliana as their first target. Those rumors suggest this is a response to Bologna."

Schiavone snorted with laughter. "So that's where those stories came from. My son found them and came running in to warn me of the new police unit. That is an excellent smokescreen but I doubt it will last long."

"It doesn't have to. It will hold the line for a few hours, until the batteries realize they are under attack from the Russians and Chinese. They will assume that this is our attempt to establish our own position in Rome. Your organizations will be safely on the sidelines. Hell, they may even come to you for assistance."

"Which we will refuse of course." Lucchese had a question in his voice.

"No, which you will agree to provide. I told you we need good intelligence. You pass whatever you learn straight back to us. Oh, and when that happens, make sure we know where your people are. None of us want any friendly fire incidents."

"And after the actions are completed?" Siciliano wanted to make sure all the bases were covered.

"We leave. All of us, Bratva and 14K. We have no interest in establishing a presence here and we will make it look as if we left rather than fight you as well. After all, this is your territory, not ours. If we wish to carry out an operation here later on, then we will negotiate an agreement and pay you for the privilege of operating on your turf."

The three Italians exchanged glances and each gave a slight nod. Lucchese then expressed the consensus very formally. "Then, Angel, we have an agreement. You and your allies have our permission to carry out the described operation here."

Sacred Congregation for Extraordinary Ecclesiastical Affairs, Vatican City.

There was an acute tension in the air. Angel was sitting quietly in one corner giving out orders to the strike teams that would carry out the work of eliminating Banda Della Magliana. Or at least neutralizing it. The ideal would be to take out the leadership and the batteries is one single strike but that, everybody knew would be impossible. The locations of up to nine of the fifteen batteries were known at any one time. Once a fix was obtained on the leadership as well, the assault would be launched. Once that had been done, the war was on. Angel’s objective was to make it as short and as decisive as possible.

“Does she remind you of anybody?” Lillith whispered the comment to Naamah.

“Parmenio.” There was no doubt in Naamah’s voice. “I don’t know whether she’s consciously copying him, they’ve talked a lot over the last year, or whether it's simply two similar people doing the same job in the same way but the resemblance is uncanny. Igrat was right; there’s a hell of a brain there and it just needed the right environment for it to come out of the shadows. The gods alone know what she would have been by now if she’d had the chances she deserved.”

Angel looked up and her mouth twisted slightly. “Tell me about it. I wasted thirty years of my life because of my bastard father and his priest. Once I catch up with everything I missed out on, I’m going to university. In the meantime, I’ve got a war to win.”

“See, she even sounds like Parmenio.” Lillith was amused more than anything else. “Angel, you’ve got time now. Provided you stay alive of course. Thirty years will seem like nothing in a few centuries time.”

Angel sighed sadly. “If I stay alive. Lillith, a lot has changed for me since I met Conrad but one thing remains the same. I’m still one of the walking dead. I could be killed tomorrow morning. If not sooner. By the way, make sure that ‘Lea and Lagertha are guarding that door. We don’t want any Churchie people wandering in here. They absolutely must not know what is happening or our part in it. Especially Conrad.”

Naamah went over to the door and checked Achillea and Lagertha were on the other side. Achillea gave her a friendly grin, guessing that Angel was being her usual meticulously careful self. Lagertha, in contrast, looked irritated that somebody had checked. “Lagertha, one thing you’ll learn working with Angel is that she checks and double-checks everything. If she’s assigned to watch your back while you do something, she’ll will take equal care to make sure that every possible aspect of that gets done above all else. No distractions. When everything drops in the pot, she’s the best partner you could ask for.”

Inside, Angel had gone back to checking the positions of the targets and ensuring that the strike teams were in place. She had spotters checking that the targets hadn’t moved or done anything unexpected. The fact was, two of the targeted Batteries had changed location unexpectedly and the planned assault had been modified to allow for the changes. She had had reserve teams waiting for that eventuality. When the telephone buzzed again, she picked it up. “Fāshēng shénme shì? What is happening?”

After the brief call was over, she made another call. “We have them. Location five. Anna, Boris, Galina, Leonid, Nikolai, Tang, Fuchao, Sheng. Take out assigned targets in accordance with briefing from your team leaders. Sasha, take out prime at five.”

Trattoria Aglio e Oilio, Via della Magliana, Magliana

Strike team Leonid consisted of five men, all graduates of the Russian Army paratrooper and Spetsnaz units and now loyal members of the Solntsevskaya Bratva. They had quietly slipped into place as the members of the Batterie Della Fiornico had gathered in the restaurant for their weekly meeting. One fire team, the breaching team of three men, were positioned to watch the main entrance and count the batterie members in. The other section, the support team, was watching the rear door and would kill down anybody who attempted to escape by that route. Each man was carrying a ZPK-96 submachinegun, a short, stubby weapon with the 100-round drum magazine mounted behind the trigger. The grips for the weapon were mounted well-forward, a feature that combined with the straight-line configuration to make it eminently controllable. That was an important consideration because the ZPK-96 spewed its 5x28mm ammunition at a stupendous rate. Some submachineguns rattled, others hammered. The ZPK-96 buzzed.

"Excuse me, sirs. I am afraid the restaurant is closed due to a family celebration." The head waiter was, as the name of the business suggested, both malodorous and oily. He was prevented from continuing by the blade from a ballistic knife that took him in the throat, sliced his larynx in half and silenced him, instantly and permanently. The three members of the primary kill team slipped past his body and took station behind the closed double doors that led to the main body of the restaurant. Their leader silently tried the handle and found it was unlocked. That made life just a tiny bit easier. The primary strike team members took a deep breath to steady themselves, then flung the doors open and stepped in. As they did so, they fired long bursts from the ZPK-96s that raked across the eight men sitting at the long table at the other end of the room.

The ZPK-96 fired more than thirty rounds a second, the loud buzz made by the weapons sounding like a cloud of very angry hornets. The four security men were the first to die but only by a tiny fraction of a second. Two of the assault team took a pair of them each and cut them down before they could draw their weapons. Team Leonid's leader was already emptying his ZPK into the center of the head table, sending glass splinters, food debris, mangled flowers and the shattered remains of wine bottles skywards. In the midst of the destruction, the four men in the center were performing something that appeared to be a strange macabre dance as the bullets tore into them. The small 5mm bullets were vicious weapons despite their limited size. Their tungsten cores meant they could slice through any body armor short of that needed to stop a rifle bullet yet their design and balance ensured that once they had done so, the bullets would tumble and fragment inside their victims. For all that, the 5x28 wasn't a particularly lethal round in isolation but the ZPK-96s rate of fire meant that the core members of the Batterie Della Fiornico were being hit by dozens of them. They weren't just being shot, they were being sawn apart.

With the guards dispatched, the two other strike team members switched their fire and supported their leader in hosing down the top table. For all that, the man nearest the back door lived long enough to try and escape. As he went through the emergency exit, the two remaining members of the kill team cut him down with their ZPKs. By the time his body hit the ground, it was so badly mutilated by the multiple bullet strikes that identification was nearly impossible. Subsequently it would take the Italian police nearly three weeks to confirm his identity by which time the issue had ceased to matter.

The massacre had taken less than a couple of seconds from the time the Russian strike team had broken in. The five members checked each of the bodies, firing a short burst into the head of each to make absolutely certain they were dead. Then, their leader pressed the transmit button on his throat-mike and said two words. "Leonid uspekh."

12th Floor, 33 Viale Giorgio Ribotta, Avignone, Rome

The leaders of the Banda Della Magliana had obtained the office suite on the top floor of the office building on the presumption that its height and limited access offered a high degree of protection. Climbing up the walls was completely impossible and access from inside was by way of a private elevator that was guarded top and bottom. It was direct-access and stopped nowhere else. The elevators that did stop elsewhere did not service the 12th floor.

The members of Strike Team Sasha had taken less than five minutes to spot the flaws in the assumptions the Banda Della Magliana had made. They had infiltrated in, singly and in pairs, and ridden the public-access elevators upwards. As it happened, those elevators used the same shafts as the private-access only elevator cars. It was a simple matter to enter the public access car, ride it up and transfer through the emergency escape hatch in the process. Then, they would ride the car down again while sitting comfortably on the roof. At ground level, they would just step over to the roof of the private-access car and ride that up. Once at the top, it was easy to climb into the lift mechanism at the top and go out through the maintenance hatch onto the roof.

They had, of course, been issued with visitors passes on the way in. The Russians and their Italian business colleagues had received a pass each and the Italians had left a few minutes later after their "business visit", leaving both the passes behind. So, when the passes had been checked against the register they showed everybody who had been issued one had returned it and left. The truth was, security was by no means as good as it should have been. As a result of that deficiency, the leaders of the Banda Della Magliana had no idea a Spetsnaz-trained assault team was a few feet over their heads.

Dusk was well-advanced when the leadership meeting started. What the people inside the suite of offices didn't see was that two men had just rappelled down from the roof and slipped an explosive breaching frame over the largest window. It was simple enough, just a right-angle piece of plastic with a thin liner of Semtex explosive. The two men who had placed it retreated sideways to rejoin the rest of their team at a distance determined by the conflicting demands of safety and the need to get through the disintegrated window while the occupants of the room were still stunned by the blast.

The lead demolitionist made a quick visual inspection to ensure the rest of the team were relatively safe then uncaged and pressed the 'detonate' button. The blast was surprisingly low-key since the triangular frame directed it inwards but it completely destroyed the window and left a gaping hole in the wall. All four men then pushed off with their feet, driving them outwards from the building wall before their ropes took them in a wide curve towards the remains of the window. Each man threw a pair of flash-bang grenades into the office conference room and followed them in while hosing down everything that moved with long bursts of fire from their ZPKs. They quickly checked the dead against the list and photographs they had been given and ensured they had made a clean sweep. In fact, they had also killed a secretary who had brought some coffee in. That, they found regrettable but unavoidable. Their leader also sent the message back "Sasha uspekh."

Then they took cover. The emergency services arrived quickly and poured into the building. The assault team already had a collapsible stretcher and medical service personnel uniforms complete with identity badges available. They set up in the elevator on the way down and by the time the doors opened, one man was screaming and blood-soaked on the stretcher while four medical attendants rushed him out to a waiting ambulance where a nurse and a driver waited. As it happened, both were Chinese. The casualty was loaded and the ambulance rushed off, its siren sounding furiously. That cleared traffic out of the way nicely.

Strike Team Tang, Via Cristoforo Columbo, EUR, Rome

The Batterie Della Esposizione ran most of the prostitution in Rome and they did so with an iron hand. Every evening, its core members would patrol their section of the city on the lookout for girls who were not working hard enough or were skimming their earnings before handing them over. The former offense got the girl slapped around, the second beaten so badly they would need to spend weeks in hospital care. The worst penalty was reserved for girls who tried to work in the EUR without being part of the Batterie stable. They had acid thrown in their faces.

The six members of the Batterie Della Esposizione were split into three two-man teams and were patrolling the streets in cars, relishing the fear that gripped the sidewalks as they passed. While they were surveying their patch, they were unaware that they were all being followed by a group of cars that were constantly shifting position around them. The only thing that was keeping the six Batterie members alive was that the Triad Street Combat Team closing in on them hadn't had the word to carry out the eliminations yet. This job had been assigned to them because the Triads used larger assault teams than the Bratva, ones more suited to striking at targets spread over an area.

"We have the word." Wen Ch'eng was the driver and also the commander of Strike Group Tang. His two passengers were both Thompson gunners, armed with the classic twin pistol-grip Thompson with a 100-round drum magazine. The guns were actually made in Cuba, one of the few cities in the world where tourists and 'law enforcement' openly carried the same weapons. Both gunners cocked their weapons and lowered the windows of the car. Wen accelerated slightly and overtook the car belonging to the Batterie Della Esposizione as it passed the EUR sports stadium. In the traffic along the divided highway through the park, the sudden change went unnoticed by the Batterie men and they were still watching the women trying to attract trade when the long bursts of gunfire ripped into them. With the driver dead, their car went out of control, swerved off the road and crashed into the trees lining the park.

Hui Ying-Tsai slotted a new magazine into her Thompson gun and slid out of the back seat of the car. Her gun was on its shoulder-sling while she had a Molotov cocktail in her right hand. She lit the fuse and tossed it into the wrecked car, hearing the whumpf as the vehicle burst into flames with great satisfaction. She also heard the distinctive slow hammering of Thompson guns from a kilometer or two away and knew that the second Batterie car had been destroyed. Then she looked at the half-dozen girls cowering in the shadows, taking in their soiled, shabby lingerie and cringing behavior. "In the name of whatever god you worship, get some self-respect. You don’t have to put up with this crap. We're 14K and we run girls as well, but they are our fellow-employees, members of our family. We treat them as partners, not slaves."

She slid back into her own car and the Triad hit-team drove off. In the back, Hui was satisfied with a job well done. Her little speech would be reported to the police. Along with the highly distinctive ZPK-96s used by the Russians, this would lead to the inevitable conclusion from the Rome law enforcements organizations that the Triads and the Bratya had allied to take over the territory run by the Banda Della Magliana. This was a gang war, something that Rome was quite familiar with but had hoped was past. It wasn't.

[Calder]

Chapter Eight
Contrasa Restaurant. Conte di Palombara, Castelmonastero, Outside Rome

The staff at the Contrasa understood well that they should keep away from the group of three men and one woman who had occupied a secluded table and were conversing quietly amongst themselves. They knew that the three men were very senior gangsters but the status of the woman was confusing. She was Chinese and the Chinese crime networks had no appreciable presence in Rome. Yet, all three men were paying attention to her words and taking them very seriously.

"On my previous visit, Signor Lucchese was kind enough to explain the situation surrounding the Banda Della Magliana and the problems that group are posing. From your point of view, the problem is that they are squeezing your ability to secure adequate returns on your investments in areas where they operate. From our point of view they are protecting people who have inflicted grave financial damage on the Roman Catholic Church through their exploitation of the Vatican Bank and the Banco Ambrosiano. We cannot deal with that problem until we eliminate the Banda Della Magliana. Since that is in all our interests, I would like to ask your permission, for ourselves and our allies, to carry out some operations on your territory."

"May I ask what sort of operations you and your allies have in mind?" Alfredino Schiavone, the business manager of the 'Ndrangheta took a sip of the excellent wine Angel had ordered. He gave a slight nod of appreciation, both for the wine and for the respect she was showing. "And who are you and your allies?"

"We are the 14K Triad of course. Our allies in this are the Solntsevskaya Bratva. The operation we have planned will be a coordinated assault on the various Batterie that form the Banda Della Magliana. When I was last here, I promised I would think on this problem and see if I could find a solution. At first I thought that we could simply decapitate the group and the rest would fall apart but as I studied the group I saw that this would not be an appropriate solution. Due to their basic structure, if we decapitate the group, another Batterie would rise to the top and take over."

"As we have discovered. And the new leaders strike back with great fury." Mariano Siciliani, Consiglieri to the Mafia Commission in Italy sounded chastened by the experience. His position amongst the various Mafia families in Italy was much the same as Angel's in the Triads and he knew how badly the various families had been hit by those attacks.

"I had suspected as much and rejected the decapitation strategy unless it was supported by parallel operations. If there was an honest and competent police force, a few well-placed telephone calls would work wonders without a shot being fired but that option is not open to us. The Banda Della Magliana have terrorized the police here into inertia and I don’t blame the cops for that. We need to take out as many of the Batteries as possible in a single coordinated blow. That is why I want to bring in the Bratva; most of their street combat teams are veterans of the Spetsnaz and Paratroopers. They are easily the best-trained and best-equipped street combat force out there. Once that objective is achieved, we can mop up the medium- and low-level associates."

"And how much will the Solntsevskaya Bratva charge us for this service? And the 14K?" Schiavone sounded neutral.

Angel raised an eyebrow. "Actually, we were thinking we would pay you by way of compensation for the disruption this campaign will cause. When the Batteries start dropping like flies, the National police will become involved and this will be a hard time for everybody. So, in exchange for your permission to launch this operation, the Bratva are prepared to offer each of you rights to export your product to five of the major cities in Russia, cities of your choice of course, and to supply the dealers in those cities. For this business opportunity, and for protective services while you exploit it, they will charge you 15 percent of your profits from those dealings. Gross, not net."

"That would apply to each of us?" Lucchese was obviously interested.

"It would; although I would suggest that you pool all the income from the fifteen cities and share it equally between you. That way, nobody would feel they had been short-changed."

"And the 14K?" Siciliani was calculating the profits from the new enterprise on offer. He found the bottom line very attractive and realized that combining the Mafia's well-established system for obtaining, processing and distributing drugs with the Bratva's protection and influence, not to mention raw firepower, could be the start of a very profitable business enterprise for both parties. In effect, the Bratva removing the Banda Della Magliana and the Commission enabling that operation were mutual demonstrations of good faith.

"We would offer you our friendship, an established amicable relationship aimed at our mutual benefit. I have learned from my own life that an offer of friendship can be more valuable than material things. As a gesture of good faith, we will teach you how to run computer crimes. Phishing our experts call it. The gullibility of people using computers is hard to believe sometimes and they give away deeply personal information with a free hand. That makes it a major earner for us and can be for you. It has the added merit that the legal systems haven't caught up with computer crime yet and what we do isn't even illegal."

"And the Solntsevskaya Bratva have agreed to this?" Siciliani sounded convinced.

"They have." Angel didn’t add that the Bratva would have been happy with ten percent. Nobody had asked.

"Then so have we. As you say, Angel, an offer of friendship can be more important than material things. Do you have all the intelligence you and your allies need?"

"I wish I could say yes but we don’t. However, that's always the case, we always need more intelligence and we'll be grateful for any extra you can provide however small. We've started muddying the waters as well, by spreading cybernet rumors that the Italian police have formed a new counter-terror unit that has selected the Banda Della Magliana as their first target. Those rumors suggest this is a response to Bologna."

Schiavone snorted with laughter. "So that's where those stories came from. My son found them and came running in to warn me of the new police unit. That is an excellent smokescreen but I doubt it will last long."

"It doesn't have to. It will hold the line for a few hours, until the batteries realize they are under attack from the Russians and Chinese. They will assume that this is our attempt to establish our own position in Rome. Your organizations will be safely on the sidelines. Hell, they may even come to you for assistance."

"Which we will refuse of course." Lucchese had a question in his voice.

"No, which you will agree to provide. I told you we need good intelligence. You pass whatever you learn straight back to us. Oh, and when that happens, make sure we know where your people are. None of us want any friendly fire incidents."

"And after the actions are completed?" Siciliano wanted to make sure all the bases were covered.

"We leave. All of us, Bratva and 14K. We have no interest in establishing a presence here and we will make it look as if we left rather than fight you as well. After all, this is your territory, not ours. If we wish to carry out an operation here later on, then we will negotiate an agreement and pay you for the privilege of operating on your turf."

The three Italians exchanged glances and each gave a slight nod. Lucchese then expressed the consensus very formally. "Then, Angel, we have an agreement. You and your allies have our permission to carry out the described operation here."

Sacred Congregation for Extraordinary Ecclesiastical Affairs, Vatican City.

There was an acute tension in the air. Angel was sitting quietly in one corner giving out orders to the strike teams that would carry out the work of eliminating Banda Della Magliana. Or at least neutralizing it. The ideal would be to take out the leadership and the batteries is one single strike but that, everybody knew would be impossible. The locations of up to nine of the fifteen batteries were known at any one time. Once a fix was obtained on the leadership as well, the assault would be launched. Once that had been done, the war was on. Angel’s objective was to make it as short and as decisive as possible.

“Does she remind you of anybody?” Lillith whispered the comment to Naamah.

“Parmenio.” There was no doubt in Naamah’s voice. “I don’t know whether she’s consciously copying him, they’ve talked a lot over the last year, or whether it's simply two similar people doing the same job in the same way but the resemblance is uncanny. Igrat was right; there’s a hell of a brain there and it just needed the right environment for it to come out of the shadows. The gods alone know what she would have been by now if she’d had the chances she deserved.”

Angel looked up and her mouth twisted slightly. “Tell me about it. I wasted thirty years of my life because of my bastard father and his priest. Once I catch up with everything I missed out on, I’m going to university. In the meantime, I’ve got a war to win.”

“See, she even sounds like Parmenio.” Lillith was amused more than anything else. “Angel, you’ve got time now. Provided you stay alive of course. Thirty years will seem like nothing in a few centuries time.”

Angel sighed sadly. “If I stay alive. Lillith, a lot has changed for me since I met Conrad but one thing remains the same. I’m still one of the walking dead. I could be killed tomorrow morning. If not sooner. By the way, make sure that ‘Lea and Lagertha are guarding that door. We don’t want any Churchie people wandering in here. They absolutely must not know what is happening or our part in it. Especially Conrad.”

Naamah went over to the door and checked Achillea and Lagertha were on the other side. Achillea gave her a friendly grin, guessing that Angel was being her usual meticulously careful self. Lagertha, in contrast, looked irritated that somebody had checked. “Lagertha, one thing you’ll learn working with Angel is that she checks and double-checks everything. If she’s assigned to watch your back while you do something, she’ll will take equal care to make sure that every possible aspect of that gets done above all else. No distractions. When everything drops in the pot, she’s the best partner you could ask for.”

Inside, Angel had gone back to checking the positions of the targets and ensuring that the strike teams were in place. She had spotters checking that the targets hadn’t moved or done anything unexpected. The fact was, two of the targeted Batteries had changed location unexpectedly and the planned assault had been modified to allow for the changes. She had had reserve teams waiting for that eventuality. When the telephone buzzed again, she picked it up. “Fāshēng shénme shì? What is happening?”

After the brief call was over, she made another call. “We have them. Location five. Anna, Boris, Galina, Leonid, Nikolai, Tang, Fuchao, Sheng. Take out assigned targets in accordance with briefing from your team leaders. Sasha, take out prime at five.”

Trattoria Aglio e Oilio, Via della Magliana, Magliana

Strike team Leonid consisted of five men, all graduates of the Russian Army paratrooper and Spetsnaz units and now loyal members of the Solntsevskaya Bratva. They had quietly slipped into place as the members of the Batterie Della Fiornico had gathered in the restaurant for their weekly meeting. One fire team, the breaching team of three men, were positioned to watch the main entrance and count the batterie members in. The other section, the support team, was watching the rear door and would kill down anybody who attempted to escape by that route. Each man was carrying a ZPK-96 submachinegun, a short, stubby weapon with the 100-round drum magazine mounted behind the trigger. The grips for the weapon were mounted well-forward, a feature that combined with the straight-line configuration to make it eminently controllable. That was an important consideration because the ZPK-96 spewed its 5x28mm ammunition at a stupendous rate. Some submachineguns rattled, others hammered. The ZPK-96 buzzed.

"Excuse me, sirs. I am afraid the restaurant is closed due to a family celebration." The head waiter was, as the name of the business suggested, both malodorous and oily. He was prevented from continuing by the blade from a ballistic knife that took him in the throat, sliced his larynx in half and silenced him, instantly and permanently. The three members of the primary kill team slipped past his body and took station behind the closed double doors that led to the main body of the restaurant. Their leader silently tried the handle and found it was unlocked. That made life just a tiny bit easier. The primary strike team members took a deep breath to steady themselves, then flung the doors open and stepped in. As they did so, they fired long bursts from the ZPK-96s that raked across the eight men sitting at the long table at the other end of the room.

The ZPK-96 fired more than thirty rounds a second, the loud buzz made by the weapons sounding like a cloud of very angry hornets. The four security men were the first to die but only by a tiny fraction of a second. Two of the assault team took a pair of them each and cut them down before they could draw their weapons. Team Leonid's leader was already emptying his ZPK into the center of the head table, sending glass splinters, food debris, mangled flowers and the shattered remains of wine bottles skywards. In the midst of the destruction, the four men in the center were performing something that appeared to be a strange macabre dance as the bullets tore into them. The small 5mm bullets were vicious weapons despite their limited size. Their tungsten cores meant they could slice through any body armor short of that needed to stop a rifle bullet yet their design and balance ensured that once they had done so, the bullets would tumble and fragment inside their victims. For all that, the 5x28 wasn't a particularly lethal round in isolation but the ZPK-96s rate of fire meant that the core members of the Batterie Della Fiornico were being hit by dozens of them. They weren't just being shot, they were being sawn apart.

With the guards dispatched, the two other strike team members switched their fire and supported their leader in hosing down the top table. For all that, the man nearest the back door lived long enough to try and escape. As he went through the emergency exit, the two remaining members of the kill team cut him down with their ZPKs. By the time his body hit the ground, it was so badly mutilated by the multiple bullet strikes that identification was nearly impossible. Subsequently it would take the Italian police nearly three weeks to confirm his identity by which time the issue had ceased to matter.

The massacre had taken less than a couple of seconds from the time the Russian strike team had broken in. The five members checked each of the bodies, firing a short burst into the head of each to make absolutely certain they were dead. Then, their leader pressed the transmit button on his throat-mike and said two words. "Leonid uspekh."

12th Floor, 33 Viale Giorgio Ribotta, Avignone, Rome

The leaders of the Banda Della Magliana had obtained the office suite on the top floor of the office building on the presumption that its height and limited access offered a high degree of protection. Climbing up the walls was completely impossible and access from inside was by way of a private elevator that was guarded top and bottom. It was direct-access and stopped nowhere else. The elevators that did stop elsewhere did not service the 12th floor.

The members of Strike Team Sasha had taken less than five minutes to spot the flaws in the assumptions the Banda Della Magliana had made. They had infiltrated in, singly and in pairs, and ridden the public-access elevators upwards. As it happened, those elevators used the same shafts as the private-access only elevator cars. It was a simple matter to enter the public access car, ride it up and transfer through the emergency escape hatch in the process. Then, they would ride the car down again while sitting comfortably on the roof. At ground level, they would just step over to the roof of the private-access car and ride that up. Once at the top, it was easy to climb into the lift mechanism at the top and go out through the maintenance hatch onto the roof.

They had, of course, been issued with visitors passes on the way in. The Russians and their Italian business colleagues had received a pass each and the Italians had left a few minutes later after their "business visit", leaving both the passes behind. So, when the passes had been checked against the register they showed everybody who had been issued one had returned it and left. The truth was, security was by no means as good as it should have been. As a result of that deficiency, the leaders of the Banda Della Magliana had no idea a Spetsnaz-trained assault team was a few feet over their heads.

Dusk was well-advanced when the leadership meeting started. What the people inside the suite of offices didn't see was that two men had just rappelled down from the roof and slipped an explosive breaching frame over the largest window. It was simple enough, just a right-angle piece of plastic with a thin liner of Semtex explosive. The two men who had placed it retreated sideways to rejoin the rest of their team at a distance determined by the conflicting demands of safety and the need to get through the disintegrated window while the occupants of the room were still stunned by the blast.

The lead demolitionist made a quick visual inspection to ensure the rest of the team were relatively safe then uncaged and pressed the 'detonate' button. The blast was surprisingly low-key since the triangular frame directed it inwards but it completely destroyed the window and left a gaping hole in the wall. All four men then pushed off with their feet, driving them outwards from the building wall before their ropes took them in a wide curve towards the remains of the window. Each man threw a pair of flash-bang grenades into the office conference room and followed them in while hosing down everything that moved with long bursts of fire from their ZPKs. They quickly checked the dead against the list and photographs they had been given and ensured they had made a clean sweep. In fact, they had also killed a secretary who had brought some coffee in. That, they found regrettable but unavoidable. Their leader also sent the message back "Sasha uspekh."

Then they took cover. The emergency services arrived quickly and poured into the building. The assault team already had a collapsible stretcher and medical service personnel uniforms complete with identity badges available. They set up in the elevator on the way down and by the time the doors opened, one man was screaming and blood-soaked on the stretcher while four medical attendants rushed him out to a waiting ambulance where a nurse and a driver waited. As it happened, both were Chinese. The casualty was loaded and the ambulance rushed off, its siren sounding furiously. That cleared traffic out of the way nicely.

Strike Team Tang, Via Cristoforo Columbo, EUR, Rome

The Batterie Della Esposizione ran most of the prostitution in Rome and they did so with an iron hand. Every evening, its core members would patrol their section of the city on the lookout for girls who were not working hard enough or were skimming their earnings before handing them over. The former offense got the girl slapped around, the second beaten so badly they would need to spend weeks in hospital care. The worst penalty was reserved for girls who tried to work in the EUR without being part of the Batterie stable. They had acid thrown in their faces.

The six members of the Batterie Della Esposizione were split into three two-man teams and were patrolling the streets in cars, relishing the fear that gripped the sidewalks as they passed. While they were surveying their patch, they were unaware that they were all being followed by a group of cars that were constantly shifting position around them. The only thing that was keeping the six Batterie members alive was that the Triad Street Combat Team closing in on them hadn't had the word to carry out the eliminations yet. This job had been assigned to them because the Triads used larger assault teams than the Bratva, ones more suited to striking at targets spread over an area.

"We have the word." Wen Ch'eng was the driver and also the commander of Strike Group Tang. His two passengers were both Thompson gunners, armed with the classic twin pistol-grip Thompson with a 100-round drum magazine. The guns were actually made in Cuba, one of the few cities in the world where tourists and 'law enforcement' openly carried the same weapons. Both gunners cocked their weapons and lowered the windows of the car. Wen accelerated slightly and overtook the car belonging to the Batterie Della Esposizione as it passed the EUR sports stadium. In the traffic along the divided highway through the park, the sudden change went unnoticed by the Batterie men and they were still watching the women trying to attract trade when the long bursts of gunfire ripped into them. With the driver dead, their car went out of control, swerved off the road and crashed into the trees lining the park.

Hui Ying-Tsai slotted a new magazine into her Thompson gun and slid out of the back seat of the car. Her gun was on its shoulder-sling while she had a Molotov cocktail in her right hand. She lit the fuse and tossed it into the wrecked car, hearing the whumpf as the vehicle burst into flames with great satisfaction. She also heard the distinctive slow hammering of Thompson guns from a kilometer or two away and knew that the second Batterie car had been destroyed. Then she looked at the half-dozen girls cowering in the shadows, taking in their soiled, shabby lingerie and cringing behavior. "In the name of whatever god you worship, get some self-respect. You don’t have to put up with this crap. We're 14K and we run girls as well, but they are our fellow-employees, members of our family. We treat them as partners, not slaves."

She slid back into her own car and the Triad hit-team drove off. In the back, Hui was satisfied with a job well done. Her little speech would be reported to the police. Along with the highly distinctive ZPK-96s used by the Russians, this would lead to the inevitable conclusion from the Rome law enforcements organizations that the Triads and the Bratya had allied to take over the territory run by the Banda Della Magliana. This was a gang war, something that Rome was quite familiar with but had hoped was past. It wasn't.

[Calder]

Chapter Nine
Sacred Congregation for Extraordinary Ecclesiastical Affairs, Vatican City.

"I would have thought you would have been out there with them?" Naamah asked the question more out of interest to see how Angel answered than what the answer would be.

"I would. But The Seer made it clear if I tried to leave the command center, Achillea had orders to nail my feet to the floor." Exactly on cue, Achillea stuck her head around the door and nodded vigorously. Angel gave her a friendly wave. "See? Nammie, could you spell Achillea for ten minutes. Give her a chance to pee and grab a cup of coffee and a sandwich. Then do the same for Lagertha?"

"Sure." Naamah glanced down at Angel's work-sheet. "How are we doing?"

"Got the top leadership plus, so far, seven of the fifteen Batteries. No friendly casualties, yet. We've nailed about forty of their top people plus some small fry. The news tomorrow morning is going to be interesting when we see what the 'official position' is going to be. That's also when Conrad will find out and he'll recognize my touch. He'll be upset." The sadness in Angel's voice was both notable and genuine.

By the time Naamah got back after relieving Achillea and Lagertha for a brief rest, the number of Batteries obliterated had risen to nine with a body count of sixty-two. There were still no friendly dead although one Russian and three Triad Sai-Los had been wounded in brief but vicious gunfights. All three were being treated on board the Russian base ship, an oil tanker anchored innocently in Ostia. From what Angel had heard, there was quite a post-combat decompression party going on aboard the ship with spirited discussions of the relative virtues of the ZPK-96 and the Thompson gun taking place. The Bratva had promised to send her over a ZPK and she was rather looking forward to trying it out on somebody. Then the telephone rang again and she picked it up.

"Any news?" She listened intently for a few minutes and then put the receiver down. "That's it; the surviving Batteries have gone to ground. We did slightly better than planned; by pure chance, one Batterie tried to hide in a place we had staked out and we got them with snipers. Lillith, we've cleared the path for your financial people to do their thing. We've still got some tidying up to do. . . . "

"The remaining Batteries?"

"You got it. If we let them survive, the organization will regroup, if not here, somewhere else. So we have to find them and get rid of them. That'll mean that we'll have also pre-empted any attacks on the families of the investigators looking into the banking side of this Charlie-fox."

Lillith relaxed slightly; the possibility that the families of the bank officials looking into the affairs of the Vatican Bank and the Banco Ambrosiano would be victimized had weighed heavily on her. Naamah thought about that and made the connections. "This whole operation was a lot like Glasgow, wasn't it? You had an entrenched and brutal gang structure that had to go if law enforcement wants to get on top of the place. And you wanted law enforcement to be in control here because that helps your organization maximize their own profits."

Angel swung her feet on to her desk and thought about that. "That's one way of looking at it, I suppose. I'd say it differently. An efficient and effective police force maintains good order and public calm for everybody, including us. When Chris Keeble showed me the list of Peelian principles, I was struck by how much they applied to organized crime as well as organized policing. Efficient and effective policing and a highly profitable organized crime sector actually want much the same sorts of things. We differ in how we go about those things but the basic similarity is there. The trick is to manage relations between the two so we both get what we want. Make us 'worthy opponents', not 'enemies'. 'Worthy opponents' work together when doing so serves the greater good.

"Glasgow had a lot of similarities with this situation certainly, and I've applied the lessons I learned there to here. The big difference is that there were a lot of small gangs in Glasgow and it was easy to set them at each other's throats. Here we had one large gang and it was already well on its way to controlling the city. I guess that was The Trust learning its lessons from Glasgow. It meant I had to bring in outside groups to fight this war, ones who have no local connections to make them vulnerable. Doing that without starting another war with the organized crime families already here was the key. Once we had that in place, and since the Banda Della Magliana had already effectively neutralized the police here, we could start the war on our terms. Now it's up to your people, Lillith, but I've already said that."

Conrad’s Room, Domus Sanctae Marthae, Vatican City

Miriam had brought in a large bag full of sandwiches and pastries she had bought at the Cucina Ebraica, She held it up triumphantly as Conrad opened the door for her. "A kosher deli in Rome! Who knew?"

"Let me guess. Via Del Portico D'Ottavia?"

"Number 51. How did you guess? They even have real pastrami there. As soon as they heard my accent, they were making pastrami-on-ryes. With pickles, mustard and chips."

"It's the center of the Jewish community here in Rome. I'm told the Cucina Ebraica roast veal salad is to die for."

"You mean you know about them and you didn’t tell me! Conrad, shame on you. Have a pastrami on rye." Miriam looked in her bag. "You're right, we have a pack of their roast veal salad. With carrots, fennel, orange and pineapple."

"They've been around for a long, long time." Miriam opened her eyes slightly at that. She was well aware that for Conrad, 'a long time' meant something quite different from most people's definition of the term. "Under various names, for a couple of centuries at least. Any word from Washington?"

"Inspector-General's report is out. Explosive is the word I would use. The FBI isn't being stood down but it's being reorganized and its leadership is being completely replaced. The new candidates will have to undergo a thorough grilling before they take office. The Seer proposed you as the new Director."

Conrad went white. "Oh no, please tell me he didn’t."

"Don’t worry, he wasn't being serious. He said he just wanted to imagine seeing your face when you heard you might get the job. Remember that 'foundation' I mentioned? Well, it's being properly investigated by us. We've already found some pretty ugly connections."

"The Trust?"

Miriam glanced around, uneasily aware she was in a room belonging to an organization that treasured secrets and wasn't afraid to use them. Her nod was very tiny and she pointed discretely at her New York pastrami on rye. "It's nearly eight. Television news?"

"Coming up. There's an 'International" Channel that broadcasts news bulletins in English, French and Swiss. Eight, eleven, two and five are English."

"Oh good. Conrad, your hands are empty. Roast veal salad on rye?"

Conrad smiled at his memories of theological discussions with Miriam and her sister. Discussions which seemed to always include them feeding him until he was fit to burst. "Please. Ah, here we go."

The newsreader looked extremely solemn and somewhat frightened. She looked straight at the camera and coughed slightly before starting the bulletin. "The main news this morning is the eruption of gang warfare which has rocked the entire city. In the worst outbreak of violence for over twenty years, a series of coordinated gun battles has left more than sixty people dead. Nearly all the victims are known to the police who claim that they are members of the Banda Della Magliana, a group that police officials state has been responsible for a number of the serious crimes that have taken place in our city and across the country. The identities of the attackers are unknown, but the weapons used appear to have been Russian in origin. It has also been claimed that some of the gunmen involved were Chinese."

"Coordinated strikes with Russian and Chinese gunslingers leaving no witnesses. That sounds like Angel's planning." Conrad sounded very sad. This was the side of Angel he tried to know as little as possible about, uneasily aware that his deliberate evasion of knowledge of her work was legally and morally questionable at best. Yet, every so often, he couldn’t avoid understanding who and what she was. At those moments he knew how far he had brought her out of the darkness but also how far she still had to go before the damage inflicted on her as a child was finally remedied.

Miriam looked at him sympathetically. Her own opinion on Angel, one she kept religiously to herself, was that she was a psychotic mass-murderess who would be better off dead. On the other hand, she knew that she and Conrad loved each other even if neither of them realized it and she was absolutely determined not to make her oldest and most trusted friend unhappy. "In this case, she's doing what has to be done, Conrad. People like the Banda Della Magliana are a cancer and if they aren't cut out, they'll kill the society they infest. They're like the cartels in Mexico, a corruption that has gone completely out of control and is now spreading its infection northwards. We should have done to them what Angel is doing to the Banda now. It would have saved a lot of innocent lives."

Conrad looked a little cheered by that, something which gave Miriam a puckish thought. "You know, Conrad, if we go by the good Angel has done over the years by removing various tyrannical bad guys, she'd make a pretty good Director of the FBI herself."
The picture of Angel as the Director of the FBI made Conrad choke on his roast veal sandwich and forced Miriam to give him a couple of hearty slaps on the back. Eventually, he caught his breath and wiped the tears from his eyes. "Well, she often says that an efficient, effective and non-corrupt police force is essential for society as a whole and that organized crime is a part of society. She walks the walk as well as talking the talk. Look at the work she's done for the British police."

That was something Miriam had to agree with. Over the last five years, the British police had emerged from the shadows of the Occupation, regained its self-confidence and got back in touch with its basic operational philosophy. It was now regarded as the most effective police force in Europe. Miriam was uneasily aware that Angel's teachings about the relationship between citizens and the police had been a significant part of that. Suddenly, something clicked into place. "Conrad, a theological point?"

Conrad beamed with pleasure. Theological discussions with Miriam were one of the great pleasures of his life. "Of course."

"The Church doctrine on tyrannicide is that it is justifiable only if the act ends the state of tyranny, causes a reversion to a more ethical society and does not bring another tyrant to power. The determination that the assassination of a tyrant is justifiable must be made by a priest, whose character and learning are above reproach while the act itself is carried out by a chosen knight who does not act from vengeful or vindictive motives. Is that right?"

"It is. Technically, there are two classes of tyrants: a tyrant by usurpation, a tyrannus in titulo, a ruler who has illegitimately seized power; and a tyrant by oppression a tyrannus in regimine, a ruler who wields power unjustly, oppressively, and arbitrarily. If the tyrannus in regimine attacks the citizens, jeopardizes the welfare of the community with the intent leading it to destruction or killing the citizens, or commits other evils, then a private citizen can morally commit an act of justifiable tyrannicide. The decision requires the consideration of a priest who is moral, learned and who is without sin. That's a hard standard to reach. Since a priest is not supposed to shed blood, the act itself must be assigned to a knight. It is assumed that a knight, living in the world he does, cannot be without sin and his morality is likely to be very different from that of the clergy. So, the two parts of the act are placed in separate hands. It's an early example of checks and balances. The priest has to convince the knight that the tyrannus is deserving of assassination, the knight has to convince the priest that he will be acting from pure motives, found acceptable to God.

"In the final analysis, the Church position is that tyrants must be identified, isolated, and brought to justice. However, if there are no means of bringing them to justice or there are communities who support, protect, and promote them, thereby thwarting the pursuit of justice, then the act of justifiable tyrannicide becomes the last resort." Suddenly Conrad saw where this was going.

"Well, doesn’t that describe you and Angel? You are the Priest and Angel is your knight. Between the two of you, you have put an end to some pretty evil people, people who would have been considered tyrants in days gone by. Like that poisoner you two put out of business in Bangkok? If I read the case details right, she was a domestic tyrannus in regimine and if it hadn’t been for you and Angel, she'd still be poisoning everybody around her. And, much as I hate to admit it, Angel is certainly managing to bring about an underworld that may not be ethical but it’s certainly more peaceful than it was before."

"I'd hardly describe myself as being without sin but . . . it's an interesting perspective. I'd never thought of us like that before." Conrad thought the point over carefully and could see that it had a lot to be said for it. Not least of which, it eased his guilt over his overlooking Angel's activities. "Angel's constant search to establish partnerships and agreements between the major underworld organizations as a replacement for gang warfare is changing the underworld. Or at least the organized crime part of it."

"Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God." Miriam quoted the line straight-faced.

Conrad winced. "Don’t let Angel hear you say that. She'd like being called a peacemaker but if you call her a child of God, she'll shoot you on the spot. Her relationships with deities tend to be adversarial."

Ristorante Flavia, Via Ottaviano Conte di Palombara, Castelmonastero, Outside Rome

Alfredino Schiavone of the 'Ndrangheta couldn't help but reflect that being the target of an unrelenting assault by the highly professional street combat teams of the Solntsevskaya Bratva and the 14K Triad had severely deflated the egos of the surviving members of the Banda Della Magliana. The representatives of the Batteries were standing in front of his restaurant table, their hats in their hands and their eyes downcast. The arrogant strut and the overt displays of aggression had gone completely. The truth was, after losing almost two thirds of their strength in a merciless assault that showed no signs of letting up, the Banda Della Magliana was a beaten force and were little more than fugitives.

"It would appear that you are faced with quite serious problems." Schiavone savored his spaghetti and meatballs, wondering if his somewhat unwelcome guests understood the significance of the dish. Spaghetti and meatballs was the traditional fare of an Italian organized crime family that had gone to the mattresses. The choice of food told everybody that the 'Ndrangheta was already at war and his pointed refusal to ask the Banda Della Magliana representatives to join him showed that they were not considered allies. That left only one other option.

The problem that Adelmo Mancini faced was that he had no real standing. He had asserted that he was the new leader of the Banda Della Magliana but that remained no more than an assertion. The other batteries, or at least what was left of them, were dispersed across the city and in hiding. They had not been asked about a new leader and if they had, Mancini knew that he would not be their first choice. His attempt to contact the Commission was a power-play intended to win support for his claim to the title. Unfortunately for him, he was quite incapable of realizing that other people may have different plans.

"We are under a coordinated assault by foreigners. Russians and Chinese. As Italians we must close ranks and join forces against them!" Mancini tried to strike a heroic pose. Instead, the attempt by a broken and defeated man was a mockery. Outside, the sirens of police cars filtered through the heavy glass windows of the Ristorane Flavia. The gang war now being fought in the streets of Rome had resulted in Carabinieri being brought in from all over Italy to try and restore order. Yet, as Schiavone well knew, the massive police presence hadn't stopped the Bratva and 14K combat teams from going where they wished and doing what they wanted. What the Carabinieri presence had done was closed down the Banda Della Magliana prostitution, drug-dealing and extortion rackets that were the backbone of their financial strength. Now, the money supply was cut off and the Banda was running out of funds.

The Mafia and the 'Ndrangheta had been hit by the crackdown as well but that had been anticipated and the compensation they were receiving more than covered their losses. So far. There had been other benefits as well; following the annihilation of the Batterie Della Esposizione that had controlled the EUR district, the Mafia had started to move in and take control of the rackets there. The agreed share of the income from them would be paid to the Commission and all three member organizations would benefit.

"Mi Scusi." One of the restaurant waitresses had arrived with Schiavone's Piatto Secondo. It was octopus braised with aubergines in a wine sauce. Schiavone could almost hear Mancini and his minions drooling. The waitress pushed past Mancini to deliver the dish to her guest. A few days earlier, that would have got her a backhand blow across the face that could well have removed a couple of her teeth. Now, Mancini was so diminished that even the insolence of a young waitress was left unpunished. Schiavone gave her a friendly smile and a courteous word of thanks.

"So you would wish us to become your allies in your conflict with the Russians and Chinese? What can you offer us that would make such a dangerous course of action worthwhile?" He tried his octopus and savored the delicate flavor. "Marcella, this is exquisite."

The waitress bobbed and retreated to the kitchen, her work done. She didn’t want to hear what else was happening; things that were not necessary for her to know were also those it was better she did not know.

Mancini thought hard. He had been convinced that the need for Italians to show a common front was so self-evident that he hadn't thought about anything to add to the pot. So, he said the first idea that came into his head, something he thought was a major concession on his part. "We would be willing to join your Commission."

"Would you? Well, that is a matter I must discuss with the other members. We will continue this discussion later." It was an abrupt and final dismissal from a man who knew very well there would be no later. Schiavone finished his Secondi Piatti and Marcella brought him out his desert, an ice cream sundae topped with liquid white chocolate, capers, candied ginger and olive oil.

By the time he had finished, he had eaten enough to leave him pleasantly full. "Marcella, my statement of account please?"

"Sir, Signore Lucchese has already given instructions that your statement should be added to his account."

"Ah, that was kind of him." Schiavone took out his wallet and peeled off a large roll of bills. One part he gave to Marcella with the comment 'for the staff' and a much larger part for Marcella herself. She took it with a graceful bob. Waitressing was not her day job, in fact it wasn't even her night job. She was a professional pickpocket and renowned (in the right circles) for her skill in relieving tourists of the burden of carrying their wallets around on a hot summer's day. This time though, she had been putting things into people's pockets. Specifically, a miniaturized tracking device into the pocket of Adelmo Mancini.

[Calder]

Chapter Ten
44 Via Carla Francesco Bellingeri, Municipio XIV, Rome

Adelmo Mancini was very hungry. When he and his lieutenants had visited Alfredino Schiavone at the Ristorante Flavia, he had expected to be invited to join him and to have eaten at the 'Ndrangheta's expense. Such would have been the courtesy extended to an equal or even a reasonably credible business partner. Most organized crime leaders would even invite a civilian, who was asking them for help, to sit and join them, perhaps even offer them a glass of wine and a plate of antipasta. Instead he, Adelmo Mancini, leader of the Banda Della Magliana, had been treated as an impertinent schoolboy and been made to stand and watch Schivaone eating while his own stomach rumbled from neglect. It was a sign of just how far respect for the Banda Della Magliana had fallen as a result of the relentless assault from the mysterious Russian and Chinese gunmen.

On paper, this should have been an easy situation to resolve. Even though Mancini and his minions were short of cash due to police action against their rackets and the sudden, inexplicable cessation of money coming out of their patrons, they should have had no problem in feeding themselves. They would have walked into one of the small restaurants that were scattered across the Municipio XIV and demanded food. They would have been fed or they would have burned the place down with the staff and their families locked inside. That option had now closed. Mancini had recognized that his approach to the Commission had been spurned. From there, it had been only a small step to realizing that the Commission was either allied with the Russians and Chinese or had approved their action. If he and his batterie tried to muscle a local business, somebody would make a telephone call to La Provincia, the Commission, then another call would be made from them to whoever was organizing this gang war and a team of gunslingers would be on their way.

With a flash of insight, Mancini saw the over-arching strategy that lay behind the assault. The initial wave of attacks had done more than just butcher the fighting ranks of the Banda Della Maglione; they had crippled the group's ability to intimidate the police and local citizens. When the Italian government had brought in the Carabinieri, they had temporarily closed down the gang-operated rackets in the city and thus deprived the batteries of their income. That meant that if the members of the batteries tried to continue operating in their usual manner, they would simply run out of resources. If they tried to support themselves by extorting money and supplies from the local population they would expose themselves to attack from either the police or the other gangs. Or both, separately or together Mancini thought bleakly. It's true, amateurs study tactics, professionals study logistics. In the midst of the plenty that represented a modern city, the surviving batteries are isolated and beginning to starve. To make matters worse, we were spending money as fast as it came in and there are no reserves to fall back on.

“It’s time we got something to eat.” Patrizio Marchesi was unconsciously mirroring his bosses’ thoughts, at least as far as his stomach was concerned. He gestured at the Ristorante Grotto a few meters away. It was a cheap and undistinguished eatery, far removed from the luxury they had seen earlier that evening. Mancini reached into his pockets for any money he might have left. He had a few lira in his wallet, some more in pocket change. In getting it, he felt a small, flat rectangular box that seemed very slightly warm to the touch. With a cold chill of fear, he realized what it was and he remembered the waitress who had pushed past him.

“Get out of the car now!” He grabbed the passenger door handle, flung the door open and rolled out across the pavement. He was only just in time. His driver, impeded perhaps by the vehicles controls or simply cursed with slow reactions was still behind the wheel when an RPG-7 rocket streaked across the road from one of the buildings opposite and tore into the side of the car. The explosion blew the side of the vehicle to fragments, killing the driver and one of the three men who had been in the back seat instantly. The other two had also just managed to get clear. Of the three survivors, two were pavement-side and were shielded by the blast of the rocket explosion. The other was in the middle of the road, completely exposed. A sniper shot hit him square in the forehead and his head simply blew up.

Patrizio Marchesi decided that the only sensible thing to do was to run and to keep running for a long, long time. In fact, he was to keep running for the rest of his life. That was a matter of a second or two before another sniper’s bullet hit him square in the center of mass. He stumbled and fell, stretching himself out, full-length on the pavement. A second shot took his head off very neatly.

Mancini watched with despair as his batterie was destroyed. He realized now how thoroughly he had been set up and that the Commission was indeed working with the gunmen who had mowed down the Banda Della Magliana. He drew his pistol and fired a few shots at random, more or less in the general direction of where the sniper and rocket fire might have been coming from. Subsequently, these shots reported by eye-witnesses who now had no fears about coming forward, mystified the Carabinieri. They never could find where they had impacted. Mancini himself was cut down by a burst of submachinegun fire from a car parked opposite.

Hui Ying-Tsai had been acting as a spotter for the fire team who had hastily taken position on a single-story disused building at a diagonal from the ambush site. The original plan had been to start the attack with a drive-by machine-gunning of the Batterie vehicle and then destroying it and any survivors with the RPG. On seeing the Batterie leaders sitting in their vehicle dithering, the Triad assault team had changed plans and improvised a more precise and discriminate plan. The few extra seconds needed to get to the roof had been a small price to pay for eliminating the possibility of collateral damage. She got out of the car, walked over to the burning wreckage and cast a single glance at the carbonized corpses inside. The headless body of the first man to be killed was also so obviously dead that it not worth a glance. She paid a little more attention to the fourth man, the one who had tried to save his life by running away. He was almost certainly dead, but she fired a four-round burst into him just to seal the matter. Finally, she went to their leader, the man she had shot herself. He was sprawled on his back, his chest punctured by half a dozen wounds. She thought she detected a slight tremor of movement so she fired another short burst into his head. Then she returned to her car and the strike team evacuated the scene. They were clear of the scene only five minutes ahead of the Carabinieri arriving.

Hotel Saturnalia, Via Nazionale, Rome

John Mason put down the morning newspaper and tried to analyze how the news of the latest attack would affect his plans. He had spent several days watching Angel and her companions and had formulated his plan of attack accordingly. The ambush would take place when she and one of her companions, probably the Italian woman or the striking blonde lawyer, went out to get the consignment of food. He was highly conscious of the fact that while a capable gunslinger himself, he stood little chance against Angel and none at all if she had backup. So, he had planned to launch a mass attack of mooks who would be hired by the Banda Della Magliana. He was perfectly well aware that she would kill most of them, but her style of pistol-fighting was energetic and profligate with ammunition. Fighting off an assault that large would leave her exhausted and out of ammunition. Then, she would be an easy kill.

The problem was, that plan had depended on the Banda Della Magliana recruiting enough cheap street thugs with delusions of adequacy to carry out the first stage. Only, the assault on the Banda had essentially eliminated that capability. Mason had looked at the details of the gang war that had been raging and realized that the combination of Russian and Chinese gangsters with the rapid, precise and coordinated strikes all suggested Angel had planned the whole business. Has she found out I have accepted a contract out on her? If so, I had better start running now and never stop.

So he had come up with a new plan. He would use the two surviving batteries of the Banda Della Magliana to stage an assault when she was present. Although the core members of the batteries were considerably more capable than the mooks he had planned to use before, they still stood little chance against her. That meant Mason would be taking her on while she was still capable of resistance. To overcome that severe, almost certainly life-threatening problem, he had obtained a special pistol for that job. It was a long-slide M1911A1 chambered for .45 magnum. He would be carrying it in addition to his normal .45ACP M1911A1.

He had also bought customized ammunition for the job. They were .45 magnum hollow-points but he had stuffed the cavity in the nose full of the waste material left over from processing castor beans. A first test had been unsuccessful since the mash had spilled out when the bullet was fired. His second attempt had used a small plug of candle wax in the extreme nose to contain the mash until the bullet hit somebody and expanded. That had worked well and he had made enough bullets for a single magazine. He was grimly aware that when he fought Angel, he wouldn’t get a chance to fire more than that. He devoutly hoped that one solid hit would be enough.

He had sold the plan to his handler, Licio Gelli. In their discussions, Gelli had contributed something else to the proposal. The Vatican had effectively closed down the Vatican Bank and endangered the rest of the organization built around it. A counter-strike was needed and it needed to be as spectacular as possible as a deterrent against future challenges. So, the scene of the ambush would not be one of the routine trips from the Apostolic Palace but when Pope John XXIV was reviewing a parade of the Swiss Guard that commemorated the first detachment of the Guard leaving Switzerland to assume their duties. The primary target would be John XXIV himself. A previous assassination attempt using poison had failed but, this one might succeed. Mason also realized that if the Pope was in danger, Angel would be protecting him and that would distract her. It might be the edge I need.

He had obtained a program for the ceremony. The Pope would arrive about 30 minutes before the parade and would use that opportunity to bless the crowd and make a speech honoring the long and incredibly loyal history of the Swiss Guard. Then, representatives of the six companies of the Guard would march past before forming up in front of his stand. He would bless them, then, they would march out again. Then, the crowd would slowly disperse. It would be a colorful, spectacular display, one suited to be shown on prime time television. So, at least a dozen television crews would be in St Peter's Square. Mason planned the attack on the Pope for the period between his arrival in the Square and that of the Swiss Guard. He had no intention of repeating the mistake made by the SS sixty four years earlier and taking on the Swiss Guard in a pitched battle. Surviving was going to be hard enough as it was.

That was when inspiration seized him and he tapped the list of television crews attending with his ball-point pen.

Sacred Congregation for Extraordinary Ecclesiastical Affairs, Vatican City.

"How did we do?" Conti di Segni was aware that the counter-attack against the attempted raid mounted by The Trust had only just started. He had enough military experience to understand that these opening moves were critical; if the operation started with a misstep, recovery would be very hard.

"We got everything we wanted at this end. And then some. The next step will be to go to the Italian courts and then to the various national legal systems as we identify them." Lagertha seemed very content. She had taken off the jacket of her business suit and was presently, to the great embarrassment of Conti di Segni, changing her sweat-soaked blouse. The humidity of Rome in the summer was legendary and going direct from the heat and soup-like humidity into the dry chill of air conditioning was asking for trouble.
One of the things Angel, Achillea and Lagertha had in common was a complete lack of personal modesty and changing clothes when needed regardless of the people watching was one part of that. Lagertha had felt an urgent need to change, so she had done so. Now, she pulled on a clean white tee-shirt with the slogan 'Are the skulls of my enemies dishwasher safe?', then helped herself to a glass of wine.

"Like the shirt." Achillea approved of the motto.

"I'll send you some when I get back to Geneva." Lagertha sipped her glass and checked her notes. "All right, the Vatican Bank is out of business. That's a start and it's only a start. We have cut the hemorrhage of financial resources at this end so we won't be losing any more money. That leaves us with getting back the funds that have already gone. Conti di Segni, down to you and your boss to do the same with reorganizing the Vatican Bank. I don’t know if it is rotten to the core, Lillith can explain that, but it has to go. Roberto Calvi and Michele Sindona heard that we're on to them and have made a run for it. We're not sure where yet but the whole of Europe is looking for them."

In the background, Angel nodded. 'The whole of Europe' included the underworld but it was essential that she did not say that to any member of the Church hierarchy. That even included Conrad. The division between the Church and the criminal activities that were going on had to be maintained and that division was already perilously thin. Her presence here could be explained, just, by her position as Conrad's partner and bodyguard. Once again, it was an example of the way she had lived most of her life, in the shadow world between what people knew about her and what they could prove in a court.

That was a major reason why she favored reinforcing the rule of law and supported it operating fairly and justly. While there were many other reasons why she did so, her mind-set ensured that she pursued her own interests above all else. She didn’t see the irony in a career criminal and multiple murderess supporting and assisting the police. To her, strengthening the rule of law was simply the most logical way of securing her own position in that shadow world. That rule of law protected her as much as any other citizen. She sincerely believed that a corrupt and dishonest legal system might make it easier for her to get away with the things she did but it also made it more likely that's she'd be fitted up for things she hadn't done or simply killed by the police in an extra-judicial execution.

Lillith was watching her and smiling slightly. She understood exactly why Angel had adopted the strategy she had. She'd had one experience of a corrupt and out-of-control police department that had come very close to killing her in an extra-judicial execution and she didn’t want another. Given Lillith's own experience so many years before, she could sympathize. She shook herself and got down to work.

"All right. I have the Banco Ambrosiano records now and I can compare them with the records that show the payments going out of the Vatican Bank. As we suspected there are substantial discrepancies in the monies leaving the Vatican Bank and arriving at Ambrosiano. That's one way the money was being filtered out. We're reclaiming the money from the recipients. By the way, there are a lot of religious figures banking at Ambrosiano in a private capacity as well as organizational accounts from churches and the Vatican. They need to be warned about what is happening."

Conti di Segni was well-aware of the subtext that was going around this meeting. He was actually well-aware, in an unofficial capacity, of what was going on behind his back and was being very careful not to ask questions that might lead to him finding out in an official capacity. He also had to give the impression he was passing information to people who knew little of it. "The Banco Ambrosiano was founded in Milan in 1896 by Giuseppe Tovini, a Catholic advocate in Valle Camonica, and was named after Saint Ambrose, the fourth century archbishop of the city. Tovini's purpose was to create a Catholic bank as a counterbalance to Italy's 'lay' banks, and its goals were 'serving moral organizations, pious works, and religious bodies set up for charitable aims.' The bank came to be known as the 'priests' bank' because the clergy, not just ours, saw it as a place they could safely put their money without it being used for evil."

"Oh boy, did they get that wrong." Lillith snorted disdainfully. In her eyes, anybody who invested money anywhere ran the risk that some of it would be invested in things they didn’t approve of. "I'm beginning to get a handle on what was happening from that point onwards. Banco Ambrosiano was making a lot of unsecured loans to a variety of groups and not receiving any repayments of said loans. Despite the existing loans being years in arrears, they continued making further loans to the defaulting clients."

"Banks aren't supposed to do that." Lagertha had mentally changed gears and was now the legal officer of her own bank in Geneva.

Lillith agreed. Nor are company accountants. "Quite, so I looked at those recipients. At first, they looked like an eclectic range of people with a scattering of very influential figures in the Italian government. A bit more digging and I found something that connected them. They are all members of a pseudo-Masonic Lodge, Propaganda Due or P2. The lodge has, amongst its members, prominent journalists, members of parliament, industrialists, military leaders and the heads of all three Italian intelligence services. It looks to me as if we have found the route to get a layer deeper into The Trust.

"There's something else, in 1971, Grand Master Lino Salvini of the Grand Orient of Italy, one of Italy's largest Masonic lodges and the effective head of the Freemasonry movement in Italy, proposed that P2 be erased from the list of lodges by the Grand Orient of Italy, and the motion carried overwhelmingly. Since that time, P2 has existed illegally and it has no standing as a Masonic Lodge. The current Grand Master of the lodge is a man called Licio Gelli. I'm getting his Ambrosiano records now. Lagertha, looks like we'll need legal action against P2 as well."

Lagertha nodded and made a note on her pad. "The simplest way to do that is to present an amendment to our petition when it goes to court. I'll need to produce the background data to show that the people in question were receiving unauthorized or unethical loans from Banco Ambrosiano due to the influence of P2 but that shouldn't be too difficult."

"The loans won't be. Proving undue influence might be."

Lagertha shook her head at Lillith's comment. "We can use a pattern of misconduct. If all the members of P2 were gaining access to Banco Ambrosiano funds, which is what these loans are, and nobody else is, that is ipse facto undue influence. The laws on banking activities have changed a lot over the last two or three years. Ever since the Paradigm Oil affair in fact. I'm having quite a job keeping up with the developments."

"It occurs to me that if the Banco Ambrosiano is making irregular loans to people other than P2 members, we might learn a lot by looking at those people." Lillith was being very thoughtful. The one thing she wanted more than anything else was to get a layer or two deeper into The Trust. She was intensely curious to find out who was behind the group. She had a strong suspicion that Basil Zaharoff had once been a leader of The Trust but had been completely unable to prove it. Nevertheless, she was still keeping an eye on the L'Union Parisienne des Banques that he had once owned.

"We could." Lagertha was being much more careful. She was well aware of the difference between knowing something and proving it and was rather surprised that Lillith was not so acutely aware of that issue. After all, she had Angel as a walking lesson in the difference between 'known' and 'proved.' "We'll have to see what we can dig up and make decisions then."

[Calder]

Chapter Eleven
Radio e Televisione Italiana outside Broadcast Unit, Vialle VIII Marzo Festa della Donna, Rome

One of the more convenient secrets of Rome is the Vialle VIII Marzo Festa della Donna. It is a small, winding road that leads through the Villa Doria Pamphili, recognized as one of the most beautiful landscaped parks in Italy and, its most enthusiastic admirers suggest, in the world. The true virtue of Vialle VIII is that it goes from the suburbs south of Rome almost to the outer border of Vatican City while avoiding all the better-known and heavily-congested trunk roads. To those ‘in the know’ (and they keep the information to themselves) it is the perfect by-pass. Just to make it even better, the scenery is spectacular and actually makes driving to work a pleasure.

One of its more frequent users were the Outside Broadcast Vans operated by Radio e Televisione Italiana. The RTI main studios were just south of the southern end of Vialle VIII which made the road a vital artery for television crews covering events in the Vatican. Despite being the largest vehicles that used Vialle VIII, the six-wheel, 32-tonne OBVs were extremely cramped inside. They were a complete television studio on wheels with a crew of eight plus a driver and his assistant. Cramped conditions plus the strain of working in a high-pressure environment had welded the group into a tight family team.

Driving the OBV, Leonardo Russo was trying to keep the big vehicle moving as smoothly as possible. He knew that the team’s front woman, Luisella Padovano, was changing into her “on screen” outfit and having her make-up fixed. Sudden jolts while she was applying lipstick could have most unfortunate results. Thus, it was not the result of any lack of care on his part that, as he was passing a scenic lookout point, a small white Fiat suddenly pulled out of the parking area and swerved right in front of him. Instinctively, he swerved to avoid a collision, taking advantage of a narrow side road that led off to the left. He brought the OBV to a halt, three-quarters into the side road. By that point the Fiat was positioned across the narrow road, completely blocking it. Russo tried to back up and get clear but another truck had moved in behind him. At the same time, two men got out of the Fiat with Beretta M12 submachine guns in their hands. More men were getting out of the truck behind. They were also armed with M12s.

“Get out of the truck.” One of the men from the Fiat gestured with the submachinegun. Russo and his assistant obeyed, assuming this was a simple attempt at robbery. It was rumored, quite falsely, that the OBVs carried substantial sums of cash for ‘payments’ needed while at work.

The men from the truck threw open the doors to the studio section and shouted out orders. Once the truck was cleared, Mason gestured with his M12 at the side road. “All of you, start walking up there.”

Four of the attackers were busy clearing the ambush, two moving the Fiat to the parking area, the other two moving the truck behind it. To casual passers-by it would look like a couple of early tourists out for a walk in the park and a delivery driver having his morning snack. That done the four men went over to the OBV, closed the rear doors and backed it on to the main road, taking care to leave enough room for any other vehicles that happened to come along.
A hundred meters or so down the path, Mason turned to the television crew and gave a terse order that made it obvious what was about to happen. “Line up beside the path and get on your knees. Use single shots people, automatic fire will attract too much attention.”

Luisella Padovano picked it up immediately, the realization the men were going to kill them all filled her voice with panic and desperation. “Oh God, oh God please don’t do this. Please don’t kill me, I’ve got children at home. Please, think of my children. I’ve got pictures of them. Here, look at the pictures of my children. I'm begging you, for my children, please don’t kill me. Oh God, help me please, I want to see my children just once more.”

Mason tore the pictures out of her hands, ripped them up and threw the pieces onto the ground. Luisella screamed in despair and threw herself after them, trying to gather the pieces. Mason stepped up to her and fired a single shot down into the back of her head. The sound of the shot was lost in the stutter of fire as the rest of the TV team were killed.

“Should we burn the bodies?” Oberto Castiglione knew that was a good way to destroy evidence. Also, to make sure that every one of the victims was dead.

Mason thought for a second and shook his head. “Attract too much attention. We're well off the road and there’ll be nobody around here for an hour or so. By that time we’ll have done our job and gone. Start a big enough fire and there’ll be Park Service cars here in a few minutes. Now, everybody into that vehicle and make like a TV crew.”

Public Area, St Peter’s Square, Vatican City.

“It’s filling up fast.” Achillea cast a professional eye over the crowd that was gathering to hear the Pope’s blessing and watch the parade of the Swiss Guard. She had a very long lifetime’s experience in assessing crowds. From a very early age indeed the lesson had been hammered home to her, ‘watch the crowd, assess their mood, learn what they want and give it to them. Your very life may depend on whether and how much you have pleased them.’ In her eyes, this was a happy, cheerful crowd that was waiting with keyed-up emotion for the start of the event. They all knew that this would be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, something they would tell their grandchildren about. How true that was going to be was something they would have little idea about. Achillea could smell something was going to happen.

Lagertha wasn’t quite as experienced at assessing crowds as Achillea was. She’d fought in more battles than she could count and could assess relative numbers and fighting power of an army at a glance. She could judge the morale and spirit of that opposing army equally quickly. Applied in a courtroom, used on the jury, those skills were part of what made her a formidable lawyer, but they didn’t translate into making the same assessments for a peaceful, non-violent crowd. Although she, like Angel, had been trained and certified as a qualified bodyguard, her ‘armies and battles’ background limited her abilities in that particular area. Ironically, Achillea’s background limited her abilities in a military environment to, at least, an equal amount. The fact was, she and Lagertha complemented each other almost as well as she and Angel did. Achillea recognized that, Lagertha didn’t. That was a problem and another irony. Lagertha was a team player, Achillea wasn’t and nor was Angel. Yet it was the two lone wolves that worked superbly well together.

“The Outside Broadcast Vans are coming in.” Lagertha had seen the first of a dozen OBVs making their entry down the Via della Conciliazione to form up in the square that faced across St Peter’s Square, facing the obelisk of Nero and the Basilica. When the parade started, the Swiss Guard detachments would march down from the Basilica, half-way around the Square and form in parade in front of the obelisk. Mostly, they would wear their ceremonial renaissance uniforms and carry the traditional swords and halberds, but the last detachment from the First (Pontifical Swiss Guard) Battalion and the Second (Palatine Swiss Guard) Battalion would be in modern battledress and carry the latest infantry weapons. It was a reminder to everybody, not just those in the crowd, that the Swiss Guard was a real army that, in 1944, had fought elite German commandos to a standstill and eventually defeated them. The reviewing stand was built in front of the obelisk. That was where the Pope would give his blessing to the crowd and then to the Swiss Guard. Angel would be up their beside him.

Achillea watched the trucks forming up in a line across the entry square some 90 meters from where the Pope’s review stand had been built. They were divided into two groups of six with an entry lane between them. The positions in that line had been drawn by lot, with the central positions being the most prized. As the parade of OBVs drew in, Vatican police were directing them to their positions. Achillea noted with some amusement that the OBV 8, belonging to Radio e Televisione Italiana was having some difficulty maneuvering into the right place. Perhaps they have a trainee driver, Achillea thought with some amusement. Then she frowned to herself. But wouldn’t RTI send their best crew to cover an event like this? There are plenty of minor events they could use to train drivers.

“Lagertha, keep an eye on number eight. There’s something hinky there.”

Her words were lost in the surge of excitement as the Pope’s vehicle left from the Basilica and followed the route that the Swiss Guard would march a few minutes later. Lagertha was watching it and took a double-take at the occupants of the vehicle.

“That’s Angel?” Lagertha had only seen Angel dressed in her usual, cheap jeans and equally bargain-basement tops. Now, she was properly made-up and wearing an expensive (and very stylish since Igrat had chosen it for her) business pantsuit. On the briefing sheet given to the press, she was listed (in very small print amongst the ‘others’) as the Pope’s public and media relations officer, ‘Angelique de Llorente’.

“Scrubs up nicely, doesn’t she?” Achillea was having a job not to laugh; even people who knew her well had a job recognizing Angel when she was dressed up and had taken care over her appearance. This time, even her red hair was properly styled.

“I could go for her myself.” Lagertha actually felt a twinge of desire.

“Don’t. Angel isn’t joking when she says she doesn’t like being touched. She nearly killed Conrad once when he touched her arm without asking. That was when they first met of course.” Achillea looked around and saw that the crowd were beginning to surge forward to the edge of the area marked out for them. “All right, we’re on the move. If there are hostiles here, they'll be trying to slip through the crowd into firing positions. Keep your eyes wide open and try and stay at the front of the crowd. If or when this situation blows, it’ll blow fast and bloody.”

Achillea caught the resentment in Lagertha’s eyes at the fact she was on the receiving end of the orders. Once more, she wished she had Angel out here with her, but recognized Angel’s skill-set was inappropriate to a packed crowd. As usual, she would do the best with what she had.

Papal Reviewing Stand, St Peter’s Square, Vatican City.

Angel followed Pope John XXIV on to the stand, her eyes constantly scanning the area for an emerging threat. The stand itself appeared to be an open display area but appearances were deceptive. The wooden railings around the edge were actually the support structure for a triple-layered protective screen made from bullet-resistant Lexan. The two outer layers were both supposed to be able to stop most normal pistol bullets and the one facing the audience had a non-reflective surface that made the assembly almost invisible from the 35 meters that separated the reviewing stand from the crowd. The central layer could stop a rifle bullet. If an attack developed, Angel’s first job was to get the Pope down behind that protective screening.

There were four Swiss Guards also on the reviewing stand, two in the blue, yellow and red renaissance ceremonial uniforms, the other two in plain clothes. They were looking rather resentfully at Angel, believing that the fact a professional bodyguard had been brought in marked a lack of faith in their own capabilities. That wasn’t actually true; it was more that Angel needed the most skilled and capable back-up Vatican City could provide and that meant the Swiss Guard.

Angel glanced around again and saw Achillea and Lagertha in the crowds. She marked their positions in her mental map, knowing that if this went down the way she expected, she would be firing both her pistols directly towards the crowd, picking off the assassins mixed in with it. That would put putting both in her line of fire. In her eyes, that was their problem; it was their job to keep clear of the area swept by her pistol fire although it was also in her interests to make sure she didn’t hit them. Reconciling the two was something she did without thinking about it. She touched the transmit on her throat mike. “Any problems?”

Achillea’s voice came back to her earpiece. “One of the OBVs, Number 8 from Radio e Televisione Italiana was behaving a bit oddly but everything is fine now.”

To one side of her, Pope John XXIV had lifted his hands and the crowd had fallen completely silent. Angel could hear the twitter of birds and the gentle rumble of the OBVs in the background as their engines were idling to provide the studio in the back with power. Angel looked at them, noting the position of the RTI van close to the center and wondering what looked wrong about the vehicle. The Pope’s voice rang out across St Peter’s Square, aided by the finest public address electronics money could buy. That was when Angel realized what was wrong; all the other OBUs had their side extensions deployed to give their crews more working room and the people in their team, especially their front, out of the vehicle where they could be filmed against the spectacular backdrop. Everybody from the Radio e Televisione Italiana team was still inside and the side extensions were still retracted.

As if her realization had been the signal for the attack, the driver of the Radio e Televisione Italiana OBV gunned the engine and accelerated the heavy vehicle towards the Papal review stand. In making its charge across St Peter’s Square, it plowed through the 55 meters of tightly-packed people that stood between it and their target. The roar of the engine, the screams of terror and agony from the people mowed down by the truck, the surging panic as people tried to get away, the wails of despair from those who understood that they could not, all created a scene of horror that nobody present would ever forget. Whole families were amongst the dozens who died or were maimed in the crowd. Many were paralyzed by the sheer atrociousness of a great truck being deliberately driven through a crowd of unsuspecting people. They could have got clear, they should have done because all around them others were fleeing from the carnage, but they just stood there frozen with horror and allowed themselves to be run down.

The same paralysis was affecting the people up on the reviewing stand. They were transfixed by the sheer undiluted evil of the actions that had suddenly erupted in front of them. The only person who was unaffected by the scene was Angel. To her, it was simply what was happening, no more and no less. So, instead of being frozen watching the nightmare unfold, she dived at the Pope, crashed into him and brought him down behind the Lexan screens.

Public Area, St Peter’s Square, Vatican City.

Achillea blessed the instincts that had made her and Lagertha stay at the front of the crowd, right up against the barrier that marked the forward edge of the public area. If they had been further back, they would have been trapped within the surging mass of people and quite probably mown down by the truck plowing through them. As it was, they were both able to vault clear of the main crowd and get out in front of the panic-stricken mass where she and Lagertha could maneuver freely. Achillea had her Thompson gun out of its case and had attached the butt so she could fire it more accurately. Lagertha had a ZPK-96 the Bratva had sent over for Angel. She was firing it at the cab of the outside broadcast vehicle, the growl of the stream of 5mm bullets being drowned out by the screaming hysteria of the people around her. She saw the small but very high velocity bullets slicing through the glass and metalwork, shredding them and sending fragments of steel through the air and in to the crowd. All the windows on her side were already nothing more than shredded remains yet the driver managed to keep the vehicle on a direct course for the viewing stand.

Achillea had already given up shooting at the cab as a bad job. The vehicle, for all its mass and power and despite the horrifying carnage it was causing, wasn't moving fast enough to turn aside or roll over. Instead, it continued through the crowd, leaving a sickening blood red trail, mixed in with the pink slime of crushed flesh and the screaming remains of the people who hadn't been killed outright, behind it. As soon as it burst out of the crowd, Achillea started firing at the tires, raking the wheels with her .45 bullets but failing to slow it down. She had moved so she was on the opposite side of its path from Lagertha and so missed her first chance to see a ZPK-96 in action. That didn’t worry her in the slightest; what did concern her was the chance of getting hit by accident from Lagertha's gunfire.

The OBV had broken free of the crowd and was racing towards the review stand. The plan had been to crash the truck into the stand, bringing it and everybody on it down. Then, the Banda Della Magliana gunmen inside would kill everybody in the area. That plan failed the moment the OBV hit the line of bollards that protected the Obelisk of the Circus of Nero. The truck was doing almost 35 miles per hour when it crashed into them, not that the speed mattered. Those bollards were not what they had seemed. Apparently, they were there to provide a traffic pattern around the Obelisk but their real function was to provide a safe area against exactly this kind of attack. They were massively strong and were mounted on hydraulic shock-absorbers that were supposed to stop a vehicle doing 100 kilometers per hour. They worked perfectly, bringing the truck to a bone-wrenching halt in a few feet.

Papal Reviewing Stand, St Peter’s Square, Vatican City.

It was the shattering halt of the vehicle when it hit the bollards that brought the men from the driving cab and inside the main body pouring out. They were hosing the Papal review stand with automatic fire from their M12 submachine guns. The hail of fire was primarily directed at the Pope who was safe behind the bullet-resistance screens. The Italian armed forces were unique in still using the old and obsolete 9x19mm cartridge for their submachine guns. They were a much weaker round than the modern products of Skoda, Largo and Browning yet Angel still saw the Lexan cratering and starring from the dozens of impacts and knew that it was only a question of time before the protection failed. She looked at the man underneath her, too busy calculating what to do next for her nausea at human contact to cut in. “Stay where you are. Don’t move.”

Then, she rolled over, gathered her legs and pushed upwards into a flying somersault with her guns drawn. The world around her, seen through her eyes, was something nobody else would recognize. It was a complex landscape of reds of varying hue. The darker the red, the more bullets from the gunmen below were flying through that space. The lighter the red, the safer it was for her. That was a relative term of course, up against nearly a dozen submachine guns, there was nowhere really safe. What loaded the odds in her favor was that the violence of the crash as the truck had hit the line of bollards had stunned most of the gunmen inside. Their fire was wild right then but was gaining in accuracy and concentration as they recovered their wits. That had given her a momentary window of opportunity that she took full advantage from.

Angel’s somersault took her into the safest area she could identify and she rolled in mid-air to bring her own guns to bear. She had time to fire off a dozen shots, six from each of her guns, before she landed on her back, safe behind the Lexan. A quick glance told her that two men were down and motionless and some of the survivors were looking at them, shocked at the display of gun fighting skill. That gave Angel another quick window of opportunity and again she took full advantage of it. She did a backflip that got her back to her feet and allowed her to fire another barrage of shots from her pistols. Two more of the gunmen went down but the sight seemed to shock the rest back into mobility. Their bursts of submachinegun fire directed at the reviewing stand seemed to redouble and were slowly chewing through the Lexan layers.

“You four, stay here and secure the stand. Use those pike things to stop anybody coming up the steps.” Angel took a deep breath, dropped the nearly empty magazines from her pistols and slammed the butts down on the replacements held in the rapid-reload clips around her waist. She also flipped a quick release catch and one of the leather pouches containing another 100 loose rounds fell on the deck. “Reload my magazines for me.”

Public Area, St Peter’s Square, Vatican City.

Lagertha finally realized why people spoke of Angel's pistol-fighting abilities with awe. What drove the point home though was not her gymnastics on the review stand that had got the Pope to cover and also allowed her to engage the group of a dozen or so submachine gunners who were trying to wipe out everybody on the stand. Nor was it the deadly precision of her gunfire that was slowly but surely stacking up bodies in front of her. It was that Achillea had deliberately run straight into Angel's line of fire so she could get behind the gunmen and stop them retreating into the crowd where they could either lose themselves and escape or try and seize hostages. Lagertha realized that Achillea implicitly trusted the lethal accuracy of Angel's gunfire not to hit her by accident despite the chaotic situation. She believed that Angel's bullets might miss her by inches or less but they would miss her. Lagertha also realized that Achillea did not trust her the same way and that put a bitter taste of bile into her mouth.

Lagertha had already thrown open the door to the driving cab and checked inside. The wrecked cab was filled with wreckage and the shattered remains of tempered glass. Blood stains were on the seat and doors, revealing that both men inside had been injured but were still alive and fighting. She dropped out, went back to the main body of the vehicle and flung the door open. The inside was a complete television studio with sound dubbing and mixing equipment, television monitors and editing systems. Her eyes also took in a small dressing area with a make-up mirror and a small wardrobe of 'business' clothes. It was obviously where the front person got ready for her TV appearances. It meant that she changed her clothes in front of the other members of the crew and that spoke volumes about how closely knit a team the occupants of the van had been. Lagertha used the past tense bleakly. The very fact the van was empty proved the real TV crew had already been killed.

There was no point in staying in the van. It was empty, she'd checked and found nobody hiding inside and the metal of the walls was too thin to provide realistic protection from the volume of gunfire that was being fired. Already holes were being punched through the metal, making the possibility of her being hit by a random shot too great for comfort. She backed out through the door and slammed it behind her, jamming the lock with a single shot as she did so. Then she went around the back to help Achillea prevent the gunmen from escaping.

Papal Reviewing Stand, St Peter’s Square, Vatican City.

Angel had already realized that she had to take the battle to the enemy. Despite the weak power of the 9x19 rounds, the weight of fire coming in was such that the Lexan screens would eventually fail and the occupants of the stand would be slaughtered. Once again, a quick scan showed her the situation in front of her. The surviving gunmen were now completely surrounded with Achillea behind them, Lagertha off to one side and a group of Carabinieri closing in from the other. Two of the little armored cars operated by the Noble Guard had appeared but they were poorly positioned and couldn’t fire without any stray shots raking the crowd. More than half the gunmen were down and the casualties had left holes in the web of fire they were producing that showed Angel the safest route to follow. She took another deep breath and rolled down the steps that she had mounted less than five minutes earlier.

The move caught the gunners by surprise and by the time they switched fire to her position she had back flipped again, was back on her feet and was running at a diagonal that kept the range extended. As she had patiently taught the Thames Valley Police, distance was her friend. The M12s put out an enormous volume of fire but the automatic mode meant that it was only accurate at close range or stationary targets. Angel was neither and the pistols in her hand were deadly accurate. She was dimly aware of more people in the panicking crowd of spectators going down from stray shots fired by the submachine gunners but her own fire was its usual lethal self. Two more of the men fell to her guns before she took cover behind one of the bollards. She listened to the bullets ricocheting off the four-centimeter thick steel while she caught her breath and decided what to do next. She had counted the opposition and knew there were now only three left.

Once again, she waited for the optimum moment and then hurled herself sideways, rolling across the ground ahead of the impact points of the submachinegun fire aimed at her. She was acutely aware that slowing the roll would let the bursts of gunfire catch up with her. That meant she timed the roll so that she could shoot down two more men, leaving just one. Now under the cover of the next bollard down, she knew it was time to finish this.

The man had reloaded his M12 but he didn’t fire as Angel stood up and walked towards him. Both pistols were pointing straight at him and he had enough gunfight experience to know he was a dead man. Nevertheless, he made the decision to try, probably aware that as soon as the crowd had regathered its wits, it would tear him apart. What he didn’t know was as he made the decision, his eyes dropped to the M12, beads of sweat on his forehead started to run downwards and the skin around his eyes tightened and started to flush red. She was about to fire when she heard the curious buzzing noise of the ZPK-96. The man in front of her appeared to explode as the stream of bullets shredded him. Angel gave a wave of acknowledgement to Lagertha and made a mental note to get her ZPK-96 back.

That taken care of, she returned to the review stand and mounted the steps. Her mind was focused completely on the people she was assigned to protect. “Everybody up here alive? Stay down behind those screens.”

The four guards nodded; they’d watched her eliminate the gunmen below and their expressions were no longer those of resentment, closer to admiration and respect. They realized that being asked to work with her had been a compliment to their skills, not an insult. One of them handed back her two magazines he had refilled and she pushed them back into the rapid-reload clips on her belt. She almost returned her pistols to their holsters but changed her mind.

John Mason’s plan had succeeded. While Angel had been concentrating on killing the men from the two surviving batteries of the Banda Della Magliana, he had slipped through the chaos and taken up a position at the foot of the reviewing stand. Surrounded by the chaos, the screams of the wounded, the terrified and the dying, he got ready to make his move. The time window was very narrow; he knew that the Swiss Guard would be coming after the perpetrators of the massacre with murder in their hearts. If he was going to get away, he would have to finish the contract in seconds.

It was that need for speed that caused him to make his only mistake. He ran up the steps instead of trying to climb them. No longer focused on the situation in front of her, Angel heard the steps and spun around. Mason saw her cold, pitiless eyes focused on him and heard her opening fire. He managed to get a single shot off before her barrage of fire cut him down. He saw her staggering backwards and his last thought before he died was ‘killed the bitch’.

Angel felt the heavy slam as the .45 magnum hit her just under the ribs. She staggered backwards, her vision already beginning to black out. Her last thought before the darkness swallowed her was “So it is today. Sorry, Conrad.”

[Calder]

Chapter Twelve
Side Road, Vialle VIII Marzo Festa della Donna, Rome

"Oh my God." The Carabinieri patrol car had received a message that two vehicles appeared to have been abandoned by a junction on Vialle VIII and they should investigate. They had spotted the car and truck easily enough which made their investigation of the scene quick and simple. They had found the mass of footprints that showed a group of people had walked up the side road. Following them had led the two Carabinieri to the sight of an entire TV crew, nine men and a woman stretched out on the ground, all systematically murdered. From the dried blood on the ground, Maresciallo Rolando Endrizzi guessed that they had been there for over an hour. He went down the line checking the pulse of each body, knowing from the cold stillness of the victims that they were dead long before he confirmed the absence of a pulse.

The last victim was the woman. She was stretched out on the ground, one arm reaching for the torn-up remains of some pictures. Her blood-soaked black hair had once been backcombed and teased to give the fashionable 'big hair' look. Now, it was a hideous tangled mess. Endrizzi could see fragments of her skull in the heavily-gelled style with more on the ground in front of her. Despite being certain she was dead, he checked her pulse. To his incredulous disbelief, there was still some slight warmth in her skin. His fingers felt a pulse, so weak it was barely detectable more like a thread to life than a sign of life itself, but it was there.

"Filiberto, she's still alive. God knows how. Get a rotodyne here, right away. We got to get her to hospital."

Carabiniere Scelto Filiberto Piccio took his personal radio and called in. From the volume of radio communications, it was obvious something terrible had happened in the few minutes since they had left their car. When he looked up, his face was white.

"All the Rotodynes are in use. There's been an attack on the Holy Father right in St. Peter's Square. The bastards who did this stole the crew's outside broadcast vehicle and drove it through the crowd. Hundreds of dead and wounded. The Holy Father's press secretary threw herself in front of him and took a bullet. She's on her way to hospital by 'Dyne, critically wounded and not expected to live. The bodyguards killed the attackers. Every medical unit in Rome is there. We're on our own. We have to work this out for ourselves."

That made Endrizzi think. It was obvious this was one of those situations where every possible course of actions was wrong and there were no good decisions. It was also obvious that the rule book didn’t apply. "All right, we make a stretcher using our jackets and any wood we can find. We take her to our car and get to the nearest hospital."

"Salvatore Mundi International. I'll drive." Piccio was a rally driver in his off-duty moments. If anybody could get through traffic fast, he could. While he was speaking, Endrezzi was back on the radio, asking for the scene to be secured.

"All right, we have some park wardens three minutes out. Get some wood. Oh, sorry, you already have."

They threaded the broken branches through the sleeves of their jackets then carefully moved the woman on to the improvised stretcher. In doing so, her hair fell back and revealed the damage the bullet had caused. To Endrizzi, it seemed as if the whole right side of her head had been blown off; certainly the eye and ear on that side were gone. Before he and Piccio lifted her up, he reached down and gathered up the scraps of paper. "The bastard who did this made her watch while he tore up the pictures of her family. We'll get him for this."

Despite the damage, Piccio recognized the victim. "It's Luisella Padovano. My wife likes her."

They started to run down the roadway, trying to keep the stretcher as still as possible. Halfway they met a jeep with four park wardens in it; Endrezzi told them what to expect and what to do. Then they reached their patrol car, slid the stretcher into the back seat. Piccio got into the driving seat while Endrezzi soaked his white scarf in her blood. He would hold it out of the window while Piccio weaved through the traffic. It was the standard sign, understood throughout Italy, that the car had a critically-injured person on board and everybody should get out of the way.

The power of the blood-soaked flag combined with flashing lights and screaming sirens allowed Piccio to make the drive from the crime scene to the Salvatore Mundi International Hospital in less than three minutes, a feat which he prided himself that even a Rotodyne couldn’t equal. Swerving to a halt outside the emergency department, the two Carabinieri ran up the steps with their stretcher and plowed into the emergency care area. There they stopped dead at the sight of utter chaos. The place was filled with wounded people moaning, screaming and begging for help.

The admissions doctor took one look at Luisella Padovano. "She's gone. Take her to the morgue."

"Doctor, she's alive, she has a pulse. She was in the woods like this for an hour and she's made it this far. I beg you, give her a chance." Endrezzi was pleading with all the emotion he could muster. He was lucky that cops and emergency room doctors had a long-standing working relationship and this one decided to give him and the victim a break.

"All right; there is an extreme trauma ward two doors down. There's only one person in there right now, your patient can share it." Doctor Toscano called over a gurney team. "Get this patient to Extreme Trauma right now."

When the gurney was on its way, he turned back to the two Carabinieri. "The other patient is the woman who saved the Holy Father. She's gut-shot, bleeding out and we think poisoned. It'll be a miracle if she makes it for another hour or two. But, if anybody deserves a miracle, she does. And some of it might spill over to your patient."

Public Area, St Peter’s Square, Vatican City.

The gunfire had ended but the Square was filled with the wailing and screaming of desperately-injured people while the less-seriously hurt were trying to do what they could for the critically-wounded. There was a path through the crowd where the OBV had plowed through them that made a truly hideous sight. Dismembered bodies, some reduced to a pinkish smear across the cobbled road surface, littered the track of the vehicle. The terrible thing was that not all of the crushed were dead. Some, with limbs and bodies crushed into unrecognizability were trying to drag themselves to where they could get help. To make matters worse, the diesel fuel tank on the truck had ruptured when the vehicle had hit the bollard barricade and the diesel fuel spreading across the cobbles was a serious fire risk. The fumes also spreading across the square made it even worse, both from the fire/explosion risk and from the sheer, choking smell. For all that, what worried Achillea was that Angel had gone off the air.

She and Lagertha managed to break away from the panicked and milling crowd and ran towards the review stand, holding up their identity badges while they did so. Even though the guards recognized them and noted the badges, they were still covering them with their own guns all the way in. As soon as they were close enough, the four guards relaxed. Achillea stepped over the body on the ground at the foot of the steps. It was obvious Angel had shot him, he had at least twenty bullet holes in his head and chest. There was a long-slide M1911 beside him. Achillea picked it up and stuck it in the waistband of her jeans.

Angel was slumped in one corner of the review stand, unconscious and with blood pumping out from a wound in her abdomen. His Holiness was crouched over a figure, desperately using his ceremonial vestments to try and staunch the bleeding but the size of the puddle around Angel's body showed that the task was beyond any extemporized aid. Achillea knew wounds well and this one was as bad as any single gunshot wound she had seen. Before she could do much though, there was the familiar whistling sound of a Rotodyne coming in. The pilot had taken off the moment the flash message of the attack had been received and his primary duty was to get an injured Pope to hospital. As he touched down, he dropped the back ramp and the emergency trauma team exited in a dash to get to the bullet-riddled review stand.

The team leader took one look at Angel and started to get a blood transfusion ready. "Anybody know what group she is?"

"AB-positive." Achillea didn’t need to guess precisely what group Angel belonged to. All the long-lived were AB-positive universal recipients.

"Thank God for that." The team leader started the transfusion with O, universal donor, blood but knew she would be running out of that soon enough. Angel's blood was everywhere, making the floor of the reviewing stand slippery. With her patient temporarily stabilized, her team lifted Angel onto a gurney and started to rush her to the waiting casualty evacuation rotodyne.

Achillea and Lagertha followed the team into the back of the flying ambulance. The team leader tried to stop them but Achillea held up her hand. "We're both AB-positive. You'll need us both as walking blood-banks."

The doctor nodded. Achillea took out her telephone and speed-dialed Conrad. He'd been deliberately kept away from the review in case something like this happened. His voice was frightened and apprehensive. Achillea deliberately calmed her own voice. "Conrad, there's been a massacre over here. At least fifty dead, hundreds wounded. Angel killed the attackers but one of them hit her. You need to get to the . . ."

The doctor said quietly, while working on Angel, "Salvatore Mundi International".

"You hear that? Salvatore Mundi International. Conrad you'd better get here fast. It's as bad as I've ever seen. Angel's got a fifty-fifty chance of making it as far as the emergency trauma ward.

Once again, the doctor overheard, shook her head and pointed downwards. The number of empty blood bags was growing steadily. It was fortunate that the Rotodyne was a fully-equipped emergency aid facility. That was all that was keeping Angel alive.

"The bullet is still in there. I can feel it. It's just under the skin of her back. I'm going to cut it out now." The doctor worked briefly and then held up a .45 magnum bullet in her forceps. "There it is. Odd, it’s a hollow point but the nose was blocked with some kind of wax. Didn't expand or fragment."

One of the nurses sneezed and looked ill. "Sorry, I have an allergy. To castor oil."

The doctor looked again at the bullet, frowned and put it in a plastic bag. "You two, I need blood now. We have to do this vein-to-vein or her heart will start pumping vacuum and then she's gone. We're coming in fast but we’re also running out of blood. I need yours to bridge the gap."

Achillea and Lagertha's blood was already going into Angel when the Rotodyne bumped onto its landing pad. The rear ramp dropped, Angel was rushed out and across to the elevator that would take her down to the extreme trauma ward. Achillea and Lagertha were running alongside the gurney in a cruel parody of the race they had run just a few days earlier. They were still attached to Angel by the transfusion lines forcing them to take great care not to put any stress of the connection. Nevertheless, they kept alongside as they rushed into the express elevator. Behind them, the Rotodyne retracted its ramp and took off again, the pilot not bothering to climb for eight but instead making for the scene of the catastrophe.

Doctor Toscano was waiting for them with Angel's case notes already pushed into his hands. "All right, we've had orders to do everything possible to save your friend and not to triage her out. We need her in the extreme trauma ward now. We’ll continue with the field transfusion until we can get a normal transfusion ready. After that, there's a waiting room through those doors and two doors down. The chapel is right next door to that. If you are believers, I’d suggest you start praying right now and don’t stop. Oh, signora, the gun please. We do not allow them in there."

Lagertha looked like she wanted to argue, but Achillea simply took the .45 magnum and handed it over. "Doctor, that's evidence. The man who shot our friend dropped it as he died. Take care of it please and maintain chain of custody."

Toscano nodded; any emergency ward doctor knew the drill where evidence was concerned. Anyway, from the notes on his patient, that gun needed careful examination. Lagertha was about to continue arguing but Achillea grabbed her arm and hustled her out. After all, Achillea still had her .32 Colt and two knives tucked away. As they left, two Carabinieri rushed in, carrying a woman on an improvised stretcher.

Waiting Room, Salvatore Mundi International Hospital, Rome.

"Is there any news?" Lillith and Naamah had arrived just a few seconds earlier and their question was the first thing Naamah had asked when they came through the door.

"None." Achillea had essentially taken over as the group leader and was acting as the single point of contact. Conrad was next door in the chapel, praying. He had been there ever since he had arrived by helicopter. "What's happening out there?"

There was no doubt what she meant by 'there'. The massacre in St Peter's Square was the subject of continuous news coverage by all the TV channels, supplemented only by coverage of the killing of the Radio e Televisione Italiana outside broadcast team. The problem was that solid information was contradictory and hard to come by. Even the fact that one member of the RTI team had survived was being kept quiet.

"So far, seventy-three dead and three hundred and thirty-five wounded. The number of dead is rising steadily and the number of wounded dropping as the most critical die. All the wounds are dreadful, crushed limbs and trunks, you name it. It'll be over a hundred dead in a few hours. His Holiness himself went on television a few minutes ago begging everybody to give blood for the wounded." Naamah looked around, "Talking of that, how much have you two donated?"

"About a liter each, I think. So far." Lagertha looked at the picture on the television screen. It was a shot taken using one of the new camera drones that news stations had started using. The great red streak where the truck had plowed through the crowd was clearly visible although the editors had blurred the details out as being too hideous for public viewing.

"Then stop there or you’ll pass out." Naamah was seriously worried by the way the situation was developing. In her experience the longer surgery went on at this level, the worse the situation was. As usual, she was compensating for her worries by snapping out orders.

The time continued to tick slowly past, minutes turning into hours. Achillea and Lagertha were continuously alert and on guard but everybody else was getting sleepy. Every so often Achillea got up and checked quietly on Conrad next door. He was still at the altar, deep in prayer.

Eventually, there was a knock on the door, before Doctor Bellini Toscano came in. He looked utterly exhausted and it seemed his hands would start shaking as soon as he let them.

"I have some good news and some problems."

Achillea held up a hand. "With respect, Doctor, could you hold for a moment? We need to get Angel's close friend from the chapel."

"Of course."

Once Conrad was inside and settled down, Doctor Toscana continued. "All right, the situation is this. Angel was hit by a heavy .45 magnum bullet that passed directly through her liver. That's an extremely dangerous injury, almost always fatal in its own right and was why she was bleeding so heavily. She was extraordinarily fortunate in that bullet went through the softest tissue in her body. It didn't touch a bone and the hollow point was filled in. The bullet therefore failed to expand. If it had, she would have died almost instantly. As it was, it punctured a relatively clean hole in one lobe of her liver. We have removed that lobe, the damage was irreparable, and clamped the artery. As a result, the bleeding has almost stopped and we're just topping her up so to speak. The liver is a unique organ in the body; it does regenerate quite quickly and the missing lobe will grow back. Don't misunderstand me, this is an extremely bad wound and she will probably never recover completely. Two or three years with good physiotherapy will restore most of her strength and mobility."

In the background, Achillea caught Conrad's eye and shook her head slightly. It was obvious the Doctor didn’t know how well the long-lived recovered. Or that they even existed. If she lived, Angel's recovery would be quicker and more complete than he thought. That didn’t mean it would be any easier.

Toscano took a deep breath and moved to the hard part. "Now we come to the problems. The reason why the bullet didn't expand was that the nose was blocked with a very hard candle wax. We already had a suspicion why because when the bullet was recovered, one of the nurses had an allergic reaction. It turned out she was allergic to castor oil."

"Uh-oh." Naamah's voice was quiet and she leaned forward to hear more clearly.

"We examined the bullet recovered from your friend and found that the hollow point cavity was stuffed with the waste mash from a castor oil processing plant. That mash contains a significant content of ricin. We also examined some of the bullets taken from the gun you gave us. They were the same."

"Conrad, I'm so sorry." Naamah's voice was genuinely sympathetic. The truth was she didn't really like either of him or Angel but she recognized the distress that harm suffered by one brought to the other and ricin was a near-certain killer.
"Please wait a moment, Signora." Doctor Toscana didn't like being interrupted or pre-empted. "Because the bullet didn't expand and the cap remained mostly in place, there was only a limited amount of the mash that leaked into Angel's body. A tiny amount and it was very impure. If the cap had been more completely dislodged, your friend would have died from ricin poisoning within the last few hours. It appears that the extreme bleeding from the wound and multiple blood transfusions washed most of the mash out and we have been lavaging the wound to try and remove more. Finally, the bullet did go through her liver and we have removed the part it penetrated. So that removed still more and has probably contained the spread of the poison. Now, will all of that save her? We do not know. We know that the issue is in doubt and if she had received a large dose she would already be dead. We also know that ricin is lethal even in microscopically small doses and there is no antidote. All we can say is if she makes it to three days, she will have a good chance of survival. If she makes it to five, she will be out of danger, from the ricin anyway. There are a few things we can do to give her a better chance and we're doing all of them. Other than that, we have to wait and see."

"Can I go and see her?" Conrad was using enormous control to stop himself breaking down.

"I have been told you are the closest thing she has to a family. You can sit with her although I warn you she is in a deep coma. Beware, we think that people in comas can hear what is said around them so be careful what you say." Tosvcana waited while Conrad left in a great hurry. "The rest of you, you can stay here if you wish or go on about your business since I have a feeling today's events have given you much business to attend to. Or do so in shifts so that those here can keep everybody else informed. Are any of you good at jigsaw puzzles by the way?"

Everybody pointed at Lillith who had her best 'who me' expression in place. Toscano smiled gently. "We have another woman in extreme trauma who has been shot in the head at close range. She is Luisella Padovano, a TV personality. The bullet that hit her destroyed almost a quarter of her skull, exposing the right side her brain, blew out her right eye and inflicted severe damage to her face. Before that, the killer made her watch while he tore up her pictures of her family. In a day that is nothing short of a hell-spawned nightmare, that is the cruelest thing I have heard. If you can piece them back together, we can pin them up where she can see them if she recovers consciousness. We'd do it ourselves but we are swamped with casualties from St. Peter's Square.

Lillith nodded in acknowledgement. She could imagine just how Luisella Padovano must have felt. "Get me some scotch tape and I'll give it a shot. Sorry, that was a bad thing to say, wasn't it."

Toscana gave her a weak but sincere smile. "We have had two miracles here today. Your friend and Luisella Padovano. Neither should be alive, but they have survived so far. If you all can find it in your hearts to pray for Luisella as well, and all the other victims of course, it would be a great virtue. May the Good Lord forgive me, but I will never pray for the people who did this atrocity nor ask anybody else to do so."

Conrad was nodding with great vigor. His eyes were blazing with anger at the way Angel had been brought down with poisoned bullets. He had accepted that her profession put her life in constant danger but to use bullets loaded with poison was beyond the limits of his forbearance. Combined with the brutality of the massacre and the scenes he had witnessed in the emergency room, he wanted only vengeance. Achillea saw the expression on his face and nudged Lagertha. “I wouldn’t like to be anybody involved in this slaughterhouse right now. I think Conrad’s in the mood to go full medieval on them. I’ve never seen him like this before.

Lagertha was nodding in agreement. “We had people go like this sometimes. We called them berserkers. The gentler they were to start with, the more savage they became when they were finally pushed too far.”

“Beware the wrath of a patient man. Conrad, Angel needs you right now. Forget about everything else, just make sure you’re there for her.” Achillea turned around to Lagertha. "I think, Katrya, we have places to go and people to kill. Praying can wait until later."

[Calder]

Chapter Thirteen
Hotel Saturnalia, Via Nazionale, Rome

"Here is Mr. Mason's room, officers." The hotel manager and the attendant security officer looked at the warrant once more and turned the key in the lock. That let Achillea, Lagertha and a forensics team into John Mason's hotel room. It was so characterless it seemed almost sterile. The great challenge was to search the place while leaving that sterility undisturbed. After all, absence of evidence could sometimes be evidence in its own right.

Conrad had often expounded on how the Police had greater resources, in terms of manpower and information than any private individual could possibly access. So, it made sense for a private investigator to become an ally of the local police and work with them rather than against them. Even in the 19th Century, Allan Pinkerton had seen that and made it one of the pillars of his detective agency. Achillea had watched that principle at work and came to the conclusion that Conrad had known what he was talking about. She was also uneasily aware that it was a classic example of how the long-lived would be hunted down if their existence was disclosed before the proper preconditions had been established.

Angel's torrent of bullets had destroyed John Mason's face and made it impossible to visually identify him. However, fingerprints didn't lie and Mason's fingers hadn't been damaged. The Carabinieri had taken his prints using an electronic scanner and sent them directly to the Carabinieri forensic laboratory. There, they had been compared with the records and identified as being identical to a set that had been taken years earlier when John Mason had been a petty criminal. From there, the name had been compared with the electronic police 'cards' filled in by every hotel resident in Rome. It had taken less than ten minutes to send the details of his hotel room to the investigators. It had taken Lagertha even less time to return with three documents, one of which was the search warrant for that room. The magistrate who had signed off on it was still taking stiff drinks to steady his nerves after Lagertha had turned the full force of her warrior-queen personality on him. The other two documents appointed Achillea and Lagertha as the primary Vatican City liaison officers with the Carabinieri investigating murders of the TV crew. That was a formality of course, the TV crew massacre was simply being quoted as an excuse to give the Carabinieri authority to investigate inside Vatican City.

"Is everybody properly suited up?" Primo Capitano Ornella De Luca, the head of the most skilled and experienced forensic team the Carabinieri possessed, was playing this case with scrupulous care. She was painfully well aware this critically important investigation could either send her up the ladder to the highest ranks of the service or ensure she spent the rest of her career handing out parking tickets in the smallest, poorest village in Sicily. Besides, she was a sincere Catholic and the sight of the Holy Father, his robes soaked in blood, while he fought to save the life if the woman who had, just seconds before, saved his had affected her deeply. So, it was with slightly more than her usual fervor that she gave the traditional encouragement. "All right, now inspect every speck of dust!"

It was immediately apparent that John Mason had cleaned the hotel room meticulously before leaving, making it very clear that he had had no intention of returning after the attack. The forensic team were wearing disposable light-blue plastic overalls that sealed them off from the room. They even had drawstring-closed hoods to cover their hair and breath masks to cover their nose and mouths. Slowly, methodically, they started to move around the room and the evidence they salvaged began to mount up. A few hairs would provide DNA evidence, treated properly a few pieces of waste paper gave hints of what had been written on sheets above them. Achillea could see what Conrad had meant when he has spoken about the skills forensic investigators were developing. He had been impressed by the abilities of the Thai forensic scientists but Achillea could see that the Carabinieri team were far in advance of them. It was impressive and, to the long-lived, more than a little frightening.

Lagertha's telephone rang and she flipped it open. When the conversation had finished, she addressed the room in general. "All right, we have the portable telephone records for Mason. Or, more precisely, his portable telephone and the landline the calls he made from this room. The list is coming over right now but one name is prominent. Licio Gelli."

"The Grand Master of P2?" Ornella de Luca looked up sharply. "If we have a link to them, if they are involved in this, it's going to be a massive political scandal. They've long been suspected of planning the overthrow of the existing government and going back to a dictatorship, but an attack on the Church and State like this? This is beyond anything anybody thought possible. We will be fortunate if the scandal remains confined to Italy."

Achillea thought, rather despondently, that she'd done it again. Somehow, an investigation she had been involved in was spreading into a widespread and extremely damaging scandal. Just like Aurandel and New York. I'm going to get my ass chewed by The Seer again. I keep trying to explain these things just seem happen by themselves but he never listens. Then, another thought occurred to her. If Angel recovers, I'll have to warn her that the portable telephone she uses is nowhere near as secure as she thinks.

Intensive Care Room, Extreme Trauma Unit, Salvatore Mundi International Hospital, Rome.

Conrad knew he would have a lot to confess in the not-to-distant future. After the gunfire in St Peter's Square, one of the Swiss Guards had picked up Angel's pistols and given them to him for safe keeping. He had smuggled them into Angel's room and put one of them into her bed with her hand resting on the butt. She had often told him how her guns were her God and how they protected her. He thought that the familiar feel of them would somehow help her.

She was lying motionless on her back, breathing steadily but sweat was streaming down her forehead and occasionally she whimpered. He face was chalk-white from the amount of blood she had lost. Every so often her hands or feet would twitch. The readouts were measuring her blood chemistry as well as her heartbeat, pressure, oxygenation and all the other data the doctors needed to know. It was the blood chemistry that conveyed the grim news; there was ricin in her system and it was already at work destroying the proteins that allowed her body to live.

A nurse came in and Conrad watched her very carefully. He knew that sometimes, when a patient was in great pain and had little or no chance of recovery, a well-meaning nurse might 'make a mistake' with the morphine. He was determined not to allow that to happen here. He was Angel's friend, now she was unconscious and defenseless, it was his duty to protect her. Every time her monitors gave their bleep, he was reminded of that sacred duty. Once he had dozed off and, on waking, the split second before next bleep had filled him with fear. But, the monitors continued their stately rhythm.

"She is in excruciating pain." The nurse spoke carefully not wishing to be misunderstood. "We are giving her morphine to subdue it but the amount needed to dull it completely would leave her with addiction issues. So we are trying to strike a balance. Blood chemistry is still deteriorating, although the laboratory thinks the rate of decline has slowed slightly over the last hour or two. If so, that is a very good sign. She is also running a severe fever, that is the ricin of course. I brought you some iced towels. Use them to wipe her forehead and cheeks; it may help her a little. When you have used them all, we will bring you some more."

Conrad nodded in thanks and, as soon as she was gone, knelt once more by the bed and started to pray. He had already given Angel her final rites, telling himself that if he lost her, she wouldn't be upset by his presumption and if she came back to him, he didn't have to tell her. Although he didn't realize it, he was drifting into the Monastic Rule of a mass every three hours. Only, every single one of his prayers was a desperate plea for her survival. In the small gaps between them, he was planning the strategy he would need to bring back the Inquisition in all its power. And then to turn that power loose on the people who had planned the holocaust in St. Peter’s Square and most especially on those responsible for this small part of it.

King Yan Wang's Hall, Diyu (Chinese Hell)

The great hall was dim and cold, the air seeming to swirl in ways that caused ever-changing patterns of dust and smoke from the lanterns that lit the walls. Strange creatures, demons and beings even stranger than demons, lurked within those patterns and would drive the souls of the dead forward with whips and spears if they showed any reluctance to approach the bench of judgement. Up ahead, seated at the bench, were a line of avatars of King Yan Wang, the black god of the dead. There was one avatar for every person who entered this hall, never more, never less. The number was constantly changing as the souls were judged and either sent away to their next lives or committed to the deeper hells to expiate their sins then others arrived to take their place.

Suddenly, without being quite aware of how, Angel was standing before the Avatar of King Yan Wang that had been created to judge her. He was reading the great book that contained every detail of Angel's life. From the moment of her birth right up to the second she had died. His head shook as he read the catalogue of death for which she had been responsible.

"You killed your father. One of the Five Grave Offenses. Your soul stands forfeit." King Yan Wang's voice thundered around the hall and the demons in the mist and fog seemed to quail from his rage.

"He raped her. Against all the laws of Gods and men he raped his own daughter." The woman's voice came from Angel's side. It was Guanyin the Goddess of Mercy come to plead for Angel, just as an avatar of Guanyin came to plead for every soul that stood before King Yan Wang. "And she has devoted her life to protecting an Arhat, a man on the verge of reaching enlightenment. She gave her life, protecting another. Born out of evil, yet she has defeated the forces of evil many times, even killing the devils sent by darkness to persecute the righteous. She merits mercy."

King Yan Wang studied the great book of Angel's life again. "She has served virtue as well as evil, that I grant you. And she was on the path to enlightenment herself although she had far to go. I will be merciful. Angel, you will be boiled in oil for a thousand years."

The Avatar was gone and Angel was left standing on the Path to Rebirth. Guanyin walked beside her, noting the tears rolling down Angel's cheeks. "Angel, be brave. Yan Wang has shown you great mercy."

"The tears are not for me. They are for Conrad. Who will look after him now I am gone?"

"Your friends will. They will do so to honor your memory. Now, walk tall and be brave."

Guanyin vanished leaving Angel to walk down the path on her own. Inside, she felt a terrible burning pain in her stomach and knew it was just a taste of what was to come.

Outside the Headquarters of the P2 Lodge, Rome

"I don't understand how Conrad can forgive Angel for what she does." Lagertha was in position, watching the square mansion a few yards away. "She stands for everything he must hate."

"He doesn't. But he had a revelation after he met her for the first time. That was understanding the principle that one can hate the sin but still love the sinner. That's exactly how he looks on Angel. He hates the part of her that does what she does while loving what she could be, and to be fair, what she tries to be. Angel was broken at a very early stage in her life, I've never found out all the details of what happened. Conrad knows but he won’t say. Whatever it was, it left her so she can't be fixed, or at least we don’t think so, but she is trying very hard to find ways to work around the problems she knows she has. She wants to be a good person but she simply doesn’t know how. There was never a good person to set an example for her to follow or anybody she trusted enough to guide her. She had to work it all out for herself while fighting to survive as a child on the streets. Every day, Conrad shows her how and helps her figure out ways she can live something approaching a normal life." Achillea looked across at the target. "I think Conrad sees himself as saving her soul although he can't admit that to her."

"And they love each other, yet neither of them realizes it." Lagertha still couldn’t get her mind around that concept.

"I was watching him sitting beside her, wiping the sweat from her face and guarding her. Lillith says that Angel looks after him like a she-wolf guarding her cubs. I think it's more that neither of them has ever loved or been loved before so they don't understand what they feel for each other is love. We're up, Lagertha. The game is about to start."

'The Monster' was an eight-by-eight wheeled armored tank destroyer armed with a 100mm gun. That gun was trained to point rearwards allowing the tank destroyer to be fitted with a heavy Vee-shaped dozer blade. The driver had his foot down hard, making the vehicle accelerate as it ran towards the wooden gates set in one wall of the building. When the impact came, it sent fragments of wood scything through the air, ricocheting off the walls and shattering glass in nearby windows. The tank destroyer driver didn't let that stop him. He kept his vehicle racing at full speed across the courtyard inside the block, mounted the stairs that led to the main interior entrance and crashed through that as well.

"That driver," Lagertha said, "is having altogether too much fun."

The Carabinieri Hostage Rescue team was swarming the building, following the tank destroyer in through the gates to seize the courtyard and outbuildings while others blew in the windows with breaching charges. The whole plan was to seize the entire building before those inside could destroy the records contained therein. The reason why the Hostage Rescue Team was being used wasn't that there was any possibility of hostages being taken but because they were the only law enforcement assault team available whose leadership was not corrupted by possible P2 connections. It was indicative of how serious the situation had become that there had been open discussion of whether various police and other law enforcement units would end up fighting each other on the street. That possibility had been largely, but not completely, discounted.

Achillea and Lagertha were at the front of the charge into the building. Utility maps of the building had shown the floor plan in some detail and given them a good picture of where the most sensitive rooms were likely to be. Achillea had her Thompson gun, a weapon that the Carabinieri viewed with some reserve since Thompsons had featured prominently in the gang war that had wiped out the Banda Della Magliana. Lagertha was carrying a large and heavy axe. In theory, it was to break down any doors they ran into but Achillea suspected that, just as she was most comfortable using a sword, Lagertha had an ingrained preference for axes.

Up ahead of them was a heavy wooden door. Achillea was getting ready to administer one of her door-smashing kicks when Lagertha screamed at the top of her voice while swinging the axe in a savage blow at the lock. The door was ripped open by the blow, allowing Lagertha to follow-though in a spin that ended when she threw the axe at a man who had started a fire and was throwing cards from a Rolodex into it. The axe took him square in the chest and sent him falling backwards, already painfully obviously dead. Two Carabinieri pushed past Lagertha. They were carrying fire extinguishers for exactly this situation and the jets of foam put out the fire before it could take hold.

Achillea looked at the cards. Most were still in their case and undamaged; the ones that had been in the fire were burned around the edges and sodden with foam but they had been saved. The Carabinieri were entering the room and sealing everything so that it could be preserved as evidence. It was apparent that the wealth of intelligence on P2 in this room alone meant that the raid had been a spectacular success. There was scattered gunfire from the rest of the building but it was nothing like the resistance that had been expected.

"Pedicabo sorores omnes demones inferni. Lagertha, you're the lawyer. Just glancing at these cards, I can see prominent journalists, members of parliament, industrialists, and military leaders and the heads of all three Italian intelligence services. How is the government going to handle this?"

Lagertha made a 'who knows' gesture. "What did your Dottore have to say about situations like this?"

Achillea thought about that for a moment. "I think he would have quoted Epictetus. 'Correct judgements about externals make our character good, as perverse or distorted ones make it bad.' We're about to find out how good or bad a national leader Alessandra Mussolini really is."

"I agree. But, don’t take it for granted everybody on those cards is part of this mess. I would base my defense on being those cards are Licio Gelli's personal contact list as well as membership of this lodge."

"Scusi, Signora." One of the Carabinieri officers came over and addressed Lagertha, respectfully but firmly. "I am a member in good standing of the Grand Orient lodge and feel obliged to let you know that this organization, whatever it is, has nothing to do with us. They were cast out of our order decades ago and what is here now has no connection with us."

Lagertha gave him a dazzling smile. "My apologies, I meant no offense. These things are sometimes hard for outsiders to understand. "

Achillea watched the exchange and the officer go away, his hurt feelings mollified. She was quite impressed that Lagertha appeared to achieve much with just a smile but then reflected that there was a body on the floor with a heavy axe firmly embedded in its chest. That added weight to a smile.

A car pulled up outside, one that had driven in with motorcycle outriders to clear the way. A distinguished figure got out, Comandante-Generale della Carabinieri Astolfo Palerma. He entered the semi-wrecked building, ignoring the prisoners sitting in the courtyard with their hands on their heads. The officer who had spoken to Lagertha a few minutes earlier went up to him and saluted.

Palerma spoke quietly but with great authority. "Capitano Mazzanti, The Hereditary Speaker of the Legate, Signora Alessandra Mussolini has issued instructions that everybody whose name is on the membership lists found here is to be arrested and delivered to the courts for investigation and trial." Palerma hesitated and continued after drawing his pistol and presenting it to the Captain, butt-first. "You will find my name on that list. So, I will be the first arrest that you and your men will make under the terms of that order."

Achillea caught Lagertha's eye. "Another quote for you. Marcus Aurelius said, 'every hour focus your mind on the performance of the task in hand and perform it with dignity, generosity, magnanimity and freedom. If you will achieve this, if you perform each action as if it were your last, you will find you have lived with honor. Like master, like man. So, now we know a bit more about Signora Mussolini."

[Calder]

Chapter Fourteen
Intensive Care Room, Extreme Trauma Unit, Salvatore Mundi International Hospital, Rome.

Conrad put the copy of “Guns and Ammo” to one side after finishing the article on the new Beretta CX pistol. He had been reading it to Angel, hoping that the sound of his voice might penetrate the fog that engulfed her mind and give her a thread to hang on to. The long article had left his throat dry and his voice hoarse, so he drank some of the iced water from the carafe. Then he took a chilled cloth from the cold-pack and wiped her face and hands. It occurred to him he had touched her more often in the last 36 hours than he had in the 12 years they had been working together. The displays at the head of her bed showed that her temperature had risen again, and her blood chemistry had continued to deteriorate. The truth was, she was dying. On the other hand, she had survived for half the three-day period that marked the time when the ricin was at its most lethal. If she could hold on for another 36 hours, the tide would turn in her favor.

The hospital was at its quietest, the staff doing their best to keep noise to a minimum so their patients could sleep, when a bell rang in Conrad’s head, telling him it was time for Matins. He went to the end of Angel’s bed to start the session of prayer, but the door opened softly behind him. He knew it wasn’t a threat aimed at him or Angel; there were three skilled Chinese Sai-Los outside along with another three Italians, one from each of the families that were part of La Provincia, the Italian Commission, and a couple of stolid, dour Russians. All knew very well that if anything happened to Conrad or Angel, their own lives could easily be forfeit. They had just been joined by four Swiss Guards, in the dark-blue battledress that the unit wore when not on ceremonial duties. The two groups of Angel’s bodyguards, one from each side of the law, looked at each other curiously. Conrad reflected that his disturbing familiarity with the organized crime side of the world meant he had become quite familiar with having a half-dozen or more gunmen around; seven gunmen, one gun-chick, he amended, looking at the Chinese woman who stood with the two men. Angel told me that the preferred term these days was gun-chick not gun-woman. It was his visitor who caught him by surprise.

“Holy Father, this is a great honor. I didn’t expect . . . .”

“Conrad, your friend Angel saved my life and who knows how many more? May I pray with you for the preservation of her life and the salvation of her soul?”

Conrad shifted sideways so there would be room at the foot of Angel’s bed for them both. There they repeated, quietly so as not to disturb other patients, the hymns from a collection that dated back to the 6th century. Conrad had added his own desperate pleas for Angel’s life. His Holiness had joined in that prayer also but added an extra thought. He wasn't aware of having done so but he had spoken aloud, quietly but aloud. “Dear Lord, these two are joined so closely in spirit that nothing should divide them. I believe that to take one and leave the other would be the greatest of cruelty to both and I beg you, in your infinite mercy to spare them that.”

When the service was finished, Conrad looked up at where Angel lay in her bed, mostly still and quiet but occasionally ripples of muscles clenching would shake her and she would whimper quietly. Above her head the vital signs display beeped slowly and methodically. “Holy Father, when I see someone dear to me suffer like this, how can I not seek revenge on those responsible? This is only a tiny part of the pain and misery they have caused. I know judgement is the Lord’s responsibility, not mine, but I cannot help it. I want to see them punished.”

“Then do what you do best, Conrad. Use the investigative skills you have been given to bring those people to justice at the hands of those who are qualified to administer that justice.” John XXIV hesitated, then decided that he should say more. “You have seen what happens when people of our calling take on the robe of vengeance. We called it the Inquisition and its memory still gives our enemies a tool to use against us.”

“Yet, Holy Father, St Peter’s Square runs red with the blood and crushed flesh of the faithful who came to join us in a celebration of our faith. My friend, my only real friend, lies there in agony, brought down by a poisoned bullet. There are monsters amongst us and we must destroy them. Is it not time for the Inquisition to live again? Once Angel told me that the failures of the past were not a reason to avoid doing better in the future. Were those words not wise?”

His Holiness’s eyes filled with grief in sympathy with the anguish Conrad was suffering. “They are, but they need careful thought and calm contemplation. I understand the man who did this to Angel is thoroughly dead at her hands and you can be very sure he is now answering for his crimes to an extent far beyond any reach of mortal man. Now, Conrad, you must think first and foremost of Angel. You are her rock she clings to, the light that she sees as the only means she sees for her own salvation. If you start to go down the path she trodden in the past, what will happen to that light? If her rock crumbles, where will she be without it?”

His Holiness left to continue his rounds visiting those wounded in the St Peter’s Square massacre and to comforting the bereaved. He hadn't rested from those duties in two days. As he left, the nursing staff brought the blood transfusion cart into the room and prepared to give Angel another transfusion. It was fresh blood, donated by Lillith and Naamah only a few minutes before. Behind the cart, Dr. Toscano came in, looking as exhausted as Conrad felt. With two patients whose wounds were far beyond critical to care for, he had only managed to catch naps since they had arrived.

“Doctor, another transfusion? I thought we had stopped the bleeding?”

Toscano watched carefully while the phlebotomist set up the transfusion. “We have, Father, mostly. This is something else. We have noticed that Angel’s blood chemistry improves after a transfusion, more than we might expect. We think this might be an important factor in treating ricin poisoning. You see, ricin does its work by attacking and deactivating the eukaryotic ribosomes that make some critical proteins. Normally, the cells produce those proteins, release them into the blood and other body cells draw them out as needed. As the ribosomes are progressively deactivated, protein production drops and the store held in the blood is depleted. When it drops below a critical level, the patient dies. By giving major transfusions of fresh blood, we think we are replacing the depleted store with blood fully-loaded with the critical proteins. We are fortunate, due to the Holy Father’s appeal, we have more people giving blood than we have ever had before, and Angel is a universal recipient. The blood you and your friends have donated, together with a large shipment that has just arrived from Switzerland, is keeping us going while we scan the donated blood and clear it for use.”

Conrad thought carefully about that. “Will it save her?’

“No. What it may do is keep her alive while her natural defenses do that. That’s why she is running such a fever. Her body has generated her fever to deactivate the ricin. That is why we are letting it rise. We will try and keep it below 42 degrees, 108 in your terms, but we cannot be sure we will succeed. That is dangerously high but if we do not let it do its work on the ricin she will surely die. Now, excuse me I must go and check on my other patient here.”

“How is she, Doctor?”

“Stable. Critical but stable but her head wound is terrible. The bullet entered the back of her skull and ran between the skull and the brain before exiting through her eye socket. The right side of her face is ruined. A large section of her skull has been blown off and her eye socket is so badly damaged we will not even be able to give her a glass eye. Fortunately, her left eye is undamaged, and she will still be able to see. We are going to replace the destroyed section of her skull with a metal plate and do what we can with reconstructive surgery but her career as a public figure is over. How she survived for an hour in the woods is quite inexplicable. I think a miracle is the only rational explanation. Thank you for coming over to give her final rites, Father. Even though she was unconscious, I think it eased her greatly. Now I really must go to her.”

Conrad watched one of the nurses renewing Angel’s morphine drip. She smiled at him, aware that he was scrutinizing her and marveled at his devoted protection of his friend. I know husbands who take far less care of their wives. “We’re trying to keep the dose below that which will cause addiction in the time-span we are looking at. The price is that she is still in terrible pain. I can up the dose if you wish but then she will be addicted to morphine when she recovers. And, knowing how opiates affect people, I suspect she is having some vivid dreams in there.”

“You are the experts. Do what you think will achieve most to save her life.” Conrad noted that the nurse had said ‘when she recovers’, not ‘if she recovers.’ That gave him renewed strength.

Diyu (Chinese Hell

Immersed in boiling oil, Angel had lost all track of time. The searing agony enveloped her, turning the whole of her existence into a raging ball of fire. Inside it, she struggled to retain rationality, every so often hearing Achillea’s voice quoting Seneca to her. “Misfortune is virtue’s opportunity. Every stumble, every painful moment, every struggle, every missed chance, every foul-up—it’s all a moment in which you can practice calm, strength, fortitude, resilience. It’s all a moment to practice virtue. To be good, to be kind, to be patient, to be understanding, to be the person you say you’d like to be.” Or, as Angel had translated it to herself. “Embrace the suck.” Achillea’s calm, quiet voice was one thing that was allowing her to hang on, to avoid sinking into a mindless stupor. The other was Conrad’s voice, constantly speaking to her. She knew both were her imagination; that she was in Diyu where none of her friends could reach her, but the thought she could hear them gave her strength nonetheless.

It was her fight to retain reason that was, paradoxically, confusing her. From the moment she had been thrown into a net and lowered into the boiling oil, the blinding pain had been coming from the inside out and logic told her it should be coming from the outside in. Also, the pain was coming in waves. It had started with a crescendo but ebbed until it was merely intolerable. Then it would start building up again until it peaked and started to ebb. She had long lost count of the number of cycles she had endured but she had worked out an explanation. Severe fire damage burned away the nerve endings in the skin so that once the burns were deep enough, the pain went away. Then, her flesh would grow out again until the pain returned.

It was the only rational explanation she could think of, but she was well-aware she wasn’t that capable of any deep level of reason right then. She was just trying to hang on as best she could.

Corte Suprema di Cassazione, Palazzo di Giustizia, Via Muzio Clemente, Rome

Lagertha’s stiletto heels clicked on the marble floor as she approached the doors of the Corte Suprema di Cassazione. She was wearing a formal woman’s suit in black and a white polo-neck blouse with two starched white cotton bands. It was as much a battledress as any she had ever worn. The similarity was made clearer, to her at least, by a bullet-resistant vest she was wearing under the blouse. She speculated quickly on the practicality of wearing stiletto heels on a battlefield, took a very deep breath, and then walked through the doors leading to the courtroom handling her case.

“I am Attorney Katerina Vynnytska, Chief Legal Officer of the Banque de Credit et Commerce. I have been assigned by the Board of Directors of the Banque de Credit et Commerce to act on behalf of the Vatican in relation to a series of frauds carried out by the Vatican Bank and the Banco Ambrosiano. My clients allege that a sum in excess of seven billion dollars has been stolen by the Vatican Bank and the Banco Ambrosiano. As a result of a series of raids carried out by the Carabinieri last night, the P2 lodge, purporting to be but not recognized as, a Masonic lodge has also been implicated in the case and we wish that organization added to the list of defendants on our petition to this court.” Lagertha was speaking in fluent Italian, the product of her long stay in Switzerland. She also spoke English, Swiss-German, Ukrainian, Norwegian, Finnish and Old Norse equally fluently. Her proficiency with Italian had already won her favor in the court.

Looking around her, the impact of the St Peter’s Square Massacre was easily apparent. There were armed Carabinieri everywhere, the roads had been blocked off so that a truck bomb could not be driven into the Palazzo di Giustizia and the Italian Army had Leonardo tanks, real tanks with 127mm guns, on the street all around the building. By common assent, everybody walking casually around the streets were keeping their hands in plain sight. Everybody, but everybody, were wearing black armbands, most of the men had white shirts and black ties while the women wore black dresses and scarves. Even the tourists were subdued, not least because so many of the dead were visitors from other countries come to see the Pope and the Swiss Guard parade.

In the courtroom itself, the bank of Judges was a composite made up from several different benches since the arrests of P2 members had removed many of the original officers. The same was true across the city. Roman citizens had woken up to find that a wide swathe of authority figures had been arrested and it took no great analytical skills to link the arrests with the horrifying events in Saint Peter’s Square. Other ‘authority figures’ from the city government to the policeman on the beat were being very careful not to give reasons why they should be linked with the men and women who had been arrested.

All in all, the people we arrested last night are probably safer in jail right now. Lagertha had the thought while arranging her papers on the desk in front of her. And I wouldn’t be too sure about there. The hand of the Mafia and its brotherhood organizations has a very long reach.

The Capo del Gruppo di Giudici, the Head of the Panel of Judges, consulted quickly with his four colleagues. It was apparent that the normal smooth working of the court had been disrupted by the arrests and consequent reorganization. Five people who had worked with each other for years and who knew their colleagues well had been replaced by a group of strangers. Lagertha reflected that was not necessarily a bad thing. The Legate had already voted in favor of a motion that all cases that had appeared before a Panel that contained one of the indicted judges would immediately be re-examined before a fresh panel whose integrity was not impeached.

There had been another factor involved as well although nobody had openly mentioned it. A number of Magistrates who had attempted to investigate the Banco Ambrosiano and some of its related, even shadier, organizations had been assassinated by terrorists. The dead had included one who had been blown up in his car along with his entire family, another who had been killed along with his bodyguards by a drive-by machine-gun attack and a third who had been killed while gardening when a bomb had been thrown into his home. The alleged terrorists had been members of the Banda Della Magliana although nobody had dared try and prove that. Then the gang war that had spread across Rome had seen the Banda being savaged by the ruthless assaults of the Russians and Chinese gunmen. The entire leadership of the Banda Della Magliana had been wiped out when the last survivors had been killed in St. Peter’s Square along with the hundreds they had killed or wounded in their final act of terror. The hangers-on of the Banda Della Magliana, petty criminals who lacked the ruthlessness and brutality of the core, had either fled the city or surrendered. They had known all too well that the deadly Russian and Chinese gunmen were closing in on them. With them gone, the Courts could, once again, do their work.

Her train of thought was interrupted by the bang of a gavel from the Clerk of the Court. “The Corte Suprema di Cassazione is now in session. Attorney Vynnytska, please present the petition on behalf of your clients.”

Lagertha stood up, straightened her jacket slightly and stepped forward. She had spent days preparing her petition for the court, quite literally weighing each word for its effect and meaning. She had spent that time surrounded by law books just the same way as Lillith had spent hers surrounded by ledgers and statements of accounts. The product of Lillith’s labors had already been presented to the Corte Suprema di Cassazione and the weight of the volumes was making the evidentiary table in front of the Bench creak. Lagertha’s brief was in her head; she would, apparently, be speaking off-the-cuff. Nobody believed that of course; nobody, but nobody, appeared before the Corte Suprema di Cassazione without massive preparation and her ability to make her petition without notes or references, spoke to the amount of work she had put in. The court’s estimation of her clicked up another notch.

Lagertha spoke fluently for 45 minutes without once hesitating or fumbling. The only sounds that interrupted her monologue were the click of her heels as she paced up and down before the Panel, presenting her case, the exact text of her revised petition and the evidence that supported it. For all its weight and bulk, not to mention its mind-cracking financial detail, the specifics of the complaint were also quite simple. The senior management of the Banco Ambrosiano had conspired with some of its other senior officials, who were also officials of the Vatican Bank, to defraud the latter of nearly seven billion dollars. The Church wanted its money back. They also wanted Roberto Calvi and Michele Sindona or the head and hide thereof, whichever the Italian courts found easier. At the end of the speech, she stood centered, in front of the Panel, her head bowed.

“Attorney Vynnytska, a question.” One of the Judges looked keenly at her. “You are asking for the arrest and indictment of all of the chief operating officers of the Banco Ambrosiano, including Roberto Calvi and Michele Sindona, and those leading figures of the P2 organization that are not already under arrest. What of equivalent figures in the Institute for the Works of Religion, commonly known as the Vatican Bank?”

“Many are already under arrest and being rigorously interrogated. Others are being sought. I refer you to Appendix D of the petition that lists all those in the Institute for the Works of Religion who are being charged in this heinous affair. The Institute for the Works of Religion is headquartered in Vatican City so is separate from this petition. It is, though, being pursued with equal dedication.”

The judge's point was obvious. If the fraud had been carried out as part of a conspiracy between Banco Ambrosiano and Vatican Bank officials, what was happening about the latter? The explanation that they had already been detained and were being rigorously questioned was deemed quite satisfactory although one of the magistrates, known for his doubts about the Catholic Church, had been seen to wince at the word ‘rigorously’.

“Why is the Banque de Credit et Commerce supporting the Vatican in this action?” Another one of the Judges, another pointed question.

“Because my Banque has also been affected by these frauds although to a far lesser extent than the Vatican and the Catholic Church. I am instructed by my Board of Directors to put our losses to one side and to aid the Church in recouping its own. Quite apart from the humanitarian side of this state of affairs, a major judgement against the subjects of our petition in the dominant case will greatly reduce our costs in obtaining similar verdicts for our own losses. Put bluntly, its good legal strategy for us.”

“An honest answer of self-interest has a credibility all of its own. Is there any case presented for the defendants?” There was a complete silence, the defendant’s table being conspicuously empty. The Capo del Gruppo di Giudici glared at the empty seats, nodded to his colleagues, then rose from his own seat to leave by the door behind his bench. He was followed out by his four fellow-Judges.
“How do you think it went?” Conti di Segni was sitting at the petitioner’s table beside Lagertha, wearing the classic cassock and collar. “That was a spectacular case you put up.”

Lagertha gave him a sideways glance from ice-blue eyes that danced with humor. “If one grows up in a society that doesn’t write, one develops a good memory for speeches. Igrat has the same characteristic. As for how it went? I don’t know. We’re three or four points up right now and the defendants not even attending by proxy was a bad strategic mistake. But, who knows what is happening in the Consulting Room? Remember, the Trust effectively controlled this court for a quarter of a century. That is the problem with unanimous agreement; it only needs one of five to be corrupted.”

The minutes ticked by while the Court waited for the return of the panel. Conti di Segni was becoming agitated at the long delay, assuming it was bad news. Lagertha didn’t make that assumption, to her it meant that the evidence presented was being carefully evaluated. Eventually, the Capo Del Gruppo di Giudici reappeared, leading the other four judges of the Corte Suprema di Cassazione back into the courtroom. Once they were all seated, the Clerk sounded his gavel and those present resumed their seats.

The head of the Panel cleared his throat. “This is a shocking case, made all the more terrible by the dreadful events in St Peter’s Square just a few hundred meters from here. Even without that context, the Petitioners have made a watertight case for the massive frauds carried out by the Banco Ambrosiano in collaboration with the P2 organization. That they were assisted in doing so by co-conspirators within the Institute for the Works of Religion is not relevant. As Attorney Vynnytska points out, that organization is in a different country and out of this Court’s jurisdiction. The facts compiled in the dossier presented to us are completely damning and we are unanimous in commending those who compiled this evidence.”

The Capo Del Gruppo di Giudici paused and drank some water. Lagertha was now a little concerned; she had seen too many summations starting with effusive praise by the judges of the petition presented before they tore it apart. “Now, in this case, the Panel was also unanimous in that the Petitioners have gone far beyond the minimum standard of proof required for their petition to be successful. Accordingly, their petition is indeed granted in its entirety. All accounts, monies and transactions of the Banco Ambrosiano, the P2 organization and the Institute for the Works of Religion, also known as the Vatican Bank, within the jurisdiction of this court are hereby frozen and confiscated by the Italian Judicial System prior to a legal determination of its disposal. Warrants are being issued for all listed members of these groups. Finally, we go beyond the scope of the petition by suspending the banking licenses of these organizations for operations in Italy and enjoining those listed and those arrested last night from ever again being involved in any form with the banking system.”

The verdict went on for nearly an hour, detailing the international ramifications of the Court’s judgment. By the time he had finished it was apparent that the Banco Ambrosiano and P2 had been comprehensively destroyed and all their members indicted. It was, Lagertha decided, a complete win.

[Calder]

Chapter Fifteen
London Docklands City Airport, London, UK.

The LDCA wasn’t any kind of conventional airport, although in the forty years since the Fairey Rotodyne had burst onto the air transport scene, the basic pattern of an inner-city Rotodyne airport had become familiar. It was a very large, square building whose design was derived from that of a multi-floor parking lot. Its roof was large enough to allow multiple vertical take-offs and landings for Rotodynes that flew as far afield as Brussels, Rotterdam, Paris and Copenhagen. The parking areas below had four entrance and exit points that led to four parking zones. Blue Zone was the “transient zone” for 24 hours or less and the permitted stay got longer as drivers went into green, yellow and red. The parking areas also included pick-up and drop-off points and a taxi-rank. Taxis, of course, were one thing London did unbelievably well. The top two floors were different. They were the arrivals and departure lounges. One set led to the international network while a different set of gates led to the British domestic web, serving almost every major city in the country. Underneath the arrivals and departures areas were shops, gourmet restaurants and other concessions that were carefully selected to showcase the best Great Britain in general, and London in particular, had to offer.

It was a spectacular facility, one that elderly citizens who remembered the bleak post-Occupation society of the 1950s and 1960s could hardly believe. The national resurgence that had started with the Falklands War in 1982 had produced an unexpectedly plentiful harvest. It was summed up by the electoral slogan that the Unionist Party had used to win the 2005 election after eight years of Alliance Party rule. ‘Britain is Back!’ Unusually for party political slogans, it had the virtue of being true. Britain was indeed back as an ascendant part of the European political and economic scene and an influential presence worldwide.

It was that leading international presence that had caused Roberto Calvi to catch a British European Airways Rotodyne from Paris to London after travelling from Rome by road. After the aircraft had landed and dropped its rear ramp, all the other passengers had collected their luggage from the cargo storage area of the Rotodyne and made their way down to the arrivals hall. As a designated international port of entry he had to show his passport before stepping across the white line that marked his formal entry into Britain. Once he had completed that formality, Calvi started looking around for the people who were supposed to meet him. He'd been told he would recognize them by an identity placard from a well-known charity. He saw it and went over to join the three men gathered around it. They had a picture of him and recognized him also.

"If you would come with us, Sir. We will take you to your hotel. The international operations manager is waiting for you there with details of your next assignment. Let me take your bag." The leader of the group led the way through the crowds of people who were either taking a Rotodyne trip or had simply come to enjoy the cheerful and good-humored environment. In that respect as well, the LDCA was a very unusual airport.

Calvi followed the group through the brightly-lit and luxuriously-appointed arrivals area and into a blue-doored elevator. It took them down to the third floor blue parking area where a Bentley was parked. The two minions got into the front seat while Calvi and the group's leader took the back. The driver headed for the north exit that would take them directly out on to the A13M motorway, a four-lane highway that funneled traffic directly into the City of London. When the road was being built, it had been planned to go straight through Limehouse, essentially destroying the center of London's Chinese community. The Limehouse Neighborhood Association had called in some major debts owed by the Home Office and the road had been rerouted.

Less than ten minutes later, the driver took a slip road and transferred to another main throughway, the A-201 that took them over Blackfriars Bridge. This crossing point had been carefully selected. In rush-hour the area was heavily congested but this was late in the evening, between the business surge and the jams caused by people going home after a night on the town. As a result, for a couple of hours, Blackfriars Bridge was almost completely deserted. Half-way across, the driver slowed down and transferred to a wide bicycle lane on one side. "We're about a mile from your hotel and I have to call in," he explained. "It's illegal to use a portable telephone while driving. Your hotel is that tall egg-shaped building over there on the left, south of the River."

Calvi automatically turned to look. As he did so, the door behind him opened and he found a rope noose being flicked over his head. It settled around his throat as he was dragged out of the car by his neck and across to the low, stone wall that decorated the edge of the bridge. The man holding the end of the noose tied the end off on while the other two were stuffing bricks into Calvi's pockets. He struggled hard but, secured by his neck and with three fit and trained men attacking him, he couldn't stop himself being dragged to the edge and thrown over. Then, the noose around his neck jerked tight and the lights went out.

Calvi's body was found three hours later. His suicide caused great resentment since finding the corpse had ruined several people's night out.

Graziella Corrocher's Apartment, 15th Floor, Via Ottavia, Magliana, Rome.

Graziella Corrocher had poured herself a glass of wine and was about to settle down to watch the news when the doorbell rang. She walked over and looked through the peephole to see a delivery man standing outside with a luxurious bunch of flowers and a boxed bottle of champagne in his hands. She opened the door, assuming they were presents from an admirer, only to realize there were two men there. They hit her with a blitz attack, rushing at her, bulldozing her to the ground and pinning her down. She tried to scream but one of the men clamped his hand over her mouth, his thumb and forefinger pinching her nose shut. His companion took hold of her legs before they carried her across the room towards the balcony outside. She tried to struggle free, but with her breathing cut off, she was getting steadily weaker. She couldn't even put up any resistance when they threw her straight over the balcony railing and down towards the street far below.

The Hussar Restaurant, Prague, Czech Republic.

"All right, Michele. We have this in hand." Michele Sindona's contact gave Sindona a friendly smile. "It's a pity the Vatican Bank didn't get the spring cleaning it deserved but we can't have everything. How is your beef?"

Sindona was eating the restaurant's specialty, old Bohemian beef in cream sauce with almonds and cranberries and bread dumplings. Following a starter of sausages and beer, he was already feeling full and even slightly breathless. "It's excellent. First class meat and great dumplings."

"That's good. The condemned man deserves a hearty last meal."

Sindona looked up sharply as the significance of the throw-away comment sank in. It did so about the same time as a severe stomach cramp made him double over.

"Cyanide in the cream sauce," his host said, very helpfully.

Beach House, Roco Nova, South of Lisbon, Portugal

"You are an incompetent bloody fool." The man who had rented the beach house looked at Licio Gelli with disgust. "To be honest, I can't think of any way you could have made a bigger mess of this. By trying to kill the Pope you have every Catholic country in the world and most of the not-Catholic ones, howling for blood. In fact, as far as the inner circles can see, the only religious organizations we've found who are not after our blood are the Amish and Quakers, and they're busy praying for our souls. Aggressively.

"As if that weren't enough, by taking out a contract on Angel, you've made sure that most of the organized crime networks come after us, guns and hatchets drawn. No matter what her personal history might be, over the last few years she has spent a considerable amount of time modernizing the organized crime business model. The people she represents know she is generating income for all her associates and improving the business environment for everybody in her world. So she carries a lot of respect. Damn it, Gelli, after the Paradigm Oil disaster, we made it quite clear that we do not cross swords with the Triads. If they have a presence that will be affected by our plans, we back off. Then you go and put out a contract on one of their senior leaders and set the entire Triad movement against us. The Wo Shing Wo, Sun Yee On, Wo Hop To and the Tai Huen Chai are already moving to aid the 14K. Do you know how many Chinese there are? Then there the Russians, the Cubans, the Unione Corse and the Milieu. Not to mention the Americans, the Italians and the Albanians. And you have brought them all down on our heads."

"She's dying. No problem." Gelli was fighting for his life as much as Angel was for hers and he knew it.

"Are you sure? She's survived for sixty hours so far. Another twelve and you won't be able to make that claim. If she makes it through the night again, she'll have beaten the odds and then she'll be coming after us. Do you really want that murderous psychopath after you following what she did to our Saigon operation? No? I thought not."

The man sitting in the armchair shook his head and sighed. "Your stupidity has cost us billions we needed badly. The Vatican had got most of its money back already, our control over the Italian law enforcement system has been broken and our infiltration of the Italian government exposed. If having one vengeful female after you isn’t enough, Alessandra Mussolini wants your head as well. You challenged the power of the Mussolini family in Italy and that is something she will not forgive. Nor will she forgive an assault on the Italian democracy created by her grandfather. There's legislation going through the Legate right now, banning membership of secret societies, legislation that is aimed right at us. Every Masonic Lodge in Italy will have to publish a full list of its members and their outside interests on pain of massive fines and prison sentences for their leaders. It's lucky for us that Calvi, Sindona and Corrocher, not to mention Mason and the leaders of the Banda Della Magliana are all dead. Perhaps not for you though, because that makes you the only connection between this disaster and the inner circles."

That was when Gelli knew for certain he was going to die. The man in the armchair looked at him thoughtfully. "We have to convince some critical people, not least of whom is Angel, that this thing stops with you. It's lucky you didn’t hurt that priest-friend of hers. If you had, she'd have hung you by your feet over a slow fire. Come to think of it, that's not a bad idea."

Diyu (Chinese Hell)

Angel had worked out that if she kept as still as possible, the bubbling oil that engulfed her would hurt less. She still didn't understand why the pain seemed to come from inside her rather that outside but her mind was so dulled and fogged that she really didn't care anymore. It seemed to her that she had been in the cauldron forever and her memories of the 'life before' were also becoming fogged.

So, when the net started to move and she was lifted out of the cauldron and spilled on the stone floor, the change made little impact on her. Slowly, as her mind began to clear, she realized that the pain had been ebbing for some time and now it was a minor thing in comparison to the searing blaze it had once been. She looked up from the ground and saw Guanyin the Goddess of Mercy standing over her. "Your time is over, Angel. Now you can leave this place."

Suddenly, Angel wasn't sure she wanted to leave. At least here, she had her memories of Conrad. Obviously a thousand years had passed since she had died, but that didn't mean he was dead. If he was still alive, he would remember her as well, she was very sure of that. The problem was that if she left and was reincarnated, she would lose all her memories of him and, since she would be in a different form, he wouldn't be able to recognize her. With a stab of anguish that rivalled the pain of the boiling oil, she realized that she would absolutely never see him again. There was only one way to keep her memories of him with her. "I want to stay."

"Not possible Angel. You must leave. Come with me." Guanyin led Angel out of the hall and down a long path that led to her next life. As she walked down it, she felt tears welling up because she knew her old memories would fade and be replaced by a blank slate. Only, it didn’t happen. Towards the end of the path was the Pavilion that represented the vase of memories where the experiences of her old self would be stored until she finally broke the cycle of reincarnation. Sitting outside it was a familiar figure, reading a magazine. Angel's heart surged as she recognized Conrad.

"He's been waiting for you, all these years." Guanyin spoke quietly.

"But he can't come with me and I can't go to the Christian heaven with him."

"The head of the Christians prayed for you, begged the powers that be that you two should not be separated. In view of all the good he has done in his life, they agreed to his request. You and Conrad may go to the Christian Heaven together."

Angel broke into a run and headed for the lonely figure. He heard her coming, stood up, and put the copy of Guns and Ammo to one side. She threw her arms around him for a moment, then stood back and looked carefully. He was exactly as she had remembered. "Come along Conrad, we have to go."

She took his hand and led him towards where the sun was setting in a giant red ball between two hills. Behind them, Guanyin had vanished, her work for this soul done. Conrad and Angel walked towards the red ball together. As they approached it, Angel saw it turning white and remembered the stories about near death experiences and white lights. As they neared it, she saw a halo appear around the globe.

Then she realized she was looking at an electric light bulb surrounded by a reflective shade.

Intensive Care Room, Extreme Trauma Unit, Salvatore Mundi International Hospital, Rome.

"Welcome back, Angel." Conrad was standing over her, smiling gently.

She tried to speak but her mouth and throat were too dry. He reached out and gave her some ice chips to suck. Proper water could follow later. When her voice was back she looked around at the hospital room. "How long was I out?"

"Five days getting on for six. Although we knew you'd be OK about eight or twelve hours ago. Your temperature started dropping and your blood chemistry started to recover. I took the opportunity to have a shower and a shave then get some fresh clothes while Lagertha watched over you. Somebody has been with you all the time. And there are eight bodyguards plus a Swiss Guard detachment outside."

"What's happened? How am I?"

"Doctors are coming right now. They'll answer most of your questions." Conrad thought quickly; he was sure that the Doctors wouldn't tell her everything including how badly hurt she was. Yet, she needed to know. "You've had a fever for five days, a very high one. It's burned off a lot of your muscle mass. You're in really bad shape. Look."

Conrad held up a mirror where Angel could see herself in it. The face that looked back at her had a dirty gray-yellow skin with dark shadows under her eyes and cheekbones. Her face had lost a lot of its shape, her skin was sagging and the bones of her skull stood out clearly. Worst of all were her eyes; the whites had gone bright yellow. "What happened to me?"

"The bullet that hit you was poisoned with a stuff called ricin. It's a real killer. The bullet itself punched a hole in your liver and you were very close to bleeding out. By the way, I smuggled your boys in. One's in my case there, I put the other one in your bed so you could hold it."

Angel managed a weak smile but it was one of pure delight. "Good boy!"

"Well, Angel, you beat the odds." Dr. Toscana looked in from the door, knowing that he had already done two impossible things in a day and by right and by long tradition he would manage a third by evening. To start with, the operation that had put a metal plate into Luisella Padovano had been a success. It had restored something like a normal shape to her head and reduced the degree to which she would be disfigured by her wound. Now Angel had beaten ricin, one of the very few people to do so. That made Toscana one of the leading authorities on treating injected or inhaled ricin poisoning.

"What happened to me, doctor?"

Toscana sat on the bed and gave Angel a detailed description of the injuries she had suffered and what had been done to keep her alive. What neither Conrad nor Angel knew was that Achillea had stopped him outside a few hours earlier and made sure he understood that Angel needed to know everything about what had happened to her when she woke up. Achillea could be very persuasive when she wanted to be. He finished up with what had to happen in the recovery phase. "All right, because your liver was badly damaged, no alcohol at all. Your liver will regenerate and after it has you can drink again. In moderation of course. Secondly, we gave you a lot of opiates to help control the pain. We had no choice there, being shot in the liver and being poisoned with ricin are both vicious, agonizing ways to die. You've probably noticed that your mind seems oddly fogged and imprecise? That's the opiates. We have to face the possibility you may be hooked. If so, we'll wean you off."

"No." Angel had recovered from the after-effects of her coma while he had been speaking and was very firm. "Cold turkey. No more opiates for me. Understand? I can do this."
"If you say so, our policy is that the patient makes the rules for detoxification in such things. Thirdly, philosophical point. You're alive because John Mason was an evil man. He stuffed the nose of a hollow-point with poison to make sure you died. That stopped the bullet expanding. If it had expanded the way it was supposed to, you would have died in seconds from blood loss. So, his attempt to make certain you died actually saved your life. There's a moral there somewhere.”

“There’s another one as well. People are always on at me to wear a bullet-resistant vest. I don’t because the weight and bulk slow me down too much. Now, you’re telling me if I had been wearing one, it would have opened that slug up and killed me.”

“I suppose so. I don’t know about bullets, only about the wounds they inflict. All I can say is that the Good Lord must be watching over you. Now, I must go to my other patient here. She's woken up as well." Toscana shook his head and left. The conversation had left him with a strange combination of fulfillment and unease.

"Other patient? And where did all this stuff come from?" She looked at Conrad and her gesture included the flowers, cards and gifts that decorated the room.

"Other patient first. Luisella Padovano, survived being shot in the head. The attack in St Peter's Square was preceded by the attackers hijacking the outside broadcast van belonging to RTI and killing all the original crew. Luisella somehow survived the massacre. Like you, she only just made it. Hang on, there's a picture of her here somewhere."

Conrad rooted around in the newspapers he had kept so Angel could bring herself up to date on what had been happening. After a quick search, he came up with one that had a publicity shot of Luisella prior to her injury. Angel looked at it and nodded. "I can see what happened. It was that 'big hair' style. It means her head was surrounded by a mass of teased-out hair and the shot was off-center."

Conrad disagreed. "She can barely speak because the right-hand joint that links her jaw to her skull is shattered as well but she managed to let us know she was praying to God when she was shot, asking to see her children just one more time. I think this was a genuine miracle. Mason shot her, but he had torn up her family pictures first."

Angel visibly sneered with disgust. "That was a rotten, cowardly thing to do. Unprofessional. Who's Mason?"

"The man who shot you. You killed him. May God forgive me, but I'm glad you did. Angel, I have a confession to make. When I heard what had happened to you, I wanted to go after the people responsible with every tool, every weapon, and every stratagem I had learned in my life. I wanted to rip them apart, to see them suffer the way they had made you suffer. When I learned that everything that had happened, the attack on the Pope, the massacre in St Peter’s Square, the attempt to kill you, all were linked together in a single plan, it made that rage even worse. I wanted to bring back the Inquisition in all its relentless power. I started to plan how to do just that. Even now, I feel that fury inside me.”

“Bad move, Conrad. Rage stops you thinking clearly. You told me what you did as a member of the Inquisition. That was then and this is now but if you go that way, it’ll destroy you. You're not like me, if you do that, one day you’ll be standing there, looking at their bodies and saying ‘Oh shit, what have I done.’ It’ll tear you apart and then what will I do? I don’t want revenge, you know very well my mind doesn't work like that. What happened to me was business, not personal. What happened in the Square is for people like ‘Lea and Lagertha to deal with. And the law enforcement community of course. They're well-equipped to do just that." Angel stopped as another wave of pain swept through her and she cursed the fog still in her mind for the fact that she couldn’t express what she felt more eloquently. "Leave it alone. Promise me you won’t do anything dumb. Please, I need you.”

Conrad looked around. “I promise, but I don’t think I can forget how I felt so easily. Or that it opened the way for Satan to try and seize my soul. That was what is so frightening. I knew that was happening but I just didn't care,"

"You should care Conrad. Take the word of somebody who has been there, you don't want to go to Hell."

Conrad seemed a little confused by that but he had other things to deal with. "By the way, there is a contract out on you, for a quarter of a million dollars. That's why security around you is so tight."

Angel grinned with delight, then gasped as another wave of pain hit her. Once it had passed, her satisfaction was obvious. "So that was why that dumbass was so determined to kill me. A quarter of a million? That's great. Some of my professional colleagues will be as jealous as hell. Now, the rest of this stuff?"

"Gifts and get-well cards from everybody. I do mean everybody. There are some official ones from the Thames Valley Police, the Home Office, Cabinet Office, and a lot more from the individual officers you've been teaching. A lot from people like us and some from . . . . your friends in various organizations around the world." Conrad stopped while Angel laughed at his efforts to avoid saying 'criminals like you'. "Mr. Cheng sent you a card that looks like a season ticket to the emergency ward here. A lot though are just normal people who heard you were hurt trying to save the Holy Father and wanted to wish you well. So many flowers came in, there’s no room for them here and the nurses have distributed them out to every ward in the hospital."

Angel was visibly confused and her inability to understand, or participate in, human relationships was painfully obvious. "Why would anybody want to wish me well? In my life, getting shot is business as usual. The people I know I can see, but . . . ."

"Because they are grateful to you for what you did. The Holy Father is an important person to them and they wanted to thank you. I feel the same way, Angel, I really do. The nurses have a list of everybody who sent you something; you'll have a lot of thank-you letters to write. Look on it as practicing your handwriting. Also, you need to know that a lot of people like us gave blood to help you recover. Dr. Toscana thinks the amount of fresh blood that came in was the key to keeping you alive. You're not alone, Angel, not anymore. If you ever doubted you have real friends now, just look around you."

[Calder]

Chapter Sixteen
Sacred Congregation for Extraordinary Ecclesiastical Affairs, Vatican City

“How is Angel?” Conti di Segni was, like almost everybody in the room, pale and drawn. Partly it was exhaustion from trying to deal with the horrifying death toll from the massacre in St. Peter’s Square, partly it was donating the fresh AB+ blood that the surgeons believed had been the key factor in keeping Angel alive.

“I took Conrad clean clothes and some food this morning. Angel’s made it through the night and she's recovering quickly at last.” Achillea looked up. “Doctors still say she needs to make it past five days before they’ll admit she has made it through. Until then, the official line is that they are just delaying the inevitable but if they delay it long enough, it might not be inevitable. It’s a pity she killed Mason so thoroughly; there’s a lot of things we could have asked him.”

“Or we could have roasted him slowly on a spit.” Lagertha was also tired and drawn and her very fair complexion made the exhaustion all the more noticeable. It also emphasized the savage cruelty that usually lay hidden behind her undoubted beauty and normally sunny disposition.

“Angel doesn’t approve of that sort of thing. She says its unprofessional and believes Conrad can get the information faster and more effectively. She’s already told you that.”

“Nothing to do with interrogation. This would be vengeance. And a blood sacrifice to Odin, the God.” Lagertha looked at Conti di Segni who winced at the invocation of a pagan god. He didn’t know the rest of the story or that Odwin Noth, the person whose history had contributed most to the myths surrounding Odin, had mysteriously vanished in the late 1930s. Lagertha had known Odwin Noth personally and completely agreed with the difficult choice Loki had made. She also respected Loki for doing the job himself and not contracting it out.

Achillea had already read Angel’s hospital notes. “Dr. Toscana says the deterioration of her blood chemistry is slowing down and her fever is holding below the critical level. “He thinks the constant blood transfusions are helping.”

Lillith had made a note in her ‘to do’ pad to enter Dr Toscana and his family into the Washington Circle’s ‘we owe them’ list. “Loki really came through for us there. He visited everybody he could find who shares our gift and got them to donate a half-liter each. Then he hired a Superstream IV executive aircraft to ferry the donations here. Some of the blood was still warm when we got it.”

Lagertha shook her head. “Usually Loki is a bit of a jerk and quite often people decide he needs to have his skull caved in. Usually about then, he comes through and organizes something like this. Tomorrow, he’s hitting everybody up again for the other half."

Achillea's portable telephone went off and she stepped away from the table to answer it. When she came back, she was beaming brightly. "That was Conrad. Angel came around a few minutes ago. Her doctors have finally admitted she's going to make it."

"Thank the gods." Lillith was genuinely relieved. "How's Conrad taking it?"

Achillea hesitated; not quite knowing if this was something she ought to say. "I think he was weeping. She's really badly beaten up and will be a long time recovering. He's been suppressing his feelings for five days, not wanting to generate negative waves. Now, they're all coming out. He's the introspective one, not Angel. I think he's begun to realize what she means to him. I’m worried that when he thinks this over, he’ll start down the revenge trail. I can tell his mind is already running that way."

"That will be . . . interesting. We’ll have to persuade him not to. Telling him Angel wouldn’t like it will be a good start." Naamah looked around. "All right, we can all go and see her later. Lothario, how are we doing for aid in dealing with the situation in the square?"

"We're getting aid from all over the world. A SAC Aurora landed this morning at Leonardo, its bomb bay stuffed with medical supplies. Another one took off 20 minutes ago and it'll be here in half an hour. We had another planeload from the Islamic Republic." Conti di Segni stumbled slightly over the name of the political entity that had replaced the now-defunct Caliphate. Verbal habits established over three decades took a lot of forgetting. "We've got aircraft coming in from the Triple Alliance and Cuba as well."

"There'll be three more B-106s arriving today. I got a list of their cargoes for you." Miriam Margolis-Jacobs had flown back to Washington the evening before the St. Peter's Square Massacre and had returned on the B-106B that had brought the first load of supplies. One of the problems with the turbo-scram powered bombers was that they outran the administrative paperwork that should have preceded them. "Air Bridge Command freighters will be arriving late today and into tomorrow. I've been asked to find out exactly what you need so we can load aircraft appropriately. At the moment you're getting the standard 'emergency medical package'. What is the situation here now?"

Conti di Segni had the latest records. "More of the seriously-wounded died overnight. Total is now 128 dead and 246 wounded. The problem is that about half of the 'injured' received massive crush injuries as that truck drove over them and there's little that can be done for them except make their last hours as comfortable as we can. So, we expect the number of dead to keep rising for several days. In comparison, the ones who survived gunshot wounds are relatively treatable. Even that poor woman from RTI is stable now and the surgeons are going to start trying to put the damage right tomorrow."

"Any of the Banda della Magliana people survive?" Miriam had a firmly established feeling that the scandal engulfing Washington was closely linked to the crisis in the Vatican.

"Angel shot most of them. We got the rest." Achillea didn’t need to elaborate. Unlike the person who had shot Luisella Padovano, Angel didn’t make mistakes when killing people. They stayed dead. "The Banda Della Magliana has gone. All the hard-core members are dead, and the medium level are running for their lives. Not that it will do them any good. The hangers-on are surrendering to the police. Or trying to, nobody from the local population is in a forgiving mood right now and quite a few low-level gangsters with Banda connections are hanging from trees."

"Damn." Miriam glanced at Conti di Segni who shook a good-humored finger at her. "Sorry. I meant to say 'oh dear'. I wanted to have any survivors interrogated about connections to Washington."

"We can help there, Miriam." Lagertha had been working on the captured files and they had turned out to be a treasure-trove of highly compromising information. They had also allowed her to construct a series of legal actions that would recover most of the funds taken from the Church. "We have 1,626 members of the P2 secret society in custody including all of the heads of the secret services, 195 officers of the armed forces as well as 44 members of parliament, 3 ministers and a secretary of a political party, leading magistrates, a few prefects and heads of police, bankers and businessmen, civil servants, journalists and broadcasters. Also included are a top official of the Banco di Roma and a former director-general of the Banca Nazionale Del Lavorot which probably explains why the Banco Ambrosiano went uninvestigated for so long. Be careful though, some of them are probably not involved in the criminal activities of P2. By the way, you know that 'foundation' you mentioned? It's implicated as well. Lillith?"
"Miriam, you told us that a lot of money was going into that foundation but very little was going out? Well, I can tell you where it was going. There is a pattern of very large transfers from it to the Banco Ambrosiano and from there to P2. I have a list of them, dates and amounts. Once the money is into P2's accounts, it vanishes again. You'd better cover your ears, Lothario." Lillith's implication was obvious; what she was about to say had been obtained very illegally. She quickly explained that the Triads and the Bratva had been busily hacking bank accounts all over the world and getting details on the money flows between them. All in all, the Vatican was building up quite a pile of IOUs written to various criminal organizations. "Most of the banking transactions we've found have been genuine, not all of them wise, but they are genuine. Some are not and now we have four names, Vatican Bank, Banco Ambrosiano, P2 and that foundation you mentioned, we can start to identify their other associates. In particular the ones they have in common."

Miriam nodded in agreement. It was a situation well-known to all law-enforcement personnel. Find a thread hanging loose from a situation and pull at it until the whole thing unravels. "When I was last here, we'd just brought Marcinkus in and I’ve been chasing information on him. Very interesting. He singing yet?"

"Canis stercore edere-cunnis lactantem excusat a variolis opprimebatur”. He’ll talk soon enough. Achillea looked around. Conrad had done the initial work of breaking him in and Lagertha and I put the fear of, well us, into him. He's been put on ice until the situation with Angel is solved, one way or the other, and Conrad gets back to work. We'll get back to Marcinkus then. Roberto Calvi, Licio Gelli and Michele Sindona are all on the run. It's only a question of time before we get them. We need you, Miriam, to alert the American authorities. The FBI isn't reliable right now."

"The FBI was and is, the leadership wasn't." Miriam had been an FBI agent before transferring to the Secret Service and she still felt obliged to defend the organization. "The rank and file are OK when they are allowed to do their jobs. Now, the top tiers are seeking new career opportunities in the private sector, probably as store detectives in a West Podunk supermarket, the Bureau will get back on track."

Achillea could almost hear Angel snorting in disbelief. She was well aware that Angel's experience working as a consultant for the British and other police forces had only lowered her opinion of American law enforcement still further. Personally, Achillea thought that Angel was being too harsh and was extrapolating too much from her own experience in New York but it didn't matter. She'd seen the bouquets of flowers, cards and gifts, mostly bottles of Bacardi 151, sent by the Thames Valley and North Somerset police when they'd heard she'd been shot and critically wounded. Conrad had carefully read all the get-well soon cards to her, including the one from Isolda Rowley that had simply read "I beat this. So can you." The responses had told Achillea that Angel was genuinely respected by the police forces she had worked with. Somehow, she had made the transition from 'murderous threat to society' to 'worthy opponent deserving of respect'.

That thought tickled Achillea's sense of humor. "Miriam, perhaps your government ought to offer Angel the job of FBI Director? She's done a great job helping the British police recover from the Occupation. Just take a look at her hospital room."

"Christ, No." Miriam blurted the words out and then clapped her hand over her mouth. Despite having had the same thought herself a couple of days earlier, the idea of Angel running the FBI left her aghast. She was getting another finger-shaking from Conti di Segni. "Sorry again. It's just the thought of a psychopathic career criminal heading the FBI . . ."
"You should see what we had on J. Edgar Hoover if you think that would be anything new." Lillith knew exactly what Achillea was doing and it was adding some much-needed lightness to the atmosphere. "The only problem was that he had his file on The Seer and a few others. Like most of Congress. So we had a live-and-let live arrangement."

"You mean he knew?" Miriam and the Erudite part of the Secret Service has always been proud they'd worked the long-lived secret out. Discovering that the FBI had done so as well would have been a severe disappointment.

Lillith shook her head. "We don’t think so, if he suspected, he never suggested it. But, some of our actions back then were pretty close to the line so we think he had put them together. Also, the fact our personal lives are a bit different from yours gave him some things to hold over us. Back then, people being gay or Sapphic was a serious matter and that didn’t change until the Russian Front."

"I've got to ask. Were the rumors about him true?"

Lillith smiled gently. "Can you keep a secret?"

Miriam nodded excitedly. Lillith leaned forward and gave her an up-from-under look. "So can we."

Russian Oil Tanker "Hero Lyudmila Mikhailovna Pavlichenko", Ostia Shipping Channel. Rome.

"You have done well, bratishka." The leaders of the five Bratva assault teams straightened up with pride. Aleksandr Anatolyevich Leontyev, better known as Vor-y-zakone Leontyev or Vor Leon for short, was one of the most experienced Brodyaga of the Solntsevskaya Bratva and his praise was not easily won. An ex-Russian Army paratrooper, he had been in overall charge of the Bratva assault teams taking part in the attack on the Banda Della Magliana. His rank was equivalent to that of a Red Hatchet in the Triads and he was a long-term friend of Angel. That friendship had been forged when she had rescued him and his desperately outnumbered men from a potentially disastrous situation at Brighton Beach. He was well-aware that the great success of the Rome operation and the highly profitable agreement that had accompanied it were developments well-regarded by his superiors. That meant he had won much credit and that had reinforced his friendship with Angel. So much so that the Captain of the Pavlichenko had called him up to the bridge to let him know she had regained consciousness and was out of danger. While he was doing that, the message from headquarters had come in, announcing the mission was successful and the Bratva assault teams were being recalled.

“Tell me Sasha, you have fought alongside the Triad street combat teams, their ulichnaya boyevaya komanda, for the first time. What are your impressions of them?”

Aleksander Afanasovich Postika thought carefully. “They are very brave, skilled with their weapons, sly, devious and cunning. They are quick to react to changes in a situation and modify their plans accordingly. They never miss a chance to exploit an enemy mistake. They are larger teams than ours; we work in four- or five-man teams, they use an eight- or ten-man formation. They have women in their teams, we do not. They are experts at slipping into places without being noticed. However, their lack of formal military training is a serious disadvantage. They do not have a sound understanding of basic infantry tactics and this exposes them to greater risks. They took casualties because of it where we did not. If I might suggest the comparison, I feel they are Partisans where we are Army Special Forces. That is not surprising of course.”
Vor Leon was happy with the assessment and agreed with it. Now, he was going to ask the question that would show how deeply Postika had thought about what he had seen. “Now, Sasha, what do you think the Triad ulichnaya boyevaya komanda think of our shturm komanda?”

Once again, Postika thought carefully. This was a twist he hadn’t expected. “I think they see us as well-trained and well-armed. We have more and better equipment than they do. I hope they see us as their equals in bravery. I think, though, that they see us as inflexible and too committed to pre-formed plans. I believe they consider our military training to be a weakness because they think it makes our responses to a situation predictable. I am sure they believe we miss opportunities as a result. They see our lack of women members as a grave weakness; I know this because their Sai-Los said so when we were having our parties. They thought it was foolish and inexplicable. They even quoted the old proverb about the female of the species being deadlier than the male to us. I think they forgot one can only really appreciate Kiplin when one reads it in the original Russian.”

Vor Leon knew why the Bratva did not recruit women for active positions; the whole Russian criminal brotherhood had grown out of the prison population and reflected the beliefs and culture of the exclusively male prisoners. Despite the fact that most of the assault team members were ex-military and the Russian Army had a high percentage of women in its ranks, that hadn’t been a strong enough factor to outweigh basic prejudices. Perhaps it is time that changed. “Thank you Sasha. Those are interesting insights. Now, take your team down to the concealed quarters until we are in international waters.”

The Hero Lyudmila Mikhailovna Pavlichenko had a few very non-obvious modifications that made her a good mothership for this kind of operation. Her oil tanks looked normal from the cargo handling area but several were a bit shorter than the others. They had concealed living accommodation built into the lower areas. The tanker was also double-skinned and if there was a serious problem, emergency escape routes were provided from the emergency accommodation between the double skins and out. The hidden accommodation was crowded right now, the Hero Lyudmila Mikhailovna Pavlichenko was giving the Triad members a lift to Marseilles on their way back home. Vor Leon suddenly burst out laughing at the thought of some misguided pirates trying to attack the ship. Piracy was almost unknown in the Mediterranean but it did happen once in a while. The idea of some pirates trying to take a ship with fifty highly-skilled street combat veterans on board was genuinely hilarious.

Sacred Congregation for Extraordinary Ecclesiastical Affairs, Vatican City.

Achillea had called the meeting as an emergency only to find that Lagertha and Conti di Segni had done the same. The reason for her call was the large box she was carrying. She was curious to find out what the others were.

“I am sorry to call you all back so soon.” Conti di Segni was flustered. “There has been a major development, well, three of them. The body of Roberto Calvi was found hanging from Black friars Bridge in London this morning. At the same time, almost exactly, his personal secretary and assistant Graziella Corrocher apparently jumped from the window of her apartment and was killed instantly. Both deaths were presumed to be suicide until Michele Sindona was poisoned in Prague.”

Everybody looked suspiciously at Naamah. “I didn’t do it. We wanted them alive.”

Lagertha tried not to laugh. “This is where I came in. I heard from the Court that the murder of Michele Sindona caused the deaths of Roberto Calvi and Graziella Corrocher to be reassessed. All three are now considered to have been murdered.”

“My guess would be that they were being silenced. Once they were dead, our chances of penetrating further into The Trust drop dramatically. We’d never heard of the Corrocher woman until now, but I guess the Trust worked on the principle that secretaries know everything about their bosses.” Lillith shrugged. “Tough on her. I guess she’s dropped out of the picture. Where’s Conrad? We need his take on this.”

“Still with Angel of course.” Lagertha frowned slightly. “Anybody know where Licio Gelli is?”

“Yes.” Achillea was almost smirking as she pointed to the box she had brought in. “He’s here. Or, rather, what is left of him. His head packed in dry ice. Came in by freight delivery from Portugal.”

She opened the box up and lifted the head of Licio Gelli out by its hair. The face was horribly swollen, lightly scorched and blackened with soot but it was still easily recognizable. Just to make sure, the killers had put his hands into the box as well. The fingerprints had already been checked.

Lagertha lifted an eyebrow. “How did he die?”

“Autopsy results aren’t available yet; this only arrived a few minutes ago and we barely had time to check the prints.” Achillea paused. “Looking at that head, I would guess that he was hung up by his feet over a slow fire and died of smoke inhalation. One thing we did find was this paper rolled up and stuffed into his throat.”

“What is it?” Conti di Segni had a suspicion where this was going.

“The contract on Angel. The way it has been sent to us is a message that the contract has been disowned and canceled. Whether Angel will believe that or not is up to her.”

[Calder]

Chapter Seventeen
Intensive Care Room, Extreme Trauma Unit, Salvatore Mundi International Hospital, Rome.

“Angel, what did I tell you? Don’t you ever listen to anybody? I thought I made it very clear that you were not to get yourself killed. What the devil did you think you were doing?” Annemarie Delagarza burst into the room in an incandescent ball of bouncing energy. “I told you that brain of yours is far too interesting for you to get it damaged.”

“I didn’t get killed. I was gut-shot and poisoned, but I made it. My head didn’t get hit. I wasn’t even concussed.”

Annemarie noted Angel’s voice was drained and quavering, a sign of weakness and fatigue, but the reply had come back promptly and was appropriate to her own impassioned outburst. Those were facts, encouraging ones, that went into her mental ‘case-notes’ file. This might be a very unusual specialist’s consultation, but it was one nonetheless. Annemarie was well-aware that as a clinical psychopath, Angel couldn't be handled like a normal patient. On the other hand, it disturbed her that Angel's mentality reminded her of a lot of surgeons she knew. “Your head doesn’t have to be hit for you to suffer additional brain damage. Loss of blood leading to oxygen deprivation and the high fever you were running can do a number on you as well. Do you know how many pints of blood they poured into you?”
“None. They gave it to me in half-liter installments. No pints.”

Annemarie nodded again to herself. That was a smart-arse response and all the more encouraging for it. This is looking good. “Not quite true, Angel. On the rotodyne back, they were giving you field transfusions from Achillea and Lagertha. That’s when they take fresh whole blood directly from them and transfer it straight into you by way of a direct vein-to-vein connection between you. That is a desperation measure and very risky for the donors. There is a theoretical chance the ricin poisoning could have spread back to them. If you’re interested, Achillea was hooked to your right arm and Lagertha to your left. There's no real record of how much of the red stuff they poured into you then. The definition of a ‘massive’ blood transfusion is ten units in 24 hours, you got more than twenty, possibly thirty. You were really lucky there were so many AB-positive donors around you. You got fresh, warm blood and they didn’t have to use blood that had been chilled and stored. Despite that, it's quite possible that your brain was oxygen deprived and damaged.”

In fact, Annemarie had the brain-scans that had been taken while Angel was being treated. They showed no signs of additional damage, but beneath the effervescent personality she was a very careful doctor. This conversation had been intended to draw Angel out and gauge her responses. “There is something else as well. Ricin kills its victims by neutralizing their ability to produce certain specific key proteins. If the ricin attacks a specific cell, that cell’s ability to make those proteins is irreversibly destroyed and the cell dies. If the ricin gets into your brain . . .”

“My brain cells die. I got it. But I’m past the critical bit now and recovering. Slowly.”

“Usually, brain cells don’t regenerate, or at least we didn’t think they did, so the brain damage is permanent, but in your case, we don’t know. That’s why I’m here.”

“And you are, Signora?” Dr. Toscana had come in while Annemarie was speaking.

“Professor Annemarie Delagarza, Head of the Neuroscience Research Center at the University of Vancouver. I’m also Angel’s specialist consultant on the head trauma she has suffered and its effects.”

Toscano stopped in his tracks. "The Professor Delagarza? I read all your papers on split-brain syndrome and unity of consciousness. Your work on reconciling the two is remarkable. Angel here is one of your subjects? We saw she had pre-existing brain damage in the areas you mention."

Annemarie glanced at Angel who nodded slightly. "That is correct. Angel was hit on the head causing a skull fracture that resulted in a degree of split-brain syndrome. One of the things I'm here to check is if that condition still applies."

"I would be honored professor. ."

"Annemarie."

"Thank you, Annemarie. I'm Bellini, Bennie for short. Any help my staff and I can give you, please ask. Also, If I may ask a favor from you? We have another patient here, a lady who was shot in the head by the same people who committed the massacre. She has survived with brain damage and we are trying to assess how severe the extent of that damage is. Your help would be invaluable."

"No problem. I'd like to perform a test here though before we go in to see her." Annemarie produced two pistol targets mounted on an electronic pad and two laser pointers mounted on pistol grips. She attached the targets to the walls at about a 150 degree angle apart. "Angel, you've done this before. When the light goes on above the target, 'shoot' at it with the lasers."

Ten minutes and multiple 'shots' later, Annemarie detached the targets from the walls. She pressed the switch that displayed the hits scored on the targets and the response time between the light going on and the laser pulse being detected. "All right Angel, your accuracy and speed are down which is hardly surprising; you're still a very sick girl. There's no detectable difference between your right and left hand so you're still completely ambidextrous."

Angel smiled in relief. "That's good. The effort wore me out though. Is that bad?"

Dr. Toscano was looking at the targets and shaking his head. He had never seen gunplay, even simulated, like it. "No, quite natural. Angel, you're going to take months if not years to recover from this. Just be patient. The most important thing is, don't try to hurry your convalescence. Your stomach muscles were badly damaged by the bullet and the operations needed to keep you alive and you'll have to baby them. If you strain them before they are ready, you will do permanent damage."

"Hear that, Angel? No upside-down hanging crunches until Bennie here gives you permission. Now, I'm off to see his other patient."

Sacred Congregation for Extraordinary Ecclesiastical Affairs, Vatican City.

"Where do we go from here?" Conti di Segni was depressed by the way the four additional killings had shut down any further penetration into the plot to bankrupt the Church. Somehow what had started as a simple fraud case had turned into a blood-bath and a major political crisis that looked like bringing down the Italian government. That was the best-case analysis. The worst case saw the corruption spreading across Europe and into South America. Despite his nominal leadership of this group, he was completely at sea.

"At this point we simply don't know." Lillith had been trying to figure that same question out ever since the news of the killings had come in. "The only opening I can see right now is the murder of Graziella Corrocher. That came out of the blue; we'd never even heard of her before she was thrown out of that window. I'm hoping that when we go through her files and records, we'll find something that will take us further but I've no great confidence there. These people are too good at sealing off vulnerabilities for that."

“There is that foundation in America. We might get in that way.” Miriam was aghast at the ruthlessness with which The Trust had covered its tracks. The pictures and TV film of a heavy truck being deliberately driven through a packed crowd of people still haunted her, as they did to people across Europe. The idea that the people ultimately responsible for that could get away with it simply by killing everybody who could link them in sickened her. “There is another option though. Conrad, remember you wondered why Marcinkus had been able to study in a seminary while every other able-bodied male in America was being drafted? Well, we sequestered the Draft Board records for the era and found something useful. Marcinkus was granted a draft deferment, a very rare one. It was granted at the request of an attorney, one Roland C. Gorski, who was a junior attorney at a Boston law firm that represented, inter alia, Senator Joseph P Kennedy. Gorski never came close to having that kind of pull, but Kennedy did. We’re looking into other people who got similar deferments now. My guess at this point is that Marcinkus was infiltrating the Church on behalf of the Trust from very early on. Given what has happened to the other people who may be a link between the Vatican Bank attack and the higher-ups in The Trust, I’d say he’d better be very careful.”

Naamah snorted. "His Holiness has already demoted him to Deacon-Assistant and assigned him to Craggy Island Parochial House. It’s a remote location on Ireland's west coast where disgraced priests are put into cold storage. Once we, or rather Conrad, has finished with him here, that is. After Marcinkus realizes he'll be sweeping the floor there for the rest of his life, he might be relieved when the Trust catches up with him."

Conrad looked around at the meeting, his first since Angel had been shot a week before. "I've been out of touch since St Peter's Square? Can somebody give me a quick summary of what's been happening?"

Achillea, Lagertha, Lillith and Naamah exchanged glances. It was agreed by all that direct representatives of the Church should not know the full extent of criminal involvement in the strike against The Trust. Even though it was a truth that all governments worked with criminal organizations when it suited both their interests, the Church in Rome should, or at least considered it should, be held to a different standard. Eventually, Achillea gave the opening. "The gang war is over; the Bratva and the Triads wiped out the Banda Della Magliana but the Commission told them to leave or face an alliance of all three groups and they pulled out. That ended it."

Achillea carefully did not say that the way the assault on the Banda was ended had been agreed in advance as a means by which the prestige and standing of the Commission could be improved. It had been badly affected by the five-year reign of terror orchestrated by the Banda Della Magliana. Another part of the same understanding was that they would reduce the violence of their daily operations to a bare minimum. The demonstration of the tactical superiority of the Russian and Chinese street combat teams had helped make that point. It had driven home to the Mafia, Camorra and 'Ndrangheta just how outdated their methods and traditions were. The same lesson had echoed across Italy and another criminal organization, the Sacra Corona Unita had already applied to join La Provincia, the central organized crime commission. "And, following a string of legal actions, the Church got liens on the assets of the Banco Ambrosiano and the P2 lodge. Also, everybody who has received corrupt loans from Ambrosiano. The Church will have to share the proceeds with other victims of course but there's a lot of money to go around."

Lillith picked up the tale. "After its paid commissions and so on, the Church will get about half its losses back. That's a lot less than we originally estimated but the rest has gone deeper into The Trust. We were going to chase it but that option has been cut off now. As I said, unless the American investigation proves something, our only hope of changing that is if we find something useful in Graziella Corrocher's records, which is superbly ironic because if The Trust hadn't killed her, we would have never known she existed."

Lillith thought about that. The ruthlessness with which The Trust was taking cover told her that the organization was running scared. As well they might. That thought put another issue into Lillith's mind. "When will Angel be back?"

Conrad shook his head. "She was badly hurt and is still very ill. The doctors say she'll be out of action for at least a year, possibly two. Once she's recovered, she'll have to get back into condition. That won't be easy either."

"A year?" Naamah was shaken by how badly Angel had been injured. It had been too easy to imagine her as an invincible gunslinger and the truth was hard to swallow. At last Naamah understood what Angel had meant when she had told them she could be killed very easily and worrying about it was pointless.

"At least." Conrad wasn't going to let Angel rush back into her work before she was fully recovered. He knew Angel would listen to him and trusted his advice. With great power comes great responsibility. "Once she's out of hospital, we'll be going to the new 3rd generation underwater habitat for a few months. She likes being underwater and its peaceful so she can rest."

"How far down is that?" Lillith was interested in the whole undersea habitat program, not least because every now and then it threw up some interesting investment possibilities.

"278 feet. Angel and I are thinking of buying a module down there."

"That won't be cheap." Lillith frowned at the likely numbers. "I wouldn't recommend that as a sound investment. Your condo is one thing; it is already worth three times what you paid for it. I can't see a deep sea module picking up value like that. By the way, you might consider cashing in on that condo right now; property prices in general are a bubble that's likely to pop any time."

"But it's our home." Conrad protested weakly. "It's not as if we're short of money, mostly thanks to you, we're doing well. Also, Angel's in no fit condition to relocate right now. She needs somewhere familiar and comfortable where she can rest."

In the background, Lagertha leaned over to Achillea. "Incredible. After all that, they still haven't worked it out."

Intensive Care Room, Extreme Trauma Unit, Salvatore Mundi International Hospital, Rome.

Angel was relaxing in bed reading an article on the new Beretta CX in Guns and Ammo. It was confusing her slightly because much of the text was familiar to her. It was as if she had read it before somewhere but she knew that was impossible. She had a pencil in her hand and marked a passage she disagreed with. Soon, she would write a letter to the editor, under a false name of course, explaining her reservations. She'd done it before and, to her great delight, some of the letters had actually been published.

Outside, she heard a bang as the Swiss Guards posted there came to attention. A figure came in, one that Angel had a job recognizing. It was Pope John XXIV, but in casual civilian clothes, jeans and a polo shirt, rather than the elaborate formal costume he wore when most people saw him. That change alone made him very difficult to recognize. She realized that one role of the ornate robes he normally wore was to make him invisible when he was wearing normal clothing. That made her wonder how many times he used the ability to move around the City unidentified.

"Hello, Angel. How are you feeling?"

It was the standard start to a conversation in a hospital room, one that Angel didn’t really understand. To her, it was a foolish question since nobody was in a hospital room because they felt really well. Nevertheless, Conrad had taught her some polite replies and she'd built on them. "A lot better, thank you. Pretty sick still and my stomach really hurts. But, I'm alive and that's better than the alternative. Please, sit down. You're making me jealous. I'm not allowed to move yet. The Doc says I can start using a wheelchair next week. Providing there are no problems."

"That's good to know. Conrad says a mass for you every night. I somehow doubt that he told you that. But, I came here tonight to thank you for saving my life. If it hadn't been for you, the best I could hope for is to be where you are now. More likely, I'd be very dead." His Holiness hesitated for a moment. "I never understood how much damage bullets did to people. That poor woman opposite, she has a hole blown in her face the size and shape of a goose's egg. The damage is so bad they can't even give her a glass eye."

"Bullet tumbled though 90 degrees." As a constantly-available expert on bullet wounds, Angel knew quite a bit about the injury Luisella Padovano had suffered. The hospital had consulted with her regularly. What she didn’t know was that Annemarie had asked them to do so as a way of keeping her mind active and occupied. "When it came out through her right eye socket, it was perpendicular to its trajectory and blew a much larger hole than a normal exit wound. She's very lucky to be alive."

"She was praying when she was shot, begging God to allow her to see her children one more time. The killer had made her get on her knees and then torn up her family pictures. When she reached out for the pieces, he shot her. I think God heard her prayers and spared her."

"If he exists, it's more than he ever did for me. It was her hairstyle that saved her though. The hair was teased out so that its volume was a lot larger than her head. That tricked Mason and when he aimed the bullet, the point was off-center."

"What happened to you, Angel?" His Holiness asked the question very gently.

She looked at him and decided he would be the second person she could trust with the whole story. When she had finished, she looked up at him. "All that time I was praying, begging God to make it stop, to get me out of there, to do something to help me. And nothing happened. Nothing. If there was a God, he left me there to suffer. Then his priest told me that everything had been my fault, so I shot him.”

His Holiness thought for a second. "New York, 1980. In those days, a priest being murdered was so rare an event that each case was known and remembered individually. Those days are long gone and every day we get reports of another one or more of our priests being killed. In that case it was Father Xavier. The case made quite a stir because he was one of the priests the Holy Church was better off without. He had already caused the Holy Church quite severe problems and his . . . irregular personal relations . . . made him a scandal waiting to happen. There were those who said the killer had done us a great service. They were severely rebuked of course. But, how do you know that God didn’t answer your prayers?"

"Because I remember every single second of that night. Every. Single. Second." Angel winced, the memories had made her move slightly and that had caused a surge of pain.

"Do you not think that God answered your prayers by giving you the ability to use your guns the way you do? To make sure that never happened to you again? He couldn't do anything to save you, it was too late, but He could protect you in the future. Or, rather, gave you the talent to protect yourself. And, when the time came, to protect Conrad from those who would harm him. I don’t believe you two met by accident. Conrad would have been killed for certain by now if it were not for you. The days when our priests were off-limits to killers have long gone."

"I don’t think they ever existed to be honest." Angel reached out and tapped a Renaissance history book by her bedside. "I've been reading this and I think a lot of "Acts of God" and mysterious illnesses were actually the work of an assassin. This confession thing means a lot of priests must have known too much. I had a thought; your church lost a lot of its money in this business didn’t it?"

"We did, yes. Much more than we thought and it doesn’t look like we'll recover more than half of it."

"Then why don't you set up a partnership with us? My book tells me all about the practice of selling indulgences, why not go back to that? We'll sell the marks everything they need to sin, drink, drugs, compliant partners, and then you sell them the indulgence for sinning. We can even sell them as a package, buy both the girl and the indulgence together, and get a discount. You'll have to pay our employees a commission on each sale though. We insist on the people working for us being treated fairly and with respect. Don't get us wrong, it's because we make more money that way and satisfied staff don't rat."

John XXIV choked back his laughter. "We can't do that. Can we?"

"Think of all the good you can do with the income." Angel spoke with great and completely faked sincerity.

"Angel, you are a very disconcerting person to have around." His Holiness lost the battle to stop laughing. "Please don't stay away from Vatican City for too long. Sometimes I think that we spend too much time looking inwards here and not enough looking out."

"I go where Conrad goes, Popie. I'll tell you something. Please don’t tell Conrad this but when I was out, I had a nightmare that I was in Hell. Not the Christian Hell, the Chinese one. Being tortured for a thousand years. When I was released, the Goddess of Mercy told me that the head of the Christians, I suppose that's you, had begged the Gods to keep Conrad and I together and he was waiting for me. That's when I came around."

His Holiness was shocked. "I did pray for that. You and Conrad are part of each other, so much so that it would be a cruel punishment for you both to take one and leave the other. Somehow . . . Perhaps I spoke aloud without realizing it and you heard me. People who are in comas do hear what goes on around them. That's why Conrad spent all day, every day, reading to you."

Angel glanced at her magazine wondering if that was why the article on the new Beretta had seemed so familiar to her. "If what you suggest is true, I doubt if your God is very pleased with what I do with his gift. I've killed a lot of people over the years, some of them as innocent as Luisella. But, I will admit that I wouldn’t have torn up her pictures and I wouldn't have left her alive to suffer like this. I'd have let her look at her pictures and shot her while she wasn't expecting it. The lights would have just gone out. Quick, clean kill. That's the professional ideal."

"Conrad told me that you weren't cruel or sadistic. Angel, nobody can condone what you have done but remember God's mercy is always there, waiting for you. All you have to do is accept it. And in your own way, you are a peacemaker. The Lord said, 'blessed are the peacemakers'. I don't feel qualified to argue with him on the fine details of that point."

“You know, Popie, what was the worst thing about me growing up? It wasn’t rooting in the garbage for food or clothes; it wasn’t dodging the other street kids who wanted what I had. It was looking at the world around me, seeing everything other people had. I don’t mean just things although they were important too. It was the warmth, the sense that they belonged where they were. They lived in a rose garden and I knew I’d never be allowed into it. I was excluded and always would be. Made me bitter and twisted. Then Conrad came along and suddenly everything was all right. The doors that kept me out of the rose garden just weren’t there any longer. I don’t want to lose him because if I do, then I’ll go back to being the way I was and I won’t be a peacemaker anymore. You’ve heard him talking? We have to make sure he gives those ideas up. Right?”

"Absolutely." His Holiness was suddenly very sincere. "We'll have to work together on that. I think he has experienced a profound shock to his beliefs and we need to make sure he recovers properly. I'll preach to him and you hold a gun to his head. Sound like a plan?"

Angel laughed and then winced again as the burning pain shot through her abdomen. "Oh yes. Popie, normally I don’t relate to people. They're just things that surround me and I use them when I need to or sometimes play with them when I get bored. Conrad is the only person I have ever really liked. Admired and respected a few, sometimes one hell of a lot, but never liked or disliked. They just are. If it means anything, I think I like you as well. Don’t ask me why, I don’t understand these things."

"Failing to understand, Angel?" Conrad was standing by the door. "Sorry to interrupt, Holiness, I didn’t realize you were here."

"Angel and I were discussing philosophy. She said she likes me." Pope John XXIV smiled softly and gently. It hadn't been quite the conversation he had expected but it had pleased him greatly on many different levels. And the truth is I like being dubbed 'Popie' although it will have to remain an unofficial title. "I think that makes me privileged. Now, I must go and see Luisella, she is in great need of spiritual consolation."

"Tell her she needn't worry about her children seeing her. They know all about the damage the bullet did, they've seen pictures of it so they know what to expect and it doesn’t matter to them. They just want her back and to cuddle her. Thank you for coming, Popie."

"You're welcome, gun-chick." Angel and the Pope both laughed at that exchange. He had a mental picture of her as a Cardinal with special responsibility for fund-raising. She was amused by the realization he thought she had been joking.

Conrad watched as His Holiness left to visit Luisella. He reflected on the joking exchange and the obvious friendship that had sprung up between the Pope and Angel. It stirred feelings inside him that he had never felt before and it took him some time to recognize them. When he did, to his shock, he realized that he was jealous and decided he would have to confess that unworthy feeling at the very first opportunity.


Mansion, 50/50 Triq Il-Port, Gozo

The man sitting in the armchair very carefully read the message that had arrived. It had been coded of course and he had laboriously decoded it, letter by letter, using the codebook of the day. As he had revealed the content, it showed him that a drastic reversal of policy had been made. For the first eighty years of its existence, the Trust had concealed its activities with almost religious zeal and restricted itself to exploiting trends and events that were happening anyway. The world wars, the great depression, the Great Influenza, all the other events that had been the foundation of their wealth had occurred without their intervention. Then, 25 years ago, a new generation of leaders had instituted a more active policy, one of shaping events and initiating activities that would, they claim, greatly increase their growth.

It hadn't happened that way. Those same conspiracies and operations had started to generate enhanced income certainly but had also brought down on the Trust the attention of law enforcement and the criminal underworld alike. The Trust had been exposed. Only the foresight of the founders in arranging the structure of the group so that those on the outer rings had little knowledge of who was deeper within the organization had prevented the destruction of the Trust. The financial losses had been staggering and efforts to replace them had brought down further disasters. Like the catastrophe in Vatican City. From being a massively-wealthy and entirely unknown group, the Trust had become a hunted target, rapidly depleting its resources in the effort to avoid detection.

The message he had received told the man in the armchair that policy was going to revert to the older strategy of riding the waves and not trying to influence events. Top priority was to avoid attention and actively shun anything that would expose their existence. Above all, no effort was to be made to do anything that might cause the law enforcement and organized crime communities to redouble their interest in the Trust. If possible, outsiders should be convinced that the Trust had dissolved after its defeats.

The man in the armchair sighed and picked up the file on Angel, his copy of the one that had been supplied to the late John Mason. It was worthless now; any action against her would be counter to the orders he had received and bring the deadly weight of the Triads down on the weakened Trust. He threw the file into the fire and watched it flare up, its ashes joining those of the message he had received. He honestly and sincerely hoped he would never see or hear of her again.

Dr. Toscana's Home, Two months later.

"Welcome home darling. There's a letter for you, airmail from America." Celeste Toscana wiped her hands clean of flour and went to greet her husband. She'd been making pasta for their dinner and it was a messy process.

"From the Arnold Pelletiere Institute in Maryland. I wonder what they want?" He opened the letter and read the proposal within. "Interesting. They are asking me to become a consultant on ricin poisoning. Building on the experience I gained treating Angel. We'll have to go to Fort Dettrick for two weeks, once a year, at their expense and they'll pay us a small monthly retainer. Here, look."

Celeste took the letter and read it carefully. "This is a free two-week holiday in America for me and the children. And the retainer, it isn't much but it'll help with the budget a lot."

Toscana nodded in agreement. Despite Italy's prosperity, hospital doctors in Italy weren't lavishly paid and bringing up their children meant making many sacrifices. The small monthly retainer would mean they could now afford a few things they had given up as beyond their reach. "I think God has smiled on us. We should share some of our good fortune. We must talk to our priest on Sunday and ask him for advice. Perhaps he can recommend a charity we can support?"

Celeste smiled proudly at the way her husband had first thought of sharing their good fortune. That made her think of his two miracle patients, the ones who shouldn't have survived their injuries. "How are Angel and Luisella?"

"Angel is recovering well. Very well. She's still weak but she left hospital today with Conrad and they're probably on their way home by now. Luisella is being transferred to a hospital specializing in reconstructive surgery. The Holy Church has said they will pay for everything she needs including speech therapy. It will be a long time before she goes home. You know her children come in to see her every day after school? They just sit and talk to her while she looks at them and listens. It is inspiring." Toscano paused for a second. “Watching them together reminds me of why I became a doctor.”

Celeste smiled in contentment. She always prayed for her husband's patients, knowing that them doing well was something that made him truly happy. "Now, Bennie, meatballs or sausage with your spaghetti?"