Page 39 of Skotos (Of Shadows & Secrets #6)

Will

W e stepped into a square chamber—tiny, stark, and, unlike the rest of the opulent palace of Catholicism, utterly devoid of decoration. There were no frescoes, no golden saints, just cold white walls—and a simple desk behind which a priest sat blinking up at us.

The clerk, not the timid, distracted sort we’d passed on other floors, was all sharp edges—a square jaw, rigid spine, and buzzed blond hair graying only at the temples.

Beady eyes that likely never missed a detail fixed on us as we entered, but the man neither flinched nor blinked.

Had it not been for his spotless cassock, he would’ve looked more like a soldier than a secretary.

Two Swiss Guards flanked the double doors at the far end of the room, their halberds gleaming, posture immaculate.

Unlike the men stationed at the entrances to the palace, these men were built like statues—but not those of the meek martyrs, more like Spartans prepared to rip an enemy’s arm off using only their ab muscles, if such a thing were possible.

These were the types of soldiers who could choke out a man with one arm while holding scripture with the other.

Their eyes were bright and alert, their expressions entirely unreadable.

Even their armor looked heavier than those outside, somehow made of sterner stuff, as though tanks might burst through the outer doors and only their breastplates could stop them.

Rinaldi didn’t acknowledge the clerk. He didn’t even slow at the desk.

He walked straight through the room as though the doors nestled between the two colorfully adorned monsters were already open.

The guards snapped to attention, the clicking of their heels echoing throughout the chamber.

Without so much as a gesture, the men extended a hand and gripped the double doors’ handles in perfect unison, then pulled open the doors in a fluid motion.

Rinaldi blew past without a word or nod.

Yet another set of double doors stood at the end of a short hallway as equally bare as the chamber through which we’d just passed.

Only a single, uncovered light bulb dangled from a cord above.

Rinaldi produced his key again and unlocked the second set of doors, pausing and turning back.

Thomas nearly blundered into me as I suddenly stopped walking .

“You are about to enter a place few have ever seen. This is one of the secure rooms within the Vatican where one may speak freely, both in person and on the telephone. If I read your expressions correctly, what you have to say should be also shared with your superiors in Washington, yes?”

“The telephone in your office isn’t secure?” Thomas asked.

Rinaldi’s expression filled with something. Sadness? Disappointment? I couldn’t quite tell.

“My telephone line is secure, yes, but I fear my office may be infested, if you understand my meaning. Given everything at stake, I would prefer we took no unnecessary chances.”

“We understand perfectly.” Thomas shot me a quick glance and then faced the Monsignor. “We need to brief our people before we do anything else.”

Rinaldi smiled faintly, as though he expected as much. “Of course,” he said, pushing the doors open and motioning us into the room while he remained on the other side of the double doors. “When your big bird sees fit, I will join you.”

Big bird? Did every nation, even the Vatican, know of our avian code names? Jesus.

Thomas gave Rinaldi a tight nod, then led us into the room.

Like the outer chamber with the guards and clerk, this inner space was only large enough to hold a round table with four chairs.

At the center of the tabletop was a telephone and a placard on which was printed the crossed keys of the Pope and the words, “Secure Line” in English, Italian, and Latin.

Monsignor Rinaldi gestured to the phone and said, “I will be in the room with the guards should you need me.”

Before either of us could thank him, Rinaldi slipped out and the door clicked shut. Thomas and I scanned the room, my gaze returning to the telephone and its odd plaque.

“We pass through two locks, two guards, and a clerk, and someone felt the need to label the telephone as secure?” I said, unable to resist a jab at our celestial hosts.

Thomas grinned. “The Vatican is most . . . orderly. Everything has a place and, apparently, a name tag.”

I snorted. “Let’s get this over with. I doubt our friendly neighborhood Monsignor wants to wait in that room any longer than necessary.”

The glint in Thomas’s eyes was positively mischievous. “If this wasn’t a life-or-death situation, I’d say we play this as long as we can, make the man sweat through those pretty robes of his.”

I had a sharp retort, something about not wanting to see a priest’s sweaty robes, but Thomas flopped down at the table and snatched up the phone before I could speak. Within minutes, the switchboard had rerouted the call and a familiar voice rumbled through the receiver.

“Manakin. Go.”

Efficient as ever, I had to give that to the man.

“Condor and Emu. We’re in the Vatican on a secure line.”

“Stop. How do you know it’s secure,” Manakin asked.

“We don’t. Monsignor Rinaldi led us to a room guarded by two of the Pope’s finest and mother-henned by a priest who looks like he beats children for fun, maybe eats them afterward. If this isn’t a secure facility, I don’t think one exists in the Vatican.”

“That’s not good enough,” Manakin snapped. “Assume this line is open. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Thomas said, his brows furrowing as he looked up at me. “Will is getting Rinaldi now. Anything we need to discuss before he comes in?”

“Don’t bring him in yet. I want to hear what you have to report before we choose to share it,” Manakin said.

“Jesus,” I whispered. “He’s not playing games.”

Thomas shook his head.

Manakin’s voice crackled through the phone. “There’s no room for games. Now, report.”

“So much for pleasantries,” I muttered.

Thomas sucked in a breath, then started with our visit to the archivist, detailing his information regarding the spear and its symbolism.

He then walked Manakin through our visit to Marini’s mother at her nursing home.

He continued speaking, uninterrupted, until he finished recounting his fight with the priest in the chapel, our search of the ruin, and our subsequent return to find watchers and bugs at our hotel.

Manakin remained silent. I doubted he knew how to flinch or blink. Nothing fazed that man. “A cardinal’s cassock? Are you sure?” Manakin asked after a moment.

“Does any other priest wear crimson?” Thomas asked.

“That’s a question for Rinaldi, but I don’t think so. They have a thing about their symbols, and red is the cardinals’ color.”

“It could have been a fake, a costume for a pretender to wear,” I offered, somehow compelled to soothe the man’s frayed nerves. “But . . . it looked real.”

Then Thomas looked to me. “Tell him what the note says.”

The note, of course. Thomas had been so invested in recounting our past few days that I’d nearly forgotten the paper in my pocket. I pulled out the parchment and unfolded it. In a slow, clear voice, I read, “George VI and Pius XII.”

“The Pope is a target?” Manakin breathed, his first hint of emotion .

I nodded. “And the king of England.”

“Was there anything else? Were those the only names?” Manakin asked.

I held the note and turned it over, checking for the hundredth time for some hidden message. “No, but it looks like this was torn from a larger page. I think there’s the end of a few other names, though I can’t tell who with only fragments of letters. We should inform the Swiss Guard.”

“Wait.” Manakin’s voice was a whip-crack through the phone. “Before we alert anyone, we need to think this through. The Pope is under constant surveillance and protection, as is the king. Unless there are bad actors on the inside, they are safe within their respective palaces.”

“There may be players inside the Vatican. The robe? The chapel? All the religious symbols on the wall in the cave below the ruins?” Thomas asked.

“There are what, seventy cardinals, most of whom work here in Rome? Any one of them could be part of this plot—or its leader, for all we know. They can probably get close to the Pope anytime they want to.”

“How close are the cardinals to the Pope? How easy is their access to him?” I asked.

“Ask Rinaldi,” Manakin said. “But from what I understand, they would likely have unfettered access.”

“Then we definitely need to alert the Swiss Guard,” I repeated .

“No,” Manakin said, his voice now distant, thoughtful. “I will handle London. The king will be fine. You two need to find these killers and stop them before they murder the Pope.”

“Wait,” I said, standing to pace the tiny room. “Are you instructing us to use the head of the Catholic Church as bait for an assassination ring?”

Manakin huffed into the phone. “Don’t be dramatic, Emu. If you alert the palace, the killers will know. They’re inside the building, for fuck’s sake. They’ll go to ground and we won’t hear from them again until the next world leader lies in his own blood.”

“But not telling the Pope—”

“Is the smart thing to do,” Manakin’s voice was iron.

“You two are our best shot at taking this group down. You have a suspect list of no more than seventy people, assuming a cardinal is involved. Our people picked up chatter using what we thought was a code name of ‘cardinal.’ We never thought he might actually be one of the Pope’s inner circle. ”

“Great. Any more intel you haven’t shared that might be helpful?” I asked with more heat than intended.

Manakin didn’t snap back. “You know everything I do at this point. If you need to coordinate, go to the embassy. Don’t trust the Vatican, not even Rinaldi.”

“Do you think Rinaldi—” Thomas began.

“No,” Manakin cut him off. “We have no evidence of Rinaldi being turned, but we also have no clue who the insiders are. You must assume there is more than one conspirator inside the Vatican. One person could never pull off the killings this group accomplished.”

Thomas looked to me. For once, I was speechless, so I sat back down and shrugged.

“What now?” Thomas asked, sounding as doubtful and flummoxed as I felt.

“Find that damn cardinal and whoever he’s working with. Until you do, there isn’t a leader in Europe who will sleep well—and neither should you two.”

“Thanks, I think,” Thomas said.

I stood and stepped around the table to lean over Thomas. He held the phone up.

“Are we forgetting the Soviet angle? We seem to be focusing only on an inside job in the Vatican despite evidence the Russians might be behind this whole thing.”

“It’s not them. Your evidence is circumstantial, at best,” Manakin said.

“The Soviet angle was weak to begin with. Stalin may be a brutal, authoritarian thug, but he isn’t stupid.

Killing world leaders isn’t his style, at least not like this.

Focus on the Church. Pull every string, whatever it takes. ”

“Yes, sir,” I said, not liking to rule out paths we’d yet to fully walk, but he was the boss.

“Now, get to work,” Manakin said. “And, boys . . . ”

“Yes, sir?”

“Be careful. Try not to get shot or stabbed again.”

Thomas made to protest, but Manakin had already hung up.