Page 54 of Skotos (Of Shadows & Secrets #6)

Will

A week had passed since Cardinal Severan vanished from the Vatican infirmary. We had nothing to show for our investigation but frustration and dead ends. Nothing. Not a goddamn thing.

I sat across from Thomas in the sterile briefing room of the US Embassy, watching him flip through yet another stack of reports that all said the same thing:

“Subject not located. Cold trail. Investigation ongoing.”

Fluorescent lights hummed overhead with the kind of persistent drone that made my teeth ache.

The windowless basement room smelled of stale cigarettes and bureaucratic defeat.

Coffee rings stained the table between us, evidence of too many long nights spent chasing ghosts through the labyrinth of Roman intelligence networks.

Thomas reached for his coffee cup. There was no wince, no favoring of his injured shoulder, no subtle pause before lifting his arm. Either the man had healed with supernatural speed—which was impossible—or he was doing what Thomas always did: gritting his teeth and pretending he wasn’t hurt.

I grabbed the telephone and dragged it to my side of the table, then dialed the number I would take to my grave.

A voice growled after two rings, “Manakin.”

“Condor and Emu.”

“Anything?” he asked without greeting or preamble. There was a time when small talk was his purview, but juggling one international crisis after another had worn down his social skills—or maybe his desire for human interaction altogether. Either way, I couldn’t really blame him. The world sucked.

I held out the phone for Thomas. He grasped it and let his shoulders settle into a slump of exhaustion.

“Same as yesterday.” He tossed the papers in his other hand down.

“The chapel’s underground chamber has been cleaned out completely.

There’s not so much as a scrap of paper left behind.

Somebody was thorough—professional-level thorough. ”

I rubbed my eyes, feeling the grit of too little sleep and too much coffee.

Manakin asked, “What about Severan’s quarters? His family estate? Other private apartments no one knows about?”

“Empty—and I don’t mean empty like someone packed in a hurry.

I mean empty like the room was sanitized by a hazmat team.

” Thomas leaned back in his chair. “There were no personal effects, no correspondence, no books, no prayer journals, nothing that might give us a clue about where he’s gone or who he’s been working with. ”

“The Vatican’s own people searched?” Manakin asked.

“Swiss Guard conducted the initial sweep within hours of Severan’s disappearance.

Vatican Security brought in specialists the next day, the kind of people who know how to find hidden compartments and secret panels.

They even had Italian forensics experts examine the walls for traces of removed materials or biological contaminants. ”

“Eww,” I said, unable to keep my mouth shut.

Thomas chuckled and then shook his head. “It’s like Cardinal Niccolo Severan never existed. Whoever cleaned up after him knew exactly what they were doing. They likely cleaned everything out in the days before the assassination attempt.”

I stood and began pacing, my shoes squeaking against the polished linoleum.

Seven days of searching, seven days of pulling every string we had, seven days of coordinating with Vatican resources that should have been able to track down a wounded cardinal in a city where the Church had eyes on every corner.

Manakin pressed, “What about his contacts? Other cardinals he was close to? ”

“Like the Pope?” Thomas said, his words dripping with sarcasm.

“We interviewed twelve members of the College of Cardinals who had regular contact with Severan. All claimed they knew nothing about his unauthorized travels or any suspicious activities.” Thomas sifted through his stack of folders until he found the one he sought.

“Monsignor Rinaldi personally vouched for most of them. He said they were genuinely shocked by the revelation of Severan’s involvement. ”

“And you trust Rinaldi? Believe him?” Manakin asked.

Well, shit.

That was a question neither of us had asked. We’d worked so closely with the man from the day we’d arrived in Rome that his betrayal had never fully crossed our minds. Thomas and I exchanged a look, then he said, “Yeah, we trust him. So does the Pope.”

“Fine,” Manakin said, sounding unconvinced. “Financial records?”

“We weren’t allowed to view those, but Rinaldi said the Vatican Treasury went back five years. All expenditures appeared properly documented and accounted for. If Severan was funding Order activities, he wasn’t using Church money to do it.”

“What about personal finances? I know those men are supposed to be poor or whatever, but they’re still men. Church history is rife with the misdeeds of its leaders, most of which involved extortion or outright theft of Church funds.”

“There’s some family wealth. It’s modest by cardinal standards but enough to support a comfortable lifestyle.

We couldn’t find any unusual withdrawals or suspicious transactions, but the accounting nerds at the Vatican are still looking over his books.

” Thomas flipped through more papers. “That doesn’t mean much if he was dealing in cash or using intermediaries. ”

I stopped pacing and turned back to him. “What about the travel records? His unauthorized trips?”

“That’s where it gets interesting.” Thomas pulled out a map of Europe with red pins marking various locations. “We confirmed at least six trips over the past two years where Severan left Rome without official Church business. Florence, Naples, Milan, Venice, even one to Geneva.”

“All in Italy except Geneva?” Manakin asked.

“Right. And here’s the thing, we found hotel records for most of these trips, but in every case, he checked in under false names. Father Antonio Benedetti, Father Marco Rossi, or Father Giuseppe Torriani.”

“Common names?” Manakin asked.

“Extremely common. They’re the kind of aliases someone would use if they wanted to blend in completely.

Think ‘Smith’ or ‘Jones’ back home.” Thomas set down the papers and rubbed his face.

“ The Italian police checked with the hotels, but none of the staff remembered anything unusual about him. He kept to himself, paid in cash, tipped well, left early.”

Manakin was quiet a moment before asking, “You think those trips were meeting locations? Order gatherings?”

“We cross-referenced his travel dates with known religious sites, political events, anything that might indicate why he was in those cities. We found nothing. There were no corresponding conferences, no ceremonies, no obvious reasons for a cardinal to visit.”

I felt the familiar knot of frustration tightening in my chest. “So he was meeting with people, but we don’t know who.”

“Or he was conducting surveillance, or planning operations, or any number of things we can’t prove.” Thomas gestured at the scattered reports. “Hell, for all we know, he might’ve just wanted a different flavor of sauce on his pasta. The man covered his tracks like an intelligence operative.”

“What about the Order’s recruitment methods?” Manakin ignored Thomas’s sauce jibe. “How do you find religious fanatics willing to commit murder?”

“Vatican historians went through their archives looking for any mention of the Order of Saint Longinus or similar groups. They found the references we already knew about—medieval records, papal condemnations from centuries ago—but nothing recent.” Thomas paused. “Although . . .”

“What?” Manakin snapped, his patience wearing thin.

“There have been reports over the past few years of unusual activity at various religious sites across Europe.”

“What kind of activities?” I could almost hear Manakin leaning forward on his elbows.

“Unauthorized gatherings, strange rituals, clergy behaving oddly, that sort of thing.”

“Define oddly,” Manakin ordered.

Thomas drew in a breath and looked my way.

Manakin had been our handler for years. Hell, the man recruited us; and still, neither of us were used to his interrogations, certainly not when the lives of world leaders hung in the balance.

Manakin could make the most cold-blooded operative piddle his pants with little more than a glare.

“Priests disappearing for days without explanation,” Thomas finally said.

“Monks found in possession of non-religious materials such as maps, weapons, political pamphlets. Seminary students asking unusual questions about Church history and papal authority.” Thomas pulled out yet another folder.

“Most of it was dismissed as isolated incidents, but when you put it all together . . .”

“It starts to look like a recruitment pattern,” I said .

“Exactly.” Thomas nodded. “Someone’s been identifying and cultivating religious extremists for years, maybe decades.”

The scope was staggering. This wasn’t just a disgruntled cardinal and a few fanatics, but a systematic infiltration of the Church at multiple levels.

“And our only solid lead is still Naples,” I said.

Thomas nodded and flipped to a different section of his folder. “A dockworker claims he saw a priest with his arm in a sling boarding a freighter bound for Argentina. He said the man paid in cash, spoke little, and looked like he was in pain.”

“You believe the witness?” Manakin asked.

“Italian police interviewed him three times, and his story stayed consistent. He had no reason to lie. Plus, he provided details about the priest’s appearance that match Severan.”

“When was this?” Manakin probed.

“Two days after the shooting. The ship’s manifest shows a passenger listed as ‘Father Antonio Rossi.’ That’s clearly fake, and the description the dock worker gave matches Severan’s build and coloring.”

Annoyance joined urgency in Manakin’s voice. “Anything else? You know I want every detail.”