The Second Messiah

Ryan patted his left side and felt a gentle bulge. He pulled back his jacket.

He wore a snug, inside-the-pants Galco leather holster, in suitable clerical black. It neatly concealed the subcompact Glock 27, .40 caliber he always carried. He removed it from the holster. An ultrareliable weapon, the black Glock semiautomatic pistol had been altered to his own requirements: Ryan had added titanium night sights for low-light conditions, an extender magazine, and a Pearce Grip to accommodate his bulky hands and to give him a couple of extra rounds. He also had a spare clip in a leather magazine holder he carried in his pocket.

He saw no contradiction in being a priest and carrying a loaded weapon. The gun was to help defend the pope’s life. Ryan had always been a keen shot but he abhorred killing, and had never once shot an animal, not even a gutter rat.

Still, he could punch a tight group into the center of a standard silhouette target at twenty-five yards, which was impressive enough. And the Glock’s .40-caliber round packed a massive punch, could do almost as much damage as a .45. He tucked the Glock back in the holster.

Many of Ryan’s security officers were former Italian police detectives and carabinieri, others were security professionals specially hired for the job, but all were dedicated professionals whose task it was to protect the pope and the Vatican, and safeguard its many priceless works of art and religious artifacts.

Ryan had gone over his security arrangements in detail with Cassini, and the head of the Curia seemed more than happy. He felt certain that Cassini was simply trying to reassure himself that everything was in order.

Ryan turned back to his desk, sat down, and studied the Nut File, so called because it contained details on every crazy and deranged person who had threatened to kill or harm the various popes over the last forty years. There were hundreds of letters, mostly anonymous, but a few were signed. Some threats were blatant, promising certain death, others more veiled, the mad, dangerous intent hidden between the lines, and quite a few came from oddball religious groups and sects throughout the world in whose warped minds the pontiff was marked for assassination.

All the letter writers’ identities that could be traced and verified were recorded, along with reports from the relevant country’s police and intelligence authorities who had copies passed on to them for investigation—the Security Office liaised with most of the Western intelligence organizations—but Ryan’s office kept the originals.

Ryan read through the files again. They came from America, Europe, Asia, and the Middle and Far East. Most of the writers were quite obviously mad. It was amazing to think that anyone would want to kill a pontiff, but there you had it.

Ten minutes later, Ryan had just finished reading when there was a knock on his door and his secretary returned, looking worried. “Monsignor, I’ve just phoned the papal office to confirm your appointment at three P.M.”

“Good man, Guido.” Ryan had a raft of security issues he wanted to thrash out with his new boss.

“I’m afraid the Holy Father decided to cancel your meeting at the last minute and gave no reason. Now it seems there’s a major security problem.”

Ryan jumped to his feet, alarmed. “Explain.”

“The appointments secretary tells me the Holy Father isn’t in his rooms. He’s searched the entire building and phoned all the Vatican offices but he’s nowhere to be found. I’ve never heard the secretary so distressed.”

“What are you saying? Out with it, Guido.”

“It appears Pope Celestine has vanished.”

24

VATICAN

At that same moment, less than two hundred yards away, a man dressed in a simple white gown stepped into the cool vaults of the Sistine Chapel.

There were no throngs of tourists admiring Michelangelo’s ceiling or Botticelli’s angels, for the Sistine was closed to pilgrims that morning. Just inside the chapel doors a young attendant was putting the finishing touches to an array of fresh flowers on the altar. When he looked round he saw a tall, imposing figure with the hood of his gown up, his face half covered.

The attendant frowned. “I’m sorry, but the chapel is out of bounds right now.”

The man in the habit pulled back his hood and smiled. It was a smile of great warmth and charm, a smile that could melt the coldest heart. “I thought the chapel might be empty. My apologies.”

The attendant flushed with embarrassment. “H—Holy Father. Please forgive me. I didn’t recognize you.”

The pope said gently, “It is I who should be forgiven, my son. I had thought I might visit the chapel. But I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed your work.”

“No, of course not. The chapel was merely out of bounds while I tidied the altar. Please stay, Holy Father.”

The pope nodded. “I wanted some time alone to say some prayers. Half an hour, no more. Would that be okay?”

“Of course. A great pleasure, Holy Father.”