world was part of it, then so be it.
"I'll take it from here," Conte huffed, urging the handler to the side with the wave of a hand. The mercenary stepped behind the hand truck and raised the load, his thick, corded arm muscles flexing.
Conte was still irritable from the return trip. If getting the secret cargo out of Jerusalem had been a harrowing experience, the two-day crossing of the Mediterranean in rough seas hadn't been much better. Seasickness and a confrontation with team member Doug Wilkinson-- those were the high points. After some heavy drinking, the young twat had dragged Conte out to the aft deck for a "friendly" discussion regarding the bullet he took to his right arm. " It's my good arm for Christ's sake, " Wilkinson protested. " Now I'm going to have a fucking infection. You should be paying me triple for this. It's only right," he'd insisted in a slurred growl. That was right before Conte coldcocked him and pushed him over the deck rail into the Adriatic. Shark bait.
Yes, after all that nonsense, Conte wasn't about to risk having some pimply faced station porter dropping the damn cargo now.
Wheeling the crate off the curb and to the rear of the Fiat, Conte motioned for Donovan to help him lift it into the van. Stowed securely inside, Conte slammed the doors and returned the hand truck to the porter. No tip.
In the meantime, Donovan had made his way into the driver's seat and started the engine, but Conte was having none of it. Sighing, he paced over to the driver's side window and motioned Donovan out of the van.
Confused, the cleric hopped out onto the roadway.
"When I'm here, you're over there," the Italian said gruffly, pointing to the passenger seat. "Get moving."
* * *
Weaving through Rome and heading south on Lungot Marzio, the van hugged along the riverbank of the sparkling Tiber. Donovan gazed out the window trying to calm himself, his thoughts tortured by the box in the rear compartment, hoping, praying that its contents were indeed genuine. Only the scientists whose services he had convinced the Holy See to commission could inevitably make that determination.
For the past three days, the priest had been closely monitoring news reports flooding out from Jerusalem. Every time he heard the death toll, a wave of nausea swept over him and he prayed to God for forgiveness in allowing such a thing to happen. But having lobbied for a more diplomatic way to extract the relic, he was once again swept aside. The political maneuvering he had witnessed in his twelve-year tenure at Vatican City would have made even Machiavelli gasp.
Fifteen minutes from Termini and Conte had yet to make small talk. Certainly not a man concerned about first impressions, Donovan thought, glancing over at the brooding mercenary. He directed his attention back outside.
Rising like a mountain on the Tiber's western bank, Donovan's eyes reached out to the brilliant white cupola of St. Peter's Basilica-- the heart of Vatican City-- a beacon that could be seen from all over Rome. In 1929, the Vatican's governing body, The Holy See, had been granted full property rights and exclusive sovereignty by Italy's fascist dictator Benito Mussolini, thus making this place the world's smallest independent nation-- a country within a country. Amazing, Donovan thought. Here the supreme Catholic monarch, the Pope, and his trusted advisors, the College of Cardinals, managed worldwide operations for over one billion Catholics and diplomatic relations with almost two hundred countries around the globe.
Crossing Ponte Umberto I, Conte angled his way around the massive ramparts of the Castel Sant' Angelo riverfront citadel.
Heading down Borgo Pio, the Fiat approached the Sant' Anna Gate-- one of only two secure vehicle entrances through the continuous fifteen-meter high wall that formed a tight three-kilometer perimeter around the Vatican City's 109-acre complex. The van stopped behind a short queue of cars awaiting clearance from the Swiss
"I'll take it from here," Conte huffed, urging the handler to the side with the wave of a hand. The mercenary stepped behind the hand truck and raised the load, his thick, corded arm muscles flexing.
Conte was still irritable from the return trip. If getting the secret cargo out of Jerusalem had been a harrowing experience, the two-day crossing of the Mediterranean in rough seas hadn't been much better. Seasickness and a confrontation with team member Doug Wilkinson-- those were the high points. After some heavy drinking, the young twat had dragged Conte out to the aft deck for a "friendly" discussion regarding the bullet he took to his right arm. " It's my good arm for Christ's sake, " Wilkinson protested. " Now I'm going to have a fucking infection. You should be paying me triple for this. It's only right," he'd insisted in a slurred growl. That was right before Conte coldcocked him and pushed him over the deck rail into the Adriatic. Shark bait.
Yes, after all that nonsense, Conte wasn't about to risk having some pimply faced station porter dropping the damn cargo now.
Wheeling the crate off the curb and to the rear of the Fiat, Conte motioned for Donovan to help him lift it into the van. Stowed securely inside, Conte slammed the doors and returned the hand truck to the porter. No tip.
In the meantime, Donovan had made his way into the driver's seat and started the engine, but Conte was having none of it. Sighing, he paced over to the driver's side window and motioned Donovan out of the van.
Confused, the cleric hopped out onto the roadway.
"When I'm here, you're over there," the Italian said gruffly, pointing to the passenger seat. "Get moving."
* * *
Weaving through Rome and heading south on Lungot Marzio, the van hugged along the riverbank of the sparkling Tiber. Donovan gazed out the window trying to calm himself, his thoughts tortured by the box in the rear compartment, hoping, praying that its contents were indeed genuine. Only the scientists whose services he had convinced the Holy See to commission could inevitably make that determination.
For the past three days, the priest had been closely monitoring news reports flooding out from Jerusalem. Every time he heard the death toll, a wave of nausea swept over him and he prayed to God for forgiveness in allowing such a thing to happen. But having lobbied for a more diplomatic way to extract the relic, he was once again swept aside. The political maneuvering he had witnessed in his twelve-year tenure at Vatican City would have made even Machiavelli gasp.
Fifteen minutes from Termini and Conte had yet to make small talk. Certainly not a man concerned about first impressions, Donovan thought, glancing over at the brooding mercenary. He directed his attention back outside.
Rising like a mountain on the Tiber's western bank, Donovan's eyes reached out to the brilliant white cupola of St. Peter's Basilica-- the heart of Vatican City-- a beacon that could be seen from all over Rome. In 1929, the Vatican's governing body, The Holy See, had been granted full property rights and exclusive sovereignty by Italy's fascist dictator Benito Mussolini, thus making this place the world's smallest independent nation-- a country within a country. Amazing, Donovan thought. Here the supreme Catholic monarch, the Pope, and his trusted advisors, the College of Cardinals, managed worldwide operations for over one billion Catholics and diplomatic relations with almost two hundred countries around the globe.
Crossing Ponte Umberto I, Conte angled his way around the massive ramparts of the Castel Sant' Angelo riverfront citadel.
Heading down Borgo Pio, the Fiat approached the Sant' Anna Gate-- one of only two secure vehicle entrances through the continuous fifteen-meter high wall that formed a tight three-kilometer perimeter around the Vatican City's 109-acre complex. The van stopped behind a short queue of cars awaiting clearance from the Swiss
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