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Authors: Michael Byrnes
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Guards.
"Look at those guys," Conte scoffed. "They're dressed like clowns for fucks sake."
Though the routine garb of the Vatican City's 100-man Swiss Guard battalion was blue coveralls and black berets, it was their official uniform that had earned them the status of "the world's most colorful army"-- a sixteenth-century purple-and-yellow-striped tunic and matching pantaloons with red arm cuffs and white gloves, all topped off with a red felt beret.
Explaining to Conte that the tradition meant something would be fruitless so Donovan remained silent. Up ahead, he watched the guards shuffle in and out of their barracks just inside the gate. There was nothing to fear, but as the van was waved to the gate his heartbeat quickened irrationally.
Conte gently accelerated to cross the threshold into Vatican City. A guard motioned for him to stop, checked the license plates, then paced around to Conte's open window. "Your business here?" he rigidly inquired in Italian.
Conte smirked. "You don't really want to know that," he answered coyly. "Why don't you ask him?" He leaned back and pointed over at the priest.
The guard immediately noticed Father Donovan.
"It's okay, he's with me." Donovan nodded.
"Of course, Father," the young guard replied, suspiciously eyeing Conte again. "Have a good day." Stepping back from the van, he waved them along.
Conte sighed. "What a bunch of buffoons. That kid's not even shaving yet. Even more pathetic than the Israelis."
Donovan cringed at the man's callousness, deeply regretting that Cardinal Antonio Carlo Santelli-- the Segretaria di Stato , or Vatican secretary of state-- had commissioned the ruthless mercenary for such a momentous task. It was whispered that Cardinal Santelli was the reckoning force behind numerous Vatican scandals. But no one in the Curia, including Santelli, seemed to know much about Salvatore Conte, even if that was his real name. Some speculated that he was a retired Italian Secret Service operative.
According to Santelli, the only sure things about Salvatore Conte were his reliability and his mission-specific twenty-four-digit Cayman Islands bank account number. Lord only knew how many of those accounts a man like Conte had, Donovan wondered. Having seen the generous financial enticements that secured the scientist's services, it was obvious that Santelli had spared no expense-- in money or lives-- to ensure this project's success.
The Fiat lurched forward down the paved roadway that ran behind the Apostolic Palace and through a village of low buildings that included a post office, emissary, and television broadcast studio. Following Donovan's directions, Conte continued through a short tunnel that led out onto a narrow driveway that snaked around the towering edifice of the Vatican Museum complex.
Near the service entrance, Conte parked the van, then unloaded the secret cargo onto a compact dolly. The priest escorted him inside to the elevator and down one flight.
Entering the lab, Conte parked the dolly to one side. Father Donovan trailed in as the two scientists made their way over.
"Thanks so much for waiting," Father Donovan said in English. "Dr. Giovanni Bersei, Dr. Charlotte Hennesey"-- he motioned to them, then over to the mercenary-- "this is Salvatore Conte." Anything beyond a name for this killer would be too much, so the priest chose not to elaborate.
Keeping his distance, Conte straightened, hands on hips. His eyes immediately glued to Charlotte, roving up and down her body, trying to assess what lay beneath her draping lab coat. He grinned. "If my doctor looked like you, I'd be sick every week."
Charlotte smiled tightly and diverted her attention to the bulky wooden crate. "So this is it?" she asked Donovan.
Clearly embarrassed by Conte's crassness, the priest said, "Yes. I think it would be best to open the crate now." He turned to Conte expectantly.
"You're a man of God, not a cripple," Conte grumbled. "So give me a hand." He leaned over and
"Look at those guys," Conte scoffed. "They're dressed like clowns for fucks sake."
Though the routine garb of the Vatican City's 100-man Swiss Guard battalion was blue coveralls and black berets, it was their official uniform that had earned them the status of "the world's most colorful army"-- a sixteenth-century purple-and-yellow-striped tunic and matching pantaloons with red arm cuffs and white gloves, all topped off with a red felt beret.
Explaining to Conte that the tradition meant something would be fruitless so Donovan remained silent. Up ahead, he watched the guards shuffle in and out of their barracks just inside the gate. There was nothing to fear, but as the van was waved to the gate his heartbeat quickened irrationally.
Conte gently accelerated to cross the threshold into Vatican City. A guard motioned for him to stop, checked the license plates, then paced around to Conte's open window. "Your business here?" he rigidly inquired in Italian.
Conte smirked. "You don't really want to know that," he answered coyly. "Why don't you ask him?" He leaned back and pointed over at the priest.
The guard immediately noticed Father Donovan.
"It's okay, he's with me." Donovan nodded.
"Of course, Father," the young guard replied, suspiciously eyeing Conte again. "Have a good day." Stepping back from the van, he waved them along.
Conte sighed. "What a bunch of buffoons. That kid's not even shaving yet. Even more pathetic than the Israelis."
Donovan cringed at the man's callousness, deeply regretting that Cardinal Antonio Carlo Santelli-- the Segretaria di Stato , or Vatican secretary of state-- had commissioned the ruthless mercenary for such a momentous task. It was whispered that Cardinal Santelli was the reckoning force behind numerous Vatican scandals. But no one in the Curia, including Santelli, seemed to know much about Salvatore Conte, even if that was his real name. Some speculated that he was a retired Italian Secret Service operative.
According to Santelli, the only sure things about Salvatore Conte were his reliability and his mission-specific twenty-four-digit Cayman Islands bank account number. Lord only knew how many of those accounts a man like Conte had, Donovan wondered. Having seen the generous financial enticements that secured the scientist's services, it was obvious that Santelli had spared no expense-- in money or lives-- to ensure this project's success.
The Fiat lurched forward down the paved roadway that ran behind the Apostolic Palace and through a village of low buildings that included a post office, emissary, and television broadcast studio. Following Donovan's directions, Conte continued through a short tunnel that led out onto a narrow driveway that snaked around the towering edifice of the Vatican Museum complex.
Near the service entrance, Conte parked the van, then unloaded the secret cargo onto a compact dolly. The priest escorted him inside to the elevator and down one flight.
Entering the lab, Conte parked the dolly to one side. Father Donovan trailed in as the two scientists made their way over.
"Thanks so much for waiting," Father Donovan said in English. "Dr. Giovanni Bersei, Dr. Charlotte Hennesey"-- he motioned to them, then over to the mercenary-- "this is Salvatore Conte." Anything beyond a name for this killer would be too much, so the priest chose not to elaborate.
Keeping his distance, Conte straightened, hands on hips. His eyes immediately glued to Charlotte, roving up and down her body, trying to assess what lay beneath her draping lab coat. He grinned. "If my doctor looked like you, I'd be sick every week."
Charlotte smiled tightly and diverted her attention to the bulky wooden crate. "So this is it?" she asked Donovan.
Clearly embarrassed by Conte's crassness, the priest said, "Yes. I think it would be best to open the crate now." He turned to Conte expectantly.
"You're a man of God, not a cripple," Conte grumbled. "So give me a hand." He leaned over and
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