Brotherhood of the Tomb (40 page)

a straight line for where the door ought to be.

Something caught Francesca’s foot. She pitched forward, pulling Patrick with her, rolling as she fell. She had fallen across the body of the man she had shot.

Patrick felt his lungs fill with smoke. His skin felt as though it were about to catch fire. He pulled Francesca to her knees, urging her forward to the door. A wave of smoke billowed into his mouth and eyes, choking and blinding him. Where in Christ’s name was the door?!

With an effort they moved forward again, keeping as low as possible to find what little air lay trapped beneath the roiling smoke. Patrick knew they could have no more than seconds before they succumbed. Seconds, and the door as good as miles away, out of sight, out of reach in the blinding darkness.

Suddenly, they were there. Whoever had set the room on fire had closed the door behind him. It was a mass of flame. Patrick raised his foot and kicked hard, splintering the frame. The door caved in and fell outwards into the passage.

Behind them, the room erupted with incredible ferocity as the glass in the windows exploded, letting a rush of oxygen inside.

The passage was an inferno. Its walls were wood panelling, not plaster, and all down its length flames tore like beasts at one another, leaping and snarling.

No time to hesitate. No choice. Just the flames and a last dash for life. ‘Run!’ he gasped. They staggered out into hell. Their clothing caught fire, they were ablaze, blind fish swimming in agony through a sea of flame.

The front door had been left open. That was the source of the oxygen feeding the flames. They staggered through, out to the landing, their arms flailing

wildly to extinguish the flames. Patrick fell to the floor, coughing, sucking air into his lungs. Francesca dropped beside him, retching, gasping for breath.

Patrick rolled towards the banister. They had to get away from the apartment before the flames spread further. With an effort, he pulled himself to his knees. He opened his eyes. Less than a yard away, a man was standing, feet apart, staring straight down at him.

FIFTY-FOUR

At first he thought he was in the hospital in Venice again. The same sounds, the same colours, a face bending over him. And then he saw the bandages. The fire had been neither a dream nor an hallucination.

‘Where am I?’ he pleaded.

‘San Giovanni,’ a voice said. A woman’s voice. ‘L’Ospedale San Giovanni. Next to San Giovanni in Laterano. You’re in the emergency department. You were brought here several hours ago after a fire. Please don’t worry, you aren’t badly hurt. Just some burns. They say it’s a miracle you escaped.’

‘Francesca ...’ He tried to get up, but a firm hand pressed him back onto the bed.

‘It’s all right. A woman was brought in with you. She’ll be fine. Don’t worry about a thing. Try to get some sleep.’

‘What time is it?’

‘Don’t you worry about the time. Sleep, that’s what you need.’

‘No, you don’t understand. It’s important. Please, what time is it?’

‘It’s half-past seven.’

‘Morning? Is it morning?’

‘Of course. I told you you were brought here only a few hours ago.’

Where is she? Francesca ... the woman they brought in with me?’

‘You’ll see her later. Lunchtime. You can see her at lunchtime.’

‘No, that’ll be too late!’ He pushed himself up again. He could see clearly now. He was in a cur-

tained cubicle on a bed surrounded by drip stands and other pieces of emergency equipment. The nurse was on his left, a woman of about forty. She reached out and forced him down again.

‘Try not to excite yourself. Your wife is in the next cubicle. You’ll both be transferred to a ward later this morning, when the day porters come on duty.’

He lay back exhausted. Above him, bright lights stabbed his eyes. Two and a half hours. He had to know what was happening.

‘Please,’ he said. ‘I have to make a telephone call. It’s extremely important’

The nurse hesitated then nodded.

‘All right. I’ll have someone bring a wheelchair.’

‘My legs ... ?’

‘There’s nothing wrong with your legs. I just don’t want you on your feet tiring yourself. Wait here.’

He had to speak with O’Malley. The priest had planned to stay at the Vatican until he was sure everything was safe. He would have tried ringing again last night, but without an answer. Why hadn’t he gone to the apartment? Surely someone there would have sent him on to the hospital. And what about Roberto? He had not even reported back. Patrick felt fear grip him like a cold hand.

An orderly came with a wheelchair and helped Patrick into it.

‘Can you take me into the next cubicle, please. My ... wife is there. I need to speak to her.’

‘I’m sorry, I was told to take you to the telephone.’

‘Dammit, I can’t make this call without a number. She knows it. I’ve got to speak to her.’

‘Only if she’s awake.’

The orderly pulled the curtain of Francesca’s cubicle back a few inches. She was propped up in bed, her eyes open.

‘All right, you can go in. But only a moment, mind, or I’ll be in trouble.’

‘Patrick!’ She pulled herself up.

He took her hand and squeezed it, making her flinch.

‘I’m sorry, Patrick, it got burned a little. Still hurts.’

‘Sorry.’

‘What are you doing in a wheelchair? You aren’t... ?’

‘No, I could walk if I wanted. Hospital regulations. Listen, Francesca, it’s half past seven. If Dermot hasn’t succeeded in persuading this cardinal about the plot, it’ll be too late to stop it.’

‘I’ve been thinking about that too. I only woke up half an hour ago. They told me you were still sleeping, that you shouldn’t be disturbed. Dermot should have been sent here. Or Roberto. I’m worried, Patrick. I think something’s happened.’

‘I want to telephone the Vatican, speak to the man they went to see. The cardinal. What was his name?’

She thought for a moment.

‘He’s an American. That’s why Dermot trusts him. His name is Fischer, Cardinal Fischer.’

‘Does he spell that the English way or...’ Patrick gripped the edge of the chair.

What’s wrong, Patrick? Is there ... ?’

‘O Jesus. We didn’t tell O’Malley. The Fisherman. Assefa won’t have realized, English isn’t his native language.’

She took his hand, disregarding the pain.

“What is it, Patrick? What’s the matter?’

He told her. She shut her eyes, closing out the pain.

We can’t be sure. Perhaps it’s a coincidence.’

He shook his head.

‘We can’t take that risk. What about Roberto?

If O’Malley hasn’t rung, they’ll be opening those letters now. Can we reach Roberto? His apartment? His office? Do you have the numbers?’

She recited them from memory.

He called the orderly and had him wheel him into the corridor, where the public telephones were situated. The orderly found him a handful of gettoni and left him alone while he called.

There was no reply from Roberto’s apartment. He tried his office number. Just as he was about to give up there as well, a man’s voice answered.

‘Pronto.’

‘Pronto. I’d like to speak to Roberto Quadri, please.’

‘Who is this?’

‘A friend. It’s urgent I speak to him. Do you know where he is?’

‘I’m sorry, Signor Quadri was killed last night. A car crash on the Via del Corso. I’m very sorry. He was taken to the San Giovanni hospital. I’m sure they can give you more details there.’

Patrick put the phone down. He sat staring at the receiver for a moment, then stood up. The orderly rushed over.

‘Signore, I don’t think ...’

Patrick pushed him out of the way. He ran back to the cubicle where Francesca was waiting for him.

‘Hurry up,’ he said. ‘Find some clothes. We’ve got to get out of here. We’ve got to stop this thing ourselves.’

The nurse who had been with Patrick earlier came running up, followed by a man dressed in a white coat.

‘What’s the meaning of this? I told you to stay in bed! What do you mean ... ?’

Patrick shoved her aside and walked up to the doctor. He was young, probably just qualified, and looked as though he had had a busy night.

‘Please don’t argue,’ Patrick said. ‘This woman and I are checking out of here. I’m taking complete responsibility, do you understand?’

‘But, you can’t...’

‘It’s an emergency, do you understand? I don’t have time to argue.’

He ran into his own cubicle and opened the bedside cupboard. His clothes were there, looking very much the worse for wear. They had been burned and soaked and covered in a variety of unpleasant-looking stains. He ripped off the gown he had been wearing and pulled on his shirt and trousers.

‘Please, signore, you’re in no condition to leave!’ The nurse was determined to assert her authority.

‘Vaffanculo!’ snapped Patrick.

He pulled his shoes on and hurried back to Francesca’s cubicle. She looked as bad as he did. He wondered how far they would get before the police hauled them in.

‘Before we go,’ he said, ‘I have something to tell you.’

‘About Roberto?’

He nodded.

‘You’d better sit down,’ he said.

They found a cab at the hospital entrance, at the top of the Via dei Quattro Coronati. The driver did a double-take when he saw them, but shrugged his shoulders. Some strange sights walk down the steps of hospitals. Francesca told him to go straight to the Via della Rotonda near the Pantheon, where Roberto’s apartment was located. She had taken the news of his death curiously well. Perhaps an abrupt exit had seemed better to her than the lingering death he had been facing for so long. Any tears she might shed could wait for later.

She had a key that let them into the building and another to the apartment itself.

Someone had got there before them. The place had been ripped apart. In Quadri’s study, papers lay strewn over everything. Filing cabinets lay open, their contents gutted. Empty box files had been heaped up in one corner. The Brotherhood was making certain no loose ends remained untied.

Francesca dashed out of the study to the kitchen. Patrick followed her. Broken plates and empty jars littered the floor. She picked her way through them to the sink and put her hand inside the cupboard underneath. Taped to the roof of the cupboard, as in her own apartment, were two Berettas. Without a word, she handed one to Patrick.

‘What now? he asked.

She looked at him, then down at herself.

‘We can’t stay in these clothes,’ she said. ‘We have to get into the Vatican, and I hardly think the Swiss Guards will let in anybody looking like us.’

There were some of her own clothes still hanging at the back of Roberto’s wardrobe. While she changed into them, Patrick took a shirt and suit to the bathroom. By the time they had finished, they still looked distinctly odd, but they might just make it past a suspicious sentry.

‘What about transport?’

‘The van is still parked in the Via Grotta Pinta. It’s just a short walk from here.’

‘And when we get there?’

‘We find Fischer. Or Fazzini. And we put a gun at their heads. What have you got to suggest?’

He shrugged.

‘Nothing, I guess. If we had time ...’

‘Yes?’

‘I’d look for Migliau. You say he’s the head of

the Brotherhood. That means he must be behind this whole operation today. And that means he must be in Rome. It wouldn’t make sense for him to be in Venice.’

‘He has a lot of subordinates.’

‘In that case, why disappear at all?’

She frowned.

‘Yes. You’ve got a point. But, as you say, we don’t have time.’

In his mind’s eye he saw the television screen and the faces of dead children.

‘No,’ he said. ‘We don’t have time. But if you knew he was in Rome, where would you look?’

She shrugged.

‘Anywhere. No special place. The Seven live in Jerusalem now. The Dead are in Egypt.’

‘Dermot said they had brought in one hundred of the Dead. Where would they stay?’

‘In different houses, hotels even.’

‘But they’d have to come together at some point for briefings. There’d have to be a central point.’

She thought.

‘It’s just possible that...’

‘Yes?’

‘Centuries ago, very early in their history, the Brotherhood had members in Rome. Not many, a few hundred at the most. But they had separate catacombs from the other Christians, where they buried their own dead. During the Decian persecutions, they met down there.’

“What were they called? Did they have a name?’

‘I don’t think so. No, I’m wrong, they did have a name. I remember now. I was taken there once as a child. I must have been ten or eleven. They frightened me and I wouldn’t stay inside. My father called them the Catacombe di Pasqua. The Easter Catacombs.’

Patrick stared at her.

‘Are you sure?’

She nodded.

‘Then that’s it,’ he said. There was a note of triumph in his voice. For the first time he thought he was one step ahead of his enemy. ‘That’s where Migliau is. Not the Easter Catacombs, Francesca. The Passover Catacombs.’

FIFTY-FIVE

They fought through a growing crush of early morning traffic, forcing the van between cars and buses, breaking every rule of driving, even the Italian variety. Francesca drove south, past the Colosseum and down onto the Viale delle Terme di Caracalla. The catacombs, like so many others, were situated on the Via Appia Antica, the old Appian Way that had once taken Roman armies as far as Brindisi.

After the Porta San Sebastiano, where the Appian Way began, most of the traffic was heading into the city, and they were able to make some headway. The narrow road led them through open country, flanked on either side by the ruined tombs of the Roman upper classes.

Patrick felt a wave of desolation pass through him. The old tombs, for all their pomposity, were as broken and pitiful as the bones that lay in them. He thought of Brother Antonio dreading the resurrection lest a legless man dispossess him of part of himself. A joke, perhaps, yet one rooted in our longing for completeness. But crack open the tombs and what do you find? Pulvis cinis et nihil. He looked at Francesca. She had been buried and had returned - in body, he thought, not in spirit. Her old self had been left mouldering in the tomb.